Psalms for the Journey

by Debra Dean Murphy
You show me the path of life. In your presence there is fullness of joy . . . Psalm 16:11

It is fitting that we read, pray, and sing the Psalms during Lent—this season of the church year when we experience the full gamut of human emotions: sadness, doubt, confusion, rage, praise, thanksgiving, joy. The Psalms convey all of these emotions and more, and thus they place front and center something often lacking in our common discourse: honest speech. In their grappling with loss and abandonment, fear and pain, and in their ecstatic surrender to worship, praise, and adoration, the Psalms—the lamenting ones, the cursing ones, and the praising ones—help us to speak truthfully before God and one another.

Not for nothing, the Psalms have been called the hymnbook of the Bible. In their original setting—ancient Israel’s worship of Yahweh—the Psalms were sung by priest and people as a corporate act of devotion to the one true God. We have no way of knowing what the tunes sounded like, of course. And this many centuries hence, many people simply don’t know that the Psalms of the Bible were meant to be sung.

But when you read them attentively you can tell: these are poem-prayers with a musical lilt; they were created to be sung—and sung in a congregational setting.

EP endorser, Randy Cooper, a United Methodist pastor in west Tennessee, says that congregational singing is a primary means by which we are schooled theologically. He means that when we sing together we come to know the truth of who we are and who God is. We learn what we believe and how we are to live. We enter into a story and we learn how to live that story.

But of course, it matters what we’re singing!

Do the songs we sing tell the story of God’s grand cosmic purposes: creation; the calling of Israel; the incarnation; the resurrection; the calling of the church; the final consummation of all things? Or do our songs focus on ourselves, on personal “experience,” on individual salvation? Are we—as Lester Ruth has phrased the question—cosmic-story churches or personal-story churches? And how do the songs we sing together reflect the reality of who and what we are?

We do well to consider, says Randy, “that congregational singing is the highest and most beautiful musical act in the worship life of a congregation—more so than any other offering of music by choir, solo, or instrument.” In this way, singing is sacramental and relational; it is a gift from God and a means of grace.

But it is not an end in itself. Music should never be the “organizing principle” of worship. It should not be used to divide congregations generationally. But these are pitfalls hard to avoid—it’s rare for almost any church these days not to jump on the “music-as-a-matter-of-taste” bandwagon.

But when we return to the Psalms we find ourselves singing ancient words with startlingly fresh relevance. We find the story told in the Psalms to be one that points us beyond ourselves and our small lives toward God’s all-encompassing purposes for the creation that God called into being. We find a God who loves us individually but who calls us to be a cosmic-story people.

We are people who must sing you,
for the sake of our very lives.
You are a God who must be sung by us,
for the sake of your majesty and honor.
And so we thank you,
for lyrics that push us past our reasons,
for melodies that break open our givens,
for cadences that locate us home,
beyond all our safe places,
for tones and tunes that open our lives beyond control and our futures beyond despair.

We thank you for the long parade of mothers and fathers who have sung you deep and true;
We thank you for the good company of artists, poets, musicians, cantors, and instruments
that sing for us and with us, toward you.
We are witnesses to your mercy and splendor;
We will not keep silent . . . ever again. Amen.

“We Will Not Keep Silent,” by Walter Brueggemann

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Light for the Journey

by Debra Dean Murphy
Mark 9:2-9 (Transfiguration Sunday)

The Gospel Lesson for Transfiguration Sunday suffers from something that lectionary texts often do: It begins in the middle of a longer narrative, the whole of which helps to situate and make sense of the lifted-out passage under consideration. The Mark reading begins with: "Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves." We then go on to get engrossed in the familiar story of how the appearance of Jesus changes; how Moses and Elijah suddenly show up; how Peter characteristically misreads the scene.

But what happened six days earlier? Could it have any bearing on the journey to the mountaintop and on what transpired there?

Most immediately Jesus had called "the crowd with his disciples" and had told them that if they wanted to become his followers they would have to deny themselves and take up their cross and follow him. Those who wanted to save their life would lose it, he said, and those who were willing to lose their life for his sake, and for the sake of the gospel, would save it. What will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your life? he asked. Those who are ashamed of Jesus and of his words, of them Jesus will also be ashamed.

Hard sayings. Tough words: Denial. Cross. Loss. Shame. Death.

But here on the top of the mountain six days later we have what appears to be the antidote to, the opposite of such gloom. Jesus is changed into a figure of dazzling white brightness and two of Israel's superstars are on the scene! This looks like triumph, not defeat; splendor and success, not failure and loss.

So what could denial and death have to do with the glory of this mountaintop moment?

Everything, if we can take in the whole panoramic view, paying close attention to what Jesus said to the crowd and to the disciples those few days before going up the mountain. The glory of God, it turns out, is revealed in the cross. The exalted Lord is never separate from the suffering Christ. This mountain is not far from Golgotha's hill.

When Jesus is transfigured, when his outward appearance is altered in that moment to reveal the glory of God, he prefigures more transformation to come: his own body, now radiant, will soon be battered, beaten, and bruised; it will undergo death; it will become a resurrected body. And out of that broken, dead, resurrected body comes another: the church.

So perhaps the transfiguration story is as much about the church as it is about Jesus; as much about discipleship as it is about those three star-struck disciples.

In just a few days we will soon have our own appearances altered, our faces slightly transfigured: we will receive the mark of ashes on our foreheads and will hear the words: Remember you are earth and to earth you shall return. In that moment we will begin the Lenten journey with Jesus; a journey that takes him to the destiny that awaits him in Jerusalem.

Transfiguration Sunday marks the end of a succession of Sundays that began with Epiphany. Epiphany, we recall, began with light: the light of a star leading the magi to the Christ child; the light of Christ enlightening all the world. This week, as we mark the conclusion of this string of Sundays, we'll end, as we began, with light: the light of Jesus' radiant countenance on the mountaintop, a light that guides our path as we take up our cross, deny ourselves, and follow him.

It will be dark where we're going. We'll need the light.

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I Do Choose…

by Erin Martin
Mark 1:40-45 (Epiphany 6B)

The healing stories of Jesus are among my favorite stories of the gospels. There is something deeply honest about persons in considerable pain—a woman bent low, a man born blind, a father pleading on behalf of his ailing daughter—coming to Jesus in desperation and placing all their hopes upon Jesus’ willingness to make them well. Jesus never disappoints, either. He always meets their desperation with compassion, their suffering with relief, their isolation with restoration. In this week’s gospel lesson, the same is true for the leper who comes to Jesus kneeling at his feet begging, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” Rather than be repulsed by the man’s potentially contagious condition, Jesus moves toward the leper reaching out to him and touching him saying, “I do choose. Be made clean!”
No wonder the leper can hardly contain his gratitude and praise. While healing stories are powerful personal encounters between individuals and Jesus, they are never meant to be simply private “Jesus moments.” The healing of individuals is always about more than the healing of individuals. Healings are about the kingdom of God.

Earlier in the first chapter of Mark’s gospel, Jesus makes clear his mission. He announces, “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe in the good news.” Jesus’ ministry is about manifesting the kingdom of God in our midst. Everything that follows is evidence of this message. The exorcisms confirm the kingdom of God come near. The healings reveal the kingdom of God come near. The miracles make true the kingdom of God come near. Sickness, disease, social isolation have no place God’s realm, and the restoration of the broken to wholeness is a part of God’s will on earth as it is in heaven. Jurgen Moltmann writes, “together with the proclamation of the gospel, the healing of the sick is Jesus’ most important testimony to the dawning of the kingdom of God… healings are signs of the new creation and the rebirth of life… The healings should be understood as foretokens of the resurrection and of eternal life. Just as eternal life quickens those who believe, so the eternal salvation heals those who trust it.” When Jesus heals the individual, creation is being restored.

Jesus suggests secrecy to the leper because of the incredible potential for this message to be distorted. Fred Craddock liked to say that Jesus’ healings created “audiences, no congregations.” Many will flock to Jesus for healing, but all will abandon him when he is handed over to suffer and die. Healings are not the only place that the kingdom is revealed. When Jesus hangs on the cross, creation is being restored. Only very few people want to hear that part of the message. Again, Craddock says, “all the way to the cross, Jesus will be trying to get those who think ‘where the messiah is, there is no misery’ to accept a new perspective—‘where there is misery, there is the messiah.” Individual healings are amazing, but they always serve more than the individual. They serve to help us choose to follow the messiah to places of human misery, even the most miserable place of all, the cross. I do choose…

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Is Your World Shaped By the Gospel?

by Jesse Larkins
1 Corinthians 9:16-23; Mark 1:29-39 (Epiphany 5B)
Each of the New Testament lessons this week make reference to Jesus and Paul’s felt responsibility to proclaim the gospel message wherever they were. In the gospel, after healing Simon’s mother-in-law as well as many others who were brought to him, Jesus demands of the disciples that they move onto other towns so that he might “proclaim the message; for that is what [he] came to do” (vs. 38). Similarly, Paul speaks to the Corinthian Christians about the obligation he feels to proclaim the gospel to all people at all times. The question left for us, then, is “Do we also feel that obligation to proclaim the gospel in all times and places?”

For those of us who preach and teach on a regular basis, we can easily brush past this question without much thought. Of course we are proclaiming the gospel! The real question for us, as well as for each member of our churches, is whether or not gospel proclamation has so shaped the entirety of our lives that we could say of ourselves that we proclaim the gospel in all that we do and say. This is a slightly different take on the topic of evangelism than most folks in my church are comfortable with. Use that dreaded “e-word” and folks are suddenly filled with images of knocking on the doors in the hallways of their college dorms, handing out tracks on the street corners, recitation of the four spiritual laws, and a tally sheet of the number of folks with whom you have prayed the Jesus prayer. Ask folks in a lot of congregations what “living a gospel life” looks like and you would probably get answers that range from: be good and nice to “don’t smoke or chew or go with boys who do.” It is this narrow view of evangelism as well as an anemic understanding of the Christian life that has crippled the church’s witness and made us incomprehensible to the world.

Returning to the gospel passage gives some clue into how Jesus might respond to this question of proclamation-shaped living. For Jesus, proclamation of the gospel message was not just talk, it was an embodied way of life. He was the Good News after all! Yet, Jesus didn’t just talk about healing, liberation, or love. He showed the world what the gospel was about in the way he lived it. Similarly, our own gospel-proclamation needs to be embodied in a way of life that doesn’t just speak about words like forgiveness, love, reconciliation, praise, and service, but introduces them to the Christian life and message by modeling it in all times and places. This is not only a formational way of living but it is equally invitational, fulfilling our obligation to proclaim the gospel at all times. A great exploration of this notion embodied proclamation can be found in Brad Kallenberg’s (fairly) recent book, Live to Tell. Equally helpful for further reflection on this idea can be found through any of the recent Josey-Bass publications about Christian practices.

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By Whose Authority?

by Brian Volck
Deuteronomy 18:15-20, Mark 1:21-28

A little word history from the Online Etymology Dictionary:

Authority: First written appearance in English: 1230, autorite "book or quotation that settles an argument," from from L. nom. auctoritas ,"invention, advice, opinion, influence, command," from auctor "author." Used to mean "power to enforce obedience" is from 1393; meaning "people in authority" is from 1611. Authoritative first recorded 1609. Authoritarian is recorded from 1879.

Power: First written appearance in English: 1297, from L. potis "powerful" Used to mean "a state or nation with regard to international authority or influence" dates from 1726. Powerful is c.1400. The powers that be is from Rom. 13:1.

The relationship between authority and power is long, complex and subtle. Distinguishing them in common usage today is challenging. Was Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich’s appointment of Barack Obama’s senatorial replacement an act of power, authority, or both? When I tell my sons, both of whom are now taller than I, to do something they don’t want to, am I relying on the power of the purse, the authority of paternity, or some combination?

These days, the word, “power,” carries a whiff of brutality and illegitimacy. No one, for example, brags about “speaking truth to authority.” Then again, “authority” isn’t what it used to be, with countless bumper stickers demanding we question it.

Yet, even in the twenty-first century, humans haven’t escaped the conundrums arising at the necessary intersection of freedom, community, authority and power. The problem has been around a long, long time.

Jesus teaches in the synagogue “as one having authority and not as the scribes.” He also casts out “an unclean spirit” – who, like Legion, know(s) with whom it or they contend – and the amazed onlookers cry, “A new teaching with authority! He commands even unclean spirits and they obey him.” It’s not immediately clear how authoritative teaching and power to cast out spirits go together, but the residents of Capernaum apparently take it for granted.

Today – and particularly in the developed world – Christians have more trouble making that connection. Paul reminds us that we are not all called to the gift of prophecy – a helpful reminder, given what Deuteronomy promises to those who falsely speak in God’s name. But if not all called, who is? In our churches, where or to whom do we turn for authoritative guidance? If the Bible, then how is it read and interpreted? If in wise persons, then which ones? Pastors? Spiritual directors? The Saints of our Tradition? Bishops and Patriarchs? An “inner light?”

In the Ekklesia, the community into which Christ calls you, where is Jesus’ “new teaching with authority” found? How and with whom will you find the strength to follow it?

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Epiphany 3B

by Jesse Larkins
Mark 1:14-20
I have a brother who is a bit of an adrenaline junky. In many ways he is not unlike most 26 year old boys who have no house payment, car payment, girlfriend, wife or kids: footloose and fancy free. On the other hand, there is something quite unique about my brother. It is the fact that, on average, he risks his life 2-3 times per day. You see, my brother has made a life for himself out of pushing the envelope. If you were to ask him, he would tell you that airplanes were invented to be jumped out of, mountains were made to be crawled up and then skied down, and waterfalls were created in order to slide off in 6’ pieces of molded plastic. My brother’s primary raison d’être is white water kayaking. He has traveled all over the world finding and conquering the world’s wildest rivers and creeks. If we didn’t share the hallmark Shuman nose, you might wonder how we are related. When it comes to taking risks, we are as different as night and day.

One time, when we were in college, my brother tried to teach me how to kayak. I lasted exactly 10 minutes…in the swimming pool. The first skill that all kayakers must learn is how to roll—that is, how to right yourself when you are flipped upside down and the suction of the river’s current is trying to keep you that way. My brother put me in the pool, flipped me upside down, and said: “Roll up.” I couldn’t do it; mostly because I panicked and flailed around under the water like I was drowning. Sitting on the edge of the pool a bit later, I asked him what went wrong. His response was something like this: “You can’t fight the water. You’ve gotta let it lead you. You’ve gotta let go of control and just go with the flow.”

“Great,” I said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just watch you from the banks along with the rest of the crowd.” I admire my brother’s courage, fearlessness, trust, and passion, but I’m not ready to follow him down a river.

I thought of my failed kayaking experience this week as I was reading this gospel lesson about Jesus calling his first disciples. Jesus’ ministry, especially his healings and confrontation with demons, were probably, like my brother on the river, something quite amazing to behold. It didn’t take long until the crowds following Jesus grew and his popularity spread. Yet, throughout the gospel, when push came to shove, and Jesus said “Follow me,” there were only a few who dared to leave behind their nets and their families to truly follow him. The rich young ruler went away sad. The religious elites shouted “crucify him.” And the rest were content to remain on the banks admiring the show.

When Jesus called Simon, Andrew, James and John to follow him, it was during his first major preaching tour. Heading through the backwoods of ancient Israel, Jesus’ proclamation was a familiar one to those who heard him. They had heard these words before when John the Baptist came through: “Repent, the Kingdom of Heaven has drawn near.” Many had turned and repented at these words of John. Yet, when Jesus comes with the same message, this time the one calling was the one in whose life the Kingdom of Heaven was embodied.

Finishing his sermon, he walked down to the lake shore where four men were working, and issued the ultimate altar call. “Follow Me,” he said, “and I will give you the gifts you need to embody this good news of the Kingdom in yourselves. I’m not offering you much that the world will understand—no signing bonuses, no great benefits package.

But the Kingdom of Heaven is not exactly something that will be recognized by the world on the world’s terms.

‘Follow me,’ and the Kingdom of Heaven can become YOUR proclamation.

‘Follow me’ and I will change your relationship to God.

‘Follow me,’ and I will make you fishers of people, bringing you into new relationship with everyone you meet, including your enemies.

If you trust me; if you can loosen your grip on those things you hold so dear—your house, your job, your reputation, your political opinions, your other loyalties and allegiances; if you can just stop trying to determine your future happiness on your terms and let me guide you, I can offer you a part in this Kingdom come. Are you in, or are you content to remain on the banks?” And there, in the lives of Simon, Andrew, James and John, we see what it means to truly follow Christ into the rapids, no longer content to stand on the banks as a spectator.

The rest, as they say, is history. Simon, Andrew, James, and John dropped their nets, said goodbye to Dad, and followed. Even with their questions and fears, they trusted God enough to step to the edge of the falls and give themselves fully to serving and embodying God’s Kingdom in their own lives. Though they would spend the rest of Jesus’ life seeming to stumble and misunderstand what “following” was really all about, they dared to step to the edge and “let go of control.” The moment they accepted Christ’s invitation to an entirely new way of being in the world, God empowered them to reach beyond themselves and to risk everything they had to follow. They followed Christ off the edge of the rapid, not because Christ promised that they would always land up-right at the bottom, but because the One they followed would already be at the bottom with strength enough to pull them up when they struggled.

We can be both encouraged and provoked by Simon, Andrew, James, and John. These disciples challenge us to ask what things in our lives we still struggle to control at all cost when Christ is calling us to “stop fighting the water and let go.” Yet they also encourage us to go ahead and slide off the edge of this wild adventure of discipleship though we may not know all that Christ has in store for the ride. Sure, we will have moments of choking and flailing as each of the disciples did, but the One who called us is faithful; certain to right us when we’re upside down, and ever ready to welcome us back to the journey once we’ve caught our breath.

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