Who Are You?

17 February 2013, First Sunday in Lent

Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Luke 4:1-13

            Every year, when the people brought the first fruits of the early harvest to the altar of the Lord, as Moses instructed, they were to recite their story. Generation after generation, they were to tell the story as if it happened to them personally,

            "A wandering Aramean was my father; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the LORD, the God of our ancestors; the LORD heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O LORD, have given me."

            The pilgrimage to the temple, the presentation of the gifts, and the recitation of the story were all identity-forming experiences. Israel was shaped and united by a common story, a story of undeserved suffering and unearned salvation. As long as they remembered their story, and behaved as a people who were only recently rescued, they would be all right. Moses cautioned them about the temptations of a soft life: When you have entered the land of milk and honey, and you have built your houses and eaten the produce of the land… “Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gained me this wealth.’” (Deut. 8:17) According to Moses, the virtuous life is rooted in an understanding that we belong to God. It is God who made us who we are today.

            And every year, on the first Sunday of the season of Lent, we tell each other the story of Jesus in the wilderness. When we tell the story from Mark's gospel we get only a brief reference to the temptation—he was in the wilderness, with the wild beasts, tempted by Satan, angels ministered to him. But Matthew’s and Luke’s versions tell of three specific temptations, each one challenging Jesus identity.

            “If you are the son of God…”

            Well, that is probably what Jesus was trying to figure out. What does it mean to be the son of God? He had just been baptized by John in the Jordan river, he had felt the presence, heard the voice, “You are my son, my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” And immediately the spirit drove him into the wilderness to think about that. Does it mean privilege? Does it mean wealth? Does it mean power over life and death?

            If you are the child of God… what does it mean?

             For better or worse, our identity is shaped by the stories we have been told. We are who we are because of the stories we have been told. We are the stories we remember, we are the stories that we tell ourselves. We are shaped by the family stories, the stories of our people. We are shaped by our nation’s stories, by our history. We are shaped by our memories of how people treated us, which become the story lines of our dreams. The past and the present create the story of our future, our hopes and dreams and aspirations.

            They are not all good stories. Every family has its heroes and scoundrels. Some stories give us something good to aim for, other stories are cautionary tales. If you are lucky, you were told a story of how you came into this life, and into your family—a story of how you were loved and cherished from the start, a story which confirms our God-given identity.

But perhaps you were told a different kind of story. Perhaps instead of building you up, the stories that you were told tore you down. Like my friend whose mother told her that she was a burden, that she was unwanted, that she was a mistake. Those stories are difficult to overcome. But we can claim for ourselves a new story, and in claiming a new story we claim a new identity. Moses teaches us that it is our God-given identity, not our self-made identity, and not the identity that others would impose upon us that matters.

The story of Jesus in the wilderness teaches us that when we are tempted, it is our stories that can save us. If we can remember who and whose we are, then we can resist the claims that others make on us. If we can remember who we are, then we can resist the alluring temptations about what we have earned and what we deserve, and be content with what God has granted.

The power of story was illustrated on the front page of Thursday’s Free Press, about the “controversial social studies standards.” For generations, we have all been told the same stories about America. They were the same stories that our parents learned. Many of us grew up and learned that those stories were not the whole truth. Having learned to listen to other stories, we ask, “Why do we keep telling stories that are not altogether true?”

Why do we keep telling the story of America’s Revolutionary War as a great and glorious effort on behalf of Liberty, when about half a million people were enslaved before, during and after that Revolution? Why do we keep telling the story of Westward Expansion as if the Great Plains, the mountains and beyond  were completely empty, vacant of human life?

The new social studies standards are an effort to tell everyone’s story. Not just the one story line we learned as children, but everyone’s story. Of course, there are people who are opposed to the change. Change is frightening to people whose personal identities are invested in the story of America as they heard it in school and in church, stories of the land of the free and home of the brave, stories of a nation with leaders so virtuous that it could do no wrong. I have sympathy for these people because they are afraid that their story, and therefore their identity, will be taken away. Take away our stories and who are we? I sympathize, but I do not agree. I hope the experience inspires empathy for people whose stories have been ignored for far too long.

I believe that we will all be enriched by hearing other stories. I believe that sharing our stories may be our country’s salvation. As we share our various perspectives, our various stories, a new story of America, a better story of America, will emerge.

I think it is the same for the congregation. The answer to who we are as a congregation is in our stories, which I am only beginning to learn, a little bit here and there. And I wonder how well you know each other’s stories. As we journey through the season of Lent, I’m going to ask you to share your stories with each other. I believe that as we listen to each other tell our stories, an over-arching theme will develop, and give rise to the story of our congregation.

            As we worship together during this season of Lent, we will be exploring the question of identity. Who are you, Jesus? And who are we because of you? We will be listening for the answer in the stories of scripture and in our stories. Lent is a season of self-examination, so I will encourage you to remember your own stories and examine them.

            May God be with us, and may angels minister to us, as we enter this season together.

Who Are You?

     "Who Are You" is the worship theme for the season of Lent. I totally stole it from Pete Townshend. Now known as the theme to the TV show "CSI," the song proposes the identity question. In worship we will be inquiring, each week, "Who is Jesus, and who are we because of Jesus." We will turn to the scriptures and our lives for the answers.
     Occasionally, when people I meet find out that I am a pastor, they ask "Oh, do you listen to [fill in the name of a "Christian" radio station]?" I'm not a big fan of what is marketed as "Christian." My car radio is set to MPR and whatever local classic rock/folk/blues station I can find. I like that I can almost get "The Current" (89.3 FM) here. I'll listen to anything but the "Christian" station; the theology offends me and makes me angry. "Secular" music is often more deeply spiritual (and almost always better artistically) than the products of the business that promotes itself as "Christian."
     German theologian Karl Barth (one of the giants of the mid-20th century) encouraged pastors to preach the gospel with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. To put it simply, get real, preachers. Help people make the connection between the Word and the world. God speaks not only through ancient scripture, God speaks through prophets still. We hear God speaking through nature, through art, through writers and poets and musicians, all the time. God is certainly not confined by labels.
     When I listen to music, I am often struck by the religious assumptions and undertones of the lyrics. For example, the last verse of "Who Are You," in the long version anyway, is deeply spiritual. I don't know who Pete Townshend was thinking of when he wrote the song, but I hear scripture. I hear a psalm.

There's a place where I know you walked
The love falls from the trees
My heart is like a broken cup
I only feel right on my knees
I spill out like a sewer hole
Yet still receive your kiss
How can I measure up to anyone new
After such a love as this
... Who are you?

  And who are you? Come and explore the question in worship, every Sunday, 9:30 am.

Interrupting God

10 Feb 2013

Luke 9:28-43a (Transfiguration)

            The gospel lesson provides the climax of the season after Epiphany. The season is all about light, beginning with the light of the star and concluding with Jesus shining with the image of the glory of God. The mountaintop experience of Peter, James and John is an echo of the Bethlehem experience of the astrologers. The wise ones followed the light to find Jesus; the disciples followed Jesus and found the light. The first three searched for a king and found a child of humble birth; the latter three followed the humble rabbi Jesus and found the chosen one, the messiah of God. The good news comes full circle: In Jesus, the man of Nazareth, God has come to us. Jesus is the one promised through Moses and the prophets: The one who is God’s chosen shepherd.

            Peter’s first instinct was to get busy. Peter started talking about his plans to build three houses, one each for Jesus and Moses and Elijah; but God interrupted him and said, “Listen!” Some think Peter's impulse to build "three dwellings" is akin to the church's impulse to build monuments and cathedrals. I like to think that Peter was establishing a kind of first-century Habitat for Humanity project. Peter was just itching to get busy!

            Busyness may be the hallmark of the reformed religion. Our 17th century predecessors used to say that the devil makes work for idle hands, so they kept busy. Peter’s instinct was very UCC: right away he wanted to DO something. Many people are drawn to the United Church of Christ, to liberal Christianity in general, because we put our faith into action. We are doers. The heading of our church stationery carries a United Church of Christ motto from the 80’s: “To believe is to care, to care is to do.” That’s true, and it is very Jamesian, by which I mean very true to the epistle of James. But like all mottos, this one is only partly true. Slogans have their limits.

            God interrupted Peter. God interrupted Peter’s good intentions; God interrupted Peter’s mission. Let us entertain for a moment the notion that Peter wasn’t the only one interrupted. Until that time Jesus too was busy, healing the sick, casting out demons. After that moment, Jesus turned his face toward Jerusalem. He continued to do good, but the focus of the mission changed. Perhaps Moses and Elijah came to say, “Jesus. What are you doing? Listen!”

            “God is still speaking,” is another United Church of Christ slogan, and the one that is particularly appropriate for this gospel story. “This is my beloved son,” the voice of God said, “listen to him!” The interrupting God and the still-speaking God are one. If God is still speaking, we should stop and listen, and allow God to interrupt the course of our lives. If we are following Jesus' way, and not our own way, then, once in a while we need to stop for directions. We don’t need a mountaintop experience, but we do need to stop and listen, and allow God to be at work in our hearts and minds and souls. Before, during, and after we get busy, we stop and listen.

Worship is standing in the presence of the glory of God, listening.

Worship is standing in the presence of the glory of God, listening. Yes, worship is an interruption, but it is an essential interruption. All the good deeds that need to be done can wait, while we stop and listen. God is still speaking. Listen.

Homework:

            Here is a simple practice, we can do every day. It comes from a monastic tradition, so it is tried and true. Monastic apparently practice this twice a day, once at noon time and once at night, but if we can manage even one daily interruption, well, that would be something and better than nothing! Give it a try this Lenten season.

1. Become aware of God’s presence.

2. Review the day with gratitude.

3. Pay attention to your emotions.

4. Choose one feature of the day and pray from it.

5. Look toward tomorrow.

What's My Line?

First Sermon as Pastor of First Congregational UCC, Mankato

February 3, 2013

Lectionary Texts: Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4:21-30

            This is the season after Epiphany, the season of light in the darkness. The season begins with the story of the wise ones, astrologers from the east following the light of a star, and recognizing the spark of the divine in the child Jesus. As we continue through the season that spark becomes a flame, and the light of Christ shines brighter each week, until, at the end of the season we will see Jesus transfigured… but that is not until next week.

            This week, the Gospel lesson is the second half of the two-parter that began last week when Jesus read the scripture and preached in his home synagogue in Nazareth. In the gospel of Luke this story serves to identify Jesus as the Christ, the Messiah, long before anyone else in the story has figured it out, but of course the readers and hearers of the gospel know this already. And what happens in Nazareth literally foreshadows what will happen again and again. It is the job description of a prophet: a prophet tells the truth, announces good news, and gets run out of town.

            This Gospel lesson is paired with the Old Testament lesson from the call of the prophet Jeremiah, one of the greats, who also was regularly run out of town for telling the truth. Neither of these scriptures bode well for a new pastor! It’s hard not to take this personally. Today’s appointed texts—appointed ages ago by a dispassionate committee of the ecumenical and international Revised Common Lectionary—are quite a set up! But don’t worry about me. I knew the risks before I put on the uniform.

            Fortunately, in between those two challenging texts we have perhaps the best thing the apostle Paul ever wrote (if he indeed wrote it) that beautiful hymn to love that we hear so often at weddings. “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels….”

            I have preached on this text at dozens of weddings and I am always struck by the irony of the choice. Paul never married, and in another section of the same letter Paul encouraged all Christians to abstain from marriage, to remain single as he was. So I don’t think Paul would have ever imagined that his words would be so often read at weddings! Because 1 Corinthians 13 isn’t about marriage. It is about love, but not exclusively romantic love.

            It is about compassion, that defining characteristic of the God we have come to know through Jesus, who took the Ten Commandments of Moses and boiled them down to two—love God, and love your neighbor as yourself. Be compassionate because God is compassionate. Love, because God is love.

            It is simple. So simple. Lennon and McCartney had it down—All you need is love. And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. All things pass away, all things except faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.

            It is simple really. Except it’s difficult.

            The life of faith is a lot like the game of golf. Lois Mussett asked me the other day if I play golf, to which I answered, “I own golf clubs. I have played golf.” I have played enough to know that golf is a simple game. Get that little ball into that little hole. Do it in as few strokes as possible. Simple. Except, it’s difficult. Sometimes, occasionally—no, if I’m honest I should say rarely—I manage to hit the ball from the tee to the fairway, fairway to green and take two putts, the way it’s supposed to be done. But more often play badly. I have hit the ball with what seems to me to be a perfectly sound stroke and sent it whizzing into the woods to the right of the fairway. I have topped the ball, and watched it dribble off the tee box and come to rest short of the fairway. I have four-putted, on a number of occasions. No, Lois, I wouldn’t dare say that I play golf.

            Love is simple. And sometimes it is easy. It is easy to love the loveable, to be mutually encouraging, and to rejoice with those who rejoice. But love isn’t always easy, sometimes it is difficult, and lonely, like the love of a father captured in this poem by Robert Hayden, called “Those Winter Sundays”

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

“Love’s austere and lonely offices”—that is the language of the church, a reference to daily prayers, which can be solitary, monastic rituals. Love’s austere and lonely offices are simple but superhuman acts of patience and kindness, selfless and thankless service to others. Love’s austere and lonely offices are eased by a lifetime of practice, and by the companionship of Christ, and the encouragement of the church. Love’s austere and lonely offices at the sickbed, loves austere and lonely offices at the graveside, love’s austere and lonely offices in the nighttime, these are the offices that it is sometimes a privilege for the church to share, sometimes a privilege for a pastor to share. Love’s austere and lonely offices are in fact the very experiences that prepare us for the breaking of a beautiful dawn.

            Yes, the life of faith is simple. It’s about love. And it’s difficult. It’s about love. That is why we do not go it alone, we walk together, as the church. As the church, we practice love in small and simple ways, day after day, week after week, so that when we are called to more challenging acts of love we will be ready. We stoke the furnace of faith so as to make banked fires blaze, when we need them.

            That’s my line. That is the work that I am called to do is to stoke the furnace, to feed the flame, to lead the movement, to keep the main thing the main thing. The church exists to make the love of God known, to teach the language of love, to help the whole earth know the love of God that we have come to know through Jesus. This is the work to which we are called together, each using the gifts we have been given to build the church up in love. God will be with us. Thanks be to God. Amen.