Written on the Heart
Proper 28B
Daniel 12:1-3; Hebrews 10:11-25; Mark 13:1-8
11/15/09
Jim Melnyk

There will come a time, the author of Hebrews writes, when God will place the teachings of Torah in our hearts and write the wonders of Torah on our minds. The writer harkens back to the words of the prophet Jeremiah who promises a new covenant of love written on the hearts of God's people (Jeremiah 31:31-34). And for me, it is reminiscent of God's promise in 2 Isaiah – that in turn, God will inscribe our names upon the palms of God's hands (Isaiah 49:16) – see, there are all those verbs again! I want you to think about the incredible power of those images! I want you to think of the commitment behind those images! The life-giving Teachings of God written on our hearts and minds. Our names tattooed on the very palms of God's hands (and yes, I know, God most probably doesn't have hands like we have hands – but go with the metaphor – it's an incredible image!).
        
And when I think of our names inscribed on the palms of God's hands I can't shake the image of the nail scars on the hands of Jesus – as the hymnist writes: “What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul! What wondrous love is this, O my soul!” (The Hymnal 1982, 439)
        
Now, I know there are more than a few St. Markian's who sport a bit of ink these days. And while I know a tattoo can be removed, I am told it's not exactly a fun process to go through. Tattoos are pretty much a permanent thing unless you go through a painful process to remove one – and then you still end up with a ghost of the image as a reminder of your prior commitment.
        
And I know from experience that while not overwhelmingly painful, getting a tattoo has different degrees of discomfort depending on where you actually get tattooed. I have to tell you, the thought of a tattoo on the heart or on the brain – if we're to stick with the metaphors from Scripture – or a tattoo on the palm of the hand – all sound pretty painful to me. We're talking commitment here, folks. Commitment that entails going through a good bit of pain to name that which we love – and have it etched – have it inscribed – have it tattooed – have it permanently affixed on our hearts, and in our minds, and on the palms of God's hands! This is no act of drunken fancy that we'll regret the next day when we come to our senses. This is not the first love of our life who may some day leave us or from whom we might wander away disillusioned with love, only to find some permanent reminder staring back at us in the mirror after our morning shower.
        
We're talking about a relationship that lives on through eternity – the love of God stamped on our hearts and minds – the love of God sealed on our foreheads – “you are sealed with the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ's own for ever!” It is an incredible promise from God that comes with both pain and joy – an incredible promise that is as constant as the sun – and as compelling – and as risky – as falling madly in love.
        
But the metaphor of the tattoo reminds us that the commitment we make with God – and the commitment God makes with us – doesn't come without some pain and without some risk. Our lessons from Daniel and Mark remind us that there's a world of hurt surrounding us – and that sometimes the night can get pretty bleak before the breaking light of the dawn. Not everyone welcomes the Law of love. Not everyone welcomes Good News. Not everyone longs for the Kingdom of God to unfold or the New Jerusalem we read about on All Saints' Day to come to fruition. The promise of God comes among us like the etching of the artist's needle across our heart or like the pangs of birth – something I may never understand, but will take women at their word for what that is like.
        
I long for the day when the Law of Love is the only thing written in my heart, written on my soul and mind – unwavering love for God and unwavering love for my neighbor. But the truth is too real. There's lots of other junk tattooed on my heart – etched in my mind – graffitied on my soul. And removing those things can be painful – can seem almost apocalyptical. And there's always someone there – often even myself – trying to add to the list – pulling out that can of spray paint! I believe the fight for our hearts – the fight for our minds – the fight for our souls – is very real. The enemies may inhabit Madison Avenue, or Wall Street. They may inhabit our political parties – note that I said “parties” not “party” – and our churches. They may inhabit the military industrial complex, the caves of Afghanistan, or even the hearts of children turned bitter by their parents. Or, to take a few liberties with an old friend named Pogo – we may even meet the enemy and find out that he is us. We can do that to ourselves, you know!
        
Now, we can do a pretty good job of pretending this isn't so. But my experience is that not everyone in this world longs for the hope and promise of what we as followers of Christ call the Kingdom of God. Not everyone seeks the kind of justice our Scriptures tell us rests at the heart of God's love for all of creation. Not everyone longs for a realized vision of the peaceable kingdom where the lion and lamb rest side-by-side and where everyone – everyone – has enough; where human dignity and hope for all people are honored, and the image of God is recognized in every person we meet.
        
If this weren't so, there would have been no need for 30 or 40 folks from two parishes – St. Mark's and St. Ambrose – to gather yesterday for a workshop honoring the diversity of the human family and seeking ways to put an end to racism and other forms of prejudice and bigotry.
        
There would be no apocalyptic imagery in Daniel if everyone welcomed the kingdom of God. There would be no “Little Apocalypse” – no chapter 13 – in Mark's Gospel if everyone welcomed and celebrated the image of God in each other.
        
Whether we're talking about the occupying forces of the Seleucid Empire of Daniel's day and the desolating sacrilege in the Temple, or the latter day forces of Rome that Jesus grew up experiencing, or the wars, the bigotry and the greed of the twenty-first century world – there is always someone or some empire standing against the dream of God.
        
The strength of apocalyptic literature is its ability to remind us that not everyone is willing to stand up for justice, mercy, peace, and the power of love, and that in the end, against all hope, God's hope – God's dream – God's love will reign. The weakness of apocalyptic literature is the way it can lull people of faith into a sense that all this must happen for God's dream to come true, so they stand down and watch from a distance, thinking this must all be a part of God's plan – best to not get too personally involved – best to pray about it all from a distance.
        
But our high calling is a calling to love – not love as a noun, but love as a verb – our high calling is a calling to an active, caring, giving love – a living love that engages God and God's people in how we live each moment of every day. A love that actively works on behalf of God's dream for this world and its people – a love that doesn't stand idly by, waiting for legions of angels and fiery signs in the heavens. Our calling is written on our hearts. Our calling is inscribed in our minds and on our souls – and like a tattoo the act of God writing on our hearts can be discomforting – even a bit painful.
        
Like the act of writing, or the act of inscribing or tattooing, the love of God calls us to action in this world – to living out our baptismal calling to work for justice, dignity and peace for all human beings. But also like a tattoo, the dream of God for this world, the hope of God for creation, the love of God for each of us, is meant to last a lifetime.

©2009 Jim Melnyk