Troubled In Spirit: Lenten Reflection (37)

Scripture for Today: John 13:21-30

I love Holy Week. It’s easily my favorite holiday — if we can call it that — of the year. I was born on Easter Saturday and over the years have become more committed to attending all the Holy Week services.

My familiarity with the Holy Week rhythm is a gift, something I can slip into and let envelop me as I move through the powerful events of the week. However, the challenge of this familiarity is that I sometimes find myself skipping ahead: I really love this part in the Easter Vigil, or I relish the silence after Maundy Thursday, or I “know how the story ends.”

But the think about Holy Week that I, and I imagine we, must remember, is that there really is no end to the story of Jesus. I would even call that heresy. The story of Holy Week is an ongoing, non-linear, recurring narrative that is constantly taking place in our lives.

We praise and welcome long-awaited change.
We are angered and disappointed in what this change requires of us.
We betray those we love.
We learn how to love others in a way that requires death.

It is a living story and for that reason we are called back to it each year in order to notice how it is showing up in our lives at the current moment. We do that most fully by experiencing each day for what it has to offer.

Holy Wednesday remembers the point in the story where Jesus and others, to some extent, start to sense that something is awry. Notice how their attitude is described in this chapter: they are uncertain (v22), troubled to spirit (v21), and no one knows what’s happening (v28).

The study of these words in Greek reveals just how off things were.

The word for uncertain, aporoumenoi, here means: without any clarity at all or at a loss. And, when Jesus is troubled, etarachtne, can literally be translated as “troubled to the Spirit.” His whole being was shaken.

This state of utter confusion is very understandable. Their tight-knit community is undergoing significant change. Jesus, their leader and friend, is predicting his death and destruction. They are challenging the political and religious authorities in unprecedented ways, and no one, not even Jesus (it seems), knows what is next for them.

This is the type of confusion we try to avoid as humans. We build our schedules to safeguard us from aimlessness, we avoid the anxiety of the unknown through comforting (and sometimes harmful) behaviors, we try to use all our mental faculties to figure out solutions.

Our post-enlightenment brains are programed in every which way to shortcut uncertainty and end up at the end of the journey. However, it’s exactly this state of confusion that brings us into the holiest three days of our Christian calendar. Perhaps this is because as much as confusion is disorienting, it is also opening.

On a personal level, what would it look like to stop trying to master our least-desired habits or traits and instead surrendered to their existence? What might happen if we sat a bit more still with the fear of it all? What would we learn about ourselves, others, and God’s role in our healing?

And publicly, what might happen if we were willing to admit that we don’t know how to respond to the level of violence that exists around us? What would it look like to acknowledge that the ills of racism and marginalization are more than, “this political moment?” That despite the best strategic plans, meticulously organized campaigns, and charismatic leaders we still return to our old patterns of oppression? What could emerge if we felt confusion, grief, and bewilderment at the way our political systems betray the most vulnerable communities?

In both cases, how might the willingness to begin from perplexity, rather than resolve, change our experience of redemption? How might we more deeply know wholeness if we actually break down with the disciples and Jesus today? What if, instead of rushing to get through the next few days, we enter in fully aware of just how little we know about what God might be doing with and through our pain?

Stay with me, for I am troubled in Spirit, and the hour is at hand.

Pray: May I welcome confusion.

Reflect: In what ways is confusion present in your life today? What would it require to be more attentive to that experience of unknown?

Art: An Abstract of Grief by Nora Kasten

Audio: I offered this reflection at our cathedral’s Holy Wednesday service. Although it’s not a word for word match, the recording is below if  you’d prefer to listen.

 

Jesus and the Powerful: Lenten Reflection (34)

Scripture for Today: Matthew 8:5-13, Luke 19:1-10, John 3:1-21

When I was a little girl I had a bad habit of taking things without asking. I’d sneak a cookie before dinner, borrow my mom’s shoes without checking with her, and even sometimes take five dollars from my dad’s wallet.

Looking back, I can see that I was more afraid of hearing “no” than I was of getting caught. As a child, “no” is your first experience of rejection or feeling  unworthy of the request you made. Rather than risk being (so I feared) devalued, I snuck behind my parents’ backs to get what I wanted.

As I read the Gospel stories for today I saw this same experience of hesitation and fear in Zacchaeus, Nicodemus, and the Centurion. Their approach of Jesus is drastically different than the hemorrhaging woman who pulled on his coat in the crowd, or the Syrophoenician woman who boldly challenged Jesus. Zacchaeus hides in a tree, Nicodemus comes at night, and the Centurion claims he “does not deserve” to have Jesus come to his home.

In some ways, I don’t blame them. Jesus clearly preferences those who are sickly, judged as sinners, or systematically marginalized by society. At one point he clarifies this preference by saying: “It is not the well that need a doctor but the sick.”

Zacchaeus, Nicodemus, and the Centurion were in no way sick.

As wealthy men of power they had spent their lives benefiting from economic and social systems. What’s more, they had likely used religious, political, and financial systems to oppress the very people to whom Jesus “proclaimed liberty,” and “set free.”

I imagine they thought Jesus would say no. No, you’ve already had your due. No, you’re not in need of me. No, you’ve got more than enough support already.

But that’s not what happened.

Jesus instead encounters each one of them with the same compassion he bestowed on those who were so visibly hurting. The vulnerability of these three men reveals deep places of pain, and Jesus, moved by their risk, comes to meet them. In doing so, he transforms the life of each man.

In communities of privilege, our conversations about ending oppression — specifically white supremacy — are targeted at ameliorating the pain of those who are most impacted. How can we, those who have been in power, adapt so that others’ lives are better? What do we need to do to “fix it?” How can we “solve the problem?” While we most certainly need to seek the liberation of those around us, it is equally important that we do not lose sight of the fact that we are sickly as well.

We are so burdened by the drive to be better that it leads to mental illness. We choose to work unbearably hard to sustain being the best, the wealthiest, the most respected — and in doing so we forfeit peace in our lives. We are numb and disconnected from our heart after years of avoiding the truth of how we treated people. We value thinness as if it was health and perpetuate practices that harm our bodies. We live in denial of the impact we have on others. We too are sickly and our world will never heal from a place of numbness, restlessness, and denial.

It seems that Zacchaeus, Nicodemus, and the Centurion knew they were sick. They knew they needed Jesus and they came, despite facing rejection. They came, not for the sake of others but because they needed to be set free. They came, risking their reputation of privilege for the chance to be seen, known by Jesus. And, from that place of humility and awareness emerged the willingness to be entirely transformed for the sake of others.

It is time that we come as well.

Prayer: Open me to feel the pain of oppression.

Reflection: Why is it easier for us to focus on the benefits of change to others than to ourselves? What do we gain by ignoring the way oppression impacts us? What might change if we were willing to acknowledge its impact on our lives?

Art: A study for Nicodemus visiting Jesus – Henry Osawa Tanner

With God’s Help: Lenten Reflection (30)

Scripture for Today: Luke 3:21 – 4:13

The first time I set foot in an Episcopal Church service was for the baptism of my friend Kristen’s child, Ryder. I was immediately struck by the communal and collective rhythm of the service. Prior to attending the service I had been on a year hiatus from church — I left a more conservative branch which had an individualistic bent to their spiritual practice. In that church, were all trying to out-Jesus one another by praying more, knowing more scripture, or singing the loudest during worship.

The communal nature of this new Episcopal church was especially present in its collective commitment to uphold Ryder and to live the Way of God alongside him. Towards the end of the service the congregation articulated their commitment through the words of the Baptismal Covenant:

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?
I will, with God’s help. 

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?
I will, with God’s help.

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
I will, with God’s help.

I was struck by how much the commitment depended on God rather than self — no one was expected to do it alone. This blanket claim of our humanity is one of the reasons I’ve stayed part of the Episcopal community. There are certainly those who stray from this generalization, but the majority of the Episcopalian community maintains their commitment to God while living very human lives.

And, for a faith tradition looking to follow Jesus, this isn’t too far off the mark.

Today’s gospels emphasize the human nature of Jesus. In his baptism at the River Jordan we meet Jesus as a companion on the Way who, like us, made a commitment to turn from the ways of the world and follow God. In the wilderness we see Jesus tempted by the human desires for comfort, power, and wealth, yet he remains committed to God.

Stories of Jesus’ humanity fill the gospels: his friendships, his hunger, his frustrations, his sadness, his anger, his longing for God’s favor, etc. These stories give us a way of meeting God that is not wrapped up in perfection or in theology, but in the vulnerabilities and practicalities of human life. In Jesus we can claim a new human identity. This identity  is rooted not in the fleeting nature of this world but in the eternal way of God. This identity  restores us to right-relationship with God and one another, through the Christ.

This identity inspires us to follow the way of Jesus, with God’s help.

Prayer: Open me to your help.

Reflection: Where can you connect to Jesus’ humanity? Why does it matter to you that he was human?

Art: Baptism of Jesus Proof by He Qi

Additional Reading:  Unedited version of the Episcopal Church’s Baptismal Covenant.

True God from True God: Lenten Reflection (29)

Scripture for Today: Matthew 1 – 2:12, Luke 1 – 2:26, John 1:1-18

The Gospel of Luke begins with this reason for its writing, “So that you may know the truth about those things which you have been instructed” (Luke 1:4). At least seventy years have passed since the death of Jesus. The young Church is growing to include more people who never met Jesus, and the Gospels serve as written testaments to his life. Following my preceding blog posts, I will explore the stories that align with the claims of the Epistles, the letters written to help form the ideas and behaviors of the people of the Way.

In effect, Luke writes that these are the stories you must know to understand why we believe what we believe and why we do what we do. Using this lens, we will be reflecting on the Gospel passages this week through two questions: What do these stories reveal about the nature of Jesus? Why might the authors have included them in their Gospels?

The birth narratives we read today reveal to us the truth that Jesus is of God. Jesus’ birth is foretold by messengers of the Divine in the form of angels. His name Emmanuel signifies that now God is with us, and he is born under miraculous conditions.

Not only is Jesus Divine — he is of the same God that the Hebrew people worshiped in the Hebrew Bible. The use of the prophetic texts to describe Jesus connect him to the stories we read in the Hebrew Bible, which express a longing for a ruler to come restore Israel. This is their king.

Why was it so important to make clear that Jesus was and is of God?

One, it is vital that the earliest followers, and likewise we today, recognize Jesus as part of the eternal story of God. He is not a new fad: he is The Very God who, from all eternity, has been calling us into right-relationship with God, one another, and creation.

In this light, we can understand the life of Jesus as the incarnate of right-relationship on Earth. His eternal relationship with God, as John’s Gospel names, qualifies him to illuminate the way of God for those of us who have not seen God. Jesus knows intimately the grace written in the letters to the Ephesians, and his life gives us an example of what it might look like if we embodied that grace here on earth.

Prayer: Jesus, may I know you as God.

Reflection: What about the birth narratives struck you? Why might you be drawn to those aspects today?

Art: Holy Night by Kimberly Greeno

More: If I had another reflection, I would share on the power of the story of Mary. If you’re interested in reading a radical sermon on her bravery, I recommend this piece.

Heavenly Rest: Lenten Reflection (28)

Scripture for Today: Hebrews 4-5, 10-11

“We spend our lives waiting for our parents to apologize. They spend theirs waiting for a thank you.”

For a long time, my relationship with my father illustrated this quote from the TV show Casual. Although I never doubted my dad’s love, there were times when I didn’t feel it or receive it in the way I needed. This experience of frustration motivated me to create a healthy distance between the two of us. This distance prevented me (and possibly him) from knowing the reciprocal love between us.

When I was in my mid 20s I invited my father to come with me to a Maundy Thursday service during Holy Week. As we knelt at the rail for communion I experienced my dad in a new light. Instead of seeing a man who had failed me, sitting next to me was a man receiving the same grace and gift as me. My heart broke and I wept at that communion rail as I realized in my bones how far the grace of God extends.

“One single sacrifice for all.” 10:12

The practice of communion allows us to understand God’s extension of grace in a real and tangible sense as we experience Jesus’s willingness to suffer with us. He chose not to maintain the security of the divine realm and instead embrace the human condition. In this, he is the great high priest, the one who understands and knows our suffering and can support us and our weaknesses.

In the body and life of Jesus there was a bit of heaven that revealed a deeper understanding of God. That life was marked by suffering: by scars and bruises, by unfulfilled promises and unrealistic expectations, by imperfect ancestors who held to faith alone, by unlawful shootings and forced deportations, by being scorned and excluded.

By suffering.

Our human experience of suffering yokes us not only to him but to one another. And, in communion we are deeply present to suffering in a way that allows us not only to know suffering but also to know the grace that accompanies it.

Prayer: May I know you in suffering.

Reflection: When have you chosen to avoid rather than embrace suffering? What might help you embrace suffering as a pathway to knowing grace?

Art: Unknown Artist – Referenced Here

Together In Christ: Lenten Reflection (24)

Scripture for Today: Ephesians 1-3

Paul* begins his letter to the Ephesians by reminding the followers of the Way of Jesus about their identity in Christ. Through Christ, he says,we are children of God. In fact, we have always been children of God, we just didn’t fully realize this until the life, death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ. Through Christ we can understand that we are and have always been undeniably loved by God (1:4).

Through his replete use of the first person plural, Paul makes abundantly clear that the identity as God’s beloved applies to all of us.

God, who is rich in mercy, out of great love with which God loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ. 2:4 & 5

What struck me most when reading this passage is that my identity in Christ isn’t mine at all. More so, I as an individual am not alive through God’s love; it is the collective we that comes alive in Christ.

Yes, it is true that you and I are children of God, but it is an incomplete truth. What is more true is that we are children of God. If we only focus on the grace that’s afforded to me, you, or certain people, we fail to fully grasp God’s claim for all God’s children. More so, the moment we deny even one person’s belovedness, we deny the entirety of God’s claim on humanity.

Paul emphasizes this collective understanding of redemption in chapter 2. God’s abundant love for me reconciles me to God. That is, it draws me into right relationship with God. In addition, God is drawing you into right relationship with God. And this relationship is only partially realized when I only look at God. To fully receive the peace that Jesus brings, I must also look to my left and right and foster right relationship with all the others surrounding God (2:16).

This piece from Episcopal City Mission’s literature (written by Mariama White-Hammond) gives us an idea of what it looks like to move into right relationship:

Right relationship requires acknowledging that we need one another to heal ourselves and our world. Right relationship requires that we speak out about how we have personally and systematically maintained separation. Right relationship requires that we ask for forgiveness and make retribution for how we have hurt one another.

Right relationship requires a dynamic process of awareness, acceptance, and action that has inner and outer dimensions. We must do the inner work — meditation, prayer, reflection — individually and communally to push beyond fear and transform ourselves into more peace-filled and grounded people. We must do the outer work — relationship building, action, resisting unjust systems that keep us separate and unequal — to advocate for our neighbors and build power to eradicate inequity. Our deepest resource is love. When love is cultivated, it can bring down unjust systems. We must tap into our desire for wholeness and liberation as individuals and communities, placing love at the center of our lives.

This is the love Paul says we should let dwell inside of us. A love that dwells so deeply that we are convinced that we belong to one another and that we cannot bear to stand by idly while systems and structures exist that deny the belovedness of others. A love that settles itself so deeply into us that we become transformed from a self-centered “I consciousness” to Paul’s collective “we consciousness.” A love that redefines the Christ mystery; it is no longer just about me or you. It becomes about right relationship. It becomes about us.

Pray: May I recognize the Christ in each person around me.

Reflection: What element of right relationship stood out most to me? How would my relationships be different if I embodied that aspect?

Art: Ephesians 3:17 by Missy Cummings

*Although the authorship of Ephesians is debated, I chose to use Paul instead of “the Author” for a less cumbersome read.

Lenten Reflections – 2017

God has made everything suitable for its time; moreover God has put a sense of eternity into their minds, yet they cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. I know that there is nothing better for them than to be happy and enjoy themselves as long as they live;  moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil. I know that whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it; God has done this, so that all should stand in awe before God. Eccl. 3:11-14

When I was young, Lent was a competition with my high school friends to show who had the most self control. Whether giving up chocolate, sweets, meat or tv, each of us was eager to prove — and broadcast to the cafeteria table — our commitment to the spiritual fast.

However, as I have grown, I began to see Lent differently. A few years ago, instead of asking myself, “What do I want to give up?” I asked, “What will help me reconnect me to God?” With this shift, Lent has become less about promoting my super-humanness and more about remembering my human need for God and others.

The season of Lent begins with Ash Wednesday, when we place ashes on our foreheads to remind us that our lives will end, and that we must carry out our existence with the humility our mortality conveys.

Justice vs. Charity, What Would Jesus Say? – A Reflection on Mission Today

While I was in the states I had lunch with lovely group of people connected to All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena CA. Our conversation centered on how we, in our various life sages and professions, can best represent Christ and the love he had for people in this world. During our conversation Juliana, the director if community connections at All Saints, raised the issue of charity vs. justice. Though inherently something in her resisted a charity model she felt like our faith stories endorse ‘mercy ministry.’ While I fully support mercy I think the interpretation of these acts of Christ as charitable (in our understanding of the word) is incomplete. Take for example the store below when Jesus heals a leper.