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

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.

Get Ready for Lent! A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, 2012

In the early 90s, Corrie and I were living north of Boston. We were graduate students. I was finishing my dissertation, Corrie was working on hers. The academic job market was tight. In fact, the year I finished there was exactly one job opening in the History of Christianity nationwide. We decided to stay where we were, close to Harvard libraries, while Corrie finished. And I would look for work. Eventually I found it in the unlikeliest of places. After working as a temp in several companies, I landed a permanent job in a seafood-processing firm. We mostly sold shrimp, fish sticks and other frozen seafood items to school cafeterias, restaurants, and retail outlets.

I couldn’t have been working there more than a few weeks when I walked into one of the managers’ offices and saw on her wall, a framed poster. On it, in screaming black letters were the words “Get Ready for Lent!” It was October. Continue reading

Contentious rituals, contentious ashes–seeking meaning in a secular world

I’ve been reflecting on Ash Wednesday–my own experience of it as well as its place in American culture the past couple of days. I’ve especially been intrigued by the growing popularity of “ashes to go” as well as the pushback. This movement has generated considerable publicity, both in traditional media and onlne and it has given rise to some interesting thinking about Ash Wednesday’s significance in post-christian culture.

I’ll dust off my former “religious studies scholar hat” for a moment or two. The power and meaning of rituals are much debated, both within and between religious communities, and among scholars of religion. In the west, in contemporary American Christianity, there are relatively few rituals that use real matter as powerfully and dramatically as Ash Wednesday. Think about it. The water of baptism leaves no physical mark after one has dried off; the bread and wine of the Eucharist are often reduced to faint imitations of real bread and wine. Even burials are rarely accompanied by the sight of real dirt (astroturf covers the open grave and if dirt is needed to sprinkle while saying “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the funeral director provides a small vial of sand).

Ashes are real. Of course one can buy them from religious supply houses but most of us like to go the whole nine yards, burning last year’s palms and grinding them up. Ashes are messy. I have yet to figure out how not to leave a trail of them throughout the church and as often as not, while distributing them, a few will fall on the nose or cheek of the people.

We rarely touch ashes or find them on our bodies, except on Ash Wednesday, or if we are in the midst of cleaning out a fireplace. Ashes are dirt; they are evidence of disorder and destruction and have no place in our daily life. Certainly they do not belong on our foreheads, or in a church. But there they are.

There is a deep anti-ritualism in Protestant Christianity that has extended itself to mainstream American culture. It’s only a ritual, we say; or that’s empty ritual. At the same time, there is a deep yearning for meaning, for authenticity, and for connection. Ash Wednesday offers all of those things. What is more real, more authentic than the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return”? What deeper connection is made between the one who says those words and distributes the ashes, and the one who receives them? It may be a momentary connection, no more lasting than the touch of a thumb on a forehead and a shared glance, but in that moment there is connection, between priest and people, in an individual (their past, present, and future) and with an individual and their God, Creator and Redeemer.

Nothing about Ash Wednesday has surprised me more than the demographics at our services. There was a higher percentage of students and young adults at all of our services on Wednesday than there are on Sunday mornings. Clearly, the ritual of Ash Wednesday resonates.

There is a great deal of discussion about young adults and religion. Are they losing their religion? Are they disconnected and flying solo? How can we reach out and share the good news of Jesus Christ in this post-Christian world where people are seeking meaning and connection?

I think an answer might be here, in Ash Wednesday. To offer rituals, worship that are deeply authentic and connecting, not just with God, with other humans, or with our own emotions. To offer rituals that are authentic and connect us with the real–like ashes–that connect us with our humanity, our deepest selves, and show us that at our deepest selves is the desire and love of God, such rituals, whether performed in a a traditional space like a church, on a streetcorner or a subway stop, such rituals can offer hope, direction and grace, for broken people in a broken world.

More importantly, we can’t know what effect our actions might have on those we touch, we cannot know how God might be at work, whether those actions take place at an altar rail, or at a bus stop. Those effects are in God’s hands, in God’s grace, something for which I am endlessly grateful to the God I love and serve.

Lenten Resources

(Updated February 23, new links at the top)

Busted Halo’s online lenten calendar

Lots of resources and links from America

There are a number of wonderful Lenten resources on the internet, including daily reflections. I’ll be updating these from time to time.

From ERD (Episcopal Relief and Development)

From the Church of Ireland: A Lenten study on Economic Justice

From Episcopal Credo: my friend Michael Battle’s daily reflections for Lent

The Daily Office for your computer; and for your smartphone: St. Bede’s Breviary

From the Society of St. John the Evangelist:

Lent Madness from Tim Schenk and Scott Gunn. Here’s their description:

The format is straightforward: 32 saints are placed into a tournament-like single elimination bracket. Each pairing remains open for a set period of time and people vote for their favorite saint. 16 saints make it to the Round of the Saintly Sixteen; eight advance to the Round of the Elate Eight; four make it to the Final Four; two to the Championship; and the winner is awarded the coveted Golden Halo. The first round consists of basic biographical information about each of the 32 saints. Things get a bit more interesting in the subsequent rounds as we offer quotes and quirks, explore legends, and even move into the area of saintly kitsch.

Where does my help come from? A homily for the Second Sunday in Lent

March 20, 2011

Lent is a season when we are encouraged to examine our faith with perhaps more seriousness than at other times of the year. It is an opportunity for us to reflect on where we stand with God, to seek ways of deepening our relationship with Christ. All of our lessons encourage us, in different ways, to do just that. We are given two very different stories, the familiar stories of Abraham and Nicodemus. They challenge us to reflect on how we approach God, and how we respond when God approaches us. Continue reading

The future of church…

A couple of disparate pieces have got me thinking, especially in light of the role Grace has played on Capitol Square in the last month.

The first is a review by Bob Duggan of Denis McNamara’s How to Read Churches: A Crash Course in Ecclesiastical Architecture. He concludes:

Even if you are not a believer, McNamara’s How to Read Churches will make you wonder what we shall turn these monuments of the past into for us today—meaningless ruins or emblems of a passion and hope that we can, and should, recognize and incorporate into our lives.

The second is the ongoing debate on the effects of facebook on churches. Elizabeth Drescher asks the question on Religion Dispatches.

I think her conclusion is both valid and quite challenging:

It’s a start. But until churches and other religious groups, their leaders, and members feel comfortable interacting with one another around real questions of meaning and value—questions having little to do with doctrine and much to do with practices of compassion and justice—their social media participation will do no more to revitalize declining religious institutions than holding weekly Jazzercise classes in the parish hall.

Mobile computing and associated social media have not replaced the main draw of the traditional church: spiritual connection in social context. But they have made it more difficult to mask the modern, broadcast-era practice of social and spiritual disconnectedness that plays out as much in generic coffee hour chitchat about football scores and the latest lame Seth Rogan chucklefest as it does in Facebook pages that enable participants (really, the old Facebook “fan” terminology is more accurate) to see a church’s message and comment on it, but which don’t invite genuine, person-to-person or people-to-world interactivity.

I was struck, in the midst of that surreal Ash Wednesday service last week, that our congregation consisted overwhelmingly of young people, many of whom I had never seen before. They came for something; ashes, certainly, but also to be reminded of who they are and who God is, and they chose to come to a specific place, that was designed to connect with the sacred. We address profound questions in a liturgy like Ash Wednesday, that need not have any social dimension on the surface, but the very performance of them had enormous meaning, both within and outside our walls that night

Lenten Reflections from across the Web

Catharine Caimano in Faith and Leadership.

Lent gives a chance to know that God sees us in our frailty and loves us fully, all the same. Lent gives us an opportunity to feel the darkness in and around us that will be expelled come Easter Day.

From Halden: “Remember that you are dust.”

From Jeffrey MacDonald: “Why Lent must rise again.” And a response from Pamela Fickenscher.

Mark Vernon on Ash Wednesday: the importance of acknowledging our mortality.

Ashley Makar: Lent: Season of our Hypocrisy.

A Homily for the First Sunday in Lent, 2011

March 13, 2011
Grace Episcopal Church

As if things couldn’t get any worse. On top of everything that we as individuals and as a community were dealing with, tragedy and crisis continue to accumulate. We woke up Friday to learn of the horrific earthquake and tsunami in Japan; yesterday morning brought the news that a nuclear reactor had exploded. Today, things have gotten even scarier, with reports that two reactors may be in partial meltdown, and others in danger. Closer to home, tragedy struck as well with the death of Vince Puglielli, our friend and neighbor, father of Dave and grandfather of Josh. Like Peter Finch in Network, I want to open up my window and shout, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.” But, there’s not much point in that, because my shouts would be drowned out by all of the other noise on the square.

Lent is supposed to be a time for us to reflect on our faith, to deepen our spiritual lives, to explore new ways of encountering and following Christ. Traditionally, it has been a time of fasting, one of those spiritual disciplines that, like many, has fallen out of favor with contemporary Christians. We may go on diets, even radical ones in order to improve our health, or more often in the quest for achieving a more attractive physique. But to limit our food or drink choices for a spiritual reason seems just a bit odd.

It may be though, that fasting would be inappropriate this Lent, given our context. Oh, I don’t mean a small gesture like giving up chocolate or some other favorite food or beverage. I’m talking about the intense spiritual disciplines that are often associated with Lent. It may be that for many of us, the emotional and spiritual strength needed to sustain us through such a season of fasting is just not there.

What might Lent look like for us this year? In the Ash Wednesday liturgy, I recite what is sometimes called “An Invitation to a Holy Lent.” In that exhortation, a holy Lent is defined by “self-examination and repentance, by prayer, fasting, and self-denial, and by reading and meditating on God’s holy Word.” All of those are certainly worthy efforts, but in this time, for many of us, it may be that we have no energy left for such things. What might a holy Lent look like for us?

Our lessons invite us to reflect on who we are, as individuals and as humanity—our very human nature. The reading from Genesis includes excerpts from the creation story, actually, the second creation story, in which Yahweh God plants a garden, and creates a human being, Adam, is the Hebrew word for human, to till it and take care of it. To end the man’s loneliness, Yahweh God fashions all manner of animals, and in the end, crafts the woman out of the man’s rib. Then in chapter 3, one of those animals that Yahweh God had previously made, the serpent, the craftiest of them all poses a question to the woman, asking whether God forbad them to eat of anything. When she realizes that the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil was beautiful, good to eat, and could make one wise, she ate of it, and gave some to the man, who was with her, and he ate.

We know this story as the Fall. It may explain, at least for those of us in the Western Christian tradition, the origin of sin and evil, but as I used to enjoy telling my students, if it is about original sin, then it’s very interesting that among the words that never appear in the story are apple, Satan, and sin.  Whether or not it describes original sin, and that notion is not present in traditional Jewish interpretation, nor particularly important in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, it is clearly about human nature.

The story reveals something deep and lasting about us. We are innately inquisitive, impulsive, and seek to be independent. All of these things make us who we are. Indeed, one could say that those desires for independence, self-sufficiency, and knowledge are the very yearnings or desires that help us grow and mature. Without them, we would remain as little children, even infants.

There was another temptation that Adam and Eve faced in the garden, something besides the desire for wisdom and self-sufficiency. Eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil also promised the possibility that they might become like gods.

As humans, those desires for wisdom, self-sufficiency, and divinity drive us to great lengths. We might say that these desires have created all of human culture, all of the great achievements of civilization. Yet however hard we as individuals and as a race, strive, no matter how much we desire, there remains something beyond our grasp.

I am an Augustinian. That is to say, my theology and my understanding of human nature is profoundly shaped by my encounter with St. Augustine of Hippo. Now that may come as a surprise to some of you and some of you may even find my acknowledgement of that as problematic. If people know anything about Augustine, they tend to think that he is responsible for the West’s hang-ups over sexuality. But that’s a very superficial read. For Augustine, sex is just one way in which we humans seek to fulfill an even deeper yearning, a desire that is in the very core of our being, a desire for God. Because of the fall and because of our sin, we seek to feed our desires in all kinds of ways that ultimately disappoint us, and sometimes damage us deeply. As Augustine puts it in the first paragraph of his Confessions, “my heart was restless until it found its rest in you.”

In the gospel, Jesus is presented with temptations that confront us, as well, at every turn—temptations to be self-sufficient, to have great power and wealth. But the temptations were much more than that. The story of the temptations in the wilderness follows immediately after Jesus’ baptism, when a voice from heaven announced, “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” Satan came to him in the wilderness and said, “If you are the Son of God….” By rejecting the temptations and that identity with God, Jesus’ relationship with God was confirmed. To put it another way, Jesus dependence on God was reaffirmed.

In Paul’s letter to the Philippians, in a passage where he is commending the love and fellowship that community shares, he urges his readers to have the same mind that was in Christ Jesus:

“who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
7 but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
8 he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.

This mystery of our faith, the mystery of the cross, may be quite beyond our comprehension, or even our understanding. It is certainly far beyond our imitation. Still, the actions of Jesus Christ beckon to us across the centuries. His ability to reject the temptation to power, wealth, and equality with God helped shape him and confirm him as God’s Son.

Perhaps it is enough, this Lent, in the middle of everything that troubles and worries us, that we take as our Lenten discipline nothing more than reflection on that gift, on that miracle. We know what comes when we grasp for security, power, and wealth. We know our deepest desires can be met not by any of those things.

To desire God. Perhaps this Lent, that is enough. To seek God where God may be found, in the example of Jesus Christ, but, yes, also deep in our own hearts, where, with Augustine, we might say, our hearts were restless until they found their rest in you.

 

Thinking about Lent

Ash Wednesday is just a week away. One of the casualties of the Budget crisis in Wisconsin has been my Lenten preparations. Oh, we got started on the right foot. We had a liturgy meeting on the first Sunday in February and began planning for our worship in Lent and Holy Week. I had high hopes then of having all of our planning done, both for the Lenten programs and our Lenten worship, well before Ash Wednesday. It shouldn’t have been a problem, with Ash Wednesday coming so late.

But it was not to be. Caught unawares by the developing protests, and needing to respond quickly to events as they developed, much of the work of the church had to become lower priorities. Among that work was Lent.

Today I got some space, a little at least, to begin thinking about what’s going to be happening next week, to begin thinking as well, about my observance of Lent. One of my questions is how to make our Lent a time that allows us to reflect on what is taking place around us, to consider our complicity and participation in the structures of society and in our interpersonal relationships that are life-denying rather than life-giving.

We tend to focus in Lent on our individual sins and experiences, to see Lent as a time to get right with God, to practice some spiritual discipline more intently, or to try to find ways of deepening our spirituality. I came across this wonderful reflection on Lent by Marilyn McCord Adams, in which she describes us, even believers as “spiritually autistic.” She argues that Lent should be a time when we should try to “restructure our personality to center on lived partnership with God.”

She says Lent should be a time when we break down the defenses that separate us from other human beings, but also break down the defenses that prevent us from experiencing God.

It’s a thought-provoking piece, well-worth reading. For me, in this time, it reminds me that with everything that is going on around us, with the noise that intrudes on our work from time to time, and the palpable anxiety that we encounter in the streets and when we interact with our neighbors on the square, finding space, time, and energy to do the work that Lent calls us to, will be a monumental task, perhaps a Lenten discipline of its own

Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, March 7, 2010

It seems like it’s inevitable. Every time some great tragedy happens, whether it be 9-11 or hurricane Katrina, or the earthquake in Haiti, Pat Robertson is going to make news for saying something outrageous about how this event is God’s punishment on someone.

But it’s not just Pat Robertson and it’s not just great disasters like those I’ve just mentioned. We do it too. We do it when we seek an explanation for the suffering of a friend or loved one, ourselves, or even a stranger we hear about it. What did they, or we, do wrong, to deserve this?

Continue reading