A Sheltering God

A Sheltering God

Psalm 91

            “What is the purpose of the giant sequoia tree?  The purpose of the giant sequoia tree is to provide shade for the tiny titmouse.” (Edward Abbey, naturalist and author, 1927-1989)

            At first reading, this statement seems silly.  Come on!  The only reason for a huge tree to exist is to provide comfort for an insignificant little creature?  Surely there must be more to it than that—more reason for the giant sequoia to take up space on this earth.

            Of course there is.  At the same time the sequoia is providing shade for the titmouse it is also providing shade for many other creatures.  It aids the ecology of the planet by removing carbon dioxide from the air and supplying needed oxygen.  Its root system helps keep the soil in place.  Added to its practical purposes is its aesthetic value.  It is beautiful to look at and provides nurture for our souls as well as our bodies.

            Could Abbey have been short-sighted?  Why would he reduce the value of such a glory of nature to so small a purpose?  Could he not see the big picture?  Did he value the titmouse so much that all other usages of the sequoia paled in comparison?  Or was Abbey a visionary who saw more than the little things—or, perhaps, saw big things in the little things?

            Metaphors are always imperfect.  Every metaphor breaks down at some point.  It must, or it is not a metaphor but a perfect replica of the thing it is supposed to represent.  This is our problem with understanding God.  We come up with all sorts of metaphors for God, but every one falls far, far short of explaining the divine Being.  How could they not?

            The psalmists frequently use metaphoric language to try to explain God.  They say God is powerful enough to make mountains skip and trees dance.  We know these things don’t really happen, but we understand why the writers of psalms speak metaphorically.  They are trying to explain the unexplainable, to describe the indescribable.  When we ask the question, “What is God like?” we need someone to give us an answer.  That is what the psalmists attempt to do.

            Psalm 91 is a good example of metaphoric language.  We know that much of what we read here is hyperbole, but we also understand that this is an attempt to help us see God and God’s care for us.  In this way it’s like Abbey’s statement about the sequoia and the titmouse.

            Perhaps the most accurate statement about God comes from John’s first letter:  “God is love.”  This is a simple statement, to be sure, but as accurate a one as we can make about God.  God is love, and because God is love, God cares for us. 

            Is God’s care for us like the care of the sequoia for the titmouse?  Not really.  The tree is, after all, a tree.  It is difficult to imagine the sequoia loving the titmouse.  Still, the tree’s protection of the bird is important, for without it, the bird perishes.  And the bird, though not consciously aware, trusts the tree to give it shade and a home in its branches.

            Yes, God is love, and because God is love, God cares for us.  God offers us protection from the one danger that can cause us irreparable harm, that of losing our souls.  When we trust in God with the same unwavering faith that the titmouse has in the sequoia, God will care for us, and keep us safe until the day of redemption.

            What is the purpose of the giant sequoia tree?  The purpose of the giant sequoia tree is to provide shade for the tiny titmouse.

            What is the purpose of God?  God is love, and the purpose of God is to provide the care we need; protection from the dangers that threaten our souls.

Silent Women

Silent Women

1 Corinthians 14:33b-35

            Paul doesn’t leave much room for misinterpretation here.  Women are to keep silent in church.  They are not to speak at all. Paul also says if women want to know anything they should “ask their husbands at home,” for it is “shameful for a woman to speak in church.”  This passage has been used by the patriarchal church for centuries to deny women the right to be ordained and to preach.  If a woman believes she has been called by God to a preaching ministry, all the “church fathers” have to do is point to Paul’s words in Corinthians to deny her the right.  How could she possibly be called by God when Paul says she is to keep silent? 

            To say that these words have caused trouble in the church is an understatement.  Paul said some wonderful things to the early churches, but many people believe this isn’t one of them.  How can the church deny women the right to preach if they feel God’s call to do so?  The only possible argument is to claim that God wouldn’t do such a thing, and that gets into dangerous territory.  Where does anyone get the right to say what God can or cannot do?

            This is the story of a remarkable woman who changed her husband’s mind about women speaking in church, and by doing so changed the history of the church.

            William Booth was a Methodist minister in England in the mid-nineteenth century.  Ordained in 1858, he was assigned to be an evangelist.  This was the work to which he felt called, and for three years he was allowed to do it.  At the church conference in 1861 (Methodists hold yearly conferences to reach decisions) his future was discussed at length. Was he to be allowed to continue his work, or would he be sent to a church as its pastor?  Apparently there was some dissatisfaction with his method of evangelism.  This may have had to do with the fact that he was reaching out to people the church didn’t approve of and trying to bring them into Methodist congregations.  It could also have been, at least in part, jealousy over his success.

            Whatever the reason, the vote went against him.  He looked to his wife Catherine, seated in the gallery for her reaction.  She did something unprecedented.  She stood and exclaimed, “No, Never!”  It was unheard of for anyone in the gallery to speak, let alone a woman; yet she did.  Booth bowed courteously to the chair, walked to the gallery stairs down which Catherine had come, embraced her, and with her by his side, left the conference and the Methodist Church.

            Catherine Booth’s history of speaking in church had begun approximately a year earlier.  On Pentecost Sunday, 1860, she sat in her husband’s church listening to him deliver the morning sermon.  She heard God’s voice calling her to speak.  She also heard the devil telling her that she’d make a fool of herself.  As she said later, the devil “overdid himself.”  She realized she had never been willing to be a fool for Christ.  Now was her chance.

            She approached the front of the church as Booth finished, and said, “I want to say a word.”  Astonished, he turned to the congregation and said, “My dear wife wishes to speak.”  And speak she did, telling the congregation that she had been disobeying God’s call for several months.  When she finished, Booth stood and announced, “My wife will preach this evening.”

            William Booth, with his wife’s help, went on to found The Salvation Army.  Catherine Booth is referred to as the Army’s Mother.  From the beginning of the denomination, women who felt God’s call to preach were ordained to do so.  Throughout the history of the Salvation Army women have answered God’s call to preaching ministry, my mother and two of my aunts included.

            I think Paul got this one wrong.

Your Best Years

Your Best Years

Isaiah 43:16-21

            When were your best years?  I have a friend whose best years are long gone.  When I’m with him he speaks most often about the past—past good times, past events, past friends.  Even when he brings these relationships up to date the past still overshadows everything else.  He seems to have no present and no future.

            Every year the TV sports networks make a big deal about high school stars in football and basketball (especially these two sports) and where they’re going to college.  I suspect that if, four years later, you looked at the lists of starters at major colleges, you’d find a lot of those names missing, and a lot of new ones added.  Same thing for college stars turning pro.  Many people follow the pro drafts like they were the most important events of the year.  But how many of those drafted actually play pro ball?  Frequently we read of a former Heisman Trophy winner who disappears from the NFL, not good enough to make it even as an average player at that level.

            How do we account for this?  Are the experts so wrong in their evaluations?  Certainly that’s part of it.  Like experts in so many other fields (finance, government, the media) they are often proved wrong by actual results.  Much too frequently we read of stock market results that were higher—or lower—than the “experts” predicted.  But there’s something more basic at work here.

            I believe that we each have a time when we reach our best years.  Some athletes, some students, some members of the social scene reach their peak in high school.  When we meet them at reunions years later we find they couldn’t adapt to the higher level of performance required of college students.  The same is true of people who have outstanding careers in college.  Many never quite become successful in the world of work, whichever field they choose.

            Israel had been going through an extended bad time.  Several evil kings in a row had dragged the nation down.  Bigger, stronger neighbors had wiped out the northern kingdom entirely.  All that was left was tiny Judah.  Too many times these wicked kings had corrupted their people instead of being shepherds.  Too many times they had become involved in bad alliances with other countries.  The final humiliation was exile.  Anyone of worth had been taken captive to Babylon and forced to live under the watchful eye of their captors.  You can experience the peoples’ despair in Psalm 137.

            But God wasn’t finished with Israel yet.  There were more good times to come.  Through Isaiah, God says, “Forget the past.  Stop dwelling on the old stuff.  Look!  I’m going to do something new.  It’s already beginning.  Do you see it?  I’m going to provide water where there is no water:  streams in the desert, and rivers in the wilderness.  My people will have enough to drink, enough to satisfy their thirst, both physically and spiritually.”

            Israel still had many good years left.  So do we.  Christians must believe that our best years lie before us. I’m not talking about our future in heaven.  Of course those years will be the best.  I’m talking about our lives here on earth.  As we grow in grace and in our knowledge of Jesus Christ, and feel ever more strongly the Holy Spirit’s presence, our lives should grow better and better.  We should be so overwhelmed by God’s presence that day by day we grow to be more like Jesus Christ.

            So…when were your best years?  If you say, “The ones still ahead of me,” congratulations.  You haven’t peaked yet.  God still has new things in store for you.

Respectable Trouble

Respectable Trouble

Mark 11:15-19

            One of my seminary professors told our class recently of a greeting she received from a colleague in ministry.  He asked her, “Are you getting into any respectable trouble?  If not, why not?”

            Respectable trouble.  How can trouble be respectable?  We’ve all gotten into trouble in our lives.  As kids we almost couldn’t help it.  I remember a boy who played hockey with my son saying one day, “I’m always in trouble!”—and he was.  He wasn’t a bad kid—in fact he was a pretty good kid.  Trouble just seemed to lie in wait for him.  We’ve all known kids like that.  Maybe we’ve even been that kid ourselves.

            But that’s not “respectable trouble.”  That’s just ordinary trouble.  What is respectable trouble and why should we want to get into it?

            For the whole of Jesus’ ministry he was in respectable trouble.  Early on he crossed the scribes and Pharisees.  He insisted on following God’s commandments—the Mosaic Law as it was given in the Torah—as God intended them to be followed, and not as the religious leaders wanted to interpret them.  This got him into trouble of the respectable kind.  As we should be, Jesus would  rather be in trouble with a group of human beings than with God.

            In this reading from Mark we see Jesus getting into serious respectable trouble.  He enters the Temple—God’s dwelling place on earth—and sees the religious leaders—God’s religious leaders—cheating the people by selling sacrificial animals at too high a cost, and exchanging foreign currency for Temple money at a high rate of usury.  He let them know exactly what he thinks of them.  “Robbers,” he calls them; “Thieves.”

            We know what happened to Jesus as a result of respectable trouble.  We read about it in the eighteenth verse.  The chief priests and the scribes begin to look for a way to destroy him—and they did.  They killed him, but they didn’t stop him.  And look what happened next!  Peter got into respectable trouble.  Paul got into respectable trouble.  Many of the other disciples got into respectable trouble.  So did the early martyrs.  So did Martin Luther.  So did John Calvin.  And Martin Luther King, Jr.  And…—but where would the list end?

What about us?  How might we get into respectable trouble? 

We get into respectable trouble whenever we set high moral standards for ourselves at work or at home, and refuse to compromise them—even if it costs us family, or friends, or jobs. 

We get into respectable trouble whenever we take an unpopular stand—even if we have to stand alone.

We get into respectable trouble when we welcome into our churches someone who we know the congregation doesn’t approve of—even if it costs us our church family.

We get into respectable trouble when we insist on equal rights for everyone, regardless of race, gender, economic status, sexual orientation, or any other barrier—even when we know doing so will turn people against us.

You know I’ve only scratched the surface here.  The important thing is this:  if respectable trouble was good enough for Jesus, for Peter, for Paul, and for so many other Christians down through the ages, then it ought to be good enough for us.

So…have you gotten into any respectable trouble lately?  If not, why not?

You Finish the Story

You Finish the Story

Mark 16:1-8

This is the song that never ends;

It just goes on and on my friends.

Someone started singing it not knowing what it was,

And we’ll go on singing it forever just because

This is the song that never ends;

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

            I was on a bus trip with a college pep band the first time I heard this song.  As you might imagine, it took a long while for them to run out of steam, especially because they had an enthusiastic leader with great stamina and creativity.  You’ll see later how this song plays into this week’s Scripture passage—if you haven’t figured it out already.

            Unless you’re using the Old King James Version, your Bible probably has a note after Mark 16:8.  It says something like:  “Some of the earliest manuscripts do not include 16:9-20.”  Scholarly opinion today is that these verses were added by a later author who didn’t like Mark’s abrupt—and somewhat downbeat—ending.  The truth seems to be that Mark did indeed end his gospel on an abrupt and decidedly negative note.  Unlike Matthew, Luke and John, there are no post-resurrection appearances by Jesus, no conversations with his disciples (including on the road to Emmaus and “In the Garden” with Mary Magdalene—two of the most beautiful of the resurrection stories), no time with Peter and the others in Galilee.  This doesn’t mean that Mark is right and the other three evangelists wrong—or the other way round.  Mark has a different take on the resurrection—a different point to make.  What could impel him to such an ending?  What was he trying to tell his readers?  Why would he end with the statement that the women failed to deliver the message with which they had been entrusted?

            All four gospel writers agree that early in the morning of the first day of the week, some of the women who had followed Jesus throughout his ministry went to the tomb to anoint his body.  All agree that angels (men in clothing so brightly white that they could not be from this world) spoke to those at the tomb and told them that Jesus was not to be found among the dead, but among the living.  He had risen.  The gospels differ as to the rest of the details (who actually went to the tomb, how many angels there were, the sequence of events), but apart from Mark, each tells of Jesus’ interactions with his followers.  Each lets us see the risen Christ.

            Mark tells us that when the women encounter a young man dressed in a white robe (by the way:  Why do we always picture angels as female when the Bible always describes them as males?) they fail to follow his instructions.  He tells them to return to the other disciples and Peter (my italics) and let them know Jesus is going to Galilee and will meet them there.  Instead, the women “fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” (16:8)

            Why were they afraid?  Why did they fail in their assigned task?  Did they fear the men wouldn’t believe them?  Luke tells us that was the case.  The male disciples discounted their story (because they were female and not to be trusted to get things right?).  In Luke’s and John’s gospels some of the men went to the tomb to verify the women’s account.

            Mark had both a literary and theological reason for ending this way.  The message he wanted to convey to his audience was that the story of Jesus wasn’t over.  It was to go “on and on,” never ending.  The women failed in their responsibility, but those who read his account were to do differently.  Mark was saying, “You finish the story.  You carry the gospel forward.” 

He says the same to us.

Going Fishing

Going Fishing

John 21:1-14

            Imagine the disciples’ frustration.  They had been cooped up in that room for more than a week.  For men like these it must have seemed like an eternity.  They were used to being outdoors.  Their occupations were not sedentary.  They didn’t hang around an office all day.  They worked with their hands, moving around, being active.  During the three years they had been with Jesus they were on a journey—on the road.  They weren’t used to being still.  They weren’t used to being stuck in one place.  They must have been very restless.

Jesus had appeared twice to them in that room.  It was a place they knew.  Still, how long could they stay there?  Even though they were still (apparently) afraid of the Jewish religious leaders, they had been in place too long.  It was time to move on, to return to someplace familiar.  It was time to go home to Galilee.

Did they sneak out?  Did they leave under the cover of darkness?  Did they all go together, or leave one or two at a time?  Did all eleven go, or just the restless ones?  We don’t know, of course.  John doesn’t tell us.  We do know at least some of them left the confines of that room and headed for the open road.  No matter how afraid they were, they probably reasoned they would be safer out of Jerusalem and away from the authorities.

Returning home wasn’t enough for some of them.  They couldn’t just sit around the house.  That wasn’t much better than the room in Jerusalem.  One day, Simon Peter announced, “I’m going fishing!”  Several others, (Thomas, Nathaniel, James, John, two others) said, “We’ll go with you.” 

This was better!  Here, they knew what they were doing.  Settling back into the routines of an occupation they knew well, performing tasks so familiar they didn’t have to think about them—this was good.  This was manageable.  This work kept their hands busy and their minds off the strange experiences of the past weeks.  Even though they fished all night (a common occurrence for these men) and caught nothing, they could deal with it.  They were back at work, back doing what they knew, back exercising muscles they hadn’t used in far too long.

Then Jesus called.  Standing on the shore he said, “How’s the fishing?”  They didn’t recognize him.  Not unusual.  They didn’t expect to see Jesus there.  It might have been early enough in the day that the light was bad.  Their minds were elsewhere—on other matters.  Whatever the reason(s), they didn’t know it was their Lord—until he told them where to find fish.  When they hauled in the catch—or tried to—they knew Jesus had found them.

Jesus always finds us.  Like Candid Camera, when we least expect, it Jesus is there with what we need.  For the disciples it was a load of fish and a most welcome breakfast.  For us it might not be material things.  We know we can’t count on Jesus to bring us that job, or the money we need to pay the rent, or the perfect life companion—although it’s not a good idea to rule these things out.  Stranger occurrences have happened to those who follow Jesus.  We do know we can count on Jesus to bring us the strength we need to cope with rough situations.  We know we can count on him to be a comforting presence in times of trouble.  We know we can count on him to fill us with the love we need to deal with those difficult people in our lives.

Like the disciples, we feel comfortable when we’re doing the ordinary day-to-day tasks of our lives.  Like them we may get so caught up in the routine that we forget about Jesus.  Don’t get too complacent.  That’s the time Jesus is most likely to call.

Doubt and Fear

Doubt and Fear

John 20:19-31

            Which is worse—doubt or fear?  We might answer, “They’re equally bad!”  But are they?  Perhaps our reactions to doubt and to fear can help us see a difference.

            I’m tired, and my legs are sore from walking and standing all day.  I’m in the middle of a heavy day of shopping with my wife.  As a good husband (actually, because I don’t want to look bad) I’m carrying most of the shopping bags.  We enter the last (I hope!) store of the day.  Over in the corner I see a rickety old chair.  I doubt it can hold me, but after poking and prodding it, and pushing down hard on it with both hands, I sit—and it doesn’t collapse.  I’ve overcome my doubt and found comfort—at last.

            Same scenario:  I’m just as tired, just as anxious to take a load off, and the chair is just as rickety, and yet inviting.  This time, however, I’m afraid.  I look at that chair and imagine all the things that could go wrong.  The legs could break.  The back could collapse.  The chair wobbles so much when I move it that I am sure it won’t hold my weight.  So, out of fear that I might wind up in a worse state than I am now, I walk away.  There it stands, ready to receive me if I only trust it—but I don’t.  I’m still tired, my legs are still sore, but it’s worse now because I’m too afraid to find relief.

            It is the evening of that first Easter.  The disciples are huddled in a room with the door locked “for fear of the Jews.”  Suddenly, Jesus is there among them.  “Shalom,” Jesus says.  “Peace be with you.”  We know what Jesus means.  In John 14:27, at the Passover supper, he said, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.  Not as the world gives do I give to you.”  God’s peace is different from the world’s peace—if there even is such a thing.  Jesus offers his followers the peace that passes all understanding, peace so complete that one doesn’t have to be afraid even if it seems there might be a ghost in the room.

            John tells us Thomas was missing that night.  We don’t know why he wasn’t there.  All we know is that he was absent—and one other thing.  He seems to be the only disciple who’s not afraid to leave the room.  Wherever he was, he wasn’t locked in with the rest.  Thomas returned after Jesus had left.  When the others told him, “We have seen the Lord,” he didn’t believe them.  He said he’d have to see for himself before he’d accept that Jesus had risen.

            Eight days later, nothing had changed.  The disciples were still locked in the same room.   They hadn’t moved. The only difference was that Thomas was present.  The others had seen the risen Jesus more than a week before, but they were still huddled together, presumably still afraid of the Jews.  Their Lord’s appearance had made no difference. 

            Then, Jesus was with them again.  He spoke to Thomas.  “See the marks in my hands,” Jesus said.  “Touch the wound in my side.”  There is no record that Thomas touched Jesus.  We only know he said, “My Lord and my God!”  With those words he affirmed the deity of the risen Christ.

            So…which is worse—fear or doubt?  Thomas doubted until he saw Jesus; then his doubt disappeared.  The other disciples had seen Jesus, but were still afraid to move, still too paralyzed to realize that if Jesus could rise from the dead, they had nothing to worry about from the Jews.  Death had been conquered.  No one could harm them.

            We all doubt at times.  That’s to be expected.  It doesn’t stop us; it just slows us down a little.  But fear?  Fear debilitates, freezing us in place, keeping us from moving forward.  There may be reasons to doubt, but there’s never reason to fear.  Christ is risen!  He is risen indeed!