Identity: since the waters poured

Here is the second of two talks given at parish lenten retreats in the Diocese of Long Island, 2016. The are intended to form part of an eventual book.

The scriptural text on which this reflection is based follows afterward, for the reader’s convenience.

Transfiguration Icon, Theophan the Greek

[Icon of the Transfiguration, Theophan the Greek]

We have been considering the question of identity, about who you really are.  We have agreed that t\your real identity has something to do with your relationship to Jesus the Christ.  Let’s look deeper into that truth.

Jesus took three of his nearest and dearest with him up onto the mountain while he prayed.  I wonder whether he knew what was going to happen; what we call the Transfiguration.  Jesus prayed all the time according to scripture.  He was forever going aside in the night, in the early morning, any time and place he could, to spend some time with the One whom he calls ‘Abba,’ ‘Dad.’  This time he invites Peter, James, and John to come with him.  Typical of disciples – those three then and us now – they basically went to sleep while Jesus prayed.  But this prayer of his, in that time and place, like all prayer at any time and place, led to something.  And this time the something it led to was quite visible and dramatic.  Imagine if you were one of the three invited there by Jesus.  You wake up because there is the sound of voices in conversation and a bright light as you open your eyes.  And there are Moses and Elijah, the Law and the Prophets – basically the whole message of God to God’s people – and there is Jesus as you have never seem him before, shining brighter than the sun, and recognized by the other two leaders of Israel as the One who sums up in himself both Law and Prophecy, the Word of God in the flesh and now in apparent glory as well.  How overwhelming would that be!  How many times would you blink your eyes to make sure that you were not still asleep?  But no, it is real.  And more real than any other moment of your life. 

Think about it.  Does it not have to be true that as the four friends came down from that mountain a while later that it was not only Jesus who had been transfigured?  Doesn’t it have to be true that his disciples as well have been changed, renewed, transformed?  How could anyone experience a scene like that and not be changed?  Something profound had to have happened in them.  As we have understood that event in later Christian history, it was  a moment of revelation of Jesus as he really was, the Son of the Living God.  The glory that was his always was made manifest in that moment.  But for Peter, James, and John, this was the re-creation of these three as something more than they had been before.  As all of Scripture testifies, from Moses to the Letter to the Hebrews, no one comes into the presence of the Living God and goes on living as before.  No.  Something dies.  Something new is born.  And so it had to be a new Peter, and a new James and John who descended with Jesus from that high place and back to what looked like ordinary life.

But could life ever look ‘ordinary’ again?

Actually maybe it could.  I say that maybe life could seem ordinary even after that extraordinary experience because, in a sense, all of us are doing that every day.  All of us who have been baptized have a habit of going on and living each day as if it is ordinary.  And yet, if we had a living idea of what it means that we are baptized, then we could not possibly live a single instant as if it were ordinary, mundane, nothing special.

And in a real sense, this is where the season of Lent comes in.  Lent comes in here as a visible, tangible, livable annual reminder of what the fact of our baptism means for us, yesterday, today, and always. 

The roots of this season of forty days are found in the first centuries of Christianity, among the men and women who came asking to be made a part forever of the Body of Christ.  After years of preparing to be baptized, to receive the Spirit, to partake in the Eucharist, the final forty days of that time were lived as an intense experience of spiritual retreat before the celebration of the sacraments.  Cyril of Jerusalem, archbishop of that city in the fourth century, has left us a series of the talks he gave to those preparing to be received into the church, whom they called the catechumens.  The first of those talks tradition recalls that Cyril gave off-the-cuff, spontaneously as it were, when he recognized that he was in a public place in the city in a crowd that likely included some people who were thinking of becoming Christians.  According to what those present heard, these words are a part of what Cyril said that day long ago:

“The present is the season of confession: confess what thou hast done in word or in deed, by night or by day; confess ‘in an acceptable time, and in the day of salvation’ receive the heavenly treasure.  Devote thy time to the Exorcisms: be assiduous at the Catechisings, and remember the things that shall be spoken, for they are spoken not for thine ears only, but that by faith thou mayest seal them up in the memory.  Blot out from thy mind all earthly care: for thou art running for thy soul.  Thou art utterly forsaking the things of the world: little are the things which thou art forsaking, great what the Lord is giving.  Forsake things present, and put thy trust in things to come.  Hast thou run so many circles of the years busied in vain about the world, and hast thou not forty days to be free (for prayer), for thine own soul’s sake? ‘Be still and know that I am God,’ saith the Scripture.”

Cyril of Jerusalem, #5, First Catechetical Lecture

Now there may be unfamiliar or uncomfortable words buried in there for us.  Catechisings? Exorcisms?  Fear not!  ‘Catechisings’ are just the times this group of would-be Christians would gather to be instructed together.  ‘Exorcisms’ are the prayers that were offered over them throughout the season, praying for their strength and steadiness and commitment to leave behind a way of life that did not include Christ in favor of a new life centered in and on Christ.

But my favorite words in this 1600-year old talk are these:

“Hast thou run so many circles of the years busied in vain about the world, and hast thou not forty days to be free (for prayer), for thine own soul’s sake?”

This rings so contemporaneous with our present age.  In effect he is saying, “Are you telling me that you have been able to run around like crazy people for years and decades concerned about career and investment and planning and work and all the rest, but you cannot carve out six weeks to attend in God’s sight to your own ultimate good?”  In other words, are you too busy to think beyond the present to the things that last?  That really count? 

Sixteen centuries ago these words were on the mark.  And it seems they still can hit the mark in us.

So Lent at its roots is the time to realize that time counts.  It is the season each year to allow ourselves to be reminded that every day is miraculous, that every moment is astounding, that every prayer is a revelation, that every hymn is the only song ever sung.  It is the season to know that it is we who have only just come down in the company of the Christ from the transfiguration mountain and we have been transformed and we will never be the same.

In Cyril of Jerusalem’s 3rd lecture to the folks who followed him home from the square intrigued by his first talk, the bishop points to the very moment, in our experience, when that transformation happens.  Listen!

“For thou go downest into the water, bearing thy sins, but the invocation of grace, having sealed thy soul, suffereth thee not afterwards to be swallowed by the terrible dragon.  Having gone down dead in sins, thou comest up quickened in righteousness.  For if thou has been ‘united with the likeness of the Savior’s death,’ thou shalt also be deemed worthy of His Resurrection.  For as Jesus took upon Him the sins of the world, and died, that by putting sin to death He might rise again in righteousness, so thou by going down into the water, and being in a manner buried in the waters, as He was in the rock, art raised again ‘walking in newness of life.’”

Cyril of Jerusalem, #12, Third Catechetical Lecture

What is this?  It is baptism.  The moment that the forty days pointed toward, and still point toward, is baptism.  It is there that our transformation takes place and a new life begins that does not know – ever – any ending.  Cyril’s description of baptism, if any of it sounds unfamiliar to our ears, is founded on baptism the way it was always done – and maybe should always be done – by immersion.  You stood in water.  You went down into the water.  You were under the water.  Completely.  The Trinity was invoked over you.  You came up from the water.  You died. And you rose to new life.  You went down into the darkness.  And you rose into the light.

Cyril echoes here the sixth chapter of Saint Paul’s letter to the Church in Rome, when Paul wrote, “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.” (Rom 6:3-4)

In this sacrament we share in Christ’s own dying and rising and are made one with him. In baptism we experience what those three disciples did on the mountain.  We are utterly changed.  Or to put it quite differently but just as truly: we are revealed to ourselves for what we are.  In Christ we too are agents of transformation for the world.  Through Christ we like him are words of God into the world.  Words of challenge and comfort and radical possibility.  We become, as the Christian tradition has said since the beginning, ‘other Christs’, anointed ones of God.  The promise made to the Samaritan woman we met last night at Jacob’s well is kept in us.

In the seventh chapter of John’s good news, we read that:

“On the last day of the festival, the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, ‘Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.”’ (John 7:37-38)

That festival was Sukkoth, the Feast of Booths or Tabernacles.  It recalls the little huts that Israel lived in for 40 years in the wilderness, 40 years when they were learning in painful ways that God always stays with them, that God is always their God, that in every time and place God is always faithful to them as his people.  Every morning of that feast the priests of the Temple processed to the pool of Siloam and came back with waters from that pool.  They circled the holy place of God, singing with joy, and offered that water back to God.

On the ‘last and greatest day of the festival’ they circled the altar with that water not once as on preceding days, but seven times.  It was at that moment, at the crescendo of joy, that Jesus cries out about the water he carries, water that lives within those who believe in him and live in him, water they too share with the world. 

We are those people.  We are those believers.  We are those water-carriers.  We are those disciples.  We are taking on the way of Jesus.

And what is that way? 

It is the way of water.  It flows downhill.  It gives itself away, natively, without thought, and always.  In the second chapter of his letter to the Philippians, in words we have heard here tonight, Saint Paul quotes an early Christian hymn that beautifully expresses this way of water which is the way of Jesus.  And in verse 5, before quoting the hymn, Paul says to us, his readers,

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

The Greek word that we translate as ‘mind’ is φρονεῖτε (phroneite).  It is rendered as attitude, as mind-set, as one’s way of understanding the world and life and our own place in all of it.  It comes originally from a word that points to the diaphragm, to the middle of the human body, to the moving parts around the heart.  Paul is saying, ‘Let your ways of thinking and feeling and breathing and moving and doing and being and living be just like Christ’s.’

That way is revealed in one word that comes just two verses later in Philippians 2, verse 7.  The word is ‘kenosis.’  It means self-emptying.  This verse is sometimes translated in this startling fashion:

“Christ Jesus made himself nothing.” 

And we, knowing him and living his life from the inside, are called to the same: to letting go of our own will in favor of allowing the will of God to be done through us.

This way makes no sense in western culture, in 21st century society.  But it is the way of Christ and the way of the Christian.  It is our way when we are our truest selves.

Have you seen the late 80’s movie, “Babette’s Feast”?  It is the story of a French woman, a famous chef, who ends up for years and years serving as the live-in unpaid cook for two sisters in Scandinavia.  Babette’s one link to her home nation is a yearly lottery ticket.  One year she wins 10,000 francs.  She prevails upon the two sisters to allow her to prepare a proper French feast in memory of their deceased father, a minister and pastor and prophet, on the 100th anniversary of his birth.

The meal is fantastic, so much so that even the preparations for it are too much for the sisters and the people of the village.  They are scandalized.  But the meal in its excellence and flavor and savor wins them over as they sit together at table and enjoy Babette’s feast. 

As she and the two sisters are cleaning up afterward, they ask her how soon she will be leaving them, now that she is rich.  “Leave?” she asks, “I am not rich.”  They inquire about the lottery winning and Babette confesses that she used all she won to buy and prepare and serve the one meal.  Everything.

It came freely and it was given freely. It flowed the way of water.  Downhill and gone, nourishing the lives of others on its way. There is the key.  God gives and we in turn are invited to give as freely and as completely.

Toward the end of the meal a retired general who is present rises and speak words that reveal what it might mean to live as Jesus does, to give as Jesus does, to love as Jesus does. 

These words might provide us an entry way, an open door into this Lent and into the rest of our lives transformed in Christ Jesus.

“‘Mercy and truth have met;

Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another,’ he begins, quoting the 10th verse of Psalm 85. And then the General continues,

“Man in his shortsightedness and foolishness believes he must make choices in this life. He trembles at the risks he takes. We all know . . . fear.

“But no.  Our choice is of no importance.  The moment comes when our eyes are opened, and we see and realize that grace is infinite.  We need only await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude.  Grace makes no conditions.  And see.  That which we have chosen is given to us, and that which we have refused is also granted us. 

“Mercy and truth have met together.  Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.” 

The identity that is ours in Christ Jesus?  The way of life that is ours in him?  Must we strive?  Must we work at it?  Must we worry and fret?  No.  “We must only await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude.”

That is the invitation of this season and of this life.

© John P. McGinty 2016

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Luke 9:28-36

 Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus* took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake,* they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings,* one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah’—not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen;* listen to him!’ When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

Identity: you are more than you ever knew

Here I am sharing the first of two talks given at parishes in the Diocese of Long Island during lenten retreats 2016.  They are intended to form part of an eventual book.  Your comments are welcome.

The scriptural text on which this reflection is based, John 4,  follows afterward for the reader’s convenience in the NRSV translation.

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WomanAtWellIcon

Who are you?

Who are you really?

It’s a question that is basic, foundational, fundamental.  And because it is, we set up standard answers to that question and leave it be.

Who are you?

Wife/husband/mother/father/son/daughter/executive/worker/teacher/attorney/athlete/student/democrat/republican/American/liberal/conservative/Christian/Episcopalian/rich/poor – the nest of labels we put on ourselves is at hand to help us introduce ourselves to others and to maintain an identity in this big and busy world of ours, and in the neighborhood, and even in our own kitchen.  It is our way of saying: This is who I am.

But really, who are you?

Underneath all the ways you describe yourself and after all the ways other people identify you – friend/neighbor/trustworthy/a great cook/warm/cold/generous/strong/emotional/intelligent – after all that has been said and said again, who are you?

Who are we, as we gather here together in this place?

This is a question that Lent puts before us.  A fundamental question whose answer may after all not be found in all the names we use to introduce ourselves to others, or even to help us understand ourselves. 

There is something deeper.  There is an answer to the question of who I am that is prior to all the others and underneath all the others.  We may hardly ever think about it or we may never have heard it at all.  It is true in every season, but these six weeks of Lent provide us a particular invitation to look again.

It’s like this.  I have a trunk that I bought in 1979.  Late that summer I packed it with stuff I thought I needed and shipped it over to Europe where I was going to live as a student.  It arrived after me.  I opened it and unpacked and used the things in it.  Five years later I re-packed it and shipped it back to the USA.  Since then it has been with me in every place I have lived.  And every so often, with less and less frequency as life goes on and the decades pass, I open it again and dig down and pull things out and marvel at what is there and what memories spring forth and what it has to tell me gently and insistently and truly about my foundations, who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

Whether you have a trunk like that, or a dresser drawer, or a file cabinet, or just the many passages and partitions of your human heart – there lives deep within you both the question and the answer: Who am I?

Now the fascinating truth is that the question – who am I? – comes from us.  This is our question.  It becomes real as soon as we are old enough to open the eyes of our mind and heart and wonder, where did I come from, and where am I going, and who am I who has come and is going?  It is our question.

But the answer does not come from us.  The answer comes from elsewhere.  The answer comes from the One who is our source and our ultimate goal. The answer comes from God.  For us as Christians, we find that voice of God first and clearest in the Word made flesh, Jesus the Christ.

And so we have the long Gospel story we have heard [today/tonight] from the 4th chapter of the Gospel according to John.   In one way it is the simplest and most ordinary of stories.  It is the account of two people meeting for the first time and entering into conversation.  It happens all the time.  Right now, somewhere in the world, two human beings are meeting over the produce cart, each one picking up a melon and assessing its readiness for purchase, when it will be ripe and ready to eat; their eyes meet and they begin to talk.  And right now, somewhere in the world, two people seated side-by-side at a bar, one perhaps despondent, the other relaxing after work, are beginning to share something of the state of their lives with one another.  It is happening right now.  And so it happened by Jacob’s well outside the Samaritan city of Sychar one noontime many days ago. 

A Jewish man was sitting there alone.  His friends had headed into town to buy provisions.  And there came a Samaritan woman carrying out a task she did everyday of her life, at least once a day.  She was coming to the well for water, carrying her jug.

So in more than a few ways it is an entirely ordinary moment.  And yet, it is not.

A man and a woman alone together, even in public, was simply not done in that time and place.  A Jew and a Samaritan entering into conversation with one another was simply not done.  Particularly prolonged and significant conversation.  Particularly the kind of once-in-a-lifetime-this-changes-everything conversation that results in a person leaving behind a simple commodity that was used every day of life to provide one of the gifts most needed to just go on living.  The woman ran back into town following this conversation leaving her water pail behind at the well.  A simple thing, but one telling the tale that following this apparently chance meeting the whole world looked different to her eyes.

What happened there by the well?  I think, in a single sentence, it is something like this:  the answer to the question ‘who are you’ shifted on its axis for that unnamed woman. 

How? 

Listen to their conversation again in memory.  Look at what happens there.  They begin in the here and now.  Jesus is thirsty and the woman has a bucket.  But in a moment or two she finds herself asking aloud, in a challenging way, if Jesus thinks he is greater than the ancestor Jacob who dug the well.  Why?  Because Jesus has proclaimed himself as the bringer of a water that lives within the person, assuages every thirst, and springs up to unending life.  This water the woman wants, at first only because she imagines it will save her the trouble of making the trek from the city center to the well each day.  But Jesus presses on with her, asking her to bring her husband.  To this question, a testing and no-doubt painful one in her own personal history, she responds in brief with the truth, the whole truth.  And in return Jesus offers the deeper truth that allows her to recognize in him more than an ordinary man, in fact, a prophet. 

The woman moves on to talk about right worship.  Is she trying to change the subject?  To get away from her personal history?  Or is this for her, as it was for her people, an important question: ‘are we Samaritans right in how and where we worship God, or are you Jews right?’  Jesus affirms the role of the Jews as the carriers of salvation to the world, but then goes on to announce the arrival of a radically new moment.  As this moment is rendered in the Scriptural translation called The Message:

“. . . the time is coming—it has, in fact, come—when what you’re called will not matter and where you go to worship will not matter. It’s who you are and the way you live that count before God. Your worship must engage your spirit in the pursuit of truth. That’s the kind of people the Father is out looking for: those who are simply and honestly themselves before him in their worship. God is sheer being itself—Spirit. Those who worship him must do it out of their very being, their spirits, their true selves, in adoration.”

This revelation, which had to be startling to hear from anyone, moves the woman finally to express her desire and hope in the coming of the Messiah, the Christ. 

Jesus, at this point of arrival in their talk, affirms then:

“I am he. You don’t have to wait any longer or look any further.”

And she runs back to the city, to her family and friends and neighbors with the question of her heart popping out of her lips, “Could this be the Messiah?”

What a distance they traveled together from Jesus’ first request for water, for the drink that – for all we know from the Gospel – he never actually received.  So perhaps his thirst remained.  But her thirst was both increased and promised ready relief.

What happened there?

That woman was blessed to come to know that she already stood in relationship with God, and with God’s Messiah, with the Christ, the Savior.  Her eyes were opened to see that neither her personal history nor the story of her people – both of which were seen by some as preventing her from knowing and being known by God – neither one in any way prevented her from knowing herself as a beloved child of God and living in that love.  In fact, she was revealed to herself as already there, already loved, already belonging to God.

What did she have to do to come to this point? 

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

That day, to the point of midday, she simply carried on as she would have on any other day.  We do not know what her thoughts and concerns were as she approached the well, as she first realized that there was a stranger seated there.  She may have been thinking about her past.  She may have been wondering about some of her life decisions.  She may have been worried about money.  She may have been concerned about her children.  Or she may have not had a care in the world.

In any case, she did nothing to bring about this moment of meeting, of revelation, of relationship.  It came and arrived as sheer gift.  The only thing required of her was to accept it.  The initiative came from God in the person of the Christ.  The invitation came there.  The opportunity came from there.  She only needed the willingness to recognize the initiative, to hear the invitation, to see the opportunity, and to engage in the conversation.  And she did.  And everything changed.

Or rather, nothing changed. 

Perhaps even better, one thing changed.  Her eyes are opened to come to know who she is.  Who she really is.

And so, to return to the beginning: Who are you?  Who are you really?

I would invite you to let go now of all the words and labels that you or others have used to identify you throughout your life thus far.  Let them all go.  No need to assess whether they are accurate or not, and in what measure.  For the moment here, for our purposes, just release them all.

There.

Now be this person.  Be that person approaching Jacob’s well in the noonday of life.  Be the one seeing that someone unfamiliar is there.  Go up to him.  Let him speak what he has to say to you.  And answer honestly. Bring your history.   Bring all you are.  Enter into conversation with him.  See where it leads.  If you enter deeply into this dialogue in prayer; if you use the gift of your imagination and the faith that you have today; this conversation of yours will be as real as that of the Samaritan woman with Jesus.  And as transforming.  And what will be made known, only to you, in its own perfect way, is who you are.  Who you are underneath it all.  Who you are in relationship to God.  Who you are in thirst for real life.  Who you are in hunger for the Savior. 

Pray that meeting now.  Pray it when you arrive home. 

Simply allow this moment of Lent to be what it is meant to be: an empowering reminder of who you are in the sight of God and all that your true identity implies for your life.  For your hope.  For your joy.  For your final destination.

Jesus is at the well now.  Go there.  Give him the water he asks for from you.  And receive the inner spring of life he is offering to you.

©John P. McGinty 2016

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John 4:5-42

So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.

A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, ‘Give me a drink’. (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, ‘How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?’ (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, ‘If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, “Give me a drink”, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?’ Jesus said to her, ‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.’

Jesus said to her, ‘Go, call your husband, and come back.’ The woman answered him, ‘I have no husband.’ Jesus said to her, ‘You are right in saying, “I have no husband”; for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, I see that you are a prophet. Our ancestors worshipped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.’ The woman said to him, ‘I know that Messiah is coming’ (who is called Christ). ‘When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am he,the one who is speaking to you.’

Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, ‘What do you want?’ or, ‘Why are you speaking with her?’ Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, ‘Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?’ They left the city and were on their way to him.

Meanwhile the disciples were urging him, ‘Rabbi, eat something.’ But he said to them, ‘I have food to eat that you do not know about.’ So the disciples said to one another, ‘Surely no one has brought him something to eat?’ Jesus said to them, ‘My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work. Do you not say, “Four months more, then comes the harvest”? But I tell you, look around you, and see how the fields are ripe for harvesting. The reaper is already receiving wages and is gathering fruit for eternal life, so that sower and reaper may rejoice together. For here the saying holds true, “One sows and another reaps.” I sent you to reap that for which you did not labour. Others have laboured, and you have entered into their labour.’

Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, ‘He told me everything I have ever done.’ So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them; and he stayed there for two days. And many more believed because of his word.They said to the woman, ‘It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Saviour of the world.’

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Good Friday

Good Friday 2016 – Seven Last Words

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Really?

At a first glance, and admittedly at a surface level, they certainly do seem to know what they are about.  These are professional executioners.  They know this prisoner has been found guilty of a capital crime.  They know that he has been sentenced to death.  And they know that they are the death squad. 

They know how to stretch the prisoner’s body across the instrument of torture.  They know how to angle his limbs to assure the greatest suffering.  They know how to secure hands and feet to the wood.  They know what it takes to raise the cross, with its living burden, upright.  They know how to keep watch and how long it usually takes for the death throes to move to the silence of death itself.

With the possible exception of the youngest among them, the newest recruit to their team, who may feel a bit squeamish, they know what they are about.  And they set about the work, again.

But he, the condemned one, the Nazarene, breaks the usual script open.  Others used their dying breath to curse the empire and the emperor and the soldiers beneath.  This one breathes words of . . . forgiveness. 

He addresses an unseen Father, but in tones of confidence that there is a Father and that he does hear.  He asks forgiveness for his executioners, for the ones who brought him to arrest and trial, for the one who betrayed him, and for we who stand at a distance two millennia later, but still in the shadow of his cross.  “Forgive them.”  He prays, from that time and place, for a universal gift of forgiveness.

The 20th century Austrian priest and author Karl Rahner wrote that the soldiers who placed Jesus on the cross to die in fact did not know what they were actually doing for this seminal reason: they did not know they were loved, each one, by God, by this Father upon whom Jesus called.  They did not know how much they were loved.  They did not know that God loved them with a love as bright and lasting and transformative, as that moment on Golgotha seemed dark and of passing significance, and unlikely to change anything, except the presence among the living of one Jesus of Nazareth. They did not know that this Father Jesus called upon knew each of their names and their stories, and how they came to be a part of this chain gang of executioners, and what else they might become in days to come. And not knowing that they were so truly loved, they could not be guilty of sin, even there and then as the Son of God died on the cross.  And so, he asked for them what should be theirs: forgiveness.

How completely do we know God’s love for us?

How truly do we know that we are forgiven, that we are caught up in this stream of forgiving love that becomes a river running from the cross to every time and place, to every generation, to every man and woman and child, to this moment on this Good Friday as we come together in prayer?

Fastened to the cross, Jesus is still supremely free.  In the face of hatred, misunderstanding, and fear, Jesus accepts the violence brought against him into himself, into his own body.  He freely allows that violence to kill him, and in return he gives not more violence, not deeper misunderstanding, not paralyzing fear nor confirmed hatred.  In return rather, from the cross Jesus pours out peace, compassion, comfort, forgiveness – all of these founded on limitless love, the revelation of the very heart of God.

Where retaliation might be expected, instead he pours out amnesty, grace, vindication.

We receive this forgiving grace, we who are blessed to know that we are loved, as Jesus taught us in the prayer that is his and ours.  Deep in the Lord’s Prayer we say, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” 

The grace of forgiveness flowing from the cross of Christ calls us to become channels of that same forgiving love.  On our willingness to forgive, rests the gift of our own forgiveness. 

And so.  If we are ridiculed, we are called to forgive.  If we are attacked, verbally or emotionally or spiritually, we are called to forgive.  If we are betrayed, by friend or spouse or son or daughter, we are called to forgive.  If we are shut out, left alone, ignored, we are called to forgive.

. . .

In this world, today, at this moment, there is much suffering.  There are many crosses, some borne with courage and love, some cursed and rejected. 

We are the people of this cross, the cross of Christ, the cross from which flows the unexpected and real gift of forgiveness.  We accept that gift, for we all deeply require it.  And in turn, as Christians we say of others, of all others, echoing our gentle Lord:

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

~ Preached at Trinity-St. John’s Church | Hewlett NYimg_8484

Holy Week, Death, Christ and Us

  
So it is that this Holy Week, like the first, is marked by terror and death.
I feel my prayer tending in a challenging direction. The One whom we acclaim this week, and claim as Lord, faced terror and death (and conquered them), not by harsh words, bravado, threats, or weapons. He conquered by entering directly into the terror, into death, and taking their worst into himself, into his own body.
He swallowed the hatred and it killed him. As it did, he responded with the undying gifts of love and forgiveness. 
If Jesus is not to be reduced this week to a pious legend, I must reckon with the possibility that I am called to respond and live and die as he did. In his passion, is God’s definitive response to hatred and violence revealed once and for all? If so, what does that mean for us who call ourselves Christians?
I, for one, am not willing to allow Christ to be reduced to no more than legend. Especially during this week, above all others. 
His story is written again in my life and yours, if we allow it to be so.

(Image: 15th century Spanish crucifix)

Word & word: the Sunday of the Passion | Palm Sunday

From the Liturgy of the Palms
Luke 19:28-40

After telling a parable to the crowd at Jericho, Jesus went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.'” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”

We sometimes call this Jesus’ triumphal entry into the Jerusalem, into the Holy City. And it can look and feel like that: crowds, shouts of hosanna, adulation and expectation all around.
But as we enter into Holy Week, as we later in this same Eucharistic celebration hear the telling of his final sacrifice in the Passion, I think of this moment of entry instead as the revelation of Jesus’ willingness to give all. The entire Gospel moves in this direction, but at this moment, on the colt, entering the city that is at once his and not his, that willingness to give all begins its last and definitive movements.
With every step his steed takes, with every shout of the crowd, with every palm branch waved, Jesus is inwardly and outwardly saying yes to his gift of Body and Blood at the Last Supper, yes to his agonizing prayer in Gethsemane, yes to the sweat dropping there like blood, yes to the betrayal by Judas, to the denials by Peter, to the trial, to the condemnation, to the long walk to the hill, to the crucifixion, to the pain, to the loneliness, to the suffering, to the death. Because of the strength of divine love expressed in humanity, he is able to say, “Yes.”
During Holy Week we witness all this as it is retold and made present in ritual and prayer. We can be tempted to think of all this as belonging to the fate of Jesus, and him alone. It is his story, but is it not also mine and yours?
As he took this long lonely walk to the hill for me, his saving action raises a question to my heart. There is mutuality in relationship, and we live in relation to the Christ. If I call him my Savior what am I willing, in return for his sacrifice, to do for him?
Am I willing in my own life to live not for self alone, but for others?
Am I willing to go where I would not rather go. where there is misunderstanding and opposition, loneliness and pain?
Am I willing to give my own body and blood for the sake of others, for the sake of community, for the sake of a transformed world?
Am I willing to die so that someone else might live?
Am I able to believe that beyond all loneliness, all suffering, all death, there is good, there is life?
Am I able to love with that strength?
This week calls me to wrestle with these questions as Jesus’ wrestles with and accepts the will of the Father. If I can, if you can, if we can recommit ourselves to lives in Christ that look and feel and sound and act like “yes” to all these questions (which in the end are only one question), what might that mean for our place and time, for this world, for the life of human society, for the tenor of our culture, for the possibilities lying ahead?
If we commit to live life as one Holy Week, everything in us and around will bloom – whatever pain might come. This is to live life at a depth level that may frighten us, but will without doubt reveal to us our own deepest call and dignity.

A Prayer for Holy Week

Lord Jesus Christ, in this sacred and solemn week when we see again the depth and mystery of your redeeming love, help us to follow where you go, to stop where you stumble, to listen when you cry, to hurt as you suffer, to bow our heads in sorrow as you die, so that, when you are raised to life again, we may share in your endless joy. Amen.

(“Celebrating God’s Presence” UCPH 2000)

Image from the Passion Play at OberammergauJesus_enters_Jerusalem_02

A Passing Moment

This afternoon I had a few unique moments. They coincided in a sense from what I later listened to in ‘On Being’ about mysticism, specifically Jewish mysticism in the Kabbalah..
I had a sudden and unexpected feeling as I stopped at a rest area on my way to Job’s Pond this evening. It is difficult to express in words, a difficulty that was affirmed in the On Being interview about the everyday garden variety mystical experience. But I will try.
Unbidden, as I crossed the parking lot toward the rest stop stores, I had a sense of realizing that I am out of touch with deep parts of my memory and my identity, especially at the intersection between those two. It was a sense – without concrete content – of having forgotten at a depth level who I am, how I feel about living, what kind of feelings are most characteristic of me.
Perhaps it is that all these aspects of who I am have changed ‘that much’ over the years since childhood and adolescence. I do not know, but I do know that this passing feeling left me as quickly as it arrived, but with a pronounced sense – again without content – of nostalgia, for something that has been, but cannot now easily be either named or described, never mind recaptured.
Or can it?
JOBS GATE 1, PORTLAND, CT, UNITED STATES • 64° CLOUDY

 

Posted by John Patrick McGinty on Thursday, March 10, 2016