Archives For Eucharist

“Pour out your Holy Spirit on these gifts of bread and wine. Make them be for us the Body and Blood of Christ…”
The epiclesis is when we invoke at table the coming down of the condescending God. Moving into the E’s, Dr. Johanna defines ‘epiclesis’  and Teer and I attempt to tell you why you should care about it.
And mark you calendars…Saturday, December 16 in Alexandria, Va we’re going to do a live podcast with our friend Tripp Fuller of Home-brewed Christianity. Details to follow.

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      The 500th Anniversary coincided this Sunday with our trek through the Book of Exodus. The text for the day was Exodus 16.

“You’ve brought us out here to kill us!” I grumbled to my wife a couple of weeks ago when I realized what little water she’d packed to hike Joshua Tree National Park.

So I can empathize with the recently-rescued Israelites who lodge the same complaint against God.

Still, it sounds a little ungrateful considering they’re still damp from the Red Sea through which God FREAKING DELIVERED THEM FROM CENTURIES OF SLAVERY. Really?

All it takes is the munchies for their Bob Marley Exodus song to turn Janet Jackson circa 1986: “What have you done for me lately?!”

Ungrateful or not, it’s a fair gripe because they’re not lost. No one took a wrong turn into the desert. It’s not Siri’s fault.

From the Red Sea forward, God guided them, appearing in a pillar of cloud and fire, straight into godforsaken-ness.

They’re there because God has led them there.

And not only is it a justified complaint, it’s correct.

God has brought them there to kill them.

     (You won’t hear that from Joel Osteen! You’re welcome.) 

———————-

     God has brought them to the desert for the desert to be the death of them, for their hunger to be the hospice through which God kills off their old selves. That they recall their bondage to Pharaoh fondly is proof that they’re not yet free. So God brings them to the desert for a different kind of deliverance. God answers their nostalgia for Egypt’s stewpots by upping the ante and providing quail every evening.

Quail was considered a delicacy and according to Moses every evening at twilight this abundance of expense, quail, covered their camp. Wherever they were in the wilderness, it was there. God responds to their petty, ungrateful griping with a gesture of unmerited extravagance. Even though they begrudge him their deliverance, God gives them the opposite of what they deserve.

Every day a feathered two-part message: 1) Lose your illusions about Egypt and 2) I, the Lord your God, am not a Pharaoh.

“Quail covered the camp” Moses writes. Every evening, fancy 5-Star fare.

And every morning, under the dew of the desert, the opposite of extravagance: manna.

Bread. From Heaven.

Because we put the loaves on the altar table instead of smearing the dough on foreheads at Ash Wednesday, it’s easy for us to forget.

Bread, in the Bible, is not quail. It’s not food for a fancy feast.

Bread, in the Bible, is a token of the Fall.

Bread is a symbol for original sin. 

After Adam and Eve distrust God in the Garden and disobey God’s only law, God shows them the exit to Eden and God’s parting words to Adam: “Because you have disobeyed…by the sweat of your brow, you shall eat bread until you die.”

That comes right before the Ash Wednesday warning: “…for you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Before the Fall, Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the Garden.

After the Fall, bread becomes a kind of sacrament of their estrangement from the Garden.

And it’s work that requires work: harvesting and grinding and mixing and kneading and rising and waiting and folding and rising and waiting and folding and baking. Bread is the work that marks their sin and fall from grace but now, in the Desert of Sin, God gives it to them as grace. Their work- the wages of their sin- becomes grace.

And it’s all God’s work. There’s no harvesting or grinding or mixing or kneading or rising or waiting or folding or rising or waiting or folding or baking. There’s nothing for them to do but receive it. Every morning, what had been their work to perform is God’s grace to provide. Not on any morning is there anything for them to do except trust that wherever they are it will be there and it will be enough.

God takes their work and God makes it grace because God has rescued them from Egypt in order to return them to Eden. God has delivered them from the despot Pharaoh and delivered them into the Desert of Sin in order to undo their original sin.

Our original, originating sin- it wasn’t disobedience. It wasn’t picking the fruit of the tree in the Garden. That would be a stupid story. Our original, originating sin wasn’t disobedience; it was disbelief.

Did God really say?

Our original sin was unbelief, not our failure to obey God’s law but our failure to trust God’s promise, to trust God’s promise that avoiding the tree in the Garden was for our good. And so in the Desert of Sin, every morning God gives them manna according to his promise. The work that had been theirs to do becomes God’s work alone.

The symbol of their unfaithfulness becomes a sign of God’s faithfulness. And God gives it to them as grace.

There’s nothing for them to do but trust God’s doing. Anything other than trust alone in the doing of God and the bread of heaven breeds worms. From dirt you came and to dirt you will return.

Whether they knew or not- the grumblers were absolutely right. God has brought them there to kill them, to exterminate the old, untrusting Adam in them. God has gotten them out of Egypt and now, in the Desert of Sin, God is getting the Egypt out of them.

     Because it’s slaves who ask “What must I do?”

It’s slaves who ask “What do I have to do now? What should I being doing, Lord?”

But it’s children who trust their Father to do everything for them.

It’s slaves who ask “What must I do?”

It’s children who trust their Father’s promise that it is done.

It’s children who trust when they’re told “It is finished.”

They might be cranky with the munchies and ungrateful as all get out, but the Israelites- they’re right. God has led them there to Sin to kill them.

     Nude faith-

Faith clothed only in the grace of God, trusting that there’s nothing for us to do but believe and receive, for those of us whose self-image is so determined by what we do, faith alone in the grace of God alone- don’t lie- it isn’t just offensive; it feels like dying.

———————-

     BJ Miller is a palliative care doctor at a facility called Zen Hospice in San Francisco. I heard Miller give a TED Talk a couple of years ago, and this winter I read a story about him in the NY Times.

When BJ Miller was a sophomore at Princeton University, one Monday night, he and two friends went out drinking. Late that night, on their way back, drunk and hungry, they headed to WAWA for sandwiches.

There’s a rail junction near the WAWA, connecting the campus to the city’s main train line. A commuter train was parked there that night, idle, tempting BJ Miller and his friends to climb up it.

Miller scaled it first.

When he got to the top, 11,000 volts shot out of a piece of equipment and into Miller’s watch on his left arm and down his legs. When his friends got to him, smoke was rising from his shoes.

BJ Miller woke up several days later in the burn unit at St. Barnabas Hospital to discover it wasn’t a terrible dream. More terribly, he found that his arm and his legs had been amputated.

Turmoil and anguish naturally followed those first hazy days but eventually Miller returned to Princeton where he ended up majoring in art history.

The broken arms and ears and noses of ancient sculptures helped him affirm his own broken body as beautiful.

From Princeton, Miller went to medical school where he felt drawn to palliative care because, as he says, “Parts of me died early on. And that’s something, one way or another, we can all say. I got to redesign my life around my death, and I can tell you it has been a liberation. I wanted to help people realize the shock of beauty or meaning in the life that proceeds one kind of death and precedes another.”

After medical school, Miller found his way to Zen Hospice in California where their goal is to de-pathologize death; that is, to recover death as a human experience and not a medical one.

They impose neither medicine nor meaning onto the dying. Rather, as Miller puts it, they let their patients “play themselves out.” Whomever they’ve been in life is who they’re encouraged to be in their dying.

For example, the NY Times story documents how Miller helped a young man named Sloan, who was dying quickly of cancer, die doing what he loved to do: drink Bud Light and play video games.

Talking about Sloan’s mundane manner of dying, Miller said this- this is what got my attention:

“The mission of Zen Hospice is about wresting death from the one-size- fits-all approach of hospitals, but it’s also about puncturing a competing impulse: our need for death to be a transcendent experience.

Most people aren’t having these profound [super-spiritual] transformative moments (in their lives or in their deaths) and if you hold that out as an expectation, they’re just going to feel like they’re failing.”

     Most people aren’t having these profound [super-spiritual] transformative moments (in their lives or in their deaths) and if you hold that out as an expectation, they’re just going to feel like they’re failing.

They’re going to feel like there is something they must be doing that they’re not doing. They’re going to worry that they’re doing something wrong or they’re going to fear that they’re not doing enough.

———————-

     In the Gospel according to John, no sooner has Jesus fed a hungry crowd of 5,000 with only 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish than some grumblers in the mob start to measure this Messiah’s manna-hood.

“5 loaves and 2 fish…that’s a nifty trick, Jesus. Good for you! Now Moses…he was something else. Moses fed all of Israel every morning with manna for 40 years.”

And Jesus replies (in my Southern paraphrase edition): “Bless your heart.”

No, Jesus replies: Moses isn’t the One who gave you manna. I AM the Bread of Life. I AM the Bread of Heaven, Living Bread. Manna is me, come down for you. 

And then Jesus shifts metaphors: Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood will have eternal life and whoever does not will not. 

Those who ate manna in the Desert of Sin, Jesus points out, still died of sin. So Jesus warns them: “Do not work for the food that perishes but for the food that endures for eternal life.”

     Do not work for the food that perishes. 

     And what comes next in the Gospel according to John- it’s only 2 verses, it’s just 30 Greek words, but it’s everything.

It’s the sum of St. Paul’s message. It’s the core of the Protestant Reformation. It’s the reason we’re not worshipping at Good Shepherd Catholic Church this morning.

It’s only 2 verses, just 30 Greek words, but it’s everything.

It’s the Gospel.

First, they ask Jesus a question. They ask Jesus the question, the question that captives like us are always asking: “What must we do?”

     “What should we be doing so that we are doing the works of God?” 

Should we…and you’ve asked the question enough yourself that you can fill in the blank for them. Should we pray more? Should we study the scriptures more? Should we serve the poor more? Spend less at Christmas?

“What should we be doing so that we are doing the works of God?”

And Jesus answers by correcting the grammar of their question. He changes the subject of their sentence, from us to God: “This is the work of God…”

     What we think is our work, our burden and obligation, to get right with God, to be reckoned to the good, to be justified before God-

it’s the work of God.

That’s not a ‘we’ kind of question, Jesus says. It’s a God question. It’s the work of God. Alone.

Jesus doesn’t just change the subject of their sentence. He changes the object of their sentence too. We put the question in the plural: “What should I be doing to be doing the works of God?”

What stuff should we be doing? How much do we have to do?

But Jesus answers in the singular: “This the doing of God that you trust the One sent by God.” 

There isn’t any stuff we have to do.

We do not have to do several things, or even one good thing, to be justified before God. There is only 1 thing to do, 1 work: your trust.

     Like manna under the desert dew, all you have to do is believe and receive.

Trust.

All you have to do is trust that it’s all already been done. All you have to do is trust what he has done.

Jesus Christ, this manna made flesh, has finished what the Father started in the Desert of Sin. He’s killed off the Old Adam in you, once for all, by drowning him in the baptism of his death and resurrection.

The old untrusting Adam in you has been crucified in him; so that, now, in him, in the New Adam, (present-tense, no conditions or qualifiers) the Gospel promises that you are a New Creation.

Where bread was given to the Old Adam as a sign of sin and punishment, this New Adam, the Living Bread of Heaven, has taken on all your sins and suffered punishment in your place; so that, the curse you deserve becomes the blessing you do not.

     Don’t just do something, Jesus all but answers, stand there.

Stand still- all you have to do is believe and receive.

Trust.

Like manna in the morning, there’s nothing left for you to do but eat.

Eat this promise.

Trust.

Trust that you are the pearl of great price that the King has bought by giving away everything. Trust that you are the prodigal child for whom the Father did not wait to come home to him but has sought you out in his only Son.

All you have to do is trust the doing of God.

Trust that God made him to be sin who knew no sin; so that, you might become the righteousness of God. Trust that you who were dead to your trespasses have been made (past perfect tense) alive in Christ. Trust that your slate is wiped clean because your sins have been washed in the blood of the lamb. All you have to do is trust.

Trust that in all the ways and places you’ve been unfaithful, your manna molding, the Bread of Heaven has been faithful. He has done what you could never do.

He alone is righteous and by grace alone God reckons his righteousness to you. He credits your account with Christ, such that there’s nothing left to do but trust that it’s all been done.

Faith alone- that’s all there is for you to do because the righteousness of Christ imputed to you is already and will always be overflowing.

Faith alone is the only work you must do.

And it’s not even your work to do because, notice, Jesus changes the verb of their question: “What should we be doing…?” they ask.

And Jesus responds: “This is the doing of God…”

This is the doing of God that you trust the One sent by God.

It’s God’s work. The one and only work we must do, God does in us: trust.

God works faith into us.

The one work we must do to respond to what God has done in Jesus Christ, God also does in us.

It’s just 2 verses in John’s Gospel: 6.28 and 6.29.

It’s just 30 Greek words in John’s Gospel, but it’s the Gospel:

You are saved by God’s grace alone

By Christ alone

By the blood of the Living Bread of Heaven

Through faith alone.

It’s only 2 verses, 30 words, but it’s enough to puncture what BJ Miller calls the competing impulse within us.

“The dying are still very much alive and we are all dying,” BJ Miller tells the Times writer, “we die the way we live.”

We die the way we live.

He means-

Just as many die thinking that there’s something more spiritual or profound or meaningful they’re supposed to be doing and worry that they aren’t doing it or aren’t doing it right or doing it enough, we live with that same anxiety: “What must we be doing so that we’re doing the works of God?”

     We think that Jesus came down from Heaven, cancelled out our debts upon the cross, but now it’s on us to work our way up to God.

     The Golden Rule may not justify us before God but we sure think it makes a good ladder up to him.

And we’re forever anxious that we need to climb it.

Or that we even can.

The Book of Exodus says that way of thinking- it breeds worms.

What’s miraculous, BJ Miller contends, more miraculous than empty, contrived spiritual gestures- more miraculous, I’d argue than 5 loaves and 2 fish or manna every morning- is watching what the dying do with their lives once they learn they have the freedom not to do anything.

      What’s miraculous is watching what the dying do with their lives once they learn they have the freedom not to do anything.

“My work,” Miller says, “is to unburden them from the crushing weight of unhelpful expectations.” 

Today is the 500th Anniversary of the Protestant Reformation

And it says a whole lot about how far we’ve drifted from it that it takes a triple amputee agnostic working at crunchy Buddhist hospice hospital on the Left Coast to point it out to us, BJ Miller’s work-that’s the work of the Gospel too- to unburden you from the crushing weight of expectations.

The Gospel is that you are saved by God’s grace alone by Christ’s atoning blood alone and that is yours through faith- trust- alone. The Gospel is like palliative medicine for the died in Christ. The Gospel is that you are forgiven and justified and loved exactly as you are…FULL STOP.

The work of the Gospel is to unburden you of the crushing weight of that question: “What must I be doing to be doing the works of God?”

The Gospel unburdens you to ask a different question, a question that leads to something more miraculous and even more beautiful.

This question:

     What are you going to do with this faith of yours?

Now you have the freedom not to do anything?

Love Notes

Jason Micheli —  October 16, 2017 — 1 Comment

     Here’s my sermon on Exodus 12.1-13 from Sunday.

On the night we betrayed him, Jesus’ Passover table in the upper room would’ve been set according to the Seder instructions in the Haggadah from the Book of Deuteronomy.

The reason the disciples fall asleep later that night in the garden is because the Haggadah requires enough wine for 4 cups for each of them. 4 cups of wine not 1.

4 cups, each of which represents one of the promises God makes to Israel about their deliverance:

Cup 1: ”I will take you out of Egypt…”

Cup 2. “I will save you from Pharaoh…”

Cup 3. “I will redeem you from captivity…”

Cup 4. “I will take you as a People…”

Along with the 4 cups, at the center of Jesus’ Passover table would have been brick-shaped mixtures of fruits, nuts and vinegar symbolizing the bricks that Pharaoh forced them to build, a plate of bitter herbs and a bowl of salt water symbolizing the bitterness and tears of their captivity, unleavened bread, symbolizing the urgency of their escape, and the lamb itself which the head of the household, the host, would’ve taken home from the Temple to skin it and then roast it for the feast.

Presumably Jesus is the one who kills and skins and roasts the lamb as he’s the host who leads the script that night.

According to the Haggadah, that night in the upper room Jesus blesses the first cup of wine and invites them all to drink.

Then the bitter herbs, which Jesus blesses and invites them to eat with the salt water. Then comes the bread and the dried fruit and the lamb. Next, Jesus the host would have poured the second round of wine, retelling the story of the Exodus, before inviting his disciples to drink. Then, according to the script, Jesus breaks the bread. And according to the script, according to the Haggadah, what Jesus is supposed to do next is bless the bread, mix it up with some of the herbs and fruit and lamb and say to his table mates: ‘This is the body of the Passover.’

But Jesus changes the script.

He inserts himself into it. He doesn’t say ‘This is the body of the Passover.’ He says ‘This is my body.’

He connects the body of the Passover Lamb to his body and then he connects it to their bodies by saying‘Take and eat.’

Jesus changes the script.

Jesus takes the symbolism and promises behind the herbs and the fruit and the bitter herbs and the bread and the lamb and he ties them not to his teaching or his preaching, not his miracles, not to his compassion for the poor or his prophetic witness against power.

Jesus changes the script.

     Jesus takes the symbolism and promises of the Passover meal and ties them to his body. To his death.

‘Take and eat. This is my body broken…’

As the host of his last Passover, Jesus doesn’t just change the script. He adds to it.

According to the Haggadah, after they feast on the meal, Jesus is supposed to pour and bless the third cup of wine, and invite the disciples to drink it. Then, according to the script, they’re supposed to sing from the Book of Psalms before blessing and drinking the fourth cup of wine.

Except, after they feast on the meal, when the time comes, Jesus takes the third cup of wine, the cup symbolizing God’s redemption promise (“I will deliver you from captivity”,) and Jesus says: ‘This is my blood…drink from this all of you…’

     Hang on. Drink what? What’s blood doing on our table? 

     Leonardo DaVinci didn’t quite capture it in his Last Supper but if there was a WTF moment in the upper room it went down right there and then. They’d be better off going back to eating and drinking with hookers and thieves. Blood shouldn’t be anywhere near their table. You didn’t need to be a rabbi like Jesus to know that according to the Law it was verboten to consume blood much less drink it.

The law stipulated that “anyone of the house of Israel who eats any blood, I the Lord will set my face against that person who consumes blood, and will forsake that person as accursed…”

Blood is forbidden. Anyone who consumes it in any way is accursed. That’s why verse 9 in Exodus 12 commands Israel to roast the Passover lamb over a fire not boil it or consume it raw. None of the blood of the lamb can end up on the table.

And this isn’t an arbitrary law designed to bless the world with Jewish delis and kosher hot dogs.

Blood was forbidden because blood symbolized life.

As the Law says: For the life of every creature—its blood is its life; therefore I have said to the people of Israel: You shall not eat the blood of any creature, for the life of every creature is its blood; whoever eats it shall be accursed.”

Blood was forbidden because blood symbolized life.

As such, the blood belonged to the Giver of Life alone. The blood belongs to God. Blood can’t be on your menu because it’s not yours to serve.

And because God is the giver of life to every creature the blood of every creature, in fact, represents God’s own life. What makes it a sin to take life, to shed bled, is what makes rabbis give life, sacrifice the blood, back to God.

But now, this rabbi is once again breaking the law of the covenant by inviting them to drink it: “Drink from this all of you. This is my blood of the new covenant poured out for you and for many for deliverance from sins.”

You don’t need to be a rabbi to know.

According to the Law, the blood on the table makes him forsaken. Which is to say, to obey him and drink his blood is to disobey the Law and share in his forsakenness. To share in the curse he will bear.

You don’t need to be a rabbi to know.

He’s offering them what belongs to God alone. He’s offering them his life. Which is to say, he’s offering them his death. He’s offering them a share in his death.

We got a puppy last month. So now we have two Australian Shepherds in the house. If you’re not familiar with Australian Shepherds then just imagine that you’re in the ocean, just barely treading water, drowning really, and then someone hands you a baby.

I’ve been walking the puppy a lot around the neighborhood, which means I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts lately.  I listened to an old episode, a rebroadcast, from the NPR program Snap Judgement recently about a rabbi.

A rabbi named Michael Weisser who moved his family from New York City to a synagogue in Lincoln, Nebraska of all places.

No sooner had the rabbi arrived when he gets an anonymous phone call from a voice that says simply, “You’ll be sorry you ever moved into that house, Jew Boy.”

A couple of few weeks later a package arrived at the rabbi’s house filled with racist tracts and a business card from the KKK (apparently they have business cards) that read, “The KKK is watching you, scum.”

The rabbi called the police who quickly figured the perpetrator was Larry Trapp, a man who was notorious in the Lincoln community as a white supremacist. The police suggested to the rabbi that his daughter not walk the same way home from school every day.

This is where the story gets good, Jesusy good: What the Rabbi did next- he figured it be a good idea to reach out to Larry and see if they could talk.

Seriously.

And so every week, right before he taught Bar Mitzvah lessons, this rabbi, Rabbi Michael, would call Larry and leave what the rabbi called “love notes” on Larry’s answering machine.

No BS.

This rabbi would call and say things like: “Larry, there’s a lot of love out there and you’re not getting any of it. What’s wrong with you?”

This rabbi kept at it, kept calling for months, and one day Larry finally picked up the phone.

“Why are you calling me? You are hassling me!” Larry griped.

“I just want to talk to you,” said Rabbi Michael.

“What do you want to talk about?”

And this rabbi says: “I hear you’re disabled and you might need a ride to the grocery.”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t call me anymore” Larry snarls and hangs up.

But this rabbi- he kept calling, week after week, month after month. Love notes on Larry’s answering machine.

Like signs.

Then one evening, on the sabbath, Larry Trapp calls the rabbi back.

Larry tells the rabbi he wants out. He tells the rabbi he is done with his life and he wants to escape. He asks the rabbi to come over, to his house.

And Rabbi Michael and his wife do. When Larry opens the door, he’s holding a gun and you can guess what the rabbi’s thinking.

But Larry hands the gun to this rabbi.

And then he tells the rabbi that he wants to take down all the racist crap he has hanging in his home but he can’t do it himself because he’s in a wheelchair.

So this rabbi helps him take it all down and while they do Larry tells the rabbi about his (unsurprising) childhood history of abuse.

Before they finish, Larry weeps and confesses to the rabbi that he doesn’t want to be who he has been.

This is where the story made me cry on Culver with a sack of dog doodie in my hand.

Larry wasn’t just disabled. He was sick, chronically so. His kidneys were failing. So this rabbi and his wife they decide to welcome Larry into their home, to take care of him.

They invited him to sleep in the bed of the daughter he’d once threatened.

Rabbi Michael’s wife, Julie, gave up her job in order to take care of Larry full time.

During the months the rabbi and his wife cared for him, Larry, the former Klansmen, started talking about becoming a Jew. And, eventually, he did right before he died.

In the podcast, this rabbi observed that it wasn’t enough to say that Larry Trapp had changed or improved or repented or become a different person.

The old Larry Trapp had died, the rabbi said.

When Larry’s kidney’s finally failed, Rabbi Michael told NPR that it felt like he had lost a member of his family.

“This is my blood of the new covenant poured out for you and for many for the deliverance from sins.”

Not only should the blood of the lamb not be in the third cup or even on the Passover table at all, what’s left of the lamb’s blood Jesus should’ve smeared across the door to the upper room.

The blood-smeared door will a sign, God promises; so that, when Death- God’s angel of Death- passes over, God’s People will be spared the wages of Pharaoh’s sin.

The blood- it will be a sign, God promises.

But hold up, God doesn’t need a sign!

The Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, doesn’t need an SOS streaked in neon blood. God found Moses in all of Midian and met him in a burning bush.

God doesn’t need a sign like the Bat Signal to find his People.

No.

From God’s side, the blood is superfluous.

From God’s side, the blood is absolutely unnecessary.

God doesn’t need a sign.

We do.

Even before he’s delivered them through the Red Sea, even before he’s drowned us in the baptism of Christ’s death and parted the way through Christ’s grave- before we’re freed God makes sure we won’t forget to remember.

He gives us a sign. A love note- the blood: on the door, in the cup.

If God goes to all this trouble before our rescue to make sure we’ll remember, then if the blood is a sign of anything, it’s a sign of our propensity to forget.

When it comes to God’s grace, we can talk a good game.

We can talk about how Jesus Christ has offered his life in your place.

We can talk about how you have died with him and how through him God has redeemed you of all your sins because in him- in his body- all your sins have been nailed to the cross, once-for-all, such that now there is now no condemnation because of Jesus Christ.

No condemnation. The message of grace is the message that God is not in the judgement game.

But we forget.

We talk a good game about what God has done for us, but then we turn around and we act as though our relationship with God depends not on what Christ has done for us but on what we do for God.

We talk about unconditional grace but then we turnaround and we act as though there’s fine print we must meet in order to merit it.

We’ve got to pray. We’ve got to give. We’ve got to serve. We think.

     We talk a good game about how God in Christ loves you despite who you are, but then we turnaround and we act like you must become someone other than who you are.

You must become more virtuous. You must become more spiritual. You must become more compassionate and generous and justice-minded. We say.

We talk about grace, but then we act like what makes us right isn’t Christ’s own righteousness but our works.

A “faithful” Christian must oppose this agenda, we tweet. A “real” Christian must conform to these politics, we comment on Facebook. A “righteous” Christian must stand up for that issue we forward an email to our friends.

     We can talk a good game when it comes to grace, but all the time we forget.

We act as though the cross isn’t effective for us until we do something about it: repent, believe, find faith, get saved, go inward.

     But grace isn’t all that amazing if it’s just available.

Grace isn’t amazing if it isn’t actual until we act to access it for ourselves.

Not only is that not very amazing, notice- it makes us the way, the truth, and the life instead of Jesus Christ.

It puts faith not in Christ and what Christ has done; it puts faith in what we do; in fact, it puts our faith in the very doing of our faith.

It relies on us to make our way up to God rather than trusting that God has come down to us and by the blood of the lamb delivered us.

Martin Luther put it thus:

“The Law of the Old Covenant says ‘Do this and you will live, but it is never done.’

Grace in the New Covenant says ‘Trust. Everything is already done. Live.’”

Everything is already done. It’s all been done- that’s the New Covenant Christ pours into the cup. That’s the unthwartable promise of the grace of God in Jesus Christ.

Our memory though is more easily thwarted.

Including my own.

I forget.

For example, I was tempted to share that Snap Judgement story about Rabbi Michael with you and then to use it to exhort you to go and do likewise: Love your enemy. Forgive your trespassers. Welcome the outcast. Care for the sick.

‘Go and do like that rabbi’ I was tempted to exhort. And it would be good if you went and did like that rabbi. No doubt, the world would be a better place for it but– I forget, I’ve got to remind myself- that’s not the Gospel.

I forget too.

I forget that Jesus Christ is not a new Moses.

Christ does not come to give you a new way to try to become righteous; he comes to give you his own righteousness by his broken body.

He’s not a new Moses. Christ does not bring a new and different Law; Christ brings something new and different.

He brings a promise.

He brings the Gospel- the good news of God’s grace.

The promise that even though you do not love your enemy, despite your failures to forgive your trespassers, whether or not you welcome the outcast or care for the sick, no matter how much or how little you perform your faith like that rabbi in Nebraska, a different rabbi has already forgiven all your trespasses.

     A different rabbi has already shown compassion on your sin-sickness.

A different rabbi has already loved you, his enemy.

This rabbi has loved you enough to welcome you into his home, to share his family with you, to adopt you as his sons and daughters.

This rabbi has done it all.

Everything has been done by him. He needs nothing from you.

Well, except your need. He needs nothing from you but your need.

Before the Passover, Jesus gets up from the supper table, he sets aside his robe, and puts on an apron.

Then he pours water into a basin, stoops over onto his knees and one-by-one he begins to wash his friends’ dirty feet.

When he gets to Peter, Peter starts arguing, “You’re not going to wash my feet-ever!” And Jesus says, “Unless I wash you, you can’t be part of me or my kingdom.” And Peter replies: “Not only my feet, then. Wash my hands! Wash my head! Wash all of me.”

We forget how the rest of that story goes. We forget how Jesus says to Peter and his disciples “Now, I need only to wash your feet- I will make the rest of you clean forever.”

I’ll make the rest of you forever clean.

We forget how that story goes.

We forget how no sin we do can stain us because, by his broken body, he’s in us and we’re in him and in him, through the waters of baptism, we have died with him.

He’s rescued us from our sin into his own righteousness. Our exodus is over. No matter how far you wander in whatever wilderness you find yourself, you’re never lost and you will never be forsaken.

No matter what you do or do not do it cannot undo what God has done for you.

Everything. Everything has been done.

We can talk a good game when it comes to grace, but we’re so prone to forgetting.

So Jesus gives us a sign. A love note.

And he puts your name on it.

He takes the promise of the Gospel and he gives it a pronoun: ‘Here, take and eat…drink from this…it’s for you.’

The bread on the table. The blood in the cup.

God doesn’t give you these signs as ways for you to earn forgiveness. That’s not the proper application of the pronoun.

God gives these signs for you- for you to remember:  God has already forgiven you.

Once. For all.

No sin you do can undo that because you are forever stained by the blood of the lamb.

 

 

 

 

 

“And so in remembrance of these your mighty acts in Jesus Christ, we offer ourselves…”
In the Eucharist we remember so that the past might be made present that we might be consumed by what we consume in order that we become what we eat. In other words, this word: anamnesis. We talk with Dr. Johanna Hartelius in this second episode of (her)men*you*tics about Plato, the Prayer of Great Thanksgiving, and the particular way the peculiar people called Christians remember. Check it out.
Each week we’ll be tackling a theological term that you’ve either heard before or you’ve heard it doing its work in worship whether you realized it or not. We’re going alphabetically, 2 words per letter, and we’re doing it all in 25 minutes or less.

Give us a rating and review!!!

Help us reach more people: Give us 4 Stars and a good review there in the iTunes store. 

It’ll make it more likely more strangers and pilgrims will happen upon our meager podcast. ‘Like’ our Facebook Page too. You can find it here.

Oh, wait, you can find everything and ‘like’ everything via our website.

When the other guys on the podcast posse found out Jason’s guest, Melissa Febos, had written a memoir about her time as a dominatrix in NYC, they all got gun shy.

Their loss. I’m grateful to consider Melissa an (e) friend now.

Not gonna lie- and you can give us your feedback- but I think this conversation with Melissa is the best we’ve had yet on the podcast, ranging from writing, bodies as objects and bodies as sacraments, Woody Allen, grace, shame, mercy, and the eucharist as an erotic act.

Melissa Febos is the author of the acclaimed Whip Smart and the new memoir Abandon Me.

Her work has been widely anthologized and appears in publications including Tin House, Granta, The Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Glamour, Guernica, Post Road, Salon, The New York Times, Hunger Mountain, Portland Review, Dissent, The Chronicle of Higher Education Review, Bitch Magazine, Poets & Writers, The Rumpus, Drunken Boat, and Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York.

She has been featured on NPR’s Fresh Air, CNN, Anderson Cooper Live, and elsewhere. Her essays have twice received special mention from the Best American Essays anthology and have won prizes from Prairie Schooner, Story Quarterly, and The Center for Women Writers. She is the recipient of fellowships from the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, Virginia Center for Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, and The MacDowell Colony.

The recipient of an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, she is currently Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Monmouth University.

Next week – Scot McKnight talks to us about angels. Week after – Martin Doblmeier of Journey Films. Followed by Robert Jenson and Rod Dreher of Benedict Option fame. Stay tuned and thanks to all of you for your support and feedback. We want this to be as strong an offering as we can make it so give us your thoughts.

You can download the episode and subscribe to future ones in the iTunes store here

We’re breaking the 1K individual downloaders per episode mark. 

Help us reach more people: 

Give us 4 Stars and a good review there in the iTunes store. 

It’s not hard and it makes all the difference. 

It’ll make it more likely more strangers and pilgrims will happen upon our meager podcast. ‘Like’ our Facebook Page too. You can find it here.

Oh, wait, you can find everything and ‘like’ everything via our website.

If you’re getting this by email, here’s the link. 

rp_Untitled101111-683x1024-683x1024.jpgFor the past 18 months, I’ve been working on writing a catechism, a distillation of the faith into concise questions and answers with brief supporting scriptures that could be the starting point for a conversation. The reason being I’m convinced its important for the Church to inoculate our young people with a healthy dose of catechesis before we ship them off to college, just enough so that when they first hear about Nietzsche or really study Darwin they won’t freak out and presume that what the Church taught them in 6th grade confirmation is the only wisdom the Church has to offer.

You can find all the previous posts here.

III. The Son

22. Why Did Jesus Give Us the Eucharist?   

Because Christ is our Passover.

When Jesus sits down with his betrayers on the night of the Passover, their table in the upper room looked like any other Passover feast. Except Jesus changes the familiar script.

When Jesus takes the bread with the lamb, he doesn’t say This is the body of the Passover’ as he’s supposed to say. He says ‘This is my body broken for you.’ And when Jesus pours the third cup of wine, the cup of redemption, the cup that remembers the deliverance God worked all in Egypt; Jesus doesn’t say: ‘This is the blood of the Passover.’ He says: ‘This is my blood…’

So then, while the meal is known by many different names (The Lord’s Supper, Communion, Eucharist, etc.), Jesus intends it most fundamentally as our Passover meal whereby Christ redefines the bread and the wine; so that, they now signify him. He is the first born son who is the price for deliverance. His blood, streaked on the doorposts of our hearts, marks us out his elect People. He is the New Moses, who leads us from captivity to the Pharaohs of Sin and Death to be a pilgrim people, living as God’s peaceful alternative to the Principalities and Powers of this world.

As in the Exodus of Israel, where God was present to his People during their sojourn, in a pillar of cloud and fire, the bread and the wine become the means by which the Risen Christ is present to us on our pilgrimage.

Because only God can reveal God, the bread and wine of the Eucharist are more than bread and wine.

They are, literally, a New Creation. They are the substance through which God speaks Christ into our presence. They become Christ in that the Word is made flesh, not through a womb but through wine and bread, and dwells among us.

Therefore, the Eucharist is not simply a foretaste of the Kingdom to come; it is the Kingdom come, where strangers and sinners from East and West, North and South, gather to celebrate at Table the wedding feast of Father, Son, and Spirit.

“People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God.”

-Luke 13

karl_barthDuring Lent, as many of my professional Christian colleagues were forsaking sugar, shots, and selfies, I was instead taking on an additional discipleship discipline:

Reading Karl Barth’s Dogmatics.

After a year of stage-serious cancer, I shouldn’t have to give up shit for Lent, for I’d already suffered longer than Jesus did in the wilderness. I theologized. Plus,  reading Barth is not penitential at all.

Last week, on a whim, I brandished my reacquaintence with Barth against that most cherished of United Methodist idols, the Wesleyan Quadrilateral, the doctrine which professes that Scripture, the Word of God, is illuminated to us by Tradition, Reason, and Human Experience. Through a Barthian lens, I suggested that the Quadrilateral inevitably conjugates scripture’s testimony into the past-tense and that, according to Barth, Scripture is not the record of how God met us in Christ. Scripture is the ground on which the Risen Christ elects to meet us today.

But, from Barth’s perspective, that’s hardly the only problem with the Quadrilateral that we attribute to Wesley. Saying, as the Wesleyan Quadrilateral does, that the Word of God can be illumined by our Tradition, Reason, and Experience suggests that Scripture’s address to us is lying there in the text, waiting, for us.

Not only does this construe Scripture as the texts in which God once spoke rather than the medium by which God speaks today, it falsely promises that God’s Word will be heard in Scripture so long as we approach it with faithfully our Tradition, Reason, and Experience.

Or, to put it differently, Experience, Reason, and Tradition are the means by which we get God to speak to us through Scripture.

For Barth, though, Revelation by its very nature- no matter how many prayers for illumination we utter- cannot be guaranteed precisely because Christ is Risen.

God is not dead, and Jesus is a Living Lord; therefor, the Word of God is no less free today than in the pages of scripture. Just as with Hannah and Sarai, just as in Mary’s womb or Christ’s empty tomb, God is always free to surprise and reveal in ways we’re not expecting and, in this case, God is free NOT to reveal in ways we’re expecting.

God is free to show up, as to Moses at the Burning Bush, and God is free not to show up, as in the 400 years preceding the Burning Bush.

It’s no accident that when God condescends to us in the logos, Jesus Christ, we push him out of the world on a cross. The Word of God intrudes upon our world, as almost a kind of violence, and so is not tied to it. It cannot be calendared or calibrated for it never ceases to be grace, a gift we can neither earn nor expect.

Too often the Wesley Quadrilateral implies that revelation is latent within the text of scripture and that our use of Reason, Experience, and Tradition are the keys by which we unlock it. Barth however insists that the God we find pursuing us in scripture is self-objectifying. God seeks after us; we cannot seek after God- any god we discover in our seeking is not God but a god. There’s no such Christian thing, in a Barthian sense, as a Seeker Service. All of us are only and always the sought.

To say God is self-objectifying is to assert, against so much of our liturgical assumptions, that God wills at specific times to be the object of our speech, eating, and prayer, but other times God wills not to be our object, which means a more proper response to scripture in worship is to say: ‘This is the Word of God for the People of God. We pray. Thanks be to God.’

Likewise, the great thanksgiving is not a magic incantation recited by a shaman that guarantees God’s presence in the eucharist. The Holy Spirit is invited to pour out upon the table; the Holy Spirit is not compelled to condescend. The Great Thanksgiving and the Prayer for Illumination are just that, prayers, pleadings, petitions for God to reveal God’s self. They are not methods but practices of faith. Hope and trust.

For Barth, we cannot approach, apprehend, know, or even believe in this God through any means other than God’s own present and ongoing revelation. God must elect to come to us in our speech and bread, as in Mary’s womb it is no less in the pulpit or at the table. God doesn’t always elect to reveal himself to us for when God does reveal it is always necessarily a miracle.

I suppose some might see in this bad news, that revelation isn’t 100% fool-proof predictable, but I think Barth would point out that good news of this free, electing, self-objectifying God is so much better; namely, that God does not consider it beneath God to rest on the lips and in the hands of creatures, like us, of such low estate. 

Untitled101111For the past year, I’ve been working on writing a catechism, a distillation of the faith into concise questions and answers with brief supporting scriptures that could be the starting point for a conversation. The reason being I’m convinced its important for the Church to inoculate our young people with a healthy dose of catechesis before we ship them off to college, just enough so that when they first hear about Nietzsche or really study Darwin they won’t freak out and presume that what the Church taught them in 6th grade confirmation is the only wisdom the Church has to offer.

You can find all the previous posts here.

III. The Son

16. What did Jesus teach? 

Most importantly:

Jesus was not merely a teacher among teachers.

As the Incarnate Son, Jesus is what God teaches us.

Jesus was not one who taught us words about God; Jesus is the Word God speaks to us. Jesus, the content and character of his life, is the teaching God vindicates by retrieving it from the dead.

The incarnation presupposes it wasn’t sufficient for God to be for us (on the cross) otherwise Jesus’ teaching would be superfluous. His teaching isn’t necessary if he came only to deliver us, but his teaching is absolutely necessary if he comes because God is determined to be with us, for his teaching is how we learn to be with him and be with others, like him. That is to say Jesus taught the Kingdom of God, the world as it truly is and will be when creatures embrace their createdness, loving God and others as God loves God. Such a Kingdom will always appear upside down to those who’ve inverted God’s creation to their own ends.

Jesus’ Kingdom teaching was not unique to Jesus. Rather, it presumed the preaching of the prophets, who described the world when it obeys God’s creative intentions instead of sin’s false freedom.

While Jesus’ Kingdom teaching was not new, the way in which Jesus presented the Kingdom was new. He taught the Kingdom as a present reality, in and through him. This is why Jesus regarded sinners and outcasts already as the redeemed people they would be one day.

In teaching the Kingdom as a present, urgent reality, Jesus closed off the possibility of a delayed response among his hearers. Unlike the prophets who preceded him, those who heard Jesus teach the Kingdom immediately found themselves either called into its citizenship or realized that they had already rejected it.

Thus, in the way Jesus taught the Kingdom, he robbed his listeners of the possibility of any neutral response  to it.

The Kingdom had arrived and was present in Jesus; hearers of this teaching could only either follow or depart sadly away.

Likewise, the Church does not teach that the Kingdom started with Jesus or that the Kingdom grows through its work. The Church, like Jesus, teaches the Kingdom as an urgent, response-demanding reality that is present through the re-presenting of Christ’s words and deeds, most especially in the eucharist.

‘…and the rich man went sadly away, for he had many possessions.’ – Mark 10.17-31

Saturday is Reformation Day, the so-called ‘holiday’ when Protestants celebrate violating 1 Corinthians 12 and telling part of Christ’s Body: ‘I have no need for you.’

This Sunday we celebrate the holy day known as All Saints.

It’s an ironic confluence of occasions as though we celebrate the former often refuse, on those very grounds, to observe the latter.

John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, famously said that All Saints’ Day was his favorite holy day on the liturgical calendar. Methinks Wesley must’ve have suffered through some dreadful Christmas services to make such a claim tenable.

Nonetheless, All Saints’ is a powerful reminder of two primary claims of our faith, that of Ash Wednesday and that of Hebrews:

To dust we came and to dust we shall return.

We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses; i.e.. those who’ve returned to the dust ahead of us.

All Saints’ Day is celebrated chiefly as we preside over the Eucharist, calling upon the ‘great company of heaven’ to join in our alleluia.

Every year when All Saints’ is just a few days away on the schedule I’m given to thinking about the men and women who’ve been saints to me, in my own life and what, increasingly over the years, I’ve become convinced is one of the most important questions:

 

‘Can we pray to the saints?’

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It’s a good question, a question that’s been a bone of contention between Christians ever since Martin Luther nailed his 95 protests against the Catholic Church into the sanctuary doors in Wittenberg 500 years ago:

Can we solicit the prayers of the dead?

Can we ask the saints to pray for us?

Those, I think, are better ways of putting the question.

Of course there’s the standard Protestant tropes about how praying to anyone but Jesus Christ is…idolatrous; how devotion to anything else, saint or otherwise, detracts from our devotion to Christ.

And there’s the mantra of the Reformation: how we are saved by faith alone, by Christ alone, who is our Great, High Priest therefore we don’t need any other priest, confessor or saint to mediate our prayers.

 

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 Can we ask the saints to pray for us?

It’s a question that has divided Christians for 5 centuries.

After all they won’t be celebrating All Saints Day at any of the Baptist or Pentecostal churches up and down Ft Hunt Road.

And in the United Methodist Church and in the Episcopal Church we split the difference. We remember and we give thanks for the saints, but we don’t speak to them. We don’t call on them. And we typically don’t ask them to pray for us.

 

At funerals, the Book of Worship guides officiants to draping a white pall over the casket while proclaiming:

Dying, Christ destroyed our death.

Rising, Christ restored our life.

As in baptism __________ put on Christ, so now is __________ in Christ and clothed with glory.

 Then facing the gathered, the pastor holds out her hands and for the call to worship voiced Jesus’ promise:

I am the resurrection and I am life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die

 And then at the end of the service, after the preaching and the sharing and the crying, the pastor lays her hands on the casket and prayed the commendation:

As first you gave __________ to us, now we give _________ back to you.

Receive __________ into the arms of your mercy.

Receive __________ into the fellowship of your departed saints

When we baptize someone, we baptize them into Christ and we declare that he or she will forever be a son or daughter in heaven. And so in death we never cease to be in Christ.

The Christian community is one that blurs the line between this world and the next. That’s why Christians use the word ‘veil’ to describe death, something so thin you can nearly see through it.

It’s a fellowship that cannot be broken by time or death because it’s a communion in the Living Christ. What we name by the word ‘Church’ is a single communion of living and departed saints. The Church is one People in heaven and on Earth.

The dead don’t disappear into the ether. They don’t walk around as vaporous ghosts. They don’t dissolve into the fibers and cells of the natural world. They’re gathered around the throne, worshipping God. They’re in Christ, the very same communion they were baptized into. The same communion to which we belong.

And so death does not destroy or fundamentally change our relationship to the dead.

We pray and, according to the Book of Revelation, so do they.

We praise God and, according to the Great Thanksgiving-our communion prayer, so do they.

We try to love God and one another and, according to the Book of Hebrews, they do so completely.

Our fellowship with the departed saints is not altogether different from our fellowship with one another.

That’s what we mean when we say in the Creed ‘I believe in the communion of saints…’ We’re saying: ‘I believe in the fellowship of the living and the dead in Christ.’ So it seems to me we can pray and ask the saints to pray for us.

Not in the sense of praying to them.

Not in the sense of giving them our worship and devotion.

But if we believe in the communion of saints, living and dead, then asking the departed saints for their prayers is no different than Trish, Julie and David- in my congregation- asking for my prayers for them this week.

It’s not, as Protestants so often caricature, that the saints are our way or our mediators to Jesus Christ.

Rather, because we (living and dead) are all friends in Jesus Christ we can talk to and pray for one another.

I can ask Jackson, who had an eleven year old’s insatiable curiosity for scripture, to pray for me that I never take these stories for granted.

I can ask Joanne and Peg, both of whom knew better than me what it was to serve the poor, to pray for me that I not lose sight of what Jesus expects of me.

I can ask Eleanor, who made her boys her priority, to pray for me that I never stop treasuring mine.

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It’s an important question because it’s one I think about every time I stand behind a loaf of bread and a cup of wine and pray:

‘…and so with your people here on earth and all the company of heaven, we praise your name and join their ending hymn…’

10917296_10205661027787221_3674691722071054151_nA Eucharistic Meditation ~ 

Dear $@#holes,

It’s me, Jason- Tamed Cynic. You know, the Christian whose blog you hacked.

What’s that? You don’t remember me? There were thousands of other random, anonymous victims just like me?

Oh, I see.

I guess that’s a valid excuse. Of course- and this is just a word to the wise- it’s a not a compelling excuse, morally speaking. It’s like Ray Rice explaining that he’s hit so many women, he can’t really recall the one in the elevator. See my point?

But you still don’t remember me?

Fine, never mind. Let’s just indulge my narcissism for a moment and pretend you do.

Now that we’re speaking one-on-one, maybe I should begin where you began and take you to task for your big, bold header you left on my hacked homepage:

‘Muslims are Not Terrorists.’

I get it. I even agree with you, Muslims aren’t terrorists. Terrorists are terrorists, and some of them happen to be Muslim and some of them (more than we care to remember) are Christian and most of them are motivated by something else entirely (politics, economics etc).

So I agree with you, but it’s like Marshall McLuan said way back at the time of the Shah and SNL: ‘The medium is the message.’ 

Following McLuan then, the fact that the medium in this case is a cyber terrorist hacked website belies the message you want to lead with in your headline.

You could post ‘Mom’s Chocolate Chip Cookies are the Best’ in that header but your creepy, comic sans-meets-Osama-hacker-font still would make us wonder if maybe Mom was a baby-eating witch who lived in a hovel deep in the Black Forest.

You see, you want your message to be that ‘Muslims are Not Terrorists,’ fine, but your hack-attack medium makes it inescapably obvious that at least one Muslim IS a terrorist.

You.

You’re lucky I’m a Christian, Mr Islamic Cyber Terrorist.

I’d love to torment you with the irony of you declaring that Muslims are not terrorists whilst cyber-terrorizing me, but then it wouldn’t really be fair to ridicule you when the fundamentalists of my own tribe don’t do irony well either. After all, Christ’s non-violent cross was painted on chainmail and swords long before Mohammad came on the scene.

While we’re at it there’s the other little irony that the instigating sermon in this case wasn’t critical of Islam at all.

Indeed you hacked me for a sermon that wound its way to telling Christians that they needed to love people like you.

Well played, Mr Islamic Cyber Idiot.

When it comes to those Christians who question the veracity of your headline that ‘Muslims are Not Terrorists,’ your I-didn’t-read-all-the-way-to-the-end, irony-laden screw-up speaks volumes more to them (to indict you) than anything I said to them (to love you).

Way to take a semi-decent, conscience-afflicting sermon and let all my listeners feel like they were justified for suspecting it was just a load of horse s@#$.

‘Because,’ they’re all thinking now (thanks to you), ‘we can’t love terrorists.’

Speaking of which- and I ask since this is your area of expertise, what’s a few notches down from terror? I mean, the feelings you induced in me weren’t exactly terror, yet it was more than inconvenience. While it’s true the craptastic havoc you wreaked on my blog was a giant pain the @#$, it was (a bit) more than a bother you made feel.

For starters, you scared my mom a little more gray, and (thanks to you, again) now I’ve got to text her every night, like a cub scout away at camp, that we’re all okay and not, say, bound and gagged inTurkey.

Your shenanigans provoked feelings in others too.

I can’t tell you how many finger-wagging notes I got messaged to me scolding:

‘This is what you get for letting them worship at your church.’

You see, thanks to you, a whole bunch of otherwise open-minded Christians think its defensible to assume that the old guy at Starbucks or the lady who drives the neighborhood ice cream truck are probably party to an Islamic terrorist network.

Hearing this, Mr Islamic Cyber Terrorist, should irritate you at least as much as it irritated me. But irritation is not what you made me feel either.

After all, my kids’ faces and names are buried there, in bits and bytes, in my blog. So is my wife’s. And, a bit further down, as you no doubt already know, is our address. Where our credit card number is to be found as well.

I’m not trying to play the martyr, that’s your forte. It’s not like I ever felt my life was in danger, and I’m definitely not suggesting I’m on the front line of freedom. We’re talking about a freaking blog, let’s not forget, I’m not on the front line of anything. Still, you made me- anonymous me- feel…vulnerable.

Yes, I think that’s the right word.

Vulnerable.

I can’t help but think, Mr Islamic Cyber Terrorist, the feeling you made me feel is exactly what so many of my neighbors and friends and congregants feel all the time. Vulnerable.  And when you’re feeling vulnerable, convinced that yours is an exceptional situation, I can tell you it’s not long before the rationalizing kicks-in, reasoning your way away from Jesus:

Surely we can’t forgive that person… It would be irresponsible to forgive that sin…

Jesus doesn’t really expect us to turn the cheek in this situation…

What am I supposed to do, just give them my children’s cheeks too?

Loving this enemy is no strategy to make them no longer an enemy, it will only get you killed…

Jesus must be talking about life in the Kingdom not in this world…

Our enemies sure won’t abide by any of these commandments…

Those were the thoughts running through my head in the hours and days after your ‘attack,’ Mr. Islamic Cyber Terrorist. They’re all thoughts similar to the ones a good many of my friends and congregants hold, and, truth be told, I used the word ‘rationalizing’ above for a reason.

They’re all incredibly reasonable rebuttals.

They make a lot sense; in fact, truth be told, they make a hell of a lot more sense than Jesus.

And that wouldn’t be a problem if Jesus was politely removed elsewhere, a figment of history or an absentee lord. We could raise our reasonable, real-world rebuttals to his teaching and then get about dealing with the likes of you. Conscience cleared.

The problem is Jesus has this annoying tendency to show up.

That’s what makes him different from your prophet.

You might not know this, Mr Islamic Terrorist, but the night before he dies Jesus sits his twelve disciples down and he says: here’s bread, here’s wine. Eat. Drink. Do this.

Do this and I’ll be with you.

Admittedly, this is irrational and it can’t be explained and it can’t argued with.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe it has to be that way because people like me are always going to have to deal with people like you.

Maybe Jesus knew that without bread and wine, we would forever think and argue and rationalize the claims he makes on us as a way of keeping him from us.

Maybe Jesus knew we’re no different than those two disciples on the way to Emmaus, who’d heard all the stories, who knew all the beliefs, who could recite the Easter Gospel and yet had no intention of doing a damn thing about it, who were quite content to say ‘isn’t that interesting’ and not have it change their way in the world.

Maybe Jesus knew that without bread and wine we’d always find a reason to reason our way away from him.

So then, maybe Jesus gives us- Christians, I mean- bread and wine not so we can get close to him as we- Christians, I mean- so often imagine.

Maybe Jesus gives us bread and wine because it’s the only way he can get close to us.

And therein lies my problem, Mr Islamic Cyber Terrorist. You see, I know how I feel about you. I know what I’d opt to do to you had I not made the mistake of giving my life to Jesus, and I can come up with several dozen cogent reasons why you and your ilk warrant an asterisk at the bottom of the sermon on the mount.

My problem is that I can mount my own reasonable arguments against you, but I can’t argue away what Jesus says about you (worth dying for). I can’t avoid how Jesus would regard you (with grace, for you not what you do) or deny what he’d tell me to do about you (love and mercy).

And, like I said, this wouldn’t be a problem if Jesus had conveniently absconded to the great by and by, but tomorrow is Sunday, Mr Islamic Cyber Terrorist.

Tomorrow I’ll set the table with bread and wine. We’ll all ask Jesus to come join us at the table. And if there’s one thing the Gospels make clear: Jesus never refuses a dinner invitation.

Tomorrow, Jesus is going to show up, real and present. It’ll be the same the Sunday next and the Sunday after that ad infinitum, or at least to the eschaton.

I can come up with all kinds of good reasons why you should be the exception to Jesus’ teaching, and I’d be happy to list them for you someday, but what in the world am I supposed to say to Jesus tomorrow morning when he shows up in bread and wine?

How can I tell Jesus to his face that he’s wrong about you?

How can I tell Jesus that you don’t deserve grace or mercy for your sins when he’s sitting right there at my table?

Talk about an awkward dinner conversation.

Like a lot of dinner parties I’ve been to, to be stuck with the host often means you’re stuck with the other guests too; likewise- and you can be damn sure I never saw this coming- when I gave my life to Jesus, I also in some odd way gave it to you even though I’ve no reason to expect you to treat it well. I guess that counts as another irony.

Anyway that’s my problem, Mr. Islamic Cyber Terrorist. I don’t want to love you; I don’t think you’re lovable.

I don’t even know what it means, practically speaking, to love you.

But tomorrow morning I’m having breakfast with Jesus and I know, if it were up to him, he’d save a seat for you.

So maybe GI JOE was right all along: knowing is half the battle.

Maybe whatever it means to love you starts right there, with bread and wine, and knowing that whenever we invite Jesus to dinner he invites the likes of you.

Maybe the first step in no longer seeing you as an enemy, the first step towards regarding you as a friend, is seeing you as a fellow undeserving guest.

This is my friend, Janet Laisch. I was last week so didn’t get to post it on Holy Thursday. Better late than never…

 

In AD 200, the birth of Christian art represented the new covenant through abstract references to the Last Supper where Christ commanded us, ” to Love one another as I have loved you.”  Christians began making art on the very walls of the catacombs where they buried their dead and among the first brush strokes they painted were grape vines and leaves to express their belief in an afterlife and their belief in Christ’s new commandment. During the second half of the third century, artists began to depict Christ and His disciples reclining at the Last Supper and other agape feasts.  Ancient Christians blurred the lines between eschatological agape feasts and the Last Supper believing that all feasts celebrated agape love as commanded by Christ.

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In the Gospel of John, for theological reasons, John put the Last Supper before the Passover feast from John 13:1; Jesus was killed at the same moment the lambs were sacrificed in the Temple—making Christ the new Passover sacrifice. In Matthew, Mark and Luke’s Gospels, the Last Supper is explicitly identified as the Passover meal from Matthew 26:17, Mark 14:12 and Luke 22:7. Early representations corresponded more closely with the Jewish practice of conducting Passover meals round low tables, or no tables at all, with diners semi-reclining on low lounges. The Gospel writers explicitly reference reclining at this meal.  This catacomb fresco (above) shows Christ beardless and young surrounded by disciples and like later Last Supper paintings it represents the moment when Christ says one of you will betray me as the disciples respond to Christ by pointing at themselves and saying is it I? Mark 14.

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At Sant’Apollinaire Nuovo in Ravenna, a sixth century Basilica, mosaics (above) depict men and women processing toward the altar with communal offerings for the Eucharist.  These images reenact communion as it was celebrated at this church and others like it in the sixth century. Just above these processional mosaics are scenes from Christ’s life including an image of the Last Supper where Christ and his disciples recline together in a communal meal with fish and wine on the table.  Christ is the only figure shown with a halo. Just as a typical Roman feast featured diners reclining on couches—propped up on their left elbows—around a central table or a few smaller tables in a dining room or triclinium, early Last Supper representations depict Christ and the disciples reclining as described in the synoptic Gospels: Luke 10:39. Food was generally served in a few communal dishes, in which diners would dip their bread or eat with their hands. Wine flowed freely and was served in bowls.

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 In 1305 Duccio painted this image (above) as part of an altarpiece originally placed in the Siena Cathedral. Beginning in the early Renaissance, artists preferred to represent Christ and the Disciples sitting upright along a communal table with Christ in the center and an elaborate Passover dinner including lamb lay out on the table. Last Supper images continue to reflect traditions of when they were painted rather than Christ and disciples from first century Palestine and Christ and the disciples look more Italian than Middle Eastern.  Judas the betrayer is most likely sitting opposite Christ with his hand reaching toward Christ’s outstretched arm.

 Last-Supper-Fra-Angelico

 

In the Renaissance artists begin to distinguish Judas the betrayer more explicitly from the other disciples as seen in Fra Angelico’s example from 1450 (above).

By the middle Renaissance Last Supper images moved from churches to monasteries as this one by Fra Angelico decorates the Monastery of San Marco in Florence. Fra Angelico’s painting makes clear what Renaissance artists sought to achieve: a clear parallel between the Last Supper and Catholic mass. Disciples sit at the table where only a white table cloth and the Eucharist cup remain. Here, the disciples kneel as Christ distributes the communal wafer and holds a common cup. In the foreground on the left a woman kneels probably the blessed mother, Mary while on the right, Judas is depicted as the only disciple wearing a sinister black halo.

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lstsupMore often Last Supper images like this one by Leonardo da Vinci from 1495 (above) decorated the refractory or monk’s dining room wall throughout the Renaissance.  Artists rendered the figures life size and at eye level so monks could imagine participating in the meal along with Christ.Viewers became so familiar with this drama-charged image and so accustomed to the iconography of Christian art, that they would hardly remember it as a cross-cultural art work. They might even need to be reminded that the Last Supper was an event which involved Jewish people and occurred in Palestine. Judas sits beside Christ and rests his hand on the table as referenced in the Gospel that the one who betrays me rests his hand on the table. Through a carefully delineated under drawing and one point perspective where the vanishing point meets at Christ’s head, Leonardo da Vinci achieved serenity in this scene. This painting marks the calm before the storm of the Reformation, before Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses on the Wittenburg church door in 1517 (below).

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In newly-Lutheran parts of Germany, Protestant iconoclasts, sometimes in mobs, physically stripped and defaced countless works of church art. By 1522 Martin Luther recognized art as a valuable educative tool and artists once again created art to instruct viewers.

 

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The German Reformation painter, Luis Cranach the Elder painted this Last Supper in 1547, (above) replacing Leonardo’s long bench with a round table. Jesus is not even placed at the center, but appears on the far left, consistent with the Lutheran practice of distributing the bread and the wine from the side of the altar. Cranach depicts Martin Luther at the Last Supper. Luther symbolized everyman and is taking part in the meal as he receives the cup of wine from a servant.

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As the Counter Reformation warred throughout Catholic Europe, Veronese a celebrated Venetian painter was called before the Inquisition to defend his choices for this rendering of the Last Supper in 1573 (above).  Venice long a trade crossroads attracted people of diverse cultures, so unlike earlier paintings, in addition to Last Supper participants, Veronese decorated the foreground with “foreign” people, a young dwarf holding a parrot, a man with a bloody nose and a dog. When questioned Veronese explained that he liked to adorn with figures of his own imagination to fill any left-over space in the picture. After being asked to remove the dog depicted in the center foreground, Veronese decided instead to rename the image Feast in the House of Levi which ended the controversy.  This Inquisitorial hearing inspired a hilarious Monty Python sketch:
 

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The Pope commissioned works of art as part of the Counter Reformation and Poussin found the Pope and a circle of patrons in Rome interested in stoic philosophy commissioned canvases like this one (above).  Similar to catacomb paintings and early Basilica mosaics, Poussin painted the Palestine tradition of Jesus and the disciples reclining during the Last Supper meal as referenced in the Bible. Poussin’s objective as a classical antiquarian was to study and depict ancient traditions. Washing feet before a meal is an ancient tradition and though not explicitly stated in the synoptic gospels is an understood tradition of the Jewish Palestine. In John 13 , he explicitly states that Christ washes the disciples feet as an act of love and purification. A copper bowl and clean bare feet figure prominently in the foreground referencing Christ washing the disciples’ feet as a way of demonstrating His love for the world. At the Last Supper Jesus gave his disciples a new command to love one another as I have loved you, so you must love one another. One way Jesus demonstrated His love at the Last Supper was to wash his disciples’ feet and take the role of the servant.

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Hundreds more Last Supper images fill the pages of Art History books, many adhered to Leonardo’s format. In 1955 Dali painted the Last Supper (above) in a unique and poignant way where Judas is not included at the modern low stone table. A single glass cup and broken bread adorn the table as the remaining 11 disciples bow their heads in prayer rather than eating or gesturing as commonly depicted in earlier portrayals. Dali created a hologram rendition of Christ who both sits at the table and floats in the baptismal waters below. Christ gestures as if speaking. He points to His body and to the heavens symbolizing his two natures: completely human and completely divine. A third aspect of Christ hovers above to complete the trinity: the Holy Spirit is present above the communion table. As in the Bible the meal takes place in the second floor of a home though all the furnishings are ultra modern and a glass enclosed space reveals a lake and canoes below referencing also when Christ first called the disciples from their fishing jobs to be fishers of men. The placid nature of the water and the color palette give the scene an other-worldly feel. Dali painted in an ultra realistic classical manner that appears almost like a photograph yet he includes many dreamlike impossible details to create a style called surrealism. Dali paints this image as a way to recall Christ’s memory and as a way to depict his view of heaven so it is both an image of the Last Supper and an image of the agape feast in the Kingdom of Heaven.

As varied as these art images of the Last Supper are and as varied as the descriptions of the Last Supper in the synoptic Gospels and John are, we know that Christ invited us all to the table. As Christ said about the Last Supper, “Do this in remembrance of me…I will never again drink this wine until the day I drink the new wine in the Kingdom of God.” Christ invites us all to partake in the meal as a foretaste of the feast to come.

Emmaus @ Bass Pro Shop

Jason Micheli —  March 3, 2014 — 1 Comment

38_4495672_11I closed out Revolution of the Heart sermon series this weekend with a sermon Luke’s Emmaus story in chapter 24. You can listen to it below below or on the sidebar. You can also download it in iTunes under ‘Tamed Cynic’ or download the free mobile app and listen that way. 

 

      1. Emmaus @ Bass Pro Shop

 

It was the third month since we’d last spoken or seen each other, leaving the most recent wounds to fester and scar.

I was one the road.

Heading towards Richmond.

And as I drove with the radio low, I tried to work out- out loud- just what had happened, why things had gone the way they did, how this was neither what we’d hoped for nor ever expected.

I talked all of it out aloud.

As though there were was someone alongside next to me in the car.

I stopped on the way even though there was no need. I just sat there, still, working over every slight like something stuck in the teeth.

I’d only been given an address, no name or destination.

‘It’s just off 95,’ she’d typed, ‘so it will be convenient for us both.’

The slightly nagging voice in my GPS told me to get off at Exit 89 in 1 mile, and after announcing my obedience every few hundred yards she told me my destination would be on the left.

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     Maybe it’s an Italian thing, but in my familia we’re good at fighting. Our arguments aren’t just episodes; they’re full blown productions- operas- with the winner going to whomever gives the most committed, dramatic performance.

 And our arguments are never original productions.

They’re always sequels where it’s like a voice offstage says ‘Previously on Lost’ and then we rehearse all the old episodes that brought us to this most recent installment.

(I’m sure no one can relate.)

Even in the most litigious, operatic of families, there comes a point where the juice is no longer worth the squeeze and you stop arguing.

But since fighting is all you know how to do, you stop talking altogether.

That’s the place my mom and I were at.

It was going on the third month when she sent me a message: ‘Let’s meet for dinner somewhere.’

I know I’m the ‘reverend.’ I’m the professional Christian. I’m the one with the bible knowledge in my head and the Holy Spirit in my heart.

But the meal wasn’t my initiative. The invitation came from her not me. I replied back to her: ‘Sure’ and I suggested a couple dates and asked for a destination. She sent back only an address. A seemingly random place along the road. I didn’t even try to find it on a map.

I replied again ‘Okay.’  And then with much sarcasm and equal parts cynicism, I entered the date in my iPhone Calendar along with the title: ‘Reconciliation Dinner.’

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     The day of- I typed the address into Google Maps and 100 miles later it announced that my destination was on my left.

I slowed the car and stared to the side and concluded that my mom must be punking me.

Because there on my left was the Bass Pro Shop.

It’s a manure-colored structure that stretches as far as the eye can see.

In case you’re unfamiliar, Bass Pro Shop is a shopping mall exclusively for hunting and fishing.

Imagine if Costco sold only those blueberry muffins and you have idea of the scale and specificity that is Bass Pro Shop.

Now some of you know me better than others so let me just clarify by saying that I’m not really a Bass Pro Shop kind of guy.

Not exactly in my element at the Bass Pro Shop.

I double-checked the address my mom had sent me.

I was afraid that to call and question the choice of meeting places would only provoke another argument so I got out of the car and walked the 2 miles through the parking lot to the store, all the while feeling like a contestant in the Hunger Games headed towards the Cornucopia.

Like a lumberjack of yore, I walked through the heavy, fake-timbered front doors and then pushed my waist through a turnstile.

     If Virginia is a red-leaning state, then I think it fair to say that the Bass Pro Shop in Richmond is like that spot on the planet Jupiter.

For example, after I walked through the turnstile, to my left, where you might expect a coat check at a swankier establishment, customers were checking their concealed handguns.

“Did you bring a weapon with you, sir?” the Walmart Greeter asked me. “Weapon? Uh, just these,” I said, holding up my 2 hands.

He kinked his eyebrow as though he was thinking there’s no way you could stand your ground with hands of such unimpressive caliber.

I stood there, staring back over at the gun check.

“Are you looking for something, sir?” the Walmart Greeter asked.

“Um, I was just wondering where I can tie up my horse” I joked.

He didn’t laugh. You could tell it struck him like a good idea.

I’d gotten there early. I had time to kill, and I still had birthday shopping to do for Gabriel so I wandered the store.

After a while, another employee asked me if she could help me.

‘Yeah, do you sell fishing poles here?’ (at the Bass Pro Shop)

She looked at me with the sort of empathy one reserves for stroke patients and pointed in the direction behind her.

I walked past ladies camouflage lingerie in the women’s section, Duck Dynasty onesies in the kids’ section and ‘Gun Control Means Using Two Hands’ outdoor thermostats in the home and garden section.

Finally I happened upon not simply a fishing section but an entire forest of fishing poles. And behind it, hidden like a high stakes baccarat table, was an entire fly fishing section.

I browsed, and every now and then I would let out a manly grunt like I knew what I was looking at. Eventually I let myself get taken advantage of and I bought Gabriel a boy’s fly rod and reel and then, checking the time, I hiked back to the front of the store to meet my mom.

I stood outside next to a steel deer-hunting stand and waited for her.  We said hi and walked inside and stepped through the turnstile.

“Do you have any weapons with you?” the same Walmart Greeter asked her.

“Just these two” I said again, and he rolled his eyes at me.

     It turns out that in addition to a 2 story waterfall and a day care center for your gun dogs, the Bass Pro Shop also has a full-service restaurant and bar in it.

Because… why would it not?

And we all know nothing goes better with hunting than a few appletinis.

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The restaurant was decorated like Applebees’ but with a swampy alligator theme. Captain Sig Hanson from Deadliest Catch was catching something on the flat screen over the bar.

The hostess sat us awkwardly in the middle of the dining room where we were surrounded by a busload of elderly ladies and a high school cheerleading squad.

At first we tested the temperature before we tiptoed too far into conversation: nice to see you, how are you, what’s new with you, how are the boys?

That sort of thing.

We must’ve looked like we were deep in conversation.

Because when the waitress came over to take our drink order she apologized for interrupting us.

As the waitress walked away, my mom said: ‘I’m sorry…for everything.’

‘Me too’ I said.

And then we got down to the brass tacks of what each of us was sorry for.

After a while, the waitress brought us the glasses of wine we’d ordered along with a loaf of bread on a wooden cutting board.

Probably because it gave us something else to say, something safely rote and memorized, we said grace.

We didn’t hold hands or make a show of it or anything.

     We just quietly said grace.

     And having blessed the bread, I took it.

     And because the waitress forgot to leave us a knife, I broke the bread.

     Into two pieces.

     And I gave the bread to my mom.

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     If you read straight through Luke’s Gospel, from beginning to end, one of the things you notice is how Jesus is always eating at someone’s house.

     In fact, some of Jesus’ most critical teachings come around a dinner table.

     “I’ve come not for good, righteous, religious people but for sinners.” Jesus says that after he’s poured another round at Levi’s house. Levi the tax collector.

“If you can’t admit that you have much to be forgiven for you can’t possibly show very much love.” Jesus serves that up before the appetizers are served at Simon the Pharisee’s house.

 

“You do plenty of bible studies but seldom do you do the bible.” Jesus says that as soon as he sits down at another Pharisee’s house when they notice he hasn’t washed up for supper.

 

“Make yourself low so as to raise someone else up. Like, when you have a dinner, treat your guest as if they were host” Jesus says when he’s a guest at the leader of the Pharisees’ house. “And whenever you have a dinner don’t just invite your friends, that’s not what my Kingdom’s like. Invite the poor and the lame. Invite the stranger and the estranged.”

 

“The Kingdom of God is about actively seeking out the lost not waiting around for the lost to find their way to you” Jesus says on the way to Zaccheus’ house.

 

When you read Luke’s Gospel straight through, one of the things you notice is how Jesus practically eats his way to the Cross.

 

Luke records 6 meals Jesus shares in the course of his ministry.

 

A seventh comes the night Jesus is betrayed, when Jesus deviates from the ancient script and, taking bread and wine, says “I’m the only way for you to pass-over from despair to new life, from sorrow to celebration, from bondage to freedom.”

“And just so you don’t forget that-

Whenever you break bread or pour out wine

Do it in remembrance of me.”

Luke tells you that Jesus celebrates 7 suppers on the way to the Cross.

     7- the Hebrew number for perfection, completion, for the sum total of creation.

     7 Suppers.

     Which makes this meal at Emmaus the 8th Supper.

The Resurrection is on the 8th Day. 1024px-Caravaggio.emmaus.750pix

In a 7 day week, the 8th Day is just the 1st Day all over again.

The Old Creation began on the 1st Day.

And the New Creation begins on the 8th Day.

The first meal of the Old Creation was when Adam and Eve broke God’s only command and, scripture says, “they ate and their eyes were opened” and they were ashamed of themselves and blamed each another and hid from God.

The first meal of the New Creation is when Cleopas and another- who’s probably his wife- they break bread and, scripture says, “they ate and their eyes were opened and they recognized” and they ran back reconciled and rejoicing about resurrection.”

     The numbers aren’t accidental.

     Luke wants you to see that this 8th Meal at Emmaus is the 1st Meal of the New Creation.

It’s Luke’s way of saying that this meal at Emmaus is the summation of all the ones that came before it, that everything Jesus said and did at those 7 other supper tables can be found here in this 8th one, the first one of the New Creation.

Which is why, I think, before they sit down for this 8th Meal, Luke points out how these 2 disciples – they know their bibles. They know everything there is to know about Jesus.

     They know the Christmas story, that Jesus is from Nazareth.

They know he preached like and performed deeds like the prophets of old.

They know he was righteous in a way like no else but Moses.

They know the Apostles Creed, how Jesus ‘was crucified under Pontius Pilate.’

They know he was to be the Messiah who would save his People from Sin.

They even know that the tomb is empty.

And that women have seen him raised from the dead.

      They know everything there is to know.

     Except what any of it could possibly mean for them. In their lives.

Before this 8th Meal, when Luke shows you how much they know but how little grasp, Luke wants you to recall those other meals.

Like the one at Simon’s house where Jesus praises a sinner over a Pharisee and makes the point that it’s not how much bible you know it’s much bible you do.

Luke wants you to see in this 8th Meal the other 7 before it.

That’s why, before this meal at Emmaus, Luke points out how even when this stranger opens up the disciples’ minds to the scriptures and their hearts are burning inside with them from the spiritual high, they still don’t recognize Jesus right there in front of them.

When Luke shows you how their spiritual high in their hearts doesn’t do anything to open their eyes, Luke wants you to remember those other meals.

Like the one at the Pharisee’s house, where Jesus says his Kingdom is not about your high. It’s about your low. It’s about humbling and lowering yourself for another.

Before this 1st Meal of the New Creation, these 2 disciples have everything there is to know about Jesus in their heads and they have spiritual fire in their hearts..

But Jesus is not made visible at this 8th Meal until they actually DO what Jesus said at those other 7 Meals.

Jesus is not made visible until they refuse to let this stranger remain a stranger.

They don’t let him slip away to the next town.

They don’t let a possible relationship go lost.

Because the Kingdom is about seeking after people.

They invite this stranger to dinner not just their friends.

And these 2 disciples- they humble themselves. They turn convention upside down and they treat this guest as though he were the host.

That’s why he’s the one who blesses and breaks the bread.

And don’t forget the biggest thing of all-

For all they know this scripture-quoting rabbi on the road, who’s playing dumb about the crucifixion, is a Pharisee.

This stranger certainly sounds like a Pharisee.

He talks like a Pharisee talks.

For all they know he’s an enemy who killed Jesus.

And so their invitation to dinner is itself a gesture of forgiveness and reconciliation.

 

These 2 disciples have everything there is to know about Jesus in their heads and they have spiritual fire in their hearts…

     But Jesus is not made visible at this 8th Meal until they actually DO

what Jesus said at those other 7 Meals.

 

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The waitress at the Bass Pro Shop brought us our glasses of wine along with a loaf of bread on a wooden cutting board.

We offered a blessing.

And then I took it, the bread.

And I broke it.

And I gave it.

     And then suddenly right before our eyes…

No.

It doesn’t work that way.

It’s not like our eyes were suddenly opened or that Jesus appeared to us in front of the paper-mache alligator on the wall.

I think that misses what Luke’s trying to show us.

It’s not that Jesus was suddenly made visible to us.

It’s that everyone around us- the elderly ladies on their bus trip and the high school cheerleaders and the bartender in front of the flat screen and the waitress with the flair on her apron- if they knew our story and heard us seeking after what had been lost, refusing to let our estrangement make us strangers…if they knew our story and heard us offering forgiveness and saw us breaking bread- in remembrance- then they just might see Jesus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

y_holy_eucharistIt’s Sabbath Day and more so than language or nationality or skin-color or songs or church structure, the one thing that binds Christians all over the world- excepting the scriptures- is the sacrament.

Bread and Wine.

Or Grape Juice.

Holy Communion. The Lord’s Supper. The Lord’s Table. The Eucharist, Paul calls it, the great giving of thanks.

As much as the sacrament unites Christians it has divided them too. Con vs Trans Substantiation. Is it a grim memorial of a last supper or a joyful foretaste of a feast to come when the Kingdom does?

The word sacrament has the ring of exclusive specificity to it. It’s just a fancy word for ‘mystery.’

I think it best if all the old arguments stop there.

Here’s an old sermon (3 years now) on the Eucharist. You can listen to it in iTunes too or download the free Mobile App and listen there.

      1. Taking a Bite Out of the Infinite

 

y_holy_eucharistTomorrow morning from 10:00-10:45 AM is our Bluegrass Worship Preview Service.

Part of our heritage behind that weird name ‘Aldersgate’ is to believe that our love of God and our love of neighbor are 2 sides of the same coin.

So tomorrow as we break bread to celebrate the sacrament of holy communion we will also make 300 + sandwiches to distribute to the homeless in DC later that afternoon.

It’s at Island Creek Elementary School.

If you know someone for whom a ‘different’ sort of worship service sounds appealing, don’t be shy.

Invite them.

Click here for map and directions.

I’ll be preaching a Valentine’s theme.

More awesome, the music will be provided by the acclaimed, world-touring Big Hillbilly Bluegrass Band.

Find out more here.

 

Christmas Prayer

Jason Micheli —  January 4, 2014 — Leave a comment

y_holy_eucharistI’ve written a lot here about how I believe the priesthood of all believers is the unfunded mandate of the Reformation. To that end, I asked a friend and layperson, Caroline Sprinkel, to write a Eucharistic Prayer for Christmas Eve. Not often enough do pastors mine the wisdom and theological riches sitting in the pews. Here’s proof:

Most Holy of Holies, God of all creation,  Author, Director, Producer and Center of all that ever was and ever shall be, the One who called His creation Good, the One who is Love, Righteousness, Justice, Beauty, Grace, Perfection, the Beginning and the End,

We, your creation, give You all our praise and all our thanksgiving, for You alone are worthy.

You, the Holiest of Holies, Glorious beyond all comprehension, the One who breathed life into humanity, who created every single one of us in Your image.

Before the beginning,  before our need was ever established, You chose to enrobe yourself in our flesh, to limit your limitlessness and come to live as we live, in all our earthiness and frailty.

Gracious God, you came, instead, like the least of us, messily born from the poor, Jewish girl, our sister Mary, and you were adopted and discipled by a poor Jewish carpenter – our brother Joseph.

Indistinguishable from your own creation.  Vulnerable – born on the run, in the straw and the dirt, in a stable, where the breath of barn animals warmed you.  And yet, kings feared you, wise men knew of your coming and brought gifts for a King.

Meanwhile, Lord Jesus, you cried, you needed to be fed and changed, you loved to be held and the way your mother smelled.  You learned to give kisses, and learned manners, and learned the Torah listening to your father.  You played,  laughed, made friends, skinned your knees.   You were somebody’s neighbor.  You were the carpenter’s kid.  You grew up.  You worked 18 years at a boring job.  You were just like us.  Known and knowable.  Fully, 100% human.  And, nothing like we could ever be, because even in your human condition, You are also fully 100% God,  living a life just like ours, but without sin.   Intersecting space, time and history as Emmanuel – God with Us.

At just the right time, on a spring evening, after countless meals with friends and strangers, you sat with your closest friends, your disciples and shared the Passover meal together.  Only this time, you did something revolutionary; something that your thirty three human years and 3000(?)  years of scripture and all eternity were leading You to:   You took the bread that represents the Passover lamb and said, Eat this, this is my body which is given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.  After dinner, you took the Passover wine and said, Drink this – all of you.  This is my blood of the new covenant which is shed for you and for many.  Drink this in remembrance of me.

At tables and alters around the world, Jesus – Emmanuel – the Word Made Flesh –  invites us *all* to be satisfied, healed and freed from death through His human body and His human blood and His bodily resurrection.   He invites us to His table:  the divine feast of oneness with Him, satisfied in Him and by Him, now and forever.

Help us, O God, to believe Your beautiful, impossible reality.  Give us a taste of our eternally Good future – with You in us and among us – now and forever.

Blessed God, with this union and communion

shed your grace brighter than starlight on us

that we may bear your glad tidings, your Good News to all

and renew our weary world in your name:

the name of Emmanuel – God – With – Us.

O come O come Emmanuel.

1001446_4988885010893_488859186_nThis past weekend a friend became a colleague. I had the privilege to stand on stage with Taylor Mertins and lay hands on him as the bishop commissioned him as a provisional minister.

The event put me in a recollecting mood. I’ve changed in many ways since my commissioning and my theology has changed too. The answers I gave back when I was first examined for ordination aren’t necessarily the same answers I would give today.

     Taylor’s commissioning has prompted me to think through some of the ways my thinking has changed since I went through that same ritual. 995687_4988940372277_749089862_n

     Eucharist/Communion/Lord’s Supper

In her book, Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner, a former Jew, distinguishes Judaism and Christianity by saying Judaism is a physical, material, embodied, communal religion whereas Christianity is preoccupied with individual belief, with spiritual dogma and theological doctrine.

Probably, when you hear Christianity defined that way, you’re tempted to agree. To the extent that’s true, however, it’s true because that’s what we’ve done with the faith Jesus gave us.

It’s not that that’s the faith as Jesus gave it to us.

     Perhaps nowhere is Winner’s distinction between Judaism and Christianity more starkly apparent than in the Jewish meal Jesus bequeathed to us.

     A meal which today, in almost all Christian congregations, bears zero resemblance to the one at which Jesus was host and presumably intended for us to mimic.

     Beginning in the Middle Ages, religious bureaucrats like me got a hold of this meal and, in my lofty estimation, messed it all up. They tried to turn over and open it up and explain how it works.

Trucking in Aristotelian philosophic concepts like ‘form’ and ‘substance’ that were foreign to the Hebrew world of scripture, theologians like Thomas Aquinas concocted pained explanations for how the bread and wine of the Eucharist can become the actual body and blood of Jesus Christ. Such a literal transformation- transubstantiation- of the elements was necessary within a Medieval theological system wherein human sin required the ongoing, repeated sacrifice of Christ in the Mass.

In the 15th and 16th centuries, Protestant Reformers like Martin Luther and Jean Calvin departed from the atonement theology that lay behind transubstantiation, stressing that Christ’s sacrifice upon the Cross was a once-for-all, perfect, unrepeatable sacrifice for sin which we access through and by faith.

While Luther left behind the Medieval understanding of the mass as sacrifice, he retained the scholastic inclination to explain how the bread and wine of the meal become the actual body and blood of Jesus.

Luther’s reforms were only crust deep, giving the Protestant tradition ‘consubstantiation’ instead of trans. Christ’s presence, as every Lutheran knows, is ‘in, with and under’ the elements of the Eucharist rather than the elements themselves changing.

Proceeding reformers like Zwingli went further in demystifying the Medieval notion of the sacrament, stressing that the meal is merely a memorial of Christ’s Last Supper- the de facto, implicit position of almost Protestant in America. Meanwhile, my own tradition’s founder, John Wesley, espoused the historic Anglican conviction that Christ is really present in the eucharistic gathering but how that’s so is a mystery.

While I was jumping through the hoops of the United Methodist ordination process, I was prepped to plot the bread and cup along the map of John Wesley’s theology of grace. As John Wesley said- I was expected to say- the Lord’s Supper is one of God’s ‘ordinary’ (meaning primary and scripturally obvious) means of grace. It’s by receiving the elements that we grow in holiness, that we’re sanctified and ultimately perfected in Christ-like love of God and neighbor.

That’s all well and good as a second order explication of the meal Jesus gave us. Jesus might even agree with it, but I wonder if Jesus, as a Jew, would even recognize such an explanation as referring to the Jewish meal he gave us.

     No matter how much they differ in theological approach and outcome, Aquinas et al all take as their starting point Jesus’ words ‘This is my body…this is my blood…’ and they all share the premise that Jesus’ words must either be literally true or spiritually true, that is, figurative.

But none of them take note that these words don’t originate with Jesus at all. None of them take note that Jesus wasn’t the only one who spoke those words that night he was betrayed.

In a sense.

None of the historic explanations (and very few of the understandings in the pew or among pastors) take note that Jesus’ words were part of the Passover script.

As the host of the Passover meal, Jesus was expected to speak of the body and the blood.

In the center of Jesus’ Passover table would have been the four ceremonial cups of wine, the brick-shaped concoction of fruits, nuts and vinegar (granola bars) representing the bricks the Hebrews made in Egypt, the bitter herbs (parsley and radishes) representing slavery in Egypt, the unleavened bread, representing their hasty departure, and the roasted lamb itself, whose blood sprinkled on the doorposts delivered the Hebrews from the angel of death.

Traditionally, the host blesses the first cup and all drink. Then come the bitter herbs, which are blessed and eaten. Then the bread, the granola and the lamb are brought in. The second cup is poured, and the story of the Israel’s exodus from Egypt and crossing of the Red Sea is told.

The second cup is drunk and the bread is broken.

The host blesses the bread mixed with herbs and fruit and eats it along with some of the lamb, saying, ‘This is the body of the Passover.’ And all feast. Then they drink the third up and say some psalms before drinking the fourth and last cup which symbolizes the coming Messiah.

At least, this is what is supposed to happen. But on Holy Thursday, the host is Jesus.

     After the second cup Jesus takes the bread, offers the thanksgiving, breaks it and distributes it. And instead of saying ‘This is the body of the Passover’ he says ‘This is my body broken for you.’

And then when the time comes to take the third cup Jesus says ‘This is my blood poured out for you.’

     Jesus takes the traditional Passover script and he changes it. He inserts himself into it. Jesus is saying: ‘I’m the Passover now.’

The more time I spend in ministry, the more I become convinced that Aquinas, Luther, Calvin, and Wesley…they’re all examples of Lauren Winner’s demarcation: Judaism is a physical, material, embodied religion whereas Christianity is preoccupied with belief, with spiritual dogma and theological doctrine.

     What’s more I’ve become convinced that the distinction Winner hits upon is the result of the Church losing touch with its Jewish roots so early on its development. The nuanced, cerebral, non-Hebraic explanations for the eucharist put forth by Augustine, Aquinas, Luther and even Wesley are but evidence that none of them had any Jewish friends.

     What’s worse, most Christians today persist in rationalizations of the eucharist as though none of us had any Jewish friends either.

As a result, the eucharist in many congregations is a either joyless, masochistic memorial of someone who died to God’s wrath over your sin, or it’s a private transaction of grace dispensed by a special caste of people who pray the magic words to effect an Aristotelian transformation.

But the meal Jesus gave us was Passover.

The words he spoke were the words of the Passover.

And if you know you’re Old Testament, then you know that the Passover wasn’t about sacrifice for sin. It was about deliverance from captivity. It was about appeasing God’s anger; it was about God hearing the cries of his people in bondage. It wasn’t a somber ritual of atonement; it was a joyous meal of rescue and redemption.

When Jesus casts himself in the middle of the Passover script, he declares:

‘I’m the one who sets you free from bondage and delivers you to a new place in life.’

     After a dozen years in ministry, I’m convinced that Christians need to rediscover that  Christianity, like Judaism, is a physical, material, embodied, communal religion.

     Hell, in a mainline culture in which very few Christians can even speak about Jesus to another human being, I think it would be a positive development just to have Christian parents celebrating the eucharist at dinner tables with their families, accompanied by an actual meal, teaching their children the redemptive story that makes this meal on this day different from all others.

     Just like Passover.

 

 

 

 

 

‘On that same day,’ Luke says of the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. eucharistwallpaper1024

Meaning Sunday, the very first Easter day.

It’s that same day and these two disciples have left Jerusalem.

They’re going home.

The morning, of that same day, the women, who’d gone to Jesus’ tomb to mourn and to clean his wounds and to wrap and anoint his body, they came running back with filled fear and joy to report that the tomb was empty.

     No sooner do they hear this Easter news, Luke says, than these two disciples are already on their way out of town.

It’s not that they don’t know. It’s not that they don’t have enough information.

They know all about Jesus’ words and deeds.

They know how Jesus was betrayed and handed over and killed on a cross- just as he’d prophesied. They know he was dead and they know his tomb is now empty, that he’s not there, that he’s gone.

They even know the angel’s message that Jesus is alive.

And yet, Luke says, that same day, that very Sunday morning, having heard the Easter news, they turn and head back home.

These two disciples- they know everything you’d want a disciple to know. And so far as we can tell, they even believe. They don’t disbelieve that the tomb is empty; they don’t doubt that Jesus is risen.

It’s just that knowing and believing aren’t enough to keep them from heading right back to the life they already had without Jesus.

It’s only when Jesus takes bread and blesses it and breaks it and gives it to them- it’s only then that a spark is lit in their hearts.

Or put the other way around: if they hadn’t eaten the bread blessed and broken by Jesus, then they would’ve known about Jesus, they might’ve believed in Jesus, but they wouldn’t have known he was right there with them.

In her book, Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner distinguishes Judaism and Christianity by saying Judaism is a physical, embodied religion whereas Christianity is preoccupied with belief, with spiritual dogma and doctrine.

Probably, when you hear Christianity defined that way, you’re tempted to agree. To the extent that’s true, however, it’s true because that’s what we’ve done with the faith Jesus gave us.

     It’s not that that’s the faith as Jesus gave it to us.

I mean- the night before he dies Jesus doesn’t sit his twelve disciples down and say: remember these three principles after I’m gone, this is the spiritual essence of my teaching, these are the beliefs I want to make sure you understand, this is how the atonement works.

No, he says: here’s bread, here’s wine.

Eat. Drink. Do this.  emmaus-road-stainedglass

Do this and I’ll be with you. Do this and I’ll open eyes and set hearts on fire.

Bread and wine. Body and blood.

     This is irrational and it can’t be explained and it can’t argued with.

     And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe it has to be that way.

Every day we reason our way away from Jesus:

surely we can’t forgive that person, it would be irresponsible to forgive that sin, he doesn’t mean welcome those people, he doesn’t really expect us to turn the cheek in this situation…he’s talking about life in the Kingdom not in this world, he’s talking about what he does not what we must do…

Maybe Jesus knows that without bread and wine, we would forever think and ponder and consider the claims he makes on us as a way of keeping him from us.

Maybe Jesus knows we’re like those two disciples on the way to Emmaus:

who’ve heard all the stories

who know all the beliefs

who can recite the Easter Gospel

and yet who have no intention of doing a damn thing about it, quite content to say ‘isn’t that interesting’ and not have it change the direction of their lives. 

 

Maybe Jesus gives us bread and wine not so we can get close to him. 

     Maybe Jesus gives us bread and wine because it’s the only way he can get close to us. 

In the Middle Ages, religious bureaucrats like me got a hold of this meal and messed it up. They tried to turn over and open it up and explain how it works.

But the first Christians were content to call it a sacrament, a ‘mystery.’ They didn’t need to explain how. They just knew that Jesus uses this bread and this cup to somehow get to us.

 

On many nights here the dinner hour and the worship hour we’ve scheduled blur together, the dinner table becoming the communion table.

Just like it was in the ancient church. Just like it should be, I think.

Because the mountain village where we’re working this week is so remote, we’re not lodging or eating in the city below as many volunteer teams do. We’re here in the village, housed and fed by the same people we’re serving.

I can’t really describe how it feels (humbling? unnerving? indicting?) to be fed by people for whom the sound of an empty belly is as present a daily reality as the barking of the wild dogs at night. I eye my portions, trying to imagine what they look like through Mayan eyes. I clean my plate because, well, there are children starving in Guatemala.

Every meal time I feel like the categories we’ve brought with us as do-gooders from the States are upended. I mean… we’re there to serve but then there at the table we discover we’re the ones being served. It’s at the table I realize how fluid is the distinction between who’s the servant and who’s the served. It’s when that same dinner table transitions to the communion table that I realize this fluidity is exactly how it should be.

In his book Life Together, Bonhoeffer, says:

‘Christian community at the table signifies our obligation. It is our daily bread that we eat, not my own. We share our bread. Thus we are firmly bound to one another not only in Spirit, but with our whole physical being. The one bread that is given to our community unites us in a firm covenant. Now no one must hunger as long as the other has bread…as long as we eat our bread together, we will have enough even with the smallest amount. Hunger begins only when people desire to keep their own bread for themselves. Could not the story of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000 with two fish and five loaves of bread also have this meaning?’

On many nights here the dinner hour and the worship hour we’ve scheduled blur together, the dinner table becoming the communion table.

Just like it was in the ancient church. Just like it should be, I think.

Because the mountain village where we’re working this week is so remote, we’re not lodging or eating in the city below as many volunteer teams do. We’re here in the village, housed and fed by the same people we’re serving.

I can’t really describe how it feels (humbling? unnerving? indicting?) to be fed by people for whom the sound of an empty belly is as present a daily reality as the barking of the wild dogs at night. I eye my portions, trying to imagine what they look like through Mayan eyes. I clean my plate because, well, there are children starving in Guatemala.

Every meal time I feel like the categories we’ve brought with us as do-gooders from the States are upended. I mean… we’re there to serve but then there at the table we discover we’re the ones being served. It’s at the table I realize how fluid is the distinction between who’s the servant and who’s the served. It’s when that same dinner table transitions to the communion table that I realize this fluidity is exactly how it should be.

In his book Life Together, Bonhoeffer, says:

‘Christian community at the table signifies our obligation. It is our daily bread that we eat, not my own. We share our bread. Thus we are firmly bound to one another not only in Spirit, but with our whole physical being. The one bread that is given to our community unites us in a firm covenant. Now no one must hunger as long as the other has bread…as long as we eat our bread together, we will have enough even with the smallest amount. Hunger begins only when people desire to keep their own bread for themselves. Could not the story of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000 with two fish and five loaves of bread also have this meaning?’