Shocking and Humble

I'm not preaching on John 10:22-30 as many preachers will be this coming Sunday--I'll be in Acts with Philip and the Ethiopian Eunuch thanks to the Narrative Lectionary--but as we were talking about John's Gospel at our local text study one subject that came up was the radical nature of what Jesus was saying: "The Father and I are one." That is a stunningly bold statement. Honestly, I'm not surprised that the immediate response of the Jews was to pick up rocks to stone him. Jesus was without a doubt violating the first commandment--openly and blatantly. Any observing Jew would have felt the same way those early ones did--in fact, in their shoes I would have been the first one picking up stones.

Time and again in the gospel witness, Jesus does and says a thing that is utterly shocking, which is an important thing to remember for we Scandinavian pastors who are so utterly not. It's astounding how we make a message that is so radical and earth-shattering so completely normal. Each of us are called to proclaim Christ crucified and risen, as Paul says, "a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to the Gentiles" (1 Corinthians 1:23). Well, how have we made that message so utterly lame? Why are our words not equally shocking? I don't doubt that our people are sometimes complacent, but we're fooling ourselves if we don't believe that there are things we believe that will shock them. The Gospel I want to proclaim is utterly absurd; it absolutely flies in the face of the way that pretty much everything in our world works. It should be absolutely jarring to hear. So, why won't I preach it?

Martyrs, Harry Potter, and the happily ever after

Text: Acts 7:1-2a, 44-60

    There’s a classic arc that almost every fairy tale follows, and a similar path can be traced in stories of all sorts. Whether you go to a movie or open a book, this natural progression in the plot means that you have certain expectations for how the story is going to go. There’s going to be a hero—and a villain—and the hero is going to face some tremendous obstacles, so many and so great in fact that you are going to doubt if it’s all going to turn out well in the end. Then, when things seem their worst the hero will triumph over evil and live happily ever after. Modern stories have tried to mess with that formula, sometimes leaving endings ambiguous or even letting the bad guys to win—there are countless examples of this but the ones that come to mind for me are No Country for Old Men and The Usual Suspects. But even in those modern-day twists on the proven method it isn’t so much that the definition of happily ever after changes as it is that the authors decided to give the happily ever after to the person who was less deserving, and in doing this they made a point about the way the world works.

    Regardless of the moral, we are taught from an early age that the winner is the one left standing at the end of the story. Sacrifice is fine but not for our main characters. Instead, sacrifice is something somebody else does to lift the hero up; we are taught, in short, that sacrifice is something that somebody else does for me. The quicker we get past the characters who die for the sake of the hero the quicker we can all get to the happily ever after; the happily ever after is what gives purpose to the sacrifice. Without it, killing off a good character does not tell a good story.

Harry Potter and depths of understanding

It happened again. Another confirmation student, chilling in my office before class, pointed out Harry Potter on my shelf and said, "You're not supposed to have that in church." Barraged as I was by a dozen early teens taking up every corner of my office as they do on Wednesday afternoons before choir, I ignored the comment until later. That's when I wanted to start throwing chairs, because... well... who still thinks that?

Plenty of people, I guess. Plenty of people think Harry Potter is a manifesto on witchcraft and plenty of people think Christianity is about rules that keep us from having fun, and plenty of people think that our political leaders are good if they wear a certain party badge or bad if they don't. Plenty of people think like this. We like to talk about black-and-white thinking--and that is part of it--but it's more than that. This isn't just understanding that there is grey area; it is realizing there is depth--legitimate, awesome depth--behind so many things that we talk about in the church and in the world. We do ourselves a tremendous disservice when we only scratch the surface of a subject before making up our opinions.

The breaking of bread and the road of life

Text: Luke 24:13-35

             This week a professor mine from Augustana shared an opinion piece on Facebook, which had been printed in the New York Times and was about the Catholic Church and modern apologetics. My professor pointed out a line where the author said, “Traditional apologetics has started with metaphysical arguments for God’s existence.” Now, that was a lot of big words—and I hated when my seminary professors would say things like that and not explain them—so I’m not going to do that to you. In layman’s terms the author was claiming that defenses of the faith (what we call “apologetics”) have traditionally started by first arguing for the existence of God. At first blush that makes a lot of sense; it’s very scientific; it doesn’t assume anything, least of all that there is a God of the universe. But what if I told you that the idea of starting by proving God is a completely modern notion that would have seemed absolutely strange to almost anybody not born in the last four hundred years?

Remembering our past: Easter-life

Text: Luke 24:1-16

The History Channel’s six-week mini series on the Bible is wrapping up tonight and, in spite of the fact that it’s gotten good reviews, I won’t be watching in large part because when Jesus rises from the dead there is no way the producers of that series are going to capture the look that I imagine on the disciples’ faces. Somebody in charge of production is going to be way too pious about this and direct the actors who play the disciples to look completely dopey in an attempt to convey awe. But I know how they really looked; it’s the way somebody looks when you tell them something and they think they know where you’re going with it. “Yes, yes, tomb, Jesus, gardener, yeah, yeah… resurrection… Wait, what?” That’s what the History channel isn’t going to get—that “wait, what?” moment. How could they? The actors know the script and, let’s face it, the History channel isn’t budgeting for A-list actors to play Jesus’ disciples. Anyway, none of us can put ourselves in the place of those disciples that first Easter morning.

Father, forgive us

In this life we all make the choices that seem prudent to us in our daily lives. Each of us is the product of innumerable decisions and influences, some forced upon us and others discovered for ourselves over the long and wavering course of our lives. We are all travelers in a long, trail-less wilderness, carving for ourselves a path based on instincts and hunches and following the ways laid before us by others. That is our life, and few, if any of us, know where we are heading or have any idea what we are doing.

            That is the truth wrapped up in Jesus’ words as they raised him on the cross at Golgotha. “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” If those were only words for a people long ago and completely unaware of the Savior of the world living in their midst it would be one thing, but a part of us knows better than that. They are timeless words whose edge cuts through the annals of history to this day. Father, forgive us, because we don’t know what we are doing. In the midst of a world debating complex issues of life and death, love and hate, freedom and temperance: Father, forgive us for we don’t know what we are doing. When faced with criticism; when we are no longer open to debate; when our faith is tired and waning, Father, forgive us.

The order of operations matter: The Last Supper and the betrayal

Luke 22:14-27

The order of operations are important.

            This is something we learned back in middle school math class. Maybe you remember getting a problem like 1 + 3 x 7 x (17 – 4) ^ 2. Maybe if you have a really good memory you might even recall something about “permdas”: Parentheses, exponents, roots, multiplication, division, addition, subtraction—the order of how you are to rightly do a problem. If you just do it from left to right it’s not going to turn out so well.

Apparently roots have disappeared since the days I was in school...

            The Last Supper is not a math problem, but the order of operations are still important. The stars of the show are Jesus and Judas, but the way the action plays out is very important for the moral that we take away from the story. We start with a simple assumption: anybody who betrayed Jesus is a person whose actions are beyond grace. After all, even when Judas Iscariot is first listed in the names of the disciples earlier in Luke’s Gospel he is given the epitaph, “traitor.” We know from the beginning of the story who the ultimate “bad guy” is. Judas Iscariot: the man who betrayed Jesus.

            But the order of operations matter.