Josephine Robertson
Proper 17, Year A
Matthew 16:21-28
St George's Episcopal Church, Austin, TX
I have a friend who loves Peter, she calls him: “foot-in-mouth-Peter.” He certainly seems to insert it frequently. Just prior to today’s story, in the lesson we heard last week, Peter had declared his friend Jesus to be the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. It was Peter’s moment of triumph, foot-in-mouth-Peter finally got it right. He finally had the right answer, said the right thing and was praised for it.
And a few beats later here he is, stepping in it again, getting it wrong again. But before we get too busy calling Peter names, let's remember who Peter is in Matthew’s gospel. Because Peter is us. Peter is the church, the eager, and all too human, church. Matthew very carefully frames these two stories, of Peter’s belief in Jesus, and yet his failure to understand Jesus. They are framed as a warning and teaching for us, as much as a criticism of Peter. Matthew has important things to say to the church through Peter. The first of those seems quite simple: belief is just the beginning of our journey.
Like Peter, we start by saying: you’re it Jesus. You’re the one I want to follow. You’re the one who shows me God. You are the Messiah! You’re the basket I’m putting all my eggs in. But all too often we stop at that point. And like Peter, if we stop with belief then we are, missing the message.
Matthew tells us that from that time “Jesus began to show his disciples.” Peter has confessed that Jesus, their friend, is the Messiah. And immediately Jesus begins trying to show them what that means, for him and for them and for us. Jesus knows that once a confession of faith has been made the hard work starts. A confession of faith is really a confession of hope. Peter’s confession was a pretty impossible statement of hope. Peter calls this son of a carpenter the Messiah, that’s far fetched enough. But he goes on to call him the actual Son of God. Now we’re getting into territory that would have seemed impossible, farcical, outlandish. Peter spoke in hope. And when we first make our confessions, as children or as adults we speak in hope as well. We may not have much to back up our claims about God and Christ, but we feel certain that if they aren’t true then the world really is a dark and frightening place. Faith, hope. Jesus takes Peter’s dream and begins to form it, begins to try to do the work of maturing his hope filled faith into something that will really be a rock.
Jesus’ work with his disciples, and us, is education and formation. He has spent all this time showing the disciples who he is; and now he must show them what it means to be the Messiah, and what it means to follow the Messiah. Peter misses the point because he is so caught up in his own assumptions of Messiahship, and discipleship, that he doesn’t hear Jesus.
Some experts will say that what Peter was expecting from Jesus was the messiah promised to restore a Jewish kingdom, toss out the Romans, and retake the throne of David. This messiah was a warrior, and a political leader. But nowhere in his gospel does Matthew tell us that’s what Peter is expecting. I suspect Peter might have actually been expecting more of what he had already experienced from Jesus.
After all, if they were smart about it, and kept from making too much trouble for the Romans they had a pretty good ministry going. Who wouldn’t want continued friendship and camaraderie, more travel, healings, feedings, teaching. It wasn’t the life of a conquering king, but it wasn’t a bad one either. They were helping people. And most importantly, they had each other, these good friends who had become a family and who truly loved one another.
Peter falls prey to the same danger we as the church face daily: the desire to remain the same, the desire to avoid conflict, the desire to avoid suffering. Peter fell prey to the belief that those who do the will of God will know nothing but blessing in their lives. It’s a familiar message. Just turn on a Sunday morning TV preacher and you’ll hear it. Punishment for sinners, blessings for believers. God rewards the righteous and punishes sinners.
Jesus rejects that teaching, as did the Jewish prophets before him. Jesus chastises Peter so strongly because Peter offers such a tempting vision. To continue as things are, to choose the easy way, to maintain the status quo, to avoid the inevitability of suffering and death. Jesus knows though that to stay the same, to cease to follow the way of God, is a worse kind of death. It might seem easier for a while, but it leads to the death from which there is no new beginning.
What Peter couldn’t hear then, but would learn later is that belief in God, and discipleship with Jesus, do not spare us from suffering or pain. Jesus lived and died as our example of that. But what Jesus was trying so desperately to show Peter and the others was that God would remain with him, and with them through that suffering. They would not be spared, but they would not be alone either. It was perhaps the thing they most needed to understand as they approached Jesus’ cross, and their own. It is what we need most to understand.
Our belief in Jesus doesn’t get us a free pass to an easy and comfortable life. Anyone who has spent much time in the church already knows that, even if we don’t like to admit it. Our friends and family here under this Christian roof still suffer, our own lives still run aground on hard times. We cannot avoid this, to do so would be to give up really living. The secret my friends is in Jesus’ invitation to take up our cross. It is not an order to bring suffering on ourselves, but to walk the way of Jesus. Jesus lived his life secure in the knowledge that God would be with him always. In all that he did, in every step he took, in every tear he shed, in every moment of suffering, God remains faithful.
Our belief in Christ doesn’t buy us a spot on easy street. Peter will tell you it gets you a ticket to the hard work of discipleship; of following Jesus. That road won’t look much like Peter or we expect. We will probably be called into all sorts of new and unexpected places, to uncomfortable changes and hard work. We certainly won’t be the same at the end of the journey as we were at the beginning, thank God. But it also assures us that God will be with us no matter how painful the road, or how hard the work. God will be with us, to guide, to challenge, and to comfort.
I pray we can follow the example of dear, wonderful, foot-in-mouth-Peter, and walk the way of the cross all the way through the empty tomb to whatever adventure awaits us beyond. Alleluia.
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Trucks calling
The work of people of faith, whatever our religion, is not found within the walls of our house's of worship.
On Saturday, the 13th of August, 2011 I was ordained a priest in Christ's Church. Because the parish where I have been called to serve is built next to the busiest freeway in Austin Texas, the ordination service the background rumble of traffic lay unmistakably behind every moment.
Sometimes engine brakes from the big trucks send cries of metal and hydraulics through the stone walls and glass windows. Sometimes the pitch of traffic increases, sometimes it slows and idles. But it never stops. While we stand still for a moment the world rushes around our little island, in a great hurry to be anywhere but where it is at the moment.
As I knelt, listening to Bishop Todd chant the invokation of the Holy Spirit, and feeling the presence of presbyters arrayed behind me, the trucks sang their own song, a constant reminder that the world doesn't end at the doors of this place, but begins there. In the overwhelming rush of Holy indescribable, in that silence after the invokation, the noises of the world made our silence deeper as they called.
Sunday morning, as I broke bread with my new community for the first time as one of their priests, the call of the world still echoed through the stone, it still set the glass shimmering. It crept in around the organ, slid under the doors, and puddled in the aisle. Hear it called, the work is here.
Often we call the world in, inviting and hoping that it will grow still and calm and take its place in the pews. But the world that rushes by around us has less need to come in, than for us to come out. Out into the noise, the mess, the chaos, the hurt, the joy, the complicated creation that is knocking, always knocking on our holy places. Not to come in, it isn't ready for that; but for us to come out.
Creation, our sisters and brothers, is calling in words they do not know because they have not yet learned the language of the Holy, for all of us--whatever our creed or belief--to come out. To come out and teach with loving hands the shape of the letters that spell holiness; to come out and teach with gentle words the names of holiness; to come out and join this world that needs to be shown its holiness.
Years ago, when I visited this little place I found the hum of cars and trucks just behind me distracting and annoying. But today I hear that same low rumble, squeal, shriek, and hope it will never become so familiar that it fades to noiselessness. For it is our call, people of God, come out.
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On Saturday, the 13th of August, 2011 I was ordained a priest in Christ's Church. Because the parish where I have been called to serve is built next to the busiest freeway in Austin Texas, the ordination service the background rumble of traffic lay unmistakably behind every moment.
Sometimes engine brakes from the big trucks send cries of metal and hydraulics through the stone walls and glass windows. Sometimes the pitch of traffic increases, sometimes it slows and idles. But it never stops. While we stand still for a moment the world rushes around our little island, in a great hurry to be anywhere but where it is at the moment.As I knelt, listening to Bishop Todd chant the invokation of the Holy Spirit, and feeling the presence of presbyters arrayed behind me, the trucks sang their own song, a constant reminder that the world doesn't end at the doors of this place, but begins there. In the overwhelming rush of Holy indescribable, in that silence after the invokation, the noises of the world made our silence deeper as they called.
Sunday morning, as I broke bread with my new community for the first time as one of their priests, the call of the world still echoed through the stone, it still set the glass shimmering. It crept in around the organ, slid under the doors, and puddled in the aisle. Hear it called, the work is here.
Often we call the world in, inviting and hoping that it will grow still and calm and take its place in the pews. But the world that rushes by around us has less need to come in, than for us to come out. Out into the noise, the mess, the chaos, the hurt, the joy, the complicated creation that is knocking, always knocking on our holy places. Not to come in, it isn't ready for that; but for us to come out.
Creation, our sisters and brothers, is calling in words they do not know because they have not yet learned the language of the Holy, for all of us--whatever our creed or belief--to come out. To come out and teach with loving hands the shape of the letters that spell holiness; to come out and teach with gentle words the names of holiness; to come out and join this world that needs to be shown its holiness.
Years ago, when I visited this little place I found the hum of cars and trucks just behind me distracting and annoying. But today I hear that same low rumble, squeal, shriek, and hope it will never become so familiar that it fades to noiselessness. For it is our call, people of God, come out.
Christ Chapel, Seminary of the Southwest - "Calling Cross"
The ethics of evolution
Perhaps it is my biologist parents, or my gaelic genes, but the festival of creation, the drama played out among billions of living creatures every day has always been a first testament for me. Older than the first oral tradition that eventually grew into the Hebrew Bible. Old as atoms colliding for the first time, or the first faint rays of light rushing headlong outward from the start, messengers racing to a destiny with those who would be waiting to see and learn billions of years later.
The natural and the divine simply are, inextricably linked. So when Scott Bader-Saye (Professor of Ethics, Seminary of the Southwest, and pretty cool dude) commented in a seemingly off hand manner (no ethicist is ever really off-hand), that there was a problem with evolution, my mind began running. Simply put he argued evolution runs counter to what God expects of us: Justice for the weak and the vulnerable. Survival of the fittest? The strong praying on the weak? It's a problem, he said.
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The natural and the divine simply are, inextricably linked. So when Scott Bader-Saye (Professor of Ethics, Seminary of the Southwest, and pretty cool dude) commented in a seemingly off hand manner (no ethicist is ever really off-hand), that there was a problem with evolution, my mind began running. Simply put he argued evolution runs counter to what God expects of us: Justice for the weak and the vulnerable. Survival of the fittest? The strong praying on the weak? It's a problem, he said.
I'm not so sure. Oh from our anthropocentric view of course it is. But perhaps it is that view itself that causes the problem. We see the injustices in our society that are spoken against in the Hebrew and Christian scriptures when we look at the animal kingdom. We watch lions chase down a sick gazelle and wince, surely in a just world such a gazelle would be protected, cured, not preyed upon?
Life and death are linked, and death has, for us, been something to fear. But I think perhaps we must move past that understanding and realize that death is simply a given for life. Without it there can be no life. Even if the lion and the lamb someday were to lie down together and graze, there would be death for the grass. The death of the grass however, is immediate resurrection for the doe, whose death gives resurrection in the moment of her death to the wolves, and so it goes on through the round of time. The telos of each may not be merely "deerness" or "wolfness" so much as to experience and provide resurrection through their own, eventual death.
I believe that creation, like its creator is not static. It rolls forward in perpetual change, because creation never ceases. It was a not a painting set once and meant to remain so forever, but for Eve's transgression. It has more in common with a symphony, or perhaps a jazz improv session. The beauty comes from the very fact that the notes change, each giving way to the next in due course. It is only human beings who long to never have to bow they way off stage, to never give up the spot light to the next performers.
Actually the image of an unchanging, set creation that comes with the loss of evolution sounds less like a garden of Eden created by a Creative, wild, powerful, awe inspiring God and more like a child's diorama. Staid, safe, plastic. Is evolution so counter to God? Is it unjust, or does it, rather, reveal a creative God. A God whose speaking is not finished, who is still allowing creation to hazard yet another wonderful and strange adaptation here, there. As individuals come and go across this concert stage the great symphony of life goes on building on what has come before like a crescendo of chorus.
There was a time when the great forests of the midwest were filled with packs of wolves, and their clearings were populated by herds of white tailed deer. The wolves hunted the deer. They preyed primarily on the sick, the old, the weak. Only the fastest, the most alert, with the best ears and noses survived to produce another year's fawns. Only the wolves that worked together, communicated, and had the stamina to outrun the swift deer went on to raise next year's pups. And so it went. Until we came, and soon there were no wolves.
For most people that seems far more just. No long did the sick or the weak among the deer need to fear the terror of fang and claw. No more would wolf packs run down the fawn its mother did not guard well, or the elderly buck who had broken his leg. But what most people will never see is the horror that took the place of that cycle of death and resurrection. Once shiny deer hides grow dull over ribs that stand out like fences, because the herd has grown far too large for their food source. The weak, and the ill die slow agonizing deaths of days, or weeks. The old buck with his broken leg now limps desperately about, trying to reach food and water while pain tears at him and death takes many long days to come.
And while the individuals suffer, the species does too. Is it evolution that is unjust, or is it our disconnect from the Creator who formed us what makes it seem so fearsome? After all, is death's sting the fact that it occurs, or that we do not trust God's grace to catch us and carry us on; to bring life out of death. Christ has conquered death, we sing, but the wheel of life continues to turn. Death did not end at its defeat, only its power over us ended. We (supposedly) re-awoke to what the squirrel and the deer and the lion already knew, singing the song of creation with their Creator God. But we keep forgetting.
We do not cry in sorrow at the injustice of our fingernails as their excess length is cut away, for they have served their purpose to protect and help manipulate. Now those tiny bits of organic matter can become the start for something else, a whole host of composting bacteria, whose own waste and deaths raises the cycle back around the wheel.
When the wolf pack culls the deer herd of those who cannot outrun them do they do an injustice, or continue to improve the symphony being directed by a God whose words spawn the unimaginable furnaces of stars, the terrifying vastness of galaxies, the infinitely intricate play of life that has sung a long changeable, and achingly beautiful song for billions of years before we thought to call it unjust.
Actually the image of an unchanging, set creation that comes with the loss of evolution sounds less like a garden of Eden created by a Creative, wild, powerful, awe inspiring God and more like a child's diorama. Staid, safe, plastic. Is evolution so counter to God? Is it unjust, or does it, rather, reveal a creative God. A God whose speaking is not finished, who is still allowing creation to hazard yet another wonderful and strange adaptation here, there. As individuals come and go across this concert stage the great symphony of life goes on building on what has come before like a crescendo of chorus.
There was a time when the great forests of the midwest were filled with packs of wolves, and their clearings were populated by herds of white tailed deer. The wolves hunted the deer. They preyed primarily on the sick, the old, the weak. Only the fastest, the most alert, with the best ears and noses survived to produce another year's fawns. Only the wolves that worked together, communicated, and had the stamina to outrun the swift deer went on to raise next year's pups. And so it went. Until we came, and soon there were no wolves.
And while the individuals suffer, the species does too. Is it evolution that is unjust, or is it our disconnect from the Creator who formed us what makes it seem so fearsome? After all, is death's sting the fact that it occurs, or that we do not trust God's grace to catch us and carry us on; to bring life out of death. Christ has conquered death, we sing, but the wheel of life continues to turn. Death did not end at its defeat, only its power over us ended. We (supposedly) re-awoke to what the squirrel and the deer and the lion already knew, singing the song of creation with their Creator God. But we keep forgetting.
We do not cry in sorrow at the injustice of our fingernails as their excess length is cut away, for they have served their purpose to protect and help manipulate. Now those tiny bits of organic matter can become the start for something else, a whole host of composting bacteria, whose own waste and deaths raises the cycle back around the wheel.
When the wolf pack culls the deer herd of those who cannot outrun them do they do an injustice, or continue to improve the symphony being directed by a God whose words spawn the unimaginable furnaces of stars, the terrifying vastness of galaxies, the infinitely intricate play of life that has sung a long changeable, and achingly beautiful song for billions of years before we thought to call it unjust.
Does evolution fly in the face of the mercy of God? Or is it its own kind of wild, undomesticated grace? Does it call us to humbly accept a creation and Creator that has been playing since long before we arrived at the party, and that knows the score far better than we.
A wolf and a deer are not the same as the billionaire who preys on the laborers in his factory, who denies them just wages and a chance at a dignified life. In the language of creation such a one works counter to evolution, which seeks the best for the whole of the community. We have used our power to think we may step out side the forces of creation. The truth is we could learn from them. We could learn from the deer who senses danger and raises her white flag tail to warn all the rest, that they may flee together. We could learn much from the wolves who hunt as a pack for the good of the pack, bringing back hard won food to the young and the injured. We could learn a great deal from the song of creation, if we can set aside our fear and join the chorus; we're welcome, God has saved us seats.
Comments? Opinions? Think I got it wrong? I'd love to hear, add your comments below!
A wolf and a deer are not the same as the billionaire who preys on the laborers in his factory, who denies them just wages and a chance at a dignified life. In the language of creation such a one works counter to evolution, which seeks the best for the whole of the community. We have used our power to think we may step out side the forces of creation. The truth is we could learn from them. We could learn from the deer who senses danger and raises her white flag tail to warn all the rest, that they may flee together. We could learn much from the wolves who hunt as a pack for the good of the pack, bringing back hard won food to the young and the injured. We could learn a great deal from the song of creation, if we can set aside our fear and join the chorus; we're welcome, God has saved us seats.
Comments? Opinions? Think I got it wrong? I'd love to hear, add your comments below!
Marriage: Stay Up
The holiest conversations are
here, between the sticky sheets
and the fan, pushing thick air
full of quivering possibility,
words as sacrament made alive,
laboring into the world
we are creating, here
twined together, holy animals
illuminating the manscript of life
with these gifts, glowing embers
of the beating of our hearts.
Slivers, slick with pain, and shimmers
of joy til we can't tell the difference
but for intention that draws them
one by one out of our souls and distills
them into love; gifts for each other.
Holiness filling the cicada songs buzzing
in our ears until the last amen breaks
into laughter and we are free and full
of Grace.
Hospitality: To make well come
A great deal has been said in recent years about hospitality. Among Christians the number of books on the subject, from hospitality as spiritual practice inspired by Le Arch, Catholic Worker, and others; to how to make your congregation a "hospitable community" to seekers and visitors of all sorts.
Perhaps we should not be surprised. We live after all in a world that would make anyone long for a bit of the simplest hospitality. Despite calling me a "guest," more and more stores now dig through the contents of my cart carefully checking it against my receipt. Whole neighborhoods hide behind locked gates and pass codes. Schools are patrolled by armed guards. Hospitals require ID and visitor badges to so much as pass the information desk. Stores, parks, and public spaces are littered with "no loitering" signs, and police to chase you off if you look to be prone to spending much time there. And even the "service industry" has ceased to see me as an individual to be served; to even them I have become an account number to be exploited for maximum profit.
It is tiring. Just once we would like to be greeted with genuine joy, to be treated as one deserving respect, to be treated as a child of God. But it takes more than name tags (though they help) and greeters to practice hospitality. It takes room. It requires us to make our hearts, and our expectations expansive enough for the unexpected other.
It requires that we set aside our own expectations and comfort, and instead seek, even for a time, the comfort of the other. To do so is no easy feat. Sarah and Abraham surely did not know what would become of their expense of precious food and drink to dusty strangers. Their guests might have been merely penniless travelers who would take what was offered and move on. They might even be scouts for a band of thieves looking for an easy target. But Sarah made bread anyway, and Abraham slaughtered one of their meat animals, and space was made among their tents out of the hot sun.
Out of that space came unexpected joy and blessing, so unexpected that my sister Sarah laughed. Our own hospitality, if it is to be authentic, must be open to such surprise.
I have experienced communities of great hospitality, and communities too afraid of surprise to admit room for the other to be different than themselves. I am sure you have as well; and I am sure we both agree where we have been more comfortable. It is far easier to recognize hospitality when it is given, far easier to practice false hospitality if we lack awareness of our own selves and expectations.
Do we make an offer, joyfully and willingly, and then create space for an honest and non-coerced response? If we never find ourselves containing disbelieving laughter at the blessing which has occurred in our midst, the answer is sadly, no.
But St. Benedict knew the urgency of offering that true hospitality, for in such encounters we may meet God's own Self beside the dusty road. In such encounters Christ enters our midst. In such encounters God's promises are spoken, new life begins, resurrection happens.
The Rule, written by Benedict, practiced hospitality by making room. Guests were to be received at any hour, in fact a brother or sister was to always be ready to welcome a guest into the community. And the rules of that community were to be bent or broken for the comfort of their guest. The monk or nun who met and welcomed the other could break bread with them even if it was not meal time, was excused from their regular work or worship to offer the traveler the rest, comfort, or companionship they needed. Benedict insisted that his communities make room for the other, for the one who was different from them. In doing so, he taught, they welcomed Christ into their midst.
Our own discussions of hospitality are often tied to increasing our membership, to bringing guests into the fold and making them just like us. But the heart of hospitality demands no such outcome, in fact it is anathema to it. For hospitality must be freely offered, an open heart and place where the other may meet their needs, and then move on. If its goal is to entice the other to stay the space closes, and an opportunity is lost. This is what we must struggle with as we seek to make our congregations into places of hospitality.
Further suggested reading: Radical Hospitality: Benedict's Way of Love
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Perhaps we should not be surprised. We live after all in a world that would make anyone long for a bit of the simplest hospitality. Despite calling me a "guest," more and more stores now dig through the contents of my cart carefully checking it against my receipt. Whole neighborhoods hide behind locked gates and pass codes. Schools are patrolled by armed guards. Hospitals require ID and visitor badges to so much as pass the information desk. Stores, parks, and public spaces are littered with "no loitering" signs, and police to chase you off if you look to be prone to spending much time there. And even the "service industry" has ceased to see me as an individual to be served; to even them I have become an account number to be exploited for maximum profit.
It is tiring. Just once we would like to be greeted with genuine joy, to be treated as one deserving respect, to be treated as a child of God. But it takes more than name tags (though they help) and greeters to practice hospitality. It takes room. It requires us to make our hearts, and our expectations expansive enough for the unexpected other.
It requires that we set aside our own expectations and comfort, and instead seek, even for a time, the comfort of the other. To do so is no easy feat. Sarah and Abraham surely did not know what would become of their expense of precious food and drink to dusty strangers. Their guests might have been merely penniless travelers who would take what was offered and move on. They might even be scouts for a band of thieves looking for an easy target. But Sarah made bread anyway, and Abraham slaughtered one of their meat animals, and space was made among their tents out of the hot sun.
Out of that space came unexpected joy and blessing, so unexpected that my sister Sarah laughed. Our own hospitality, if it is to be authentic, must be open to such surprise.
I have experienced communities of great hospitality, and communities too afraid of surprise to admit room for the other to be different than themselves. I am sure you have as well; and I am sure we both agree where we have been more comfortable. It is far easier to recognize hospitality when it is given, far easier to practice false hospitality if we lack awareness of our own selves and expectations.
Do we make an offer, joyfully and willingly, and then create space for an honest and non-coerced response? If we never find ourselves containing disbelieving laughter at the blessing which has occurred in our midst, the answer is sadly, no.
But St. Benedict knew the urgency of offering that true hospitality, for in such encounters we may meet God's own Self beside the dusty road. In such encounters Christ enters our midst. In such encounters God's promises are spoken, new life begins, resurrection happens.
The Rule, written by Benedict, practiced hospitality by making room. Guests were to be received at any hour, in fact a brother or sister was to always be ready to welcome a guest into the community. And the rules of that community were to be bent or broken for the comfort of their guest. The monk or nun who met and welcomed the other could break bread with them even if it was not meal time, was excused from their regular work or worship to offer the traveler the rest, comfort, or companionship they needed. Benedict insisted that his communities make room for the other, for the one who was different from them. In doing so, he taught, they welcomed Christ into their midst.
Our own discussions of hospitality are often tied to increasing our membership, to bringing guests into the fold and making them just like us. But the heart of hospitality demands no such outcome, in fact it is anathema to it. For hospitality must be freely offered, an open heart and place where the other may meet their needs, and then move on. If its goal is to entice the other to stay the space closes, and an opportunity is lost. This is what we must struggle with as we seek to make our congregations into places of hospitality.
Further suggested reading: Radical Hospitality: Benedict's Way of Love
Markers, and Destinations
In the sunset arguing,
young and passionate
we sit, round the holy cairn
built by our ancestors,
preserved by our fervor;
and debate its many points
of structure and of meaning;
while the old woman
who stacked handy stones
in the dawn of her days,
sees it, and nods,
and finds the turning, on
toward Home.
The Invitation to Poetry is a recurring prompt at the Abbey of the Arts. This week's prompt was a photo of a cairn, a rock pile used to mark trails, locations, and generally used as a guide post.
Freedom
For those who follow me on Facebook you will have seen this link before. It is an article about the startling response by most Norwegians to what has been termed, by the media, "their 9/11." We could learn a great deal from the Norwegians.
But, you will argue, if we all became pacifists who would protect our freedom? Isn't that why we went to war in Iraq and Afganistan? Haven't our politicians spoken long an eloquently about the need to defend freedom at home and abroad? For the secular, atheist, or those who follow a very different faith, that might be true. But for Christians the meaning of freedom is very different.
For centuries, Christian theologians have ruminated on the meaning of freedom for people of God. Paul himself started the conversation. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Irenaeus, and countless others have spoken of the freedom won for us by Christ. While the term freedom is never used in the gospels, Paul uses it frequently.
Paul's version of freedom, the Christian meaning of the word shines forth in the Norwegian response to their recent tragedy. The Norwegians laid roses, prayed, and laid to rest their dead with open arms. The first funeral to result from the tragedy, of a young immigrant from a muslim family, was carried out with solemnity by an imam and a Lutheran pastor.
While September 11th was followed by speeches by our nation's leaders crying for justice, and vowing to take the war declared on us to the enemy; Norway's leaders have called for mourning, love. In the words of one polulist party leader: "All we can do now is to go around hugging and embracing each other. This demonstrates just how united we feel right now..."
The freedom found in Christ is not the freedom to choose as we wish. It is not the freedom to respond in kind, to fill the chasm of our grief with anger and revenge. It is a different kind of freedom. It does not need to be defended, because it cannot be taken away from any who have found it. The freedom of Christians is the freedom of Paul and his churches. It is the freedom to look persecution and violence in the face, and return only love.
Because it is a freedom from fear, guilt, hopelessness, and darkness. In the midst of Stalinist Russia, Christian freedom was not quenched, and when that age came to an end it emerged once more into the light of day; to the amazement of those who do not understand it. It is the light that shines within the soul, light that no amount of darkness can overcome. It is freedom from the cycle of violence begetting violence. That cycle was broken on the cross, by one who had power to meet violence with violence but chose the way of the freedom of God. We inherit that same freedom.
It is not a freedom the world easily recognizes or understands, though wise ones of many faiths (the Dahli Lama comes to mind) would nod and agree. But it is the only true freedom, freedom that comes from surrendering to the slavery of Christ. It is the freedom required to embrace an enemy, to not respond with anger and violence in the face of threat. For those things are born of fear, hopelessness, despair; and for those who have discovered the freedom of God there is Hope, Love, and Peace that passes all understanding. Cling to that, fight with all your heart for these things, for "the sky is weeping."(Trond Gunnar Rasmussen)
May we cause it to weep over no one else's head. Amen.
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But, you will argue, if we all became pacifists who would protect our freedom? Isn't that why we went to war in Iraq and Afganistan? Haven't our politicians spoken long an eloquently about the need to defend freedom at home and abroad? For the secular, atheist, or those who follow a very different faith, that might be true. But for Christians the meaning of freedom is very different.
For centuries, Christian theologians have ruminated on the meaning of freedom for people of God. Paul himself started the conversation. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Irenaeus, and countless others have spoken of the freedom won for us by Christ. While the term freedom is never used in the gospels, Paul uses it frequently.
Romans 8.21: that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.
2 Corinthians 3.17: Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.
Galatians 5.1: For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.But neither Paul, nor a single one of our great theologians used freedom as "that thing which can be taken away from a person by a dictator or other government." Neither did they mean: "the ability to choose how to live, what labor to pursue, etc." Nor did they mean "that concept or principle which must be defended by military action."
Paul's version of freedom, the Christian meaning of the word shines forth in the Norwegian response to their recent tragedy. The Norwegians laid roses, prayed, and laid to rest their dead with open arms. The first funeral to result from the tragedy, of a young immigrant from a muslim family, was carried out with solemnity by an imam and a Lutheran pastor.
While September 11th was followed by speeches by our nation's leaders crying for justice, and vowing to take the war declared on us to the enemy; Norway's leaders have called for mourning, love. In the words of one polulist party leader: "All we can do now is to go around hugging and embracing each other. This demonstrates just how united we feel right now..."
The freedom found in Christ is not the freedom to choose as we wish. It is not the freedom to respond in kind, to fill the chasm of our grief with anger and revenge. It is a different kind of freedom. It does not need to be defended, because it cannot be taken away from any who have found it. The freedom of Christians is the freedom of Paul and his churches. It is the freedom to look persecution and violence in the face, and return only love.
Because it is a freedom from fear, guilt, hopelessness, and darkness. In the midst of Stalinist Russia, Christian freedom was not quenched, and when that age came to an end it emerged once more into the light of day; to the amazement of those who do not understand it. It is the light that shines within the soul, light that no amount of darkness can overcome. It is freedom from the cycle of violence begetting violence. That cycle was broken on the cross, by one who had power to meet violence with violence but chose the way of the freedom of God. We inherit that same freedom.
It is not a freedom the world easily recognizes or understands, though wise ones of many faiths (the Dahli Lama comes to mind) would nod and agree. But it is the only true freedom, freedom that comes from surrendering to the slavery of Christ. It is the freedom required to embrace an enemy, to not respond with anger and violence in the face of threat. For those things are born of fear, hopelessness, despair; and for those who have discovered the freedom of God there is Hope, Love, and Peace that passes all understanding. Cling to that, fight with all your heart for these things, for "the sky is weeping."(Trond Gunnar Rasmussen)
May we cause it to weep over no one else's head. Amen.
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