Monday, March 25, 2024

Choose Your Gate Adventure

 



John 12:12-19


So come with me to early Spring, circa AD 33. It’s been a dry winter in Judea, and you’ve been preparing the fields for planting. It’s hard work, ploughing the fields with rudimentary tools, and you are exhausted from day. They’re not your fields, of course; they belong to a rich overseer, who, once he has been paid, will sometimes condescend to throw you a few pennies in return for your toil. And, since you work for a “kind and benevolent" landowner, you are getting a few days off soon, so that you may celebrate the most sacred days in the Jewish calendar, Passover. You’re not sure how you will afford the offering necessary from all Jews in good standing, but this year, like all the years before, you are relying on God to somehow make this possible. Maybe there will be a sale on unblemished lambs at the monopoly grocery store down the road. Or maybe the road will be too dangerous altogether, what with all the rowdy insurrectionist groups popping up to protest throughout Galilee. It’s been pretty wild lately, what with the demonstrations and the angry mobs organizing and gathering momentum. It’s a tinderbox out there. One small disruption and the whole place will go up in flames. You know that it’s your faithful duty, but you are tempted to sit this Passover out, just this one time. Things are tense out there, politically, economically, and socially. You just want to keep your head down and survive.

But today, at the end of the day, for once, you come home from the fields and, as your wife is adding more water to the soup, and as you’re sorting through the mail, separating the junk mail ads, from the bills you have no idea how you’ll pay, from the past due tax notices, you find something different — an invitation from the Temple priests in Jerusalem.


You are cordially invited to the yearly celebration of independence, called Passover. This is a weeklong feast, with prayers to God, delicious food, singing, dancing, and connecting with extended family members from miles around. You’re invited to this year’s family reunion, where you will connect and celebrate with hundreds of people who share your language, your lineage, your customs, and your stories. Come. Wear your finest robes. Bring a dish to share. Invite your neighbors. The more, the merrier. This is the day the Jews gather in Jerusalem to celebrate their freedom from the slavery and oppression of the Egyptians. It’s the biggest party of the year. Imagine boy bands and parades with floats and character balloons, a giant illuminated ball that will drop from the sky as we count down the final moments to freedom. This is our Fourth of July, a celebration from the tyranny of imperial rule, a proclamation of Jewish freedom, a time to rejoice and, perhaps, ignore the fact that you are still under imperial rule. Your oppressors have simply changed names, if not tactics — once they were Egyptians, then they were Babylonians, and today they’re the Romans, and two thousand years later, they’ll be the giant corporations that make unprecedented profits that they hoard for themselves at the expense of the working poor. But for now, you’re invited to ignore all that for the sake of remembering that, even though you’re still oppressed from every side, you’re no longer being oppressed by folks named Egyptians.


When you arrive at Jerusalem, you will need to come in to the city from one of two gates. There’s a front door, and a back door. 


The road to the front gate will be decorated with flags and paraments, with parapets towering above you on either side. This is the gate that most will enter. If you decide to enter through this gate, you’ll get to watch as Pontius Pilate, Roman governor of Judea, parades into the city on a majestic white horse. He’ll be wearing a polished helmet with feathered plumes jutting out from the top. He’ll be wearing his full armor, and leading a regiment of troops marching behind him. Security will be tight. After all, this is a celebration of our freedom, and Rome would hate for us to get too carried away. We might start demanding freedom from them, and not just from the Egyptians of old. So Pontius Pilate will be coming in to keep the peace, to keep people in line, and to quash any hints of insurrection by any means necessary. That’s why, if you enter through the front gate, you’ll see the gleaming metal of swords and spears, shields and daggers. Behind this brigade will come the religious leaders, who cooperate and collaborate with the Roman Empire so that they, too, can keep their roles as the powerful elite. They are here to keep you safe. They are here to keep the peace. They are here to maintain order and the status quo. They are here to decide what is best for you. They are here to remind you who is in charge. They are here to enforce the laws and to brook no conspiracies, demonstrations, or protests. Going through the front gate is definitely the safest option. If you’re lucky, they’ll toss you a couple of coins in exchange for your “authentic” enthusiasm. You just need to celebrate freedom from Egyptian rule, all the while celebrating Roman rule. Come through the front gate, and you will come to Jerusalem under the protection and ever present eye of the Roman Empire, upon which the sun never goes down. You’ll be searched at the gate, you’ll pay the proper entrance fee and any outstanding taxes, the soldiers may take your temple offerings for themselves, and you’ll have to swear allegiance to the empire, but hey, it’s safe and guaranteed and legal. Most folks decide to enter Jerusalem this way.


There is one other option, although I don’t recommend it. But hey, you do you. It’s to enter Jerusalem through the back door. This is definitely the more dangerous route to take. If you enter through the back door, you won’t find a powerful military leader on the back of a majestic steed; rather, you’ll probably encounter a peasant man, riding a donkey, in mockery of all the pomp and circumstance going on out front. The road to the back gate will be lined with hoodlums and revolutionaries, delusional protesters who believe that through nonviolent resistance, they have a hope of toppling this powerful regime. Rome doesn’t pay much attention to them, and when they do, they will stamp out any fires of rebellion with a couple of token crucifixions just out of town. This road is lined with a parade of folks in rags, the sick, the poor, the smelly, the mentally ill, the lame, the lazy. They’ll be waving sticks and branches that they’ve torn off the trees, and they’ll be shouting Hosanna! Save Us! At the unarmed, defenseless man on the donkey. If, by chance, you get close enough to get a good look at him, you might notice his sad but resolute expression as he slowly heads toward the back gate. He knows what he’s getting himself in to. This is his “triumphal entry” that will not be a triumph at all. He is marching to his death, and this is his one last feeble attempt at a prophetic symbol, at mocking the Roman Empire, at demonstrating against the Imperial powers that hold us captive, that decide our fates, that keep us from living our fullest lives. 


Anyway, if you go through the back gate, you’ll probably lose everything, if you had anything in the first place, and you’ll figure out first hand what happens to those who stand up against the tyrants and dictators who oppress them. But, you’ll start to question the dirty, rotten system you’ve been living under, you’ll start to love your neighbor as you love yourself, and you’ll probably start to imagine what life might look like if wars ended, if everybody was fed and housed and cared for, and if God were the one put in charge for once. Through the back gate you’ll find a completely different way of life, one without guarantees or luxuries or stock options. You’ll have a different kind of king, who has totally different values from the rest of this world. You’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb. You’ll probably start doing weird things like search for impossible solutions to impossible problems, and you’ll be hopeful despite the facts, and you’ll refuse to give up. If you go through the back gate, you’ll start to question authority, and you’ll ask “why” a lot. You’ll start feeling connected to every living thing.  And that means that your heart will probably be broken. Probably a lot. But you’ll be seen and loved and treasured. And you’ll learn how to see, and love, and treasure. For as long as you’re here, anyway.


You are invited. Please RSVP as soon as possible, indicating your choice of chicken or fish, and your desire to enter either the front or back gates. We will plan accordingly. If you enter through the front gate, you’re guaranteed to have a nice time, to get home safely, and to keep living your life as you always have. If you decide to go through the back gate, I’m not sure what will happen, but just know that your life will be changed forever.


Thanks be to God. 

Monday, March 18, 2024

Finding Our Octopus: When Dying Brings Us to Life

 




John 12:20-33

At the beginning of the 2020 documentary, “My Octopus Teacher,” filmmaker Craig Foster tells the story of how he had lost his love for life. He’d sort of lost who he was. Burned out from his work that had taken him all around the world, and deeply depressed, he goes back to his South African home to try to reconnect with what really matters in his life. He couldn’t find it. To try to shake himself out of his mental and emotional stupor, he went out into the cold and unforgiving waters of the Atlantic, where he would free dive, holding his breath for minutes at a time, diving deeper and deeper into the kelp forest, blocking out everything else in his life that he simply couldn’t fix, until one day, he met an octopus. 


Somewhere around the year 2020, I was tasked with bringing a dead congregation back to life. Peters Creek United Presbyterian Church had experienced a deep schism about thirteen years prior, and had been undergoing years of litigation since. Half the congregation left the Presbyterian church and felt like they had a right to the building and all of the congregation’s assets. The remaining congregation had dug their heels in, refusing to let go of any of it without a fight. Needless to say, after years of meetings with lawyers, hundreds of thousands of dollars spent, trials, retrials, and appeals, the congregation had dwindled to about five faithful members, a small group of stubborn Presbyterians who loved their church and held out hope for a timely resurrection in their midst. After all, if Jesus could feed five thousand with five loaves of bread and a couple of fish, what could he do with five dedicated, and did I mention stubborn, Presbyterians who were ready to do anything it took to bring new life to this neighborhood church? I was ready to give it my all, my everything. I was going to try all the experiments and make all the connections and work and work and work until I figured out what worked. I was going to give my best sermons and be my most exuberant self and draw in the crowds with my quirky, yet bubbly, personality. And then, of course, Covid hit.


At first, Craig kept his distance from the octopus, only wanting to observe her from afar so as not to disturb her way of life. Thinking that she was fearful of him, but still curious about this strange marine animal, he left his camera at the bottom of the sea floor, and rose to the surface for some air. Curious, the octopus creeped out of her cave to explore the strange object. The camera records her using the suckers on her tentacles to feel out what this oddity might be. When Craig returned to fetch his camera, he was surprised to find her nearby, watching him, seemingly without fear. Day after day he went searching for the octopus, learning about the intricate details of the animals of the kelp forest, and the signs they left behind. He saw how mollusks leave delicate tracks in the sand, how the pajama sharks gather together to feed, how the fish seem to school where the kelp grows thicker. And then, one day, he saw her. He saw her again, and began to follow her. He left all his cares behind. He forgot about his depression and anxiety, the mistakes he’d made in his marriage and with his son, and simply single-mindedly pursued this strange creature that was so unlike himself. 


Lots of folks told me that I had been hired to do the impossible. They told me that I needed to be kind to myself when I didn’t see growth in the church, that I needed to be patient, and maybe even a little bit resigned to the fate of this already dead church. And what with Covid, it wasn’t like I could go knocking on doors to invite them back to church, I couldn’t throw a big tent revival to bring the neighborhood back together, there just wasn’t much I could do but watch, and pray, and wait. My anxiety was through the roof. How on earth was I going to save this church? Time - and money - was running out. But all I could do was take some online courses, read some books, I started some spiritual direction, I sat alone in my office and watched the deer yank crabapples from the tree in the churchyard. And my world got smaller. I did one thing at a time. After all, what else could I do? I felt completely useless. 


The octopus got used to Craig’s presence. She grew curious, and floated closer and closer to discover more about his strange appendages, the weird mask over his eyes, the odd way he would swim to the surface and then come back down again. He reached his hand out to her and she wrapped her tentacles around him, both of them exploring this strange other. He watched her hunt, watched her play games with the fish, watched her change colors and fit herself into the tiniest cracks to protect herself from predators. Deep under water, he became single minded, and as the waves and his life crashed above him, he let himself go down into this strange otherworld, watching and waiting for this one common octopus to arrive, to teach him something new. 


As soon as this pandemic was over, I’d be able to get back to work. I’d be able to fix this church. I’d gather all the people and preach my little heart out and wrestle this little church from the ashes. As soon as we got through this, I’d really get to work. Until then, I’d started putting out seed for the birds in my front yard. I’d watch the sparrows hop between the feeders, quarreling over the best perches and the tastiest kernels. I saw the piles of discarded sunflower hulls accumulate on the ground. Meanwhile, I preached to five people in a church that once held hundreds, Sunday after Sunday. I learned how to be quiet. How to watch. How to wait.


How was it that Craig found himself by observing and relating to a creature so unlike himself? How was it that he’d reach this intense focus each time he dove under the water, where time stood still, and he became singularly passionate about simply watching this strange cephalopod go about the rhythms of her life? By focusing on this one creature, this one strange thing, this completely Other creature, by giving his whole presence to it, he entered what psychologists call a “flow state,” where he, himself, disappeared, and all that exists is what is right now, a small octopus in a kelp forest just off the South African coast. Had he, somehow, shed his distractions, his self-definitions, his accolades and achievements, his laurels and masks, and simplified himself down to this one thing - just one man watching one octopus, day after day after day.


When people enter this “flow state,” they don’t experience many thoughts about themselves or about their performance. In some ways, they sort of “disappear” into the fullness of what they’re doing. They lose track of time. They forget where they are. They lose their egos and identities. They lose themselves. The hull cracks open. The shell falls away. The seed dies. We are so fully ourselves that all our masks disappear, our scales flake off, and we are just here in the present moment, where we’ve sloughed off ourselves to the extent that we’ve just disappeared, and all we have left is nothing more or less than exactly who we’ve been created to be. Craig Foster calls this connection through otherness “remembering that we are wild.” It doesn’t happen all the time, and when it does, it’s only for the briefest of moments, but it’s this place where we let expectations and distractions and labels and our egos fall away and we realize that we are connected to the great Source itself: God - that unifying intelligence that keeps us alive from one moment to the next. Craig experienced a kind of death to himself, a re-wilding, a singular focus on something so completely other than himself that through it he found himself. 


“Anyone who loves their life will lose it. And anyone who lets go of their life, for my sake, will keep it for eternal life.” 


The church did die. The congregation dismantled. My job was dissolved. I’d failed. The seed fell to the ground and died. And even today we’re still waiting for the fruit to come of all this brokenness and hurt and pain and death of a church. But there are still those sparrows that come to my bird feeder. There’s still the quiet I’d learned to hear. There were five dear presbyters that I’d learned to love. And maybe, most importantly, there was the death of my self that thought that saving the church was all up to me. There was this seed of myself that fell to the ground and died, that seed that thought I had the power to control outcomes and resurrect communities if I just worked hard enough, if I just believed more, if I just gave more of myself to it. 


After 304 days straight of visiting this octopus, Craig Foster watched her slowly dissolve her life in to the thousands of fertilized eggs that would be her only legacy. It took everything she had left to bring these new lives into the world, and of the thousands, only a few would survive. She’d given her life for life, and when she was done, she let go. She floated along with the current until a shark snatched her away. And that was it. Craig swam home. And he began to write the whole heartbreaking, life-giving story. A simple story of an octopus who, simply by living, helped a man lose his life to find it again. 


“Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a single seed, but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And what is hidden in the fruit? More seeds. More seeds to fall to the ground and die, more seeds to bear much fruit. Dying seeds become fruiting plants that form seeds and fall to the ground and die again. And around and around it goes. 


Craig Foster takes his son out for dives now. He teaches his son what the octopus taught him. One day, just under the surface of the water, they found a tiny octopus, who curiously, wrapped its tentacles around their fingers. A tiny octopus who looked curiously familiar.


There is a flow we all enter, a kind of self-less energy that overwhelms us, and all that is not us — all the expectations and assumptions and shame and regrets — falls away, we’re cracked open like a seed, and that is where we find ourselves again. This is the invitation of Jesus. It’s not an invitation to work more or try harder, it’s not an invitation to hate ourselves, it’s not an invitation to martyrdom or self-immolation, or to make ourselves so small that no one can see us or hear us or know that we’re there. It’s not even primarily and invitation to escape this world for some better reality up in the clouds. It’s an invitation to dive deeper into ourselves, to watch, to wait, and to love so fiercely that we can be nothing outside of what we love. It’s an invitation to enter the flow, that place where we lose ourselves in order to find ourselves. Our truest selves. The selves that are cracked open, broken open, loved open, and opened up to be exactly who God has created us to be. 


Where is your octopus? That one thing that calls to you, that brings you so much to life that you can’t help but forget about your life, you can’t help but forget about your self so you can give your whole self to it that it might live? Remember when you had that? Remember what it felt like? You, being so very you, that you forgot about…you.  It’s time to swim into the deep waters to find it again. It’s time to swim into the deep waters to lose, and to find, yourself again. This is the call of Christ. 


Thanks be to God.