O Love...

I long for Easter in the broadest possible sense of the word. I really want God to usher in God's Kingdom and end the endless discussions about what we can't do to make a more just world. We can't possibly solve all the world's problems; we can't even solve our own. We can't raise the minimum wage, provide health care, stop abortion, get out of wars, effectively teach our children.....the can'ts just go on and on and on. There's a reason, always, why we can't. Just heard this morning that we can't get worker's comp insurance (as a church) unless we also have terrorism insurance. (Believe me, many think there are terrorists in every church, but it usually involves the color of the hymnals or the placement of the candles!)

I long for Easter. I ache for a time when seminary classes on grief and struggle doesn't have to be offered. I yearn for a time that families aren't so busy and stressed that they feel they can't worship because one more thing will push them over the edge. I long for nations that work for the good of their people, all their people, instead of their leader's own political power. I want schools in which all children are well fed, well loved, and well supported. I long for Easter, for that time when "justice will roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." (Amos 5:24)

The season of Lent just intensifies the longing. Holy Week, this year seems to remind me again and again that we can't...we. just. can't. The world, offered God's Kingdom in service, healing, and wholeness in Jesus, said, "We can't."  "You can't." The end. Giving up whatever little piece of power we held in the first century, whether it was religious power or political power, social power or even just our place in the family...it was too different, too radical. We can't.  Our unwillingness to "can" ended in the cross, then and now. We can't give up more of our hard-earned dollars to support other people. We can't give up our place in the world power structure, even if it bankrupts us economically or morally. We, the people of God, still crucify God's Kingdom on the crosses of our can'ts...every. single. day.

It's a quite a wonder that God didn't just decide "I can't." Can't save these people. Can't love them. Can't encourage them to turn away from their bad choices, or the not so bad choices that still separate them from living in my Kingdom. I still make the case every year that when Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane "Take this cup from me..." that God said OK...come on home, and we'll leave this mess to those who made it.  But that's not the story, and the one thing we can't do, no matter how hard we try, is change the story of God's deep and transforming love. That we can't escape, no matter what.

A visceral reminder of this "can't" surfaced yesterday as I listened to a choral rendition of an old hymn...one of those hymns that, some will tell you, holds no message or meaning for the modern church.   But in all the can'ts that slow the Kingdom from coming...this message is one we can't ignore.  Hear it sung if you want, but pay attention to the words comparing God's work to ours...they will get you through the mess of Holy Week and anchor your joy in the promise of Easter.

O love that wilt not let me go, I rest my weary soul in Thee; I give Thee back the life I owe, that in Thine ocean depths its flow may richer, fuller be. 

O light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to Thee; My heart restores its borrowed ray, that in Thy sunshine's blaze its day may brighter, fairer be.

O joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to Thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, and feel the promise is not vain, that morn shall fearless be.

O cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from Thee; I lay in dust, life's glory dead, and from the ground there blossoms red, life that shall endless be. 

 

Tell the Story...

Bruce Feiler told a story in the New York Times last week...from his latest book.  Seems that children who know the family "story" are more secure, better adjusted, and more successful.  Two months after this initial research, the Twin Towers were destroyed.  Following up on the research proved again that children who knew the family story were better able to cope.  The researchers "Do You Know Scale" measures 20 questions like: Do you know where your grandparents grew up?  Do you know where your mom and dad went to high school?  Do you know where your parents met?  Do you know of something terrible that happened in your family?  Do you know the story of your birth?

Kids who see themselves as part of a larger story, part of a longer tradition, have better abilities to deal with real life (the researchers say it far more eloquently, of course).  This ability to answer 20 questions about your family is "the best single predictor of children's emotional health and happiness."

There are different family narratives, some positive, some negative.  The strongest families have an "oscillating" narrative--one that acknowledges problems as well as positives.  And all this got me thinking...

We, the family of faith, also have a narrative.  And that narrative places us in an even larger, more remarkable, family context.  Just like family stories get interpreted in different ways, so do the stories of the family of God. Sometimes the story gets told in all negative terms...all the terrible things people did and how God had to punish the people, ultimately sending and killing his Son to pay some price for the sin of the world.  Yuck.

Or, there's the all positive narrative.  Just become part of the family of God...believe-in-the-Lord-Jesus-Christ-as-your-personal-Lord-and-Savior and everything will be wonderful.  Of course, things are seldom all "wonderful," so the narrative then goes "well, clearly you didn't believe right, or hard enough, or do the right things."  The family of God struggles to live in an impossible standard, hiding the difficulties of life because they don't fit in the narrative. Yuck.

And there's the narrative I read.  The family of God does some things well, and some things not so well.  David is chosen by God and anointed King of Israel...but there's this adultery thing with another man's wife.  Not so good.  The Exodus story...powerful narrative of God hearing the cries of God's people and bringing them out of slavery.  But as soon as God's people escape the cruelty of the Pharaoh and find themselves in a new place, they begin to grouse and complain that God has brought them out "to die."  Things were definitely better in Egypt...making those bricks wasn't so bad.  At least they had food to eat.

It's pretty easy for us to read those stories and lament the shortsightedness of the people--failing, of course to see our own shortsighted behaviors in the present.  But the biblical narrative addresses that, too.  This incredible story, this narrative, tells us that our earliest ancestors grew up in a state of perfect relationship with God...a very brief state.  We didn't respond well to the opportunity to live that way, preferring the attempt to be gods over the ability to be with God.  But, we see through the whole story, that God never abandons us to our ridiculous ambitions.  God continues to teach and protect, guide and work toward reconciliation and redemption of the whole creation.

Do you know of something terrible that happened in your family?  Sure.  Exile, wilderness, crucifixion.  And through it all, God continues to teach and protect guide and work toward reconciliation and redemption of the whole creation.

Do you know the story of your birth?  The baptism that happens before we are able to respond to God in any way, the baptism that marks our sorry, sinful selves as beloved children of God.  The baptism that assures us, in spite of the brokenness that is so deep we cannot escape, that God will continue to teach and protect, guide and work toward reconciliation and redemption of the whole creation.  The baptism that sets us apart, not as special and above creation, but as children of the family of creation charged to tell God's story so that others can answer the questions.  It is in this hessed, this steadfast, unfailing love that God brings to the table, that "we live and move and have our being."  It is this narrative that, even for human families broken beyond repair, is the narrative that offers a meaningful, purposeful life, an ability to deal with all the challenges of simply being human, a connection to the overwhelming grace of a loving God.

So, let's play 20 questions...

Called...

Occasionally I hear a media report that jerks me out of the toothpaste reverie and send me into a tirade in my head.  This morning, NPR receives the honor as the local station interviews a local boy about a Facebook Random Act of Kindness page.  Now I don't really have a problem with a random act of kindness, we could use more of that in the world.

What got my attention was the language used in the interview about "call."  The creators of this page hope that as others hear stories of people doing good, they will feel "called" to do the same.

That, my friends, is God language.  God calls.  It is, as far as I can tell, a concept unique to the Jewish and Christian faith.  (Though I admit, a PhD in World Religions is not part of my arsenal, so I would be interested if other religions have this language as part of their literature or practice.)  Moses was called by God.  Old Testament prophets have call stories.  Paul has a call story.  God identifies, and specifically charges humans with tasks to be accomplished in partnership with God's intentions, with God's plan for reconciliation.  We understand that each of us has a call, but more often today God works through community and text in communicating our call--I'm not aware of many nighttime visions and/or burning bushes.

So, while I would never stop people from doing random acts of kindness, I do want to be clear that God calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves.  And in pointing to our understanding that all good comes from God (in nice ways, of course--no beating people about the head with the Bible, you could hurt someone!), and in claiming that call language as part of what God's people have always done (imperfectly, granted, but FB's not going to be perfect either!), we publicly claim what God is doing as. God's. doing.

I am sure God can call someone to a random act of kindness who is not attending a church, or claiming to be a practicing Christian or Jew.  Positive.  But I won't let go of the reality that all good comes from God., or that God is constantly calling us to that good.  And, really, there's no "random" act.  If we are answering our call, our acts of kindness aren't random.  They have purpose and meaning because they are our response to God's invitation to participate with God in bringing about God's kingdom.

Finally, visiting the FB page you see a lot of "smiling and being kind through the day,"  giving someone a few dollars to pay for groceries they didn't have enough money for," "paying for the car behind you in a toll line," "being generous in traffic," and so on.  My favorite comment is the first one when I visited the site--"just show everyone how simple it can be."  And perhaps it is simple if you are dropping a few extra coins that you have or smiling at the stranger in the post office line. But God's call to "love God and neighbor" is really not simple at all.  God's call asks what part we play in creating a society in which some working parents don't have enough money to pay for groceries.  God's call asks us what part we play in the traffic jam and resulting pollution, frustration, and perhaps even family harm because we spend hours commuting.  God's call is a call to shalom, the peace and wholeness, health and welfare of the whole of creation.  And that, as you know, is not a simple task.

So, I'm really not grumpy that people are going to make a point to be nice. But I want a tight hold on the idea of call.  It belongs to God.  Facebook can borrow it, but it belongs to God.