More than ten years ago, the night before Thanksgiving, I had the most wonderful, most blessed, holiest communion in my life. My son Bear and my daughter Wolf and I were sitting at the dining room table eating roast beast and mashed potatoes and fresh bread. Suddenly three-year-old Wolf held up her bread and said, “Take, eat. This is my new covenant.” Then she broke off a piece, put it in my hand, and said “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven.” I ate the bread and felt a tugging on my other sleeve. Four-year-old Bear had broken off a piece of his bread, and he put it into my hand saying “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven.”

Roast beef dinner by anthony hopkins! foto!

I smiled at them and kissed them and said thank you. But Wolf wasn’t done. She picked up her cup of milk, held it up to my lips, and said, “The blood of Christ, the milk of salvation.” I took a sip, feeling more then a little awed at the very real presence of God in the room with us. Bear picked up his milk and offered me the cup the same way, and I solemnly sipped it.

And I thought, there may not have been a priest there. The table was covered not with pristine white linen but with a blue vinyl tablecloth with fishies swimming all over it. There were no gleaming paten and chalice, but bright plastic plates and cups with hearts and cowboys on them. But God was there, and I experienced the body of Christ in a way I never had before.

What happened next was no less awesome. Bear and Wolf turned their Eucharist into a game, offering each other the roast beef of Christ and the mashed potatoes of salvation, and then laughing in sheer delight at their childish cleverness. I let them continue for a time because they were not being irreverent or blasphemous, just little children. Eventually I stopped their game because I was afraid they would choke on their dinner for laughing so hard.

In the gospel for this coming Sunday, Jesus tells us,

Let the little children come to me;
do not stop them;
for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.
Truly I tell you,
whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child
will never enter it.

Christ with the Children, by Smiles are Free

And then Jesus takes up the children — the children his disciples had just tried to shoo away — and he embraces them and he blesses them.  This is the sweet, gentle, loving Jesus we like to see, not the wrathful Jesus who overturns the tables in the Temple nor the obscure and scary Jesus who says such difficult things to us.  He is hugging the little children, laying his hands on them and blessing them.  We like this Jesus — he is easy to respect and to love.  But even as he hugs and blesses these children, he tells us something obscure and difficult:

Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.

So how do we receive the kingdom of God as a little child?  What could that mean for us?  Why does Jesus always give us such impossible challenges?

I know I can’t be the only one who sometimes catches a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am surprised by what I see.  For some reason, I expect my reflection to look like my 16- or 18-year-old self, and I find myself stunned when instead I see what I actually look like now.  I’ve put on weight, my shape has changed, and my skin has more lines in it.  My hands are no longer smooth, but look like the hands of a middle-aged woman.  Some places droop instead of being youthful and firm.  There is grey appearing in my hair, which once shone like golden honey.  And when I see all of this — really see it, and understand what it might mean — the younger me inside me shouts out, What happened?  What do you do?  I’m not going to get old and die, am I?

There are several little children living within me — four-year-old me, who saw the strangely lit Indiana sky that heralded a thunderstorm and was convinced that a monster was coming; seven-year-old me, who played war in the woods with the boys; ten-year-old me, who was sad to find herself a loner without a best friend; thirteen-year-old me, inspired by a summer studying music at the new arts school; sixteen-year-old me, testing the wings of the new freedom that a driver’s license brings; eighteen-year-old me, lit on fire by the joy of being young and the exciting work of college.

Ethiopia: Innocent Prayers of a Young Child, by babasteve

These children didn’t know much about receiving the kingdom of God; they weren’t very concerned about matters of death and resurrection and eternal life.  Children generally aren’t worried about these things.  This is part of what Jesus means here: we do not need to fear.  We have his promise that we will not be alone, that he is waiting for us when this life ends, that our new life in God’s kingdom will be wonderful and joyful.  But we do fear.  We get to be middle-aged, and we start eating oatmeal because we don’t want to have high cholesterol.  We go to the gym, not so much for the delight of using our bodies, but because we are avoiding heart attack and stroke.  We embrace a low-carb diet or we count our fat grams, and in this work we lose the joy that can come from nourishing our bodies.  We fear pain and dying.   This is natural, of course.  Pain doesn’t feel good, and dying has to feel even worse.  Why wouldn’t we fear these?

The truth is, fear is the opposite of faith.  Doubt or unbelief or disbelief is not the opposite of faith.  Fear is.  Fear rejects faith.  Fear says, I know you promised all of this, but I’m not sure I trust you to follow through.  Children tend to be people of great faith.  They trust in their parents to take care of them, to satisfy their needs for food and shelter and love.  They may not be able to answer the question — Do you have a ‘high’ or a ‘low’ Christology? — and they may not be able to even begin to put their faith into words, but children are very faithful people.  When Jesus tells us that we must receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he tells us that we must be faithful rather than fearful, trusting in God’s promises.  We have to try to learn how to trust again, blindly and innocently as a child, rather than fearing and trying to hold everything together on our own.  Jesus assures us that God will always take care of us, will always see to our needs.  Our journey as adults requires us to re-learn our childlike skills, to reclaim our faith and trust.

Freeze Tag, by elstudio

Those children within me, they also knew how to play.  They knew how to take a moment and imbue it with delight and magic and joy.  This may be by a daydream, a flight of fancy; it may be through a game of Freeze Tag with friends; it may be by sitting outside under a crisp autumn sky, singing a goofy song about the falling leaves just because it annoys Mom.  (Not that I ever did that, of course!)  These children knew how to make everything a game: when I mowed the lawn, I was always competing in the International Lawnmowing Olympics, being scored for how deftly I maneuvered around trees and for how quickly I finished the lawn.  It was silly.  It was goofy.  And it was fun.

How do we play now?  What value do we put on silly, goofy fun?  Do we embrace joy and delight just because they feel so good?  Do we schedule our play in, so that it’s just one more item to check off of the to-do list?  Or do we just ignore it, moving from work to chores to sleep every day?

In that story about Bear and Wolf, dinner had become something more than simply nourishing our bodies.  It had also become a game of pretend, play-acting the Last Supper and each Sunday’s Eucharist.  It gave us all delight and joy.  We laughed together, reveling in the fun.  We shared the roast beef of Christ and the mashed potatoes of salvation.  Didn’t that make you smile, even just a little?  I mean, how silly is it to have the mashed potatoes of salvation?  My two little ones trusted that God is present in even roast beef and mashed potatoes, just as God is present in Sunday’s bread and wine.  They may not have said this in these words; they probably would have used words like fun or silly or play.  And God wants us to play.  God wants us to delight in God’s Creation.  The account in Genesis tells us that at every stage in creating all that is, God saw that it was good.  Indeed, it is very good.

Blowing Bubbles, by .craig

To receive God’s kingdom as little children, we must also learn again how to play, how to find joy and delight in anything we do, how to be silly and goofy, how to have fun.  It may be that we can only feel free enough to play when we approach that perfect childlike trust that our needs will all be met.  It may be that we can find a child’s faith when we allow ourselves to play.  Or the two may form a virtuous cycle that brings us into God’s kingdom, even in the midst of this life here on earth.  How it happens doesn’t matter nearly as much as helping it to happen.

Jesus calls us to trust, to relax into his arms, knowing that he will take care of us and satisfy all of our needs.  Jesus calls us to play, to find joy and delight in ourselves and in all of God’s creation.  And when we find these, we receive the kingdom of God.

So today, take some old bread or cereal and go feed some ducks.  Blow bubbles on your front porch.  Gather a bouquet of dandelions and weeds.  Join the children on the playground.  Ride your bicycle, and delight in the rush of wind against your face.  When you have lunch, feast on the Five-Cheese Ziti Marinara of Christ and the BLT of Salvation.  Be a little child, and receive God’s kingdom.

If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say…

Thus begins Psalm 124, appointed for this coming Sunday.  It is a song of praise, of thanksgiving, to God for deliverance.  In the stories of the Old Testament, the Israelites were troubled by many enemies; their nation was conquered, carried away, delivered, brought back, and conquered again.  It is no wonder these men and women waited with great excitement and anticipation for the promised Messiah; over and over, they learned their own helplessness in the face of the powers of this world.

You may be surprised to learn that I can occasionally be a little bit stubborn.  Okay, so by occasionally I mean all the time, and by a little bit I mean a whole lot.  In my own story, I’ve noticed that the lessons I’ve had to learn over and over — like the children of Israel learning the lesson of their own helplessness — are the ones I never seem to completely get, to fully embrace… or the ones that I argue and rail and fight against, in my own stubborn and stiff-necked ways.  The lessons that I fight the hardest against, each time I encounter the lesson again, it becomes more difficult, more frustrating.  I refuse to admit the truth of the lesson to myself — I’m not helpless!  I’m in complete control here! — and I refuse even to admit it to God.

Flooding in the Conyers Nature Center, by jramspott

Every single one of us is helpless in the face of the powers of this world.  We do have some little power, some little control.  But we cannot change the thoughts and feelings of another, just as we cannot change the path of the weather.  Not one of us can prevent our enemies from rising up against us.  Not one of us can stop the flooding in the southeastern US, or the suffering it brings, though I’m sure every one of us would stop or prevent it if we could.  At the same time, none of us wants to admit this.  We have to be strong!  We have to be independent!  We have to be powerful!  We have to be capable and competent and in control!  Because if we’re not — if we are not all of these things — then what are we?  Lazy?  Incompetent?  Powerless?  Helpless?  Dependent?  Weak?

Our readings for Sunday give us some answers to this.  Beyond confirming that yes, individually we are weak and helpless and powerless, we hear three responses to our helplessness (if not to our stubbornness and pride).

The first response appears in the story of Esther — the only book in the canonical bible that does not refer to God.  Esther is a woman — weak, helpless, powerless in a society of males — and though she is a Jew, she is chosen by the Persian king to be his queen.  Esther’s adopted father Mordecai learned that one of the king’s closest advisers planned to destroy the Jews in the kingdom.  Mordecai is helpless, with no response to the power of this earthly king.  So he turns to Esther, and he places his trust in her.  He has done this once before, when he learned of a plot to assassinate the king.  And so now he does it again.  This first response to our helplessness is to trust.  Mordecai trusted in Esther to help the Jewish people; Esther, in turn, trusted in the king to save her people from death.

Queen Esther before King Ahasuerus, photo by Lawrence OP

We also see this response in the gospel, when Jesus tells us to trust those who work in his name: If they are not with us, they are for us. And the psalm concludes with a magnificent statement of trust:

Our help is in the Name of the LORD,
the maker of heaven and earth.

Trust, by Jean-François Chénier

We respond to our own helplessness and powerlessness with trust.  We trust in God, in God who formed us and breathed life into us, in God who has our names written on God’s hand, in God who loves us perfectly and without limit, in God who weeps when we do, in God who knows every single hair on our heads.  Who better is there for us to trust, than the One who created all there is, who established the rules of physics (including the parts we don’t understand), who invites us into deeper and deeper relationship with God?  And just as we trust in God, we trust in each other.  Our relationship with God leads us into relationship with each other; the love we receive from God manifests in the love we share with each other.  We’re all in the same boat; we all lack control over the powers of this world.

Trust doesn’t get us completely off the hook, though.  Trust doesn’t mean that we just let go of everything.  Oh, that’s someone else’s responsibility.  I trust them to do it. Ultimately, everything is God’s responsibility, and yet, at the same time, we are God’s hands and feet and eyes and ears in this world.  So we trust in God, and there is a further response for us, too.

This brings us to the second response to our helplessness, which also comes up in Esther’s story.   When Mordecai comes to Esther, giving her his trust, how will she respond?  Esther can’t contradict the king’s orders.  Esther does not have the power to arrest and charge Haman, who spearheaded this betrayal.  So Esther does what she can: she speaks up at the king’s banquet, asking her husband to save her people.  Esther does not have the power or the ability to do much, but she does what she can.  This action involved some risk to Esther, potentially embarrassing her powerful husband in front of his court and subjects, but she still did it.  And what Esther was able to do, this was enough to save her people.

So this is the first response to our helplessness: we need to do what we can, even though this may be risky.  The letter of James addresses this, too, in the context of a Christian congregation.  We may not be able to take away someone’s illness as though it had never been, but what we can do is pray, anoint them with oil, and help take care of them.

Healing at the Abbey (c.1915) (Vintage photographic postcard of Hôpital de Royaumont - Salle Blanche de Castille © Casas-Rodríguez Collection, 2009)

And on the other side, we also should not prevent others from doing what they can; if we do not let our church family know that we are sick or otherwise in need of prayer, then they cannot do this for us.  Sometimes, as awful as it can feel, the only thing we can do is pray.  So that’s what we do: we do what we can.

But when each of us when each of us trusts in each other, and when each of us does what we can do, then we can do a whole lot together.  This applies to both big things, like global warming or starvation or malaria, and small things, like the cobwebs in the church basement or our next door neighbor’s gallbladder surgery or our pastor’s ailing puppy.  God’s not going to reach down with a broom and sweep out those cobwebs.  But we can — or some among us can — and so that is what we do.

The third response to our helplessness may seem strange at first: this response is to be thankful, to give praise.  In Esther’s story (parts we don’t hear in this lectionary reading) we see the institution of the Purim holy day, a day of celebration and generosity and forgiveness and thanksgiving and praise.  Our psalm for Sunday is, in its entirety, a song of praise and thanksgiving to God, for delivering us all from our helplessness in this world.  After describing the enemies, the torrent, the raging waters that overwhelm us, the psalmist shouts out his praise.

Blessed be the LORD!
he has not given us over to be a prey for their teeth.

We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowler;
the snare is broken, and we have escaped!

Ticker tape! by Nick J. Webb

It is important to show our gratitude to God, of course, because we know that everything we are, everything we have, everything we see is a gift from God.  It is also important to show our thankfulness to each other, to lift one another up with encouragement and praise.  The healthy congregation that James envisions in his letter is one where we lift each other up; we help each other, we trust each other, and we give thanks and gratitude to each other.  After Mordecai, speaking through Esther, revealed the plot to assassinate King Ahasuerus, the king gave Mordecai great honor and praise, to express his gratitude.  While we might not have crowns and royal horses and kingly robes to give to those who help us, the very least we can give them is our words of gratitude and praise.

This world is not perfect, and we are not perfect.  We cannot do everything, and we lack the power to make everything right and good and whole.  We’re not in control, and there are days when we feel like all of the powers of this world conspire against us, like we are utterly helpless and defenseless.  This may even be true.  But Sunday’s readings give us these responses, these tools to help us.  We put our trust in God and in one another.  We do what (little) we can, trusting that those around us will be doing what they can as well.  And we give thanks; we give praise.  We might even thank God (though maybe a little grudgingly) for the lessons we have learned through our struggle.  Or, if you’re as stubborn and stiff-necked as I am, you might not. 

Kaz running, by Kol Tregaskes

O God,
you declare your almighty power chiefly
in showing mercy and pity:
Grant us the fullness of your grace,
that we, running to obtain your promises,
may become partakers of your heavenly treasure;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

Amen.

My parish has been blessed with enough interested and committed members to run two tracks in our Wednesday Night Bible Study series.  This fall, we have a New Testament Survey and a seminar on heaven and hell.  Attendance has been great, and everyone’s had a good time.

"A Glimpse of Paradise", ceramic art tilework by Armenian artist Marie Balian, Jerusalem

I’ve been in the heaven and hell seminar — where I’ve been so thrilled to be able to use words like eschatology and soteriology in sentences! — and there’s something that’s been working in me since last Wednesday’s session.  Last week, we discussed two Christian traditions that explain what happens to us when we die; both have biblical support, and both are supported in the Book of Common Prayer as well.  [Note that what follows is a complete oversimplification of Christian eschatological and soteriological thought and writings.]  In one tradition, as soon as we die, we enter God’s presence for judgment and are admitted to heaven or to hell.  In the other tradition, while we may undergo a particular judgment immediately after death, we must wait for God’s final judgment, once Jesus returns to this world, before we are finally sent to heaven or to hell.

That place of waiting can go by many names.  In some threads of this second tradition, it is a place where we are cleansed or purged from our sins, and so it is called Purgatory.  In other threads, we are asleep or unaware of the passage of time.  In yet others, the place of waiting is Paradise, which is not heaven itself; rather, the word paradise comes from ancient roots that indicate a walled garden, an orchard, or a beautiful park.

Christ Pantokrator and the Last Judgement (mosaic, Baptistry of San Giovanni in Florence, c. 1300)

In our group discussions, we found we had some problems with the idea of having to wait for the last judgment.  As Anglicans, we do include prayers for the dead in our liturgy; in Sunday worship we pray very generally for their salvation and rest.  It gives us comfort to pray for our dead loved ones, since we don’t know where they are or what is happening to them; if they are waiting, then perhaps our prayers on their behalf could make a difference, and if they’re not, then at least we’re comforted by our prayers.  And our clergy have both preached on the immediate judgment, telling families at funerals and memorial services that your loved one is in heaven with Jesus right now.  This also gives us comfort.  We want to know that they have passed from our loving arms into those of God.  But at the same time, we pray in the Nicene Creed every Sunday that Jesus will come again to judge the living and the dead.  We could not simply write off the biblical evidence for a final judgment, for a final resurrection of all people.  It all comes down to this: we don’t know.  But these ideas certainly are fun to think about, to play with, too find in scripture and Christian writings, and to talk about!

Spiral Galaxy M100, Hubble Telescope

Through all of this, I seem to have come to the place where I can actually verbalize where I am.  I believe that God transcends time and space, able to — but not needing to — physically occupy space.  I believe that God holds in God’s mind and heart the entirety of all that is, all that has been, and all that will be.  The bible opens with the line in the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, which implies that heaven is part of Creation and not outside of Creation.  But at the same time, I will not rule out the possibility that our all-powerful, all-able God can bring us outside of Creation with God.  Heaven can indeed be both part of Creation and outside of Creation, at the same time.  This is a difficult paradox to hold in mind, but we have to remember that God can not only accomplish the impossible but the improbable as well, and even the merely difficult.

So when Mother Teresa died, it’s entirely possible that she was both immediately united with God, outside of space and time, and in a place of waiting, whether that is Purgatory or Paradise or “sleep” or something else.  In fact, even before she died, it’s possible that she was both united with God and living here on earth.  I have come to believe that we can only be in one “place” at a time within Creation, a place on earth, a place in wait, a place in hell, or a place in heaven.  But where God lives, where “place” and “time” don’t mean anything, there is no limit whatsoever.

"Universe in the Hands of God" by Farid De La Ossa Arrieta

In this framework, it might seem to us like nothing we do in this world could possibly change anything.  But I do not believe this to be true.  The fullness of Creation that God holds, this is not just a static artifact; as we make choices, as we create and destroy, we bring change to the fullness of Creation.  God holds a Creation that is living, growing, breathing, changing.  And if that fullness of Creation consists of multiple universes or layers of dimensions, where multiple versions of ourselves live, then this is entirely possible.  We Christians worship the God of electrons and quarks and neutrinos, and we worship the God of galaxies and black holes and universes, and we worship the God of everything in between, from the chickenpox virus to the duck-billed platypus to the moon.  We don’t worship the God of This-Box-Defines-Exactly-What-We-Humans-Say-You-Are-So-You-Can-Never-Be-Anything-More.  That God is as limited as we are, but the God of the fullness of Creation — this God of bosons and paramecia and giant sequoias and planets and stars — now that’s a God worth paying attention to.

And if we really believe in this God, then we cannot place our own arbitrary limits on God’s abilities.  So should we preach, your loved one is with God in heaven right now?  Yes.  Should we teach about the next coming of Jesus and the Final Judgment?  Yes.  We are blessed with a book of Scripture that holds both of these ideas in a dynamic tension; we are blessed with millennia of thought, based on this Scripture, as to what happens when we die; we are blessed to worship a God who is big enough to hold both of these ideas true at the very same time.

My initial reaction to our readings for Sunday was one of bemusement and amusement.

autumn dogwood leaf, with sun shining through, by Martin LaBar

First, I thought the Collect to be particularly well-suited to this time of year, when, in the Northern hemisphere the summer is ending and we’re starting to see leaves change and harvest come to an end. On the Celtic Wheel of the Year, the Fall Equinox is celebrated as Mabon; this is the end of the harvest season, the last celebration before Samhain marks the beginning of winter and of the new year.  As Christians, our tradition has separated us somewhat from observing the turn of the seasons, though this is part of our Jewish heritage.  But the Collect appointed for Sunday is a beautiful observation, though it does not directly address the harvest time and the coming of winter:

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things,
but to love things heavenly;
and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away,
to hold fast to those that shall endure;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.

I noticed that we have Psalm 1 appointed, the opening of the great prayer book of the bible.  The Psalter is at the heart of the monastic life, prayed in each observance of the Hours (sort of a Wheel of the Day).  More than one Benedictine has observed that the very first word of the Psalter is Happy.  I generally prefer to use Joyful, when the word happy occurs in the bible, feeling that joy expresses the love we share with God more effectively than happiness does.  But still: we are called to be Happy, to be Joyful.  And this links in well with the Collect, too.  It is too easy to become unhappy when we pay too much attention to earthly things, which always pass away.  But when we’re able to fix our attention on the things of God, the things of heaven, that are eternal and real, we can find this happiness, this joy.  (By the way, in case you’re wondering, the very last word of the Psalter?  It’s Hallelujah!)

The reading from Proverbs is a lovely poem about the value of a woman who has strength, integrity, and dignity.  This poem sings the praises of such a woman, observing that anyone who has her in their life — especially her husband and children — will find her an inspiration and a blessing.   In the gospel lesson from Mark, Jesus teaches us that it is our job to be servants.  Then he picks up a child, holds the child on his lap, and says that when we welcome little children, we welcome Jesus himself, and through Jesus, all three persons of the Trinity.  And in the epistle lesson from James, James chides the early Christians for their arguments and divisions, sounding frustrated when he snaps out with Who is wise and understanding among you?

So the amusement?  When I read the passage from James, I actually started giggling.  After all, doesn’t the reading from Proverbs answer his opening question?  Who is wise and understanding? The WOMEN!    Why are they arguing?  Because they’re all MEN!    And in response to Jesus, who will always welcome a child into their lap?  A WOMAN!  See, all the answers are right there in front of you, you silly menfolk!    Okay, so I said that was only my first impression.  It was fun and frivolous and funny, and maybe that was just what I needed this morning.

I do notice a thread that weaves through these readings, though.  Jesus tells us, as he does several times in the gospels, that we must be servants of all, and James elaborates on this.  James advises us to resist temptation, by eschewing envy, ambition, boastfulness, and lies; he advises us to draw nearer to God, by embracing peace and gentleness, by being willing to yield to others, by allowing God to fill us with mercy and purity.  This is advice for all of us, not just women, and not just men.  We may not normally think of peace or gentleness or mercy or purity as particularly manly or strong traits.  And yet, the very strength of any person lies in his or her willingness and ability to be something less than the Number One, to be in second place, to set aside one’s selfishness, to grant mercy to others.

women at work, by peevee@ds

The wife in the reading from Proverbs is a shining example of these traits.  She wakes early to begin the tasks of serving her household, to make sure everyone is fed, to make sure everyone has work to do so that nobody has to be idle.  She is merciful to the poor and the needy, and she works to make sure not only everyone in the household is suitably clothed but so that there are extra thread or cloth or garments to supplement the family’s income.  She is prepared for what may come in the future, and she does not over-indulge in idleness.  Certainly, this is a perfect woman, isn’t it?  In fact, this sounds like a perfect person — woman or man!  Nobody has ever been this perfect, except for Jesus himself.

Dearly Beloved, by drinksmachine

We have a long and beautiful tradition of being wedded to God, beginning particularly in the poetry and prophetic books of the Old Testament.  Into the New Testament, the Church is described as the Bride and Jesus as the Bridegroom. But in this week’s Old Testament reading, the perfect person — the person who has strength and dignity [as] her clothing, who opens her mouth with wisdom, whose children rise up and call her happy while her husband praises her — this person is not the bridegroom, but the bride.  So I’m going to ask you to indulge me for a moment in something a little strange, maybe even a little scandalous.

I invite you to take a deep breath and then close your eyes.  Bring up an image of God and God’s Church, at their wedding day.  You might visualize God as any one person of the Trinity, or as all the three in their eternal dance.  Pay attention to what God is wearing for this wedding.  Smell the flowers and maybe the incense at the altar.  See the light streaming through windows: does it dance and sparkle?  does it pour through stained glass and pool in bright colors on the floor?  Or does the wedding take place in an outdoor chapel, perhaps in the mountains or on the shore of the ocean?  See the beautiful decorations, and hear the music that is playing.  Bring yourself into this place.  Will you be the Church itself, or will you be sitting in the pew to witness this union?

Now, pay attention to how you have visualized God and the Church; notice which is the bride in this wedding and which is the groom.  And if you have, in our long and beautiful tradition, imaged God as the groom and God’s Church as the bride, I ask you to switch them.  I do not mean this to say that our tradition is wrong, but just to try something out.  Be playful for a moment.

Now God is the bride, clothed with strength and dignity, filled with purity and mercy, peaceful and gentle, yielding to us even though we are God’s creation.  Maybe one day there will be children from this union, and God will welcome them on God’s lap, embracing them and playing with them, and caring for their every need.  God — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — is the perfect wife we heard so much about in the poetry from the book of Proverbs.  God is the wise and understanding person James describes.  God is the servant to all, who welcomes even little children, that Jesus teaches us to be.

And now the Church is dressed as a man on his wedding day.  But the Church, alas, is made up of humans and not of perfect people.  From time to time, we all indulge in things of the earth, and we all let our focus stray from the things of heaven.  Sometimes each of us is envious or boastful; we can be ambitious or deceitful; we get into arguments and conflicts with each other; and we grow to be rather fond of our earthly pleasures.  And yet, today, here in this glorious wedding, today we of the Church will pledge ourselves to God.  As the Church, we unite ourselves with this perfect bride, this perfect wife.  God promises us that God will love and honor and cherish us, will meet our needs whether we are rich or poor, will take care of us whether we are sick or well.  God makes sure we are fed, just like when God fed the Israelites in the desert, just like when Jesus offered himself as Living Bread.  God makes sure we are clothed, are sheltered.  God prepares us for the snowstorms and blizzards to come.  God vows to do us good, and never to harm us.  These promises come from God, who is far more precious than jewels, the pearl of great price.

What an amazing wedding!  How could we possibly choose a bride more capable, more trustworthy, more wise than God?  We know our own flaws, both as individuals and as the Church.  We know well that we are not worthy of this union, yet, this bride — God! — chooses us to love and care for.  And these marriage vows do not end with death; no, God vows to care for us, to love us, to be with us absolutely forever.  When our life on this world ends, we join an even deeper union with our perfect bride.  And in this union, as James tells us, we will find the harvest of righteousness.

It doesn’t matter whether you are man or woman, young or old, heterosexual or homosexual, sick or well, rich or poor.  These lessons for Sunday give us some very practical advice for living the lives God wants for us.  Let go of idleness, boastfulness, lying, jealousy, argument, ambition, hypocrisy.  Unclench your tight hands, and let the things of this world be released.  Embrace peace, mercy, gentleness, love, hospitality, trustworthiness, honesty, strength, dignity, kindness, praise, and joy.  Attend to the things of heaven, of God.  And this brings the Happy that opens the Psalter.  When we sow these things, then in time, we will harvest righteousness.

harvest time, by matze_ott

It’s September now.  The harvest is ending, and winter is coming.  The wonderful things about spring and summer are passing away for a time, but there are real and timeless things for us to attend to and embrace.  Let’s pray that Collect one more time, now that we’ve explored this week’s readings.  Let’s follow those shining threads that show us how God wants us to live, the threads that take us through our sowing of good things and into the harvest God promises us.

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things,
but to love things heavenly;
and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away,
to hold fast to those that shall endure;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

Amen.

Last week, I blogged a little about Invisible Illness Awareness Week, which begins today with online conferences and hundreds of bloggers taking time today to increase awareness.

I begin this post, still unsure how I want to use it.  I don’t want to complain about the issues I struggle with, and I don’t want to take a tone of anger or frustration.   I think I’ll just start with some plain old facts, and see where that takes me.

• My diagnosis, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, has a prevalence rate of about 1 in 5,000 people.  This means that about 61,000 people in the US have EDS, and about 1.4 million people in the world.
• Fibromyalgia is experienced in about 2% of the population, which is about 6.1 million people in the US and about 140 million people worldwide.
• The prevalence rate for Rheumatoid Arthritis is about 1% of the population, which is about 3 million people in the US and about 70 million people worldwide.
• Regular old Osteoarthritis affects about 27 million people in the US, about 9% of the population, and is the cause of 25% of visits to primary care physicians in the US.  If that 9% rate is globally applicable, this means that about 630 million people suffer from osteoarthritis.
• About 265,000 people in the US currently have Leukemia, with over 44,000 new cases being diagnosed each year.   Deaths from leukemia, worldwide, account for about 3% of the 7 million deaths due to all forms of cancers.
• About 8% to 12% of all people in the world will suffer at least one episode of Major Depression during their lives (in North America, about 17%).  And contrary to what some may believe, Depression can be fatal.  On average, 3.4% of depressed people commit suicide.  So of people currently alive in the US and Canada, about 57.5 million have or will have an episode of Depression.  And of those people, 2 million will die of it.  Worldwide, about 700 million people have or will have Depression, and about 24 million of those will commit suicide.
• The prevalence of Herpes in the US is estimated at about 1 in 5 adults, occurring in about 45 million individuals over the age of 12.
• Prevalence of Lupus varies around the world, from 40 per 100,000 people in Europe to 159 per 100,000 people of Africa or Caribbean descent.  About 1 million people currently have Lupus in the US.
• Nobody is quite sure what the prevalence rate is for Asperger Syndrome, but one conservative estimate places it at 0.26 per 1,000 people.  This is about 79,000 people in the US, and 1.8 million people worldwide.  One estimate at the high end is 4.84 per 1,000 people, which would be about 1.4 million people in the US, and 34 million people worldwide.  The real numbers probably lie somewhere between the two.

Those numbers are pretty huge, aren’t they?  Hundreds of millions of people in the world, millions of deaths, and this is just a small sampling of chronic, invisible illnesses.  The people who struggle with these illnesses are all around us… and we don’t know who is struggling with an invisible illness and who is not.  There are estimates that suggest nearly half of all individuals have a chronic, invisible illness, though they may not all know it or have a firm diagnosis.  Half.  One out of two.  50%.  That’s nearly 152 million people in the US, nearly 3.5 billion people in the world.  That’s why Rest Ministries sponsors Invisible Illness Awareness Week every year.  That’s why I’m blogging today.

The next time you see someone who looks just fine getting out of their car in a handicapped spot, think about these numbers.  They may be part of that almost-50% who have an invisible illness.  Instead of becoming angry and confronting them, consider these facts, and maybe try a different approach.  Perhaps it’s time to try a smile of encouragement, or maybe asking them if they need help.

The next time a family member or co-worker tells you they’re feeling bad, try thinking before you say something like But you look good today! or But you don’t look sick! Be ready to listen, without making judgments, just being fully present in the moment and hearing what they have to say.  What you hear may surprise you.

Or, perhaps, if you are the one in two who struggles with the illness, remember that you are not alone.  Struggling with the symptoms and effects of your illness does not automatically make you lazy or weak or demanding or incompetent or any of that nonsense.  It just means you have to work a little harder than the other 50% of people.  No, it’s not fair, but it’s the life we have to live.  When you need to rest, rest.  When you need medications or ice or heat or a brace or a cane or a wheelchair, use them.   And try to remember that when people say thoughtless things to us, it isn’t necessarily a sign that they don’t care about us or don’t want us to feel well.  It just means that they don’t know what to say, in the face of our struggles and pain.

Now, go check out the schedule of virtual conferences this week — I’m sure you’ll find something there for you, or for someone you love.  You’ll see these…

• Understanding how we uniquely deal with difficulties in life
• Finding health insurance with a pre-existing condition
• Super foods for super-natural health
• Hearts of gratitude and joy
• Coping with chronic illness in your marriage
• Coping with crises on top of chronic illness
• How to start a business when you are chronically ill
• It’s okay to say NO: Building healthy boundaries
• Parenting when you are chronically ill
• Simplifying your home and housework
• Real talk about men and chronic illness
• Finding the job you desire and can do
• When your child is chronically ill
• Managing college with a chronic illness
• Helping others understand your pain
• Applying and winning disability assistance when you are chronically ill
• Being a teenager with a chronic illness
• Surgery preparation.

That’s quite a line-up, isn’t it?  I’m looking forward to several of these seminars, and I hope you’ll listen to at least one of them.

This coming Sunday Monday, September 14, is the kickoff of Invisible Illness Awareness Week.   This week is a project of Rest Ministries, which provides support for the chronically ill in a Christian setting.  Invisible Illness Awareness Week is about both shining the light on invisible chronic illnesses, to help others understand that all around them — looking perfectly normal — are people struggling with a condition that is not obvious to an observer.  The week also provides support, encouragement, and help to those of us who have an invisible illness.  This year’s program is offered completely online, to recognize that it is difficult, if not impossible, for a chronically ill person to fully participate in a week-long conference in person… even if he or she can afford to travel to it and stay in a hotel all week.

As part of the awareness effort, I’m participating in the “30 Things” meme, to share about my invisible illness: Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.

1. The illness I live with is: Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Classical Type
2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2008
3. But I had symptoms since: birth.  I remember being diagnosed with “growing pains” when I was about 8, and I started spraining ankles when I was 13 or 14.
4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: learning to forgive myself for not being able to do everything I want to do or feel like I should do.  I think most of us are harder on ourselves than on others.
5. Most people assume: I’m not really sure, since I’m not in their heads.  I do get dirty looks when I park in a handicapped parking place, since I’m young and look “just fine.”  People I’m close to seem to assume that I’m doing fine unless I complain, and I don’t tend to complain until it’s probably too late.
6. The hardest part about mornings is: waking up to the alarm clock.  I do much better when I can just sleep until I wake up, which is a fairly consistent time anyway.
7. My favorite medical TV show is: It would have to be Scrubs.  The “serious” shows annoy the bejeebers out of me.
8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: my iced tea maker!  And my COMPUTER!  And my arthritis gloves!  And my super-wonderful, long-lasting ice packs!  And the microwave!  Hmm, I should probably stop now, huh? 
9. The hardest part about nights is: the nights I can’t sleep.  When my hands are hurting badly, they wake me up from sleep, and they’ll keep me awake if I’m not already sleeping.  The worst part of this is that they usually hurt too much to hold a book, so I’m just left there lying in the dark and thinking.
10. Each day I take 7 pills & vitamins, plus 4 puffs on the asthma management inhaler and 4 sprays of my allergy nasal spray.  (And I know I’m not taking everything I should be.)
11. Regarding alternative treatments I: wholeheartedly agree with the movement to call these complementary treatments.  I am very careful about herbs and other supplements, especially when I don’t know how they will interact with my medications or with my hard-to-medicate body.  Physical treatments, like massage and cranio-sacral therapy and even sitting in the hot tub, are very helpful for EDS.
12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: You know, I’d actually stick with the invisible illness.  People say stupid enough things to us already (“But you don’t look sick!”); I can only imagine the stuff that pours out of people’s mouths when there’s an obvious illness or appliance one has to use.
    
13. Regarding working and career: I am very fortunate.  I work as a software engineer, so I could do my job if I were nothing but a brain in a jar, and my employer has agreed to allow me to telecommute full-time as a reasonable accommodation to disability.
14. People would be surprised to know: that I am a Dominican Sister, and that my experiences with illness have deeply formed and shaped my spiritual journey.
15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: the many little losses that I’ve faced.  Because it’s so easy to dislocate or injure a joint, I’ve been afraid to go out for walks or bicycle rides on my own.  After 28 years, I am no longer able to play my flute, so I’ve had to give up my work playing for weddings and parties.  The days when I’ve had to set aside my plans to rest and tend to pain.  It seems like, as the boundaries of my life grow smaller, I end up starting the grieving process over and over, for each new little thing.
16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: learn to advocate for myself with doctors and with my employer.
17. The commercials about my illness: ROFL!  WHAT commercials?!?!?
18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: the interaction with my co-workers at the office.  It’s hard to have as little human contact as I do, since I’m working 8 hours a day from my desk at home.
19. It was really hard to have to give up: MUSIC!  I so very much miss playing flute.
20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: hmm, I’m not really sure about this one.  I’ve tried a couple of new things, and they ended up hurting and cramping my hands.  I spend more time in prayer now, and I try to spend more time giving intentional support to others.
21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: finish unpacking after this move, get rid of all the boxes, vacuum the carpets, make a really nice meal, spend time at my favorite museum, and make some time to snuggle with my husband in bed.  Or, you know, something like that. 
22. My illness has taught me: that having a chronic condition does not make me a weak person, that it’s important to educate myself on my condition and recent research, and that every one of us is broken in some way… even me.
23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: “You need to…” or “If you’d just…”  Trust me, I’ve done a lot of research into my condition and into possible treatments.  I know you’re trying to help me, but you sound so condescending, and you’re not giving me credit for trying anything that has a chance of working.  If there were a magic bullet, I would use it, but there’s not.
24. But I love it when people: offer help in small ways.  Open the door for me.  Help me carry in the groceries.  Notice when I’m struggling and give me a hand.
25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: He rescued me because he delighted in me. Psalm 18:19 It’s not just that God loves us all, but that God delights in us.  I think about what it feels like when I am delighted, and I am filled with warmth knowing that someone feels that same way about me.
26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: you will be okay.  You will walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but you’ll come out the other side stronger.  There are more of us, and we understand.  Read the Spoon Theory, and take it to heart.  Find support anywhere you can.
27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: I’m the same person I ever was.
28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: listen to me.  And take out the garbage. 
29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: so often, those with invisible illnesses are overlook, mistrusted, or written off as drama queens. It is important to help everyone understand — even ourselves! — that we want to work, we want to contribute, we want to do things.  We’re not just lazy bums who want to lie around all day and collect disability.  Sometimes, we just need to count our spoons and rest a little more.
30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: all warm and mushy inside, like a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy.  Thank you for reading all the way to the end.  Next week, I hope maybe you’ll think about those of us who are invisibly ill.  And I hope you’ll give a hand to someone – anyone – that you encounter who needs a little help.

Love and blessings to you in your journey!

Here in the Eastern time zone, it is now 12:40 AM, on Wednesday, September 9.  Twelve hours ago, when it was still Tuesday, my husband and I sat in the hearing room for the bankruptcy trustee for our district.  There I affirmed the information filed on my bankruptcy petition, and I reiterated my intention to surrender my house.

This came about in part because of carelessness with money, but the root cause underlying that was increasing costs from my chronic medical condition, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.  I’ve written about my health care story here before, about my struggles with health insurance, about my journey to and through my diagnosis.  I’m not going to rehash this, just to repeat that not all costs of a chronic condition are paid to doctors and pharmacists; some go to pizza drivers, to manufacturers of splints or braces or assisting devices, to lawn care professionals, to house cleaners, to movers, to anyone who can do the things we aren’t always able to do for ourselves.  All costs of a chronic condition aren’t even financial, or even sometimes quantifiable.  They just are.

My husband and I spent our holiday weekend moving the last flotsam from the house to our new apartment, the things that we hadn’t managed to cram into boxes or suitcases in time for the movers to arrive.  There were brooms and mops, large pictures that hadn’t fit into boxes, lamps, little knick-knacks, pens, pencils, my winter clothes, the iron — just miscellaneous stuff.  We brought over two loads on Saturday, one on Sunday, and five on Monday.  I’d come into the weekend already exhausted, already in pain.  When my hands hurt, they hurt bad and they hurt all the time; the hands will keep me from sleeping and will wake me in the night.  On moving day two weeks ago, I sprained both wrists and an ankle; while the wrists are better, the ankle still causes pain.  My two sprained AC joints throb, and my subluxed hips and knees and ankles ache.  I can tell that every vertebral joint from the top of my neck to just below my shoulder blades is out of place, and I think the topmost two pairs of ribs are subluxed as well.  When I see my physical therapist next week, it will take him 30 to 45 minutes to put everything back where it belongs; he may miss some of them; and some will undoubtedly slip back out of place before I get home again.  When things get this consistently bad for me, it usually takes about three weeks of twice- or thrice-weekly PT visits before I’m back to normal again… or what passes for it in my body.

Tonight, I cannot sleep for the pain, even after taking my normal meds plus a prescription-strength dose of ibuprofen.  My pain management specialist and I have discussed this before.  She has EDS herself, and now seems to focus on those of us with connective tissue disorders.  She has a family about to fly over from Germany to consult with her on their daughter’s Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, because no true specialist on this condition seeems to exist.  She has learned, as have I, that when EDSers overdo it, we can try narcotics, and we can try OTC meds, and we can try ice and heat and meditation and relaxation… but nothing will really stop the pain until we get those joints back into place.  Until we can get to our physical therapist or chiropractor or massage therapist or cranio-sacral specialist, we’re just going to hurt.

So in the dark quiet of the night, my mind started thinking.  I’m really not in a feeling sorry for myself place, much less a wallow in self-pity.  I really have come to peace with the bankruptcy, even with losing the house that was such a powerful symbol for me.  I can still be frustrated and angry about it, because we have a stupid, lousy system for caring for our citizens here in the US.  But I don’t feel the helplessness, the sense of failure, the sense of loss and grief that I felt before setting foot on this path.  I know that a bright future lies before us, in our new home, in our new marriage, in our new start without the huge debts.  The Master of the Anglican Dominicans suggested to me that I head out to First Landing State Park, to Fort Story where the people who settled in Jamestown first set foot on this continent.  And she invited me to stand on those beaches, to look out over the waters, and to reflect on those who left everything behind (or who had already lost everything) to make the dangerous voyage from England.  Even tonight, lying in the dark quiet, this was a powerful reflection.

This post wasn’t intended to be a bitchfest, more like the semi-lucid ramblings of a mind that belongs to a body that refuses to let it sleep.  [QUICK UPDATE: I figured out, after turning off the computer and going back to bed, just why I was writing this post.  It was to burn off excess mental energy, so I could get back to sleep.  Thankfully, it worked!] So… some more randomness for you.

When my hands hurt really bad, it’s completely invisible to an onlooker, except for how I will cradle them or rub them.  But when they hurt like this, they feel from the inside like they should appear all swollen, to the size of baseball mitts.  They feel big and bulky and clumsy, and then I look at them, and the traitorous things look perfectly normal.  Sometimes, when the pain is really bad in the metacarpals, I will wonder whether they will ever erupt into full-fledged stigmata, and then I think it would be nice to have some external sign of the invisible pain I experience.

Last week, when I saw my physical therapist, he worked on me for about a half hour, putting back into place the joints that had subluxed during packing and moving.  After I told him how maplestar had commented on wishing he could be a fly on the wall, to hear the therapist lecture me, and while the therapist had his thumbs deep into a really crunchy trigger point, he said to me At this point, I don’t think any lecture I could give would make more of a difference to you than what you’re feeling right now.  He was right, too, dammitall.  Then he related a story about another EDS patient he’d just seen, who had spent hours working on her garden over the weekend only to come creeping into his office in terrible pain.  She had been trying to prove to herself that she could still do this stuff.  I hadn’t been doing that; I’d just been trying to do the work I had to do, because sometimes that’s just what’s necessary.

One of the things that stinks about having Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is that EDS patients have to become — and remain — highly educated on our condition, on the many effects it can have on our bodies, and on the latest research.  We can guarantee that at any point in time, we patients will probably be more knowledgeable about our condition than any of our doctors, dentists, or other caregivers.  There are other real zebra conditions out there that are similar, the ones where med school professors tell soon-to-be doctors, Oh, you don’t need to study this one; it’s so rare that you’ll never see it.  And then, out of the blue, one of us zebras shows up in your office, holding our brochures from the EDNF, with printouts from the web, with letters from our geneticist or our physical therapist.  Or we’ll show up in your emergency room, and you won’t be able to find any real cause for our pain (“Your x-rays look okay, and you have normal range of motion” — normal, ha!), and you will dismiss us as drug seekers, telling us to take ibuprofen or acetaminophen.  You’ll order X-rays and MRIs and CT scans, and you’ll study them and come away baffled; you’ll refer us to other specialists, and we’ll see more doctors in more specialties within a year than anyone ever should; and after all of this, we may or may not come out with the right diagnosis.  You will look at our charts and think, nobody can possibly have this much wrong with them!, without stopping to consider that maybe there’s only one thing wrong, one pattern hiding behind all the symptoms.  And it’s not your fault, because they told you in medical school not to bother with EDS, because it’s so rare that you’ll never see it.

Another fun part is Raynaud’s Syndrome, secondary to EDS, where my body has trouble maintaining its temperature properly.  My body temperature regularly runs about 1 to 1.5 degrees F lower than normal; that normal is also the typical body temperature curve, which is lower during sleep and higher in the afternoons and evenings.  I feel hot almost all the time, to where I want a fan blowing on me, or I start taking off shoes and layers of clothes, or where I try to hide an inward wince at the thought of hugging the people I love because of their sheer body heat.  And yet, to all of these people, my body feels cold.  My son remarked on this recently, told me he was worried about me because I always feel cold to him; my husband has said something about this, too, as I’ve kicked the bedsheets off of me and aimed the fan right at my exposed skin to get some relief.

I remember last December, the day my handicapped parking placard arrived in the mail.  There it was, proof that in the government’s eyes, I am permanently disabled.  To the bankruptcy hearing today, I wore arthritis gloves and walked with my cane.  We had to walk two blocks from the parking garage to the federal building.  It was a tough effort, and I was really glad we got there early enough to recover from it.  I knew that this was coming — I’d asked for the parking placard! — and yet, the reality of holding it in my hand, seeing my name on it with those words permanent and disabled, this made me weep that day.

I’ve also learned that people with invisible disabilities are not always treated kindly when we use our handicapped placards.  Sometimes I find myself affecting a slight limp, if people see me parking and walking into the store.  If it’s 7am, I might be doing pretty well, and I might walk all right; the problem is, if I’m not gentle enough with my body, then it won’t last until 4pm or 7pm.  Not all disabilities show on the outside, and we humans can be terrible at passing judgment.  I was horrified recently to read the transcript of a live internet chat where participants talked with glee and pride about using their dead grandmother’s handicapped placard — or even a stolen one! — without a single thought or care for those of us they are harming in this way.  It is because of that kind of dishonesty that the invisibly ill are treated with contempt, are sneered at when we try to take care of our bodies.

Don’t even get me started on the “If you’d just…” folks, either.  If you’d just try this herb… if you’d just try this vitamin… if you’d just lose some weight… if you’d just gain some weight… if you’d just see this one specialist… if you’d just eat better… if you’d just try this special exercise regimen… if you just prayed harder… if you actually believed you could get better…  Well, I’ll tell you.  If you’d just shut up already, I could maybe tell you what I’ve already tried, or what I’m allergic to, or what my body is remotely capable of.  I could maybe tell you about my struggle, my journey from doctor to doctor and from wrong diagnosis to wrong diagnosis.  We could maybe have a discussion.  If you’d just stop talking, stop insulting me with your assumptions, and listen for a while.  Or, you know, maybe not.

Uh oh… I ended up ranting a bit there, didn’t I?

Well, there’s a sweet grey kitty at my feet, and I think she wants to snuggle up with me on the bed.  I guess I’ll find a new mind-candy novel, because my brain isn’t up to Pére Teilhard de Chardin right now.  I’ll stop bending your ear — if you’ve even made it this far — and seek rest, once again.

And tonight, as I do every night, I’ll wish you a blessing.

The Lord bless you and keep you.
The Lord make his face to shine upon you
and be gracious unto you.
The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you
and give you peace.

Amen.

We had a tough gospel this past Sunday, with Jesus speaking words that surprised and shocked us, calling a woman a dog.  Well, this coming Sunday’s gospel lesson isn’t any easier, even if Jesus does manage not to insult any women.  Jesus and his disciples are together, and he asks them, who do others say that I am? This question probably doesn’t feel so strange; after all, it sounds almost like gossip.  Hey, guys, so tell me — what does everyone say about me? The disciples were full of answers.  Then Jesus surprises them by asking, And who do you say that I am? They’re less sure how to answer this one.  He’s Jesus, you know?  The son of the carpenter Joseph, from Nazareth.  Their friend on the road all these months.  The one who seems to take complete delight in confounding authority, who heals on the Sabbath and challenges the Pharisees.  And at the same time, they know that he is more than these things.  Only Peter tries to put this into words, You are the Messiah.

I have known several people for whom Peter is a hero.  In the gospels, Peter comes across as a bumbler, and yet he is the rock on whom God’s church is founded.  He is impulsive; words seem to tumble from his mouth before he brain engages; in contrast to Jesus, Peter always seems to be doing something wrong.  This time, though, he gets it right.  Jesus is the Messiah.  Knowing Peter to be very human, I’m sure that when Jesus failed to deny this — just telling the disciples to keep it quiet — he felt proud and warm inside.  I got one right!  Yay, me! But then, the poor guy bumbles again.

Jesus begins teaching, preparing his closest friends for his arrest and death, and for the resurrection that awaits them all afterward.  Poor Peter, though, can’t handle this.  Didn’t you hear me, Jesus?  You’re the Messiah!  The Messiah can’t die! So Peter speaks up, and Jesus puts him down sharply: Get behind me, Satan!

Wow.  Last week, Jesus spoke sharply to a woman who came to him seeking healing, and he called her a dog.  And this week, Jesus rebukes Peter and calls him Satan.   This tells us something very important about Jesus, and it teaches us something important about our relationship with God and our relationships with one another.

From the gospel accounts, we can see that Jesus loved Peter very much.  In the times that Jesus withdraws from the disciples, taking only his closest friends with him, he always includes Peter.  And Jesus is honest with Peter.  He raises Peter up, and he also shows Peter when he is heading in the wrong direction.  Jesus tells him, You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.  This is true.  In challenging Jesus on his own death, Peter is thinking about himself, about his friends, about the physical body and presence of Jesus.  In that moment, the love Peter has for Jesus is a human love and not a divine love.  Purely human love is selfish and self-centered; we love the other because they make us feel good, or maybe just because feeling that love makes us feel good.  Purely divine love is other-centered; we deny ourselves so that the other can have everything they need.  I believe that most love in this world lies somewhere on the spectrum between these two poles.

It is possible that Jesus is a little too harsh on Peter here.  After all, it’s hard work to stay focused on divine things.  We still have to eat and sleep; we have to work in order to have food to eat and a shelter to protect us while we sleep; we have all these people around us all the time; we have expectations thrust on us from every direction; we’re doing the best we can just to keep going.  Peter is shocked by the words Jesus has just said here.  He has given up his work as a fisherman; he has left his wife behind; he has followed and walked with Jesus for months; he truly believes that Jesus is the promised Savior for Israel, the Messiah who will overthrow pagan kings and restore Israel to its proper place in the world.  Jesus hasn’t done these things yet, and now he’s talking like he’s ready to die?  I can hear Peter’s thoughts as though they are my own: I’ve given up everything for you, Jesus, and now you’re just going to give up and let them kill you?  You’re going to leave us, just like that?  What are we supposed to do without you?  You can’t die!

Get behind me, Satan.  You are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.

Jesus loves Peter enough that he must be honest with Peter.  Jesus decides to share what he knows is coming with his companions, to prepare them for the work that is ahead of them after he is gone.  And when Peter argues, Jesus sets him straight.

When I was 20 years old, I moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment with my fiancé.  We were in love, and we both had come to the point where living at home with our parents was intolerable.  We moved up the plans for our wedding, and we lived together for six weeks between the move-out and the wedding.  This devastated my father.  When he recovered from the initial hurt, though, he sat down with me for a talk that I will never forget.  He talked with me about how important it is to have a shared vision, that a marriage cannot work, cannot last, can only fail if the husband and wife do not share a vision.  Naturally, being 20 years old and giddily in love, I tried to say that we shared many things.  Dad waved these away; these were not vision, not how we saw the world, how we saw marriage.  When the conversation ended, I really had no idea what he was talking about.

The man who is now my ex-husband, he and I never did share a vision.  We see the world in fundamentally different ways, and we never could reconcile those visions.  The marriage did not work, did not last, and did fail.  Dad was right.  I am sure that the conversation he had with me, so many years ago, was not an easy one.  I am sure that it was hard for him to see me continue on my path and prove his words true.  I remembered this conversation only after I was in the process of separating from my ex-husband, when I was blessed enough to find someone who does share a vision with me.  And I learned that, like Peter, I’d been setting my mind on human things — stability, comfort, selfish love — rather than on divine things.

It is important in our relationships with each other to be honest, to have these difficult conversations, to speak deep truths to each other.  So often, our only dialogue is very human; we talk about the weather, about gasoline prices, about buying the nice blouse on sale, about running out of milk, about who is picking the kids up from school today.  In the bustle and busy-ness of just keeping going, we can so easily avoid the real conversations, the opportunities to set our minds on divine things, the times when we can just be in relationship.

And Christianity is not a religion of rules to follow, of right behavior.  Christianity is about community, about  right relationship.  Christians are in a living, dynamic relationship with God, and we live in relationship with each other.  God’s love flows into us, and through us into all those we encounter.  And to live in right relationship, sometimes we have to rebuke others.  Sometimes we have to say, Get behind me, Satan! It doesn’t feel good when we say this.  We know that our relationship may be in danger, if we do not speak these words in love, or if our beloved chooses to reject our words and to reject us.  But we are called to help each other in our relationships with each other, to support each other in our relationship with God.  Whenever someone is baptized, we promise to do all in our power to support this person’s life in Christ.  And if I know that sometimes I fall down and fail to keep my mind on divine things, I’m pretty sure that there are others who experience this, too.  We are here to help each other, to prop each other up.  But we can’t do that if we don’t acknowledge that those around us need help, if we can’t face that maybe we are making a mistake.

The letter of James warns us about how we speak to each other.  James reminds us of the power of our words, the great good — or great evil — that our speech can bring about.  We must tread carefully when we speak to another as Jesus spoke to Peter.  We must be careful to make sure that we are not the ones with our minds set on human things, rather than on divine things.  But sometimes, we must speak.

Lord Jesus, our Messiah and hope,
you corrected your friend Peter
when he spoke in fear, focused on the things of this world.
Guide our minds, hearts, and bodies,
that we may keep our vision focused on the things of your world,
that we may set our minds on divine things.
Help us to be loving friends
when we correct a loved one
and when we find ourselves corrected.
And when it is time for us to come to you,
please welcome us with open arms
and eyes full of love.

Amen.

I’ve been reading Life Together, by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was martyred during World War II.  In Chapter 1, I came across a statement comparing Christian love (agape) to human love (eros), and it immediately turned me off.  It was not the contrast between the two concepts that turned me off, but that the statement was phrased as an absolute.  I haven’t found the exact sentence again, but it was something along the lines of human love always leads to emptiness, while Christian love always feeds us.  This may be true, and after reflection, I wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable with the statement as my very visceral initial reaction was.  But I was surprised by the strength of that first reaction.

I’ve noticed that a hallmark of maturity seems to be the ability to live in the tension of non-absolutes, of the grey areas, of mystery.  Life is so easy when there is a black-or-white answer to everything, but there are so many questions and problems and opportunities that don’t have a simple, clear-cut answer.  As a culture that values science, rational thinking, logic, and rules of evidence, we can reject the richness mystery and nuance and mythology and miracle in favor of the simplicity and clarity of yes/no, black/white, true/false.  Very few people are really for abortion, just as very few people are categorically opposed to ending any pregnancy ever.  Rather, most of us are somewhere in that grey, fuzzy middle, and we may not be sure where exactly our boundaries are.  Unfortunately, arguments in the public sphere can degrade into this I’m-right-you’re-wrong way of thinking, which deprives us of the richness of that middle ground and degrades everyone’s perspective.

Those privileged enough to receive higher-quality education as children and more education as adults view this as a more mature way of thinking, as well.  If one immediately answers yes or no to a question, then clearly one hasn’t really thought the issue out.  Skepticism — defined as honest questioning and not accepting a hypothesis until being satisfied by its proof — is highly valued, and any absolute statement is viewed as suspect, set up as a target to be shot down.  A religious group that is seen as offering absolute statements is immediately rejected for relying on fairy tales and fantasies, which are necessary only for those who are not mature enough to engage in a more relative way of thinking.

I’ve continued to mull this over, to let it roll around in my mind and heart, after reading that statement.  I’ve arrived at a theory that this sense of absolutism — whether factual or merely perceived — causes reactions similar to mine, among those who reject Christianity.  It is very easy for Christians to say things with this same degree of absolutism, and these messages are all over the place:

• If you don’t accept Jesus Christ as your savior, you aren’t saved.
• If you aren’t baptized by full immersion, you won’t get into heaven.
• God hates fags.
• If you don’t _____ like the rest of us, then you aren’t really a Christian.
• Goodness only comes from God; humans are not capable of being good on their own.
• Thou shalt not _____.
• You’re only sick because you don’t trully believe in God’s healing.
• Do you really think that outfit is appropriate for church?

The message doesn’t even have to be in words.  It’s a message of absolutism when you see an entire church full of people of one race or one social class.

I’m not saying that all of these messages are wrong or even that they’re all bad.  We need to be aware of them, to recognize what they’re saying to those who see us or hear us.  There’s a quotation apocryphally attributed to St. Francis of Asisi (or sometimes to St. Dominic de Guzmán) that tells us to preach the gospel always; when necessary, use words.  What gospel are we preaching when the messages we give are messages of absolutism and exclusion?

I will freely admit that tolerance can become an idol, as can any value or concept that we pursue to the exclusion of God.  And I certainly don’t want to get into debate as to whether Christians can or should accept other faiths as equally valid.  What I do know is that Jesus talked about other sheep who are not part of this sheepfold, and that he commanded us to love your neighbor and even to love your enemies.  Jesus charged us to extend Christian love to everyone, and he went further to define Christian love as love that not only cares for others but that takes care of them as well.  From our great historical tradition, we find this love defined through the corporal works of mercy, which parallel the instructions Jesus gave us for living out Christian love.

I also question the idea that only professed Christians can be good people, can be moral people, can be ethical people, can be loving people, can be lawful people.  I find this idea repugnant, so much so that I believe it to be repugnant to God as well.  All people are God’s children, and all people are part of the body of Christ.  Jesus tells us that we must believe in him, but he also tells us that we must love God, that we must love each other, that we must love our enemies, that we must feed the hungry and give drink to the thirsty and give shelter to the homeless.  Who among us, here in this world, can set priorities among these commandments?  Who among us can say, “Well, you have four out of five, so you should be okay to get into Heaven”?  Quite honestly, we can’t.  If we try, then we’re taking God’s job.  Again, the long tradition of Christianity has given us the baptism of desire, by which God’s children can be accepted into God’s kingdom without having been physically baptized with water.

I am coming to believe that there is only one being in the universe who is capable of delivering a truly absolute statement, and that this being is God.  All of us here on earth have a limited view, a small scope, a tiny perspective on all that is.  Only God has the wide view; only God has the perspective that encompasses millennia and light-years and billions of souls.  Even the Church — the visible body of Christ on earth — is not capable of holding this perspective.

So what does that mean for evangelism?  This question interests me because I feel a deep pull toward those who are angry or hostile toward the Church, those who have been hurt or damaged by the church.  These men and women and boys and girls tug at my heart and my mind, and I want to help them find healing and union again… or maybe for the first time.  I, too, have been angry at the Church, and angry with God as a result.  I, too, have walked apart from the Church because I felt hurt, because I felt that there was no place for someone like me within it.  And I know God positively aches to draw these special children close to God, to hold them and hug them and show them that all is well and that all will be well and that they will always be cherished and treasured.  I don’t know how this will work out in me just yet, and it may be the work of a lifetime.

Meanwhile, I’m going to attend carefully to messages of absolutism in my life, those that I experience as well as those that I give.  Where do they come from?  Who is saying them?  What motivates these messages?  Are the messages really true?  Are they really godly?  Are they a defense against something that is threatening?  Are the messages harmful?  I don’t know where this path is going to lead me.  I’ll have to let you know.

UPDATE: Apparently, I’m not the only one who is turned off by absolutism.

"Welcome to the faith!" By nakedpastor

It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.

These are the words Jesus speaks to the Syrophoenician woman in the gospel appointed for Sunday.  This doesn’t sound much like our Jesus, does it?  This isn’t gentle shepherd Jesus, or sweet little baby Jesus, or the Jesus who teaches us to love our neighbors and even to love our enemies.  These words certainly don’t sound very loving to me!  This Jesus doesn’t sound much like the Jesus of righteous anger, either, the Jesus who runs the moneychangers out of the temple.  And it isn’t civil disobedience Jesus, who kept silent when he was arrested and accused.  Who is this Jesus?

In last Sunday’s gospel, Jesus had a run-in with the Pharisees about ritual cleanliness.  Of course, they found Jesus’ teaching incomprehensible and absurd, and the gathered crowd didn’t understand him either.  After the public incident, even the disciples asked more questions of Jesus, and he had to explain himself again.  This isn’t the only time in the gospel story that we see Jesus teach publicly and then explain himself to his closest friends.  But we know that this can get tiresome after a while.  Anyone who has ever had a three-year-old child — in that great age of inquisitiveness where every word of the parent is questioned Why? — knows that explaining yourself again and again gets old quickly.

So in this pair of stories from Mark, Jesus once again tries to withdraw from the public eye.  He needs some time to himself, though he brings his dear friends with him.  In fact, Jesus withdraws so far that he leads the disciples to the unclean towns of Tyre and Sidon, all the way to the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, all the way out of Judea and into towns of pagans and gentiles.  But Jesus doesn’t get a break, even here.  His name is known, even here, among people of different faiths.  His story has spread, even here.  And one desperate woman, whose daughter has been very ill, hears that Jesus has come to her town.  At this news, she rushes to find Jesus, and she bows at his feet, and she begs him to help her little girl.

This is when Jesus speaks his astonishing words:

Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.

Every time I hear this story, my jaw drops, and I’m torn between wanting to shake Jesus by the shoulders and wanting to slap him across the face.  With these words, Jesus has called this desperate woman — who yet gives him honor and respect — a dog!  What’s more, he’s basically refused her: I won’t heal your daughter, because she’s not a Jew. I’ve wondered before whether Jesus actually spoke these words, or whether someone else in the crowd said this.  Last year, when we got this story in the lectionary, my reflection took me to a retelling of the story, in which Peter is the one who said this insulting, degrading thing.

I’ve heard many interpret this story as Jesus testing the faith of the Syrophoenician woman before he heals her daughter, but this interpretation just doesn’t feel right to me.  Jesus has tested the faith of others before this woman, but that has been in the context of new disciples, not of a healing.  From all the healing stories in the gospels, about Jesus loving those in the crowds around him or taking pity on the people, I just can’t comprehend him refusing healing to anyone.

Instead, I have the sense that in this story, Jesus is tired and frustrated.  Nobody is getting his message — not even his closest friends understand him! — and every time he’s tried to withdraw from the crowds to pray and find refreshment, he has been confronted with someone who has great need.  Every time, he’s had to heal yet one more person or feed a few thousand or keep teaching despite his need for rest.  He has just walked dozens of miles to find some peace, and what happens when he gets into this pagan town where nobody should know him?  One more person begging him for healing.

I suspect Jesus just got frustrated and snapped at her.  Dammit, woman, can’t you see I’m tired?  I just walked from Galilee to find peace, and you accost me the moment I set foot in this place?  Can’t you just wait one damned day so we can rest? But this isn’t what he says; instead, Jesus finds the most insulting words he can: Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs. Luckily for him, the Syrophoenician woman can spar ably with Jesus, because she throws his words right back at him:

Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.

And in this moment, I think Jesus realizes what he’s done.  He is, after all, fully human just as he is fully divine, and so he’s subject to the same things we are: sore feet, blisters, weariness, indigestion, frustration, smelly armpits, sympathy, anger, sunburn.  Despite our pictures of Good Shepherd Jesus and Sweet Little Baby Jesus, this is a man who is fully capable of being tired and grumpy and cranky — just like I am at the end of a long trip.  But Jesus knows that more is expected of him, so when this woman reminds him that he’s being a bit of a jerk here, he agrees with her and heals her daughter.

I find this a story of great hope.  I know I get cranky when I’m tired, and sometimes I snap at my husband or my children.  I get grumpy when I’m seeking rest and refreshment, and another task comes up that I have to deal with.  But look!  Even Jesus gets cranky sometimes!  Even Jesus snaps at people who interfere with his plans!  Even Jesus is capable of saying mean things to others!  Jesus was the son of God, fully divine, and even he acted like, well, a real person.  But Jesus still chose to do the right thing, the loving thing, even though he was tired and grumpy and just wanted to rest.  This is an example I can follow.  He wasn’t perfect.  He didn’t have infinite patience.  Even if he had to be reminded, Jesus managed to choose the path of love.

I don’t know about you, but I find this human Jesus to be much more inspiring than a perfect Jesus.  We can try to emulate someone who is perfect, but we know we will always fall short.  Of course, we know we don’t possess the divinity of Jesus, but we know from these stories that Jesus possessed the humanity of all of us.  I can follow in the footsteps of this human Jesus.  I can hope to make the choices of love.  I can know that Jesus understands what it feels like to be tired, to be cranky, to want everyone to go away and let me rest.  And I know that, through his death and resurrection, Jesus forgives me for those times when I act in unloving or harmful ways.

What a great gift we received from God, when God sent us the human Jesus!