Jon Stotts

I didn’t become human to know what it’s like to be human. 
That’s a common misconception.

Does an author need to write herself into the story to know her characters?
Does a painter need to paint himself into the scene to see it?

I dreamt up humanity. I know humanity through and through.
I sang the cosmos into being. I know what it’s like to be a cosmos.

I am the I AM, the infinite source of all things; 
Things that were, are, and will be – things that might have been and might never be.

I am the one in whom all things grow and change and keep going.
In me, nothing that is, is ever lost. 

Do you think anything exists that isn’t a reflection of me? 
I am all in all, and I express myself in infinite ways.

Rocks are my rockiness. Birds are my birdiness. Sonatas are my sonataness. 
Humans are my humanity.

I have always known what it’s like to be human. 
If humanity didn’t come from me, from where could it come? 

My knowing what it’s like to be human is humanity’s possibility.
My loving what it’s like to be human is humanity’s eternity.

I didn’t become human to know what it’s like to be human.
That’s a common misconception. 

I became human to show you what I look like as a human.
I became human to show you what you look like as God. 
 

Resist the attitude that was in Adam,
Who, though he was already full of the glory of God,
saw equality with God 
as something to be seized.
So he stuffed himself with power and every delight, 
dominating the world and everything in it, 
his every appearance calculated 
to make him god-emperor,
he magnified himself, 
raising himself above the sun, moon, and stars,
everything below him too insignificant to love;
and he refused to go peacefully into death. 

Because of this, God let him fall
through vacuum of space and clouded sky,
and he hit the ground so hard
the dust concealed his nature
and he forgot his true name;
and was given the name Adam, which means dirt-man,
so that, without humanity to inspire them,
the angels and earthly creatures 
and powers of the underworld
stood watching and then went their own way;
and every tongue groaned
that we are alone here.
The universe is cold and uncaring;
and no one is coming to save us,
it's every man for himself.

Peter, can we have a little talk? Then you can keep playing with your friends. You've been paying really good attention, haven't you? Messiah is such a fancy word! I have a surprise to show you. Are you ready? Close your eyes. Okay…open them!

See how we’re standing between these two gates? Let's take a closer look at this first one. Yes, it’s very pretty. See that warm light pouring through? Yes, you can touch it. That gate is how heaven gets here, how we get all our love, wisdom, and healing. That’s how we’re going to build my church. We want that special light to keep pouring in so everyone can share it.

Now listen. I have a very special job for you. We want this gate to stay open. We don’t want it shut, and we definitely don’t want it to get locked. So, here, I’m giving you these keys. Yes, they’re very sparkly. Listen. If that gate gets closed, your job is to open it right back up. If someone accidentally locks it, you unlock it. Got it? Yes, you can hang them around your neck.

Now let's talk about that other gate. Go take a peek. Yes, it’s very scary. It’s okay, come here. You're right, that’s where all the dead people are. Yes, they miss their mama. No, they don’t get snacks. No, we can’t close that gate right now. We will, someday, but we need to get everyone out of there first. Yes, to get them back to their mama.

How? Good question, Peter! Very soon, I’ll have to go through that gate. Remember how I’ve been talking about what happens when we go to that big town with the big church and all the soldiers? Well…

Peter. Peter, buddy, it’s okay. Wow, those are some really big feelings. Yes, I have to go. I’m the line leader. Yes, you’ll have to come too, but only when you’re a little older. No, you’ll have to leave those keys when you come. Remember that special job we need to do? Yes, keep the pretty gate open. As long as that gate is open, this scary gate is just a place to keep everything we haven’t had a chance to fix yet. Yes, just like your papa’s scary shed.

What? Yes, I'm sorry for calling you Satan. That wasn’t very nice. Do you want a hug?

The Net
 

We are the net God is using to catch the world’s lost ones and restore them to wholeness.

In the Sunday gospel for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A, (Matthew 4:12-23), the writer known to us as Matthew introduces Jesus’s ministry, a relatively brief period in which Jesus goes from complete hiddenness to a notoriety so widespread and controversial that it would lead to his public execution and the disintegration of his movement. In addition to introducing the first of Jesus’s disciples, Mathew also turns their former means of employment into a particularly powerful metaphor for just what Jesus was up to.

Matthew casts Jesus’s ministry as the fisherman’s net – or, better, the act of dragging a net from the water into the boat, laden with fishes of various kinds and the occasional bit of refuse. The four fishermen leave their nets but not their experience, for Jesus assures them that they would remain fishermen, though of a different sort. They’re going people fishing now.

But what do they use for a net?

In answer, Matthew summarizes Jesus’s ministry. First, Jesus teaches. That is, using scripture and parable, he offers his own corrective take on how his listeners might more effectively enjoy God and love one another. Second, Jesus proclaims the good news that God’s kingdom has arrived. If the gospel accounts are any indication, Jesus prefers to do this by having people throw parties for him and inviting the wrong crowd to join in the celebration. Third, as a potent sign of God’s nearness, Jesus brings everyone around him to full, overflowing health of mind and body. This, says Matthew, is what Jesus will be doing until he heads to Jerusalem. 

Back to Matthew's image of a net. What is Jesus’s ministry like? According to Matthew, it’s like a man dragging a net all around Galilee, catching up whomever is lost by spreading wisdom, joyful assurance, and health. We might go farther and say that Jesus’ actions weave his followers into a net designed to catch those in most need of God's saving help. The combined practices of discipleship and joyful celebration, with the healing that such practices facilitate, knit together a net-community whose knots are people, whose lines are the loving and just relationships between them, and whose quarry are the those whom the world has left empty, poor, and alone. We are the fishers, and we are the net, and we are the catch.

May God drag us wherever we need to go. 
 

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The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us. (St. John the Evangelist)

God became human, so that humans might become God. (Athanasius)

O God, who wonderfully created the dignity of human nature and still more wonderfully restored it, grant, we pray, that we may share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity. (Collect for Mass on Christmas Day)

Christmas celebrates the incarnation of God. Without ceasing to be God, and without ceasing to do all the things that God is doing when God is being God, God comes to participate in the cosmos as a human. In Jesus, God’s humanity becomes divine. Everything that Jesus is, is God. 

And just what is Jesus? What makes up his humanity? His body, yes. His bones, his tissue, his skin. The empty places in him, the fluids flowing through him, the tips of his follicles, the sweat that beads on his neck in the sun and drips onto the ground. The bacteria in his guts, the energy bursting from his cells, the electricity coursing through his nerves. Jesus’s body-- all Jesus.

All God.

And what else is Jesus? The contents of his mind, the flow of his thoughts and feelings, yes. Memories of his mother's smile, his father's laugh, his kin around him hustling to live and love. Careful decisions about where to go, how to survive, who to trust. Fears of being trapped, betrayed, tortured. Dreams of an abundant life, of his people flourishing and free, of a world unrestricted in beauty and wonder. Jesus's mind -- all Jesus.

All God.

And what else is Jesus? His words, yes. Meanings encoded into vibrating air from his lungs (the air in Jesus's lungs is Jesus, yes), entering ears, penetrating minds, taking up residence in hearts. Penned on paper, consumed through eyes, pondered and repeated in minds for centuries on centuries. Jesus's words -- all Jesus.

All God.

And what else is Jesus? Those to whom he says, “You are me, and I am you,” yes. Those immersed in the waters of his death, who eat his bread-body and drink his wine-blood, who dream his dreams and speak his words and love his loves. Those who share in his humanity – all Jesus.

All God.
 

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In today’s gospel reading (Luke 16:19-31), Jesus shares a strange parable about flipped fortunes and cosmic justice. Like the stories of the past few Sundays, the tale of the wealthy man and Lazarus is apparently meant to shock the listener into seeing that, whatever the logic of the coming reign of God is, it’s completely unlike the logic that informs our usual ideas of what a successful life looks like. Younger brothers who go sleeping around in far off countries will be celebrated; dishonest business managers will be praised; and disagreeable street people who can’t seem to find a job will dine with the saints and patriarchs. 

The story of the wealthy man and Lazarus isn’t a morality tale. That seems obvious from the fact that Jesus doesn’t commend Lazarus for his virtue, nor does he castigate the millionaire for his sins. Their post-mortem fates are based entirely on what they had experienced in life. Lazarus experienced shame and hardship in life, and so in the upside-down logic of the coming reign of God he will experience fame and comfort. The millionaire enjoyed a life of good food, fine clothes, and the esteem of his peers, and so in the upside-down logic of the coming reign of God, he will experience torment and unbearable thirst. 

I don’t think this parable reveals a straightforward calculus, as though we’re able to determine with any certainty what life after our resurrection from the dead will look like by evaluating our own good behavior. Instead, what Jesus seems to be saying is that our experience of the next life will be more upside-down than right-side up. We should expect to be shocked. In the upside-down logic of the life of the world to come, we should expect to clean our cleaning ladies’ houses. To be outpaced by those with severe disabilities. To work for our own employees. To seek the moral approval of felons.  

In short, according to the upside-down logic of the coming reign of God, what is currently alive will pass over into death, and what is dead will burst magnificently into life. 
 

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The past several Sunday gospel readings have been challenging passages. This week’s reading (Luke 14:25-33) is no exception. Here’s how I imagine the conversation going.

Jesus: “Okay friends, step one. You need to hate your family. Mom, dad, siblings, everyone. Hate them.”

Disciples: “Hate them?”

Jesus: “Yes. And hate yourself too. Your own life. Hate it. You should basically be ready to die. Are you with me so far?”

Disciples: “That sounds…hard.”

Jesus: “Yep. Oh, and if you try to follow me without thinking about it and discover that you don’t have what it takes after all, you’ll fail and everyone will laugh at you.”

Disciples: “Okay…”

Jesus: “Oh, one more thing. All your stuff. Get rid of it. Yeah, that too. All of it.”

Disciples: *look at each other nervously*

Jesus: “Alright, let me see.” *ticks off fingers one by one* “Hate everyone who cares about you, hate your own life, make sure you can do the impossible or you will face public ridicule, and get rid of all your stuff. I think that’s about it. Who’s ready to go to Jerusalem? Guys? Hey, where’d you go?”

I don’t know about you, but this exchange doesn’t leave me feeling hopeful about my ability to follow Jesus. After all, even the disciples would fail him. What can I do?

But maybe this is the point. Maybe we can only begin following Jesus after we have faced the inevitability of our own powerlessness. Maybe that’s where faith begins.
 

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The simplest parenting strategies usually come down to threats and bribes. Honestly, there’s not a lot of difference between them. “Sit quietly through Mass and guess what!? We’ll get a donut! Yay!” differs from “Sit quietly through Mass or I swear to all that is holy we will go home without donuts” only in emphasis and in the context of the kid’s expectations. 

What threats and bribes both have in common is that we use them when someone can’t appreciate the reason for doing the thing we want them to do. Theoretically, participating in the Eucharistic mystery is better than donuts. But even if my kids believe this is true at some level, the visceral promise of donuts, or the threat of their withholding, is a handy substitute for the kind of Eucharist joy and satisfaction that they don’t always experience, and that we hope God will eventually provide.
 
I wonder if this is what it’s like for God and us. God, waiting patiently for us to become the kind of creatures who actually enjoy being bighearted, fearless, and free, watching us motivate ourselves with bribes and threats. Like the disciples in today’s gospel reading, we have already encountered Jesus, learning wisdom from his words and seeing evidence of God’s trustworthiness in our lives. We’ve been to the foot of the cross and we’ve heard news of the resurrection and ascension. We know that somehow it is supposed to be a good thing that Jesus isn’t here in an immediate, gratifying sense, and that we should rejoice. We wait for the Holy Spirit to teach us everything, to be for us the peace that the world doesn’t give. We sit through Mass after Mass, straining to penetrate the veiled outlines of the mystery of love in our midst, willing it to be more real than it seems to be.

In the meantime, we rely on the promise of donuts to get us through. And, from time to time, their absence.