6:16 Make a roof for the ark, and finish it to a cubit above; and put the door of the ark in its side; make it with lower, second, and third decks. 17 For my part, I am going to bring a flood of waters on the earth, to destroy from under heaven all flesh in which is the breath of life; everything that is on the earth shall die. 18 But I will establish my covenant with you; and you shall come into the ark, you, your sons, your wife, and your sons' wives with you. 19 And of every living thing, of all flesh, you shall bring two of every kind into the ark, to keep them alive with you; they shall be male and female. 20 Of the birds according to their kinds, and of the animals according to their kinds, of every creeping thing of the ground according to its kind, two of every kind shall come in to you, to keep them alive. 21 Also take with you every kind of food that is eaten, and store it up; and it shall serve as food for you and for them." 22 Noah did this; he did all that God commanded him. 9:8 Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, 9 "As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, 10 and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. 11 I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth." 12 God said, "This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: 13 I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. 14 When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, 15 I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. And so it begins... The narrative lectionary cycle begins this week with the story of Noah. (For those of you following the lectionary, I've sorted out some "chapters" for the year. You can find it here.) Not the whole story but the pieces that indicate God's promise both to destroy and then never to destroy in this manner again. The sign of this covenant is the rainbow in the sky. Now, we understand that a rainbow is the refraction of the sunlight amidst water. But Noah saw this colorful bow in the sky and God gave it meaning for Noah. Remember that Noah, upon hearing this new covenant, decided to plant a vineyard. And as soon as it yielded, he got good and drunk. I've always thought this a reasonable response to the amount of destruction Noah witnessed. And if I were honest, I would almost rather preach about the destruction and chaos in the world. I'd like to hold Noah up to the light and see how our colors are seen in Noah just as God's colors are seen in the rainbow. All of the colors of the rainbow. Was this rainbow truly a sign of promise to Noah? When he saw the rainbow did he see the promise to never flood the earth again or did he remember that God flooded the earth once? Memorials are not simple. Memorials are complex. Memorials conjure myriad memories. What memorials are important to you? How do you remember God's promises in your life? Do you have certain rituals that serve to remind you of God's promises or God's presence or God's provision? This week is a communion is many of our churches, a meal that is meant to remind us - of what exactly? Does it remind us of Jesus' last meal with his friends? Or is it a reminder of God's promise of a new covenant? Or is this meal about Jesus' death, Jesus' life or is it about the kingdom of God gathered - a hopeful meal? For sure, if we were to ask those who gather on Sunday around the communion table, what is the meaning of this table? We would get myriad answers. Memorials are complex.
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Finishing a series on elements of the earth: the meanings and metaphors found in the scriptures. This week is Land. The texts I've chosen are: Genesis 2:4b-15, Deuteronomy 5:32-6:3, Mark 4:26-32. They provide a mix of the use of the word for ground, adamah in the Hebrew. In the first, man or adam, comes from the adamah, ground. And adam is given responsibility for working and serving the ground. In the second, the people are reminded of a promise that if they keep the statues of the Lord, then it will go well with them on the ground, or in the land. The last text is the parable of the mustard seed, small and yet with large potential when placed in the ground. What does it mean to us, for us that we are from the ground? Created, as told in the second creation story, from the ground, of the ground. We share the DNA as it were of the earth beneath our feet. In the height of the farming season, August in NJ is lush. Everything is green and fruitful. Tomatoes are plentiful; sweet corn if available on every other corner. Peaches and cantaloupe are served for dessert. We share the DNA of this fruitful place we call home. We have lost so much connection to this home of ours though. The earth and its land seem distant, they are separate from us. It seems we are runaways of sorts. We have created life and livelihoods away from the land. Our food goes through many hands, and comes to us often from distant factories. We drive through this home of ours in our individual climate controlled vehicles. I would argue that not only are we disconnected from the land outside of ourselves, we are disconnected from the fiber of our own beings. Our physical life, our breath, our skin, our nerves and joints often go unnoticed or if noticed, medicated so as to be unnoticed. Stop for a second and breath a few times. Seriously, stop. Feel your insides. What's going on? Is your breath even, or is it choppy? Scan your body starting at your feet. Wiggle your feet. Roll your ankles. Bend your knees. Take a breath and imagine blood circulating through your legs. Shift in your seat. Twist your torso. Stretch your arms overhead and take another deep breath. As you breathe out, rest your arms at your side. Roll your shoulders - front and then back. Turn your head side to side. Breathe again. Close your eyes. Open them. Close them again for longer and imagine blood up your arms and around your heart. Feel for your stomach. Can you find it in your inner mind? Or how about your lungs? Turn your attention to your ears. Listen. What sounds are around you right now? This body of ours is our home, made from the land. Called to serve the land. Given the promise of the land. A land that is lush and fruitful. We are lush and fruitful. We have the potential to grow into more than we imagine. All we need is a proverbial mustard seed. What that might be for you and your community? I went off lectionary before Easter and then life got crazy and exciting as I led two churches to merge this past spring and summer. I'm back in the preaching saddle again, although the narrative lectionary doesn't start for a few more weeks. I'm in a four week series that teaches a form of literary interpretation called bricolage. Bricolage is the act of taking diverse things and allowing them to speak to one another to create meaning. I've chosen to use this method to look at how the scriptures speak about the elements of the earth: water, fire, wind and land. This week is Fire.
I'm drawn to the Malachi passage along with the Numbers passage. But am stumped by the fire that calls us and the fire that ultimately devours us. I think I'm letting go of the "us." Perhaps the eternal fire with weeping and gnashing of teeth is first hyperbole and second not about individuals but about behavior, ideas, systems, and the aspects of our world that are not "good."
If so, then what of our offerings? What of our gifts to the alter? How are these behaviors, ideas, gifts and sacrifices from us (individually but moreso collectively) righteous or made righteous? One thing remains true, the purifying process is universally felt. But we may have been misinterpreting the purpose of the refinement, the goal of the sacrifice and how when we see something on fire, we are drawn to examine it. So the soldiers, their officer, and the Jewish police arrested Jesus and bound him. First they took him to Annas, who was the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest that year. Caiaphas was the one who had advised the Jews that it was better to have one person die for the people. The unnamed disciple was known to the high priest and so they let him join Jesus for the questioning with Annas, the father of Caiphas. But that left Peter outside the gate and so the unnamed disciple talked to the woman guarding the gate and she let Peter into the courtyard. Not into the questioning room with Jesus, Annas and the unnamed disciple. But into the courtyard where the police who arrested Jesus were... and where this woman was. The one who let Peter in. The dialogue reads like the woman asked Peter if he was a disciple as she was opening the gate for him, "you're not one of his disciples too, are you?" A negative question, said in disbelief. I wonder if Peter didn't look like one of Jesus' disciples. What was a disciple of Jesus supposed to look like? Was Peter unlike the unnamed disciple in some way that made the woman (also unnamed) ask this question. I know we always focus on Peter's denial but I got hung up on the fire actually and that made me start thinking about the people around the fire. The guard (who is a woman and I'm really caught off guard by that fact), the police and now Peter. Blue collar folks out in the courtyard around a charcoal fire while the high priest's father does some preliminary hearing of Jesus and an unnamed disciple who belonged inside rather than outside. She asks, "You aren't you one of him, are you?" He says, "No." Slipping into her assumptions about him. But then the others around the fire ask too, all in the negative. All not believing he would be a follower of this person Jesus. He again uses their assumptions to deny who he has become. And a final question comes from the slave of the high priest, a relative of the one who Pete had cut his ear off... what are the odds? He says, "didn't I see you?" Again in the negative but more pointed, like he believes Peter is lying. Does Peter remember seeing this man in the garden? Does he wonder about the implications of lying here in the courtyard among this crowd? He denies again. I'm not who you think I am. Meanwhile on this inside, Jesus is being asked who he is. Annas asks about his teaching and Jesus suggests he should've done more homework. His teachings are widely known and have been done in public. Annas should ask others what Jesus has taught. His response was considered disrespectful and a police told him so by striking him. Mind your manners. Who do you think you are talking like that to the high priest? Jesus says, If I am wrong. Testify to the wrong. He takes nothing back that he's said. He wants them to testify to what they hear. He wants a conversation. He wants to know what it is about him that they are arresting. He wants their prosecutorial argument. He puts the responsibility on the hearers. Testify, he tells them. And they say nothing. On the inside, they are being asked to speak their truth. On the outside, Peter is being asked to speak his truth. And Jesus is giving no answers. He's already spoken - in public, in the open. Now it is up to the hearers to do the speaking. What have they seen and heard? What have we seen and heard? Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’ After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one anothers' feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. As research for her book Nickeled and Dimed, journalist Barbara Ehrenreich "left behind her middle class life as a journalist except for $1000 in start-up funds, a car and her laptop computer to try to sustain herself as a low-skilled worker for a month at a time. In 1999 and 2000, Ehrenreich worked as a waitress in Key West, Fla., as a cleaning woman and a nursing home aide in Portland, Maine, and in a Wal-Mart in Minneapolis, Minn. During the application process, she faced routine drug tests and spurious "personality tests"; once on the job, she endured constant surveillance and numbing harangues over infractions like serving a second roll and butter. Beset by transportation costs and high rents, she learned the tricks of the trade from her co-workers, some of whom sleep in their cars, and many of whom work when they're vexed by arthritis, back pain or worse, yet still manage small gestures of kindness." As I read Jesus' demonstration of service, I'm wondering about the servant whose job it was to wash their feet that evening. Where was she? Had Jesus given her the night off or was she off to the side watching Jesus do her job? Were the disciples also glancing up at with a sort of disdain that she had clearly taken too long to get to their feet that Jesus now was doing it. How inappropriate? In my mind, she could be the beautiful Latina woman, whose name I confess to have forgotten, who cares for the building in which I live. Or she could be one of the everyday waitresses at the diner I frequent, whose name is Terry. Or if the servant that evening was a man, he could be one of the nameless men who clean the inside of my car after I take it through the car wash. Or the young man at the gas station the other day who cleaned my windshield for me. I made sure to say thank you but I didn't think to ask his name. I try to imagine Jesus, a Palestinian Jewish man in his early 30's caring for my building, or taking me and my friends' order for lunch on Thursday, or washing my windows while he pumps my gas. He took his robe off and took the role of a servant. And although we can say we don't have official servants anymore, let's be honest - of course we do. We just don't call them that. We pay below a living wage to a certain population to do tasks that we either don't want to do or don't have time to do or would simply make our lives easier. And I'm passing no judgment here, I'm simply walking into the text. The scene shows a group of people at a table depending on others to serve them at the table. Others will prepare the meal, serve the meal, wash their feet, clean up from the meal. Jesus chose to take one of those tasks from a servant. He upset the class system. And everyone in the room was provoked to evaluate their status in the room. And then when he was finished, he put his robe back on and took his seat at the table. Resetting the class system. And he asked them, "Do you know what I have done to you?" Before we go onto the final statements in the text, answer that question, "What does this do to us?" When we read this story and imagine Jesus upsetting the class system like this, What does it do to us? Yes, it teaches that I ought to serve one another. That I ought to figure out what washing feet means in my context. But on a very simple level, I believe Jesus has opened my eyes to the others in the room who are often nameless and perhaps even faceless... those who do not earn a livable wage and yet work two jobs. Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?’ Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.’ After saying this, he told them, ‘Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.’ Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’ Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus, "he whom you love is sick." Later in the gospel, the phrase "the disciple whom Jesus loved" is used six times:
I have always considered this one whom Jesus loved to be an archetype - one that could be me or you. What if we are the one whom Jesus loves? And what if we are sick? And what if those who love us here on earth have sent word to Jesus, "the one whom you love is sick?" And then what if Jesus lingers in coming to help us? And then we, like Lazarus, die. Illness wins. Our family grieves. The mourning commences. Spices and arrangements. Flowers and prayers. Crying and despair. Questions of why are kicked around while our friends and family mingle around tables set with finger food, cheese, crackers, brownie bites, hummus and carrots. Jesus didn't even make it to the funeral. Where is he? What could be more important than coming to our funeral? After all, he loved us. Everyone knew we had a special bond. Where was he? Why did we have to die? Life... liife is pain-filled, unpredictable, unsafe, fragile. Friends of our parents who had come to the party begin to say their goodbyes and the crowd begins to thin. Our immediate family starts clearing the table. The conversation moves from small intimate discussions in the family room to silence in the kitchen while one sibling washes the dishes and the other dries the dishes. There is a new silence that has entered the room. It is the silence that has replaced your voice, my voice - in our absence. And our family can hear the silence, feel the silence as if it is our presence but they know it is not our presence. Our presence is gone. We are gone. We died. And Jesus didn't make it to the funeral. One sister says to another, "go check to see if we missed any dishes." And the other sister turns around, crosses the threshold of the door between the kitchen and the dining room. She hears the screen door open and shut around the corner in the living room. She takes a few more steps and sees Jesus. They lock eyes and she begins to cry all over again, saying "why weren't you here?" Why didn't you help? We needed you. We asked; we sent word. Where were you? Where have you been? This wouldn't have happened had you come earlier. She turns to get the other sister, still in the kitchen. Jesus has arrived. "Where?" In the living room. And with much more force, she asks the same questions... why? you loved him. if only... Does Jesus hug them? Does he console them? Does he try to offer a reason? It seems he says things we are taught not to say to the grieving like, "It'll be alright." "He's with God now." "He will be resurrected." Together they go to visit our grave site, newly covered with dirt. There is no headstone yet. It does not say here lies me or you, or Lazarus or the disciple whom Jesus loved. They stand around this buried friend and Jesus weeps. And then Jesus calls him out of the grave, wrapped in burial cloths and... we, Lazarus, the disciple whom Jesus loved resurrects. A lot happens between death and resurrection. In the same way I wish folks didn't miss the happenings of holy week, jumping from Palm Sunday to Easter, I don't want to rush in this story. I want to linger with the characters and sit with their feelings, their thoughts around death. I want to linger long enough to hear if Jesus has anything to say about the need for death. I want to imagine me as beloved, just like Lazarus, just like you. I want someone to send word to Jesus telling him that I am sick, that you are sick and I want to realize that Jesus would rather my sickness die than heal it in the now. Why would he rather that? Why does he prefer resurrection than healing? Because if he loves us, he certainly knows that we prefer healing. As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ Jesus answered, ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.’ When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, ‘Go, wash in the pool of Siloam’ (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. The neighbours and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’ Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’ He kept saying, ‘I am the man.’ But they kept asking him, ‘Then how were your eyes opened?’ He answered, ‘The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, “Go to Siloam and wash.” Then I went and washed and received my sight.’ They said to him, ‘Where is he?’ He said, ‘I do not know.’ According to a blog about idioms, "This toast may have been popular with the soldiers slogging through the muddy trenches of WWI, but it did not originate with them, as many believe. Some say that back in the day the phrase symbolised a plentiful crop when farmers used to raise a glass to the success of a good harvest. It was being bandied about in U.S. saloons as early as 1890 and was popular with the English fox hunting and race horse crowd before then. According to Morten’s List, the roots are found in the Gospel of John (Chapter 9) where there’s mention of the medicinal qualities of "mud in the eye." It's true; clay has been used historically for anti-inflammatory treatment, as an antiseptic, as a way to save one's complexion and as treatment for a variety of intestinal problems. Medicinal clay is available in health food stores. It comes as a powder that can be made into a drink or added to a bath. Health spas offer mud baths and mud wraps. I've tried to put myself in this nameless, blind man's shoes for a day or two now. It could be a great comedy. Are you the man born blind? Yes. No, you can't be. Yes, it's me. But really, how can you see now? This man told me to put mud on my eyes and wash and now I see. Where are his parents? Let's ask them. - Yes, it's him. Then he wasn't born blind. Yes he was. Who are you? I'm the same man you're talking about. No, it can't be. And yet it is. Here I am. I was blind and now I see. I wonder what the man would be thinking during the conversation about whether Jesus is a sinner. I wonder because I think to myself... way to focus on the wrong thing folks! And so the man jumps back in and tries to keep the conversation on point. Listen, I don't know from sinner or not but doesn't it seem plausible that God might be involved since I CAN SEE NOW! And for that, they threw him out of the church. Excommunicated. I too could get derailed here. I could focus on the wrong part of the story. My mind wanders to the historical roots of this text and how "being thrown out of the synagogue" is at the heart of John's gospel. The in-fighting, the divisions, the factions in this community are palpable. I could get derailed from the miracle of the blind man receiving his site when I realize that this text has all kinds of timing issues. The story of the man who actually encountered Jesus would've happened long before the text was written. And the healing would've then happened long before anyone was being "thrown out of the community." And so I could focus on the historicity of the text and talk about how the writers of the gospels used stories to make their points way after the fact. (See Martyn or Raymond Brown) But then I too begin to hear the blind man saying to me - Hey, look. I can see now. Does it really matter if the gospels were written years after Jesus died. Does it really matter that this chapter helps prove the gospel texts are better classified as historical fiction? Can't you see? I can see now. I met this man and he told me to put mud on my eyes and then wash. And now I can see. This man's story ends with Jesus having a candid conversation with him about belief. Jesus says to him, "I came into this world for judgement so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind." In the same way the Pharisees were taken aback by this judgment, it stops me in my tracks. Am I one of the ones who can see? Or am I one of the blind ones? What is it that I think I can "see" or understand? Where do I have clarity? And then where is this opposite true? Where is my confusion? my lack of understanding, my questions, my poor "sight?" Does my certainty cloud my vision? And does that kind of certainty qualify as "sin?" Because the passage begins wondering if this man sinned or if his parents sinned. And the Pharisees think Jesus is a sinner. A sinner - meaning one who misses the mark. I miss the mark all the time - and when I am so certain that I ignore or dismiss other ideas and other people, I have missed the mark. And with my new recognition of my own blindness, I sense the name man coming to stand beside me - with his fresh clarity. And when I get quiet, he says to me, "Here's mud in your eye." I can only hope. Jesus said to them, ‘I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day.’ Then the Jews began to complain about him because he said, ‘I am the bread that came down from heaven.’ They were saying, ‘Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, “I have come down from heaven”?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Do not complain among yourselves. No one can come to me unless drawn by the Father who sent me; and I will raise that person up on the last day. It is written in the prophets, “And they shall all be taught by God.” Everyone who has heard and learned from the Father comes to me. Not that anyone has seen the Father except the one who is from God; he has seen the Father. Very truly, I tell you, whoever believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live for ever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.’ The Passover festival was near. Jesus and his disciples have just healed a crowd of people. And now Jesus wants to feed them as well. The resources at their disposal were one boy's lunch, five loaves and two fish. That story appears regularly on the preaching rotation. The lesson that takes place at the synagogue later however, does not. The reason for avoiding it is perhaps obvious. Eat my flesh; drink my blood. In a literal reading is barbaric. In an allegorical reading it is awkward. What is most important to me with this teaching passage is that it is John's version of our beloved sacrament, the Lord's Supper. This is it in John's gospel. There are no other words of institution at the Passover feast with his friends. Although there is a story about the Passover feast in John's gospel. If focuses on servant behavior with Jesus washing his disciple's feet. I'll be honest that every time I say the traditional words of institution, I feel a twinge of sadness that we leave John's community and perhaps their understanding of the Lord's Supper out of our understanding. Am I making too big of a deal? I don't think so. John's gospel was the last written and tremendous amounts of other doctrinal understanding comes from John's gospel. But his understanding of a shared meal and its meaning we have synchronized with the other gospels. What if the meal that we share once/month (that's how we do it at my church) was based on John's understanding alone? That would mean that the words of institution do not start with "on the night on which Jesus was betrayed..." What would words of institution sound like if they were in response to a miraculous feast followed by a lesson about the bread of life? What would those final words of invitation to the table sound like if not "every time we eat this bread and drink this cup we proclaim the saving death of our risen Lord until he comes again?" Because certainly the point that this feast in John is trying to make is not about proclaiming salvation in a time not yet but rather rejoicing in the living bread that has already come down from heaven. One of the gifts of the Narrative Lectionary I believe it to honor each gospel's unique flavor. This journey through John provides us an opportunity to put John's teachings in specific perspective. I've been dreaming about writing a prayer for the table that honors this passage, this understanding of the sacrament of the Lord's Table. How might our understanding of the table expand if we tried out some new language for the next few months each time we share the meal together? I want to find out. So here's my take on the the words of institution through John's understanding... After the miraculous feast on the mountainside where a multitude were satisfied with five loaves and two fish, the disciples gathered twelves baskets of left overs. (Instead of one loaf, a basket is filled with pieces of bread that is then lifted up) Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. And whoever trusts in me will never be thirsty." (Pour the cup at this time.) Those gathered said this teaching is difficult. And so Jesus continued saying, "I am the bread that came down from heaven." When we come to this table together, we trust God will satisfy us our hunger (lift the basket) and our thirst (lift the cup). Jesus shared this meal with a hungry crowd long ago and he shares it with us today. Let us bring our hunger and our thirst to the table of the one who called himself the Living Bread.
A member of my congregation died 34 hours ago after years of fighting cancer. Another member is in a rehab facility making miraculous progress after suffering a severe stroke. Both families share the same question, "How long?" A man has a dying son. Another man has been ill for 38 years. Both stories share the same question, "How long?" People are hurting. People are sick. People suffer - they suffer long. And although in the West we don't see miraculous healing that appear to be the ones represented in these texts, so many live with the question of "How long?" I could dig into the texts to find clarity about having faith or not having faith. I could review my understanding of systemic disease and the role that poverty plays in the health of our society. I could focus on the seven signs in the gospel of John. But I'd rather create an encounter with Jesus because that's what these two men had. An encounter. A father asked his question to a miracle worker. A man answers a question from a miracle worker. And they are forever changed after this encounter. As worship leaders we have the opportunity to create an encounter with the light of the world, the one who shines in the darkness, the one who knows everything about us - each week. Each Sunday, we craft worship services with hopes of creating encounters with Jesus. I wonder what kind of encounter we would have if we collectively joined our voices with the question on so many people's hearts, "How long?" In our Sunday service, we want to create an encounter. We will use candle lighting rituals. We will use healing oils crafted from women from Thistle Farms, who have encountered healing themselves. We will sing. We will touch one another with the warmth of healing hands. We will pray. Perhaps Jesus will ask if we need signs in order to believe. Maybe the answer is yes. Perhaps Jesus will ask if we want to be well. Maybe the answer is not yet. Only the encounter will tell. Now when Jesus learned that the Pharisees had heard, ‘Jesus is making and baptizing more disciples than John’— although it was not Jesus himself but his disciples who baptized— he left Judea and started back to Galilee. But he had to go through Samaria. So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, ‘Give me a drink’. (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, ‘How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?’ (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, ‘If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, “Give me a drink”, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?’ Jesus said to her, ‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 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.’ The woman said to him, ‘Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.’ If I were putting this story onto a stage, I'd concentrate on the props and the scenery I think. The well needs to be old, crafted from misshapen rocks. A sacred place that could handle heavy traffic. People coming and going, stopping and chatting. Perhaps some other large rocks around that have been warn and smoothed by many people taking a rest. A tree or two around the well, maybe a few desert brush providing some shading. And many paths clearly leading to and from the well. The woman comes from one direction. Jesus from another. His disciples take yet another away when they go to find food. And her bucket - the prop that I cannot seem to get away from. Is it a bucket made of wood? Is it a gourd? Is it a water jar crafted of clay? Is there a string on it that she brings from her home or is there a rope at the well that people use? Well water. Dependent on the land in a way that so many of us no longer understand. This woman brought her bucket. The vessel that collected her need. But after her encounter with Jesus, she left the vessel behind. Was she giving it to Jesus to use? Had she decided to offer him a drink and instead of carrying her vessel back, she left it for Jesus to use? But he doesn't need water. He serves up life giving, everlasting thirst quenching "water." And the disciples have arrived, interrupting the moment that Jesus was having with the woman. Jesus isn't hungry either. He has "food" no one knows about. Maybe it is the disciples who need the vessel? What is this vessel? What does it represent? It is her proverbial shopping bag. I carry bags filled with bags every time I go to the grocery store. Does her vessel represent the things that sustain our lives? Is it money? independence? career? vocation? hobby? relationship? What are the vessels that aid in our existence, that keep us alive? What happens when those things are no longer needed? How is it possible to encounter Jesus in such a way that our vessels are no longer needed? |
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