Let God Grow

You shall make for yourselves no idols and erect no carved images or pillars, and you shall not place figured stones in your land, to worship at them; for I am the LORD your God. (Leviticus 26.1)

Changing God

Listening to his podcast about Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8, I was bowled over when Shane Hipps, of Mars Hill Bible Church, offered this passing observation:

In the Bible itself, we have the story of a God Who begins with a narrower covenant and then constantly helps [us] widen and expand and evolve and unfold that covenant until it’s bigger and wider and wider and wider, and includes more and more and more people.

The message’s central theme, of course, is inclusion. Citing manifold laws and precedents that God overturns when sending Philip to the Ethiopian, Pastor Hipps makes an airtight case that radical inclusion is God’s will. This isn’t a new idea at Straight-Friendly; from the first post, it’s been the blog’s driving belief. What seized my attention was the premise that God’s story portrays a Creator perpetually revising the covenant with humanity, widening its reach so no one is excluded, a God Who keeps getting bigger and more open-minded, and One Who implicitly expects us to keep pace. While mulling this over, I recalled a similar thought my own pastor expressed recently. Our relationship with God is two-way, she said, “mutual and reciprocated and a joint venture.” In this context, she described a dynamic that “might be a little out-there for some of us to consider”: as we are changed, we are also changing God.

For many, belief in a persistently changing God constitutes heresy. The very idea is too terrifying to contemplate. And we have to ask why that frightens so many of us. Why must God be locked in position—frozen in time—so that every decision and move God makes in Scripture is regarded as final and irreversible? It seems our need for a changeless God is born of desire for God to live the way we live: routinely, predictably, safely. Yet saddling God with the past ultimately limits divine abilities we hope in and rely on—power to create and recreate, to renew and act anew, to interrupt inevitabilities and rewrite our stories, to respond fearlessly to our concerns. As we are changed, we are also changing God. As we obtain wholeness, our understanding and expectations of God expand. It’s a joint venture that won’t succeed if we don’t keep pace with God, or permit God to keep pace with us. We simply cannot grow if we don’t let God grow.

A Rebellious God

Suppose we take a fresh look at the terms of God’s covenant, initially laid out in the Ten Commandments. The first three clauses define how we should regard God: “place no gods before Me” (Exodus 20.3); “make no idols” (v4-6); “do not misuse My name” (v7). We conflate these edicts to mean, “I alone am God, and no other god is worthy of worship.” While that’s the gist of it, it’s not the whole. If it were, the first law would suffice. The interdictions against idolatry and misuse of God’s name are called out to reinforce our awareness that we can’t approach God like other gods because God is fundamentally not like them. The ban on images is meant to prevent God from becoming an idol—a static being whose traits and abilities are carved in stone. The misuse of God’s name is restricted to avoid limiting God to certain roles, realms, and responsibilities. God is the God of all, a living, evolving Entity that refuses to serve our purposes, but instead invites us to serve God’s purpose.

The covenant’s revolutionary nature is so staggering it baffles the Israelites. Even as God is dictating its terms on Mt. Sinai, they’re molding a fixed idea of God at the foot of the hill. It’s impossible for us to conceive their befuddlement when God breaks the mold. God won’t sit still long enough to be sculpted, propped on an altar, hung on a wall, or enshrined in a temple. This is a rebellious God Who ultimately refuses to be nailed down with such ferocity that Death itself comes off its hinges. The idea of a fluid, growing God intent on changing us, and changing with us, is so foreign to Israel that, like us, it keeps trying to bring God into conformity with what it imagines a god should be. That’s why God repeats the anti-idolatry edict again and again. In Leviticus, the worship manual for God’s people, we read, “You shall make for yourselves no idols and erect no carved images or pillars, and you shall not place figured stones in your land, to worship at them; for I am the LORD your God.” (26.1) It’s not only about Baal and other pagan deities. It’s about God, too. “Don’t carve Me in stone,” God says. “I am the LORD your God.”

The Sameness Burden

So what are we saying? Is it possible that belief in a changeless God can lapse into idolatry? Absolutely—if it inhibits God’s growth and movement in our lives. Who God is doesn’t change. But how God works, what God thinks, and the way God moves are constantly in flux. We see this spelled out in Lamentations 3.22-23. “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, God’s mercies never come to an end,” it says. Now watch this, “They are new every morning.” God’s love doesn’t change. How God loves us, however, is new every day, because we’re new every day. The writer ties a bow on the idea of a steadfast God Who is full of surprises by declaring, “Great is Your faithfulness.” Faithfulness—constancy, engagement, and presence—is the marker of a growing Creator, Who’s worshiped and trusted. Sameness—predictability, rigidity, and intimidation—is symptomatic of a stunted God, Who’s idolized and feared. God-with-Us grows alongside us, keeping pace with us and expecting us to keep pace with God; God-with-or-without-Us does not. Every morning brings the new mercy of letting God grow, as well as a fresh opportunity to grow with God.

We’re one week from the start of a new Lenten journey that leads us into a desert of discovery, where we seek new insight and experience with this God Who won’t sit still. Millions of believers will travel with us—some of them open to surprises and new mercies sprinkled across 40 mornings, others trudging along, doing the same old thing and looking for the same old God. The latter group views the desert as a place without beauty, where little besides monotony and routine flourish. But if we enter this season determined to let God grow, new life will spring up at every turn, as God gets bigger and God’s covenant expands and God’s presence becomes more vividly known in our lives. In Isaiah 43.18-19 God tells us, “Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” As we prepare to enter Lent’s wilderness, let’s relieve God of the sameness burden—the former things, the same-old same-old. Let’s heighten our awareness of new things springing forth. Let’s ready our hearts and minds to let God grow.

O God, we confess to burdening You with sameness that stymies Your growth in our lives and the world around us. We’ve placed our need for predictability, routine, and safety above Your desire to grow. Teach us to prize Your faithfulness. Enable us to see newness with each morning. Give us courage to let You grow at will, to welcome changes in You as we are changed. Amen.

We simply cannot grow if we don’t allow God to grow.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/15/let-god-grow/

Choose to Touch

A leper came to Him begging Him, and kneeling he said to Him, “If You choose, You can make me clean.” Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out His hand and touched him, and said to him, “I do choose.” (Mark 1.40-41)

A Very Big Deal

Some time back, while putting away laundry, my partner Walt called, “Honey, come look at this.” He pointed to a nasty stain that filled a corner in our linen closet and crept across the ceiling. “Mold,” I gasped. Walt asked, “How can that be?” And that really was the question, as the spot, in our apartment’s driest corner, was the least likely place for mold to sprout. We started running scenarios that might account for a sudden outbreak of fungal growth. Where had we gone wrong, we wondered. What had—or hadn’t—we done? How could we clean it up and prevent it from returning? What if it we couldn’t stop it? It was no big deal. Yet it was a very big deal, because mold is unsightly. It signals uncleanliness. Soon we were scrubbing down the closet as if prepping it for delicate surgery. (We never solved the mystery of the mold’s origins.)

How embarrassing for a guest to spot the mold before we did! Yet, as terrible as that prospect seemed, it was nothing compared to what we’d face in ancient times. Hebrew Law considered mold and mildew in one’s home or clothing as types of leprosy—evidence of sickness that might infect the community. Anyone who saw our mold would have been religiously obligated to report us as “unclean.” Until we were ritually cleansed and our house put right, we’d be labeled lepers. And there are other telltale physical symptoms unrelated to mold and mildew that presented the same fate. If winter air chapped our lips or sunburn caused our skin to flake, we’d be lepers. If we had psoriasis, eczema, or any kind of rash, we’d be lepers. If inflamed nerves surfaced as hives or shingles, we’d be lepers.

Leprosy in Scripture isn’t just the ailment now known as Hansen’s disease—a neurologic malady that dries up one’s flesh and often scars limbs. It’s a catchall for many conditions (some infectious, some not) that alarm primitive people. Lepers may be called unclean. But they’re viewed as unsafe. You don’t hang around them, touch them, eat with them, speak to them—you don’t get close enough to breathe their air. Thus, when we open Sunday’s texts to find Elisha helping Naaman, a pagan military leader afflicted with leprosy, and Jesus cleansing a leper, we note these encounters are a big deal, a very big deal.

“If You Choose”

To be fair, Elisha treats Naaman with extreme caution. The commander’s king refers him to Elisha, who’s said to have power to cleanse lepers, and his arrival in Israel creates a lot of anxiety for its monarch. First, he’s not happy about a highly esteemed foreign leper traipsing the countryside, where he’s sure to be shunned by common folks—for good reason. But more than that, Israel’s king worries that failure to remedy Naaman’s condition will stir up trouble with the referring king. Once Elisha catches wind of the problem, he assures his king there’s no need to worry. “Send him to me,” he says. But when Naaman lands at Elisha’s door, the prophet doesn’t risk his health to greet him personally. He forwards a most unusual—and simple—protocol via his servant. He directs Naaman to wash in the Jordan seven times and his skin will clear up. The rude reception and silly advice initially outrage Naaman, whose servants rush to point out if the prophet had asked him to do something difficult, he would have complied. So Naaman does as told and, as promised, the seventh bath restores his flesh “like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.” (2 Kings 5.14)

In contrast, Jesus responds to a leper’s plea for help with flagrant compassion bordering on recklessness. The leper kneels before Him and says, “If You choose, You can make me clean.” (Mark 1.40) The text goes on: “Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out His hand and touched him and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’” Jesus touches the man. Jesus chooses to touch him. Jesus cleanses him. Straightaway, He sends the man to a priest to verify his leprosy has been cleansed, warning him not to tell anyone what happened. But the man can’t keep his secret. “He went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to Him from every quarter,” verse 45 reports.

Lepers and Prophets

The two accounts are just similar enough to reveal striking differences. Both Elisha and Jesus possess curative powers and confidently respond to the lepers in unconventional ways. Yet Elisha’s curious decision to treat Naaman at arm’s length also reveals self-concern we don’t find in Jesus. Elisha obeys the Law prohibiting contact with lepers and thus protects his health. Meanwhile, Jesus defies the Law—as well as social taboos and nature itself—by touching the leper. In doing so he debunks the myth that lepers are unsafe, untouchable. The man’s cleansing will not only clear his complexion; it will restore his acceptance into community. After being pushed aside for reasons he can’t control, he will once again belong. And his belonging is more important to Jesus than any criticism or exposure to infection that may result from choosing to touch the man. Mark suggests Jesus’s warning not to divulge how he’s cleansed is a precautionary measure to ensure He can move freely without being inundated with requests for healing. Yet the man’s excitement and gratitude demonstrate what happens when those isolated by affliction and prejudice are restored. Their witness inspires others to find Christ.

So where are we in these stories? Well, basically, we’re everywhere. We’re lepers and we’re prophets. On one hand, we’re afflicted with infectiously toxic ideas and habits that cause us to dry up, marring our appearance and vexing us with discomfort. We’re beset by moldy attitudes that permeate our lives. And we can respond to our situations like Naaman, whose pride almost stops him from humbling himself in obedience to the prophet. Or we can emulate the leper who boldly kneels at Christ’s feet and prays, “If You choose, You can make me clean.” As prophets, we’re also endowed with gifts to restore others who’ve been unjustly denied because of superstitions, ignorance, and fear. In relationship to them, we can be like Elisha, and treat so-called pariahs at arm’s length, telling them what to do without actively engaging in their restoration. Or we can follow Christ’s example by defying taboos and fears with a cleansing touch.

Leprosy comes in many forms. It grows in closets. It seeps into the fabric of life. It discolors skin and disfigures limbs. It infects surroundings and cripples many. Yet it need not destroy us. There is cleansing in Christ’s touch—the defiant power to rejuvenate and replenish our sense of belonging. And once restored, the cleansing power we receive is ours to share with those suffering similar conditions. It’s a secret we can’t keep. It inspires us to move toward them. It changes how we view people who’ve been religiously and socially labeled “unclean.” It humbles us so we no longer distance ourselves from victims of isolation and prejudice. It’s a secret that empowers us to reach for them—to say, “I do choose to touch you. Be made clean!”

Gentle Savior, revitalize our sense of Your cleansing touch. Restore our awareness of the power that You display when we choose to touch others who suffer from isolation and prejudice. Rid us of fear and reluctance so that Your story may continue to be told through us. Amen.

We are all lepers cleansed by Christ’s touch. And we are all prophets who know the power of choosing to touch others plagued by taboos and prejudices.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/12/choose-to-touch/.

Out with Purpose

When they found Him, they said to Him, “Everyone is searching for You.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” (Mark 1.37-38)

Celebrity

Some of us can remember when celebrity automatically inferred achievement. Celebrated people accomplished something worth celebrating and we regarded those who enjoyed fame without earning it as anomalies. They served no real purpose, and as a rule—which holds true even now—they tended to overstay their welcome. Lacking a substantial legacy, they were forgot before they were gone. With media now tasked to feed our bizarre, postmodern obsession with non-notables, anyone who surrenders personal privacy and pride to a camera crew can be famous. We’ve created a new brand of fame that severs the vital link between celebrity and celebration.

This is of little consequence going forward. Whether we’re onboard or not, the famous-for-being-famous ship has sailed. Yet its costs are felt in reduced appreciation for celebrated figures of the past. Prior to now, people set out with purpose and became celebrated in the process. If anything, fame was a burden, not a prize, and it challenged those it favored to harness its power for greater good. As we see in Sunday’s Gospel, Mark 1.29-39, celebrity increased one’s responsibility to wear it lightly and use it wisely.

Fame-Faithfulness

The Gospels operate on the pre-modern supposition that Jesus’s fame indicates substance of character—so much so that they don’t even bother with explaining how the provincial carpenter’s Son comes to grips with His destiny. Luke alone gives us a glimpse of Jesus as a boy, suggesting He may have known as early as 12 that He’d been born to save the world. Other than that, however, the Gospels’ unfortunate disinterest in the “lost years” from 12 to 30 encourages us to imagine He’s an overnight sensation—an assumption the writers would no doubt find laughable. Ancient life isn’t conducive to sudden fame. Word doesn’t spread quickly enough to support publicity campaigns or faddish followings. Daily existence is too arduous and time-consuming to chase after up-and-coming stars. In first-century Palestine, one achieves celebrity by embracing a heightened sense of purpose and applying oneself to realize it. In other words, purpose breeds performance. Or, as the proverb goes, “the proof is in the pudding.” Any time the Gospels mention Jesus’s fame, they expect us to connect it with His life’s purpose and His ability to act on it.

The fame-faithfulness connection is particularly crucial to Mark, which presents Jesus as a Prophet of unimpeachable integrity Whom God endows with divinity at His baptism. This is why Mark isn’t concerned with Jesus’s birth and youth; in Mark's eyes, the real story begins when Jesus is “adopted” as God’s Son at 30. Thus, once he records Jesus’s baptism, Mark rushes to demonstrate He’s a prophet unlike any other—as seen in last Sunday’s Gospel, where Jesus’s teaching and cure of a possessed man astonish synagogue worshipers—while this weekend’s Gospel enlarges on the fame theme. In essence, Mark cites Jesus’s celebrity as de facto verification of His divine claim. Jesus’s purpose breeds performance that, in turn, puts proof in the pudding.

The Message is the Miracle

As Mark tells it, no sooner does Jesus leave the synagogue than He learns that Simon Peter’s mother-in-law has taken ill. He heals her and word of the miracle spreads so rapidly that the entire town crowds around Simon’s door by sundown, bringing its sick and disturbed to Jesus. He spends the evening curing many of various physical and emotional diseases. The next morning, before sunrise, Jesus finds a solitary place to pray. When the disciples discover He’s missing, they hunt Him down and tell Him, “Everybody’s looking for You.” Apparently time didn’t permit Him to heal everyone and many have returned. Our stereotype of the infinitely caring Christ hits a snag with Jesus’s reply, however. Instead of agreeing to meet those He didn’t heal the previous night, Jesus tells the disciples it’s time to move on. “Let’s go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also,” He says. “For that is what I came out to do.” (Mark 1.38) For Jesus, the message matters more than the miracles.

Reaching people with the Good News of God’s love is His life’s purpose. The miracles merely make Him famous; in what must be record time, He’s celebrated for His ability to perform supernatural acts. But being a famous miracle worker is only useful to Jesus inasmuch as it expands His reach. It opens doors for Him. Verse 39 informs us, “He went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.” Today, we might say reports of miracles cause the Jesus phenomenon to go viral. Yet celebrity and recognition that come from such rampant attention are only a means to deliver life-changing truth to multitudes. Because Jesus’s words overflow with healing and freedom, the message is the real miracle. No one who hears and believes it is ever the same.

By All Means

Central to following Christ is our faith that God creates each of us as unique reflections of the divine nature, to fulfill specific purposes. The traits, passions, and vision we possess have been placed in us to work miracles. While our capacity for good works admittedly falls short of Jesus’s scope and standards, we are all famous for amazing talents and abilities. Some of us are known as peacemakers. Some have gifts of wisdom and kindness. Some are driven by selfless compassion for those without light and hope, others by courageous desires to restore righteousness where injustice prevails. The list of attributes we're given goes on and on. But once we accept the uniqueness of our making and its purpose, we can make miracles happen wherever we go. We don’t really care about fame or celebrity. Instead, we recognize that the reputation God blesses us to acquire opens new doors to deliver Christ’s life-changing, utterly miraculous message of unconditional love.

“This is what I came out to do,” Jesus says. Coming out with purpose is what we do as His followers. It really doesn’t matter how we’re perceived. In 1 Corinthians 9, Paul essentially describes his approach to fulfilling God’s purpose as a chameleon-like endeavor. “While I’m free to act and think on my own,” he writes, “I place myself in service to others so that I might reach them. To Jews, I am a Jew. To those who don’t abide by the Law, I have no use for it. To the weak I become weak.” He sums this up in verses 22 and 23: “I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.”

We’ve been given everything we need to live lives of purpose. What’s asked of us is setting aside short-term gratification and questions of adequacy so that we can apply and master our gifts for greater good. Proclaiming Good News and working miracles can be exhausting and challenging. Yet we do it, because that’s what we do—not for fame, but for the sake of the Gospel, which advances on works we’re known for. So what makes you famous in your world? What talents and proclivities are at your disposal to further Christ’s message? Whatever you’ve been given to fulfill God’s purpose, by all means, use it. Be who God created you to be and when necessary become what others need you to be so that you can pass along the life-changing Word and share in its blessings.

All Wise and Loving Creator, envelop us with a heightened sense of purpose. Embolden us with self-honesty to celebrate our unique traits and talents. And empower us with the will and wisdom to use our miracle-making gifts for Your kingdom’s benefit. Amen.

God endows each of us with gifts that make us famous in our worlds. But fame is merely a medium, not a reward, for realizing God’s purpose in our lives.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/05/out-with-purpose/

Authority and Accountability

They were all amazed, and kept on asking one another, “What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him.” (Mark 1.27)

Shameful—or Shameless?

Hull House, Chicago’s legendary haven of social progress, closed its doors on Friday. Rumors that financial duress might shut down the landmark, co-founded in 1889 by Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr, have been floating for a while. Those who cared about its survival waited for a big push to keep it alive. None came. Instead, Hull House just ceased to be. No one could explain how it could suffer such an ignoble fate. Who dropped the ball? Less than a mile away, the same question arose in our city morgue, backlogged with indigent corpses denied burial because of flagrant mismanagement. While Chicagoans grappled with these abominable situations, two states over—at the University of Michigan—President Obama cited poor administration as the chief reason why spiraling education costs now generate more personal debt than credit cards. The rudeness of these realities struck very real nerves in a society already scraped raw by the widening gap between haves and have-nots. We’re hard-pressed to hold someone accountable for these and other misdeeds, even though identifying villains at this late date won’t undo the harms afflicting us.

The ruder reality we won’t face is this: accountability rests with us. Our neglect permitted these problems to reach crisis level. Contentment to authorize self-serving and incompetent officials is what got us here. And we’re so far beyond fixing the system it’s time we own up to the rudest reality of all. If we don’t change our laissez-faire attitude about the least among us, sorely needed change for the benefit of all is a lifeless dream. Systemic failures on every front attest to the shameful—or is it shameless?—apathy of everyone in the system. None of us is without blame. And Sunday’s readings (Deuteronomy 18.15-20; Psalm 111, 1 Corinthians 8.1-13, and Mark 1.21-28) come along just in time to re-teach us what accountability means and how authority works.

The Delicate Balance

Stepping through the texts, we see sharp indicators of malaise—all of them wanting for greater care and courage. In Deuteronomy 18, Moses prepares Israel to move forward in his absence, telling them to anticipate a new prophet whose authority will be evidenced by his credibility. Moses quotes God directly in verses 19 and 20, warning, “Anyone who does not heed the words that the prophet shall speak in My name, I Myself will hold accountable. But any prophet who speaks in the name of other gods, or who presumes to speak in My name a word that I have not commanded the prophet to speak—that prophet shall die.” Psalm 111 goes one step further, tying credibility to performance: “The works of God’s hands are faithful and just; all God’s precepts are trustworthy.” (v7) But the psalmist also shifts the focus back to us. In verse 10, we read, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom; all those who practice it have a good understanding.” Knowing what’s right requires us to do what’s right in a specific way. Proof we heed Christ’s teachings is found in thoughtful care we take to live out Christ’s principles.

This idea reemerges in 1 Corinthians 8, where Paul invokes the doctrine of uniform priesthood, which authorizes every believer to speak God’s Word and vests us with responsibility to demonstrate God’s precepts in action. Addressing an Early Church controversy about diet (explored in an earlier post, Watch What You Eat), Paul calls us to balance Christian authority to overturn Mosaic Law with accountability for how we exercise our freedom. If rightful taking of faith’s liberty causes others to doubt, Paul says we’re doing it wrong. It’s not about what God’s grace allows us to do, but the grace we exemplify in doing it. Relief in knowing Christ freed us from arcane Old Testament edicts doesn’t relieve our duty to act responsibly for the sake of those who’ve not accepted freedoms we enjoy. The delicate balance between authority and accountability becomes the focal point in Sunday’s Gospel, where Jesus models how both are handled.

In the Raw

The curtain rises on Capernaum, a progressive community that welcomes Jesus. It’s the Sabbath. He enters the synagogue and Mark 1.22 says the people are “astounded at His teaching, for He taught them as One having authority, and not as the scribes.” Jesus’s unorthodox approach sidesteps traditional methods of breaking down religious legalese in order to reveal divine principles in the raw. His manner conveys godly authority, and the congregants respond in keeping with Deuteronomy 18 and Psalm 111’s expectations. When the truth of Christ’s message resonates with them, they accept it. Then something unexpected occurs to ratify their trust.

A man tormented by an unclean spirit bolts out of the crowd, howling, “What have You to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have You come to destroy us? I know Who You are, the Holy One of God.” (v24) Before observing Jesus’s response, we note four key details. The man’s presence speaks to the congregation’s openness. Most synagogues would ban him—and be legally and politically correct in doing so. But the Capernaum faith community opens its arms to him. Second, for his sake, it also overlooks the edict prohibiting work on the Sabbath; opposition Jesus encounters elsewhere when working miracles on the Lord’s Day isn’t raised in Capernaum. Third, the raw force of Christ’s message vexes harmful impulses holding the man captive. They hear threats, not hope, and instantly become confrontational. Finally, the man’s cry rings out in two voices: one of fear and resistance, spoken in schizophrenic plurality (“us”), and another that confesses faith and wholeness (“I know Who You are”).

Jesus immediately shuts the paranoid delusions down. “Be silent, and come out of him!” He commands. (v25) They don’t go quietly; Mark reports the man is seized with convulsions before they depart. But the melodramatic tantrum is no match for Christ’s power. Jesus’s accountability for the man’s welfare—despite his condition labeling him “undesirable”—reaffirms His authority to speak truth to power. Verse 27 reads, “They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, ‘What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him.’” We have to love that Jesus doesn’t exploit the chance to show off. He doesn’t make a case for ignoring Sabbath traditions to justify His actions. He doesn’t question the man’s right to be there. He doesn’t turn to the crowd and say, “Watch this.” He simply speaks the truth God gives Him and then acts on it. And the people are amazed.

“Why Should I Be Bound?”

Taking authority over the world’s evils—including those that seek to torment us—demands taking responsibility for the least among us. Arguing legalities and logic with those they hold captive only proves we’re not yet free to speak truth to power. Sure, it’s awfully convenient to shut out undesirables who disrupt our lives with foul thoughts and attitudes. Yet if we keep them away, how will they find help? And how will our witness prove true? Freedom in Christ doesn’t give us the right to show off. It entitles us to lift those enslaved by fear and doubt out of captivity. Today’s Gospel teaches freedom is a privilege best served by setting people free. It authorizes us by expanding our accountability beyond what’s best for us, so others may experience liberating faith and wholeness.

“The fear of the LORD” that Psalm 111 mentions is nothing to be afraid of. It’s the canny understanding that we’ve received the raw truth of the Gospel, and with it the raw power of freedom in Christ. A late friend and songwriter put it like this: “Why should I be bound, when Christ has set me free?” That’s the burning question at the bottom of our moral and political decay. Not, “Who dropped the ball?” But, “Why aren’t we changing the game?”

Teach us, O God, to weigh the delicate balance of embracing Christian authority and accountability for our deeds. Stir in us authentic passion to exercise faith’s freedoms by setting people free. Grant us audacity not only to speak truth to power, but also to act on it. Amen.

We've been given authority over evil in order to lift those enslaved by fear and doubt. Through Christ, we have the power to change the game.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/28/authority-and-accountability/

Dispensing with Approval

As He went a little farther, He saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately He called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him. (Mark 1.19-20)

Over the Moon

If you’re a devotee of American musicals, you know the pivotal number the instant you hear it. It’s the ebullient reckoning, the bone-rattling tune that bursts out of nowhere when the lead character—or sometimes the entire cast—figures out things are about to change. In West Side Story, Tony sings, “Something’s coming. I don’t know what it is, but it is gonna be great.” In Sweet Charity, Charity lets loose with, “There’s gotta be something better than this.” In Rent, the performance artist, Maureen, invites the cast to welcome change as they sing, “Only thing to do is jump over the moon.”

To a one, Sunday’s readings seem poised for a pivotal number. In Jonah, God is primed to destroy Nineveh; but seeing the city’s repentance turns God around. In Psalm 62, the poet reminds us there’s no benefit in trusting human promises, realizing “power belongs to God.” (v11) In 1 Corinthians 7.29-31, Paul concludes, “the present form of this world is passing away.” Don’t hang on to anything, he writes—not spouses, sorrows, joys, possessions, or businesses—because there’s no time dawdle on things that may not survive the change. Wow. That’s Paul at his most overwrought, drama-queen finest, spoken with all the conviction of a man without notable family or business ties. We’re fine with turning him down a few notches--until we open Sunday’s Gospel, Mark1.14-20, where see what Paul describes in theory play out—not once, but twice.

Jesus walks along the Sea of Galilee, spots two sibling fishermen, Simon (later called Peter) and Andrew. “Follow Me and I will make you fish for people,” He says. Without hesitation, they quit and follow Him. Maybe they hate their jobs so much that anything would be better. Maybe they sense something’s coming. Scripture doesn’t say why they drop everything and sign on with Jesus. They obviously have no idea Who He is. He’s not from around there, isn’t a fisherman, and has no following of any kind. (They’ll be His first disciples.) Yet something compels them to leave what they know to “fish for people” (whatever that means). And we could write off them as kooks, except the scene repeats within minutes, when Jesus spots another set of brothers, James and John. Mark doesn’t even bother quoting Jesus’s offer this time around. They drop their nets—leaving their father and the family business behind—to go with Jesus. “Leap of fate,” Maureen sings in Rent, “only thing to do is jump over the moon.” Which is one way to describe what Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John do. They jump over the moon.

What’s the Point?

If Sunday’s drop-everything passages make you queasy, get in line. I confess to high levels of discomfort with texts that equate following Christ with severing all ties to family and livelihood. I also admit to being highly suspicious of those who advocate the sorts of whimsical moon jumping we witness in the texts, because more often than not, people who get all fired up about such dramatic turnarounds just so happen to be in the people-fishing business. Radical conversions keep them fed. Finally, I have a hard time squaring a God Who insists we sacrifice everything with One Who uses total loss to demonstrate divine love and power to restore what’s lost.

For those of us who struggle with the all-or-nothing terms in Sunday’s Gospel, there’s something else we might want to consider. Reading further along, we discover the disciples really don’t leave everything behind. They hang onto their boats and nets throughout their time with Jesus, keeping His ministry afloat with supplementary income. They stay in touch with their families, some of whom eventually join Jesus’s band of followers. So it turns out this moment may not be as dramatic as the abandon-everything romantics like to paint it. It may not deserve a big number like “Something’s Coming” or “There’s Gotta Be Something Better than This” or “Over the Moon”. It may be as simple as trying a new thing to see how it works out. And if that’s all we’re looking at, what’s the point?

Opportunity to Be Changed

Often what Scripture doesn’t say distinguishes it from run-of-the-mill self-help manuals and cautionary fables that come prepackaged with explanations. Its sketchiness becomes its most illuminating strength, as it draws us into the narratives, where we discover truth in absentia. So we ask what’s missing from this story? What don’t the newly minted disciples do that you or I wouldn’t conceive of neglecting before we quit our jobs and left our families to follow a Stranger we’ve never met?

They dispense with approval. Simon and Andrew don’t ask for a few minutes to discuss the proposition. They don’t pause to puzzle out how discipleship will impact their family and business. James and John don’t turn to Zebedee and say, “Hey, Dad, what do you think?” Jesus says, “Follow Me,” and they do it. We can’t imagine anyone who watches them drop their nets and head off with Christ possibly feeling at ease. We can hear Zebedee, other family members, and business partners call after them, “What are you doing? Where do you think you’re going? You don’t know this Guy!” The disciples don’t know what they’re doing. They have no clue where Jesus is leading them. But this they know: Christ’s voice calls to them and passing their opportunity to be changed for life because others don’t approve is a sacrifice they can’t afford to make. Immediately leaving their nets liberates them from inhibitions tangled up with seeking approval. When they return to their families and livelihoods, they are better, more productive, and freer for having followed Jesus without hesitation.

Dispensing with approval is the first step in discipleship. And for those of us who don’t see that in the disciples, Paul comes right out with it in 1 Corinthians. “From now on, let even those who have wives be as though they had none," he writes, "and those who mourn as though they were not mourning, and those who rejoice as though they were not rejoicing, and those who buy as though they had no possessions, and those who deal with the world as though they had no dealings with it. For the present form of this world is passing away.” Something's coming. African-American slaves, whose very lives depended on their captors’ approval, put it like this: “My heart is fixed, my mind’s made up. Nobody’s gonna turn me around.” Following Jesus is a matter of saying yes to His call and letting go anyone or anything that might discourage us or disapprove of our decision. Drop your nets. Quit the boat. Follow the Keeper of your heart. Don’t sacrifice your opportunity to be changed for life. Jump over the moon.

Jesus, we hear You call us to follow You. We’re not always sure where You come from or what “fishing for people” means. But Your voice calls to a place in us where none but You can reach. Quicken us to dispense with our need for approval. May we drop our nets, knowing we’ll return to what we’ve left better, more productive, and freer than we’d ever be by remaining behind. Amen.

Dispensing with approval frees us to follow Christ; passing the opportunity to be changed for life is a sacrifice we can’t afford to make.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/22/dispensing-with-approval/

Because You Are Precious

I have called you by My name, you are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. Because you are precious in My sight, and honored, and I love you. (Isaiah 43.1-2,4)

Deep Trouble

Little Shop of Horrors—the 1960 sci-fi classic later remade as a musical—is the parable of a nerdy florist who stumbles on an exotic plant and decides to nurture it. Though he does everything he can to keep it healthy, it shrivels up and nearly dies. Because it’s not a plant. It’s an alien life form in leafy get-up. One day, the florist cuts his finger and a drop of blood instantly revives the plant. As it grows, its bottomless thirst bleeds the florist dry and he resorts to murder to keep it alive. He bargains with his conscience by limiting his victims to Skid Row regulars—banking on the twisted idea he’s doing society a favor while serving the plant’s needs. At first, we can’t figure out why he doesn’t toss the thing into the alley and forget it. But gradually we realize his compulsion to satisfy the plant’s cravings stems from his craving for acclaim. Discovering a new species will elevate him from mundane florist to botanist extraordinaire. And he's so sure that the plant holds his key to happiness he’s unaware it’s devouring him and his dream. Moral: When we allow our problems to control us, we’re in deep trouble.

That’s why we take all our burdens to God; we don’t know which of them will seek to control us. Every trial and temptation, whether agonizing or annoying, contains seeds of monstrous cravings. More sad stories than we can count open with, “It seemed like such a little thing at first…” So, if we must, we choose our poisons. But let us be warned: not one is sufficiently labeled, nor are we adequately qualified, to predict how we’ll react to it. Experience alone teaches what we can and can’t handle. And too often it’s a lesson learned too late.

How Can We?

When watching others bridle impulses and situations we can’t master, we dust off that golden oldie, “If They Can Do It, Why Can’t I”, forgetting the reason they can do it—whatever “it” may be—is because they’re strong where we’re weak. In other settings, the tables turn: we’re strong where they’re weak. It’s not a hard idea to grasp. But it can be very difficult to accept. I want to think my strengths give me an edge over yours. You want to believe my weaknesses make yours look like a day at the beach. Yet in the final analysis, all we can confidently say about one another is neither of us is so strong to escape struggle.

Since we’re all in the same boat, why bother God with our problems? After all, God helps those who help themselves. (There’s another oldie we need to pitch.) If we try hard enough, we should be able to handle it on our own. But how can we, if we can’t handle admitting what controls us has bled us dry, driven us to the unthinkable, and mocked us when we tried to justify our actions? How can we handle problems if they’re not what they seem? How long can we feed monsters that keep our pipe dreams alive, even as they devour our lives and dreams?

Once weakness grips us, handling it on our own is no longer feasible. We’re in deep trouble. We need God. And whether or not that business about God and self-help is true, this we know: God helps those who can’t help themselves. In Isaiah 43.2, God tells us when there’s no bridge we can cross, God will help us reach the other side. When we’re in over our heads, God will lift us. When we’re thrown into the fire, God will see we survive it unscathed. God doesn’t spare us from problems that seek to control us. God faces them with us to prove we can overcome weaknesses with God’s help.

Two Statements

This promise is first spoken to Israel. And though it sounds simplistic, it’s not wrong to summarize the Old Testament as the story of people who can’t break free of problems because they won’t confess their need for God. Over and over, Israel lets the same weaknesses drive it to the brink of ruin. What it lacks in vision it more than makes up in selective memory. As soon as they hit a dry patch in the desert, the Israelites groan with nostalgia for Egypt. When Babylon destroys Jerusalem and takes thousands hostage, they sit down beside the Tigris and sing about the good old days—never mind that they spent most of them fighting off enemies. When times are good, they persistently submit to self-destructive impulses. They feed monstrous cravings to keep their dreams of freedom and respect alive, never realizing that they’ve surrendered both to what controls them. Through it all, God keeps saying, “Let Me help you. You need Me.” But Israel is so sure of itself it puts God on hold until it’s overwhelmed. Then, like a disobedient toddler, it hands God its mess and says, “Please don’t be mad. We promise never to do it again.”

So why does God stick with Israel? Why does God stick with us? We’re no better at letting God help us than they. The answer rests in two statements that frame God’s promises to be with us through flood and fire. In verse 1, God says, “I have called you by My name. You are Mine,” while verse 4 declares, “Because you are precious in My sight, and honored, and I love you.” That’s the lever to pry us from problems and weaknesses that captivate us. They may grip us, but they’ll never hold us, because we belong to God. Although they try to diminish us, they’ll fail in the end, because we are precious to God. While they mock us, God honors us. While they abuse us, God loves us.

When we think of the cravings beneath our cravings—the weaknesses exploited by problems that control us—God speaks comfort to our souls. Why do we surrender to harmful obsessions? We want to be known. God says, “I have called you by My name.” We want to belong. God says, “You are Mine.” We want to matter. God says, “You are precious in My sight.” We want to be respected. God says, “You are honored.” And we crave love. God says, “I love you.” Problems that control us conjure crazy dreams that we chase but never catch. They’re merely distractions to prevent us from detecting the real nightmare of being eaten alive. Our God is a Creator, not a dream weaver—a Life Giver, not a bloodsucker. What God says is true, because God alone has the power to make it true. So we say to harms that seek our destruction, “Not this time, not ever again, because we know who we are and to Whom we belong. We are precious to God, honored, and God loves us.”

Awaken us, O God, from our oblivion. Quiet our spirits to hear You speak comfort to deep cravings that make us vulnerable to self-destructive obsessions. Forgive us of haughty delusions that ignore our need for You. You promise to be with us always. We ask You now to stay. Amen.

When we surrender control to problems and habits, we feed cravings that don’t satisfy and chase dreams we can’t catch. So we say to them, “Not this time. Not ever again.”

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/17/because-you-are-precious/

Come and See

Philip found Nathanael and said to him, “We have found Him Whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.” Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.” (John 1.45-46)

Out of Nowhere

How we Americans love yarns about people who rise to greatness from lowly beginnings! Indeed, when it comes to winning our hearts and respect, privilege can be a curse—a phenomenon sure to play out in sharp relief when GOP nominee apparent, Mitt Romney, goes head-to-head with Barack Obama. Deservedly or not, Romney epitomizes the rich kid whose cushy upbringing and lifestyle thwart his ability to identify with ordinary citizens. Meanwhile, President Obama is the postmodern Lincoln, the unlikely hero who surmounted impossible odds to clear our nation’s highest hurdle. And while this isn’t the year for a character referendum, for many, it will come down to a classic American dilemma: Go with a guy who had everything handed to him—or one who fought hard to get where he is? Should the candidates’ backgrounds become a decisive factor, Romney hasn’t a chance.

First-century residents of Palestine would predict differently. They couldn’t imagine a scenario ending in Romney’s defeat. Where they live, nobody comes out of nowhere and rises to greatness. Case in point: in Sunday’s Gospel (John 1.43-51), after Philip first encounters Jesus of Nazareth and tells Nathanael that he’s found the Messiah, Nathanael’s asks, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” It’s a baffled, maybe even scornful, reaction—a polite way of saying, “That’s crazy talk!”

Red Flags

Nathanael can’t conceive any good coming from Nazareth because there’s nothing good about it. It’s an out-of-the-way town without distinction. Having found nothing more than a cluster of simple homes where ancient Nazareth stood, archaeologists estimate its population at less than 400. It’s a farming community comprised of a few close-knit families who—based on discovery of a large pit comparable to a fall-out shelter—seem mainly concerned with surviving unstable times. And it appears they aren’t overly optimistic, as we find no signs of public architecture built to last—no marketplace, synagogue, or other common space. Instead, they rely on nearby Sepphoris for their social, consumer, and religious needs. About an hour’s walk from Nazareth, the city is a booming metropolis steeped in Greco-Roman culture and reputed to be a hotbed of social activism. Nathanael’s low opinion of Nazareth probably reflects its insignificance as a rural outpost, as well as its close proximity to an urban center that welcomes diversity and harbors non-conformists. And he may be shocked that none of this raises red flags to Philip.

Apart from concerns specific to Nazareth, Nathanael’s dismissal would be the same if Jesus hailed from any nondescript village—even his and Philip’s hometown of Bethsaida, a fishing hamlet near Capernaum, another alleged cauldron of dissent. Nothing substantial comes out of these places, because no one of substance lives there. Hearing Jesus is a Nazarene tells Nathanael He’s gravely unsuited for Messianic office. His family obviously has no major wealth or connections. If He’s had any formal education, it can’t be very good. Other than joining holiday caravans to Jerusalem, it’s likely He’s traveled no farther than Sepphoris; so He’s got no experience or sophistication to speak of.

Then, add to Jesus’s personal deficits the toll of small-town life. Spots like Nazareth are notoriously insular, intolerant, and often in-bred. Living where everybody’s your uncle never turns out good. What are backwater villages known for? Rushing to judgment about issues they don’t understand and attacking anyone who bucks a system they hate, but don’t have the nerve to change. Naturally, Nathanael shrugs Philip off. In their world, nobody important—least of all, the Messiah—comes from out of nowhere, especially a great big nowhere like Nazareth. But Philip doesn’t take offense at his friend’s cynicism. He doesn’t defend his convictions or dispute Nathanael’s reasoning. All Philip says is, “Come and see.”

Christ’s Offer

What we witness in Philip happens repeatedly in the Gospels. People meet Jesus and rush to tell friends and family, “Come and see!” Have we not felt the same impulse? A true encounter with Christ is unlike any other. In finding Jesus, we are found. When we follow His ways, lesser paths lose their appeal. We become aware of our place in the world and our fit in God’s plan. How can we not rush to tell those we love, “Come and see!” That’s when we find out how many Nathanaels we know. “What good can come from this?” they ask. Whether big-city skeptics or small-minded villagers, their assumptions about Jesus don’t jibe with the Savior we know. Lest their scorn twists us into knots, we avoid pointless bickering when we echo Philip’s gentle reply. Come and see.

With discipleship comes expectation we’ll spread the Word and make disciples—a dicey proposition if we’re enamored with competition and proving points. Christ’s offer of new life begs no defense and wins nothing from debate. We’re not called to recruit converts to our team; we’re privileged to invite others to discover what we’ve found. Nathanael agrees to check out Philip’s Messiah only to learn Jesus has already checked him out. As he approaches, Jesus says, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” (John 1.47) Nathanael’s stunned. Christ’s acknowledgement of Nathanael’s integrity turns him around. His doubts fall away, enabling him to discover that Jesus is God’s Son.

A marvelous epilogue turns up in Early Church chronicles. Nathanael (whom the other Gospels call Bartholomew) travels the farthest of any Apostle to extend Christ's offer of new life. In fact, he’s the only disciple known to cross Roman borders, when his calling ultimately lands him in India. Because of Philip’s modest reply, Nathanael achieves legendary status as Christianity’s first missionary to Asia—a feat he can’t possibly anticipate when he decides to go and see what Philip’s raving about. Inviting those who question our faith to meet Christ for themselves asks nothing of us. We don’t have to defend our belief. We don’t have to trump their reasons why following Jesus isn’t such a good idea. All we have to say is, “Come and see.” And if they take our offer to heart, they too will discover that following Jesus opens up amazing possibilities. You want to know what good can come from Nazareth? Ask Nathanael.

Gentle Savior, like Nathanael, we’re stunned that You saw worthiness in us—even when we doubted You were worth seeing. Stamp “come and see” in our hearts. Keep it in our mouths, so we may lead others to what we’ve found. Fix our eyes on far horizons and open our minds to amazing possibilities. Amen.

Christ’s offer of new life begs no defense and wins nothing from debate. We answer questions about our faith with a modest suggestion: Come and see.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/15/come-and-see/