The Revolution and the Revelation--Sermon 12/18/11

The Revolution and the Revelation

This past Tuesday I had the pleasure of being one of the Christmas storytellers for the nursery school children. Each class of children are invited into the sanctuary. The two year-olds clinging to the knots on the rope they hold as they walk with wonder into the sanctuary, the four and five year olds walking with a little more confidence, but with a glimmer of wonder still shining in their eyes. The lights are dim. The tree is lit. The characters from the nativity are placed around the chancel. I have learned my job as teller of this miracle story well from Renee Moore, who I consider the master of all storytellers. The children are invited into hear the tale. I lead them on a long walk through the pews as if they were riding a donkey. We clip and clop along, we stop and pretend to take a rest, we stop by the make-believe oasis and let our donkeys have a drink of imaginary water, while we make slurping noises and then just when we think we see Bethlehem we realize we have to walk even more to get to the place where the census counting is done. To imagine the star I light a candle, and hold it high above my head and then we all follow the star to the place where the baby Jesus is, lying in the manger near the altar.

Some children may never have heard the Christmas story before, especially the younger children who may come from homes that don’t attend church. Some children can’t remember Christmas before, their memories are so short, and they are so young. I am always careful to try to explain it in a way that makes sense, to draw attention to the sensory details that the children can understand. The feel of rough prickly hay on a baby’s skin as he was placed in a manger. How cold it may have been as the shepherds watched their flocks at night. How the frankinsence and myrrh smell. These small details seem to be things children can wrap their heads around, heck, they are perhaps the only things about this story of wonder that I, as an adult can wrap my head around most of the time.

And then there are things that I don’t say yet. I refrain from the details that make the story a little less “G” rated, things which cause the children to ask questions I’m not sure I have easy answers to offer. For instance, have you ever tried to explain immaculate conception to a child? Ever tried to talk about how Joseph isn’t “technically” the biological father of Jesus? Ever tried to give details about Herod deciding to kill all baby boys after Jesus was born? Ever try explaining to a five-year-old that Mary may have been the age of their oldest sister when the angel came calling that day?

The thing is, though, I have come to believe that the Christmas story has too often been sanitized not just for young listeners, but perhaps for our own ears as well. There are parts of the story steeped in mystery, parts we don’t understand, or parts which make us uncomfortable or parts that ask more than we might be willing to admit. There are times when we prefer our Christmas story with a priestly bend, rather than a prophetic one. This morning’s scripture is a perfect example. The verses that Luke penned in the last part of the first chapter of his gospel are the words of Mary. Spoken straight from her lips shortly after her cousin Elizabeth had confirmed the blessing of her pregnancy. The words offer a little insight about this young woman who was chosen to give birth to the Christ. And this proclamation is spoken only after Mary has wrapped her head around this wondrous event which will shape not only her life but will change the course of world history. In these words, also known as the Magnificat, we get a glimpse of revolution, of an alternate future which is poised to be birthed with the coming of Jesus.

On this fourth Sunday of Advent, as we are finishing with our gift wrapping, and preparing to sing the soft carols, imagining a Christmas straight out of a Thomas Kincaide photo with snow falling softly, our lectionary offers this prophetic revelation from one we might consider the least likely of prophets, the meek and mild Mary. On this fourth Sunday of Advent, after we have been encouraged to wait, and prepare, and then wait some more, we are offered this nugget of gospel truth. On this fourth Sunday of Advent as we rush to listen to get to that beautiful Christmas story that we have practically memorized from the second chapter of Luke, which begins, “and it came to pass…” there is this moment of poetry which we dare not ignore.

Mary’s magnificat is similar in literary style to that of Hannah, a matriarch of old, who spoke her own prophesy about the child in her womb in the first book of Samuel. It is a song of liberation, a cry for justice, it is a song sung in solidarity with all those who struggle. She who has only spoken in scripture before with passive acceptance, “let it be done” has now revealed a new perspective. Mary speaks a radical truth. Hear verses 51 through 53 again spoken in a contemporary vernacular from Eugene Peterson’s The Message:
God bared his arm and showed God’s strength, scattered the bluffing braggarts.
He knocked the tyrants off their high horses, pulled victims out of the mud.
The starving poor sat down to a banquet; the callous rich were left out in the cold.
These are not the words of a passive Mary here, accepting with quiet resignation her fate. She is an active participant in naming the oppression and injustice which she has seen. It is no wonder that Jesus became the prophet that he was, for I would imagine that a great deal of what he learned was taught by this woman who spoke of transformation and liberation, a mother who believed in her child’s destiny as a prophet himself.

The truth of Mary is this. In the church we have sanctified or, perhaps, sanitized her our contented nativity scene Mary. She with the blonde hair and blue dress. She who smiles in bemused acceptance. We forget that there is more to her. We forget, for instance, that she was a strong peasant woman. A woman who gave birth by herself in a stable. A woman who was not merely the vessel of the divine, not merely a conduit for the holy, but a prophet in her own right. Mary was a woman who had the audacity to say “yes,” to the unimaginable. And after uttering that simple “yes,” she preached of the world that could come through her child’s birth.

The writer Madeleine L’Engle writes of Mary’s legacy in this way. She says of Christmas: This is the irrational season/ When love blooms bright and wild./
Had Mary been filled with reason/ There'd have been no room for the child.


This morning I wonder how we can embrace this irrational season and Mary’s revolutionary words for ourselves. How do we make the Magnifcat our own communal manifesto? Our own proclamation of peace on earth?

I collect articles from The Christian Century. I am a natural clipper and saver. A pack rat for words. And this week I ran across an article I had cut out several years ago about Mary, and the power of her song. The writer, a Lutheran pastor by the name of John Stendehal writes this about our reclamation of the magnificat, “[As] grateful as I am for [Mary’s] example and companionship…there is something I worry about….The Magnificat may move us with its dreams of redistributive justice, but do we make imaginative solidarity with Mary only to domesticate her to our decidedly inexpensive fantasies of peace on earth? Are we drawn to consider what this will cost us and to begin paying that price?” He goes on to write, “I pray that we who have much of the world’s goods and power will hear Mary’s words about the proud and rich as warnings and salutary threats to ourselves. If we are able to sing those words lustily, let it be because we are seduced by the grandeur and grace of salvation she describes, but let it also join us to those who yearn for a turning of the socioeconomic tables.”

The Magnificat is a powerful piece of writing, and is not for the wishy-washy of faith. It is as revolutionary today as it was when it was spoken by an unknown peasant woman who lived in a Roman-occupied country. It even had the power to threaten heads of state in Guatamala in the 1980s, when it was barred from being preached, for it was deemed too subversive, too radical. And perhaps that’s the way scripture should be, right? Perhaps that’s the way our faith should be. Perhaps what we need to be about if we welcome the Christ child into the world is to truly proclaim the Magnificat with mind, body and soul at the very core of our being. Perhaps we must take seriously the call to stand in solidarity with all of those who are downtrodden—be they economically or spiritually suffering. Perhaps we must be utterly single-minded about the toppling of systems of oppression piece by piece wherever and whenever we see them hurting others. Perhaps Mary’s call, this call for a turning of the tables, a call for an inversion of the dominant structure, a call for a revolution of the system of injustice has to be something that the church proclaims with single-minded focus.

This revelation and this revolution is not for the faint of heart, but ushering in new life rarely is. Being called to join Mary as bearers of God won’t be easy, not for any of us. But can we as the church afford to be any other way if we truly believe in a kingdom of peace?

The writer Nancy Mairs sums up our mission pretty simply when she writes these words: That’s what we’re here for: to make the world new, we know what to do: seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly, treat every person as though she were yourself. These are not complicated instructions. It’s much harder to decipher the directions for putting together a child’s tricycle than to understand these.

Friends, we’ve waited, and we’ve pondered, and we’ve listened, and we’ve prepared in this Advent season. And now Mary’s voice pierces the silence with a clear call. Let us prepare for the birth of Christ, let us labor to bring the reign of peace to all.

And all God’s children said, Amen.

Now, this man...

...he can write.

Give some love to my friend Chip...one of my favorite bloggers on the block.

http://getwiththeconfusion.wordpress.com/2011/11/29/unemployed-day-140/

The Wilderness Within--Sermon 12/4/11

The Wilderness Within


I met Neil when I was a first year student at Manchester College. I was young and naïve, and whole-heartedly devoted to immersing myself in life as a socially conscious college student. Having been involved with Amnesty International in high school, I was eager to meet the faculty adviser for the Amnesty chapter at Manchester. And I was told that it was a psychology professor, and that he would meet with me for a soda in the local snack bar at 9:00 on a Monday night. I arrived early and ordered my root beer and sat, scanning the room for Dr. Wollman. Students streamed in and out to get their evening pizza and popcorn. I sat nervously, with my file and notepad ready, anxious to meet this professor of psychology. Fifteen minutes passed. No sign of him. Across the room sat a burly looking man with an unkept beard, a white sweatshirt with the picture of an orange cat on the front tucked into his khaki pants which had grass stains on the knees. On the man’s feet were a pair of old tennis shoes. He was hunched over a stir fry, and had carefully seemed to be picking the pieces of chicken out of it, or spitting them out of his mouth and placing them on the side of his plate. His beard had a few rice pieces in it. I immediately took pity on this man, obviously hungry, and marveled at how nice it was that the college welcomed homeless people into eat. It was now 9:25. No Professor Wollman. I finished off my root beer, stood up to throw the cup away and did one more look out over the dining room to make sure I wasn’t missing him. The odd-looking cat-shirted, swarthy man saw me and yelled out, “Hey, are you who I’m supposed to be meeting about Amnesty?” I quickly realized my mistake. The man I assumed was homeless and hungry was actually the esteemed Dr. Wollman. Embarrassed and ashamed at how quick I was to judge, I sat down to a delightful, if not quirky, conversation. Neil and I became fast friends. I learned that he was devoted to issues of social justice, care of the poor, environmental activism. He was a crusader for equality and was known nationwide for the work he began with TIAA-CREF in working with other professors all from the second floor of the Administration Building at little old Manchester College to set up a socially responsible investment fund. His passion for social change has always deeply moved me. The way he lives his beliefs have inspired me. And while sometimes as a peace studies intern at the college I had to remind him to go home and sleep after staying up in his office for 48 hours straight working, or cue him about the social graces (like not just walking into someone’s home and opening their refrigerator or medicine cabinets to see what they liked to eat or what medicines they took), I learned from him what true generosity of spirit and prophetic vision looked like.

And so whenever I hear the words of John the Baptist, or think of that misunderstood prophet who ate wild locusts and honey and wore those strange clothes, the person I see in my mind’s eye is Dr. Neil Wollman, Ph.D.. North Manchester’s own John the Baptist who speaks of his passionate belief in the hope of an infusion of peace and justice entering this world with all the quirky glory he can muster.

In some ways, John the Baptist doesn’t fit into our Norman Rockwell, Currier and Ives holiday Christmas tableau. John is untamed and a little wild. He is a prophet of the old school, hearkening back to Elijah. His words are meant to cut a little, his proclamations to make us shudder. He offers spiritual baptism, and preaches repentance in a world that would prefer their faith safe and their sermons comforting. But what I love most about his story has as much to do with where he spoke, than with who he was.

You see John the Baptist was a wilderness kind of guy. Untamed and unpolished as he was it shouldn’t surprise us that his sermons were shouted into a desolate wasteland of wild open space. The wilderness of Judea was not the wilderness of Northern Indiana. It wasn’t a nature walk through Fox Island Park with meandering paths and quiet fresh brooks. The wilderness of Judea was a sparse, hot, unforgiving place. It was a land where one had to be scrappy to survive. It was barren and inhospitable. And so the fact that the call to prepare for the Christ came out of this nowhere place gives me pause.

There is something cosmically comforting to me about the idea that the coming of God was announced in the wilderness, for I believe that each of us carry some form of wilderness within our own souls. Sometimes that wilderness manifests itself in a cavern of doubts about the goodness of the universe or fears about the direction of life and our place in it, or it shows up in the form of a gaping sense of aloneness and unease even when surrounded by others. Sometimes we dwell in that wilderness for only hours, and sometimes we can live in it for season after season. The wilderness can be a frightening and desolate place, where we may flounder and question the presence of God.

And so how utterly and simply spell-binding is it that the first inklings of the coming of Christ into ministry were uttered in the wilderness, in the place where we thought no life could grow, no plant take root, there is this glimmering hope preached. Barbara Brown Taylor in her book Home By Another Way speaks of the truth of the event this way, “That was the good news that started with John. He was the messenger, and the message lit him up like a bonfire in the wilderness…[But], only those who were willing to enter the wilderness got to taste his freedom.”

And so the question for this morning, in this season of Advent and waiting that I ask is this? Are you willing to go to the wilderness? Are you willing to go to the depths of your own soul, to the dark scary places, to the places which keep you awake at night, to the nagging worries and untold secrets? Are you willing to sit in that wild place and invite the prince of peace to come, invite the living God to shed some light into the dark night of your soul? Are you able to trust that the holy presence might crouch next to you, find you in the depths of your own wild places and then breathe quietly and softly and slowly some new life into that desolate place?

The poet Wendell Berry has written, “It gets darker and darker, and then Jesus is born.” As we wait in the wilderness, may we recognize the shimmer of light on the horizon. For Christ comes anew, may we be wise enough to hear the words of the prophets who beckon us to be agents of hope.

Amen.

*For more information about Dr. Neil Wollman and all the tremendous work he has done please note the following website.

http://www.shelterforce.org/article/216/power_of_one/

The Tao of Grayson

I was sharing with a dear friend, who has known me since I was eighteen years old, and could be, perhaps, hired as my blog marketing representative, that sometimes I do my best writing now in short Twitter bursts or Facebook updates. Aforementioned friend, for reasons which shall go unnamed (although I believe the words, "I don't get into all that tech stuff..." were used), reminded me that in my short-attention span writing style I'm forgetting to update this whole blogosphere on other crazy Graysonisms. And so...fear not, devoted reader(s?), here are a few of the words of the wise sage I live with, who still can neither button his shirt nor pull up his own pants if they have a zipper.

I bring you "The Tao of Grayson."

From 11/25/11. The traditional question was posed to the family as we sat around the Thanksgiving table. To stir it up a little I suggested that no one be allowed to say, "family" ['cause, everyone says it...]. We went around the table. When it was Grayson's turn he said, "the whole world, and the earth, and the power of love." My son is a combination of Gandhi and Huey Lewis.

From 11/20/11. Conversation with the boy tonight as we looked at some pictures of a wedding.

Me: Grayson, do you think you'll get married some day?
Grayson: Actually, Mom, I'm already married.
Me: Really?
Grayson: Yes, to you. Did you know that?

While generally I am not a fan of Freud, I sure do love the Oedipal phase.

From 11/7/11. Grayson was counting in Spanish tonight. He said, "Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco, Siesta, Orchard, Noplinko, DeMaisie..."

From 11/4/11. Grayson just told me that when the dog was barking that she was saying, "I want to go to college. I want to go to college. I want to go to college."

I swear. We don't pay him to say this stuff...

From 10/18/11. Grayson said to me tonight, "You know, it's so rainy and chilly some hot apple spider would be great!" And he said it with such a sense of belief that what he was saying was accurate that I didn't even gag at the prospect of what that would taste like if he knew...

From 10/6/11. Grayson's evening wisdom as we watched a video of GilChrist retreat center as I tried to explain to Grayson where I was and what I was doing this week. I told him I went away to be alone and quiet and to pray. Grayson said, "What did you pray for?" I told him I prayed for lots of things...but also for him. He said, "And did you pray for the whole world to be wise?" Sigh...words from the wisest.

From 9/28/11. Conversation with the boy tonight proceeded thusly...
Grayson: Mama, how old are you again?
Me: 39.
Grayson: You are almost 100! Great job! You get a star and are very smart!

Me:...um...good?

From 9/15/11. was just told by Grayson that he thinks his eye is broken. The problem? He can blink once, but when he blinks twice it hurts. I asked him how he did with three or four blinks. He told me that was, "just great, Mommy...it's just when I blink twice that it breaks." Take heed, double blinkers, lest your eyes break too.

From 9/13/11. when we said our evening prayers tonight Grayson and I talked about what the word "Amen" means. Afterward he said, "I love this word. I can say 'Amen' to everything. 'Amen, Amen, Amen.' My family. My school. Amen. Amen." I certainly don't think of myself as a holy roller, but I rolled just a little in joy with his wonder.



And that, my friends, is the Grayson James Pettit report for the past three months. You heard it here first.

The Almost and the Not Yet--Sermon 11/27/11

The Almost and the Not Yet

Waiting has never been my gift. Never. I disclose this to you in full candor, as we enter this season of waiting. Waiting has never been high on my list of priorities. I am not a patient person. I’m not good at waiting for things to gestate, waiting for things to unfold, waiting for the truth to emerge. I tend to have a bit of a lead foot, because I like to get places faster and I’m not patient enough to just enjoy the ride, only to find that I’m early and have to, guess what…WAIT! I bring things to occupy myself when I have to wait in doctor’s offices, or appointments to have my oil changed, or while I wait for Brynn to get finished with ballet. I am the queen of cross-stitching or dish towel knitting, or crossword puzzles tucked into bags at conferences, or family reunions so I can always do two things at once. I even have a book loaded on my I-phone, so I can stop and read at railroad crossings without having to feel as if I wasted time waiting. When I run I have to listen to NPR, so I’m doing two things at once. And I confess that D.H. Lawrence is my least favorite writer because the major theme of all his books is the anticipation and the waiting. I don’t even like ketchup that isn’t in squeeze bottles, because the waiting for it to flow out of glass containers seems to take an eternity. I am a hopeless case.

And so, the Christmas season has always been sort of a whirlwind for me. Between wrapping presents, and decorating the house, and mailing Christmas cards, and purchasing gifts, and baking the occasional cookie, I find myself immersed in the briskness of the season, and to be honest, there are times when I like when the action keeps me moving. And I have a feeling that I am not alone in this. I have a feeling that there may be a few of you in this sanctuary who understand this inability to just be, to just wait, and are already impatiently wondering if I’ll ever get to the point (that is if you haven’t already started making your grocery list on the back of an offering envelope, or started playing tic tac toe with your seat mate). Sitting and waiting, being attentive, is not a strong suit for many of us in a world that tweets, and Facebooks, and instant messages, and texts. It is difficult to sink into the contemplative side of ourselves, and so (and for those of you who have been waiting for the point, here it is) the simple message that is relayed in Mark, the message to watch and wait, can feel like an impossible task.

This morning we dive head first into the first Sunday of Advent, a time when we examine some of the paradoxes of the Advent season. And the first crucial paradox is this one of time. We live in an almost and not yet world. We are almost ready to welcome the child of light, and we are perpetually not ready for him to come. We desperately desire the presence of peace, and we don’t know how we will operate when it arrives. We remain hyper-vigilant and watchful, and yet aware that we are in luminal time for the Messiah has not yet arrived. And so we hurry up…only to wait. We live between expectation and realization.

The scripture this morning from Mark, the words of Jesus about watching and waiting are not words of the faint of heart. There is an apocalyptic edge to them as we talk about the son of God coming, but I don’t think this edgy end of the world stuff was quite what Jesus wanted us to pay attention to, or quite what those who chose the texts for the lectionary this morning had in mind. You see, the gospel of Mark was written on or about the year 70 A.D. and the audience for whom Mark wrote had been waiting around for Jesus to return for quite a while, most of them their whole lifetimes. There were questions for these small bands of faithful about whether or not Jesus had been the real deal, for he hadn’t come back yet. He hadn’t come to redeem the people and create the new world yet. And so the words that Mark records, these words of Jesus, were addressed to a people trapped in their own liminal, in their own questions about what it meant to hurry up to be ready for the coming kingdom and then being forced to wait for it to arise.

There are churches that read these words of Jesus and have used them at times as baseball bats to pommel the faithful into submission, threatening those who step out of line by holding a threat of Jesus coming back bigger and better, but most Biblical scholars have come to agree that these words were actually not so much about the apocalypse, and more about saying to his followers, “Look, something marvelous is going to happen. You have to be alert. You have to be aware. You can’t live your lives passively. Even as you wait, you must watch.” It is about staying on our toes and not becoming too lackadaisical about our mission in this world.

And so, perhaps there is no better lesson for the first Sunday of Advent. For this first Sunday as things loom on the horizon, when we hold our breath in delightful anticipation, when we put down those things which are distracting us from the important task of embracing the quiet present. On this first Sunday of Advent, the lesson of the paradox is this, “Wait, but watch. Be passive, but actively. Embrace this simple lesson, for it can be so difficult.” Ah, the paradoxes of Advent.

There is a rich tradition which we learn from the desert fathers and mothers, mystics and wise folks who lived in the 4th and 5th centuries on the margins of society. We have nuggets of wisdom they have left behind, words which can challenge and free us. They are sort of the Zen Buddhists of our faith. And one of them was a monk by the name of John Cassian. Cassian spent years trying to figure out what it was that kept him from truly connecting with God. A lifetime spent in the search for a meaningful relationship with the divine. And finally, what he discovered, and then shared with all of us even all these centuries later was that good monks, indeed many good Christians, grappled with the sin of acedia. Anyone heard of it? Anyone want to confess to it now? Acedia has been one of the least understood, and perhaps most insidious of the seven deadly sins. Essentially acedia has usually, and misleadingly, been translated as “sloth”, but it actually means “apathy” or “indifference.” John Cassian realized that it was apathy for his ministry, for the ills of the world, which kept him distant from God. Acedia can be that state of the soul where we have simply given up, or simply lost hope, or simply tuned out, or simply decide to coast on auto-pilot. And perhaps this can be the biggest distraction from a connection with God, and our ability to work as Christians in the world.

And so this call that Jesus offers on this first Sunday of Advent, the call to keep awake seems to be the cure-all for any of us who occasionally lull into despondency, or apathy, or acedia. This call to keep awake, prods us from our spiritual exhaustion, or spiritual futility, our spiritual listlessness, or spiritual ennui, and reminds us that we are on the verge of a new creation, one that God does not want us to sleep through. And so this first step in our Advent journey, our wake up call, is to be mindful of the ways in which we allow ourselves to be distracted, to be side-tracked.

And after that realization, after the naming of this insidious missing of the mark, we can awaken anew to the sacredness that the next four weeks can offer. Knowing that the path to God invites us to attentiveness, it is our duty to step into that place of holy expectation and see where God calls us, what God wants us to do, and who God wants us to become.

The poet Mary Oliver wrote these words in her poem The Summer Day, “I don’t know what prayer is, I do know how to pay attention.” And this paying attention to what is beautiful, to what is real and alive and authentic, to what is wild and precious, is itself a kind of prayer. Perhaps we do this through listening more carefully to the words of our children. Perhaps we do this through watching more astutely as the trees are silhouetted against the pink of a sunset. Perhaps we do this through heeding the words of Jesus to love our neighbors, and then feel called to volunteer to deliver food to someone in need, or buy gifts for families who have so very little. Perhaps we do this by expanding the boundaries of our comfort zones and learning more about the needs of the world and asking how we can make a difference. However it happens, we can be called into places of attentiveness, and these places of attentiveness can beckon us on the Advent path.

Peter von Breemen in his book, The God Who Won’t Let Go, shares the holy task, the holy balance of the almost and the not yet in this way. He writes, “The essence of prayer is our waiting, our letting go, our bearing with our own inadequacy…waiting does not come easily. God will come, there is no doubt about that, but in God’s own time. And this waiting is not dead empty time.”

As we prepare to welcome the Christ child, as we take our first steps on the way to the manger, may we recognize that our waiting can be holy time. Our waiting can transform us. Our waiting can beckon us into a deeper relationship with God. May we remain awake and alert, in this time pregnant with hope.

Amen.

A Passing Glance--Sermon 11/20/11

A Passing Glance

Our four-year-old Grayson has recently added a new bedtime tactic which has led me to wonder if he does not have a brilliant career ahead of him as an auctioneer. While Robert and I for the past four years or so have lived under the illusion that we have had our grip on the household, running it as our own little loving dictatorship which Grayson has tolerated with a modicum of respect and obedience, we are now starting to see the roots of revolution rise up. There is our own Arab Spring happening on Strathdon Drive, our own Occupy movement in the bathtub each night as the preschooler who loves to soak in bubbles stages his protest of “Heck no, I won’t go.” I have found negotiating in the role of management, while he acts as representative on behalf of his own little union. “Five more minutes!” I command. “Ten!” he counters. “Seven minutes, but only one book.” “Nine minutes, and two books,” he counters. “Seven minutes and two books, and that’s my final offer.” I grudgingly announce. And yet, even with the offer on the table I find myself reconsidering. For Grayson is a master negotiator and he puts all his skills into the task. He gives me puppy-eyes and demonstrates that his fingers are not yet prune-like. He shows me the wooden boat he likes to play with. He promises not to splash. I pause and find myself counter-offering again, “Okay, okay, I give up. What’s an extra minute going to hurt. You win. But no complaining when I brush your hair.” “Sold! Sold to the lady who adores her son beyond all reason, and who still wants to maintain a sense of authority and, well, mystery and power. Sold to the lady who desperately wants to be fair, but also wants to make sure her child gets to sleep at a reasonable hour.” I suspect if you are a parent you’ve had these sorts of conversations in your own home. Or at one point of your life or the other you may have been on the receiving ends of the negotiations with parents or authority figures of your own. The conversation around borrowing the car, or staying out past curfew, or getting that extra ear piercing. And in authentic relationships, those gives and takes, those banterings and barterings, really can lead us into understanding one another in a deeper way, even if they exhaust us in the process. For by asserting what we need, and by listening to the other, there are compromises which lead us down new roads of relating.

Which leads us this morning naturally into learning more about that little confab that Moses had with God on Mount Sinai in the thirty-third chapter of Exodus. But first a brief backstory, a little reader’s digest condensed version of what brought God and Moses to that talk that day. You see, Moses had been leading the Israelites on a long, long journey, an insanely long journey. And Moses had taken a little time away from his people, a little break to get the latest news from God, a break to get away from the backseat whining and wailings of “Are we there yet?” and “I have to go to the bathroom.” Moses had been away from the people, up on the mountain receiving the ten commandments. He hadn’t been gone that long, but things had gotten a little rowdy at ground level while he was away. If you wonder what that party was like you can watch Cecil B. Demille’s version of it--you’ll see lots of dancing girls and special effects as the people worshipped a golden calf which symbolized the pagan religion that the Israelites had left behind. Who knows why these forebears of ours in our Judeo-Christian heritage got so rambunctious that day. Perhaps they were bored down there waiting for Moses, perhaps they wanted some tangible thing to symbolize a god, perhaps the yearning for the familiar of their past religion became the panacea they needed on that long wait. Perhaps they just began to doubt who was calling them on their journey, and if this God was really present.

Regardless, God wasn’t happy about it--called them a few names, including stiff-necked, which I don’t know about you, but seems to be fighting words of a sort. And here is where we pick up the story…with Moses the negotiator, with Moses who stands in the gap between God and the people and speaks in defense of these people who he has led, and who he has grown to love, even in all their rebellion and whining.

In verse twelve Moses, the one who has always had God’s ear, the one who has trusted the vision which God has cast seems to have reached his breaking point as intermediary. In a move of utter chutzpah and gutsy nerve Moses minces no words as he speaks to God. In the contemporary words of Eugene Peterson’s The Message, a modern day version of scripture, Moses says frustratingly to his Lord, “Look, you tell me, ‘Lead this people,’ but don’t let me know whom you’re going to send with me. You tell me, ‘I know you well and you are special to me.’ If I am so special to you, let me in on your plans. That way, I will continue being special to you. Don’t forget, this is your people, your responsibility.” Whoooo…talk about speaking truth to power, talk about calling someone on the carpet, talk about venting feelings. Moses has moxie. He’s not afraid of telling it like it is. And he’s not afraid of reminding God, the creator of heaven and earth, what’s on his mind. He doesn’t like the threats to abandon the people. And he’s sick and tired of wondering what’s next on this journey of faith.

Has it every occurred to you that Moses was speaking to the one who created him, was speaking in essence to the divine parental figure? Moses was speaking to one who had the power to squash him like a bug to smite him or ignore him or abandon him? And yet, Moses spoke. And perhaps this is our first inkling of the power of this story. The relationship that Moses had with his God was so profound, was so intimate, was so interactive, that he was not afraid of speaking the truth. He wasn’t afraid of naming his frustration. He did not feel powerless in the face of a problem or conflict. The first lesson we learn is that we are free to speak, even angrily, with the God who has broad shoulders and can take our questions and feelings.

But the scripture deepens, for in verse fourteen, God reconsiders and acquiesces. God says in one simple sentence, in essence, “you’re right, Moses.” With these words God speaks, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” The Hebrew translation for “presence” is actually the word “face.” God’s face will be turned toward these people, God will see the journey through. And perhaps this is the second little nugget for us to grab hold of, God is not one who abandons us. Like any good parent, God may be frustrated, there may be days when God wouldn’t mind pretending like he doesn’t know his children when they have a screaming fit in the grocery store, for instance. And, let’s be honest, building those idols must have really, really ticked God off—I mean, that was sort of like his was children thumbing their nose at their father, but, ultimately, God proclaims that he would be faithful and God will forgive again and again. So lesson number two of the morning offered, God promises faithfulness.

But, this little encounter in Exodus offers our 21st century ears even one more thing. After the little bargaining session with Moses and God, there is this last perplexing exchange. Moses wants just one more thing from God, just one more little favor. Since the Israelites have been forgiven, and since Moses is doing this leading, than would it be too much, Moses, asks, too much at all if God wouldn’t mind turning a face so that Moses might see God face to face? This was a bold proposition. For it was believed in Jewish tradition that to see God face to face might lead to death. One could not stand the utter glory of God and continue to live. And, well, Moses had already seen God when he got those ten commandments on the mountain a little earlier. So, why ask now? Did Moses want to be equal to God? To show that he could stand eye to eye with the divine? Did Moses want some reassurance of who he was dealing with? Did Moses want to fully understand the mystery of this one who was at times unfathomable?

The dialogue closes with God denying Moses’s request. For, while God will relate to Moses, and while God will not abandon Moses or his people, there are ways in which God will still be God. And ways in which God must still be God, and ways in which part of our faith is to walk into the mystery of that relationship and trust the one who reaches out to lead us, and promises not to abandon us.

But like any good negotiator, there is one exception that God will make for Moses. One final offer God places on the table, a little incentive to thank Moses for all his hard work. In verses 21 through 23, God offers a counter-offer. God says, “See, there is a place by me where you shall stand on the rock; and while my glory passes by I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I have passed by; then I will take my hand, and you shall see my back; but my face shall not be seen.” And with that, God sweeps through in a way we cannot even imagine, perhaps with rushing wind, or silent majesty, all the while protecting Moses by shielding him safely with the palm of his hand. Hiding the sensitive eyes of his beloved child, allowing him to rest safely in the mystery of grace. And this, I believe is our third lesson. Not only does God invite us to share all of ourselves, not only does God forgive and faithfully accompany us, God also safely shields us and invites us to linger in the mystery, and that sense of mystery and wonder can be a beautiful place.

The Persian mystic, Rumi, once wrote, “Mysteries are not to be solved/ The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why.”

My prayer for each of us on this Sunday as we enter into a holiday of thankfulness and gratitude, is that we remember that the mystery of God’s presence is enough for us to rest in. The core of God’s grace is a safe place to tarry. And we can trust the faithfulness of the God who desires deep relationship with us. May our eyes focus not on trying to solve the mystery, but instead marvel at the shining glory that we glimpse only in passing. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Being and Being Better--Sermon 10/30/11

Being and Being Better

I want to tell you the story of a little church. A church which began as a new church start in a blossoming part of Fort Wayne. A church which began with a mission, but no building. A church which instead spent gathered in a business space, where they could rent a room. But there were those who believed that there could be more, who believed in the ministry that was happening, those who believed in sharing the Gospel as best they could. And a vision was shared, the vision for a new sanctuary. And money was gathered, and architchetural plans were drawn, and cornerstones were placed. And the people believed in the church. And it grew. And before long an education wing was added, and nursery school was invited to join ranks, and new rooms were needed and so another wing was added. It was the little church that could. And it did.

And then after time of steadiness, establishing rituals, naming their mission, recognizing who they were and what they wanted to become there were a few changes which rocked the boat. Pastoral changes, and demographic changes, and growing churches around them. And as other churches in the area grew, some of the little flock left. And as some of the changes happened, it wasn’t as easy to remain hopeful. And there came a time when the church faced a feeling of true loss, and when they were even asked by a pastor whether they could keep their doors opened.

But in the midst of that fear, and in the questions and doubts, there remained a remnant of people who dug their heels in and believed in the church, and believed in what it meant to follow the steps of Christ. It was these people, this cloud of witnesses, some of whose names we heard read this morning, some of whom still sit in the pews with us, who believed in digging their faith deeper, and who trusted that God would lead them out of the wilderness they felt they had been led.

It is to these sorts of people, to the believers, to the hopers, to those who remain that Paul spoke when he wrote his letter to the Hebrews. His letter was in essence this, “Keep on keeping on. And thank you for it.” When Paul wrote this letter, this letter which encouraged them to run the race set before them, he knew what they were going through. He knew what kind of ministry that had once been, and then hadn’t been, but could be again.

At that time, the second coming had been promised. The date had been predicted. And so these Christians that Paul wrote had lived their lives day by day, in anticipation of that event. And still year had followed year. The oppressive government of Caesar still ruled and had not been overthrown. Christians were still mistreated by the government and there was no let-up in sight. Congregations that followed Jesus were taunted by unbelievers who asked, “Where is your Lord that he doesn’t get busy and do something?” Or when they weren’t taunted, they were ignored, as if they did not exist. Time passed for them slowly. Some believers left the flock. There was talk of giving up. “Why keep on?” they asked.

Many of you know already, that I am a runner. I’m not fast, in fact I laboriously lumber up and down the streets or around the track. I’m not graceful, I have been known to trip and break an arm or toe. And I am here to tell you that the idea of a runner’s body being muscular is a myth in my case. Up until a month ago I had never run in a race, despite the more than twenty-two years I’ve spent running. But this year, this year, I decided things would be different, and in an effort to raise some money for the nursery school, Tonja Ashton and I loped through the streets of Fort Wayne at a healthy ten minute per mile pace for six whole miles. And as I think of that day, I remember the crowds gathered on the streets, calling our names, ringing cowbells, waving to us and offering us water, or at one eccentric place, even offering shots of beer [we didn’t partake…]. I remember the ecstasy of the last few hundred yards as we circled the Parkview stadium and ran across home plate. But just as much, just as often as I consider that day of glory, I remember more the training that got me there. I remember running five miles in the rain, and one afternoon at Foster Park at dusk when I had run for a good forty minutes straight and thought, if I take one more step I will surely pass out right here on these pretty roses. I remember mornings of lacing up my shoes and wondering why I was committing myself to this thing which seemed impossible. But all that training, all those miles, was where the race was really determined: not when we started out like a big happy parade crowded together; not even when we ran faster toward then end and saw our faces on the jumbo-tron, but in those long lonely runs in rain, on those days when I had to walk after fifteen minutes and cursed myself, on those days when I bandaged my blisters and doubted my abilities. The race was determined because of the training. The race was completed because I persevered.

This morning we celebrate All Saint’s Day, we remember all of those saints who persevered in running the race of faith. We remember people like Harvey Miller, who built the cross which stands behind us. We remember people like Phil Dunkle, who dressed as Santa Claus for countless years to make our children laugh. We remember Lowell McLaughlin who was a charter member of this church and one of its first board chairs. We remember Wallie Sterling, and Jo Condo, Bob Rich, and Brenda Kelly and many, many others. Beloved members of this body who lived lives of extraordinary ordinariness. Folks who loved their families, and loved their God, and lived out their faith in everyday life. People who persevered not just when there were smiling crowds and finish lines but long lonely cold runs with blisters on top of blisters. We remember the great cloud of witnesses who have run their race and who, in running it, cleared another path for us.

In his book, The Screwtape Letters, the writer C.S. Lewis tells us a thing or two about perseverance. The book is written as a compilation of letters from an old devil to a young apprentice devil about how to deal effectively with Christians. In one of those letters, old Screwtape has this advice: “It is so hard for these creatures called Christians to persevere. The routine of adversity, the gradual decay of youthful hopes, the quiet despair of ever overcoming the temptations with which we have again and again defeated them, the drabness which we create in their lives—all this provides admirable opportunities of wearing out a soul by attrition.” Now, I don’t buy into the idea that there is a devil training program, but I love style with which Lewis writes and the truth about Christian life that he speaks.

The testing of our faith usually comes not in those mountain-top experiences of life, those moments which are the flashbulb, still-frame images of our memory. The testing of our faith instead comes on those drab day-to-day, ho-hum, no-big-deal days. Just as the testing of our commitments to our partners don’t come in the day we stand in front of the church and take our vows, but comes in the middle of the night when we sit together with a croupy baby, or negotiate car pools, or face midlife crises. The testing of our faith comes not when our commitment to our church and its ministry involves only tangential connection, but connects us to the core of what we believe about service, and when we find our places there even when the others have abandoned it. The testing of our faith comes not when we go along with the crowd, but when we speak out in those quiet moments when we think no one is listening. It is in those thousand quiet, seemingly inconsequential moments, those miles and miles of training runs, that we commit ourselves to the great race of discipleship. That race run by the saints before us.

This week, as I’ve contemplated All-Saint’s Day, a poem by Maya Angelou has been rattling around in my head and I want to share it with you. When great souls die/ the air around us becomes; light, rare, sterile./ We breathe, briefly./ Our eyes, briefly/ see with/ a hurtful clarity. / Our memory, suddenly sharpened, / examines, / gnaws on kind words/ unsaid, promised walks never taken…/ And when great souls die,/ after a period peace blooms,/ slowly and always/ irregularly. Spaces fill/ with a kind of / soothing electric vibration. / Our senses, restored, never/ to be the same, whisper to us./ They existed. / We can be. Be and be/ better. For they existed.

I believe that this is what it means for us to continue to run the great race, surrounded by that cloud of witnesses. We can be. We can be in all our humanity, and all our messiness. We can be in all our weakness, and all our fragility. And we can be in all our striving for the good, in all our earnest desire to follow Christ. We can be and be better because we have known the saints who have gone before us, the saints who have persevered, the saints who have run this path a time or two before. We can be. And we can be better, for they existed.

If you come close to the worship table after the service you can feel the heat of all these candles. Already you can see the light they cast. Those who have gone before us in this congregation, and in our own lives, have left a legacy. And because we remember them, they live here, just as surely as they live in the realms of light beyond.

Friends, all too soon the bell will toll for us. Take this day to ponder the legacy you leave. Consider the path you want to clear for the next runner. Wonder about what you will do in those quiet moments when your faith is tested. And above all, friends, may we look to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who will lead us all the way home.

Amen.