The Law and the Land: Part One

"I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other Gods before me." Exodus 20:1-2

"[Jesus] is God himself coming into the very depths of human existence for the sole purpose of striking off the chains of slavery, thereby freeing man from ungodly principalities and powers that hinder his relationship with God." -James Cone, Black Theology and Black Power, 1968

So, I've been thinking. We all have. We've been thinking about Baltimore. About racism. About inequality, not just here, but across the country.

I've been thinking, and trying to be careful not to speak outside my realm of experience--I didn't grow up here, and even if I had, there's a good chance I would only have experienced one of what a colleague of mine called the "two Baltimores", historically divided both by race and by income--so I've tried to do a lot more listening than talking. I think that's a good policy for anybody, but especially for middle-class white guys like myself, it's a necessity right about now, if we're even going to start the process of changing a broken system.

As a Christian, part of my listening process is listening for God's voice: in scripture, in prayer, in the voices of my brothers and sisters in Christ. So as I've been listening, I've been wondering if God might have something relevant to say to us in the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:1-17). It's an interfaith text: it's from the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, held sacred by both Jews and Christians. It's a text on which we Lutherans, as grace-focused as we are, have committed to do a lot of study. When we baptize kids, we promise to teach it to them. Luther wrote a short household book about them, meant to be taught by parents to their children, which in recent times many Christian families have "outsourced" to pastors, gathered around pizza with middle-school aged kids. It's the text that some Christians insist should be displayed in every courtroom across the land. So, as we listen to these words from God, I think they can and do have something to say about our "rules of engagement" in talking about inequality and systemic racism.

The First Commandment actually isn't a commandment at all. In fact, in Judaism, the first "word" of the ten is, "I am the Lord your God." This is a proper name: what we read in English as "the Lord" is the word YHWH, in Hebrew, "I am who I am", or, "I will be who I will be". It could be viewed as a deliberate dodge on God's part, when Moses asks God's name, as if to say, "You don't get to pin me down like that. I am who I am, and I'll be who I'll be." Except that, unlike when YHWH first calls to Moses from the burning bush, the Israelites already know at least one thing about YHWH--that YHWH has brought them out of the land of Egypt. That they are free people now, and that is YHWH's doing. Whoever else YHWH is, YHWH is the one who chose to liberate this nation of people from slavery. That is how God chooses to introduce God's self. The preamble to any other laws to be set forth. Setting people free is central to God's identity. I kind of wonder if that's on all these plaques some Christians want hanging above judges' heads.

And then we get to the Commandment itself: "You shall have no other gods before me." And if you ever were a squirmy middle-schooler in a Sunday School classroom, you probably know that this does not just mean you're off the hook if you don't have an incense burner and a statue of Baal or Zeus in your locker. It means, as Luther says, "We should fear, love and trust in God above all things." And then, if you're around my age, you probably did some sort of collage of magazine photos of various different stuff that can become your "god", like sports, friends, video games, money, etc...

But coming back to this as an adult, something rings true here: there are a lot of really important things about our who we are as a people that still have to take the back seat to God. Stuff that defines us as Americans. Stuff that many of our fellow Americans have lived and died for. Our rights. Our liberties. Our freedoms. Our constitution--which, though a very important document, and which I celebrate as a gift from God, was not divinely inspired. Capitalism and free enterprise. Hard work. Justice. Paying your way. This stuff is a big part of the American identity. But it's not divine. It's not God. It's not the one who freed the Israelites from slavery, and it's not the one who took on flesh and took our sin to the cross. And therefore, we can not put our ultimate trust in any of those things, and still call ourselves people of God.


Please understand, everything I just listed (and probably more that you can think of) can be a way that God's blessing is known and shared with people in our time and place in history. But they need to be held separate from God. They need to be looked at in God's light. We need to ask the question--especially when 20% of Americans own 85% of the wealth, while the working poor in Baltimore are getting targeted first for water shut-offs--"how might YHWH feel about this? Would the God who split open the sea to lead a nation from slavery to freedom, feel totally fine with the kind of wage-slavery that exists in some parts of our country?"


Short summary: God liberates. And American culture is not God.


And if you really think about it, that's actually some pretty darn good news, because to look around the world as it is, and think that what you see is God's best hope for humankind, would be a depressing thing indeed.

Death of a Seed

"Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."
John 12:24

Well, Holy Week is fast approaching. And of course, now is the time when my blogger-conscience starts bugging me about not having posted here in a good long while. But a solution presents itself: Below is the transcript of a sermon I preached this past Sunday (Lent 5B, March 22nd) that some have found useful. Hopefully you will, too. Blessings on your Holy Week and Easter.

Gospel text: John 12:20-33

It wouldn’t have occurred to me

To think like a seed.

It’s an interesting window into Jesus’ mind:

The way he sees people. The way he sees us.

It wouldn’t have occurred to me that to a seed,

Growth might not be an attractive thing.

Even though growing is what seeds have evolved over hundreds of millions of years to do, for an individual seed,

who’s never been through it,

It would be a death.

Your skin—your boundaries of who you are—would be ruptured.

The only identity you’ve ever known—a particular seed in a particular place and time—would cease to exist.

A new thing would exist in its place,

and what that is, you can’t control.

It’s up to God.

Thinking like a seed, it’s terrifying.

But thinking like a farmer,

You realize it’s all the seed is meant to do.

The only way to truly be alive.

Jesus says, “Those who love their life will lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”

I don’t think Jesus means that the only people who’ll go to Heaven are those who are in constant agony in their earthly lives.

Based on how he uses the word elsewhere, I think “hate” here means more like reject.

That if you cling to the identity the outside world wants to give you, that outer shell, what you consider to be your life will be very short.

But if you reject that identity, and admit it’s not who you are, then God can reveal to you something deeper, something real,

something infinite.

If you’ve never been through that kind of

growth, it is like dying. It’s letting go of who you think you are, without being entirely sure who by God’s action, you’ll become.

I mean, you know you can’t be a seed forever.

Transformation is coming.

It’s just a question of whether you’ll enjoy becoming something more.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus has a lot to say about “the world.” He doesn’t just mean the physical, “earthly” realm as opposed to some separate “heavenly” realm beyond the blue. It’s more of a shorthand for Jesus’ mission field—where he works. That part of existence which doesn’t know him. That which needs to be saved. That which rejects Jesus and his followers, yet which God still loves. It’s not a place so much as a value system, an institution, a way of thinking, but also a spiritual force.

It’s the dominant force in the human spirit far too often, the part of us that values only the outer shell of that seed:

what we can see, what we can get, whom we can influence.   

It’s the system in which your identity is nothing more than a set of attributes: a pile of money and possessions, the pages of a resume, the letters after your name, the number of your Facebook friends or twitter followers, the number of employees who report to you, the acreage of your territory, the way your body compares to a photo-shopped body in a magazine.

It’s a system that tries to make eternal, the things that are temporary, as though this life we see is all there is.

It’s a system that ranks us by the numbers, yet somehow makes sure none of us measures up.

And despite this constant abuse, it’s a system in which we can get way too comfortable.

It’s like the pothole on your commute that’s there for so long that you swerve without looking, or the aching tooth that makes you chew all your food on the other side of your mouth.

It’s a status-quo that we forget is even there.

Especially if we’re benefitting from it.

If our power and prestige is coming at the expense of injustice against someone else.

If our comfort comes at the cost of others’ pain.

If that’s the reality of this world, you can understand why so many choose not to see it.

Jesus says his kingdom is not of this world.

But he’s not here to lead us out of it either.

He’s here to drive the ruler of this world out.

To take down the whole system.

He’s here to show us there’s another way:

A system of acceptance, instead of rank.

A system of love, instead of judgment.

A system of forgiveness, instead of score-settling.

And the way he’s going to do that is to be lifted up, for everyone to see, not on a throne, but on a cross. Not by conquering, but by dying.

When Jesus says his hour is coming, and that he’s going to glorify God, that’s what he’s talking about. He’s talking about this moment, in which he utterly rejects

everything the so-called “world” has to offer.

When he rejects the lie, that all that matters is how strong and pretty a single grain of wheat looks like on the outside, and shows us that what really matters is the life that’s growing on the inside.

When Jesus willingly accepts the most shameful, painful place in this world’s system, he shows us that even death itself is only a transformation, and dying in the world’s eyes, is the pathway to being truly alive in God.

When we die to ourselves—to our selfishness, our need to be the best and the strongest—we can live for others, and for God. We can start living the resurrection life Jesus promises,

Even now.

In Baptism, we died in the world’s eyes.

We renounced the powers of this world that rebel against God. We rejected the identity, the status, the rank that the world wanted to give us. That identity got left down there in the water, like the outer shell of a seed.

God connected us to the death of Jesus,

And the Holy Spirit then gave birth to our new

Identity: an identity that has nothing to do with what we have, or look like, or can accomplish, and everything to do with God’s love for us.

That’s where the growth starts.

That’s where the transformation starts.

There in the water.

It really should give us pause.

It should be a little daunting,

giving up the false personae that the world gives us, and not knowing what God’s growing us into.

It might be more comfortable to feel as though nothing will change—that the rules of this world will always apply. Once a seed, always a seed.

But God wants so much more than comfort for us. God wants transformation. Growth. Death…and resurrection.

And through Jesus, we receive it.

Amen.  

     

Hitting the Road of Faith

"Immediately the father of the child cried out, ‘I believe; help my unbelief!’"

Mark 9:24


"Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’" John 20:26b-27
About ten days ago, I spent a truly inspired weekend in Ocean City with around 360 youth plus adult advisors and staff: The Delaware/Maryland Synod's "RoadTrip" retreat for High School students.

There were many highlights: playing music with talented, hard-working young people from all over Maryland, watching the energy and enthusiasm of young people in the large group times, hearing the impact of small group discussions on Salem's young people, even hearing the entire Gospel of Mark, in a way I'd never heard it before: embodied, by a story-teller who knew it by heart.

But among those highlights for me was sitting as an audience member for the "Open Mic" event last Saturday night. Young people got up, shared music (including some rather spectacular beat-boxing), and a few spoken-word reflections: one of which is sticking with me. One young person shared a poem that was breathtakingly honest about her doubts: doubts about God, about the afterlife, and about much of what we proclaim as Christians. It was a tremendously brave thing to do, although less so because of the other young people (who are, after all, trying to figure this thing out themselves) than because of us uptight adult-leader folks (who are supposed to have it figured out by now, and be figuring it out for those young people too!). I can imagine how the "grown-ups" in the faith may have squirmed in our seats a bit listening to what not only this young woman, but all of us, have questioned from time to time in our lives.

What struck me more than anything about this reflection was how humble it was. It was so far from any kind of "final declaration" or "creed", so far from having it all figured out, much less figure it out for others, so clear about this moment in time, as one step in the journey.

It was many years ago now that I came to terms with doubt as a part of faith. It's not something to fear or to squash. It's par for the course. In fact, it can be helpful, because it does keep us humble. It curbs our hubris. It shuts our mouths when we might rush in where angels fear to tread. It warns us of Adam and Eve's desire to "know good from evil", and thereby "be like God." We don't. We can't. Not fully.

Doubt is a constant companion on our journey. But it is not the destination, any more than belief is. That's where I think we can get tripped up. Living through the 20th century and into the 21st, I feel like we have seen the dangers of getting trapped in the certainty of "belief": hemming ourselves in with a set of doctrines, never to be questioned, immune to growth and change, set in our ways, ready to settle into our comfortable Hobbit-holes with our doctrines as companions. The certainty of "belief" (as distinct from "faith") is dangerous, and we know it. That kind of unquestioning certainty has lead to unspeakable violence, and still does.

But we need to also talk about the "certainty of doubt." By this, I mean the doubts we get comfortable with. The doubts that frame our worldview. The mental asterisks we put next to various words and phrases every time we get up and say the creed, the asterisks that ave grown almost as important to us as anything that's written there. Often, these doubts are much more hard-won, the result of much more struggle and sleepless nights, than the beliefs we have never had trouble with. It's understandable that we would hold those doubts close to us: even that they, too, would become our living companions in our settled Hobbit-holes.

But here's the thing: whether you worship every week or not at all, whether you're a fundamentalist or a settled agnostic, God is going to knock on the door at some point, and invite you back out on the road. You are not a finished product. Your doubts, your beliefs, your struggles and triumphs, your strengths and weaknesses, are all part of your faith. And faith is not a Hobbit-hole. It is the road itself.

The week before last, with a lot of others I took a moment to remember the life and work of Marcus Borg , an acclaimed New Testament scholar, a voice in the progressive Christian movement, and (probably most notoriously) a member of the Jesus Seminar. In the latter role, he helped to develop a consensus among scholars as to how historically verifiable the Biblical sayings and deeds of Jesus were. I think the gift this was to the Church is often misunderstood: rather than telling anyone what (not) to believe, it established the things about Jesus on which any serious-minded person of any (or no) faith could agree. It essentially set the boundary-line for where our knowledge ends and our beliefs begin.

But Borg's contributions were much more important than that one collaboration. In his book, The Meaning of Jesus, Borg writes:



"Among some Christians, [the phrase "Jesus died for your sins"] is seen as an essential doctrinal element in the Christian belief system. Seen this way, it becomes a doctrinal requirement: we are made right with God by believing that Jesus is the sacrifice. The system of requirements remains, and believing in Jesus is the new requirement. Seeing it as a metaphorical proclamation of the radical grace of God leads to a very different understanding. “Jesus died for our sins” means the abolition of the system of requirements, not the establishment of a new system of requirements.”


The core of his work, as I understand it, seems to be drilling down to the essential message of Jesus, and the way of Jesus, rather than a system of beliefs about Jesus. I'm thankful for his perspective.


We all have beliefs about Jesus. And some doubts about him, too. The road of faith includes both: moving on from where we are, with Jesus and our fellow disciples as companions, willing to be changed by that journey. Some beliefs may become doubts. Some doubts may become beliefs. Trusting in Jesus is trusting that when we "hit the road" with him, we have nothing to fear, even if the road changes us. The grace has claimed us already. It's time to go exploring.

"The Situation in Judea"

Mark 13:24-37 

Advent 1

11-30-2014

Jerusalem was on fire, and everybody knew it.

Talk was of a full-scale revolt.

The Jews in Rome would talk about the latest news they got from friends and relatives back home. They’d huddle closer and lower their voices when Aurelia walked by.

She didn’t blame them. A wealthy Roman citizen like herself: they probably thought she’d turn them in for sedition. They couldn’t know that Aurelia worshiped the same God they did. She was careful who she told about that.

She had learned to hold her tongue at her husband’s dinner parties, when people talked about “The Judean situation,” and said things about her new family of faith, like, “If those agitators want to go up against Rome, and burn down their own city, it’s on them.”

Even some of her closest friends didn’t know what she did in the early hours each Sunday morning: quietly unlocking the back door to her large house, inviting Christ-followers from all walks of life, both Jews and Gentiles, into her dining room by candlelight, to eat, and sing, pray, and tell stories. 

It was the stories that first got her attention: of this Jewish peasant from the far Eastern territories, who announced a kingdom of justice and equality, who embodied the presence of the One God of the universe, and who resisted oppression, even to the point of dying on a cross, and rising, in the early hours of a Sunday.

And this Sunday, hours before dawn, as she stood in her atrium and peered up at the fading stars, it was to this man, the Son of God,

that she prayed:

“Watch over my new brothers and sisters in that land. 
And watch over my son.

Keep him safe.”

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart sped up.

She unlatched the door, opening it just a crack.

Standing there was Joshua, a contractor who had worked on her house, and his wife Esther.

Members of her congregation.

“Joshua, Esther…hello…

you’re the first ones here.”

Esther spoke up first.

“Yes, Aurelia my dear, so sorry if it’s a bad time. We wondered if we could have a word before worship.”

“Of course,” Aurelia said, opening the door and inviting them inside.

“What’s on your mind?”

Joshua’s eyes were fixed on the floor

as Esther began.

“You’ve been such a good friend to us, Aurelia. We were so thankful when you lent us that money after Joshua hurt his back, and we still intend to pay the rest back, so please know it isn’t you…but…”

“We can’t worship here anymore,”

Joshua blurted out.

There was silence.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” Aurelia said.

“It really isn’t you,” Esther continued. “It’s just…you know Joshua lost his cousin in Judea last month, and it’s getting even worse now, and it’s…it’s not that we approve of violent revolt, but at the same time, people know we come here. Maybe your friends don’t,

but ours do.” 

“I think I understand,” Aurelia said.

“See, that’s part of the problem,”

Joshua replied, “You think you understand. You’ve studied our stories, our faith, like a school subject. How we’ve been conquered, enslaved, scattered across the world. What  you don’t know is how it feels to live with it all the time. How closely and cautiously the merchants watch us. How the soldiers look at us, like terrorists, like any moment we’ll pull out our knives and attack. You’ll never understand that. And the thing is, our friends, the people I do business with…they know who you are. And they just…they don’t understand what we do here.”

There was a long silence.

Aurelia spoke up. “I see.

So is this about my son? Titus?”

Joshua’s face fell.

“I can tell you that doesn’t help. I mean he’s an officer. He’s not just taking orders down there, he’s giving them. While our people die! And meanwhile we come here, week after week.”

“Alright,” Aurelia said. “Do what you need to do, of course. I really will miss you…will you at least stay for today’s meal?”

Esther looked troubled.

“I’m not sure we should.”

“Look…it’s okay, really,” Aurelia said, “These are such hard times. But you’re my friends. If not for you, I’d never have known the Lord. You both have a long day of work ahead. Just eat with us. Just to say goodbye.”

“Well…alright, we’ll stay for a bit,”

Joshua said at last.

The food was good, as always.

Aurelia and the servants had prepared it last night, so they could eat together. But it was tense, and quiet. Like a funeral. People spoke quietly. The Gentiles and Jews sat separately, which had always bothered Aurelia,

but today even more so.

She ate silently, her mind adrift.

How can I love Christ, yet follow him in secret?

How can I sit silent,

while my brothers and sisters suffer?

And yet, how can I speak out, without being seen as disloyal to my country? My family?

Could Titus lose his rank because of me?

“Aurelia. Aurelia!” Her husband had her elbow. 
“head out of the clouds, dear. It’s time to start.”

“Oh, yes…thank you. Greetings in Christ, sisters and brothers. Does anyone have a word from the Lord this morning?”

The silence stretched longer than normal.

“I do.”

All eyes turned to Mark, a middle-aged Roman, with jet black hair, graying at the temples. 

“Grace to you, my brothers and sisters. 

As you know, I spent several years following Peter, the apostle of the Lord. I heard his stories many times, and I have begun collecting others.

Peter once spoke of a time in the last week of Jesus’ life, in Jerusalem, when he taught about the end of the world.

A time of great suffering, when the sun and moon will go dark, and the stars will fall, and even the powers in the heavens will be shaken. He said that even some of us would live to see these things.

Hearing the news from Jerusalem, the signs are abundant: it would certainly seem that the day is drawing closer. The powers of this earth, the institutions we rely on to keep us safe and do justice, have shaken our trust.

Our footing is not sound.

And yet, we wait. We wait in hope.

Because the Lord could come tomorrow, or in a thousand years, or two thousand,

but the kingdom he announced,

the kingdom of unity and love,

can come now. Immediately.

God’s Spirit is with us, drawing us together, Jews and Gentiles, rich and poor, slave and free. We need no Savior from the clouds for that: God is already doing it here.

God’s Spirit draws together the fruits of our labor, to feed the poor and care for the sick among us.

More than that, God’s spirit is drawing together these healing stories: stories not just about a God of power and glory in the clouds, but a God who walked as one of us: who did not dismiss or belittle the pain of any man, woman, or child, but instead came to serve them, and give up his life for them—and for us—on the cross.

Heaven and earth may pass away,

but his words never will.

We bear in our hearts this story—his story, which I have begun committing to writing—In our words and deeds,

Reminding our world that each life lost,

whether like ours or very different,

was a child of God, for whom Jesus died,

and while he weeps with us at the injustice,

He comes to establish peace,

And yet he has come, in our community of love.

These are dark days.

But we keep awake for signs of his presence, and we wait in hope.”

A few others shared reflections and prayers.

After the Lord’s Supper, each one left for the day’s work. In the weeks after, Aurelia would see Joshua and Esther in the marketplace from time to time.

They’d nod and smile politely.

They finally did pay the money back;

she knew they would.

In the following year, Aurelia became very ill.

The congregation came late one night, to pray and lay hands on her.

She felt a pair of hands join the rest as they prayed. 
When she opened her eyes,

there was Esther with the others.

During her illness,

Titus had pulled every string he could

to get reassigned to the capital.

He spoke more softly and seemed more anxious than the boy she had known,

But he was home.  

And early one Sunday morning when she was feeling better, she woke him from an uneasy sleep.

“My son,” she whispered,

“It’s time to wake up. It’s high time you met some friends of mine…”

Sermon from "FreeRide" Middle School Retreat, 18 October 2014

When I was first ordained, I used to post the manuscript to almost every sermon I preached on a blog, and I got out of the habit. It goes without saying that what's on the page does not always reflect what I say (especially in a case like this where, following the lead of Jason Chesnut, the chaplain at FreeRide 2014, I tried to be as independent of the page as possible), and what I say does not always reflect the way folks hear and understand it. I've gotten back more than enough confirmation worship notes to know this is the case. But in response to a couple of requests, and the fact that the non-middle school aged members of Salem were mostly not there, here's a copy of at least what I planned to say at worship during the Delaware/Maryland Synod's Middle School Retreat this past Saturday.

Mark 12:28-34

The First Commandment

 One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.’ Then the scribe said to him, ‘You are right, Teacher; you have truly said that “he is one, and besides him there is no other”; and “to love him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength”, and “to love one’s neighbour as oneself”,—this is much more important than all whole burnt-offerings and sacrifices.’ When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, he said to him, ‘You are not far from the kingdom of God.’ After that no one dared to ask him any question.

Hey FreeRide. Would you pray with me?

Lord God, We love you.

I mean, we think we love you.

Well, we’re trying to figure out

How to love you.

It’s confusing. And it’s hard.

But thanks for loving us,

Even as we struggle with what that means. Amen.

So, when I was going into seventh grade,

My Dad became a pastor, and my family moved from Ohio to Michigan.

and…It was different.

In Ohio, elementary school went through sixth grade, but in Michigan,

Everybody had already been in Middle school for a whole year when I got there.

It took me like three whole days to figure out how to open my locker. But not only was the place different, but I started to feel different. I had all new friends, I started to listen to different music, I was trying to figure out who I was now. And up here on the screen I want to show you, at the beginning of 8^th grade, who I thought I was. 

This is the cover of my 8^th grade journal that I had to do for school. There’s Archangel and Beast, two of my favorite X-men, Mr. Spock of course, Daredevil (before the lame movie came out), and right here is Chris Cornell from Soundgarden. Oh, my gosh you guys. Soundgarden rocked. I can’t even tell you. I mean, here’s Bono from U2, they’re OK in their own non-Soundgarden-y way, but Soundgarden was just epic. I even drew a picture of me, in my future band, which was going to rock like Soundgarden, and of course Spider-man would be a fan, so that was all going to be great.

But the problem was, I was in confirmation, right? Who here is in confirmation? Who here has to take confirmation from their dad?

Been there.

So we were learning about the Ten Commandments, and about how we’re supposed to have no other Gods, and love God more than anything else, and here was this page full of stuff I loved, but…

Where was God?

In fact, for me, part of why Soundgarden rocked so hard was they were like, dark and brooding and loud, and basically everything churchy music wasn’t, and I was starting to play guitar, and I wanted to make dark, brooding, loud music too, and I started to wonder…

Do I love God enough?

And then, you guys…I started to, you know, meet girls and stuff? And I guess I, sort of liked them or whatever—shut up!—but as I started dating, I thought to myself, “Dude, I definitely do not think about God half as much as I think about my girlfriend. So what’s wrong with me?”

So Jesus is in the middle of a serious throw-down with the Pharisees and Sadducees in

 Jerusalem. They’re debating about God stuff, and the Pharisees are throwing all these Biblical ninja-stars at him, like, “well what about this?” pshhhewww! And Jesus is like, “Well here’s what I think about that,” Whaaa! And they’re trying to trick him, but he’s doing all these sweet Bible-ninja moves and stuff, and while this is going on, this scribe comes up.

And a scribe’s job was to know the whole Bible, because most people couldn’t read, so they’d just ask a scribe what the right thing to do was. And this was a big job you guys, because you know how you have to learn the 10 Commandments in confirmation? So, what if there were, I don’t know, 613 of them? That’s how many commandments there were just in the first five books of the Bible, you had to learn those, and then there were like other commandments you should follow just to be sure you would never break those commandments, so yeah. The scribes were basically people who stayed in Confirmation class until forever. So this scribe sees Jesus’ Bible ninja moves, and he wants to figure him out, so he asks this simple question: “which commandment is first of all?” Not out of ten, but out of 613!

And Jesus doesn’t even blink. He takes something from Deuteronomy, and something from Leviticus and puts them together: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, with all your strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

And here’s where the miracle happens you guys, because for a moment, the Bible-ninja battle stops, and Jesus and this scribe agree with each other. And there’s no other place in the Gospels where this happens.

So this commandment must be huge, right?

So I was listening to this as a teenager, and I had all this guilt, because I loved lots of stuff that wasn’t God, and I didn’t like, spend all my time listening to Church music doing church stuff with church friends

and having a churchy time at church. So I knew in my mind, I wasn’t loving God enough.

Honestly, I wasn’t even really sure

where God fit in.

So a couple years later, I got this weird invitation: I had written some songs—dark, brooding, loud of course—and a pastor invited me to like, play them at a church event, in front of a bunch of church kids. And I was like, “Have you heard my music?” But I went up, and I got onstage, and for the whole time, I was apologizing to the crowd, I said, “I’m so sorry guys, the stuff I do doesn’t talk about God, it’s not really Christian, Sorry.”

So I finished up, and got offstage, and this big burly guy from Wisconsin pulled me aside—he was the keynote speaker for the whole thing—and he looked at me and said, “Tim, don’t ever say your music isn’t Christian. You’re a Christian, and you’re using the talents God gave you, and talking about your life. And that glorifies God.”

And that turned everything around for me, because I suddenly realized that loving God wasn’t just about what all I did inside a church building with other church people, it was about living my whole life, and using all my gifts and all the stuff I like doing, from a place of love.

It was about knowing in my heart that God made me this way for a reason, and that Jesus didn’t die for the fake, smiley, churchy version of me: Jesus died for the real me, who loved to head-bang and read comics and talk to girls, and that God was using all that stuff in me, to help me love my neighbors and make their lives better.

Jesus did that with his disciples: He didn’t call Peter and James and John and say, “Hey, stop fishing because I want you to do my thing!” He said, “Hey, you’re good at fishing, so I want to teach you how to do it for God!”

And that’s how Jesus is calling you, too.

So, believe me: you’re not going to learn all 613 commandments. You’re never going to be able to just spend your whole lives doing churchy stuff and listening to church music

with churchy people,

and God doesn’t want you to!

God loves you! Jesus died for you! The real you! The you that likes what you like, and is friends with who you’re friends with, and plays the sports you play and reads the books you read.

And I know you’re still trying to figure out who you are—here’s a secret: you never stop—but God doesn’t want you to become a different person. God wants you. God wants to use the things you’re already good at, not just on Sundays, but seven days a week—to make the world a better place to live in, a world that’s more fair and kind and loving, and where more people know how much God loves them and that Jesus gave his life for them.

Obviously, we do plenty of stuff that God doesn’t want us to, and it’s impossible to ever fully stop.

But even when we mess up, God uses those mess-ups, because the more we mess up, the more we remember God forgives us, and the more thankful we are, and the better we are at letting other people know they’re forgiven too. See how that works? That’s some forgiveness ninja stuff right there. God is good.

Because God loves you and Jesus died for you—the real you—that love will catch on in your life, in the things you like to do, and you’ll be able to love your neighbor as yourself.

Like a love-ninja. Amen.