History is Happening—A Sermon on Abraham, Nicodemus, Jesus, and Us

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Here we are in week 2 of Lent, in week 10 of the quarter. If you’ve been keeping up with a Lenten discipline that involves fasting—giving up meat, perhaps? Coffee? Sugar? Chocolate?—you might be feeling a little...tense. You may be wishing you’d given up finals for Lent.

Whether you're fasting or not, in the season of Lent, we take time to reflect on our sin, our shortcomings, our growing edges, the things we’ve noted in the margins to remember to do differently or better next time. And yet, we do this every year. We know that, over and over, we will need to return to this season of reflection. The new goals we set, the new selves we envision, the patterns we try to unlearn are so precarious that we just pencil in six weeks of “reset” every year. Hey, at least we’re honest.

This self-awareness does not always extend to the collective, though. As a church, as a society, as a nation,  we have a tendency to make the same mistakes over and over again, with no recognition. But we even have a little catch phrase for when this happens: “history is repeating itself,” we say. “Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it,” George Santayana philosophized.

So we turn to the lectionary, our system of studying our history. The gospel reading for today is a pretty famous exchange between Jesus and a pharisee named Nicodemus. He comes to see Jesus under cover of night, asking his burning questions. I love Nicodemus for this. I can just imagine that he has been lying awake at night for days. He has heard that this man, Jesus, is called the Son of God; he has heard him declare forgiveness of sins; he has heard him proclaim freedom from the systems that oppress. Nicodemus has probably tossed and turned, wondering how this could be. As a Pharisee, it’s his job to know everything there is to know about God and about God’s relationship to the Jewish people, and how they are to be in relationship with one another. Everything that Jesus says throws him for a loop, because it challenges his knowledge and his assumptions. Jesus speaks of new ways of being children of God.

A lot of people love the Gospel According to John, because it’s so different from the other three gospels, and it has a different way of presenting Jesus. In these chapters, “water is turned to wine, dead friends are raised, feet are washed, women are called by name”—but it is also a very challenging gospel. You know me, I love some both/and Lutheran paradox, and John is just so binary, “so much either-or: ‘I am the way, the truth, the light, the gate, the shepherd, the whatever—believe it, or be condemned.” [1] That’s the general interpretation we’ve had for years and years. It’s hard for me to look at these texts—as someone who knows and loves many non-Christians, especially a particular Jewish man, my fiancé Jonathan—and see any room for anyone else. There is some latent and some blatant anti-Semitism in John’s gospel.

We cannot, as American Christians in 2017, allow history to be repeated like this. We have to treat these stories with extreme care, and we have to treat our history with some of that Lenten self-awareness of wrongness. “We have to tell the truth about this gospel: all that lofty language form a historically dislocated Jesus distracts us from the truth that this gospel is violent. It tells lies about itself. It blames the wrong people….how do we even begin to address this?”[1]

Part of me, and part of you, maybe, just wants to say that these stories are so wrong and so backward that we should just ignore them and give them up. But the trouble is, we can’t do it that way. We have to face our history. We have to acknowledge the way that we have misused the words of Jesus in the past—to hurt Jews, to hurt women, to hurt people of color, to hurt queer people, to perpetuate slavery and apartheid and colonization—and say that we will do so no longer.

In doing this, we can also remember to include our other siblings in our quest for righting historical wrongs. Muslims as well as Christians and Jews lay claim to Abraham as an important ancestor. Our Genesis reading tonight lays out that fundamental claim that Abraham’s faith would make him the father of us all. In our Christian history, we have claimed that Abraham’s faith is proof that it is not the works of the law that free us, but the grace of God. This is true for us, but Abraham’s story is not just ours. An Anglican scholar named Clare Amos wrote about this in her commentary on Genesis. “Surely, Abraham, by definition, cannot be the exclusive possession of any one of the Abrahamic faiths! The portrayal of Abraham in both Christianity and Islam emphasizes that he was….someone who worshipped the One God before the establishment of a specific religious creed or system…’...Abraham was not a Jew or yet a Christian; but he was truth in Faith and bowed his will to God’s’ (Surah 3.67).” [2]

We have one advantage in this change—it’s Lent. We are reading these stories right in the midst of that time we set aside to reflect on the ways in which we have been wrong, and commit ourselves to not being wrong in the same ways again. We can do this. We can read these stories with the whole Jewishness of Jesus in mind. We can read these stories without blaming Jews or Judaism for the wrongs of the society in which Jesus lived and died.

Why is this so critical? In 2017, we are seeing a resurgence in anti-Semitism that reminds us of nearly a century ago in our global history; the events of the Holocaust were so terrible, we pledged “Never Again” as a world community. We are seeing a rise in Islamophobic and other racist violence, too, even here in Davis. The people who perpetrate these attacks—verbal and physical—often identify as Christians, or are bolstered by words they hear from people who identify as Christians. This is where our history can lead us.

Or, we can choose to act from our Christian history of liberation. We can look at Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection and know that exclusion and oppression are not the Way, the Truth, and the Life. We know that the words of Jesus can be life-giving, not death-dealing. We know that all are welcome at the table. We know that the Truth has set us free.

In Genesis, God said to Abraham, “I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing" (12:2). For the rest of Lent, let’s give up lazy anti-Semitism, and let’s take on the hard and good work of blessing. History does not have to be repeated. But the blessings of the good news of Jesus the Christ ought to be repeated, loud and clear. Amen? Amen.

_______

[1] The Rev. Anne Dunlap, “3.2.17 Resisting Anti-Judaism in John” on The Word is Resistance, from SURJ.

[2] Clare Amos, “Genesis” in Global Bible Commentary, 10.

Fasting From Frenzy

If you read my sermon from last night (aka the previous post) you will not be surprised by the content of this post about my Lenten discipline. 

Like many people do during the season of Lent, I am going to spend the next 40ish days fasting. I am going to be fasting from frenzy. I am going to resist the urge to get whipped into a panic about things that do not merit panic. I am not going to allow poor planning on the part of others to become an emergency on mine.

Oh, and I am going to read more. This likely will not come as a shock to you, unless you are shocked that I can possibly read more than I already do. February was a crazy month during which I told myself I'd have plenty of time to read and then spent approximately none of that time reading. In one respect, I am "behind schedule" on my reading (which sounds like participating in frenzy!) but in another, I am bummed out by how little time I've spent slowed down with my face in a book.

As Lent approaches each year, I often decide to read a book of devotions of some kind that I have, and then I suddenly realize halfway through Lent that I've completely stopped reading it. The truth is, I have time. I have always had time. I run out of time because I waste time. I neglect to dedicate time to important things, and somehow feel like I "don't have the energy to really give it what it deserves"—which is a bald-faced lie. I just lack discipline.

This year, I am diving into 40-Day Journey with Julian of Norwich, who was a rad weird lady that I want to get to know better. This little collection happens to have been compiled by Lisa Dahill, whom I had the pleasure of meeting at last year's Region 1&2 Lutheran Campus Minister's gathering. Fun!

Since we call these Lenten practices "disciplines" I am therefore going to be more "disciplined" about spending a very easy 10 minutes that I certainly do have (or however long it takes me to read my daily Julian of Norwich thinger).

Oh, and! I am going to take a technology sabbath in the evenings, skipping out on screens after 8pm. In part, I am going to do this so I stop reading work emails at 10pm like some kind of person with no work-life balance. Also, it is better for my sleep. I will probably occasionally watch movies that go past this time but I will wear my blue-light-reducing glasses when I do! Huzzah. Also, some nights I am still at work at 8pm so obviously this one is more of a "guideline" than a rule okay bye

Okay! So! I am going to spend Lent doing fewer, better things. I am going to resist the false narrative that I must do everything and do it now. I am going to be present—to myself, to Jonathan, and to God. I'm going to take a walk outside as many days as weather permits (what up, spring). I'm going to ride my bike places that I could drive to because I am not actually in any sort of hurry most days, and especially not during my fast from frenzy!

Cool. I'm excited about this. I want to get started! But like, getting started means doing nothing. Ahhhhhh

Quick and Dirty or Fasting and Dusty—A Sermon on Ash Wednesday

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but, you are dying. Every day, as you live, you also die. Cells are reproducing rapidly, and you’re sloughing off unneeded ones all the while. You inhale deep luscious oxygen, and exhale that which your body does not need, cannot use. In the moments after your every exhale, it could be that you never inhale again. Life and death are like that.

You and I, by most standards, are very young. We have our whole lives ahead of us. We are, God willing, going to live out our full, lengthy, natural lives in freedom and fullness. That is what God desires for us. To talk about our impending death, then, feels jarring. But for those who have lived a long, hard life, it can be a comfort to know that God awaits us beyond this life. And as the great sage Albus Dumbledore once said, “to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

Most days, though, we don’t talk about such things. I don’t usually remind you of your mortality. But today is not most days. Today is Ash Wednesday. On Ash Wednesday, we mark the entrance of the season of Lent, in preparation for the holiest of days, Easter Sunday. We’ll spend the next six weeks praying, reflecting, fasting, reading, learning, growing, repenting.

We come to this holy season from many different places. Sure, we’re all sitting in the Ranstrom Chapel, but we got here by a variety of roads. Y’all grew up in different cities across the United States, in different religious communities or not-so-religious communities. Did you grow up in a family that marked the season of Lent at all? Did you grow up “giving up” stuff for Lent? Did you learn that that fast—and these six weeks—were for the experience of sadness, and self-flagellation, and shame? You may have. Or you may have learned that these six weeks were for getting rid of the garbage that got in the way of your closeness to God.

What do we routinely consume that is harmful? Sometimes we know it’s harmful—like eating food that’s bad for us—or its harm is a little sneakier—like only reading news articles that confirm our biases. Two years ago, I kept a holy Lent by fasting from white media. Like, I unfollowed white people on twitter and didn’t watch cable news and only read books or watched movies made by people of color. It was hard, because I am white and our world is targeted toward whiteness and so you have to go out of your way to get information that isn’t white. Last year, I committed for the whole year to only read books written by women, and during Lent I only read books written by women of color. I did these things and continue to critically assess my reading list and twitter timeline and podcast listening and information intake because it is harmful to me—and to my understanding of the body of Christ—to live in the falseness of a white world.

I read a blog post last night by Candice Benbow, a black woman theologian I started following on twitter during my aforementioned whiteness fast. The blog post is called “For Sisters With Nothing Left to Give Up For Lent.” She writes about entering into Lent from a state of exhaustion and emptiness, and not knowing what else there is to fast from. You may feel this way. You may feel overrun. You may feel overwhelmed by the onslaught of political news every day. You may feel paralyzed by the sheer number of directions from which danger is managing to come at you. You may feel overwhelmed by responsibilities at home and at work and at school and in your family, which would be enough to stress you out even the calmest of political realities. You may have recently suffered an awful loss. And so coming up with something in your life to “give up” seems like a joke.

Candice writes that “Some of us are being asked to give up things and activities during Lent that are literally keeping us alive during seasons of great loss and deep pain.” God does not desire your suffering. God desires your life, your abundant life. God desires your wholeness and your wellness. “Perhaps this Lenten season will not be about fasting,” Candice says, “but giving ourselves permission to be refueled in the pursuit of joy. Could it be possible that, instead of ‘dying to ourselves’, we find ways to live into the abundant life Jesus came to give?”

If you want to fast in this season, do it. I do not mean to suggest that you shouldn’t. I mean to tell you that you do not have to if you feel you cannot. You can give up eating meat in order to learn more about what the best foods are to feed your body. You can give up drinking alcohol in order to focus on the fullness of life without substances that cause you pain and regret. You can give up gossip in order to reflect on the ways that words hurt. You can give up swearing in order to cogitate about the plethora of other locutions in the vernacular that you might utilize. You cannot, I regret to inform you, give up homework or going to work for Lent.

In this Lenten season, I am going to be fasting. I am going to be fasting from frenzy. I am going to spend the next six weeks doing fewer, better things. I am going to resist the urge to get whipped into a panic about things that do not need to be panicked about. I am going to read more poetry and more scripture and pray more prayers because, the truth is, I have time. I have always had time. I run out of time because I waste time. During this season, I am going to resist the false narrative that I must do everything and do it now. I am going to be present—to myself, to you, and to God.

This is my new phone background, for at least the next 40 days.

That’s what this season is about. Returning to God. Wherever you’ve gotten away to, you can turn around and come back. Ash Wednesday is, in this way, about remembering that you are human. You are not a superhuman; you are not expected to do anything perfectly, or even correctly the first time. You are human. And you are beloved.

You are dust of the earth, dear ones! God our Creator breathed life into you! Jesus, our Redeemer, put on this flesh and liberated you! The Spirit moves in and among you! You, and all the beloved, are alive in the grace of God—and you will die in it.

This season of Lent can be a dreary one, if you so choose. Dwelling for 40 days in the muck of your sin is a righteous discipline. But telling the truth about who and whose you are is a radical act in this world. We live in a culture of lies and half-truths and "alternative facts" and miracle cures and self-help and self-loathing. We do that every day. That’s not a Lenten discipline.

For these six weeks, permit yourself to be fully human. Listen quietly to the voice of God. Make a joyful noise to the Lord! Fast and pray and give alms. Rejoice in the the truth of your salvation.

Amen.