Readings for this week can be found here
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Why We Keep Reading the
Story
When we first moved to Minnesota, I was excited
to remember that Minnesota figures prominently in The Little House series by
Laure Ingalls Wilder. I had read the books as a child, I had the whole
collection, and I loved reading about Laura and Mary—I found myself drawn to
Laura with her pluck and defiance and I was fascinated by the world she
depicted. So much of what I read in her books struck me as fantastical—the long
winter and the twists of hay they burned to keep warm; maple sugaring with the
donuts and pickles; the leeches in the mud of Plum Creek. These may as well have been fantasy when
compared to the life I knew growing up on Maui.
One of the things I most looked forward to in
having children was the opportunity to read these books. And, I remember distinctly my own excitement
when I deemed Henry FINALLY old enough to enjoy these stories.
And…with that, I have repeatedly asked myself if
these stories were a good choice...
The anticipation of a good wheat crop and the
ability to pay off debt, and then the literal plague of grasshoppers that
decimate the crops and destroy the community. The careful building of a new
homes, homes which are abandoned in the face of governmental policies and land
disputes. The reality of westward expansions impact on Native Americans.
Hunger, division, poverty, grief and hope intermingle in the text.
Yes, it’s different to read these as an adult. And,
I find myself pulling away from these beloved and familiar stories. I wanted
them to be joyful and magical, and they are not.
They are not, because they are stories about
life, and life is complicated and often hard.
And, I need to remind myself of this when I want
to stop reading these stories (stories, by the way, which my child is loving)
that the complications, the sorrows and the frank humanness of the author, do
not diminish the text—instead they offer an opportunity to reflect on the
context in which they were written, how my own life has changed since I first
encountered the text, and what I want my own child to take away from hearing
these books.
I say all of this, because this is one of those
weeks where I read the scripture appointed and I wanted to stop reading. To go
back to the first chapter of Luke in which the angelic choir proclaims peace on
earth and then skip to the ending where Jesus is risen. Birth and resurrection
with nothing in between. But, if we only participate in those parts of the
story, we lose the opportunity to encounter the grace in between. And, just as
in a life flanked by birth and death—it is the in-between that gives meaning to
the birthing and the dying.
So, what does this passage, drawn from the
middle of the Gospel of Luke tell us about who we are, who God is, and to what
God calls us?
First of all, this passage’s message of
separation and conflict stands in sharp contrast to much of the Gospel of
Luke—a Gospel in which we hear Jesus’ instruction to his disciples that they
bring greetings of peace and in which those Jesus heals receive a blessing of
peace. So, what gives? Why would this
harsh apocalyptic text appear here?
In order to address this question we need to
look at the context. Choosing to follow Jesus, meant leaving behind the
dominant culture. It meant stepping outside of the societal norms of honor and
shame—and accepting a new way of being in the world, a way in which kinship
ties were less important than participation in the lives of the saints, a way
in which Jew and Gentile broke bread together and, rather than contributing to
your kin, you contributed to the community of fellow followers. Those who had
chosen to follow Jesus were leaving behind their families and their communities.
Walking the way of Christ meant walking away from the world.
So rather than this passage being a declaration
of what is to come, it is a description of what is—this IS the present time. The
present time for Jesus’ disciples was one of strife and hard choices. The
present time for the early Christians was one of persecutions and sufferings. The
present time was a time in which those living had to wrestle with the meaning
of persecution and suffering. And, so, this passage becomes one of meaning
making. Jesus is saying that this strife and division is part of something much,
much bigger. That the pain of the now is part, but not the sum total, of the
journey that lays before him and all those who walk the way with him.
And, in this I find the grace, that the reality
of what so often seems our own present time of division is part of a birthing
into a new way of being. In the modern cultural and political arena, I’ve heard
this kind of conflict surrounding change described as a backlash—a negative or
hostile reaction to a cultural change that is taking place or has already
occurred.
In this, is the already but not yet of the
Gospel passage. Peace has already come, but it has not yet been fully realized.
Love has already broken into the world but has not yet come to full fruition.
What hope is found in knowing that the way has already been given, but what
frustration to know that we’re not yet there!
The race, as Paul puts it, is being run but is
not yet complete. And, so the faithful keep running towards a future that is
not for us in the now but for the us that will be, “Yet all these, though they
were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God
had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made
perfect.”
So here we are, in the messy middle, not birth
not resurrection—but the stuff in between. And, this stuff matters, it matters
because it calls us to a new way and it reminds us that the fullness of God’s
promise is still being realized and that this fullness relies upon the full
participation of all of God’s people. It matters because it is the messy middle
of Ordinary Time that helps us to understand the importance and the power of
what has been promised.
So this messy story of strife gives meaning to
the conflict, and reminds us of the peace to which we are drawn. This is the
present time, but it is not the end of the story.
Will
you go where you don't know and never be the same?
Will
you let my love be shown? Will you let my name be known,
will
you let my life be grown in you and you in me?
2.
Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name?
Will
you care for cruel and kind and never be the same?
Will
you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare?
Will
you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?
3.
Will you let the blinded see if I but call your name?
Will
you set the prisoners free and never be the same?
Will
you kiss the leper clean and do such as this unseen,
and
admit to what I mean in you and you in me?
4.
Will you love the "you" you hide if I but call your name?
Will
you quell the fear inside and never be the same?
Will
you use the faith you've found to reshape the world around,
through
my sight and touch and sound in you and you in me?
5.
Lord your summons echoes true when you but call my name.
Let
me turn and follow you and never be the same.
In
Your company I'll go where Your love and footsteps show.
Thus
I'll move and live and grow in you and you in me.
(by
John Bell, © 1987 Iona Community, admin. GIA Pub. Inc.)
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