Lent, day 16: Sunday sermon, lent 3 yrB 'Meek? Mild? As if'

Continuing the Lenten series 'The kin-dom of heaven: living as God's community'
This week, 'A reforming community'

1^st READING: Psalm 19                                                                  

2^nd READING: John 2:13-22

SERMON  ‘Meek? Mild? As if’

Let’s pray:

may the words of my mouth, and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our redeemer.  Amen.

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to Thee.

Lamb of God, I look to Thee;
Thou shalt my Example be;
Thou art gentle, meek, and mild;
Thou wast once a little child.

Loving Jesus, gentle Lamb,
In Thy gracious hands I am;
Make me, Saviour, what Thou art,
Live Thyself within my heart. ...

For some of us here, this morning, hearing the words of this old, beloved hymn

may have taken us right back to early childhood -

to Sunday School, or school assemblies,

or perhaps bedtime prayers

after warm milk and a chocolate chip cookie.

It’s a hymn that’s familiar and comfortable

and comforting.

Written in 1742 by that great Methodist hymn-writer, Charles Wesley,

‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild’ expresses

a quiet simplicity,

and a child-like desire to be just like Jesus -

quiet, good, gentle:

a well-behaved Jesus,

perhaps seen, but never heard,

and certainly never speaking out of turn.

A role model for any parent to present to a small, somewhat noisy person

as a reminder to behave.

Which is all very well until you come across a reading such as the one we encounter

in John’s gospel this morning.

...Which occasionally has me wondering if Charles Wesley ever actually read this particular text!

A very different Jesus is portrayed:

here, it’s less ‘Gentle Jesus meek and mild’,

and more ‘Rambunctious Jesus, loud and wild’.

If you were wanting your child

to be seen and not heard -

to keep out of trouble,

then this passage is perhaps not the best one to use as a model for behaviour:

With loud shouts and a whip made of cords,

Jesus rampages through the temple courts,

overturning tables

scattering the coins of the money changers,

driving out the various animals on sale

for use in the ritual sacrifices.

The temple courts are cleared of the clutter

by a Jesus who is anything but meek and mild:

this     is angry Jesus,

prophetic Jesus - acting in the manner of prophets before him,

calling God’s people to repent, to reform,

to put aside those things that

distract from being God’s people -

to resist the temptation

to become comfortable,

or of getting a little...slack in the

way of doing things.

While there’s a wealth of material in the text

that could be used to explore the church’s uncomfortable issues around anger,

and a pervading pressure to fall into a comfortable culture of niceness,

that’s a sermon for another time.

This morning, I want us to reflect a little

on the sense of the church as a

reforming community.

There’s an internet meme that’s been doing the rounds for some time now.  And I’ve copied it onto the back of your orders of service:

The text, over a picture of Jesus in

the Temple reads:

“If anyone ever asks you

‘What Would Jesus Do?’

Remind them that flipping over tables and chasing people with a whip

is within the realm of possibilities.”

Putting on my historian’s hat for a moment:

In a famous sermon in Perth, John Knox preached on this particular event in Jesus’ life

to a crowd no longer comfortable

with the old religious ways.

Such was the power of his preaching,

that his call for reform

effectively resulted in a 16^th century version

of a clearing of the temple -

removing altars, statues, and anything

that the crowd felt was

cluttering up, and distracting from

the worship of God.

This was judiciously assisted by the use of stones that just happened

to be in their pockets.

Apparently they had a smashing time.  J

But reform in the church was not just some Protestant invention:

the church has always been in

a process of reform,

going right back to the time of the disciples.

There’s an expression

‘ecclesia reformata semper reformanda secundum verbum Dei’

basically meaning:

‘the church reformed always to be reformed according to the word of God.’

The church - the body of Christ - us...

is not called to be comfortable

we’re called to challenge,

to encourage repentance

and reformation of lives...

to clear away the clutter that distracts

from the worship of God.

And so, we need to ask ourselves some potentially uncomfortable questions:

Are we a little too comfortable

with the way we do things?

Is the phrase ‘we’ve always done it this way’ pointing to deep theological and liturgical reasons for what we do...

or, is it more a case of

‘we don’t want to change,

to do new things,

we’re quite comfy as we are,   thanks’?

Do our comfort zones help,

or distract us from what we,

as the people of God, are called to do?

What are those things we do within worship,

within our meetings,

...within our lives

that clutter up and distract ourselves, and others from seeing,

from hearing God’s good news?

and which dull our longing for God?

Let me tell you an old story...

On a rocky seacoast

where shipwrecks were frequent

there was once a ramshackle life-saving station.

It was no more than a hut and

there was only one boat,

but the few people at the station were a devoted lot who kept constant watch over the sea

With little regard for themselves and their safety, they would go out fearlessly in a storm if there’d been a shipwreck somewhere.

As a result, many lives were saved

and the station became famous.

As the fame of the station grew,

so did the desire of people in the neighbourhood

to become associated with its excellent work.

They generously offered of their time and money

New members were enrolled,

new boats bought

and new crews trained.

The hut was replaced by a comfortable building which 

could adequately handle the needs of those who had been saved from the sea.

Now, shipwrecks in those parts,

while frequent, didn’t happen every day.

And so the building became a popular gathering place – a sort of   local club.

Over time, the members became so caught up

in socializing, fundraising, and other such activities, that they had little interest

or energy left for life-saving -

although they duly sported the life-saving motto on the badges they wore.

It got to the point that, when people were actually rescued from the sea,

it was a bit of a nuisance -

they were dirty and sick -

and they made a mess of the

carpets and furniture.

Eventually, several members became concerned that the club had lost its focus.

At the AGM, they insisted that all the social activities - nice as they were -

had become a distraction:

they called the members to move from a social club back to a life-saving club once more. 

After a stormy meeting, a vote was taken.

The small handful who had called for change were accused of being troublemakers,

of   upsetting things,                                                  

of creating hurt and discomfort with their provocative behaviour.

Having lost the vote,   they were asked to leave.

‘Why don’t you start your own club?’ they were asked, as they were shown the door.

Which is precisely what they did – a little further down the coast, with such selflessness and daring that, after a while,

their heroism made them famous.

Whereupon their membership was enlarged, their hut ...was reconstructed…..

and their idealism smothered.

If you happen to visit that area today

you’ll find a number of exclusive clubs dotting the shoreline. Each one of them is justifiably

proud of its origin.

Shipwrecks still occur in those parts,

but    nobody seems    to care much.  ...

[story from Anthony de Mello]

As we are called to pick up our cross

and follow Jesus,

so too, we are called to be a community

of repentance and reformation.

The season of Lent is one traditionally

used as a time for repentance,

for refocusing upon God,

for re-forming unhelpful practices.

For getting rid of clutter:

those things that distract us from

being connected to God

- both individually and communally.

Sometimes, the process of reforming,

and renewing, is gentle.

But often it’s a discomforting process.

We are not called to be comfortable

we’re called to follow the One

who knows us completely,

who discerns our errors

and who forgives our faults...

the One who is both gentle Jesus meek and mild

and angry Jesus - challenging, reforming, removing the clutter that prevents others moving into relationship with God,

...from worshipping God.

Thinking of Jesus’ decluttering of the Temple,

I was reminded of an advertising campaign

by the Church of England, back in 1999.

The advertising firm they hired came up with an image of Jesus as a type of Che Guevara - revolutionary idealist and freedom fighter -

a turner-over of tables.

The campaign itself caused quite a controversy -

suddenly everyone, even the Guardian - was talking about God and about church.

The tag-line on the picture of this revolutionary-looking Jesus?

‘Meek? Mild? As if’

Quite.

Change for the sake of change is pointless -

but not changing the way we do things

just because we’re comfortable

is something that Jesus made quite a

dramatic statement about.

So,   we carry the tension between

tradition and not getting stuck.

This morning,

each and every day,

we’re called to a decluttering challenge:

to be in a process of reform and renewal

to question how and why we do the things we do, individually...but more importantly,

as the kin-dom of heaven - as brothers and sisters in Christ -

as we worship the One who calls us for his own.

And to Him, be all glory, honour, and praise, 

now and forever, Amen.

Lent, day 15: grace notes in the wilderness

As part of our 'thinking about' slot in worship the other week, and to mark the first Sunday of Lent, I explained the custom of 'burying' the alleluias.
To gather them in and put them away - effectively, to rest the word over the course of the season and resurrect it on Easter Sunday, and so say it with renewed enthusiasm.
(a little like laying aside a favourite toy for a wee while, and rediscovering it after a period of time, perhaps)
Each person had been given out heart-shaped post-its, and on one side, were to write 'alleluia', and, on the other side to write or draw something that they would like to praise God for.
These were then collected and put into the special Alleluia box, sealed up, and a prayer said. Thereafter, the box was placed at the foot of the cross at the chancel step, waiting to be opened and the alleluias to be released.
I'd noted that there was potential to play a game of 'alleluia-spotting' over the following weeks - would any accidentally escape?

A couple of days after, at our Lent discussion group, one of the members commented on the alleluia slot in worship.
'How do you get through the wilderness without being sustained by the hope of an alleluia,' she wondered, 'it's quite tough, psychologically.'
A good question.
I suggested that although the alleluias were away, yet the box containing them was visible: the hope of an alleluia was still there.  With the benefit of time, unlike the disciples, we are on the other side of the resurrection story, and in faith, know that love wins and hope prevails: death does not have the final word.
And, as with Jesus, the alleluias don't seem to want to stay buried:
Sunday last, Communion Sunday, we sang 'Ye gates' - I'd forgotten about those alleluias in the hymn - in music, at least, they popped right back out of the box.
Grace notes in the wilderness.

Lent, day 14: field work, part 2

Yesterday, views from front of house, where the office is.  Today, although not photographed today, the view from the back of the manse [as requested by Mr Gerbil].
Love it.  I found myself a couple of weeks ago driving up to Edinburgh in the early morning light.
Half a mile down the road from the manse, heard myself say out loud 'I live in a beautiful parish'.
I really do.
Loving rural ministry.
Another gratitude-filled day.

Lent, day 13: field work

Yesterday morning, from the manse window.

All the sheep/ shepherd sayings and stories from the bible are taking on a new perspective 

now that I'm living and working within a rural context.  

Today's short blog entry is a wee note to record sheer gratitude: 

so thankful to have been called here among such good folk, and in such beautiful surroundings.

I am blessed indeed.

Lent, day 12: psalm 137 - lament and keeping it real

In the current Lent discussion group being run in 'a river runs through it' parish, we were thinking of that very Lenten theme of lament yesterday.  Within the course of conversation, Psalm 137 came up:

By the rivers of Babylon

   there we sat down and there we wept   

when we remembered Zion. 

On the willows there   

we hung up our harps. 

For there our captors asked us for songs,

and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,   

‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ 

How could we sing the Lord’s song

   in a foreign land? 

If I forget you, O Jerusalem,

   let my right hand wither! 

Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,

   if I do not remember you,

if I do not set Jerusalem

   above my highest joy. 

Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites

   the day of Jerusalem’s fall,

how they said, ‘Tear it down! Tear it down!

   Down to its foundations!’ 

O daughter Babylon, you devastator!

   Happy shall they be who pay you back

   what you have done to us! 

Happy shall they be who take your little ones

   and dash them against the rock!

It's a hard text.
A text of defeat, exile, alienation -
of despair.
A text of lament.

There's a raw honesty to the psalm:
from wondering how to sing the Lord's song in a strange land,
to an admonition to self not to forget home,
through to its shocking, angry conclusion.

There, amidst the hanging gardens, the exiles hang their harps.
They will not sing: they cannot.
How do they make sense of all that has happened?
Are they not the people of the covenant - the people of the promise?
Where is God?
They find words within the questions of their grief
and those words emerge as lament.
Those words are beautiful and terrible
and express a whole range of human emotion.

And perhaps, here is the comfort of the psalms:
to find that it is completely in keeping with the faith tradition
to express not only the nicey-nice stuff of life,
but to express the rage,
the hard things.
This psalm, even with that violent last verse,
teaches us to be real before God,
who knows what it is we're thinking and feeling anyway.

Lament is a cathartic thing:
crying out in anger and despair at God is a helpful way of letting go,
of working through the process of grief.
A way of singing the Lord's song in both safe harbours
and strange lands.
A way that enables us to be real with God in the good and in the bad -
because, in the end, God calls us as we are, and where we are.

Lent, day 11: just to clarify...

I love the gentle wisdom and humour of Calvin and Hobbes.  The above cartoon snippet has been in my files for several years; it was a useful reminder to self when writing up my thesis to try and not write in the style of wee Calvin!  In the course of research, I began to learn how to 'smell out a rat' when I'd find myself writing in a particularly obscure manner.  Reading back, I'd realise I was either trying to write to impress - being pompous and pretentious just because I could - or, I was still processing and wasn't quite as clear in my thinking on the matter as I'd hoped to be.  

Words are important.  The language we choose to use to communicate can indicate more than the actual words themselves - from underlying assumptions to privilege and entitlement.  It's very easy to get caught up in specialist language, and subconscious norms, as per 'a holy bible' comment from the other day.  It's not just academia, it's also the church and, for that matter, any situation/ issue brings assorted folk together into a group.  But within the church context, perhaps my personal 'note to self' is to continually ask: 'what's my point?', and 'what's the message here?'

Because, easy as it is to write a gazillion elegantly phrased words, if it's not communicating the simple gospel message of God's great love for all, then there's really not much point at all.  

And, of course, communicating goes beyond words.

I like St Francis of Assisi on this:
'Preach the gospel at all times.  If necessary, use words.'

Lent, day 10: Sunday sermon - A cross carrying community (lent 2 yr b)

Sermon for Communion Sunday.  

The second in my Lent series  'The kin-dom of heaven: living as God's community'

Last week we explored being a covenanted community; this week we reflect on picking up our cross, and being a cross-carrying community.

1^st READING: Romans 4:13-25

2^nd READING: Mark 8:27-38

SERMON  ‘A Cross-carrying community’

Let’s pray:

may the words of my mouth, and the meditations of all our 

hearts be acceptable in your sight, 

O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

It was all so upside-down.

Madness.

There’d been miracles:

healings,

the feeding of multitudes.

Surely, surely these were signs

that God was with them.

People everywhere had heard of him -

were speaking of him,

   were speculating about him.

Who was he,

this wandering rabbi

performing wondrous deeds?

‘Who do you say I am?’

he’d asked his closest followers.

And, in a moment of startled insight,

Peter found himself uttering words that generation after generation

had yearned for, had longed for:

‘You     are the Christ.’

Four little words,

weighed down by a myriad of hopes

and expectations,

and chief among these: liberation.

Liberation from illness,

from hunger...

and indeed, Jesus had shown

his credentials there,

but beyond these,

a liberation from the yoke of oppressive empire

that echoed down through centuries

of having been in thrall to other empires:

Egypt

Persia

Babylon,

and latterly, Rome.

‘You are the Christ’ expressed the hope

for a new David -

a deliverer anointed by God

to free the Jewish nation from

the tyranny of Rome,

a deliverer who would visit God’s judgement upon those who would dare to

crush his chosen ones;

 ‘You are the Christ’ came with expectations

of a warrior Messiah,

who would avenge the wrongs done to Israel

and restore Israel to her former glory;

who would resurrect national pride from the gutters of inglorious, humiliating subjugation,

and cause other nations to humble themselves and bow down -

to pay homage.

But...

it was all so upside-down.

Madness.

‘You are the Christ.’

Four little words that are immediately seized upon by Jesus

to teach those closest to him

just what it is to be the Christ.

What follows is plain speaking -

blunt talk.

In no uncertain terms,

the disciples are disabused of any notions

of glory they may have had when thinking of

the nature of Messiahship.

No amazing escape across a miraculously

dried sea-bed,

no joyous return from exile,

no heroic, battle-hardened warrior leading

God’s people to victory over Rome.

Jesus’ description of Messiahship

is completely counter-cultural,

and utterly shocking:

a Messiah rejected -

a Messiah...killed.

And Peter is unnerved by this teaching,

so much so that he pulls Jesus aside

and rebukes him -

because suffering and dying Messiahs

make absolutely no earthly sense at all.

Which is exactly what Jesus picks Peter up on when he says:

‘you do not have in mind the things of God,

but the things of men.’

Quite a turnaround for Peter:
from profound insight to utter confusion.

From ‘you’re the Messiah’ to

‘but not that kind of Messiah!’

But it gets more alarming:

there’s talk of picking up one’s cross -

not only does the Messiah suffer,

so too, do his disciples.

No power, no prestige:

rather, a call to put aside personal gain;

a call to a very different kind of faith -

a faith not built upon material symbols

of earthly success,

but grounded in the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not.

It was all so upside-down.

Madness.

It    still    is,

in the eyes of the world.

To deny self,

to deny gain, fame,

...to let go of our preconceptions of success

and of what we think a Messiah should be:

to choose, instead, a very different way of being.

But we don’t do it alone -

as followers of the Christ -

as Christ’s body here on earth -

we are called communally to pick up,

and carry our cross -

we are a cross-carrying community.

Nourished, strengthened,

and sustained by the One we follow,

and at whose table we feast,

we are called to give of ourselves - to God -

and to others.

To be real, authentic:

understanding that to be fully human

is to allow ourselves to be vulnerable,

to open ourselves up to the possibility

of pain and of hurt

just as God, in Christ did.

...To follow, in faith,

is to love sacrificially:

love our friends, yes,

but love our enemies as well -

to seek ways of reconciliation.

To pick up one’s cross and follow in faith

is to call out political expediency

which relies on scapegoating those who are the most vulnerable in society

in order to gain votes in a ballot box;

to engage in society,

to question the growing gap between

rich and poor;

to uncover and challenge abuse of power -

on a grand scale -

and, at the domestic level.

To pick up one’s cross,

in the words of Archbishop Oscar Romero, is to:

enter ‘into the reality of a child,

of the poor,

of those wearing rags,

of the sick,

of a hovel, ....of a shack.

It is going to share with them.

And from the very heart of misery,

of this situation,

... to say to them,

“You aren’t trash.

You aren’t marginalized.”

It is to say exactly the opposite,

“You    are valuable.”

For Romero, picking up his cross

and walking in faith

challenging oppression

and speaking out on behalf of the poor

in El Salvador resulted in his assassination in the middle of worship.

As a cross-carrying community,

we are not called to look the other way

when we see others hurt,

we’re called to get involved,

just as God, through the incarnation,

got involved with the whole human race.

It was all so upside-down.

Madness.

Returning to the conversation between

Jesus and his disciples for a moment:

In the midst of all this odd talk,

this overturning of cherished

definitions of Messiah,

it’s interesting that one quite significant detail appears to get lost:

so shocked are the disciples,

that they seem to miss

what Jesus says immediately after he’s told them that he’ll be rejected, suffer, and be killed:

they miss the bit about

‘and after three days,    rise again’.

As we pick up our crosses,

we discover that in the very act of giving our lives - through sanctified love of God and neighbour -

we discover what it is to truly   live;

that in giving,

we discover that we truly receive.

As we walk towards Jerusalem

over the course of this Lenten season,

nourished and strengthened for the journey

by the bread and wine of communion:

let us pick up our crosses,

walk in faith,

walk with our brother Jesus,

‘in paths of love and justice.’

For this is the way of the

upside-down kin-dom of God -

the community of faith.

Madness, perhaps,

but a life-giving,

love-giving madness

that chooses to give glory to God,

being fully persuaded

that God has the power

to do    what he has promised.

Amen.

Lent, day 9: snowdrops

A funeral this morning.
The old-fashioned way: service at the house,
and then walking with the hearse to the graveyard along a quiet country lane in the beauty of the morning...

A drone as air met pipes.
'Highland Cathedral' sounding,
leading the hearse from home to grave.
We followed behind.
A tear here,
a hand held there
as we walked along the country lane.
She had been a gardener;
who, with skill and care,
planted and tended,
encouraged seeds to grow.
She had tended people too,
and, at this last, they gathered for farewell.
As we passed,
snowdrops, bowing heads, said goodbye.

Lent, day 8: wholly Holy

'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts;
the whole earth is full of his glory.'  Isaiah 6:3

A memory from many years back...
It was morning.
A blue-sky day.
The heat and humidity of the tropical sun already cranked up to nearly full-blast.
Walking to the school assembly hall that doubled as church on Sunday, a small voice called from behind me:
'Nik! Nik!'
I waited for this little one to catch up, white-blonde ponytail bouncing, catching the sun, as she raced along.
We walked into the hall together as she told me about her week.
And then, the sudden solemnity that only a child of 6 can muster.
There was something else.
I stood still, waiting for her to tell me this Important Thing.
'Mummy bought me,' a wee pause, 'a bible.'
I nodded, my expression matching her own solemnity.
This was an Important Thing indeed.
Curious as to what kind of bible she'd been given - where there pictures, was it child-friendly? -
I said 'that's a very special present, isn't it?  What kind of bible?'
Big blue eyes looked up to me.
A face filled with sheer awe and wonder.
Words said in hushed, reverent near-whisper:
'It's a holy bible.'

Of course it was.
Sometimes it takes a child to remind us of ordinary things made extraordinary:
God's word, contained in scripture.
Wholly holy.

Lent, day 7: mid-week soulspace

A wee respite from wordy posts.
Today, a peaceful meditation...

Lent, day 6: 'Homesick'

'Homesick'

When we love, when we tell ourselves we do,
we are pining for first love, somewhen,
before we thought of wanting it.  When we rearrange
the rooms we end up living in, we are looking
for first light, the arrangement of light,
that time, before we knew to call it light.

Or talk of music, when we say
we cannot talk of it, but play again
C major, A flat minor, we are straining
for first sound, what we heard once,
then, in lost chords, wordless languages.

What country do we come from?  This one?
The one where the sun burns
when we have night? The one
the moon chills; elsewhere, possible?

Why is our love so imperfect,
music only echo of itself,
the light wrong?

We scratch in dust with sticks,
dying of homesickness
for when, where, what.

Carole Anne Duffy - from New Selected Poems 1984-2004

The season of Lent is one of wandering, wilderness, exile.
We have buried the Alleluias
and wonder how we will find strength to keep walking.
It can feel an odd, dark time; hard.
Without the shout of acclamation,
how do we sing the Lord's song in this strange Lenten land?

Lent reminds us that we are exiles.
Pining.
Looking for light and straining for lost language.
Lent reminds us of our imperfect love;
a season that brings about homesickness
as we long for our heart's true home.
Amid the Lenten reminders, however, is hope.
We have buried the Alleluias
but we know they are there, waiting to burst forth from the tomb.
'We are an Easter people, and alleluia is our song'. [St Augustine]
Now is the time of yearning, longing,
of scratching in the wilderness dust with our sticks,
but soon and very soon the day approaches
for heart's-rest, and Alleluias,
and hope fulfilled.

Lent, day 5: grace

On the Sunday closest to Epiphany, I shared out 'star words' amongst the congregation, as we thought of the journey of the Magi starwards to Jerusalem.  The word I happened to pick from the offered basket was 'grace', which now sits in the manse study above my desk.  I remember smiling when I saw what word I'd received, for 'grace' is a word I bang on about quite a bit, and also, brings to mind what I love so much about the works of both Augustine and Calvin...and anyone who has hung in there with this blog over time, or who knows me, knows just how misunderstood I think these two guys are.  Rephrasing a song that's been pretty much viral over the last several months, for Augy and Johnny C, it's all 'bout the grace, bout that grace'.
Having journeyed in Advent to Christmas and the crib, now is the season to journey through Lent to the cross and towards the hope of resurrection.  In grace, death is not the end; love wins and hope will have its way.
What then, is it to walk in grace through Lent, and through life, I wonder?
Called as God's own, not of our own doing but through God's limitless grace and mercy, how does the turning of our hearts impact upon our inclinations, our way of being - both within the context of living into the identity of who we are in Christ, and of the effect that this has upon how we are and interact with God, with others, with creation?  As God's workmanship, created for good works in Christ - not works to earn salvation, but works stemming from salvation - what good works flow naturally as a result of grace...both intentional and almost automatically?  But this is not a measuring stick to beat up on one's self, nor is it a competition in order to win a gold star.  That way lies the madness of never measuring up and the harsh, exacting God of Pelagius - and what Augustine and Calvin get so well: the whole point is that we never measure up.  The beauty is, God's grace is more than enough.

But God, who is rich in mercy,

out of the great love with which he loved us

even when we were dead through trespasses,

made us alive together with Christ - 

by grace you have been saved

- and raised us up with him

and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,

so that in the ages to come

he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace

in kindness towards us in Christ Jesus.

For by grace you have been saved through faith,

and this is not your own doing;

it is the gift of God -

not the result of works, so that no one may boast.

For we are what he has made us,

created in Christ Jesus for good works,

which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.
                                                                    Eph 2:4-10

Lent, day 4: arc of covenant

Genesis 9: 11 

'I establish my covenant with you: Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; 

never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth...'

Never again.

And in the sky, mark of rainbow sealed the deal; 

mercy a-glimmer in the heavens,

translucent shimmering hope

of life,

of love. 

Etched and stretched across blue.

Arc of covenant

bending,

extending grace.

Lent, day 3: not gods, but God's

We confess and acknowledge one only God, 

to whom only we must cleave, 

whom only we must serve, 
whom only we must worship, 
and in whom only we must put our trust'

opening words, ch. 1, Scots Confession of Faith, reflecting the texts: 

Deut 6:4; 1 Cor. 8:6; Deut 4:35; Isa 44:5-6

In these early, baby-step days of Lent, the opening words of the first article of the Scots Confession came to mind.
I'm still convinced this one's much better than the Westminster Confession, but I digress.
Earlier today, thinking of ashes and Ash Wednesday, the thought that 'we are God's, not gods' came echoing back.
Whose are we?
Who do we serve?
What is our point and purpose?
I love how the Scots Confession sums it up so succinctly.

Lent, day 2: a bar on a boat to the Bahamas

a belated ... Lent, Day 2

A piano bar, on a boat to the Bahamas.
The piano man schmoozing his late-night clientele, telling stories, playing old favourites, gathering up snippets of his listeners lives.  Entertainer, sometimes Father-confessor and pastor-comforter:
'...so that's when we divorced.  I got in the car and heard this song.  Can you play it?'
He obliges.
A group of women filter in.
He discovers they are clergy.
Occasional smiling commentary between requests.
And then, unbidden, in the midst of the mojitos and ministers and everyone else, accommodation.
A new song begins: 'Lord I lift your name on high'.
The bar crowd sing, even some of the ministers.
The hand movements done in church now transported to the high seas.
It's jazzy, it's fun, it's cheesy.  But there are huge grins all around.
Another song follows: 'Amazing grace'.
The atmosphere changes to near-reverence.
Memories of loved ones mingle with the music of a song
so often played in very different circumstances.
The song lingers for a moment, and then a quip, and he deftly moves to 'Sweet Caroline'.
I sit with a friend and wonder.
She turns and says something along the lines of: 'He worked out his audience.  And he accommodated us, made us welcome, spoke our language.  How often do we do that as the church to those who wander in from other life contexts?'
I nod, reflecting on this unlooked-for parable of hospitality in a seemingly unlikely place.
We pick up our drinks silently, thoughtfully as the piano man plays on.

of dust, and ashes, and rending hearts: Ash Wednesday

Some Lenten reflecting...perhaps on a daily basis, perhaps not.  We shall see!

ASH WEDNESDAY...

'Yet even now, says the Lord, 

return to me with all your heart, 

with fasting, with weeping, with mourning;

rend your hearts and not your clothing.

Return to the Lord, your God,

for he is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, 

and relents from punishing.'  Joel 2:12-13

It was written, in mid-Scots, on the frontispiece of 'The Order of the General Fast and of Public Repentance'.  The classic text for those moved to, or encouraged towards, making acts of penance.
In his 'Order', Knox urged the community of the faithful to corporate penitence, an octave [8 days] of fasting, prayer, and meditating upon scripture.  To do so was to demonstrate to a watching God a conscious re-turning towards holiness, to faithful living; simply, of putting God first.  To do so was to also demonstrate to a watching world a conscious turning away from words and actions and attitudes that were unkind, unloving, that broke down relationships
both sacred and divine.
For penance is always about relationship -
tied in utterly with what it is to love God, and to love neighbour, and even to love oneself.
John Knox got that; he got the relational and the communal nature of penance.
Penance has never just been about 'me and my God': it is about us and our God.
One God, in perfect Triune community, demonstrating in very being, the intricate and beautiful weaving of relationship based on love; of connection and inter-connectedness;
of unity, diversity, and of harmony combined

With its dust and ashes and marking of cross on skin, Ash Wednesday is that first Lenten call to God's people to re-align, to re-turn: to turn again to the Lord, to express sorrow for looking elsewhere, getting caught up in other things, and in the process doing harm to others and to self.
The mix of ash and oil marking us as God's own,
called to move from out of the darkness and into his marvellous light.
The mark reminding us of our mortality - for we are not gods, we are God's.
The mark reminding us that, even in the act of falling in the dust upon our knees in humble sorrow, there is hope:
God does not leave us dust-bound, and death is not the final word.
As God's faithless, faithful, wholly human people, we are marked as God's own
restored, forgiven, free.
Called, as community, to be relational:
to turn to God
to turn to each other
to turn to our neighbour and the watching world.
To reach out, having first reached inwards and examined ourselves and discovered
God's wide, wide mercy.
To share the good news of God's steadfast love.
To rejoice, and give thanks that there is hope.
To remember that sorrow and weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
Time to wait,
to watch,
to pray.
To sorrow, yes, but in this Lenten season of preparation, to know that we prepare in order to rejoice:
to celebrate the resurrection joy of Easter Sunday.
In a hat-tip to a friend:
now, where did I put those ashes...?