A Story Worth Sharing

Have you ever seen or met someone possessed by demons?

Yeah. You have.

“Possessed by demons” or “having an unclean spirit” may be the biblical language, but whatever language you use, we’ve encountered them, even experienced them.

Historically, we personified or anthropomorphized anything dark, malevolent or evil as a demon - I just did by saying “them” - though the word didn’t specifically mean that. All evils were associated with The Devil and most likely sprang from Hell. That gave us an opportunity to say that the characteristics and behaviours associated with it weren’t us - it was a demon possessing us or acting through us.

Cynically, that might sound like an excuse, both for the behaviour and how we respond to it. But I can’t argue with it. I believe that we’re created in the image of God and that’s love. Anything that isn’t that, well, it could be a demon.

No, my issue isn’t with the language, it’s how we use it. I don’t believe in demonic possession in the whole “hell-spawn of satan” way we’ve historically used it. I think we defaulted to that thinking because of religious beliefs and systems trying to explain things we didn’t understand. We didn’t have enough knowledge to know any different. As we grow, we think, we learn and we become more aware.

The demons that challenge us and take over our lives could be serious mental illness or a disability. It could be post-traumatic stress related and the result of experience, even the result of something we learned or how we learned it. Sometimes, we may even label something we just don’t understand as a demon.

The reason I think we need to spend more time thinking about that is because it’s what’s going to determine our response. 

In the Bible, there’s a story of Jesus casting demons out of a man and into a herd of pigs. Some version of the story appears in the gospels of Mathew, Mark and Luke, but it’s Luke’s version I like best.

We’ve always described it as a story of healing. Jesus meets a man, possessed by so many demons they call themselves “Legion.” His community locked him away, at first, but he escaped and they abandoned him to a place he would be alone. Knowing who Jesus is, Legion asks to be sent from the man into a nearby herd of pigs. The possessed pigs then run into the lake and drown themselves. Seeing the man free of his possession and hearing the story of how it happened, the people are afraid and ask Jesus to leave. The man asks to go with Jesus, but Jesus tells him to stay and share his story.

We tend to focus on the moment: Jesus heals the man. Or, let me say that a little differently: the power of Jesus relieves the man of his demons. Notice, by the way, that the demons aren’t simply gone, they go into the pigs causing their death. I wonder if this isn’t a reminder that healing isn’t always easy and clean. Sometimes it comes at a cost. I wonder.

But let’s look beyond that for a moment. Let’s look at the townspeople. At first, their response to the man’s “demons” was to lock him away. Then, when he broke free, they let him go somewhere he could be alone and not bother anyone. Out of sight, where they would’t have to encounter him. Along comes Jesus and he is healed. Do the townspeople celebrate, joyfully embrace the man and thank Jesus? No. They’re afraid and ask Jesus to leave.

That’s not the end of the story. For the townspeople, it might just be the beginning. They’re still broken and afraid, not just of the demons, but of the power that healed them. So Jesus tells the healed man to stay and share his story, the story of his own brokenness and healing, his encounter with Jesus and his experience of God. In sharing that story, others might come to understand both the presence of real “demons” in our lives and the power of Jesus to engage them. In hearing that story, they might know that the power of Jesus is love and learn connection, understanding and relationship. In being that story, they might find true community, the “common unity” of engaging the unique, diverse, frail, sometimes broken, sometimes fearful hearts that are in all of us.

It is a big deal

For many christian churches, the Trinity is a big deal. It even gets its own Sunday in some churches, the Sunday after Pentecost. That’s unusual because most church festivals or observances commemorate a specific event or person and the Trinity is neither of those. Then there’s all the churches named Trinity, Holy Trinity or, my personal favourite, The Cathedral Church of the Holy and Indivisible Trinity (better known as Gloucester Cathedral in England).

But what is it, exactly?

Simply put, it’s the doctrine that describes God as being one God in three persons, God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit. The three persons are distinct, yet are one in nature or essence. The word Trinity is essentially “tri” (three) and “unity” (one, together). Well, there you go.

Of course, there is no “simply put.” The Trinity is considered a “mystery” of the faith because that paragraph above is just the tip of the iceberg. How can three be one and one three? Isn’t there just one God? What’s this mean about the relationship of the three to each other and to us? And what about our relationship with the one, especially when “you will have no other gods before me?” And all that is just where it started.

The word "trinity" isn't in the bible. It wasn't even used until the third century. We made it up. That’s why it’s “doctrine,” a teaching of the church. See, by the beginning of the second century, the budding church had a problem: inheritors of the belief that there is one God, we now had stories about Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Jesus was Immanuel (God with us), the “Word made flesh,” the Son of God and yet more than even that. And the Spirit was from the beginning, the wisdom, the power of God at work. How can God be in these, too, if God is one? The word might not have been in the Bible, but the concept certainly seemed to be.

And yet, it can’t be fully explained. That’s why it’s a “mystery.” Trying to define God is limiting, to say the least, especially since our relationship with God is both personal and communal (i.e. there's even more relationships). That's a lot of unique and personal understanding to contend with and a lot of different contexts to take into consideration.

And yet - again - that’s precisely what the early church attempted to do with The Trinity. The doctrine didn’t come about easily. There were many challenges and conflicts over how the concept was to be defined, producing more of a “what it’s not” understanding until a couple of creedal statements settled it. And that was really only by force. In other words, it became an issue that helped define the new institution and give it a sense of uniformity, but at a price. We built an institution on the foundation of Jesus but it had walls that excluded people. Walls that just got thicker and taller as time went on. And we stuck with it. Pretty soon the walls become more important than the foundation and the institution - the structure that’s supposed to help us understand our faith - becomes more important than what we thought we believed.

That’s not Jesus. At least, not the Jesus who said others will know you are followers of me by your love (John 13:35). I think Jesus invited questions and thought and wonder. I think Jesus opened his arms to those who felt excluded, marginalized and turned away.

I think it’s also counter to the real value of the idea of Trinity, not as a way to define God (as if that were possible), but as a way to engage what it means to be in relationship and to open the door on wonder.

I believe that there is one God and we all come to that God in different ways. Not just through different faith traditions, but even within those faith traditions. Some people find the power of the Spirit to be their cornerstone, for example. Witness all of the people these days who describe themselves as "spiritual" but not belonging to any tradition or church. Or the "pentecostal" tradition that emphasizes the power of the Spirit at work in the world. Or followers of Jesus, from those who follow the example of Jesus' life to those who look more to the atoning power of Jesus death or stress the need to receive "Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour." Or those who look primarily to God as the creator, the power of the universe.

See, I think that we all connect with God in these many ways and we each, perhaps, have a relationship that is most meaningful to us, or at least more meaningful in some contexts.

We should also remember that each of these doesn't stand alone. In wondering at the immensity of the one God, we can meet the life of Jesus, "the Word made flesh" (John 1:14), and the Holy Spirit that inspired and empowered the disciples at Pentecost (Acts 2). As they are bound together, so are we: we are many persons, yet one in love.

It's in you

When I was little, one of the things that scared me most about church was the Holy Spirit.

I know, you’d think there would be other stuff, and there was: when I was a kid, church was a pretty stern and solemn place where you had to be on your best behaviour or else. I was never exactly sure what the “or else” was when I was really little, but I was pretty sure it involved fire and eternal darkness and pitchforks and scary things lurking behind every pillar in the church. Thank goodness churches today are so much more welcoming, warmer and friendlier places where fear has been replaced by love. They are, aren’t they?

But the Holy Spirit, that was a pretty scary concept for a little kid. (Didn’t help that we used to call it the Holy Ghost.) It can still be pretty scary, I think. The story of Pentecost is all about tongues of fire and mighty rushing winds coming down on peoples’ heads. Pretty exciting story, I’m sure, especially in the hands of Spielberg or J.J. Abrams. But pretty scary all the same. Fire and wind are often in the news, and it’s never good. If the Holy Spirit is the power of God at work in the world, I wondered when I was little, how come it sounds like it could hurt? A lot.

Pentecost, by the way, really just means fifty days after Easter. The Bible (Acts 2:1-6) tells of the disciples, after Jesus had left them, gathering for a festival - the Jewish harvest festival Shavuot (fifty days after Passover, commemorating Moses receiving the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai). There is a sound like a mighty rushing wind and there are tongues of flame and “they were filled with the Holy Spirit.” Because they then go out and share the story of Jesus with people, we usually understand this event to be the symbolic “birthday” of the church.

Like I said, as a child, I always thought this sounded like something that had to be done to you, that the Spirit - to use older language - had to “come upon you.” Brrr. Creepy.

But now I wonder if maybe all that blowing and burning wasn’t really just for show, a symbolic act to inspire us to action. Just like in John 20:22, when Jesus “breathed on them and said to them, ‘receive the Holy Spirit.’” Sure the firey tongues and gusty winds are more impressive, but really they’re both ways of saying that God will give you the strength to do what you know in your heart is right.

Or perhaps a better way to describe that might be like a tool, a conductor connecting what’s “the image of God” already in us with God and each other, inspiring the love that’s already in our heart of hearts to become action. Maybe that’s what Jesus means when he tells the disciples that there will be “another Advocate … The Spirit of Truth.”

In other words, the Spirit isn’t something done to you, it’s already in you. From the beginning. Coming from God and returning to God, created in the image of God, coming closer to God in Jesus and inspired to live out love and grace in our lives. When we connect with God and each other, when we reach deep into what’s true in our hearts, the Spirit is the action of love lived out.

Maybe when we ask God to “send” the Spirit to us, it’s not about something new being added to us, but rather something within us being empowered. We don’t wait with expectation to receive, but we open ourselves to the gift that has already been given us.  It’s about the spirit in us bonding with the spirit of God. We are one in the Spirit, with each other and with God. That’s love, lived from within our hearts and out into the world.

You had it in you all along.

A Whole New World

It’s Aladdin’s signature tune. A Whole New World won an Oscar and a Grammy award and you probably know the song, whether you saw the 1992 animated classic or are looking forward to seeing the new live-action one.

It’s no spoiler to say that the song comes at the moment that Aladdin, dressed as Prince Ali, takes Princess Jasmine for a ride on his magic carpet. She leads a very controlled and structured life and has never seen much of the world beyond the palace she lives in. Freed from the confines of this glittering box, he promises to show her the world and open her eyes to the wonders she’s missing. Of course, it’s also a whole new world because they’re together and, having experienced even just a little of that, Jasmine knows she “can’t go back to where I used to be.”

As followers of Jesus, the stories of Jesus we tell are at the heart of who we are. Jesus is our example, our model to take to heart, our Way to follow. And Jesus was all about busting out of the box we put ourselves in, breaking the structure and confines of a society that trapped people where they were.

When we hear Jesus saying things like love God and love your neighbour as yourself, love your enemy, care for the poor and the sick, be generous with all you have, love each other the way I loved you, I imagine the people he was telling this too had a little feedback. I imagine there was some discussion, some concern about how hard it is to do some of these things, to live love as Jesus did. And I’m sure Jesus would say I know, I understand how hard it is, and he’d share some practical advice and encouraging words.

But most importantly, I think he’d say just imagine how things would be if we could. Imagine the world that we’d live in if we loved each other, built relationships with each other, engaged instead of feared, embraced instead of hated, loved life instead of worrying about death. It wouldn’t just be a new world, it’d be a whole one, too.

And it’s not imaginary. It’s a promise. It’s hope. Not for some distant future, but today.

Look at the Book of Revelation for minute. We spend altogether too much time on hearing Revelation as being a vision of the end of things. All this terrible craziness and destruction that’s going to happen when the world comes to an end. But Revelation isn’t just a prophecy of doom and destruction and the end of things, it’s the hope of the beginning of things: “a new heaven and a new earth … and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Rev. 21:1, 3-4)

Somedays it feels like we’re already living in those end times. And maybe we are because endings and beginnings are all around us. They’re part of our daily life and they’re part of what brings us new life, daily. So how do we bring the world, experiencing brokenness and pain and hurt to the Whole New World that Jesus and Revelation promise can be here?

At the end of that story in John when Jesus tells the disciples - and us - to love one another as he showed us with his life, Jesus prays. One of the things he prays is that “all may be one.” But Jesus idea of unity isn’t about agreeing on everything, being identical, following a specific idea or religion. It’s not about sameness. It’s about finding the one common thread that connects us all, and he describes it: just as God is in Jesus, Jesus is in us; just as we are in Jesus, so is Jesus in God. In other words, we are all related.

Diverse, unique, special and all connected by God. Describe that how you like: as being created in the image of God, made of love, part of the fabric of creation, all my relations - we are all connected to each other. When we embrace that instead of fighting it, we can make a whole new world.

Whole

There are over thirty stories of Jesus performing miracles in the four gospels. Some of those might be shared stories, but that’s just the ones we hear about. As the epilogue added to the end of John’s gospel suggests, there were lots more that: “if every one of them were written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.” I agree, and wonder about what some of those might be.

But that’s for another time. I’m interested in a particular healing miracle today, and healings form a significant part of the total number of miracles.

Actually, now that I think about that, I think one could argue that all the miracles are healing miracles. Turning water into wine, a miraculous catch of fish, feeding the crowd, calming the storm, isn’t there healing of some kind happening in each of those? Isn’t there a broken moment healed, a discontinuity restored, a destructiveness ended, a sense of wholeness found?

That’s worth remembering when considering the “miracle” aspect of these stories. I think, for some people, the stories start to lose some of their miracle-ness when we start to talk about them. In other words, we can get lost in the “is it a real physical miracle that reflects the divine power of Jesus or is it a metaphor for a spiritual healing or is there a perfectly logical explanation of what happened” debate.

Just to be clear: whether you believe it to be A, B or C above, it’s still a miracle. Really. And all those approaches are legit ways to talk about the story because they reflect our relationship with Jesus: alive in the world, alive in our hearts and alive in our hands. As I think Jesus would say, there’s no “either/or” here: it’s all “with/and.”

It might seem like I’ve wandered, since I said I was interested in a particular healing miracle, but I haven’t. I’ve just come to it.

There’s a story early on in the Gospel of John about Jesus coming to a healing pool at Bethesda. It’s a place where people gathered to be physically healed by the waters which, legend has it, are occasionally stirred up by the wings of an angel. The first into the pool after that happens can be healed by the water. Jesus meets a man who’s been there many years and asks him if he wants to be healed. He says that he doesn’t have anyone to help him into the water, so he’s never been fast enough to be the first. Jesus replies “get up and walk” and the man is healed. And, by the way, this happened on the sabbath. (John 5:1-9)

There’s a lot there, I think, that makes this one special among healing stories. The man doesn’t approach Jesus (Jesus approaches him); his infirmity is never described; his response to Jesus asking him if he wants to be healed isn’t “yes” but rather a reason why he thinks he’s still there (and it’s not him); there’s no mention of his faith or even an indication that he believes Jesus could do anything; there’s no expression of joy or faith once he’s healed; and, bonus, Jesus heals him on the sabbath.

To me, it’s almost as if John wanted to make sure that Jesus covered all the bases (A, B, C above), and do it proactively, so that our attention might be drawn not to one thing, but to the wholeness that brings real life and that Jesus will bring that to us, whether we seek it out or not.

Wholeness isn’t just about physical or spiritual healing, it’s about both, together. Notice, too, that Jesus doesn’t help the man into the pool (or take any action, for that matter), he doesn’t repeat the question to get the right answer, he doesn’t say “be healed” or anything other than simply “get up.” Whatever the physical issue, the man had been there a long time, long enough perhaps to give up or get used to his life or simply stop caring. He needed more than physical healing.

This might also be a story to open the door on our thinking about what language we use with people with disabilities. Most translations describe this man as an “invalid.” Think about that for a moment and what the connotation of that word means to a human being. “People first” language isn’t just about etiquette, it’s about inclusivity and that’s a key piece of wholeness.

Jesus heals by restoring connection, by empowering the marginalized to know they are valued for who they are, just as they are. Whatever the physical healing, the heart and spirit must also know love. And we, like Jesus, can do that too.

Jesus didn’t wait for the man to “come unto me.” He didn’t ask for a declaration of faith and he didn’t wait for the sabbath to be over. Love is for all, at all times, everywhere. And we, like Jesus, can do that too.

One word makes a difference

I think “belonging” is a hot topic in churches right now. I want to say that it always has been, but we did go through several centuries where obligation, requirement and fear were pretty powerful motivators. Maybe they still are, for some. But, in these days of declining attendance and participation, churches that thrive do so, I think, because they cultivate a sense of belonging.

It’s not just churches, of course. Any institution, organization or group that wants to create community, especially sustainable community, needs to pay attention to what it means to belong. And you know what that means. It means there’s experts, surveys, studies and reports and everyone has an opinion. If you’re keen to look into it, just Google it and see.

One, in particular, is a multi-year study begun in 2015 by Community Foundations of Canada as part of their Vital Signs initiative. I’m sure that everyone has their own definition of  belonging, with varying degrees of complexity, but they began with two very simple points: belonging is about “being part of a collective we” and that it’s a two way street. It’s not just about the community being welcoming, it’s about how a person feels they’re a part of it. Then they went in depth through a variety of lenses, including social, arts, sport, community systems and more.

I’m not an expert, but I do have some thoughts on it. As you might imagine, that springs from something Jesus said. Or maybe I mean intended.

Let me just clarify that. There’s a passage in John’s gospel in which Jesus describes himself as the Good Shepherd and attempts to describe his relationship with his followers as that of a shepherd and sheep. It’s a rather testy exchange with a divided crowd and towards the end of it, John writes that Jesus says to them “you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”

It could just be our 21st century sensibilities, but there’s lots of people who struggle with the whole sheep and shepherd image from the start. But even if you’re not concerned about the connotation of being a sheep, it can be easy to hear that passage as Jesus saying the sheep are mine and they follow me. And that can quickly become all sorts of negative. It can sound like ownership and unthinking allegiance or, at best, blind faith. Not to mention, exclusive.

But hang on a minute. I don’t think that’s what Jesus intended.

I don’t want to get into a debate about different translations of the Bible (another time perhaps), but reading this in a variety of them, I notice most say what I quoted above from the New International Version. The New Revised Standard Version, though, throws in a little something extra here. It says “you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

Do you see it? I think that’s what Jesus is talking about. It’s not about ownership or control, it’s not about follow-the-leader, it’s about belonging. It’s about being part of “we” and the two-way street that makes it a “we.” It’s about a relationship with Jesus. And that means how we live our relationships with each other, too.

I think Jesus wants us to be who we truly are, in our hearts. You know, created in the image of God. And I think Jesus show us how to do that by showing us how to love, fully and openly. To follow Jesus means living that, not just an hour a week, but every moment. Not just in church, but everywhere.

I hope churches want to be welcoming, as should anyone who aims to create community. I’d also like us to be open and inclusive and engage people where they’re at, not just wait for them to come to us and do what we do. I think a welcoming community is one that respects people for who they are, engages them and encourages them to grow and live positive and affirming relationships, honours the gifts and the questions that they bring with them, and recognizes what they contribute to the wholeness of the community. The common ground of how we understand God is just the start.

And for those who seek belonging - and I’m pretty sure that’s all of us - I’d suggest that it’s not just about fitting in, it’s not about always agreeing with everyone, and it’s certainly not about being all the same or even doing as you’re told. Real belonging comes from knowing that you bring something to the community that impacts the community, just as it impacts you. You being there is part of what makes it what it is or can be, just as what it is impacts who you are and what you can be. Respecting and honouring that in others is part of making the community. Any community. Any flock.

Who are you?

In the history of the Christian church, Paul is certainly a “somebody.” His letters - the epistles - form a significant chunk of Christian scripture in the Bible, though some may be more authentically Paul than others. Perhaps even more significantly, we have those writings because he travelled, establishing communities of faith around the Mediterranean. Responding to the experiences, issues and concerns of those young communities are much of what those letters are about. Peter might have been the rock (Matt. 16:8), but Paul laid the foundation for the church. He probably did a little framing and drywalling, too.

Paul didn’t always love Jesus, and the story of Paul’s conversion is pretty epic. Paul was a devout Jew who persecuted the followers of Jesus. He was at the stoning of Stephen and, records the author of Acts, he “began to destroy the church.” He went out of his way to root Jesus out of synagogues and homes. On his way to do just that in Damascus, he’s suddenly stopped by a bright light and he hears a voice asking him “why do you persecute me?” Paul asks who is speaking, the voice says it’s Jesus, “whom you are persecuting,” and tells Paul to go into Damascus where he will learn what he’s to do. Paul is blinded by the vision, but his companions help him into town.

In Damascus, a disciple of Jesus named Ananias hears “the Lord” tell him to go to Paul and restore his sight. Ananias is understandably wary - he’s heard of Paul - but does as commanded. He returns Paul his sight and tells him that Jesus “has sent me so that you may see again and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” From then on, Paul is a follower of Jesus, preaching and teaching about him. People are skeptical at first and found this sudden switch hard to believe. As you might expect, many of Jesus’ followers were afraid of him and didn’t trust him.

If we were there, we might think the same. But we know the story and we know what followed, so it’s pretty easy to characterize this sudden and epic moment of conversion in pretty clear cut terms. With one great flash of light, the villainous persecutor of Jesus’ followers becomes the saint who establishes the communities of the faithful and helps them grow. With the flick of a switch, even.

In fact, we often characterize this shift with his name. All through that story about Paul in Acts, he’s referred to as Saul. So the villain is Saul, the saint is Paul. 

Like he’s a different person.

Except he’s not. Saul is simply his Jewish name. Paul is his Romanized name. Paul was born in Tarsus and there are a couple of references in Acts to his Roman citizenship, but whether he was or not, he would have likely had both names since birth anyway. The vision of Jesus calls him by his Jewish name, of course, and he’s Saul throughout this story and not referred to as Paul until much later: “Saul, who is also called Paul” (Acts 13:9). Since most of his mission work was to non-Jews, it makes sense that they’d know him as Paul. As we do.

But it’s still the same guy and that’s the thing about Paul. He never hid his past. And, while we might know him as only the great apostle and saint, he was more. Our one dimensional portrayal of him doesn’t do him justice. He’s much more complex, just like you and me.

Saul was a good Jew who, in his love for God and his faith, lost his way. Like others, he felt his faith threatened by these Jews who claimed Jesus was the messiah and followed his teaching. He defended the institution of his faith by attacking the blasphemous People of the Way, even to the point of violating the very commandments that, according to Jeremiah, should have been written on his heart. It blinded him.

We’re easily blinded, too: by fear, by different and unfamiliar things, by things that seem to question or challenge what we think we know. For as often as we hear the expression “outside the box” these days, we’re so much more comfortable in one. And the walls of that box must be defended at all costs. Sometimes to death.

What if there wasn’t one? What if we could take the blinders off and see possibility for growth, better understanding and more appreciation of the world around us, whether we agreed with it or not? What if we weren’t so afraid?

For me, one of the great things about Paul is that he’s complicated. Just like you and me. He’s got a past, some of which he’d probably rather not have, but it did bring him here. Just like you and me. What he repented - what he turned from - was fear and hate. I think that, going forward, his faith wasn’t begun with Jesus, it grew, it was renewed and refreshed and opened to others, just like the followers of Jesus he had persecuted. All that Paul could be was already there, it just needed to be freed and brought into the light. The light he saw on that road didn’t blind him, it opened his eyes. The light he saw was love.