Joseph

One of my spiritual disciplines is to read daily, or almost daily, the readings from the Daily Lectionary. (These readings can be found in several places, including the Book of Common Worship and The Mission Yearbook for Prayer and Study, both the print and online versions). For the last several days I have been pointed to the story of Joseph, which begins in chapter 27 of Genesis and ends with the end of that book, chapter 50. Every time I read it I find myself asking the same question:why does it take so much space? Chapters 37-50 (with the exception of ch.38, which tells the story of Judah and Tamar) are devoted to the story of Joseph, his father, and his brothers. That’s 13 chapters out of 50, more chapters than are devoted to Abraham (11:27-25:11) or Jacob (27-35, though of course the story of Joseph is an extension of the story of Jacob). The story of Joseph could have been told much more succinctly, perhaps as the Revised Common Lectionary does, for the 19th and 20th Sundays in Ordinary Time: Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28 and Genesis 45:1-15. But that doesn’t do justice to the evident importance of the story of Joseph, et.al. in the eyes of the Genesis redactor. It struck me the other day that the detailed list of Jacob’s descendants who went to Egypt (Genesis 46) suggests that the sojourn to Egypt was just as important to the nation as the departure from Egypt and the journey to the Promised Land.

Now, here’s a stretch, or maybe not: what if we saw the sojourn in Egypt as a necessary formative period for the people of God, but one from which of course they had to be freed? When Joseph sent for his father and brothers it was their salvation, but eventually it became their prison.

Could we see the Constantinian compromise in a similar light? Constantine saved the Church from persecution, but he (and his successors) also ensured that the Church would remain in a sort of captivity, a bird in a gilded cage as it were. Luther spoke of the “Babylonian Captivity” of the Church (Prelude on the Babylonian Captivity of the Church, October 1520), but it might be worthwhile to think about the Egyptian Sojourn of the Church. The history of the Church could be seen as the history of our attempt to leave Egypt without doing without its comfort and security. Someone at the Transformation Conference two weeks ago said “the children of Israel could never have left Egypt if they hadn’t taken the bones of Joseph with them” (Genesis 50:24-25; Exodus 13:19; Joshua 24:32).

Maybe it’s time for us to revisit the story of Joseph. What does this dramatic narrative have to say to us as a Church learning how to be Church in a time and place different from what we grew up in?

No Gold Medals

A couple things came together for me last week with the close of the Winter Olympics: someone said something in passing about there not being any gold medals for visiting church members in the nursing home. No, I thought, nor are there any for preaching, leading worship, moderating a Session, or any of the hundred and one other things that pastors do on a daily basis.
I, for one, don’t want it any other way.
After all, most of the really important and worthwhile things that take place in life never make it into the public eye. You hug your kids when they go to bed at night. Nobody knows that unless you tell them, but you are doing something to shape their character and personality that is far more important than a gold medal.
The other thing that got me thinking along these lines was picking up a Temptations greatest hits CD. It opens with the classic “My Girl:”
I got sunshine on a cloudy day,
When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May...The vocals are great, especially David Ruffin’s lead, but the “hook” of the song is the guitar line that begins the cut and sets the mood and tempo. Responsible for that, and for much of the rest of the Motown Sound, were a group of studio musicians who worked seven-day weeks for $10 a song, and who received no credit for their work until recently. They were known collectively, and informally, as the Funk Brothers. My guess is that you’ve heard of the Temptations, the Miracles, the Supremes, and Stevie Wonder, but you’ve probably never heard of the Funk Brothers, yet without them there would have been no Motown. (If your taste runs more to mainstream rock-’n’-roll, you might like to know that it’s not one of the Beach Boys who opens up the song “California Girls;” it’s the largely unsung bassist Carol Kaye—and you’ve probably never heard of her, either, though she’s appeared on more than 10,000 recordings, according to her web site, http://www.carolkaye.com/)
Jesus said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Mark 10:43b-45 TNIV) See—it’s not too bad working in the background.

Something for Sunday

Those who are preaching on the gospel lesson for Sunday (or those who find themselves listening to someone else preach on it) may find these words, from Henri Nouwen, helpful, as I did this morning:

The immense suffering of humanity can easily be understood as a sign of God’s wrath, as a punishment. It often was understood that way, and it often still is. The Psalmist says: “Yahweh is holding a cup filled with a heady blend of wine; he will pour it, they will drink it to the dregs, all the wicked on earth will drink it” (Psalm 75:8). And we, looking at the horrors that plague our world, are saying, “How can there be a loving God when all this is happening? It must be a cruel, spiteful God who allows human beings to suffer so much!”
Jesus, however, took upon himself all this suffering and lifted it up on the cross, not as a curse but as a blessing. Jesus made the cup of God’s wrath into a cup of blessings. That’s the mystery of the Eucharist. Jesus died for us so that we may live. He poured out his blood for us so that we may find new life. He gave himself away for us, so that we can live in community. He became for us food and drink so that we can be fed for everlasting life. That is what Jesus meant when he took the cup and said: “This cup is the new covenant in my blood poured out for you” (Luke 22:20). The Eucharist is that sacred mystery through which what we lived as a curse, we now live as a blessing. Our suffering can no longer be a divine punishment. Jesus transformed it as the way to new life. His blood, and ours too, now can become martyr’s blood—blood that witnesses to a new covenant, a new communion, a new community.
When we lift the cup of our life and share with one another our sufferings and joys in mutual vulnerability, the new covenant can become visible among us. The surprise of it all is that it is often the least among us who reveal to us that our cup is a cup of blessings. - Henri Nouwen, Can You Drink the Cup? pp.68-69

John Calvin on Welcoming Sinners

Found this in my reading today and thought it was good enough to share. The last paragraph in particular is worth reading. - Richard Francis

Not they who are in health need a physician. It is evident from Christ’s reply that the scribes erred in two ways: they did not take into account the office of Christ; and, while they spared their own vices, they proudly despised all others. This deserves our particular attention, for it is a disease which has been always very general. Hypocrites, being satisfied and intoxicated with a foolish confidence in their own righteousness, do not consider the purpose for which Christ was sent into the world, and do not acknowledge the depth of evils in which the human race is plunged, or the dreadful wrath and curse of God which lies on all, or the accumulated load of vices which weighs them down.

The consequence is, that they are too stupid to feel the miseries of men, or to think of a remedy. While they flatter themselves, they cannot endure to be placed in their own rank, and think that injustice is done them, when they are classed with transgressors. Our Lord glances at this second error by replying, that they who are in health have no need of a physician. It is an ironical admission, and is intended to show that they are offended when they see sinners, because they claim righteousness for themselves. Because you are in health, (he says,) you despise the sick, are offended at them, and cannot endure the sight of them: but a physician ought to be affected in a very different manner. He afterwards points out that he must discharge the duties of a physician, because he has been sent by the Father to call sinners.

Though Christ begins with reproof, yet if we desire to make progress in his doctrine, what he has put in the second place must receive our first consideration. He came to quicken the dead, to justify the guilty and condemned, to wash those who were polluted and full of uncleanness, to rescue the lost from hell, to clothe with his glory those who were covered with shame, to renew to a blessed immortality those who were debased by disgusting vices. If we consider that this was his office and the end of his coming,—if we remember that this was the reason why he took upon him our flesh, why he shed his blood, why he offered the sacrifice of his death, why he descended even to hell, we will never think it strange that he should gather to salvation those who have been the worst of men, and who have been covered with a mass of crimes.

He whom you detest appears to you to be unworthy of the grace of Christ. Why then was Christ himself made a sacrifice and a curse, but that he might stretch out his hand to accursed sinners? Now, if we feel disgust at being associated by Baptism and the Lord’s Supper with vile men, and regard our connection with them as a sort of stain upon us, we ought immediately to descend into ourselves, and to search without flattery our own evils. Such an examination will make us willingly allow ourselves to be washed in the same fountain with the most impure, and will hinder us from rejecting the righteousness which he offers indiscriminately to all the ungodly, the life which he offers to the dead, and the salvation which he offers to the lost. - John Calvin, commenting on Mark 2:12 and parallels

Lent

I don’t remember when I first became aware of Lent. We didn’t observe Lent in the open-country Presbyterian Church that was my family of faith for my first 18 years. That may have been part of our Calvinist heritage that viewed with distrust anything that might be regarded as “Catholic,” or it may have been the free church tradition that had so much influence on our Presbyterian churches, at least in the Midwest. By my teen years I had probably learned about Lent, but it seemed pretty clear that it was Catholic Thing, that Protestants didn’t do Lent.

By seminary I was well aware of Lent, largely I think through the Methodist church we attended after college, but again not a lot was made of Lent at my non-denominational, evangelical seminary, though there were plenty of students and faculty members from liturgical churches. I think Lent really began to be important to me as I got into the parish and began to settle into the rhythm of the church year.

Now, while Lent is important to me, it’s not a season of personal focus so much as a time of corporate discipline. We add Wednesday services during Lent, so my preaching preparation is doubled. I don’t usually give up anything for Lent, though you can ask me about the time I fasted from coffee for 40 days (I almost made it the whole time). One year, in response to a suggestion from a colleague, I added something for Lent, volunteering at a local elementary school. I enjoyed that so much that I continued it long after Lent was over, which may prompt the question: should we be doing something during Lent that we enjoy, or are spiritual disciplines by definition painful?

Preaching twice a week in Lent is more work, but it’s work I enjoy. Paying more attention to prayer takes more effort, but it’s rewarding. Nobody likes thinking about sin and death, but they are the biggest realities of our lives, and any thoughts about sin draw us inevitably to Jesus Christ: his death, his resurrection, his intercession. There’s a reason it’s called Good Friday. Several years ago I saw a TV interview with the novelist John Updike, who had just published Roger’s Version. The interviewer noted that the central character of the novel was a minister, and that ministers had figured prominently in several of Updike’s stories; why was that? Updike’s answer went something like this: ministers are interestingly people [!] because they deal every day with things that most of us don’t have to think about very often: mortality, death, the meaning and purpose of life. And if you’ve read any Updike you know that those are the very themes he deals with on a regular basis.

So Lent has become an important part of my year, not only because there’s so much tradition behind it, but also because it’s the best way to get to Easter. As Shelley wrote, “If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”

Anticipating Adversity

I was a bit surprised this morning to discover that gospel in today’s Daily Lectionary is John 18:15-18, 25-27, Peter’s denial of Jesus. Lent doesn’t start for another two days, and Good Friday is more than a month off. Why this passage today?

I often find myself wondering about the choices made by both the Daily and the Sunday Lectionary, which is probably a good thing. If the choices were obvious to me, I wouldn’t have to think about them. I have noticed, for example that the Sunday Lectionary begins some Advent themes in the weeks leading up to Advent, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the Daily Lectionary would introduce Lenten themes before Lent.

Unlike the other gospel writers, John narrates Peter’s denial matter-of-factly, with no reference to Peter’s breaking down and weeping. We are left to draw our own conclusions about Peter’s state of mind at this point. Calvin’s comments are typically trenchant:

Peter is introduced into the high priest’s hall; but it cost him very dear, for, as soon as he sets his foot within it, he is constrained to deny Christ. When he stumbles so shamefully at the first step, the foolishness of his boasting is exposed. He had boasted that he would prove to be a valiant champion, and able to meet death with firmness; and now, at the voice of a single maid, and that voice unaccompanied by threatening, he is confounded and throws down his arms. Such is a demonstration of the power of man. Certainly, all the strength that appears to be in men is smoke, which a breath immediately drives away. When we are out of the battle, we are too courageous; but experience shows that our lofty talk is foolish and groundless; and, even when Satan makes no attacks, we contrive for ourselves idle alarms which disturb us before the time. The voice of a feeble woman terrified Peter: and what is the case with us? Do we not continually tremble at the rustling of a falling leaf? A false appearance of danger, which was still distant, made Peter tremble: and are we not every day led away from Christ by childish absurdities? In short, our courage is of such a nature, that, of its own accord, it gives way where there is no enemy; and thus does God revenge the arrogance of men by reducing fierce minds to a state of weakness. A man, filled not with fortitude but with wind, promises that he will obtain an easy victory over the whole world; and yet, no sooner does he see the shadow of a thistle, than he immediately trembles. Let us therefore learn not to be brave in any other than the Lord. (from Calvin’s Commentary on the Gospel of John, my emphasis)

I can find myself in this gospel story, and in Calvin’s comments on it. I can imagine myself far more courageous than I am, or than I turn out to when I am actually in the situation I had imagined. Yet the act of imagining is not useless. I have come to believe that one of the purposes of worship, of hearing and reading Scripture is to ask ourselves “what if?” What would I do in this situation? How could I prepare for it?

I read once about a man who volunteered to be a courier of sensitive documents at the beginning of the Second World War, when of course such documents had to be carried by ship. His supervisor was sceptical of the man’s ability to undertake this kind of challenge; after all, the German U-Boats had been extremely successful in sinking Allied shipping, and it was likely that the young man would either drown or succumb to the icy waters of the North Atlantic. The man replied that he had for the past month been soaking himself daily in tub of ice water, increasing the time each day until he was able to tolerate the bitter cold. His offer to serve as a courier was accepted, his ship was in fact torpedoed, and he survived the frigid waters with his precious documents intact.

Of course none of us knows what we will actually do in an extreme situation; that’s why Peter’s example is worth keeping before us, and Calvin’s counsel that we learn not to be brave in any other than the Lord is good advice. But the “what if” question is still a good one, as John Baillie prays: “do Thou enable me so to discipline my will that in hours of stress I may honestly seek after those things for which I have prayed in hours of peace.” (Diary of Private Prayer, p.135)

Amen.

Correction to Previous Post

In my last post about Parkersburg I misidentified the source. It was actually from Lesleigh Wiese in the church at Lake Park. Sorry Lesleigh; that's what I get for not checking my e-mail return addresses!