Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life…”
On hearing it, many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?”
(John 6:53, 60)
“This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?” Of course, these were Jews, who had been told since their youth that God forbids you to eat any meat with the blood still in it, for the life of a creature is in the blood. (Genesis 9:4) Surely if you are not to eat the blood of an animal, the prohibition extends to the blood of a man, especially the blood of a man who was a friend; Jesus was all of this, and – they hoped – he was the Messiah. Eat his flesh? Drink his blood? To say, “this is a difficult teaching” understates the matter rather dramatically…
I watched a movie about a Gladiator. It was called “Gladiator.” The hero of the story is a gladiator… (Is there not the possibility that we could make another verse for the song “I just wanna be a sheep” based on the gladiator? You know the rubric: “I don’t wanna be a Pharisee/’Cause they’re not fair-u-see… I just wanna be a sheep.” I charge the noble readers of the casuist with the task of writing a reason why we don’t want to be gladiators. (Also, is anyone else bothered by the fact that we don’t wanna be Saducees because they are sad? I always sing “I don’t wanna be a Saducee, ‘cause they deny the resurrection of the dead,” but it throws the rhythm off so badly...))
Anyway, after the gladiator violently decapitates some poor sod, he calls out to the crowd, “Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is that not why you are here?” And the crowd goes nuts, chanting his name, because that is why they are there. They have come to be entertained; they have come to see a good show, and he has provided it for them.
Every Sunday morning, my alarm goes off, and I wonder why I would bother getting out of bed. I have to tell you, I am used to being entertained, and this ceremony is not entertaining. Am I here to learn? Is this a time to be meet with friends who I would not otherwise see? Am I here to prove my devotion to the relevant church leaders, or to God himself? It doesn’t seem worth it.
We are here this morning to be restored. To imbibe the blood and so take the life of Christ into ourselves; we drink the blood precisely because the life is in the blood. I am here this morning to fill a need that I feel desperately. I am here because I need Jesus’ life; nothing else can liberate me, nothing else can free me from this body of death.
If this feels like an incomplete thot, I suppose it is. There is nothing to tie this together, no snappy line to neatly articulate the theology of the table. It is a reminder of why I came: not to be entertained, not to be taught some new truth, or to see my friends, but to be reminded of the story of sinners ransomed from the fall, and to find my life again, in the only place that it can be found.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
devotional thot 6
I have a close friend who, when he prays, sounds like a Texan. He prays with a strange drawl that I never hear any other time; the first time I heard him pray out loud, I opened my eyes, just to make sure it was really him. He sounded like a hillbilly from Midland. When he meets God, I wonder if God will say, “James, your voice sounds so different in person.”
I have often though of Jesus’ words: “Away from me, I never knew you.” I am so ashamed to have God see me for what I am, I sometimes wonder if when he meets me, it will be like those people who meet over the Internet, and send each other pictures, but never meet in person. I wonder if, when he sees me for the first time, Jesus will say, “You look nothing like I thought you would.”
He didn’t turn them away saying, “You never knew me.” He said, “I never knew you.”
I have this to confess: I find it difficult even to admit the reality of my sinfulness, and the depth of my failings. I am anxious to know God, enamoured with the idea of friendship with the creator of the universe, but much less pleased to allow unencumbered access to the facts of my life. I come this morning to take: to take this bread, and take this cup. But the mystery of communion is that it is essentially reciprocal: I cannot take Christ into me without allowing Christ to take me into himself.
I have often though of Jesus’ words: “Away from me, I never knew you.” I am so ashamed to have God see me for what I am, I sometimes wonder if when he meets me, it will be like those people who meet over the Internet, and send each other pictures, but never meet in person. I wonder if, when he sees me for the first time, Jesus will say, “You look nothing like I thought you would.”
He didn’t turn them away saying, “You never knew me.” He said, “I never knew you.”
I have this to confess: I find it difficult even to admit the reality of my sinfulness, and the depth of my failings. I am anxious to know God, enamoured with the idea of friendship with the creator of the universe, but much less pleased to allow unencumbered access to the facts of my life. I come this morning to take: to take this bread, and take this cup. But the mystery of communion is that it is essentially reciprocal: I cannot take Christ into me without allowing Christ to take me into himself.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
addendum to Devotional Thot 5
David;
I hope that you are right. I hope that I am not the only one waiting to find an easy love for God.
It feels to me, when I sit in church, as if I am all by myself, as if I am the only person who is baffled and stymied by God. I watch everyone else sing the songs, but I cannot sing along: there are so few songs that resonate. (I am not claiming that worship songs fall short because they are all stupid and kitschy, though some are. Sometimes the true sentiments of a good song fail to take root because the words fall like seeds on a rocky pathway.)
I hear someone sing, “Your love is all that gets me through, all I need on this earth is you.” Suddenly, I am desperate and tired. I hear those words, this sentiment of confident love, and I want to sit down with my head in my hands. Sometimes, after my despair, I lift my head with a new determination, ready to pursue God with the force of my whole will. Sometimes I want to abandon even the pretense of halfhearted pursuit, and never sing any of these songs, or see any of the people ever again for the rest of my life. Sometimes, I feel encouraged and comforted, and am convinced that this is a good place for me, and I know what peace feels like. Sometimes, I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I am not sure what the appropriate response is.
As I look at the people around me, singing the songs, their eyes closed, their hands raised, I don’t see any confusion. Our church services avoid drawing attention to confusion, or failings; we scarcely even acknowledge them; I am not sure why this is. I like the penitential songs, the songs that are admissions of our weaknesses and of our foolish allegiances. I like admitting “I have not loved you with my whole heart, I have not loved my neighbor as myself. I am truly sorry, and I humbly repent.”
I hate the songs that are confident, the “I will not be shaken” songs. It is one thing to claim that “when the nations crumble, the word of the Lord will stand”; it is an entirely different thing to claim that “I will not be shaken, I will not be moved.” You know what? I am going to be shaken; I am prone to wander. If my salvation is vouchsafed by my ability to hold onto Christ, I am lost. I am not making a theological point, I am just telling you about the reality of my life. I am too lazy, too rotten, too stubborn, too skeptical… If it is up to me, I am not going to make it.
When I sit in the church and we sing our songs, I am often confused and often angry. I don’t understand what we are singing about. I wonder, David, if everyone else feels the same way I do, or if they are genuinely moved, genuinely responding to a sentiment that makes no sense to me. In my last post, I wished that I were one of the people who love God easily, with confidence, without remorse. There must be such people out there, else who is writing our worship choruses? I wanted to say two things: I don’t feel that way, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand – God doesn’t promise understanding, he promises peace that passes understanding. I face a choice, on every Sunday. I can choose to know, or I can choose to trust. Trust isn’t easy, but, for me at least, knowledge isn’t nearly enough.
I hope that you are right. I hope that I am not the only one waiting to find an easy love for God.
It feels to me, when I sit in church, as if I am all by myself, as if I am the only person who is baffled and stymied by God. I watch everyone else sing the songs, but I cannot sing along: there are so few songs that resonate. (I am not claiming that worship songs fall short because they are all stupid and kitschy, though some are. Sometimes the true sentiments of a good song fail to take root because the words fall like seeds on a rocky pathway.)
I hear someone sing, “Your love is all that gets me through, all I need on this earth is you.” Suddenly, I am desperate and tired. I hear those words, this sentiment of confident love, and I want to sit down with my head in my hands. Sometimes, after my despair, I lift my head with a new determination, ready to pursue God with the force of my whole will. Sometimes I want to abandon even the pretense of halfhearted pursuit, and never sing any of these songs, or see any of the people ever again for the rest of my life. Sometimes, I feel encouraged and comforted, and am convinced that this is a good place for me, and I know what peace feels like. Sometimes, I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I am not sure what the appropriate response is.
As I look at the people around me, singing the songs, their eyes closed, their hands raised, I don’t see any confusion. Our church services avoid drawing attention to confusion, or failings; we scarcely even acknowledge them; I am not sure why this is. I like the penitential songs, the songs that are admissions of our weaknesses and of our foolish allegiances. I like admitting “I have not loved you with my whole heart, I have not loved my neighbor as myself. I am truly sorry, and I humbly repent.”
I hate the songs that are confident, the “I will not be shaken” songs. It is one thing to claim that “when the nations crumble, the word of the Lord will stand”; it is an entirely different thing to claim that “I will not be shaken, I will not be moved.” You know what? I am going to be shaken; I am prone to wander. If my salvation is vouchsafed by my ability to hold onto Christ, I am lost. I am not making a theological point, I am just telling you about the reality of my life. I am too lazy, too rotten, too stubborn, too skeptical… If it is up to me, I am not going to make it.
When I sit in the church and we sing our songs, I am often confused and often angry. I don’t understand what we are singing about. I wonder, David, if everyone else feels the same way I do, or if they are genuinely moved, genuinely responding to a sentiment that makes no sense to me. In my last post, I wished that I were one of the people who love God easily, with confidence, without remorse. There must be such people out there, else who is writing our worship choruses? I wanted to say two things: I don’t feel that way, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand – God doesn’t promise understanding, he promises peace that passes understanding. I face a choice, on every Sunday. I can choose to know, or I can choose to trust. Trust isn’t easy, but, for me at least, knowledge isn’t nearly enough.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Devotional thot 5
I locked my keys in the car, and so I had to stand outside for probably an hour in the cold. Painful. And so I waited, and after I had waited, grudgingly and not sure why, I prayed. I had no other options at that point, and nothing else to do. And truthfully, I did not expect anyone to come. As I stood in the parking lot, cold and wet, I thought that maybe God was punishing me for my unwillingness to abandon myself to him first – “why am I always a last resort?” But does God punish like that?
Too often I ascribe motivation: God let this happen, or caused it – because he wants to teach me… or wants me to learn… or is blessing me. But I don't know what to the point is, we worship God with all that is in us at all times because we do not understand how he means to bless us. Call it a gracious non-cognitivism. We do not evaluate or ascribe value to the goodness of God; we trust in what we do not know. It is that simple: it is not very clear.
Let me try again… I want God to be immediately present to me. I want to rely on the closeness of his spirit. But God does not reveal himself. I am desperate to know, to be led by the hand, to feel the comfort and reassurance of a lover in the presence of his beloved. But God does not do that. I want clear answers, a quiet, steady life, prosperity, wisdom; God asks, “Do you love me more than these?”
Though I want to believe with all my heart, I do not know if I will ever find this sort of abundant life: the easy, unquestioning love that my peers have for the unseen God. Some days, as though from a long ways off, I see what seems to be evidence, but I never touch it, and then I suffer because I don't want the peace that passes understanding. I want to understand.
Too often I ascribe motivation: God let this happen, or caused it – because he wants to teach me… or wants me to learn… or is blessing me. But I don't know what to the point is, we worship God with all that is in us at all times because we do not understand how he means to bless us. Call it a gracious non-cognitivism. We do not evaluate or ascribe value to the goodness of God; we trust in what we do not know. It is that simple: it is not very clear.
Let me try again… I want God to be immediately present to me. I want to rely on the closeness of his spirit. But God does not reveal himself. I am desperate to know, to be led by the hand, to feel the comfort and reassurance of a lover in the presence of his beloved. But God does not do that. I want clear answers, a quiet, steady life, prosperity, wisdom; God asks, “Do you love me more than these?”
Though I want to believe with all my heart, I do not know if I will ever find this sort of abundant life: the easy, unquestioning love that my peers have for the unseen God. Some days, as though from a long ways off, I see what seems to be evidence, but I never touch it, and then I suffer because I don't want the peace that passes understanding. I want to understand.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
devotional thot 4
I read this week about a sociological study conducted at Princeton Theological Seminary in which seminarians were asked to prepare a brief talk on a Biblical subject, and present it at a nearby building on campus. As they walked across campus to deliver their talk, the budding theologians encountered an actor, slumped in an alley, head down, eyes closed, coughing and groaning, obviously injured and in need of help. The researchers wanted to know what factors would predict who would stop and offer assistance. Would it matter if the students had entered seminary because they wanted to help people? Did it matter what topic the students were asked to speak about? How much of an impact would it make if the students were late for their speaking engagement?
The researchers gave the students a brief questionnaire about why they chose to attend seminary. Was their interest in theology merely academic, or did they intend to use their education to make other people’s lives better? It turned out that it did not make any difference: the academics stopped to help just as often as the altruists. The researchers also wondered if it would make any difference if the students were asked to speak about the parable of the Good Samaritan as opposed to some other parable. They found that that did not make any difference either: the people who were on their way to speak about the Good Samaritan were no more likely to stop to offer help. In fact, the experiment showed that the only factor that made a difference was the student’s schedule. “The only thing that really mattered was whether the student was in a rush. Of the group that was, 10 percent stopped to help. Of the group who knew they had a few minutes to spare, 63 percent stopped.” (The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell, p. 165)
I thought about this a lot, about theologians rushing past an injured man to give a talk about how important it is to help those in need. I thought about students who were so sure that their talk was very important, hurrying, maybe worrying that they were not properly prepared to talk about love, and your fellow man. I thought about how theology really isn’t all that important unless it touches our hearts, unless it really changes us. And more often than anything, I remembered that the sermon is not nearly as important as the person you walk past on the way to the church service.
The researchers gave the students a brief questionnaire about why they chose to attend seminary. Was their interest in theology merely academic, or did they intend to use their education to make other people’s lives better? It turned out that it did not make any difference: the academics stopped to help just as often as the altruists. The researchers also wondered if it would make any difference if the students were asked to speak about the parable of the Good Samaritan as opposed to some other parable. They found that that did not make any difference either: the people who were on their way to speak about the Good Samaritan were no more likely to stop to offer help. In fact, the experiment showed that the only factor that made a difference was the student’s schedule. “The only thing that really mattered was whether the student was in a rush. Of the group that was, 10 percent stopped to help. Of the group who knew they had a few minutes to spare, 63 percent stopped.” (The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell, p. 165)
I thought about this a lot, about theologians rushing past an injured man to give a talk about how important it is to help those in need. I thought about students who were so sure that their talk was very important, hurrying, maybe worrying that they were not properly prepared to talk about love, and your fellow man. I thought about how theology really isn’t all that important unless it touches our hearts, unless it really changes us. And more often than anything, I remembered that the sermon is not nearly as important as the person you walk past on the way to the church service.
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