Fig Trees Must Produce Figs

I begin this Blog by asking my readers to consider these words from Scripture:

"Come to me all who are thirsty, and I will give you living water to drink. The water you think you need, like the bread you eat and the work you labor on, will never truly satisfy you. Come unto me, and I will give you life-giving water."

Many colleges still have what are called comprehensive exams, culminating assessments in a student’s major area of study. If she or he can pass these tests, often taking several hours or even days to complete, the student is assured of his or her degree.

For someone majoring in liberal arts, the exams might include a short answer section where students are asked to identify the source and context of a number of brief quotations from important historical works.

So I ask you, again, to consider these words:

Come to me all who are thirsty, and I will give you living water to drink

If you said “Isaiah 55,” you would be correct, but if you said, “that sounds like something Jesus said,” you would also be right. That’s because Jesus knew his Scriptures very well, so well, in fact, that they permeated his every thought and action. Isaiah must have been a favorite of his because we hear strains of Isaiah in many of Jesus’ best stories.

Continuing our survey, how should we identify the passage about drinking from the rock?

“all passed through the sea, … and all ate the same spiritual food, and all drank … from the spiritual rock.”

Did you guess Exodus 14: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘lift up your staff, …’” or did you think, “that sounds more like chapter 17, when: ‘The Lord said, …”take the staff, strike the rock, and water will come out.”’” Perhaps you recalled that in Numbers 20, Moses arrived at Meribah with all Israel complaining about the lack of water for themselves and their livestock. God tells Moses to command the water to flow from the rock that it might provide for the people and animals. And the people assent to this. But what does Moses do? He raises the staff and strikes the rock twice. And the water gushed out.

“and the rock,” said Paul, “was Christ.”

What is this new teaching? Is it some sort of hybrid? Is Jesus in the rock. Is he the bread of life? What about the life-giving water?

Imagine, if you will, Scripture as a spiritual root system for the abundant life that God intends for all creation. The system requires sunlight, water and nutrients. Given these and time, the healthy foundation will feed the tree, and the tree will produce good fruit.

Likewise, imagine a similar foundation feeding the work of the Church, a foundation built on a way of life modeled by a man named Jesus. A man who, by at least four important accounts, knew the Scriptures, was a respected teacher and healer, and who lived and acted as if he were the Son of God.

I, for one, believe that he was. Not a meek and mild person, but a lion, a man full of courage and wisdom—a rock, said Paul.

So what, you may ask, was Jesus doing when he told this parable about the fig tree? From the very opening we notice something unusual. Who plants a fig tree in a vineyard? Aren’t vineyards places to cultivate grapes? And what sort of vineyard is this anyway? Could it be that this is not a real vineyard but a metaphor for something else, an unusual garden that has been taken over by foreigners?

And because the tree is a not at home in this place, it does not bear fruit.

The fig tree is threatened, presumably by the owner of the vineyard who had it planted there to begin with,but whose eyes clearly see the changing way of things.

So why, I asked myself, did he plant this tree in the first place?

To bear fruit, that’s why. That’s what fig trees do—they bear fruit. It is their nature, and they know, instinctively, what they are meant for—bearing fruit. In particular, figs.

I imagine that Jesus wants us to look within and identify that for which we too were created, and then to bear fruit suited to the unique gifts we have inside, not the kind of fruit that the world chases after—wealth, fame, recognition, power—but fruit that sustains us in an eternal way. A fig tree must produce figs, not grapes or olives or pistachio nuts.

Perhaps you sympathize with the fig tree, that it fears the contempt it might receive from grape vines when its fruit looks and tastes different. It is the Ugly Duckling before Hans Christian Andersen. It does not belong. It is not one of us. Therefore, it does not deserve the space it occupies. Cut it down.

Jesus knows, as you and I know, that the fig tree will never produce grapes because that is not its purpose. And trees sometimes fail when they are in isolation. But given time, a community, and a sense of urgency and purpose, it can thrive and find its true calling.

Even in an uncomfortable place, surrounded by what is very different, we have a choice. We can give up. That is the easy way. We can pretend to be what we are not. That is the fruitless way. Or we can step back and reclaim that for which we were created, pursuing it with renewed vigor and courage, the kind that comes from a the refreshing and nourishing waters that spring from the rock, the rock that is Christ Jesus.

The tree symbolizes the tension we live in. A tree is more than just its roots. It is a living thing and it grows and provides fruit in surprising ways. So we must stay connected, continue to seek God who is mystery, be active today, follow Jesus as our example. It is life that matters, not a life of judgment about past faults, but about hope and expectation of a vibrant and meaningful future.

A few weeks ago we looked at a passage that warns that connection with God does not mean that we can do anything we want whenever we want. That is not the freedom from judgment that Jesus preached. Nor are we God. We are of God, like God in our forgiveness and compassion. We are like the fig tree, full of possibility and potential for goodness.

I took comps back in the day. I was uncomfortable because of the randomness of the quotations, and the breadth of knowledge expected of me. Today’s lessons, at first struck me this way, but as I studied, more and more connections were revealed.

I liken this parable to all little churches or groups who read and study in order to learn more about God and Jesus. What are we doing in this vineyard where we stick out like the threatened fig tree? Was this the garden imagined by the founders of IU? I mean the world has changed over the past 100 years. But we must remain firm, grounded in who we are in this place and at this time. It is the only way to honor the God who created us and to live up to our full potential.

God Is With Us

As I read the Bible, I see a long and rich history of Judeo-Christian tradition whose main thrust is about understanding God’s relationship with humanity. From our reading of Genesis to Luke’s references about Jerusalem, we hear of the many ways that people have chosen to understand and worship God.

First, we understand that God creates. Not only did God create the universe, but God also chose to be present in that universe. The story of Abram talking with God about being childless and grieving over not having an heir, tells us that our religious ancestors understood God as one who interacts with human beings, makes promises and covenants, and visits often to ensure that those promises are kept.

As time passed, and Jesus came onto the scene, there was less emphasis on God’s conversations with human beings, and more attention to the nature of God’s relationship with us, that God loved all creation, and God loved human beings in ways that we cannot even imagine.

The poetry of Psalm 27, is about having confidence in and being encouraged by God’s active participation in the world. Just listen to the words, “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh-- my adversaries and foes-- they shall stumble and fall. Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident.”

The God depicted in Psalm 27 is not a distant God, but an ever present and compassionate God, One who knows our hopes and dreams and fears, and One who instills in us a sense of trust that all shall be well if we will keep faithful.

But there is a turning point in the psalm. Suddenly, at verse 9, the psalmist is not so confident. “Do not hide your face from me…Do not cast me off, do not forsake me.”

What has happened that the psalmist has lost courage and is no longer confident in God’s protection?

Paul writes that we understand one another when we share in each other’s sufferings. The psalmist cries out in sure confidence that God wants to know our sufferings.

Why do people suffer? We do not always suffer from physical pain, but emotional pain, loss, loneliness and uncertainty as well. People are afraid, just as the psalmist says:

Afraid of failing at what we love and care about—our place in the family, our job, our community. We fear being taken over by others. For the psalmist. it may have been an invading army, but for us it can be the invasion of age, the invasion of financial stress, the invasion of failing health. We fear that we can be petty and jealous of others, and that God may hold this against us in some way.

Paul reminds us that no one fully understands Christ, but we press on (3:12) towards the goal of being with Christ when he comes again. This is the goal of all “mature” (3:15) Christians: to center our lives on Jesus, not on his popularity and power, but on his sufferings and his choice to share the suffering of others.

Paul says that our bodies, now mortal, will enter eternal life in a changed form. And not just our bodies, but that God will also “transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself.”

We cannot fully understand the source of that power, except that it comes from God, and we live in the hope that it will transform us so that we will be present with one another to share each others’ sufferings as Jesus did.

When Jesus is warned that Herod was out to kill him, he responded, "Go and tell that fox for me, 'Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.”

In other words, no secular power is strong enough to deter Jesus from his chosen mission to serve and to empower the poor, the friendless and the needy.

And so we come full circle to meet, again, the God who keeps promises and loves us. Theologian Rudolf Bultmann wrote that Jesus’ teaching of God seems no different from that which Jesus himself had been taught: to need and depend on God, even though we are not sure that we can totally trust that God will take care of us. Jesus made it his goal to bring this distant God close to us.. We see this clearly in the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer. God is “our” God, not a distant God. God is a parent, not a remote, fearsome and unpredictable God. And so we have those words that Luke uses to explain God’s relationship to the world, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

I do not see Jesus speaking that to any particular Pharisee, but to the whole of creation. It is as a mother who, when speaking to God about her kids, opens her hands and says, “Where did I go wrong? All I ever wanted was to give them what I never had.” All I want is to love them. That is the God that Jesus preached. Not a God who wishes to command and who demands that we obey, but a God who beckons us to be in relationship with God and with one another. To be in this kind of relationship is everything. To see a model of this, we look to Jesus, how we talked, how he lived and how he died. This is the story we tell during Lent, and the story we hope to make our own.

On Never Giving Up

Since I am both a teacher and a priest, I feel that today I should write something educational as well as spiritual.

Always sit in the front pews when you go to church, especially if the ushers are going to dismiss the congregation from the front, as they did at my boarding school this morning. This is the best policy in the long run, because, if you sit in the back you end up waiting a long time for your homemade omelet. We have a fantastic Sunday brunch, by the way, and that is motivation enough for most people to want to be first out of the church. Moreover, most chapel speakers at my school imagine that what they have to say is very important, so it also helps if the students humor them whenever possible. Nothing is more disturbing to a preacher than to have everyone sit as far back as they can, and to have them burst out of the building the moment the final words, “Thanks be to God” are spoken. If the preacher does not inspire you, the least you can do is pretend that he or she does. It’s the courteous thing to do.

Never chew gum in chapel. So many children have learned this bad habit by watching older students chew and snap gum. I have witnessed the sweetest little faculty children, who, striving to be just like the older students, wiping tables after supper, straightening benches and tidying up the school, only to find them years later as sophomores or juniors, concealing wads of watermelon bubblicious wedged between cheek and jaw in chapel. We used to have a hard and fast rule about this, and it applied to all school gatherings, including special programs, theatre performances and school meetings. Certain very sly individuals would sometimes sneak it in their cheek, and keep it there, even during the prayers and hymns. But, as Murphy proved, gum will betray you, and at the most conspicuous moment. It has happened during an important pause in the Confession or a silent moment during the anthem that "snap!" the proverbial cat jumped out of the bag, and all eyes turned on the culprit who shrank low in the pew. So don’t embarrass yourself or risk upsetting the adults around you, by chewing gum in chapel. We are pretty sure we know better about such things; and the little children, who learn from you, will be less inclined to develop this bad social habit.

Never throw an ice ball. Many broken noses, stung cheeks and damaged eyes are the result of this temptation. The American author Mark Twain tells the story of a young boy who played with an unloaded rifle. My story is a paraphrase about a boy who was playing in the snow one Sunday afternoon. He had made the perfect ice ball—cold, wet, hard packed —a perfect weapon. Just then his great aunt was leaving after a Sunday visit with the family, and the boy, who had never thrown any ball more than about ten feet, spied her our at 20 yards. She looked up, and waved her arms. “No! n0!” she cried. But the boy, thinking he could never reach her, just laughed, took careful aim and let the ice ball go. And he was right, he missed. The ice ball went only about ten feet. It’s the strangest story. 99 times out of a hundred, a boy who couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at ten feet, can nail his great aunt with an ice ball every time. Nevertheless, have fun with snow, make forts, and snow angels, but, please, I implore you, leave ice balls and unloaded weapons where they belong—in stories.

Always try something new. I give you this advice from an old friend, whom my students call “Griz.” He learned it from his father, and regretted that he didn’t take the advice seriously until almost too late. How else, he would say, will you know if you might actually like some new food or activity, be good at something, or find your true calling? Finding a vocation is complex. It involves a certain amount of independence, and a deep commitment to effort. Most of us do not find that true calling on the first attempt, so we must try and try again. Three times is the charm, they say. In football, the team tries three times. If you don’t succeed, then punt the ball.

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus advocates for the "try something new" approach. After teaching to the crowd, a personal teaching moment arose. Simon was a bored fisherman. He was working at a vocation that was really his father’s, and probably his father’s father’s as well. Jesus asked Peter to let down his nets for a catch, and what did Peter say?

“Yo, dude,…forget about it. We’ve tried all night. There are no fish.” I imagine Jesus being stern and in control. He looked at Simon Peter and said, “Just do it!” And, surprisingly, Simon did. Next thing you know the nets are bursting and the boat is sinking because of the huge load of fish they’ve caught.

But the lesson is not really about the fish; that’s just to get your attention. The lesson is in what comes next. Jesus looks deeply into the eyes, and deeply into the soul of Simon Peter. Jesus cuts through the boredom, through Simon’s sarcasm and his pessimistic attitude, and he says, “You, know…fishing is not your thing, is it? You are a person with huge potential, but your potential lies dormant… .” Dormant, from the verb Dormir in French, which means “to sleep.” Jesus knows that Simon is not made for catching fish. It was a vocation that just came along, so he took the job. His true potential was in working with people. That calling excited Simon. It resonated with something deep inside himself. It stimulated an awareness that had always been there.

That potential is there for every one of us. Goodness, virtue and potential are the condition of every human being, but we too often give up too early. How many of us have said, or will say, “I am no good at anything.” It’s just not true, and that is why Jesus chose to become the prophet who awakens people to the mystery of their own souls.

Each of us has a soul made for goodness and with unlimited potential. Unlimited. That means, no end. That means, if you don’t succeed the first time, try again. Seize the day, again, and again, and again. Griz would say, “Don’t wait until you are 78 to open yourself to the potential that lies within you.” Jesus says, “Do not be afraid to find your true vocation, that which you were meant to be.”

You will ask, “How will I know?” Peter, and his partners James and John have an answer: “We left everything to follow Jesus. That is how we knew.”

When you are so sure that something is right for you, so sure that you are willing to leave everything—father, mother, home, country, even your life—then you stop being anxious; you have conviction; faith and confidence become your reward.

Passing the Peace

Why do we shake hands when we greet someone, give a hug or pass the peace in church? I think we do it because we want build bridges and bring down walls. They may seem like simple expressions, but they symbolize the blurring of boundaries and offer a tiny pathway to peace. If we can teach our children to connect with others without feeling uncomfortable, then there is hope for the world.

Accepting responsibility for connection and peaceful relations with others is always ours to choose. Recalling my high school English class, I am reminded that Shakespeare put these words into the mouth of Hamlet:

To be or not to be – that is the question:



Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer



The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,



Or to take arms against a sea of troubles



And, by opposing, end them.

Christians in the 21st century are asking, “What does it mean to be a Christian? Am I a worshipper or a follower? Should I take charge, or be passive?”

I dare say that for many of us, being a Christian means gathering with like-minded folks for one hour in a week of 24 x 7 = 168 hours to have our neat and tidy lives confirmed by others under the watchful care of a God we hardly know. As we gather, we are painfully aware that most of the 6.8 billion people in the world are in trouble. 25 thousand human beings die of hunger every day, 5 thousand die of AIDS every day, 5 thousand children die of pneumonia, 4 thousand of TB, 3 thousand of Malaria every day.

For the past three days we have all had our hearts broken by the devastation caused by earthquakes in Haiti. Thousands have perished. Thousands are starving, thirsty, grieving, lost. This is the harsh reality of the world we live in.

Now we can sit in our living rooms and congratulate ourselves for being concerned. We can send donations. We can even get on a plane and fly to Haiti. These are great choices, but, as a young student of mine said to me yesterday, "If it doesn't come from the heart, then it doesn't mean as much." That resonated with me because, as an American, I feel a strong connection with a heritage that knows about sacrifice, courage and commitment.

To be the best we can be means having the courage of our convictions. I remember reading a story in one of John Maxwell's little books on leadership about a circuit preacher named Peter Cartwright who was preparing a sermon one Sunday when a well-meaning parishioner warned him that the President of the United States happened to be in attendance. The parishioner also suggested that sermon references and remarks should be kept inoffensive. During the sermon, Mr. Cartwright included the following message: “I have been told that the President of the U.S. is in this congregation. And I have been asked to guard my remarks. What I must say is this: even the president will go to hell if he does not repent of his sin.” After the service, the president faced Mr. Cartwright and said, “Sir, if I had a regiment of men like you, I could whip the world.” I dare say, with more people of courage, we could bring peace and an end to suffering in this fallen world.

Courage is the first step in breaking down the walls that separate us. So the real question is: what are the voices within us that wall off our courage? How can we bring down the walls of our own fears and reach out to others with sincerity, integrity and truth? The potential is there; make no mistake about it.

Seeking wholeness is not easy, but I learned early in my ministry as a teacher that ending a bad direction is never accomplished by looking outside myself. Wholeness, which includes courage, will not be found there. Searching without, all we do is skip from one quick fix to another, and no real change is made. Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung put it this way: "Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes." Jung understood that navigating through a sea of troubles means traveling inward, and he understood how necessary it is to confront and silence those voices that keep us from following our dreams.

Speaking of navigating through a sea of troubles, I am reminded that Jesus understood about boats. Many of his journeys involved travel by sea, in weather that was not always calm or clear. Jesus knew well that navigating inward requires a good compass. That compass is the Holy Spirit, the voice that comes from God and says you are my child, and in you I am well pleased. Jesus heard that voice and he is that voice.

Another name for Jesus is Emmanuel: God in us. When we make the inward journey, we will encounter Jesus. In fact, we cannot avoid him, for he promised to be in us to the end of the age. There in the darkest corners, he waits for us—to talk to us—to point the way—to excite us to live up to our potential, and to have the courage of our convictions.

There is a great poem by William Butler Yeats that begins,

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

(from The Second Coming)

This is utter chaos! Think about it: The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate conviction? Let’s face it: more and more these days it is the negative voices within us that speak with passionate intensity. They direct us to quick fixes, shallow responses and pretending. They tell us that we don’t need to fight for our rights; we don’t have a right to be upset; that our problems don’t really matter. They say, “Chill out, and wherever you go, don’t make waves. Don’t do something that will cause you to lose your head, your job, your possessions.”

Situations like the one happening in Haiti challenge us to find and use our true compass, one that points to who we really are and what we can do to bring peace and healing to a suffering world. We cannot solve every problem, but we can try. We begin by having the courage of our convictions. With that and an invitation to the Holy Spirit to be with us and in us, we can ignite our passion for life, truth, creativity and service to those in need.

What is Really Hiding Under Your Bed?

Have you ever tried to get somewhere but forgot to bring the directions? You start out with a strong conviction that you know where you are going, but then something seems out of place; a little doubt creeps in, and you wonder to yourself, “Is this the way? It looks familiar, but then, again, it doesn’t.” And if the sky darkens as you travel, your doubt increases; you regret having left the directions behind, and you now wish you had the phone number of the person you were going to meet.

Children do not like darkness. They intuitively imagine bogeymen under beds and in closets. As a boy, I would ask my parents not to shut the bedroom door all the way after we said my bedtime prayers, or to leave the closet light on. It was more comforting to have a bit of light than to be alone with the silence of my irrational fears.

As we get older, we grow more comfortable with darkness, perhaps because we are more willing to face the reality of who we really are and to confront more prayerfully that which needs to be changed about how we live our lives.

Searching for meaning in our lives (some might call this looking God) is like that. We keep striving to find something familiar, something to light the way. But then we realize that God calls us to do just the opposite. We must enter the darkness of the unknown, turn away from the familiar, and enter into the threatening void of our deepest fears and anxieties, for that is where God waits.

Julius Caesar set the date for the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, as December 25, when the earth is farthest from the sun in its elliptical orbit. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the time when we are tipped on our axis away from the sun. Science has corrected Caesar’s date for the winter solstice, and science teaches us something more. We now know that being deprived of light can lead to emotional stress and even depression. Modern research suggests that there is much more depression in peoples who live closest to the earth’s Polar Regions, where darkness lasts much longer during the winter days. The depressive psychological effect of winter darkness is called “seasonal affective disorder.” Some call it “cabin fever,” others “the winter blues.”

And the treatment for this disorder? Well, it may not surprise you to learn that it is light. A Wikipedia site explains that “Light therapy, increased negative ion exposure (which can be attained from plants and well ventilated flames, burning wood or beeswax) can reinvigorate the body from its seasonal lull and relieve winter blues by decreasing melatonin secretions, increasing serotonin and temporarily creating a more even sleeping pattern.”

Who is to say that our traditional winter festivals surrounding December 25, calling for lighted houses and trees, parlor fires, communion with close ones, and festive singing, aren’t simply winter therapies that have evolved to help keep us sane during our dark months? Imagine modern science supporting religious tradition and helping us to better understand of our fear of the dark and our intuitive craving for light.

The Judeo-Christian God knows about darkness. The Hebrew Bible opens this way: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.” Two ideas merge in this story: One explains that God created light. God’s first words were, “Let there be light.” The second idea is that all creation was good. All of it was very good.

As we contemplate what God made, we cannot help but imagine that God wanted something more than darkness and void. When God commanded light, God created the opportunity for sight and with it the visual appreciation of the goodness of creation. In creating human beings, God gave us the potential to love each other and to love God. She/He did not command us to love Her/Him. Rather She/He gave us the freedom to seek Her/Him of our own free will. God waits in the darkness for us, and is willing to be lonely while we busy ourselves with our quotidian labors and concerns.

And God still waits. God waits for us to come into the dark, to seek and to say, “I love you” because we want to, not because we have to. Isn’t this the essence of the human condition—a deep desire to be loved and to be needed? The act of leaving the light on in the closet for a child is an act of caring and understanding. Perhaps it is not so much the light that matters as the compassion of the adult to have tenderness for a child who is afraid of the dark and to light the way to comfort and security.

Whose Voice Is It Anyway?

I have been reading and listening to two or three sources this week. One of them is an email my wife sent me while I was teaching on Saturday.

Does this seem odd to you? Because it should. People who live together in the same house do not need to send each other email. Or do we?

The need to connect, to communicate, is strong. No family is perfect, and one day, if you have a life partner who loves you unconditionally, you may find yourself communicating by email once in awhile, even though the person is in the other room.

The second source is a stack of questionnaires that my students filled out a while back. The feedback is very clear: Sunday chapels should be voluntary; and they are too long, too traditional, and too early. Not all of them said this, but many did and so it's time to evaluate the value of school chapel services.

The gospel message for today (Luke 3: 1-6) calls upon us to listen closely, and to consider making some changes in our lives. Here is how it goes: First, we hear from someone called John the Baptist, a country preacher who envisioned a better future for all humanity. He saw big changes on the horizon, and thought the world would be a better place if people would be more disciplined. The discipline he prescribed was fairly simple: Say you’re sorry for the bad things you’ve done. Be truly sorry in your heart. Forgive yourself and others for mistakes you’ve made and they have made. Then do your best to live a clean and honorable life.

John went on to give a reason for his “clean up your act” message. Basically he said: “Someone is coming who is going to radically change how things are evaluated around here, and those who aren’t straight with themselves and others are going to be very, very uncomfortable.”

Making positive changes in the way we behave is hard. We are programmed, it seems, to repeat bad habits. Just yesterday an Episcopal priest from Baltimore was elected suffragan bishop of Los Angeles. Mary Glasspool is a lesbian woman with a faithful partner, yet her election is already stirring up old controversies and fueling new criticism of the Episcopal Church. When will people ever learn?

Old habits are hard to break because changing how we think and act takes serious effort and a strong will. Look at the people who get marks for the same thing over and over. Do the reprimands really work? I wonder? Do advisor talks, deans meetings and residential reviews make a difference?

John must have thought so, because he proclaimed his message with phenomenal energy. I mean, the man had a vision that just wouldn't quit. “God will lift up the valleys and bring the mountains low,” he said. God is going to flatten this world, put everyone on an even playing field and evaluate, so get ready. Basically he was saying, God is going to inspect every nook and cranny of your life—your friendships and allegiances, your private thoughts—everything about your individual life; and God is going to straighten you up. The change will be huge. Monumental. So get ready!

Now, John did not claim to be the one who would change things. What he did was imagine that positive change was possible. In fact, John the Baptist preached that those who failed to imagine positive change, those who had no faith in themselves, would be condemned to live sour and uninspiring lives.

Some of us like flying way above the radar, some of us below. To those who seek to slip through the cracks, John proclaimed that God’s radar was not beatable. There is no stealth craft, no invisibility cloak. We can’t hide.

According to John, the discipline that releases our power of transformation for positive change is spiritual; it is the discipline of repentance—the willingness to say, I am sorry. I can do better. No. I want to be better.

That small but willing desire is an act of the human spirit. To begin we must look at our reflection in a mirror or a pond and say to the person looking back, “Today, I want to be better. God give me the will and the strength to make a change.”

That is what mattered to John.

It will come as no surprise to you that little commitments like this happen around us all the time. I see it especially as I watch my students perform in classes, studios, and on the fields and stages of my school. Several years ago I sat in on a student’s exhibition about the novel Beloved. The teacher made a few provocative remarks to start things off, then asked the student to comment on the strengths of the paper. The student began by defending a particular theme, but was nervous about the performance. Each time the student faltered, the teacher skillfully guided the student back to the theme, and even helped the student along in subtle ways. Witnessing the young person’s performance, I could not help but admire the poise, the ability to discuss certain passages and even quote them, the willingness to see the teacher’s point of view and respond intelligently to new ideas and questions.

Later, in talking with the student about the experience, I listened to wishes that it had gone better, that the themes the student had worked so hard to express seemed trivial now. Clearly the student was anxious and embarrassed by some of the things that were said and written, and the student expressed regret in having faltered under the scrutiny of the teacher.

But the teacher, a brilliant veteran, shared none of this negativity, and even said to me: “You know, there was a lot in that paper!” In that moment I realized that this teacher understood a deep, spiritual truth: no matter how weak or uninspiring an exhibition like that might be, Toni Morrison’s was the dominant voice in the room. Her characters still spoke, and they said, “Repent. Repent your self-loathing, and believe in yourself. Nothing is worse than being disconnected from dignity and self-worth, and no person or institution has the right to separate you from your God-given potential.” A brilliant teacher taught me to listen more carefully for true voices. That day, Morrison’s was not diminished by a student’s stammering or fumbles.

The human proclivity to dissect things and criticize them is nowhere more evident than in a college prep school. Whether we are teachers heatedly debating the need for more rigor in the classroom, or students complaining about food, too much work, or the length of chapel services, we seem to enjoy dissecting our experiences. It is a good thing to be critical, to strive for excellence, enjoy rigor, and have good taste in choosing what is important to us. If something is worth doing, it is worth our best effort. I believe that God deserves our best effort. Not second or third best, but best. And so when John the Baptist speaks to us of repentance, we need to be like that English teacher and recognize that the dominant voice in the room is not ours, but the voice of the Holy Spirit speaking to the human spirit.

John’s was not the voice. He said so himself. He was the mouth. God was the speaker. And God is still speaking. That is what Advent means, by the way. God coming, again and again, into our humble existence, calling to give our best and be our best selves.

So be alert, and be ready.

My wife’s email, though somewhat lengthy (she is a good writer), had a simple message. She said, “Some things change, but one thing does not: I am your friend and you are my friend. I love you unconditionally.” The discipline John calls for is repentance. The action, my friend said, is love. Those are voices make real change possible.

This Way to Advent

We come together this morning to give thanks that we are alive and to accept an invitation to a new season in the Church calendar. The seemingly endless green of Pentecost gives way to the refreshing blue/purple of Advent. As joyful and wonderful as the season is, we also know how difficult transitions can be. Psychologists tell us that we are most vulnerable to stress when we are forced to deal with change, especially when we do not know what to expect.

Looking back over the past two decades, I cannot think of a year that has included so much unexpected change, turmoil and suffering.

I don’t know about you, but in my office, I have two items that help me make sense of change. One is a calculator—a TI-84 Plus Silver Edition. This modern machine can do more calculations faster than most of the computers that sent the first human into outer space. It is programmed to do algebra, geometry, calculus, statistical analysis and much more. With the push of a few buttons, I can find solutions to six equations in six variables, calculate the odds of winning the lottery, or view your biorhythms. It is a remarkable machine, and it fits in the palm of my hand.

The other item I have in my office to help me deal with change is the Holy Bible, in the NRSV version. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, it contains all things necessary to salvation. The Old Testament reveals God’s mighty acts in creation; God’s deliverance of suppressed peoples; all the Law and the prophets. More than these, the Bible describes the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, the Messiah, whose coming was foretold in the Old Testament, and whose life is our model of the new covenant, one based on love. All that we are is based on God’s love working in us by the word made flesh in the person of Jesus.

As we engage in the transition from Pentecost to Advent, it is tempting to reach for the calculator instead of the Bible to measure our worth. In order to help us make sense of the past and prepare for the future, it is reassuring to measure assets, assess physical strength, and answer many other questions about the finite world.

But Advent invites us to something more profound than these. Advent gives us a glimpse of that which cannot be measured in human terms.

Advent is the first season of the church year, and it always begins on the fourth Sunday before Christmas. Using my trusty TI-84, I can calculate that after today, November 29, 2009, there are 25 days until Christmas.

In case you did not know, the word “advent” is derived from the a Latin word for “coming.” The season is a time of preparation and expectation for the coming celebration of our Lord’s nativity, and for the final coming of Christ “in power and glory.”

If you are like me, your idea of Christmas is more about the coming of the baby Jesus than it is about the final coming of Christ in power and glory? You are sentimental, and you take comfort in the scene of Mary, Joseph and Jesus in a cozy barn, with adoring animals sleeping peacefully nearby. In contrast, however, Luke’s gospel message to us in chapter 21 ends with the words, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

This coming of Jesus is not a sentimental one. There are no shepherds, no cows or sheep, no star and no manger. Luke is telling us to grow up, to prepare for some pretty heavy responsibilities. The Church and its members will face tough times, but the “Son of Man,” i.e. Jesus, will come from heaven with power to change all things.

It is tempting, in the face of such warnings, to measure our life’s work, our past actions and behaviors, our acts of charity, and our love of God and neighbor, with a calculator—to add up all the good things and compare them to all the ways we have fallen short (and all of us have fallen short!).

That is the problem with the calculator approach. If God were to measure us this way, none of us would have a chance.

That is because the calculator is a machine. It is made of silicon chips, tiny wires, printed circuit boards, liquid crystals and lots of plastic. It can do sophisticated algorithms, but it cannot inspire us for change.

And so Luke reminds us of the other item, God’s redeeming word. The Bible is like a fig tree. Its pages may appear worn out, like dry leaves on dead branches in winter, but for those who pay attention to nature, we know that in spring those same branches will sprout again in a cycle as old as creation.

So consider this option: Open your Bible. Don’t throw away the calculator; you will need it to better understand and measure what you have. But consider, once again, that other resource. Use it to reconnect yourself to the core of your being. Keep it open to remind you to be alert and aware that the connection we all have to God and one another is love.

If we allow ourselves to be weighed down by our day-to-day earthly concerns, cynicism and doubt, we will not be aware of the nearness of God, and will not be ready when God comes.

Let us stay awake. Let us remain hopeful and optimistic. Let us use our energy for love and forgiveness. Let us believe in ourselves because the One who came believes in us and inspires us for positive and life-giving change.