Us or Them: Thursday Week 2 of Advent

Let anyone with ears listen! —Matthew 11:15

It's natural to see the world through the lens of our tribe. 

We are right. 

They are wrong. 

And behind these lenses, we can hear a verse like Matthew 11:5 and assume that Jesus is talking to them: The Democrats, the Republicans, the Muslims, the Atheists, the LGBTQ community, the Catholics, the Protestants, Fox News, Calvinists, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, your crazy Aunt Sue, Social Justice Warriors, Feminists...

But in Matthew 11, Jesus is speaking to the crowd. A crowd, we should assume, we belong to. Do we have ears to listen? Are we wise enough to open our minds to a world without labels and categories? 

Paul tells us "There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus."

The coming of Christ in our consciousness should give us a renewed mind that breaks down categories and labels, tearing to shreds the very notion that there is even a system consisting of "us or them." There is no longer anyone other; there is only us. 

May we learn that labels and categories are often used to oppress the powerless. May we end the destructive nature of our dualistic thinking. May we see our brother or sister when we look into the face of our enemies and bring the refreshing gift of Christ to all we encounter, letting each person know that they are loved by the Divine. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 41:13–20

Matthew 11:11–15

America's Hard and Heavy Yoke: Wednesday Week 2 of Advent

We have created a pseudo-happiness, largely based in having instead of being. We are so overstimulated that the ordinary no longer delights us. We cannot rest or abide in our naked being in God, as Jesus offers us.

-Richard Rohr

Last spring, Tarrant County College offered me a full-time job. I took it. The transition to teaching college from high school has been refreshing, to say the least. If you find any public educator that works with K-12 students, buy them a coffee (and maybe something stronger) and ask them about their job. You may find yourself in an endless vortex of acronyms and despair (and rarely are their complaints about students. It's almost always attached to unrealistic expectations and unsupportive policies). I was fortunate enough to have great high school students and a supportive administration, but even then, the job can feel like you're drowning in responsibilities and pointless programs while politicians with $3,000 suits throw TPS reports at you from their windowed corner offices, claiming teachers are the problem. 

One the frustrating things with K-12 education is that there isn't an opportunity to move up the ranks unless you want to go into administration, which, if you know me, wouldn't be a good fit.* This was one of the primary factors that attracted me to teaching college.

When I started at TCC, I found myself situated in the midst of brilliant, articulate people, feeling under-qualified. Not only that, but the college provided an outlet to satisfy my ambition to "move up" with rank and tenure. I spiraled into a frenzy, looking into Ph.D. programs, looking for groups to join in order to expand and polish my resume, anything that could put me on level playing ground with my colleagues. Nevermind that I had only been working at TCC for a couple of months, have two kids, and great coworkers who hadn't done or said a thing to make me feel this way. It didn't matter. Now was not the time to rest; it was time to go, to work, to ascend! 

It's so funny writing a story like this because everyone knows the outcome: You crash and realize you can't do it. You get overwhelmed and exhausted. I always think about that line Bilbo has in Lord of the Rings: “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” I ignored my wife who kept trying to ground me in reality: my new job, my healthy kids, time to enjoy my hobbies, the lack of stress from my old job. I ignored her and became a human doing instead of a human being. 

But Christ offers an alternative, a way of escaping the bustle of America's hard and heavy yoke: 

"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."

May we realize that taking the yoke of Jesus's teaching brings us to a place of rest and contentment. May we learn to end the American striving for our constant economic ascent and savor the small beauties that surround us every day. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 40:25–31

Matthew 11:28–30

*Here's how my interaction with a student would go: 

Principal me: Stephanie, Did you throw your fidget spinner at Billy's head?

Student: Yes. 

Principal me: Why? 

Student: I had to take care of my mom when she came home drunk last night. I didn't get any sleep, and I just got mad. 

Principal me: ***tears*** Oh, my gosh. It's all going to be ok. Let me pay for you to stay in a hotel. Do you need a ride? I'll talk to Billy and pay his medical bills. Everything will be alright. ***tears***

A Wise Wife and a Husband with Too Many Words: Tuesday Week 2 of Advent

It is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost. 

—Matthew 18:14

I love books. Books on religion. 

Philosophy. 

Language. 

Novels. 

Psychology. 

Science. 

You name it. 

In the process of all the reading, I get wrapped up in my comfy robe of words, making everything abstract, sophisticated, and theological. In the past couple of years, I've gone through a monumental deconstruction of my faith where I realized I padded my true thoughts and feelings with Bible verses and a vast library of theologians--something my wife never had much interest in. 

She always spoke of a loving God who surpassed everything we could know or fathom. I remember reading an author (who shall remain nameless) and talking to Taylor about how the "road was narrow"--how we would be surprised by how few people would be in heaven. 

Tay is an incredibly compassionate person. She listens like a sponge; there are few things that shock her. When I said this, her face contorted like I'd punched her. She said, 

"I think we'll be surprised by how many people are with us in heaven." 

I wanted desperately to believe her. But I could hear all of those red-faced, white, German, male theologians firing arguments in opposition. I'm sure I said something to argue back, but I don't remember. There was something in her words that struck me deep--like they were laced with the very Spirit of God. 

In hindsight, I think that conversation was one of the first dominoes to fall in the collapse of my old faith. It led to a painful, sometimes excruciating release of values I thought was important to me. But my faith resurrected into a more loving and open view of God, where I can read a verse like Matthew 8:14 and see the deep longings of the Divine and feel the hum of reverence tremble through me, untainted by the endless train of words and ideas meant to illuminate the reality of God, but too often, muddy the truth. 

May we remember that your coming was, is, and will be an act of love where you unite with your children. May we understand that words are just tools--metaphors and systems--a ladder to climb toward your Holy Presence. May we never exalt the words, but only the one the words speak of. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

p.s. I know I teach English and ended a sentence with a preposition. It's something you need to deal with. 

Isaiah 40:1–11

Matthew 18:12–14

Here are the lyrics of a song by John Mark McMillan called "Death in Reverse". Check it out if the lyrics speak to you and know that if you have a vision or idea of God that isn't working for you any longer, it's ok to change and evolve. People have been doing in for thousands of years. 

You descend upon me like a rolling stone

Like black swan raging on for all that I know

You know it unnerves me when I lose control

And I'm, all out of options

And I'm, out of my head

Then I build my life around

Someone who I thought that I was

But it turns out

All the things I do to feel young

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death in reverse

You unearth me like a vein of gold

With the powers that drive up the flowers from the fold

You cast me, uncursed, unearth my body and my soul

Like fire from my ashes, like fire from my coals

And I build my life around

Someone who I thought that I was

But it turns out

All the things I do to feel young

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death

You love me like death

You love me like death in reverse

And all my life I've been

Fighting for a place I could thrive

But it turns out

All the things I do to survive

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death

You love me like death

You love me like death in reverse

Christ and The Headlines: Monday Week 2 of Advent

There isn't a day that goes by where we don't see a headline (or tweet) that sends us into a sense of

moral outrage. I was talking with some friends the other day about how I'm addicted to twitter because I savor seeing an article that makes me want to rip my shirt apart in a Hulkamania fury. The anger, I think can be good. But my disgruntled and resigned posture is not. But it's difficult to know how to respond when we see:

"59 Die in Las Vegas Attack"

"Act of Evil in San Antonio"

"White Nationalists March on University of Virgina" 

"Weinstein Paid off Harassment Cases for Years" 

The darkness is here. It takes the form of rampant xenophobia, racism, the class divide, mass shootings, and misogyny. Our pressing work, then, is to not to run from the darkness. Richard Rohr says, "Our Christian wisdom is to name the darkness as darkness, and the Light as light, and to learn how to live and work in the Light so that the darkness does not overcome us." We must resist and expose the darkness with the light of Christ. 

Banning a group of people from entering our nation because of their religion is darkness. 

Police brutality and our corrupt prison systems are darkness.

Wealth inequality is darkness. 

Violence is darkness. 

"Sexual misconduct" is darkness. 

May we not let our political affiliations or the tendency to throw up our hands in resignation keep us from understanding we live in a world of darkness. May we have the wisdom to bring light to where it isn't. Let "The wilderness and the dry land... be glad, the desert... rejoice and blossom," as we bring Christ to the desert. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 35:1–10

Luke 5:17–26

Christ and Caesar: Sunday Week 2 of Advent

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, "See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the Way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" 

-Mark 1:1-3

In the context of the Roman Empire, Mark's audience would have understood "the good news of Jesus Christ, the anointed king of Israel," as a subversive claim against what was called "the gospel" or good news of Caesar, also called the "Savior" who brought peace to the world. Giving Jesus titles like this makes the opening passage of Mark's gospel something political, controversial, and revolutionary, a declaration that those who follow this new savior have chosen to turn their backs on the rule and authority of the old king: Caesar. 

For us who choose to follow Christ, this means a new savior has come who hears our voices crying in the wilderness. He is a God who has begun the new exodus in or hearts, liberating us from the prison of sin and performance. But to enjoy the Good News or Gospel, we have to let go of the other lords who want to claim the seat of our hearts. We must rip out our allegiances to the Republican party, the Democrat party, our country, or any other system that serves as the cornerstone of our identity.

May we see the Good News: God has liberated us from a system of points. The Divine doesn't judge us by our good and bad deeds like some cosmic scale in the heavens. This gospel and our loyalty to it surpasses all forms of political empire or nationalism in its ability to bring life, peace, and joy. You are with us, have been with us, and will be with us. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Compassion for the Oppressed: Saturday Week 1 of Advent

"When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest it plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers..."

Matthew 9:36-38

I've got respect for street-corner preachers. I can't imagine how uncomfortable it is to confront people time and time again about an issue that is, to say the least, sensitive.  Sometimes, there's just something admirable about a belief becoming visible.

For me, the issue lies within the focus of the ministry. When I read Matthew 9, I see Jesus filled with compassion when he sees the harassed and helpless, the sick and needy, the ones who need a shepherd to lead them to greener pastures. What's profound to me is Jesus's response to those around him: he treats their physical needs. He tells the twelve that the kingdom is near, which means they are to cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, cast out demons--the work that reveals the kingdom is at hand, not just an ethereal destination in the distant future.  

The kingdom in these verses isn't about a transaction that stamps someone's passport into heaven or an impassioned plea to turn or burn. It's about seeing those who are in need, standing up for those who suffer beneath the boot of poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia--anything that transforms another human into "the other"--an unspoken label that keeps the poor, the LGBTQ community, people of color, Muslims, and immigrants neatly tucked away behind the blinding walls of our privilege, where we neither have to see nor deal with their oppression.

May we assume our place in the body of the cosmic Christ, see as Jesus does, be moved to compassion for "the other," and meet the needs of the sheep here and now.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Isaiah 30:19-21, 23-26
Matthew 9:35-10:1, 5a, 6-8

The Solar System of Life: Friday Week 1 of Advent

There is a sense in which Christ is already "come." Jesus taught that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand"; it's here now. But why don't we see it? Why don't we experience the reign of Christ today? Why is it always a lofty, golden future that shows up after we've tucked ourselves behind our desks in a fluorescent-lit cubicle for seventy years? 

I think it's because we invite other kingdoms into our lives that reign with a sense of jealousy: the god of a new house, a better job, political ideals, a promotion. Whatever it is we worship with our behaviors and minds becomes the sun of our own unique solar system. Each aspect of our complicated existence: a spouse, job, kids, hobbies, finances--they all revolve around the god we've chosen to enthrone. 

When the centerpiece isn't the Divine, the gravity that keeps our life in proper alignment is wonky. Balance is gone and we spend the finite currency of our days chasing things and ideas that lead us to crippling anxiety and profound discontentment.  This is what it feels like when the Kingdom of God is not present--when Christ isn't come. A small disclaimer: orienting our lives around the Kingdom of God isn't a promise of receiving everything we want, but a renewed mind that can approach life with a sense of contentment, peace, and love--a state of being where we can savor the rule of a coming and already present Christ as life stays balanced in its proper orbit. 

May we learn to see out of the gloom and darkness--that our blind eyes would see the eternal life Christ offers is both to come and already present.

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 29:17-24

Matthew 9:27-31

Jesus and the Refugee at the Well: Thursday Week 1 of Advent

Advent is the season for God's people to cry "Come!"--the very bedrock of how Jesus taught us to pray: "Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." I think this means to bring glimpses of heaven to earth: helping the least of these, fighting for those who struggle beneath the boot of oppression, easing the crushing weight of poverty. 

Jesus demonstrated the ushering in of this Kingdom by committing political suicide over and over again. In John 4, Jesus takes time to minister to the Samaritan woman at the well. Verse 9 says "Jews (like Jesus) do not share things... with Samaritans." Verse 27 also highlights another controversial aspect of the conversation: Jesus takes time to speak with a Samaritan woman, compounding the taboos to what would have been a fevered pitch to Jewish audiences. This woman was at the intersection of two oppressive barriers: racial bigotry and sexism, making her the epitome of a marginalized character. 

As shocking as it might seem, I think it might be more poignant in 2017 America if we imagine that Christ took time to be with a transgendered black refugee. Such a person would, like the Samaritan woman at the well, experience the suffocating burden of a nation's judgment day in and out, feeling out of place, broken, pushed aside. Jesus, however, was determined to make God's Kingdom come, humanizing society's most "untouchable" people by acknowledging their presence in a nation that would rather turn a blind eye, despite the political and religious biases of his own tribe. 

God, may we build our house of faith upon the bedrock of your words, trusting that a deep longing for the arrival of this wild, upside-down kingdom of yours, which lays low the lofty city and loves the marginalized, is a true mark of Your reign in our hearts.  

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 21:1-6

Matthew 7:21, 24-27

The Feast of Christ: Wednesday Week 1 of Advent

Too frequently, I think of the arrival of Jesus as a cosmic event that proves my profound rightness. As if all the thoughts and fist-shaking arguments that play out during my articulate diatribes while I marinate in a hot shower will suddenly become embodied in a war-like savior that tells off my boss for making me work overtime, a coworker for never cleaning the hardened cheese out the microwave, or a crazy cousin I see once a year with political ideas that make my blood boil. The coming of Jesus, in this form, is about stewing in this poisonous broth, transforming us into a person of hatred instead of the Body of Christ that ushers in the acceptance and love of God.  

But the table is already set for a feast. A feast of rich food and well-aged wines, where God will destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations, wiping away the tears from our faces. With the shroud gone, we can see our boss as Melanie, our coworker as David, our cousin as Stephanie. They are no longer the object of our wrath and frustration, but people who Christ welcomes to His Holy Mountain. But we, like the disciples in Matthew 15, must become the participants in this transformation. The hungry are present, the food is multiplied, and the Christ turns to us to “feed his sheep.” 

God, may the radical inclusiveness of your Holy Mountain burn brightly within us as we strive not only to stay awake for your coming but to provoke your arrival in the world around us, offering the loaves and fish of our hearts and bodies. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 25:6–10a

Matthew 15:29–37

For the record at this point in life, I have awesome bosses and coworkers, and I don’t have any cousins with wacko political ideas that drive me crazy. No feelings were hurt in the process or publishing of this blog. 

Christ and History: Tuesday Week 1 of Advent

"The celebration of Christmas is not a sentimental waiting for a baby to be born, but much more an asking for history to be born!"

-Richard Rohr

In America, we are often driven by a sense of improvement, which can be great. We work hard and build careers and lives that make us beam with pride—great sterling edifices that prove our innovation and accomplishment. The problem, though, lies in how we place ourselves, in the midst of our towers of accomplishment, as the protagonist of the entire human narrative, whether we would acknowledge such an idea or not. Consequently, Christmas and the arrival of the Christ becomes distorted: Our focus on the self drives us to interpret the arrival of Christ, through the lens of our own bias and personal history. We see the birth of the Christ child solely as an event that has affected ME: MY salvation, MY liberation, or MY improved sense of community and belonging. 

But the coming of Christ, the root of Jesse, is an event the Body of Christ must strive to enact daily. We must work to bend the arc of history toward it’s destination of justice, creating a world where “the wolf shall live with the lamb,” the leopard with the kid, calf with lion, cow with bear, lion with ox. The coming of Christ is a sweeping movement in history that invites the people of God to cooperate and participate in the work of the Divine, loving all we encounter, especially the “least of these.” The Christ is the focus, the protagonist, the narrator, and we are swept into the folds of HIS story of beauty and reconciliation. 

Come, Lord Jesus.     

Isaiah 11:1–10

Luke 10:21–24

A Threenager and a Warm Cup of Milk: Monday Week 1 of Advent

Every morning, my daughter, Molly, asks me for a cup of milk. Sometimes I think back to the day before and remember her acute threenagery. Teeth brushing temper tantrums, the insistence that picking up the My Little Ponies littered over every inch of our cheerio-encrusted carpet is an excruciating form of injustice, screaming at her 1-year-old brother for having the audacity of handling and throwing her Barbies with impunity, and her utter refusal to put anything green and leafy within a two-foot radius of her mouth. I recall this behavior as I hand her a cup of milk in her My Little Pony cup, heated to just the right temperature (warm, not hot) and give her a kiss on top of her silky, brown hair—it smells just like her mom’s.

What I love about Molly is that she doesn’t let a sense of worth interfere with how she lives. She expects and knows she will get a cup of milk, not because she has earned it. In fact, she has behaved in a way that would restrict a gift if I was in the business calculating her behavior on a system of points. I give her a cup of milk not because of what she has done, but because of who she is.

May we see that God is not in the business of points. May we understand that like the centurion, our unworthiness does not inhibit our ability “to speak the word,” asking God for a warm (not hot) cup of milk. Our gifts from God are not bestowed within a system of merit, but within our inescapable identity as a child of God—making us of infinite worth. May our striving to earn God cease so that our warring for approval would transform into a fertile landscape of peace and contentment.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

Isaiah 2:1–5

Matthew 8:5–11

First Sunday of Advent

"The theological virtue of hope is the patient and trustful willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and even happy because our Satisfaction is now at another level, and our Source is beyond ourselves."

-Rohr, Richard

In the past, the expectation of Christ’s coming felt like a fearful event, like the horror you’d feel watching an rated R movie as a kid and hearing the metallic whir of the garage door sliding ajar. It was a way of promoting correct behavior—a Santa Clause eschatology that demanded goodness: “Make sure you’re doing X, so you don’t get Y when Jesus gets here.” I remember times in high school feeling shame for playing poker (in the church youth room) because I thought Jesus would be angry if he came back watching me go all in on the same pool table where I led a Bible study once a week. But Paul speaks of a different kind of waiting: an eager expectation of the return of a person we long to see, a stage of waiting that is “enriched” in every way, where we are not “lacking,” and where we are considered “blameless.” Instead of dreading the return of an angry father, we rush to embrace the adoring mother who has been gone on business.

The application, then, is to seek any sign of this parent’s homecoming, a vigilant investigation into the movement and revelation of Christ in the mundane—searching for His presence in the voice of a daughter, in the simplicity of washing dishes, in the smile of a spouse, in the crisp December air. When we lose the hope of the Christ moving in our lives, we have fallen asleep. Our hearts harden, and we forget to call God’s name as we fade away like a leaf on the wind, feeling as though God’s face is hidden from us.

Instead, God, may we seek you in eager expectation every day, longing for your return today, tomorrow, and the next.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen. 

Isaiah 63:16-17;19

Isaiah 64:2–7

1 Corinthians 1:3–9

Mark 13:33–37