sermon preached at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Medina, WA
by Josh Hosler, Seminarian
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost/ Proper 14B/ August 12, 2012
Good morning! It’s great to be back.
Every three years in our church’s lectionary, we get into what I like to call the “bread cycle.” The Gospel readings from the past few weeks have all revolved around bread. Today not only the Gospel but also our Old Testament reading is about being fed with holy food.
I find the theme of holy food relevant to my own role as your seminarian. A little over a year ago, you sent my family and me to Virginia Theological Seminary with such deep support, such nourishing bread for the journey, that I simply can’t express my gratitude enough. When Christy, Sarah and I packed up our little Honda Civic and headed out on our eleven-day road trip to Virginia, your love and prayers came with us. That was the week of last year’s Vacation Bible Camp, and every night in our hotels we visited the St. Thomas blog to learn about what had happened that day. From a distance, the St. Thomas community has continued to feed us all year long, through blog posts, Facebook posts, the Collect newsletter, phone calls, and your prayers.
Now my first year of seminary is complete. I’ve learned a lot, but not always the things I could have predicted. Sure, I’ve studied the Old Testament, and Church History, and I now have a working knowledge of Hebrew grammar. I’ve studied the development of Christian formation curriculum and evaluated a number of models of youth ministry. These academic efforts are important and lots of fun, but they don’t begin to speak to the grace I have found at seminary—in my classmates and their families, in my professors, and in countless other people. As I continue at every step to discern my call to the priesthood, it is not the classes, but the people who have transformed me. I’ve been given opportunities to volunteer as a hospice chaplain and to spend time with hospital patients in crisis. Both of these experiences prepared me for the most revelatory aspect of my seminary experience so far: CPE, which stands for Clinical Pastoral Education.
CPE is sometimes called pastoral boot camp for seminarians, and for me, it was a ten-week chaplaincy internship at Goodwin House, a retirement community established by the Episcopal Church. Every weekday I got to know the residents, listening to them, and praying with them and for them. This required me to slow down my usually quick pace—as Bishop Greg put it, to “bridle my energy.” I had the honor of meeting a Holocaust survivor, a groundbreaking female archaeologist, an accomplished surgeon, a poet, and a nuclear engineer. Some of them suffer from various forms of dementia, and others have minds that are clear but bodies that just won’t cooperate anymore. The residents told me their amazing life stories, and I listened. Gradually I learned to reflect their feelings back to them, and I found that these affirmations deepened our relationship. I felt as if I were on holy ground and being fed with holy food, learning at the feet of men and women who have trained chaplain interns for years. I even got to DJ a dance party for people who can’t remember what day it is, but who still love to cut a rug to Glenn Miller and the Andrews Sisters. Once my daughter Sarah joined us to dance, too.
Our group of chaplains also spent time together throughout each week, confidentially sharing conversations we’d had with the residents and offering each other feedback in a clinical method sometimes called “care-frontation.” I felt humbled and vulnerable as I shared my stories. The CPE experience forced me to look at myself and my people skills very honestly … and I found myself wanting.
I never thought I was perfect, but I had no idea how far off the mark I can get. I thought I was in touch with people’s emotions, but when pressed, often I couldn’t tell you what I’m feeling in any given moment, let alone gauge what other people in the room might be feeling. I already knew that I can get a little uptight when I’m under stress, but my time in CPE shed new light on a host of past failings in my life, and how most of them tie back to this exact tendency. There were moments when I felt like I was grieving the death of a loved one, only to discover that the person whose death I was grieving was myself … the old me. And then my wonderful supervisor would say, “You never get rid of your ‘stuff’—you just learn to become a better student of it.”
At one point early on in CPE when I was feeling discouraged, a classmate reminded me of something I’d nearly forgotten: God called, and I answered. God was not going to abandon me. My classmate was for me the angel of the Lord bringing me holy food for the 40 days and more of CPE. I knew I’d come out the other side not only with new skills but with a whole new way of relating to people, a way that would begin with more honesty about myself and that would translate into a much deeper pastoral sense and a renewed appreciation for other people in all their joys, sorrows, and complexities.
This has been a huge change from my default setting, which has been to work quickly and manage every detail in an effort to “get it right.” Our Collect for the day asks that we might be given “the spirit to think and do always those things that are right.” The reason we say this in a prayer is that it’s not possible for us to “get it right” by ourselves. No matter how much we try to manage the world around us, eventually, that technique will fail us. And that’s when we need God to step in and redeem us.
I wonder, in fact, if this is what Elijah is going through in today’s Old Testament reading. He has just bested King Ahab and Queen Jezebel and the prophets of their god Baal, and now the queen is after his head. Elijah flees into the desert, a place people don’t go unless they have to, but a place where people always seem to encounter God. He sits down under a solitary broom tree and prays to God that he might die: “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.”
In all our flailing efforts to live the kind of life God wants for us, it’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that a momentary setback means complete failure. It’s hard to be gentle with ourselves at moments like these. We compare ourselves with our heroes and find ourselves wanting, rather than just being ourselves and trusting God to call us further and to guide our steps.
As a matter of fact, our salvation does not depend on our doing anything right at all. God loves us infinitely and eternally. Period. That is why God will sustain us—not in order that we might “get it right” the next time, but merely in order to give us another chance to live in love. And once we realize that God never depended on our “getting it right” in the first place, living in love becomes so much easier and more joyful.
The angel gives Elijah a first meal, and this gives him the solace he needs to rest peacefully. This is what my classmate’s words did for me: they reminded me that God’s call to me and the church’s call to me can endure many temporary setbacks. Elijah’s second meal is for strength, so that he can go for the long haul, and this is what the remainder of my time at CPE became for me. My conversations and prayers with the residents of Goodwin House, and my time with my peers and supervisor, fed me in new ways with each passing week. I learned that my ongoing work is to be in touch with my feelings and those of others, that I might spend less time in my head and more time with my heart turned outward. From one holy meal to the next, we are living healthy spiritual lives when we seek both solace and strength, both pardon and renewal. The church exists so we can get out of it. It is our base of operations, our source of bread for the journey. It is not a place to hide away.
Elijah went forty days and nights on that meal until he came to the mountain of the Lord, the same mountain where Moses had met God face to face. Amazing! We can always go farther than we think we can, solely on what God gives us. In your moment of despair, has the angel of the Lord ever said to you, “Get up and eat”? It’s not always a banquet, but it is always enough. It’s about trusting that there will be enough—that despite all evidence to the contrary, God is with us and will make a way, even if we can’t begin to imagine it. God’s entire creation is shot through with grace. We do our best, or we don’t. We try, or we don’t. We fail—without fail! And at every turn, God is there to say, “Here’s more bread for the journey. Get up and eat.”
Whether in moments of bleak hopelessness like Elijah’s, or in minor fits of the blues, God is there. The angel of the Lord has brought us a meal. Thank you for being angels for me and for my family, bearing Christ to us, generously providing love and prayers as bread for the journey. In the same way, we are all angels of the Lord for each other and for the world. When we live in love, there is always enough. There might even be a banquet to last us 40 days and more. Let’s taste and see that the Lord good. Amen.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Get Out of the Boat
sermon preached at Goodwin House, Bailey’s Crossroads, Falls Church, VA
by Josh Hosler, Chaplain Intern
The Feast of St. James, Apostle/ July 25, 2012
Our saint for today is the apostle James—St. James. James was one of the twelve, and we usually hear about him in the same breath as his brother John. Together with Peter, the three of them made up Jesus’ closest circle of friends. Anytime Jesus invited only a few to come with him, Peter, James and John were the ones. They were invited to the mountaintop for Jesus’ transfiguration, although they didn’t really understand what happened there. They were invited to stay awake in the garden of Gethsemane while Jesus prayed, although they kept falling asleep.
Like some of the other apostles, James and John were fishermen. Jesus nicknamed them the “sons of thunder,” presumably because of their hot tempers and impulsive tendencies. At one point when some people really got them angry, they said, “Jesus, let’s call lightning down from the sky to smite them!” These hot, impulsive attributes are also on full display in today’s Gospel reading. Furthermore, the boys seem to have come by it honestly, because it’s their mother who drives the action. She comes to Jesus and kneels before him—a rather ironic stance considering the lack of humility in her request. She wants her two boys to sit at Jesus’ right and left when he comes to reign.
We don’t know whether this was her idea, or that of the two brothers. And we don’t know for sure what their concept was of the “reign of God,” but I have a hunch they took it pretty literally. When Jesus finally got around to using his charisma and miraculous powers to lead an uprising, throw the Romans out, and restore the glory of Israel, James and John wanted major roles in his administration in Jerusalem.
Clearly, Jesus sees this as a teaching moment. He retorts: “You don’t know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?”
The silly fools answer: “We are able.”
“OK then,” says Jesus, “you will drink that cup.” (At this point, a shiver is in order, because we hear about that cup every Good Friday. As we just heard in our reading from the Acts of the Apostles, James was murdered a decade after Jesus’ crucifixion by King Herod Agrippa I, and although nobody knows for sure, some traditions hold that John, too, died a violent death.)
When the other apostles hear about James and John’s request, they are jealous, of course. What if there’s not enough room in the hierarchy for them? But this is another teaching moment for Jesus. In the Kingdom of God, Jesus tells us, it is inappropriate to seek to be comfortable and in control. Instead, one should seek to become the servant of all. The position of servant is one of uncertainty and lack of control. We never know what we will be asked to do next; we are only to do it.
If we follow this to its logical conclusion, with everybody trying to be everybody else’s servant, I think the hierarchy would have to be completely dismantled. This is just what Jesus wants: mutual relationships all around, with nobody stepping on anybody else. Clearly, not everybody in the world will follow Jesus and get on board with the servant leadership program. But Jesus asks his followers to be servants anyway. Chances are, that will lead to some measure of suffering—the cup that Jesus is to drink.
What does this mean for us? Does Jesus want us to die martyrs’ deaths? It seems unlikely, especially in America today, that such an opportunity will present itself. But we can learn a lot from the Apostle James.
Like James, we are called to fish for people, or as the older, less gender-sensitive, but more poetic version put it, “fishers of men.” We are to get out of our boats and meet people with whom we’d probably rather not associate. We are to show them what it means to follow Jesus.
Like James, we sometimes seek to set ourselves up in a comfortable position. But Jesus reminds us that life doesn’t work like this for long. We may arrive at a measure of comfort, but we are not entitled to it. Furthermore, we must not get attached to any level of comfort if we are to follow Jesus.
Like James, we will have to drink the cup of suffering. I would venture to say that Jesus is simply describing here what humans must go through simply by virtue of being human. We may not have to die a violent death, as James did. But for every one of us, suffering is inevitable, and death is the gateway to eternal life.
“Do you seek great things for yourself?” asks the Prophet Jeremiah in today’s Old Testament reading. And Jesus asks the same thing in his own way of James and John and their mother. “Do you seek great things for yourself? Well, don’t. Seek instead to become a servant. Be uncomfortable, and walk humbly with God. Suffering leads to holiness.”
But this sounds so depressing. What can it possibly mean for us? If you live at Goodwin House, you may find yourself in a pretty comfortable place. And yet discomfort invades these walls, too. Friends develop new physical challenges that restrict their movement. Friends get sick. Friends suffer. Friends die. The suffering of our friends can make us suffer, too. Perhaps the biggest hazard is to believe that we don’t have to get out of our boat, or even that there is a boat we could stay in if we tried.
The life of a Christian is a life on the edge, using whatever energy we have in the service of others. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take care of our own needs, of course. But it does mean that taking care only of our own needs is not a Christian path.
What do you have to give today to someone in need? A visit? A smile? A hug? A listening ear? We each have a variety of gifts to give, but in my ten weeks at Goodwin House, these simple gifts are the ones I have been able to give most frequently. Sometimes they haven’t seemed like much, but they have forced me to get out of my boat of safety and security. And every time I have gotten out of that boat, God has rewarded me by sending amazing people into my life. I have met people who have suffered much and who have suffered little; people who have accomplished much and people who wish they had accomplished more; people who doubt and fear, and people who love and trust. Most of all, I have met people who love and give. And I am ever grateful to them and to God for these experiences.
What does it mean for you to get out of the boat, like James? And how will you do so this week? Amen.
by Josh Hosler, Chaplain Intern
The Feast of St. James, Apostle/ July 25, 2012
Our saint for today is the apostle James—St. James. James was one of the twelve, and we usually hear about him in the same breath as his brother John. Together with Peter, the three of them made up Jesus’ closest circle of friends. Anytime Jesus invited only a few to come with him, Peter, James and John were the ones. They were invited to the mountaintop for Jesus’ transfiguration, although they didn’t really understand what happened there. They were invited to stay awake in the garden of Gethsemane while Jesus prayed, although they kept falling asleep.
Like some of the other apostles, James and John were fishermen. Jesus nicknamed them the “sons of thunder,” presumably because of their hot tempers and impulsive tendencies. At one point when some people really got them angry, they said, “Jesus, let’s call lightning down from the sky to smite them!” These hot, impulsive attributes are also on full display in today’s Gospel reading. Furthermore, the boys seem to have come by it honestly, because it’s their mother who drives the action. She comes to Jesus and kneels before him—a rather ironic stance considering the lack of humility in her request. She wants her two boys to sit at Jesus’ right and left when he comes to reign.
We don’t know whether this was her idea, or that of the two brothers. And we don’t know for sure what their concept was of the “reign of God,” but I have a hunch they took it pretty literally. When Jesus finally got around to using his charisma and miraculous powers to lead an uprising, throw the Romans out, and restore the glory of Israel, James and John wanted major roles in his administration in Jerusalem.
Clearly, Jesus sees this as a teaching moment. He retorts: “You don’t know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?”
The silly fools answer: “We are able.”
“OK then,” says Jesus, “you will drink that cup.” (At this point, a shiver is in order, because we hear about that cup every Good Friday. As we just heard in our reading from the Acts of the Apostles, James was murdered a decade after Jesus’ crucifixion by King Herod Agrippa I, and although nobody knows for sure, some traditions hold that John, too, died a violent death.)
When the other apostles hear about James and John’s request, they are jealous, of course. What if there’s not enough room in the hierarchy for them? But this is another teaching moment for Jesus. In the Kingdom of God, Jesus tells us, it is inappropriate to seek to be comfortable and in control. Instead, one should seek to become the servant of all. The position of servant is one of uncertainty and lack of control. We never know what we will be asked to do next; we are only to do it.
If we follow this to its logical conclusion, with everybody trying to be everybody else’s servant, I think the hierarchy would have to be completely dismantled. This is just what Jesus wants: mutual relationships all around, with nobody stepping on anybody else. Clearly, not everybody in the world will follow Jesus and get on board with the servant leadership program. But Jesus asks his followers to be servants anyway. Chances are, that will lead to some measure of suffering—the cup that Jesus is to drink.
What does this mean for us? Does Jesus want us to die martyrs’ deaths? It seems unlikely, especially in America today, that such an opportunity will present itself. But we can learn a lot from the Apostle James.
Like James, we are called to fish for people, or as the older, less gender-sensitive, but more poetic version put it, “fishers of men.” We are to get out of our boats and meet people with whom we’d probably rather not associate. We are to show them what it means to follow Jesus.
Like James, we sometimes seek to set ourselves up in a comfortable position. But Jesus reminds us that life doesn’t work like this for long. We may arrive at a measure of comfort, but we are not entitled to it. Furthermore, we must not get attached to any level of comfort if we are to follow Jesus.
Like James, we will have to drink the cup of suffering. I would venture to say that Jesus is simply describing here what humans must go through simply by virtue of being human. We may not have to die a violent death, as James did. But for every one of us, suffering is inevitable, and death is the gateway to eternal life.
“Do you seek great things for yourself?” asks the Prophet Jeremiah in today’s Old Testament reading. And Jesus asks the same thing in his own way of James and John and their mother. “Do you seek great things for yourself? Well, don’t. Seek instead to become a servant. Be uncomfortable, and walk humbly with God. Suffering leads to holiness.”
But this sounds so depressing. What can it possibly mean for us? If you live at Goodwin House, you may find yourself in a pretty comfortable place. And yet discomfort invades these walls, too. Friends develop new physical challenges that restrict their movement. Friends get sick. Friends suffer. Friends die. The suffering of our friends can make us suffer, too. Perhaps the biggest hazard is to believe that we don’t have to get out of our boat, or even that there is a boat we could stay in if we tried.
The life of a Christian is a life on the edge, using whatever energy we have in the service of others. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take care of our own needs, of course. But it does mean that taking care only of our own needs is not a Christian path.
What do you have to give today to someone in need? A visit? A smile? A hug? A listening ear? We each have a variety of gifts to give, but in my ten weeks at Goodwin House, these simple gifts are the ones I have been able to give most frequently. Sometimes they haven’t seemed like much, but they have forced me to get out of my boat of safety and security. And every time I have gotten out of that boat, God has rewarded me by sending amazing people into my life. I have met people who have suffered much and who have suffered little; people who have accomplished much and people who wish they had accomplished more; people who doubt and fear, and people who love and trust. Most of all, I have met people who love and give. And I am ever grateful to them and to God for these experiences.
What does it mean for you to get out of the boat, like James? And how will you do so this week? Amen.
Monday, July 23, 2012
What Does God Want Us to Do?
sermon preached at Church of the Holy Cross, Dunn Loring, VA
by Josh Hosler, VTS seminarian
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost/ Proper 11B/ July 22, 2012
How can we know what God wants us to do? This question has intrigued humankind forever. It’s a question that ties in directly with the question of what God’s call is to us as individuals and as a community. But it’s not always such a lofty question, either. It shows up in our day-to-day ethical dilemmas—should I tell someone what I overheard when eavesdropping?—and in the decisions we must make regardless of not being able to predict the future—should I take this job? should I sell the house? No matter how many plans we make, we only get to live our lives one moment at a time. And in each and every moment, there is the possibility of one of us asking, “How can I know what God wants me to do?” We ask it, and our biblical ancestors asked it as well.
In our story today from the second book of Samuel, King David’s enemies have been squelched, and the land is at peace. Now David can finally carry out the reforms he’s been wanting for so long. And his first decision is to build a temple for God. Now, this plan is most appropriate, pious, and innovative. David wants to thank God for the military victories and the good fortune of the Kingdom of Israel. Finally, after all these years, the Promised Land has been conquered and settled, and David is not going to take it for granted or even take credit for it. The king is going to build a monument to God’s sovereignty, not his own—grander than the royal palace. How countercultural! What a bold demonstration of faith!
David runs the plan by the priest Nathan, his closest adviser. Now, Nathan is accustomed to asking the question, “What does God want us to do?” But this time, without blinking, Nathan says, “Brilliant! Go for it.” Nathan has his own internal monologue in which, of course, God wants to have a huge, glorious temple. God is so great that we should be obligated to do our best for Him! And certainly God’s house should be far grander than our own. (Not to mention, it’ll be a real poke in the eye at all the nations we’ve just defeated.)
But God has something different in mind. And it’s a good thing that Nathan is listening when God speaks to him that night. God says: “Don’t build me a house. Let me build you a house.”
You see, God has led the people of Israel to victory many, many times, and always against the same enemy: fear. God has told the Israelites again and again that they will succeed, and they finally have. They’ve conquered their enemies and their fears, and now they can rest. But the real strength of Judaism so far has been its inability to put down roots. As soon as there’s a temple, God knows that the kingdom of Israel, free from fear, will most likely go toward the other extreme: complacency. When Israel gets to be a real country like all the other real countries, there may be shady alliances, politically motivated marriages, backroom deals … the king may make many bad decisions that affect many thousands of people.
So God says to Nathan, “I do not require four-star accommodations. You don’t need to take care of me or defend my honor by making sure there’s a place worthy of me. You can’t create such a place, and I don’t want such a place. I just want you. I want you to be my Holy of Holies. In fact, I will build you a house, and then we can all live in it together.” This is what is known as the Davidic covenant, and it is outlined in today’s psalm: God’s promise that a descendant of David’s will always be on the throne.
Well, you can’t say God doesn’t try. Through Nathan, God stops David from building that temple. But God predicts that this temple is going to happen eventually, and sure enough, David’s son Solomon comes along, begging and pleading for a temple. Finally, like an exhausted parent, God gives in and says, “Alright already! Build your temple and see what happens. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Sure enough, one generation after Solomon builds that temple, the complacent kingdom is in disarray. The nation of Israel splits, and the two sides are both eventually conquered, first by the Assyrians, then the Babylonians, then the Persians, then the Greeks.
A thousand years after David, the Israelites are still an occupied people. Now the Romans have conquered the known world. Through a combination of strict religious observances, carefully recorded Scripture, and the distinctive mark of circumcision, the Jews are still Jews—still proud, still chosen, and still listening for God’s voice. It’s at this point in the history of Planet Earth that God says, “OK. The time has come.” And then God raises hiddenness, obscurity, and mystery to a whole new level. God decides to build us a different kind of house … inside the body of a 14-year-old girl. And Mary, with all the bold, optimistic foolishness of a teenager, says, “Well, God … I guess you know best. Let’s do this.”
Now, that’s a story for another time of the year. But all year round, we do tell the story of the building of God’s house in Jesus. Today’s passage from the letter to the Ephesians tells us that through his death and resurrection, Christ “has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” No doubt the Israelite kings couldn’t have imagined that God would rather reconcile the peoples of the earth than keep a temple intact in Jerusalem, or that Israel’s many ancient enemies are not necessarily God’s enemies. Both Jews and Gentiles have been made one in Christ, says the epistle, “with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.”
All this is heady stuff, theological and geopolitical and even cosmic. We could take it any number of ways. But today I don’t want to wander too far from the original question: “How can I know what God wants me to do?” I think even Jesus struggled with this question. In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus and his friends have been extremely busy. They’ve been teaching and healing all over the countryside, and they’re happy but exhausted. So Jesus says, “Tell you what. Let’s take a little retreat.” But everywhere they go, they find themselves mobbed by groupies.
Have you ever felt as if your work wouldn’t leave you alone? Have you caught yourself eating lunch at your desk, texting at your child’s orchestra concert, or bringing the laptop on your family vacation? In today’s Gospel you may find some measure of solace: it seems that something similar happened to Jesus and his disciples. And when they found themselves surrounded by the crowds, they had to make a decision: send the people away, or teach and heal some more. Jesus chose the latter.
When we are trying to make a decision, we might well turn to the Bible, especially to the example of Jesus. If Jesus decided to put off self-care for the sake of another day of teaching and healing, shouldn’t we, also, give everything we have for the people we love? Shouldn’t we run ourselves ragged for our children, sacrifice our schedules for our friends, and never stop dashing around from home to church to school to work? Well, not necessarily. Self-care is important, too, and on other occasions, Jesus did successfully get away. Once he even elicited the reaction, “Where have you been? Everyone is looking for you!” And he didn’t apologize for having made himself scarce.
My point is that Jesus had options, and so do we. As much as we might wish God would take away the pain of making a difficult decision, ultimately, it’s up to us. God gave us free will, and most of the time we’re not afraid to use it. Why should we become afraid of our free will just because, on one occasion or another, the stakes seem higher?
Recently I shared a conversation with a friend about a decision she will soon have to make: a very clear-cut decision that will affect where she goes next in life. She said, “I’ve been praying about it, but I haven’t received an answer.”
I said, “That sounds really hard, and I can tell that making this decision scares you. But I wonder … when God doesn’t answer, maybe the message is: ‘This one really is up to you. But fear not: I will be with you, no matter what you decide, and whatever the consequences may be.’”
We do have to make our own decisions, but we are not without guidance. We have Scripture. We have our community of faith. We have our own God-given reason. Most of all, we have Christ, who never stops working even when our energy flags. He chooses at every turn to knock down the barriers that separate people from each other, bringing healing and restoration to outcasts and to people who know all too well just how many bad decisions they have made.
In Christ, God has built us a house. But when we live in love, we become the Church, and today’s epistle describes the Church as the very body of Christ, growing “into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.” Well, would you look at that? It seems God has allowed us to build a temple in His honor after all. Amen.
by Josh Hosler, VTS seminarian
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost/ Proper 11B/ July 22, 2012
How can we know what God wants us to do? This question has intrigued humankind forever. It’s a question that ties in directly with the question of what God’s call is to us as individuals and as a community. But it’s not always such a lofty question, either. It shows up in our day-to-day ethical dilemmas—should I tell someone what I overheard when eavesdropping?—and in the decisions we must make regardless of not being able to predict the future—should I take this job? should I sell the house? No matter how many plans we make, we only get to live our lives one moment at a time. And in each and every moment, there is the possibility of one of us asking, “How can I know what God wants me to do?” We ask it, and our biblical ancestors asked it as well.
In our story today from the second book of Samuel, King David’s enemies have been squelched, and the land is at peace. Now David can finally carry out the reforms he’s been wanting for so long. And his first decision is to build a temple for God. Now, this plan is most appropriate, pious, and innovative. David wants to thank God for the military victories and the good fortune of the Kingdom of Israel. Finally, after all these years, the Promised Land has been conquered and settled, and David is not going to take it for granted or even take credit for it. The king is going to build a monument to God’s sovereignty, not his own—grander than the royal palace. How countercultural! What a bold demonstration of faith!
David runs the plan by the priest Nathan, his closest adviser. Now, Nathan is accustomed to asking the question, “What does God want us to do?” But this time, without blinking, Nathan says, “Brilliant! Go for it.” Nathan has his own internal monologue in which, of course, God wants to have a huge, glorious temple. God is so great that we should be obligated to do our best for Him! And certainly God’s house should be far grander than our own. (Not to mention, it’ll be a real poke in the eye at all the nations we’ve just defeated.)
But God has something different in mind. And it’s a good thing that Nathan is listening when God speaks to him that night. God says: “Don’t build me a house. Let me build you a house.”
You see, God has led the people of Israel to victory many, many times, and always against the same enemy: fear. God has told the Israelites again and again that they will succeed, and they finally have. They’ve conquered their enemies and their fears, and now they can rest. But the real strength of Judaism so far has been its inability to put down roots. As soon as there’s a temple, God knows that the kingdom of Israel, free from fear, will most likely go toward the other extreme: complacency. When Israel gets to be a real country like all the other real countries, there may be shady alliances, politically motivated marriages, backroom deals … the king may make many bad decisions that affect many thousands of people.
So God says to Nathan, “I do not require four-star accommodations. You don’t need to take care of me or defend my honor by making sure there’s a place worthy of me. You can’t create such a place, and I don’t want such a place. I just want you. I want you to be my Holy of Holies. In fact, I will build you a house, and then we can all live in it together.” This is what is known as the Davidic covenant, and it is outlined in today’s psalm: God’s promise that a descendant of David’s will always be on the throne.
Well, you can’t say God doesn’t try. Through Nathan, God stops David from building that temple. But God predicts that this temple is going to happen eventually, and sure enough, David’s son Solomon comes along, begging and pleading for a temple. Finally, like an exhausted parent, God gives in and says, “Alright already! Build your temple and see what happens. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Sure enough, one generation after Solomon builds that temple, the complacent kingdom is in disarray. The nation of Israel splits, and the two sides are both eventually conquered, first by the Assyrians, then the Babylonians, then the Persians, then the Greeks.
A thousand years after David, the Israelites are still an occupied people. Now the Romans have conquered the known world. Through a combination of strict religious observances, carefully recorded Scripture, and the distinctive mark of circumcision, the Jews are still Jews—still proud, still chosen, and still listening for God’s voice. It’s at this point in the history of Planet Earth that God says, “OK. The time has come.” And then God raises hiddenness, obscurity, and mystery to a whole new level. God decides to build us a different kind of house … inside the body of a 14-year-old girl. And Mary, with all the bold, optimistic foolishness of a teenager, says, “Well, God … I guess you know best. Let’s do this.”
Now, that’s a story for another time of the year. But all year round, we do tell the story of the building of God’s house in Jesus. Today’s passage from the letter to the Ephesians tells us that through his death and resurrection, Christ “has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” No doubt the Israelite kings couldn’t have imagined that God would rather reconcile the peoples of the earth than keep a temple intact in Jerusalem, or that Israel’s many ancient enemies are not necessarily God’s enemies. Both Jews and Gentiles have been made one in Christ, says the epistle, “with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.”
All this is heady stuff, theological and geopolitical and even cosmic. We could take it any number of ways. But today I don’t want to wander too far from the original question: “How can I know what God wants me to do?” I think even Jesus struggled with this question. In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus and his friends have been extremely busy. They’ve been teaching and healing all over the countryside, and they’re happy but exhausted. So Jesus says, “Tell you what. Let’s take a little retreat.” But everywhere they go, they find themselves mobbed by groupies.
Have you ever felt as if your work wouldn’t leave you alone? Have you caught yourself eating lunch at your desk, texting at your child’s orchestra concert, or bringing the laptop on your family vacation? In today’s Gospel you may find some measure of solace: it seems that something similar happened to Jesus and his disciples. And when they found themselves surrounded by the crowds, they had to make a decision: send the people away, or teach and heal some more. Jesus chose the latter.
When we are trying to make a decision, we might well turn to the Bible, especially to the example of Jesus. If Jesus decided to put off self-care for the sake of another day of teaching and healing, shouldn’t we, also, give everything we have for the people we love? Shouldn’t we run ourselves ragged for our children, sacrifice our schedules for our friends, and never stop dashing around from home to church to school to work? Well, not necessarily. Self-care is important, too, and on other occasions, Jesus did successfully get away. Once he even elicited the reaction, “Where have you been? Everyone is looking for you!” And he didn’t apologize for having made himself scarce.
My point is that Jesus had options, and so do we. As much as we might wish God would take away the pain of making a difficult decision, ultimately, it’s up to us. God gave us free will, and most of the time we’re not afraid to use it. Why should we become afraid of our free will just because, on one occasion or another, the stakes seem higher?
Recently I shared a conversation with a friend about a decision she will soon have to make: a very clear-cut decision that will affect where she goes next in life. She said, “I’ve been praying about it, but I haven’t received an answer.”
I said, “That sounds really hard, and I can tell that making this decision scares you. But I wonder … when God doesn’t answer, maybe the message is: ‘This one really is up to you. But fear not: I will be with you, no matter what you decide, and whatever the consequences may be.’”
We do have to make our own decisions, but we are not without guidance. We have Scripture. We have our community of faith. We have our own God-given reason. Most of all, we have Christ, who never stops working even when our energy flags. He chooses at every turn to knock down the barriers that separate people from each other, bringing healing and restoration to outcasts and to people who know all too well just how many bad decisions they have made.
In Christ, God has built us a house. But when we live in love, we become the Church, and today’s epistle describes the Church as the very body of Christ, growing “into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.” Well, would you look at that? It seems God has allowed us to build a temple in His honor after all. Amen.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
What is CPE For? Simply This ...
I have two weeks of CPE left to go, and I've learned so much. This is the week I will work on recording all that I have learned in my final self-evaluation. But I think it all boils down to one very simple idea:
It is incredibly valuable to be able to name the emotions you are feeling before you make a decision based on them.
How simple is that? Well, it's a simple idea. But how many of us are able to name our feelings at any given moment? I know it's difficult for me. But now I'm practicing. Now I find more and more situations in which I am able to say to myself, for instance, "Hold up. Feel that? Your heart rate just went up. Why? What feeling is this? OK, it's nervousness. Now, why? What about this situation is making you nervous? Maybe it's important to know something about that before you speak."
Obviously there are situations in which we need to act without the benefit of taking time to name our emotions -- that's what some emotions are for, I think. But it is so valuable just to have the option. It slows me down at times when slowing down is helpful not only for me, but for the people I'm interacting with.
It is incredibly valuable to be able to name the emotions you are feeling before you make a decision based on them.
How simple is that? Well, it's a simple idea. But how many of us are able to name our feelings at any given moment? I know it's difficult for me. But now I'm practicing. Now I find more and more situations in which I am able to say to myself, for instance, "Hold up. Feel that? Your heart rate just went up. Why? What feeling is this? OK, it's nervousness. Now, why? What about this situation is making you nervous? Maybe it's important to know something about that before you speak."
Obviously there are situations in which we need to act without the benefit of taking time to name our emotions -- that's what some emotions are for, I think. But it is so valuable just to have the option. It slows me down at times when slowing down is helpful not only for me, but for the people I'm interacting with.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
The Call
sermon preached at Church of the Holy Cross, Dunn Loring, VA
by Josh Hosler
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost/ Proper 9B/ July 8, 2012
Today’s readings seem to me to be all about the people God calls to be leaders. As a seminarian discerning a call to the priesthood, leadership is a topic I think about a lot. I seek leadership, I wonder about the qualities of a good leader, and sometimes I even dread leadership. We assume our leaders must have lots of know-how to do the job well. But listen closely to today’s readings and you might find a counter-message about leadership. It seems that leadership has less to do with what you know than with your people skills. And it also has less to do with perfection and more to do with whom you trust—that someone being God.
Take King David, for instance. When he was still very young—maybe twelve years old?—Samuel anointed him king, but didn’t tell anybody. Saul remained king of Israel for many years after that day. David, meanwhile, gained a positive reputation of his own, starting with that Goliath incident, and this made Saul very jealous. David loved King Saul and stuck with him through the king’s mental illness and even when the king tried to kill him once or twice. Eventually, though, Saul brought about his own downfall, because his people skills were severely lacking. And when that happened, as we hear this morning, “all the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron” and said, “Look, we are your bone and flesh … [God has said] it is … you who shall be ruler over Israel.” David’s people skills had earned him a following that made his reign inevitable, the fulfillment of God’s call to him.
David has gone down in history as the ultimate Jewish king, but it’s not because he was perfect. The Bathsheba-and-Uriah incident is evidence enough of David’s moral failings. But on that occasion, David repented and recommitted himself to God. Perfection is not a requirement for a good leader. Good leaders are people who are conscientious enough to own up to their mistakes and who trust God to bring good out of a bad situation. In fact, David and Bathsheba’s son, Solomon, became the next king, and his reign marked the golden age of Israel.
Paul was another imperfect leader. In today’s reading from his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul talks about a mystical experience that happened to a friend of his—presumably, he’s speaking about himself in an intentionally humble way, so that it won’t sound like he’s bragging. Paul uses this experience to justify his call from God. I have a feeling that being humble was a challenge for Paul. After all, he had the audacity to take this strong Jewish faith in Jesus and open it up to the whole Gentile world. I have no trouble believing that was exactly what God called Paul to do. But it would take a person of sizeable ego to even think of taking on a project like that. And a large ego often doesn’t translate into the kind of people skills one needs to be a good leader.
So Paul worked hard to temper his ego with faith. God’s words to him were these: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul knew that a perfect person—even if such a one were possible—could never earn the respect of common people who are all too aware of their own imperfections. So he kept reminding himself of his own weaknesses, and he even boasted about them, because they demonstrated that whatever good works Paul did, it was God who actually deserved the credit.
Even Jesus, with his divine people skills, had difficulty getting some people to follow him. Ironically, it was the people who knew him best—the residents of his own hometown—who couldn’t believe in him. And I’m not sure why that amazed Jesus so much. Local kid disappears for a few years, comes home, and suddenly he’s talking like he’s the son of God or something. But we all know him as Mary’s boy—the carpenter—and we know all his brothers and sisters. Has he lost his mind?
Yet Jesus has so many followers by this time that he’s equipping them to be leaders, to spread the Good News to more people at once. He calls his apostles to go out two by two, and to be completely dependent on the people they meet to provide for all their needs. (Incidentally, this scene always reminds me of Yoda urging Luke Skywalker to leave his light saber behind.) Jesus teaches his apostles that the people who will not receive them in all their humility don’t have ears to hear Jesus’ message anyway. And when the apostles go out, completely unprotected and unguarded, possibly with minimal know-how or people skills, but with childlike trust, they work miracles in Jesus’ name.
Today, we are those apostles. We are the ones Jesus has sent out to bring the Good News that nothing can separate us from the love of God. The message of God’s forgiveness is often met with resistance, with hardness of heart, and even with fear and violence. You’d think people would be happy to hear that God loves them. But people are less likely to believe the Good News when the people who bring it don’t quite believe it themselves. As a matter of fact, I think that’s what trips up the Christian cause most often. Even Christians with lots of book-smarts or people skills need to trust the one who granted those gifts in the first place.
Do we really believe that God loves us, supports us, sustains us, and has given us everything we need? Do you believe that you have everything you need to follow God’s call to you? Have you thought of it in those terms before? Are you saying to yourself right now, “I’m not called by God. That’s for priests and really, really saintly people”?
Yet here we are in this time of sabbatical at Holy Cross, looking at our own calls as a community and as individuals. We do have everything we need. We have our baptism, which is the mechanism by which we were called in the first place. At your baptism, the Holy Spirit entered you with incredible power, and a community of faith promised to do everything in its power to help raise you in the Christian faith and life. You may not be in that same community anymore, but those people were representatives of a deeper truth: the Christians who surround you today are the ones who can support you in God’s call to you now.
Your call may not be the same as it used to be. Whether it’s to a certain career, or to raise a family, or simply to listen in this moment to a friend who’s feeling down, God’s calls to us come and go. And if you are not baptized, that doesn’t mean God is not calling you. The call may well be to baptism first, and to further instructions later! We’re not always prepared for a call when it comes—in fact, I’d be wary of anyone who claimed to be prepared. It takes trust to embrace a call: trust that God will equip us. There’s a great bumper sticker that says, “God doesn’t call the fit—God fits the called.” As I go through seminary, this phrase means more to me than ever before.
This summer I’m enrolled in CPE—Clinical Pastoral Education—sometimes called pastoral boot camp for seminarians. My CPE experience is a ten-week chaplaincy internship at Goodwin House, a retirement community in Alexandria. I spend every weekday getting to know the residents, listening to them, and praying with them and for them. This has required me to slow down my usually quick pace—to bridle my energy. We also spend lots of time as a group of chaplains, sharing the conversations we’ve had with the residents and offering each other feedback in a style sometimes called “care-frontation.” It’s a little uncomfortable sometimes! The CPE experience has forced me to look at myself and my people skills very honestly … and I find myself wanting.
I never thought I was perfect, but I had no idea how far off the mark I can get. I thought I was in touch with people’s emotions, but when pressed, often I couldn’t tell you what I’m feeling in any given moment, let alone gauge what other people in the room might be feeling. I already knew that I can get a little uptight when I’m under stress, but my time in CPE has shed new light on a host of past failings in my life, and how most of them tie back to this exact tendency. I am also beginning to understand how often I talk about myself at the expense of getting curious about other people in all their joys, sorrows, and complexity. There are moments when I feel like I’m grieving the death of a loved one, only to discover that the person whose death I’m grieving is myself … the old me. But as my CPE supervisor Dan Duggan is fond of saying, “You never get rid of your ‘stuff’—you just become a better student of it.”
We all go through times like this sooner or later—that is, if we are ever to grow. Like David, we fall into sin, but hopefully we repent and understand that God has forgiven us. Like Paul, we find we have a thorn in our side, something that will never go away, but which we just might learn to manage better … and the example of which might actually be of some help to others. Like Jesus, we find that even when we try to honor God’s call, there are people close to us who don’t see it and who won’t be there for us. But like Jesus’ apostles, we are called to just go out and do it, whether we’re prepared or not, because God will be there with us in ways that we can’t begin to imagine.
My call to the priesthood has taken shape over many years, and it has been spoken to me through the mouths of many people. Likewise, if you’re confused about God’s call to you, it may be time to listen to the voices of your community, and also to spend more time in quiet contemplation, listening for the still, small voice of God.
Whatever my call, I’ll never be competent enough to do it exactly right, and neither will you. Our spiritual competence is completely dependent on God, and that’s good news, because faith tells us God will not let us down. Do you believe that? If not, can you at least imagine it? That’s all you need, really … a little imagination, a sense of wonder, and a heart to know and love God. God is calling you, in all your imperfections, to grow more and more into the person you were meant to be—to become more and more yourself. Are you listening? Amen.
by Josh Hosler
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost/ Proper 9B/ July 8, 2012
Today’s readings seem to me to be all about the people God calls to be leaders. As a seminarian discerning a call to the priesthood, leadership is a topic I think about a lot. I seek leadership, I wonder about the qualities of a good leader, and sometimes I even dread leadership. We assume our leaders must have lots of know-how to do the job well. But listen closely to today’s readings and you might find a counter-message about leadership. It seems that leadership has less to do with what you know than with your people skills. And it also has less to do with perfection and more to do with whom you trust—that someone being God.
Take King David, for instance. When he was still very young—maybe twelve years old?—Samuel anointed him king, but didn’t tell anybody. Saul remained king of Israel for many years after that day. David, meanwhile, gained a positive reputation of his own, starting with that Goliath incident, and this made Saul very jealous. David loved King Saul and stuck with him through the king’s mental illness and even when the king tried to kill him once or twice. Eventually, though, Saul brought about his own downfall, because his people skills were severely lacking. And when that happened, as we hear this morning, “all the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron” and said, “Look, we are your bone and flesh … [God has said] it is … you who shall be ruler over Israel.” David’s people skills had earned him a following that made his reign inevitable, the fulfillment of God’s call to him.
David has gone down in history as the ultimate Jewish king, but it’s not because he was perfect. The Bathsheba-and-Uriah incident is evidence enough of David’s moral failings. But on that occasion, David repented and recommitted himself to God. Perfection is not a requirement for a good leader. Good leaders are people who are conscientious enough to own up to their mistakes and who trust God to bring good out of a bad situation. In fact, David and Bathsheba’s son, Solomon, became the next king, and his reign marked the golden age of Israel.
Paul was another imperfect leader. In today’s reading from his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul talks about a mystical experience that happened to a friend of his—presumably, he’s speaking about himself in an intentionally humble way, so that it won’t sound like he’s bragging. Paul uses this experience to justify his call from God. I have a feeling that being humble was a challenge for Paul. After all, he had the audacity to take this strong Jewish faith in Jesus and open it up to the whole Gentile world. I have no trouble believing that was exactly what God called Paul to do. But it would take a person of sizeable ego to even think of taking on a project like that. And a large ego often doesn’t translate into the kind of people skills one needs to be a good leader.
So Paul worked hard to temper his ego with faith. God’s words to him were these: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul knew that a perfect person—even if such a one were possible—could never earn the respect of common people who are all too aware of their own imperfections. So he kept reminding himself of his own weaknesses, and he even boasted about them, because they demonstrated that whatever good works Paul did, it was God who actually deserved the credit.
Even Jesus, with his divine people skills, had difficulty getting some people to follow him. Ironically, it was the people who knew him best—the residents of his own hometown—who couldn’t believe in him. And I’m not sure why that amazed Jesus so much. Local kid disappears for a few years, comes home, and suddenly he’s talking like he’s the son of God or something. But we all know him as Mary’s boy—the carpenter—and we know all his brothers and sisters. Has he lost his mind?
Yet Jesus has so many followers by this time that he’s equipping them to be leaders, to spread the Good News to more people at once. He calls his apostles to go out two by two, and to be completely dependent on the people they meet to provide for all their needs. (Incidentally, this scene always reminds me of Yoda urging Luke Skywalker to leave his light saber behind.) Jesus teaches his apostles that the people who will not receive them in all their humility don’t have ears to hear Jesus’ message anyway. And when the apostles go out, completely unprotected and unguarded, possibly with minimal know-how or people skills, but with childlike trust, they work miracles in Jesus’ name.
Today, we are those apostles. We are the ones Jesus has sent out to bring the Good News that nothing can separate us from the love of God. The message of God’s forgiveness is often met with resistance, with hardness of heart, and even with fear and violence. You’d think people would be happy to hear that God loves them. But people are less likely to believe the Good News when the people who bring it don’t quite believe it themselves. As a matter of fact, I think that’s what trips up the Christian cause most often. Even Christians with lots of book-smarts or people skills need to trust the one who granted those gifts in the first place.
Do we really believe that God loves us, supports us, sustains us, and has given us everything we need? Do you believe that you have everything you need to follow God’s call to you? Have you thought of it in those terms before? Are you saying to yourself right now, “I’m not called by God. That’s for priests and really, really saintly people”?
Yet here we are in this time of sabbatical at Holy Cross, looking at our own calls as a community and as individuals. We do have everything we need. We have our baptism, which is the mechanism by which we were called in the first place. At your baptism, the Holy Spirit entered you with incredible power, and a community of faith promised to do everything in its power to help raise you in the Christian faith and life. You may not be in that same community anymore, but those people were representatives of a deeper truth: the Christians who surround you today are the ones who can support you in God’s call to you now.
Your call may not be the same as it used to be. Whether it’s to a certain career, or to raise a family, or simply to listen in this moment to a friend who’s feeling down, God’s calls to us come and go. And if you are not baptized, that doesn’t mean God is not calling you. The call may well be to baptism first, and to further instructions later! We’re not always prepared for a call when it comes—in fact, I’d be wary of anyone who claimed to be prepared. It takes trust to embrace a call: trust that God will equip us. There’s a great bumper sticker that says, “God doesn’t call the fit—God fits the called.” As I go through seminary, this phrase means more to me than ever before.
This summer I’m enrolled in CPE—Clinical Pastoral Education—sometimes called pastoral boot camp for seminarians. My CPE experience is a ten-week chaplaincy internship at Goodwin House, a retirement community in Alexandria. I spend every weekday getting to know the residents, listening to them, and praying with them and for them. This has required me to slow down my usually quick pace—to bridle my energy. We also spend lots of time as a group of chaplains, sharing the conversations we’ve had with the residents and offering each other feedback in a style sometimes called “care-frontation.” It’s a little uncomfortable sometimes! The CPE experience has forced me to look at myself and my people skills very honestly … and I find myself wanting.
I never thought I was perfect, but I had no idea how far off the mark I can get. I thought I was in touch with people’s emotions, but when pressed, often I couldn’t tell you what I’m feeling in any given moment, let alone gauge what other people in the room might be feeling. I already knew that I can get a little uptight when I’m under stress, but my time in CPE has shed new light on a host of past failings in my life, and how most of them tie back to this exact tendency. I am also beginning to understand how often I talk about myself at the expense of getting curious about other people in all their joys, sorrows, and complexity. There are moments when I feel like I’m grieving the death of a loved one, only to discover that the person whose death I’m grieving is myself … the old me. But as my CPE supervisor Dan Duggan is fond of saying, “You never get rid of your ‘stuff’—you just become a better student of it.”
We all go through times like this sooner or later—that is, if we are ever to grow. Like David, we fall into sin, but hopefully we repent and understand that God has forgiven us. Like Paul, we find we have a thorn in our side, something that will never go away, but which we just might learn to manage better … and the example of which might actually be of some help to others. Like Jesus, we find that even when we try to honor God’s call, there are people close to us who don’t see it and who won’t be there for us. But like Jesus’ apostles, we are called to just go out and do it, whether we’re prepared or not, because God will be there with us in ways that we can’t begin to imagine.
My call to the priesthood has taken shape over many years, and it has been spoken to me through the mouths of many people. Likewise, if you’re confused about God’s call to you, it may be time to listen to the voices of your community, and also to spend more time in quiet contemplation, listening for the still, small voice of God.
Whatever my call, I’ll never be competent enough to do it exactly right, and neither will you. Our spiritual competence is completely dependent on God, and that’s good news, because faith tells us God will not let us down. Do you believe that? If not, can you at least imagine it? That’s all you need, really … a little imagination, a sense of wonder, and a heart to know and love God. God is calling you, in all your imperfections, to grow more and more into the person you were meant to be—to become more and more yourself. Are you listening? Amen.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Remembering Who and Whose
sermon preached at Goodwin House, Bailey’s Crossroads, Falls Church, VA
by Josh Hosler, Chaplain Intern
Proper 5B/ June 10, 2012
The scene is set at the Sea of Galilee. It is early yet. Jesus has just begun to teach and heal, and he has set the town abuzz. The people whisper to each other: “Did he just forgive someone’s sins? Everyone knows only God can do that! Wait until I tell Miriam … I heard he just shared a meal with tax collectors, those sponges who are traitors to our race and our God! Is this guy for real? I’ve got to find out for myself! … Did you see his friends? Did they really just pluck grain on the Sabbath? How can they get away with that? … Well, I heard Jesus cured a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath! How can he even do that? … And I heard he cast out a demon in Capernaum! How can he both break God’s laws and be blessed with this undeniable ability to cure people? Where does his power come from?”
In the first few chapters of Mark, we do find Jesus breaking the law repeatedly—at least, he breaks the law as it has been developed into seeming perfection by the Pharisees, based on their understanding of the centuries-old Mosaic law. Jesus grew up following these laws, and now he seems to be flagrantly throwing them away! This inspires some scribes—people I like to think of as religious case lawyers—to journey from Jerusalem down to the Sea of Galilee to see for themselves what’s going on. They have the same question: If Jesus has no respect for God’s laws, then where does his power come from? And they suggest what they think is the only possibility: his powers must come from a supernatural source other than God—the Sa-TAN, the accuser, the devil.
But Jesus flips their logic back on them: “How can the devil cast out the devil? If he’s casting out his own people, that’s a pretty good sign that his reign is coming apart at the seams. As it turns out, no, I’m not helping Satan … you’ve seen by my actions that I’m in the process of tying him up! ” These are very good points, and they hint strongly at an alternate explanation: the scribes and the Pharisees themselves could be wrong.
But they’re not having it. In order to cling to their theological understanding—not to mention their power and authority—the Jewish leaders will begin to consider some drastic measures. It is at this point that Jesus responds to their indignation with one of the most puzzling, troublesome phrases in the Gospels: “Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin.”
This phrase has caused generations of conscientious believers to wonder with great anxiety, “Are Jesus’ words meant for me? Have I ever blasphemed against the Holy Spirit? I don’t even know what that means, so how can I avoid it? Have I put myself outside of God’s grace? Is there no hope for me?”
Well, let’s start with the concept of blasphemy. What is it? When people take God lightly, or make crude jokes about religion, or show contempt for God, we might suspect they are acting blasphemously. We often think of “taking the Lord’s name in vain” as a form of blasphemy. Many countries still have laws on the books to punish people for perceived blasphemy, and some even use the death penalty. In the United States we have no such laws, because we place so much value on freedom of speech and freedom of expression. People still get upset when they witness somebody blaspheming, and they have every right to. But I often wonder whether careless talk about God offends our neighbors far more than it offends God. After all, God knows everything about us and can surely understand why we say the things we do. God may not approve, but God forgives. And Jesus assures us here that all people will be forgiven for whatever blasphemies they utter. But there’s one kind of blasphemy Jesus that says is different, and this is what trips us up. What is “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit,” and what makes it unforgivable and eternal?
There was no doctrine of the Trinity at this point, but the phrase “holy spirit” was not new. In the Hebrew scriptures it shows up in a psalm of repentance: “Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me” (Psalm 51:11). And the prophet Isaiah writes in a very telling passage about the people of Israel:
But they rebelled and grieved his holy spirit: therefore he became their enemy; he himself fought against them. Then they remembered the days of old, of Moses his servant. Where is the one who brought them up out of the sea with the shepherds of his flock? Where is the one who put within them his holy spirit? (Isaiah 63:10-11)
When the scribes heard “holy spirit,” they would have remembered these two passages. The holy spirit is the presence of God, the very possibility of God being present in our lives. Those who grieve God’s holy spirit are those who have forgotten who they are and to whom they belong, and they are in danger of not being able to experience the presence of God at all.
In today’s reading from Genesis, it is Adam and Eve who have forgotten who they are and to whom they belong. After disobeying God’s instructions regarding the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they hide from God’s presence. And when they are called out for their behavior, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the snake. No longer can they live as they did before, for now they know and understand things in a new and different way. They have set themselves up to be like God. If you think about it, that’s kind of ridiculous, because we are told that they were made in God’s image in the first place. Why would they want to be more like God than they already are?
And yet the story of Adam and Eve is the story of the human condition. We don’t want to be told what to do. We hate being told we can’t know everything. We want power and control, and often we want it at any cost. The scribes are so certain that they have God all figured out that don’t even know they’re in the wrong, or that there could be any cost to their insistence on being right. When Jesus comes along, teaching with authority and curing with power, they claim that he was sent by God’s enemy, simply because he falls outside their understanding of God. Instead of stepping back in humility to see if there might be a larger scheme at work—a scheme they are not central to—they dig in their heels. They have forgotten who they are and whose they are. And this, says Jesus, is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.
The scribes and Pharisees don’t know it, but Jesus is here to rescue them. He is forgiving sinners left and right—everywhere he goes, people are remembering that they belong to God, and that their lives are in God’s hands. This comes more easily for the people on the margins of society: women, lepers, the sick, the crippled, the elderly. These people have very little to lose. But for the leaders, those in power and the prime of life who do not recognize their need for forgiveness, Jesus offers only words of condemnation.
Or is it condemnation? I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need a slap upside the head to be shown the error of my ways. At such times, a polite expression of mild reservation could never reach me. Anytime I think I’m perfect, or even begin to think that some form of perfection might be a possibility, I am saying to God, “I don’t need your help. I can handle this myself.” When I deny that God can do anything outside my current frame of understanding, I have forgotten who I am and whose I am. I think that may well be blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.
So what if God did forgive such blasphemy? What if God said, “Fear not, all you powerful and privileged people who think you don’t need me, or who think you understand everything about me. I forgive you. Salvation is yours.” How might they react? Would they say, “Thank you, God, for your forgiveness!”? I don’t think so. I’m not even sure they’d recognize that God had spoken.
And now we begin to see why such blasphemy cannot be forgiven. You can’t benefit from what you don’t know you have. If you were to give me a present, all wrapped up with a bow, but I refused to accept it, I’d never know what lay inside. Blasphemy against the holy spirit cannot be forgiven, not because God doesn’t forgive, but because those who need it don’t even see it, and even if they did see it, they would assume the gift was meant for someone else. Forgiveness is a two-way street. It’s not about following God’s rules …it’s about being in a relationship with God.
Isaiah wrote that it was when the people remembered their story that they remembered who they were and whose they were. Every now and then, I know that I need to remember the story, because it is my own story. It is our story. God brings us through the waters. God feeds us in the wilderness. God brings us into the promised land. God breathes life into our dry bones! God has done all these things that we cannot do ourselves, and God continues to do them in my life and in yours.
Today, let us remember who we are and whose we are. If God is slapping us upside the head, let’s not deny our need for forgiveness. Let us stand with the one who sees beyond mere rules and into relationships. Let us choose to be a part of Jesus’ family—the eternal family of people who love to do the will of God. Amen.
by Josh Hosler, Chaplain Intern
Proper 5B/ June 10, 2012
The scene is set at the Sea of Galilee. It is early yet. Jesus has just begun to teach and heal, and he has set the town abuzz. The people whisper to each other: “Did he just forgive someone’s sins? Everyone knows only God can do that! Wait until I tell Miriam … I heard he just shared a meal with tax collectors, those sponges who are traitors to our race and our God! Is this guy for real? I’ve got to find out for myself! … Did you see his friends? Did they really just pluck grain on the Sabbath? How can they get away with that? … Well, I heard Jesus cured a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath! How can he even do that? … And I heard he cast out a demon in Capernaum! How can he both break God’s laws and be blessed with this undeniable ability to cure people? Where does his power come from?”
In the first few chapters of Mark, we do find Jesus breaking the law repeatedly—at least, he breaks the law as it has been developed into seeming perfection by the Pharisees, based on their understanding of the centuries-old Mosaic law. Jesus grew up following these laws, and now he seems to be flagrantly throwing them away! This inspires some scribes—people I like to think of as religious case lawyers—to journey from Jerusalem down to the Sea of Galilee to see for themselves what’s going on. They have the same question: If Jesus has no respect for God’s laws, then where does his power come from? And they suggest what they think is the only possibility: his powers must come from a supernatural source other than God—the Sa-TAN, the accuser, the devil.
But Jesus flips their logic back on them: “How can the devil cast out the devil? If he’s casting out his own people, that’s a pretty good sign that his reign is coming apart at the seams. As it turns out, no, I’m not helping Satan … you’ve seen by my actions that I’m in the process of tying him up! ” These are very good points, and they hint strongly at an alternate explanation: the scribes and the Pharisees themselves could be wrong.
But they’re not having it. In order to cling to their theological understanding—not to mention their power and authority—the Jewish leaders will begin to consider some drastic measures. It is at this point that Jesus responds to their indignation with one of the most puzzling, troublesome phrases in the Gospels: “Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin.”
This phrase has caused generations of conscientious believers to wonder with great anxiety, “Are Jesus’ words meant for me? Have I ever blasphemed against the Holy Spirit? I don’t even know what that means, so how can I avoid it? Have I put myself outside of God’s grace? Is there no hope for me?”
Well, let’s start with the concept of blasphemy. What is it? When people take God lightly, or make crude jokes about religion, or show contempt for God, we might suspect they are acting blasphemously. We often think of “taking the Lord’s name in vain” as a form of blasphemy. Many countries still have laws on the books to punish people for perceived blasphemy, and some even use the death penalty. In the United States we have no such laws, because we place so much value on freedom of speech and freedom of expression. People still get upset when they witness somebody blaspheming, and they have every right to. But I often wonder whether careless talk about God offends our neighbors far more than it offends God. After all, God knows everything about us and can surely understand why we say the things we do. God may not approve, but God forgives. And Jesus assures us here that all people will be forgiven for whatever blasphemies they utter. But there’s one kind of blasphemy Jesus that says is different, and this is what trips us up. What is “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit,” and what makes it unforgivable and eternal?
There was no doctrine of the Trinity at this point, but the phrase “holy spirit” was not new. In the Hebrew scriptures it shows up in a psalm of repentance: “Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me” (Psalm 51:11). And the prophet Isaiah writes in a very telling passage about the people of Israel:
But they rebelled and grieved his holy spirit: therefore he became their enemy; he himself fought against them. Then they remembered the days of old, of Moses his servant. Where is the one who brought them up out of the sea with the shepherds of his flock? Where is the one who put within them his holy spirit? (Isaiah 63:10-11)
When the scribes heard “holy spirit,” they would have remembered these two passages. The holy spirit is the presence of God, the very possibility of God being present in our lives. Those who grieve God’s holy spirit are those who have forgotten who they are and to whom they belong, and they are in danger of not being able to experience the presence of God at all.
In today’s reading from Genesis, it is Adam and Eve who have forgotten who they are and to whom they belong. After disobeying God’s instructions regarding the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they hide from God’s presence. And when they are called out for their behavior, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the snake. No longer can they live as they did before, for now they know and understand things in a new and different way. They have set themselves up to be like God. If you think about it, that’s kind of ridiculous, because we are told that they were made in God’s image in the first place. Why would they want to be more like God than they already are?
And yet the story of Adam and Eve is the story of the human condition. We don’t want to be told what to do. We hate being told we can’t know everything. We want power and control, and often we want it at any cost. The scribes are so certain that they have God all figured out that don’t even know they’re in the wrong, or that there could be any cost to their insistence on being right. When Jesus comes along, teaching with authority and curing with power, they claim that he was sent by God’s enemy, simply because he falls outside their understanding of God. Instead of stepping back in humility to see if there might be a larger scheme at work—a scheme they are not central to—they dig in their heels. They have forgotten who they are and whose they are. And this, says Jesus, is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.
The scribes and Pharisees don’t know it, but Jesus is here to rescue them. He is forgiving sinners left and right—everywhere he goes, people are remembering that they belong to God, and that their lives are in God’s hands. This comes more easily for the people on the margins of society: women, lepers, the sick, the crippled, the elderly. These people have very little to lose. But for the leaders, those in power and the prime of life who do not recognize their need for forgiveness, Jesus offers only words of condemnation.
Or is it condemnation? I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need a slap upside the head to be shown the error of my ways. At such times, a polite expression of mild reservation could never reach me. Anytime I think I’m perfect, or even begin to think that some form of perfection might be a possibility, I am saying to God, “I don’t need your help. I can handle this myself.” When I deny that God can do anything outside my current frame of understanding, I have forgotten who I am and whose I am. I think that may well be blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.
So what if God did forgive such blasphemy? What if God said, “Fear not, all you powerful and privileged people who think you don’t need me, or who think you understand everything about me. I forgive you. Salvation is yours.” How might they react? Would they say, “Thank you, God, for your forgiveness!”? I don’t think so. I’m not even sure they’d recognize that God had spoken.
And now we begin to see why such blasphemy cannot be forgiven. You can’t benefit from what you don’t know you have. If you were to give me a present, all wrapped up with a bow, but I refused to accept it, I’d never know what lay inside. Blasphemy against the holy spirit cannot be forgiven, not because God doesn’t forgive, but because those who need it don’t even see it, and even if they did see it, they would assume the gift was meant for someone else. Forgiveness is a two-way street. It’s not about following God’s rules …it’s about being in a relationship with God.
Isaiah wrote that it was when the people remembered their story that they remembered who they were and whose they were. Every now and then, I know that I need to remember the story, because it is my own story. It is our story. God brings us through the waters. God feeds us in the wilderness. God brings us into the promised land. God breathes life into our dry bones! God has done all these things that we cannot do ourselves, and God continues to do them in my life and in yours.
Today, let us remember who we are and whose we are. If God is slapping us upside the head, let’s not deny our need for forgiveness. Let us stand with the one who sees beyond mere rules and into relationships. Let us choose to be a part of Jesus’ family—the eternal family of people who love to do the will of God. Amen.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Year one down; CPE begins today!
This will be a full-time gig: no sneaking home between classes to take a nap. In some ways, I imagine it will make life easier. My schedule will be pretty well dictated for me, so my priorities will be clear. But I may have to mourn the loss of that free, open schedule I had during the school year. Even at my last job I got to set my own priorities and structure my own time. This will be pretty well regimented. But we'll see ... there's a lot I don't know yet.
I am also losing my daily afternoon schedule with Sarah. We have arranged sitters for every afternoon, from the time she gets off the school bus to the time one of us gets home from work/CPE. It wasn't always easy being solo with Sarah nearly every weekday: there were lots of fights about how much homework would get done when, etc. But we did have a routine, and we'll both miss it. Things just keep shifting and changing.
I observed in my job at St. Thomas that about once a month I had to do something I had never done before. That's still the case. I think that's a pretty healthy environment in which to flourish. So here I go with some more flourishing. Please pray for me!
Saturday, May 5, 2012
God Heard It through the Grapevine
God
Heard It through the Grapevine:
An
Exegesis of Isaiah 5:1-7
by Josh Hosler
for Dr.
Fentress-Williams
Virginia
Theological Seminary
OTS-503:
Old Testament Interpretation 3
30
April 2012
What kind of song is
Isaiah singing? Gene Tucker asks, “Is this really a song? If so, what kind? …
Initially, the speaker announces that he will sing a song, but when one
examines the unit as a whole, it becomes clear that the song is limited to vv.
1b-2. If it is not a song, then what is it?”[1]
Howard Wallace writes, “There has been a great deal of debate over the genre of
the passage. Suggestions have included a song, a love song, a drinking song, a
satirical polemic against fertility cults, a lawsuit, a fable, an allegory and
a parable.”[2]
We may feel it is important to identify the genre of this passage, but Brevard
Childs warns:
The problem lies in understanding the
relation between the predominately wisdom components of a parable and the
prophetic features of a judgment oracle. The very recognition of a unique
mixture of literary traditions should guard against an unfruitful search for a
formally consistent pattern with one genre. Attention to both form and function
is crucial.[3]
Isaiah has intentionally set up a
multi-genre passage that functions to keep us listening. The constant shift of
genres from verse to verse leaves us uneasy and uncertain of what to expect, so
we are caught off our guard when we finally realize that the song implicates
us. Let us imagine, then, that Isaiah began with a song that everybody knew and
then began to change it specifically in order to pull us in further. We expect
a theme, but we begin to hear variations.
 | |
| Actual Hebrew text of this passage; click to enlarge |
The first lyrics
we indeed know well, for we have heard them sung often at weddings by a paid
musician or a musically inclined uncle.[4]
We can even sing along with verse 1: “I will sing now for my dear friend a song
about him and his vineyard. My dear friend has a vineyard on a fertile hill.”[5]
The lyrics are pleasant to the ear in our native Hebrew, carefully crafted to
ensure a singsong quality: “Ashirah na lididi shirat dodi. L’charmo kerem hayah lididi
b’qeren ben-shamen.” Rhyme is not a common device in our tradition, but we do
love alliteration, assonance, and plays on words. When we hear “lididi” and
“dodi,” it may as well be “do wah diddy diddy” or “da doo ron ron,” except that
these are not nonsense words: they both mean “dear” or “beloved.” 
They’re fun
words to sing, and they lend themselves well to a popular but innocuous ballad.
“Ashirah” and “shirat” in English are rather like, “Sing … sing a song.”
“Kerem” and “qeren”-- the words for “vineyard” and “hill”—also sound alike.
“Qeren ben-shamen” literally means “a horn, son of oil,” but we know it in
poetic context as a “horn of plenty” or a “fertile hill.”[6]
They’re fun
words to sing, and they lend themselves well to a popular but innocuous ballad.
“Ashirah” and “shirat” in English are rather like, “Sing … sing a song.”
“Kerem” and “qeren”-- the words for “vineyard” and “hill”—also sound alike.
“Qeren ben-shamen” literally means “a horn, son of oil,” but we know it in
poetic context as a “horn of plenty” or a “fertile hill.”[6]
Geoffrey Grogan
writes, “The use of ‘vineyard’ or garden for a bride is often found in the Song
of Solomon … and it may have been recognized as a stock metaphor.”[7]
Yet perhaps already our suspicions are aroused due to the identity of the
speaker: this street corner scene is not a wedding, but some kind of prophetic
performance art. Carolyn Sharp suggests, “Since prophets speak for God, the
audience might suspect from the start that this male beloved is God.”[8]
Katheryn Pfisterer Darr disagrees: “Elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, the
adjective yadid often refers to
YHWH’s beloved (e.g. Israel in Jer. 11:15; Ps. 127:2, etc.; Benjamin in Deut.
33:12), although never to YHWH as ‘beloved.’ In the Song of Solomon, a young
woman frequently uses dod to refer to
the man she loves (e.g., 1:13; 2:3; 4:16; 5:10). Here, however, neither yadid or dod betrays the farmer’s identity.”[9]
Either way, it’s an intriguing situation, so we stick around to hear more.
As verse 2 begins,
we might imagine Isaiah’s singsong love song to be something like the Beatles’
“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”: the man will set up a house for his bride where the two
of them can happily get down to the work of making babies, new children of
Abraham. “And he dug around it thoroughly and de-stoned it, and he planted in
it the best possible vines.” In Hebrew this is a series of Pi’el verbs
indicating intense work: “Va-y’azqehu, va-y’saqlehu, va-yitta’ehu.” These
strong sounds change the tone and form the bridge of the song, leading toward a
familiar chorus. “And he built a tower …” Our ears prick up, for Isaiah has
departed from the familiar lyric. Let us presume there was nothing in the
original hit version about a tower. But why wouldn’t the man build a tower?
Isaiah seems to be performing his own variation on the song, and this makes it
even more interesting. Carolyn Sharp comments: “The tower will provide a dark
place for the storage of fermenting grape juice; it might also house the
vineyard owner or an employee watching over the vineyard a
t night. There may be
a subtle resonance with ‘[military] watchtower’ here as well: is this
foreshadowing that sentinels will be needed to warn Israel of approaching
enemies?”[10]
Yet nothing in the song has given us a clue about where it is headed. What a
fascinating change! We do have someplace to be, but Isaiah has our attention.
Verse 2 continues: “And he built a tower in its midst, and he even hewed out a
wine-vat in it.” As Isaiah’s voice swells toward the chorus, we’re excited to
hear all about the couple’s love for each other and the birth of their
children.
t night. There may be
a subtle resonance with ‘[military] watchtower’ here as well: is this
foreshadowing that sentinels will be needed to warn Israel of approaching
enemies?”[10]
Yet nothing in the song has given us a clue about where it is headed. What a
fascinating change! We do have someplace to be, but Isaiah has our attention.
Verse 2 continues: “And he built a tower in its midst, and he even hewed out a
wine-vat in it.” As Isaiah’s voice swells toward the chorus, we’re excited to
hear all about the couple’s love for each other and the birth of their
children.
“And he expected a
yield of grapes … but it yielded nasty, stinking grapes.” Now there’s a shock.
This isn’t a love song at all: it’s a cheating song! Gary Roye Williams
addresses this sudden change:
The expectation of grapes (v. 2c),
perhaps a symbol of children, was fully justified, and the final word of the verse, “be’ushim,” “stinking grapes,” perhaps representing illegitimate children,
comes as a great surprise. One expects rather a synonym of “anabim,” “grapes.” The husband’s
expectations were frustrated, but so also are the interpreter’s. A major
reinterpretation of the song thus far is called for.[11]
What began as “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”
has become “I Heard It through the Grapevine”! Yet more surprises are in store.
Childs writes: “These elements of indeterminacy, which are constitutive of a
wisdom saying, function to puzzle the audience, which expects one thing but
then receives quite another, as the mood of entertainment and curiosity is
quickly dispelled by the prophet.”[12]
Even the sound of the word “be’ushim”—with a guttural aleph bursting into a “u”
vowel—banishes any singsong quality we had been enjoying.
We move into the
second section of what will turn out to be a suite, and it is here that Isaiah
changes rhythm and even vocal tone to signify that somebody different is
speaking. This is no uncle at a wedding; even the honeymoon is over. The
bridegroom himself, all worked up in grief and 
anger, steps up to the
microphone in verse 3 for his recitative: “And now, residents of Jerusalem—and
man of Judah—judge, if you please, between me and my vineyard.” Isaiah has dragged us into court, and we are placed on the bench to hear the farmer’s
grievances. Verse 4 presents the formal complaint: “What more could I have done
for my vineyard that I have not already done? Why, when I expected a yield of
grapes, did it yield nasty, stinking grapes?” It is important at this point to
ask some of the same questions Joseph Blenkinsopp has asked:
anger, steps up to the
microphone in verse 3 for his recitative: “And now, residents of Jerusalem—and
man of Judah—judge, if you please, between me and my vineyard.” Isaiah has dragged us into court, and we are placed on the bench to hear the farmer’s
grievances. Verse 4 presents the formal complaint: “What more could I have done
for my vineyard that I have not already done? Why, when I expected a yield of
grapes, did it yield nasty, stinking grapes?” It is important at this point to
ask some of the same questions Joseph Blenkinsopp has asked:
There are … incongruities and problems
for the modern reader, e.g., squaring the very mundane language of the poem
with love poetry; imagining how a vineyard can be responsible for a poor crop;
why the same people represented by the failed vineyard are asked to take sides;
or, finally, why the decision to destroy is taken before those solicited have a
chance to respond by making some useful suggestions, e.g., consult an
experienced vintner, add compost, try a different kind of grape.[13]
We have already addressed the
problem of genre, and we will discover soon enough who is judging whom. But
indeed, how can a vineyard be
responsible for its own crop? Could it be that there is indeed more the farmer
could do? Did the husband do something to make his bride feel unloved? Or is
the entire metaphor about to break down? We have been sucked into this dramatic
situation, but we are given no time to review the evidence before a verdict is
pronounced in verses 5 and 6—and not by us. But by whom?
So now, listen up! I will declare to you
what I am doing to my vineyard. I will take away its hedge, and it will be
destroyed. I will break down its wall, and it will become a trampled-down
place. And I will lay it waste. It will not be pruned, and it will not be hoed,
and thorn bushes and other rough growth will come up …
The
court has become a divorce court, and this relationship is clearly over. We
move from “I Heard It through the Grapevine” into a bitter breakup song. Isaiah
is singing the part of judge, jury, and … executioner? No, for although the
farmer takes away the hedge and breaks down the wall, he does not destroy the
vineyard itself. He’s leaving, and he will allow the vineyard to be trampled by
whatever cattle come along. He will allow it to go to seed in whatever way
nature takes its course. It’s not “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia,”
but it may well be from the country genre … maybe something along the lines of
“My Give a Damn’s Busted.”
Yet in the final phrase of verse 6, Isaiah tips his
hand. The farmer will not uproot the vines, but he will make every effort to
sabotage their continued existence: “… and I will command the dark clouds not
to rain on it!” This is no farmer, and this is no husband. Only God can control
the weather.
So now we have
come full circle. When we first noticed Isaiah on the street corner, we
expected a prophecy of doom, and we’re going to get one. We brace ourselves for
the rest of the story. We know the Assyrians are about to invade that accursed
northern kingdom of Israel, the faithless ones who worship in places other than
the temple. Surely this prophecy will be against them, we hope, as Isaiah
begins verse 7: “And the vineyard of YHWH-of-the-angel-armies is the house of
Israel.” Of course it is. We knew it all along, so we exchange self-satisfied
smirks.
“And the man of
Judah is the plantation of his delight.” With this line, Isaiah cuts us to the
bone. There we stand on the corner, tried and convicted, though we don’t even
understand yet what the charges are. All this time Isaiah has been using God’s
voice to condemn us! Gene Tucker writes:
In the middle of the parable, the
prophet, speaking as the vineyard’s ‘owner,’ directly addresses the
‘inhabitants of Jerusalem and people of Judah’ (v. 3). Finally, however, the
indictment is against the ‘house of Israel and the people of Judah’ (v. 7). For
many interpreters, the meaning of ‘Israel’ here has been a key to dating the
original address, presumed to have been delivered in Jerusalem. Eventually,
‘Israel’ came to be a comprehensive term for the chosen people, and in Isaiah
it commonly is used in more of a religious than a political or geographical
sense. If ‘Israel’ refers here to the northern kingdom, then the parable of the
vineyard probably would have originated before 722 BCE, when Samaria fell to
the Assyrians. But the historical allusions in the context are not sufficiently
specific to allow reliable conclusions.[14]
We may never know
for sure, but by mentioning Israel prior to Judah, Isaiah may be employing a
funnel effect similar to that used by Amos in the first two chapters of his
book. That prophet’s condemnations move geographically like a tornado,
beginning with Damascus, circling the Jordan in a spiral, touching down in
Judah, and finally settling on Amos’s own kingdom of Israel. In this way, just
when we thought we finally knew what he was up to, Isaiah has changed genres on
us once more. This is not a love song, or a cheating song, or a breakup song,
or even a “God Bless Judah” patriotic anthem. This is a condemnation of our
nation. Gary Roye Williams gets at the heart of Isaiah’s artistic method:
The most unpleasant surprise of all is
now ready to be revealed. The phrase “men of Judah” (v. 7) creates an
expectation of antithetical parallelism. Israel was to be punished, but Judah
would be blessed (cf. Hos. i 7, xii 1). However, the parallelism is synonymous.
Suddenly the awful truth is revealed. The disappointing vineyard, the
unfaithful wife, “the house of Israel”—all refer to Judah. The Song of the
Vineyard has turned out to be a juridicial parable, by means of which the poet
has led Judah’s citizens to condemn themselves.[15]
But what have we
done to deserve this condemnation? Isaiah saves the accusation itself for the
second half of verse 7: “And he [God] expected judgment (‘mishpat’), but
behold, bloodshed (‘mishpah’)—righteousness (‘tz’daqa’), but behold, a cry of
distress (‘tz’aqa’)!” Here Isaiah uses one of the most famous examples of
wordplay in the Hebrew Bible. The words stick in our ears like the choking
sound at the center of the word “tz’aqa” sticks in Isaiah’s throat. Referring
to the oracle that follows this passage in chapter 5, Jeremy Wynne explains:
The larger context of the parable is
therefore indispensable: in their unrighteousness, the people of God have
nurtured insatiable appetites for wealth; they have hoarded property and driven
the poor from the land (5.8); they have traded the origin of their life
together, their election from among all the nations, for the pursuit of
self-indulgence and fleeting pleasures (5.11f.); and they have capitulated to
bribery and twisted the law such that it no longer protects the innocent but
rather serves as an instrument of suffering (5.23).”[16]
And now it all comes clear. The
condemnation was for both Israelite countries, even in their estrangement from
one another. The breakup lyrics tell us that we cannot assure ourselves of
God’s protection, for God intends to remove that protection and let us be
trampled down by whatever nation happens to overpower us first. Even the word
“parotz” for “break down” returns to haunt us, for it sounds rather like
“paroh” … Pharaoh! We have cheated on God, breaking our centuries-old covenant
in the way we treat each other, so God is undoing the agreement. We have
produced stinking grapes, rather than the sweet grapes that God took every
possible measure to assure and which we had no right not to produce. God loves
us and longs for us, yet what have we done in return? We stand guilty as
charged … right there on the street corner in Jerusalem, surrounded by beggars,
widows and orphans. All our expectations have been frustrated … and now we
might begin to understand how God feels about the situation. Williams notes,
“This hermeneutical frustration is a literary device which strengthens the main
message of the song: Yahweh’s frustrated expectations concerning Judah.”[17]
Is all hope lost?
Wynne reminds us that in every time and place, God’s number one purpose is
always redemption: “In righteousness, and especially in the mode of his wrath,
because God is no less free than he is loving and no less loving than free,
redemption may take a surprising route, and the yield of righteousness among
God’s people, so to speak, may finally be harvested marvelously in another
manner.”[18]
May it be so. In the meantime, we can only stand in awe at the skill of this
prophet-turned-busker who has taken our own love song, used it to draw us in,
and turned it against us to display God’s righteous judgment.
End Notes
[1] Gene M. Tucker, “The Book of Isaiah,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume VI, Leander
E. Keck et al., eds. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2001), 87.
[2] Howard N. Wallace, “Harvesting the Vineyard: The
Development of Vineyard Imagery in the Hebrew Bible,” in Seeing Signals, Reading Signs, Mark A. O’Brien and Howard N.
Wallace, eds. (London, U.K.: T&T Clark International, 2004), 119.
[3] Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 44-45.
[4] For more about Isaiah 5:1-7 as an “uncle’s song,” see
John T. Willis, “The Genre of Isaiah 5:1-7,” in Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 96, No. 3 (Sep., 1977), 337.
[5] The translation of Isaiah 5:1-7 throughout is my own.
[6] “In Isa 5:1, qeren
seems to mean hill or mountain spur (apparently, land that protrudes and is
prominent) …” Michael L. Brown, in New
International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology & Exegesis, Volume 3,
William A. VanGemeren, ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Publishing House,
1997), 991.
[7] Geoffrey W. Grogan, “Isaiah,” in The Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Tremper Longman III and David E.
Garland, eds. (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2008), 497.
[8] Carolyn J. Sharp, Isaiah 5:1-7, in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised
Common Lectionary, Year A, Volume 4, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown
Taylor, eds. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 123.
[9] Katheryn Pfisterer Darr, Isaiah 5:1-7, in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised
Common Lectionary, Year C, Volume 3, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown
Taylor, eds. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 343.
[10] Sharp, 125.
[11] Gary Roye Williams, “Frustrated Expectations in
Isaiah V 1-7: A Literary Interpretation,” from Vetus Testamentum, Vol. 35, Fasc. 4 (Oct. 1985), 460-461. Accessed
April 13, 2012.
[12] Childs, 45.
[13] Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1-39 (New York: The Anchor Bible Doubleday, 2000), 206.
[14] Tucker, 89.
[15] Williams, 462.
[16] Jeremy J. Wynne, Wrath
among the Perfections of God’s Life (London, U.K.: T&T Clark, 2010),
126.
[17] Williams, 465.
[18] Wynne, 119.
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