Shalom
Mennonite Church
Sunday,
June 23, 2013 – Born With a Heart of Flesh
Texts:
Psalm 90; Ezekiel 36:22-38; Matthew 18:1-5
Eric
Massanari
“it's
just like riding a bike”
It's
just like riding a bike.
We
say this to describe those skills and actions
which,
once learned, are never forgotten.
We've
practiced them so much
that
they've become part of us,
imbedded
in the memory of mind and muscle.
These
are things that we simply know how to do
without
giving them much thought.
For
the carpenter, it's the hammering of a nail.
For
the guitarist, it's the placement of fingers for a G-major chord.
For
the accountant, it's hitting the right buttons on the ten key.
For
a surgeon, it's pulling just the right tension on a suture.
It's
just like riding a bike...
When
you learn to ride a bike you learn
to
balance your body on two wheels,
allowing
gravity, and centrifugal forces
and
the power train of your bone and muscle
to
propel you forward.
You
do this enough times and then
you
simply know how to do it.
You
throw a leg over the frame,
sit
on the saddle, and go.
It's
just like riding a bike...
Sometimes
we say this and forget
all
it took to learn how to ride a bike!
For
most of us, learning to ride a bike
required
a lot of practice,
some
bumps, bruises and tears,
and
a whole lot of courage.
I
remember my red Schwinn cruiser bike
with
the training wheels I couldn't wait to lose.
I
saw my parents and the big kids
speeding
around on two wheels
and
I couldn't wait to join them.
I remember feeling frustrated
with the time, effort and concentration it took
to
figure out how to actually do it.
I
remember the thrill of that first trip
down
the sidewalk all alone,
after
my dad had finally let go of the seat
and
stopped running along beside me.
And
now, many years later, I get on a bike,
and
I just know how to do it—I've got it figured out.
And
because it's second nature, I sometimes forget
just
what a gift and joy it is to ride a bike!
How
easy it is to take such things for granted,
to
forget what it took to learn them
and
what it was like to be a beginner.
Sometimes it takes losing such an ability
before we realize what a precious gift it was.
It
is good and healthy to have something in our lives
that
invites us to be a beginner.
Especially
in a society that so highly prizes
proficiency,
competency, achievement and status,
Being
a beginner means laying aside
the
inner evaluator and judge
and
relearning what it means
to
risk, to learn, to be vulnerable, to wonder.
Being
a beginner is usually a good lesson in humility.
Who
is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
It
is a question of status and expertise.
Who
has arrived?
Who
has reached the pinnacle
of
spiritual realization?
Who
is the cream of the crop in God's eyes?
It's
a question of judgment, too,
because
if there's a greatest
then
there must be a lesser,
and
then, of course, a least.
So,
who's the greatest?
C'mon, someone's got to be greatest, right?
Jesus
invites a nearby child to stand
in
the middle of his disciples,
not
unlike what we will do today
as we offer a special dedication and blessing
for children and their parents here in the church.
Jesus draws their attention to the child and says,
“Unless
you change and become like children,
you
will not even enter the kingdom of heaven.”
Children
were of low status in that culture;
they
were considered little more than property.
So,
the suggestion that his friends
needed
to change and grow more child-like
would
have been shocking and disorienting.
The
implication here is that the gospel
is
simply not about status in the eyes of the world.
It
has nothing to do with
who
is greatest, who is best,
who
is most skilled,
who
is most handsome,
who is more popular.
who's "got it goin' on" according to
the ever-changing standards of status in our culture.
In
fact, the gospel of Jesus consistently
frustrates
such ways of thinking.
To
be concerned with matters such as
who
is the greatest, one must spend
energy
comparing and judging.
It
tends to lead to very me-centered thinking,
leading one to think things such as:
“Well of course I am the greatest!"
or
“I'm the least, I'm no good, I'm worth nothing.”
It
means living by comparison,
living
by judgment and reaction.
And typically guilt, shame and blame
are
close companions to this way of thinking.
Such
concern with status has a tendency
to
shrink and narrow our worldview,
and
it leads to hardened hearts,
because
we are usually to be found
carefully protecting something.
The
“hardened heart” is an image that
is
often used in the Hebrew scriptures
to
describe living in this narrow way
of
fear, status-seeking, and judgment.
The
proud and the self-righteous
characters
of the Old Testament
are
often described as having “hardened hearts.”
The
image suggests that
these
are people who have lost a
capacity to feel.
They
have neglected the love of God,
and
they are unwilling to respond
to
the pain of their neighbor
with
compassionate care.
Ezekiel
uses the term to describe
the
whole people of Israel.
Speaking
to the Israelites on
behalf of God,
Ezekiel
says:
A
new heart I will give you,
and
a new spirit I will put within you;
and
I will remove from your body the heart of stone
and
give you a heart of flesh.
It
is a promise of restoration and rebirth.
Everyone
is of course born with a heart of flesh.
There's that wonderful heart beating
right inside your chest at this moment,
and it keeps you alive without your
even giving it a second thought.
In the ancient Hebrew understanding,
the "heart" was the deep center and ground of our being,
it is that place that bears the image of God's own self.
Those ancient ones understood what remains true today:
our
hearts can expand and soften,
or they can grow small and harden as we live.
The path our hearts take depends a great deal
on the choices we make as we live this life.
Will our hearts soften and expand?
Will they grow hard and calloused?
Ezekiel's message suggests that it is possible
for a whole people's heart--the heart of a community--
to grow hard and calloused as well.
The
call here is very similar to Jesus
calling
the disciples to be converted,
and
to return to that quality of childhood
that
is free from the need to
compare,
judge and protect certain images
we
hold of ourselves and others.
To
live with the humility of a child,
to
live with a heart of flesh,
is
to live free of illusions of self-grandeur
or
illusions of ones worthlessness.
To
live with the humility of a child,
to
live with a heart of flesh,
is
to know our need for God and neighbor.
It
is to know that love requires a high
degree
of openness to new learning,
and
risking, and vulnerability.
One
never arrives on the journey of love.
One
never gets to be called the greatest,
or the lesser,
or the least.
Such
terms are meaningless
in
the realm of God's love.
Not
long ago, I was buying some books
at
Eighth Day Bookshop in Wichita.
As
often happens, I wound up in a conversation
with
the proprietor of the bookshop, Warren Farha.
We
were discussing a variety of events in our lives,
and
after a pause in the conversation,
Warren
simply said, “It's a textured life.”
It's
a textured life.
Indeed!
Such
incredible textures of living and loving
to
be explored and never exhausted in this life!
To
follow Christ into this textured life
is
to do so with the wonder of a child
who
is exploring those textures for the first time.
It
means a willingness to be a beginner
over
and over again, and having our sense
of
awe and wonder constantly renewed.
When
we know we don't have it all figured out,
it
is much easier for us to welcome
the
wisdom and gifts of our sister and brother.
To
follow Christ into this textured life
is
to live with a heart of flesh,
a
heart that is able to expand with greater
and
greater inclusivity, rather than constrict with fear,
a
heart that is softened by the joy and pain of loving,
rather
than growing stony and cold,
a
heart that becomes an open channel
in
this world for the Love that is God.
Following
Christ into this textured life
is
like learning to ride a bike,
not just once,
but again
and again and again...
