Thursday, February 28, 2013
John 16
This chapter, read straight through, is odd. Jesus talks in his normal veiled language, then says that soon He won't have to do that, then that moment comes but...then we don't really get that conversation.
And I wonder just how human Jesus felt the night of the Last Supper. I wonder if He felt what we all do when something hard is approaching - the need to reach out and touch others, to connect to them, and then a sudden surprise that we don't know what to say after all.
Then again, what Jesus does say simply is that the world will reject his apostles just as we rejected Him. He warns them that tough times are ahead. Perhaps it was that that they were not ready to hear - that they weren't going to be the heralded saviors of their people. There would have been suffering along the path of freeing Israel from Roman rule, but it would have been of an entirely different kind.
Family and friends would not have turned on them and driven them out. James would not have been stoned in Jerusalem itself. They would not have been scattered to the far corners of the wide world - alone until they spread the gospel.
Perhaps what Jesus had to wait for was for them to be ready to hear that they're lives would be hard - just as Jesus's life was about to get very, very hard.
That they would scatter and Jesus would die, but that it was okay. He made sure that they knew in advance that they were forgiven, that it was okay, that they would find not only each other once again but that He would return.
If they could have believed that at last, they would have suffered less. We are blessed to have the opportunity to know that this suffering is temporary, that we are scattered now but that we will be brought together and reunited with Jesus.
Thursday, 28 February 2013
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
John 15
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
John 15
I love the story of the vine and the branches, and I love the fact that it takes place at the Last Supper. This the teaching that Jesus felt the need to make sure His apostles understood right before the Crucifixion.
But I find my brain catching on another part of this chapter today, and, in the grand tradition of the blog, I am going to go with what catches my attention.
I can't help thinking that this, right here, might explain the Fox News War on Christmas nonsense that pops up every now and again.
Is there a kind of vague unease about how Christianity is the most popular religion in the world? To the idea of a billion Catholics out of six billion and many more Protestants? Can you even persecute and oppress 1/6 of the population? I suppose by the numbers game, yes, you could, but...
We aren't persecuted, whatever people occasionally start railing at Facebook, for our beliefs in America, at least. We just aren't. None of the noise you hear to the contrary is what Jesus is talking about here - we don't to get enforce our virtues and morals on others using the law, no, and we don't get to overtly put our stamp on political, secular events.
But then who is persecuted now? Who is persecuted as Jesus was persecuted - who, as I thought about so much in the past two chapters - is so dangerous now that we think the world would be more stable and safe without them? That makes those who benefit from the status quo shake in their boots?
Well, lots of people, but the ones that seem to have their hearts in the right place are the really radical do-gooders trying to rock the boat.
And I just...I wish Christians were leading this charge. I wish the world didn't know what to do with us. I wish the world wished that we would just shut up about how messed up it is (not about all the rest of the things we can't shut up about). I wish the world thought we were radical and dangerous and trying to mess everything up.
Because the world is in a real mess. And we should be like Jesus, trying to fix it. We should be leading the charge to overthrow oppression and help our fellow man and being so dangerous to the entrenched ways of doing things that hurt people in ways we've all come to quietly, passive accept.
That's what we should be doing and - to get part of the vine story in here - perhaps that's why we need to be pruned and have branches cut away. We need to have everything that keeps us from being those people cut away. Maybe that's why we are told to give up everything we have and give it to the poor, because it's easier to be a radical when you have nothing. People make that joke all the time to dismiss radicals as moochers or fringe-dwellers. So of course they want to change the system. But it's so HARD to be radical when you have house payments and student loan payments and you want to appear cheerful and productive to prospective employers who might be watching you on Facebook.
It's so hard to be radical and shake things up when you are clawing your way up the social ladder or - worse! - you benefit from the status quo's system of rewarding and oppressing.
Perhaps that's why his followers were told to have only sandals and a walking stick. Because everything else is in a conspiracy to shut you down and make you so dependent on and blind to the terrible status quo that you don't make noise about how things should be different. So you don't start getting persecuted in reality.
I imagine it's so much easier to weather persecution when you have nothing.
John 15
I love the story of the vine and the branches, and I love the fact that it takes place at the Last Supper. This the teaching that Jesus felt the need to make sure His apostles understood right before the Crucifixion.
But I find my brain catching on another part of this chapter today, and, in the grand tradition of the blog, I am going to go with what catches my attention.
I can't help thinking that this, right here, might explain the Fox News War on Christmas nonsense that pops up every now and again.
Is there a kind of vague unease about how Christianity is the most popular religion in the world? To the idea of a billion Catholics out of six billion and many more Protestants? Can you even persecute and oppress 1/6 of the population? I suppose by the numbers game, yes, you could, but...
We aren't persecuted, whatever people occasionally start railing at Facebook, for our beliefs in America, at least. We just aren't. None of the noise you hear to the contrary is what Jesus is talking about here - we don't to get enforce our virtues and morals on others using the law, no, and we don't get to overtly put our stamp on political, secular events.
But then who is persecuted now? Who is persecuted as Jesus was persecuted - who, as I thought about so much in the past two chapters - is so dangerous now that we think the world would be more stable and safe without them? That makes those who benefit from the status quo shake in their boots?
Well, lots of people, but the ones that seem to have their hearts in the right place are the really radical do-gooders trying to rock the boat.
And I just...I wish Christians were leading this charge. I wish the world didn't know what to do with us. I wish the world wished that we would just shut up about how messed up it is (not about all the rest of the things we can't shut up about). I wish the world thought we were radical and dangerous and trying to mess everything up.
Because the world is in a real mess. And we should be like Jesus, trying to fix it. We should be leading the charge to overthrow oppression and help our fellow man and being so dangerous to the entrenched ways of doing things that hurt people in ways we've all come to quietly, passive accept.
That's what we should be doing and - to get part of the vine story in here - perhaps that's why we need to be pruned and have branches cut away. We need to have everything that keeps us from being those people cut away. Maybe that's why we are told to give up everything we have and give it to the poor, because it's easier to be a radical when you have nothing. People make that joke all the time to dismiss radicals as moochers or fringe-dwellers. So of course they want to change the system. But it's so HARD to be radical when you have house payments and student loan payments and you want to appear cheerful and productive to prospective employers who might be watching you on Facebook.
It's so hard to be radical and shake things up when you are clawing your way up the social ladder or - worse! - you benefit from the status quo's system of rewarding and oppressing.
Perhaps that's why his followers were told to have only sandals and a walking stick. Because everything else is in a conspiracy to shut you down and make you so dependent on and blind to the terrible status quo that you don't make noise about how things should be different. So you don't start getting persecuted in reality.
I imagine it's so much easier to weather persecution when you have nothing.
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
John 14
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
John 14
You can just feel Jesus talking way over their heads in this. He's way over my head too, and I have the benefit of knowing what's going to happen and years of people discussing and parsing what these verses mean.
But Jesus says here that that's okay. We're not equipped to really understand it with words. Words aren't built to carry the kind of meaning and Truth that He's dealing with. That's what the Holy Spirit is for. And the world cannot accept the Holy Spirit, but He will be with us always.
Perhaps a big part of the problem is that there just aren't words for the Holy Spirit.
I remember when my father first died, my mom spent a good deal of time wanting me to write his biography - gather stories and talk to people and write up a story, and I even made a few notes. But I always knew I really, really didn't want to do that. And I finally said the two main reasons - at first, because I couldn't handle it, and second, because when I put a story into words, I experience it more in words than in the sense memory itself. So I didn't want to replace all my memories of my dad with just words about my dad.
Because I knew the words would be hollow in comparison. They aren't built to do the work that would be needed to equal the memories.
There are moments in my spiritual life that I'm likewise afraid to touch with words and even clear-headed thoughts feel like too rough a touch - like they might spoil and make smaller something...better. Precious was the word that tried to happen there, but I could feel it not being right.
I can feel the words here not being right, not being enough, not being...something there aren't words for. Not being something that could make it clear and could make it click. Not something that could work.
Something we only see in glimpses that are beyond words. Something that lives in our chests, and I don't just mean "our hearts." I mean the thing that bursts forth into sudden tears sometimes when there's something too beautiful or too true that suddenly shifts into place. I mean the thing that aches even when my feet and mind are anxious to turn our rough and rude thoughts from Church things.
Words are not enough for some ideas, but they can help you reach the part that does matter. That's what I have to believe, since my gift is words. But that's why you can really believe me when I tell you, sometimes things are too precious to try to put them in mere words.
And I can never decide if it's part of the grand gift Jesus gave of becoming less than omniscient omnipotent God, becoming a limited human, that He is the Word - or if it's the promise that there are words out there big enough. Of course our little words are hollow substitutes. Somewhere, there are perfect words for this - there is the Word.
The Word, who can make all this fit and make sense and be a part of some discernible whole. The Word, who made us and sustains us and understands us and all the rest of it enough to hold it. Enough that it only makes it more what it really is. The way the right words sometimes do for more ordinary things. The way words like "wife" or "love" or "dance" somehow change what was before something less wonderful.
There's a Word that can do that for us and for all the things too precious for our little words.
John 14
You can just feel Jesus talking way over their heads in this. He's way over my head too, and I have the benefit of knowing what's going to happen and years of people discussing and parsing what these verses mean.
But Jesus says here that that's okay. We're not equipped to really understand it with words. Words aren't built to carry the kind of meaning and Truth that He's dealing with. That's what the Holy Spirit is for. And the world cannot accept the Holy Spirit, but He will be with us always.
Perhaps a big part of the problem is that there just aren't words for the Holy Spirit.
I remember when my father first died, my mom spent a good deal of time wanting me to write his biography - gather stories and talk to people and write up a story, and I even made a few notes. But I always knew I really, really didn't want to do that. And I finally said the two main reasons - at first, because I couldn't handle it, and second, because when I put a story into words, I experience it more in words than in the sense memory itself. So I didn't want to replace all my memories of my dad with just words about my dad.
Because I knew the words would be hollow in comparison. They aren't built to do the work that would be needed to equal the memories.
There are moments in my spiritual life that I'm likewise afraid to touch with words and even clear-headed thoughts feel like too rough a touch - like they might spoil and make smaller something...better. Precious was the word that tried to happen there, but I could feel it not being right.
I can feel the words here not being right, not being enough, not being...something there aren't words for. Not being something that could make it clear and could make it click. Not something that could work.
Something we only see in glimpses that are beyond words. Something that lives in our chests, and I don't just mean "our hearts." I mean the thing that bursts forth into sudden tears sometimes when there's something too beautiful or too true that suddenly shifts into place. I mean the thing that aches even when my feet and mind are anxious to turn our rough and rude thoughts from Church things.
Words are not enough for some ideas, but they can help you reach the part that does matter. That's what I have to believe, since my gift is words. But that's why you can really believe me when I tell you, sometimes things are too precious to try to put them in mere words.
And I can never decide if it's part of the grand gift Jesus gave of becoming less than omniscient omnipotent God, becoming a limited human, that He is the Word - or if it's the promise that there are words out there big enough. Of course our little words are hollow substitutes. Somewhere, there are perfect words for this - there is the Word.
The Word, who can make all this fit and make sense and be a part of some discernible whole. The Word, who made us and sustains us and understands us and all the rest of it enough to hold it. Enough that it only makes it more what it really is. The way the right words sometimes do for more ordinary things. The way words like "wife" or "love" or "dance" somehow change what was before something less wonderful.
There's a Word that can do that for us and for all the things too precious for our little words.
Monday, 25 February 2013
John 13
Monday, February 23, 2013
John 13
Reading about the washing of the feet, I often think I am focusing on the wrong part of the story. But I have washed feet at the Holy Thursday Mass and I have had my feet washed. I have washed feet at retreats as well and had my feet washed. And let me tell you, I feel a whole lot more comfortable washing the feet than having them washed.
I remember even the first time, as a very young person, having my feet washed on the altar at St. Anne's, I wished I was the altar server assisting the priest instead. It seemed a better thing to be doing.
Something I suppose we should remember in the more subtle interactions of our lives - where we often are happy to have our feet washed without reciprocation.
But today I was reminded of a friend of mine's evaluation of a fellow actor in Staunton. My friend and I were discussing why this clearly talented actor was such a difficult scene partner to work with. After all, I said, she is always giving her partners something to play off of (this is a wonderful trait I remember complaining was absent in my own scene partner for the class). My friend pointed out that, yes, she gave her partners something to work with, but she never took anything she was given.
I hope this makes sense to non-theatre folk. But there is a kind of selfishness and vanity in never taking the help of your scene partner. When we say our scene partner is giving us something to work with, we mean acting and connecting with us and trying to communicate with us. It's a little difficult to describe, but it's easy to see onstage. Someone animated and specific and talking to us. We also mean making bold choices so that we have something to play off of - probably this most of all.
But this actor had an entirely different problem. Whatever interesting, bold, animated thing that her scene partner did, this actor would not change what she did in response to them. A million things were going on inside her head, and she would willingly offer them to her scene partner. But she never listened enough to change her plan in response to what her scene partner gave her.
I have had a friend who I felt saw herself this way - as the one constantly giving in the friendship. In all of her friendships. In a way that I felt was unfair, really, because I felt I metaphorically washed her feet as well. But you cannot have a true connection without being willing to play both parts.
Jesus explains this to Peter here. First, that he must let Jesus wash his feet, and then that he must wash the feet of others. You have to be able to do both. You have to be willing to be taken care of and loved. You have to be willing to be helped and taught.
The Commencement address at my MFA graduation focused on this same aspect of charitable work. You have to listen to the community and then help them do what THEY know they need. You have to wash their feet and allow them to wash your feet. Otherwise, you are just trying to be Jesus in the wrong sense. You are trying to be the hero, not to do good. Which is the moral the end of The Dark Knight dresses up in all its superhero movie patter - you don't want to be a good person (you don't want to be thought of as a good person) first and foremost; first and foremost you must want to do good.
And to do good, you have to let others wash your feet. You must let others have the less awkward position from time to time. You must let others feel the respect for and need you have of them. You must be willing to need others and appreciate others, give them the opportunity to serve you and feel in control and capable of helping you. There is something so wonderfully empowering about helping someone. You can't hog that feeling.
A measure of a good relationship of any kind:
Do I wash their feet as often as they wash mine? Do I allow them to wash mine?
You cannot become your best self entirely on your own. To be clean, you must be washed.
John 13
Reading about the washing of the feet, I often think I am focusing on the wrong part of the story. But I have washed feet at the Holy Thursday Mass and I have had my feet washed. I have washed feet at retreats as well and had my feet washed. And let me tell you, I feel a whole lot more comfortable washing the feet than having them washed.
I remember even the first time, as a very young person, having my feet washed on the altar at St. Anne's, I wished I was the altar server assisting the priest instead. It seemed a better thing to be doing.
Something I suppose we should remember in the more subtle interactions of our lives - where we often are happy to have our feet washed without reciprocation.
But today I was reminded of a friend of mine's evaluation of a fellow actor in Staunton. My friend and I were discussing why this clearly talented actor was such a difficult scene partner to work with. After all, I said, she is always giving her partners something to play off of (this is a wonderful trait I remember complaining was absent in my own scene partner for the class). My friend pointed out that, yes, she gave her partners something to work with, but she never took anything she was given.
I hope this makes sense to non-theatre folk. But there is a kind of selfishness and vanity in never taking the help of your scene partner. When we say our scene partner is giving us something to work with, we mean acting and connecting with us and trying to communicate with us. It's a little difficult to describe, but it's easy to see onstage. Someone animated and specific and talking to us. We also mean making bold choices so that we have something to play off of - probably this most of all.
But this actor had an entirely different problem. Whatever interesting, bold, animated thing that her scene partner did, this actor would not change what she did in response to them. A million things were going on inside her head, and she would willingly offer them to her scene partner. But she never listened enough to change her plan in response to what her scene partner gave her.
I have had a friend who I felt saw herself this way - as the one constantly giving in the friendship. In all of her friendships. In a way that I felt was unfair, really, because I felt I metaphorically washed her feet as well. But you cannot have a true connection without being willing to play both parts.
Jesus explains this to Peter here. First, that he must let Jesus wash his feet, and then that he must wash the feet of others. You have to be able to do both. You have to be willing to be taken care of and loved. You have to be willing to be helped and taught.
The Commencement address at my MFA graduation focused on this same aspect of charitable work. You have to listen to the community and then help them do what THEY know they need. You have to wash their feet and allow them to wash your feet. Otherwise, you are just trying to be Jesus in the wrong sense. You are trying to be the hero, not to do good. Which is the moral the end of The Dark Knight dresses up in all its superhero movie patter - you don't want to be a good person (you don't want to be thought of as a good person) first and foremost; first and foremost you must want to do good.
And to do good, you have to let others wash your feet. You must let others have the less awkward position from time to time. You must let others feel the respect for and need you have of them. You must be willing to need others and appreciate others, give them the opportunity to serve you and feel in control and capable of helping you. There is something so wonderfully empowering about helping someone. You can't hog that feeling.
A measure of a good relationship of any kind:
Do I wash their feet as often as they wash mine? Do I allow them to wash mine?
You cannot become your best self entirely on your own. To be clean, you must be washed.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
John 12
Sunday, February 24, 2013
John 12
It seems amazing to me that we're already on Jesus's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. But then, so much of John is devoted to the Last Supper teaching.
A little detail was dropped in this chapter. The Chief Priests plotted to kill Lazarus as well, the living proof of Jesus's status with God. No doubt this is why Jesus warned the parents of the girl He brought back to life to keep things quiet. But what ever happened to Lazarus? Did he, like Jesus, fall victim to the plotting of the Chief Priests? Did he live to be a witness to Jesus?
Something makes me think Lazarus was a victim of the Chief Priests. Perhaps just that he did not become the most successful converter of the people of Judea and Galilee, having - after all - been personally brought back from the dead by Jesus. Being Jesus's close friend. The apostles were special, but really, how can you compete with that?
Or perhaps it's just that no one ever wrote that story.
I think the Chief Priests genuinely thought that their dilemma was complex and thorny. I'm sure there were many good men who were convinced they were saving the Jewish nation among them. I can imagine the terror of seeing "all the world" flocking to a radical preacher intent on completely upending the basic moral foundation of the world, making war on their way of life, and destroying the current power structure of the church. I can imagine think that Jesus's teachings are radical and dangerous. I can imagine thinking that everything would be better if He would just shut up.
I can even imagine convincing yourself that it would do everyone a favor to shut Him up.
But when you find yourself in a thorny moral web, I think we can learn from this story an excellent way to double check your positions and decisions. Hollywood often provides us with this tactic as well, although all too often as a comedic moment before the original decision is reinforced. Have someone say your position back to you in objective terms, with none of the excuses and justifications or even surrounding circumstances.
You want to kill a man because he brought another man back to life. You also want to kill the man he brought back to life.
Who is more likely to be on the right side here - the man who brought someone back to life or you, who want to kill that same man?
It's an easy target, of course, but I feel like the story we get so often these days is that things are complicated. Moral universes are complex and full of gray areas. We can live our whole lives thinking drone strikes are necessary and even the relative good. We can spend our whole lives convinced we are the good guys in the story as we wreak havoc on other people's lives and - worse - do absolutely nothing as people suffer.
Worse, we've trained ourselves to laugh when people point out the blunt truths to us. We should listen, and think, and cut through the web we have woven around right and wrong. The court jester became the fool, the one who can tell the king the simple truths of his seemingly complicated world. Everybody laughs, and we forget to think.
Am I the bad guy here?
[Also, as a bonus for Sunday, here is the comedy version of this point: here]
John 12
It seems amazing to me that we're already on Jesus's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. But then, so much of John is devoted to the Last Supper teaching.
A little detail was dropped in this chapter. The Chief Priests plotted to kill Lazarus as well, the living proof of Jesus's status with God. No doubt this is why Jesus warned the parents of the girl He brought back to life to keep things quiet. But what ever happened to Lazarus? Did he, like Jesus, fall victim to the plotting of the Chief Priests? Did he live to be a witness to Jesus?
Something makes me think Lazarus was a victim of the Chief Priests. Perhaps just that he did not become the most successful converter of the people of Judea and Galilee, having - after all - been personally brought back from the dead by Jesus. Being Jesus's close friend. The apostles were special, but really, how can you compete with that?
Or perhaps it's just that no one ever wrote that story.
I think the Chief Priests genuinely thought that their dilemma was complex and thorny. I'm sure there were many good men who were convinced they were saving the Jewish nation among them. I can imagine the terror of seeing "all the world" flocking to a radical preacher intent on completely upending the basic moral foundation of the world, making war on their way of life, and destroying the current power structure of the church. I can imagine think that Jesus's teachings are radical and dangerous. I can imagine thinking that everything would be better if He would just shut up.
I can even imagine convincing yourself that it would do everyone a favor to shut Him up.
But when you find yourself in a thorny moral web, I think we can learn from this story an excellent way to double check your positions and decisions. Hollywood often provides us with this tactic as well, although all too often as a comedic moment before the original decision is reinforced. Have someone say your position back to you in objective terms, with none of the excuses and justifications or even surrounding circumstances.
You want to kill a man because he brought another man back to life. You also want to kill the man he brought back to life.
Who is more likely to be on the right side here - the man who brought someone back to life or you, who want to kill that same man?
It's an easy target, of course, but I feel like the story we get so often these days is that things are complicated. Moral universes are complex and full of gray areas. We can live our whole lives thinking drone strikes are necessary and even the relative good. We can spend our whole lives convinced we are the good guys in the story as we wreak havoc on other people's lives and - worse - do absolutely nothing as people suffer.
Worse, we've trained ourselves to laugh when people point out the blunt truths to us. We should listen, and think, and cut through the web we have woven around right and wrong. The court jester became the fool, the one who can tell the king the simple truths of his seemingly complicated world. Everybody laughs, and we forget to think.
Am I the bad guy here?
[Also, as a bonus for Sunday, here is the comedy version of this point: here]
Saturday, 23 February 2013
John 11
Saturday, February 23, 2013
John 11
This is another beautiful story I have written about before - Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. And I had planned to wax philosophical about (try to riddle out a lesson from) the two responses of Martha and Mary - the difference between whom the other famous story about them so well demonstrates.
Martha: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died, but even now God will grant whatever you ask of him."
Mary: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
There's something fascinating about my confirmation saint in this - in Martha's belief that Jesus could still save her family, in her need to express her continuing faith. In her ability to accept Jesus's decision not to save Lazarus. Where Mary, who listened at his feet while Martha worked, says only that Jesus could have stopped it.
But then, perhaps Martha and Jesus simply needed more words than Mary and Jesus.
What really struck me anew in this chapter, however, was the account of the High Priests' reactions (and not just because for the first time I wonder how John found out about all of this). One of the priests argues this as a reason to shut Jesus down.
But that's what's so interesting - the common people of Judea and Galilee seem to be crying out for a Messiah to lead them out from under the yoke of Rome - just as has always happened before. There are so many stories about them trying to make Jesus king, and, well, Barrabas had followers even if he wasn't to be the one they set free instead of Jesus.
Did the Chief Priests simply understand that Rome was a different beast than the comparatively piddling empires that had captured the Jewish nation before? Did they realize what a rare license Rome offered them in allowing their holy places to stand - a policy which flew in direct contrast to their treatment of local religions in every other conquered place? Did they not believe that God would allow them to conquer?
Were they of so little faith? Or did they simply lack hope? Or did they simply want to preserve the status quo that worked so in their favor?
Why did they - in contrast to the people - fear any uprising against Rome so much that they would sacrifice a charismatic holy man who clearly had God's ear? Here it's not about His message or His Sabbath habits or His threat to their power. At least explicitly. It's about how He'll stir the people up - and the Chief Priests believe the only possible result from that is Rome cracking down hard, and no longer indulging the varying religion practices of this little corner of the empire.
They didn't think they were living in the time of miracles. They thought the days of God sweeping in to vanquish their enemies (like, say, Egypt at its height - which was still a HUGE geopolitical power in the world, mind you). Those were the days of olde, the days of Scripture. The stories you tell about long ago. You don't see signs and wonders like that now.
They were living in the time of the Christ, and they thought the days of real signs and wonders were long past.
We always think the days of miracles are over, that we live in a sadder and crueler and realer world now. Back in the days of wonders, they thought so too.
The Time of Miracles is always now.
John 11
This is another beautiful story I have written about before - Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. And I had planned to wax philosophical about (try to riddle out a lesson from) the two responses of Martha and Mary - the difference between whom the other famous story about them so well demonstrates.
Martha: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died, but even now God will grant whatever you ask of him."
Mary: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
There's something fascinating about my confirmation saint in this - in Martha's belief that Jesus could still save her family, in her need to express her continuing faith. In her ability to accept Jesus's decision not to save Lazarus. Where Mary, who listened at his feet while Martha worked, says only that Jesus could have stopped it.
But then, perhaps Martha and Jesus simply needed more words than Mary and Jesus.
What really struck me anew in this chapter, however, was the account of the High Priests' reactions (and not just because for the first time I wonder how John found out about all of this). One of the priests argues this as a reason to shut Jesus down.
This isn't only interesting because of the justification for shutting down a clearly holy man by claiming it's protecting the Temple, but because of the response to Rome. There's no denial of Jesus's stature as a holy man in this conversation amongst the holy men of Jerusalem, unlike last time. This is all about damage control - about the dangerous fanatic who, though holy, will wreck the entire game and possibly get everyone killed.
But that's what's so interesting - the common people of Judea and Galilee seem to be crying out for a Messiah to lead them out from under the yoke of Rome - just as has always happened before. There are so many stories about them trying to make Jesus king, and, well, Barrabas had followers even if he wasn't to be the one they set free instead of Jesus.
Did the Chief Priests simply understand that Rome was a different beast than the comparatively piddling empires that had captured the Jewish nation before? Did they realize what a rare license Rome offered them in allowing their holy places to stand - a policy which flew in direct contrast to their treatment of local religions in every other conquered place? Did they not believe that God would allow them to conquer?
Were they of so little faith? Or did they simply lack hope? Or did they simply want to preserve the status quo that worked so in their favor?
Why did they - in contrast to the people - fear any uprising against Rome so much that they would sacrifice a charismatic holy man who clearly had God's ear? Here it's not about His message or His Sabbath habits or His threat to their power. At least explicitly. It's about how He'll stir the people up - and the Chief Priests believe the only possible result from that is Rome cracking down hard, and no longer indulging the varying religion practices of this little corner of the empire.
They didn't think they were living in the time of miracles. They thought the days of God sweeping in to vanquish their enemies (like, say, Egypt at its height - which was still a HUGE geopolitical power in the world, mind you). Those were the days of olde, the days of Scripture. The stories you tell about long ago. You don't see signs and wonders like that now.
They were living in the time of the Christ, and they thought the days of real signs and wonders were long past.
We always think the days of miracles are over, that we live in a sadder and crueler and realer world now. Back in the days of wonders, they thought so too.
The Time of Miracles is always now.
Friday, 22 February 2013
John 10
Friday, February 22, 2013
John 10
This is a somewhat contradictory chapter. Jesus starts out with a parable (and then explains the parable) saying that His sheep will always know His voice, will not follow all the thieve and pretenders who try to sneak in to win the flock away, and that as the good shepherd He will lay down His life for His sheep.
Perhaps the most comforting part to me is:
So...why doesn't the flock hear His call? Jesus doesn't mention any goats mixed in with the sheep in this parable - there's no mention at all of any exclusion actually or any special status of these sheep besides, I suppose, that they are in the same paddock. Jesus even makes a point of saying that there are sheep not "of this flock" that will also follow His voice.
I wonder if part of the ur-story of the Gospel of John is that Jesus is irresistible one-to-one, when He calls our individual names (as He mentions the Good Shepherd doing), but in groups we have our defenses ready. As a whole, we resist. As a flock, we do not know how to follow.
Which is quite the opposite of the way that outsiders think of those in religion, which this evening I find quite a charming quirk of reality.
There are endless secular versions of this truism. "A person is smart, people are dumb, panicky dangerous animals and you know it." - Men in Black. Mob mentality studies tell us this all the time. It's why so much of my childhood was spent in well-meaning motivational programs aimed at countering peer pressure (good luck with that).
One of the reasons I have always felt so blessed by God is that I have felt a personal, individual connection to Him. I see my mother's faith blossom in sharing it with others, but I have always felt closer to God when otherwise alone, when my faith remains largely private. An odd thought to express on a blog, yes, but I don't have many readers.
I have always been called. I have always felt that - however incredibly - He knows my name.
But what is it about us that we cannot be called together? Is there just no way to meaningfully change the lives of an entire group at once? Is that the lesson - to set out to change the world on an individual basis? To think not in terms of large numbers but individual acts and people?
That sounds like a wonderful thing to ponder this Lent.
Although perhaps I should stop assigning myself things to "ponder this Lent". If nothing else, it's something of a dead giveaway that I don't know how to end the meditation for this day's blog post.
John 10
This is a somewhat contradictory chapter. Jesus starts out with a parable (and then explains the parable) saying that His sheep will always know His voice, will not follow all the thieve and pretenders who try to sneak in to win the flock away, and that as the good shepherd He will lay down His life for His sheep.
Perhaps the most comforting part to me is:
28 I give them eternal life; they will never be lost and no one will ever steal them from my hand.The Good Shepherd part is the most well-known, but afterward, the Jews are deeply divided about what Jesus said. Many accuse Him again of blasphemy, and even when they grant the good works He has done, they decry His words. Jesus argues back with the Scripture, but they do not want to hear it.
So...why doesn't the flock hear His call? Jesus doesn't mention any goats mixed in with the sheep in this parable - there's no mention at all of any exclusion actually or any special status of these sheep besides, I suppose, that they are in the same paddock. Jesus even makes a point of saying that there are sheep not "of this flock" that will also follow His voice.
I wonder if part of the ur-story of the Gospel of John is that Jesus is irresistible one-to-one, when He calls our individual names (as He mentions the Good Shepherd doing), but in groups we have our defenses ready. As a whole, we resist. As a flock, we do not know how to follow.
Which is quite the opposite of the way that outsiders think of those in religion, which this evening I find quite a charming quirk of reality.
There are endless secular versions of this truism. "A person is smart, people are dumb, panicky dangerous animals and you know it." - Men in Black. Mob mentality studies tell us this all the time. It's why so much of my childhood was spent in well-meaning motivational programs aimed at countering peer pressure (good luck with that).
One of the reasons I have always felt so blessed by God is that I have felt a personal, individual connection to Him. I see my mother's faith blossom in sharing it with others, but I have always felt closer to God when otherwise alone, when my faith remains largely private. An odd thought to express on a blog, yes, but I don't have many readers.
I have always been called. I have always felt that - however incredibly - He knows my name.
But what is it about us that we cannot be called together? Is there just no way to meaningfully change the lives of an entire group at once? Is that the lesson - to set out to change the world on an individual basis? To think not in terms of large numbers but individual acts and people?
That sounds like a wonderful thing to ponder this Lent.
Although perhaps I should stop assigning myself things to "ponder this Lent". If nothing else, it's something of a dead giveaway that I don't know how to end the meditation for this day's blog post.
Thursday, 21 February 2013
John 9
Thursday, February 21, 2013
John 9
The story of the man born blind feels like a parable of false belief. A parable warning all religions what can go wrong. The two worst things that a religion can do:
1) designate certain people as okay to hate - so that you can feel holy while unleashing your worst, most prejudiced, least charitable self
2) refuse to see grace because it does not come in the form you expected - believe that tradition is more important than people.
We start with the question - the man born blind, was it for his sin or his parents? I imagine follow up questions would have been: if him, is it sins he will commit or can a baby commit grevious sins? Would he have committed the sins if not for the born blind part? Is that some kind of divine entrapment? And if it was his parents, is that fair? Also, is the punishment on them that he's a burden and a shame to them? If so, wouldn't it be more of a shame if this point of doctrine were quite clear?
Just, you know, to remind us why that's ridiculous. Why it is ridiculous to find it okay to judge and hate a man born blind - as if his sin caused his problem and therefore he does not deserve our pity.
As part of the omnipresent project to designate only certain people as real people. This fear that there's not enough to go around, that you have to step on people to get what you want, and how do you live with that? So some people are designated not "real people" and that solves the problem. It's why it's so hard to stamp out racism, xenophobia, sexism - they are easy ways to cast out huge swaths of people in one fell swoop!
And Jesus says, "No! That's not how it works!" and proves it by healing the blind man.
And what should have happened is that Jesus uses this to teach us how we got it wrong.
But we like our slaves and our subservient women and our evil Gentiles and our unpitied beggars. So what's going on here can't be that we never should have been oppressing the blind man in the first place. That cannot be it, because that would mean changing the way we live our lives.
And admitting that we haven't always been good people. We sacrificing being good people in order to not have to admit that we don't always behave well. Poor bargain.
So the scribes and Pharisees run around like crazy, bringing up arcane rules and scorning anyone who tries to inject the common sense and logic that they know lead to the conclusion that they have to change and stop oppressing blind people. They first try to argue, then, when they are losing the argument because of supernatural testimony of God Himself, they dismiss the messenger and ignore the proof.
Why do we do this? What are we so afraid of?
That we have been oppressors unjustly? Because didn't we know, deep down, that it was always unjust? That it was never the right thing to do? Haven't we always suspected that if the standard of blindness for sin was the real measuring stick we might not have such good night vision ourselves? Haven't we all wondered if this can really be right?
Or maybe we haven't, and what God is asking is just hard. To suddenly stand back and be shown our society - the truths we've always accepted, the rules we've always lived by, as wrong and hurtful. To think of them not as things that have always and must always be, but things that we actively choose and can therefore stop.
No, it is a hard thing that God asks of us. That is why He gives us such signs to accompany his explanations. But what will we say on Judgement Day if we ignore the oppression even when we have been shown it? What will we say if we dismiss the signs for leading down a path too hard and narrow to follow?
John 9
The story of the man born blind feels like a parable of false belief. A parable warning all religions what can go wrong. The two worst things that a religion can do:
1) designate certain people as okay to hate - so that you can feel holy while unleashing your worst, most prejudiced, least charitable self
2) refuse to see grace because it does not come in the form you expected - believe that tradition is more important than people.
We start with the question - the man born blind, was it for his sin or his parents? I imagine follow up questions would have been: if him, is it sins he will commit or can a baby commit grevious sins? Would he have committed the sins if not for the born blind part? Is that some kind of divine entrapment? And if it was his parents, is that fair? Also, is the punishment on them that he's a burden and a shame to them? If so, wouldn't it be more of a shame if this point of doctrine were quite clear?
Just, you know, to remind us why that's ridiculous. Why it is ridiculous to find it okay to judge and hate a man born blind - as if his sin caused his problem and therefore he does not deserve our pity.
As part of the omnipresent project to designate only certain people as real people. This fear that there's not enough to go around, that you have to step on people to get what you want, and how do you live with that? So some people are designated not "real people" and that solves the problem. It's why it's so hard to stamp out racism, xenophobia, sexism - they are easy ways to cast out huge swaths of people in one fell swoop!
And Jesus says, "No! That's not how it works!" and proves it by healing the blind man.
And what should have happened is that Jesus uses this to teach us how we got it wrong.
But we like our slaves and our subservient women and our evil Gentiles and our unpitied beggars. So what's going on here can't be that we never should have been oppressing the blind man in the first place. That cannot be it, because that would mean changing the way we live our lives.
And admitting that we haven't always been good people. We sacrificing being good people in order to not have to admit that we don't always behave well. Poor bargain.
So the scribes and Pharisees run around like crazy, bringing up arcane rules and scorning anyone who tries to inject the common sense and logic that they know lead to the conclusion that they have to change and stop oppressing blind people. They first try to argue, then, when they are losing the argument because of supernatural testimony of God Himself, they dismiss the messenger and ignore the proof.
Why do we do this? What are we so afraid of?
That we have been oppressors unjustly? Because didn't we know, deep down, that it was always unjust? That it was never the right thing to do? Haven't we always suspected that if the standard of blindness for sin was the real measuring stick we might not have such good night vision ourselves? Haven't we all wondered if this can really be right?
Or maybe we haven't, and what God is asking is just hard. To suddenly stand back and be shown our society - the truths we've always accepted, the rules we've always lived by, as wrong and hurtful. To think of them not as things that have always and must always be, but things that we actively choose and can therefore stop.
No, it is a hard thing that God asks of us. That is why He gives us such signs to accompany his explanations. But what will we say on Judgement Day if we ignore the oppression even when we have been shown it? What will we say if we dismiss the signs for leading down a path too hard and narrow to follow?
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
John 8
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
John 8
The Woman Caught in Adultery is an interesting one. It always makes me think of a mini-article written by Orson Scott Card (of all people) telling three different versions of the story and an irreverent joke I will not butcher.
When Jesus says, "Let he among you who has no sin be the first to cast a stone at her."
A moment later, a stone flies through the air. Jesus turns to the woman who threw the stone, and says in frustration, "Mom!"
But two things that happen later in this chapter cast additionally interesting light on this. Jesus makes a point, in the midst of His teaching after this incident, of demanding which of his accusers can charge Him with any sin. He is pointing out that He is without sin and therefore could have cast the first stone.
And the chapter ends with everyone picking up stones to throw at Him, because He compared Himself to God as if They are equals.
And you can't help thinking that they learned precisely the wrong lesson from His undercutting of the decree that saved the woman. I've always thought the declaration was something of a Catch-22 (making the joke sometimes annoying and sometimes all the more funny).
Even if there was someone without sin in that crowd, would the throwing of the stone not be a sin in itself?
And was it less about not fitting the category of "no sin" than about being the one who began the stoning? Taking personal, individual responsibility for taking the life of the woman suddenly before them - is that what really, truly stayed their hands that day? But when the crowd as a whole started reaching for rocks to stone this heretic preacher, then the guilt was everyone's and so therefore no one's.
So perhaps that is the real lesson of this story. If you would not take personal responsibility for someone's death, do not think you are absolved because that guilt is shared. Because you threw second. Because yours was not the rock that dealt the mortal blow. Your guilt is individual. You threw a stone - first or last makes no difference.
Jesus could have thrown the stone, according to His own given criteria. But He did not. He knew better. Sometimes we have to be reminded to know better. And I think one of the most powerful things you can do to curb the behaviors you will regret later, the behaviors that cause other people harm, is to remember that any time you throw the stone, you are throwing the first stone. You are throwing the stone that gives others permission to throw the second stone.
In our world today, there's lots of disavowing the consequences of our actions. We put a congresswoman in the crosshairs, but we didn't make that maniac pull the trigger. We threw the first stone, it was only a pebble, but because Jesus didn't set requirements for the second stone, the mortal blow followed our own.
We deny the consequences of our sins. We deny the consequences of our actions. We throw the first stone because we think that we, if not perfect, are righteous. We think this woman may not deserve to die for her crimes, but that a little bruise might remind her not to flout society so blatantly. We don't take responsibility for all the stones that come flying merrily after ours.
We will stone if everyone else is holding rocks. We will not stone if our toss will mean everyone starts throwing rocks. We must remember - every stone we throw is the first stone. Every stone we throw is a prelude to the mortal stone and an excuse for it - and the mortal stone itself.
John 8
The Woman Caught in Adultery is an interesting one. It always makes me think of a mini-article written by Orson Scott Card (of all people) telling three different versions of the story and an irreverent joke I will not butcher.
When Jesus says, "Let he among you who has no sin be the first to cast a stone at her."
A moment later, a stone flies through the air. Jesus turns to the woman who threw the stone, and says in frustration, "Mom!"
But two things that happen later in this chapter cast additionally interesting light on this. Jesus makes a point, in the midst of His teaching after this incident, of demanding which of his accusers can charge Him with any sin. He is pointing out that He is without sin and therefore could have cast the first stone.
And the chapter ends with everyone picking up stones to throw at Him, because He compared Himself to God as if They are equals.
And you can't help thinking that they learned precisely the wrong lesson from His undercutting of the decree that saved the woman. I've always thought the declaration was something of a Catch-22 (making the joke sometimes annoying and sometimes all the more funny).
Even if there was someone without sin in that crowd, would the throwing of the stone not be a sin in itself?
And was it less about not fitting the category of "no sin" than about being the one who began the stoning? Taking personal, individual responsibility for taking the life of the woman suddenly before them - is that what really, truly stayed their hands that day? But when the crowd as a whole started reaching for rocks to stone this heretic preacher, then the guilt was everyone's and so therefore no one's.
So perhaps that is the real lesson of this story. If you would not take personal responsibility for someone's death, do not think you are absolved because that guilt is shared. Because you threw second. Because yours was not the rock that dealt the mortal blow. Your guilt is individual. You threw a stone - first or last makes no difference.
Jesus could have thrown the stone, according to His own given criteria. But He did not. He knew better. Sometimes we have to be reminded to know better. And I think one of the most powerful things you can do to curb the behaviors you will regret later, the behaviors that cause other people harm, is to remember that any time you throw the stone, you are throwing the first stone. You are throwing the stone that gives others permission to throw the second stone.
In our world today, there's lots of disavowing the consequences of our actions. We put a congresswoman in the crosshairs, but we didn't make that maniac pull the trigger. We threw the first stone, it was only a pebble, but because Jesus didn't set requirements for the second stone, the mortal blow followed our own.
We deny the consequences of our sins. We deny the consequences of our actions. We throw the first stone because we think that we, if not perfect, are righteous. We think this woman may not deserve to die for her crimes, but that a little bruise might remind her not to flout society so blatantly. We don't take responsibility for all the stones that come flying merrily after ours.
We will stone if everyone else is holding rocks. We will not stone if our toss will mean everyone starts throwing rocks. We must remember - every stone we throw is the first stone. Every stone we throw is a prelude to the mortal stone and an excuse for it - and the mortal stone itself.
Tuesday, 19 February 2013
John 7
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
John 7
I - I...wow, let's hear that one again with a bit of context. Jesus goes up to Jerusalem for the festival when the Pharisees are already plotting to kill him and publicly teaches, shutting them down at every turn. They send guards to arrest him, and they come back empty handed, impressed by Jesus's teaching and speaking.
The response of the Pharisees is that since none of THEM believe Jesus, and no one else counts, it cannot be true!
Doesn't it just...feel like every political discussion you've ever had with a member of the tea party? Doesn't it just feel like how liberals talk about Republicans? Doesn't it just sound like...
Every religion who thinks that most of God's creatures are damned? For not being like them?
Doesn't it just hurt your heart?
Earlier in the chapter they are amazed and demanding to know who taught Jesus to read. And I am thanking the Lord God for the inspiration of Guttenberg and his printing press because the vast majority of human history is just - why? Why restrict knowledge, particularly if you think it is necessary for salvation?
I mean, I know why. I know why political parties snipe. I'm not actually confused by how the world works.
It just seems to indefensible. It just seems to impossible. It just seems like something we should have invented a way to live without before we threw all our energy into smart phones.
John 7
49 This rabble knows nothing about the Law -- they are damned.'
I - I...wow, let's hear that one again with a bit of context. Jesus goes up to Jerusalem for the festival when the Pharisees are already plotting to kill him and publicly teaches, shutting them down at every turn. They send guards to arrest him, and they come back empty handed, impressed by Jesus's teaching and speaking.
The response of the Pharisees is that since none of THEM believe Jesus, and no one else counts, it cannot be true!
49 This rabble knows nothing about the Law -- they are damned.'
Doesn't it just...feel like every political discussion you've ever had with a member of the tea party? Doesn't it just feel like how liberals talk about Republicans? Doesn't it just sound like...
Every religion who thinks that most of God's creatures are damned? For not being like them?
Doesn't it just hurt your heart?
Earlier in the chapter they are amazed and demanding to know who taught Jesus to read. And I am thanking the Lord God for the inspiration of Guttenberg and his printing press because the vast majority of human history is just - why? Why restrict knowledge, particularly if you think it is necessary for salvation?
I mean, I know why. I know why political parties snipe. I'm not actually confused by how the world works.
It just seems to indefensible. It just seems to impossible. It just seems like something we should have invented a way to live without before we threw all our energy into smart phones.
Monday, 18 February 2013
John 6
Monday, February 18, 2013
John 6
Today has been pretty miserable, as I am very sick - and that kind of active sick that makes you think about it all the time. I was about to start going on at length, but then I stopped myself.
This is my excuse for what I do not doubt will be to one degree or another missing the meat of this long and dense chapter. There's the feeding of the five thousand, the brief version of walking on water, the passage we always talk about when we explain and defend Transubstantiation, and this little gem:
Which, even given its placement beside verses that spell out the belief requirement (although not in such clear cut language as other translations), gives additional comfort and reassurance about the Gospel of Inclusion.
But what I also want to talk about today is that the end of the chapter talks about people leaving because Jesus's words are too strongly worded or strange or just hard to accept and process.
It put me in mind of a lot of my Fundamentalist Atheist friends on Facebook. One in particular is always posting memes pointing out the more ridiculous elements of religion or juxtaposing two teachings in a humorous and supposedly discrediting way.
And I've always said that sacred stories always sound crazy. Religion always sounds like nonsense and gobbledegook from the outside. Early Christians were reported as cannibals. Our sacred story is no less outlandish, really, than the Scientology alien Thetans (in fact, energy beings roaming the universe sounds downright credible in a way - we all know there's SOME kind of spark of that separates the sentient from the intelligent animals. We all know there's something that can die while a person still technically lives).
You have to be able to handle that, to reap the rewards of faith. You can't be frightened off at the crazy-sounding doctrines, at the hoops you have to jump through for RCIA (for example), you have to be willing to stay the course. That's what faith is - an abiding trust in God that all the nonsense is part of a plan we just can't see all of.
The blessings of the sacraments is a reassurance of that fact.
We have to be able to handle the crazy-sounding things, because we have felt the words of everlasting life, as Peter said. We know their truth deep down in our souls. We are the followers of Christ and the people of faith. Where else would we go?
John 6
Today has been pretty miserable, as I am very sick - and that kind of active sick that makes you think about it all the time. I was about to start going on at length, but then I stopped myself.
This is my excuse for what I do not doubt will be to one degree or another missing the meat of this long and dense chapter. There's the feeding of the five thousand, the brief version of walking on water, the passage we always talk about when we explain and defend Transubstantiation, and this little gem:
39 Now the will of him who sent me is that I should lose nothing of all that he has given to me, but that I should raise it up on the last day.
Which, even given its placement beside verses that spell out the belief requirement (although not in such clear cut language as other translations), gives additional comfort and reassurance about the Gospel of Inclusion.
But what I also want to talk about today is that the end of the chapter talks about people leaving because Jesus's words are too strongly worded or strange or just hard to accept and process.
It put me in mind of a lot of my Fundamentalist Atheist friends on Facebook. One in particular is always posting memes pointing out the more ridiculous elements of religion or juxtaposing two teachings in a humorous and supposedly discrediting way.
And I've always said that sacred stories always sound crazy. Religion always sounds like nonsense and gobbledegook from the outside. Early Christians were reported as cannibals. Our sacred story is no less outlandish, really, than the Scientology alien Thetans (in fact, energy beings roaming the universe sounds downright credible in a way - we all know there's SOME kind of spark of that separates the sentient from the intelligent animals. We all know there's something that can die while a person still technically lives).
You have to be able to handle that, to reap the rewards of faith. You can't be frightened off at the crazy-sounding doctrines, at the hoops you have to jump through for RCIA (for example), you have to be willing to stay the course. That's what faith is - an abiding trust in God that all the nonsense is part of a plan we just can't see all of.
The blessings of the sacraments is a reassurance of that fact.
We have to be able to handle the crazy-sounding things, because we have felt the words of everlasting life, as Peter said. We know their truth deep down in our souls. We are the followers of Christ and the people of faith. Where else would we go?
Sunday, 17 February 2013
John 5
Sunday, March 17, 2013
John 5
There's a lot of dense stuff to work out in John 5, so I almost feel like I'm cheating concentrating on the story that happens in the first part of the chapter. But when you're exhausted and ill is the time to let yourself slide on such things, right?
The first story in John 5 is about a pool that is apparently visited periodically by an angel who heals the first person to get into it. Jesus comes along and heals a man who's been trying to be the first one in the pool for years but never manages it because he has no one to help him.
Ouch. Just...hurts your heart, right?
I remember just kind of nodding along when my mom talked about how blessed a time it was when my dad was dying because of how the community gathered around us. In time, I've come to appreciate that. I've never eaten more or better than the year he was sick, thanks to the outpouring of food from the Church (they made a schedule after the 4 turkeys and 20 million pies on Thanksgiving "disaster"). The city of Beaumont mourned my father's passing. So many people helped us in so many ways.
So many people carried us to the pool.
How do you even find the people who have no one? Is it as simple as the ones begging under the overpass? Is that what my mom is doing with CASA?
And if I'm really committed to being a foster mother so that there are that many more kids who had someone to bring them to the pool, then I need to set some real, concrete goals about when I will consider myself ready to do this (moving out of my mom's house an obvious one). So that's my goal for Lent - to figure out what I need to accomplish to have my life together enough that I can make a commitment to helping the people who have no one reach the pool.
Suggestions for benchmarks welcome.
John 5
There's a lot of dense stuff to work out in John 5, so I almost feel like I'm cheating concentrating on the story that happens in the first part of the chapter. But when you're exhausted and ill is the time to let yourself slide on such things, right?
The first story in John 5 is about a pool that is apparently visited periodically by an angel who heals the first person to get into it. Jesus comes along and heals a man who's been trying to be the first one in the pool for years but never manages it because he has no one to help him.
Ouch. Just...hurts your heart, right?
I remember just kind of nodding along when my mom talked about how blessed a time it was when my dad was dying because of how the community gathered around us. In time, I've come to appreciate that. I've never eaten more or better than the year he was sick, thanks to the outpouring of food from the Church (they made a schedule after the 4 turkeys and 20 million pies on Thanksgiving "disaster"). The city of Beaumont mourned my father's passing. So many people helped us in so many ways.
So many people carried us to the pool.
How do you even find the people who have no one? Is it as simple as the ones begging under the overpass? Is that what my mom is doing with CASA?
And if I'm really committed to being a foster mother so that there are that many more kids who had someone to bring them to the pool, then I need to set some real, concrete goals about when I will consider myself ready to do this (moving out of my mom's house an obvious one). So that's my goal for Lent - to figure out what I need to accomplish to have my life together enough that I can make a commitment to helping the people who have no one reach the pool.
Suggestions for benchmarks welcome.
Saturday, 16 February 2013
John 4
Saturday, February 16, 2013
John 4
So, when I realized that today was the Samaritan woman at the well, I just thought - man, what else am I gonna say about this one? I feel like I've said everything it's possible (for me) to say about this story, and in multiple forms.
So I was a bit relieved when I realized that there was a second story in this chapter (John seems to do two a chapter) about the man who asked Jesus to come heal his son and who Jesus told his son would live. When he walked home, he was met along the way and told that his son had started to recover at the very hour Jesus had said, and thus he came to believe.
But what really struck me is how much more space was given to his conversation with the woman than to this miracle. And also the difference in how many it made believers of. The Samaritan town, on no greater miracle than Jesus knowing the local gossip about one of the town's less welcome members, believed from listening to Jesus - the whole town.
Saving a boy's life, in contrast, won a single family.
I've written so much about how remarkable what Jesus did for this woman was, but I think that this is pivotal to evangelization. Because one woman changed and made anew brought an entire town to God, while a wonder and miracle of God proved something only to those who had actually witnessed it. Perhaps only the man who had asked Jesus himself.
John is writing a different kind of gospel than the others, more interested in the teachings than the works, but I think this is so significant. By changing hearts, we change more people than if God came swooping in to prove Himself all the time.
John 4
So, when I realized that today was the Samaritan woman at the well, I just thought - man, what else am I gonna say about this one? I feel like I've said everything it's possible (for me) to say about this story, and in multiple forms.
So I was a bit relieved when I realized that there was a second story in this chapter (John seems to do two a chapter) about the man who asked Jesus to come heal his son and who Jesus told his son would live. When he walked home, he was met along the way and told that his son had started to recover at the very hour Jesus had said, and thus he came to believe.
But what really struck me is how much more space was given to his conversation with the woman than to this miracle. And also the difference in how many it made believers of. The Samaritan town, on no greater miracle than Jesus knowing the local gossip about one of the town's less welcome members, believed from listening to Jesus - the whole town.
Saving a boy's life, in contrast, won a single family.
I've written so much about how remarkable what Jesus did for this woman was, but I think that this is pivotal to evangelization. Because one woman changed and made anew brought an entire town to God, while a wonder and miracle of God proved something only to those who had actually witnessed it. Perhaps only the man who had asked Jesus himself.
John is writing a different kind of gospel than the others, more interested in the teachings than the works, but I think this is so significant. By changing hearts, we change more people than if God came swooping in to prove Himself all the time.
Friday, 15 February 2013
John 3
Friday, February 15, 2013
John 3
Not long ago, I was driving from San Antonio to Beaumont listening to a podcast of This American Life called "Heretic". It was about the life of a evangelical preacher who was cast out of his church and from the position of amazing power and influence for the heresy of saying that you do not need to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior to enter heaven.
When he told the story of his conversion to this point of view, I had to pull over because I started sobbing. It was in relief. A learned Biblical scholar (he was the real deal, it was clear from the story) came to the same conclusion I had reached mostly by instinct. I have since been trying to make my way through his book The Gospel of Inclusion so that I can more effectively argue and back up this doctrine.
It was an unspeakable relief and joy to have this position I have long held validated in that way.
Which is why despite the fact the the interactions with both Nicodemus and John the Baptist in this chapter are layered and fascinating and bear further scrutiny, I want to focus on this passage which comes directly after the famous John 3:16.
This passage could be seen as a rebuttal of this doctrine, but I believe it is a corroboration. For what does it mean that he who does not believe is already judged? The nonbelievers are already suffering the effects of not believing - not having the spiritual benefit of God in their lives on earth. They are huddling alone in the darkness in this world in which we are creating new and more inventive pockets of hell every day.
The benefit of belief - of religion itself - is being able to face the goodness and light in this world and claim it. The personal courage to stand with our deeds in plain sight. The blessing of knowing that it is there, that you can stand in the light - that you are meant to shine.
(Shine like the sun.)
We don't have to hide what we do, wrong and right, because we are forgiven, because we are never forsaken. Because we can find God in all of it.
Those who do not believe suffer in this life. But I do not believe they are fated to suffer eternally. In fact, the way I am impressed by the fervor of Christians who do not have the benefit of the Catholic sacraments, I am all the more impressed by those who find the courage to stand in the light, to live and do good in this world, without the help of God.
But it is wasted effort. That is the only tragedy of lack of faith. It is so much harder to shine.
John 3
Not long ago, I was driving from San Antonio to Beaumont listening to a podcast of This American Life called "Heretic". It was about the life of a evangelical preacher who was cast out of his church and from the position of amazing power and influence for the heresy of saying that you do not need to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior to enter heaven.
When he told the story of his conversion to this point of view, I had to pull over because I started sobbing. It was in relief. A learned Biblical scholar (he was the real deal, it was clear from the story) came to the same conclusion I had reached mostly by instinct. I have since been trying to make my way through his book The Gospel of Inclusion so that I can more effectively argue and back up this doctrine.
It was an unspeakable relief and joy to have this position I have long held validated in that way.
Which is why despite the fact the the interactions with both Nicodemus and John the Baptist in this chapter are layered and fascinating and bear further scrutiny, I want to focus on this passage which comes directly after the famous John 3:16.
17 For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.18 No one who believes in him will be judged; but whoever does not believe is judged already, because that person does not believe in the Name of God's only Son.19 And the judgement is this: though the light has come into the world people have preferred darkness to the light because their deeds were evil.20 And indeed, everybody who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, to prevent his actions from being shown up;21 but whoever does the truth comes out into the light, so that what he is doing may plainly appear as done in God.'
This passage could be seen as a rebuttal of this doctrine, but I believe it is a corroboration. For what does it mean that he who does not believe is already judged? The nonbelievers are already suffering the effects of not believing - not having the spiritual benefit of God in their lives on earth. They are huddling alone in the darkness in this world in which we are creating new and more inventive pockets of hell every day.
The benefit of belief - of religion itself - is being able to face the goodness and light in this world and claim it. The personal courage to stand with our deeds in plain sight. The blessing of knowing that it is there, that you can stand in the light - that you are meant to shine.
(Shine like the sun.)
We don't have to hide what we do, wrong and right, because we are forgiven, because we are never forsaken. Because we can find God in all of it.
Those who do not believe suffer in this life. But I do not believe they are fated to suffer eternally. In fact, the way I am impressed by the fervor of Christians who do not have the benefit of the Catholic sacraments, I am all the more impressed by those who find the courage to stand in the light, to live and do good in this world, without the help of God.
But it is wasted effort. That is the only tragedy of lack of faith. It is so much harder to shine.
Thursday, 14 February 2013
John 2
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Happy Valentine's Day!
John 2
It's nice that on Valentine's Day we spend our time at a wedding.
Yes, THE Wedding. At Cana.
I love making the joke when people talk about Christian denominations that swear off alcohol that Jesus's first miracle was turning water into wine, not the other way around. And I believe I've written on this blog before about how I love that Jesus's first miracle was something ordinary - not healing a life-altering disease or injury, not a big showy display. It got a married couple out of an inconvenience and embarrassment. It was a relatively little thing, but it meant a lot to individual lives.
I think that, paired with the second story in this chapter, of Jesus cleansing the Temple, it says something even more important: the small things do matter. All the little sins, all the little impurities, all the little struggles of our days - they do matter.
As a feminist and frequent Facebook poster of feminist cartoons, articles, etc. I often hear the argument that I am making too big a deal out of something small, that doesn't matter, that was not meant with any malicious intent. But I think these things do matter.
Because just as Jesus's first small miracle led to greater things, so do the small actions of our lives spread and grow and become larger, important actions.
Because it does matter if there are moneylenders in the Temple.
This is going to sound petty, and perhaps even a bit crazy, but, well, it's my blog. And I do think it's important. Because I can see how the moneylenders got to set up shop. It wasn't any intentional loosening of morals or outright greed (probably), but that only made it harder to uproot by simple means. It was probably more a matter of convenience - people need to buy their sacrifices, etc. and why not make it easily available? Is that not a good thing to do for people? And when everything started getting crazy and out of hand, well, people preach against the symptoms without attacking the disease.
The petty and crazy part: I am still upset about the tendency at the Catholic Student Center at Rice University to allow anyone to say announcements, because at the morning mass filled more with community residents than students, this becomes a time for soliciting donations for A-Thons of every stripe and even selling Girl Scout Cookies.
And I can see letting the first one go - after all, shouldn't the parish community be supporting the charity work of our fellows? But then it just becomes this awkward financial button at the end of a lovely service. It rubbed me entirely the wrong way. It was moneylenders in the Temple.
But the only way to change it, often, when it's entrenched, is to make a fuss. That's what I'm so often told about my feminist rage - why be angry about the way society is? Why not work to change it without yelling or anger?
Because sometimes it is the appropriate response. Because sometimes it is the only hope of getting people to face squarely what has become of an idea that seemed harmless. Because it does matter if there are moneylenders in the Temple, if the new couple starts their marriage by being embarrassed running out of wine.
Because the little things in our lives change everything about who we are going to become.
Happy Valentine's Day!
John 2
It's nice that on Valentine's Day we spend our time at a wedding.
Yes, THE Wedding. At Cana.
I love making the joke when people talk about Christian denominations that swear off alcohol that Jesus's first miracle was turning water into wine, not the other way around. And I believe I've written on this blog before about how I love that Jesus's first miracle was something ordinary - not healing a life-altering disease or injury, not a big showy display. It got a married couple out of an inconvenience and embarrassment. It was a relatively little thing, but it meant a lot to individual lives.
I think that, paired with the second story in this chapter, of Jesus cleansing the Temple, it says something even more important: the small things do matter. All the little sins, all the little impurities, all the little struggles of our days - they do matter.
As a feminist and frequent Facebook poster of feminist cartoons, articles, etc. I often hear the argument that I am making too big a deal out of something small, that doesn't matter, that was not meant with any malicious intent. But I think these things do matter.
Because just as Jesus's first small miracle led to greater things, so do the small actions of our lives spread and grow and become larger, important actions.
Because it does matter if there are moneylenders in the Temple.
This is going to sound petty, and perhaps even a bit crazy, but, well, it's my blog. And I do think it's important. Because I can see how the moneylenders got to set up shop. It wasn't any intentional loosening of morals or outright greed (probably), but that only made it harder to uproot by simple means. It was probably more a matter of convenience - people need to buy their sacrifices, etc. and why not make it easily available? Is that not a good thing to do for people? And when everything started getting crazy and out of hand, well, people preach against the symptoms without attacking the disease.
The petty and crazy part: I am still upset about the tendency at the Catholic Student Center at Rice University to allow anyone to say announcements, because at the morning mass filled more with community residents than students, this becomes a time for soliciting donations for A-Thons of every stripe and even selling Girl Scout Cookies.
And I can see letting the first one go - after all, shouldn't the parish community be supporting the charity work of our fellows? But then it just becomes this awkward financial button at the end of a lovely service. It rubbed me entirely the wrong way. It was moneylenders in the Temple.
But the only way to change it, often, when it's entrenched, is to make a fuss. That's what I'm so often told about my feminist rage - why be angry about the way society is? Why not work to change it without yelling or anger?
Because sometimes it is the appropriate response. Because sometimes it is the only hope of getting people to face squarely what has become of an idea that seemed harmless. Because it does matter if there are moneylenders in the Temple, if the new couple starts their marriage by being embarrassed running out of wine.
Because the little things in our lives change everything about who we are going to become.
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
John 1
February 13, 2013
Ash Wednesday
John Chapter 1
This Lent, I am going back to the beginning of the project. Rather than any fancy ideas like last year, I will read one chapter of the Bible every day and reflect on some element of it. As today, I may choose to reflect on only a single verse rather than the entire chapter. This is by no means, therefore, a complete summary of the Gospel of John.
John 1:5 "And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness could not overpower it."
I hope you, my readers, know well enough by now to know that I mean no disrespect by the comparison I am about to make. This verse reminded me of some frankly quite beautiful passages in the novelization of Revenge of the Sith (STAY WITH ME).
Besides throwing out Lucas's dialogue (to the vast improvement of every single scene), the author adds several reflections on the darkness, saying "The Dark is patient, and it always wins" as a repeated theme throughout. It talks about how the brighter the light shines, the darker the shadow, how it waits, how it endures. Then, at the end of the book, the author reveals the weakness of darkness - a single candle can put it out.
I think one of the things that makes people worry so much, be so concerned that the end times may be near, that our society is going the way of Sodom and Gomorrah, may be forgetting that. The light shines in the darkness.
Perhaps it also is one of the (many mysterious) clues to the question of why we exist at all. Why we strange, ungrateful creatures with free will were deemed so necessary by an all-powerful, all-knowing God who would of necessity know how badly we would screw everything up. There is darkness, and in it, the light.
When the light and the darkness go to war, the light always wins. Not because of anything Hollywood, but because light chases away darkness by its very existence. Yes, the darkness is what's waiting when the candle runs down, but if there is light, darkness cannot win. You cannot defeat light with darkness.
But what happens when light and dark do not go to war?
Well, they set each other off to brilliant advantage. One need only look at the sky on a clear night (out in the countryside somewhere) to see how well darkness shows the beauty of the light. And I want to make a confused metaphors about the hazy of city lights being a metaphor for, I suppose a haze of good behavior that gets lost or overlooked in the flutter of daily life? A hundred tiny, unacknowledged daily kindnesses.
Which is not to say that sin is required for beauty but that it is our imperfections, our cruel tendencies, our human frailty and evil, that sets the good that we do, the love that we show, into such brilliant relief. If we can have love and faith and hope in our condition, we burn like the stars in the sky. We are the lights in the darkness. We need only remember that the darkness cannot overpower us.
Ash Wednesday
John Chapter 1
This Lent, I am going back to the beginning of the project. Rather than any fancy ideas like last year, I will read one chapter of the Bible every day and reflect on some element of it. As today, I may choose to reflect on only a single verse rather than the entire chapter. This is by no means, therefore, a complete summary of the Gospel of John.
John 1:5 "And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness could not overpower it."
I hope you, my readers, know well enough by now to know that I mean no disrespect by the comparison I am about to make. This verse reminded me of some frankly quite beautiful passages in the novelization of Revenge of the Sith (STAY WITH ME).
Besides throwing out Lucas's dialogue (to the vast improvement of every single scene), the author adds several reflections on the darkness, saying "The Dark is patient, and it always wins" as a repeated theme throughout. It talks about how the brighter the light shines, the darker the shadow, how it waits, how it endures. Then, at the end of the book, the author reveals the weakness of darkness - a single candle can put it out.
I think one of the things that makes people worry so much, be so concerned that the end times may be near, that our society is going the way of Sodom and Gomorrah, may be forgetting that. The light shines in the darkness.
Perhaps it also is one of the (many mysterious) clues to the question of why we exist at all. Why we strange, ungrateful creatures with free will were deemed so necessary by an all-powerful, all-knowing God who would of necessity know how badly we would screw everything up. There is darkness, and in it, the light.
When the light and the darkness go to war, the light always wins. Not because of anything Hollywood, but because light chases away darkness by its very existence. Yes, the darkness is what's waiting when the candle runs down, but if there is light, darkness cannot win. You cannot defeat light with darkness.
But what happens when light and dark do not go to war?
Well, they set each other off to brilliant advantage. One need only look at the sky on a clear night (out in the countryside somewhere) to see how well darkness shows the beauty of the light. And I want to make a confused metaphors about the hazy of city lights being a metaphor for, I suppose a haze of good behavior that gets lost or overlooked in the flutter of daily life? A hundred tiny, unacknowledged daily kindnesses.
Which is not to say that sin is required for beauty but that it is our imperfections, our cruel tendencies, our human frailty and evil, that sets the good that we do, the love that we show, into such brilliant relief. If we can have love and faith and hope in our condition, we burn like the stars in the sky. We are the lights in the darkness. We need only remember that the darkness cannot overpower us.
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