Being Whole

The Gospel for this week caused me a lot of spiritual confusion for a long time.  It was of a particularly dangerous sort.

Jesus said, “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”  (Mt. 5:48)  One of my particular spiritual weaknesses is perfectionism.  It can do a lot of damage.  And these words of Jesus appear at first to confirm rather than challenge that perfectionism.  They appear to suggest that perfection is something attainable if only one expends enough effort.  Fortunately along the way, I came to realize the fallacy of that. 

I had always taken perfect to mean perfect as in a moral sense.  I suspect that made me a particularly difficult person to live with.  It wasn’t doing me any good, either. 

The light went on when I realized that perfect had another meaning.  It also means whole, complete, healthy, at peace.  This is what Jesus hopes for us—wholeness more than perfection in the way we normally mean it.  It’s the Hebrew concept of shalom.

Wholeness, though, is not somehow effortless.  I’m afraid it has no small amount of hard work, too.  And that is what Jesus has been talking about in the verses leading up to what he had to say about being perfect.

For example, just before the verse about being perfect, Jesus had been teaching about love.  Loving those who love you is relatively simple.  Not all love is reciprocated, though.  Sometimes love is met with indifference; sometimes, with hatred; sometimes, with harm.  That’s when love is difficult.  But anything less than love is also less than whole.

Love is not complete in the way God’s love is complete when it discriminates even between those who are evil and those who are good, the righteous and the unrighteous.  Love cannot be whole if there are any it refuses to reach.

That’s why Jesus said, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”  (vv. 43-44)  Love that includes some and excludes others is necessarily incomplete.  Love that is less than all is also less than whole.  Love that holds back cannot be fully at peace.

Perfection is in loving as God loves, even when it is difficult, especially when it is difficult.  It’s not that it’s a matter of morality.  It’s that it’s a matter of being whole.

Peace,

Affording Division

The Church has suffered two major schisms, and I’m afraid, lots of minor ones.  The major ones were the Great Schism of the 11th century and the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century.  The latter especially has led to further splintering even to our own day.  We are in the midst of such an event in Anglicanism right now, and of course, we are a product of the major split that occurred with the Reformation and its expression in England.  Breakups, including church ones, have no small connection to issues of power and money.  Power not only corrupts; it divides.  Money is not only the root of much evil; it is the root of much division.  Both are true in the Church. 

But power and money played another role in our divisions, I believe.  Both of the major schisms occurred at the height of the Church’s power, one at the height of the Middle Ages, and one at the end of them.  The Middle Ages were a time when the Church and the State were most closely identified.  In many cases it was difficult to tell them apart.  Church politics and secular politics intermingled freely and naturally but not always righteously.  Though there may have been some cracks beginning to appear by the time of the Reformation, both of the major schisms occurred at the height of the Church’s power, privilege, prestige, and wealth. 

In short, the Church split because it could afford to.  One part of the body could afford, in a quite literal sense, to say to another, “I have no need of you.”  Division was a luxury for solving differences that the Church could afford to buy.

It is no longer so.  And in that we share something with our ancestors who long preceded the schisms.  They were tempted by division, too, but they resisted.  I think the reason is that lacking the privileged position in society that the Church later came to enjoy and take for granted, schism was simply a luxury the Church could not afford.

Paul wrote about it very early on in the Church’s missionary life. 
For as long as there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not of the flesh, and behaving according to human inclinations?  For when one says, "I belong to Paul," and another, "I belong to Apollos," are you not merely human?  What then is Apollos? What is Paul?  Servants through whom you came to believe, as the Lord assigned to each.  I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.  So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.  The one who plants and the one who waters have a common purpose, and each will receive wages according to the labor of each.  For we are God's servants, working together; you are God's field, God's building.  (1 Cor. 3:3b-9)

In the early days of planting and watering and tending, the Church could not afford division if it were to thrive.  Maybe there was a time when it could.  If so, the time has surely passed.  The reality of the Church’s life now is that division is a luxury we can simply no longer afford.  There’s just too much planting and watering to be done.

Peace,

Kenzo

We had a joyous event in my office last week.  Our colleague Bernice David became a grandmother. The baby’s name is Kenzo, which I think is an awfully cute name for a baby.  Bernice shared pictures with us.  Kenzo is adorable.  In one of the pictures, the new grandmother is holding her new grandson.  She has a smile that goes from ear to ear.  In our world, this sharing of pictures, in this case by email, is how we present a new arrival to the world.  In the world of Mary and Joseph, a sacrifice in the temple of a pair of turtledoves or two pigeons was the accepted protocol for presenting the child to the world.

We expect the proper response to the presentation of a new baby to be oohs and aahs and talk of how cute the new arrival is.  In Kenzo’s case, this was quite easy to do.  But Mary and Joseph were greeted by a rather strange response from an old man named Simeon when he saw Jesus for  the first time:  “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed.”  (Lk. 2:34-35)

The birth of a baby is generally received as good news in a family.  Simeon’s words to Mary and Joseph hardly sound like good news.  They do, however, sound like truth.

Kenzo was born into a middle class family.  That made him more fortunate than many babies born in America last week.  According to the National Center for Children in Poverty, 22% of children born in America are born into families who live below the official poverty level.  They also estimate that 45% actually live in families with marginal incomes but not quite low enough to meet the government’s official definition of poor.  And this will come as no surprise, but the rates of poverty among children are highest among children who are black, Hispanic, and Native American.

That is absolutely unacceptable.  It is so totally unacceptable, that every single child born in America today is, whether we recognize it or not, a child “destined for the falling and rising of many . . . a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed.”

How we respond to this absolutely unacceptable reality speaks volumes about what our true inner thoughts are, and those of our culture.  How we respond to this absolutely unacceptable reality speaks volumes about whether our inner thoughts have anything whatsoever to do with being a disciple of Jesus, a 21st century missionary who meets Jesus in the person of the poor.  It is impossible to ooh and aah over the baby Jesus brought by Mary and Joseph to be presented in the temple or because of whom we gathered in darkened churches to sing “Silent Night” just a few weeks ago and not respond to the reality in our own neighborhoods of children living in poverty.

The fact that there are children living under the threat of war or the threat of not having a roof over their heads or the threat of not having food in their bellies is, just as Simeon said, “a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed.”  The question, of course, is what does it reveal about us?

Peace,

The First Beatitude

There are two versions of a collection of saying known as the Beatitudes because they all begin with “Blessed are.”  There is a version in Luke (6:20-23) and a version in Matthew (5:1-12).  Matthew’s version is better known, and it is the Gospel for this week.  Matthew’s version is also better known, I suspect, because it is easier to take.

Luke’s version is shorter but harsher and starker.  Take the first beatitude.  In Luke it is, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”  We’re much more used to, and comfortable with, the way Matthew records it:  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”  Or look at the one about hunger.  Luke records Jesus as saying, “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.”  The message seems a little different in Matthew:  “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

Scholars generally agree that Luke’s version is closer to what Jesus actually said.  That, I think, is probably right.  Short, simple, to the point.  That sounds like Jesus to me.

Scholars also generally agree that Matthew modified Luke to make what Jesus said easier to take for a different audience.  About that I’m not so sure.

“Blessed are the poor” is a little difficult to swallow for those of us who are not.  On the other hand, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” seems to open the door to everyone.  We are all poor in spirit in one way or the other.

I know on those occasions when I get to speak in the Church about the presence of Jesus in solidarity with the poor, someone will invariably bring up Matthew 5:3, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” and ask if I do not think Jesus was speaking metaphorically about the poor, not meaning literal poverty, but any condition that weighs on the spirit.

I don’t like the question because I know my answer is going to be disappointing.  “No,” I say, “I think Jesus was speaking literally of the poor, the material kind, about those who lack the necessities of daily life.”  It is very clear to me why Matthew might have wanted to soften this teaching up in a way that Luke does not allow.

This persistent question, though, has caused me to reexamine what I think Matthew might have been up to, not softening at all, but maybe opening the way to the kingdom of heaven beyond just the poor by suggesting that the rich could be like the poor.  Maybe he was not avoiding the stark truth I think Jesus actually spoke about the particular blessedness of the poor at all.  I’ve always thought Matthew was talking about poverty of spirit as a substitute for literal poverty.  Now I wonder if Matthew wasn’t inviting those who are not poor to be “poor in spirit,” in the same way I might say to someone who has invited me to a wedding I am unable to attend that I will “be there in spirit.”

I’ve come to wonder if Matthew is offering us an opportunity to be one with the poor even if we are not, to stand with the poor even if we are not poor ourselves, to be with the poor even when we have to journey to get there.  I’ve come to see Matthew, not as softening Luke, but as complementing Luke.  There is a way that the kingdom of heaven can belong to the rich as well as the poor, but I doubt it is by sugarcoating it.  It is by facing it.  It is by being in solidarity with, in spirit with, in alliance with the poor.  It is by seeing the poor as ourselves.

Matthew, after all, also remembered Jesus as saying, “[I]t is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”  (19:24)  Somehow, sugarcoating is not what I think Matthew was up to.

 Peace,  

We Are All Missionaries

We Are All Missionaries from The Episcopal Church on Vimeo.

"We are all missionaries or we are nothing." ~ Archbishop Desmond Tutu

Talking to Ourselves

I have been blessed along the way by the people who have influenced my understanding of mission and ministry.  One of them is Onell Soto, formerly a member of the world mission staff at the Church Center and then the Bishop of Venezuela.  I had the opportunity to learn from him when he was the Assistant Bishop of Atlanta. 

Onell is a gracious man with a pastor’s heart.  He is also fundamentally a missionary, a call to which he has devoted his life.  He was a missionary in Venezuela.  He supported missionaries as a member of our staff, and after coming back to the United States, he continued to preach and teach about the Church’s missionary imperative, becoming something of a missionary for mission. 

He also speaks with the thick and lovely accent of his native Cuba, and he frequently compared himself to Ricky Ricardo (for those of old enough to remember “I Love Lucy”).  His Cuban accent became for me an object lesson in mission.  I vividly remember him saying on numerous occasions, particularly when people strained to understand him, “The Gospel has always been proclaimed with an accent.”  Yes, it has.  Indeed, it must be.  Otherwise, it is nothing more than insider jargon for those of us in the club.  Otherwise it is nothing more than talking to ourselves.  There is no health in talking to ourselves.  The very core of our life is to engage outward, and that requires an accent. 

The lessons for this week make the point, too.  John tells the story of the interaction between Jesus and John the Baptist (Jn. 1:29-42).  Three times John pauses in the story to translate for those to whom the words he uses are not known—Rabbi is translated as Teacher, Messiah is translated as Anointed, and Cephas is translated as Peter.  The Gospel is always proclaimed with an accent.

The Old Testament lesson, Isaiah 49:1-7, has a similar emphasis.  “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth” (v. 6).  The whole energy is about outward motion, from the familiar to the foreign.  The Gospel is always proclaimed with an accent.

The New Testament lesson is from an epistle of Paul, Paul the apostle to the Gentiles speaking beyond his home country to the Greeks of Corinth.  The Gospel is always proclaimed with an accent.  

It must be so if we are to be who we are by baptism, proclaimers of the Gospel in word and example.  Archbishop William Temple said, “The Church is the only society on earth that exists for the benefit of non-members.”  If we’re not speaking with an accent, it means we’re not being ourselves.  It means we are just talking to ourselves.

Is what we’re up to nothing more than talking to ourselves?  The way to tell is if we notice the accents.  It is only then that we might be hearing the Gospel.  It is only then that we might be experiencing the Gospel.  It is only then that we can be who God intends us to be.

Peace,

Back in the Box

Everyone has now gone home; Ginger’s brother to South Carolina, and the boys and daughter-in-law to Kentucky.  Now the clean-up begins.

That was our task for the weekend.  The decorations are back in their containers; well, mostly.  The Christmas tree angel, after its 35th Christmas, is safely stored for another year.  The tree, delivered exactly one month ago today, is bagged and on the street.  The furniture is now arranged back in its original locations.  The cards are all gone and the address list updated.  The sheets and towels are getting washed.  The inflatable beds are rolled up and in the closet.  I spent most of my weekend sweeping up evergreen needles, which have a tendency to get everywhere. 

Christmas is back in the box.  Where it belongs.  After a month of the chaos and disruption, things are getting back to normal.  It’s about time.  I’m not sure I could have stood any more of it.

Every year, Christmas disrupts our lives and shatters our routines.  It breaks into our normal patterns and turns them upside down.  It is not too different, I suppose, than the first Christmas.

It certainly disrupted the lives of Joseph and Mary, who traveled from Nazareth to Bethlehem and then on to Egypt; of the shepherds, who left their flocks and went to see the child; of the wise men from the East, who left all behind to follow a star.  And it most certainly disrupted the lives of the villagers of Bethlehem whose infant sons were slaughtered by Herod in a jealous and murderous rage.

Enough is enough.  There is a limit to how much chaos, how much danger, how much loss, how much disruption one can take.  There came a time for Joseph and Mary and the baby to go home.  There came a time for the shepherds to go back to work.  There came a time for the wise men to return from whence they came.  There even came a time for the days of mourning in Bethlehem to end.

There is just so much Christmas anyone can take.  I, for one, am happy to have it back in the box.

Except, of course, I’ll continue to find pine needles in unexpected places when I least expect them, when I’m not armed with a broom and dust pan.  I hope I find them when I need to remember about what happened at Christmas, that the truth is life has been changed forever and the world will never quite be the same.  I hope I find them when I need to remember that normalcy, routines, and patterns are illusory and idolatrous because God is actually in charge. 

I hope I find them when I need to remember that, try as I might, Christmas is never really back in box.  Neither is God.

Peace,