Saturday Night Theologian
25 March 2012

Jeremiah 31:31-34

If the saying is true that promises are made to be broken, then you can take it to the bank that campaign promises are made to be broken. Political campaigns, particularly presidential campaigns, are notorious for candidates who make promises that they either cannot keep, because they wouldn't have the power to do so (e.g., $2.50 per gallon gas), or that they have no intention of keeping, because they don't really believe it's important (e.g., promises to "change the way business is done in Washington"). The American people have grown so accustomed to prevaricating campaigners that one current candidate's campaign staff brags that their candidate's campaign is like an Etch-a-Sketch, which can easily be erased and redrawn when primary season ends and the general election campaign begins. Of course, it's not just politicians who break promises and commitments. We all do, from time to time, in big and small ways. Today's reading from Jeremiah talks about the covenant promise that the people of Israel made with God and then failed to keep. That covenant was written on tablets of stone, which Moses flung to the ground almost as soon as they were written, foreshadowing a long history of the covenant being broken, renewed, then broken again. This is the overarching theme of the Deuteronomistic History--the books of Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings--and it is a message that is central to the book of Jeremiah as well. A promise that is written down can easily be broken, because it is external, composed by another person or other people. A promise that is taken to heart, figuratively written on the heart, is one that suggests a true commitment. Ordinary people may not have speechwriters to put words in their mouths the way politicians do, but we often "commit ourselves" to words that were written by someone else--the pledge of allegiance, the Lord's Prayer, the Nicene Creed, software license agreements--when in fact we may not be fully committed to the words at all. I had an occasion several years ago to observe the ease with which we make promises in our culture, and even in our churches, which we have no intention of keeping. Our church in Texas was holding a Vacation Bible School for children during the summer, and part of each day's opening ceremony was to say the pledge of allegiance to the U.S. flag (the ways in which this violates the principles of religious liberty and the separation of church and state are painfully obvious, but a subject for another occasion). Even the Mexican national who was on church staff said the pledge to the American flag. The shoe was on the other foot a few weeks later when we took the VBS show on the road to Mexico, where those of us who were Americans dutifully recited the pledge to the Mexican flag. I remember thinking about the irony of the two events, and I wondered exactly what it was that we were teaching the children about the value of promises. The point that is important is that only promises made with the heart make any real difference in our lives. The prophet speaks of a commitment to God that is rooted in the innermost core of one's being, a commitment that transcends spoken words, signed documents, and observance of rituals. This type of commitment transforms our worldview from that of the dominant culture, with its facile nod to religious conviction, its whole-hearted embrace of patriotic fervor, and its relentless pursuit of economic hegemony. Many people proclaim their commitment to God, but it is those whose very beings are engraved with the principles of love, mercy, justice, and humility--and whose lives demonstrate that commitment--who are truly in a covenant relationship with God.

Psalm 51:1-12 (first published 6 April 2003)

"Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight," the psalmist proclaims. If only that were true! What the psalmist is actually saying is that every sin is an affront to God, and we cannot come into God's presence without first acknowledging our sin. The problem that many Christians today have is that they seem to take the psalmist literally. They willingly confess their sins to God, at least in public worship, but they are blissfully unaware of the effect that their sin has on other people. Sin damages relationships, both between the worshiper and God and between the worshiper and others. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber describes the relationships between individuals as either I-Thou or I-It relationships. If we treat our fellow human beings with respect and love, an I-Thou relationship can develop. However, if we deal with others in a cursory manner, if we treat them with disdain, or if we behave as though they didn't matter, we are in an I-It relationship with them. Some interpersonal relationships will always be I-It because of the limited contact we have with many people, for example with the toll booth operator as we drive past or with the flight attendant on the plane. At the other extreme, it is pretty obvious to most people that abusing people verbally (or worse) is a sin that needs to be confessed. However, all too often we're unaware of the people whom we treat as if they didn't matter. When we pray for the safety of American soldiers in Iraq--as well we should--but neglect to pray for Iraqis, we treat them as subhuman. Even if we pray for the safety of Iraqi civilians, but then we rejoice when we hear that hundreds of Iraqi soldiers have been killed in a missile attack, we are treating all Iraqis with contempt. Closer to home, when we make our decision to vote for or against a proposed local revenue package based only on how it affects us, without asking how the weakest members of our society will be affected, is to treat our neighbors as though they didn't even exist. Again, when we wring our hands because of seemingly intractable problems in the world, such as the African AIDS epidemic, yet we tacitly support our representatives when they vote to maintain the global inequalities that lie at the root of the problems of treatment and education, we are implicitly saying to the one in five South Africans infected with HIV, "your life is not important to me." We need to examine our attitudes and actions, asking ourselves how we are affecting the lives of others, either directly or indirectly. When we begin to discover the numerous ways in which each of us puts his or her own desires ahead of the needs of others, then we will understand what the psalmist meant when he said, "You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart." Then we can pray truthfully, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me!"

Hebrews 5:5-10 (first published 2 April 2006)

Lent is the time of the year when we focus on the life of Jesus, and especially we think of his suffering and death. As Christians, we're trained to think of Jesus' suffering from a standpoint on this side of the empty tomb. Jesus' death was terrible, but ultimately redemptive. Even Mel Gibson's movie The Passion of the Christ, with its focus on the terrible pain and gore of the crucifixion, is meant to be viewed as a story about redemptive suffering. Two of the gospels, however, remind us that that perspective is strictly a post-resurrection point of view. In both Matthew and Mark, Jesus' only words from the cross are a cry of despair, "My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?" If we can set aside for a moment our usual manner of thinking about Jesus' suffering (i.e., theologically) and instead think in terms of the reality of the time (i.e., historically), we see something that is easily overlooked. In verse 7, the author of Hebrews says, "In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission." Look again at what it says, and what it doesn't say. Jesus offered up prayers to the one who was able to save him from death, but didn't. How do we feel about a God who is able to save but doesn't? The child with cancer, the dad in the car wreck, the suicidal teen--why doesn't God always intervene? One of Martin Luther's arguments that the pope didn't have the authority to grant release from Purgatory was that if he really had the authority, he would automatically release everyone, just out of the compassion of his heart. So what do we say about God, whom we believe has the power, yet clearly does not deliver everyone who is deserving? I don't know the answer, but one answer that helps me deal with the question is the fact that God didn't spare Jesus, either. Redemptive value of his death aside, God didn't intervene to spare the life of one who was totally dedicated to do God's will. Some people might hear this story and say, "That proves that God, if God exists, doesn't care about people." I hear the story and say, "God loved Jesus as much as any person who has ever lived and yet allowed him to suffer and die an untimely death. That proves to me that God suffers alongside those who suffer in this life, and God never abandons them, but is there for them as they make the transition to the next life."

John 12:20-30 (first published 2 April 2006)

"Reversal is the movement of the Way; weakness is the usage of the Way" (Tao Te Ching 40). Taoist wisdom often consists of pithy paradoxes, statements that appear self-contradictory upon first glance. In this way it is similar to many of the sayings of Jesus in the gospels. "Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life," Jesus says in our reading today from John. Is there anything wrong with loving life? Not at all, in one sense of the phrase. If by loving life we mean living a life filled with happiness, rejoicing in the everyday tasks and events of life, loving one's life is a good thing. However, if loving life means a selfish focus on oneself at the expense of others, than loving life is a bad thing. Jesus was the perfect example of someone who lived his life for others. I think that Jesus did enjoy life, but he didn't see his life as one to be lived for its own sake. Instead, Jesus lived a sacrificial life, caring for others and speaking the truth to power, characteristics that were his ultimate downfall. Can we see value in loss? Does a reversal of fortune ever portend something positive? On March 6, 1836, a group of about 200 men resisted a fierce assault from the Mexican army and died defending an old Spanish mission in San Antonio. Six weeks later, Sam Houston and his band of Texans defeated General Santa Anna in a battle that lasted less than 20 minutes. During the battle, Houston's troops cried out at the top of their lungs, "Remember the Alamo!" A bitter loss on a cold winter's day proved to be an inspiration to dispirited soldiers on the field at San Jacinto. Reversal, retreat, and defeat were all turned around. When evaluating whether our love for life is proper or not, the question we really need to ask ourselves is this: Is our life's primary ambition to make something of ourselves or to do something for others?