Giving Alms and Blowing Horns

"So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet…" (Matthew 6)

When I was a boy attending a Baptist Church–in small town Saskatchewan–the yearly giving amount of every adult male was published and posted at the back of the church. By my recollection, by the time I was a teen the practise had ceased, but I have some reason to believe that it was the cause of wounds and hurt for years to come.

I’m guessing, but I suppose that some zealous treasurer got it in his head, and convinced the deacons, that it would keep people giving. Perhaps it did. My family was poor and my dad’s name was three quarters down the page. Still more than a faithful accomplishment.

’Envy’ by Damien Jones
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Thing is, if I had had the means, I would have loved seeing my name surface near the top of the register; and I would have relished watching the faces scan the annual posting. I would have given alms just because I knew the "trumpet" was going to be sounded for me.

In my weak moments, which come often enough, when I give I want others to know. And same principle–when I’ve screwed up, or when I’m being miserly, I hide as best I can. When I’ve made something I think is good, or done something commendable, my poor heart can hardly stand not having at least a few people know.

But is this really wretched? If it is, why? Why is it wrong? What harm does it do? Why are we warned against it?

Here’s what I think: Jesus was probably sad for having to give the instruction. Because he wasn’t against celebrating the goodness of good deeds done, and praising the people who did them. What he was aware of is the nature of human desire and how this desire is related to human rivalry and violence.

My granddaughter…what can I say?
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If it was the case that our "selves" were not formed through contention and competition, no admonition would be necessary. We could all hear that trumpet sound as a call to come celebrate. If our desires were free from distortion, our trumpets would be blown with the innocence of a child who runs to her mother clutching a page full of crayon scribbled sky with a sun beaming down on a stick figure in a triangle dress.

What parent would tell this child to stop "practising her piety in front of others," or to stay in her room and draw "in secret?"

No, the reason for Jesus’ provisional warning here is because our desires are skewed and we aren’t innocent and until we begin moving in that direction, we need ways to contain the demeaning provocation and generation of envy, ways to circumvent any rivalrous response, and to negate wounds and harm.

But mercifully and joyously, it is the case that we can be re-tuned and renewed. We can–all too slowly of course–gain the eyes and ears of a child. We can enter a second naiveté where when someone else’s talent shines like a star it will create in us delight, not envy. Where blowing ones horn has not one ounce of meaning.

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Red-Letter Christians

190_vIt was a secular Jewish Country-and-Western disc jockey in Nashville, Tennessee, who during a radio interview he was doing with Jim Wallis happened to say, “So, you’re one of those Red-Letter Christians – you know – who’s really into those verses in the New Testament that are in red letters!”

If you got one of those Gideon New Testaments when you were in grade school you’ll recall that all the words of Jesus–like the sermon on the mount–were in red.

Reading Don Retson’s interview with Tony Campollo gives you an idea of the scope of this "new breed?" of evangelical, or Red-letter Christian, that doesn’t want to be identified as an "Evangelical."

While not always fond of labels, I think I might be able to live with being labeled something like a Red-letter Christian. And even though I would go farther than Campolo et al on some issues, and disagree on others, I get a sense that I wouldn’t be judged for doing so. Maybe even encouraged to explore the direction in which I’m pulled.

There at least seems to be room to breath here.

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Offenceless

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?" Jesus answered them, "Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me." (Matthew 11)

Jesus had been sending out healers not organizers, messengers not managers. And John had heard about it. So John, having been imprisoned by Herod because of Herod’s jealousy, sent a runner to question Jesus. The question he wanted answered was wether or not Jesus was the anticipated one–the One that he had initially assumed was the deliverer, the messiah.

You’ll recall that not long before there was no question in John’s mind as to Jesus’ messiahship. John had baptized Jesus, had said that he was unworthy to tie the sandals of Jesus.

But now, languishing in prison, failing to see tangible progress of the "Kingdom" he envisioned, John was having second thoughts about Jesus’ methods. But Jesus sees behind John’s question, and responds with his list of active compassion and gently adds, "blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me." And that, to me, is the story here.

We count ourselves among the blessed offenceless ones quick enough. We don’t give it a second thought that we might take offence at Jesus. We think there’s no possibility of envy here. That there’s no possibility of rivalry. Jesus, we suppose, presents no acquisitive temptation for us.

cross and girlBut that is our blindness. Our blindness to what the incarnation is about, and our blindness of how we carry on the affairs of life. The deeper wisdom here is what Christ saw going on in John, and so in us all. That perennial slipping into offence-taking.

It is our way. We take offence. It’s where we go to secure our plans, our methods, our beliefs our egos.

I take offence. I take offence at menial things. Worse, I even take offence at the gifts and the goodness of other people.

Every time I grasp at securing something like my reputation, securing a place in a group through scapegoating another person or group, I take offence at Jesus. Every time I disparage charity and talent and good work because it happens to come out of a quarter I’m not in agreement with, I take offence at Jesus. And I am rendered un-blessed.

Being un-blessed is not something pronounced upon me. It’s the sad and natural outcome of separating myself from others through resentment. My only possibility of happiness, that is, of blessedness, is modeling the one in whom there was not one offence-taking cell.

It’s been my experience that when I get down to slowly–always sporadically–adopting Jesus as my model, I find myself taking less and less offence…at whatever or whoever. And here, in the un-resentment, is where seeing and hearing and healing and good news happen. Here in the beyond-offence-taking is where I find myself genuinely delighting with those who delight. And if the gospel hope is real, isn’t this where humanity is heading?

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Water – Mercy and Mystery

…while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. (Genesis)

All pictures from Grassi Lakes
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I’m tamed by tap-water. Water in pipes loses it’s meaning. Until it stops flowing, or is contaminated. Then something of it’s primary-ness returns to memory.

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Where there is water there is life. (The Martian probe’s first assignment was to find water.)

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Water sustains and destroys. It is creative and chaotic. It is mercy and mystery.

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We wonder at the workings and intricacies of water. (The structure of water, its peculiar properties, is still a major question in chemistry and physics.)

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Water is holy. With it and through it we are birthed, nourished, anointed, baptized, and cleansed.

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Water as symbol is restless. Symbol readily translates a reality.

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Some believe water carries ancient memories and present messages. I don’t know.

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I do know how walking on an ocean beach with the surf at my side makes me feel. I know how standing by a river or a half frozen pond or sitting by a brook makes me feel. But I wouldn’t know how to describe that feeling except as a kind of deep hopeful melancholy.

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But these words also fail.

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