Nurturing Divinity (sermon)

This is the sermon I preached at University Church Chicago on Jan. 10, 2016. 

First,  I’d like to get a quick poll in the audience.  How many of you are familiar with this story of Preteen Jesus? This is the only story in all of the Gospels in which we see Jesus between infancy and adulthood.  How often do we really think about the fact that the Savior of Humanity was once a teenager?  And this is the only story in which we get a glimpse of how Jesus became the Messiah. 

Luke 2:41-52

⁴¹ Each year his parents went to Jerusalem for the Passover Festival. ⁴² When he was 12 years old, they went up to Jerusalem according to their custom. ⁴³ After the festival was over, they were returning home, but the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem. His parents didn’t know it. ⁴⁴ Supposing that he was among their band of travelers, they journeyed on for a full day while looking for him among their family and friends. ⁴⁵ When they didn’t find Jesus, they returned to Jerusalem to look for him. ⁴⁶ After three days they found him in the temple. He was sitting among the teachers, listening to them and putting questions to them. ⁴⁷ Everyone who heard him was amazed by his understanding and his answers. ⁴⁸ When his parents saw him, they were shocked.

His mother said, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Listen! Your father and I have been worried. We’ve been looking for you!”

⁴⁹ Jesus replied, “Why were y’all looking for me? Didn’t y’all know that it was necessary for me to be in my Father’s house?” ⁵⁰ But they didn’t understand what he said to them.

⁵¹ Jesus went down to Nazareth with them and was obedient to them. His mother cherished every word in her heart. ⁵² Jesus matured in wisdom and years, and in favor with God and with people.

This story gets at the heart of a significant theological debate, one that split the early Church.  Did Jesus display all the divine traits from birth (including omniscience—knowing everything there is to know), or did he learn?  The Alexandrine theologians focused on verse 47, “Everyone who heard him was amazed by his understanding and his answers.”  Surely this means that Jesus was teaching the teachers, revealing his divine knowledge of the Law and God’s mind!  But the Antiochenes  would argue that verse 52 negates this interpretation: “Jesus matured in wisdom,” meaning that he studied the Law and learned from the people around him. And we all remember that this debate was a hot topic at the Council of Chalcedon.  They resolved the conflict by declaring Christ to be fully human and fully God.  This story reveals that Jesus’ two natures didn’t exist in opposition to one another.  Jesus was born into and matured into his ministry.  Jesus is and always was God incarnate, but that divinity needed to be completed by human experience.

The author of Luke tells this story of Preteen Jesus to give us a glimpse of his journey to become the Messiah.  And what comes through for me is the importance of the Temple.  We are told that every year, Mary and Joseph took their family to Jerusalem for the Passover Festival—to the Temple.  Now the Temple was more than just a destination, it was the center of Jewish life during those festival days.  It was at the Temple that the entire community came together to pray, fast, learn, celebrate, and reconnect.  Although there may have been local congregations back home, it was at the Temple that ordinary Jewish people could dive into the Torah, when children interacted with Jewish scholars and rabbis. Perhaps that’s why Jesus’s parents made the long trek to Jerusalem each year for Passover, to ensure that he had the opportunity to learn from and engage with his faith community. Mary and Joseph began taking Jesus to the Temple when he was just a baby.  In the preceding story, Simeon and Anna, two elders of the community, saw that the hand of destiny was upon the baby Jesus.  It is in the Temple that Jesus is first perceived as being special. 

I want to take a moment to channel the spirits of Simeon and Anna.  I want to tell y’all what I see when I look at the children of University Church.  We’ve got some amazing kids, each called to something great.  Every Sunday, Hank* comes to the front to play the tambourine and sing his heart out. We can always count on Lucas to make a joyful noise unto the Lord.  Last summer, Maggie* and Christie* marched with us in the Pride Parade, and they were by far the most energetic and ecstatic of our group.  I wish we had video of Maggie* running back and forth, rainbow ribbons streaming behind her, high-fiving the onlookers, caught up in and spreading the joy of affirming her LGBTQ brothers and sisters. Just a couple of weeks ago, we had a youth lock-in, and this church was packed with adolescents.  Around three o’clock in the morning, I saw that Jack* had found a younger kid who had been alone for a while and Jack* started playing cornhole with him.  To see that kindness and patience—at three o’ clock in the morning—was just the boost I needed to get through those last five hours.  We have been blessed to hear Cathey's* poetry and Allie's* voice. We have been privileged to accept communion from Brian* and to get big bear hugs from Anna*.  Do we adults realize how lucky we are to have these amazing kids at University Church?  Do our kids know how awesome they are?  They are living breathing testaments to the divine potential granted to each one of us at birth.  It is something to behold.

Now back to Luke and what the author want us to know about Preteen Jesus in the Temple.  This year, the year Jesus visits the Temple at twelve, is special. Otherwise it wouldn’t have made it into the Gospel.  This year, Preteen Jesus decides to willfully disobey his parents and stay behind in Jerusalem. Something was happening within him, probably the same thing that happened to all of us at that age: Jesus was beginning to explore who he was.  Maybe he was beginning to feel the stir of his divinity, the call of his vocation.  Maybe he was experiencing that special type of doubt and curiosity that marks adolescence.  Preteen Jesus wasn’t satisfied with the lessons he learned that year in Passover Bible School and wanted to know more.  He had questions.  He had doubts.  And he knew that in the Temple, he might not find answers, but he would find guidance.  Jesus thirsts for guidance so much that he risks his parents’ censure to stay behind. And so he ducked his traveling party and sought out the elders and the teachers.

I want to give special props to the elders in this story.  Passover had just ended; you know that they were tired.  But these teachers did not wave Jesus away, did not direct him to the children’s area, didn’t say, “good question, maybe we’ll talk about that next year.”  They sat with him.  They listened to him.  They let him ask questions, let him challenge their understanding of the Law.  Even though the Passover festivities were over, even though all of the special kids’ activities and lessons were finished, those teachers stuck around to answer the questions of this twelve-year old boy.  For three days.  Jesus’s divine nature had not yet been revealed; those teachers weren’t making a special exception for the Messiah—they would have done the same for any adolescent.  To guide and nurture the younger generation is a divine responsibility, one that the Temple elders took seriously.  And what they found when they conversed with this boy, well, it was something to behold.

“He was sitting among the teachers, listening to them and putting questions to them. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers.”

And the teachers gained just as much insight as Jesus did in these discussions; they too matured in wisdom.  Anyone who has ever taught children’s Sunday school can relate to these elders, having truth revealed by unlikely messengers.  Just a few months ago, I was leading one of the Bible Studies we had here on Tuesdays, and I was blessed to spend the evening with little James*.  We talked about the first creation story; we got a big sheet of butcher paper, a box of crayons, and we drew the seven days of creation. In coloring with James, I rediscovered the wonder of it all; Creation is awesome—in the literal sense of the word.  We couldn’t fit it all onto the sheet of paper, we couldn’t even keep it in the order of the story!  At the end of the lesson, when I was reiterating that God created all things good, James hit me with a question that I still can’t answer: “then why did God create bad people?” And just like that, I was reminded that for all of my seminary training, I still have a lot of learning to do.  That wisdom and challenge came from a 5-year-old.  God’s revelation comes to the young as well as the old; we need the younger generations to show us what experience and years often obstruct. 

Luke reminds us that these interactions are important for all of us, adults and children. It was through these conversations, this support of his questioning and learning, that the Temple elders helped Jesus “mature in wisdom.” Their guidance, patience, and knowledge helped shape Jesus’ understanding of the Torah and the limits of human interpretation of God’s Law.  I believe that this is what Jesus was referring to when Mary came back to fetch him.  “Didn’t you know that it was necessary for me to be in my Father’s house?” Didn’t you know that this is where I will learn how to be the Messiah?  And, like Mary, we can always find Jesus at the Temple at Passover, he returns year after year.  Following this pattern he “matures in wisdom.”  Sometimes to learn, sometimes to teach, sometimes to turn tables.  He returned up to his very last days.  Jesus loved the Temple and the community he had there, loved it so much that he came back to transform it.

I can never sufficiently thank the congregation that raised me back in Texas; they made me who I am.  Even though it was a new church plant, Grace Presbyterian of Round Rock always made sure that there was youth and children’s programming.  Sometimes it was the church intern, sometimes it was volunteers from the congregation, but someone convened youth group every week.  Someone ensured that there was a space for us to ask questions, to fellowship with other people our age, to learn about our religious traditions and texts.  Every year, the adults in the congregation pulled together a mission trip to Mexico so that we could learn about the importance of living out our faith through service.  All the kids knew that when something big happened in our lives—when we got a part in the school play, when we got into college, when we got our first jobs—we had better announce it in church because the adults were waiting to congratulate us.  We knew when we were going through a difficult time in school, when we were having trouble at home, when we were in the depths of that teenaged angst, we could find support and love in our congregation.  And while my most transformative experiences happened after I left Texas, the foundation of my faith and my identity was laid at that church. 

My greatest hope for this congregation is that we can continue the legacy of the Temple for our University Church kids.  How many of you were here for the last Sunday of Advent, when our children sung “Do you Hear what I Hear” and danced the benediction?  It was really something to behold.  We have so many children here, of all ages.  We have been entrusted with them, we are charged to be for them what the Temple was for Jesus.  And it is an exciting time to be a young person at University Church.  This year the Guatemala delegation plans to take youth from our church down to Saqja’; I am so excited for them to learn about what it means to be in faithful partnership.  I see the growing friendships in children’s church and I get choked up.  I flashback to my own youth group, which got me through the best and the worst of middle and high school; I desperately want that experience for these kids.

My greatest fear is that we will repeat the mistakes of so many churches and faith communities by siloing off and devaluing children and youth ministry.  I was a millennial in seminary for the past four years, so I have heard the handwringing of the capital-C Church about decline in membership, the “loss” of younger members when they leave home.  And I can tell you that it’s not because my generation has lost faith in God, it’s because they’ve lost faith in the capital-C church.  I have heard countless peers tell me that they grew up in churches, but left because the Church wasn’t open to their questions and doubts, or the only person who took an interest in them was one minister-who was paid for that work—or because they were separated from the adult congregation for every event except Easter and Christmas.  It is no longer routine practice in our churches to nurture that divinity—there are barely any classes in seminary that prepare clergy for this ministry.  We at University Church be vigilant and intentional as we continue to grow.  We must make space in the life of this church for our young people.

A lot has changed in the past 2000+ years, but as Luke reminds us, the need for a faith community in children’s lives has not.  The story of Preteen Jesus reiterates that each one of our kids is already the spitting image of the Divine, but that they still need the care of us as they mature in years and wisdom.  We must recognize and celebrate our kids’ divinity, nurture it, engage it, learn from it. Our children and youth need a community to guide and accompany them—they need a Temple.  It’s up to us to decide whether or not to be that Temple.  We have the privilege and the charge of walking with our young people as they explore their identities and discern God’s call on each of their lives.  It’s a divine responsibility.    

*all names of children in the congregation have been changed

“I Thirst”—Seven Last Words Service at University Church, 2015

John 19:28-29

After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the Scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there.  So they put a sponge full of wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth.

Here we are, at the foot of the cross.  We women, the only ones who braved the sight of our savior being crucified.  Helpless, powerless, witnesses to the shattering of our world.  This man in whom we’ve put all of our faith, who we would follow to the ends of the Earth, our savior is broken.  The heat has made him delirious, his skin is burnt by the sun, his lungs are wheezing against the pressure of his ribs.  Yet even now, we still hope that the heavens will open up, that he will perform another miracle and get down from the cross.  Any minute now because he surely can’t take much more of this suffering. And then, “I am thirsty.”

Once Jesus utters those words, all of his divine aura disappears.  There is nothing left.  If our savior, the messiah, were still in control he would not ask for such a simple, human, thing.  With those words, our whole understanding of Jesus is crushed.   For three years Jesus has been telling us that he is the source of life, the fountain of living water.  We have believed, we have drunk from that stream, we have been sated.  In Jesus we have finally experienced abundant, steadfast love, that “hesed” love that the rabbis always talk about.  Society has doubted us women, silenced us, made us into property and denied our humanity.  But not Jesus.  Jesus has accepted us, empowered us, and affirmed our ministry.  He has given us life, sated our thirst to know we are truly equal partners in God’s covenant.   And now, that fountain has become a cracked cistern.  “I am thirsty.”

Jesus has been transformed from the Messiah into a man.  An enlightened man to be sure, but still just a man.  A man who we love, crying out in pain and bewilderment, “I am thirsty.” Find something! Anything!  Here, a jug of wine, sour but still wet.  Not the good wine that Jesus made in Canaa, spoiled wine, but still able to provide some relief to those dry, cracking lips.  How can we get it to him?  Here, a branch of hyssop.  Quick! Dip this sponge in the jar, tie it to the branch, let us give our beloved teacher the only consolation we can.  “I’m thirsty.” We can’t slake his thirst, we can’t relieve his pain, but we can let him know that he’s not alone.  We’re here.  To the end. 

As we wait with the women for the end, we must ponder these words, “I am thirsty.” Have we ever heard Jesus speak his needs before?  He has never expressed hunger, thirst, loneliness, pain, or exhaustion.  He has asked for food and drink, but has never expressed that deep yearning that underpins all suffering.  Surely, he must not have such human needs, God is all-knowing, ever-present, eternal, all-powerful.  God doesn’t need us. And yet, these words: “I’m thirsty.” 

“I am thirsty” is a proclamation of suffering.  These women know what it is to thirst.  As Israelites, they suffered under the oppression of Roman rule.  As women, they suffered under the societal codes that relegated them to mere property. Thirsty for what?  For water?  No.   If we have learned anything from the Gospel of  John we know that no one thirsts for plain old water. We thirst for that which gives us the strength to live in this broken world.  That which gives us hope in the midst of oppression, war, and famine.  We thirst for assurance that we are not alone, that God’s mercy, faithfulness, and compassion are steadfast.  We thirst for that hesed love, the defining feature of God’s covenant with us. Jesus was the good news for the women at the foot of the cross, those marginalized by society, desperately needing to know that they were not alone.

The suffering, the oppressed, the marginalized are never alone.  Jesus, God incarnate, hangs on the cross proving once and for all whose side God is on.  This is the good news, that Jesus suffers and dies with us.  But we have to push further if we are to witness the transformation taking place. It must have been so unsettling for the women, so frightening, to see Jesus enter that space that they had occupied for so long.  Jesus was strong, Jesus was persistent, Jesus was powerful.  Imagine, they had so recently come into their own and felt the liberating power of God’s favor.  This is their teacher, who affirmed their own power and wisdom, he is their guiding star, their fountain of justice and righteousness, their friend.  Hanging on the cross, broken, and empty.  “I am thirsty.” 

With these words, Jesus turns the tables once again, turns the world upside down and reverses the roles that these women are familiar with.  They’ve traded places. These women, the marginalized in society, they understand suffering, they recognize it in Jesus and they rush to meet him in that suffering to offer love and comfort that only they can. No, they couldn’t give him water, but Jesus didn’t ask for water.  Jesus needed that final human connection, the knowledge that he was loved and that he was not alone.  The women reach deep within themselves and find that hesed love and offer it back to him.  Sour wine on hyssop?  No.  Mercy, compassion, faithfulness, living water. 

Like always, it is the women who are the first to understand, the first to hear the good news.  Even here.  Even now.  Only here, and only now could they understand what he had been telling them for three years.  He told the Samaritan woman that “the water that I will give will become in you a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”  He told the crowds in Jerusalem “let the one who believes in me drink, and out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.” Like so many of Jesus’ teachings, these words were misinterpreted and misremembered.  It’s not only Jesus who is a fountain of living water, we are too.  And that’s what the women at the foot of the cross realized.  Jesus didn’t cry out for water, he was crying out for the same thing those women had cried out for, what we all are thirsty for: affirmation of hesed love. 

The three women gave Jesus more than temporary relief from a parched mouth.  They gave him the strength to die.  And he had to die.  I don’t know why, I’m not sure anyone really does.  Whether it was to forgive our sins, to demonstrate the power of the covenant, to truly experience the depth of human pain and suffering, to liberate us from oppression, or all of these things together, Jesus had to die.  And yet he couldn’t do it without us.  This ultimate manifestation of God’s grace, love, and faithfulness, this ultimate affirmation and sealing of the covenant, could not happen without the assurance that Jesus was not alone, that he was loved.  The women didn’t give Jesus sour wine on hyssop.  With that last physical connection, that last act of solidarity and love, they gave him living water. And it is through that hesed love, made manifest by the women at the cross, that salvation is achieved. Jesus on the cross calls to the fountains of living water that we hold in our hearts and souls, the living water that saves the world.

The Ferguson Mandate: Show Up

I remember the day when I had had enough.  I was sitting with two elderly relatives, and the conversation had recently shifted to immigration, with some of the more predictable comments:  the Mexicans are taking over, they’re coming illegally, they drive without licenses and so cause numerous traffic accidents without consequences, etc.  I kept silent, as usual, inwardly rolling my eyes and reminding myself that these family members would soon progress to safer topics, like the new traffic light in town.  And then she said it, “I know it’s horrible, but every time I hear about all the drug wars down there, I think ‘well, at least there will be less of them to come here.’”

Then I lost it.  Only then.  

It’s a common experience among progressive, White, young people to go to large family gatherings and sit through extremely racist conversation.  We come back from Thanksgiving or Christmas and swap stories with other White friends about what crazy Uncle Al said at the dinner table.  It’s a sick game of whose family is the most racist, the most ignorant, and thus who is the bigger saint for having to put up with such awful conversation.  We never talk about how we engaged these family members in conversation, confronted ignorance, or stood up for our brothers and sisters who are targets of such hateful speech.  Because that would be rude.  Politics have no place at the dinner table, the most important thing is that everyone in the family have a nice time and we have as little family drama as possible.  What a privilege.

This holiday season, there’s going to be lots of uncomfortable conversations in White households.  For the first time, I’m actually relieved instead of sad that I won’t be joining my extended family for Thanksgiving dinner because it means I don’t have to hear people I love complain about Black criminal culture, reverse racism against Darren Wilson, or that Martin Luther King would be “ashamed” of the protests across the country.  I won’t have to sit there, debating whether or not to join the conversation, ignore everyone and focus on my pie, or to change the subject to something sunnier, like football.  I won’t be challenged to be an ally where it really counts.

"Now remember, the dinner table is no  place to talk about
race, politics, religion, income inequality, globalization,
climate change, or American Imperialism."

Our unwillingness to have difficult conversations with the people we love not only hurts our oppressed brothers and sisters, it hurts our family and friends.  When the elderly relative I mentioned before said those awful, unforgettable, and unforgivable words, I realized that I had failed her.  This amazing, loving, kind woman who in many ways has been my role model became a hateful racist.  Oppression dehumanizes both oppressor and oppressed.  Had I entered the conversation earlier, had I engaged her before, over the previous several years in which these comments began to irk me, perhaps she would never have gotten to that point.  I look back on all the times I’ve sat in uncomfortable silence among my family, whom I love dearly, and see that I have sinned against them as well.  They are better than this; they are loving, kind people, made in the image of God, called to be a part of the Beloved Community.  I’m someone who can show them the way, who can exorcise demons of racism, sexism and homophobia, and I’ve cowered in the corner.  I’ve run from God’s call. 

Us White Folks Who Want to be Allies have asked, “What can we do to stand in solidarity with Ferguson?”  The response has been two mandates: show up and engage other White folks.  The first is often interpreted to mean to show up to the protests themselves, to bring our bodies and our voices.  While this is a valuable act, it is not courageous.  My white skin protects me from danger when facing down law enforcement; they’re not going to target me.  I can offer some protection to my brothers and sisters of color in the struggle, I can be present and witness police brutality, and righteous anger, I can make sure that the media gets pictures of White people standing side by side with people of color in this moment.  This is needed, it is valuable, but it is also easy. It’s the well-worn path of progressive White folks, the opportunity we jump at, the choice we most often make, and the laurels on which we (undeservedly) rest.

The greater challenge is to engage other White folks, the ones that aren’t at the protests, who aren’t blowing up twitter and Facebook with #BlackLivesMatter.  Us White Folks Who Want to be Allies have to confront the prejudice and racism that comes from those who share our skin tone, our privilege, and our blood.  As much as we may want to unfriend all of the people on Facebook who are defending Darren Wilson, we should not.  As much as we may want to avoid awkward and uncomfortable Thanksgiving conversations with racism being thrown around like the proverbial football, we should not.  We should talk to our friends and family, tell them our own experiences, offer a glimpse of a different world and a different attitude because we are the only ones who can.  We have the privilege of access, not only to systems of power but to individuals who won’t listen to anyone else.  Crazy Uncle Al is not going to hear the cries of the young Black protestors in Ferguson, but he has to listen to his beloved niece/nephew because they’re family.  Our witness carries more weight than all the Fox News pundits combined, as hard as that is to believe sometimes, and our reluctance to engage in difficult discussions with friends and family for the sake of decorum is a sin. 

So, White Folks Who Want to be Allies, our calling is clear.  We have to show up, not only at the protests, but in our communities.  Not only at vigils, but at the dinner table.  So tomorrow, when Crazy Uncle Al says, “What about Black on Black crime?” don’t roll your eyes and go back for a second piece of pie.  Tell him that intraracial violence is a red herring, that White on White violence is just as (if not more so) prevalent, and that White on Black violence is different.  Explain why.  Don’t fall back into the privilege of ignorance; show up. 

"Breaking The Mould"

I was a drama kid in high school.  I loved being in plays, really sinking my teeth into different roles. I really loved submerging myself in the actual performance, getting to that point where the lines and actions come naturally and I was fully embodying that character.  And the great thing was I could do it again, two nights later; the script didn’t change.

If I was in a play about the golden calf, I could play the part of the Israelites well; I can sympathize with them. They are eager to worship the God that brought them out of Egypt and who is leading them to the Promised Land.  Moses is taking his sweet time up on Mount Sinai, and we already know from a couple of weeks ago that the Israelites aren’t very good at waiting. They’re in the middle of a desert, completely at the mercy of some deity that they don’t know all that well.  They have no idea what’s going to happen next, where they will be tomorrow, or what YHWH desires of them. Here’s what they do know: gods don’t like to be disrespected or ignored. The Egyptian deities, who the Israelites would be most familiar with, are not compassionate towards humanity, they are pretty hostile. These gods needed to be appeased so that they didn’t visit wrath upon the people.  We can understand why the Israelites were so eager to create an idol that they could worship in the way that they thought would be pleasing to YHWH. “When Aaron saw this, he built an altar in front of the calf.  Then Aaron announced, ‘Tomorrow will be a festival to the LORD!’...they offered up entirely burned offerings and brought well-being sacrifices.”  Aaron tries to follow the instructions he YHWH and Moses gave him, but can’t imagine how to perform these rituals in the absence of a physical representation of a deity. He’s not willing to stand up to the people’s cries for an idol, which he already knows is displeasing to YHWH.  Aaron’s and the Israelites’ behavior is understandable, but it is not excusable. 

The sin of the golden calf is not that the Israelites worshipped a different god—they didn’t—but that they attempted to mould and thereby limit YHWH.  When they cast YHWH as something tangible, they also cast YHWH in a certain role, defining the dynamics between the divine and humanity that do not live up to a covenantal relationship. YHWH desires respect and worship, but not the kind that is born out of fear or obligation.  The Israelites desire a relationship with YHWH, but lack the imagination to see that as something other than the fear-driven relationships that define other peoples’ gods.  We are also guilty of casting moulds for God.  We attempt to define God, thereby constraining our own relationship with the divine.  Have we created a God that demands fear and penitence?  Have we created a God who is so abstract and disembodied that we can no longer perceive God’s participation in the world?  I wonder, what do our golden calves look like?

The scene between Moses and YHWH, when YHWH learns of the Israelites’ behavior, is where the real action is; the golden calf incident just provides the background. The Israelites almost succeed in moulding YHWH into that jealous and vengeful god. “Hurry up and go down! Your people who you brought up from the land of Egypt are ruining everything!” YHWH has had it up to HERE with the Israelites.  They just don’t learn.  Well fine, if they want a wrathful deity, they’ll get one.  The Israelites have cast YHWH as an impatient, cold and wrathful god.  And the only way wrathful gods can respond to disobedience is by severe punishment, right? “Let my fury burn and devour them.  Then I’ll make a great nation out of you, Moses.” The Israelites aren’t the only ones lacking in imagination. YHWH is more than happy to play the part that the Israelites have defined and start playing out another script previously performed with the Patriarchs.  YHWH is prepared to reestablish the covenant with one faithful individual and let the rest burn. YHWH’s reaction is understandable, but it’s not excusable.

We, like the Israelites and YHWH, fall back into these dysfunctional patterns time and again.  It’s easy, to cast moulds not only of God but of each other. Like YHWH and the Israelites, we have scripts in our heads and we cast ourselves and others in clearly defined roles.  These roles limit our relationships and predetermine our thoughts and behaviors.  That kid with his pants hanging low—he’s a delinquent and up to no good; better walk on the other side of the street.  That hyper child in class, he must be a troublemaker; better be strict with him.  And this is powerful stuff because our reactions to others often play right into the roles that they have cast us in, solidifying their first impressions and determining the plot of a specific interaction. Casting moulds results in self-fulfilling prophecies.  The kid with his pants hanging low just saw a white lady cross the street to avoid him, is he going to smile and wave? The hyperactive kid sees that his teacher is singling him out, is he going to seek that teacher’s affection?

We don’t have to reach very far for an example of this, its prevalent in our most intimate relationships—our families. Here’s one. My grandmother, my Mammaw, is independent; it’s her defining trait.  Her daughter, my mother, is a caretaker.  When a fiercely independent woman and her fiercely compassionate daughter are thrust together, conflict happens.  My mother wants to do everything for my grandmother because she loves her and doesn’t want her eighty-three year old mother standing on a ladder to change lightbulbs. My grandmother wants my mother to leave her alone and respect the precious independence that she has maintained for so long.  My grandmother starts to treat my mother like an overprotective nag, and my mother starts to treat my grandmother like an obstinate old woman.  They play off each other, and as the visit goes on, my mother becomes more frustrated and overbearing and my grandmother becomes more confrontational and aggressively independent.  It’s the same script, every time. They can’t break out of the roles that they’ve moulded for each other, even though neither of them is happy with these dynamics.  Understandable, but not excusable. 

We see these cycles of conflict--of action and predictable reaction and reaction and reaction—at every level of relationship.  When police officers relate to neighborhood residents as criminals, those residents relate to officers as vigilante gangs, and two groups who should be working together for a better community become enemies.  When college and university administrations treat student observations as complaints from immature brats, students will see the administration’s response as cold and out of touch; and an institution of higher learning becomes a mire of mudslinging. When a church focuses solely on the politics of its body and its activities, relationship with God becomes an afterthought and the Church exorcises its spirituality.  Conversely, when a church defines itself as a refuge from the evils of streets, the congregation separates themselves from the world that God created.   

These roles and the scripts that come with them don’t benefit anybody; none of these parties are happy with the status quo. We replay the same scripts over and over again with the same results.  We complain, we organize, we fight, we suppress, following playbooks that predict, pretty accurately, the reactions to follow.  And I think on some level that’s comforting because it’s familiar.  We may not like these cycles, but at least we understand them and we can predict the outcome; it doesn’t require us to imagine something different.  Moving from beyond imagination into actual change is even more difficult.  Better to stay in sharply defined roles and keep playing out the same, dysfunctional script again and again; at least we know how the story ends.  Better to keep erecting golden calves and reestablishing covenants. Understandable, but not excusable.

So how do we break out of the roles we find ourselves locked in?  Well, let’s get back to Mt. Sinai.  Both the Israelites and YHWH are stuck.  Both parties desire to be closer, to have a mutually fulfilling relationship but aren’t able to break out of patterns that only drive them further away from each other.  And the story could very well start all over again. “Let my fury burn and devour them.  Then I’ll make a great nation out of you, Moses.”  All Moses has to do is follow the script.  Take YHWH up on the offer, abandon the people and enter the Promised Land alone to begin anew.  It would have been easy.  But Moses imagines a different future and refuses to play along; he breaks the mould that YHWH provides for him—that of the patriarchs, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  Instead, Moses calls YHWH out. “Why does your fury burn against your own people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt…calm down your fierce anger.  Change your mind …remember Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”  In the SMT, or Sarah’s Modern Translation:  Hold Up.  Calm Down.  You are YHWH and you are better than this. 

No one has ever spoken to YHWH like this before. In the original Hebrew, Moses commands YHWH to “repent” of this hostile overreaction to the golden calf, to imagine another response.  And it works; YHWH “repents” and transforms.  YHWH breaks out of the vengeful god role and decides to live into covenantal relationship.  In the next few chapters Moses literally shatters the Israelites’ depiction of YHWH; he calls Aaron and the Israelites out for sticking with the familiar scripts.  He goes on to break the stone tablets, just to drive the point home that this is a different kind of God, and they are a different kind of people.  Moses breaks the cycle, he breaks the mould.  And the Israelites are shown that they don’t have to live into their roles as fearful slaves to a wrathful deity; they are transformed into the Chosen People.  By breaking the moulds, by throwing out the script, YHWH, Moses, and the Israelites write a different story, and enter into covenantal relationship.  That’s what happens when we break moulds, we are transformed. 

We need more Moseses.  We need to be called out, to see how we are living into unhealthy roles and playing out scripts against our better judgment, contrary to our true selves.  And we all need to be called out.  Now you might be thinking of that person you wish was here for this sermon, but I challenge you to consider your own relationships, the conflicts you’re facing.  We’re all guilty of casting moulds, of denying ourselves and others opportunities for transformation.  Even YHWH did it.  I need to be called out.  I need to be told when I perpetuate the system White supremacy in my everyday interactions.  Police officers need to be reminded that they are supposed to be partners with communities.  My mother and grandmother need to remember that they respect and admire the other’s natures. Institutions need to make space for everyone’s voice.  Churches need to embrace every facet of their identity.  We need to stop labeling and limiting God to our own narrow interpretations of the divine.  We all need to be called out—because we are made in the image of God and we are better than this. 

Breaking these patterns allows us to live into the people God is calling us to be, to experience transformation.  Rewriting the story and transforming our relationships with others isn’t easy.  There’s no script for it.  It took YHWH and the Israelites forty years to figure out how to be in covenantal relationship.  But the reward is great, it is the Beloved Community, the Kin-dom of God on Earth, a world where peace and justice reign.  It is the Promised Land, and we can get there, but we need to be willing to break out of our moulds and to imagine something different. If we don’t, if we stick with what is familiar, our actions may be understandable, but not excusable.  As we move into a time of prayer and reflection, I’ll ask again, what tired scripts are you following?  What moulds have you, have we, trapped others in?  How have you constrained God?  What would it look like to toss out the scripts and imagine a new story?

Woman, Behold Your Son

Last night, I preached on one of the Seven Last Words at University Church's Good Friday Service.  

John 19: 26-27--When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

This is not what she dreamed for her child.  Thirty-three years ago, an angel had told her that she would bear a child who would be called Son of the Most High, heir to David’s throne, the long-awaited Messiah!  From the moment of his birth, she began to imagine what life would be like for him, all the great things that he would do, how he would lead their people out of occupation and oppression, the kingdom he would bring.  She treasured these dreams in her heart.

As he was growing up, she did everything in her power to prepare him for his destiny:  she made sure that he went to temple every Sabbath to learn from the rabbis.  She told him the stories that bound and defined their community.  She sang to him, songs of exile and unity, of mourning and celebration.  She watched him grow into an intelligent, compassionate, wise man.  Guided by her dreams, she called him to his ministry at a wedding in Canaa. 

And such a ministry!  She heard about the miracles he performed, about the crowds that congregated to hear his sermons and witnessed his fame spread exponentially.   At the beginning of Passover, she saw how the crowds welcomed her son into Jerusalem—rejoicing as they would for a king!  The prophecies of old were being fulfilled in her own baby boy, and the dreams that she treasured in her heart were finally coming true.  The next, and last, time she sees her son, he is being crucified—condemned by both the Roman Empire and the Jewish community for treason. 

What does it mean to be the mother of a guilty man?  Christians claim that Jesus was sinless, but we cannot claim that he was innocent.  Jesus was a criminal, guilty of the charges leveled against him:  sedition, treason, and incitement.  He was granted a trial, convicted according to the law, and his sentence decided by his peers.  The crucifixion is almost impossible to read, and we often dull its impact by deifying Jesus and justifying it with complex legal language. Someone had to pay for our sins—our crimes against God’s law—and so our guilt was imputed to Christ.  He bore the punishment that we deserve—a task only God could take on.  Whether or not the laws he broke were just, our divine savior pays for his crimes and for all of ours—guilty as charged. God chose to come and suffer with us, it had to be done in order to forgive the sins of the world, he’ll rise again in three days.   Perhaps.  But in this moment, Jesus is a son, a brother, a friend. His suffering and death is deeply felt by the mother who loves him and watches him slowly succumb to unimaginable torture.  Mary’s presence at the cross reminds us of Jesus’ humanity and that his death is not suffered alone. 

What does it mean to be the mother of a guilty man?  It’s a pain that even Jesus could not ease.  In this passage, Jesus sees his mother and tries to comfort her, telling one of his disciples to welcome her into his own family, trying desperately to make this better, to make it bearable, but it’s impossible. Mary saw her child being lashed with a lead-tipped whip, saw him being forced on a death-march through a crowded street, watched Roman soldiers lash him to a cross and raise it up on the scorching rock of Golgotha.  She watched his lips dry and chap, listened to his voice become raspier and his moans of pain grow fainter.  She saw her people mock her little boy, loudly denounce his teachings, curse him and his family.  She stood in the open, an object of the community’s spite just as her son was.  And she doesn’t turn away.  I imagine Mary pleading with the crowd to give Jesus some water, begging the soldiers to give her his clothes, weeping with sorrow and relief when it’s finally finished and her son is free from the pain and humiliation.  She does not abandon her son, even when all her dreams and visions are destroyed. 

What does it mean to be the mother of a guilty man?  Mary is usually compared to the mothers of martyrs and innocents who have suffered and died for their righteous actions—an analogy that is both powerful and apt.  But she is also the mother of a criminal who reminds us that all suffering is suffering and that our communities are harmed by the prejudice we hold towards the guilty.  Offender’s guilt condemns them to the torture of the American prison system, an institution that we can all agree is deeply flawed.   Some are subject to deportation—irreparably torn from their families.  Some are condemned to death.  They are all ostracized from their communities, and even if they are released they will never be fully reintegrated into society.  Their voting rights will be stripped away, they won’t be hired for decent-wage jobs, and they are ineligible for state-sponsored economic support.  They suffer. 

These offenders are likely guilty of the crimes for which the State convicted them—just as Jesus was.  I don’t think anyone believes that our maximum security prisons are filled with innocent people.  And it’s true that there must be payment for one’s crimes.  As such, it’s often difficult for us to extend our compassion to offenders and perpetrators, especially those whom the law deems worthy of the worst punishments.  Last weekend, 36 people were shot in Chicago, 4 were killed.  Each of these victims was someone’s child, someone’s sibling, someone’s friend—and so were the shooters   But we don’t advocate for the gangbangers, the murderers, or the terrorists.   We don’t ask for their suffering in prison to be relieved or for their families to be supported in their loss.   We forget that these individuals are also beloved children of God, made in the Creator’s image just as we are.  We forget that they are members of our communities and as such we owe them the opportunity for restoration and transformation.    Mary calls us to remember.

What does it mean to be the mother of a guilty man?  Earlier this year I met an amazing woman, I’ll call her Juanita here, through my work at the Southwest Organizing Project.  Juanita told me a story that is eerily similar to Mary’s.  She and her husband gave birth to their first son, Marcos, here in the United States almost 20 years ago, only a few months after they had made the dangerous journey across the border.  She and her husband encouraged Marcos’ interests: football and music, and made sure that he passed all of his classes.  Juanita looked forward to seeing her baby boy graduate, attend college, and raise a family.  But in high school his grades began to fall, he lost interest in sports and he began to flout her authority.  One night, she got the call that her son had been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon; he was  caught with other members of his gang.  After four years in prison, Juanita welcomed Marcos home.  He searched for a job, but no one would hire a convicted felon; he grew restless and angry.  Six months ago, Marcos left home—Juanita knows that he’s living with other members of his gang.  This is not what she dreamed for her child. 

Without Juanita’s story, would we give Marcos a second thought? Would we be able to sympathize with him, to see his suffering?  Would we be able to recognize him as a beloved child of God? Mary is seen today in mothers like Juanita, who call us to extend compassion to all of our brothers and sisters.  Mary’s presence at the cross humanizes Jesus and shows us that suffering is suffering, whether or not an individual is innocent.

Addis --> Kerala --> Chicago

It’s been a long time since I updated the blog, partly because I’ve been busy since leaving Addis Ababa and partly because I needed a vacation at least once this summer.  In the past few weeks I’ve been to India, Missouri, and Chicago; I’ve finally unpacked and have some feeling of permanence! 

My friend Tsiyon and me my last week in Addis

Leaving Addis was difficult; I had made several friends, made a lot of really good connections, and found the work invigorating.  I knew that in a little over a month, I would be taking classes at SSA and McCormick, doing community organizing at my field site, coordinating events and meetings for the UCC’s Radical Peacemaking Initiative, organizing faith communities around the Trauma Center campaign, and somehow finding time to get all of my homework done.  This internship gave me the opportunity to focus on one project, to really do my best work and to do it at my own pace, which is my preferred working conditions.  Once I returned to Chicago, I would be pulled in many different directions instead of focusing on one project. On the other hand, I felt that I had accomplished the tasks that had been set for me, there was nothing keeping me in the city at that point.  I also knew that the friendships I made in Addis would probably not survive the long distance and the 8-hour time difference between Ethiopia and the United States.  These relationships gave me the emotional and spiritual support that I so desperately needed so far from home, and I was sad to say goodbye to the amazing people I had met.  However, my previous experience in India had prepared me for this situation, and I began these relationships knowing that they would have a very short life.  So when I left, it wasn’t nearly as emotionally devastating as my departure from India was three years ago. 

The termination of my Addis experience was sweetened by the next stop on my summer travels:  Kerala!  Rev. Thomas John, who was the site coordinator for the India YAV program, had invited all the previous volunteers to the wedding of his son.  Since I was already going to be halfway around the world this summer, I felt there was no excuse for me not to go back.  I planned to stay in Kerala for a week, in which I would visit Buchanan Institute Girl’s Higher Secondary school (where I lived and served during my YAV year) and see all of my teacher friends.  I had been looking forward to this visit all summer, but was a little anxious as well.  Had I romanticized my India experience in the three years since I left?  Was my nostalgia based on a fantasy?  Would I still be able to connect with the people that meant so much to me, who were integral parts of the most transformative experience of my life?  Did I remember enough to independently navigate the city and interact with the locals?  Would I revert to the emotional wreck that I was when I returned to the US?  Would I have the opportunity to eat all of the delicious food that I miss so much?

Let's be honest:  Kappa and Meen Curry was a big reason
that I came back to Kerala

I shouldn’t have worried; my visit couldn’t have been more perfect.  I stepped off the plane in Cochin and immediately felt like I had come home.  The smells, the sounds, the air, everything was so familiar.  I was still able to take the trains and buses, converse in Malayalam (though not nearly so well or easily), walk around the cities and towns, and connect with many of my friends.  Madison Muñoz, who was the YAV at Buchanan after me, was also in country for the wedding and we visited the school together.  We were able to see the teachers, the old warden from our hostel, and even some of our former students!  It seemed as if nothing had changed in the past three years, except that there had been some staff turnover and the students had shot up like beanstalks.  In a way, it was comforting to know that life had gone on without us.  I was also relieved to find out that I had (finally) processed and integrated my YAV year experience into my understanding of myself and my life’s journey.  Of course I got emotional during the visit, but only in good (healthy) ways.  The week in Kerala provided me with an opportunity to see just how my YAV year has formed the person I am today and I was able to appreciate Kerala in a different way.  I took long walks every morning and afternoon to take in as much of the natural beauty as possible, I spoke in Malayalam as much as I could so that I could remember it, and I ate SO MUCH FOOD.  I did it all as a visitor, but one totally comfortable with my surroundings.  Like I said, I felt like I was coming home. 

Madison, me, our site supervisor Jaimol Kochamma, and her son
who is SO BIG now!

Alas, the week went by too quickly and I soon had to fly back to the United States.  I was glad to finally come home, give my clothes a good run through the washing machine, and finally relax for a little while.  I spent a few days in Missouri, breaking in my parents’ new house, and then returned to Chicago where I’ve hit the ground running:  I’ve already started work at my internship, facilitated an event for the UCC’s Radical Peacemaking Initiative, am in the process of writing a report for the International Organization for Adolescents, and taking a class at McCormick.  Thank goodness I have a couple of weeks before classes at SSA start!

Still the Ignorant Ferenji

So, yesterday was my last day in Addis Ababa.  These past two months have flown by; I have learned more than I thought possible and been inspired in so many ways by the people I have met.  I will miss Ethiopia:  the people, the work, the sights and sounds, and of course the food and coffee!  My experiences here have been varied, some good and some bad.  All of them have been informative and valuable in their own way.   Each has made me reflect on what I value, rethink my opinions of certain issues, and expand my understanding of complex societal and cultural dynamics. 

One of the most valuable, and exciting, experiences happened last Thursday.  For Ethiopians, it was the end of Ramadan:  Eid Al-Fitr.  I had scheduled an interview at Siddartha Development Organization for that morning, not knowing the significance of the date.  The manager later told me that it would be a national holiday.  I asked him if people would be at the office, he said yes; I asked him if it would be an inconvenience for the staff or for the interviewees for Mikiyas (IOFA’s translator) and me to come in the morning, he said no.  So, I confirmed the time and wrote the interview on my calendar. 

The night before the interviews, I had dinner with a friend who mentioned that there might be protests on Eid Al-Fitr.  I asked when and where they would be, knowing that I would have to plan my journey to avoid those areas.  He said that the activity would be mainly at the Stadium, where the Addis Ababa Muslims would go in the morning to worship.  No problem, I thought, I don’t have to pass by the stadium on my way to Siddartha Development.  Just to make sure though, I told Mikiyas that if things were bad in the morning we would cancel the interviews. 

This might be a good time to give you, the readers, some background on the political/religious discontent in Ethiopia.  A couple of years ago, Islamist extremists put the word out that they were targeting Ethiopia, Kenya, and Nigeria to expand their influence in East Africa.  This, understandably, put the Ethiopian government on edge.  The political climate here has been stable for the past 8 years, but it could change.  Sure enough, some more radical imams began to speak out against the government and stir up discontent among some of the Muslim population.  The government tried to repress these radicals, but couldn’t do so without tightening restrictions on all Muslims.  This, of course, has frustrated the entire Ethiopian Muslim population.  Last year, there began to be protests during Ramadan, culminating in a large protest on Eid Al-Fitr that turned violent.  This Ramadan, there were protests every Friday in some Addis mosques and in many of the regional Ethiopian areas.  About a week before Eid Al-Fitr, calls came for a mass protest for the end of Ramadan.  This was general knowledge for Ethiopians, but not for the ferenji tourists. 

So, on Thursday morning I left my guest house to find that the road was closed—there were no line taxis (public transportation) running.  This wasn’t too surprising since my guest house is located just North of a mosque, and there were quite a few people on their way home.  Everyone was chatting, nothing was alarming.  I decided to walk up to Mexico Square (a major taxi hub) to catch a line taxi North.  As I approached the square, the crowds became thicker, and I soon realized there were no line taxis in the square.  Then I heard shouts and saw a huge crowd filing down the main road.  It seemed that if I could get across the road, I would be able to make my way to the National Theater/Ambassador area, in which is located a fair number of international hotels.  I could hire a private taxi and still get to the interviews on time. 

Some of the protestors around the Ambassador area

I squeezed through the crowd in Mexico square and made my way towards the National Theater.  I soon came to another major road with another large group of marchers.  An elderly gentleman with two young boys pulled me to the side of the street against a building.  “Better to wait here until they pass,” he told me.  I was watching the marchers and wondering how long it would take before I could get to the hotel, when something stirred the crowd and they began to stampede.  I pressed myself against the wall to make as much room for them as possible.  I then saw what had happened—the police had arrived.  The police had their clubs out and were holding riot shields.  That’s when things went bad.  The protestors started throwing rocks, large ones, at the police, who were standing near to me.  I ran to a small book kiosk where some other women were huddled.  The police began chasing down the men and beating them.  The men were fleeing every direction, but still throwing rocks and shouting back. 

The owners of the book kiosk, to whom I am forever indebted, pulled the women and me into the small shop, turned off the lights, and barred the windows.  We sat in the dark, hearing the commotion outside and waiting for everything to die down.  I pulled out my phone and texted a few of my friends my location and what was happening.  After about half an hour, the owners opened the kiosk windows and let us out.  The street was littered with debris, but was otherwise eerily silent.  I hurried to Ethiopia hotel (maybe .25 km away) and sat in the café until the roads opened, then took a private taxi back to my guesthouse.  I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t see the worst of the protests, which took place in the Merkato. 

So what do I take away from this experience?  First, I now have a deep appreciation for the political stability of my home country, which makes it possible for us to enjoy the freedoms enshrined in our constitution.  It has also made me deepened my understanding of foreign governments that I, as an American, by criticize for being repressive.  It’s easy for me to level such criticism in a country that’s secure, where political leaders do not have to worry about being overthrown by radical extremists, where our neighboring countries are also relatively stable.  I’m not saying that I agree with the Ethiopian government’s crackdown on religious and journalistic freedom, but I do understand, and can even empathize with, their motives.  And even though I can become a little frustrated with many Ethiopians’ views of Muslim dissenters (which can be interpreted as unsympathetic and condescending) and their general disinterest in politics, I also know why ths kind of attitude prevails.  In case you have forgotten (or never heard), Ethiopia experienced an extremely oppressive communist regime, a tragic famine, and political upheaval within the past 25 years.  Can we blame the Ethiopian majority for preferring a strong (and stable) government  How does one protect a people’s rights to freedom of speech and worship and also maintain a stable government in a (relatively) insecure region?  On the other hand, can we blame Muslim protestors for claiming their own religious freedom and trying to expose the government’s repressive means of silencing their voices?  There are no easy answers. 

Some of the Eid Al-Fitr protestors

Unwittingly being caught in the middle of a protest is one of those experiences that can often come upon world travelers.  In fact, many people I know who have lived and worked abroad have similar stories.  In some ways it’s become a source of pride and legitimacy—one can claim to be “enlightened” or an “expert” because he/she has been in the middle of a REAL riot.  But this attitude is just part of the ignorant neoliberal attitudes that Westerners have towards the two-thirds world.  I had absolutely no business being out and about that day, if I had had any sense I would have realized that my local contacts were trying to warn me to stay inside.  If I had been smart, I would have turned around and headed back to my guest house when I first saw the agitated crowds in Mexico square.  But I didn’t.  To be completely honest, a small part of me wanted to witness the march, to get the full “Ethiopian experience.”  I counted on my racial/ethnic identity to protect me, exploiting it as a means to be a kind of voyeur—to see and experience the excitement political unrest, perhaps at the expense of others.  In this way, I am just as guilty as the “tribal tourists” I was repulsed by in India.  As a Westerner, I have to consciously and continuously reflect on how my presence stirs the waters, where I do and don’t belong, where I should and should not go.  Only then can I respectfully experience this vast, diverse, and infinitely complex world.   

Note:  I did not take the pictures on this blog, I pulled them from Aljazeera, which republished twitter photos of the protests.