Sunday, September 10th, 2006

Our gospel reading today tells of a healing. Jesus restores sound and speech to a man who had spent his years imprisoned and isolated by silence. Unlike Matthew, who excludes some of the uncomfortable details from this story, Mark describes the strange healing techniques Jesus employed in the healing. He stuck his fingers in the man's ears, and touched the man's tongue with his own saliva. Some biblical commentaries speculate that these actions embarrassed Matthew, for they were the same methods used by a host of ancient sorcerers. Letting on that Jesus used the same procedures as ordinary charlatans opened the early Church to ridicule and scorn.

I was, in a small way, in a similar position as the deaf man this week. I needed healing. I have a slight curve to my spine that acts up every so often. A couple times a year I'm knocked out of commission for three or four days by spasms of pain. Sometimes a visit to the chiropractor grants some relief, and so this week I ended up in the office of a holistic doctor who also practices chiropractic medicine. Unfortunately, this doctor was awful. Instead of the chiropractic adjustments I came in for, I was subjected to a host of alternative healing methods that were questionable at best and an outright sham at worst. The worst of which involved a laser pointer. The good doctor pointed it into my ear and expected my back to suddenly be healed. Needless to say, I left that office in just as much pain as I'd carried in with me.

And so I can imagine how the deaf man might have felt when Jesus started poking around in his ears and mouth. The man quite possibly had already been treated, unsuccessfully, with the same tiresome and useless techniques. I wonder if his eyes rolled with disbelief and disappointment, frustrated that his friends had forced him to face yet another scam artist.

But then something changed. Though Jesus began his treatment with ordinary spit, he diverged from the ordinary practice of faith healers. He groaned, and looked at the Heavens, and with the power of God he spoke a commandment in Aramaic: Ephphtha! Be opened!

Be opened. And the man's ears were opened, his tongue released. He was healed.

The deaf man had no reason to believe he would ever be the man who could hear. He was locked in silence and sealed with a feeling of utter desperation. And maybe he had given in to the fact of his existence. He didn't volunteer to be healed; his friends lead him to

Jesus to receive a healing touch. And then he was taken aside by the Son of God, subjected to a dubious drama of healing, and then-- surprise of all surprises-- healed.

Isaiah had spoken of a day in which the blind would be released from darkness and the deaf set free from silence. And in Jesus, this prophecy is realized. Through his ministry on earth, Jesus shared gifts of healing and wholeness. Jesus set men and women free from spiritual-- and physical-- captivity.

For Jesus, spiritual healing was infinitely more important. He didn't even want the crowd that overheard the healing of the deaf man to share what they had seen. His compassion for those who suffered was so intense that it caused him to groan, and yet he knew that physical relief was only a fragment of his mission.

Though the gospels bear witness to miraculous physical healings, the primary work of Jesus was not to cure ailments but to open eyes and ears, hearts and minds, to the good news of God's redeeming love. Be open, he commanded. Open your eyes to imagine a restored Creation. See what Isaiah saw-- the hope that roses will bloom where now there is only parched dust. Open your ears to hear the Word that transforms cries of mourning into shouts of praise. Be open to the amazing grace of God, and you will be transformed, you will be healed.

The words of Isaiah are echoed and fulfilled in the healing acts of Christ. Isaiah promised that God would save his people and extend healing to his children. Mark’s account of the healing of the deaf man signifies that the age of salvation has arrived. But I think the authors of the lectionary—the pastors and scholars who prayerfully discerned that churches throughout the world would consider these scriptures in tandem—recognized a second connection between these passages from the Old and New testaments. Isaiah charges those with fearful hearts to “Be strong.” Despite his often difficult message to the Israelites, he reminds God’s people that God will come and save them. “Do not fear,” he proclaims.

These two commands— “do not fear” and “be opened” are two sides of the same coin. We cannot be open when we are afraid. When fear holds us in its grip we are anything but open. We lock our doors and shutter our windows. Anything and anyone that is different is perceived as a threat, a danger. And so we live a smaller existence when we fear, an existence that does not leave room for good news, for pure joy, for abiding hope.

Fear is a fist: held tightly closed, defensive, untrusting. Beginning to trust God, to really believe that God is really doing something about the mess of the world, feels to me like slowly unfurling a fist I’ve gripped for far too long. Nothing illustrates trust and hope and openness and faith for me like a hand, held open. Open to share and receive love, open to share and receive healing.

We could easily dismiss the prophecy of Isaiah and the promise of Christ. We could arm ourselves with fearful skepticism, blind and deaf to the healing power of God. We could join the early detractors of the Church in dismissing Jesus as a sorcerer, or we the contemporary detractors of the Church in writing him off as a very wise man that affected people so deeply that they made up stories of miracles and healing. Or, we can trust that the invitation to give up fear and be opened to good news is an invitation worth heeding. We can entrust the most wounded and terrified parts of our bodies and souls to God, not in blind faith but because we see that Christ alone is the source of all healing.

Five years ago tomorrow, we were commanded to fear. Our nation was wounded and many people were killed so that we would be afraid, so that we would live in a prison of terror. And yet the wisdom of our faith instructs us not to fear. Just as Isaiah encouraged the exiles to trust in their God and hope for the restoration of their land, we must fearlessly place our trust in the One who heals our suffering and redeems our souls. We must hope for a transformed world where terror is no longer a weapon, where death no longer holds a sting. This caliber of hope is impossible if we do not heed the groan of Jesus to be courageously open to the gospel.

As the United States commemorates September 11th this week, we will be reminded of the horror and the heroism that emerged from the destruction. For as much evil as we saw that day, we also witnessed the human capacity for compassion and courage.

One of the simple yet profound images from the rescue and recovery operations was that of a rugged steel cross, discovered amidst the bent and twisted ruins of the World Trade Center. That cross was a fierce and glorious reminder that our God transforms suffering and death into hope and resurrection. The rescue operation continued beneath the foot of the cross, a constant reminder that God has given us every reason to hope for new life.

God will come and save us, God will repair what has been broken, God will restore what has been lost. We will be healed.

Sunday, September 3, 2006

Despite the fact that I’m a huge fan of National Public Radio, I rarely catch Morning Edition, one of their primary news shows. Its title doesn’t lie: it’s on in the Morning, and I am definitely not on in the morning. But the other day on my way to Westwood to spend some time with a few young clergywomen, I caught a brief installment of StoryCorps, their weekly series in which friends and family members interview one another in sound booths set up throughout the United States. Just as Morning Edition airs in the morning, StoryCorps specializes in stories. I heard a third-generation steel worker named Ken Kobus tell a simple yet beautiful story about his father, John, and the labor that they shared. I loved the story enough to buy the transcript, because I knew I couldn’t retell it with the grace of the original. So here’s what Ken said. [Truncated due to copyright.]

...I know that [working in the mill] stuck with my father for all his life. I mean, when he was dying - he had cancer. We had him in a hospice and he was in a lot of pain, so they were giving him lots of morphine.

And I was watching him in the bed once. And the doctor came in and my dad was laying on his back and he, like, had his hands up in the air and he was turning and manipulating. And the doctor saw it - I was looking at my dad - and he says we’re wondering what the heck he’s doing? Because, you know, he did it all the time. He would be laying on his back and he would be doing this stuff and they had no clue as to what he was doing.

And I said, oh, I says, I could tell you. He’s making steel. He was opening furnace doors and he was adjusting the gas on the furnace and the draft. I could see. I could see what he was doing. And the doctor was amazed, you know.

To the day he died, that’s what he lived. He lived steel-making.

Maybe I wouldn’t have heard what I heard in this story if I hadn’t been contemplating the letter of James this week. James is a bit of a rogue character in the canon of Christian scripture. The letter has been the subject of nearly as much controversy as the Book of Revelation. Many early Christian scripture collections did not include it, and the reformer Martin Luther called it a letter of straw compared to the writings of Paul.

Whereas Paul emphasizes that we are saved by grace through faith, not by good works, James proclaims that faith without works is dead. He is, I believe, unfairly accused of not giving grace the credit it deserves. But I think he’s asking an entirely different question. He doesn’t explore how we are saved; he is primarily concerned with how faith forms and shapes our lives. How do we live as Christians?

For James, the Christian faith requires action. He doesn’t claim that our actions save us; indeed, he celebrates the implanted word that has the power to save our souls. I especially like the way Eugene Peterson renders this—“ In simple humility, let our gardener, God, landscape you with the Word, making a salvation-garden of your life.” God’s grace is clearly the source of our salvation—but that doesn’t let us of the hook. We are to be more than passive recipients of the word. More than people who let the gospel go in one ear and out the other. We are to be doers of the word. We are to be shaped by the Word. Our lives are to take on a distinct pattern of compassion and service. As Christians, we do not simply believe the gospel. We are called to embody the gospel, to live it.

And that is how the apparently secular story Ken Kobus told about his father landed in the pulpit this Sunday. Ken confessed that his father lived the steel mills. The ordinary habits of his career were so much a part of him that they became a source of comfort and meaning in the delirium of his cancer. So long as he was carefully monitoring the dynamics of the furnace, he was still a strong laborer, not a man lost to the ravages of illness. He knew the movements of his trade by heart, so that as long as his heart was beating, he was a steel maker.

We often think of habits only negatively. We think of bad habits—procrastination, overspending, nailbiting. Even good habits are considered to be sort of mindless. Going to church out of habit doesn’t exactly sound as romantic as being drawn to worship out of joy in the Lord. But Rick Warren, the author of the Purpose Driven Life, teaches that adopting spiritual habits leads to spiritual maturity.

He writes, “Anyone can become physically fit if he or she will regularly do certain exercises and practice good health habits. Likewise, spiritual fitness is no mystery. It is simply a matter of learning certain spiritual exercises and being disciplined to do them until they become habits.” Pastor Warren preaches here the same message as our Brother James: be doers of the word. Live your faith. Embody the gospel. Don’t simply admire Jesus; walk in his footsteps.

John Kobus worked a difficult job for thirty-seven years. His work was tedious at times. Every cent he brought home was earned with sweat and danger. He did the same things over, and over, and over again until they became second nature.

God’s vision for us—the salvation-garden He labors to plant within the soil of each of our lives—is to be just as shaped by the work of discipleship. Our work is prayer, witness, compassion, service. Our work is bible study, communion, love, kindness. Our work is worship, justice, generosity, sacrifice. May our new lives in Christ be consumed by this work, as a faithful response to God’s great works of grace. Amen.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

When I was in seminary, I could be a bit of a firecracker; if I had an opinion, I was more than happy to make it known. This mode of operation worked out just fine, with a couple exceptions. I couldn’t skip class much, because my absence would be altogether too apparent. Just as thunder strikes after lightening during Midwestern summer storms, it was a safe gamble that I would pipe up when certain theological issues came up. One of those issues was—and is—violence. Violence and the bible, violence and Christian history, violence and video games. And it was on one of those occasions that violence came up in class that my tendency to mouth off bit back. It was History of Christianity, pre-reformation. We had made it as far as the Crusades, the brutal “Holy Wars” that Christians and Muslims waged in Medieval times. Little bewilders and angers me more than killing in the name of the Prince of Peace.

I took one look at the textbook illustration of a soldier dressed in armor adorned with a cross, and my hand shot up. I don’t remember precisely what I said, but it had something to do with dismissing the Crusaders as true followers of Christ. Now, if I was a firecracker, my professor was a cannonball. She hastily put me in my place, lecturing me on the need for respect and historical objectivity.

I learned a few things that day. Though my conviction regarding church-sanctioned violence did not change, I learned that respecting my brothers and sisters in Christ is crucial, even when their beliefs differ from mine, and even when they have been dead for a millennium. And I also learned that I was not cut out to be a historian. I was incapable of putting my core beliefs on the back burner to explore Christian history as an even-handed academic. I cannot study the Crusades without tearing my hair out. I am one of those Christians who are glad that Onward, Christians Soldiers was left out of our hymn book, though I have grown up enough not to dismiss your faith if it is your favorite hymn.

As you can imagine, I struggle with this week’s scripture from the book of Ephesians. In this rousing closure to his letter to the Christians in Ephesus, Paul borrows the language of battle to describe the divine power that strengthens and protects Christians. We are to put on the whole armor of God, to encircle ourselves with God’s might so that we may be kept safe and secure from the powers of evil. This scripture, as with every scripture that reveals the works of our Heavenly Father, bears witness to good news. Yet I confess that it is a challenge to hear the gospel enfolded in the metaphor of tools for battle, when throughout history Christians have drawn swords sharpened not for the Spirit but for the killing of men, women, and children created in the image of God. It is jarring to consider the gospel in metaphorical images of war, when literal images of war are altogether too commonplace.

I read an article this week about a Reformed Rabbi who preached against the war in Iraq in her Orange County congregation. As she condemned the mistreatment of prisoners by members of the US military, she was abruptly interrupted. The commotion in the pews was so pronounced that she assumed there must be a medical emergency. But then a man raised his arms in an X, and shouted, “You have no right to talk about politics in the pulpit. It has no place here!”

I don’t know if I agree with that man. I don’t know if I agree with that Rabbi, either. I do know that it is neither responsible to ignore what is going on in the world around us, nor to paint the pulpit Republican-red or Democrat-blue. Today I heed Paul’s teaching to proclaim the Gospel of Peace. It is impossible to wear the shoes of peace during a time of war without treading in a complex current that includes politics.

Know that I do not intend to stand behind a bully pulpit. You are welcome to disagree with me. I do not intend to draw a line and invite each of you to stand on one side or the other. My prayer for us is that we become ever more shaped by that bold supplication we raise every time we worship: that God’s will would be done on earth as it is in Heaven.

Paul talks about a present darkness, about spiritual forces of evil, about powers and principalities. And sure enough, God’s earth is cloaked by evil. We live in a world corrupted by disaster and plagued by illness. Though the soil and water of Creation produce an abundance of food, some starve while others count a surplus. Nations battle for access to resources. The intoxicating lure of power, privilege, and prestige infects human hearts. Dictators scramble for control. People inflict harm and terror upon other people, and whether it is on the scale of genocide between warring nations or domestic abuse between a husband and wife, God weeps for the evil power clutching his children.

As followers of the Risen Lord, we are invited to involve ourselves in a force more powerful than hatred, than violence, than evil. We are given tools: truth, righteousness, faith, salvation, the Word of God. Through that Holy Word, we receive Christ’s teachings about a peaceable Kingdom where God lives and reigns forever. No matter our convictions about war in general or any war in particular, as Christians we share a vision of a world no longer marred by violence and conflict, a fully redeemed Creation in which justice replaces inequality, mourning gives way to dancing, and the nations gather for worship, not war. The present darkness may seem dense, but our God has already begun the work of redemption through the radical love of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The forces of evil have no chance against the power of God’s gentle and Holy Spirit.

That we are a nation at war troubles me deeply. My heart broke anew this week as I saw a photograph of a young mother preparing to leave her five-month-old child to return to active duty in Iraq. Her sacrifice is too great for me to fathom. And yet as a Christian, my compassion cannot stop with her. I know that God’s love and grace flow just as freely in other lands and languages.

Paul ends this passage with a reminder to pray in the Spirit at all times. It would seem that this is what our shiny armor prepares us for: the simple act of communicating with our Creator. And pray we must. In a time when it seems the world, and even our own nation, is divided into enemy camps, we must remind one another that Jesus taught us to pray for God’s will, not ours, to be done. We must share the gift of prayer generously, praying not only for the men and women proudly recognized in the Narthex, but that all persons might know the peace and protection of God.

The Christian struggle is not against enemies of flesh and blood, but spiritual powers. As persons entrusted with the whole armor of God, not only our nation but every nation desperately needs our continual prayer for peace, witness for peace, and work for peace. We are clad in spiritual armor so that all of Creation may be released from the force of evil and ushered in to God’s just and peaceful Kingdom. This is a battle that cannot be lost, for in this battle, we are all on the side of God. May it be so.