The Spirit makes me uncomfortable?

I wrote the following in the summer of2020 (and posted on the Campus Edge ministry blog). As we are looking at 1 Peter as part of our study at Graduate Christian Fellowship, I thought it might be helpful to post it again: 

As we were reading 1 Peter 2 and 3 this past week at study, a student noted that the text made her uncomfortable. As the text was talking about slavery, women, and submission, it was easy for me to understand why she felt uncomfortable. As we noted in our study on Colossians a number of years ago, too often those of us who’ve grown up in the church have seen how submission has been used to validate abuse, or, at the least, make women second-class citizens.

It would be easy thus to dismiss this text as no longer being culturally relevant to today. Yet, to do so would be to lose an opportunity for the Holy Spirit to work to challenge what assumptions we might bring to the text, whether that be errors in our own perception or unhealthy assumptions that we have learned from church/Christian culture and/or society at large.

For instance, the dominant voices of our society invite and encourage us to put me first and not let anyone hold us back from unleashing our inner potential. Might our discomfort with the word submission be because such a narrative of me first leaves little space or validation for submission of any sort? What picture of God’s love might we show when we actively choose to let go of some of our own personal wants and desires for the good of others?

Yet, might our discomfort with the word submission be a misunderstanding of the word submission? Might our submission be less of a diminishing of self and more of a living more fully into who God has called us to be, including through challenging systems of oppression, as Walsh and Keesmaat propose in their book, Colossians Remixed?

While dismissing the text might be the easiest way to get rid of the discomfort brought by the text, it is worthwhile to sit awhile with the text and acknowledge that discomfort. Through consulting wise teachers and allowing the Spirit to work (sometimes also through our peers), God can use our discomfort to help us grow in wisdom about the biblical text and ourselves.

Reading Ezekiel 16 and 23 in the Red Light District

A variation of the following was published in Global perspectives on the Old Testament (2014), edited by Mark Roncace.

Calling someone a prostitute is generally considered a great insult. In Ezekiel 16 and 23, however, Jerusalem is called more than a whore: she is considered to be worse than a prostitute as she scorns payments and bribes her lovers to come to her. Furthermore, the descriptions of her prostituting would make many readers blush. The prostitution of Jerusalem is clearly shown in the text to be a metaphor for Jerusalem’s chasing after other gods, but that hardly abates the prostitution motif. The question asked here is whether a fuller understanding of prostitution as a social phenomenon affects how the reader understands these texts.

When I moved to the Red Light District in Amsterdam a number of years ago, I was immediately confronted with women behind the windows who were selling sex. Wanting to know and understand these new neighbors of mine, I read studies on prostitution, read prostitutes’ own stories, and even had short conversations with the women as I helped bring coffee with the Salvation Army. I also tried to see my neighbors: from the skinny young blond model type to the Eastern European with limited Dutch knowledge to the grandmotherly types who seemed like they’d be more at home entertaining in the kitchen. It soon became clear to me that prostitution is complicated, just like the text of Ezekiel.

Based on its use in Ezekiel 16 and 23 it would appear that to act as a prostitute is unambiguously wrong and deserving of punishment, even death (cf. also Deuteronomy 22:21). However, the stories of prostitutes named in the Bible paint a different picture: Tamar was declared righteous (Genesis 38), Rahab was the only one rescued from Jericho (Joshua 6), and Gomer was bought back as Hosea’s wife (Hosea 2:5). Prostitution in the Bible, then, like the phenomenon of prostitution in society, is not simply seen as all bad.

Those working behind the windows in Amsterdam perceive their prostituting themselves in various ways: a necessary evil, an interesting and even enjoyable job, or one’s worst nightmare come true. For some, prostitution is seen as the only option (whether by force or general circumstances) and for others, prostitution is hardly their only option but the one they still choose because of the opportunities it presents. The description of Jerusalem and Samaria in Ezekiel 16 and 23 falls into this latter category, what is sometimes referred to as the “happy hooker.” In such an understanding of prostitution, the person is so infatuated with sex that prostitution would be considered the “ideal” and he/she could not imagine doing or wanting anything else. Jerusalem fits this category through her longing after foreign men, bribing them to come to her. Yet, describing Jerusalem as happy in her prostitution is going too far: she is constantly thirsting for more and despises the men after she has been defiled by them. The judgment depicted in the text—that of being stripped bare and stoned—further clarifies that, irrelevant of any claims made about Jerusalem’s willful intention in prostituting herself, she experiences too many “bad tricks” for her to be described as a happy hooker.

The other extreme is to see the prostitute as being inherently a victim—no one could willingly choose to have one’s body used by so many different men. Human trafficking, pimps, and loverboys have most likely forced and sometimes brainwashed the women into selling their bodies. Abuse, lack of self-worth, political unrest, addictions, and/or a love of money push women into prostitution. Seen in this way, Jerusalem and Samaria would be understood as having been brainwashed by these other gods: these are loverboys who had promised her their love, but ultimately just abused her and pushed her into turning to even more gods. This understanding clearly shows Jerusalem’s need to be rescued by God; yet, it seems difficult not to hold Jerusalem responsible, since her blatant guilt is one of the main points of these chapters.

Very few prostitutes fall into either extreme: For many, prostitution is seen as a means to an end. While few of them would consider prostitution an ideal job, they have made some choice in either becoming or staying prostitutes, even if leaving is exceptionally difficult. Few would argue that prostitution is healthy or good for them; it is harmful for their body, it messes with one’s emotions, and it is often demeaning. Yet, few are rushing to leave the life: the money is too good, the other options are lousy, and this is the life they know. It is in this context—the complicated reality of prostitution—that one can better understand Ezekiel 16 and 23. As despicable as the description of her actions is, Jerusalem cannot be simply despised and dismissed as a deviant woman. Rather, she is a complex character in a messy and complicated world, much like each of us and much like the women in the Red Light District. To some degree, Jerusalem was lured into prostituting herself by the other gods, unaware of the dire consequences, and she became a victim of her own bad choices. The text depicting her story is intended to shock the reader; the shock is even greater when we realize that we are being asked to identify ourselves as the prostitute in the story, as people who also whore after other gods. This identification allows us to turn away from condemnation and toward hope for restoration for both Jerusalem and ourselves. Jerusalem and Samaria have been promised that their fortunes will be restored in order that they, and those who identify with them, might remember and be ashamed.

In the years that I have lived in the Red Light District, one specific topic of conversation stands out. Visiting the women with a cup of coffee often leads to simple conversations about the weather, business being bad, children, and house pets—fascinating conversations, but it is not always easy to sense that the regular visits serve any kind of pastoral function. Yet, when a person decides to leave the work, then no matter how short or mundane the conversations previously were, there is no holding back in sharing this good news. There is a great joy in finally leaving—not only having survived the physical and emotional dangers of the work, but also anticipating the start of a new and different life. It is that joy and wonder that is missing from these chapters in Ezekiel; that part of the restoration comes only later in the biblical narrative.

Prayer connected to Amos 9

The following prayer for a service on Amos 9 was written for Wine Before Breakfast in the fall. Along with allusions to Amos 9, it also contains allusions to Amos 7 and 8, as well as Psalm 139.

Gracious God,
You who control hurricanes and earthquakes, ,
Have power over the wind and the storm.

Where can we go from your presence?
‘Though we hide from your sight
at the bottom of the sea,
You will search us out.’

‘The wings of the morning
and the farthest limits of the sea’
Even there we cannot flee
from Your presence.

Such power is too wonderful for me.

How do we reconcile that no one
can hide from you?
None can hide
from the fierce love of a mother,
From the power that can leave a trail
like that of the wake of a hurricane.

Too often our images of You are incomplete:

We picture a loving friend-God
Who seems unaware of injustice,
Or an angry king-God,
Who seems bent on judgement.

How do we see the fullness of who You are?
How do we be honest about Your anger
and passion for justice,
while still resting in your grace?

We thus pray for the church
and how we proclaim who You are,
We lament especially how people have been harmed
when your image has been distorted
by proclaiming only one side of who you are.

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers for the church and for those you have been hurt by distorted images of God.]

All-powerful God,
‘You who build your upper chambers in the heavens,
and found your vault upon the earth;
You who call for the waters of the sea,
and pour them out upon the surface of the earth—
the Lord Almighty is your name.’

You punish those who turn their backs on justice,
who reject their identities as divine image-bearers;
You call for justice to flow down like waters.
So why then does injustice seem to thrive?

The poor are still bought for silver
and the needy for a pair of sandals.
So many goods are produced by those not earning a living wage.
The land is exploited,
a continuation of treaties that took advantage of others.

We lament the injustice in the world
and the suffering of those around us.

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers of lament for the suffering and injustices in the world].

God of all justice,
Protect us from your anger.
Fix your eyes on us for good
and not for harm.

We confess for how
we’ve participated in the wrong around us.
We’ve had a part in the fires raging in the world.
We have made it hard for others to breathe.

Distracted by social media and the news,
caught up in our work and worries.
Attracted to images of strength
instead of humility and truth.
We suffer a famine of ‘hearing the words of the LORD.’

[Silent, spoken, and written prayers of confession]

God of all hope,
May we see that you relent
not because of who we are
– and whether we are good enough -
But because of who you are.

Give us eyes to imagine a different story.
To see how your might
shapes a new world.

May we see how you care for all people.
That we, who are not the chosen people,
who were not the first people -
But instead are the Ethiopians,
the settlers and colonizers -
That you would care as much for us 
as for any other.

Recognizing the great gift of being included,
We lament all those who continue to be marginalized
and also give thanks for how you have included all of us.

[Silent, spoken, and written words of thanksgiving]

Gracious God,
Even as we long to hear
and speak words for restoration,
may we never stop mourning the suffering of the world.

May your presence inspire comfort and not fear.
May we look for how You are working in the world.
May we see justice rolling down like rivers.

Amen.

Jesus, wake up

The following is a sermon I preached earlier this month at Wine Before Breakfast.

These past few months I have deeply appreciated the lyrics of the song “Wake up Jesus” by The Porter's Gate. The song stood out to me at first because Jesus in the storm is one of my daughter’s favourite Jesus’ stories, but I have kept listening to it as the words have resonated with how I feel this season. When I look at the world around me – at the injustices we hear about and the suffering connected to covid-19 – I feel as lost as Jesus’ disciples on the raging sea. 

And I wonder, Jesus when are you going to wake up? Don’t you care that we’re drowning?

This song captures Advent, especially Advent this year. We are in the middle of a storm. Waves of anger and hurt crash over us. Polarization and frustration rain down us. The wind blowing over us carries the cries of the downtrodden. Our boat has been shaped by the systems of privilege that help some of us but do tremendous harm to others of us.

We’re sailing blind in the middle of that boat, not sure if we should jump out or hold on. We catch glimpses of the suffering around us: domestic abuse, gun violence, empty stomachs, discrimination. But we also realize how little we see when most of our attention is focused on our own feeble attempts at staying afloat.
 
Jesus, wake up. Gracious God, do something.
Come and heal this world.
Don’t you care that we’re drowning here?
Wake up already and calm this raging sea.
 
I find it easy to imagine the panic of the disciples in the storm, as it echoes my own sense of being overwhelmed.
 
When I tell this story to my small daughter, though, her reaction is not that of being overwhelmed. Jesus in the storm is really one of her favourite Jesus stories, and she interacts with and interprets the story with the enthusiasm – and wisdom – of a 3-year-old.
 
When I start talking about how the disciples are panicking because of the wind and the waves and the rain, and they start looking for Jesus to come fix things, I ask my daughter where Jesus is. And she enthusiastically replies that Jesus is sleeping. Perhaps her enthusiasm is because she recognizes the absurdity of the situation – that in the middle of the raging sea Jesus is sleeping.
 
But perhaps my daughter's answer is one of joy because she knows what comes next in the story. The disciples go to Jesus and tell him to Wake up. Jesus, Save us. Jesus, wake up. And sometimes my daughter lets me know that the disciples must have stolen Jesus’ blankets to help him wake up. And just like her Papa responds so well when you pull the blankets off him in the morning, Jesus must also have woken up. And when Jesus wakes up, he tells the wind, the waves, and the rain to stop. And they stop. And things are restored to the way they ought to be.

When I tell my daughter this story, I am struck by her complete and utter conviction of how things ought to be. Of course, Jesus will wake up. Of course, Jesus will fix things. Of course, Jesus can be asleep in the middle of chaos – because he sees and knows things that his disciples – and we – do not.

When I listen and read Mary’s song, I hear that same conviction. The words Mary speaks are the words of someone who knows how the story ought to end. Mary knows the stories of God redeeming the people of Israel. She knows that the Messiah’s coming will change everything. She knows that God will keep the promises made long ago to the people of Israel.

Because Mary knew these stories and knew she belonged to the Mighty God who does great things, she could sing this song, a song that was active resistance and fierce hope. Because as much as Mary’s song is a song of elation – of joy that the Messiah is coming and that she gets to play a part - it is also a song that is sung in a time when Mary’s words were not obvious – like us, Mary was living in a time when it wasn’t obvious how God was working.

As much as Mary knew the stories of how God had acted in the past, she and her people were living in a time when God seemed silent. The great stories of Elijah and Hana were from the distant past. Despite the fiery message of the prophets, the people had gone into exile. While some returned, as the books of Ezra and Nehemiah tells us, it was only a small remnant. And after that came the Greeks, and then the Romans. Even Judas Maccabeus, who had looked like he might be able to rescue the Jewish people, was more than a hundred years in the past.

Mary’s song is more powerful because of the context in which it is sung. She is singing out of the conviction of who God has been to the people of Israel and out of trust in the promises that God has made – and not primarily out of her current situation as a young woman whose people had not been free for centuries.

Furthermore, Mary sings this song even though she does not yet know what will happen in her own future – she does not know if she will be rejected by Joseph and forced to raise her child alone, if she even survives childbirth. She didn’t yet know that Jesus would reject her one day or that she would witness the world’s rejection of him with his death on the cross. She did not know what would happen and yet, because of who she knew God to be – the Mighty One who does great things - because of this she declared that all people would one day call her blessed.

It is one thing to sing this song of joy when all is well. It is another thing to sing these words about God’s mercy from generation to generation, words of how God has shown strength and scattered the proud – when you were still waiting for those to happen in your own life. Mary expected Jesus to be the answer. And he was and is, but perhaps not exactly the way Mary or even we expect.

Because of Jesus, the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. (Matthew 11). Because of Jesus everything has changed. But the changes are not always how we want them to be. Jesus didn’t come as king into Jerusalem and conquer the Romans. Instead, his love and power were shown by his laying his life down. Even Mary’s song invites us into this revolutionary way of power and love – letting go of our own power, riches, and privilege so that we might be part of what Jesus started – a kingdom where all are welcomed, the silenced are given voices, the loud are invited to listen, and all have enough.

Because of Jesus’ life and the Spirit’s working in this world for hundreds of years, we now know more than Mary did about how the Mighty God has done great things for all people. At the same time, we, like Mary, haven’t lived to the end of the story yet. We often feel like we are still in the middle of the storm waiting for Jesus to wake up, waiting for God to come and heal us and this world.

In Advent, we name the difficulty of living in the middle of the storm, living in the middle of the story. As we celebrate Christmas, especially when we long for things to be different, we need to be reminded of the whole story – and that we, like Mary, can be certain of how the story ends. Mary’s song of active resistance and fierce hope is a reminder to us of how God has worked in the world and will continue to do so.

By singing this song with her, we can find hope when all seems hopeless, courage enough to keep fighting the waves of injustice and despair around us, and strength to turn to each other and Jesus when the storm overwhelms us.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This has been cross-posted at the CRC campus ministry website

2 Kings 5 - when God shows up

The following is a sermon preached at Campus Chapel in Ann Arbor on August 25. The sermon is less exegetical and more of an interaction with the text of 2 Kings 5. It started with a rumination on 2 Kings 5:13 (“But his servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?””) and then moved gradually into exploring how God enters into our lives.

If we were asked to do something hard,

I think most of us would do it with conviction.

Especially if it meant saving someone’s life.

Yet, when this all started back in March,

we were asked to wash our hands umpteen times a day.

Singing a song so we would wash long enough.

And then we were told to stay home to stay safe.

Where are the heroics in that?

It seemed so little.

And even almost cowardly.

As if we were afraid of illness and death.

 

At first, it seemed so little,

And so I didn’t understand why I chafed,

Why was I protesting so strongly?

Why do I want to turn away in anger, like Naaman in 2 Kings 5?

If I had been commanded something difficult,

would I not have done it?

How much more then, when only this little is being asked of me?

Wash, be clean, keep others clean.

 

And then the protests started.

Protesting masks. Protesting injustice.

And I understood that the words, wash and be clean.

Actually meant so much more:

Wash away your ideas of control

Let go of your life as it used to be.

 

For Naaman, the command was an invitation.

Humble yourself,

wash yourself in the river of this other country,

follow the strange commands of this prophet and his God.

Let go of your life as it used to be.

Recognize that all your best efforts cannot save you.

God alone does the impossible.

 

And we, we are invited to wash our hands,

Let go of our plans.

Recognize how little control we have over the future.

Deny ourselves

Trusting that God can use our small efforts to save lives.

 

Be baptized by the water

That washed away our sins

And also washes away our good desires

That sometimes grow

As unhealthy as the disease that covered Naaman’s skin.

 

Naaman returns to the prophet healed.

Deeply thankful,

ready to make a great sacrifice.

Except he is not allowed to pay for the gift he received.

A reminder again

that no matter how mighty we are

God does not need our help.

 

But instead God invites us to keep asking.

On top of the healing,

Naaman asks for dirt.

Something to take with him

So that he can serve the God of Israel

While not needing to give up everything in his life.

An ancient prototype of technology, you could say

Allowing Naaman to remain with those he cared about.

While continuing to be reminded of God’s gift

And so live in thankfulness for the gift he received.

Our gifts today are internet and zoom,

Social distancing and masks,

Keeping us connected to those we love

Allowing us to keep coming together.

As we live into the rearrangement of our lives

That began with a focus on washing our hands.

 

And as hard as this time has been,

The story of Naaman speaks

to how God enters into our lives.

Challenging and shaping us.

Inviting us to wash ourselves

Opening ourselves up to God cleansing

And healing us.

 

Naaman’s cleansing began with a stranger.

A foreign captive in Naaman’s house.

Who spoke up and was heard

Who brought words of hope

A promise of the impossible.

 

In a time when distancing makes helping hard

When every other person I interact with

could be a potential threat

And even those I love

Are disrupting the order of my life.

How does one keep loving and listening?

When I’ve spent so much of the last months

With barely enough energy left over,

How do I care for those who are part of my communities?

my next door neighbors?

Let alone the foreigner and stranger

All the potential threats.

 

How do I not become contaminated by this illness

that spreads through being connected?

How does my physical distance

Not become emotional and spiritual distance?

 

How do I not become like the king who tore his robes:

How dare you expect me to do something?

I cannot heal others.

But to ask that is to blind myself to the truth

That God is the one who heals.

God who has entered into our lives.

God among us - Immanuel

Jesus who healed so many during his time on earth

And then conquered death

Before returning where he reigns on high

God the Spirit who is with us

This God is the one who heals.

This God can do the impossible:

This God can renew our earth and climate;

Heal the polarization in this land

Enact changes to end structural racism.

 

And this same God invites us,

Like the servant girl,

To be part of that healing.

Not because our efforts will change the world.

But because sometimes,

Like the servant girl,

our words are heard.

And we become part of God’s

Entering into the world.

The servant girl spoke.

Naaman listened.

Elisha intervened.

God acted.

And so the impossible happened.

 

But, oh we so want to claim

That it was our voice that changed things.

Or get some kind of reward

For what we have done.

Or perhaps simply we are tired

And just want something to make life a little easier.

 

What was Gehazi thinking?

The request –

The slight distortion of truth

Just 2 sets of clothes

And some silver

How could that be a big deal?

 

As a child, I couldn’t believe Gehazi’s greed!

How dare he!

And as an adult,

I see in him myself.

That longing to be rewarded

For all that I have done.

To be compensated

For that all I have given up. 

 

And God enters the story here,

Just not perhaps the way we’d like.

Elisha confronts Gehazi.

And Gehazi is punished harshly.

Probably not so much for his greed

As for how he has distorted God’s image.

What picture of God is shown

When Naaman is able to ‘pay’ for his miracle

When instead of radical grace

His healing has shifted into a transaction

Especially if that transaction comes from Gehazi’s desire

To take advantage of their enemies.

Instead of trusting that God does provide.

And so God enters anew into Gehazi’s life

Through sickness

And what has often felt, to me,

a harsh punishment.

 

But Gehazi’s story does not end here

He shows up again in chapter 8

In the courts of the king, of all places!

He is advocating for the Shunammite woman.

Reminding the king of Elisha’s great deeds

Of raising her dead boy to life again

While also advocating that the king

Give back to the Shunammite woman

The land that she had left

And, even more, giving her back all the income

That her land produced in the time she was gone.

Radical provision.

A story of God providing

 

And so I wonder,

if the story might have more grace than we first might see.

If God’s interruption of Gehazi’s life

Was a catalyst for something new.

Something good.

 

Being open for God’s intervention

Washing ourselves in the Jordan.

It sounds simple.

Yet, just like with Naaman, it asks so much more of us.

It sounds like nothing heroic,

Except to speak up with courage when needed

and allow God to throw our whole lives into chaos

Rearrange our schedules again and again.          

Confronted by how little control we have,

And invited to offer our whole lives up to God.

 

This invitation, as hard as it is, is also a gift.

Let go of our efforts.

Trust in those of God.

And perhaps we will,

just like in the stories of Elijah and Elisha,

Be a witness to God showing up.

Be a witness to the impossible.

 

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit Amen.

Genesis 35: getting the details right

Reading through Genesis 35, two details struck me: the naming of the place, Bethel, and Jacob's renaming as Israel. Both of these namings were ones I was familiar with; the surprise for me in the text is that both are a repeat.

Jacob had named the place Bethel after his dream there when fleeting Esau. He even specifically moved to that place (El bethel) because that was where he'd met God. Why then is the explanation later in chapter 35 given about the place being given the name Bethel?

Jacob was named Israel after wrestling with God. Why is he then given the name a second time?

I don't know the answers to the questions, and I'm not sure if there are any obvious answers. Especially since the text doesn't provide contradictory information, but is simply repeating itself, the need for answers seems less. However, it does make me wonder about the way stories are told.

Maundy Thursday - Thoughts on John 13

Two years ago I preached a sermon on John 13:1-15,34-35. The following are some thoughts from that sermon:


A number of churches and people continue the ritual of foot-washing on Maundy Thursday. If you have ever participated in a footwashing ceremony, you know that it’s a bit of an awkward experience. Feet are known, at worst, for their smell and, at best, for their usefulness in getting you around. There is something uncomfortable about getting on one’s hands and knees and touching someone else’s foot – or having someone touch your foot.

When we read this passage, we can easily gloss over the awkwardness of the footwashing. As everyone wore sandals and the roads were dusty and filled with garbage and animal dung, foot washing was an ordinary part of life back then. But if we look at the text, it doesn’t sound like what is happening is ordinary in any way.

The text describes in detail the foot washing. It describes how Jesus lay down his clothing to put on a serving towel. Within a few hours from this moment, Jesus’ clothing would be replaced with the kingly clothes in which the soldiers mock him and then his clothes would be stripped from him on the cross. Like Jesus lays down his clothing to wash his feet, Jesus, as the good shepherd, would lay down his life for his sheep. [cf John 10]

Jesus lay aside his clothing, poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. We recognize the strangeness of the actions through Peter’s interruption. Peter asks: Lord, are you really going to wash my feet? Even after Jesus assures Peter that he will later understand, Peter still adamantly refuses to have Jesus wash his feet. Even when Jesus makes it clear to Peter that refusing to have him wash his feet was the same as refusing to have any part with Jesus – even then, Peter doesn’t stop protesting. The protest simply shifts from Peter demanding that Jesus not wash any of him to demanding that Jesus wash all of him.

Peter’s response is perhaps not the most surprising part of the passage. After all, we, too, have the tendency to extremes. Often we live as people who don’t believe we need our feet washed – we act as if we’re fundamentally good folks who just happen to have some quirks. Or, we tend towards the other extreme – overwhelmed by how we have failed or seeing ourselves as worthless in God’s eyes. We so often forget the role of water in our lives – the power of the baptism in which we are brought into the community of God and Jesus’ continued ability to wash us of our sins.

The surprise in the passage is how Jesus responds. He does not sigh in exasperation at Peter’s extremes, nor at how the disciples don’t seem to recognize who he is and his love for them. Instead, Jesus simply explains what it means to follow him.

After showing them what love looks like, he explains that they, having had their feet washed by their Lord and teacher should now go out and wash one another’s feet. Later in the text, he puts this slightly differently. Just as Jesus had loved them, so they are to love one another.

Jesus’ love extends grace to them as they don’t understand; yet the grace also includes the invitation given in the footwashing – that they might have a part in him. While Jesus is not standing in front of us with a bowl of water to wash our feet, the invitation to have a part with Jesus extends also to us.

Having been washed by Christ, we are then invited to do as Jesus has done. Jesus has washed away the smelliness of our sins but has also reminded us of how our sinfulness doesn’t define us. We, just like our feet, have a purpose. We are to love as Jesus has first loved us.

The text notes that this is a new command, but it is hardly a new idea. Loving one’s neighbor was an important part of the Old Testament law. [Leviticus 19:18, 35] The newness of the command is not in what it is telling us to do but about how we are to go about it. Because of Jesus’ love for the disciples – and us – we are able to go out and live fully into the impossible command of loving our neighbors – not on our own strength but because of Christ’s deep love for us. Just like Jesus’ feet were anointed, so Jesus’ footwashing anoints us to the work of sharing the good news.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

2 Kings 5 in the time of COVID-19

When I started washing my hands so much that they dried out for the first time in my life, I started pondering 2 Kings 5, especially v. 13 where Naaman's "servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?”” 

The following are some of my thoughts: 

If I had been asked to do something hard,

I would have done it with conviction.

Especially if it meant saving someone’s life.

Luther argues that we are not to flee from plague.

We, especially us in ministry, are to ‘remain steadfast before the peril of death.’

Tending the sick would be like tending Christ himself. 

But instead I am asked to wash my hands again and again.

Singing some silly song so I do it long enough.

And to stay home and stay away from other people.

Where are the heroics in that?

It seems so little.

And even almost cowardly.

As if I’m afraid of illness and death.

Yet if it’s so little,

Why do I chafe under these requirements?

Why do I protest against it so strongly?

Why do I want to turn away in anger, like Naaman in 2 Kings 5?

If I had been commanded something difficult, would I have not done it?

How much more then, when only this little is being asked of me?

Wash, be clean, keep others clean.

Wash and be clean.

Rearrange the way you look at the world.

For Naaman, the command was an invitation.

Humble yourself,

wash yourself in the dirty river of this other country,

follow the seemingly arbitrary commands of this prophet and his God.

Recognize that all your best efforts cannot save you.

God alone does the impossible.

Wash your hands, stay home.

Let go of your plans.

Recognize how little control you have over the future.

Deny yourself

Trusting that God can use this seemingly small effort to save lives.

Naaman returns to the prophet healed.

Deeply thankful, ready to make a great sacrifice.

Except he is not allowed to pay for the gift he received.

A reminder again

that no matter how mighty we are

God does not need our help.

God meets us in our humanity

The gracious gift of a piece of earth so that we can align ourselves with God

While not needing to give up everything in our lives.

An ancient sort of technology.

Allowing Naaman to remain with those he cared about.

While continuing in thankfulness for the gift he received.

Our gifts today are internet, computers, zoom and Netflix,

Keeping us connected to those we love

Allowing us to keep meeting together.

For the request to stay home is hardly easy.

Being human means being in community.

The lack of physical presence

Requires each of us to go a little against who

We are created to be.

Naaman didn’t learn humility in a day.

It started with the quiet voice of a servant girl

And the humility required to listen to her.

It all began with a stranger.

A foreign captive in Naaman’s house.

Who spoke up and was heard

Who brought words of hope

A promise of the impossible

In a time when distancing makes helping hard

When every other could be a potential threat

And even those I love

Are disrupting the order of my life.

How does one keep loving and listening?

When I’m turning in on myself

With barely enough energy left over for me,

How do I care for those who are part of my communities?

my next door neighbors?

Let alone the foreigner

and the potential threat.

This illness that spreads through being connected.

How does my physical distance

Not become emotional and spiritual distance?

But that is not what the servant girl did.

She spoke up.

Naaman listened.

Elisha intervened.

God acted.

And so the impossible happened.

Stay at home. Help others.

It sounds so simple.

Yet, just like with Naaman, it asks so much more of us.

It sounds like nothing heroic,

except to throw my whole life into chaos

Rearranging all of our schedules,

Cancelling all my plans,

Confronting me with how little control I have,

Offering up my whole life to you.

The command has become the gift.

Let go of my efforts.

Trust in those of God.

And look forward to the day when this experience

Is behind us.

When we once again live fully in community.

And this experience is like the dirt that Naaman brought home.

A complicated piece of truth

To remind us of what we ought to be bowing down to.

Not our own control and plans.

But the one who controls all.