Fearfully and Wonderfully Made.

Psalm 139

8 September 2013

            “I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

            The Sunday school children begin a unit on creation next week. They will learn about the creation story found in the first chapter of Genesis. We will also amend the curriculum with some other creation stories from other cultures, because one thing that seems universal about creation stories is the sense of awe and wonder that inspired them, and that the stories in turn inspire in those who hear them.

We don’t take the first account of creation as the literal be all and end all explanation of how the world began. If we did, we would run into trouble when the book of Genesis presents a completely different story in the second chapter. We know that the Bible is not a science textbook. It was never meant to be. The bible is a collection of stories, some very ancient. The Bible is a collection of faith conversations with generations of monotheists with whom we have claimed a kinship. It is a chronicle of how we have made sense of God, the universe, everything. Whenever we open the Bible we enter into a family reunion with our long-dead relatives, and we do what we do at family reunions: tell stories and vent disagreements.

How do you explain this to children? Well, young children rarely have a problem with biblical literalism. They live in the world of story. They can enjoy Maurice Sendak’s “Little Bear” series without challenging Sendak on the veracity of bears who talk and wear clothes. They see no problem in the space time contiuum of “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind or another… he sailed away through the night and almost over a year to where the wild things are.”  And when Max eventually returned from the land where the wild things are, his supper was waiting for him and it was still hot. If you haven’t read the book, I apologize. Get thee to a public library and check it out.

The truth is, even when we get a little too wild and mother sends us to bed without any supper, when we come to our senses and return from the land where the wild things are we will find that mother has provided us with all that we need. Because she loves us, wild or not.

In the same way, the creation stories are true. Each stage of creation light and darkness, day and night, sky and sea and land; birds and fish and animals and finally, the capstone of creation, people: we are created and blessed by our maker, and declared good. In fact, we are very good.

It doesn’t matter that it didn’t actually happen. It’s still true. So we teach the creation stories not to create little creationists who are ready to argue with their science teachers! No! We teach these stories so that the children can learn that they are fearfully and wonderfully made, created and blessed by a God who declared them good.

            This is important, because there is power in naming and blessing. We become who we are told we are. Anyone who has ever suffered abuse knows how poisonous curses are. There are grown people in the world today who are still trying to get over the names they were called by their parents, siblings or others who had power over them.

            A few years ago I met a man named Jerry, who was working with GLBT veterans at the VA hospital in St. Cloud, veterans who were struggling with PTSD and depression with the added challenge of being gay or lesbian in Central Minnesota. When Jerry asked the group what their experience of church was, stories poured out of their mouths, stories of moral injury. Their experiences of church were incredibly similar—they were stories of blessings revoked. No matter how faithful these veterans had been while “in the closet,” as soon as they “came out” they were shunned, cursed, rejected. Jerry asked them if they knew of any churches where they would be welcome. They did not. He told them about our church in Brainerd, an open and affirming church, and they were surprised, and a little disbelieving.

            You see, what I have learned over the years is that many GLBT folk have been so injured by churches and church folk, that they are not eager to give another church a chance to hurt them some more. It’s not enough to put up a sign that says “open and affirming.” That’s insider language, nobody outside of the UCC knows what that means. And showing up at Pridefest isn’t enough either, though it’s a move in the right direction. If you sat at the booth yesterday you might have noticed how many people passed cautiously, looking out the corner of their eye, making a wide circle. Once bitten by a rabid Christian, twice shy.

            It takes a good deal of patience and perseverance to heal the moral injury done by the cursing Christians. And it takes a lot of blessing to build up the trust required to bring someone into a church, where they can learn that they are loved and blessed by God, and by the beloved community of the church.

            It’s hard work, but it is precisely what we are called to do. To bless as we are blessed, to love as we are loved. To tell the story of original blessing, until we know it is true, and can tell it by heart.

            Praise God, for you are fearfully and wonderfully made. And God thinks you are fabulous.

Whose Party Is It, Anyway?

Luke 14:1, 7-14

September 1, 2013

            “When you are invited to a banquet… go and take the lowest place.”

            This might be the only bit of scripture almost everyone takes literally. Even we liberals. Obviously, this explains why in every church I have ever attended, the seats in the back fill up first. Only in church. If this were a Broadway show or a Springsteen concert (Taylor Swift concert for you youngsters), or even a school concert, it would fill from the front!

            Come on up higher!

No? OK, stay where you are. I know I’m no Taylor Swift.

            Mostly when we come to church, we are on our best behavior. Our best guest behavior anyway. You know that the roles of guest and host are very different. The host’s role is to make everyone feel at home, and the guest’s role is never to get caught acting as if you were at home. The host’s role is to offer food and drink, and the guest’s role is to accept what is offered. The host’s role is to initiate conversation; the guest’s role is to respond. The host makes introductions; the guest waits to be introduced to someone who is unfamiliar. Worship is God’s party, and when we arrive we all tend to act as if we are guests. Which is to be expected, but it needs to change.

            We have to remember this one thing about Jesus: he was always turning everything upside down. In the beginning of Luke’s gospel, Jesus’ mother Mary sang about lifting up the lowly and bringing down the mighty; filling the poor with good things and sending the rich away empty. And Jesus scandalized the religious know-it-alls by calling them blind guides and giving sight to those who were blind, even on the Sabbath, when no one was supposed to work, not even healers.

            By taking a simple meal of bread and wine, making it a sign of his presence, and giving it to the church, Jesus makes us co-hosts with him, and entrusts to us the duties of host. So whenever we come to church we need to remember that Jesus is busy elsewhere, but he has appointed us to be his body while he is away. That means it’s our job to make everyone else feel welcome, to introduce ourselves to anyone who is unfamiliar to us, and to make sure everyone has a place at the table. For this is the joyful feast of the people of God. This is a family meal of the simplest fare, and it is also a holy feast of the richest kind.

            This dinner party that is Holy Communion was a memorial meal even before Jesus showed up on the scene. It had long been a reminder of God’s saving power. It was the Passover meal which Jesus shared with his disciples. The feast of Passover commemorates God’s saving work. In the Passover meal we remember that we were once slaves in Egypt, where we were treated shamefully. We cried out to God in our distress and God delivered us from slavery with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and led us through the wilderness to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey. This Passover meal is to make us feel as if we personally had been delivered from slavery, and to remind us that our God is the God who rescues the poor and oppressed. It is a reminder to us to consider what side we are on—there’s a Labor Day plug for you (click on the song lyrics for a video clip of the song). “Which side are you on, boys, which side are you on?” God’s side, or the bosses’? God’s side, or the slavers’? God’s side, or the oppressors’? The meal has redemptive and transforming power, and practical, political implications.

            It was the unleavened bread, the bread of suffering that Jesus broke and called his body. It was the cup of Salvation, the promise of God’s return in the person of a Messiah, that Jesus called the new covenant in his blood. Whenever we eat this meal, we eat not only in the presence of Jesus, but also in the presence of Moses, and Miriam, and the Judges and the Prophets, and people of faith in ages past.

            When we celebrate communion we break bread with the unnamed disciples whom Jesus met on the road to Emmaus. We break bread with third-century Christians hiding in the catacombs under the streets of Rome. We break bread with saints and martyrs. We break bread with Bonheoffer and King and Biko imprisoned in Germany, Alabama and South Africa, and with all who have suffered for righteousness’ sake. We break bread with Christians living all around the world now, and we share a oneness with all of life.

We also share this feast with saints who haven’t even been born yet. This feast of paradise is eternal in both directions, past and future. When we share this bread and this cup, the walls come down and we become one great cloud of witnesses. This is a foretaste of what is to come, when all creation shares the feast of paradise in the presence of God and we all sing, Holy, holy, holy.

This is the party. This is the banquet where Christ is the host and we are all the guests. Not one of us has earned a place here, not by believing rightly or doing justly. This is what grace is all about—a place for everyone, an open table. All are welcome. Believe it or not.

This may disappoint you if you thought this meal was like dinner at the club. You might be tempted to refuse membership in a club that has no privileges. Like Groucho. “I refuse to be a member of any club that would have me as a member.”

This meal is definitely not dinner at the club. This meal is about dissolving boundaries, not establishing boundaries. No bouncers need apply.

Like any good dinner party, it’s not about the food, well, it’s not just about the food, it’s about the bonds that are formed around the table. It is about the shared experience of the meal. The touch a hand as you pass the plate is as important as the bread on the plate. The shared movement of raising our cups together is as important as the juice that fills each cup.

This is God’s dinner party. We are the guests and we are also the hosts, co-hosts with the risen Christ, for we are the body of Christ, the church. And Christ has commanded us this: My table must be filled. Go out to the highways and the hedges and compel them to come in. There are hungry people waiting for the bread that satisfies, and the wine that saves, and the love that lasts for eternal life. Remember this. Forget sitting in the back! Remember this: “My table must be filled.”

The Invitation

Hosea 11:1-11 and Luke 12:13-21

            The book of the prophet Hosea is an allegory. God’s relationship with Israel is represented by the prophet’s relationship with his unfaithful wife and, in the verses that we read today, by the parent-child relationship. Hosea introduces us to a God who yearns for us, who loves us madly and passionately, like a lover who is willing to forget all wrongs, like a mother who cannot forget or forsake her child, no matter what.

            Yes, God wants us to be just and kind and humble, but even when we aren’t, God still claims us, still calls us, still desires to know us.

            The parable of the “bigger barns” is a tragedy. It is tragic not because the main character dies at the end—every story ends in death, eventually. It is tragic because the man had not begun to live. He had abundant possessions, but nothing else. No family, no friends, no heir. He was a fool, not because he was a shrewd businessman, but because he had nothing else going for him.

            Jesus told the parable in response to a plea, “Teacher, bid my brother divide the inheritance with me.” Whoever asked the question had apparently heard enough about Jesus to know that he encouraged generosity, and proposed radical redistribution of wealth—the jubilee of debt forgiveness. Jesus, however, did not command the brother to share his wealth, instead he challenged the man who made the request. Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one's life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.

            We know this to be true: One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions. But knowing it is true is easier than living as if it were true. How often have we caught ourselves thinking that if we just had a little bit more, we would be all right? We’re not greedy, we’re not asking for a lottery jackpot, just a little bit more to make it to the end of the month. Like that guy. You know the one. Lives across the street, on the other side of the fence, where the grass is always greener. Jones. Yeah, keeping up with Jones. If I could be like that, just to live one day in those shoes….

            The gospel of Luke especially is full of cautions about the lure of wealth and the bewitching power of possessions, because they are the things in our lives that are most likely to take the place of God. These are our idols: a bigger house, a better car, deeper pockets.

            Teacher, bid my brother divide the inheritance with me. The one who asks probably thinks that a share of the inheritance it all he needs. But it isn’t. It isn’t enough. It never is.

We are called to something better. Not to a relationship with possessions. These cannot love us back. Life does not consist in the abundance of possessions, life consists of love. Life is created by love, for love, sustained by love. We are called to relationship with God, who, as the prophet Hosea teaches us, is always calling, always pining for us.

Our relationship with God is embodied in our relationships with other people. In our relationships with our brothers and sisters, with God’s children, our relationship with God is enfleshed. It is this love that saves us, that rescues us from aimlessness and sin. It is this love that is life, real life worth living.

            Before he left them to go to his death, Jesus made the sharing of a meal a sign of his presence, a touchstone for his life and ministry. The meal calls us together, to be in relationship with each other. We cannot partake of this meal alone. We are dependent on each other to provide the bread and the cup, we rely on one another to come to the table. We form the fellowship of disciples, followers and lovers of Jesus, in order to remember and recreate the body of Chrsit.

            This table is for all who are loved by God. It is for saints and sinners, the lost and the found, the full and the hungry. This table is for all who need saving, who need redemption, who need love.

            Let all who are here, come. But before we celebrate this meal again, let us consider who is missing, and why. Where are the millennials, the youth? (There are a few representatives of the millennial generation here today—thank you for coming.) In her web-published essay, Rachel Held Evans explains “Why Millennials Are Leaving Church.” They are leaving their evangelical churches because they believe those churches are too political, too exclusive, unconcerned with social justice, and hostile to their Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (GLBT) friends. They also feel like they have to leave their brains at the door of churches that are anti-intellectual and anti-science.

            But the same generation, the same people have spiritual yearnings. They want a church where it is OK to ask questions. They want a church that emphasizes an allegiance to the Kingdom of God, rather than a single political party or nation. And they want a church where their GLBT friends are welcome.

            I believe this is that church. One of those churches, anyway. But we are perhaps the best kept secret in Mankato. We need to learn how to make our story heard. Because people’s lives depend on it. The good news of God’s love is life saving. Think about it: whose life would be saved by an invitation to this table? Who needs to know the presence of Christ in the breaking of the bread and in the love of this church community?

            Let us resolve to extend this invitation, to turn up the volume on the good news of God’s love. Life, real life, depends on it. Thanks be to God, whose love endures forever. Amen.

Jesus, Priceless Treasure

John 12:1-8

17 March 2013

             When I asked the younger youth of the church, Wednesday evening, what St. Patrick ’s Day was all about, I heard some predictable responses, and some surprising ones. The following is a representative compilation of the responses of 4^th through 6^th graders, not a direct quote from any particular respondent. Similarities to persons that you know are purely coincidental.

            St. Patrick, I learned, is a funny little man with a big bushy orange beard, who always wears green, really loves his pot of gold, and if you aren’t wearing green on St. Patrick ’s Day, he will come and pinch you.

            You know that’s wrong, right?

            St. Patrick is not a leprechaun.

            Now that we have established that, what do we know about the patron saint of Ireland? He was a real person, who lived 400 years after the birth of Christ, and who died on March 17, in the year 461, when he was in his 70s.

As a youth he lived in England on his family’s estate. He was a son of the Roman Empire, which had been officially Christian for six generations by then. But the Empire was beginning to fall.  Roman legions were being withdrawn from Britain, which was the far-flung edge of the Empire, and called to defend Rome from the Vandals. This left Roman settlements vulnerable to marauding tribes of Saxons, Picts, and Celts.

            One of these bands of marauders captured young Patrick and took him to Ireland as a slave, where he endured abuse, deprivation, hunger, and solitude. In his Confession Patrick wrote that before his capture, at age 15, he had not valued his Christian faith. But as a slave he prayed without ceasing, and felt Christ was his constant companion.

            He was in the wilderness, tending his master’s sheep, for six years. The one night while he was praying, he heard a voice announcing that he would return home, his ship was ready. Guided the vision he walked some 200 miles to the sea and found the ship which provided his escape from Ireland. Eventually, he was reunited with his family in England. And all’s well that ends well. It would be a Hollywood ending, except it didn’t end there.

            Sometime after this heartwarming reunion Patrick had another vision. He heard the voice of the Irish, calling him to return to the place where he had been enslaved. And so he set off on a course of study, and  eventually Patrick was ordained, elevated to the office of bishop, and commissioned to go to Ireland as the church’s first missionary.

            Most of what we know of Patrick in Ireland is the stuff of legend. Miraculous escapes from murderous Druids, driving the snakes from Ireland, re-framing the shamrock as a Christian symbol of the trinity. Whatever written records there might have been from that time have been lost. But what remains is one letter to a Roman commander Coroticus and his soldiers, condemning them for the murder of some Irish Christians and the capture of Irish women who were taken to Britain as slaves. Officially, Roman Christianity had not challenged the Empire’s military might or economic policy. Some might say that the Christian religion was co-opted by Rome in order to control it, because the Christian religion, with its rejection of violence, and its insistence on equality among believers, had been a threat to the Empire.

            In Ireland Patrick, isolated from the center of power, developed a new way of being the church, a way nearer to the pre-Roman church. Having suffered as a slave, he insisted that no Christian could keep a slave. Neither could a Christian justify violence against the innocent. During Europe’s Dark Ages the Irish church flourished, and founded monasteries and Christian communities in Scotland and northern England.

            The most amazing thing about St. Patrick is not the stuff of legend but the truth of his living sacrifice. Having escaped slavery, having been restored to a place of privilege and comfort, he chose to return to the people who had enslaved him, to free them from the sin of enslaving others. It amazes me what some people are able to do, what safety and comfort they are willing to sacrifice for the sake of others. What inspires such selflessness? For Patrick, and the apostle Paul, and Mary of Bethany, nothing compares to Jesus. The value of knowing Christ, of knowing God through Christ Jesus is greater than anything they could offer. So Mary sacrificed her treasured ointment, Paul gave his life, and Patrick risked his freedom for service to Christ.

            Who is Jesus, in these stories? Jesus is the priceless treasure, the one for which you would sell all you have to secure it. Except you don’t have to, because this priceless treasure is free, and it is already ours.

            Sometimes, it seems, we cannot even see this treasure for the clutter of our lives. As a child of privilege, Patrick thought little of God; when he was a slave Christ was his only companion. What is redemptive about suffering is that it sometimes strips away all the distractions, and reveals the genuine treasures of life: the love of God, and the love of friends.

            Who are we, because of this priceless treasure? What are we willing to give in response to this gift of knowing God through Jesus? What are we willing to sacrifice, to help others discover this treasure?

Jesus, the Life of the Party

10 March 2013

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

          This week in worship we hear the familiar story of the lost son, sometimes called the prodigal son. Prodigal doesn’t mean lost, it means wasteful, and it is a label Jesus never used. The judgment was made by biblical translators in the age of the Reformation. Yes, the son spent his entire inheritance living large for a short time, like some professional athletes featured in the ESPN documentary Broke. The son in the parable blew it.

            But the father was also prodigal—wasteful—you might say. First, he gave half his fortune away to a son who basically said, “Dad, you’re dead to me, so give me my inheritance and I’m out of here.” The father had no obligation to give that boy anything. In fact, according to the law, the father’s obligation was to discipline the son harshly (All who curse father or mother shall be put to death—Lev. 20:9). The father, you could say, wasted mercy, gave it away for nothing. In terms of what the law required, he blew it.

            The only one who wasn’t prodigal was the older son, the one who stayed at home and did what was required of him. He was the opposite of prodigal… he was stingy. He withheld his approval, his forgiveness, and his presence at the feast given in honor of his brother. He conserved his integrity and preserved his pride. He acted just as the law required.

            But man, he really blew it.

            I have been a keeper of cats for many years. A cat fancier, a cat companion. Opener of the cans. Scooper of the litter. Nobody really owns a cat and you have to have lived with cats, I think, to understand that. Cats might be the inspiration for the “Borrowers” of Mary Norton’s fiction. Human beans exist for borrowers, Arrietty explained to the boy. I believe that’s the way cats feel about us “round ears.” 

            Anyway, one day, one of these cats who lived with us had to go to the vet, and the other cat, when she realized that she was alone, except for the human, sniffed the spot where she had last seen her cat-sister and then let out a mournful yowl. She went about the house calling for her sister, and then curled up in the closet and went to sleep. It was pitiful. I felt bad for her, but and tried to comfort her, but she was inconsolable.

            A few hours later when the “away” cat returned from the vet, I prepared myself for a heartwarming reunion. The cat who was left behind came running to the door the moment she heard the car in the drive. And when the cat carrier was opened, and her sister stepped out, they touched noses, and then…

Hst! She gave her a swat and ran away.

            I don’t think cats have much long term memory.

            It was as if a strange new cat came back from the vet, and not the companion for whom she had grieved.

            That image came to mind when I pondered the story of the two brothers in the parable.

            How long did it take for the older one to forget that the younger brother was his childhood playmate, and his own flesh and blood? Sibling rivalry is natural, but so is sibling affection. I can barely remember, but I can still remember, how much I missed my brother and sister when the summer was over and they went back to school for the whole long day. I remember waiting for them, at the top of the hill which they had to climb to get home from Grant School, and the great joy I felt as we walked the rest of the way home together, hand in hand.

            But, I also remember how, much later, I waited and waited for my sister go back to school, back to her dorm room at Illinois State University, so I could have my room to myself again!

            What happens to us as we grow up and grow old? We seem to move from some natural sense of attachment to people, to detachment. From barely sensing where one of us ends and the other begins, to delineating boundaries with masking tape on the bedroom floor. It’s not a fault or a flaw, it just is what it is—a natural observable human phenomenon, an adaptation that may even be necessary for the survival of the species. That’s just the way it is.

            Someone asked me this week what I thought of original sin. I don’t think about it much. I believe in original blessing. That’s where I put my trust. The first story of creation resounds with the refrain, “and it was good.” Behold it was very good! We were created and declared good, and so we are, when we are genuine.

            I love the way the story goes, the turn of phrase, when the younger son “came to himself.” He was out there, living la vida loca, and then, when he came to himself he decided to go home. When he came to himself he realized that it would be better to be a slave in his father’s house than to be estranged.

            I believe that is what theologians used to call original sin-- that estrangement, that malignant form of self-differentiation, that extreme detachment. And repentance would be coming to oneself, recovering that original state of relationship with God by being in good relationship with others.

            And that is what the older son, and the Pharisees and scribes for whom Jesus told the parable, missed out on. They thought that righteousness was about being good and following rules, but they forgot the reason behind the rules. God created the law, the book tells us, because more than anything God wants to be in relationship with us. To know as we are known, to love as we are loved by God. And the only way we can truly experience a relationship with God is through our relationship with others.

            It’s not about being good, it’s about being in relationship.

            The older son is good, but he is missing out on the party because of his own self-imposed estrangement.

            The parable ends with the father’s plea. Come in, join the party, rejoice with me.

            Well, will we go in? Will we enter into the experience of the realm of God, or will we remain outside, estranged, alone. That is the question we must ask ourselves every day. Will we choose relationship, or not? The door remains open. That is the good news. Thanks be to God.

Jesus the Host

3 March 2013

Isaiah 55:1-9

            Today, we hear the voice of God calling us to come. “Listen up! Everyone who is thirsty come to the waters! You that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price!” Come on come on.

            This is not the kind of invitation we hear in the marketplace. It’s not “buy one, get one free.” It’s not “easy credit financing, zero down and zero percent financing for 60 days. This is a genuine gift, no strings attached, come.

            God has what we need. Not only what we need to survive, but more than that, to thrive, to grow, to delight. God gives us what is needed, but then kicks it up a notch: Thirsty, come get water, no, come get wine, no, come get milk. Bam! Kicking it up a notch.

            We witness extravagant hospitality when Jesus is at the table. We have for example the story of Jesus at the wedding in Cana. When his mother tells him that the wine has run out, Jesus provides wine from water (even though he is cross with his mother at first, saying, Woman, my time has not come yet). And, the wine that Jesus provides is not just adequate screw-top red or box white. No, only the best, and that, in abundance. Another guest commented to the host, Man, most people serve the best wine first, and bring out the cheap stuff when the guests have become drunk. But you have saved the best for last!

            Extravagant abundance and extravagant welcome. When Jesus is at the table everyone is welcome. In his day, Jesus was criticized for the company he kept. He would eat with anybody. Tax collectors, sinners, women, Pharisees and leaders of the congregations, if Jesus was invited, he was there. He dined without distinction. At one time he said to his host, next time you give a banquet, do not invite your friends and relations. You know they will reciprocate, you will get an invitation and go and eat at their house and your hospitality will become a simple matter of exchange. Where’s the good in that? No. When you give a banquet invite the poor, invite the destitute and the desperate. Go out into the highways and hedges and bring them all in. That is real hospitality, giving a feast for those who cannot repay you, feeding those who would otherwise not eat.

            And the last thing Jesus did before he was arrested for sedition, for inciting rebellion against the emperor, the last thing he did was host a dinner with the people who followed him, and he took bread and called it his body, and he broke it, and shared it with all. And he took the cup of blessing and called it his blood, and he gave it to everyone. He made this simple meal of bread and wine his own, eternally, and whenever we eat this bread and drink this cup, we are at table with desperados and tax collectors, Pharisees and upstanding citizens, women of property and women of ill repute, widows, lepers, orphans and immigrants. We are all here. So if you would prefer to dine with distinction, this is not the place. This is the table of grace. Jesus is the host, and we are the guests.

            But, we are also the body of Christ. As the church, as Christ in the world we are given charge of this meal, not to act as bouncers at the door, not to screen candidates for the table, no, we are called to bring them all in. Look around. Who is missing? Where are the desperate? Where are the poor? Where are the students? Where are the children? Where are the dispossessed? Where are the grieving and the sick? How do they know they are invited, welcome, and expected, if no one invites them? Do you know whose job it is to invite them?

            It is up to all of us together and each of us individually to act on behalf of the host, who says, go out to the highways and the hedges and bring them all in! Use everything. Turn up the volume on the invitation. Bring them all in because this is not our table. This is the table of the Lord, the Christ of God. Ho! Everyone who thirsts, come!

Homework:

When and where have you felt extravagantly welcomed? At a hotel, a resort, a shop, someone's home? What was that like?

Now, how do we replicate that experience for everyone who comes to our church? Then everyone can experience God's extravagant welcome, without money, without cost. Free. Just like grace.

Who Are You?

17 February 2013, First Sunday in Lent

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

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

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

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

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

            “If you are the son of God…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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