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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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.