Falling Forward

Stories from lunch...

Sat, 1 May 2010 13:48:36 -0700

Nothing serious or profound here, but I felt like these sacred stories that had been entrusted to my care needed to be faithfully passed on.

So I’m eating lunch at our soup kitchen this past Friday (southwestern chicken tortilla soup... holy crap was it good) and I happened to sit down next to one of my favorite lunch people. To be certain, I’d never really sat with him before but I’ve always admired him from a distance... which I was soon to find was EXACTLY his plan!

Douglas looks a bit like a skinny Santa Claus. He has a very pleasant face in mid-sized glasses. His grayish beard extends down to his upper chest. He wears t-shirts with plaid shirts quite a bit and he moves and speaks very slowly. There is an unquestionable sparkle in his eye, and it is all because he has a secret power.

That is where we come to his most recognizable trait. Every time I have ever seen him, he is wearing a silver hard hat with the words “SMILE” in all black, bold, capital letters somehow attached to the front. On the back, in similar fashion, is his name, Douglas.

I was hoping for a short conversation (someone was waiting for me) so I thought I’d ask him the most obvious, simply, straight forward question that occurred to me, “Say Douglas, I like your hat! Where’d you get it?”

Little did I know how many stories would result from this one question. I’ll only share a portion of this conversation with you here for obvious reasons.

To begin with, Douglas, who I have to assume is at least seventy, claims to do his fair share of dangerous work. He says he collects hats but these hard hats are both comfortable (which I find hard to imagine) and stylish.

One day, he was wearing his favorite hard hat (the silver one he had on that day) and began thinking of acronyms. He thought to start a mortgage company and he came up with the name SMILE. It stood for, “Superior, Mortgage, Investment... “ something, something...

The only snag, as he saw it, was he had no money and really no true intention of starting a business. That wasn’t enough to stop him from shopping for stickers. Once he found a “SMILE” sticker that he was sold on, he purchased it and immediately applied it to his silver hard hat.

Assuming that was the end of the requested explanation, I began to say something as I stood to leave but he was not close to finished...

He went on to say that everywhere he goes, people compliment him on his ingenious hat. Men and women of all ages, from all walks of life smile at him from across any room; children grin from ear to ear.

And that is when his eyes really lit up. He says, “Do you know how many strange, beautiful women come to talk to me all on account of this here hat?”

I said I couldn’t begin to guess.

“Oh... you just wouldn’t believe it!”

One day, upon wearing the magic hat, he was almost run over by an old lady in a parking lot. After hearing an impassioned lecture about watching where you’re going, she exclaimed, “And what is the point of that silly hat? What do you hope to accomplish with all that?”

He bent down low to her open car window so he could whisper in her ear, “This here is what they call a ‘CHICK MAGNET!’”

And then he winked at her.

By the end of my conversation with Douglas, I realized that this unassuming, jolly, old fella was in fact quite a lady’s man.

You never know who you’ll meet.

If I Could Turn Back Time...

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 17:53:46 -0700

I know... horrible Cher plug.

A lot of what I do in my life seemingly results in zero tangible effects. I spend more time than I’d like to admit wondering if the things to which I’ve committed are as important as I dream they are. I can picture a scenario where all the ideals I try to breathe life into are revealed to have been dead on arrival... the silly hopes of a hopeless idealist.

I intentionally and consciously dedicate myself to small, initially shallow relationships with all the people who cross my path. I read a broad array of news and sports. It may be arrogant to say so, but I rarely meet people I can’t hold a conversation with about something... anything. I do this so that I may become all things to all men, as Paul said. I also do this because I believe that people are the most important things that God has entrusted to us. I believe we love God by loving our neighbors. And I believe there was a time when we built our world around this notion.

I believe in mixed use zoning and traditional city design. I believe people should live next to coffee shops and dry cleaners and small markets and butchers. I don’t believe anyone benefits from living on postage stamp lots surrounded by eight foot fence next to another residence which is occupied by someone (15 feet from where you sleep) that you will never meet.

I believe in walkable towns where the sidewalks are at least as wide as the streets. I believe in walking places instead of being isolated in our silent vehicles all alone. I believe in allowing the time to be interrupted in our tasks to hug a friend you didn’t think you’d run into and ask them about their day.

I believe the combinations of the suburbs, the sanctioning of Saturday as another day to work (except at home instead in the office), and the formation of the aggro-industries have damn near destroyed the rich culture we enjoyed nearly seventy years ago.

I believe there was a time when Mayberry was real. I believe in front porches and good schools. I believe in trusting my neighbors to keep an eye on my kids and letting my kids ride their bikes on my block. I believe that Sundays should be filled with plenty of nothing.

But around all of this, I believe that in a time when most families are fragmented and scattered across the country, our neighborhoods should be our extended families.

“You may say that I’m a dreamer... but I’m not the only one...”

Most days I wonder if all that will really ever see the real world again. And if so, I likely won’t live to see it. And all of the time and intentionality I invest into my little corner of the world will only be a tiny part of a tiny seed that my children or my grandchildren might live to see sprout and grow.

And then there are days like today, where God grants me a tiny glimpse of the kingdom... of the world as He designed it to be. Surrounded by fallen and broken people, there is this foreign sense of love that casts a faint light on everything we see. And it doesn’t seem to be in spite of the ugly and the distrust that pollutes these relationships, but nearly BECAUSE of the cracks in our world that this beauty emerges.

But it’s there, my friends... it’s there for the taking. It is like the mustard seed Jesus spoke of. Seeds can be so frustrating because you tirelessly amend and till and care for the soil and you water and then... you wait.

And wait...

And wait...

Did it work? Was that little bit of magic that defies human reason kindled within that tiny seed? Was it a bad seed? Did it dry out too much? Was the ground too hostile? Did something trample on it and kill it? Is this all a waste?

And then one day, one bright morning brimming with hope, something almost too small to see looks to be breaking through the top of the soil. Maybe it’s a weed. Maybe it won’t survive. Maybe the sun will bake it or my kids will dig it up because they’re like that...

But seeds do grow and all sorts of labor invested in things we don’t understand is honored by the Creator and is brought to blossom slowly, and often when we don’t expect it. And today was one of those days.

Ray and Penny-Lee are our next door neighbors. On one side, we have the park and the other side are Ray and Penny-Lee. In front of us is the Lutheran Congregation and behind us is the Catholic Church.

Ray rides a motorcycle and wears a helmet that makes me laugh. Penny-Lee is an eccentric lady you might imagine as a former hippy. She is thin and he is well proportioned and they both might be in their early sixties.

When we first met them three years ago, she somehow got the impression that my name was Scott and called me that for most of the first two years we’ve been here. She makes me homemade shortbread cookies around Christmas time. Ray always waves as he rides by our house. They are kind to our kids.

They are good neighbors.

She comes to church every so often, usually for prayer. We have prayed for her and tried to hug her through the loss of her sister and remind her to be gracious with herself. We are, after all, Lutherans.

Most days that I walk to our local market, I pass their house and she is often in her yard doing this thing or that. We stop and talk for a while. I listen to her stories. She has a radio show on the community station. A month or so ago, she invited me to come talk about the free clinic.

She invited us to her annual barbecue. She invites everyone living on our block, maybe eleven residences. She gets excited and nervous and begins worrying that she forgot something or she won’t be able to accommodate her guests well. She is tremendously hospitable and was generally supportive of the Abbey’s efforts to renovate a vacant lot on the block into a park.

I have invested several hundred little moments, little opportunities in Penny-Lee. When we talk, I try to reinforce that she can ask us for anything and we’re willing to help however we can. I want her to know that I take my responsibility as her neighbor seriously. But truly, I have gotten more out of my friendship with Penny-Lee than I’ve ever put into it.

She may never become a regular member of any church and she may never be a team player. She may not become part of a radical Jesus movement or offer her famous hospitality to homeless folks. She may never financially support the Abbey or make the renown, evangelical decision to “ask Jesus in her heart.”

But she is good, and today, she brought the love of Jesus to our neighborhood in a way that only she could.

Today she was an agent of that love, knowingly or otherwise. And whether she is sowing the grace of Christ into my life or I am sowing it in hers, the result is the same.

Love can bring the world to be as it was meant to be. It mends the brokeness and heals the pain. And it makes us more like our Creator.

And there was a time and a world that was consistently closer to that than we are today. But all is not lost. We can go back.

We can grow into better neighbors. We can undo our years of mass consumption, greed, worship of privacy and individual rights, and return to Mayberry.

Another world is possible.

Today is my proof.

An Open Letter To My Facebook Friends...

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 20:54:17 -0700

My Dear Facebook Friends,

I need to tell you about a decision I came to a little more than a week ago. Somewhere in that time frame, I began to revisit a side of myself that I’d hoped I’d left behind for good. It is a cocky, argumentative, and defensive side that is willing to fight about anything I know nothing really about.

Now I know what you’re thinking... how ashamed I must be to have to admit this as a grown man and father... acting like a child. Well, yes, I am ashamed and I was so disgusted by it, that I tried to delete my Facebook account.

Fortunately, Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, refuses to delete your account until the end of your 14 day cool down period. As you were probably sent here by a link in my status, you now know that I am back.

But maybe you’re wondering what sort of thing would drive me to regress to a much pettier version of myself? I am sad to say that it has come to be politics. Recently, at an Easter dinner, I was drawn into an argument (that thankfully ambled toward being a constructive discussion. It was in regard to being fair to our political leaders both when it is convenient to your personal views but also, when it complicates what you previously held.

Not long after this, I took to Facebook to begin defending the men and women who get fat and happy writing our legislation and running our proud nation. It took all of one night to see how both futile and frustrating a pursuit this would be. After very nearly losing my temper and coming to see some of the things I said were not at all loving, I decided to delete my account.

It has been a quiet eight or nine days since, and it wasn’t until last night that things began to rumble again. My wife, through some of her friends, read me the name of a newer Facebook group and some of its tenants. I was immediately furious and eventually thoughtful.

This morning, I had some particularly grueling labor ahead of me. I was digging out part of a hardened clay cliffside behind the abbey so I could install the new compost bin. It was getting warm for a change and I turned to Pandora on my iPhone.

I got worn down... really worn down and sweaty. I was maybe an hour into it and possibly three quarters of the way finished. Something fairly rare then happened. A song came on that I am not used to hearing through my Pandora channel. I normally steer clear of the songs that were sung at my mother’s funeral, but there it was, in the midst of my desperate fatigue with my mind battered and my spirit broken at the fear and anger sweeping through many of my friends.

I began thinking of my mother. She was an outspoken woman to say the least. She seemed to be the one person in the universe that didn’t mind what anyone thought of her in the least. She was more gutsy than brave, and anyone that knew her at all knew that from the start.

But beneath it all, she was a hurricane of furious love.

I imagined what she would say if I asked her how to handle the constant flow of fear and anger among my loved ones. I didn’t take long to conclude she wouldn’t have quit or walked away.

And so, my friends, I am back.

Though I am still unwilling to participate in the violent rhetoric billowing from the talking heads and being stirred, even at the grassroots level.

To those of you who, like me, are trying to make a life in the way of our homeless rabbi, Jesus Christ, please let me remind you of a few things:

Jesus said:

You should love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.

Love one another as I have loved you.

Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.

You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.

So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.

Forgive someone seventy times seven.

Scripture reminds us that:

God brings kings to rise and fall.

We should pray for our leaders and kings that we may live peaceful lives in all godliness and holiness.

Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.

Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men: whether to the king, as the supreme authority, or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right. For it is God's will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish men.

Now I am all for peaceful conversation that seeks peace and harmony for our nation. I don’t think Scripture tells us that we have to agree with the policies of our leaders or that we can’t speak out for a peaceful change to what is happening now.

Unfortunately, that is not what I am generally seeing.

So starting now, I am adopting this stance both on my Facebook account and my life as a whole.

If you consistently post things that are hateful, racist, threatening, or destructively critical about anyone, Republican or Democrat, I will un-friend you.

That doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends in real life, but I can no longer allow the darkness of fear and hate into my home through my Macs.

An example of un-Christ-like language would be calling for someone’s death, twisting a verse from Scripture to make it seem that the Bible is calling for his/her demise, telling anyone they should go back to Africa, or something that is just a patent lie that you believe merely because you heard it from one of the talking heads who profit from all this strife and polarization.

I admire the passion being displayed at this time, but I feel that it is misdirected in anger and destruction rather than coming up with constructive solutions. If we spent as much time brainstorming new policy as we do bitching, we would have this whole thing turned around by now, right?

So please join me in devoting my time and energy to peace and solving problems rather than just griping and saying hateful things. It is just as bad to be hateful on Facebook as it is in real life... I don’t care what the internets are telling you.

I’m begging you to join me in trying to simply shape my life by the very meager words of Christ:

Love one another as I have loved you.

Sincerely praying for peace in our world,

Joshua Price

Rainy Sunday Morning

Sun, 11 Apr 2010 09:49:30 -0700

Or shedding the spirituality of the past?

Wasn’t concerned enough with a catchy title so I threw down the first one that came to me. Either would work here. This is one of the probably 5 or 10 percent of the Sundays in my life where I haven’t been sitting in the midst of some kind of religious ceremony in a giant room half full of people.

I suppose we all took solace in searching for the same sense of significance all together. Most of them still do. There are a million sad things I could say about the state of that (Judas statements about how all that space could be used to house the poor or allow a place for community art or workspace, etc.) but in the end, it’s own death will serve just fine as it’s indictment. And I don’t think the indictment will be on the motive or the intention in all of that, but the excesses that seem to inevitably flow out of humans reaching for significance... the Tower of Babel immediately comes to mind. Are our modern churches contemporary expressions of the Tower of Babel?

Might be more legitimate questions surrounding the fourth commandment... not taking the Name vainly. Most people think that means not cussing or swearing, but in the ancient context, it has to do with the old ideas we associate with Genies or Rumpelstiltskin. In the ancient world, the names of individuals, especially deities, held a mysterious power. A god would not trust a mortal with his name or else it might be used to manipulate that god.

In fact, there may be a faint argument around why Moses asks Yahweh who he should tell Pharaoh was his sponsor or sender. Moses may have been hedging his bet, that if things went south very quickly, he could call on this powerful deity’s name to bail him out or manipulate Yahweh for a plan B. It is a severe expression of vulnerability that Yahweh entrusts Moses with any representation of Himself for that very reason. It’s also the reason the Jews held their position as keepers of the sacred name very seriously.

So in the fourth commandment, Yahweh is firmly exerting and insisting that He is the exemption from the old rules that bound the old gods. The real thrust is something like, “Do not even try to manipulate me by using my name in magical incantations. I am not one of the lowly gods of the Egyptians and I do not answer to you. I am your King and you represent and serve me. Do not even wonder about thinking of me as any less.”

And therefore, I wonder if in our close association with our various liturgies and traditions and rituals, we have tried to contain God within these same attempts at manipulation. That if we say the right words, He is obligated to forgive us. If we ask in His name, He must hear us and honor our requests. If we sing these songs with the right kinds of music, He must accept our expressions to Him and think of us fondly. He must be awfully grateful for all of this, and if He isn’t, we can approach Him in our predefined rituals that will demand His gratitude and appreciation.

In the midst of my leaving the old modern expression of Sunday morning, I have to study for my homily. I am carrying the last chapter of John to the masses this upcoming Sunday. “Peter, if you love me, feed my sheep.”

Where?

How?

Is there ever a danger in tending a flock that clamors for a worship and a relationship of the food rather than the provider of that food?

That misses the pasture because they can’t see past all the grass?

Homily Construction...

Sat, 20 Mar 2010 16:37:04 -0700

I could waste a lot of space here telling you all about my dad and his newish wife visiting or the week after that where we had to re-train our children’s expectations, or this past week where I put eighty hours into a chicken coop, but you can probably read my wife’s blog for that kind of stuff. Given the blank expanse I’ve opened between blogs (pretty much three weeks), I probably ought to jump back into it.

Last week, my chief unwrapped a homily on the prodigal son. Following popular advice and playing to his strength, he did quite a bit of question and answer time which leads to discussion which means there is a very strong chance someone might forget what they learned until late the following week. Sadly, most sermons are very forgettable, particularly those that are not at all engaging.

But Rod began a discussion on what we call the Prodigal Son. It would be rightly titled, the Jealous Brother. I will be taking the baton from Rod tomorrow morning for the weekly homily, and I’m using this space to chart out my course.

Less interesting to my reader(s) (who am I kidding? reader is probably correct here), I’ll likely start off with a story about brothers or siblings. I might use my own kids (the old ladies tend to like that) or I may use a tale of historic significance. Then I think I’ll move toward two or three major pieces to the story that wouldn’t be obvious to a 75 year old WASP.

First off, the context requires the framing. This was one of several stories Jesus tells to address the religious crowd who were incredulous toward the hospitality and acceptance that Jesus and some of His apostles showed toward the suddenly repentant. This was a gang of riff-raff that were commonly regarded as either beyond forgiveness or perhaps defiled beyond all hope.

Since the emphasis was on ritual purity as an expression of true spiritual oneness with the Creator, you can imagine the stretch for the pious to ever regard a former hooker or a notorious traitor (Roman paid tax collector) as completely pure and acceptable. Luckily, we’ve all evolved so far that this is foreign to all of us evangelicals or recovering evangelicals, right?

The second piece that I think warrants mention, is Jesus models the stories of a good eco-rabbi. He recycles someone else’s story rather than invent His own. In fact, it was a story that would have been so familiar to His audience, they might have rolled their eyes and sighed, sticking around out of respect... and perhaps curiosity. If Jesus monkeys with this famous story, it won’t be the first great tale He’s ruined.

The rabbis used this story of the prodigal son to illustrate the loving kindness the Father has for His wayward son, Israel. It was how they commonly spoke of the exile. Israel had gotten away from the love of the Father, gone their own way, and barely survived to tell about it. When, in exile, they finally came to their senses and began to repent of their defiance, they are brought back home. However, they are not yet reconciled to the Father.

The prodigal, by rabbinic telling, is not forgiven or fully reconciled to the Father again until the scorned Father has seen ample evidence of the authenticity of His son’s contrition. This is also how the rabbis explained this period of their history. Israel had indeed come home from his awful exile and was desperately trying to attain an audience with the Father so he could repent and be fully forgiven. Once the Father takes back His wayward son, he would be restored to his rightful place (the expulsion of Rome), his persecutors or creditors would be vanquished (the pagan nations would be judged and destroyed), and the great and eternal feast of celebration would break forth across the whole earth and all creation would dance for joy!

So what was the hold up?

Well, as it turns out, Israel as a whole had not shown signs of true repentance. How can this be? Sure there were very pious Pharisees and Sadducees, there were scribes and teachers of the Torah, the high and mighty Sanhedrin, but this was a scant minority of Jews in Israel.

The majority were afraid for their lives. They wasted their time surviving... scrapping for food, toiling in their fields, and people made money however they could. Some would betray their nation for riches (the tax collectors), some would betray their Torah for another meal (the hookers), and some were forced into their own personal exile because they failed the purity regulations (victims with bleeding related disease, leprosy or skin disorders, menstrual irregularities, etc.). If they were considered impure, here is one worse: if you dared touch one or even speak to one, you would contract their impurity and require a cleansing yourself.

And herein lies the rub. For all the religious zealots in first century Judaism, there were far more common folks whose cheese was constantly falling off their cracker. Because of all these moral failings, the Father could not forgive Israel as a whole because it was not wholly united in repentance and the resulting purity.

This is why the Father (God) and the Prodigal (Israel) could not reconcile.

In the rabbinic version, there is no older brother. Here is where Jesus starts making stuff up. In Jesus’ version, the Father sees the boy from far off, as if He was watching for him. This is an absurd kind of relentless love for whic the Pharisees had no explanation. This is the Father invites you to cut out His heart and then weeps for you to come home.

As the crowd waits for the sad metaphor of the waiting period to ensue... the Father sees the boy, but really isn’t all that interested. After all, the kid had severely insulted the dignity of his Father by asking for his inheritance early (as if wishing the father were already dead). The Father should sulk in the house for a while, glancing out the window occasionally to see if the son is groveling dramatically enough, or weeping with enough conviction, or if he is finally miserable enough and has learned his lesson.

But that is not what Jesus says.

Instead, the Father rushes down the road to His son, embraces him wildly and immediately calls for his best gifts. This is not the God the religious elites knew and proclaimed. This is something totally different.

So Jesus has done it again. He has gone and pitched this caricature of the Father who is not nearly judgy enough and doesn’t seem to balance justice with His hard-earned mercy.

The masses loved it, but the religious would have hated it.

But it gets worse, much worse. As it turns out, they have a special place in this story. Suddenly, a new character emerges. There is an older brother in Jesus’ version. But he is not painted very graciously.

The older brother is actually a hard worker, much to his credit. He didn’t screw his Father, something else he has going for him, and he seems responsible enough. That is the end of the flattery.

Because this older brother is confused and angry. Rather than celebrating for this brother’s return, he sends for his Father (note he won’t even walk into the house). He demands to know why his reckless brother should merit a feast when all he has done deserves punishment, not forgiveness.

Perhaps something else of note. The Father has already given the prodigal his share of all He had set aside for him. When He calls for his best robe and his best ring and to kill the calf, these aren’t the son’s allotment of his wealth and he isn’t taking from the other brother either. These are things that belong to the Father personally. He has nothing left to give his prodigal son but the few things he kept for himself.

So the “good” brother is angry that the Father has given the prodigal from his own personal belongings while He has never done such a thing for him or his friends. To which the Father responds, “Son, you are always with me and everything I have is yours as well. But look, this brother of yours who was lost and now he is found! We should feast!”

And I find it humorous that this is where Jesus leaves it. He doesn’t say that the jealous brother stomps off or that he sees the light and goes in to the party or that he plots something more sinister and waits that night to kill his brother in his sleep. No, Jesus ends in mid-dialogue.

Alright religious folks (who I have been addressing all along), your move. This is how the story has gone up to this point. You decide now how you are going to react to the compassion of the Father for your reckless little brothers and sisters.

Two last things:

1) In a juxtaposition of the story, we remember the early creeds and the reference to Jesus Christ as our brother. I think we can see Jesus as the antithesis to the jealous older brother in our story. For us, we are the prodigal who wonders from the love of the Father much the pain and insult of our Creator. Given every opportunity, we stray father and farther as the older brother watches. Finally, one momentous day, the older brother says to the Father, “Dad, I’m going to get ‘em.”

“But Son, he’s already gone so far he is almost beyond reach. What will
you do if you find him? He may not even want to come home! And even
if he does, the cost will be greater than you can possibly imagine! My
Son, are you sure this is what you really want?”

In our story, rather than being resentful of the Father’s love, the Son is
willing to pay the price for our redemption, who gingerly brings us back
to the Father who restores us to our rightful place as sons, brother,
sisters, and heirs.

We are part of a good story.

1) Jesus refuses to utilize the same dramatic pause in history that the
religious thought they were accurately interpreting. They thought the
hesitation on the part of the Father to send out the Davidic, warrior-king
Messiah was a sign that He couldn’t really forgive Israel yet.

And why? The best reason they could come up with was the impure and
undesirables were holding the kingdom back. Don’t miss this. The brunt
of all their Messianic frustrations was acutely directed toward these poor,
and lame, and blind, and treasonous, and these prostitutes, these
impure sinners. Why the Hell would Jesus befriend these if He were
really the Messiah? These were the enemies of the Messiah they had
imagined.

But Jesus won’t grant them any of these interpretational leaps. In fact,
Jesus says the kingdom is in full swing! You just have to have eyes to
see it! The forgiveness and reconciliation of the Father is evident in the
sight of the blind, the walking of the lame, and the radical friendship with
the hookers and tax traitors! Jesus is once again trying to demonstrate
that the signs of the Messianic kingdom are not bloodshed and violence
and the kind of vindication they’d dreamed of.

It came/comes/is coming through mercy, compassion, and grace. And it
grows wild. It is on full display in the Father who watches the road
obsessively day and night hoping against hope for any signs of life on
horizon. It is clear as the prodigal nearly has the life squeezed out of
him and the Father laughs and cries for joy at the same time. And it
can be seen in the eyes of the poor who are coming to know true love for
the first time and the fresh hope dances in their hearts.

And it is present here and now. It is no different than the breezy afternoon when Jesus first delivered this good news/bad news two thousand years ago. Who will we be? The jealous brother or the prodigal? Will we have eyes to see the kingdom? Will we join in the feast?

We are all invited, and that may be the most wonderful, awe-inspiring notion in it all.