I’ve been reading Peter Singer on and off for about fifteen years. He is a philosopher and ethicist whose writing is clear, incisive, thought-provoking, challenging, provocative, and sometimes quite controversial.

This TED Talk is no exception, as he challenges all of us to examine the lives we’re leading in relation to how much we can give to those in need. Singer operates out of a branch of philosophy called utilitarianism that seeks to maximize the good and minimize suffering in the world.

Utilitarianism is a powerful philosophy, but the question that is regularly addressed to it is whether it too quickly reduces ethical decisions to mathematical calculations. For instance, is it really worse to invest in training a service dog to help one blind person than give that same amount of money to prevent blindness in many? The tendency to assert that all lives are equal is laudable, but the application apart from any other factors than sheer numbers can sometimes seem rather dubious. Nevertheless, these and other questions that both Singer and his critics raise are important to wrestle with.

Which is precisely what Singer excels at is: making us wrestle. I hope you take the time to watch, listen, think, and pray. It won’t be comfortable, but it will be worthwhile.

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Now when Jesus returned, the crowd welcomed him, for they were all waiting for him. Just then there came a man named Jairus, a leader of the synagogue. He fell at Jesus’ feet and begged him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years old, who was dying.

What would you give for the life of a loved one?

In some ways, this is a ridiculous question. The answers are simultaneously: anything and I don’t know, it’s too hard to think about.

That’s the situation Jairus is in. Luke tells us that he is a leader of the synagogue. More than that, we learn that he falls at Jesus’ feet – a mark of supplication and not something leaders usually do. And that he begs Jesus to come to his house – a mark of desperation and something leaders definitely don’t do.

But he does. Because it’s his daughter. His only daughter. And she’s dying.

It’s conventional wisdom that religion grows best in situations of distress or oppression. The cynical would say that’s because when we are desperate we will try anything, even believe things that most of the time we find too outlandish to believe.

But I wonder if it might instead be that when we are desperate we take a better measure of things. We see more clearly the fragility and preciousness of life until suddenly things like our pride or position or status or power – those things that consume far too much of our attention under normal circumstances – don’t really matter anymore and we are willing to recognize our dependence on others and on God.

We have no idea what Jairus was like before this tragedy. We only know that in his hour of absolute need, when the life of his beloved daughter hangs in the balance, nothing else matters, and he is eager to receive Jesus’ help.

And that, as we’ll see, is enough.

Prayer: Dear God, you desire always and only to be in relationship with us. We may only come your way in times of need, but even then you will neither forsake nor forget us. Thank you. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

I love the picture Spirit of Christ Lutheran Church (St. Louis Park, MN) has come up with under the leadership of their new pastor, Amy Orstad, to describe its life and mission.

I love the picture because it reminds us that church is supposed to prepare us to meet God the rest of the week.

I love the picture because it reminds us that God is out in front of us, waiting for us to catch up to where God is already at work in the world.

I love the picture because it invites a new generation of Christians and seekers to imagine church differently.

I love the picture because it’s the “good kind of crazy” that invites all of us to think differently about the relationship between church and our lives.

And I love the picture because, well, it just grabs your attention, and in a media soaked atmosphere, that’s good, too.

Just thought I’d share….

The man from whom the demons had gone begged that he might be with him; but Jesus sent him away, saying, ‘Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.’ So he went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.

So they guy who had the demons driven out of him now wants to follow Jesus. Should we be surprised? I mean, if someone just set you free from a curse that had been literally ruining your life, you might want to follow him as well. Even more, if you saw your townsfolk drive this guy away in fear, you might wonder how folks will respond to you? Or maybe after all those years of being known as “the guy possessed by demons” you’d just want a fresh start?

However we imagine it, it’s not that hard to understand why he might want to leave town and follow Jesus.

But Jesus says “no.”

And that does surprise me, at least at first. Because at first I’d think Jesus would continue to welcome anyone who wanted to follow. We’ve seen before that the disciples following Jesus include the twelve (whom Luke sometimes calls the apostles) but also many, many more. So why not this guy?

Jesus’ answer is telling. “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”

Ministry doesn’t have to take you far from home. Ministry, in the fullest sense of the word, can simply be sharing what God has done for you where you live…and work…and volunteer… and hang out… and socialize. Ministry happens whenever the people of God tell where God has been active in our lives.

Can we do that? More to the point, can you do that? What if that is the ordinary and simultaneously extraordinary call to each of us? Just to point to where God has been active in our own lives?

Many of us have little experience doing that, however. So if that feels hard or daunting or over your head, I have a suggestion: start by naming it to yourself. Each day, see if you can find one place where God is at work, one thing for which to thank God. My guess is that over time, thanksgiving will naturally spill over into your conversations with others and you, like this man, will be following Jesus’ command.

Prayer: Dear God, make us aware of your activity in our lives and eager to tell others what you have done for us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

I found the following two-minute video simultaneously intriguing, stimulating, and just a little disturbing.

First, a little context. The Glossary is a group that produces videos to promote books. They put together the video I highlighted a short time ago called “This is Water.” This one promotes Cory Doctorow’s The Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow, which I confess to knowing almost nothing about.

The book aside, what I find provocative is the way the video challenges our notions of change and progress. We are, by and large, children of modernity, and one of the axiomatic assumptions of Western culture since the Enlightenment has been that human history is one long march forward. That progress is our destiny, goal and right.

This is particularly evident at several points in the history of the U.S. Consider the name given for the belief that it was the God-given right for American settlers to expand and take possession of the western territories: manifest destiny. Or think back to the optimism shared in the 1950s after the U.S. emerged from both the depression and World War II stronger than ever. The world was our oyster and the future was bright, as some of the vintage film clips the video employs so well demonstrate.

But then something happened. In this case (post WW II optimism), it was the 60s and 70s where so much seemed up for grabs and suddenly what seemed like progress to some seemed like backsliding to others and vice versa. Changes brings instability and instability creates peculiar mixtures of fear and excitement.

Which is why, I think, the video struck such a chord with me. As I was watching some of the images of past visions of future progress shimmer on the screen it struck me how often we are poor predictors of the future. We do have Skype – which bears a pretty remarkable likeness to the video phone the Jetsons used . But we don’t have robots walking around doing our menial tasks. Not only that, but so many things changed that no one expected. Where was the sci-fi novel, for instance, that touted a future where men and women would share far more equally the tasks of child-rearing and income earning? Men wearing jet-packs? Yes. Men wearing Baby-Bjorns? Never saw that coming.

So what does all this say about progress and/or change? That change is inevitable, but progress isn’t. That we bear some responsibility for making sure that we live toward a better future, not just a different one. That we’ll often not know what is progress and what is change when we’re in the middle of it, and so can’t be held back until we figure it all out. That we need not sit back and wait for someone else to change the world but that we are invited to poke it, prick at it, try things out, live into our vision of a better future, and see what happens. Maybe it will catch on; maybe not. But either way, we’ll be changed in the process and perhaps the world will, too.

In any case, I’d be interested in what you think: about the video, about change, and about the changed and changing world and church we live in and that God loves so much.

The Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow from The Glossary on Vimeo.

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Now there on the hillside a large herd of swine was feeding; and the demons begged Jesus to let them enter these. So he gave them permission. Then the demons came out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned. When the swineherds saw what had happened, they ran off and told it in the city and in the country. Then people came out to see what had happened, and when they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. And they were afraid. Those who had seen it told them how the one who had been possessed by demons had been healed. Then all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them; for they were seized with great fear. So he got into the boat and returned.

And then the story went in a direction that no one expected!

This is a peculiar scene, particularly for us reading it two thousand years later in a culture where demon possession is something seen only in the movies (and the Bible!) and where we have no cultural aversion to swine.

But to the original readers, this would have seemed like a creative solution. Jesus was determined to drive the demons from the possessed man. He hears their entreaty and rather than send them to the abyss, allows them to enter a herd of swine, animals considered unclean in Jewish culture. The swine, in turn, rush down the bank and are drowned in a river. Problem solved, and with no big loss (except, of course, to the owner of the pigs!).

Again, there are so many details that catch our attention and make this scene seem not just peculiar but bizarre. What would likely strike early readers, however, is that Jesus exercises his power not only in Jewish territory but in the lands of Gentiles, as the Gerasenes are Gentiles both by geography and practice (keeping swine).

What might strike us, however, is that the reaction that Jesus’ healing provokes among these Gentiles is the same as the one evoked in his disciples: fear. Which is interesting: Jesus’ display of power, even though clearly exercised in the service of healing, frightens those who witness it (whether first hand in seeing it or second hand in only hearing about it).

Why? Would not those who had tried to help the man formerly possessed of demons rejoice? And would not those who perhaps did not care for him but were only afraid of his deranged wanderings also rejoice?

But their only reaction is fear, fear so strong they ask Jesus to leave, sending away the one who has the capacity to heal and redeem them.

Again, why?

Perhaps because we are such creatures of habit and homeostasis that we prefer stability even over health. We get used to our circumstances, that is, even when they are not good. And perhaps the only thing worse than a difficult, even painful present is an unknown future.

And so when Jesus heals the demoniac he shakes up the status quo and disrupts the order. What now will they do with this man? Where will he now go, stay, and do? And who, now, will be the recipient in turn of their charity or fear or derision?

Change is frightening, and if there’s one thing that Jesus always brings, it’s change.

We may think we want that. But when the change is something we can neither predict nor control, we may be surprised by how much anxiety change prompts. Sometimes enough even to reject the one who might save us.

Prayer: Dear God, when we sense the openness of the future you invite and the amount of change you will ignite we often grow afraid. Come to us anyway, we pray, conquering our fear and working your healing change in our lives. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Read Louisa Fletcher’s wonderful poem “The Land of Beginning Again” and then ask yourself if this is heaven. Heaven not as some distant and cloud-filled paradise but rather that place where all hurts are mended, all griefs comforted, all regrets repaired, all insults undone, all relationships restored.

In painting a picture that reminds me a bit of C. S. Lewis’ Narnia, Fletcher reminds us that life – both here and in the world to come – is about relationships. And she reminds us that forgiveness – which is, in fact, releasing a claim on another so as to begin again – is the secret ingredient of life.

But then ask yourself another question. Must we wait for the world to come to enter into the land of beginning again? Might church be that as well, at least a foretaste and perhaps even more? What would it take? What would we have to do to make our faith community the place where we are candid about our brokenness, eager for restoration, and willing to risk ourselves in love, mercy, and forgiveness that we might live – even here, even now – in the land of beginning again.

The Land of Beginning Again

I wish that there were some wonderful place
In the Land of Beginning Again.
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
and never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be there at the gates
like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the Land of Beginning Again,
And the ones we misjudged
and the ones whom we grudged
their moments of victory here,
Would find in the grasp of our loving hand-clasp
More than penitent lips could explain…
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the Land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
And never put on again.

By Louisa Fletcher, in The Land of Beginning Again.

Note: Thanks, Stuart, for pointing me here!

Then they arrived at the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee. As he stepped out on land, a man of the city who had demons met him. For a long time he had worn no clothes, and he did not live in a house but in the tombs. When he saw Jesus, he fell down before him and shouted at the top of his voice, “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me”— for Jesus had commanded the unclean spirit to come out of the man. (For many times it had seized him; he was kept under guard and bound with chains and shackles, but he would break the bonds and be driven by the demon into the wilds.) Jesus then asked him, “What is your name?” He said, “Legion”; for many demons had entered him. They begged him not to order them to go back into the abyss.

The details Luke shares about this scene are heartbreaking. Because of his condition, the Gerasene man has been bereft of any human community for who knows how long. He no longer has clothes. Neither does he have a home but rather wonders the tombs. In every possible way he is unclean, an outcast, utterly alone.

Except, of course, for the demons that inhabit him. And not just inhabit him, but drive him to injure himself to the point where the locals have chained him to keep him from hurting himself or others. But even these extreme measures can’t keep him safe. It is, as I said, a heartbreaking story.

I realize that while reading it many of us may wonder if demon possession was an ancient description of a cruel form of mental illness or an awful designation for someone who suffered some other terrible ailment. But this isn’t the concern of the story, and I find it most helpful to take the narrative on its own terms. The narrative, ultimately, is about the utter desolation and havoc these demons have wreaked in this man’s life…and about Jesus’ intention to restore him.

Why?

Because that’s what Jesus does.

And the demons know it, too. For when Jesus comes near and orders them to come out, the possessed man throws himself down, calls Jesus by name and title, and begs for mercy.

And as if there hasn’t been enough heartbreak already, the story gets even sadder at this point. For when Jesus asks the man his name, he can only answer, “Legion,” because so many demons had entered him. He has lost, that is, not only his relationships and status and clothes and dignity; he has also lost his identity and now knows himself only by his tragedy and heartbreak.

It is a sad, sad story. But it’s about to get quite interesting…and hopeful. Why? Because that’s what Jesus does.

Prayer: Dear God, when we get overwhelmed by the things that beset us and lose ourselves in our struggles, help us to recognize you still and call for help. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

I am fascinated by the art of making. Whether it be the art of making a guitar, or bread, or whatever, I think our creative capacity is one of those things God had in mind when in the Genesis story God declares, “Let us make humankind in our image” (Gen. 1:26). God creates. From the very first verses in the Bible God is creating, calling the world and universe into being. And in the very last verses, God is still creating, this time making all things new.

So whenever we make something – whether it be a piece of art or dinner tonight, a project for work or a card for a friend – we are joining God in the creative task that connects us with God our maker and, I believe, brings joy to God’s heart.

So I was simply delighted to stumble across this video on Remo Del Tradici, violin maker. Remo started playing – and then making – violins in his 70s. He’s now 90, and he gives many of the violins he makes away to veterans in memory of a brother he lost in World War II.

Every story of creation is a story worth telling and hearing. I felt particularly fortunate to find this one and hope that you find 5 minutes to watch it as well.

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One day he got into a boat with his disciples, and he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side of the lake.” So they put out, and while they were sailing he fell asleep. A gale swept down on the lake, and the boat was filling with water, and they were in danger. They went to him and woke him up, shouting, “Master, Master, we are perishing!” And he woke up and rebuked the wind and the raging waves; they ceased, and there was a calm. He said to them, “Where is your faith?” They were afraid and amazed, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that he commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him?”

There is a sense that in this chapter we are seeing the full array of Jesus’ capability and power. He teaches both in parables and through wisdom sayings. In the next scenes he will cast out a demon, heal someone who is sick, and restore a young girl to life. In this scene, Jesus demonstrates his authority even over nature itself, rebuking a storm and calming the seas.

And the reaction of his disciples? Terror.

That is one of the curious things about our relationship with God. We want God to be powerful, but we also want that power deployed in way we can understand, in a way that seems safe, in a way, perhaps, that we can control, or at least doesn’t leave us feeling out of control.

But to be in relationship with God is to be out of control. God isn’t a part of our life in this world, God is life in this world. God isn’t just another being in the universe. God is being. And there’s no controlling life itself, being itself.

So in this moment the disciples sense, perhaps for the very first time, just what it means to be in the presence of God’s messiah, Jesus the Son of God. And it makes them nervous, even afraid, because they know that whatever decisions or choices they may have made that have led them this far, yet they are absolutely not in control of what is to come.

Of course the great illusion of our lives is that we are ever in control. We may arrange certain aspects of our life, exercise influence over certain situations, but at any moment we may be struck down by illness or calamity or renewed by unexpected fortune. We are not in control.

Therefore the choice isn’t between being in control of our own self-made lives or surrendering control to God. The choice is between living with the illusion of control or entrusting ourselves to the One who orders the universe.

There’s a scene in C. S. Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe that captures a this sense. When the children discover that the great Aslan – whom everyone is expecting will come to restore Narnia – is a lion, they are naturally afraid. Susan exclaims, “Is he – quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.” To which Mr. Beaver replies, “Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

So also with Jesus – he is not a safe messiah, not a domesticated savior, that we can manipulate or control, and that is frightening. But through his actions so far, and as we’ll see as the story progresses, while he may not be tame, he is good. Very good.Prayer: Dear God, we are so eager to be in control of our lives that we miss the fact that so much of life, so much of what matters, is beyond our control or influence. Help us, therefore, to entrust ourselves to your wild, uncontrollable, but oh so good mercy and grace. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Post image: Laura James, “Jesus Calms the Storm,” 1995.