Our two boys are finally old enough to know how to escape a burning building. It has felt like a long time coming, but we have finally reached the point where Dan and I can leave the house to walk around the neighborhood and let Fortnite babysit them for a few minutes. They know where to get snacks, they can reach the faucet and (mostly) wipe their own butts, so Dan and I have been making it a habit of escaping the house each day, to get some exercise, to touch base, to have some adult conversation, and to get a break from dividing and multiplying compound fractions, sounding out the various forms of r-controlled vowels, and constantly negotiating with our fifth and second graders over when they can quit their virtual schoolwork for the day and get back to Minecraft-ing. These daily walks have been a lifeline for us during this pandemic, and it doesn’t hurt that there is a Starbucks on the way.
We’ve trained our dog to expect them, and I have to admit that when 11:30 rolls around I start to get a little antsy to escape as well. But that may have something to do with the incessant barking that ensues right at 11:29 and does not stop until we’ve suited up, tied our shoes, and grabbed the tennis ball and the leash. It’s the same route every day, and the puppy knows it by heart. She even saves her daily constitution for the exact same spot each day, kicks her hind legs out behind her as if she’s going to bury it when she’s done, and zooms ahead until the leash abruptly pulls her back again, because she has forgotten, once again, that we have to clean up what she’s left behind. It’s the same. Every day. 11:29. Bark bark bark bark. Grab the coats. Tie the shoes. Find the ball. Walk half a block. Pick up the poop. Keep on walking.
Sometimes during these walks Dan and I talk about our kids, or we laugh about the last episode of The Good Place or we decide what special drinky drink we’re going to treat ourselves to on our Thursday date night. We talk politics. We question the value and purpose of “life insurance.” I often repeat my absolute confusion over two things I don’t think I will ever understand: the dog-stroller and the Porche SUV. And sometimes, sometimes we get into these really interesting philosophical discussions where we get to play around with ideas, try out new thoughts, play the devil’s advocate, and ask hard questions like, “what’s justice?” “How do we find happiness, and should we even look for it?” And “are all people who eat at Chick Fil A really supportive of the oppression of the LGBTQ population, or are they, like us, just suckers for a quick, tasty, and cheap chicken sandwich?”
Dan is my safe space. And I think I’m his. So we get to try out new ideas and wrestle with crazy thoughts without being immediately cornered, judged, and pinned down.
The other day, we started discussing this idea of “choice.” What is “choice”? Do we have it? How much choice do we have, really? I mean, if you think about all the factors that have gotten you where you are today, how many of those factors were actually out of your control? Your genetics. You social situation. Your socio-economic status. Where you were born. Who raised you and with what values. Your DNA. Evolution. All the mountains and mountains of other people’s so called choices that have impacted who and where you are today. This is a difficult notion for us Americans, but we started to wonder, how “free” are we, anyway? What are the chances that, under the exact same circumstances, we would have chosen to go left instead of right?
So that day, we walked through the park. The same route we always take. Our puppy pulls ahead and then stops abruptly to sniff at the exact same tree that she always does, we make some comment about how exasperated we are that “she is such a puppy,” we pull her away from the brambles that will inevitably get stuck in her fur, and we decide to hit the Starbucks. So Dan stands in the parking lot with the dog in what we’ve named the “no barking zone” and I put on my mask and walk into the Starbucks and come back out with a grande Flat White and a triple grande caramel macchiato. The puppy sees me coming toward her, she pulls on her leash, Dan says that she missed me, she jostles my drink and I get latte all over the sleeve of my jacket. We sip lattes on our way up the hill, Eliza pulling the entire way because she knows what’s coming next: The dog park.
She lunges at a car, we tell her “no!” And ask her if she’s crazy. We finally reach the dog park, close the gate and tell her to “sit.” And she’s bonkers. She’s so excited. And she KNOWS that she won’t get off of her leash until she finally sits. But it still takes awhile. Finally, she sits, I let her off the leash, I pull out the tennis ball and throw it. And she’s off. Zooming ahead to fetch the ball and bring it back. Again and again and again and again.
Meanwhile, the only thing different about the day is that Dan and I are talking about choice. Dan is proposing various thought experiments, like “what if love is just a chemical reaction in our response to our evolutionary need to propagate the species?” “How much of our morals and values are socially constructed?” And “why is it acceptable to eat horses or dogs or guinea pigs in some cultures, but not in others?” “If we’d been born in India, would we still be Christians, or would we have made a different “choice” based upon our upbringing, our culture, our socio-economic status, or whatever?” And “If you could do a socially unacceptable thing without suffering any consequences, what would keep you from doing that thing?”
I ask, “Well, what about regret? If we don’t have choice, where does regret come from? You know that feeling that we get when we know we’ve made the wrong decision.”
“Ew! Eliza! Drop! Drop! That’s so gross” he shouts. She runs away from us. She knows she’s not supposed to have that nasty thing in her mouth. Does she “choose” to disobey us, I wonder?
“Quick!” Dan says, “Throw the ball, maybe she’ll drop it then.” So I throw the ball, but I’m too late, she’s already swallowed the nasty thing. “Ugh.” I say. Then I say, “Well, did Eliza “choose” to disobey us, or was she just following some deeply ingrained primal instinct passed down to her over generations and generations of her decedents? Did she deliberately disobey us, or, is it just in her nature to eat the nasty thing?” How much “choice” do any of us have, really?
I know this is a long way to get to our passage today, but I think it’s an important question.
See, I was really just looking for Target. We’d just moved to Pittsburgh so that Dan could study with Dale Allison at the seminary, a world renowned scholar of the Gospel of Matthew, among other things. So we packed up our things, travelled across the country and quickly learned that chicken salads in Pittsburgh come with fries on top. I didn’t want to have anything to do with the seminary. After our tour of the place, Dan was pulling out of the driveway and asked me, “Well, what do you think?” And I said, “Ha. Better you than me.” I’d been burned by what I had assumed was the majority of Christianity. I’d been told that I just needed to “pray” my depression away, that God needed another angel, that God is always in control, and that certain life choices meant you were “in” and other life choices meant you were “out.” So I was just looking for Target. We needed raisin bran and toilet bowl cleaner and trash bags and a throw rug. Now this was before smart phones and 5g and constant accessible internet, so I printed up my Mapquest directions, asked Dan to wish me luck, and took off in my Jeep, hoping that eventually, I’d find that big red Target sign, that Mecca of housewares and cleaning products and end-caps full of clearance items. Pittsburgh’s got some pretty convoluted streets, and Mapquest was estimating that it would take me about twenty five minutes to get there, so I knew I’d be gone for awhile, I just hoped I wouldn’t get too lost in the process.
And on my way, as I turned left down Wilkins and right on Murray Ave, I passed by this huge, beautiful old building. “Ah, just another church,” I thought. And then there it was, a rainbow flag with a cross in the corner, flying right outside their doorway. The sign on their lawn said, “All are welcome,” and somehow, because of that flag, I could believe it. And I wondered, “Well, if they feel that way about welcoming our siblings in the LGBTQ community, would they welcome someone like me? Someone with a lot of painful religious baggage who questions and doubts and wonders and lives a pretty messy life?” So the next Sunday, we checked it out. We went to a worship service. And then we went to another one. And then they hired me as their youth director. And then they expanded the position for me to work their full time as the Director of Children and Youth. And then I entered in to this great relationship with the pastor. And she encouraged me to try some preaching. And Then she gently suggested that I consider becoming a pastor. And I said, “No. Nope. Absolutely not.” And then I said, “Well. Maybe.” And then I took a couple of classes at the Seminary, and then a couple more, and then I thought, well, I might as well finish this degree. So I did. And then I thought, well, I suppose I could try out this Presbyterian thing. So I became an inquirer, and took some tests, and did some field education at a different church, and I, eventually, with a few missteps in-between, was finally ordained as a minister of word and sacrament of the PC(USA). And well. Here we are.
So I wonder. How much of any of that was my conscious choice, really? I was looking for Target. I was planning on and building on and expecting something entirely different for my life. I had thought I had chosen “Target” that grey Saturday in Pittsburgh fourteen years ago. And the rest, the degree and the ministry and the ordination, after I was interrupted on my mission to get toilet paper and cheese curls, was me just taking what felt like was the next right step. After that interruption of the rainbow flag, how much was any of this really my choice?
And so, finally, that’s what I think about when we encounter these disciples. According to the Gospel of Mark, these disciples didn’t know Jesus from Adam. Jesus hasn’t done a THING to make him look impressive or powerful or well-regarded or charismatic. At this point in Mark’s Gospel he hasn’t healed anyone. He hasn’t taught a thing. He’s had a powerful baptism experience that possibly only he has witnessed. He’s been thrown out into the desert to struggle alone for forty days, and now, here he is, wandering along the banks of the Sea of Galilee. He sees two fishermen and he says, “Hey! Come! Follow me! I’ll make you fish for people!” And Andrew and Simon drop their nets and do it. They follow Jesus. And then they’re walking a little further along, and Jesus sees a couple more guys mending their nets and he calls out to them, and they drop everything and they just do it. They just go. Why do they go? What is it about Jesus that inspires this “choice” in them? And is it a choice at all?
Or were their lives set up in such a way as to make their choice inevitable. Did their DNA, their social status, their life circumstances, all the other so-called “choices” of those who came before them set them up to say “Yes” to Jesus, even when they really didn’t have a clue as to what they were getting in to? Maybe they were just doing what they were made to do.
And. I wonder. To what extent were they looking for “Target”? I mean, if they had known what they were really getting in to, would they have made the same choice? If they had known the path that they’d have to watch Jesus walk, if they had known the path that THEY’D have to walk, would they have done it? Would they have left their boats and their lives and their families and entered in to the struggle and the suffering and the criticism and the judgment and the eventual death? Did they know what was on the other side of that death? Or were they like, “Well, I do need some toilet paper and a new plunger, so I might as well join Jesus for the ride”? Were they expecting Target? And then they got something completely, totally unexpected, something they never would have chosen if actually given the “choice.”
The Bible is full of characters whom God uses in spite of their choices. The Bible is full of folks who think they’re choosing one thing, but then they end up somewhere totally different.
And well, that feels really freeing to me. I kinda like the idea that no matter what I choose, no matter if “choice” is a thing that even exists at all, God chooses me. Maybe there are times when I simply can’t choose God. But there’s always Jesus, walking down the banks of the Sea of Galilee, shouting out to me, choosing me.
It makes me feel like maybe I’m not all that powerful. That maybe all this isn’t on me to fix.
I’m limited. I can’t reverse the current or change the tide. I’m not God. It’s ok just to look for Target, because somehow God is going to transform that into a lifetime of service and writing and thinking and feeling and building community. I think I’m choosing one thing, I think I’m heading towards Target, but God has other, better, harder, more heartbreaking plans for me. But if I do what I think I have been made to do, then maybe I’m on the right track, maybe I don’t have to fret over my choices, and maybe God is going to bring whoever I am and whatever I’ve done back to life in the end.
Of course, that doesn’t lead me into a path of passivity and acquiescence to the status quo. I still need to stand for justice. For peace. For unity and community and resurrection and the bringing about of the kingdom of God. It just means that I can head towards Target, head towards me, head towards the best thing I think I need right now, the best thing we think we need right now, which is loving and serving each other as best we can, and then God will sort out the rest. God will take us further than Target. Just expect it. You’ll think you’ll be choosing a thing, and then wham, God makes it bigger and wilder and more heart breaking and more painful and more hopeful than you ever could have imagined.
So in our church, in our world, in our communities, in our relationships, let’s be who God has created us to be. Maybe it’s not so much a choice, but just a way of being. Let’s take the risk of the first tentative steps towards “Target,” and then let’s see what God has in store.
Maybe my only choice is to be open to what God offers. Maybe my only choice is to not be surprised when I end up somewhere more mysterious and baffling and unpredictable than Target. Maybe it’s ok to start out looking for Target, because meanwhile, Jesus has been looking for us this whole time.
So. Stay in the boat. Or get out of the boat. God can find resurrection in any of our so-called choices.
Thanks be to God.
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