How can these things be? That’s Nicodemus’ question, as he ponders his night-time encounter with Jesus. That’s Saint Paul’s question, as he writes to the faithful in Rome he’s never met. That is the psalmist’ question, as the psalmists’ eyes gaze toward the rolling hills outside Jerusalem. That is Abram’ question, as God calls him from comfortable life in Haran back to the footpath on this extended journey from Ur of the Chaldeans to Canaan, to the Promised Land. That is our question, as we rise and work or look for work, as we close our eyes and rest or sleep or dream. How can these things be? Good things. God’s promise of good things for all people. Healing from brokenness. Clarity through uncertainty. Resolve in the place of fear or disinterest. Life beyond death. How can these things, these good things be when the world doesn’t seem want them; when life seems hard and harsh when we think we don’t deserve them? Sure, make us work for them. Or fast for them. Make us beg for them. Or demand them. But don’t tell us good things come as gifts. Free of charge. Without merit. That’s not the way our culture works. That’s not the way the church always works. That’s not the way we work. We like transactions. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Just rewards. Payment for services rendered. We’ve built structures where vacation time is earned. Literally, hour by hour. Day by day. We’ve built business models that balance the books on the backs of employees. Contract by contract. We’ve monetized nearly every aspect of life. Only take calculated risks. Perhaps to give us the thrill of being in control. Even if only an illusion. When Nicodemus asks his seemingly unanswered question, How can these things be? he’s asking about receiving a different way of life; how its possible to live a different way of life. We don’t know many details of his life. But we are pretty certain he stands in for some people in Saint John’s community, who, in the process of becoming distinct from their synagogue community, could not bring themselves to part with parents and siblings, friends and relatives who remained in the Synagogue despite how much they might have wanted to do differently. Nicodemus’ question How can these things be? is far from a being pesky, unanswered rhetorical question. It’s a question of family cohesion. A question of neighborly relationships. A question of business partnerships. A question of life and death. A profoundly religious question about how God’s promise of life in community squares with living outside another. Not an easy thing to weigh. Even if it comes free of charge: For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, So that whoever believes in him may not perish but have eternal life. The particular issue behind the question for Saint Paul centers on circumcision. The community at Rome is having difficulty understanding that they come to God’s promise not by any work of their own, not through the traditional means of circumcision, but through God’s will and God’s way: this very same free gift in Christ. The Psalmist similarly ponders: Help. Struggle. And the person who answers gives the strong word of God’s promise. Yet there is no report of satisfaction. Then there is Abram. Who probably wondered what God found wrong with Haman. Aram’s family had stopped there on their long journey from Ur of the Chaldeans to Cannan and the Promised Land. Stopped for good reason. Set up life. A fruitful life. A sustainable life. And yet, God says go. Just as God says, I am your help. God says, yes to your life. God says, I give you eternal life. For I am the way, and the truth, and the life. I can’t tell you why we would want to live any other way. But so often we do. And rarely, if ever, is navigating the details easy. Any of us who has worked through transition, or complicated decision, or sorted through deep emotion, know well what its like to wrestle with conviction, and long-held and practiced ways. How hard it is to take on a different way. Which is precisely why God comes to us. Speaks clearly to us. Always a word of promise: The gift of life. Continued life. Every step of life’s way. In Saint John’s logic, water is the sign of that new life. Born of water and the spirit. Water turned to wine at a Wedding Feast. Water from the well. Water Jesus uses when takes off his robe, kneels down, washes his disciples feet. For new life is not simply received. But it is lived. How does Jesus put it? They will know that you are my disciples by your love for one another. I wonder what the world would look like if we did not simply receive this gift. But lived it. Gave it to others, too. I imagine kindness would increase. And forgiveness, which never adds up when you do the math. I imagine there would be greater collaboration. And trust. I imagine we’d do less talking. And more listening. I imagine life would be livelier. We’d be renewed. Refreshed. You might call that new life. Or spring. Or if you look up the definition, you might choose to use an old, old church word: Lent. Jared R. Stahler Saint Peter’s Church In the City of New York SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT MORNING MASSES March 16, 2014 Genesis 12:1–4a Psalm 121 Romans 4:1–5, 13–17 Saint John 3:1–17 3:13–17
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 19:08:46 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015