Author: firstdelray

The following meditation was written by Rev. Dr. Michael B. Brown, pastor at Blowing Rock Methodist Church in North Carolina and a professor at Wake Forest University.

“ . . . where sin increased, grace multiplied even more.” Romans 5:20 (Common English Bible)

“God’s love does not presuppose goodness in us, but rather causes it.”[1] I find these words from Thomas Aquinas to be both comforting and challenging.

Initially, I am comforted that I do not have to earn God’s love. I’m not required to attain it by deeds, merit, or even proper mortality. God doesn’t love me “because of,” but rather “in spite of.”

Think of the child who is told to change clothes after coming home from church. But, he is so anxious to work on the fort he is building in the backyard that he conveniently forgets to do as told. Later, when he enters the house covered in mud and dirt (perhaps with a rip in those new Sunday pants you purchased), do you quit loving him? If the question were, “Do you become frustrated?” the answer would doubtless be “Yes” (and understandably so). “Do you get angry?” Probably another “Yes.” “Do you scold? Even punish (“No TV tonight!”)? “Yes” and “Yes.” But, do you quit loving your child? When he is scolded and the smile on his face turns upside down and tears begin to make small rows down his muddy face, isn’t your immediate impulse to gather the child into your arms and comfort him?

Our younger daughter consistently left things at elementary school, having no idea where those items were when asked about them. Often, they were unusual things to be left behind. We would regularly go to the Lost-and-Found closet at her school and find one missing show. Who loses one shoe, and how does that even happen? Or, we would find her sweater or coat that had been left behind on a day with a low temperature in the 30s. Were we frustrated? Sometimes, yes (though often it was more humorous than irritating). Did we seek to correct her, possibly even lecturing from time to time? I’m sure we did. But, did her mistakes cause us to stop loving that little human gift who God had placed in our lives? Of course not.

God loves us because we are God’s children. We don’t earn it. We are marred by failings and flaws. But, as Martin Luther observed, “God does not love us because we are lovable, but because he is love; not because we are worthy, but because he is merciful.”[2] As one who makes mistakes on a daily basis, I find comfort in that. “Where sin increased, grace multiplied even more.”

And, don’t forget that second lesson from Aquinas: God’s love causes goodness in us. Grace may be free, but it is never cheap. It assumes that lessons learned by sinning and being forgiven will alter the ways we do business morally. We will move in new directions (which, in fact, is what the word conversion means). One of those new directions becomes the discipline of forgiving. What was provided to us, we feel called and compelled to pass along to others. We are forgiven, and therefore, we forgive. Jesus taught his disciples to pray, “Forgive us . . . just as we also forgive those who have wronged us.” (Matt 6:12) That is the challenging part, that you and I are expected to “treat people in the same way that you want them to treat you.” (Luke 6:31)

When I served as Pastor at Marble Collegiate Church in New York City, our resident on-staff Bible scholar was a Roman Catholic nun named Sister Carol Perry. Sister Carol was a walking source of wisdom, witticisms, and modern-day proverbs. One that I heard her articulate frequently was: “Begin and end every day with the words, ‘God loves me and calls me to pass it along’”. That’s a lovely definition of grace, isn’t it? I am loved often in spite of myself and am, therefore, called to pass along to others that which God has shared with me.

Joy,

---

[1] Aquinas, Thomas. The Summa Theologica. Translated by the Fathers of the English Dominican Province. New York: Benziger Bros., 1947, 1, q.20, a.2.

[2] Luther, Martin. “The Heidelberg Disputation.” In Luther’s Works, Vol. 31: Career of the Reformer I, edited by Harold J. Grimm and Helmut T. Lehmann, 35–70. Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1957, Thesis 16, 56.

The following meditation was written by Dr. Michael B. Brown, pastor at Blowing Rock Methodist Church in North Carolina.

The Lord called to Samuel. “I’m here,” he said. Samuel hurried to Eli and said, “I’m here. You called me?” “I didn’t call you,” Eli replied. “Go lie down.” So he did. Again the Lord called Samuel, so Samuel got up, went to Eli, and said, “I’m here. You called me?” “I didn’t call, my son,” Eli replied. “Go and lie down.” (Now Samuel didn’t yet know the Lord, and the Lord’s word hadn’t yet been revealed to him.) A third time the Lord called Samuel. He got up, went to Eli, and said, “I’m here. You called me?” Then Eli realized that it was the Lord who was calling the boy. So Eli said to Samuel, “Go and lie down. If he calls you, say, ‘Speak Lord. Your servant is listening.’” So Samuel went and lay down where he’d been. Then the Lord came and stood there, calling just as before, “Samuel, Samuel!” Samuel said, “Speak. Your servant is listening.” 1 Samuel 3:4-10 (Common English Bible)

Using cell phones in restaurants shouldn’t be allowed. Not only is it dismissive of others at your table, but it is rude to those sitting anywhere within earshot. Nonetheless, what we overhear is sometimes intriguing or even entertaining.

Recently at a lovely cafe not far from my house, I had the misfortune of being seated only a few feet away from a woman who was obviously livid. For at least five minutes, she used her cell phone to unload on the object of her wrath. Loud, agitated, and animated, never once did she appear to come up for air. I feared that if she didn’t pause long enough to inhale, she might faint and land squarely on my plate of pasta. If conversations are dialogues, then hers was not a conversation. It was, instead, a monologue, a lecture.

Prayer is essentially dialogical, at best more a practice of listening than speaking. Too often we pray like that woman in the cafe, raging at God when we feel life is treating us unfairly. Or, just as often we act as if God is little more than a shopping mall Santa. We present our list of desires, say a quick “Amen,” and decide to get back in touch when our next wish list is ready. Either way, prayer is a monologue rather than a conversation.

When Samuel was a boy under the tutelage of the priest, Eli, he learned one of faith’s powerful lessons: that the most important prayers ever offered may be prayers without words. Four times during the night, Samuel was awakened by hearing someone call his name. Twice he went to Eli, asking why he had been summoned. Each time Eli replied that he had not called and sent Samuel back to bed. On the third occasion, Eli understood. “Go and lie down,” he told Samuel. “If he calls again, say, `Speak, Lord, your servant is listening’.” Samuel did what Eli suggested, becoming still and silent. He simply listened. In so doing, unimagined doors opened for Samuel – doors to become a great Prophet and to name Israel’s first two kings, Saul and David. Arguably the most important prayer Samuel ever prayed was one without words, a simple act of listening for God.

How can we know what God wants for us or from us if we only speak but never listen? A spiritual discipline of indescribable importance is the practice of silence. Sitting quietly in God’s presence. Opening oneself to the movement of the Spirit. Waiting for insights we are often too busy to hear. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Dr. Michael B. Brown, pastor of Blowing Rock Methodist Church in North Carolina.

“Aaron will burn sweet-smelling incense on the incense altar every morning when he takes care of the lamps. And again when Aaron lights the lamps at twilight, he will burn incense. It should be a regular incense offering in the Lord’s presence in every generation.” Exodus 30:7, 8 (Common English Bible0

During worship in an Episcopal church I sometimes attend, the opening processional is led by a thurifer swinging a container of sweet smelling incense. At designated moments throughout the service (e.g., before the reading of scripture or the quoting of liturgical prayers) one of the participating clergy will swing the thurifer near the altar, allowing smoke from the incense to fill the chancel and rise to the ceiling. That provides the congregation with a visible symbol of prayers wafting their way toward heaven.

In the Book of Exodus is a text about Aaron, the priest, burning incense at the holy altar morning and night. Consistently. Unfailingly. Paul said it this way: “Pray continually.” (1 Thessalonians 5:17)

Morning and night? Continually? Perhaps both Aaron and Paul were suggesting that prayer is not so much a momentary experience as it is an ongoing way of living. Our lives, like incense, continually waft their ways toward heaven. Our daily experiences are part of the fabric of praying.

At its heart, prayer is communication with God, which is rooted in relationship. God and we are making life’s journey together. When hiking with a friend, you don’t pause occasionally and say, “Now is a scheduled time for us to chat.” Instead, you carry on a very natural conversation as you make the journey. At home, at work, at school, in our laughter and tears, in our hard striving or leisure, in all places and at all times, our lives are connected to our Creator-Friend. We are hiking together. The invitation, “Lord be with me,” or the commitment, “Where you lead me, I will follow,” are confessions that we desire ongoing divine presence. We don’t have to make contact with God once in a while (before meals, at bedtime, in church, or in moments of crisis or need). Instead, that contact is unceasing. Morning and night. Continual.

One of the kindest and gentlest persons I ever knew was a member of the first congregation I pastored following seminary. He was a retired mill worker and a devoted participant in our church. For forty years he had supervised other workers in a textile mill, and all of them seemed to love him deeply and dearly. His neighbors felt the same way. Church members trusted and relied on him, electing him to a wide variety of leadership positions. In fact, our whole little community considered him to be light who brightened the shadows. Why was he so universally loved and respected? I think the secret lay in a statement I heard him make once. He said, “In every encounter I have with another, in every conversation, I know that God is listening. So,” he concluded, “no matter who I’m talking to, it still winds up being a kind of prayer.” His recipe for fulfilment and positive relationships was located in understanding all of life as a form of praying. His spirit, like Aaron’s incense, was forever wafting its way toward heaven. God was unfailingly close, making the journey with him. Recognizing that, he understood that God could not be excluded from anything else he did. In short, his life became an unending experience of prayer. At its best, that’s what prayer is for us all. We “pray continually.”

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Dr. Bruce Main, President and Founder of Urban Promise Ministries in New Jersey.

“Look! I’m doing a new thing….” Isaiah 43:19a (Common English Bible)

“You gotta keep the door open.”

Evidently my body language suggested I wasn’t completely understanding her comment.

“You know,” she clarified. “It’s the heart. You’ve got to keep it open to new opportunities. Shut the door and you wither up.”

My new friend Kathy is figuring out retirement. She still consults a little, but at this stage of life she’s looking to give back as a volunteer. 

So, she’s “keeping the door open” for opportunities to engage with her community.  That’s why she was in my office. Our campus gardens need TLC and Kathy can’t wait to get started.  “I love working outside and with my hands. Grew up on a farm. Never really leaves you.”  Music to my ears. 

But besides gardening, Kathy is thinking about aging. And since we’re all on that path, it might behoove us to spend a little time reflecting on how we can do it well. Like Kathy—who tries to keep her heart open to new challenges, expanding her circle of friends and intentionally hanging around younger people—we too choose how we meet our future. 

Kathy’s onto something. And it’s no coincidence I stumbled across a prayer by James Finley:

“God, help me to be the kind of old person young people want old people to be. Help me not just to talk like this but help me to walk around like this and answer the phone like this and talk to my grandchildren like this.”[1]

Finley’s prayer raises a great question: What kind of old person do we want to be? We’ve all met our share of duds. Cranky. Bitter. Anxious. Controlling. Stuck.  Miserable. But like you, we’ve met a few whose depth of wisdom, grace and generosity perfume the world with a beautiful fragrance. Never enough of these blossoming flowers.

So, what’s aging well got to do with prayer? Here’s a possible connection.

Ironically, despite advances in technology and accessibility to knowledge, humans have not evolved much in the past 2000 years.  Our primal impulses of fear, control and power are still very much alive—roadblocks to growing into old people young people want old people to be.   

In the Bible we meet numerous characters.  Some age well. Others do not do so well.  Aging well seems connected to the openness of one’s heart. Remember King Herod? Guess what? Door closed. No space in his heart for the presence of a child who brings light, hope and healing to those living in darkness. And we all have a little Herod in us—clinging to our small, temporal empires while forfeiting the new things God wants to do in our lives. Fortunately, the wise men Herod sent to reveal the location of the Christ child—so he can execute his sinister, murderous plan to rid Jesus—kept their hearts open, muster the courage to disobey his orders, protect the child and allow the Christmas story to take root.

“I think people who live their lives open to awe and wonder have a much greater chance of meeting the Holy than someone who goes to church but doesn’t live in an open way,” reflects Fr Richard Rohr. “I see people come to church day after day unprepared for anything new or different. Even if something new or different happens, they fit it into their old boxes.”[2] 

We should all want to “meet the Holy.” And through prayer, solitude and meditation we open the door to God’s ever moving spirit and to a life of awe and wonder. Let’s protect and nurture the new things God is birthing in the world and in you and me. Let’s age well.  Let’s become old people that young people want us to be.

---

[1] Finley, James, “Becoming Light for Others”, https://cac.org/daily-meditations/becoming-light-for-others/.

[2] Rohr, Richard, “Willing to Be Amazed”, https://cac.org/daily-meditations/willing-to-be-amazed/#:~:text=I%20think%20people%20who%20live%20their%20lives,Holy%20than%20someone%20who%20just%20goes%20to

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Rev. Dr. Greg Rapier, pastor at Westminster Presbyterian Church, Sacramento, California

“Lord, remember what the Edomites did on Jerusalem’s dark day: ‘Rip it down, rip it down! All the way to its foundations!’ they yelled. Daughter Babylon, you destroyer, a blessing on the one who pays you back the very deed you did to us!” Psalm 137:7, 8 (Common English Bible)

I once stopped by a hospital chapel that had a large, ornate Bible sitting on a table—the kind of Bible that looks like it belongs in a museum, fragile, ancient, with gold-lined pages and fancy lettering. I ran my fingers along the Bible’s edge until my thumb caught on the lining, then I opened it up. Psalm 23. The scripture was covered in coffee stains and pen marks, and the corners were frayed, the gold bent inward. A long line of scotch tape ran down the top half, where the page had been ripped out and carefully pieced back together.

You know there’s a story there.

Was it an accident? Were they angry? Was it the same person that ripped it out who lovingly taped it back together just so? Or did they storm out of the hospital and leave for good?

We all know what it feels like to go too far and cross a line we said we’d never cross, to leave the type of pain where even our best efforts to tape things back together leave a scar. We’ve hurt loved ones, friends, and family. That thing you knew you shouldn’t say is on the tip of your tongue, and you just can’t help it; then, suddenly, the words are out of your mouth and into the world, and something tears. The ugliest version of yourself, showing up uninvited.

Psalm 137 goes there. You can feel the writer winding up to say the thing they know they should never, ever say—and then they say it. The psalmist asks God to bless whoever dashes their enemy’s children against rocks. It’s a horrific image, utterly inexcusable, yet for three thousand years it’s been canonized as holy scripture. Which means someone looked at this raw, ugly, unspeakable thing and said—yes. This belongs. This is prayer too. Is it sinful? Maybe, but there’s a place for it anyway. There’s enough room here. In scripture as in prayer, there’s a place for our anger, our sins, for the ugliest versions of ourselves laid bare, a place for us to shout, curse, cry, and tear something if we have to.

Trust God with your frayed edges. With the parts of you that feel stained. Pray what you’re ashamed to want, name the thing you’re afraid to name, and trust that God will still have a place for you. Be real with God. Get good and angry, if that’s how you feel. Tear into God, if you have to. Because the only prayer God can’t work with is the one you decide God doesn’t want to hear.

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Rev. Dr. Greg Rapier, pastor at Westminster Presbyterian Church, Sacramento, California

“Praise God with the blast of the ram’s horn! Praise God with lute and lyre! Let every living thing praise the Lord!” (Psalm 150:3, 6 Common English Bible)

A friend of mine called a plumber once about a clogged drain. She’d been working for a couple of days to fix it before she finally gave in. The plumber walked around the small room, assessed the curvature of the drain, and cleared the mess in about fifteen seconds. That’ll be twenty dollars, ma’am. My friend was shocked that he charged so little; she’d ordered sandwiches that cost more. So she pressed for details.

The plumber had a cross necklace that patted his chest as he spoke, and he explained how, for him, each service call is an act of honoring God. He’d been working for decades, and he knew all the tricks people in his profession used to squeeze a few extra dollars from their clients, but his faith made him refuse. Honest prices for honest labor—simple as that.

With his hands covered in God-knows-what, that plumber expressed something holy. And the woman with the clogged drain caught a glimpse of it—whether she knew it or not. This short visit wasn’t just a service call. It was prayer.

Psalm 150 ends the entire psalter with an explosion of praise—trumpets, harps, lutes, cymbals, dancing. Every instrument imaginable, every voice, everything that makes noise unified in a scene of chaotic, ecstatic praise. The psalm suggests anything you’ve got can be used to praise God if you let it. Even a plunger.

We often imagine prayer as something we carve out and separate from ordinary life: a quiet devotional in the morning, a Sunday service, a few simple words before a meal. These things matter, and the time we separate for God matters too. But Psalm 150 makes a wilder claim, that the whole range of human expression—absolutely everything under the sun—belongs to God. The trumpet and the tambourine, yes. But also, the garden, the kitchen, the workbench, and the pipe wrench. Over the centuries, a rich tradition has developed of breath prayers and walking prayers, where an entire life falls under the auspice of a conversation with God. Let every living thing praise the Lord—absolutely. Not just during a quick devotion. Not just when we hit pause on the rest of life. Always.

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Rev. Dr. Bruce Main, President and Founder of Urban Promise Ministries in New Jersey.

“… while it was still dark, Jesus got up and left the house…” Mark 1:35a (New International Version)

“Boil it down,” I pressed. “You’ve invested thousands of dollars and hours of meeting time … what’s the most memorable thing he ever said?”

Startled by the question, my host paused momentarily.

I actually was curious. Retaining an expensive leadership consultant is a luxury I never could afford. Here was a chance to glean good insight on someone else’s dime. Bargains are my love language. 

Given a few uninterrupted hours with a successful real estate developer (who freely operates outside the budgetary constraints of a non-profit leader), I had an opportunity to glean valuable wisdom. For over a decade, this CEO had engaged in the services of a prominent consultant, advising him on everything from complex personnel issues, strategic planning, and intergenerational leadership dynamics.

A memorable nugget of truth I desired.  

“Okay … one day our leadership team gathered for our weekly meeting,” my host reflected. “Now Bruce, you’ve got to understand these are hard-charging, Type-A real estate folk.”  I tried to imagine the scenario. He continued.

“What do you mean?” chuckled the CFO, rolling his eyes. “I pop in my Keurig K-cup, make my espresso, and head to the car.”

“My house is chaotic,” chimed another “My wife gets the kids ready for school. I just slip quietly out the back door.”

“I skim the Wall Street Journal,” added the director of sales. “Jump in my car and turn on sports talk radio.”

For the next 20 minutes, his leaders circled the conference table, sharing their morning routines.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” concluded the consultant. “Before leaving your house in the morning, find your spouse, partner or kids. Take their hand, look at them in the eye, tell them you love them, and hope they have a great day. It’ll change everything.”

Silence blanketed the room. Not the message a bunch of high-octane executive leaders wanted to hear.

“For the next two weeks,” summoned the CEO, breaking the ice. “We’ll put this challenge into practice. No results? We’ll move on.”

Two weeks later the team assembled. “It changed the dynamics of my marriage in a really positive way,” confessed one. “My kids thought it was weird at first, but now they are looking for me before I leave for work,” echoed another. “It reminded me why I go to work each day,” chimed a third. “It helped me focus on what’s really important in life. I treat my colleagues differently.”

Ironically the most consequential truth shared by the consultant had nothing to do with spread sheets, forecasting, or goal setting.  Simple. Start the day with an intention. Take an extra 60 seconds. Connect and express love to those closest to you. 

So I’ve been chewing on this idea for the past few weeks. How do I leave my house in the morning? How do I prepare my heart for what I might encounter during the day?

Reading the Bible recently, I stumbled across this verse. Jumped off the page. “Very early in the morning,” writes the gospel writer Mark. “….while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place where he prayed?”

A few verses later—maybe later that morning—Jesus bumps into a leper on the road. Beautiful is his response. “Filled with compassion,” Mark emphasizes. “Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man …”  The process of healing begins with a compassionate heart.

I’ll be honest, meeting a leper at 8:10 a.m. on a Monday morning is not how I want to start my week.  Lepers were outcasts. Lepers were avoided. Lepers were the untouchables. I’m highly doubtful an abundance of compassion would flow from me.  But Jesus was ready. Dialed in, some might say. 

So it begs the question. Did Jesus respond compassionately because he’s God, and gifted a few extra compassion genes?  Or, as Christian orthodoxy ascribes, Jesus was fully human who “grew in wisdom and stature”—potentially including compassion? 

Like you and me, Jesus left his house each day to meet a complex and demanding world.  Perhaps his early routine of solitude—a few minutes of silence and prayer—opened his compassion spigot, creating a keen sense of attentiveness toward ALL who crossed his path.

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Rev. Nathanael Hood, Pastor at First Presbyterian Church of Junction City, Kansas.

“He also said to them, ‘Imagine that one of you has a friend and you go to that friend in the middle of the night. Imagine saying, “Friend, loan me three loaves of bread because a friend of mine on a journey has arrived and I have nothing to set before him.” Imagine further that he answers from within the house, “Don’t bother me. The door is already locked, and my children and I are in bed. I can’t get up to give you anything.” I assure you, even if he wouldn’t get up and help because of his friendship, he will get up and give his friend whatever he needs because of his friend’s brashness. And I tell you: Ask and you will receive. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be opened to you. Everyone who asks, receives. Whoever seeks, finds. To everyone who knocks, the door is opened.‘” Luke 11:5-10 (Common English Bible

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Jesus of Nazareth was one of the greatest storytellers who ever lived. How many other storytellers from antiquity remain so ubiquitous thousands of years later? I don’t just mean writers, philosophers, or even the founders of other religious traditions, I’m talking about storytellers who specialized in telling tales with a definitive beginning, middle, and end. Homer? Perhaps, but some historians question whether he was a real historical person and if his surviving works all flowed from the same pen. Aesop? Certainly many of his fables are favorites among educators of small children—The Ant and the Grasshopper, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, and The Tortoise and the Hare in particular remain perennial classics. (If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure there are a bunch of Bugs Bunny cartoons based on that last one!) But again, many historians doubt Aesop really existed, as his stories were all handed down and collected by other writers.

Indeed, from this ancient dawn of recorded history, few storytellers that we know historically existed reign as supreme as Jesus. As with Homer and his epic poems and Aesop with his fables, Jesus specialized in a very specific kind of storytelling—the parable. Inspired by the writings of Israel’s prophets and rabbis, they are short stories that illustrate moral truths. And while Homer’s epics have gods and goddesses, witches and monsters and Aesop’s fables animals that act and talk like people, parables focus on ordinary everyday people doing everyday ordinary things with everyday ordinary objects. They are stories of shepherds tending sheep, workers tending vineyards, bakers making bread. They center on things like lost coins, wineskins, and lamps. And, importantly, their endings leave their meanings ambiguous. Many of Jesus’ parables have become so famous that even two thousand years later their characters have become archetypes in themselves: the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, the Wise and Foolish Builders.

One of these parables, the Parable of the Friend at Night, is perhaps a bit lesser known than Jesus’ more famous stories, but it’s nonetheless one of our savior’s most significant for the simple reason that it is one of the only ones he told about one of his favorite topics: prayer. It starts simply enough: in the middle of the night one friend goes to the house of another friend and tells them that a hungry third friend on a journey has arrived at their house. The rules of ancient Middle Eastern hospitality required that the first friend would feed the third, but not having any bread they go to the second and ask for some. The second friend, however, presumably tired and annoyed at having been awoken, refuses. But the first friend doesn’t take no for an answer. They continue to make a scene in their doorway until the third friend relents, not because of their mutual friendship, but because they’re ashamed of the first friend’s shameless behavior.

Many commentators have mistaken their interpretation of this parable by assuming that the shameless first friend represents someone praying, their constant late-night begging prayer, and the curmudgeonly third friend God. But this depicts a capricious God that must be badgered, cajoled, and harassed before they respond. This is far from the truth! As that great writer Thomas G. Long once explained, if a shameless, annoying person might manage to humiliate another to fulfill their needs through begging, how much more will our benevolent God give to those who simply ask for things in sincere prayer? Of course, we know that oftentimes God answers our prayers with a “no,” and often for reasons we cannot understand. But what matters in this parable is that ours is not a God who must be forced, ours is a God who delights in helping those who ask for help and guidance. Ask, Jesus assures us, and you will receive. Seek, he tells us, and you will find. Knock, he explains, and the door will be opened to you.

Joy,

“Jesus replied, ‘My kingdom doesn’t originate from this world. If it did, my guards would fight so that I wouldn’t have been arrested by the Jewish leaders. My kingdom isn’t from here.’” John 18:36 (Common English Bible)

This is a remarkable passage of scripture! Captured here is Jesus’ own denial; Jesus’ denial of sovereign territory, “My kingdom isn’t from here.” From inside the governor’s house, a center of power for a defined territory, Jesus disclaims royal territory. Certainly, Jesus’ denial is on the geographical level, his royal authority lies elsewhere. This confuses Pilate. For Pilate—and for us—sovereignty implies a specific place, such as the British Empire. That empire has clearly defined borders, though the contours have changed over history. Christ denies any claim to this kind of power or rule. Incredibly, Christ seems to be placing his credibility on the line.

Many are well familiar with Peter’s denial. On the night of Jesus’ arrest, Peter denies three times ever knowing the man, Jesus. Yet, that same night, Jesus is also making a denial. The difference between Peter’s denial and Jesus’ own denial is not subtle. Peter’s denial is about self-preservation; Peter fears arrest if he is honest about his relationship with Jesus. Jesus’ denial is something much deeper than self-preservation. Jesus is pointing from the physical world to the spiritual. The exchange between Pilate and Jesus becomes a struggle between political power and spiritual power. Political power exerts its influence on people’s outward behavior. Spiritual power changes people from the inside.

One Easter morning a couple spoke to me following the first service. They said they had lived only a few blocks from the church for years and had never worshipped with us before that morning. They continued by sharing that though they had not worshipped before, they were always grateful that the church was here. Politely and carefully, I asked, “Why?” “Why were they grateful that the church was here?” Their answer, “Each day the church reminds us that there is something more.” They promised to return and then proceeded to walk down the street—presumably to their home. Spiritual power is about something more than the eye can see, “My kingdom isn’t from here.”

Jesus’ denial is all about lifting our eyes above political alliances, carefully defined and defended borders, and self-preservation. Jesus wants, “something more” for each of us. Political power bends a people to the will of the state. Spiritual power molds and shapes a people to the wholeness God once fashioned at creation, but lost through rebellion and estrangement from God. Jesus confrontation with our political systems, in the form of Pilate, suggests that his kingship not only challenges the political state, it judges and calls into question the ability of the state to provide the life God desires for us. It would appear in the crucifixion of Jesus that Pilate won, that the political systems of the day have the upper hand. Nevertheless, the resurrection remains only a few days away.

Joy,

“I do this one thing: I forget about the things behind me and reach out for the things ahead of me.” Philippians 3: 13b (Common English Bible)

How do you view the past? That is a good question for any of us. Or consider another question – Does the past have power over you? Are there regrets that interfere with your well-being and, consequently, the well-being of those who know you and love you? Perhaps thoughts of hurting someone or betraying someone continue to bobble-up into the present with the unfortunate result of self-recrimination. Have you taken all your mistakes and failures of the past and carefully preserved them in a time capsule that you open far too often. Each time the time capsule is opened you hand power to the past to beat yourself up and interfere with your ability to be your best self. Dwelling on the past offers one thing – self-condemnation.

Self-condemnation influences the way we think and how we live in the present. Self-condemnation gift-wraps and hands us a “loser-limp”—a term I learned from Zig Zigler which simply means that we limp through life as though we have an injury from the past. Those with a loser-limp conclude that the past is responsible for a miserable present and there is nothing that can be done. A limp is a limp, and we must learn to adapt. What many fail to grasp is that punishing yourself for the past does not change the past. And the only thing worse than a mistake or failure in the past is to live poorly into the future. An example would be a young person who once tried a dating website only to experience failure in finding a meaningful relationship. They now choose self-pity rather than, as the apostle Paul puts it, “reach out for the things ahead of me.”

Paul does not indulge in self-loathing, self-pity, or self-recrimination. Remember, it was Paul that held the coats of men while they stoned Stephen, an early Christian, to death simply because of his faith in Christ. Those who stoned Stephen asked Paul to hold their coats so they would have maximum range of arm movement in throwing the stones at Stephen. Paul is now a great evangelist for Jesus Christ. What Paul is teaching the church in Philippi is that he refuses to give power to his past. Paul refuses the “loser-limp” mentality because the work ahead of him is too important to be hindered with baggage from past failures, mistakes, and disappointments. The past cannot be changed. And punishing himself for the past only enables self-destructive behavior. Paul will permit nothing from interfering with him from being his best self for Jesus.

When one sets their eyes upon what is ahead of them—not what is behind them—hope flourishes. That is because we do not heal the past, says Marianne Williamson, by dwelling there. We heal the past by living fully in the present.¹ The past may hold lessons for the present and the future. Wisdom instructs that we visit the past only for what we can learn and then turn our attention immediately to the present. That is when our thinking shifts and our behavior changes. Thomas Edison was found one morning standing before the charred ruins of his laboratory in Princeton, New Jersey, after a fire. When condolences were offered, he responded that he was grateful for the fire. Edison continued that a good many of his past failures were destroyed. Now they would not be around to tease him as he continued his pursuits of ideas that would improve life for everyone. Or, as Paul teaches, “I forget about the things behind me and reach out for the things ahead of me.”

Joy,

___________________

¹ Marianne Williamson, 13 Things Mentally Strong People Don’t Do. (New York, NY: William Morrow: An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers, 2017) p. 129