Monday, September 24, 2012

"The Greatest" (Proper 20B, Mark 9:30-37, September 23, 2012)


The Greatest

Proper 20B
Mark 9:30-37
September 23, 2012

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA

I’m not especially fond of lines, you know, the kind you stand and wait in, what they call a “queue” in the UK.

When I was in grade school lines were a quick way to sort the popular and unpopular kids.  When our class was told to line up, there would be a scramble and a line would emerge.  But then there were a series of “cuts.”  Kids would let their friends into line with them and, rather quickly, there would be a line with the high status kids at the front and the rest of us behind them.

As we got older that sort of thing stopped.  Anyone attempting a “cut” would be booed and jeered and generally made to bear the brunt of public disapproval. 

I understand that in the UK there are very strict rules about standing in line.  My parents lived in England for several years.  My mother tells about a time when she was in line for a teller’s window at a bank.  There were two or three windows open, each with its own queue.  She noticed that one had moved rather rapidly and was shorter than the other two so she switched queues!  A hush fell and everyone in the bank glared at her.  You’d have thought she had said bad things about the Queen Mum!  Such things are simply not done.

As I say I’m not especially fond of lines but what really riles me up are the ways that people get around lines.  I’ll be driving on a highway and see a sign that is all too common in the summer: “Road work ahead – 4 miles.”  As I get closer a sign will announce something like “Right lane closed ½ mile ahead.”  Now I’m the sort of person who will move to the left lane as soon as I can.  Most people do.  But not everyone.  There are always some, you know, who wait until the last possible second.  They go zipping past everyone who has done what they were supposed to do.  And then they expect that I’m going to let them into my lane.  And if someone uses the shoulder, well, let me tell you.  There is this little part of me that hopes that, when they try to merge, no one will let them in and they will be rewarded for their cheek by being forced to wait for hours.  I think that this little part of me needs some work, but it’s there.

I have a similar reaction at airport check-in desks.  The airlines have these labyrinths of rope stands and ropes so that ordinary people like me have to weave their way back and forth and navigate their luggage around corners.  I try to be patient.  But I have to confess that my attitude tanks when I’ve been waiting for half an hour or more and someone saunters past all that and presents themselves at the express check-in desk.  No waiting for them.  I know in my heart that these are the same kids who always cut into the front of the line when I was in grade school.

Of course, it’s thoroughly American to want to get ahead.  A competitive streak runs deep in our national psyche.  I sometimes wonder what that phrase means, “to get ahead.”  Get ahead of what? or whom?  Clarence Day had the title character in the play version of Life with Father say that “the measure of a man’s poverty is five dollars.  If he had five dollars more at the end of the week, he’d be rich.”  Most of the country lives from paycheck to paycheck.  The end of the paycheck comes and there’s nothing left.  If they had just five more dollars at the end of the week, they could start to get ahead.  Maybe that’s what “getting ahead” means.

Or maybe getting ahead just means getting ahead of the rest of the people in the line: not merging until the last second, or paying extra to use the express check-in.

In Jesus’ day I wouldn’t have had to ask the question, because getting ahead meant both of those things.  Imagine a line in which the high status people are in front and the low status people are in the back.  Only, if the low status people are connected to a high status person then they might move a little closer to the front.  They are in line for everything and there isn’t enough of anything.  The people at the front control who gets what.  They, of course, get the most.  The farther back in the line you are the less you get.

The front one percent get ridiculously more than they need.  The next twenty-nine percent get about what they need or sometimes a little more.  The next sixty percent get a little less than they need.  And the back ten percent get nothing at all.  Now imagine the jockeying that would go on in that line.
Their economy was quite different from ours or from what ours used to be.  It used to be that we used money to buy goods and services and we worked to produce goods and services that we exchanged for money.  More recently we have been using credit to buy goods and services and producing goods and services to pay off our debts and using our payment history to obtain credit.  I’m not sure how well that’s working for us.  Less well than we had suspected at least.

In the ancient world honor and prestige complicated this picture.  The coin of the realm, the thing that really made things happen was not silver or gold but honor.  It was honor that gave access to goods and services or to the relationships that allowed someone access to goods and services.  Money was used to obtain honor.  People worked to obtain honor directly or the money used to obtain it.

Like other forms of wealth, there was a fixed amount of honor.  The flip side of honor was shame.  Honor for me meant shame for someone else.

Scarcity, an honor-based economy, the impossibility of creating either money or honor, and the resulting situation in which gain for one is always loss for another, all go to explain both the disciples’ eagerness to be known as “the greatest” and their jealous concern that no one else claim that title.

It was the way of things in the ancient world but we are not so far removed from it ourselves.  Watch children on a playground, co-workers in a company, or politicians in Congress and you can see that the game in all those places is governed by very much the same rules.

It was the Roman way.  It was the way of things in Roman Palestine.  It’s the American way.  Maybe it has been that way in every human group or realm.  But that’s not the way it is in the realm that Jesus proclaims.
As the gospel progresses the disciples seem to understand less and less of Jesus’ proclamation rather than more and more.  This time when Jesus told them of the coming confrontation in Jerusalem, they said nothing at all.  Instead of trying to talk Jesus out of it, as Peter had done the first time Jesus raised the subject, they engaged in a private debate about which one of them had the most status.

I can imagine Jesus’ frustration.  “All right,” I can imagine him thinking, “is it status you want?  I’ll show you how to gain status.”  “Whoever wants to be first,” he said, “let them be last; let them be the servant of the last and least.  Then they will be first.”

Then he staged a little direct action for the benefit of the disciples.  He took a child, a little child, and placed it, him, her, in the midst of the group.  “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

Now let’s understand something about this.  Jesus is not offering us this child as an object lesson because of a child’s innocence or sweetness or anything of the sort.  No one in all of history thought children were innocent or sweet until the middle of the nineteenth century.  It is only through the lens of the Victorian era’s Cult of the Child that we think anything of the sort.  It’s not that people didn’t love their children or do their best to raise them well.  It’s just that they were under no delusions about their moral purity.  I can say with full assurance that neither Jesus nor his contemporaries had a Victorian view of children.

Notice that the text doesn’t mention the gender of the child.  That’s because the text doesn’t care about the gender of the child. 

The Roman world in general was very casual about children.  Male children were important for inheritance, but only if they lived through their infancy and early childhood.  They had less than even odds of doing that.  Female children were considerably less important, even if they lived.  Romans regularly practiced exposure of infants, especially of infant girls.  These exposed infants would either die or be picked up by strangers to be raised as slaves of one kind or another.  In fact we have a letter from a Roman to his wife that casually instructs her, “If by chance you bear a child, if it is a boy let it be, if it is a girl, cast it out.”[1]

Among Jews infanticide was forbidden, but that does not mean that children were high status individuals.  Children were low status individuals.  Children were non-persons and that is why Jesus made an object lesson of one.

So, what Jesus told the disciples was something like this: “If you have to indulge that competitive urge, if you really have to be number one, here’s how to do it: Give yourself in service to non-persons, like this child.  This child is a non-person.  I come to you as a non-person.  And that’s because the God who has sent me comes to you as a non-person.  If you want to be somebody, serve nobodies.  If you want to get ahead, step back.  If want to get to the front of the line, go to the rear of the line.  If you want to see the world rightly, stand on your head.”

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.



[1] POxy IV 744.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Becoming Disciples (Mark 8:27-38, Proper 19B, September 16, 2012)


Becoming Disciples

Mark 8:27-38
Proper 19B
September 16, 2012

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA

Our denomination’s leaders are worried.  They’ve been worried for some time about the health of the United Methodist Church.  Ever since the days of John Wesley we’ve kept track of everything we can count: attendance, membership, baptisms, deaths, class attendance in Sunday School, number of Sunday School staff, numbers transferred in and out, members of UMW and on and on.  From time to time we add a new category.  We count and we report.  We used to report every year.  Now we’re going to report every week and bishops and district superintendents will be watching.  They’ll be looking at these numbers to see if we’re a “vital” congregation.  They’ll be looking at these numbers to see if I’m an effective pastor.

Our denomination’s leaders are worried.  They’re worried because the United Methodist Church has been shrinking in numbers since the early sixties.  That’s as far as total numbers of members is concerned.  Actually, the high-water mark of the Methodist Church membership as a percentage of the total population of the United States was reached in about 1880.  We’ve been shrinking ever since.

Our denomination’s leaders are worried because they can see where this is headed and they don’t like it.  The anxiety of our leaders can be seen in the steady stream of turn-around strategies coming out of our quadrennial General Conferences.  This anxiety fosters a nostalgic longing for the movement founded by the mythic figures of a bygone heroic age.  This anxiety trickles down.  It looks for scapegoats. 

The pressure will be on, in ways that it hasn’t been on before, to show an increase in membership.  Each year a certain number of members die, move away, transfer to other churches, or become inactive.  One measure of our vitality will be our ability to bring in more members than we lose.  There will be other measures, of course, but that will be one of them.

I’ll be the first to admit that I like numbers that grow.  I’m an American, after all, and we Americans believe deep in our collective souls that more is better than less, bigger is better than smaller.  I like looking out at our sanctuary on a Sunday morning and seeing the pews filled.  The hymns sound better, for one thing, but it just looks and feels better, too.  We had a hundred forty-five people in worship last week.  We had over fifty kids in Sunday School.  And this past Wednesday we had fifteen students in Confirmation class.  These are good things, all other things being equal.

But all other things are not equal. 

When we take our very American anxiety to the gospels we discover that Jesus shows a stunning lack of concern for numbers and bottom lines.  Take the story in Mark’s gospel that we just heard.

This story marks the turning point of Mark.  Up to this point Jesus had done some preaching.  He had healed some people.  He had drawn some crowds.  He had had a run-in or two with the religious authorities.  He gathered a small group of men and women around him.  He zigzagged his way back and forth across Galilee between the mostly Jewish side of the lake and the mostly gentile side of the lake.

Now, however, he and his disciples are just outside of Caesarea-Philippi, way up in the north.  From here they will continually move to the south, toward Jerusalem and the showdown with the powers that be in Roman Palestine.

For the first time he tells his disciples what this showdown will mean: Jesus will die.  He will be rejected by the authorities.  He will be murdered.  And he will rise again on the third day.

This was a shock to his followers, obviously, since Peter immediately takes him aside to talk him out of it.  Jesus makes it clear, however, that, however rational and sensible a strategy it may be to avoid this death, God’s path lies through this death, not around it.

And then Jesus turned to the crowd and told them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”  Here are the terms under which they (and we) may become Jesus’ disciples:  First, they are to deny themselves.  That word, translated “deny,” is only used in one other place in Mark and that is when Peter denies Jesus.  Peter claims to have no idea who Jesus is or to have any relationship with him.  So, to deny ourselves is to give up all sense of ownership of ourselves.  Second, they are to take up their cross.  In the shadow of the Roman city Caesarea-Philippi this can only mean that being Jesus’ followers will make them enemies of the state.  Third, they are to follow Jesus.  He will deny himself.  He will take up his cross.  Those who follow Jesus will do the same.  It’s harsh and hard, but he asks nothing of us that he does not ask of himself.

The vital and growing congregation currently gathered around him will surely feel the effects of the hard line that he is taking.  And it does.  In Mark his congregation will dwindle and shrink until, at the moment of Jesus’ greatest faithfulness, his congregation will have no members.  All will be scattered.  This will not look good on Jesus’ dashboard. 

It’s not what we expect or even understand.  Jesus seems totally unconcerned with the number of members in his movement.  Instead, his whole focus is on walking the path that God has set before him and in calling others to walk that path with him.

In the August newsletter I shared with you that a group of leaders in our congregation had asked themselves the question, “What does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus?”  I’ve been wrestling with that question.  I eventually came up with a page-long meditation.  One thing became very clear to me as I worked on this exercise: If I define being a disciple of Jesus the way he does, then the gap between the life to which Jesus has called me and the life that I actually live is enormous. 

But I have decided that this is okay.  Not that there is a gap, but that Jesus holds up a definition of discipleship that is beyond me.  The standard that Jesus holds up is the one toward which I commit myself to live.  There are resting places but there is no home between where I am and discipleship as Jesus describes it.  I’d rather have it that way than to adjust the goal to where I am. 

Last week we started a new Confirmation class.  As I said, we had fifteen students.  The class is both seventh and eighth graders, but that is still big for our church, at least for recent years.  In the normal course of things in April fifteen young people will join our congregation as professing members. 

But I will tell you what I told them on Wednesday.  I’m not much more interested in their joining the church than Jesus was in signing up more members for his movement.  I’m not really interested in membership, the dashboard notwithstanding.  I am, however, vitally interested in discipleship.  I am vitally interested in their becoming followers of Jesus.  I know this is no easy thing, but I have decided not to protect them from the summons that Jesus has issued.  Jesus asks of them far more than they have asked of themselves.  We have promised to accompany them on this baptismal journey of theirs.  If we are to keep our promises, we, too, will have to hear Jesus ask far more of us than we have asked of ourselves.  We will have to hear Jesus call us to deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow him.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012


The Master Becomes the Learner
Proper 18B
Mark 7:24-30 (31-37)
September 9, 2012
Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA
At this point in the Gospel of Mark Jesus’ ministry was well-begun, maybe even too well-begun.  He couldn’t go anywhere without attracting a crowd.  Very early he developed a reputation as a man who could give healing to those who needed it.  And many people needed healing: a multitude in every town, village and district.

The news of Jesus’ ministry spread like wildfire and it always brought out the afflicted.  Every family that had an unproductive mouth to feed would bring their sick and disabled to Jesus, hoping against hope that he would heal them too, and rescue them from the shame of having to disown a member of their own family, casting them out onto the mercy of the community as a whole. 

Despite Jesus’ popularity, there had been some troubling events.  Crowds were willing enough to see or benefit from his healing, but they were less willing to take what he had to say.  The people in his hometown of Nazareth had rejected him.  His family failed to understand what he was about.  The disciples were slow to catch on.  And, to make matters worse, he had attracted some opposition.  It wasn’t just the local religious authorities, jealous of Jesus’ popularity, perhaps, and worried about their own place in their communities.  Jerusalem itself had taken notice and it was not pleased.

Maybe it was time to let things cool off a little, put a little distance between himself and the uproar, get out of town for a few days.

So Jesus took his disciples with him to Tyre.  Tyre was a seaport city on the Mediterranean.  In Jesus’ day, like many seaports, Tyre was a kind of melting pot.  There were the Phoenicians, of course, a Semitic people long-settled in that region.  Since Alexander’s time it had also become very Greek.  We say that it was Hellenized.  Tyre also had a significant Jewish population.

Maybe it was that combination that commended the city to Jesus.  He would be a stranger there, but would be able to find a place to stay among the city’s many Jewish households.  In any event he intended for his whereabouts to stay a secret.

But the rumors about him had moved faster than he had and they got there first.  A woman, a Syro-Phoenician woman, had heard about him and found out where he was staying.  We should notice some things about her.  In that hybrid city, she herself was a mix of backgrounds.  In a day when ethnicity was much more important than it is now and when people took their very identity from the people from whom they had sprung, this woman was both Syrian and Phoenician, a bit of an oddity.  She was not Jewish.  The story hints that she was rich.  We suspect this both because she is called a Hellene and because at the end of the story her daughter is described as lying on a couch, rather than on a mattress.[1]

Her daughter had “an unclean spirit.”  What does that mean?  I don’t know.  What is important for the story is that the little girl was afflicted in some way that had been resistant to the treatments that her mother had at home, could buy or hire.  So she decided to go see Jesus.  What did she have to lose?

She went to the house where Jesus was and fell at Jesus’ feet in the proper posture of someone begging a favor, even though she was his social superior.  She asked that the spirit be cast out of her daughter.

Now here is where the story gets interesting.  Anna Carter Florence, who is one of my favorite writers on the subject of preaching, said something a number of years ago that I have never forgotten.  She said, “The truth of a text depends on where you are willing to stand and what you are willing to see.”[2]  The truth of a text depends on where you are willing to stand and what you are willing to see.  The truth of a text isn’t something that’s in the text.  It’s in where we stand in relation to the text and what is seen from that standpoint.  And standing and seeing are not so much about ability as they are about willingness.  Biblical interpretation is less about knowledge and smarts than it is about courage and honesty.  The truth of a text depends on where you are willing to stand and what you are willing to see.

Where could we stand in this text?  Well, we could stand—or perhaps kneel and bow with our heads touching the floor—with the Syro-Phoenician woman, a cultured Greek-speaking mother with an afflicted daughter who hears this Jew respond to her voluntary and unnecessary politeness with an insulting dismissal: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Actually, what he said was “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the puppies.”  Presumably, the woman’s afflicted daughter is the puppy in question, which makes her a dog.  Even today in the Middle East, there is nothing more insulting than to call someone a dog, and coming from a social inferior it was even worse.

But, you see, this woman has already exhausted her other possibilities.  If she wants healing for her daughter then she cannot let even this insulting behavior stop her.  Jesus has something she needs.  She can insult him in return but what will that get her?—a moment of satisfaction, maybe, but then she will go home and her daughter will still be afflicted.  For the time being, at least, she must adopt the wisdom of the weak.  We’ve all been there at one time or another.  Even if your boss is a jerk, getting into a shouting match with her will accomplish nothing.  Even if your teacher is in the wrong, arguing with him is unlikely to change things in your favor.  Even if your mom or dad is being unfair—and since they are often more interested in peace and quiet than they are in fairness, that is not at all unlikely—even if your mom or dad is being unfair, going toe-to-toe with them doesn’t mean that you win.

She must adopt another method.  He had talked of children and puppies.  Maybe, by mistake, he had left an opening.  He had sketched a domestic scene: children at the table, puppies on the floor.  No it wouldn’t be right to take the children’s food away from them and give it to the dogs (although I have seen children do it themselves often enough.  I’ve done it myself, in fact.  Dogs, by the way, are not all that fond of lima beans.).  But the logic of the scene reveals the puppies pouncing on anything that falls from the table.  And so her reply is, “Sir, even the puppies under the table eat the children’s little crumbs.”  Checkmate.

Jesus’ choices are two: He can give her what she has asked for, acknowledging that she has outwitted him.  Or, he can escalate his rudeness, and everyone will know that she has outwitted him even though he hasn’t admitted it.  He chooses the first option.  When the woman goes home she finds her daughter well and resting comfortably.

Now the hard thing about taking this position is from here we are confronted with Jesus as a flawed character.  He gets beaten in a verbal jousting match.  His initial response to her request was just rude.  That’s not the way we usually see Jesus.

Of course, there are those who will try to wiggle out of this.  They will say that Jesus knew how this was all going to turn out—he is God, remember—so there was no harm in using this situation to teach a lesson about persistent prayer.  This, I insist, is an interpretive failure of nerve.  If you are going to adopt this woman’s position in the text, then you have to see what she sees.

So, what we have here is a strategy for dealing with the powerful.  The way to get what we need and want from them is to adopt the logic of their argument and then turn it against them, showing that their own logic requires them to yield to our demands.  Martin Luther King, Jr., was a master of this, arguing for civil rights by showing that the logic of the American story requires equal access for blacks.

Perhaps it applies most of all to prayer.  God, after all, sometimes seems as dismissive to our requests as Jesus was to the begging woman’s.  Find the logic of God’s program, take our place within it and ask for what we need: “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

That’s one place we could stand and, while it may not be easy, this is what we might see.  There is another place.  We could take our place with Jesus, if we are willing, and see what we might see from there.

Jesus, a peasant-class Jewish healer and prophet, when confronted with this Gentile, Greek-speaking, upper class woman, made a very common move.  It’s one we make all the time.  We make it when someone on the street asks us for money.  We make it when we vote.  We make it in our conversations when we talk about our schools and our communities and the things that are going on in the world.  We draw concentric circles and start with ourselves.  We take care of our own.  Me and mine and then, if there is something left over, you and yours.  Charity begins at home, we say.  And it pretty much ends there, too, if there isn’t enough to go around, we add silently.

“Let the children be fed first,” we say.  Jesus is for the Jews first.  And then, if there is any of him left over, he can be shared with the Gentiles.  God’s love is for me first.  Then, if there is any left over, it can be shared with you.  And if there is still some left over—and that doesn’t seem likely—we can share it with them
Are we hard-wired to make this move?  It’s possible.  And Jesus has even blessed this perspective with an insulting proverb: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

And yet, as we have already seen, the logic of this move is not iron-clad.  This detestable woman—detestable because she is “other” to the Jewish, peasant, male Jesus in so many ways: Gentile, upper-class, female—but detestable most of all because she is right, this woman has punched a hole in the logic by which we organize our world.  “Even the puppies under the table can make a feast out of the children’s tiny morsels.”

God’s love is bigger than we are.  This is gospel and it doesn’t come from our lips.  It comes to us from the mouth of this “other,” someone whose only claim to speak the truth is her daughter’s need, her willingness to humiliate herself, and her refusal to take no for an answer.

We’re not entirely sure this gospel is good news, not if it threatens our world of concentric circles with us at the center.  Can we bear to hear it?  What if the gospel we need to hear is one we cannot speak?  What if the gospel we need to hear is one we do not know?  What if the only person who can speak the good news to us is a welfare mother with four children, living in a two-bedroom, roach-infested mobile home?  What if the person with the gospel we need to hear is a Guatemalan immigrant and we don’t even speak the same language?  What if we are not in charge of the message that we bear?  What if the gospel is not our possession? 

The gospel story is not a story we can take or leave; it is a story into which we have fallen, one that will remake our world, but not before it unmakes it.  Even Jesus could not keep the gospel under control or harness its energies to serve his own interests.  So what can we do?

If we do what Jesus did, we will take to heart the lesson that the Syro-Phoenician woman taught him.  We will say no to the ghettos and gated communities in our heads.  We will say yes to a love that honors no walls, fences, zoning ordinances, civil jurisdictions, or national boundaries. 

As I understand it, this is what goes on at the heart of Christian Education.  Yes, there are stories to learn and facts to master.  But done rightly, Christian Education is a game that we play with God.  We say to God, “We’ll draw a circle and then you draw a circle and the one who can draw the biggest circle wins.  And we’ll keep going until one of us gives up.”  And then we see where that game takes us.  We can be pretty sure it won’t be a place we’ve ever been before.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.



[1] Jim Perkinson, "A Canaanitic Word in the Logos of Christ; or The Difference the Syro-Phoenician Woman Makes to Jesus," Semeia 75 (1996): 67.
[2] Anna Carter Florence, Festival of Homiletics (2002).

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Religion and Politics: Solomon’s Temple as Propaganda (1 Kings 8:(1, 6, 10-11) 22-30, 41-43, Proper 16B, August 26, 2012)


Religion and Politics: Solomon’s Temple as Propaganda

1 Kings 8:(1, 6, 10-11) 22-30, 41-43
Proper 16B
August 26, 2012

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA

Whenever the lectionary committee gives us a reading that is as fragmented as the one we have today from 1 Kings, I want to know what has been left out and what has been included and why.  I wonder what has been highlighted and what has been obscured by the choices that they have made.  I’m not blaming them in particular.  We can’t read the whole Bible aloud every Sunday or even all of one book, so a reading has to begin and end somewhere.  Something will be read and something will not.

Still, I like to look at those things.  Since the lectionary is a collection of readings that are supposed to contain the most important passages in the Bible, they represent the lectionary committee’s judgment about what is important.  The human beings that formed the committee all brought their prejudices and foibles to the text and to the task, just as I bring my prejudices and foibles to the task of reading and preaching and you bring yours to the task of hearing and interpreting what I say.

One of the consistent foibles of the committee is an aversion to controversy, a distaste of difficult readings.  So let’s see what’s going on in our reading from 1 Kings.

The first few scattered verses—1, 6 and 10-11—are actually in parentheses, optional, in other words.  They tell us that the Ark of the Covenant, what our version calls “the chest,” was brought from the Tent of Meeting, where it had been kept, to the Temple that Solomon had finished building nearly a year before.  The material left out is mostly repetitious, although it does tell us that Ark of the Covenant contained only the two stone tablets with the words of the covenant on them, the ones that Moses had placed in it at Horeb.  In other words, God is not in the Ark of the Covenant.

The next sections of the reading are two excerpts from a lengthy prayer that Solomon prayed.  Solomon recalls the promises made to his father David, promises that in his view are kept that day, a reminder that, while God does not live in a house, even one as fine as the Temple, nonetheless the Temple will be the place where God’s “name” lives, whatever that might mean.  The second excerpt asks that the prayers of immigrants directed toward the Temple be heard and answered. 

As it stands the reading does two things: First, it celebrates the Temple while at the same noting that God is in no sense a captive in this building.  “If heaven, even the highest heaven can’t contain you, how can this temple that I’ve built contain you?” Solomon asks God in his prayer.  He knows that it can’t, so that the project of building this Temple, as magnificent as it is, is a little misleading, since the Temple sure looks like it was built as a house for Yahweh to live in.  In some of the skipped material, Solomon says, “The Lord said that he would live in a dark cloud, but I have indeed built you a lofty temple as a place where you can live forever.”  We are already caught in a contradiction in the text, a contradiction that the committee would have spared us if I hadn’t been so nosy about what they left out.

The second thing that the reading does is to emphasize the inclusive nature of Israel’s religion.  The word will get out about Israel’s covenant God and when it does, people will come and pray.  And when they do, Solomon asks God to hear and answer, so that the word will spread even more.  Yahweh is Israel’s God, but is concerned about a global reputation.

This is nice as far as it goes.  But this is not really the major theme of Solomon’s prayer.  Solomon, after talking to God about the house that isn’t a house, imagines seven different reasons for offering up prayers to the God who doesn’t live in the Temple that Solomon has built.  (1) Someone may sin against a neighbor and need to have the matter judged.  (2) The people may be defeated by an enemy because they have sinned.  (3) There may be a drought because the people have sinned.  (4) There may be famine or a plague because the people have sinned.  (5) An immigrant may hear about God and come to pray.  (6) The people may go out to engage in a battle.  And, last of all, (7) the people may sin and be taken away into captivity and may pray from wherever they have been taken.

What emerges here is that in Solomon’s imagination the Temple, this house where God does not live, is a kind of technology for addressing what are mostly royal concerns: resolving disputes between citizens, military defeat, drought, famine and plague, foreign reputation, battle, and even the loss of sovereignty.  These are matters that concern the king; and, the Temple, the house where God does not live, is supposed to provide the solutions.

Of course Solomon is careful to hedge this technology about with disclaimers.  Of the seven occasions for prayer, five of them come about in the first place because someone has sinned.  And it’s never the king.  All sorts of bad things can happened for which the king is not responsible, but for which he offers some remedy that involves the house where God does not live, the house that he built for God’s name, whatever that might mean.

There is also a passing mention of the fact that this is a covenant in which there are covenant obligations that bind all the people, the king included.  Solomon thanks God for keeping the promises that were made to his father David:
“Therefore, O Lord, God of Israel, keep for your servant my father David that which you promised him, saying ‘There shall never fail you a successor before me to sit on the throne of Israel, if only your children look to their way, to walk before me as you have walked before me.’ Therefore, O God of Israel, let your word be confirmed, which you promised to your servant my father David.”
God’s care for Israel is deep.  God is prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to see to Israel’s welfare.  But God’s pro-Israel stand is not absolute; Israel must not scorn the covenant.  “If only…” God had told David, and Solomon does in fact mention this, but what chance does this sobering reminder have of getting noticed among the buildings, the cattle and sheep being slaughtered as sacrifices and food for the gathered crowds, the clouds of incense, the chanting and the cheers?

No, the impression that Solomon has carefully created with the Temple and the liturgy and the prayers is one of permanence and stable reliability.  The Temple is solid; it is stone; it will be the house where God does not live forever.  There are no “if only’s” in the architecture, not a single “as long as you” set into the stones.  The Temple is built for a God who is a sure thing.

Solomon has made a bid for control over the religious establishment of Israel.  In the process the covenant has nearly been erased.  There is no mention at all of those who must be cared for if the covenant is to be kept: the widow, the orphan, and the migrant worker.  For the time being, I suppose, they are eating their fill of the sacrificed beasts.

Perhaps they have forgotten that it was the common folk of Israel, not Solomon, who built the Temple. Oh, and Solomon’s palace as well, a building that occupied a footprint some fifty times the size of the house that God does not live in.  It was their wealth that Solomon gathered to pay for it all.  It was their fathers and brothers and sons who were drafted at spear-point and sent to labor for the king.  They may have had some pride in the finished buildings, but in the end this wasn’t about them.  It was about the king and it was about royal power.

The covenant was born out of the brick-making factories of Egypt, the fruit of liberation from slavery, as Yahweh heard the cries of the people, knew their misery and came down to save.  The covenant is all about those who live on the edges. 

Solomon has given lip service to the covenant and co-opted it to secure royal power and control.  He has built a beautiful Temple, a house that cannot hold God, and yet, in Solomon’s imagination God has become small enough to just fit. 

That imaginative adjustment so that God fits within the limits of Solomon’s desire for control will outlive Solomon.  It will be like a wound that does not heal, that festers over the coming centuries until the life of God’s people becomes a covenant in name only, until the armies of Babylon surround the walls of Jerusalem with siege machinery, until the gates are breached and the walls are torn down and the Temple itself—looted and defiled—lies in ruins.

Just two generations before Samuel had warned Israel not to ask for a king, because a king would “take your sons and appoint them to his chariots and to be his horsemen… [and] your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers… [and] the best of your fields and vineyards and olive orchards … [and] one-tenth of your grain and of your vineyards… [and] your male and female slaves, and the best of your cattle and donkeys… [and] one-tenth of your flocks, and you shall be his slaves.”[1]  Just two generations later and Solomon has become that king.  He has enslaved the people.  And they have built the Temple, the house where God does not live, as Solomon’s propaganda in stone, as architectural theology.

Many generations later, after Solomon, after the destruction of Jerusalem, after the exile in Babylon, came a peasant from the north country to another Temple, this one remodeled by another king who played at the game of empire.  He gestured to the fine buildings, known everywhere as some of finest religious architecture in the world, and said to his followers, “You see all these, do you not? Truly I tell you, not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”[2]

Jesus came to put an end to the whole Solomonic project.  He recognized that we cannot use buildings to control God, even beautiful buildings.  He turned Solomon’s prayer inside out and called the people to remember the covenant, to remember the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, the prisoners, and the stranger, to remember the God who heard the cries of the people, knew their misery, and came down.
Jesus calls us to remember the covenant and that’s what our true life here is and will be about.  We know that peaceful justice is what God wants.  When we find peaceful justice at work in the world, we will support it.  When something in the world thwarts peaceful justice, we will work to change it.  When we cannot change it, we will resist it.

We do not expect to build a building for God to live in.  We only hope that, wherever and whenever and however we are striving to live out the covenant in our shared life, God will be with us, in our midst.

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[1] 1 Samuel 8:11-17.
[2] Matthew 24:2.