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A sermon preached on February 28^th, 2010 based upon Philippians 3:17 – 4:1 and Luke 13:31 – 35. 

The reading from Paul got me thinking about bicycle riding.  I know, I am probably the only the one who made such a connection.  Bicycle riding loomed large in my early life; there was a lot of meaning attached to it.

Relative to my peers, I learned to ride somewhat late.  I remember feeling some shame about not knowing how to ride; I avoided situations where attention might be called to this fact. 

My lateness learning may have had to do with the fact that my Dad didn’t know how to ride a bike, having had an overly protective mother who was afraid of him doing anything in which he might get hurt.  So I probably inherited some of that fear.  (My father did learn in middle age how to ride a bike.)

Nonetheless, I can still remember that moment when in third grade I finally learned – the ecstasy, the joy, the freedom of suddenly catching the mystery of how to ride a bike.   I had a big bike, and it was hard to stop, so I just road up and down the block for an hour until I finally crashed landed in exhaustion.   If you know how to ride a bike, you probably remember that first moment as well. 

Later on, when I entered adolescence, riding a bicycle was the means by which my world was expanded.  David Turner and I were childhood friends.  On Saturdays we would ride out of our suburban town, amazed by the fact that sitting on a bike we were able  to ride ourselves way out into the country where there were things to see we couldn’t see in our town; cows grazing by the roadside, for instance.

Later when I was fifteen, David, myself and another friend took a month long bicycle trip through New England.  It served as something of a “rite of passage,” for us. 

Looking back, it seems to me that learning to ride a bike is a great metaphor for the faith walk – the Jesus walk.  I played around in my mind with a fantasy world this week, one in which people are issued a bicycle at birth, but where nobody knows how to use one.   In my fantasy world they don’t know much about aerodynamics and such,  and so for generations the bicycles get used for other purposes – a place to hang laundry as its drying, perhaps.  

Or maybe in this fantasy world children instinctively know how to ride, but early on they lose the ability, discouraged perhaps by adults who consider the activity too dangerous… sort of their own personal “fall from the Garden of Eden” experience.   I don’t know. 

How long would it take before someone would have the vision and the courage to discover how to ride these peculiar things?  And once someone did, how would others respond?   The Gospel lesson provides a clue, where Jesus laments the age old tradition of Jerusalem killing the prophets sent to them.  Perhaps the bike riding innovator would get stoned to death.  I don’t know. 

Why don’t people catch on to riding the bicycles?   Is it because they are too weighed down to even to try – their burdens having names like “shame” and “guilt,” and “fear,” and the stuff that ripples out from these weights, like “resentment” and “hostility.”

So into this fantasy world Jesus appears after his forty days in the wilderness, and from the get-go he’s riding his bike for all its worth.  And many marvel in wonder at the extraordinary grace of his bike-riding, but others declared, “You can’t do that!” 

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From the beginning of Christianity, there has been this understanding that something shifted cosmically when Jesus died on the cross.   In the religious practice of the day, the intricacies of the Law made it inevitable that people would accumulate piles of guilt as they went through life.  The only way to remove this burden of guilt was to make a long trip (without bicycles) to the Temple in Jerusalem, where they’d shell out money they couldn’t afford to purchase blemish-free animals to hand over to the priests to sacrifice, thereby “atoning” for the guilt they had accumulated.  In short order the sins would begin start piling up again, requiring yet another long trip.  This would just go on forever, making for a deeply-burdened existence, to say the least.

And so Jesus’ death on the cross was understood to have done away with this endless accumulation of guilt.   The “price was paid, once and for all,” the barriers to God and heaven permanently removed.   Good news indeed.  Without those heavy burdens, it was time to start learning the wonder of bike riding, which is precisely what those who following in “the way” did.  The Apostle Paul, for instance.  

Some of the language Paul uses in his epistles, however can sound rather oppressive — not exactly an invitation to soar. Take this line from this morning’s letter to the Philippians: 

 “… I have often told you before and now say again even with tears, many live as enemies of the cross of Christ.  Their destiny is destruction, their god is their belly, and their glory is in their shame.  There mind is on earthly things.”

Hearing this, a person might conclude that the Christian life is all about denying yourself enjoyment of the good things to be found on earth.  Christians, one might conclude, are supposed to avoid any sort of material pleasure in this life. 

But if we think about it, that doesn’t make much sense, because Jesus himself enjoyed the good things of this earth, like good food and good wine and good parties, which he continually is described as being at and talking about.   He was even criticized by the Pharisees for not being more like John the Baptist, who apparently was inclined to reject the pleasures of this world. 

The idea that faith is like learning to ride a bike is helpful here, because bike riding is all about learning the right balance.  You have to be focused, but not tight.  The possibility exists of “falling off the bike” in either of two directions.  The faith walk is also about balance.  You can err on one side by rejecting the good gift of life in this world, and the beauty and pleasure this life affords.   Unfortunately, the Church has often fallen off the bike on this side, making the faith walk seem pretty unappealing, to say the least. 

But you can also err on the other side, which is where you assume that your salvation is found in the pleasures of this world.  When Paul speaks of people whose “minds are on earthly things,” what I think he has in mind is clutching  the things of this world out of desperation.  Bellies and taste buds are good gifts from God, but as Paul points out, they aren’t god, and there’s is a significant distinction between the two.

Why are we tempted to clutch the things of this world with such desperation?  Maybe we are driven to do so by an underlying shame, guilt and fear, which is another way of saying we haven’t taken to heart what Jesus accomplished in his death on the cross.  Oppressed by shame and guilt, we flee to food, or alcohol, or drugs, or gambling, or shopping, or whatever form of addiction we are inclined towards.  This, I think, is what it means to be an “enemy of the cross.”   It is living as though the liberation won by Jesus from ultimate source of the compulsions that drive us wasn’t really won after all.

We miss the “eternal lightness of being” that makes it possible to ride our bikes.   Angels, it is said, are able to fly because they don’t take themselves so seriously; they are not weighed down by the burdens we pile upon ourselves in our self-absorption.

Here’s some questions for Lenten self-reflection:  Are you, in fact riding your bicycle?   If not, can you identify the guilt, shame, fear and resultant hostility and resentment that is keeping your from soaring?  What would it mean for you to take seriously the freedom won for you by Jesus on the cross?

How big is your world?  Riding the bike of faith involves the discovery that your world is much larger than you had imagined.  You are a citizen of heaven, free to roam the endless expanses of God’s kingdom. 

For me, a clear indicator that I have “fallen off the bike of faith” is when I look at my heart and realize that I am faking compassion.  I am going through the motions of caring about other people, when in fact my world has been reduced to my little preoccupations.   It’s as though I don’t seem to have room inside my heart for the concerns of others.  

When I realize this has happened, I know that it is time to stop my frantic motion and be still for a while.  Usually if I do this, I gradually discover space opening up inside me again.  I discover again I really do in fact care about other people.  Their pain touches me. I don’t feel as though I necessarily have to take away their pain, because in a lot of cases this is just not possible.  But once again there is room in my heart for others.  And not only their pain, but their joy as well.  Their joy becomes my joy as well.  My world gets infinitely largely. 

Sometimes it can take a crisis to explode our tiny, trapped world open to the vastness of God’s graciousness.   I read a charming little novel a while back entitled, “The Memory of Running”, by Ron McLarty. (Thanks goes to Justin for tracking down the title; I’d lost my copy and couldn’t remember what it was called.) The plot line stayed with me.   This guy in his forties has been living in a world that over the years has been getting smaller and smaller.  He has a job that doesn’t use his gifts.  He lives with his aging parents, drinking himself to sleep each night.  

When he was young, he’d been connected to the girl who lived next door.  He’d had an older sister whom he looked up to and adored, but after she suffered a series of breakdowns, eventually disappearing altogether, his heart closed down to the girl next door and to everyone else as well.

Early on in the story his parents are killed in a car crash.  Hard stuff indeed.  But when an old life comes to an end, there is nothing left to do but go forth to created a new life.  The man  discovers that his long-lost sister has in fact died way out in California, and as the next of kin he must go to claim her remains.  

Hung over the morning after his parents’ funeral, he sets out on a whim on a bike he hasn’t ridden since his youth.   Without money in his pocket, he just keeps on peddling, slowly making his way across the country.  The pounds he has accumulated stuffing himself over the years are slowly shed.  Each night he calls the girl next door, describing to her what he’s experiencing on his journey, and the walls of his heart gradually come down as his world gets larger and larger.  It’s amazing what riding a bike can do. 

“Take note of those who live according to the pattern we gave you,” says Paul to the folks in Philippi.  When it comes to catching on to the bike-ride of faith, what we need are people who can mentor us.   There is only so much you can get out of books; we need people who can model for us the wondrous freedom of faith. 

So take note of people you know who seem to know how to stay balanced.  Watch the way they appear to trust things will work out when troubles arise.  Notice how they have room in their hearts for others.   Ponder their ability to give themselves away without worrying about what they will receive back.  Marvel at their inner freedom and the joy they carry around.

Hang with them, absorb them, imitate them.   When you’re trying to learn how to ride a bike, it’s important to watch others doing it, so if for no other reason,  you know it really is possible to do.   Try doing what you see them doing, even if at first it feels like you’re just going through the motions.  Eventually you may discover that you, too are floating, and the training wheels have come off, and now others are watching you to see how it is done.

One of the distinctive things about AA is the program’s determination not to be distracted from its central purpose.  AA doesn’t own property or maintain a treasury.  It doesn’t have a hierarchy of officers.  It doesn’t debate theology, allowing people to conceive of God in whatever way works for them. It doesn’t take stands on political or social issues.  

It isn’t that these things can’t be good things for organizations to be involved with; it’s simply that the program recognizes that the sole purpose for people being at an AA meeting is to focus on the daily decision to turn their will and their lives over to the care of God as they understand God.  (Step 3)  Human nature being what it is, we will look for distractions — ways to avoid turning our will and our lives over to the care of God.

Similarly, AA isn’t interested in finding new innovations on how they do what they do; their meetings can seem almost tediously repetitive in regards to just “working the steps.”   Again, concerning themselves with innovations would simply divert attention from the ongoing process of “working the steps.”

As somebody who personally loves innovations, I find this challenging.  The Church is not an AA group; we engage in all sorts of activities in “the name of Christ.”   But AA reminds us to keep first things first.  Jesus said, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and everything else we be yours as well.”  (Matthew 6:33) 

The last verse of another favorite hymn of mine includes these words:  “Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee.  Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love; here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for they courts above.”  (vs. 3 of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing”)

If it is true that our hearts are “prone to wander” from our true home (even though our wandering may be disguised in the manner of the elder brother), what might it mean for us to remember to keep the first thing first?

We are easily distracted, O God.   Often we prefer our distractions to your call to us to come home.  Help us to keep returning to the daily decision to turn our will and lives over to your care.   In Jesus’ name.  Amen. 

AA reminds us that we can’t make it alone; we really do need other people.   The society we live in makes it ever so easy to live in isolation.   We can’t be fully human without loving relationships with other people. 

Not all relationships are helpful however.  The prodigal son formed relationships when he was squandering his inheritance.  Unfortunately, they were shallow relationships that didn’t support him in the quest to live the wholeness that was God’s intention for him.  Early on in the AA program people come to realize that there are some relationships that will have to either change dramatically or be broken off altogether — those relationships that previously encouraged the person to be a drunk. They also come to appreciate how essential it is to have relationships with people who are with them on the road to recovery.  There are days when the temptation to despair and turn back to drinking can be withstood only by making contact with others who can stand in solidarity with them. 

As a person enters AA, they are given a sponsor.  In the early stages of being in recovery the primary sustaining relationships with others will be ones in which they are the recipients.  For some people acknowledging how much they need this kind of support will be profoundly humbling, requiring the surrender of the arrogant illusion that they can handle their problems all by themselves. 

As persons move further along the road of recovery the program requires that they serve as sponsors for others.  A shift begins to take place.  Although they often continue to be on the receiving end, as time passes their continued recovery requires that they become accustomed to giving to others in the program.   They must be there for persons who are in a more fragile place than themselves.   Notice, this isn’t simply because it’s the “right thing” to do, but because it is what is required to keep them from relapsing into the kind of self-absorption that took them down in the first place. 

The parallels to being a part of the Church are obvious.  It has been said that being a Christian is one of those things you just can’t do alone.   Recovery from bondage to sin and death doesn’t happen in isolation.   Some of us are naturally “people” persons and will find this truth relatively easy to embrace. (If you are such a person, you probably find the “looking inward” part of recovery more challenging.)   Others of us (myself included) are more “introverted” by nature and will need to consciously resist our inclination to go off by ourselves.  

Lord Jesus, you said that where two or three are gathered together in your name, there you are as well.  Help us to seek out the sustaining relationships with others who would with us the journey of following you.  Amen. 

One of the cornerstones of AA is telling the truth.  Members recognize that their failure to tell the truth has gotten them into a lot of trouble.   They lied to themselves and to others, manipulating situations to what seemed to be their advantage, but in the end their lies did great damage to themselves.   By failing to tell the truth they avoided being seen for who they truly were.  They manipulated others and avoided being held accountable.  In order to be on the path to recovery, they realized they needed to break the habit of lying. 

We all tell lies.  We may argue that our lies are only “half truths” or “white lies.”  We may be able to justify some of these lies:  “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”  But usually our  reasons for lying are not about being sensitive to other peoples’ feelings. 

We lie to seem in control when we are not — to give the impression that we are something that we are not.  We lie to avoid a legitimate suffering, which usually means we simply postpone the suffering. 

Lent is a good time to begin living more truthfully.   If we are honest with ourselves, we will probably find that giving up lying is a pretty tough thing to do.  It is a start however to simply realize when we are telling lies.  “I just told that person that I really wanted to come to the event they are sponsoring when in fact I have no desire to be there at all, and, if I stop to think about it, no intention of showing up?  Why did I feel like I needed to say that?” 

Here is a BIG POINT:  We often feel we need to lie because we don’t trust the mercy and grace of God.   We can’t own our stuff because we figure God will condemn us.  (The elder brother does not own up to the bitterness, jealousy, and pretense of his “good son” act; he doesn’t trust that his father will love him if he isn’t perfect.)  

It is not our failures and flaws that stand as a barrier to God — it is our inability to tell the truth to ourselves and to God.   If we truly believe that Jesus reveals the heart of God, then we know that the Father will welcome us home.

Help us, Lord, to come clean.  Lies and deception are not your way; they are the way of the adversary.   Help us to admit to ourselves when we have stumbled in our quest to tell the truth.   Stir up the faith within us that trusts in your mercy, that we may own up to our deceits.   In Jesus’ name.  Amen. 

In our church building an AA group meets every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at noon.  The inspiration that started AA was surely of God, for the 12 steps succinctly express the path of spiritual transformation on which Jesus calls us.  In the next couple of days I want to highlight some of the wisdom from AA for the spiritual journey, and also reflect upon Jesus’ perplexing parable of the the prodigal son and elder brother.  (Luke 15)

People who have entered into AA have taken a path similar to that of the prodigal son.   The prodigal awakens one day to discover himself destitute, far from home.   He recognizes he has made a mess of his life, and is helpless to fix it.  Humbled, he reaches out for help.   In doing so, he discovers a grace he didn’t know existed. 

Similarly, people who enter AA  and commit the “program” usually do so because they have hit “rock bottom.”   Acknowledgomg their powerlessness in the face of their addiction, they discover a higher power that seeks to assist them on their quest for sobriety and serenity.

The elder brother, in contrast has never left home.  He has done his job.  He hasn’t crashed and burned.   At the end of the story, however, he lives in a prison of his making.  There is a party going on to which his loving Father invites him, but he refuses the invitation.   His pride is cutting him off from grace. 

Many of us in the church find ourselves more readily identifying with the elder brother.  We haven’t hit rock bottom; our lives are respectable, even commendable.  Perhaps we are tempted to look down on those about us who have stumbled in some obvious way.  And yet we often find that in the routine living of our lives we are strangers to grace and joy.  

What can we learn from the folks at AA?  

Christianity doesn’t assume that we human beings are naturally inclined to walk with God.   It assumes, rather, that we are intent on walking on our own, without God.  We want to call the shots; we assume the world is, or at least should be revolving around ourselves.  This self-involvement can be very subtle; we can appear on the outside (as did the elder brother) like we are devoted to doing the Father’s will.   But we ourselves are at the center of our lives; not God.  Our life is consumed with maintaining control, and anxious or angry whenever our sense of control is threatened. 

AA invites the alcoholic into a very intentional process of giving the center back to God.  It isn’t done once and for all.  It is a daily, ongoing process.  Without a crisis of hitting rock bottom, how might those of us who identify with the elder brother engage this daily process of transformation as well?

Loving God, our true home, we confess to you the range of ways we have wandered from your presence, whether in willful rebellion, or subtle arrogance.  Help us to learn what it means to return home to you not once, but continually.  In Jesus name.  Amen. 

In a recent study, people were asked to evaluate a picture of the face of a person they did not know.  In their estimation, did the person strike them as likeable, or unlikeable, appealing or not?  A crucial piece of the study was something that happened just before they were shown the picture; the person was asked to hold for just a few seconds a cup that was either warm or cold.   This was done in a casual way, as though it had no bearing on the study.  The surprising result of the study was that if a person briefly held a warm cup, they were far more likely to evaluate the face in positive terms.  A briefly held cold cup induced negative assessments.   This all happened without the subjects’ awareness. 

This is humbling information.   We imagine ourselves freely coming to the opinions we hold in life, and it turns out what we think and feel is often affected by influences we are clueless about.   We are easily manipulated. 

The cornerstone of our identity as human beings – part of what it means to be “made in the image and likeness of God “– is that we have some measure of freedom.   Unlike animals who act on instinct, supposedly we freely choose our way.  

But alas, if we examine ourselves closely, we may be hard pressed to identify real freedom within ourselves.   So much of what we do, think and feel comes down to things we aren’t fully conscious of:  whether we recently held a warm or cold cup of coffee, what others around us are doing, thinking and feeling, etc. etc. etc.   We act habitually.  We act in ways that amount to conforming to the herd.

In Luke’s Gospel, on the cross Jesus says of the people who crucified him (and presumably of those who had abandoned him as well), “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”  

We think we know what we are doing, but maybe we don’t have a clue.  

As I said at the outset, this is humbling stuff to consider.   

Jesus went out into the wilderness for forty days before beginning his ministry.   He recognized that this was necessary in order to freely choose the path ahead.   We can be certain that if our days are very busy and we never find time to stop and reflect on where we are going, that the dimensions of our actual freedom will have shrunk to practically non-existent. 

Lent is a time to reclaim our freedom, “the glorious liberty of the children of God.”  (Romans 8:21) This can be tough.  When we stop to ask ourselves,  “what do I truly feel and think?  What path do I really want to be on?”  our first reaction may be “I don’t know.” 

It is, however, a step towards freedom to say “I don’t know”, instead of saying you know somebody is a bad guy because you held a cold drink just before you saw him.

Lord Jesus, the freedom you possessed when you walked upon this earth is something we have very little experience of.   Help us to let go of our illusions of freedom, so that we may find your freedom.  Amen.

The Bible is full of paradox.   On the one hand, we are made from the dust of the ground, the same substance from which every other part of creation is made.   Like every other living thing, we are destined to die.  To grasp this truth is to be humbled. 

And yet the Bible also describes human beings as being made in the image and likeness of God (Genesis 1:26-27)    In psalm 8 the author addresses God, saying, “You made (human beings) a little lower than the heavenly beings, and crowned (us) with glory and honor.”

There is a kind of pride here that is appropriate to human beings that is quite different from the ego-centered pride that is an expression of sin.    Have you contemplated the privilege of being a human being?   Have you marveled at a universe fourteen plus billion years in the making, waiting all this time for the appearance of conscious beings capable of mirroring the creator?

Lent challenges us to own up to our sin.   Sin is often thought of as “over-reaching”, wherein we pretend to be God ourselves.   This is certainly a common way for sin to be expressed.   But paradoxically, sin can also be expressed as “under-reaching.”   This happens when we refuse to embrace the gifts God has given us.  It involves claiming to be helpless at places in our lives where we aren’t really helpless. 

Both expressions of sin – over-reaching and under-reaching – have this in common:  a refusal to conform our will to God’s will for us.   If God tells us to shine our light, and we decide instead to put a bushel over our light, that, too, is rebellion, even though on the surface it may look like humility.  (Matthew 5:14-16)

Nelson Mandela spent over two decades as a political prisoner, a time he used for soul searching.   He came forth from that prison empowered to lead South Africa into a new, post-apartheid era.   I find this quote from Mandela’s inauguration speech, very challenging:  “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

 Have thine own way, Lord, have thine own way.  Thou art the potter, I am the clay.  Where your will is for my clay to be shaped into a beautiful vessel for your Spirit, grant me the courage not to shrink away from your will.   Help me to acknowledge those places in my life where I have under-reached, that I might turn and embrace your grace.  Amen. 

A sermon preached on February 21, 2010, the first Sunday in Lent, based upon Luke 4:1 – 13. 

Yogi Berra is famous for saying things that are simultaneously dumb and wise at thesame time.  My personal favorite Yogi saying is, “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.”    It’s dumb because a fork is by definition a choice between two separate paths, so you can’t just “take it”, and yet it’s wise because it points out the fact that in our lives we routinely come to forks in the road without even realizing it.  There’s a conscious choice required of us, but we don’t see it. 

This is literally what happened to me exactly five years ago when I was on my sabbatical.  Like Jesus and countless others, I wanted to experience going out into the wilderness to be alone and fast. I arrived at the woods in Northern California where my “quest” would begin at dawn the following day.  The preparation required that I go up the mountain and locate a campsite for the four days of the fast, which I did, finding a lovely spot beside a great old red wood tree.  Depositing two gallons of water, I made my way back down the mountain.  I rested a while at the cabin where I would have my “last supper” and spend the night.  Then as the afternoon light was fading, I hiked once more up the mountain to take another two gallons of water that I would need for my time alone in the woods. 

Despite a drizzle of rain further darkening the sky, I found the campsite easily enough and deposited the two other gallons.  I then proceeded back down the mountain to  the cabin.  Night was falling, but I wasn’t scared, I was in control, I knew what I was doing.  

Or so I thought.  I was hiking along apparently without paying a whole lot of attention to where I was going, and I did exactly what Yogi warned against.   I came to a fork but didn’t recognize it as a fork, and oblivious to the choice I should have made, I continued onward.

After a while though, doubts began to creep in, and at some point I realized that I wasn’t on the right path.  (The pile of dead deer bones was the giveaway; I hadn’t noticed those on the way up.)  So I turned around, walking more rapidly now. It was getting darker now, and evidently I missed a fork once more.  Confident that I could handle my little trek up the mountainside, I hadn’t brought any or the sort of things someone wiser would have taken; a flashlight, warm clothes, a canteen, stuff like that.)    Quite lost now, I began to feel some degree of terror mixed in with embarrassment.  After a couple of hours, I did eventually make my way back to cabin, but not before developing a blister and causing my contact person a fair amount of distress. 

The experience, however, was valuable, because the next morning at sunrise when I set off to hike up the mountain to begin my four days alone in the wilderness, I did so distinctly  humbled, with a more respectful view of what it means to be a guest in the wilderness. 

There’s this story about an American scholar of eastern religions traveling to Japan to meet with an old Zen Master from whom he hoped to further his knowledge of Zen.    The master welcomed him, and offered him a cup of tea, which the scholar accepted.  The master began pouring tea into the cup of his guest, but continued pouring once the cup is full.  “Stop,” cries the scholar, “can’t you see that my cup is full!” 

“Yes,” replies the Zen master, “and it is the same with your mind:  how can you learn about Zen when your mind is full of all your thoughts and preconceptions about Zen.  You can not possibly learn what I have to teach until your empty your mind.”

You may know the Gospels pretty well, or, you might not know them at all.   If you don’t know them, you might take comfort in the fact that you have an advantage over those of us who take pride in our knowledge of these stories, for you are less likely than we are to miss the forks in the road. 

For instance, many of us are familiar with the way the Gospels Matthew, Mark and Luke start off.   We know that Jesus appears for the first time as an adult at the River Jordan where John (this peculiar guy who has spent a lot of time hanging out in the wilderness) is preaching repentance and baptizing crowds of people who have come out to the river with a desire to start a new life with God. 

And you may remember that Jesus himself gets baptized, just like all the other people, and that as he does so, he undergoes some kind of powerful experience in which the holy spirit enters his life, like a dove from heaven, and he hears the voice of God saying something truly wonderful to him:   “You are my beloved son with whom I am well pleased.”

Now if we know the story, then we already know that the next thing that happens is that Jesus goes out into the wilderness, led by the Holy Spirit, where he fasts alone for forty days, and undergoes temptations from the devil.  And since we’re so familiar with the story, we may miss the fork in the road that Jesus take here, the fact that the next thing you would expect to happen is for Jesus to get to work.  There’s no time to waste; so much to be done, so many lost sheep who need his attention and the power he has to help them. 

But instead, Jesus took the fork we overlooked, doing precisely the opposite of what would make sense to us.   He goes off by himself.  He goes hungry. (What would our mothers say?  “Eat!  You’ll need your strength!”)  The son in whom God is pleased heads off to spent time with the devil.

So why does Jesus take this fork?

You’ve probably heard it said: “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”  The expression comes from the political arena, but it applies to all kinds of power that people can possess.  If we look at the political history of the human race, what we see is a long, sad tale repeated over and over again.  Somebody is in power and ruling, and abusing their power, failing to keep in mind the best interests of the people they’re ruling.    Eventually, whether through a violent revolution or by a long, peaceful political process, the people in power get thrown out, and people who had been out of power take hold of the reigns of power. 

Usually the new regime starts off with a lot of idealism.   This time, the best interests of the people will set the agenda for those who are in power.  But over time, to some degree, the power corrupts.   Why does this happen?  

It happens because there is a quality of arrogance to human nature, part of what the Bible calls “sin.”  Gradually, the people in power lose sight of the distinction between their interests and the interests of the people they’re ruling.  It’s all one-in-the-same, and anybody who suggests otherwise gets relegated to the role of enemy-of-the-people.  The people in power come to feel entitled.  The laws don’t apply to them.  

Now this doesn’t happen all at once.  The process is usually gradual and subtle.  There is no single place where the people in charge say to themselves, “Now we’ll go over to the dark side.”  In all likelihood, they were so busy with ruling that they never stopped to notice what they were doing. 

In other words, they don’t notice the forks in the road. 

At his baptism, Jesus received power, big time.   Awesome power; the very power of the Spirit.   So what’s Jesus going to do with that power?  Well, “good,” of course, which is why it seems obvious that the next thing for him to do would be to get to work.   But Jesus is a human being, and as such, the temptation of arrogance, the temptation to abuse power is there for him as well.   

And so the genius of Jesus is that he realizes he needs to confront this temptation straight on, and not let them have the opportunity to sneak up on him when he’s busy with his ministry.  So he intentionally spends time with the devil.  He’s hungry, and the devil suggests, “Hey, you’re the son of God, the rules don’t apply to you that apply to every body else.  Use a little of that power you have to turn these stones into bread.” 

“Hey, you want the kind of power that can really make people do what you want them to do, I can help you out with that.   Hey, you want people to really stand up and take notice of you, to bow down before you in marvel of your wonder?  I can help you with that too.” 

In each instance, the appeal is to Jesus’ arrogance. 

Ponder the downfall of Tiger Woods.   I suspect Tiger Woods has been asking himself over the last two months, “How did I get here?”  It wasn’t like he sat down one day and said, “I know what I want to do with my life:  I want to have sex with as many beautiful women as I can.  I want to become the most famous adulterer on the face of the planet.”

It doesn’t work that way. The corruption of power comes gradually.  Slowly, over time, Tiger Woods became the richest and most famous athlete alive.  Power is intoxicating; the more power you acquire, the more people there will be telling you how wonderful you are, how you can do pretty much whatever you want.  Temptation comes with power; Tiger Woods didn’t have to go looking for it.  The opportunities simply presented themselves. 

And then there is the lie the devil peddles that if nobody knows you’re doing it – in Tiger Wood’s case, the nobody being both his wife and his adoring public – well, then, what’s the harm?   It isn’t really happening.   And anyway, you are entitled. 

There was another essential component to Tiger Wood’s downfall, and that was his busyness — his non-stop activity.  When you’re always on the go, well, then there’s little opportunity to notice the forks in the road – no time to notice that you are, in fact, heading in the wrong direction, getting more and more lost.  And when finally you do realize you are lost, you discover the creeping nature of your addiction, that what you had thought you were in control of, well, it turns out, you’ve become a slave to them.   You lost control a long time ago. 

C. S. Lewis was on the mark in something he wrote in Mere Christianity:

People often think of Christian morality as a kind of bargain in which God says, “If you keep a lot of rules I’ll reward you, and if you don’t I’ll do the other thing.”  I do not think that is the best way of looking at it. I would much rather say that every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before. And taking your life as a whole, with all your innumerable choices, all your life long you are slowly turning this central thing either into a heavenly creature or a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war and hatred with God, and with its fellow-creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, it is joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other.

Now we aren’t rich and famous like Tiger Woods, and most of us aren’t actively involved in politics, so how does all this power relate to us?  

Well, every one of us has been given some measure of power.   We all have our own little kingdoms.   There are people in our lives with whom we have the power to inflict pain through the abuse of our power.   Will we confront our arrogance before it is too late?   Will we notice the forks in the road?

One of the things I pondered out there in the woods is that to refuse to choose is in fact to choose.   Pretending there isn’t a fork when there is in fact one doesn’t let us off the hook.  

Lent is a time to slow down in order to notice the forks in the road, the ones we have taken or missed taking, and the ones we have yet to confront.

“Dust to dust; ashes to ashes.”  These words are traditionally spoken at the start of Lent, reminding us of our mortality.   The organic material that makes up our bodies ill one day return to dust, to ashes.   We will one day die.  

What value can there be of “rubbing our noses” in this fact?

Here is a great irony:  generally speaking, we human beings are easily bored.   In the waiting rooms of most doctors’ offices, you will find a television, as well as an array of magazines.  The assumption is that should we have to sit there for any length of time, we would suffer the curse of boredom. It is as though life itself were inherently tedious, and constant entertainment and distraction is required to save us from this fact.

Imagine you’ve been sitting in a doctor’s office, your attention jumping from the TV monitor to various magazines, annoyed that you have to be there.  You finally get to see your doctor for what you assume will be a routine consultation, only to be stunned by the news that your test results reveal you have a terminal illness.  You have only a couple of months to live.  

You leave your doctor’s office having just received what would generally be considered the worst possible news.  And yet, here’s where the irony comes in:  suddenly, life isn’t boring.   There is no need to divert your attention with a captivating TV program.  Every moment is precious. 

The truth of the matter is that every one of us is terminal. Whether the time left is three days or thirty years is ultimately inconsequential; the time left in this life will soon be over.  Every moment truly is precious.   It is only the self-deception we succeed in perpetrating about our mortality that keeps us from recognizing this essential preciousness.

If it doesn’t strike you as too morbid, try this little thought exercise.   Imagine that this really was the day of your death.   Tell yourself:  “this is the last time I will taste this food, see my bedroom, see this person I’ve seen so many times before.”  How does this change what you see?

 Lord Jesus, in Lent we remember how when you made your way to Jerusalem, you were intensely aware that your life on earth was coming to an end.  Your disciples tried to pretend it wasn’t so.  As we would walk with you this Lent, help us be mindful each day of the preciousness of all we have been given.  Amen.

The Lenten journey cannot be sustained when our focus is all about avoiding certain activities, or breaking bad habits.  Many people when they think of Lent think, “Oh, that time when you go without something.”   We won’t, however, be able to sustain an approach that begins and ends with the negative.  

Remember, the reason we give up certain things is to make space in our lives for God’s grace in your life.  (Or more accurately, to recognize the grace, since the grace is there even when we are too distracted to notice it.)  Without the grace, Lent degenerates into Law. 

What are practical ways to keep the focus on God’s grace?   If, for instance, your goal is to clear your minds of the clutter, you may have more success turning from your habits of t.v watching or internet surfing if you have an activity to put in its place, such as a regularly scheduled walk.  Maybe the same can be accomplished by finding a good book that inspires your soul, holds your attention and provides pleasure all at the same time.  (Note:  I recently set up a lending library in the hallway outside our sanctuary.   You will find a range of books on Christianity and spirituality.)

Bill Gripp mentioned in a response to my day #1 blog that he has found spending time outdoors in nature replenishes his soul.   There is something truly liberating when we can get away from human engineering and the endless obsession we human beings have to be in control.   (Jesus himself went into the wilderness before he started his ministry, and retreated when the stress of his ministry wore him down.  We tend to think of the “wilderness” in these stories as being barren, but I don’t think this is how Jesus experienced it.)

Carve out some time in your day to simply be, and not do.  Many of us know two ways of being in the world:  1) busily working, or 2) mindlessly escaping.   During Lent, try and find a third way:  neither working, nor escaping – a times when you are simply present to the so-often missed wonder of your life. 

Jesus, you took delight in life – in the lilies of the field, in good food and parties, good stories, in children.  This Lent, help us to remember how to take delight as well.  We want to clear away the clutter that closes our heart to delight.   Save us from the compulsion of having to be in control.  Amen.