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Lives Together
Before long, the first handshakes will be completed. The punch bowl will be washed and set on the rack to dry, and the final pieces of cake will either be given away to the person with the weakest will power or will slowly turn stale in the darkest corners of the refrigerator. The engine a full-time pastor will start again, and you will, together, walk on the path you're called to as a family and community drawn together by God, and the excitement of this space will begin to feel lovingly familiar and mundane – the new way you always were.
I get that, and certainly, I want that someday, too. I know that the pastor you call soon will want to feel like this church is home and that you all have all made the right decisions together. But before things gather momentum, I want to stop and take a step back to think about the reality of our lives together. If the final weeks that we are together are the last before you have someone full time, I want to at least try a little to “set the table” so to speak, and have us consider some passages together. The Scripture today is actually the lectionary text for July 8, 2018, or when I think I will likely be preaching my first sermon at my new church.
When I started looking at these texts, I started to wonder if they were some kind of cruel trick for new seminary graduates. Ezekiel, Mark, and the other companion text in 2 Corinthians (where Paul speaks of the thorn in his side) all could read to the nervous new pastor “good luck… you're gonna need it.” Indeed, if we read the Ezekiel passage alone, it feels like a pastor's worst nightmare – a group of people who a rebellious to God, stubborn and obstinate, and who really knows if they'll listen or not, but they'll know you've shown up. This kind of exhortation typically doesn't come as part of one's ordination. But yet, I imagine there is a little of this in each pastor as they take to the pulpit at a new church for the first time. While you may know the candidates that will come here a little bit, as any of you can attest to if you've gone through the PNC process a couple times is that what is seen on paper and what is heard in person may not continue to be the same thing not too much more after – for both the pastor and the congregation.
What is also striking, however, is the use of the phrase Son of Man, or ben-'adamh. Many translations will resolve it into the word “mortal” for understandable reasons related to the need for inclusion, I think this is one place where that good instinct weakens the message. Ben-'adamh is used nearly 93 times in the book of Ezekiel, and comprises almost all of the times its used in the Old Testament. As an address, it contrasts the status of humanity with the dignity of God. Any of us who feel called to the pulpit and to the work of the clergy know this feeling. We are broken, imperfect people. When, as Karl Barth writes, we gather “on Sunday morning when the bells ring to call the congregation and minister to church, there is in the air an expectancy that something great, crucial, and even momentous is to happen… and here above all is a ben-'adamh, upon whom the expectation of the apparently imminent event seems to rest in a special way, not only because that ben-'adamh has studied the technique of the event and is supposed to have mastered it, not only because that ben-'adamh is paid and employed by the community… but also because freedom is displayed here as well as law: the ben-'adamh chose this profession, God know from what understanding or misunderstanding of it, and now for better or for worst wedded a short, only life to the expectation of the event… The whole situation witnesses, cries, and simply shouts 'God is present' even when in the ben-'adamh…there arises questioning, wretchedness, or despair.”
We feel drawn by the Spirit that leapt us to our feet to try to, in the best way we know how, answer the question of whether any of this is true. And we, ben-'adamh, have the same questions. We all fear whether we will be good enough, or helpful enough.
I wonder, if in his humanness, Jesus had that same pang, too, after preaching at his home church, only to have his congregation ask if it really was “that guy” - the carpenter's kid – who was speaking as if he was something special. You can't help but want to read just the smallest bit of snarkiness in his reply. And it seems that Jesus was not able to do fantastic miracles – apparently just heal a few sick people by laying hands on them. And while we can have many arguments as to why this can be the case (the humanity of Jesus “low Christology” is a hallmark of the Gospel of Mark), we can see that even the incarnate Jesus Christ can get a little annoyed.
Even as I reflect on this idea, I'm a little off-put: how could someone like Jesus be so human? Have such emotion, or not be able to pull of a resurrection in the same manner he does in the verses preceding this passage? We as congregants can do the same thing to our pastors, and presume that they must be of permanent even-temperament and always on top of their game. And, admittedly, pastors carry some of this blame in the way that they speak in the pulpit and in the public, as if there was nothing to be worried or to question or be concerned about – even though we know that we are broken, in other words, we don't like to admit it.
Barth continues in his writing on preaching that the way that pastor's should respond to the question of “Is this all really true?” is to be “the first to be prepared to submit to God's question by asking the question about God, without which God's answer cannot be given. If the pastor answers the people's question but answers it as a person who has been questioned by God, then the minister speaks – the word of God; and this is what the people seek and what God has commissioned the pastor to speak. For being truly questioned by God and truly question about God, the pastor will know God's answer and be able to give it to the people, who with their question really want to know God's answer, even when they do not realize it.”
Even on the best day, the person who fills this pulpit will likely not be able to do the work of ministry alone. And hopefully, that person will tell you that. They will know themselves as imperfect, incomplete ben-'adamh that has been tasked with an impossible mission – to bring healing to the world. No one, not even Jesus himself, decided to go entirely alone. I know that there will be such a desire and hope to have the new pastor here come in and change the trajectory of the church and grow it. But the reality as we see here in Mark that alone, the best that any one pastor can do is ὀλίγος, little. As a group together, the church can do πολλυς, much.
But in the end, even this is not sufficient. Even as a group, we will still be just people, still fumbling for the right words or the right style of ministry to make things work. And the reality is those are, at best, the dirty rags of a limited people. Instead, I think it's something far more simple: that God is. That God does exist, and is in control. That God chose Jesus Christ, and through Jesus chose us. That God's anger at the Israelites in Ezekiel has been satisfied through Jesus. That God is truly the prodigal father, taking each of us into his arms. That the Logos has come to earth and lived amongst us. And that the promises God made are true, and something worth striving for.
The person who comes and leads you after my time has ended struggles at times to believe those words, just as I do, and I'm sure just as you do. When every week a new tragedy besets our televisions and newspapers it becomes increasingly difficult to do so. We are understandably afraid, hurt, upset, saddened, and angered by things around us, and in moments are ready to cry to God why have we been forsaken?
But yet you are still here. I am still here. This church is still here. When each of us and our children and grandchildren have passed away, the church will still remain, and the promises of God will still remain. The hope of forgiveness and healing is still there. This is hope. And if this world needs something, it's hope.
I get that, and certainly, I want that someday, too. I know that the pastor you call soon will want to feel like this church is home and that you all have all made the right decisions together. But before things gather momentum, I want to stop and take a step back to think about the reality of our lives together. If the final weeks that we are together are the last before you have someone full time, I want to at least try a little to “set the table” so to speak, and have us consider some passages together. The Scripture today is actually the lectionary text for July 8, 2018, or when I think I will likely be preaching my first sermon at my new church.
When I started looking at these texts, I started to wonder if they were some kind of cruel trick for new seminary graduates. Ezekiel, Mark, and the other companion text in 2 Corinthians (where Paul speaks of the thorn in his side) all could read to the nervous new pastor “good luck… you're gonna need it.” Indeed, if we read the Ezekiel passage alone, it feels like a pastor's worst nightmare – a group of people who a rebellious to God, stubborn and obstinate, and who really knows if they'll listen or not, but they'll know you've shown up. This kind of exhortation typically doesn't come as part of one's ordination. But yet, I imagine there is a little of this in each pastor as they take to the pulpit at a new church for the first time. While you may know the candidates that will come here a little bit, as any of you can attest to if you've gone through the PNC process a couple times is that what is seen on paper and what is heard in person may not continue to be the same thing not too much more after – for both the pastor and the congregation.
What is also striking, however, is the use of the phrase Son of Man, or ben-'adamh. Many translations will resolve it into the word “mortal” for understandable reasons related to the need for inclusion, I think this is one place where that good instinct weakens the message. Ben-'adamh is used nearly 93 times in the book of Ezekiel, and comprises almost all of the times its used in the Old Testament. As an address, it contrasts the status of humanity with the dignity of God. Any of us who feel called to the pulpit and to the work of the clergy know this feeling. We are broken, imperfect people. When, as Karl Barth writes, we gather “on Sunday morning when the bells ring to call the congregation and minister to church, there is in the air an expectancy that something great, crucial, and even momentous is to happen… and here above all is a ben-'adamh, upon whom the expectation of the apparently imminent event seems to rest in a special way, not only because that ben-'adamh has studied the technique of the event and is supposed to have mastered it, not only because that ben-'adamh is paid and employed by the community… but also because freedom is displayed here as well as law: the ben-'adamh chose this profession, God know from what understanding or misunderstanding of it, and now for better or for worst wedded a short, only life to the expectation of the event… The whole situation witnesses, cries, and simply shouts 'God is present' even when in the ben-'adamh…there arises questioning, wretchedness, or despair.”
We feel drawn by the Spirit that leapt us to our feet to try to, in the best way we know how, answer the question of whether any of this is true. And we, ben-'adamh, have the same questions. We all fear whether we will be good enough, or helpful enough.
I wonder, if in his humanness, Jesus had that same pang, too, after preaching at his home church, only to have his congregation ask if it really was “that guy” - the carpenter's kid – who was speaking as if he was something special. You can't help but want to read just the smallest bit of snarkiness in his reply. And it seems that Jesus was not able to do fantastic miracles – apparently just heal a few sick people by laying hands on them. And while we can have many arguments as to why this can be the case (the humanity of Jesus “low Christology” is a hallmark of the Gospel of Mark), we can see that even the incarnate Jesus Christ can get a little annoyed.
Even as I reflect on this idea, I'm a little off-put: how could someone like Jesus be so human? Have such emotion, or not be able to pull of a resurrection in the same manner he does in the verses preceding this passage? We as congregants can do the same thing to our pastors, and presume that they must be of permanent even-temperament and always on top of their game. And, admittedly, pastors carry some of this blame in the way that they speak in the pulpit and in the public, as if there was nothing to be worried or to question or be concerned about – even though we know that we are broken, in other words, we don't like to admit it.
Barth continues in his writing on preaching that the way that pastor's should respond to the question of “Is this all really true?” is to be “the first to be prepared to submit to God's question by asking the question about God, without which God's answer cannot be given. If the pastor answers the people's question but answers it as a person who has been questioned by God, then the minister speaks – the word of God; and this is what the people seek and what God has commissioned the pastor to speak. For being truly questioned by God and truly question about God, the pastor will know God's answer and be able to give it to the people, who with their question really want to know God's answer, even when they do not realize it.”
Even on the best day, the person who fills this pulpit will likely not be able to do the work of ministry alone. And hopefully, that person will tell you that. They will know themselves as imperfect, incomplete ben-'adamh that has been tasked with an impossible mission – to bring healing to the world. No one, not even Jesus himself, decided to go entirely alone. I know that there will be such a desire and hope to have the new pastor here come in and change the trajectory of the church and grow it. But the reality as we see here in Mark that alone, the best that any one pastor can do is ὀλίγος, little. As a group together, the church can do πολλυς, much.
But in the end, even this is not sufficient. Even as a group, we will still be just people, still fumbling for the right words or the right style of ministry to make things work. And the reality is those are, at best, the dirty rags of a limited people. Instead, I think it's something far more simple: that God is. That God does exist, and is in control. That God chose Jesus Christ, and through Jesus chose us. That God's anger at the Israelites in Ezekiel has been satisfied through Jesus. That God is truly the prodigal father, taking each of us into his arms. That the Logos has come to earth and lived amongst us. And that the promises God made are true, and something worth striving for.
The person who comes and leads you after my time has ended struggles at times to believe those words, just as I do, and I'm sure just as you do. When every week a new tragedy besets our televisions and newspapers it becomes increasingly difficult to do so. We are understandably afraid, hurt, upset, saddened, and angered by things around us, and in moments are ready to cry to God why have we been forsaken?
But yet you are still here. I am still here. This church is still here. When each of us and our children and grandchildren have passed away, the church will still remain, and the promises of God will still remain. The hope of forgiveness and healing is still there. This is hope. And if this world needs something, it's hope.
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