"Identity Crisis"-- Romans 12:1-8, Matthew 16:13-20-- August 24, 2014

 

Identity theft is a real problem in these days of digital information exchange and storage. If someone with less than scrupulous intentions gets a hold of your social security number or credit card information, they can wreck all sorts of havoc on your life. If that’s ever happened to you, it’s hard to maintain perspective about your "identity"–it can feel like it’s a set of numbers, rather than anything much more resilient, much more complex, much more important.

"Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" Jesus asked his disciples, clearly not asking to be reminded of his social security number, and then the much more pointed question, "But who do you say that I am?" John Pilch, a scholar of the cultural world of Jesus, points out that "Americans are the most individualistic people who have ever lived on the face of this planet." (Pilch, The Cultural World of Jesus, Yr. A, p. 127) Each person is viewed as being distinct, unique–right?–We each have a number. We fashion our identities. We create profiles on Facebook, LinkedIn, MySpace. We want to be special, unique.

The Mediterranean view of identity, on the other hand, the view in Jesus’ culture, was just the opposite. It was–and still is–what might be called "dyadic," that is, "paired," other-oriented. They have, says Pilch, "no sense of their individuality but depend rather on the opinions of others to help them know who they are." (Ibid.) They are so bound up in social and familial structures that define them that acting outside of that, as an individual, was viewed with suspicion.

Each of these views–individualistic and dyadic–have their own advantages and disadvantages. But they are different. We need to be reminded that ours isn’t the only way of looking at the world.

So, these questions of Jesus to the disciples were not a "theological quiz," Pilch contends, but rather "reflect a normal, Mediterranean curiosity by Jesus." Who do people say that I am? Who do you say that I am?

The normal cultural definitions of who he was weren’t working. When people identified him as "Jesus of Nazareth," it was supposed to tell them that he was like everyone else from Nazareth. "Can anything good come from Nazareth?"– Remember Nathaniel’s question to Philip in John’s gospel when he told him Jesus was from Nazareth? Where you came from was supposed to describe who you were. We still have a bit of that--Oh, you’re from Bennington? Or Pownal? Or Woodford? Or North Bennington? Or Manchester? We do form different pictures in our minds, don’t we, depending on the answer?

Who your parents were described you, and usually boys took on their fathers’ occupation. Which is why Jesus’ identity was a problem–"Where did this man get this wisdom and these deeds of power?" people asked. "Isn’t he the carpenter’s son? Is not his mother called Mary? And are not his brothers James and Joseph and Simon and Judas? And are not all his sisters with us? Where then did this man get all this?" (Mt. 13:55-57)

"Who are people saying the Son of Man is?" Jesus asked his disciples, as it seems that this is the one title Jesus may have claimed for himself–the Son of Man, the Fully Human One. "And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’"

Who do you say that I am? Who do you say that Jesus is? Jesus Is the Question is the title of a new book by Martin Copenhaver, the new president of Andover Newton Seminary. Jesus asks far more questions than he does give answers. And Jesus is himself the question, isn’t he? Who do you say that I am? And what difference does that make in your life?

How would you answer that? It’s a question worth spending some time with. I was thinking that maybe just as we shared with each other our take on "the gospel in 7 words or less," it might be fun to hear how we would answer, Who do you say that Jesus is? There’s a sheet of paper up on the bulletin board to the left as you go out Webster Hall on which you are welcome to write your answer, or answers, ...or maybe your questions...

He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?" Simon Peter answered, "You are the Messiah, the Christ, the Son of the living God!"

Scott Colglazier, senior pastor of the First Congregational Church of Los Angeles, has a wonderful image that really speaks to me. When Peter answered "the Christ," he wasn’t giving him a last name. "‘The Christ’ is not a person but an energy," Colglazier says, "the divine energy that was released into the world through the life of Jesus." [Day1.org, 8/24/14] It is an energy that is still changing people. "This is nothing less than the energy or presence of God," Colglazier says–expressed as compassion, unconditional love, inexhaustible grace, creative, transforming and inspiring goodness. He calls it a "Christ-burst" of energy, so that "sharing Christ" is not so much a telling as it is a sharing of an energy. "Every time we treat another person with dignity and respect and every time we bring compassion to another human being, especially a human being that is hurting and broken, and every time we offer love as a way of life, we bring Christ to others, and the great Christ-burst that started centuries ago continues in our time and in our place." [Ibid.]

"Who do you say that I am?"

Another pastor and preacher, Lutheran David Lose, writes that for him, Jesus is the one who reveals the heart of God, as he weeps over Jerusalem, for example. [Lose, inthemeantime. org, 8/24/14] Surely God is still weeping over Jerusalem, and Gaza, and Urbil, and Ferguson, and Kabul, and Bagdhad, and Washington, and Bennington, and the whole sad and hurting world. Jesus reveals the heart of God, as he has compassion for the hungry, the poor, the sick, the outcast. That’s who Jesus is–the revealer of the heart of God.

And Jesus reveals what is possible in a human being, whose life is open to God. That’s what Paul had in mind when he wrote, "I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship." Or, as Peterson imagines it, "So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life–your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life–and place it before God as an offering." Offer it up to God, so that God can transform it into just what is needed to make the world more just, more beautiful, more healing, as Jesus’ life was transformed.

"Don’t be conformed to this world," Paul wrote, "but be transformed by the renewing of your mind"–your whole perspective changed by this Christ lens through which you now view the world and your life. Who you are is unique–you are a unique product of experiences, gifts and graces, environment, family configuration and ancestors, time in history, DNA, place where you were born, dumb luck, choices you’ve made. But each of us is but one part of a greater body– "so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another," Paul said. We are each but one gem at the intersection of an infinite number of threads in a net of creation, as the Hindu myth of Indra’s net describes it. The African notion of ubuntu says "I am because you are." A person is a person through other people.

"Who do you say that I am?" It is not a catchism question. It is a life question. How do you live your life because I am? How do you live your life because Jesus was and Christ is? What energy pattern are you manifesting? Are you so drawn into your culture and the mold it prescribes for you that you are not open to being transformed by God’s energy, God’s compassion, God’s justice, God’s unconditional love? And what are you doing to open up the possibilities of that transformation–is there space in your life for silence and noticing the world around you, including how your thoughts jump around and chase each other? Do you take time to give thanks for any number of blessings? Do you put yourself in situations where you can be reminded of the connections you have with people you don’t think are "like you"? Do you take time to connect with nature and all the creatures of which you also are a part? Do you direct "Christ energy" toward people and situations in need of healing and justice and hope? "Who do you say that I am?"

"So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life–your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life–and place it before God as an offering." "By the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God..." Share Christ-energy with everyone you meet and live with. Send it out to the whole world. So may you know who you are and Whose you are. Amen, and amen.

 

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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“The Other”-- Matthew 15:21-28-- Aug. 17, 2014

 

If we are to look to Jesus as a model of what a fully alive human being looks like, then surely this story of his encounter with the Canaanite woman must be included. Contrary to what some commentators suggest, I don’t think Jesus was all-knowing, all-compassionate at every moment and so here he was merely testing this woman’s faith. That seems petty and manipulative to me, and for all the human things Jesus might have been, I don’t think he was either of those things. I think Jesus was a product of his time and place, just like the rest of us are, and at certain times, maybe especially when he was trying to get away for a break, as he was here, maybe even Jesus fell back on the definitions and parameters that his culture proscribed for him. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel,” he says in response to this “foreign” woman’s plea for her daughter. But luckily she wouldn’t leave it at that.

The Canaanite woman was “the other” for Jesus. Not only was she outside the nation of Israel, she was a woman. Laws of purity and honor gave Jesus perfect permission to say what he did. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel....It isn’t fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs...” It was what she said that ultimately got through to him and reminded him of a higher law.

Jan Richardson imagines this woman’s plea to Jesus as a “stubborn blessing”--

“Don’t tell me no.
I have seen you
feed the thousands,
seen miracles spill
from your hands
like water, like wine,
seen you with circles
and circles of crowds
pressed around you
and not one soul
turned away.

Don’t start with me.

I am saying
you can close the door
but I will keep knocking.
You can go silent
but I will keep shouting.
You can tighten the circle
but I will trace a bigger one
around you,
around the life of my child
who will tell you
no one surpasses a mother
for stubbornness.

I am saying
I know what you
can do with crumbs
and I am claiming mine,
every morsel and scrap
you have up your sleeve.
Unclench your hand,
your heart.
Let the scraps fall
like manna,
like mercy
for the life
of my child,
the life of
the world.

Don’t you tell me no. [Jan Richardson, Painted Prayerbook for Year A, Pent. + 10]

It is the cry of Michael Brown’s mother in Ferguson, MO, and mothers of African American boys throughout our country. It is the cry of Palestinian mothers and Israeli mothers, amidst the bombs and rockets. “Have mercy on us,” cry the Yazidis fleeing to the mountains in Iraq. “Unclench your hand, your heart,” cry the parents and partners and children and friends of those whose loved ones battle with depression. “I am not – we are not – the other. You and I, we are not so different. Deeply, truly, we are one.

People looking for adequate, decent housing in our community are not The Other. The children who need federally-funded lunches and families and individuals who cannot find decent housing without assistance are not The Other. The permitting process for the Shires Housing Project just up the road from us on Silver St. has revealed a real rift in our community. The “dirty little secret” is not about the number of children in our schools who qualify for subsidized meals–“The poor you will always have with you,” Jesus said a couple thousand years ago–that’s not a secret. The “secret” is that we’d rather not live near them. It’s not just that our schools are labeled “failing” because we have poor children in them–every school in Vermont except those who opted out of the “No Child Left Behind” standards was deemed “failing.” It is a failure of that program, of the system, not of the kids or teachers.

Nicholas Kristof, columnist for the New York Times, wrote an op-ed piece last Sunday entitled, “Is a Hard Life Inherited?” In it, he tells of returning to his hometown of Yamhill, OR.
“I love this little town, [he wrote] but the news is somber...A neighbor here just died of a heroin overdose; a friend was beaten up last night by her boyfriend; another friend got into a fistfight with his dad; a few more young men have disappeared into the maw of prison.” [NYT, 8/10/14] It sounds an awful lot like our town, doesn’t it? and a whole lot of other towns in Vermont.

One delusion common among America’s successful people [Kristof writes] is that they triumphed just because of hard work and intelligence. In fact, their big break came when they were conceived in middle-class American families who loved them, read them stories, and nurtured them with Little League sports, library cards, and music lessons...

...Too often wealthy people born on third base blithely criticize the poor for failing to make homeruns. The advantaged sometimes perceive empathy as a sign of muddle-headed weakness, rather than as a marker of civilization.

Too often “poverty” is not just an economic description it’s a moral judgment. Why can’t those people get their act together? We sometimes ask. Where are the parents? Why don’t they put more energy into looking for a job instead of looking for a hand-out?

“‘Almost a third of the 153.6 million Americans with a job at any time in 2012 made less than $15,000, averaging just $6,100,’ writes David Cay Johnston in Divided: The Perils of Our Growing Inequality.” Less than $15,000. Can you imagine feeding your family or finding a place to live for that? “Nearly all of the income growth in our economy has been in jobs paying more than $75,000 a year [cites another source]–about one in eight jobs.” [Julie Polter, “The Rich Get Richer,” Sojourners, Aug. 2014] There aren’t all that many jobs paying more than $75,000 in Bennington, are there?

“Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David,” she said. “My daughter is tormented by a demon.” Robin Williams’ death by suicide, due to depression, this week has echoed deeply into many people’s lives. Mental illness and addiction are equal opportunity employers, striking the poor and wealthy alike. There is no “other” to the demon of depression. Yet the resources for those battling mental illness, including depression, in our community are woefully inadequate.

“She came and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.” He answered, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’ Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! [Greater than mine, at the moment apparently.(I imagine him realizing) Forgive me.] Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”

Police walking alongside protestors instead of confronting them in riot gear produced a very different result in Ferguson this week. That’s when the healing began, though it has a long way to go there and throughout our country.

“There are steps that could help [in the crisis of working-class America],” Nicholas Kristof wrote, “including a higher minimum wage, early childhood programs, and a focus on education as an escalator to opportunity. [I would argue that the better index of disadvantage for a child is not family income, but how often the child is read to, Kristof said earlier] But the essential starting point is empathy.”

“I am not the other,” the Canaanite woman said to Jesus, and the truth of that resonated in his soul. She is identified as the Syro-Phoenician woman in other gospels, but here Matthew says she is Canaanite. In fact, Matthew begins his gospel with a genealogy of Jesus that includes a number of Canaanite foremothers–Ruth, Tamar, Rahab. “I am not the other,” she said.

If we are to become fully human, as Jesus was, we too, like Jesus, must learn to let go of those definitions and stereotypes of “the other.” It is the final prejudice and it is fueled by fear. In her blog this week [8/15/14], sociologist Brene Brown writes about fear and courage–

When confronted with news of a stranger’s unimaginable pain – a suicide, an overdose, a protest for justice and basic dignity – we have two choices: We can choose to respond from fear or we can choose courage.

We can choose to believe that we are somehow insulated from the realities of these traumas and that our willpower or our strength of character makes us better than these displays of desperation and woundedness. When we seek shelter in the ‘better than – safer than – different than’ thinking, we are actually choosing fear and that requires us to self-protect and arm ourselves with judgment and self-righteousness.

Our only other option is to choose courage. Rather than deny our vulnerability, we lean into both the beauty and agony of our shared humanity. Choosing courage does not mean that we’re unafraid, it means that we are brave enough to love despite the fear and uncertainty. Courage is my friend Karen standing up and saying, “I am affected.”

The courageous choice also does not mean abandoning accountability – it simply means holding ourselves accountable first. If we are people of faith, we hold ourselves accountable for living that faith by practicing grace and bringing healing. If we consider ourselves to be smart and curious, it means seeking greater understanding. If we consider ourselves to be loving, it means acting with compassion.

It’s difficult to respond to the tragedies of strangers – even those we think we know – because we will never have access to the whole truth. In the absence of information, we make up stories, stories that often turn out to be our own biographies, not theirs.

Our choices have consequences: They make the world a more dangerous place or they cultivate peace. Fear and judgment deepen our collective wounds. That rare mix of courage and compassion is the balm that brings global healing.

We have two choices. Let’s choose courage. Let’s choose to love despite the fear.

“Woman, great is your faith!” Jesus finally said to the Canaanite woman.“Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed instantly. May our faith be as courageous and as full of grace. So may the healing begin. Amen.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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"Come on in!"-- Matthew 14:22-33-- Aug. 10, 2014

 

Last week we heard the story of the feeding of over 5000 people, beginning with just five loaves of bread and two fish. The disciples had thought there was nothing there in that deserted place to feed all those people with, and they told Jesus to send the people away into the villages to buy something to eat. But Jesus said that wasn’t necessary. "You give them something to eat," he said. The disciples looked around and saw only scarcity. "There’s nothing here but these few loaves of bread and couple of fish," they said. So Jesus made everyone sit down on the grass and blessed the offering of food. "The place of abundance is here," he said. In your midst, when you stop to notice it, when you stop and give thanks, the place of abundance–the God of abundance– is here. Ultimately the disciples had to figure out what to do with all the leftovers–12 baskets full.

"We often confuse safety and stability with abundant life," one commentator suggests (David Lose, in the meantime, 8/4/14), and so we work hard to build a safe, stable, and secure life for ourselves and our loved ones. Which is not a bad thing. We know that children thrive in a stable environment, and surely human flourishing is what God intends for all of us. The problem is that we can get too settled, too satisfied, too smug, thinking that we’ve got it all under control and don’t really need anybody else, let alone God. We start defending our comfort zone.

But have you noticed that it’s when the going gets tough–really tough–that that’s when people start invoking either the first or second members of the Trinity– " O God!" or "Jesus Christ!" I think I might have been uttering one or the other if I had been in that boat on the Sea of Tiberius with the disciples that dark and stormy night. And I have no idea what I would have said had I seen Jesus walking across the waves toward us. "A ‘behold’ or ‘shazam!’ or something like it would be nice here," suggests one translator, "to signify that people (even Jesus) don’t come walking across water everyday." (Mark Davis, left behind..., 8/10/14)

"This is the most ‘useless’ miracle in all of the gospels," Mark Davis writes. Unlike feeding hungry people or healing someone’s sight or long-term physical condition, Davis wonders if Jesus walked upon the water just to prove he could do it, just to show who he was. (Ibid.) I’m guessing that the disciples, who, in Matthew’s gospel, had already experienced Jesus’ stilling the storm after they’d woken him up from sleeping in the stern, may have found it quite useful for Jesus to walk across the water to them.

But it’s not even Jesus’ walking across the water that grabs me so much in this story. After all, he’s spent all night praying and being filled up with God’s Spirit of power, which, by the way, is what the first hearers of this story would have thought–This man is more powerful than the wind and waves–more powerful than the other spirits or people who claim to have power. A human being who is utterly empty of his or her own agenda and who opens themselves up to be filled with God can do amazing things.

Which is what Peter did, and THAT’s the part of this story that strikes me. "What in THE world," as Mark Davis asks, "would compel someone in a boat in a storm in the sea to say to Jesus at this point, ‘Command me to come to you’?" And then when Jesus says, "Come on in," jumps out of the boat onto the waves! ...and walks! Now, see, that’s the miracle in this story for me. Not that Jesus could walk on the water, but that Peter could. He doesn’t do it on his own power–he knows that Jesus has to be in on this–but for those few seconds that he can keep focused on Jesus, he can do what Jesus can do. It’s when he loses that single-point focus, when he "doubts," or waivers, or "stands in 2 ways" that he begins to sink, and cries out, "Lord, save me!" Jesus doesn’t say to him, "Sink or swim, buddy–you got yourself into this" – but rather "Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him... And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased."

All four of the gospels tell the story of Jesus having power over the wind and the waves–either by walking on the water or calming the storm from the boat. It’s only Matthew’s gospel that includes this part about Peter walking – however briefly – upon the water as well. This Jesus is full of the power of God who has power over the wind and the waves, because, by the way, God created them; but for Matthew’s community, living probably some 50 years after the death of Jesus, it was important for them to know that this power that was in Jesus was beside them, in the storm of persecution and struggle with them, even inside them.

This story of Peter stepping out of the boat onto the waves was much more powerful than any theological statement about the power of God. "You can’t get to God through your head," says Seane Corne, yoga teacher and activist. "I’ve only been able to get to God through experience, through my heart, through surrender," she told Krista Tippett, host of the public radio show onBeing. In fact, as this morning’s guest on onBeing, neuroscientist Adele Diamond has found, we learn with our whole bodies. Our brains develop through movement, dance, music, doing, stepping out. We’re all "kinetic learners." When Peter started to rely on his head–like Wiley Coyote noticing the air below him after running off the cliff in pursuit of RoadRunner– when Peter looked down and noticed the waves beneath his feet, he immediately began to sink. The world told him walking on the water is impossible. The God embodied in Jesus told him to come on out. "Fear not," Jesus had told them. "I am–it is I." "I am"–the name of God–God is here.

This is not an advertisement for merely being impetuous, for abandoning your mind and intellect before acting; but it is a story about focus, about how to enter into the chaos of our lives, which, if you haven’t noticed, is all around us. Multi-tasking does not serve us well in these situations. What is needed is focus on the essential. Jesus was called "the One" –ihidaya--not only referring to his uniqueness but more importantly describing his ability to be at one, with himself, with God, to empty himself of distractions, of 2-sidedness, of duality, and to focus the power then available to him for healing, for multiplying, for bringing life and hope. Those verses tucked in the midst of these stories–"when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself..." ..."And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray"–these times apart in prayer and meditation allowed Jesus to be "the One"–Ihidaya. It takes practice in times of stillness and focus, so that in times of chaos, that ability is available.

That is a practice still available to us. Meditation has been shown to literally rewire the brain; we can work on strengthening our ability to focus, which in this incredibly distracting and over-stimulated world, is more and more important. Faith is less an act of will or intellectual assent than it is an opening, a physical, emotional, wholebeing practice. It is the whole-hearted living that social scientist Brene Brown talks about, the "daring greatly" by being in the arena or out on the waves, being one’s true self, knowing that we are worthy of being loved by this One who is beside us in calm and in chaos.

When Jesus and Peter got into the boat, the wind ceased. "And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God." The thing is, though, there’s no definite article here in the Greek–it’s not, "Truly you are the Son of God," but a Son of God. Jesus was certainly a Son of God in a unique, Jesus-sort of way, but so was Peter a son of God, in a unique Peter-sort of way, and so are you a son or daughter of God, in a unique, you-sort of way. We may not all be called to walk on water, but we are all called to offer ourselves up to be filled and used by this power of Love and Healing and Compassion and Justice, stepping out though we may be afraid, yet focused on the One who calls us.

So as we head out into the storms of our lives, may this blessing over the waves by Jan Richardson go with us–

Blessing on the Waves

I cannot promise

that this blessing

will keep you afloat

as if by lashing these words

to your arms,

your ankles,

you could stop yourself

from going under.

The most this blessing

can do, perhaps,

is to stand beside you

in the boat,

place its hand

in the small of your back,

and push.

Be assured that

though this blessing

is eager to set you

in motion,

it will not

leave you forsaken,

will not compel you

to leap

where it has not already

stepped out.

These words

will go with you

across the waves.

These words

will accompany you

across the waters.

And if you

find yourself

flailing,

this blessing

will breathe itself

into you,

will breathe itself

through you

until you are

borne up

by the hands

that reach toward you,

the voice that

calls your name. (Jan Richardson, Painted Prayerbook, 2011)

May it be so. Amen, and amen.

 

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

 

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"Blessing and Breaking"-- Gen. 32:22-31, Mt. 14:13-21-- Aug. 3, 2014

 

A lot has happened since you and I were last together. While I was on vacation, a Malaysian air liner was shot down over Ukraine, most probably by Russian separatists. Israel and Hamas have been trading missiles and bombs over and into the Gaza strip, with hundreds of Palestinian deaths, largely civilians, and dozens of Israeli deaths, mainly soldiers. Ceasefires go up in smoke. Thousands of unaccompanied Central American children still stream through our borders and wait for adults to care for them. Congress...well, actually, not a lot has happened in Congress since you and I were last together.

Bruce and I were not so isolated or far away on vacation that this news didn’t find us...on our car radio as we traveled; in the newspapers we picked up to read over leisurely breakfasts (even leisurely Sunday breakfasts! What luxury!); or in our e-mail feeds when we checked them. The pain and sorrow and suffering of the world is no longer easy to escape, unless you really work on it. Even on vacation, even when you try to get away, the struggle goes on, our heart strings keep getting tugged at.

Our two readings for this morning–perhaps both fairly familiar–would seem to demonstrate the two poles of the religious life. On the one hand, the reading from Genesis tells the story of Jacob wrestling with, who? An angel? God? A river demon? Himself? Wrestling all night long until just before dawn Jacob’s hip is knocked out of joint and his opponent begs him to let him go. Jacob refuses unless the divine wrestler blesses him. "What is your name?" the "man" asks Jacob. And when he tells him, he says, "You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel [i.e. the one who strives with God], for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed." Then Jacob asked him, "Please tell me your name." But he said, "Why is it that you ask my name?" And there he blessed him.

So there’s the wrestling with, the struggling with, God, on the hand. Have you been there? Why did you let this happen, God? Where are you, God? Why does the world have to be this way, God? Why can’t it be easy, just this once? I don’t want to do this thing that You keep putting in front of me to do, God. Can’t you help me stop (fill in the blank...)drinking...taking pills...eating too much...worrying...whatever? Can’t you do something to bring peace between the Israelis and the Palestinians? Between the Sunnis and Shia? How can you let this beautiful, world you created burn up or get destroyed? All night long they wrestled, until daybreak.

And then there’s the sitting on the grass to be fed by God. That’s why we go on vacation. That’s why we come here, some of us anyway. Even Jesus, when he had heard about the death of John the Baptist, "withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself." I just need to get away. I just need to be by myself. "Do not disturb," please. Leave me alone. I know you’ve been there too. And if you think God is the reason for whatever has driven you to this place, it’s understandable that you’d want God to leave you alone. But maybe what you want is for God to hold you, or for God to feed you.

They do seem like opposite poles–wrestling with God on the one hand, maybe even getting your hip knocked out of joint, and on the other hand, sitting down on the grass where God offers you food and drink and rest–but each place is a place of blessing. If you only hang out at one pole–either relentlessly wrestling or endlessly sitting–the blessing fades, life is diminished. We know what relentless stress does to us and our bodies–it essentially fries us. But total, endless relaxation isn’t any better for us. You’ve heard of the phrase "Use it or lose it?" It turns out we need both stress and relaxation. Stress is only bad if there’s no let up. Creativity, new life, and strength all require labor, resistance, something to push against. That’s the wisdom in the rhythm of that first creation story–6 days of labor followed by a day of rest–the wisdom of keeping sabbath each week, the wisdom of taking time off, the wisdom of regular retreat or sabbatical time.

But the thing is, God was both in the wrestling and in the feeding. God is in the midst of our struggles for justice and peace and God calls us away to a deserted place. It’s not an either/or. It’s both/and.

We know that Jesus was not the only person in his day to be called "messiah" or even "son of God"–the Roman emperors claimed that name for themselves. He wasn’t the only healer or even miracle-worker. But from the very beginning of his gospel, Matthew calls Jesus "Emmanuel"–"God with us." The gospels are clear, as one commentator writes, that all of the miracles or wonders that Jesus performs are "signs of the character of the God whose presence Jesus bears." (David Lose, in the meantime, 7/28/14) The feeding of those five thousand plus people that day was one of those signs and wonders.

Jesus has gone away to a deserted place to re-group after he hears the news of John’s death. Gone away to grieve? To pray? To escape Herod? But the crowds also go away to that deserted place. Perhaps they too are overwhelmed at the news of yet another holy man being crushed by Rome. Perhaps they are looking for the next holy man to step up. We know many of them were in need of healing; all of them were hungry.

And when Jesus saw them, Matthew tells us, "he had compassion for them and healed their sick." He had "compassion"–it’s not just pity, one commentator says, it’s a "body-related" word–"gut-wrenching" is more like it. Compassion, grief, hunger, all these deep body experiences, none of them intellectual statements of faith. "He had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, ‘This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.’" As if this crowd had money to buy food! "Jesus said to them, ‘They need not go away; you give them something to eat.’"

"The place of abundance is here," Jesus said to them. The disciples said, "We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish." Send them away to the places where they sell food, send them to the marketplaces that are full of food. "They need not go away," Jesus said; "you give them something to eat. The place of abundance is here."

Imagine if we said that as a mantra–"The place of abundance is here."[Mark Davis, Left Behind and Loving It, 7/28/14] Instead of waiting for "them" to do something about hunger, or war, or injustice, or pay for the new furnace or bring you fulfillment, what if we considered, "the place of abundance is here." "Bring them here to me," Jesus said of the 5 loaves and 2 fish. Which was really Plan B. Plan A was, "You give them something to eat." The disciples couldn’t believe that was a viable option. "Bring them to me. The place of abundance is here."

Frederick Buechner some thirty years ago drew a beautiful picture of what the "church" looks like at its best. "He was imagining people who come to church week after week – [from the wrestling to the resting]–what they looked like, what they were thinking, how they were changed. [2CC–changing lives since 1865]. Perhaps, on any given Sunday, Buechner mused, they weren’t changed much at all. He wrote:

Yet they kept on coming anyway, and beneath all the lesser reasons they had for doing so, so far beneath that they themselves were only half aware of it, I think there was a deep reason, and if I could give only one word to characterize that reason, the word I would give is hope.

They came here.. To get married and stood here with their hearts in their mouths and their knees knocking to mumble their wild and improbable vows in these very shadows. They came to christen their babies here–carried them in their long white dresses hoping they wouldn’t scream bloody murder when the minister took them in his arms and signed their foreheads with a watery cross. They came here to bury their dead, and brought in, along with the still finished bodies, all the most un-still, unfinished love, guilt, sadness, relief, that are part of what death always is for the living. In other words what they were doing essentially beneath this roof was offering up the most precious moments of their lives in the hope that there was a God to hallow them–a God to hear and seal their vows, to receive their children into [God’s] unimaginable kingdom, to raise up and cherish their dead. I see them sitting here, generations of them, a little uncomfortable in their Sunday best with their old faces closed like doors and their young faces blank as clapboard; but deep within those faces–farther down than their daydreams and boredom and way beyond any horizon of their wandering minds that they could describe–there was the hope that somewhere out of all the words and music and silences of this place, and out of a mystery even greater than the mystery of the cosmos itself, a voice that they would know from all other voices would speak their names and bless them. [from "A Room Called Remember," cited by Theodore J. Wardlaw in Journal for Preachers, Pentecost 2014, p. 10]

Out of the mystery, a voice they would know from all other voices that would speak their names and bless them. Jacob wrestled for that. The crowds were hungry for that. Even Jesus strained to hear the Voice above all other voices that named him as Beloved. Broken and blessed. All of us, broken and blessed. This bread, this cup, broken and blessed. The place of abundance is here. We take and eat, take and drink, and so blessed we go out to offer God’s love and abundance to a hungry and thirsty world. "You give them something to eat."

May it be so.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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