THE REVERENT E. WAYNE ROLLINS

A father had two sons. The older, as usual, very aware of his place and duty in
the family. The younger, a bit wild and adventurous, possibly because he was the one
who grew up with an older brother. And, he came along after his parents learned that
he wouldn’t break as easily as they thought the first one might.

The youngest decides it’s time to see the world. So he asks for the portion of his
inheritance that might come along some day, and dad consents. The eldest stays
around, helps with the family business, and prepares for roles his aging father might
become unable to fulfill. But Dad is still in charge.

The younger son discovers that the world is not necessarily his oyster. He
spends all his money on having fun, and then finds out what it means to have to work
for a living. And what a living it is. He gets a job doing the really dirty work on a pig
farm, which, by definition, is not the cleanest place around. And since they’re obviously
worth more to the owner of the farm, the pigs eat better than does the son.

So he finally decides it’s time to go home. He understands that he’s squandered
any right he might have enjoyed, and by requesting his inheritance, even treated his
father as if he was dead. Yet, he really has no choice but to return, offering to do menial
work just to get a decent meal and some place to sleep.

A father had two sons. They don’t have the same mother, as the wife cannot
conceive. So she agrees to let her husband try to have a child with her servant. We
know them as Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar. Hagar is the birth mother, but she
surrenders her son, Ishmael, to Sarah to raise as her own child. But it doesn’t work out
as well as they hoped.

Eventually, with a bit of divine intervention, Sarah conceives and gives birth to
Isaac. This comes after a lot of tension between Hagar and Sarah, and even an attempt
to banish Hagar and Ishmael to die in the desert. I often wonder what today’s Middle
East might look like if Abraham had the courage to put Hagar and Sarah in the tent, and
tell them they had to stay in there until they worked things out. And he wasn’t going to
let them turn on the air conditioning.

Nevertheless, we have what we have. But the father intervened, and the older
son is the beneficiary of a similar promise made to his younger half-brother. As
spiritual descendants of the younger one, we tend to forget that part of the story.

A father had two sons. The first one did okay for awhile, but then he really,
really messed things up. He was given a name that means “of the earth.” Adamah.
Adam. And if you’re curious about my designation, check Luke’s genealogy of Jesus.
He goes all the way back to the beginning, unlike Matthew. Each generation is listed as
“son of” the previous father. When it comes to Adam, Luke says he is “son of God.”
​
A father had two sons. The second one has a different background, a different
beginning, if you want to call it that. He walks among his neighbors and friends as one
with something other than his own benefit and purpose in mind. Unusual things
happen in his presence. The sick are healed. Evil desires and acts cannot sustain
themselves. Why, even death seems to be unable to withstand his presence. He is
called Yeshua, a variation from Jehoshua, which means “rescuer” or “deliverer.” We use
the Greek translation of the Aramaic. Jesus.

Today’s Gospel lesson, found only in Luke, is as much about the brothers as it is
about the father. We also tend to forget that, because focusing on the brothers makes us
a bit uneasy. It’s great to remember that dad opens the door and welcomes us back in.
It’s not so great to remember that dad also expects the family to get along.

Relationships are often difficult. They were one of the first casualties of what’s
called “the Fall” in the garden. They were difficult in Abraham’s time, although the two
sons might have gotten along fairly well if their mothers hadn’t been at each other’s
throat. In fact, we’re told that the two brothers came together to bury their father when
Abraham died.

The oldest brother in today’s lesson isn’t too happy about the festivities marking
his brother’s return. He makes a valid point—the father never gave him a big party,
invited his friends over for a feast. Their words to each other—this son of yours/this
brother of yours—gives us a window into the tension of the moment.

The party is seen as for the younger son upon his return. Yet, it’s really about the
father. He could not help but rejoice that his family was back together. After all, that
was the dream he had at the beginning when his children were first born.

A father had two sons. They, in turn, had descendants too numerous to count.
Thanksgiving is coming, and the feast is being prepared for everyone. It’s time to stop
hogging the gravy.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Life is in turmoil. The economy is falling apart. Religious life and practice are
under stress. Leadership is driven by fear, whether it be of opposition or of being
oppressed by those with more authority.

This is the reality faced by Luke’s hearers when he writes his Gospel. It’s
probably sometime near the end of the first century, some twenty years after the Roman
army destroyed Jerusalem and its temple, and dispersed Jewish residents across the
known world.

Those who began to follow Jesus of Nazareth aren’t in any better position. In
fact, they face increased opposition and oppression as they refuse to acknowledge the
emperor of Rome as their god. Most of those who walked alongside Jesus before his
crucifixion are gone, many martyred for their faith. Only a few who heard his voice
remain, and they are approaching the end of their own lives.

The two events mentioned in today’s Gospel lesson are only recorded by Luke.
There is no other record of Pilate ordering worshippers killed as they made sacrifices.
There is no other record of a tower falling in Siloam, killing eighteen people under its
weight. But then, history is not the point. Suffering is.

Not suffering as in trying to place blame, find causes, or any other reason trying
to answer “why.” Suffering is part of life, and it is that part of life that Jesus joins in his
incarnation.

It has been said that all of scripture comes from times of conflict and suffering.
Each of these times exists for one reason—evil exists in the world, this creation that God
pronounced as “good” when it came into existence. In those times of suffering,
scripture tells us of one other event that occurs in response to suffering. God shows up,
and God speaks.

It happened when Abraham wondered if he had left his homeland on a wild
goose chase. God showed up, made a promise, and sealed it with a covenant. It wasn’t
the first covenant, mind you. There was that rainbow placed after the earth began to
dry out in Noah’s time.

Today we hear of another one. Moses, who is eighty years old, sees a strangely
burning, but not consumed, bush as he tends his father-in-law’s flock. God shows up
and speaks. And God’s speech is greater than Moses’ own speech impediment. God
has a way of overcoming our own shortcomings. Later on, another covenant, another
sign of God’s presence is established in the Passover and passing through the waters of
the Sea of Reeds.

We keep reading, and we find times when God kept showing up, often in ways
that defy human tradition. Deborah, Elijah, other prophets tell the story. The covenant
becomes intensely personal. “I will write it on their hearts. I will be their God, they
shall be my people."
​
And yet, the Greeks came, then the Romans. Later on, it’s the Ottoman Empire,
then World War I and imposition of boundaries by another outsider—Britain. There’s
disagreement about just who are “God’s people.” And with that, confusion about who
God is even as there’s plenty of evidence as to who God is not.

So did those Galileans deserve what Pilate did to them? And what, praytell, did
those folks at Siloam do to deserve getting buried under a ton of bricks?
You might not like it, but basically Jesus’ answer is “stuff happens.” Jesus isn’t
concerned with judging those still alive. He wants them, and us, to be concerned about
what happens when we find ourselves before the one who can judge us in the life to
come.

I don’t want to get into what Martin Luther and others have called “works
righteousness” and that debate at this point. It’s too easy to make our faith little more
than a transaction, where what happens to us now or later on is in response to our
actions or way of life. Yes, there are things that can happen after long periods of
engaging in certain habits. My own family tree has instances of terminal illness and
death due to too much smoking or drinking or other activities.

I’ve also witnessed some who lived a good and healthy life who went through
that same suffering, and any attempt to explain why gets lost in the fact that sometimes
stuff just happens. It’s not a question of good or evil that caused the event. The
question of good or evil gets answered in the journey of everyday life.

And that is the point Jesus makes. It’s not getting what you deserve, whether it
be good or bad, despite our desire to see good things happen to good people, and the
opposite when appropriate according to our own judgement of others. And while I
have a friend who has what he calls “quick release karma,” I also have a package of
cocktail napkins that have printed on them, “dear karma, I have a list of people you’ve
missed.”

Some of you have read or heard Brian McLaren, a contemporary pastor and
writer. He has a three-volume set of books describing his journey with a new friend.
They talk about spiritual matters, and then their discussion turns to the point Jesus
makes in today’s Gospel.

McLaren’s friend gives his view of the last judgement, and it’s very different
from the one presented on the wall of the Sistine Chapel. Basically, what he says is that
when we stand before God, and God’s gaze falls upon us, God looks for that image we
are given in creation. God looks for that within us that is of God, and all else is
instantly burned away. What remains is what is of God—what is still pronounced
2good, for only that can live forever in God’s presence. If there is nothing of God left,
then life ends for us. And to be forever dead, outside God’s presence, is hell.
Maybe one day each of us will discover whether that’s true, whether it really
happens that way. The first step toward that is to follow Jesus, and stop trying to judge
why things happen the way they do.
​
Instead, when suffering comes our way, or we find ourselves with others who
suffer, we pray that God will once again show up and lead us through the suffering into
a new and changed life enjoyed in God’s abundance. That is the message of the cross.
And it’s the hope of the resurrection that follows.

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE ROLLINS

In seminary and elsewhere, I’ve often engaged in conversations around a couple
of questions basic to our faith. Actually, it’s one question, with two related aspects. The
question is about salvation. The two aspects? From what? For what?

We try to focus our discussion of salvation in positive rather than negative terms.
Most of those I speak with grew into faith by hearing that we were saved from eternal
punishment, the same as I did. And while that can be comforting, it begs the question
that wonders what we do in the meantime while we’re alive here to keep us from doing
something worthy of that punishment. Then we realize we’re talking about a
transactional faith, which begins another discussion.

In the first century, the idea of eternal or everlasting life was relatively new, at
least from a Christian perspective. Egyptian and Greek traditions held that life did
continue. We have evidence of that in Egyptian tombs where provisions for the next
life were interred along with the embalmed body. Greek thought focused on realms of
the dead, ruled by Hades, and Elysian fields of peace and delight for those who
deserved it.

Those places were mostly reserved for those of higher rank or heroic deeds.
Before their time in Egypt and later in Babylonian exile, Jewish thought was that life
continued through descendants who would carry on your name as new generations
were born. This teaching continued into Jesus’ time, the Sadducees being those who
resisted any mention of life after death except through one’s offspring.

This is the case with Abram. He and his wife, Sarai, are way beyond their child-
bearing years. They should be sitting in rocking chairs while their grandchildren tend
to their own offspring playing around the yard. But that’s not their reality. Abram
raises the question with God, and hears a promise the aging couple find difficult to
believe. We’re told Sarai laughed. I imagine Abram had a bit of difficulty keeping a
straight face, too. But, then, I don’t think Sarai laughed as much at the promise as she
did that she and Abram were going to become a new parents.

But the promise came true. And with that, Abram and Sarai became witnesses to
the salvation of God. No, they didn’t talk about eternal life or heaven or any of that.
But they did know and experience salvation, for one basic reason.
They became the vessels for the fulfillment of a truth that even they must have
doubted. And along with that, they got the middle of the night feedings, the diaper
changes, teething, the “terrible twos,” and everything else that comes with raising a
child, along with a very real sign of what can happen when God promises something
and seals it with a covenant. And it was only one child born to the two of them. I
t’s1going to take a while before his descendants become as numerous as the stars in the
night sky. Salvation is a work in progress and not yet complete. And with that, we
have to remember that Isaac’s half-brother Ishmael was also a beneficiary of a similar
promise.

When Paul wrote to the church in Philippi, he composed his most joyous letter.
It’s rather brief, yet Paul packs his words with hope and assurance as he continues his
relationship with a community of believers, although from a distance. But life is not
always joyful, as there are others who deny the full effect of the crucifixion and
resurrection of Jesus and its meaning for all humanity and creation. Paul calls them
“enemies of the cross of Christ.” They are those who continue to misunderstand or
deny this new relationship with God that includes everyone—Jew and Gentile.
The church, and by that I mean the institution as opposed to what Paul calls the
Body of Christ, has debated some of these same issues over the centuries. While the
Philippian church faces questions around Jewish law and ritual, especially the
requirement for circumcision, the institutional church continues to debate issues of
baptism and its requirement to be part of the community of the faithful. As recently as
last year at General Convention, the decision was made to continue to require Holy
Baptism to receive Holy Communion.

So my seminary debate continues, and just when we think we might have an
answer, a corollary raises up and says, “look over here.” At the heart of our debates,
though, seems to be our acceptance of an answer to “who is saved?” The from and for
angles might just fall into place when we accept the truth of the answer given to us in
the cross and resurrection of Jesus. A more lengthy debate centers around whether it’s
because of something we do, or whether what we do is really in response to what God
has already done. Stay tuned.

I say all that to prepare for what I believe is the answer, and its corollaries that
arise. I believe the greatest aspect of salvation is that we are saved, not just from hell, or
for heaven, not from punishment or for eternal bliss, not even from physical death. We
are saved from the fear of all those things, or the fear of not obtaining them.
You might ask “how are we saved?” A colleague who is of the Quaker faith
posed the question one evening. “How does the cross save you?” he liked to ask. I
smiled, and wondered aloud what kind of answer he had received up to that moment,
trying to delay the fact that I wasn’t sure whether I had a good one to give. He said he
hadn’t really gotten one yet. That remained the case for the rest of the evening.
I’m not one who likes to be left in the position of not having answers, so I
worked on it over the next ten years or so. The cross of Jesus saves us because Jesus
died on it, not to take our place or to rescue us from a cross of our own. Jesus’ death is
not a bargaining chip between God and Satan. He suffered the ultimate penalty, one
that scripture says makes him an abomination, to show us that we are not alone when
suffering comes our way.

2Jesus entered into the realm of death so that those who had died might know the
promise that Jesus offers to each of us from the cross. His words at the end of
Matthew’s gospel, “I will be with you always,” are not just about the good times. He
joins us in death, because entering into ministry by joining others where they are is how
true transformation takes place, including resurrection from the many death-dealing
ways of our world. Jesus joins us in the worst possible moments of our lives, and
journeys with us through them and into new life.

There are those who teach that life in Christ is supposed to always be happy and
prosperous. When Paul tells the Philippians to “rejoice always,” he doesn’t mean they
are to live in blissful ignorance. They can rejoice because they are not alone. Christ
joins them in times of confusion and suffering, a reminder that God’s promises remain
true, just as they were with Abraham.

That is the promise of salvation. In times of suffering, when we feel most alone,
God continues the promise by showing up and reminding us. We are saved from fear,
and saved for life abundant—more life, not more things. And the lives we live now,
between the time of hearing the promise and its ultimate fulfillment, reveal whether we
are friends of the suffering One whose cross shows us just how far that promise
extends.
​
Does this mean we invite suffering? “By no means,” to quote a polite Apostle
Paul. It also means we don’t inflict it on others, nor do we encourage those who do,
but, instead, offer the flourishing life of salvation to all those for whom Jesus died.
Here’s a hint: that’s everyone. Today’s enemies of the cross of Christ don’t want us to
believe that the promise is to those who aren’t just like us.

There is an old poem I learned in part while singing in a church choir during my
college years. The verses were once part of our hymnals, and some of you may recall
singing them. They’ve fallen out of favor, though, due to what is now heard as sexist
language.

The poem, written by James Russell Lowell in 1845, was published in the Boston
Globe in order to alert its readers that work was underway to admit Texas into the
United States as a slave-holding state. This was before the Civil War, but abolition of
slavery was very much in the nation’s conscience, and dividing lines were being drawn.
The words I remember begin this way. Once to every man and nation comes the
moment to decide, in the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side. Today’s Gospel
lesson, a version of which is heard each year on this First Sunday in Lent, tells us about
Jesus facing that very moment.

He’s an adult who has just been baptized. Perhaps he heard the words spoken:
“This is my Son, my beloved, in whom I am well-pleased.” Maybe he heard the sound
of the heavens breaking open, and saw or felt the very Spirit of God descending upon
him. If he did, and we dare draw closely by his side, we can imagine the spiritual and
emotional high he must have felt.

But that same Spirit drove him into the desert. Forty days, we’re told, echoing a
previous forty years between Egypt and the Promised Land, and one of the two stories
about the flood. He’s got nothing except the clothes on his back, not even a toothbrush.
At the end, he’s hungry, he’s tired. He looks weak.

So you know who shows up. “You’re hungry. You have the power to turn rocks
into bread. Go ahead. Help yourself.” Imagine being able to do that and turn a whole
geographical region into enough bread to feed the masses. Go ahead, give it a try.
Sounds tempting, doesn’t it? I mean, imagine being able to solve world hunger
by a single act of power, just because you can. But that kind of hunger comes back after
a few hours. The fix isn’t permanent. And the cost? Well, it’s huge.

Let’s try something else, something a bit more enticing. A quick world tour, and
all of it can be yours, and in at least one set of eyes, the price is right. “Just worship
me,” says the devil. Now, we’ll have to wrestle with the statement, “all you see has
been given over to me to do what I want with it” another time, but it does grab our
attention, and explains a lot. The answer? Another no.

Let’s get personal now. Jump off this tower, and watch as an army of angels
comes and cushions your fall so you won’t get even a bruise. No boo-boos, no owies,
1just a nice, soft landing. Just, you know, give the devil credit for it all. After all, the
devil made you do it, or at least said it was okay.

Once, to every person, every nation, comes the moment to decide. Maybe more than
once, but the first time a decision must be made sets the standard for all that follows.
We always have choices before us. Even when we look closely, it’s often difficult to
decide what is good or what is not so good. Take a look at the conversation between
Jesus and the devil.

Both quote scripture to each other. The opportunities presented to Jesus could be
life-changing, not just for him, but for the world, at least at first glance. But as I already
mentioned, the hunger to be satisfied will return. The power offered is what empires,
including Rome during the first century, long for but find is only temporary. Empires
come and go, and eventually dissolve or implode under their own dis-ease and the
weight of internal corruption. For no amount of power is enough when power is the
primary goal.

The same goes for personal safety. Imagine not feeling any pain, or showing any
sign of illness or suffering. It seems like a pretty good option, but it also shelters us
from any sense of empathy or compassion for those who do feel those things. And the
time will come when some some event shatters that illusion, and we’re left totally
unprepared and unable to cope with the consequences.

We know what Jesus decided. What about us? And what if the decision we
make turns out to have the opposite effect of what we hoped? Nikos Kazantzakis, in his
book The Last Temptation of Christ, which Martin Scorsese made into a movie, presents a
familiar one to us. As he’s hanging on a cross in the hot Middle Eastern sun, gasping
for breath, the devil finds the opportunity he’s been waiting for. Jesus is presented with
the idea that he could have rejected everything his life stood for, and could have a
home, a wife, lots of kids playing around him. He wouldn’t be suffering on a cross.
But the world around him, the one his children would grow up in, remains very
much in the clutches of evil. Now, having said that, it seems that hasn’t changed all
that much. What did change is what Jesus presents to us, and whether we truly accept
the offer.

The church, the Body of Christ, is called to live as an alternative to the wealth-
seeking, power-hungry, barricaded, buttressed, and bunkered way of life set before us
by the world. Those who follow after Jesus, who accept the same offer evil rejected
when Jesus offered it to the devil, remind us again and again and invite us to see and
live in a world that is God’s kingdom, where God reigns in mercy, grace, and love, and
to live that way of life in the way of peace and reconciliation. And God’s reign becomes
known not because God imposes it on us, but because we choose to live the alternative
way of life offered to us in the cross of Christ.

Once to every person and nation comes the moment to decide. Which will it be? Will
we choose power and status, and live in fear of losing it? Or will we choose the freedom
Jesus offers, where there’s something more ahead of us instead of the fleeting
offer of a world hell-bent on decay and destruction? Our decision now sets the path for
the rest of our journey.
​
You see, it’s not the decisions we make when we feel strong that really define our
faith. It’s where we turn in times of weakness that reveal who we are as children of
God. As scripture tells us, it is the God who shows up and speaks on our behalf who is
our true strength. And in a few weeks, we’ll gather to celebrate what that really means
not just for us, but for all creation.

From time to time, we hear someone say something about being “grounded.” It
may be a friend, maybe a spiritual guide, or reading something from any number of
available self-help books and podcasts. Or, you could be talking to an electrician or an
air traffic controller. Or your mom. Context matters.

The topic was raised at a recent clergy meeting. When I heard it and read some
of the helpful description of the desired process, I thought “we already have what we
need, and we're getting ready to tell everyone about it again.” Those words?
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Ash Wednesday is one of those days where we remind ourselves that we are
human, and like every other human being, save two or three mentioned in scripture, we
will one day die. We get marked with a cross formed from the ashes of previous years’
palm fronds. We repeat words of confession and remorse. We promise to do better.
Then we keep being human and try to defy death.

Let’s consider these familiar words, “remember that you are dust” in the context
of “being grounded.” I wondered how scripture treats that word, grounded, so I did a
quick check. It never occurs in one popular translation. In the NRSV, which we use
most often, it appears once. Ephesians 3:17 tells us to be “rooted and grounded in
love.”

Still curious, I checked to see what the Greek word is that’s translated as
“grounded.” A translation of tethemeliōmenoi could be grounded, or it could mean
firmly established, or also founded. What is not open for debate is the source of
tethemeliōmenoi. It is agape, which the Apostle Paul, echoing Greek philosophy, says is
the greatest form of love.

With all that in mind, hear again those words “remember that you are dust.” No
doubt, whomever first penned (or quilled) those words into our liturgy for this day had
in mind the creation story from Genesis. God formed the first humans out of the dust of
the earth. And, when we stand at a graveside, we repeat those words along with some
others--earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The words we repeat today are part of that similar phrase, but they mean much
more than simply reminding us that we will someday die. They serve as a reminder
that we are created by God, who gave life to those first humans by breathing--giving
God’s own Spirit--into them. And they mean another thing, one which we need to keep
reminding ourselves. We don't do that to ourselves. We are not God.

Now, I've said many times that it is a good and joyful thing that I'm not in charge
of lightning. Mostly, that’s a good thing because I often find it difficult to do what we
1believe God does for us today. I don’t think I could keep accepting all of us who keep
coming back, week after week, year after year, trusting that God’s forgiveness is just as
real and true as it was the first time we acknowledged our need for it. Created in God’s
image, created for good works? Yes. But allowing room at the very core of my being
for those who keep denying that image, refusing to do that work? That seems to be a
lot more difficult than saying “let there be light.”

And yet, that is the love we’re grounded in. It’s the love for the very ground
from which we are formed, and to which we shall return that not only allows us to keep
coming back, but which welcomes us home with a feast that continues to amaze us by
its offering us a place at the table.
​
So remember that you are dust. Remember this day and always that you are
grounded, firmly established, that your very foundation is Love itself. We are loved so
that we learn to love, giving away this wondrous mystery that we mark in ashes today,
and which is marked at the very core of our own being as children of God.

THE REVEREND E.WAYNE ROLLINS

 I’m a bit of a fan of television shows and movies that deal with the supernatural.
Be they somewhat campy, like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or the show named
“Supernatural,” I like watching the special effects and the often fun interpretation of the
material. Lately, instead of watching the news, I’ve been opting for something a bit less
depressing, so I’ve been watching reruns of the show Grimm. At least, in the forty-
minute span of the show, the good guys come out ahead, even if they are a bit
scratched-up.

In the show Supernatural, one season focused on heaven being closed and all the
angels suddenly cast down to earth. They remain spiritual beings while searching for a
willing, or maybe sometimes not-so-willing human being to inhabit. Some of those
humans volunteer, eager to be not just touched, but possessed by an angel. But there’s
a problem. Some of the more eager ones don’t consider a major side effect of being
inhabited by the glory of an angel. If they’re not truly worthy, they explode. That does
a lot more than just make a mess of the carpet.

That was a consideration of those gathered at the base of Mt. Sinai. As the
descendants of Jacob who bear his name, Israel, approach the mountain, its peak is
shrouded in a dark cloud. Lightning flashes, and the ground trembles with the
presence of its Creator. The people beg Moses to intercede for them, for coming too
close to God, even catching a quick glimpse, will result in death.

It’s even a bit much for Moses, whose very being is transformed after standing in
the nearer presence of God. His followers are so afraid that Moses has to start wearing
a veil when he’s with them. He removes the veil when he’s in God’s presence, like a
simple veil could prevent God from seeing Moses.

Fast forward a few millennia, and we have the story of Jesus going onto a
mountain to pray. He takes three of his closest friends with him, who witness a strange
event. Suddenly, Moses and Elijah appear, and speak with Jesus, who is himself
transformed, or as the word of the day puts it, transfigured before their very eyes. Even
his clothing is changed in a way that would make the Oxyclean guy jealous. Peter
speaks up, and then the voice of God is heard. “This is my Son. Listen to him!”
Then just as suddenly, everything appears to be normal. Not like going through
that experience is ever going to let things go back to how they were, mind you. In some
versions of this story, Jesus tells his companions to keep quiet about what they’ve seen.
Luke tells us they choose to not tell anyone. They probably needed a lot more time to
process the events of the evening.I imagine we would need some time, too. I mean,
how do you tell others about seeing the very glory of God suddenly filling a person
​you’ve been hanging around with for some time? In fact, how do you describe the
glory of God in the first place? An attribute of the One who by definition cannot be
defined is pretty much itself indescribable.

But we don’t give up. Glory is not just an attribute of God. It is an
accompanying sign that God is present. Dark clouds, lightning and thunder, and
earthquakes may not simultaneously occur, but as much as we might in human form,
we sense that something is different, and that everything is suddenly changed.
I’ve known some who say they can see auras. Personally, I seem to be more
adept at noticing the absence of such things as halos than observing them around
others. Maybe some are more attuned to those things. Sometimes I wonder if they’re
simply trying to make an impression, much like many whom I’ve heard trying to pray
in tongues but who seem to repeat nonsense syllables in a noticeable pattern.
That’s between them and God.But in a way, the effect is to do the same thing
the people of Israel asked Moses to do. The effect of the presence of God is veiled, often
to the point that no one else notices that God was even in the neighborhood. And, if
God really wanted to show up and be fully known, I’m pretty sure God could do that
despite our attempts to shield ourselves and others.

Charles Wesley wrote some familiar words about all this. We sing them at least
once a year: “Veiled in flesh the God-head see. Hail the incarnate Deity.” It’s easy for
us to explain all this away by making it only about Jesus. You probably have figured
out by now that I think there’s more to it than that, not that that isn’t enough.
We veil ourselves in many ways to keep a safe distance from the glory of God,
the presence of our Creator. We hide behind tradition, our limited understanding of the
nature of God’s being, even ceremonial garb to present ourselves before others even as
we claim to speak and act for God. Like I’ve said, it’s not that God can’t show up
despite all that and accomplish what God desires. God is already known to work
around our veils of gender and identity and skin color. Even the veil of age can’t inhibit
the glory of God. Just ask Sarah and Abraham about that when you get a chance.
I think our most dense veils are those we see with limited eyes, placing them on
others. We choose to not see the glory of God in the poor and needy, the sick and
suffering, even those who linger at the threshold of death. We want to see the glory of
God in wealth and power and the wielding thereof. But John’s Gospel, and Paul’s
teaching, puts the full manifestation of the glory of God on a lonely hill outside
Jerusalem, where a cross stood to reveal who God is for us.
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But God didn’t stop there. Death itself was transfigured during those three
awful days. Because not even the captivity of death, or a dank, smelly tomb, could hold
back the real glory of God. When we consider that, it makes our attempts at veiling
God’s presence seem quite silly.So, once we get it together, it’s time to tell anyone who will listen about our
experiences of the glory of God. It’s time to rip off the veils we wear, and force others
to put on, and let God’s presence shine through and around us. We’ve waited long
enough.