"Only in our doing can we grasp you, only with our hands can we illumine you....
Living the Word
Matthew, Luke, and John tell us the story of Jesus in their own words, firmly linking him to the Hebrew Testament through scripture and events. The accounts confirm Jesus’ heritage as the true king, the one who will "judge your people with righteousness and your poor with justice" (Psalm 72:2). For Matthew, Jesus is a liberator in the line of Moses (Matthew 2:1-12). Luke assures us that Jesus is the Messiah, the one who is so passionately awaited in Jewish scriptures (Luke 4:18). John insists that Jesus is both flesh and sign; he is the one who transforms ordinary substances into sacrament, so that we may know and taste God’s presence in the world (John 2:11).
They remind us that Jesus is no ordinary king, for his primary concern is for those who, in the world’s eyes, have nothing and are nothing. They are "the oppressed," "the poor," "the needy," "the blind, "the captives," "the weak," and "those who have no helper." Jesus is king of the downtrodden, and he calls us, as his living body, to be the same.
It is Paul who insists that as Christians we be a body—individuals who are equal, treated with mutual respect, and united (1 Corinthians 12:13). Living as one body does not come without difficulties, but Paul reminds us that we bear the Spirit for one purpose only, "the common good" (1 Corinthians 12:7). If we are to follow this Messiah king, the common good, especially of those left behind, is our only goal.
Rabbi Tarfon said, "The day is short. The work is long. We are not enjoined to complete the task.
"We must re-vision Christian faith as a combative, argumentative, and emancipatory" practice that seeks "the well-being of all."
"That's when I want you—you knower of my emptiness, you unspeaking partner to my sorrow. That's when I need you, God, like food," wrote Rainer Maria Rilke in his Book of Hours.
Despite Jesus' greeting to the disciples, the weeks following his resurrection are anything but peaceful for the struggling community.
Those of us who identify ourselves as activists of various stripes often use our work as a shield against our deepest fears and loneliness. Leery of those who peddle spirituality as self-help and who ignore the "root causes" of injustice and suffering, we can be fearful of admitting our own fatigue and dismay.
Within this tendency lies an interesting idolatry—one that is harder to identify than wealth, security, or even doctrinal purity. More often than not, we understand the gifts we have been given—the prophetic word, the cry of challenge to unjust systems—as something deposited in us, rather than something that flows through us. Thus we interpret our lives according to our faithfulness to this gift, rather than according to our relationship with the God who is the source of our gifts and callings. This severance casts our efforts in a strangely harsh light: It either causes us to interpret ourselves as being of singular importance, which renders us easily threatened, or it increases our already deep sense that we are always failing, no matter how hard we try. In either case, cut off from our life-source, the seed we sow in the world will be born of this fatigued arrogance, and we become just one more force out there imposing its vision on the world.
Listen to me, you that pursue righteousness, you that seek the Lord. Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug (Isaiah 51:1).
These weeks from Easter to Pentecost memorialize the calling forth and sending out of Jesus' witnesses.
Years ago when my mother was quite ill, a friend copied a poem and surreptitiously slipped it into my Bible.
The journey from Epiphany to Lent brings us from the brightness of our dawning to the bleakness of our sinfulness.
Our churches have attempted to corner the market on grace, to act as society's sole dispensers of salvation.