The Hogan

I spent this past weekend in Navajoland.  I was there as part of what the Bishop there calls the “economic development team” to meet with the council of the Episcopal Church in Navajoland.  Our goal is to secure the very important ministry of the Episcopal Church’s only all-indigenous mission.  We have a lot to do.  Things are in a precarious state and whether or not we are able to continue our ministry among the Navajo has a lot to do with what both the Navajo people and the rest of the Church are willing to do together to make new life possible.  It takes a lot of courage to choose life. 

It is for that reasons that our time in Navajoland began with a rare invitation to participate in a traditional Navajo blessing ceremony at the sheep camp of one of the key Navajo leaders in the family’s hogan, the traditional Navajo dwelling and location of medicine ceremonies.  Our host calls the hogan the universal home. 

The blessing was conducted by a medicine man.  Although the medicine man invoked the name of Jesus with great passion and sincerity, the ceremony itself was certainly not a church ritual. 

Part of the ceremony involved smoking together.  I watched this with great interest.  A pipe of herbs was passed to the primary participants, the medicine man, his assistant, our host, the bishop, and some of the key church leaders, all women considered elders.  I observed how they drew in the smoke and then puffed it out in each of the four directions and then symbolically covered themselves with it, directing it toward all the parts of their bodies and finally over their heads.  Eventually, the pipe was passed around the room.

Eventually it got to me.  Now, confession time.  I had never smoked anything in my life.  Nothing.  Not a cigarette, cigar, or pipe.  And certainly not anything else, inhale or not.  I was not at all sure I knew what to do.  I was afraid I would cough uncontrollably and disrupt the whole event.

Fortunately, I managed.  I took in the smoke and blew it out in imitation of what I had seen my hosts do.  I let the smoke roll over me.  I directed it with my cupped hand over my head. And then I passed the pipe on to the person next to me.

As I did, the Native man next to me who had handed me the pipe in the first place, reached out his hand to me.  He took my hand, and grasped it quietly but firmly.  It was a profoundly important moment to me.  I can’t tell you I know at all what it means.  It has something to do, though, with a very basic shared humanity. 

I read the lesson from Acts (11:1-18) for this Sunday in the context of the hogan, the universal home.  Peter, a devoutly observant Jew, had returned to Jerusalem from a trip to Joppa, where he had been invited into the home of some Gentiles.  There he had eaten with the uncircumcised and received a vision about clean and unclean foods.  He heard the voice of the Lord inviting him, indeed commanding him, to eat of foods previously forbidden.  He protested, “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.”

The voice of the Lord answered, “”What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”

Animals used for food, described by Acts as “four-footed animals, beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds of the air,” find their purity in their common creator so that none is unclean.  Can it possibly be otherwise with human beings, all the children of the same God, known to them or not, that any could be unclean?  And if it is true of all human beings, could it possibly be otherwise with the human response to the innate drive in all of us that draws us to their creator?  Surely whatever that is, as basically human as it must be, is made by God not only clean but beloved.

The Navajo people have brought me to a new understanding of what it is to be human by teaching me something of what it means to be Diné, the name by which they know themselves.  The hogan is the universal home.  Another name for the universal home is the catholic church.  And catholic, in the truest sense, must be defined by what we share in common—our common humanity, our common origin in God, not only that we are made clean, but that we are made in the image of God.  What is catholic, I have learned, is defined by what is universally true and not by what is exclusively true.

Peace,
+Stacy

A Statement of Hope

I have never been a big fan of the Book of Revelation.  Mostly, I think, it’s because of how badly it gets misused a lot of the time, as if it were a collection of predictions, sort of like a biblical version of Nostradamus.  Its imagery is strange to say the least, and the high level of symbolism has always been more off-putting than inviting to me.  I’ve never thought it was the most salutary of scriptures, and indeed, it seems to lend itself to more than a little interpretive mischief, especially by the most unscrupulous preachers. 

The passage for next Sunday (Rev. 7:9-17), to my surprise, speaks to me in an important way.  It exudes hope.  Maybe it’s that I’m finding myself in need of just that.  It is something I share with the church for which it was written.

Revelation is all about context, and its context is disturbing.  It was written at a time of great difficulty for the church, including the persecution of Nero.  It was not a time when things were looking up.  In fact, it is difficult to express how bleak things must have looked for the young church.  Pretty much hopeless, I would think. 

Into that mix, Revelation speaks a word of hope, more like singing it.  And it is more than hope.  It is confidence.

After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no   one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.  They cried out in a loud voice, saying, “Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”  (vv. 9-10)

In the midst of horrible circumstances, Revelation sings out a vision of tremendous hope.  I particularly like this part of the vision—from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.

I have just returned from Haiti.  I have never been to Haiti, not one single time, when I did not return inspired by the infectious hope of the Haitian people.  Theirs is not a situation of persecution, like the church to which Revelation was written, but it is extreme by any reckoning.  The people face challenges I find it difficult even to imagine. 

Three years after the devastating earthquake of January 12, 2010, the ministries of the Episcopal Church in Haiti are functioning but in makeshift facilities.  The Cathedral operates from a temporary shelter.  So do the primary and secondary schools, the trade school, and the music school.  The same is true for the university and the seminary as well as many of the hospitals and clinics. 

Still, this week the Haitian people gathered with their American partners for a conference known as the Haiti Connection.  A bell choir of blind children played.  A dance troupe of from St. Vincent’s School for Handicapped Children danced.  A choir of deaf children sang.

Partners, Haitian and American, talked about their ministries.  The architect for St. Vincent’s described the rebuilding plans.  One person talked about a ministry to revive the Haitian coffee industry in a way that goes far beyond anything imagined even by “fair trade.”  We heard from the dedicated and extraordinarily talented dean of the nursing school.  A spirit of collaboration prevailed.  Small steps were being taken everywhere.  Lots of small steps add up to giant steps.

It all left it easier for me hear the song of Revelation in a fresh way—from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.  A heavenly chorus of hope.  Having just come home from Haiti, I’m wondering if Revelation might not be a prediction after all.  Maybe it’s even better than a prediction, a statement of confident hope.  And certainly one I happen to need.

Peace,
+Stacy

Resurrection is Not More of the Same

Resurrection is a hard concept to get.  It is not the same thing as resuscitation.  

There is the son of the widow of Nain (Lk. 7:11-15).  There is the daughter of Jairus (Lk. 8:41-42, 49-56).  Most famous of all, probably, is Lazarus (Jn. 11).  Jesus refers to his own action regarding Lazarus as awakening him, not resurrecting him.  In not one instance is the word resurrection used.

There are other instances, including outside the New Testament and including actors other than Jesus.  Elijah restored the life of the son of the widow of Zarephath (1 Kg. 17:17-24).  He himself prayed, “Let this child’s life come into him again” (v. 21), and the text says that the child was “revived” (v. 22).  Peter restored life to a disciple named Tabitha in Joppa (Acts 9:36-41).  Acts says that “he showed her to be alive” (v. 41).  There is no mention of resurrection.  

Indeed, whatever happened on that first Easter morning, it was not resuscitation or the revival of Jesus’ dead body.  Whatever it was, it was something different with Jesus. It was something different than what had been before with him.  Mary Magdalene, the first of his disciples to see him, did not recognize him (Jn. 20:15).  The life of Jesus was not the same as it had been before.  Two of his closest disciples walked all the way from Jerusalem to Emmaus with him and did not know who he was (Lk. 24:13 ff.).  The life of Jesus was not the same as it had been before.  As instructed, the eleven, Jesus’ most intimate friends, gathered to meet him on a mountain in Galilee to which they had been directed.  Even then, not all recognized him (Mt. 28:17).  The life of Jesus was not the same as it had been before.  

The life of the resurrection as made known in Jesus is not the same as a continuation of life as it has been.  Resurrection is not the same as resuscitation or even revival.  Those, miraculous as they may be, are just a continuation of what has been.  Resurrection is not.  It is something entirely new.  It has no biblical parallel.  And it has no parallel, at least exactly, in our experience of life this side of the kingdom of God.

The fact that it is so completely new, life so completely changed, is what it makes it so hard to accept.  Human beings, I think, are innately conservative.  Better stated, it is really more that we are innately cautious, indeed fearful.  That could be, I think, because we are the only creatures innately aware of our impending deaths.  But for whatever reason, the life of the resurrection is difficult for us to accept precisely because it is not the same old thing, not a continuation of what we have always known, not more of the same.  That is why it takes courage.  And courage, even for those of us who have it, is more than a little difficult to access.  

Still, our message is that we are being called not into continued being but into new being; not into the same old thing, but into newness of life; not something we already know, but something completely without precedent, except in Jesus; not into resuscitated life, but into resurrected life.

The adventure we set out on after Easter is to find out if we’re up to it.  Courage, friends!  And remember.  Jesus has gone on before.

Peace,
+Stacy

Overcoming Religion for Easter

Peter preached a sermon (Acts 10:34-43) in the months immediately after the death and resurrection of Jesus.  For close to 2,000 Easters, and I say this from some personal experience of having tried to preach on 1% of those Easters, preachers have struggled to find something new to explain it.  It is impossible really.  Perhaps Peter put it best in his sermon.  He just announced it—no elaborations, no reflections, no explanations—just announced it.  “God raised him on the third day.”  That was it.  

The truth is that the New Testament really doesn’t say much more than that about the resurrection.  None of the gospels describe the actual event—how, exactly the stone was rolled away, or what happened at the dramatic moment when the body of Jesus arose.  That is a little curious, I think, given how central the resurrection is to Christian faith.  Still, neither the gospels nor the apostle Paul say any more than Peter did—just an announcement.  God raised him on the third day.  He is risen.  That’s about it. 

And could the reason that the Bible says so little about the details of Easter be that the details are not remotely important?  The point of the story of the New Testament, it seems to me, is not nearly so much what you think about the resurrection.  It is what you do about it.  Indeed, repeatedly in the gospels, the disciples are not at all sure what to think.  In John, the disciples who got to the tomb first weren’t sure what to think.  In Luke, even in the presence of the risen Jesus, some of the disciples doubted.  In Matthew, those who were with him on the mountain after the resurrection doubted.  What matters is what they did.  They lived the resurrection.  They lived as if death no longer had power over them.  What matters is that they lived as if all that divides one human being from another no longer existed.

And that brings me back to that early sermon Peter preached about Easter, and to the part of Acts leading up to it.  Because the point is not what Peter said about the resurrection and more about what he did about it, about how Peter was changed by it, changed from old ways to new ways, changed from death to life, changed from being governed by what divides to being an instrument of reconciliation. 

The words of Peter’s sermon are addressed to a man named Cornelius, his family, his friends, and his household.  There were many people there according to Acts, which is not surprising as Cornelius was a man of some importance and means.  He was a Roman centurion, and not one of the mercenary soldiers from other parts of the Empire common in Judea, but an actual Roman.  He was a good man.  A generous man.  A supporter of the synagogue.  But he was not a Jew.  No matter how you cut it, Cornelius was a Gentile, a foreigner, unclean. 

In fact, Peter’s first words to Cornelius were, “You . . . know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a Gentile.”  And then Peter went on.  “But God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.”  And then Peter begins his sermon with these words:  “I truly understand that God shows no partiality.” 

For Peter, that is a matter of the resurrection. That is change inspired by the resurrection.  That is faith in the resurrection showing forth in living a life of witness to the resurrection, a life in the service of reconciliation. 

That gets to the heart of the resurrection for all of us.  To have faith in the resurrection is to give up partiality, things of our own creation that divide us, all things that prevent our reconciliation, that prevent the love of God for our neighbors from being made real, for God knows no partiality at all.  What the resurrection does is destroy all that divides in the name of God’s overpowering reconciliation that will be held back by nothing, not even death itself.

Now things that divide us are not that easy to give up.  After all, they are deeply cherished.  After all, they are all we have ever known.  After all, they are often matters of principle, of conviction.  After all, they are very often full of religious meaning for us, as they were for Peter. 

It is hard for us to associate what is religious with something God is working beyond all imagination to defeat.  But when anything, including religion itself, divides us, that is exactly what we can expect from Easter, that God will defeat it.  “I truly understand that God shows no partiality.” 

Forty-five years ago this Thursday, which was a Thursday that year also, the Thursday before Palm Sunday, a man who had incredible faith in the resurrection entered into it fully.  That man’s name was Martin Luther King, Jr. Forty-five years ago this Thursday, he left Atlanta on an airplane to take part in the sanitation workers strike in Memphis for the reason that God knows no partiality.  And on that evening, 45 years ago last night, King preached these final words:

[God has] allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

The next day he was dead.  And that very costly stand against what divides, as religiously essential as many of us thought that division was at the time, was a product, I am sure, of the resurrection and an encounter with the risen Jesus.  “Mine eye have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”  The question is, of course, have ours? 

That is what the resurrection is all about.  It is about living in the light of the glory of the coming of the Lord, that in the coming of the Lord there is no partiality.  None.  It is living in the light of the resurrection.  It is in living in light of the fact that God knows no partiality.  None.

Not that that’s an easy thing to do.  Partiality is a hard thing to give up.  Fear is a hard thing to give up.  Somehow, partiality is a comfort, a defense, an illusion that we are somehow worthy, deserving, entitled to God’s special care.  We would rather that be the case.  It is not.  The reason that is good news to us is that we are the people that, before the resurrection, Peter would have characterized as foreign, unclean, Gentiles.  It is only by the power of what the resurrection meant, and what a group of followers of Jesus decided to do about it, that we are included beyond the very religious barrier that Peter had to overcome. 

Is the resurrection enough for us to overcome the things that divide us in our own day—national origin, language spoken, gender, opinion, political party, class, tax bracket, orientation?  Is it?  Religion notwithstanding?  Might the resurrection even have the power for us to overcome our religion?

So, here’s the basic proclamation.  God raised him on the third day.  He is risen.  That’s it.  What we think about it matters not a bit.  What we believe about it does, but only in the sense of what we do about it, what we overcome because of it, how we live because of it—without division, without partiality, all religion to the contrary notwithstanding.

Peace,
+Stacy