when the flame bends

sometimes the flame bends

so slightly, and you see it:

glowing wick consumed

early warmth

lured by early warmth
frogs arise from the deep mud
and sing to the sun

proper authorization

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Lent 3 – “Confronted by Christ”

Text: John 2:13-22

Eric Massanari

“proper authorization”

Consider for a moment the different

things you do each day

to show that you have

the proper authorization to do something,

to buy something,

to enter some place,

to make contact with a particular someone.

Each day we punch in

passwords and pin numbers,

we swipe cards,

we show credentials.

Some of us hang diplomas on our walls;

others put special codes before or after our names

to show we have the proper authorization:

M.D.,

L.C.S.W.,

M.Div.,

Ph.D.,

B.A.,

B.S.

Sometimes our proper authorization

is revealed in more subtle ways

like the way we dress,

the way we speak,

or the way we carry ourselves.

Sometimes we are given proper authorization (or not)

by virtue of things we have no control over:

our skin color, gender, age, our body type or physical abilities.

In such a stratified society

with so many categories and systems

for determining who is given access,

clearance,

and authority,

there are many ways

we show that we have

proper authorization.

There are those boundary lines

we are free to cross,

and those we are not.

In our gospel story this morning

Jesus goes and messes around

with the very well-organized

systems and categories that had been

established in the Jerusalem temple.

It was nearly Passover,

the great feast day of the Jews,

when Jews of all stripes

were flocking to Jerusalem

from near and far.

Once in Jerusalem they were expected

to join in the Temple worship,

which included making offerings and sacrifices.

Those who traveled far could not

bring birds or livestock along

for their offerings; they had to

purchase the animals once they

arrived in the temple—

thus the merchants.

Greek and Roman currency

was not the legal tender in Jerusalem;

it had to be exchanged for the local Tyrian currency—

thus the money changing tables.

It was a well-oiled machine that was at work

in the temple long ago when Jesus walked in

and tossed a wrench into everything.

Listen again to what the leaders of the temple

say to Jesus after he has chased out

the livestock with his whip and

given the merchants a good tongue-lashing.

They ask him:

What sign can you show us for doing this?

It is a question of authority.

Show us you have the proper authority!

What are your credentials?

What gives you the right?

Who do you think you are?

I can almost imagine them saying:

Why didn't you just come talk to us?

We have a special sub-committee for this sort of thing

and if you had just let us know there was a problem

we could have talked about it and worked things out.

Why did you have to go and do this?!

Jesus had not simply confronted

abuses in the system of temple worship,

he confronted the system itself—

a religious system that had grown

so lost in its own workings

that it was no longer able to proclaim

its own deep truths;

it could no longer speak an awakening word.

It could no longer hear God speak a new word.

So the Spirit needed to speak

that new word a bit more loudly

and more furiously through Jesus

in order to be heard and perceived.

The authority by which Jesus acts

is not the authority of the religious system,

it is the authority of the One

on whom that system was meant

to be centered and grounded.

The One who is alive in Jesus

and to whom he is fully awake.

Stop making this house a marketplace.

Make it a house of God.

A house of prayer.

A house of compassion.

A house of mercy.

A house of hope.

Jesus' unauthorized witness in the Jerusalem temple

is a story the church has needed to retell

and—more importantly—re-live through the years.

It is a story I have seen play out

at recent Mennonite Church USA conventions

where gay,lesbian, bisexual and transgendered

Mennonites and their friends and supporters

are not given proper authorization

to gather in any sort of formal way

as part of the convention proceedings.

So, they have found creative ways

to be present, and visible,

and to bear witness.

Wearing pink.

Sharing communion.

Singing hymns.

None of these things have been

disruptive or damaging—

certainly not on the scale of

whips of cords and turning tables!

Yet others have complained

and questioned their authority to do such things.

Why do they have to wear pink and be so visible?

Why do they have to sing and talk at the open mics?

Perhaps so that we, the church, will hear what we need to hear.

So that we will see what we need to see.

So that we will become who we were intended to be.

I think of the Damascus Road Anti-Racism training

that was hosted here in this space two weeks ago.

As part of that training many personal

stories were shared, including stories

told by people of color who had come

to the Mennonite church attracted

by our theology of peacemaking

and seeking the nonviolent way of Christ's love.

They came to this tradition with hope.

They also shared that their move into this

stream of faith had brought pain

as they encountered well-ingrained

systems of racial and cultural oppression

within our church structures.

It became clear to them

that by virtue of their skin color,

language, cultural traditions,

they did not have proper authorization

to speak in certain places,

or serve in certain roles.

I went into that Damascus Road Anti-Racism training

wondering a bit about that language of “Anti-racism”

and the call to be an “anti-racist church”

that is emerging in our denomination.

Why do we have to frame it in terms of what we are against?

Why can't we frame it in terms of what we are for—what we seek?

I came away from the training with

a much more clear understanding that

we are still living into a stage of naming the brokenness.

The tables must still be turned, you could say.

We must recognize patterns that have become

ingrained in the systems of our church,

and do “anti-racism” work before we speak

solely in terms of racial healing and harmony.

We do this so that we will hear what we need to hear.

So that we will see what we need to see.

So that we will become who we were intended to be.

The church needs from time to time,

and from place to place in history,

experiences of Christ

doing some unauthorized

table turning in our well-organized temples.

We need it because we are human.

And in being human we sometimes

create systems designed to serve ourselves

more than the God whose image we bear

and whose Love we were meant to embody.

We need those who speak and act

with the authority of Christ's own love,

calling us, shaking us

back to wakefulness.

And sometimes we need to be the ones

who speak out and act with the authority of Christ's own love.

Thanks be to God

for the Spirit of Truth

that will forever move in our midst

in unauthorized ways!

Amen

living to die, and dying to live

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Lent 2 – Living & Dying in the Covenant

Texts: Genesis 17:1-7,15-16 and Mark 8:31-38

Eric Massanari

“living to die, and dying to live”

One summer's afternoon,

a number of years ago,

I was fishing with a friend

on a small lake in northern Indiana.

As we slowly motored the jon boat

around the edges of the lake

in search of a spot where the fish were biting,

I noticed a great blue heron

standing still and silent

in the shallows under some

low-hanging branches.

For some reason I've always

felt a deep attraction to herons.

They're found in those special

places where earth, sky and water meet.

When they fly they have a characteristic

slow and steady wing-beat,

their long legs trailing behind them like rudders.

When they stand in the waters and fish

they have an elegant grace

and peaceful, patient spirit about them.

The one I saw that hot summer evening

was very slowly and silently

walking through the shallows,

taking care not to disturb the waters.

It was doing the same thing we were doing,

looking for an evening meal.

But as we got closer I could see something

was terribly wrong with this bird—

particularly with its bill.

The bottom half was hanging uselessly

as if the bill had somehow come unhinged.

Perhaps it had been shot.

Maybe it had in some way injured itself.

Whatever happened, the bird was no longer

able to eat and it would soon starve to death,

unless some predator claimed its life before then.

For some reason, in that moment,

the sight of that bird overwhelmed me.

Here was this stunningly beautiful creature

rendered so broken and so helpless.

And yet it was continuing to go about its

patient practice of fishing,

even though it would never be able to catch one.

I wanted to catch it and help it in some way,

or at least put it out of its misery.

But each time we steered the boat closer

the bird would walk beyond our reach.

That heron has stayed with me through the years.

I think in a way it has come to symbolize

the suffering and brokenness

that goes hand in hand with

the wonder and beauty of life.

That heron appears again and again

in those moments when the currents of

death and birth,

brokenness and beauty,

sorrow and joy,

seem to flow very close together in life.

We human beings can be very much

like that heron: so beautiful and wondrous,

and so broken and wounded at the same time.

We live knowing deep down that we will die—

though that is a fact we may be reluctant

to acknowledge until we are forced to.

It is relatively easy to look beyond ourselves

and see that death and life are interwoven.

We can easily accept the rising and falling of each day,

or the passages of birth and death that

come with the passing seasons.

It is much more difficult to accept

the rhythms of death and life

that resound in our own being,

the ones that can disturb our thoughts

and break our hearts.

In the gospel story this morning

we meet the disciple Peter

in what for him is a disturbing

and heart-breaking moment.

This story immediately follows the

scene where Jesus asked his friends,

“Who do people say that I am?”

And Peter, we presume, was the one

who gave the most correct answer:

“You are the Messiah.” (Mark 8:29)

You are the one we've waited for!

You are the one I have waited for!

I've given up everything to follow you.

You are amazing, and wise;

you are patient and understanding;

you are compassionate and kind;

you have the power of God's own Spirit.

You are divine!

Peter obviously attaches great significance

to the title of “Messiah,” and it seems

that for him the Messiah should not—

cannot—undergo the sufferings of this world.

The Messiah should be beyond and above that.

So how could Peter be prepared to hear

Jesus speak so plainly about how he

would undergo great suffering at the

hands of the leaders of their faith?

How could he accept that the Messiah would be killed?

Jesus didn't tell them that this suffering

was likely or probable; in Mark's telling

of the story Jesus tells his friends

that this must happen—he must suffer in this way.

The implication is that this is somehow part

of God's own intention and plan.

Peter cannot accept this version of a Messiah—

it simply does not fit what he has presumed.

So he pulls Jesus aside and rebukes him.

We are left to imagine what

Peter might have said in that moment.

Whatever Peter says, Jesus' reply is sharp.

And not only does he confirm that

his path will be one that includes suffering and death,

he goes even further to say that

those who wish to follow him

must accept this as their path, too.

If anyone wants to follow my way, that person must take up their own cross and follow. For if you want to save your life, and keep yourself safe and free of pain and grief, you will ultimately lose your life. But if you are willing to let go of your fear of suffering and dying, if you are willing to lose your life for the sake of love and accept the path of death, then you will know what it means to become fully alive.

It strikes me that with these words

Jesus is stating very clearly that

his path is a very human one,

it is the path that each person must face—

he will not be an exception to the rules of life.

He, too, will know pain and hurt,

rejection and loss and death.

Perhaps this is why he never uses

terms like “Messiah” or “Christ”

to describe himself.

Jesus refers to himself as the Son of Man,

or to state it more inclusively

with out losing its meaning:

the “Son of Humanity.”

As the Son of Humanity he will identify

himself with all the human beings

who know what it means to suffer.

With Jesus the disciples are confronted

with the necessity of suffering and death.

Earlier this week I watched the movie 50/50

which is about a young man in his 20s

who develops cancer.

The movie captures the struggle

of the main character, as well as his family

and close friends, to accept what is happening.

“You're going to be fine,”

becomes the mantra of his friends

and family members.

“It's all going to be fine,” you hear

them say and it is clear that they

are saying it as much to try and

chase away their own fears

as they are to give him any kind of comfort.

“You'll be just fine.”

His young and inexperienced therapist

has her own ways of saying the same thing

as she makes well-meaning attempts

to help him normalize his experience,

and gives him textbook explanations

for the feelings he is having or not having.

There's no religious figure in the storyline,

but it isn't too difficult to imagine

a priest, pastor, or rabbi offering

a spiritualized version of the same message:

"Everything is going to be fine."

Finally, he says to his therapist,

“I'm dying. I know now that I might soon die from this.

I just need someone else to acknowledge that with me.”

He must to come to this point of

honest recognition and acceptance

of his own death before he can

make the journey forward,

whatever it may bring.

And he needs someone to see this

and accept this with him.

I heard someone describe our culture once

as a “pain-killer culture,” which seems apt.

We also are a culture that carries

a deep-seated fear of death.

Suffering and death confront the notion

that we should always be happy, comfortable,

strong and youthful,

pretty, put-together and well-satisfied.

Having a “good life” in this culture means

being materially comfortable, successful,

and enjoying yourself.

To borrow Jesus' phrase,

we are a people intent on “gaining the world.”

And Jesus asks us the question:

What good is it to gain this so-called “good life,”

to gain the world, if in the process you forfeit

your capacity to live fully?

Jesus is preparing his disciples in this story

for what will be the pathway ahead,

the way that they must travel together

if they wish to follow him.

It will mean facing squarely into the reality

that the goodness and value of life is not

discovered solely through the experiences

that satisfy us, comfort us, and make us feel good.

It is revealed in the way we meet

and live into our moments of suffering

and our experiences of dying.

And, in truth, we are always dying.

We are all very much alive here in this moment,

and it is also true that with each

passing moment we move closer to our death.

Nothing exempts you or me from that certainty.

So what do we do with that reality?

Does it make us fearful?

Does it leave us feeling depressed?

Or, might it set us free?

Might it set us free from illusions like:

if we just get that one more thing done,

if we just reach that next milestone,

if we could only resolve that one last

dilemma or problem in our life,

we will be okay, and satisfied, and free?

Could it be that growing in our acceptance of the fact

that one day we will die,

and one day the people we care about will die,

and one day each person we meet will die,

has the power to set us free to live more gratefully

and love more fully?

Jesus reveals for us the path to

becoming fully free and alive—

it's just that it isn't an easy one.

It troubles our worldview,

and perhaps our view of God.

It means learning how to die

so that we are truly able to live. AMEN