Rock Star Jesus

I wonder if Jesus ever Googles himself? He’d get plenty of hits and could spend most of eternity reading press clippings, blog posts (like this), and endless commentaries.

This notion came to mind as I started working on Sunday’s sermon (which I am now taking a break from and procrastinating). At this point in Mark’s gospel, Jesus is firmly in what I like to refer to as his “rock star” stage. People are swarming around him like he’s Tom Brady at Super Bowl media day. They want to touch him, be near him, and feed off his holy aura. He can’t even get away to pray for five minutes before his disciples come looking for him. He’s like Daniel Radcliffe at a Harry Potter convention or SpongeBob at an elementary school assembly.

Jesus is huge! He’s bigger than, um, the Beatles. And I can’t help but think about how tempting it must have been to just revel in his own popularity. It’s good for the ego to be a wildly popular celebrity. Sure, you can’t exactly slip out unnoticed to pick up some beef jerky at 7-11 but that’s what you have flunkies, I mean disciples, for.

Of course, that’s not why Jesus came into the world. It wasn’t to become the Big Man on Campus. It wasn’t to have more followers on Twitter than Justin Bieber. Jesus came into the world to usher in the very Kingdom of Heaven. And that means there’s no time time for him to sit around and enjoy the fruits of his success. He’s off to proclaim the Good News to more and more people. He’s on a world-wide tour staying at only the finest hotels. At least if you consider a five-star hotel to be somewhere you can’t lay your head. And if by “world” you mean points around the Sea of Galilee.

Thus wordly success is shunned to pursue his uniquely divine call. Form a PR point of view, that too bad. But from a salvific point of view, thanks be to God.

St. Andrew: Apostle of the Lapel

No, I’m not wearing a kilt while I type this. But it is St. Andrew’s Day, which commemorates the man who is, among other things, the Patron Saint of Scotland. For many, he’s more associated with a famous Scottish golf course than his connection to Jesus.

Andrew is known in the Orthodox Church as the protokletos, or “First-Called.” It was Andrew who first met Jesus and dragged his brother Simon-Peter before him with the words, “We have found the Messiah.” Perhaps Andrew should be the Patron Saint of Younger Brothers. Peter would go on to be “the rock upon whom I will build my church” while Andrew would fade into the background. It’s tough to follow in the footsteps of an older brother who has a larger-than-life personality. Of course, I’m not speaking from personal experience since I am the older brother in my family.

Andrew appears three times in John’s gospel. The encounter with Jesus and his brother; the “three Greeks” who approach him because they “want to see Jesus;” and as the one who points out the lad with the loaves and fish before the feeding of the 5,000.

St. Andrew Cross

Because of this, I like to think of Andrew as the Apostle of the Lapel. I picture him grabbing people by the lapel to drag them into Jesus’ presence. He does this with Peter, he does this with the three Greeks, and he does this with the boy. He takes them and physically leads them into Christ’s gracious presence. Andrew’s life is all about bringing people to Jesus.

So on this day I bid you to think about ways you can follow Andrew’s example. Is there anyone you can draw into Christ’s presence by word or deed? Have you ever done so? What’s holding you back?

As Jesus draws us to himself, we too are called to draw others to him. It’s part of what being a Christian is all about. And if it feels uncomfortable, at least it’s not as uncomfortable as being martyred on what’s become known as the St. Andrew Cross.

The Church of the Red Door

“Why do most Episcopal churches have red doors?” This question often gets asked by folks who have recently joined their local Episcopal parish. Cradle Episcopalians never ask this question because, well, the doors have always been red so don’t question it.

My current parish, St. John’s in Hingham, Massachusetts, doesn’t have red doors. No one ever thought to paint over the imposingly beautiful antique oak doors which were recently refinished. Plus, when you live in the place where Talbots was founded you quickly realize there’s only room in this town for one set of red doors.

During my seven-year tenure as rector at All Saints’ in Briarcliff Manor, New York, we had the red doors repainted. This led to the question of what shade of red. Oddly enough Benjamin Moore doesn’t carry “Episcopal Red.” But after extensive research, including a conversation with the property support manager at the diocese, we found our red (I can’t share the name with you because it’s a state secret. And I forgot the name).

The guy from the diocese actually wasn’t helpful in determining the correct color but he did do some research for us about why the doors are so often red in the first place. Thinking about red doors made me wonder about the origin of this practice. In fact, he contacted the curator of the medieval department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We learned that red doors are pretty much unheard of in England so we didn’t inherit this out of the Church’s Anglican heritage. And we also learned that the practice is not peculiar to the Episcopal Church. It seems to have started in some other churches in the United States and crept across denominational lines.

Many see the red doors as symbolic of the shedding of Christ’s blood so that all who come to him through the church will be saved. And in earlier times red doors were symbols of refuge and sanctuary for all who entered. It was understood that a soldier could not pursue an enemy that had passed through the red doors of a church. So over time the red doors came to symbolize not just physical safety but spiritual refuge as well.

There’s also some anecdotal evidence that churches painted their front doors red when the mortgage was paid off. Which beats another theory I heard recently that evangelicals who thought the Episcopal Church needed the Holy Spirit would go around splashing red paint on the doors. Hmmm.

The truth probably resides somewhere within the various theories. But regardless, I like to think the doors are red because the Holy Spirit dwells within. Not just inside our doors but within our hearts and minds and souls. Only then can a church truly be a place where Christ is encountered and boldly proclaimed by all who enter its doors.

Of the Same Substance? Nope

“Hi, God.” That’s how a young child greeted me at the communion rail this past Sunday morning. I certainly didn’t want to disavow him of this notion so I gave him a high five and kept moving. Okay, I don’t really have that much of a messiah complex, but it was neither the time nor the place to get into a theological debate with a four-year-old.

But I think this speaks to a greater human need to make God tangible. Who wouldn’t want to be able to show up once a week and physically check in with God in addition to the spiritual check-in? “Hi, God, nice to see you again this week. Just wanted to drop in, say hello, and make sure I’m not believing in something that doesn’t really exist. I can’t stay for coffee hour but I’ll see you next week.”

Most clergy (hopefully) don’t try to perpetuate the notion that we’re stand-ins for God. If you’ve ever been tempted to view clergy this way either consciously or subconsciously, you know the resulting disappointment when you realize that, yes, your priest is human. It’s unfortunate but true.

But you can see where there might be some confusion, especially for children. We stand up at a distant altar blessing bread and wine while wearing fancy clothes and saying Jesus’ words “Do this in remembrance of me.”

We’re there to point to God, to show the way toward an ever-deepening relationship with the divine but, despite people’s projections, we don’t have any unique powers in and of ourselves. A priest can’t even do the Eucharist in isolation – it’s a “power” that only takes place within the context of God and community. Imagine if Superman was only able to leap tall buildings in a single bound if he first prayed with a bunch of people. The Joker would undoubtedly get away more often.

The psycho-babble term for what happens when people project idealized forms onto their clergy is transference. Emotional and spiritual needs get transferred onto a human being rather than brought to God. Again, this inevitably leads to disappointment which can play out as anger and frustration directed at the priest. People may not boo during the entering procession but they might start a nasty rumor or leave the church in a huff. Every priest has numerous examples of such behavior. But then many parishioners likely have examples of clergy who started believing their own hype and got a bit too big for their chasubles.

The antidote to transference is healthy communication and conversation surrounding the roles of the clergy and laity in a parish context. The priest has a unique function within the community — that doesn’t make him or her better than anyone (the old hierarchical model of priesthood has thankfully gone the way of the maniple) — and the laity have their own unique role in the community. Yes, the clergy role is more visible and ordained ministry cannot be separated from leadership. But it is a shared leadership both liturgically and parochially.

So, no, I don’t have any effect on the weather. When people half-jokingly say “Can you do something about all this rain?” The answer is no. As I like to tell people, I’m in sales not management. Perhaps together we can pray for a sunny day but, as nice as it would be, I don’t have a Batphone connected to the Big Guy.