Remembering

All the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall be to the LORD for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off. (Isaiah 55.12-13)

As I write this, PBS is showing Jerusalem: Center of the World, a detailed history of the city. Much attention is being paid to the sacred sites—for Jews, for Christians, and for Muslims. It’s fascinating to hear about the need to memorialize key events in each religion’s story. No one can say for certain if this or that place is actually where a famous event occurred. The words “legend has it” carry tremendous weight in the absence of scientific proof. So it is that claiming Jesus died here, was buried there, ascended over here, and so on—without any reliable evidence—inspires faith and worship. Does accuracy of the claim really matter? Not really, as long as its identification with specific moments in Jesus’s life encourages belief.

This concept of memorializing our faith interests me. We do a great job of memorializing our lives. We take many pictures, we return to spots where events transpired, we etch our names into trees and scroll them into wet cement. But do we recall where we were when belief in Jesus started to make sense? Do we remember our baptism or confirmation or first communion—or any other rite that solidified our identity as part of God’s family? Where were we when we decided a cursory relationship with Jesus wasn’t good enough? What brought us to the place of need for God—and what was that place?

Every time something significant happens, the ancients memorialize for it. Sometimes it's nothing more than a pile of rocks. Sometimes it's an elaborate altar. But the point is very clear: this moment is not to be forgot. Of course, we’re moving toward the ultimate of all memorials: Mount Calvary and the site of the empty tomb. But we all arrive there from many different places. We bring an infinite range of personal experiences. And in our individual pasts, each of us has moments in time that belong to only us, yet exemplify something universal and powerful and incontrovertible in their evidence that God loves us.

In Isaiah’s prophecy of God’s intervention, thorns give way to cypresses and briers are swallowed up by sweet myrtle. The trees of the fields surge in applause for God’s love and grace. This miraculous turn of events, of course, presages Calvary’s tree and its restorative power to reunite humanity with God. The prophet says, “It shall be to the LORD for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.” (Isaiah 55.13)

Holy Week isn’t only about what happens at Calvary. It’s about what happens in us. Our hearts are sacred sites. Our lives are sacred stories. As we stop by the signature sites of Holy Week, let us pause to revisit our own memorials. We have, all of us, come a very long way, led to faith and called to love by God’s sweet Spirit. There are moments and people and places that we associate with grace’s miracle in our lives. We can close our eyes and recall when thorns vanished and mighty cypress trees rose up, when briers disappeared and lovely myrtles took root in us. These are our holy places, our memorials.

As we press closer to the cross, may we cherish the holy moments and places that brought us here. Thank God for grace, for forgiveness, and for faith’s determination. 

Our Golden Opportunity

Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one fails to obtain the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springs up and causes trouble, and through it many become defiled. (Hebrews 12.14-15)

No Middle Ground

Three-and-a-half years ago, in the final, furious months of the 2008 US Presidential race, my parents sent me an email that opened the whole same-sex marriage can of worms and prompted a lengthy response in these pages (On Marriage, the Church, and the Nation). Although I continue to stand by much of what I said, my basic premise was deeply flawed and the tortured logic I used to support it severely misguided. In attempting to balance marriage as a sacrament with constitutionally guaranteed equality, I fell into a separate-but-equal trap that, despite using Jesus’s own words, reflected none of His teaching and character.


Trying to locate middle ground, I failed to acknowledge that Jesus never settles for middle ground. In every situation—including His marriage discussion in Matthew 19—Jesus always sides with those on the wrong side of disenfranchisement and loop-holing. Mosaic Law says the Messiah is God’s promise to the Jews; Jesus broadens the definition to include people of all ethnicities, classes, and religions. Mosaic Law commands that adulterers be stoned to death; Jesus pardons a woman caught in the very act and impeaches those who would punish her. Religious tradition castigates Samaritans as unfit outsiders; Jesus invites a Samaritan woman—one with a scandalous sexual history, no less—to experience new life.

Search the Scripture for precedents where Jesus defends inequality or settles for compromise. You won’t find one. Jesus views every situation where religious and legal customs categorize people as “other” as a prime opportunity to prove the power of God’s unconditional love, grace, and acceptance. Time and again He sidesteps legal quibbling to press higher principles. It’s never about Samaritans and lepers and adulterers and tax collectors and criminals; it’s always about removing barriers that deny them grace. There is no middle ground, no appeasement, no give and take. Those without receive. Those outside are welcomed in. And Jesus doesn’t get bogged down with defending why this must be, because His actions as God speak for God. And God says, “That’s how it is.”

An Unequaled Chance

Like millions, I was thrilled with President Obama’s declaration that legalizing same-sex marriage is the right thing to do. But while pundits and opponents wasted time trying to decipher political motives for his affirmation, I gloried in the reason he gave. “The thing at root that we think about is, not only Christ sacrificing Himself on our behalf, but it’s also the Golden Rule,” he told ABC’s Robin Roberts. “You know, treat others the way you want to be treated. And I think that’s what we try to impart to our kids, and that’s what motivates me as President.” It was so simple, so just, and so incontrovertibly correct.

It was a watershed in American politics—not as a policy statement or campaign strategy, but as an unabashed witness to Jesus’s life and teaching. It was the first time I ever recall a US President overtly leading us back to Christ in a way that purely reflects Christ’s principles. It instantly brought to mind Paul’s sterling statement in 1 Corinthians 11.1: “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ.” I wanted to run up and down streets, ringing doorbells and shouting, “Our President just said, ‘Follow me, as I follow Christ!’”

Without besmirching the sincerity of believers and denominations currently opposed to marital equality, I would also challenge them to consider the golden opportunity they’re overlooking. History has presented them with an unequaled chance to witness the radical grace Jesus embodied—to surrender their cloaks and their shirts, as Jesus teaches, to travel a second mile when asked to walk one, to go beyond what’s asked of them and do what’s required of anyone claiming Jesus as his/her Leader.


From Within

To follow Christ in every way is by its very nature an act of faith because it constrains us to abandon what we think is right in order to do what Jesus says is right. It is not easy by design, as it expects us to live out God’s grace in a very particular, completely selfless way. And this is especially difficult for people who confuse the inhabited (and habitual) faithfulness Jesus demands with behavioral codes that divide “insiders” from “outsiders” and “us” from the “other.” They look to external structures and arbitrary rules to define their beliefs, never realizing that faith is witnessed from within. Faith transforms a subjective experience with God into an objective expression of God’s presence in the world. It exchanges seeking divine approval for trusting divine acceptance. It gives without hope of reward. It exalts without regard to presumed status or worth. It ignores what we see in others to evidence what God wants others to see in us.

Resisting the rigors of faithfulness is hardly a modern phenomenon. Indeed, the challenges of faithful living are so daunting for the Early Church that they become the central topic of virtually every epistle in the New Testament. And nowhere is this more pronounced than in the Hebrews letter, where the writer takes extraordinary measures to free Jewish Christians from reliance on legalism and religiosity so that they can actualize genuine faith. “This is a new and living way,” Hebrews 10.20 proclaims (emphasis added), pointing to a faith that sheds obsolete attitudes and evolves in response to its surroundings. It is a faith primed for opportunities to witness God’s unfettered love, grace, and acceptance. It is a faith whose only standard is built on compassion, tolerance, and equality.

In Hebrews 12.14 and 15 we read, “Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one fails to obtain the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springs up and causes trouble, and through it many become defiled.” Peace with everyone—not a select few whose beliefs and morals align with our own. Holiness that reveals God at work in us. Ensure that no one is denied God’s grace. Don’t cultivate bitterness and trouble that defile our witness. It is a teaching that compels us to look beyond ourselves to find a better, new, and living way.

All Aboard!

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the great theologian, martyr, and perhaps the 20^th century’s clearest voice of discipleship, wrote, “If you board the wrong train it is no use running down the corridor in the opposite direction.” At the time, he was warning German Christians not to bend to anti-Semitic pressures from pro-Nazi religious and civic leaders. American Christians are handed a nearly identical choice with the marital debate. It asks us to forego religious dogma and personal comfort for the sake of the oppressed and disenfranchised. In the wake of President Obama’s affirmation, all but a very few conceded he was on “the right side of history.” But it’s bigger—much bigger—than that. What we’ve just seen is the temerity of one believer to board the right train. May every believer in this nation follow him, as he follows Christ. May all disciples of Christ come to their senses, get on the right train, and join a deafening chorus of “All aboard!”

The marital equality debate presents a golden opportunity for all believers to become living witnesses to the magnitude of God’s grace.


Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/05/12/our-golden-opportunity/

To Start the Day

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: “Everyone is looking for you!” (Mark 1.35-37)

Awakening to Holiness

For a number of years I attended the Edwin Hawkins Music & Arts Seminar, a weeklong convention of the nation’s finest gospel singers, songwriters, and musicians. Although my meager musical abilities could never compare to their genius, they welcomed me with open arms, and I was grateful for the chance to soak up everything the experience offered. Now there are a couple of things you should know about gospel artists before I get to the nub of my story. They are, by nature, an extremely friendly, high-spirited bunch that honors the sacredness of their calling by not taking themselves too seriously. If you weren’t clued into who they are, you’d never guess the people laughing and joking together wrote and recorded countless songs that changed millions of lives. The second thing to know is gospel musicians are late-night folks. Next to making music, they love nothing more than hanging out into the wee hours, swapping stories. Having been to similar events, I expected long nights of table-hopping in jammed coffee shops, oversleeping the next day, and dragging into afternoon workshops and rehearsals. But the usual M.O. didn’t fly at the Seminar. On my first night, I was surprised that everyone made hasty business of the post-concert “afterglow” and scooted off to bed. When I asked what the rush was, they said, “You don’t want to miss Walter. If you’re late, you won’t get a seat.”

“Walter” was Edwin’s brother and pastor, Rev. Walter Hawkins, the most prolific songwriter—and by far the most progressive Bible teacher—in the gospel sphere. At the top of each morning, he hosted “To Start the Day,” a brief session during which he gave seminar attendees a portion of Scripture, a few comments on the text, and led them into a time of prayer. It was simple, pure, and inspiring. It set the tone for everything that followed—and set the Seminar apart from others like it by awakening us to the holiness of what we would accomplish as the day progressed. “To Start the Day” subsumed the musical aspect of the event with a higher purpose. Classes, rehearsals, and performances became the day’s tasks. Its mission, however, was seeing them as windows for holiness, open and alert to God’s voice and Spirit—invitations to obey rather than do, to create rather than complete. Beginning each day with a few moments to settle our minds with a guiding thought and prayer made all the difference, such a difference “To Start the Day” was not to be missed.

Habits and Disciplines

It’s remarkable how so many will rally for Church-prescribed undertakings like Lent or training for sacramental milestones, while paying little heed to habits and disciplines that Jesus practiced in daily life. In Mark’s opening chapter, which reads like a breathless dispatch filed under deadline pressure, our first glimpse of Jesus’s personal faith regimen occurs in verse 35: “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” With all that transpires in the preceding 34 verses—Jesus’s baptism, wilderness temptation, declaration that the Good News is near, calling the disciples, and numerous healings and exorcisms—Mark gives the impression that everything happens so swiftly Jesus hardly has a moment to breathe, let alone ponder what He should do next or take time to pray about it. And what follows seems to back this up.

After waking to discover Jesus is gone, Simon Peter and his buddies scout Him out. “Everyone’s looking for You!” they say. Jesus knows who “everyone” is. The night before, after an exhausting day of preaching and healing Peter’s mother-in-law, Jesus is met by townspeople—“the whole town,” Mark says—crowding his door with sick and disturbed people they want Him to cure. Apparently those He wasn’t able to reach have returned. Had He not got up early to pray, He’d have been obliged to help them. Yet starting His day with prayer not only releases Him from being inundated with demands, it gives Jesus directional clarity. He replies, “Let’s go somewhere else—to the nearby villages—so I can preach there also. That is why I have come.” (v38) And this is the first time Mark shows us Jesus taking charge of His ministry. Before this, He avails Himself to opportunities to preach and work miracles. Is it a coincidence that we see Jesus begin His day with prayer and then turn from doing what’s expected so He can obey God's higher purpose? While Mark doesn’t call out the connection, it’s there. Otherwise, why even mention Jesus’s morning prayer? If it didn’t influence His decision and reorient His thoughts on His mission rather than His tasks, why not skip the episode entirely and simply report Jesus and the disciples moved on? “That is why I have come,” Jesus says.

At This Hour, In This Place, With These Gifts

To start the day with prayer is to reorient our thoughts from what’s expected of us to consider why we’ve come to this day. The same sense of consecration, gravity, and duty that brings us to Lent’s desert, sacramental moments, and high holy days should greet us with every sunrise. Just as we’re able to set aside the previous day’s chaos and sequester our thoughts from mundane tasks on these “special” occasions, can we not also discipline ourselves to begin each day spending a few moments alone with God? It’s then we can focus on the purpose God has for us today—to contemplate why we are present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us. Rising to pray before we’re inundated with demands awakens us to holiness. It sets the tone for all that follows, enabling us to obey rather than do, create rather than complete. It provides clarity that guides us to people and places that need us. It reminds us why we’ve come to this day. If Jesus found disciplined, habitual morning prayer necessary, can we possibly question its importance and value?

Morning prayer turns our thoughts to why we’re present at this hour, in this place, with the unique gifts God places in us.

Postscript: “What Shall I Do?”

And when we rise to pray, what do we say? The late Walter Hawkins gave the world a masterpiece that, if spoken, would constitute the perfect prayer to start the day. Here is his wife, Tramaine, singing “What Shall I Do?”

Gleaners

Naomi said to Ruth her daughter-in-law, “It will be good for you, my daughter, to go with the women who work for him, because in someone else’s field you might be harmed. (Ruth 2.22)

This Time It’s Personal

In Leviticus 19, God instructs Moses to assemble the people for a refresher course on its obligations. Most of the Ten Commandments are reinforced nearly intact. But, no doubt, the Jews are surprised to find the original 10 now multiplied by three. Six of the 30 concern the sort of taboos Leviticus is notorious for (sex with slaves, selling daughters into prostitution, eating rare meat, wearing blended fabrics, hair-styling, and occult practices). The remaining edicts are also odd, though for a different reason. They set civic, agricultural, and mercantile policy that applies to a settled community—which Israel plainly is not—by addressing social welfare, treatment of foreigners, farming procedures, and commercial ethics. They anticipate nationhood. Is God jumping the gun here? Not at all.

Purpose for advancing these statutes is two-fold. One, it defines precedents, so Israel will know what God expects when the need arises. Two, it provides time to contemplate principles the new laws uphold—because that’s what God desires most: a principled people committed to justice and compassion. The first law defines the objective: “Be holy, because I, the LORD your God, am holy.” (v2) And the governing idea that filters through the new edicts surfaces in verse 18: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Prior to now, the Ten Commandments served as Israel’s common code—its means of achieving national character. Leviticus 19 represents a groundbreaking shift in perspective. This time it’s personal.

Fringe Benefits

One of the new laws is an ingenious farming proviso that offsets material need afflicting underprivileged and disenfranchised residents. Verses 9 and 10 read:

When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Do not go over your vineyard a second time or pick up the grapes that have fallen. Leave them for the poor and the foreigner. I am the LORD your God.

For all practical purposes, it’s a tax to fund entitlements—two bugaboos currently making the rounds in legislatures and political debates. And before a believer hops on the anti-tax, anti-entitlement bandwagon (ironically fueled by parties that allegedly advocate “Judeo-Christian values”), he/she would be wise to revisit this edict. Entitling the less fortunate to reap the fringe benefits of our largesse is a sacred duty. It’s a non-negotiable, unconditional tenet in keeping with loving our neighbors as ourselves. It’s a personal responsibility that meets God’s standard of holiness. And it’s the precedent for a three-pronged social agenda that flows through the Old Testament, Gospels, and Epistles: provide for widows, care for orphans, and welcome strangers. Beyond the financial aspect, there’s an equally brilliant social dynamic at work. Entitling the poor and foreign-born to glean outer fields and excess harvest places them in close proximity to their benefactors. They are not invisible. Their physical condition is not ignored. Their struggles are not removed from sight. It makes their needs very real.

We see how this works by flashing forward from Leviticus to Ruth. While her story unfolds in four short chapters, Ruth stands as a central figure in Scripture by embodying all three social disadvantages. The Moabite wife of a deceased Jew, she severs ties to her own family and relocates with her mother-in-law, Naomi, in Bethlehem. Ruth is a widow, an orphan, and a stranger. After her husband dies, Naomi urges Ruth to remain in Moab, where she has family support and marital prospects. Yet Ruth—overtly foreshadowing Christ—voluntarily quits the comforts of home, abdicates its advantages, and lowers herself as a stranger in a strange land on her mother-in-law’s behalf.

In Bethlehem, she avails herself to the gleaners’ rights set forth in Leviticus. She locates fields owned by Boaz, her husband’s nearest kin. Without announcing herself as a family insider, her presence among the gleaners still draws his attention. He discovers who she is and instructs his managers to leave more than usual behind so Ruth and Naomi will be sufficiently cared for. He invites Ruth to venture beyond the fringes and join paid workers who gather the harvest. He encourages her to enjoy their privileges and notifies her bosses that no one is to mistreat her. When Ruth returns, her arms overflowing with provision, Naomi asks where she gleaned. Ruth informs Naomi Boaz found her, welcomed her like any worker, and insisted she be treated as their equals. Now, let’s listen very closely to Naomi’s advice, because her words bear uncanny relevance for every believer (or would-be believer) who’s been left alone, orphaned, and/or alienated by faith traditions. “Boaz’s field is where you should work,” she says. “Because in someone else’s field you might be harmed.”

Beyond the Fringe

We all enter the faith as gleaners. Whether loss, abandonment, or alienation drive us to seek Christ’s sustenance, we come humbly, hoping to glean what we need to survive. As widows, orphans, and strangers, we’re entitled to fringe benefits from the harvests of advantaged believers and faith communities. Providing for our welfare is a fundamental principle set forth by The Law and fulfilled by Christ’s sacrificial provision of grace. But our introduction to Christ’s bounty as gleaners is simply that—an introduction. By right of relationship, we accept Christ’s invitation to venture beyond the fringe, joining other laborers in the field proper, where there’s equal provision, opportunity, privileges, and protection. Scripture equips us with written proof that those overseeing Christ’s harvest have been explicitly instructed to accept, respect, and protect us.

But what does Naomi tell us? Not every field is safe. Not every overseer is welcoming. Not every worker is accommodating. And then what does Ruth show us? We locate the right field for us, where we’ll be noticed, welcomed, cared for, called from the fringe to work like any other worker. These fields exist all around us. They can be found. We don’t have to settle for gleaners’ lives, hanging on the outside, subsisting on leftovers. We enter the fringe to be seen and then called beyond it. Fields that honor Christ’s instructions are where we want to be. Hanging around where we're ignored and left to scavenge the fringes gets us nowhere but in harm’s way.

We enter the faith as gleaners on the fringe. Then Christ calls us beyond the fringe, to work as equals in the field. If we’re stuck on the fringe, we’re in the wrong field.

Personal Postscript: Good News and Gratitude

To everyone who's upheld my mom in prayer since we learned she would undergo cancer surgery, I'm thrilled to report the operation was successful, she's resting and recovering, and we're extremely optimistic about her prognosis. I can't adequately express my gratitude for your concern and support. The strength we drew from prayers offered around the world for her is beyond measure. On her behalf, as well as Walt's and mine, we thank God and each of you with all of our hearts.

One of "Them"--Reflecting on Archbishop Romero

Then one of the elders asked me, “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?” I answered, “Sir, you know.” And he said, “These are they who have come out of great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (Revelation 7.13-14)

A Lenten Life

As barbarically wrong as it was, where and when it happened seemed ineffably right. Thirty years ago today, Archbishop Óscar Romero of San Salvador celebrated Mass before a meager congregation shoehorned into a tiny hospital chapel. The hospital’s name was La Divina Providencia—“Divine Providence.” At the conclusion of the Eucharist, Father Romero lifted the chalice—with its wine now mystically transubstantiated into Christ’s blood, according to Roman Catholic theology—offering the doxology commonly known as “The Great Amen.” In that moment, an assassin fired his M-16 assault rifle. Father Romero dropped the chalice as his blood spilled on the altar. The Faithful who’d gathered to worship with this great champion of the poor, sick, and alone had been anticipating this grim tragedy for quite a while. So had millions of the Archbishop’s supporters in Latin America and around the world. He expected it and, as was his way, did all he could to prepare his people for the inevitable. But is anyone ever prepared for a thing like this, this savage desecration of two lives—Christ’s and His servant’s?

Archbishop Romero led what can only be described “a Lenten life.” As a young priest of 26, he noted in his diary, “In recent days the Lord has inspired in me a great desire for holiness… I have been thinking of how far a soul can ascend if it lets itself be possessed entirely by God.” His first steps toward this goal drew him into a wilderness of profound contemplation and self-denial. He never left it. More of what pleased him fell away to accommodate more of what pleased God until he identified wholly “with the church incarnated in this people which stands in need of liberation.” “This people” referred to the Salvadorans. For decades, they battled demoralizing poverty and violence perpetuated by corrupt regimes. After a Jesuit colleague was killed in 1977 for teaching self-reliance to the indigent, the Archbishop concluded, “If they have killed him for what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.” Two years later, the Revolutionary Government Junta, an uneasy, leftist military-civilian alliance, seized power and El Salvador erupted into full-blown civil war. Human rights abuses reached unprecedented levels. On March 23, Archbishop Romero preached a sermon insisting it was each Salvadoran soldier’s Christian duty to defy orders to carry out acts of repression and abuse. The next day, he was gone.

Flashpoint

The killing of Archbishop Romero became a flashpoint for Christians worldwide—a chastening of Divine Providence that reignited passions for mercy and justice in many who’d grown content with going through the motions. His death amplified his own realization: “If they killed him for what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.” This superseded soft-edged willingness to die for Christ and His message. The Archbishop was ready to die. Sacrificing personal comfort to emulate the poor amounted to a whisper in a cataclysm. He committed himself to being—and being seen—where he was needed, as well as speaking truth to power wherever he was heard. And in the process, he re-taught us one of Christ’s core lessons.

The holier we try to live, the filthier we get, because a life of holiness gravitates toward unwholesome, unsanitary people and places. It doesn’t breeze by dens of degradation to offer a hand out or a boost up. It foregoes reputation and regard to get down in the depths with the needy and oppressed. And it identifies with them so completely, it’s ready to accept a fate as brutal and harrowing as any visited on others who live there. In Matthew 9, Jesus attends a dinner hosted by Matthew, a tax collector and thus, a man roundly despised as a traitor who colludes with Rome. Since Matthew’s unwelcome to join the “right crowd,” he runs with the wrong one, many of whom join him and Christ for dinner. It appalls the righteous set to see Jesus fraternize with such lowlifes. But Jesus silences their gasps with this: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9.12-13) Archbishop Romero, like Jesus and many other exemplars of true holiness, demonstrated the ascent to “be entirely possessed by God” requires a descent that identifies with every level of humanity, good and evil, poor and rich, female and male, gay and straight, and so on. Once we learn to discount appearances and conditions, we’ll discover people standing “in need of liberation” at each step.

Washed

Avoiding hurt and hungry people so we can maintain a pristine façade is foolish. Our resolve should be fixed on standing clean and righteous before God. And if we’re courageous enough to weather grime we obtain by offering our lives to the unsightly and unhealthy, we’ll meet our Maker in flawless condition. In The Revelation, John of Patmos is swept into Heaven, where he sees “a great multitude that no one count.” (Revelation 7.9) They sing anthems of praise to God and Christ. An “elder” asks John, “Who are these people in white robes—where did they come from?” When John can’t answer, the elder tells him, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (v14) In other words, they arrived in wretched conditions, soiled and stained by their labors and trials. But they’ve washed their robes in Christ’s blood; they’ve made them white.

The elder continues: “Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (v16-17) Archbishop Romero is one of “them.” Today, we lift this promise in his honor as a doxology—a Great Amen. And we defy his death by cherishing the Christ he exemplified as the Christ we will follow.

The chapel of La Divina Providencia moments after Archbishop Óscar Romero died at the foot of the cross.

Postscript: I Know That My Redeemer Liveth

Sarah Brightman performs Handel’s magnificent aria. “And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”

Day Seven

God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done. (Genesis 2.3)

Exhausted

I recently bumped into an artist friend who complained, “I’m totally exhausted!” Just to needle him, I said, “God, I hope not. How will you work if you’ve got nothing left?” It took a moment to sink in and then he rallied. “Trust me, there’s plenty left. I’m just tired and need to take a break.” Not be outdone by my jab at his grammar, he added, “You look like you could use a break yourself!” With Lent winding down, I started thinking about this tired-exhausted-need-a-break business.

This year’s journey is my richest yet. Having traveled beside many of you, I suspect you feel the same. But I must confess at this stage, I’m not only tired. I’m exhausted. My reserves are depleted. I’m now wholly reliant on the One Who calls us to the desert—which is Lent’s overall purpose, and I get that. Yet cognitive recognition is no anecdote for decreased attention span and mental fatigue. Yesterday, without conscious thought, I told God, “I’ve got nothing left to get through next week, let alone Holy Week’s emotional rollercoaster ride.” I let go a big sigh, and before I could embellish, in the recesses of my being I heard Him say, “So tomorrow you’ll rest. Even I rest on occasion. You think you shouldn’t?” (For reasons I can’t fathom, God often replies to my whines in the voice of a Yiddish watchmaker.)

For the Moment

When the Creation narrative reaches Genesis 2.3—“God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done”—we’re prone to think, “Hence the Sabbath,” and scoot on. Few of us consider the implications of what we’ve just read. God spends six “days” speaking the universe into existence, summoning plants and animals to life, and fashioning His surrogate creature by hand. He gets everything up and running—stars and planets in orbit, rivers flowing, grass growing, etc.—and instead of becoming preoccupied with His creation, or monitoring its early progress, He takes Day Seven off. He lets everything go so He can rest. What’s most peculiar here is God’s making this, Creation’s least notable day, a holy one. It’s the first in an endless series of classic reversals, when what God does is stridently counterintuitive to what seems logical to us.

After we wrestle with that for a bit, we still need to solve the paradox of God’s exhaustion. Six days of tireless, infinitely detailed and diverse creativity refutes any suggestion He’s out of ideas and energy. Yet He stops. He’s exhausted, though not in the sense of being completely emptied of imagination and power. For the moment, His work is finished, His world perfect. There’s nothing left to be done, no need to continue just to prove He can. What’s more, He knows this perfection won’t last. The Tempter lurks in the Garden, waiting to captivate the Human’s idle thoughts, after which the struggle to prevent both from undoing God's work will commence. Because the world is perfect, because it’s complete, because there’s nothing He needs to do for the moment, God takes His rest. Day Seven is His finest day, and that makes it holy.

Keep It Holy

Excess or neglect—usually a combination of the two—makes us tired. This holds true on every level: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Moderation and mindfulness remedy tiredness. We pull back on some things so we can attend to others. Exhaustion is different. It comes from a different place and requires different treatment. When we’re exhausted, it’s because we’ve done all we can for the moment. The empty fatigue signals it’s time to let go and rest. Our world may not be perfect and our work may be incomplete, but knowing there’s nothing more we can do for now tells us now is the perfect time to do nothing. There’s no gain in sacrificing rest to admire our work or keep close tabs on people who can manage without us. Besides, trying to plow through our exhaustion now renders us useless later. It’s time to rest.

Rest doesn’t come easily to us, though it should. From what we see in Genesis, it comes easily to God. His work reaches a stopping point and He rests. Our resistance to rest derives from insecurities, fears, and other feelings that are alien to Him. We deal with pride; we’re too essential to care for ourselves. At the spectrum’s other end, we constantly need to be needed to maintain our sense of worth. We worry how we’ll be regarded if we withdraw for a respite. We fear living with guilt if something we might have prevented occurs in our absence. And on and on we go, whining with doubt and impatience, falling shorter by the day, failing others and us by trying to give what we no longer have. It’s time to rest.

Judaism teaches rest is worship, reserving the seventh day of each week as a holy day of obedience to the Fourth Commandment: “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.” (Exodus 20.8) Early Christians adopted the first day of the week as the “new Sabbath,” which combined commemoration of Christ’s resurrection with the Jewish day of rest. The “rest” component of Sunday worship hasn’t stuck; since we’re no longer under the Law, I’m not persuaded it should. Nonetheless, we should honor the principle of rest as worship by calling Day Seven any time we’re exhausted. Our Sabbath may last an hour, a day, a week, or year. Regardless of duration, we set time aside time to rest and keep it holy. We let worries and fears go until we’re replenished and ready to resume work. In Mark 2.27, Jesus says, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” God made Day Seven a holy day of rest to remind us we need to rest.

When we’ve exhausted our capabilities, it’s time to rest. (Van Gogh: Noon: Rest from Work (after Millet); c. 1890)

Postscript: Sabbath Song

A restful jazz meditation on the Sabbath by Neville Peter.

The Beauty of Holiness

Give unto the LORD the glory due unto his name; worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness. (Psalm 29.2; KJV)

What Does It Mean?

Merely mentioning holiness causes some to flinch. They associate it with specific actions and attitudes that, to be candid, don’t always serve up a lot of appeal. “Holy” people may earn our admiration (if their pursuit comes from a pure heart), but they’re seldom much fun. While that sounds shallow, it’s nonetheless true. Believers who devote their lives to holiness tend to be extremely serious, focused types. The joy they find in living apart from mainstream conventions is a unique strain of fulfillment predicated by the absence of common pleasures. When we envision holy people, our minds flash on monks, nuns, ascetics and adherents to sects with rigid behavioral codes. But holiness is neither a measure of spirituality nor a human virtue. It’s a divine trait. If we keep that in mind, it turns out to be much less intimidating and off-putting.

So what does “holiness” mean? Basically, it’s what God is: pure, loving, just, and forgiving. Yes, but what does that mean in “people” terms? When we remember we’ve been created in His image, our holiness is determined by how well we mirror His holiness. Put simply, holiness is achieved by revealing His presence in us, not by calling attention to ourselves. And the crux of the matter rests in whom we’re being holy for. In Leviticus 20.26, God settles this question once and for all. “You are to be holy to me because I, the LORD, am holy,” He says, adding He draws away “to be my own.” We purpose to lead pure, loving, just, and forgiving lives in honor of Him. Holiness aimed at any other objective—impressing people, religious compliance, eternal bliss, or escaping wrath—isn’t holy. It’s conformity to a manmade image and standard. Paul reinforces the idea that holiness is our reflection of God, specifically defining it as an act of worship: “Let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God.” (2 Corinthians 7.1)

Degrees of Brightness

God alone is perfectly holy. And there’s a good reason why He has exclusive claim on this, while the best we can do is strive to perfect holiness. God has always been holy. We, on the other hand, have not. By the time we answer His call to holiness, we’ve already adopted impure habits and attitudes we continue to battle after we decide to lead holy lives. This is what Paul is getting at with his confession in Romans 7.15: “For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” Holiness is inherent to God’s nature. In contrast, it’s learned behavior for us. It’s tough, because much of the time we just don’t have it in us to be holy.

Before we throw in the towel, though, let’s think this through. Since only God is truly holy, He is the sole source of holiness. Therefore, holiness we find in others—or others see in us—is something of an optical illusion, a reflection of Him and nothing more. Knowing this takes a great deal of pressure off our pursuit of holiness by removing it from the realm of do’s and don’ts and redefining it as a state of being. There’s no such thing as holier-than-thou, as none of us is holy to begin with. What we perceive as inequities in holiness are really degrees of brightness. One person has worked harder than another at removing passions and proclivities that dim or distort the godly image he/she projects. What did Jesus teach? “Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” The purer we are, the brighter God’s holy light shines, and the brighter it shines, the more praise He receives. We let our lights shine. When that happens, everything we do is an act of worship, and our worship evolves into a truly beautiful thing.

An Unholy Mess

Our world is in an unholy mess. Attempts to solve problems only create more problems. Virtually every difference of opinion constitutes a holy war, with both sides clamoring to claim moral and spiritual superiority. The idea of a Christian “right” and “left” is preposterous, because it comes about when one group presumes its position is holier and more pleasing to God than the other’s views. But God is most assuredly not pleased, and we can safely assume there’s no holiness in these disputes since there’s no light to be found. God gets no glory when we resign our responsibility to reflect Him in order to malign each other. There’s no beauty in our actions. And worship has gone out the window.

“Give unto the LORD the glory due unto his name; worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness,” we’re instructed in Psalm 29.2. The beauty of holiness emerges when we forego our personal agendas and ambitions to let our lights shine. That’s when people see what we do and give God the glory He’s due. In this season of fasting, prayer, and contemplation, we should search our hearts for flaws and hang-ups that hinder us from mirroring God’s holiness. Our thoughts should turn toward perfecting holiness—not to prove how righteous and just we are, but to radiate His purity, love, justice, and forgiveness.

The beauty of holiness happens when we strive to reflect God’s light as purely as possible.

(Tomorrow: Taking Hold of Hope)

Postscript: Shine

Grant’s suggestion of Steve Bell’s “You Are To Be Holy” as a Lent music selection was a major influence on this post. Unfortunately, no video of the song—which I strongly recommend—is available. I plan to include another Bell video in a future post. But I believe I’ve found a suitable, if quite different, substitute, Collective Soul’s “Shine.” The lyrics could not be more apropos.

SHINE

Give me a word, give me a sign

Show me where to go. Tell me what will I find?

Lay me on the ground and fly me in the sky

Show me where to go. Tell me what will I find?

Oh, Heaven let your light shine down

Love is in the water, love is in the air

Show me where to go. Tell me will love be there?

Teach me how to speak, teach me how to share

Teach me where to go. Tell me will love be there?

Oh, Heaven let your light shine down

I'm gonna let it shine, I'm gonna let it shine

Heaven, let your light shine on me

Oh yeah

Heaven, let your light shine on me

Clean and New

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. (Psalm 51.10)

Physiology

The ancients examined character in a vividly literal fashion, regarding its functions as physiology, not psychology. They divided personality into three segments: mind, heart, and spirit, with the soul standing apart as a divine component—the actual presence of God within, the “being.” Not surprisingly, their breakdown mirrors Freud’s superego-ego-id triad. The mind was the arbitrator, the heart housed conscious thoughts and motives, and the spirit held instincts and emotions. The three functioned symbiotically; dysfunction in one contaminated the other two. Much like we monitor our weight, cholesterol, blood pressure, and similar indicators of physical health, they kept close tabs on what was going on in their minds, hearts, and spirits. Their diligence superseded balancing the three. Purity on all counts was essential. And just as we watch caloric intake and diet to remain healthy, the ancients stressed avoiding influences and behaviors that clouded their judgment, thinking, and impulses.

With the mind controlling everything from the wings, the heart and spirit took center stage. Their relationship was somewhat tricky for their owners, because they fed off each other. The heart was the easier of the two to manage. A person knew what thoughts it entertained and motives it concealed. If the heart was the least bit impure, it immediately weakened the spirit. That set off a down spiral, with the spirit submitting to increasingly rotten instincts, which polluted the heart’s pondering mechanism. Left unchecked, the entire system broke down. The heart would blacken and atrophy, while the spirit darkened and grew brittle. At this point, resistance was futile and natural resilience was no longer possible. The mind set out in search of a clean heart to replace the corrupted one. Without that, the spirit’s strength couldn’t be restored.

Many Hearts

David went through many hearts in his lifetime. One imagines a military and political leader of his stature would have tremendous willpower, but he clearly did not. This is because David was a man driven by passions. He indulged his spirit’s baser instincts with little caution about their impact on his heart. Consequently, he routinely suffered from what we might call mighty-are-fallen syndrome. (We see a lot of this condition today.) When David’s mind, heart, and spirit were aligned with godly principles, no one was greater than he. The downside to his triumphs, however, came in the form of recklessness. He stopped protecting his heart and let his spirit take over. Time and again, his passions overcame him, filling his heart with filthy thoughts and motives. In the worst cases, they infected him with deadly hubris, convincing him he was above the law.

Psalm 51 is composed after the most devastating episode of David's life. Sexual compulsiveness has inflamed him with desire for another man’s wife. Having her is all he thinks about, and refusal to bridle this obsession opens his heart to foul ideas. He contrives a way to have the woman’s husband killed so he can marry her. His motives are transparent to everyone, including him, but he carries out his plan anyway. Not long after the wedding comes happy news of his wife’s pregnancy. Then comes the bad news. The prophet Nathan charges David with coveting another man’s wife, a capital crime. Instead of putting him to death, however, Nathan tells David God has ordained a more extreme punishment. His son and heir will live long enough to grow attached to him, after which God will take the baby’s life in retribution for David’s sin. The severity of God’s sentence opens David’s eyes to his heart’s blackness and his spirit’s unruliness. As he’s done before, he pleads for mercy and healing. He prays, “Create in me a pure heart, O God and renew a steadfast spirit within me.” (v10) David can’t undo the past. But he can correct his future if he starts over, clean and new.

Forced into Crucibles

It’s been my experience we’re forced into crucibles we could otherwise escape by attending to our hearts and spirits. This is certainly David’s case. Had he regularly examined his thoughts and motives—and disciplined his impulses and emotions—he’d have been spared the anguish of confronting his failure. His deviousness in removing his nemesis from the picture proves he knew what he was doing. It’s impossible to conceive his mind didn’t send up flares, telling him his plan would end in reckoning. It’s very unlikely his mind didn’t urge him to purge his unseemly ideas and motives from the moment they entered his heart. Yet his spirit’s emotions and drives got the best of him, pushing David to dismiss his action’s inevitable consequences from his mind. If only he’d found it in himself to create a crucible of his own—to self-test for impurities that defiled his heart and hijacked his emotions. Had he managed that, his heart and spirit could have remained intact.

Lent can be experienced as many things: a season of consecration and recommitment, exploration and reflection, self-denial and self-discovery, obedience and humility, temptation and triumph, sacrifice and resurrection. And it should be viewed as all these things. Yet wound into every one is its value as a self-imposed crucible. We place our character on God’s refining fire, first looking for impurities that trouble our minds, pollute our hearts, and weaken our spirits. Then we ask Him to burn off the dross before our motives and emotions become unsalvageable. There are two ways to keep our hearts clean and our spirits new: bring them to the crucible for preventative care or ignore them until we’re forced into it. Lent is Plan A, an overhaul by choice. Plan B isn’t viable.

The crucible: we can enter it by choice or wait until we’re forced into it.

(Tomorrow: Sunscreen)

Postscript: If You Care Anything at All...

Rev. Fred Anderson, one of Straight-Friendly's first friends and supporters, posted this video on his new blog, neoorthodoxology. It's a talk by Dr. Mark Achtemeier, a "self-affirming, practicing evangelical" who teaches systematic theology at Dubuque Theological Seminary. Aptly titled "And Grace Will Lead Me Home: Inclusion and Evangelical Conscience," it describes Dr. Achtemeier's personal journey toward favoring the full inclusion of GLBT Christians in church worship, sacraments, and leadership.

His story is rich and edifying, both for its witness and its scriptural incisiveness. The video is lengthy (48 minutes), but if you care anything at all about this matter, please make time to watch it--in chunks, if need be. And for anyone in search of deeper theological insight into why this issue is a God-given imperative, this will be a fount of understanding.

Dr. Achtemeier defines the rising tide of Christian inclusion "the great move of God's Spirit." As you listen to him, I have every confidence you will feel God's Spirit at work in his words.

PS: I heartily recommend swinging by Rev. Fred's new blog. It's a refreshing, thoughtful take on vitally important, contemporary faith issues.