Not for death, but for the glory of God—thoughts on the Gospel for 5th Sunday of Lent

 

“This Illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God,

that the Son of God might be glorified through it.” –John 11:4

 

This Sunday’s Gospel is a lengthy section John 11, telling the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. There are so many elements in this story worth our contemplation.  The resurrection of Lazarus, coming out of the tomb still bound in burial cloths. What a striking image. Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus are models of faith and prayer, service and contemplation. The fact that Jesus waits 2 days before he responds to their plea is certainly something worth our attention.  What does that mean? Why would He do that? And there is, of course, Martha’s own confusion about the behavior of Jesus: 

 

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died…”  (cf. John 11:21)

 

How many times have we all felt that way? Asked almost that very same question: Where were you God, when my father died? Why weren’t you there to protect my husband, my wife, my child,  from cancer? From that car accident? From depression? From temptation? From all harm??

 

This chapter is so rich, in fact the readings for these past three Sundays have been so very rich; such fruitful food for prayer.  But, for me there was that strange and wonderful word from Jesus that comes early in the chapter:

 

“This illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God…”

 

And yet, Lazarus is sick, and Lazarus does die. His sisters and friends begin the process of mourning and burial for him.  They are not spared that suffering.  They must still endure it.  His death is real. Their grieving is real.  The suffering is real—and yet… there is something more: the glorification of Jesus that arrives somehow within the suffering, the grieving.

 

There are two things I am pondering about this reading today;

 

First, there is the reality of that suffering; the sorrow and mourning of Martha, Mary and their friends, as well as the actual suffering of Lazarus (unto death).  The fact that we have faith, or that we might offer up our suffering, does not in any sense diminish the pain.  It still hurts, still makes us question, challenges our faith and our heart and our soul—and may even cripple our bodies.  Being a “Christian” doesn’t spare you any of that human suffering; though it may give you comfort, it won’t take away the sting.

 

Second, that idea of Lazarus’s death being for the glory of God, and the glorification of Jesus.  That—I think—is what I am trying to get at when I talk of the value of need.  In this story Lazarus is facing the ultimate question, the ultimate insufficiency: death.  Lazarus cannot control death, he can’t work his way around it. Can’t, pull up his bootstraps and defeat it with gumption and positive thinking.  Like every single one of us, he is insufficient to that task.  And hence, his sisters calling out to Jesus for help.  They need help.  They cannot do this on their own. Their vulnerability overwhelms them.  And what does this vulnerability, this need do to their community?  It draws people to them. Friends, family, neighbors, come to offer comfort, to offer consolation, to share the burden of this suffering with Mary and Martha. They come to give of themselves, they leave the comfort and security of their own homes and lives and travel to be with Martha and Mary in their time of need.  And—in some small way—this self-giving, this coming together as community, this sharing of a burden, this entering into another person’s need, is a reflection of (or participation in) God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s compassion—God’s glory.  

 

And then, on a whole other level, there is Jesus coming to them, entering into their suffering, their need, and calling out of it life itself.  When Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, restores him back to life, He reveals something new about Himself to the people watching, even to His apostles standing nearby. He reveals to them His glory—the glory that shines from the very source of life itself: the Father.  But to us, today, who have heard this gospel reading all our lives, who have become overly familiar with the names and the events and just want mass to end so we can go get our coffee and doughnuts, what is Jesus revealing to us? 

 

I think it is Irenaeus who said: The glory of God is a person fully alive…

 

Jesus is glorified by restoring Lazarus to life, but He does this by entering into the sorrow and suffering of Mary and Martha and the mourners; by going to them, toward their need.  And He reveals the fullness of His glory by walking toward the cross, into his own suffering and passion and death—in order to meet us in our sorrow, our suffering, our need for salvation.

 

Walking away from church this morning, I was humbled by the power and mystery of this story, and by the question: How do I follow in His footsteps, unless I am willing to turn my face toward Calvary and walk always toward the cross?

 

Last, let me also say: finding a spiritual value in our insufficiency does not mean that we simply give in to any weakness or that we celebrate a weakness.  An addict or alcoholic may need their drug in order to avoid the pain of withdrawal; but real as that need may be, it does not mean that the best way to help them is to buy them a bottle of gin. A husband may say he needs his wife, but that doesn’t mean she must submit to him.  Helping others, entering into their vulnerability and need, does not mean becoming a doormat or enduring physical abuse.  It does not mean that we feed the addiction or sin of another. But it might look like sitting in silence with someone in their time of crisis, holding their hand, and wishing we could do more but knowing this is all we have to give.  There is a blessed humility in that as well. And God’s glory is revealed there, too.

 

Humbling ourselves, and truly entering into the suffering of another will often be uncomfortable, it will stretch our patience, our love, our faith even.  Like giving birth, it could even be painful at times, but it should always call us to come forth out of the tomb and into the light, where we can reflect the glory of God by becoming vulnerable and fully alive.

 

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.  

 

 

Give me something to drink--thoughts on the Jesus and the woman at the well (for the 3rd Sunday of Lent)

Thoughts on the Gospel for the 3^rd Sunday of Lent 12 March 2023

 “Give me something to drink…”

--John 4:5-42

 

This Sunday is the 3^rd Sunday of Lent and our Gospel for this weekend is the story of Jesus and the woman at the well.  The basics are this: Jesus and the disciples have crossed into Samaria (just north of Judah) and they are tired and hungry.  The disciples wander off in search of food, and Jesus waits behind near a well.  It is around mid-day and a woman comes to the well to draw some water. Jesus asks her to give him a drink.  Which leads to a discussion about the well, about water, about husbands (the woman has had 5) and about where and how to worship and even about telling the truth. Often, when people talk or write of this story, they focus on the fact that Jesus is speaking to a Samaritan, or that she is a woman, or the fact that it takes place in the heat of the day.  Much has been made of the fact that the woman is alone.  To the Jews of Jesus’ time, the Samaritans were kind of like outcasts.  They were a people of mixed-blood and mixed-up religious practices; abhorrent to the people of Judah. Does this woman come to the well in the heat of the day all alone because she is even an outcast among her own people?

 

And those are all important questions, issues, fruitful for our contemplation.  But the thing that catches my eye is the fact that Jesus asks her for a drink.  That seems to me, the corner stone that I stumble over every time I read this story. It makes me pause and ask: why?  Not why did He ask a woman, or why did He ask a Samaritan, but why did He ask someone to give Him water.  Shortly after asking, Jesus says something that must have been very mysterious to the woman. He says:

 

“If you knew the gift of God

and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink, ‘

you would have asked Him,

and He would have given you living water.” (cf. 4:10)

 

Much is made out of that phrase “Living Water,” --faith, new life welling up inside of us, etc. But, what seems to me so very very important and too often overlooked is the “gift.”  Jesus refers to the gift that has been offered to her.  What is that gift? Of course, Jesus Himself might be the gift; the gift of new life and salvation.  But I think it is a mistake to rush into theologizing too quickly.  I think one of the mistakes we make when we read scripture is to turn away from the mysterious, and rush toward some kind of understanding—toward sense.  But, for me at least, one of the great things about the Gospels is how weird they are.  How uncomfortable they can make me –with my life, with my assumptions, with my self-image, even with my faith, my hunger, my thirst…

 

And so I go back to the thing that strikes me as most strange—that Jesus asks for water, He is thirsty, He needs a drink, and He –the Son of God—asks for help getting it. Like a small child asking an adult for a glass of water. They need help. They can’t reach the glasses up in the cupboard, or they can’t reach the faucet to turn on the water… So, we help them. And here, Jesus may have no way to dip water from the well—no bucket or container to dip down into the well. Like a child, His human nature may need her assistance to reach the water.  But—to my ear—there is still that strangeness of referring to His request as a gift.  What does that mean? How is it a gift? 

 

And that is when I remembered a feeling that came over me –quite often—when I was volunteering as a hospital minister.  I would visit people at the hospital to check in with them, to offer a prayer, to sit and visit if they were lonely.  I would go into a hospital room and try to help them in some way, to offer them some comfort, yet so many times I would walk out of those rooms feeling as if I were the one who had been ministered to, as if I were the one who had been given a gift.   And isn’t that the way it so often goes? That when we help someone in need, when we are kind to someone, we come away feeling renewed, feeling energized, almost giddy with joy (sometimes), as if we were the one who was blessed, the one who was given a gift.

 

And so I wonder, is the gift that Jesus gives the woman His need? An opportunity to serve Him, to comfort Him? To share herself with another, to—in a way—become more fully herself; through an act of generosity she becomes more fully the gift that she (that each of us) was made to be.

And this is where I wander off into the thickets, so if I sound a little crazy (or mysterious) I ask only that you bear with me and ponder whatever comes.

 

After the woman leaves Jesus to go tell her townspeople that she may have just met the Christ, His disciples come back with food and encourage Him to eat. And His reply seems to me another clue in this beautiful mystery.  He tells them:

 

“I have food to eat of which you do not know…

My food is to do the will of the one who sent me

and to finish his work.” (cf. 4:31-34)

 

His food is to do the work of God, to do God’s will.  To become more like His Father—loving, merciful; His sun shining on the good and the bad, His rain falling on the wicked and the just.  When Jesus gives the Samaritan woman an opportunity to serve, an opportunity to be kind and merciful, He is giving her the chance to become more like God—to share in the Heavenly food of the Father’s love.  When He shares His need with her, He opens a door for her to step through.  He offers her an opportunity to become more completely who she was made to be: a beloved child, made in the image and likeness of God.

 

I am wondering about this gift of need.  When I need help, I do not feel like a gift. I feel like a burden.  But, when someone comes to me with their need, their burden, I often feel more alive. As if I have been given a gift; as if I have thirsty for a long time, and someone has finally given me a drink of water.  Is the thirst we all have deep inside our soul, a thirst to serve, to console, to comfort, a thirst to be made complete by the chance to share ourselves, our abilities, our treasure, our gifts, with another.   The chance to give ourselves away… to become more fully like God by laying down our own life (even if only momentarily) for the sake of another.

 

The next time you need help, don’t hesitate to ask—to become the gift, the Living Water that someone else has been thirsting for –perhaps all their life.

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.