Tag Archives: Mark 1

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany in Year B (Ormseth15)

New Creation Is Proactive: Regenerative and Restoring Dennis Ormseth reflects on becoming full participants in maximizing life’s creativity.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, Year B (2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Isaiah 40:21-31
Psalm 147:1-11, 20c
1 Corinthians 9:16-23
Mark 1:29-39

ā€œFor those who are in Christ, creation is new.Ā Ā Everything old has passed away.Ā Ā Behold, all things are new.ā€Ā  2 Corinthians 5:7 (translation by David Rhoads)

Why, exactly, is it appropriate to associate Jesus and ā€œnew creationā€? The question calls for an extended Christological discussion far beyond the limits this commentary and the abilities of this commentator. Our taking of 2 Corinthians 5:7 as our epigraph for this series of comments on the Epiphany readings nonetheless gives us pause, if for no other reason than the rarity of the association. Of the two instances of ā€œnew creationā€ in the Bible (Galatians 6:15 is the other), this is the only one that specifically links the phrase with Jesus or Christ. As the authors cited in our discussion ofĀ Ā ‘new creationā€ in our comment on the Fourth Sunday note, the phrase ā€œis generally seen—like the occurrences in intertestamental Jewish literature . . . as originating as a motif in the eschatological hope of the prophets, especially Deutero-Isaiah (see esp. Isa. 43:18-19)ā€ and ā€œdeveloped in Trito-Isaiah into a depiction of the eschatological renewal of creation and specifically the idea of a ā€œnew heaven and new earthā€ (e.g., Isa 65:17-25, 66:22)ā€ (David G. Horrell, Cherryl Hunt,and Christopher Southgate,Ā Greening Paul:Ā Ā Rereading the Apostle in a Time of Ecological Crisis ;Ā Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press, 2010, p. 166). Elizabeth Johnson explains the Christian extension of the concept (creatio nova)Ā Ā as follows:

“Adapting this same pattern of interpretation, Christian theology makes protological and eschatological assertions of its own (Greek eschaton, the furthest end). Anchored in Christ, the life of the church in the Spirit offers ongoing experiences of a good and compassionate God amid the community’s own sinfulness and graced commitments. Proclaimed in word and sacrament, experienced in ordinary and extraordinary moments alike, the merciful presence of God, which grasps us at times even in the ache of its absence, gives grounds for speaking with gratitude of an original beginning and with hope of a blessed future. Considerations of the world’s ultimate origin and final end launch the mind toward the unknowable. For theology this is the deep mystery of the living God who bears us up in the present.”

Is this association then primarily a matter of faithful extrapolation, which as Johnson admits can ā€œsound like wishful thinkingā€ and can ā€œseem like science fiction fantasiesā€?Ā Ā ā€œThe unreality of it all can be a stumbling block for faith,ā€ she cautions. ā€œBut there is one God, burning fire of divine love. The logic of belief holds that if this absolute holy Mystery can create life, then this same holy mystery in faithful love can rescue it from final nothingness (Elizabeth A. Johnson,Ā Ask the Beasts: Darwin and the God of Love.Ā London:Ā Ā Bloomsbury, 2014, p. 213).

It is no doubt by virtue of this dynamic that we have the first reading and psalm we do for this Sunday. The church in assembly makes the connection between Jesus of Nazareth and the God who creates all things: first with his exorcism in the synagogue, now in this Sunday’s Gospel with his first healing, followed by additional exorcisms and healing of ā€œall who were sick or possessed with demonsā€ until (in Mark’s Semitic hyperbole), ā€œthe whole city was gathered around the door of Simon’s houseā€ (1:33). The church sees in these episodes the presence of the creator, and makes the bold claim that what happened of old is now happening anew. Creation in its fullness is being restored. More than simply miracle stories, the significance of these actions, in Myers’ view,

“can be seen only as a direct reflection of his social reality. Economic and political deterioration, especially in the decade prior to the upheavals of the Romano-Jewish war, had dispossessed significant portions of the Palestinian population, especially in the densely populated rural areas of Galilee. Disease and physical disability were an inseparable part of the cycle of poverty (a phenomenon still true today despite the advent of modern medicine). For the day laborer, illness meant unemployment and instant impoverishment. The ā€œcrowdsā€ (ochlos) form the background to the story and represent a major aspect of its social location . . . . Jesus’ healing ministry is thus portrayed as an essential part of his struggle to bring concrete liberation to the oppressed and marginal of Palestinian society” (Myers, p.144).

These actions are what Myers terms ā€œsymbolic actions,ā€ by which he does not mean that they were only of ā€merely metaphorical significance,ā€ ā€œdevoid of concrete, historical character,ā€ but rather that their ā€œfundamental significance, indeedĀ power, lies relative to the symbolic order in which they occurred.ā€ Such action has ā€œdivine power,ā€ but not in the sense usually ascribed to them; their power lies ā€œnot in a manipulation of nature but in confrontation with the dominant order of oppression and in witness to different possibilitiesā€ (Myers, p. 147).Ā Ā In the language employed by cultural anthropologist Mary Douglas, ā€œhis healing and exorcism functioned to ‘elaborate’ the dominant symbolic order, unmasking the way in which it functioned to legitimate concrete social relationships. Insofar as this order dehumanized life, Jesus challenged it and defied its strictures:Ā thatĀ is why his ‘miracles’ were not universally embracedā€ (Myers, p. 147-48).

It is important to note, furthermore, that these symbolic actions have purchase not only with respect to ā€œwhat Jesus does,ā€ but also to whom and where he does them. In the period of this first day, Myers notes, ā€œJesus moves from a synagogue in Capernaum to a house (1:29) to an undetermined wilderness site (1:35). Similarly, later Jesus is portrayed as moving from synagogue (3:1) to sea (3:7 to mountain (3:13) to house and finally back to sea (4:1), an itinerary of ā€œkey symbolic coordinates.ā€Ā Ā And it is perhaps especially significant that Jesus desires to proclaim his message, not only in the city of Capernaum, but even more so in the ā€œneighboring townsā€ (1:38). The crowds (ochlos) are ā€œpeople of the land,ā€Ā Ā ā€œlower class, poor, uneducated, and ignorant of the lawā€ with whom, according to the rabbis ā€œJews should neither share meals nor travel togetherā€ (Myers, (p. 156). Jesus’ ministry relates in this way toĀ allĀ the people and theĀ entireĀ landscape of the entire region, ā€œthroughout Galileeā€ (1:39).

The picture is thus one of a people dispossessed from the land by the dominating Hellenistic population of the cities, who suffer from diseases associated with that status, and are subject to demonic possession and alienated from the elite class that rules the community from the synagogue. ā€œIn sum, in his careful use of socio-symbolic space, Mark portrays Jesus as struggling against the dominant symbolic order as it manifests itself in each social sphere in his mission of liberationā€ (p. 152). But they is a new people in the making, in new relationship to each other and to the land in which they live. Jesus is the catalyst for this development, as it were, the energies of which are the gift of the Creator. The Gospel reading for this Sunday thus introduces us in paradigmatic fashion to what might plausibly be seen as ā€œnew creation:ā€ the work of one who ā€œbrings princes to naught, and makes the rulers of the earth as nothingā€ (Isaiah 40:23), and who ā€œgives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerlessā€ (Isaiah 40:29). Jesus does so precisely because his God isĀ Ā the one who also ā€œsits above the circle of the earth, and its inhabitants are like grasshoppers; who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to live inā€ (40:22), ā€œthe everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earthā€ (40:28).

In our first reading, we have an exceedingly significant prototype of this ā€œnew creation.ā€ Isaiah 40, William Brown observes, reaches back to the foundational experience of the people of Israel in the ā€œtrauma of exile brought on by the loss of land, temple, and king,ā€ from which the prophet drew ā€œa new theological vision, one that emerged from the fertile soil of religious polytheism.ā€ The ā€œGod of Israel, YHWH, is the one and only God, the creator of allā€ (William P. Brown,Ā The Seven Pillars of Creation:Ā Ā The Bible, Science, and the Ecology of Wonder.Ā Oxford:Ā Ā Oxford University Press, 2010, p.216). The crowning theological achievement of ā€œSecond Isaiah,ā€ Brown suggests,

“was to have YHWH stand alone, but alone in manifold fullness. Stephen Geller identifies three originally separate aspects of divinity that came to be subsumed or integrated under Israel’s Godhead: ‘God as king, as warrior, and as protector.’ In ‘Second Isaiah,’ however, the list grows longer and more differentiated. YHWH is depicted as a warrior (40:10; 42:13; 51:9-11), shepherd (40:12), king (5:7); comforter (40:1-2; 49:13; 51:3, 12), lover (43;4), husband (54:5), potter (45:9), father (45:10a, 11), mother (45:10b,Ā Ā 11; 49:15), Holy One (41:14, 16, 20; 45:11), redeemer (41:14; 43:14; 44:6, 24; 54:5), and covenant-maker (42:6; 49:8, 54:10; 55:32) . . . .

God’s composite personality in ‘Second Isaiah’ cannot be reduced to any one attribute. Neither is YHWH simply a compilation of all them. God’s divinity is not measured simply by addition.Ā Ā In the fullness of divinity, the prophet’s God stands utterly alone and fully transcendent, above all categories . . . .

YHWH’s transcendent status rises above the myriad attributes and roles that are ascribed to the deity. ā€œSecond Isaiah’sā€ conception of deity is more than the sum of its roles. Except for one. God’s most central role is also, not coincidentally, the one that fits God’s transcendent status most fully: creator. The creator of all is ā€œaboveā€ all.Ā Ā God creates both darkness and light, the old and the new. YHWH is a divine singularity, incomparably and exclusively divine, whose creativity knows no bounds” (Brown, p. 217-18).

This Creator creates anew in Jesus, but ā€œnew creationā€ doesn’t end there. Again in the present time, it is the hope of the church who in Jesus’ name would similarly seek to liberate the peoples of the earth and the earth itself from their destructive alienation, that the power of this God will manifest itself yet again and again. Thus withĀ Ā Psalm 147 we praise this Creator with present tense, as one whoĀ healsĀ the present world andĀ isĀ the origin of all that is and will be. Yes, Yahweh ā€œheals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds,ā€ and yet also ā€œdetermines the number of the starsā€; and ā€œgives to all of them their namesā€ (147:4). In Christ, we are privileged to participate in the new work of this God.

It is one of the most provocative aspects of Naomi Klein’s book,Ā This Changes Everything,Ā that she is alert to the need for what we have referred to here as ā€œcreativeā€ power. She doesn’t call it that, of course, and may not have in mind divinity. Yet she identifies as ā€œone of the most important developmentsā€ of the resistance movement against the destructive forces of extractive capitalism ā€œa new kind of reproductive rights movementā€, one ā€œfighting . . . for the reproductive rights of the planet as a whole—for the decapitated mountains, the drowned valleys, the clear-cut forests, the fracked water table, the strip-mined hillsides, the poisoned rivers, the ‘cancer villages.’ All of life has the right to renew, regenerate, and heal itselfā€ (This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate.Ā Ā New York; Simon & Schuster, 2014, p. 443). A promising shift is underway, she observes:

“As communities move from simply resisting extractivism to constructing the world that must rise in its rubble, protecting the fertility cycle is at the heart of the most rapidly multiplying models, from permaculture to living buildings to rainwater harvesting. Again and again, linear, one-way relationships of pure extraction are being replaced with systems that are circular and reciprocal. Seeds are saved instead of purchased. Water is recycled. Animal manure, not chemicals, is used as fertilizer, and so on. There are no hard-and-fast formulas, since the guiding principle is that every geography is different and our job, as Wes Jackson says. . . . is to ‘consult the genius of the place’ā€ (Klein, p. 446).

These processes, she observes, ā€œare sometime called ‘resilient’ but a more appropriate term might be ā€œregenerative.’ā€ Resilience is passive; ā€œregeneration, on the other hand, is active: we become full participants in the process of maximizing life’s creativity.ā€ The vision goes far beyond ā€œthe familiar eco-critique that stressed smallness and shrinking humanity’s impact or ‘footprint’ to embrace change of our actions ā€œso that they are constantly growing, rather than extracting life.ā€ We are, she concludes, what Gopal Dayaneni, a California ecologist and activist, describes as ā€œthe keystone species in this momentā€ and ā€œhave to align our strategies with the healing powers of Mother Earth—there is no getting around the house rules. But it isn’t about stopping or retreating. It’s about aggressively applying our labor toward restorationā€ (Klein, pp. 447-48). Although we might prefer to call the healing powers ā€œYahweh,ā€ we can heartily agree with this prescription for ā€œnew creation.ā€

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2015.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany in Year B (Ormseth15)

For Those Who Are in Christ, Creation Is New! Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on driving out the demon of climate change denial.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, Year B (2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Deuteronomy 18:15-20
Psalm 111
1 Corinthians 8:1-13
Mark 1:21-28

ā€œFor those who are in Christ, creation is new.Ā Ā Everything old has passed away.Ā Ā Behold, all things are new.ā€Ā  II Corinthians 5:7 (translation by David Rhoads)

ā€œFor those who are in Christ, creation is new.ā€Ā What, exactly does this promise mean? We have taken it as our epigraph for these comments on the lectionary texts for the Sundays after Epiphany in year B, with the expectation that light will be shed on its meaning as we move through the season. While the text itself, II Corinthians 5:7, does not appear among the readings for any of these Sundays, the second readings through Transfiguration Sunday are consistently drawn from the Letters of Paul to the Corinthians. We therefore anticipated that the assertion would be found consonant with the themes the readings set out. Thus far we think we have shown this to be the case. It helped greatly, of course, that at the outset the readings for the Baptism of Our Lord are rich in creational metaphor and motifs; transferring them to the life of those baptized in Christ was a relatively straightforward matter. On the Second Sunday after Epiphany, we uncovered in the fig tree under which Nathanael sat, when Jesus called him to be a disciple, a sign that binds confession of Jesus as manifestation of God to awareness of God’s presence in creation and the call of the disciple to care of creation. And in our comment on the readings for the Third Sunday, we argued that for those ā€œwho are in Christā€ at this moment of Earth’s all-encompassing ecological crisis, it is indeed time for ā€œbreaking with business as usual,ā€ following Jesus’ call to engage in ā€œa fundamental reordering of socioeconomic relationshipsā€ which, if it encompasses the ecological systems of our planet together with the human community, could lead to all creation’s restoration—to new creation.

The readings for the Fourth Sunday provide further support for this interpretation. In the Gospel we see what Ched Myers describes as ā€œthe public inauguration of Jesus’ ministry in Capernaumā€, in which ā€œMark will establish the essential characteristics of the messianic mission.ā€ We are immediately made aware of the nature of the challenge of ā€œbreaking with business as usual.ā€ As Myers point outs out, ā€œin one sentence [1:21] Mark moves Jesus from the symbolic margins to the heart of provincial Jewish social order: synagogue (sacred space) on a Sabbath (sacred time)ā€ (Ched Myers,Ā Binding the Strong Man:Ā A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books , 1988; p. 141).Ā Jesus’ teaching is acknowledged by those assembled to be authoritative, which has prompted the church to assign Deuteronomy 18:15-20 as our first reading: Jesus is a prophet like Moses, whose teaching is powerful to accomplish his mission. But these affirmations also serve to frame the conflict that breaks into the open in his encounter with the ā€œman with an unclean spirit,ā€ as having ā€œeverything to do with the struggle between the authority of Jesus and that of the scribesā€ (Myers, pp. 141-42). The man’s greeting ā€œcommunicates defiance toward a hostile intruder,ā€ Myers suggests, but ā€œthis defiance quickly turns to fear:Ā Ā ā€œHave you come to destroy us?ā€

Following the interpretation of Howard Kee, Myers argues that the episode is ā€œparadigmaticā€:

“The word of the demon makes clear that the struggle is not a momentary one, but is part of a wider conflict of which this is but a single phase . . . . The narrative is wholly compatible with the picture . . . emerging from apocalyptic Judaism of God’s agent locked in effective struggle with the powers of evil, wresting power from them by his word of command.”

Such narratives, it is important to note, do not ā€œglorify the one who performed the act,ā€ as Hellenistic miracle stories tended to do; modern interpreters who focus on Jesus’ presumed supernatural powers do something similar. These stories instead ā€œidentify his exorcism as an eschatological event which served to prepare God’s creation for his coming ruleā€ (Myers, p. 143. Kee’s work cited here is ā€œThe Terminology of Mark’s Exorcism Stories,ā€Ā New Testament Studies, 14, pp. 242ff). As ā€œone of the central characteristics of the messianic mission of Jesusā€ which he passes on to his followers, exorcism ā€œis the main vehicle for articulating the apocalyptic combat mythā€ between the powers (and their earthly minion) and Jesus (as envoy of the kingdom). ā€œMark’s account thus begins to specify the political geography of the apocalyptic contest begun in the wilderness (1:12f). The demon in the synagogue becomes the representative of the scribal establishment, whose ā€œauthorityā€ undergirds the dominant Jewish social order (Myers, p. 143). With this episode, Myers notes, ā€œMark thus established the political character of exorcism as symbolic action.ā€ Subsequent exorcisms in the Gospel are similarly ā€œconcerned with the structures of power and alienation in the social world,ā€ in particular ā€œthe deep rift between Jew and gentileā€ (7:24ff), and ā€œthe agonizing struggle to believe in the new order of the kingdomā€ (9:14).

One observes here a striking structural similarity between this analysis of the opposition Jesus encountered and Naomi Klein’s description of the climate change denial movement’s opposition to climate change action. Here, too, there is great fear expressed by the defenders of our dominant economic system. One can easily imagine a climate denier standing in the door of a meeting of the Heartland Society she describes, refusing to allow entry to a climate change activist, with the frightened challenge (in the words of the demon in Mark), ā€œHave you come to destroy us?ā€ As she writes, this . . .

“is what is behind the abrupt rise in climate change denial among hardcore conservatives: they have come to understand that as soon as they admit that climate change is real, they will lose the central ideological battle of our time—whether weĀ Ā need to plan and manage our societies to reflect our goals and values, or whether that task can be left to the magic of the market” (Klein, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The ClimateĀ (New York:Ā Ā Simon & Schuster, 2014. p. 41).

Klein’s point is critical to an understanding of the dynamics our our political situation relative to climate change:

“Climate change detonates the ideological scaffolding on which contemporary conservatism rests. A belief system that vilifies collective action and declares war on all corporate regulation and all things public simply cannot be reconciled with a problem that demands collective action on an unprecedented scale and a dramatic reining in of the market forces” ( p. 41).

And it isn’t only a matter of economic and political policy; here, too, there is an ideological ā€œwar of the myths:ā€

“[F]or many conservatives, particularly religious ones, the challenge goes deeper still, threatening not just faith in markets but core cultural narratives about what humans are doing here on earth. Are we masters, here to subdue and dominate, or are we one species among many, at the mercy of powers more complex and unpredictable than even our most powerful computers can model?” (Klein, p. 42).

Faced with this situation, how might the church respond in Jesus’ name?Ā Ā How mightĀ weĀ drive the demon of climate change denial out?

An answer requires more extensive discussion than we can do here, of course. But key elements of an answer lie close at hand this Sunday in the second reading from 1 Corinthians 8:1-13. In fact, this text relates as closely to our epigraphic promise as any we will encounter during the season.Ā Ā With its concern for eating of food sacrificed to idols, the passage may seem irrelevant to the concerns raised by the Gospel reading. Until, that is, we learn in verse 6 that the presupposition of Paul’s argument here is the powerful confessional statement that ā€œfor us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.ā€

Ā As David Horrell, Cheryl Hunt, and Christopher Southgate point out in theirĀ Greening Paul:Ā Ā Rereading the Apostle in a Time of Ecological CrisisĀ (Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press, 2010), the repeated ā€œall thingsā€ (ta panta) here alerts us to the connection between this passage and the line of Paul’s thought represented by the famous hymn of Colossians 1:15-20. The phrase ā€œrefers to everything, indicating the universal and cosmic scope of the hymn’s concerns.Ā Ā This view of all things as the work of the one (good) creator, in and through Christ, implies the intrinsic goodness of all created entities, including the nonhuman elements, a repeated emphasis in the first creation narrative in Genesisā€ (Horrell,Ā et al.,Ā p.104). The confession in 1 Corinthians 8, these authors argue, is the most important of several texts showing that for Paul

“there is no intrinsic or inherent source of moral corruption in the material things of the world God has made. And it is significant that this is expressed even in a letter (1 Corinthians) where the ā€œworldā€ is generally depicted in somewhat negative terms, owingĀ Ā Ā . . . to Paul’s sense that he needs more strongly to reinforce a sense of distinction between the church and its wider society” (Horrell,Ā et al., p. 159).

Combined with ā€œthe most important reconciliation text in the undisputed Pauline letters,ā€ 2 Corinthians 5:18-20 (which includes our epigraph), this and other texts (e.g., 1 Corinthians 15:27-28), provide a basis for arguing that ā€œbroadly construed as the drawing together of all things into Christ (and/or God), cosmic reconciliation can stand at the focal center of [a] reading of Pauline theology and at the center of. . . Paul’s story of creation (Horrell, et al., p. 168). Within the framework of this cosmic narrative, the ā€œnew creationā€ of 2 Corinthians 5:17 is ā€œplausibly construedā€ as

“focused less on the individual’s new identity – a focus that may owe more to Western individualism than to Paul . . . and more on the sense that what God has achieved (or is in the process of bringing about) in Christ is a cosmic ā€œnew creationā€: anyone who is in Christ belongs to, participates in, this new creation, in which the former distinctions (between Jew and Gentile, etc.) no longer count for anything. The work of God in Christ is a renewal of the cosmos, an inauguration of the promised eschatological new creation, not merely the transformation of individual believers” (Horrell, et al., pp. 169-170).

While Paul’s ā€œpredominant concern is with the conversion of human beings and with the communities of believers whose corporate life he seeks to shape,ā€ these authors conclude, his theology is nevertheless ā€œcentered onĀ the act of God in Christ which affects the whole cosmos and has inaugurated the renewal of that cosmos—what Paul describes as new creationā€Ā Ā (Horrell,Ā et al. p. 172).

All things belong in God, all things are being reconciled in Christ: this is what ā€œnew creationā€ means. All things are valued as good; all things are being restored to the community of creation. And to be in Christ is to participate in that great work. So does Psalm 111 appropriately remind us that

Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Great are the works of the Lord,
studied by all who delight in them.
Full of honor and majesty is his work,
and his righteousness endures forever.
He has gained renown by his wonderful deeds;
the Lord is gracious and merciful (111:2-4)

Who then, and by what power, can climate change deniers, persist in their opposition to care for creation?

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2015.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Third Sunday after Epiphany in Year B (Ormseth12)

It’s Time to Break with Business as Usual and Tend God’s Creation Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on what we can learn from fishermen.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Second Sunday after Epiphany, Year B (2012, 2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Jonah 3:1-5, 10
Psalm 62:5-12
1 Corinthians 7:29-31
Mark 1:14-20

It’s Time!

When it’s time, it’s time. And, indeed, it is time for Christians to reorient their lives to God’s creation in crisis. The readings for this Sunday provide occasion for making this call. From Mark’s Gospel we have heretofore heard the announcement of a new beginning. We have encountered John the Baptist at the Jordan and shared in his expectation of the arrival of one who is more powerful than he. We have undergone baptism with water, and await the one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit. And now the word comes: John has been arrested; Jesus is on the move. ā€œThe time is fulfilled,ā€ he proclaims, ā€œand the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good newsā€ (Mark 1:14). So with Simon and Andrew, James and John, we are invited to ā€œbreak with business as usualā€ and enlist in Jesus’ campaign to restore God’s creation (ā€œbreaking with business as usualā€ is Ched Myers’ apt characterization of these verses from the opening chapter of Mark’s gospel; see hisĀ Binding the Strong Man, p. 132)

The Kingdom of God is the Restoration of Creation.

What does the drawing near of the kingdom of God have to do with the restoration of the creation? A lot, if not everything, we would urge. We have anticipated this assertion in our commentary on the lectionary lessons for Advent and Christmas: the coming of Jesus, we have suggested, represents the relocation of the presence of God from the temple at the heart of the Jewish state to the person of Jesus, who is the servant of God’s creation. A succession of symbolic associations through these two opening seasons of the church year has provided confirmation of this perspective: the fig tree (First Sunday of Advent), the wilderness (Second), the light (Third), the incarnation (Fourth), the praise of all creation (Christmas Eve and Day, and First Sunday of Christmas), the assembly of God’s people for the meal (First Sunday), and the water of baptism (Baptism of our Lord). These are all signs of the immanence of God in the creation, which we argued in our comment on the readings for last Sunday is the presupposition of the call to discipleship from God. Now on this Sunday that God is seen in the person of Jesus to draw near and call into specific relationship those who will accompany him on his mission, and so be prepared to carry it forward in his name. But it is only with this Sunday that we first see how crucial the creation itself is to the fulfillment of the time and the drawing near of the reign of God.

Myers shows us why choice of location and occupation of the first people called as disciples is significant for understanding the nature of Jesus’ mission. Sea is important, along with wilderness, river, and mountain, he notes, as primary topological sites in Mark’s narrative. Here in the first part of the gospel, ā€œthe sea (of Galilee) is a prime positive coordinate; by it the discipleship narrative commences (1:16; 2:13), and consolidates (3:17)ā€ (Ibid., p. 150). It is, obviously, the context in which fisherman, who are recruits for Jesus’ following, could be expected to be found. That the nature of their work is important is clear, both from Mark’s emphasis on itā€”ā€œhe saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen,ā€ and from Jesus’ use of that vocation in describing their future role in his mission: ā€œFollow me and I will make you fish for peopleā€ (1:17). The image, Myers emphasizes, ā€œdoes not refer to the ā€˜saving of souls,’ as if Jesus were conferring upon these men instant evangelist status.ā€ The image is rather

“carefully chosen from Jeremiah 16:16, where it is used as a symbol of Yahweh’s censure of Israel. Elsewhere the ‘hooking of fish’ is a euphemism for judgment upon the rich (Amos 4:2) and powerful (Ezekiel 29:4). Taking this mandate for his own, Jesus is inviting common folk to join him in his struggle to overturn the existing order of power and privilege “(Ibid., p. 132).

Following Jesus requires a reordering of socio-economic relationships.

Belonging as these men do to an independent artisan class for whom ā€œthe social fabric of the rural extended family was bound to the workplace,ā€ the call to follow Jesus requires not just assent of the heart, but a fundamental reordering of socio-economic relationships. The first step in dismantling the dominant social order is to overturn the ā€œworldā€ of the disciple: in the kingdom, the personal and the political are one. These concrete imperatives are precisely what the rich—Mark will later tell us—are unable or unwilling to respond to. This is not a call ā€œoutā€ of the world, but into an alternative social practice.

No more business as usual.

Thus, this ā€œfirstā€ call to discipleship in Mark is indeed ā€œan urgent, uncompromising invitation to ā€˜break with business as usualā€™ā€ (Ibid., pp. 132-33).

The fishermen’s dependence on God in fishing leads them to follow unconditionally.

What Myers’ exposition leaves unanswered, however, and indeed, even unasked, is the question as to why these fishermen are apparently both able and willing to respond so positively to Jesus’ call. What exactly is it about fishermen, to pick up on Mark’s emphasis, that renders them open to Jesus’ call and able to make the break? Our view, admittedly somewhat conjectural, is that it is in the nature of their work and its domain, the sea of Galilee, to foster such readiness and courage. Theirs was a daily encounter with both the great bounty and the threat of the sea. While harvesting that bounty, they move at the edge of chaos. Contrary to the rich people dwelling in the cities of the land, for whom their wealth was a guarantee of continued well-being and purchased safety and therefore a cause of resistance to Jesus, the fishermen’s entire dependence upon the sea for their livelihood could make them acutely aware of their dependence upon God for both their sustenance and their safety. We can imagine them singing with firm resolve the psalm appointed for this Sunday: ā€œFor God alone my soul waits in silence, for my hope is from him.Ā Ā He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken. On God rests my deliverance and my honor; my mighty rock, my refuge is in God. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for usā€ (Psalm 62:5-8). People of this spirit could be quite ready to respond quickly and affirmatively to Jesus’ summons.

Work and play rooted in God are holy activities on behalf of creation.

This is to suggest, accordingly, that the fisherman’s relationship to the creation plays a significant role in the unfolding of this narrative. Their entire lives are so oriented to the unfettered dynamic of creation that ā€œbusiness as usualā€ in the socio-political realm of the temple-state has very little meaning for them. This suggestion is supported by Norman Wirzba’s argument in his book,Ā The Paradise of God, that one of the keys to restoring to modern life a ā€œculture of creationā€ is the reformation of our patterns of work and play, to bring them into proper relationship with the patterns of creation. Fundamentally, he argues, ā€œwork and play . . . are our responses to God’s own work and delight in a creation well made. They show, when most authentic, a sympathetic attunement to the orders of creation and their divine goal.ā€ Meister Eckhart, Wirzba suggests, found that

“[i]n returning to our ā€œground,ā€ as he put it, we come upon the experience of the grace of creation and there find our proper bearings for action. We learn that work is not foremost about us, but is instead the holy activity through which creation as a whole is sanctified. Work, rather than following from divine punishment, becomes the noble activity of presenting to God a creation strengthened and restored through the exercise of our hands, heart, and head.”

Human work, rightly understood and well-practiced, promotes entry ā€œinto the flow of the divine beneficence and hospitalityā€ (Wirzba, pp. 154-155). This, we suggest, is how the Galilean fishermen lived.

This reading of Mark’s narrative is provocative, we think; contrary to our usual concern to show how Christian faith might help foster and sustain care of creation, we find here that a particular orientation to creation helps to form and foster a relationship of faith to God and commitment to God’s purposes.Ā Ā Aware as they would have been of changes in their circumstances due to Roman domination of the seas and due to Jerusalem’s collaboration with Roman authorities, their relationship to creation renders the fisherman ready to see in Jesus God’s messiah. They agreed with Jesus: the time was fulfilled. As we have come to expect by virtue of our practice of baptism, water and the Spirit of God together stir up faith in God, so thatĀ Ā even the ā€œunclean spiritsā€ amidst the great crowd that eventually gathered by the sea, when they saw Jesus, ā€œfell down before him and shouted, ā€œYou are the Son of Godā€ (Mark 3:7-11).

But perhaps this is not so provocative, after all, at least in more extended biblical perspective. That the creation itself assists in the stirring of faith and consequent action would actually seem a lesson to be drawn from the fabled story of Jonah, revisited in our first reading for this Sunday. It is the great fish’s role, after all, to redirect the reluctant Jonah to his calling. Is it not congruent with this ā€œnatural fact,ā€ perhaps, that the animal population of Nineveh quite freely joins the human population in donning sackcloth and ashes?

Nature and God are telling us: It is time to repent like Jonah.

The lesson is timely for us: With benefit of only the slightest prompting on the part of the prophet of God, the ancient, sinful city of Nineveh repents of its alienation from God because of the sign of the fish. The reluctant prophet of God will himself eventually repent of his reluctance, but the change does not come easily. A parallel might be seen in the slowness of God’s church to attend to the crisis of creation, while the secular community of the world, educated about nature by the sciences of ecology and climate change, turns from its hugely destructive ways, and begins to do the hard work of restoring God’s creation. It is time; nature is telling us that it is time. And those Christians who do live close to the Earth and know themselves to suffer with the whole creation, need to leave their boats—or automobiles, electronic toys, or whatever—and, breaking with the spiritual authority of ā€œbusiness as usual,ā€ follow Jesus.

It’s Time!

Ā The Kingdom of God is the Restoration of Creation.

Following Jesus requires a reordering of socio-economic relationships.

No more business as usual.

The fishermen’s dependence on God in fishing leads them to follow unconditionally.

Work and play rooted in God are holy activities on behalf of creation.

Nature and God are telling us: It is time to repent like Jonah.

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2012.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Third Sunday after Epiphany in Year B (Ormseth15)

This Changes Everything: No Longer Business as Usual Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on Jesus inviting the common folk to join him in his struggle to overturn the existing order.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Third Sunday after Epiphany, Year B (2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Jonah 3:1-5, 10
Psalm 62:5-12
1 Corinthians 7:29-31
Mark 1:14-20

ā€œFor those who are in Christ, creation is new.Ā Ā Everything old has passed away.Ā Ā Behold, all things are new.ā€Ā  II Corinthians 5:7 (translation by David Rhoads)

ā€œNow after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good newsā€ (Mark 1:14). Jesus is on the move. So this Sunday, we are invited with Simon and Andrew, James and John, to enlist in Jesus’ campaign to restore God’s creation. To be sure, that Jesus’ mission had to do with the healing of all creation was not clearly envisioned by the author of the Gospel of Mark. His focus, as Ched Myers proposes, is more properly understood as ā€œa fundamental reordering of socio-economic relationships.ā€Ā Ā And here at the beginning of the Gospel, we have before us only ā€œthe first stepā€ of that reordering, the crisis in which the ā€œworldā€ of Jesus’ disciples is overturned with an ā€œurgent, uncompromising invitation to ‘break with business as usual.’ā€ But make no mistake: as Myers puts it, ā€œThe world is coming to an end, for those who choose to follow. The kingdom has dawned, and it is identified with the discipleship adventure.ā€ It is that ā€œmoment which reoccurs wherever the discipleship narrative is reproduced in the lives of real persons in real places.Ā ThisĀ disruption represents the realization of the apocalyptic ‘day of the Lord’ā€ (Ched Myers,Ā Binding the Strong Man:Ā A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1988; pp. 132-33). And so for us ā€œwho are in Christā€ at this moment of earth’s all-encompassing ecological crisis, it is indeed a moment which calls for an entire ā€œbreaking with business as usual,ā€ yes, precisely ā€œa fundamental reordering of socioeconomic relationshipsā€ which, if it encompasses both human and ecological systems of our planet together, could lead to creation’s restoration.

In her book, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The ClimateĀ (New York:Ā Ā Simon & Schuster, 2014), Naomi Klein also calls for an end to business as usual in a thorough reordering of socioeconomic relationships from the bottom up. She describes the moment in which we live in the terms of a ā€œstark choice: ā€œEither we ā€œallow climate disruption to change everything about our world, or change pretty much everything about our economy to avoid that fate.ā€ The challenge, she continues,

“is not simply that we need to spend a lot of money and change a lot of policies; it’s that we need to think differently, radically differently, for those changes to be remotely possible. Right now, the triumph of market logic, with its ethos of domination and fierce competition, is paralyzing almost all serious efforts to respond to climate change. Cutthroat competition between nations has deadlocked U.N. climate negotiations for decades: rich countries dig in their heels and declare that they won’t cut emissions andĀ Ā risk losing their vaulted position in the global hierarchy; poorer countries declare that they won’t give up their right to pollute as much as rich countries did on their way to wealth, even if that means deepening a disaster that hurts the poor most of all. For any of this to change, a worldview will need to rise to the fore that sees nature, other nations, and our own neighbors not as adversaries, but rather as partners in a grand project of mutual reinvention” (Klein, pp. 21-22).

The ā€œthing about a crisis this big, this all-encompassing,ā€ Klein insists, ā€œis that it changes everything. It changes what we can do, what we can hope for, what we can demand from ourselves and our leaders.ā€ The actions required, she argues,

“directly challenge our reigning economic paradigm (deregulated capitalism combined with public austerity), the stories on which Western cultures are founded (that we stand apart from nature and can outsmart its limits), as well as many of the activities that form our identities and define our communities (shopping, living virtually, shopping some more). They also spell extinction for the richest and most powerful industry the world has ever known—the oil and gas industry, which cannot survive in anything like its current form if we humans are to avoid our own extinction.”

We are, she concludes, ā€œlocked in—politically, physically, and culturallyā€ā€”to this ā€œworldā€ of ours, and ā€œonly when we identify these chains do we have a chance of breaking freeā€ (Klein, p.63).

Kleins’ description of our situation is, of course, entirely secular. Her analysis is not that of a person of faith. It is, however, one to which a Christian understanding of creation and human responsibility can respond helpfully and powerfully. Our reading of this Sunday’s texts, we believe, substantiates this claim. An intriguing feature of Klein’s analysis is that ā€œclimate change represents a historic opportunityā€ to build a social movement on the scale of the New Deal or the civil rights movement which would advance policies that dramatically improve lives, close the gap between rich and poor, create huge numbers of good jobs, and reinvigorate democracy from the ground upā€ā€”a ā€œPeople’s Shockā€ as it were,ā€ which unlike the corporate world’s exploitation of the earlier crises which she documented in her bookĀ Shock Doctrine,Ā would ā€œdisperse power into the hands of the many rather than consolidating it in the hands of the few, and radically expand the commons, rather than auctioning it off in pieces.ā€ The transformations she describes would, she claims, ā€œget to the root of why we are facing serial crises in the first place, and would leave us with both a more habitable climate than the one we are headed for and a far more just economy than the one we have right nowā€ (Klein, p. 10). To the extent that this is true, we believe that there is consonance between her call to action and that of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. Because Jesus’ call to discipleship is pitched to the ā€œreal people and real placesā€ of first century Palestine, as Myers shows, it also speaks powerfully to the crisis of our people and our moment in history. As we shall see, with the promise of a whole new world to replace the world whose ā€œpresent form is passing away (I Corinthians 7:31b), Klein’s transformations do anticipate the new creation which those in Christ envision and hope for.

Already in this season of Sundays after Epiphany, we have seen that Christian discipleship includes care for creation (See our comments in this series on the readings for the previous two Sundays). This Sunday’s readings deepen this perspective by showing how certain social and cultural factors support an expectation that followers of Jesus might join the movement to ā€œbreak with business as usualā€ with respect to care of creation. ChedĀ Ā Myers shows us that the location and occupation of the first people called as disciples is significant for understanding the nature of Jesus’ mission. Sea locales alongside wilderness, river, and mountain, he points out, are primary topological sites in Mark’s narrative. Here in the first part of the Gospel, ā€œthe sea (of Galilee) is a prime positive coordinate; by it the discipleship narrative commences (1:16; 2:13), and consolidates (3:17)ā€ (Myers, p. 150). It is, obviously, the context in which fishermen recruited for Jesus’ following could be expected to be found. That the nature of their work is important is clear, both from Mark’s emphasis on itā€”ā€œhe saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen,ā€ and from Jesus’ use of that vocation in describing their future role in his mission: ā€œFollow me and I will make you fish for peopleā€ (1:17).

But the image, Myers emphasizes, ā€œdoes not refer to the ā€œsaving of souls,ā€ as if Jesus were conferring upon these men instant evangelist status.ā€ The image is rather carefully chosen from Jeremiah 16:16, where it is used as a symbol of Yahweh’s censure of Israel. Elsewhere, the ‘hooking of fish’ is a euphemism for judgment upon the rich (Amos 4:2) and powerful (Ezek 29:4). Taking this mandate for his own, Jesus is inviting common folk to join him in his struggle to overturn the existing order of power and privilege (Myers., p. 132.)

Belonging as these men do to an independent artisan class for whom ā€œthe social fabric of the rural extended family was bound to the workplace,ā€ the call to follow Jesus requires not just assent of the heart, but a fundamental reordering of socio-economic relationships. The first step in dismantling the dominant social order is to overturn the ‘world’ of the disciple: in the kingdom, the personal and the political are one. These concrete imperatives are precisely what the rich—Mark will later tell us—are unable or unwilling to respond to. This is not a call ‘out’ of the world, but into an alternative social practice. Thus this ā€˜first’ call to discipleship in Mark is indeed ā€œan urgent, uncompromising invitation to ‘break with business as usual’ā€ (Myers, pp. 132-33).

What Myers’ exposition leaves unanswered, however, and indeed, even unasked, is the question as to just why these fishermen are apparently both able and willing to respond as positively to Jesus’ call as they do. What exactly is it about fishermen, to pick up on Mark’s emphasis, that renders them open to Jesus’ call and able to make the break? Isn’t it that it is in the nature of their work and its domain, the sea of Galilee, to foster such readiness and courage? Theirs was a daily encounter with both the great bounty and the threat of the sea. While harvesting that bounty, they move at the edge of chaos. Contrary to the rich people dwelling in the cities of the land, for whom their wealth was a guarantee of continued well-being and purchased safety, and therefore a cause of resistance to Jesus, the fishermen’s entire dependence upon the sea for their livelihoodĀ Ā could make them acutely aware of their dependence upon God for both their sustenance and their safety. Indeed, we can imagine them singing with firm resolve the psalm appointed for this Sunday: ā€œFor God alone my soul waits in silence, for my hope is from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken. On God rests my deliverance and my honor; my mighty rock, my refuge is in God. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for usā€ (Psalm 62:5-8). People of this spirit, it seems to us, could be quite ready to respond quickly and affirmatively to Jesus’ summons.

This reading of Mark’s narrative is provocative, furthermore, because contrary to our usual concern to show how Christian faith might help foster and sustain care of creation, we find here that a particular orientation to creation helps to form and foster a relationship of faith to God and commitment to God’s purposes.Ā Ā Aware as they would have been of changes in their circumstances due to Roman domination of the seas and Jerusalem’s collaboration with Roman authorities, their relationship to creation renders the fisherman ready to see in Jesus God’s messiah. They agreed with Jesus: the time was fulfilled. Business as usual could no longer continue for them. As we have come to expect by virtue of our practice of baptism, water and the Spirit of God together stir up faith in God, so thatĀ Ā even the ā€œunclean spiritsā€ amidst the great crowd that eventually gathered by the sea, when they saw Jesus, ā€œfell down before him and shouted, ā€œYou are the Son of Godā€ (Mark 3:7-11). But perhaps this is not so provocative, after all, at least in more extended biblical perspective. That the creation itself assists in the stirring of faith and consequent action would actually seem a lesson to be drawn from the fabled story of Jonah, revisited in our first reading for this Sunday. It is the great fish’s role, after all, to redirect the reluctant Jonah to his calling. Is it not congruent with this ā€œnatural fact,ā€ perhaps, that the animal population of Nineveh quite freely joins the human population in donning sackcloth and ashes?

The lesson is timely for us: With benefit of only the slightest prompting on the part of the prophet of God, the ancient, sinful city of Nineveh repents of its alienation from God because of the sign of the fish. The reluctant prophet of God will himself eventually repent of his reluctance, but the change does not come easily.Ā Ā A parallel might be seen in the slowness of God’s church to attend to the crisis of creation, while the secular community of the world, educated about nature by the sciences of ecology and climate change, turns from its hugely destructive ways, and begins to do the hard work of restoring God’s creation.

This is to suggest, accordingly, that the fisherman’s characteristic relationship to the creation plays a significant role in the unfolding of this narrative. Their entire lives are so oriented to the unfettered dynamic of creation that ā€œbusiness as usualā€ in the socio-political realm of the temple-state has little hold on them. It is interesting that as Naomi Klein surveys our society in the search for willing and ready participants in the movement beyond the culture of ā€œextractivism,ā€ as she characterizes our industrial, fossil fuel dependent economy, she ruthlessly rejects a number of significant players: big green (collaborators with big business), green billionaires (messiahs with broken dreams), geo-engineers (ā€œthe Solution to Pollution Is . . .Pollution?ā€). The problem with these big boys, she thinks, is that they really do not want at all to break with business as usual. Their strategies persist in the illusion that we are called to ā€œsaveā€ the Earth, ā€œas if it were an endangered species, or a starving child far away, or a pet in need of our ministrations.ā€ It is an idea that ā€œmay be just as dangerous as the Baconian fantasy of the earth as a machine for us to master, since it still leaves us (literally) on top.ā€ The truth lies elsewhere: ā€œIt is we humans who are fragile and vulnerable and the earth that is hearty and powerful, and holds us in its hands. In pragmatic terms, our challenge is less to save the earth from ourselves and more to save ourselves from an earth that, if pushed too far, has ample power to rock, burn, and shake us off completelyā€ (Klein, p. 284).

In the place of these collaborators with business as usual, Klein would accordingly nominate as her ā€œclimate warriorsā€ participants in what she calls ā€œBlockadiaā€ā€”’not a specific location on a map but rather a roving transnational conflict zone that is cropping up with increasing frequency and intensity wherever extractive projects are attempting to dig and drill, whether for open-pit mines, or gas fracking, or tar sands oil pipelines.ā€ United in resistance to mining and fossil fuel companies as they push ā€œrelentlessly into countless new territories, regardless of the impact on the local ecology (in particular, local water systems)ā€ these are basically local groups of shop owners, professors, high school students, and grandmothers. But they are building a ‘global, grass-roots, and broad-based network the likes of which the environmental movement has rarely seenā€ (Klein, p. 294-45). Generally speaking, these people live in the ā€œsacrifice zones,ā€ formerly the traditionally poor, out-of-the-way places where residents had little political power, but now increasingly also located in ā€œsome of the wealthiest and most powerful countries in the world,ā€ to the immense consternation of ā€œmany historically privileged people who suddenly find themselves feeling something of what so many frontline communities have felt for a very longtime: how is it possible that a big distant company can come toĀ myĀ land and put me and my kids at risk?ā€ (Klein, pp. 312-13). New alliances are thus being formed across traditional social barriers. Corporate assurances are no longer accepted on blind faith. The language of risk assessment is being ā€œreplaced by a resurgence of the precautionary principle,ā€ as blockadia insists ā€œthat it is up to industry to prove that its methods are safe,ā€ something that ā€œin the era of extreme energy . . . is something that simply cannot be doneā€ ( Klein, pp. 315-335).

Particularly striking is Kleins’ observation regarding two ā€œdefiningā€ features of these groups. There is, she notes,Ā Ā a ā€œferocious loveā€ of ā€œan identity, a culture, a beloved place that people are determined to pass on to their granchildren, and that their ancestors may have paid for with great sacrificeā€ (Klein, p. 342). And secondly, especially significant is a common concern for precious sources of water; in Kleins’s view, this is the ā€œanimating force behind every single movement fighting extreme extractionā€: ā€œWhether deep water drilling, fracking, or mining; whether pipelines, big rigs, or export terminals, communities are terrified about what these activities will do to their water systemā€ (Klein, p. 345-46). The reason for this is clear, of course: ā€œextreme energy demands that we destroy a whole lot of the essential substance we need to survive—water—just to keep extracting more of the very substances threatening our survival and that we can power our lives without.ā€ Coming at a time when freshwater supplies are becoming increasingly scarce around the world, people are becoming more and more aware of certain disturbing truths of their experience:

Growing in strength and connecting communities in all parts of the world, [these truths] speak to something deep and unsettled in many of us. We know that we are trapped within an economic system that has it backward; it behaves as if there is no end to what is actually finite (clean water, fossil fuels, and the atmospheric space to absorb their emissions) while insisting that there are strict and immovable limits to what is actually quite flexible: the financial resources that human institutions manufacture, and that, if imagined differently, could build the kind of caring society we need (Klein, p. 347).

From the divestment movement which seeks to defund the companies that enforce this imprisonment, to local groups seeking to democratically recapture power over their communities, and indigenous tribes defending their rights to land and a way of life grounded in it, it is their relationship to the earth itself that inspires and empowers their liberation from bondage to business as usual. Perhaps most significantly, their love for their habitat and their deep concern for water put them in touch with what Klein calls the regenerativity of nature’s processes:Ā Ā we can become, she concludes, ā€œfull participants in the process of maximizing life’s creativity.ā€ There is in their company a ā€œspiritā€ that is already busy at work promoting and protecting life in the face of so many life-negating and life-forgetting threats (Klein, p. 447-48).

Can the church join this movement with integrity? Yes, because disciples are called to serve creation, and it is the creation itself, in its newness, that is giving supportive voice to that call.

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2015.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Baptism of Our Lord in Year B (Ormseth15)

Jesus Ushers in a New Creation Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on the new creation we experience in baptism.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Baptism of Our Lord, Year B (2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Genesis 1:1-5
Psalm 29
Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-11

ā€œFor those who are in Christ, creation is new.Ā Ā Everything old has passed away.Ā Ā Behold, all things are newā€ (II Corinthians 5:7, translation by David Rhoads).

With the readings for the festival of the Baptism of Our Lord, the church begins to tell its story of how it has come to see creation as ā€œnew.ā€ With the ministry of Jesus, the old does indeed ā€œpass awayā€ and ā€œall things are new.ā€ As Mark’s gospel opens, we realize that this transition is already underway.Ā Ā As God’s people are gathered by John the Baptist at the Jordan River on the edge of the wilderness, the power and authority of the Jewish temple-state centered in Jerusalem, with its exclusivistic appropriation of the blessings of the God’s covenant and its sustaining cosmology, begins to give way to the reality of a new people dwelling with God within a renewed creation.

The readings draw this reality into view in dramatic fashion. In the tearing apart of the heavens and the descent of the Spirit as a dove over the waters, we are invited to see the opening of a new creation story, in which again, the ā€œwind of God swept over the face of the watersā€ (Genesis 1:2). Once again ā€œthe voice of the Lord is over the waters,ā€ as wind and flame announce the enthronement of the Lord ā€œover the floodā€ (Psalm 29:3-10). As the dove descends on Jesus, we are reminded of the ā€œeverlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth,ā€ which was promised when Noah and the animals came out of the ark (Genesis 8:16). In the fresh light of this ā€œfirst day,ā€ the first born of a new humanity rises out of the waters. Having identified fully with our sinfulness in submitting to John’s baptism of repentance, this ā€œson of Godā€ begins to restore among us the imago Dei,Ā and opens the possibility of our lives being regenerated by the Spirit in his name.

Thus is inaugurated, in Ched Myer’s characterization, Jesus’ ā€œsubversive mission.ā€ Jesus’ baptism serves to mark the difference between John’s valid but incomplete ā€œbaptism of repentanceā€ and the fullĀ Ā ā€œrenunciation of the old orderā€ (Myers,Ā Binding the Strong Man, p. 129). We note that our second lesson suggests that this difference was deemed important enough in the early church to merit the Apostle Paul’s instruction that those baptized by John should be baptized again in the name of Jesus, so as to complete their baptism in the power of the Holy Spirit. In view of its cosmological accents, however, Jesus’ baptism also marks a parallel liberation of the biblical cosmology from its ties to the temple state, in favor of its restoration as part and parcel of the new reign of God in creation. New creation, and not merely repentance, this suggests, is the purpose of the Christian practice of baptism; this difference is also very significant, we want to suggest, relative to our concern for care of creation.

It is instructive to note, following William P. Brown’s discussion of biblical cosmology in his book onĀ The Seven Pillars of Creation: The Bible, Science, and the Ecology of WonderĀ (Oxford University Press, 2010), that the cosmological elements we have identified here are drawn primarily from the cosmogony of Genesis 1:1-2:3, a portion of which is therefore appropriately selected for our first reading. This cosmogony, Brown shows, is clearly modeled on the pattern of the temple in Jerusalem. With clearly and fully differentiated domains,ā€ the account ā€œgivesĀ formĀ to creationā€ that ā€œmanifests a symmetry supple enough to allow for variation and surprise.ā€ The narrative progresses day by day from the empty formlessness of ā€œDay 0ā€ through the differentiation of realms of light, waters above and below, and land, which are then in turn filled with lights, aviary and marine life, and land animals, including humans, with their food, to the fully differentiated fullness of the completed creation on Day 7. It is a literary version, Brown argues, of the three-fold structure of the temple’s portico, nave and Holy of Holies. ā€œThe first six days, by virtue of their correspondence, establish the architectural boundaries of sacred space.Ā Ā The last day inhabits, as it were, the most holy space . . . . In the holiest recess of the temple God dwells, and on the holiest day of the week God restsā€ (Brown, p. 38-40).

What is particularly striking about this description is its inherent dynamic, which is hardly compatible with the rigidity and hierarchy commonly associated with the management of sacred space under the authority of a priestly governing elite, like what the reader will encounter later in the pages of Mark’s gospel. Here, differentiation of realms never becomes separation; dominion never implies domination. On the contrary, division is regularly overcome by generativity. As Brown puts it, ā€œGenesis 1 . . . describes the systematic differentiation of the cosmos that allows for and sustains the plethora of life.ā€ Perhaps this is no more apparent than in the narrative’s treatment of the very holiness of God. While adhering to the ā€œaniconicā€ prohibition of divine images, the account nevertheless allows for the identification of anĀ imago DeiĀ with humanity.Ā Ā ā€œCast in God’s image, women and men reflect and refract God’s presence in the world. The only appropriate ‘image of God,’ according to Genesis, is one made of flesh and blood, not wood or gold (p. 38).ā€Ā Ā Whether interpreted in terms of an ā€œessential resemblanceā€ of son to father, the ā€œuniversalizingā€ of the exercise of dominion, the displacement of the divine assembly unto human community, or the reflection as male and female of the ā€œcommunal and generative dimensions of the divine,ā€ theĀ imago DeiĀ shares with God in the ā€œcooperative process of creationā€ (Brown, p. 44). Even as the waters and the earth share in that agency, so do humans participate in creation as ā€œa cooperative venture exercised not without a degree of freedom,ā€ and as ā€œdeemed good by God,ā€ set toward the furtherance of life.

Mark’s Gospel, we suggest, while insisting on the displacement of the presence of God from the Jerusalem temple onto Jesus, by no means intends that this move renders irrelevant or obsolete the cosmogony of the temple. On the contrary, with his setting at the very beginning of the Gospel, of Jesus’ baptism at the Jordan River on the edge of the wilderness, and filled with the cosmological reverberations as it is, the author opens up that cosmology to the restored embrace of the full creation. As all the people walk the land and move to the bank of the river and as they then experience the movement of the Spirit over the waters and the voice declaring a human being good (ā€œmy belovedā€), the reader senses that this story opens one afresh to the wonder of the creation. As once before when Israel came out of exile, we are caught up in what Brown sees as the import of Genesis 1: there is here ā€œa profound effort . . . to put the painful past of conquest and exile behind and to point the way to a new future.ā€

It is therefore exceedingly important to observe, as Gordon Lathrop has shown in his book on liturgical cosmology,Ā Holy Ground, that a fully expressed practice of Christian baptism retains several key cosmological elements from the Genesis cosmogeny. Water, of course, takes central place here, combined with Spirit. Whether there is a pool or a bowl of it, the waters of the baptismal rite provide not only a center to the rite, but, as Lathrop points out,

“[t]hey also provide a center to the world. Here is a womb for the birthing of new life, as ancient Christians would say.Ā Ā Here is a sea on the shores of which the church may be as a new city open to all the peoples. Here is a spring from which the whole earth may drink and be washed, a tiny point in the scheme of things that nonetheless gives a center, a little pool of water that washes all the people” (Holy Ground,Ā p. 105-6).

Astoundingly, we note, the font in the local parish church can thus be seen to take the place of the temple in Jerusalem as the center of the universe, anĀ omphalos. Set out in the gathering space of the congregation, it reminds us of both cosmological and ecological realities,

“that what goes on here is not only about human culture but also about cosmos. The water comes here from elsewhere in the world’s water system, from a river or lake or underground stream, ultimately from the rain itself. But then, what water does come here is gathered together in fecundity and force. If the water is before us in abundance, it may waken in us inchoate put powerful longings for both a cleaner earth and a widespread slaking of thirsts; it may give us a place for our reconceiving death and life within this watery world; it may give us a cosmic center” (Holy Ground,Ā Ā p. 106).

Supporting the development of this baptismal awareness is instruction that includes a strong emphasis on the doctrine of creation and the faithful care of creation.

“Teaching the faith involves, as its first and basic move, teaching that there is a world and not just chaos, that this world is created, and that human beings have a compassionate and caring role within that creation. Christian faith is, first of all, trusting the creator, trusting, therefore, that the world is not some trick. Formation in prayer, then, involves learning to stand within this world in thanksgiving” (Holy Ground, p. 107).

Then, just as the temple in Jerusalem attracted various significant symbolizations of life in God’s creation (such as the cosmic mountain, the primordial hillock that first emerged from the waters of creation, the spring waters of life, and the tree of life}, so are other primal elements placed at the edge of the water of baptism to . . .

“call our attention to their world center, this spring, this birthplace:Ā Ā a fireĀ burns—that most widespread phenomenon of our universe, creative and destructive burning—here as a paschal candle giving light, evoking in a small way both the warmth and the danger of this new life; oliveĀ oilĀ is poured out or marked upon those baptized, fruit of the life-giving trees of the temperate regions of the earth, evoking healing, festivity, and, here, the sacred office given to the baptized; newĀ clothingĀ is put upon the baptized, great white robes, as if those immersed here came forth a whole new sort of humanity, making a fully new beginning; and the whole community then leads these newly baptized ones to aĀ meal,Ā a sharing of the sources of life within the world, sustenance for this new humanity, for these new witnesses to the order of the cosmos” (Holy Ground, p. 107).

If linkage of the church’s baptismal practice to Jesus’ own baptism thus orients us to the creation, it is important to remember that it does so always by taking us first to the margins of human life, away from our social and political centers, indeed, to the edge of the wilderness. These marks of creation serve to relocate us to the wilderness experiences of the people of God where new creation always begins, and what naturally follows for us, as for Jesus, is an experience in the wilderness where the basic reorientation to God’s creation is first fully actualized.Ā Ā We note that in Mark’s narrative, following his baptism, ā€œthe Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels waited on himā€ (Mark 1:12-13). In the narrative of the liturgical year, we return to this exodus on the First Sunday of Lent; in the meantime, we look to see what impact this reorientation to creation has on the calling out of a community of the new creation, and indeed, what ā€œnew creationā€ actually might mean for us.

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2015.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Baptism of Our Lord in Year B (Ormseth12)

If You Would Experience God, You Must Fall in Love with Earth Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on baptism as a cosmic event.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Baptism of Our Lord, Year B (2012, 2015, 2018, 2021, 2024)Ā 

Genesis 1:1-5
Psalm 29
Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-11

The incarnation means that ā€œthe finite is capable of bearing the infinite.ā€

With the readings for the festival of the Baptism of Our Lord, we return to ā€œthe beginningā€ of the Gospel of Mark which, as we noted in our comments on the lections for the First and Second Sundays of Advent, draws us quickly into the cosmological as well as the eschatological themes of Mark’s story. Readers of those comments will recall the strong interest of Mark’s Gospel in these themes: the author breaks decisively with the cosmology of the temple-state centered on the Jerusalem temple, as the elect of God are gathered by John the Baptist at the Jordan River on the edge of the wilderness for the opening of the new creation. This break in fact provided the impetus for us to trace in the lections of the Third and Fourth Sundays of Advent the dislocation of God’s presence from the temple to the person of Jesus. Subsequently, in the readings for Christmas Eve and Day, we beheld him enfolded in the glory of God’s primordial light and life. Jesus’ birth is worthy of all creation’s praise, we suggested, because, as Mary saw, not only would he break with the human pattern of domination that makes a desert of creation, but the birth itself effects a reorientation to creation expressed in the insight that the incarnation of God in his person means that the ā€œthe finite is capable of bearing the infinite.ā€ In Larry Rasmussen’s excellent words, ā€œso if you would experience God, you must fall in love with earth.ā€

The Gospel is a ā€œnew creationā€ story—as Jesus rises from the waters.

In the readings appointed for the festival of the Baptism of Our Lord, the church fully affirms these cosmological accents of Jesus’ advent. Once again, ā€œthe voice of the Lord is over the waters,ā€ as wind and flame announce the enthronement of the Lord ā€œover the floodā€ (Psalm 29:3-10). Yes, in the tearing apart of the heavens and the descent of the Spirit as a dove over the waters, we are meant to see the opening of a new creation story, in which, as on ā€œthe first dayā€ of creation, the ā€œwind of God swept over the face of the watersā€ (Genesis 1:2), and we are reminded of theĀ Ā ā€œeverlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earthā€ which was promised when Noah and the animals came out of the ark (Genesis 8:16). Out of the waters rises a new humanity: having identified fully with our sinfulness in an act of repentance, Jesus opens the possibility of our identifying with him as God’s new creation.

Jesus had a ā€œsubversive mission.ā€

Thus is inaugurated, in Ched Myer’s characterization, Jesus’ ā€œsubversive mission.ā€ The cosmological accents of Jesus’ baptism thus serve to mark the difference not only between the temple state and the kingdom of God, but also between John’s valid but incomplete ā€œbaptism of repentanceā€ and the full ā€œrenunciation of the old orderā€ which Jesus’ baptism represents (Myers,Ā Binding the Strong Man, p. 129). We note that our second lesson suggests that this difference was deemed important enough in the early church to merit the Apostle Paul’s instruction that those baptized by John should be baptized again in the name of Jesus, so as to complete the baptism in the power of the Holy Spirit. New creation, and not merely repentance, this shows, is the purpose of the Christian practice of baptism; the difference is also very significant, we want to suggest, relative to our concern for care of creation.

Baptism is the renunciation of the old order and the emergence of a new reality.

It is instructive to note in this respect that, as Gordon Lathrop has shown in his book on liturgical cosmology,Ā Holy Ground, that a fully expressed baptismal practice retains significant cosmological elements. Water, of course, takes central place here. Whether there is a pool or a bowl of it, the waters of the baptismal rite provide not only a center to the rite; as Lathrop points out,

“[t]hey also provide a center to the world. Here is a womb for the birthing of new life, as ancient Christians would say. Here is a sea on the shores of which the church may be as a new city open to all the peoples. Here is a spring from which the whole earth may drink and be washed, a tiny point in the scheme of things that nonetheless give a center, a little pool of water that washes all the people” (Holy Ground,Ā p. 105-6).

The temple in Jerusalem is replaced by the baptismal font—center of the cosmos.

Astoundingly, we note, the font in the local parish church can thus be seen to replace the temple in Jerusalem as the center of the universe, an omphalos. Set out in the gathering space of the congregation, it reminds us of both cosmological and ecological realities,

“. . . that what goes on here is not only about human culture but also about cosmos. The water comes here from elsewhere in the world’s water system, from a river or lake or underground stream, ultimately from the rain itself. But then, what water does come here is gathered together in fecundity and force here. If the water is before us in abundance, it may waken in us inchoate put powerful longings for both a cleaner earth and a widespread slaking of thirsts; it may give us a place for our reconceiving death and life within this watery world; it may give us a cosmic center” (Ibid., p. 106).

Baptism is not just a personal experience; it is a cosmic event.

Supporting the development of this baptismal awareness is instruction that includes a strong emphasis on the doctrine of creation and the faithful care of creation.

“Teaching the faith involves, as its first and basic move, teaching that there is a world and not just chaos, that this world is created, and that human beings have a compassionate and caring role within that creation. Christian faith is, first of all, trusting the creator, trusting, therefore, that the world is not some trick. Formation in prayer, then, involves learning to stand within this world in thanksgiving” (Ibid., p. 107).

Then, as the temple in Jerusalem attracted various significant symbolizations of life in God’s creation (such as the cosmic mountain, the primordial hillock that first emerged from the waters of creation, the spring waters of life and the tree of life; see our discussion in the comment in this series on the readings for the First Sunday of Advent), so are other primal elements placed at the edge of the water of baptism to

“call our attention to their world center, this spring, this birthplace: a fireĀ burns—that most widespread phenomenon of our universe, creative and destructive burning—here as a paschal candle giving light, evoking in a small way both the warmth and the danger of this new life; oliveĀ oilĀ is poured out or marked upon those baptized, fruit of the life-giving trees of the temperate regions of the earth, evoking healing, festivity, and, here, the sacred office given to the baptized; newĀ clothingĀ is put upon the baptized, great white robes, as if those immersed here came forth a whole new sort of humanity, making a fully new beginning; and the whole community then leads these newly baptized ones to aĀ meal,Ā a sharing of the sources of life within the world, sustenance for this new humanity, for these new witnesses to the order of the cosmos” (Ibid., p. 107).

Jesus’ baptism and our baptism orient us to God’s creation.

If linkage of the church’s baptismal practice to Jesus’ own baptism thus orients us to the creation, it is important to remember that it does so always by taking us first to the margins of human life, away from our social and political centers, indeed, to the edge of the wilderness. These marks of creation serve to relocate us to the wilderness experiences of the people of God where new creation always begins, and what naturally follows for us, as for Jesus, is an experience in the wilderness where the basic reorientation to God’s creation is first fully actualized. We note that in Mark’s narrative, following his baptism, ā€˜the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels waited on himā€ (Mark 1:12-13). In the narrative of the liturgical year, we return to this exodus on the First Sunday of Lent; in the meantime, we look to see what impact this reorientation to creation has on the calling out of a community of the new creation.

The incarnation means that ā€œthe finite is capable of bearing the infinite.ā€

The Gospel is a ā€œnew creationā€ story—as Jesus rises from the waters.

Jesus had a ā€œsubversive mission.ā€

Baptism is the renunciation of the old order and the emergence of a new reality.

The temple in Jerusalem is replaced by the baptismal font—center of the cosmos.

Baptism is not just a personal experience; it is a cosmic event.

Jesus’ baptism and our baptism orient us to God’s creation.

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2012.
dennisormseth@gmail.com

Second Sunday of Advent in Year B (Mundahl14)

Thinking about the Unthinkable Tom Mundahl reflects on our desert struggle in the time of climate crisis.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Second Sunday of Advent, Year B (2014, 2017, 2020, 2023)

Isaiah 40:1-11
Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13
2 Peter 3:8-15a
Mark 1:1-8

Few themes sound more forcefully during Advent than the promise of comfort.Ā Ā We are moved by Handel’s oratorio, ā€œMessiah,ā€ as the tenor takes up the prophet’s voice with the clear tones of ā€œComfort ye, Comfort ye, Comfort ye, my people.ā€ Many of us will invite congregations to echo that message with Olearius’ hymn, ā€œ Comfort, Comfort Now My Peopleā€ (Evangelical Lutheran Worship, Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2006, No. 256). Whether that message will hit home among so many of us who are already quite comfortable is a question that must be asked.

Half a century ago, when the danger of nuclear war was on everyone’s mind (it remains a great danger), Herman Kahn of the Hudson Institute wrote a small, but shocking book entitledĀ Thinking About the Unthinkable, New York: Horizon Press, 1962. In this volume, Kahn went beyond strategies aimed at avoiding nuclear war and asked: How would such a war be fought? Although some expressed fear that openly discussing this horror was dangerous, not only did this work change military strategy, it likely moved major nuclear powers to begin negotiations to reduce arsenals.

To God’s people exiled to Babylon, comfort and freedom were just as ā€œunthinkable.ā€ They were as unimaginable to those experiencing loss of homeland and sense of comfort that comes with it, as those voting on November 4, 2014 could imagine strong political decisions responding to climate change. Yet, the unthinkable prophetic word went out from Isaiah: Captives will be free to return home!

Sounding a new message of freedom and renewal of cultural life is the strategy of Second Isaiah (Isaiah 40-55). The prophet begins with a series of strong verbs designed to get the hearers back into motion—not an easy task. For it is likely that, even before the captivity, the leaders of Judea had become resigned to living under a ā€œroyal theologyā€ that stifled imagination and hope. As Walter Brueggemann suggests, ā€œWhat is most needed is what is most unacceptable –an articulation that redefines the situation and makes way for new gifts about to be givenā€ (The Prophet Imagination, 2nd Ed., Minneapolis: Augsburg, 2001, p. 63).

In such a situation, life-goals are often reduced to just getting by, mere survival. This makes for a culture vulnerable to takeover and manipulation since it is dying from the inside. In many ways, it is not different from contemporary US culture where dreams and imagination seem to have shriveled. The capacity to grapple with large issues seems atrophied. ā€œWhen we try to define the holding action that defines the sickness, the aging, the marriages, and the jobs of very many people, we find that we have been nurtured away from hope, for it is too scaryā€ (Brueggemann, p. 63).

Isaiah signals the end of these ā€œholding actions.ā€ No longer is simply managing lowered expectations acceptable; God is operating in a new way. And that is why the first word to the prophet is: ā€œComfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid.ā€ It is a word of forgiveness so powerful it carries with it a New Exodus. Now all questions about being abandoned by the Holy One are at an end. A new and clear ā€œenthronement formulaā€ā€”ā€say to the cities of Judah, ā€˜Here is your Godā€ (Isaiah 40: 9-10)—now becomes the source of courage and imagination (Brueggemann, p. 72).

All of this from a prophet who clearly admits very little self-generated vision. In what amounts to a ā€œcall narrativeā€ for this Second Isaiah (Isaiah 40:6-10), he admits his imaginative poverty. ā€œA voice says, ā€˜Cry out!’ And I said, ā€˜What shall I cry?’ All people are grass and their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades . . . .ā€ (Isaiah 40:6-8a).Ā Ā Westermann reminds us that . . .

“The exiles’ greatest temptation –and the prophet speaks as one of their number was precisely to be resigned to thinking of them as caught up in the general transience of all things, to believing that nothing could be done to halt the extinction of their national existence, and to saying ā€˜just like countless other nations destroyed before our time, we are a nation that perished: all flesh is grass” (Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40-66, Philadelphia: Westminster, 1969, p.41).

But there is something that trumps this fatalism: ā€œThe Word of our God will stand foreverā€ (Isaiah 40:8b). This theme sounds throughout Second Isaiah, concluding with the final verses, a doxology describing the joy of all creation in the return of the exiles.

For as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10-11)

Only God’s creative word is an adequate basis for this New Exodus. To say, ā€œFear not,ā€ with any other foundation would guarantee only anxiety. It is the necessary answer to Isaiah’s query: ā€œWhat shall I proclaim?ā€ It frees the community to trust in a divine presence that not only ā€œcomes with mightā€ but also as the loving one who ā€œwill feed his flock like a shepherdā€ (Isaiah 40:10 -11). It makes ā€œthinking about the unthinkableā€ a hopeful enterprise.

Which suggests why Mark turns to Isaiah’s song of hope as he pens ā€œThe beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of Godā€ in the ā€œeschatological historical monographā€ we call the Gospel of Mark. (Adela Yarbro Collins,Ā Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia, Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007, p. 18)

This simple beginning immediately subverts the Roman imperial order where ā€œgood newsā€ was the reserve of the emperor’s benevolence. Naming Jesus ā€œthe Son of Godā€ only made matters worse. Not only was this a jealously-guarded imperial titleĀ Ā applied to an obscure figure from troublesome Judea, he had been executed as a brigand by the emperor’s colonial administrator.Ā Ā Another exercise in ā€œthinking the unthinkableā€ (see Gordon Lathrop,Ā The Four Gospels on Sunday, Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012, p.61). Yet this powerful beginning is no less than another ā€œenthronement formula!ā€

Following this announcement, we hear an offstage voice anticipating the appearance of John the Baptizer. Rather than a simple reference to Isaiah 40, however, we are presented with a conflation including references to Exodus (23:20) and Malachi (3:1). ā€œI am sending a messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way . . . ā€ (Mark 1: 2a) contains deliberate echoes of the Exodus tradition where the Holy One promised, ā€œI will send an angelĀ in front of you, to guard you on your way and to bring you to the place I haveĀ preparedā€ (Exodus 23: 20). Here we have a midrash on Isaiah 40 which suggests that this new messenger will indeed continue the Exodus tradition (Ched Myers,Ā Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Gospel, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988, p. 125.).

But this conflation also refers to Malachi, the last of the prophets, who writes, ā€œSee, I am sending my messengerĀ toĀ prepare the wayĀ before me . . . .ā€ (Malachi 3:1). The evangelist suggests here that a renewal of prophetic action is taking place before your eyes! John does recapitulate Elijah. But the message that this messenger will prepare for the appearance of the Holy One at the temple is no longer the case. Now the action is far from Zion; it is in the desert, the wilderness (Isaiah 40:3). As we learned from last week’s gospel reading, the temple is no longer the center of action. This new Advent arrival will take place on the periphery, in the desert.

Why the desert?Ā Ā As Belden Lane suggests:

“The desert as metaphor is that uncharted terrain beyond the edges of the seemingly secure and structured world in which we take such confidence, a world of affluence and order we cannot imagine ever ending. Yet it does. And at the point where the world begins to crack, where brokenness and disorientation suddenly overtake us, there we step into the wide, silent plains of a desert we had never known existed” (The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality, Oxford, 1998, p. 195.).

As the ā€œworld begins to crack,ā€ out steps John the Baptizer. At first glance, John seems to present nothing beyond the ordinary, a mere ā€œbaptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sinsā€ (Mark 1:4). But it is the response that clues us in that something extraordinary is happening. In what Myers calls ā€œtypical Semitic hyperbole,ā€ we read that ā€œpeople from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him . . . .ā€ (Mark 1:5). Significantly, instead of ā€œall the peopleā€ gathering at the Jerusalem temple, they are gathering ā€œin the wildernessā€ (ερημος—used four times in Mark’s ā€œprologueā€ Mark 1:1-14). Mark wastes no time laying out the tension between ā€œwildernessā€ and ā€œtempleā€ so crucial to comprehending the New Exodus announced by John.

That John the Baptizer is Elijah is made clear by his attire and diet (2 Kings 1: 8). But we are tempted to forget that Elijah was nothing if not a political prophet. In his struggle with the royal court of Ahab and Jezebel, Elijah vigorously pronounced judgment for violating the covenant with Yahweh, an action that forced Elijah to flee to the wilderness to save his life (Myers, p. 126). But there is even more in the image of Elijah. For Malachi projects Elijah as the one sent ā€œbefore that great and terrible day of the LORD comes. He will turn the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children to their parents, so that I will not come and strike the land with a curseā€ (Malachi 4:5).

But this ā€œday,ā€ which now is not the ā€œend,ā€ but a ā€œnew beginningā€ in the tradition of Isaiah 40, will not come until ā€œthe stronger oneā€ arrives, the one whose sandals John is unworthy to loosen (Mark 1:7). He will baptize with the Holy Spirit, a power greater than even the Roman Emperor can imagine. Perhaps, to ā€œriff onā€ Malachi, even bringing blessing to the land.

That Advent expectation brings blessing and hope for renewal of the whole creation is underscored by this week’s Psalm (85). It is a communal lament seeking restoration so authentic that it encompasses both land and people. Here, the psalmist clearly recognizes that ā€œhumans are bound to the earth in an integrity that is biological, moral, and spiritual, as well as political and economicā€ (Ellen Davis,Ā Scripture, Culture, and Agriculture,Ā Cambridge, 2009, p. 25)

This lament is answered by an oracle (vv. 8-13) that not only promises the sought-for renewal but describes it poetically.

Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. Faithfulness will spring up from the ground, and righteousness will look down from the sky. The LORD will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him, and will make a path for his steps (Psalm 85:10-13).

Prospects for significant change at the scale needed to confront our largest ā€˜environmental problem’—climate change—seems to hover near zero. But many avenues to love creation remain open. They need to be embraced. As we are comforted: In our desert struggle to serve creation, we are comforted to know that God’s future always includes what Aldo Leopold called ā€œthe land community, the substance of what biblical writers call ā€˜heaven and earthā€™ā€ (Davis, 25). Perhaps this will still move us in this Advent ā€œto think about the unthinkable.ā€

Originally written by Tom Mundahl in 2014.
St. Paul, MN
tmundahl@gmail.com

Second Sunday of Advent in Year B (Ormseth11)

Advent Is about Gathering for the New Creation. Dennis OrmsethĀ reflects on wilderness.

Care for Creation Commentary on the Common LectionaryĀ 

Readings for the Second Sunday of Advent, Year B (2011, 2014, 2017, 2020, 2023)

Isaiah 40:1-11
Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13
2 Peter 3:8-15a
Mark 1:1-8

Again this second Sunday of Advent, we gather with heightened expectation for the coming of God. ā€œA voice cries out,ā€ the first lesson proclaims: ā€œā€˜In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our Godā€™ā€ (Isaiah 40:3). ā€œSee, I am sending my messenger ahead of you,ā€ echoes the Gospel, ā€œwho will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ā€˜Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straightā€™ā€ (Mark 1:2). Again we are being reoriented to God’s arrival, but also, as we suggested in our commentary for the first Sunday of Advent, to God’s creation: as we read in the surprisingly eschatological second lesson, we need to consider ā€œwhat sort of persons [we] ought to be in leading lives of holiness and godliness, waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be set ablaze and dissolved, and the elements will melt with fire[;],ā€ for ā€œin accordance with his promise, we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at homeā€ (2 Peter 3:11-13).

Elements in these texts are difficult in relation to care for creation.

This combination of texts strikes us as discordant and confusing. We are at the beginning of Mark’s Gospel and ā€œthe beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.ā€Ā Ā But we also read what for most hearers will be a word about the end of the world: ā€œthe day of the Lordā€ that ā€œcomes like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it be disclosed,ā€ (or, as some ancient authorities read, ā€œwill be burned upā€ NRSV note). What, we might ask, does the end have to do with the beginning? And does the voice cry out in the wilderness, ā€œto prepare the wayā€ for Jesus? Or is the voice itself the preparation of the wayĀ inĀ the wilderness, as alternative readings of Mark suggest? Or does the voice call to prepare a wayĀ throughĀ the wilderness towards Jerusalem, as the reading for Isaiah suggests? Aside from inherent difficulties of interpretation that these questions raise, at stake for those whose concern is a mandate for care of creation are the meanings to be attached to the heavens that pass away, the elements that are dissolved, and the value and uses of wilderness.

Reading Mark on two levels: the first reading and the re-reading.

The story of the Gospel of Mark, interpreters of the book advise us, needs to be read on two levels. There is the first-time-through story of the good news of Jesus Christ, which is the eventful account of Jesus’ mission as it unfolds through his gathering of disciples, his teaching his way to them, and the conflict with religious and political authorities in Jerusalem that leads to his death. But there is also the re-reading of the Gospel invited by the direction the young man at the tomb gives to Jesus’ astonished followers, to go back to Galilee where ā€œyou will see him, just as he told you.ā€ Readers revisiting the Galilee of the beginning of the Gospel will see things one did not notice in the first reading.

Ched Myers shows how this works with respect to the first sentence of the Gospel in Mark 1:1. On the first level, the beginning is simply what it indicates, the starting point of the story. But on the second level, Mark’sĀ archeĀ is also an ā€œecho of Genesisā€ which according to Myers serves three functions:

“First, Mark is boldly suggesting that his story represents a fundamental regeneration of salvation history, as will soon be confirmed by his citation of the prophets. Secondly, it introduces at the outset the ‘palingenetic’ thrust of Mark’s apocalyptic discourse: this is a story about a new heaven and new earth. Thirdly, it has a specific meaning in light of the ending of the story . . . where Mark will point back to the place where the discipleship narrative was originally generated—Galilee. A rereading of (reengagement with) the story offers a ‘new beginning’ for the discipleship adventure.” (Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus, p.122).

Salvation history, eschatological cosmology, and discipleship are folded into the narrative of the Gospel. Interestingly, the selection of texts for this Sunday accordingly serves well to bring these ā€œhiddenā€ structures of meaning to light. The first lesson introduces relevant material from Isaiah that will help to uncover what the author of the Gospel does to regenerate salvation history. The second lesson presents apocalyptic material from early Christian tradition to help illuminate the promise of a new creation. And the Gospel reading itself engages us in the call to discipleship with a telling account of the first gathering of potential followers. We will consider each of these inter-textual connections in order. What is of special interest to us, of course, is the way in which this re-reading transforms the narrative at its very outset into a story that draws together the new salvation history, the new cosmology, and the anticipated interaction of Jesus with his followers in a narrative of the renewal of creation.

What the Gospel of Mark does to regenerate salvation history

This is precisely what our reading of the scriptures for the First Sunday of Advent led us to expect, of course. The ā€œheavens and earthā€ represented by the Jerusalem temple and the orientation to the creation which its social and political organizations involved, we recall, were ā€œheavens and earthā€ in which righteousness was clearlyĀ notĀ ā€œat homeā€ and, with the coming of the Son of Man, will give way to the dawn of a new world ā€œin which the powers of domination have been toppledā€ (Myers, Binding the Strong Man, p. 323; cf. our comment in this series on the texts for the First Sunday of Advent). The beginning of the Gospel and the good news of Jesus Christ is the beginning of the campaign for ā€œnew heavens and a new earth, where righteousnessĀ isĀ at home.ā€ And, as we will see, readers are drawn dramatically into this enriched narrative, along with ā€œpeople from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem.ā€

The campaign opens on two cultural fronts, the imperial Roman and the local Jewish. The very title of the Gospel, Myers points out, is intended to serve notice that ā€œMark is challenging the apparatus of imperial propagation.ā€ The ā€œgood news of Jesus Christ, Son of Godā€ proclaims ā€˜the advent of an ā€˜anointed’ leader, who is confirmed by the Deity and who proclaims a ā€˜kingdom.’ In other words, Mark is taking dead aim at Caesar and his legitimating mythā€ with ā€œa declaration of war upon the political culture of the empireā€ (Ibid., p. 124).Ā Ā Secondly, the prophetic voice crying ā€œprepare the wayā€ is indeed the voice of the prophet Isaiah from our first lesson, but with certain important revisions of the text. The ā€œwayā€ to be prepared, Myers notes, functions to introduce ā€œthe central discipleship motif in the gospel.ā€ The ā€œwayā€ is ā€œno mere path; a new way of life is being built [Mark’s verb is ā€œconstructedā€] in the shell of the old world.ā€ Additionally, the voice of ā€œone crying out in the wildernessā€ is a reawakened voice thought by many of Mark’s contemporaries to have fallen silent forever with the prophet Malachi. But where that last prophetic word ā€œannounces that Yahweh is about to make a dramatic appearance in history,ā€ it also ā€œenvisioned the site of Yahweh’s epiphany to be the Jerusalem temple (Malachi 3:1).ā€ Not so Mark, who ā€œconspicuously omits this part of the oracle, and in its place grafts on an almost literal quotation of Isaiah 40:3,ā€ which, contrary to the plain meaning of Isaiah 40:9-10, in which Zion itself is the voice that calls the ā€œcities of Judahā€ to attend to God’s arrival in their midst, also serves to direct attention away from Jerusalem. ā€œThe messenger will appear insteadĀ in the wildernessĀ (1:3)—which is precisely where we find John the Baptist in the opening act (1:4)ā€ (Ibid. p.127). Thus does Mark engage his second front, a polemic against the temple cult in the city of Jerusalem, which we discussed in our comment on the lessons for the First Sunday of Advent.

How does wilderness relate to new creation?

ā€œWildernessā€ is a ā€œcrucial coordinate of Mark’s narrative world,ā€ Myers notes. It has ā€œthe principal narrative functionā€ here in the Gospel’s prologue, he suggests, of representing the ā€œperipheries:ā€

By inserting this coordinate in place of ā€˜Malachi’s temple (representative of the ā€œcenterā€) as the site of Yahweh’s renewed action, Mark creates a spatial tension between two archetypically opposite symbolic spaces. This wilderness/temple polarity becomes explicit in Mark’s wry report—a typical Semitic hyperbole—that ā€˜all the country of Judea and all the people of Jerusalem’ seek John in the wilderness (1:5). According to the dominant nationalist ideology of salvation history, Jerusalem was considered the hub of the world to which all nations would one day come (see Ps 69:35f. and Is 60:10-14) (Ibid. p. 125).

“Wildernessā€ is, of course, a ā€œcrucial coordinateā€ in the narrative world of contemporary environmentalists as well; and the reading of this Scripture can perhaps provide an occasion for reflection on this shared symbolism, for reasons shared by the semantic field of Mark’s readers: ā€œIn literal terms, wilderness connoted an uninhabited and desolate place, marginal existence: John lives on locusts and honey (Mark 1:6), and persons hunger there (Mark 8:2f).Ā Ā Symbolically, it was the site of a community in flight (as in the exodus tradition) or a refuge for the persecuted faithful who await deliverance.ā€ These are meanings wilderness has certainly had in the story of the American west, meanings which are also commonly used in the ideological struggle for the preservation of untrammeled regions of forest, lake and mountain. We wonder, however, if another meaning of wilderness isn’t significant for both contexts. Wilderness is also the place of renewal and even redemption. At least it certainly appears to have that significance here in the Markan story: as earlier at Sinai, the wilderness is the location of a new encounter with God, to which is attached a new story and a new set of religious practices. Wilderness is the location of a reorientation to God that Mark regards as necessary to redemptive history, a complete break with the temple state—and, as such, needs the open and indeterminate space of the wilderness for its thorough realization. It is the ā€œdown to earthā€ counterpart to the relocation of God from the temple to the open skies of the cosmos.

Ā In that general way, it serves needs like those we find in the much-quoted statement of Henry David Thoreau: ā€œIn wildness is the preservation of the world.ā€ The wilderness is a spiritual anchor for the renewal of both personal life and civil society in our time. We cannot dwell on this topic at length here; Mark’s gospel will provide additional occasions to carry the discussion forward. However, one meaning essential to the appreciation of this meaning of wilderness in either context is expressed in the first lesson from Isaiah. When the prophet asks what he shall cry, he is instructed to cry, ā€œAll people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand foreverā€ (Isaiah 40:6-8). The acknowledgement of being part of a fragile and vulnerable creation is an essential element in a sound theology of creation; and it is also the foundation of every campaign to discourage the human presumption of dominating and controlling nature to serve our purposes (See Roderick Frazier Nash, Wilderness and the American MindĀ for a discussion of ā€œThe Wilderness Cult’ in American experience; and Wallace Stegner’s brief ā€œWilderness Letterā€ inĀ Marking the Sparrow’s Fall, pp. 110-120 for a range of meanings of wilderness in American culture).

Relocation to the wilderness and its open cosmology

Mark thus proposes the regeneration of salvation history by means of a pointedly altered prophetic voice and the reorientation to God’s presence by relocation to the wilderness and its open cosmology. These are coupled to the dramatic movement of peoples from the ā€œwhole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalemā€ out to the river Jordan to be baptized by John. We have noted above the hyperbole of this statement. Mark’s exaggeration serves to remind us of the significance of these events in the eschatological perspective we developed in our comment on the readings for the First Sunday of Advent. ā€œOut of the temple, God goes, and into the cosmos, from where the powers in opposition to God are falling,ā€ we wrote, reflecting on the apocalypse of Mark 13:27. ā€œOff the temple mount go the elect, into the mountain wilderness, from which the winds blow freely to gather them up before the Son of Man.ā€Ā Ā Myers suggests that as Mark ā€œenvisions the renewal of everything in the universe, the dawn of a new world now that the powers have been toppled,ā€ the implied regathering at the end of the story makes the crucial connection to Mark’s story of discipleship.Ā Ā The young man at the tomb

“sends the disciples back to Galilee—that is, back to the ‘genesis’ of the discipleship narrative. And how does Mark’s story commence? ‘The beginning of the gospel’ (1:1), the new creation! Like the ‘end,’ the ‘beginning’ too is archetypal, representing the invitation to join anew in the journey of discipleship, that struggle for justice in the only world there is.

So too all later readers of the Gospel are to be immediately caught up in the movement of people from Jerusalem out to the Jordan where they will witness the baptism of Jesus and the conferring of his mandate to bring about the new creation.” (Myers, Binding the Strong Man, p. 344)

Advent is about gathering for the new creation, the passing away of old cosmologies and the instantiation of the new heavens and earth.

All of which suggests a powerful theme for Advent preaching, namely, Advent is about gathering for the new creation, the passing away of old cosmologies and the instantiation of the new heavens and earth. The church gathers for many different reasons in different seasons and at various times of day, but in this first season of Advent, our gathering establishes the pattern for righteous gathering in worship all year long. The ā€œelect gathered from the four wind, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven,ā€ ā€œpeople from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem,ā€ going out to John to be baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. When we gather as we do in Advent, at the beginning of the whole story of Jesus Christ, we gather in a way that is prototypical for every time we gather for eucharistic worship, in which, similarly, the pattern of the whole story is recapitulated in gathering, word, meal, and sending.

Eucharistic worship is always a response to the voice in the wilderness.

If this is so, then might it not also be properly said, that according to Mark’s gospel, the Christian gathering for eucharistic worship is always a response to the voice in the wilderness, calling us to come out of the cosmologies that entrap us in nationalistic, socially and politically self-serving appropriations of God’s good creation? And if wilderness is the appropriate location where all this becomes very obvious, then perhaps it can also be said that Christian worship, rightly done, always begins in the wilderness under open skies, looking forward to the coming of God and the new creation that God’s Son brings, and in genuine repentance for the harm we have done and continue to do. Of that confession of sin, more later. But the psalmist is entirely correct in singing, as this morning’s psalm has it,

Surely his salvation is at and for those who fear him,
That his glory may dwell in our land.
Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet;
Righteousness and peace will kiss each other.
Faithfulness will spring up from the ground;
And righteousness will look down from the sky.
The Lord will give what is good,
And our land will yield its increase.
Righteousness will go before him,
And will make a path for his steps. (Psalm 85:9-13.)

Elements in these texts are difficult in relation to care for creation.

Reading Mark on two levels: the first reading and the re-reading.

What the Gospel of Mark does to regenerate salvation history

How does wilderness relate to new creation?

Relocation to the wilderness and its open cosmology

Advent is about gathering for the new creation, the passing away of old cosmologies and the instantiation of the new heavens and earth.

Eucharistic worship is always a response to the voice in the wilderness.

Originally written by Dennis Ormseth in 2011.
dennisormseth@gmail.com