A meditation on Mark 8:22-33...offered in worship on 2/12/12.
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Surely by now,
at least once, you’ve heard me invoke novelist Flannery O’Connor and her rather
disarming summation of Jesus’ message.
“You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free,” she wrote
in her journal. “But first, but first,
it will make you flinch.” Sometimes we
get all mushy and sweet with the gospel as if all it is is bon bons and dessert. I’m as
guilty of this as any preacher out there.
But Flannery O’Connor grasped something else in Jesus’ message, something
hard, even something troublesome. “You
shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free; but first it will make
you flinch.” Try that out on your friends. Come to
my church this Sunday. Yeah, we’ll be
flinching together!
The story we read this morning strikes me as a story
about flinching. Peter thinks he’s got
Jesus all figured out. You are the
Christ, he says proudly, the Messiah.
I’ve been paying attention. I’ve
seen you healing people. I’ve seen you
feeding thousands at a time. I’ve seen
things. You are the Christ, and I’m with
you.
And before we come down hard on Peter, before we use
him as this Sunday’s ‘straw man,’ he’s pretty much on target, right? Peter’s left his old ways, his old
neighborhood, and followed Jesus on a wild ride of healing and feeding,
teaching and preaching. The poor hear
good news. The blind can see. The hungry are fed. Surely, this is the Christ; Jesus is the Son
of God. Something radically new is
breaking in on the tired, old world.
Can’t blame Peter for dancing on his wedding day. As it were.
But here comes the flinching part. You know
it’s coming. Jesus says to Peter, and
honestly to us as well, Don’t get too comfortable. You may think you know me, you may think
you’ve figured me out. But it’s not that
easy. It’s not so simple. This bit about discipleship has something to
do with dying, something to do with a cross, something to do with surrender!
Well, Peter pretty much loses him at the dying
part. Flinches at the dying part. Are you kidding? You have to die? I have to die? You’ve gotta be kidding! Because I’ve been paying attention. I’ve seen you healing people. I’ve seen you feeding thousands. You can do anything you want. You can be
anything you want. And you’re talking
about giving it all up? Suffering? You’re talking about a cross?
You see what I mean about flinching? And Jesus says, Yes, I’m talking about a
cross.
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If you read just one book about spirituality this
year, you might want to make it “The Promise of Paradox” by Quaker theologian
Parker Palmer. He just has a way with
words, an honest way, that gets at the heart and, yes, the paradox of
Christianity. “The Promise of
Paradox.”
In one of the book’s best essays, Parker Palmer
explores his own journey through the Stations of the Cross. Not the traditional stations, the fourteen
you find rimming the edges of a Catholic sanctuary; but the spiritual stations,
five of them, that describe his own Christian journey. The evolution and rhythm of it. RECOGNITION, RESISTANCE, ACCEPTANCE,
AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION. Five
stations of the cross. It’s not a
sequential path, he says, so much as a map of the spiritual landscape. RECOGNITION, RESISTANCE, ACCEPTANCE,
AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION. Five
stations.
Basically, says Parker Palmer, every one of us
RESISTS the cross on our way to the cross.
We have to. We have to push back
against the odd demands of the gospel, against Jesus and his surrender. RESISTANCE is part of our journey, an
inevitable station on the way. Some of
us come back, again and again and again.
There’s just no getting to AFFIRMATION and LIBERATION without passing
through RESISTANCE. Peter’s not the only
one; it’s true for every one of us. The artist
who hits the wall, tires of the creative process and flips the canvass over in
frustration and despair. The mother
awakened at 3 am by a shrieking infant needing to be nursed and then rolling
over, nothing left to give. The
peacemaker utterly demoralized by another famine, another massacre, another
war. If we’re honest and if we’re human,
we meet RESISTANCE like an irritable old friend, over and again on our
spiritual journeys. Peter’s not the only
one.
Bumping along through stop-and-go traffic this week,
I picked up an interview on one of my favorite shows, NPR’s “Fresh Air.” It seems that this writer from The New Yorker spent three years living
in the slums of Mumbai, in India, and returned to write a book about the
millions who live there. Kind of a
devastating interview. She talked about
families whose entire existence involves collecting garbage around the Mumbai
airport. She described thousands and
thousands of children living in cardboard boxes, under tin roofs, in abject
poverty. And a world that seems
satisfied with misery as a consequence of economic growth. The global economy and all that.
I have to admit that there are times in my life,
there are afternoons on the freeway, when I flinch. Just like Peter. Times when nothing makes any sense. Times when God seems either disinterested and
callous or a colossal waste of time. I’m
not sure I want give my life to a God who lets this stuff happen. A meek, ineffective God—who asks us only to
suffer and struggle together. There are
times I’m not sure I believe slow, steady compassion really changes anything in
the end. And I’m not sure I can go ‘all
in’ anymore—with a God who spins the galaxies in motion, but sits around while
poor kids with a dozen diseases collect garbage in Mumbai.
Am I the only one who has afternoons like that? When commitment hits the proverbial
wall. When compassion fatigue seems like
a terminal disease. When Jesus himself
makes no sense. Am I the only one? I don’t think so. RESISTANCE comes with the territory. RESISTANCE comes with faith. No, Peter’s not the only one. Not by a long shot.
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And Parker Palmer says, in his essay, RESISTANCE? Great!
Engage it. Live with it! Let it work on you! Rather than tripping out on RESISTANCE or
feeling insanely guilty about it, he says, Go with it! Spiritual life feeds on RESISTANCE. RESISTANCE is part of who we are, how we’re
wired. Every one of us RESISTS the cross
on the way to the cross. In a sense,
until you RESIST Jesus, until you RESIST what he’s about, you can’t grapple
with the cost and the commitment of Christian life. Or live into the possibilities of grace.
Parker Palmer cuts right to the chase. He’s a marvelous writer. He says, “Resist any cross that comes your
way.” Isn’t that wild? “Resist any cross that comes your way.” Then he says, “Boldly become a pole of
opposition; live the contradiction.” And
it gets better. He says, “The false
crosses will fall away, while those we must accept will stay there in the
middle of our lives, pulling right and left, up and down, until they pull us
open to our true center, a center where we are one with God, a center which we
find only on the way of the cross.”
I think that’s what Jesus wants for Peter, and for
you and me. Resistance and
integrity. He wants the false crosses to
fall away, while the important ones pull us right and left, up and down. Until they pull us open to our true center. This pilgrimage is not a test we cram for,
parroting back the right answers, earning ourselves a ticket to salvation. This is a vision quest, a vision quest, and
along the way we lose as much as we win, we break as much as we heal. But in the arms of grace, we come to see who
we really are. And what life’s really
all about. Compassion. What life’s about, what the gospel’s about,
what Jesus is about—is compassion.
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You’ll remember that the reading this morning begins
with another healing story—the only one, by the way, in which Jesus has to go
back and try a second time. I’m inclined
to think of this as more than coincidence.
I’m inclined to read the healing story as a kind of foreshadowing, a
metaphor really for the discipleship lesson that follows. The exchange between Peter and Jesus.
Remember how that first part goes? First Jesus puts spit in the man’s eyes and
lays his hand on him. “Do you see
anything?” he asks. And the man looks up
from the ground, wiping saliva from his eyes.
“I see something,” he says, “something like men, something like trees
walking.”
So yes and no.
He sees a little. Something new happening. Something new coming his way. But it’s still not clear what. It’s still not clear where he goes from
here. Who he becomes. What will be asked of him. So Jesus lays hands on his eyes a second
time. And the man ‘looks hard,’ and
realizes that now he sees perfectly.
Everything in bright color and true focus. Maybe this isn’t just another miracle—but a
story about wisdom and faith. Faith is a
journey. Wisdom is process. Faith is a vision quest. And seeing takes a lifetime.
So maybe what goes on for Peter is this: he follows
Jesus around, watches the healings, maybe participates a little, feeding the thousands,
taking all kinds of risks and believing now in a better future. In a sense, through the first half of the
gospel, Peter learns to see a little. To
understand some things about Jesus. He
comes to appreciate some of what Jesus brings to the table, and he certainly
works up an appetite for more.
But faith is never a done deal, belief is never a
fixed accomplishment. God insists on
heart and soul, resistance and struggle, integrity and compassion. And here’s one of the real lessons I take
from today’s story: As soon as I think I
know what Jesus is all about, I probably don’t.
As soon as I get comfortable with Jesus, I’ve got to expect the
unexpected. Grace is like that. The gospel is like that. Always broader than my imagination. Always breaking free of my comfort zone. So as soon as I think I know what Jesus is
all about, I probably don’t. Faith is a
journey, a process, a vision quest. And
seeing takes a lifetime.
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One of the best books I read last month was this
one, a novel by Colum McCann. It’s
called “Let the Great World Spin.” It’s
a story about New York, really, New York City in 1974. It’s got all kinds of characters. A judge who’s grown cynical about his work in
the system. A couple of hookers in the
Bronx and a Catholic priest who watches out for them. Two painters who’ve lost their passion. And a grieving gathering of mothers, every
one of whom has lost a son in the Vietnam War.
Vietnam casts a shadow over the whole book, and Watergate, and New York
on the brink of bankruptcy. In 1974.
In the end, it’s a book about hope and love, and the
ways a single artist shines some light in all that darkness.
But, in a lot of ways, it’s a novel about fear, and
all the ways fear clogs the arteries of a city, and its people. At one point, the young priest says to a
friend: “It’s like dust. You walk about
and don’t see it, don’t notice it, but it’s there and it’s all coming down,
covering everything. You’re breathing it
in. You touch it. You drink it.
You eat it. But it’s so fine you
don’t notice it. You covered in
it...Just stand still for an instant and there it is, this fear, covering our
faces and tongues." All this
fear. And it’s just as true for the
judge on Wall Street as it is for the hookers in the Bronx, just as true for
the painter as it is for the priest.
It’s like dust. Covering
everything.
And maybe, maybe that’s why Jesus is so put off by
Peter’s enthusiasm, by his bravado, by his certainty. Even though, in so many ways, Peter gets it
right. Jesus knows there’s fear like
dust out there. Covering
everything. That’s the spiritual
crisis. Fear’s clogging the arteries of
cities and nations, churches, synagogues and neighborhoods. It’s breaking the hearts of hookers and
lawyers alike. And Peter’s bravado,
Peter’s theological bravado does little to clear the air. Bravado never does.
Instead, Jesus asks Peter, Jesus asks us to come a
little closer. To look a little
deeper. Jesus asks us to weep with the
dying. And laugh with the children. To confront injustice without any
guarantees. And feed the hungry without
a whole lot of resources. Jesus asks us
to give up his image of a distant God who’s got everything under control and to
cast our lot with a vulnerable God. Who
bleeds sometimes. And breaks a lot. Jesus asks Peter to cast his lot with a God
of Love. No guarantees.
And Peter resists.
God bless him, Peter resists.
Maybe that’s true of us too. We
like a God who’s got things in hand. We
like a God who knows how to fix things in the end. But Jesus, Jesus says, I believe that love is
stronger than fear. Let’s find out. He’s says, I believe we can heal this
planet. I believe in the power of
redemptive suffering. Let’s find out. Set aside the distant,
everything-under-control god. Cast your
lot with the God of Love.
And that’s the invitation before us. To take up the cross with Jesus. To be pulled open, pried open to our true
center. And to trust, to hope, to
believe in the love that lives there.