Showing Up in the Darkness Illuminated: Lessons Learned from Baseball Under the Lights

One of my favorite memories as a kid was playing baseball under the lights. We usually got one game a season. It was a chance for little leaguers to feel like big leaguers. I don’t really remember if we won or lost those games under the lights. I do remember, though, playing in the darkness illuminated.

Last night our kids had the chance to do the same.

Did we win? No. Lost 6-4.

Did we show up ready to play together and as a team. Yes.

That’s what will be remembered as we turn the page to a new day and the next game.

Friends, there is darkness all around us, yes. But there is also just enough light overhead to empower us to play together. Find it and play in it. In these spaces you may not always win, but you and those around you will never forget you at least showed up in the darkness illuminated. That is our collective human call- even when masked and physically distant. That is what will carry us forward into the next day...and the day after that... 

Parading on a Pack Animal of Justice: A Sermon for Palm Sunday 2018

**A sermon on John 12:9-19**

We come to this familiar Palm Sunday narrative and encounter what many headers in Bibles unfortunately label as “Jesus’ Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem.” While we may be tempted to turn this parade of palms into victory lap of the Messiah, this is a more subversive picture John aims to paint.

The Gospel of John is potentially the most intricate of the four gospels when it comes to creative literary patterns and allusions. Likely written towards the end of the first century, the writer, possibly the beloved disciple, has had time to reflect on and refine his telling of the impact of Jesus’ ministry not only on the Jewish people, but also and especially the whole world. The writer wants to ensure the movement continues beyond his final stroke of the pen.

One of the ways John goes about this is through the art of inclusio, creating parallel imagery on opposite sides of a short story that eventually move you towards a center, where you find the real focal point and charge of the narrative. In this morning’s reading, John intentionally draws the reader from the outer layer of the Chief Priests and Pharisees, moves inwards to the crowds, and ultimately zooms in on Jesus and his movement into Jerusalem, which is where the entirety of the gospel has been headed all along. 

We begin with the outer layer and the presence of the Chief Priests and Pharisees.  They arrive on the scene with one goal- to put Lazarus to death. We often miss this detail, as the lectionary drops us into the triumphal entry just after this vital framing anecdote. Yes, rather than rejoice in the unbinding of one who was once dead but now alive, they become enraged by their cynical envy and invade the crowds on a covert operation to squash this gospel that has become their greatest perceived threat to religious power and interpretation of the law. Yet, when they encounter the crowds, their mission is thwarted, leaving them to cross their arms in disdain for a gospel far too inclusive for their liking. As John writes on the bookend of today’s reading, “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!”  The world- as in the light has come into the world, for God so loved the world, the cosmos has gone after him. 

As I read this text this week, I found myself wanting to yell at the pages- of course they did! Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. Death was exposed as fickle in the work of this one named Jesus, how could any cross arms in judgment and wish the end of the long-awaited fulfillment of their story’s greatest hope: newness of life! 

Then I paused. In many ways, religious communities have not changed since that first Parade of Palms. When movements of liberation begin to rise up in the broader world, the church often either stands on the sidelines as jealous bystanders, frustrated by witnesses to resurrection happening beyond our control, or undercuts movements as judgmental cynics. Yes, there are fragments of faith communities who participate in social revolutions and protests, often led by marginalized peoples and then labeled as rebellious, activist, leftist, outside the norm, etc. Meanwhile, the dominant (white) American church, in the broader scope of our history, is apprehensive in our public witness and tends to trail behind at the eleventh hour of these movements that intersect the gospel with the pressing issues of our day. We rarely are the networks of people on the forefront of mobilizing change despite the fulfillment of our greatest hope: God has raised both Lazarus and Jesus from the dead!

Then there is the second layer to John’s story. The crowds. While initially tempted to turn their response to the raising of Lazarus from the dead into a romanticized celebration, praising their lifting of palms as if, yes, they get it, John’s unique approach to this story is to paint with a bit of irony as the only of the four gospels to reference the branches as palms. These palm-laden celebrations were akin to a parade of champions greeting political figures and war heroes as they returned from conquest, a version of a military procession less the tanks and soldiers and add some chariots and horses. The aim of at least portions of the crowd, in light of the resurrection of Lazarus that rightfully stoked their longings for salvation from an oppressive Roman empire, is to leverage Lazarus for a new political movement with Jesus as their national hero and revolutionary war leader. With palm branches in their hands and Psalm 118 cries of “hosanna, save us” on their lips, John illustrates with a satirical tale of nationalized religion with an undercurrent of aggression we may be tempted to drape around a reduced gospel.

Again, while it would be easy to engage with a layer of judgment, we are not much different still. How often do we allow our discipleship and Christian witness to be co-opted by agendas both progressive and conservative and used to leverage political leaders we mistakenly believe can save us? We even parade our version of Jesus as one who has conquered all others. While we have been transformed by the good news of resurrection, a story we genuinely long to embody for the sake of our more vulnerable neighbors near and far, we give evidence that we are still bound by death as we demonize those with whom we disagree and leverage our motives as absolute and most “right.”  In this sense, the watching world often sees the church on opposite sides of the same road along Jesus’ parade route as we wave our palms of power and chant epithets of dominance that reflect more of our political allegiances than those aligned to Jesus, who rode into town on a pack animal. 

This is where we find the center of John’s alternative narrative of allegiance. Instead of a chariot or a horse, “Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it.” Other translations use another, more “traditional” word, to describe Jesus’ impromptu discovery of this four-legged creature whose sole purpose is to carry the heavy loads of the traveler. Upon this pack animal, the Messiah cuts through the parades of power and pokes fun at the Pharisees threatened by the message of compassion, grace, and welcome. Then, borrowing the words of the prophet Zechariah, John underscores the function of the imagery, “Do not be afraid, daughter of Zion. Look, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt.” 

This is what John’s story has been building to and moving out from in this morning’s gospel lection. The gospel writer declares, to cynics like the Pharisees, others who lust for violent opposition and political power, still more to you and me, do not be afraid. Christ has come as the very presence of God among us who carries the burdens of the whole world now gone after him. This is what mobilizes the witnesses of the crowd "to continue to testify" to the subversive and humble witness of the One able to resurrect new life and alleviate their long-standing fears.

It is no secret that the condition of the world these days is saturated in fear. When we consider the on-going realities of white supremacy and police brutality, sexual harassment and assault, the events in Austin Texas, and more: we are a people afraid. In light of all this and more, there have been a steady stream of rallies, marches, and digital parades, each a modern cry of, “hosanna, save us.” Each with strong critics and those questing to leverage the campaigns as means to garner political power and possible theological conquest.  

Yesterday’s March for Our Lives was no different. As thousands of youth sought to resurrect new life out of the death that threatens to bind them and their peers, many cynics sought to squash their movement through name calling and false assumptions about being paid actors; others, for sure, looked to leverage the movement for their own powerful gains. All the while, courageous young people like David Hogg and Emma Gonzalez, students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, rode into Washington as if on the back of a youthful colt in a quest to alleviate fear. The youth, many who are Christians, declared #enough and #neveragain as their own hosanna demands for immediate action related to gun laws the adult realm has been too cowardice to confront. As I marched in the Philadelphia rally with my family, including four young children, I read signs and heard stories from thousands of youthful organizers for change. Along the way, I heard the words of Archbishop Oscar Romero, martyred for his witness among the poor in El Salvador, “We know that every effort to improve society, above all when society is so full of injustice and sin, is an effort that God blesses; that God wants; that God demands of us.” I also thought of both the words of Jesus, “the kingdom of God belongs to children,” and those at the end of today’s gospel, “Look, the world has gone after him.”

Then I thought of the call of the church. In a world strained by fear and crying out, “hosanna,” we are to be a people mobilized, neither by cynicism nor conquest, certainly not the myth that politicking alone can save us. Rather, in light of the reality of resurrection, we are to embody the humble posture of Christ who rode upon the back of a pack animal and carried the heavy burdens alongside the broken and oppressed, anxious and afraid, children and youth, near and far. What this may look like will vary from person to person, for some it may mean marching, others community organizing, and others something totally different. This is where I find encouragement in the words of the late church planter, innovator, and faithful activist, N. Gordon Cosby, who said just before he died:

“At this point in my life, and at this point in our world's life, I am asking what is to be my focus- to what am I to be giving my limited time and energy? What is the new thing, the genuine thing, that God wants me to be learning, doing, being now? For me the central question is what it means to be the authentic church of Jesus Christ, crucified and resurrected? What is its nature? Its essence? And how can that essence be structured and expressed so as to become a healing agent in the world?” 

In many ways these are the questions posed neither by the Pharisees nor the crowds, but by Jesus who found a young ass and sat on it as he made his way to Jerusalem.

Friends, as we begin our Holy Week pilgrimage, hear the central message of John’s gospel: do not be afraid. While the journey ahead is laced in sorrow, it is also framed by resurrection hope- the same God who raised Lazarus from the dead will also do the same with Christ. This is good news worth chasing after in a fearful world. Actually, if we have the eyes to see and the ears to hear, the world is already doing just that. So may we respond to their parades of hosannas, not by way of cynicism or quests for dominance, but saddled upon our donkeys as we humbly shoulder the real pains of the world and dismantle whatever powers stand in the way. And if you are not sure what this looks like, I suggest you ask the kids. Amen. 

Agitation as Public Witness and Mark of Discipleship

A few weeks ago I had to call our local appliance guy who is approaching 80 years-old and has a knack for finding toddler socks stuck in the hoses of our washing machine. 

This is the fourth time in our second home. You would think we would have learned by now. 

Whenever the self-proclaimed "Maytag Man” comes over, I watch and learn as though his apprentice. I now am at least slightly above amateur status when it comes to the disassembly and reassembly of a washing machine; yet I still do not know how to keep tiny socks from clogging the drain system. 

In between the generational rants about how they "don’t make appliances like they used to in the olden days," I pick up a few things that just may make it so I do not have to call the Maytag Man every time the machine stalls mid-cycle. 

This time around, I learned some new terminology: the agitator. 

This tall stem in the center of the drum of washing machines rotates and spins, occasionally gets tangled with an old t-shirt or sweater, and is vital to the wash cycle. The agitator's movement, which may appear abrasive, dislodges the grime and creates the right amount of soap suds to get the clothing clean, soft, and free of that late-night-run-and-sweat smell. If there is no agitator or agitation, there is no change to the condition of the clothing. The dirty clothes merely sit in standing water and the detergent remains at the bottom of the drum. 

As our Maytag Man described this central component to the spin cycle, I began to think of all those modern-day agitators who refuse to allow our social fabrics to remain undisturbed in the standing waters of injustice and despair. 

I also thought about how I was paying by the hour as I entertained this mental sidebar. 

I thought of those who protest in the middle of major intersections, arms in tubes linked with immigrants, as they agitate as advocates alongside those in pursuit of a better and safer life for themselves and their children. I thought of others who put up t-shirt memorials on the front lawns of churches to agitate and draw attention to victims of local gun violence. I imagined the faces of friends around the country who form human shields in communities like Charlottesville to agitate the plans of white supremacists with torches in hands as they chant racist and anti-Semitic phrases. I thought of those who join the New Poor People’s Campaign and cry out for economic and racial justice to agitate systems bent towards the rich and privileged. I thought of all who post their #metoo stories as a way of agitating silence about the vile realities of sexual harassment and abuse that continues to perpetuate a culture not-yet-free of misogyny. I thought of artists whose works agitate our social conscience as we consider how the prison industrial complex feeds off systemic racism, the ghettoization of America, and neglected public education in our urban centers. 

This week, I also thought of the young people who have said #enough, #neveragain, and #marchforourlives in light of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School that took the lives of 17 young people. Their youthful agitation just may be what finally, albeit abrasively, removes the filth of broken gun legislation that makes it all-too-easy for mass shootings to occur in schools and at concerts, shopping malls and move theaters. 

In each of these movements, and many others, there are people of faith who join the efforts to ensure the cries and concerns of our most vulnerable neighbors are rallied behind as the very cries and concerns of God. Their discipleship, manifested through public demonstrations, agitate the powers that be so to remove the filth of oppression and stench of injustice that makes the human condition unbearable. In many ways, this is what Jesus, the greatest agitator of both political and religious dysfunction, meant when he called those to follow and carry cross. 

I also believe this is akin to what Karl Barth wrote:

"This is our hope and our need both as Christians and as members of society. But do not expect me to provide a solution! None of us may boast a solution. There is only one solution, and that is in God himself. Our task is only the candid, absolutely thorough, and- I should like to venture the expression- priestly agitation of this hope and this need, by means of which the way to the solution, which is in God, may be made clearer to us” (The Word of God & the Word of Man). 

This Lent, as I make my way through the 40-day pilgrimage, I am leaning in to how the Spirit is calling me to holy agitation. I am pondering, aware of such freedom to wonder being yet another sign of my privilege, the ways I am being dared to carry cross and follow Christ through advocacy and solidarity alongside my neighbors. 

I am even opening myself to be agitated, confronting my own entanglement in systems and cultural narratives, some propped up by religious institutions and traditions, that stray from God’s dreams for the world Go so loves. 

After all, agitation is the holy, reformed, and redemptive work that disturbs the standing waters of despair just enough to lead us to restorative and resurrected hope. 

------
A sermon delivered at The First Presbyterian Church of Norristown on March 11, 2018. 

Carrying Our Cross Alongside Those Denied of Themselves: Discipleship in a Despairing World

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34). 

I have read and preached on numerous occasions about Jesus’ invitation to cross-carrying discipleship. Yet when I recently wrestled with these words in the safe and comfortable confines of my local coffee shop, I paused. I have never been threatened with the fate of a cross. The ancient Roman symbol of criminality and treason has not been hoisted upon my shoulders or public record for any reason, let alone my faith. While I have faced a few inconveniences and made marginal life alterations based on personal convictions and matters of faith, I have done so at my own will. Even my choice to participate in occasional activism has been a free decision with minimal consequence. My story of discipleship encounters little resistance from outside authorities and is framed by privilege not persecution, which occasionally creates dissonance when I read Jesus’ words.

For most in the Western world, this is our story. We do well to acknowledge such positions of assumed comfort, especially as we pray for and become more aware of those for whom the cross is more than a devotional exercise but a daily burden carried as it intersects with the their race, orientation, economic class, the laws of the land, and encounters with oppressive systems in this nation and those abroad. Their voices and witnesses must be elevated as those most credible to speak to the depths of discipleship.

But my privilege is not the end of my struggle with Sunday’s gospel narrative. I also wrestle with the implications of Jesus’ invitation to the denial of ourselves as a prescriptive measure for discipleship.

Since the beginning of Lent, my newsfeeds have been dominated by stories of young people rallying around the country in light of the horrific events that unfolded on Ash Wednesday at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. They are calling attention to how, in light of yet another mass shooting that has claimed the lives of our youngest citizens, they are regularly denied the very protection and security of themselves. While adults spin wheels in partisan debates about gun laws and how to make their schools safe and secure versus domestic war zones, youth are taking to streets and microphones to demand immediate action that improves their condition and eases their plight right now. I lament that grown-ups have made it so youth feel the need to act as their own advocates, but I am grateful they are doing just that. They refuse to be denied themselves and their right to life. We would do well to join their cause. 

The same could be said of those most marginalized by pervasive and systemic racism, women whose stories trended the #MeToo movement and underscored the reality of gender inequality, sexual harassment, and abuse, and others most susceptible to pipelines to prison that exploit young people of color in ghettoized communities that lack access to necessities like grocery stores, clean water, and quality education. Their very selves are being denied and their cries for a more just society frequently become exploited as pawns in abstract rhetorical games.

Again I hear Jesus and pause, “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” I then wonder, what does it mean to deny ourselves and follow Jesus when so many have had their selves denied not as a mark of discipleship but as victims of a broken, divisive, violent, and wounded world?

One answer may lie in our willingness to embrace the call of Christ to deny anything that isolates us from the concerns of or increases the risk of harm to our most vulnerable neighbors. Instead, we walk, possibly even march, alongside any and all whose selves are being denied. We do so no matter the cost to our personal well-being or the life of our institutions, preferring the divine thing of steadfast commitment to God’s concern for those on the margins over human things of privilege, power, insulated self-interest, and right to bear arms (Mark 8:33). This is the bedrock of Jesus’ words and witness that we are neither to be ashamed of nor deny in the midst of this “adulterous and sinful generation” (Mark 8:38).

Over the last three years of my call to serve alongside the faithful of this Presbytery of Philadelphia, I have been deeply moved by the cross-bearing, self-denying witnesses of our churches and related ministries. Congregations and worshipping communities have constructed T-Shirt memorials for victims of gun violence, attended judicial hearings for detained immigrants, provided hospitality for refugees, and written grants for mural projects created alongside artists previously incarcerated who work collectively towards restorative justice and the reform of the prison system. There are faithful saints who developed programs to provide nutrition for children in at-risk and neglected urban neighborhoods and other congregations partnered with local agencies to combat the opioid epidemic that continues to deny their neighbors wholeness and health. In all of these faithful expressions and more, isolated categories of conservative or progressive have been cast aside and minds set not on human things but the words of Christ, who was always on the side of the marginalized and oppressed.

As we continue to move through this Lenten journey, which began with an all-too-familiar reminder of the brokenness of the human and social condition, may we ponder what it means for us to deny ourselves for the sake of all those whose selves are being denied. May we continue to listen to the cries and concerns of our neighbors, especially the youngest disciples among us, in efforts to imagine how Jesus is inviting us to carry crosses either alongside or on their behalf. May we cling to and fix our minds on the words and witness of Christ versus any other human thing, to include partisan agendas. In so doing, may our discipleship begin to bear fruit of solidarity and hope in even the darkest and most despairing of places, no matter the cost.

*This post originally written for the Presbytery of Philadelphia. Artwork by Betsi Moise. 

Dreams of Resistance, Refuge, and Return: Epiphany and a Sermon on Matthew 2:1-22

Given today is the first Sunday after Epiphany, it is only appropriate to share of my recent experience as a wondrous traveler in search of a great mystery…in IKEA. The treasure in pursuit was Minde, the product name for the full-length mirror I was to pick up when there to purchase our table, Jokkmokk. I traveled from the East, or Mt. Airy, to the town of Plymouth Meeting, where the light in the sky led me to the sacred Swedish home decor store. I went there for what I assumed would be a 15-minute stop.

Fool.

I walked into the marketplace, determined that I would find what I needed rather quickly. And I did find Jokkmokk. But I still needed Minde. I asked the nearest salesperson who pointed me to the show room, where I could see a number of mirrors and even other tables, if I’d like. 

I walked into the showroom and immediately was overwhelmed but still committed. So I began to follow, not a star in the sky, but arrows on the floor that weaved me through the endless display rooms like a hamster in a glass-covered maze. And there was only one route, or so I thought- follow the arrows. And Minde, according to the next nearest salesperson, was at the end of the route. 

Needless to say, 45 minutes later, I found Minde, placed on my shopping cart with those 360 degree wheels that made me feel as though I was traveling on ice in bowling shoes, and headed for the checkout. I had overcome, but I was spent. I didn’t know the journey for such a simple item would be so complicated. It was supposed to be simple, quick, and easy. 

The story of Epiphany begins with what appears to be a harmless and holy venture of three Magi from the eastern lands following a route prescribed by a single star in the heavens. While we are accustomed to hearing the first half of the Epiphany story and all the imagery fitting for a seasonal carol, the latter portion is far from what you would want for a holiday jingle for the last day of Christmas. This may be why the prescribed reading in today’s lectionary cuts the narrative short,* leaving off the aftermath of the Magi's thwarting of Herod's orders. 

Yet today’s gospel story must be engaged in its fullness. Much like an IKEA marketplace, we cannot shortcut our way through; we have to weave through it all. Ok, for those seasoned IKEA veterans, maybe you can, but then you miss so much that’s on display. So, too, you cannot begin to understand the fullness of epiphany if you stop with the Magi returning home and tuck under a Swedish rug what happened in the verses that followed. So we won’t do that. Instead, we will briefly engage the full story by way of the common thread throughout Matthew’s Epiphany story: unsettling dreams. 

Children & Youth Ministry as Resistance: A Brief Word for #BackToSchool

We were talking at home the other day about how, in many ways, to raise a family and rear children in the way of love, welcome, and commitment to justice is to participate in the faithful resistance to empire. When we say, “as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD,” (Joshua 24:15) we are declaring our commitment to a counter-narrative to those of hatred and oppression that have been given a renewed platform by those in positions of power.  When we read Scripture and pray at table or bedside, the stories we choose and the content of our prayers reinforces to our children what it means to be a people who follow Jesus in such a time as this. 

The same is true for those who serve in varied forms of children and youth ministry. In every age, to include our own, children and youth ministry is critical and subversive discipleship work. This work moves beyond Bible trivia, church membership programs, sporadic mission blitzes, and the handing down of abstract doctrinal statements into the craniums of young people. Instead, this work aims to equip young people for a counter-movement of love and generosity, forgiveness and welcome, justice and commitment to God’s preferential option for the poor and oppressed.  

Children and youth ministry is not about the preparation of future leaders in the church, although partially true, but strives to empower change agents in the here and now. This ministry is about joining them in their efforts to embody the gospel in the places they have discerned most pressing. Children and youth ministry is about nurturing the prophetic imaginations of Jesus' youngest disciples as we trust the Spirit’s movement in and through them. 

As social media feeds are flooded with chalkboard #backtoschool photos (we posted our own), my prayers are with those who serve in various capacities of children and youth ministries. I pray for mentors, teachers, listeners, counselors, and facilitators of conversations able to spark small and large expressions of faithful resistance. I pray for school administrators, faculty members, and coaches who worship in the pews on Sunday and walk into school campuses on Monday. I pray for Sunday School teachers, choir directors, and ministers and youth directors. I pray for weekend retreats, before and after-school programs, and fellowship gatherings that cross all lines of division based on race, class, language, and religious tradition. I pray that in each and every way adult disciples walk alongside children and youth, that they would do so aware of the significance of their call. I pray the church would equip all for their vocation, too. 

Even more, I pray for the children and youth. 

I pray they would know they have been called for such a time as this. 

I pray they would know God’s love is not based on the best or worst thing they have done, but rooted in the very image they were stamped with before they could even take a breath or speak a word. 

I pray they would know they are loved to love and blessed to be a blessing.

I pray they would be open to their neighbor, seeing the image of God reflected in their peers. 

I pray they would feel empowered by adults to resist evil as an extension of their baptism whenever they feel their most vulnerable neighbors are being exploited by either church or state. 

I pray they would experience the church as a place where their questions about the intersection of faith and public life are welcomed as much as their neighbor whom they invited to the mid-week event. 

I pray the Bible and church history would come alive to them as they learn of the great cloud of witnesses who participated in the resistance against systemic injustices, even those perpetuated by religious institutions and traditions. 

I pray they know the world can and will be better because of the contributions they make, even as they lead us closer to the day when God once and for makes everything new and right again. 

Every day, as I move through the car line at drop off, I pray these prayers for my children and yours. It is one way I commit to the resistance that is the gospel, especially as we send our children back to school. 

"However we may be justified in wagging our heads over modern youth's fantastic drive for freedom, it is certain that our final attitude cannot be surprise and opposition; the youth movement of the present time in all its phases is directed against authority for its own sake, and whoever desires to be an educator today must...stand in principle upon the side of our younger people” 

---Karl Barth, The Word of God and the Word of Man, p. 292

On Why Powers Fear Our Children: Brief Reflections This Last Week of Advent

In many ways, to bear a child is a subversive act. To deliver new life into this world- a move of defiance. It says to the powers-that-be, you cannot and will not slow the birth of resistance and the dawn of God's movement of justice and peace.

The irony that those in power the first Christmas were so threatened by young ones of the same age as my children, whose greatest weapons are legos left on the floor, temper tantrums provoked by age-appropriate irrationalism, and a rank diaper, reminds me how truly weak and insecure these tyrants are. Despite their over-compensating rhetoric, they are fragile and fickle.

Yet they must be resisted. Our children depend upon us as we imagine and dare to construct a reality contrary to their versions of empire, which are dark and futile at best.

Actually, these little ones are the agents of change the Christmas story proclaims will lead us forward.  They are the incarnation of our resistance. That just may be the reason the powers fear them most. 

These are the things I think about this final week of Advent, as I hold our newest little one- whose name means "close to God."

Praying, wherever your spirit may be this time of year, you feel such closeness in the midst of a world threatening greater and greater divisions.

Be Opened: Lectionary Reflections for Back to School Youth and the Rest of Us, too.

"Be opened," Jesus proclaimed in Mark 7:34.

The disciples were pilgrimaging with this prophetic Rabbi when he put his fingers in the ears and touched the tongue of a deaf man with a speech impediment. 

“Be opened,” Jesus commanded. 

Only a handful of verses earlier, Jesus encountered a Syrophoenician woman. This Gentile neighbor ran to the Jewish Messiah and pleaded for the life of her beloved child suffering from an “unclean spirit,” a sure subversion of first-century social mores. She knew her life mattered; her daughter's life mattered. Unconcerned about such racial barriers and ethnic codes of segregation, this poised mama dared, even provoked, Jesus to model the same. 

And she was open to a miracle and resurrection possibilities. Her only question, would Jesus be open as well? 

The answer, “the demon has left your daughter.” 

These two healing stories are everything but loose fragments and isolated parables in the building of Mark’s gospel.  Last week’s lectionary highlighted the preface to the narratives we encounter this Sunday.  Jesus challenged the Pharisees and Scribes who had become so obsessed with the letter of the law they were closed to the reality that in Jesus God was doing very new things.

“You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition…You have a fine way of rejecting the commandment of God in order to keep your tradition” (Mark 7:8-9).

Now we read of Jesus practicing what he preached. The entirety of Mark 7 is a call to be opened to what God is doing all around us, even when it confronts our most hallowed traditions, collective assumptions, and cultural barriers set up to protect and preserve what we (sometimes falsely) believe to be right and good. Jesus' witness pushes us to collapse anything and everything set-up to oppress or marginalize another. 

“Be opened,” Jesus reminds us nearly two millennia later. 

If we are truly listening, we will notice Mark’s account of these healing stories is aimed at us. They dare us to remain open.  They challenge us to hold loosely our truth claims, comfort zones, and social networks as we consider what God may be up to in the very people and places we have previously dismissed. 

Be opened.

Every year for the last four years I have written a letter to students as they go back to school.  These letters are public prayers for those who navigate the hallways and commune in classrooms for 180+ days of the year. 

This year I write less of a letter and more of an echo of the words of Christ, “Be opened.” If we listen carefully, what follows are invitations for all of us. 

BE OPENED

Be opened by your neighbor next door, behind, and in front of you, as their life and story are equally as significant as your own. 

Be opened by history learned and lamented, celebrated and grieved. Be opened by how history can transform our collective present and future.

Be opened by the teachers in your midst, who have devoted their lives to spark the imaginations of young people and nurture agents of change locally and globally. 

Be opened by nonviolent means to solve conflict. 

Be opened by forgiveness.

Be opened by faith communities, especially those different from your own. What may God teach you through the convictions of others? 

Be opened by rest, aware you cannot do everything, all the time, every day. 

Be opened by play, reminded life is a gift to be enjoyed versus a task to be completed. 

Be opened by Scripture and new ways of understanding the story we claim as sacred. Welcome others to read alongside you and remain open to the possibility of the Spirit reading you page after page, story after story. 

Be opened by service and opportunities to engage your most vulnerable neighbors. Recognize the stranger not as less rather as equal. 

Be opened by advocacy for those relegated to the margins of your campuses, workplaces, neighborhoods, cities, and world. Dare to challenge the status quo and never cease to elevate the voices from the fringes of society. 

Be opened by art, so frequently the Spirit’s tool for social change and movements rooted in God’s concern for justice and equity. 

Be opened by being wrong.

Be opened by being right.

Be opened by failure. 

Be opened by joy. 

Be opened by tears. 

Be opened by hope. 

Be opened by shared suffering.

Be opened by witnessed resurrection. 

Be opened by the One who was able not only to open the eyes and ears of the blind and deaf, but also a cold and dark tomb many believed would forever remain closed. 

Be opened. 
------

Thanks to fellow Presby, Mihee Kim-Kort, for featuring the litany in her Podcast, "This Everyday Holy":
http://thiseverydayholy.com/2015/09/06/episode-11-putting-faith-to-work/ 

A great Podcast that brilliantly engages the story of the Syrophoenician woman:
LectioCast: Entrusting Ourselves to Abundance and Generosity
http://homebrewedchristianity.com/2015/08/31/entrusting-ourselves-to-abundance-and-generosity-lectiocast/

See also a recent reflection from Jill Duffield of The Presbyterian Outlook: 
http://myemail.constantcontact.com/Looking-into-the-Lectionary--23rd-Sunday-of-Ordinary-Time--September-6-.html?soid=1102135377571&aid=eJyHvf3y5GI