Inertia Interrupted (Holy Monday)

If you know me well, you know I am not a science buff. I held my nose through formaldehyde-scented biology. I sludged through chemistry and passed physics with dual college credit because the grace of God is a real thing. 

With that said, I am about to talk about a scientific concept, probably inadequately, so patience please.

Inertia is defined as “a property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force.”

In eleventh grade, Mr. McKim droned on about it in these more familiar terms, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion…unless acted upon by an outside force.”

In Matthew 21:12-13, we are privy to the actions of Jesus on the Monday after he entered Jerusalem on a donkey. 24 hours after the crowd was shouting Hosanna, we find Jesus in the temple with harsh words and an unmistakeable act of protest regarding the current state of the church (aka temple worship).

“Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there.” (v. 12a)

The word translated as “drove out” is a Greek word that has a number of definitions, many of which we have come to associate with this event - Jesus cast out, sent out, expelled, rejected. The most interesting definition to me, however, was this one: “with implication of force overcoming opposite force.”

All of a sudden, white-wigged Isaac Newton was showing up in my bible reading. In scientific terms, Jesus’ actions in the temple were the same as an external force acting upon an object in motion.

By natural laws, an object in motion will remain in motion unless changed by an external force. That Newtonian law is true for systems and organizations too.

The Jewish temple in the first century was the center of worship. It was the place where God became accessible. It was sacred space because God’s presence was there and it was where Jews came to be forgiven of their sins.

In that day, sins were forgiven through animal sacrifice. Jews were expected to travel to Jerusalem at the Passover Festival and present an animal for sacrifice at the temple. It was accepted that a person’s sins would be transferred to the animal and then the animal would die, thereby taking the punishment instead of the people. Regardless of your thoughts on that primitive ritual, it was earnestly believed and practiced by sincere Jews whose greatest desire was to be close to the God they loved.

Like with so many things, however, there was someone looking for ways to make a buck, and in this case, the religious leaders were the opportunists. Jerusalem as Passover was like Louisville, KY at Derby time or (apparently) Sturgis, SD during the summer motorcycle rally…teeming with people. 

Jews from all over would travel to the holy city to worship God and to seek forgiveness through their animal offering. They would bring the best lamb, the choice goat, the finest doves with the anticipation that God’s forgiveness was near.

And then they would enter the temple courtyard. 

The crowded outer courts of the temple would be shoulder to shoulder people. The throngs would create a constant hum of noise, that would only seem to be interrupted by the bleating of animals, as they waited for their time to present their sacrifice.

But a sacrifice had to be approved by temple workers. A lamb, no matter how spotless you may think it is, had to pass inspection at the temple. And guess who was in charge of stamping the approval on animal sacrifices? You got it. The very people who were cutting deals with the moneychangers and sellers one table over from the inspection tent.

The outer courtyard of the holiest space to the Jews had been turned into a vendor hall where weary pilgrims were at the mercy of the greedy teachers who masqueraded as righteous. Every essential for worship was available for purchase, as long as you could afford it. Ease, convenience, and exorbitant prices. Imagine a captive audience paying $7 for a hot dog at Fenway Park or $20 for a light-up wand in Magic Kingdom. You get the idea.  Having to buy your animal on-site was price gouging at it’s cruelest because these inflated prices and ridiculous taxes were being asked of those who couldn’t afford it. As a result, those who came to worship and experience forgiveness were prevented entrance into the one place they believed God to be.

The priests and religious leaders were the ones who were to bridge the gap between God and people. They were to find ways to bring the people to God and God to the people. They were to pave the way for reconciliation between people and the God who loved them. Instead, they had become the biggest obstacle that stood in the way of the people finding God. The ones charged with the responsibility to shepherd the hearts of people toward God were the very ones who were making it nearly impossible to do just that. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Fangs disguised in prayer shawls and phylacteries.

And that was the way of the temple. The place where God was to be found, yet God had become off limits. Admittance denied. Forgiveness denied. Peace denied. 

Religion was an object in motion, moving in the direction of greed, callousness, arrogance, at the expense of people under the care of those who knew better.

An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an external force.

And Jesus “drove out…” Jesus acted with an opposing force. Jesus disrupted the inertia of the religious system. Jesus was unwilling to allow the temple to continue to be run this way. Jesus drove out the buyers and sellers.

Jesus was literally and figuratively removing the barriers that had kept worshippers out. Jesus was an opposing force acting upon what had seemed to be an unstoppable, unchangeable, crooked and rigged system.

Bernadette Lopez

I imagine the courtyard was quiet at the sound of tables hitting the ground. As the coins clinked on the temple floor and echoed through the crowd, every single person knew Jesus was calling BS on a system that was broken and corrupt. This act of protest was Jesus refusing to allow this scheme to go undisturbed for one more nanosecond. Jesus was calling the religious leadership, with their poorly disguised depravity, on the carpet. He refused to let them off the hook. Amidst scattered money and bleating lambs, for just a moment, the libertine leaders had to stand there and face those they had been oppressively taking advantage of.

For a moment, there was deliverance as Jesus stood up for those who had been powerless and without a voice. For a brief moment, on Holy Monday, the rejected worshippers were offered a glimpse of hope from the abusive religious system. As if Jesus was proclaiming justice for all and an end to the tyranny of power wielded in the name of God.

You see, an object in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.

There are still oppressive systems today; some within the church and some without. Either way, they impede someone’s ability to experience the freedom and hope God desires for all people. 

Where do you see oppression and injustice? Where is there abuse of power? What unprincipled systems in our culture have inertia that need to be acted upon with an opposing force? Where are these things happening in the name of God?

During this holy week, it seems an appropriate time to ask these questions. During this holy week, it seems a perfect time to allow honest answers to surface.

What Newton knew to be true of matter is also true of systems and organizations.

An object in motion tends to stay in motion.

And some motion should be stopped. 

Jesus knew that, and on Holy Monday He interrupted inertia.

May we be just as brave.

Heat Rises (On Magical Moments and Suffocating Pain)

There are moments that are pure magic. 

Moments in life that had you held the sovereign power to paint the canvas of that memory exactly as you would want, you wouldn’t change a detail. A moment where an unexpected experience shows up perfectly and takes your breath away. 

Such was a moment last week when my family and I found ourselves perfectly positioned to see this…

two dozen floating lanterns set aflame and launched on a backdrop of dusky, sunset blue. 

It was my 42nd birthday. 

We spent the day together as a family. We had no agenda; except to be together and to make sure I didn’t cook all day. We slept in, kept the school books on the shelf, picked up birthday donuts at a local bakery, did a little shopping, and took our first family walk in our new neighborhood. I also wanted to visit the falls. Just past the buildings of downtown is Falls Park, a destination that’s never disappointed me. It’s an oasis of rose quartzite and falling (sometimes frozen) water. Upon arrival, I decided we should head toward an overlook we’d never walked before. The kids ran on ahead while Paul and I followed slowly in the soft glow of a reasonably warm March evening.  

By the time we reached the railing of the overlook, our kids were wondering aloud about a group of people lined up on the bridge across the river from us. 

Enter magic.

A single flame appeared. Then a second. And a third. On and on until it was clear we were about to have front row seats to something special. As each lantern was released, heat lifted the flame up with it's illumination highlighted against an twilight, South Dakota sky. An unexpected, perfectly timed, and most beautiful birthday gift that took my breath away.

But here’s the thing…

Sometimes, in life, our breath is stolen for entirely different reasons. There are moments where magic fades and the crucible of pain ushers in an intensity so great that we can’t seem to inhale…or exhale. No breath to take or give.

These are the times when struggle, grief, and loss turn you topsy-turvy, and finding your way to right-side-up is a fire that sometimes rages and sometimes is a slow burn. Either way it’s consuming and to what end that consummation results is a mystery in the midst of the fire. The flames could be friend or foe, blessing or curse. The flames could refine us or burn us to a crisp; melt the wax facade of our soul or harden our heart to impenetrable stone. 

There’s an engulfing heat in battle that suffocates. A baptizing inferno that leaves nothing untouched as it rips the oxygen from your soul. In the middle of it all, when the mercury is rising, all you want is cool relief. Even the smallest breath of air could provide strength for the next moment…or preferably, permanent respite.

The irony is that without the fire, nothing would be truly altered. Transformation requires heat and heat always changes things. The unwanted truth might just be that to experience magical moments that take our breath away we must be willing to endure the moments that commandeer our air with its strong-arming pain. 

Fire - present in the magic and the struggle.

Heat - in floating luminaries and heavy burdens.

Heat burns, boils, rages. 

Heat also rises... 

and raises things. 

Like souls, 

and hope, 

42 year olds,

and orange embers in an inky blue, South Dakota sky.

   

Awakening a Warrior

There’s something incredibly holy about sitting on a child’s bed, simultaneously cradling ancient texts and a tender heart. No matter how exhausted I feel, I will never tire of moments when my children, and their natural curiosity, take over as they listen, ask, and wonder in attentiveness to the things of God. 

Last night, at her behest, I started reading the book of Esther to Moriah. Tonight, I closed the book after finishing chapter 4. That’s the chapter that houses Mordecai’s famous challenge to Esther that perhaps she was made queen “for such a at time as this.” The chapter ends in dramatic fashion, when Esther rises to her cousin’s challenge and makes a bold decision. She calls for all Jews to fast and pray for three days after which she will go to the king to beg for mercy on behalf of the Jewish people. This is her line-in-the-sand moment where there’s no going back. She strengthens her decision with a verbal seal of these words - “If I die, I die.”

I can not wholly explain the sacred space held between a mother and her daughter as they read of a brave, determined woman who decided to fight for justice. I can not articulate the fierce fragility of a moment when a child is introduced to human courage that risks well-being in order to combat inequity in the world. Tonight, the bright blue walls of my daughter’s bedroom transformed into an incubator for justice. 

At least, my prayer is that is so.

When I closed the bible, I looked at Moriah and I told her that one day she will see something broken in the world and she will feel something deep down that will rise up and make her want to fight to make it right. I placed my hand on her, I looked straight into her eyes, and I explained that there would come a day when she would find her heart beating fast because something is wrong in the world and she won’t be able to rest. I told her that moment would be God inviting her to wake up and be like Esther who saw injustice and knew something had to be done, no matter the cost. 

“If I die, I die.” 

I look at the world and I easily see brokenness. It’s everywhere. All the time. And yet, I see more and more people coming into their Esther moment. Finding that thing that has quickened their heart, that won’t let go of them until they push back against the wrong, no matter the consequences. 

When brokenness is prevalent it can create deep, crippling hopelessness, but it also seems to birth countless crusaders who find the courage to say, “if I die, I die.” I easily see the abundance of indignities in our world, but I also see the rising of those who refuse to allow the indignities to go undisturbed. More and more are having an Esther moment, and I am beginning to think, on the scales of justice, it is our action that truly acquits us.

This is just a working theory, but maybe we never truly live until we have that “if I die” Esther moment. Maybe none of us become acquainted with life unless we are willing to lay it down. Maybe Jesus meant it as he was teaching his disciples to pray. Maybe he was inviting us into the effort to bring a bit of heaven to earth. I wonder if that could that be the mosaic of the Kingdom? Each of us finding our place in the fight to bring justice where it had been absent? To usher in equity where there had been oppression, minimization, and victimization.

It was a hallowed moment as I sat on the edge of her bed.  Moriah came face to face with a hero who saw wrong and dared to believe right was worth fighting for. I pray the day comes quickly when God stokes the embers of tonight’s story and stirs up my daughter’s fire. I long for the moment when a present grievance awakens the warrior in Moriah. The warrior that will fight to bring a piece of heaven to earth. The warrior who has come to terms with the fact that some things are worth risking your life for; because without them, maybe we never really live anyway.

Then Esther sent this reply to Mordecai...

"I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. 

And if I perish, I perish.” 

- Esther 4:15a, 16b -

What I've Left Undone (Advent Lament)

The snow has a crunchy top layer from the temperatures dipping down today. I’m nestled in a bay window, and watch the still, quiet street of my new neighborhood. In middle class America. Insulated from the suffering. Here, I am seemingly a world away from the hurting.

I open to the back of the resource I’m using for Advent. There I find written prayers recorded for the reader’s benefit. I start with “The Prayer of Confession” and my going-through-the-motions rhythm is interrupted by this sentence:

“I confess that I have sinned against you…by what I have left undone…”

The tendrils of that sentiment curl around my conscience and don’t let go. I come back to that phrase again: “…what I have left undone…” It’s an unexpected word of repentance for this Protestant. We who usually reserve confession for sins committed, not omitted. But there is truth that resonates in me from these words.

…what I have left undone…

My rebellion against the ways of God’s kingdom comes often in the form of what I have failed to do. The violence in my heart has often been most clearly exposed in what is left undone in me, through me, because of me. Maybe my confessions need to be filled with sorrow for what might have been, not what was.

It nags at me. Those five words printed on a page at the back of a book. Five words that disturb my otherwise peaceful, silent night.

Just tonight, I’ve been exposed (again) to unimaginable pain. Across my computer screen, the stories show up in my newsfeed and my inbox. I read of the ongoing suffering in the city where I resided for two decades. I scroll through debate after debate that litters the political landscape. The headlines that never let up, reminding me this world is far from perfect. 

It’s Advent, and as the headlines mingle with the warm glow of christmas lights, a longing merges. A deep yearning to feel; to be moved; to be awakened. Admittedly, my own suffering has anesthetized my heart. My weary soul has been in need of a pass on the messy of life. I’ve wanted permission to be dismissed from having to engage. But tonight, there’s no escaping. Something has been 

…what I have left undone…

What if I am most in need of confessing the things I have not done? Have not completed? Have not attempted?

Jesus is a dependent baby in the manger, but soon He will be an envelope-pushing, pot-stirring threat to the established order. And scripture says Jesus was without sin. So, Jesus’ challenge of the status quo, His fight for the marginalized, His undaunted courage to rebuke corrupt politics that masqueraded as righteousness - none of that disqualified Him from that description of perfection. What if Jesus’ greatest temptations were in what He could have left undone; what He could have skirted, skimmed, or avoided so as not to rock the boat or make things worse?

…what I have left undone…

Jesus never had to pray a prayer of confession, but I wonder if those five words were the biggest temptation of His ministry. The temptation to stay silent, to remain a bystander in the crowd, to overlook the need. Jesus, however, never left anything undone that needing doing. He never left anything unsaid that needing saying.

But me? I have come up short far too often. Perhaps my deepest confessions lie in the space where I have not acted; have not spoken; have not moved.

Here’s a start to this confession. God, I have sinned against you by leaving these actions undone:

• following through on my promise to edit my daughter’s essay
• acknowledging publicly and boldly that I support the #metoo movement
• regularly speaking words of encouragement to my husband
• seeking solace through the ancient words of scripture
• calling my senators to express my lament over the tax reform bill
• saying thank you for the blessings of this day 
• remembering the plight of refugees worldwide
• declaring the destructive marriage between Christianity and conservative politics
• making it known on a regular basis that “Black Lives Matter”
• freely offering kindness to my children when I’ve been frustrated with them
• saying for a 100th time that the government (national, state, and municipal) has not done right by the city of Flint

…what I have left undone…

The wounds of this world are deep. Sometimes gaping. I have no desire to add to the injury by leaving undone something that is needed by a follower of Jesus. It's Advent and Jesus is coming. He's not coming to coddle my comfort, but to expose the wrong. Not to build a name for Himself, but to usher in a bit of Heaven on earth. And maybe Jesus shows up in my life most clearly when I choose to do that which I have formerly left undone.

God, forgive me when I fail to act, respond, or speak in ways that build Your Kingdom. Forbid it, Lord, that my comfort and security obscure my faithfulness. Forgive me for allowing fear and complacency to meter my actions and thus allow the darkness to reign. Only then, God, when I have left nothing undone that needs to be done, will I find peace amidst the pain. Give me wisdom. Make me brave. Amen.