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?

Third Sunday of Lent: Why is God doing this to us?

“In those days, in their thirst for water,

the people grumbled against Moses saying:

Why did you ever make us leave Egypt?

Was it just to have us die here of thirst…?

So Moses cried out to the Lord: What shall

I do with this people? A little more and they

will stone me…”  --Exodus 17:3-7

“Why did you ever make us leave Egypt…Was it just to have us die here of thirst?”  Sound familiar? Whenever I feel overwhelmed and helpless, exhausted and afraid, desperate, my prayer turns into something a lot like that of the Israelites in the desert.  Why did you do this, God? Why are you making my life so hard? I thought we were friends! What did I do to deserve this?  For me, this usually involves something to do with owning three cats.  So, when I was headed to the HEB Wednesday night to get paper towels (because one of the cats keeps peeing on counters and carpets and linoleum… as well as mail, magazines and tote bags!!!) I was cursing my pets, my prayer life, and wondering what I had done to offend God.

But… walking into the store, I learned firsthand the reality of desperation.  The pandemic known as the Coronavirus finally hit home.  The shelves of the store were almost completely empty. Unless you liked Peanut Butter Captain Crunch you were out of luck as far as cereal goes.  The only rice left was sushi.  Not a single bottle of laundry detergent to be had. Luckily, they still had plenty of paper towels. A big display right next to the front doors.  I wandered around looking for those few other items that I had been asked to pick up, and everywhere I looked were other people wandering with their carts, some of them overflowing with water and canned goods, and frozen pizzas, but most of them half empty like their eyes… Everywhere I looked there was that strange gaze: stunned, afraid, desperate. What’s happening? Why? Who can we blame?

We don’t like feeling vulnerable, none of us do. We don’t like feeling unsafe.  Humans like things to be predictable; it makes us feel safe.  We like to know what comes next, so we don’t have to worry about it.  And yet, if we stay safe, if we hide from danger, avoid being vulnerable, if we remain locked in our secure little risk-free (and germ-free) boxes, if we stay in Egypt… what happens? Our horizons shrink, our view of life becomes smaller and smaller until it gets almost microscopic.  Instead of worrying about our neighbor or about our friends (or even our family) we begin to see only ourselves, our fears, our discomforts, everything is measured by what it will mean to us, what affect it will have on “Me.”

But as I was standing in stunned disbelief looking at the desolate pasta aisle, I had an experience that I think speaks to this question of “Why did you ever make us leave Egypt?”   Standing there, staring at the barren shelves, gazing in disbelief at the remaining three jars of lo-fat Alfredo, and the one remaining box pasta, some kind of whole-wheat “healthy” rotini—I think I felt like the Israelites. How had this happened? Why would God do this? How come He wasn’t protecting me?  It was a pretty sad moment, but then a woman approached with her full cart and paused. For a moment, I thought she was about to speak to me—she was standing so close. But instead, she reached past me and put a box of spaghetti back on the shelf. Nothing special. Just plain old regular spaghetti. And then she walked away.  I picked up the box and called out, “Thank you.” She turned and smiled and said something like, “I didn’t really need it,” and disappeared.

And so, I come back to the question: Why did you ever make us leave Egypt? Was it just to have us die in the desert?  What if the answer was yes? What if God said, That is precisely what I am doing?  Only… you won’t die.

Last week at Mass we heard the reading about Abram’s call (Genesis 12:1-4). Abram is living a comfortable life in Haran, when God comes to him and says: Pack up. I want you leave this place and go somewhere far away from your father’s house, your family, your comfort zone, your security. Don’t ask questions. I will show you where to go. It is a foreign land where you will live among strangers and probably feel very vulnerable.  But, that is how I am going to make you into a great nation, that is how I am going to make of you a blessing to all who bless you.

What if the key to becoming who we were meant to be, who we were made to be, a blessing to the world, is to be vulnerable?  What if the real key to becoming fully alive, to becoming a blessing is first to step out of our comfort zone, out of our security blankets and take a risk, take a chance, become vulnerable. Begin to feel thirsty.

I was feeling a wave of panic come over me as I stood there in that crazy madhouse of a grocery store staring at empty shelves and zombie apocalypse shoppers and suddenly a person stopped and put back something she didn’t need.  I wonder if it was because she saw a person in need. Because she saw someone who looked vulnerable, someone thirsting.  I wonder.  And I wonder, who was really blessed in that moment.  I received what? Perhaps a small act of charity from a stranger. A simple box of spaghetti.  But, thinking about that smile as she turned the corner, I wonder what she received? Perhaps something much better… The blessing that comes from helping someone in need.

The other part of this passage that interests me is that little detail of Moses going to God, practically in despair.

What shall I do with this people? A little longer and they will stone me!

Clearly, he too feels vulnerable, helpless, desperate. And yet, in his helplessness he turns to God and through God’s grace blesses the people who do not die of thirst, but receive water from the rock and –in the end—they too become a blessing, become a light for the world; a chosen people, set aside—vulnerable, conquered, exiled, yes!  But in exile, in captivity, in loss they are the bearers of God’s word, they are the chosen people, God’s beloved! 

Think about that during this time of fear and anxiety and empty grocery shelves. This “pandemic.” How God’s love and calling is so often revealed in suffering and a sense of helplessness.  Think about how God may be calling us through this hardship. Through your sacrifice and discomfort and even your fear and loss, how is God calling us to witness His love? It may be something as simple as letting someone else know you are afraid, so that they can be blessed by offering comfort and aid. Or perhaps you will be the one who puts a box of spaghetti back on the shelf so that it will be there for someone else.

Remember, we are here because God has put us here, in this time, this place, this life. We were made for this.  And we are never alone. On His way to Calvary, Jesus walks this path with us.  We are loved.  So, do not be afraid, be vulnerable.

On Dying to self and welcoming Christ: more thoughts

“Anyone who does not welcome the kingdom

of God like a little child will not enter it.” –Mark 10:35

“Welcome” is the word that troubles me in this passage. For me, it creates an image of the kingdom of God coming to us, coming for us, and what matters most is not was how prepared we are, but how we receive it. Will we let go of all that we cling to so that we can open our hands and receive it, or will we (like the rich man) go away sad because we have a great many possessions and letting go can be very hard.

Before I go any further, I want to say that I owe this meditation to a friend who commented on my last post (on dying and Lent). She reminded me that dying to our identity can be particularly hard when that identity is a false one that we have chosen for our self. We can become so wrapped up in our chosen identity that we might refuse to let it go.  Her kind note inspired me to go back to Mark’s gospel and reread the story of the rich young man, partly as a way to engage in a conversation with her, but partly to see if there was something I had missed. And as I did, my eyes strayed and I noticed something interesting; something I had missed. I noticed the ending of the seemingly unrelated story just before it (about the disciples trying to stop some apparently unsupervised children from coming to Jesus). It ends with this:

“Anyone who does not welcome the kingdom

of God like a little child will not enter it.”

Seeing that, I realized: These two stories are together for a reason.  Like most readers, I tend to accept that the stories in the Gospels are structured basically in a chronological order to tell a story from beginning to end as best they can.  I don’t tend to think of the author(s) trying to construct their narrative in a thematic or pedagogical style. And so, when things like this happen, I assume that is a sign of God’s authorship.  God wanted to say something that required these stories to be next to each other and so through fallible memory or through happenstance or through inspiration, the earthly author has divined a profound lesson by placing these unrelated tales next to each other.  Separately they are interesting vignettes from the life of Christ, together they become a profound lesson about the kingdom of God.

Let me move backward, as my eye did when it strayed; starting with the rich man, who is called the “rich young man” in Matthew’s version of the story. This man (young or not) comes to Jesus to ask how he can inherit eternal life.  After a brief discussion of the law, Jesus adds this:

“You lack one thing. Go and sell what you have,

give to the poor; you will have treasure in Heaven;

then come and follow me.” (Mk 10:21)

“Follow me…” Jesus is inviting the man to join Him, to –right then and there—enter into the kingdom of God, but we are told that instead the man “went away sad.” It was overwhelming to him, I would assume. The Lord was asking too much, it must have seemed.  Or the man simply lacked the faith.  We don’t know. Nor do we know if he later reconsidered and did as the Lord told him.  All we know is that he went away sad, “for he had many possessions.”

            And we can argue over what he should have done, or what we might have done in the man’s place, but what we have in that previous story is the answer; he should have welcomed the kingdom of God like a child –openly, freely, eagerly!

            Interestingly enough, at the very end of this chapter that is the image we are given.  Mark 10 ends with the story of a blind man named Bartimaeus.  Read it.  This blind man learns that Jesus is near and begins calling out to Him. As with the children at the beginning of this chapter, the disciples try to manage this scene. In fact, they rebuke the man for yelling.  But the man keeps on, and Jesus calls him over.  And when Jesus does, he throws off his cloak and springs up eager to meet the Lord –not unlike a child when Grandma comes for a visit, or they find out there’s no school.  But even more interesting is this: as soon as his sight is restored, the man “immediately” begins to follow Christ.  He gives up all he has in the world, his little piece of security –the place and the people he knows—and follows Jesus. Immediately. Like a child.

            Reading the Bible has opened my eyes to the beauty of God’s word, but again and again and more importantly it has opened my heart to the truth of it. 

            Too often when I seek something out, seek some sacrifice or some holiness even, I find myself rejecting it as soon as it arrives. This Lent was a bit like that. I had good intentions, but… overwhelmed, I turned away and often grew sad. But, it isn’t over yet. There is still time to make a good Lent.  In fact, there is still time to welcome it –like a child.

 

Lent and the practice of dying

“I will place my heart law within them

And write it upon their hearts…” –Jeremiah 31:33

“Unless a grain of wheat fall to the earth

And die, it remains but a grain of wheat…”  --John 12:20-33

 I’ve been thinking for some time about that grain of wheat.  It is an image that speaks to my soul.  It feels like something inexhaustibly true; as if that is exactly how God will write His law upon my heart –upon our hearts.  He will give us opportunities to die, to die to something, to our ego, to our security, to our dreams, to our appetites, to our self, and each time we die to something –no matter how small—God will write another piece of His law upon our hearts.

            This morning I read the passage in Mark about the rich young man (10:17-22). The young man comes to Jesus asking Him what he must do to “inherit eternal life,” and Jesus reminds him of the commandments.  The young man affirms that he has followed all these, and Jesus tells him this:

“One thing you lack: go and sell all you possess and give

it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven;

then come, follow me.” (10:21)

And it is then, scripture tells us, that the young man went away sad.  Because Jesus was asking him to die to his wealth, his power, his place at the table.  Apparently, the young man had received God’s law, thus far. He had lived a life honoring that law –thus far.  But now Jesus is asking him to take the next step; to die to himself, to let go of everything that protects him and keeps him safe from the hardships of life and the insecurities of the world, and “come and follow me.” And he went away sad.  Dying is hard. Letting go of control and security and comfort (and potato chips –for me!) is very hard.  I imagine the young man was looking for some kind of affirmation from Christ, and maybe an easier kind of dying.  But the easy that Jesus offers us, looks too much like the cross.  We tend to not want that. We tend to turn away from it, trying to rationalize our decision to hold onto things like wealth and treasures and comforts, not because we are bad people, but because we need them, or we plan to use them for some future good or just in case!

            It is hard to die to our wealth, yes; but even harder to die to our identity.  This is the “rich” young man, and Jesus is asking him to go and sell everything he owns and give it to the poor.  He will no longer be the “rich” young man in the eyes of the world. He will no longer be a man of importance and distinction.  He will no longer be the self he has become.  His charity, his righteousness, his success –they are his; they are who he is.  But Jesus is asking him to die to himself; to let go of that identity and come and follow Him.  And the promise is this: if we die to ourselves, if we fall to earth –like that grain of wheat—then, we will bear much fruit.  We will become a fruitful vine.  And I’m wondering if it isn’t through that fruitful vine that God reaches out to the world; and through that vine taking root inside us that God writes His law upon our hearts.  But for that vine to take root, there must be a death. And dying can be hard gift to receive –as we see in the rich young man’s reaction.

            But there is no sign that Jesus has given up on this rich young man. What we see is that Jesus looked at the rich young man with much love (cf. 10:21).   And that Jesus understands how hard it is for the rich to let go of their wealth and enter empty handed into the Kingdom of God: harder than a camel passing through the eye of a needle.  

So we must put our trust in God’s love, and in God’s patience. And we must day by day learn little by little to let go.  Most of us are not going to be Dorothy Day or Francis of Assisi. We are not going to simply let go of everything in one glorious gesture of dying to our old lives. For most of us, we must trust in God’s patience as He waits for us, like the soil waiting for the seed.  Trust that God waits for us to let go that we might receive the gift He has instore for us; in fact, that He might write it on our hearts.  

Lent is a time to practice dying.  And I was told by a priest last week (during confession) that it is never too late to begin a good Lent.  This was a difficult Lent for me, but I finally started mine.  And I have already failed --twice-- and started again. And like that other wonderful example from Mark’s gospel, I continue to pray:  Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. (9:24)