Waiting for Figs

This Week's Lectionary Passage: Luke 13: 1-9
At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.²He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?³No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.⁴Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?⁵No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
⁶Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none.⁷So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’⁸He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it.⁹If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”

We spend a lot of time trying to make this faith thing make sense, don’t we?  We try to offer reasons for what happens in our life, the good and the bad.  After all, we surmise, everything has a cause and every cause has an effect.  And so we live under the illusion that somehow we have control over things, that somehow everything in some way has got to make sense.  But truth be known, we really don’t have the answers.  In fact, our lives are really pretty precarious when you think about it and sometimes the answer is just that we have to wait and wonder and be willing to just let God be God.  And repent... 

And then we read this parable of the fruitless fig tree.  The owner waited and waited and no fruit appeared.  So, he got tired of it and told the gardener to cut it down.  After all, nothing was happening.  It was just wasting soil.  But the gardener stopped him, offering to nurture it just a little bit more than it had been, putting fertilizer around it, and waiting just a little bit longer. 

Now, granted, this is not one of our warm and fuzzy passages.  Jesus is not healing or welcoming or feeding a crowd.  In fact, this is downright hard, probably because we find way too much of ourselves in it.  We, too, want so badly to find answers to things that happen in our lives that we often lapse into that same notion of God rewarding and punishing based on what we do that these first century followers did.  After all, what other answer could there be?  And then, the fear factor...if we don't bear fruit, we get cut down?  If we don't repent, we'll die?

Well, do you remember the Book of Job, the quintessential story of all in life that makes no sense at all, that has no answer,  that comes to us from the margins of faith, those places where we’d rather not go?  You remember it…Job, righteous and reverent, loses everything he has.  And most of the book is about his so-called friends and even Job trying to figure out why.  After all, God doesn’t just pull life out from under someone for no reason.  Job must have done something.  He must have not been who he was supposed to be.  The truth is, Job and his friends, like us, I’m afraid, inherited a somewhat myopic world of retribution and distributive justice.  It is hard to imagine a God who loves us just to love us and who, when bad things do happen, when life begins to feel like a whirlwind, appears into the depths of our being to help us stand, to help us walk, and to wait…just a little bit longer.

That’s where that turning, that repentance comes in.  You see, our problem is that we see repentance as a negative thing.  We envision repentance as a change toward being “right” or “moral” or something else that will win us favor with God or rack us up enough points to get us into heaven.  That’s why we sometimes have this Job-like image of God as some controlling entity that pulls some sort of Divine strings based on what we do.  But what kind of God is that?  Repentance is not about losing who you are; it’s not about becoming a puppet of some sort of string-pulling God; it means discovering the wonder of who you are meant to be.

The Greek word that is usually translated as “repentance” is metanoia.  In Classical Greek, it meant to change one’s mind, one’s heart, one’s soul, one’s life.  Penance was not a part of it until later.  We did that to it!  It simply meant to follow a different road.  But, as Jesus said, unless you repent…unless you change course…unless you let go of the life that you’ve created and the image of this string-pulling God that you’ve somehow concocted, and listen to the road that beckons before you, you will remain comfortable and secure and right where you are.  And you will, surrounded by comfort and answers, die!  But, oh, what you will miss!  Frederick Buechner says, “To repent is to come to your senses.  It is not so much something you do as something that happens.  True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying, ‘I’m sorry,” than to the future and saying, “Wow!” ( Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking (San Francisco:  HarperCollins, 1973), 79.) 

So, what does this have to do with waiting on figs?  It sounds a little bit like a threat.  OK, one more chance you lazy fig tree.  Because if you don’t, you will die and that will be it.  You have one more chance to get it right, to repent, to turn, or, that’s it.  Well, you know as well as I that there are well-meaning people in pulpits all over the world saying exactly that.  You have one more shot!  And that it!  Oh, that’s not it at all!  Read it again.  There’s always another chance.  There’s always someone that will come along to nurture and wait patiently for us to turn, for us to change, for us to see what we’re missing.  You see, there ARE consequences for those who do not repent.  But it has nothing to do with punishment.  It has to do with missing who we’re called to be, missing out on the life that is offered us, missing out on being able to see what God is showing us.  And that, my friends, IS a form of dying.

You know, it’s an interesting thing about figs--the common fig bears a first crop, called the breba crop, in the spring on last season's growth. The second crop is borne in the fall on the new growth and is known as the main crop.  But the fruits cannot happen without the first crop and, likewise, without the last season.  Essentially, the fruit sprouts from a seemingly fruitless crop.  Maybe the gardener saw that.  I think God certainly does.  See God sees things that we miss, things that our eyes, unadjusted as they are to the light, have not seen yet.  God is good at leading us through our darkness and nurturing us over and over again.  The truth is, God is pretty incredible at patiently waiting for figs.

And yet, with all the omnipotence that we imagine God to have, God cannot pull strings.  Because there is one thing that the Almighty cannot do because God in God’s infinite Wisdom placed the power to choose in our hands.  And so God cannot coerce us to love or to serve or to respond.  God cannot force us to see what God is showing us.  And so God waits for figs to bloom and the world to change.  And God holds us and guides us and picks us up off the bottom of our existence time and time again.  There’s always another season.

We read this passage in our Lenten season because it is our season to wake up, to open our eyes, to turn, to love, and to learn that sometimes the world that we see does not make sense.  But it’s not all up to us.  God is waiting patiently for our response.  God knows it’s hard.  After all, it just doesn’t make sense.  We wish it made sense.  G.K. Chesterton said “to let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair.”  You see, God just desires that we love.  And for that God waits.  God knows that there’s always a little bit more time to wait for figs. 

So in this Lenten season, turn toward God and wait for figs.

Grace and Peace,

Shelli

Mirror, Mirror

Lectionary Passage: 2 Samuel 11: 26-12: 13a
To read this passage online, go to http://bible.oremus.org/?passage=2+Samuel+11:26+-+12:15&vnum=yes&version=nrsv

Do you remember the story of Snow White?  The fantasy begins with a magic mirror.  And every morning, the hopelessly vain evil queen rises, dresses, coifs her hair, applies her make-up, and then admires herself in the mirror.  But as we know, it’s not an ordinary mirror.  This mirror can carry on a conversation.  Better than that, this mirror tells her exactly what she wants to hear.  Every morning the evil queen looks into the mirror and says, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”  And the dutiful mirror, perfectly rehearsed, answers, “You, my queen, you are the fairest of them all.”

But even brainwashed mirrors can go rogue now and then and one morning when the queen looked into the mirror with the familiar question, “Mirror , mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”, the mirror replied, “Snow White, my queen, Snow White is the fairest of them all.”  You know, the truth hurts, doesn’t it?  Sometimes we would rather just live our lives with a magic mirror affirming that everything we do is the right thing, one that would somehow allow us to hide in a fairy tale.  But life is not a fairy tale.

Our Old Testament passage is the continuing story from last week.  Remember that David, home alone while his armies were out fighting battles, had spied the fair Bathsheeba and, in what can only be described as a colossal failure of leadership and an implausible abuse of  power and authority, had sent for her, slept with her, impregnated her, and then in an attempt to cover up the deed, lied, schemed, and finally murdered her husband Uriah the Hittite.  So, Uriah is now dead and Bathsheeba mourns.  With Uriah dead, David then is free to take Bathsheeba as his wife, bringing legitimacy to their son.   Well, as you know, there are a variety of ways that this story is told.  Some will shift the blame to Bathsheeba, depicting her as some sort of harlot or something that wooed David into the affair.  But that, of course, ignores the fact that it was David that had all the power here.  Others will somehow characterize it as God’s work, as if God would call David to cheat, lie, scheme, and murder to further the building of the Kingdom of God.  Sorry, I don’t really think that’s quite what God had in mind.

So today we have the story of Nathan.  I love Nathan.  He confronts the problem head-on.  And he does it in quite a remarkable way.  He tells a parable.  (Where have we heard that style of teaching before?)  He tells the story of a rich man who possessed many flocks and herds—so many, in fact, that he didn’t even really know them all--and a poor man who possessed one lowly little lamb who the poor man actually had grown to love.   Yet when a traveler appeared, the rich man, replete with livestock, actually took the one lamb from the poor man to feed his guest.  Well, David was incensed.  After all, what a horrible man!  Someone should do something!  That is not justice!  That man should be punished!  That man doesn’t deserve to live!

You know, John Westerhoff once said that “if a parable doesn’t make you a bit uncomfortable, [doesn’t make you squirm a little in your seat], you probably have not gotten it.”  So, obviously, David didn’t get it.  Obviously, it was much easier to hand out judgment for someone else’s acts than to recognize his own failures and shortcomings.  So Nathan, courageously speaking the truth in love, essentially, holds up the mirror.  “David,” he said, “You are the man!”

He then explains in detail what David has done, all the time holding a mirror, forcing David to look at himself, to look at his own actions, to realize that his actions have consequences, that they cannot be hidden from God.  And, maybe even more painful, they cannot be hidden from himself.  David has to face what he has done, look at the consequences, look at the pain and the suffering that he has caused.  And David finally admits his wrong.  He confesses.  It’s a hard thing.  It’s a hard thing to admit when you’ve done something wrong.  It’s a hard thing to be forced to take a good hard look in that mirror and see the reflection not of that image of God in which you were created but rather someone that you’d rather not be around.

Yeah, sin is a hard thing to talk about.  It’s a hard thing to look at, particularly, when that mirror is showing us someone that we don’t really want to be.  Where did we go wrong?  And what will everyone else think?   And, after all, we’re good Methodists.  We don’t need to talk about sin.  We have grace.  Really?  I think Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor has possibly written the most incredible book on sin that I have ever read.  I highly recommend it.  In her book entitled “Speaking of Sin:  The Lost Language of Salvation,” she depicts sin as our only hope.  Well that’s a new spin on it!  After all, aren’t we trying to avoid it?  She says that “sin is our only hope, because the recognition that something is wrong is the first step toward setting it right again.” (pg. 59)  In other words, no longer can we just sweep something under the rug hoping that it will go away, hoping that our good Methodist upbringing will shower us with grace and keep our sins closeted away where they need to be.  It’s a phenomenal way to think about it, to realize that in some way, holding the mirror up for ourselves or, if we can’t do that, hoping that someone in our life will be grace-filled enough to do it for us, can actually bring us closer to God, actually put us on the road to beginning again.

We often talk about sin as that which separates us from God.  Traditional Christianity loves to take it all the way back to Adam and Eve, as if the first couple’s transgression somehow changed the path for us all.  Do you think that’s a way of trying to cover it up?  (OK, I must admit, I'm not really an "Original Sin" type of person!)  Do you think that’s our way of trying to shift the blame from us a bit, a way to somehow transfer over to someone else’s mirror?  Well, I think we may need some sort of holy spurt of Windex or something.  Because tucking it away or covering it up or shifting blame does us no good at all.  It’s still there, still separating us, still standing in the way of the grace-filled relationship that God offers each of us. 

Truth is, the opposite of sin is not innocence.  I don’t even think it’s righteousness.  The opposite of sin is choosing God, choosing to look ourselves in the mirror and finally see that image of God in each of us. We don’t live in a fairy tale.  God did not create a bunch of robotic, perfect creatures and claim them as children.  God created us—sometimes cheating, sometimes lying, sometimes sinful, always wanting to do better, always wanting to find our way, always searching and wondering what it is God desires for us.  I don’t think God wants or expects us to remain innocent.  If God had wanted that, we wouldn’t be here at all.  We would have no reason to be.  Faith would be non-existent.  Innocence has no reason to choose God.  Innocence does not need faith.  Maybe we need a Nathan in our life unless we can somehow learn to look into the mirrors that God provides for us along the way, to truly see ourselves, where we fall short, where we choose darkness over light, where we choose or just acquiesce to those systemic sins that we see (hunger and homelessness over shared resources,  prejudice over acceptance, classism over equality, nationalism over patriotism ) and, most of all, to see that image of God that is always part of us somehow slip through and reveals itself in the most miraculous ways.

We are not innocent; we are forgiven.  But that’s not an eraser on the giant chalkboard of life.  God’s forgiveness comes when we don’t deserve it, when we haven’t earned it.  It comes in the darkness; it comes at our lowest point; it comes when sin is our only hope.  It is grace.  “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?”  It is that you that is staring back—doubtful and assured, sinful and forgiven, speaking the truth in love with a tiny piece of God in you—only an image, a faint glimmer that holds your whole life in its hands.  That’s all that God needs to create beauty, to create wonder, to create life.  You see, God has done this before—many, many times.  It is the very mirror that shows us the image of God, that shows us who we are really called to be.

Grace and Peace,

 

Shelli
 

    

LENT 2A: Turning Right

LECTIONARY PASSAGE:  Romans 4: 1-5, 13-17
What then are we to say was gained by Abraham, our ancestor according to the flesh? For if Abraham was justified by works, he has something to boast about, but not before God. For what does the scripture say? “Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.” Now to one who works, wages are not reckoned as a gift but as something due. But to one who without works trusts him who justifies the ungodly, such faith is reckoned as righteousness.

For the promise that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void. For the law brings wrath; but where there is no law, neither is there violation. For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (for he is the father of all of us, as it is written, “I have made you the father of many nations”) —in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist.

Driving in Houston is almost always a challenge, even for those savvy ones of us who grew up in the area and do it all the time.  There is something that you do not expect--a closed freeway (I actually think they do that every week-end whether they need to or not), a new pothole, or simply a major freeway or intersection that is completely stopped for no apparent reason.  In a city in which you can literally drive for two hours on a "good" traffic day and never actually leave the city, there is lots of room for things that get in your way.  One day not too long ago, I was driving on a road that I drive often.  I got to an intersection under the Southwest Freeway with which I was pretty familiar.  There is a sign there with an arrow on it that implies a right turn only onto the feeder from that lane.  But apparently one of the bolts had come out of the top of the sign and the sign had slid farther down the pole and upside down.  If I took the sign literally, it would have told me to turn the car around, go back from where I came, and turn the opposite direction.  No, that's not right!
 
Even with signs all around us, we know the rules.  We know what it normal.  We know the way.  And in that respect, we are no different from those in the Roman Empire to which Paul was writing this passage that is part of our lectionary readings for this week.  They all knew that if they followed the rules and did what was expected, everything would be fine.  They would get what they deserved.  They would end up where they needed to be.  They would receive their reward.  But now Paul was telling them that these things that they thought would make them "right" with God didn't really matter at all.  That was not the way it worked.  It had to be hard for them to hear.  According to Paul (and possibly a surprise to many of these first century hearers and a few of us!), God is not waiting around for us to do the "right thing" so that we can be in "right relationship" with God.  God blesses all of us, all of humanity, as children of God.
 
Paul claims that the right relationship is not something that Abraham had earned because he had done the right thing.  It was freely offered by God.  Abraham's belief did not create the "right relationship"; it was because of it.  Paul is almost contending that our belief is a fruit, rather than a reason, for our right relationship with God.  The right relationship is a free and undeserved gift.  (Hey, that sounds like grace to me!)  The relationship is already there.  We just have to live into it.  We don't have to create it; we just have to turn toward it.  That's what this season of Lent is about--not cleaning up your act, but turning toward God.
 
So, TURN RIGHT!
 
Grace and Peace,
 
Shelli

Ashed

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercies, blot out my transgressions.  Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin...Create in me a clean heart, O God and put a new and right spirit within me. (Psalm 51: 1-2, 10)

Ashes

I sit here this evening with some semblance of an ashen cross partially hidden under my bangs.  It's actually the second time I've been ashed today.  I washed the other one off so that I would appear clean and "unashed" for the second service of the day.  The truth is, this annual ashing, so to speak, is nothing less than odd.  We get all dressed up (well some of us) and we make our way to what is a sort of dark and sullen sanctuary to say out loud that we have once again not been the people that we really ought to be.  I supposed you could call it our annual cleansing, a spring cleaning, as we ask God to create in us a clean heart.

But ashes?  It is rather odd, when you think about it--remnants of a life gone, reminders of death and destruction, of finality.  And yet, ashes are also a symbol of a great leveler.  Destruction is like that.  A fire burns and knows no bounds.  In its path is both beauty and ugliness, both wealth and poverty, success and failure, right and wrong, righteousness and evil.  The fire burns, consuming whatever is there, and leaves nothing but ashes.  So, being ashed this night is a reminder not merely of what I have done wrong, not only of those places where I have wandered off the pathway, but rather that, when it is all said and done, we are really all the same.  We are dust, blown helplessly through the winds of the earth until, until God breathes into us the breath of life and we are born alive and renewed.  And the oddest thing of all is that God does that over and over and over again, never seeming to tire of sweeping through our lives and giving us a clean heart.
It is a good thing, this clean heart, because that is what it takes to make the trip to Jerusalem.

So, this night, I am ashed, but, if only for a moment, I am clean enough to begin the journey.  From these ashes, comes life.  Again and again and again.

Our journey to the Cross has begun.  Go in peace.  Go with a clean heart.

Grace and Peace,

Shelli

Unless You Repent...

This Week's Lectionary Gospel Passage:  Luke 13: 1-9
At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.” Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’” (NRSV)

Hmmm!  Maybe we should try the Psalm.  They're usually a little more friendly, not quite as prickly to the touch, right?  The truth is, we do not like to be threatened and this sounds very threatening.  We'd rather listen to the soothing melodies of assurance and unconditional love and grace.  Repentance is just too stressful, just too harsh and unyielding.  But, unless you repent...
 
I think the problem is that we look at repentance as something negative.  We envision repentance as some sort of self-denial.  We think that we can no longer be who we are but instead we must become some sort of stamped-out "stepford" Christian in order to "measure up" to Jesus Christ.  To quote the old, much-overused, and oft-abused slogan "What Would Jesus Do?" (WWJD), we use Christ as some sort of divine measuring stick of what is good and what is evil, what is right and what is immoral, and, more importantly, what is it that would win us favor and life with God?  So, what would Jesus do?  Well, I'm convinced that he'd throw that rot out with that batch of bad figs!  Because repentance is not negative.  It does not mean losing who you are.  It means discovering the wonder of who you are meant to be.
 
The Greek word that is usually translated as "repentance" is metanoia.    In Classical Greek, it meant to change one's mind, one's heart, one's soul, one's life.  Penance was not a part of it.  It simply meant to follow a different road.  I think that IS what Jesus would do.  Why is that so difficult for us?  Is the road that we're on so grand?  For most of us, probably not.  It is just comfortably familiar.  But don't we deserve more than comfortable?  We are told of a new life, a new creation, an existence of perfect harmony and shalom.  I don't think that's necessarily limited to our next life, or heaven, or the other side of the rainbow, or however you envision it.  I think it's down that road.  But...unless you repent...unless you change course, let go of the life that you've created, and listen to the road that beckons before you, you will remain comfortable and secure and right where you are. And then you will die! But, oh, what you will miss!
 
The road ahead looks dark now and even a little bleak.  The skies are blackening and there's this awful hammering of metal against wood up ahead.  There is shouting and chaos.  It IS tempting to pull the covers over our head and just stay in for the day.  But just beyond that hill, just ahead, through those rocks and trees, there is a tiny flicker of light.  Let us go and see this thing that has happened.  Frederick Buechner says, "To repent is to come to your senses. It is not so much something you do as something that happens. True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying, “I’m sorry,” than to the future and saying, “Wow!” (Buechner, Wishful Thinking, 79)  But, unless you repent...
 
So, repent and believe the Gospel!
 
Shelli

Picture: Israel (February, 2010)

Ash Wednesday

Lent, which, literally, means “springtime” is a time of nurturing and preparation. And, like springtime, it is also a time of growth and renewal, a re-greening and bringing back to life of our winter-worn souls. Our forty days of Lent are reminiscent of the forty trying days that Jesus spent in the dry and secluded wilderness as he readied himself for his ministry. In the same way, this is a preparation time for us as we begin that walk toward the cross and into a deeper walk with God.

Joan Chittister says that “Lent is not an event. It is not something that happens to us. It is at most a microcosm of what turns out to be a lifelong journey to the center of the self. The purpose of Lent is to confront us with ourselves in a way that’s conscious and purposeful, that enables us to deal with the rest of life well.” She calls it a “growing season”, rather than a “penitential season”. We are not called to wallow in guilt during this time; we are not necessarily called to deprive ourselves of things we need; we are called to begin to look at things differently.

So on this Ash Wednesday, as we begin this journey, we are called to repentance, to a turning around, to change. People often look upon this day with fear and trembling. It is not meant to be that way. But it is a day that forces us to look at ourselves and our own lives and, perhaps for some of us, that can be a little uncomfortable. Think of it, though, as a threshold that begins a journey into new life, a window to a new way of seeing, and a doorway to a new way of being. It is a time for clearing, a time for preparing the ground for planting; it is a time for breathing out, letting out all the things that stand in the way of your relationship with God, thereby making way to breathe in what God offers. It is the day when we say “here I am, God, just as I am. But I am ready. I am ready to change! I am ready to be renewed and made whole.” And it is the day when we finally admit that we cannot do it alone and that somewhere in the fallow of our lives, God comes in and we are made whole.

So Ash Wednesday is not just a day of morose belittling of ourselves. A rabbi once told his disciples, “Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on their needs. When feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: “Ani eifer v’afar; I am dust and ashes. But when feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or without hope, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: “Bishvili nivra ha’olam…For my sake the world was created.”
Lent is not about giving things up; it is about emptying your life that you may be filled. Lent is not about going without; it is about making room for what God has to offer. And this beginning of Lent is not about clothing yourself in the morbidness of your humanity; it is about embracing who you are before God.

So go toward the Cross and embrace the you that God is breathing in!

Grace and Peace,

Shelli