Pulling Weeds in a Draught

 

     

I’m not a good gardener, much less a farmer. And caring for plants out here in our “high desert” is sure different from what I was used to in humid Houston and in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky. Now, when I look out my window at the lawn, I see dirt patches and wisps of grass burned brown, interspersed with areas of unwanted weeds and tall, stinging thistles. It definitely looks like some evil force has come in and laid waste to it while I was sleeping, just like the field in Matthew’s parable.

My lawn reminds me of our world these days: nature’s beauty all mixed up with so many weeds: weeds of hatred; weeds of injustice; weeds of shortsightedness; weeds of war and killing; a draught of love; a draught of compassion; and so, so many withered blossoms. Is Jesus really telling us in today’s Gospel that we should just let these evils be? That we should shrug off all that destruction until the End Times? That we should watch and wait from the sidelines? Shouldn’t we be pulling up the weeds, no matter the consequence?

Scholars are pretty sure that the word translated “weeds” in our Gospel is really a plant called “darnel.”[1] Darnel is a wheat look-alike, common in the Middle East. The trouble is that darnel usually carries a poisonous fungus along with it. This fungus will sicken all who mistakenly gather it up with their wheat and eat it in their bread. Good farmers in Israel and Palestine know that they need to recognize this noxious weed. They certainly wouldn’t leave it in their fields; they would root it out early, before it gets mixed in with the wheat at harvest time.

Imagine that you’re a worker going out into the wheat fields one hot, sunny morning. You find that the field where your master himself had sewed good wheat, is suddenly full of poisonous weeds. You’d be afraid of his reaction. You’d wonder if you’re going to be blamed for the disaster. At the very least, you’d sigh in despair over all of the delicate work that’s going to be expected of you in weeding the bad plants from the field. What would you think when the Master says, “Nope, this time we’re going to leave the wheat and the weeds alone. You won’t even have to do the reaping. I’ll bring someone else in at harvest time, and they’ll take care of it.” You’d probably shake your head in confusion at the change in practices, at the master’s new generosity toward you, and at his new slovenly way of farming. Instead of feeling grateful, you’d probably grumble, “If I had my own land, I’d put up a big fence around it, with guard dogs to keep the enemies out. I’d make my workers root out those weeds before some of that fungus got mixed in with my wheat!” You’d think that your master had lost his mind.

          Jesus loves to make us think that God has lost God’s mind, because Jesus is trying to transform our minds. We react to evil in our hearts and in our world just like the workers react to the darnel in the wheat field, don’t we? The parable makes me think again about my own backyard, my own reactions. You see, my lawn is under the care of our Homeowners’ Association. They’re in charge of watering it, fertilizing it, keeping the weeds out. At the same time, we also have a three-foot-perimeter of garden all around our house that is our responsibility. We have to water and care for that small area. And you know what I’ve noticed about myself? I look out at my dying lawn, littered with pinecones and weeds, and I pout stubbornly to myself, “Oh well, it’s a mess, but it’s not my responsibility.” It makes me very grouchy that the people I pay to take care of it aren’t doing their jobs, and I certainly gripe to my neighbors about it. Sometimes I send a curt note to the HOA manager. But I myself don’t lift a finger, even though I could take some steps on my own to make it better.

On the other hand, that 3-foot band around my house? I obsessively pull bits of stray grass out of there, as if they were poison. I’ve burned myself dumping boiling water on the clover growing in my rocks. I half-killed a bush once putting vinegar on some nearby weeds. I even got so carried away in my uninformed weeding that I once pulled out some nice perennials that the previous owner had planted. But I want order in what is mine. I want to control my garden ... and all that is mine.

It’s interesting, isn’t it? How I either seem to renounce responsibility or decide that I alone am judge and in control. When we wake up to find harmful bits in the goodness of our soul, it’s easy to despair. To blame God or another human being for its presence. To punish ourselves with self-judgment as caustic as vinegar. And when we wake up and look out at the injustice seeded in our community? It’s easy to give up, shrug our shoulders, and let the powers-that-be deal with it. It’s also easy to start blaming those who disagree with us, judging that the community would be a better place if the poisonous people could be rooted out. We attempt to gather those who agree with our position into neat bundles of wheat. We start ripping at the soil until the whole field lies dead and barren.

Jesus knows how we human beings can react. It’s not that Jesus is telling us to sit back and let the weeds harm us. Notice that the weeds in our parable don’t actually harm the growing wheat. There is still a harvest, and God’s justice will be done. But Jesus wants to help us avoid judging parts of ourselves or parts of our community as dispensable. Our parable wants to free us from games of blaming and judgment, fear and control. It wants to transform our minds to live in the hope and freedom that Paul describes to the Romans in today’s Epistle.

          I was strongly marked fifteen years ago by the book, Amish Grace, about the Pennsylvania Amish community who reacted with grace and forgiveness when their farming community was shattered by a mass shooting at their little country schoolhouse in 2006.[2] I went back and looked at that story this week, and I’m still struck by the reaction of this community. The shooter was a non-Amish community member who, angry with God over the death of his own infant daughter, decided to sow evil in God’s wheat fields by killing other innocent children.

Despite their pain and the loss of 6 innocent children, the Amish community didn’t choose vengeance, hatred, or despair in response to this evil. They didn’t withdraw into themselves, either. The Amish have a strong belief in God’s loving Providence and in our call to follow Jesus in the way of forgiveness. Strengthened by their faith, they were able to reach out right away to the family of the deceased shooter. They visited his family to offer sympathy and forgiveness for his deed, hugging them and drawing them close. They shared donated funds that they as victims had received with his widow and children. “They need help as much as we do,” the Amish said. The larger Amish community, including the families of the victims, attended the gunman’s funeral. “This is a community tragedy,” the Amish victims proclaimed. They left all the judging to God, and moved forward as one humanity.

          Right after the horror of September 11, then-archbishop Rowan Williams published a little book called, “Writing in the Dust.” Williams wrote to encourage us Americans, the victims, not to turn toward violence, vengeance, and retribution as we responded to the horror of that evil—not to pull out the wheat with the weeds. Had we as a country only listened to him. He encouraged us to act, “so that something might possibly change [in the world], as opposed to acting so as to persuade ourselves that we’re not powerless.”[3] Williams refers to the story in John 8 of Jesus writing silently in the dust with his finger before responding to the woman caught in adultery. Williams says, “[Jesus] does not draw a line .... tell the woman who she is and what her fate should be. He allows a .... longish moment, in which people are given time to see themselves differently precisely because he refuses to make the sense they want. When he lifts his head, there is both judgement and release.”[4]

Perhaps we can all spend some time writing in the dust among the wheat and weeds of our world? Not jumping to judgement, and yet not shrugging off responsibility. Taking the time to see the whole differently, to remember that we are a whole.

 

 

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[1] Ulrich Luz, Matthew, 254.

 

[2]  Donald B. Kraybill, Steven M. Nolt, and David L. Weaver-Zercher, Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy (San Francisco: Jossey Bass, 2010).

[3] Rowan Williams, Writing in the Dust (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 24.

[4] Williams, 78.

"It is Finished:" A Good Friday Meditation on One of the "Last Words" of Jesus

 

It is finished. It is complete. It is whole. It is accomplished. Its purpose is fulfilled. It is perfect.

Oh, how I yearn to say those words myself … but my perfectionist soul is never fulfilled. It’s always on the lookout for improvement. My work must always be better; my list is never complete; my actions are always lacking in some way. It’s an exhausting way to live. On my own deathbed, I’ll likely cry out in frustration, “Wait, I’m not finished yet! Just one more time, God, and I’ll get it right.”

So I marvel at Jesus’ last cry in John’s Gospel, “It is finished!”  And I wonder, just what “it” is? Jesus doesn’t say, “I am finished.” Or even “My suffering is over.” He doesn’t say, “My earthly life has come to an end.” Or “My life goals have all come to fruition.” Just before he takes his last breath, Jesus pronounces a much broader and more mysterious completion.

If we look at the other places in John’s writings where Jesus uses this verb or its related noun--accomplishment, wholeness, perfect end--we can see clearly that the “it” that Jesus’ death brings to fulfillment is the powerful, self-giving Love of God.

John writes, “Having loved his own who were in the world, Jesus loved them to the end.”

John’s first letter says, “If we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.”

It is love. In his human dying, in his presence with us into the depths, Jesus brings to fulfillment the life-giving, ever-generative Love of God.

This is the kind of finish that my breathless, perfectionist soul needs. At its worst, religion can encourage my perfectionism, my need to do more, to do better. But not here. Not here, face to face with the vulnerability of Love poured out on the Cross. The fulfillment of love isn’t a striving. It isn’t a duty to cross off of a universal to-do list. It is an outpouring of love, from Jesus to us, then from me to you, from you to me, from us back to Jesus.

In Genesis, when God created the world, God too pronounced the work, “finished,” and “very good,” and God rested. But God wasn’t finished with the world. God wasn’t finished with loving the world, with creating and upholding it at every moment.[1]When Jesus cries out that God’s love has been fulfilled, this end is also only the beginning, only the beginning of God’s New Creation, a New Creation in which divine Love is victorious even over death, where it lives in and around and between us, Christ’s Body, making all things new, making all things—even the imperfect ones—whole.

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[1] Eugene Peterson, Tell It Slant (Grand Rapids: Eerdman’s 2008), 258.

Writing What I See

 

As I try to write something about the present evil happening in our country, I have no wise or clever words. My page fills with half-sentences and scribbles and scratched out paragraphs.  Instead of words, there are only faces, the brown and black faces of the refugee families I knew in Kentucky.

I see the Palestinian/Iraqi family who fled into the desert, stateless, after the fall of Sadaam Hussein. I see the silent, stolid grandmother, the animated and wiry grandfather, the newborn American baby held in protecting arms, and the mother and aunt with their tortured eyes, eyes that had seen rape and atrocity. I see their small living room and the sofa where I sipped sugared tea, underneath the huge American flag that filled the wall behind me, as gunshots rang out in their crime-ridden neighborhood. They thought that America would be safer.

I see the exhausted face of the middle-aged Congolese mother, damp with sweat after long days of cleaning hotel rooms. I see the worry in her eyes about affording education for her teenage daughter, newly clad in short skirts and American make-up. The rest of their family died in the genocide, and our foreign church was their only support system in a strange land.

I see the beautiful Karen children—so many children—born in refugee camps after their parents fled Burma as a persecuted Christian minority. I hear the hope and joy in their songs; I smell the musty apartment complex where they all lived, their rooms filled with our worn, left-over furnishings. I hear the innocent, birdlike chatter of these children, as they quickly learned to translate for their silent parents.

I see the Somali mother—ahh, the Somali mother—lost in the depths of depression, with one child—her “American” child—born with life-threatening medical challenges, never to leave the Home of the Innocents, never to receive his mother’s care. I see her incomprehension, her longing. I see her eight other children, running and jostling around their small apartment like caged squirrels while she sits with a vacant, half-smile on her face. I see the eldest, twelve-year-old Mohammed, trying so hard to be a man while his father works long hours in a factory. I see their empty refrigerator, their empty living room, filled only by a beautiful, red-patterned carpet.

These faces all fade and blend with the faces of my German friends, the way they were in the 1980’s when I lived there, when I too was a foreigner. I see Katharina, kind and strong, who had fled her home as a young child, following her father to the United States, the home of the free, after he took a stance as a theologian in Germany’s anti-Nazi Confessing Church. I see my elderly neighbor Frau Einhauser, her face wrinkled with smiles as she threw chocolates down to my children from her upstairs window. She spent her childhood scrounging for root-vegetables in harvested fields and re-knitting the fibers of potato sacks into sweaters to protect herself and her siblings from the cold. I see my young seminarian friend, his brow creased with the weight of the world, who told me that I, as an American, would never understand the shame that he held in his very bones as a post-war German citizen. 

All of this is what I see when I look at the photos from Minneapolis: at five-year-old Liam, terrified under his cute little hat as he waits in front of the ICE transport … at the coat-wrapped bodies of Americans shot dead on the street … I see it all, and I weep. Don’t you see it, too?

Prayer, Community, and the Holy Spirit

 

There are two occasions when I turn to the Lords’ Prayer faithfully. One is when I pray at the Eucharist, when we say the words of Jesus’ prayer all together, like we’ll do in our liturgy today. And the other time ... is when I’m nervous on an airplane! I’m a white-knuckle flyer, especially these days, with all the turbulence and near-misses I read about in the news. So when the air currents get bumpy, or the descent takes too long, or when I hear rumors of “weather” ahead, I close my eyes and obsessively recite the words that Jesus taught us to pray. Now, any kind of prayer is always a good thing. And repeating words of comfort is a wonderful way to calm the nervous system. But I’m pretty sure that Jesus’s teaching on prayer intends for me to go deeper.

In our Old Testament reading, we also have Abraham’s bargaining prayer. I’m no stranger to bargaining prayers on the airplane, either, I’m afraid. I’ve been known to scan incoming passengers during boarding, looking for cute babies and cozy families. When I spot them, I pray, “OK, God, you won’t bring down a plane with that cute child on it, will you?” Or, “Surely, you’ll save us so that nice family won’t perish ...?

Such questionable theology isn't what we’re supposed to take away from our first reading, either. Abraham has just welcomed God in the guise of three strangers, offering them model hospitality in his desert tent. He and Sarah have just received the promise that they will have a son in their old age. It’s God’s plan that the descendants of Abraham, a just and righteous man, will become a “great and mighty nation” that will, in turn, bless all the nations of the earth. So as our reading begins, God and Abraham are looking over at the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, where the outcry of the people, the desperate outcry of the oppressed, has reached God’s ears.[1]

Sodom and Gomorrah are not wicked, by the way, because of the sexual orientation of their citizens! It is clear from the text that Sodom and Gomorrah are wicked because they ignore the most often-repeated divine law in the whole Hebrew Bible: their people mistreat the stranger, the sojourner, the foreigner, in their land. Instead of generous hospitality, they offer violent abuse to those who have come into their borders. Because of their repeated offenses, God’s justice demands that these unrepentant cities be destroyed.

Abraham, being the just and righteous man that he is, is concerned not only with his own family in Sodom, but with the fate of the whole city, good and evil alike. God and Abraham both seem to understand that goodness has to reach a critical mass in order for it to offset the evil around it. For the Jewish writer of Genesis, that critical mass is ten. That’s why Abraham stops his bargaining there. Ten is the number that constitutes a “minyan;” it’s the number that represents Jewish community.[2] Without a community to stand up to evil, to practice right relationship with God and with one another, evil tends to prevail. For Sodom and Gomorrah to turn from their cruel ways, it would have taken more than a couple of individuals—it would have taken a righteous community.

So Abraham courageously and persistently bargains with the Holy One, just as cleverly as he might bargain with a powerful spice merchant down at the local bazaar. What’s interesting in this prayer isn’t Abraham’s bargaining skill, though. What’s interesting is that God offers Abraham the opportunity to bargain. God knows that the innocent will be allowed to escape. God knows that the cities are going to be destroyed. So why tell Abraham about God’s plans? God wants to give Abraham a chance to demonstrate his own righteousness, by trying to convince God to save the whole.[3] God always wants us involved in doing justice and righteousness.

Jesus, too, encourages us to ask “shamelessly” and persistently for the salvation of the whole. He teaches us to pray for God’s Kingdom to come on earth, for God’s rule, God’s dream for the world, to be made real in the world of humans. What’s that Kingdom like? It is a kingdom of right relationship with God and with one another, a kingdom where justice reigns, a kingdom where we all have the bread, the sustenance, that we need each day, a kingdom where we forgive one another like God forgives us, a kingdom without the burden of debt. Scholar John Dominic Crossan describes Jesus’ prayer this way: “The Lord’s Prayer is . . . a prayer from the heart of Judaism on the lips of Christianity for the conscience of the world . . . . [It is] a radical manifesto and a hymn of hope for all humanity in language addressed to all the earth.”[4]

When Jesus encourages us to ask, to knock, to persist—when Jesus promises always to answer our prayer, notice what Jesus promises to give us: Jesus doesn’t promise us a new house, a better job, a miraculous cure, or a safe airplane flight. Jesus promises to give us the gift of the Holy Spirit. “How much more your father will give the Holy Spirit from heaven to those who ask him,” Jesus assures us. Some ancient manuscripts of Luke 11 even add, “Your Holy Spirit come upon us and cleanse us” after the well-known words “your kingdom come.”[5] The prayer would then read, “Your Kingdom come; Your Holy Spirit come upon us and cleanse us. Give us every day the bread we need.” In other words, God’s Kingdom coming has everything to do with the Holy Spirit, with that Spirit that binds us together in Community, that Spirit that gives birth to the Church.

It makes sense: God’s Spirit—the Advocate, the Comforter—makes present in us the Kingdom of God that Jesus himself made present in his bodily words and actions.[6] Just like God visited Abraham, blessed him, and gave him a chance to speak out against evil, so too the Holy Spirit surrounds us, blesses us, and gives us the strength to speak out against evil. As we know from St. Paul, when we have the Holy Spirit, we have those fruits of the Holy Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.[7] In the Spirit, we form a beloved community that can withstand testing and trial, a community that can stand against evil.

A Roman Catholic friend sent me a newsclip yesterday as I was writing this sermon. The article described how Archbishop Thomas Wenski of Miami gathered with 25 Knights of Columbus on motorcycles to pray the rosary in front of “Alligator Alcatraz” last week. The Archbishop is concerned for the detainees because of the dangerously hot and unsanitary conditions that have made this camp infamous around the world.[8] The Catholic Church hasn't been allowed inside to hold mass for the imprisoned migrants there, but the Archbishop is determined not to give up. He and his fellow Christians showed up to be Christian community in the only way that they could--to face down evil, to bring the outcry of the suffering to God, to pray the prayer that Jesus taught us.

I had a mysterious prayer experience once as a teenager that’s etched in my heart and soul. I was on a school trip to Europe, a self-absorbed teen with a Peanuts quote on my bulletin board that read, “I love humankind; it’s people I can’t stand.” One afternoon, I was sitting on a hillside praying very hard for the health of our trip leader, a kind and loving teacher who had injured his back. I wanted God to heal his back, and probably to prove God’s existence to me at the same time. Some bargaining may have been involved. Suddenly, the sky above me turned tremendously and beautifully blue. I heard the words—not aloud but still clear as a bell—“I am Love, and I want you to love my people.” I’ll never forget that moment. You see, my teacher’s back was healed the next day. It might have been a coincidence; it might have been an answer to prayer. But the healing is not what marked my soul. In that prayer, I had glimpsed the Holy Spirit, and I had been called to love. I’m the one who was changed, empowered, and made whole.

There are all kinds of ways to pray—some more mature than others. But we know one thing for sure. Given all the evil in this world, God needs God’s righteous community to speak up without ceasing, to bang on the doors of heaven and earth, crying out for right relationship and justice for the whole of creation.

 

 

 

 

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[1] This noun is associated in the Prophets and Psalms with the shrieks of torment of the oppressed. See note for Genesis 18: 20 in Robert Alter, The Hebrew Bible, Vol. 1 (New York: WW Norton, 2019), 58.

[2] Carla Friedman, “The Education of Abraham,” 2005. Found at https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/education-abraham.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Quoted by Diana Butler Bass, “Sunday Musings,” July 26, 2025. Found at https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com.  

[5] Frederick Christian Bauerschmidt, The Love that is God: An Invitation to Christian Faith (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2020), 45.

            [6] Ibid.

[7] Galatians 5

[8] Gina Christian, “Archbishop Wenski Leads Knights on Bikes to Pray Rosary at Alligator Alcatraz, in The Boston Pilot, July 25, 2025. Found at https://www.thebostonpilot.com/article.php?id=200365.

What Do We Do When Everything's A Mess?

 

Good morning! I’m a retired Episcopal priest from Boulder County, and am lucky to be part of a great clergy wellness group with Pastor Seth. I’m honored that he asked me to join you all today! I think, though, that Pastor Seth and the Holy Spirit have a sense of humor for sending me out to preach on today’s lesson from 2nd Kings. You see, I’ve been spending my time over the past year on a very frustrating medical journey with my husband. He has an illness that takes a lot of medical management, and that’s all I grumble about at our clergy group: Doctors, medicines, and exasperation. So I really understand poor Naaman from our reading.

Like many of us here today, I’m a person of relative privilege, a person used to nurturing the illusion of control over my life. I’m used to having my aches and pains treated and cured by top-notch doctors; I’m used to managing capably any bumps on my journey. I’m used to having things mostly turn out fine in the end. That is, until they don’t. At some point in our lives, all of us find ourselves stymied by life, whether it’s from chronic illness, or a broken relationship, or a natural disaster, or drastic changes in our country or our church. 

Look at General Naaman: he’s a person of wealth, power, success, importance. He’s used to directing troops, telling others what to do. But now he’s sick, likely with the disease of leprosy, a death-sentence in his day. Suddenly, he has the dreaded disease that turns kings into outcasts; the disease that turns beloved family members into shunned figures on the margins of society, their very flesh rotting on their bones. Naaman is used to top-notch treatment from the best healers that money can buy. He’s used to managing his cure. But this time, he appears to freeze in panic, unable to take any action.

Instead, it’s his wife’s Hebrew slave girl who puts things in motion for Naaman. Did you hear that? The one who offers help is a slave, a foreigner, and a young woman at that! And where is he told to go for healing? To the backwater country that he’s recently defeated in battle. Then, despite Naaman’s chariot-load of riches, the King of Israel is afraid to receive him. Instead, Naaman gets shuttled off to see some unknown prophet, and the prophet won’t even bother to come out and meet with him. The prophet Elisha sends out one of his servants, who tells the great general to go wash in the muddy waters of a second-class river. Oh, how I can feel Naaman’s desperate indignation! It’s like expecting help from a renowned specialist, yet only being seen by a medical student, who tells you to take a few Tylenol and rest for a week!

          Of course, the lesson here for all who seek healing is that God doesn’t need our wealth, our power, or our knowledge in order to make us whole. Instead, God tends to work through slave girls, obscure prophets, and muddy little rivers. God works through poor, unwed Mary, shepherds, and babies born in stables. God works through ordinary bread, wine, and a body broken on a Cross. Like Naaman, we’re expected to grab the hands of the people God sends us, no matter who they are. We need only to lower the barriers that we hide behind and allow ourselves to feel vulnerable, to listen, to let love do its work. And it’s the lesson that Jesus wants to teach us in today’s Gospel reading, as well.

          Jesus, too, strips his followers bare of all illusions of control as he sends them out on their mission of healing. I love how preacher Nadia Bolz-Weber paraphrases Jesus’ command: “OK, [she writes.]  The first thing you need to know is that we are under staffed. Second, there’s a high wolf danger so watch out for that. Third you can’t take any money or change of clothes or bag or even sandals. Forth, stay with whoever will share the peace with you and don’t try and trade up and if there are sick people around take care of them and fifth, the food might stink but eat it anyway.”[1] Jesus’s followers aren’t to demand or expect success. If they accomplish amazing things, they’re not to take the credit. There’s no promise of glory, no promise of nice church buildings, or financial pledges, or pews full of families with young children. There’s merely the command to show up and to heal the sick and broken in Jesus’ name.

          I can still remember having disdainful thoughts on my first day of clinical pastoral education in seminary. The hospital chaplain was lecturing us newbies on the importance of simply showing up in a crisis. We didn’t need the answers, he said. We just needed to be present. “What?!” I thought, “How dumb. Just stand there with no explanations while people are suffering?! What good does that do? That’s way too simple. Who wants to see a strange pastor-type they don’t even know lurking around in times of grief?” As I found out, that’s exactly what people want. Loving presence. Standing with. Vulnerability. Showing compassion, like a young slave in a foreign land helping the general who led the assault that likely led to her capture.

Between the Covid pandemic, the Marshall Fire in my town, traumatic events around the country, and my husband’s illness, the shield of my beloved privilege feels like it’s slipping. My certainty that everything will work out has been deeply shaken. In these recent turbulent weeks, I feel as if I need to do something as an American, and certainly as a priest. I want us to be healed of our collective leprosy. I want to fix things for those who are suffering. But everything that I can come up with sounds too weak and common, like trying to cure a deadly disease by bathing in a foreign stream, like holding the hands of dying patients in the hospital.

          Today’s readings reassure me that no act of love is too inconsequential. Jesus is asking us to show up, vulnerable and open, like Naaman, like sheep among wolves. Throughout the Hebrew scriptures, “wolves” are symbols. They don’t just represent violence and danger. They are metaphors for corrupt and greedy religious and political leaders who devour the poor and marginalized. Jesus-followers are to enter their presence unprotected, vulnerable, dependent only upon God and the hospitality of Christian community. Indeed, the very Kingdom of God, that Kingdom that Jesus says has come near, it’s an image for how the brokenness of this world could be healed, if each of us would turn back to living for the God who is love.[2] Joining God in bringing about this restoration of creation through Love is our very mission as Christians.

So what do we do when our lives or our world seem to be going haywire? We sit and eat with those in need of good news, live among them, stay with them, listen to them, live regular lives together, don’t waste time in places we aren’t wanted, and let God’s healing happen. It’s not very flashy. But such is the Kingdom of God. May we find, like Naaman, true healing there, in spite of ourselves.

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[1] Nadia Bolz Weber, “Sermon on Naaman the Leper and How the Common Can Heal Us.” In Sarcastic Lutheran. Patheos, July 7, 2016. Found at https://www.patheos.com/blogs/nadiabolzweber/2016/07/sermon-on-naaman-the-leper-and-how-the-common-can-heal-us/

[2] Frederick Christian Bauerschmidt, The Love that is God: An Invitation to Christian Faith (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2020), 30.

Seven Last Words: "My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me"

 

The afternoon sky has been dark for three hours, daylight overpowered by the strangeness of night. At the worst of his pain, alone in the darkness, Jesus groans, using the only prayer that remains: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.” With these words, Jesus begins to pray Psalm 22, joining his voice to the psalmist’s witness, joining his voice to the anguished voices of all who feel abandoned, forsaken, and vulnerable.

Pain pulls us in on ourselves, doesn’t it? It isolates us from others, from God, from beauty, even from love. Poet Christian Wiman, a bone-cancer survivor, says that “pain islands you.”[1] Yes, it can be the bone-crushing pain of cancer or the dry burning of fever. It can be the emotional pain of grief and loss, or of a depression so deep that we can only curl our bodies around our own despair. It can be the pain we absorb from our radically suffering world—from war, from natural disasters, from injustice, from genocide. Deep pain takes up all of our attention and makes us feel, oh so alone.

Pain and suffering also rip us away from any sense of meaning. Jesus’ “WHY” isn’t an intellectual “why.” It’s a why that pleads from deep down in the gut. It’s the Psalmist’s “WHY” of agonized wonder, the cry of “how can this horror even be?” How can “my God,” the trustworthy God of my ancestors, seem to have disappeared in my time of need? How can all the narratives on which I’ve relied suddenly crumble to dust? On the Cross, even Jesus, who knows an unconditional intimacy with his Abba—even Jesus enters the empty pit of meaninglessness that comes with suffering.

I wonder how much of the Psalm Jesus is able to utter before his death. Is it just this first agonized line, given to us by the Gospel writers? Psalm 22 isn’t just a testimony to pain and meaninglessness. It’s a testimony that shifts rather awkwardly to end in praise—in praise of a triumphant, saving God. As the psalmist dangles from the horns of wild oxen, God suddenly appears to him, like sunlight through the clouds. It turns out that God was never absent, after all.

I like to think that Jesus, in his dying, finishes the whole psalm, embodying both agony and grace, witnessing to God’s faithful presence, even when we can’t feel it. It can sound puny and clichéd when we say to someone in pain, “Oh, God is with you in your suffering.” But in Jesus’ own anguished cry, I can feel and hear and see that place where God’s unfailing, ever-present love runs smack into unjust, isolating, meaningless suffering. And that meeting of love and pain--that’s where the power of compassion--the divine power of “suffering with”—can grow and spread. And it’s this power of compassion that brings life out of death.[2]

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[1] Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013), 148.

[2] Wendy Farley, Tragic Vision and Divine Compassion: A Contemporary Theodicy (Louisville: Westminster Press, 1990), 79.

I Want to See: Two Sermons on Bartimaeus

 

                        Regular Version

Imagine with me, a young girl working on an assignment in math class. Brows furrowed, heart thumping, she tries to work out the problem in her book. She anxiously taps the eraser of her pencil on her desk. She doesn’t want to admit to the teacher that she can’t figure out the answer. There seems to be some kind of system to these numbers. There seems to be something significant about the patterns, but she can’t quite grasp what it is. Erasing, re-erasing, scratching wildly with her pencil all over the paper, she finally makes the numbers work. “Oh, yes, now I SEE!” she thinks with relief. Her body relaxes and a smile spreads over her face. “Now I SEE.” The patterns make sense. The pieces fit into their fraction of the whole. “I see!” What a relief! What a marvel it is to see!

          Seeing is so much more than merely the seeing that we do with our eyes, isn’t it? When we “see” something, we understand it. We grasp it. If only all of life were as easy to see as a math problem or a word puzzle! If only all frustrations could be reasoned out. If only all inconsistencies could be smoothed away with a well-placed answer. Sometimes we pretend that our own mental gymnastics or our own right actions can bring us the understanding that we seek. But blindness always lurks in the corners and beside the way.

I imagine that many of us are worried today about our elections, about war and hatred all around the world. It’s hard to see the way forward. The world—other people—our loved ones—those people we just don’t understand—they can’t always be solved like a math problem, can they? Suffering never makes sense. Evil certainly doesn’t make sense. How does life become a chaos, a problem with no acceptable solution? “O God, why?” we shout in our hearts, over and over again. When we can’t see the path ahead, we can’t help but call out in our blindness, “Jesus have mercy,” even when others might tell us to hush and to calm down.

Mark’s story of Bartimaeus is about more than a blind beggar regaining his eyesight. Have you ever noticed that it’s rare in the Gospel stories for the people whom Jesus heals to have names? Usually, they’re just “a leper,” or a “lame man,” or “a bleeding woman.” But in today’s Gospel, the blind beggar has a name: “Bar-Timaeus,” which means “Son of Timaeus,” a fact that Mark wants to be sure that we notice, since he quite plainly and redundantly points it out. “Bar” is the Aramaic for “son of” and Timaeus is a Greek name. Why a name that combines two languages in this strange way? Timaeus isn’t just any old Greek name, either. Timaeus is the main dialogue partner in the Greek philosopher Plato’s famous work, The Timaeus, a work that was well known among the Hellenistic Jews of Mark’s time and place.

The Timaeus is about the cosmos, about the mathematical beauty and wholeness of the universe—it’s about the perfect pattern of all things. For Plato, sight is our most important sense. Only sight allows us to grasp the beautiful truth of the cosmos, to comprehend time and the seasons, to attain the heights of philosophy.  In the Timaeus, Plato writes, “God invented and gave us sight to the end that we might behold the courses of intelligence in the heaven, and apply them to the courses of our own intelligence which are akin to them, the unperturbed to the perturbed; and that we, learning them and partaking of the natural truth of reason, might imitate the absolutely unerring courses of God."[1]

For Plato’s Timaeus, wise humans can learn to imitate a perfect, clockwork universe. A person who is blind, a person without sight and reason, is thus bereft of wisdom, unimportant, cast aside in his imperfection. Mark’s naming of the healed beggar as Son of Timaeus could well be meant to jar the minds of his Greek-speaking Jewish readers. It could turn Plato’s perfect universe upside down. The suffering have no place in Plato’s harmonious system. But in Mark’s Gospel, the suffering are directly engaged.

In Mark, Bartimaeus, the Son of Timaeus, sits beside the Way, a beggar rejected by a society that won’t even abide his cries for help. But Bartimaeus is courageous enough to risk the taunts and jeers of those who exclude him. In complete humility, he cries out to a savior that he can’t see, a savior who rips open Plato’s perfect cosmos and comes down to a beggar in his small, sightless corner of the world. God comes down into our suffering world in the form of Jesus: Jesus who dives down into our suffering with a love that leads to his own crucifixion.[2] 

“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks Bartimaeus—using the exact same words that he offered James and John in last week’s Gospel. In that exchange, James and John are still trying to figure out how God works. They think that life has an answer that will lead them straight to a place at Jesus’ right hand in glory. Bartimaeus, though, asks only to see. His suffering has taught him that the way to eternal life lies on the way that Jesus is walking, on the perilous road to Jerusalem. He asks to see a road that the twelve disciples are still too blind to grasp.

As soon as Jesus heals him and gives him sight, Bartimaeus takes off to follow Jesus, on the Way—no longer beside it—on the way to Jerusalem, on the way that leads to the Cross. Given sight, what Bartimaeus sees isn’t Plato’s cosmic mystery. He doesn’t learn why he was born blind. He doesn’t find out the answers to all of our curious questions about God and the universe. All he sees … is Jesus. When the light enters his eyes, he looks straight into the face of Jesus, crucified Son of David, living Son of God. Without missing a beat, this unlikely Son of Timaeus sheds his beggar’s cloak and his old way of life, and follows Jesus’ Way.

Jesus is always taking our stories, our schemes and our plans, and turning them inside out, isn’t he? Every time we think we have life and the universe figured out, he turns our solid, rational answers into a vulnerable, loving face. Every time we think that we’re peering into certainty, Jesus presents a picture of mercy, instead.

Once, I was troubled by a recurring image that frustrated me to no end. I saw myself alone and unhappy in a desert, standing beside a winding path. I could see buildings and people on the left, and I could see life-giving water and green trees behind me. Ahead, I only saw the path, stretching into the horizon. But I couldn’t move forward or even step sideways onto the path, because on the right, I was blind. I couldn’t see anything to the right of the path, no matter how hard I stared. It was as blank as an empty page. Like the little girl trying to solve the math problem alone, I was distraught at my blindness. For the life of me, I couldn’t see “what was right” and it terrified me.

When I told my spiritual director about this image, she suggested: “Maybe you’re afraid to see? Maybe you don’t want to know what is right, because it’s difficult.” Yes, she spoke the truth. After reading today’s Gospel, I think that I could have stopped straining to make logical sense of that old dream. I could have stopped trying to peer ahead into my story.  Instead, if I had quit trying to predict the future and cried out to Jesus, for all that I was worth: “Lord, have mercy on me!” Jesus might have bestowed on me the healing gift of his loving face, of his faithful presence.

          Is there anything that you are afraid to see? If Jesus held out his hands to you in your blind places and whispered, “What can I do for you?” what would you say?

                        Attempt at Intergenerational Version for a Goodbye Service

Before I was a priest, I was a teacher. I was even a substitute teacher sometimes. So I know what kids think when they see a strange sub standing up in front of the classroom! They miss the comforting presence of their regular teacher, and at the same time, there’s that glee that they might just get a free day, a chance to mess around or tune out! Right? Well, I am your sub for today, and I want to let our young people know that I’m not standing here just to talk to the adults. I know that you’re in a long church service and missing time with your friends, so I thank you for giving this old sub a chance to share some thoughts with you about the story of the blind man that we just heard.

We all have a lot on our minds and hearts this morning, I imagine. Perhaps some of you are really sad about Chris leaving town. Maybe you’re worried about what youth group will be like without him, and with a new leader that you don’t know. You’ve had lots of new leaders in the past few years, and comings and goings are hard. Anticipation—waiting in the unknown-- is hard, even when it’s good anticipation. I’m sure that Chris is excited about his upcoming wedding and new home, but I imagine that he’s also wondering how all the new things will be. Many of us here today are also full of worried anticipation about the election coming up soon. We’re all overburdened with campaign ads, and we’re filled with really scary news of war abroad and rumors of violence in our country. If you’re like me, you’re got a dread in the pit of your stomach that your world is spinning out of control.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could see into the future? If we could always understand what is happening in our lives and in the world? If we always knew what path was right to take? If we could just see what lies ahead and prepare ourselves?

 We get an answer to our anxious anticipation in today’s Gospel lesson, when Jesus heals a blind man named Bartimaeus. Bartimaeus has lots of worries, too. He can’t see, so he can’t work. He can only sit by the side of the road and wait. He can only wait for unseen people to drop a few coins or a bit of food onto his spread-out cloak on the ground. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be blind, but I do know what’s it’s like to sit alone, off to the side of the group. I do know what it’s like for people to tell me to be quiet, to turn their backs to my words.  I do know what it’s like not to see the way forward, not to understand, not to be able to say, “Oh, I SEE what’s going on.”

Even though Bartimaeus can’t see with his eyes, his heart can feel and hope and pray. When he hears the stories about Jesus, Bartimaeus’ heart tells him that Jesus is special, that Jesus just might be able to help him. So when Jesus comes down the road into his town, Bartimaeus starts hollering to get Jesus’ attention.

And Jesus listens to his cries. Jesus doesn’t make fun of him like other people do. Jesus gets his friends to invite Bartimaeus over to him. I can imagine Jesus reaching out and taking Bartimaeus’ cold hands in his. “What do you want me to for you?” Jesus asks kindly. “What do you want me to do for you?” Doesn’t it feel wonderful when someone asks us this question? Then Jesus opens the blind man’s eyes to sight, just like Bartimaeus so deeply desires.

I think what’s important for us to notice is what Bartimaeus sees after he’s healed. He doesn’t see into the past, into all the reasons why he had to be blind in the first place. He doesn’t see into the future, reassured that now he’s going to live happily-ever-after. He simply sees Jesus’ face, Jesus’ loving presence with him; he feels his hands being held. He hears God’s healing blessing right in that moment. Bartimaeus doesn’t take much time, either, worrying about what he’ll do next. He doesn’t go back to his old life at all. He immediately follows Jesus on the way to Jerusalem, on the rocky path of the Way of Love.

Every time we think we have life and the universe figured out, Jesus turns our solid, rational answers into a vulnerable, loving face. Every time we look for certainty, Jesus presents a picture of loving-kindness, instead.

When we all lay our hands on Chris in a few minutes, when we all give him a blessing, Jesus will be there among us, filling us each with his healing love. In all of our worried anticipation today, listen for Jesus asking you, “What do you want me to do for you?” What would you tell him? 

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[1] Quoted in Abhishek Solomon, “From Plato’s Timaeus to Mark’s Bar-Timaeus,” October 23, 2021, https://www.trinitymethodist.org.nz/post/from-plato-s-timaeus-to-mark-s-bar-timaeus.

[2] Gordon Lathrop, Holy Ground: A Liturgical Cosmology (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Press, 2003), 33.