Contemplative Chaplain

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

2011-12-19T11:00:00.001-05:00

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...

2011-12-06T18:30:00.000-05:00

...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

2011-12-04T19:30:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-29T18:40:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-28T19:18:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-20T20:55:00.000-05:00

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

2011-10-30T16:44:00.001-04:00

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.

American Boy

2011-10-20T20:25:00.001-04:00

So, the American Girl catalog came to our house today (as it does every year since Tess and Brynn were 5 or 6 years old). Robert saw it and put it in the recycling bin, but in a fit of wanting to make sure we had gender equity and non-sex-segregated toys in our home I pulled it out of the bin and gave it to Grayson, saying, “Look…you got a catalog today! It has some ideas for what Santa might bring you…”

Grayson was excited! He got mail!

And then he sat on the floor and started looking through it. “Ummm, Mama,” he said, “Ummm…where is the boy department in this book?” I explained that boys and girls could have dolls…and then I leafed through and folded down the boy doll pictures. I explained that boys and girls can both like dolls, that there was nothing wrong with it, and that there were boy dolls too! Grayson looked carefully, pausing at some pages, and then he put the catalog down and said, “Mama, I just don’t think dolls are my thing.” And then he paused and said, “Okay?”

Of course, of course, my sweet. Thank you for humoring your feminist mommy…

“Now what do you want to get for Christmas, Grayson?” I asked…He pointed to some wrapped presents on the cover of the American Girls doll catalog. “I think I’d like something wrapped up like that with something in it I would like.”

“What would that be?” I asked…

“Ummm…Mama, I don’t know…but probably not a doll. Remember, just remember, Mom. I’m not a doll kind of person.”

Gotcha.

And then three hours passed…and I was moving the catalog to the recycling bin myself. And Grayson said, “Mama, let’s just keep this here right now. It’s still really cool…” Then he hid it carefully behind the pink chair in our parlor. Into his secret hiding place. He said, “Now it’s safe. Now it won’t be thrown away…and also, Mommy, here’s a magic wand to play with. And I think I’ll start calling you ‘Your Majesty.’”

And, to think I worried that he wouldn’t be a feminist.

Sincerely,
Her Royal Highness of the Recycling

"Thy Kingdom Come"--Sermon 9/25/11

2011-09-26T10:25:00.001-04:00

Thy Kingdom Come

Jesus was in the heart of his ministry. The disciples were joining, the crowds were gathering. Seeing Jesus heal and hearing him speak had become stranding room-only events. His words were words that set the people on fire. His message was one which could never have been imagined before in that time. He had become a prophet of the first order, and his words were both challenge and comfort. And it was, at this time, as the crowds fanned in to hear him, and as his polling numbers had risen to their height, that he was asked an important question. And the question, posed by some of those who followed him, by some of those who wanted to be the favorite of their teacher, by some who wanted to be assured of how to please their master, was a relatively simple one. Perhaps it was just one of them who nuzzled their brother to the front to ask, or maybe a few of the disciples rallied together to implore Jesus. However it happened, the question was asked, “Jesus, who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

You see, they had been listening to all this talk of the kingdom, of the coming reign of God, of the mystical union of Mr. Rogers neighborhood and streets of gold that they had been wondering about. They knew that the kingdom was near, that the meek and the persecuted and the poor were welcomed there. They knew that they were to strive for the kingdom, and they knew that Jesus was at the heart of telling stories about this place. They knew that the kingdom was like a mustard seed that grew to enormous proportions if left unfettered. They knew that like yeast that could do mysterious things to bread causing it to rise the kingdom of God would also grow. They knew that there was joy in the kingdom, joy akin to finding treasure in a field, and joy akin to hauling in nets and nets full of fish. They knew that they had been promised keys to heaven. And they knew it had many rooms. They knew the stories they had been told by a loving teacher, but they still must have had swirling thoughts in their head about this mysterious other-worldly, out of time world. Its values antithetical to the world they knew. What was important in the here and now would be tilted upside down there. What was clung to on earth would have no bearing in heaven. And the questions they would ask about the kingdom reveals not ignorance, as much as earnest desire.

“Jesus, who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

I find myself wondering what it was they expected to hear. Were they wanting reassurance that they were worthy of the kingdom? Were they wanted Jesus to name names? Were they competitive, wanting one of their names to be spoken and not their rival? Did they really expect an answer that would even make sense to them given their confusion about the kingdom of heaven after all?

Jesus didn’t answer the disciples. Not a word was spoken. But as they stood, with baited breath, he turned from them and called to him a child, a child who may have been standing with a parent nearby, or who may have been playing in the dust of the ground. A child, a paidion (pie dee own), one between three and five years old, not entirely unlike the little ones we minister to here at The Children’s Nursery school, was beckoned by a gentle Jesus into the circle of disciples. Jesus told a story with a simple gesture. All the while the disciples stared on, watching the lesson unfold.

Jesus placed the child before them. Perhaps he held the child close to his chest, or urged his disciples to make their way down closer to the ground to look at this little one eye-to-eye. And with the disciples looking on, he said quietly and reverently, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And then he added even more, perhaps still standing eye to eye with the little one gathered in their midst, surrounded by these grown up men, “and whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.”

I’ve been thinking about this verse throughout the week as we consecrate our nursery school teachers, as we celebrate their teaching in our midst, as we recognize our Sunday school teachers and as we emphasize our commitment to education. And I’ve been thinking about this verse in light of the fears I sense in our world. It’s hard not to ponder the problems with our national economy, as we wonder about the future of our planet, as we worry about what kind of world we are offering our children. There are dark days pressing around us. Days when I am almost afraid to turn on the news for fear of what I will learn next. There are times when I wonder if the kingdom of God is all some aberration. There are days when I want to shake my fist and demand that the human race figure out how to do better than we’ve been doing. And I have to ask, “How do we as the United Church of Christ, people who believe in ushering in the kingdom of God in the here and now, who believe in the power of the kingdom to burst forth in this world, how do we make that happen?”

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we have in answering that question comes when we listen to the ones who Jesus pointed toward, when we listen to children.

Our building is hopping all week with our littlest ones. That may be easy to forget if you’re only a Sunday morning dweller here at Peace, but our Children’s Nursery School little ones call our building home. They wander in and out through the doors, leave their handprints on the walls, scuff their shoes on the floors, drop tiny goldfish crackers on the carpet. They also bestow on those of us who are blessed enough to get to know them random moments of unexpected grace as they offer us hugs, or sing in warbling voices sporadic songs in the hallways, or look at us with eyes filled with hope. And the best way for us to welcome the kingdom, is to follow Jesus’s example and welcome the little ones.

This week I was talking with another parent about my sermon this week. I was sharing that I wanted to talk about the kingdom of God, and how we instill faith in our children, and how hard that was to do when I felt so little hope right now in the world. I lamented and I despaired and I wrung my hands in misery and may have even said, “Oh, woe is me, how do I preach…woe is me.” And she said calmly and with pragmatic certainty, “Then, perhaps, you should spend a little time in the nursery school this week instead.” And I remembered the words of Jesus, that to enter the kingdom we must become like children. To enter the kingdom, we must sit in little chairs, and watch with big eyes, and touch with small hands, and trust with open hearts.

And so what does it mean for us as a church community to usher in the kingdom of God? What does it mean for all of us as a community to embrace child-like ways that we may be instruments of the holy spirit?

I believe we begin by looking at our brothers and sisters with child-like attitudes of truth and openness. I believe we begin with facing our deepest fears. I believe we begin by trusting that the world is a good place, and that we were created for good. I believe we begin by listening to the stories of Jesus. And I believe this leads us to worlds of hope anew. But it all begins with welcoming children.

My grandmother died five years ago. This week would have been her 95th birthday, and so my mind has been drifting back and forth to her this week. I’ve found myself reflecting on the legacy she left and on the lessons she taught me and to the ways in which she shaped me. I learned from her what it meant to welcome children—to welcome their passion, and their wonder, and their questions, and in so doing, create an inkling of what it means to be part of the neighborhood of God. One afternoon a year or so before she died, I went with my mother to take my grandmother to lunch. This was often a bit of a chore to do because at that time in my grandmother’s life she had difficulty seeing and hearing. She would speak loudly, and due to a problem with double vision, one of the lenses of her glasses was tinted black. We sat, a happy intergenerational trio on that Saturday morning, at Cosmos restaurant and as we were eating our scrambled eggs and bacon a preschool girl, her pigtails bobbing, turned around in the booth in front of us and after carefully sizing up our dining party decided to strike up a conversation with my delighted grandmother, who never knew a stranger. This little one watched my grandmother hesitantly, and then said curiously, “Why’s your eye like that?” And my grandmother paused in her eating and first admired, loudly, to my mother and me, how cute the child was, how adorable was her red shirt, and then she turned her attention to the business at hand. She inched her face closer to the face of the girl and said, “Well, let me tell you a story. My eye doesn’t work very well anymore. It’s broken So, now I have this black thing here and, look, I don’t need to use my eye anymore! It’s hidden!” The little girl stared closer, the two generations almost touching nose to nose. And my mother and I held our breath, because we always worried that Grandma would get self-conscious. But we were wrong, because Ila Soderstrom was not a woman to let a little honesty from a child get her down. She welcomed the conversation, and in so doing she welcomed the child. And then the little girl said, softly in response, “Does that make you sad? To not have your eye work?” I was struck at the time how intuitive this child was, how honest she had been, how easily she offered sincere empathy. And my grandmother nodded quietly with resignation, and said, “Thank you.” I still remember that encounter, for it is a reminder to me of the power of welcoming children, and of realizing once you’ve welcomed them that they offer us a glimpse of what the kingdom of God looks like. It must be a place of honest compassion, and curious wonder, and authentic vulnerability. In that graced space where we meet one another nose to nose, generation to generation and God is there in the midst of it.

The prophetic writer Paul Grout, a Church of the Brethren sage, once wrote these words which I have kept in a quote file on my desk and have read and reread again and again, “The North American Church may be in trouble, make no mistake, The kingdom of God is not.” And that sentence resonates deep in my soul. For the kingdom of God is not made of rules and requirements about who belongs and who doesn’t, as the church can do. And the kingdom of God is not concerned with declining membership, as the church has been. And the kingdom of God is not focused on fear, as the church can do. The kingdom of God is doing just fine.

Remember: when Jesus invites us to consider the kingdom it is a child who is our example. May we be wise enough to clasp the tiny hands they offer and may we allow them to lead us into a world of hope that God’s will may be done.

Amen.

Vineyard Justice?--Sermon 9/18/11

2011-09-21T14:05:00.001-04:00

Vineyard Justice?
A prominent Homiletics professor when asked about preaching on this scripture once wrote, “The parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard is a little like cod liver oil: You know Jesus is right, you know it must be good for you, but that does not make it any easier to swallow.” (Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven, p. 100). It is one of those scriptures that tends to afflict the comfortable, and comfort the afflicted, depending on where you see yourself standing in line. It’s one of those stories which can make us feel just a little bit edgy, a little bit itchy, a little bit uncomfortable. It proposes a reversal of order, an upset of the apple cart, a topsy turviness that we didn’t see coming. It challenges the sacred assumptions of the way things should be, heck, it even calls into question our beloved Protestant work ethic.

So let’s unpack this scripture a little shall we? Let’s look a little at the message Jesus was trying to impart both for his followers that day, and for 21st century readers. The story is a quite simple one. There was once a vineyard owner. An esteemed man who invited workers to labor in his vineyard. The scripture isn’t clear on telling us whether or not this vineyard owner actually needed the help, or whether he was just providing the opportunity for work, offering the chance to make an honest day’s wage for someone in need, but regardless, there he was, first thing in the morning. Now, if you were looking to hire someone to work in your own personal vineyard back in the first century in Palestine, you’d be inclined to look for strong workers, capable workers who could harvest a hefty yield. And your best bet to find those workers would be to go first thing in the morning as the sun rose, to the marketplace. There you’d gather with other estate managers and you’d carefully examine the pooling crowds of laborers, looking for the strongest, the ablest, the one who comes from the heartiest stock, the one who has that ambitious glimmer in his or her eye.

And in our story, laborers were, indeed, hired that morning and a fair price was offered in keeping with the laws of the Torah, and all seemed content. Vineyard management team and contracted laborers alike. A deal was struck and hands were shook.

But a few hours later, after this first cream of the crop of workers was picked and already at work, the manager went back and saw that there were still others looking for work, still others unemployed, and so again the vineyard manager offered a fair price, and it was accepted, and more workers joined the workforce already toiling away in the vineyard…three hours later, but still in the morning.

This happened again three more times on that day. And workers were still crowding the marketplace, looking hungrily for work that would offer them the coveted denarius which would pay them enough to buy a meal that night. Standing idly around wondering if they would have something to provide for their families that day, something to take home to wherever it was they sought shelter at night with growling hungry bellies and dashed hopes. The pickings for strong workers with each trip to the marketplace would have gotten slim, those who were left would have been weaker, perhaps lame, perhaps elderly, perhaps infirm, those who were not wanted, or those who had been cast away by other estate owners. And yet with each trip to the marketplace, our vineyard owner invited more, and more were hired and more were offered a fair wage. One has to wonder what the other estate managers and vineyard owners in the region were saying as that last load of workers were contracted even at 5:00 in the evening and still heading out to the field to work only for an hour as the sun began to set. Was there snickering at the naievety of the vineyard owner? Was there joking about how much work would actually get done and how much money would be wasted? Surely this vineyard owner missed his Corporate Economics 101 class, or at least was sick the day they talked about profit yielding.

And at 6:00 p.m. whenever the metaphorical equivalent to the time clock was punched and the dinner bells were beginning to ring, the workers headed in from the vineyard to receive their just rewards, their compensation for their hard work under the hot sun. Sunburned and sweaty they gathered, the strong and the weak, the ones with sinewy muscular arms and strong tanned backs and the ones with the withered legs and scoliosis and sunburns. The ones who could find work any day of the week and the ones who were still puzzled at how they were invited to be hired at all. All of the workers gathered to receive their pay.

And here’s where the story gets a little wonky, here’s the part that makes us scratch our heads. The workers were lined up in reverse order of when they were hired, those hired latest were placed first in line. And these were given one whole denarius. These late-day add-ons were given a full day’s wage. It was incredible really, a full day’s wage for an hour’s work, in this economy!.

And so those in the back of the line must have begun to imagine what the weight of a pocketful of coins felt like, the jingle as they were gathered into two receptive hands. For if a denarius was offered for an hour’s worth of work, how much would twelve denari buy. And one can imagine the excited murmurings. But as each successive group of workers made it to the front of the line to receive their wages, those happy murmurings probably turned into snarling gripes, for there was just one standard payment that day for all. One denarius. Early or late to work. Strong or weak. There was one standard price, a fair and agreed upon price, but the same for all. One denarius.

And scripture says that one outspoken worker named this perceived inequity and said, in the words of Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible, “These last workers put in only one easy hour, and you just made them equal to us, who slaved all day under the scorching sun.” The anger of these first-hired workers was not just over money, it was over status. They didn’t want those who were hired later to be equated with them. Those hired later, those who would have been weaker, were in a category all their own, considered the lowest of the low. They were the ones who had been cast-aside, the ones with the invisible “L’s” on their foreheads, labeled as losers and written off for whatever reason. How dare they be considered equivalent to the hale and hearty first-hired?

The vineyard owner was pragmatic. He said, “Friend, I haven’t been unfair. We agreed on the wage of a dollar, didn’t we? So take it and go. I decided to give to the one who came last the same as you. Can’t I do what I want with my own money? Are you going to get stingy because I am generous?” The Greek version of that last little bit has a bit more bite to it. It is translated this way, “Is your eye evil because I am good?”

And so ends the story. But, if you are anything like me, you may still be left with the question. Was vineyard justice done? Was it really fair?

Any of you who have more than one child, or who were raised with siblings may have faced this very dilemma. Shortly after Robert and I married, I moved into the home which Robert shared with Tess and Brynn who were then nine and six years old, I encountered my first difficult lesson in parenting. Sometimes fairness is not easily attained. Before parenting our three children, I had been largely oblivious to the ins and outs of sibling struggle. A common refrain I learned early on in our newly formed family’s life were those three deadly words, “It’s not fair.” I learned that it wasn’t fair when one sister got to keep the dog in her room overnight and the other sister was relegated to a cold dachshund-less bed. I learned that it wasn’t fair when one sister finished the last red popsicle in the freezer while the other sister was stuck with only the dreaded toxic orange ones. I learned that it wasn’t fair when one sister was sick and got to stay home sleeping fitfully on the couch while watching the Disney channel while the other sister had to go to school. There are a thousand things that are not fair in this world, I learned. And I learned it through the eyes of two children who I loved passionately and deeply and honestly. And I found myself uttering the words to them that I believe the landowner might utter to his workers, “No, no it isn’t fair, but it is still good. Trust in what I offer you.”

Barbara Brown Taylor writes, in her book The Seeds of Heaven, “God is not fair. For reasons we may never know, God seems to love us indiscriminately, and seems also to enjoy reversing the systems we set up to explain why God should love some of us more than others of us…God is not fair; but depending on where you are in line that can sound like powerful good news, because if God is not fair, then there is a chance we will get paid more than we are worth, than we will get more than we deserve. God is not fair; God is generous.”

I have a little secret to tell you this morning. The parable of the vineyard is not about fairness. It is about grace. The God of the vineyard is the God who surprises us all with what we need, and claims we are all entitled to walk on the same ground, the weak and the strong alike, the old and the young alike, no matter who you are or where you are on your faith journey. The God of the vineyard begs us not to begrudge our brothers and sisters of their good fortune, not to look at generosity with an eye of evil. The God of the vineyard throws caution to the wind and upsets the systems of power and domination and offers a new paradigm. The God of the vineyard offers generous grace and plenty.

The psychotherapist Gerald May once wrote, “Grace threatens all my normalities.” Yes, yes, yes. Extravagant grace, freely given, is hard to get our heads around. And can shake us to the core.

This is the truth which may be hard to swallow at first, just like that cod liver oil. But once you get past those first tastes you’ll realize how sweet life is in the kingdom of our generous God, where we look upon one another with only the eyes of love.

Amen.

True Confessions of a Bunnynapper

2011-09-09T22:26:00.003-04:00

I admit it. Slap the handcuffs on me now. I kidnapped a bunny tonight.

I had accomplices, so don't send me to the clink on my own. Haul our ailing Brynn (who I might add has pneumonia so go easy on us, please) and four-year-old Grayson along with me. Please allow us to have one phone call so we can phone Robert, and wake him up from his nap (I repeat, he had no part in this bunnynapping and needs to stay home to care for the other animals to whom I have offered a piece of my soul).

The long and the short of it is this: the neighbors had a rabbit. For the past two months he has lived an eighth of a mile radius of their house. This is the second animal that they have neglected, the next-door neighbors adopted the dog who wandered the cul de sac for a good week before anyone took her in. I've tried to talk to our negligent neighbors twice, suggesting kindly and gently that perhaps it might be best for the rabbit to be moved to a safe locale. I've offered to adopt the rabbit. I've been sweet syrupy nice. I've cooed and batted my eyes.

They said the rabbit was fine. He liked to, you know, be with the wild rabbits outside so they could, you know, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Um, no. I refuse to allow rabbit solicitation or prostitution in my neighborhood. No, no, no. So I created my own little vigilante vice squad. I decided that once and for all wanton rabbit copulation, or suggestion thereof, could not happen on Strathdon Drive. No siree. Not on my watch.

The only thing to do was steal the rabbit. That's right, friends. I am now a rebel without a cause (or, wait, I guess I have a cause and my cause is this "Purity Codes for all Rabbits" or "Hey, Ho, Unprotected Rabbit Sex Just Has to Go!"). Just call me the Phyllis Schlafly of the bunny set.

I do have twinges of guilt about my role in the heist [in all honesty, I really am troubled by this, but after consultation with several neighbors who were all ready to call animal control it seemed like my own little "let my people go" moment], and my husband may not forgive me for the many dollars "we've" invested now in bunny paraphernalia, including a promise ring for Robert to give the rabbit to ensure its chastity. But, I can say that I will sleep better tonight knowing that I have curbed some of the rampant bunny madness in Crown Colony tonight.

Oil of Olay

2011-09-08T21:40:00.004-04:00

When I was a little girl, my mother smelled of Oil of Olay night cream. The bed she shared with my father was hijacked by me, her only child, at bedtime while my dad was away at church meetings or tucked away in his dark room in the basement. The two of us, cocooned in the green and blue modern print 1978ish bedspread, would lie like spoons while she read aloud to me. Each in our own Barbizon nightgowns. Each flush from our evening baths. Each exhausted from our days at school as teacher and student. Oil of Olay was the elixir of my childhood. Aromatic comfort food. Scent of safe harbor. Truest, fondest, purest smell of my life on Christopher Lane in Fort Wayne.

Tonight after my own bedtime ritual at the ripe old age of almost-40 I slathered Oil of Olay on my own face. And then, when Grayson called out, startled, I went to him in the dark and kissed his warm cheek. He said, "Mommy, My Mommy, you smell so good. You smell just like my mommy." And I lay my head down next to his and we wrapped ourselves in his soft blue blanket at peace together.

And the daughter has become the mother. And I pray that he is comforted as I was. And I see myself in that long line of strong women who nurtured and tended and read bedtime stories.

And who knew the power of a good moisturizer.

A Contemplative Chaplain Diary: The Edge of Reason

2011-09-02T00:27:00.002-04:00

6:34 p.m. Rats. The air conditioning is not functioning. Again. Just like last year. And the year before.

11:40 p.m. Will report that ACME Heating and Air Conditioning representative Vern is here to offer excellent customer service. Vern likes to explain things in detail. And mutter under his breath a lot about the shoddy A.C. which was put in originally. He blinks. Perhaps he has allergies? He shakes his head and says, “Wow…” and then reminds me he can fix it. Then he explains things again. And he draws diagrams. Lots of diagrams. Sadly, 4-year-old Grayson, the only one in our family who would care, is asleep.

11:42 p.m. Vern still on duty outside. Maisie, the miniature dachshund is hyper-vigilant and panting in her cage.

11:45 p.m. Vern and air conditioning unit still enjoying meaningful encounter in yard. I would like to go to bed, but Vern, he has other plans which include fancy red machine which looks like radar gun which beeps and tells temperature. Damn, how can Grayson sleep through this excitement?

11:46 p.m. Beginning to wonder if Vern’s inability to look me in the eye and his blinking thing is like the old veterinarian Dr. Curly who could only look at animals and not at people. Hmmm…wonder if this is a syndrome I don’t know the name of…Hmmm…will google.

11:48 p.m. Hmmm…could be NVLD, Non-Verbal Learning Disability. Will administer Myers-Briggs test to Vern in his next pass through the house to the upstairs thermostat.

11:53 p.m. I’m wondering if Vern is a 7 on the eneagram. Says that my air conditioner is an “adventure.” It’s “challenging.” I think Vern likes challenges. And diagrams. More diagrams. With arrows. And air flow charts.

11:59 p.m. Offered Vern a caffeine-free diet coke. He doesn’t “drink on the job.” Efficient Vern.

Friday
12:07 a.m. Vern replaced 4 cubic something of coolant. Same amount as last year. And asked to see paperwork on unit to see if it’s still under warranty. I produced aforementioned paperwork and billing from previous contractors. Vern actually makes the “tsk, tsk” sound with his tongue. I had only read "tsk, tsk" sound in book. Never knew it really existed. Vern, though, Vern can demonstrate. “They charged you this much? For this unit? They just had this on-hand [tsk, tsk]. They were trying to unload it. In 2010 our industry was forbidden from selling this product.” Vern is clearly being polite, but what he means is, “You got screwed big time. And I think you know I don’t have to draw you a diagram to explain that.” He could say this with his eyes, but of course, he doesn’t. Because he is studying the cat hair ball Moses just puked up on the tile floor in the kitchen instead. Vern’s eyes could speak volumes if he would only look at me. Sigh. Oh, Vern…

12:11 a.m. It’s getting cooler. I am considering making my next tattoo a little icon that says, “I [heart] Vern.” or "Vern the A.C. man + Contemplative Chaplain = Love" Or maybe I’ll just get a roving eyeball to remember our night together.

12:13 a.m. I’m thinking of inviting Vern to church. Why not make the night an evangelistic opportunity? Will ask him how his walk with Jesus is when he comes in again. Will ask him if he is saved.

12:25 a.m. Missed opportunity for conversion as Vern seemed intent on leaving me with last diagram. Vern should have PBS show like artist Bob Ross who drew “tiny trees.” Vern would also look good with white afro.

12:34 a.m. $681.30 the poorer are we. Cooler. But poorer. But I have a new friend. And shouldn’t that be all that matters, really?

Holy Ground on a State Road--Sermon 8/28/11

2011-08-30T10:58:00.000-04:00

Holy Ground on a State Road

It was the summer of 1993. I was twenty-one years old and in that liminal time in the summer before my senior year of college at Manchester. And I remember that August evening like it was yesterday, the night I experienced the holy in the ordinary and still get shivers. The night I felt, if just for a moment, as if the present held all of eternity. The night I felt that I should get out of my Honda civic and lay my Birkenstocks aside at the wonder I saw around me. It was on State Road 114 between here and North Manchester.

I was, at the time, renting a small house across from a noisy book bindery. I was commuting two hours round trip into Fort Wayne early in the mornings and again early in the evenings to work in a day care center. And the job, caring for eight infants, while, delightful was also exhausting. I had been battling with a low grade sinus infection all summer and was due to have sinus surgery. I was pondering breaking up with my boyfriend of four-years. And on that ordinary summer night I turned from my work toward home with NPR as my companion.

I want to state again that weatherwise there was really nothing remarkable about that evening. There was nothing different about my routine. But I was aware, as I graduated from I-69, to 24, to 114 that my shoulders were loosening from their customary location around my earlobes, and my breathing was steadying and deepening, and that furrow between my eyes was becoming a little less pronounced.

There was nothing different about that day. I promise. But I slowly realized as I was driving my customary route that the grass seemed greener, and the pinkish-blue of the sunset looked as if it were painted by Maxfield Parrish’s brush. The barns were so red, and even the yellow lines on the road seemed more vivid. I simply could not believe the beauty around me, the literal breath-taking beauty of a little road in Northern Indiana at sunset. I began to weep softly as I stared around me in wonder, and then I realized that I was sobbing, the kind of piercing sobs which make your face blotchy and cause your mascara to run. But I wasn’t sad. I was simply overwhelmed. Overcome with the beauty of the moment. I had not sought this. I had not anticipated it. I had instead stumbled into a sense of wonder, ushered into the presence of the holy in the ordinary. Experiencing my own mini-epiphany, a “take off your shoes” moment.

The story is told in Exodus 3:1-6 of a common man, a man who while keeping to the routine of his everyday life, while tending his flock of sheep, meanders into his own holy moment. The Moses in this story is not the Moses who leads his people to the promised land. He is not the one who parts the waters and talks with God on the mountain. The Moses who speaks in these verses is not the one with the big Charlton Heston booming voice. Instead, the Moses here is Moses the son-in-law, Moses the shepherd. Moses the guy next door. Moses was meant for great things, but at this point in Exodus, the great things have not even begun to happen yet. Moses in this story had not yet received “the call.” It is important for us to remember this.

As Moses wandered up and down those worn paths through the wilderness in Midian he stumbled upon an angel who appeared to him a flame of fire in a bush, and the text says, the bush was not consumed. This bush interrupts Moses’ work. It isn’t something Moses was searching for. And yet, Moses was open to this wonder in his midst. He responded, “I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why this bush is not burned up.” Something about this bush was so fascinating, perhaps sacred, perhaps beautiful, that Moses had to make the choice to stop and investigate. And when God saw that Moses had paused, God called Moses by name. In that liminal holy space, which Moses probably had no words to describe, God called.

Out of the fire God called, “Do not come near; put off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”

I can almost picture in my mind’s eye this young man, awkwardly unwrapping the straps of his sandals, first one foot, and then the other, filled with wonder at this mystery set before him. God was revealed as the God of Moses’ forebearers, the God of Abraham, and therefore Sarah. The God of Isaac, and therefore Rebekah. The God of Jacob, and therefore Rachel and Leah. And Moses did what was customary in those times, Moses hid his face. In a culture where God’s name was so holy that it was not even to be uttered, the thought of actually seeing God face to face must have been mind-blowing, surely one might die, the Israelites believed. And so Moses did what was proper. And in his act, he acknowledged formally that he had been ushered into the holy, that this was the real thing. In the midst of his ordinary tasks, in the midst of the mundane details of life this revelation was opened to him. It was in the not-looking, in the not-expecting, that he saw, that he was found.

I consider this phenomena a lot, because I am paid by the church to try and usher all of you into holy places. It is my job to take off my shoes. I went to college and then seminary for this. So, shouldn’t it just fall into my lap? Shouldn’t the burning bushes just blaze all around me? And yet, I have a secret to tell you, those of us with M.Div. behind our name are no more equipped to stalk the divine than a common shepherd. And the times when I have tried to seek the mystery the most, the times when I have ardently demanded God’s presence are the moments when my relationship with God seems the most distant and elusive. Not always, certainly not always, but often enough. And so in my own life I have found that it is in letting go of the search, in simply pausing to open myself to the divine, that the sacred creeps in on tiny kitten-like paws. In the everyday tasting, seeing, listening, in the routine and commonplace all of a sudden I have been pounced on by the divine, sort of like Moses just watching the sheep in Midian. Sort of like a college coed just driving down a road in North Manchester.

The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber has a name for this kind of holy encounter, the encounter where one realizes there is something more in an instant, something deeper in an event. He calls it the “I-Thou” encounter, an encounter which is outside the realm of details and physical realities but instead enters a realm of deep relationship and holiness.

In the novel, The Color Purple, by Alice Walker, a novel which takes place in the deep south before the civil rights movement, there is a perfect I-Thou encounter, a burning bush moment which I think names well some of what it means to meet the holy. In the book Shug, a former lounge singer, is recovering from a long illness and she explains to Celie, a woman horribly emotionally damaged by an abusive spouse, her theology. Shug says, “here’s the thing. The thing I believe. Sometimes God just manifest itself even if you not looking, or don’t know what you looking for. I believe God is everything. Everything that is or ever was or ever will be. And when you can feel that you’ve found It.” She continues, “My first step away from the old white man was trees. Then air. Then birds. Then other people. But one day when I was sitting quiet and feeling like a motherless child, which I was, it come to me: that feeling of being a part of everything, not separate at all…And I laughed and I cried…”

Shug had taken off her shoes after recognizing the holy. She hadn’t necessarily sought out this connection, she just happened upon it. In the presence of the mystery, her laughter and tears brought her to a sacred place. A shoe-removing place.

My hope for each of us this morning is that we may stumble across the holy around us. My hope is that we can welcome its presence even when we don’t expect it, and are even inconvenienced by it. My hope is that we, like Moses and Shug, can allow ourselves to be still to recognize the burning bushes in our own lives. And that we can pause wherever we are, whether it be Mount Horeb, or the deep south, state road 114, or in a sanctuary at Peace UCC, and that we can each take off our shoes.

Amen.

Life Going Not Backward

2011-08-28T16:15:00.005-04:00

Cue the violins. Get 'em ready. Have them tuned, because after this post they'll be swelling to magnificent proportions in our final poignant scene as our young heroine turns her face toward the light, her eyes set on a future we cannot see but can only imagine and walks purposefully into the brilliant future.

I have learned something in parenting. Raising cats is easier. This is the truth of the matter. Cats may soil your rug. They may hack up hairballs on your carpet. They may decide to take a nap on your newly ironed black pants and leave a mess of fur behind. But cats, cats will never leave to go to college. Nope. The cat, he will stay home.

The truth about parenting is that if we do it right, one day our children leave us. Whether they walk out our doors hauling shower shoes and laptops to attend college, or take that ukelele and the tiny bubble maker and head to Hawaii to become the next Don Ho, the time will come when their dreams call them into a new reality. And we can't go with them.

I'm especially mindful of this after last Friday's sojourn to Franklin College, a two-and-a-half hours drive to the south of us. The cars were laden with a mini refrigerator, a microwave, ether net cables, and more shoes than Imelda Marcos. And as we made up the bed with the turquoise extra-long sheets, and lined up the staple of the college student's existence, Kraft macaroni and cheese, on the shelf, and as we made the last minute run to Walmart to buy lightbulbs I found myself simultaneously giddy for her and puzzled for how life continues at our home without her.

Kahlil Gibran once wrote these words in his poetic masterpiece The Prophet:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

Truer words have never been spoken.

And she is already dwelling in the house of tomorrow. While I sit with the cat quietly purring on my lap.

Well, Helllloooo, Internets....

2011-08-23T17:32:00.002-04:00

Contemplative Chaplain back and reporting for duty. I know, I know, it's been a lapse of, what, three-four years? Oh, wait, let me see how old Grayson is...ah yes, yes four years. I've tried to keep you (and by "you," I mean, my one faithful and loyal reader, Ms. Sandi Buchanan, my mother's best friend out there on a mountain in North Carolina...hey, Sandi! Hey there...I see you...thanks for the encouragement and hanging with me, and thanks for sending me that curling iron back in fourth grade when my parents weren't sure I was mature enough to not burn myself!), I've tried to keep my reader(s) up to date on the whereabouts and that whatabouts of my life by dropping a few bird crumbs in the form of sermons here and there...so as to keep some hope alive for my inner-writer, some hope that I would return in time to being the blogging mistress that I once was.

But there are, alas, some complications now. For, I am no longer that same Contemplative Chaplain. I have even forsaken my coveted Association of Board Certified Chaplain title (and the $300 plus yearly dues that went with it) and cast my lot back in the land of pastoral ministry. And, so who am I? Musing Minister? Pondering Pastor? Pontificating Parson? And, there is that tricky issue of "Pastoral Authority." Seminary professors and Clinical Pastoral Educators get all sorts of hot and bothered when they took about "Pastoral Authority." Essentially, there are furrowed brows and wagging fingers by some when it comes to the issue of a pastor sharing themselves personally, or irreverently, or honestly. So, how do I navigate this terrain without being unprofessional, without embarrassing my parishioners, without being cordially invited to answer to the association ministry commission?

And further, there is this. One little person who stands about 36 inches tall who says, "Mommy, what are you doing? Why are you typing? I'm still starving. I've only had two fruit smoothies and now can I have another one [Answer: No, last time you drank three in a row you puked a technicolor smoothie Jackson Pollock on the white carpet]? Mommy, ummm...I'm really, really still starving. Can't you type on your 'puter another time?"

And yet, and yet, and yet...I miss this outlet. And I miss you all (Ms. Sandi Buchanan, reader extraordinaire), and Grayson needs to learn about patience, really, right? And so, I think I'm back. God willing and the parishioners don't mind.

The Most for the Least--Sermon 8/21/11

2011-08-22T12:22:00.001-04:00

The Most for the Least

I pause as I begin this sermon this morning mindful of the sacredness of this gathered body, composed of two distinct groups of people united in mission. The two congregations: Pleasant Chapel and Peace. The two denominations: The Church of the Brethren and the United Church of Christ. The two settings: one rural and one suburban. My roots sink deep into the soil of your denomination, Pleasant Chapel, for I am a Bethany graduate who was ordained in the Church of the Brethren for twelve years. And it was the Church of the Brethren that gave me wings to fly in to the United Church of Christ a year or so ago. And so to preach to both congregations, to both denominational affiliations feels so natural, and I am humbled to have the chance to pastor a church which shares this partnership with the Global Foods Resource Bank.

In the twenty-fifth chapter of the book of Matthew, there is a story that Jesus tells which has guided the mission of both our denominations. It is a story which cuts straight through to the heart of our faith. There is little nuance, little subtlety. It is direct and succinct. “When the Son of Man comes…” it begins.

A middle eastern shepherd often tended different kinds of animals, and sheep and goats were common combinations. Both provided a decent income. During the day they would mingle together in the fields, but as the sun set they would have to be separated. You see, goats would become too cold in the nights and needed to be kept in a place of shelter, while the sheep with their wooly coats could sleep outside under the stars. And so the evening task of the shepherd was to gather the goats, and make sure they had a safe place to rest. Each night this was the shepherd’s routine.
And so, the parable that Jesus told hearkened back to a common role that his listeners, many of whom were shepherds, or who came from shepherding families knew. Separating sheep from goats, two distinct animals, no one breed any better or worse than the other, just different types of creatures with different needs in care.

But in the story that Jesus told on that day there was a twist, for one group of animals, the sheep were gathered at the right hand of the king at the place of honor, and the other group, the goats, were gathered at the left hand. And a pronouncement was made, the sheep were welcomed into the kingdom of heaven, and the goats, well, not so much. The sheep were called “blessed” and the goats, well, not so much. The sheep were validated for the acts of caring they had offered, and the goats, not so much. But what is really mind-boggling about this text was that neither sheep nor goats seem to know why they were placed in either category. Both are genuinely surprised at the outcome. Neither group remember the circumstances which led them to be chosen, or not chosen for eternal bliss.

I confess that this scripture causes me no tiny bit of anxiety. This is a brow-furrowing scripture for me. You see, while I am earnest about my desire to follow the teachings of Christ, I fear those things which I may neglect to do. I read this scripture as a grocery list of discipleship. Okay, Jesus said we need to “feed the hungry, provide beverage for the thirsty, house the homeless, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, and visit the sick and imprisoned.” And I immediately want to run out and do each of those things: work in homeless kitchen (check), find someone who is thirsty (“Anyone here need some water?” check). And then I’ll head on over to Target and buy a few sweatsuits to pass out to those who might be cold (check). It is tempting, for us Type-A personalities, to see this story as a checklist and try to do everything on it so that we might receive tickets to the eternal kingdom.

And you know what? I have come to believe that this is not exactly what Jesus had in mind when he told the story. No, I think that there was a bigger picture that Jesus wanted his listeners to understand, a grander vision that he had in mind as he shared those words under that hot middle-eastern sun. And that bigger picture was this: It isn’t about trying to cross or “t’s” and dot our “i’s” just to score points in a grand celestial game, but instead it is about what we do in the moments when we think no one is watching, what we do when we choose to serve our brothers and sisters humbly, what we do for the one who is the most despised or alone in our society. It is about serving the least, and seeing the least, and aligning ourselves with the least, and realizing that this is where we will find the living Christ today. And it isn’t about trying to gain attention or trying to please others. What we do in the company of the least of these, whoever they are or or wherever they happen to be, is where we learn how to be true disciples.

The writer Barbara Brown Taylor in her book, The Preaching Life says this, “One thing is for sure. You cannot win the truth like a scavenger hunt, checking off one hungry person, one thirsty one, one sick one, and one in prison. You cannot toss a quarter in a cup or throw a dollar bill at an old woman in the grocery store and call it done, ‘There! There’s my good deed for the day, my ticket to eternity is with the sheep!’ You cannot use people that way, and besides, emptying your pockets may not always be the right thing to do.” [Taylor, The Preaching Life, p. 137]

But even beyond this, I think there is one more startling revelation that we can learn from the parable. And it is an admonition that we dare not ignore. The goats who are placed at the left hand of the king have not been deliberately cruel. They didn’t do anything purposefully to hurt others. They didn’t speak maliciously. They didn’t steal. They didn’t incite violence. Their sin, the thing which threw eliminated them from a chance for eternal life in the hereafter was this: they were apathetic. They simply passed over the needs of the least. They failed to look. They failed to serve. With their tunnel vision and their ability to ignore, they lost their chance to mingle with the living Christ--the Christ who came to them in the beggar, and in the prisoner, and in the stranger. The goats didn’t overtly wound their neighbors, they just neglected to notice them. The sin was in the omission. The sin was in avoiding the faces of those who were considered “the least.”

In the spring of 2002 I was at a retreat center in Three Rivers, Michigan called The Hermitage. The war in Afganistan and Iraq had only broken out a few days before. It was an agonizing time for our country in the wake of the September 11th attacks of 2001. Our country was at war in a nation that I wasn’t even sure I could locate on a map, let alone understand. I had watched the bombings and the smoke on CNN and had worried and wondered about the safety of so many people—both civilian and military personnel, Afghanis, and Iraqis, and Americans all. Like many people concerned for issues of peace in the world, I felt helpless, and I felt angry. That evening I walked into the common area of the retreat center and saw, a framed portrait hanging on the wall. I’m sure many of you have seen it as well, for it is a portrait which has graced the cover of National Geographic and has been referred to as one of the most poignant pictures of the past thirty years. It is a photo that was taken by Scott McCurry in 1984 of an Afghan girl. A child who was a refugee forced out of Afghanistan after the death of her parents. A young girl who had traveled across the border to Pakistan and settled in a camp there. In the photo this child’s crystal clear aquamarine eyes stared out from beneath the dark folds of her robe, full of anguish and innocence. And one of the nuns at the retreat center in a shaky cursive hand had posted a 4x6 card right under this photo which said simply, “This is the face of an Afghani child. May peace prevail.” I stood with those eyes staring deep into my soul. Eyes which indicted me. Eyes which haunted me. Eyes which reminded me that I was not allowed to ignore my brothers and sisters in this world who were in war zones, or hungry on street corners, or alone in alleyways. I was not permitted to be a passive witness to suffering. I was not allowed to be ignorant.

This, I believe, is what Jesus wants us to learn. As disciples of Christ we cannot afford to be apathetic. We cannot afford to avert our eyes from pain, for in doing so we do not see Jesus. We cannot choose to isolate ourselves from our neighbors, for by doing so we isolate ourselves from the Christ.

But I have to warn you that looking comes at a cost. Gazing into the eyes of the least of these is a risk. Barbara Brown Taylor says it this way, “I will tell you something you already know. Sometimes when you look into those eyes all you see is your own helplessness, your own inability to know what is right. And sometimes you see your own reflection; you see everything you have and everything you are in a stark new light. Sometimes you see such gratitude that it reminds you how much you have to be thankful for, and sometimes you see such a wily will to survive that you cannot help but admire it, even when you are the target of its ambitions. These are all things we need to know—about Jesus, about our brothers and sisters, about ourselves—but we cannot know them if we will not look.”

This morning we gather as one body to worship God, to pause in gratitude and joy for our shared mission. But, we also gather to together focus our eyes together on the least of these, in a people who reside with Christ in Mozambique where 63% of children go to bed hungry at night and where 1 in 4 adults are infected with HIV/AIDS. And then we turn our eyes toward Uganda, where the life expectancy rate is 53 years old, and where malnutrition causes tiny bellies to swell. This morning may we turn our eyes to look at the faces of these brothers and sisters in Christ. And may we know that it is our responsibility to serve those who have so little, and need so much. It is not just our responsibility it is our duty.

There is a story that has been told throughout the years. It is a classic tale offered by the Desert Fathers and Mothers, those early Christian mystics who lived in the third century in Egypt. I believe it speaks to the truth of the imperative of service. Let me share it with you:
Past the seeker, as he prayed, came the crippled and the beggar and the
beaten. And seeing them, the holy one went down into deep prayer and
cried “Great God, how is it that a loving creator can see such things and
yet do nothing about them?” And out of the long silence, God said:
“I did do something about them. I made you.” [Spirituality of
Imperfection]

We are made to see. We are made to see the least of these, and to know that in seeing them we see Christ. May it be so for us this morning. For God made us for such a time as this.

Amen.

Seeds--Sermon 7/10/11

2011-07-12T11:06:00.001-04:00

Seeds

When I was in seminary I was privileged to be part of a three week run of the musical Godspell. Many of you have seen the musical by Stephen Schwartz which is a retelling of the book of Matthew. Our cast was a motley assortment of all ages of seminary students and instead of choosing to set the production in clown garb, as it is often done, the director had chosen to set it with a Brady Bunch theme. Which meant that we wore groovy clothes circa 1975, while dancing in front of day-glo sets. Even today it is difficult for me to read a passage from Matthew without imagining that itchy polyester mini-skirt I wore, and the pigtails that curled and tickled my cheeks as I danced. But more than these visceral memories are the very real way in which the parables came alive for me, and the conversations I had with my fellow actors and seminary friends as we lived the stories.

The parable of the sower and the seed was a one of our sillier interpretations coming in the second act of the play before things became serious and we sang “By My Side,” which recognizes the fate of Jesus. And in the parable, I played the role of the seed choked by weeds, I was especially proud of my dramatic interpretation of being choked by the other actors and was allowed to demonstrate a very impressive death scene complete with gagging and hacking noises (never let it be said that I am subtle). And then, the woman whose role it was to be the healthy seed that thrived, the good seed on good soil, did a little song and dance and bowed and curtseyed to the audience.

I confess that it was a scene, though, that always left me a little uncomfortable. You see I am a worrier, and with each acting of the scene I would find myself wondering where I stood in my faith. Was I that seed that would be plucked by birds? Was I weak I on shallow ground? Was I exuberant now, only to be lured away by promises of materialism later? The odds clearly weren’t in my favor; after all, there was only a 25% chance of being the good soil.

And so I came to live with the text this week with a little hesitancy. Because let’s be honest, sometimes there are those scriptures that we don’t always get, there are those scriptures that sometimes we don’t quite have the ears to hear. I sat at my desk on Thursday and made little notes for myself to try to get my head around this scripture. I drew little stick figures…there’s the seed on the path, and look there’s my pathetic attempt at a bird pecking at it…there’s the seed on the rocky soil…there’s the sun coming out to wither the seeds away. I spent a lot of time thinking, thinking about how to convey these four soil types into modern day language. It was exasperating, sort of like a math equation. Type A soil would equal yield X. And then my eyes fell to the heading of the story in my Bible, “The Parable of the Sower,” and something clicked and it occurred to me, “maybe this is about something else…maybe this is not about what is sown, but about who does the sowing.

Barbara Brown Taylor in her book The Seeds of Heaven writes this, “We hear the story and think it is a story about us, but what if we are wrong? What if it is not about us at all but about the sower? What if it is not about our own successes and failures and birds and rocks and thorns but about the extravagance of a sower who does not seem to be fazed by such concerns, who flings seed everywhere, wastes it with holy abandon, who feeds the birds, whistles at the rocks, picks his way through the thorns, shouts hallelujah at the good soil and just keeps on sowing, confident that there is enough seed to go around, that there is plenty, and that when the harvest comes at last it will fill every barn in the neighborhood to the rafters?” (Taylor, p. 26). What if this story is instead about a grace filled God who has enough grace to waste it all over, and if that is what the kingdom of God looks like? Not one of measured careful soil analysis and calculated crop yields, but one where the seeds are scattered in abundance absolutely everywhere!

As many of you know I have a four-year-old son, Grayson. And Grayson is a fairly spirited child, to call him exuberant might be an understatement. Lately I have been trying to introduce him to an evening practice of devotion and prayer that I learned from a Quaker friend, a time of reflection meant to deepen the spiritual focus of children. I ask him when he saw the light of God shine that day, when he felt especially aware of God’s presence. Grayson tries to participate with his pastor-Mommy in this exercise. He really does. I give him examples from my own life. I say, “Grayson, Mommy felt God’s presence when I sat around the table with Tess and Brynn and Daddy and you and felt the love of my family as we had supper.” I say, “Grayson, I heard mourning doves coo and thought of God’s creation.” And Grayson scrunches up his eyes in an attitude of prayer and when I ask, “And tell me, tell me, when did you feel God?” And he’ll say, “I see God everywhere!” And then I press, “I know, but what exactly…” And quizzically he says, “In everything!” My grown-up brain tries to measure out the seeds and plant them in certain locations, guessing where the good soil is, only seeing God in those places which are known, and which are safe, and this four-year-old sees the abundant God who scatters the seeds to the wind and finds God everywhere, and opens the door to see God in everything. I view a world that rations out its sacred and puts it in safe and tidy ordered confines and he sees the abundance of a world where God’s handiwork is never separated from any of us at any time.

The parable of the sower asks us a question, and perhaps it isn’t the question of how we become good soil. Instead, maybe the question is this: how do we as a church live into the vision of this sower who practices such impractical grace? Knowing that God throws seeds even into places where they might not take hold how do we also take those kinds of risks and scatter seed everywhere? How do we imitate our own radical seed sowing?

Brian Hiortdahl in last week’s episode of The Christian Century names the truth of the scripture this way, “Beneath this parable is a bedrock assumption of abundance that we too rarely trust. There is seed enough to lose, and the God who makes sun to shine and rain to fall upon both the righteous and the unrighteous is indiscriminate about sharing. Grace is flung and wasted everywhere.”

I have come to believe that the kingdom of God must be one in which we always err on the side of grace. I have come to believe that the kingdom of God must be one where we stop trying to decide which of our brothers and sisters in the world is worthy of love, and which we will do not feel safe taking chances on. I have come to believe that the kingdom of God must be one where all are welcomed, even if they are different than we are, or threaten what we believe. And I have come to believe that the kingdom of God must be one which is characterized by sowing seeds everywhere, and not just in safe rows which we can control and shape to fit our purposes.

I want to close by reading to you a retelling of this parable by Barbara Brown Taylor from the perspective of the sower:

Once upon a time a sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell along the path, and the birds came along and devoured them. So he put his seed pouch down and spent the next hour or so stringing aluminum foil all around his field. He put up a fake owl he ordered from a garden catalog and, as an afterthought, he hung a couple of traps for the Japanese beetles.

Then he returned to his sowing, but he noticed some of the seeds were falling on rocky ground, so he put his seed pouch down again and went to fetch his wheelbarrow and shovel. A couple of hours later he had dug up the rocks and was trying to think of something useful he could do with them when he remembered his sowing and got back to it, but as soon as he did he ran right into a briar patch that was sure to strangle his little seedlings. So he put his pouch down again and looked everywhere for the weed poison but finally decided to pull the thorns up by hand, which meant that he had to go back inside and look everywhere for his gloves.

Now by the time he had the briars cleared it was getting dark, so the sower picked up his pouch and his tools and decided to call it a day. That night he fell asleep in his chair reading a seed catalog, and when he woke the next morning he walked out into his field and found a big crow sitting on his fake owl. He found rocks he had not found the day before and he found new little leaves on the roots of the briars that had broken off in his hands. The sower considered all of this, pushing his cap back on his head, and then he did a strange thing: He began to laugh, just a chuckle at first and then a full-fledged guffaw that turned into a wheeze at the end when his wind ran out.

Still laughing and wheezing he went after his seed pouch and began flinging seeds everywhere: into the roots of trees, onto the roof of his house, across all his fences and into his neighbors’ fields. He shook seeds at his cows and offered a handful to the dog; he even tossed a fistful into the creek, thinking they might take root downstream somewhere. The more he sowed, the more he seemed to have. None of it made any sense to him, but for once that did not seem to matter, and he had to admit that he had never been happier in all his life.

Let those who have ears to hear, hear. (Taylor 28-29. The Seeds of Heaven, Westminster John Knox Press, 2004).

May our God’s abundance inspire us to be radically giving and sowing as well.

Amen.

Listen--Sermon 7/3/11

2011-07-05T10:07:00.001-04:00

Listen
When I was in preschool, I would wait patiently to hear my Dad’s footsteps walking in the back door at around 11:30, as he rode his bike home from the church for lunch with my mom and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, I often had my dad’s undivided attention and we’d wander into the living room for our noon-time confab (which as the parent of a four-year-old now, I realize was probably a tremendous relief for my stay at home Mom who had been trapped in the house all day with a child who could be a bit locquacious, not unlike her son is now). Each day Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at the office. I’d tell him how many times the ping pong balls got dropped on the head of Captain Kangaroo that morning. He’d tell me which of the parishioners had stopped by to say hello and have a cup of coffee with him while he was working on his sermon. I’d put on a ten minute dance recital for him. He’d teach me that magic trick where a quarter came out of my ear. Most days this was our routine.

The story is told by my parents, that one day our routine was interrupted. It was, I believe, during the time of Richard Nixon’s resignation and the papers were filled with juicy tidbits and details. While my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the national news. This was not a normal day in my world, which revolved around only me. As many times as I would try to catch my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal-Gazette with only a half-hearted, “hmmmmm…” or “oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious preschooler can muster, and when I could stand it no further, I climbed onto his lap, scrunching the paper underneath my tiny body by sitting on it, and then took his two whiskered cheeks in my little hands. I turned his face toward me and put my nose mere inches from his and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you! I need to know you’re listening!”

This morning, we’re going to talk about listening. And what it means to listen for the Word of God. So often in our media-saturated culture we hear so much spoken, chaos and cacophony. It is hard to know who we should listen to, but more than that, I fear we are forgetting how to listen. For the kingdom of God cannot be created in this world unless there are people there to listen to the Word. The theologian Nelle Morton talks of our life in faith as, “hearing one another into being.” We need to listen, to be faithful disciples as well.

The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we discover in Mark is always busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always doing. He’s always on the go. Reading the book of Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has these marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples, welcomes children…[sigh]. And then lather, rinse, repeat. The next day starts and he does it all again without even breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness and standing on one foot. He’s one of those kind of guys, a multi-tasker, an up and comer. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning, “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus was here, and now look, immediately he did this.” “At once he was over there and then, voila, immediately he did something else.” That Jesus was an activist is not arguable here. But even in this account of Jesus’s life, we have glimpses of another aspect of Jesus, a more contemplative presence of this one who was himself the Word, of this one who knew how to listen with an inner knowing.

At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others, or by himself, to pray and listen for the voice of God. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus makes his way to quiet places to connect himself to the one who named him “the word.” In the midst of action, and there is a lot of action, it is clear that there also needed to be space made for some profound listening. (And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief…). One of Mark’s stories tells us that in the whirlwind days of Jesus’ early ministry, shortly after his baptism, and after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends-mother-in law, and then leading a rally to heal the sick, he found a place to sleep and in the midst of all this action, he awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, a time when after encouraging his disciples to practice some self-care and find some time and space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and after multiplying food and taking care of needs he insisted, yet again, that his disciples go out onto the water for some R&R. That way he could be alone to listen for God, and to pray. And let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, after the bread was broken and the cup was poured, after the disciples were excused from the table for their final meal together, Jesus went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, doesn’t just speak. He listens.

And while this would seem like a simple task, to just listen. I would wager that we, the modern day disciples of Jesus aren’t as good at it as we think. I would wager that what most of us are doing is hearing, hearing the sounds around us, hearing the noise, but not taking part in that active task of connecting the sound with our soul, where we really listen. For there is a world of difference between those terms.

Several years ago I took a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders away for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. We were talking about creation, the grandeur of God’s creation, and I wanted them to know the wonder of the world through all their senses. And so, the thirty or so of us, sat outside on a sunny June afternoon in Wabash county with our eyes closed and listened, really listened to what we heard. After several minutes of this listening, they were given papers and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds they heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded us. And I became aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird coos, and airplane sounds, wind in pine trees, and the distant bark of a dog. Really listening opened me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

And it led me to imagine how much more I could be listening for God.

I confess that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or, um, ever for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response at times in my life. A simple, “Yes, do this,” or “No, absolutely not, no, no, no” in a deep booming bass voice would be so helpful at times of major decisions, wouldn’t they?

I shared this lament, this lament about not feeling as if God spoke to me, with a spiritual director at one point in my life. And her response was elegantly simple, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God, to listen well enough, that God can afford to be subtle.” I hated her for that response at the time, because I still would like yes or no responses, but I confess that her answer gives me a great deal of hope. Perhaps the Word of God in our lives are so subtle around us that when we stomp through them like a bulldozer we are missing the slightest nuances of grace. Perhaps our demand for definitive answers leaves us oblivious to the whispers of our Creator.

Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like that preschool child that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for me to stop and pay attention. I imagine God, pulling away the newspaper of my daily routines, cradling my face and looking into my eyes and saying, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. And you must listen!”

May we all.

Amen.

All Good--Sermon 6/19/11

2011-06-21T15:00:00.001-04:00

All Good

I want to begin this morning by sharing with you a story. You see, I collect stories, I love to hear them, I love them well-told, I love when the synchronicities within them lead to greater truth, and comfort, and peace.

When I was in seminary each of the seniors in our small community would lead a chapel service throughout the year. And in my first year in the Bethany and Earlham School of Religion communities I heard one of the truest and clearest and simplest stories of grace I had ever heard. I confess now that I have no idea who preached the sermon. I can tell you with some degree of certainty that his first name was Dean, but wherever Dean went after seminary or where his life journey took him I have no idea. Dean began his sermon that morning telling a funny story about growing up in a conservative Lutheran church, one of those traditional churches where all the pews faced the front and the altar was raised and set apart. As a young boy Dean would sit in worship and stare at that ornate altar, complete with its gold candelabras and towering cross. He decided in the way of only the most creative of four-year-olds that God must live behind that altar, else why did everyone bow down to it, face it in worship, pray toward it? One Sunday, his four-year-old, curiosity got the better of him and after worship he untangled his hand from his mothers and snuck away from and made his way down that long aisle to take a gander behind that altar, to see this God to whom he had learned to pray. He went forward, full of trepidation and awe, and cautiously and as reverently as a four-year-old can he looked behind the altar, where he found, stored, no doubt in a convenient place, by some dear church custodian an upright vacuum cleaner. The puzzled four-year-old backed away with a great deal of certainty and clarity, and Dean shared, jokingly that throughout his preschool years he truly believed that God was a Hoover.

His story, of course, got a chuckle, for we all know silly stories of misunderstandings we had about the nature of the church in our younger years. But then this masterful preacher quickly changed the subject and shared a different story, one which wasn’t as whimsical and silly. With a tentative voice, Dean shared painfully of what a difficult semester it had been. As a young seminarian he was working as a chaplain for three months in an intensive Clinical Pastoral Education unit at a trauma hospital in Dayton. He struggled with issues of doubt, grappled with questions of suffering and loss and the nature of God. And felt as if he were losing his faith. The painful horrors that he had seen in the trauma bays of the emergency rooms had left impressions which were hard to shake. And his supervisors were critical of him and his ministry. He felt all hope was lost. After a particularly bloody trauma call which involved two gunshot wounds on an overnight shift he made his way to an out of the way hospital waiting room, and sat, his head in his hands and began to weep quiet tears. Questioning his vocation, questioning God’s existence, questioning the world we live in where brothers shoot brothers. In the midst of his tears quietly a cleaning woman had entered the room to straighten and tidy it for the next day, and with her she brought, of course, a Hoover vacuum cleaner, symbol of Dean’s young faith. And Dean said that as he sat there, inwardly smiling at God’s sense of humor in that hour, he raised his feet to allow the cleaning woman to clean around him, and this saint of a woman put her hands on his shoulder and said, “No, you’re good. You’re good right where you are.”

Dean reflected later that he probably frightened that instrument of God with his sobs as she touched his shoulder and shared her divine proclamation (even if she only referred to the placement of his feet). But this young minister was certain of the message from his God. He had been reminded by his quirky creator, the God who has a sense of humor, of the truth of the matter. He was good. He was good right there. And it was both confirmation and creation, for Dean began a new career in his ministry. And his story was told, and is told again.

Creation stories, the origins of how things came to be are always fascinating to me. Often when I worked at Hospice, and spent time with patients who were near the end of life, I found that the richest conversations happened when we talked about how things began, or when new things came to be. Where were you born? How did you come to live in Fort Wayne? How did you meet your spouse? What led you to start that project, that business, to travel that life path? As a parent, I’ve learned that our children love few stories more than the stories we tell them about their own beginnings--where each of them were born, how Brynn spent her first nine days of life in the NICU at Lutheran, how Grayson turned to look at his daddy’s face as he lay in that incubator only minutes old, how Robert introduced Tess to trees in the car on the way home from the hospital. Creation stories fascinate us, for we love how artfully they weave the stories of our lives, how they proclaim the wonder of how we got from there to here. How they give us hints about who we would become, or how we were led to this spot on the map of our lives.

The Ancient Israelites were no less entranced with stories of creation and origin, and they were mindful of how those stories should be told to their children. At the time that the book of Genesis was recorded, the Israelites were held captive by their Babylonian oppressors. The stories the Babylonians told themselves and others about the creation of the universe were filled with violence and blood, stories of domination and power. The Israelites had a different sense of the creation of the world and in an act of counter-cultural revolution they knew in their bones a different story, a creation story with a different twist. The tale woven around the fireside that was shared with each generation of Israelite children, and the story documented by our forebearers in the Judeo-Christian tradition is a different one. It is a story of blessing and grace, a story where humanity is created after the universe was put into motion, woman and man created in the image of their loving and adoring God who looks on them with tender eyes and sees them as good. All good. The Spirit of God hovered and brooded over deep water, hopeful and yearning, and brought forth the blessing of our created bodies. All blessing.

Don’t ask me how this began to get twisted, how the idea of original blessing became original sin. Some say it was the first taste of the fruit Adam bit, or that pesky snake, or Eve wanting to have a teeny tiny bit more knowledge. But no word is mentioned in these accounts of sin, and God seems less angry Dad and more disappointed and reluctant parent as the tale continues. And so I think that original sin stigma came even later and forever shaped the history that grew up around it. Augustine, who wrote in the fourth and fifth century was the one who really claimed that there was a fall, or a break from our relationship with God. And the idea of original sin was expounded on, then by other early church fathers intent on maintaining order and demanding that children of the church repent of the sins of Adam and Eve. Meanwhile, original sin is never mentioned in the Bible. Nowhere.

Which raises the question again? How did we drift so far afield from this idea that humanity was created “all good,” that our inherent nature, the spark of God within us is made with a default “good” switch? How did we stray so far away from our scriptural roots? And how do we find our way back to that idea of original blessing?

If we know we are created in the image of God, created good, then what is our responsibility now? How do we live into this goodness? How do we accept this unimaginable gift of being loved inherently, just as we are?

I think we can offer two responses. The first is this: Knowing we are loved, we are required to love. Plain and simple. Knowing that God chose each of us as a vehicle for the divine, so much so that God chose to become mortal and walk the earth as Jesus Christ, reminds us of our mission. We are created in love, and so we must love. Even when we are afraid, even when we have doubts, even when it is difficult. The poet Mary Oliver once wrote, “There are a hundred different paths through the world that are easier than loving. But who wants easier?” May this be our mantra. We don’t need easier. We need to love. And so this must be the first response we have to our original blessing: love.

And the second response is like it: we must recognize our place in creation. Frederick Buechner wrote in his book Wishful Thinking, “Using the same old materials of earth, air, fire, and water, every twenty-four hours God creates something new out of them. If you think you’re seeing the same show all over again seven times a week, you’re crazy. Every morning you wake up to something that in all eternity never was before and never will be again. And the you that wakes up was never the same before and will never be the same either.” (Buechner, Frederick. Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC, Harper San Francisco, 1973). As images of God, as original blessings, we must recognize that we are part of all creation, and that our role on this planet is not coincidental. We have a unique task to do here, and a God who whispers to us through all of creation, or through old upright vacuum cleaners, as assurance of our place here, and our goodness in it.

Make no mistake. Discipleship is difficult. Doubts and fears will impede us at times. But we are made all good, and our creator delights and hovers over us offering us gifts of grace at every turn. It’s all good, friends. May it be so.

Amen.

When Pentecost is Personal--Sermon 6/12/11

2011-06-15T18:17:00.001-04:00

I speak this morning from a unique vantage point, for I am both pastor and candidate for new membership. I am both welcomer and welcomed. I am both seasoned in Peace Church’s ways after being your pastor for almost a year, and one of the new kids on the block. It isn’t often that a preacher can speak from that perspective. It’s humbling, actually. And to do so on Pentecost as we celebrate the birth of the institutional church, as we imagine that gust of wind that shook the foundations of that room in Jerusalem, as we consider what tongues of fire are, seems even more overwhelming.

There are a lot of sermons I could give this morning on Pentecost, on the rich symbolism of the story, on the beauty of those speaking in different languages and all understanding one another, on the passionate joy in that congregation, joy which bubbled over so much that bystanders believed that the early church members had been tipping the bottle well before 9:00 a.m.

But I’m hoping I have many Pentecost Sundays in years to come to preach those sermons to you. So, instead I’d like to share a story.

In the most chaotic times of my life there is a recurring dream that I have. I’m sure a Jungian analyst would have fun with the symbols that flow out of my subconscious mind at night. When things are askew in my world in whatever capacity I dream of tornadoes, that Midwest flat-land funneling phenomenon. In the dreams I am running from them, seeking shelter, trying to find safe haven. And usually, thankfully, the dream often ends with my finding a cellar door open, or discovering a firmly-rooted tree that I can hold on to. And then, often the nighttime panic is averted. And I ride the storm out, only to awaken in the morning wondering how my mind had tangled itself into that dreamworld mess the nightbefore.

There was one night, though, when the tornado finally found me, caught me in my dreams. It was a snowy night in January of 2004. During that time I was leaving my first pastorate after having been together for six years. I left with a great deal of ambiguity, loving them, but knowing it was time to move to a new chapter. Wanting to hold on to the past, but knowing that there was no future for me in that congregation, or indeed, in that denomination. Swirling with emotions for a variety of reasons and feeling even angry at God for calling me into ministry and then leaving me in the wilderness. On that night in January I dreamt that I was driving a car which safely protected my new family, for Robert and I had only been married a few months, and that the four of us were being chased by a tornado together. I so clearly remember the sense of urgency, the sense that I needed to protect not just myself now but Robert, and Tess and Brynn. And in that dream landscape a church showed up on the horizon, and I ran to the door and jiggled the locked handle, and banged on the stained glass-windows and demanded to be let in. And someone yelled out to me that there was no room for any of us, and that I needed to go away. And before I could return to the car it was gathered into a whirlwind and scooped into the belly of the twister, everything scattered this way and that. I awoke that night in a sweat, and felt slammed back into the real world, disoriented and distraught.

But this haunting dream, accurately named my reality. For at that time in my life, for a variety of reasons, there was not a church which had sheltered us. While there was a God who I believed sustained me, there was no community to call home. And in a sense, I felt unmoored, and untethered.

I share that story with you as one who will make vows this morning that bind me in covenant with you, as one who represents the voice of so many in this world. There have been times and there are currently times when for whatever reason, the institutional church has failed and will fail to meet the needs of some. And there have been times and there will be times when for whatever reason the institutional church has not welcomed others and will not welcome others. There have been times and there will be times when this human social institution which we call “The Church” has disappointed us or betrayed us or abandoned us. But, when any of those times come, the Holy Spirit will sweep in and do Its fancy, sacred, passionate, Holy Spirit dance among us. And we realize that we can be more. The power of the Pentecost comes when we realize that within the church there is an unquenchable fire which has not stopped burning for two thousand years. And we realize that we are part of that flame.

The theologian Renita Weems has written, “We are the church, a ragged band of miracle workers: ragged because we are often contentious, scared, lazy, undependable and—in a word—flawed; miracle workers because we’ve had to take straw and build a cathedral of hope for every generation that crossed our threshold.”

Today we celebrate the birth of the church, church with a capital “C.” And we realize that with all of its imperfections and all of its faults, it has the capacity for miracles and we see them. We see them when we baptize children, and then when we watch them grow into beautiful high school graduates. And we know that the Holy Spirit is with us. We see it when the call goes out that someone is in need, and then casseroles are baked and paper products are collected. And we know that the Holy Spirit is with us. We see it when the still speaking voice of God urges us to speak out against oppression or injustice, and our voice is echoed and magnified by our brothers and sisters. And we know that the Holy Spirit is with us. We see it when our brother or sister disagrees with us and emotions run hot, and then reconciliation is sought and forgiveness is offered. And we know that the Holy Spirit is with us. We, this ragged band of miracle workers.

I have not had any tornado dreams in the past year. Ironic, isn’t it? As your pastor, and as someone who will be binding her troth with that of this church in the next few minutes I offer thanks to you and praise to God for that. For you are a welcoming, gracious people, and the Spirit is alive here.

May we, as the people of Peace United Church of Christ on this Pentecost Sunday, feel the wind on our faces as the Holy Spirit whips through this church to refresh us with its power, and if the wind ever feels too strong, may we know that we can always find solace in the shelter of one another’s love. May the fire of the Holy Spirit be kindled in us that we may live out our mission and be the church of Christ today. Amen.

Where Are You Looking?--Sermon 5/29/11

2011-06-01T16:00:00.000-04:00

Where Are You Looking?

When I was in college I had a roommate who grew up in the rolling green hills of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania (and just as an FYI, it’s pronounced Lancaster, and not Laancaster, as my Hoosier lips wanted to say it). And so I got to know this part of the country a bit better than your average midwesternern. Rebecca’s family were Church of the Brethren, one of the Anabaptist sectarian movements in those parts, but her family were close with Amish families, and Old Order German Baptist families, and Mennonite families. And so I learned more than the average a bear about life among the “plain people.” Rebecca and I were perhaps anomalies among our college friends and liked wandering around the tiny towns in Lancaster county looking at old antique stores, or Mennonite-owned quilt shops. And at that time I was fascinated by these folk who call themselves, “plain people.” One weekend in June, however, when I was visiting, and Rebecca and I were out galavanting we noticed that all the shops were closed. It was a weekday, a Thursday it seems, and it made no sense to us…what had we missed? Had the rapture come and we didn’t know it? Finally, on our third stop at an Amish bakery we saw a hand-written sign that said, “We are closed, to celebrate Ascension Day.” We both puzzled over the sign, having never heard of Ascension Day celebrations, or Ascension Day hooplas, or Ascension Day picnics. Even now, Hallmark hasn’t picked up Ascension Day theme with cards or gift wrap (and what would that look like exactly? Probably clouds?) and we don’t sing Happy Ascension Day to one another. I wondered then, and I continue to ponder even ten or twelve years later, “What’s this Ascension stuff mean? And how have I grown up in the church without ever really noticing it before? How have I allowed this liturgical obscurity to pass me by?”

This year I decided to make up for nearly forty years of Ascension Day ignorance by doing some remedial theological learning, and because whenever I get enthused about a theological topic I preach about it, guess who gets to come along on the journey with me? That’s right…you do! Wahoo!

The first chapter and first verses of the Acts of the Apostles are classically known as “the definitive” story of the ascension. The writer of Acts, who it is believed was also the writer of the book of Luke, was so amazed by the story that he actually wrote about it twice, once in Luke and then with more detail and four-part harmony again in Acts, and so it is this second scripture that we’ll look at this morning.

Picture if you will a motley crew of assorted characters. A band of followers who had lost their leader, and were at loose ends, sort of like the mice who have lost the pied piper, or a bee hive that has lost its queen. They were a scruffy band of folk who had had their hopes shattered by the death of this one they thought was the Messiah. They’d been in mourning for a good forty days, a little over a month after watching Jesus die. And not only did he die, but he died in an incredibly violent and agonizing and cruel way. And then, puzzlingly, strangely, there had been that cryptic message from the angel in the tomb, and those sightings of him, which were hard to wrap your head around. While it seemed Jesus was popping up here and there, or at least people were saying they had seen a fleeting glimpse of him (think of modern day Elvis sightings), there hadn’t been any clear directive from the disciples en masse. There was no clear movement or direction that could be agreed upon. There was no master plan, no mission statement, no grand vision. There were just some folks, scattered here and there, aimlessly wondering what was next for them, and what they should do with their remaining time on this earth.

And then, (and you already knew this, since Bev already read ahead in the story for you), lo and behold, there was a sign. Out of nowhere word came from this one who they knew as the Messiah, speaking on behalf of their God. Jesus appeared to the disciples and told them not to leave Jerusalem. They were to stay put, hang tight, just wait patiently. For there was something exciting and unanticipated on the horizon. The baptism of the Holy Spirit was imminent.

I love thinking about these disciples then…I have a pretty irreverent picture of them in my mind’s eye at this point. I see them as sort of like the Keystone Cops, fumbling and muttering to themselves, running into one another and bustling back and forth in a commotion. Not entirely understanding, not entirely catching Jesus’s drift, but still feeling the need to act. Perhaps I see them this way because it is I would see myself in their shoes, laughing along with jokes I don’t quite get, and wanting, desperately wanting to do the right thing, which would lead to lots of fumbling movement and accidental incidents.

The disciples didn’t understand. Not yet. They asked Jesus, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of heaven?” Such an eager question. And the response they got was a perplexing one. Instead of answering the question he told them, politely, that the coming of the kingdom of heaven is in God’s hands. Jesus doesn’t give a yes or no answer, he doesn’t tell them an exact date and time and then encourage them to hand over their savings accounts to him so that he might create billboards and pass out flyers so that they might neglect the needs of this world and instead focus on the next one. Instead what Jesus says is this, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses.”

I wonder what the disciples thought of that response. Did they understand? Did they furrow their brows and scratch their heads? Did it make any sense to them? Does it make any response to those who follow him some two thousand years later?

Jesus’s response was a crafty one. If I were a disciple, I might have been inclined to want to grab his shoulders and shake him and say, “Just answer the question! The question is this: Are you, or are you not, here to restore the kingdom!?!” But Jesus has a wisdom which offers a depth that mere mortals like me don’t understand. The fact that Jesus didn’t answer this question, and moved on to another topic makes me think that the disciples were asking the wrong question. For if the disciples were simply continuing to hope for a cosmic ruler who would command the people and bring a new kingdom, if they are simply looking out into the distance and waiting for the next world, they are missing the point entirely. They are looking in the wrong place.

The kingdom language that Jesus spoke of throughout his life, throughout his ministry is not about another place and time. The kingdom language that Jesus uses has much more to do with how we bring about the community of God today, and tomorrow. And the job of furthering the mission, the task of ushering in the kingdom is the responsibility of us all. The reign of God is ushered in when we love. The reign of God is realized when we go about creating spaces of sanctuary for those in need. The reign of God is alive here when we practice compassion and tenderness. And this reign isn’t about tomorrow, and it isn’t about looking up. It’s about today. And it’s about looking here.

Listen to Jesus’s response to his disciples again, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all of Judea, and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” What he says, in the common vernacular is, “It’s not just about me now, friends. This ushering in of the kingdom of God, it’s up to you now too.”

And after these words he was gone. Poof. As the disciples watched he was lifted into a cloud. He ascended. Voila, the first Ascension Day! And disciples are left with his words, and with a mission.

But there’s one more part of this story that I really love…the part that assures me that God has a twinkling sense of humor and a sparkle in the eye—as well as the patience to get through to even the densest of followers. While the disciples are still standing there, looking up, gazing heaven-ward two new men show up. Two mysterious men in robes and ask pointedly, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” And the disciples must have wanted to point at Jesus’s still rising feet and say, “Well, um…duh!”

But the question seems to be the moral of the story, the way to sum it all up. Why stand around waiting? Why focus so much on the next world, when there’s a world right in front of you hungry for God’s touch? Why stand looking up when right down the road there is a beggar who needs help, when there is a blind man who needs healed? What are you looking at? The community of God needs to be ushered in here, my brothers, and it’s not going to get done if you just keep standing here staring at the sky.

I find it ironic that when the Church, and I mean Church with a capital “C” celebrates ascension, much more time is spent considering the rising, when what the writer of Acts documents, the words spoken from the lips of Jesus seem to have more to do with the witness that happens down here…in this world…in this place.

Friends, there is a hungry world waiting for out gifts, and the followers of Jesus don’t have the luxury of resting on our haunches. Friends, there is a planet which needs our attention, and the followers of Jesus can’t simply ignore it while we await the heavenly realm. Friends, justice is still slow to come to our nation, and to our world, and the followers of Jesus aren’t permitted to excuse ourselves from the cause.

Instead, we must stand together, and imbibe the power of the Holy Spirit. We can gaze fleetingly at the Christ who rose, but then we must get back to work building the kingdom on this ground, just as Jesus did in his ministry.

I want to close by sharing with you the words of a Nicaraguan song taught to me in college:

Enviado Soy de Dios
I am sent by God. My hands they are ready. Ready to build a peaceful loving world. The angels, they were not sent to change a world of pain into a world of peace. God has called me, to make it a reality. Help me, God, to do Your work.

In the name of Jesus, may it be so.

Amen.

Words Whispered Over Water--Sermon 5/22/11

2011-05-23T12:03:00.003-04:00

A special thank you to the brave and wise Hannah Moore who allowed me to share her story this morning.

Words Whispered Over Water

In the United Church of Christ there is perhaps no greater day in worship than the Sundays in which we welcome those newest on the Christian journey through baptism. We welcome them when they are infants, or children, or adults. We welcome them by sprinking water from an ornate baptismal font, or pouring it from a pinky smooth shell, or even dunking in a river or lake. We UCC folk are not too particular about the details, we would rather dwell on the meaning. And the meaning is about new life being nurtured by God’s love. New life is about knowing that wherever you are in life, you are named as kin with Jesus. New life is believing that what was written is true, resurrection is possible, death does not have the final word. We baptize as a symbol of our belief in the power of resurrection. Just as John baptized Jesus in the river Jordan, we choose to be baptized as a sign of our connection to the one who was called God’s beloved. The words we whisper over the waters, the invocation of God’s blessing, and the act of baptism are some of the most profound words which can be uttered.

And so this morning, knowing that Matt and Marcy will be making covenantal vows about how Clara will be raised, we dare not forget that Matt and Marcy aren’t the only ones making promises, for we the living church, the church which loves and supports which weeps and holds which comforts and sustains will be making promises to them which are no less binding or powerful.

I love those moments of syncronicity in the lectionary when the verses which I am scheduled to preach on match perfectly with the world in which we are living in here at Peace United Church of Christ in little Fort Wayne, IN. I sort of feel as if it’s one of those serendipitious moments when God winks at us, as a way of saying, “Yep, I’m still watching…” For of all the texts that could have been assigned for this day, the text which we have been given is one from a letter to a group of people who were newly baptized.

This epistle, a fancy way for saying pastoral letter, was written by a leader of the church in Rome in or around the year 79. Some attribute the writings to Peter, but current Biblical scholarship suggests that Peter would have already have died years before. And so this unknown leader is writing in Peter’s name, sharing Peter’s thoughts, which was actually a quite common thing to do in the early church. This early follower of Christ was writing to a people in Asia Minor, people who had been raised in the Pagan ways, to worship the Pagan gods in the Pagan temples. Their fledgling devotion to Jesus and their new baptisms had not been well-received in their lands, and they had been mocked and slandered for their faith. At this point the taunting and discrimination had not become violent, the state had not taken a side on the issue, but there were fears about what proclaiming Jesus Christ meant.

The unknown author who is named as Peter reminds them that they are to crave the teachings and word of God just as a child craves milk from its mother’s breast. With the same intensity, and with the same fervor. And that the milk of that word is meant to sustain them, and strengthen them, and knit their spiritual bones together. But then our friend, also known as Peter, goes on to switch metaphors rapidly (its clear this writer was not an English major) and begins a lengthy treatise on the metaphor of stones, particularly living stones.

Living stones are not something that make much sense in our world. For us, with our tidy rational Western ways of thought, a stone is a stone. It is inanimate. It is hard. It is stable. And so there are times when the power of this metaphor has been lost on us. But, let me try to explain here…those who read this scripture were people who came from the tradition of the temple. The places where the worshipped were the most important thing. Pilgrimages were made to temples. Sacrifices were offered there. The temple in Jerusalem was destroyed only twenty to forty years before this letter, and the smoldering ruins must have been a memory that had been told. And so to utter the words to those new Christians, new Christians who were in a captivity of sorts, and living on the margins of society, to utter the words that they were to offer themselves as living stones was to alter their reality radically. The writer of the letter said to them, “No more are you people of the temple, but you yourselves are the temple. It is you, you who must become the church. There is no longer a place; instead there are a people.”

In January of 1998 I was called to pastor a church in North Manchester, Indiana. Fresh out of seminary, bright-eyed and hopeful, filled with new ideas and passion, I was called to pastor a historic old church well ensconced behind walnut trees in a small town. And a week before the call service, I received a call at 4:00 in the morning that the building was on fire, and would likely not be salvaged. I got in my car and drove the three hours there, and walked along the fire line barricades and wept with my future parishioners. I remember the audible gasp in that cold sleeting day when the last beam of the sanctuary fell, and then the cross behind it. And I confess that I began to ask the question, “How will we be the church now? Where will go know? Do I still have a people to pastor?” How naïve and unbelieving I was…for twelve hours later we stood on the front steps of the still smoking building, a sea of umbrellas and sang “Great is Thy Faithfulness” and recommitted ourselves to God and to this family of believers.

My hope is that none of you ever have to learn what it means when your own temple is destroyed to discover how to be living stones, that rather our discovery of that is born not out of crisis, but out of hope for new life.

This morning, as we baptize Clara Catherine Blundall, we must remember that we have become the living stones which are used by God to build her faith. We must allow the Holy Spirit to build us, to shape us, to create structures of haven and strength that we could never have imagined before. And we need to allow ourselves to be built not just for Clara, but for all our children, and our youth. We need to allow ourselves to be built because we have a purpose in this world, to feed the hungry, to support the homeless, to nurture the downtrodden. We need to allow ourselves to be built because we have been called by Jesus to bring about the kingdom of justice, to welcome the stranger, to offer grace. We must be the living stones which become the church, and today we start simply by being those living stones for Clara.

This week I heard a poignant story from some good friends of mine. It is the story of a fifth-grader here in Fort Wayne named Hannah. As can happen in any fifth-grade classroom, kids can be cruel, comments can be catty, people can be hurt or humiliated. Hannah was on the playground with her friends who, as her Dad pointed out, are all good kids, good students involved in lots of extra-curricular things at school—Math Bowl team, Spelling Bowl, Dance, band, art. These are girls who have been to one another’s homes to parties and for sleepovers. And on this particular day they were doing what they do on the playground—singing their favorite songs, telling jokes, talking fashion, and adding in the inevitable snark and gossip. And one of the girls in that close-knit circle began to speculate on the sexuality of a boy in their class, a young boy who was standing just out of earshot. Others playfully joined in commenting on his style of dress, how he talks, how he moves. And at first Hannah became quiet and sad as she listened. Aware of playground politics and the fast political and social rules of who is in and who is out it would have been easy for Hannah to have said nothing, to allow the rising tide of cascading laughter to roll over her, but she realized another emotion rising in her, that of righteous indignation and anger and she said later to her father, “It’s like I couldn’t control myself.” And she stood up and said loudly, to get everyone’s attention, “Hey! You guys are being mean. And ignorant. And he’s a person.” Her outburst was met with derisive laughter and then another girl said, “Well, I’m a Christian, and in my church I learned that being gay is a sin and you go to hell for it. So you must not be a Christian.” And Hannah paused, and thought about this, Hannah a child of Plymouth UCC where she was born and baptized and welcomed. And then she said with equal conviction, “In my church gay people are still people, and they’re great and kind, and we accept people for who they are, and I’m a Christian too.”

Hannah’s words of unequivocal love and welcome in the face of adversity speak of this call to allow ourselves to be built as living stones, but more than that, the thing which made my voice catch in my throat as I heard her story was the other piece. Because Hannah had been nurtured in a church, because she had seen the power of those living stones who have sheltered her, and taught her, and shaped her, she was empowered to follow the call of Jesus to give voice to those who are voiceless.

This morning we baptize a tiny infant. If we can become the living stones which create a solid church for her than we can give her the wings she needs to fly into this world. By rooting ourselves in the solid ground of God’s mercy and grace, By tending to the soil of peace and justice, and laying our foundations deep and strong and true, we have the power to be the living stones which continue to create the kingdom of Christ. The words we whisper over the water today radically alter our worlds. May it be so. For Clara and for us all.

Amen.

Wonder Boy

2011-04-20T14:19:00.001-04:00

“He who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity’s sunrise.”
--Robert Blake

From where I sit at my computer at home, I can see out the window into our backyard where our green wooden swing set sits. It is a breezy, albeit chilly afternoon, and we have had a brief reprieve from rain as the sun has slowly settled out for its late afternoon debut. And on that swing set, flying “Superman style,” that is, lying on his stomach across the swing and kicking his green frog galoshes behind him, is my just-turned four-year old son.

This is Grayson’s favorite place to be in the whole world--in his own backyard, wearing his rain boots and a grubby gray sweatshirt, with our dachshund cavorting around him.

While I was sitting inside in front of my computer screen, cup of coffee at my side, laboring over a turn of phrase for a sermon, pondering the meaning of the words of Jesus, trying to find the perfect way to convey what it was I thought should be said, and fretting all the while and taking myself very seriously, I heard something in the backyard. I peered through the lace curtains and saw Grayson, smile on his face swinging near the branches of the pine trees yelling at the top of his voice, “I love the world! I love this world! I love it!”

While I, intent on my book-learning and heady theologizing, was puzzling over the wonder of God’s word, a four-year-old was experiencing God’s world. When did I forget how to be rather than to do? When did I become so mired in my adult world that I forgot the simple and truth of the child’s universe? How is it that I have neglected to kiss the joy as it has gone flying by?

As the weather turns warmer (we hope!), and as the grasses turn greener, and as tulips poke their heads out of the soil, may we each find at least a few moments to make our way into that place of wonder, and may we too remember to kiss the joy.

The Discipline of Keeping Sabbath--Sermon 3/27/11

2011-03-29T15:40:00.001-04:00

The Discipline of Keeping Sabbath

Sabbath is mentioned in the Bible 157 times. In 157 different locations the word Sabbath is used. And anytime something is mentioned this often, we might do well to perk up our ears and listen. The Bible is filled in minute detail with how important Sabbath is—which is very. The Bible can tell us exactly how we should celebrate and remember the Sabbath—which is by resting and turning our hearts toward God. And The Bible can tell us exactly what happened to some people who forgot, or who had no use for the Sabbath—they were struck dead. Need the scriptures be any clearer about Sabbath? Probably not. But do we listen?

On our Lenten journey we are talking about different spiritual disciplines. We have already talked about the importance of turning toward God in reverence and awe, the importance of singing our praises to God, and this morning we will be talking about the discipline of keeping Sabbath. Of course we take our cues from our Jewish ancestors here who begin their Sabbath from the time one could see three stars in the sky on Friday evening until Saturday at dusk. From dusk to dusk observant Jews do no work, including for some orthodox, even the work of tearing toilet paper off the spindle, or pushing buttons on elevators or phones. The rules of the Sabbath could be just as strict in Jesus’s day, and we 21st century Americans for the most part have grown pretty lax about what we can and cannot do on Sundays, the cultural Sabbath for Christians.

This week as I was thinking about Sabbath I was remembering a long standing argument my ex-husband and I used to have. The argument often happened in the spring, on those sunny first Sunday afternoons in late April or early May. In those days when the weather first hits the upper-60s and we realize that winter’s grip has finally and truly been broken. On those days when your fingers itch to get outside and dig in the dirt. Ken and I lived in a small town, in a small brick house right off the main street. And as any pastor of a church in a small conservative town can tell you, there are eyes on you at all times. The argument would often start like this, on that first sunny Sunday of the spring season I would wander out from the bedroom decked out in my old overalls and gardening clogs and say, “Well, I’m headed out to the yard to have a go at the first weeds of the season.” And Ken, who was raised in a more traditionally conservative faith tradition than I was, would get a pained look on his face and say, “But it’s Sunday!” And I would stare back at him, perplexed and confused, or wondering if I was supposed to be proud of him for remembering the days of the week or something. And then every season the same argument would be rehashed. He’d pause and say logically, “You can’t work in the garden on the Sabbath, because what if someone from your congregation comes by and sees you?” To which I often suggested a variety of disguises I could wear, including my Groucho Marx glasses and nose. But, if, heaven forbid they did see me, I would tell Ken, I will just wave at them. At this point in our seasonal debate he would remind me not to be duplicitious and would then explain again why he felt so strongly about this. You see, when Ken was growing up he wasn’t allowed to mow the lawn of the church or parsonage where his parents were pastors on Sunday, he couldn’t mow any lawn on Sunday, and that was incredibly difficult for him, because he had a riding lawn mower, and well, he really, really liked to fly through that grass on a sunny Sunday. But, his parents were sticklers about this, and Ken had decided that there were some Sabbath rules which were inviolable. Some things which were simply struck in stone.

I joke about that argument now, but with ten years of hindsight, I feel a deep sense of regret over that debate. Because I could not articulate my understanding of Sabbath, I could not articulate then what I have come to believe. Sabbath-keeping should draw us toward God, simply put and end of story. And if there are things that draw you into relationship with your creator, and if they rejuvenate your soul, then why could that not be a way of celebrating all of creation? There is a poem called “Welcoming Sabbath” from the New Union Prayer Book which names Sabbath in this way, “On this day we shall not do, but be.”

The word “Sabbath” derives from the Hebrew word “Shabbat,” which means, literally, to cease or desist. On Sabbath, one is called to cease from all working, to cease from all worrying, to cease from all the weekly concerns which ensnare us and keep us from focusing our energies on nurturing our souls in God’s grace. The origins of this Sabbath time are found in Genesis 2, where God stops creating and rests, where the action ceases and the blessing occurs. Old Testament scriptures tell us that there are certain things which must not be done on the Sabbath. Things like gathering food, plowing or reaping, kindling fire, or chopping wood. Preparations for most of these things must be done the previous day so that the Levitical laws could be obeyed. In the earlier times, even in the earlier times of some of you in this congregation, Sabbath meant a day when games were not played, when heavy meals were not cooked, when the house was kept in quiet. Sabbath was a day of dread for some children as they had to keep wearing their church clothes and sit quietly. As Barbara Brown Taylor said in her book, An Altar in the World, “for all practical purposes the commandment might as well have read, ‘Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it boring.’ (p. 127). For those who follow this rigid interpretation of Sabbath, mostly it seems to mean, “obey the rules” as if we creations of God are all just timid children.

The New Testament, however, paints a very different picture for us. Jesus, rule-breaker that he was, threw the Pharisees a few curve balls about the Sabbath. Jesus colored outside the lines a bit and recreated for us what the Sabbath ought to be. Throughout his ministry, Jesus used several opportunities to speak, teach, and even (gasp) heal on the Sabbath. The man with the withered hand, a demoniac, a man with an unclean spirit, Simon’s mother-in-law, the bent-over woman, and countless others all benefited from the lax laws that Jesus observed, and the grace he invited about Sabbath keeping. And when Jesus was tested by those same Pharisees and the priests of the law his answer was a jubilant “yes!” He said, “The Sabbath was made for humankind and not humankind for the Sabbath!” Jesus gave a joyful affirmation to the Sabbath as celebration, as liberation, as invitation to intimacy with God. The God who smiles down on this Sabbath is a God who is humored by our delight, a God who welcomes whatever attempt we make to connect, at whatever time we can find.

I have become convinced of the need for Sabbath, especially now, as one who uses her Sabbath to preach to you about Sabbath…hmmm…I think that we all need Sabbath in some capacity or another, whatever the day is, for however long we can carve out the space for it, because, friends, life goes by quickly. And we are so, so frenetic. Our culture goes fast. There are 24-hour-news cycles and Facebook updates and Twitter feeds and more information being transmitted to us than we can absorb. Our day-timers are penciled in to the margins and rule our existence. We judge our successfulness on how many hours we spend each week at the office, or on how many widgets we counted. Productivity is our goal. To stop or slow down is guilt-inducing. We keep running around on our little hamster wheels, running and running and running as fast as our little legs can carry us. And so perhaps, to honor the Sabbath the first thing we need to learn how to do is to just say no every once inawhile. Barbara Brown Taylor says it this way, “I know that saying no is a more difficult practice than tithing, praying on a cold stone floor, or visiting a prisoner on death row—because while all of those worthy activities may involve saying no to something else so that I can do them instead, they still amount to doing more instead of less.” (125). Sabbath, the need to have times when we do less, doesn’t jive with our culture. And to tell someone that you’ve penciled in a spot on your calendar to simply come out and play with God could result in some skeptical looks.

Friends, as followers of Christ we have an obligation to say no to the chaos of our lives, and say yes to the one who invites us to rest and relationship with God. There is a purpose for it, an urgent need. And Sabbath is not meant to be some passive activity, but is an active way of reclaiming our lives and bringing ourselves back into right relationship with God. I don’t think it matters when we do it, but I think it matters that we do it.

And so my commission to you in this week is that you say no to the distractions of the world, even if only for an hour or so, and say yes to strengthening your ties with your creator. I wish I had answers for each of you for how you can best renew your spirit in Sabbath space, but I have the sense that it comes for each of us differently. For some it has more to do with digging fingers in loamy soil, and for some it means lying on backs at night watching stars. For some it is a simple as closing one’s eyes and sitting in pure silence for an hour or so, and for others it means losing oneself in a Bach cantata. For some it is feeling your feet pound on pavement as you walk or run into God’s world, and for others it is kneading dough and watching it rise. For some it is that long afternoon nap and the luxury of curling up like a cat in the sun, and for some it is the words on the page that beg to be read. I can’t be you own personal spiritual trainers recommending your Sabbath renewal exercise, but I trust that in your heart is already the answer of what deeply needs to be kindled in you in your own spiritual life.

In closing, let me offer you these words as we each contemplate what Sabbath means for us personally and corporately, words from the theologian Renita Weems. She writes, “The Lord’s day allows us to bring our souls, our emotions, our senses, our vision, and even our bodies back to God so that God might remember our tattered broken selves and put our priorities back in order.” I couldn’t have said it better. My hope for each of us, indeed, for this body of Christ which is Peace United Church of Christ, is that we can offer to God our tattered and broken selves on this particular day of rest so that we might renew our vision and dream God’s dreams. For Sabbath is not about the rules and regulations, not about the laws and restrictions, but about the call to deepen your faith, and to come out and play with the one who delights in our creation.

May it be so.
Amen.

The Spiritual Discipline of Waking Up--Sermon 3/13/11

2011-03-14T13:39:00.001-04:00

The Spiritual Discipline of Waking Up

And so we have begun our Lenten journey together. We will be walking through these longer spring days and allowing the light to lead us. Historically, the early church fathers called people to fast during the Lenten season, giving up one’s portion of meat or fish to give to the poor. It was a way to remember the generosity of Christ’s all-inclusive love and care for those in need, but somehow throughout the centuries the focus was more on the fast and the idea of self-sacrifice. The focus was on deprivation and not on grace. This is a shame, I believe, for I don’t believe God wants any of us to suffer, just as I don’t believe he wanted his own son to suffer on the cross. Instead, I believe that those who first adopted the practice of Lent in about the 4th century had it right. Let’s choose to do something in these six weeks that helps those in need, or let’s choose to do something that calls us into deeper discipleship. Rather than simply refraining from something which we know in our heart of hearts we will simply revert to doing again in six weeks, thankful that the six weeks is over, let’s add a new dimension to this Lenten season and grow into our faith in ways that shape us for the journey throughout the rest of life.

During the next six weeks of Lent I invite you on a journey of finding the sacred in the ordinary, of allowing yourself to be drawn deeper into your faith, of recognizing that our faith is a deep pool of grace that we have the chance to dive into in each moment. During the next six weeks of Lent we will be exploring scriptural examples of holy disciplines, and the thoughts of homiletics professor and theologian Barbara Brown Taylor in her book Altars in the World, which is what we will be studying in our Tuesday evening Lenten book group as well. We will explore all sorts of spiritual disciplines—some as simple as walking, connecting with nature, and observing Sabbath and some as messy as being part of community, physical labor, and finding vocation. And it is my fervent prayer that our Lenten season may be one not of depravation, but one of growth and focus. And so it only seems right that we begin this morning with the first discipline, that of waking up to the sacred in our midst.

This morning’s scripture is jam packed with juicy details and strange nocturnal imaginings. The main character of the story, Jacob was still a young man. And as we pick up the story in the twenty-eight chapter of Genesis he had just left Beer Sheba, on the run because his “whole screwy family had finally imploded.” (Taylor, p 2). Jacob’s father was a classic Hospice candidate, dying a slow death, and hungry to pass his wisdom and blessing on to his sons so that he could die in peace. But, Jacob had colluded with his mother to steal the birthright and blessing from his twin brother, Esau. And as sometimes happens in deeply dysfunctional families, Esau had flown into a rage and Jacob quickly realized that there was no way for him to keep his life and remain with his family of origin. Jacob really was sort of a scoundrel at this point; he hadn’t exactly been honest and upright in the whole inheritance thing. But, he is not the first person, nor will he be the last who falls short of God’s hopes and then is still called by God. It is refreshing, actually, that those of us who have made mistakes have Jacob as a model. For if rascally Jacob can find the divine, than surely we can as well.

Jacob’s advance into the wilderness and away from the wrath of his brother led him into a desolate place, and as it was dark and there was no where else for him to go, he made a bed under the night sky with only a stone for a pillow. And that’s when the dreaming began—the dream of the angels traveling up and down the ladder. But perhaps more than this bizarre image was the power of the words which were spoken, the words of God saying, “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Even scoundrels like Jacob are not abandoned by God.

But the story continues. Ushered in to the holy of a dream, Jacob chooses to trust that the vision was from God. It would have been easy to write off those angels traveling up and down that ladder as the remnants of that funky left over beef jerky the night before, or to discount the dream as the wild nighttime ramblings of a busy mind. But Jacob wakes a believer. And more, commemorates his revelation by creating a stone pillar and pouring precious, expensive oil on it and declaring it a holy place.

Barbara Brown Taylor describes it this way, “Even if Jacob could never find the exact place where the feet of that heavenly ladder came to earth—even if he could never find a single angel footprint in the sand—his life was changed for good. Having woken up to God, he would never be able to go back to sleep again.” (Taylor, p. 4).

And so I believe our first Lenten discipline must be to wake up to God, to wake up to the divine which lurks all around us. Too often in our world we have demarked the sacred and the profane. We draw a line in the sand between what can be holy—church, well-behaved children, butterflies, rainbows, teaching the world to sing and what we would see as mundane—a common streetcorner, a piece of trash blowing next to the highway, the woman in front of us in line at Walmart. By creating the designations in our heads, the labels of where we plan to see or not see God, we but on spiritual blinders and we forget to look for evidence of our creator. There are ways that our ideas and definitions of what is sacred keep us from holding God’s creation at arm’s length.

Throughout scripture we see God show up in any number of guises…God is found under shady oak trees, on riverbanks, at the top of mountains, and in long stretches of barren wilderness. God shows up in whirlwinds, starry skies, burning bushes and perfect strangers, (Taylor, p 13) and so who are we to define where God would and wouldn’t be now?
When I turned thirty-four, and after Robert and I had been married for three years, the yearning for me to have a baby was palpable. I mistakenly assumed that now that the time was right for me to conceive, that now that our universe was at rights, that it would be a simple process to have a child. I was wrong. I was heartbreakingly wrong. And month after month would pass with mourning, and rage, and a sense of loss I could barely contain. We did the round of doctors visits, and met with fertility folks, and investigated reproductive technology options. And after two years of trying, I was miserable. One day during that time, I wandered into a little store on my lunch hour and found a basket full of stones with the word “hope” etched on them. I practically snarled in derision and anger, the irony of that word an insult to my raging sense of injustice, but I still bought all eight of them. And then I found myself putting them everywhere that I could see them. By my phone at work, on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, next to my bed where they would be the first thing for me to see in the morning. It was the only way that I could hold my prayer and my intention tangibly. The only way that I could wake myself up to the reality that there was a world of sacred hope that was still beckoning me. I could not control the outcome of our infertililty. And I could not make a baby magically appear in our lives. But, I could remind myself to rest in hope, and I could remind myself that God was hoping along with me. By placing those stones in my daily path, I was, unintentionally, creating my own sacred altars. Crying out to a God who promises us that all will be well, and that we are not abandoned, whatever the outcome, whatever the path.

Barbara Brown Taylor talks of her own waking up in this way, “I can set a little altar in the world or in my heart. I can stop what I am doing long enough to see where I am, who I am there with, and how awesome that place is. I can flag one more gate to heaven—one more patch of ordinary earth with ladder marks on it—where the divine traffic is heavy when I notice it and even when I do not. I can see it for once, instead of walking right past it, maybe even setting a stone or saying a blessing before I move on to where I am due next.”

This morning during the final hymn I will be wandering among you passing out smooth stones, smooth stones to create altars of your own. Altars to place somewhere in your home, or to carry with you and rub your fingers across. Altars which are meant to draw your intention to God’s presence. When you see these stones, remember the sacredness of the one who told Jacob, “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go.” Use these stones as reminders, lest you forget, that God promises the same to us. In short, allow these stones to invite you to wake up!

I want to close this morning with a poem by the Persian poet, Rumi.
The breeze of dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
Where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

On this first step in our Lenten journey may we walk with intention across that threshold where we meet our God, and may we know that “the earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shins on altars.” (Taylor, p 15).

Amen.

Works Cited
Taylor, Barbara Brown. An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. Harper One Press, 2009.

Aglow--Sermon 3/6/11

2011-03-06T18:10:00.001-05:00

Aglow

As a church, this morning, we gather with Christians across the world on this Sunday in remembrance of the Transfiguration. On this last Sunday before the Lenten season begins we remember that trek Jesus took which led to a mountain top revelation. While in New Orleans this week, the Mardi Gras festival will come alive with the attaining of beads and wearing of masks and assorted debauchery, and early this week on Shrove Tuesday thousands upon thousands will gorge themselves on pancakes and other assorted sweets as a final hurrah before they get down to the business of fasting, this Sundays meaning often gets left in the dust. While pre-Lenten overconsumption and madcap shenanigans play prominently in our religious psyche for the next three or four days, our secular world will likely neglect the story of the Transfiguration, leaving it in the dust of antiquity. There are times, I think, when our post-modern world seems to think it has outgrown this quaint story of metamorphosis and transformation. This story where Jesus shines with an almost eerie light and communes with the prophets of old. One wonders if we haven’t dismissed this story for it is hard for our 21st century minds to adopt the visions of those four disciples who traveled with Jesus that day. Hard for us to imagine what occurred on that mountain top two thousand and something years ago. We are too rational, too skeptical to wrap our heads around whatever it was that happened on that hill in the middle east. We question whether the sacred could truly burst into the ordinary with such force.

We all know the story. Accounts of it are listed not just in the gospel of Matthew, but in the gospels of Mark and Luke as well, and the perspectives of each writer are all very similar. Obviously it was a story that “made the cut” into the final version of the Bible and so the early church believed in making sure the account was told. And, yes, there probably was a bit of a political agenda to the sharing of the experience as well. The writer of Matthew was adamant about trying to convince a Jewish audience that Jesus was indeed the Messiah. And so what better way for the authority of Jesus to be conveyed than by making sure it was known that he kept company with Moses and Elijah? And then to have God pronounce again the words first declared at the baptism of Jesus, “This is my Son, the beloved.” Well, it is a pretty spectacular moment, filled with all the lights and wonder we have come to expect from a majestic God. And surely the disciples who saw it were stunned too, for they knelt in silent awe and fear. And their only response was to want to build monuments to the moment, to capture it for all time. Too much light, too much of the sacred can leave us awestruck and speechless I believe, or leave us yearning to somehow control the encounter by wanting to freeze it in our memory.

When the holy comes knocking, aren’t we often, like the disciples reluctant to accept it for what it is? Afraid of what it might mean? And how it might change us? And wanting to somehow capture it, rather than allowing it to capture us?

William Willimon, a United Methodist pastor and homiletics professor names the importance of the transfiguration in this way, “For a brief shining moment on the migration to Jerusalem and the cross, God gave the disciples what they needed to believe.” And perhaps that is the truest message of the transfiguration experience, that there are times when we see the divine clearly, and with stunning clarity and there is a sense of the ineffable which gives us reason to continue to believe, even if we cannot explain what happened. There are those transformative moments when the veil between heaven and earth is thin, and the sacred pierces our soul and hurts our eyes, and we have to hold on to those, to protect them and allow their memory to lead us when days are dim.

I may feel a special affinity for this story this week for a reason. As many of you know, I spent three days this past week on retreat. And while I was not on a mountain top in the desert in Israel, I was in my own netherworld in the hills of Michigan. I have stayed at GilChrist retreat center in the woods outside of Three Rivers for more than ten years on various excursions. Each hermitage, a one room cabin, of which there are ten on the land has its own flavor and feel. And because I was late in making reservations this season, I ended up in a new cabin, and for someone who isn’t keen on change this was not a welcome transition. I was housed in a place not nestled in the heart of the valley in woods where I felt safe and protected, but instead atop the highest hill in the area. My little aerie was called “Hawk’s Nest” and there were times when I looked out the window and literally thought I was going to tumble forward, because I was perched so high and could see so far. It was my own personal mountain, right in the heart of Michigan.

Being away on a retreat allows the world to slip away in bits and pieces, and allows for a clarity of vision. I pondered often as I planned for our Lenten season in the silence what it means for the sacred and profane to cross paths, for the mountain-top experience to immerse itself in the daily world. I wondered what the transfiguration would look like to our modern eyes. What it would take for us to see Christ in dazzling form in this time and place.

On my first evening away I was feeling especially raw. Silence, I’ve found, can do that. A few hours in the wilderness has the power to unnerve me and shake loose all the chaos and craziness of my mind. Buddhists who meditate regularly like to call this “monkey mind,” which makes perfect sense to me. A mentor of mine, a wise woman and pastor named Louie, once told me that in the first hours of retreat the only thing one can do is allow one’s mind to go blank…to stare out the window and let yourself soak into the landscape. And so after unpacking, I simply sat in the rocking chair and slipped into the quiet as I watched woodpeckers and robins and bluejays dart between the trees and onto my deck to gingerly feed from the birdfeeder not six feet from my window. But my monkey mind was not drifting into studied meditation on the transfiguration, or into disciplined prayer, but was instead dwelling on this friend, Louie. For Louie died tragically in a car accident two years ago, and it is a grief which still is quite raw for me. And a grief I push away in my day to day life.

One of the things I was remembering about my friend was her love of bold color. She grew up in Africa and she basked in the warm sun, in seeing the batik prints of the Nigerian villagers. Louie’s philosophy was “the brighter the better” and so when I picked out gifts for her I always veered toward the red spectrum. This has morphed into a ritual of sorts since her death of pausing when I see a cardinal, honoring those reds that Louie loved, and stopping short in my path and holding her memory and wisdom near me.

All afternoon on Tuesday I worked in my little hill-top nest. I read. I wrote. And that night after thinking about the message that Jesus gave on that mountain, after he revealed to the disciples the light which radiated from him, I stopped and reflected again on Louie and the gaping hole her death has left in this world of the light that was extinguished for me on the cold December day when she was killed. I put my laptop aside, and got out my journal and began to write about her and the legacy she left, and then, suddenly something caught my eye. And I share this story with all the conviction of a woman who has never really been all that convinced of “ooh-wah” signs from God. Despite the title of “reverend” in front of my name and that certificate claiming I have a masters in divinity I still tend to lead with my head. But this occurance I cannot deny. For there on the deck outside my patio doors alit a bright red cardinal, almost iridescent in the last blues and pinks of the dusk sky. And I held my breath as it turned and cocked its head at me, watching. It was the only cardinal I had seen all day. Indeed, the only cardinal I saw from my window after that.

And for this reason, the story of the transfiguration came alive anew, and I could almost imagine the shimmer of the face of the Christ aglow. For in that time and place on that mountain the holy and the ordinary had somehow found its way into the human world to those disciples. And while we may not understand it, we may not be able to wrap our brains around the details of it, there was power in it. And we can, and do, in our own way have our own little wee tiny mini-transfiguration moments which call us into places of holy awe. There are still times when we stumble into those thin places where the instersection of the sacred and divine meet. And there are still fleeting glimpses and signs in our lives where we know that something surely more than just coincidence and logical linear fact are at work.

And so I have to ask, “Does it matter if Jesus really appeared to those disciples? If there were indeed Moses and Elijah, alive and in the flesh, all actually communing with Jesus? Does it matter if heaven and earth truly and factually met in those moments so that radiant and blinding light was cast around?” Perhaps instead of seeking the science of it the answer lies in what we allow ourselves to believe. Perhaps the answer lies more in how we allow the story to change us. Perhaps the wisdom of the transfiguration is in how we allow ourselves to trust in the blinding light that shone from the face of Christ our teacher. And how we allow that light to reveal itself in our daily life even now.

In her book, “Home by Another Way” Barbara Brown Taylor says, “There is no shortage of epiphanies in this world. Those of us who have not yet glimpsed the brightness of the Lord may still behold his glory, reflected all around us.” And so as we discipline ourselves to journey with Christ again in this Lenten season, I invite you to immerse yourself in the light of the mystery of the one who shone dazzling white for all, and scan the horizon for your own cardinals. For we are awash in the glory of God, may we have the eyes to see the glow.

Amen.

Salt and Light

2011-02-07T15:05:00.001-05:00

Salt and Light

In my last year at Bethany Theological Seminary I was part of a musical acting troupe which presented a month’s worth of productions of the Steven Schwartz musical, “Godspell.” A musical which recounts the entire book of Matthew in song. Most of you have probably seen it, perhaps some have even acted in it. The catchiest number, by far, is the rollicking “Light of the World,” and each night I sang the words with enthusiasm. But as I found myself reflecting on the words this week, and humming the song incessantly, unceasingly, it occurred to me that that salt part, the part about being salt didn’t really make a lot of sense to me. Light on a hill, sure. City of God, yep. But salt?

I did a little research and learned that salt was considered a most valuable commodity in ancient times, in fact if you were a worker circa 20 or 30 A.D. you may have been paid in salt, rather than coins. And that little fact has led to the etymological twist of the word “salary.” Which, I would not advise you to share with your employers as the current market value of salt won’t enhance your 401K much…it might be better to stick to the dollar for now…

What Jesus was sharing with his disciples in his continued foray on that mountain is that those who teach about the kingdom of God, those who live into the coming world of hope, those who act as if the reign of God has come down now, will be valued and their lessons will be as common and useful as that commodity which seasons and spices our foods. Indeed, that we must be salt, by seasoning the culture with the vision that Jesus offered.

I want to share with you a story this morning, this morning as we remember our call to be agents of healing, and proclaimers of the kingdom, and actors of the Word. This morning as we think of light and salt.

In a time before time, when the world was young, two brothers shared a field and a mill. Each night they divided evenly the grain they had ground together during the day. Now, as it happened, one of the brothers lived alone; and the other had a wife and a large family. One day, the single brother thought to himself: “It isn’t really fair that we divide the grain evenly. I have only myself to care for, but my brother has children to feed.” So each night, he secretly took some of his grain to his brother’s grainery to see that he was never without.

But the married brother said to himself one day: “It isn’t really fair that we divide the grain evenly, because I have children to provide for me in my old age, but my brother has no one. What will he do when he is old?” So every night he secretly took some of his grain to his brother’s grainery. As a result, both of them always found their supply of grain secretly replenished in the morning.

Then one night in their evening sneaking the brothers met each other under the moonlight halfway between their houses and suddenly realized what had been happening. They embraced each other in love there in the darkness. The story is, that God witnessed their meeting and proclaimed, “This is a holy place, a place of love, and here it is that my temple shall be built.”

I think just as likely God could have said, “In this holy place my community is being established, or in this holy place my light is being shone, or in this holy place you are being seasoning salt by allowing yourselves to be used sacredly.” The point is that the brother’s sense of generosity and authentic love was ushering in the kingdom, right there, in that space between their homes. They were on the threshold of heaven as they embraced under the moonlight, as they lived into a vision of equality and abundance, each putting the others needs first.

This morning we have been waltzing among our own kingdom thresholds. Our children gathered all those cans of soup, soup that their parents and grandparents and friends purchased, soup that will feed hungry bellies. Pantries will be filled to overflowing which will undoubtedly relieve worried parents who may wonder where the next meal will come. We usher in the kingdom of God in this way as we respond to the needs of the hungry in our community. We act as salt and as light.

And as Christians we must, for The Christian Century magazine last month reported that the total number of people in poverty is 43.6 million—the highest number since the 1950s. But unlike the 1950s, the greatest increase in poverty is among children. One in five children is affected. One in five of our youngest and most vulnerable don’t have enough to eat! One in five. And with all the resources and technology of our world, with our abilities to send satellites into space and to fight wars in countries who struggle with their own issues of destabilization we cannot yet feed that fifth child who stands before us hungry? Think about that. We are the wealthiest nation in the world and we cannot feed our children? How is that possible? And how far must we be from the kingdom that Jesus envisioned if we have those kinds of numbers? He who welcomed children and sustained those who were hungry.

David Beckmann, president of Bread for the World, talks about the disparities in our country and the problem of hunger and says that he believes the problem of poverty in the US is uncomfortably close to us, and it overwhelms us, so in frustration and fear we simply turn away. It could be us, we think, there but for the grace of God go I we sigh, and we choose to shield our eyes because it is just too overwhelming.

And so what can our Christian response be? How can we be salt in this world? How do we shine the light? Where is the holy threshold which will bring us back near the kingdom? This morning is a start, these cans of soup, these dollar bills and quarters. These are wonderful first steps, and they are important steps but I think that there is more. More that can happen to draw the community of God near.

David Beckmann argues, in his role as advocate for the hungry, that there is one other thing we can do as committed Christians, and I share it with you at the risk of sounding too political in the pulpit, so I beg your understanding and grace in advance. Regardless of your political affiliation, wherever you stand in your beliefs about how our country should be run or who should run it, there is, I believe an imperative as Christians which we must take seriously. Beckmann reports that when he asks Christians how they help the hungry, most claim to contribute to food charities, as we do faithfully here at Peace. But when he asks them how many have contacted their elected officials to urge support of food stamp programs and school lunch programs, very few people raise their hands. It seems to me that wherever we are politically this is a reasonable and important response, another way to affirm our role as disciples to usher in the kingdom so that that fifth child gets fed, another way to draw the kingdom of heaven down to earth. A place where under the moonlight we meet our brother and know we walk on the sacred ground of God’s grace and love.

This morning there is a table set for us as well. A place where we can come to have the aching sense of discontent, and frustrated feeling of powerless soothed. There is a place for you at the table of our Lord, the one who welcomed all to the table. This is a place where we sit arm in arm with the hungry and know ourselves as no different. This is the sacred table where we break the bread and divide it so that all are fed and filled. Around this table we shake off our shackles of disillusionment and judgment and imagine ourselves as salt, pure and worthy. And as we look around the table, we gaze into the eyes of our brothers and sisters and know that in those eyes we see light, the light of our God.

Amen.

Admiring Instructions, Fearful Implications

2011-01-31T11:49:00.001-05:00

I’m not sure when it was that the signs started popping up in our neighborhood. Perhaps two or three years ago, Grayson was still in a stroller. I began to notice in my evening walks one summer through our neighborhood that there were more and more plastic signs in front of houses which said, “We believe in the ten commandments.” And there right there, like their own little personalized tablets from Mt. Sinai, pressed in blue ink onto plastic yardsigns were the commandments given to Moses from the book of Exodus. I was intrigued, at first, and thought, well, okay, good to know. Nice for you to affirm that as I’m walking in front of your house with my child in a stroller you will not kill me, or covet my stroller (as I am your neighbor and all…). With each evening’s walk more signs seemed to be popping up first here and then there like dandelions in August. I wasn’t sure who was giving them out, a local church? A neighbor? It was theologically intriguing, but puzzling all the same. But what was even more puzzling was that in almost every house I surveyed often right next to these ten commandment proclamations, there stood a few feet away, maybe to the right or the left another sign, the sign which identified the security system that protected the house, or in a few cases even a third sign that reminded people that “no tresspassers” were allowed on the property. And so I couldn’t help but feel that perhaps these yard declarations of faith might be less about proclamation of hope, and more about defensive statements of fear. Less about claiming their desire for unity and more about holding brothers and sisters at arm’s length. Hard to say, really, but something to chew on this morning. Especially on this morning when we study what has been understood by theologians to be Matthew’s attempt to connect Jesus to Moses. The sermon on the mount being claimed as the new ten commandments. Not to replace, but to fulfill.

This week, I had a brilliant idea. I thought, as I pondered this Moses-Jesus connection what would it mean for me to name my faith. And, also start a trend in the yard sign movement in our Crown Colony neighborhood. What if I called 1800-yard-signs and ordered my statement of faith. What would I say? What if I posted the Beatitudes on a big sign in my yard? But then I quickly realized that if I wanted to be true to the intent I’d have to really act on it, so there’d have to be another sign, maybe a sign welcoming people into my home, where the door stood open to embrace anyone who came. And the ability to offer to offer shelter to anyone who asked, and the grace to listen to others without reservation or hesitation, and the willingness to be persecuted for what I believed. Could I ever be that brave? Would it be naïve? I think, if nothing else, it could be a theological science test of sorts. For what would it mean for our nation, for our world, to be saturated in proclamations of the coming community of God rather than restricted by a list of “thou shalt nots?”

As a little aside, I actually did spend a little time googling this week, in my nerdy quest to follow this theological yard sign hypothesis and found that my brilliant beatitudes yard sign idea had alas, already been patented, patented by those same people who make the ten commandments signs, but whereas the ten commandments sign google search yields 56,800 options to adorn your home, the beatitudes only yield 19,800. So what, a ration of about, roughly, five to one? I still don’t entirely understand why the beatitudes are given such short shrift in the yard art business? Perhaps because if we really followed them it might be too revolutionary.

Many of us know the beatitudes, if Jeopardy named it as a category, we could probably clear the board, right? [“Alex, I’ll take beatitudes for $800, please...who are the pure in spirit?”] Some of us have them cross-stitched on pillows, or calligraphied in frames in our homes. They are that beautiful, and that poignant, and that meaningful. But I confess that sometimes even while I have memorized them and can recite them by rote, that perhaps I forget their radical message. And if I do that, I wonder if perhaps you do too.

The Sermon on the Mount occurs in the fifth chapter of the book of Matthew. It happens immediately after the calling of just four of the disciples, and so those who climbed up that mountain to hear Jesus could have been anyone, and if we consider the scriptures alive and moving work than it could be any of us today. The sermon is one of Jesus’s first teachings, an inauguration of sorts, and for his first homily, I’d say he picked a doozy. Jesus was speaking in a way familiar to his listeners, those who would have been steeped in the ways of Jewish wisdom traditions. Jesus spoke here as the devout priests and leaders who had gone before him did. A beatitude, or a makarism as it is called in the Greek is an interesting way to use language which was very familiar to those who lived two thousand year ago. And there are ways in which it has been confused in translation for readers of our time. Beatitudes were spoken not as commandments or as entrance requirements but as reminders and blessings for a world in transition. People didn’t have to be persecuted to receive a blessing, people didn’t have to mourn to be welcomed in the kingdom of heaven. These were not rules for being disciples. To understand fully what they were we must remember that the audience to whom Jesus spoke were living in a land occupied by Roman oppressors. Those in power were elite imperialists who had no use for the common masses. The common people who followed Jesus were hungry for a new way to live, and for a realm of justice, and the craved redemption from oppression. The beatitudes offered them words of comfort and hope. The beatitudes said, “I know, my beloved community, I know what you face, and I promise it won’t always be this way. I offer you a new vision of how our world can be if God is at the heart.”
We need to remember as we read through these axioms that the translation of the word “blessed” or “happy”, do not hold as their opposite the word “unhappy.” Instead, the opposite of “blessed” would be “cursed.” And so just as surely as Jesus was offering a word of hope to those downtrodden and hungry, he also, in a not too subtle way was making a political statement about how different the nature of God’s kingdom is. In God’s reign the hungry will be fed, the last will be first, the poor will be wealthy, those picked last for the dodgeball team will be the captains. It is radically different from the realm in which those with power rule with an iron hand and where those with might sneer at those whose voices cry out for justice.

The first thing it seems Jesus wants desperately to offer in these twelve short verses is spiritual bread for the journey, and assurance that even in the most difficult times there is hope. Jesus must have looked out over his meager band of followers and seen those who were mourning, or poor in spirit, or meek, or yearning for something more and known that they needed a reminder of what God wanted for them. But just as surely as Jesus offered hope, his words also rang with revolutionary zeal. What he said was this: we must make the kingdom of heaven here on earth, even if we are reviled and persecuted, even if we are seen as daydreamers and unrealistic fools. Even if we put beatitudes signs in our yards and open our hearts and minds to all without reservation or hesitation.

In 1964 the artist Sister Mary Corita was asked to submit a piece of art to the New York World’s fair and the piece she created was filled with vibrant color and said, “On a mountain, Christ said these words, the Beatitudes. Ever since then men [sic] have said these words to each other each time with different gestures. Said yes, this is how it should be. This is the way to be happy.” And then she used the bold colors of yellow, and orange, and cobalt, and magenta and added the words of peacemakers and prophets throughout time: Anne Frank and Dag Hammarskjold, Albert Einstein and John F. Kennedy to name a few.

And so what brave gesture will we use to make the world more congruent with the vision Jesus offered on that mountain? How brave can we afford to be and how revolutionary? Perhaps, simply, we start in our own lives.

Brendan Freeman, a Trappist monk from Iowa, says this, “[The Beatitudes] draw our hearts out of themselves into a new way of understanding our lives…they are deliberately incomplete. They await the inclusion of our lives. Each person fills in the blank spaces with the details of his or her own life situation.”

Perhaps, we walk this journey step by step by first rediscovering the beatitudes in a new way, having them spoken with different voices and in different translations. Hearing them as a rallying call to be more true in our discipleship. Listening for the nuances of the language, and being ready to live out the truth of their meaning.

This week I read Eugene Peterson’s version of the beatitudes in The Message, a contemporary version of the Bible. And while I had read bits of The Message before, I’m not sure I had ever read the fifth chapter of Matthew before. And I was startled into newness as the beatitudes issued forth with a new translation. Let me share them with you now:
You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and God’s rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought. You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God. He’s food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat. You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for. You’re blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world. You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete and fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family. You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom. Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak likes about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable.

Barbara Brown Taylor, in her book Gospel Medicine, says this, “Much of the power of the Beatitudes depends on where you are sitting when you hear them. They sound different from on top than they do underneath. They sound different up front than they do in back. Upon front with the religiously satisfied and self-assured, they sound pretty confrontational…but way in the back, with the victims, the dreamers, the pushovers and the fools, the Beatitudes sound completely different…They are the same words in every place, of course. It is just the ears that change.”

This morning may you embrace the Beatitudes anew as you embark on the ministry that Christ calls you to do. May you hear with new ears the promises of the coming reign of God. And let there be no mistake, we are the ones who are called to make that world a reality.

Amen.

Breaking Light--Sermon 1/23/11

2011-01-23T19:16:00.000-05:00

I’m sure I was introduced to the poetry of Emily Dickinson earlier than my junior year of high school, but it was in that year, that Ms. Longtine piqued my interest by reciting Dickinson’s poems with such ardor and passion that despite my fellow 11th grade friends’ snickers and whispers, I was transported. She has remained one of my favorite poets. Her writing is as fragile and as sensitive as she was. She who never worked a regular job her entire life. She who never married and lived as a recluse in many ways. She who wrote thousands of poems alone in the bedroom of her father’s house showing them to hardly anyone until they were discovered on scraps of paper after her death. Her whole life has been shrouded in secrecy, and she never referred to anyone by name in her poems. But her biographers have of late pieced together the story of a crucial even in her life.

It is believed that when she was 28, when her father was a congressman in Washington, that she stopped on the way from the capital to her home in Massachusetts to visit family friends in Philadelphia. There, apparently, she met and fell in love with a man who was to dominate her thoughts for many years. But this love story is a tragic one. For he was unattainable. He was married, and he had a family. And therefore, both being noble during those Victorian times, they prohibited themselves from being together.

Dickinson returned home, having been awakened to love, but aware that this love could never be hers and penned one of her first poems, scratching her grief and depression into these words:
Will there really be a ‘morning’?
Is there such a thing as ‘day’?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Oh some scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called ‘morning’ lies!

Her question was not fanciful. It was real. “Will there really be a morning?” Will there come a time when light will break upon the darkness of my soul? Will I ever see the first rays of the sun?

And so in this season of Epiphany as we ponder the light of the Christ, as we ponder the meaning of light in a season of cold and darkness we do well to consider what we can learn, and where we can be led by God into light.

Have there been times in your own lives when you have asked “Will there be a morning?” Have you ever waited through the dark hours of a long night wondering if you could make it until dawn? Have you ever known a night that lasted a week, or a month, or a year? A time when hope was hollow and you had to ask whether you could even go on?

When I ask myself this question I think of a particular night in the fall of 2007, a night when I was awakened from my sleep with the hacking seal-like coughs of a six-month-old baby who lay feverish and gasping. It was my first experience of croup with a child and in that dark night I remember rushing with a crying child from steam-filled bathroom to bundling him in blankets while we stood in the cold late October air. I remember feeling so alone, and so helpless, and the darkness felt especially close. And as I walked up and down the front walk, trying to coax Grayson into taking big gulps of that night air I wanted nothing more than to see the light. For I trusted that with light things would seem clearer, life would seem more orderly. If I could simply wait for the light to break.

The scripture from the book of Matthew this morning tells a story of light breaking, and of hope coming. The story opens in a time of darkness. Jesus had just come out of his wilderness sojourn where he was tempted and alone. And word had just been received that John, the one who inspired Jesus and baptized Jesus and was kin to Jesus had been arrested. And Jesus made his way from Nazareth to the lakeside village of Capernaum. Times were hard then. The people were oppressed. Taxes had gone higher and higher, not out of necessity but to punish the people. There was a foreign government that ruled the people with an iron fist and used espionage and threats and wrongful imprisonments to harass and punish them. And a revival leader like John the Baptist had been imprisoned, never to be released again. The people were scared. It was a time of darkness.

And it was there, into that landscape, and that political situation that Jesus burst onto the scene. It was then that Jesus, he who had never spoken a word publicly, never yet soothed a broken body with his healing touch, never told a single parable about his elusive kingdom, began his ministry. In a dusty town nestled on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. Capernaum. It wasn’t a big city, wasn’t a place of culture, not somewhere well-known. Just some buildings overlooking a lake, really. A place with a reputation for being un-religious, actually. Matthew tells us that Jesus went there because it was what the Old Testament predicted. Listen: People who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who sat in shadows, light had dawned. And so it was, in that place of darkness light began to shine. With no fanfare, no showmanship, no triumph. In this place Jesus began his public ministry and began to invite others to join him. And these people who he asked, they weren’t the “Who’s Who” of Capernaum, they weren’t big names, they weren’t high profile kind of guys. Instead they were laborers, common folk, fishermen. And so it was into this world, into this out-of-the-way place with these everyday people that the first rays of light first shone. And that shimmer would grow, and spread, brightness that arose from a world of darkness. Morning did come. Light did break.

I have recently finished the book Home by the British historian Bill Bryson, some of you may know of his writings. He is a social historian who makes the past come alive. And in his latest book he examines the origins of domestic life, and how the common things that we take for granted came to be. As Bryson spoke of the discovery of electricity, he told a story about life in London as the war began. The Germans would bomb the city at night, and the only protection that the British had was to blacken their windows and turn out all streetlights so there were virtually no targets for the Germans to attack. The people lived in darkness and Bryson notes that more people died in auto accidents, or by mishaps that happened because of the darkness than those who were killed by the bombings themselves. The explosions would rock the city but because of the fires that the bombings could start, fires which could trap people in basements the call when bombing started was “to the roofs!” There the people of London would place themselves, one or two to a roof, protected only by tin helmets, searching for any fires that might spring up, and then stamping them out as quickly as possible, all in darkness. Winston Churchill told the story once of looking out across London and seeing all those figures, perched on the top of the buildings, anxious and tired as the first light of dawn would break over the city. And how, more often than not, as the rays of sun would pierce the horizon audible cheers would ring from roof to roof. For morning had come, and they had made it. Light again broke the darkness.

On this chilly Sunday, on this frigid morning, we again welcome the unquenchable light that breaks upon us even in the dark nights of our own souls. The one who has been called the light of all people again walks among the common folk, and invites us to follow him, to use what gifts we have in this broken world to bring more light to the darkness. Jesus invites us, just as he invited the first disciples to cast aside our nets and walk into the first pink and orange rays of the dawn. For a new day awaits. And there is work to be done. Morning has come. And Jesus calls.

Amen.

The One Who Claimed--Sermon 12/19/10

2010-12-20T13:26:00.000-05:00

The One Who Claimed: A Movement in Three Parts

As we near the end of our Advent journey, as the anticipation builds, and the prospect of the holy child’s birth beckons, we linger one more Sunday with the people who live the Advent story. And while last week we looked at Matthew’s account of the impending birth of Jesus through Mary’s eyes, this week we look at them through the eyes of Joseph.

We aren’t accustomed to thinking about Joseph as much, are we? The early church especially placed so much focus on Mary, given that she was the chosen vessel to carry God’s child. And Joseph, poor Joseph, he got a little left behind in all the fuss. Instead, he was the one to accompany, he was the one to take the back seat, he was the one meant to lead the donkey. In my mind’s eye we’ve sometimes relegated him to the role of body guard, surrogate, groomsman. As I was sharing about this week’s sermon topic, and talking about the role of Joseph with a group of you on Tuesday, a true confession emerged from a beloved member of this congregation. And the revelation that she shared was this: in the late 1960s she found a crèche on sale at Murphys downtown. And that crèche was a beautiful thing, and it’s price was dramatically slashed, and this self-proclaimed frugal person, who didn’t want to miss a bargain, and whose name will not be mentioned but who might be singing in the choir, and who might have a name that begins with a “P” and rhyme with “Mat”, decided to take that crèche home and make it her very own. There was only one little tiny issue with the crèche, only one small hang-up…turns out it was on sale at such a deep discount because there was no, well, no Joseph. No male role model in that holy family. And so each year the figurines come out at the Sterling home on Homestead Road, Mary, and the wise men, and the angel, the sheep with the broken ear and that sweet little baby Jesus in the manger and each year lest Mary look like a single mother, a shepherd stands in as understudy for Joseph, I mean they both have that same burly Joseph-like working class quality, right?

Of course I’m teasing about Pat’s crèche, but isn’t it true that the Christian church has often overlooked poor Joseph? In the Catholic Church especially Mary has been elevated, dressed in blue, a look of serene piety on her face as she holds that tiny Christ child. And Joseph, well, if he’s lucky he’s relegated to a corner of a cathedral with a modest icon nearby. In fact it wasn’t until 1870 that Pope Pius IX declared him a Patron of the Universal Church. Poor Joseph, he gets no respect!

So let’s delve into the text, shall we? And I want to warn you ahead of time that the text may sound a little familiar to you, for it is the exact same text as last week [rest assured, I did that on purpose]. But this week, I’d like to read the scripture throughout the sermon for Joseph’s journey is more a movement in three parts, and there are places where we need to pause and allow the depth of his character to sink into our own souls. This morning I’ll be reading to you from Eugene Peterson’s contemporary translation of the Bible, The Message.

The birth of Jesus took place like this. His mother, Mary, was engaged to be married to Joseph. Before they came to the marriage bed, Joseph discovered she was pregnant. (It was by the Holy Spirit, but he didn’t know that.) Joseph, chagrined but noble, determined to take care of things quietly so Mary would not be disgraced.

The writer of the book of Matthew doesn’t mince words as he tells the story of the birth of Jesus, does he? While Luke’s gospel which we focused on at the beginning of December as we fleshed out the stories of Elizabeth and Mary waxes poetic with all sorts of juicy details and unfolds the story of Mary’s impending pregnancy with astounding poetic description (remember the angel visitation to inform the young Mary? And then that harrowing journey she took through the hills to see Elizabeth for wisdom? And the leaping of the baby in the womb, and then Mary’s eloquent operatic aria of the Magnificat?) Matthew is more a “just the facts, Ma’am” kind of writer. Matthew gives us the who’s and how’s, straight up, unvarnished and raw. There are these two people. Mary and Joseph. And they were engaged (which in Jewish tradition was a binding legal agreement already, to be engaged carried with it all the responsibilities and commitments to fidelity that marriage does in our culture). And lo and behold, Joseph learns an uncomfortable and startling truth, this woman that he loves, this woman who has committed himself to him, is pregnant with another’s child.

And the very first thing we learn of Joseph, the first claim that we can make of him is that he is sensitive and discreet. In the face of what must have felt like betrayal and perhaps even deceit, he does not condemn Mary. He does not lash out at her or try to tarnish her reputation. Instead, he chooses to do the honorable thing, and privately release her from her vows of betrothal. He does not do what the law would allow or perhaps even encourage him to do, for the patriarchal legal system of the time would call for the stoning of any woman found guilty of adultery, and certainly Mary’s pregnancy would have been proof of her infidelity. But instead he offers her a tender mercy, and a quiet grace, and even as he must have been nursing his own broken heart, and asking his own anguished “why?” He chooses to release her quietly from her bonds to him. There will be no disgrace. There will be no condemnation. There will be no judgment. Joseph’s choice will be a merciful one. And he will claim no call for retribution. Instead his claim will be that he will be a man who offers grace.

While he was trying to figure a way out, he had a dream. God’s angel spoke in the dream: “Joseph, son of David, don’t hesitate to get married. Mary’s pregnancy is Spirit-conceived. God’s Holy Spirit has made her pregnant. She will bring a son to birth, and when she does, you, Joseph, will name him Jesus—‘God saves’—because he will save his people from their sins.” This would bring the prophet’s embryonic sermon to full term: Watch for this—a virgin will get pregnant and bear a son, They will name him Immanuel (Hebrew for “God with us”). Then Joseph woke up. He did exactly what God’s angel commanded in the dream: He married Mary. But he did not consummate the marriage until she had the baby.

And so we move into the second movement of our story.

Many of you already know that for the past three years or so I have struggled with insomnia. While my dream life used to be rich and rewarding, now I am either restlessly tossing and turning or completely zombified by the Ambien I allow myself to take every third night or so. My husband, however, has a glamorous and elaborate fairy tale world of dreams that he allows me to visit as he regales me with the stories of where his dreams took him. When he’s not flying through the air, one of his common dream-time reveries, he is enjoying the company of famous celebrities. A few months back on a Saturday morning we lay in bed, Grayson climbing over us, and Robert said, “You know, last night Barbara Bush and I were singing ‘Climb Every Mountain’ in the hallway of the college administration building. It was really quite touching.”

I miss my regular sleep habits, but the truth is, I miss the dreaming. For I believe our souls need to dream. I believe that it is one of the few legitimate ways that we allow God to get our attention sometimes. Where else but in this liminal place, the place of moonlight and hush, are our hearts soft enough to allow God to drop into them? Where else do we free ourselves to trust that God is really afoot and that answers may come?

While Joseph isn’t granted a burning bush moment, or a face-to-face angel encounter as Mary had, he still gets a subtle word from God. The angel appears to him and lets him in on the secret that Mary already knew. And Joseph asks no questions, doesn’t utter a word, but implicitly trusts God and immediately acts. How many of us would be tempted to brush off those night-time musings and assume it was just our imagination, or just too much strange food we’d eaten. God comes to Joseph and Joseph stakes his claim on God’s word. And claims his destiny as the earthly father of this newborn. Joseph will chose to claim trust.

And finally the third movement. And it is a simple and profound one. One sentence.

He named the baby Jesus.

It was not Mary who named the child. It was Joseph. In ancient Israelite culture, to name a child was to offer a blessing. Naming was a powerful symbolic gesture in which the hopes and dreams of the child were placed upon the young. And when you named someone you claimed them as well. It was not Mary who claimed the child as her own, but Joseph. And by so doing, Jesus was adopted into the whole Davidic lineage which came through Joseph’s blood.

I am remembering this morning a Sunday when I stood in the front of the congregation of the Manchester Church of the Brethren on a sunny fall morning and held in my arms a then nine-month-old Elliott Beecher Tae-Soo Shaum. Eli was the son of one of my closest friends and he was a child who was long in coming to his family. His mother, Lynn, had been through years of fertility treatments and two surgeries and when interventions were not successful she and her husband, Steve, had begun the lengthy process of adopting a child from Korea. Perhaps some of you have walked your own journeys through adoption, or been with those who have wanted so desperately to have a child to call their own. And as I held that child in my arms on that morning, speaking his name and offering him a blessing, my eyes also rested on his parents, who wept their own silent tears. And years later when Robert and I also struggled with infertility it was Eli’s mother who said to me fiercely, “Eli is my son. He is my child. And what you need to remember, Christen, is that while my son did not grow in my body, he was conceived by my dream. And that makes him no less my own.”

Joseph’s message is the message of Eli’s mother’s as well. And the message is this: it is our task in this world to expand our definition of family. It is our job to extend our arms wider to invite others into our hearts. It is our mandate as children of the One God to cradle all babies as our own babies, nurturing them and comforting them. It is our commandment as children of the One God to nurture all youth as our own youth and raise the next generation with love. It is our commandment as children of the One God to welcome all people as our own sisters and brothers and encircle those in need. It is our commandment as children of the One God to care for all of our elderly and wise ones as our own parents and grandparents and protect their dignity and honor their history. It is our responsibility as children of the One God, our responsibility and our privilege.

And we do this not in some namby-pamby, Coca-Cola “I’d like to teach the world to sing,” Hallmark photo op moment, but through consciously making decisions which we believe align with God’s dreams for humanity. Through our charitable giving, and through our lobbying for affordable health care for all. Through our demand for an end to poverty and through setting our sights on declaring war on hunger, which is a much more formidable enemy right now than terrorism.

This morning we follow in the footsteps of our brother Joseph, who acted as father to the Christ. And we walk this road of discipleship with intention. We walk this road knowing that it will not be easy. We walk this road with deliberation. We walk this road with obedience. And we walk together, placing our trust in God. And allowing ourselves to be divine instruments who claim the ways of peace.

May it be so.

Amen.

Hearing from the Baptist--Sermon 11/28/10

2010-11-28T17:43:00.000-05:00

It is hardly possible to me that I have been your pastor for near six months now and that we are already cruising in to our first Advent season together. One of the things I have learned about you is the wide array you of distinct stories you each have to tell. I am fascinated by the particularities and peculiarities which make you each a part of this body of Christ, and I realize the richness and depth of character we have among us. And so as we begin this season of Advent, I wanted us to journey together into the realm of story. I wanted us to have the chance to reintroduce ourselves to the characters and major players in this Advent drama, for they are part of our family as well. And their ancient stories shape the human story. Each week through Epiphany Sunday we will unearth one of the movers and shakers of this time, one of the cast of characters who heralded the birth and ministry of the Messiah. And this morning we begin with perhaps one of the most animated of all, John the Baptist.

It is a strange twist of the liturgical calendar which places a lectionary story about John the Baptist as a man in his 30s preaching in the wilderness a mere Sunday or two before stories about his mother, Elizabeth, who at the time we will meet her next week is pregnant with him. A bit of reverse foreshadowing, perhaps. I still have yet to figure out the mysterious and at times downright strange ways of the lectionary. But, I guess we should never be surprised when things get a little wacky when John the Baptist is involved, for he is not one who would be called orthodox, nor would we name him king of the understatement.

John wasn’t your average devout Jew circa late 20s A.D. First, there was that whole style thing. While most men were covering up from the sun by wearing soft linen or wool robes (but never both together, for that was taboo, and definitely a fashion no-no as well), John the Baptist distinguished himself by dressing in the fur of camels, which would have been like saying he chose his clothes out of the bin out back behind the Salvation Army store, in the pile of what was rejected. His clothes were styled after those of the Bedouin Shepherds who dressed for protection as they traveled through the middle of nowhere in the wild wilderness east of Jerusalem and they weren’t the standard dress of the day. And the food he ate, well let’s just say that he was not a gourmand by any stretch of the imagination. He wouldn’t have known a balanced meal if it was placed in front of him. John subsisted on a starvation diet of mostly wild locusts which rained down in abundance from the trees, and a bit of wild honey which could be easily found in the area. A diet perhaps less tasty than crunchy. But more important than what John put in his mouth were the words that were shouted out from it. For John the Baptist was a take-no-prisoners, fire-and-brimstone, holy-roller, preacher (with a capital “P”), and he minced no words as he rattled off the inequities, sins, wrongs, and hypocrisies he was witnessing. He was rough around the edges and not afraid of conflict. His admonitions and prophesies were scathing and his locust-scented breath blew across the wilderness wrathfully. He was, as the theologian Barbara Brown Taylor has written, “God’s own air raid siren.”

And yet, John’s message was reaching people, for he had amassed quite a following. Taylor goes on to say that “A helicopter flying over the desert east of Jerusalem would have looked down on a colorful string of pilgrims that stretched from the city to an encampment by the river—John’s church—where he heard people’s confessions and renewed their hope that God had not abandoned them.” (http://www.nationalcathedral.org/worship/sermonTexts/bbt981213.shtml)

The baptizer’s voice was heard in the midst of the sands of nowhere and his words had drawn the attention of not just the marginalized and helpless, but also of the most religious, the Sadducees and the Pharisees who loaded themselves onto their camels to make their way out to the margins to listen to what this shabby hooligan was saying, or rather who he was saying it about.

I want to interrupt our little story before we get into John’s loud pulpit-pounding phase of the story, the narrative hook of the Advent and tell you a little secret. John the Baptist has not been my favorite Advent character. This particular forerunner of the Messiah always scares me a little with his bombastic voice, with his strange diet, with his condemnation. He reminds me a little of a second cousin of mine, a loud and dear man in oversized spectacles who was always a just little too loud when he pontificated on local politics, someone who could stir my Swedish grandfather into enough of a frenzy that my he might start saying words like “criminy.” This cousin usually was speaking the social gospel, and I grew up to love him and his ideas, but his bluster and his passion and the way he could sometimes spit food out of his mouth when he got really worked up at the holiday table always turned me away a little first. I would imagine I’m not alone here as we talk about our brother John the Baptist, for we Midwestern UCC folk aren’t usually those who prefer to have our pastors shake their fists and call thunder down upon them. Or perhaps if you are, you called the wrong pastor into your fold…

Advent is not generally a time when we want to hear John’s loud, threatening voice, even if we are intent on preparing the way for the one who proclaims. For we may have different ideas. We like our Advent warm. We like to approach the coming of the Christ child, the coming of a soft baby with cozy expectation. We like to bask in the quiet reflective nuanced hushes, the soft dim lights and hushed hymns. It doesn’t always seem fair that we have this lunatic evangelist in our face screaming with all this moral righteousness, does it? Can’t we just fast-forward to the stable, and the angels, and that smell of soft baby hair as the infant lies his head in the crook of our neck? Can’t we just breathe a sigh of relief that God makes a way to us again, this year, in this human form?

No. No, friends. I’m sorry. We can’t. I can’t. For to reach that place of peace there’s some stuff we’ve got to do first. And John the Baptist does have a message for us to hear and understand, across time and distance. There is a truth he speaks that must be proclaimed as we turn our hearts toward the Advent mystery.

First of all, as we unpack John’s rant we need to remember that he was not exactly preaching to us. Matthew is recounting for us a little confab between John the Baptist and the Pharisees and the Sadducees who had traveled out to the wilderness to hear him speak. Those who were the priestly, law-abiding Jews, those who were obsessed with dotting every “I” and crossing every “T.” Those who had felt threatened by the power of this unknown prophet in the wilderness. John reminded them, without mincing words, that their obsession with the law and with the rules and with the politics of the day, was blinding them to a few things. And they couldn’t be saved by who they knew, or what prophet they followed. He reminded these priests and leaders that they seemed to be forgetting their covenant with God, forgetting that it was their job to usher in the reign of God’s love. “And oh by the way,” the Baptist said, “by aligning yourself with the powerful families and special interest groups for your own political gain, you’ve gotten a little too big for your britches.”

In short, John was preaching a message of hope wrapped up in a scathing rebuke, a reminder that by participating in a dry, same-old same-old ritual of religion, that these Pharisees and Sadducees had forgotten to grow in their faith and neglected the important work of preparing for the coming Messiah who had been promised. And so John’s most scathing words, you know, the ones about being a brood of snakes, was not really meant for our ears, but for theirs.

But even having recognized that, I’m not sure we’re off the hook (and here’s where I go all John the Baptist on you, so get ready). John the Baptist has another admonition which is universal in its appeal. One which I think we dare not lose sight of, those of us who begin the Advent journey this season in 2010, and it is this, “Repent.”

Repentance is sort of an overwhelming word, isn’t it? It’s not one we hear a lot in the UCC. Not one we hear a lot from this pulpit, but maybe we should. To repent means to “turn around” or rather, “to chose to turn toward God.” And what is so frightening about that? In fact isn’t that exactly what our Creator calls us to do on a regular basis? Aren’t we called to become new? Aren’t we asked to hear the voice of the one who invites us to awaken? To seek light in the dark cave of our hearts? To allow ourselves to prepare a space that Christ may be born again this year? To proclaim our “yes” to the hope that truth and justice may find a way to the earth again? To name ourselves as bearers of that Christ light? To be active participants in building the community of God here on earth?

The writer Frederick Buechner says it better than I ever could in his book Wishful Thinking, “To repent is to come to your senses. It is not so much something you do as something that happens. True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ than to the future and saying, ‘Wow!’” ( p. 96).

It is the first Sunday of Advent. And it is time for us to repent, collectively and individually. It is time for us to heed the call of our crazy uncle John the Baptist, the one who we may want to dismiss, the one who scares us a little with the loud voice, the one who isn’t exactly the life of the party. But, friends, he is the one who we need to hear as we begin this church year. He is the one who still asks the right questions about what and who we place at the center of our lives. And he is the one who cuts to the heart of the matter about where our priorities must be if we are to proclaim the good news .

It is time on this first Sunday of Advent for us to turn our faces toward the light of God, to make in souls space to bear new life. It is time for us to align ourselves with God’s call for peace, and equality, and justice. It is time for us to look honestly into our own souls and decide what changes need to be made. For we only have four weeks, and new life shimmers on the horizon, and all we can do is murmur in wonder an awed, “Wow.”

Amen.

Thin Places--Sermon 10/31/10

2010-11-16T17:33:00.000-05:00

Sermon for All Saint's Day.

Thin Places

If you are one who likes celebrations, than the next few days offer a whole plethora of sacred and secular holidays in which to indulge. Of course our society’s consumerist cash cow of a holiday will come tonight when oodles and oodles of cowboys and princesses and batmans and pumpkins and puppies show up at your door, with already heavy-laden bags in hand brimming with M&M’s and Smarties for the time honored tradition of trick or treating. As many of you already know, Halloween’s roots lie in the pagan tradition of Samhain, which was essentially the time of year when the fields were fallow and the inedible parts and bones of the cattle were burned after they rest of their meat was cured. Samhain was considered the “new year” as the earth’s seasonal cycle came full circle again. The early church, however, in an effort at conversion of the country dwellers who had their own folk traditions, agreed that if the pagans were going to have a party, that it made sense for Christians to one up them with a bigger celebration, with a more elaborate feast, call it an early evangelism effort. An almost “Annie Get Your Gun-esque” version of anything you can do we can do better. And so, November 1st was declared by the church as “All Saint’s Day.” And just to be sure we made our point, November 2nd was declared “All Soul’s Day.” All bases were covered. The pagans may be celebrating the death of the harvest, the earth, the fallow time before winter, but we Christians could still one-up them by celebrating the death of our saints, those who have carried forward their faith. And if that wasn’t enough. We’d celebrate the saints in our midst. Take that, pagans. Church 1, or wait with All-Soul’s Day let’s make that 2, Pagans 0. However, time unfolded a different tale and both traditions survived, although Samhain’s name was changed to “All Hallow’s Eve” or just “Halloween.” Both the secular and the sacred are part of our cultural heritage and just as we live between the tensions in December of Santa and the Baby Jesus story, and the cultural tug of war in spring between little easter bunnies and a risen savior, this Sunday as well places the church betwixt and between. Between culture and religion. Between society and spirituality. Between the dominant paradigm and the subculture of the sacred. A thin place of sorts.

This brokenness, this living between, is something which can be perplexing. Especially for children. My parents have told the story before of how I used to enjoy playing with the plastic crèche that was set up each Christmas in our family home, how I would often make parades with the animals, the donkey, the camels, the sheep, and a few reindeer ornaments thrown in for diversity and then I’d have the wise men and shepherds tagging behind, and Mary and Joseph holding their baby and finally, at the back of the line like the grand poobah of the parade, Santa Claus, with the angel flying over the whole event doing loop de loops and giving color commentary from the air. It was the only way my four-year-old head could live in these tensions. I knew there was a baby Jesus, but I also had heard of this Santa. And somehow I had to make him fit into the story. And so, even though he seemed to be a dwarf, coming from a Fisher Price set, and even though he towered a good three inches lower than the smallest Shepherd, he was tacked onto the story as well.

But this dualism, this push and pull of story hasn’t always been there, and doesn’t need to divide us I don’t believe. There were others in our Christian tradition, renegades of sorts, who I believe offer us a different perspective, a more holistic vision of history, and I’d like us to turn our attention there this morning. Let us fix our eyes back to a different time, to the sixth and seventh century in Ireland when Christianity was slowly immersing itself in the Celtic culture. Because Ireland was off the beaten path, and came to be at a time before the Christian church began to rationalize and centralize in Rome, there was a different feel to it. There was a more mystical bent, a more tolerant acceptance of other religions, a more softened orthodoxy. Because of their geographical separation their faith developed differently. The Celts learned to find the spirit of Christ in a way very different than the centralized church in Rome. And this freedom allowed them to incorporate the divine in the midst of nature, in the midst of the people, in the midst of the land. For Celtic Christianity there was a more organic unity. God was among God’s people, and the sacred was all around even in the most common and ordinary of experiences. And while there may have been two different cultures in Ireland, their own tension between the secular and sacred—the Celts believed that there had to be a way to incorporate them into the unity of Christ’s vision for all. And so the spirituality and Christianity which was part of that time was unlike any we know now.

The Celtic Christians spoke freely of thin places. Those were the places where the earth seemed more holy, were the veil between heaven and earth seemed more transparent. But thin places referred to time as well as space. When one stumbled into the holy as they sat at the bedside of one who was dying, or where a woman was struggling with the birth pangs so that a baby might be born, one was in a thin place. When one realized in the midst of ordinary conversation that the person they were talking with was listening with a compassion bordering on heavenly, when one looked into the eyes of another and saw empathy and grace pooling forth, one was in a thin place. When one heard the truth spoken to power even when there may be repercussions and when forgiveness was offered even in the face of unimaginable sin, one was in a thin place. A place where the veil between God’s world and the human world was near, and the holy was afoot.

The writer of the book of Revelation knew a bit about those thin places, and on this celebration of All Saint’s Day, it seems an obvious place to turn. Tradition maintains that it was the apostle John who wrote the book of Revelation, but truth be told we really have no way of knowing. The visions and dreams we see in the book offer complex testimonies and even some uncomfortable scenes. And deciphering Revelation is complex. But, there are these snippets of grace found there as well, these offerings of what life in God’s realm may be and John walks right into these thin places in his dreams. There is in the author’s revelation a promise for the faithful, and a glimpse of what may come. It is a vision of unity where those from every nation, and every tribe, all people and all languages, all colors and all shapes are welcomed. A vision of praise where God’s power and love are acknowledged and where the canopy of grace of wide. Those who reside with God there will be sheltered, and will know no hunger or thirst. Those who find home with God will be guided to springs of the water of life where God will wipe away every tear from every eye.

I believe that on this day, on this day when we remember the faithfulness of those who have served God, and who must reside now in God’s realm of love, we feel a little bittersweet. While part of us honors the legacies of these servants and swells with pride to see their names read in the rollcall of the faithful, another part of us mourns afresh the veil that separates us from them and misses the very real human embraces they could give. While part of us smile in fond remembrance at the quicks and curiosities of our loved ones and carry with us a suitcase full of happy memories to share with our children, another part of us grieves the pain of unresolved relationships and questions left unanswered and truths unspoken. All-Saint’s Day is a bittersweet day in the life of the church, when we both celebrate and offer poignant pause. The bells toll, the candles lit, the names read, and we realize that we are ushered into a thin place.

The late Carlyle Marney a great Southern Baptist preacher from North Carolina once shared a story about what All Saint’s Day is. He believed that each of us is like a house. There are different rooms in the house that is you, he said. A parlor to welcome guests, a kitchen and dining room for eating, a bedroom where you sleep, a basement where you store your trash. The house also has a balcony, he said, and on that balcony are all the people who have exerted good and positive and gracious influences in your life. They are your balcony people. “Walk outside and look up and see who’s up there on our balcony looking down at you,” he would suggest. “Wave to them. They are your saints.” I believe that this is our job on All Saint’s Day, to turn and wave to the saints on our balcony. [John M. Buchanan editorial in Christian Century, November 15, 2003]

And so this morning I invite you to consider your balcony-sitters. Consider those to whom you turn and wave on this holy day as we dwell in the land where the veil is thin between heaven and earth. Who sits in your balcony and watches down on you with eyes gleaming with love? Who hovers above you ready to cheer you on? Who quietly lingers, aching to offer you some wisdom? To whom must we turn and wave this morning?

There is a poignant song by the group Kindling, a little known folk group comprised mostly of members of the Church of the Brethren, called “All that Remains is the Love” and the words have echoed in my mind all week as I’ve considered this Sunday. It is the song written by my friend, Lee Krahenbuhl, after visiting a family graveyard and realizing the legacy of those balcony-sitters in his own time. Hear his as blessing and benediction as we linger in the thin places this morning:
I hope I am returning all the best you gave the world
And thank you for the gift of your mistakes
I’m trying not to live my life in anger or in fear
And power isn’t worth the hate it takes
And since everything I build will turn to dust in time
And riches disappear like morning mist
Family and friends and lovers now will be my only song
Until I come to join you and they visit me like this..
And All that remains is the love
All that remains is the love bravely expressed.

On this All-Saints Day as we remember, and as we celebrate those who have gone before, may we live in the reality of the thin place, where all is sacred, and bound together by God’s inclusive love.

Amen.

Wild and Precious Gifts--Sermon 11/14/10

2010-11-16T17:26:00.003-05:00

This was my sermon for Stewardship Sunday at Peace UCC.

And so we have arrived. After hearing top ten reasons about stewardship, after receiving letters in the mail and filling out pledge cards, after prayerfully considering our gifts, or even after hastily scribbling in a number in a mad dash to get out the door this morning for worship, we have reached the culmination of our stewardship campaign, or perhaps I should say that the culmination will come with the “Beth Ring cake” after worship. I confess that I am accustomed to treating stewardship emphasis sermons like pledge week on NPR or PBS, and if you are like me, it probably a relief to get this “money talk” out of the way so we can go on to our “regularly scheduled program.” But I have a hunch that there’s more to it than that, I have a hunch that on a deeper level, we in the church aren’t always that comfortable talking about money. For those of us who make enough of it, there can be a sense of guilt. For those of us who don’t make enough of it, there can be a source of shame. Money, like sex, is something we don’t talk about publicly. There is an unspoken taboo there, isn’t there? It’s not supposed to be anyone else’s business? Right? So talk of money, seems a little threatening, and there is a sense in the church where we want to say, “Okay, okay I get it…here, let me surreptitiously hand you this pledge card and let’s get on with it, now get back to our regular programming…”

But I think that when we feel a little itchy about something, I little uncomfortable, than there is a bit of a poke from God, a little nudge to consider where we need to turn our attention.

It’s stewardship Sunday. We’re going to talk about our gifts, and our talents, and our faith. I promise no hard sells, no pulpit pounding, no altar calls, no guilt ridden lectures. It’s stewardship Sunday and we need to turn our attention to the teachings of Jesus, the one who taught us the truth of what it means to be a faithful caregiver of the gifts of God.

The parable of the talents is one which I wrestle with. It’s one of those texts which has always stuck in my craw, and because I believe Jesus to be a prophet who promotes liberation for all, justice and peace, love as all powerful and prominent, I figured it was about time for me to get over my reservations and hesitations and plow into it and figure out what I was missing before.

It has been said that every preacher has only one good sermon theme in them, and that every other sermon is just a riff of that one. It has been said that pastor’s often preach to themselves in every sermon they speak. And, so I speak confessionally when I say, that I look at this verse through the Christen Pettit Miller filter, just as each of you see it through your own independent lens as well. Let me tell you a little about what the Christen Pettit Miller history is. As a white middle-class woman living in an affluent country, as a person with what I now believe must be a learning disability when it comes to finances and a sense of helpless inadequacy when it comes to investments I read this story and place myself in the role of the one who really disappointed the master. I would be the one who buried her share of her supervisor’s money in an effort to just keep it safe and intact. And so with each reading of this parable in previous years, I have ended up scratching my head and furrowing my brow and feeling a little perplexed with exactly what the point is.

You’ve all heard the story. Chris just read it for you again. There are three people. They are all given three different amounts of money. They each make choices about what to do with it. And then they are rewarded or punished based on their choices. The moral of the story, seems to be, simply put, use it or lose it. And when one places this in a financial context, as we are apt to do with a first read, it can be a little uncomfortable, or, heck, downright painful to hear. Especially if we are ones who believe that Jesus sided with the powerless, especially if we are ones who dislike the analogy of Jesus promoting venture capitalism, or introducing us to a God who condemns those who don’t make money, or rather make sound investments. The parable of the talents, on the surface, can be a sticky one. That is, if we chose to take this parable at face value only.

Friday afternoon was sermon grappling day with me. I was picking apart the text, looking through interpretations, living through the various perspectives, placing myself in the story, trying to get my head around the words, and as is sometimes the case when I become blocked, I sent a little note out into the universe via Facebook message to a group of my closest friends, we who call ourselves the sisters, eight of us scattered across the country, the women who offer my counsel and hold me accountable, and help me see light when I can only see darkness. The message simply said, “Help! I don’t get it…” and then sent the text. And within a half hour my in box had two responses. The first said, “This is why I’m not a pastor.” Which was honest, but not all that helpful…and the second said simply, “It’s not about money. Think about it!”

Whoa! The parable of the talents is not about money? Whoa! Who knew? I was credulous but read it again taking money out of the equation and lo and behold, things started to click.

Jesus spoke in parables because the people of the time loved stories, and these stories were just that, they were stories, they weren’t instruction manuals for what exactly should happen if our boss handed us $633,000, which is the modern day equivalent of only one talent, or fifteen times the average American household income. The parable isn’t a story about investment strategy, or market climate. Instead it is a story about our gifts, and what gifts we offer to the Creator, and thus, to the world.

A talent, in ancient Palestine, was a measure of weight which later came to denote a fixed amount of silver or gold. A talent was a way to describe money, but in an interesting etymological phenomenon, a language twist of fate, the word “talent” morphed into the word that we know as talent in the English language, one’s gift, or one’s God-given ability or skill. The word talent, comes directly from this parable. And so, it appears, interpreters throughout the ages have understood this parable far better than your humble pastor, go figure.

The parable of the talents is about what we give to the church, about what we give to our families, our friends, our communities, and the world. And the parable of the talents is about investing wisely in discerning these gifts. The parable of the talents is about the sharing of ourselves, the sharing of those skills and abilities we have honed. And the parable of the talents is about recognizing our talents as valuable, and important, and necessary to the world, and not something God wants us to bury. It about all of this, but perhaps most importantly, the parable of the talents is about taking a risk. It is about the call to become involved in the messy and beautiful life of community. It is about the summons to commit ourselves body and soul to the ministry of relationship. It is about recognizing that the world is hungry for our commitments, and we can’t just glide through life on cruise control.

And so this Sunday, as we turn in our pledge cards having made our financial decisions to support the ministry of this church and the wider world beyond, as we bind ourselves to one another through the money we will combine to insure economic viability as a church, I ask you to consider something more. You’ll notice in your bulletins this morning there is a different sort of pledge card, it is a pledge of your time, a pledge of your gifts, a pledge of your talents. Take it out of your bulletin, take a look at it, ponder what you can offer, you can even fill it out now while I’m talking, I don’t mind…for this promise and commitment is placed before you as well.

On this stewardship Sunday, I ask you to do more than to consider what your money can do. On this stewardship Sunday I ask you to consider instead what gift you have buried. What do you have to offer the church and the world that needs to be dug out of its hole, brushed off, and held up to the light of the sun, to be used for the glory of God and your neighbor’s good?

In the Gospel of Thomas, one of those Gnostic Gospels which never made it into the Biblical canon, we’ve been mentioning a few of these in Sunday school lately, Jesus is said to have told his disciples, “If you bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will save you.” But the teacher went on to warn, “If you don’t bring forth what is inside you, what you don’t bring forth will destroy you.” I believe each of us is called by God to bring forth that which has been given to them, to bring forth that joy, that story, that song, that presence that we may have been reluctant to share. We care called by our Creator to bring forth that skill, that art, that talent which we may have been holding back. For this is what it means to be a good steward; and if we deny that which we should share, we deny the God who gave us these gifts to begin with.

Frederick Buechner writes, “the place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” And so this morning I invite you to pause. As we commit ourselves to a new year of faithful stewardship, a new year of financial giving to meet the deep hungers of this community and the world, I ask you to consider one other question, what spiritual gifts are you willing to risk giving this year? What deep gladness lies buried within you that begs to be unearthed and shared with others? How brave will you dare to be in sharing yourself with your brothers and sisters? What risks do you promise to make to become necessary to someone in need? What are you being called to bring forth?

For what we are called to give today is more than just our money; we are called to give no less than our whole selves.

The poet Mary Oliver puts it more eloquently and boldly in her poem “Summer Day” when she asks, “Tell me what it is that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

The world is waiting. And it is hungry for what you have to offer. What wild and precious gift do you bring forth?

Amen.

Halloween

2010-10-30T20:24:00.002-04:00

Tonight the mistresses T. and B. were preparing to go to a Halloween party. As a parent, it is hard to cross the "we no longer trick or treat" hurdle. But I suppose 14 and 17 is as good a time as any. I'm still marveling that it was a same-sex party. How few are the ticking time bombs that we dodge as parents? I mean, really even if your child decides to dress as Snooki on Jersey Shore, who cares if she is sharing those long legs with only the girlfriends she sees in ballet every week? And, um, who loaned her the fishnet stockings?

In my defense, they were from a college production, and not at all utilitarian. And I saved them only because I thought I might use them again for a costume...and, well, B. did! Now, if only she could find a use for my old flannel nightgowns.

The Hundredth Monkey--Sermon 10/24/10

2010-10-25T09:43:00.001-04:00

This sermon is dedicated this morning to my friend, Ken Brown, long-time director of the Peace Studies Institute at Manchester College who is hospitalized today in Cleveland, OH. Ken has influenced and shaped me in profound ways as I try to be a peacemaker in this world.

This morning as we celebrate Peace and Justice Sunday, as we focus our attentions on a hungry world which calls out for peacemakers on national and international levels, and within our community and our world, I would like to draw your attention, first to one man. The man is Rupert Sheldrake.

Rupert Shedrake, a man whose name doesn’t readily roll off the tongue. A man who must of us don’t probably sit around and discuss over our morning coffee or see waltzing on Dancing with the Stars. Rupert Sheldrake, the theoretical biologist who discovered the Morphic Field Theory. A theory which many of us have never heard of and which until recently I was convinced existed mostly to stump graduate students during their GRE exams. Okay, show of hands…who understands Morphic Field theory? And which of you would like to explain how it relates to peace and justice? Anyone?

Morphic field theory can be described, very roughly, this way: a change in behavior happens in a species when a critical mass—the exact number—is reached. Now, until fairly recently, the past week to be exact, I had never heard of Rupert Sheldrake or morphic field theory. And to be quite honest, if Robert or Tess or Brynn tried to explain it to me while I was preparing dinner one night I may just be inclined to nod politely and go on tossing the salad. But, I happened upon this theory in, of all things, a book on spirituality and I want to share with you an allegory that explains this theory.

Off the shores of Japan, scientists had been studying monkey colonies on many separate small islands for over thirty years. In order to keep track of the monkeys, they would lure them out of the trees by dropping sweet potatoes on the beach. Well, the monkeys came to enjoy this free lunch, and were often in plain sight where they could be observed as they noshed on their carbohydrate-rich snacks. One day, on one small islands, an 18-month-old monkey named Imo started to wash her sweet potato in the sea before she popped it into her mouth and ate it. No one knows why she did it. Perhaps it tasted better without all the grit and sand and teeny tiny bugs on it. Perhaps the seawater salted the potato and created a new taste sensation in her little monkey mouth. But, for whatever reason, our sweet Imo changed the pattern of monkey behavior. Imo then showed her playmates, the monkey version of playgroup, and then her mother how to do this. And it wasn’t long before her friends started showing their parent monkeys, and gradually, little by little, all over the island monkeys began to wash their sweet potatoes in the sea rather than eating them grit and all. Call it the latest monkey craze, sort of like the Beatles or bell bottoms, sweeping over the island.

One day the scientists observed that all the monkeys on that particular island washed their sweet potatoes before eating them. Now, although this was significant, what was even more fascinating, and the part where I start to get excited, was that this change in monkey behavior did NOT take place only on one island. Suddenly, dramatically, monkeys on other islands were now washing their sweet potatoes as well, despite the fact that monkey colonies on different islands had no direct contact with each other, so this was not simply socialization.

There was, then a monkey who made all the difference. This monkey became called in theory the “hundredth monkey.” And the 100th one was the hypothesized anonymous monkey that tipped the scales for the species. This 100th monkey was the one whose change in behavior meant that all monkeys would from then on wash their sweet potatoes before eating them.

This allegory, this description of Rupert Sheldrake’s Morphic Field Theory fills me with great hope and gives me tingles because of what it has to teach us. A promise is made clear. A truth is revealed. When a critical number of people change their behavior, change their way of thinking, change their way of responding to the world, the larger culture will change as well. What this story tells us is that what was at first unthinkable, what was at first unimaginable, what was at first written off as too preposterous, what was at first deemed hopeless can become the norm. A shift is constantly being made, a way of being is forever altered. Someone has to be the 37th monkey, and the 63rd, and the 99th, before there is a 100th monkey—and here’s the thrilling part, no one knows how far away we are, or how unimaginably close to change that hundredth monkey is until suddenly, amazingly, we are there.

The prophet Micah was one who knew about change. He was one who knew about waiting for the climate to shift, who knew what it was like to live in a world where prophets are seen as little more tha crazy town criers. Micah was a common man, a poor man who lived in the hills of Judea just to the south and west of Jerusalem. He had seen the land of Israel become corrupt. He had heard tales of the glory days and prosperity of that land. And he lamented both the loss of Israel’s faith, the selling out of the vision of what they could be, and the weakening of his own country of Judah after the rule of King Hezekiah. And yet, Micah was not afraid to speak. He was not afraid to join his voice, the voice of a property-less peasant, the voice of country-boy with the voices of Isaiah, and Hosea in crying out for social justice, and envisioning a new Jerusalem. Micah must have known in his bones what it meant to convert a culture to a way of redemption, to crave a world of peace. Micah believed that a cry for justice must be made in a tiny village first, and that it might just have the power to echo into the neighboring hills, and then seep on into the city, and from there be spoken out into the world. Micah was not afraid of being the first monkey, if we refer to Morphic Field theory…and his voice, his prophesy, resonates centuries later.

Listen to a few of his words from the fourth and fifth chapters of Micah spoken in contemporary language through Eugene Peterson’s translation of The Bible:
God will establish justice in the rabble of nations and settle disputes in faraway places. They’ll trade in their swords for shovels, their spears for rakes and hoes. Nations will quit fighting each other, quite learning how to kill one another. Each man will sit under his own shade tree, each woman in safety will tend her own garden.
And after issuing his proclamation of peace, he goes on to predict that one will rise up to lead that movement, “And the people will have a good and safe home, for the whole world will hold him in respect—Peacemaker of the world!”

The prophet Micah lived his life proclaiming the truth that he knew. Demanding the peace that was in short supply. Starting a movemement that would swell until it could no longer be ignored. And predicting that only one who proclaimed peace could lead the people.

I think peace must be like that. Great movements of peace must begin with these tiny seeds, these tiny voices, these soft pleas for justice in tiny back water towns. And then their rippling, their waves create wider circles. The Micah’s of the world must speak, because these prophets create a culture that is made ready for peace. And it is only then that we can hear, and it is only then that we can begin. It is only then that we can imagine the scales tipping, from violence to nonviolence, from judgment to mercy, from brokenness to healing, from isolation to welcome, from that first monkey to that hundredth.

Jesus, the prince of peace, the prophet of prophets lived and breathed and walked among us. And he too had a few words to say about peace, and about love. And while we have grown comfortable with the knowledge that he offers us inner peace, we have to remember that he also spent a great deal of his time on this earth disturbing the peace as well, and we dare not forget that.

We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because there are still children who will go to bed tonight with rumbling stomachs. And there are still people sleeping under bridges while the gradually cooling autumn wind blows in gusts through their thin clothes. We dare not forget that are call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because there are still people who are having their homes demolished in Palestine and there are still Israelis being killed by rocks. We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because as of October 21st there have been 5,758 United States soldiers killed in the global war on terror and the civilian and Iraqi and Afghan deaths are too numerous to count. We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because the latest studies show that 1 in 4 women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime.
We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because there are still children bullied so severely that they take their own lives and there are still children who have no one to tell them that they are loved. We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers calls us to disturb the peace because the discrepancies between the rich and poor only grow greater and this social stratification continues to divide our society into haves and have nots. We dare not forget that our call as peacemakers, our call to beat our swords into plowshares are not just pretty words to read in worship once a year. To be peacemakers we must disturb the peace to make a difference.

Anne Lamott, one of my favorite authors of all time, and someone I promise that you will hear me quote in many many sermons to come says it simply and humorously this way: “Jesus said, ‘The point is not to hate and kill each other today.’ Can you write that down and put it by the phone?”

Disturbing the peace means that we write it down and put it by the phone, lest we forget.

Friends, as followers of the living Christ, as listeners to the words of the prophet Micah, there is a call set before us. And perhaps we are on the cusp, on the edge of something profound and new. Maybe, just maybe there is some small act of peace, some tiny act of justice that we can do that can tip the scale for humanity. Perhaps by doing so we might be that 100th monkey, the one to usher in a radical change, a change unlike any we’ve ever known before. And maybe we’re just that one step away if we follow the peacemaker and simply disturb the peace.

Amen.

The Dangers of the I-Phone 4

2010-10-15T19:39:00.002-04:00

As often as I try to explain to Jim the Father that the I-Phone 4 has drawbacks, there are moments when one must just let their fledgling chicks flail on their own and make the oft-unexplained "butt call." As the younger generation explains it to me, the "butt call" is the call that happens when your phone is pressed on by your, um, derriere and unexplained signals go into the universe (no, they were not caused by fiber-rich foods) as your phone is leaned upon.

So this morning when Grayson and I returned from preschool we were welcomed by the flashing light of the answering machine informing us of a new message. We listened. We heard lots of swishing and swashing and unintelligible noises. Some of them sounded suspiciously like Babaw...Grayson's beloved grandpa traveling in Nantucket. And then we realized, like slowing dawning light...we were butt-called.

And so Babaw was confronted.

And Babaw was concerned.

But this email needed to be sent anyway:

Your butt revealed startling truths related to Deep Throat and the Watergate scandal. There were also references to Kenneth Starr’s investigation of Bill Clinton. Thanks for the helpful hints about how to get horseradish stains out of khakis, and the way you pontificate on the political situation in Bangladesh is especially insightful. I’m not sure I agree with your thoughts on Hart Crane’s poetry, but you nailed it as you discussed so eruditely transubstantiation and the arguments of the Catholic Church. I also heard some Gordon Lightfoot lyrics and an artfully arranged version of Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Leaving on a Jetplane”, and a poignant rendition of “Home on the Range.” That was your voice, right? And not another part of your anatomy? It was hard to tell.

All in all, we’ve been gathered around the answering machine all night, replaying and replaying your prophetic words.

Glad your coming home to your family who love you both so much.

Consider this a public service announcement, for you never know who your rear will phone if given the chance.

Guest Blogger...Jim the Father's Installation Sermon

2010-09-20T16:33:00.001-04:00

Oh, the Leaping

If you had told me some 30-odd years ago—
back when I was serving my first church as a minister,
back when I had a daughter who was about four years old,
a daughter who dressed in pink leotards and pink ballet slippers
5 and 6 and sometimes 7 days a week,
sure that she was going to be a dancer when she grew up, dancing her way through life—
if you had told me some 30-odd years ago that I’d be standing here this morning, in this church,
with this same daughter having asked me to be a part of this particular experience,
I would have told you, unmistakably, that someone had taken your morning bowl of Rice Krispies
and sprinkled on them something that may have looked like sugar
but it was both funny-tasting and definitely illegal,
which was the reason you were speaking incoherently.
But here we are, all of us!
What a hoot!
We’re here today to celebrate a service of installation.
That’s a foreign concept to me, since my tradition is United Methodism,
and we have a different process of placing ministers in congregations.
In my tradition you simply show up that first Sunday morning with a smile on your face,
going to a church you’ve been sent to by the bishop, even if you don’t want to go,
and the congregation you’ve been sent to has to accept you, even if they don’t like you.
Perhaps you can tell from my description that I believe your method has a little more going for it.
But I’m still getting my mind around this idea of installing a pastor.
When I hear the word installing, what I think of is car batteries and kitchen dishwashers.
In my mind the whole process calls for everyone today to show up with their toolbelts on.
I know, of course, that’s not at all the way you feel, and, in truth, neither do I.
But to my mind a notion that comes closer to capturing what’s happening here today
would have all of Christen’s family sitting on this side of the center aisle—
her immediate family, including all those generations who could be here only in spirit,
as well as those people who have been like surrogate parents and grandparents to her,
and those friends who are so close to her that they’re a family all their own,
and colleagues who support her, professors who have helped form her.
And on the other side of this center aisle would be another family,
the family of Peace United Church of Christ:
those who have been here from the beginning,
those who have caught the dream more recently,
those who left their indelible imprint here and now watch from the another place on earth,
or a place beyond earth.
In this notion I’m describing, the person standing where I now stand would say
to the family [on the right], “Will you have this person to be your pastor, your worship leader,
your congregational facilitator, your confidante, your teacher, your cheerleader, your friend?”

Then that person would turn to the other side and say,
“Christen, will you have these people to be your parishioners, your fellow travelers for the journey ahead,
your comrades in faith, your pride and your joy, and your friends?”
I believe that’s one sense of what we’re engaged in here today:
not just one person being installed into a position,
but two distinct entities, a congregation and a minister, embarking upon a momentous journey.
It is not a step that either one takes lightly.
And it is a step holds promise, and carries a sense of joy, even a hint of excitement.

Let’s now move to this afternoon’s text and allow it to lead us through out moments together
as we seek a full understanding of what this day represents.
I ask your indulgence as I speak to you from my experience as a minister
who once served a congregation that bore some similarities to this one,
and as I speak to you as a person who has known your new pastor for a few years now.
The story, as it comes to us, has five movements, each very quick.
Now Peter and John were going up to the temple
[that’s, of course, the temple in Jerusalem where Jesus used to worship too,
until his death just a few weeks before]
at the hour of prayer, the ninth hour.
[that’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon for the regular daily service]
And a man lame from birth was being carried,
whom they laid daily at that gate of the temple which is called Beautiful
[we’re not sure which of the nine temple doors that one was,
because ‘Beautiful’ is not a name applied to any one of them;
the best guess is it was the main door, 75 feet tall]
to ask alms of those who entered the temple.
We must steer clear of the idea that this man was a beggar in the sense that we think of “beggar” today.
In a time when there was no Social Security, no health insurance, no Medicaid,
people willingly and naturally supported one another.
If you honestly needed, then you honestly asked.
And if you were one who had your fair share of resources, then it was not just your choice
but it was your duty to give of what you had, without a hint of condescension.
The idea was that when you gave to another who needed it, you were really giving to God.
And as you know, when you give to God, you’re helping yourself as much as anyone.
Seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, he asked for alms.
That’s the first movement.
He asked for what he needed.
And to you who form this family of faith who are taking this important step you’re taking,
formally making it clear for all to see that a new pastor is now a part of your life together,
I encourage you: Ask.
Ask Christen—ask comfortably for what you need.
Ask your questions, all of them.

Ask for her time, for her support; ask for her perspective, for her understanding.
You have every right to ask, every right to speak, every right to make yourself known.
And to Christen I would say, “I hope those who are becoming your people will ask!
I pray they will share out of their depths with you.
Experience tells me that they will not always ask at convenient times,
because richly lived human life does not stay within the bounds of scheduled appointments
and normal office hours.
I encourage you to welcome their asking, even if you don’t understand where the questions are leading,
even if you humbly feel you don’t have nearly enough answers.
Remember: they are turning to you for a reason—trust that reason.”
Now comes the second movement to our story.
And Peter directed his gaze at him, with John, and said, “Look at us.”
In the previous verse the story says that the man who was sitting there on the stonework
saw Peter and John—he glanced up and there they were.
But an entirely different word is used for what Peter did—he didn’t just happen to see.
The word in Greek for what he did means “he grabbed ahold of with his eyes and he did not let go.”
Peter riveted his gaze on this man.
He shut out what was going on all around so he did not miss a thing
about this other human being who was now before him.
And when Peter gave a direction to this man, saying “look at us,”
he used still a different word, which meant,
“Look at us but also look into us.
Behold us!
Let your eyes envelope us!”
Thinking about this second movement in our story,
both to pastor and to people I implore you with identical words.
Don’t just glance at each other but open your eyes and really see one another.
Really peer into each other’s faces, realizing that when you do so,
you are simultaneously revealing your own face.
So model being aware—and model it to each other.
Model waking up in the moment to whoever shares this moment with you.
Wake up and really see those others around you.
Wake up and really look intently at what’s going on in the world—
the world nearby and the world at large.
Wake up and behold the extravagance of God’s grand creation.
Wake up and really see your purpose for having been placed here on earth.
Wake up, and as much as you can, stay awake.
Here comes the third movement:
And he fixed his attention upon them, expecting to receive something from them.
But Peter said, “I have no silver and gold, but I give you what I have….”
We know that when Jesus and the twelve roamed that land, they held possessions in common
and only one person handled their money.

Presumably that tradition had continued, so Peter and John had no more cash
than the man who sat looking up at them.
Peter named it, straight up:
“I don’t have money, but I do have something I think you could use, and whatever I have, it’s yours.”
To the people of Peace church today I say,
“Be like the man at the temple door—be expectant.
Look forward to receiving something.
Expect something good to happen.
Be ready for the possibilities.”
And to Christen this afternoon I say,
“Be like Peter as he stood before this man who had arrested his attention, and be clear.
Be clear about what you don’t have to give, and what is not yours to give.
Be clear about what you cannot do, what you dare not do, because it is not yours to do.
And be just as clear about what you can offer, even if it’s not quite what was asked for,
because your understanding of ministry says you must offer it,
if you are to be true to your calling, true to the Gospel,
and ultimately true to these people who are now in your care.”
And to both of you I say,
“You each have something to give and you each have something to receive, and I hope you will.”
The fourth movement:
Peter said, “I have no silver or gold, but I give you what I have;
in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.”
And he took him by the right hand and raised him up;
and immediately his feet and ankles were made strong.
We don’t need to supply details here—the writer of Acts fills them all in:
the simple command, “Walk”, the right hand extended, the pulling up,
the feet being made strong, not to mention even the ankles.
Who would have guessed that, minutes before the 3 p.m. worship service began,
this surprising event, this unexpected healing would take place, out there in the open?
And that’s what it was: a healing.
A man miraculously coming to be more whole in ways he had not been.
To pastor and to people this morning, I suggest,
“Healing is just as possible today as it was then, individually and collectively.
Healing is just as possible right here, at the door of this sanctuary, as at the door of that temple.
With prayer, with attention, with understanding, with love,
bodies can heal, even when they’re not expected to.
Minds can heal, even when they have been fragmented.
Spirits can heal, even when they have brought very low.
Hearts can mend, even when they have been broken.
And this healing is not something that a pastor does to a people or for a people.
Healing is something that happens when pastor and people together
tap into a powerful energy that is beyond their own.

Healing is something that blossoms into being when the Holy Spirit moves among you,
calling upon anyone and everyone to get involved,
whether you carry a seminary diploma in your back pocket or not.
And then we come to the final verse.
And leaping up he stood and walked and entered the temple with them,
walking and leaping and praising God.
The final movement is the celebratory one.
We can almost hear that man, shouting with joy.
We can almost see him, bounding about, jumping up and down in his excitement.
The writer of Acts wanted to make sure we got the picture,
so in one short verse he used the word “leap” twice.
And all the delightful actions of the one man were recorded for us,
but we’re told nothing at this pivotal point in the story about Peter, about John.
We can only surmise.
My surmise is this:
Peter, always so passionate, always ready to be the bull in the china shop,
Peter could not have walked sedately on into the temple
while all this springing energy was going on around him.
My surmise is that Peter was drawn into it too—
grabbing a hand, throwing back his head,
letting out a whoop, leaping with the best of them.
Oh, the leaping, that day!
To the family of Peace church, I pray that many experiences of leaping will lie before you,
as God moves among you and your new pastor,
as the Spirit settles over you, and healings occur around you and within you.
And to Christen this afternoon I say,
“I realize now that you knew what you were doing all along,
you with your pink leotards and your tiny ballet slippers.
You were getting ready to dance and to leap,
although in ways neither of us ever quite imagined all those years ago.”
And to both people and pastor this afternoon, I offer this blessing:

May your joys together be full.
May your times of connection be ever so rich.
May your healings be transformative.
May your leaps be very, very high.
And may the dance you share be both lovely and long.
Amen.

James E. Miller
Peace United Church of Church
September 19, 2010

With Both Ears Tingling

2010-09-13T10:49:00.001-04:00

Stories of call are not uncommon throughout the Bible. And almost anyone who was anyone in ancient times had his or her story of call relayed in the scriptures, it was the “Who’s Who” of the Jewish world. There are stories of spontaneous calls, like the fishermen who simply dropped their nets and followed a then unknown teacher on the shores of Galilee. There are the dramatic calls, like Saul (who became Paul) who saw something like scales fall from his eyes. There are the calls to the inadequate, like Moses who had problems speaking at first. There are the calls of the elderly, like Sarah who was told late in her life that she would bear a child. There are the calls of the very young, like the unwed and pregnant Mary, called to birth the Messiah when she was barely into adolescence. There are calls of the incredulous and resistant, like Jonah who ran from God.

Hearing a sermon on discerning the call of God is as common as sliced white bread these days. They are throughout the lectionary, regularly tackled in pulpits throughout Christendom. And yet, if you ever ask a young pastor or eager seminarian the story of their call, more often than not they will wax poetic, eyes glazed in misty wonder as they retell the story of their own call, a love story of sorts.

But the story of Samuel’s call, the story we read about this morning is not the standard take on the story. For the calling of the young Samuel would never have occurred were it not for the wisdom and discernment of another. No, the hero in this tale is actually not the one that the book is named after but his mentor, the common priest, Eli.

In those days there were just two of them, the apprentice and the old priest. One was a mere boy, twelve or so, a novitiate of sorts, eager to learn the art and practice of the Jewish faith, eager to gain insight into the heart of priestly wisdom. He was young. He was inexperienced. He was only a boy who had been committed and dedicated to God at his birth by his mother Hannah. A mother who had prayed desperately for a child, and who, upon finally conceiving, promised to repay God in the only way she knew how. Samuel was farmed out to live in the temple early on, and he only saw his family once a year, when they came to offer sacrifice to God there. And so, his near constant companion was another parental figure, the avuncular Eli with whom he lived in companionable quiet.

Now Eli had his own story, as most teachers do. At this point in his life he was wizened and weary, a man who had seen his share of heartache and pain. His eyesight, and perhaps even his vision of the future, had grown dim, like a lamp that fades when the oil is low. He was the father of sons who mocked his religion. Sons who slept with temple prostitutes and flaunted their disdain for his God. Sons who rejected their birthright as future priests in the church, and who must have disappointed their father by scoffing at their lineage. We can only imagine Eli’s sense of hopelessness as he wondered what his legacy would be in a world that valued patriarchy, and sons carrying on the name and role as their fathers. On Eli’s watch the word of God had grown increasingly rare, and visions were no longer appearing as they had in years past.

And so here we have them, the inexperienced and the burned out. Samuel and Eli. Two of God’s more unlikely servants, living in the chamber of the temple, sharing their days together, allowing time to unfold before them, devoting their lives to the service of the God who had not offered direction, or vision, or leading, or wisdom for many years. There had been only silence to these faithful.

And then one night, no different than any other night, after the evening meal had been shared and the prayers had been said the old man and the young boy each made their way to their separate sleeping quarters for bed. I love to imagine the scene that comes next, and I have played it over in my head so many times that it almost seems like a movie. It is almost comic in its urgency, filled with surprises and suspense, as we the audience wait for the truth to dawn. As we wait for Samuel and Eli to understand the cosmic importance of this night. The dynamic duo are about to be stunned out of their quiet complacency with a call that will set both their ears tingling.

The twelve-year-old woke in the dim first-light of early morning and heard his name called twice, summoned at this odd hour. Can’t you just see him stumbling from his bed into the priest Eli’s room, sleep still in his eyes, his hair disheveled with a classic case of bedhead? Out of breath, with his heart pounding with that sense of surprise that one gets when the phone rings in the middle of the night, he asked, “What is it? I’m right here.” But Eli, was not the one who called. And the old man must have wondered what it was that roused the boy, what sent him on his errand into the priest’s room at night for he had not. And so the boy clip-clopped back down the hallway to his own room, back to the comfort of sleep. And no sooner had he started to drift off when he heard his name spoken again with the same urgency, the same breathless expectation. And for the second time that night, Samuel raced down to the old priest’s room, eager to do his master’s bidding (or maybe grumbling under his breath that the old man had lost his mind). But again, it was not Eli who called. And as listeners to the story, we want to burst in and give Samuel a hint now…but we can’t, not across time and distance. In exasperation and confusion the boy made his way back to his own room for the second time that night.

Eli, for his part, doesn’t seem to have picked up on the earliest clues that Samuel was having a “God moment.” For the first visit could have been a simple misunderstanding, and the second a nuisance as the boy roused him from sleep, but by the third consecutive trip that night the old priest must have picked up on something. Eli must have known that the young Samuel was being called by something or rather someone more powerful than he was. Eli was wise enough to sense that something holy was afoot. In those days when the word of God was rare and vision not widespread this saint of a man, mentor to Eli, discerned that there was more and had a sense that this was the real thing. And it was then that Eli offered the boy prophesy, “Samuel, go lie down. If God calls again, tell him your listening.”

The story goes on, of course, and if I’ve whetted your appetite for more of the Samuel saga you can mosey on over to 1 Samuel 4 for a complete run down, but for now I want to wrap up the story in this place. I want to pause and linger here, for there are important things for us to learn in these verses. Samuel’s call by the still speaking God and Eli’s wisdom in the face of this call offer us a summons that we have to hear in our day. In another time when one might say that the word of the Lord is rare and visions are not widespread.

The story of Eli’s wisdom with Samuel isn’t about an elder dictating to a youngster. It isn’t about Eli pressing his own frustrated dreams onto his protégé. It isn’t about Eli defining the parameters of what Samuel is to do. Instead, Eli simply counsels Samuel to listen for himself. Eli points Samuel to the still speaking God, and urges him to seek his own path. And isn’t this the mark of a good teacher? Eli says simply this, “I think you may be hearing the voice of God. I suggest you stop and listen.”

Good teaching is that which allows students to discern the truth for themselves. Good teaching is about believing in the potential of the student to lead. Good teaching is in offering wisdom without making demands. Good teaching is in knowing that gentle suggestion can be as powerful as rigid dogmatism. Good teaching encourages students to listen, and then listen some more. All of this Eli teaches, and because of this teaching, a leader is born.

But of course that is not the end, but merely the beginning. For the cycle of wisdom carries on to the next generation, and the one after that. And soon even more ears are tingling as the future of the still speaking God is unfurled in the world.

This morning as we celebrate our educators, as we bask in the collective wisdom they offer, as we begin our own educational year here at Peace UCC may we pledge ourselves to listening in our own lives for the still speaking God. May we listen in the quiet spaces where the sacred lurks, and may we listen in the noisy exclamations as others tell their story. May we listen to our children those who babble and those who bark. May we listen to our youth those who dream and those who ponder. May we listen to our grandparents those who reflect and those who advise. And together may we listen to the call of God as a church, as well those individual divine nudges that keep us awake at night. For the still speaking God is dreaming big dreams for us, and the world is ready. Do you feel your ears tingle? It’s time.

Amen.

Rich With God--Sermon 8/1/10

2010-08-02T11:31:00.001-04:00

This is the sixth Sunday I have been preaching here at Peace. For six Sundays the lectionary, and the book of Luke have been relatively gentle with us, showing us a Jesus who teaches about the importance of neighborliness, undistracted living and attention to prayer. The Jesus we have seen for the past six Sundays is the Jesus who calms, who illumines gently, the one we’d invite over to watch the game, or meet for a cup of coffee. He teaches us things. He enlivens our minds. He gives us helpful tips on how to be more attune to God. He’s that close friend who has our best interests at heart, and wants us to live into the fullness of who he knows we can be. It isn’t hard to be this Jesus’s friend, it isn’t hard to be his disciple. But this Sunday, Luke tells us of a different Jesus, and it can be a trifle unnerving to come face to face with this Jesus. Because this morning we become reacquainted with Jesus the radical. Jesus the prophet. Jesus the disturber.

I have a wonderful resource that I use each week which outlines the lectionary texts and then offers a perspective from several different writers. Each week this book greets me and each week there are three columns which invite me in to the scripture. The first column outlines the text based on its theological understandings and has quite a few twenty-five cent words which take me right back to seminary days and require me to do google word-searches on meanings I have forgotten. The second column outlines the exegetical perspective and tears apart and defines the Greek or Aramaic words in search of the truest translation of the text. And then there is the third column, which is actually my favorite. In this third column each week a writer shares what it means for a pastor to apply this topic to his or her church. In essence this last column says, “Okay, here’s the background, here’s what it means, now how’s it gonna play to the crowd?”

This week’s “pastoral perspective” column could have had a skull and crossbones symbol over it as warning to anyone who dare tread on this path as a preacher. In it’s reassuring, but careful, polite wording it says this: “The power of today’s Gospel lesson can sneak up on a congregation…” It then goes on to mention that in these dog days of summer when we are lulled into the rhythm of pool and patio this Sunday’s Gospel text “sizzles and spits like a backyard grill.” In fact, if it weren’t so restrained I think it might have suggested a guest speaker come and preach for this Sunday…and I missed it by just one short week!

So, I would encourage you to put your seat belts on this morning, as we listen in on Jesus’s little encounter with the man concerned about his inheritance.

You’ve heard the scripture read from the NIV this morning, but hear Jesus’s parable told this way through the lesser known translation of The Message by Eugene Peterson:

The farm of a certain rich man produced a terrific crop. He talked to himself: ‘What can I do? My barn isn’t big enough for this harvest.’ Then he said, ‘Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll tear down my barns and build bigger ones. Then I’ll gather in all my grain and goods, and I’ll say to myself, Self, you’ve done well! You’ve got it made and can now retire. Take it easy and have the time of your life!
Just then God showed up and said, ‘Fool! Tonight you die. And your barnful of goods—who gets it?’ That’s what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God.

Now I admit, I like this translation a little better than the original. I like this idea that we have to fill our barns with God, we have to put our faith in God’s providence, we can’t fill our metaphorical barns with our own sense of self and entitlement. And I also confess, that I like that this version of scripture doesn’t focus on material goods alone, but seems to leave some room for those of us who like to stop at Starbucks for a venti Chai tea latte, and who occasionally spend more than their husband may like on the latest Oprah-endorsed novel at Barnes and Noble (strictly hypothetically speaking of course). This isn’t about material goods, I can rationalize, and so this aspect of the sermon is not for me.

Instead, I smugly think of the Freddie Macs and the Fannie Maes. I think of the higher ups at Leamon Brothers and the fat cats on Wall Street. I think of the city management team in working-class Bell, California who paid themselves several hundreds of thousands of dollars. I think of those profiled on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous who set up trust funds for their pets in excess of 12 million dollars. And I think with righteous indignation, “You Go, Jesus, let ‘em have it.” And as I wrote my sermon notes, alone in the church on Monday, I felt smug and a little righteous even.

And then the buzzer rang at the front door of the church, and because Susan was off on Monday, I went to the door myself to find a guest who asked to come in. Her name was Mary.

Now, Mary was not pretty by our cultural standards. She was missing some teeth. Her clothes were dirty, and didn’t fit her very well. And she walked slowly and with a limp, her right leg noticeably more swollen than the other. She was very sweaty, and kept wiping her brow with her hand. She shuffled slowly into my office and collapsed with a heaving sigh onto the rocking chair in my air-conditioned office and paused to look around. “This is so cozy,” she said. “How do you ever leave?”

Mary’s story was not unlike the stories of those who struggle with poverty. She has lost her job. She cannot get more work with her diabetes. She has grandchildren she cares for. She is behind in rent and in danger of being evicted. She has no health insurance. Her story spilled out of her with one tragedy after another and I simply listened.

When she finished telling me her story I said, “How can I help you, other than to pray?” She told me that all she needed was ten dollars. She needed some gas for her car, enough to get her to the health clinic and then home. And there was one more thing, and she seemed reluctant then as she looked down. She needed some toilet paper, because she couldn’t get enough of it with her food stamps. A simple request. Gas and toilet paper. I quickly took out a ten dollar bill and pressed it into her palm, and her eyes met mine as she said, “it is hard to ask. Please know it is hard for me to ask.”

We made polite conversation for a few more moments, and then I walked her out to her car.

And I walked back into my posh office where my new laptop sat gleaming and the air conditioner hummed in the ninety degree heat and I threw away my sermon notes and started again.

Mary’s visit indicted me. For this scripture is what it is: pure and simple, a call as Christians to share the wealth, to help the less fortunate. It is a call to safeguard ourselves from greed, a call to remember that there but for the grace of God go we. And to make this verse any less than that is to shy away from the radical nature of Christian discipleship. Jesus’s words were meant to rile us up, to rally us around, to remind us that we are God’s hands and feet in this world and living selfishly is not acceptable. Our responsibility is not to fill our barns with our own ego, our own material goods, but to instead let go and yield to the extravagant freedom of losing ourselves in God.

It was the Dali Lama who said, “It is not enough to be compassionate, you must act.” Discipleship calls us to a place of action. What will be do with the goods we are storing in the barn? What will we do with the treasures we keep locked away for safe keeping? What will we do to die to self? What will we do to be rich with God? How will we act? And how will that change us?

Perhaps each of us needs a visit from a Mary each week to keep us honest. Perhaps we need to see with our own eyes the plight of the poor. Perhaps we need to agitate against the social iniquity. Perhaps we need to rally against the economic systems and choices which allow the inequalities to continue. Perhaps we need to grapple confessionally with our own questions of whether we get caught up in labeling the poor as “worthy” or “unworthy.” Perhaps we need to ask us what we are storing, either metaphorically or tangibly that has become our God? Perhaps we need to open ourselves to the reality that when we take the bread and cup of communion that Jesus offered what we are really called to do is to count the cost of discipleship and seek sustenance for a spiritual journey which asks more of us than we ever thought possible.

The Jesuit priest Daniel Berrigan writes: Sometime in your life, hope that you might see one starved man, the look on his face when the bread finally arrives. Hope that you might have baked it or bought it or even kneaded it yourself. For that look on his face, for your meeting his eyes across a piece of bread, you might be willing to lose a lot, or suffer a lot, or die a little, even.

And that is what Jesus reminds us in his story—our barns are not for ourselves alone, we must share what we have.

I want to close this morning by sharing one final story with you that tumbled across my desk in the past few weeks as I sorted through old files. A story which I ripped out of a magazine sometime in the past several years and stuck with a post-it note on which I’d written the word “SAVE” in capital letters and then I added a few exclamation points for emphasis. It is the true story of a woman named Osceola McCarty. Osceola was a simple woman. She had no advanced degrees, had in fact never even finished the sixth grade. She worked for nearly eighty years as a laundress, taking other people’s dirty laundry in the Hattiesburg, Mississippi area and cleaning it, charging only $10.00 a bundle at her highest earning capacity. She was a woman of simple means. She never married. She had no children. Mostly she cared for her elderly relations and faithfully attended church. And so it came as a bit of a surprise to all who knew her when, in her 87th year, she bequeathed the University of Southern Mississippi a gift to assist African American students who had not previously had access to higher education. Osceola, who took her Bible seriously, did not believe in storing her treasures, in filling her own barn. Instead, this priestly laundress gave a gift of $150,000 away. (A gift to a school, I might add which would not have allowed to her When asked why she did it she said simply, “I can do something to help somebody. And what I can do I will do.” Ms. McCarty made a choice about where to store her treasure, and knew a little something about what it meant to be rich with God.

Jesus the disturber, Jesus the challenger beckons us into new worlds. And as disciples of Christ we have the choice to follow. May we chose to drink of the cup, the cup of commitment and covenant which promises us barns full of abundant life and in so doing know that we are becoming rich with God.

Amen.

On the Bread and Cup--Sermon 7/4/10

2010-07-06T09:41:00.001-04:00

On the Bread, and Cup, and Communion

I do not remember the first time I ever took communion. Seems I should as my spiritual upbringing was obviously important to my family, my father was a United Methodist minister, my mother a devoutly raised Presbyterian. But either due to the lack of ceremony which surrounded first communion in that church, or because my memory is poor, or a combination of both, there was not any formality drilled into my brain about receiving the eucharist. Instead my mind has morphed the memories of perhaps hundreds of communion services when I was a child seated next to my mother in the pew and the hazy memories all paint a picture like this: a small little girl with blonde braids having to wait patiently while holding that little square of white Wonder bread in her sweaty five-year-old palm antsy as she waited until all were served to eat. And then that same child savoring that sweet grape juice taste on her tongue, a juice she wasn’t usually allowed to have at home because it might stain the carpet. These are the pictures my mind conjures as I think back on what communion meant when I was young, mostly just snacks in church, snacks which we ate solemnly and reverently, but the mystery and sacredness of the ritual was often lost on me then.

I invite you to think back now as you recall the memories you have of your first communion, or perhaps your earliest ideas of what it meant to take the bread and the cup. Perhaps you were in a Cathedral celebrating your first communion in the first grade with a priest pressing the wafer onto your tongue. Perhaps you were at a youth retreat at a beloved church camp gathered around a fire with a groovy youth pastor who played folk music on the guitar (come on, you know the one…). Perhaps you were even here in this sanctuary in the same seat you occupy now. Or perhaps, like me, there is no one particular pivotal moment when you experienced the grace of God in this way through these means, but it is hazy and the call to the Lord’s table is a timeless tradition which is simply a deeply entrenched part of your faith.

This week as I pondered the importance of sharing communion with you for the first time, as I talked to others in the congregation about your ways and your practices of receiving this sacred meal, I again remembered that whenever we partake of this feast, we are embarking on a journey together as followers of Christ. Communion is all about the power of intimacy and community and vulnerability with God and with our sisters and brothers. And didn’t want this day to pass without remembering the gift of that kind of communion.

Scriptural understandings of the Eucharist vary, and I sort of like this. We know that in the gospels of Matthew and Mark and Luke, Jesus shared the Passover meal with his disciples. He broke unleavened bread, and poured wine as part of the Jewish meal but he added his own distinct touch. His invitation to eat and drink was cloaked in solemn reverance, and was probably misunderstood by those gathered around for who could have conceived of what would happen later, let alone how this meal would be remembered for thousands of years afterward. The theme of the Eucharist is reiterated again with Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, those verses we heard earlier, and that we will hear again as invitation and reminder to remembrance. As call to commitment.

And just as there are many scriptural interpretations of this Eucharistic meal, this meal of thanksgiving if we look at the Greek translation, there are a whole host of different understandings of what it means. There are questions over who can partake (Is it for all or only those who are baptized? Is it for church members or for guests as well? And what about children are children included? ). There are questions over who can serve (Only ordained priests? Only men? Only deacons? Anyone?) There are questions over what is eaten (Is it leavened or unleavened bread? Does it have to have wheat? Does it have to be consecrated by a priest beforehand? Can it be purchased at Kroger or is Aldi an appropriate location? Does it have to be made with a five-tined fork? Does it have to be broken by hand?) And then the questions keep coming. For instance, what exactly is in that cup (is it real wine? And if it is, is it between .5 and 2% alcohol as some denominations specify? Or is it instead Welch’s grape juice, a byproduct of the temperance movement? Or maybe it’s just water?). How often do you take communion? And how is it administered? And where exactly? And what happens to the left-overs? As you can see the questions can roll off the tongue for hours.

There have been councils and encyclicals and annual meetings, pow-wows and conversations in church parking lots after worship to discuss these important details, and some churches continue to have the debate even today, and I suppose if you tend toward the legalistic nature of life, as I admit I sometimes have done, than perhaps you have the energy for these discussions, but I wonder perhaps if all of that arguing and deciding and proclaiming might not be better spent somewhere else.

The fourteenth chapter of Luke seems to offer us some wisdom. As Jesus sat in the home of a leader of the Pharisees he told a story. And, as we know, Jesus usually told stories for a purpose. They were deliberate. And not only was what Jesus said deliberate, but where Jesus said it also might tell us something. And this story was told in a specific place. In the home of a Pharisee. One whose religious tradition was all about rules and regulations, the legalisms of dotting “I’s” and crossing “t’s.” The ancient equivalent of the IRS. And the story Jesus told was this: there once was a master who wanted to have a lavish feast, and when it was prepared he sent his servant out to invite his guests and for one reason or another, his guests declined. One had a new piece of land he needed to assess, and one had some new oxen he needed to harness, and one was a newly-wed, and well, he had other plans. And so the master instead opened his doors and invited in those who were deemed the least worthy, those who were the most vulnerable, the poor and the lame, the lowest in the pecking order, the neediest and most forgotten.

And then…the parable ends. Abruptly. Or at least Luke’s account of it does, for the next verse begins a new traveling tale of Jesus off to see others on his journeys through the countryside. There is no tidy summary of why it told, no moral of the story to tie up the details. The common lectionary does not cover this scripture in its rotation, and there are not often sermons preached on the text. But the exegetical detective in me has to wonder if perhaps in Jesus’s choice to speak those words at the table within earshot of one who was, oh, a little bit anal retentive and legalistic there might have been a message to others of us who tend to err on the side of rules rather than the side of grace.

The master had invited some, but they had no time for him. Those invited guests who were preoccupied and absorbed with the thousand details of their own lives could not see the invitation and promise of offered. I can’t help but wonder if Christianity’s legalistic interpretations haven’t, at times, kept us from the true feast. If our own preoccupations and obsessions don’t sometimes keep us from true communion with Christ, either as a church or as individuals. If we are holding ourselves back from experiencing the intimacy and vulnerability of a meal offered by Jesus, the master, and shared with our brothers and sisters, and with our God.

In an article for the Christian Century, Samuel Wells once wrote, “when the Eucharist is served, a reshaping of human society begins.” And so I imagine what Jesus’s parable would mean for us today. Are we willing to leave the confines of our beautiful sanctuary and invite in the homeless man standing off the exit at 69 and 24? The young Burmese refugee, clenching the hand of her child who speaks no English as can’t understand the pharmacist at Walgreens? And let’s face it, the person driving in the car in front of you through downtown whose bumper stickers speak in phrases and jingoisms which are exactly the opposite of everything you hold true to your heart? Can we reshape human society to be both accepting and welcoming and tolerant? To be both loving and forgiving? And can we open ourselves to be that vulnerable and intimate with the stranger and with our God?

The United Church of Christ reminds us that all people of faith are welcome at Christ’s table. Our communion is not just the memory of a meal long ago, but an actual ceremonial meal that we eat with the risen Christ in and among the gathered body. It is a foretaste of the heavenly feast, where we will sit at the lavish banquet of our God, brushing elbows with all of God’s children, whoever they are, as we lick our lips savoring each juicy morsel.

This morning I invite you again to the table of the Lord. And I invite you as you take the bread, and the cup this morning to ponder what it means to open yourself to the radical movement of God’s grace. And as you bump shoulders or lock eyes with the person next to you, may you see the love of Christ beckoning you into ever widening vulnerability in your own journey of faith. You are all called to the banquet. May we each hear the invitation anew.

Amen

Stone Soup--Sermon 6/27/10

2010-06-28T18:56:00.001-04:00

I can remember what it was like to find a new minister in the pulpit of the church in which I grew up. I was in high school. I can remember being a little ambivalent, but mostly I remember feeling expectant and hopeful. I saw the possibility of new things happening. I looked forward to learning from someone who had a slightly different slant on things, a slightly different way of relating to others. And I had expectations, like many others, who sat in the pews near me in that UCC sanctuary that morning. Hopes, which may, admittedly have been a little, teeny-tiny bit high. Hopes like these: this new minister was going to correct all the deficiencies of not just his previous predecessor but all pastors of the church before him, and he was going to meet all the needs that had gone unmet in previous pastorates, and he was going to continue and sustain each successful program with maximum efficiency. He was going to preach better, baptize sweeter, visit more often, and be 99.44% purer.

He was going to be, as the times demanded, a scholar, a monk, an activist, a mystic, a socialite, a janitor, a parent, a prophet, and a teacher all rolled into one. And while this new pastor wasn’t expected to walk on water, it would be nice if he could at least crawl.

But as a young woman I had other feelings as well about this new minister. For I was a little weary: you see, I don’t like drastic change, and I wondered if he would change things too much for my comfort. I had my own concept of my church and I speculated about whether his style would agree with mine. I had a certain authentic relationship with the previous minister, and wasn’t sure whether the new person could care for me in the same way. And so for those reasons and more, that first Sunday he preached was filled with anticipation and expectation and I remember wanting to learn more about my new pastor and his family. I assume you are not unlike me and so please indulge me this morning as I share with you some of what I may need were I seated in the congregation.

As for our family, it is composed, depending on how you count, of between five and seven people.
My husband’s name is Robert Pettit. He is the one who balances his occasionally frantic wife. He is a professor of sociology at Manchester College and delights in reading in his cherry-wood library, and accumulating a growing collection of movies which we never have enough time to watch. He is the quieter one of this partnership and the apple of my eye.

Robert has two daughter from his previous marriage and they live with us half the week.

Tess will be a senior at Homestead High School this year. Her life is a whirlwind of activity spinning rapidly and perpetually between school, her homes, and Fort Wayne Ballet, where she dances in the performing level company. College brochures continue to flood into our house as Tess begins the college search for colleges and while she hasn’t narrowed her search yet to her final four, she has gently broken the news to her beloved parents that it probably won’t be in Indiana.

Brynn will be a freshman at Homestead next year, although she would be quick to correct the lack of gender inclusivity in the word, “freshman.” She also balances the careful juggling of schoolwork and ballet rehearsals and classes. She is also passionate about one other aspect of life, the canine variety in the form of our miniature dachshund, Maisie.

Grayson is the baby of the family. You may have already been greeted by him, as he isn’t a retiring wallflower by nature and has lately taken to introducing himself as “Grayson James Pettit” to everyone he encounters, including clerks at Target and unsuspecting shoppers at Kroger. He will begin nursery school here at The Children’s School in the fall and keeps himself occupied with cars, books, and watching old Pluto cartoons with his Daddy. It will not be hard to befriend him, but if you sense that he is at all reluctant, he is easily persuaded with a few M&M’s, particularly if they are red.

Grayson’s mommy’s name is Christen, and she prefers to be called that. Some of you know me already as Pastor Christen, or Reverend Miller, and I answer to those names as well, but if you are comfortable with it, I should like to be known simply as Christen.

I am, by now having been parent, chaplain and wife, skilled at the art of multi-tasking (which is a little disheartening given the studies of late which show that multi-taskers are not as productive as we thought). I seem to have a healthy mixture of my mother’s pacifist Swedish propensity to want to make peace with others, and my father’s working class Miller stubbornness. I will report that I can enjoy a quiet afternoon in my chair with a book or needlepoint and a cup of tea at arm’s reach, but Robert may disagree and would probably report that I seem to have difficulty resting or relaxing and an known to tackle cleaning or home improvement projects with wild abandon on a whim when faced with a free Saturday afternoon. You may find me a little shy, like our son Grayson, with the exception that I usually do not cling to Robert’s leg and hide—generally.

I think that you will find that I try to listen more than to talk, and that I tend to jump into things with both feet. I am theologically liberal, sermonically short-winded, and organizationally a bit compulsive. Functionally I try to order my days so I find as much joy as I can as the days slip by, for having worked in Hospice care for the past five years, I am aware of how fast those days can go. But, I have enough of the Protestant work ethic alive in me that I sleep better at night knowing I’ve accomplished my tasks and as a chronic insomniac lie awake at night and fret if I haven’t.

Now, for the other two members of our family that I mentioned, lest they be forgotten and I hear about it when we get home: We have the aforementioned miniature dachshund, Maisie, who specializes in soiling rugs and then melting you with her big brown puppy dog eyes so as to be quickly forgiven. And I am the mistress of a rather rotund tomcat, Moses, who sleeps for well over 22 hours a day and spends the other two demanding to be on my lap.

That, in a nutshell is our family. We look forward to getting to know you, and for you to know us. To that end, I have two hints. The first, it would help if for several weeks you would offer us your name when you speak, since we have a lot of new names to learn all at once. And second, I would be happy to get to know you over a cup of coffee, or during an afternoon tea, a meal, or even a bedtime snack. Just ask me, if I haven’t asked you first.

And having gotten that out of the way, let’s turn to the heart of the matter, this morning’s text and the heart of our worship.

I have long been intrigued by Matthew’s encounter of the loaves and fishes. It is a simple story. One we have taught our children for years. There were crowds gathered on a hillside, about five thousand people. They had followed Jesus throughout the day and the hour was getting late. The disciples worried about the hungry crowd, and Jesus as a nurturing leader calls on his disciples to solve this problem. But as we already know, there were only two fish and five loaves of bread. Hardly a feast. And so, Jesus invites the crowd to sit, gathered what little there is to eat, blesses the food and before we know it twelve bushel baskets were needed for the leftovers and five thousand people left with hungry bellies fed.

But, as we pull apart the tendrils of this carefully woven story there are a few things to note. Nowhere in scripture is this referred to as a miracle story. Neither Matthew or the disciples claim that Jesus performed a miracle here. In fact, no where does it say that the food miraculously multiplied. Instead, Matthew’s account reads like a news report. This is who was there. This is what was done. The account simply reads: when all was over, plenty was left. End of story.

Perhaps there is another explanation to this story which Matthew tells. And perhaps that explanation lies in the fact that Jesus was a tremendous community organizer (a term, I am aware that has been bandied about in the past several years). Perhaps this story illustrates instead the power of a community that believes in what it can do as a gathered people following the ways of a God of love. Jesus led the people by taking what was available and sharing it. I can imagine other people contributing crusts and particles of bread and salted fish from the folds of their garments and from their satchels when Jesus asked, so that food was available for whoever needed it. My heart quickens at this possibility, because it is more than just a pronouncement and an act by a single man, even if it be Jesus, but instead the act of a community who believed in the mission the man was calling forth. I like this story because they people acted too—while Jesus started it, the people stretched it. While Jesus dreamed it, the people made it possible.

Which brings up that Stone Soup story I shared with the children during our time together earlier in the service, that story that I promised we’d get back to later. Perhaps that lonely beggar was instead a visionary intent on building community. Perhaps that stone was the symbol of hope that the community needed to believe in its mission again. And perhaps this is what God calls us to do as we lead, in whatever capacity, as we pick up the mantle of leadership and engage others in the work of mission.

I would be less than honest if I did not confess to you that at times in the middle of the night, as I lie there and hold my own soup stone that I worry about the future, and wonder if I can meet your needs, and be the pastor that both this congregation and God call me to be. But there is so much which beckons me to be with you, and so much that we have to offer one another. I come here with my eyes wide open and I want to share with you what I see.

I see a group of people who have every potential of growth, not just numerical growth, but spiritual growth. I see a people who are welcoming, and grace-filled, and excited about where God is calling them. I see a people who very much want to find their niche in this community, and are eager to find that sweet spot. And I see a people who have been wounded, and have healed, a people who have bound together and learned how to hold one another up. And so in my ministry here at Peace, I bring you my own smooth, fire-burned and scorched soup stone. I humbly offer you just the merest hint of what can be created. But I believe that the soup we cook will need to be seasoned together. And although it is possible that one might believe that a pastor’s stone is what provides the savor, it is actually a recipe created by each member of the community who bring the variety of ingredients and together mix up a sustaining feast, just as that meal on that hillside in the middle east so many years ago was the offering of many.

I am anxious to see what our soup will taste like as it simmers through the years. And I have ever hope that the God who blessed the loaves and fishes will delight in blessing our feast as well.

Pentacostalicious (Sermon from May 23, 2010)

2010-05-29T18:22:00.001-04:00

Breathing, Babbling and Building Together

It was the Jewish Festival of Weeks, the time of the feast of the harvest. It was celebrated on the fiftieth day after Passover, seven weeks after the highest holiday in the Jewish year. It was, a holiday of sorts. There was no work on this day, none of the daily routines. Instead, observant Jews made their way to the temple to sacrifice animals, and to bring their newly harvested grain, an offering of the first fruits back to God.

But in this festive atmosphere, in the bustling streets of Jerusalem there were in addition to the regular crowd, a motley assortment of characters gathered quietly hidden away in one place. Scripture tells us that there gathered together were the original eleven disciples, an additional specially selected add-on to replace Judas, Jesus’s mother and brothers and several women. All followers of the Jesus who had been crucified just seven weeks before. Devout and observant Jews all. Orthodox Jews gathered to celebrate a sacred festival.

The followers of Jesus, this rag-tag assemblage who had devoted themselves to their teacher were not yet the history-makers we know them to be now. Imagine them. Certainly they must have been grieving, it had been a mere fifty days give or take since the one they knew as Messiah had been killed. Undoubtedly there were questions about who would harness the reins of this ministry, and whether there even was a ministry to be continued. They may have wondered if this Jesus that they had followed and learned from, and worshipped was the promised one they had waited for, or if the visions they had had of him after his death were real. There must have been questions, even among the faithful as they wondered what was next.

These early disciples were not who history has told us of, for at this point in time they seem to have lacked a vision, there was no single mindedness of purpose to guide them. Their grief was raw, their future dim, and what lay ahead may even have been dangerous. And there they were gathered together in Jerusalem with what they did have, their memories, their hopes, their as yet unfulfilled promises and the company of one another.

The book of Acts is “Part Two” of Luke’s writings, “Luke Remixed,” if you will, the “Luke New and Improved Directors Cut, now with Never Before Seen Footage.” But, while Luke’s first book is filled with answers about who about the details and drama of Jesus, Luke’s second book, the Acts of the Apostles focuses not on the how. For the storyline in Acts is the unfolding story of the church and how it came to be. It is less a story about any one person, and more a story of how passion would reclaim the ministry of Jesus for a new generation.

You have heard this morning’s scripture. And you know the tale. In our Christian liturgical tradition we retell it every year. We put the red altar cloth and vestments on for their once a year debut. We celebrate the birth of the church. We sing of the Spirit. And sometimes we even forget what we are celebrating, which is unrestrained passion. Passion which could not be contained or bound in tidy packages.

Act’s version of Pentecost is filled with special effects and dramatic events. It is the Avatar of its age, (without the blue tint). Just imagine what it might be like if James Cameron were to direct it. There are tongues of fire dancing over heads. There is gusty wind. There is deafening noise. There is unbridled chaos. And into this cacophony and disarray there suddenly weaved a new energy, a new life which neither the disciples, or Luke, or we the twenty-first century audience had met up until this point. On that loud and windy day in Jerusalem the Holy Spirit made its formal debut.

Luke describes this Spirit in the Greek as pneuma . Literally, the elemental life force, the breath of the spirit. But we have come to know this Spirit in even deeper ways in the church throughout our history. We know it as the third person of the trinity, sometimes personified as the feminine aspect of the Godhead. The Holy Spirit who fills with inspiration and grips with enthusiasm. The one who weaves its way into the lives of the weary and restores hope. The one who breathes new life and fire into the heart. The one who engages and dances and mediates. The Holy Spirit who ignites a movement and passions a revolution. The Holy Spirit who acts as advocate and comforter. And with each inhalation and exhalation this pneuma promises that the Jesus movement will not be forgotten, and that the church will be born. The truth of the message of Jesus will not be relegated to the first century Middle East. A life-changing transformation will happen. And like that, poof, it was.

But having said all of this, I must confess something. Just between you and me, I wonder if at times we have gotten so carried away with the image of the Holy Spirit as fire and wind, as noise and energy that we lose sight of the subtle ways in which it snakes its way into our hearts, the small fires of hope it kindles, the breath gentle and soft as a baby’s sigh. The tiny epiphanies are also ways, I believe that the Holy Spirit gradually ushers its way into our lives and these too can mark us indelibly.

The Catholic sister, Joyce Rupp, in her book, May I Have This Dance reminds us, “My Pentecosts are rarely large, powerful gales; rather, they are usually little gusts that change my life a little at a time. Like the rushing wind of Pentecost, however, they have been unpredictable and unexpected.” And I think she is right. Pentecost may be less about the obvious and more about the subtle, those little unexpected gales that can change our lives in an instant if we are attentive to them. I don’t believe that each of us need to have tongues of fire blazing over our heads, or ecstatic noise coming out our mouths for true Pentecost to happen in our lives. Sometimes it is as simple as saying “yes,” or as common as saying, “I believe.” Quiet daily Pentecost can happen when we live yielded to the Spirit who blows us where it will, and looks around with eyes wide open on the way.

And so what does it mean for us to truly be a Pentecost people in the twenty-first century? What does it mean for us to celebrate the Pentecost spirit both in our own life journeys and as a body of faith here at Peace United Church of Christ? What does it mean for us to allow the Spirit to move in our midst in both the quiet and the bombastic? In both the nuanced brush-stroke and the bold outline? In both the obvious and the subtle?

We often talk about things which are as “natural as breathing.” We take for granted the easy respirations, the inhalations and exhalations which keep our bodies operating. We take them for granted, that is, until we have struggled to breathe.

Several years ago I had minor surgery, perfectly routine which should have been an outpatient procedure, but as I was recovering from the anesthesia, I began to become very anxious because I felt I could not catch my breath. I cried out in my post-anesthesia stupor in the recovery room that I couldn’t breathe as my chest rose and fell in what felt like hummingbird respirations. A kind nurse rushed to my side, reassured me that what I was feeling was normal, that I was merely hyperventilating and I could indeed breathe just fine, but more important than her words were what she did after speaking them. She knelt next to my gurney so that we were at eye-level and said firmly but gently, “Watch me and do exactly what I do,” and then she took exaggerated Lamaze style breaths, all the while holding my gaze as I struggled to follow her breathing pattern, to match the rise and fall of her chest with my own. Within minutes I felt myself calm, but I know now that my peace had less to do with what she did, and more to do with how she did it. With grace, and with a healing which seemed to be rife with the holy she led me back to safe ground.

Perhaps to be Pentecost people we must start by breathing deeply. We can breathe in the healing, soothing gentleness of God and as we inhale that peace we can begin to center ourselves. And after finding that peace, we can exhale a quiet and deliberate desire to pass that Christ-filled joy onto others. Just as the word, “conspire” means “to breathe together,” as believers in the passion of Pentecost, we can lead a holy conspiracy, breathing in the Spirit’s movements to bring about radical healing, and gentle justice, together.

Perhaps the second step of this Pentecost revolution can be found in another way then, through the babbling. Luke recounts for us that part of the excitement of that Pentecost two thousand some odd years ago was that the disciples spoke different languages but could all be heard. They babbled aloud, with different dialects and with different words and yet they were all understood. Perhaps this is a lesson for us in how we find the Holy Spirit. Through speaking our story in truth, through teasing out a common language, a familiar narrative we can begin to recognize the similiarities of our lives and our hopes. And we can find the ways that we are not that different from our brothers and sisters, and can see that our friends and enemies are more like us that we knew. For I believe the babbling, the truth-speaking, and authentic open listening lends itself to the Spirit’s transformation. And is part of the Pentecost story.

And finally, after all this breathing and babbling, we can begin to build. As people of Peace United Church of Christ, as people of the wider Christian community, we can build on the truth of the Spirit’s ways and proclaim Pentecost anew.

This week as I was preparing for this sermon I happened upon some of the writings of the Benedictine writer Joan Chittister. This mystic writer talks about what it means for us to build on the momentum of Pentecost. She writes: “It is this point in the liturgical year when the curtain between here and there, time and eternity, for the most minute fraction of time splits open, and we begin to see not only what we are but what we can be.” I love this image of liminality, for the moment of Pentecost changed everything in the life of the church. What began that day as a handful became 120, and before the day was over had grown to more than 3,000. Disciples who had not believed themselves capable of sharing the message of the risen Christ discovered within themselves abilities and gifts they’d never known. They built the church. A church that survived nearly two thousand years after they walked this earth.

And now the future of the church lies at our feet, and asks for our response in this century, in this age. And my sense is that we as the larger Christian church are in our own liminal time, standing in that thin space where we can see what we hope to be. And I believe it is time that we proclaim ourselves as Pentecost people.

For when we see ourselves in the face of those in need and know that we are called by Christ to serve them, we are being a Pentecost people. When we refuse to allow the scriptures to be used as tools of oppression or exclusion, we are being a Pentecost people. When we feel the call to welcome the stranger and forgive the enemy, we are being a Pentecost people. When we choose the path of love in spite of the potential to have it hurt us, rather than closing our hearts in fear of abandonment, we are being a Pentecost people. When we trust that the call of God will not take us into places where the grace of God will not go, we are being a Pentecost people. And when we abandon ourselves to the whim of the Holy Spirit who blows where it will, and leads us into new life, we are being a Pentecost people.

The birth of the church is still in its infancy for history is long, and God still speaks to us today and invites us to breathe in new life, and babble new words, and build the new community.

May it be so for us today.

Amen.

Sunday's Top Ten

2010-05-23T18:51:00.004-04:00

Top Ten Things Learned This Weekend at Peace U.C.C.

10. There is nothing that tires a three-year-old out more than two solid days of attention from grown-ups. There was Miss Renee who supplied him with a steady supply of M&M's (she even learned he liked the red ones and carefully weeded out the other obnoxious colors!), there was Mrs. Pool who let him play in the nursery school room and showed him the tent where he could hide from unsuspecting friends, and there was the kindly gentleman whose name I have not yet memorized who held him up (in a three-piece suit) more than five times (that I saw) to take a drink from the "very cold" water fountain. Grayson has no idea what kind of blessed future we stumbled into as this congregation clearly basks in loving their children.

9. There is nothing quite as affirming as walking into a church after a vote and receiving a standing ovation. I wish everyone on this planet could have that kind of adoration and grace offered them (and I hope I can live into their expectations).

8. Church potlucks and open houses are still the best food in town (and I am a picky eater, so this is high praise). I specifically recommend for any future church function the tortilla dip and the spinach bars. Superb!

7. A church that takes seven months from the time of your first interview until you are called to the pastorate is worth every single day you waited and every single night of lost sleep. Process is incredibly important.

6. Having incredible interim pastorates in place before coming on board is a gift. And the fact that they offer to provide you spiritual support and counsel is an added blessing.

5. When Peace United Church of Christ called me to minister today it was because I stood on the shoulders of those who have called me to ministry. This morning I am especially grateful for those who named my call before I could put into words For Louie and Phil Rieman who said, "Christen, if you perceive a need, it is a call" and then believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. For Deanna Brown and Susan Boyer who called me into Deanna's office one morning after a Manchester College chapel and offered a blessing of me. For my sweet sisterhood, who hold my stories, and my truths in their hands.

4. That any man (specifically Thom Moore) who comes to call you back into the sanctuary after you have been sequestered in a private room during church vote in the sanctuary with a pinwheel in his breast pocket and a sparkle in his eye is offering good news.

3. That there are miles to go in our partnership together as we serve God, follow Christ and work together to bring about the community of God.

2. That having a secretary with a beautiful lilting English accent may be a colossal waste of time for her, as I may simply keep babbling to her all day so she'll answer me with that beautiful voice (although I have a hunch we'll be chatting together about many more things than just the color of the paint they've offered to paint our offices!).

1. That I am blessed. Beyond words. Beyond description. Beyond expectation. And God is good.

Gathering of Sisters

2010-05-03T19:50:00.004-04:00

There is something about commitment. The feel of the ring on your finger, the heaviness and responsibility it represents. The vows that are taken. The promises that are made. The realization that for better, or for worse, there are words we have spoken which will take a lifetime to live into.

I have seven sisters. There are eight of us in this world. The number eight representing infinity. Circling endlessly. World without end. A sacred sisterhood.

We struggle with names. Are we the "homegirls?" Are we "Infinity Eight?" Are we "The Women?" We've grappled to define our connection. We have made lists of the possibilities (we always make lists, for we are very organized. And very compulsive). We are not named, officially, but we are present and attentive to one another. The sisterhood does not disappoint.

We have been together since the summer of 1994 when we joined an informal spirituality and study group to talk about issues of identity, faith, feminism. And then a few more joined us along the way. This year we celebrated our 16th anniversary.

Once a year we sneak away. Alone and together. We've traveled from far-flung locales...at times from the Netherlands, or Alaska. From California or Virginia. From Colorado and Maryland. Some of us stayed close to home and drive our trusty economy-sized cars from the tri-state areas of Michigan or Ohio or Indiana.

We have fought and we have mended. We have labored and we have rested. Collectively we've survived two divorces, cancer, the deaths of three parents, four miscarriages, and countless small and sundry losses. And we've celebrated six weddings, and five births, and the blessings of inheriting three step-daughters. We've named our fears, claimed our weaknesses, and exalted in our daily (and often minute) triumphs.

In 2002, in the wake of my divisive divorce which rocked the foundations of the group to it's core, we sat, the eight of us, for almost three days in ongoing conversation as we redefined who we were, and asked whether we could indeed grow together. The first night, I lay in the upstairs room of a quaint camel-back home in Louisville and wept as I wondered if we would weather this storm. Another sister found me and cradled me in her arms. We lay like spoons as I sobbed and shared my fears that we would all scatter to the wind. And that sweet sister assured me, "We will survive this for we are strong. And this sisterhood will remain intact."

And she was right. For the next day, we blessed the rings which we slid on our fingers to commit ourselves to one another. Rings which most of us wear every day, as true and as valid as our wedding bands.

Last night we placed those rings again in a chipped blue willow china bowl and by the light of eight candles we blessed them and recommitted ourselves to our sisterhood again.

And I remain stunned. And surrendered. For this gift of strength and resiliency is one of the purest forms of grace I have ever known. And I often wonder what I did to be worthy to wear this ring.

As Marvin K. Mooney would say...

2010-04-22T19:05:00.005-04:00

Truth be told, as a kiddo I was never a big fan of Dr. Seuss. I preferred reality to fantasy. I liked my characters three dimensional and my situations true to life. I didn't believe in Sam and wondered why in the hell he'd ever want green eggs. I mean, surely, the Surgeon General would never approve of them.

As a parent, though, I appreciate Dr. Seuss because he provides some monotony to the night-time readings. Fox on Socks was revolutionary to me. Tongue-twisters at nigh? What a challenge (I mean, really, I've already worked an 8+ hour day)! And Go, Dog, Go? A dog-party? Really? Dude, sign me up. I love me some chewy toys and big tree-house parties. Dr. Seuss became a whole new language that I, type-A personality that I can occasionally be, wanted to conquer!

So, okay...I've got no segue-way that is decent and honorable in writing tradition to the next paragraph. I'm sorry, Dr. Klingler (beloved English professor).

Maybe the segue-way, unnatural as it is, is this. Marvin K. Mooney, brainchild of Dr. Seuss, he who was commanded by the unnamed "other" to "please go now," seems to be urging me to a new world. Call it the Marvin K. Mooney of the Holy Spirit. A world of sermons, and church-growth, and pastoral care. A world of stay-up-past-midnight-on-Saturday-night exegeting a passage in the Old Testament and a world of making sure the church is locked after the late stewardship meeting. And my heart lurches and flutters and says, "Oh yes, yes. It's time..."

And I'm not sure I ever thought I'd say that again.

I have been selected as the candidate of a sweet little church in southwest Fort Wayne of which I feel infinitely undeserving. I find myself pulling old files labeled "Pentecost" and "Advent" and "Liturgical Resources" and "Evangelism" out of boxes covered in dust and stored for years in our garage that I, for almost a decade, assumed would find their way to the trash heap.

The congregation will listen to a trial sermon and vote the third week in May. And, in the meantime, I'll hold my breath and pray that the power that commanded Marvin is the Holy Spirit that leads me.

While there are parts of me that ache as I think of leaving Hospice work. While I think of my colleagues in the "trenches" and want to stay near them. I also know that five years is significant. And that I have served my time on the front lines of dying. And I need to rest and refill myself by seeking new life in the parish again.

The time has come, the time is now....

Christen Pettit Miller, will you please go now!

Crafting

2010-04-03T15:19:00.003-04:00

"Give us the inner listening/that is a way in itself/and the oldest thirst there is."
--Rumi

I confess. I had forgotten the process.

The reading of the word. The living into the story. The embracing of the essence. The grasping for the truth.

The process of the journey of birthing a sermon.

It has only been three years since I preached on a weekly basis at a sweet little interim pastorate in Huntington, only six months or so since I stood in a pulpit last as I provided some pulpit supply for the U.C.C., but already I had forgotten the rituals, the routines of sermon crafting.

It is windy this afternoon, appropriate for a sermon about Jesus in the midst of a storm. Grayson is out with his grandparents. Robert drinks tea quietly at the kitchen table. Apart from the Bach motets playing softly, it is quiet here.

How had I forgotten how delightful it is to be pulled into scripture? To fall into uncovering exegetical mysteries I had never known? To pause, sip my tea and watch out the window as questions swirl around in my head?

For the past week each three-mile run I take is without my customary I-pod. As my feet pound rhythmically I contemplate the text. I allow it to live in me, to consume me. I come home and need to stop thinking, so that my subconscious mind, the voice of the Spirit can draw forth new truths. Last Wednesday I lay awake at 3:20 in the morning, light of the full moon shining in the room and puzzled questions of theodicy again.

How had I forgotten that preaching feels so much like coming home? How had I forgotten the sudden epiphany that comes when a thought clicks? When a metaphor names what I know? When the ineffable can be phrased?

My soul is slowly reawakening to that inner listening. And I am not as thirsty as I once was.

Lessons in Fear

2010-02-17T20:10:00.005-05:00

True confession: Grocery shopping with Grayson has never been my favorite activity.

As Grayson enters toddlerhood, I find myself more and more impatient at Kroger. He refuses to be contained in a shopping cart. He simply must pull every single package of tortillas off the shelf in his own effort at comparison shopping. He begs for strawberries (when they're out of season and sprouting strange molds) with eyes which could only be compared to a SPCA commercial and it seems as if Sarah McLachlan is actually yodeling her strange "la-la-lalalala" as I look at him. He insists on pushing the cart (and veers dangerously close to the octogenarian who is politely minding her own business as she vacillates between chamomile and cinnamon spice tea).

This evening, as I stocked up on canned green beans, bottles of apple juice, a box of diapers and, truth be told, a bottle or two of chardonay, Grayson found a frequent fascination. The automatic doors.

I purposely chose the check-out counter closest to the automatic doors, as I am not stupid. And, I know that my son is a sucker for the marvel of the doors "which go open and close now, Mom." I figure, if I can occupy my son with the simple pleasures, the simple joys of the door opening and closing, then I can have two blessed minutes of check-out bliss.

Now, I am a diligent parent. I watch my boy closely. I don't let him just randomly open and close the door willy-nilly (although, really...could that hurt so much if he loved to do it?). No, instead, I insist that he stands aside and merely watches the people come in and out, in and out, in and out...while Mommy scans her Kroger card.

Most people understand. They smile politely at my very-well-behaved-boy who just likes to stand, sociologist that he is, and observe others.

However, most people are not the check-out lady in aisle 11.

Apparently, the store was not busy tonight. And as young Harry Potter look-alike boy scanned my purchases, and Grayson stood politely watching people go in and out the automatic doors, Ms. Aisle 11 made her move. Having heard me call Grayson earlier she said, "Grayson? Is his name Grayson?" I smiled politely and nodded as I watched my yogurt being drug across the scanning machine. She approached Gray and in a benign and grandmotherly fashion handed him a "I've been Krogering!" sticker. And then I heard Harry Potter cashier mutter under his breath, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I hate it when she does this. She does this all the time...."

Puzzled, I looked quizzically at my cashier who motioned with a nod and turn of the head to Ms. Aisle 11 who stood with a tiny Grayson staring obediently into her eyes.

"Oh, Grayson..."she drawled, syrupy sweet, "Here's a nice sticker for you. But you see, if some strange man ever came up and offered you a sticker and you went with him it would be VERY BAD and you could be HURT and you need to STAY NEAR YOUR MOMMY or BAD THINGS COULD HAPPEN."

Before I knew it, Grayson had scuttled back to me, before I could even get the credit card slip signed. I paused and stared at the child who had attached himself leech-like to my thigh.

"I'm really sorry, Ma'am." Harry Potter boy repeated. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," I said. "She means well," I repeated under my breath.

Seeing Grayson return obediently to me she smiled, happy to have scared the living hell out of a toddler. "Grayson," she said with a conspiratorial grin," You listened so well that I want to give you another sticker..." Grayson took it hesitantly, and I forced a kind look.

And then we got outside and Grayson said forcefully, "Mommy...I want NO stickers. Let's give stickers back now. No more."

Usually opposed to litter bugs, I made no mention of the fact that his tiny hand let go of his previously prized possessions and I allowed both stickers to fly away in the winter wind.

The fear of strangers was taught to Grayson today. But not as his teacher may have imagined. And I pause and wonder how to protect a child from fear-mongers, especially those who have the best of intentions.

Kosmas

2010-01-12T18:57:00.003-05:00

The phone would ring. Randomly. Evenings, weekends, but always after noon. He would never call before noon, unless it was an emergency. Calling before noon was presumptious, implied too much familiarity perhaps. The greeting was always the same, after the first hello there was that pause on the receiving end and then the heavy, syrupy thick Greek accent. "Hello. This is Kosmas, your neighbor across the street." And Robert and I would laugh about it later saying, "Oh, yes, THAT Kosmas, as opposed to the many other Kosmases who call us day in and day out..."

Robert answered the phone to hear that same greeting for nineteen years, as long as he's lived in this house. Helen and Kosmas, our Greek-neighbors-across-the-street (say it quickly and with a lilt), moved here long before we did. They are establishment here. They know the territory.

Our families have shared the proverbial cups of sugar for nearly two decades.

Helen brought us baklava on our wedding day, calling it our "Happy, Happy!" We bought them espresso cups in Disney World. Kosmas and Helen presented us with the first fruits of their tomatoes each season. We bought Helen aqua net at Kroger when they could no longer drive. Helen and Kosmas blessed each of our children by sprinkling them with flour so that they might "live to have white hair." We called the EMS for Helen the night Kosmas had a stroke. We watch one another's houses. We collect one another's mail when the others aren't home. We turn the light on and guard the spare key.

The calls from Kosmas diminished in this past year. His dementia had decreased to the point that he was often bed-bound, bed-bound in dress pants and a wool cardigan sweater, but bed-bound nonetheless. Instead Helen would call, and in her faltering English she would explain what they needed--help with medications, help with an international call, help getting the carpet cleaned. She would apologize with each call, instead of being reminded of who they were, our neighbors-across-the-street, she knew that we knew. We had surpassed the narrow role of "neighbor" and had become "just-like-my-granddaughter-and-grandson."

On December 18 Kosmas entered the Hospice program and he and Helen moved into our inpatient facility and quickly endeared themselves to the staff. Hospice Home became their own little Greek village, and we were blessed.

This morning as I watched Helen draped over the body of her dead husband, sobbing and kissing his lips, his eyelids and reminding him of her love I felt as if I were intruding on the most intimate of acts. As I listened to their son, Alex, whisper softly in Greek words that were so tender and soft, I was reminded again of the sanctity and holiness of relationship. I stood, witness to the suffering, as chaplain, as neighbor, and as friend.

And then Alex turned to me, gracious and gentle Alex, who said, "Christen, in our culture, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition a family member stays with the family until the funeral director comes." I nodded, content with whatever would make them the most comfortable. "But," Alex said, "I'm going to take my mother home now. Will you stay, as family, until the funeral director arrives? Because you are our family."

I hadn't cried before.

I did then.

As Helen and Alex left the room Helen turned and said, "Make sure you tell the funeral man that Kosmas was loved."

I did. And he was.

Rest in peace, Kosmas, our Greek neighbor-across-the-street.

Full Court Press

2010-01-10T18:20:00.003-05:00

Tell the truth, friends.

Who sent the mass summons out that I might receive FOUR messages from friends in the past week that they miss the contemplative chaplain's musings? Who masterminded the plot? Who decided to try to lure me out of my safe cave of writer's block by leaving a trail of baked doritos and dangling a bottle of chardonay?

However it occurred, whether through community organizing or the random hand of God using Her messengers to send a pointed sign, it's allowed me to emerge from the cocoon of parental ennui enough to pen a few sentences.

So, thank you, thank you. It feels good to be missed.

In the time that it took to write this entry, however, I frustratingly must note that I have been interrupted no fewer than eight times from a wee chocolate-faced interloper who pleads, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (long whiney noise) I just need my Caillou [his favorite PBS show...which was already on]." And then, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, (uses toddler headbutt for emphatic punctuation squarely into parent's solar plexus) I just need some apple juice." And not long after, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (throws self on floor for maximum dramatic effort) Where is my Mo-Mo [the cat]?"

Bloggage will come. You have been fairly warned. But it will have to come after the offspring's bedtime. Toddlers simply don't understand the creative muse.

All That Remains

2009-10-04T19:17:00.004-04:00

On Friday Grayson and I took a trek with my mother to Highland, Indiana. The home of our kin. The home of the Swedes and English who migrated to America so many years before and found hope in the steel mills of East Chicago. The home of Jim and Ila (my maternal grandparents) who found a home on 38th street where Grandpa worked as a milkman. Grandma shared the neighborhood with, at different times but often overlapping, four of her sisters.

Mi madre and I have cousins in Highland now. And so we spent our three-and-a-half hours in the car on U.S. 30. When Grayson asked whether we were going to Texas again, which is "far, far away" we reminded him that it was a long car-ride, we knew, but not too long. We tried to teach him how to say "Pat" (the cousin we were visiting), we listened to a LOT of Mitch Miller singing "Dinah Won't You Blow" (Grayson's favorite song), we told him stories of his great-grandparents, we made many pitstops at fast-food restaurants for potty-breaks (and saw a pseudo-nun, but that's another story for those who like their humor crass).

Before our lunch with our kin, though, we had an important sojourn to make. We made our way, like pilgrims of ancient Christianity, to the Soderstrom headstone in the Calumet Park Cemetery. We came armed with gardening tools, implements of weed destruction and went to work at clearing away the headstones of my grandparents. Grayson was confused, asking often about whether we were in Texas, and when we were going home. We told him that we were here to remember people we loved. People whose names began with an "S," which we pointed to on the headstone. People who loved him.

And as we donned our gardening gloves, and our trowels, Mom and I kneeled near these headstones of the two we found dearer that most others in this world. As we plunged our trowel and kitchen knife and utility scissors in the weeds around the stones for James L. and Lucille I. Soderstrom, Grayson danced. He danced and pranced and jumped atop their graves. And we told him stories--stories about the way Grandma made cookies and Grandpa wound clocks and how much they would have delighted in him, and how were it not for them he would not exist.

Grayson picked up the reddest leaves of the sunset maple which had shed near their graves. He placed one on each headstone with our prompting, and mom and I hugged one another in the bitter wind, and I remembered how cold it was on those days in both October of 1996 and January 0f 2005 when we left their bodies in the barren ground.

The infamous Church of the Brethren group Kindling, that group of proud Brethren rebels who speak truth and teach me still in their words, and specifically the lyricist Lee Krahenbuhl, speak of the power of legacy. Lee's words say, "All that remains is the love bravely expressed..."

My grandparents expressed their love in countless ways and I am humbled.

I will never stop missing them. I will never stop missing the joy that radiated from them when I awoke in the morning and made my clumsy way down the steps, the steps Grandpa constructed in their home by the railroad tracks. The way they said, "It's Christen! Good Morning! Come have some breakfast!" I wasn't sure I'd ever hear that kind of joy in a voice again, until I heard my son call, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" when he saw my face fresh in the morning through the slats of his crib.

All that remains is the love. And I will express it as well as I am able. For how can there be more in this realm, but to bravely express what has been given, and what we are called to pass on. And if that is all there is, who's to say it isn't enough.

Because Her Therapist Told Her To

2009-09-16T19:36:00.004-04:00

She posts.

But, it is awkward as all hell because she's dosed on Prednisone and while she is still sighing sighs too deep for words after learning that her elusive weirdo bizarre physical (hypochondriacal, as some have been known to say) symptoms are completely authentic but also benign and medication related, she is still a little unsure of how to start writing again.

Writing about feeling cosmically alone. And feeling as if death is just too present. And feeling as if life is just too damn short. And wondering if all this living in the midst of death doesn't mean she's becoming ineffective in the ways of life.

I don't doubt God's ways. I'm sure that if She is around she's a pretty smart cookie.

But, I doubt Her being around in general. I wonder, all too often, if this is all there is.

And yet, I see the faraway look in the eyes of patients as they reach their hands out to the loved ones who are calling them. I opened my eyes in awe-struck wonder as the 94-year-old woman last month who I sat next to in her hospital bed as she called pleadingly for her mommy. She grabbed my hand with urgency as she asked, "Don't you see her? She's right there? Shouldn't I go?" How could I say no?

"Yes, Cordelia, she's right there. She's waiting for you," I assured.

Believing. And doubting (was it Morphine?).

So, readers...are there readers here anymore when I've ignored you for so long? What do you believe? Where is God? What is heaven? Are we cosmically alone?

(John, you reading? Or does that break the Hippocratic/Therapeutic oath?)

Accumulated Hurt

2009-07-21T10:58:00.003-04:00

Occasionally it occurs to me that my job is a hard one.

Three times this week I've already had people comment on the work of Hospice professionals. "Your staff are all angels." "You have been my rock, how do you do it?" "I couldn't do your job." The man who changed the oil on my car after work last week saw my name badge and said, "Hospice? Yuck. That's a bummer. Better you than me." (True, that. I must concur in his case).

It seems that universally, people see those of us who care for the dying as those who are set apart. And perhaps in some ways, some of us are. Perhaps some of us felt called to work with the dying, felt comfortable with death, felt led to embrace their vocation. But I would venture a guess that while this may have called some of us into the work, those noble aspirations have also left some of us with mind-numbing apathy or burn-out, or with questions about suffering which remain unanswered and unanswerable. I would venture a guess that for many of us death is still a great gaping void which we will face with our own fears. I would venture a guess that sometimes we trust that we are immune to the life-threatening illnesses which plague our patients and that perhaps our work with the dying acts as an all-purpose vaccine or Cootie shot which keeps us away from the grim reaper's evil eye.

I want to tell you a little secret, gather in close, for I may only have the courage to say it once while my guard is down and my protective armor is wearing thin in places. We who work in end of life care think about death too much. We are, probably, no less comfortable with it, no less afraid of our own mortality, no less healthy than the general public. We just know its ways better. We know what chain stoke breathing sounds like. We recognize mottled skin. We know what it means when patients pick at the air with their thin fingers. We know when to whisper, and when to speak loudly. We don't hate death any less. We just know it more intimately. And we have to think about it all the time.

But because we think about death all the time, find it lurking in every corner, see it staring us down at every interval, we also may savor the sweetness of this life more. We might. Some of us.

St. Christopher's Hospice, the first Hospice created in England, had engraved over the doorway "The dying are our teachers." It is a phrase which has shaped me in this ministry, and in my own nearly inaudible call. It isn't Hospice professionals who are heroes, who are the angels, who are the steady rock. It is the dying themselves. The ones who can look death in the face and stare it down and allow themselves to breathe deeply of the strength of the life that is left. The ones who see their loved ones who have already passed, and hear their voices calling them and leave their bodies content that they will be embraced on another plane. The ones who writhe in pain and trust our medical team to dose them with mind-altering drugs. The ones who whisper their most intimate secrets and welcome we Hospice strangers into their lives at the end.

I am still learning from my teachers; and there are days when I don't listen well to their lessons. Which is, I realize, why I stay in this ministry. For I have miles to go.