St Catherine of Siena

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,
     and the truth is not in us.
But if we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just,
     will forgive us our sins, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
                                                                           1 John 1: 8-9

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy-laden,
     and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,
     for I am gentle and humble in heart,
     and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
                                                                           Matthew 11: 28-30

.         .        .

I remember the words from 1 John by heart. They are a part of the Brief Order for Confession and Forgiveness, with which the Lutheran worship service began. I never really thought much about them, and didn't even know they were from the Bible (terrible, I know) until I was in college.

If I had known that they were in the Bible, and been acquainted with the passage in 1 John from which these two verses are taken--well, I don't know. Now I read them and see this amazing parallel with the light (a few verses above) and the word (a few verses below). Reading it in that light (no pun intended), it seems even more grave to refuse to admit our sin, because it shows that the Truth is not in us, that we do not abide in the Light, and that the Word is not in us.

And then we are heavy-laden indeed, burdened with the weight of our sin and the distance from God it signals. From Jesus we learn how to receive from God--mercy, forgiveness, righteousness; even as he receives everything from the Father (all he says and does, as John's gospel records it), he invites us to receive from the Father. It is an invitation to live in the Truth, in the Light, and by the Word, and the only requirement is that we confess that we fail to allow that Truth to dwell in us richly, and we turn to the darkness for fear that our puny and corrupt hearts will not be able to bear the Light.

But this Truth purifies, it does not condemn; and this Light cleanses, it does not scorch: et lux erat bonum.

Deo gratias.

St Mark

...and all of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, for God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon him, because he cares for you...resist [the adversary], firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accopmlished by your [brothers and sisters] who are in the world.
                                                                                     1 Peter 5: 5-9

.      .      .

What more could I possibly have to say? Humility marks Christian life above all else. There is more to to be said (Peter goes on to say a good deal), because humility is difficult to practice and impossible to 'achieve.' Just at the moment we think we've become humble, we find ourselves taking some small satisfaction (not to say pride) in that knowledge, and down we've slid once again.

And yet humility is the way forward, the way of resistance, the evidence of our firmness in faith. It is also a virtue we practice in solidarity, suffering together with those all around the world. When in doubt, try humility; when it is difficult, remember that you are not alone. When it seems impossible, cast yourself upon the Lord, and remember that Jesus has gone this way before you.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the fourth week of Eastertide

'Whoever believes in me believes not in me but in the one who sent me,
     and he who sees me see the one who sent me.'
                                                                              John 12: 44

.         .        .

Transparency. It seems to me that Jesus is talking about complete transparency here. And not only that, but he's talking about unity. The one who sees Jesus sees the Father. Jesus shows us God, so truly, that to see Jesus is to see God.

It still blows me away, in those moments when I stop to think about it. Today it was at the forefront of my mind because I had been talking about the way that Jesus conceals God even as he reveals God, that God is hidden in the flesh of Christ. (This, by the way, is an idea of Karl Barth's, and I hope I have got it more or less right.) But this verse in John's gospel emphasizes the revealing rather than the concealing, reminding us that Jesus is truly God. If he is, and if he is so completely transparent, then what is he hiding?

I don't think he is hiding anything. It's just that what he reveals is mystery: the mystery of the God who created the world from nothing, for the sake of love; the mystery of the God who chose Israel, for the sake of love; the mystery of God who became incarnate for the sake of love.

And the task of Christ's disciples, as far as I can see, is to be united to that Love, so that through us also that Love may be seen truly.

Monday of the fourth week of Eastertide

When they heard this, they had no further objections and praised God, saying, "So then, even to Gentiles God has granted repentance that leads to life."

Acts 11: 18

 

I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

John 10: 9-10

 

. . .

I love the places in Scripture where the surprise comes through clearly. The believers at Jerusalem were suspicious of Peter. He had been hanging around with the wrong people. So when Peter tells them about his vision and about the Spirit being given to Cornelius and those with him, they accept it with some bewilderment. Imagine the murmurs of amazement!

 

How is this possible? We find out in John's gospel: Jesus. (Funny how so often Jesus is the answer...) The thing that ties the two passages together (and probably the psalm along with them) is life. God grants the Gentiles "the repentance that leads to life," and Jesus came "that they may have life."

 

And still we're surprised. The grace of God, when we glimpse it in its enormity (I love the translation of the Benedictus that refers to the "bottomless mercy" of God--I think that captures it nicely), has the power to sweep up off our feet. Other authorities lord it over their subjects; false shepherds lead the sheep to the slaughter; but this shepherd is different; this Lord is different. Jesus gives life rather than taking it, and gives his own life for the sake of the sheep, rather than the other way around.

 

It looks for a moment as if God is turning everything upside down. But that's not quite it. We turned it upside down--or our first parents did--and we've got used to it being this way. Jesus comes along to set it to rights again.

 

Deo gratias.

 

 

Thursday of the third week in Eastertide

When Philip ran up, he heard him reading the prophet and asked, 'Do you understand what you are reading?' 'How can I,' he replied, 'unless I have someone to guide me?' ... Starting, therefore, with this text of Scripture, Philip proceeded to explain to him the Good News of Jesus.
                                                          Acts 8

Come and hear, all who fear God;
    I will tell what he did for my soul:
to him I cried aloud,
    with high praise ready on my tongue.
                                                        Psalm 65 [66]

'It is written in the prophets:
They shall all be taught by God,
and to hear the teaching of the Father
and to learn from it,
is to come to me.'
                                                       John 6

.          .         .

"How can I...unless I have someone to guide me?" Indeed. I am conscious, as I reflect on the words of Scripture, of my own training. Not my professional training, but my formation as a Christian. What I have learned from the theologians I have read and studied does influence my reading of the Bible, but that reading is shaped much more profoundly by my upbringing in Christ, from the influence of my mother to the conversations around the table as I studied the Gospel according to Mark in college. I continue to be guided by the picture of Jesus that has been imprinted in my mind and embellished and corrected through the years. No matter whether I am alone or in company when I am actually reading the Bible, I am always surrounded and guided by the many witnesses to Jesus who have led me on the way.

And the witnesses have all, in some way, done for me what Philip and the psalmist have done: to tell the Good News of what God has done. The words Jesus speaks in John's Gospel seem even more enigmatic in this context: how is it that we can be 'taught by God,' except through the words of God's witnesses? One could certainly make the argument that the eunuch in Acts 8 is taught by God, who uses Philip for the purpose. Philip is instructed by the Holy Spirit to approach the chariot, and then is spirited away after baptizing the eunuch. What, exactly, Philip says, we don't know. (Ok, so I don't know. Maybe there are commentators who are fairly certain. But that's not really my point here.) Presumably, Philip connects the passage in Isaiah 53 to Jesus, and explains Jesus further with some reference to what has been going on in Jerusalem recently. Maybe he gives his own testimony as a part of that.

The real mark of the eunuch's having been 'taught by God', though, is in the response. He comes to Jesus by his baptism. This seems to me to be the heart of Christian formation, of all the guidance that we ought to give and receive on the journey of faith: to be led to Jesus, again and again. However far we stray, however short we fall of our intention to follow him, we can be restored by Jesus.

So it is right that the psalmist calls out in his need, making supplication to God, and at the same moment is ready to praise him: he 'cried aloud' in hope that God would save him, and so afterward proclaims what God did for his soul. I pray that hope will live in me, as it has been formed by the witness of so many like him. For those who have taught me by word and deed, I will always be thankful.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the third week in Eastertide

Saul then worked for the total destruction of the church; he went from house to house arresting both men and women and sending them to prison.
Acts 8: 3

.          .          .

Well, then. If the apostle whose writings have taught, encouraged and exhorted Christians for almost two millennia began by intending the total destruction of Jesus' followers, then there's hope for anybody. There's even hope for me.

He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

Deo gratias.

Tuesday of the third week of Eastertide

'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'
                                        Acts 7:51

.          .            .

So says Stephen, as he is being stoned to death outside the city. He follows it up with a second prayer, his final words being, 'Lord, do not hold this sin against them.' Stephen doesn't interact with his accusers and executioners any longer, but with the Lord. To the extent that he relates to the people stoning him, he does so through Jesus. His attention is riveted on the scene opening up before him, as he gazes into heaven and sees the Lord.

There is something in that--Stephen no longer responds to those who are attacking him. Instead, he casts himself onto the Lord. Perhaps in so doing, he finds the freedom to pray for his attackers. Perhaps. But I think there is something more here, or, rather, that this passage points to a feature of Christian life more generally. That is, as we cast ourselves onto the Lord, we are in him, and relate to those around us through him. Indeed, we relate to the whole human race and to God the Father through Jesus.

This is a no-brainer, right? It's a basic Christian truth, the idea of being in Christ, and it's not my idea but St Paul's. Of course. Yet I think the implications of this are bigger than I had imagined. Last week someone (in one of those coffee-time-at-a-conference conversations) suggested to me that people with severe cognitive impairments cannot be self-giving agents. By this, he meant that the Christian way of life, of a life given entirely to others, is not in fact open to people whose sense of 'self' is limited or non-existent. But this misses the point of self-giving, I think (if I may be so bold as to say so). If we take Stephen as our model, what we find is that our given-ness is first to Christ. Our primary self-giving is a being given to Christ; it is then the Lord who gives us to those who need us. We are like the Eucharist, offered up to God and then (having been blessed and transformed) given into the world as Christ's body.

Whether or not someone who lacks a real sense of 'self' can be 'given' to Christ in the same way is not open to view. But there is in people whose needs are so very great a fine example of given-ness. We tend to think of self-giving as something we do for others. We don't see how being given, being broken, is itself a gift. Jean Vanier understands this, and this realization has borne fruit in his amazing life. He writes:

 

When I…welcomed Raphael and Philippe, I invited them to come and live with me because of Jesus and his Gospel. That is how L’Arche was founded. When I welcomed [them], I knew it was for life…My purpose in starting L’Arche was to found a family, a community with and for those who are weak and poor because of a mental handicap and who feel alone and abandoned. The cry of Raphael and of Philippe was for love, for respect, and for friendship; it was for true communion. They of course wanted me to do things for them, but more deeply they wanted a true love; a love that seeks their beauty, the light shining within them; a love that reveals to them their value and importance in the universe. Their cry for love awoke within my own heart and called forth from me living waters; they make me discover within my own being a well, a fountain of life.