The Mud of the Lamb

John 9:1-41

A story is told of the Buddha who when asked by one of his disciples to describe the human condition likened it to a man walking through the forest who is struck by an arrow. Too often, the Buddha cautioned, we indulge ourselves in the kinds of questions that are irrelevant to the situation at hand. An observer of this tragedy has the luxury of wandering down rabbit trails: I wonder who shot this arrow? Why was he so careless in his aim? How far did it have to travel to reach its unlikely destination? If you are the man writhing in pain, however, all of these abstractions are quite beside the point, for there is only one pertinent question: How can I remove this object from my body and relieve my misery? Human beings, the Buddha concluded, frequently delude themselves into thinking that they are merely observers of their world, and thus they ask all the wrong questions. But in reality, each of us is like the man languishing in the forest, and as such we really don't have time for idle speculation. Instead, we need to focus our attention on the urgency of our predicament.

I can imagine that Jesus must have felt some of the Buddha's frustration when his disciples began posing their observer's questions about the man who had been blind from birth. No doubt the situation was a conundrum, especially for those who no longer believed that God was "a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of their parents…" (Ex. 20:5). It was Ezekiel who first painted Yahweh in a new light as a Creator who deals with each person according to his or her sins, and not as some vindictive old man who can't get over a grudge (Ezek. 18:20). But if this is the case, then how can we begin to explain congenital blindness? Despite Job, many during Jesus' day would have recognized the disability as a certain punishment from God. Some sin must have been committed, but when, and by whom? Were his parents to blame? Apparently not, unless you wanted to take up the matter with the likes of Ezekiel. Therefore, it must have been the man himself who was responsible. But could this transgression have happened in the womb? What a wonderful opportunity for a ponderous theological discussion, the disciples must have thought. Jesus could probably hold forth on this one for hours!

But Jesus had other plans. Like the Buddha, he knew that this was no time for philosophical tourism; it was a time for getting his hands dirty. His immediate response, however, appears to leave us with an unfortunate theodicy: "he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him" (9:3). Wonderful. Just when we thought we were past the image of God as some grumpy old man we're now confronted with an even less appealing possibility: God as manipulative deity who allows, if not causes, the lifelong suffering of an innocent person so that God might eventually be glorified.

This is a little hard to swallow. Indeed, it was such a facile explanation of the afflictions of our world that led the iconoclastic Ivan, in Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, to reject the Christian faith and its worldview altogether. "If the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings that was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price" (ch. 35). Thankfully the New Testament scholar Craig R. Koester helps us to breathe a little easier with an alternative translation. "A better way to approach this passage," he writes, "is to follow the Greek wording, recognizing that the sentence begins in 9:3 and continues in the next verse: 'Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but in order that (all' hina) the works of God might be revealed in him we must work the works of him who sent me while it is day'" (9:3-4a) (Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel, Second Edition [Fortress Press, 2003], p. 105). In other words, Jesus' act in relieving the man's suffering is not the long-awaited denouement of some divine plan, but rather a symbolic instance of its inauguration. Jesus was announcing in word and in deed the beginning of a new creation: "Let there be light."

And so he begins, in a manner not unfamiliar to those who have read the Yahwist account of creation in Genesis 2. The symbolism of Jesus' use of clay was not lost on Irenaeus of Lyons in the second century. For him it was an affirmation that the same hand that had formed Adam from the dust of the ground was now supplying openly what nature had neglected to provide in the womb (Against Heresies 5.15.2). Jesus did not simply heal the man's eyes but, in a manner of speaking, fashioned new ones from the earth itself. It was Origen, however, who helped early Christians understand the connection between this miracle and the process of their own spiritual growth. Whereas in the past Israel's kings were affirmed as "sons of God" (Ps. 2:7) through an anointing with oil, this apparent sinner was now acknowledged as one of God's own by means of a much more elemental ritual. He was anointed in the mud of the lamb. Thus begins his awakening -- his enlightenment -- a gradual understanding of the nature and power of God's grace in his life. But as Origen informed his readers, the clay in Jesus' hands was only the penultimate phase of the man's faith journey. It was "the beginning of the rudiments of the oracles of God, according to which we as babies are fed with milk. But when the childish things are done away with and we eat solid food, we wipe away the clay so that we may return to Jesus as one who sees" (Fragment 63 on the Gospel of John).

It is very easy to overlook a seemingly insignificant statement made by the one who, after washing his eyes in the pool of Siloam, was graced with the gift of sight. When asked by his neighbors if he is in fact the same person they once knew as a helpless beggar, his response is a noteworthy echo of Jesus' original proclamation to the woman at the well (John 4:5-41): "I am the man!" Now, having been made one with Christ through his baptism in living water, this man is able to testify to the Messiah most intimately by a profession of God's holy name, which is at once an affirmation of the new life that has been created in him: "I am."

It is no coincidence that early depictions of this miracle are prominent in the art of the Christian catacombs, found as often as nine times on the walls of these underground sanctuaries. It is not difficult to conceive how this gospel lesson might have been interpreted in this subterranean context, where the dust of the earth surrounded the faithful on all sides and darkness swallowed up the thin luminosity of their oil lamps. The rite of baptism in this environment must have been accompanied by a profound first-hand experience of arising from the depths as the believer ascended from the tombs of the dead and awakened to the light of day, assured in faith that she was now alive in Christ.

In an earlier reflection I spoke about the importance of Lent as Adam's season, a time for wearing the ashes of creation on my forehead and affirming the weaknesses and vulnerabilities I share with my most ancient of ancestors. I now know, through my ruminations on the lectionary texts over the last three weeks, that I too have been engaged all along in a kind of personal journey of creation, of being called forth slowly from the earth, my home. With twenty days of Lent behind me and twenty more that lie ahead, it seems appropriate at this point to shift my focus and begin reflecting on my own gradual ascent toward the light, from the tomb of my small ego toward the great "I am" whose spirit I bear through my baptism.

But if Lent teaches us anything it is the need to stay grounded, connected with the earth and the vicissitudes of our day-to-day existence. We are not simply observers of this short life but full participants in the groaning of creation and the suffering of humanity. We should therefore not pursue our idle speculations at the expense of the innumerable opportunities we have before us to really dig in deeply and get our hands dirty. For the way of enlightenment, of waking up and seeing the world as if for the first time, is by no means a straight road to glory but a crooked path of paradox, as both Jesus and the Buddha knew so well. As we near the second half of this liturgical season, John is encouraging us in this story to ponder one of his most elemental of insights -- that even before we can be refreshed by the waters of life we must first be renewed by the mud of the lamb.

Questions for Further Discussion

1. What aspects of this complex story most intrigue you?

2. Have you had any personal experiences where features of your world were brought more clearly into focus? If so, what were the means by which you were able to see things as if for the first time?

3. Do idle speculation and "observer's questions" (like those of both the disciples and the Pharisees in this text) often prevent you from digging in deeply and getting your hands dirty in the realities of your day-to-day existence?

4. Can you think of any contemporary parallels to this story?

In His Hands Are the Depths

Exodus 17:1-7
Psalm 95
John 4:5-42

Recently I discovered the work of an artist whose depictions of events from the Hebrew Bible and New Testament speak to me in a new and challenging way. Dr. He Qi is the first person from mainland China to have received his Ph. D. in religious art after the Cultural Revolution and is currently an artist in residence at Yale Divinity School. His works are featured regularly in curricula created by Faith Inkubators and his future plans include the creation of an illustrated Bible that will be published in several languages, including English. In his artwork, He Qi presents Christian stories and themes to the people of his homeland through images that draw on traditional Chinese painting techniques and folk customs. The manner in which he combines familiar narratives and unfamiliar imagery produces a kind of parabolic effect, evoking the sort of unsettling emotions that Jesus' disciples must have felt upon hearing his perplexing stories.

This week I have returned again and again to He Qi's interpretation of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. Actually, the artist has two versions of this scene from the Gospel of John, but the picture I have displayed is the one that has spoken to me most powerfully over the last several days. Often He Qi uses very vibrant primary colors to give his paintings the impression of complex movement and life, but in some instances he relies on the more elemental shades of green, yellow, and umber, allowing only an incidental tone of red to nuance his canvas, as is evident in this scene. Here Jesus is seated at Jacob's well and a young woman is standing before him; their red mouths accentuate the improbable dialogue that is about to take place. But not to be overlooked – indeed, it is the central focus of the painting itself – is the outstretched hand of Jesus set against the backdrop of the opening of the well. In one simple gesture – Jesus' reaching out in both compassion and spiritual direction – He Qi summarizes the fundamental import of John's narrative.

There is much about this story that can be said from both a theological and historical perspective. The attitude among Jews towards Samaritans is well known among Christians today, but the cultural depths of this animosity are not often emphasized. The source of the bitterness extended as far back as 700 years before the time of Christ when the Assyrians destroyed the Kingdom of Israel, displaced its inhabitants, and relocated communities from five different regions of its growing empire. These outsiders settled in the land and intermarried with the few Israelites who remained, and thus began a syncretism of religious traditions that persisted right up until the time of Jesus. The Samaritans were not Jews, of course, but their claims on such prophets as Moses and Jacob, and on such traditions as Abraham's near sacrifice of Isaac on their own Mount Gerazim, were close enough to Jewish orthodoxy to infuriate those who had spent the last five centuries making sure they got it all right, from their worship of God in the Jerusalem Temple to their strict observance of the law.

How unlikely it is, then, that Jesus the Jew would find himself in the company of a Samaritan, and a woman reviled among even her own. She was the quintessential outsider, but as such she was in the most likely position to hear and respond to the good news that Jesus came to proclaim. And here is the irony that John wants us to see in all its elemental glory: though it was Moses to whom God, the great "I am," spoke in the fire of the burning bush -- Moses the most exalted prophet among the Samaritans, Moses who struck the rock at Horeb so that the thirst of the Israelites might be quenched -- it was to this lowly woman, this Samaritan, that the Son of God would first reveal his name and mission. There had no doubt been ample opportunity for such a disclosure prior to this time -- with his disciples, for example, or even with one who might best understand the theological significance of his calling, Nicodemus. But in the Gospel of John Jesus speaks the first of his "I am" sayings to the one who, in the eyes of nearly everyone who could be asked, was the least deserving of all: "I am he, the one who is speaking to you" (John 4:26).

And this brings me back to the outstretched hand of Jesus framed so neatly in He Qi's painting by the circular mouth of Jacob's well. "I am he." In Jesus' confession of his messianic calling, so much more is being intimated than what this woman could possibly imagine. It hearkens back to the prologue of John's Gospel where we are introduced to the wonder of the incarnation itself, the spiritual Word becoming flesh, taking on the elements of creation as his own. Jesus had been with God in the beginning as the Spirit brooded over the face of the deep and called forth order out of chaos. "He was in the world, and the world came into being through him" (John 1:10a). This is the very hand that fashioned Adam from the dust of the earth, and the hand that directed Moses toward the rock at Horeb where water would save the Israelites from their anguish in the desert. "In his hands are the depths of the earth," the Psalmist assures us. And what we know as readers of this narrative, this hand, offered to the most unlikely of God's servants, will soon be the one from which the blood of death, and thus the promise of life, will spring forth on the cross.

Though she had little else to cling to, the Samaritan woman placed great faith and hope in the narratives of her tradition. She knew that despite her appalling reputation among her kindred she could still rely on the integrity of her distant past to give her strength. The well from which she drank was in many ways the source of her very identity. But as Jesus makes quite clear, all of this would have to be set aside in the presence of the Messiah.

Jesus' words still ring true to us today, and their urgency must not be minimized in a world where more times than not we rush to our own wells of nationalism or religious and ethnic pride for what we hope will be the water of life. "[T]he hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him" (John 4:24). From the outstretched hand of Jesus, and from extending our own hands to the quintessential others in our global midst, we indeed drink from living waters and offer to God our most holy praise. But the point that we need to remember, and now more than ever, is that this faithful response to God issues not from Gerazim or Jerusalem, not from Israel or Palestine, not from Baghdad or Washington, but from the very image of God which we all bear, regardless of our national or religious origin.

Despite Jesus' frequent references to such abstract notions as "spirit" and "truth," John still holds its own as the most elemental of the gospels. The evangelist works in shades of earth, air, water, and fire in the same way that He Qi is able to illuminate his canvases with the Word of God itself. Having said this, I think it is important that in this narrative we not overlook the elemental symbolism that reaches all the way back to the dialogue that Moses had with God-made-manifest in the burning bush. The story of Yahweh's calling that began in the mystery of fire now ends in the cool and calming waters of life. At Lent, this means for us that the stories of our own lives, fraught as they are with the kinds of shortcomings and failures that could make even the lowliest of Samaritans blush, are cleansed and renewed in the living water of our baptisms. But the process does not end here; on the contrary, this is where we begin. Our reconciliation with God must be mirrored in our sanctifying work in our homes and communities. "Preach the gospel always," Saint Francis once told his confreres, "and if necessary use words." Our hope for peace in our lives and in the world today lies at those wells and watering holes, complete with their unsavory Samaritans, that we tend more to avoid than to seek out. It will only be here, as Jesus demonstrates so well, and as He Qi reminds us so beautifully, that the hand of friendship can be offered and accepted.

Questions for Further Discussion

1. What features of He Qi's painting above most speak to you?

2. If you were to paint the story of Jesus meeting the Samaritan woman at the well, what aspects of the narrative would you be sure to include? What colors would be most prominent in your work?

3. In what ways do we as Christians tend to worship God on our own holy mountain instead of "in spirit and in truth"?

4. Where is your "local well" and what Samaritans are you likely to meet there in the coming week?

Born From Above

John 3:1-17

In an earlier blog I mentioned my desire to think differently about my notion of time, conceiving of it less as a linear reality and more as a cyclical phenomenon. One of my great helps in this has been the liturgical calendar and the lectionary readings that lend it depth and meaning. I have also found the spiritual discipline of lectio divina to be very instructive when coming to these texts, taking time to move through the four stages of lectio (holy reading or listening), meditatio (meditating on a particular word or passage that speaks to me), oratio (prayer), and contemplatio (resting in the presence of God). I was introduced to this practice as a Benedictine Oblate and have so appreciated the role it has played in my spiritual life over the last four years. However, being rather intellectually inclined – that is, prone to place an exaggerated emphasis on the centrality of words and the discourse that arises from them – I have found that seeking out the logos in another important text has been as vital to my spiritual growth as any foray into the narratives of the Bible. I try also to open the Book of Creation on a regular basis. Too often I forget to do this "other reading," but it isn't long before I am convicted of my spiritual negligence. Today was one of those days.

Living as I do in the central flyway of the United States – the corridor through which migrating birds flock at various times of the year -- I have come to associate the season of Lent with a biological cycle that has been played out in the skies above me for untold millennia. Usually around Ash Wednesday I can expect to see the first harbingers of spring in this part of the country: the bald eagles. They come in anticipation of the waterfowl that use the cornfields and wetlands along the Platte River as a staging area, a place to pick up a little fat on the bones before heading north to their mating grounds. I have actually come to associate the eagles with the traditional ashes of death, for that is the ecological niche these raptors occupy, as abhorrent as it is to those of us whose values shy away from what we perceive as violence. They are the keepers of the gate, as it were, deciding which ducks and geese are strong enough to avoid their ravenous scrutiny and which ones will be called upon to make the sacrifice that keeps the cosmic wheel turning.

Last week the reliability of my ecological calendar was confirmed. Two days after Ash Wednesday, as I walked out of the Hastings College library, my eyes were drawn to an unusually large black shape offset by a deep blue February sky. The bird was too big to be a hawk, and turkey vultures don't arrive in Nebraska until about May. Within a few seconds my expectations were confirmed as the sun glinted off the white tail feathers of this magnificent form gliding so effortlessly in the distance above me. Naturally I was appalled when I realized that no one else saw this gift from on high. I pretty much made a fool out of myself as I coaxed everyone who passed to raise their eyes to the heavens. I exuded the kind of enthusiasm that should be reserved only for a sighting of superman, but apparently the students and other faculty had better things on their minds. Their interest quickly waned and their eyes returned to a concerted examination of the ash-gray sidewalk beneath them.

Today, not even a week later, I was reminded of why the eagles had landed.

The afternoon was a busy one with appointments scheduled from lunch until a late dinner. I had agreed to meet a couple of students who had just returned from Calcutta, India, and wanted to share their pictures and experiences with me, so at 4:00 I shot out of my office and made a bee-line to the library, a few minutes late as usual. With all the ice we've had over the last three months it has become customary for me to keep a steady eye on the sidewalk in front of me as I make my mad dashes across campus. This afternoon was no exception -- I kept my nose to the grindstone. But then I heard it, unmistakable, the distant sound of spring, of hope. If you've ever seen a legion of snow geese in the sky overhead – and I mean thousands -- while your feet are planted in a patch of slowly melting snow, then you have some sense of what the text of creation has to say about being born from above.

I like to think that this afternoon I was born of water and Spirit, and in a way that I hope I can experience for years to come, like clockwork... but not the tick-tocking that makes us run from place to place, trying to catch up with so much lost time. No, the rhythm of this timepiece is so much greater and gentler than I have ever known in my workaday existence. As I watched the spectacle above me I became strangely aware of the sound and smell of melting ice, dripping from the gutters of buildings and the branches of pines -- an ablution for the winter's sins. The wind was blowing where it would, and the primal call of the Spirit issued forth from every one of those determined creatures above me whose lives were intersecting with mine for but a few eternal seconds. Kairos.

It's no wonder that the Pharisee Nicodemus came to Jesus under the cover of night. He knew that what the rabbi had to say could never be heard in the full light of day where words have their exacting meanings and the law of God is followed to the last jot and tittle. Jesus' teaching, by contrast, was mystifying and timeless, as if drawn from the depths of creation itself. Chthonic. It is not too far out of the realm of possibility to imagine that at the very moment that Nicodemus was posing his questions to the rabbi, thousands of miles away and on another continent the dance of water and spirit was being played out over the river basin that would later be called the Platte, as it had been for centuries and would be for years to come. The Spirit moves where it will, but not without its own design. This was the perplexing insight of Jesus that so confounded the Pharisee, a language of the earth that offers us all, paradoxically, an unexpected intimation of heaven -- a little gift of grace -- and the possibility of being born from above.

Wide Open Spaces

Gen. 12:1-4a
Rom. 4:1-5

I have to admit that I never fully appreciated the importance of Abram’s call until I moved to the wide open spaces of the Nebraska prairie. Nestled as I had been in the mothering arms of Tennessee’s Cumberland Mountains, it was very easy to settle into the comfort of a limited skyscape and a horizon that was more “up there” than “out there.” But all of this changed in August of 2001 as I traveled west across the Mississippi toward my new home in Hastings. The trees gradually became sparser, the grass a dustier hue of green, and the sky an unfamiliar and somewhat imposing shade of blue. It would take me several years before I could appreciate the prairie ecology for what it was instead of what I wanted it to be. More than once I found myself asking the same incredulous questions. Why would anyone choose to settle here? What were they thinking? After enduring several harsh winters on the plains I came to realize that those intrepid families who first came to this place a little over a century ago were taking a leap of faith no less fantastic than their spiritual father Abram. They came in hope, believing that they had been blessed by God, even as their lives became more and more precarious the farther they moved into the open expanse of the Great Plains.

Blessing is certainly the premise of Abram's call, but when we focus on this theme exclusively we can easily overlook some of its important and perhaps necessary precedents. In the United States we have become accustomed to the idea that we can actually get something for nothing. Advertisers are the first to employ this kind of wishful thinking – “no money down and no payments until 2010” – but the notion is also widespread among even our most stayed institutions, as the recent sub-prime mortgage debacle so tragically attests. We cannot, however, allow this cultural attitude to eclipse the enormity of what God calls Abram to do in Genesis 12: “Go from your country and your kindred and your family…”(12:1). In other words, leave it all behind. In Chaldea, Abram could take comfort in his ties to the landscape. He could find solace in the faces of his kinspeople or in the embrace of his parents and siblings. But in responding to God’s promise, it was necessary that he forsake all of these. God required of Abram that his fields be turned completely so that new seed might be sown, seed that would eventually be harvested in a land of promise somewhere in the west. In short, Abram was led by God to relinquish his former identity and walk naked, as it were, into a wide open space. God’s grace is surely unconditional, but it is often experienced in radically new and sometimes unpleasant conditions.

Ours is an itinerant culture and as such we are quick to minimize the significance of what Abram was called to do. Indeed, we rather like a little road trip now and then. Gather up the kids, fill the cooler with goodies, top off the tank of the minivan and we’re good to go. The ease with which we can pull onto the interstate and drive to our destination in a matter of hours inclines us all the more to romanticize what was required of Abram. We get a better sense of it if we recall the months of hardship endured in covered wagons by those early settlers on the Oregon Trail, but this still falls short of what Abram could expect to encounter in the desert habitat of the ancient Near East. Separated from his homeland and from the safety of his clan, he was fair game, a stranger wandering helplessly in enemy territory, at the mercy of both the elements and the enemies he would surely meet along the way. How vulnerable he must have felt amidst those wide open spaces of Canaan. But still he journeyed onward, led by hope and by faith in a promise.

It is with some ambivalence, then -- and with much anxiety about denying my Reformed heritage -- that I read Paul’s theological explanation of what is going on in this story. Ever conscious of the arguments proffered by his Judaic antagonists, Paul seems to downplay, if not ignore entirely, the significance of Abram’s life-changing decision to pack up the goods and start a new life elsewhere. “For what does the scripture say? ‘Abraham believed God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness’” (Rom. 4:4). That’s it? His belief is what made Abram righteous? The little trek into the unknown was just gravy? No wonder Americans, with their Protestant theological heritage, believe they can actually get something for nothing!

I can imagine what the Jews and Judaic Christians must have thought about the Apostle's perspective on this narrative. We can get a sense of it at least in the one epistle that took Paul to task for his apparent abandonment of the tradition: "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? …Was not our ancestor Abraham justified by works when he offered his son Isaac on the altar? You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was brought to completion by the works. Thus the scripture was fulfilled that says, 'Abraham believed God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness,' and he was called the friend of God" (James 2:14, 21-23).

Ever since Augustine the effort to defend the sovereignty of God has rendered James' perspective on this matter inconsequential, if not entirely mistaken. I would hazard a guess, however, that Abram, if he ever thought about the question, would more than likely look back on his journey into the wilderness and throw his hat in the ring with the brother of Jesus.

These issues that occupy the minds of theologians seem to be most at home in an urban context, one with which Paul was very familiar. Here the lines of the thoroughfares and byways cut neatly across the cityscape and pay homage to the kind of exacting logic that brought them into existence in the first place. Here, of necessity, questions of faith, grace, and righteousness fit ever so neatly into little equations that can be systematized for the edification of the faithful. Here, everything adds up. And this is precisely why it is so important for us every year, for a period of forty days, to remove ourselves from such an environment and wander into the wide open spaces of a Lenten landscape, where the line between blue sky and distant horizon is blurred, as is every other facile distinction that keeps us afloat in our day-to-day existence. Removed for a time from the distractions of "our country and our kindred and our family," we can contemplate God's blessing while numbering the stars among the heavens. We can relish the freedom of knowing that in God's call all roads lie open to us as paths of promise. More than this, we can come to experience with Abram the strange logic of God's grace, where faith and works are of a piece. In the wide open spaces of Lent we can believe once again that all things are indeed possible, that we can get something for nothing, but only if we work for it.

Questions for Further Discussion

1. What are some of the features of your personal "Lenten landscape"?

2. Soren Kierkegaard said that life must be lived forwards but understood backwards. Can you think of a time in your own life when you felt the call of God to "leave your country and your kindred and your family"? What blessings did you experience as a result of your leap of faith?

3. Compare Romans 4:1-17 and James 2:14-25. Which perspective is most appealing to you and why?