Failure and the peace that transcends understanding

 “My peace I give to you…”

--John 14:27

 

At this time of year we enter into something schools call: graduation season.  This is that time of year when speeches are made and there is too much talk of achievements and goals and the glorious future that awaits all those graduating seniors. Yesterday I attended a graduation ceremony and in less than an hour, I think I heard the phrase: change the world come out of the mouths of three different speakers.  Of course, it is certainly possible, even likely perhaps, that one or two of the graduates who will walk across the countless graduation stages this month will do something, someday, that changes the world (or some corner of the world). Why shouldn't they? And, of course, it sounds encouraging and hopeful, something to aspire to. I guess.

But, my favorite advice to seniors at this time of year is this:  Failure is always an option. 

I mean that on a couple of levels. One, failure actually is possible. Always. No matter how prepared we are.  No matter how hard or long we study or practice or rehearse… failure is always a possibility. And, secondly, failure may even be a worthwhile choice… if we aren’t prepared to go forward.  In this context, I also like to point out to my students that their librarian (me) barely passed high school and mostly due to the fact that he barely ever showed up.  Which, I also like to point out, has lead to me being stuck in high school for the rest of my life!  In the immortal words of Charles Barkley—I am not a role model.

And yet… recently I learned a lesson about failure that  I can’t seem to let go of.  

I lead a Rosary at school every Thursday during the break time.  This involves sending out an email reminder the day before, and arranging to have my library covered while I go to the chapel.  Not a lot of responsibilities there, but sometimes even that can overwhelm me.  A couple of weeks back, I woke up, shut off my alarm and immediately realized: it was Thursday and I had forgotten to send out the email, and had forgotten to get someone to cover the library for me.  It was 5 am, there was still time… but, my first thought was that no one had come to the Rosary the past few weeks. I had been alone in the chapel.  So, I began considering simply letting it drop. Who would notice? Who would even care?

By the time I was headed to school, I was feeling guilty and quite defeated. The voice in my head was reminding me of all those emails teachers get every day asking for help, another meeting, another duty. They certainly didn’t need another email from me. And especially not at this late hour. I was certain that I wouldn’t be leading a rosary that day. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether I should just give up.  I have been doing this Rosary thing at school for over 20 years now. There had been some good years, but of late—not so much.  Perhaps the real problem had nothing to do with organizational skills, perhaps the real problem was me. My personality, my goofiness, my reluctance to use a calendar! I had tried. And I had failed. Maybe it was time to let this thing die, so someone else could start over and do it better.

 

I was feeling pretty low when I got to school that morning, but for some reason—instead of just letting go, the first thing I did was open my computer and send out the Rosary email.  I still didn’t have coverage for the library, but at least I had sent out the reminder. It was kind of like a Hail Mary pass! So to speak. But, in a way, it was kind of hypocritical. I think I was more concerned about how it would look to my co-workers if I didn’t send out the Rosary email.  But…  You know how every once in a while those passes get caught…  It feels like a miracle. Time is running out. In desperation, the quarterback hurls the ball into the air—as high and far as he can.  And somehow it falls right into the outstretched hands of the receiver—mid-stride—and sprinting across the goal line where… Well... Enough football.

 

But, that is kind of what happened to me.  Almost like a miracle, (like Billy “Whiteshoes” Johnson popping up in the midst of a bunch of Pittsburg defenders) at the last minute, a volunteer walks in and asks if I have anything I need her to do. Sadly, for a moment, I considered telling her no. But, instead I asked her to watch the library while I went to the chapel.

 

And that is when the real strangeness began.  I walked into the chapel and there was a teacher already praying. Someone I had never seen in there before.  She smiled at me as I sat down and said she had come early because she had to go to a meeting.  I guess I looked a bit stunned or frazzled, because she looked at me with a tenderness I cannot explain and asked how I was—as if she really wanted to know.  Anyway, suddenly I was telling her about my life, my worries, my daughter’s health, our family struggles and… and with a kindness and sincerity I cannot explain, she listened and offered words of comfort and consolation. Even thanking me for making the rosary available to the school every week, telling me what an important gift that was.  As we talked, a student came in. Again, someone I had never seen in there before. When she did, the teacher stood to leave.  She assured me that she would be joining me again. 

 

When she left, I asked the student if she were there for the Rosary.  She was. When I asked her if there was anyone she needed to pray for, she looked at me and I could see she had been crying.  Hesitantly, she told me it was the first anniversary of her grandmother’s death, and she really needed to pray for her.  As she talked, I could tell that her grandmother had been very important to her. It sounded like she had been the glue that held their family together. And once this young woman began talking about her grandmother, sharing memories and tears, there was a lightness in her eyes that had been missing before. She was still sad, but she no longer seemed hopeless.  In fact, she seemed at peace.  And I guess I was too.

 

And so, there you go: success or failure? I felt like I was a failure. And, in many ways, I guess I was. I’m not good at organizing. Terrible at advertising. At best I am a D- in calendar usage, and definitely an F- when it comes to asking for help and yet… What seemed to me a failure was in fact a blessing. I think God used that teacher and that student to make that lesson quite clear.  He wasn’t asking me to be perfect or to be successful. All that was necessary was the willingness to just keep failing. 

 

The verse at the top of this piece is from John’s Gospel.  Jesus is speaking to His disciples who, a few hours later would scatter in terror and even deny ever knowing Him.  And before night would fall again, Jesus would be hanging on a cross. To the eyes of the world, an utter failure.

 

So, here is my graduation advice:  Don’t worry about success or failure.  Ultimately, that is God’s business.  The fact is, you will never find peace in a resume or a list of achievements. You were not made for success or failure. You were made to be a gift; give yourself away.  And let God do the rest. That is where you will find real peace.

 

Every graduation address needs a couple of memorable quotations.  Here are mine.  The first is from the Irish author Samuel Beckett: Ever tried? Ever failed? Try again. Fail again.  Fail better…

 

And the second is from Mother Teresa: God doesn’t call us to be successful. God calls us to be faithful. 

 

Class of 2022, don’t be afraid to go forth and fail… boldly, when necessary.

 

Hidden in the storm--thoughts on the Gospel from the fifth Sunday of Lent

 “Hidden in the storm, I answered you.”

--Psalm 81:8

 

I’ve been thinking about the Gospel reading from John about the woman caught in adultery.  It was the gospel for last Sunday, and it has been haunting me ever since.  On the surface, it is a frightening story.  A woman is grabbed by a mob, dragged through the streets and thrown to the ground in front of some stranger; where she hears the mob prepare to kill her. But first they are going to ask this stranger what he thinks.  Take a moment and put yourself into the scene.  If you were this woman, what would you be thinking? What would you be doing? Caught up in this horrible storm of anger, rage, jealousy… brutality.  You are helpless and know that there is nothing for you but to scream and plead for mercy but clearly there is no mercy to be had. The mob seeks only your destruction. Or so it seems. Because, as the gospel tells us, they bring the woman to Jesus because they want to put Him to the test. I look at this scene and wonder—if Jesus had given them the “wrong” answer, would they have tried to stone Him as well. Would they have accused Him of a different kind of adultery? Adulterating their law, their faith, their God?

 

But, instead Jesus defuses the situation by refusing to engage in their anger, their wrath; by refusing to become fuel for their storm.  Instead, he grows quiet and kneels down and begins to write on the ground.  I love that we don’t know what He wrote.  I love that the author knew enough to leave that out.  To my eye, that seems a sign of divine literary inspiration.  Of course, over the years, many scholars and saints have considered and proposed possibilities.  I think it was Augustine who suggested that possibly Jesus was writing out the sins of the people standing before Him. That seems as good a guess as any; but I prefer the mystery.

 

For me, the most important element here is the example Jesus gives us of not entering into the argument, of refusing to add fuel to the fire.  He gathers the focus of the crowd away from the woman and onto Himself through His silence and his enigmatic action.  They are—in a way—stunned by the unexpected strangeness of what He does.  And then, instead of debating them, He concedes their point, recommending only a minor stipulation:  Let the one among you who is without sin cast the first stone.

 

Then He returns to His work--writing on the ground.

 

At this point the crowd disappears, dropping their stones and walking away. And Jesus is left alone with the woman, her heart still bursting with fear. And He asks her, Woman, where did everybody go? Is there no one to accuse you?

And she says, No one.

And Jesus replies, Neither do I.  Go and sin no more. 

I love that image of God’s mercy showing up so quietly and so tenderly and so beautifully unexpected.  It reminds me of a verse from Psalm 81:

“Hidden in the storm, I answered you…” (81:8)

In the book of Job the voice of God is literally hidden in the storm; it comes out of the tempest. And in this story from John's gospel we see the presence of God calmly waiting for us in the storm of suffering, the storm of rejection, the storm of confusion. 

Think about it.  We are about to observe Holy Week, Good Friday, the Passion of Jesus, when the whole world came crashing down upon Him. We see it all right there: the storm of the Cross becoming the silence of the tomb…  But, we are blessed to know how the story ends.  

This Easter morning, perhaps you could rise early and step outside into the early morning light; take a moment and just sand there. Listen to the quiet as the day begins, the first hesitant singing of the birds, the stirring of the leaves in the morning breeze; witness the awakening of the world to the Love that does not condemn, the Love that has the power to calm all storms, the Love that died for us that we might live.  As the old hymn says:

 

No storm can shake my inmost calm,

While to that rock I'm clinging.

Since love is lord of heaven and earth

How can I keep from singing?

Our daily bread and the prayer of the Spirit--More thoughts on Romans 8:26

 “…the Spirit personally makes our petitions for us

in groans that cannot be put into words…”

--Romans 8:26b

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Spirit praying for us, and in my contemplation my thoughts keep turning back to that prayer that the Lord, Himself teaches us:

 Thy will be done,

They kingdom come…

Give us this day, our daily bread…

Deliver us from evil…

 I figure that if this is what Jesus, Himself tells us to pray, then that is probably what the Spirit is praying for us.  While I am busily pleading with God for health and success and the phone number of a trustworthy plumber, the Spirit is petitioning that God’s will be done, and God’s kingdom will come…

 And that one particular phrase, “our daily bread” has stood out to me. Being a bread baker, and biscuit maker, I have my own particular tendency when I hear that phrase—and it leans toward melting butter, crackly golden crust, and orange marmalade (or grilled cheese).  But, as I prayed over this scripture recently, I find myself returning again and again to a different idea about my “daily bread.”  What if our daily bread, refers not just to food for our stomach.  What if it refers to food for our souls as well?

And again, this idea comes straight from the lips of Jesus. In John’s Gospel there is that story about the Samaritan woman at the well.  Toward the end of that story the disciples return with food and urge Jesus to have something to eat, but instead of asking if the waffle fries are still warm, the Lord says to them:

 “My food is to do the will of the one who sent me…” (John 4:34)

and that phrase keeps coming into my prayer—though now (for some reason) I am also thinking about waffle fries. Extra crispy… and a chocolate shake…

But, back to the point.  What does it mean to my prayer life to know that when Jesus speaks of daily bread, He might mean something other than sourdough or pumpernickel. He might be speaking of the sustenance and nourishment that come from doing God’s will.  And so, I am wondering if my daily bread might be God’s will; my daily bread might be the gift of a chance to do God’s will; to lean into a difficult moment and say: Not my will, but Thy will be done…

 The food of doing God’s will is food for my soul, food for the journey, food to sustain me in my time in the desert.  And thinking about this I am reminded of the story we hear at the beginning of each Lent, the story of Jesus fasting in the desert.  Immediately after He is baptized, He goes out into the desert and fasts for 40 days.  During this time, Satan comes to Jesus and tempts Him with promises of good things: food, security, success… and each time, Jesus responds: Not my will, but God’s will be done. 

On the surface, this seems to be simply a story of Jesus turning away from temptation and showing great restraint or will-power or even that He is clever-er than Satan.  But, what if this is really a story demonstrating how Jesus was fed during His time of fasting. The food He was nourished with was doing the will of the one who sent Him. 

To do God’s will, to walk with God, completely, and in complete harmony with God’s will is to dwell in the Kingdom of God’s Holy Presence. His Spirit… Is there anything more that the Spirit could want for us?

 And so I keep praying: Give us this day, our daily bread… And in groans that I cannot put into words, and cannot find on any fast-food menu, what I really mean is: Thy will be done, Thy kingdom come…

 At least, that’s what I want to be praying for, even if I can’t put it into words.

 

To serve is divine--A Meditation on John 13

 “Jesus knew that the Father had put

everything into His hands, and that

He had come from God and was

returning to God…”  --John 13:3

 

 

Just before the last supper, the night before He was to die, according to John’s Gospel, Jesus seems to have a deeper or more profound knowledge, special insight, into His mission, His role, His person.  He knew that God had delivered everything into His hands—implying a kind of completeness—and John seems to recognize that Jesus understood in a new or special way where He had come from, and where He was going.  Some theologians have interpreted this as depicting or expressing a moment when the human consciousness of Jesus is receding into (or reuniting with) the wholeness of the Divine; as if to say that whatever limits may have been upon His human understanding are fading as He prepares to re-unite completely with the Father. 

 

Okay, but my first reaction is: I guess.  But, if He’s God, didn’t He really know this all along[1]?  

 

My second reaction, is to ponder. And this morning, reading this chapter of John’s Gospel on the front porch with the blue jays pecking at the peanuts and a flock of thrushes peppering the sky, darting in and out of neighboring trees, hopping about in the grass, I found myself pondering this idea: Jesus suddenly knew these things and knowing them, what does He do?  He overturns all religious and cultural conventions: He acts like a servant and begins washing His disciples’ feet. (cf13:5).

 

And when Peter complains about Him doing this, Jesus doesn’t explain. He just says: You’ll understand this later.  And to make sure, He sits the disciples down and tells them point blank: Pay attention! This was more than just a hygiene lesson. If you want to follow me, I just showed you the way. (cf 13:15)

 

It is easy to be sentimental and say to ourselves, I want to be like Jesus. But, living it is something else.  For instance: last night I came home from work tired, neck tight from slouching over a computer. All I wanted was to change clothes, go for a walk and read a little Agatha Christie. But I could see that Lynne was working very hard, and there were still chores that needed doing, litter boxes that needed cleaning, etc. So, I changed clothes and started to help.

 

At some point I realized there were no dinner plans.  So, I got out tortillas, eggs, salsa and cheese and started making tacos.  And seeing that my wife was just as tired as I was, I brought her a couple of tacos on a plate and gave her a kiss. I told Sophie and Lucy there were taco fixings and warmed up some more tortillas and sat down to eat. A Hallmark movie was on the TV, and I felt like I finally had a moment to myself, so I opened up the I-pad and started looking at the NY Times. But, sometimes Paul Krugman isn’t as fun as Facebook, so I started flipping through pictures and silly videos. Just as I was beginning to wonder why I was watching another TCM commercial, Lynne asked me if I would be willing to rub her neck. For an instant I felt like Peter. Resentment welled up inside me. I had just done everything, cooked, served, even protected the leftovers from a cat. Inside me a voice cried out: What about me? Don’t I deserve to be massaged, or comforted, or even just left alone?

 

But living like Jesus isn’t just about sentiment, and humility, and it certainly isn’t about fairness.  It’s about divinity. Knowing who He is and what He was made for, Jesus empties Himself and becomes a servant—a slave.

 

Pondering these verses, I realize that every moment, every choice, it is all in my hands. I can choose to follow the example of Jesus, or I act like Peter and complain. I can choose to pursue my own desires and ego.  Or I can lay down my life (or my I-pad) in service to my wife, and to God: the one who made me and to whom I will return.

 

And, like Jesus, I can know: This is what I was made for.

 

Lord,

Open my eyes, that I read Your word more clearly,

Open my ears, that I hear Your message more fully,

And open my heart, and let me be filled

with the love that is found there.

---

[1] My instinct, too often, is to look for a loophole or point of debate.  Which may just be part of growing up as the middle child in a largish family. Always watching for a way to score points, make an impression, make myself stand apart from the crowd…   But it probably also comes from studying theology and philosophy at the University of St. Thomas with those delightfully odd Basilians and their Thomistic Center.  We were taught to ask questions, to be curious, to explore ideas and push against the envelope—but always with humility and always in service of the truth. 

 

The Law & the Woman & the Capitol protest: some thoughts on John 8: 3-5

 “The scribes and Pharisees brought a woman along
who had been caught committing adultery; and making
her stand there in the middle they said to Jesus: Master,
this woman was caught in the very act of committing
adultery, and in the Law, Moses has ordered us
to stone women of this kind.
What have you got to say?”

--John 8:3-5

What a fearful statement.  The scribes and Pharisees make such a fearful claim when they say, Moses ordered us to stone women “of this kind.”  The implication is that the Law, from God, commands us to kill her. What other choice do we have? It’s God’s law! 

But then, as if to trick Jesus, they ask: What do you think?

There are a few things here I would like to think about.  First, that word “ordered.”  Did God actually “order” His people to kill anyone guilty of adultery? In Leviticus (20:10) and Deuteronomy (22: 23-34) the punishment for adultery is prescribed as death (for both man and woman). And the idea behind it is that it is a grave sin and must be driven out of the community.  So, in a sense the scribes and Pharisees are right.  And yet, how does Jesus respond?

His answer isn’t: No. You’re wrong. You misinterpreted the Law. Or even to blame them for spying on the woman. What were they doing, that they were able to catch her “in the very act?”

No. He responds with silence.  He kneels down and begins “writing on the ground with His finger.” (8:6) Why?  Why doesn’t He correct them? Why doesn’t He chastise them?  In Matthew’s Gospel, when the same guys come with another question about God commanding a writ of divorce, Jesus seems almost to shake His head and sigh, “It was because of the hardness of your hearts that Moses allowed you to divorce…” (cf. Mt 19:7-9).  Why doesn’t He say something like that here, too?  I wonder. 

They are saying something provocative and dangerous. And it is very clear that they have come to Him not seeking answers but an excuse for something they already have in their hearts. They are truly hungry for blood. This crowd has been riled up and is ready to erupt.

On some level, they remind me of those people in Washington DC who stormed the capitol. People who were clearly riled up and ready to explode.  They were not in Washington to seek answers or debate issues. From all appearances, they were there to cast stones.

I have been wondering about that event for a few days now. The horror of it, the anger that overwhelmed many of the protesters --turning them into a violent mob. Five people died. But I have also been thinking about some of the faces I keep seeing on the news. On many of them I see anger and rage and frustration, but on others I see smiles and something like glee. In some of these pictures and videos, I see what looks more like a bunch of middle-aged high-schoolers out for a last fling—a lark! A kind of Spring Break from Covid and isolation and the exhausting lives they find themselves trapped in. 

I do not mean to denigrate their anger, or deny that they may sincerely feel aggrieved; may even sincerely feel like their election was stolen. But… how do we stop this craziness? How do we stop this divisiveness? How do we stop our country, our society, our culture from self-destruction, from becoming nothing but a raging series of reactionary riots?

One way might be to look to Jesus for an example.  The crowd comes to Him, ready for a fight, hungering for justification and confrontation.  And instead of correcting them, or engaging in their anger, He listens and even takes notes.  And by doing so—what happens? The tension is released. The crowd is dispersed—in fact, it disperses itself. The frenzy that caught up the crowd has been calmed, because someone helped them slow down and think—slow down and remember who they were. Not riotous murderers, but people, families, fathers and brothers and sons, mothers and daughters and… people. Just ordinary people who have struggled with their own sins and failings, their own weaknesses and longings.

Jesus doesn’t argue with them or their understanding of the Law.  He simply listens to them, to their concerns, and then asks them to remember who they are.

What a beautiful lesson we get every time we open the scripture. If only we have eyes to see and ears to hear.

 

Lord, open my eyes that I may read Your word more clearly

Lord, open my ears that I may hear Your word more fully

and open my heart, that I may be filled

with the Love that is always found there.

 

 

    

A Christmas box from a friend

 “…one gift replacing another…”

--John 1:16

 

Gift giving has been on my mind lately.  Tis the season, you know.  In particular, I have been thinking about this one friend of ours who has sent us a gift box every year for the past –almost 30 years it seems.  She was a friend of mine in college, and over the years we have kept in touch by phone and mail, but our lives have gone off in their different directions. After college she moved back to Denver. She married, has 3 grown sons and a daughter. My wife and I are godparents to her daughter and she is godmother to one of ours. Like most people, we keep in touch by phone call and Facebook and letters, and remind each other how much we are loved. But, Barb is different from most friends.  She takes this whole friendship thing to another level.  And it includes gift-wrapping!  Every year just before Christmas she sends us a rather large box (or two--sometimes) filled with wrapped presents.  And when I say filled, I mean filled. She sends us a box full of presents; multiple presents for each member of the household. Books, toys, jewelry, clothing, candy, kitchenware, herbs from her garden. I think she even sent the cats a present one year. Each gift is wrapped and labeled, often with a silly note. And, keep in mind, she’s been doing this without fail for almost 30 years now. Some of the presents are silly, but some are beautiful, and so perfect—they seem like gifts from God. 

 

For instance, a couple of years back she gave me a black plastic fountain pen. It came in a goofy retro ‘50s packaging and looked like it was something she may have just tossed in at the last minute—thinking: Herman likes to write. He might have fun with this. And yet, it quickly become my favorite pen—and now, I do all my writing with it.  I think it may have even changed the way I write! The pen seemed to be filled not with ink, but with words, with ideas, with poems, with inspiration. But, I guess what it was actually filled with was love.

 

We joke sometimes about it, but it has become a part of our Christmas that we all look forward to. Not the presents themselves as much as the box! It has become for us a sign of Christmas, of the promise of Christmas. Has the box from Barb arrived yet?

 

There have been years when her gifts were just about the only presents under our tree.  And though we have on occasion reciprocated with boxes of biscotti and books and crafts and other homemade items, we have never met her level of generosity, nor have we ever been as regular and timely.  Yet still, regardless of our efforts, every year, the box from Barb arrives and on Christmas morning we open it with delight.  Her generosity, her constant and abundant generosity came to mind as I was thinking about this phrase from the beginning of John’s Gospel.

 

“…one gift replacing another…”

 

In other translations it reads something like “grace in place of grace already given…” or “grace upon grace.” Gift upon gift… Whichever translation, I hear in it a statement of overflowing abundance and generosity.  A vision of God’s love; a seemingly bottomless box of personally wrapped presents poured forth again and again! As soon as we open one gift, we find another. And if we aren’t happy with that, there is one more and one more after that.

Reading God’s word, I hear not a message of judgment and warning, so much as a message of love and generosity.  Again and again, the prophets remind us of God’s tender love for His creation.  They remind us again and again of His seemingly endless mercy and the abundance of His grace, His love for His creation. Each time we fail, we stumble and fall, He is there to lift us up and offer us again some new sign of His love, always replacing one gift with another, one grace with another, one covenant laid over another.  Until finally He gives Himself wholly and utterly into our hands. Taking upon Himself all our sins—our stumbles and falls, our rejection of His many gifts—He becomes the gift itself. Unexpected, undeserved, He is the gift.

 

Like that box from Barbara, that box overflowing with gift upon gift, God’s love comes to us grace upon grace and here at Christmas we are called to come together in joy over the abundance of God’s love.  It comes to us again and again, renewed again and again in great and small ways alike—even in the simplest and humblest gifts, individually wrapped and waiting for us to open with delight.  It may look like a Pez dispenser or a bookmark or a box of tea, a pair of socks, or even a newborn baby in a borrowed manger. Thank you Barb for helping me remember, the gift is always love.

Meditation for the 2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time

Meditation for the 2^nd Sunday of Ordinary Time

“Do whatever He tells you...”

--John 2:1-11

The last words we hear from the Blessed Virgin Mary are pretty good advice: Do whatever He tells you.  They are spoken in the famous Wedding at Cana story.  And much has been made of their important advice.  Do whatever He tells you.  Yes. Good advice, for sure. And because what happens next is the first miracle, or as John calls them signs, i.e.  the first manifestation of Christ’s glory, it would seem to be pretty important advice too.

In this too familiar story wherein Jesus turns the water into wine, we are presented with that striking moment when Mary comes to her Son and says: “They have no wine,” to which Jesus responds: “Woman, how does your concern affect me. My hour has not yet come.” (cf. 2:3-4) Mary then turns to the servants and gives them her advice: Do whatever He tells you.   And the servants do it and suddenly there is more than enough wine and the wine is so good that the steward thinks the hosts have held back their best wine for the last.  This wonderful little story (11 verses) is rich with theological truths that have been explored and expounded since the days of the Church fathers.  So, I wasn’t imagining that I would be making any new or important discoveries, however I wanted to try my hand at it. And yet as I set pondering Mary’s advice, I found myself instead drawn to something else even more:  What He tells them to do...

Jesus tells them to fill the jars with water, and they do. They fill them to the brim.  Then He tells them to “draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.” (2:8)  And that was somehow the part that caught my attention as I listened Sunday during mass.  That part about the water.  Jesus didn’t ask the servants to do anything magical or dramatic or exotic or even out of the ordinary.  He simply asked them to fill the jars with water.  And then He asked them to present some of it to the “master of the feast.”  It was as if I had heard this story for the first time.  I couldn’t stop thinking about that water.  It’s just water.  That is all they bring.  And yet it is wine by the time they present it to the steward (or master).   And it isn’t just any wine, it is the good wine (sometimes translated: best).  What does this little detail mean? The water?

I can’t say for certain, but I want to propose something.  Water. It is common and every day we use it to rinse and wash and flush and soak and moisten and even to drink... We give it away for free at restaurants.  We forget to shut off the sprinkler (sometimes overnight) and waste it.  But, not to worry—it’s only water. I was thinking about that.  How Jesus asks the servants to do something they probably did every day of their lives: fill the water jars with water.  Nothing special.  Just do you work.  And they did. They did it with integrity. They filled those jars to the brim.  And that was all that Jesus required of them and that was how the first sign came to be; how the Kingdom of God began to be revealed; by some servants doing their menial everyday chore.  But there is one more piece to that puzzle: they did it for Jesus. 

Do you want to bring about the Kingdom of God? Do you want to be part of a sign, part of a miracle, a manifestation of God’s glory?  You don’t have to be a priest or a nun or a missionary to a foreign land; just do your work, your ordinary every day work –but do it for Jesus. Are you a math teacher? Teach for Jesus. You don’t have to proselytize, just teach each student with love and compassion and kindness.  Are you a salesperson? Then treat each of your customers as if they too were beloved children of God. Are you an executive, a company leader: then lead with patience and love and gentleness and integrity and honesty.

Jesus isn’t asking us to go out into the desert and wear sackcloth and eat locus.  He is asking us to bring our ordinary lives and work and live them and work them for Him. Bring Him your water: your tears, your sweat, your labor, your rest, your sorrow and your joy, even your laughter; give it to Him.  Fill the jars full with it. Even up to the brim. If we do that, He will do the rest: He will turn our water into wine. And not just Boones Farm; we’re talking something really good. We are all invited to this wedding feast –come. Bring some water with you. You don’t want to miss this. 

Pilate and the act of listening: some thoughts on the Gospel for Christ the King Sunday

25 Nov 2018 –Christ the King

“Pilate said to Jesus:
Are you the King of the Jews?"

--John 18:33B-37

Often when we are in an uncomfortable situation, perhaps a debate about politics, perhaps sitting at the Thanksgiving table --your drunken uncle is singing the praises of the Republican party and your self-righteous niece is ranting about corrupt capitalists—often—in situations like this—I find myself only half listening to the people talking.  If am listening at all, it is not with curiosity or trying to understand, not to hear what they have to say, but to hear how and where they are wrong; if I am listening at all it is to hear a misstep, a fallacy, some weakness in their argument.  I am listening, watching for a mistake; a flaw in their logic or error in their data... And as soon as I hear one, I snatch it up like a fumbled football and take off running with it: 

Now, wait a minute!... You said!!... but that’s not!!!... anyway, NPR did a report and!!!!

It is a constant theme in the media today how Americans don’t listen to each other anymore.  We are a divided nation, and thanks to technology we are only getting more divided every day. We don’t want to hear different opinions; instead we want echo chambers that echo back to us our own opinions.  Instead of sincerely listening to different voices and seeking the truth wherever it may be found, we too often simply yell over each other in an effort to shut the other person down and declare ourselves the winner! 

And yet, reading Sunday’s Gospel from John, I thought—Hmmm... this sounds oddly familiar.  Divisiveness and an unwillingness to really listen –to really hear—is one of the major themes of all four Gospels.  We are constantly being presented with scenes where the truth of Jesus is heard or accepted by some figure and often soon after that unheard (and rejected) by another.  Usually the ones who hear are the weak and the vulnerable; the poor and the sick; Jesus is their last hope and they are desperate –they pay attention. They get it. Whereas the ones who don’t listen, who don’t hear the truth of Jesus’ message, who don’t recognize the witness of the miracles happening right before their very eyes; they are usually the powerful and the respected: i.e. the religious leaders and the governing powers.  They don’t hear because they don’t listen; they don’t really pay attention.  They aren’t coming to Jesus in search of the truth, or even in search of a miracle (except for that centurion and Jairus); they are coming to try and trick Him. To trip Him up.  To find a way to dismiss Him, His miracles and the donkey He rode in on!  They are comfortable with their place in society. They like their robes and their greetings in the market and their special places at the table; they have the upper hand, and they don’t want to lose it.  They don’t want anyone to rock the boat.  Don’t want anyone to challenge them or the system that gave them power. Because, as far as they can see, everything is fine just the way it is.

And doesn’t that describe a lot of us today?  I know that too often it describes me.  I am comfortable with my ideas, my notions, my system, and I don’t want anyone to rock the boat.  I see the world a certain way and I feel like everyone else should, too.  And if they don’t, there must be something wrong with them.

On some level Pontius Pilate –in this passage from John’s gospel—could be the icon for our age of unlistening; an icon of the incurious: the willfully blind and deaf. Reread the conversation he is having with Jesus.  He is doing the exact same thing the experts say we do.  If you want to feel convicted reread this passage and listen to the way Pilate talks to Jesus.  Think about it?  Is he really listening?  He asks questions, but does he really hear the answers?  Does he really care about the truth?  No. He simply wants to get it over with. He wants to extricate himself from a difficulty and troublesome situation.  So instead of listening, instead of trying to truly hear the other person (Jesus) he simply asserts his own power, dismisses the other person as a problem, and justifies the rightness of his own position. In other words, he doesn’t care about hearing the truth –he simply wants to win.  He treats the interview with Jesus not as an opportunity to learn something important (i.e. the Truth).  But, instead he treats it as a debate; mental Greco-Roman wrestling in a way; nothing but a civic annoyance that he must partake of before returning to the pleasures of his lifestyle (of the rich and famous)!

But, what if Pilate had actually listened to Jesus? What if instead of trying to extricate himself ASAP, he had asked Jesus to explain? Tell me about this kingdom that isn’t of this world? What do you mean by that? Could you elaborate?  Then, instead of ridiculing the very idea of “truth,” asked Him to explain how the truth had brought this itinerant Jewish teacher and healer to this moment? This place? The Praetorium? With a crowd demanding His death?  What if Pilate had taken a moment and considered: What kind of truth could spark such a flame?  Perhaps there was more to this man and more to the anger he stirred up than just jealousy and hurt feelings?  If Pilate had just taken the time to listen, if he had let himself be quiet for a moment and maybe let the answer sink in – even contemplated it before responding-- would Good Friday be remembered differently? Who knows—but, what is clear from this record of a conversation from around 33CE is that divisive societies and tone-deaf leaders are nothing new; nothing particular to our age.  Or to our politics.

I also see in Pilate an example of how not to read the Bible.  He approaches Jesus with his heart and his mind closed.  In his eyes, Jesus is a problem to be dealt with as quickly and easily as possible. With as little attention and effort as possible.  Read the Word of God with that attitude and you will find it unrewarding and frustrating and more than likely you will be glad to close the covers and never open it again. Consider Pilate...

But, if you open your eyes, open your heart and open your mind you will find that the Word is alive and each time you open the Bible you will find something new; a new facet, a new depth of truth, an image or an element that you never saw before.  The truths of the Gospels grow deeper and more profound every time I read them.  For instance, usually when I read this passage, I focus on Jesus and His resolve to be true to His mission –regardless of the results.  But this time, for some reason, Pilate and his questions caught my eye.  Opened my eyes. 

The next time I find myself acting a little too much like Pilate: defensive, feigning interest, looking for a way to dismiss them, I need to remember this lesson.  I need to remind myself to pay attention.  Listen.  This doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything everyone says.  But it does mean, I need to listen. I need to be vulnerable.  I need to hear what they are actually saying. Open my heart –like the weak and the vulnerable—and watch not for a chance to shut someone out, but for the opportunity of letting them in.  I need to make sure I’m not putting up walls but tearing them down. 

There is a lot we can learn sitting around the holiday table: about family, about friends, about differences and about sharing.  And remember, a conversation isn’t about winning, it’s about learning.  But, for that to happen –you have to open your heart. You have to be vulnerable.  You have to listen, and you have to hear.  And as you do –you just might find that you begin to recognize the person sitting next to you as something more than an annoying roadblock between you and more plum pudding! Look closely, listen deeply and you might even begin to see in them a glimmer of a kingdom... not of this world.