In the gospel of Luke Chapter 15 Jesus cautions against self-righteousness in  three parables.  Each portrays God as welcoming what was lost and is found, which symbolize people the righteous would shun as sinners.  Jesus lives this value in his ministry, teaching and working amongst the outcasts of his day – lepers, Samaritans, and tax collectors.  Of course, the righteous criticized him for  doing this, and that is what prompted these three parables. 

The first two parables - the lost sheep and the lost coin - are pretty straightforward and not as challenging as the third.  That may be because in the third, the parable of the Prodigal Son, we’re talking about people who act in selfish or resentful ways, as most of us do at times. That means it can cut close to home, and make us uncomfortable. 

We probably don't often act as selfishly as the Prodigal Son does.  To understand just how selfish the Prodigal Son acts, you have to understand the culture of the times.  Then, as now, you could not inherit until someone had died.  When he asks for his inheritance when his father is still alive, he is disrespecting his father, in a big way.  He’s basically saying, “You are dead to me.”  This must have been heartbreaking to his father, who in all his actions shows himself to be an unusually loving and forgiving person.  His father does as his son asks, and his son takes off.

 To understand the rest of the story, you have to know how shamefully the Prodigal Son acts in the view of his time.  He quickly loses all his money to Gentiles.  At the time, when a Jewish person to lose money to Gentiles it brought shame upon a person’s family and even onto his village.  In the story the degradation shows in the young man taking a job working for Gentiles, who are raising pigs, because pigs are considered unclean under Jewish law.  And then not only does he work with pigs, he actually wants to take their food. 

 He is so degraded, it’s hard to imagine something similar in our society. Finally he hits rock bottom and decides to go back and throw himself on his father’s mercy.  We don’t know if he has truly repented – the fact that he comes up with a speech which he repeats to his father suggests perhaps he has not.  This does not seem to matter to his father. What matters is that his son is alive and has returned to him.

Imagine someone you love engaging in the worst, most shameful behavior you can imagine, and then returning to you.  How would you respond? Earlier I mentioned that the Prodigal Son brought shame on both his family and his village. Alyce McKenzie says that at the time if such a person tried to return to the village, the village would perform a ceremony called “gesasah” – the people, including the family, would surround the person, break jars full of grain, and declare this person cut off from the village.  In the normal course of things back then, the Prodigal Son would be shunned, cast out. That's what the people hearing Jesus tell this story would have expected.

Knowing this, you start to see that having a celebration to welcome back his son, is a highly unusual way for a father to respond.  Shocking, even - it would have been shocking to those who first heard this story. Running out to meet his son is unusual – it would be considered humiliating for a dignified family man to do such a thing (even today, in some places).  Alyce McKenzie suggests the he runs out to greet his son in order to protect him from that terrible casting-out ceremony.  He sets aside his own dignity to save his son.

The story of how the father welcomes the prodigal son would  have seemed so outrageous as to be unbelievable to the people of Jesus' time.  Be telling this story, Jesus is saying that God's love and mercy is even further beyond our human comprehension because the father in this story represents the grace and love of God.   In a reading from last week Isaiah says, speaking for God, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways… For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” 

Recall that what provoked these three parables was the righteous criticizing Jesus for going about with people they condemned as unclean or as sinners.  In the story of the Prodigal Son, the older brother represents this point of view.  Those who criticize Jesus are acting like the older brother. And here is the tough part of that story – Divine grace and love can provoke resentment among those who consider themselves to be righteous. Have you ever felt that sort of righteous indignation, that sort of resentment?  I have.

Resentment is a painful feeling.  There is a saying today that resentment is a poison you drink hoping the other person will die.  It does not hurt the other person as much as it hurts you – it harms your heart and your spirit.  Because we can easily fall into this feeling of righteous resentment, it’s important to consider how the loving father acts toward the older son when that son pours out his bitterness and resentment.  

The father acts in a loving and kind way – saying that all he has belongs to this son, who will always be with him.  He responds in a compassionate, grace-filled manner.  Clearly he wants the older son to join in the party, to set aside his own resentment.  After all, the cause of celebration is that the Prodigal Son has come to himself, turned around, confessed and been forgiven.  He who was thought to be dead has come back to life. 

The older son has some valid points- why no celebration for his years of righteousness?  We don't know whether or not the father sees that point, and realizes he should celebrate his elder son's faithfulness.  We don't know if he does that but given that he is a good father, we can guess that he would.  We don’t know whether the older son will overcome his resentment and join in the celebration.  What would it take for love to overcome resentment and the wish for fairness?  

It seems there are two different messages for two different target audiences in the familiar story of the Prodigal Son.  The first message is aimed at the righteous – and the message is to practice humility, and to free ourselves from the terrible burden of resentment by forgiving, by practicing compassion.  

The second message is geared towards the unrighteous (who were also listening to this story). This message is that incomprehensible grace and forgiveness are there for the taking and follow us everywhere.  When we turn and accept grace and forgiveness, they free us from the terrible burdens of shame and guilt.  The common message is that there are ways to free ourselves of spiritual burdens, and both have to do with loving grace.  

Scholar Paul Myhre says that grace always comes first.  He says it is grace the prompts us to repent, resolving to turn and walk the other way. This means the grace was there when the Prodigal Son “came to himself,” and returned to his home.  The three parables tell us that even if we are lost, or have turned our backs and left, the grace is there anyway – for both the righteous and the unrighteous. As unfair as that may seem to the righteous, there it is.  

Grace is what helps the righteous release resentment  Grace comes first, and because it frees us I believe this means we are always, potentially, free.   It is up to us.  Will we turn to it, confess our errors and repent, returning to a home where we are loved and forgiven?   Will those who always were home turn to grace, using it to forgive so we can then join in the celebration?  Either way, the message of the gospel is that freedom is available to us through grace.  So come, let us join the banquet.  Let us return home.

 We all know that terrible things happen in this world.  Last December we witnessed violence against innocent children and their teachers.  Almost every day we hear of terrorism and of political upheavals. We know the suffering caused by racism and other types of prejudice.  We see people harmed by natural disasters.   We know the realities of poverty, famine, disease.  

Those are large, global tragedies, but  we all know that terrible things can happen in our own lives.  Some of us may experience violence in our own neighborhoods, even in our own homes.  Some of us may have been the victims of racism, political oppression or terrorism. We may have suffered as the result of natural disasters, poverty, famine, and disease.  Terrible things can happen no matter how good you are, no matter how faithful, no matter how hard you pray.  This can lead some of us to doubt and to despair.  What are we to make of this?  How do we cope with this reality in our spiritual and religious lives?

Here are two scripture readings that address these questions, two of the readings for March 3rd, 2013.

Isaiah 55:1-13
Luke 13:1-9

This gospel reading begins with people telling Jesus about a terrible event - some Galileans put to death in an atrocious way.  The people who told Jesus about this were probably seeking comfort.  Judging my Jesus' response, it seems they had already comforted themselves by saying, “Those Galileans must have done something bad, so God let this bad thing happen We are good.  Nothing like that could happen to us.” 

This is an old idea rooted in the ancient covenant (a set of promises) that God established with Jewish people. Basically, if they followed the rules, God would protect and provide for them.  If they didn’t, all bets were off.  This was a satisfying theology so long as things went well - it meant they were good and righteous.   

But then disaster struck.  Foreign powers defeated them, destroyed the temple and forced Jewish leaders to go live in Babylon.  They had to live among the very people who had ruined their holy of holies, the very people who had killed their sons, brothers, fathers.  Given the belief in that covenant, people began to question whether they had done something wrong, to deserve such a tragedy.  It is hard to imagine they could have done anything to deserve such a fate.

We still see this religious reasoning today. When something terrible happens to others we wonder if God is punishing them, and when something terrible happens to us, we wonder if God is punishing us. Why is this idea still around, so many centuries later?  I can think of three reasons. 

First, we want to think we can prevent terrible events.  If they only happen to bad people, then by being good we think we can prevent them.  It gives us a feeling of control in a world that can often feel chaotic and out of control. 

Second, we are meaning-makers.  We look to find meaning in the world and in the events of our lives.  Whenever something happens, especially if it is negative, we want to understand why it happened – what does it mean? We want things to make sense in a world that includes meaningless tragedies.

Finally, I think we want the world to be just, with good people rewarded and bad people punished.  And of course we want to be counted among the good, feeling smug that we are better than others and so favored by God.  We want justice in a world that can sometimes (or often) be unjust.  

It makes sense that this ancient religious idea persists.  However, it has two unfortunate consequences.  First, it casts guilt on people who most likely have done nothing wrong and blames the victims for the trauma or tragedy.  Surely no one could think the children and teachers in Newtown, their families and friends and parents, did anything to deserve such a terrible thing.  It seems wrong to suggest such a thing.

The other problem is that this theology makes God out to be a terribly cruel, not at all like the God of my experience, or the merciful God in our reading from Isaiah.  This theology makes God out to be some sort of monster, when many people experience the Sacred as quite the opposite.

Returning to consider the gospel reading, people are disturbed about what happened to the Galileans and thinking they deserved such torment.  Jesus sets them straight right away, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you;” 

Jesus says the same thing about the eighteen people who died when a tower fell - they were no worse than anyone else.  He says that the victims of disaster were no worse than anyone else, including those who asked him about what happened.  He denies that old theology emphatically, and he denies it twice.

He does tell those around him to look to their own spiritual health, especially if they are congratulating themselves that they are somehow better than the victims of both tragedies.  If they are doing that, they had better get right to the work of repenting.  I think Jesus is saying that it’s spiritually deadly to believe others suffer because of something they did and that you are better than them if you suffer less than they.  If you’re tempted to believe that, start repenting.

And if you think about it, he’s also saying, “If you are suffering, please do not believe that God is punishing you.”  Now sometimes we suffer as a consequence of our own actions – like when we take a stupid risk and hurt ourselves.  I’m not talking about those times.  Those things are our fault I’m talking about not blaming our selves for suffering that has nothing to do with what we did.

So today’s gospel reading asks us to consider whether we blame ourselves or others when we’re sick, hurt, or in pain.  Do we see this as a punishment from God?  Jesus says it isn’t, and if we think that way we need to think again.  I believe God is merciful, slow to anger and abounding in compassion, as the scripture says.  I believe God never wants anyone to suffer.  On the contrary, I believe that God is with us in our suffering, to offer us comfort if we ask.

After this rebuke, Jesus goes on to tell a symbolic story about a fig tree in a garden.  The tree has not produced any fruit.  I wonder if this tree might represent those spiritually barren people who blame victims for tragedy.  Such people, like the tree, do not bear the fruits of the spirit. What are the fruits of the spirit?  In his letter to the Galatians Paul says the fruit of the spirit “is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” Such fruits could not possibly come from believing people who suffer deserve that suffering.

However, the parable suggests that can change.  The gentle gardener says, "Perhaps we need to dig around the roots."  I see this is rooting out that harsh theology.  Dig that up, get it out of the garden.  How can a tree bear fruit with that strangling its roots?  And then put a little compost around that starving tree.  Maybe when we break that oppressive theology down it can become a compost that that nurtures life.  Then we’ll see if that tree doesn’t bear some fruit.  Let’s give the tree another chance.

Given this view of things, it is no coincidence that one of the readings paired with this one is that selection from Isaiah.  In the gospel there’s a barren fig tree and in Isaiah an enormous feast.   At this point in Isaiah, the terrible thing happened a generation ago - the destruction of the temple and the exile.  

Early on Isaiah said this happened because they had strayed from the covenant, but here he’s saying something different.  I wonder if suffering changed him.  It can have that effect – it can soften people.  I see that movement in scripture – the more the Jewish people suffered, the more compassionate they became and the more their theology changed.  You start to see an increasing belief that God is merciful, a Good Shepherd who walks with you through the valley of the shadow of death.

In this reading from Isaiah the first generation has died, and a new generation is being released from exile. They can go back – but they are used to living in Babylon.  They have never even seen Jerusalem.  Isaiah is trying to persuade them to return to Israel and rebuild the temple.  He’s tried just about every means of persuading them, and here he promises if they go back it will be like such a feast, so that even those who have nothing will have plenty to eat.  

He promises that God will renew the covenant and raise them up from their lowly position. He assures them that even those who have strayed from the covenant will be granted mercy.  There is life after tragedy, Isaiah assures us.  There is forgiveness after wrongdoing.  It must have been hard for the old guard to believe this so Isaiah (speaking for God) explains, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”  There is a higher truth. It is always better to be compassionate.  There is a more evolved theology – that God never wills our suffering, but instead is the gentle companion.

This is good news, indeed.  It frees all who are oppressed from any belief that they somehow deserve that oppression. It frees all who suffer tragedies and traumas from believing God is punishing them.  It frees those who believe others deserve the evil that befalls them to grow more compassionate hearts and souls.  It frees all of us to become like fig trees that bear good fruit, the fruits of the spirit - love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  And when we bear such spiritual fruit, it is like a feast laid out before us, a feast we can all share.  

In the words of the poet May Sarton, Help us to be ever faithful gardeners of the spirit, who know that without darkness nothing comes to birth, and without light nothing flowers. 

In seminary I learned how to do scripture-based preaching, and now I find myself called upon to do that very thing.  Here is the meditation I offered on the readings for February 24th. First, it would be helpful to look at the readings - just click!

Psalm 27
Luke 13: 31-35

Courage

As Luke tells it, Jesus has been in Jerusalem for some time, healing and teaching.  He’s just told his followers to strive to enter through the narrow door in order to be saved.  In Matthew 7:14 Jesus says that the way is straight and the door (or gate) is narrow.  So the phrase, “on the straight and narrow” comes from scripture!  And Jesus has just told them to keep to the straight and narrow, when some Pharisees come to see him.

At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”   
Now in the other gospels the Pharisees are portrayed as the bad guys, but in Luke not so much.  Some are portrayed as followers or at least sympathetic.  So this is likely a kindly warning rather than any kind of set-up or deception. Jesus responds

He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, 
Herod considered himself a lion but Jesus calls him a “fox.” Actually, the original Greek the word could also be translated as “jackal,” which seems like even more of an insult.  Jesus really had that opinion of Herod and many would have agreed, but few would have said it aloud in public. You can imagine some nervous laugher in the crowd.  It was an act of courage, if not bravado.  So Jesus goes on to ask the Pharisees to go tell Herod….

‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow 
William Loder suggests that when Jesus talks about the healing he’s done it’s like saying, “What threat am I?  Who’d want to kill someone who’s doing good work?”  However, Jesus and others knew that he was doing much more than that – he was inciting a spiritual revolution, teaching people that they could be spiritually free no matter what their circumstances.  This was a subversive message – one that would be threatening both to Herod and to the Roman Empire, which was pretty unstable in that region at that time. There was a lot of unrest, many uprisings against Rome.  

and on the third day I finish my work.
Throughout the bible, “In three days” was a way of saying “in a short time.” He’s saying “don’t worry, I’ll be out of here soon” but he’s also saying he’ll do this in his own time, after he’s done with the work he came to do – teaching and healing.  This is another bit of courage or bravado.

The part about “finishing his work” can be translated from Greek as “I will be perfected,” or “I am being matured,” but “I will be finished” may be a better translation.  It has a double meaning  - that he’ll be done with his work and also, it recognizes that Herod is likely to finish him off. Is he afraid?  Probably - maybe that's where the bravado comes from.  Courage is not the absence of fear, however.

So he’s saying something like, “I know what you’re up to Herod, you old jackal, but this is my work and I’m going to do it.  You can’t rush me."

Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’ 
This indicates that he knows in order to be safe he has to do his work outside Jerusalem.  It also shows he knows his days are numbered, that he expects to die in Jerusalem, as other prophets have done.  The Greek word translated as “prophet”  means, “one who tells the truth confidently before others.”  

Anyone who speaks truth to power is in harm’s way.  We know that – think of the assassination of more recent prophetic people like Ghandi, and Martin Luther King, Jr.   They stirred things up, too. Jesus knew what happened to many of the other truth-tellers who came before him.  He knew what happened to John the Baptist – Herod had him killed. Jesus knows that he’s likely to be next.  How does he feel about that?

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! 
He seems to feel sad, angry, and also protective.  He switches from a sort of despairing bravado to a lament for the beloved city of Jerusalem.  Another meaning of the word “prophet” is one who can foresee things.  Perhaps he foresaw what would happen a few decades after his death.  After yet another political uprising the Romans destroyed the temple and drove the Jewish people from the cherished homeland. It was called the Dispersion.  

Jesus takes up the language of the psalms and of past prophets when he compares himself to a hen gathering chicks.  The image of God’s people being sheltered under wings is common in psalms but usually they are eagle’s wings.  The hen is a much more humble image.  Why would Jesus use that?

It could be he is contrasting the difference in political power between him and Herod – a difference as great as that between a jackal and a hen.  And we all know what a fox or jackal does to a hen. We all know how powerless the hen is to protect her chicks. Of course, she tries to protect them anyway.  So it seems in this lament Jesus saying, as much as he would want to protect that city, he knows he cannot do it.

The great Episcopal preacher Barbara Brown Taylor says “If you have ever loved someone you could not protect, then you understand the depth of Jesus’ lament. All you can do is open your arms. You cannot make anyone walk into them. Meanwhile, this is the most vulnerable posture in the world --wings spread, breast exposed -- but if you mean what you say, then this is how you stand." Jesus did.  He stood, despite fear, prepared to try to protect others. So even in this lament, Jesus is showing courage.

Jesus cannot protect Jerusalem from what is surely coming, and not even the kindliest Pharisees can protect Jesus from what is coming.  Perhaps his lament is not only for Jerusalem but also for himself, and for the prophets who have gone before him.  Like him they told the truth, pointing to the straight path and the narrow gate, but most did not listen.  

See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
The passage ends on a more positive note.  This is in fact what happens when Jesus re-enters Jerusalem.  The crowds chorus “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” when he returns on what we know as Palm Sunday – which we will celebrate in a few weeks’ time.


So there is a lot in this short reading.  Jesus is saying that he has more work to do, and that he knows what's coming.  He's saying he has the courage to come back and fact it. What enormous courage, to face his fears, to face his death.

We can learn from this example in our own lives. We can face what needs to be faced with as much courage as we can muster.  We can go about the work we need to do even when disaster seems to loom.  It takes spiritual strength to do those thins, but together we can find that strength.  

Let me close with a prayer

Oh God who sees into our hearts and knows our deepest thoughts, we ask that you comfort us when we cannot protect people we love from suffering and from harm.  Give us hope, and grand us courage to face our fears, to face our troubles, assured that you go with us even to the deepest valley.

Spirit who wills that the world become more just, more loving, and more kind – who wants a revolution of the spirit, give us courage to be a part of that revolution in whatever way we can, whatever our circumstances.  And please God, protect our prophets.

In Psalm 91 God promises that angels will bear us up so we will not so much as dash a foot against a stone.  God promises to honor us, deliver and protect us, to be with us in times of trouble, and to grant us long life and salvation.  All we have to do in return is to love and to honor God's name.  This is simple, but not always easy.

Of course it's easy to believe these words when things are going well – when we witness those angels bearing us up, when we feel honored, rescued, when our lives seem long and we feel saved.  Faith is easy in the good times.

But any of us has times when our faith is tried and tested.  There are times when, no matter how well we try to love and honor what is holy, we not only do we stub our toes, we trip, fall, and hurt ourselves.  There are times when we feel far from being honored, rescued, deliver, and protected. We are hurt, ill, and feel the absence rather than the presence of God.  These are the times when faith is difficult, when it is hard to trust these appealing words. So what are we to do?

To answer that question, let me turn to the story of Jesus being tested in Luke 4:1-13.  It starts with him testing himself, going out to be alone in the desert, fasting for forty days.  This time of trial echoes the 40 years his ancestors spent in the desert.  The number 40 keeps cropping up in the ancient scriptures because it has a special meaning.  Forty is associated with a period of trial or testing followed by the fulfillment of a promise - 40 years in the desert followed by the Promised Land, or 40 days in the desert followed by a powerful ministry of healing and courageous truth-telling.

Given that he has just been testing himself for forty days,  Jesus would seem to be a weakened state.  In comes the devil, which you can think of as representing temptation.  What a set of temptations!  First is the temptation of food – “turn this rock into some bread.”  Ever been on a diet?  Have you ever fasted?  Imagine you could turn rocks into bread!  That would be pretty tempting.  But Jesus doesn’t stoop to parlor tricks, a misuse of his powers.  He may have been starving physically, but he has spent those forty days nurturing his spiritual strength.  He turns aside this temptation.

Then comes the temptation of riches and power.  Now that is a mighty temptation. We know that when people give in to such temptation, it goes pretty badly.  In keeping with his ancestral covenant, described so beautifully in Psalm 91, Jesus says he honors and loves only God.

And then comes the third temptation - to test promises like those in the psalm by throwing himself from a cliff.  Once again, Jesus refuses, saying he will not test his God in such a way.  This is a statement of respect, again honoring God’s nature and God’s name. We may know how it is to test the divine in a similar way, saying, “If you’re really there, then do this, or that.  Prove it to me.”  Jesus gives a more humble example.

How good to see an example of resisting such temptations!  How much better our world would be if we also had the spiritual strength to resist the temptations to misuse our abilities, the temptations of worldly power and riches, the temptation to test God with a set of ultimata.  Consider for a moment how this story might speak to us in our own lives.

What could this story offer us when our faith is tested and tried?  One preacher says this story about Jesus being tempted tells us that trust and faith in God do not ensure a life free of difficulty, pain, deprivation, or illness. So many in the hospital I serve know this all too well.  If even faithful people like Jesus suffer, is it any wonder that we do as well?

You see, I don’t believe Psalm 91 promises protection from physical harm, illness, pain, deprivation.  I think it may be about protection from spiritual pain, illness, harm, and deprivation.  This happens, too, of course.  Perhaps the most important promise in Psalm 91 is that the Holy will be with us through all those sorts of trials, which can mitigate some of that suffering. If in the midst of trial and testing we strive to love and honor what is most sacred, our spirits may make it through, whatever the physical outcome.

And yet we suffer in body, mind, heart, and/or spirit we do wonder.  Often we wonder, "Why?  Why me? Why now?" The Buddhist tradition tells us that suffering is part of the nature of our world.  Rabbi Kushner (author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People) agrees with this assessment and suggests that the question should perhaps be “How?” rather than, “Why?”  How can I get through this time of trial and testing?

We have all known people who deal with poorly with adversity - who complain, or take out their pain and frustration on others – even hurt them.  We may know such people, and at times we may BE such people.  We may also know people who cope with it amazingly well, who manage to be patient and kind despite being in pain – who even keep a sense of humor.  In doing this they honor the divine spark in those around them, and in themselves.  We may know such people – and at times we may choose to BE such people.  The choice is ours – will we have the spiritual strength to make that choice?

Christians are now observing the 40 days of Lent.  We can use these 40 days to wrestle with those realities of pain and suffering, those desert times when the holy seems so far removed from us.  We can use those 40 days to build our spiritual strength to resist temptation and to withstand the harsher realities of our world.  We can remind ourselves that God does not guarantee us an absence of suffering – only that God’s grace and love can help bear us through it spiritually.   In this Lenten season, let us work to strengthen our spirits so that we too can withstand the trials and testing we encounter in our lives.

Prayer

Source of All, you led your people through the wilderness and brought them to the Promised Land. Guide us now, so that we may walk safely through the wilderness of this world toward the life you alone can give. Amen.

This meditation is based on two of the scriptures for Sunday February 17th.  Here are links to the readings.

Psalm 91
Luke 1:4-13

This past weekend Psalm 8 was in my daily reading. It reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago using a translation I now cannot find anywhere, "O God, my God, how wonderful your name in all the earth."

How important is it that we name the Divine? Religions differ with respect to this question. In the Jewish tradition, one does not usually write"God" out of respect for what words cannot capture. Islam has 99 names for the divine, just short of 100. I heard this is to remind us that no one can ever completely know or understand Source. Christianity has litanies of different names for Mary, but I do not remember any for God.

My poetic take on the name of the Divine suggests names that are images, interactions, and sounds rather than words. Here is my poem.  I cannot figure out how to keep the original formatting so have put forward slashes (/) were the line breaks should be. Feel free to use it if you like, but please do attribute it to me.

Resounding By Tess Baumberger

“Oh God, my God, how wonderful your name in all the earth.” Psalm 8:1

It is the rhythmic chant of the ocean, 
The whisper-bending of trees, 
The lonely longing of the wind
As it scales the white-tipped mountains.

It is the rocky quiet of the canyon, 
The lustrous waking of a star
The blind touching of the ferns 
As they murmur on the forest floor.

It is the mechanical natter of beetle flight 
The high decibel opera of whales, 
The insistent crying of chicks, 
As they stretch their tiny yellow beaks.

It is the suckle of babes at the breast, 
The voices of children at play 
The sighs of the wounded and weary 
As violence comes to and end.

It is the magnificent silence of moonfall, 
The rainbow’s slow intake of breath, 
The trumpet of the vagrant loon 
As it lands on the great pond once more.

****
On a final note, it is winter here and I am longing for the time when the loon lands on the great ponds once more.... Come home to me, Vagrant Spirit.

18th century Universalist James Relly said if we all fell with Adam, then we all rose with the birth, rather than the death of Jesus.  Relly thought this divine birth re-sanctified all of humanity. This theology makes Christmas even more important than Easter. And, as some contemporary feminist theologians argue, it makes Mary part of salvation, co-redemptress.  So today I focus on the exceptional mother of that amazing child and prophet of God.

What happens when we ponder the Universalist message that our physical being was consecrated by the rose that bloomed in winter?  I think it means that we are also called to share the work of salvation.

Humanity is continually re-sanctified by those who teach an act on love, peace, acceptance, truth, healing, and wholeness.  In a Universally-sanctified humanity each person has the capacity to save, whether it be one life or two, or whole communities, or nations. Things change when we see the savior in each other, in our own weak resilient flesh, our human existence.

Let it be said that salvation is never easy, whether it be one life we save, or many. It is arduous, painful, and frightening.  In moments when our courage quavers, let us remember the story of a girl who, when asked to robe the soul Divine within herself, responded so fearless and so brave. When we are asked to give substance to sacred impulses within us, to take up the work of goodness, may we respond like her - first with questions, and then with a courageous “Yes.”

What happens when we dare believe we can participate in saving our precious world? Consider Mary’s visit to her cousin and the bold prophetic song that issued from the heart of one so young, so new.  Let us consider how our own souls might amplify the Sacred, work with Spirit to raise the lowly to high places, to fill up the hungry. Surely these acts of mercy are the true work of Christmas.

What happens when we take up this work, and ponder its painful or bewildering consequences?  Imagine a teenager pondering visits from wise men, shepherds, and the unrecorded women of the nativity - angels in disguise bearing blankets, food, wisdom and warmth.  Imagine angels from on high, asking and announcing impossible hope to the lowly and the outcast. When the costs of our work seem too high, think of Mary as as she looked upon her babe safe asleep when so many others died.  Consider how she may have pondered thoughtless emperors and the cruel course of kings.

As she pondered all this, I wonder what conclusions that young mother reached? I wonder how all this shaped the woman who shaped the life of Jesus.  What lessons did she convey to that exceptional child, eyes so wide with wisdom, who stood quietly at her knee and followed her about her daily chores? How much of what she taught him from the treasures of her heart and the meditations of her mind echoed later in the temple and from the hills of Galilee?

How much of her example revealed itself in his actions of healing, teaching, kindness, wisdom?  How much of the strength she bestowed through her flesh and her mothering gave him the courage to continue when he had to drink from the cup of suffering?  How could Jesus not have been affected by a mother such as Mary? How much we owe her we may never know.

What if we who are parents and teachers thought we were raising children who might one day act to heal a life or two, teach and so touch others, help bind a fractured community, and in some small way heal this bruised resilient world? What if we looked for, expected that saving power in our own mothers’ children, in the sanctity of ourselves and one another? How would we treat one another? How might the precious gift of profound respect flow out of us to touch any who drew near? What would the angels breathless sing in their heavens and from every bitter hillside; what new Nowells compose?

Oh let us ponder in our hearts the angel’s gift, Mary's gift, the gift of Christmas.

This is adapted from a Christmas Eve sermon I gave in 2009.

"We look for peace, but find no good; for a time of healing, but there is terror instead."  Too many people of every age and race, of every nation and religious inclination could say this right now.  Because we often look for peace and find no good, yearn for healing but find only terror, these words seem contemporary.  In fact they are from the ancient prophet Jeremiah (chapter 14, verse 19).

Does the fact that these familiar sentiments are ancient mean the world has gone nowhere - that there has been no progress?  One could argue that position and gain quite a footing in times like this  - times when violence tears at human lives and at the fragile fabric of hope.  If only human goodness received as much air time as human evil, we might not feel so despairing.

At such times as these we want to rail against God, especially if we believe in a powerful God of justice. There is never any justice in acts of violence and terror against innocent beings because such action are evil.  I believe the worst evil lies in justification and that people who call upon God or religion to justify acts of violence and oppression commit sacrilege.  Such acts would be antithetical to the supremely loving nature of the Divine.

Yesterday when I read these words from Jeremiah I wept, as perhaps millions have since those words were first written.  We weep because we recognize wanting healing but feeling terrified, wanting peace but finding no good.  For me, the weeping brought relief.

In my work I meet people in great pain who believe it is wrong to be angry with the Divine.  The fact that you can find outrage towards God in the bible suggests that is not true.  If it were wrong to have and to express such feelings, why would such passages appear in scripture?  The Divine is big enough to handle our outrage. Our Creator knows our nature and how it can react to the world as it is.

"We look for peace, but find no good; for a time of healing, but there is terror instead."  It's hard to sit with such feelings, but to me it would feel artificial to go too soon to the place of redeeming meaning.  So instead, for now, I choose to lament with the ancient prophet. Of course that prophet does not leave things in lamentation but let us not ask too much of ourselves. For now let us mourn.  God is big enough to embrace our laments, our broken hearts.  I believe God weeps with us at such times.  Such actions much break God's heart as well.

Today I have been singing the South African song Siyahamba, whose words translate to "We are marching in the light of God."  This is because this morning the words, "in your light we see light (Psalm 36, verse 9)," caught my attention.  I pondered these words and why they spoke to me today.  There are other lovely phrases in this psalm, including, "Your love, Yahweh, reaches to heaven, your faithfulness to the skies." I also like, "your justice is like a mountain, your judgements like the deep."  So what appealed to me about, "in your light we see the light?"

The fact that the nights longer here in the northern hemisphere may have something to do with it.  I am not really ready for winter, but here it is, ready or not.  I also find the simple poetry of the words pleasing.  I have an image of standing in a shower of light, surrounded by night, my head lifted to its source.

"In your light we see light."  We see light in the dark as well though, don't we?  In fact, in the depths of night even the smallest light is visible - witness the stars.  So what does the psalmist mean by suggesting that we see light in the light of the Divine?  Maybe when we are in Divine light, we see the light more clearly, or in a different way.  When we go from darkness to light we blink a bit, shielding our eyes until they adapt. I wonder if we can adapt to divine light.  If we stand in it long enough can we look into its brightness?  When we move out of it do we then stumble about, unable to see until our eyes adapt again?  Can we adapt to the thick of night?

Meditating further I began to wonder if the polarity between light and dark really makes sense.  In another place the psalmist writes, "the darkness would not be dark to you; night would shine as day (Psalm 139, verse 12)."  In divine light there may be no such distinction.   Perhaps when we stand in divine light we perceive that the "dark nights of the soul" are not so dark.  Maybe it's like we are blindfolded, unable to see.  When we remove the blindfold we find ourselves surrounded by brilliance.

It could be that these words struck me because in difficult times I have sometimes found myself suddenly, unexpectedly blindsided by joy.  Perhaps you have had a similar experience.  It's a bit disconcerting, isn't it? It is so startling it can seem as though we have stepped into a different, more sacred reality.  Maybe centuries ago, this poet and psalmist had the same experience.  Stumbling about unable to see, then suddenly dazzled, bathed in light, lifting his head to find the Source that sees night shining as the day.