Third Epiphany
January 25th, 2009
Poor Jonah!
He’s come down in song and story as the guy in the Hebrew Scriptures who was swallowed by the whale.
Do you remember why Jonah was swallowed by the whale?
It’s pretty simple: “Now the word of the LORD came to Jonah, son of Amittai, saying, ‘Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me.’ But Jonah set out to flee to Tarshish from the presence of the LORD. He went down to Joppa and found a ship going to Tarshish; so he paid his fare and went on board.”
Not a good move. On the way to Tarshish, God gave Jonah a little time out—in the smelly belly of a whale.
To give Jonah credit, Nineveh was a tough assignment.
It lay far off to the northeast of Israel in what is now the northern part of Iraq.
It was a huge city full of people who had never heard of Israel’s God (in fact had probably never heard of Israel). Jonah could only reach it by trekking across miles of barren salt flats.
Not a plum job. . . .
. . . . . Ah, but Tarshish, Tarshish . . .
A far-off land across the sea, so far-off that it had taken on the glow of legend. It was a land of riches and easy life, a Shangri-La. When King Solomon sent off ships to Tarshish,, people said, they sailed back laden with gold, silver, ivory, monkeys, and peacocks.
Jonah succumbs to a completely understandable temptation. He wants to be the prophet for fantasyland Tarshish, not all-too-real Ninevah.
Nineveh--------Tarshish—which would you choose?
Hot dusty city or Mediterranean beaches?
Daily struggle or streets paved with gold?
Risk of failure vs. guarantee of success?
And the bottom line----reality vs. fantasy?
A priest friend of mine recently had to make a Jonah decision.
He’s in a small rural parish contending with the usual problems of not enough money, too few members. This year things have gotten a bit tense, especially about money.
Online he found a job listing for a church in another diocese. The membership is about the same size as his present church, but they have—get this!—a two million dollar endowment.
Because of that the church can pay a full-time rector and music director, choir section leaders, a full-time custodian, etc., etc.
My friend’s foot poised to skip up the gangplank for a sea voyage to Fantasyland. But then, luckily, he perused the Parish Profile more closely.
Between the lines he read that members don’t reach out to the neighborhood or the large and troubled city surrounding them. They’re nicely settled into their own comfy nest, thank you very much.
And they weren’t particularly interested in some other things. Working together, for example— Why bother when you can pay a professional to do anything you need done? Why bother with stewardship, giving one’s own back to the Source of all gifts, when the church has everything it needs?
With a little sigh, my friend changed his mind and headed back to Nineveh,.
And what’s is so wrong with Nineveh after all?
Sure. it isn’t perfect—it’s a little gritty, a little stressful, a lot of hard work, but it has some great things going for it.
Look what happened when Jonah began his preaching tour through the city. After only one day, the people repented.
They changed their ways! They weren’t so stuck in their old ways of doing things that they couldn’t hear a life-changing challenge from a stranger’s God.
The second thing great about Nineveh: the people all worked together. Regular folks, king—they all did what they needed to do to save their city.
The third thing great about Nineveh?—God cherished it. That’s why God sent Jonah there in the first place.
Today is our Annual Meeting. We’ll take stock of the place God has called us to—this Church of the Holy Spirit.
During the meeting, I’d like us to remain firmly in Nineveh mode. I mean this in three senses: First, let us look as clearly and honestly as we can at our real situation. What’s going on with us? Where are the growing, lively areas and which are the places that are looking a bit wilted? No fantasy, just the honest truth as well as we can tell it.
Second, let us openly discuss where we might need to make changes in the way we do things.
And third, let’s figure out how we can help each other do what needs to be done. How can we get our way-too-hardworking Jr. Warden more help? How can we support and expand the choir? Do you like to sing?—try it out! How can we more fully support the life of the diocese? Can something exciting and new come out of the reduction in the rector’s hours? With God’s help could it inspire every person in the congregation to figure out what God is calling them to do in this place?
In Nineveh mode, most of all, let us trust that God cherishes us. Cherishes us.
Listen to this. At the end of the story, Jonah is still in a sulk. God says to him, “And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals.”
As we gather in the Undercroft, God will be saying, “And should I not be concerned about the Church of the Holy Spirit, that great little church, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty persons . . . ?”
ED NOTE: to respond to the sermon, please click on the [really little] Comment button below.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Christmas Eve 2008 Hungry Love
Christmas Eve 2008
Hungry Love
There’s a Russian icon, a portrait of Mary and Jesus—maybe you’ve seen it. It’s called “The Virgin of Loving Kindness.”
Mary is holding Jesus in her arms. He is pressed against her shoulder. Her hands hold him firmly. Mary’s cheek rests on his cheek. Her face is—indescribable. Glowing, tender, amazed—all these.
One morning, passing by the icon, I saw something I’d never noticed before:
In this image, little Jesus is not passive. His little hands are gripping Mary’s robe tight and he is pushing his cheek hard against hers.
What a picture of God this gives us!
We tend to think of God as far removed from the turmoil and simple joys of ordinary human life. God’s just out there somewhere.
If we dare at all to come closer to the Divine Presence we can find ourselves overwhelmed by what a professor of mine called “the size gap.” God is so big and we are so small. God is so—out there, and we’re so—here. God is so perfect and we are so often such a mess. What sort of communication can exist between God and us?
Often we just give up. Why bother?
But Christmas tells us a completely different story. God came to us as a baby. A regular baby who grew in Mary’s womb for nine months. A regular baby delivered by Mary and Joseph alone, or maybe by a couple of midwives a frantic Joseph was able to scare up at the last minute in a strange town. A regular baby lying not in a crib but a food trough for animals, tucked into sweet-smelling hay.
A baby whom Mary could not resist picking up, a baby who gripped her clothes, stared into her eyes in that uncanny way of newborns, and pressed hard into her.
This is a God hungry to love us. Not a distant God, but one who presses into us with exuberant, unembarrassed yearning.
Yikes! This is maybe too much! Maybe the size gap between me and God is fine. This “God leaning into us” feels too close, too messy, yes—too intimate.
There are times when we definitely don’t want to be interrupted by a God longing to be close to us.
But that’s the God we’re shown tonight, Christmas night. A God of hungry love.
The idea of God yearning for us is a shining if slender cord through the Jewish and Christian tradition:
Jewish mysticism has a lovely image of the divine glory or presence, the Shekkinah, wandering the earth as a homeless beggar, searching for souls who will recognize her.
Jesus when he grows up will tell stories about God’s yearning for us:
Remember the story about the shepherd who leaves ninety-nine good sheep behind to go out in the wilderness to search for the one sheep who has strayed?
Or the story of a housewife who loses a coin and turns her house topsy turvy until she finds it—and then spends the coin on a party to celebrate finding it!
And of course the story of the Prodigal Son, whose father lingers at the window for months, years, longing longing for his wayward son to come to his senses and come home.
The Victorian poet Francis Thompson wrote a poem about God’s yearning for us, “The Hound of Heaven.” It begins:
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him . . . .
But at the end of the poem the one who has spent years running away from his pursuer hears these words:
“Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”
The poet asks: “Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?”
And God’s voice replies: “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!”
God’s longing has pursued and won.
Hmm—these are some pretty undignified images of God!
An irresponsible shepherd, an improvident housewife, a father obsessed with his wayward son, a bloodhound—and most of all, a baby snuggling in his mother’s arms. But God doesn’t seem to care about dignity!.
Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has said it well: “God . . does not care in the least if his love makes him look as if he is dependent on us, as if he needs us: that is our problem, not his.”
The only problem is that God’s longing for us, God’s “hungry love” for each one of us, will not leave us untouched.
Like any new baby this Baby Jesus Christ will turn our lives upside down.
God in the person of Christ will press into us and point, point us to things and people we may well not want to see. “Look, look,” his point will say, “Over there—those people living in cars on freezing winter nights. Over there, neighbors who can’t afford oil to heat their house. Over there—victims of warfare and terror.” And he’ll then stay right there with us as we begin to change our lives.
Here then is the Christmas message: Let God love you. Let God’s loving presence lean into you. Let God’s compassionate presence turn you in love toward others. Let God’s intimate presence assure you that you will never be alone.
Hungry Love
There’s a Russian icon, a portrait of Mary and Jesus—maybe you’ve seen it. It’s called “The Virgin of Loving Kindness.”
Mary is holding Jesus in her arms. He is pressed against her shoulder. Her hands hold him firmly. Mary’s cheek rests on his cheek. Her face is—indescribable. Glowing, tender, amazed—all these.
One morning, passing by the icon, I saw something I’d never noticed before:
In this image, little Jesus is not passive. His little hands are gripping Mary’s robe tight and he is pushing his cheek hard against hers.
What a picture of God this gives us!
We tend to think of God as far removed from the turmoil and simple joys of ordinary human life. God’s just out there somewhere.
If we dare at all to come closer to the Divine Presence we can find ourselves overwhelmed by what a professor of mine called “the size gap.” God is so big and we are so small. God is so—out there, and we’re so—here. God is so perfect and we are so often such a mess. What sort of communication can exist between God and us?
Often we just give up. Why bother?
But Christmas tells us a completely different story. God came to us as a baby. A regular baby who grew in Mary’s womb for nine months. A regular baby delivered by Mary and Joseph alone, or maybe by a couple of midwives a frantic Joseph was able to scare up at the last minute in a strange town. A regular baby lying not in a crib but a food trough for animals, tucked into sweet-smelling hay.
A baby whom Mary could not resist picking up, a baby who gripped her clothes, stared into her eyes in that uncanny way of newborns, and pressed hard into her.
This is a God hungry to love us. Not a distant God, but one who presses into us with exuberant, unembarrassed yearning.
Yikes! This is maybe too much! Maybe the size gap between me and God is fine. This “God leaning into us” feels too close, too messy, yes—too intimate.
There are times when we definitely don’t want to be interrupted by a God longing to be close to us.
But that’s the God we’re shown tonight, Christmas night. A God of hungry love.
The idea of God yearning for us is a shining if slender cord through the Jewish and Christian tradition:
Jewish mysticism has a lovely image of the divine glory or presence, the Shekkinah, wandering the earth as a homeless beggar, searching for souls who will recognize her.
Jesus when he grows up will tell stories about God’s yearning for us:
Remember the story about the shepherd who leaves ninety-nine good sheep behind to go out in the wilderness to search for the one sheep who has strayed?
Or the story of a housewife who loses a coin and turns her house topsy turvy until she finds it—and then spends the coin on a party to celebrate finding it!
And of course the story of the Prodigal Son, whose father lingers at the window for months, years, longing longing for his wayward son to come to his senses and come home.
The Victorian poet Francis Thompson wrote a poem about God’s yearning for us, “The Hound of Heaven.” It begins:
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him . . . .
But at the end of the poem the one who has spent years running away from his pursuer hears these words:
“Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”
The poet asks: “Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?”
And God’s voice replies: “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!”
God’s longing has pursued and won.
Hmm—these are some pretty undignified images of God!
An irresponsible shepherd, an improvident housewife, a father obsessed with his wayward son, a bloodhound—and most of all, a baby snuggling in his mother’s arms. But God doesn’t seem to care about dignity!.
Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has said it well: “God . . does not care in the least if his love makes him look as if he is dependent on us, as if he needs us: that is our problem, not his.”
The only problem is that God’s longing for us, God’s “hungry love” for each one of us, will not leave us untouched.
Like any new baby this Baby Jesus Christ will turn our lives upside down.
God in the person of Christ will press into us and point, point us to things and people we may well not want to see. “Look, look,” his point will say, “Over there—those people living in cars on freezing winter nights. Over there, neighbors who can’t afford oil to heat their house. Over there—victims of warfare and terror.” And he’ll then stay right there with us as we begin to change our lives.
Here then is the Christmas message: Let God love you. Let God’s loving presence lean into you. Let God’s compassionate presence turn you in love toward others. Let God’s intimate presence assure you that you will never be alone.
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