Stop Being Sorry

A month ago, just as I took a temporary, unplanned break from blogging, I scribbled down this question: “Must we be sorry forever?”

Psalm 38:20 was part of my reading, that day:

“Those who render me evil for good are my adversaries because I follow after good…” (NRSV).

Friends, this is not a claim that I have it all together.  Have you read me? But in fairness, I do think we need to come to pivotal moments in life when enough is enough.  What do we think redemption is, anyway?

Fast forward to today…

God doesn’t stay angry. 

This seems like a strange thing to say, in more ways than one.  I struggle with the image of an angry God, and I think even our Scriptures paint God in a certain light precisely because of antiquated theology that was appropriate for the cultural context of the time and place in which Scripture was penned.  This doesn’t make it any less true, but it does cause me to pause and seek the point of the words more sincerely than the words, themselves. 

Psalm 30:5 seemed helpful to me, today:

“For his anger is but for a moment; his favor is for a lifetime.  Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (NRSV).

OK.  I can live with that.  We all can literally live with that.  These words are God breathing fresh life into broken stuff… into broken us.  I don’t really know how angry God gets, but I suppose if there is anyone who has a right to be angry, it’s God.  And I guess I have to think that God does get angry about injustices and suffering and evil in the world that brings pain, but I also have to be careful not to make God into me.  I have to be so careful.

This moment, though, has me considering what it is to accept that God might get angry but to also allow for a scenario in which God’s anger dissipates.  It is most difficult when I think God is angry with me.  It is most difficult when I think God has reason to be angry with me.  It is helpful to know that even if that line of thinking pans out (and I actually don’t know whether or not it does), it’s not permanent. 

Ezekiel 39:28-29 is telling.  After the author details the ways in which God has been angry with Israel… with God’s own people…  After the author details the ways in which God has abandoned God’s people…  We get these words:

“…I will leave none of them behind; I will never again hide my face from them, when I pour out my spirit…” (NRSV).

This…  Oh, friends… this…

It’s the answer to my question.

Must we be sorry?

Yes—personally, communally, systemically; we must be sorry.

Must we be sorry forever?

Well, maybe still yes, but that doesn’t mean we must be overwhelmed with guilt or shame.  God is done with that!  We, also, need to be done with it.

Today, as people greatly forgiven, may we offer mercy.  May we choose not to hide our faces, but to accept forgiveness and to launch ourselves into the center of the hurting in order to bring healing, not because we need to be continually apologetic but because we have chosen now to follow good… to be the examples of love in our homes, in our communities, and around the globe. 

Let’s stop just being sorry and start being salvific.  This is what confession looks like.

L.

God Who Tastes

There’s a reason I saved this one for last.  I have never, ever heard anyone preach, teach, or even speak about the God who tastes.  In some way, I think it’s too difficult around which to wrap our minds.  We can wax metaphorical about sight, sound, and touch.  Admittedly, smell was a little more difficult.  But taste is so completely human.  It’s hard to create a sense of spirituality around something so common…

Interestingly, though, if we’re going to embrace the trinity, where Jesus is certainly one of the three; we might have more evidence of a tasting God than any other sense.  How often do we find Jesus around the table?  A lot…

Jesus eats with tax collectors and sinners (see Mark 2).

Jesus presumably eats with his good friends: Martha, Mary, and Lazarus (see Luke 10) and a random guy he finds in a tree (see Luke 19).

Jesus feeds hoards of people with almost nothing… twice… (see Matthew 14 and 15).

The last thing Jesus does with his twelve disciples is to share the first Eucharistic meal (see Matthew 26), and then he becomes the Eucharistic meal… which is fascinating, since he also teaches that we are something of a food additive… salt of the earth (see Matthew 5).

Peter writes that we can actually taste the goodness of the Lord (see I Peter 2).

Jeremiah suggests that we can eat God’s words (see Jeremiah 15), and the author of Hebrews backs it up (see Hebrews 6).  Ezekiel takes it literally (see Ezekiel 3).

Why don’t we ever speak plainly about the God who tastes and… related… the God we can eat?  I’m not sure.  Maybe it’s because we’re afraid of the same repercussions that Jesus faced in John 6 or that the Catholic Church faced in light of a misunderstanding regarding cannibalism!  Seriously… I have no idea!

But clearly, in this search for holistic spirituality that encompasses physical sense as well as mind and spirit, taste is not to be excluded.

Gathering to eat together is one of the most vulnerable, intimate things we can do.  This past week, I learned that there has been a recent study regarding the impact that eating the same foods, with others, has on our relationship and interactions.  One observation from this study was, “Food is about bringing something into the body. And to eat the same food suggests that we are both willing to bring the same thing into our bodies. People just feel closer to people who are eating the same food as they do. And then trust, cooperation, these are just consequences of feeling close to someone” (read the whole article, here).  It’s incredible!  I wonder how we might cooperate more quickly, efficiently, and effectively if we were all eating Jesus!

L.

Crisis Moments Pass, but Sometimes it Stinks

Dry bones are not in crisis, but they probably were at one time or another.  I mean—they’re dead.  They’ve been dead for a long time.  Something happened that sucked the life out of them.  And then time passed.  After the breath ceased, the flesh and tendons melted away.    

By all accounts, a dead Lazarus should have been headed down the road of dry bones.  Bodies start decomposing fairly quickly after death…  OK, immediately.  Bodies start decomposing immediately.  My Google history is actually pretty disturbing, right now, but I needed to wrap my mind around this. 

When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days.  I think we have to assume that Lazarus’ body was not embalmed (although there were some ancient embalming possibilities).  If that assumption is correct, Lazarus’ internal organs had likely decomposed by the time Jesus arrived.  Blood and foam would have been leaking from his mouth and nose.  Bacteria would have been rampant.  And there were probably maggots.  Martha was definitely not wrong when she verified exactly what Jesus was asking and made sure to give him the information he needed. 

Roll the stone away, Lord?  It’s been four days!  This stinks!  (John 11:39, really, really paraphrased).

But Jesus—you know, Jesus who was four days late—is all like, “You know what, Martha, just trust me.  Just do it.” (I can’t even stretch that for a paraphrase.  I hope nobody gets all over me for taking creative license with Scripture.)

And the thing that blows my mind here is that control freak, clean freak Martha must agree; because the next thing you know, they’re rolling the stone away.  And Lazarus—very dead, partially decomposed Lazarus—walks out.

I wonder what the process looked like.  Perhaps Ezekiel gives us a clue in the passage about the dry bones prophesy.  Like the Israelites, Martha and Mary might have cried out, “Our (his) bones are dried up and our hope is gone” (Ezekiel 37:11, NIV). 

How many times have I said something similar in less dire circumstances?  (But it stinks!  It’s too late!  This cannot be fixed!)

Yet, once the bones have been reconnected with the proper tissue, the Lord says, “I will put my Spirit in you and you will live” (Ezekiel 37:14).

Well, OK then…

If there’s life after death—after decomposition—then I have to believe there is also life after frustration… after disappointment… after crisis…

 
L.