Kingdom v. Empire

Palm Sunday, April 1, 2012

Mark 11:1-11

This is the week we call Holy, the week preceding Easter. The events of Holy Week commemorate the last week of Jesus' life. Today is Palm Sunday, which many consider a "little Easter," or as I used to think of it, "dress rehearsal" (because my sister and I would put on our Easter dresses and break-in our new shoes on Palm Sunday). Palm Sunday is the day that Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey colt, while crowds waved palm branches and shouted "Hosanna!"

If we ignore the events of the rest of the week, we might think that Jesus moved from a "little Easter," to a "big Easter," from dress rehearsal to the big production number, from glory to glory. But it wasn't like that at all. The events of Holy Week were the original "Arab Spring." The Palm Sunday procession itself mocked the triumphal procession of the Roman governor and his guard, through the opposite gate of Jerusalem. It was a dangerous political demonstration.

Crowds were pouring in to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, which commemorates the foundational event for the nation of Israel. It declares that God heard the cries of the people when they were slaves in Egypt, that God led them out by a mighty hand, and gave them the land of Israel, a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey.

Now remember the context of this particular Passover: Occupied Jerusalem. Jerusalem under the rule of the Caesar, a self-proclaimed Son of a god. A Jerusalem with a puppet king, selected, appointed, and protected by the powers that be in Rome.

Imagine celebrating Bastille Day in occupied Paris. Imagine celebrating the 4^th of July in occupied Washington, DC. This is the context of Jesus entry into Jerusalem.

It was a demonstration of the Kingdom of God v. the Empire of Rome. It was a proclamation that the Lord God is King of Israel, and that the only one worthy of the throne is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. “Hosanna” is the shout of praise from the coronation psalms of King David. The crowds were proclaiming a Jesus king.

But Jesus was modeling a very different kind of kingship. While the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate, was riding in on a war horse, with his armed guard marching with him (O the sound of the trampling warriors!) making a show of force, Jesus was making a show of peace. Here comes your king. Humble and riding on a donkey. Not with force of armaments, not with sword and shield, but with a force of palm-branch waving peasants.

The next day, Jesus led a demonstration at the temple, a symbolic protest of the unholy alliance of market economics, the empire and religion. It is commonly known as the clearing of the temple.  It might have been called Occupy Jerusalem.

On Thursday, Jesus celebrated the Passover with his disciples. After supper, while he and his disciples prayed, Jesus was betrayed by one of his own; he was arrested, tortured, and summarily executed the next day, which is a day ironically called "Good Friday."

Jesus didn't move from the little glory of Palm Sunday to the greater glory of Easter. No, the week we call Holy was, for Jesus and his disciples, hellish. It was "that lonesome valley" of the old spiritual. But in that very experience of suffering, people of faith through the ages have found hope for salvation.

How can this be? I suppose it is because real life doesn’t move from glory to glory. When I was a child, there was a popular evangelist whose trademark truism was “Every day, in every way, it’s going to get better and better.” That may have sounded true in the suburbs. But, that must have rang hollow for people who were marching for the right to vote in Mississippi, or for people who were striking for decent working conditions in the farm fields of Texas and California, or for people who were watching children die in Viet Nam. No, for a lot of people Every day in every way life’s going to get better and better was just a bald-faced lie. These were people of the lonesome valley.

It may seem as if our nation has never been more divided, never more lost, never less hopeful. When I learned of the murder of Trayvon Martin, I couldn't help but think of the lynching of Emmett Till (1955) and wonder, "Have we learned nothing?" Emmett Till's murderers were tried and acquitted. Trayvon Martin’s killer has not been arrested. The powers that were in Mississippi in 1955 and the powers that be in Florida in 2012 both seem to believe that being in the wrong place at the wrong time is reason enough to kill a black man. Where is the justice for the bereaved mothers and fathers? Where is the mercy for Emmett and Trayvon?

Where was the justice in Jerusalem for Jesus?

In our United Church of Christ statement of faith, one of the most meaningful lines for me is “In Jesus Christ, the man of Nazareth, God has come to us, and shared our common lot.” That means there is nothing we experience that God has not experienced. God knows what it’s like to be despised because of his race; Jesus, the Galillean half-breed, was despised. God knows what it’s like to be beaten and tortured; Jesus was beaten and tortured. God knows what it’s like to cry for mercy and find none; Jesus cried out on the cross. And God knows what it’s like to be killed; Jesus was killed.

The suffering of Jesus sanctifies all suffering. Through the Jesus story, God takes human suffering and makes it holy. Through the Jesus story, the endurance of suffering becomes a spiritual virtue, which redeems our past, and gives us hope for the future. Because suffering was not the end of the story.

Maybe we are in that lonesome valley as a nation. But I must believe that this is one lonesome valley with a promise of glory at the end. Because that is the story of Jesus. That is the story of God in this world. It is a story of a little glory, and a lot of suffering, and in the end, a greater glory than we could ever ask or imagine. But that’s a story for next week.

I pray that good will come out of evil, that justice will prevail. I believe that we shall see the goodness of the Lord, and the goodness of God’s creation, in the land of the living. So be it. Amen.

The Cross and The Last Turn

4 March 2012

Mark 8:31-38

“Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

            I have been reading The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James Cone, the distinguished professor of theology at Union Seminary in New York. James Cone, you could say, is the father of Black liberation theology, a great man, and a great voice of the church and to the church. I found the book on a table at Barnes & Noble, and I was intrigued because, frankly, I have a problem with the cross. Honestly. After all these years of study and prayer and life in the church, I find the common theology of the cross incredible, as in unbelievable, and the substitutionary theory of atonement inexcusable.

            Now, let me go back to what I learned about the substitutionary theory of atonement in college, in the simplest language possible. The first point of the theory is that God is great—God is so great, so perfect, so righteous. The second point is that people are sinful—people are so sinful, so foul, so irredeemable. Therefore, the third point, people cannot be at one with God, people cannot be in the presence of God unless some sort of sacrifice is made for their sins, to cancel out their sins in the balance of things. But, the problem is because people are so foul they are incapable of providing a sacrifice equal to the task. So God, according to this theory, being great and also good, created a son, his one and only son, completely perfect, without a flaw, so that this flawless son of God could be killed as a blood sacrifice for people’s sins.

            How messed up is that? A story of divine child abuse, and human sacrifice, to wipe away the sins of the people. The substitutionary sacrifice theory of atonement is more pagan than Christian. It follows from a theory of god who has more in common with the Titans or the Norse god Odin than with the God Jesus knew.

            I agree with John Dominic Crossan, that Jesus was killed because of sin; but that doesn’t mean he was killed for our sin. Jesus was killed because in this imperfect world, when someone comes along and speaks the truth to power, they will be killed. That’s what power does when it is threatened. Christ’s death was not a ritual sacrifice to appease and angry god. It was murder by a mob, with the complicity of the state.

            I think the substitutionary theory of atonement is bad theology which has been used badly to venerate violence. We keep spilling blood over and over again in war, in execution. We even use the term sacrifice to describe those who are killed in the course of war. Why do we keep spilling blood as if that will save us? As if the smell of blood were somehow pleasing to an angry god. Our God, the God we know through the scriptures, takes no delight in sacrifice. “But God has shown you, O people, what is good, and what does God require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)

            What we are doing here today is deconstructing the old, common, theology of the cross—the substitutionary atonement theory—and we are going to see if we can build a new one. If we are going to have a theology of the cross it has to make sense, it has to follow from our understanding of the God whom Jesus knew.

            I believe that we are created in God’s image, as the scripture says; I believe that God is merciful and God forgives, as the scripture says, both the Hebrew and the Greek, the Old and the New Testaments. I believe that Jesus’ life is more significant than his death, and his resurrection is a declaration that death, no matter how violent or how shameful, does not win over life.

            So, in preparation for the season of Lent, I was mulling over the problem of the cross and the substitutionary theory of atonement which underlies and has inspired much of our traditional liturgy and our hymns, especially the hymns for Lent. And on one of those days before Lent, I walked into a Barnes and Noble for a coffee and I saw this book, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, and I knew, I knew I needed this. I need this book, I thought to myself, because if James Cone can find something redemptive in the cross from the Black American liberation perspective, then there must be something to it.

            And there is, But it isn’t easy to read about, and it is even more difficult to talk about, and this isn’t going to be easy to hear. In this book, James Cone makes a personal testimony which invites us to walk around in his shoes. He shares some of his own story of growing up in Arkansas in the 50’s and 60’s; he invites us to imagine what it was like to live every day in fear, knowing that you, your brother, your father, your uncle, your best friend could be killed by a white mob and nobody would be able to do anything about it.

            Lynching was no secret. It was a public spectacle. The dates, times and places where a lynching was to take place were sometimes even published in the newspaper. It mattered not greatly who was to be lynched, if the supposed transgressor could not be found, any black man would do. (Talk about your substitutionary sacrifice.)

            Lynching is distinguished from hanging, you understand: Execution by hanging was a sentence carried out under the law after a trial by a jury of peers. Lynching was mob violence. And, blacks weren’t the only victims of lynching in America. We have our own horrible history of a lynching that took place in Brainerd in the summer of 1872, by The Last Turn Saloon. Two Ojibwe brothers were hung together from the tall pine tree that stood across the street from the Last Turn.

            The brothers had been arrested and jailed in the disappearance of a white girl in Crow Wing, but before evidence could be presented in the case, a mob of white citizens took them from the jail, marched them to the tree, and hung them there one at a time, until they were nearly dead. Then someone grew impatient and a shot rang out. When the bodies were removed from the tree the next day, they were riddled with fifty bullets. Inquiries were made, as inquiries are, but no one could be found who was present at the lynching, except, as the newspaper put it, one person who offered up a prayer for “the poor devils” before they were hung.

            The cross has power for victims of violence because crucifixion was the Roman way of lynching. It was the most shameful, most degrading, most torturous death imaginable; a form of killing reserved for the most despised and rejected people. And despised and rejected people get it. They get it that God takes no delight n the blood of the innocent, but that God is with the man who hangs on the tree. Despised and rejected people get it, that the man who hangs on the tree emulates Jesus. And they get the tragic irony that the crowds, who think they are doing “God’s work” by lynching the black man, have more in common with the Romans and the religious and civil authorities who thought they were in the right when they crucified Jesus. But, in fact, those Christians who did nothing to prevent the deaths of innocent men and women were crucifying Christ all over again.

            So, here is where we begin to create a new theology of the cross. We should bear the shame of the cross, not because we crucified Jesus all those years ago in Jerusalem, but because we continue to crucify Jesus, or we stand complicit while others crucify him.

            We should see Jesus on the lynching tree by The Last Turn, and Jesus in the face of Matthew Shepherd, left for dead on a fence post outside of Laramie. And we should see Jesus in prison in Guantanamo, and Jesus wherever and whenever people are despised and rejected by scribes and elders and statesmen. If we can begin to see Jesus crucified wherever and whenever people suffer violence unjustly, than we can, perhaps, redeem the theology of the cross.

            The cross is worthy of reverence when it shows us where we should stand while we live. What are we willing to live for? What are we willing to live and perhaps even die for? What are we willing to live until we die for?

            Let us consider what the Spirit is saying to the church, through the image of the cross and the lynching tree.

About the lynching: The story is told on brainerdhistory.com., a reprint of an article from the St. Paul Pioneer Press. The original publication explains that the author, H.L. Bridgman, was commissioned by President Grant to inspect the first section of the Northern Pacific Railroad in 1872.

Mr. Bridgman supposed that “The Last Turn Saloon” was named for the lynching tree. Local sources suggest that the establishment’s name predates the lynching, that the saloon was the last on a long block full of drinking establishments (not much has changed) and it was therefore, the last turn before you left town.

Power and Authority: The Peter Parker Challenge

Mark 1:21-28

Sunday, January 29 

                When Peter Parker woke up the morning after he was bitten by a super-spider, he noticed something had changed. When he became more fully aware of the power he suddenly had, he instinctively used it to do what most teenage boys would do with sudden wealth or strength: get the girl. If you haven’t read the comic or seen the movie, I’m talking about Spiderman, before he became a superhero was a super dweeb. He tried to impress Mary Jane by beating up the school bullies, but she was disgusted. He figured she would respect him if he had a muscle car, so he looked for a way to earn some quick cash as a cage fighter “the Human Spider,” and buy the car of his dreams for the girl of his dreams. But it all went badly wrong.

                The last words his uncle Ben said to him were, “With great power comes great responsibility.” And after Uncle Ben’s death (in the formula typical of super-heroes) he dedicated himself to using his power to benefit the downtrodden and defeated victims of crime in the city.

                In the gospel lesson for today we read of a new power and authority. As the story goes, the people around Jesus are just waking up to the power in their midst. He teaches as one who has authority, not as one of the scribes who just quote the commentaries on the scripture. He teaches as if he has the authority to communicate the will of God. And besides that, he demonstrates a power we have never seen before.

                The gospel is teaching us to be aware of the power in our midst. Annie Dillard once wrote:

                “On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return. ” 

 Are we aware of the power? I think we are. I think we know full well the power of the gospel and the challenge of discipleship. I think it frightens us. Because we are, as a generation, suspicious of power. “Power tends to corrupt; and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” This we believe as if it were gospel, but it isn’t. It’s Lord Acton, a British historian. We witnessed the truth of the truism in the 20^th century, in the first great war to end all wars, and the second great war to end all wars, and all the wars after that. We witnessed it in politics local and global. We have been trained to challenge authority and beware of power.

                But we must remember that we have seen a different kind of power at work in the world as well. The power of nonviolent resistance to violence. The power the united behind Gandhi in India and King in Selma and Birmingham. It’s the same power we see at work in the gospel. The power to cast out the demons of colonial subjugation and racial segregation, the power to cast out the demon of economic, legal and social injustice.

                This is the power in our midst and with great power comes great responsibility.

The Voice

January 8, 2012

Mark 1:4-11; Psalm 29; Genesis 1:1-5

The power of the voice is celebrated in today’s scriptures-- the power of the voice of God to create, destroy, and re-create. It is the voice of God that calls creation into being, the voice of God that strips the forest bare, the voice of God that claims Jesus as “my beloved,” and calls him good.
Before the earth had shape and form the wind of God moved over the waters and God said… and it was so.
When Jesus came up out of the water he saw the Spirit descending on him in the form of a dove and he heard a voice from heaven call out, you are my son, my beloved, with you I am well pleased. In Mark’s gospel, no one else hears or sees what Jesus hears and sees. Jesus alone hears the voice. It is no wonder that immediately afterward he went into the wilderness for a 40 day retreat. He probably needed some alone time to think about what had just happened to him.
In our faith tradition, we proclaim that God is still speaking. We listen for the voice of God speaking not only through the scriptures, not only through tradition, but also through the world that God created. We listen for the still speaking God when we take our morning walk, and hear God in the silence of snow falling; we listen for God in the dark cold night and hear God in the boom of the ice cracking. We listen for God when we read and we hear God speaking through careful study of the world. We listen for God and hear God speaking in the world in many ways, in many languages, including the languages of mathematics and science. We hear God speaking from the Hubble telescope and we hear God speaking from the depths of the earth at CERN; we hear God speaking from the first spark of creation and we hear God speaking at the forward edge of the universe.
God is still speaking, and the voice of God continues to call the world into being. The voice shouts and the voice whispers in the ear, the voice is universal and intimately personal. The voice of God continues to create and destroy and re-create.
The power to destroy is not a power we like to ascribe to God, not as much as the ancients did anyway. Remember the last time a tornado ripped through the south end of town? The psalm seems to have been written in response to an event like that, the psalmist was awed by the power of the wind. It’s not in the destruction of barns and cattle that we see God at work. But what about the power to remove what needs to be removed, to make way for something better? The power to remove old prejudices, the power to remove accepted customs that we now see as barriers, these are the walls that the voice of God can knock down.
We perceive that God is still speaking. But not everyone seems to hear what we hear. And, other Christians seem to hear things that we don’t hear. What do we do when others don’t seem to hear what we hear? How do we know we aren’t just hearing what we want to hear? What’s the difference between hearing the voice of God and hearing voices?
Part of the work of the church is to discern the voice of God, to discern where God is at work in the world for good. We meet together as the church to help one another discern God’s loving Spirit. We meet together to listen for the voice of God, and to test every revelation through the measure of Christ’s compassion and God’s steadfast love. We test every revelation—the new ones and the old standards—by asking if they measure up to Christ’s compassion and God’s steadfast love. Which sounds simple when put so succinctly, but it gets complicated, we know it does. That is why it is vital that the congregation come together for worship, every week.
We know that “being the church” isn’t just about “going to church.” We know that the mission of the church begins at the doorstep. But it is here, in worship together, that we get our marching orders. It is here that we hear and discern the voice that calls us, and here that we get the inspiration and the power and the energy to be the church in the world. Ideally, that’s what worship is. Worship generates the power and light that fuels the mission.
We meet together to share with one another what we hear the voice of God calling us to do, to encourage one another, and to hold one another accountable.
God calls to you, God calls to each of us, “You are my beloved.” God calls to us as a congregation, “You are my beloved.” How then shall we live?

Christ of the Carols: Hail, the Heaven Born Prince of Peace!

Text: Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

                To rise up and sing—this is one of the most ancient and most natural forms of worship. According to our scriptures, when the Hebrews crossed the Red Sea from slavery into freedom, once they had made it to the safer shore, Moses’ sister Miriam picked up her drum and began to sing and dance, and all the people joined her. Across cultures, around the world, people express their highest joy and their deepest sorrow in music.

                In the New Testament too, possibly the oldest verses are found in the Philippian hymn. Paul’s letters predate the gospels—you know that, right? And within Paul’s letter to the Philippians he quotes a hymn that might represent one of the first hymns of the first Christians, and the first attempt at Christology (which is one big word that stands in for many. Christology is about making sense of who Christ is in relation to God).

                In this letter, Paul was trying to correct some bad behavior that resulted from dissention among the church of the Philippians. He said, stop your quarreling. Stop acting all superior. That part is a paraphrase, here is the actual quote:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,

   did not regard equality with God

   as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,

   taking the form of a slave,

   being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,

   he humbled himself

   and became obedient to the point of death—

   even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him

   and gave him the name

   that is above every name,

so that at the name of Jesus

   every knee should bend,

   in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue should confess

   that Jesus Christ is Lord,

   to the glory of God the Father.

And that is possibly the first hymn of the Christian church. Many thousands, or millions more were to follow. Charles Wesley, to whom Hark the Herald Angels Sing is attributed, wrote 6,000 hymns in his lifetime.

Actually, the hymn as it is presented in our hymnal bears only a slight resemblance to the original, by which I do not mean the Pilgrim Hymnal version, because that one too is several contributors and editors removed from Wesley’s original version, “Hark How the Welkin Sings,” published in 1739, almost 300 years ago.  But, that was a common problem pre-copyright law. Once published, an author’s work went viral (as we say now); people picked it up and reworked it and published their own versions. Wesley’s hymn was tweaked a bit more a century later to fit with Mendelssohn’s melody. So what we have today is more than just a Wesleyan hymn, it is a hymn of the church. With apologies to ASCAP, and a nod to Wikipedia, sometimes a collaborative effort produces a better product.

                So, let’s look not so much at Wesley’s original but at the “canonical version” of the hymn, the version we have before us. The first verse is easy to parse; it is of course a retelling of that bit in the second chapter of Luke’s gospel about the shepherds seeing angels who praise God and say “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good will to all people!” And then the hymn invites us all to join in with the angel’s song.

                The second and third verses are stuffed with Christological references. These verses identify Jesus as the “offspring of the Virgin’s womb,” and “Emmanuel,” and “Prince of Peace,” all references to Isaiah’s prophecy.  “Son of Righteousness” like “Son of Man” is another title given by the Hebrew prophets to identify the one who would come to restore the balance of justice, bring down the mighty and lift up the lowly and vindicate all who are oppressed. When we sing these titles we are celebrating the God of the oppressed. This is an invocation calling on the one who comes to destroy the rule of greed and violence, to replace it with a reign of peace. These titles, Prince of Peace, King of Kings, are political titles, and as such, would be as appropriately sung in an Occupy Wall Street rally, as in church. Maybe more so. When we use these titles and sing these verses we are making a political statement. Not a partisan political statement, mind you. God is not a Republican or a Democrat; God transcends all that. But by identifying Christ as the Prince of Peace we are identifying an ideal to which all leaders should be held accountable. All leaders will fail to live up to that ideal, but it is better to aim high and fail then to be aimless.

The concluding lines of the third verse are a reference to the same theme we found in Paul’s Philippian hymn—a confirmation that Jesus, though he was in the form of God, chose to be born in human form and was obedient unto death, and furthermore that somehow that obedience gives us eternal life. Mild, he lays his glory by, born that we no more must die. Born to raise “the sons of earth,” born to give us second birth. The Christ of the carol is one who does not grasp at crowns, but lives to serve, and serves to give life to others.

So let us be of the same mind, as we sing Glory to the newborn king, or as our newest version reads, “Glory to the Christ-child bring.”

Let's Talk About Justice

Introducing to his intent to co-sponsor an amendment to our state’s constitution, our state senator said to his interviewer: “We want Minnesota to have a conversation on this.”

                We at First Congregational had the conversation, when we were preparing to become an “Open and Affirming” church. In November, 2000, we approved our Statement of Openness and Affirmation which includes a pledge to support “relationships and families based on the Christian principles of love, justice, fidelity, trust, and mutual care.”

                We have celebrated the marriages of several couples whose unions are not recognized by the State of Minnesota, and in our eyes, as well as in our church records, these couples are married.  We look forward to the day when all our families can live without fear of discrimination.

                The introduction of an anti-marriage amendment (and I believe that is the only proper description of an amendment that would seek to shrink the definition of marriage) threatens our families. Once again, some of our families will be placed in the spotlight, and required to defend their right to be who they are. I can only imagine how dispiriting the prospect of being under such constant pressure.

                Again, remember our Statement of Openness and Affirmation:

We commit ourselves to oppose discrimination and prejudice in our attitudes, our personal relationships, and our congregation. We will seek justice and advocate redress of the wrongs committed against sexual minorities in our local community and in society at large.

                It is not enough to be a safe haven, a sanctuary for GLBT folk and their families. With all our might, and with faith that God will provide us “courage in the struggle for justice and peace,” we can participate in the transformation of our society. We can change the things that must be changed.

                Our state senator has called us out. He wants us to have a conversation about marriage. Let’s give him a conversation. Every day, every night, let’s give him a conversation. Let it be patient, and kind, and persistent. Let our hearts be aligned with Jesus’ heart.

Jesus is the one who stood between a woman who was about to be stoned to death, and the men who held the stones and had “the law” on their side. Jesus is the one who disregarded the boundaries that were supposed to separate him, a good Jewish rabbi, from “the unclean”—children and women and sinners and tax collectors. Jesus is the one who looked out at a hungry crowd and told his disciples, “You give them something to eat.”

“Wait” you might be thinking, “Should the church be involved in politics?”

I absolutely agree that the church shouldn’t be a tool of any king, party, or candidate. But living the faith has social, economic, and political consequences. Having decided to follow Jesus, we must be ready to accept the consequences. The consequences may include irritating our relatives who disagree with us. Some of us can avoid the consequences by being silent, others do not have that luxury.

But the rewards of discipleship are far greater than the consequences. Because when we follow, we receive the joy of being part of the body of Christ, transforming the world.

Minnesota is going to have a conversation about this. We must be ready to talk about justice.

Jesus Without Borders

Text: John 20:19-31

                 “Do not be afraid!” That is what we heard last week, when we read the Easter gospel, “do not be afraid!” Do not be afraid, the angel said to the women at the tomb, I know you are seeking Jesus, who was crucified, he is not here, he has been raised, as he said he would be. Now go, and tell his disciples.

                And as the women named Mary ran to tell the disciples, Jesus himself met them, and said to them, “Do not be afraid!”

                It is the gospel message again and again: the scripture resounds with the message: Fear Not! For I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name, you are mine. You shall not fear the terror of the night or the arrow that flies by day. Do not be anxious about what you will eat or drink or wear, or about where you will sleep. The Lord is your God. No fear! Do not fear, even death cannot harm you.

                On that Easter day, where were the twelve? Hiding. For Fear.

                Fear has a terrible effect upon the body, mind and soul. Fear triggers that fight or flight syndrome, and the disciples, apparently, chose flight. The brain chemistry of fear is pretty simple: in preparation for flight or fight, the body redirects its energy from the cerebral cortex, where we do our reasoning, to the brainstem, the center of the autonomic processes—to keep your heart beating and your lungs breathing.

                William Sloane Coffin once said: "As I see it, the primary religious task these days is to try to think straight....You can't think straight with a heart full of fear, for fear seeks safety, not truth. If your heart's a stone, you can't have decent thoughts--either about personal relations or about international ones. A heart full of love, on the other hand, has a limbering effect on the mind."

                A heart full of love has a limbering effect on the mind.

                A head full of fear has a hardening effect on the heart.

                Those twelve disciples, filled with fear, set a boundary around themselves and the rest of Jerusalem. They hid behind the walls of the house, hid behind locked doors, for fear. They didn’t get the message, that Jesus lives, because their hearts were hardened and their minds closed by fear.

                But the good news is, Jesus knows no boundaries. He never did in his lifetime. He was always crossing the boundaries. People complained that he didn’t respect the boundaries that they saw, between the righteous and sinners, between Jews and Samaritans, between men and women and children. In his resurrection, he certainly wasn’t going to let any wall keep him from his people. He came to save them from their fear. He came to send them out from their hiding places, with his message of forgiveness.

                In the United Church of Christ, we believe that God calls us into the church to accept the cost and joy of discipleship. One of the joys of discipleship is knowing that we are God’s beloved children forgiven, loved and free-- and so is everyone else. Among the costs of discipleship are the consequences of living that truth. It is not enough to pray for a world in which children live in peace and safety, and everyone has enough to eat. We are called to live the way we pray. Sometimes, that means putting our bodies between the victim and the perpetrator of violence. Sometimes that means ignoring the boundaries that are supposed to divide us. Sometimes that means literally giving people something to eat.

                Not everyone can do that. Not alone, anyway. That is why we have Justice and Witness Ministries in the United Church of Christ. Justice and Witness Ministries helps local congregations by keeping us aware of the poor, the hungry, those who are victimized around the world. This Sunday, Justice and Witness Ministries is calling “Immigrant Rights Sunday,” to draw our attention to the struggles of immigrant families and to the human rights crisis on our southern border.

                Even though we don’t live on that border, we can listen and learn, and advocate for justice. So I encourage you to listen and think with an open heart and mind. Do not give in to fear. So much of our political dialogue is frenzied with fear. Listen with love, listen with faith that banishes fear.

[Sermon preached May 1, 2011.]

Fearless!

Easter Sunday, 24 April 2011

Matthew 28:1-10

               

                This is the day that the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it. And a beautiful morning it is. New life blooms where hopes lie buried, in fact as well as figuratively. Those crocus bulbs we planted in the fall have bloomed and blown, and hyacinth are emerging, and daffodils and tulips soon to come. It is a festival of spring, new life emerging.

                Jesus went to Jerusalem to celebrate the spring festival with his disciples-- the spring festival of Passover, which is also a festival of new life. We were once slaves in Egypt, and God brought us out with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and led us across the Red Sea waters, and through the wilderness, and brought us across the flowing Jordan, to the promised land. The festival of Passover and the festival of the Resurrection, Easter, are both about the power of God to raise a people up, from death to life.

Jesus went to Jerusalem for the Passover, a celebration of freedom for a people who were, at the time, not so free as their oppressors would like them to imagine. Yes, they were in their promised land, the land that was given to their ancestors, but it wasn’t theirs anymore. It was an outpost of the Empire, and the people were, in a sense, exiles in their own land.

The good news of Jesus, according to Matthew, began with an angel’s announcement. “Do not be afraid.” Do not be afraid, Joseph, to take Mary as your wife, because the child she will bear will be Emmanuel, God-with-us.” Here we are in the final chapter of the gospel according to Matthew, and it ends as it began: Do not be afraid!

                Do not be afraid, the angel said to the women at the tomb. Do not be afraid when the earth quakes. Do not be afraid when the tomb is empty. Do not be afraid, because God is doing what God always does, making a way out of no way, bringing freedom to the oppressed, and courage to people who seem to have the least reason to be courageous.

                Look at the contrast between the women at the tomb, and the armed guards at the tomb. For fear of them, the guards shook and became like dead men. The angel’s message brought courage to women, and brought the brut squad to their knees. Beautiful!

                And then Jesus appeared to the women with the same message, a command, “Do not be afraid!” Fear is for Herod, who was frightened, and all of Jerusalem with him, when he heard of Jesus birth. Fear is for religious authorities who would have arrested Jesus sooner, but for their fear of the crowds who followed him. Fear is for the mighty. You, who follow Jesus, do not fear!

                Between the first and last chapters of Matthew’s gospel, between the beginning and the end of the story, Jesus said it over and over again. Do not be afraid for what you will eat or what you will wear. Do not be afraid when people mock you and slander you. Be not afraid!

                Jesus was repeating the lessons he learned as a student of the Hebrew scriptures: Do not fear, is what the Israelites learned in the wilderness, when God provided bread from heaven. Do not fear, Joseph learned when he was sold into slavery in Egypt. Do not fear, is what God said to David when he was hiding from Saul and to Elijah when he was hiding from Ahab. Do not fear the terror of the night, or the arrow that flies by day. Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name, you are mine. The message circles round through the scriptures.

Do not be afraid. Unless you are Herod. If you are a Herod, be afraid, be very afraid. Do not be afraid, unless you are Pharaoh. If you are a Pharaoh, be afraid, be very afraid, for God has promised to come with justice for the oppressed.

Though you may feel like a slave, though you may feel like you are trying to make bricks without any straw, do not be afraid.

Though you may feel like an exile in your own land, do not be afraid.

Though you may feel you have no strength, and no voice, do not be afraid.

In Jesus, God has come to us as a slave, and an exile. In Jesus, God seemed to have been silenced and beaten. The power of God and the mercy of God and the hope of God’s people seemed to have died on the cross with Jesus. End of story.

But that was not the end of the story.

On that Easter morning, our story begins again, as it first began, “Do not be afraid. God is with us.” Emmanuel—God is with us, even to the end of the age.

This is the resurrection experience: the courage to live without fear.

Say it with me, Christ is risen. CHRIST IS RISEN. Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.

The Last Week

Palm Sunday, 17 April 2011

                Palm Sunday is sometimes called the “little Easter.” This week we shout “Hosanna!” as if rehearsing for next week’s “Halleluiah!” But between that triumphal entry on one Sunday, and the resurrection the next, was a week in Jerusalem, Jesus’ last week. It was a descent into hell on earth for those who loved him, because they witnessed the betrayal and arrest, the torture and the execution of their beloved Jesus. He was someone’s son, and someone’s brother, and somebody’s friend, and somebody’s mentor.

                Most of us skip that part. We do, we skip the formal observances of Holy Week, because we are busy with other things and, frankly, because they are real downers. We are, culturally speaking, a people who prefer to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. Palm Sunday and Easter feel good. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday feel bad. So, we skip it. Advance to Go, collect $200, avoid paying rent on Boardwalk. We can do that.

                The liturgy of Holy Week may not fit our optimistic Hollywood USA version of life, but the liturgy of Holy Week is actually more like real life than perhaps we care to admit. And I believe that reenacting the whole week, in the liturgy of the church, year after year, can strengthen our spiritual muscles for the suffering that is a natural part of life.

                There is so much pain and suffering. I know, because sharing the sorrow is part of my job. In addition to celebrating family weddings and baptisms, I have the privilege of sharing in the intimacies of disappointment, sickness, and grief. I’m not complaining—it is a big, full life. That’s why I call it a privilege, it is. By virtue of office, I get to be part of the family in all the big moments of life: joys and sorrows. And that is my point. Life is not just made up of a series of peak experiences. There are valleys. Sometimes they seem like bottomless chasms, but they inevitably level out and begin to rise again. That’s life. That’s what ages of experience has taught us. And every religious system in the world has some way of coming to terms with suffering-- in Christianity, it is the incarnation of God.

                In our United Church of Christ statement of faith, one of the most meaningful lines for me is “In Jesus Christ, the man of Nazareth, God has come to us, and shared our common lot.” That means there is nothing we experience that God has not experienced. God knows from experience our ecstasies and our agonies. God knows what it’s like to be a child and pick wildflowers for mom, because Jesus did that. God knows what it’s like to hit your thumb with a mallet, because Jesus probably did that too. God knows what it’s like when people tell you that you are their savior, because God experienced that through Jesus. And God knows what it’s like to be run out of town, because Jesus experienced that too.

                God knows intimately what it is to be betrayed by someone you loved. God knows what’s it’s like to be in prison, because Jesus was there. God knows what it’s like to be beaten, because Jesus was there. And God knows death.

                Why did Jesus die? Because he was fully human. Because that is the way life is. There is a beginning and an ending. That’s the way all our stories go.

                Some stories seem to end way too soon. Like Jesus’ story.

                But for me, the life of Jesus sanctifies my suffering. Through the Jesus story, God takes my suffering and makes it holy. Through the Jesus story, the endurance of suffering becomes a spiritual virtue, that shapes our future and redeems our past.

                Through the life, suffering and death, and resurrection of Jesus I know that suffering is not all there is, that there is always a resurrection, a rising up.

                May the remembrance of Christ’s suffering strengthen us all in faith and hope, that our hearts may rise up in joy. Amen.

The Jesus Experience: Like Water for the Parched, Thirsty Soul

for the 3^rd Sunday in Lent, 27 March 2011

John 4

            This Lenten Season, we continue to read from the gospel of John, wherein we meet four people who each have a “Jesus Experience.” These stories invite us to contemplate how we experience Jesus in our lives.

            We meet the woman at the well today. The Samaritan woman. Both words are significant. As the text reminds us, Jews have nothing to do with Samaritans. The writer assumes we already know what everyone living on the rim of the Mediterranean would know, in the first centuries of Christianity: Men do not speak to women. Correction: virtuous men do not speak to women who are not their mothers, sisters, or wives. And a virtuous woman would not respond to a man who is not her father, brother or husband. That is why, later in the story, the disciples are scandalized to see him talking with a woman. They are so preoccupied with Jesus’ boundary violation, wondering furthermore if he took food from this woman, that they don’t notice what is happening around them.

            While the disciples are preoccupied with Jesus’ rule-breaking, boundary-busting behavior, the Samaritan woman is doing their job! She is telling people what she knows about this Jesus. Intrigued, the villagers come out to meet Jesus for themselves. The disciples listen, dumbfounded, as Jesus tells them they will reap where another has sown, and here comes the sower herself, bringing in the harvest!

            But let’s go back, to the Jesus experience at hand. What do we know about thirst? Do we know thirst like the Samaritan woman’s thirst? Jesus knows her, she is the woman who has had five men, and the man she has now is not her man, he is, presumably, someone else’s man. She is the woman who is searching for that one person who will make her life complete, who will quench her thirst for meaning. Can we relate to that? She is looking for that one perfect opportunity which will allow her to use her full potential. She is searching for the perfect place that will finally feel like home. She is thirsty for love, hungry for ultimate meaning. That is the woman at the well.

            In Jesus, she finds someone who knows everything that she has ever done, but does not condemn her. In Jesus, she finds everything she has been thirsting for-- so much so, that she forgets why she came to the well in the first place. Leaving her water jar behind, she begins a new life, as a witness, an apostle, a messenger of the gospel. She tells everyone in town what she has experienced, and they run to Jesus to see for themselves. They, in turn, have their own encounter, and invite Jesus to stay with them. And Jesus accepts their offer, and stays with them for days.

            The woman who first came to the well alone, utterly alone, returned to the well with a family, a whole community. The one who was an outsider, and accursed, was honored by that community as the one who brought them the living water. She became the vessel, she became the water jar, of living water.

            Now I invite you to enter into a guided meditation. Consider for a moment, what are you thirsting after? What is it you are constantly returning to, to quench that thirst? What’s your well or watering hole? Go there now, in your imagination.

            If Jesus were to meet you there, and tell you “everything you ever did,” what would he say?

            And if you were to leave something behind, like a water jar, what would it be? What is encumbering you? What’s getting in the way of your freedom to tell others what you have experienced as Jesus in your life?

            And finally, when you leave that water jar of yours behind, what will you say to the others. How can you share your Jesus experience with others?

            I invite you to contemplate these questions, as we listen to the interlude and prepare to sing the hymn.

           

The Jesus Experience: Like Being Born. Again.

for the 2nd Sunday in Lent, 20th March 2011
text: John 3:1-17

During this season of Lent, the Revised Common Lectionary, which is the list of scriptures used by many churches, assigns passages from the gospel of John. Now John’s gospel is, to put it in polite Minnesotan, “different.” I remember reading the gospels in canonical order for the first time, staring with Matthew, then Mark and Luke, chapter one verse one until the end. [This was when I was in high school. I used to read the Bible before I went to bed at night. Because I didn’t want my parents to worry that I was turning into some religious freak, I hid the bible in a shoebox under my bed.] When I got to John, I thought, “Is this the same Jesus?” John’s Jesus talks differently, thinks differently, relates to people differently than the Jesus of the other gospels. There are stories and characters in John’s gospel that appear nowhere else. It really bothered me. For a long time it has bothered me.
But, [as I wrote previously in my blog] perhaps the gospel of John is to the other gospels as a poetic ballad is to a historical novel. Perhaps the gospel of John is an attempt to convey the experience of Jesus. John’s gospel was compiled as many as 40 years after Mark, decades after Matthew and Luke. It is different. The gospel according to John is not another collection of the sayings of Jesus, not another collection of the letters of apostles-- the church already had those by the time the gospel of John was created. So the gospel of John had another mission. I think this gospel was an attempt to convey the experience of Jesus to people who had never met him in the flesh. It was an attempt to explain to new Christians “This is what it is like to meet Jesus.”
The people we meet in the gospel of John-- Nicodemus, the Samaritan Woman, the man born blind, and Lazarus—each one is, in a sense, an "Everyman," or "Everywoman." Their stories are examples of how we might experience the Christ in our lives.
This week, we will consider how the Jesus Experience is like “being born again.” Next week we will consider how the Jesus experience is like drinking water so pure and refreshing that you are never thirsty again. The following week, how the Jesus Experience is like seeing the world clearly for the first time ever, and finally, like coming back from the dead. “The Jesus Experience” is an invitation to contemplate the presence of Jesus, the Christ, in our lives.
So, meet Nicodemus. A Pharisee. One of THOSE people who were always critical of Jesus. And yet, Nicodemus is drawn to Jesus. This is Nicodemus’s first appearance in the gospel, but we will meet him again, as we read along. At this point, in the third chapter of John’s gospel, Nic’s relationship with Jesus is just beginning. In the beginning, Nicodemus seems to be suffering from a divided self. Nicodemus follows Jesus in secret, because he is firmly entrenched in his family and community as a leader of the conservative movement, the movement that views strict adherence to the law, or to a particular interpretation of the law of Moses, as Israel’s only salvation. He continues to live as a Pharisee, but follows Jesus in secret, and that’s what I mean by a divided self, he is trying to live in two worlds. So the story goes that he comes to Jesus in secret, to say (in paraphrase), Hey, I’m on your side. I know you are from God, because no one could do what you do apart from God.
Jesus called him out. You can’t follow me half-way.
Jesus said, you must be born again, born anew, born from above. (All acceptable translations.)
“Born again” is one of those terms that people in my tradition say with at least a hint of derision. My tradition is “cradle Christianity.” It was the goal of 19th century Congregationalists and Presbyterians and others in the mainstream Protestant tradition, who invented the “Sunday School,” that a child born into the church should never know what it is NOT to be Christian. I think they did their job well, so well in fact that it is hard for us “cradle Christians” to understand just how difficult it is to make a change from being “not particularly religious” to claiming the name of Christian. It is like being born again. Because a person who leaves one identity, one community, one family for another is completely vulnerable, naked and scared, and in need of special care and protection. Like a newborn infant.
The image of being born again of water and the Spirit is a reference to baptism; that reference would have been clear to the first Christians reading John’s gospel. In the early church, adult converts were baptized during the great Easter vigil. In the pre-dawn darkness, catechumens were led to the baptistery, a circular building outside of a church, often a womb-like structure, where they undressed, immersed themselves in the water, and emerged cold and wet as a new born babe. They were then received by their new family, their Christian family, toweled off and anointed with oil, and dressed in a new white robe. Just like a newborn baby.
If you are, like me, a cradle Christian, if you have a hard time imagining what it would be like to embrace a life that is wholly foreign to your family and your community, then perhaps you can think of a different sort of change in your life that has been like being born again. Your coming out, your leaving home, your return from battle. Think of a welcome change, which made you tremble in anticipation of – you knew not what.
That is what it is like having Christ in your life, it is like being born again, naked and screaming.
Now, in the past, if a church like ours has grown, it has grown because people who were raised in a tradition like ours moved to our town and transferred their membership from their church in Anoka or Wadena or Zumbrota to became a member of our church. That was then, this is now.
Now, the fastest growing religious demographic in America is that group that checks the box “no religious preference.” Now, when a young couple comes to me for a wedding, and I ask them if they are affiliated with a local church (because, I believe being a professional means I shouldn’t steal some other pastor’s wedding!), usually they have to go back two generations to identify a religious affliliation. The bride and groom didn’t go to church, their parents didn’t go to church, but they seem to remember that Grandma used to go to St. Something or Other until she moved to Florida. So now, if the church is going to grow, it is going to have to be ready to care for infant Christians. We as a church have to be born again, we have to change our way of thinking and relating to the world. The old assumptions no longer apply.
We now need to be ready to care for those who are completely new to the faith. Those who, because of their decision to follow Christ, might need a new family. Our newest members will need us to be their family. We will need to think like a nursery, if we are to help other people have the Jesus experience that we cradle Christians have taken for granted. The Jesus experience is too good to keep to ourselves. It is an experience that we want to share with others.
But, I don’t want you to get the idea that it’s all work, work, work. Just as a new baby brings joy to a family, newborn Christians infuse the church with new joy. New and newly born folks tend to have the energy and stamina and enthusiasm to bring new life to an old congregation. If we let them.
We have watch ourselves, lest we be tempted to say those killer words, “We’ve never done it that way before.” We ought to be ready to say, “We’ve never done it that way before. Let’s try it!”
We may even find ourselves being born anew, to a new understanding of our faith. Being born again doesn’t necessarily happen only once. As one of my favorite musicians named after two apostles, Paul Simon, sang:

I was born before my father and my children before me
And we are born and born again like the waves of the sea.
That’s the way it’s always been. That’s how I want it to be.
(Senorita with a Necklace of Tears, 2000)

Born and born again. That’s the way it’s always been, and God willing, that’s how it will be. Thanks Be to God. Amen!

God Is With Us

19 December 2010

Isaiah 7:10-16; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25

“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matt 28:20b (the last word)

                In life, in death, in life beyond death,

                                God is with us.

                We are not alone. Thanks be to God.

                                                                --“A New Creed,” United Church of Canada, 1980

                Today we have lit the candle of Love, and we have read and heard the story of the birth of Jesus, from Matthew’s point of view. Matthew’s birth narrative is much briefer than Luke’s; and where Mary is the focus of the birth narrative in Luke, in Matthew’s gospel Joseph plays the pivotal role.

                Poor Joseph. In our crèche, his figure stands like an accessory to Mary, like Ken to Barbie. He is always in the background. In Catholic tradition, Mary becomes the Queen of Heaven, but Joseph, he is just a saint. Sure, he has a few hospitals and a children’s aspirin named after him, but there are few great works of art that focus on his love and care for the child. In Christmas pageants too, he gets few lines, if any. Stage direction: Joseph approaches Inn, knocks on the door. Enter innkeeper. Joseph: “Got a room?”

Because Matthew’s version of events is recorded so tersely, I believe an appreciation for Joseph requires some faithful, respectful, and I hope not too fanciful, expansion of the story. To be faithful to the time and place, we must set aside our modern, western notions of marriage.  For most of the world, throughout much of history, marriage was considered far too important to be initiated by a boy and a girl. Marriage was arranged by elders and relatives who knew better. Joseph might not have even seen Mary before the betrothal ceremony, and may have had little contact with her after. The two ceremonies-- one for betrothal, when a woman was claimed by the husband’s family; and one for the marriage, when the man and woman began to live together as husband and wife—were separated by a sufficient amount of time (6 months or so) to confirm that the bride’s family was not trying to pass off “damaged goods.”

So, for Mary to turn up pregnant during this time is a grave dishonor, a shame upon Mary’s family, and upon Joseph’s too. All deals were off. Mary would not only have been disgraced, she could have been killed according to the law-- stoned to death as an adulteress.

That Joseph had resolved to dismiss her quietly shows that he is not only a righteous man (that is, a man who would not take an adulteress as a wife), his resolve to dismiss her quietly also shows that he is a compassionate man. This internal struggle, between righteousness and compassion, between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, mirrors the moral struggles of the church to which Matthew addressed his gospel. And it foreshadows the teachings of Jesus, as recorded in the Sermon on the Mount: all those “you have heard that it was said” sayings that call us to go beyond the letter of the law, even to ignore the law, to be compassionate, as God is compassionate.

After he had resolved to do this, the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Do not be afraid.” This is the fulfillment of God’s promise—Emmanuel—God is with us. This is the beginning of the Gospel, and this is the end: Emmanuel, God is with us. Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

When when Joseph awoke from his dream, the pathway was clear. Confronted with the law, torn between obligation and compassion, Joseph, emboldened by the promise of God’s presence, chose compassion. So may we all.

We Feed Each Other

Texts: Joshua 5:10-12; Psalm 34:1-8; 1 Corinthians 12:1-11; Mark 6:30-46

As we bring this uncommon lectionary season to a close, I am returning to a theme from early June, when I preached on the feeding of the five-thousand. In that scripture which we heard again this morning, Jesus said to his disciples, "You give them something to eat."

"But, we have nothing, but a few loaves and a couple of fish," they protested.

But the disciples gave what they had, and Jesus took it, blessed it, and gave it back to them, to give to others. And by the grace of God it was more than enough.

That is the miracle that we witness in every church, in every age.

Jesus calls the church to give the poor of the world something to eat. You give them -- those who are poor in spirit as well as those who are literally starving-- something to eat.

We have nothing, we might say, nothing but this old church, a couple of hundred members, only one pastor, only our limited budget to share. But what we have, we give to God, and God takes it, and blesses it, and gives it back to us to give to others. And, by the grace of God, it is enough, and more to spare.

Worship is a meal in which God feeds us, and we feed each other, so that we might have the strength to feed those beyond our church doors. Worship is, in another sense, putting on our own oxygen mask before assisting others.

Most of us have the altruistic impulse-- the desire to help others in need. But, as the flight attendant reminds us before takeoff, we won't be much good to others if we don't take care of ourselves. Neglecting the spiritual disciplines of prayer and worship, on the excuse that we ought to spend our time and resources in mission-- well, that would be like rushing to help other passengers (in the event of loss of cabin pressure) with their oxygen masks without putting on our own. We won't be much help to others when we are passed out in the aisle. We can't feed others if we don't take the time to eat.

Our uncommon lectionary is one example of how we feed each other. Every time we come to worship we all bring with us the gifts of the Holy Spirit that God has given to each, for the common good. Every time we gather together it is like making stone soup, or setting out a spiritual smorgasbord. But even more so with the uncommon lectionary, which has allowed us to share our stories with each other. Not only the scriptural stories which we claim as our own, but also our life stories, our comforts and our concerns.

If following the Revised Common Lectionary is receiving the manna in the wilderness, our uncommon lectionary is like the fruit of the land of Canaan. It is as if we have arrived at the promised land, and now we eat what the earth and our own labor has produced, and we drink from the wells that we ourselves have dug. The bread is still from heaven, because the earth is God's, and everything within belongs to God. And yet we have a hand in production. Our experiences season the broth. It's a Lake Country Harvest of another kind.

The next great idea to come out of the Vision Quest group is called Heart-to-Heart. It's a structure for small group gatherings, to help us get to know one another so that we can better support each other on the journey of faith. It will be another opportunity to feed each other and be fed by God's holy word, as the Spirit speaks to the church using familiar voices. Together we will listen for God's still-speaking voice, together we will discern what the spirit is saying to the church.

The members of the church are here for service to Christ, using the gifts which the Holy Spirit gives to each for the common good. Today we feed each other, tomorrow and the next day and the next we get to work, feeding others as we have been fed. Every week we will return to receive bread for the journey. For what we are about to receive, thanks be to God. Amen.

Money, Money, Money:

It's a rich man's world. Or is it? Some thoughts on the theme for Sunday worship, in our uncommon lectionary season.

"For the Uncommon Lectionary, will you read the story of Jesus going to the temple and seeing the poor widow put her tiny coin into the offering box, and pointing out to the arrogant rich guys that she has given more than they have. This was one of my favoirtes when mother read to me from Hurlbut's Stories from the Bible." --Doris A.

"Luke 16 Puzzling!" -- Anonymous

Jesus blessed the state of poverty and the cursed the state of wealth. Jesus drew attention to the generosity of the poor and ridiculed the self-importance of the wealthy. And the wealthy ridiculed him right back.

Sisterly Love: Martha and Mary

Proverbs 31:10-31; Luke 10:38-42

The story of Martha and Mary was submitted by Marcia F., who, as most of you would guess, identifies with Martha. But she is not the only one. When the story comes up at prayer circle, for example, a number of women whom I admire get really ticked off at Jesus, for being so unkind to Martha. I am surprised at the women who get ticked off by this story. I strongly suspect them of being older sisters in their families of origin. I, being the younger sister, identify with Mary, so I really like this story. It makes me feel good and vindicated.

But not everyone loves this story, which is sad, because, sisters, we don't have many stories in the Bible about us. There aren't many biblical characters with whom we can identify like we can identify with Martha and Mary. Of all the people named in the Bible, the overwhelming majority are male. And, when a female character makes an appearance, she is rarely named-- usually she is identified as the wife of or the concubine of or the mother of or the sister of some guy. But here is Martha, and Mary, two women who are defined by their relationship not to some guy but to each other!

So, Sisters, why do we have a problem with this story? Perhaps we over identify, over personalize it. Maybe because we have so few biblical women with whom to identify, or maybe it is a gender-specific characteristic. Men don't seem to do this-- men don't get bent out of shape because Jesus was mean to Peter when he rebuked him.

In a video entitled "How to Irritate People," comic actor John Cleese related a story about his fellow Python Graham Chapman, who conspired with Cleese to demonstrate gender difference at a party they were attending. As if speaking to Cleese, Chapman said, very loudly, "The problem with women is they take everything personally." Immediately, three women turned on him and said, "Well I don't."

Perhaps we do. So Martha, I want to tell you, that this story, it's not about you. Don't take it personally. And Mary, it's not about you either (I say to myself). So stop feeling so smug and self-satisfied.

There is much to be commended in both women. Martha is the epitome of the wise and capable woman of the Proverb, with one exception-- she doesn't seem to be anyone's wife. But she is a caretaker, a capable woman, head of her household. Her sister Mary is behaving badly. Mary is sitting where she does not belong, at the rabbi's feet. That is the place for the honored student; if the disciples were an orchestra Mary would be sitting in the first chair, violin section, so to speak. Mary is taking a place that is not hers to take. In politest terms, Mary is being inappropriate, presumptuous. In less polite terms, Mary's behavior is scandalous. Some people might think she's acting like some sort of floozy.

Martha, as the head of her household is duty-bound to protect her sister and preserve the honor of the house. Martha expects Jesus to help her, but to everyone's surprise, Jesus does something completely different. Jesus turns the world upside down, again.

He rebuked Martha. The same way he rebuked his disciples for sending the children away, and found an opportunity for teaching a whole new way to look at the world. It is an amazing, liberating, new teaching.

Remember the story of Jesus and the children? They (Who were they? Might they be women, mothers perhaps?) were bringing children to Jesus that Jesus might bless them, but when the disciples saw it, they ordered them to stop. An important rabbi like Jesus doesn't have time to waste on little children. But when Jesus saw what was going on, he rebuked the disciples, and said to them, "Let the little children come to me!" They are first in the kingdom of God.

How about that. Women and children are part of God's new world, and so are the blind, and the lame, and the demon-possessed, the Samaritans, the alien and the sojourner in the land. The story of Martha and Mary is one gospel story among many that says to the church, that whatever we do, if we do not include the people on the fringe, then we are not complete.

We are the church. We are Mary and Martha, and Peter and Andrew, and we are the Gerasene demoniac, the leader of the synagogue, and the Syro-Phonecian woman. We are all of these. We need to be all of these together.

God knows the church needs Martha. But sometimes we are, like Martha, anxious and troubled about things that really are not all that important, when it comes right down to it. We are accustomed to providing certain programs and services as a congregation, but, unless we spend some time with Mary, at the feet of Jesus, we will not have the energy to do the many good things that we can do. We need to balance the "doing" of Martha with the "being" of Mary.

The annual leadership retreat is usually very "Martha." We do budgets and calendar and planning and reviewing. So this August, on the 14th, when we get together for our leadership retreat, we will spend some time being Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus, listening.

Thanks be to God for Martha, and Mary, and for what the Spirit is saying to the church. Amen.

To Go and Do Likewise (preached July11)

Texts: 1 John 4:7-8; Luke 10:25-37

Today our uncommon lectionary intersects with the Revised Common Lectionary. When asked
"What's your story?" or "What scripture informs your faith?" Love was a common theme.

"The one that says 'God is Love'" was one unsigned submission.

"How to truly love our neighbors as ourselves" was another. And from Marcia Ferris, this request came with a song: "The greatest love of all."

I believe that children are the future

Teach them well and let them lead the way

Show them all the beauty they possess inside

Give them a sense of pride....

...The greatest love of all is happening to me...

...Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.

I remember singing along with Whitney, whenever that song came on the radio. All the residents of Stanger Hall (I was in college at the time) would sing along. Sometimes I worried that it was a bit sacrilegious, to sing that "the greatest love of all" was love of self (rather than the love of God). But, for many people that is indeed where it needs to begin: with an understanding of how God sees each and every one of us: as a beloved child, loved just for being.

Unfortunately, many children are brought up knowing that they are unloved and believing that it is because they are unlovable. My parents were two cases in point: they each lost a parent at an early age, and so they were brought up, during the Great Depression, by people who never let them forget what an imposition they were. In my father's case it was a stepfather, in my mother's case it was foster parents. Fortunately, they also had people in their lives who did love them, and they were able to heal enough to be good parents to my siblings and me.

Ideally, every child should all be nurtured from the cradle, to know that he or she is a beloved child of God. Every child should know someone whose love is unconditional, someone who models God's love to him or her. Ideally, that love should be strong enough to stand up to the challenges of contradictory messages which will besiege the child as he or she grows. The messages that say she is unattractive, he is unworthy, they are incomplete without something or other, which they can buy for the low, low price of....

Ideally, but so many of us, we have to learn to love ourselves, so that we can know what it is to love our neighbors as ourselves. I believe worship is, to some extent, group cognitive therapy. Cognitive therapy is the practice of learning new thought patterns, reinforcing healthy messages and blocking unhealthy messages. When we address God in prayer, as just and merciful, we say these things not to "butter God up" to get on God's good side. God knows who God is. We say these things to remind ourselves who God is, lest we forget, lest we forget. Praying in this way is like holding up a mirror, to see ourselves as God sees us. Beloved. Welcome. Forgiven, and Blessed.

But we can't get too stuck on ourselves. We also are reminded that we are not God's only children. We have brothers and sisters in the neighborhood who are equally loved, welcome, forgiven and blessed. Who are these brothers and sisters? Wherever you go, whoever you see, your looking at them.

"Seeking to justify himself," the scripture says, "seeking to justify himself," the lawyer asked, "So, who is my neighbor?" What kind of an answer was he fishing for? I suppose one that would allow him to go on living and loving his own family and friends, while ignoring the suffering of strangers, and being an accomplice after the fact, which is one way to describe a person whose indifference compounds suffering-- an accomplice after the fact.

How do we truly love our neighbors as we love ourselves? This is an open question. It is a question we should carry into our lives every day. We should never presume to have any answer beyond that which lies hidden in plain sight, in the parable. That is the only solution to the puzzle, the only answer that Jesus offers.

Which of these, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?

Go and do likewise.