Lent

Dec 10 2024

Scripture Study for

Scripture makes it clear that serving God almost inevitably brings hardship, rejection, and pain. Moses experienced it, as did Jeremiah and other prophets. People are often resistant to seeing the world from God’s perspective and living accordingly because it involves conversion and sacrifice. In this respect, Israel was no different from anyone else. In this passage from Isaiah, God’s servant experiences that typical rejection, even though he is speaking a word to the weary. The fact that he is bring good news to the people does not protect him from their violence. Yet the servant remains faithful, firm in his trust in God and sure of the divine goodness of his mission.

In his letter to the Philippians, Paul addresses a tendency among this community to seek their own interests or form “parties,” forgetting that they are all of to be “of the same mind, with the same love, united in heart” (2:2). They can do no better than to look to Christ himself as a model of humility and selflessness. It was Christ who, rather than relying on his “equality with God,” humbled himself, undergoing a shameful and painful death for the good of others. It was Christ’s humble love and obedience to God’s will for all creation that led to his glorification by God, who established him as Lord of all in heaven and on earth. In the same way, the Philippians should “shine like lights in the world” (2:15) by imitating the humble Christ who served others rather than himself.

Two unique aspects of Luke’s Passion account, both at the Last Supper, are worth briefly mentioning. The first is the placement of the quarrel among the apostles about who is the greatest. In the context of the Last Supper, the argument takes on a particular poignancy as Jesus prepares to perform his greatest act by becoming the least. There remains among the apostles, even now, a failure to grasp what Jesus is about. Shortly after this, Jesus warns the disciples that going forward they will need to carry protection (swords) because they will be “counted among the wicked [Jesus].” In response, someone points out there are two swords in the room already, after which Jesus abruptly ends the dinner (suggesting that perhaps he was speaking truthfully about the danger but not literally about the swords?). The warning here is that, far from being regarded as among the greatest, the apostles will be condemned and threatened for even speaking Jesus’ name. There will be no glory for the followers of Christ, only danger and misunderstanding.

Dec 10 2024

Jesus “Goes Low”

When I was about five years old, I remember trying to lift my dad’s bowling ball. I put my middle two fingers and my thumb into the holes of the ball and pulled up. It would not budge. My wrist hurt. Then I remembered my dad say, about lifting something that was heavy, “Go low.” So I stretched out my hands to get under the ball in order to lift it. It rolled to the right on the rack. I just missed smashing my little finger. I was small. The ball was heavy.

As I read today’s story of Jesus’ passion and death, it weighs heavily, like a bowling ball in my heart. What more can be said? Jesus died. Words feel too light, more like tossing around a ping-pong ball.

At the meal, the disciples are bouncing about as they argue about who will be the greatest. They are buoyant: they still see palm branches—Jesus is famous—we are important! They do not get the weight of what Jesus is saying. His words do not fit with their ebullience. The Son of Man must suffer in order to redeem the world. What is he talking about?

Jesus knows. It weighs on him in the garden. He allows himself to be humbled as much as a human being possibly can be humbled: shamed by a flogging; hung on a cross with the despicables outside the city walls. He is left to die, a nobody. Nowhere. Not important.

On the cross, Jesus “goes low.”

He stretches out his arms to get underneath the ball of the world, in order to lift it, to set it free. He redeems it all, no matter how sordid, no matter how heavy, no scrap left out. The weight is heavy. The weight is lifted.

Consider/Discuss

You and I, we are too small to lift the weight of the pain and suffering, the injustices and hardness of heart of the human race. We need a Savior. Holy Week is a good time to ponder the weight that Jesus carried. We will move liturgically through each moment of Jesus’ humiliation. Can you feel as he felt, pray as he prayed, move as he moved? What is it like to go that low?
How do we carry the weight of our own lives? Sages of the ages tell us that we can suffer selfishly—rebel and complain—and thus shift our own burdens to others. Or we can “go low,” bearing with our suffering as Jesus did, so that the burden may be easier for others. What does it mean, on a daily basis, to share in the sufferings of Christ, to be like him in bearing one another’s burdens?

Living and Praying with the Word

Jesus, this feels like foolishness. Emptying yourself, taking the form of a slave, becoming obedient to the point of death—how does that work? Why did you do that? If you were God, you could have come down from that cross and smashed the lights out of all of those politicians who maneuvered you toward death. Yet you didn’t.

We are small; we don’t really get it. We still frolic about as though this core of Christianity, this Paschal Mystery that “you died because you love us,” was a light little plaything: something that we have heard before, something that we just say, something that we take for granted. Deepen our understanding of what it means to walk the way of the cross, so that when we come to Easter, we see how much you have lifted for us. You died because you love us. Show us this week, Lord, what that really means.

Dec 10 2024

Circling for the Kill

I drove past an intersection where a group of crows were picking at a carcass on the road. It reminded me of the scribes and Pharisees, hovering around the woman caught in adultery. She was dead meat to them, bait, used to test Jesus.

Who was she? What was her life like, such that she was willing to risk death by seeking comfort in another man’s bed? We don’t know. Jesus didn’t fall for the test. We don’t know what he wrote in the sand, but somehow he reframed the story. How? Maybe a clue comes in how often this reading uses the word “one.”

Jesus singled the “crows” out, one by one, and challenged them: Who will be the first to throw a stone? You? Or you? Or you? One by one, they went away, beginning with the eldest.

Jesus didn’t treat the woman as carrion—he saw her. He straightened from the ground. He looked her in the eye and asked, “Has no one condemned you?” “No one,” she said.

Judgment changes when it sees “the one.” Jesus shifted the condemnation of the group to the mercy extended to “the one.”

Have you ever judged someone and then later you heard their whole story? It sets you back with an “Oh” and an “Oops.” Accurate understanding is the first step in right judgment. This is the key to God’s mercy—God knows our story, inside and out. You and I, we are not a part of a crowd; each of us is “one,” unique in God’s eyes. We matter to God.

This unnamed woman mattered. Jesus scraped her off the road and brought her back to life, to set her on a new path. He delivered her from death.

Perhaps she then began to sing, “The Lord has done great things for me—I am filled with joy!”

Consider/Discuss

Have you ever wondered about the youngest “crow,” the Pharisee who left last? Did he consider himself righteous and without sin? Did he walk away still hefting a rock in his left hand? As we move toward Holy Week, what are you and I not seeing? Ask the Holy Spirit to reveal to you where your heart is still hardened. Is there one for whom you still hold a rock in your hand? How could you retell that person’s story as “one” whom Jesus loves? And then forgive, in this week before Easter?
Two thousand years later, there are people who are still dismissed as dead meat. Why is there hardness of heart in cultures, in families, in governments, and in places of employment? What can you and I do to help the unseen be seen, to foster justice, to help the “whole story” to be told?

Living and Praying with the Word

Lord, you know each of our stories. You know our whole story. Help us to see that each person we meet is your unique “one.” A baby born in a refugee camp in Syria is precious in your eyes. A starving girl in South Sudan is “one” to you. A heroin addict living in a doorway in downtown Detroit is irreplaceable in your vision. You call us to become like you; we are never done learning to see as you see. Show us how to be “one” who can help.

Dec 10 2024

Scripture Study for

This portion of Isaiah stems from the late exilic period and points toward God’s imminent deliverance of Israel from exile, returning them to the land promised to their ancestors. The return from exile thus represents a new Exodus. Isaiah makes this clear by drawing on images from the original Exodus. Note the present tense of the verbs: God “opens a way in the sea” and “leads out chariots and horsemen.” The past is not simply the past, but an expression of what God habitually does. Every new act of deliverance is simply an extension of the Exodus, such that that original act of deliverance is not “an event of the past,” but the beginning of God’s unending providential care.

This week’s reading from Philippians is the prelude to the reading from the second week of Lent. Paul is recounting his own move from seeking righteousness by conformity to the Law to receiving righteousness (justification as a prerequisite for salvation) from conformity to Christ, especially to his death. For following Christ requires one to give up many things, including the desire to ensure our own righteousness through observance of the Law. Paul knows that having faith that Christ accomplishes what we cannot feels risky. Accordingly, the life of faith is never finally finished in this life but must be continually renewed and strengthened as Paul (and his audience) continuously and strenuously strive toward conformity with Christ, which is perfect maturity and “God’s upward calling.”

As with last week’s story of the prodigal son, this week’s Gospel from John highlights the priority God places on mercy rather than condemnation, while nevertheless refusing to ignore or condone sin. As we find over and over in the Old Testament, God does not seek the death of sinners, but that they repent and live (Ezekiel 18:23). The scribes and Pharisees, trying to trap Jesus into denying the Law, want to know what Jesus thinks of the command to stone the woman caught in adultery. Rather than answer directly, Jesus reminds each of them that they are none of them without sin (and possibly deserving of the same punishment). Which of them is in a position to condemn her? Even though Jesus is in such a position, he refuses to do so, giving her another chance while exhorting her not to make the same mistake again.

Dec 10 2024

The Impatient, Running Father

History has called me “the prodigal son.” But you have never heard my story. Jesus knew. He lived next door in Nazareth. The arrogance of the Pharisees may have awakened his memory. I heard him say, “You wash the outside of the cup while the inside stays filthy.” He knew my brother.

What was it like to live with “Mr. Perfect”? All my childhood, he tormented me when nobody was looking. Kicked me around, mocked me, like I was worthless. When Dad came around, he was all pure and innocent and law-abiding.

I couldn’t take it anymore. When I got old enough, I had to go. I had to make my own way. So I left. Can you blame me? It took me eight years to come home. I saw a lot in those years. I grew to be a man. I tried to make it on my own. I got lost so many times. Why did I stay away so long? The problem wasn’t the money. The problem was facing his look of superiority, his loathing that I couldn’t make it. I’d rather die than come crawling back to that.

My father? When I was a teenager, I took him for granted. He was simply there. I was so bottled up about my brother that I just . . . didn’t see him.

One evening, when I pressed on my belly button, I could feel my spine. I was dying of hunger. That night, I dreamed of my father’s eyes, full of tears. He was waiting for me, wanting me to come home.

You know the rest of the story. My brother hasn’t changed. Life is good. I am sorry that he is too bitter to see that. But it doesn’t matter. I still love him.

My father wants me to be close. I want to be near. It is good to be here, home with him.

Consider/Discuss

How do we get so bottled up about the pains of earth that we do not see the compassion that surrounds us, the love of the Father who wants us close?
What’s it like to be the father in this story who wants his sons to be near? How is God like that? How does the prodigal feel to be so welcomed?

Living and Praying with the Word

Father of compassion, only you know the depths of hurt that family can cause. The pains of earthly life can so bottle us up that we cannot see straight. In this story, sometimes we are the one who wandered away. Sometimes we are the one who drove the other away. Sometimes we are a bit of each, all messed up from things that happened long ago.

Forgive us our bitterness, hates and jealousies. Forgive us our deepest faults this Lent, dear God. Help us to forgive those who have hurt us. Yes, we are broken. Yes, we are sinners. You welcome sinners. You run to meet us. No matter what we have done, you want us to be near. In you, we have our home. No other home can satisfy. Hold us close to you, Lord, and never let us go.