Hope Lies Ahead

Are you tired? I’m tired.

It’s mid-November and I’m already tired of winter. I know it hasn’t even really started yet. Still, I’m tired of it. But that’s not what I mean.

Like most people, I probably work too much and don’t rest, let alone sleep, enough. But I don’t mean that kind of tired, either. And yes, I know I “only work for an hour on Sunday morning ha ha ha.” That joke gets a little tiring even, but, again, not what I mean.

No, I think it’s something different. This is going to get ugly, so please bear with me to The End.

I’m tired of the angry back and forth when people don’t instantly agree on something. I’m tired of the need to vilify the person when we don’t like their ideas. I’m tired of the lack of compassion towards the poor, the sick and the elderly and the lack of desire to help those who can’t help themselves. I’m tired of the need to be able to say whatever we feel like without any thought or filter, just because we think we should be entitled to. I’m tired of entitlement period. I’m tired of hate and bigotry being justified as opinion because they’re not, they’re hate and bigotry and I wish they stopped. I’m tired of betrayal and I’m tired of being anxious and fearful.

I’m tired of war, in all it’s forms. I’m tired of bombs going off and bullets flying. I’m tired of the destruction and hurt inflicted on people and on the planet. I’m tired of oppression. I’m tired of violence. I’m tired of natural disasters and the disasters our presence inflicts on the earth. I’m tired of hearing that a few hundred died here or thousands there or even one on their way home from the store, as if they’re just numbers.

I’m tired of nations fighting with each other. I’m tired of earthquakes, famine and plagues. I’m tired of reading the news and I’m tired of hearing that being tired of all that makes me a “snowflake.” Winter isn’t coming, it’s here.

Now, if you’re still with me, this wasn’t just a rant. I have a point. I imagine Jesus’ disciples were feeling much the same when Jesus talked about The End.

See, the church year, unlike the calendar year, ends at Advent. Advent begins the new year, anticipating the arrival of Jesus at Christmas. So as we come to the end of the year, we hear scripture readings in church that remind us of, well, The End. And sometimes that can feel like The End is happening right now. And I’m tired of that.

The gospel of Luke records a story of Jesus and the disciples walking in the temple. The disciples are admiring the wonder of the temple, but Jesus says “as for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Luke 21:6) He proceeds to tell them how The End will come, basically outlining a summary of what I said above. Except, the point isn’t to scare anyone, it’s to give them hope.

Yes, hope. We can so easily become fixated on the pain, the suffering, the destruction, the “dreadful portents and great signs.” But there is no life in that. There is only tiredness and death. But The End will be followed by The Beginning, it always is. The hope is not in the death, but the new life, not in the ending but the beginning.

In Luke, Jesus tells this little apocalypse just before he’s arrested. The disciples will already know the tiredness of what they’ve seen, the fear of the authorities and enemies of Jesus circling. In a few days they will know the grief of the cross. A few days more and the hope Jesus promised them will be real: they will touch the new life that is in him.

I’m still tired. But I have hope, hope that new beginnings are ahead, hope that new life will come because love wins. Always.

Remember to Live

You might have seen this heart-warming story last week. Joshua Dyer, a 14 year old boy from Herefordshire, England, was asked in school to write a poem for a local veterans group concert, part of the Remembrance Day observance this year. He came up with a short piece called “A Thousand Men Are Walking” that was shared on social media and went viral. He’s been on the news, asked to read it at events and even received a note from Prince Phillip who thanked him for “such a moving and heartfelt piece.”

It’s a beautiful poem worth reading, repeatedly even, and easily found on the internet. (That’s a hint to read it, if you haven’t already.)

I find it ties together several themes for Remembrance Day: the sacrifice of so many, the gratitude of those they saved, that they live on in our hearts, that they’re in a better place now where there’s no foes and no war, just a beautiful, tranquil place. I love this image he writes: “they dream of those they left behind and know they dream of them.”

He remembers. And yet, he wasn’t there, nor has he been where they are now. Still, he remembers.

It’s just my opinion, but I think it’s important to understand that remembering isn’t just about memory or history or hanging on to something we’ve experienced or been told. It’s more than that. To remember is to re-connect, to literally re-member that person or moment or experience and bring it into this moment where it becomes part of who and how we are, not in the past, but now.

Joshua reminds us that the dead are still alive in our hearts. We remember why and how they died and, reconnecting with the stories of those moments, I hope we learn something about war and the importance of, as he writes, “the path of peace they paved.” I also hope that we live into honouring that remembrance not just one day of the year, but everyday. Then, it will have become part of who we are and help frame who we will be.

He also doesn’t glorify war. Instead he glorifies where they are now, in the heaven he describes. There, they are also still alive, it seems, dreaming of those they let behind and knowing we dream of them. It’s worth noting, too, that he doesn’t specify who the “one thousand men” are. Only that they’re still alive.

Still alive. Alive in our hearts and alive with God.

There’s a slightly ridiculous sounding story from the gospel of Luke where sadducees (very conservative temple authorities who don’t believe in the resurrection or an afterlife, amongst other things) try to trap Jesus with a question about marriage. Using a Jewish law that requires a Hebrew man to marry the widow of his brother, they set up the improbable scenario where a woman’s husband dies, she marries his brother who also dies and so on through seven brothers. They ask Jesus who she’ll be married to in the next life.

It’s another face-palm moment for Jesus, I think, but it leads to something important. First of all, he says, the next life isn’t like this one. We might imagine it is, for our own comfort, but our human constructs don’t apply there, especially the societal structures that frame their near impossible scenario. Being in the presence of God is just that, where there is love and peace and contentment.

More importantly, says Jesus, God is God of heaven and earth. From God’s perspective, there’s no dead and alive, there’s simply alive, alive in heaven and on earth. God, says Jesus, “is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive” (Luke 20:38). Maybe our earthly view needs opening up a bit.

I wonder if that might not help our remembering this Remembrance Day. God is God of the living. Those who sacrificed are alive in our hearts and alive with God. We who are living this life, remember and honour them by living into the life they made possible, one where freedom provides the opportunity for peace, compassion, grace and love. Joshua’s “one thousand men” are walking in peace; “they do not march for war.” Perhaps when he writes “they dream of those they left behind and know they dream of them” we could remember the dream we all share is life.

It's a trap!

Oh, Jesus. Sometimes you say the darndest things.

It’s another one of those tricky parables, a simple story on the surface, but with a deeper,  more powerful question to wonder about. We’re still travelling with Jesus in the Gospel of Luke and he’s been teaching important lessons with these short, pithy parables. Here’s one about a pharisee and a tax-collector who both come to pray at the same time.

Good for them, you might think, because, when last we left Jesus in Luke, he was talking about the importance of being persistent in prayer. And, just like before, the author of Luke sets up this story by telling you what it’s about: “He [Jesus] also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt” (Luke 18:9).

It goes like this. A pharisee (a leader in the temple) and a tax-collector go to the temple to pray. The pharisee gets right in there and shares a prayer of thanksgiving, thankful that he’s not like others who are bad - you know, those people - and especially like the tax-collector he sees nearby. Not only does he pray, he fasts and he tithes, just like he’s supposed to. The tax-collector stays back and, from a distance, seems contrite and prays for mercy because he’s a sinner.

Jesus wraps it up with pointing out it’s the tax-collector who’s made right with God. “All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” says Jesus, “but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” Right. Simple enough. Be like the tax-collector. Sure.

Besides, we read the bible, we know pharisees are bad, right? And Jesus often hangs out with tax-collectors, so they must be good. In fact, reading ahead, he’s about to meet Zacchaeus, a chief tax-collector, and go to his house for dinner. Good old Jesus, hanging out with the “wrong” crowd. Thank goodness it wasn’t one of those pharisees. Hate to be one of those people.

Yes. It’s a trap.

Simple story, but it’s a parable and here’s some things to consider. Pharisees aren’t all bad. Many, in fact, were trying to live as scripture told them. Jesus often has run-ins with them and critiques them particularly harshly, but maybe Jesus expects more of those with a privileged life, particularly the privilege of knowing the scriptures and the law as pharisees should. Pharisees simply aren’t inherently bad. Our view of them is skewed by their role in the bible as a foil for Jesus.

This one, in particular, might seem particularly braggy, but there’s nothing to suggest that he’s wrong about his assessment of himself. Maybe he’s just struggling, like that Mac Davis classic: “Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.”

Tax-collectors, on the other hand, were despised for good reason: they were sell-outs who collected for the Roman occupation, often enriching themselves in the process by over-taxing the poor. It should be easy for him to see what’s wrong with this picture.

But, put our preconceived ideas to work with Jesus’ punchline and we’re falling into the trap that we all have to struggle with: not only do want to be like the tax-collector, we want to be thankful that we’re not like that pharisee. Humility isn’t a contest and it’s lost the moment it becomes one.

It’s not their roles or even their outward behaviour we need to wrestle with here. It’s their honesty and their awareness of their own self. The one who is right with God is the one who speaks sincerely from the heart, the one who knows who they truly are, beyond their behaviour, the one who knows they are a child of God and asks for mercy, believing God’s grace will help them be better. Not better than others, just a better me.

The pharisee may be honest about what he does and how he lives. He could be sincere in his thanks to God. Where he lost his way was in seeing all that as making him better than his neighbour, as a way to set himself apart from others, rather than bring him to the love and care of others. 

What if it's not just a nice story, but a discerning parable?

There’s a federal election in Canada very soon. Please be sure to vote, if you haven’t already.

That’s all, just please vote.

I won’t say more about that, but I will just add that I think the gospel story this week is rather timely. And I’ll certainly talk about that.

In Luke 18:1-8, Jesus tells a story about a widow who persistently takes her case to a judge, seeking justice. Jesus doesn’t give any details about the case, only that she seeks justice and is persistent. She has to be, as it happens, because the judge “neither fears God or cares what people think” and is happy to ignore her. At first. But she’s so persistent that he finally decides to give her what she wants, not because it’s justice, but because he’s tired of her and afraid she’ll give him a “black eye” in front of the community.

Jesus then says even this judge gave in to her persistence. So how do you think God will answer? God answers quickly to those who call out, answering their prayers and bringing justice.

It seems pretty clear that Jesus is encouraging the disciples to be like the persistent widow. Be persistent in prayer and don’t give up, God will answer because God does answer. The author of Luke thinks so, too, because they preface the story with “Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.” That seems pretty clear. And good point, too.

But it’s a parable, not just a story, and parables can have many sides.

What if this weren’t just a story affirming persistence, but a parable asking us to examine how we listen and respond?

What if we’re not the widow and God’s not the judge. What if we’re the judge, as self-centred and uncaring as this judge. What if God’s the persistent voice of the widow. Or the hungry. Or the poor. Or the sick. What if God’s the persistent voice of justice and we’re not listening?

What if this parable might simply be asking us just that: “are we listening?” Are we hearing the persistent cries of the marginalized and the needy? And are we ignoring them as the judge does or are we listening with compassion and care? Are we acting when it suits us, as the judge does, or will we be the image of God and see that “they get justice, and quickly?”

As we wonder if God’s listening to us, maybe we should wonder if we’re listening to each other. Jesus would ask us to do both.

Thanksgiving for Life

“Come, you thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest-home! All is safely gathered in, safe before the storms begin.” 

It’s Thanksgiving this week, in this part of the world anyway, and these words by Henry Alford are probably going to be sung a lot. They’re the opening lines of a chestnut of a hymn that’s been around since the mid 19th century. I guess it’s one of those “old time-y” traditions that are part of the warm, homestyle feeling of Thanksgiving.

I’ve always kind of liked the first two verses. They’re all about the harvest and how God provides for us and we grow and are nurtured just like the crops. Not such a big fan of the next two verses though. They’re more about the harvest of us and how we’re gathered home in the final harvest. It’s all good, I just prefer the relentlessly hopeful tone of “all is safely gathered in, safe before the storms begin.” Especially when winter arrives early and “all” isn’t safely gathered in.

But, again, olden days, right? Harvest festivals have been around since we were celebrating the mystery of how things grew and thanking “the spirits,” Mother Nature and God for all the great bounty we receive from the land. There’s another classic many will sing this week, “We plough the fields.” The chorus proclaims “all good gifts around us are sent from heaven above; we thank you, God, O holy God, for all your love.”

Yes, “all your love.” So, for many people, Thanksgiving’s become less about thanks for harvest and more about thanks for things in general, like all of creation and family and home, big stuff like that, and turkey dinners and an extra day off and time to clean up in the yard or enjoy the fall colours, if there’s no snow.

Those are all great things, the list is endless, and yes, we should surely be thankful for them, absolutely. Every single day, we should be thankful for creation, family, home, food and rest. But, at this time of year, it’s most appropriate to remember the harvest, all “safely gathered in” or not, with a day set aside replete with its own festive trimmings. And so we thank God for all that great bounty of creation. Right: thank you God. Done.

And?

Of course we thank God for all the gifts of creation, but what about being thankful for those who bring those gifts into our lives with their labour? Jesus calls us to a life of living well with each other and creation, to using the gifts God gives us to share with others and care for others. I think a pretty solid example of doing the best we can with the gifts God gives us is a farmer.

With their own personal gifts, they work with others, with machines, with science and with nature - surely the toughest relationship of all - to feed us. Now, I know we pay farmers adequate compensation for their labour. (Brief pause to allow for laughter.) But paying them for their product does not thank them for providing the means for us to live. That is what they do. It’s not just about making a buck, it’s a vocation that feeds people. And it’s not the only one.

Jesus spoke about being “the bread of life,” the food that feeds our hearts and minds, not our stomachs. But Jesus coupled that with a command to care for the physical wellbeing of others, to feed the hungry and care for the poor really, not just as a metaphor. In a sense, we’re all called to be like farmers, aren’t we, to work with the world around us, to care for the world around us and to feed the world around us, to nurture and grow life? It’s both powerfully real and powerfully metaphorical.

Maybe we should sing these words every year, too, from a more recent hymn by Brian Wren: “Praise God for the harvest of orchard and field, praise God for the people who gather the yield, the long hours of labour, the skills of a team, the patience of science, the power of machine ... Praise God for the harvest of mercy and love from leaders and peoples, who struggle and serve for fairness and kindness, that all may be led in freedom and safety, and all may be fed.”

Oh Lord, make me more

Lately, we’ve been making our way through the Gospel of Luke. We’re mid-gospel, Jesus has turned towards Jerusalem (spoiler alert: I won’t tell you what happens there) and, on his way there with the disciples, there’s some pretty dense teaching with a lot of stories. Parables of the the Lost Sheep, the Lost Coin, the Prodigal Son, the Unjust Steward (or the Shrewd Manager - it’s more an “and” than “or,” but it’s just a title and I’ve talked about that already), the Rich Man and Lazarus, sin and forgiveness and more. And there’s going to be more.

But, right in the middle of it now, it kind of seems like the disciples are feeling a little overwhelmed. Maybe we are too, and not just with this story. I’ll come back to that, but the disciples, they seem to be overwhelmed and they “said to the Lord, ‘Increase our faith!’” (Luke 17:5, NRSV) I could be wrong - and it’s not just the exclamation mark talking - but I think the disciples are feeling just a little exasperated. This is a lot of stuff, probably in a short time, they’re the ones who are the “chosen” followers, the close companions and I wonder if they aren’t just feeling a little pressure, a little frustration that they’re not getting it fast enough and maybe even some stress that living all this out might be challenging. Difficult, even. You know, like life is.

So they ask for help. And Jesus, well, I just picture Jesus doing another one of those face palms and, as he’s done other times, giving an outrageous request an equally outrageous answer. It’s all about mustard seeds moving mulberry trees and servants being rewarded for doing their jobs and simply doing what we’re supposed to. (Luke 17:5-10)

Here’s the thing. First of all, they’re on the right track. They don’t seem to know it, but they are. They don’t say “Oh Lord, make me smarter” or “Oh Lord, make me more wise or understanding or imaginative.” They ask for faith. They know it’s about faith.

The part they stumble at is “give me more.” So Jesus answers with some humour and some foolishness. The point is that you can’t quantify faith. All the faith you need is in you, just use it.

Faith, like God, simply is. There’s no faithometer. It is. You can’t go to church or read your Bible to top up when you’re low, that’s where you might go to learn what it can do. It isn’t about how much faith, it’s what you do with it. It needs to be exercised. And daily.

That’s why Jesus likens it to servants doing their jobs (remember, it was the 1st century) and, ultimately, people doing what they’re supposed to be doing. Faith isn’t just for special moments or for an hour on Sunday morning, it’s for everyday. It’s for the mountains and the valleys. It’s for sharing the joy of celebration and sitting quietly with grief. It’s for the love we give and the love we receive. It’s for grace. “Put these things into action every day, just like I’m showing you,” I think Jesus would say, “and you will know you have all the faith you need. Think about the stories I just told: love extravagantly (Lost Coin, Lost Sheep, Prodigal Son), engage the world where the world is (Unjust/Shrewd Steward), care for others and build relationships (Rich Man and Lazarus) and forgive, forgive, forgive (seven times a day).”

Maybe Jesus should have made the disciples play musical instruments. I know that sounds random, but hear me out. I used to be a musician (still am, I guess, but just for fun) and I still play the piano a bit. I know, as any musician does, that the more you play, the better you are. “Better” isn’t really the right word, though, because it’s not about the volume (pun intended), the mechanics or the technique (which hopefully do improve), it’s about the music. No, sorry, practice doesn’t make perfect. What it makes is more music. The world could use more music.

And more life. That’s the kind of faith Jesus is talking about. One that lives. Everyday.

What if

I’ve been known to express some pretty progressive, even radical, ideas here. As always, I hope that I’ve also been clear that, in sharing my beliefs, I have no expectation that others will share them, nor that anyone would agree or understand them as “right” just because I said them. Rather, I hope to make people think and wonder for themselves in the further hope that it might expand their own sense and understanding of how they know God.

Sometimes, I find something I believe - that I’ve shared - appears to be contradicted by a biblical text. Even, say, by something Jesus himself says. “Aha!” you might think, “what do you have to say to that, Robin!” And I say thank you, Jesus, for this opportunity to challenge my thinking and make me think even more.

There’s a great example on tap this week. The gospel story is from Luke. It’s Jesus telling a story about a rich man and Lazarus, a poor beggar. While the rich man feasts, poor Lazarus suffers in agony at his gate, cast aside and ignored. When each dies, Lazarus is carried by angels to be with Abraham in heaven, the rich man is consigned to torment in Hades. He begs Abraham to send Lazarus to help him, but Abraham says no, the rich man had his good times, it’s Lazarus’ turn, and now there’s a great chasm between them. So the rich man begs Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his family about how they could end up. Again Abraham says no, that’s what Moses and the prophets are for, and if they won’t listen to them, they won’t listen if a dead man comes back to visit them. (Just as an aside, Marley didn’t have any success with Scrooge, either, he needed the ghosts.)

Okay, so there’s probably a lot to unpack here, but, just for now, can I focus on where Jesus challenges my beliefs for a moment. I think it’ll actually get us to the heart of the story faster.

Jesus says the rich man goes to “Hades.” If you’ve read me before, you might know that I don’t believe that there’s a hell, not in the traditional sense. I believe that God’s love and grace is for everyone. To me, that means we all come from God and we all return to God. No one goes to hell for eternal torment.

I double down on that, too, because I believe that sin is the choices we make that distance us from God, however we understand God. I’m still loathe to use the expression, but if there’s a hell, then this is it. When we sin, here, it puts us as far from God as we can get.

So what do you say, Robin, when Jesus himself says there is one?

Well, first I’d say I’m not entirely convinced Jesus did mean hell in this story, not the way we understand it anyway. But that’s a bigger, more academic debate for another time and, besides, it’s not my real answer. Hang on, this is going to be one of those “what if Jesus meant this?” answers.

What if Jesus wasn’t really interested in the future destination of the rich man and Lazarus? What if the point of “the great chasm” (Luke 16:26) that separates them after death was simply meant to point you back to the great chasm that separates them in life?

What if the point of this story was to draw your attention to the relationship or, more importantly, the lack of relationship between the two characters? The rich man seems to ignore Lazarus in life, but in the afterlife he knows his name. But even then, the rich man doesn’t talk to Lazarus, he talks to Abraham.

What if the rich man had engaged Lazarus in life? What if he got to know him, helped him and shared with him? It wouldn’t be just Lazarus that would benefit. If nothing else, the rich man would have a friend, but maybe Lazarus would have been more than that. If nothing else, the rich man would have taught others, his family included, about living the love that’s in us and built a sense of community. If nothing else, their relationship with each other would then reflect their relationship with God. It would reflect God.

And wouldn’t that be heaven? Both of them engaging in a relationship of mutual understanding and support: that would bring the God’s kingdom to earth now.

What if that’s what this is all about?