Blessing our Children--Sermon 6/10/12

Blessing our Children Rachel Naomi Remen in her book My Grandfather’s Blessings tells this story about the poignant relationship between a Grandfather and his beloved seven-year-old granddaughter. She writes: On Friday afternoons when I would arrive at my grandfather’s house after school, the tea would already be set on the kitchen table…After we had finished our tea my grandfather would set two candles on the table and light them. Then he would have a word with God in Hebrew. Sometimes he would speak out loud, but often he would close his eyes and be quiet. I knew then that he was talking to God in his heart. I would sit and wait patiently because the best part of the week was coming. When Grandpa finished talking to God, he would turn to me and say, “Come, Neshume-le.” Then I would stand in front of him and he would rest his hands lightly on the top of my head. He would begin by thanking God for making him my grandpa. He would specifically mention my struggles during that week and tell God something about me that was true. Each week I would wait to find out what that was. If I had made mistakes during the week, he would mention my honesty in telling the truth. If I had failed, he would appreciate how hard I had tried. If I had taken even a short nap without my nightlight, he would celebrate my bravery in sleeping in the dark. Then he would give me his blessing and ask the long-ago women I knew from his many stories—Sarah, Rachel, Rebekah, and Leah to watch over me…” And then the author finishes her story with these tender words, “My grandfather died when I was seven years old. I had never lived in a world without him in it before, and it was hard for me. He had looked at me as no one else had and called me by a special name, “Neshume-le,” which means “beloved little soul.” There was no one left to call me this anymore. At first I was afraid that without him to see me and tell God who I was, I might disappear. But slowly over time I came to understand that in some mysterious way, I had learned to see myself through his eyes. And that once blessed, we are blessed forever.” And so the question is asked this morning: What does it means to be blessed, and what does it means to bless. For I have come to believe that blessing is a powerful thing. The Torah, the five books which are the foundation of our Judeo-Christian heritage, gives us an idea of this rich tradition of this idea. And in it we learn what it means to bless, and also the opposite, what it means to curse. But while there are several different variations on the word curse, several different Hebrew translations of the word, (people can be cursed, countries can be cursed, cursing can happen by God or curses can be offered to one another), there is only one single Hebrew word for bless. The word is barak, with the noun form being berakah. And the word derives its meaning from the word “to kneel.” When one received a blessing they knelt in respect, when and in turn, when one offered a gift they also knelt. The profound and inherent sacredness is acknowledged in the Hebrew word choice, and the posture of the body is important here and worth considering. For with each uttering of the word, one was reminded of the holiness of yielding, of being brought to one’s knees in sacred awe. Even the word would remind the listener that this blessing stuff was serious business. Bill very patiently read to you the long and involved passage of blessing which Jacob offered his sons as he lay dying, yesterday he joked with me wondering if my sermon would be shorter or longer than the scripture (I suppose the jury is still out on that, and I should have had you all time us and see). In the patriarchal and tribal world out of which the book of Genesis grew, there had to be a way for the tribe to understand who the next leader would be when someone died. And so the blessing, or curse, of the birthright was serious business. And these patriarchal blessings (and they were usually patriarchal, for the matriarchal ones didn’t quite pack the punch in this world that valued men), these blessings for peace, or health, or virility, or prosperity, or victory in battle, once offered, could not be revoked. And it is ironic that, Jacob, the one who deviously stole the birthright from his twin brother, Esau should be the one doing the blessing in this morning’s scripture (we can only assume he learned his lesson well and realized that he better shape up as he passed his blessing on and try to be even and fair). I can imagine the scene, can’t you? The twelve sons gathered in the dimly lit sick room where their father lay dying. The twelve sons who represented the twelve tribes of Israel. Their father, Jacob’s ragged breaths catching with each word as he motioned each of them to him and then pressed a blessing, or in some cases, a warning into each of his sons’ heads. One will be praised by his brothers, two will be used as weapons of violence in this war-hungry culture, one will be a haven for ships, one will be rich in food, another a fruitful bough, the blessings go on and on. Even in this most dysfunctional of families, where the favorite son was cast out and sold to slavery and where the oldest son slept with one of his father’s concubines, the tradition of blessing was maintained. And surely this is a relief to us all of these years later, for their family relationships could endure what would make for an awfully intriguing reality TV show in the twenty-first century, surely ours can survive. But, I digress… With the blessing, Jacob offered instructions of how he wanted to be buried, and how tradition should be maintained. And then Jacob, the father of this mighty clan that tradition maintains would lead the twelve tribes of Israel into the future “drew his feet into the bed, breathed his last, and was gathered to his people.” The writer Annie Dillard once wrote of inviting blessing in this way, “Does anyone have the foggiest idea of what sort of power we so blithely invoke?” The power of blessing can be life-changing, and it is time that we take it seriously. As seriously as our ancestors did. The novel The Help by Kathryn Stockett tells the story of an African American housekeeper in Mississippi during the tumultuous days immediately before the civil right’s movement. All too often, African American women raised the children who might one day grow to be their oppressors. All too often, children were not influenced in ways that considered all people equal. And we realize some of what can happen if children are not shaped in their early years in the power of offering love instead of hate, grace instead of judgment. These loving domestic workers often adored their young charges, but realized that the culture of racism would not allow for that easy nurturing relationship to continue in the same way once the strict delineations of race and class which were evident in the deep south at that time had the power to assert themselves. In one poignant scene, Abilienne Clark, the domestic servant in the house of the Leefolt family, decides that she has to make a difference in the life of young 3-year-old Mae Mobeley, a child who Abilienne has raised since birth. A child who has often been criticized and ignored by her mother. Abilenne loves Mae as her own, but realizes that if she wants to make a difference in Mae’s future she needs to offer her an alternative to the angry words that she has heard, an alternative to the ugly culture which is asserting itself, an alternative to the criticism she has learned and witnessed in her home. And so Abilenne chooses the most simple and profound lesson she can impart. Each day she kneels at the feet of Mae and looks with love into her blue eyes and says to her with truth and honesty, “You are smart. You are kind. You are important.” Abilenne offers hope in the face of oppression. She offers faith in the face of doubt. As she kneels, she offers a blessing. And with her blessing, she creates the reality for which she prays for Mae. As a pastor, I am privileged to be ushered into those moments when blessings are sought. I am the one who is invited to stand at the front of the church when a couple is married. I get to be the one who holds the baby or child who is baptized and walk them through the church for you all to see. I am the one who looks into each person’s eyes as they receive communion, and who makes the sign of the cross in oil as I anoint in the name of Christ. It is a sacred and holy calling and I am mindful of the gift each time I do it. And I believe fervently that the moment a pastor forgets this privilege, or takes it for granted is the moment they should take off their stole and step out of this pulpit. But when I am at home, when I am not standing in front of this church, when I am just being a mommy, or a partner to Robert, or a step-mom, I realize that I all too often forget the power of blessing I could offer to my own family. I forget what it means to grasp the hands of my step-daughters and pray for their safety as they drive off into the night. I forget to cradle my son’s sweet head in my hands and beckon angels to watch over him as he sleeps. I forget to press my hands into the hands of my beloved husband before we have dinner at night and remember that the holy is in our midst. All too often I forget. Or perhaps, it is that in blessing there is an intimacy and a power that I don’t always know how to hold. Perhaps I am afraid that I am not worthy of invoking that kind of power. But here’s the secret, friends, we all can. And we all should. For in offering a blessing, we are ushered onto that holy ground which beckons us to kneel in awe. And I believe this world needs every blessing we can offer. May it be so. Amen. May the sending one sing in you, May the seeking one walk with you, May the greeting one stand by you, In your gladness and your grieving. May the gifted one relieve you, May the given one retrieve you, May the giving one receive you, In your falling and your restoring. May the binding one unite you, May the one belo’vd invite you, May the loving one delight you, Three-in-one, joy in life unending. Go in peace, my friends, go in love. Amen.

First Fruits--Sermon 6/3/12

First Fruits It was a hot night in the month of July in the year 2003. I sat on the floor of my new kitchen in the home I had just moved into as a newlywed surrounded by Caphalon and Revere-ware pots and pans on my right, and ten or twelve glasses of crystal stemware on my left. But as I sat on the floor that summer night on Strathdon Drive I was not glowing and feeling that honeymooner’s bliss. Instead I was crying frustrated tears, and Robert was sitting on a chair nearby with his head in his hands shaking his head. Robert and I had been married for only three short weeks. Here we were, just beginning our new life together in wedded bliss, thrilled that after a year’s engagement we were finally moving into a home together something we’d been longing to do, and here we were blessed with an overabundance of kitchen paraphernalia as we combined our pots and pans. And all I could do that night was cry, for I was overwhelmed with how to handle it all. It was a delightful problem to have, really—and a little embarrassing to admit when so many are hungry and needy in this world. And I was enjoyed to be beginning our new life together and thankful for the abundance we had. But, with this joyful change came a responsibility of sorts, and a need to acknowledge one another’s feelings (even if Robert did have an unhealthy attachment to a set of particularly ugly potholders, and I had way too many salt and pepper shakers) We were thrilled about our good fortune, but we were also creatures of habit who had to learn how to live into this new reality. With joy and anticipation, came anxiety. With hope and prosperity, came the need to be open to change. And change, even good change, can make us nervous. This is some of what Paul spoke of in his letter to the church of Galatia. There had been rapid growth in the church. There was much to celebrate. But, there were tensions too, namely over whether Gentiles had to become Jewish before they could follow Jesus. As much hope as there in the promise of the new church, as powerful as the movement was, there was still anxiety about how tradition could be maintained, while allowing new ways to be adopted. As much joy as there was about the future of kingdom of God, there was still wonder about how to determine how decisions would be made. For even in the midst of excitement and hope, there was still change. And remember, even positive change can make movements nervous. And out of this anxiety, Paul rose to the occasion and responded as a true leader could. He reminded this fledgling flock to bring forth their finest fruits. The fruits of love, and joy, and peace. The harvest of patience, kindness, generosity, and faithfulness. The crop of gentleness and self-control. For Paul knew that for the church to continue, they had to bring the best parts of themselves into their lives as followers of Christ. For the fulfillment of Christ’s mission to be complete, the church had to discern the mind of Christ. This morning we celebrate the First Fruits of our Renewing Peace campaign harvest. Peace United Church of Christ has now pledged just over $300,000. Can you believe that? $300,000. Money which will be used for much needed repairs on our building. Money which will be used to make our building more energy efficient. Money which will be used to fix things which have been breaking down around us. Money which will be given, happily and joyfully, to mission projects that we desperately feel called to support. Money which will ensure that Peace United Church of Christ carries on. But I don’t have to remind you, you who take your faith seriously, and who take seriously your commitments, that with this abundance comes tremendous responsibility. Stewardship, the stewarding of money and resources, is no easy task. And we cannot be too gentle and tender with one another as we enter into this season of celebrating the first fruits of our harvest. Our task now is to listen to one another well, to love one another abundantly, to seek the mind of Christ as we discern where and how to grow, to trust that God will work through the community as we walk together in this time of celebration and deliberation. For our efforts will be in vain if we do not grow in our faith through this time. Will we be anxious sometimes as a community if we disagree on exactly what color carpet we want in the sanctuary? Maybe. Will we all be of one mind on what the sliding door in the fellowship hall should look like? Probably not. Will we understand the intriciacies of heating and cooling systems and all want the exact same thing? It’s doubtful. But, more important than any of these questions are these: will we walk together with love and tenderness and patience and kindness and joy? And will we pray for the mind of Christ as we live in community? I believe we will. I believe we will because we are a people that value community, and we realize that the Spirit moves throughout our community. I believe we will because we are passionate about our mission, and we realize that to be true followers of Christ we must listen to his words about love. I believe we will because Peace United Church of Christ has a bright future ahead, and we are brothers and sisters committed to a future of hope, ready to listen for where God calls us next. May we walk together, arms clasped in unity. Amen.

Labor of Love--Sermon 5/27/12

Labor of Love The Christian church is notorious for taking the holy days of other faith traditions and adapting them to make them their own. And Pentecost, which we celebrate on this day, is no different. While as a Christian church we celebrate the tongues of fire that symbolize the Holy Spirit which danced over the heads of the disciples and which marked the birth of the church, we dare not forget that Pentecost was originally a Jewish holy day. The word “Pentecost” comes from the Greek for “fiftieth” and it is a day of celebration. Our Jewish ancestors used that day to bless the feast of harvest, the time when the people celebrated the first fruits of their arduous labors. And given the fact that we as a church will celebrate our own “First Fruits” Sunday next week, when we receive our first offerings for the Renewing Peace campaign, there’s something poignant about recognizing this history of Pentecost from a Jewish perspective. There is something powerful about recognizing that our Christian roots run deep, and encompass earlier faith traditions as well. There is something miraculous that our rituals and celebrations mirror those of our earliest faith ancestors even after all these years and all this time. But, hold on a minute, is that all we celebrate today? Isn’t there more mystery afoot? Isn’t there more we can explore? [You know when I ask you these rhetorical questions that I am prepared to spend a few minutes answering them, right?] In the Christian church, Pentecost is the time when we remember that mystical third part of the trinity, the holy spirit. Known as pneuma or “breath,” the Spirit is symbolized as the flame, as the dove, as the wind. The spiritual writer Flora Slosson Wuellner calls the Holy Spirit, “The one who stands by us and calls us forth.” The mystic Hildegard of Bingen names it as, “the greening power of God.” The contemporary writer, Anne Lamott, calls it “like cool compresses for your soul, or soft warm hands.” And Jesus referred to the Holy Spirit as our “helper, or our advocate.” The Holy Spirit is that which not only rouses us into action, dangles tongues of flame over us to enflame us, but sidles up to us in the dark night and wraps arms around us. That which enlivens, and that which sustains. As near as our breath. As steady as the rain. Paul writes in his letter to the Romans about this gentleness of the Holy Spirit. This Spirit which “helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” I love this image. Sighs too deep for words. This hovering Spirit, the very inhalation and exhalation of my breath, surrounding me and praying for me when I have forgotten how. Eugene Peterson, in his modern translation of the bible, “The Message” speaks of Paul’s words in this way: “Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside, helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. [The Holy Spirit] does our praying in us and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs and aching groans.” My hunch is that each of us can probably name those times when we could not pray. Times when we did not know how. Times when all we had were jagged sighs and hollow groans. Times when the words or the connection did not come. Perhaps it was when we came face to face with the loss of a beloved one. Perhaps it was when we were faced with horror or cruelty in our world—those 9/11 and Pearl Harbor moments. Perhaps it was upon encountering the ravages of an earthquake in Haiti or the tornados that ripped through Southern Indiana last year. Perhaps it was when we faced personal desolation and depression. Perhaps it was when we simply reached a dry spell of faith when for whatever reason even in the routine courses of our lives we found ourselves in a rut and God felt distant and elusive, far away and unreachable. Perhaps it was when we encountered something that was so remarkable we couldn’t put words to our feelings. The Pentecost promise is that in those painful, dark, random, inexplicable encounters we are not alone. For the Holy Spirit intervenes and breathes through us. Calmly and simply, gently and tenderly. We may not understand it, and we may not even feel it. But we are sustained. The Baptist minister and writer Gordon Atkinson tells the story in his book Real Live Preacher about the experience of being a witness to that Pentecost sustenance. He tells of hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night, that call that always makes one’s heart sink, for no good calls come at 2:30 in the morning. And on the other end of the line was John, calling from the hospital to report that his wife had delivered a child. A child born too soon at twenty-two weeks. And that the child had lived for awhile, but that he was now gone. Pastor Atkinson gathered his keys and his wallet and his small New Testament and he wrote this, “When you are the pastor of a church, you are many things. You are an agent of grace and hope, a repository of spiritual and scriptural wisdom, and a gatekeeper at big events like weddings and funerals…And sometimes you are the Black Rider of Death.” And then Atkinson goes on, “I am a keeper of a most sacred truth. It is the incarnation truth that enables minister to walk into the grief storm unafraid. If you come in the name of Christ and stand with people in their grief, you have done the most important thing you can do and the only thing they will remember. You might bring words with you, and they might even be good and helpful ones, but your presence is what matters. If you know this truth, whatever you have will be sufficient. If you do not know this, all that you have will not be enough.” And then that saint of a man, a man who has dealt with his own fair share of darkness and depression in his life approached the mother who sat in that maternity room, cradling her too young son in her arms with her husband seated at her side. And he said, “I went straight to Denise’s bed. She began to tremble a little in anticipation of grief as I approached. I put my arms around her and let my cheek touch the side of her head. I spoke to her in a soft voice, “I come in the name of the Lord who has not forsaken you.” And so it began. A dam burst open with this mother as she howled out her rage and pain, as she cursed at God, as she cursed at her womb. And Atkinson wrote, “It was hard labor, this grief, and it came in howling waves. At times we hung onto the bed like people holding onto a lamppost in a tornado, and our feet would be lifted from the ground. In these moments we lived only in the present. We had no thought for the morrow, but only wondered how we might hang on a little longer.” I believe this is how the Spirit intercedes for us. In those moments when we are storm-tossed and whipped, when we are lost and grief-stricken, there is an abiding Spirit that lingers in the present moment, ushered in as we sigh our deepest sigh and groan our most labored groan. But I think there is more to Paul’s words that we dare not forget. More to this reality of the deep sighs. I think that there are other sighs too, those sighs of relief and gratitude and awe when we are rendered speechless by the grace of the Spirit as well. Moments when there is a catch in our throat, and an overwhelming sense of peace that we do not know how to name. Moments when prayers of gratitude even feel too small. On Thursday night Robert and I went to the end of year showcase that Fort Wayne Ballet presented. It is on this night that all the dancers perform for their adoring audience, mostly parents and grandparents, and demonstrate what they have learned throughout the year. I have grown accustomed to watching our daughters dance. Tess and Brynn have been taking ballet lessons from the moment I became their step-mother when they were six and nine years old, and so I consider myself a seasoned stage parent. These performances are old-hat for me. And while I am always proud of our dancers, I have grown accustomed to their talents. I beam, but I expect I will. But on Thursday night there was a routine that I did not anticipate. Fort Wayne Ballet has a tradition of allowing certain student to choreograph a dance, and Brynn’s best friend Olivia had chosen to do so. Upon the stage danced a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, who wore a white shirt, her hair tucked into a low pony-tail and I did a double-take, for the girl looked so much like our daughters had at that age. The opening words to the song she danced to were these: “I was a little girl alone in my little world/ I played pretend between the trees and fed my house guests bark and leaves/ and laughed in my pretty bed of green/ I had a dream that I could fly from the highest swing.” And I watched this little one, who was not my own, and remembered all of the times I stood watching our girls playing in the yard, canopied by Cottonwood and Pine trees, draped in English ivy. And then the young dancer was joined on stage by an older version of herself, by an older dancer dressed in the same clothes, with the same low pony-tail and I realized it was Brynn. Our Brynn. And in that instant, as she leaped and danced with the representation of her younger self tears came to my eyes and I found myself so entranced, unable to voice the depth of my gratitude for the gift that is our daughter, and marvel at her life, and hope for her future. But those are all words that came afterward, as I analyzed it, for in that moment all I felt were sighs of wonder, and all I did was blubber tears of awe. And I believe this is the power of the Holy Spirit too, to meet us in those unutterable moments of joy and awe, as well as the moments of pain and terror. And we dare not forget that. On this Pentecost Sunday, when we generally concentrate on the power of that Spirit that descended on the twelve gathered in that room, the twelve who spoke in tongues and all understood one another, the wind that blew through and created a whole new reality. On this Sunday when we drape our churches in red and sing “Happy Birthday to the church” let us also remember that there is another aspect of the Spirit which beckons us. Let us cling to that tender power that breathes new life into us when we are fragile, or awed, or amazed, or forlorn. For the Pentecost Spirit comes alongside us and sighs with us in our emotions too deep for words. And God hears these prayers. And this, my friends, is true Pentecost power and hope. Amen.

Good Stewards--Sermon 4/22/12

Good Stewards Once upon a time there was a little church somewhere in a middle sized town in the Midwest. It was a beautiful little church. It had rustic wood and moveable chairs and while its carpet may have had a few stains from drops of communion wine spilled, the church didn’t mind much. The church had beautiful new banners and a glorious worship table and while the fixture which was used to light the building may have been affectionately called “the spaceship” by some, it created an abundance of light and had won a place in the church’s heart. It was a devoted and dedicated church, a congregation that prided itself on its friendly welcome and family-like feel. The kind of church where children could run freely in the aisles during worship while adults gazed on happily and where a blessing could be sung at the end of worship and one had the sense that folks were really looking into one another’s eyes and offering a word of peace. But lo and behold, as churches do, the little church’s building aged a bit, and roof repairs needed to be made, and heating and air conditioning units were grumbling and needed to be spruced up a bit, and lighting units and sound systems needed to be updated a bit. And the church knew it, but when they first became aware of it, there were a few other things on their agenda. For times had been a little hard financially in recent years, and membership had dwindled some. And so the church waited, as churches are often wont to do. And lo and behold time went by. And a few years later a new candidate was called to pastor the little church. And this candidate was asked about her experience with capital campaigns, and groaning furnances and energy efficient lighting and she told the search committee the truth. Which went something like this: “I confess. I may not be the brightest bulb in the marquee when it comes to financial management. For, lo, I only received a C in high school algebra, and I balance my checkbook only in years that end in the numbers 99, and I often confuse the difference between an ounce and a pint.” And the candidate sighed, and thought sadly to herself that this interview might not be going very well. “But,” this candidate said, “If you want to have a capital campaign, I can promise you two important things. And the first is this: I believe in this church and its mission and I will support it in every way I can. And further, I will preach proudly about stewardship! For lo while my math grades were abysmal, my English grades were not!” And then this candidate prayed that there might be some way that the search committee might find it in their hearts to consider me that addle-brained, Math-challenged minister to serve among them. And thankfully the answer was, ultimately, yes. And so here we are, and here we have come. The little church that could and the little church that can. And the time is right for us to begin to consider what it means for us to be stewards—together, on this our first Sunday of our Renewing Peace Capital Campaign. This Sunday’s launch comes with much careful planning, and with much prayer, and with much hope. And what I want to instill in each of you, is that the way we can grow in this process is through learning what it means to be good stewards, and what it means to use wisely and appropriately the gifts that God has given us, and what it means to take a deep breath and trust that God has a future in mind for Peace Church. This journey is a journey which will need to be rooted in our prayer, and our discernment, and in our listening carefully to both one another and the God who beckons us. As we embark on the path, we remember our past, and we tell the story of that faithfulness. As we deliberately step onto the trail we recognize the many ministries that operate out of this building already, and the many more that can grow. As we prepare ourselves for this campaign, we remember that God is calling us into ever widening circles of mission and there are times when we have to get our house in order so we can focus on the work that lies ahead. And then we look beyond ourselves and our very real building needs and ponder where the road of mission will take us next, knowing all the while that it is a path carved out for us by a faithful God who offers us many different directions to consider. But this morning, let’s linger with just the first idea. The idea of stewardship. And what it really means, for I believe it has often been misunderstood. Okay, now, show of hands here. A little Bible trivia. How many of you were aware that there are actually two creation stories in the book of Genesis. Two. And this morning you got a chance to hear snippets of both of them. Genesis one offers the first story of creation. In it, God suggests that humankind be made in God’s image. And voila, male and female are both made. Together. At the same time. And they are invited to have dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and the cattle and the wild animals and over all those creeping creepy things like mosquitos and anteaters and armadillos and warthogs. We know this verse, right? We remember this scripture. But sadly, it has been used to justify a lot of unfortunate behavior, specifically ecological destruction and devastation, because humankind has misunderstood that word, “dominion.” All too often, we assume that to hold dominion means that we are in charge, that there are others who we dominate. And yet, when we examine the Hebrew roots of the word, “Radah” we realize there is a little more responsibility implied. The root of the word “Radah” related to governing, or to “hold sway” It was this word which would have been used with heads of households, reminding them of their managerial function. It was a word which had benevolent implications, reminding those who were governing that they needed to respond with restraint, that their power was not absolute. In essence, all that they had was held in trust, and they were merely temporary managers for the one in charge. And so perhaps a translation which might resonate a bit more with our world is this one from Eugene Peterson’s “The Message.” Genesis 1:26 is translated this way: God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make them reflecting our nature So they can be responsible for the fish of the sea, the birds in the air, the cattle, And, yes, Earth itself, and every animal that moves on the face of the Earth.” If we are true stewards, then, God calls us to be responsible. For the land and the animals and the seas, they are not ours to own. They are things offered to us to hold in trust, with responsibility. They are not ours to dominate, or to use as we like. And we can wrap our heads around this, right? It’s not too hard. If we are responsible Christians we’ve already grappled with issues of environmentalism, and sustainability for our world. But, stewardship is bigger than just global resources (although that’s not small task), the idea of stewardship hits home in our own lives when we recognize that we are stewards of so much more. If we are parents than we are merely stewards of our children, for aren’t they God’s? If we are homeowners than we are merely stewards of our homes and our lands, for aren’t they God’s? If we are church members we are merely stewards of this building, for isn’t it God’s? And what about our money? Is it truly ours, or is it a blessing from God that we are merely to manage in the way God would want us to? It’s sort of a radical idea, really. And its elegantly simple. All that we have is God’s, and we are to use it wisely, in accordance with God’s discernment and wisdom. I want to share with you a poem that has been wandering through my head all week as I consider my response to God’s abundance in my life, and how I can respond. The words are from the Irish poet Billy Collins and the poem is called The Lanyard. I find I hear poetry better with my eyes closed (rest assured, I try not to listen to poetry while driving), so if you’re so inclined feel free to close your eyes and allow the words to seep into your soul. The other day I was ricocheting slowly Off the blue walls of this room, Moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, From bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, When I found myself in the L section of the dictionary Where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist Could send one into the past more suddenly— A past where I sat at a workbench at a camp By a deep Adirondack lake Learning how to braid long thin plastic strips Into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard Or wear one, if that’s what you did with them, But that did not keep me from crossing Strand over strand again and again Until I had made a boxy Red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, And I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, Lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, Laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, And then led me out into the airy light And taught me to walk and swim, And I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, And here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, Which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, Strong legs, bones and teeth, And two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, And here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, Is a smaller gift—not the worn truth That you can never repay your mother, But the rueful admission that when she took The two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was sure as a boy could be That this useless, worthless thing I wove Out of boredom would be enough to make us even. In many ways, our small sacrifices and tithes to God and God’s church are the lanyards that we offer in obedient and loving faith to the one who gave us all. Small payment for immeasurable gifts of grace. Like the son in the poem, we dutifully offer what we believe is sufficient. And God, acting as the mother in the poem, accepts our offerings with a knowing and delighted smile. For God knows. And the reality is that even our simple two-tone lanyards are welcomed as bountiful gifts. May we walk with deliberate steps on this journey to renew our church as we reflect on all that we have been given. And may we be good and faithful stewards who are responsible with God’s gifts, knowing that we can never completely repay our Creator. For, friends, this church and this world are simply on loan to us, until we can faithfully pass them on to the next generation, with pride. This building is, in a sense, our lanyard. Small token of our thanks to God. And now I imagine God must be sitting with delighted smile, watching to see what our next creations and ministries will be. Amen.

Relinquishing--Sermon 3/25/12

Relinquishing

When I was growing up, I spent time in the hot Northern Indiana summers at Chapman Lake, close to here in Warsaw, Indiana, where my grandparents had a home. When I was around eight or so, I was granted the luxury of visiting the lake for a week with my best friend, also named Kristen. The only drawback to lake visits, though, was that my grandparents used that time as their own little private work camp. Both believed in the Protestant Work Ethic, and had somehow made an agreement with one another ahead of time that we would grow up to be ladies of substance (my grandmother would never have used the word “women”), through the sweat of our brow. And so, Kristen and I learned how to empty the water out of the pontoons on the back of the paddle boat, and how to hang laundry to dry, all the while flicking the June bugs off the linens. We learned how to make biscuits, and we helped Grandpa fertilize his beloved roses. We shone the flashlight under the car as Grandpa fixed a part on his old Nash, and we learned the importance of higher thread count on sheets. The Millers were not afraid of a little work, after all, it put hair on your chest.

But throughout the day, throughout the humid steamy days, my grandparents also remembered that we were first and foremost kids, and thus we were also granted pockets of free time, a few hours or so here or there, and we would grab our towels and scamper a quarter mile or so down the lakefront and make our way to the swimming hole where we would indulge in exhilarated and unadulterated fun (watched all the while by my grandmother via binoculars as she sat on the front porch with a Pepsi). And I share all of this with you this morning for a reason…for it was that summer that I learned the sacredness of relinquishment. Of course I couldn’t have told you that then, but in hindsight I remember it all clearly. For you see, I learned what it meant to relinquish as I stood on the raft in the deep, deep water of Chapman Lake with my best friend on a break from our chores. I learned what it meant to relinquish as I faced backwards on the raft and would imitate a commercial I saw on television that summer. You may recall it, the NesTea iced tea commercial from the late 1970s? In it, a man seemingly hot and exhausted holds an iced tea in his hand while standing fully clothed on the edge of a pool, and then falls backward into the cool water while a voiceover invites the audience to take the NesTea plunge. Ahhh…relinquishment. That summer when I was eight years old, I loved to step backward off that raft, and fall back into the cold and comforting waters of Chapman Lake, while the water held me up. I remember the thrill, and even a little fear in the fall, the tremendous trust I had to place in that lake to hold me up, the ability to defy the laws of gravity for just a second as I hovered in the air. But mostly it was the sense of just letting go. Just letting go and falling. And that’s what we’re talking about today, prayers of relinquishing. Placing ourselves in God’s hands, a bit like Jesus did in this verse in John, recognizing that he had come to an hour when he was tempted to say, “Father, save me from this hour,” but then went on to say, “Father, glorify your name.” I believe Jesus taught us in the end of his life, the power of prayers of relinquishment.

Now, I believe that sometimes it is easier to define something by what it is NOT rather than by what it is, and so I want to say a few words very clearly and upfront that I do not believe relinquishing an easy one-step move. Instead, it is a prayer rife with struggle, questioning and doubt. Prayers of relinquishment are about process, time, and honest searching. This form of prayer is NOT about fatalism, yielding to chance, or claiming that we are puppets merely following the will of an omniscient and demanding God. Instead, I believe that prayers or relinquishment are about accepting our responsibility as co-creators with God in our future while at that same time being willing to walk into the unknown, trusting that God is with us on the journey. We walk a fine line when we talk about relinquishment, for we must be in relationship with God to practice this form of prayer, just as Jesus was. We must find ways to live our lives in tandem with our Creator, to seek God’s guidance, to study God’s word, to intuit God’s wisdom, just as Jesus could. But, it is also about just taking that deep breath and plunging into the water sometimes too…knowing that loving arms will carry us, wherever we go.

The one who taught us the ultimate prayer of relinquishing was one who had this kind of intimate trusting relationship. The one who modeled this kind of plunging into the unknown was one who journeyed with his Abba on a daily basis. And this verse in the book of John gives us glimpses of what will come in the garden of Gethsemane.

I have to confess that this morning’s lectionary text is perplexing to me. It isn’t one that sits easily or comfortably with me, maybe you feel the same way. In it, Jesus tells some of those who are following him that the time has come, or rather, the time is up. He announces that his death is imminent and that he is like a grain of wheat which must fall into the earth and regenerate to become a field of wheat. He foretells his demise, but with this beautiful sense of continuity, reminding his disciples that there is more to come. And I get it when it comes to Jesus. I mean, how much more proof do we need that Jesus was that grain of wheat? We’re sitting here in this church this morning, the religion survived for 2,000 plus years. Jesus died and in doing he sowed fields and fields and fields of wheat. But, I don’t know how comfortable I am with that personally…I’m a little more inclined to want to hold on to this one life I have, to be that one single grain of wheat, and to cling to this one tender life I have. I like the idea in the abstract, the idea that my death could yield more fruit, but it’s still a little sticky for us, isn’t it? We still doubt some, don’t we? And prefer to cling to this one wild and tender life we have? But maybe I’m being too literal here. What might it mean if the message that Jesus offers for us is instead about the power of relinquishing, the power of letting go of control as we cling to that one tiny sheaf of wheat, and allow ourselves to be used by God if we can just fall into God’s arms.

In the next weeks we will hear more about relinquishment than we can wrap our heads around as we hear the story of Jesus’s journey to Jerusalem, as we walk through the final weeks of the life of Jesus. We will imagine that starry night on the Mount of Olives where Jesus crouched in prayer in that garden surrounded by wild open space where he could have hidden, where he could have run, where he could have escaped from what must have seemed an ominous future, where he could have clung to the grain of wheat that he was rather than becoming the fields of the future. And yet, we know that he didn’t. Instead he knelt. And he prayed. He sweated. And he doubted. He asked. And he begged. But most importantly, when it was time, and only when he was ready, he yielded and he relinquished. He placed his future in the God who he knew loved him, and who he knew would not abandon him, and in that trust he glorified his God.

Our journeys are different then his, of course. Our cares and concerns may seem trivial at times when we compare them with those of Jesus. But we still know those moments when we cling to life, wondering how we will live into the next moment, unable to relinquish our clasp on the idea of control, uncertain how to plunge into the arms of a faithful God and know we will be held.

And maybe that’s where we start practicing simple relinquishing prayers so we’re ready to trust God in the bigger ones. For me, my first lesson in relinquishment at age eight, led to a deeper experience later in life. Several years ago as I was coming out of anesthesia after a surgery of several hours, I awoke feeling disoriented, frightened, confused. I was one of those few people who wake up feeling as if they have a Mack truck resting on their chest and I was convinced I couldn’t breathe (in spite of the fact that all the accompanying machines I was hooked up to seemed to be assuring me I was). My family stood near me, reassuring me that all was well. The doctors and nurses wandering by, reminding me that surgery was through, that I would be home the next day, that all was well. But I couldn’t calm myself. Every time I began to speak I would hyperventilate. Every time I tried to express my fears, I felt unable to explain myself. I was still under enough anesthesia that I couldn’t move my legs. And I couldn’t get up. And I felt smothered by blankets. Now I knew logically that I was still just waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. I knew that it was only a matter of time before this large truck parked on my chest would relocate, but rationalization doesn’t work in the face of panic. And then in the midst of the chaos, a saint of a nurse walked by, and read the notes on my chart, and looked at my heart rate on the screen, and stopped next to my bed and gently picked up my hand and she said simply this, “Christen, let go. Simply let go. Trust me. And do what I do.” And then she began to breathe slowly and deeply in and out. And keeping my eyes locked on hers, I began to mimic her breaths. And I fell into that deep pattern myself. And with every breath out I imagined myself yielding, relinquishing. And with every breath in, I tried to receive God’s grace. And after about ten or fifteen minutes, I drifted into peace. For in relinquishing, I was held. In letting go, I finally found peace. That’s what I imagine Jesus must invite us to do, as we loosen our clasp on our tiny grains of wheat.

I think if the prayer of relinquishment had a soundtrack it might be The Beatles song, “Let it Be,” You all know it right? Finding oneself in times of trouble, mother Mary coming, and speaking the words of wisdom, to let it be. Maybe that’s the truth of the Lenten journey, terrible things will happen, unspeakable things may come, but we are met by the presence of the divine, we are not alone.

Friends, we are walking toward the cross. We know the journey that lies ahead. And there are times when the world we live in now mimics the chaos of the two thousand plus years ago. This morning, may our prayers allow us to sigh. May our prayers allow us to plunge. And in all ways, may we fall back into the arms of God, who will sustain us, and who will beckon us to bear the fruits of justice and peace.

Amen.

Transparency--Sermon 3/18/12

Transparent

I have a little quiz for you this morning. How many of you can recite John 3:16 by memory? You don’t have to do it now, I trust you, but give me a show of hands if its one that rattles off your tongue fairly easily. If my suspicions are correct, a good 50% or higher of this church know this one. Perhaps you learned it in elementary school, or in confirmation classes. Lately, there has be a resurgence of interest in the verse, a verse that some refer to as the Gospel in a nutshell, thanks to the newest football sensation Tim Tebow, who adds it as uniform regulation, like his helmet and shoulder pads to his eyeblack at gametime. In fact, in 2009 after playing a championship game, over 92 million people googled John 3:16 to see exactly what Tebow was trying to convey [www.huffingtonpostreligion.com]. Last week I sat in the line of a drive-thru at McDonalds and saw that the Escalade in front of me had a perfectly centered John 3:16 bumpersticker placed on their back window. So John 3:16, for better or worse, seems to have become a codeword for Christians, a phrase that we see and nod knowingly. John 3:16? Gotcha.

But how often do we really unpack the verse? Or how many of us can recite John 3:17 after it? For while 3:16 does pack a punch, while it does sum things up pretty nicely, there is more that must be said, for we can’t live our faith only according to trendy bumperstickers and eyeblack.

Samantha read for you the scripture from the Living Version of the Bible, the way in which you’re used to hearing it. But this morning I would like to add a reading from The Message, Eugene Peterson’s modern day translation of scripture. Hear his words, and listen in a new way: This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need to be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life. God didn’t go to all the trouble of sending his son merely to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again. Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted; anyone who refuses to trust him has long since been under the death sentence without knowing it. And why? Because of that person’s failure to believe in the one-of-a-kind son of God when introduced to him. This is the crisis we’re in: God-light streamed into the world, but men and women everywhere ran for the darkness. They went for the darkness because they are not really interested in pleasing God. Everyone who makes a practice of doing evil, addicted to denial and illusion, hates God-light and won’t come near it, fearing a painful exposure. But everyone working and living in truth and reality welcomes God-light so the work can be seen for the God-work it is.

Wow. I love the spin that Peterson puts on it, the way his words indict me. For without saying the words directly, without spelling it out, what this scripture is actually talking about is salvation. And how God offers salvation. And what it means.

I don’t know about you, but when someone asks me about my salvation I get a little weirded out. It’s a pretty personal topic isn’t it? And more often than not, those folks who are asking if I am saved generally wouldn’t be too convinced if I told them the answer of what has saved me. The question, “Are you saved?” has been used in some communities as a “yes” or “no” answer, a litmus test of the faithful, a box that needs to be checked so that the rest of life can be lived. And I’m not convinced it works that way.

The Hebrew and Greek translations of “salvation” actually have less to do with theology and more to do with the secular culture of the time, particularly the military culture. In the Hebrew and the Greek the word “salvation” literally meant, “to make wide” or “to make sufficient.” Salvation wasn’t just a one-time affair. It referred to those times in life where the path of life was made wider so that new insight could be seen, to a time when recognition came that things were well. But, as often happens, the word has become co-opted, reclaimed, and now it’s a word we don’t know how to use without sounding like televangelists or itinerant revivalists.

So on this Lenten Sunday, I’m going to take a stand here. I’m going to use the privilege of the pulpit to pronounce some Gospel truth, brothers and sisters. This morning, I am here to demand that we reclaim salvation, and listen for what it can mean for us today. Can I get an Amen?

Because I believe we need to be saved. I do.

Frederick Buechner in his book Wishful Thinking, writes this: Salvation is an experience first and a doctrine second. Doing the work you’re best at doing and like to do best, hearing great music, having great fun, seeing something very beautiful, weeping at somebody else’s tragedy—all these experiences are related to the experience of salvation because in all of them two things happen. (1) you lose yourself, and (2) you find that you are more fully yourself than usual. [Buechner, Frederick. Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC. p.102-103] And I have come to believe that this is what salvation is truly about. I think salvation happens when we recognize God’s abundant, grace-filled, extravagant love for us and then when we separate ourselves from the illusion that we are not beloved. I think salvation happens when we so fully immerse ourselves in grace that we can do none other than be stunned into silent awe. I think salvation happens when we recognize that we are called to be fully transparent with God, that the light of God’s grace may shine right through us. But how do we let this happen? I think we begin by asking a simple question: What is saving my life right now?

The question comes from the pen of Barbara Brown Taylor, former Episcopal preacher turned Homiletics professor. In both her books Leaving Church and An Altar in the World she tells the story of being invited to speak at a church in Alabama. When she asked her host, a wise old priest, what he would like her to preach on he said, “Come tell us what is saving your life now.” Barbara Brown Taylor went on to say, “It was such a good question that I have made a practice of asking others to answer it even as I continue to answer it myself. Salvation is so much more than many of its proponents would have us believe…Salvation is a word for the divine spaciousness that comes to human beings in all the tight places where their lives are at risk, regardless of how they got there or whether they know God’s name.” She goes on to say, “To be saved is not only to recognize an alternative to the deadliness pressing down upon us but also to be able to act upon it.” [Taylor, Barbara Brown. Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, p. 226]

And so I ask you this morning. What is saving you today? Perhaps it is a deeply held conviction that you live your life by. Perhaps it is spiritual discipline which centers and grounds you. Perhaps it is a ritual or routine whereby you connect to God. But perhaps you also listen to that question and think, “I have no idea. I have absolutely no idea” and instead of embracing the transparency of a relationship of intimacy, of seeking a way to something which gives you life, you realize the ways in which you are enmeshed in life-denying actions and ways of being.

At perhaps the hardest time in my life, as I was going through a divorce, as decisions were being made about my future in pastoral ministry that I felt were being made without my input, what saved me was my front porch. After work each afternoon, I sat on that porch, which was hidden by evergreens and I watched the sun set. No matter the weather, no matter the season. I made my way to that porch where I sat in silence. And at that point in my life, it saved me. At other times in my life I shake my head, recognizing that there may not have been a life-saving practice. But I have come to believe it is an important question, perhaps the most important question that deserves an answer as people of faith. What is saving your life now? And how do you invite God to be part of that salvation? The God who extends extravagant grace and begs to live transparently with us in the light of love.

Throughout the week as I’ve been considering that question I have been reading the web logs and articles of other theologians and mystics who consider this important question and I found this honest account from a young father, a Unitarian minister in Minneapolis. He writes: Here is one of the things that is “saving my life” right now. Putting our son down for a nap. Crazy, right?!? Maybe you’re wondering: “How is this life saving, exactly?” Here’s the story: I’ve had some time off…this has meant that I’ve been home during the day and thus able to put our son down for his name. He is not a big fan of the nap, but he absolutely needs it, or else he’s a wreck by 6 p.m. And the best way for me to get him down is to hold and rock him, sitting on the edge of the bed or in a chair. He fights pretty hard for the first ten minutes or so, kicking, crying, telling me he’s hungry, or needs to get down to “go for a walk.”…It’s an intense experience, gently restraining him as he struggles, being clear that it is a nap time, and that I love him. After a little while, he settles down into my arms, still awake, but not struggling. His breathing deepens. He lets me rest my face in his hair. He smells like sweat, and shampoo, and something beautiful I can’t even begin to describe, and the warmth and smell of his head touches something deep inside me. As he relaxes in my arms, and moves more deeply toward sleep, I feel grounded in the present moment, my arms gently holding my three-year-old son…This is saving my life because it is a reminder that things won’t always be this way. Soon, I won’t be able to hold and cradle him…It’s saving my life because it brings us together in a way that nothing else does…It’s saving my life because it’s giving me new insight, meaning, and connection. It help me feel whole.” (http://wellswedidnotdig.blogspot.com)

So what saves your life today? What brings your brilliantly into the transparent light of God’s love? What opens you to true awareness of Jesus’s journey this Lenten season? For God so loved the world that he gave abundantly…

And we can be saved.

Amen.

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

The Revolution and the Revelation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

And all God’s children said, Amen.

Now, this man...

...he can write.

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

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

The Wilderness Within--Sermon 12/4/11

The Wilderness Within


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

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

The Tao of Grayson

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

I bring you "The Tao of Grayson."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me:...um...good?

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

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



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

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

The Almost and the Not Yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

A Passing Glance--Sermon 11/20/11

A Passing Glance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.