Luke 22: 14–30 (31–23:56)
When the hour had come, Jesus took a place at the table with the apostles. Jesus said to them, “I have longed to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. I tell you, I will not eat it again until everything is fulfilled in the reign of God.” Then taking a cup of wine, Jesus gave thanks and said, “Take this and share it among you. I tell you, I will not drink wine from now on, until the reign of God comes.” Jesus took bread and gave thanks for it broke it and gave it to them saying, “This is my body, which will be given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”
Jesus did the same with the cup after supper and said, “This cup is the New Covenant in my blood, which will be poured out for you. Look! The hand of my betrayer is at this table with me. The Chosen One is following the appointed course. But woe to the person by whom that One is betrayed!” Then they began to argue among themselves as to which of them would do such a deed. Another dispute arose among them about who would be regarded as the greatest.
But Jesus said to them, “Earthly rulers domineer over their people. Those who exercise authority over them are called their ‘benefactors.’ This must not happen with you. Let the greatest among you be like the youngest. Let the leader among you become the follower. For who is the greater? The one who reclines at a meal, or the one who serves it? Is it not the one reclining at table? Yet here I am among you as the one who serves you.
You are the ones who have stood by me faithfully in trials. Just as God has given me dominion, so I give it to you. In my reign, you will eat and drink at my table, and you will sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel.
Reflection by Lori Kizzia
This is the Passion, THE Passion, Christ’s passion. It is a story that we speak as prayer each time we share the Eucharistic meal, more familiar than any human story and yet, it always overwhelms and surprises me, leaving a profound sadness and a wholeness of being which can only come from embracing life in the shadow of looming death. Approaching one’s own death or the death of a loved one (here, our beloved Jesus) creates a transformation in us which fills every moment with sacred clarity. Each word becomes a sonnet, each breath a psalm. The beautiful and fragile nature of life itself becomes vibrantly clear in the face of death. Every hour becomes a festival celebration. When Jesus calls us to the table with him for a last meal before he dies, he is calling us into a moment such as this, highly charged, passionate and urgent, full of insight. Here, in the Upper Room, death pounding at the door, he offers what is for me, his most powerful teaching on the meaning of human experience.
After breaking and blessing the Passover bread and offering his companions the wine glass, Jesus confirms that someone at the dinner party will betray him into death. His companions argue about whom it might be, accusing each other and no doubt attempting to escape the blame. Absurdly, they escalate the argument into a question of who among them might be considered the greatest. Jesus responds...
“Let the greatest among you be like the youngest. Let the leader among you become the follower. For who is the greater? The one who reclines at a meal or the one who serves it? Is it not the one reclining at table? Yet here I am among you as the one who serves you.”
Jesus, the one who serves us, not Lord Jesus, not Jesus the Savior of the World, not the King of Kings, but Jesus the servant, here in the last hours of his life, calling us into the greatness of serving one another. Some scholars suggest that this moment is added by the gospel writer of Luke, to reflect the fulfillment of a messianic prophecy. Maybe so, maybe not. Either way, a story this powerful doesn’t need to be factual to be true. Jesus calling us into the service of God’s Kingdom is revealed here as a stunning, unavoidable truth.
Contemporary filmmakers and Renaissance painters have it all wrong when it comes to depicting this scene in the gospel drama. Jesus does not elevate himself to the starring role. In casting the Last Supper, Jesus takes the role of servant-waiter, not the celebrity guest of honor, and he expects us to do likewise if we truly want to love and serve God.
There is nothing I desire more in life than to serve God. I often pray a single prayer, “God use me,” to express my desire to be God’s presence to those in need or pain. Yet for many of us, particularly those who have experienced oppression or abuse because of our target status in society, there is a perceivable tension between the role of servant and the abuses of servitude. It can be very difficult to assume the role of servant in a society that demeans and minimizes women, children, people of color, immigrants.
Those who serve are often treated unjustly, paid unfairly, and used by a system which doesn’t value their humanity. The working class poor, those who labor without documents, children who are forced to work adult jobs, those who are put in harms way through their service, all of these servants are denied the dignities that we all deserve as members of the human family.
Here, at the Last Supper, sacred ground we visit together every week, Jesus calls us to serve the servants in our lives and in ourselves. He challenges us to speak, advocate and struggle for justice as acts of love. He calls us to dismantle social structures of oppression and abuse, and to take big risks when need be to accomplish this. Arrest, torture, death—none of these could stop him from serving, and I ask myself daily what am I willing to risk to serve others today?
The Passion of Christ is narrowly described as Jesus’ suffering, death and resurrection. But Jesus’ larger passion was his passion for humanity, for the work of bringing God’s Kingdom to Earth. His passion was his love for God and for those he served, for the servant disciple in each of us. Each time I open my heart or stand in solidarity with someone, each time I lend my voice to demand justice, offer a simple act of kindness or love someone who challenges me, I become a part of Jesus’ story.
This commitment to serve others, even when it is difficult or painful, is the deeper passion of Christ. And it is through this passion that we are lifted out of the abuses of servitude, healed by Jesus’ perfect love for us, and invited into the knowledge that every moment is sacred and every human interaction is an opportunity to touch, know, and serve the Divine.
During the Week
Look for Jesus in each person who serves you, restaurant servers, childcare workers, teachers, postal workers and gardeners. Smile from your heart and acknowledge the divine presence in each person.
Make a list throughout the week, of all who serve you and your family, and all those you serve. Create a litany of gratitude for each one in your own words; offer these thanksgivings to God in your daily prayers.
Offer yourself intentionally as a servant to the Christ in all people. Go out of your way to serve someone this week. Lend a hand to an elderly neighbor by taking out the trash or bringing a treat. Surprise your co-workers with a thank you note for great team work, appreciate your family with extra time and attention, say more than just thank you to every person who helps or serves you.
Finally, offer your gratitude to Jesus himself. Speak to him in your heart; share your joy and thanksgiving for his life and witness and for his constant service to you on the journey of your life.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
LENT V
John 12:1–8
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There the family gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”
Reflection by Sharalyn Hamilton
To come to Jerusalem for the Passover was an act of courage for Jesus. The authorities had made him somewhat of an outlaw, a wanted man (John 11.) Like Jesus, great crowds of people would have journeyed to Jerusalem for Passover, so many that some would need to stay in the nearby countryside such as Bethany. At the home of his dear friends, Jesus appears to have taken lodging and a meal. Reminiscent of their roles in earlier passages, Martha, a practical woman was serving Jesus. Clearly she showed her love through the work of her hands. Then there is Mary, the one who is characterized as loving him most; sitting at his feet and hanging on his every word while Martha cooked and served. In this passage Mary shows the extravagance of her love by giving her most precious belonging. Immediately Judas tries to shame her for her extravagance, but Jesus’ response is “Let her alone!” and he goes on to say that while the poor will always be with them, (inferring that they should always be cared for) they will not always have Jesus. Some have said that Mary was the first believer. She acted upon her belief in who he was and what was to come of him. This story is often referred to as an anointing and slightly different variations are found in each of the gospels.
In the ancient Jewish world, relationship was developed and somewhat defined by the gift you presented to someone. If you wanted to create a stir, you gave an extravagant gift! And Mary did. Immediately it called into question her judgment and the appropriateness of the gift, but Jesus understood it was her best, coming from a place of abundance rooted in love rather than a place of scarcity rooted in fear.
One of my great privileges is to witness extravagant gifts and the great joy experienced by the giver. It is a relationship building experience, not necessarily with another human being but between the giver and this church and ultimately between the giver and his or her God. The extravagance of the gift has little or nothing to do with the dollar value of the gift. One day I stood at the stewardship table while a man of what appeared to be very little means, calculated his pledge. If he gave fifty cents a week to the operating budget, could he also afford ten cents a week to the building project. He did the math and joyfully presented his pledge. He was now in the deepest kind of relationship with his church, He had given an extravagant gift from the resources of his life and labor. A few weeks later I was present when someone gave a twenty-five thousand dollar unsolicited gift, just because she had been moved by the worship and the witness of this church. She was moved to be extravagant, to say I believe in what is taking place here and I want to be a part of it. I have no doubt that these gifts are an expression of love, appreciation and gratitude. I have no doubt that the givers blessed themselves in the giving of these gifts.
There is a contemporary song, by singer Kris Allen entitled, Live Like We’re Dying. It is a cheesy pop song that reminds people to do what is most important right now. “Yeah we gotta start lookin’ at the hand of the time we’ve been given here. This is all we got and we gotta start pickin’ it. Every second counts on a clock that’s tickin’. Gotta live like we’re dying.”
I have spent the last couple weeks sitting at my dying father’s bedside watching the stream of people say goodbye. Like everyone who has experienced this period of closure, I wanted to be extravagant and give my most precious gift, my time. It felt so good. I called into question why it took this moment to prompt some of that extravagance. When we know someone is dying it changes everything and yet aren’t we all dying even as we live?
During the Week
In the week to come, live like you're dying.
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There the family gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”
Reflection by Sharalyn Hamilton
To come to Jerusalem for the Passover was an act of courage for Jesus. The authorities had made him somewhat of an outlaw, a wanted man (John 11.) Like Jesus, great crowds of people would have journeyed to Jerusalem for Passover, so many that some would need to stay in the nearby countryside such as Bethany. At the home of his dear friends, Jesus appears to have taken lodging and a meal. Reminiscent of their roles in earlier passages, Martha, a practical woman was serving Jesus. Clearly she showed her love through the work of her hands. Then there is Mary, the one who is characterized as loving him most; sitting at his feet and hanging on his every word while Martha cooked and served. In this passage Mary shows the extravagance of her love by giving her most precious belonging. Immediately Judas tries to shame her for her extravagance, but Jesus’ response is “Let her alone!” and he goes on to say that while the poor will always be with them, (inferring that they should always be cared for) they will not always have Jesus. Some have said that Mary was the first believer. She acted upon her belief in who he was and what was to come of him. This story is often referred to as an anointing and slightly different variations are found in each of the gospels.
In the ancient Jewish world, relationship was developed and somewhat defined by the gift you presented to someone. If you wanted to create a stir, you gave an extravagant gift! And Mary did. Immediately it called into question her judgment and the appropriateness of the gift, but Jesus understood it was her best, coming from a place of abundance rooted in love rather than a place of scarcity rooted in fear.
One of my great privileges is to witness extravagant gifts and the great joy experienced by the giver. It is a relationship building experience, not necessarily with another human being but between the giver and this church and ultimately between the giver and his or her God. The extravagance of the gift has little or nothing to do with the dollar value of the gift. One day I stood at the stewardship table while a man of what appeared to be very little means, calculated his pledge. If he gave fifty cents a week to the operating budget, could he also afford ten cents a week to the building project. He did the math and joyfully presented his pledge. He was now in the deepest kind of relationship with his church, He had given an extravagant gift from the resources of his life and labor. A few weeks later I was present when someone gave a twenty-five thousand dollar unsolicited gift, just because she had been moved by the worship and the witness of this church. She was moved to be extravagant, to say I believe in what is taking place here and I want to be a part of it. I have no doubt that these gifts are an expression of love, appreciation and gratitude. I have no doubt that the givers blessed themselves in the giving of these gifts.
There is a contemporary song, by singer Kris Allen entitled, Live Like We’re Dying. It is a cheesy pop song that reminds people to do what is most important right now. “Yeah we gotta start lookin’ at the hand of the time we’ve been given here. This is all we got and we gotta start pickin’ it. Every second counts on a clock that’s tickin’. Gotta live like we’re dying.”
I have spent the last couple weeks sitting at my dying father’s bedside watching the stream of people say goodbye. Like everyone who has experienced this period of closure, I wanted to be extravagant and give my most precious gift, my time. It felt so good. I called into question why it took this moment to prompt some of that extravagance. When we know someone is dying it changes everything and yet aren’t we all dying even as we live?
During the Week
In the week to come, live like you're dying.
- Who needs to hear from you and you from them?
- With whom do you want to create relationship through a gift or sharing a meal?
- Where does fear and scarcity need to give way to love and abundance?
- What is my most precious, most extravagant gift to give to God’s world?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
LENT IV
Luke 15:1–3,11b–32
All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So Jesus told them this parable: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.
When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything.
But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ So he set off and went to his father.
But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe–the best one–and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.
Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. The slave replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then the elder son became angry and refused to go in.
His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’
Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’”
Reflection by Christina Honchell
I have known these three guys for as long as I can remember, much as I know the characters in my favorite fairy tales. The images were set in early Sunday School: I known what they are wearing, what the layout of the house looks like, know in detail the pig farm up on a plateau, and the long road home down a gentle hill dotted with wildflowers. I can see the big, flashy ruby ring that the father places on the young son’s hand, I can hear the music and catch a glimpse of the dancing at that party that went on till dawn (and it looks just like one of my parents’ swinging 60’s cocktail parties). Following on the heels of two shorter, metaphorical tales of sheep and coins, this novella of a gospel drama is rich and provocative, personal and relational, Jesus at his story-telling best.
Everyone in this story is prodigal: extravagant, extreme, archetypal. I have been both sons, and I long to be the father.
The younger son is clueless, impulsive, insensitive to the impact he has on his family. I was that kid in my own rebellious years. And like him, I was blessed to have a safety net and the privilege to make some really bad decisions – and to still be welcomed home. Like him, I have been haunted by the sense that I have disappointed my family and let that embarrassment keep me separated, to my own detriment.
But I have spent much more of my life in the skin of the older brother, soured by his resentments and haunted by his questions: Doesn’t loyalty count for anything? Why should I bother to work hard? Where is the justice? Wanting to yell out in my best 3-year-old whine: “It isn’t fair!!” I can’t count how many times I shut myself out of a celebration over some slight, perceived or real – I have walked out of family dinners and parties, I have pouted and given in to the worst kind of envy. Like the Pharisees who worried about Jesus eating with sinners, the ones to whom Jesus told this story, I have been caught up in the nonsense of following rules and missing grace. This loving parent tells him (and me)“everything I have is yours,” and everything isn’t enough.
The true prodigal in this story is the father – his love, his generosity and forgiveness are unlimited and beyond measure. The father extends himself to both sons: The younger son can’t even get out the lame story that he crafted to win forgiveness before the father grabs him, kisses his neck and brings him home; the father leaves the house to beg the sulker to come to the party. The genius of this story is that it gave me my first image of God, as generous parent beyond my dreams – a good argument for making this the first Bible story you teach your kids. God is wildly inclusive, full of open invitation and forgiveness.
My Lenten practice this year is generosity. I’ve decided to take on the spiritual practice of giving the benefit of the doubt: that car that cut me off on my way home from work – maybe it was a scared father racing his sick child to the hospital; the phone company guy who came two hours late for our appointment – maybe he was helping someone whose phone is literally their lifeline. Baby steps, I know, but they take me down the road toward prodigal mercy. God is calling us to live in celebration, without envy, to love and forgive in ways that make no sense.
During the Week
Try on each of the three characters in the story – how have you:
a) Separated yourself from loved ones because of your perceived inadequacies?
b) Acted out of resentment toward those who showed generosity to others; felt cheated, the victim of unfairness?
c) Shown extreme generosity and unconditional love toward someone who feels unloved or unworthy?
How would you finish the story – does the older son join the party? What happens the next
morning?
For further reading: Henri Nouwen wrote a wonderful meditation on this gospel story, "The Return of the Prodigal Son, A Homecoming Story," based on his love of Rembrandt’s painting of the same name.
All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So Jesus told them this parable: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.
When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything.
But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ So he set off and went to his father.
But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe–the best one–and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.
Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. The slave replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then the elder son became angry and refused to go in.
His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’
Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’”
Reflection by Christina Honchell
I have known these three guys for as long as I can remember, much as I know the characters in my favorite fairy tales. The images were set in early Sunday School: I known what they are wearing, what the layout of the house looks like, know in detail the pig farm up on a plateau, and the long road home down a gentle hill dotted with wildflowers. I can see the big, flashy ruby ring that the father places on the young son’s hand, I can hear the music and catch a glimpse of the dancing at that party that went on till dawn (and it looks just like one of my parents’ swinging 60’s cocktail parties). Following on the heels of two shorter, metaphorical tales of sheep and coins, this novella of a gospel drama is rich and provocative, personal and relational, Jesus at his story-telling best.
Everyone in this story is prodigal: extravagant, extreme, archetypal. I have been both sons, and I long to be the father.
The younger son is clueless, impulsive, insensitive to the impact he has on his family. I was that kid in my own rebellious years. And like him, I was blessed to have a safety net and the privilege to make some really bad decisions – and to still be welcomed home. Like him, I have been haunted by the sense that I have disappointed my family and let that embarrassment keep me separated, to my own detriment.
But I have spent much more of my life in the skin of the older brother, soured by his resentments and haunted by his questions: Doesn’t loyalty count for anything? Why should I bother to work hard? Where is the justice? Wanting to yell out in my best 3-year-old whine: “It isn’t fair!!” I can’t count how many times I shut myself out of a celebration over some slight, perceived or real – I have walked out of family dinners and parties, I have pouted and given in to the worst kind of envy. Like the Pharisees who worried about Jesus eating with sinners, the ones to whom Jesus told this story, I have been caught up in the nonsense of following rules and missing grace. This loving parent tells him (and me)“everything I have is yours,” and everything isn’t enough.
The true prodigal in this story is the father – his love, his generosity and forgiveness are unlimited and beyond measure. The father extends himself to both sons: The younger son can’t even get out the lame story that he crafted to win forgiveness before the father grabs him, kisses his neck and brings him home; the father leaves the house to beg the sulker to come to the party. The genius of this story is that it gave me my first image of God, as generous parent beyond my dreams – a good argument for making this the first Bible story you teach your kids. God is wildly inclusive, full of open invitation and forgiveness.
My Lenten practice this year is generosity. I’ve decided to take on the spiritual practice of giving the benefit of the doubt: that car that cut me off on my way home from work – maybe it was a scared father racing his sick child to the hospital; the phone company guy who came two hours late for our appointment – maybe he was helping someone whose phone is literally their lifeline. Baby steps, I know, but they take me down the road toward prodigal mercy. God is calling us to live in celebration, without envy, to love and forgive in ways that make no sense.
During the Week
Try on each of the three characters in the story – how have you:
a) Separated yourself from loved ones because of your perceived inadequacies?
b) Acted out of resentment toward those who showed generosity to others; felt cheated, the victim of unfairness?
c) Shown extreme generosity and unconditional love toward someone who feels unloved or unworthy?
How would you finish the story – does the older son join the party? What happens the next
morning?
For further reading: Henri Nouwen wrote a wonderful meditation on this gospel story, "The Return of the Prodigal Son, A Homecoming Story," based on his love of Rembrandt’s painting of the same name.
Monday, March 1, 2010
LENT III
Luke 13:1–9
There were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them – do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
Then Jesus told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ The gardener replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”
Reflection -- by Sam Prince
In a college drawing class, I was once given an assignment to create a narrative piece of art—one that would beautifully and effectively tell a story. The catch was, I could only use a pen and permanent ink. Despite my countless hours of intensive brainstorming, planned sketching, and focused efforts to “perfectly” execute my vision, it was in the final stages of my drawing that an unsuspected and unwanted blotch of ink appeared in the middle of the page.
After the horror of realizing there was no going back, I was forced to make a choice: I could give up on the piece, forget about the story I was trying to tell, choose to see the blotch as a waste of space, and wallow in my dismay asking the age-old question: "WHY did this happen?"
…OR, I could choose to see this blotch as an opportunity to re-engage my imagination, spark my creativity, and ask, “What now?” I could utilize this unexpected and seemingly dreadful circumstance to think of creative ways to continue drawing my picture, telling the story I had begun in a new way, now with a redemptive dialogue.
This is the agony of creation.
While it is not my intention to trivialize human suffering to a drop of ink, I think great truth can be found in the creative process. It is in this ongoing activity of re-imagination that we experience the call of God, the Great Creator, to repent—to see things differently and to do something about it.
Take the text at hand. Here, the people ask Jesus about suffering with a tangible experience of their own. What I love is that instead of allowing them to get stuck asking “Why?” Jesus encourages them to be creative.
As I read this passage in its entirety, I hear Jesus saying: Yes, suffering happens; and it’s not the consequence of this people’s sin. SO, unless you repent and see things differently—stop asking, “Why?” and start asking, “What now?”—you will be like a fig tree that bears no fruit. And this lack of creativity will leave you feeling unfulfilled and unresolved. YET, no matter how long you have been uncreative, and no matter how much you might feel like a “waste of space,” the Good Gardener, the Great Artist, is always there realizing your potential and, with Grace, offering you another chance.
Let this Lent be a time for repentance—for re-engaging our imagination and choosing to see suffering in a new way. Let us ask God and ourselves how we might be creative with the blotches of ink on our own page. How might we continue to tell the story that has begun, only now with a redemptive dialogue? …because after all, the roll of an artist is not simply visionary. The roll of an artist is to produce something that changes the world; and with God’s grace we can do it.
During the Week
What are the “blotches of ink” that have fallen on the page of your life? Offer them to God in prayer. Then, ask yourself how these circumstances might be an opportunity to engage your creativity and imagine life in a new way. How might you incorporate these blotches to continue making a beautiful piece of art that tells a story of redemption?
In order to create the “masterpieces,” artists must always dig deep within themselves and do the work of creating, no matter how ugly they think some of their creations might be. This is the digging and spreading of manure. Is there any work that needs to be done in your own life that will help you to bear fruit? Anything you could dig up and get rid of or take up and spread like manure? Are there things you can do today, this week, this Lent?
Do you ever feel like a waste of space? Maybe you feel like you ARE the blotch of ink or the fig-less fig tree? Try to re-imagine yourself and your life as part of a greater picture, a bigger garden, a larger story that continues to unfold. And know that the Great Artist, the Good Gardener, is always there waiting to help you be creative and bear fruit.
There were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them – do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
Then Jesus told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ The gardener replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”
Reflection -- by Sam Prince
In a college drawing class, I was once given an assignment to create a narrative piece of art—one that would beautifully and effectively tell a story. The catch was, I could only use a pen and permanent ink. Despite my countless hours of intensive brainstorming, planned sketching, and focused efforts to “perfectly” execute my vision, it was in the final stages of my drawing that an unsuspected and unwanted blotch of ink appeared in the middle of the page.
After the horror of realizing there was no going back, I was forced to make a choice: I could give up on the piece, forget about the story I was trying to tell, choose to see the blotch as a waste of space, and wallow in my dismay asking the age-old question: "WHY did this happen?"
…OR, I could choose to see this blotch as an opportunity to re-engage my imagination, spark my creativity, and ask, “What now?” I could utilize this unexpected and seemingly dreadful circumstance to think of creative ways to continue drawing my picture, telling the story I had begun in a new way, now with a redemptive dialogue.
This is the agony of creation.
While it is not my intention to trivialize human suffering to a drop of ink, I think great truth can be found in the creative process. It is in this ongoing activity of re-imagination that we experience the call of God, the Great Creator, to repent—to see things differently and to do something about it.
Take the text at hand. Here, the people ask Jesus about suffering with a tangible experience of their own. What I love is that instead of allowing them to get stuck asking “Why?” Jesus encourages them to be creative.
As I read this passage in its entirety, I hear Jesus saying: Yes, suffering happens; and it’s not the consequence of this people’s sin. SO, unless you repent and see things differently—stop asking, “Why?” and start asking, “What now?”—you will be like a fig tree that bears no fruit. And this lack of creativity will leave you feeling unfulfilled and unresolved. YET, no matter how long you have been uncreative, and no matter how much you might feel like a “waste of space,” the Good Gardener, the Great Artist, is always there realizing your potential and, with Grace, offering you another chance.
Let this Lent be a time for repentance—for re-engaging our imagination and choosing to see suffering in a new way. Let us ask God and ourselves how we might be creative with the blotches of ink on our own page. How might we continue to tell the story that has begun, only now with a redemptive dialogue? …because after all, the roll of an artist is not simply visionary. The roll of an artist is to produce something that changes the world; and with God’s grace we can do it.
During the Week
What are the “blotches of ink” that have fallen on the page of your life? Offer them to God in prayer. Then, ask yourself how these circumstances might be an opportunity to engage your creativity and imagine life in a new way. How might you incorporate these blotches to continue making a beautiful piece of art that tells a story of redemption?
In order to create the “masterpieces,” artists must always dig deep within themselves and do the work of creating, no matter how ugly they think some of their creations might be. This is the digging and spreading of manure. Is there any work that needs to be done in your own life that will help you to bear fruit? Anything you could dig up and get rid of or take up and spread like manure? Are there things you can do today, this week, this Lent?
Do you ever feel like a waste of space? Maybe you feel like you ARE the blotch of ink or the fig-less fig tree? Try to re-imagine yourself and your life as part of a greater picture, a bigger garden, a larger story that continues to unfold. And know that the Great Artist, the Good Gardener, is always there waiting to help you be creative and bear fruit.
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