Today's Gospel portion was the story of the rich man and Lazarus.
Chris (dh) pointed out in his sermon today that the rich man is not looking around wondering why he is in Gehenna or trying to figure out which beggar he might have neglected. His seemingly selfless request that Lazarus be sent from the dead to warn the rich man's five brothers is merelya veiled attempt to pin the blame on God -- if the brothers will repent, it is God' fault, for not "doing enough" to save the rich man.
But Abraham answers, "If they did not repent upon hearing Moses and the Prophets, they will not repent even if someone is raised from the dead."
Ironically, Jesus later raised from the dead a man named Lazarus -- and the same scribes and Pharisees toward whom this parable was directed sought to kill him and send him back to the grave.
And then Christ Himself is raised from the dead.
Hear the message of Stephen before he was stoned:
"You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Spirit. As your fathers did so do you. Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who announced beforehand the coming of the Righteous One *, whom you have now betrayed and murdered, you who received the law as delivered by angels and did not keep it." (Acts 7: 51-53)
If they did not repent upon hearing Moses and the Prophets, they will not repent even if someone is raised from the dead.
*There's that tzaddik concept again...
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Christ in the Psalms
Chris (dh) has been reading a book called Christ in the Psalms and moderating an online study group for some of his seminary brothers on the same topic. He has been sharing with me some of the insights gained from this study, most recently the repeated references to the tzaddik --the righteous man --in the Psalms.
In Jewish tradition, tzaddik is more than just a generic word for a righteous individual. It is a title of honor for a person of exemplary righteousness, who plays a specific role in the community as such:
In Jewish tradition, tzaddik is more than just a generic word for a righteous individual. It is a title of honor for a person of exemplary righteousness, who plays a specific role in the community as such:
The word " tzaddik" literally means "righteous one." The term refers to a completely righteous individual, and generally indicates that the person has spiritual or mystical power. A tzaddik is not necessarily a rebbe or a rabbi, but the rebbe of a Chasidic community is considered to be a tzaddik. (From Judaism 101)
In the Psalms we find tzaddik in the singular (many translations fail to reflect this) -- the righteous man, rather than the righteous ones or the righteous people, or even the righteous individuals. Christologically speaking, the tzaddik in the Psalms is not just any righteous man, but the Righteous Man, the very embodiment of the Law, the Word incarnate. Read a few Psalms with this in mind, and the prophetic and the Christological leap off the page. Then read again remembering that in baptism we are united with this Tzaddik in His sufferings and triumph, and that He has placed His righteousness in us.
Friday, June 8, 2007
A Bad Year For Baby Birds
The baby birds in our yard have been having a tough time surviving all around. Observing them, I wonder if it has just been an unusual year, or if nature is just this harsh all the time. There were three eggs in the robins' nest early in the spring; only two hatched. We saw the two leave the nest -- but found one dead a couple of weeks later under the pine trees on the north side of our house.
At the same time, a European starling had a nest in a hole in the sinnets of our house; to enter her home, she would perch on the electric wire running to the house, then dive down and maneuver straight up into the hole. Starlings are a nuisance bird, non-native invaders, unprotected by the law. This one had raised one brood early in the spring at the same time as the robins. I don't think any survived, since we found two near-fledglings dead on the ground under her hole, and never saw any others leave the nest. She is raising a second brood now. Two days ago, the children came running in from the back yard in a panic, shouting, "Mom! Mom! A baby bird has fallen out of the nest!" Dubious after the last batch of baby starlings, already dead when we found them on the ground, I went to have a look.
This was no near fledgling like the last ones. A tiny naked nestling with a wobbly head and a great yellow beak, lay curled on the ground, large read ants crawling on his pink skin. It seemed impossible that he had survived the fall of nearly nine feet. I picked him up. He fit neatly in the cup of my hand. I had never held a bird so small.
We carried him inside, brushed the ants off with a makeup brush, and wrapped him in a wash cloth. An internet search produced instructions on what to do. Put him back in the nest? I went back outside and studied the hole. I couldn't reach it, not even standing on the air-conditioning unit, and even if I could have, looking inside I could see that I would have to reach quite a ways into the hole up and over the joists...I couldn't even see where the nest was.
The little starling struggled in my hand. With immense effort, he hoisted his tiny naked chicken body up on his little feet, raised his huge, wobbly head...and then his yellow mouth bloomed open, and everything that is mommy within me melted into a mush of pity and admiration.
No, returning him to the nest was quite impossible, so we did the next best thing: put him in a cottage cheese container, lined with his washcloth, high up on top of the electric meter (the nearest the hole we could get him). I lashed it to the meter with yarn...the wind here blows ferociously most of the time.
We watched throught the day to see if the mother would find the makeshift nest and feed him. She came and went a few times. We saw the baby's little head peep up out of the container a few times, yellow mouth open wide, then flop back down. But she never went to him.
Evening came, and I considered taking him inside for the night. I was worried that he would get too cold. No, I thought. If we keep messing with him, that lessens his chances of being fed by his mother. He's survived longer than he would have had we left him to the ants. He has a chance. Leave him be.
But in the morning he was dead, motionless in the washcloth.
At the same time, a European starling had a nest in a hole in the sinnets of our house; to enter her home, she would perch on the electric wire running to the house, then dive down and maneuver straight up into the hole. Starlings are a nuisance bird, non-native invaders, unprotected by the law. This one had raised one brood early in the spring at the same time as the robins. I don't think any survived, since we found two near-fledglings dead on the ground under her hole, and never saw any others leave the nest. She is raising a second brood now. Two days ago, the children came running in from the back yard in a panic, shouting, "Mom! Mom! A baby bird has fallen out of the nest!" Dubious after the last batch of baby starlings, already dead when we found them on the ground, I went to have a look.
This was no near fledgling like the last ones. A tiny naked nestling with a wobbly head and a great yellow beak, lay curled on the ground, large read ants crawling on his pink skin. It seemed impossible that he had survived the fall of nearly nine feet. I picked him up. He fit neatly in the cup of my hand. I had never held a bird so small.
We carried him inside, brushed the ants off with a makeup brush, and wrapped him in a wash cloth. An internet search produced instructions on what to do. Put him back in the nest? I went back outside and studied the hole. I couldn't reach it, not even standing on the air-conditioning unit, and even if I could have, looking inside I could see that I would have to reach quite a ways into the hole up and over the joists...I couldn't even see where the nest was.
The little starling struggled in my hand. With immense effort, he hoisted his tiny naked chicken body up on his little feet, raised his huge, wobbly head...and then his yellow mouth bloomed open, and everything that is mommy within me melted into a mush of pity and admiration.
No, returning him to the nest was quite impossible, so we did the next best thing: put him in a cottage cheese container, lined with his washcloth, high up on top of the electric meter (the nearest the hole we could get him). I lashed it to the meter with yarn...the wind here blows ferociously most of the time.
We watched throught the day to see if the mother would find the makeshift nest and feed him. She came and went a few times. We saw the baby's little head peep up out of the container a few times, yellow mouth open wide, then flop back down. But she never went to him.
Evening came, and I considered taking him inside for the night. I was worried that he would get too cold. No, I thought. If we keep messing with him, that lessens his chances of being fed by his mother. He's survived longer than he would have had we left him to the ants. He has a chance. Leave him be.
But in the morning he was dead, motionless in the washcloth.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Carnival of Homeschooling
The Carnival of Homeschooling is up at About.com:Homeschooling. Take a peek!
Friday, May 25, 2007
Is It OFF?
A few weeks ago, our lovely 3-year-old goddaughter Sarai (in pigtails, on the left --if you look closely you can see the bandage on her fingers) suffered a terrible accident in which the tips of her second and third fingers were severed. A four hour wait for a doctor's care at a West African hospital may have cost her at least one of the fingers permanently. It's not certain yet what the outcome will be, and we are still praying for her recovery.
This has put a lot of thing into perspective at our house. Instead of rushing to the rescue, I find myself responding to cries of anguish from the backyard by simply calling out the door... "Is it OFF?" Most of the time, this brings silence, followed by a return to laughter and play as the kids, who have been apprised of and updated on their little friend's injury, remember what real suffering is.
Today, Abby came to me crying because of a teeny-weeny scrape on her finger. After a kiss and a "kiss-it-stroke-it-pat-it-bless-it" she was still carrying on quite inconsolably. Finally I told her, "Get over it, baby. Sarai's was OFF." And I put her down. She stopped crying and went off to play.
We joke about the old "you'd-better-eat-that-because-children-are-starving-in-Africa" parental lecture...but it's true. Having lived in a developing nation where malnutrition and diseases like polio and tuberculosis still devour lives each day, my thoughts turn frequently to families who suffer through war, hunger, and disease, reminding me to be very content that we can live in peace with a roof over our heads and food on the table.
In the meantime, watch out for finger-eating chairs.
This has put a lot of thing into perspective at our house. Instead of rushing to the rescue, I find myself responding to cries of anguish from the backyard by simply calling out the door... "Is it OFF?" Most of the time, this brings silence, followed by a return to laughter and play as the kids, who have been apprised of and updated on their little friend's injury, remember what real suffering is.
Today, Abby came to me crying because of a teeny-weeny scrape on her finger. After a kiss and a "kiss-it-stroke-it-pat-it-bless-it" she was still carrying on quite inconsolably. Finally I told her, "Get over it, baby. Sarai's was OFF." And I put her down. She stopped crying and went off to play.
We joke about the old "you'd-better-eat-that-because-children-are-starving-in-Africa" parental lecture...but it's true. Having lived in a developing nation where malnutrition and diseases like polio and tuberculosis still devour lives each day, my thoughts turn frequently to families who suffer through war, hunger, and disease, reminding me to be very content that we can live in peace with a roof over our heads and food on the table.
In the meantime, watch out for finger-eating chairs.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Big Green Lawn
I am not by nature one of those individuals who aspire to a pristine monoculture carpet of green grass in front of (or behind) my house. I love dandelions; they are fun, pretty, and marvelously nutritious -- even medicinal. I think Hare and the Big Green Lawn is a wonderful book. I like to keep a chunk of backyard habitat and a vegetable garden, because I have this crazy notion that land is meant to produce food for people and animals. The only real use I have for expanses of cultivated grass is as a place for children to run around.
However, the house we live in was vacant for two years before we moved in. It hasn't exactly reverted to prairie like Hare's lawn; it's weedy in parts, and bare in parts, and so thatched it's almost dead in other parts. It is neither wild nor cultivated...it's just... scruffy.
We could have a lawn service come in and do the job...but I have this thing against putting chemicals on the place where my children play and my salad grows. No, it must be an organic lawn (more here and here). Crunch crunch. And so the restoration of the Big Green Lawn has become my personal quest, nay, battle...
My dear dedicated husband so loves his hippie wife that he rented the seed thingy from the hardware store and reseeded the whole mess. He has also assured me that he will rent the de-thatcher and the aerator in the fall and do that job as well.
Meanwhile, I am obsessed, anxiously nursing my tiny seedlings of blue fescue and waging a one-woman war on the weeds, following the tractor sprinkler day after day and filing ten-gallon bucket after ten-gallon bucket with anything that isn't grass -- but leaving the dandelions, of course.
However, the house we live in was vacant for two years before we moved in. It hasn't exactly reverted to prairie like Hare's lawn; it's weedy in parts, and bare in parts, and so thatched it's almost dead in other parts. It is neither wild nor cultivated...it's just... scruffy.
We could have a lawn service come in and do the job...but I have this thing against putting chemicals on the place where my children play and my salad grows. No, it must be an organic lawn (more here and here). Crunch crunch. And so the restoration of the Big Green Lawn has become my personal quest, nay, battle...
My dear dedicated husband so loves his hippie wife that he rented the seed thingy from the hardware store and reseeded the whole mess. He has also assured me that he will rent the de-thatcher and the aerator in the fall and do that job as well.
Meanwhile, I am obsessed, anxiously nursing my tiny seedlings of blue fescue and waging a one-woman war on the weeds, following the tractor sprinkler day after day and filing ten-gallon bucket after ten-gallon bucket with anything that isn't grass -- but leaving the dandelions, of course.
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