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He stumbled out of bed, cautiously transferring weight onto stiff joints. He made his way in the dark to the bathroom, flipped on the dim light. He reached for his electric razor and it fell apart in his hands. The head came off the main component. Whiskers from previous days spilled all over the bathroom counter. It looked like static, the white counter with thousands of black dots speckling the surface. This was a foretaste of the day to come. Everything was apart, in pieces, fractured. Everything seemed apart – divorced and divided, severed and separated. His socks were all mismatched, no two were alike. He flipped on the TV to the agitating sound of cable news anchors. Relentless battles in Washington, more division in city hall. He opened the newspaper to find a front page article on his church body bickering – a division about whether a pastor should speak in mixed company. Everything was apart. He walked into an office of cubicles where everyone was apart, walled off in a maze of sound absorbent panels. Physically and philosophically, his co-workers were apart. There was harsh disagreement over how a project should be run. At lunchtime his sister called him. “You should call your brother,” she said. “He needs to hear from you. You’re older.” He hadn’t talked to his brother in six months. It was easier to ignore the words they spoke in the driveway last summer. Everything was apart. He picked up his daughter from school. He noticed a huddle of black students on the steps leading up to the front door. At the base of the steps was a picnic table occupied by a cluster of white students. A few Asian students walked together down the sidewalk. Everyone was apart. His daughter opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. After a “hello,” there were two minutes of silence broken by the most pointed question he ever heard. “Why are you and mom living apart?” The question reasserted the pain in his marriage. More painful was that his daughter asked the question. His little girl, torn apart by their inability to reconcile. Everything was apart – divorced and divided, severed and separated. It was Thursday, Maundy Thursday. He usually went to church on Easter, but he knew there was a Thursday service that celebrated the Last Supper of the Lord. He felt a strange compulsion to go. “Could there be something?” he thought. So he went. Sat alone in the back, in a darkened corner. It dawned on him that he was very different than most of these people. Maybe they were all different. There was no reason for all these people to be gathered in one place. No good reason except . . . except for One. He listened to the words of a hymn, “One bread, one body, one Lord of all. One cup of blessing which we bless. And we though many, through all the earth, we are one body in this one Lord.” Everything was apart, except this one thing. He held out his hands and took one piece of bread. One sip of wine. With everything that was apart, there was this one man holding everything together. One sacrificial act that pulled together everything that was broken apart. He felt a single tear make its way down his whiskered cheek. He would need to get a new razor. He walked out of worship that Thursday evening, and he called his wife. You should really think twice before praying the Lord's Prayer. In it, we are taught to pray, "Thy will be done." Please don't pray this prayer flippantly. Consider the words that you are speaking to God. They are dangerous. Why? Because God just might answer your prayer. When you pray, “Thy will be done”, he just might respond. And his response may not be what we would have chosen. His answer may cause discomfort, pain, and disappointment.
"Thy will be done." Jesus prayed this prayer and it got him killed. He was in his quiet corner in a garden, in the dark. His friends had fallen asleep and he was all alone. This prayer was so serious that it made him sweat blood. “If it is your will, take this cup from me. But not my will, but your will be done.” And God answered his prayer. Jesus was arrested, betrayed, bound, and beaten. They had their way with him and God's will was done. Praying the Lord’s Prayer is dangerous. God's will is typically unconventional. His ways are strange and unexpected to us. In the cross, God's will is done. In this execution, God's will prevailed - in blood and a sacrificial death. We should find this rather backwards, and it is. That's why it's God's will and not ours. As we walk through Holy Week, we are led to this dangerous prayer, "thy will be done," and the God who answers it in the most unexpected way. There are some things I like about the selection of the new pope, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, now Pope Francis. I like that he is not Western, but from the Southern Hemisphere. I like that he has a Jesuit mind and a Franciscan spirit, a heritage that blends intellect and humility. (It is said that he declined the limo and took public transportation in Buenos Aires.) Thus far, he seems to engender positive sentiment from those inside the Catholic church and those outside.
There are also things I don't like, primarily that Jesus Christ has been obscured in all the papal hubbub. This fact has more to do with the papacy in general than with Pope Francis. I have Catholic friends and readers of this blog, so I say this respectfully. Coverage of the conclave and papal selection centered on the challenges facing the church - politics, priest abuse scandals, Vatican infighting, and the church's relevancy in the 21st century. I suppose Peter himself could return and fill the papal office, and the world would obscure his message. Some Greeks asked the disciple Philip, "Sir, we wish to see Jesus" (John 12:21). So do I. There was much talk of men, and no talk of the Son of Man. In his first papal address Francis began, "First of all, I would like to say a prayer for our bishop emeritus, Benedict XVI." He went on with no mention of Jesus Christ. He gave "shout outs" to "the Church," "Rome," and "Madonna," but no Jesus. Am I being too critical, that in Lent, I wish to see Jesus? The following is from a sermon preached on Luke 22:24-27 on March 10th, 2013.
In Lent we are focusing on the word “turn.” It gives us a very concrete sense of what repentance is. Based on member feedback, we’re examining common things we face which we must turn from. We are asking the question, “What one thing is God calling me to turn from?” Today, we turn from comparison. The Treadwall is a treadmill for rock climbing. For $7,000, you can buy one for your home and rock climb any time. All you need is a 10 foot ceiling. You grab hold of the wall, start climbing, and the panel in front of you will start rolling like a vertical treadmill, creating a never-ending rock face. There are no harnesses or safety gear required. And that’s not all. (Do I sound like a salesman?) Order the pro model and you can tilt the device to create a more challenging angle. Comparison with others is like the Treadwall. It’s all about raising your status. We try to get ahead and above others by comparing ourselves with them. Each thing we do is another step up, another ledge reached, another foothold. And each failure of others is a step backwards for them, and upwards for me. I believe selfish comparison is a deeply-rooted sin that we all struggle with. We compare grades. We compare salaries and jobs. We compare degrees and universities. We compare life-stage advancement – do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend, a fiancé, are you married? We compare the attention we get from the opposite sex – did he look at me instead of her? We compare our bodies. We compare clothes. We compare our families, our children. We compare our morality and behavior. We never say it, but we think to ourselves, “I’m better than her or him.” Or, “I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not like so and so.” We feel good when we’re above others, and we feel deflated when others are above us. And comparison is like the Treadwall, you’re always trying to move up. The problem is, like the Treadwall, comparison is never-ending. First century dinner etiquette was comparison for status. There was importance in who you sat with, and where you sat – these were indicators of status, honor, and power. Jesus had just concluded the solemn, intimate Last Supper with his disciples when they start scrapping like 3rd graders at recess. “Who is the greatest?” was the question. Jesus inserts himself in the conversation, “The kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them, and those in authority over them are called benefactors” (Luke 22:25). In the first century, benefactors were wealthy individuals who would use their resources to fill gaps in local government. Being a benefactor was a way to help the local community. It was also a way to gain status. If your wealth helped with public funding, then the public owed you, honored you, and admired you. “I paid for the local school to be built. It has my name on it, and don’t you forget that.” Jesus said they “lord it over others.” This played out at the dinner table in that table etiquette recognized status by seating arrangement. Where you sat differentiated your status. But Jesus upends the social norms by challenging the thought that greatness is achieved by high status. He says in verse 26, “But not so with you. Rather, let the greatest among you become as the youngest, and the leader as one who serves.” The “youngest” or the “servant” are examples of low status. Children and slaves had few rights and no status. Being a benefactor is not inherently bad. Being wealthy, successful, or good at what you do is not evil. The problem is when you leverage it for status. But Jesus radically upended the social norm by using status for service. Leverage all that you have, not to compare with others, but to serve others. As opposed to society’s typical status-honor system, Jesus claimed that the greatest should become the least. The wealthiest should be serving the poorest. The strongest should be using their strength for the weakest. The one at the top of the wall should descend and help those at the bottom. Why do we compare? We tend to compare with those who are closest to us – classmates, co-workers, friends, and siblings. Why do we do this? I think we compare because we feel that we’re not good enough. We’re always looking at what others are doing because we wonder, “Am I smart enough? Beautiful enough? Skilled enough? Likeable enough?” One of my first jobs was bussing tables and washing dishes at a restaurant. These are the bottom of the food service food chain. (I remember clearing a table and accidently dropping a butter knife down a woman’s back.) There were two types of servers that I worked with. Some looked at people and only saw customers or clientele. Customers were a means of advancement, a way to make money, a means of climbing the Treadwall of status. But another type of server saw them not only as customers, but as people. They treated each customer as a person, learning their name and story as they served them. Jesus said, “I am among you as the one who serves” (Lk. 22:27). Jesus is not one who sits at the table. He is the one serving. He sees you not as a means to an end, but for the person that you are. He does not compare for status. He uses his status for service. He has cleared your dirty dishes. He has scraped your scraps and messy plate. He accepts no wages or tips. He keeps no tab of debt. He just gives and gives and gives. You compare because you fear that you are not good enough. Sorry, but you’ll have to take that up with the Great Servant King. He has come to serve you, just as you are. As Luke illuminates the rest of the story, we learn the depths of his service. Betrayal, denial, humiliation, shame, and death. The King is stripped naked, mocked, unjustly tortured, and dehumanized. The Lord assumes the lowest status for your sake. No more Treadwall for you. Comparison is a sick, never-ending cycle. There is no need to rival, and no need to tear others down to build yourself up. The world’s Great King has come to serve you. Turn from comparison that’s for status, and turn to status that’s for service. The most dangerous time for a pig is when it's fat. Lent is the year's great spiritual diet. A season of time dedicated to confronting apathy and laziness. It is the poke in the ribs (no pun intended), revealing the comfortable habits that we've come to crave. Don't let the obesity of arrogance insulate you from real dangers. Don't be driven by the yearnings of your stomach. Don't take goodness for granted. Be lean, self-controlled, and focused. The Lamb was killed for the sake of the swine. Keep your eyes fixed on what he has done for you and for all, in order that you may learn what you should do for others.
My son got up at 5:00AM this morning. I couldn’t let him rampage around the house. Rustling the girls from hibernation is a dangerous thing. So I sprawled out next to him in his bed, gently rubbing his back. With thoughts of boyish revelry, he would not return to sleep. At least he was still, wrapped up in the covers. I liked the thought of my son tucked close to me, secure and safe.
Protectionism is an intense parental instinct. There is an urge to insulate our children in a cocoon and never let them out. The first day of school, the first date, graduation, and college are difficult. Why? Because we feel as if we are giving our children away, losing them to the unknown. C.S. Lewis wrote, “Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.” It is incredibly challenging to release the most valued things in our lives. We clench the things we love with white knuckles. We fear the thought of losing that which we love. Yet it is in love’s nature to give away. In a sense, love isn’t love unless it gives itself away. There is an obvious redundancy in five short verses of Luke chapter 23. Jesus is on the cross and three different people tell him to “save himself” (Luke 23:35,37,39). “If you’re the King of the Jews, save yourself!” Jesus responds by doing the opposite. He remains in his vulnerable position on the cross. He does not save himself, but he gives himself away. He gives his body, his dignity, his reputation - all to be trampled with wretched brutality. With each step toward the cross, Jesus gives and gives again. Can I keep my son tucked safely in bed early in the morning? No, daylight is coming and we must arise. Can I hide my daughters from danger, pain, and boys? No I must release them, giving them to the service of the Lord. So I come to increased gratitude at the foot of the cross. No safe protectionism from the Father. Only risk, sacrifice, and suffering. He just gives. |
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