Category Archives: lectionary

Symbols: Living and Dead–lectionary reflections for the Fifth Sunday of Lent

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This week’s readings

Next Sunday’s gospel includes what is probably the most famous verse in all of scripture John 3:16 “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish, but have everlasting life.”

I wonder whether Episcopalians, indeed anyone who isn’t an Evangelical Christian, can hear in those words the transforming and life-giving power of the gospel. Their ubiquity in contemporary culture (the placard with John 3:16) a fixture at sporting events since the early 1980s has numbed us to their power, and perhaps turned us off. During the Eucharist, when the moment comes for the “comfortable words,” I find myself avoiding John 3:16 and reading a different verse.

Words and images have power. Often that power comes not from what they refer or point to directly, but rather to associations we make with them. In the case of John 3:16, what comes to mind for me when I see that combination of word and number, is all of the ways Christianity succeeds in alienating people. After all, who, besides a Christian, would know the words to which John 3:16 points? To those who understand, the words may be life-giving, but to those not in on the language, they are meaningless. To the rest of us, John 3:16 is a dead symbol.

There’s a case before the European Court that tests the English government’s decision to ban the wearing of crosses by Christians. It’s a silly decision, on one level, for a cross on a chain is more a fashion statement than a faith statement, which is what the Archbishop of Canterbury seemed to be getting at. You can read about the controversy here.

So there’s John 3:16, a symbol of something, that is interpreted differently by different people. There’s another symbol in this week’s texts, that of the bronze serpent, which is lifegiving and life-preserving for the Israelites, and is used in the gospel of John as a symbol of Jesus Christ: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so too must the Son of Man be lifted up.” That bronze serpent became a symbol of something else over time, so that when King Hezekiah cleansed the temple in the 8th century BCE, he destroyed the bronze serpent which had become an object of devotion (II Kings 18:4).

Symbols are powerful and they are often powerful, or become powerful in ways that we who use them can’t imagine or expect. It’s easy in Lent, and especially as we move closer to Holy Week, to focus our attention on the cross. It is a symbol of our faith, a symbol of Jesus’ Christ’s suffering, but it can often allow us to ignore other aspects of our faith, other possible symbols, or the ways in which a symbol like the cross, can become embedded in a whole culture or web of meanings that we don’t intend. It sometimes seems like Lent and especially Holy Week, become a time when we worship the cross. I thought of that this afternoon as I began planning our Good Friday service, which includes the veneration of the cross.

The cross is not just about my (our sins), Jesus’ suffering, and the doctrine of the atonement. It is also about Roman power, and God’s love, or in the words of the collect:

You stretched out your arms in love on the hard wood of the cross, that everyone might come within reach of your saving embrace

Covenant, Relationship, and Lent: Lectionary Reflections for the Second Sunday of Lent, 2012

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This week’s readings

In yesterday’s reading from the Hebrew Bible, we heard about Yahweh’s covenant with Noah. In this week’s Hebrew Bible reading, we hear one version of the covenant with Abraham. The notion of covenant is of enormous significance for Hebrew Scripture and for the understanding of the relationship between God and God’s people. When I was studying Hebrew Bible in college and divinity school, a great deal was made of covenant, and of the important parallels and connections between Hebrew notions of covenant, and covenants among the writings and cultures of Israel’s neighbors. It seems that Hebrew understandings were shaped by those neighbors.

There were really two dominant forms of covenant both in the Hebrew Bible and in other ancient sources. One was an agreement in which each party made commitments; the other between a more powerful ruler or kingdom, and a less powerful one. In the latter, the more powerful one extended protection to the lesser and demanded loyalty and other obligations. Both the covenant with Noah and the one with Abraham recorded in Genesis 17 were asymmetrical. Some sort of response was required of the weaker party—if only acknowledgment of God’s power. Thus Abram bowed deferentially in God’s presence. But the promises of the covenant were not dependent on some action on the part of either Noah or Abram. God promised never again to bring a flood and to Abram, God promised that he would be the father of a great nation. In each covenant there was a sign, the rainbow or circumcision.

The notion of covenant continued to undergo interpretation and reappropriation. Early Christians wrote and spoke of a New Covenant established in Jesus Christ. In later centuries, Christians continued to use covenant as a rich metaphor for relationship with God and with one another. It was particularly important during the Protestant Reformation While language of covenant continues to be present in our theology and liturgy. But I wonder whether it continues to be meaningful. Do we still conceive of our relationship with God, either as individuals or as communities, in terms of covenant? To put it in slightly different words, would we use the language of treaty or contract to describe or understand those relationships? If not, what images are predominant now?

The same question could be asked of our use of covenantal language to describe relationships among people or communities. Is covenant a useful device to construct or define such relationships. One could think here of “the covenant of marriage” or yes, even the Anglican covenant. Is it helpful to understand any of those relationships in terms of loyalty, obedience, or mutual obligation?

That being said, it is clear that covenant was a supple enough concept that the Hebrews and Jews could reinterpret it to fit changed contexts. After the downfall of the monarchy and during the exile in Babylon, the exiles could still see in the idea of covenant a useful way to interpret their experience. God had not abandoned them; rather, their unfaithfulness to the covenant explained their loss of land and freedom.

To read the story of the covenant with Abraham is to read a story of great faith and a story of God’s faithfulness but as the verse that immediately follows today’s reading reminds us, it is also a story of divine mystery, and a certain amount of humor: “Then Abraham fell on his face and laughed.”

In this season of Lent, exploring the nature of one’s relationship with God is an appropriate focus. Whether we think of it in terms of covenant, of friendship, of love, or in some other way, it’s important that we acknowledge who God is, and who we are in relationship with God. Sometimes, I suppose, laughter is the appropriate response in that relationship.

“The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness”: Lectionary Reflections for the First Sunday in Lent, Year B

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This week’s gospel reading is remarkably brief. It presents challenges to the preacher, because we have heard much of it in other contexts already in this liturgical year (vss 9-11 was included in the gospel for The Baptism of our Lord and vss 14-15 were included in the reading for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany). The key verses left out of those other readings were 12 and 13, Mark’s account of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness. Compared to the accounts of the temptation in Matthew and Luke (there is no parallel in John), Mark’s version is astonishingly brief and puzzling.

“And immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness.” The word translated here as “drove” is used elsewhere in Mark to describe Jesus’ casting out demons or Satan. Mark also uses it when Jesus throws the moneychangers out of the temple. It’s an active verb, associated with violence and to use it here raises all sorts of questions. What is the gospel writer’s intent? To show that Jesus is utterly subject to the whim of the Spirit? Is Jesus a victim of the Spirit? Should we even capitalize the word “Spirit” assuming it refers to the Holy Spirit? And perhaps most importantly, what is the significance of the sequence: baptism, temptation, and beginning of public ministry?

These two verses (12-13) are full of allusion to a world we don’t inhabit, a world in which evil personified as Satan besets us, wild beasts surround us, and angels tend to our needs. But even if the symbolism is alien, the reality to which those symbols point is the same reality in which we live. We are tempted and struggle with sin and we do find solace in spiritual friendship and support. The terrors of the wilderness may be our despair and fear, our struggle with addictions, unemployment, even loss of faith. Jesus heard those amazing words, “You are my Son, my Beloved.” Those words must have sustained him throughout his trials in the desert, just as the words pronounced at our baptisms, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever,” should sustain us in our own wilderness sojourns.

 

 

 

Prophecy and Epiphany: Lectionary Reflections for the Last Sunday after Epiphany

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This week’s readings are here.

Although we’ve not paid close attention, one of the themes of our readings in this Season of Epiphany in year B is the nature of prophecy (both as an institution and as an event). We heard the very different stories of the calls of Samuel and Jonah on the Second and Third Sundays. The young boy Samuel needed help from Eli to discern that God was calling him. Jonah had no doubt that he was called by God, but he ran away from the call and resisted the message that God had given him to deliver. We also heard from Second Isaiah (on the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany), and Elisha’s healing of Naaman yesterday.

Among the stories of particular prophets about whom we heard, were also reflections on the nature of the prophetic office. A couple of weeks ago, the Hebrew Bible reading was Deuteronomy 18:15-20:

The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people; you shall heed such a prophet. This is what you requested of the Lord your God at Horeb on the day of the assembly when you said: ‘If I hear the voice of the Lord my God any more, or ever again see this great fire, I will die.’ Then the Lord replied to me: ‘They are right in what they have said. I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their own people; I will put my words in the mouth of the prophet, who shall speak to them everything that I command. Anyone who does not heed the words that the prophet shall speak in my name, I myself will hold accountable. But any prophet who speaks in the name of other gods, or who presumes to speak in my name a word that I have not commanded the prophet to speak—that prophet shall die.’

This is the heart of Hebrew prophecy: one who speaks the Word of God to the people. The model is Moses, who was a mediator between Yahweh and the Israelites, who both delivered the law and interpreted it. Earlier in the chapter, it’s made clear what prophecy is not: soothsaying, augury, divination. These are efforts to predict and control the future. But there’s more.  There is also a clear distinction between true and false prophecy: “Whoever speaks in the name of other gods, or who presumes to speak in my name a word I have not commanded them to speak–that prophet shall die.”

This raises the obvious question: How is one to know whether the word a prophet speaks comes from God? The following verses (Deut 18:21-22) ask and answer that question. If whatever is spoken doesn’t come to pass or prove true, then it comes from a false prophet. In other words, wait and see.

In this week’s reading from 2 Kings, we have the wonderful story of Elijah’s departure from earth and the passing of the mantle of prophecy from Elijah to Elisha. Often our focus is on the single prophet, the great hero who, like Elijah and Elisha, performed miracles, and stood alone against the monarchy and the prophets of Ba’al. There are also those solo prophets, Amos, Isaiah, and the like who were opposed by the monarchy and establishment and could rely only on the support of God.

This text shows a more complex institution, the “company of prophets” who seem connected in some way with the solo practitioners and are aware that Elijah is about to pass from the earth. They are curious and involved in the story, even when it’s clear that Elijah sometimes sees them as a nuisance. By the way, Elijah’s itinerary exactly imitates the itinerary of Joshua and the Israelites when they entered the promised land.

All of these readings encourage us to explore the nature of call and the nature of the prophetic message, the relationship of prophetic and other forms of authority. We tend to think of prophets as those who can predict the future, but in the Hebrew tradition, they were primarily interpreters of the law, the Torah, and sought to hold the monarchy and its people to divine standards, to create and maintain just relationships and just communities.

On the other hand, progressive Christians often emphasize the prophetic role of the religious leader or the community without examining the nature of the leader’s or community’s authority. There’s a seductive temptation to perceive oneself as a prophet and to interpret opposition to oneself or one’s message in terms of the opposition of an Israelite king or faithless people to God’s message. Call, authority, and divine message can only be discerned in community, and as Deuteronomy 18 suggests, one ought to approach one’s calling, and one’s message with a certain degree of humility, and uncertainty. I sometimes wonder whether there remains any utility whatever in seeing the church’s role (or that of its leaders) in terms of prophecy.

Moved with pity: Lectionary reflections for the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, Year B

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This week’s readings.

The stories of lepers in the gospels always bring to my mind images from the 1959 movie Ben-Hur. If memory serves me correctly, there was a time, when Ben Hur played every year on network TV. For those of you who don’t know it, it was one of those movies Hollywood did so well in the 50s. Lavish productions, casts of thousands, lots of drama, and occasional camp. Ben-Hur is most famous for the chariot race that served as its climax, but what has stuck in my mind all of these years are scenes set in leper colonies. The movie showed in graphic detail everything Hollywood thought about the disease—people living in horrible circumstances, segregated from society, ravaged by the disease, having lost limbs to it.

Hollywood got it wrong. What the movie makers were depicting was Hansen’s disease and it was a horrible disease, made more horrible by society’s treatment of lepers. But when leprosy is mentioned in the bible, it’s not Hansen’s disease that’s being described. What the Bible refers to is a whole range of skin diseases, and the restrictions about it are not primarily intended to prevent the leper’s infection of other people, but rather to preserve the purity of the community. To make this point clear, in the chapters of Leviticus that detail what leprosy is and how it is to be handled, there is one very interesting instruction. If you have white blotches on your body, the priest is to confirm that you have leprosy, but if the skin disease is such that you are entirely covered with white, from head to toe, then, you are free of contamination. Moreover, it wasn’t just human beings that could have leprosy—cloth, or even houses could be certified by the priests as contaminated with leprosy.

So the leper who came to Jesus for healing in this week’s gospel was suffering from one of these skin diseases. What mattered more than the malady itself was the elaborate code of instructions that detailed the leper’s complete exclusion from the community. People certified as lepers by the priest were completely ostracized from society. They were to tear their clothes, keep their hair unkempt, shout “Unclean, unclean” whenever they encountered other people, and live outside the community.

Most important of all, is that biblical leprosy was something for the priests, not the doctors, to deal with. It had to do with the ritual life of the community and as such, the priest’s certification of leprosy or of freedom from leprosy impacted whether or not an individual could live in community or participate in the community’s ritual and religious life. One way to think about a leper in biblical culture was to think of him as “a dead man walking.”

Jesus has spent some time in Capernaum, healing the sick, and has told his disciples that he intends to take his show on the road, to go about the villages of Galilee, preaching the good news. But as he goes this leper gets in his way.  The leper doesn’t simply ask Jesus to heal him. Rather he says, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” That’s odd enough—I’m sure we all would be thinking, why would Jesus not choose to help this man?

What’s even odder is Mark’s next comment. Our translation reads, “moved with pity” but in fact the Greek reads implies that Jesus’ guts were turned over. And there’s another possibility—some Greek manuscripts read “moved with anger.” So this is not about compassion or feeling sorry—Jesus is deeply affected by this encounter. There are two ways of reading Jesus’ response. Either way, he is overwhelmed with emotion. One option is to interpret his response to the leper as compassion or pity at his plight, being forced to live alone, isolated from human contact and from access to the divine, forced to scratch out a living by begging and humiliation.

The other option is to read Jesus’ response to the leper as anger at the leper. We have been emphasizing the urgency of Mark’s gospel. Just before this encounter, Jesus has told his disciples that part of his task was to preach in all of the towns—the encounter with the leper slows him down, but also potentially prevents that mission trip. By touching the leper, Jesus has himself been made unclean, and should probably remove himself from society as well.

He responds to the leper with a demonstration of his power and authority, by declaring that he is clean. And he does it in dramatic fashion, by touching him. By declaring him clean, Jesus is usurping the authority of the priests who had that power, and by touching him, Jesus was challenging the rules of clean and unclean that were the focus of the restrictions against leprosy, and the focus of so much attention by his contemporary Jewish compatriots.

Jesus tells the man to go to the priests, to get certified that he’s clean, but the man doesn’t. He also doesn’t heed the other instruction Jesus gives him—to say nothing to any body. Now what’s odd about this is precisely the certification—in order to be reintegrated into the community, in order rejoin his family and friends, in order for him to have a role in the ritual life of Judaism, this man would have to receive the certification. The priests labeled him a leper; now it is up to them to label him clean.

The story ends on the oddest note of all. Because the cleansed leper did not obey Jesus’ request that he remain silent—how could he have? Jesus’ reputation spread far and wide and he was no longer able to go about openly. He couldn’t enter the towns of Galilee where he wanted to preach and heal. So he was stuck out in the countryside.

As I’ve been thinking about this story, I keep coming back to those things in it that perplex me. One is Jesus’ response to the leper’s request. Was he angry? If so, why? Was he moved with pity? One of the things that Christians have tended to do over the centuries is to turn Jesus into a savior that responds to our requests and needs with joy and sympathy. That tendency is present even in the gospels where often the very emotional language that Mark uses to describe Jesus is toned down in Matthew, Luke, and John. We have a hard time imagining a Jesus who might get angry when confronted by a leper, or even, might be so moved by his plight that his stomach turned.

Jesus was on the road, doing important business when this leper confronted him, and he had to stop for him. It was an encounter that changed both of them. The leper was healed, but Jesus had to change his plans. He had to call off that mission trip. He could no longer enter the towns he had planned to visit. In a way, he and the leper changed places. The healed leper could now go wherever he wanted, he could proclaim the good news, but Jesus had to let people come to him.

Lots to think about this week.

God and the Gods–Lectionary reflections for 5 Epiphany, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

One of the questions that struck me yesterday as I was listening to the readings (hearing someone else read them aloud often brings new insights) was the status of “the god’s” in Paul’s discussion of eating food offered to idols. Here’s that text: 1 Corinthians 8:1-13. 

Paul isn’t exactly clear on the status of other gods: “Indeed, even though there may be so-called gods in heaven or on earth– as in fact there are many gods and many lords– yet for us there is one God…” On the one hand, it seems he denies the reality of those gods, but here, he admits to the existence of “so-called gods.” One explanation for this lies in the hierarchical understanding the universe in hellenistic thought, an understanding Paul shares. There are principalities, and powers, spirits, divine beings, that inhabit the various realms that exist between earth and heaven. They may not be precisely gods, but they have powers that vastly surpass human power.

In this week’s lesson from Hebrew Scripture, we read from Isaiah 40. This passage comes from what scholars call Second Isaiah. This section (40-56, more or less) derives from the period of exile in Babylon in the sixth century. It is evidence for the remarkable transformation that is taking place in theology among the exilic community (most scholars conclude that the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Old Testament, was compiled in this period). Second Isaiah is reaching toward a monotheistic theology that would come to characterize Judaism. We see some of that here.

Earlier in chapter 40, the prophet has proclaimed God’s power and wisdom. He compared Yahweh to the image of a deity:

To whom then will you liken God,
or what likeness compare with him?
An idol? —A workman casts it,
and a goldsmith overlays it with gold,
and casts for it silver chains.

Those are verses 18-19. In our passage, the prophet praises God as creator of the universe and as the one who establishes and unseats the world’s rulers. 40:26 is particularly interesting, both in the Babylonian context and in light of Genesis 1. The prophet asks,

“Lift up your eyes on high and see:
Who created these?
He who brings out their host and numbers them,
calling them all by name;”

Two points. First, the reference is to the stars and asserts God’s power over them. In addition, the use of the verb created–the only other instance of the use of this word is in the creation accounts of Genesis, describing God’s creative activity (this from Steed Davidson at workingpreacher.org). In Genesis 1, the creation of the stars makes explicit the limits of their power: “let them be for signs and seasons and days and years” and “let them rule over day and night.” Specifically, the stars, sun and moon do not have power over human lives or fates.

We tend to assume that our understanding of God, is static, has always been the understanding of Christians, if not of Jews (there’s that whole trinitarian thing, after all). In their own ways, both Second Isaiah and Paul are grappling with the relationship of their monotheistic beliefs (that God is one) and their belief in a universe that is filled with other divine beings.

Our problem in the twenty-first century isn’t quite the same–we worry more about whether we can say that other religions might be true, whatever we think of their deities. Still, I wonder about the resonances of both of these passages for the contemporary life of faith.

Knowledge puffs up–Lectionary reflections for 4 Epiphany, Year B

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This week’s readings are here.

Someone asked me after service yesterday if I had ever preached on the text from I Corinthians that was read yesterday (last week’s readings). In fact, three years ago, my sermon focused on the urgency of the good news as evidenced in both the gospel and in I Corinthians 7. But my questioner wasn’t interested in that part of the sentence: “The appointed time has grown short”–he was interested in the second part of that sentence, “let even those who have wives be as though they had none…”

No, I’ve never preached on that particular text, but in fact this whole passage is strong evidence for the difficulty of applying what Paul has to say about the Christian life–ethics and morality–to the lives of twenty-first century Christians. He assumes that the parousia, Jesus’ return, is imminent. It might happen any day now. That fact changed everything for him. Earlier in chapter 7, Paul says some things that are quite difficult for us to hear, about slavery and marriage, but all of it should be read in light of the imminent second coming. Because Jesus is coming back soon, nothing else really matters, and there’s no reason to make big changes in one’s life, like getting married. Now, few of us believe that Jesus is coming back soon, so we should probably not take what Paul has to say about slavery or marriage in this passage very seriously.

On the other hand, there are certain principles that can guide one’s ethical decision-making in light of Paul. And in this week’s reading from I Corinthians 8, we see one of those principles in action. In a way, it’s helpful that he is discussing an issue that is far from our ordinary experience–eating food that’s been offered to idols.

The issue here is that it was customary for meat left over from pagan sacrifices to be used for celebratory meals, and for most people in the Hellenistic world, such meals, sponsored by wealthy patrons, might be their only regular access to meat. The question the Corinthians had asked Paul was whether, given their new faith in Jesus Christ, and the assurance that their was only one God (and thus the pagan sacrifices were of no avail and meaningless), they could continue to participate in those feasts. It had caused division, because some of those in the Corinthian community were not quite sure whether pagan gods existed and had power, and perceived participation in such meals as evil.

Paul’s answer is instructive: “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” It’s quite clear from reading I Corinthians that one of the central problems in this community is the issue of how far one can take the “freedom in Christ” that is gained through faith and baptism. Free from law, ie, Jewish Torah? Paul agrees. Free from laws (ie, civil or natural law)? Paul’s not so sure. And what about one’s responsibility to the community, the body of Christ? “Take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak” (I Cor. 8:9). So Paul concludes this discussion by saying, “Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall” (I Cor. 8:13).

This seems pretty straightforward. One’s own actions and freedom should be tempered by concern for the tender consciences of others. Indeed, this argument is used in contemporary conflicts to argue against certain changes. It can easily become a block to the ongoing discernment of God’s will, but I think there’s some validity in paying close attention to it. What builds up the body of Christ? What undermines it? How do we go about discerning how we should live as individuals and as congregations in the twenty-first century? One clear answer to that from a Pauline, indeed a Christian perspective, is that we are not isolated moral agents, individuals who can decide for ourselves what is right and wrong. Ultimately, if we claim allegiance to Jesus Christ, such decisions must be made in light of their impact on those with whom we share Eucharistic fellowship.

 

Why so little Jonah in the lectionary (Lectionary Reflections for Epiphany 3, Year B)

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This week’s readings.

Sometimes I wonder at what seems to be the perverse logic of the editors of the lectionary (can any of you explain it?). Why wouldn’t you include enough of the Book of Jonah to allow preachers and people to wrestle with it? There are exactly two Sundays when anything from Jonah is read–this week, and Proper 20, year A, when Jonah 3:10-4:11 is read.

I suppose there are biblical stories that are more familiar to most people than “Jonah and the Whale” but really, does anyone not know at least that Jonah was swallowed by a whale? It even received notice from Salon last week. 

I suspect that lectionary’s focus on Jonah’s activity in Nineveh, and not on the events leading up to it, has to do with our squeamishness with the details of the story. Our overly literal minds tend to focus on the details that make it read like a tall tale. But that’s precisely what it is. I remember hearing one professor who had written a commentary on it describe it as an elaborate joke. More seriously, it stands as a critique of Hebrew prophecy, about which one could say more.

The story deserves our attention because it is well-written, memorable, and in its way, describes a very human, natural response to divine call. Of course, we are inclined to find a way to avoid God’s call. We do it every day, in small ways, when we turn away from those in need, or stay silent about the good news of Jesus Christ when the person with whom we are speaking clearly needs to experience the love of Christ. Rarely are we eaten by big fish, however.

There is a great deal of humor in Jonah–not just the opening drama of Jonah fleeing the call of God, being thrown overboard, swallowed up, and then ignominiously vomited up on land near Nineveh (check a map to see the likelihood of that happening). There is also Jonah’s prophetic message and the response of the Ninevites. There is also the response of Jonah, his settling in at a good spot to which Nineveh’s destruction, and the vine that protects him, being killed by a worm. It’s a great story and it preaches.

It preaches so well that there was a tradition in central and eastern Europe to build pulpits in the shape of a whale, so that the preacher was proclaiming out of the whale’s belly.

Come and See: Lectionary Reflections for the Second Sunday after Epiphany, Year B

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In year B of the RCL, the gospel readings are taken from Mark, but because Mark is rather short, from time to time, the Gospel of John is also used. Often, the use of John extends over several weeks, as in the reading of much of John 6, or the Lenten and Easter gospels. Other times, we seem to jump back and forth, with no apparent logic, nor any warning.

We’ve already read portions of John 1(1:6-8, 19-28 on the Third Sunday of Advent; John 1:1-14 on Christmas Day); but it’s unfortunate that we’ve not had the opportunity to read the whole of chapter 1 because v. 19-42 provide the first scenes in a drama that help to explain what is going on in the text for next Sunday. John 1:29-42 is the gospel reading for the Second Sunday after Epiphany in Year A; go figure (Here’s my sermon from last year on that text).

The drama begins with questions about who John the Baptizer is. He denies he is the Messiah, Elias, or one of the prophets. The next day, he and two disciples encounter Jesus. He points to Jesus, and says to his disciples, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” They follow Jesus, and when he asks them what they want, they reply, “Where are you staying?” Jesus responds, “Come and see.” And they stayed with him that day. One of those disciples is Andrew, who goes to tell his brother Simon that they have found the Messiah. Simon comes and sees.

Then comes the reading for this week. Jesus encounters Philip and says, “Follow me.” Like Andrew, Philip goes to find someone else; this time it’s Nathaniel, who gives a cheeky response. But Philip, too, says, “Come and see.”

One of the recurrent images in these verses is “to see.” While different Greek words are used from time to time, and Jesus’ “come and see” is phrased differently from Philip’s, the same word is used for John’s “Behold” and Philip’s “see.” In our culture, seeing is believing, except when we don’t believe our eyes. We are so attuned to special effects, computer graphics, and the like, that I suspect over time the idea that “seeing is believing” will lose its appeal. And indeed, in the gospel, it’s not just about “seeing.” It’s about seeing in a particular way, often guided or informed by faith, or by God’s miraculous power.

In Jesus’ encounter with Nathaniel, this seeing is also knowing. Jesus identifies Nathaniel, saying something crucial about who he is. Nathaniel asks Jesus how he knew him, and Jesus replies, “I saw you under the fig tree.” When Nathaniel comes to know Jesus, naming him as the Son of God, Jesus replies, “You will see greater things than these.”

Seeing, knowing, believing. These three are all wrapped up together in John’s gospel, offering a complex sequence of how one comes to true faith in the one who is Jesus Christ. But it all begins with, “Come and see.” And our eyes are opened when we “stay” with Jesus as Andrew and the other disciple did.

 

And the Word became flesh and tented among us–Further Reflections on John 1

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I’ve been thinking about John 1 and the image of the tent or tabernacle. The Greek verb that is translated as “dwelt” in “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” derives from the word for tent. In the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, the Septuagint, the same word is used for tabernacle, the place in which God was present during the Hebrews’ sojourn in the wilderness.

It’s a rich image, evocative of the temporary nature of the flesh in which the Incarnate Word resided and also because of the resonance with the Hebrew Bible, the author of John’s gospel was making a revolutionary statement about God’s presence in the world.

I thought about the image of “tent” earlier last week as I reflected on Paul’s words in II Corinthians while preparing a funeral homily. Paul uses “tent” to refer the flesh:

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2For in this tent we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling—

We tend not to think of flesh or body in these terms, perhaps because “tent” no longer has a ubiquitous presence in our culture. Tents are for camping, not for living, or dwelling.

Still, there is one way in which that image might take on new power in the contemporary context. One alternative translation is: “And he set up his tent in our midst.” Jim Keane, SJ, sees in this idea a parallel with the Occupy movements.