Saying Grace

Clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony… And be thankful. (Colossians 3.14-15)

Hassles and Anxieties

Last Sunday, our pastor showed us a scene from Meet the Parents, in which Ben Stiller, hoping to impress his future in-laws, offers to say grace at the dinner table. The results are less than sterling.

She followed the clip with a few questions about why we often feel so awkward when praying aloud in the presence of others—why the desire to sound sincere tends to backfire, and our words quickly become stilted and grandiose. Her observations about prayer “performance anxiety” got me thinking about how the Stiller clip will replay itself at Thanksgiving tables around the country. For many, this will be one of very few times that families will fellowship around their tables. For many more, it may be the only day of 365 that they pause to express gratitude for goodness they’ve received. And while I know of no hard data to support this suspicion, I’m thoroughly convinced the erosion of both traditions—family dinner and saying grace—significantly contributes to social decay we currently wrestle with. Conceding the “inconvenience” of spending time around the table subjects us to more inconveniences than we realize. How much harder our lives have become now that orchestrating family dinner is too hard and taking 30 seconds each day to give thanks demands too much! The hassle of family dinner and performance anxiety associated with saying grace are nothing compared to hassles and anxieties that have grown up in their absence.

Universal Compulsions

So I wondered, where do the customs of eating together and saying grace come from? While other species gather for meals, by and large, proximity to one another and ready availability of food shape their communal dining habits. Humans are rare—if not unique—in their concept of “breaking bread” as a social necessity. Until very recently, the family table was indispensible. It was where family conflicts were resolved, milestones were celebrated, cohesion as a household and membership within the larger community were secured, the lore of identity and kinship passed from one generation to the next, moral character was established, and futures were assessed. In other words, humans have always approached the family meal expecting more than nourishment. We bring big questions to the table, which get answered indirectly through the behaviors and conversations that transpire during our eating rituals. (The first Christians certainly recognized the power of sharing a common meal, which is why they placed a table—rather than an altar or idol—at the center of their worship.)

Thus it seems our compulsion to break bread together is hard-wired and can only be overridden by conscious neglect. But pairing times of nourishment with expressions of gratitude also appears to be a universal human compulsion. Virtually every world religion endorses the practice of giving thanks at mealtime. In all of its forms, “saying grace” boils down to what it sounds like: taking a moment to rehearse examples of unmerited grace and undeserved favor. No prayer more clearly captures the purity of this impulse than one we learn as children: “God is great. God is good. Let us thank God for our food.” To say grace is to invite God’s goodness to our table—to lay the gifts of life-giving food under the canopy of God’s supreme love and care for us. Saying grace isn’t a religious obligation. It’s an intentional act that makes God’s abundant presence felt in our lives—a sacred opportunity to confess faith in our Maker and Provider.

Four Thanksgivings

As Christians, we inherit grace-saying from our Jewish forebears. In Judaism, Birkat Hamazon (“Blessing on Nourishment”) is comprised of four thanksgivings: for the food; for the land of Israel; for the holy city of Jerusalem; and finally, for God’s goodness. We typically collapse this structure into a single statement that focuses on the first and last parts. (“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty.”) Yet, whether preparing our hearts for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast or simply reaching for words before a daily meal, the Jewish blessing can be very useful in easing anxieties about giving thanks to God aloud. We do this by expanding on the Jewish prayer’s basic principles.

Let us thank God not only for our food, but also for being alive and healthy and able to digest it; for the gift of labor that supplies our tables; for senses that relish what we eat; for fellowship occasioned by gathering at the table.

Let us thank God not only for where we live, but also for freedom to make that land our home; for the security of having a place in the world; for the wealth that grows out of belonging to families and communities that strive to live and prosper in peace; for the traditions and heritages that enrich our lives together.

Let us thank God not only for our holy places, but also for the promises they house; for hope that will not surrender to pessimism; for spiritual sanctuary in a world governed by greed and injustice; for beacons of righteousness that shine forth from the citadels and steeples of God’s dwelling places.

Let us be thankful, not only for God’s goodness, but also for the unmerited love and mercy it contains; for relentless blessings we enjoy and too often overlook; for daily guidance and protection given to us; for awareness that if it were not for God’s grace, we would be lost.

I pray a meaningful and rich Thanksgiving Day for all who celebrate the holiday in the US and an equally abundant blessing for those outside the States—reminding all of us of the wisdom imparted in Colossians 3:14-15:

Clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful.

Amen.

Always, In All Circumstances

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5.16-18)

Continuing a tradition begun last year, Straight-Friendly celebrates Thanksgiving in song—with an emphasis on giving thanks when we may not feel like it, when true gratitude may set us apart, and when the complexity of life frays our connection to thankfulness as an act of faith.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. This is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

“Take a Little Time,” Andraé Crouch

“Now Thank We All Our God,” Lincoln Minister School Chamber Choir

“Gratitude,” Nichole Nordeman

“In Everything (Give Him Thanks),” The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

“Jubilate Deo,” The University of Utah Singers

(Rather than translate “Jubilate Deo,” I’ll let these charming you fellows do it.)

“Thanksgiving Song,” Mary Chapin Carpenter

“For All You’ve Done,” Hillsong

“Simple Gifts,” Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Krauss

Prayer of Thanks, Rabbi Lazer Brody

“Be Grateful,” John Legend & Roots, featuring Jennifer Hudson

Always, and ever, I thank God for all of you!

Richness as a Reflex

The righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” (Matthew 25.37-39)

For thus says the Lord GOD: I Myself will search for my sheep, and will seek them out… They shall lie down in good grazing land, and they shall feed on rich pasture. (Ezekiel 34.11, 14)

The Issue of Lives

The Occupy Movement has taken a ribbing from TV pundits and late-night comedians. Yet—other than those pathetically enslaved by neoconservative, me-myself-and-I doctrines—no public sector has cried out against its ingenious strategy to change the economic conversation from tax policy to social justice. Pitching their tents on financial centers' doorsteps forced us to face the ugly realities of thousands done in by soulless graft. With dispossessed, unemployed, and other beleaguered citizens tucked away in outlying tent cities, welfare motels, and overcrowded shelters, the nation’s wealthiest percentile felt no shame in whining about potential tax increases. They tried to divert accusations of greed by posing as “job creators”—thus, deserving special protections in order to fix a crisis they contributed to and profited from.

By voluntarily existing as economic refugees, Occupy activists awakened public consciousness to the issue of lives, not dollars; morals, not money; people, not power. A society that coddles the mightiest at the expense of the weakest invites crippling instability and certain decline. A nation that subjects many to hardship while succoring a few denies its greatness. Leaders who tout freedom to justify socioeconomic inequities are neither freedom and justice’s guardians nor equality’s champions. (All they are is living proof there’s more to patriotism than pinning a flag to one’s lapel.)

Participation in a just society begins by denouncing the right to choose who is and isn’t worth attention, or when it’s right and wrong to come to another’s aid. Such choices are pre-decided for the community’s welfare and stability. Attention must be paid to everyone who needs it. The time to help the less fortunate is all the time. The Occupy Movement confronts Americans with their civic duty to oppose favoritism that undermines national stability and the common good. In the final public discourse before His arrest (Matthew 25.31-46; Sunday’s Gospel), Jesus charges us with the same responsibilities, for the same reasons. But He raises the stakes by stressing that failure to honor His principles exposes us to grave personal risk from which we can never recover. His gist boils down to this: the issue is lives. Morals. People.

Rich Enough to Care

Since arriving in Jerusalem for Passover, Jesus hasn’t stopped talking about His imminent departure and telling stories about people entrusted with great wealth and responsibility. Most of His followers get it by now. More perceptive disciples may even gather the theological implications, understanding Jesus’s Messianic role centers on establishing God’s kingdom and entrusting it to us. In case they missed this in His parables, however, Jesus uses His last preaching opportunity to paint a dramatic vision of how it will work.

When the Son of Man comes as Earth’s Supreme King, Jesus says He’ll gather the nations and, like a shepherd does with sheep and goats, divide the people into two groups. He’ll commend the sheep, saying they fed Him, gave Him drink, welcomed Him, clothed Him, cared for Him when He was sick, and visited Him in prison. Those He praises are befuddled. “When did we do that?” they ask. The King replies, “Just as you did it to the least member of My family, you did it to Me.” (v39) He turns to the goats and says they failed on all counts. “What do you mean?” they protest. “We saw You never wanted for a thing!” The King answers, “But you ignored the least. So you ignored Me.” The story ends with both groups in shock. One can’t believe it’s rewarded with eternal life; the other can’t believe it’s sentenced to eternal punishment.

I always get a kick out of the sheep’s consternation. Their response explains why the King honors them so highly. It’s as if they ask, “What’s the big deal? We had it, they needed it, and so we gave it away, knowing there’s more where that came from.” What made them rich enough to care was not caring about riches. By calling them “sheep,” Jesus evokes Judaic respect for their virtues: faith in the shepherd, obedience, humility, and so on. Most of all, sheep exemplify community. The tiniest threat to the littlest lamb endangers the entire flock. When pasture is plentiful, all are fed. Otherwise, all suffer, because the flock’s stability relies on its ability to share. In contrast, goats are fiercely territorial, acquisitive creatures that lock horns the instant they sense one of their own encroaching on their space. (That’s why we associate gentleness with lambs and brutishness with goats.)

Stability and Growth

In Sunday’s reading from Ezekiel 34, we’re once again reminded God is our Shepherd. “I Myself will search for My sheep, and will seek them out,” God says in verse 11, vowing we will “lie down in good grazing land” and “feed on rich pasture.” (v14) God goes on to say in verse 16, “I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice.” The prophecy gets us to the essence of what Jesus wants us to see. It’s not ours to decide who merits our attention and when we should reach out to the least. Instead, we’re asked to choose how we regard the riches of God’s provision. We can either turn God’s goodness into a crippling burden or use its richness as a reflex. Either we obsess about hanging on to what we’ve got or we intuitively give it away, knowing there’s more where that came from.

Offering compassion, hospitality, and concern to those in need demands tremendous discipline and, often, staggering emotional sacrifice. But it costs us nothing. And in the end, it prospers communities we serve and us with enduring stability and growth. It should come so naturally we do it without thinking or talking about it. That’s difference between the sheep's “What did we do?” and the goats' “Look what we did!” Jesus teaches that true goodness isn’t defined by its doers’ abilities, but by its recipients’ inabilities. The least capable among us gain our highest attention because their needs are greatest. It’s that simple. And if that upsets and surprises us, Jesus tells us we’re in for a really upsetting surprise.

Free us, O Shepherd, from selfishness and insecurities and competitive streaks that endanger our communities and ignore Your commands. You’ve provided more than we need, enabling us to give it away without hesitation, knowing Your goodness is inexhaustible. Instill that truth so deep inside our being that it becomes instinctive. May we be counted worthy in Your sight. Amen.

The richness of God’s goodness to us enables us to give it away without hesitation or thought, knowing there’s always more where that came from.

No Place Like Home

Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God. (Psalm 90.1-2)

Get Up Everybody and Sing

Was I really 20 when Sister Sledge released “We Are Family”? It’s one of those tunes you feel like you’ve known your entire life. Even after you Google it and learn it was released in 1979—despite reminding yourself it’s a disco hit that, at the very earliest, wouldn’t have run the charts until the late 70s—you’re apt to scratch your head. How can that be? As far as disco tunes go, “We Are Family” was remarkably tame; the beat and the music laid back and the four Sledge sisters stepped forward to sing:

We are family

I got all my sisters and me

We are family

Get up everybody and sing!

Their song celebrated their family, not the human family or the “circle of life” or other grandiose concepts so big they get away from us before the singing ends. If you remember the lyrics (and I’ll bet you do), rerun them in your head. It’s about them. The image of family unity they presented was worth singing about. It touched us on a primal level, reminding us family, by nature, should foster togetherness and accord. “We’re like birds of a feather,” they sang. “We're giving love in a family dose.” In some ways their song counterbalanced Carly Simon’s hit, “The Way I Always Heard It Should Be,” which portrayed misgivings about the whole marriage-and-children thing based on her own family’s dysfunction. When Kim, Debbie, Joni, and Kathy Sledge rejoiced, “We are family!” they told the world, “This family idea works!” No wonder their song spoke to us in a timeless fashion.

Alive and Together

Millennia before “We Are Family,” Moses also composed a timeless hit about family, Psalm 90. “Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations,” he sings in the first verse, going on to praise God’s faithfulness and the enduring nature of God’s people in the midst of constant change. And Moses immediately announces that this realization touches a primal nerve by predating our existence: “Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God,” verse 2 observes, as the poem goes on to contemplate the brevity of life and how each of us fits in the ongoing epic of familial longevity. “We’re like grass,” Moses says. “We sprout in the morning. By evening, we wither away.” Yet his metaphor for transience doesn’t dismay him in the least. Thrumming beneath his adoration of the eternal God, one senses undiluted family joy of being alive and together. Moses says, “Look at us, tiny blades of grass closely rooted beside each other, growing and thriving!”

Moses is the last Bible hero we’d expect to write a song that rhapsodizes God’s faithfulness, and rejoices about family and rootedness. He’s the Old Testament’s poster foster child. He’s born into a loving family of Hebrew slaves, only to be ripped from its bosom before he can walk and grows up as an Egyptian prince. That he’s not related to Pharaoh’s family by blood is apparent from his first glance in a mirror. We don’t know if anyone ever told Moses how he came to live in the palace. Yet it must be disconcerting for a privileged child to recognize a closer familial resemblance to his slave nurse (and true mother) than those claiming to be his elders and siblings.

The identity crisis that surfaces in a persistent stammer and lifelong insecurity surely begins there. Just when he’s poised to come into his own, a desperate attempt to reclaim his ethnic roots makes him a fugitive. Wanted for killing an Egyptian who abuses a Hebrew slave, Moses flees to the outback, where he’s adopted again—giving him three families in all before starting his own. Then, once he settles into life as a husband and father, God sends him back into the mess he managed to escape. The Hebrew slaves distrust him. His Egyptian family can’t believe the gall to demand freedom for captives that form the backbone of their economy. And whom does God assign to compensate for Moses’s inadequacies? His blood brother, Aaron—a stranger with no cause to help Moses! None of this sounds like the way Moses (or anyone swept up in his saga) “heard it should be,” let alone something to sing about. Nor does it get better as the story goes.

Securing the slaves’ freedom tasks Moses with leading thousands of legitimately anxious people he’s never met in search of a Promised Land. He has no map or timetable. For 40 years, he pushes them to keep moving. Two generations are born and two generations buried in the wild. By the end, impermanence is all that most of them know. Yet along the way, Moses teaches them his song about God’s faithfulness and human frailty and rootedness—a song about family. Despite every reason why it shouldn’t, the song resonates. It’s a big hit, an instant classic, they sing over and over. It survives Moses. It survives them. It’s a song we sing and generations after us will, too. God is our dwelling place. We’re rooted in God. For the brief time we’re alive, we grow up together in God. We flourish, fade, and a new generation takes root to replace us. We are family.

One Roof

We can regard “God is our dwelling place” as poetic metaphor and leave it at that. But in doing so, we drain Moses’s song of its power to make the metaphor real. If God truly is our Home—if, as Paul testifies in Acts 17.28, “we live and move and have our being” in God—what does that say about us? It seems fairly obvious. As people of God, we share one Roof with all people of God. Sheer size of our family precludes knowing most of them personally, and diversity of backgrounds alone advises against assuming we should like, agree with, and relate to every member of the family. Merely by the millions of ways we come to God, we can rid ourselves of expecting we’ll blend into some kind of homogenized, harmonious “Brady Bunch” dwelling in a spacious, suburban comfort. Residing in God makes for overcrowded, tumultuous conditions. We are, by nature, a family on the move. Impermanence is all we know. New infants are born into our family and beloved elders pass on. Our only sustenance comes from God. We have no map or timetable. It should neither amaze nor alarm us to encounter family members with radically different notions about where we’re going or how we’ll get there. It’s no surprise when far removed relations adamantly refute our claim as kin. We’ve done it; why shouldn’t they?

Yet for all our jostling and anxiety and skepticism, the constant transitions and uncertainties of our pilgrim lifestyle, we celebrate our common roots in God. We rejoice in the gift of growing side-by-side, alive and together, flourishing as individuals under one roof. “Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart,” Moses’s song prays (v12), concluding with an entreaty that summarizes what dwelling in God is ultimately about: “Let Your work be manifest to your servants, and Your glorious power to their children. Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands!” (v16-17) The work we do and legacy we leave behind are most important. It makes us anxious to concede many we find so disagreeable, and vice versa, are kin with whom we share a common dwelling. That’s not the way we always heard it should be. Nonetheless, that’s the way it is. We are family. Puts a new spin on “No place like home,” doesn’t it?

O God, as You’ve always been and forever will be, You are our dwelling place. Endow us with courage to overlook differences so we may celebrate our common roots in You. Prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands. Amen.

With God as our dwelling place, we share one roof with all God’s people. Sure, our Home is overcrowded and our family stays on the move. Yet we’re closely rooted, alive and together.

Postscript: “We Are Family”

Just in case you couldn’t recall all the words…

Refresh

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Romans 12.2)

“At Least”

So I’ve spent the past few weeks battling with my Internet service provider—a battle ending this week, when I switch to a new ISPN. For reasons no one will explain (leading me to suspect behind-the-scene cutbacks), service has been maddeningly sporadic, with prolonged outages and turtle-slow speeds that require frequently clicking the refresh arrow. Sometimes a site freezes. I have to close the browser and start over. Since I’m not the most patient person when things don’t function as smoothly as I expect, I’ve spent a lot of time grunting and fussing at my screen, as if that will magically persuade the ISPN server to get a move on. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if I limited my Web activity to leisurely pursuits. Nothing on youtube, Facebook, or amazon is so urgent it can’t wait. For a freelance writer, though, a sputtering modem makes all the difference between a fine and not-so-fine job, meeting and missing deadlines, annoyance and agony.

When working on projects that entail online research, one supposes I could forego digging into the material and rely on how much—or, more likely, how little—I already know. That would eliminate the hassle and still get the job done. It won’t be as thorough and strong without the added time and stress of repeated refreshing, but at least it’s something. And therein lies the rub, because one of few things that drive me crazier than subpar technology is being forced to compromise. It goes back to being raised by parents who, when seeing I’d fallen short, always asked why I’d not done better. “At least it’s something” didn’t fly with them. It took several aborted attempts down that runway to convince me “at least” is a de facto admission that no matter how good the “something” may be, it’s still no good because it’s less than my best. My father put it like this: "Simply getting by simply guarantees you'll never get ahead."

That’s exactly what Paul says to us in Romans 12. “At least” may work for us and what comes of it may look fine to others. But it still won’t fly, because it’s not our best. Getting by on what we already know will never help us know all that we can be. Yes, the time and hassle of constantly refreshing our attitudes and perceptions can be unnerving. We’ll grunt and fuss a lot. But is “at least” really an option—especially since God sees and knows we’ve fallen short?

True Life

The passage begins with one of Paul’s most quoted—and least understood—admonitions: “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” (Romans 12.1) On hearing “bodies,” “sacrifice,” and “holy and acceptable to God” in close proximity, we reply, “Got it!” and dash off a long list of no-no’s we’re fairly sure prevent us from meeting God’s purity standards. Without attending to the whole statement, it’s logical to assume Paul’s comparing us to livestock that Jews and pagans alike painstakingly bred and raised to be free of any disease or flaw disqualifying it for ritual slaughter.

A closer reading urges us to rethink such assumptions. What Paul describes has nothing in common with animal sacrifice. Nor, for that matter, is he speaking to us as individuals. The pivotal phrases here are “the mercies of God,” “a living sacrifice,” and “spiritual worship.” God’s mercy unites all believers as a single entity, a living sacrifice, and purifies us for spiritual service. It’s the polar opposite of what so many misinterpret as a call for surface holiness—a return to Mosaic legalism’s obsession with hygiene and conformity. Yet this makes no sense coming from Paul, particularly in the letter advancing his most eloquent argument that Jesus’s bodily atonement forever frees us from the Law’s rituals and demands. Equating holiness and acceptability to God with physical appearances and behaviors replaces spiritual freedom with carnal compliance. It mistakes cookie-cutter mentality for Christian solidarity. But we’re not assembly-line cattle being prepped for death. By God’s grace we’re one body, a singular organism spiritually transformed to witness life.

Now we’d be remiss not to stress that nearly all the Apostles’ letters, including Paul’s, caution against physically detrimental excesses and habits. Yet they take extra care to be clear they’re not advocating behavioral modification as a means of earning God’s mercy and acceptance. Again, it’s the complete opposite. Abandoning harmful pursuits is one of many changes that result from faith in God’s grace. Spiritual transformation occurs and manifests itself continuously. As participants in one living sacrifice, we shouldn’t look, act, and talk like each other. Neither should we look, act, and talk today like we did yesterday. True life produces unending change and growth. It’s not like Web access. It doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t freeze. It keeps loading us with new information, experiences, and insights. And if we’re frustrated because our lives have lost momentum or got stuck or feel incomplete, it’s time to refresh our screens and re-launch our browsers. While relying on what we already know may work for us and get us by in the world, it won’t fly with God, Who sees and knows it’s less than our best.

Taking Risks

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul writes in verse 2, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” How marvelous it would be if Paul were actually describing what many take him to mean—a once-in-a-lifetime epiphany that whips us into a U-turn, cleans up our acts, changes how we think, and sends us barreling headlong into eternal bliss! That might work if we were no more than sacrificial cattle being groomed for the day we die. And unfortunately that’s how many believers approach their faith and view themselves. All the goodness and wonder showered on us, all the life we’re blessed to experience and enjoy, boils down to getting ready to die. But, thanks be to God, we are a living sacrifice. God’s grace liberates us from the confines of the stall and trough, opening before us a meadow of mercy on which we feast, mature, and thrive. Some of us are young and wobbly. Some of us are seasoned and sure. While it's important that the weak among us grow strong and the strong among us don't grow self-confident in their own strength, it's most important that each of us understands we all belong to one living sacrifice.

Every day, every moment, provides nourishment that renews our minds so we’re ever aware of what God desires of us that day, in that moment. Conformity is of no benefit to transformation's perpetual process, as it always lags behind new growth. God’s abundance provides an endless supply of knowledge and experience that renews our minds, challenging us to digest concepts and beliefs that were once intolerable and made us afraid. Willingness to refresh our minds is the only way we discover God’s will for us. It’s a risky way to live, because it calls us away from conformity and getting by on what we know so we can be transformed by what God wants us to know. Writ large between the lines, Paul insists taking risks, defying uncertainty, enduring criticism, and patiently waiting for God’s will to unfold is what we must do if we’re to participate in spiritual worship as a living, holy, acceptable sacrifice. Besides, considering the alternative, can we doubt embracing newness of mind and welcoming change is the only way to live? Of course not, because living to die isn’t living at all.

Dear God, we know no better way to live than participating in spiritual worship as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to You. Awaken us to each day’s abundant newness. Free us from intolerance and fear so that we’ll risk learning all that life offers. Quicken us to refresh our minds to welcome new ideas and discover Your will for us. Amen.

When we’re frustrated because our lives seem to have lost momentum, got stuck, or feel incomplete, it’s time to click the refresh button and renew our minds.

Justice is Served

Taking the five loaves and the two fish, He looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. (Matthew 14.19)

What’s with the Food?

I’m always delighted to meet people who have a vague idea of Who Jesus is, but the details and depth of His life and ministry (which we take for granted) escape them. As I fill them in, I also find myself feeling a wee bit envious of their chance to hear about Jesus with fresh ears and watch His story unfold through new eyes. None of our jaded, oh-yeah-I-remember-that-from-Sunday-school nonsense gets in their way. And since today’s Gospel pulls out one of the all-time Sunday school favorites—the miraculous feeding of 5,000-plus people—let's try a little experiment. Let’s pretend we know very little about Jesus. After reading the Gospels with curious detachment, what might strike us as most unusual about what Jesus does and says?

Many aspects of Jesus’s story may take us by surprise. He’s very adept at staying below the radar; He doesn’t hide, but neither does He court controversy like His cousin, John the Baptist, does. He’s unintimidating, yet never intimidated. He’s the underdog’s ultimate champion. These traits jump out at us. But sooner or later we’re sure to ask, “What’s with the food?” Because it's nearly impossible to get through a chapter of the Gospels without food entering the picture in some form.

Jesus introduces His philosophy by talking about people who “hunger and thirst for righteousness” and teaches His disciples to pray for daily bread. He performs His first miracle at a banquet, turning water into wine. He routinely invites Himself to dinner and attends a lot of feasts. He defends His disciples when legalists criticize their table manners. What’s more He dismisses criticism that He eats with the wrong crowd, saying, “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11.19) Most of His stories revolve around growing food, raising livestock, or throwing parties. He says He’s the Bread of Life. The night before He’s executed He hosts a supper and asks His followers to remember Him whenever they break bread and drink wine. After His resurrection, He cooks breakfast for the disciples. Really. What’s with the food? The answer may surprise us more than any suspicion that Jesus—often imagined as a rail-thin, otherworldly ascetic—might very well be a foodie.

Tangible Reminders

Every time Jesus touches, tastes, or talks about food, He puts justice on the table. Teaching us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” sets the stage for our next request: “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” God’s grace and mercy in meeting our daily needs obligates us to offer grace and mercy to those no more worthy of them than we are. Multiplying food and wine demonstrates that no one deserves to go without. Sitting at table with the shunned and disrespected—as well as the rich and powerful—proves that Jesus regards everyone equally. Concerns about His reputation never interfere with opportunities to redeem reputations of those who’ve been misjudged or denied. The farming and feasting parables inevitably come down to this: human judgment is flawed. Every story stresses how knee-jerk assumptions undermine justice. Pulling up the weeds will kill the crop; let them grow up together and the farmer will judge what’s good and bad. The safety of 99 sheep matters little when one is lost. If the smart crowd turns down your invitation, don’t cancel the party; open your doors to outcasts and irregulars. When the wayward son returns broke and broken, welcome him with a lavish feast; don’t penalize him for his foolishness.

During the three-and-half-years Jesus lives and teaches, food and justice become so inextricably wound together they’re inseparable. That’s why, at the Last Supper, He intuitively reaches for bread and wine, declaring them tangible reminders of the physical body and blood He will sacrifice. For what is Calvary, if not justice redefined? Mercy rendered for lawlessness. Grace extended for selfishness. Acceptance offered to defeat shame and prejudice. Hope provided to end despair. All that and more is in the bread and wine, because justice is in the bread and wine. And while that may not be readily apparent to us, it’s very obvious to the disciples. Because what Jesus does with the bread at the Last Supper is what He’s always done to provide for His followers.

The Means

Of course, the disciples recognize what Jesus is doing at the Last Supper. How could they ever forget what they witness in today’s Gospel? (Matthew 14.13-21) Having just heard John the Baptist has been beheaded, Jesus seeks out a lonely place to grieve privately. But the masses find Him and He sets His sorrow aside to heal them. A rough count puts the crowd at 5,000 men, along with untold women and children. As dusk sets in, the disciples advise Jesus to send the people back to their villages so they can eat. “There’s no need for them to leave,” Jesus replies. “Let’s feed them.” Evidently the disciples know to expect this, because they’ve polled the crowd for food and only come up with five loaves of bread and two fish. “Bring them to me,” Jesus instructs. He does exactly as He does at the Last Supper. He takes the bread, and after blessing it, breaks it into pieces, and gives it to the disciples. They pass through the crowd, pulling off enough for each one to eat, and return with more than when they started—12 baskets full, or one for each of them.

To send the crowd away hungry is unthinkable to Jesus, because it’s unjust. “How so?” we ask. Didn’t He ignore His own grief to relieve theirs? Why isn’t it fair to let them fend for themselves? They didn’t care enough about His feelings to give Him space. Let them get their own bread. If they want to hang around, so be it. Nobody ever died from skipping dinner. But here’s what we overlook. Jesus has the means to meet their need. Looking at hungry faces while having food on hand leaves Him no just reason for not feeding them.

Even so, isn’t ridiculous to try? There’s not enough to feed Jesus and the disciples. At the very least, shouldn’t He devise a plan to thin out the crowd—say, set criteria for who gets to eat for free and who doesn’t? Out of more than 5,000, surely there are plenty of hangers-on and fakers and leeches looking for a free meal. Now that we think about it, forget the whole lot. Why did they show up in the first place? Not to console Jesus. Not to learn from Him. They came for miracles. They got what they came for. Send ‘em home. As right as that may sound, Jesus will have none of it, because it’s unjust to deny anyone in need when we have something we can offer.

On the Spot and In the Moment

This miracle, the Last Supper, and the supreme miracle of Christ’s sacrifice teach us justice is served when we use everything we possess to meet the needs of those without means. It’s a stand-alone process impervious to human logic and limitations. Justice is always served here and now—on the spot and in the moment. Let’s assume everyone has cupboards overflowing with food. They’re not at home, though. They’re hungry now. Let’s assume the disciples will figure out what the crucifixion means. They’re confused now. They need answers now. Let’s assume humanity can come to its senses and correct its evil ways. We’re lost now. We need help now.

We don’t know how Jesus takes five paltry loaves, breaks them, and feeds a multitude, no more than we understand how there’s never a shortage of grace for our sins. All we know is when justice is served, there’s always more than enough. When called to serve justice, we take what little mercy we have on hand, bless it, break it, and give it to those hungering for it. We don’t worry if it’s enough or whether they deserve it. We don’t begrudge them because they’re insensitive to our feelings or their motives may be impure. It’s not about what they have or haven’t done, or how much we’ve already given. Justice is about recognizing their need and knowing we have the means to meet it now. The rest is useless speculation and counterintuitive to everything Jesus teaches and models.

Such grace You’ve given us, O God—grace that defies reason and exceeds measure. Such trust You’ve placed in us by offering Your Son, our Bread of Life, to show and teach us the true meaning of justice. Pry logic’s grip from our minds and doubt’s hold from our hearts so that we may serve justice as You do. Amen.

We take what’s available to us, bless it, break it, and offer it to those in need. Though it may look paltry, there’s always more than enough to ensure justice is served.

Free from Tomorrow

Seek first [God’s] kingdom and [God’s] righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6.33-34)

The Discipline of Discipleship

If you’ve followed the Lenten posts here—maybe even tracked them in tandem with Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s 40-Day Journey, the volume mapping our wilderness course—by now, you’ve got the gist of where it’s taking us. As the editor, Ron Klug, explains, “In Bonhoeffer you will find a bracing, challenging, totally unsentimental invitation to discipleship that makes a difference. The British essayist G.K. Chesterton once wrote: ‘The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.’ Bonhoeffer invites us to give it a try.” (p10; emphasis added) Lent is, above all else, a sacred summons to reinvigorate the discipline of following Christ. That’s what discipleship means: disciplined obedience to Jesus’s teaching. Without question, what we learn from Him leads to unexpected realizations, revelations, and personal epiphanies. Yet we arrive at transformative moments by hewing to a carefully plotted, not-always exciting, and rarely easy path. If we follow Jesus expecting magic and miracles at every turn, we’re bound for disappointment. If we dash into Lent’s desert looking to be wowed, we’re prime candidates for frustration and fatigue.

The discipline of discipleship has one objective: nurturing faith. Our belief makes impossibilities possible. In the Gospels, Jesus routinely punctuates healings by acknowledging the faith of those who are cured. In Matthew 21.21, He tells us, “If you have faith and don’t doubt, you can move mountains.” In Mark 9, a father brings his troubled boy to Jesus and says, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” “’If you can’?” Jesus asks incredulously. “Everything is possible to one who believes.” The father pleads, “Help me overcome my unbelief!” The boy’s mind is freed.

By design, discipleship helps us overcome unbelief. It’s the work that begets wonders, the toolkit that dismantles doubt. Thus it’s most appropriate that we follow Jesus into the desert by revisiting disciplines that build faith. After all, per Matthew’s chronology, The Sermon on the Mount—Jesus’s discipleship manifesto—soon follows His wilderness experience, suggesting faith He acquires in the desert directly contributes to the clarity and power of His message.

Precautions and Priorities

With the Sermon fresh in memory from readings prior to Lent, we understand why Bonhoeffer cites it frequently. Nowhere in Scripture do we find a more comprehensive manual of discipleship’s principles and practices. Jesus methodically lays out His topics step-by-step. After stating the concept, He issues precautions and sets priorities by teaching us what not to do, what to do instead, and what to do next. In today’s text—which we recently discussed, but deserves a second look—after telling us not to panic about our material welfare, He says, “Seek first [God’s] kingdom and righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6.33) Setting aside mundane concerns like food and clothing—i.e., anxieties that plague non-believers—creates room to do God’s work and honor God’s purpose. It’s one of many counterintuitive disciplines that identify us as Christ’s followers. In addition to that, it stages opportunities to practice faith.

Having enough food and adequate clothing is important. But it’s not essential, because faith erases all doubt God provides everything we need. Entrusting God with our physical needs frees us to focus on what God needs from us. Belief is the linchpin in our reciprocal arrangement. When we make God’s concerns and desires our daily priority, God sees to our daily concerns and desires. Now, suppose we struck a similar deal with another human. We’d have every cause to worry, as we’d have no guarantee the other party can or will consistently honor his/her pledge. By faith, however, we know God will never fall short. Day in and day out, what we need for that day comes without fail.

“Therefore,” Jesus says in verse 34, “do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” If He were a contemporary discussing our anxiety about the future, He’d put it like this: “What are you so stressed out about? You’re letting worries about tomorrow ruin your day! Hasn’t God always taken care of you? Why should tomorrow be different? Every day starts with no idea how it will end. Every day brings problems. Yet has one of them ever passed but what God didn’t provide? You’re all worked up over nothing. When tomorrow comes, do what you’re supposed to do and God will take care of you. For now, focus on today.” To which we’d hang our heads and say, “You’re so right.”

Faith for Now

Many of us obsess over the past, in many cases, reasonably so. Traumas and hardships we endure cast long, indelible shadows over our lives. No fewer of us obsess about the future—some to escape painful pasts, others to reach brightest dreams. Yet traveling with eyes glued to the rearview mirror or fixed on glittering horizons undermines our ability to navigate the now. That requires faith, because faith is our only means of knowing what to do and how to go in the absence of clearly marked signs and confirmed direction. “We walk by faith, not by sight,” we’re told in 2 Corinthians 5.7. Walk—present tense. Obsessions with the past require no faith, as what we’ve experienced is fully known. And while one might argue obsessions about the future inspire faith, the nature of said “faith” raises suspicions about its usefulness. At best, we harbor hope for tomorrow, since we can’t predict its blessings and challenges. Anything beyond hope finds us wishing, which feels nice, but offers no help for today.

Jesus instructs us to seek God’s kingdom and righteousness first so we’ll find faith for now. Discipleship trains us to surrender the past and overcome concerns about the future. Only then will we be where God wants us: in the moment, that ephemeral place we speak of so often, yet seldom inhabit. God needs us today—and provides for today’s needs—because we have work to do and a purpose to fulfill today, both of which demand faith. That’s why living free from tomorrow is every bit as crucial as leaving yesterday behind.

Now is what matters. Now is when we need faith. That's why we live free from tomorrow, trusting God to provide what we need now.

Postscript: “I Know Who Holds Tomorrow”

I love this old country gospel tune, beautifully performed by Alison Krauss and The Cox Family. Faith that God holds tomorrow frees us to believe we can accomplish what God asks of us today.