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It is difficult to listen to a text when there are other texts in the room talking about the same subject matter, often in ways more elaborate and more familiar. Mark is the text before us, but Matthew, Luke and John are also in the room. Each has a right to be heard, and there are times when it is profitable to entertain them all at once, noting differences and wondering why. But for the present, Mark is speaking; courtesy and respect demand that we pay attention to him.

Even when listening to one text, it is remarkable how many echoes of other voices can be heard. Most texts are layered, tradition upon tradition, and from those layers come instruction and enrichment. To be sure, the text being read carries its own sense and sufficient clarity. One does not have to know Exodus, Kings, Psalms, Isaiah and Malachi to find satisfaction in reading Mark 1:1-15, just as one does not need to know Shakespeare to appreciate John Steinbeck’s Winter of Our Discontent, or Ezra Pound to follow Adela Rogers St. John’s The Honeycomb. But how much fuller and richer the experience when one does! Reading Mark is a blessing; reading Mark aware of his rich resources is a double, a triple blessing.

Now to Mark 1:9-15. The writer, with almost shocking brevity, relates three major events: Jesus’ baptism, temptation in the desert and first preaching in Galilee. The sequence of events is significant, not simply because it seems the natural order of things, but because in a new exodus Jesus recapitulates the journey of Israel: baptism (Red Sea), struggles in the desert (40 years) and good news (entry into the promised land). In a similar move, Paul drew a parallel between the Corinthian church’s experience of baptism, table fellowship and temptations, and Israel’s baptism in the sea, sharing of God-given food and drink, and temptations in the desert (1 Cor. 10:1-13). The texts and the experiences of God’s people unfold, layer upon layer.

Let’s attend to Jesus’ temptation in the desert. Notice how aware of the reader the narrative is. In an account in which only Satan, wild animals and angels are with Jesus, the reader is also present. This is no historical reporting with all the proper distance of objectivity; the reader is drawn in to hear, to see, to experience. Such is the way of scripture to make its message present to the one who reads. The reader is on Mount Moriah where only Abraham and Isaac are talking. The reader is on the Mount of Transfiguration where only Jesus, Peter, James and John experience God. The reader is with Jesus in Gethsemane while the apostles sleep and in Pilate’s chambers as he and Jesus talk privately. The reader is close enough to the cross to overhear Jesus speak to his mother and the beloved disciple. Questions of historical accuracy may be raised, but not here, not now.

Notice also the vigor of the language when the subject is testing or temptation. Immediately after receiving the Spirit at baptism, Jesus is driven by the Spirit into the desert. Clearly God is at work here, but so is the Adversary, Satan. Forty days the struggle continues. He is in the company of wild animals, and angels "were waiting on him"; that is, serving him food. It is unclear whether Mark has in mind the pre-fall state of Adam when wild animals were as yet no threat or the post-fall state in which wild animals were a danger to the expelled Adam. Since the scene before us is one of struggle, very likely the wild animals and the angels represent the two forces battling with Jesus. Whatever the ancient echoes, it is clear that Jesus is not on a pensive evening walk in the desert; he is being tested intensely.

Mark does not elaborate on the temptation. So what is happening? Obviously, Jesus was really being tempted. There is no need to protect Jesus by saying he only seemed to be tempted in order to set us an example. Anyone who pretends an experience in order to set an example is not setting an example. "We have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin" (Heb. 4:15). Nor should one rob the event of its reality on the assumption that temptation is weakness. We are not tempted to do what we cannot do but what we can. The testing is one of strength, and the stronger, the more capable, the greater one is, the greater the temptation. As George Buttrick once said in a sermon, "You do not have a sea storm in a roadside puddle."

And if the temptation is real, it most certainly is deceptive. Temptation is not obvious, definitely not a caricature: "Hi, I am Satan; I am here to tempt you" The tempter often looks and sounds like a friend or relative. "Get behind me, Satan!" was not Jesus’ word to the local fiend but to his friend, Simon Peter. At the heart of the deception are offers not to fall but to rise. The tempter in Eden did not ask, "Do you wish to be as the devil?" but "Do you wish to be as God?" ‘If you are really the Son of God. . . ," says the voice in Jesus’ mind. There is nothing here of the debauchery often associated with temptation. No self-respecting Satan would approach a person with offers of personal, social and professional ruin. That is in the small print at the bottom of the temptation.

Still wet from his baptism, Jesus struggles, apparently, with the burden that lies within the words, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Lent carries in its bosom a seductive danger: excessive inwardness. The seduction is this: a season of prayer, repentance and preparation for Good Friday and Easter necessarily involves trips to the heart, but tarry there too long and repentance can stall out as melancholy. The danger is this: self-examination may spawn attempts at self-improvement, with the result that looking at self replaces looking to God, and small measures of merit replace the immeasurable grace of God. One can hardly imagine a more effective shield against this danger than Psalm 19.

Notice the size of this text: it moves from the revelation of God in heavens, sky and sun (vv. 1-6) to the revelation of God in sacred scripture (vv. 7-10) to the mysterious working of God’s word in the mind and heart of the believer (vv. 11-14). Notice the mood of this text: the writer is not self-absorbed but is fully engaged in the praise of God, pausing briefly to express the hope that the worship will he accepted, Notice the community involvement: the antiphonal form of most of this psalm makes it clear that a choir and congregation, or at least two groups in a worship assembly, are participating, rather than an individual in private. Note the energy; unlike a pensive reflection, Psalm 19 pulsates with verbs of activity: telling, proclaiming, pouring forth, declaring, going out, running, rising, reviving, making wise, rejoicing, enlightening, enduring. This is not to say that this text breaks or violates the basic orientation of Lent. On the contrary, nothing could be more appropriate than this vigorous contemplation of God.

The psalmist begins by walking outside and reading the face of creation as though it were an open book. Creation awes the observer with its revelation of God. As Paul would say, "Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made" (Rom. 1:20). Or Luke: "He has not left himself without a witness in doing good -- giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, and filling you with food and your hearts with joy" (Acts 14:16-17).

Whose heart has not joined the psalmist and Paul and Luke in this chorus of praise to the Creator? Who has not in spring, when the world is a poem of light and color, delighted in the meadows turning somersaults of joy and "butterflies fluttering up from every little buttercup"? Or in dry hot summer, when clouds dark and heavy gather on the hill, soon thundering like a herd of buffalo across the valley, making glad the gardens and sending out the children to splash in the puddles? Or in the autumn with leaves aflame, poised between summer and winter, warm enough but yet prophetic of snow? Or in the winter when trees now shivering naked beg heaven for a blanket and down it comes thick and white, turning even a garbage can into an altar in praise of God? There is no square inch of earth so barren that the observing eye cannot see, in the lower right-hand corner, the signature of the artist. And overhead the stars sing and faith hears faintly the rustle of a wing.

But it is not enough. The great book of nature praises the Creator without words, but its pages have no answers for some fundamental human questions. Whence do we come? Whither do we go? Why are we here? Before these questions the stars can only flicker and the mockingbird forgets its song. We need another book.

The psalmist knows this, and turns his attention to another book, the Law of the Lord (vv. 7-10). It is important to remember that "law" is a Greek translation of Torah, a translation which implies "legal code," the basis for Paul’s development of his law vs. grace arguments in Galatians and Romans. However, law is but one element of Torah. Torah is the first five books of the scriptures, and includes history, biography, story and poetry as well as law. The Jewish worshiper delights in Torah and reflects on it continually.

The psalmist uses six nouns to try and capture this many-splendored thing: law, decrees, precepts, commandment, fear (reverence) and ordinances. No single verb conveys its activity, so he uses five: reviving, making wise, rejoicing, enlightening, enduring. And seven adjectives: perfect, sure, right, clear, pure, true, righteous. Unlike nature, this book recalls the shadowy beginning of God’s people; slavery, deliverance, wandering, revelation of God’s will for the faithful community, and bright, promise in the land. In this book is nourishment enough and to spare. In this book is the offer of identity, security, discipline and direction. Finer than gold, sweeter than honey is Torah.

Then comes the inescapable thought: the benefits of Torah belong not to the one who reads, and not even to the one who reads and admires, but to the one who follows it. The eye which scanned the heavens and read the book now turns nervously inward (vv. 11-4). Critical self-examination brings two painful revelations: faults that are proud, even arrogant, strutting openly and defiant, in full view of all; and faults buried so deep in the heart that even the transgressor is unaware of them. But God knows. As nothing is hidden from the sun, so nothing is hidden from God.

The worshiper’s journey is complete: from the broad reaches of God’s creation through the guiding lines of scripture to the disturbing inner recesses of the heart, there remains only the prayer. May the God praised with and without speech find acceptable the words and thoughts of the worshiper. Only then can one join creation and scripture in the endless adoration of God.

The life situation of the reader of a text provides a lens through which that text is read. Or, to change the metaphor, the life situation provides the magnet, which draws from a text that which most clearly addresses the reader. For the same reader the same text may, under different circumstances, console or correct or convict or enlighten or inspire. If this is true of one reader, then certainly a nursing home resident and a teenager at camp do not read the same way. This observation is neither an endorsement of total relativity nor a reduction of the text to an inkblot test. (What do you see? I see an elephant. I see an airplane.) Rather, it is to recognize how the Bible functions as scripture; that is, how it speaks an appropriate word. As a document of the past, the text is at home in the hands of historians. As the scripture of the church, the text is at home in the inquiring faith of believers,

We are reading Romans 4: 13-25 with the eyes of believers on a Lenten journey to Jerusalem. By a Lenten journey we mean a time of reflection, repentance and preparation for arrival at Good Friday and Easter. Under other circumstances this text might revive in us the debate over law and gospel, works and grace. There is a proper time and place for that, but not now. Now we are instructed and nourished by the striking affirmation about "the God in whom he [Abraham] believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist." This statement reminds us that God is both the subject and the object of faith. As the subject of faith, God initiates faith. God called Abraham; God promised Abraham. Here faith begins and is sustained. And the one who believes is responding to and trusting in the God who calls and promises.

How refreshing to speak of and think of God! In the church we often hear of Christ and the Holy Spirit, but we only sometimes hear of God. Of course, Christ and the Holy Spirit are appropriate and essential subjects in Christian worship, preaching and teaching, but God sent the Son Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. All things, says Paul, are from God, through God and to God (Rom. 11:36). "Show us the Father, and we will be satisfied," says Philip on behalf of the whole human race (John 14:8). Many churches seem to assume that everyone already believes in God and that what we need is the addition of Christ. Not so. "Do you believe in God?" is the appropriate first question.

Romans 4:17 not only instructs us but also nourishes us by its characterization of God as one "who gives life to the dead." The additional expression, "and calls into existence the things that do not exist," is not intended as a lead-in to another line of thinking. Paul is not entering into the debate about whether creation is out of nothing rather than out of some primordial mass. Rather, Paul is affirming that God gives life to the dead in the sense that God gives life and being where there were none before (see verses 18-25).

The God who gives life to the dead is revealed in the stories of certain people. Abraham and Sarah: they were barren and far past childbearing years. In this respect they were "dead," and yet God had promised Abraham descendants in multitudes. Abraham hoped in the face of hopelessness. He was "fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised," and held on tenaciously to the creed behind all creeds: "Nothing is impossible with God." And Abraham’s faith was rewarded: all who trust in God, both Jew and gentile, are children of Abraham. God, indeed, gave life to the dead.

Jesus Christ: Jesus was dead, no question about that. Ask the soldiers, the Galilean women who followed him to Golgotha, Mary his mother. For some, of course, that death was too much to accept, too final, too contrary to hopes stirred. Desperation spun theories: Simon of Cyrene who bore the cross for him was crucified by mistake. A potion given to Jesus on the cross sent him into a deathlike slumber. His immortal soul ascended above the cross, leaving behind a corpse that was no longer Jesus. The theories are endless. But the church would have none of it: "He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried." On the third day, God gave life to the dead.

The believer: buried in the phrases "trespasses" and "our justification" is the drama of the death and resurrection not only of Christ but also of the believer. Paul seems not to favor the image of "born again" but prefers instead to speak of coming to faith as being made alive. "Even when we were dead through our trespasses, God made us alive together with Christ -- by grace you have been saved -- and raised us up with him" (Eph. 2:5-6). Paul applied such thinking to baptism: death, burial and resurrection with Christ (Rom. 6:3-4). God’s act in Abraham, and in Jesus Christ, is brought home as an unfailing reality in the believer: God gives life to the dead.

For the one who believes in the God who gives life to the dead, the Lenten journey is not only to Good Friday and Easter, but is also a revisiting of one’s own experience. Belief in this intersection of theology Christology, and experience makes the traveler through Lent a pilgrim. Without this faith one is simply a tourist. Bring your camera; there may be camels.

The Epistle to the Hebrews joins the Revelation to John as the literature most intimidating to readers of the New Testament. With the Revelation the reader must endure its terrible splendor; with Hebrews the reader must listen intently to the tightly woven arguments in what the writer calls a sermon. No question about it, the listening is demanding, not only because of the writer’s rhetorical style but also because of the assumption that the reader knows the Old Testament and the wilderness life of Israel, a life centered in the tabernacle and the daily ministrations of the priest. The difficulty for the reader is softened, however, by the realization that the writer is fully aware of the burden. For example, after introducing the "M" word, Melchizedek, the writer relaxes the reader with ‘about this we have much to say that is hard to explain," and then does not return to the theme until Hebrews 7:1. The recess is welcome.

In fact, the style of the writer is patient and pastoral; the path is cleared for primary themes. For instance, the author focuses the sermon on the affirmation that Christ’s saving work is that of a priest. Obviously such a view will draw not amens but questions. Jesus was no priest! He was of the tribe of Judah, not Levi. When did he serve at the altar or perform the sacred rites? He cleansed the temple with a whip and clashed with the priests. How can one claim he was a priest? Into such an unusual thought the reader must be led patiently. And so, Jesus as priest is only implied in 1:3b, briefly stated in 2:17, presented more strongly in 3:1, elaborated upon with great pastoral warmth in 4:14-16 and finally developed at length with both reason and scripture beginning at 5:1. The writer pauses at 5:11 to say, "I know this is difficult." How considerate of the reader Hebrews is!

Before arguing that Jesus belongs to an order of priests prior to and different from the Levitical priesthood, the author addresses the fundamental questions: Who is a priest? What does a priest do? These questions are answered briefly but clearly. A priest represents God to the people in words and actions. The distance implied when we speak of the transcendence of God is negotiated through the ministries of the priest, and the people before the altar experience the word and the presence of God. Obviously, no one would presume to take this role upon himself or herself. Being a priest is not simply ones "chosen profession," as though taking the training and putting on the robes made one a priest. A priest is of God, God chosen, God appointed. The writer assumes there is no need to argue the point.

But does Jesus qualify? Beyond question, says our text. He was appointed by the God who had said, "You are my Son," words from coronation Psalm 2 declaring that the Son is also King. That same God now says of the Son-King, "You are a priest forever" (Ps. 110:4). Nothing further is said. For the community of faith, Jesus Christ is appointed priest forever, like Melchizedek, without beginning or end (Hebrews 7:1-10).

However, the picture is not yet complete, for a priest must not only be of God but also of the people. He must become like his brothers and sisters in every respect, tested through suffering in order to help those being tested (2:17-18). Only then can the priest deal gently with the ignorant and wayward (5:2). The ministries of a true priest are performed in full sympathy with the people.

Again, does Jesus qualify? The answer is Yes, but it is not an easy Yes. That Jesus was of God was a swift affirmation, needing the support of only two brief quotations from the psalms; that Jesus was of the people seems to call for repetition and elaboration. Jesus was made for a little while lower than the angels (2:9); not ashamed to call us brother and sister (2:11); shared with us flesh and blood (2:14); is able to sympathize with our weaknesses, having been tested as we are, yet without sin, and therefore able to offer mercy and grace in time of need (4:14-16). One would think these statements are enough to complete satisfactorily the ancient Christian formula: lie was not as we are and therefore can help; he was as we are and therefore will help.

Yet it seems that the writer feels he cannot say often enough that Christ was and is one with the people. It is as though there were in the writer himself or in the reader a caution, a hesitation about this article of our faith, that Christ was "truly human." Therefore this quality, essential for any priest, is declared once more, not with quotations from scripture, not with bold pronouncements, but with a scene from the earthly life of the historical Jesus, or as the writer puts it, "in the days of his flesh." "Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission."

This passage raises the tantalizing question of whether the writer was familiar with the gospel tradition about Jesus, and with Gethsemane. But of greater importance is the author’s inclusion of the life of Jesus in the message we call "the gospel." The death, burial and resurrection of Jesus are not all we need to know. And the point in his life which most vividly touches our own, qualifying him to be our priest, is his time of fervent prayer. His kneeling beside us as we offer up loud cries and tears is already an answer to prayer.

In Dallas, Texas, one week prior to the assassination of President Kennedy, I heard German New Testament scholar Joachim Jeremias reminisce about his life in Israel where his parents were missionaries. After WWII, he returned nervously to Israel to see if the treatment of Jews by the Nazi regime had severed forever his friendships there. When he knocked at the door of an old friend, he was welcomed with an embrace. He joined his friend in the backyard, where a crude tent had been erected for the observance of the Feast of Tents or Booths, a time of recalling Israel’s wandering in the desert, dwelling in tents. Fastened on the entrance to the tent were two slips of paper, each bearing a brief message: on the left was "From God"; on the right was "To God." There, simply yet dramatically, said Jeremias, was the whole of life: from God, to God, and in the years between, a tent.

His recollection is a commentary on Ephesians 2:1-10; or, more correctly, on Ephesians 1:3-3:20. Ephesians 1-3 is widely regarded as a baptismal liturgy, or at least a portion of one. How appropriate that the church prepare candidates for baptism in Lent! What most needs to be impressed on the candidate on the occasion of being set apart for God and God’s service in a world confused and estranged from its Creator? One could do for the baptismal candidate what the writer of Ephesians does for the reader, that is, interpret what is happening to a person entering the Christian life. To "interpret" is not to enter the classroom for an academic exercise; interpreting is a common and necessary activity of every community. It is what a parent does when a child asks, "What is that noise?" or "Do hamsters go to heaven?" It is what a physician does when a patient worries about a numbness in the left arm or intense headaches. Teachers do it, as do lawyers, friends, spouses and neighbors. As do churches. In fact, interpreting is a primary activity of the church and its leaders. "What does it mean," asks the candidate, "to become a Christian?"

The Ephesians text answers the question experientially. The language is vivid: You were dead. This is to say, you were caught in a futile way of life obedient to desires of the flesh, seeking the approval of your culture, heeding every inclination that led away from God, aimless and helpless to extricate yourself. But God, rich in love and mercy, by free unmerited favor quickened your life and set you in a safe place in the constant presence of Christ. You are now alive, but not simply in order to enjoy God’s grace. You have been created again as God’s masterpiece for two purposes: to show what God can do through Jesus Christ, and to serve human need, engaging in good works which reflect the nature of God as gracious love.

The Ephesians text answers the question historically. As unexciting as this may sound, it must never be over-looked. Israel has a history, Jesus has a history, the church has a history. To be a Christian is to enter into that history, to say we were in Egypt, we were in Nazareth, we were in Jerusalem, Rome, Geneva, Wittenberg and Boston. But the primary historical location of the believer, according to Ephesians 2, is Jesus Christ. The text does not use the usual Pauline phrase "in Christ Jesus," but "with Christ Jesus." The historical references to him are brief but sufficient: he was crucified, he died, he was buried, he was raised, he was enthroned. To be a Christian, says the text, is to be crucified with Jesus, to die with him, to be buried with him, to he raised with him, to be enthroned with him. Spiritual? Yes. Mystical? Perhaps. Subjective? Partially. Will-o’ the wisp? Never. Experiential but inseparable from history? Always.

Finally, the Ephesians text answers the question "What does it mean to enter the Christian life?" by setting the believer in a cosmic context. Spatially, this context extends from "this world" to "the heavenly places." This represents what the Greeks called ta, panta, the totality. The totality included the subterranean region, the earth and the heavens, and in every place, says Paul, dwelt hostile powers, including "the ruler of the power of the air," and "the rulers and authorities in the heavenly place." For all their power to cripple, control and alienate, all hostilities in the universe will not only cease ultimately, but will be reconciled. For redemption in Christ to be complete, it must range as far and wide as the forces of evil. And his liberating work has already begun in setting free the person caught in the passions of the senses and enamored of this world’s offerings. Change the worldview, change the language, and any adequate interpretation of the Christian life must still range this far.

Temporally, the cosmic context for the Christian life extends from "the foundation of the world," that which "God prepared beforehand," to "the ages to come." Many, of course, do not think in terms of before time and after time, and they seem to function without this concept. But what such language seeks to convey is hardly a casual option. The life of the believer is set in a narrative far grander than the narrow parentheses of one lifetime. Faith says there is a metanarrative, a story within which our stories make sense. In other words, "from God, to God."

Ash Wednesday is a day of penitence marking the beginning of Lent, a journey of 40 days to Good Friday and Easter. Ash Wednesday is a time of recalling our mortality ("ashes to ashes"), repenting of wrongs, and preparing for death and resurrection, both of Christ and of ourselves.

To be sure, the reformer among us warns of the dangers of ritualizing repentance and calendarizing seasons of the soul. Can the church effectively assign a day of penitence or reasonably expect a pilgrimage of preparation to begin and end according to the church calendar? A proper question, and a caution to be heeded. However, on the backside of empty ritual and religious exercises unappropriated, another danger lurks: the triumph of private feelings and the subjective captivity of the gospel. Radical individualism may regard as authentic faith only that which is confirmed by the pulse, when the truth is, some things are more important than how we may happen to feel about them on any given day.

The Christian faith is incarnational and historical and therefore involves times, places, memories, traditions and communities. Separated from these, faith evaporates into a mood. The whole of God’s way in the world cannot be written on the small screen of one human heart. And if the liturgical movements of the Christian community at some time and place seem not to move or stir, bending no knee, bowing no head, drawing no tear, lifting no heart, the intent of the liturgy is not served by abandoning it. Rather, one is better advised to join the assembly of others who struggle with their faith and in their faith, and in this company pray together: "Do not cast me away from your presence; do not take your holy spirit from me; restore to me the joy of your salvation."

Ash Wednesday begins the Lenten journey to Jerusalem. The way is often desert, but the destination holds most meaning for those who make the trip. And since the way is often desert, it is best not to journey alone.

No biblical text is more appropriate for a day of repentance than Psalm 51, but strikingly, this text also speaks to the matter of life before God as both individual and community. That the psalmist appears alone before God is clear: all self-referencing is first person singular (I, me, my). That is as it should be. Whether or not this penitent worshiper is David is a debate for the historians. But the content and mood of Psalm 51 fit the portrait of David in 2 Samuel 12:1-23, after the prophet Nathan holds a mirror before the king. Shattered and grieving, David feels almost unbearable pain over his sin and its punishment.

But one does not need the prophet Nathan to feel exposed before God. The altar itself is a most powerful moral and ethical force. Jesus himself said, "So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you . . ." (Matt. 5: 23). At the altar the memory of what one has done or not done is as clear as noon because at the altar, the light is different. At the altar, all locomotion stops and the busyness which obscures clear vision and permits illusions grinds to a halt. At the altar, there is no looking around, comparing and being compared, hoping that God will grade on the curve. Lame generalities such as "We are all human" fall unspoken to the floor, while glib and painless confessions of fault are awkwardly out of place. The truth is inescapable: "Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight" (v. 4). The one relationship, which means more than life itself, has been violated.

The psalmist had apparently been breezing along, when he decided to make a stop along the way to lay a gift on the altar and pay respects to God. We all have a residue of faith, right? My sainted grandmother, bless her Bible-quoting memory, would be pleased. Then the arresting truth: I have sinned. In my carelessness, which I called freedom, I have no doubt left many casualties, but most grievous is the damage to my relationship with God. Is it irreversible? Is it fatal? Already the thought of it has robbed his heart of joy and the weight of it has crushed his body into uselessness. Then comes the most painful thought: if God withdrew from me, cut me loose, left me to my own devices, I would be as an animal, unable to worship, incapable of the joy and the sorrow known by those who daily lay hold of the One who has already laid hold of them. He has no one to blame but himself there is no one who can help except the God against whom he has sinned.

So the penitent worshiper kneels alone. Does not Psalm 51 argue persuasively that genuine religious experience is individual? Where is the community? There -- surrounding the kneeling penitent, not for consolation or support or fellowship (often the roles of the community), but likewise in penitence, confessing sin and seeking forgiveness. How is this evident since the community seems not to be present in the text?

The community’s presence is implied in the literary form of the text. Psalm 51 is one of the seven classic penitential psalms used in the assembly on occasions of confessing sin. The form of this liturgical piece is clear: sin is acknowledged with frequent repetition for intensification of feeling; petition is made for divine favor; a vow to God is made; worshipers affirm what really matters between them and God. The presence of the community does not weaken the individual’s experience.

On the contrary, what could be more moving than an entire assembly in penitence, each one saying, "I"?

Again, and so soon, we are in the audience listening to one of the most remarkable characters in the Bible, John the desert prophet, the one called the Baptist. Only recently, on the second and third Sundays of Advent, it was John who trumpeted the announcement concerning the One who is to come. Now in the Gospel lesson for the second Sunday after Epiphany (John 1:19-41), he stands before us again. How can we be surrounded by one person? It is as though one cannot go to Bethlehem, to Jerusalem or to Nazareth without passing through the desert where John is preaching.

However, the John portrayed in this text is vastly different from the one we met earlier in the synoptics. To be sure, he does here baptize in water, he is identified as the voice crying in the wilderness, and he speaks of one the thong of whose sandal he is not worthy to untie. But he is never identified as the Baptist; he rejects all titles. He is not a forerunner after all, "he who comes after me ranks before me, for he was before me." His baptism is not associated with forgiveness of sin; the one to whom he bears witness takes away the sins of the world. He is not clothed in camel’s hair and leather; he denies being Elijah. His character is not developed and set in historical context as in Luke, nor does he exit dramatically through imprisonment and execution by the adulterous Herod Antipas. He appears and disappears with but one reason to be on stage: he is a witness to Christ. He does not speak eschatologically of the chopping axe, the cleansing wind or the consuming fire; rather he points to Christ: "Behold the Lamb of God." In short, John in the Fourth Gospel is a witness. In fact, the author gives 1:19-41 a heading: "This is the witness of John."

Does this mean that John has been stripped of his power and reduced, in significance? Not at all. On the contrary, no other Evangelist presents John as so striking, so commanding, so magnetic a figure. Twice the author interrupts the prologue-poem about the eternal Son to remind the reader that the subject is Jesus, not John (1:6-8, 15). John "was not the light but came to bear witness to the light." Such a statement would have been unnecessary, even meaningless, were John without prominence or praise. His ministry and his person attract disciples and command the attention of Jerusalem authorities who send investigators to the desert. Are you the Christ? Are you Elijah? Are you the prophet? In other words, are you the Christ or the forerunner of the Christ? If neither, then who are you? No one asks a powerless preacher, Are you the Messiah? No, the stature, the appeal, the capacity to influence are all there, but they are powers harnessed to one purpose: to witness to Jesus Christ as the revelation of God.

How then are we to understand a person of obvious gifts, immense drawing power and rare insight into the ways of God in the world, who is content to say, I am only a voice in the wilderness? Titles do not interest him: I am not the Messiah; I am not Elijah; I am not the prophet. He seeks no recognition: I am the best man, not the groom (3:29). He seeks no following; on the contrary, he is pleased when his disciples leave to join Jesus. His very last words in the Fourth Gospel are: "He must increase but I must decrease" (3:30). Perhaps he suffers from a debilitating lack of self-esteem. Or maybe John is better understood as an example of abdicating power, of evacuating one’s rightful place as a center of influence in the lives of others, of burying talent in some unhealthy religious quest for humility.

Robert Lynn, retired vice-president of the Lilly Endowment, recently remarked, "We are not attracting religious leaders of quality in either the Christian or Jewish traditions." Could it be that candidates of quality lay aside their strengths due to a notion that power is unbecoming to a minister? Or perhaps those of unusual capacity do not see room in the ministry, as broadly portrayed, for the full exercise of their gifts. It may simply be the case that the Fourth Evangelist is not telling the whole story. Surely, there are those who move into a life of service in relative obscurity, but they have ways of reminding us that they are out there. They write books, or they contact nearby radio and television stations and grant interviews to discuss the obscure life.

The fact is, there is no evidence of anything unhealthy in the life of John. No power, no influence, no capacity is abdicated or denied; all are fully and vigorously employed in the single service of witnessing to Christ. If he is speaking with one or two, he is a witness; if he is working with a crowd, he is a witness; if he is facing a forest of microphones and blinking into the flashing bulbs of Jerusalem inquirers, he is a witness, no less but no more. As such he is the perfect prototype of the Christian leader: sent of God to witness.

This is not to say there was no struggle, no temptation to use his gifts to elevate himself. On the contrary, such a battle must have raged within him at times. Since temptation is commensurate with strength, the unusually gifted face tests that the rest of us do not. As the late George Buttrick once observed, "There is no seastorm in a roadside puddle." But even with the wrestling, the great can and do turn all their gifts to the service of the gospel, and in so doing discover that their powers are not diminished but increased.

"Now when he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee; and leaving Nazareth he went and dwelt in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali" (Matt. 4:12-13) . The Gospel reading begins with this quaint reference to old tribal boundaries, meaningless long before Matthew. But these verses do raise the question of why Jesus moved to Capernaum upon hearing of John’s arrest. Perhaps Jesus had to leave his hometown in order for his ministry to have a chance of being heard. Perhaps he thought that Capernaum, having more people and a greater flow of traffic, would serve better than Nazareth as a center for spreading the Word. Jesus and his apostles certainly understood that the mission is to go where the people are. If one asks, Why move at this time? then Mark could supply the answer: "Now after John was arrested Jesus came into Galilee, preaching the gospel of God" (1:14) . In other words, the silencing stirs the other to continue the call to repentance in preparation for God’s approaching reign.

Such answers, however, reveal an inadequate attention to Matthew. Notice the sequence of the narration: Jesus hears that Herod Antipas has thrown John into prison; Jesus withdraws (apparently from Judea where he had been baptized and endured the wilderness trials) into Galilee; Jesus moves his place of dwelling; this move fulfills ancient prophecy (Matt. 4:14-16) . Sound familiar? In 2:19-23, Matthew describes how after the death of Herod the Great, Joseph brought Mary and Jesus back from Egypt to the land of Israel. But Judea is still full of danger since Herod’s son Archelaus is as violent as his father. Joseph withdraws into Galilee and the holy family settles in Nazareth; this move fulfills ancient prophecy. This too sounds familiar. In 2:13-15, Joseph, Mary and Jesus are living in Bethlehem. Herod plans to destroy the child, so under divine guidance Joseph moves the family to Egypt; this move fulfills ancient prophecy. The pattern is clear: Jesus moves his place of dwelling from Bethlehem, to Egypt, back to the land of Israel, to Nazareth and to Capernaum in response to an anticipated act of violence by one of the Herods; each move fulfills Scripture. It is reasonable to conclude that in our text the news of John’s imprisonment poses for Jesus himself another imminent danger.

The scene before us, then, is painfully familiar. On television screens and on the covers of newsmagazines the picture is a constant one: innocent people fleeing their homes to escape the terror of violent and inhuman authorities. Jesus is in their company, man and boy, seeking refuge from those who imprison and kill. Matthew’s stories are not simply historical recollections; they are current events. King Herod is dead, to be sure, and so are Archelaus and Antipas, but not really. Their successors seem to wait in line to raise the sword against God’s Christ and against those whose ways are the ways of God. The gospel continues to have its enemies and not solely in totalitarian states. Love without partiality and those who are zealous for racial, cultural and social "purity" will rise up in great numbers and from surprising quarters. Teach and practice forgiveness and the voices of vengeance will come screaming at you.

Tell the truth and those who have bought into the usefulness of the political and economic lie will find you outdated and nonprogressive.

What, then, are we to make of the text? It certainly is not an attractive picture, Jesus withdrawing and moving again and again. Is there any Good News here? Yes. First, that Jesus can and does identify with the uprooted, the pursued, the victim, is in itself an encouraging and redeeming word. In Jesus, God has identified with those who suffer violence and with the homeless, those who have no place to lay their heads (Matt. 8:20) . Sympathy alone does not alter the human condition, but it holds promise of change and gives hope to the victimized. For them, Immanuel, "God is with us," is not an empty word. Second, Jesus ceases to withdraw before the threat of the Herod family and takes up John’s message:

"Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand" (4:17) . God’s reign was announced by John, and though he was silenced, the message, greater than the dynasty of all the Herods, is not. Third, Jesus is not withdrawing before the Herod family’s threats but rather moving openly toward the people. He chooses four disciples to help in his expanding ministry and travels freely through all of Galilee, teaching, preaching and healing (4:18-23) . "The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death, light has dawned" (4:16, quoting Is. 9:2) .

The quotation from Isaiah reminds us of a fourth and final way in which the text before us is Good News. We noticed earlier that at Jesus’ every move, from his infancy to the present, Matthew says the event was a fulfillment of prophecy. Interpretations of such passages vary, but one thing is clear to Matthew: in those critical hours the violent authorities only seem to be in control. To interpret acts of violence by those who oppose God’s people as fulfillments of prophecy is to believe that God has something else in mind. God is God, and God is able to turn even human wrath to serve the salvation of the world.

Those who hear Jesus’ teachings are struck, some quite deeply, by the level of ethical conduct expected of his followers. Some, to be sure, become his disciples rather casually, half-listening, really hearing him only later when crises or guilt plunge them into a serious reflection on their baptismal vows. Others hear him quite clearly, pause to consider alternatives and then in penitence and prayer move into his way with fear and trembling. Still others, hearing in Jesus’ words a path too steep and finding in themselves insufficient willingness for such a life, turn sadly away.

All of them respond to that which is avoidably clear in Jesus’ teaching: the high demands of discipleship. "For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 5:20) . In other words, consider the standard set by those Jews most concerned with understanding and obeying God’s commands and then surpass that standard. According to Matthew, Jesus elaborates on this expected righteousness in a series of six "for instances." Unfortunately, many commentators have called this section of the Sermon on the Mount the "six antitheses" (Matt. 5:21-48) as though Jesus were setting his teaching over against that of the Jewish tradition. However, in the preceding paragraph Jesus makes it clear that he came not to abolish that tradition but to bring it to completion (vv. 17-20) . Therefore, Jesus’ "But I say to you" builds upon rather than opposes his "You have heard that it was said." It is most important to notice that Jesus spells out the higher righteousness in these six instances in terms of relationships: with a brother (or sister) , with those of the opposite sex, with one’s spouse, with oneself, with aggressors and with neighbors and enemies.

Matthew 5:38-48 places before us the two final specific instances, which relate to aggressors against us and to those in the general categories of neighbors and enemies. Needless to say, the demands of this text constitute a rather steep and difficult climb along the way. It is no easy matter for disciples to avoid retaliating on the one hand and yet to refuse to lie down passively, immobilized by a victim mentality, on the other. But far above these rising slopes stands the seemingly unattainable peak which marks the end of this phase of the sermon: "You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

How are Jesus’ followers to hear such a word? Many a sincere and willing disciple has concluded that Jesus stands alone on this height. Perhaps so, but then why would he command an impossibility? Such expectations seem counterproductive, resulting in behavior and relationships eroded by self-doubt, guilt, frustration and a sense of futility. Through the years the church has sought to interpret the demand for perfection in ways that relieve it of the despair of ethical failure: The language in this command is hyperbolic, says the church, and not to be taken literally. No, says the church, the language is literal, but since perfection is impossible, the command compels us to throw ourselves on God’s mercy. Yes, says the church, the command is impossible to achieve, but we should try anyway. The call to perfection, says the church, is not for all disciples but only for those very few who are able to form that inner circle around Jesus. Actually, says the church, "You must be perfect" is not a command at all but a promise to be fulfilled in the life to come. To these and other such interpretations the disciple listens, wanting to feel relief but in fact feeling very uncertain.

It helps to attend more carefully to the word "perfect." The word does not mean morally flawless but rather mature, complete, full grown, not partial. Luke uses the word to speak of fruit maturing (8:14) and a course being finished (13:32) . John uses it to describe the fully realized unity of Jesus’ followers (17:23) and James employs the same word to characterize works as the completion of faith (2:22) . Paul’s favorite use of the word is to portray the quality of maturity among Christians (I Cor. 2:6; Eph. 4:13; Phil. 3:12, 15) .

However, this command to be perfect comes most clearly into focus and into the realm of reasonable expectation when viewed within its context. First, the call to perfection comes within a discussion of relationships. Second, Jesus rejects for his followers relationships that are based on the double standard of love for the neighbor and hatred for the enemy. The flaw in such relationships is that they are entirely determined by the other person: the one who is friendly is treated as a friend; the one who behaves as an enemy is an object of hatred; the one who speaks is spoken to; the one who spurns is spurned.

Third, Jesus says that one’s life is not to be determined by friend or foe but by God, who relates to all not on the basis of their behavior or attitude toward God but according to God’s own nature, which is love. God does not react, but acts out of love toward the just and unjust, the good and the evil. God is thus portrayed as perfect in relationships, that is, complete: not partial but impartial. God’s perfection in this context is, therefore, love offered without partiality.

Jesus calls on his followers to be children of God in this same quality. "You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect." In other words, you must love without partiality, as God does. Thus understood, perfection is not only possible but actually realized whenever and wherever our relationships come under the reign of God.

The account of Jesus’ conversation with the woman at the well (John 4:5-42) is difficult to read because most of us have been subjected to highly imaginative and biblically unwarranted portraits of her which distort our understanding. Evangelists aplenty have assumed that the brighter her nails, the darker her mascara and the shorter her skirt, the greater the testimony to the power of the converting word. Critics of institutional religion who find all church members false and empty but all thieves generous, all drunks lovable and all hookers deeply spiritual heap upon the woman of Samaria both praise and sympathy. She is open and honest, a truth-seeker hindered only by a hypocritical town that forces her to come alone to the well at noon rather than the customary evening hour. Moralizers, however, have painted her as dangerous: beware her seductive ways, her mincing walk, her eyes waiting in ambush.

To be sure, Jesus knows she has been married five times and now "has" a man who is not her husband, but what are the particulars? Deaths? Divorces? Legal tangles? Or is it promiscuity? We do not know. All we know is that Jesus, as is his custom in John, reveals special knowledge of the individuals he encounters and alerts them that in meeting him they may encounter the transcendent. Jesus does not urge the woman to repent or change her behavior.

Even reputable commentaries seem unable to resist moving in one of the above directions with this narrative. Perhaps we should not be surprised; consider the fate of Mary Magdalene in the imagination of the church. Of her, Luke says "seven demons had gone out" (8:2) . We do not know how the demons had affected her, she may have been crippled, blind, subject to seizures or victimized by a host of other maladies. We do know that in the Gospels demon possession is not presented as corrupting the moral life. Even so, despite a lack of evidence, some readers see her as a woman of the evening. Such readings only complicate our ability to understand the text. But let us try.

Jesus’ longest-recorded conversation with anyone is the one he has with the Samaritan woman. On many counts it seems extraordinary that it took place at all: a man and a woman in public; a Jew and a Samaritan; a transient and a citizen; one offering living water and another caught in the ceaseless rounds of drawing water at the well. But God’s will was at work. John often gives the reader a clue that something very important is about to happen. For example, before feeding the multitudes, John says Jesus knew what he was about to do (6:6) , and prior to healing the blind man Jesus says that blindness provides the occasion for the works of God to be manifested (9:3) . In this case, Jesus "had to pass through Samaria" (4:4) -- a need seemingly unrelated to geography or time; it is of divine origin. In other words, in what follows God will be revealed.

The conversation begins with Jesus’ request for a drink of water. However, through the ensuing exchanges the transient Jew offers more than did Jacob, the patriarch with whose name the well was associated. In fact, Jesus’ knowledge of the woman convinces her that he is a prophet from Jerusalem and prompts her to defend her own tradition of worship on Mt. Gerizim. To her surprise, Jesus does not debate her, he declares that true worship of God is not geographically defined but is defined by God’s own nature, which is spirit and truth. In other words, God transcends sex, race, tradition, place and liturgy. If this traveler from Jerusalem is greater than Jacob, is a prophet and yet more than a prophet, the woman has but one category left: Messiah. In her mind, a God whose nature it is to embrace all people in all places is a Messiah.

There is some question as to Jesus response to her talk of a Messiah. The Greek text reads: "I who speak to you am" (v. 26) . Should "he" be supplied ("I am he") or is Jesus, by saying "I am, identifying himself with God? Whatever the proper rendering, the woman runs, not with the answer but only the question, to the city and gives the call to faith, "Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?"

If any wish to be fascinated by this woman, let them be so now. She is a witness, but not a likely witness and not even a thorough witness. "A man who told me all that I ever did" is not exactly a recitation of the Apostles Creed. She is not even a convinced witness: "Can this be the Christ?" is literally "This cannot he the Christ, can it?" Even so, her witness is enough: it is invitational (come and see) , not judgmental; it is within the range permitted by her experience; it is honest with its own uncertainty; it is for everyone who will hear. How refreshing. Her witness avoids triumphalism, hawking someone else’s conclusions, packaged answers to unasked questions, thinly veiled ultimatums and threats of hell, and assumptions of certainty on theological matters. She does convey, however, her willingness to let her hearers arrive at their own affirmations about Jesus, and they do: "This is indeed the Savior of the world." John immortalizes her by giving to her witness a name which is the very term with which he began the Gospel. The Samaritan woman, the Greek text reads, spoke "the Word."