When Jesus messed up

We only have one story in the Bible about Jesus as a child. Only one. And from that one story, we learn that Jesus was capable of messing up. He was with his parents in Jerusalem for the Passover. No doubt, they were traveling along with a group of other pilgrims from Nazareth as they began the long journey home again. It’s not surprising that a twelve-year-old child might not be holding hands with his parents in that situation. He was off with his friends or other family members. At least, that’s what  Mary and Joseph assumed. But after traveling for a day, they realized that Jesus wasn’t with them. Where on earth could he be? They could only assume that he must be back in Jerusalem. So, they retraced their steps.

This was probably one of those occasions when they didn’t know whether to throw their arms around their son and weep tears of joy when they found him, or read him the riot act for worrying them so much. They were clearly miffed at him and Mary let him know it. “What is the matter with you, Jesus? You had us worried to death!”

Jesus, totally insensitive to his mother’s feelings, gave a smart-aleck response: “Chill, folks! Didn’t you realize that I would be here in my Father’s house?” It’s as if to say, one of us has a problem here, Mom and Dad, and it’s not me! I can imagine that didn’t go down too well. There’s that commandment about honoring your parents, and Jesus has clearly violated it.

So his parents took him by the hand and marched him right back to Nazareth. And we don’t hear another peep from him for nearly twenty years, when he appears in the wilderness to be anointed for his public ministry in the waters of the Jordan River.

Only Luke gives us this little story about Jesus’ childhood, and I’m so glad he did. Because it helps us to see what it meant for Jesus to be human and grow up as we all do. We like to say that Jesus was perfect, meaning he never made any mistakes or did anything wrong. But from the get-go, we read that that wasn’t so. In fact, when the Bible says that Jesus was perfect that’s not what it means. Perfection has more to do with being whole, or complete. The perfection of Jesus was that he lived into God’s purpose for him in its entirety. It may have been that as he was discovering what that was, he couldn’t tear himself away from the temple when he was a boy. But in the process, he hurt his parents, and he broke an important commandment.

The Bible doesn’t tell us any more than this about Jesus’ childhood. Instead, Luke summarizes those years in one simple verse: "Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor. And that's all we need to know. Jesus grew up. As the years passed, he grew wiser. He learned through times of joy and times of sorrow, through his successes and through his failures. Yes, sometimes he messed up. It's the only way he could have learned. Jesus grew the way we all do.  

How to honor God (at Christmastime or anytime)

For as long as people have been able to stand upright, they have been debating the nature of God. Is God vengeful? Does he punish those who sin against him? Does he demand payment in return for his mercy? Or is God capricious? Does he just allow random things to happen to us because he can, or even worse, because he doesn’t care? The Hebrew scriptures bear witness to the way that God’s people have struggled to understand the nature of God through the centuries. Within its pages we get every possible interpretation of God, from an angry tyrant to a tender lover. And it’s downright confusing.

God decided to clear up the confusion. He did this by revealing himself to us in a very remarkable way. He took all the guess-work out of it. As John’s gospel tells us:  “No one has ever seen God. But it is God the Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.” So, if you want to know what God is like, look at the evidence. Exhibit A: Jesus.  And let there be no doubt about it, God is love. Yes, love. That’s what God is.

Of course, God is pure love, not the kind of stuff that poses as love in our very human, self-serving understanding of love.  So often, we talk of love and act in ways that have nothing to do with love at all. It’s about us. We give to others because it feels good for us. Or we love another person because we so desperately want them to love us back. The love of God is just the opposite.

We can see God’s love both in the manger and on the cross. There is no regard for the self. It’s not self-protective love. It’s not comfort-seeking love. It’s not love that plays it safe. It’s love that risks everything. It’s bold. It’s courageous. It’s love that knows no limits. Love that gives all, without holding back. That’s the way God so loved the world. That’s the way God showed his love for the world in Jesus. That’s how we know that God is love.

There really is only one way to truly honor the birth of the Christ child at Christmas. And that is to love in a way that reflects the one who is love. Don’t worship him and think that’s enough, because it isn’t. In fact, Jesus never asked people to worship him. He asked them to follow him. We do that in the way we live our lives. We do that when our lives are spent in love.

Certainly, we can never love as God does. Our human attempts fall short of that kind of love. And yet, the love of God that took on human form in Jesus is still incarnate in this world. Through human beings like us, we catch glimpses of a love that transcends our self-protective, needy behavior that so often seems to have its way with us. The love of God shines through us, despite ourselves. For some people, it seems to happen more often than it does for others. But we’re all capable of reflecting God’s love in our lives. We all have our God moments.

Not too long ago, in 1993, Isaac Schnitzer was a five-year-old boy living in Billings, Montana. On the first night of Hanukkah he lit the candle on his menorah, and placed it in his bedroom window. That night someone threw a cinder block through the window and shattered it. When the family went to the authorities to report the incident, they were told, if you don’t want that to happen again, you’re going to have to stop displaying Jewish symbols in your windows. (As if they were responsible for the violence that had been committed against them.)

  

Two days later, the director of the Montana Association of Churches contacted the pastor at the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ and asked if the church members would be willing to display menorahs in their own windows. Well, the pastor not only printed out paper menorahs for his congregation, but he also called some other pastors in town and they did the same. One store manager put a sign up in his store that said: “Not in our town. No hate. No violence. Peace on Earth.” On December 8, the town newspaper ran an editorial asking the people of Billings to display menorahs in their windows. Thousands of menorahs were then provided by businesses in town and the newspaper itself included a full-page menorah for people to display.

When the Schnitzer family drove around their town, they saw menorahs on houses, storefronts and billboards. Little Isaac said he didn’t know so many people were Jewish. His mother responded, “They’re not all Jewish, but they’re all our friends.”

That Christmas, 10,000 homes in Billings, Montana proudly displayed menorahs in their windows. Ironically, in displaying this Jewish symbol, as a community they honored the Christ child in the best way possible -- by acting boldly, in the face of hatred, with love.  

Reflecting the love of God in our lives can mean making a grand gesture that is so much bigger than ourselves. Like fostering a child who faces extraordinary challenges in life. Or caring for an aging parent who can no longer remember your name. Or finally making peace with someone who has hurt you deeply and doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.

But it doesn’t take a grand gesture to allow God’s love to shine through you. It can happen when you offer a simple word of kindness to someone who is feeling discouraged and beaten down. It can come through a telephone call to someone you know is alone. God’s love shines through you when you muster the courage to stand up for those who are in no position speak for themselves. Or when you bother to inconvenience yourself for the sake of someone else, knowing you have nothing to gain for yourself. Perhaps it’s a person you’ve never met. Maybe someone who hasn’t even been born yet, but will inhabit this planet long after you’re gone. Or it might mean encountering another person who isn’t anything like you and realizing you have every reason to judge them, but choosing to love instead.  

How will you honor the Christ this Christmas? How will you follow in the way of the one who is love? 

Mary’s Song (I hope you weren’t expecting a lullaby)

The first time she appeared on the T.V. show “Britain’s Got Talent”, when she came out on the stage the judges looked down, stifling their giggles. People in the audience weren’t so kind; they  laughed out loud. The sight of this woman was so ridiculous that everyone assumed it was a gag. She was well past her prime, verging on downright old, very plain looking in the face, and dumpy in the body. Dressed like a bag lady, the only thing missing was the bag. Nobody took her seriously. Until she started singing. All of a sudden, from this very unlikely source, you heard the voice of an angel. By the time Susan Boyle finished “I Dreamed a Dream”, those who had been laughing at her were crying. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Everyone who heard her learned that when you judge another person based on outward appearances, you’d better be prepared to be wrong. Sometimes, the person from whom you expect the least will surprise you with something astonishing.

That same kind of astonishment certainly proves to be true for Mary’s song in Luke’s gospel. It often gets lost on us because we’ve heard it so many times before. But if we can imagine hearing it for the first time, this is not the song you would expect from the lips of a poor girl, barely a teenager, whose whole world has just fallen apart. You would expect her to blubber like a baby, or maybe to cry out to God for deliverance. But you would never expect her to sing these amazing words of power and strength.

The occasion that prompted Mary’s song is a meeting between two women. Both of them were pregnant with a child who was announced by an angel. But beyond that, their similarities end.   

Elizabeth has waited her whole life for a child. She’s been barren and she and her husband are past the age of expecting one.  She stands in the line of other mothers we know in the Bible who were also barren: Sarah, Rachel, Hannah. All of them ended up becoming great matriarchs of Israel’s faith. Elizabeth is thrilled to be counted among them. After all these years of hoping and praying for a child, now, in her old age, the impossible has happened. She is overjoyed!

This is not the case with Mary. She hasn't waited her whole life for a child like Elizabeth has. She's just a young woman, a teenager, and she's not even married yet. She hasn’t been dreaming about a baby; she's been dreaming about her wedding day. Pregnancy is the last thing she expects, or even wants. God comes into her life and turns everything upside down. There is no precedent for this. It’s distressing.

Luke tells us that Mary was in a hurry when she left Nazareth and headed for the hills. And it’s no wonder. She is pregnant and unwed. She has disgraced her family and her fiancée. No one wants to have a thing to do with her. A woman in Mary’s position might well have been stoned to death, or maybe even burned. She has to get away. So she runs.

Now, Mary has a relative who lives outside of town, and that’s where she decides to take refuge. But how will her cousin Elizabeth greet her? Will she judge her? Will she scold her? Will she send her away? Mary has no idea what’s coming but she’s bracing herself for the worst.

Elizabeth’s greeting is not what Mary expected at all. As soon as Mary enters her house, the child Elizabeth is carrying does a back flip in her tummy. And then the Holy Spirit takes over. Elizabeth says to Mary: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”

Can you imagine how relieved Mary is to hear these words? Elizabeth understands. She gets it. Mary’s going to be all right. If there had been any doubt in her mind about what is happening to her, Elizabeth confirms it for her. This isn’t just her imagination. Yes, God truly is doing an amazing thing through her.

Mary desperately needed to hear Elizabeth gushing with joy at the sight of her. For Mary hadn’t been barren like Elizabeth and all those familiar women from Israel’s past. This is uncharted territory. God is doing something he hasn’t done before. Old, barren Elizabeth and her child may be the culmination of God’s past faithfulness, but Mary and her child are God’s future. Mary is the beginning of a whole new work of God. God is starting over again. The child inside her is the new Israel, the new humanity.  

Mary is so filled with the love of God that she can’t contain it all; it spills out in a song. If you tend to think of her as a sweet, submissive little woman, you need to pay attention. Because this song ain’t no lullaby, folks.

It’s known as the Magnificat and it’s been sung in monasteries and churches all over the world for a couple thousand years. But it’s also been a controversial song, and if you’re really listening, you’ll understand why. This is radical stuff! There have been times and situations where it couldn’t be sung publicly because of its dangerous content. Back when India was under British rule, the Anglican bishop, William Temple, warned missionaries not to read the Magnificat in worship because it was so inflammatory that it might ignite a revolution!

Mary’s song begins innocently enough. It’s a song of praise to the God who has chosen her for this amazing task.

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

For he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

For the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.

Mary exults the God who would choose someone so unexpected, someone so lowly in worldly standing, for so great a mission. In a culture where women are regarded as inferior creatures, God chose her to be a partner in his new creation. She sings about the way God is working in her life, in particular. He takes lowly, little her and lifts her up to greatness. But then she moves from the particular to the universal. As God has been with her, so God will be with all people.

His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;

He has filled the hungry with good things,

And sent the rich away empty.”

Mary knows this isn’t all about her. She’s a part of something much larger than herself. God is up to so much more. All of history is opening up. Everything is changing. We call it the great reversal. It’s a common theme in the Scriptures and refers to the way God will make things right. This is the way things are when God has his way with us. This is the way things are in that reality Jesus inaugurates and names The Kingdom of God. It’s a place where the mountains are brought down low, and valleys are filled and the rough places made straight. It’s a place where the captives are set free, the blind see, and the lame walk. It’s the place Mary sings about where God scatters the proud in the thoughts of their hearts, where the powerful are brought down from their thrones, the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are filled, and the rich are sent away empty.

Now, does this sound like the sort of thing a poor young woman would sing when it looks like her life is about to go down the toilet? It certainly doesn’t sound like any Christmas song we might hear sung on the radio these days. But it was the very first Christmas song. And it teaches us that God doesn’t do what seems to be logical from our perspective. God turns everything upside down.

If you think you have God all figured out, you’d better expect to be surprised. If you think you’re right, you’d better get over it. Cuz you’re in for a fall. Hear Mary’s song and be reminded that wherever there are powerless people whose situations are defined by the world as impossible, God is at work!

The boy problem

In the wake of the horrific violence in Newtown, Connecticut, folks seem to be analyzing the event from every possible angle. Two tasks are of particular importance: finding the reason why this happened and doing what we can to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I have heard a lot of talk about increasing gun safety, as well as doing more to address the problems of mental illness. Both of these discussions are long overdue, and I’m glad we’re having them. But I hope we don’t fool ourselves into believing it’s that easy. This is a complex issue with many contributing factors.

We have been forced to face unspeakable events like the one in Newtown too many times. Yet, there is one aspect of these mass murders that I haven’t heard many people mention, and it concerns me. It may be so obvious that we are ignoring it, but the fact is, all of these events have one glaring commonality. They have all been committed by men -- in most cases, those who are barely men. We will not uncover the reasons for these senseless acts of violence until we are willing to dig deep and ask the larger question, “Why is this a boy problem?”

I am indebted to my friend Philip for raising my awareness of this. He also directed me to an article online that names the problem for what it is, “The Newtown Shooting and Why We Must Redefine Masculinity.” The author, Wendi Gilbert, points out how, of the 62 mass shootings in the United States over the past 30 years, all but one of them were committed by men. After citing these startling statistics, Ms. Gilbert quotes Jackson Katz, who wrote in the aftermath of the Columbine shootings: “accessibility of guns, the lack of parental supervision, the culture of peer-group exclusion, or the prevalence of media violence, all of these factors are of course relevant, but if they were the primary answers, then why are girls, who live in the same environment, not responding in the same way?”

Gilbert is involved in a film series called The Mask You Live In, which examines “what it means to be a man in our society and the extremes of masculinity imposed on our boys and men. It further uncovers how American culture reinforces a rigid code of conduct on boys that inhibits their capacity for empathy, stifles their emotional intelligence, limits their definition of success, and in some cases, leads to extreme acts of violence.”

Gilbert suggests it’s time to start teaching boys and young men that being emotional and empathetic are part of what it means to be a man. That sharing one’s feelings to sort out a problem is a masculine trait. She calls for “some new definitions of ‘manly’ so our boys can express and know their full selves, not just the culturally accepted ‘extremes’ that predominantly exist today.”

This rings true for me. Why do we continue to teach our boys that the way to prove you're a real man is by wielding power over other people? Why is it so widely acceptable for men to resolve problems with violence? Yes, males seem to have an innate desire to protect and defend those they love, and we can certainly admire that. But we need to make it clear that this is not the same thing as obliterating anyone who gets in your way. Why do so many of our boys and young men come to believe that masculinity and compassion are mutually exclusive? This twisted way of thinking scares me. 

I fear that with all of our discussions about how to address the shootings in Newtown, if we don’t include a deeper examination of how we teach boys to become real men in our culture, we are losing sight of the larger picture. This has to be a part of the conversation.

Unfathomable

I have little to say about the horrific events that took place in an elementary school in Connecticut this morning. As much as we might like a reasonable explanation, there is none. And as much as we might like to ensure that nothing like this ever happens again, we know that’s not possible. Already, some are ranting about guns, while others are insisting that this has nothing to do with gun control. I have an opinion on that, but it doesn’t seem to matter very much right now.

Today I heard David Brooks suggest that the media should adopt a policy of not making the names of mass murderers known. Instead, we should attribute such deeds to anonymous perpetrators, thus denying them the notoriety they seek. We have yet to hear the name of who opened fire on innocent people in Newtown, but we will. We’ll hear all about him and his family, while the experts dissect and examine all the circumstances of his life that might have led to this.

With our very rational, western minds, we consider it our duty to understand everything that happens in this life. Not only do we have to understand  how a senseless tragedy can happen, from a human standpoint, but we even think we have to understand why it can happen, from a theological standpoint. Why is it so important to us that we can explain such events? Does this make it easier to accept that which is clearly unacceptable?

Our attempts to grasp what happened in Newtown are feeble at best. It is both foolhardy and arrogant to believe otherwise. Any explanation, no matter how well-reasoned, is ultimately futile. Nothing can be said that can make the day's tragic events anything other than what they are -- unfathomable. 

Songs that catch in my throat

I can't imagine what my life would be like without hymns. They touch on everything that speaks to me. I love music, and singing, particularly in a crowd. And I am stimulated by theological ideas,  whether they echo my own or challenge my deepest convictions. But most of all, I cherish words that transcend their surface meaning and invite us into mystical truths. Hymnody does all of this for me.

I know my heart is captured when I'm singing one of those good old Lutheran hymns and the words catch in my throat. They are so big that I can’t get them out. In “For All the Saints”, when we sing about people who have died in the faith and cheer us on until we join them, the words “we feebly struggle, they in glory shine” aren’t easy to leave behind as I move on to the next phrase. Then I find that I can never sing the sixth stanza because I’m always fighting back the tears: But then there breaks a yet more glorious day; the saints triumphant rise in bright array; the King of glory passes on his way. Alleluia! Alleluia!

As I’ve gotten older, “How Firm a Foundation” seems to squeeze the sound from my vocal chords when I get to the fourth verse.  Throughout all their lifetime my people shall prove my sov’reign, eternal, unchangeable love; and then, when gray hairs shall their temples adorn, like lambs they shall still in my bosom be born. 

I’m not sure why certain hymns seem to affect me this way, but they do. I wish I could say that the words sneak up on me and catch me unawares while I’m singing, but that’s not usually the case. I know the words; I’ve sung them a bazillion times before, and I know what's coming. But I can’t help myself. They penetrate an unprotected place within me and all pretenses disappear.

There is a verse from an Advent hymn that disarms me like this. We sang it last Sunday and it's stuck to the inner walls of my skull like velcro: “Comfort, comfort now my people; tell of peace!” So says our God. Comfort those who sit in darkness mourning under sorrow’s load. To God’s people now proclaim that God’s pardon waits for them! Tell them that their war is over; God will reign in peace forever. The phrase where I lose it completely is, “Tell them that their war is over.” Whenever I hear those words, I can’t help taking them personally. Even though I’ve never served in the military, I think back on my life and, in many respects, it feels like I’ve been through a war. Some of this has been because of circumstances beyond my control, and some of it has been self-inflicted. But no matter the cause, engaging in war has been physically and emotionally exhausting. There is no greater peace than knowing that the war that has had such a toll on me in so many ways, is finally over. 

"Tell them that their war is over." How can hymn writers give us such huge words and expect us to sing them? Maybe that’s why hymns are meant to be sung by a community of people. While I’m struggling to sing, others are effortlessly blurting the words out. And then, while someone else is stuck on the first phrase of a hymn, I’m gliding through all the verses. 

Singing hymns takes the collective courage of a community. When I try to sing from the hymnal in the privacy of my home, I consistently get lost in the witness of the words. That’s a big reason why I gather regularly for worship with a faith community -- because I know I can count on them to sing hymns with me. And I need to sing hymns. 

Those annoying little bumps in the road

When I’m in the yard and a car slows down in front of my house, I look up to see who it is, assuming that they must be stopping to greet me. Since I moved to my new home on Arnold Drive, this happens all the time. In fact, every single car that goes by slows down in front of my house. And I always look up, wondering who it is. Even if it’s not a familiar face I see in the car, I wave. Usually, they wave back. Are people in my new neighborhood that much friendlier than they have been any other place I’ve lived? No. But this is the first place I’ve lived where there is a speed bump in the street directly in front of my house.

Speed bumps. Don’t you just love ‘em? All you want to do is get from point A to point B, and they throw these little obstacles in your path for no other reason than to slow you down. They’re so damn annoying. But, of course, there is a reason for them, because there is a reason why you need to slow down. This is a place where people are walking, and running, and playing. And for the safety of the people (and animals) on the street, those who are driving their cars need to be inconvenienced. Really, it’s a small price to pay when you look at it that way.

The street I live on, Arnold Drive, could easily become a cut-through street. You enter it on the south from Central Avenue, which is one of the main arteries in Charlotte, and the entrance to the east is from another busy street, Eastway Drive. But Arnold is not an easy way to cut through, by design. The road snakes around more than any street I’ve seen outside the mountains. And it is filled with speed bumps. 

It really is a lovely little road, and I enjoy the drive -- when I’m not in a hurry. But when I just want to get from one place to another as quickly as possible, I avoid it. I have several short cuts I can take to get home, where I miss the curves and most of the speed bumps, and I'm in my driveway before I know it, with no recollection of how I got there. Yet I have to admit that when I travel the long way down the street, and slow down for the countless speed bumps, making my way to the place where I live, I always remember my journey.

Maybe there is something to be said for the value of speed bumps to those of us who always seem to be in a hurry. Maybe those little annoyances in our path are there to remind us to ease up and pay attention to what’s happening around us.

Yeah, and maybe those speed bumps are a metaphor for other annoyances as well.