Hope does not Disappoint

Readings: Exodus 17:1-7, Psalm 95, Romans 5:1-11, John 4:5-42

Texts like these, which place a high premium on faith, can be dangerous. I submit that we’re meant to read them as didactic, but not in a prescriptive way: God does not intend for us to doggedly wait at the edge of dehydration for water to be drawn forth from a rock; nor are we meant to rely on Jesus as our only source of refreshing draughts.


God “has our backs,” so to speak, but only insofar as we have enough faith in heaven to do what is requisite and bring our own health about. The stories of Moses and Jesus are successful because their miracles work: Moses offers drink to all in the exodus community; Jesus convinces a Samaritan woman that he is the Jewish messiah and the one true source of “living water.” But it seems certain that these pursuits are successful because of the trust, in God, of those who invoke them.

When Moses dies, Exodus says of him that none have arisen like him, before or after. He who God rescued from death. He who was called upon to incite plagues and free Israel from bondage. He who sat with God on Mt. Moriah and received the law. He who parted the sea. He who drew water forth from a rock.

Moses’s biography is rife with miracles. Certainly Exodus still understands that his grandeur is contingent upon the favor and interaction of God; praising him always involves praising the God behind him. Moses was no magician. He was an Israelite who listened to God, and who fulfilled God’s requests; because he listened, great things happened for all of Israel.

There is a midrash which treats the parting of the Sea of Reeds as a miracle of faith. This retelling says that Moses struck his staff upon the waters as God had commanded, but that nothing happened. As Egypt was fast on Israel’s heels, Moses struck the water again, but again to no avail. The midrash says that it was not until an ordinary Israelite, staffless and noncommissioned as a prophet, waded into the sea trusting God’s promise that the miracle was effected. This Israelite was incautious; no dipping of toes or testing of waters marked his act, but simply a push ahead, until the water covered him, until at last God relented and let the people through. The moral? Have faith without signs. Know without seeing. Do, knowing that it will matter.

Moses’s staff, which was stripped of authority in that midrash, appears in Exodus 17 lauded as the staff that split the sea; it is herein used to bring water forth from a rock. Again, this act’s efficacy relies on the faith of one Israelite, herein Moses. Logic defies any declaration that such behavior works for sating thirst. The people have no reasonable reason to trust it, except insofar as God has said that this is how they’ll find their nourishment.

All of Israel was adrift in the desert, and with nothing to drink (Exodus 17:1). Its people despaired of their situation: out of slavery into certain, anguished death in the desert!, they complained (Exodus 17:3). Moses carried their complaints to God. God promised to stand before the rock at Horeb and, upon Moses’s striking it with the staff, draw enough water forth from it to quench the thirst of all the people.

So Moses does; so it is (Exodus 17:7). Living water flows forth at the will of this invisible, present, active God. The people are “saved.”

The Gospel of John also engages the notion of thirst and spiritual quenching. The miracle in exodus was rendered in literal terms: the bodies of the Israelites needed to be sustained, and this is what the miracle accomplishes, moreso than feeding faith. John is reticent to make such commitments: his chapter speaks both of bodily thirst, as Jesus beseeches the Samaritan woman to address his at the well, and spiritual thirst, which is more metaphorical and to which, the Gospel suggests, faith in Jesus is the answer (John 4:7, 14).

The Jesus in John almost disregards bodily thirst as ultimately important, seeking instead to establish that Jesus himself is the response to all true human need: “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,” he says of the well water, “but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life" (John 4:13-14). Jesus nearly mocks the notion that the water he’s requested of the Samaritan woman can sustain in the way his own “living water” does: he, the messiah, alone can inspire the spirit and truth amongst a worshipful crowd; he, alone, can proclaim all truth (John 4:23, 25).

Such different insights! Read in tandem, these texts could be made to inform improper understandings of one another. In Exodus, the water Moses called forth strengthens the people bodily, and enables them to continue along their journey to promised Israel. In John, the Jesus who gives water via his spirit is less concerned with sustaining the body than he is in maintaining a direct line to God. Miracles feed the body; the messiah feeds the soul. The non-miraculous figures in both chapters benefit from the faith which draws spiritual and bodily satiation forth. God provides. God is trusted to.

I think it is best to defy reading these texts as if they belong to a contiguous narrative meant to validate the person of Jesus as the Christ. Exodus teaches us that, even when we’re in dire straits, God stands before us and answers our needs. John seems to imply that God accomplishes this most in the person of Jesus, who is aware not only of the thirsts of the body, but of those of the soul.  Both belong to a story about what God has bestowed upon the world. Christians locate the greatest manifestation of this in Jesus, but how unfortunate it would be to allow our fervor over him to diminish our awe over other miracles.

“Trust.” “Faith.” What simple values are drawn forth from these miracle stories, these tales of theological clarification. And yet inspiring both virtues seems to be at the heart of each of the stories, so that adding Romans to their midst produces this insight: “we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5). Our greatest needs are to be embraced as opportunities for God to act in our lives.

We are not meant to stand at the edge of the Sea of Reeds, waiting; we are asked to dive in and trust that God will save. We would be misguided to stand at the well and shrug off Jesus’s assertions that he is a messiah simply because the messianic hopes have not been realized; we are asked to believe, and to share our belief. We are not meant to bemoan the needs of our bodies; we are meant to relinquish those needs to God, trusting that none are so great that Heaven cannot, or would not, respond to them.

Water does not always flow at Horeb. The messiah does not always sit at our wells, offering proofs that he is so. The spaces where we need sometimes do not seem to fill in. And yet, we wait. And we trust. And in the meantime, we do. We ackowledge that God saw fit to put water at places other than just Horeb, and we seek it out. We hope that God wrote divine truth on our hearts so that we can trust ourselves to know without hearing. We believe that no need is so great that it cannot be met. We use our faculties, ackowledging them as gifts.

We trust. We do. And God will.


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You Can't Always Get What You Want

Readings:  Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Psalm 32, Romans 5:12-19, Matthew 4:1-11

A column appeared in the New York Times this week from a professor in Oman, a country which, like many Middle Eastern nations, is experiencing citizen unrest. Yet it was unlike accounts from neighboring nations, where the resistance of despots and tyrants led to rejoicing; rather, the writer suggested that his neighbors were out of touch, and were demanding of their leadership petty conveniences which they did not legitimately require.


“We have love for our Sultan,” the writer said, “who brought us out of darkness and honored our rights.” In the streets, the citizens have nonetheless demanded capriciously more; and though their requests seemed to have arisen not out of need, and increasingly were voiced without dignity, the Sultan appeased them. The author of this article was left incensed and embarrassed. Why protest a rule that lacks injustice?

The concept of wanting more than what we have, even in periods of plenty and grace, is familiar to our readings, and to the season of Lent itself. This is a time in which we’re supposed to be especially attuned to the nature of obedience to God; we’re meant to cultivate gratitude and to fast from what is superfluous. To obey, and self-deny, all in order to move closer to the divine.

The concept of obedience lacks obvious appeal. Rules have the dual effect of rendering what they’re built around both forbidden and tantalizing. The truism that we want what we cannot have can be amply backed: we see narratives proving it in the Bible; we’re all too familiar with instances of craving what’s unavailable in our lives, and in the lives of others around us.

Disobedience is a tricky vice, because it is both seductive and stunting. The impulse toward it grows in the spaces which keep us isolated in our humanity, which prevent us from reaching our divine potential. The story of Adam’s disobedience in the garden is as much our story. It bespeaks one human constant. Desire then, as now, seems to sprout with the introduction of a “no.”

It would be too easy to valorize obedience simply by saying that rules exist “for our own good.” That has not always been the case in human history, and we certainly find the biblical rule maker frequently inscrutable. The Hebrew Bible contains 613 mitzvoth, commandments, and while some of them seem to ensure our betterment, the “why?” behind many is not self-evident. The scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel is among many who have asserted that the why is not the point; understanding follows obedience, rather than being its cause.

Our two primordial figures in Eden were placed in a garden replete with sources of sustenance—life was theirs beyond their asking, given without even reference to the worth of the recipients. Eden was unearned; it was a gift. All that was required of them was that they avoid feeding of one tree: “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die” (Genesis 2:16-17). God does not justify this rule, but simply assures that severe consequences would follow the breaking of it.

The “no” appealed to Adam and Eve as persuasively as the serpent. Their desire did not arise out of need; it was born out of curiosity. What might the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil be like? Would the taste of it thrill? What experiences could it impart? Could it make of them gods?

Curiosity was too much for them. They fell quickly from innocence to guilt. And as much as we empathize when we recall the thud, their story is also an appropriate cautionary one for our entrance into Lent. Obedience prepares and strengthens us; it’s the antidote to unnecessary shame and confusion. Obscuring God by following impulses can cause only discord and separation.

What do we want that does not correspond to need? What obscures our views? Man’s rules are not the same as God’s, and we cannot escape the reality that, by maintaining only the imperative to love, our theologies transform obedience into a murky concept.

By helping our neighbors, we obey God; by living in accordance with concern for others, and for ourselves as the recipients of Jesus’s message. Great care seems to indicate obedience. Perhaps when unjust structures are toppled, we reclaim some of our innocence; perhaps we honor it with kind words.

If our first lesson for Lent is to try to obey, our second, heralded by the gospel reading, is to resist grand temptations. Our forty day fast in preparation for Easter recalls Jesus’s temptation in the desert; we effectually stand with him by way of our own ritual self-denials. And yet our temptations are not precisely the same: no one encourages us to make bread of stones, or jump from high places expecting to remain intact, or offers us kingdoms (Matthew 4:3, 6, 9). We have to more carefully discern what is to be resisted.

Jesus resisted the temptations presented to him by recalling the surpassing grandeur of God’s promises: God’s word sustains more than magical bread; God’s love is innate, and is not to be tested; and love of God has preeminence over love of the worldly (Matthew 4:5, 7, 11). The measure by which all temptations are to be measured is obedience alone, simple obedience made easy by confidence in God’s word. We must not overstate our needs; God provides. We must not attempt to beg miracles out of the Divine; they prove nothing which is not already assured. God is great. We stand in amazement at how much we do not need.

Now is a more than appropriate time to reconsider the source of our wants and needs. Streets of gold and unremittent decadence are not Lenten preoccupations; rather, simplicity characterizes these days, a stripping away of all deemed distractionary, all which inhibits our pursuit of godly ways. When life is good, it warrants upward praise; and, in light of God’s love, so much of life is better than we’re willing to see.

Love of others is a primary obedient act. It is as important that we direct our lives in consideration of this with renewed eagerness in coming days. It’s equally important that we avoid distracting ourselves with temptations which, for all their glitter, cannot hope to equal love and its greater implications. When the Sultan is good to his people, it makes little sense to defy him; monarchical language is often applied to God in the Bible, and we have no doubt that God is good. Our lives, then, should be more properly directed by gratitude for what has been given—not only in the gift of God’s son, but in every moment filled with graces untroubled.





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Burdened and Blessed

Readings: Exodus 24:12-18, Psalm 2, Psalm 99, 2 Peter 1:16-21 and Matthew 17:1-9

What does it mean to be chosen by God?


This is the last week before the return of the Lenten season. For forty days, we’ll be asked to dwell with this question in particular connection to the Trinity’s Son. Our focus shifts: from incarnation to atonement. The great gift of God’s love culminates in God’s self-sacrifice.

In our readings this week, multiple mysteries are chronicled and, to some degree, are left without solutions. God causes a column of fire to appear on Sinai, calling Moses forth; Moses enters a cloud and does not emerge for forty days (Exodus 24:18).

As with Jesus’s time in the desert, Moses’s forty days before God remain largely a mystery. We are told that, in this period, he received the law. We assume that much more than this occurred, but it remains concealed.

We know only that the strain and wonder of sitting so intimately with God for so long initiated a lasting transformation in Moses. From the time he left the cloud, and for the remainder of his life, he had to be veiled; the sight of him, of a man burdened, or blessed, with residual holiness, was deemed too much for the people of Israel.

Or maybe it was simply too difficult for Moses to bear. He was never a fan of the ostentatious; he begged that God choose someone else to fulfill his prophetic duties. Heavy of mouth, heavy of tongue, he claimed: I’m not the one you want for this. But the burden and the blessing were his. Whether he’d desired it or not, Moses’s transformation on Sinai was bestowed upon him, and it eternally set him apart.

A burden, and a blessing. If Moses had not been chosen to go before God, to endure and emerge from those forty days bearing revelatory gifts, we would not have the law. Our understanding of God’s relationship to humanity would be incomplete. Israel could not have wholly understood itself. And yet for Moses, these blessings have great costs: never again would he be in perfect company with mankind.

Those who have stood before God are changed. Those who have heard God’s voice are different. We receive their news with spiritual hunger, take it in out of a desire to know God, but if we ask ourselves the question of whether we need to stand with Divinity as the prophets have done in this life, our answers may unsettle us. Do we want to know so much that we crave, with knowledge, the irruption it brings?

Jesus redoubles the enigma of humans-before-God. Not only one chosen to stand in God’s presence, Jesus is said to himself be God enfleshed. The Gospel of John renders him as the Word which was with God, always, which had a hand in creation, which is the hope of the world. With the exception of the Transfiguration, this being man-and-God instead of man before God had the effect of normalizing Jesus’s outward humanity; but what was inward, what was divine, remained undetectable to curious human eyes.

Jesus knew God always. The strain of having to face Heaven, in a variety of situations, did not force him to begin his human life again. He was formed differently; what mere men could not endure without being visibly taxed, Jesus was formed to endure.

And because the outward sign of divine contact was something that Jesus could choose to assume, rather than something he was forced to bear: Jesus, unlike the prophets, could choose where, and how, his connection to Heaven became outwardly manifest; he could selectively determine who it was that witnessed it.

In our Gospel reading for the week: his viewership is sparse. Three alone watch as, upon a mountain, Jesus’s whole countenance transforms: all he wears turns white, and light emanates forth from him (Matthew 17:2). Even more so than the miracles, this is an outward sign of his inward divinity. It’s a moment in which they’re forced to confront, beyond doubt and equivocation, the reality that Jesus was something entirely different from who, and what, they were.

Jesus’s Transfiguration was amplified by the moments-later appearance of Moses and Elijah. He now stood before three of his disciples with the greatest prophets of earlier ages. They knew that he was different; their familiarity with what differentiation cost Moses and Elijah afforded them greater clarity regarding what may have been next for Jesus.

If he was a prophet, much would be asked of him; much would be given through him; and, most troublingly, there would be no comfortable place for him in common society.

Perhaps out of pity, or out of fear for Jesus, Peter offered to build Jesus and the other prophets dwelling places on the mountain (Matthew 17:4). Presumably, they could use such spaces either as havens for the receipt of prophecy, or as a home apart, or as both; Peter offered a form of protection for these blessed, chosen figures.

Before that offer could be confronted, more mysteries were revealed. Jesus was different; his difference was akin to that of the prophets; but he was not a prophet alone.

The witnesses to the transfiguration, having accepted that the light of Heaven was in Jesus, having seen the great prophets of old standing beside him, were now triply challenged with the emergence of a voice from the skies, one which demanded that they acquiesce to one last divine mystery: that Jesus was God’s only child (Matthew 17:5). They’re asked to stand witness to this revelation, but also to keep it secret until “after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead” (Matthew 17:9).

The greatest mysteries remained to be revealed: the man they now knew as the Child of God had yet to retreat to the desert and be tested, to ride into Jerusalem, and to face a tribunal and an execution. They had no sense of any this yet. They knew only that God was with them, and that the implications would be vast. Great blessings were on the horizon; but for the prophet and Son who had been revealed, great burdens were similarly inevitable.

We are not asked to meditate too thoroughly upon our own self-worth in connection to coming atonement. That flesh is weak and beyond perfection is a given; if we could magically make ourselves worthy of God, there would be no need of prophets, and no endless sin to atone for. Moses is given over to God, and what he delivers is a grace to us; so too is Jesus. We have much to be grateful for.

And still: it does not hurt to take time to reflect, and to stand in gracious deference to the considerable sacrifices human beings, and beings both divine and human, have made in order to offer us a glimpse of God’s love. Without them, what would we know? And to be them: how great a tribulation?

God’s ways remain a mystery. We are assured that Heaven’s love for us is great. We have only to accept the burden of proof with gratitude.

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From Libya to Lilies of the Field

Readings: Isaiah 49:8-16a, Psalm 131, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5, Matthew 6:24-34

At moments, this week’s readings feel like a prayer for today.


We believe: we have the right to live in a world which acknowledges and honors the dignity of all human beings. This belief arises from the same place which feeds our faith in God. It’s woven into us, it seems; it sustains us, and translates into compelled action when we’re most in need.

It is also foundational to democracy, and expresses the dearest hopes and visions of the monotheistic traditions. In the States we’ve called that dignity a grace, and an inalienable one: our founding documents credit the creator with instilling our human drive to pursue full lives, full enjoyment of our liberties, and happiness. We accept freedom as a given, and here, we’ve frequently been fortunate enough to enjoy it.

The global events of the last month serve as a reminder that there are still those who would deny that all are endowed with dignity, or that political systems should be constructed in a way which honors them. Our attention has been repeatedly drawn to the reality that tyrants still abound. But the reactions of our brothers and sisters in the world community to their various oppressions have also renewed the idea that our drive to be free is innate.

In Tunisia, first, oppressive regimes were protested; then Egyptians awed the world by collectively and forcefully protesting their dictator out of office. Shows of support in Tehran evolved into protests on behalf of the Iranian people themselves; and now, in Libya, we see another brutish leader begin to fall. Our mutual humanity compels our celebration for those who now, because of their own persistence and principles, have new possibilities before them. In the Middle East and Africa, in places which mere weeks ago acknowledged no inborn human excellence, the citizenry have become effulgent. They humble us all.

Our readings in scripture this week exalt them, among all who have ever been shackled by arbitrary systems, alongside all who have ever preferenced defending the human spirit above everyday concerns. We celebrate what’s happening across the globe; the word of God celebrates all such movements with us.

In Isaiah, YHWH says, in some favorable time, “I have answered you [supplicating people]”(Isaiah 49:9). That answer came in the form of freed prisoners, people plucked from the darkness; the spiritually hungry were enabled to “feed along the ways all the bare heights…their pasture;” we are assured that “they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs of water will guide them” (Isaiah 49:9-10).

The pitying person has entered history in a number of forms. Jewish Messianic hopes look forward to this figure, and have seen hints of it in various great historical figures. These weeks in the East, pitying people rose up amongst the people, and soon outnumbered the tyrants by many—people have been led into freedom with themselves as guides, their own human ingenuity to thank. And we certainly know that, in the distant past and now with us always, that pitying freedom-giver was Christ himself.

We are all God’s, Isaiah tells us, and the Divine does not forget its children: “I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands” (Isaiah 49:15-16). That we are God’s and that God loves us does not always translate into history in the ways we might hope; seas are not always parted for the oppressed, nor does manna always fall from Heaven to feed the hungry. But we’re not forgotten; God desires our freedom, even when we must use what has been given to us to pursue it ourselves. And God looks forward to these days of great success, and rejoices in them: “Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing!” (Isaiah 49:13)

We’re learning from our brethren, and also from the scriptures. What has happened in Egypt, in Tunisia, in Iran and in Libya could not have occurred without human initiative. None of the movements has been entirely without its troubles, and some have been lost along the way; we can mourn that while simultaneously standing in deference before the strikingly simple beauty of vast groups of people asserting their rights to be recognized and respected.

The media have made us privy to various awesome sites from these protests and movements, which at the same time seem to remain unplagued by the unnecessary: like lilies of the field, like birds of the air, these groups of people have shelved concerns about creature comforts and appurtenances in favor of dealing with what’s immediate (Matthew 6:28, 26).

The gospel reading assures us that no being can serve two masters, a truth any person who strives to be free knows fully (Matthew 6:24). The regimes which are falling across the globe might have remained, if citizens beneath them had valued maintaining the unhappy status quo above human dignity; they continue to fall because people are serving, instead, freedom. They fall because the human impulse is toward grace and not false servitude.

The inclination toward grace, which is embraced as we struggle for freedom, seems to be spreading rapidly without abating. It’s skipping from nation to nation, and it’s something to behold. Our readings anticipate such flourishings as a consequence of God’s great love, and celebrate them at length; they choose such godliness above the “wealth” of temporal holdings.

We’re prevented, by space and other factors, from joining directly in the protests, but we can continue to awe, with the scripture as our cantor or the leader of our prayers, and to offer what support we can.

We can offer to our distant brothers and sisters the small gift of our remembrance, and the benefit of our prayers. We can, from the humble position of our different situations, say with the Psalmist: “O Lord, my eyes are not raised too high…I do not [pre]occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me…But I have calmed and quieted my soul” (Psalm 131:1). What the protestors are accomplishing is its own gift; it reminds us that God did, indeed, make a great world, one which, though frequently muddled by misfortune, nonetheless has the potential to be the dwelling place of greatness.

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"Si, se puede!" (It can be done) -Cesar Chavez

Readings: Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18, Psalm 119:33-40, 1 Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23, Matthew 5:38-48

I sometimes find myself confused by the popular political rhetoric, which seems to suffer from a lack of self-awareness. We’re probably all familiar with the claims we Americans like to make about ourselves and our nation, among them the popular declaration that we’re a centrally Judeo-Christian nation. Unfortunately, this designation is pointed to with the most fervor not when we’re promoting issues of justice, but when we’re striving to make our image more exclusive.


We’re made to live in fear of prayer being taken out of school, told that it’s foundational despite its relatively new introduction into public education realms. We’re asked to consider what life would look like if we took God’s name off of our currency, removed a line from the pledge, or extracted Decalogue effigies from our courthouses. When people protest such exclusive iconography, daring to suggest that it flies in the face of truly democratic ideals, they’re subject to scorn, or even denounced as harbingers of the apocalypse.

People truly want to believe we’re a Christian country. But why does it seem that people only want to make this claim in order to draw lines in the sand: to limit marriage, to prevent mosques from being built, to force the recitation of a name that all people do not know? Do we truly believe such behavior pleases God, or is a benefit to heaven? And why is it that the desire to see the stars and stripes as a Christian banner seems to fade when the issue at hand is not a stamp on a bill, but the well-being of our neighbors?

We cannot claim to be Judeo-Christian if we’re willing to eschew the values which really are in scripture. One which appears in both of testaments today is that of care for our neighbors, clearly seen among foreigners. Across both traditions, the holy books demand that we care for the foreigners in our midst: Leviticus 19 counts among God’s mitzvoth the imperative to feed our guests, declaring “you shall not strip your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the alien” in the name of God (Leviticus 19:10).

The word “alien” is a very specific one within Hebrew; there can be no doubt that this evokes concern for those foreign to Israel, visitors from abroad. The chapter goes on to demand that God’s people not profit from the blood of their neighbors, and, critically, that they love them as equal to themselves (Leviticus 19:16, 18).

The Israelites knew what it was like to live as foreigners in a strange nation. Perhaps in these moral precepts we can hear echoes of the pains they suffered under unwelcoming communities: inability to properly celebrate their religious traditions; relegation to the most obscured factions of society; the mark of “other”, somehow emblazoned upon them abroad, so that they’re never really integrated, never really given a seat at their neighbor’s tables. It’s easy to understand why, after the Exodus, they’d find these Levitican laws particularly poignant: having suffered as immigrants, how could they ever justify causing an immigrant to suffer?

Our gospel reading shares this awareness. The word of Jesus, as given in Matthew, also is compelled by the notion that selfless love is supreme. We give it without demanding equal measure; we love others to acknowledge their equal dignity. And so if someone asks of us our coat, we are to give them coat and cloak; if someone begs from us, we are not to refuse (Matthew 5:40, 5:42). We’re to give as is requested of us, and then go beyond.

These verses address only what is asked of us; they do not address the unasked of, or basic justices. But they certainly expect us to anticipate those needs and address them with the same fervor. Love is to become second nature.

This extends to expanding our notion of “neighbor,” stretching our notions of the word to include not only those with whom we’re familiar, but all, and everywhere: “And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?” (Matthew 5:47) A Christian family does not exclude; all belong to it, including those who we don’t initially think to welcome. In fact, we’re perhaps to be particularly attentive to their inclusion; leaving some at the margins because of limited imaginations is not acceptable.

These are, as is said, truly “Judeo-Christian” principles. We are to feed the foreigner; letting a foreigner go hungry defies God’s law. We’re to love them. We’re to make sure our societies are not constructed in a way which leads to profiting from their misfortune. We’re to see that their basic needs are met. We are, in the end, to see "aliens" as neighbors, refusing to give the term “alien” power; we are to make them family.

And so I wonder how sincere the pundits are when they insist that we remain true to our Judeo-Christian principles, while in the same breath insisting we further alienate already marginalized people. If “Judeo-Christian” defines our value system: we could not continue with the immigration policies which are becoming pervasive, and steadily worse.

I beg attention to the scriptures, read in a world that purports to take them seriously. This week in Arizona, a public official proposed modifying the legal system to make immigration status checks requisite at hospitals. The implications of this are obvious. A mother should not be made to choose between rushing her ill child to the emergency room and facing deportation, or gambling with her child’s health; a person should not be made, moreover, to make that choice even if “only” they are at stake. A law like this would necessarily have blood on its hands, but seems to be moving forward because the blood at stake is “only” that of the Other, the foreigner, the “criminal.” From a truly Judeo-Christian perspective, this is unintelligible.

So are all other modifications of law which seek to alienate: compulsory identification checks which arbitrarily only affect those who “look” foreign; promotion of linguistic exclusion backed by the state; erasure of figures who promote immigrant rights from our histories; erasure of faces that look Other from our personal perspective.

We profit from the blood of our neighbors when we stifle attempts to make immigrant worker rights more just, or amnesty more difficult to attain. We refuse to love when we preference, above compassion, the argument that “they should just come here legally,” ignoring how difficult a demand that is, and how infrequently a timely option.

If we want to value legality over love of our neighbors, we have that option. But we simultaneously have to realize that choosing to do so is at odds with the scriptures. It is not a Judeo-Christian choice. If we want to claim to be a nation that loves God: we need to evaluate the choices we make in the name of “preserving” our nation more critically.

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Fire and Water

Readings: Deuteronomy 30:15-20,  Sirach 15:15-20, Psalm 119:1-8, 1 Corinthians 3:1-9, Matthew 5:21-37

When running for president, Jimmy Carter once confessed that, while he’d never bodily cheated on his wife, he was guilty of lusting in his heart. This came to light in an interview he did with Playboy, and opened him up to a steady string of quips and jokes that has never quite abated: in connection to the magazine, or perhaps just in general, people found this declaration to be quaint, even puritan. But Carter wasn’t going far off the books in drawing this distinction; in fact, he drew the notion of lust as adultery directly from scripture.


Carter knew then, and has amply proven since, that despite the grandeur of his career he’s only ever been just human. He thought himself qualified for the highest office in the nation; but he also considered himself a Christian, and drew from that association a need for deep humility, and a recognition that trying hard doesn’t always result in moral perfection. We learn from our readings today that, as Carter reminded us, it’s not enough to have avoided the deed; we have to expunge the desire from our consciousness.

We’re driven by seemingly different theological realities: we’re given gospel imperatives to clothe ourselves in humility and strive for moral perfection; simultaneously, the example of Jesus as the only living being who has ever achieved perfection, and who derived it from his divine nature and hardly from his humanity, assures us that we’re destined not to get there in our lifetime. Atonement became necessary because humanity could not; God did for us what we proved incapable of doing ourselves.

So, what are these verses and their repeated dualities? Are they invitations to throw up our hands in despair over our inherent depravity and give up trying? Are they an excuse for checking out of moral discussions and doing what we will, because Jesus has done the hard work for us anyway? Some have interpreted them so; there are Christian traditions which have believed that Jesus’ erasure of sin was so total that nothing we do, even decidedly negative things, can have the slightest impact: salvation is assured despite us.

But we’ve always wanted, in general, to believe something more complex—that the gift of atonement is not despite us, but wholly for us: a gift of grace so thorough that attempting to deserve it threatens the fragility of its beauty, and risks obscuring God’s great love. Whether we deserve what God gives is a moot question—we know we cannot; whether we can bring ourselves to live in grateful light of it is the more rewarding, and complex, task.

So we’re showered with dualities this week, as a reminder. Deuteronomy gives us the classic, life and death: “If you obey…by loving the LORD your God and walking in [God’s] ways,…then you shall live and become numerous; but if your heart turns away…you shall perish,” we’re told, in the shadow of Sinai, with the glorious history of the exodus looming (Deuteronomy 30:16, 18). We know that this dual image is more than what it starkly denotes: at Sinai and beyond, human beings have proved themselves never entirely collectively capable of either always obeying, or even always loving, God. We’re human creatures; we cannot generate perfection; even when we try our hardest, we don’t make it entirely there.

Deuteronomy knows that moral perfection isn’t a summit that humans can reach, and mark; it locates success in the climb. At every turn, Deuteronomy says, life and death, blessings and curses are before us; are job at every moment is to choose life, and choose life, and choose it again. And the Torah knows that we will sometimes falter, but does not suggest that a stumble is eternal; there still remains the task of the next turn, to choose again.

Sirach fleshes out these complexities by offering that God, though in divine wisdom knowing that we’ll sometimes falter, gives no one permission to sin; the choice between “fire and water” is available, but we’re expected to choose water, to choose that which feeds a life in God (Sirach 15:20, 16). When we manage to choose it, we briefly transcend the fleshly existence Paul talks of—water represents the realm of God, obscurity and moral thirst is the realm of humans (1 Corinthians 3:3). And Matthew explores how complex the choice is: not always black and white, the nuances of our choices are innumerable and sometimes difficult to discern, so that adultery is not, as Carter intimated, simply one kind of thing, but is even implicit in the movement towards a kind of thing; so that swearing falsely doesn’t happen simply when the words leave your mouth, but begins when it occurs to a person simply to swear by anything (Matthew 5:27,28, 34).

Simultaneous to the introduction of any choice are the twin births of choosing righteously, and choosing brokenly; we can choose brokenly, the option is always there. Part of our job as Christians is to discern the correct option, and embrace it; but faith alone is not a guarantee that we’ll be able to do this inerrantly. The Bible serves as a guide, but believing that we’re always perfectly familiar with its guidance reflects arrogance bound to trip us up.

It is sometimes painful to admit that our politicians have the ability to, on occasion, utter truths. It seems to contradict what we’ve come to expect of their jobs; it defies the cynicism we’ve come to find implicit in political discussions. But all of us, in all positions, remain only human; presidents, like us all, have choices before them, between fire and water, between stoking poor inclinations and putting them out. Carter repeated an important truth in the Christian story in his infamous interview, and it’s one that has deserved its repetition; not because it exposed him as a curiosity or an anomaly, but because it exposed him as a Christian, as a person trying. It’s not our place to judge how successful he’s been at those pursuits; we have only to remember that the intricate obedience he alluded to is something we, too, should pursue.

photo credit here

Light of the World

Readings: Isaiah 58:1-9a , Psalm 112:1-9,1 Corinthians 2:1-12, Matthew 5:13-20

A priest is excommunicated for marrying and abandoning his chastity vows, while a pocket history emerges of a priest whose sins were covered.


A group with “Church” prominently in their name responds to a shooting which the nation called tragic by protesting at a young victim’s funeral, using scripture to assert that the act was divine retribution for any number of unconnected “errors”.

Discontented bishops from alternate denominations reunite, finding common ground in their want to preserve “tradition” by excluding some from Christian community.

Someone from one religion stones another because of a perceived abomination; someone from a religion beats another within their religion for an assumed breech with faith.

We hear such stories exhaustingly often. We hear the people who make such decisions defending them by quoting the Bible, or other holy texts; we hear them say they aren’t at fault, they’re just protecting the law, just upholding God’s word. And at times, because of them, the idea of Christianity as a just religion becomes difficult to prove.

But our readings this week remind us that such readings of the scriptures are neither natural nor pious. Whether you consider the Bible the unfiltered word of God or an account of God’s interactions with the world, there’s a disconnect when someone attempts to utilize the divine story to quash and humiliate others, or to, with great aplomb and self-righteousness, put people in their place. It’s upsetting to note how infrequently we hear references in the public discourse to God’s word which are comforting or which encourage love; instead, it’s “God hates--!” or “God is coming to judge you!” or “God’s word condemns the following people.” Why don’t we report verses like those in this week’s readings to one another? When did we stop wanting to proclaim the good news?

In Matthew, Jesus enjoins us not to let our verve, or the “saltiness of our salt,” fade away; rather, we’re to be a burning light for all the world, are to evidence God’s love: “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16). We are to be good, we are to be righteous, we are never to discourage observing the “letter of the law”—but we know that the heart of the law, in Jesus’ understanding, is pure, agenda-free love for one another.

When we observe people behaving cruelly to others in the name of God’s love, it probably strikes us as false; it certainly isn’t coherent in light of Jesus’ message. What light, what burning truth, is detectable in “hate the sin, love the sinner” equivocations? Jesus doesn’t ask us to be a “sort of” light, and in fact tells us not to dim the light of love with obstructions—Matthew 5:15--; he demands that we love boldly, that we shine in plain view. Doing that requires shelving what we presume to know about other people’s relationships with God; it requires allowing spiritual privacy.

Our Isaiah passage perhaps articulates this best. In it, the prophet responds to the inquiries of those who ostentatiously yield to the law and wonder why they aren’t reaping rewards for those “good” deeds: “Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day, and oppress all your workers.

Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist. Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard on high” (Isaiah 58:3-4). Obedience for show is empty; shouting about righteousness without confronting actual injustices leaves one at a spiritual impasse. Do we allow our neighbors to starve, beg and scrape while we campaign, instead, to outlaw “behavior” we don’t like, or “choices” we don’t understand? If we do: how can we claim to be doing God’s work?

Isaiah, knowing that empty obedience is not faithful, but a vice, clarifies what the law actually requires. Fast days don’t exist so that we can individually prove how tough we are, or so that we can brag about how much we “give up” to God; fasting, Isaiah says, isn’t about the fasting individual at all. We forget our insular needs and are to concentrate on a whole people: “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?” (Isaiah 58:6-7)

It would be so wonderful if we could enact this, particularly in light of approaching Lent, during which Christian communities actively encourage fasting with increased volume. More powerful than denying ourselves meat or other amenities would be making sure that someone who needs food has it; more powerful than hours prostrate in prayer would be participation in movements which seek justice for the marginalized. There’s certainly profundity in giving ourselves over, lovingly, to God, and in self-denying to do so; but beyond the personal and the private is a dimension wherein we could do the same God-focused work to the benefit of others. That’s the space the scriptures encourage us to occupy.

To an extent, the clamoring crowds of those who do hurtful things in God’s name are right: our world is rife with spiritual dangers. But it seems that we’re most at peril when we preemptively determine that those dangers lie strictly on the shoulders of others, that because we are “saved” we know better than to do ill. The opposite seems true: believing that because we love God we don’t err against God blinds us to the realities of God’s people still in need. We need to examine issues we can affect with heightened concentration: if our neighbor’s can’t afford medical services, what does their suffering cost God? If our neighbors are reviled and belittled for loving people we would not choose, how does that limit the notion of heavenly love? What do tyrants abroad do to God’s communities; what does prejudice here cost them?

There are no easy answers, and we have to be wary of people who attempt to give them. The constant struggle to do what is right, to seek and mirror God’s light, is the hardest requirement incumbent upon Christians. It necessitates “fasting” from our personal inclinations and placing love above judgment, so that we can truly respond to the needs of others and be “like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail,” whose “light shall break forth like the dawn” (Isaiah 58:11, 8). We have to simultaneously reject the claims of those who call themselves God’s own but encourage petty cruelties and constantly refine our own sensibilities; we have to argue for justice and be justice, too. No small task; certainly no containable one.

What the scriptures knew of true light is this: contained and limited, it burns out quickly; tended and fed, it grows and illuminates, and eventually attracts the attention it warrants.
photo credit here