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The Emblematic Neurosis of Our TimeMarch 16, 2008 Palm/Passion Sunday So today we begin Holy Week, commemorating the last fateful days of Jesus’ life. This also marks the start of the last week of Lent, which began on Ash Wednesday over a month ago. Since then we’ve been traveling along with Jesus as he made his way to Jerusalem for the Passover celebration. In our several readings this morning you heard how that final trek worked out: how he was initially received into the city like a celebrity politician, then arrested for sedition on trumped-up charges as the state’s enemy and summarily executed in the manner prescribed by Roman law. You heard about the calumny of his people and the cowardice of his friends. It’s quite a story. During this Lenten season, we’ve invited you to brood upon the events leading to this week in a manner that would open up your life to critical examination and deep spiritual engagement. I have no idea if you have managed that or not. Maybe you attempted to give something up to spur your spiritual self into life, maybe you haven’t. Some people find that helpful, others don’t. Maybe these weeks have been pretty typical, chock-full of distractions of one sort or another accompanied with the agita stimulated by work – especially if you have anything to do with the financial markets. I could imagine that some of you are thinking you could be spending your time more profitably this morning than by attending church. So it goes. The fact is, you are here and you have heard the dramatic story yet one more time whether or not you’ve attached any preparation to it. But stating the obvious: whatever these last weeks have brought, the future awaits, and for our purposes today, considering the life and times of Jesus of Nazareth, the future defies complete description. Incredible, difficult, astonishing, catastrophic, remarkable, tragic, astounding. In a deep sense, it’s a future that words alone do not and cannot capture. It’s a future that doesn’t come into focus by taking more information in, but by emptying ourselves of the clutter we’ve accumulated and stacked in front of our spiritual lens, effectively blocking our view of what’s up ahead. Which leads me to offer a suggestion to you as you live into this week, as you live into Jesus’ future as well as your own. In one sense, like most other spiritual disciplines, what I’m going to mention here is simple in concept, but evidently very difficult in practice. I say evidently, because overwhelming evidence reveals we have an aversion to it. The practice I’m referring to is suggested by the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Philippians you heard Javier read earlier. Remember how Paul told his friends to “have the same mind” that “was in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…” [1] Theologically speaking, the whole Jesus thing hinges on his willingness to empty himself. And Paul rightly suggests that this self-emptying serves as a model for us. To have the same mind that was in Christ Jesus means we must engage the process of self-emptying. Paul’s larger point for his friends in Philippi was their ability to sufficiently love one another. He writes, “If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion…be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord…Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to our own interests, but to the interests of others…” [2] How can we possibly manage such a thing? By modeling ourselves on Jesus, how he emptied himself in humility and walked the path that took him through the gates of Jerusalem. Again, on the face of it, it’s a simple concept, but very difficult for us to accomplish…I think it’s especially difficult for most Americans since our cultural life is predicated on the exact opposite of emptying. Our life is organized around consuming, taking in ever more stuff, be it commodities or information or experience of one sort or another. More and more and more is constituted as better and better and better. The more we take in, the more inherently valuable we think we are. I happened to glance at the New York Times on my way in today and read in the business section that despite the gyrations in the world financial markets, there’s evidently still plenty of cash available for the competition in owning the biggest yacht. “Supersized yachts are the latest examples of one-upmanship among billionaires, many of whom already own a private jet, a Rolls-Royce or two, and multiple mansions. Despite fear of an economic recession and unrelenting job pressures among those who remain yachtless, there’s still a lot of money floating around the world. And as the super rich get richer, the size of yachts grows bigger and bigger, too. Though extreme, I thought that made the case rather directly. And though most of us will remain yachtless for our entire lives, this mentality of ever-expanding consumption is an integral aspect of our economy and among our fundamental suppositions about the meaning of life. There is an insidious quality to this. This mentality worms its way into consciousness without much fanfare – it just is. My friend Scott Peck, author of the best-selling, The Road Less Traveled, was fond of saying that addictive behavior in all of its many forms was the emblematic neurosis of our time and was at root a spiritual disease. For whatever set of reasons post-modern humanity has the tendency to fill in the space reserved for spirit with counterfeit currency. The more we take in, the less it satisfies, and the more we crave, hoping against hope that the deep itch will finally be scratched, but it never is. This need to be overfull has corollaries within the structure of our essential human personality. Many years ago, while still in seminary, one of my professors, pastoral theologian Henri Nouwen, told the story of a politician, who, in a moment of rare self-awareness, decided to visit a Zen master to ask for wisdom in how he might govern. Nan-in, the Zen master, served him tea. He poured his visitor’s cup full and then just kept on pouring. The politician watched the cup overflow until he could no longer restrain himself. At the time, I was a cocky young stand-in for the politician. For that matter, I would tell you this morning that I’ve matured into a cocky middle-aged stand-in. The only difference between then and now is that experience has confirmed this basic law of personal spiritual physics, which predicts you can’t take in something new if you’re already full of yourself. I have returned to Nouwen’s little parable repeatedly over the years, because I seem to need constant reminding about this simple, but excruciatingly difficult discipline of emptying myself of every sort of counterfeit concept and deadly substitution. So, one small and very obvious thing to say here is that the events of Holy Week will have little meaning for us unless we create a space for them. Resurrection that is celebrated next Sunday will have little connection to our lives unless we’ve opened up a space to receive it. How might we do this? By following along the humble path Jesus walked. By taking time this week to crack open the Bible stashed somewhere on a bookshelf, re-read the story and consider the connection points with our individual lives. By showing up here for morning prayer, or for our services Thursday night, Friday midday. Simple things. Basic. Simple intentionality attached to actual activity, sometimes excruciatingly difficult to execute in lives otherwise dedicated to being filled with many, many things that taste good, look good and feel good, and on the face of it seem to provide that which we crave most of all. More importantly, and perhaps more provocatively, according to Paul authentic love functions much the same way. Love can only grow if a space is created for it. That’s what he told his friends at Philippi. Have the same love among yourselves as Jesus by emptying yourselves of everything that blocks you from receiving and giving love as a gift. By the way, that’s what resurrection is, after all – a gift of love. As the great twentieth century theologian Karl Barth concluded, “the omnipotence of God and the love of God are the same thing.” [5] The only real power God has ever had is the power of love. Jesus demonstrates that this is no sentimental thing. This love has within its range the power of life and death and life again. It embraces all suffering with power to spare, creating the things that are out of the things that are not. The story we heard today tells us how far Jesus went to empty himself – he walked all the way up Calvary’s hill and emptied himself of life itself. Turns out, that created the exact sized space that could hold the resurrection that God was wanting to give and Jesus so willing to receive. That nearly unbelievable gift is offered to us as well. If only we will create the space.
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