Doing what is expected --Some thoughts on The Parable of the Good Samaritan (15th Sunday in ordinary Time)

 This Sunday we had one of the most famous passages in the Bible: The Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37). This is one of those familiar stories that I can easily listen to with one ear tied behind my… well, you get the idea: because I’ve heard it so many times, I don’t always give it my full attention.  And I’ve heard so many homilies preached on it that I quite easily find myself drifting off during the preaching, wondering about breakfast, whether there is enough buttermilk to make biscuits… Do we have any flour? What about tortillas? We have those ripe avocados. Maybe I should make tacos… Which, of course, leads to trying to remember how old that bottle of salsa in the back of the refrigerator actually is.

 

BUT… that isn’t how I want to treat the Gospel. What I would rather do, is listen to it fully, every time… as if I were hearing it anew. Fresh.  But, I also want to know it. Have it planted in my heart.  And so I have begun reading the Sunday readings earlier in the week, in preparation for church, to kind of get myself ready; to let things start percolating inside me.  And something struck me about this familiar parable that I had not considered before. And that is the scholar who asks the question that gets everything started.  Trying to put Jesus to the test, he asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”  Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t just answer. Instead, He asks the scholar, what does the law say? What do you think?  And the scholar answers that we are to love first God, and then “your neighbor as yourself” (cf. 10:27).  So far so good. But then, even after Jesus has affirmed his answer, the scholar, in an effort to justify himself, pushes the point. He wants to know just exactly who is my neighbor? And this is when Jesus tells the famous parable of the man beset by thieves who leave him to die beside the road and the 3 people who see this poor man. First there was a priest who saw the man and moved to the other side of the road –kept walking. And next a Levite passed by and saw the man and did the same.  Both have avoided contact with the victim who lies bleeding (possibly dying) beside the road.  Now, for me it is easy to see in these two men, a priest and a Levite (a descendent of Levi who assists in the temple), icons of some kind of hypocrisy. They are supposed to be holy men, Godly men, but instead we see them avoiding contact (even eye contact) with someone in need.  And usually, that is all the attention I give to these two sorry figures. But today, this parable opened my eyes in a new way—which is what a parable is supposed to do. First, I began to remember all the times I too avoided eye-contact with someone in need.  With the homeless man at the stoplight who was asking for money, or the needy neighbor who calls to ask for help with her sprinkler—sadly, I must admit there have been times I didn’t answer the phone because I knew it was her and I knew what she wanted, and I didn’t want to do it. Of course there were extenuating circumstances: I didn’t go out in the heat. I had just made myself a sandwich, or I just started watching a show or maybe I’d just poured myself a glass of milk and a plate of Oreos.

 

Anyway, I began wondering about these two, and their extenuating circumstances… What would make them behave this way? And I remembered there are some very strict cleanliness laws in the Torah about contact with the dead, and contact with blood. If the priest were on his way to temple, perhaps to serve at the altar and offer sacrifice, to religious intervene for all the people who had brought offerings, then stopping to help this victim on the road would make him unclean. He wouldn’t be able to fulfill his priestly duties –at least not until he’d gone through a ritual cleansing of his own, which could take seven days (cf. Lev. 19:11).  The same would go for the Levite as well. On top of that, there is a priestly warning in Leviticus 21:11 that says a priest should not profane himself by coming into the presence of a dead body, even for the sake of his mother or father. 

 

Read in this light, these might have seemed appropriate “extenuating circumstances” for the audience Jesus was speaking to, especially with this legal scholar standing there. And I have begun wondering whether those possible extenuating circumstances might be part of the lesson Jesus is teaching.  A lesson about what we are supposed to do, what the world expects of us, and about moving beyond that. Moving beyond the questions of what do I have to do to get my prize; to inherit the Kingdom? What is the minimum requirement to make sure I go to Heaven?  Teaching in parables, I think Jesus is calling us to see the very question of responsibility and reward in a new way.

 

And so we come to the “Good” Samaritan.  He doesn’t concern himself with what he is supposed to do, with what the world expects of him. He simply sees a fellow human in need and stops to offer help, to do what he can—even at his own inconvenience. 

 

That seems enough of a lesson right there. But, because I have my Bible open, I see another lesson that I have missed all along. My blindness keeps becoming more and more clear to me. Perhaps that is why I am writing a series of poems about a blind man… Anyway, back to the Gospel.  Here is one more thing to consider the next time you read this story:  Just before Jesus stops to teach this lesson, he and the disciples tried to pass through a Samaritan village, but the people there would not receive Him. They were upset that He was heading to Jerusalem (cf. 9:51-56). And so we have that context: the Samaritans who rejected Jesus and His disciples, and this Samaritan who has become an exemplar of hospitality and compassion. What does that mean to us? Why would Jesus tell this story in this context? And why make the “good” man a Samaritan?  So many wonderful rich questions. This passage just keeps opening up more deeply, more profoundly, with every reading.

 

I guess that is the real lesson. Don’t think you know the answers. Don’t think you know someone else’s story, their depths, their injuries and their dreams? Like these parables, each and every one of us is a mystery and a revelation. We are all walking contradictions, one moment selfish, the next a saint. One moment a fool, and the next –well, in my case, still a fool, but now a different kind of fool. 

 

I hope this makes some sense.  What I mean to say is this: every time someone asks for your help, they are offering you a blessing. They are sharing with you their God-given grace of “need.”  They are giving you the opportunity to be blessed by helping them, to receive the grace of laying down your life for another; setting aside your own wants and needs for the sake of another.

 

Perhaps the priest and the Levite miss out on that opportunity, because they were too focused on their responsibilities, on their “duties.”  Whereas the Samaritan is simply focused on the person right there in front of him, or next door, or knocking at his car window. He is simply being Christ for others by living in the moment, and receiving every opportunity to serve as a chance to find blessing.  We cannot do everything, but we can do something, instead of walking away.  And that is how the parable opened my eyes today.  How about you?  What is this famous Parable saying to you?

 

 

 

 

 

Shaking the dust off your feet… Thoughts on Luke 10:1-12 (the gospel reading for the 14th Sunday in Ordinary Time)

For some of us, letting go of the past is hard.  I cannot tell you how many times I have found myself cringing or wincing over some mistake or cruelty I committed years ago.  I’m 63 and I still ache with shame when I think of how my 6 or 7 year old self treated a little boy who came to my door and asked if he could be my friend.  I imagine he was new in the neighborhood and didn’t know any other children. I remember telling him I already had one, and closing the door. As if he were trying to sell me a set of encyclopedias or another sister.  Why would I be so heartless?  I think I was afraid of his need for a friend. His vulnerability—as if it might be contagious.  That memory still haunts me.  And there are so many more. I have done my share of being a jerk.  

 

And I have done my share of stupid things as well.  Letting people down, breaking promises… Had my share of disappointments, failures, and probably more than my share of successes.  But, living in the past, whether it is recalling the highs or the lows, the hurts or the happinesses, is not healthy.  And this little bit of advice about shaking the dust off your feet seems like quite good advice not just for the apostles, but for all of us.  Reading this passage, it occurred to me that what Jesus is telling His disciples is good coaching advice. He is telling them, shake it off. Let it go.  Don’t get focused on that last play, that last pitch, that last swing. Let it go. Pick up your bat, dust yourself off, and get back in the box; get ready for the next pitch.  And remember,  Babe Ruth struck out almost twice as often as he hit homeruns. Just saying…

 

So, what is the context for this piece of advice?  It appears in all three synoptic gospels. Jesus is sending the disciples out on their own and giving them advice about how to behave.  This advice is related what might feel like a failure, like a strike-out; specifically, it is related to being rejected by a town:  “Whatever town you enter and they do not make you welcome…shake the dust of that town off your feet as you leave.” (cf. Mt. 10:14, Mk 6:11, Lk 10:11). 

 

I like to think of this advice as especially necessary after last week’s gospel reading. Last week we read the passage from Luke 9 in which James and John ask Jesus if He wants them to call down fire from Heaven on a Samaritan village that wouldn’t welcome them.  James and John are holding onto the hurt of the rejection. They want revenge. They want to strike back. They want to lash out at the hurt they felt… the hurt they still feel. Because they are clinging to the hurt. They are holding onto the memory of that painful moment.  But Jesus says, no to such behavior. Jesus always says no to living in the past. Instead—He reminds us again and again to be present to the grace of the moment. This moment. Right here. Right now.

 

As Bob Dylan once sang:

“Shake the dust off of your feet,

Don’t look back.

There’s nothing that can hold you down

Nothing that you lack…”

 

Life is full of disappointments, and sadly too often we ourselves may be the cause of that disappointment. No matter how hard we try to be good, we are human. We will fail. We may thoughtlessly reject someone, and (in our turn) we too will probably be rejected.  Don’t cling to the hurt. Don’t cling to the painful memory. Don’t wallow in it and grow bitter or resentful.

 

As Fred Astaire, another great American singer, once sang: “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”

The Parable of the Actual: some thoughts on Mark 4 and hearing God's voice in daily life

“Take the fig tree as a parable…”

--Mark 13:28

 

This invitation to “Take the fig tree as a parable…” has planted a seed in my imagination.  What I hear in this verse is Jesus telling His disciples (even today) to look at the world, at the actual and see with new eyes a parable,  a lesson, a glimpse of God’s glory revealed.  And with this in mind, I find myself contemplating the rest of Mark’s gospel through this lens—the actual.

 

First, what is a parable?  A parable is a figurative saying that draws attention to similarities between two things, often quite distinctly different things. There is often a paradox about this comparison that strikes the reader as impossible or not right.  For instance: How could the Kingdom of God be like a mustard seed? Or why would a shepherd leave 99 sheep alone and at risk while going off to search for a single stray?  It doesn’t make sense at first—but then when we let it sink into our prayer, to our soul, to our heart… it begins to reveal a kind of truth we might never have imagined.

 

Let me apply this for a moment to scripture itself: chapter 4 of Mark’s Gospel.  The main body of this chapter involves a series of parables and sayings about the Kingdom of God, interrupted by a lesson about the meaning of the parable of the Sower.  And so, one might say that this chapter seems to be a chapter about parables. Parables for Dummies, so to speak.

 

But it is also interesting to note that this chapter is framed by boats. The chapter begins with Jesus getting into a boat in order to teach the crowd that has gathered.  And ends with the famous scene of Jesus asleep in the boat during a storm.  A chapter about parables ends with a story that feels a little bit like a parable: the disciples frightened by a storm at sea, and their teacher sleeping through it. When they wake Him, Jesus commands the storm to be still, but to the disciples He only says: Do you still have no faith?  (cf. 4:40) Clearly there is a lesson to this little story about a stormy night on the water.  And it seems to have nothing to do with meteorology. 

 

But, maybe it has something to do with boats.  Jesus gets into a boat in order to teach the crowd on the shore.  And then like a farmer scattering seeds, He scatters a few lessons about; tells a story, draws a couple of comparisons between a mustard seed and the Kingdom of God, the mystery of God’s kingdom and the mystery of a sprouting seed, and then He starts emphasizing the need to see, and to hear, to look and to listen, to place your lamp on a lampstand instead of hiding it under a bed.

 

Basically, He seems to be saying: pay attention. 

 

Then, the chapter ends with that brief but very famous scene with the storm at sea; as if that storm and that boat and that sleeping Jesus were the final lesson—a kind of pop quiz, if you will.  Remember—He got into the boat so that He could teach.  And here He is in the boat—still teaching. 

In the story, it seems like the disciples have not yet learned their lesson. Jesus basically dope slaps them with his question about their lack of faith.  But—what about us?  Have we learned anything? 

 

What was the lesson? I think it has something to do with opening our eyes to the mystery of God’s presence all around us.  His grace in the storm and the struggle as well as in the tender moments of healing and joy.

 

When I feel blessed, it is easy to feel like I am in the presence of God. That I am loved. But, when I feel lonely, unwanted or unnoticed, and everything seems to be going wrong—a perfect storm of mistakes and insecurities and fear and anxiety rises up around me; in a moment like that, it is pretty hard to feel God’s love. But, I think Jesus is saying: Look. Listen. Pay attention.  Open your eyes and you will see… open your ears and you will hear—I am there. With you. Always.

 

But, how do we see God’s presence in our daily life? Through the lessons of the parables.  We have to learn how to read our daily life like it was a parable. The parable of the actual. This isn’t just about fig trees and scattered seeds.  It’s also about jammed staplers and flat tires and neighbor’s dogs that bark all night.  I hear God telling me to open my eyes and see, open my ears and listen. The neighbor with the barking dog, might need a friend. The flat tire might be God’s way of asking me to stop rushing about, stop being so independent, and to let other see me struggle, so that they will have the opportunity to stop their rushing about and offer help to an old man who doesn’t even know how to use a crowbar.  As for the jammed stapler—well, sometimes I can take these things too far.

 Take the fig tree as a parable.  Look at the real world, what is actually happening around you.  Is it possible that that is where God is revealing Himself to you? Are you the neighbor who hears the ambulance or fire truck siren and steps outside to see if someone needs help? Or are you the neighbor who notices when a sprinkler is left on and shuts it off to save someone's water bill?  Are you the one who puts bird seed out every morning for the blue jays or are you the one who carries peanuts in your pocket for the squirrels at the park? Do you notice the new people in your life? Do you notice the sadness in the eyes of a stranger? Or the smile on the face of the elderly couple who sit on their porch holding hands every morning? Look at the leaves. Look at the clouds. Look at the brown summer grass. Listen to breeze. Listen to the birds. Listen to your wife (or husband) even when they are telling you the same story for the 31st time.  Look. Listen. And really hear, really see what is really right there before you. The face of God come to meet you on your journey.

Anyway, I am trying to read my life as a kind of parable, the parable of the barking dog, the parable of the one-eyed squirrel, the parable of the lonely husband… whatever is happening, I am trying to focus less on my own reaction, and more on the actual events. And what they might tell me about God’s Kingdom.    

 

Where is God revealing Himself in your life? In a sink of dishes? In a bowl of ice cream? In a cat curled in your lap? In an uncomfortable conversation with your boss. Or in a happy hour beer with a friend. Somewhere in your day, God is calling you: Come, my beloved; come and sit with me… For myself, my hope is that I will stop looking for some mystical sign and just open my eyes to the mystery and the grace all around me.  Even in the moldy head of Romaine that I forgot in the back of the refrigerator.  I pray that for you, too.

 

Lord, open my eyes to Your Word

That I can read it more clearly;

Open my ears to Your Word,

That I can hear Your message more fully;

And open my heart to Your Word

That I will be filled with the Love

That is always found there.

 

 

Reading the boring bits--some thoughts on all those cubits, the new temple, and the love of God (in the final chapters of Ezekiel)

 “The Lord is there…”  --Ezekiel 48:35

 I just finished reading Ezekiel and was wondering a bit about all those cubits and all those details about walls and widths and columns and chambers and gates, that whole new temple thing that seem to take up so much of the final chapters of this strange book.  Starting in chapter 40 and through the end of chapter 42 we get all these measurements.  This wall or this gate or this alter is so many cubits by so many cubits, etc etc.  It begins to feel like an architectural plan more than a prophetic book.  Even St. Jerome was troubled by the strangeness of this section.  He hoped readers would not find them “frivolous” but admitted that they made him feel like he was knocking on a locked door[1].  So many specific measurements, it begins to feel overwhelming.  I am certain many readers are tempted to simply skip ahead—to the good stuff!  Why not?  This temple (as described) was never built, and according to many commentators, never intended to be built. It was symbolic; representing to the reader an ideal or a vision of God’s eternal temple. Something like that.  And so, once we get the idea—it’s big and its stately and it’s glorious—why bother with the minor details: like how many inner and outer rooms and how many steps and how many columns, etc. etc?  What’s the point? Because there doesn’t really seem to be one…

 

But, I have to ask the same question—only with a little less exasperation in my voice: What’s the point?   Because I am certain, in God’s word, there always is one.

 

And here is what I would propose: Consider the sparrows.  Are not five of them sold for two pennies and yet not one is forgotten before God. (cf. Luke 12:6 & Matthew 10:29-31). Jesus reminds His disciples again and again that the little things (and the little ones) matter; assuring them that every hair on their head is numbered by God.  In other words: details matter. 

 

But why?

 

I’ve been thinking about that.  I wonder if it has something to do with love? When I first fell in love with my wife, everything she did fascinated me, every opinion she had, every whim, every idea, every song she sang or book she read, every flavor she liked… I wanted to know. I wanted to know whether she liked mustard or ketchup on a hot dog, wanted to know which Beatle she liked better: John or Paul, popcorn with butter or without, The Post or The Chronicle… I hungered to know everything about her. And every little detail mattered. Everything she shared with me—including her preference for ketchup on a hot dog (eek)-- was just one more reason to love her.  And I remembered them.  Because I was in love, every detail mattered.

 

I wonder if –in some way—God isn’t reminding us of that here in this lengthy list of seemingly meaningless measurements and boundaries. Is God reminding us that everything matters. Everything we do, everything we think, all of it matters. Because we matter. Because God loves us, not just collectively, but each and every single one of us individually. He loves us so much that He knows the number of hairs on each and every one of our heads. And, even knows the number that fell out on the bathroom floor this morning.

 

One more thing to note.  The book of Ezekiel ends with these words:

 

“The name of the city in future must be: The Lord is there.”

 

The Lord is there…  In the new Holy City, this symbolic city that Ezekiel describes. The Lord is there.  This city where every detail matters, where every small act is intentional. Where even the measurement of a wall or the height of a step, matters. Everything matters. Because everything and everyone is important—is loved.  The Lord is there—in that place of love.

 

What if we lived that way? What if we rose from bed every morning certain that everything we were going to do that day mattered, not matter how large or small the thing was. Everything from making the coffee to answering the phone, from saying hi to a neighbor, to waving at the UPS guy.  From going for a walk to picking up the trash by the curb.  All of it, each act, each humble little deed of kindness or compassion, done with love and humility… everything matters.  What if we lived with that much love?  What kind of witness would we be for the world?

 

I think if we lived like that, people might look at us and say:  The Lord is there.

 

I guess what I am saying is this: when you are listening to God, pay attention and don’t skip over the boring parts, even in life. Because quite often that is exactly where God is waiting to meet you…

---

[1] The Jerome Biblical Commentary 21:84 (Ezekiel 40: 5; p. 363); Prentice Hall, New Jersey, 1968.

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.

 

Taking it personally --thoughts on reading scripture through the lens of Luke 8:10

 “To you is granted to understand

the secrets of the Kingdom of God;

for the rest it remains in parables,

so that they may look but not perceive,

listen but not understand…” (Luke 8:10)

 

 

This verse has often troubled me, because of how exclusive it felt.  The idea that Jesus would intentionally make things obscure, so that some people would “look but not perceive,” felt kind of cruel.  But recently I read this passage and was struck by a new understanding.  Let me know if you think I am crazy (or just plain wrong).  I read this passage the other morning and was caught by the word “you.”  Yep… Sometimes that is all it takes.  Because, for the first time I had the sensation that the “you” Jesus was referring to was me.  Not just me, of course. But anyone reading those words.

 

A little context, first.  In chapter 8 of Luke, Jesus is going through the town and villages teaching in parables.  And it is His disciples who ask Him—why? Why are You teaching in parables?  His answer is the verse above, and it is made when Jesus is alone with them—in private, so to speak. He says it just before He begins to explain the meaning of the parable of the sower: the guy who sows seeds on the rocky, the thorny, and the good soil. 

 

Of course, taking his personally, may sound a little bit ridiculous.  I know these stories were written down almost 2000 years ago, and their authors were often recording events that probably happened 30 to 50+ years before pen was put to paper (or papyrus, or whatever they first used).  So, it is even possible that the persona writing it down only knew these stories, these events, because someone else told them about it.  About Jesus. 

 

What I am trying to say here, is that I understand there is historical context, and a narrative context involved.  And yet, as I read this passage, I realized that in the story Jesus was saying something to His disciples that in reality also applied to me. Off by themselves, the disciples asked Jesus to explain the parable, and He says: I’m going to explain my parable to you, so you can understand it better.  Not everybody will get this lesson, but YOU will.   

 

And suddenly I heard this message in a new way. I was sitting with my Bible, alone with the Lord. Listening to His words, spending time in His presence (like one of the disciples), and as I read, He began teaching in parable (in stories).  And as I continued reading—the story about Jesus-- He continued to teach, including a special lesson to those who withdraw alone with Him. And in that moment, as I sat there—alone with my Bible—alone with God’s word, I realized: who was He explaining it to?  Me.  He was speaking directly to me. Telling me, I think, that as we read and reread God’s word, more and more of it will become clear to us, the Holy Spirit will reveal more and more of the meaning to us.  As if the real meaning of this strange verse was:  To you who spend time listening to me, who make time to hear and read and contemplate My word, to You it will be given. The Holy Spirit will open your eyes that you can see, that you might perceive, and open your ears that YOU can more fully understand God’s meaning, God’s love. 

 

Does that make sense? 

And I think the real key is, we need to take it personally.  We need to make it personal.  Because, think about it, that’s exactly what Jesus did. 

 

Here it is, Good Friday, a day to remember the hour when Jesus made it all very personal.  When He took up the Cross and went to Calvary—not for some amorphous idea but for you. Personally. And for me, personally. He died to free me from my sins.  It is my belief that He died for all of us, but not as a group.  He died for each and every one of us, individually, and very personally. That doesn’t mean we don’t need church or prayer groups or community. I don’t mean “go it alone.” We need theologians and scholars and ministers and preachers and prayer buddies to help us and guide us and keep us on track. 

 

When Jesus gave His life for you, and for me, He made it very personal.  All I am saying is, this Easter Season when you take up your Bible, why not return the favor. 

 

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?