Our fear of God, of being vulnerable before God inhibits our letting God in, but it is overcome by God’s loving embrace and patient waiting for us to come under the wings of love and life.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, 2 Lent C; texts: Luke 13:31-35; Psalm 27

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

The mosaic from an altar in a church on the Mount of Olives pictured on the bulletin cover is beautiful to me.  And of course it depicts Jesus’ lament from today that he is like a mother hen longing to gather her brood together under her wings, but they weren’t willing.  There is much we could say about this image from Jesus, and this particular mosaic depicting it.  But we should notice the striking placement of the words here.  It’s Jesus’ quote in Latin (cited from Matthew’s version, but Matthew and Luke use the same words here).  But if you notice, the last two words aren’t placed around the edge with the others.  Literally translated “and you would not,” the “and you were not willing” phrase is separated out, under the baby chicks.  And it has a question mark.

Now we could see the question mark as attending to the whole sentence: how often have I wanted and you were not willing?  The NRSV and most English translations use an exclamation point.  But the way this is laid out, it looks to me as if the artist is asking the viewer the question: you were not willing?  Are you not willing?  Almost as if each time we encounter this verse, this art, the same question comes to us: are we willing to let Jesus enfold us in his wings?  Almost as if the artist says Jesus isn’t talking to ancient Jerusalem, he’s talking to us today.

It’s also interesting that the way Jesus uses this metaphor of a hen and her chicks only works if we humanize the chicks.  Baby chickens are hardwired to run to their mother for protection when a threat comes, to respond to her call.  Not so for us, apparently, since Jesus seems to think he has something we need but we aren’t willing to trust him to meet that need.

And that seems to be the crucial question: why wouldn’t we be willing?  If we read this as a question mark, as if we are faced with this choice, this offer, every day, what on earth would keep us from running under Jesus’ wings?

We speak of “God’s will,” and say, as St. James invites, “the Lord willing.”  But here Jesus declares the mystery that despite his will, we have a different will.

We don’t want what he’s offering.  We’re not willing.  And it makes him deeply sad to face such rejection.

Now, what Jesus says we’re rejecting is being gathered by him under his wings, being drawn into his care.  It’s an image of protection.  But it’s also an image of relationship and vulnerability.  It’s an image which, if we accept it for ourselves, suggests we are not in charge, we cannot save ourselves, we are dependent upon the mercy and grace of God for everything.

And that might be our dealbreaker.  Jesus is saying here that the Triune God wants a relationship with us, but it’s a relationship on God’s terms, a relationship based on a recognition that we need God for everything.  And as much as we want God for some things, we’d rather keep some parts to ourselves.

The great risk in any relationship important to us is vulnerability and exposure.

In any of our relationships, if they are to deepen, we need to open ourselves to the other.  And all of us have varying levels of openness with varying people.  Those closest to us usually know us the best, and we’re more willing to be open to them about our deeper needs and wants and even our flaws.  The further out the circle goes, the less free we are with ourselves.

In a relationship like a marriage, where two people commit to lifelong love and faithfulness, that kind of openness and vulnerability becomes central to growth and depth of love.  But even there, we can hesitate to share everything we think and feel, to be known completely.  There’s always a piece of us afraid of complete disclosure.

That’s the huge risk of any relationship, really, isn’t it?  Vulnerability and exposure.  How much do I trust you?  And can I risk being hurt by you?

So what’s this have to do with the Triune God?  Everything.  Clearly God knows everything about each of us.  So in one sense, there is no hiding.  But the reason for confession, for prayer, for openness with God is our finding a willingness to admit our failings, our deepest fears, our flaws, our sins, to ourselves, and so to God.

When we can be honest with ourselves before God, that we cannot fix our lives, that we cannot be who we know we are meant to be, that we are broken and sinful, we’re not telling God anything that God doesn’t already know.  But in that vulnerability, our relationship with God is strengthened.  Because we’re saying we depend upon God for life.  We won’t run to Mother Hen, in other words, unless we think we’re in need of help.

But it isn’t just our fear of vulnerability that holds us back.  We also fear being trapped.

I was thinking this week that a hug might be analogous to the wings image in a helpful way.  Some people are big huggers, others are not.  And it often has to do with a sense of personal space.

Some people like a little space around themselves, are uncomfortable if others break into that space, unless they’re family or loved ones.  And in some families, not even then.  Others find great joy in physical touch and in hugging, and have no problem letting others into their personal space.  Both options are certainly fine for people to choose.  But look at what this might mean if we are trying to understand Jesus’ lament.

Whether you’re a natural hugger or not, can you think of a situation where someone’s hug made you uncomfortable?  Or have you ever hugged someone who clearly didn’t want it, and stiffened up like a board?  Why wouldn’t someone want to be embraced in that way?  I think it’s because of fear of vulnerability, but also a fear of being trapped.

If we let someone into our personal space, we risk being harmed by them.  We risk being touched, which can be threatening.  And most important, we lose our ability to maneuver, we lose our room to move.

So what if that’s the problem with letting our Lord Jesus surround us with his care and love?  What if we’re afraid of being so close to Jesus there is no place to hide from him?  There will be no such thing as personal space for us any more?  What if we’re afraid we’ll have no more room to maneuver under those wings, nowhere to run, nowhere to turn?  If we accept his embrace and protection and care, we’re trusting him to embrace us, protect us, care for us, not to harm us or crush us.

And if we get nervous under those wings, we might fear that we can’t run away because he has us trapped.  Think of that: an embrace, even between humans, can be freeing and a sign of love.  Or it can make one of the people feel trapped.  And maybe that’s part of our fear with Jesus.

And feeling trapped is more than just a concern we can’t escape or run.  If we let him surround us with God’s wings, we not only put ourselves in God’s care, we put ourselves under God’s guidance and will.  We freely give up some freedom to obey and follow his will and way.  Going under those wings means giving Jesus, the Son of God, control of everything.  It means agreeing to follow Jesus’ way, the way of the Triune God, and not ours.  And that’s another way to feel trapped.

But freedom is actually key to all of this, because Jesus astonishingly leaves us to our choice.

He says, “See, your house is left to you.”  In effect, “You’re in a mess, and you want to stay there because you can’t see trusting me with everything yet.  And I will let you stay in that mess as long as you need.  See, your house is left to you.”

This is key: Jesus is powerless in the face of our unwillingness because Jesus will not force us to trust, force us to faith, force us into relationship.  He will not drag us under the wings of God.

But here’s the promise he says to Jerusalem and to us: “when you’re ready to recognize that I am the one who comes in the name of the Lord, that what I offer is God’s offer of life, that I am life for you, when you’re ready, I will be here.”

That’s what Jesus says.  “I will be here when you’re ready.”  I will wait for you, however long it takes.

And even more, the promise Jesus makes in dying and rising from the dead is that if we do decide to trust him, to let him bring us into relationship with the Triune God, to deepen in this relationship of trust and dependence, he will not let us down.  Just as much as he won’t leave us simply because we keep rejecting his desire to gather us, we can trust that he also won’t let us down when we do let go and trust.  He died and rose to prove that.

So the wings are waiting for us.  For you.  What are we waiting for?

That’s our question today.  It’s our question for the rest of life.  It may be good to think of entering into a relationship with God, “being willing” to go under those wings as something which takes little steps instead of one giant leap.  Little steps like starting to open up just a little in prayer and confession and letting God see the inside, and trusting in God’s love.  Steps like beginning to listen to the Word and actually hearing it and the promise again and again, and starting to live in that Word.  Little steps like simply coming to this Table once again to be fed today and for at least a moment trusting God enough to forgive all.

And taking those steps means discovering what it is to live with the joy of the psalmist of Psalm 27 who today has no problem trusting in God for all things, in delighting in the shelter and protection the LORD God provides, and in calling God a rock, a sanctuary, a home, a light and a salvation.  That joy is where Jesus invites us to go, the life Jesus hopes we will seek.

Because make no mistake, this is where life is, abundant life: under the wings of God’s love and grace, where we are known fully and still loved, and where we are protected as much from our own fears and brokenness as from any outside force.  With God is life.  Let’s not be afraid to go there.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

After escaping Pharaoh and wandering the desert for forty years, but before the Israelites entered the Promised Land, Moses left them one final commandment.  “Remember where you came from.”  With this institutional memory, we enter this time of Lent in prayer and confession so that as Christ did in the wilderness, we say “no” to self-serving power and “yes” to power that serves the world.

Vicar Neal Cannon, First Sunday in Lent, year C; texts: Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Luke 4:1-13

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

The story of the Jewish people is the story of the wandering Aramean.  Arameans were nomadic group of sheepherders that bounced around the Middle East looking for pasture where they feed their flocks and stay safe.  They were a homeless people.  They were an oppressed people.  They were a people who struggled to survive.

It’s difficult for us in America to know what it’s like to wander in the desert, to struggle to survive.  Most of us, if not all of us, can get clean water from the tap, and fresh fruits and vegetables from the grocery store.  We don’t have to fight for it or toil over it.

The narrative in America that is true for many but not all, is that if you work hard and study hard, you can get ahead. You can build a nice living for yourself.  You can have a nice home with a white picket fence and raise your children in safety.

And that’s why I think it’s so hard for us to relate to this text in Deuteronomy today.  We don’t know what it’s like struggle to grow food.  We don’t know what it’s like to be homeless. We don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where climbing the ladder is not a possibility, no matter how hard we work.

But then again, maybe this story is not so foreign to us …

In this text, Moses and the Jewish people had wandered the desert for forty years, struggling to get by and surviving only by the grace of God.  Moses at this point was very old, and as he was nearing the end of his life he realized that he was never going to see the Promised Land while he lived.  So, as tradition tells us, Moses wrote down the laws and stories of the Jewish people as a way to remember their history.

Moses wants to capture everything that has happened to his people.  He wants them to remember that their ancestors were wandering Arameans. He wants them to remember how God delivered them, so that when they get to the Promised Land they won’t forget how they’ve been treated.

So, Moses leaves instruction for his people for when they come into Promised Land. He says this: “you shall make this response before the LORD your God: ‘A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the LORD  the God of our ancestors; the LORD heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders.’ ”

And this is how Moses wraps up all the law, and the history of the Jewish people. He tells them to remember. Remember where you’ve been. Remember what it’s like to be oppressed.  Remember what it’s like to struggle to survive.  Remember what it’s like to be without a home.

That’s why Moses instructs us to welcome the foreigner, the widow, and the orphan.  That’s what God did for us.  It’s in our history and it’s crucial to remember that God saved us when we were hungry, and homeless, and struggled, and in pain and sorrow. Moses says that you can’t forget or else when you get to the Promised Land, you’ll become the oppressors, you’ll do the very things God hated. We can’t let that happen.

But here’s the thing.  It’s extremely difficult for us to remember things we’ve never experienced personally, even though the story of America is not that different from the story of the Jewish people.

Our story is the story of people from all over the world from all different backgrounds and traditions who were searching for a place to call home.  We were wanderers, some people came here to escape religious discrimination, others came to find a home, and others were brought as slaves against their will.  This story was so ground into who we are as a people that we wrote the constitution to guarantee life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and other freedoms.

Ironically, time after time after time we’ve interpreted these words to be only for us.  We practiced slavery, oppressed the native, said no to the widow, and kept out the immigrant.  We’ve said, “you can’t be here, this is our Promised Land, and we will make it in our image.”

So we use our power to protect what is ours. We build fences to keep our neighbors out.  We create laws that benefit the wealthiest in society.  We make in groups and out groups of all kinds. And what this tells me above all is that we forgot to do what Moses commanded.  We forgot that our ancestors were wandering Arameans.  We forgot our ancestors were once foreigners here.  We forgot that their story is our story.

Now, I hope you don’t think that I’m blaming America for this problem.  The problem is not an American problem, this is a human problem.  Whenever people, throughout human history, have gone from having no power to having power, they’ve fallen to the temptation of saying, “this is mine and I am going to use my power to serve myself.”

And this is the exact temptation that Jesus encounters in the wilderness today.  The Gospel tells us that Jesus spent forty days, wandering in the wilderness, without food. And at the end of these forty days, the devil comes to Jesus at his weakest point and he says an incredibly logical thing, “You know, you have power, use it to feed yourself.  Use this for your own purposes.  Take these stones and turn them into bread.”

And Jesus turns to the Devil, and he says, “No.”

I find this fascinating because I think any one of us would have said, “Why not?  I’m hungry, I need bread, and I have the ability to create bread for myself, why wouldn’t I do this?”  It’s too easy for us to say, “Sure, what’s the harm in that?”  And this is the human choice, to take power and use it for ourselves.

Jesus is the only one who makes the choice that we couldn’t make.  Jesus is the only one, who makes the Godly decision to use power to give life to the other, as opposed to give life to the self.

This choice is emphasized later in the Gospel as Jesus uses the exact same power that he denies himself during the forty days in the wilderness. Jesus takes five loaves of bread and two fish, and he uses his power to feed the 5,000.  In this story Jesus uses his power and authority, not for his own purposes, but to feed the world.

In our Gospel today, Jesus turns down power to serve himself three times.  In this, Jesus teaches us an important lesson.  He teaches us to say “no” to self serving power and “yes” to power that feeds the world and welcomes the stranger.

In this no, Jesus says, “I remember”.  Jesus remembers when people took power and used it for their own purposes.  Jesus remembers that his people were once slaves in Israel.  Jesus remembers what it’s like to be homeless and wandering in the desert for forty years. In fact, because our God is the God of all people, then Jesus remembers everyone’s story.  Jesus knows every story of oppression, and violence in the name of self-service, and he says “no” to it because he sees all of time and he knows how that story ends. Our problem is that we can only see what’s right in front of us, and we’re afraid of losing it.

When we have gone through the wilderness ourselves our temptation when we get power is to serve only ourselves.  We don’t trust the words “One doesn’t live by bread alone.” So when we are blessed in life with wealth, and privilege, and power we use our power for ourselves.  Jesus calls us to use that power for the world.

And that’s what the discipline of Lent is all about.  In Lent we reconnect to Christ through the giving up of worldly power, and in doing so, we remember in the same way as Christ not only our own history, but the history of all people.  We remember that we share a common link, common DNA.  We remember that our ancestors were wandering Arameans too.

And that’s why in Lent we spend time prayer and confession, because in prayer we remember our history.  We remember that we were once strangers in a foreign land, we were once oppressed, and we confess that when we gained power and influence, we gave into the temptation of using our power for ourselves.

But it’s also in this confession we make room in our lives for something new to happen.  We make room for God to change us.  In confession we let go of the need to serve ourselves, and we are given a heart for serving the other.

That is why Lent is not the Christian equivalent of a New Year’s resolution which asks, “How can I better myself?”  Lent asks, “How can I serve the world?”

So for this Lenten season, if we give up chocolate to lose five pounds, we’ve missed the point of Lent altogether.  But if we give up chocolate and sweets to remind ourselves that people in this world go without food everyday, then we’ve connected with something bigger than ourselves.

And if we give up TV so we have more time to exercise, truly we have not accomplished God’s will on Earth.  But if we give up TV so that we can have time to serve the homeless a hot meal, and remember what it is to go for days without one, then God’s will is done.

And if for Lent it is our goal to pray, and fast, and study scripture, and worship in order become more holy before God and honored before other people, we’ve wasted our time.  But if we remember in these Christian practices what it is like to wander, and so welcome the alien into our community, and wash their weary feet as they enter our homes, truly we’ve encountered the almighty presence of the living God and we will shine before all people.

So as we enter this time of Lent together, let us say this with one voice, “My ancestor was a wandering Aramean.”