What can we say February 18? Lent 1

    Genesis 9:8-17. You see a rainbow? Pull out your phone and post a photo to Facebook, quick! And then we have rainbows on flags, signs, bumper stickers and stoles now. We are to remember it’s a covenant, a two-way thing, an unbreakable deal with commitments on both sides – and the bow might just fire back at you.

   Jonathan Sacks forever altered my view of Noah when he wrote that medieval rabbis called Noah “the man in the fur coat.” If you wear a fur coat, you keep yourself warm; if you build a fire, you keep yourself and others warm.” Noah was righteous, but it was only for himself. The worst leader ever? No one at all followed him. Unlike Abraham (at Sodom), Noah didn’t voice one prayer for the people of his generation. God asks us to take responsibility, not merely to save ourselves, but for others.

   And then Marilynne Robinson, in her book (Reading Genesis) coming out in 2 weeks, belabors the contrasts she detects between Gilgamesh and other ancient flood stories, and the Genesis account of Noah. For them, the gods are surprised and angry a handful of human survived. Importantly, after God preserves Noah and his family, paired with the rainbow are a few essential laws – which we forget when we’re giddy over the band of colors. God expects righteousness – which ennobles us, doesn’t it? God, by offering a covenant, affirms “His forbearance and loyalty. The value of humankind is affirmed” by the covenant as well.

   Clearly, this covenant expresses “God’s passionate expectation of righteousness and also His loving faithfulness,” which are not at odds with one another! Nothing remotely like this appears in the Babylonian and other stories! Robinson rightly ties this deluge to that obvious truth that disasters which obliterate life happen – but by giving those laws, “humankind is a moral actor in the drama, not simply a victim.”

   Our text isolates a glorious moment – just moments before Noah gets drunk, and then gets mean by cursing one of his sons! Noah does what God refuses to do: curse a beloved human being. His vicious recoil ruins a crucial underlying theme Robinson reveals about those long genealogies: they “preclude the idea that differences between groups could ever be of a qualitative kind, deeper than the differences within a family.”

   God promises never again to flood the earth – but does a worldwide pandemic count, just a little? The flood itself, and the covenant God makes here, reminds us that God’s redemption isn’t merely human souls but all creatures, all of creation. St. Francis understood our kinship with his brothers and sisters the birds, fish, wolves, cattle, flowers and trees, and sang it in his Canticle and enacted it by preaching to creatures.

   The rainbow is an opening, I suspect, to talk about signs. Lots of religious people love signs – but they see signs that maybe are suspect as divine in origin – and then we miss the signs that really may be signs from God. Seeing a rainbow really is a lovely reminder of God’s ultimate mercy. So are the trees, flowers and birds, as Jesus pointed out in the Sermon on the Mount. Too many “signs” people claim to notice are a bit self-indulgent, or what Bruce Waltke calls “hunches.” You hear plenty of these from your people, a mere chance or coincidence that folks anoint as God’s doing. No need to chide or mock them for this. Society teaches this kind of bland theology.

   1 Peter 3:18-22. “Spirits in prison”? We see them all around us – and maybe in the mirror too! Fun to probe in a sermon… but let’s ask instead, Is this a clue regarding “He descended into Hell”? What was Jesus doing between Good Friday and Easter Sunday? This dogma makes so much sense of so many things, from pre-Jesus inhabitants of earth, to those in remote regions who’ve never heard of Jesus – or even those who reject Jesus for darn good reasons, like mean, abusive or simply boring representatives of Jesus. Robertson Davies wryly suggested in one of his novels that hell must have “visible branch establishments, and I have visited quite a few of them.” Jesus’ whole mission was to visit and make proclamation to spirits in prison. We are shackled by so many things. No wonder in the Eucharistic liturgy we say Jesus came “to release the captives.” That would be us, you, me, the people I cringe over as they are captive to bad thinking or crass ideologies – and frankly, everybody. Thank goodness.

   Mark 1:9-15. Most of us will fixate on the Gospel for Lent 1. In Mark, it’s direct, second person speech: not “this is my beloved,” but “You are my beloved.” I like that. Personal, giving the preacher the opportunity to invite people to be Jesus’ Body and hear God say “You – yes, You! – are my beloved.” This whole category of being Beloved: Henri Nouwen wrote a whole book on what this vision of your identity can do to relieve agonies and instill joy and hope. 

   Notice the vivid "the heavens were ripped apart" (which the Greek literally means). Donald Juel reflected on this and observes that "what is opened may be closed again; what is torn apart cannot easily return to its former state." Remember the roof being ripped open in Mark 2 when the paralytic was lowered from above!

   But not for long, and not so folks can relax into the easy chair of being the Beloved. The Spirit “immediately” (Mark’s Jesus is always in a big hurry, so urgent!) “drove him out into the wilderness.” We have our drivennesses… The wilderness could be parsed as the challenges we all face. But it’s a real place, a zone, a time of testing. The Wadi Qelt, with St. George’s monastery hanging perilously from the cliff above, is the theater for such high drama.

   This moment dawns right after the Baptism. Note how un-American the plot is. Instead of, after the Baptism, Jesus said Wow, what a neat spiritual experience! I can’t wait to get home to tell mom! Instead, a harrowing is to come. Probably, it was in that wilderness he heard or fully comprehended for the first time his calling.

   Jesus was driven, but he chose to let himself be driven. What would it mean for us, and our people, to see ourselves as driven into a time of testing, of purifying the self, of shedding other crutches and to rely for a time only on God? Fasting, yes. Shutting off gadgets, yes. I like, in preaching, to suggest “Could be this, could be that, could be another thing” – or all of the above. Let people pick up on what resonates, or scurry off to discover their own thing to jettison for Lent.

   Old Church hands might have their interest piqued in that Mark doesn’t do the three boxing rounds of temptation with the devil we find in Matthew and Luke. Here, he’s “with the wild beasts.” Sounds scary, maybe scarier than verbal jousting with the devil. Leap off the temple? Easy to say No to that one. But a couple of jackals growling and drooling behind me, or some predator bird swooping down and pressing its talons into the back of my head? I bet your hurting people who aren’t in denial totally get this scenario. The only way to survive such assaults of doubts or self-recrimination or anxiety or grief or a restless night is the recollection of the Baptism, being Beloved. Martin Luther, when attacked by the devil, calmly resisted by saying “I am baptized.”

   And then there’s this: “The angels waited on him.” The verb “wait” is always theologically suggestive. We “wait” on the Lord, as in its takes time, watching, expecting, not there yet, but coming. Did the angels wait on him in this way? We also “wait” on the Lord, as in the way a waiter waits on a table, serving, hosting, helping. What waiting service did the angels provide to Jesus? Not food: he was fasting! Wiping his brow? Words or even better (since they were angels) songs, choral anthems of encouragement and inspiration? American piety has way too much sentimentality around angels. But here they are, waiting on our Lord.