Obedience
Commentary
Object:
When Sadie and Bessie, the famed "Delany Sisters," were in the early years of their
second centuries (103 and 105, respectively) they told interviewers, "God only gave you
one body, so you better be nice to it. Exercise, because if you don't, by the time you're
our age, you'll be pushing up daisies." Fitness gymnasiums ought to put the Delany
Sisters on their billboards and quote them into larger profit margins.
Some people know when enough is enough. Others never seem to quit. What separates an athlete from a couch potato quarterback is the same thing that divides between pilgrimage disciples and religious tourists: The former are participants while the latter are consumers. This is the key element probed in each of today's lectionary passages. Will the ancient Israelites make it to the promised land, or will they die of cancerous consumption in the wilderness? Will the congregation in Philippi express itself the mind of Christ or the spirit of the age? Will those who hear Jesus actually obey the will of the Father, or are they only in the business of religion to rub some mythical magic genie's lamp in self-serving experientialism?
The difference between the two in each case comes down to obedience: not slavish legalism, but rather a commitment to a higher cause (and a higher power) that acts on its values. As Rabindranath Tagore put it: "I slept and dreamt that life was Joy. I woke and saw that life was Duty. I acted, and behold, Duty was Joy."
Exodus 17:1-7
The stories of Israel's early days in the wilderness after their wonderful release from captivity are heartbreakingly current. Wowed by Yahweh's great acts of deliverance, the people are soon cantankerous and crabby because life is hard. True, they were in desperate need of water, but still it is amazing how quickly trust evaporated with the press of changing circumstances.
What is bothersome to us today is that we see ourselves mirrored quickly in their lack of faithfulness. Eugene Peterson put it this way in his book, A Long Obedience (InterVarsity, 1980, p. 12): "Religion in our time has been captured by the tourist mindset. Religion is understood as a visit to an attractive site to be made when we have adequate leisure. For some it is a weekly jaunt to church. For others, occasional visits to special services. Some, with a bent for religious entertainment and sacred diversion, plan their lives around special events like retreats, rallies, and conferences.
"We go," he says, "to see a new personality, to hear a new truth, to get a new experience, and so, somehow, expand our otherwise humdrum lives. The religious life is defined as the latest and the newest: We'll try anything -- until something else comes along."
That is a tragic indictment of our spiritual expressions. Particularly so, since the Bible uses two words to describe the character of religion in its truest form, shaped far differently than by either the consumer mindset or the tourist mentality.
The first word is "disciple." This is the term by which the followers of Jesus are known. A disciple is someone who is apprenticed to a master -- someone who will stick close to him. Someone who will follow him through thick and thin. Someone who will not lose energy too quickly, or seek to go his or her own way too soon.
A disciple is a learner, but not in the classroom or a schoolhouse. A disciple is one who follows the master craftsman as he shapes his world. Such an education is not something completed in five hours in an afternoon, or even during a term at college or university. It is something that involves a whole-life commitment, surrounding every motive of our hearts and every choice of our minds. This is what Jesus expected of his relationship with the twelve when he called them to himself as "disciples."
The other word in the Bible for those who take religion seriously is "pilgrim." A pilgrim is someone who is on a journey in life. Someone who has a past in which she is not wallowing. Someone who has a present to which he is not tied. Someone who has a future that is not certain, but which is very specific and very real; a future that belongs to God.
It is easy to fault the ancient Israelites for their consumerist religion. But we do not fare much better today. This passage calls on us again to assess the commitments of God's people, and the religious pandering that reduces discipleship to new forms of Sunday entertainment. "Is the Lord with us or not?" they asked. The answer is not always found in some miraculous sign.
Philippians 2:1-13
Paul grew up in the world of Greek games and Roman contests. Around him there were people constantly exercising to increase their strength, sharpen their abilities, and win contests. The language of training enters Paul's writings often, and this great hymn of Jesus from the early church is one of the finest examples. While it is certainly a theological testimony of "Christology from above," it is much more. We need to pay particular attention to the opening verses where Paul urges and encourages Christians to develop habits readily apparent in the mind of Christ. This is spiritual training at its best. So the flow of Paul's words about Jesus' descension and ascension are not just grist for theological investigation into confessional nuance; they are, in fact, a record of the commitments made by those who would be obedient in a regimen of spiritual training.
Joni Dunn entered the Ironman Triathlon (a 2.4 mile swim in the ocean as appetizer, a main course of bicycling for 112 miles, and then a desert marathon run of 26 miles to finish things off) in 1985 at the age of 43, and managed to come in first in her division. Not only that -- she set a new record time.
Two things made Joni Dunn's win a real surprise. First, Joni nearly died in a skiing accident a dozen years earlier. She plunged over a cliff and fell more than 100 feet into a deep ravine. Her spine was fractured in seven places and her neck was broken. Joni also suffered several fractures to her head.
At first, doctors held little hope for Joni's survival. She would later remember lying on her hospital bed catching whispers of concerned professional conversation through a blanket of morphine haze. "I heard them say, 'She won't live through the night.' I knew that if I stopped concentrating on living I would die."
But live she did. It took countless operations to put Joni back together. She emerged from the hospital two inches shorter, and so hunchbacked that when she first saw herself in a mirror she didn't recognize the image.
It was during her long years of therapy that the idea of competing in the Ironman Triathlon began. Still, it took Joni a decade to work up the courage and stamina to enter.
That is the first thing that makes Joni's win in 1985 so surprising -- moving from near death to sports endurance triumph. Here is the second -- Joni Dunn says there is only one thing that pulled her through the torture of the grueling race: her religion. "Just moving caused me incredible pain," Joni told her interviewers. "But I knew I had to do this. I come from a very disciplined Dutch Reformed family in Illinois. That discipline has always been with me, and it makes me strong."
That is a surprising testimony, isn't it? Joni Dunn says her religious identity gave her the determination necessary to see her through a life-threatening accident and then pushed her down the road to win the grueling Ironman Triathlon.
Most North American Christians lack such discipline and focus, according to social researcher Reginald Bibby. His book Fragmented Gods (Irwin, 1987) declared that historic Christianity was all but dead. People today are consumers, he reminded his readers. They go shopping for this and that, a new toy here, a new emotion there, a new sensation each time around. When one pastime doesn't excite them anymore they move on to a new one.
Those same people have become religious consumers in the vast array of church supermarkets, said Bibby. A ritual here, a prayer there, a cause in the next parish, an entertaining preacher on the other side of town, and the Christian population grazes through the cafeteria of weekly specials. Bibby said that most Christians treat religion like a wardrobe -- they take different garments out of the closet each Sunday, depending on their spiritual moods, and then they put them all back in the closet on Monday when they take out their "secular" clothes and get on with the real business of life.
Matthew 21:23-32
When Jesus was questioned by the religious leaders of his day to give credentials for his growing public prominence, he would not comply. It was not because Jesus had no credentials to offer, but because those who were asking for such documents were themselves in no mood to become either disciples or pilgrims. They did not want to submit to religious authorities other than those they believed were already theirs to manipulate. This had become obvious in their interaction with John the Baptist, as Jesus reminded them.
Although this silenced Jesus' would-be accusers, Jesus himself took the matter one step further. He told them a story and then demanded that they explain it for him. Two sons were asked by their father to work the fields. One quickly said yes, but didn't make a move and never stepped out to do the labor. The other was belligerent and immediately refused to be part of his father's livelihood; yet later he realized who he truly was and what he had become, and then went out to the field to do the work.
What was the point? Jesus' detractors understood quickly that he was speaking about them. It is one thing to parade religious values as high-minded ideals, but quite another thing to put them into practice. No one who refuses to be a disciple can ever become a pilgrim. The disciple gives up his will for the sake of the master's teachings and good graces. The pilgrim sets out on the road of the kingdom in a journey of obedience.
Therein lies the rub, of course, because the wandering steps of pilgrims only reach hallowed ground by first experiencing the bruising of walking too long on the jagged stones of unholy territory. To become a pilgrim means first to become a disciple. Moreover, it requires that one get to work.
To become this follower of Jesus starts with the sob of a soul that no longer believes the lie of society. We hear the lie every day in its subtle forms: "Things are really getting better and better all the time." "Everyone has an equal opportunity in life." "Education will conquer all our ills." "If you just try hard enough, you can make it on your own."
The advertisements tell us that people are really pretty good, and that the world itself is a rather pleasant and harmless place when we dress right, smell right, eat right, exercise right, and drive the right cars or invest in the right companies. Everything will work out well for the nice people.
Cornelius Plantinga Jr. documented the leaching power of evil well when he called his "breviary of sin" a reflection on life that is Not the Way It's Supposed to Be (Eerdmans, 1995). Like a stranded motorist in the wrong part of town being hustled by ominous turf lords brandishing Saturday night specials, we feel the creeping cancer of a world coming undone.
The way of the disciple takes its first step with confession. She cries for help. He confesses that he cannot make it on his own. This was the call and invitation of John the Baptist, which too many had refused to heed. From Jesus' perspective John was the first hint of dawn calling to minds newly awakening from the twisted darkness of the world in which we are trapped: the advertiser who claims to know what I need and what I want and who can make everything better with just a single credit card; the entertainer who promises me a quick fix, a cheap trick, a sensuous fling that really is love; the politician who has my best interests at stake, and who will make me ruler with him if I just give him my vote; the psychiatrist who will help me achieve gain without pain by lowering my standards to the mud around me.
A disciple sees the world through different eyes and begins the journey of the pilgrim with a cry of repentance. Such people have been caught up in the fashions of their day, majoring in minors and having no direction or purpose or real meaning for what they are doing. They find themselves like alcoholics who have been warned by every friend and challenged by every enemy, but remain blind to the dangers of their drinking habits until one morning they struggle awake in an unknown bed, family gone, reputation destroyed, with all their begged and stolen income bargained insanely away for another hangover. "Woe is me!" they cry, in the first note of repentance.
It is then, and then alone, that dawns a ray of hope. The journey begins in that moment, just as Bill W. testified in The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It starts at the bottom.
It is like the old Shaker song:
When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight
Till by turning, turning, we come 'round right.
Application
Some years ago Madeleine L'Engle explained how she came, one day, to understand the meaning of her life. At the time she was the "Writer in Residence" at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Fifth Avenue in New York City. She met regularly with the rest of the staff at the church and developed a fast friendship with the Cathedral bishop.
One day the two of them were talking about the times in their lives when they felt they had grown the most in terms of inner graces and spiritual depth. It did not take long for each to realize that the most creative energies had come to life only at the end of periods of great struggle, often filled with agonizing mental and emotional torment. In fact, said Madeleine L'Engle, the best of her books were written just after the worst times of her life!
As they talked, each experienced the growing realization of what poet and hymn-writer Margaret Clarkson identified when she penned Grace Grows Best in Winter (Eerdmans, 1984). More than that, they also found that the turning point leading out of the dark night of the soul was, for each of them, always a moment of repentance.
After some tender moments of further sharing, the bishop got up to leave. At the door, said L'Engle, he stopped for a moment and then turned round to face her. "Madeleine," he said to her, "I don't know how to say this, but have a bad day!"
He was the best kind of friend, Madeleine told us, for he truly cared about her. He did not wish for her to experience the nastiness of life. Yet he did wish for her to find the grace of God that only emerges with power out of the repentance that comes to those who realize the insufficient, incomplete, inept, and inconsistent state of their hearts. Only a very kind and truly great friend could see that sometimes what we need most is a bad day that will help us turn our hearts toward home and remind us of the depth of spirituality sometimes only found through obedience as an antidote to the wash of consumerism.
Alternative Application
Philippians 2:1-13. The epistle reading is powerful and needs to be preached regularly. Most important when doing so is to be careful not to focus overmuch on the wonderful Christology in the passage, but use Jesus' actions as guides by which to gain the mind of Christ. This is, after all, what Paul intended when he wrote the letter.
Paul's letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul's confinement, he is filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God is doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminds the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1-18). Another example of this selfless care is found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had given up much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19-30). More encouragement to serve follows, with Paul reflecting on his own changes of behavior and value systems, once he was gripped by the love of God in Jesus (Philippians 3). A few personal instructions and notes of appreciation round out the letter (Philippians 4).
Although other letters of Paul are more intentionally "theological," this small epistle has a particularly wonderful poetic reflection encapsulating the entire ministry of Christ in a few lines (Philippians 2:6-11). Because of its condensed and hymnic character, some think Paul brought these verses in from an early popular Christian song or creedal statement. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, the whole of this short book is lyrical and reaches for the superlatives in life through lines that are both economical and majestic.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16
What are the stories we pass on to our children? Every family has them. My own father concocted an elaborate set of stories based on the adventures of an elf who lived in the forest around my childhood home. This elf had all kinds of adventures with the various animals, with each story a moral that somehow fit into the particular childhood struggle occurring. I always marveled at how this elf led a life so parallel to my own.
Aside from family fairy tales and lore, we also pass on and tell other stories, don't we? Caught up, as we are, in our national mythos, we pass along stories of patriots and great leaders. We pass along tales of heroism and valor, and we pass on the narrative of our culture. One cultural narrative here in the United States would be the story line that says everyone has an equal shot at success. Another narrative would be that if we only work hard enough, success will be ours. True or not, these are the background stories for who we are as a nation.
How does this work for us as a people of faith? What stories about God do we hear and pass on to our children? More to the point, what stories do you pass on to your children about God? At dinner with family, at prayer time, on those long car journeys to Grandma's house, what is it that you tell your children about God?
The question is asked because it seems that the stories are told less these days. It's not that God's activity in the world has lessened. Indeed, look around and see everywhere the evidence of a loving and powerful God! Still, the stories don't seem to come to -- or from -- us very much. Why, one is left to wonder, are we not telling our stories about God?
In an evermore secular climate some people, of course, are a little embarrassed to talk about God. Indeed, one church member who was putting on a benefit for a noble cause and was using the church sanctuary recently came and asked the pastor if he could cover up the cross and Christian symbols because he was afraid they might offend someone. Thankfully, the pastor politely declined to have the cross covered.
We also decline to tell the stories of God because we have so nicely compartmentalized our faith. Church or Christianity is what we do one morning a week and perhaps one evening for a committee or Bible study. It is seldom something that dominates our whole being. No, such extremism is for zealots.
So the question remains, not to be answered here, but by our daily living. How do the stories of God's mighty acts in history get told? Who tells them? Who is there to hear? Perhaps the call comes today for us to begin to share our stories; with our children, our friends, with anyone who will listen.
Some people know when enough is enough. Others never seem to quit. What separates an athlete from a couch potato quarterback is the same thing that divides between pilgrimage disciples and religious tourists: The former are participants while the latter are consumers. This is the key element probed in each of today's lectionary passages. Will the ancient Israelites make it to the promised land, or will they die of cancerous consumption in the wilderness? Will the congregation in Philippi express itself the mind of Christ or the spirit of the age? Will those who hear Jesus actually obey the will of the Father, or are they only in the business of religion to rub some mythical magic genie's lamp in self-serving experientialism?
The difference between the two in each case comes down to obedience: not slavish legalism, but rather a commitment to a higher cause (and a higher power) that acts on its values. As Rabindranath Tagore put it: "I slept and dreamt that life was Joy. I woke and saw that life was Duty. I acted, and behold, Duty was Joy."
Exodus 17:1-7
The stories of Israel's early days in the wilderness after their wonderful release from captivity are heartbreakingly current. Wowed by Yahweh's great acts of deliverance, the people are soon cantankerous and crabby because life is hard. True, they were in desperate need of water, but still it is amazing how quickly trust evaporated with the press of changing circumstances.
What is bothersome to us today is that we see ourselves mirrored quickly in their lack of faithfulness. Eugene Peterson put it this way in his book, A Long Obedience (InterVarsity, 1980, p. 12): "Religion in our time has been captured by the tourist mindset. Religion is understood as a visit to an attractive site to be made when we have adequate leisure. For some it is a weekly jaunt to church. For others, occasional visits to special services. Some, with a bent for religious entertainment and sacred diversion, plan their lives around special events like retreats, rallies, and conferences.
"We go," he says, "to see a new personality, to hear a new truth, to get a new experience, and so, somehow, expand our otherwise humdrum lives. The religious life is defined as the latest and the newest: We'll try anything -- until something else comes along."
That is a tragic indictment of our spiritual expressions. Particularly so, since the Bible uses two words to describe the character of religion in its truest form, shaped far differently than by either the consumer mindset or the tourist mentality.
The first word is "disciple." This is the term by which the followers of Jesus are known. A disciple is someone who is apprenticed to a master -- someone who will stick close to him. Someone who will follow him through thick and thin. Someone who will not lose energy too quickly, or seek to go his or her own way too soon.
A disciple is a learner, but not in the classroom or a schoolhouse. A disciple is one who follows the master craftsman as he shapes his world. Such an education is not something completed in five hours in an afternoon, or even during a term at college or university. It is something that involves a whole-life commitment, surrounding every motive of our hearts and every choice of our minds. This is what Jesus expected of his relationship with the twelve when he called them to himself as "disciples."
The other word in the Bible for those who take religion seriously is "pilgrim." A pilgrim is someone who is on a journey in life. Someone who has a past in which she is not wallowing. Someone who has a present to which he is not tied. Someone who has a future that is not certain, but which is very specific and very real; a future that belongs to God.
It is easy to fault the ancient Israelites for their consumerist religion. But we do not fare much better today. This passage calls on us again to assess the commitments of God's people, and the religious pandering that reduces discipleship to new forms of Sunday entertainment. "Is the Lord with us or not?" they asked. The answer is not always found in some miraculous sign.
Philippians 2:1-13
Paul grew up in the world of Greek games and Roman contests. Around him there were people constantly exercising to increase their strength, sharpen their abilities, and win contests. The language of training enters Paul's writings often, and this great hymn of Jesus from the early church is one of the finest examples. While it is certainly a theological testimony of "Christology from above," it is much more. We need to pay particular attention to the opening verses where Paul urges and encourages Christians to develop habits readily apparent in the mind of Christ. This is spiritual training at its best. So the flow of Paul's words about Jesus' descension and ascension are not just grist for theological investigation into confessional nuance; they are, in fact, a record of the commitments made by those who would be obedient in a regimen of spiritual training.
Joni Dunn entered the Ironman Triathlon (a 2.4 mile swim in the ocean as appetizer, a main course of bicycling for 112 miles, and then a desert marathon run of 26 miles to finish things off) in 1985 at the age of 43, and managed to come in first in her division. Not only that -- she set a new record time.
Two things made Joni Dunn's win a real surprise. First, Joni nearly died in a skiing accident a dozen years earlier. She plunged over a cliff and fell more than 100 feet into a deep ravine. Her spine was fractured in seven places and her neck was broken. Joni also suffered several fractures to her head.
At first, doctors held little hope for Joni's survival. She would later remember lying on her hospital bed catching whispers of concerned professional conversation through a blanket of morphine haze. "I heard them say, 'She won't live through the night.' I knew that if I stopped concentrating on living I would die."
But live she did. It took countless operations to put Joni back together. She emerged from the hospital two inches shorter, and so hunchbacked that when she first saw herself in a mirror she didn't recognize the image.
It was during her long years of therapy that the idea of competing in the Ironman Triathlon began. Still, it took Joni a decade to work up the courage and stamina to enter.
That is the first thing that makes Joni's win in 1985 so surprising -- moving from near death to sports endurance triumph. Here is the second -- Joni Dunn says there is only one thing that pulled her through the torture of the grueling race: her religion. "Just moving caused me incredible pain," Joni told her interviewers. "But I knew I had to do this. I come from a very disciplined Dutch Reformed family in Illinois. That discipline has always been with me, and it makes me strong."
That is a surprising testimony, isn't it? Joni Dunn says her religious identity gave her the determination necessary to see her through a life-threatening accident and then pushed her down the road to win the grueling Ironman Triathlon.
Most North American Christians lack such discipline and focus, according to social researcher Reginald Bibby. His book Fragmented Gods (Irwin, 1987) declared that historic Christianity was all but dead. People today are consumers, he reminded his readers. They go shopping for this and that, a new toy here, a new emotion there, a new sensation each time around. When one pastime doesn't excite them anymore they move on to a new one.
Those same people have become religious consumers in the vast array of church supermarkets, said Bibby. A ritual here, a prayer there, a cause in the next parish, an entertaining preacher on the other side of town, and the Christian population grazes through the cafeteria of weekly specials. Bibby said that most Christians treat religion like a wardrobe -- they take different garments out of the closet each Sunday, depending on their spiritual moods, and then they put them all back in the closet on Monday when they take out their "secular" clothes and get on with the real business of life.
Matthew 21:23-32
When Jesus was questioned by the religious leaders of his day to give credentials for his growing public prominence, he would not comply. It was not because Jesus had no credentials to offer, but because those who were asking for such documents were themselves in no mood to become either disciples or pilgrims. They did not want to submit to religious authorities other than those they believed were already theirs to manipulate. This had become obvious in their interaction with John the Baptist, as Jesus reminded them.
Although this silenced Jesus' would-be accusers, Jesus himself took the matter one step further. He told them a story and then demanded that they explain it for him. Two sons were asked by their father to work the fields. One quickly said yes, but didn't make a move and never stepped out to do the labor. The other was belligerent and immediately refused to be part of his father's livelihood; yet later he realized who he truly was and what he had become, and then went out to the field to do the work.
What was the point? Jesus' detractors understood quickly that he was speaking about them. It is one thing to parade religious values as high-minded ideals, but quite another thing to put them into practice. No one who refuses to be a disciple can ever become a pilgrim. The disciple gives up his will for the sake of the master's teachings and good graces. The pilgrim sets out on the road of the kingdom in a journey of obedience.
Therein lies the rub, of course, because the wandering steps of pilgrims only reach hallowed ground by first experiencing the bruising of walking too long on the jagged stones of unholy territory. To become a pilgrim means first to become a disciple. Moreover, it requires that one get to work.
To become this follower of Jesus starts with the sob of a soul that no longer believes the lie of society. We hear the lie every day in its subtle forms: "Things are really getting better and better all the time." "Everyone has an equal opportunity in life." "Education will conquer all our ills." "If you just try hard enough, you can make it on your own."
The advertisements tell us that people are really pretty good, and that the world itself is a rather pleasant and harmless place when we dress right, smell right, eat right, exercise right, and drive the right cars or invest in the right companies. Everything will work out well for the nice people.
Cornelius Plantinga Jr. documented the leaching power of evil well when he called his "breviary of sin" a reflection on life that is Not the Way It's Supposed to Be (Eerdmans, 1995). Like a stranded motorist in the wrong part of town being hustled by ominous turf lords brandishing Saturday night specials, we feel the creeping cancer of a world coming undone.
The way of the disciple takes its first step with confession. She cries for help. He confesses that he cannot make it on his own. This was the call and invitation of John the Baptist, which too many had refused to heed. From Jesus' perspective John was the first hint of dawn calling to minds newly awakening from the twisted darkness of the world in which we are trapped: the advertiser who claims to know what I need and what I want and who can make everything better with just a single credit card; the entertainer who promises me a quick fix, a cheap trick, a sensuous fling that really is love; the politician who has my best interests at stake, and who will make me ruler with him if I just give him my vote; the psychiatrist who will help me achieve gain without pain by lowering my standards to the mud around me.
A disciple sees the world through different eyes and begins the journey of the pilgrim with a cry of repentance. Such people have been caught up in the fashions of their day, majoring in minors and having no direction or purpose or real meaning for what they are doing. They find themselves like alcoholics who have been warned by every friend and challenged by every enemy, but remain blind to the dangers of their drinking habits until one morning they struggle awake in an unknown bed, family gone, reputation destroyed, with all their begged and stolen income bargained insanely away for another hangover. "Woe is me!" they cry, in the first note of repentance.
It is then, and then alone, that dawns a ray of hope. The journey begins in that moment, just as Bill W. testified in The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It starts at the bottom.
It is like the old Shaker song:
When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight
Till by turning, turning, we come 'round right.
Application
Some years ago Madeleine L'Engle explained how she came, one day, to understand the meaning of her life. At the time she was the "Writer in Residence" at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Fifth Avenue in New York City. She met regularly with the rest of the staff at the church and developed a fast friendship with the Cathedral bishop.
One day the two of them were talking about the times in their lives when they felt they had grown the most in terms of inner graces and spiritual depth. It did not take long for each to realize that the most creative energies had come to life only at the end of periods of great struggle, often filled with agonizing mental and emotional torment. In fact, said Madeleine L'Engle, the best of her books were written just after the worst times of her life!
As they talked, each experienced the growing realization of what poet and hymn-writer Margaret Clarkson identified when she penned Grace Grows Best in Winter (Eerdmans, 1984). More than that, they also found that the turning point leading out of the dark night of the soul was, for each of them, always a moment of repentance.
After some tender moments of further sharing, the bishop got up to leave. At the door, said L'Engle, he stopped for a moment and then turned round to face her. "Madeleine," he said to her, "I don't know how to say this, but have a bad day!"
He was the best kind of friend, Madeleine told us, for he truly cared about her. He did not wish for her to experience the nastiness of life. Yet he did wish for her to find the grace of God that only emerges with power out of the repentance that comes to those who realize the insufficient, incomplete, inept, and inconsistent state of their hearts. Only a very kind and truly great friend could see that sometimes what we need most is a bad day that will help us turn our hearts toward home and remind us of the depth of spirituality sometimes only found through obedience as an antidote to the wash of consumerism.
Alternative Application
Philippians 2:1-13. The epistle reading is powerful and needs to be preached regularly. Most important when doing so is to be careful not to focus overmuch on the wonderful Christology in the passage, but use Jesus' actions as guides by which to gain the mind of Christ. This is, after all, what Paul intended when he wrote the letter.
Paul's letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul's confinement, he is filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God is doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminds the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1-18). Another example of this selfless care is found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had given up much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19-30). More encouragement to serve follows, with Paul reflecting on his own changes of behavior and value systems, once he was gripped by the love of God in Jesus (Philippians 3). A few personal instructions and notes of appreciation round out the letter (Philippians 4).
Although other letters of Paul are more intentionally "theological," this small epistle has a particularly wonderful poetic reflection encapsulating the entire ministry of Christ in a few lines (Philippians 2:6-11). Because of its condensed and hymnic character, some think Paul brought these verses in from an early popular Christian song or creedal statement. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, the whole of this short book is lyrical and reaches for the superlatives in life through lines that are both economical and majestic.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16
What are the stories we pass on to our children? Every family has them. My own father concocted an elaborate set of stories based on the adventures of an elf who lived in the forest around my childhood home. This elf had all kinds of adventures with the various animals, with each story a moral that somehow fit into the particular childhood struggle occurring. I always marveled at how this elf led a life so parallel to my own.
Aside from family fairy tales and lore, we also pass on and tell other stories, don't we? Caught up, as we are, in our national mythos, we pass along stories of patriots and great leaders. We pass along tales of heroism and valor, and we pass on the narrative of our culture. One cultural narrative here in the United States would be the story line that says everyone has an equal shot at success. Another narrative would be that if we only work hard enough, success will be ours. True or not, these are the background stories for who we are as a nation.
How does this work for us as a people of faith? What stories about God do we hear and pass on to our children? More to the point, what stories do you pass on to your children about God? At dinner with family, at prayer time, on those long car journeys to Grandma's house, what is it that you tell your children about God?
The question is asked because it seems that the stories are told less these days. It's not that God's activity in the world has lessened. Indeed, look around and see everywhere the evidence of a loving and powerful God! Still, the stories don't seem to come to -- or from -- us very much. Why, one is left to wonder, are we not telling our stories about God?
In an evermore secular climate some people, of course, are a little embarrassed to talk about God. Indeed, one church member who was putting on a benefit for a noble cause and was using the church sanctuary recently came and asked the pastor if he could cover up the cross and Christian symbols because he was afraid they might offend someone. Thankfully, the pastor politely declined to have the cross covered.
We also decline to tell the stories of God because we have so nicely compartmentalized our faith. Church or Christianity is what we do one morning a week and perhaps one evening for a committee or Bible study. It is seldom something that dominates our whole being. No, such extremism is for zealots.
So the question remains, not to be answered here, but by our daily living. How do the stories of God's mighty acts in history get told? Who tells them? Who is there to hear? Perhaps the call comes today for us to begin to share our stories; with our children, our friends, with anyone who will listen.
