Sermon – Matthew 24.36-44, Isaiah 2.1-5, Psalm 122, Romans 13.11-14, A1, YA, December 1, 2019

Tags

Advent, attention, attuned, bury, cope, dramatic, Jesus, keep watch, light, ordinary, parenting, promise, scary, second coming, Sermon

One of the cooler things about my grandmother was a unique skill she had.  She could hold her fingers just so, making a perfect circle between her middle finger and thumb, place the circle in her mouth, and create a whistle so loud it could be heard across a large campus or a packed room, full of people.  The sound was as loud as any instrument you could produce, and the tone was so distinct, you knew right away my grandmother trying to get your attention.  I always thought the gift was super cool, longing to master the gift myself.  But my dad, on the other hand, hated that sound.  Having grown up with my grandmother, he associated the sound with being in trouble.  And he was not alone.  My grandmother’s whistle was so loud and so distinct, the entire neighborhood knew the sound – and also knew the Andrews kids must be in trouble.  Other kids would tell my dad, “You better hurry!”  My grandmother did not need to raise her voice, or call out for her children.  One loud whistle, and the kids knew the whistle meant drop everything you were doing and come immediately.

Today’s gospel lesson has the same kind of impact.  Matthew’s gospel talks of the second coming, a return so shocking people will be caught unawares, with neighbors, family, and friends suddenly disappearing, or swept away unexpectedly, like the people outside of Noah’s ark.  The images are so vivid and alarming, whole book and film series have been created depicting what this dramatic second coming will be like.  Countless street corner preachers have used these images to drive people to Jesus out of fear.  Unfortunately for Jesus, these preachers, books, and films have been so dramatically fantastical, that Jesus’ words have lost their sense of realism.  We hear these words now and either roll our eyes is disbelief, brush them off in discomfort, or walk away in disdain.

Now, I am not suggesting you start watching or reading the Left Behind series, and I acknowledge the two-thousand-year delay in this second coming can leave us a bit skeptical.  But I do think there is an invitation today to step into the parts of the images that are disorienting or even unsettling.  Most of the images Jesus uses today are of people doing their everyday activities:  eating, drinking, working in the fields, preparing daily meals.  These are the activities of life:  reading the paper, driving the kids to school or practice, studying for a test, tending our gardens, preparing dinner.  The space Jesus is talking about is the space in life that can become so routine we can almost do them without thinking.  In fact, sometimes, the routine is so powerful we become absorbed in the routine – not just out of habit, but also because of desire.  Burying our heads in the sand of the ordinary is one of the ways we cope with the world around us.  When the world seems overwhelming or hard, we bury ourselves in routine, leaving little space in our minds, hearts, and spirits for much else.

The problem with burying our heads in the ordinary is that we start missing things.  We pass by the children boarding a school bus from a local motel without thinking.  We ignore how much desolation, deception, and destruction is all around us by avoiding the news.  We stop noticing that elder in church whose health is starting to isolate them from the community.  And we have every reason to bury ourselves – the chaos and need in the world can be thoroughly overwhelming at times.  We all know there are much more unhealthy coping mechanisms, so burying our heads in the ordinary seems pretty tame in comparison.  My family will be the first to tell you that when mommy starts randomly deep cleaning a part of the house, something big has gone awry.

But here’s the thing:  Jesus is not telling us to avoid the ordinary.  Jesus knows as much as anyone we need food to eat – everyday.  What Jesus is asking us to do is keep a part of ourselves out of the ordinary.  Jesus wants our ears to be attuned for his distinctive whistle – the whistle that can grab our attention whether we are in the middle of a conversation, are knee deep in a project, or are binge-watching the latest Netflix release.  But the reasons Jesus wants us to have our ears attuned for his whistle may not be as nefarious as they seem.  In turning to our other three lessons today, we begin to see the light.  Isaiah tells in the days to come, the Lord will be doing some mighty things – beating swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning-hooks.  Nation will not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war any more.  Isaiah’s message of peace is a message of joy and action.  Isaiah whistles to us, “O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”[i]

The psalmist’s whistle is similar.  “Let us go to the house of the Lord,” she says.  Out of the ordinary, and into the house of God, we hear a new prayer for us.  “May they prosper who love you.  Peace be within your walls and quietness within your towers.  For my brethren and companions’ sake, I pray for your prosperity.  Because of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”[ii]  Can you imagine missing such a beautiful blessing because we were working through our shopping list during mass or afraid of what we would find in the Lord’s house?

Paul whistles to us too.  “Wake up,” Paul says in Romans.  “The night is far gone, the day is near.  Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us live honorably as in the day…”[iii] Paul’s call for attention is a call to goodness, an invitation into a community of light – in clothing ourselves with that light.

If Jesus’s images felt threatening or scary, enough to drive our heads into the ordinary, the rest of our lessons tell us why we should, in fact, pull our heads out, and keep watch this Advent.  When we do, we hear some stunningly wonderful news – news of peace and harmony, news of blessing and soothing, news of light in a world of darkness.  Perhaps Jesus’ whistle was a bit more like my grandmothers – the whistle that let you and everyone around know you were in trouble.  But the rest of the lectionary today tells us the whistle is a gift – an invitation to turn into the light.

One of the things I loved about WMBGkind, the kindness movement happening in our community, was that the movement opened a real window into the light.  After reading the Last Word in The Virginia Gazette for several years, I had begun to bury my own head – reading the whole paper and then stopping short on the last page so I did not have to read the vitriol in our community.  But once I started paying attention to acts of kindness in our community, my perspective shifted.  I skimmed the Last Word to find the thank you notes – the notes of thanks for big and tiny acts of kindness.  I started to notice photos of countless churches, organizations, and businesses giving back to the community.  I started noticing neighbors holding doors for one another, kids picking up litter, and strangers giving up their time to help someone else.

I have seen the same sense of light here at Hickory Neck too.  As we talked about shining our light this year during Stewardship season, I saw parishioners trying out new ministries.  I watched parishioners increase pledges and talk excitedly about what a difference we could make in our community.  I have watched as longtimers offer lovingkindness to newcomers, as newcomers give of their time to welcome others, and as parishioners and clergy share laughter, love, and levity.  When I listen to the whistle of scripture, I hear light, I hear promise, and I hear invitation.

As a mother of five children, I know we often teased my grandmother for her ominous whistle.  My guess is her whistle was a necessary tool in her parenting toolbelt.  But I found myself wondering this week what might have happened if she had used the same whistle to deliver other news:  hugs and words of affirmation; a quiet whisper in their ear saying, “I just wanted you to know that I love you.”  Instead of the whistle being an ominous sound, the whistle could have been a song of promise.  That’s what today’s lessons offer to us:  a song of promise.  Sure, they may be jarring to the ear at first.  But when we really listen, we hear their promise in the depths of our souls – in places we bury when we bury ourselves in the ordinary.  Our invitation this Advent is to pay attention.  Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.  Amen.

[i] Isaiah 2.5

[ii] Psalm 122.6-9

[iii] Romans 13.12-13a

Sermon – Psalm 23, E4, YB, April 22, 2018

Tags

action, church, dying, funeral, God, Good Shepherd, goodness, life, living, promise, pslam, pursue, Sermon, shadow

Many years ago, I was planning the funeral of a longtime, beloved church member.  We had visited on multiple occasions, and I knew all the stories about her children, including the son who was no longer going to church.  We talked about Jesus and her faith walk, and I always looked forward to sassy, witty, heartfelt stories.  When I sat down with her children to plan her funeral, I had an idea of what I could expect.  As we chose the lessons for the funeral, I shared with them that many people appreciate hearing the 23^rd Psalm.  “Oh, no, we can’t do the 23^rd Psalm,” the family protested.  A bit taken aback, since the parishioner I knew would have loved the psalm, they explained to me what had happened in her last days.  Her daughter had been comforting her one afternoon and decided to start reading scripture with her mom.  She started with the 23^rd Psalm, and the mother snapped at her, saying, “Don’t read that one!  I’m not dead yet!”

Every year, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, we hear the 23^rd Psalm.  Though many of us are more familiar with the King James Version, the words of Psalm 23 are words that are familiar even to those who do not attend church regularly.  Whether we have heard the psalm at a funeral, or read the psalm at someone’s deathbed, or seen the psalm on someone’s wall, the 23^rd Psalm is one of the most well-known psalms in our culture.  Even in surveys, when asked about their favorite piece of scripture in times of trouble, many respondents name Psalm 23.[i]

In some respect, this familiarity and preference is a blessing and something to be celebrated.  But in other ways, this familiarity can be a tremendous hindrance to hearing these sacred words with fresh ears.  For example, most of us hear the psalm’s words as words of comfort for the dying.  We hear the words, “the valley of the shadow of death,” and we assume the whole psalm is about death.  Lying down in green pastures, remaining by still waters, gathering at a table, and having goodness and mercy follow us all sound like end of life images.  We envision the peaceful, beautiful resting place, gathered around the heavenly banquet table, and we take home the promise that no matter what happens in life, at least the ending will be a place of respite and relief.  And in some ways, that is true.  But I am not sure that is what this psalm is ultimately about; this is a psalm not about death, but about life.

The 23^rd Psalm is a psalm on the move.[ii]  Throughout the psalm, we hear the activity of life.  Those green pastures we are going to lie down in are the places where we will find rest after a long day.  Those still waters are the sources of water we will need to drink in this earthly life.  Those righteous pathways we will be on are the paths of ethical living, those paths where we will seek and serve Christ, loving our neighbor as ourselves.  That rod and staff that will comfort us because those are God’s tools that will push and pull us toward our vocations and the purposes God gives us.  The dwelling we do in the house of the Lord is not the eternal dwelling place, but the earthly church where we find renewal for the journey.  That valley of the shadow of death is not the valley of death, but those shadowy places in our lives where we are reminded of the darkness of death:  times of illness, divorce, unemployment, loneliness.  The 23^rd Psalm is not ultimately about a promise in death, but about the promise we are given in life – the promise of refreshment, restoration, reinvigoration for the journey of life.

This winter Charlie and I attended a training on church development.  One of the first images from the presentation was that of a base camp on a mountain.  We talked about the purpose of a base camp – what people need from and do at a base camp.  Ideas included rest, refreshment, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  No one mentioned making a permanent home or using base camp as a place of escape.  Our instructor then asked us how a base camp is similar to Church.  We began to talk about how Church does the same thing – is a place of refreshment, rest, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  Church is not a place to escape the real world or to hide away from hurt and pain.  Instead, Church is the place where we refill our tanks so that we can go out into the world – gathering the strength we need for the journey.  Church is not the house of the Lord where we will dwell forever.  In fact, that translation, “to dwell” is not helpful.  The word in Hebrew that is translated as “dwell” is better translated as “return.”[iii]  So instead of talking about a place where we will hide out from the world or imagining the heavenly kingdom where we will dwell, the psalmist is talking about the place we will keep returning – the base camp, the Church, where we will keep returning for strength so that we can get back into the world doing the activity of discipleship – the life where we will rest, drink, walk, be righteous, commune, and serve.[iv]

So just in case I have ruined Psalm 23 for you forever, making the psalm feel more like a psalm of work and labor as opposed to a psalm for rest and relief, have no fear.  There is one more line that similarly gets mistranslated which may open this text for you in another way.  In verse six, the psalmist says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”  Again, understanding the original Hebrew is helpful.  The word translated as “follow” is better translated as “pursue” or “chase down,”  Goodness and mercy shall chase me down all the days of my life.[v]  Shifting that word does a similar thing as the rest of the verbs in this text.  When goodness and mercy follow us, we often think of hindsight.  Bad things happen to us, but when we look back, we will see goodness and mercy came out of the bad things.  But the psalmist says something more powerful than that.  The psalmist says that goodness and mercy will pursue us – will hunt us down and knock us over with their power.  We will feel threatened by that valley of the shadow of death, or we will worry about places to lie or drink or walk.  But the psalmist tells us those worries are futile because even in the midst of those stresses, God’s goodness and mercy is constantly seeking to bowl us over.

Scholar Gary Simpson says this about God’s goodness, “The goodness of God is in every place before we ever arrive at any particular place.  The good things that happen to us along life’s journey do not happen because we have arrived.  God’s goodness has already been where we are planning to go.  The goodness of God is so present that every direction that we turn to look, wherever we are, we bump into goodness again.  It is perhaps egocentric and arrogant to think that goodness follows us.  The goodness of God goes ahead of us, clearing out new ground, pulling us to new terrain, lighting a pathway in the dark places of new possibility, opening doors that no one can shut.”[vi]

I think that parishioner resisted hearing the 23^rd Psalm in her last days of life because like many of us, she had trapped the psalm in the land of the dying.  But the 23^rd Psalm is a psalm for the land of the living – a psalm that commissions us to continue our work of discipleship, to move out into the world with the promise of the essentials we will need, to keep returning to God’s house for sustenance and refueling, and to remember that no matter what we face, God’s goodness is already there, chasing us down.  On this Good Shepherd Sunday, perhaps you were hoping to hear a few words of comfort, longing to dwell in this house for longer than an hour today.  But today, that Good Shepherd is prodding you with a staff, filling up your tank so that you can go out into the world, serving as God’s disciple in all the green pastures and right paths where God leads.  You can do your work because no matter how much those shadows linger, God’s goodness will chase you down – all the days of your life.  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” March 30, 2014, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2004 as found on April 19, 2018.

[ii] Joel LeMon, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” April 25, 2015, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3646 on April 19, 2018.

[iii] LeMon.

[iv] Cameron B.R. Howard, “#602 – Fourth Sunday of Easter,” April 14, 2018, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1008 on April 17, 2018.

[v] Gary V. Simpson “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 438.

[vi] Simpson, 440.

Sermon – Genesis 18.1-1, 21-1-7, P6, YA, June 18, 2017

Tags

Abraham, anger, conversation, doubt, dream, faith, frustration, God, honor, lack of faith, laugh, laughter, promise, Sarah, Sermon, share, transform

Today we get one of my favorite stories in scripture – Sarah’s laughter at God’s promise.  The story is perfectly crafted.  The story with a flurry of activity.  Abraham is sitting in his tent in the heat of the day when three guests suddenly appear.  As soon as Abraham sees them, he runs to greet them, begging them to stay.  Then Abraham sends the entire household into a tizzy.  He barks orders about baking cakes, grabs a calf and commands the calf be prepared for the guests.  He gets curds and milk and rushes to plate the feast for the guests.  We can almost imagine Abraham panting as he finally delivers the meals to the guests.

But then the story comes to a screeching halt, with a question that tells us what is really important.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?”  And slowly, the promise of a child to a barren, post-menopausal woman unfolds.  Abraham and Sarah were promised long ago to be the parents of a great nation.  But Sarah had given up on that dream.  She had already asked Abraham to go to her slave-girl and have a child with Hagar as a representative child for her.  Her action with Hagar had been a desperate move, but what else could she have done?  So when this guest, or God, as the text later tells us, says that Sarah will conceive herself, after years of longing, hoping, feeling devastated and powerless, Sarah does what we all might do.  She laughs.  She laughs at the prospect of pleasure in her marriage when she and Abraham are so advanced in age.  She laughs at the impossibility that their pleasure might lead to progeny.  She laughs at the promise because believing the promise would mean opening herself up to unfilled dreams yet again.

Sarah’s laughter has long been used as a criticism for a lack of faith in God.  When God asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” and when Sarah quickly denies her laughter, countless readers have wagged their fingers at Sarah as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith.”  And I can see how we get there.  The exchange between Sarah and God – the laughter that bubbles out from years of hurt and disappointment, the scolding by God, the attempt to lie to cover up embarrassment, and the scolding yet again when God calls Sarah on her dishonesty – is all too familiar to us.  What the accusation of lacking faith forgets is how terribly vulnerable and resigned Sarah is.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have counseled who at the end of second marriage have begun to doubt God’s presence.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have sat with after receiving a bad diagnosis for themselves or their loved one who has begun to whether God has abandoned them.  I cannot tell you the number of people have received yet another rejection letter who have begun to question God’s call on their life.  When Sarah laughs, I do not feel justification for judgment against her level of faith.  When Sarah laughs, I hear the ache of countless believers who know how ludicrous God’s promises can be.

What gets me about the judgment of Sarah is the short memory of scripture readers.  In the chapter before what we heard today, Abraham is given the same promise that Sarah hears – a child by Sarah.  And his reaction?  He does not simply laugh quietly to himself as Sarah does in that tent.  He falls on his face and laughs full-bodied at God.  The only difference in laughter between Abraham and Sarah is that Abraham laughs in front of God where Sarah tries to hide her laughter.  Both are an acknowledgement of doubt about what God can do.  Both take all their disappointment, pain, and hurt, and dissolve into laughter because, quite frankly, sometimes God is laughable.  Sometimes God makes no sense at all, and laughing is the only release and protection from more hurt.  Humans questioning God is a natural part of a genuine God-human conversation, a conventional motif we see throughout the Old Testament.[i]

This week, I stumbled on an Old Testament scholar, Kathryn Shifferdecker, who suggests that God may not be a God of judgment in this passage.  In fact, she sees God as fully understanding the comedy of the situation.  She sees a God with a sense of humor, who when God says, “Oh yes you did laugh,” says so with a twinkle in his eye.[ii]  The theory totally shifted the reading for me.  Suddenly the pieces all fit together.  Instead of an angry or disappointed God, who judges disbelief, our God is a God who understands that God’s promises are sometimes laughable – even if they are true.  Why else would God tell Abraham to name his son Isaac, which means, “he laughs,” in Hebrew?[iii]  As Schifferdecker explains, “Abraham falls on his face in a fit of laughter.  Sarah laughs behind the tent door.  And the LORD (I believe) laughs with them at the divine, wonderful absurdity of it all.  Given the humor of the scene under the oaks of Mamre, and the comedy of a God who acts in unexpected ways to fulfill God’s promises, it is entirely appropriate that the child of the promise should be named ‘Laughter.’”[iv]

The image of the three of them laughing – Sarah, Abraham, and God, makes a lot of sense once we hear the final words of Sarah.  In chapter 21, Sarah, perhaps initially embarrassed or doubtful of God, now says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.”  This story is not a story of shame for those of us who struggle with doubt, anger, or frustration with God.  This is not a story of an unfaithful follower of God.  This is a story about a woman and a man who look at the absurdity of God’s promise with the fullness of their humanity and laugh – hard, belly-shaking, on-the-floor laughter that only comes when the divine finally breaks through our disappointment, shame, and anger, and brings us to laughter.

I love this story even more as I think about the trinity of Abraham, Sarah, and God laughing.  Their laughter affirms our own incredulous walks with God.  Their laughter takes those moments when we no long trust God’s promises, and transforms them.  No longer do we need to hide away our deepest doubts, but instead we honor them.  We share them.  And we create communities of laughter with them.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, vol. I (Abingdon Press, 1994), 465.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7],” June 18, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3301 on June 14, 2017.

[iii] Tamara Cohn Eshkenazi, ed., The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary, (Women of Reform Judaism URJ Press, 2008), 97.

[iv] Schifferdecker.

On Life, Death, and the In-Between…

Tags

birth, death, gift, God, joy, life, promise, thin space, Trinity, vocation

At the hospital where I delivered my second child, they had a practice of allowing the spouse or supporting person of the mother push a button that would play a tinkling song throughout the hospital marking the birth of a child.  The practice has many wonderful implications.  One, it makes room for joy – joy that can be experienced throughout the whole hospital community.  For those of you who have spent much time in hospitals, you know joy can be lacking.  Two, it creates a sense of mutuality between the birthing mother and her support team.  When the mom is doing most of the hard labor, it is nice to have tangible ways for the supporting team to participate.  Three, it creates little moments of celebration for the hospital staff – something they need too when bogged down with the work of health care.

But what felt like a wonderful, life-giving gift as I was delivering has taken on new layers of meaning as a pastor who visits hospitals.  More often than not, I have heard that song played while sitting with someone with a serious illness or who is approaching death.  The sense of irony about the circle of life is never lost on me, the patient, or their family.  It still feels like a gift, but a bittersweet one nonetheless.  I have also wondered what that song does for women and men in the hospital who have struggled with infertility or who have just lost a child.  That song represents so many unfulfilled dreams and heartache.

That being said, I do not think the disadvantages of the song outnumber the advantages.  I think the song actually does for everyday people what those in healthcare and pastoral care experience everyday – the thin spaces between life and death.  I cannot tell you the number of times when I have experienced life and death in a matter of days, hours, or minutes.  I have written about that here.  In a given week, I can hear the tinkling song while I sit at the bedside of a dying parishioner.  In a given day, I can hear elementary children playing and laughing, and then sit with a family member who needs a good cry.  In a given span of hours, I can bury a parishioner and then counsel a parishioner who is burying a marriage, birthing new love, or celebrating a new beginning.  This work is such that life and death are thinly separated.

The consequence of that thin space is that I get regular reminders of the enormity of God’s presence.  If I find the experience of celebrating life and watching life pass away in a matter of minutes, how much more infinitely does God experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in the human experience.  The God who created us and the world about us and called it good, and yet stood by as we sullied that creation has seen much.  The God who took on human form to experience for God’s self the complexity of the human experience knows much.  The God who breathes through life, death, and vocation in between feels much.  As we celebrate Trinity Sunday this weekend, I wonder how your appreciation of the three-in-one Godhead might help you appreciate both the promise that God is with us always, but also help you name God with us always for others.

Photo credit:  https://www.everydayfamily.com/blog/worlds-oldest-new-father/

Sermon – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 28, 2017

Tags

ambiguity, Ascension, church, community, disciples, discomfort, God, Jesus, Kingdom, liminal, Pentecost, pray, promise, Sermon, Spirit, together, wait, waiting

We do it all the time:  waiting.  Waiting is perhaps one of the cruelest experiences of life.  Waiting for the test results that will tell us whether or not we have cancer.  Waiting for a call back after interviewing for our dream job.  Waiting all summer long after graduating high school before we can start new life in college.  The trouble with waiting is that we can feel lost – we are between two realities – the one we know and the one that is to come.  In some ways, simply by finding out we need the test, by applying for the job, or by making the deposit at college, life can never be the same.  Something is changed in our lives by stepping into the unknown.  And yet, we do not have the answer, we have not started the job, and school has not begun.  We are not the new person we know we will be.  We are in-between, in limbo, in no-man’s land.

Scholars call this in-between time liminal time.[i]  Liminal time is the time in which we are in the middle of a transition.  Native cultures experienced liminal time most famously in the journey to adulthood.  When young men or young women reached a certain age and maturity, they were sent away from their families and out into the wilderness for a time.  When their time in the wilderness was done, they returned with full adult status, respect, and responsibility.  They leave a child and return a man or a woman.  Liminal time is that time in the wilderness – where they are no longer children, and not yet adults.  Their identity is in flux, their purpose is ambiguous, and their life is on pause.  Liminal time is a time fraught with anxiety, frustration, and confusion.  Liminal time is a time when things are happening to you, and you have no agency.  Moments of liminality are some of the hardest moments in life.  The comfort of what has been and promise of what is to come is rarely soothing.  All that is left is ambiguity.

That kind of transition is where we find our disciples today.  They have spent forty glorious days feeling the victory of Christ’s resurrection, being blessed with further teachings, and being comforted by Christ’s presence.  They are ready.  They confidently ask Jesus today, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”  This has to finally be the time!  Jesus’ answer is anything but satisfying.  Jesus makes a promise – that they will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon them, and they will be empowered to do their work of witnessing.  But for now, at this moment of climax, confidence, and courage, Jesus says, quite simply, “Wait.”

The trouble is that when the disciples ask that final question to Jesus, expecting to hear when Jesus will restore the kingdom of Israel, and effectively assume his place on the earthly throne, initiating the reign of the kingdom of God, the answer they get is a bit different.  As N.T. Wright explains, they are asking when “Israel will be exalted as the top nation, with the nations of the world being subject to God through his vindicated people.”  In one sense, that vindication already happened in the death and resurrection of Jesus.  In another sense, we are still waiting for the “time when the whole world is visibly and clearly living under God’s just and healing rule.”  Jesus is not a future king, but the one who has already been appointed and enthroned.  What the disciples are waiting for now is the empowering of the Spirit to go witness this reality.[ii]  The disciples find they are going to have to wait, but what they are waiting for has shifted dramatically.  Their waiting will be fraught with even more ambiguity than expected.

That’s the funny thing about waiting.  Not only do you find all the discomfort that comes from liminal time – the stripping of identity which leaves you naked for a time before you don your new armor.  But also, we all know that in waiting unexpected things happen.  Like the disciples who may have expected one thing to come at the end of their waiting, only to realize something quite different is coming, we too learn that reality shifts while waiting.  Things we thought would matter when we were done waiting stop mattering.  Truths we held to be unshakeable get shaken up while waiting.  Once unappreciated certainties and clarity become longed for realities when we wait.

So what are we to do?  What are we to do in our periods of waiting, in our liminal times?  Karl Barth called the waiting between the Ascension and Pentecost, the days we are experiencing now, the “significant pause…a pause in which the church’s task is to wait and pray.”[iii]  Now, I know what you are thinking.  That’s all you’ve got?  I should wait and pray?  Telling us to wait and pray seems like a classic platitude, what we say to someone who is hurting in ambiguity, and we have no real solace to offer.  Will Willimon explains, “Waiting, an onerous burden for us computerized and technically impatient moderns who live in an age of instant everything, is one of the tough tasks of the church.  Our waiting implies that the things which need doing in the world are beyond our ability to accomplish solely by our own effort, our programs and crusades.  Some other empowerment is needed, therefore the church waits and prays.”[iv]  For the disciples, their waiting is not empty-handed.  Though Jesus has left them, Jesus has left them to sit at the right hand of God.  There is confidence in that knowledge about Jesus.  And though they are facing the “significant pause,” the promise of the empowering Spirit is a promise of hope, empowerment, and companionship.  So their waiting and prayer is not for personal comfort during this time of ambiguity, but for empowerment to be obedient.  They are praying because they know that the coming work of witnessing will be hard work.  Instead of praying out of self-pity, they are praying out of determined expectation.

Perhaps that is why they stay together and pray.  By going to that upper room together, the disciples teach us that community is central to the life of the church and to the practice of prayer – is central to helping us get through those times of waiting.  Like the disciples, “we need each other’s witness and support, challenge and care, in order to live into the possibilities and expectations of God’s realm.”[v]  Now for those of you who have waited for the diagnosis, call back from the potential employer, or start date of college, you know that waiting and praying in community can be hard.  Answering for the fortieth time, “Any news yet?” can be as torturous as your own longing for answers or change.  Perhaps that is why some cultures spend their liminal time alone – so they can avoid all of that communal pressure.  But that is not what the disciples do.  They see this liminal time as a time for all of them – not even just the eleven left, but also the women and others gathered.  If they are going to have to face this significant pause, full of uncertainty and change, they will pray and wait together.

That is our invitation today too – to pray and wait together.  You may not be facing an obvious period of liminal time.  You may not even feel as though you are waiting for something.  But the reality is that we are all waiting.  As David Lose reminds us, “We have no idea of what the remainder of 2017 will bring, let alone 2018.  There will be accomplishments and setbacks, victories and defeats, joys and sorrows, triumphs and tragedies on a personal, communal, national, and global scale.  And in all these things, God will be with us, comforting, celebrating with, strengthening, and accompanying us in and amid whatever may come.  And God will also be preparing us, preparing us to be God’s emissaries of good news, preparing us to comfort others, preparing us to work for peace, preparing us to live with less fear and more generosity, preparing us to look out for the rights of others, preparing us to strive for a more just community and world.”[vi]  I do not know about you, but I would much rather face that ambiguity with a community who can remind me of God’s promise and helping me see the work of the Spirit.  That is what we do when we pray and wait together.  Our invitation is accept the gift of this community, and to wait and pray with together.

[i] Liminal time is a concept that has been developed by many scholars.  Arnold van Gennep, Victor W. Turner, and Gordon Lathrop all developed the idea of incorporating liminal time into liturgical practice.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Acts for Everyone, Part 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 9-10.

[iii] William H. Willimon, Acts, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta:  John Knox Press, 1988), 20.

[iv] Willimon, 21.

[v] Randle R. Mixon, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 524.

[vi] David Lose, “Easter 7A:  Important Interludes,” May 25, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/05/easter-7-a-important-interludes/ on May 26, 2017.

Sermon – John 14.15-21, E6, YA, May 21, 2017

Tags

abide, Advocate, Bible Study, hard, Holy Spirit, Jesus, love, Paraclete, promise, relationship, separation, Sermon, sin, work

If you could have any person, living or dead, over for dinner, who would it be?  We have all played the game.  Either you were asked the question at a job interview, you used the question as part of an icebreaker, or you shared the question at the family dinner table as a conversation starter.  The answers are always telling – some would like to have dinner with their favorite celebrity or sports hero; some would love to talk to a famous figure in history, like Martin Luther King, Jr. or Abraham Lincoln; while others would want to have dinner one more time with a loved one who has died.  Invariably, though, someone will give the answer we all get to eventually.  If we could have dinner with any person, dead or alive, we would want to have dinner with Jesus.  We could finally ask Jesus all the answers to our questions!  We could ask Jesus what that one parable means that we can never figure out.  We could ask Jesus what death and eternal life are like.  We could ask Jesus why things are the way they are today and what he plans on doing about them!  The options are endless and the gift of that time with Jesus seems like the gift a magic decoder ring for life.

Except, I am not sure that dinner with Jesus is the best answer to that age-old question about dinner guests.  If you remember, Jesus was not always the easiest to understand.[i]  Think about all those parables that no one understood.  Think about all those times Jesus said something to the disciples that they could not comprehend.  Think about all those times that Jesus was challenged by Pharisees, foreigners, and faithful alike, only to get cryptic, unexpected answers.  Though we like to think we would have understood better than all of those, I suspect that even a modern-day dinner with Jesus would leave us with way more questions than answers.

That’s why I love our gospel passage today.  Jesus is preparing to leave his beloved disciples.  He has gathered them for a last meal, has washed their feet, and is sharing with them all his last instructions and words of wisdom.  The anxiety of his disciples is rising as they start to piece together how Jesus is giving what we now call his “Farewell Address.”  To those anxious, confused, uncertain disciples, Jesus offers a promise.  Jesus says, “I will not leave you orphaned.”  Instead, Jesus will send the Advocate.  Actually, he says, God will send, “another Advocate, to be with you forever.”  The first Advocate is Jesus himself.[ii]  Unlike Jesus, who is limited by time and space, the next Advocate will be with us forever.  The text tells us that the Advocate will abide in us – will actually be in us.  That word, “Advocate,” is alternatively translated as “counselor, comforter, helper, mediator, or broker.”[iii]  The word in Greek is Parakletos or Paraclete, which literally means “to call alongside.”  This Holy Spirit, this second Advocate, is the one who is called to be alongside us.[iv]

In just a couple of weeks we will celebrate the fulfillment of Jesus’ promise today.  The celebration of Pentecost is a significant feast for us because what Jesus promises in his Farewell Address finally comes to fruition.  Not only does the Spirit fill for us a spiritual need, the Spirit also fills for us a practical need.  You see, throughout his final instructions, through both word and deed, Jesus gives the disciples one final instruction – to love.  Jesus wants his followers to embrace, “not an abstract philosophical concept, but the lived reality revealed in the life, relationships, and actions of a simple Nazarene who looks and talks like them and lives simply among them.”[v]

This past week, our Tuesday night Bible Study group invited a Bible Study group from New Zion Baptist Church to join us for a mutual Bible Study.  After having talked quite a lot about race relations here at Hickory Neck, and having watched our country struggle with race, our Bible Study group decided the best thing they could do was to start building relationships with people of color.  Intentionally or not, the group selected 1 Corinthians 13 as their text for study.  Most of you who have been to a wedding will know this text by heart.  “Love is patient, love is kind…”  On and on we hear Paul talk about the characteristics of love – how love is not envious, boastful, or rude; how love does not insist on its own way, and is not irritable or resentful.”  Just like with a wedding, on the surface, the text was quite romantic for what we were trying to do – talk about loving each other and how we could do that as two different communities.  But what we realized as we studied and reflected on the text is the more we talked about love, the less romantic love felt.  Quite the opposite, we realized the love we Christians are called into is hard work.  We talked about how hard being patient and kind are.  We talked about how hard not being irritable or resentful can be, and how often we insist on our own way.  What seemed like a simple text for a simple gathering – an interracial Bible Study on love, suddenly felt anything but simple.  As we shared our stories, we realized not only did we have a massive amount of work to do on ourselves, we would also have a massive amount of work to do if we were even going to attempt to love each other.

That is why Jesus’ promise today, the promise of the one who comes alongside of us, is so incredibly powerful.  Because if the disciples recall the ways that Jesus feeds the hungry, touches lepers, heals the sick, speaks and acts with care and regard toward women, shows compassion and fiercely protests against injustice,[vi] and then realize that Jesus wants them to do the same in his absence, they could indeed become overwhelmed.  They cannot even seem to get through Jesus’ farewell address without one disciple departing to betray him, and the promise of another disciple who will deny him.  How in the world will they manage to master the simple and yet enormous work of love?!?

Toward the end of our Bible Study, as we became more and more sober about the enormity and humbling nature of living a life of love, someone finally stood up and said something quite simple.  He confessed he did not have any answers and perhaps was not sure he could do what Jesus would want for us.  But what he would do is go and have coffee with anyone who was willing.  That’s all.  Coffee.  It was a simple offer, and maybe seemed like nothing on the surface.  But that offer of coffee was profound.  In that offer was an unspoken confession of sin and separation, and a commitment to turn toward love and relationship.  After over an hour of talking about love, that offer of coffee was a commitment to not just talk about love, but to act on love.

I believe the ability of that parishioner to offer coffee came because the Paraclete, the Advocate, the Spirit was abiding in him.  Jesus had not left him an orphan.  Jesus sent another Advocate who empowered him to be an agent of love.  That is the power of the gospel today.  We will never likely get that dinner with Jesus, even though I am not convinced that dinner would help us anyway.  But we do get dinner with the Spirit – everyday, offering us God’s presence and spirit of truth, empowering us to be agents of love.  We get a dinner with our Advocate, who invites us to pull up another chair, so that we can share that love with our neighbor – one coffee at a time.  Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 63.

[ii] Linda Lee Clader, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 491.

[iii] Larry D. Bouchard, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 492.

[iv] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 191.

[v] Nancy J. Ramsay, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 492.

[vi] Ramsay, 492.

Sermon – 1 Samuel 15.34-16.13, P6, YB, June 14, 2015

Tags

call, David, failure, fear, God, grief, grieve, journeying, leaders, plan, promise, Samuel, Saul, Sermon, tenderness

Talking about politics in the pulpit is always dangerous business.  I rarely do because I know that one mention of something political can be so distracting that I lose your attention for the rest of the sermon.  So I am going to ask you to hang in there with me because I think our secular world can teach us something about our sacred world today.  Back in 2008, a young man named Barack Obama was running for president.  Though many of us had no interest in his candidacy, some people saw a sense of hope and the possibility of a change that might bring about a new era of progress.  He even won a Nobel Peace Prize before completing one year in office.  But as time rolled on, many of his enthusiastic supporters began to be frustrated.  The hope they had seen seemed to fade away.  I remember I spoke with someone about this sense of lost hope, and the person confessed, “The problem is that people were treating Obama like he was the next Messiah.  He’s not.  No one is.  We have one Messiah, and we killed him on a cross many years ago.”

In our scripture lessons last week, God warned the people of Israel through Samuel that electing a king would involve such a challenge.  A human king could never give them all that they dreamed about having.  A human could never be God.  Having been fairly warned, the people insisted on having king anyway, and were given Saul.  For a while, things were okay.  Saul seemed to thrive and make progress for the people.  But Saul got cocky.  He overstepped his bounds, and he stopped following God’s instructions.  Finally, Saul made one fatal mistake that cost him his anointed kingship.  He had been instructed to completely destroy the Amalekites and all that they had.  But Saul saved some of the best of the spoils of war – animals, valuable trinkets, even the rival king.  This was the last straw for God, and Saul’s rule was over in God’s eyes.  In today’s lesson we find Samuel grieving over Saul and God being sorry that God had made Saul king of Israel.

We are no stranger to this sort of grieving in the church.  We have watched bishops leave the Episcopal Church in protest of decisions made at General Convention – taking many priests and parishioners with them.  We have watched priests who were seemingly amazing leaders ruin careers and parishes with romantic affairs or financial indiscretions.  Even in our own parish, less than ten years ago, we went through a period of grief when our relationship with our priest required us to dissolve the pastoral relationship, ending for some what had been a meaningful relationship, and for others had been a fraught relationship.  Like Samuel, we grieved that relationship – in fact, many of us still do.  I have heard story after story of grief and guilt about that time.  Some members of the Search Committee who helped select that priest feel as though they did a faithful job in selecting the priest for this parish; but in hindsight, they wonder.  Some leaders of our Vestry feel as though they bent over backwards to accommodate and help our priest thrive as much as possible, but they mourn the way history unfolded and they still feel the scars of that turbulent time.  And some leaders in our parish were so upset by the final decision that their grief drove them out of the church, never to return.

Although Samuel grieves Saul’s demise, God does not allow that grief to be the end of the story.[i]  God sees hope and promise in a way that Samuel cannot.  Seeing that Samuel is not going to be able to move on and do the work God needs Samuel to do, God steps in and guides Samuel into a new future.  Samuel struggles to take those first steps.  When God tells Samuel to get up and go to anoint another king, Samuel is terrified.  He knows that Saul is a vicious king, and will kill Samuel if he finds out.  But God makes a way, creating a “cover story” of sorts to encourage Samuel.  Later, when Samuel meets the eldest son of Jesse, Samuel is certain the eldest will be the next king.  But God has to keep guiding Samuel to the true king – the unexpected youngest son, David.  When Samuel is weak, God is strong – nudging and guiding Samuel into new life.

What I love about this part of Samuel’s story is the way that the story reminds us that God does not call people and merely wish them well and send them on their way.  God empowers those who are called to accomplish what they are called to do.  God walks with them, corrects them, forgives them, protects them, and keeps directing them to see what God sees.[ii]  God is not a passive god, but a “passionate, fully engaged deity, willing to take risks and even expose vulnerability in order to continue the relationship with the people.”[iii]  We see that reality with Samuel, and later we will see that reality with David – who, if you remember, is no saint himself.  Though David becomes the ancestor of the Messiah, David has his flaws that God will journey through as well.

God has been journeying with St. Margaret’s in a similar way.  In our grief from a troubled relationship with our priest, God stepped in and pushed us forward.  God sent us other priests, but more importantly, God sent us new life.  New parishioners joined us, new ministries unfolded, and new life emerged.  God did not allow grief to have the final word.  God knew that there was life beyond our grief – and that life has been born in each of us, and has been renewed by each new person who has joined us in our journey since then.

I have heard this story from First Samuel many times.  Every time I read verse 16, when God says, “How long will you grieve over Saul?” I thought God was scolding Samuel.  I could almost imagine God rolling God’s eyes at Samuel, God’s tone being one of annoyance and exhaustion from Samuel’s lingering grief.  But as I read God’s words this week, and I thought about St. Margaret’s, I heard them with a bit more tenderness.[iv]  I think of the young teen looking over love letters and trinkets, mourning the loss of a romantic relationship.  I think of the man who visits the grave of his wife every week, wondering what is left of life.  I think of the mom whose fingers still rub the ultrasound picture of the baby who did not survive.  God knows the depths of that grief and, even in our passage today, we see that God grieves too.  But, when the time is right, God also saddles in beside us, and whispers ever so gently and kindly, “How long will you grieve?”  The question is not one of rebuke, but one of encouragement.  The question is followed up with some sort of promise for tomorrow.  For Samuel, God promised a new leader and a plan for how to find that leader.  For us, God promises something new too.  God asks us too, “How long will you grieve?  Because when you are ready, I have something tremendous in store.”

Our invitation this week is to ponder anew what that promise is for us.  Grief always has a  place – whether grief over the failure of a leader in our lives or the loss of something or someone dearly loved.  But God will not let grief have the last word.  When we are ready, God stands waiting – not only with new direction, but with a plan to help us.  Our task is to listen.  Our task is to discern the movement of the Spirit already alive and active in us, gently pulling us from our grieving rooms.  Our task is to acknowledge our fear and resistance, and to allow God to guide us anyway.  Grief will not have the last word.  A new promise awaits.  Amen.

[i] Cynthia L. Rigby “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Yr. B, Proper 6 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 1.

[ii] Rigby, 5.

[iii] Charles L. Aaron, Jr., “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Yr. B, Proper 6 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 2.

[iv] The various ways of hearing God’s words were introduced to me by Roger Nam, “Commentary on 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13,” June 14, 2015, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2473 on June 11, 2015.

Sermon – Isaiah 40.1-11, A2, YB, December 7, 2014

Tags

Advent, care, Christmas, church, community, God, Isaiah, preparation, prepare, promise, Sermon, the Lord, work

This sermon was delivered on the occasion of our Annual Meeting. 

This time of year, I do a lot of preparing.  Though the setup takes a lot of work, I particularly love preparing our house for Christmas.  Unpacking and hanging all the ornaments is a tradition I shared with my family, and that I now can share with my girls.  I love telling my oldest daughter the stories behind certain ornaments and helping her decide where they should go.  I also put out our international crèche collection.  They remind me of travels I have made or friends from far away places.  Each inspires something different in me, reflecting the culture and artistry of different countries.  And of course, my daughter loves helping me hide away the baby Jesuses until Christmas day.  We even take down some artwork on our wall to make room for the cards which friends from far and wide send to us.  There is something homey and comforting about the whole process of preparing for Christmas, and I love the way that the preparation makes me feel grounded and joyful.

In our Old Testament lesson today, the text says, “prepare the way of the LORD.”  In this season of Advent, we are to prepare for the arrival of the Christ Child.  Now certainly, unpacking ornaments, advent wreaths, and crèches are one way to prepare.  But God is talking about a different kind of preparation today.  God is not talking about an outward change – like decorating our homes.  God is talking about an inward preparation – an inward change in anticipation of the LORD.  I am reminded of how one of our parishioners just recently prepared himself for the LORD.  Several weeks ago, one of our young parishioners decided to receive his first communion.  He prepared by reading about the Eucharist at home with his family, asking questions, and talking with them about their experiences.  He worked on memorizing the Lord’s Prayer, so that he might fully participate in the prayer life of our community.  And then he sat with me as we walked through the Eucharistic liturgy, talking about what each part means, why that part is significant, and what all those crazy things on the altar are called.  Finally, he chose someone to present him before the entire community, where he and we all declared that he was prepared to be in full communion with this community.  He waited and worked to prepare himself for the consumption of our LORD.  And now, each week that I have placed the body of Christ in his hand since then, I have felt a sweet, deeply abiding satisfaction when he reaches his hands toward me to receive Christ’s body.

The kind of preparation that our young parishioner did is a small taste of the kind of preparation God calls for in our Old Testament today.  Isaiah says that in order to prepare, we need to make straight in the desert a highway for our God, lift up every valley, make low every mountain and hill, level the uneven ground, and make plain the rough places.  This passage is so familiar to us, that many of us miss the magnitude of what God is saying.  When was the last time you tried to fill in a valley or level a mountain?  Of course, God is not telling us to literally take the winding roads of deserts and make them straight.  But in the metaphors, God is telling us that preparing for God is not easy work.  In fact, preparing for the LORD is a monumental task.  Preparing for the LORD is not like preparing our homes for Christmas, where we can make a basic checklist and slowly check the items off the list.  When given the hefty work of preparing ourselves inwardly for God, the task of leveling our valleys and mountains and smoothing out our rough places is much more difficult.

In some ways, I have watched St. Margaret’s do a lot of this interior work.  Over the course of the last year, our Vestry and Buildings and Grounds Committee have made level the mess that had become our Undercroft.  Though taking on an expensive project, they together worked to clean out harmful mold and mildew, solved a drainage problem to prevent that kind of damage again, and reimagined how that space could be utilized by us and our community.  Meanwhile, our educational offerings have been totally made low in this last year.  We revamped our Sunday School program after years of struggling to find the best way to raise our children in the faith.  We reworked our worship schedule so that adults could claim an hour in their busy lives to ponder their faith and make straight paths in the desert.  We have filled in the valleys by marching in parades, sponsoring baseball teams, eating pancakes at local diners, and inviting total strangers into our midst so that they might help us fill in those valleys.  Of course, anyone who knows St. Margaret’s also knows that you are only a stranger here for about one Sunday before our wonderfully welcoming community has made sure they know your whole life story before your coffee cup is empty.

All of those have been wonderfully positive things in our lives, but not easy work.  I cannot tell you the number of people who worried and fretted over our Undercroft expenses, complained about how long the work was taking, and questioned the wisdom of the work.  I cannot tell you the number of times I myself considered whether we should halt educational offerings altogether due to low turnout.  I cannot tell you how many times I needed each one of us to invite someone to church and instead heard someone say, “Oh, well isn’t that what our new website is for?”  We have been making progress toward straightening paths, filling in valleys, and leveling mountains.  But we have also gotten very dirty, been impatient and frustrated with each other, and sometimes have dropped our shovels altogether.  That is what happens when you do this kind of preparation for the LORD.  The work is not easy.  The work is monumental.  The work is, well, work.  And work is what God is inviting us into today.

The good news is that today’s text is one of those “both-and” texts.[i]  Yes, God is inviting us into some hard work today.  As we reflect on another year of service, at the mounds of dirt we have already moved, God is charging us to roll up our sleeves and keep digging.  And yes, God promises that the work of preparing will not be easy work.  But God also makes a promise while we are in the mire of making roads straight.  Our text today from Isaiah says, “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.”  This last sentence has been lingering with me this week.  Maybe because I am a nursing mom, or maybe because this is the only time that scripture talks about the work of a mother sheep, but I find myself riveted by these words.

Just this week, I had one of “those” nights at our house.  I do not know whether she was teething or just had a rough day, but I lost count after the fifth time I woke up to my infant’s crying one night.  The next morning, I woke up bleary-eyed, almost falling asleep while eating my morning cereal, spilling my coffee on my computer, and generally having a rough time trying to focus.  That is the life of a mother with young children.  And I assume, the life of a mother sheep is not much easier – constantly using her body to protect and feed her lambs.  To that wearied mother sheep, God says that God will gently lead her.  In fact, not only that, God will gather up her lambs, embracing them in God’s bosom, and then God will gently lead the mother sheep.  I am reminded of the many times someone has scooped up my daughters when they were losing their cool.  I am reminded of the individuals who have forced me to go take a date night while they watched my kids.  I am reminded of the encouraging words and sympathetic nods I have received over these last five years.

That is the kind of care God promises us in the midst of our work.  God says, “Go out there and get dirty filling valleys, leveling mountains, and straitening roads.  And when you are weary from the work, I will scoop up your little ones, and gently lead you by my side.”  As I look forward to the coming year, I hear both a charge and a comfort for us today.  We all have more to learn, more people to serve, more spreading of the gospel to do.  But we also have a shepherd who tenderly encourages and comforts us – and then kicks us right back into the ring.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] George W. Stroup, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 28.

Sermon – Genesis 21.8-21, P7, YA, June 22, 2014

Tags

blessing, God, Hagar, hear, Ishmael, promise, relationship, see, Sermon, suffering, understand, wilderness

Alice sat on her bathroom floor crying.  The bathroom was the only place she felt like she could get a moment of privacy.  Her tears were the release she found for what felt like an impossible juncture.  Last summer things had been okay for Alice.  She was coping with her divorce, and managing to feed and care for her son on her own, despite the fact that her income from cleaning houses was so small.  She had managed to work out some government assistance that gave her enough cushion to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.  Life was not easy, but life could be a lot worse.

But during the last year, her world began to fall apart.  After a work injury, Alice could not clean houses for months.  Being self-employed meant she had no one to fill in at her houses.  After several months, her customers all got new help.  Because she was not working, her government assistance began to lower.  The assistance programs required that clients work to receive assistance.  Alice could not clean houses because of her injury, and she did not have enough education to qualify for any other type of work.  As the money became more and more scarce, Alice began to fear for her son.  Her son was looking thinner and more sickly each day.  He did not understand what was happening, and his deserved frustration and led her to the bathroom to cry.  Things had gone from bad to worse as Alice feared they would have no food, no home, or that she could lose her son.  All that was left to do was to cry:  to cry tears of sorrow, to cry out to God for mercy.

Hagar knows Alice’s tears.  We remember that Hagar is the handmaid for Sarah, Abraham’s wife, whom Sarah had given to Abraham to take as a wife because Sarah was infertile.  Hagar resented this action, and has already suffered a great deal, grappling with her powerlessness and lack over control over her most private, personal space.  Today the text brings us forward a few years in Hagar’s family.  Hagar’s son Ishmael is growing into a young boy, and Sarah has finally conceived her own son.  The birth of Isaac is a joyous occasion that all of the family celebrates.  But just as Hagar has begun to reclaim her personhood, Hagar suffers again.  Sarah sees Ishmael – the son that reminds her of her infertility, who will not represent the blessed line of Abraham – playing with Isaac – her own son, whom she proudly bore and who will mark the blessedness of Abraham’s line.  Sarah turns to Abraham and tells him to send Hagar and Ishmael away.  Although Abraham is crushed by the idea, God supports Sarah’s decision.  For Hagar, the world is against her.  We hear no words from Hagar as Abraham loads water and bread on her shoulders, gives her Ishmael, and sends her out into the wilderness.

Hagar wanders in the desolate wilderness until she runs out of water.  Looking at her son, whose death she imagines is immanent, Hagar puts him under the shade of a bush and walks away.  She walks away and cries out to God.  She cannot watch the death of her son.  Not after all she has been through.  She cries out to God as her last resort.

The tough part of this story is figuring out why this is happening.  Why would Sarah condemn Hagar and Ishmael to death by having them driven out into the wilderness?  Why would God agree with Sarah, especially when Ishmael’s birth was Abraham and Sarah’s choice in the first place?  Why does Abraham give up his first son so easily, without a word to Hagar?  The grief in this passage feels overwhelming, and we are left pointing angry fingers in multiple directions.

Hagar’s wilderness moment is familiar to us today.  We have those times when we feel like everyone is against us, including God.  The wildernesses of our lives are those desolate, lonely, dark places of wandering.  The wilderness is a scary, stark place of solitude that takes us to the depths of our finitude and forces us into encounters with God.  In the wilderness, we experience God in a way that we cannot not experience God elsewhere.  In the dry desert of suffering, which is scorching by day and frigid by night, with little water, we experience a sense of nakedness and vulnerability that we try to mask in our everyday lives.

Despite the darkness in the Genesis text today, there is also incredible hope for the suffering.  The last third of the text we hear today is filled with God’s action for the afflicted.  First, God hears Ishmael.  The text says “And God heard the voice of the boy.”  This word “to hear” is important on many levels.  In the original Hebrew, Ishmael’s name means “God will hear.”[i]  Already, Ishmael’s name – God will hear – comes to fruition.  God hears Ishmael.  Further, the word “to hear” in Hebrew, shamah, connotes more than physical hearing.  As we have talked about before, “to hear” in Hebrew also means “to understand.”  God understands how Ishmael and Hagar cry out.  God hears and understands their pain.

The second action we encounter at the end of this passage is God making a promise.  The angel of God speaks to Hagar about Ishmael saying, “I will make a great nation of him.”  We know from scripture that God does not make promises lightly with God’s people.  God fulfills God’s promises.  If God says that God will make a great nation of Ishmael, Hagar knows to believe God.  No matter how dire things seem, God makes a promise, and God does not disappoint.

The third action we encounter is that God opens Hagar’s eyes.  The text says that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.”  In the opening of Hagar’s eyes, God allows Hagar to perceive God’s presence and action in her suffering.  God lifts the blindness that suffering and desperation create.  God shows Hagar the gift of life that God provides in the well of water.  God’s gift is abundant, and God reveals the gift when Hagar cannot see.

The fourth and final action is that God is with Ishmael.  The text says, “God was with the boy.”  The verb “to be” is one of the most simple and basic of words.  When applied to God, “to be with” has great meaning.  The text says that in all Ishmael does, in all the experiences Ishmael has, in all that Ishmael’s journey entails, God is with him.  God does not abandon Ishmael.  God does not forget.  God is with him.

I am reminded of one of my favorite Gospel hymns.  The hymn is called “He’s an On Time God.”  The song talks about the ways that God always comes to our need just when we need God.  The refrain goes, “He may not come when you want Him, but He’ll be there right on time.  He’s an on-time God, oh yes He is.”  The song describes the Israelites who crossed the Red Sea just before the Sea collapsed on the Egyptians, the relief of Job’s suffering, and the feeding of the 5,000 by Jesus.  What I love about the song is the booming chorus of singers and the repeated affirmation that God is on time.  Of course, the theology of the song is a little trickier.  I think the song misses something by suggesting that God is not always with us.  But the song is on to something.  I might rephrase the refrain to be something like – suffering may not end when you want it, but you will realize God is with you in the suffering right on time.  In this way, God is an on-time God.

We may not understand God’s actions, or why we suffer, but God is with us.  Hagar is a great gift this week for reminding us about what our relationship with God is like.  Hagar reminds us that we have an active relationship with God.  Hagar shows us that we can cry out to God in our suffering.  Hagar demonstrates to us that God is not a far away god who is removed from our daily lives.  By crying out to God, we reveal our earthy, dynamic relationship with God.

Meanwhile, God’s actions toward Hagar show us that God has a reciprocal relationship with us.  God is active in our lives.  God hears us, understands us, and will act in our lives.  God is with us, all of the time, especially in our suffering.  When we enter into that relationship with God, crying out to God, we let go of notions of distance from God or personal control of our lives.  We allow God to open our eyes so that we can see God’s action in our lives.  By opening our eyes, God shows us the blessings God has for us.  God did not tell Hagar and does not tell us what our blessings will look like.  But there will be blessings.  God will open our eyes to reveal the bounty of blessing for us.  As we enter into that holy, vulnerable relationship with God, allowing our eyes to be opened, we see God’s blessings – right on time.  Amen.

[i] Gordon J. Wenham, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 2 (Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 88.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YA, December 24, 2013

Tags

birth, good, hope, identity, Jesus, Joseph, Mary, narrative, promise, story

How many of you know the story of your birth?  My mother tells me that I came three weeks late!  Doctors will not even let mothers go that late nowadays.  Even at three weeks late, my mom still had to be induced, have her water broken, and then eventually have a c-section.  My sister-in-law, on the other hand, came very early.  She was so early that she had to stay in the hospital for a very long time.  She had a long tough road, including having her brother give her chicken pox while she was in the NICU.  But eventually, she came home and grew into a healthy child.  There are countless other stories like this:  kids who came so fast that their mothers delivered in a car, kids delivered at home before even a midwife could arrive, or even kids being born on a plane.

We all have a birth story.  Some are more dramatic than others, but all are unique to us and usually our parents tell us the story year after year.  What is funny is that many would argue that our birth stories tell us a little about who we will become later in life.  My late birth and my refusal to come even when encouraged has led many people to insist that my stubbornness was obvious from a very early age.  My sister-in-law, who survived for months in the NICU proved to be a fighter for the rest of her life – determined to make her own way.  Some of the children born of exciting births tend to be adventurers or to be spontaneous and full of surprises.  I often wondered if the child born of a woman whose water broke during our prenatal yoga class ended up being very Zen-like in life.  Regardless of your story, my guess is that your family believes your birth story says something about who you are and how you behave.

Today we celebrate a particular person’s birth story.  Jesus’ birth story is another one of those exciting stories.  You can almost imagine how Jesus’ family recounted the details every year.  They knew Jesus was going to be trouble when Mary showed up pregnant while she and Joseph were betrothed.  They probably reminded him of how when the government crack-down happened, poor Mary had to travel with Joseph on that donkey while nine months pregnant all the way to Bethlehem to be registered.  Surely they told Jesus how when they finally survived that long journey, the town was so full that they had stay with the animals; Mary even gave birth to Jesus in a stable and he had to sleep in a manger!  To top that all off, these filthy shepherds came later than night ranting and raving about how angels had appeared to them and told them that Jesus was the Messiah.  I imagine the family laughed and laughed about that crazy night.  I also imagine his family kept a wary eye on him – such a dramatic start is usually a sign for more drama to come.

So if our birth stories say something about us, I wonder what Jesus’ family thought his birth story said about him.  First, they must have known that Jesus would be no stranger to scandal:  his conception was scandalous and he would continue to scandalize the faithful with his radical teachings and way of life.  Second, they could probably see that Jesus and the government would be in constant conflict.  That suspicion is immediately confirmed when his family has to flee to Egypt to avoid persecution.  We know that later Jesus would have many a run-in with leaders who do not like people calling Jesus a King.  Third, Jesus’ family probably imagined that Jesus would always be very grounded and a friend of the poor.  His birth was about as poor as you can get, including those first visitors, the poor, lowly shepherds.[i]  Finally, perhaps Jesus’ family believed that Jesus would inspire others.  The clues were many:  from his mother who ponders things in her heart, to shepherds who praise and glorify God for all they see and hear, to angels who come in multitudes with a glorious song.

Although we know how Jesus’ story ends, we do not really celebrate his entire life story today.  Instead, we celebrate his birth, and the hope that comes along with that celebration.  We celebrate the hope that, in fact, Jesus’ life will be so radically different, welcoming, and forgiving that we will be glad to call him our Messiah.  We celebrate the hope that Jesus really will be a different kind of King than our earthly kings.  We celebrate the hope that Jesus really will continue to be a friend to the poor – because that means that we all have the chance to be loved by Jesus, no matter what our lot in life.  And we celebrate the hope that Jesus will inspire us to greatness too.  Tonight we celebrate the hope and the promise of this Savior who begins life as we all do – a child born to a family who will retell his birth story over and over again.

But tonight we also celebrate our own birth stories and the promise that our own lives have.  No matter what your birth story is, those initial signs about identity can always be used for good.  That fighter for survival in childbirth might end up to be a fighter for others’ survival later in life.  That adventuresome baby’s birth might lead to a life of reaching out of one’s comfort zone to share the Good News with others.  Even that stubborn kid might find a way to push back when others tell her something is impossible.  Our birth stories might point to the types of people we will become, but we determine how those traits will be used.  God intends for all those traits – the Zen-like person and the person always in a rush – to be used for goodness.  Our invitation this Christmas is to consider how God is calling us to use our own birth story for goodness. The birth stories themselves can never change; but how they are interpreted, what we do with them, is always open for reinterpretation.  Amen.

---

[i] Charles M. Wood, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 118.