cut to the chase

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Texts: Hebrews 4:12-16, Mark 10:17-27

Eric Massanari

“cut to the chase”

These two readings

fit well together.

First, there's Paul's description of the

Word of God being “sharper than

a double-edged sword,”

separating truth from falsehood,

pretenses from authenticity,

fluff from the heart of the matter.

And then we have this gospel story

in which Jesus speaks the sharp-edged word,

slicing to the very heart of things

as he visits with this eager, wealthy man.

Listen again to the beginning of their conversation:

Good Teacher, what must I do

to inherit eternal life?

A hint of flattery in the address,

and then a fairly bold and direct question.

I want nothing less than

the kingdom of God,

so what do I have to do to get it?

And then a surprising and direct response:

Good? Why do you call me good?

There's no one good but God alone.

Jesus sees to the heart of things,

and sees that here is a man who longs to be good.

The rich man is a good man.

We can imagine he

has done many good things

in addition to faithfully fulfilling

the Ten Commandments of his faith.

He has probably been rewarded for his goodness

time and time again through his life.

He has been praised for being good,

probably by many good teachers.

Isn't that good?

Perhaps he wants

yet one more teacher—Jesus—

to assure him that

this is true: he is good.

And just in case there is

something else he should

be doing to make his good even better

in the eyes of others and in the eyes of God,

then he wants to know what it is

so he can do that too.

I picture the rich man in a cub scout uniform,

loaded up with colorful merit badges--

all the goodness projects that have been

undertaken, accomplished, approved and rewarded.

I picture him as a good Mennonite

young man from an upstanding

upper-middle-class Mennonite home

in Hesston, Newton, Goshen or Lancaster Co., PA...

Baptized at 14. Talented.

Popular among his peers,

and up for a good time,

just not the sort of “good time”

that might bring frowns, disfavor,

or the interest of the police.

He volunteered in community programs,

was organizer for his church youth group,

and even led worship before the age of 18.

He was reminded of his goodness

by family, and teachers and peers

before going off to college at a good school,

where he did a really good job,

and did some further studies at

another good school and then

embarked on a good, high-paying career—

which is, of course, a good thing.

The doors of the world opened to his goodness—

or at least so he thought,

because how could he be expected

to perceive that all of the standards

of goodness and success that he met

were prepared by and for

people just like him?

People with,

skin color like him,

gender like him,

money and resources like him,

social connections like him.

All this worked for him.

And life around him confirmed his goodness.

So why on earth would he not assume

that faith must be about

being good and getting even better?

Then, what comes next in this story?

We are told this one very simple

and very clear fact:

Jesus looked at the rich man

and he loved him.

I believe these words may hold

the sharpest edge of this story.

Jesus looks at the young man

and loves him.

He does not damn him.

He does not condemn him.

He loves him.

And he loves him enough

to offer him the very thing

he is asking for—a rather direct

course of action for inheriting

the kingdom of God he longs for.

Go.

Sell all.

Give everything away.

Then come, follow me.

Jesus cuts to the chase,

and the rich man is cut to the heart.

He has just heard the call

and claim of the gospel on his life,

and it turns his world inside out

in a way he cannot yet accept.

I like to imagine him, in time,

taking the plunge,

and fully surrendering himself

to this path.

Jesus takes him right to the edge,

and the next step must be his to take.

This is the power of the gospel of Love.

It invites us to this place of honest revelation

but the next step always remains ours

in total freedom.

This last week I came across a back-issue

of the Bethel Collegian newspaper.

In it I found an editorial written by

Jennifer Scott, a junior social-work major

and native of Newton.

Jennifer entitled her piece something like,

“Relationships Over Resumes,”

and that's what initially caught my attention.

Jennifer recounted her high school years

and all the effort she put into assembling

a stellar resume that would

impress college admissions staff.

She had her own agenda for goodness,

and was banking on that goodness

being rewarded with admission

and scholarships to college.

So, when the opportunity came

to visit a resident of Kidron Bethel Village

as part of a special teen visitation program,

she jumped at the opportunity

knowing that it sure would look good

on her resume.

As those visits continued,

her relationship with that elder deepened,

and she realized how much she

was receiving from that woman.

It had grown into a mutually

caring and transforming relationship.

A marvelous education in and of itself.

She said that she learned from the experience

that relationships are far more important

than seeking success or notoriety for oneself.

Loving relationship trumps self-interest every time.

I sense Jesus calls the rich man

to a similar path of learning,

and transformation.

However, to find the transformation

that he is seeking, he is asked

to first open his clenched hands

that hold tightly to his riches,

and to the assurance of his

own goodness and worthiness

that his wealth has brought him.

It is a disquieting story to all

of us who have much,

more than enough,

and wish for more.

The gospel of Christ's love

is not a merit-based,

reward and punishment system.

It is not to be recognized in

this world by its success, or wealth,

or power or privilege.

In fact, it is more often revealed

in bold and radical acts of letting

go of such things.

There is no spiritual merit badge

that we must earn with our goodness.

There is nothing we must do,

to inherit eternal life.

There is no amount of wealth of any kind

that will purchase greater presence

or deeper love from God.

And material wealth is not a sign

of God's special blessing or favor.

The living and active

and double-edged word of God

in Christ leads us to that same

place where it led the rich man,

to the realization that what we

most long for and seek,

is standing right before us.

It has already been given.

The kingdom is already within you.

Eternal life and love are already among us.

The sharp-edged word of the gospel

will keep leading us to this awareness

even though we seem to keep

doing all we can to keep the focus

on our own selves,

our own efforts,

our own stuff,

that we try to squeeze through the needle's eye.

Gratefully, with God,

all things are possible.

Amen.

insight

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Worldwide Communion Sunday

Text: John 9:1-11

Eric Massanari

“insight”

If I were asked to compose a title

for this story in the gospel of John,

I think it would be something like:

      Those who can't see, do.

      Those who can see, don't.

Or, perhaps I would borrow

a choice phrase from the

poet, e.e. cummings, and call it:

      When the eyes of our eyes are opened.

This is a story about sight.

It is only partly about

seeing with the eyes in our heads.

That vision is a supreme gift,

one that is easy to take for granted

as long as we are able to see,

and do not have our vision inhibited

by injury or illness or age.

The blind man in this story is utterly blind,

and we are told he has been so from birth.

So, when Jesus makes the mud,

and spreads it on his eyes,

and then he goes to wash

in the pool at Siloam,

and then he sees,

it is a wondrous thing.

But as this story unfolds you begin

to get the sense that it isn't

just about that kind of seeing,

and that there may be other

varieties of blindness.

We see another sort of blindness
right at the beginning of the story
when the disciples ask Jesus:

Teacher, who sinned, this man or his parents,

that this he was born blind?

Who sinned?

Who is to blame?

They're looking at the man and their world

with a fault-finding vision.

If there is hurt, or suffering or brokenness,

there must be someone to blame, right?

It is a particular kind of blindness

that needs to ascribe blame

to someone or something out there

for the pain or disquiet we feel in here.

We meet more blind people in this story

when the healed man returns from

the Pool of Siloam and rejoins his neighbors.

Who is this man? They ask.

Surely this isn't the blind guy

that we've walked past all these years.

No, it's probably just a man who looks like him.

They have been able to see this man

only through the obscured vision

of judgment and shame.

Perhaps they've seen him as

too crippled and weak to be worthy

of their attention. Or, perhaps they

have felt ashamed by his presence

and their own unwillingness to

acknowledge him fully as a neighbor.

And this shame and guilt has turned their

gaze away from who he truly is.

Whatever it may be, they too are blind.

The healing of this man

reveals the blindness

in the world all around him.

He is surrounded by people who see with their eyes,

but have no insight.

Insight has been described as

“seeing with the eyes of the heart.”

It is vision that remains open,

curious, and teachable.

It means seeing with a desire

for understanding that which

may dwell below first appearances

and the surface of things.

Our patterns of blaming,

shaming, fearing, and judging,

diminish our capacity to

see one another and our world

in any sort of open, loving way.

One of the greatest gifts you can give the world,

is learning how to identify these patterns in yourself.

To notice them in a way

that doesn't turn the

blame, shame and judgment

back in on your own being

but simply sees that yes, indeed,

you, too, have these patterns

and can choose not to act them out.

We can each choose to nurture insight,

to practice seeing ourselves and

the people and the world around us

in a way that seeks deeper understanding,

that remains curious and open.

This is what allows love to flow.

This is what Jesus repeatedly asked people to do,

to recognize their own blindness.

He didn't shame them into it.

He didn't damn them for it.

He did challenge them to become honest enough,

and uncomfortable and disturbed enough to let it go.

The meal we are about to eat together,

the Lord's Supper,

is a nourishing meal.

It is not meant to nourish so much

our physical bodies—certainly not in

the way the delicious potluck food

will in just a little while!

This is nourishment for

the body that we are

when our lives are joined by love.

This is nourishment for

that deeper sight--for insight.

Jesus offers a loaf of bread,

and a cup of wine,

to help people see differently.

To see the world differently,

and to see one another differently.

To come to this table with

our sisters and brothers,

and on this special day

with people all around the world,

is to be invited to let the

scales fall from our eyes—

scales of blame, shame, fear, guilt, judgment.

If you desire to see deeper,

to live with greater love,

then come to this table

with others who seek the same.

We are not the perfect.

We are the wounded,

the broken,

the gifted,

and the beautiful.

May the eyes of our eyes be opened at this table of our Lord. Amen

the riches of an autumn morning

Gold:
first light
on cottonwood leaves,
wet with dew.

Rubies:
topmost branches
of maple tree,
bleeding summer.

Silver:
whispered globes
of dandelion seeds,
waiting for wind.

Ivory:
gentle face
of silent friend,
turned toward sunrise.

All riches needed,
here,
now.

All riches desired,
for now,
forgotten.

a joyful limp

Tattered butterfly:
monarch of the holey wings.
We limp joyfully!

 

faith by subtraction

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, July 12, 2012

Texts: John 6 and 1 Kings 19

Eric Massanari

“faith by subtraction”

...and after the great wind...

after the earthquake...

after the fire...

came the sound of sheer silence. (from 1 Kings 19)

There is a sound to “sheer silence”—

a sometimes deafening sound.

It is the sound of a whirlwind of thoughts

blowing through our busy minds.

It is the sound of a roaring storm of emotions

gripping our hearts.

It is the rattling sound of fears

quaking in the hollows of our guts.

It is the crackling sound

of our carefully-assembled answers

burning up in the face of wonder and mystery.

We are often quite deaf to this sound—

the sound of sheer silence—

and to the Voice that is able to speak there.

We live with the volume turned up—

way, way up—elsewhere in this life.

So it is difficult to hear the silence,

to venture into the place where we are led to face

into the truth of our lives.

All this is understandable, since

hearing the sound of sheer silence

can be disturbing, unsettling,

and transforming.

It can feel easier, more secure, to stand in the

noisy and careless places of our certainty,

and our personal agendas for contentment,

than to venture out to the mouth of the cave with Elijah

where our answers are flipped into questions,

our fullness to emptiness,

our knowing to not-knowing.

Who wants to go there?

Elijah did not want to go there.

He went into the arid silence of the desert

only because he was fleeing for his life.

He was despairing.

He was hiding out.

He was ready for life to end

because life as he knew it and come to an end.

In the cave,

after the wind-storm,

after an earthquake,

after a fiery conflagration,

only then,

in the stillness that followed,

the sheer silence finds Elijah.

And he steps out into a place

no security,

no assurance,

no power,

no hope,

no faith.

Nothing.

Nada.

Nothing,

and at once,

everything.

Emptiness,

and at once,

fullness.

I hear the sound of sheer silence in the gospel story, too,

though it may not appear quite as obvious.

You can see people in this story avoiding it,

avoiding the place of mystery and uncertainty,

and preferring to remain in the place

of their own comfortable answers and agendas.

The Jewish leaders have pegged Jesus

as the son of Mary and Joseph of Nazareth.

How dare he speak of being

nourishing “bread from God.”

Preposterous!

Jesus own disciples struggle with this teaching.

It is a hard, confusing teaching.

Much different than any of them would

expect from the Messiah.

For some it is too much;

they take their leave.

Others, however, are willing to continue

onto this uncertain ground where

this strange teacher keeps asking

them to let go of yet one more

explanation, one more answer

that they thought was iron-clad.

Much like Elijah,

they step to the edge,

and wait, and listen.

Accepting that for the time being

there is no certainty,

no security,

no assurance,

no power,

no hope,

no faith.

Nothing.

Nada.

At least not in the sense that they once knew.

The people in these stories

are being challenged to let go

in order to find that which

they are most deeply searching for.

To find faith by subtraction.

In realm of religion,

particularly Christian religion,

and particularly in flavors

of Christianity that have emerged

in the West over the centuries,

we tend to think more about

faith as something that comes by addition:

faith is learned,

it is inspired,

it is taught,

it is brought by people of faith

to those who do not have it.

And when doubts are experienced,

we reach for the right input to assuage them.

We encounter someone facing deep doubts

so we offer a book, an article,

a new practice,

in the hopes it will add something that

wasn't there before and take care of the doubt.

We in the West place a high value

on information and knowledge

and being able to articulate and

convey faith through words.

There is a gift in this.

There is also liability.

Our words, our answers,

our explanations that we assemble in faith

can give us the misperception

that we actually possess the answers!

Our explanations about God

become barriers to true experience.

Our conceptions start getting

in the way of meaningful enounter.

We forget sometimes that

at the heart of things

we, like everyone else,

must humbly admit to what we do not know.

We, too, must honor the sound of sheer silence.

St. Thomas Aquinas, one of the most revered

(and wordy) theologians in Christian history,

wrote these words in the introduction

to his master work, Summa Theologica:

Since we cannot know what God is, but only what God is not,

we cannot consider how God is but only how He is not.

Elsewhere, Thomas adds:

This is what is ultimate in the human knowledge of God—

to know that we do not know God.

Thomas' method was referred to as the via negativa, “negative way.”

Another name it has been given in Christian theology

is apophatic theology, from the Greek word apophasis, “to deny.”

The apophatic tradition in Christianity

has never been the dominant one in the West.

But it has always existed as a corrective

alongside the dominant current of theology

that is quick to assert who and what God is.

God is Love.

God is Father.

God is Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

God is healer, justice-maker, Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer.

Yes.

And no, would say the apophatic way.

Such statements remain our own names and therefore

they, at best, speak only in part about that which

remains beyond our grasp or understanding.

Our names become boxes and blocks.

We see a sparrow and we say, “look another sparrow”

and we do not see that this sparrow is unlike any other.

We live with our conception rather than the reality.

We say “God is Father” or “God is Creator”

and we start to get stuck in the name or conception

rather than what is.

The via negativa or apophatic way

would say that the path towards God

is also one on which such names and conceptions

must be released—we may need to be emptied

of such things to come to deeper understanding and experience.

We must be willing to accept the sound of sheer silence

of our own limited perception and understanding.

God is not attained by a process of addition

to anything in the soul,

but by a process of subtraction.

Meister Eckhart

As soon as I understood

(even to a limited degree)

that this is G-d's world

I began to lose weight immediately...

Leonard Cohen

Even the name we so often use, “God,” remains a conept.

The Jewish tradition has long honored this

by maintaining that the truest name

is, in the end, unspeakable

by human tongue or mind.

It is possible to practice

this unweighting,

this path of subtraction.

It can take the form of contemplative prayer

and meditation which invites one to repeatedly

step out to the mouth of the cave with Elijah

to dwell in the sheer silence.

However, quite often we do not learn this by choice;

we are led onto the via negativa

by the circumstances of life:

encounters with numinosity and wonder,

or by challenges we face into,

or by great losses, suffering and grief.

Sometimes life itself awakens us

to the reality of ultimate mystery

and all we do not know.

C.S. Lewis, another theologian of the West

who had many words to say about God

as an apologist for the Christian faith,

said that he had never had any doubts about

the after-life, people living beyond death.

That was, until his wife died.

When she died he had to admit

he was no longer certain.

He likened the certainty of faith he had held to a rope.

It's like a rope. Someone says to you,

'Would your rope bear the weight of one hundred and twenty pounds?'

'Yes.'

'Okay, well we're going to let down your best friend on this rope.'

Suddenly, now you're not so sure about that rope.

During this time of deep grief,

Lewis wrote in his diary that

we cannot know anything about God,

and even our questions about God

are on some basic level absurd.

We've been programed to think of this as a horrible place to be—

this place of nada, nothing.

Someone get that fellow some choice passages of scripture,

a good theologian or pastor, someone to shore up his flagging faith!

I've been that one called in on the emergency,

to give some word, some prayer,

some explanation for the unexplainable.

And sometimes I've made the mistake

of offering a very feeble and frayed rope for rescue.

When, in the end, what is most needed

is standing together in the disturbing, transforming silence,

listening with hearts that have been broken open.

I've come to believe that this may be the place

where we move closest to that which we call God,

and when faith emerges through subtraction.

At the mouth of the cave

on the side of the mountain where

there is no certainty,

no security,

no assurance,

no power,

no hope,

no faith.

Nothing.

Nada.

Here is where we hear the sound

of sheer silence,

and then,

perhaps,

a voice,

a still, small voice.

this way

There is a Way
     over untraveled ground.

     To go this Way
          is to come home.

          To find this Way
               is to get lost.

               To begin this Way
                    is to come to the end.

                    To survive this Way
                         it's best to take nothing.

               Presumptive guides
                    will try to sell you maps.

          They will say ridiculous things
               like, "Safe travels!"

     And direct you to neon avenues
          with a grin and a wave.

True guides will wait
     to celebrate your foolish steps!

crazy, jumping spider

I open my eyes from meditation and my gaze is immediately drawn to movement on the windowsill in front of me. Wild, spinning movement. An insect? Some spastic fly?

It pauses long enough for me to discover that it's a spider. Then it breaks into its wild dance again: hopping inches into the air, spinning, hitting the window, running along the sill, leaping back into the air. Was that a somersault? I'm starting to laugh at the hip-hop arachnid, assuming this to be some joyful celebration of the sunrise, when it leaps one final time, lands on its back and is still.

It's legs slowly curl into its body, never to move again.

Was this a dance of ecstasy? Of agony?

an offering

This cottonwood tree
offers herself to the wind.
Her whisper, Your word.