Holy Wisdom Sets Her Table

Proverbs 9:1-6

Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn her seven pillars.

She has slaughtered her animals, she has mixed her wine, she has also set her table.

She has sent out her servant girls, she calls from the highest places in the town,

"You that are simple, turn in here!" To those without sense she says,

"Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed.

Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight."

            Wisdom is the feminine face of God in the Hebrew scriptures, one of the many metaphors for the holy presence of the God who cannot be named, who cannot be captured in a “graven image.” And a beautiful image of womanhood she is. Wisdom is no lady of leisure, no frail and fainting maiden upon her couch! She built herself a house! She has hewn her own pillars out of the rock! She has butchered her own meat, crushed her grapes with her own bare feet and mixed her wine. All for the sake of those who are simple, senseless, ignorant, immature. This image of wisdom teaches us that tenderness is a feminine virtue, and so is strength. I love that. How very proto-feminist that is.

            “Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight.”

            Insight is a way, a path, a road—not a destination in itself but a way of being in the world, in the company of the wisdom, the presence—or, the image of the glory of the presence of God. I don’t mean that people with more education are better than people without. It doesn’t matter how many letters you have after your name: M. Div or PhD. When I think of the saints of this congregation, many of whom didn’t have any initials after their name except maybe “dip” for diploma, but they were always learning, always seeking to know more. Marge Vuchetich is one who comes to mind.  And George MacKenzie, who may have had some initials after his name but took none of them for granted. He was always seeking more wisdom. The pursuit of wisdom is not an end in itself, it is the path, the way, to come near to the holy one who cannot be named or seen or engraved.

And that is why education is a Christian value. That is why, when our spiritual ancestors built their homes in the wilderness of New England, the first house they built was the meeting house and schoolhouse. Every village in Plymouth Plantation with a population of 50 was required to employ a teacher. Because education is a Christian value, our Congregational forbearers  established the first colleges and universities in North America—colleges that are still of the best reputation in higher learning—Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, Grinnell, Carleton. The Morril Act of 1862, which established land grant colleges, giving birth to state universities across the country, was the brainchild of a Congregationalist from Vermont. All of these institutions were designed from the first to be free of the constraints of the church that founded them, so that the pursuit of wisdom might be unfettered by even the best intentions of the pious. Piety is also a Christian value, but excessive piety can give rise to hubris, pride, a vice.  Piety must be tempered by humility, which understands that there is yet more light and truth to break forth. Our faith is not threatened by education, because nothing true could be a threat to God, who is truth.

            Let us continue to support our public schools, for they are the foundation not only of our democracy, but also of our faith. Everyone must have access to Wisdom’s table. As we give these school kits away, to students who might be in Harare, Zimbabwe or might just as well be in Mobile, Alabama; Port au Prince, Haiti or New Orleans, Louisiana, let us send them with our prayers and our promises, to defend the freedom of teachers and writers and researchers, for it is through them that the freedom of the Spirit is at work, for the sake of the world. Amen.

            

The Parable of the Table

   A Communion Meditation on John 6       

In the gospel of John, there is no last supper with the disciples. There is no Passover meal in the upper room, no “This is my body,” no “this is my blood.” That story belongs only to Matthew, Mark and Luke, and also to Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth. We get the words of institution from those biblical sources. In the gospel of John, this is the nearest we have to communion—the feeding of the five thousand and more.

            “Jesus took the bread and after giving thanks, he distributed it to them, likewise the fish, as much as they wanted.” And there was an over-abundance: from five barley loaves and two fish, Jesus fed more than 5,000 people and had 12 baskets full of leftovers.

            And that is the miracle which we reenact every time we gather together. We bless, we break, we give, and there is more than enough. It’s not bread that we break open, that is only the visible symbol standing in for the invisible reality of the presence of God which feeds gives us life.

            And sometimes, we don’t even realize what we have. We think all we have to share is bread, all we have to give is money, or time. All we can do is feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit the sick and imprisoned, and write to our senators and congressional representatives about the needs of the poor and the stewardship of the earth. All that is good, and has its place, but that’s not all there is. If we think that’s all there is, we are to be pitied.

            Life is more than bread, and the body more than clothing.

            The bread that lasts, the font of living water… these are ours, and this is what we share every time we gather. The bread of heaven, the living water… the presence of God is what we are here to experience. It is the more we are always seeking, the hunger that cannot be satisfied at any table but this one.

            What must we do in exchange for this bread? Nothing. Just trust in the one who provides it. It will be given freely.

            Come to the feast.

            

The Ministry of Imagination

29 July 2012

Ephesians 3:14-21

            “More than we can ask or imagine.” It’s a beautiful promise. It reminds me of the words from our funeral liturgy: when we are praying for those who grieve, we remind each other of the promise that “eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor anything in human imagination envisioned” what God has prepared.

            On Friday the Book Group will start reading The Compassionate Brain: How Empathy Creates Intelligence by Gerald Huether. I realized some time ago that the subtitle proposes a thesis which contradicts my previous assumptions.

            “Bleeding heart liberal” a supposed slur (which I personally consider a badge of honor) arises from the observation that liberals seem to care about everything… the whales, the owls, the slugs. Is there no end to their crazy compassion? It’s also observed that universities produce more liberals than conservatives. So I assumed that education creates compassion. The more you know, the more you care. What the author Gerald Huether is suggesting is quite the opposite: that compassion comes first. Empathy creates intelligence. The more you care, the more you are motivated to learn.

            I realize now that my own life experience confirms this theory. I’m sure you can think of examples from your own life. I never thought much about dance, as an art form, until a daughter whom I love pursed the study of dance. Because I love her, I learned more about dance than I ever thought there was to know.

            Also, I never thought much about makeup and hair, as you can plainly see, until a daughter whom I love began to pursue the art of design. And I am again learning more than I ever imagined there was to know, because of love. Love, compassion, and empathy create intelligence.

            Being rooted and grounded in love, God is able to accomplish through us more than we could ever ask or imagine, Paul wrote.

            What if the most important thing to teach children is not in fact their ABCs and 1,2,3s. What if the real foundation for learning is, in fact, love?

            If this is true, then, how important is our ministry to children in this church? Not just our ministry to children in our church, that is, children who show up, I mean our ministry, as a church, to children in our community. Who is better equipped than the church to provide a foundation of love, for the children in our community?

            And, if love is the foundation for learning, what is the content of our curriculum? And what is the goal?

            I would suggest that the goal is that every child be rooted and grounded in love. That every child know—above and below and around all else—the love of God from experiencing that love in their families and in this church. I would suggest that the goal for our ministry with children be that every child have the empathy that creates wisdom, intelligence, and imagination, for it is thorugh our imagination especially that God is at work. The world that is coming, the Realm of God or the Kingdom of God, it is more than all we can ask or imagine. So let’s imagine more. Let’s imagine better. Let’s imagine a world where everyone lives in peace and harmony… and leave room for God to do even more. More than all we can ever ask or imagine. So be it! Amen.

The Ministry of Reconciliation: Crossing borders

Ephesians 2:11-22

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God…. Ephesians 2:19

In this letter to the Ephesians Paul talks of God reconciling two groups of people through Christ: The two groups are Jew and non-Jews, Jews and everybody else. To reconcile usually means to make amends, to make up after an argument. That’s the common understanding of reconciliation, and it is an important one. Every time we say the Lord's Prayers, we pray that we might be forgiven our debts as we forgive our debtors.  But, having overheard our treasurer Lisa Wigand working with our bookkeeper, I know that there is another understanding of the term reconciliation. To reconcile accounts is to make sure that they balance. The bank statement and the check register do not need to shake hands and say “All is forgiven!” At the end of the day they just need to be equal.

That’s another way to see the ministry of reconciliation. It is one of the churches ministries, according to the apostle Paul (2 Cor 5) the ministry of reconciliation. It is a relational ministry. It does mean to be reconciled, one to another, it does mean forgiveness and restitution. 

But the ministry of reconciliation is also a justice ministry. Consistent with the words of the prophets and the story of God’s intervention for the benefit of the poor, enslaved, and down-trodden, the ministry of reconciliation means that the church is called to declare God’s will for a just balance. The church is called to bear witness to the equality of all people under God.

There is a power on the earth that hates equality, that fears reconciliation, and prefers division. A History Lesson: In 1663, in the colony of Virginia, Irish and English indentured servants and African slaves together plotted rebellion against their masters. The plot was put down in the usual violent manner. But the unusual alliance between white indentured servants and black slaves shook the confidence of the land owning class. In order to decrease the likelihood of an alliance between black and white servants, Virginia’s House of Burgesses passed new laws which granted new rights to white indentured servants and further restricted the rights of African slaves. White privilege was born. It was very effective. The lives of poor white indentured servants were, at first, only marginally better than that of black slaves. But the margin became wider when the term of indentured servitude was limited by law, and the term of slavery extended infinitely, from one generation to the next. Black and white servants never again joined forces against their masters.

It is a very old strategy: in order to consolidate and maintain power, the ruling elites create division among people, lest they unite in rebellion against their rulers. In the Roman Empire, the privilege of citizenship was the reward for cooperative captives. Conquered peoples could buy citizenship for themselves and their families, and enjoy the protection of the empire. Uncooperative or rebellious peoples would be punished. The worst punishment, reserved for insurrectionists, was crucifixion.

Like most of us, the Ephesians to whom Paul wrote were probably somewhere in the middle strata. Some may have been Roman citizens, some may have been slaves, but most were probably neither elite, nor slaves. They were people who were subject to the peace of Rome. They each had their place in the new world order.

To these people Paul wrote, “you are no longer strangers or aliens, but you are citizens… members of the household of God.” Equal status is the reward and equal regard is the expectation of life under the peace of Christ. Now that’s different-- different from the peace of Rome and different from the domestic tranquility of these United States.

I am reminded of a quote that caught my attention when I was watching, but not really watching, a movie. The movie was on, Richard was watching it, I wasn't really paying attention until I heard the cynical old newspaper editor say to the young idealistic reporter, "The average Joe doesn't want to rock the boat, because he's hoping to climb aboard." Maybe there were people in the church in Ephesus who were hoping to climb aboard, hoping to someday rise to the status of Roman citizens. There is no reason to imagine they would be any different from us.

We are not without social stratification. Observe how the powerful seek to create divisions among the rest of us. What if we rejected those divisions? What if we reached down and up and out to claim each other as “equally citizens?” Imagine.

The cost of discipleship may seem higher for we who have the most to lose—we who have privilege. But the cost of remaining blind to our privilege is higher still, because we might miss out on the experience of reconciliation and the peace of Christ that comes from being part of something new: God’s reign, emerging here "on earth as it is in heaven."

It won’t be easy:

Power concedes nothing without a struggle.
 If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation are men who want crops without plowing up the ground; they want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters.
 This struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, and it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.
 -- Frederick Douglass, speech at Canandaigua, New York, August 3, 1857.

As long as we accept the place that power has given us, we can live in peace. But we can't be free. We are free only when we are reconciled to one another, when we are equality citizens of the reign of God.

Choose this day whom you will serve.

Children of God

Ephesians 1:3-14; Mark 5:21-43

Whenever we pray the Lord’s prayer, we make the claim to be God’s children. We say “Our Father,” or “Abba” which means “Papa.” We make a claim to be part of God’s household, God’s family. But what does that mean?

In relation to God, it means we are God’s dependents. We are dependent on God for the stuff of life. It means we are God’s heirs, recipients of a legacy.

In relation to each other it means we are equals: equally deserving of all the good gifts of God, the pledge, the inheritance.

This relationship is demonstrated by Jesus in the gospel story. The daughter of the leader of the synagogue and the unnamed woman, both received the gift of life, the healing power that pulsed through Jesus. I don’t think anyone on the scene would have been surprised that Jesus rushed to the aid of the leader of the synagogue. That would have been considered his due. The daughter of the leader of the synagogue—the pastor’s daughter—probably had a place of distinction in the community.

But what about the woman who was no one’s daughter, no one’s sister, no one’s wife? The woman who had no man who could approach Jesus and plead on her behalf? She was perpetually ritually unclean, because of the unceasing flow of blood. Whatever man touched her would be ritually unclean. Whatever, and whomever she touched would become unclean. When she reached out and touched the hem of his garment she made Jesus ritually unclean.

So when he turned around in the crowd and asked “Who touched me,” the woman came forward in fear and trembling because she had been found out. She was expecting to receive a public scolding. But instead, Jesus called her—if you weren’t listening carefully you might have missed it—Jesus called her “daughter.” He claimed her as family. That was a revelation to her and to all who heard. Perhaps a more miraculous revelation than the fact of her healing—she was a “daughter,” a member of the household of God.

As I walk this world, I wonder, how many people go through life believing themselves to be unclean, unworthy, untouchable, because that is the only message that they have heard and received? That is the message they received from parents and teachers from a young age, and no one has ever contradicted it. So they live in a state of isolation, not believing themselves worthy of love or the things that make for life.

How can we, as a church, initiate healing by giving people a new message, claiming them as kin—brothers, sisters, sons and daughters of God.

I believe that is the consequence of our legacy as children of God: we are responsible to each other, our brothers and sisters. If we have faith that God wills good things for all God’s children, then we must do all that is in our power to see that all God’s children have a share of God’s gifts.

Sharing possessions, this was the way that the church in Ephesus lived their faith. The book of Acts depicts the response to the gospel as spontaneous sharing of possessions, communal living. How might we demonstrate the will of God, the righteous ordering of society? How might we join with God in creating the “kingdom” or kin-dom of God in this world, now?

Whether they hear, or not

8 July 2012

Ezekiel 2:1-5

Ezekiel was among the first captives, taken from Jerusalem to Babylon as the spoils of war. He had been a priest in the temple in Jerusalem. In Babylon, he experienced a calling to a different ministry, that of the prophet.

It would be like the Chaplain of the Senate being called to become Michael Moore (the film maker from Flint, Michigan). That is how different are the roles of temple priest and prophet.

The role of the priest of court is to make the king look good. Like the role of the Chaplain of the Senate is to say a prayer at the opening of session, laying on a polished veneer of piety over the unattractive process of governance. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. You know the old German saying—anyone who loves law or sausage should see neither being made. What goes into the law, or sausage, could put you off it for a long time!) Whereas, the role of the prophet is to speak the truth to power, whether it is a convenient truth or not.

Michael Moore is a prophet like Amos, the shepherd of Tekoa, the outsider. In some ways, I think Amos had it easier than Ezekiel. Being an outsider, Amos had not developed personal relationships with the people to whom he was speaking. He could say, on behalf of the Lord, “I hate, I despise your solemn assemblies,” without ever having led those solemn assemblies (Amos 5:21).

Ezekiel was an insider. He had led the solemn assemblies and he had eaten from the king’s table. He was part of the small community of exiles from Jerusalem, taken to Babylon as the spoils of war, taken in chains, shamed and humiliated. These were a people who were already down, and God was asking him to give them a kick. His calling to be the prophet must have seemed a cruel joke. So, as much as I admire Amos, the shepherd of Tekoa, with his ever-flowing streams of justice and righteousness, and Michael Moore, the auto-worker’s son, with his passion for the least and last, I think the insider Ezekiel had the greater challenge.

I also think that Ezekiel is an important model for the prophetic church—especially for our prophetic church. Look around us—are we not the insiders? We are the spiritual descendants of the people who signed Mayflower Compact. We invented democracy (you could say, it’s all our fault!). We are the heirs of the Declaration of Independence and the Preamble to the Constitution. The theological language which was written into these documents is the theological language of our Congregational faith. The belief that all men (that is, all people) are created equal, and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights: that is a theological position and a goal to which we aspire, but (we understand) to which we never quite rise. (It is a teleological statement—an end goal, a reason for being. Not a statement of fact.)

Because we are so proud of our heritage, we are often blind to our own faults. It is much easier to see only our virtues and others’ vices. It is easy to play the victim, especially when we have been victimized. The exiles in Babylon had much to grieve. They lost their land and their temple, which were to them the signs of God’s presence. It was Ezekiel’s job to tell them that they were not altogether innocent victims. They too were guilty of offense, and if they ever hoped to return to the land which God had promised to their ancestors forever, they had to live righteously among their captors. And in this way, Ezekiel helped to create a landless Judaism, a faith without the benefit of state sponsorship or royal headship.

Perhaps the most difficult role for the prophetic church is not to speak the truth to power as an outsider, as an Amos or a Michael Moore. Perhaps the most difficult role for the prophetic church is to speak the truth to each other, even when we feel powerless. The Spirit of God calls us to get up, get on our feet, and prophesy. Whether people hear, or refuse to hear, prophesy. At least they will know that there has been a prophet among them. At least they will know that they did not leave God behind in Jerusalem. God is among them, even in exile.

Are we not, after all, in a kind of exile? We were the mainline, now pushed to the sideline. Isn’t it ironic? But we are not victims. We still have a voice. We still have a mission. We still have the presence of God within us and among us.

Let the Spirit in. Let the Spirit stand us up on our feet. Stand up for justice. Stand up for love. Stand up for the outsider, and the alien in the land. Spirit of God is still with us, even in exile. Thanks be to God.

Mind the Gap

2 Cor. 8:7-15

I do not mean that there should be relief for others and pressure on you, but it is a question of a fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance. As it is written, "The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little." – 2 Cor 8:13-15

That last bit in the epistle reading for today, “The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little,” is a reference to the manna in the wilderness, which fed the Hebrew people after they had escaped from slavery in Egypt, and before they found their way to the promised land. The story of the Exodus is memorialized in the feast of the Passover, the annual spring celebration of freedom and national pride. 

Passover recreates and renews the memory of liberation from bondage, as the Seder service answers the question, "What does this celebration and remembrance mean to you?"

This celebration is to make me feel as though I had personally come out of Egypt. The events and miracles of the Exodus from Egypt have become my personal experience. I celebrate here in order that I may remember all the days of my life the day of my going forth from the land of Egypt; that I may bear witness to the divine promise which has ever stood by me; and that a new hope and strength may be kindled within me in the midst of my present trials and steady labors toward that day which is all good.

Every time the feast of Passover is celebrated, we are reminded that we are still in the wilderness, in a sense. We continue wandering toward the promised land. None of us are free until all of us are free. This isn’t the promised land until it is flowing with milk and honey for everyone. Not just for our people but for all people, including the widow, the orphan, and the alien in the land.

The whole chorus of the prophets continue to cry out for justice in every land. The test of a nation’s faithfulness is measured by how the powerful treat the weak, how the citizen treats the alien, how the wealthy treat the poor. This is not socialism. It is gospel.

On the night of betrayal and desertion, and on the eve of his death, our Lord Jesus shared the Passover meal with his disciples. The Passover embodies his final sermon. This celebration is to make us feel as though we had personally come out of Egypt. We celebrate here in order to remember all the days of our lives the day of our going forth from the land of Egypt, from the house of slavery, that we may bear witness to the divine promise which has ever stood by us, and that a new hope and strength be kindled with us in the midst of our present trials and steady labors toward that day which is all good.

“None of us are free, if one of us is chained, none of us are free.”