Time to Prepare

Poolesville Presbyterian Church of Bethesda

02.26.12; Rev. David Williams

Scripture Lesson:  Mark 1:9-15

There are few things that are more anxiety producing than being unprepared for something.  That basic gnawing feeling that you’re just not ready for the arrival of an inescapable reality is one of those things that justifiably tears and wrenches at our psyches, stirring in us that lingering stress dream.  

You know the one, that dream most of us have.

It’s the student stress dream, which crawls its way out of our subconscious whenever other stressors arise in our lives.    You’re dreaming along, happy as a clam, when suddenly you step through a door, and there you are in class, the test before you.  You don’t have a clue what the class is or what the subject is or why it is you’re only wearing a powdered British lawyer’s wig and a rhinestone studded halter top.

Maybe that last one’s just me.   

But most of us at some point encounter some variant on  those anxiety dreams, because feeling like you’ve not done what needs to get done really gets to us.   If you’re a musician, you don’t know the piece.  If you’re an actor, you’re playing Macbeth, only Lady Macbeth is Adam Sandler and he doesn’t know any of his lines, either.   If you’re a pastor?  Well, most of our dreams involve catastrophic worship experiences, most of which coincidentally also involve Adam Sandler.  

So we try to be ready for things, we do.  But it is easy, very easy, to not take the time to be prepared.  It’s easy not to be ready to deal with that particular moment when it arises, because we’ve convinced ourselves that it’s just not possible that it’ll happen.   It’s easy to get distracted, to know that something needs to happen, and to say...well...you know...I’ll get around to it.  I’ll get it done eventually.

Like, say, backing up your computer.  That one can hurt, particularly if you’re a writer.  Or, say, not keeping your backup in the same place as your computer.   Carrying the drive you use to back up your laptop in the same bag as your laptop might seem to make sense, because it lets you back up on the go.   I mean, if you drop the thing, what are the odds of both of them breaking?  And you almost never let the thing out of your sight.  Still, you know you should be backing up into the cloud, onto some distant server, just in case.   You just...well...can’t quite get around to it.  

But then when you return to your van with a couple of bags of bagels, and there the van door is, wide open, and the bag with your Mac and the backup drive containing the only copies of your half-finished sermon, your final doctoral paper, and a 25,000 word manuscript have wandered off to be sold on Craigslist, well, then you realize that the time to have taken steps to remedy that problem was the last time you were reminded about it.

Yesterday was not a particularly fun day.   

But as I filled out the police report, it did remind me that for some things, some very important things, the time to be preparing is right now.

The discipline of preparedness and the imperative of the right now are two key themes in today’s annoyingly apropos reading from the Gospel of Mark.   Mark’s Gospel is perhaps the most direct and to the point of all of the four narratives of Jesus.    His language is terse, and his stories are completely devoid of anything other than the most essential elements.   

Here we are in the first chapter of Mark, for instance, and things are very different than the first chapters of Luke and Matthew.  Those other two stories of the life of Christ begin with tales of the birth of Jesus, and long lists of ancestors.   They take a meandering storyteller’s path to the beginning of Jesus’ teaching and ministry.

Mark just doesn’t have time for that.  This Gospel gives us a quick introduction to John the Baptist in the first eight verses, and then...here’s Jesus!   He gets baptized, and then   wham, he’s out in the desert for forty days of preparation.

Those forty days of preparation are non-random.  Within the ancient Hebrew tradition, forty is a number of completeness or fullness.   A generation is forty years.   Moses spends forty days and forty nights on the mountaintop before he comes back with the 10 Commandments.  The Israelites wander in the wilderness for forty years.   During the story of the flood, the rain came down for forty days and forty nights, while Noah popped dramamines and thought to himself that animal stench and rocking boats really aren’t two great tastes that taste great together.   When applied to time, forty means “enough.”  It means “sufficient.”

And so where Matthew and Luke both give details about that time, Mark hits us with the shortest possible version.  What happened in the desert?  Enough that Jesus was ready.

Ready for what?   Ready to proclaim and teach the Gospel.   What is that Gospel?  The essence of that teaching can be found in its completeness in verse 15, summarized in typically blunt Markan style.   “The time is fulfilled.   The Kingdom of God is at hand.  Repent, and believe in the Good News.”

This Kingdom proclamation is the essence of what Jesus will teach in Mark, Matthew, and Luke, and it speaks directly to the urgency of being ready, because what matters is happening right now.

What is most significant in this tight little synopsis of Christ’s teachings is the immediacy of that declaration.  What Jesus is NOT saying is that we’re waiting around for something to happen before things matter.   What this is NOT saying is that our response to this event can wait.   Things are already happening, and have already happened.

When the author of Mark conveys the essence of Christ’s message in the Greek, he uses language that leaves no doubt on that front.   When he talks about the time being fulfilled, the verb he uses for fulfill is in a form that indicates completeness.   Even the word used for time by Mark is not the Greek word chronos, which simply delineates the passage of one moment to another.

Instead, Mark presents us with time as kairos, the Greek term that delineates time as a completed moment, a moment of accomplishment.  This is time outside of time, and is instead something complete in and of itself.

The nature of that time is revealed in the next phrase. “The Kingdom of God is at hand” means precisely that.   The thing that Jesus proclaimed is not something far off.  It is close enough that if you reach out, extending your fingers just a little, it’s right there, as close as the person nearest to you.

What that means for us, right now, in this 40 day period of preparation, is that we are meant to feel intensity and urgency of purpose as we act in the world.  That is always true, of course.  That is always meant to be the dynamic of a faithful life.

But we lose that in the shuffle of the day to day, as the stress and sparkle of the world turns our attention away from those things we know we really should be attending to.  Those things are not the stuff of data and REM sleep compare and contrast exams.   They go deeper into our relationship with the creation into which we have been placed, and the other souls with whom we share it.

Are we prepared, in the right now, in the This Instant, to respond to the world in such a way that we are acknowledging the reality that Christ proclaimed?  Being prepared to encounter each moment in grace is the essential task of every Christian, because...as we were reminded this Ash Wednesday...our lives are finite.  The vital, turning-point instants that shape the flavor and nature of our days can sneak up on us, as stealthy as a thief.  No matter where we find ourselves, that moment could be upon us.   There isn’t a single moment when we can be unprepared to respond in keeping with the grace of the Kingdom.

A cutting word can be stilled on your lips, and the arc of a relationship can be changed.  A word of forgiveness can be found and offered though the wound goes deep, and a brokenness can begin to heal.  A silence can be broken, and in doing so a falsehood can be quashed, or an injustice halted.  In an instant, we can find everything that defined the pattern of our lives shattered, in that call that comes too late in the night, or that look in the doctor’s eye.  How do we survive such moments?   Because we don’t know when those moments will come.  We have no idea.

If we are unprepared, undisciplined, unfocused in our Way, then we’ll meet those unexpected moments of kairos possibility with our anxieties, our angers, our fears, and our selfishness.   And from those places, what we’ll write onto the fabric of time and space will not bend things for the better, not live into the reality of that Kingdom.

So in the days ahead, use the time to claim the time.  Whatever actions deepen your capacity to live into the Kingdom, recommit yourself to practicing them.  Prayer and service, worship and justice, meditation and action, each of these, renewed across these days, can strengthen us in our yearning to live into the time at hand.   And the time is, and always has been, at hand.

Let this season, in its completeness, complete us to respond to that essence of Christ’s message.  The time is right now. 

Let it be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

Just Not Seeing It

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

02.19.12; Rev. David Williams

Scripture Lesson:  2 Corinthians 4:3-6

Our world is filled with folks with different perspectives.  None of us stand in the same place, or view the world through the same set of eyes.  From those different perspectives, we can struggle to see the value in what others believe about the world.   We see something, and think to ourselves, huh.  How does that possibly work for you?

This last week, for instance, I was doing background work for the Ash Wednesday service we’re going to have here at PPC this upcoming Wednesday.   Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the Lenten Season, and is the neglected sister of Fat Tuesday.   We’re big into Fat Tuesday, because Fat Tuesday is fun.  On Mardi Gras Americans get to go down to N’walins and do stupid things.   Americans continue to do this despite the fact that while what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, what happens in N’walins tends to require stitches, antibiotics and six months of court mandated community service. 

But Ash Wednesday, the Mercredi des Cendres, well, that one we don’t celebrate so much.   The day gets its name not from the greyish skin-tone you encounter in post-Mardi Gras Louisiana State University frat boys, but from the ritual application of oil and ash to remind us of our mortality.

As I looked into ways we might celebrate Ash Wednesday, I encountered all kinds of liturgies, from all sorts of different traditions.  There were Episcopalian services, Methodist services, and Catholic services.  But the oddest service I encountered was a Presbyterian service, one that I...well...I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.   It was a service of the First Presbyterian Church of Second Life.  This is a gathering of Presbyterians in a virtual world in which virtual representations wander around and...well...do stuff.  Including, apparently, go to church.   The bulletin for that service, well, um, included phrases like this:

After a prayer is offered, each person will come forward to receive the imposition of ashes. When you receive the ashes, go into your inventory, find the ashes (type "ashes" in your inventory search) right click on them, and select "wear."

This Wednesday at PPC will not be like that.   I just can’t even find my way to seeing how that would feel like worship.  Second Life is a place you go to pretend to be something you’re not...so what does that say about worship there?   But that may just be me.  I’ll often encounter folks who just can’t see my own faith as I see it.   

The atheists I sometimes encounter, for example, have an experience of the Christian faith that bears no resemblance to my own.

Seen through the eyes of atheism, even the most basic things about Christianity seem totally different.  I can understand the struggle to grasp faith, or to believe in God.  But what I can’t get is the way that Jesus is seen.  When I look at Jesus, as objectively as I can, I see teachings that revolve around love, grace, and mercy.  I see a theology that is rooted in a loving relationship with our Creator, and an interpersonal ethic that requires radical compassion for every human being around us.   Then I encounter seemingly intelligent human beings who’d describe Jesus totally differently.   

In my office, I have a book that was given to me as a gift.  It’s a Brick Testament book, one of a series of books in which scenes from the Bible are recreated using Lego people.   I find them amusing, because 1) I love the Bible and 2) Lego is awesome.  But when I went to buy an anthology of the books, one that included some Jesus teachings, I made a difficult discovery.   The books themselves are produced by someone who sees faith through the eyes of atheism.   When you get to the Brick Testament spin on his teachings, it’s hard to read them.  Jesus is presented as a glazed eye warmonger, a hate-filled psychopathic zealot, and a rigid legalistic hypocrite.  And try as I might, I just can’t see it.  I cannot see how the author of those books sees, see or feel how he feels, no matter how mightily I try to empathize.

Being able to see people through the eyes of compassion was a skillset in short supply in the congregation that had gathered in Corinth.   The last few weeks, we’ve been digging our way through Paul’s correspondence to this benighted community.  First Corinthians is, in all likelihood, not the first letter Paul wrote to Corinth at all.   Given the evidence in the text, it is probably the second is a series of letters to a church that seemed to need every little bit of help it could get.   

Second Corinthians continues Paul’s correspondence, but very few scholars now believe that this is just a single letter.   Where 1 Corinthians develops naturally, with each section following logically after the next, 2 Corinthians wanders all over the place.  The tone of the letter changes wildly and abruptly, with odd transitions and shifts of emphasis that just make no sense whatsoever.  One moment Paul will be waxing eloquent about love, and then suddenly he’s attacking someone, and then he’s right back to being positive again.

Given the clear gifts of rhetoric that Paul shows in his other letters, most objective scholars believe that this text is a mashup, a cut-and-paste job that weaves together three or more free-standing letters into one single text.  Think of it as a K-Tel medley of Paul’s greatest hits, if you will, or if you’re old enough to even know what that means. 

In this section, which begins at the start of chapter 3, Paul is dealing once again with the tendency of the Corinthians to categorize human beings according to their worth in the social pecking order.  The Corinthians were big fans of shiny people.  If you had impressive credentials or showed the outward signs of wealth, you did well in Corinth.  If you had big impressive spiritual gifts, or could preach a firebrand sermon, you did well in Corinth.

And, as was the case in much of the rest of the Greco-Roman world, if you had a rich and powerful person vouching for you with a strong letter of recommendation, you’d do well in Corinth.  Doors would open.  People would see you as a more important and more valuable human being.   Two thousand years have passed, and not much is different.

As Paul argues against this rather basic human tendency to value one person more than another, he expands his argument to talk about the fundamental challenge many human beings had grasping the purpose of what Jesus was doing in the world.  The radical character of what he taught is just too much to grasp.  In 2 Corinthians 3:15, he describes those who live with “veiled minds,” and in 2 Corinthians 4:4, he talks of those for whom “the god of this world has blinded their minds.”

That veiling and hiding from sight takes two forms, according to Paul.  The first comes with rigid legalism, when human beings get so caught up in the letter of the law that they lose the movement of the Spirit in their hearts.  As he writes in 2 Corinthians 3:6, we are called to be “..ministers of a new covenant, not of letter but of spirit, for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.”

The second thing that blinds us is the pride social power, status, and otherness.   We’re not to proclaim ourselves and our superiority over others.  If we are to be the lights shining in the darkness, then our task is not to let ourselves be deluded into thinking that wealth or intelligence or any human condition matters.  What matters is letting the light of grace and the Spirit shine from us.  That’s pretty much it.

How does that look?  It requires us to look at those who are not us, and who we struggle to grasp, through the lenses of grace.   If there are souls who gather virtually to worship, though it might seem a bit silly to me, my job is not to assume they’re somehow getting it wrong just because their approach to faith is...um...different.  Here, the practice of compassion requires that you see the grace in what they are doing.  Sure, worship is better enfleshed, and feeling the touch of ashes on your forehead is arguable better than selecting “Ashes” from a dropdown menu.   But if that some folks choose to be Christian even in their places of play isn’t a bad thing.   

And if someone has convinced themselves that Jesus is hateful, legalistic, and warlike, the response that is guided by the light of Christ is not one that mirrors that presumption back at them.  Instead, the response is grace, to live a life that is an “open statement of the truth.”  Not any truth, but the reality that is formed and shaped when we let ourselves be governed by the Spirit of grace, and see our world through the lenses of grace.  So I can disagree, and I can say so, but I can do that graciously.  You may be wrong about Jesus, as wrong as you can be, but Lego is still awesome.  

That is the purpose of the Lenten season that begins on Wednesday.  It is to remind us, through the discipline of 40 days of self-denial and renewed commitment, that being the light of the world is not only Christ’s calling.  If we walk with him, it is our calling as well.

Let it be so, for you and for me,  AMEN.

Long. Distance. Running.

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

02.12.12; Rev. David Williams

Scripture Lesson:  1 Corinthians 9:24-27

For the first decade or so of our relationship, my wife and I had a few things we’d always do when we’d go somewhere in a car.  If we were commuting together or going out, there were patterns we’d fall into, little ritual exchanges or actions that were always the same.  Like, say, me always driving, although she’s a perfectly good and capable driver.  Or every journey always beginning with the application of makeup, no matter how much time had been spent preparing to go out beforehand.

Here, I’m talking about her.  Just to be clear.   

If the car trip was longer than 20 minutes, the odds were that at some point, she’d fall asleep, as the warmth and the movement of the car would rock her to sleep.  I’d usually find this out as I was in the middle of what I thought was a conversation, only to look over and see her twitching slightly.   Honestly, though, I liked her tendency towards vehicular narcolepsy.  It made whatever trip we were taking feel warm and cozy.   Nothing makes you feel more nurturing and husband-ish than when the woman you love is sleeping in the car next to you.

And whenever we’d drive past a jogger, we’d both roll our eyes.  I hate running, either she or I would say.  So boring, either she or I would say.  And so high-impact, either she or I would say.   What about their knees, either she or I would say.

So it came as something of a surprise this last year when my wife really, really got into running.  It started when a co-worker invited her to go on a run with a group, and she discovered that it was both challenging and kind of fun.  From there, it was more running, followed by running a 5K, and then a 10K.    After a few runs, she decided, gosh, why not attempt a half-marathon?  

And so for the last several months, she’s been training.  Running 12 point one miles isn’t just something you decide to do.  Well, you could decide to do it.  I could decide to run from here to Bethesda this very afternoon.  By the time I reached the Poolesville city limits, though, I’m pretty sure I’d be deciding to sit down for a while and then deciding to call someone to come pick me up.

You have to prepare for a run of that length.   You have to work at it, building into it, paying attention to how your body responds.  You have to attend to technique, making sure you’re working with your own muscles, sinew, and bones in such a way that you build strength and endurance, but don’t do damage.

Slowly, patiently, methodically, my I-hate-running wife managed to run six miles.  Then eight.  Then nine.  Then eleven point one.  What would have seemed completely impossible just a few years ago has, with time and discipline and focus, become a possible thing.

The Apostle Paul understood what it took to make a seemingly impossible thing happen, in a way that only a few other human beings across the span of our history have understood it.  When he embraced the teachings and Spirit of Jesus of Nazareth as his guide and purpose in life, the Jesus movement was just a tiny, fragile bud, a little group of human beings who came from the most backwater region of a backwater province of a vast and teeming empire.

Paul devoted the full and complete energies of his life towards the spread of that faith, taking his considerable gifts and talents and pouring them into the effort to share Christ’s gracious teaching with the world.  This was not something done easily.   

It was particularly not easy in Corinth.  The church in Corinth was notoriously troubled, riven with conflicts and gossip.  More significantly, it was challenged by a form of hyper-competitiveness, as members of the church allowed the values of the city of Corinth to worm their way into the life and dynamics of the church.  As a recently planted trading colony, Corinth was a place full of hard-charging, self-made souls.  They were driven, they were in it to win it, and God help anyone who got in their way.

In this ninth chapter of this letter, Paul is talking explicitly about how Christians are to use their lives.   He begins the chapter by talking about the rights of Christians who teach the Christian faith to be supported by those who learn the faith from them.   This one’s a favorite of many pastors come salary and budget season, let me tell you.

After declaring that to be a right of Christian teachers, Paul then affirms his freedom to set that aside.  He could take income, and would be well within his rights to take income, but because he is free, he won’t.  He doesn’t chase after his own self-interest above all other things, but instead chooses to discipline himself, focusing his energies on the Gospel.

In the verses immediately before the passage you heard read this morning, he goes further.   Not only does he not pursue his own self-interest, but he finds ways to structure his relationships with others in such a way that he connects with them as much as is possible.  His knowledge of Torah and training connected him to the Jews.  His well developed skills with Greco-Roman rhetoric and knowledge of the social context of his culture connected him with Gentiles.  His own personal history as a self-appointed inquisitor against Jesus folk connected him with those who were struggling to come to grips with the faith.  

Paul’s success in sharing what Christ taught came not because he beat people over the head with it, bullied them into being afraid of it, or pitched the same Jesus-script to every human being he encountered.   Instead, his personal discipline was different.

In describing that discipline in verses 24 through 27, Paul uses the image of a runner, one that would have been familiar to the folks at Corinth.  This letter was written in the early 50s...that’s Fifties, not Nineteen Fifties...and seems likely to have been written in either 53 or 54.   If so, it would have come just a year or so after a major sporting event called the Isthmian games, held at an arena only eight miles from the city of Corinth.  Sports would still have been on the mind of the Corinthians, and they would have viewed it as a potent metaphor for the way they lived competitively.

Paul first reminded them of the imperative to try to do what you are doing and do it well.  Then he reminded them that chasing after material success means nothing.  The wreaths of fresh greens that were given to the champions in the Isthmian games wilted.    Superbowl rings can be bought on eBay.   

What Christians are attempting...a life lived in accordance with the essential and fundamental grace underlying all creation...is of far more ultimate value than material success.   That reinforces the need for self-discipline and focus in the pursuit of a Christ centered existence, and that often eludes us.   While we’re perfectly content to assume that discipline is necessary for success every other area of our lives, we get ourselves to thinking that somehow our journey of faith is not like that.   We’re spiritual, we tell ourselves, and somehow that’s going to be enough.  God’ll get ‘er done, because we are just so awesome.  

But if we attend to Paul’s teaching, we realize that a bit of focus might be necessary.

First and foremost, we find discipline in the consistent developing and practicing of compassion.  That’s the point Paul is making in 1 Corinthians 9:19-23.  His primary and central discipline, as the most focused and successful Apostle of the Gospel, was that of compassion.  It was compassion that enabled him to connect with others.  It was compassion that allowed him to find ways to articulate the transforming message of Jesus to others.

In our own journeys, this is something we all struggle with.  Sometimes, compassion is easy.  If we’re at ease, and in a place of balance and calm, it’s easy.  But in conflict, or struggle, we’re not so good at it.  When we’re exhausted, or shimmering with stress, we’re not so good at it.  When we find ourselves pressed on a dozen fronts, our capacity to care...well...it’s pressed.  We’d rather be ornery.  We’d rather lay into/mock/subvert those fools who just don’t get us.  It’s what we like to do.

But if we’re in it for the long haul, if our journey with Jesus isn’t just a half-hearted twenty five meter waddle followed by some ibuprofen and a nap, then we need to be able to do more.  We need self control in the expression and practice of faith.  Maintaining that discipline is essential, if we are to have the boldness to call ourselves disciples of Christ’s grace.   Let’s get that done.  Let it be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

The Sacrifice

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

02.05.12; Rev. David Williams

Scripture Lesson:  Hebrews 2:14-18

It’s been nearly a decade since I started making that regular trip across the American Legion Bridge, and I’ll confess that as a lifelong Virginian, there are still some things about Maryland that I just don’t get.

I’m sure the feeling is mutual, particularly now that things are getting odd over there in the capital of the Old Dominion.  Take, for instance, the recent push in the Virginia State Senate to eliminate restrictions on multiple simultaneous handgun purchases. It’s not that you can’t buy a handgun in Virginia, or legally own a handgun in Virginia.  It’s just that under standing Virginia law, you can only buy one a month.

Clearly, this gets in the way of Christmas and Hanukkah gun shopping.  How can I buy a Pink Walther P22 for my wife and a pair of Ruger SR22s for the boys if I’ve got to wait a  whole month between purchases?   Sure, I could plan ahead and take my time, but I shop like a man, so that just wouldn’t work for me.   

It might seem that most Virginians would be perfectly capable of defending their household against marauding hordes of bandits and/or Democrats with one pistol.  But what if my plan for defending my household involves leaping sideways through the air in slow motion Matrix bullet time while simultaneously dual-wielding two Glocks?  Unless the law is changed, I’d have to wait a whole month before I could do that.  So Virginia’s State Senate is working to change that law, although their efforts to change the laws of Newtonian physics to permit slow mo shooting may get hung up in committee.

That this is a legislative priority might be confusing to some Marylanders.  

I, on the other hand, am always confused by Maryland’s endless dabbling with gambling as a revenue source.  With the expansion of slots once again coming before the Maryland State Senate tomorrow, I confess to find slots baffling.  For me, slots just seem like the worst possible video game EVER.  A game that involves no skill, no strategy, no storyline, and over which you have only the illusion of control?  That, and fifty bucks gets you only two hours of gameplay?  I’m never going to play that game. I’m not even going to download the demo.  

That said, I conceptually grasp the neurology of gambling as a compulsion, how intermittent and random rewards generate a greater tendency to repeat an action.  Because of this, it’s a great way to take money from addictive personalities, the gullible, and the desperate.  

Clearly, people want roads that have been maintained sometime in the last decade, and decent schools, and competent and professional law enforcement, and all the infrastructure that makes for good and efficient government.  But to have those things, you have to pay for them.  Paying for them means taxes or tolls, in the same way that buying anything involves paying for it.   

But it’s far easier to convince people to do something if they think they can do it without any sacrifice at all.   Why pay for something, if you can get people to just dump money into bright flashing machines and then use that cash to pay for it?   

Someone else makes the sacrifice, so you don’t have to.  Someone else gives, and you just sit back and enjoy the fruits of their loss.  It’s a strange way to run a government.

It’s also, quite frankly, one of the things I struggle with most as I read through the letter to the Hebrews.   Hebrews is a challenging letter on many fronts, particularly for our twenty-first century sensibilities.  

It was written late in the Apostolic era, and we honestly have no clue who actually wrote it.  For a while in the early church, there were some who thought it had been written by Paul.  But the text itself does not claim that, and the theology and priestly focus make Pauline authorship unlikely.  Scholars at the time the King James Bible was produced suggested that Paul’s companion Timothy wrote it.  Martin Luther argued that it was most likely to have been Apollos, a prominent early Christian from Alexandria who is mentioned in both Paul’s letters and the Book of Acts.  

Modern scholarship tends to favor Luther’s perspective, because Alexandria was a city of learning, and the letter of Hebrews itself is so uncompromisingly High Church.  The language, structure, and tone of the letter indicates a writer of unusual refinement and sophistication.  To put it into soap operatic terms, if 2 Corinthians is “Days of Our Lives,” then Hebrews would be “Downton Abbey.”

The “letter” itself is less a letter than a theological treatise.  Although it concludes with reference to a visit by the writer, the beginning of Hebrews starts with the phrase “Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in may and various ways by the prophets,” which can hardly be considered to be a warm opening salutation.

The purpose of Hebrews as a theological essay is relatively straightforward.  It’s a sustained exploration of the identity of Jesus of Nazareth, seen through the lenses of the Hebrew priesthood.  Jesus is identified both as the ideal priest, but also...as is indicated in verses 17 and 18 of chapter 2, as the “sacrifice of atonement.”  The essential principle behind this theology is that Christ’s death is similar to the sacrifices in the temple.  This sacrificial way of understanding Jesus is explored in more depth in chapter 9 and the early portion of chapter 10, and is often described as substitutionary atonement.  God is angry with us, but instead kills Jesus, who absorbs God’s anger against us.

While this is a fairly core assertion of Christian theology, I’ve always had to wrestle with it.  The idea that the God who is love should demand a blood sacrifice has always been difficult to reconcile conceptually.  

This is something that other Christians have wrestled with deeply as well, and no one I’ve studied has been more mightily challenged by the concept than 19th century Scottish mystic George MacDonald.  MacDonald was C.S. Lewises spiritual master, and one of the most intense theological minds you’ll ever encounter.   His writings are just smart, hard, bare-knuckled and uncompromising theology, applied directly to the forehead with all the merciless intensity of a Scots intellectual.    MacDonald burns bright like fire, and he gets God in a way that goes well beyond abstract knowledge. 
Primary among these is the emphasis on how completely human Jesus was, how deeply connected he was to the struggles and losses of humankind.   He was, or so we hear in Hebrews 2:17-18, “..like his brothers and sisters in every respect..” and “..himself..tested by what he suffered.”

MacDonald, as a mystic whose theology was formed not by doctrine but by personal encounter with God, had no patience whatsoever for the doctrine of substitutionary atonement.  This is a basic assumption for many Christians, but MacD viewed it as essentially pagan, little more than a cultic sacrifice.  He saw it as a fundamental misunderstanding of Christ's person and teachings, the central teachings of the apostles, and the nature of God.  For MacDonald, God is ferocious, absolute Love, and there's no way to reconcile God's essential nature with the popular version of this theology.  And Lord ha' mercy, he's gonna be tellin' ya 'bout it.

It is in that connection, in that depth of awareness of both God’s grace and human weakness, that is most significant for the author of Hebrews.   In Jesus, we encounter the intent and purpose and power of our Creator, but God also encounters us.   It is not that God demands the blood of Jesus, like some cruel and bloodthirsty demigod.  It is that in Christ, the depth of God’s relationship to us, participation in us, and love for us is shown.

That depth of connection can be hard to process, particularly in a culture that struggles with the idea of sacrifice.  Our society thrives on the cult of self.  We yearn for power over others, and we seek the easy way out, the way that involves us giving as little as we can for as much as we can get.  When all we’re taught to chase is self-interest, guns and gambling, power and profit, sacrifice can seem an odd thing.   The radical compassion that was required to give over an entire life to teaching compassion to others does not process.

That someone would choose to give themselves to walk with us and teach us and heal us, and that they wouldn’t be broken from that path even by the worst we had to offer...well...that’s a transforming thing.  It’s a sacred thing.  Sacrifice, of course, means nothing more than “to make holy.”  It’s what Jesus was all about.  Making this creation holy.  And as we embrace the ethic and the Spirit that filled him, it’s our task as well, no matter which side of the Potomac we call home.

Let it be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

Veggie Puffs

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

Rev. David Williams; 01.29.12

Scripture Lesson:  1 Corinthians 8:1-13

In the Williams family household, there are times certain songs or videos get caught on endless cycling loop.  They just happen to capture the feel of the moment, and so we have to watch them and listen to them again and again and again.  

Years ago, when the boys were small, that loop seemed to involve endless replayings of Thomas the Tank Engine videos.  This was when the floor of our basement looked like the Magical Island of Sodor after a major earthquake, overpriced wooden tracks and bridges and trains strewn everywhere.  There was a blessedly brief period when we were subjected to the endless singing of Elmo, that little red brand icon whose rise to total dominance over Sesame Street was as brutal and controlling as the rise of Sauron in Mordor.  There is no place for Oscar the Grouch or SuperGrover in a land dominated by the unblinking eye of Elmo.

As my sons age, their tastes have fortunately grown closer to their parents.  And so their latest obsession, the movie/comic/video game Scott Pilgrim Versus the World, well, it’s actually kind of, like, totally epic.  The film, in the event you’ve not seen it, involves a young Canadian slacker, who lives a listless and aimless existence.  In order to go out with the girl he’s fallen for, he must first defeat her seven evil exes in mortal martial arts combat.  So, yeah, it’s exactly like high school as I remember it.

Perhaps my favorite is Evil Ex-Boyfriend Number Three, a bass-playing hipster Adonis by the name of Todd.  What makes Todd particularly difficult to defeat in mortal combat is the fact that he is vegan.  As his girlfriend puts it, “Being vegan just makes you better than most people.”

My boys find this particularly amusing, because it’s a great way to poke fun at their vegetarian dad, the sole non-carnivore in the family.  I have many reasons for my vegetarian diet.  It tends to be healthier, although given that a diet comprised entirely of Mountain Dew and Funyuns would be vegetarian, that is not always the case.  It’s better for the environment, as a vegetarian diet takes one-tenth the amount of acreage to support.  It also reduces the amount of suffering you inflict on the world.  There are lots of reasons to be vegetarian.  

But there’s a challenge we vegetarians face.  In our eagerness to let the world know all of the wonderful reasons to be vegetarian, vegetarians can easily become really remarkably annoying people.  Seeking to do right and to be right with the world can easily morph into self-righteousness and arrogance.  You look out at those who just don’t get it, who lack your depth of awareness, your intelligence, your just-plain-betterness, and your sophistication.  You turn up your nose disdainfully at their obvious inferiority.  

This problem also manifests itself among owners of hybrid automobiles and committed users of Apple products.  

Perhaps it’s because I have those three strikes against me that I find the Apostle Paul’s discussion of a form of early Christian vegetarianism so appropriate.  Here, though, what’s worth noting is that the smug folks weren’t the vegetarians.  They were the carnivores.

The issue for early Christians who chose not to eat meat was not that they were concerned about cholesterol, or that they were worried about the state of creation.  Instead, the issue was consuming meat that had been sacrificed to idols.  This generally isn’t a concern when we stop by McDonalds or Red Robin or White Castle, but back in the first century, it was a real thing.

Meat in the highly dynamic, pluralistic culture of the Greco-Roman world was often...well... “used meat.”    That meant that before it went for sale in the marketplace, the animal involved had been sacrificed at the altar of one of the almost countless gods of the ancient world.  While a small amount of the sacrifice would have been burned, most of the rest of an animal would have been either 1) consumed by the priests/priestesses of whatever god it was sacrificed to or 2) sold to the market as income for that particular temple.  

For some early Christians, this was a major issue.  They’d just converted to the movement that worshipped Yeshua Ben Yahweh, and they knew that they were supposed to only worship one God.   Having rejected all other gods, they were terrified that they might somehow be violating their relationship with Christ and their Creator if they noshed on some BBQ ribs that had been sacrificed to Asherah.

Corinth, being a port town, was filled with temples and altars.  It was chock-full of ancient religions and mystery cults.  For some of the fledgling Christians in the town, there was very real fear that they might accidentally lose their Jesus connection if they ate pagan meat.

For others, that was just absurd.  And it was to those others that Paul directed this section of his letter.  Paul was in regular contact with members of the Corinthian church, so he knew how they talked.  He knew the sayings that were passed among the smarter Corinthians, the more theologically nimble Corinthians, and more worldly wise Corinthians.

Those sharper souls were convinced they had nothing to worry about, and had summarized their lack of worry into a few pithy phrases.  Paul mirrors those phrases back to them in this little section of scripture.  “All of us possess knowledge.”  “No idol in the world really exists.”  “There is no God but one.”  “Food will not bring us close to God.”

In reflecting those sayings back to the Corinthians, Paul is not rejecting them.  In fact, Paul is showing that he believes exactly the same things.  For those whose grasp of the faith was strong, and who understand that from that strength they are free to eat and act and live in ways that stand beyond the grasp of others, Paul says:  “We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do.”  He agrees, and shows that he shares their understanding of the world.

What he does not share is their willingness to condemn or mock those fledgling Christians who lack the depth of understanding that he shares.  He acknowledges that they are “weak,” sure.  But what he will not do is act and live in ways that subvert what faith the weak do have.  If you love others, you don’t live that way.  Possessing knowledge is not enough.  As Paul puts it, “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.”

Though he concedes the “correctness” of the stronger position, he refuses to commit to doing anything other than being supportive and gracious to those who do not hold it.

The task of every Christian, even in disagreement, even when you know you’re right, even when your absolute correctness is utterly and empirically provable to any halfway sentient being, your task is to love and to build up.

It’s a challenge that has faced pretty much every era of the two millennia of Christianity.   Lately, that struggle between perspectives has manifested itself in the argument between conservatives and progressives about what the appropriate response of the church should be to same sex relationships.   In the Presbyterian church, that argument has been going on for the last twenty five years.  This last month in Orlando, a group of two thousand conservative Presbyterians began taking the first step towards creating a new denomination.  The Presbyterian Church (USA) seems closer than ever to splitting apart.

Whether the conservatives are the strong in faith and progressives are the weak or vice versa is a matter I won’t take up here.  As a Prius-owning vegetarian Apple-phile, my own biases may be showing a bit on that front.  But no matter what theological certainty grasps us, no matter what our practice, our call as followers of the Nazarene is and will always be to build up the other.

In our compulsively adversarial culture, that’s a difficult thing to admit.  We don’t want to yield.  We don’t want to set aside our strength, and seek what grace lives in those we consider weaker than ourselves.  That doesn’t mean being silent about what we believe.  But what it does mean is never seeking to wound, and never seeking to destroy, and never causing another to fall.

All may have knowledge, but we are called not just to know.  Knowledge alone can puff us up, as empty of grace as a Cheez Doodle is empty of nutrition.  Instead, we are called to look to all, and to love, and to build up.  Let it be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

The Present Form

Poolesville Presbyterian Church
01.22.12; Rev. David Williams




Scripture Lesson: 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31


Over the past several years, one of the recurring threads of chatter

in the Williams family minivan on the way to swimming or tutoring or

music lessons has been about how human civilization will come to an

end. Apparently, it comes down to one of two options, and there is

some debate as to which one will win out in the end.




Option number one, of course, is the zombie apocalypse. This scenario

involves mindless animated undead roaming dead-eyed through

the land, oblivious to anything but the tasty, tasty brains of the few

living human beings still struggling to get by. Conversation around

this end-times option typically involves discussion of potential

causes and survival tactics, along with the recognition that given how

people drive in traffic around here, it may already be well under way.




Option number two is the robot uprising. The first sign of this event

will come when our Roomba retreats under the sofa and makes

growling noises, and will be finally confirmed when Siri 2.0 informs

us that she’ll be asking the questions now. While our planning for

the zombie apocalypse involves waiting it out in a hardened shelter,

the Williams family plan for surviving the robot uprising involves one

simple mantra: side with the robots.




Then there’s Option number three. That involves the arrival of the

K’tall harvester fleet in low earth orbit, and this one we prefer not

to talk about. Don’t want to start a panic, after all.




These are, of course, just the sort of silly conversations that one

has when one has kids, but I think there’s a certain fascination with

the end of things that draws our interest. That fascination goes

beyond the sturm und drang, thunder and lighting spectacle that we

envision going along with the end of things as we know them. Much of

what makes the whole end-of-things speculation so fascinating is a

subversive yearning in our day-to-day lives, a yearning that

says...what if everything changed? What if none of the things that

make up the familiar pattern of our existence counted for anything any

more?




While we rarely have these thoughts during the more joyous moments of

life, they are prone to surfacing when things seem particularly

meaningless. If we’re stuck in a long commute or in an endless

meeting that’s going nowhere, we wonder why things must be this way.

If we’re listening to a lecture on a subject that will have no

pertinence to our future, we wonder why things must be this way. If

we’re watching a national political debate that seems more about

posturing and psychodrama than it does about the actual issues facing

our nation, the yearning grows even stronger.




Why can’t things be different? Why can’t the world shake, and shift

the ground out from under us, and suddenly, everything become new?




The Apostle Paul saw the world that way. His view of things didn’t

involve aliens or robots or zombies, but for Paul, every action and

thought and moment was seen in the light of apocalypse. In each of

the seven letters that were undisputedly written by Paul in the New

Testament, Paul appears driven by a similar conviction...that the

world in its present form is passing away, and a new thing is being

unveiled. Apocalypse just means “unveiling,” after all.




If you stretch your mind way back to last week, you might recall that

the trading city of Corinth was renowned for being obsessed with

social status and roles within culture. That set of values worked its

way deeply into the church in Corinth, which meant that Paul spent a

great deal of time trying to get them to get past that dog-eat-dog

mentality. He struggled repeatedly to get them to grasp how deeply

the divisions and distinctions they used to categorize one another

meant nothing now that they had committed themselves to the teachings

of Jesus of Nazareth.




In chapter seven of first Corinthians, Paul dedicates most of the

chapter to explaining how Christian folk should live as they move

through their lives in the world. In particular, he talks to the

people of the Corinthian church about how men and women should live in

relationship to one another. This is where Paul gets into talking

about marriage, and commitments, and the dynamic between the genders.

It’s thoughtful, practical, textured-vegetable-protein-and-potatoes

stuff, right up until the passage I just read. Then, things change,

and what he has to say is a bit difficult for us to hear.




That tends to be the case with a most of what Paul says, actually, but

this little section is particularly challenging. It’s challenging

because while Paul describes marriage with a depth of grace and

understanding, we find him saying bizarre, awkward things like in

verse 29 “let those who have wives be as though they had none.” I

would make a joke about this being Newt Gingrich’s favorite passage of

scripture, but that would be overly political of me. Although if I

said it was also Bill Clinton’s, that might make it more non-partisan.

Best not to go there, I think. Whichever way, it’s an odd thing

to hear the Bible say about the covenant of marriage.




What Paul goes on to say is even harder to hear. Those who mourn

should be as they were not mourning? Those who rejoice, like they’re

not? How can you tell folks who are experiencing the extremes of

human emotion that they should live as if they weren’t experiencing

them? What could he possibly be getting at here?




For Paul, the reason the form of these things meant so little was that

because of Jesus, the world was in the process of being completely

changed. When Paul says in verse 31 that the present form of the

world is passing away, he uses the Greek word schema. That word,

which is the root for English words like “scheme” or “schematics,”

means structure or framework or order.




All those things that give structure to our existence...the

relationships, the work, the school, the kids, the stuff, all of

it...are viewed by Paul as subordinate at best, and distractions at

worst. For Paul, all of them are secondary to the transforming

message of the Nazarene.




Paul heard the words that came from the lips of Jesus in today’s

passage from Mark’s Gospel and took them seriously. When Jesus says

in Mark 1:15 that “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has

come near; repent, and believe in the good news,” Paul takes him at

his word. There is every evidence in the writings, theology, and

teachings of Paul that he sees the apocalyptic fulfillment of the

Kingdom Jesus proclaimed as being not just about to happen, but

actually in the process of happening.




According to the Nazarene and Paul, his most prolific disciple, the

present form was passing away.




Hearing this, we should struggle with it.




We struggle to see how we’re supposed to apply what Paul is telling

us. How are we to actually DO this? It’s a matter of priorities.

Our faith does not demand that we abandon the commitments we have

made. We can be, as Paul indicates, married, or working, or

experiencing the joys and sorrows of life. What Paul asks us to do,

though, is to give primacy to Jesus in defining how those things play

out. In the context of our relationships with others and the world,

we’re asked to live into those relationships in such a way that both

Jesus and the love of God are evident in our every action.




That manner of life is what Paul describes in verse 35 of chapter 7,

where the schema of this world is intentionally contrasted with the

euschemon...the “good scheme” or the “good order” of our relationship

with God. The good form of life requires that we be defined by a

radical love God and stranger, no matter what. Other relationships,

no matter how blessed or significant, cannot crowd that out. The

demands of work and business and the maintenance of our stuff cannot

crowd that out. If we weep, or are in the midst of celebration, that

can’t be crowded out.




That is the new form that is being unveiled. It still is. Let it be

so, for you and for me, AMEN.

Not It

Poolesville Presbyterian Church 
01.15.12; Rev. David Williams 


Scripture Lesson:  1 Corinthians 6:12-20 

 In struggling through my reading and your hearing of today’s text, my first reaction to it is similar to one often encountered by parents of young children as they negotiate the dynamics of our culture.

The family has gathered for restful togetherness on a Friday night after dinner, curled up with popcorn around the glow of lighted electric diodes radiating from a big corner flat screen.  The film for the evening is one remembered from long ago, through the fondly hazy recollection of many years.  The earnest little faces of your younglings beam at the screen as the movie begins, and for a while, all is well.

Then, about ten minutes in, there’s a tickle in your memory.   Did I watch this in the theater?  Or did I see an version edited for televis...

As that thought struggles to surface, you’re suddenly reminded, simultaneously, of two things.  First, PG movies back in the 1980s didn’t involve the same vocabulary that they do today, and second, your memory of the dialog in movies isn’t always quite as reliable as you thought.  

With that reminder, the parents in the room turn slightly white, and the little ones giggle, as one or more of them say with barely constrained glee, “Oooooh!  Daddy!  THAT was inappropriate!”

This is, of course, an entirely hypothetical situation.  Ahem.

And Paul, well, Paul feels inappropriate today.  Yes, it’s scripture, and yes, it’s part of the great sacred story of our tradition, but, really?   Reading through this excerpt from 1 Corinthians 6 feels like that moment after Thanksgiving Dinner when that relative who loves telling off color jokes starts in on the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the oh no, you’re not going to tell THAT joke, and you try to shush him because UNCLE PAUL, there are CHILDREN in the ROOM, but he Just. Won’t.  Stop.

Again, this is entirely hypothetical.

So how to approach this one?  What’s the appropriate illustration for such an awkwardly inappropriate passage?    I mean, there are plenty of images out there for exploring the concepts the Apostle Paul wants us to explore, but very few are what I’d describe as sanctuary appropriate.  Having been tagged by this passage in the cycle of readings, I really do want to cry out...NOT IT!

And so, instead, I’ll do what Presbyterian pastors generally do when they’re forced to deal with a problematic passage.  Let’s take a look at the history and the language a bit more closely, why don’t we?

Paul’s letters to the church at Corinth spring from his deep care for this endlessly troubled community. Corinth was a centrally located trading hub in the Roman Empire, and was legendary for it’s dog-eat-dog, do anything to get ahead, I’m-gonna-get-me-mine mentality.  In part, this was because Corinth was a city recently repopulated by Rome.  Everyone there was new, and unlike the more rigidly structured hierarchy in more established corners of the Empire, the residents of that city were able to rise and fall based on their skills, their abilities, or sheer self-centered ruthlessness. Proving yourself a winner and back-stabbing your way up the social ladder of prosperity was the Corinthian way.

It’s what Corinthians did, to the point that Roman historians and social commentators at the time invariably mention what a heartless, hyper-competitive, uncharitable, and self-absorbed city Corinth was.   Corinthians did not need reality television.  They were reality television.

As tends to be the case in such communities, there was a strong tendency to view other people as objects, as rungs in the social ladder, as convenient stepping stones and nothing more. This approach to other human beings was completely opposed to the ethic of love that is at the center of Christ’s teachings.  As the Apostle Paul struggled to convey that really rather basic principle to the Corinthians, one of the primary ways they struggled with fulfilling the requirements of the Christian life was through their often predatory approaches to one another.

For Paul, this manifested itself most intensely in the way that the Corinthians commonly approached the most intimate relationships in their lives. In this passage, Paul is playing with Greek words in a way it’s a bit hard for us to grasp in the English.  The word that’s translated “prostitute” in verses 15 and 16 in the New Revised Standard version, and translated “harlot” in older English versions, that word is the Greek word porne.  The word “fornication” in verses 13 and 18 is porneian, and has exactly the same root.  The connection between the two, in Paul’s original language, goes deeper than we tend to hear in our own language.

In connecting forms of porneia, Paul is making a point.  If human intimacy was approached as a transaction, in which a partner was viewed as just an object to be purchased, then the new life Paul taught as he spread the Gospel was threatened. For Paul, the purpose of Christian life was to be utterly personally transformed by our connection to the love of God.  Through our connection to that love, which Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 13 as the single highest and most important gift shared by all Christians, we are also connected to one another in love, a love that defines our ethical interactions.

The Christian life, if it is to mean anything, demands that we recognize that we are woven up together by the love of God.  None of us are objects.  None of us are things. While this passage is typically viewed as just being about Christian sexual ethics, I think it’s important to realize that while Paul’s point should be well taken in that realm of adult moral life, it goes further than that.

Paul gets so irritated at porneia because it is the form of relationship that is the complete opposite of selfless, compassionate agape love.  That way of being in relationship is diametrically opposed to our connection to one another in Christ.   Porneia is transactional relationship.  Porneia is objectified relationship, in which another human being becomes viewed as less than human.   In response to this, there are things we need to open our eyes to if we’re to live into being the transformed persons Christ intends us to be.


First, we have to recognize porneia in culture.  Our society, like the community that formed in Corinth, is one that is unusually prone to objectification and commodification.  We are, after all, encouraged to think of ourselves first and foremost as consumers.   We are bombarded by images of product, and images of other human beings who exist primarily to provide us with products and services, or sell us products and services. We can easily stop treating them as human, worthy of love.  Instead, they become inanimate means to the end of our profit or satisfaction.

Porneia is not just something that crawls and seethes in the darker recesses of the Internet.   It is a state of mind that increasingly permeates our society, one that needs to be resisted if we are to remain true to our calling to pursue Christ’s Kingdom grace.

Second, we need to recognize the impact of porneia in ourselves.  As Paul tells us in verse 18, porneia is not just a sin against another being.  It is a sin against our own body.   How so?  Paul is often accused, unfairly and inaccurately, of being one of those folks who divide up the spiritual realm from the physical.  But so much of Paul’s teaching is about the transformation of our physical reality, as we shift ourselves into a life conformed to the grace of the spirit of the living God.  The purpose of Christian faith is the transformation of our lives, right here in this world.  Our actions in the now matter.  The way we live and act here in the meat and and blood and bone of our being matters. When we live as if others are objects, things that can be purchased, used, and discarded, then we are living outside of the bounds of the Kingdom of grace that Christ proclaimed.

Living that way effects us.  It changes us.    Those who treat others as not a you, or a thou, but an “IT,” those souls are the ones that most quickly become an “IT” themselves.  That relationship weaves its way into our being.

Don’t be “IT.”   Let it not be so, for you and for me, AMEN.