The Bible in the Weeds

On one of my recent litter-collection jaunts at church I came upon a surprising sight. A bag (likely stolen) had been eviscerated in a corner of the property, its picked-over contents strewn about, one of which was a battered and dew-spattered copy of the New Testament. Its gold lettering sparkled in the morning light and looked as surprised to be there as was I to find it.

At first I thought of how odd it was to find the majestic King James Version of the New Testament flung promiscuously on the earth and how it conflicted with the absolute rule I was taught as a child that the sacred scriptures must never be allowed to touch the ground. Then I reflected on how we never know where we will find the sacred in our daily life--in the form of people, nature, or even in what appears at first to be garbage.

I took the Bible into my office to dry it out. For some reason it seemed oddly important to me and I kept thinking about it, but couldn't figure out why. Then it came to me; it was the feeling of recognition. I, too, have been cast by circumstance into odd and confusing situations and had to rely on the care of others to be picked up from my desperate condition. If I hadn't been out to clean up trash that morning the book would be have been drenched in the rain and ruined. It all felt like a parable of rescue.

For a time, I was wondering what to do with this book. Now I know: I'm going to read from it as a form of intercession for all those people--myself included--who feel lost and need someone to go looking for them, even accidentally.

The Bible in the weeds describes all of us at one time or another: sacred but dumped, disregarded but message-bearing, lost but still precious.

Keep on walking in the world, looking for who and what needs finding--even if in an unexpected form. It could be the self you thought stolen, the neighbor you never met, or the key to opening your heart all over again.

Brandon+

Going with Jesus to Glory: The Feast of the Transfiguration

When Jesus said that some of those who heard him speak would see him come in glory before they died, he was not using hyperbole. Only a few days later, he took those disciples best-suited to this experience with him on a day-hike up a nearby ridge. At its summit they saw him elevated in the air, glow with an unearthly light, and be joined by two of the greatest figures in Jewish history: Moses and Elijah. A cloud then enveloped them all, and a voice from it spoke: “This is my Son, my Chosen: listen to him!”

 

The Feast of the Transfiguration records an event found in the Gospel accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. This event looks forward through the crushing experience of the Crucifixion and mysterious event of the Resurrection toward an event which has yet to come: Christ’s return in glory. It is an event which frames all of the Gospel story within the context of glory—God’s glory, and ours.

 

Authentic Christianity refuses to conform the human person to our current state. The often broken, divided, and abused condition of humanity that we see all around us is not our destiny. It is our current state, but it is temporary. The Gospel shows us who we really are: made in the image and likeness of God and the worthy object of God’s loving, healing work. The distorted, pessimistic picture of humanity some forms of Christianity peddle is nothing more than a concession to this condition and will always result in more of the same.

 

The Gospel vision for humanity is not found in shame and self-loathing. Proceeding from humility and repentance, it ascends the holy mountain of spiritual knowledge and growth toward true awareness of God, neighbor, creation, and self. That knowledge is expressed by the word “glory.” The glorious beauty of God, the radiant splendor the creation, and the shining, glorious reflected light of God found in the human person restored to wholeness in Christ Jesus.

 

To follow the command given by the divine voice to “listen to Christ” means far more than just following a set of rules or prescribed actions. It is the path back to our true selves as found in right relationship with God, neighbor, and self. It means turning our gaze from the damage in our life toward the image of divine glory seen in Christ on the Holy Mountain.  Once we do this, we begin to perceive our own destiny—and that of every other person embraced by this light.

 

Today’s feast looks back to an event in history which points us toward another event already accomplished in Jesus Christ and now available to us through Him. Once we take that Transfigured moment seriously, we may share in it ourselves through worship, prayer, service, deeds of love and compassion, contemplation, work and recreation, and the myriad other ways it may be experienced.

 

In so doing, we will find that the Holy Mountain is not only in a far-off land, but within each of us and available at any hour.  All we must do is turn from ourselves, behold Jesus, and listen to Him.  Then, the cloud descends anew and we are partakers of His glory once more.

The Unexpected Voice: Balaam’s Donkey and the Church

Like all others in the Episcopal Church who use the Lectionary to read and pray the Scriptures daily, I had the pleasure of hearing the story of Balaam’s donkey this week (Numbers 22:21-38).  This passage often raises smiles when read in groups—or, even alone—for its combination of naïve (in its original sense) storytelling, vivid characterization, and surprising content.  It is, however, worthy of some consideration and reflection for the serious message it bears amidst the irony and comedy.

Balaam is riding his donkey while going to meet Balak for what would turn out to be an unsatisfactory stint of employment to curse the Hebrews.  Along the way the donkey sees the angel of the Lord, with drawn sword, in the road.  Sensibly, the donkey detours into a nearby field.  Balaam whacks the donkey; smarting, the poor beast obeys and continues on.

 

A little later, the angelic figure returns, this time in a lane with walls on either side.  Obediently the donkey squeezes between the angel and the wall—no mean feat—and continues on.  This is a courageous as well as skillful and obedient donkey.  However, during this delicate maneuver the donkey had to rub up against the wall, crushing Balaam’s foot.  More whacking ensues.

 

Finally (ah, yes, three times!) the angel appears to the unnamed donkey in such a way that there was no way around.  Perhaps surrendering to its fate, the critter simply folds its legs and rests on the ground.  Then all hell breaks loose.

 

Angry and, one presumes, mystified, Balaam uses his staff to beat the donkey. The picture is both very sad and very ironic.  The Seer who cannot see beats the “dumb animal” that can.  This image, which makes one think of St. Paul’s teaching that all Creation groans under the consequences of human sin, is a pitiable miniature of all the folly and spiritual blindness humans commit and suffer from throughout the ages, and the toll it exacts on everything.

 

Then perhaps comes the real point of the story: the donkey speaks.  “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?"  Balaam doesn’t blink, even for second, at this.  The text has him shoot back his self-justification: “Because you have made a fool of me! I wish I had a sword in my hand! I would kill you right now!"

 

Here is revealed the condition of everyone who abandons simple humanity to live in the ego.  All behavior is justified, no matter how vile, because “you have made a fool of me!”  Our appearance, our standing, our control, our comfort, our need to be respected by others—is a bottomless pit of rage, ready to open up whenever we are thwarted.  People, animals, objects, the Creation around us, even God are all swept into the drama of our ego-centered universe, culminating in Balaam’s threat to annihilate the donkey.  A surreal picture of a man witnessing a miracle who threatens to extinguish the very miracle itself is thus made complete.

 

To this nihilistic outburst (which is as comic as tragic), the donkey calmly addresses himself.  He patiently pulls Balaam from the edge of insanity with these logical words: “Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day? Have I been in the habit of treating you this way?"  

Balaam considers this request—never commenting on the novelty of the conversation once—and replies simply: “No.”  That is all he says.  Stopped in the midst of his violent fulminations by the solid and honest reasonings of his donkey, servant, and (really) friend, Balaam ends up climbing off the ledge and resumes being human.  Only at that moment are Balaam’s eyes opened by God to see the angel in the road, with drawn sword in his hand, blocking the way.

 

The angel is not amused by Balaam’s violence.  Rather than being merely a quaint detail of a folk tale, the striking of the innocent and faithful donkey is brought up as an accusation against Balaam.  God sees all we do—in the heat of the moment or in recollected calm.  We are responsible.

 

The angel then speaks at some length in praise of the donkey, saying that if it had not reacted so wisely, the angel would have killed Balaam and spared the donkey.  The issue at hand is not the donkey’s disobedience or obstreperousness, but Balaam’s perversity—his intention to thwart the way of the Hebrews as they journey to the Promised Land.  By standing in the way of Balaam, the angel is expressing what Balaam is trying to do to God.  Only then, after listening to a talking donkey and a sword-bearing angel, does Balaam finally become fully human: he repents in word and deed and agrees to do what God commands.

 

Balaam’s repentance eventually leads to the comical scene which follows: blessings coming out of this paid curser’s mouth.  Balak’s desire for control over God and the Hebrew people is upended by the very “donkey” he has hired to do his bidding.  The irony is complete.

 

We in the Church, however, would do well to think over this seemingly odd story with great care.  When the faithful souls who do the hard work in the Church’s life, often for years and without comment or criticism, suddenly balk, what do the leaders do?  Do we dismiss them?  Figuratively strike them by demanding compliance with our goals?  Do we end up saying something very similar to the Pharisees in John 9:34: “‘You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" Or, in John 7:49, when the educated leadership speaks of the crowds turning to Jesus: “…this crowd, which does not know the law—they are accursed.”

 

And beyond balking, what if these same people should dare speak? The unaccustomed voice in the Church, in our communities, in our neighborhood, family, or online—what do we do when this voice speaks?  Balaam’s donkey could see what the Seer could not.  The quiet person, who does the work but does not “theologize” in the Church or “take the floor” in the workplace or family or online likely sees the reality of what is happening from a vantage point completely beyond the people "at the helm."  When such a person balks at plans, or turns away from the announced agenda, what do we do?  Do we enquire, consider, listen?  Or, do we metaphorically strike out at the suddenly out-of-turn or unpliable messenger?

 

In the current era of the Culture War heresy it has been fashionable to say that this sin is most often committed by the “side” one opposes, but my experience suggests that it is really an equal-opportunity error.  Whenever our wills become perverted from the basic will of God we end up “walloping the donkey,” so-to-speak.  When we are lost in our ideology, our supposed powers or knowledge or authority, we re-enact this story in our own way.  The Church is, sadly, especially vulnerable to this due to our willingness to turn opinion into truth.  This is particularly evident when we hear little of Jesus and much of ideology, "tradition," or the need for "relevance" in the conversation.

 

The story of Balaam’s donkey has many meanings, of course; but for me during this year’s reading, it is a reminder to consider what I am becoming as I go through life—based on how I perceive and treat everyone and everything along the way.  It is also an invitation to grasp the freedom found in repentance.

When I was growing up, my mother would sometimes say to me: “Just who do you think you are?”  It is a worthwhile question, as also is “Just who do you think others are?” whenever we are thwarted in our plans and expectations.  An angel just might be standing before us.

 

Most of all: don’t beat the donkey.  Listen to it.  You may have been riding a true Seer and Prophet all along.

After Pentecost: “Ordinary” Time & Eternity

 

On the day after Pentecost (Whitsunday), the church's calendar makes a sudden shift.  Eastertide is over, Ordinary Time has begun.  Rather than the progression of events from Christ's rising through his various post-resurrection appearances, then the Ascension and the gift of the Holy Spirit on the Fiftieth Day, time in the church calendar becomes a succession of Sundays numbered or ordered after Pentecost—thus “ordinary” time.

 

Contingent on Easter’s lunar-determined position, this part of the Ecclesiastical Year has to be extra flexible.  Rather than starting on a fixed date, it “floats” back and forth each year.  To accommodate this, Ordinary Time begins on a given “Proper,” a week of readings and a collect for both the Eucharist and the Daily Office that are proper to that week.  The Sunday of each “Proper” is described as being closest to a particular date.  Thus, in years when Easter falls late, the week after Pentecost will use readings and the collect from Proper 4 or 5, but on years when Easter falls early, it might be from Proper 2 (or, if Easter is exceptionally early, Proper 1). 

 

In this way, Ordinary Time is a bit like an accordion—stretching back and forth with Easter’s date and ending in November so that there are always four Advent Sundays prior to Christmas Day.  The other period of Ordinary Time—the weeks after the Epiphany—does this in reverse, with the day of the week on which Christmas (and thus the Epiphany) falls setting its start, and Ash Wednesday (contingent on Easter’s date) forming the conclusion.

 

Once learned, this approach to time has spiritual benefit beyond its practical application: it reminds us that what we experience as the inevitable progression of time in this world is ultimately framed by eternity.  For, just as the ordinary times of the Church Year begin and end with great feasts celebrating eternal truths, so our lives on earth are set in the midst of an eternal “before” and a heavenly “ever-after.”

 

 In the great Seasons of the Church Year (Advent-Christmastide-Lent-Easter) we focus on the teachings of the catholic faith as found in the Creeds and especially on the centrality of the Incarnation and the Paschal Mystery to the Christian community and believer.

In Ordinary Time we put the focus on the orderly telling of scriptural stories in the Daily Office and a deep examination of Jesus’ public ministry and teaching in the Sunday Gospel lessons.  These stories give meaning and application to the eternal truths proclaimed in the creeds.  They are the filling of the sandwich, so-to-speak. Being made in the image of God yet also born of earth, we need both the teaching and the application, the eternal and the earthly.

 

In all things, the Church Calendar is a tool by which we enter into the mystery of time and eternity.  It gives meaning to our journey through life and also connects our daily, weekly, and annual rhythms with what transcends them.  The Church Year shows that there really is no “ordinary” time in the sense we usually understand that term—only time lived in the presence of the Eternal God, consciously or unconsciously, purposefully or aimlessly, lovingly or pointlessly.  The choice is ours.