As you wish.

And all the people answered, “Let his blood be on us and on our children!” --Matthew 27:25

A few weeks ago I blogged a little bit about a book by John Ortberg called God Is Closer than You Think. I am liking this book more and more. Gently and unsuspectingly, Ortberg draws us closer and closer into an awareness of how our relationship with the Almighty is supposed to work. (Mind you, we and it are works in progress.)

As I prepare for another class, I am reading about Ortberg's reflections on a terrific movie, The Princess Bride. He is recounting the relationship between two characters, Buttercup and Farm Boy (Westley, in the movie).

Farm Boy is deeply smitten with Buttercup. He has been bitten by the Love Bug and just cannot be cured. He worships the very ground Buttercup walks on. He's got it bad. 

And Buttercup is a wee bit high maintenance.

It's a perfect match, really. She wants someone to wait on her hand-and-foot; he has two willing hands and a pair of feet ready to walk to the ends of the earth for the woman he loves (who really hasn't a clue).

Whenever Buttercup makes a demand, Farm Boy's reply is always the same.

"As you wish."

Fetch this, do that. "As you wish."

Of course, those three simple words were code for "I love you," but it took Buttercup a long time to wake up and realize that. In the meantime, Farm Boy continued his faithful obedience. "As you wish."

*****

This week, a group of us were reflecting on a passage from the gospel according to Matthew, 27:11-26. This is the scene when Jesus has been brought before Pontius Pilate. In accordance with tradition, Pilate has offered to release a prisoner, and the crowd has chosen to release Barabbas, leaving Jesus to be crucified.

But meanwhile, Pilate's wife has had a vivid dream and is begging her husband to have nothing to do with Jesus' crucifixion.

Pilate, wanting to be absolutely certain everyone understands, washes his hands of the matter and proclaims himself free of any responsibility for what is to follow, and announces that the blood of this prisoner is on the hands of the crowd, not him.

And the crowd responds. "Let his blood be on us and on our children!"

And Jesus, unheard by anyone present, most certainly whispered, "As you wish."

Let the blood of the Lamb be poured out for the sins of those present that day and their children and their children's children. Let the burdens of sin and death be borne not by each one of us, but by the Redeemer, so that we might again know what it means to be at one with the Creator.

"As you wish."

Three words of perfect love. We asked for it. We got it. 

And soon and very soon,like Buttercup, may our eyes be opened to just how much suitor really, truly loves us and would, quite literally, willingly die for our sake.

Thanks be to God. Amen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBGTT1IWy1M 

If Aesop were a blogger. . . .

Starting from the beginning, Peter told them the whole story.

--Acts 11:4

I was recently given a challenge. A gauntlet was thrown my direction. (Okay, so I challenged myself. But it's my blog. Never forget that! And if you struggle with typical gender images, continue at your own risk.) 

First, several people posted a delightful elephant video on my wall:

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=270442769753174

And then my little brother posted this picture:

And I promptly responded that I felt the urge to write a new fairy tale.

Well, it's more of a fable, but here goes. And Jim-- it's all your fault!

Once, long ago, in a land of ancient baobab trees and fiery sunsets, there lived a family of elephants: a big, strong daddy elephant, a kind and gentle mommy elephant, and a little elephant who just loved to play. And these elephants all lived together in the attic of God’s House.

Now the big, strong daddy elephant had a very important job to do. Whenever someone was in trouble and prayed to the Almighty for strength or courage, the Lord would, in his own perfect time, send the big, strong daddy elephant down from the attic to protect the child in trouble. The big, strong daddy elephant would flap his ears to stir up the wind and raise his trunk and send forth a loud trumpet call—and the person who prayed would be quieted and comforted, remembering the big, strong God he served.

The kind and gentle mommy elephant had an important job, as well. Whenever someone was feeling lonesome or in need of a special touch of love and prayed to the Almighty for comfort or a quiet spirit—or even for enough food to get through the day—the Lord would, in his own perfect time, send the kind and gentle mommy elephant down the attic steps and out in to the world. She would flap her ears gently and whisper love in the souls of those nearby, reminding them that when God walked the earth long, long ago, he taught his children everything they needed to know in order to take care of one another. And the person who prayed would find peace, a tender touch, a warm bowl of soup, remembering that soon someone else might need to be fed.

And the little elephant, who just loved to play, would watch her big, strong daddy elephant and her kind and gentle mommy elephant trundle down those attic steps, go about their flapping and blowing and whispering and come back satisfied, and she would wonder, “What will I ever be able to do to serve God? My ears are so small and my trunk is so short. What kind of prayer could I ever answer? I just love to play!”

And she would snuffle softly and feel sad—but not for long, because soon a dust kitty would blow across the attic, or a rainbow sunbeam would shine through a window, and the little elephant would be so captivated by its beauty, she would grin from floppy ear to floppy ear and be happy again.

“Play!” she would cry, “I just love to play!” And the big, strong daddy elephant and the kind and gentle mommy elephant would smile at one another and nod wisely. Her day will come, they thought. Her day will come. 

And they were right.

One day, a day when the sun rose early and cast a perfect pinkish glow over the ancient land, a child wandered nearby, her heart tired and heavy. She stopped, sat down in the dust and began a familiar chat with the Almighty.

“O Daddy,” she said, “I just don’t know. I don’t know why I feel this way. I have a lovely home, I have food enough to eat and a comfy bed to sleep in. But I just feel—empty. Oh, how I wish I had someone to play with.” And she sat there, in the quiet of the morning, and she prayed.

And the Lord Almighty, who loved his beautiful child best of all (as much as the elephants!), smiled gently. And he beckoned to the little elephant who just loved to play, and said, “Wonderful, joy-filled little elephant, it is time. I have been waiting for just the right time to send you down the attic steps and out into the world. The time has come.” 

And gently, gently, the Lord nudged the little elephant towards the attic steps—but the little elephant missed the step and fell, rumble tumble head-over-teakettle down the steps, and landed with a >foof!< and an >OOF!<  and a big cloud of dust-- right in the startled child’s lap!

At first they just looked at each other. The child blinked, and the elephant snuffled. And then, all at once, the elephant shook her ears, wriggled up her trunk-- and sneezed! That sneeze shook her from the tip of her trunk to the end of her tail, and she tipped over and landed, face first, in the sand. And she blinked with bewilderment at the child, whose wide eyes grew wider still.

And the child said, “Goodness! Gesundheit!”  And they both laughed.

And the little elephant clamored off her lap, tumbled over to a nearby puddle and slurped up a trunkful of water—and without even asking or thinking, she pointed her trunk straight up in the air and blew out every drop of that water. 

And the drops fell, cool, gentle raindrops on the child’s head, and she giggled and smiled and laughed out loud as she was showered with the love of her Daddy.

Of course, that made the little elephant giggle and smile, too—and laugh out loud. And she said, “I just love to play! Do you?”

And the child replied, “I don’t know! I think so! Will you teach me? Show me how!”

And she gently grabbed the baby elephant by the ear, and together they went off to play, giggling and smiling. And every once in awhile, if you listened closely, you would hear one or the other laugh out loud.

And meanwhile, back in the attic, the big, strong daddy elephant and the kind and gentle mommy elephant nodded wisely at one another and smiled.

For God is so good. All the time.

Birds do it.

Sing to the Lord a new song,

    for he has done marvelous things. . . .

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth,

    burst into jubilant song with music; 

make music to the Lord with the harp,

    with the harp and the sound of singing,

with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—

    shout for joy before the Lord, the King.

Let the sea resound, and everything in it,

  the world, and all who live in it. 

Let the rivers clap their hands,

    let the mountains sing together for joy!

--Psalm 98:1; 4-8

I know it's Lent, and I know we are generally sent in a more somber, self-reflective direction for these forty days. But I cannot get past the fact that as we wander through the darkness, still we see signs of spring. And we hear signs of life being renewed.

So today-- you get music.

One of my professors, also a friend, makes regular pilgrimages to England. The man is an incurable Methodist, and is always seeking to draw fresh inspiration straight from that Methodese well.

He told us one time about making a trip to London and being curious whether or not the Methodist Church in England was still known, as it was in the Wesleys' day, as the "singing church."

So he found someone, a local, and asked where the "singing church" was-- and sure enough, he was given directions to the nearest Methodist congregational meeting house.

I, too, am (United) Methodist, although I would not call myself "incurable." More like a chosen heart space, although sometimes I don't know if I chose it-- or it chose me.

Charles Wesley wrote, by some counts, over 9000 hymns. Many of those hymns had seven or more verses. 

That, friend, is a lot of music. And here is one:

Come O Thou Traveller Unknown

John Wesley referred to himself as a "man of the Book." Arguably, he was so well-read, so curious, so-- hungry that he became a man of many books. 

A man of just about every book he could get his hands on.

Today, United Methodists still see themselves as people of the Book-- or some say, of two books, the second being The Book of Discipline. (Don't get me started.)

But I would offer that we are people of a third book: a hymnal or hymn book or praise book or whatever other music we can get our hands on.

And I would argue that we are in good company to lift our voices in song-- even during Lent.

The Book of Psalms contains 150 psalms covering a veritable plethora of emotions. Beyond Psalms, the Hebrew scriptures contain dozens (at least) of other occasions when Moses, Miriam, Aaron and others offered  words of praise-- or often anguish-- to the Almighty.

To me, The Church is, by definition, a singing church-- whether Methodist or some other ilk. God places joy in our hearts-- and it has to go someplace! So it pours forth from our lips, or leaps forth in wild moments of playful dance.

And-- believe it or not-- the joy doesn't just stop for forty days, just because the calendar says it is Lent.

Reflect? Yes. Remember? Always. Spend time in silence? Absolutely.

But when God gently works God's way into your heart and reminds you that you are God's own beloved-- just because-- and that thought warms your heart and makes you want to sing-- go for it. Let these little children remind you how:

I'm gonna sing!

Maybe this year your Lenten commitment might be to add a little joy to your life-- and share that joy with others, as well. 

Even the rocks will cry out if we keep silent. Even the rocks will cry, "Holy!"

Gracious, joyful Lord, even as we remember the walk to the cross, help us to find joy, deep in our hearts-- but remind us not to keep it buried there. This broken, tired place needs more joy-- and more you. Amen

Perfect Valentine

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, 

“Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”

--John 21:15

It has been "one of those mornings." I opened up my email, began my daily ritual of quiet and devotional time, and it begins. A theme emerges, a common thread that begs to be written about.

Sunday I led worship for the first time since last summer. My passage was the transfiguration (Luke 9:28-36), and even in preparing that sermon, it was beginning. 

But then this morning, first it's Fr. Richard Rohr, then Gordon Crosby, Sally Dyck, and John Ortberg, George MacLeod-- even the conservative devotional Today in the Word all carried this common theme of unconditional love, of seeing the Imago Dei in each person we meet.

So rather than soldier along on my own, feeling the poke of the sharp stick of conviction that I have work to do in this area-- I decided to see if anyone else needs poking.

Fr. Rohr writes of the experience of the "full body-blow" of God's love, and how we are never the same after such an experience. And he also writes of how we try to love God as we are loved-- but we are incapable of doing so. 

But we are capable of loving one another with a love that can forever change the life of another person, and it may be as simple as affirming their identity as a beloved child of God.

UM Bishop Sally Dyck recounts the experience of Sister Helen Prejean as she worked with a man on death row. 

As she sat with him right before his execution, Sister Helen had no words. What could she possibly say at this moment? Then she heard herself saying, "You are a child of God."

And the inmate replied that he had been called many things, but had never been called a child of God.

Never.

No one had ever looked into the eyes of this man long enough or deep enough to affirm the image of God in this fellow traveller-- until his final hours.

And then there was Crosby writing about unconditional love, and MacLeod's discussion of the mystics who loved the world, not by depriving themselves, but by dedicating themselves to serving the world and relieving the suffering of others.

We just never know, do we? We never know who might need a smile, or a quarter for the parking meter, or a shoulder to lean against. And we never know when we might be the one in need.

Love God, love one another as we are loved by God. Sound familiar?

Jesus asks the toughest-- yet simplest-- questions.

"Who do you say that I am?" 

"Why are you afraid?"

"Do you believe I can heal you?"

"Do you love me?"

Now, I suspect that even the non-seminarians among us have heard that when Jesus asked Peter about love, and when Peter responded, in the Greek it was two different kinds of love. Jesus asked for agape, unconditional love, and the best Peter could offer in return was philao, the love a brother has for his brother (or sister). 

The third time the question is posed, Jesus meets Peter where he is, and rather than asking for Peter's unconditional love, instead Jesus asks Peter if he will love Jesus like a brother. Philao.

And that may be the best we can do. 

But if we can truly love one another as brothers and sisters, it just may be enough.

If we can view one another as members of one Divine family, if we can view one another through the eyes of that Father, and love one another accordingly, and treat one another as we would like to be treated ourselves-- it begins to look more and more like agape and philao are not so far apart, after all.

The final "poke" this week came from John Ortberg, from the final chapter of his book God is Closer than You Think. He offers a six-word prayer that could lead to the transformation of the world. Here it is:

Make up there come down here. 

Kind of a shorter, sweeter version of the way Jesus taught his disciples (us) to pray: "Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

Think about it.

Jesus saw people in need of healing-- and he brought the power of heaven to bear in this world and they were healed.

Jesus saw thousands and thousands of hungry people, and he invoked the grace of God-- and they were fed, their bodies and spirits filled to satisfaction.

Jesus saw his friend Peter step out boldly in faith-- and falter and fall, and as Peter cried out to the Lord, Jesus lifted him from the raging waters and saved him. The seas became calm when the Lord so commanded them.

And oh, my, yes-- it was good. And it is good.

Making up there come down here, one fellow traveller at a time.

Seeing a young mother in line at Wal-Mart come up a few dollars short when trying to buy food for her family-- and offering to make up the difference.

Watching a child lose balance on that new bicycle and take a tumble-- and stopping to offer comfort, reassurance, a tissue-- and love. 

Whispering in the ear of a dying loved one that she, too, is a beloved child of God. 

Lent is upon us. So many people give something up during Lent, whether it's chocolate or cigarettes or television. But this year, I would ask you to consider adding something rather than-- or along with-- giving something up.

If you give up chocolate, calculate how much you would have spent otherwise and donate that amount to a charitable organization such as charity:water or a local food kitchen.

If you give up something that occupies your time, such as television or Facebook, spend a similar amount of time helping sort clothing at a clothing bank. Or spend that time in prayer and contemplation, and allow God to reveal where your hands and heart are needed.

Then stand back and watch up there come down here, right before your eyes.

Lord God, make up there come down here. And please-- show me how I can help. Amen.

* * * * *

Ortberg, John. God is Closer Than You Think. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005.

Listen up!

“Be still, and know that I am God." --Psalm 46:10a

(I am fairly certain my choice verse here is a re-run. Maybe that means it is a message we all need to hear-- again.)

I have been running into Brother Lawrence a lot lately, and George MacLeod. 

Brother Lawrence was a monk who never progressed beyond the rank of chief cook and bottle washer, and was all right with that. He is best remembered in a petite book called The Practice of the Presence of God. 

Brother Lawrence found contentment and peace, the very presence of the Almighty, while peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots. He slipped away from the busy-ness of life and rested in the Divine embrace-- doing dishes.

And George MacLeod (1895-1991) is a more contemporary mystic out of the Church of Scotland, who founded the Iona Community. He has written much poetry, many short essays devoted to conversation about the sacrament of the present moment.

Both of these men have been turning up in various readings the past several days. And both of these men are guiding me to a place of slowing down.

So stop for a moment, and think about this: Now is all we've got. We are not guaranteed tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Every moment is a gift from God, and God is in every moment we are given.

George MacLeod suggests that we needn't worry about getting in touch with God, because God is always in touch with us, in every aspect of the lives we lead. 

So this morning-- I took the challenge. And I invite you to go for it, as well.

When you pick up the scrubbie or the sponge, let your senses open to the experience. 

Feel the warmth of the dishwater on your hands. Listen to the scratch-scratch-scratch as you work at getting last night's pasta sauce off the bottom of the pot. Don't overwork it-- it will come off. Allow yourself to enter the moment.

Breathe in the mixed scents of garlic, marinara and lavender dish soap. (I never said it would all be pleasant.)

One of my favorite passages from Rob Bell's first book, Velvet Elvis, was when he pointed out that no one ever went up to Jesus and asked, "So-- how's your spiritual life, Son of God?" No one ever asked that because for Jesus, all life is spiritual. There was no false dichotomy between things of God and things of man. All things, all people, all experiences are of God.

See, here's the deal: 

When God invites us to be still, I don't think that necessarily means to do nothing. Stillness means allowing God to settle within our souls, even when our hands are still busy. Sometimes, for some people, stillness comes especially when our hands are busy. I have a friend who cannot give full attention unless her hands are busy. So during church meetings, she will fold origami or cut scherenschnitte. 

For Brother Lawrence, stillness came while peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots.

Try it. 

If it makes you feel better-- send the rest of the family away while you seek to find the sacrament of the now. It just might give you a new outlook on those mundane chores you really dislike doing, if you think about finding time with God amongst the laundry that needs folding or the potatoes to scrub for dinner.

And there are always opportunities to practice, even if you never feel you will get it right. God is not scoring you. God is simply enjoying the attention.

Heavenly One, help us to seek your presence, not in eternity or the next life, but in each moment, every day we have here, in this place, with you. Amen.

* * * * *

Want to know more?

Brother Lawrence. The Practice of the Presence of God. Whitaker House, 1944.

Bell, Rob. Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2006.

MacLeod, George. Daily Readings with George MacLeod. Ron Ferguson, ed. Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 1991.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scherenschnitte :)

Dude-- it's like. . . .

(Jesus) told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.” 

--Matthew 13:31-32

We recently commemorated the birthday of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in this country, and there have been many, many references to his famous speech, "I have a dream." All this got me to thinking about faith and dreams, and the role imagination takes in a believer's life.

Jesus told so many stories that began, "The Kingdom is like. . . ." It was his way of trying to communicate with his disciples-- and now with us-- what the Kingdom of God is really like. The Kingdom of God goes beyond what we can know; yet there are "touch-points," places where we can begin to make sense or understand the Kingdom, based on what we know about this place.

The Kingdom is like a teeny, tiny seed. It begins small, and takes root, and with proper nurture and care, grows ever stronger in the world.

The Kingdom is like leavening in a dough. A little bit, worked in to the dough, affects the whole batch. Good yeast, good bread. Bad yeast-- flat bread.

The Kingdom is like a treasure in a field, so valuable that a person would give up everything to have a part of it.

All those, and so many more ways in which the Kingdom of God is communicated by the Christ to those who would be part of the Kingdom.

My elephants, the reason I started this blog, offer another way to look at the Kingdom and prayers of the faithful. The Kingdom is like a living room, filled with friends and toothpicks and elephants in the attic.

I like that. It works for me-- but I wonder what works for you?

When you think of the Kingdom of God, how do you imagine it? What things or places or ideas in this world help you envision a Kingdom world?

The Kingdom of God is like . . . a beautiful green field on a perfect summer day? 

The crisp, pristine beauty of a snow-covered mountaintop? 

The sweet crunch of a perfect peach, juice dribbling down your chin on a hot afternoon?

A warm puppy in your lap?

All of the above?

Stop what you're doing for a few minutes. (You've already taken a blog break. I won't tell.) Close your eyes and think about the Kingdom, and how you imagine it. What makes it easier for you to understand what God is doing, in your life and in the world?

Now-- be Jesus for a minute. Can you state it in a sentence, and then explain it so someone else would begin to understand?

This is exactly what we are called to do: to communicate what God is doing in us so that those who do not understand, might come to desire what we've got in our hearts and lives.

And yes-- this is a challenge. Grab a pen, grab a journal. And today's writing prompt is "The Kingdom is like. . . ."

Pray. Now-- go. Write. Tell. Share.

The Kingdom news is like wildfire, spreading from one heart to another burning away the old deadwood, making way for fertile new growth. 

Thank you, God, for imagination, for we know there is nothing we can tell or believe that fully captures the greatness of your work, in us and in the world. Amen

No reservations.

And she gave birth to her firstborn son 

and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, 

because there was no place for them in the inn. --Luke 2:7

Christmas is officially over. Even the Orthodox church has celebrated the holy day. At my house, Christmas went back in the box this morning. The tree is down, the Advent calendar carefully rolled up and tucked away.

So why, you ask, has she chosen this verse from the Christmas season?

When the babe was born, Luke tells us, the inn was crowded. So the ones we call the Holy Family were relegated to the stable. The child of God was wrapped in rags and placed, somewhat unceremoniously, in the manger, the trough where the animals are fed.

All because the inn was crowded. All because way back then, there was no way for the family to "phone ahead" and be sure there would be a place for Mary to deliver her firstborn child.

No reservations.

But really, the whole story has been one of "no reservations," in another sense.

When the angel Gabriel visited Mary and told her God was going to use her as an instrument to carry and birth God's own son, Mary said yes. Now, I do not believe she immediately said yes. I think, beyond her original question ("How can this be, since I am a virgin?"), Mary may have spent a bit of time pondering what Gabriel was telling her. But after she pondered, she said yes. 

"Let it be to me as you have said." No reservations. Her "yes" meant "yes."

When Joseph learned his betrothed was with child, he pondered divorcing her quietly. But again, enter Gabriel. And after Joseph received the explanation through a dream (and I suspect he, too, pondered the words for a bit)-- he said yes. No reservations. Even though it was certainly likely he was subjected to ridicule, his "yes" meant "yes," and he stood by Mary and honored God's plan.

So what about us? How are we doing?

It seems to me that the time to live into Christmas begins-- now. 

We have heard God's promises again. We have listened to stories of angels and shepherds, of cruel kings and foreigners. We have sung carols and lighted candles.

And in the days following, as we moved towards a new year, many of us made promises. (We call them "resolutions.")

Only a few days into the new year, and I suspect many of us are already struggling to keep those promises. We may have over-promised, or perhaps we are finding reasons (excuse) not to follow through.

True confessions: I struggle with this. A lot. But this year, I am trying to take a page from Mary and Joseph's book.

I have not made any resolutions about food or exercise or things like that. 

But I am trying to commit myself, even if it takes some pondering first, to follow as God leads. Preferably with less heel-dragging and excuse-making.

No reservations. Full-on, full-out, risk-taking and trusting. 

And I am, frankly, nervous. Can I really make my "yes" mean "yes"? 

Not maybe, or how about next week-- but yes. 

It is a tough task.

So I didn't put all of Christmas back in the box.

I have a small Nativity carved of olive wood, an all-in-one piece that sat atop the entertainment center throughout Advent and Christmas. I kept it out and moved it over to the center of the hutch in the dining room, where I will see it more often.

I am hopeful that its presence will remind me that Christmas is not a day, or even a season, but a call to a way of living, each and every day.

Gracious God, help us. Lead us to yes. Bring us, each day, to a renewed awareness of how you call us to lives of peace, hope and promise. Amen.