Category Archives: Lent

A Chasm Has Been Fixed – Great. What’s a Chasm?

There are some strange words in the Bible. Actually, you can find a lot of them. I suppose a collection of books that spans thousands of years will deliver a handful unfamiliar terms.

Among the strange words: chasm.

I dare you to use this word in ordinary conversation today. No, I triple-dog dare you! First, what is this word?

Chasm appears but once in the Bible, referring to a gulf, or a great big separation. In Luke 17:26 it describes the empty space that stands between the rich man and Lazarus (the poor man) in the afterlife.

Can you imagine it?!! A monumental gulf between the rich and the poor? As if.

The rich man likes it not one bit. “Yo, Abraham,” he bellows from the fiery side of the chasm, as though Abraham is the bouncer. “Can you fix this chasm? Get me across?”

“Nope,” comes Abraham’s reply before reminding the rich man how he spent his life on earth ignoring Lazarus, stepping over his suffering body each day. The rich man’s control on earth did not accompany him into the afterlife.

On the news, I have seen this rich man. I have seen him cut programs that will primarily impact the poor and leave him and his ivy league cronies in the safety zone of wealth. I have seen him.

He has sent innocent immigrant families into a dangerously chaotic panic, even though these many (not all) of these families have improved my community with their hard work and dedication. I know this rich man.

The problem, as you well know, goes beyond the chasm between the rich and the poor. The more troublesome chasm in the United States runs between truth and baseless lies, between those who are loyal to President Trump and those who are less impressed with the past two months.

The real problem is not the chasm, but the fact that the chasm exists at all.

What is a chasm? It is the human presumption that “they” are wrong and “we” are right. No matter who is cast as “they” and “we”, the chasm is hugely problematic for the poor.

The gospel writer of Luke consistently points to the injustice of those who are left systemically poor. It is the unique spirit of this particular book. The writer concludes this chapter by insisting that not even a resurrection could fix the chasm that stands between the rich and the poor, which is a dismal forecast, yet more than 2,000 years later, seems correct.

Not even the resurrection of Christ reduced the gulf between the rich man and Lazarus. Not even religious wars or world wars or the invention of the internet. Not the expanse to the west or even into outer space fixed the chasm between those who have enough and those whose children will not survive past the age of one because their water is unclean.

Chasms are stubborn that way. Fed by the fertilizer of fear, the chasm between the rich and the poor, between versions of the truth, between political sides is not a far-away problem, but a here-and-now-problem.

  • How might the way that you speak of “them” and “us” affect the chasm? Who is listening and learning from your rhetoric?
  • Is there a news source you have not explored, a side of the coin you might explore in order to keep the chasm from expanding?
  • Name it. What are you afraid of as you stand on your side of the chasm? What is it about “them” that incites fear in you?

If the Bible teaches us anything, it is that hate and bitterness are not change agents. Only mercy engenders change.

Mercy. There’s a word. That word makes avalanches of appearances in the Bible. It is spoken and acted out repeatedly. Perhaps mercy could make more appearances among us today, beginning in our homes, on our devices, and among our next-door neighbors.

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The Hen

What do you know about hens? I know very little except that I really like their beautiful and expensive eggs, which I eat very sparingly these days.

I also know from Luke 13:31-35 that hens gather. They are they original mother hens, buk-buk-buk-ba-gwacking and fussing over their babies.

Jesus offers the image of two animals in this passage: a fox and a hen. The fox is endless bad news for the hen, of course. The hen gathers because the fox prowls.

The fox, Jesus interprets for us, is Herod, the Roman governor on the prowl. As best he can, he gathers power and control.

Who, then is the hen? God Almighty.

Who is she gathering under her wings? You, beloved one.

God is the fussing hen, buk-buk-buk-ba-gwacking all the way to you.

And that is not all.

God is the fussing hen gathering all the beloved, all the broken, and all who live under the threat of Herod.

Herod is long gone, of course, yet the threat of those who love power and control remains. Where there is love of power and control, there is a threat for those whom Jesus describes as the least of these: those who live on the edges of safety, the neighbors who barely scrape by each day.

I imagine the hen gathering those who are still living in a warzone in Ukraine, the mothers whose husbands and sons will never come home. And those in Gaza, the brown-skinned ones whose homes, sacred spaces, schools, hospitals and coffee shops have been destroyed.

Still, the hen fusses.

Global Refuge is a non-profit with Lutheran roots. For Christmas, all of St. John’s offering went to the neighbors who are served by this organization. I learned from my colleague that when the federal government cut funding to organizations like this one, the federal government had the privilege of defaulting on their debt. Not only did Global Refuge lose future funding, it lost the funding the federal government had promised to pay.

And so, the hen’s work is never done.

Certainly, the fox has good intentions. I prefer a balanced budget and I dislike wasteful spending. Are there lines in the federal budget that should be cut? Has spending gotten out of control? Absolutely.

What does it say about the fox and its den when many of very first budget lines cut were the lines meant to become food for the hungry and shelter for the poor? It says that the hen will continue to fuss. Buk-buk-buk-ba-gwack.

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Giving Up

“What are you giving up for Lent?” a Confirmation student asked me on Ash Wednesday.

“Well,” I admitted, “I haven’t narrowed it down yet. But it’s time! I will get back to you.”

It was true. I had journaled a short list of ideas the day before and then set the list aside and forgot about it: minimize the things I have, share the busy Martha-like tasks at home to avoid constantly cleaning the kitchen like a crazy person.

What am I giving up and why do such things throughout the six-week stretch of Lent?

We give up something in Lent to follow the faithful Christian practice of giving up. A life with Christ is a constant, every day, every moment invitation to give up. To give up the gossiping, the gluttony and the gall.

Lent is also a call to give up trying so hard. To give up on the lurking notion that if you only try harder, you can be better a follower of Jesus. To give up some of the doing to make space in your life for the being with Jesus.

The hope is that after six weeks of a Lenten practice, you might establish a year-long habit. Six weeks of giving up might flow into 46 more weeks of giving up. And then a lifetime of giving up. When you trip and fall, no worries. Lent comes around every year.

The baptismal cross that was covered in ashes on Wednesday proclaims the promise that God does not give up on you, which in the end, is the only giving up that really matters throughout Lent and throughout all time. (However, I am still hoping to give up a handful of kitchen chores!)

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Please Explain the Ashes

Last night I arrived home with a dirty forehead and an ashy-black left thumbnail. Serving the church can be messy business! My thumb reminded me of my dad’s hands when I was growing up – grease settled into the lines of his palms, framing his nails after decades of fixing vehicles.

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything?

Ash Wednesday, in my experience, draws a crowd. Perhaps deep down we all know we are the broken ones who need fixing. We have fixed our attention here, there, and everywhere but on the simple mercy of Jesus Christ. We have broken our bodies and our spirits by trying to keep up with a fast-moving conveyor belt of fake promises.

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything? Please explain the ashes.

To the little ones, I would say: “These ashes remind you that you belong with Jesus forever.”

To the teenagers, I would say: “These ashes assure you that nothing you do can undo Christ’s eternal love for you.”

To the young adults, I would say: “These ashes ground you in an unending relationship with God amid the uncertainty of life.”

To the middle aged, I would say, “These ashes speak of the fragility of life and your temporary place in it. Christ’s death takes away the ending of your life story.”

To those in the last third of life, I would say, “Your forehead has worn these ashes so many times. By now you have seen me trace this cross above the graves of so many people you love. It’s time for you to be the teacher by the way that you live: hold tightly to God’s eternal love and loosely to your earthly life.”

But to keep things simple, we say the same words to the baby with a brand-new forehead that we say to the elder with the crumpled-up forehead: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Does smearing ashes on foreheads fix anything?

Absolutely yes.

The ashes smeared on your forehead fix your broken self with the healing grace of God’s promise:

This life is only for now and not forever. Your life with Christ, however, is both for now and forever.

Unlike the fake promises that come at you in ads, in that nagging voice in your head, in the endless ways we compare ourselves with others, God’s promise to be faithful is Gospel truth. It is an unbreakable promise for the broken ones to fix our attention where it belongs. Remember you are dust. To dust you shall return.

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Follow Directions

Last week, Marcus taught Sam how to grill hamburgers. One step at a time, he guided Sam through the directions. It reminded me of the famous hamburger helper story in my family. I was the same age as Sam when one day I was asked to make dinner. It was the worst hamburger helper in the history of hamburger helper.

What could be hard about making hamburger helper, you wonder? Fair question. This dish involves only a few easy directions.

Nothing is hard about making hamburger helper, in fact.

What is hard is eating hamburger helper when the cook forgot one important direction: add water.

Directions matter.

The Palm Sunday reading for Sunday is from Mark 11:1-11. The story of Jesus’ procession into Jerusalem is told in each of the four gospels. Matthew’s gospel specifies both a colt and a donkey carrying Jesus. What? I don’t understand, either. Luke’s version leaves out the palms. John’s version is the shortest, barely mentioning the donkey’s colt. (Is that what Matthew meant? Who knows.)

And then there is Mark. Mark is the earliest of the gospels and typically the shortest. But this story is an exception. John’s gospel wins the most abbreviated storytelling award, while Mark slows everything down in Chapter 11.

In painstaking detail, the writer draws our attention to the directions. Jesus gives two of his disciples these (unusual to Mark) detailed instructions:

  1. Go to the village
  2. Find a colt that has never been ridden.
  3. Untie the colt.
  4. “Bring it.” This is hilarious to me. The other gospels finish the sentence, “Bring it to me.” But here in Mark’s gospel, Mark reverts to his hurried writing and doesn’t even finish Jesus’ sentence! I love it.
  5. Explain to anyone around that Jesus needs the colt and will bring it back.

The latter part of Step Five is the thread I’m pulling for the sermon on Sunday.

Aren’t these directions remarkable! For a gospel writer whose most worn-out word is “immediately,” these are thorough instructions.

Digging around in the Scriptures, you find a treasure trove of directions.

  • Eat, drink and be merry.
  • Welcome the stranger.
  • Remember the Sabbath.
  • Love the Lord your God.
  • Love your neighbor as yourself.

And on and on and on. But the directions for the two disciples – how to acquire the colt for Jesus: “bring it.”

Directions matter. The colt made the point that Jesus was a strange sort of royalty. He was a king born in a manger whose baby gifts were essentially burial anointments. This is no ordinary king, proven by the donkey colt who served as lowly transportation. Kings rode regal horses, not donkeys.

The two disciples nailed the directions. They could have been in charge of the hamburger helper and we would have all eaten better that night. Leading up to the procession, had they left out any one of the instructions, the story would be different. Had they not untied the colt, for example, or not explained themselves to bystanders. This may have been a different story.

What does it mean that Mark puts Chapter 11:1-11 into slow motion? What might God stir up in you if you take your time through these verses? (Those are your directions. Oh, and remember your baptism – add water.)

Are You Peculiar Enough?

In his book, “Think Again: The Power of Knowing What You Don’t Know,” Adam Grant encourages readers to “be peculiar.” This idea sticks with me. Peculiar is a way of being completely and entirely your own self. If indeed you are peculiar, you are unlike anyone you have ever met.

Raising an almost teenage daughter, I know peculiar is a hard sell. Peculiar stands out when there are so many more comfortable ways to try to fit in. (How many Stanley water cups exist in a middle or high school? You won’t believe it.)

Peculiar is a synonym for weird, but it is also a synonym for unique. Peculiar is a word insists the Creator has enough creativity to mold each individual person differently, even peculiarly.

Grant’s encouragement is on my mind as we make our way toward Palm Sunday and Holy Week. Jesus models peculiar in the way he parades into Jerusalem, in the way he cares for people who otherwise go unnoticed, in the way he serves his students, in the way God’s gentle love is pronounced in gruesome fashion. It is a peculiar story of peculiar mercy.

Squint your eyes a bit and you might see your own life differently. Are you following this peculiar God’s peculiar ways?

  • Are you living to fit in? Or are you willing to be peculiar with this unique life God created in you?
  • Are you buying what is trending? Or are you using money more peculiarly by buying only what you need?
  • Are you peculiarly aware that this life is a precious gift, that death is not the end, that money does not solve problems, that forgiveness changes people, that God loves a world even as messy as this one?

Please. Be peculiar in word and deed, in what you love and who you follow.

Ash Wednesday Poem

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Today is Ash Wednesday, and so you must

Let go.

Let go of complexities you added to your life that now feel normal. You need much less than the commercials tell you.

Let go of responsibilities you set upon your own shoulders that do not belong there. You need not be so needed.

Let go of your dependence upon your own self. Rely on Jesus for steady companionship.

Let go distractions when you eat your next meal. Notice the fork in your hand, the taste of your food, the faces around the table. Notice what you notice.

Lent is a season of refining and renewing, none of which is easy, yet it does make life simpler. This liturgical season calls you back to remember and to be re-membered with the body of Christ. Your life is nothing more than dust. Ashes. Broken pieces.

Let go of your assumption that somehow you will be the one who figures out how to live forever. You won’t. This life is precious for mortals made of dust and ashes. There is little time for distractions.

Let go, beloved child of our Maker. There is life to be lived in the abundance of less.

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Prepared Enough

There are ten bridesmaids in the parable in Matthew 25:1-13. Five are called wise and the other five foolish. Late into the night of the wedding, all ten are waiting to meet the bridegroom. Where is the bride? We have no idea, which is a hint that the parable is not a true story. In a true story, the bride is somewhere.

In this parable, the five bridesmaids are wise because they planned ahead, anticipating that the bridegroom would be late. They prepared by bringing extra oil for their oil lamps. The five foolish bridesmaids only brought what they expected they would need. They brought enough oil for a bridegroom who knew that 15 minutes early is on time and on time is late.

This dude was extremely late. Late. Late. Late.

All the bridesmaids took a nap while they waited. When someone shouted that the bridegroom was on his way, the five foolish bridesmaids woke to realize the oil in their lamps were running out. They asked their wise friends for more oil, but they declined, sending the foolish out to find an lamp oil shop in the middle of the night.

Did you know there are podcasts for people who enjoy planning and planners? Entire podcasts giving tips on daily, monthly, quarterly, yearly planning, as well as highlighters, markers and pens. On Monday, I listened eagerly to a podcaster’s pen recommendations. Eagerly!

Planning, however, can pose a problem. If we are too eager to plan our days and lives, we cling to the oil in our own lamps. We cling to the routine, cling to the comfort, cling to our own plans and favorite pens.

The parable wakes me up to recognize life is not an adventure to be planned. When people arrive asking for oil, they are not a disruption but an unexpected part of the adventure. I like to think I would have been a wise bridesmaid in the story. But unlike the wise in the story, I would have shared my oil and not sent the others out into the night to pointlessly look for a 24-hour lamp oil shop.

Blessed are those who plan without growing too attached to their plans. And blessed are those whose plans include a radiant response to the unexpected.

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