Category Archives: lectionary

There will be signs: Lectionary Reflections for the First Sunday of Advent, Year C

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This week’s readings are here.

The first verses of this week’s gospel are full of foreboding:

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.

How many Christians over the centuries have seen in the world around them signs of Jesus’ imminent return? How many times have Christians declared the day and hour of the Lord’s coming, only to be disappointed? The image in that first verse, the “roaring of the sea and the waves,” may sound particularly familiar and ominous to those who lived through Hurricane Sandy and are still suffering in its aftermath.

In this passage, Jesus calls us to be vigilant, to be alert, to look for signs of his coming. The problem is that signs are often open to interpretation. Some aren’t of course–a stop sign offers a pretty clear meaning; but when a traffic light turns to yellow? Is a massive hurricane like Sandy a sign of God’s judgment, Jesus’ Second Coming, perhaps evidence of Global Warming, or just a random event?

Interpreting signs requires careful attention, something that may be difficult in the month of December, during the season of Advent. We are busy with our preparations for the season. Academics, whether students or professors, are focused on the hard work of the end of semester. It’s often the case that our lives are so busy we can’t find time or energy to look around us and pay attention to the signs of Christ’s coming. Of course, on one level, it’s impossible to avoid those signs. Christmas decorations and holiday music have been around for a couple of weeks already. But what about signs of Christ’s coming in our lives? Signs of Christ’s coming in the lives of those we love? Signs of Christ’s coming in our daily life? Do we have time to pause and pay attention to that? To pay attention to Christ coming among us at work or school? To pay attention to the ways we might be a sign of Christ’s coming to those we encounter and those we love?

“Thy Kingdom Come:” Lectionary reflections for Christ the King Sunday, November 25, 2012

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this week’s readings are here.

The last Sunday of the liturgical year is Christ the King Sunday or “Reign of Christ” Sunday. It’s rather odd in some ways because we are looking forward to Advent and Christmas. It’s odd because this week’s gospel takes us back to Good Friday when we heard all of John’s passion narrative, from which these few verses come. It’s odd too because language of “kingship” and the scene of Jesus’ appearance before Pilate calls to mind all manner of political imagery that we’ve been bombarded with this election season.

Even though an image of Christus Rex (Christ the King) hangs from the ceiling of our chancel, the notion of Christ as King is probably uncomfortable for most of us. It’s not just that the idea of “king” is alien to our culture; it’s that religiously it’s not an image that resonates with us.

The gospel reading points to the complexity of the image, and the way in which Jesus himself (and the gospel writer) deconstructed and reconstructed it. In the synoptics, Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus replies, “You say so.” His response seems to be an acceptance of the title. Jesus’ reply in John is directed differently, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” In other words (perhaps), “why are you asking this?”

In the end, Jesus is crucified with the inscription, “King of the Jews.” Whatever it meant originally, for us we are invited to see his kingship here, on the cross. It’s another explicit rejection of other notions of kingship whether implicit ( perhaps like that intended by Pilate) or explicit.

In fact, in John’s gospel, Jesus has rejected the title of king once before, in chapter 6. After feeding the five thousand, John comments “When Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain by himself (6:15).”

In the Lord’s Prayer, we say, “Thy kingdom come.” The words are familiar but do we know for what we are praying? Are we praying for a Christ who will be a powerful king and ruler, intervening on our behalf in our political struggles? Are we praying for a Christ who as king will offer us bread and circus? Or are we praying for the king who died on Calvary, whose kingdom offers an alternative to every human political system, draws its citizenship from the whole world, and embraces its enemies with love?

Consider your servant Job: Lectionary Reflections for Proper 22, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

One of the great problems with the lectionary is that its editors had to pick and choose texts and inevitably were able to include only portions of important works. That was a problem with last week’s reading drawn from the book of Esther. The same is true this week as we move into another book from the Hebrew Bible, Job. We will have a total of four readings from the book: this one, from the first and second chapter that sets up the problem. Later readings will introduce us to Job’s challenge of God; essentially Job puts God on trial. Later we will hear God’s response to Job’s case for the prosecution and finally we will hear how it all ends up (Job is richer than ever). Omitted are lengthy speeches from Job and Job’s friends that raise questions about divine justice and theodicy (why bad things happen to good people) as well as the initial tragedies that befall Job’s family.

This brief introduction to the book fails to do justice either to its literary genius or its theological depth. A careful reading of the whole book is most rewarding and brings a profound challenge to the complacency of our faith. It also helps to overcome the image of Job in popular culture—the patience of Job is a trope, but in fact the Job of scripture is not patient at all, nor does he suffer silently. He demands that God explains why suffering has come upon him.

In this week’s reading, we have the second of two encounters of God with “The Satan.” The portrayal of the Satan in the text is curious. In chapter 1, he seems to be a member of God’s heavenly court and it’s almost as if God and Satan have made a bet (“Have you considered my servant Job?”). God draws Satan’s attention to Job as a righteous man, and Satan responds by saying that Job is righteous only because he’s had it easy. So God responds to the challenge by allowing Satan to test Job, giving him power to take away all that Job has, and in chapter 2, to afflict Job himself, but forbidding him to take his life. Job is left with nothing, riddled with disease, and still he does not curse God.

The book’s answers, such as they are, will come later, in God’s response to Job. In fact, the book’s fundamental question remains unanswered and remains one of humanity’s most basic questions, asked every time there is a natural disaster, or when illness or death comes to a loved one. We want life to make sense, we want the world to make sense, but too often, it all seems meaningless. But as the Burial Office says,

“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.”

Salt is Salt: Lectionary Reflections for Proper 21, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

When I was a kid, salt was salt. It came in a blue cylindrical container with a whimsical picture of a girl holding an umbrella in one hand and the motto, “When it rains, it pours. “Nowadays salt is a matter for connoisseurs. There’s sea salt, gray salt, pink salt. Salt from Brittany, the Himalayas, or Hawaii. But what Jesus says still rings true. If it’s lost its savor, it’s no good. Salt preserves; adds flavor and zest. It can make food tastier but it can also do damage.

In this passage from Mark’s gospel, we see one of the central dilemmas facing our communities of faith, our society, and the world. On the one hand, there are Jesus’ words that seem to downplay differences between communities, interest groups, even nation states: “Whoever is not against us is for us.” On the other hand, there is Jesus’ repeated condemnation of those who would mislead or cause harm. Those who are stumbling blocks (literally, scandal) are destined for hell and damnation.

Jesus invites us to see those outside our communities as fellow travelers and friends. He tells us we need not worry too much about them; their support and encouragement of us, that they offer us a cup of water when we are thirsty, is proof enough of their good intentions and ultimate reward.

But the warning to those who would be stumbling blocks, while clearly directed inwardly at relations within the community of Jesus’ followers, is also a caution to us today, not only to ponder our relationships within our closest communities, but in the larger one as well. When have our actions or statements marginalized others? When have we caused others to stumble? How can we be salt to the communities in which we live, deepening and preserving their flavor, helping disparate ingredients come together to make a marvelous stew?

(I wrote this reflection for a series put together by the Wisconsin Council of Churches that center around the “Seasons of Civility” campaign. More about that here).

Geography Matters! Lectionary Reflections on Proper 19, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

A map of Northern Palestine in the time of Jesus is here.

In last week’s gospel, Jesus traveled from Galilee to Tyre. He then traveled north to Sidon, before heading back toward the Sea of Galilee. But he went beyond the Jordan to the region of the Decapolis. He then seems to head north for Bethsaida on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee is mention in Mark 8, before moving further to Caesarea Philippi. While Galilee continues to be the base of his activity, he is moving beyond it in three directions, west, east, and north.

Caesarea Philippi is the location of today’s gospel. A city that was founded by the Herods, it was named in honor of their patron, Caesar Augustus. It was a Roman city, dedicated to the emperor, to Rome’s gods, and to Roman power.

For Jesus to come to this region under the looming shadow of the Roman Imperium, and ask here, “Who do people say that I am?” was to set up a sharp contrast between himself, Rome, and the sort of political Messianism that was dominant among Palestinian Jews of the day.

“Who do people say that I am?” The answers came easily off the disciples’ lips–Elijah, John the Baptist, a prophet. Then Jesus asked those who had been following him for the past months, “But who do you say that I am?”

Peter responded with his famous confession, “You are the Messiah.” It’s a word we’ve not seen in Mark since the first verses of the gospel and it’s not at all clear what Peter meant by his confession. Certainly Jesus had not acted in conformity to contemporary messianic expectations. And what comes next further shatters those expectations. Jesus predicts his suffering and death, a statement which Peter contradicts and for which Jesus rebukes him.

Then comes another symbol of Imperial Rome. Jesus tells his followers that if they would be his disciples, they must take up their cross and follow him. The cross was a symbol of Roman power and ruthlessness. The cross was reserved for the worst offenders, for revolutionaries and the like. Crosses loomed on the outskirts of towns and cities to show everyone what the consequences of resisting Rome’s power would be.

The community for whom Mark was writing probably knew all too well what the consequences for following Jesus were: Persecution, execution. They didn’t belong to a group that had access to the corridors of power. Their struggles didn’t have to do with whether they could pray in public. Following Jesus was life or death.

It’s hard for us to imagine, hard for us to conceive of what it might mean to follow Jesus in the ways that Mark understood discipleship. For us, it’s enough to come to church when it’s convenient, to throw a few dollars in the collection plate, to volunteer to help in a food pantry or homeless shelter. But if we confess Jesus to be the Christ, Mark’s challenge should stand before us as a symbol of what discipleship means. To follow Christ means accepting his lordship, following his way to the cross, and rejecting the power and the powers of this world.

A Gentile dog nips at Jesus’ heels: Lectionary Reflections for Proper 18, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

This is one of my favorite stories in the gospel of Mark because it is so jarring. We are exposed to a side of Jesus we can’t imagine, an aspect of him that doesn’t at all conform to our notions of him as being compassionate and merciful. It’s hard to fit this story into our image of Jesus as the perfect Son of God.

Our discomfort with this text comes from two different details. First of all, Jesus refers to a woman who has come to him seeking help for her child a dog. Can you imagine it? She’s at wit’s end. Her daughter is possessed with a demon. She’s tried everything and now she’s heard about this healer who has come to town. It may be her only opportunity, so she breaks in on his seclusion in someone’s house. He’s annoyed by her. He wants some peace and quiet, some rest and relaxation. He probably wants to sit back, enjoy a good meal and a glass of wine, and this woman comes in asking for help.

He disses her, says basically that her problems are none of his business. His ministry is with Jews, not with Gentile scum (dogs). But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. She can give as good as she gets and she reminds him that dogs usually get table scraps.

That’s all it takes. Jesus reconsiders. Her daughter is healed and she goes back home.

For Mark, this is a pivotal story, a turning point. It is the first time Jesus ministers to and among Gentiles, and it seems that by besting him in wordplay, the Syro-Phoenician woman convinces him that Gentiles are worthy of his care and compassion. And that makes us uncomfortable too, because it implies she knows better than Jesus what he should be about.

So this story is uncomfortable, jarring, presenting a Jesus who is rude and has limited vision. But I think that it has much to teach us about our own assumptions and limited vision. How often are we blind to the need that stares in our face? How often do we ignore the opportunities for mission that confront us? How often have we been forced to respond to people’s needs, not because we perceived that need but because they got in our face? How often have Gentile dogs been nipping at our heels, forcing us to change direction?

The Voice of My Beloved: Lectionary Reflections on Proper 17, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

This week’s lessons include the only appearance of the Song of Solomon in the three-year lectionary cycle. For those of us who have been reading the David-Solomon track, the shift is rather abrupt. From the events of David’s and Solomon’s lives culminating in last week’s reading concerning the dedication of the temple at Jerusalem, we turn now to the Song of Solomon, a series of verses with no narrative, historical, or even theological context to help us understand them.

The reason this selection is included is because of the connection with Solomon. In the coming weeks, we will be reading from the Book of Proverbs. Both of these texts have been associated with Solomon for a very long time. In the superscript (title) of the work appears Solomon’s name. Its appearance in the canon of both Hebrew and Christian scripture has been controversial because it is love poetry. Full of erotic imagery, the text describes and praises a sensual world of beauty. In both Jewish and Christian interpretation, the poem has been interpreted allegorically, describing God’s love for Israel, or Christ’s love for the church (or the individual soul).

Contemporary readers find some of the imagery amusing: Your hair is like a flock of goats, … your teeth are like a flock of ewes. But the desire, the love that is expressed in this poem transcends time and place.

Often, allegorical interpretation detracts from the meaning of a text. Sometimes, as in this case, it opens up new vistas of spiritual experience. Bernard has this to say about The Song of Solomon:

This sort of song only the touch of the Holy Spirit teaches, and it is learned by experience along. Let those who have experienced it enjoy it; let those who have not burn with desire, not so much to know it as to experience it. It is not a noise made aloud, but the very music of the heart. It is not a sound from the lips but a stirring of joy, not a harmony of voices but of wills. It is not heard otwardly, nor does it sound in public. Only he who sings it hears it, and he to whom it is sung–the Bride and the Bridegroom. It is a wedding song indeed, expressing the embrace of chaste and joyful souls, the concord of their lives and the mutual exchange of their love.”

Sermon 1, translated by G.R. Evans, from Bernard of Clairvaux, Selected Works, Classics of Western Spirituality

The time when kings go out to battle: Lectionary reflections for Proper 12, Year B

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This week’s readings.

A prompt from this week’s working preacher podcast has me thinking about II Samuel 11:1 “In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle…” It was true for centuries, for millennia, that military campaigns were begun in the spring when the weather improved. A time when we think of new life, the earth’s bounty and beauty manifesting itself, the glory of God’s creation evident in colorful flowers and blossoming trees, when gardeners plant seeds in anticipation of a wonderful harvest, was also a time of destruction and death. It was the time when kings went out to battle.

But David did not go out to battle; he did not do what kings did. He stayed at home and sent his generals to wage war. And while they waged their war, he did something else kings and other powerful men often do, he committed an act of sexual violence on a woman. She was powerless and defenseless, a victim of a king’s power and his lust.

In an earlier piece, I pointed out the text’s ambivalence toward monarchy. There’s no ambivalence here. The story is told rather matter-of-factly. We see him arranging his rape of Bathsheba and attempting to arrange a cover-up by bringing Uriah back home to sleep with his wife. We also see David arranging Uriah’s battlefield death although we don’t see the death itself, nor the prophet Nathan’s condemnation of David’s actions (all that comes in next week’s reading).

In a way, the presence of this story reminds us again of David’s humanity and venality. In spite of being chosen by God, he was a deeply flawed man in an institution that was also deeply flawed.

In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle… One of the critiques of monarchy in the biblical tradition is its exploitation of the people and land that it rules. The land’s wealth was dedicated to the lavish lifestyle of the court. Its people were conscripted into the army or into the service of the crown.

We live in a very different world but some things remain remarkably consistent. The US spends an exorbitant amount on its military and a pittance on programs that alleviate poverty. All the talk about cutting government spending focuses on those tiny programs rather than on the defense budget. Wealth is amassed in the hands of a few. It’s said that a few members of the Walton family possess more wealth than 40% of the American populace combined. Justice is rarely meted out equally to rich and poor.

The prophetic word that came to David, the prophetic words spoken in later generations by Amos and Isaiah demanding monarchs and the aristocracy to heed the needs of the poor, the widow and orphan, still fall on deaf ears. The president doesn’t go out in the spring to fight battles (he wages electoral campaigns) but he does command drone attacks on populations thousands of miles away.

For he is our peace–Lectionary Reflections for Proper 11, Year B

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This week’s readings.

I’ve been pondering the reading from Ephesians today. It seems appropriate both for the conversations that are taking place in our church, and the increasingly rancorous political discourse:

Remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth, called “the uncircumcision” by those who are called “the circumcision” — a physical circumcision made in the flesh by human hands– remember that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.

Scholars doubt whether Ephesians was written by Paul. The best guess is that it was written by someone in the generation or two after Paul who was seeking to preserve and extend Paul’s legacy and perspective. In this passage, there are deep resonances with Paul’s letters to the Galatians and 1 Corinthians, even as the author moves in slightly different directions( the law–Torah–being abolished and both Jew and Gentile losing their identity in a new community).

It’s relatively easy to assert that we need to stay together as Christians but the reality is much more difficult. It’s not just the deep divisions that persist, divisions of race, gender, political preference. There are also deep theological differences within denominations and traditions, as well as across them. There are disagreements about biblical interpretation.

We often proclaim how important it is to “stay at the table,” but often our actions and words make it difficult for those with whom we disagree to remain. If Christ is our peace, then we have to allow Christ to bring us together, to embrace us all as he embraced the world.

“For he is our peace.” One of the problems we face is that we tend to think we “own” Christ. We remake Christ in our image and likeness; we assert that our interpretation of Christ, our experience of Jesus Christ, should in some way be normative for all. If he is our peace, then Christ transcends our image of him and subsumes that image in him.

“For he is our peace.” We argue, debate, defend, seek to score points against the other. If Christ is our peace, we should proclaim him, and allow him to work through us, to break down the dividing walls of hostility. The peace we experience in Christ should be what we offer everyone.

Power made perfect in weakness–lectionary reflections for Proper 9, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

I’ve not had much to say about the presence of selections from II Corinthians in the lectionary these past few weeks. With Paul, it’s always a question whether or not to talk about him. His writing is complex, the context and background equally so. It’s a judgment call. Does one lay out all the  background in order to make a pithy statement or comment on a verse?

With this week’s reading, we are at a central moment in Paul’s self-presentation and his autobiography. The larger context is a deep conflict with the Corinthian community, so deep that Paul writes what he calls “a letter of tears” (some scholars think this passage is part of that letter). His authority has been challenged; he has been attacked personally, and has both wounded others and himself been wounded in the conflict.

The reading for next Sunday is part of his defense. He begins with a description of his own ecstatic religious experience (a vision of or journey to heaven? While there he receives a divine revelation. So he could boast of this to others, but he chooses not to. Indeed, to prevent him from becoming to full of himself (remember this is Paul!), he speaks of a “thorn in the flesh” that troubled him. Three times, he prayed that he would be delivered of this thing, but instead of being healed or freed, Jesus Christ responded to him, “my grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”

There has been endless, and largely fruitless, speculation on what Paul meant by thorn in the flesh. All sorts of possible explanations, from a wife to epilepsy, have been proposed. Whatever it was, it was a physical weakness, illness, or malady, that caused Paul problems. It also helped him understand the heart of the gospel: “Power made perfect in weakness.”

For Paul, the apparent weakness of Jesus Christ dying on the cross (a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles) is a demonstration of God’s power–power made perfect in weakness. This central paradox is also the heart of Paul’s theology and challenges every effort to make faith in Jesus Christ a road to success in life. In becoming human, Jesus Christ emptied himself, took on frail, human flesh, becoming like us (Philippians 2). That becomes, in Philippians, an opportunity for our own imitation of Jesus Christ. It was a lesson Paul learned from Christ through his “thorn in the flesh.” It is a message he has passed on to us.

It is also a reminder that whatever spiritual height or high we may attain, the truth of our faith is revealed in the incarnation of Jesus Christ, in his suffering and death, in the frailty of our own bodies, and in the frailty of the Body of Christ in which we share with our fellow Christians.