The Redemption Project - Language and Tongues

So what does the story of Pentecost have to say to us? Maybe this year more than any other, it sounds like a religious story whose meaning doesn't extend beyond a Zoom sermon. Yes, this day marks the culmination of Jesus' promise to send us a helper, a comforter, his Holy Spirit. And that Spirit is our connection to the Divine to which, in these troubled times, we desperately need. But, this miracle of suddenly being able to speak Japanese or Portuguese seems...distant. Our problems are with those that speak English just as we do. Right?

Language is a funny thing. There's no pure one-to-one between two of them. French, for example, has words and phrases that don't have a literal equivalent in English. We can render them, but what I read or hear through translation isn't really what a native French-speaker hears. It's an interpretation.

Even in our own language, the words don't always carry the same meaning. "I'm sorry," varies in its meaning depending on how it's said. And my meaning may not be received by my wife if my voice and face convey something different. There's what is said and what is heard, I suppose.

Those present on Pentecost, we're told, heard the words of the Twelve in their own language. The story conveys that, perhaps, what Peter, James, and the others were saying wasn't necessarily in Greek or Egyptian or Parthian or any other foreign language, but those people from those lands who spoke in that other tongue heard what they said in a language they understood.

Something happened between the speaker and the hearer. Something, someone intervened.

The disciples, we read, spoke in other tongues themselves right after tongues of fire burned their own. Funny that it says tongues, isn't it? It's almost as if it's less about language and more about how it's said.

This is a day about speaking and listening. But, likely as not, you (like me) are not the talker but the hearer.

On Pentecost Twelve guys who were no one special, no one of influence stood before the crowds and spoke the words burning on their tongues. They spoke passionately, through love, of what had happened, and what it meant for all of them. There was someone very special to them. He died. He'd been killed. But that wasn't the end of the story. No, something new happened, and is continuing to happen. And you can be a part of it.

Those who listened that day were a mixture of classes. Each had their own background, experiences, baggage. They'd heard people screaming in the street before. They'd heard of "new ways" before. Some might have even heard about the tragic death of this man of which they spoke. But, this time, they allowed love to touch them, translate for them. And they heard the words that were being said.

Love, it seems, helps us to understand. It did then. It still can.

Let we who have ears, hear.

The Redemption Project - One

Dear Jesus,

Hope this finds you well in these sad and troubled times. I'm sure you are busy as so many are sick, grieving, dying. I will be brief.

I've been reading your prayer this week, the long one from right before you died. You wanted us, all of us, to be one. You wanted us to be this single-minded organism of love moving and changing this world. I guess you knew you were going away, maybe that's even why you did. You wanted us to go and change the world.

Far be it from me to presume that I know better than you, but I am writing to ask if, perhaps, it's time for a new plan. Yours doesn't seem to be going the way you hoped. I'm writing to ask if you've thought of coming back, just for a little while?

We rejected you when you were here. I get that. You said some pretty radical stuff. I've had my whole life to try and absorb all you said, and I'm still wondering about some of it. I mean, some of that stuff about money and possessions...there's a tricky line between hoarding and being wisely prepared. Things are expensive out there.

Anyhow, the world wasn't ready for you back then. It's still not ready for you. That's our fault. We haven't done a good job preparing them for you. We've not been good at staying on-message.

And I know, I know. It's not like when you came the first time that got us all aligned, working together. We have this bad habit of hearing what we want to hear. And, yes, we'll probably go off in a dozen directions again.

But, I still think you need to come down here, be with us. Maybe just walk around, like you did before, looking like one of us. Think of it, you come here looking like every other Tom, Dick, or Harry and start, I don't know, being nice to people on the street, trying to help those who have fallen on hard times, comforting those who've lost someone. Maybe just you doing stuff like that would get some of us doing the same thing, and that might get more people involved and maybe that'd get us back on track. Maybe we'll be able to start changing this world, making it more like the world you dream about—one where love is more important and we all act more...I don't know, like one.

Anyhow, I won't keep you. It's just I keep looking around and it seems like we need you so badly. I wish you were here. I wish you were moving among us, showing us what it means to live as if Redemption had come. I think it might make a difference.

If you get a moment, let me know what you think. I understand if you don't respond right away. Hope to hear from you soon.

I love you.

The Redemption Project - Longing

"In a little while," Jesus tells his friends, those he loves, "the world will no longer see me, but you will." With his eyes, a friend said the same to me this week.

On Tuesday morning 12 May, my wife and I had to make the terrible and merciful decision to say goodbye to one of dear cats, Shasta. He got sick the previous week. His congested nose from his recurring sinus issues kept him from smelling food; so, he struggled to eat. And though we tried multiple foods in several ways, Monday evening he went from trying to eat to no longer wanting to eat.

Shasta and his twin brother Corin, were named after characters in C.S. Lewis' The Horse and His Boy. We adopted them into our family in February of 2004 and they adopted us, making us their people.

If we're fortunate, we experience a special bond with one or two of our furry companions. For reasons only grace, Shasta chose me, and we shared a companionship these past sixteen years. When I was out of town for work, he would look for me, call for me. He would greet me at the door when I got home each day. And he was here with me, every morning, sleeping on my lap while I wrote. I often thought of giving him co-writing credit.

He came with me into the office Tuesday morning. I was hopeful. I put down two different kinds of food, which didn't interest him. Instead, he sat near the water bowl. I picked him up, set him on my lap and petted his thin body, telling him I loved him. We feared, but I still had hope. Dr. Madison, our vet, had pulled him back from the brink before. But just a few hours later, on an unseasonably cool and rainy May morning, we heard what we feared: the blood work was bad, the loving thing was to say goodbye.

And so, we no longer see him, physically; though, right now we see him everywhere in his absence. If you'd known him, you'd also see the holes he's left in this world.

Jesus' friends, we're told, stood staring after his Ascension. They kept looking for him even when he was no longer in this world. The void created by his absence made them long to see him in the flesh again. Maybe that's what drove them to tell everyone about the love needed bring together that world and this. So that the time of not-seeing could become the time when they'd see him again.

Shasta is not the first or the last who we will see and then see no more in this world. He joins our grandparents, Leanne's father, and multiple animals as those for whom we long, who make us want to heal this world's wounds with love; so, we can see them, physically, again.

Because, right now, Corin very much misses his brother. And I deeply miss my dear friend.

The Redemption Project - Stone Throwing

Stephen, I guess, probably made the situation worse. What he said was true, and he bravely spoke truth to power. But, maybe there was a less...inflammatory way of saying it.

Or, maybe, I'm just sensitive to tone. I get it. I get that we have to shout to be heard. I get that we can't allow falsehoods to go unchallenged and 'cede the square to those whose voices do not speak in charity and love. I get that, but something's not working. And all of us are starting to pick up stones.

There was no promise that the redemption of Creation would go peacefully. Jesus told us that he came with a sword. A sword of love and compassion, which is the only weapon that can be wielded against the powers and principalities that are entrenched in our world. The powers of darkness will not give up control quietly. And any doubt about the struggle we'll encounter in working toward the redemption of all things should be put aside when we hear the story of Stephen. It will not be easy, God is telling us.

I don't mean to criticize Stephen's speech. I know the words that sprang from his heart were inspired by the Spirit. Jesus promised us that when we are brought before councils and called to speak truth we would be given the words to say. And those words often transcend us, going directly to the hearts of those who stand before us.

But I wonder how often we allow our anger and our pride to change the words, just a little. Maybe we feel just a little better calling someone, like Stephen did, stiff-necked. Tossing, I suppose, a small rock.

I'm good at keeping my opinions and rants off of social media. But, Leanne will tell you that I can be very unloving in my thoughts about the state of the world and those involved in governing it. I allow my own arrogance, my moral superiority to come bubbling up from the shadowed places of my heart. And, I sound a lot more like the crowd ready to start throwing stones than someone who is trying to love his neighbor.

She has been and is good about calling me on this, which has helped me remember that the redemption of all things is an ongoing act. It is something you and I participate in every moment of every day, doing what we can to bring love to the broken places so they might heal.

And I wonder if this is the most important thing we can do when we speak, is to measure those words in love. This does not mean that we allow falsehood and hatred to be spoken without confrontation. It just means measuring the words so they are weighted heavily with the balm that can mend our broken, wounded world.

Because, I'm certain Jesus did not mean for us to move stones this way.

The Redemption Project - Walking in Darkness

On the afternoon of the day when the women woke early to find the tomb empty, we're told two guys set out for the town of Emmaus. While they walked they met a stranger. And since it was near sunset when they got to their destination, they invited the stranger to stay at their place for the night.

Of course, we as readers know who the stranger is before the fellows on the road. It seems obvious to us, even if we hadn't been told it was Jesus who met them. But he says nothing to them, waits in the living room while dinner is prepared. Then, at the table, he reveals himself.

I never noticed until this week that the two men who'd walked all the way from Jerusalem get up and make a return trip in the dark.

At that very hour, Luke tells us, they got up. At least a couple of hours have passed since the three of them left the road. The sun has now set, the stars have come out, and the near-full moon has risen. It's not the time to make a journey down a long road. But, that's exactly what they do.

Maybe I noticed this detail this year because Leanne and I have been, during this strange time, taking long walks after dinner. Many of them end up being after sunset; so, the sense of walking out in the nighttime was already with me when those two men got up from their table, after dinner, and headed out.

There's a metaphor in this scene. We can just read it as a reminder of the joy that should burn within us when we recognize that Christ is present with us. That though we can't see him or touch him, he's here both as an invisible presence and a visible one in those around us. But, I think that misses something that speaks to this moment in which we've found ourselves.

Darkness bookends the story of the Resurrection. The two women get up while it's still dark, before sunrise. And two men head back to Jerusalem in darkness after sunset. In both places, people are traveling, moving from one place to another. Going from grief to joy, and from amazement to community.

It's a metaphor that fits this present moment since it is one of darkness. It is a moment when our world is filled with the darkness of sorrow, pain, and grief. And it is one where we find ourselves in the dark, walking down a path that is suddenly unfamiliar. And, like the people in our stories, we have questions.

In this moment, it's a metaphor that doesn't provide any easy answers. It's simply a road sign showing the way. Before the sun rises and after it sets, the path we tread is often shadowed and strange. We don't understand what's happening or what it all means.

Though, I do notice in both these stories, no one is alone.