THE CRIES OF OUR HEARTS
We’ll jump back on to the Revised Common Lectionary, kind of, with a sweep through the third quarter of Mark’s gospel – just prior to the Passion narrative in the fourth. Jesus is nearing the end of his Galileean ministry, making his way to Judea and, eventually, Jerusalem. Everything feels intensified – the conflicts with VRPs, his desperation for his disciples to understand what’s coming, and the needs of the people he encounters.
Perhaps we can connect with that intensity, given that our own situations have been intensified by pandemics of virus, isolation, and conflict. Neutrality feels like a luxury. We are needier than usual – or more in touch with our need, let’s say – and wondering whether Jesus (as an agent of God’s reign) can provide what we lack.
We cry out for clarity. The loud clamor for our attention and agreement – the incessant demand for our declarations of certainty and loyalty – we are practically guaranteed to make mistakes, to absorb disinformation and hyperbole, to experience the blurring of our vision till we see only “trees, walking.” Jesus can restore clarity of literal vision with a couple of tries (!), but it’s harder to grant or inspire clarity about his own identity, and what it means for how we move through the world. Who is he, and who are we meant to be in response? This is our project.
We cry out for faith. The prayer of the parent for the child’s salvation is the truest prayer we know. What if your church could be the safest place in the world to confess doubt, with a softness of heart that allows the possibility of belief? What if we could practice, together, Ricoeur’s dual vows, the “vow of rigor” and the “vow of obedience”?
We cry out for confirmation of self. Our quest for self-actualization (becoming the whole beautiful self God intends for you to be) is sometimes diminished to a competition – myself over others, myself in competition with others. Kristin Neff has recently written about self-esteem (self over others) vs. self-compassion (self with others). Jesus insists on a shift away from contemplation of one’s own esteem and toward imagining oneself in service of others; perhaps through Neff’s lens this could be less damaging to spiritual refugees and more empowering of empathy. (Service to others, after all, requires the theory of mind to understand who they are by first understanding self.)
We cry out for security. The man with lots of stuff thought his security was in the stuff. The disciples, too, insist that they’ve divested themselves of everything valuable in this world. Jesus, though, suggests/promises that our security is in each other, both now and in God’s good/abundant/eternal future.
We cry out for the beloveds we’ve lost to death in 2020 and 2021. We’ll interrupt the Markan narrative for a stand-alone service to acknowledge the losses of life in these two weird years. There’s a lot of pent-up grief among our #churchfriends; let us surround each other with safety for lament and the comfort of God’s power over Death.
We cry out for the right-sizing of empire. Most of Jesus’s subversion of empire is subtle – the palm parade satire, e.g.; or his near-constant declaration of God’s reign (this is the charge that will actually lead to a death sentence in an imperial court). The story about paying taxes is one of the rare times Jesus addresses empire overtly – and he calls not for governmental overthrow or “Christian nationalism”; he has no expectation that the empire will “legislate morality.” Rather, he advises… what, exactly? to we who follow him as citizens of empire?
We cry out for the capacity to love rightly and well. Augustine defined sin as “disordered love” – loving God/others/self with the wrong emphasis or priority. And that’s helpful. But is it also possible that we find our capacity for love diminished in this age? That our hearts have hardened somewhat as a defense mechanism in a world that does not reward softness? How can the church function as a “school for love” (McLaren), a “dojo for love” (Scandrette), where we practice opening our hearts in safe/strong space?
We cry out for our stories to be believed. Apprentice Evangelist Remi Shores finishes our series with a text from John. The man born blind shows us how to listen to the wisdom in our bodies, even when others won’t. Others may cast you out, but Jesus will find you.