We begin where the gospel lesson ends. We have come to church this morning because we have heard of an empty tomb, and we stand amazed, like Peter, not sure if we dare believe the unbelievable. Like the disciples that morning, we have only the women's word that they found the tomb empty, and they had only the word of strange angels, to explain the shocking absence of a body in the tomb of the crucified Jesus.
"But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel." A disciple said to a stranger on the road to Emmaus, later that same day. The disciples dared to hope in Jesus, they thought he might be the messiah, the king promised in scripture, the one who would end Israel's sufferings once and for all and reestablish the reign of King David. All the signs were there! He was a prophet, the spirit of God was with him. We saw miracles! The lame walked, and lepers were cleansed, and the blind discovered their sight. We saw him feed a multitude on a few loaves and fish. "We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel."
But instead of victory, his disciples witnessed his death. Jesus was betrayed, and he was arrested, and he was tortured, and he was crucified. Jesus died, and his body was placed in a tomb.
At sunrise on the first day of the week, the women went the the tomb and found it vacant. "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, he has been raised. Remember, he told you this would happen."
So the women ran to tell the disciples, but they considered it an idle tale. The mad ravings of hysterical women. And they did not believe it.
Can you blame them? They had been through a lot in the previous week, the triumphant entry into Jerusalem, the clearing of the temple, the Passover meal and celebration. And then the horror. The dark night in Gethsemane, the betrayal, the police and the angry mob. Jesus was beaten and crucified to death, and Peter and the other disciples could do nothing to stop it. They had been high and they were brought low. Could they dare to believe? Would you, would I, would we dare to believe?
Good news: their disbelief did not negate the truth of the resurrection. Their disbelief did not disqualify them from later witnessing their risen Lord. Their disbelief did not invalidate their discipleship. Believe it or not, death is defeated, Christ lives. Christ is risen, indeed.
Despite evidence to the contrary, Christ lives.
Despite wars and rumors of war, Christ lives.
Despite heartbreak and separation, Christ lives.
Despite poverty and sickness, Christ lives.
Despite even death, Christ lives.
Despite all the powers of hell at work in our world today, Christ lives and walks among us, and is seen in everything that is true and beautiful and good. I have seen the risen Christ in the photos that Joey Halvorson took in Haiti-- Christ in the doctors and nurses who cared for the sick and the wounded, Christ in the faces of those who had suffered, Christ in the joy and laughter of people who had been through hell, and still they rejoiced, and danced and sang, and lived and loved.
I have seen Christ in the church basement, serving and being served. Christ napping on a cot in the Sunday school room, Christ serving hot dish. I have seen Christ in the kindness, Christ in the courage, Christ in the love. Christ died, and Christ is risen, and Christ comes again, and again.
The resurrection means that death is defeated. Because death is defeated, nothing can stop us from living fearlessly, loving lavishly, even laying down our lives for our friends, confident that life is restored.
Do not be afraid to live, to love, to serve God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength, because your life is yours, given to you as a gift, as an everlasting gift. Rejoice and be glad, for Christ is risen, indeed. Alleluia! Amen.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Scattering Seed
The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.
--Mark 4:26-27
Seeds that sprout and grow are as wondrous to me now as they were in kindergarten, when we planted marigold seeds in Dixie cups and left them on the basement classroom window-ledge. Sometime after we had forgotten they were there, Mrs. Snodgrass handed them down and there were little green plants! Look at that! I was so proud to take that little green plant home to my mother. Proud, not of what I had done or made, but proud of that little seed, that it had managed to rise up out of the dirt and seek the sunshine.
The kingdom of God is as if a child should bury a seed in a cup of dirt, and should come and go, day after day, to learn about letters and numbers and colors and shapes, and the seed should sprout and grow, she does not know how. But when it does, there is such joy.
Even now, whenever I plant a row of seed, I am amazed that something happens, amazed at the power contained in each little seed, bulb, corm or cutting. And I am amazed at how generous plants are. Since I started the parsonage perennial beds, several years ago, my garden has received seeds and bulbs and corms and shoots from other gardens, and in turn has produced an abundance to share with my neighbors. Iris, bleeding heart, peonies, day lilies and chrysanthemum I have received from you have been divided many times over, and you will find their descendants in gardens up and down the street.
The kingdom of God is as if a gardener should prepare the soil to receive the seeds and bulbs and shoots from other gardeners, and should sleep and rise night and day, and the garden should sprout and grow, she does not know how, but when it does, there is a giveaway.
Even more amazing to me is the knowledge, wisdom, and will contained in the garden. We lived in Vermont for a summer. Vermont is a state that was once more populous than it is now. The forest has reclaimed land that once had been cleared for grazing and farming, but, it is possible to make out the old dooryards, for that is where the lilacs grow. Lilacs planted by folks who moved on, a century-and-a-half ago.
The summer after Vermont we lived out west in the Sandhills. Our second summer there the hills were covered in wild sunflowers. Sunflowers as far as the eye could see. People our age had never seen such a thing, the old-timers had heard of such, from their parents, and some claimed they remembered one summer of sunflowers, way back. In Stories of the Souix, Mari Sandoz’s collection of tales that she heard as a child, there was mention of one summer back in the buffalo time before man came to earth, when the hills were covered with sunflowers, so that the buffalo wrapped flowers around their horns. Legendary sunflowers, they were. Who knows how many years the seeds lay dormant in the sand, to be awakened by just the right amount of rain and sun and wind.
The kingdom of God is as if the homesteader should plant a hedge, or the buffalo should scatter seed, and long after both have returned to the dust from which they came, the seed is still sprouting and growing, and children weave crowns of flowers for their hair.
The seeds of God’s mercy have been scattered, and have taken root and grown in you. You are God’s garden. Go to seed! Scatter that love and mercy and compassion generously, wastefully even—because nothing is ever really wasted. Seeds may lie dormant for ages, generations even, but seeds will sprout and grow, and so will the kingdom of God, the love of God, life in God, we do not need to know how.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Two Parades: Palm Sunday 2010
Two Parades: One down from the Mount of Olives, the other from the coast, bringing the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, and extra Roman legions into the city to “keep the peace” during the festival of Passover.
Passover, being a festival of liberation, was an occasion of special concern to the government of occupation. Religious pilgrims poured into the city, crowding the streets, filling the temple, overflowing into encampments around the city walls, for a feast that includes a re-telling of the burdens of slavery, a reminder that God hears the call of those who are oppressed, and a warning to any who would oppress God’s chosen people.
The festival of Passover made Rome nervous. It also made collaborators like Caiaphas and Herod nervous, because they were appointed by Rome and protected by Rome. So the troops marched in from the east, line after line, marching, marching, before and behind the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate, the local representative of Caesar Augustus, who was not only Emperor, but also, according to him and to the engraving on Roman coins, “son of God.” Pilate would have been carried on a litter, or a chariot, or mounted on a war horse, in this display of military might. This parade was meant to intimidate. It was a public display of power intended to quell any ideas of rebellion, that might be inspired by the festival of freedom that is Passover.
And down from the Mount of Olives, on the opposite side of the city, came a parody of Pilate. Not on a war horse or chariot, but on the colt of an ass. A grown man on a donkey’s colt… it must have been as ridiculous as a man on a tricycle. And this King, this Jesus, was not accompanied by men of war, but by a crowd of disciples, shouting praises for the "King who comes in the name of the Lord.” Beating swords against shields, the Roman soldier would have made a terrifying, thunderous din. In contrast, the disciples praised God for all they had seen in Jesus, and invoked the peace of heaven. Pilate came to enforce the so-called peace of Rome by military threat; Jesus came, announcing the peace of heaven, the peace of God, the fulfillment of all the hopes of the people.
There were two parades in Jerusalem, parades. One a show of force, a menacing warning. The other, a proclamation of peace. These parades were on a collision course. In the week that followed the power of Rome and the power of God met, and on the surface, it may appear that Rome was victorious. Their man, Pilate, walked away unharmed, God's man, Jesus, was crucified. But that, as you know, is not the end of the story. The Easter gospel proclaims that once Rome did it's worst, Christ rose again, and lives eternally.
But, Palm Sunday is an event that repeats itself, not only literally, chronically, but figuratively in our hearts and in our lives. Whenever we are faced with a choice between the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ we relive this day. Whether to accept our place in a culture of violence, or leave the violence behind us and take our place behind Jesus the Prince of Peace, and his donkey, that is the Palm Sunday of the soul. Let us contemplate, which parade we follow.
Passover, being a festival of liberation, was an occasion of special concern to the government of occupation. Religious pilgrims poured into the city, crowding the streets, filling the temple, overflowing into encampments around the city walls, for a feast that includes a re-telling of the burdens of slavery, a reminder that God hears the call of those who are oppressed, and a warning to any who would oppress God’s chosen people.
The festival of Passover made Rome nervous. It also made collaborators like Caiaphas and Herod nervous, because they were appointed by Rome and protected by Rome. So the troops marched in from the east, line after line, marching, marching, before and behind the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate, the local representative of Caesar Augustus, who was not only Emperor, but also, according to him and to the engraving on Roman coins, “son of God.” Pilate would have been carried on a litter, or a chariot, or mounted on a war horse, in this display of military might. This parade was meant to intimidate. It was a public display of power intended to quell any ideas of rebellion, that might be inspired by the festival of freedom that is Passover.
And down from the Mount of Olives, on the opposite side of the city, came a parody of Pilate. Not on a war horse or chariot, but on the colt of an ass. A grown man on a donkey’s colt… it must have been as ridiculous as a man on a tricycle. And this King, this Jesus, was not accompanied by men of war, but by a crowd of disciples, shouting praises for the "King who comes in the name of the Lord.” Beating swords against shields, the Roman soldier would have made a terrifying, thunderous din. In contrast, the disciples praised God for all they had seen in Jesus, and invoked the peace of heaven. Pilate came to enforce the so-called peace of Rome by military threat; Jesus came, announcing the peace of heaven, the peace of God, the fulfillment of all the hopes of the people.
There were two parades in Jerusalem, parades. One a show of force, a menacing warning. The other, a proclamation of peace. These parades were on a collision course. In the week that followed the power of Rome and the power of God met, and on the surface, it may appear that Rome was victorious. Their man, Pilate, walked away unharmed, God's man, Jesus, was crucified. But that, as you know, is not the end of the story. The Easter gospel proclaims that once Rome did it's worst, Christ rose again, and lives eternally.
But, Palm Sunday is an event that repeats itself, not only literally, chronically, but figuratively in our hearts and in our lives. Whenever we are faced with a choice between the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ we relive this day. Whether to accept our place in a culture of violence, or leave the violence behind us and take our place behind Jesus the Prince of Peace, and his donkey, that is the Palm Sunday of the soul. Let us contemplate, which parade we follow.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Anointing: John 12:1-8
The story of the anointing is recorded in all four gospels. Looking at the parallel versions of the story we can see how the telling evolved over the years. Each version reveals more about the evolving interpretation of Jesus, as the church in every generation sought to answer the question which Jesus once posed to his disciples, "Who do you say that I am?"
I am partial to Mark's version (14:3-9), in part, I suppose because it was the text for the sermon which John Riggs preached on the occasion of my ordination, on the 10th of June, 1990.
The terribly ironic postscript being that even Mark's gospel failed to identify this woman. Mark's gospel may have been compiled around the year 70, that means 40 years after the fact, a mere two generations later, the church has forgotten the name of the woman whose story, Jesus said, would be told "in remembrance of her." Who is she? "A woman" is all that Mark and Matthew wrote, "came with an alabaster jar, and poured it on his head." Luke changed the location of the story from the house of Simon the Leper to the house of an unnamed Pharisee, and the locus of the anointing to the feet instead of the head. Luke also elaborated on the identity of the woman, describing her as "a sinner," implying that she was a woman of loose morals as well as loose hair (as the story goes, she bathed Jesus' feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair). And finally John, written, at the earliest, twenty years after Mark, a full generation, or perhaps two generations later, retained Luke's change from the anointing of the head to the anointing of the feet. John also moved the location once again, and gave the woman a name, identifying her as Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha.
All these changes depoliticized the story, made it more acceptable to proper Roman ears, as the church grew in number, and reached different classes of people. The audience for the gospel stories changed over the years, from the Jewish peasants of occupied Judea and Gallilee, to the urban Jews of the diaspora, to the gentiles and the households of imperial Rome. Consider another change in the gospels, how in the earlier gospels the blame for the crucifixion shifts from Rome-- it's rightful place, for only the Roman rulers had the authority to crucify a convict-- to "the Jews." The gospel of John places the blame on "the Jews." Jesus was a Jew! His disciples were Jews! This too, I belive, is an unfortunate redaction, an editorial process intended to widen the church's sphere of influence. Changes made for the best intentions, perhaps, but to unfortunate, indeed tragic, consequences.
In its earliest context, this is the story of Jesus being anointed as kings were anointed. The act itself alludes to the act of the prophet Samuel, who anointed David as king of Israel. When Samuel did this, Saul was still king of Israel. It was an act of treason on his part, an act of treason which God commanded him to do. Anointing is a demonstration that says: the Spirit of the Lord rests upon this one. This is the true king, a son of God-- which was a title for the king of Israel-- and a son of David.
And I believe Jesus recognized this anointing as his death sentence. Herod was certainly not going to allow someone else to call himself the king of the Jews, a title Herod coveted. Rome was certainly not going to allow someone to call himself the king of the Jews. Anointing Jesus as king was tantamount to anointing him for his burial: His fate was sealed. As Saul sought to kill David, so Herod and Pilate would seek to kill Jesus. That is why, I believe, Jesus responded as he did, saying, "she has prepared my body for burial." In accepting this kingship, he was accepting his violent death.
David responded to his kingship by leading men into battle, in a long and bloody civil war. Jesus responded in a profoundly different way. Accepting his anointing, knowing that it would end in violence, he refused to meet violence with violence. He chose to die alone, not to lead others to their death. He chose to die the way he lived, and he lived the way he taught. Loving his enemies, praying for those who persecuted him, blessing those who cursed him.
At the beginning of this Lenten season, we read of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. We read from Luke's version of the story, which ends with this ominous promise: "the devil departed from him until an opportune time." Now, this was the opportune time, the time to decide how to receive and respond to his anointing. This was the last temptation, and the beginning of the victory.
I am partial to Mark's version (14:3-9), in part, I suppose because it was the text for the sermon which John Riggs preached on the occasion of my ordination, on the 10th of June, 1990.
While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head.
[But some were there who said to one another in anger, ‘Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.’ And they scolded her. But Jesus said, ‘Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial.]
Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’
The terribly ironic postscript being that even Mark's gospel failed to identify this woman. Mark's gospel may have been compiled around the year 70, that means 40 years after the fact, a mere two generations later, the church has forgotten the name of the woman whose story, Jesus said, would be told "in remembrance of her." Who is she? "A woman" is all that Mark and Matthew wrote, "came with an alabaster jar, and poured it on his head." Luke changed the location of the story from the house of Simon the Leper to the house of an unnamed Pharisee, and the locus of the anointing to the feet instead of the head. Luke also elaborated on the identity of the woman, describing her as "a sinner," implying that she was a woman of loose morals as well as loose hair (as the story goes, she bathed Jesus' feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair). And finally John, written, at the earliest, twenty years after Mark, a full generation, or perhaps two generations later, retained Luke's change from the anointing of the head to the anointing of the feet. John also moved the location once again, and gave the woman a name, identifying her as Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha.
All these changes depoliticized the story, made it more acceptable to proper Roman ears, as the church grew in number, and reached different classes of people. The audience for the gospel stories changed over the years, from the Jewish peasants of occupied Judea and Gallilee, to the urban Jews of the diaspora, to the gentiles and the households of imperial Rome. Consider another change in the gospels, how in the earlier gospels the blame for the crucifixion shifts from Rome-- it's rightful place, for only the Roman rulers had the authority to crucify a convict-- to "the Jews." The gospel of John places the blame on "the Jews." Jesus was a Jew! His disciples were Jews! This too, I belive, is an unfortunate redaction, an editorial process intended to widen the church's sphere of influence. Changes made for the best intentions, perhaps, but to unfortunate, indeed tragic, consequences.
In its earliest context, this is the story of Jesus being anointed as kings were anointed. The act itself alludes to the act of the prophet Samuel, who anointed David as king of Israel. When Samuel did this, Saul was still king of Israel. It was an act of treason on his part, an act of treason which God commanded him to do. Anointing is a demonstration that says: the Spirit of the Lord rests upon this one. This is the true king, a son of God-- which was a title for the king of Israel-- and a son of David.
And I believe Jesus recognized this anointing as his death sentence. Herod was certainly not going to allow someone else to call himself the king of the Jews, a title Herod coveted. Rome was certainly not going to allow someone to call himself the king of the Jews. Anointing Jesus as king was tantamount to anointing him for his burial: His fate was sealed. As Saul sought to kill David, so Herod and Pilate would seek to kill Jesus. That is why, I believe, Jesus responded as he did, saying, "she has prepared my body for burial." In accepting this kingship, he was accepting his violent death.
David responded to his kingship by leading men into battle, in a long and bloody civil war. Jesus responded in a profoundly different way. Accepting his anointing, knowing that it would end in violence, he refused to meet violence with violence. He chose to die alone, not to lead others to their death. He chose to die the way he lived, and he lived the way he taught. Loving his enemies, praying for those who persecuted him, blessing those who cursed him.
At the beginning of this Lenten season, we read of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. We read from Luke's version of the story, which ends with this ominous promise: "the devil departed from him until an opportune time." Now, this was the opportune time, the time to decide how to receive and respond to his anointing. This was the last temptation, and the beginning of the victory.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Season of the Second Chance
And then Jesus told this parable about the fig tree, that was in danger of being chopped down or up-rooted. It was wasting space, the landowner thought. But the gardener, the patient gardener, made a case to spare the tree for another season. Let me dig around it, put some manure on it. I believe you will see figs next year. If you don't, then you can cut it down. Thus the gardener gave the fig tree a second chance.
I find poetic significance in the manure. What the tree needed most was refuse, manure, nothing of value, in fact something which is usually considered no good to anyone, and it is in copious supply wherever there are animals. Manure happens. Remember the bumper sticker?
I am sure we can all think of a time when we felt absolutely up to our necks in manure. Asking ourselves, "Why is all this manure happening to me. My life is a veritable manure storm." A sickness, loss of a job, divorce, whatever. But then, a few weeks or months or years later, we can look back and say, "You know, that was really awful, but if that hadn't happened, then I would not have become the person that I am today. If it weren't for that illness, I would never have developed the compassion or the patience for others who are in pain. Or if I hadn't been fired from that job, I would never have had the courage to make a new life in a new line. Or, if it hadn't been for that divorce, I wouldn't have met the person who is now the love of my life."
I'm not saying that God makes bad things happen so that we can grow. I'm saying that manure happens. I don't know what role God plays in it, God's ways are higher than ours, and the same with God's thoughts and plans. I do believe when manure happens, God is able to use it for our good. God takes it and turns it into something that gives growth. And we get a second chance, an extended season.
Lent is the season of repentance, which is another way to say it is the season of the second chance. We know Lent will come again next year, but none of us know for certain whether we will come around again. So teach us to number our days, that we may grow in wisdom, and use the time at hand to produce those good fruits of the spirit-- goodness, kindness, patience and the like-- and rejoice in all circumstances, for God is working it all into the soil from which we are made. Thanks be to God. Amen.
I find poetic significance in the manure. What the tree needed most was refuse, manure, nothing of value, in fact something which is usually considered no good to anyone, and it is in copious supply wherever there are animals. Manure happens. Remember the bumper sticker?
I am sure we can all think of a time when we felt absolutely up to our necks in manure. Asking ourselves, "Why is all this manure happening to me. My life is a veritable manure storm." A sickness, loss of a job, divorce, whatever. But then, a few weeks or months or years later, we can look back and say, "You know, that was really awful, but if that hadn't happened, then I would not have become the person that I am today. If it weren't for that illness, I would never have developed the compassion or the patience for others who are in pain. Or if I hadn't been fired from that job, I would never have had the courage to make a new life in a new line. Or, if it hadn't been for that divorce, I wouldn't have met the person who is now the love of my life."
I'm not saying that God makes bad things happen so that we can grow. I'm saying that manure happens. I don't know what role God plays in it, God's ways are higher than ours, and the same with God's thoughts and plans. I do believe when manure happens, God is able to use it for our good. God takes it and turns it into something that gives growth. And we get a second chance, an extended season.
Lent is the season of repentance, which is another way to say it is the season of the second chance. We know Lent will come again next year, but none of us know for certain whether we will come around again. So teach us to number our days, that we may grow in wisdom, and use the time at hand to produce those good fruits of the spirit-- goodness, kindness, patience and the like-- and rejoice in all circumstances, for God is working it all into the soil from which we are made. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
When God said, "Shut up and Listen"
Sometimes in the life of the church there is tension between piety and service. Some people think that the main thing is worship, while others believe working in the world to heal the sick and feed the hungry is the highest expression of the faith. Discipleship was never meant to be so divided. We worship and serve. We go to the mountain to pray, we come down to serve. Each experience flows into the other.
This was illustrated most profoundly on our
There is so much work to be done. There are so many wounds to be healed, so many hungry people to feed, so many divisions to be reconciled in peace. But we do not have the power to do good apart from God. Apart from God our bodies fail, our compassion cools, hope gives way to despair. On the mountain we are reminded who is the source of our strength, our love, and our hope. Listen to him! We must return again and again to the source of light and life, so that we will have light to shine, and life to share.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Looking Deeper
“Vocation” is a word that, to most of us, means an occupation, a skill, a trade. Auto mechanics, carpentry, all those courses that were taught in the “Voc Ed” wing of the high school. But if you were raised Catholic, or attended a Catholic school, and someone asked “Do you have a vocation?” you probably would have shook your head and slowly backed away, certain that you did not want to be a nun or a priest. Or maybe you did.
Vocation is what a person is called to be. The Latin root of the word is vocare, “to call.” We often use the word when we really mean “a line of work.” For some lucky people, their vocation is also their job, they actually get paid to do what they feel they were put on earth to do! Artists who can actually make a living at their art, natural born teachers and healers who earn the credentials to work as teachers and healers, I count among the fortunate few. But most people in this world just get to work, hard, at whatever they can do to provide for themselves and the people who depend on them. I don’t believe anyone was called by God to sew T-shirts for Hanes in a dimly lit factory every day. And I don’t think anyone was called by God to go down the mines to bring up diamonds for DeBeers. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.
I’ve been thinking about “vocation” because this week’s Gospel reading is the story of the call of three disciples, Peter, James and John. They get to appear next week too, in the story of the transfiguration (shiny Jesus on the mountain), but this week we read the beginning of their story, according to Luke, in which they meet Jesus at the end of a hard day’s night. They had been all night on the sea, casting their nets, coming up empty. (Hey, did anyone see that Discovery channel show on crabbing? It’s the world’s dangerous catch.) They are cleaning their nets, and probably thinking about going home to get some sleep, when Jesus gets in Peter’s boat and asks him to take out a little ways. Jesus preaches to the crowds from the boat, the calm sea providing natural amplification, as anyone knows, who has ever sat by the lake on a calm night and heard the fishermen telling jokes they thought no little ears could hear.
Then, when the sermon was over, Jesus told Peter to go out to the deep water, and let down his nets. Which he had just cleaned. After catching nothing all night. I sense a bit of skepticism, but by this time, maybe Peter was just too tired to argue. He let down his nets and brought up the biggest catch ever, so heavy that the nets were fit to burst, and he had to call his partners, James and John, with the other boat, to bring in the catch.
And here’s the really weird bit: Peter, James and John, they quit, right then and there, at the top of their game, after the most successful catch ever. They didn’t even wait to sell the fish. They just left everything, even old Zebedee, and walked away with Jesus. Now that seems terribly unkind and irresponsible. I imagine Zebedee staring, gape-mouthed, after them.
When Peter went out “into the deep” what did he find, besides the fish that had eluded him all night? “The deep” is where creation began. In the beginning, God exhaled over the face of the deep, and called the world into being. When he drew up his nets from the deep, what else did he draw up? A new creation? A new spirit? A new man? One who was no longer Simon the Fisherman, but one who was becoming Peter, the rock?
Maybe that is why the thought of “going deeper” in the faith is daunting. If we go deeper, we may be transformed. And maybe this transformation will mean that we cannot go back the way we came. Perhaps it is safer, just to skim the surface, to take from the faith just enough comfort and hope to get by, but not enough to transform us into followers who give it all up.
Vocation is what a person is called to be. The Latin root of the word is vocare, “to call.” We often use the word when we really mean “a line of work.” For some lucky people, their vocation is also their job, they actually get paid to do what they feel they were put on earth to do! Artists who can actually make a living at their art, natural born teachers and healers who earn the credentials to work as teachers and healers, I count among the fortunate few. But most people in this world just get to work, hard, at whatever they can do to provide for themselves and the people who depend on them. I don’t believe anyone was called by God to sew T-shirts for Hanes in a dimly lit factory every day. And I don’t think anyone was called by God to go down the mines to bring up diamonds for DeBeers. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.
I’ve been thinking about “vocation” because this week’s Gospel reading is the story of the call of three disciples, Peter, James and John. They get to appear next week too, in the story of the transfiguration (shiny Jesus on the mountain), but this week we read the beginning of their story, according to Luke, in which they meet Jesus at the end of a hard day’s night. They had been all night on the sea, casting their nets, coming up empty. (Hey, did anyone see that Discovery channel show on crabbing? It’s the world’s dangerous catch.) They are cleaning their nets, and probably thinking about going home to get some sleep, when Jesus gets in Peter’s boat and asks him to take out a little ways. Jesus preaches to the crowds from the boat, the calm sea providing natural amplification, as anyone knows, who has ever sat by the lake on a calm night and heard the fishermen telling jokes they thought no little ears could hear.
Maybe that is why the thought of “going deeper” in the faith is daunting.
Then, when the sermon was over, Jesus told Peter to go out to the deep water, and let down his nets. Which he had just cleaned. After catching nothing all night. I sense a bit of skepticism, but by this time, maybe Peter was just too tired to argue. He let down his nets and brought up the biggest catch ever, so heavy that the nets were fit to burst, and he had to call his partners, James and John, with the other boat, to bring in the catch.
And here’s the really weird bit: Peter, James and John, they quit, right then and there, at the top of their game, after the most successful catch ever. They didn’t even wait to sell the fish. They just left everything, even old Zebedee, and walked away with Jesus. Now that seems terribly unkind and irresponsible. I imagine Zebedee staring, gape-mouthed, after them.
When Peter went out “into the deep” what did he find, besides the fish that had eluded him all night? “The deep” is where creation began. In the beginning, God exhaled over the face of the deep, and called the world into being. When he drew up his nets from the deep, what else did he draw up? A new creation? A new spirit? A new man? One who was no longer Simon the Fisherman, but one who was becoming Peter, the rock?
Maybe that is why the thought of “going deeper” in the faith is daunting. If we go deeper, we may be transformed. And maybe this transformation will mean that we cannot go back the way we came. Perhaps it is safer, just to skim the surface, to take from the faith just enough comfort and hope to get by, but not enough to transform us into followers who give it all up.
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