Mourning for the one we have pierced--Thoughts on Zechariah 12:10 (not 10:10)

 

“I will pour out on the house of David

and on the people of Jerusalem,

a spirit of grace and prayers,

and they shall look on him whom

they have pierced and they shall mourn

as if for an only son, and they shall grieve

as one grieves for a first born…”

 

Zechariah 12:10

 

 The familiar passages of scripture, the ones we hear over and over again—year to year—are often the most comforting.  They show up, unannounced, like old friends or family –and (like family & friends) often just in time for the holidays.  And, we know them so well everything feels automatic.  We hear that familiar voice, the cackle of a familiar laugh, and we are suddenly transported. For instance, when my oldest friend (David) stops by for coffee, we almost immediately become a couple of 4^th graders again—talking about teachers and kickball, St. Jerome’s and Ridgecrest Elementary, trips to K-mart and T,G & Y. We don’t think about it, we just fall right back into the old days and ways without even trying. 

 

For me, it is he same with familiar sayings and bits of information.  I can’t help but see the number 714 without thinking of Babe Ruth.  That was how many homeruns he hit.  Until Hank Aaron came along, it was considered the unbreakable record in baseball. For me, it is still the most important statistic in all of sports history.  But is that because I see it through the lens of nostalgia? I read that number on a sheet of paper, a computer screen, and without thinking, automatically, I see Babe Ruth circling the bases on those impossibly twiggy legs of his. 

 

I read these words from Zechariah and I immediately think of the Stations of the Cross. I picture Jesus pierced by the Roman soldier’s spear.  And –to some extent—that is appropriate.  The words evoke that image, and they are often read as part of the liturgy during Lent,  often included as part of the Stations meditations we read, when we pray the Stations of the Cross.  But, the other morning when I was reading these words, for some reason I paused for a moment and wondered: Wait a minute!  Why? Why would the Israelites return from exile in Babylon, be restored to their homeland, have a spirit of grace and petition poured out upon them, and suddenly begin mourning? Who do they look at? Who have their pierced?  Not Jesus, because these words were written at least 300-500 years before He was born.  Who have they pierced, and who are they looking upon? 

 

You see.  When I automatically think of Jesus, I’m not really reading the words? I’m not really paying attention to the text (or the context).  In a sense, I’m only reading what I expect to read—not what is actually on the page. And that’s not actually reading. 

 

So I went back to the words on the page in my Book of Christian Prayer, and then I looked them up in my Bible. And when I did, two things stood out to me: first, the citation in my prayer book was wrong; probably a typo.  It referenced Zechariah 10:10-11a, however, the words actually come from Zechariah 12:10-11a.  That stood out to me, because it reminded me that even experts with all their degrees and training can make mistakes.  Can get things wrong. Second, rereading the words in my Bible, I found myself struck by the context of the exiles returning to Jerusalem.  God promises to smite their enemies and to pour upon them a spirit of grace and petition. So why does the author include those words about that pierced one and mourning as if for an only child?  It sounds like it should be a time for celebration and cheers of joy, prayers of thanksgiving. But Zechariah speaks of mourning as if for a first-born child. Why had I never noticed that before?

 

Because I was blinded by prejudice—by pre-judgement. I had already made up my mind what the words meant, what they prefigured, and so I didn’t actually read the words, I read only what I expected from them. Sometimes 714, is just a number—not a statistic.

 

But this year, reading these familiar words with new eyes, I was astonished by their power and beauty and profound and personal message.  And it all started with a bit of curiosity: Why do people who are being saved begin to mourn? And who, exactly, is this pierced one that they are looking at?  And suddenly I knew. They are morning not for an only child, but as if for an only child.  They are being blessed by God, and they are mourning because they know they do not deserve God’s grace. They are mourning because the one who saved them, the one who is blessing them, is the one they pierced—not with a lance, but with idols and betrayals and hypocrisy and sin.  And I was stunned.  Suddenly I remembered the times that I too had experienced kindness and generosity at the hands of someone I had betrayed or gossiped about, or just thought ill of. I felt again the shame and the sorrow of knowing my own failing, my own weakness and smallness. How little I deserved the generosity and kindness, and how ashamed (and yet grateful) I was to receive them.

 

And that image recalled to me the reason these words are so important to our reading for Lent, for Holy Week, for contemplating the Passion of Our Lord. Because they remind us, not just of the lance of the Roman Soldier, but of he lance of my own sharp tongue, the piercing lance of my own selfish heart, my self-serving pride, and of the one who poured out His blood for us anyway.

 

And so, today—as I write this—on easter Monday, I read these words and think not of Lent and the Passion, but of Easter and the Resurrection.  I look upon the one I pierced and see Him resurrected,  pouring His spirit upon me, upon us all, as He brings us forth from the exile of sin (and death), restoring us to life and opening for us gates of a new Jerusalem: His Blessed Kingdom.

 

Reading these familiar words, I had my eyes opened. I realized something about God’s word, that it requires vulnerability and curiosity—if we want to really read it, we have to open ourselves up to the risk of having our ideas and our hearts changed. A reading lesson for an old librarian—and a life lesson for all of us. Pre-judging something (or someone) can cause us to miss out on so much…

The work of God revealed—thoughts on the Gospel for the 4th Sunday of Lent (John 9:1-41)

 “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

--John 9:2

 How often do we ask: why?  Why has this befallen me? My spouse? My child? We search desperately for some meaning in the suffering we witness. Why did this happen? Where was God? Why did He let this happen?

 

And –on the other side of this coin—how often have people justified suffering or loss as God’s will.  The sentimental side of this might justify the death of a child by saying: God wanted her with Him in Heaven. 

 

But the truth of it is, we ache from the loss—and we are just trying to make some kind of sense of it; trying to tell ourselves a story that will bring some comfort.  And yet, no matter what story we come to hold as true, we still live with that ache, that loss, that emptiness.  It doesn’t go away, and neither does that question: why? Whose fault is it? My sin or my parents? My family? My society? Just who is God mad at? And why? What did we do?

 

But, what we hear in John’s Gospel for the 4^th Sunday of Lent is some assurance that God does not work that way. When the disciples see a man who has been blind since birth, they ask Jesus:  Who sinned? The man or his parents? Who is God punishing by making this man blind?

 

And Jesus tells them: Neither the man, nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him. (cf. 9:3) He wasn’t born blind as a punishment for his parent’s sin (or even his own).  God doesn’t afflict me with cancer because of some sin of my youth, nor to punish my parents for something they did.  God is not keeping a tally sheet of our sins: 37 mortal sins = stage 3 carcinoid tumor and chronic leukemia; 19 venial sins = blindness (or a club foot—depending on the season); 20+ venial sins = in-laws for the holiday weekend.

 

Earlier in John’s Gospel Jesus has already made things very clear: For God sent His son into the world, not to judge the world, but so that through Him the world might be saved. (cf. 3:17) Not to condemn, but that the work of God (salvation, mercy, love) might be revealed.  And here in this Gospel for the 4^th Sunday of Lent we read of the man born blind and the question comes up: why? Why did this happen? Is his blindness some kind of punishment? Does he (somehow) deserve it?  But Jesus says no to that kind of theology, that kind of faith. This man’s suffering does not come as a judgment from God. In fact, I think Jesus is telling us that the disciples are asking the wrong question.  When we ask whose to blame, we distance ourselves from the problem—from the suffering—from the person; we stand apart and judge.  Exactly what Jesus came not to do.  Instead, what Jesus does when He meets anyone afflicted by illness or demons (anyone in need), is to enter into their concern, their trouble, their need. Often asking them: What do you want me to do for you? How can I serve you? How can I meet you in your need?

 

In this Sunday’s story, Jesus immediately sets about the process of healing in order that the work of God might be made visible.  And I think that must be one of the most important lessons in this famous story.  Instead of letting Himself be drawn into a theological debate, or a theoretical discussion; instead of standing back and contemplating the situation, He enters into it and thus begins the process of making visible the work of the Father—mercy, healing, salvation, love.  What does that tell us about how we should live? What does that say to us about how we should see the people around us, their sufferings, their struggles, their need?  Not as an opportunity to make points, to show how smart or lucky or good we are—but as an opportunity to make the work of God visible; to reveal God’s love.  To die to ourselves (even if just a little bit) for the sake of another.

 

What does this look like in real life? For me, it looks like this: I carry a little extra cash in my wallet whenever I can and I give it to whoever asks. When I pull up to a stop light and someone comes to my car window with their sign or their paper cup, I don’t ask them what they will do with the money, or why they need it. I don’t ask who is to blame for the situation they find themselves in.  I just ask their name, and give them whatever money I have.  Then I ask them to pray for me, and assure them that I will pray for them as well. Another way it might show up in my life is through baking. I love to bake bread and take loaves to neighbors and co-workers who are experiencing some difficulty or hardship.  Some need.

 

And—as I have said before—doing even these small acts of love, of mercy, of compassion leaves me feeling blessed in ways that I can only explain by turning back to those words from today’s gospel: for a moment, something has been made visible, something I had not seen before, something I perhaps had not even noticed that I was missing. In the need of another, and the chance to serve them, I have glimpsed for a moment—the work of God made visible. 

 

That is what I think we are all hungering for—a glimpse of the transcendent, a glimpse of eternity beaming radiantly back at us—perhaps through the eyes of the blind, or the hungry, the weeping, the sick, the prisoner, the widow, the orphan or even the immigrant or the stranger.

 

And this is what I mean when I talk about a theology of need.  I think need is built into us. It is a way that we form connections and community. It is also the way we discover who we really are.  My need creates a space for you to be kind or generous, to become discover your gifts and strengths by helping another.  Your need does the same for me.  And as we reach out to help one another, as we move into the need of one another, we grow in love, we grow in humility, and we --if only for a moment—become more like Jesus. Through self-giving, we lay down our life for the sake of another, and by doing that we make visible the work of God, the love of the one who humbled Himself and took the form of a servant, the one who died for us on a cross—the one who came not to judge, but to save.  

 

 

The real lesson of fasting: Some thoughts for the first Sunday of Lent

“He fasted for forty days and for forty nights,

and afterwards He was hungry.”

--Matthew 4: 1-11

 

As another Lent begins, it is good to revisit the idea of fasting, sacrifice and penance.  Now, before we anyone starts objecting that Lent is not just about fasting, let me just say: You're right. It is also about prayer and alms giving (charity).   But the issue that most of us have more trouble with is this idea of fasting –of giving up something: food, drink, abstaining from some pleasure. Whatever it is we might be considering giving up, in the back of our head is often the nagging question: What’s the point?  Can’t I just enjoy my chocolate and be more charitable? Give money to a homeless person and eat a Snickers? Visit my sick neighbor and then sip on a root-beer float?  Would that make me any good? Any less holy?

 

My thought is that yes, you can enjoy root beer and popcorn and chocolate and favorite TV shows and still be a good person, even a holy one.  That isn’t the point of Lent—I don’t think.  I think the real point of our Lenten abstinence is not about the giving up, but about the wanting. The appetite. I have come to think that the real lesson of Lent and fasting has less to do with the value of abstaining and more to do with the importance of redirecting or refocusing my appetite, so to speak. 

 

I don’t think we are asked to give things up because they are necessarily bad for us; for instance, someone who enjoys chocolate and pork chops is not less holy than someone who lives on locust and honey—at least not based on diet alone.  As one of our local priests likes to say: Lent is not about losing weight and fasting is not a diet plan.   

 

I have begun to think that our appetites, our hungers, our desires are much more important than we might think. As the prophet Amos reminds the wayward Israelites: “Prepare to meet your God.” (cf Amos 4:12)  But who is our God?  In the book of Amos, Israel’s god is her pocketbook, her belly, her comfort. The people even pray for the end of their Sabbath so they can go back to cheating one another, and buy and sell the poor for a few shekels or a pair of sandals!  When the prophet tells them to prepare to meet your God, to my ear it sounds more like a threat than an invitation.  And now I can’t help but ponder: who is my God?  Who am I preparing to meet?

 

And isn’t that what our whole life is about?  Preparing to meet our God.  But who are we preparing to meet?  If I am all filled up with Cheetos and pickles and mayonnaise sandwiches,  I’m not going to be hungry for the kale and spinach salad my wife made for dinner.  And if all I ever eat is junk food and peanut butter crackers, how will I ever learn that I might actually like kale and spinach and cauliflower and even –dare I say… Brussel sprouts!

 

Well—the same goes for our soul.  If we fill it with momentary pleasures and self-interest and self-satisfaction, never allowing ourselves to become hungry for something more, something beyond our own whims and wants—something eternal—then who are we preparing ourselves to meet? Who is our god?

 

Fasting asks us to spend some time with that want, with the feeling of hungering for something that we cannot have, desiring something more.  It makes an opening in our soul, and gives us a chance to discover that no matter how many potato chips we eat or episodes of Midsomer Murders we binge, we will never be truly satisfied.  We will always want something more.  And that wanting of that something more—I think that is the real lesson of the Lenten fast. To –as Jesus did—separate ourselves from the ordinary and from the false security of a full belly and a distracted brain, and to spend some time wanting something more.   When we die and a voice whispers to us, Prepare to meet your God… who will you want to meet?

 

 One more note: In the Gospel for today with its story of the temptations in the desert, there is a very important lesson for all who fast. Anyone who has ever tried to fast from a habit or some pleasure (or some favorite food) knows that it doesn’t take 40 days and 40 nights for the temptations to begin.  The temptation to stop fasting, to just go ahead and do or eat that thing we are fasting from—just this one time.  The temptation to rationalize—just this once! And, the promise that if you give in this time, everything will be fixed. You’ll never be hungry again. But how does Jesus react to all these temptations? By turning to God. Reminding us: Human beings live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God. He redirects His appetite, focuses His desire on the eternal and lasting good of God, the Father. His Father. 

 

Lent isn’t a time to deny the goodness of bread, but instead a time to remind ourselves: there is something so much better waiting for us. All we have to do is learn to want it.