Sermon afterthoughts: The Deceptiveness of Light

What came into being in him was life, and that life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

--John 1: 3-5 (NRSV) 

"Very well then, we must corrupt it. No doubt you often practice transforming into an angel of light as a parade ground exercise, now is the time to do it in the face of the Enemy."

-Screwtape to Wormwood, The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis

My sermon on John 1 today got hijacked along the way by the sentences above quoted from verses 3-5. Mostly this was because, as noted early in the sermon itself, I found myself wondering a lot about the particular ritual that closes so many Christmas Eve services involving the congregation holding up lighted candles in a darkened sanctuary. As written there, in cold hard computer-screen text, it doesn't look very impressive, does it? In practice, people tend to be transfixed. If other pastors are like me, they might worry that nothing else from the service will stay with anyone in the congregation once that's all over.

I couldn't let the sermon pass without noting how that light/dark dichotomy gets misused to treat, say, darkness of skin (or any other darkness) as tantamount to darkness of spirit or absence of light. There's a long history of that, behind justifying slavery and a whole lot of other civil rights abuses. What I didn't have time to get to, on the other hand, is the observation that the opposite can also be true; lightness of skin (or any other kind of lightness) as automatically good or perfect or right or holy. And goodness knows, that's just not true.

The quote lifted above from The Screwtape Letters riffs on Paul's admonition to the Corinthians about false teachers and deceivers. Goodness knows there's enough of that among us in the church, frankly pointing supposed followers of Christ towards all manner of falsehood and wrong theology and frankly evil-doing. We're only four days away from the anniversary of one of the most egregious and grotesque examples of such falseness in the 'Christian nationalism' that drove many participants in the attack on the Capitol.

'Christian nationalism' is particularly pernicious at the moment, but it is hardly the only false light luring people away from genuine faith, is it? The prosperity gospel has been eroding the church for decades. The strictures of "biblical manhood" and "biblical womanhood" have been breaking lives and hearts for at least as long if not longer. (Mandatory plug for Kristin Kobes du Mez's Jesus and John Wayne and Beth Allison Barr's The Making of Biblical Womanhood on those subjects.) The false lights, and the fake angels of light pushing people towards those false lights, are thick on the ground these days, and some of them are mistaken for real followers of Christ way too easily.

Light, indeed, can be deceiving, even without such false prophets and wrongdoers posing as angels of light. To bring in my favorite bit of Christmas-season public theology, A Charlie Brown Christmas, where do the brightest lights appear in that little parable? I think one might have to point to CB and Linus's journey to the Christmas tree lot, the one with all the big shiny aluminum Christmas trees. Remember the big spotlights that led the two to the spot? 

Or one might think of the brightly lit stage with all the kids dancing in lieu of rehearsing for the Christmas play:

This one stands out most in contrast to that same stage when Linus finally steps up with Luke 2 in answer to Charlie Brown's desperation:

John's seemingly simple dichotomy masks the much more demanding task of discernment that we face: which light is the true light? Seeking the "true light" as John calls it in verse 9 requires sorting out a lot of fake or artificial light. John doesn't really address that so much, outside of course of spending his entire gospel trying to portray that Light.

Maybe the difference is that the "true light" is the one that actually does shine in the darkness, that isn't unplugged or turned off so easily. The "true light" is the one that the darkness did not, could not, cannot extinguish.When other false lights have shorted out or burned away, the true light still shines. 

One of my former seminary professors, when the occasion arose, frequently (OK, almost always) pronounced a benediction that included something along the lines of this: "and may light, love's own crucified, risen, incarnate light guide each and everyone of us out of every darkness and all the way home." What does a "crucified, risen, incarnate Light" look like? Maybe more to the point: what does a "crucified, risen, incarnate Light" not look like? Perhaps in the end this is the thing that points us towards the true light and away from all the parade-ground devils practicing their transformation-tricks on gullible souls.

Sermon afterthoughts: the "Get Out of Hell Free" card

 There's a lot of stuff to think about in Mark 10:35-45, and especially in that last verse. It's a verse that has been appropriated for the development of a theology of atonement, even substitutionary atonement, in a way that doesn't really work with the material Mark has given us here.

The sermon for this scripture explores this challenge to a degree. Much of that atonement talk hinges on how modern users ("modern" here applying to several centuries' worth of interpreters, not just us "modern" American types) apply a definition of "ransom" that doesn't really fit. The "ransom" in Mark's usage doesn't imply anybody getting paid for the release of those held captive, which doesn't fit with the notion that some price had to be "paid" for our release from sin, that price being Jesus's life in such theology. (Really, though, would not Jesus's resurrection somehow equate to a breach of contract in such a theology?) 

An awful lot (yes, there are two possible ways to interpret that, and both are valid) of theology has been spilt trying to fit this passage with other bits of scripture, such as some of the "suffering servant" verses from Isaiah, to flesh out this theology of a price to be paid. I'm not sure, though, that it's this bit of interpretation that causes the most damage. 

It's possible to be incredibly narrow in defining the word translated "life" in this verse. As noted in the sermon, the word in question (ψυχην, "psuxen") goes far, far beyond any definition of "life" that can be reduced to "not death." The word wants to embrace all the stuff of living, not just a biological definition of being alive. And this is the biggest problem for a lot of theologies out there.

Like John and James in this passage, it's easy to talk tough. When Jesus challenges their seating request, asking if they can really endure all the suffering he's about to endure, they have the cheek to respond "we are able." Were they counting on some kind of divine intervention to head off the very suffering and death Jesus had tried to teach them three times now? Were they just stupid? What is it? 

Like many of the January 6 insurrectionists, who are now sounding a lot less brave with prison time looming as a real possibility, one can't help but notice that these two brave-talking disciples have, later in this gospel, bolted and deserted Jesus by the time he is nailed to the cross. Eventually the book of Acts reminds us that James, willing or not, did eventually drink from this cup of suffering; he is noted as the first of the twelve to be martyred (of course Judas died first, but not a martyr's death). John apparently doesn't die such a death, but the tradition that he spent years in exile does suggest suffering did come his way. 

Even so, for an awful lot of human beings, giving up being alive is a far easier promise to make than giving one's life, particularly in the way Jesus gave his life, particularly in the way Jesus came to serve and not to be served. Being "manly" or "tough" or a "warrior" has become the default way of being "Christian" for an awful lot of men who claim that name. (Many, but not all, of such men are affiliated with church traditions that can be described with a five-syllable word starting with "e".) If you're willing to twist your brain enough I suppose that can be passed off as a kind of "service," but let's get blunt: there's nothing Christlike about it. 

Right there is a word - "Christlike" - that needs to be recovered and put to work a lot more than it typically is in the church of whatever stripe these days. In the current state of society, where the word "Christian" as adjective has been so stretched and distorted as to be nearly useless for anything meaningful, I still say it's worth breaking out "Christlike" in its place and seeing just how much of what we describe as "Christian" really measures up. 

Following a Savior who steadfastly refused to rack up power on earth loses its luster real fast for a great many people. Signing up for a fight sounds better. Even better is the promise of being "ransomed" - getting the great "get out of Hell free" card - without having to follow the example of Jesus, to give your whole life, your inner self, your soul, your everything. Talking as if your "salvation" is in the past tense is a lot easier and more fun than talking about your service, your following Jesus, as an ongoing everyday thing. 

Resist this. 

It might just be that the allure of the "get out of Hell free" card is the biggest problem with the misuse of verses such as this one. Anything that implies that the Christ-following life, or any part of it, is an over-and-done thing is a disaster for actual discipleship and Christ-following. And it's not just those e-word people that are the problem; all corners of Christianity, including the mainline, have severe problems grasping all this. 

The call is not to volunteer to die; the call is, like Jesus, to give your whole life, your inside and out life, all of you. And that goes on every day of your life. 

And that's really hard.

Ugh.

Sermon afterthoughts: Childish

The week was spent preparing a sermon on Ephesians 4:1-16. Two verses in particular from the text just kept jumping out at me all week, to the point of almost preventing a sermon from happening. Check out verses 14-15, here as in the Common English Bible:

 As a result, we aren't supposed to be infants any longer who can be tossed and blown around by every wind that comes from teaching with deceitful scheming and the tricks people play to mislead others. Instead, by speaking the truth with love, let's grow in every way into Christ...

It doesn't take a whole lot of effort to find in your average batch of weekly headlines a slew of examples of folks who present themselves as "Christians," for whom the scare quotes seem especially necessary when viewed in the light of this passage (or, say, Philippians 4:8, or 1 Corinthians 13, or Galatians 5:22-23, or most anything about Jesus in any of the gospels). There isn't a whole lot of good witness in the behavior of such leaders as the pastor who threatened to throw out anyone wearing a mask in *his* church (emphasis on his). 

It is, in short, childish - a childishness made all the worse by its continued insistence on posturing as "masculine" or "manly" or some such business. It is whining posturing as leadership. It is those who "teach with deceitful scheming" preying upon infants who can be tossed and blown around by all the wind. And frankly, it is gross. 

I suppose the confluence of headlines and lectionary scripture have pushed this one forward in my mind, but it checks out nonetheless. The "Christianity" that preys upon our headlines and draws attention to itself (as opposed to, oh, I don't know, Jesus?) is a culturally shaped "Christianity" that has no spiritual maturity about it, that demands benefits and privileges for itself and its chosen few, with the rest of the world either ignored or actively vilified. 

I have in the past argued that the word "Christian" should be abolished as an adjective. Four years later, I'm more convinced of this than ever. What I'm seeing more and more is how much of this usage of the word seems to be deeply bogged down in a rampant spiritual childishness laced with heavy doses of fear, fear of "the other," fear of losing one's status and privilege and power, fear of anything that challenges our comfort and splendid isolation and imagined benevolence toward the lesser people around "us" (this one got totally ramped up by the pandemic).  

The aforementioned 1 Corinthians 13 contains, besides all the description and exaltation of love, this telling bit in verse 11: 

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a adult, I put an end to childish ways.

It's telling indeed, and yet how many have not put aside such childish ways? What might be some "childish" ways that need to be put aside? Things like selfishness ("if you have enough, then I can't have everything I want" is a pretty good summary), name-calling (have you had enough of the word "socialism" these days?), projection (accusing others of that of which you are guilty - every sibling has experienced that even if they don't realize it), avoiding responsibility ("it's not my fault if those people are [something they are actually not]"); it's a long list, and an awful lot of public-facing self-identified "Christians" indulge these and too many other traits of childishness with little pushback from, well, anybody. 

The title of the sermon that eventually resulted from the week's wrestling with these verses was "Grow Up." You'll see an amusing illustration with it (also reproduced it here - if anyone knows who created it I'd love to give them credit and maybe buy them dinner, even if it might be slightly unfair to a lot of adolescents I know). The illustration isn't limited to the church, to be sure, but boy howdy does it apply here. 

Of course, part of being able to avoid being tossed and blown around by the deceivers is being well-rooted enough to spot deception when you hear or see it. Being grounded in scripture would be a good start, but how many adults at your church have any tolerance for doing Sunday school? In addition, I'm going to list a few books at the end of this blog for getting acquainted with how the deceivers among the church get traction; two of them lay out in stark detail how powergrabbers replace genuine Christlike teaching with deeply unchristlike cultural norms prettied up with a thin veneer of churchy talk, while the third helps demonstrate how those norms-disguised-as-faith get spread around so profusely. The mainline church of which I am a part has a tall task ahead of undoing the damage done, but the task can't be avoided or brushed off no matter how much such churches seek to do justice and practice righteousness. The childish church is eventually going to have to be named and called out, no matter how unpleasant it will be, or else God's gonna have to tear it all up, roots and everything, and plant anew. 

Or maybe that's already happening.

Suggested reading:

Du Mez, Kristin Kobes. Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation. 

Barr, Beth Allison. The Making of Biblical Womanhood: How the Subjugation of Women Became Gospel Truth.

Vaca, Daniel. Evangelicals Incorporated: Books and the Business of Religion in America.

Sermon afterthoughts: Preaching an epistle I never wanted to preach

Back in seminary, if you had told me I would turn to the epistles of the New Testament for preaching material as often as I do, I would have probably laughed and said something clever like "yeah, right." I knew I was going to do a Romans series as soon as I had the chance, and I did exactly that. (It starts with this sermon and goes forward for a few months, by the time all is said and done.) I figured 1 Corinthians 13 would happen eventually, and there were a few other spots here and there that would happen.

It wasn't something I figured would happen all that often, though. I certainly didn't expect to preach from the epistles more often than from the Old Testament, for example, with all the good stories from Genesis to work from. I still tend to stick to the gospels as first choice, for the most part, but darned if the epistles don't turn up and grab my attention more often than I'd ever have planned.

And I certainly didn't expect to preach much at all from what are sometimes called the "deutero-Pauline" epistles. These are the letters which have Paul's name attached to them (sometimes quite loudly) but do not really appear to have been written or dictated or anything by Paul himself. Sometimes it's the subject matter, something that clearly wasn't an issue in Paul's time (imagine reading what purports to be a letter by Abraham Lincoln that somehow discuss the Spanish-American War). Sometimes it's the writing style; imagine you were reading something by C.S. Lewis and suddenly coming upon a passage by Ernest Hemingway that someone had snuck into your reading material unawares. And sometimes the book just flat says things that Paul wouldn't have said. 

Frankly, I just didn't want to deal with the fuss. I didn't want to deal with explaining biblical ghostwriting, or how sticking a bigger name on what you've written didn't carry the stigma of violation that it would today. (I am mindful of how many pieces of music of the late 18th century got passed off as having been composed by Haydn simply to sell more copies.) I certainly didn't want to deal with the not-very-Paul-like things those epistles say.

Perhaps chief of all of these was the epistle given the name "Ephesians." Even that title is a little hinky; most of the earliest manuscripts don't have that inscription "at Ephesus" in the greeting, suggesting at minimum that this was probably a circular letter with no particular congregation as its target. The extremely general nature of the letter's content also lends to this doubt; the way Paul is described in his farewell to the elders of Ephesus in Acts 20 stands in blazing contrast to the utterly impersonal nature of this letter. 

And no, I really didn't want even to come near the household codes of Ephesians 5-6. Greco-Roman boilerplate social mores, dressed up with some attempted churchy talk, that has become the basis for centuries of oppressive mumbo-jumbo about "biblical womanhood" and the whole business of "complementarianism" that shackles evangelicalism to some decidedly unchristlike standards of behavior and doctrine? Miss me with that, hard.

And yet, this morning, I just preached my third sermon from Ephesians based on this year's cycle in the Revised Common Lectionary. I'll preach from the book for the four further weeks as the lectionary offers. And then, when the lectionary's offered cycle is completed, I'll go back and slip in one more sermon based on the book, dealing with exactly those Greco-Roman household codes and what we Christ-followers nowadays should actually take from their presence in the New Testament. 

If I were in an evangelical church I'd get fired for sure. Even in my mainline church I might be in danger. But, unless God slaps me around a bit and says "child, what is with you?", that's how August is going to go. 

If I had never come off this, I'd have missed out on that giddy opening of the letter, one of the best run-on sentences in scripture (it really is all one sentence in Greek), a big exuberant blessing that doesn't know when to stop. I'd have missed on today's reading, a benediction on the letter's readers that pushes the boundaries of our understanding of Christ's love and leaves us gobsmacked. I'd have missed on chapter four's gifts for building up the body of Christ, chapter five's mini-echo of Colossians 3:16, and the chance to break down chapter six's "armor of God" passage. All of that would have been a shame. 

So Ephesians it is, ugliness and all. I suppose there's a point in all this. Maybe "never say never"? Or maybe it's something related to that increasingly famous prayer of Thomas Merton, the one that starts "My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going...". Or maybe I'm just getting to the end of my tether. 

Whatever may be the case, the quote that actually sticks in my brain at this point actually comes from Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring: 

The road goes evern on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can, 

Pursuing it with eager feet, 

Until it meets some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

And so the fool's errand goes.

Sermon afterthoughts: Who you callin' a weed???

 I am not a gardener, and I never will be. 

I have not nearly enough patience for that. I'm pretty strongly opposed to being out in direct sunlight for that long with no hope of shade. I'm clumsy. There are a lot of reasons for it. 

One of them, though, is I've gotten to be uncomfortable with the whole idea of how exactly one defines a "weed."

All of this comes on the heels of dealing with Mark 4:26-34, today's gospel reading in the lectionary, and in particular the seemingly familiar Parable of the Mustard Seed. We know that one, right? It's the tiniest seed in seed-dom, and yet it grows into this massive growth that produces large branches in which birds can build their nests and take shelter. We have, in the church-popular imagination, made that into a parable about how what seems small and insignificant can become great and mighty, or something like that. 

That really isn't the point.

After all, the parable is introduced with Jesus's words, "With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it?" (NRSV) Jesus's words make the link explicit: "It is like a mustard seed...". The point of the parable isn't to tell a small or frail child that they can grow up to be big and strong, or that whatever endeavor we've decided to take up will blossom and flourish like that tiny seed. The point of the parable is that the kingdom of God is like that shrub that spreads out and grows and has the big branches to nest in.

And then there's that word "shrub." (Ed.-Allow me a moment for a Monty Python reference that won't go away...)

(There, that's better.)

Jesus calls it a shrub, as the NRSV translates it. Am I wrong, or is that a word that doesn't necessarily conjure up grand and mighty? I mean, it's the root of the above Monty Python joke, or how Molly Ivins brought George Bush the Younger down to size. It ain't the cedars of Lebanon, that's for sure. 

Furthermore (as noted in today's sermon), this particular shrub wasn't exactly super-desirable. It did have some medicinal properties, but that wasn't a thing you went and cultivated that shrub to get - there was plenty of it available in the wild. Worse was that if this shrub got into whatever you were cultivating, your harvest was quite likely in some trouble. It wasn't perhaps quite as pernicious as kudzu - the Vine That Ate the South - but it did invade and crowd out other plants in its path. You wanted it to stay out in the wild, not in your fields. 

Oh, and those branches that birds can nest in? The same birds that were plucking away the seed scattered by the sower earlier in that chapter, in Mark 4:4? 

And this is what Jesus chose to compare with the kingdom of God?

Yeah, it fits. The stuff that grows into our lives and crowds out our neatly laid-out plans and boundaries we'd just as soon stay out in the wild, right? We're not keen to see our best-laid plans disrupted or uprooted in any way. We don't like it, and we want to root it out and toss it in the trash. 

This gives me pause. In the face of such a passage, I am charged to wonder what God sees in a thing I might regard in the way Jesus's audience likely viewed that mustard-seed shrub. Is there some redeeming quality in that thing that is getting castigated as a "weed" that I'm not seeing? Or let's get more directly spiritualized about it: am I going to fail to recognize the moving, spreading, in-crashing kingdom of God because it looks like an invasive shrub messing up my just-so life-garden? 

This comic also comes to mind:

Image credit unknown, which is too bad because this is really good.

To abstract some point out of all of this, we are (I fear) too often or too easily conditioned to equate the good (or dare I say the holy?) with the pretty. We also tend to want to equate the good with the orderly, despite how often and how readily order (even "law and" order) becomes an excuse to perpetuate all manner of evils upon those not like us. When we let the quest for the pretty and orderly and beautiful-by-human-standards take over all of our perception, we are flat-out going to miss the in-crashing, invasive kingdom of God. What we call a weed or an invasive species may well be where the Spirit is moving. At this stage of my life, I really don't want to cultivate any habits that might make me miss that.

Thanks be to God, I think.