the implanted story

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, May 8, 2011 - Easter 3

Texts 1 Peter 1:17-23 and Luke 24:13-35

Eric Massanari

“the implanted story”

In the folklore of my immediate family

there is a story told

about the day my mother sent my sister

off to school with a check in her hand.

The check was to cover the cost of hot lunches,

and Analisa was given clear instructions

to give the check to the secretary

as soon as she arrived at the school.

It was an eight block walk

to Herbert Hoover Elementary

from our home - six if you cut through

the backyards we had been told to avoid.

Somewhere between home and school

the check was lost.

The school called home to inform my mother,

who no doubt was fully prepared to scold my little sister,

who no doubt was nervously anticipating a scolding

at the end of the school day.

That afternoon when my sister got home

she said to my mother:

Mom, you know how it is when you’re holding something in your hand for a long time, and then you're doing something else, and then your brain says to your hand, ‘Why are you in that position?’ and then your hand says, ‘I don’t know,’ so it opens and you drop what’s in your hand but you don’t realize it? Well, that’s what happened.

Any anger or frustration my mom was feeling

quickly dissipated with my sister’s insight

into the workings of the human brain,

and we have all laughed about it ever since.

I love that story in part because it is a reminder

that how we tell a story, how we recount events

in our lives, makes a very big difference.

Some of the stories we tell are truthful

in the sense that they are closer to what

may have actually transpired at some moment in time.

Some of the stories we tell are truthful

in the sense that they reflect more about

our inner impressions and feelings about an experience.

Some of the stories we tell are obscured

by our desire to protect ourselves,

or perhaps smooth over details that

might leave us feeling exposed, vulnerable

or looking a bit too fallible.

Sometimes we tell our stories in a manner

meant to rationalize, defend, or even hurt.

How we tell a story can make a very big difference.

The telling of a story is often an act of interpretation.

This was revealed earlier this week

in the context of a much more serious matter

than the loss of school lunch money.

If you watched President Obama’s address

to the nation on Monday night,

in which he announced the killing of Osama bin Laden,

then you saw and heard the telling of a story.

The entire 9 minute address was

a recounting of events and intentions

that have spanned nearly a decade.

The president went back to September 11, 2001

and the terrible events of that day

and then connected it through years,

battles, struggles, griefs and losses,

to this present moment.

To summarize his story:

A bad man did terrible, murderous things.

A great nation was left wounded and grieving.

We could not stand idly by when under attack.

So we have waged a great and noble battle,

and we have been engaged in

a long and arduous search for those responsible

to bring them to justice.

And today, justice has been served.

God bless the United States of America.

Factually speaking, one could say that

this story was true. The President was

indeed speaking about things that have transpired.

And yet, one could have included many other facts

and a much longer history

to tell this story in a much different way.

One could go back further than Sept. 11, 2001

to tell the story of how the United States

funded and armed militant factions in Afghanistan

in their battle against the Soviet Union.

One could speak in greater detail about

what has happened in the last ten years

and how our own nation has been complicit

in terrible atrocities against human beings

in the midst of our war-making and our search

for Osama bin Laden.

And one could acknowledge

what has been true throughout human history

that violence seems to move in a cycle,

acts of violence appear to generate further acts of violence

and a “war against terrorism” like the one we are waging

has a rather insidious way of generating more terrorists,

like Osama bin Laden.

As I listened to our president tell his story,

it struck me that he was going to great length

to explain why this particular killing was good.

Something in us, some holy seed within us

knows that such violence - whether we deem it

morally good or morally reprehensible -

goes against our nature as children of the Living God.

To take another human life, to do violence

to another human being, we must override

a fundamental story written within our very souls -

a story of interconnection and life begetting life -

in order to play out a very different story,

a story of power and control,

and a myth of redemptive violence.

In his recent book on the phenomenon of suicide bombing

and our reaction to it in the West, author Talal Asad writes:

“However much we try to distinguish between morally good and morally evils ways of killing, our attempts are beset with contradictions, and these contradictions remain a fragile part of our modern subjectivity.”
—Talal Asad, On Suicide Bombing

We must tell the story of good battling evil

in a certain way in order to justify our violence.

As Christians we follow one who lived out

a different story than this.

A tale of good confronting evil

but in such a way to render evil utterly powerless.

I notice in the story from Luke’s gospel

that there is a lot of storytelling going on.

When the two disciples meet the stranger on the road

they are surprised he knows nothing of the events

that have transpired in Jerusalem.

He knows nothing of Jesus of Nazareth.

So, they proceed to share their story with him,

the story of Jesus‘ arrest, suffering, death,

and the strange rumors of his resurrection.

Then the stranger does something surprising,

he takes their story and goes even further with it,

weaving it together with threads

that go all the way back to Moses and the prophets,

connecting Jesus to a much more ancient tale

of God and humanity.

And then the stranger’s storytelling

continues one more chapter, however,

he uses no words for the final part of his tale.

He takes bread from the dinner table and breaks it.

And in that simple act

a whole tale of truth is told

and the disciples recognize the Christ for who he is.

When Christ disappears

and the disciples reflect on what has just happened

They say to one another,

“Were not our hearts burning within us?”

When we encounter the deepest truths in life,

the truest and most life-giving stories that can be told,

something burns within us

because something in us knows that these are true.

When people encountered Jesus

something burned within them,

a holy truth,

a “an imperishable seed” of love

as the writer of 1 Peter describes it.

Some of the ancient Celtic Christians

spoke of Christ as our memory,

“as the one who leads us to our deepest identity,

as the one who remembers the song [the story]

of our beginnings” as children of God. (Philip Newell, Christ of the Celts, p. 12)

One way we might think of Christ

is as a master storyteller,

or, perhaps to put it a bit differently

the teller of the master story of life:

The story that all is made in God,

and all is made of God.

The story of all life deeply woven together,

and all life proclaimed good and precious in God’s sight.

The story that evil can be overcome with goodness,

and suffering can be met with love rather than fear or hatred.

The story that you and I were meant

to live with the very same fullness of love

Christ expressed in the world.

This is the implanted story-seed within us.

It is a story we only dimly hear

and remotely remember,

and it sometimes appears to be lost

amidst the violence we do to

ourselves, to one another, and to the earth.

It is our work as disciples of Christ to remember,

to retell, and to enflesh our master story of life and love.

The Way we are called to follow

invites us to pay attention to those moments

when our own hearts burn within us,

and to break the bread of life with one another

in such a way that the transforming love of God

is made manifest in our world here and now.

Amen

Easter

Easter Morning Meditation

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Text: John 20:1-18

“testimony”

The resurrection of Jesus -

this death-bending, life-altering moment -

happens in relative obscurity.

It unfolds in the twilight hours before sunrise,

out beyond the city.

It happens away from the crowds

who had gathered just a few days earlier

to welcome Jesus into Jerusalem with

joyful expectation,

and who later denounced him with

bitter condemnation.

There is no fanfare,

there are no angel choirs,

or miraculous stars shining overhead,

or visitors from the East bearing gifts.

There is simply this rising of new life

from the tomb of death.

Its witnesses are, at first, very few.

In fact, it is only one person

who first encounters the risen Christ:

Mary Magdalene.

According to John’s gospel

Mary is the first one commissioned by Christ

to go and give testimony to his rising.

And what we have of Mary’s testimony

are these words:

I have seen the Lord.

The first thing I notice is the simplicity

and the directness of the message.

I have seen the Lord.

Now we have libraries full of books

proposing theories and meanings,

explanations and refutations,

for the resurrection of Jesus.

Mary offered her testimony before

any of these words were written.

I have seen the Lord.

Now we have complex theologies

that lay things out like well-balanced arithmetic:

“Christ needed to die

and then be raised so that . . .”

A+B=C

For Mary there was no such logic

or rationale for this upheaving moment.

She could only bear witness by saying:

I have seen the Lord.

Her testimony is not figurative or metaphorical.

She is not saying:

“As I stood at the tomb

I really felt Jesus’ presence there

and it seemed like he was calling

to me in my heart.”

Or,

“I met the gardener at the tombs and he had this

really gentle way about him;

he reminded me a lot of our teacher.”

The proclamation of Mary and the gospel story is, literally:

The Lord is risen and I have seen him!

Her bold testimony stands in contrast to

Peter’s earlier denials and the other disciples

who are hiding out in the upper room “for fear of the Jews.”

What we learn from Mary Magdalene is that

to witness the resurrection is to be compelled to speak,

simply and boldly.

The Good News must be shared.

This is the first thing I notice in Mary’s testimony.

The second thing I notice about Mary’s testimony

is the way it unfolds through the channels of relationship.

At the tomb, it is when Jesus speaks her name

that Mary recognizes him for who he is.

Their friendship is the channel for the revelation.

And perhaps recognizing her desire

to reclaim the intimacy of the earthly relationship

they shared before his death,

Jesus says to Mary:

Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’

Jesus’ words affirm the bond

that he shares with her and the other disciples

in the Love of God.

There are echoes here of the prayer

Jesus offered in the garden before his death:

All mine are yours and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one . . . as you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us . . . I in them and you in me, so that they may be completely one. (John 17:10-11,21, 23)

At the tomb, this oneness we share with Jesus in God

is fully disclosed to Mary Magdalene.

She becomes a part of it.

And because the very nature of this oneness is love,

she is compelled to go and share it with her friends.

Mary becomes a model for us

as to what it means to witness and testify

to the risen Christ.

And it means much more than retelling a story once a year.

There was a time when I wondered what it would have been like

to be among those first disciples, to be there at the empty tomb,

or to be in the upper room,

when the risen one appeared.

There have been other moments in life

when I have doubted whether these events

really occurred at all.

From certain points of view,

there is little in this world

to confirm for our limited minds

that resurrection ever happened - or ever will.

There have been times when I have found

all of the speculations and theories

about Christ’s resurrection that have been written

by learned women and men over the centuries

quite fascinating and inspiring.

And there have been times I have found them

overwhelming and distracting -

always one step removed from the reality

of which they struggle to speak.

Now, in this stage of my journey, I must testify

that when it comes to the resurrection of Christ,

I am inclined to follow the example of Mary Magdalene,

more than that of any jaded skeptic,

or any learned theologian

or any well-formulated confession of faith.

Because some days I find myself weeping at the tomb,

witnessing the pain of this world,

seeing the brokenness of the church,

feeling the falsehoods in my own being,

and, like Mary, I wonder where the body of Christ has been laid.

Then there are those moments

when I hear my own true name being spoken -

sometimes from a deep-within place,

sometimes from the mouth of a loved one,

occasionally by a stranger,

and once in a startling while by one

whom I thought to be an adversary.

And to hear your true name called is a gift.

I, too, have often mistaken other people

standing right beside me

to be just that, “other people” -

just gardeners standing there - ordinary and unremarkable.

Then something lifts a veil that has blinded me

and I see that this is no ordinary person,

that Christ dwells there and rises there, too.

And I read and listen to the scripture of the Earth,

with its symphonic cycle of

birthing-living-dying-rising

and I understand what the psalmist meant

when he said:

“I believe I shall see the goodness

of the Lord in the land of the living.”

And standing here this morning,

as so often happens when we gather here,

I feel wonder and gratitude

for the body we become,

the way we are made one,

by him who rises in us.

And I am compelled to testify:

I have seen the Lord!

I see the Lord!

Christ is risen!

Christ is rising

right here

right now.

AMEN

How far will love go?

How far will Love go?

Not love as warm sentimentality, or the fleeting spark of romance, or even the enduring bond shared by friends, family or kindred spirits, but the Love that calls our name at birth, the Love that will one day summon us across the threshold of death, and the Love that calls to us now in this moment and all living moments no matter how great or terrible. The Love that is of God. The Love that is God.

How far will Love go?

Will love be present when times are tough and when there is little to confirm that its efforts will be successful or effective?

In Christ, God proclaims "Yes." Love will not fade in the difficult moments, in our experiences of deepest wounding and loss, and it can even redeem them in the end.

Will Love still be there even when people are indifferent to it, even when we deny its power?

In Christ, God proclaims "Yes." Love will not falter when we ignore it or seek other solutions that fall short in the end. It will keep calling to us in mercy.

Will Love endure even when the powers of evil are gathered against it? Even when it must face the harshest violence, the most bitter betrayal, and the deepest loneliness?

In Christ, God proclaims "Yes." Love will endure in all of this. Even here it will speak words of forgiveness and shine with a light of hope.

This night is the night when we are asked to remember and rejoin our lives to the great open-hearted "Yes" of God. The cross marks a great and unsettling disclosure of just how far the Love of God will go. And as we will celebrate in the days to come, Love will go further than this.

For now, however, we dwell in this night, we kneel at the cross with Mary, we remember the sorrow and fear of his friends, and we proclaim that here - even here - God says "Yes."

May the Love of God,

the open heart of Jesus,

and the breath of the Holy Spirit,

call to each of us this night.

And may we respond

with our own "Yes" to Love.

AMEN

Maundy Thursday reflection

In the gospel of John, when the story is told about the last night Jesus spent with his disciples, there is one very small verse that follows the account of Jesus washing the disciples feet. It reads:

One of his disciples—the one whom Jesus loved—was reclining next to him. (John 13:23)

Though this “beloved disciple” is mentioned more than once in the gospel, he is never identified by name. Tradition has held that it was John the Evangelist, the one who writes this gospel story. And tradition has also held that because he reclined next to Jesus at that last supper, he rested his head on his teacher's breast and he heard the very heartbeat of God.

The call of this night, this time of remembrance and our own breaking of the bread, sharing of the cup, and kneeling before one another as we wash feet, is to listen ourselves for the heartbeat of God. It can be heard, moment to moment, if we choose to listen for it in love.

Jesus asked his friends to keep breaking bread together and keep washing feet in remembrance of him not so that they could try to preserve that last night together, but so that they might continue to listen for the beating heart of God's love in and through their lives.

May we hear this beating heart of God as the story of this week unfolds and, even more, as we listen our way into our lives.

all hail

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Lent 6 – Becoming Human: Shaped by Worship

Gospel text: Matthew 21:1-11

Eric Massanari

“all hail”

. . . at the name of Jesus

every knee should bend,

in heaven and on earth

and under the earth,

and every tongue should confess

that Jesus Christ is Lord

to the glory of God

who is our Father/who is our Mother.

When I hear those words

from the Christ hymn of Philippians,

especially alongside the story of Jesus'

final procession into the city of Jerusalem,

I think of a hymn we often

sang in my childhood church,

“All hail the power of Jesus' name.”

[sing WB#106, v.1]

The hymn has the tone of a march,

and this particular musical setting

bears the name CORONATION—

the ritual act of placing

a crown on the head of someone

who has ascended to the highest office,

such as the throne of a king or queen.

This hymn also appears in our hymnal

with another musical setting (see WB#285).

This is the one I recall singing most often

in my home church, with the women's and men's

voices breaking off in different directions

in the third and fourth stanzas.

This, too, has a march-like quality to it,

suggesting a royal parade or procession.

The name of this musical setting is DIADEM,

which means a crown or royal headband.

All hail the power of Jesus' name!

To hail in this sense means to venerate,

to reverence, to salute someone

who has ascended to a position

of esteem, power and authority.

In Jesus' time it was used as an address

to honor the Emperor: “Hail, Caesar!”

In mid-20^th century Germany it

was the address and salute of Nazi's

when they greated one another: “Heil, Hitler!”

In our own nation it is the piece

of music played when our president

is about to make a formal address:

“Hail to the Chief.”

Or, if one is in England,

“Hail, all hail the queen.”

It is the formal way to address

rulers and royalty.

I noticed that on the cover of Newsweek magazine

this week there is a close-up photo

of the face of Catherine Elizabeth Middleton,

who will soon marry William Arthur Philip Louis Windsor,

the son of Prince Charles and Diana,

the grandson of the Queen of England.

The cover of the magazine read:

Kate the Great: In a world gone to hell—thank God, a wedding

Thank God!

Something elegant, something extravagant,

and exquisite to lift us all above the fray

and take our minds off the mess

that the world seems to be in right now.

What a relief! A royal wedding!

Royalty seems to have that effect on us.

There is something about it

that seems other-than, apart-from,

and in some way immune to the

blood, sweat and tears so many live by.

Royalty represents the possibility of a great escape.

So, what kind of king is Jesus?

So, what does it mean to hail him?

And why would we bend at the knee,

literally or figuratively,

or shout a loud hail or hosanna,

merely at the mention of his name?

When he enters the royal city

of his ancestors he seems a very strange king!

Instead of the rich and famous and powerful

placing him on a throne of glory,

he is welcomed to the city by the ordinary folk,

who put their tunics on the ground in honor of him.

Instead of a war horse, he sits on a donkey.

Instead of regal clothing or a crown,

he winds up naked and with thorns on his head.

Rather than ascend, he seems to descend.

Rather than seize power, he appears to abdicate it,

Jesus, as king, may have a great lineage,

but his path is the inverse of his ancestor David.

There is no great escape here,

no lifting the people above the fray

and the pain of life—Jesus moves directly into it.

As he enters the city, the people cry,

“Hosanna to the Son of David!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Perhaps the sentiments of the moment

are something akin to that Newsweek cover;

“Here comes royalty!

Here comes someone

who will lift us above this mess.

A king, a ruler, a prophet

with the power to save.”

We might remember what happens

immediately after Jesus enters the

city according to Matthew;

amidst all of the accolades

he heads directly to the temple mount,

enters the temple,

and proceeds to literally turn the tables

on the moneychangers and shopkeepers

who have set up their businesses there.

It is not relief Jesus is bringing

to the royal city of David.

As it has always been throughout

his preaching, teaching, healing work,

it is revelation and remembrance

of something that has been forgotten and lost.

“Remember whose house this temple is!

Remember the purpose for which it was made.

Remember whose you are!

Remember the purpose for which you were made.”

For some, such truth-telling and remembrance

brings relief, while for others is elicits fear

and resentment and violent reaction.

If the people are wanting to elevate Jesus

above their own circumstances and troubles,

Jesus will have nothing to do with it.

If they are wanting a ruler who will

sit in majesty above the fray

and handle things from a safe distance,

he refuses such a role.

However, in the story world of Matthew,

this has yet to be fully revealed to them.

They have yet to see where this royal road

covered in tunics and leafy branches ultimately leads.

Matthew knows.

So does Paul when he describes Jesus as the one

who, though he was in the form of God,

did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,

being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,

he humbled himself

and became obedient to the point of death—

even death on a cross.

This, according to the Apostle Paul,

is the reason for “hailing” or bowing to Christ.

And what's more,

Paul begins this statement by saying:

Let this very same mind of Christ,

be your mind.

We honor Christ not because he embodies an exclusive truth, a truth that pertains only to him. We bow to Christ because he reveals the most inclusive of truths, the truth we have forgotten or lost sight of within us and between us as an earth community, that the very elements of our being and the whole universe come directly from God's being.

- from J. Philip Newell, Christ of the Celts: The Healing of Creation

We reverence Christ,

because of the way

he causes us to remember

the truth of who we are

and the holy temple that the world is.

What the church today needs

(and what the world needs from the church)

is not a higher and more distant view of Christ,

but a much more grounded, earthy vision of Christ,

the one who helps us remember the truth of who we are:

That we are made of God and for God;

that our mind can be the mind of Christ.

This world – from palm branches,

to the earth beneath our feet,

to the air that fills each breath,

is made of God

and for God.

And from the beginning

God has called this “good.”

All hail Christ,

who recalls in us

that goodness,

and calls out of us

the transforming love

that is the very heart

of the one whom we hail and follow. AMEN

undefended

Contemplation is simply trying to face life in a truly undefended and open-eyed way.
- Gerald May

Though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil;
for You are with me.
- Psalm 23:4

If we choose to pay attention, there are many signs that will tell us our defenses have been raised: a tightness in the gut, a racing heart beat, narrowed vision, shallow breaths, tightened muscles. The warning signs that tell us it would be unwise to walk down a particular alleyway in the middle of the night are some of the same signals we get when someone we are talking to has just pressed our buttons or wounded our pride. We get ready to do what we must to defend ourselves and seek safety in the face of a perceived threat.

Other signs I've observed in myself in situations where I've grown defensive include feelings of impatience, a diminished capacity to listen openly and ask questions, along with a corresponding tendency to interrupt, preempt, and provide answers. In those moments when I have chosen to become thoroughly hooked, it can be exceedingly difficult to "face life in a truly undefended and open-eyed way."

The challenge to live with a contemplative presence - with open eyes to see, an open heart to love, an open mind to understand, and open hands to serve - lies not only in those moments when the hackles stand on end, however. There are also all those engagements and encounters in our daily round that we come to with just the slightest amount of caution and wariness, just enough to cause us to hedge our bets a bit, and perhaps greet someone with diminished receptivity.

We remember what they said last time we were together and how we felt frustrated or hurt. We recall something we heard second hand about this person that has now colored our impression of them. We assume that this meeting we're about to attend will be just like the last one. We want to be prepared for all contingencies so we enter a new experience with our mental notes and outlines at the ready and our expectations firmly in place. For some of us things get so twisted around that we even expend energy defending ourselves against ourselves: "I can't trust myself when I'm with those people," "I'm afraid of what I will say if I see her again," and so on.

In these and many other ways we live our well-defended lives.

A contemplative way of living is a risky way because it means a willingness to be exposed to life in all of its fullness. It means being willing to feel our own joy and our own pain in full. It means being willing to witness and be present to the pain of others, just as much as we are willing to witness and partake of their joy. It means knowing that on the deepest level of our existence, the pain and joy of the other is our own. In this awareness of unity, compassion grows.

Contemplative living honors this unity of life, and at the same time values its diversity of expression. Each moment and experience is a unique doorway into life, and each person we encounter - whether it is a spouse or friend we relate to for years, someone we are meeting for the first time, or an adversary we go out of our way to avoid - bears the bright spark of Life and has a profound capacity to receive and share love in ways no one else can. To live with this awareness is to live with curiosity and to be surprised by wonder on a regular basis.

My defenses reveal to me something about my fears and what I am choosing to cling to in life. It isn't helpful to get down on myself for such things or to somehow try and root these patterns out and destroy them, as if that were even possible. Our fears are dispelled and released only in the light of our loving attention which is, in the end, a part of the very Light of God's own being. In those moments we grow defensive it can be a powerful thing to simply pause long enough to be aware we are getting defensive. Sounds simple, but it is work - holy work! We notice it and we might ask ourselves a question as simple as it is transforming: "What is it I am trying to defend here?" Or even, "What am I afraid of in this moment?"

The light of such attention is essentially practicing the contemplative vision within our own being. By doing this we transform the way we see and live our way into the world.

getting over the habit of judging people

It often happens so easily, so rapidly - as long as it takes for my gaze to rest on something or someone and deem it/them good or bad, appealing or unappealing. And it happens so often in our lives that it becomes habitual; it happens without our even realizing it has happened and without even recognizing how it shapes the choices that follow. Judgment happens. However, it seems that when we bring a mindful awareness to the moment at hand we can catch ourselves in the act of judgment, and we can choose not to judge. This releasing, too, can become habitual.

A story told by Theophane the Monk in his book Tales of the Magic Monastery:

I asked an old monk, "How do I get over the habit of judging people?"

He answered, "When I was your age, I was wondering where would be the best place to go to pray. Well, I asked Jesus that question. His answer was, "Why don't you go into the heart of my Father?" So I did. I went into the heart of the Father, and all these years that's where I've prayed. Now I see everyone as my own child. How can I judge anyone?"

are you willing to be a beginner?

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Lent 2: Becoming Human: Shaped by New Birth

Text: John 3:1-17

Eric Massanari

“are you willing to be a beginner?”

Nicodemus the Pharisee appears three times in

in the gospel of John, and this is the only

gospel in which we meet him.

The second time he appears on stage

he is with a group of Jewish leaders,

and he will plead to his brethren

for a fair treatment of Jesus. (John 7:50-52)

The third appearance is at the very end of the gospel where

Nicodemus will help prepare Jesus' body for burial. (John 19:38-42)

In this first appearance he is alone, and it is night.

And in his conversation with Jesus we find

what have become fundamental expressions of Christian faith:

You must be born from above.

[or, more popularly stated: “you must be born again”]

and

For God so loved the world that God gave

her only begotten son, that whosoever believes

in him will not perish but will have eternal life.

These messages to Nicodemus have been

repeated so often through the centuries,

given so many layers of meaning,

and, in some cases, been so fervently grasped,

that it might be difficult for us to really hear what it is

Jesus is saying to his nocturnal visitor.

So, I want to change the language of Jesus' words just a bit,

hopefully in a way that stays true to his message.

I would suggest that at the heart of Jesus'

message to Nicodemus is this question:

“Nicodemus, are you willing to be a beginner?”

Notice that Nicodemus' first words to Jesus are not a question

but an answer, a defining statement about Jesus:

“Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God,

for no one can do the things you do apart from God.”

Notice the language of “we.”

“We know.”

It's the language of experts, the language that

we sometimes use when we want to assert authority

and show that we know something important.

We appeal to a collective authority

who agrees with and backs up whatever it is we are asserting.

“Well, you know, they say that . . .”

“We are all in agreement that . . .”

“I think I can speak for everyone here that . . .”

Nicodemus apparently thinks he has Jesus figured out.

Ane yet, here he is, at night, apparently

still needing to check his answers

and see if they are indeed correct.

Something in him seems to be curious.

As usual, Jesus is not terribly direct.

And his response may amount to something like:

Nicodemus, are you willing to be a beginner?

Are you able to allow God to begin something new within you?

And what will it cost you to be a beginner again?

What will you have to let go of?

It is not a simple thing to be a beginner.

Certainly not in an age and culture such as ours

that celebrates exemplary achievement,

well-practiced productivity, and knowledgeable authority.

We elevate the ones who have the answers.

To be a beginner is not celebrated.

One is not supposed to linger long in beginner status.

And the Christianity that has

taken shape in this age and culture bears its imprint.

We have a difficult time admitting

that we may not have it all right,

that we still ask questions in the night,

that we stand before the mystery of our faith,

that we have much to learn from those who are different.

We are impatient to get it figured out,

and eager to be sure we have it right.

It's a crazy and mixed up world and

it feels much better when we think

we've got a handle on things.

And Jesus would likely ask many of us in the church today

the same thing he appears to have asked

the well-meaning, earnest, faithful Pharisee

who wanted to double-check his answers

and see if they were correct.

Are you willing to be a beginner?

What will it cost you to be a beginner?

What choice will we make now?

During a morning news report covering the aftermath of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, the reporter remarked that in Japanese culture it is not typical to ask "Why?" when something like this happens.

"Why is there such devastation?"

"Why is there so much death and loss?"

"Why do so many innocent ones suffer?"

These are the sorts of questions we often raise in the West, he noted. Tragedy tends to violate our sense of justice and the life we may assume we have a right to. The Japanese, on the other hand, perhaps in part because of the influence of Shintoism and Buddhism, tend to ask instead: "How will we respond now that this terrible tragedy has happened?"

There is grief and lament, to be sure. There is agony felt in the terrible losses that have been suffered. Yet, somehow there is also the impulse to bring attention to the present and to the choices one must make now in response. How will we make the healthiest and most life-giving choices now, given what has already transpired?

There is great wisdom in this response. The response of the Japanese people in these days of suffering is a gift to those of us who bear witness to their pain and loss. We ask ourselves "What can I do to help?" Along with joining efforts to ease their suffering, one thing we might do is follow their example in our own daily living.