Edson United Church

Keeping Christmas

2009-12-30T13:06:00.000-08:00

Delivered Christmas Eve 2009

Luke 2:1-20

Well if you haven’t already done so, I would really encourage you to go and see Disney’s latest animated film, “A Christmas Carol” featuring Jim Carrey as the voice of Ebenezer Scrooge. This classic story takes on new life with all the wonder of Disney’s latest animation effects. I’m sure we are all familiar with this tale of a man who goes from being self centred and a genuine miser, to finding the true meaning of Christmas in his heart. Tonight this is very much at the heart of our worship on this eve to Christmas Day.

Someone asked me today, “If you had one wish and God could grant that wish, what would your wish be?” With our children that gets translated at this time of year into “What do you want for Christmas?” But if we could choose but one wish and have it granted, what might that wish be? Would it be something entirely frivolous? Would you really wish for something as mundane as that? Or would your wish be for a safer community, for a change of hearts among people? Would it be something profoundly life changing? Would it be for yourself? Would it be for a perfect stranger?

If you remember, Ebenezer Scrooge simply wished to be left alone. “Leave me to keep Christmas in my own way.” His wish would be to remain unchanged and to have the world remain unchanged around him. Despite the best efforts of his business associates raising funds for the poor, and even his nephew coming round to wish him a “Merry Christmas!” neither can dislodge Scrooge from his miserly bed. To the suffering poor he can only ask, “Are there no work houses? No prisons?” To his nephew who lives a very happy life, he can only snap, “You wishing me a Merry Christmas, and on your salary?” We know where Ebenezer’s heart lies.

What makes Ebenezer so genuine is that he’s a terribly wounded person. It’s not just that he’s a hurtful old man, but that he’s been deeply hurt. He’s truly lost what we might call his light. He loses his beloved sister as she gives birth to his nephew, the very nephew he resents because of her death. He loses the love of his betrothed after Ebenezer falls more deeply in love with money. One hurt begets another and we see the life of a truly unrepentant creature. He himself admits it’s a cold world and you need to be cold in order to survive. And it’s this lifetime of spite that brings Ebenezer to proclaim with every Christmas his own take on it all: “It’s a poor excuse to pick a man’s pocket every 25th of December. Bah, humbug.”

Something similar can happen to us at Christmastime. We’ve been pressed upon from all sides leading up to this night and to tomorrow. The children are anxiously waiting for Santa to arrive. Yours truly has to contend with trying to figure out the logistics of Santa’s arrival when his daughter wants to camp out by the tree tonight. I’ll be taking advice on how to handle this at the door as you leave this evening. We hurry about with last minute gift buying. People have travelled distances, endured weather, road conditions and line-ups to be here. And that doesn’t even begin to address the lovely family dynamics that kick in whenever family gathers together. On Sunday I said that when someone wishes you “Happy Holidays,” I think it might be more honest to say, “Harried Holidays.” For many of us this is what Christmas can sometimes be all about. Be honest, don’t you have this no-so-guilty wish: please, let it be over before it’s even begun.

It isn’t simply the pressure of the holidays. Like Ebenezer, we also know what this world can bring into our lives. It’s the hurts we endure. It’s the hurts we perpetuate. It’s the losing of intimacy in our most precious relationships. It can be ongoing problems with our health. It can be such a host of issues that we might simply decide it’s far better to begin creating a tight cold ball of anger, hurt and rage inside. For some, Ebenezer’s “Humbug” becomes the default philosophy to so much of life itself. Life is hard and a disappointment; get used to it.

And while you might think all this is a far cry from what Luke writes about in his gospel passage, it’s all there in the background. Mary and Joseph under the pressure of a pending birth, on the road, finding no place to rest and having to give birth to the child in a stable or barnyard. If that isn’t a recipe for some verbal sparring between two parents, I don’t know what is? It’s very much the real world in which they live, in an empire that pressures them to be on the road for reasons of business-as-usual: a census, and a registration, and behind that no doubt a coming tax hike on already stretched family budgets. Even more reason for a “humbug.”

But, Luke says, it’s into this world that someone is born for us, or as Isaiah puts it, “the people who have lived in darkness have seen a great light.” It’s into this world of empire and power, where emperors have names and statues, and shepherds do not, it’s into this world that God shines a new light. Angels come and the heavens open, and not to Caesar, but to shepherds. The saviour comes, not to the powers that be, but to the everyday people. People like us, people like Ebenezer Scrooge, people like Joseph and Mary. Luke says this is something that isn’t simply generated by good will alone. This is a gift given by God.

Indeed it requires something from beyond this world alone to shake old Scrooge loose from his miserly ways. It’s the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future who come to visit Scrooge on Christmas Eve. And it’s not that he simply loses his grip on his love for money. Ebenezer almost loses his grip on reality in order for an even greater reality to dawn upon him. And Ebenezer gets a glimpse of what his life is, and what it can still yet be. Even he is not beyond hope of change. And not just change for him alone, but a change that will help others greatly. He discovers that if he can begin to melt something of that cold heart, let go of some of that hurt and anguish, the life of a family and many others would benefit greatly.

That’s the sort of spiritual imagination we find ourselves caught up in on a night like tonight. Luke’s gospel, these images, our carols, and our prayers catch us up into a far greater vision for our lives and this world. Some might think it’s pie-in-the sky, some might see it as sentimental, but others might wish to find something hopeful in all of this. That such spiritual imagination might enter the life of the addict. That such a profound awakening might happen in the lives of a family member. That such a love might find the person out there tonight who’s keeping our police busy. That such a love might even change the world itself because so often laws and rules and regulations won’t ever simply do that alone. When we peer into the manger we have the opportunity to see ourselves not simply as we’ve become to this point in our life, but as we might yet become in our lives. Tonight the gospel “can help us to imagine how we might live differently, as human beings in whom the image of Jesus Christ is authentically seen.”

When I went to read a review of the Disney film, one parent criticized the film as being too dark and depressing. How sad, I thought: that even here in this story of genuine redemption, we want to sugar coat the truth for the sake of what the world considers appropriate. It’s this very darkness and honesty about being human that makes the story of Scrooge all the more worth telling with each year. Because into that all too real darkness a light shines, the various spirits of Christmas visit Scrooge in the cold heart of his home, and put before him a simple question: shall you continue to live like this and then die? Or will you allow the good news of Jesus’ birth to magnify God in your very soul this very night? If God could grant you one wish, just how would your life be truly different? Would it be any different whatsoever?

And indeed in that spiritual imagination, Ebenezer discovers he wants to live differently: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” And Ebenezer awakens Christmas Day a new man and as the story concludes, “a better person, as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh…His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.”

I have always taken great encouragement from the gospel story that indeed the birth of Jesus happens in that region where shepherds watched their flocks by night, and not in the halls of power of the emperor Augustus. It happened in the most unlikely of places and with the most unlikely of people. And this ought to encourage us to look where God’s Spirit is at work in our own lives as unlikely as we might think that possible today.

And we would do well to sit and consider that God includes us in whatever ways God works to mend this broken world. How that will happen, when that might occur, what part we might play, that’s beyond our ability to see with clarity immediately. This story of the most unlikely of God’s chosen can at least encourage us to know that our lives are indeed intricately bound up in God’s great purpose. Someone once wrote that the creation of hope in our lives takes time. It doesn’t simply happen spontaneously. Can you connect your life’s story with something much greater? Is there any great value in sitting here quietly on Christmas Eve indulging in some spiritual imagination? The gospel says, “yes” to both questions.

After all the office parties, after eating way too much food, after the kids return to college from their semester break, after Santa returns to the North Pole and sleeping by the Christmas tree isn’t even an option, and after special worship services at church and treasured feasts around dining tables — all the special treasures of Christmas that we rightly enjoy without apology—after all of this—we return on December 26 to so-called ordinary life. Some might say, “Thank God that’s over.” But I would invite you to say, “Thank God because we have it.” Even the monotony of the dullest winter day can be a place where God intervenes in exceptional ways. If we look and listen carefully, we realize that, like the shepherds, we too can walk "haphazard by starlight, straight into the kingdom of heaven."1

Let us pray:

Gracious God on this sacred evening we think of the good news that gives hope to the lives of billions of people around the world. Help us not to simply keep Christmas in our own way, but to find the spiritual imagination to see ourselves as you see us: full of promise, full of potential, a light to shine into whatever darkness we see in the world. We pray for those tonight for whom this seems to be simply impossible and improbable. Melt away whatever of our hearts remains frozen in great hurt and cynicism, draw us to healing and hope, help us to join with others, to peer into that manger, and see the new life you offer there. Help us to honour Christmas in our hearts this evening, tomorrow and everyday of the year. Amen.

1. This concluding paragraph taken from a post by Dan Clendennin of Journey with Jesus. www.journeywithjesus.net

Preparing for Christmas

2009-12-30T12:56:00.000-08:00

Luke 1:39-55
Delivered December 20th, 2009

A pastor in town recently wished someone a “Merry Christmas” and the person looked at him and corrected him, saying, “No, pastor, that’s ‘Happy Holidays’.” Yes, just when you think it’s safe to wish someone a Merry Christmas these days, the politically correct of the world pop out from somewhere in hardware or linens to remind you of just how unhappy they truly are with this traditional greeting for the so-called “happy” holidays. I’m sure the pastor meant no harm by his genuine expression of goodwill. He was, forgive him, simply being himself.

Happy Holidays? It’s a curious greeting to describe this time of year, don’t you think? Yesterday I went to various stores to see the frantic shopping on this last weekend before Christmas. I don’t think the shoppers looked terribly happy at all. Terribly harried might be a more apt description. Perhaps truthfully we should wish each other a “harried holidays” instead of a “happy holidays”? Last night my daughter said, “I can’t wait for Christmas!” I can imagine that’s a statement that will be repeated in every household across the entire Western hemisphere every night for the next 5 nights. The build up to Christmas morning seems to afflict us all with this singular symptom: anxiety.

And in the midst of our harried preparations people ask each other the question. What is the question of the season? “Are you ready for Christmas?” And of course this means: do you have your shopping done? Do you have your presents sent? Do you have your baking finished and family visitation schedules coordinated, so on and so forth? It’s all enough to cause a great tightening of the chest, and a straining of one`s patience. And soon you have this thought forming in the back of your mind: “I can’t wait for Christmas to come and go. This too shall pass.” If this is how the world defines “happy holidays”, well my friends, the world can have it.

So this morning I want you to relax. Take some deep breaths. Grow your patience. Realize that you come here to listen to a story not about Christmas, or happy holidays, but a story about waiting for the birth of Jesus and what that means in the larger schemes of things. And there’s nothing terribly harried about it at all. In fact, the word “harried” and “anxious” do not appear in this story. Neither does shopping, or baking or watching your credit card rack up debt with every swipe at the checkout. Instead think on a story this morning about two lives filled with joy and wonder and possibility.

We hear greetings of a different kind in this passage from Luke’s gospel this morning. There’s no “Merry Christmas”, no “Happy Holidays” here. A newly pregnant Mary greets a very pregnant Elizabeth. Mary is young and not yet married. Elizabeth, her older cousin, is overjoyed that she’s finally having a baby when she thought such a thing impossible in her old age. Mary’s just heard from the angel Gabriel that God has chosen her to be the bearer of the Son of God. And Elizabeth’s greets Mary with words that confirm this very thing: ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leapt for joy.’ These two relatives gather in a humble home in the hill country and delight in good news. You might imagine them having this conversation in as humble and loving a space as the kitchen.

And so I want to begin by sharing the good news this morning that you are a blessing in the hands of God wherever you might find yourself. Around kitchen tables in humble homes, in office spaces and work places, out with family or friends, in the surroundings of this church, these are the places where we do some of our best loving and caring for our family and neighbours. How wonderful that we can greet each other here in this place with joy on our faces this morning, rather than with the harried look of the worn-out shop-until-you-dropaholic. True, you might not be visited by angels, and, true, you might not be inexplicably pregnant in your older age (and for many of you the very thought of that might be cause for alarm…be thankful for what miracles God doesn’t work in your lives, right?), nevertheless, this doesn’t mean you aren’t still a blessing and much favoured in God’s eyes.

Just this weekend I read a comment from one of our young mothers on Facebook who helped organize Christmas hampers for the needy in town. She wrote, “hampers are done-thanks for all the help! People really have the warmest hearts-haven't given up on society yet!” Here is a hopeful statement shared with the world for others to see. Yesterday I watched a child give the remaining change from her wallet as a donation to the food bank at the grocery store. We have once again collected a few white gifts, blanket rolls for the shelter, and now cards to help a village in Africa move forward with growing a sustainable life. Such graciousness ought to give us a degree of joy and hopefulness this morning. It`s ours to share.

Notice how Elizabeth feels herself filled with the Holy Spirit when she first sees Mary and hears Mary’s greeting. Mary travels with haste to see Elizabeth and share this news of her pregnancy. She’s excited and eager to share what Gabriel has told her. It’s the indwelling of this spirit that helps Elizabeth to offer such a gracious greeting to her younger, pregnant and unwed cousin. Rather than casting judgement, rather than casting aspersion, rather than chastising her for some sexual indiscretion, Luke tells us that the Holy Spirit filled Elizabeth and she can accept Mary and her news with grace and dignity. It’s the Holy Spirit that opens both women to realize the depth of what’s happening in their lives. They are not people of any great power or significance. We are not seeing the meeting of delegates at some international conference where great decisions will be made. God’s Spirit rests upon two women whose lives, for the most part, are unknown in the greater scheme of things. Yet something important is happening all the same.

And similarly, we are not people of any great international importance; our lives for the most part are unknown to the greater schemes of presidents and celebrities. But God fills us with the Holy Spirit nonetheless. I have always taken great encouragement from the gospel story that indeed the birth of Jesus happens in that region where shepherds watched over their flocks by night, not in the halls of power of the emperor Augustus. It happened in the most unlikely of places and with the most unlikely of people. And this ought to encourage us to look where God`s Spirit is at work in our own lives as unlikely as we might think that possible.

Whatever good we do in that Holy Spirit, we do in smaller measure in the foothill country of our own time and place. And we are not alone. That Spirit works in us and in others. We might think of the people of the tiny Protestant village of Le Chambon in Nazi occupied France in the Second World War. The French Protestants hid Jews fleeing from certain death in the safety of their homes, offering them help as they could. And while many might wish to glorify such dangerous and risky love, the Protestants of that village did not seek any labels of heroism. Many villagers simply stated that they were helping those in need and didn’t give it much greater thought. But such small decisions made in good faith have had implications lasting generations. It’s not for nothing that the Jews today give thanks for those shining lights that saved Jewish lives at that time in history. To save one life, a Jewish saying goes, is to save a world. Such is the power of the Holy Spirit when it dwells in our hearts. With us God can do remarkable things with great love even now.

In the face of her cousin’s gracious greeting, and in the face of such profound news that Mary should be chosen to bear Jesus, Luke tells us she simply cannot contain her joy. And we hear what Christians through the centuries have called the Magnificat: it`s Mary`s Song. God, she sings, is not only great, but God is good. But pay attention to what Mary doesn’t sing about. She isn’t giving praise to God for her own good fortune, or for the blessings of having a good job, or a secure life, or a life free from suffering. She`s hardly singing about having the perfect Christmas as she awaits the birth of Jesus. Indeed, if she only knew what lay in store for her child when a cross would loom on hillside for him decades later, perhaps she might have sung differently. But this isn`t what Mary sings about.

Instead Mary sings about something that will change the world and it magnifies God in her very soul. Even before the 60s, The Beatles, and what young people today might think is the only art for social change, we find a young pregnant Jewish woman singing about a revolution of sorts where God:
has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
Not exactly what we hear in Christmas songs played at the shopping mall or on a CBC holiday special, is it?

This Christmas many children and families will go to see the latest take on that old Dickens classic, “A Christmas Carol.” This animated feature stars the voice of comedian Jim Carey as Ebenezer Scrooge. I’m sure we are all familiar with this tale of a man who goes from being self centred and a true miser, to finding the true meaning of Christmas in his heart and making a world of difference with his life.
When I think of those words Mary sings, I think of what the various spirits of Christmas do with old Ebenezer. It’s not simply that he loses his grip on his love for money, or that he’s brought down. He loses grip on reality for but one evening. What makes Ebenezer so human is that he’s a terribly wounded man. It’s not just that he’s a hurtful and hurting old man, but that he’s been deeply hurt in his life. He’s truly lost what we might call his light. The Spirit of Christmas Past takes him through those hurts that he does not wish to see again, breaking up the scar tissue of his life: he loses his beloved sister as she gives birth to his nephew, he despises his nephew as the cause of her death, he loses the love of his betrothed after Ebenezer falls deeper in love with the pursuit of money. And one hurt begets another and another and we see a life of an unrepentant human turned into more creature than person. And it’s a lifetime of spite that brings Ebenezer to proclaim every Christmas his own personal greeting, “Bah, humbug.”

When I went to read a review of this latest Disney film, one parent criticized the film as being too dark and depressing. But isn’t that partly the point of the story? How sad, I thought: that even here in a story of genuine redemption, we want to sugar coat the truth about being human. This is what makes the life of Scrooge all the more worth telling with each year. Because God also lifts Ebenezer and into that utter darkness a light shines: the various spirits of Christmas visit Scrooge in the cold heart of his home, and put before him a simple question: shall you continue to live like this and then die? Or will you allow the good news of Jesus’ birth to magnify God in your very soul? And indeed Ebenezer discovers that he can: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” And Ebenezer awakens Christmas Day a new man and as the story concludes, a better person, “as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh…His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.” Ebenezer discovers what it means to magnify God in his very soul. And it’s something he cannot simply do alone. It’s a life to share in both its great sadness, and in its great joy as well.

And we would do well to sit and consider that God includes us in whatever ways God works to mend this broken world. How that will happen, when that might occur, what part we might play, that’s beyond our ability to see with clarity immediately. This story of the most unlikely of God’s chosen can at least encourage us to know that our lives are indeed intricately bound up in God’s great purpose. Someone once wrote that the creation of hope in our lives takes time. It doesn’t simply happen spontaneously. Do you long to connect your life’s story with something much greater? Is there any great value in sitting here quietly on a Sunday morning just days before Christmas contemplating an ancient text about a young woman magnifying God in her soul? The gospel says, “yes” to both questions.

Are you ready for Christmas? Truly we never will be when we simply focus on what makes us anxious and leaves us feeling tight throughout our chest. Imagine, however, if you magnified God in your soul these next few days. Whenever someone says, “Are you ready for Christmas,” imagine saying, “Yes, I am ready: I’m ready to set aside time everyday to give thanks for what I have. I’m ready to just slow down when everyone else speeds ups. I’m ready to cherish the real gifts of friendship, of the love I feel when I look at my daughter, at simply doing more with less. I’m ready to just find peace in the midst of all this craziness that I see stressing others out.” How would people look at you? With envy (I wish I was able to slow down). With suspicion (what are you smoking?) With incredulity (you’ve got to be kidding...you want to get “all God”?)

Hence why I believe, despite political correctness, we still wish people a very Merry Christmas. It comes not as simply a traditional greeting. Behind it stands a great hope that a lifetime of faith brings, a genuine hope and a joy that magnifies God from the very soul itself. I would suggest that “Happy Holidays” simply sounds too flat and too hollow in the face of what the Christian faith invites us to celebrate and cherish in memory of women like Elizabeth and Mary, or even someone like Ebenezer. Here in the gospel and here in our life together we understand preparing for Christmas differently. We see hope and joy emerging slowly and quietly in the out of the way places of our lives and world, from sorrows and struggles, to find out what it really means to live with Christmas everyday of the year. God sees nothing wrong with this whatsoever. And neither should we.

Let us pray:
Are we ready for Christmas, God of good news and tidings of great joy? Thank you for helping us to be people of faith, who know in our hearts that Christmas isn’t simply a calendar day we need fuss over or celebrate but once a year. Help us to find ways to magnify you with our lives every day so that others can see what gifts faith bring. Let your light shine into whatever darkness we find in our lives today. Let your light brighten whatever measure of hope and joy we have. And may we continue to be a blessing and allow your light to shine everyday. Amen.

The God Jesus Reveals

2009-12-30T12:34:00.000-08:00

Philippians 2:1-8

This is now our third “101 Sunday”. Since beginning this series, I’ve dwelt on the question of just what sort of a God do Christians worship and praise. If you remember, last month I suggested that there are some very good reasons why we don’t worship and praise Thor or Zeus or Poseidon when we gather here Sunday mornings regardless of how much our critics really believe we are just here to worship a myth or a mere delusion of the mind. Indeed when we stood to offer our statement of faith earlier this hour, you’ll notice that—true to my word about what we do here—we didn’t stand and say that we believe in the redemptive purposes of Ponzi schemes. And notice, we didn’t even say that God will help the Riders win certain victory over the Alouettes this afternoon in the Grey Cup, despite the hopes and dreams of one diehard fan standing before you this morning. And that’s all for a very good reason: because Christians believe that it’s a particular person who reveals God to us and that person thankfully has nothing to do with Ponzi schemes or football for that matter.

It seems to me that part of the problem of defining God arrives in the fact that God can mean so many different things to so many different people today. As one good fellow said to me, “God could be a tree, or a rock, or a mathematical formula, I just don’t know. I believe in a higher power, I just can’t rightly define that power.” And I think this is where many people get stuck in their spiritual life today. They want to believe in God, they just don’t know how best to start to understand who God is. Jews and Christians have tried to say a number of definitive things about God for centuries. God the Creator, God the Father, God the Lord, and each of these say something about their experience of God as a whole. But Christians take this a step further and make the scandalous claim that we can experience God fully in a particular person, namely Jesus of Nazareth (and I don’t mean one of the back-up singers in the 70s rock band of the same name).

Someone might rightly ask: do we need anyone to put us in touch with God? Could we not simply enjoy a lovely sunset or behold a flower or listen to one of Beethoven’s great pieces of music and know God? That’s a very good question. It’s not that I don’t believe God can speak to us through these beautiful gifts. Indeed, I think beauty, and art can be incredibly expressive and invite us to open our minds to new possibilities of wonder, and inspiration, and even love. Science can open the mind to God’s presence. Francis Collins, the scientist who helped map human DNA, says, “God can be found in the cathedral and the laboratory.” I wholeheartedly agree.

I’m also mindful, however, that despite the beauty of art, and the wonder of nature and science, still these alone cannot help us understand fully who God is. As one veteran of the Second World War said about his enemies, “...I found out that Nazis could spend their days gassing Jews and their evenings listening to Beethoven’s...quartets.” Belief in a higher power becomes something of a danger if it isn’t somehow better understood or defined and the arts or science alone will not always help. If God suddenly becomes what I choose to define or a deity in my own image, well in the hands of a group of murderous thugs, or a dictator, or a religious fanatic like David Koresh, we suddenly see where this is going. So for some very good reasons Christians look to Jesus to help us understand God better.

Last month I said that the word “God” is a small three-letter word, but that word represents an enormous concept. What could help us narrow that down? Consider, for a moment, how people help us to make better sense of experiences and ideas in general. For instance, my daughter helps me to make sense of childhood. She helps me to understand and experience parenthood in a very particular way. A loving spouse can help you understand what it means to live in a loving marriage. A loving friend can help you to know what friendship can truly mean. We only know forgiveness as a general idea or concept until we experience forgiveness in a unique way, either by forgiving someone, or by being forgiven by someone. All those silly old love songs Paul McCartney sings sounds great, but they become even more meaningful when you find yourself caught up in romantic love with someone in particular. In all of these experiences, it’s a person who makes that experience profoundly real to us. Why then couldn’t a person help us to experience God in a very particular way, perhaps in a way that’s more profound than any sunset or flower or sonata?

This is why for Christians God remains inseparable from the person of Jesus Christ. God is like Jesus. Jesus reveals God. Jesus puts us in touch with God in a unique and decisive way, unlike any other person or process or method we know. Dare we say that Jesus helps put a particular face to God in much the same way that a friend puts a particular face to what we call friendship?

Of course the very name Jesus can suddenly create any number of possible thoughts and ideas. Type the word “Jesus” into Google and you get 36,700,000 “hits”. That more than double what you get for “The Beatles”. Not surprisingly the number of hits for “sex” outnumbers both Jesus and The Beatles combined. How on earth might one even begin to tackle the whole idea of getting in touch with God if you somehow have to work your way through so much information about Jesus Christ and what everyone wants to say about him? A classic joke at seminary goes something like this: Jesus approaches a theologian and asks, “Who do you say that I am?” And the theologian thinks for a moment and says, “You are the Alpha and the Omega, the existential ground of all being, the One who is entirely transcendent and yet wholly immanent, the very incarnation of Truth and Reality.” And Jesus looks at the theologian and asks, “I’m what?”

Thankfully before there ever were theologians, there were disciples who experienced Jesus and what he taught and how he lived. And thankfully the stories the disciples told about Jesus tell us much of what he did with his life. They remember Jesus being a healer, a teacher, a good shepherd, someone filled with great compassion, doing what is right when others would turn a blind eye, offering forgiveness to those who others found impossible to forgive. They also encountered a person who probably scared them to pieces: someone filled with such passion for the truth and for living with integrity that they were more than a little overwhelmed by it all.

The passage we heard from Philippians may simply be one of the earliest hymns ever sung about Jesus. What do the earliest Christians remember and sing about Christ? They sing of his compassion, of his being a servant of people, sharing God’s very nature, but not exploiting such power for his personal gain: in Jesus, we see God in human form, becoming humble to the point of giving up his life for others on the cross. It’s the sort of thing that made Mahatma Ghandi once say to some Christian evangelists, “Give me more of your Christ, and less of your Christianity.” If you profess faith in and worship this God, then make that faith obvious by how you live.

And so in Jesus we suddenly begin to see God take a definite shape and form and become known to us. We begin to see God’s personality spilling through as it were. And suddenly you can see why God cannot simply be a tree, or a rock, or a mathematical formula, any more than your child is simply a collection of cellular matter, or a double-helix string of DNA; and suddenly you see why God cannot remain some distant divine being or merely a higher power without much shape or definition, anymore than friendship can remain an idea, instead of being the profound love we know in a person who cares for us deeply despite our many character flaws.

Recently I watched an interview with Richard Dawkins, a brilliant biologist and unabashed atheist, and Alistair McGrath, a biophysicist and theologian, and unabashed Christian. After positing many good questions about belief, and the existence of God, and so forth, Dawkins finally sounded exasperated and said in effect: “You’re a sensible person of good reason—a man of science!—then why do you believe all of this?” And McGrath said in effect, “It’s because of who Jesus is and how he reveals God to me. Jesus somehow makes it sensible.” Of course this didn’t make sense to the atheist. He just didn’t “get it”. But as I watched that interview, I thought about how true this is of some marriages. Have we not all looked at certain couples and asked the question: what does she see in him? What does he see in her? Whatever it is, it’s something we can’t quite understand. But for the lover it makes all the difference in the world. And so it is for the Christian who finds God more sensible because this is the God Jesus reveals.

So as I have said before, whenever someone tells me that they don’t believe in a god who hates, or a god who clamours for war, or a god who sees needs to see people suffering in order to be praised, I say, “I don’t believe in that God either.” This is not the God who Jesus reveals to me.

Bill Coffin, a renowned American preacher and civil rights leader, describes how he came around to faith in a little book entitled, Letters to a Young Doubter. Bill describes how time and again some of the most faithful followers of Jesus made “more sense out of everything, much as light gives meaning to darkness.” And he describes his own journey to belief in God in this way:

Following the advice of Alcoholics Anonymous, I decided to commit as much of myself as I could to as much of God as I believe in…Sunday by Sunday Jesus became more real to me. I loved the way he relied on [story] and example, rather than on precept and principle. What he said, what he did, struck me as words and deeds of “breathtaking rightness.” In the sullied and bloody stream of life, not innocence but holiness was the option he offered. And holiness didn’t mean being upright but rather knowing such a joy that could absorb all sorrow, a hope that could surmount despair, and knowing that caring is the greatest thing in life.

If Jesus helps us to know God more fully, Jesus also helps us to know what it means to be human with more authenticity. Some people think that when you begin to deepen your relationship with the church—when you start coming to worship—you start to strangely, “go all God” as someone said to me recently; as if coming to church is just about getting “religious”. But clearly it’s also about “going all human” too.

Theologian Rowan Williams says that when he looks at the humanity of Jesus he sees hope for us all: “…the gospel lays before me what I regard as a coherent and credible and compelling vision of human beings becoming human in that relationship with Jesus.” And so beyond simply coming to worship to waste the better part of a Sunday morning or to enjoy our superior coffee, beyond simply remembering a dead historic dude who taught some good things, beyond simply being duped by the greatest fiction the world has ever known (these are what our critics are saying), there are those who would argue that being here puts you in touch with what matters most about being human. Or put it another way, being here is really about how to better be human. That’s the other thing one could say about Christ. It’s not just about God; it’s about us too. There is a cross on the wall for good reason rather than say a swastika, or the almighty dollar sign.

Again Bill Coffin writes of his own experience of this:

Gradually the dazzling truth dawned on me…I saw that Jesus was both a mirror to humanity and window to divinity…When we see Jesus scorning the powerful, empowering the weak, healing the hurt, always returning good for evil, we are seeing transparently the power of God at work.

And I would add: the power of God at work in our humanity. And this is so beyond simply remembering a dead dude, or some biblical fiction, or simply religion. It’s about life and what matters most. And if that became more evident in the lives of others, if we lived with “more Christ” we would hopefully not need see a swastika, or another symbol of what goes so terribly wrong when people disengage from an authentic encounter with God, and begin making God in their own image.

So today we re-affirm our faith; not in the worst examples of people who practice this thing called Christianity, but simply our faith in the person of Jesus and all that he represents to us about God and human life. And we re-affirm that faith—like we do any loving relationship—with the best of hopes and intentions knowing that we too are only human. But, as we say, we are not alone, we live in God’s world. And we aren’t simply left to our own devices in following the Christ. For indeed there is something that helps us and it is the core of Christian spiritual life. We call it the Holy Spirit. And in the next instalment of this series—most likely at the end of January—I will take time to explore what that Holy Spirit looks like and what it means for us and the world.

Let us pray:
Loving and gracious God we thank you for the gift of Jesus. As so many of our friends and families gear-up for Christmas, help us to gear-down so that we might better appreciate who Jesus is, why we anticipate his birth, and what his life means for all of us. We thank you for the ways in which Jesus puts us in touch with God, gives better definition to what can seem hard to grasp. And we pray for those today for whom Jesus remains something of an unknown quantity in their lives. Help them to move from seeing him as simply a person of history, a good teacher, to a person in whom they can build a relationship, encounter you, and change their life and the life of the world around them. Amen.

We Know Who Holds the Future

2009-11-19T15:22:00.000-08:00

Mark 13:1-8

This week in theatres across North America, the movie “2012” opened. If you’ve been watching TV or surfing the web over the past few weeks, you will have seen the previews for this movie based on the popular belief that in 2012 something catastrophic will overcome the earth. The movie posters all show scenes of great destruction worldwide with the words, “We Were Warned.” Why 2012? December 22nd or 23rd, 2012, is the end-date of an ancient Mayan calendar. And for reasons not entirely clear to me, the end-dates of ancient Mayan calendars get people thinking the strangest thoughts.

There are a great number of people in the world who believe that something catastrophic will occur when that end-date arrives. Some believe that it will be an end of life on earth, as we know it. Others believe that there will be a great spiritual transformation around the globe: we will all enter into a new age of peace and spiritual enlightenment. And then there are those who believe that it really will mean nothing more, or less, than simply a day on a calendar that will come and go. On December 24th, 2012, most of us will be doing whatever it is we do every December 24th in our little corner of the globe. For millions of us, myself included, that will mean last-minute Christmas gift-wrapping. I won’t be looking out the window and looking for falling comets.

Still, one never knows. The bizarre and unimaginable can and does come to pass. I read a comment this week by a fellow who remembers standing at the foot of the World Trade Center in New York City. It was in 1993 after a terrorist had exploded a bomb somewhere in the base of one of the towers. Of course the tower didn’t collapse. It seemed to suffer no significant damage whatsoever. The fellow remembers people talking about the bombing, claiming quite reasonably, “A bomb couldn’t take down one of these towers.” And how could a bomb take down such a magnificent structure of steel, concrete and glass that stretched high above the city? It was unimaginable. Of course had anyone suggested then that both towers would be obliterated to dust in less than 10 years, well, I am sure people would have rolled their eyes? Yet on 9/11 the world blinked in disbelief.

In our passage from Mark’s gospel, we hear Jesus predict the fall of the Temple in Jerusalem. As I described last week, the Temple was a remarkable structure of stone and marble, imbued with the hopes of an entire nation. Jews believed it was God’s footstool on earth. To see re-creations of the Temple mount today boggles the imagination as to its size and importance. It was a wonder for its time and I’ve read estimates that it required the labour of 10,000 people to complete. So one can imagine the disbelief when Jesus says, “yes and all of these will be thrown down.” The very thought of its destruction probably sounded as far-fetched then as someone saying that the twin towers would fall into dust in 1993. Why would Jesus say such a thing? The disciples want to know when this will happen and the disciples want to know what will happen.

With good reason, I don’t think many of us spend our waking hours wondering about the impermanence of life itself. We’re much too busy for that, thank goodness. So when we step into the car to drive to work, or when we send the kids off to school, or when we say “See you tomorrow” to our friends, none of us thinks that it could possibly be our last opportunity to do so. And to be honest, it’s rather morbid to think such things. Thankfully life offers us many good choices and opportunities to live with a degree of security and certainty.

Still, one never knows. This week I presided at the funeral for a healthy 28-year-old who died suddenly from an unfortunate medical condition that appeared without any warning. In the news, we hear about the death of even younger people from complications with H1N1. And then there’s the nightly news bringing home all the great turmoil of this world. Such reality shakes us because in our heart of hearts we truly believe that our life and our health and our fortunes should be as solid and permanent as a building designed to last for decades, if not a century. Do we not hope that we will all live to grow old, to be free from health issues, and die peacefully in our beds with a nest egg left over for the kids?

It’s just not death. Not many of us are free from life’s other endings. Some see the end of marriages. Some see the end of jobs or careers. Some see the end of their hopes and their dreams. On Friday I spoke with a young father who wonders when he’ll be back at work. We all want to see a turn-a-round in the economy and the assurance that can bring. A person can think that she’s carefully planned for future contingencies, and then one day discovers that it’s not unfolding as planned and hoped. Basements can flood; crops will fail, businesses do burn and more often because of nothing we’ve done. Life happens. So while talk of a world apocalypse may seem the far-fetched fiction of a Hollywood movie or the wild-eyed ravings of the religiously unstable, in truth, we know something about the very real possibility for life’s instability.

The poet, William Butler Yeats, describes the very real power of chaos in his poem entitled “The Second Coming.” And here he describes the end times with words that capture the sense of things running completely amok:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

The American preacher, Henry Ward Beecher wrote, “Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith.” Goodness knows we understand what it means to take the handle of anxiety. It’s large and it’s easy to hold on to. And even the most experienced person of faith will at times grab on to that handle simply because it’s a very human thing to do.

There’s a wonderful scene in an episode of that satirical cartoon, The Simpsons. In the episode, the Simpson children learn that a comet is on a direct collision course with Earth. The news of this pending apocalypse sends the town into utter chaos. In the face of the real possibility that life will draw to an end, people make the most of the time they have left. As the end draws near, and the comet grows larger in the sky, Homer dejectedly says, “it’s times like this I wish I were a religious man.” And no sooner does he say this, than we see Reverend Lovejoy, the town’s minister, running down the street shouting out, “It’s over, people! We don’t have a prayer!”

Sometimes people of faith far too easily grab on to the handle of anxiety and make too much of the dire warnings that Jesus offers in this passage from Mark’s gospel. Grabbing on to every trial and tribulation, they’re convinced that it’s going to lead to the end of our world in our very lifetime. But such anxiety can be greatly displaced and lead to the most bizarre thinking. The sort of thinking that leads to irrational fear. Just this week, I received an email with a link to a video of President Obama. In the video we see various media clips where President Obama speaks favourably about Islam, quoting the Muslim scriptures, and speaking about his family’s Muslim heritage in Africa. Of course the upshot of this video was to show us that President Obama is a president with a dubious grasp on the “true” faith. And indeed the person who sent the email simply stated his belief that Obama’s positive statements about Islam prove that not only is President Obama the most evil president we have ever had, but that “if you don’t think we are living in the last days there has to be something wrong with your vision.”

This, as someone pointed out, is the problem with those who invoke Jesus’ name and want to draw all our energies into seeing every tragedy, every natural disaster, every new political leader they disagree with, as being part of God’s great big plan for bringing it all to a close. As if this world is so beyond help that the only thing that could possibly work would be to just wipe it clean and start anew. And for some people that begins to lead them into the strangest of thinking: looking for signs and guarantees that they’re living the right way so they won’t be left behind like the rest of us poor misguided sods.

Well thank you very much, but I think perhaps what one person sees as the end, another person sees as the beginning. Jesus says two things in the face of life’s unpredictability and the world’s endings. First, indeed don’t let anyone fool you. Many will claim to speak for me. But that doesn’t mean they actually do speak for me. And so in the face of fear mongering and great anxiety, Jesus invites us to think through what’s being said, to listen carefully, and discern whether or not it is someone who can speak for Jesus Christ. President Obama may sound too inclusive and positive about other faith traditions for some, but for others he is a remarkable breath of fresh air and hope for the global village.

Recently the world remembered the 20th anniversary of the tearing down of the Berlin Wall. If 9/11 is a memory of shock and awe seared into the memories of the world, the fall of the Berlin Wall is a memory of hope and possibility. It took people of good will, and leaders of vision to break down that wall. They had to move past their fears, to see world-views come to an end, and build dialogue and trust. And in one of the many images I saw of that anniversary, it was a picture taken of a hole in the wall: and you could see this ruby-faced young Eastern German soldier peeking through at his West German neighbour. For many of us who were in our teenage years, that event was a pivotal moment where we saw the value of seeing something end, and a new opportunity begin.

When the American president spoke to the families and victims of the shootings in Fort Hood, Obama said something that I hope every Christian, Muslim and Jew might agree with: that there is no God who would condone such violence and there is no faith in such a God that can justify the taking of lives in the name of God. I would look at that comment and think to myself, “Now that’s something Jesus would say.” Obama speaks positively about Islam because he wants to tear down walls and build new opportunities for dialogue and friendship in a world terribly afraid.
Jesus is about grabbing onto tomorrow with the handle of faith. Because the second thing Jesus says in the face of the endings is don’t be troubled. In fact, as predicts the fall of the Temple, he says that these things do not mean that the end has come. These are but the birth pangs of something new and wonderful. And true, it might be difficult to understand how it’s possible to have something good and wonderful come from such suffering as he names, but then again, anyone who has given birth—that’s the majority of you here this morning—know that indeed the most beautiful creatures can only come into the world with more than a little discomfort, and a rupturing as it were of the very body. And as I tried to say last week, those children are worth it, even if we don’t know the exact outcome of their lives. We don’t bring children into the world because we believe the world is hopeless. We bring children into the world because of this silly thing called love and the belief that the world is indeed a good place and worth bringing life into.

The endings in our lives ultimately seem to carry little weight with Jesus. What matters is that Jesus sees change as giving birth to something new. And I wonder if that doesn’t give us an eye to an understanding of our own endings and even our own suffering in life? Not that we deserve it, so much as to understand that these endings are not in themselves the final word on our existence or God’s purpose for us.

Kathleen Norris, in her book Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith writes about the idea of end times, and how she obsessed too much on the events of every day as she tried to figure out what it all meant. And rather than fear what she could not predict with any success, she started to find hope in the idea that it’s not so much about the endings—fearful as those can be—but about what God opens up in the possibilities coming to life. She writes:

“What I mean is this: an acquaintance of mine, a brilliant young scholar, was stricken with cancer, and over the course of several years came close to dying three times. But after extensive treatment, both radiation and chemotherapy came a welcome remission. Her prognosis was uncertain at best, but she was again able to teach, and to write. “I’d never want to go back,” she told her department head, an older woman, “because now I know what each morning means, and I am so grateful just to be alive.” When the other woman said to her, “We’ve been through so much together in the last few years,” the younger woman nodded and smiled. “Yes,” she said emphatically. “Yes! And hasn’t it been a blessing!”

Someone once wrote with great and hope and faith: I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future. And for Christians let us not put our faith in the bizarre prophecies of those who yearn for the world’s end. Instead, let us put our faith in the God revealed in Jesus. A God who loves this world and wants to see it mended, not torn apart. In writing his poem about the end times, Yeats wrote, “The falcon cannot hear the falconer.” And in the face of our fears, and in the face of what we cannot quite comprehend or control, Jesus invites us to remain within earshot, to remain within eyesight, to hear his reassuring words that these things are like the pains of childbirth. As we sometimes sing in one of our songs of faith, “In the end is our beginning. Something God alone can see.”

Let us pray:
God stir within us a deep passion for faith and understanding. In the light of these difficult words that we hear from the scriptures, help us to see that your purpose for us continues to be held in the person of Jesus the Christ: someone who saw value not in buildings, so much as in people, a person who saw strength not so much in fear, but in faith, and a person in whom the endings of life continued to hold possibility and meaning because of the resurrection and faith in the possibilities you make happen. We know not what the future holds, but we know that you hold the future and in that we can take great comfort for today. Amen.

Who Is Worth It?

2009-11-19T15:18:00.000-08:00

Mark 12:38-44

Delivered November 8th, 2009

This week I had opportunity to watch a tribute to Bill Cosby for a lifetime of contributions to comedy. A number of Bill’s comic moments were celebrated, and many of course included Bill’s famous sketches on the ups and downs of parenting. Whether in his books, his stand up comedy routines, or on The Cosby Show, Bill would often ask the question: why on earth do people ever have children?

In one scene, Cosby describes the moment that Benjamin Franklins’ parents realize their son has lost his mind. It’s the day Ben walks across the field behind the house in a thunderstorm carrying a kite, a ball of yarn, and a metal key. The neighbours look out their window in disbelief: “Hey honey, come and look at the Franklin kid!” And when young Ben comes home, his hair is standing out like this, and his clothes are steaming, and his kite is burnt to a crisp, and he says, “Mom! Dad! That was awesome!” And what do his parents say? “What were you thinking boy?” “Balls of yarn don’t grow on trees you know?” “You got that kite for Christmas!” “Give me back my house key!” And Cosby says, “But they didn’t know at the time that their son was the Benjamin Franklin.” Why do we have children? Bill’s classic response is: we all thought it was a good idea at the time.

Behind Bill Cosby’s humour stands a great truth about what it means to give of your life as a parent. Just think about how much money you could have saved if you decided not to have children! On a dollar basis it costs anywhere from $160,000 to $180,000 to raise just one child in Canada. And that doesn’t include the cost of a post-secondary education, or the cost of your 25 year old that still lives at home. Of course it’s not just the money. Out of a great love, you bring children into the world. Out of a great hope you invest your life in theirs. You give to them your life. And you do it all in the very good belief that it’s worth it. It’s just that there are those days when the neighbours see our kids flying kites in proverbial thunderstorms and we wonder, “Where did I go wrong?”

The story is told of a widow who goes to the Temple in Jerusalem. As a place of worship the Temple was a marvel of the ancient world. And for the Jews it was very much the footstool of God’s presence on the earth itself. Its marble walls and pillars gleamed in the sunlight. It was a reminder of the shining glory of God to the thousands who came to worship there throughout the year. And it was here that you offered your prayers, your offerings of animals and money. A small army of priests lived there to ensure that the religious needs of both God and the people were met.

It only stands to reason something that big and important is going to cost a lot of money to operate. And so we see the wealthiest and the poorest coming to the Temple pouring in heaps of money to the treasury. This widow Mark describes literally gives “the whole of her life” in that tiny sum of a single penny.

But what if she gave the whole of her life to something that ultimately will be condemned as unworthy? Jesus would sharply criticize the Temple as being worthy of destruction. It hasn’t been a house of prayer, he would argue, so much as a den of robbers. Jesus would soon overturn the tables of the moneychangers, and he would drive them out in a self-styled cleansing that would ultimately seal his doom. And what Jesus tried to do symbolically, the Romans did with brute force. In the year 70, the Romans would tear down that footstool where God’s presence touches the earth. All that would remain standing would be what we call today, The Wailing Wall, the westernmost retaining wall of the original Temple structure. All that money, from the richest to the poorest, and given for what? Perhaps the widow should have kept her penny?

This week we will gather to remember the lives of those Canadians who have died in the armed services. With our troops fighting and serving in Afghanistan, Remembrance Day takes on a fresh relevance for many Canadians. Just last night at a hockey game in Calgary you could see the tears welling up in the eyes of soldiers during a tribute to their fallen comrades. We see our soldiers dying for what most believe are truly humanitarian and necessary efforts. But most Canadians only wan to see this go so far. The latest public opinion polls would lead us to believe that a majority of Canadians want our troops home in 2011, and about a quarter of us want nothing more to do with Afghanistan. And we aren’t the only one’s questioning our involvement in the war. On Friday the British Prime Minister gave a speech in which he told the Afghan government that while Britain continues to see purpose in sending troops to their country, that support would come to a close if corruption in the Afghan government were to increase.

Of course, people want to know that our soldiers are giving their lives for something, and not for nothing. It’s the right of every Canadian to question why we commit our people’s lives to conflicts and missions. We need to ask hard questions about the costs both in finances and in human life. The British prime minister would be failing in his responsibility if he did not throw down something of a gauntlet to the Afghan government and challenge it to become better government, and more responsible and effective. Whether in Europe or Korea, in Afghanistan or a peacekeeping mission, we hope that the soldiers who die do not die in vain. That’s the reason we set aside November 11, to make it sacred, and remember those sacrifices.

What we should not do, however, is dismiss out of hand the value or quality of the call of our soldiers. I’m not simply speaking of death itself, but of feeling called to serve and to give of one’s life to serving in the military. With history we have the benefit of hindsight. We see how things have come to pass. But there are those sitting here this morning who still remember that on June 6, 1944 the outcome of the war in Europe was far from certain. That the soldiers who ran onto the beaches of Normandy had no idea whether they were venturing into ultimate catastrophe or success. But ran they did with their brothers, and cousins, and neighbours and friends. We might even look at Afghanistan and think similar thoughts about those killed and those serving in that war. Is this going to amount to any kind of success? We cannot see the ultimate success or failure of the war—history will bear that out in time—but women and men from many different nations are giving the whole of their lives every single day in the hope that it will not be for nothing.

There just aren’t any guarantees of success when it comes to something like a protracted war or conflict. I don’t suppose many of us simply participate in Remembrance Day because of such silly notions as “we won” and “they lost.” It’s not about victory, so much as it is about the sacrifice made and whether that has any redeeming value. I think, with Bill Cosby, we get it when it comes to the sacrifice of parenting out of a great love and hope for our children, even when we think they’ve lost their minds. That we understand. What I’m less certain about is whether we understand sacrifice as being something of value in far more questionable areas of life. Are the people of Afghanistan really worth the sacrifice? Isn’t that one of the more important questions we aren’t asking about this war?

I remember one of the most humbling encounters of my life. I was in seminary and we were invited to go downtown to the soup kitchen. But it wasn’t to go there as a volunteer so that we could “feel good” or “do good.” We were challenged to go and see what life was like as a street person. Do you know how hard it is to walk into a soup kitchen when you are so obviously a white middle class male? It’s like walking into a foreign land with it’s own culture and rules. So I sat there at a table eating my breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and an orange. And I remember this old man sitting down. And he ate some of his food. And then he took out a bag, and without a word the younger men at the table just started giving him their food. And without a word he took it and wrapped it carefully and stuffed it in his jacket. And when a young woman sat down, the very same thing happened again. And this time I put some of my food on the woman’s plate. I knew I was going to go home to a stocked kitchen—even on a student’s budget. What those people were going home to—if they even had a home—I had no idea. But in that moment they pointed me to Christ in the sheer act of the graceful giving of their daily bread. And what great good did that do? I cannot ever know. Only God knows where it led. But you know what? That didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was giving of their food without as much as a second thought. And, giving to people of whom many might simply ask, “Are they even worth it?”

Some people look at this story of the widow’s giving, and think that it makes for a great stewardship sermon. How can we go and encourage our members to give so much that the church can continue to operate in all its functions. Given our own financial situation that might be a very timely idea to explore. Is it worth giving to Edson United Church because God is still doing something with us here in Edson? Some people look at this story of the widow giving her whole life as nothing more than a criticism of the machinery of religion. And certainly people ask a good question: why give to the church when I can give to charities that I actually believe in and who don’t ask of both my money, and my time, and ask me to give up my Sunday mornings. Besides, that minister really doesn’t do it for me.

Yet some people look at this story and see the widow as the figure of Christ, giving the whole of her life for something that may not be worth it at all. Do I give my life for this corrupt and wayward Temple serving these thousands of people? And if I do, what good might come of it? If Sesame Street adapted this scene in Mark’s gospel, I’m sure they would put it to song. Jesus wouldn’t sing, “Who are the people in your neighbourhood?” Jesus would be singing, “Who is worth it in your neighbourhood?” And in that selfless love that costs his whole life, Christ can only conclude, “It’s the people that you meet each day.”

There are some people who look at the world or look at the their lives and think, “Why bring a child into all of this uncertainty, this pain and suffering?” Some people look at the world, even its ugly truths, and still see promise and say, “I can’t imagine not bringing a child into this world with all its wonders and possibilities.” You know, I don’t know who Benjamin Franklin’s parents were, but I’m pretty sure they existed and we can be thankful they brought him into the world and did their share of giving of their lives for him, even if they didn’t know he was the Benjamin Franklin. This really should give each of us hope for our own kids, especially in those dreadful parenting moments that Bill Cosby manages to make so incredibly funny. Our kids may not become future prime ministers, or inventors, or even comedians, and we can hope they’ll grow to become loving, compassionate and giving people, but there are no guarantees. All we can do now is hope and believe that they’re worth it.

And to be honest, I can’t know for certain if this widow Mark describes ever existed. Mark isn’t so much describing to us a moment from history, as he is sharing a point of theology. But we can assume with good probability that there were widows who gave to the Temple in the first century, and that those widows were very poor indeed. Was it worth it? Well here’s a thought. If it weren’t for the good faith of those people some 2,000 years ago, there would be no remnants of a Temple at all in Jerusalem today. What I find fascinating is that today, 2,000 years later, more than a million prayers are written on scraps of paper and shoved into the crevices of the retaining wall of that Temple each year. And those million plus scraps of paper are the prayers of people from the poor to people with great wealth, people like President Obama. When I consider that even the retaining wall of the Temple holds great spiritual and religious significance to so many, I know that those widows did not give of their lives in vain.

The widow offers us a glimpse of what Jesus is all about. And the widow offers us a glimpse of what being a person of faith is all about. This widow gives us a glimpse into what soldiers are all about in Afghanistan this very day. This widow reminds us of what loving parents and foster parents are all about for years of their lives. And I sure hope this widow offers us a glimpse of what being the church is all about today too. What we do in great hope is worth it, even if we can’t see clearly what the end result will bring. It’s about faith, not certainty.
Last week I suggested that a saint is someone who makes goodness attractive. One such saint, Augustine, said our duty is to present ourselves—all of who we are—to God. It’s not something we can do from arm’s length. It’s not a cheque we can conveniently deposit into an account. If we become like this widow, we must live our lives in such a way that our offering is truly shared with others. On November 11th, hopefully this will ring true for us at some profound level as we remember the sacrifices of so many. And hopefully it will inspire us to think about where we can give of our selves in our own communities.

Despite the tragedy of what happened at Fort Hood in Texas this week, here’s a good news story a minister tells about a soldier, a veteran, he met recently, a man badly injured on active service, who still can see value in giving of his life:
He will soon leave the Army, but, while recovering from his injuries, he has been training to become a teacher. He will be working with young offenders, because he has a passion for inspiring them to find the purpose and dignity in life that his army experience has given him. I am not sure that he is a person of Christian faith, but I have no doubt that his influence for good in the lives of young people will exemplify the values of what we would call the Kingdom of God.
This week as we gather to remember, let us all consider the ways in which we serve—not from self-interest—but from an interest in making goodness attractive, giving of our lives, and doing so in the great and good faith and hope that God hasn’t finished with us or this old world just yet.

Let us pray:
God we look at so many things in this world and see nothing terribly hopeful. The nightly news doesn’t help us to see much beyond stories of human tragedy and failure. And yet you’ve placed before us people like a nameless widow who still saw good purpose in such things as hoping for what cannot be seen, and believing in what has not yet come to pass. Help us to find inspiration for our lives in the stories of our faith. And we find that faith lifting us, encouraging us, and helping us to make goodness attractive in our lives, so that others might find goodness, hope and faith in theirs. Amen.

Making Goodness Attractive

2009-11-19T15:11:00.000-08:00

Delivered November 1, 2009

Have you ever met a saint? And if you have, how would you know if you did? I returned a video game to the retail store where I purchased it. The game didn’t work properly, and I wasn’t a terribly happy customer. The assistant manager didn’t raise an eyebrow even though I had opened the game and clearly used it. He quickly and quietly completed the paperwork and handed me back my money, no questions asked. In fact, he even gave me a smile. Who could ask for better customer service? But, would I call him a saint for doing so?

We commonly think of sainthood as something reserved for the holiest of holy people: the righteous of the righteous, if you will. In the Roman Catholic tradition, capital “S” saints are people who have gone through a rigorous selection process. To be canonized in the Roman Catholic Church you need to have at least 4 bona fide miracles associated with your life. I don’t know about you, but I’m actually just hoping to end this life with people coming to the pulpit to say a few kind words about my better days, let alone attaching the word “miraculous” to my span of years.

As Protestants we’ve never understood the need to venerate saints. We see little need to take any truck with kissing icons, or holding particular feast days for particularly saintly dead people. The closest might include remembering with gratitude that saintly unmarried aunt who would never say an unkind word to anyone. But I don’t think many of us would consider venerating her and encouraging our neighbors and friends to do so as well. Yes, it’s the Feast Day of Aunt Martha—please bring a casserole. That might just get you permanently and politely struck from the Christmas card list when December rolls around.

Venerating the saints can become quite ridiculous. Take for example the German prince Frederick the Wise. Apparently history could have named him Frederick the Collector of Dubious Junk. For you see this German prince was so caught up in acquiring the relics of the saints, he spent a fortune securing them. Apparently the good prince had just over 5,000 pieces in 1509, and by 1520 that collection had grown to over 19,000. He had everything from the holy tooth of Jerome and pieces of Mary’s cloak, to a piece of bread, apparently from the Last Supper. And did I mention a strand of hair from Jesus’ beard? 1

This relic-worship was the sort of thing that made the church reformer Martin Luther so disgusted with the medieval church. On All Saints Day the church would drum out these relics for the faithful to see and venerate. But it all had much more to do with raising funds for building a cathedral and guaranteeing your place in heaven than it did with growing disciples of Jesus Christ and serving the needs of the people.2

Luther and the Protestant church took a somewhat different position on what it meant to be a saint. Being a saint wasn’t anything reserved for the holiest of holy people. Every person of good faith is a saint. But with this one twist: you are a saint, Luther said, even while being a sinner at the very same time. For Luther you couldn’t simply be one or the other. You could only be both.

For Luther there was this truth to life as a Christian: we can be vessels through which God’s grace flows in some remarkable ways. Whenever I hear someone belaboring the point that at church they are just made to feel low and unworthy, I know that someone’s not hearing enough of the good news that in God’s hands we can do beautifully inspired acts of love. There’s a commercial on TV about a particular cancer clinic here in Canada. In the commercial you hear a melody from a popular rock band that sings about hope and justice. So right away for a certain audience you wonder what’s so hopeful about this ad. In the commercial you see a number of people holding up different signs. On one side of the sign is a negative idea or thought: “I lost a leg to cancer” or “I was only given months to live.” And then the person flips the sign over, “I am alive to walk on a good leg” or “I’ve enjoyed 3 more months of life.” There’s one particular scene that chokes me up when I see it. A woman holds up a sign that reads, “I had a life saving procedure” and there’s a physician standing beside her and his sign reads, “I’m the one who did the procedure.”

The beauty of this ad is that it points out how the whole purpose of this cancer clinic is people. It’s people helping people out of a great desire for healing, hope and wholeness. And every time I watch that ad I think it really gets to the heart of what Luther was suggesting about who we are as people of faith. In God’s grace we can do some remarkably great things with love and compassion and hope. This is what makes us saintly in Luther’s eyes.

At the same time, Luther knew what could also motivate the heart of every Christian person. He knew that we are far from perfect no matter how much we might wish to fool ourselves into believing otherwise. And for that reason, Luther continued to see Christians as being both sinners and saints at the same time. In her book, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith Kathleen Norris comments on her need to admit she’s got room to grow despite being what Luther would call “saintly”:

“If I care to pay attention, which I usually do not, I can find all too many ways in which I transgress regularly against the great commandment, to love God with all my heart and soul, and my neighbour as myself. On a daily basis, I fail to keep the balance that this commandment requires of me: that I love and care for myself, but not so well that I become incapable of loving and serving others; and that I remember to praise God as the author of life itself, but not so blindly that I lose sight of the down-to-earth dimensions of my everyday relationships and commitments.”

In his novel about a priest fleeing a religious purge against clerics in Mexico, Graham Greene coined the phrase, “whiskey priest.” The first time I remember meeting a whiskey priest was in the character of Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood legend. Friar Tuck was a man of the cloth, but also, how shall we say, a man of the sauce. Yet there he is doing his part to overturn the greater evil of the nefarious Prince John. In Greene’s novel, the less-than-pious priest faces a very different destiny. He falls into the hands of his pursuers and faces execution. Greene says the priest is too “human for heroism, and too humble for martyrdom.” And yet facing his executioners, the man comes to the realization that “at the end there was only one thing that mattered—to be a saint.” Despite his fallen nature—despite being a sinner—there was enough humility and clarity to know he’s not what he should be—or what he could be.3 Even there God’s grace touches upon the man and opens his eyes even at the end of his life. Saint-making, as someone observed, is God’s business, not simply ours to accomplish.

“We give thanks…for those who, like Martin Luther King Jr., gave powerful public witness in working for justice for all people; for those who, like Mother Teresa, were living examples of caring for the least of these; for those who, like St. Francis, taught us about caring for the whole creation; for those who, like Jimmy Carter and Al Gore, demonstrated that our most significant contributions to the world’s welfare can come after retirement; for those who, like the Amish in Pennsylvania who lost children in a school shooting, show us that it is possible to forgive those who have caused us almost unbearable harm or loss.”

And the Lutheran preacher, Phyllis Kersten, reminds us that saints may appear in some of the last places we might imagine. She says, “the saints of God that we remember and give thanks for today include also the family member who always manages to rub us the wrong way, the high-maintenance friend who often seems to need more than we can give. It includes the people—ourselves also—who sometimes find it difficult to believe than God can possibly love those whose lifestyle or belief system differs from our own. It means that when we find out years after their death that some of those we’ve placed on high pedestals—such as Mother Teresa—have clay feet, it doesn’t make them seem less saintly but only more human.”

I met a young fellow not so long ago who told me that one of the reasons he stays away from church is because he’s worried that as soon as he walks through the door, we’ll judge him as somehow “unworthy.” He was only seeing us as possibly being a community of holier-than-thou people. And I told him, “Now here’s something funny. Do you know that we have this fear that young people will walk through the doors, sit down and judge us as being unworthy of their lives?” We look at newcomers and hope they’ll see us as “worthy and interesting.” I suggested he would discover many people who aren’t the holiest, nor the worst, but mostly who are just like him: looking to be accepted, welcomed and loved.

Deep down I hope we might become a community where genuine love can be reason enough for our gathering together. Imagine if we could honestly accept one another for being all too human and at the same time people who God will work with and through all the same? We might wish to take time dwelling on the blessedly faithful people of the church. But we might do well to remember those who have tripped along the way. Most of us are somewhere in-between. I take great hope in the words that Jesus says to this teacher of the Law in the gospel reading: just knowing that love is at the root of it all puts us not so far from ultimate goal. As Kathleen Norris so wisely puts its, “If the history of Christianity has taught me nothing else, it reminds me that it takes all kinds.”

Jesus reminds us of what the glory of God does when it embodies itself in our humanity: we realize how profoundly less than perfect we are; yet it encourages us all the same. We’re found, in that glory, not just wanting, but very worthwhile as well. Our lives matter infinitely to God. Can we trust that and let it show?

Someone said that we each live with a moral imperative today. It’s about disencumbering ourselves—there’s a word—it’s about letting go with what doesn’t truly matter so that you can make room in your life for what truly does. You begin to live so that you might one day, “see God.”4 And I might add, “see God, and truly start to live in a way that has a share in that love.”

Did you ever hear of St. Don Bosco? He’s one of the capital “S” Catholic saints. He’s the patron saint of—get this—conjurors—magicians. Don Bosco would teach the gospel by using sleight of hand and magic tricks. He would teach Bible stories by juggling and entertaining. Don’t ask me how. I’m trying to imagine that myself. Maybe that’s one of the miracles that got him into sainthood. But, I appreciated this observation about a juggling saint. Don Bosco reminds us of two things: first, take glorifying God seriously, yes embody holiness in your life, and second, you actually can have fun while doing it too.5

You might never have heard of a young man named Pier Giorgio Frassati. A citizen of Turin, young Pier was very wealthy. And he dedicated his all too short life to what we would call today the elimination of poverty and recreating the social welfare system. Pier died of polio at 24 years of age. He was remembered as teaching, “Charity is not enough: we need social reform.” He died in 1925. And do you know who felt inspired by his commitment to the good? A young polish priest named Karol Wojtyla, or as we remember him, Pope John Paul II.6 Who knows how your own life—long or short—carefree or not so carefree—might be a shining light to another?

Who’s the saint? Is it the whiskey priest of Graham Greene’s novel? Realizing moments before his life ends what life is all about and breathes his last with enlightenment? Is it Don Bosco juggling for children with great joy and glorifying God all the same? Is it two people who conduct a business transaction, whether for 30 dollars or 30 million dollars, in a fair manner on a typical Saturday afternoon because it’s the right thing to do? Is it that gracious and kindly aunt who never married and yet who seemed never to think of herself—never saying an unkind word about anyone? Or is it a young Italian committed to using his wealth and his faith for a commonwealth of all people? Maybe Luther had it right: we are both sinner and saint. In God’s hands they are all found worthy.

Here’s a definition of a saint that I came across this week. I think it makes good sense. I hope you do too. A saint is someone who makes goodness attractive.7 And here’s an encouraging thought. We’re surrounded by what scripture calls a cloud of saints. It may very well be those who have gone on before us. It may very well be the person sitting near you. It may very well be—it often is—those children downstairs today. And it may be someone who you have not yet met, but who will come into your life in a profound way tomorrow. We are not alone in making goodness attractive. And we are certainly not alone in giving glory to God. We ought to not only consider this morning how we reflect and embody that glory. We ought to consider this morning who will reveal it to us in our lives.

Let me close with these words from Dan Clendenin, a Christian writer and someone who sees a great purpose in celebrating the saints on a Sunday like this:

“…I am surrounded by “a great cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1), who cheer me on to “run with endurance the race that is set before me.” Wherever I find myself on the Christian pilgrimage, in joy or despair, faith or doubt, sin or grace, millions of believers have gone before me. Some have failed miserably, others have triumphed gloriously. But at the end of the race, whether they ran well or poorly, they found ultimate rest in God's grace that knows no boundaries and love which knows no limits.

So, celebrate the saints.”8

Let us pray:
On this day, God we recall with gratitude the lives of the saints: children, men, women, young and old, friends and strangers, all who felt your call to follow Christ into the world and give their lives to glorifying your presence, in great and small ways. Help us to believe that we are neither too old, nor too late, nor too wise, nor too simple to follow the Christ. Help each of us to embody your glory in our good days and in our bad. And let us manifest your love in the life you’ve given to each of us, and in the world you entrust to our care. Amen.

Notes:
1.. Clendenin, Dan. “Celebrating the Saints.” November 2, 2008. journeywithjesus.net
2. ---.
3. Pridmore, John. “This Sunday’s readings: All Saints Day” November 1, 2008. www.churchtimes.co.uk
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7. ---.
8. Clendenin, Dan. “Celebrating the Saints.” November 2, 2008. journeywithjesus.net

Who Is This God?

2009-11-19T14:58:00.000-08:00

Delivered October 25th, 2009

Last month I introduced these “101” Sundays by inviting you to think about the place of worship and praise in our lives. If you remember, I quoted the American poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said that we ought to be careful what we worship because human beings being human beings, we will end up worshipping something. As he put it so well, that which we worship “dominates our imaginations and our thoughts [and] will determine our lives, and our character.” So if we come here and say we worship and praise God, I suppose a very good question to ask would be, “What God do we worship in particular?”

Now that might sound like a strange question to ask given the setting of where we worship. You can open our hymnbooks and find printed there the words to the United Church creed. And very simply it opens with the words, “We are not alone, we live in God’s world. We believe in God: who has created and is creating.” Even though that word “God” is a mere 3 letters long, it’s a small word with many assumptions and ideas attached to it. And when you hear the word “God” any number of thoughts might immediately come to mind. But imagine your reaction if you opened the hymnbook, turned to the creed and saw this printed instead, “We are not alone, we live in Thor’s world.” Or what if you read this, “We believe in Ponzi schemes: that cheat and make us easy money.”

For any number of diehard atheists today, the very idea that we believe in a deity seems absurd. In their eyes, we might as well say we believe in Thor, or Zeus, or, the Flying Spaghetti Monster. It’s all the same to them. In their opinion, God is simply a fiction, a great myth and for the most part a delusion—a superstition that has worn out its welcome. Thankfully not all atheists are so belittling of the human race that, statistically speaking, still believe in some concept of God on a whole. I like to believe that even God makes good use of atheists who can at least help us to ask deeper questions about what we truly believe and why.

Have you ever noticed that in this world of ours people often judge entertainment, art or even sports and science by the very best of its works and those who practice them? Why do we remember and celebrate people like Madonna, or Picasso, Gretzky or Einstein? Just mentioning those names brings to mind the best. But it’s not the same with religion. Religion today always seems to be judged on the basis of the worst of its works or by those who fail so miserably at it. And I must admit that I am often so embarrassed by what many people do and believe in their claim to be followers of God that it is easy to forget those who actually practiced their beliefs with integrity and made a difference. So sometimes that word “God” needs a little clarifying to help us make better sense of just who God is for Christians.

Chances are if I sit down with someone who doesn’t believe in the God of war, or a God who hates, or a God who needs to ask us to check our brains in return for blind faith, chances are I will say, “I don’t believe in that God either.” Sometimes it’s much easier to say what it is you don’t believe in than what you do. We certainly don’t come here on Sunday mornings and give praise to Thor. We have a cross on the wall, not some bearded Nordic fellow bearing a hammer. And when we do gather and give God praise it isn’t because we believe in the redemptive purposes of Ponzi schemes, or means and ways to cheat others out of money. Despite the ridiculous criticisms leveled at us as believers, I can’t say that I have ever come to a worship service in the United Church and find myself singing praises to God for denying good sense, giving thanks to God for dismissing science, celebrating antagonism, or giving thanks for feelings of hatred and spite. And for those of you who have worshipped here over the years, I would hope that your experiences would be similar.

In his book, Letters to a Young Doubter, the American preacher, Bill Coffin, describes a scene where he raises the question about the existence of God amongst some friends and colleagues. Bill asks, “Isn’t the existence of God a lively question?” And immediately one of his colleagues snaps back, “Bill, it’s not even a question, let alone a lively one.”

Bill pressed on with his question: “I can understand doubting the quality of the bread, but I can’t see kidding yourself that you’re not hungry—unless, of course, your soul has so shriveled up that you have no more appetite left for the great mysteries of life, especially the [Mystery of Mysteries].” And then he added with a grin, “And that’s why I think so many of you are so boring.” Do you know what happened after he said that? The spouses of those dry academics started to clap in agreement—yes why aren’t we more animated about asking those big questions in life—why do we love? Why do we hope? Why do we seek inner peace? Why do we forgive at all? Why is it that all work, and no play, makes Jack and Jill very dull people?

Being something of a Star Trek fan, I always remember this episode where Spock, and Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy land on yet another strange, alien planet. And on that planet there are a number of plants that let off a most intoxicating scent. It’s so intoxicating that it brings to surface those things that people suppress. And in a very curious scene, you see the normally reserved Spock—so rational, and so devoid of emotion—suddenly act very strangely. He falls in love, and he drops his tri-corder and falls into the arms of a young woman. And he lies back in the grass and he looks up at the clouds and he says, “You know I can tell you exactly how that cloud exists. I can tell you what needs to come together to make that cloud. I can even tell you what needs to happen for that cloud to begin dropping rain. But I can’t remember the last time I just looked at a cloud in awe and wonder and beauty.”

The theologian, Douglas John Hall, rightly wonders if there really is any point in trying to find a satisfactory answer to the question, “Does God exist?” Put the smartest atheist up against a clever theologian and it’s a draw on this question. The atheist cannot simply disprove God’s existence. The theologian can’t prove God’s existence beyond a shadow of a doubt either. I think that’s why we call what we do here, “faith” not “certainty.” We go on a great deal of faith. And we trust that God exists. And if God does exist, we begin to ask questions about what God is like. The question isn’t “whether God is or isn’t, but who God is or is not.”

Emerson was very correct in his idea about human beings being people given to worship something. We worship and praise many different gods that give us something to believe in, gods in whom we put our trust. Any number of people will put their faith in the gods of sex, drugs, military might, and charismatic leaders. Even our different ideologies become a guiding light to our lives: socialism becomes either the god who will save us, or the devil who will condemn us; the same can be said for capitalism. All of these receive great trust—blind faith—because nobody takes the time to really think them through. When we become less critical of such things, well, we blindly follow all the more. Isn’t there a great god out there called consumerism? Isn’t it the faith that encourages you to believe that if you just consume more and consume more and more material things, the happier we will feel. That too is faith—it’s faith that somehow all the toys will make us happier and more fulfilled. But whether it’s worthwhile bread to feed the soul, well that’s doubtful indeed.

Goodness knows knowledge and skill provide us with certainty in life. If I were to hold up a placard that read, “2+2=4” many of you would nod your heads in agreement. If I were to then hold up a placard that read, “2+8=4” I’m certain many of you would look puzzled. A person could draw up a design, complete with any number of equations, and materials, and instructions and hand it to an engineer and that engineer could tell you whether she could build a bridge that met safety codes. If she were an engineer with integrity, she would also tell you if you needed to go back to the drawing table. Just yesterday I went to the pharmacist to ask about any medicine that might help with chest congestion. And in short order she produced something that would help. Here’s the wonder of medical science and knowledge helping me to live better.

However, all this knowledge and skill doesn’t necessarily guide us on every matter of human living. Imagine if I held up a sign that read, “What plus what equals forgiveness”. Is there any particular equation for forgiveness in which we can punch in the numbers and get the same result every time? I’m thankful that engineers have the knowledge and skill to build bridges that can safely span a small stream or the widest body of water between two pieces of land. And yet for all that skill and knowledge, no engineer has yet designed the blueprints for how to build a bridge of peace between two warring nations, let alone two friends who have a falling out. And despite all the medical science and pills and drugs, I have yet to find a wonder drug that can simply heal the heart broken by grief. Can anyone give me a prescription for that?

The most radical of atheists put their faith in human knowledge and claim that it will be only a matter of time before we are bright enough to figure out these things. And we are clever and thank goodness for that. But I’ll cast my lot in with Spock as well, who lies in the grass and stares up at the clouds and suddenly has a revelation about what needs to change in his life. It’s not his great logic that draws him to that conclusion. It’s something that wells up from deep inside after he loses his sense for a little while.

A Canadian philosopher once said that many human beings are sadly like a dog that simply sits waiting for the next meal to be pushed under our snouts. Rarely do we take the time these days to look up at the stars and wonder why they are there. And that could be said for the reasons why many things happen in our lives. Our faith in God helps us to remember that we are not alone and that God is also helping us to look deeply into our lives and ask some very important questions about life itself. And one doesn’t need to be a great thinker to think these thoughts. I think one can simply take a look around and see signs and glimpses of God’s presence in the everyday too. I like the comment that a 7th grader made about her belief in God. Young Katie Drury said, “I find God through dogs because dogs are full of love.” An atheist might sneer at such a comment, dismissing it as utter nonsense; I would say to young Katie, well keep looking and never lose your desire to see where God is in all things. As someone once said, “The heart has its reasons of which the mind knows nothing.”
For the past 2,000 years the church has tried to say something in particular about this God in whom we trust. In the 1st or 2nd century the church wrote a creed that began with the words, “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.” Later in the 4th century the church would revise that and write, “We believe in one God, the Father, the almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.” By the late 20th century, our own denomination would write, “We are not alone, we live in God’s world. We believe in God: who has created and is creating.”

We can draw two conclusions from this. First, for Christians over the centuries, God isn’t simply abstract or intangible. We can say something definite about God. And second, people over the centuries have experienced or known God in very particular ways. We can say something particular about this God in whom we believe. The Jewish people and their Israelite ancestors understood God as Creator, but would eventually see God as a giver of teachings, a judge, even a Lord. For centuries Christians have understood God to be both a heavenly parent and a creator. And if we were to simply brainstorm amongst ourselves we could often arrive at any number of images of how we understand God. Most of those images come from the Bible. All of these images of God tell us something about how we relate to God.

If you want to see what we truly believe about God and how we try to put that faith into expression, I suggest you start with our hymnbooks. On any given Sunday when we begin to sing songs of faith, we see the real treasure of faith spilling out in word and melody. For those who wish to dismiss what we believe they are certainly free to do so. But I would let the words and thoughts of our prayers and sermons and our songs testify enough to what we do believe about God. It really has nothing to do with Ponzi schemes or Thor for that matter. It has a great deal to do with being human in a very particular way.

We can’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that such a God exists. But I do believe there are enough people who have come to trust in such a God that their lives have changed the world around them. We know that there are those who have excelled in their faith. And it’s not simply famous people. I would say it’s the miracle that there are millions of people in the world who believe in God and actually live in peace and harmony because that faith in God compels them to try to live in love and forgiveness every day. It’s not just the “holy” people, or the “religious” people. Wasn’t it Einstein, that great scientific thinker, who said, “I want to know God’s thoughts; the rest is detail.”

For Christians, however, there remains one very particular way in which we see God revealed to us. It’s through a particular person. And that person is Jesus. There’s a very good reason why when we come to church we see a cross on the wall, and not Thor’s hammer, thank goodness. And perhaps if there’s any particular human life that testifies to God’s reality, it remains Jesus who reveals God to us in a very particular—and let me say—a very human way. But I will leave that for the next “101” Sunday. In the meantime, I hope that I’ve offered you some bread today to nourish some thinking, some wondering. I hope you’ll find opportunity this week to lift your heads from your desks and your equipment and papers, and look to the sky and consider why there are beautiful clouds, or hug your children and wonder why there is love, or watch the evening news, and find yourself saying, “But the world doesn’t have to be this way.” If you can do that, you are a good step in opening your heart to faith in God already.

Let us pray:

Loving and Gracious God we give you thanks for the gift of faith in our lives. We give you thanks that as Christians we can come here and see the great value of human knowledge, of science and skill. But we also give you thanks for the power of our imaginations, for the great mysterious landscape of our hearts, for wanting to move beyond the raw data of human existence and treasure things like wonder, awe, and mystery. We pray today for those for whom faith continues to elude them. But you have given us all a desire to know you. And we pray that we might all grow that desire, live into it, come to you and each other with our questions. And in those questions and in that openness speak to us and let us know you are there. We ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

What God Wants Out of Us

2009-11-19T14:53:00.000-08:00

Mark 10:35-45

Delivered on October 18, 2009

This week as I was preparing for the sermon, I came across a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King some 42 years ago. In that sermon Dr. King preached on this very passage from Mark’s gospel where James and John ask Jesus for a share in his glory and his kingdom. And Rev. King entitled that sermon, “The Drum Major Instinct”. Martin Luther King said men and women have this instinct within them. It’s the instinctive need to be front and centre in some way or another. People want to be leading the parade and banging the drum for all to see. Forty-two years later someone decided to use a more scientific term to describe the Drum Major Instinct. A preacher said we all share one thing in common with James and John, these sons of Zebedee: we all have the Zebedee DNA. The analogies change but the point remains the same: people still yearn for glory and recognition and greatness, whatever the cost.

Dr. King pointed to how some people throng to join different fraternities and clubs because they want to have some handle or title like “president” or “worthy fellow” or “grand matron.” Not that there’s anything terribly wrong with clubs and social groups, mind you. What would our community be without minor sports clubs and other voluntary associations that raise so much money for our children and families in the community? But Dr. King says the desire in the human heart might lie with having the title, more so than serving the people. It can happen in any fraternity or sorority.

It also happens in the church. A person might choose to sit on a committee or chair an event because she believes it will look good on her resume more so than really wish to serve because it is simply good to serve. I remember a man who sat on a church council because I believe he thought it would look good on his list of community achievements. Did he ever come to worship? Rarely. Did he visit the sick and the shut-ins? Never. Would he help out with church events: if he could free himself from higher priorities. But once a month he made time so he could pass motions, have his name appear in minutes, and the church annual report. But he truly had no relationship with the church family.

Sometimes even in the church we find people who want a title with whatever dose of respect they believe a title brings. In my work with candidates for ministry, I remember having to tell a good and faithful man that he would never receive the title “Reverend.” This title seemed more important to him than his desire to complete the requirements for the title. He tried to do all he could to get it and to show us he was worthy. But he wasn’t prepared to serve the church the way people in ordained ministry serve. Some people want the glory, but without paying the cost. Some people want the recognition without the actual sacrifice.

Sometimes it’s not even a title that people desire. Sometimes it is just the attention. Perhaps it fills the void of a rather ordinary life. Perhaps some people feel so small and insignificant they need to project their lives in a big way just to get noticed or appreciated. Just this week we heard about a boy in the US being taken away in an experimental weather balloon. People were fixated on this potential tragedy. The TV included images of this balloon floating around and everyone thinking that this boy might very well be inside, his life in serious danger. The boy thankfully was unharmed, but questions immediately began to surface. Was this a possible hoax? Was it an attempt to grab attention? As of yesterday police were still investigating the matter. This morning I read that the police will be pressing charges in this matter. Why would someone want to put everyone into such a distress forcing emergency services and news agency to divert their energy and resources?

We don’t need to look to possible hoaxes to see how some people want attention and will do anything to get it. We can turn on the TV nightly to watch the latest round of shows that celebrate the bizarre need to be first and find the limelight. There’s an incredible entertainment industry growing around what we call reality TV and the increasingly bizarre lengths that people will go to challenge each other to do the strangest things imaginable. Some of these reality shows even require participants and contestants to do the most disgusting and outrageous things. I wonder really what sort of greatness they desire in their hearts. Go on YouTube and you can watch countless videos of people doing the strangest of things. I often think it is for attention. Of course, I’m not saying that all reality TV or YouTube videos are self-serving or attention grabbing. In fact, just last night I watched a video a chef posted teaching you how to carve a turkey. I don’t think he filmed it for attention or greatness. He posted it to be helpful to poor fellows like me who don’t routinely carve turkeys. So I want to believe his heart was definitely in the right place.

James and John desired what many of their people desired. It was a future free from the oppression inflicted upon them by pagan rulers. Theirs was a hope that Jesus would be the king who would march into Jerusalem and establish God’s kingdom again. This was what people imagined when they thought of a saviour. And it was an ancient hope. They truly believed that once the right ruler got into power, the world would be changed for the better. God’s king would be seated in Jerusalem and all the nations would finally see this Light of Lights and be drawn to it. And there’s certainly ample evidence that indeed there were pockets of political thought in Jesus’ day and age where people truly wanted to see an end to Roman occupation. They were looking for their Messiah. And for people like James and John, they believe this saviour to be Jesus.

We can’t say we blame them for desiring such change. We also yearn for that sort of political salvation. Do we not also find ourselves thinking that if we just have a change in leadership in Ottawa or in Washington that somehow this will put the world to rights? Aren’t we quick to point out which political party has the best possible agenda for change? Didn’t millions throng to Washington to see the first black president inaugurated? If I read the news stories correctly, isn’t this part of the explanation this week for why the American president will receive the Nobel peace prize, because the Nobel committee believes in him as being someone who can bring lasting change as world leader? The world definitely wants to continue awarding great people for great things. You can be sure there will be people wishing to bask in that celebrity and have a share.

Their wish for change might indeed be genuine, but James and John completely misunderstand the sort of saviour Jesus will be. They’re thinking of someone who will have power, someone who has the power to toss the Romans out on their ears. But, Jesus doesn’t storm Jerusalem riding a charger with a band of armed troops. He rides in on a donkey—a pack animal—with a band of followers. They think perhaps that Jesus will have some weapon with which to remove the Romans. What great weapon will he yield? What great tactic will he use? But Jesus will only carry a cross and give up his life on a hill. James and John want to be seated on the left and right of Jesus. Perhaps they envision being prime ministers in a new kingdom on earth. Not surprisingly the other disciples hear this and they all begin bickering. Who will be greatest and seated next to Jesus? Jesus, however, will be crucified with a criminal crucified on his right and another on his left. The disciples think Jesus will give them whatever they ask as reward for their good discipleship and service. Jesus, however, asks, ““Can you drink the cup of suffering that I must drink? Can you be baptized in the way I must be baptized?” Remarkably the disciples say with enthusiasm, “We can.” You wonder if they’ve even been listening to what Jesus is telling them about what following him will really involve.

Imagine if you drove past a church and on the billboard outside it said, “Come in and be crucified. We have a cross custom built for you!” I wonder just how many would venture inside the doors of such a church. It seems to me that Jesus is suggesting this very thing to James and John. Follow me and expect to suffer. Life will not be all greatness, power and privilege. Sometimes following me will involve suffering for others in order for something good to come about.

We live in a culture that doesn’t want to deal with crosses. We don’t want to deal with the negative. So pernicious is this denial that we continue to see people reviving the ever-popular myth of positive thinking. Just wish for good things and if you just wish hard enough the universe—in some magically unexplained way—will send you what you wish for. It sounds easy enough. It sounds lovely. But try explaining this to someone like Dr. King who knew the great cost involved in social change. It wasn’t going to simply happen by wishful and positive thinking.

I watched a program this week where a woman suggests that the power of positive and wishful thinking is poisoning us as a culture. It’s preventing us from dealing with reality. We aren’t always going to have perfect, blemish free lives. She said that when she was undergoing treatments for breast cancer she continued to receive all these messages from her well-meaning friends. Just think positively and you can beat this. Just don’t get depressed and all will be well. Your attitude means everything in your healing. And finally she said that she just wanted someone to tell her, “It’s okay to feel down.” “It’s okay to be angry.” “It’s okay to be...human...and cry and lament what’s happening because it isn’t fair.” Despite her best wishes the universe didn’t magically whisk her breast cancer away. The positive thinking failed. But this wasn’t the end of her. From her own suffering she decided the best thing she could do was write a book about it and spread the word to others who might be just sick of having people tell them to just grin and bear it. Sometimes the truth is we have no choice but to live with our brokenness, but that doesn’t mean it’s the end of our every hope and dream.

Jesus lives, loves and eventually dies for what he believes God wants for the world. And our faith tradition tells us that his death is not the end and that God even undoes that and does something new beyond the reality of death itself. Dr. King himself suffered for putting himself in the hands of God and I don’t think anyone could say that his death was truly in vain. He certainly didn’t believe so. God did something even with that. And thankfully most of us will live this life and never have to face such a high cost because of our faith. But if our faith is real, it will ask something of us in our time, in our service to others, in how we make choices to live without all the toys and attention and fixation on being the greatest as our society understands this. The preacher, William Willimon puts it this way: “Jesus is not a technique for getting what we want out of God; Jesus is God's way of getting what God wants out of us. God wants a world, a world redeemed, restored to God. And the way God gets that is with ordinary people like us who are willing to walk like Jesus, talk like Jesus, yes, and even if need be to suffer like Jesus.”

Henri Nouwen, a writer on spirituality and faith, says this about our very real human hurt and suffering. “Only those who face their wounded condition can be available for healing and so enter a new way of living.” Jesus sees greatness in our being able to be a servant to one another. One of the very real blessings about being a congregation comes in the fact that we do try to shoulder one another’s hurts. We are a people who continue to find life even in the midst of brokenness.

We are people who know the pain of losing dear loved ones. We are a people who know the pain of marriages that have ended. We are a people who know the truth about addictions. We are a people who know the reality of character flaws, weakness and temptation. You can come here and discover that you sit beside someone who knows what it means to be honestly human and still we can love each other and call each other “friend.” In this sense we are a gift to one another. Does anyone think that perhaps because you don’t have a perfect life you ought not to be here? Someone once told me he doesn’t come to church because he feels he’s too raw and unacceptable. Maybe God needs you right here so God can take even you in all your humanity and bring healing and hope to another.

In the words attributed to Francis of Assisi, we gather as followers of Jesus not so much to be consoled as to console, not so much to be loved as to love, not so much to be understood, but to understand. Despite the best hopes and dreams of the seekers of glory—the sons of Zebedee—Jesus isn’t going to save them from their every peril. They won’t be the leaders of the pack. Life will not simply be as they hope and dream. And despite our best attempts to snatch greatness and live the best life, that doesn’t mean we are going to achieve that. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t still a life worthy to be had and a great life to be lived. If we truly have Zebedee DNA, let’s not forget that the Spirit and our faith give us a share in Jesus DNA. If we have any instinct to be a drum major, Jesus invites us to beat that drum to a different tune.

Dr. King says that one of the blessings of the church is that anyone can come here and put the drum major instinct aside and still find greatness. You can come into the church and put away your title of doctor, or lawyer, or teacher and still be great. You can put away your need for recognition and still be great. You can come here and sit beside your brother and sister in the congregation and know that together you are great in the eyes of God. You can come here in all your weakness and know that you are not alone and that you will not be judged for being imperfect. You are great because Jesus overturns the idea that you must have an education to do great things. You are great because Jesus over turns the idea that you have to do something of great power and show to be great. You are great because Jesus knows you won’t ever be perfect, but he sees worth in you all the same. You can come here and find greatness because Jesus says true greatness arrives with serving and giving of your life. And you don’t need a title to do that. You don’t need to put yourself into a reality TV show to do that. You don’t necessarily need the best education to do that. And God knows you don’t need to be perfect to do that. You just need the desire to want to serve and Jesus says true greatness will be found. And I believe a great deal of healing and wholeness can come with that too.

When Rev. King concluded his sermon that morning 40 some years ago, he concluded it with a thought about what might be said of him at his funeral:

Tell them not to mention that I have a Nobel Peace Prize—that isn’t important. Tell them not to mention that I have three or four hundred other awards—that’s not important. Tell them not to mention where I went to school.
I'd like somebody to mention that day that Martin Luther King, Jr., tried to give his life serving others.
I'd like for somebody to say that day that Martin Luther King, Jr., tried to love somebody.
I want you to be able to say that day that I did try to feed the hungry.
I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity.

If I can help somebody as I pass along,
If I can cheer somebody with a word or song,
If I can show somebody he's traveling wrong,
Then my living will not be in vain.
If I can do my duty as a Christian ought,
If I can bring salvation to a world once wrought,
If I can spread the message as the master taught,
Then my living will not be in vain.

Let us pray:
Gracious Lord we see all sorts of ways in which people wish to find greatness. Some work hard at the perfect body. Some work hard to have the perfect home. Some work hard for the best job and the greatest income. We can’t claim to have any of these. Put into our hearts today the very real desire to be on your right and your left; not for any selfish reason, nor for ambition or even the name “Christian,” and not because we want to be perfect and the greatest; but let us stand on your right and your left because we believe in love and justice, because we desire truth, and we want a life where we serve others; take our lives, some of us young and vibrant, some of us broken and hurting, some of us advancing in our years, and help us to see that you have great purpose for us all. Raise us into new life so that we can go out from these doors and make something good and new out of this world this week and its people you so very much love. Amen.

A Grateful Preoccupation

2009-10-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

1 Timothy 2:1-7
Matthew 6:25-33

Earlier this week I posted a statement of gratitude on my Facebook page. With the turn of the weather to these colder temperatures, I wrote, “Kent thinks heated car seats are a lovely feature and his buns are thankful.” And when I settled myself into my cold car this morning, I clicked that little button and gave thanks again for the warmth surrounding my behind. I’m not terribly fond of the cold.

A warm behind might sound like the most ridiculous thing for which to be thankful. And yet as I drove that car down the road, I couldn’t help but think about how thankful I ought to be for the great skill and engineering that went into the vehicle I was driving. And then it occurred to me that indeed many people have benefited from the advances in vehicle design: that someone would design the safety belt, air bags, and that manufacturers would have the good sense to design interiors with soft, rounded edges. You begin to see that you now travel in a vehicle designed to help you have the best chance to walk away from an accident. Suddenly you realize that someone’s put a lot of work into ensuring your safety.

Often it isn’t until we think on these things that we appreciate their usefulness. And often it isn’t until we find ourselves in the place of greatest need that we really begin to feel a true and deep thankfulness. The first time a child suffers an asthma attack it fills you with panic and horror. Then you see the relief that something as simple as an inhaler can bring. You sit back quietly thankful from the bottom of your heart for whoever had the brains to put the medical science into relieving those horrid symptoms afflicting the one you love so much. Again you realize that someone’s put a lot of work and thought into caring about those we love.

Someone once wrote that gratitude is an attitude. If that’s true, then gratitude’s evil twin must be a sort of self-centered bitterness. I remember sitting with a friend many, many years ago. He was talking about how unfair life was. In my naïve way I suggested he think about the good things that daily come his way. I suggested that God offers something good to us if we have the eyes to see those daily gifts. His response was an insolent snort; “God hasn’t given me anything good.” Apparently he was in a very foul mood. And I’m sure we all have those days where we fall back into the emotional tantrum of a two year-old. And yet there we were living well because so much has been given to us: breathing in fresh air, our bodies so remarkably designed to withstand so much. We had food in the fridge. We had a roof over our heads. We even had the gift of friendship where one friend lovingly and patiently listens to the bellyaching of another.

A physicist looked at the vastness of the universe and the great complexity of elements and forces that brought this planet and life itself into being. He said, “It’s as if all of that great cosmic history was put into place with the singular purpose of ensuring that life on this planet would happen.” His conclusion was that life, as we know it, is here and it wasn’t simply a matter of random chance. He wouldn’t be the only scientist to marvel at the evidence that points to the fact that this blue-green planet we live on is a remarkable reality indeed: designed to ensure that life should thrive here. It’s not for nothing then that our faith tradition invites us to find ways to enhance and cherish that life for the great gift that it is. In his letter to the early Christians, Timothy invites people to pray for everyone—especially for those in authority—because he knew only too well that there were authorities out there who were only too willing to disrespect life that God cherishes to much.

Some five hundred years ago, a deeply spiritual Christian, a medieval mystic named Meister Eckhart, said: “If we only learn one prayer throughout our lifetime, it would be sufficient to pray the words “Thank you.” His comment intrigues me. I think about what life must have been like for someone five hundred years ago. No modern conveniences, no human rights, no national governments, no health care system, no modern science or technology to extend and enhance human life, and well the list goes on and on. And yet here’s a fellow who can look at his life in that day and age and conclude that the most sufficient prayer of all is “Thank you.” What, we might ask, was there to be thankful for? But thankful he was.

I think Meister Eckhart places something of a challenge to us 21st century people. He places before us the challenge to enter into a life of gratitude for what we receive that enhances our life, not a bitterness for what we must contend with or do not have. Do you remember my little play on words about what it means to live a life of gratitude? When you wake up in the morning. You can say, “It’s, ‘Good Morning, Lord!’” or you can wake up in the morning and say, “Good Lord, it’s morning.”

There’s an important distinction to be made here. Gratitude—an attitude of gratitude—will lead to openness and acceptance and hope. It’s a perspective that opens every day with “What can I find to be thankful for today? What will God give to me to help me live for today?” Whereas the other response—equally possible—will be pill of bitterness, swallowed time after time after time. Such a perspective will only lead one into a path of suffering.

And we know about suffering. We don’t all share the same burdens. But, I know that there isn’t a single person in this room for whom life does not present some challenge of one degree or another. We spend so much of our time dealing with the realities of life. So much time with worry and concern about our health, our jobs, our relationships, our finances, and I suppose the list goes on. There’s no fudging that truth. To quote the android, C-3P0 from the original Star Wars film, “It seems to be our lot in life to suffer.” C-3P0 may not be human, but he is a worrier. His comment strikes home with that other sentient being who is a habitual worrier: the human creature.

The good news—the gospel—presents us, however, with another possibility. Our Christian tradition presents us with a human being who saw little use in worry and anxiety. A human being who looked around the world—not doubt like Meister Eckhart—and saw God’s hand and purpose at work through and through:

This is why I tell you: do not be worried about the food and drink you need in order to stay alive, or about clothes for your body. After all, isn't life worth more than food? And isn't the body worth more than clothes?
Look at the birds: they do not plant seeds, gather a harvest and put it in barns; yet your Father in heaven takes care of them! Aren't you worth much more than birds?

Can any of you live a bit longer by worrying about it?

Jesus invites us to consider that worry and anxiety serves hardly any useful purpose. How many times have you laid awake at night worrying about something beyond your control? You change nothing in that time, and lose that valuable sleep that we know is so good for our health. Easier said than done, I know. Oh, do I know. Sleep-Eze can be my friend from time to time when I too just can’t shake my worries.

I don’t think Jesus wishes to minimize the challenges of being human. I don’t think he’s being tongue in cheek about our struggles with life. But clearly he challenges us to put some perspective on it all. And this is the beautiful strength of the gospel: it reveals to us a human being who opens himself to God with such a deep trust. And it’s this same human being—one of us—one of us anxious creatures—who turns to us and invites us to walk in the same trust with God. Jesus is asking us to think about our relationship with God.

So often people ask the question, “Does God have a plan or purpose for my life?” It’s a good question. It really is: at least the person asks where God fits into it all. But it seems to be a rather self-centred question; once again the question of the worrier. Jesus asks the question the other way around: “Do you see a place or purpose for your life in God’s plans?” Where do you fit into it all? Instead, be concerned above everything else with the Kingdom of God and with what he requires of you, and he will provide you with all these other things. Rather than worrying about what’s to come, or what is, Jesus invites us to put our attention away from our anxieties, and look to God. And Jesus invites us to look to God not simply for comfort. Jesus says if you look to God you will find purpose and direction. Indeed you might find greater meaning to whatever life you have now.

Now this doesn’t mean that our problems should simply dissipate and vanish into thin air. C.S. Lewis—the writer of the Chronicles of Narnia—was once an avowed atheist. He had little use for God or Christianity for that matter. And he had good reason—or so he thought. He lost his mother as a young boy. Despite his earnest prayers for her healing, the healing he wished for never came. That was the first strike against Lewis’ young faith. Then as a young man he fought in the trenches of the First World War. The horrors he witnessed there included his losing a very good and close friend. That nailed the coffin shut on Lewis’ faith. But God wasn’t quite ready to let Lewis go so easily. Through friends, through his own questions about life and meaning, through his experience of life, the Spirit of God brought Lewis out of that coffin.

When Lewis came to believe in God, and when he turned to the one called Jesus, Lewis started to follow with a striking selflessness. Friends say they saw a man changed. Indeed he moved from self-concern, from what some might call an anxious concern about his life, to a concern for others, to what he understood God calling him to do.

Walter Hooper, Lewis’ former secretary and biographer put it this way:

…he really lost all interest in himself. I can't underscore that enough — what a change that was in that man. He just lost his interest in himself.1

Lewis would go on to write the Chronicles of Narnia pouring out his literary gift for the benefit of children the world over. And Lewis never had children himself. An almost lifelong bachelor, he married late in life and only to see the tragic death of his wife, Joyce Gresham, from cancer. Out of his great pain, Lewis wrote a book about God and human suffering. Still Lewis managed to find a place for himself in God’s purposes. He found meaning there.

For Jesus, for Meister Eckhart, for Lewis, for many Christians their life has taken a dramatic turn when they turn away from their own preoccupation, to the occupation—the vocation—of following God. And it seems to me that it begins with an attitude of gratitude. It’s a very prayerful way of being in the world. And it’s not beyond our grasp. It just requires a little daily effort.

One doesn’t need to be a great person to have this sort of faith. I remember working as a reporter for a newspaper. To say that the workplace environment was unhealthy was to understate the issue. Unhealthy management over years had produced a very demoralized staff. With no knowledge of theology, no great grasp of scripture, no talents for being any sort of an overly religious person, I found faith had a place there nonetheless. It came in the form of humour and joy; I decided that what I could do as part of God’s purpose in that time and place was to bring joy. It didn’t change management practices; but there was plenty more humour in the workplace. And the joy only created more joy amongst the staff. I didn’t need to be religious to do that. I just needed to live out my faith in that place. It was one small thing I could do with great love for my friends and coworkers.

A friend of mine was recently diagnosed again with cancer. This will be his third fight with something that’s plagued him for well over a decade. When I wrote my little note of gratitude for a warm behind, my friend replied to my post with his own thoughts about thankfulness. He wrote, “Life is full of great gifts.” Such is his faith in the face of his great struggle. He daily looks for his daily bread, if you will. Or think of the story of a woman facing the same diagnosis walking into church one Thanksgiving morning after having started yet another round of chemotherapy. She spoke about vanity and losing one’s hair. But it was Thanksgiving and she said she was thankful that she had this day in all its fullness.

In a few moments we will sing a song of faith simply entitled, “Praise God for the Harvest.” Every verse in that song will give us a reason to grow our intimacy and our faith in God. It might be a deep gratitude for food, it might be a deep gratitude for material that helps us to live well, it might be thankfulness for the gifts of human knowledge and skill and science, and it might be thankfulness for human love and friendship. But it ultimately invites us to sing about the goodness of gratitude for everything that helps us to live. We are very much part of God’s good purposes every single day. And for that we can be very thankful.

On this Thanksgiving Sunday—a somewhat frosty Thanksgiving Sunday—let us remember and think on what it is we are truly thankful for. How can we find everyday a prayer on our lips that suggests gratitude and openness and thankfulness? In what way can we take the blessings of our lives and put them to good use in the world around us?

May we each find ourselves open to Christ’s invitation to turn our faces, not inwardly, into a path of bitterness or resentment or anxiety, but outwardly to the purposes and blessings of God. May this holiday weekend afford us the opportunity to renew our trust in God’s care.

Let us pray:
Gracious God as we gather around dinner tables and with family and friends, help us to deepen our faith in your care for all of your creatures, human or not. Help us to see that behind all that concerns us, your hand and heart is at work and it is not to cause us suffering, but draws us into finding new life and purpose each and every day. We pray especially for those today for whom turning to you is especially difficult. We pray that their hearts may welcome your Spirit so that lives can be changed, and your kingdom may draw near. Amen.

1. Interview clip. “The Question of God. C.S. Lewis. The Four Loves.” Website: www.pbs.org

Getting to the Heart of Marriage

2009-10-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Mark 19:2-16

Well after reading the two suggested passages from the Common Lectionary for this Sunday, I almost resorted to preaching my sermon from last Sunday again—not because I thought you would want to hear it again, but because it seemed a much happier pursuit than trying to preach on these readings. To be honest, making a choice between a passage on divorce and the story of Job being put to the test feels like someone saying, “You can choose between hammering your toe or hammering your thumb.” Neither is terribly an easier choice.

Let me begin with this story about what happened to a fresh graduate from seminary many years ago. 1 A young minister arrived at his new pastoral charge. Wanting to welcome him warmly, the congregation threw a reception for him. The dining hall was full of friendly parishioners. The minister filled his cup with fruit punch, grabbed one of Mrs. Plimpton’s wonderful squares, and milled about, chatting with all sorts of people. And then he turned and saw Mildred.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Mildred did not look like a Pharisee. She appeared harmless: a flowered-print dress, short in stature, glasses too large for her rounded face. The minister thought she might want to say a word of welcome. So he walked to Mildred, extended his hand with pastoral grace, and was just about to mouth the words “Hi there!” when Mildred asked bluntly “Reverend, do divorced people go to hell?”

The minister almost dropped his glass of fruit punch. “I just passed my ordination exam,” he thought. “What is this? Another test of some sort?” His mind raced for an appropriate response. Wasn’t there some comforting thing he might say from a pastoral care class? Could he possibly pull some gem of wisdom from a New Testament course that just might get him off the hook? Nothing came to mind, so he blurted out, “Better people than me get divorced.” Mildred looked stunned, turned and walked away. The minister excused himself to his office and berated himself on his remarkable fumbling of the first genuine “pastoral” ball thrown to him from one of the flock on the field.

Later, during a longer conversation at Mildred’s home, she told the minister about her son who had recently divorced. Behind her question at the reception was a deep concern for her son, who had chosen to end a troubled marriage and was about to remarry. As a serious student of the Bible Mildred knew Jesus’ words to the Pharisees (who put him to “test” with the question about divorce) and his words to the disciples (“Whoever divorces his wife and marries another, commits adultery against her.”) So, Mildred felt a genuine concern for her son: was his very soul in danger? And thankfully Mildred was the furthest thing from a Pharisee. She was a caring mother and as the minister found out, understanding of even new ministers who fumble balls on the field.

Divorce is something that affects many of the people we love in our lives if indeed it isn’t something we ourselves know from personal experience. I think we all know that some marriages do end for good reasons. As someone once said not all marriages are made in heaven. Some marriages might feel like purgatory or worse. As I have come to understand over the years of ministry, it’s never simply a carefree decision, or something anyone walks away from lightly. I think many people move through divorce with a great deal of thought, prayer and mixed emotion. And where children are involved the parenting relationships with former spouses can continue for years to come. There’s nothing terribly cut and dried about ending committed relationships.

Unlike Mildred, we may not share her concern about eternal damnation. It’s much more likely that we are concerned about the fallout from divorce. More likely we think about how someone is doing. We wonder about how the children will be affected? We hope that it will all be amicable without a great need to fight things out in the courts. These tend to be the questions we mull over in our thoughts, or that keep us awake at night, or what we hold in our prayers whenever someone we love is facing such a daunting reality in life. Eternal damnation may very well be the last thing we find ourselves worrying about. However, in light of all of this, Jesus’ teaching on divorce and remarriage is particularly difficult for any of us to hear. It almost sounds downright sinful to even consider divorce and Jesus equates second marriages with adultery. Before we simply dismiss this teaching out of hand, or feel terribly judged, or like me, yearn to run to last week’s sermon, let’s ask why Jesus takes such an uncompromising position? He must have a good reason.

Divorce in Jesus’ culture was certainly permissible under the law. Today divorce is a legal dissolution of marriage. Thankfully there are laws enshrining not only the rights of both marriage partners, but children as well. The courts are increasingly moving towards thinking about the best interests of children. In Jesus’ day, however, a divorce was a different matter. A divorce meant to dismiss a woman from a man’s household. It was a man’s right and not surprisingly it benefited only men. So for instance when a husband dismissed his wife, she literally could be without any social or family support. Imagine how quickly she might be forced into a life of begging or prostitution. The law at least allowed her a legal certificate of divorce so that she might be welcomed into a new marriage and a new household.

What might stand as grounds for a divorce in Jesus’ day? Different opinions can be found but they range from the specific reason of adultery to really no reason at all. Today we hear the word “adultery” and immediately we think of marital infidelity. In Jesus’ culture, adultery occurred when a spouse simply left the marriage to be with another person. So a man could dismiss his wife because she went away to be with another man. He could also simply divorce her because he found something about her objectionable. I even came across a few references that suggested a man could dismiss his wife because she simply ruined a meal.

So it’s in this historic reality that Jesus offers this teaching. It is very likely that early Christians were facing these very situations and they did so in a world where there was no family law, safety nets or protection. Consider then the sort of risks women and children faced in situations of divorce and adultery in that day and age. Jesus’ teachings on divorce and adultery are uncompromising because the reality facing women and children at that time was so incredibly perilous. So that’s something we have to keep in mind when we hear him criticizing divorce and adultery as he does. That was the 1st century in a very different world from the Canadian society in which we live today.

However, like Mildred, we also want to believe that the Bible isn’t simply a historic document and that it has something to say to us for our culture today. For indeed if we believe Jesus to be risen and present with us in the church today, what might we draw out from this teaching that still offers us insight into our life today as Christian people?

Yesterday I stood in a pasture officiating at a wedding. And what a beautiful wedding it was: the groom and his friends arrived on horseback sharply dressed in matching jackets and cowboy hats. The bride and her friends arrived by horse drawn carriage. And despite the cool temperatures there was a great deal of warmth in the joy and love for these two young people who are taking that leap of faith and choosing to be married. There was much laughter after I read the passage from 1 Corinthians where Paul writes, “Now faith hope and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” No sooner had I read this verse than one of the horses let out a loud whinny, and I said, “And the horse agrees.”

When I shared this story with a friend who is separated, she quickly said, “Sounds like a nice wedding, but all weddings are nice. But do marriages last? No.” Here is the honest and heartfelt response from a very hurting soul. It doesn’t take long for the voice of experience to surface in the face of what we see as innocent and fresh and hopeful. I don’t think any of us would have the audacity to simply dash the wedding hopes of a young couple. But there’s something in my friend’s response that tells me that it’s not a very great slide at all into bitterness and cynicism about marriage.

When the Pharisees confront Jesus on this question about whether divorce is lawful, Jesus says, “Moses wrote this law for you because you are so hard to teach.” But in the original Greek Jesus says a word that literally means in English “cardiosclerosis”, a hardening, if you will, of the heart.2 And of course the heart was very much the place of your passion and will, it wasn’t simply an organ pumping blood. So Jesus really wants to get to the heart of the matter by looking at the human heart in relationships of any depth and substance. And what he says is that these laws about divorce are only really necessary because of the hard-heartedness of people. And I don’t think it take much for us to see the truth of what he’s saying. Sometimes—despite the best intentions and longest of longings—sometimes people just will not choose to continue putting their heart into a marriage. As I tried to suggest last week it is important to continue to grow that intimacy for a successful relationship. What we can’t possibly predict, however, is how the heart will change.

Jesus isn’t criticizing those who work as best they can at a failing marriage. Jesus isn’t criticizing those who then go on to remarry and go into it with the best of hopes and intentions. Jesus saves his criticism for those who use the convenience of the law to dismiss people and responsibility from their lives in the most callous of ways. Going back to the very beginning of time when God created marital partners for each other, Jesus says this is really what God intended: that there would be a true and deep union of hearts: “They are no longer two, but one.” If I consider the pastoral listening I do whenever I sit with someone like Mildred, I honestly think that’s what I hear as the biggest regret of all: it didn’t become what it could have been as hoped for on that wedding day.

As Christian people our ministry may very much have to do with the softening of hearts. If we can soften our hearts we will be able to continue to care for those who find themselves in a loveless marriage, listening with care, offering hopeful words and prayers for healing. Our work with our friends may be to encourage them to seek counselling and marriage enrichment. It may mean speaking a word of concern to a friend or colleague who seems too quick to give up or get out of a relationship or who wants to use children as a pawn in some custody battle. Certainly as a congregation we continue to offer marriage enrichment to every couple seeking to be married, or to those who wish to strengthen their marriage. Sometimes it also means helping couples to come to a decision about how best to end a marriage so that it is as amicable as possible. And thankfully we have lawyers of good faith and good hearts who try to follow that approach in family law today.

This passage from Mark ends with Jesus welcoming children into his midst. And whether it’s a child of 7 years, or 17 years, or a child of God of 27, 47 or 67 years, Jesus does not want any of us to be prevented from coming to him for healing, for a word of acceptance, for a reminder that we are very much valued and loved even in the face of broken relationships. The grace in this passage lies here with Jesus joining us in our childlike hope to see relationships healthy and loving and whole. Yes, even when the world celebrates falling in and out of marriage as a simple means of convenience or something for the tabloid press to glamorize. Christ says we are meant for better stuff and deserve better because God values our lives immensely. And may the Spirit of God soften all of our hearts this day as we consider how best to put Jesus’ words into practice in our lives.

Let us pray:

Soften our hearts with your Holy Spirit, O God. Help us be an instrument of healing and hope in our family life, and in the lives of our friends and neighbours. We hear today a hard teaching from Jesus. Let us not be weighed down so heavily that it burdens us. Rather help us to see that out of a great love for us all Jesus speaks truthfully about what needs to change in human relationships. Grow in us the capacity for working at our most cherished friendships, shield us from bitterness, and help us to find that childlike desire that is indeed the gateway to your kingdom in our lives. Amen.

1. Adapted in part, and quoted in full in places, from Howell, David B. “Pastoral Perspective” in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary. Year B. Vol. 4, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors. Westminster John Knox Press. Louisville: 2009, p. 140.

2. Black, Clifton. “Exegetical Perspective” in in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary. Year B. Vol. 4, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors. Westminster John Knox Press. Louisville: 2009, p. 143.

A Reason for Praise

2009-10-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

Psalm 67
1 Corinthians 14:15-19

One summer I worked as the Christian Education director at a church camp. Every morning we gathered outside the dining hall for a morning prayer. And every evening we had “vespers” and a campfire and sang songs like Kum-ba-yah. When the weekend would come I would drive back into the city and happily sleep in on Sunday mornings. Sunday truly was a day of rest.

One Sunday morning I went out to lunch and I ran into one of the retired principals of the seminary where I was studying. Charles was one of the most humble and pious men I have ever met. At every lunch Charles would bow his head and clasp his hands and silently offer a word of thanks before eating his brown bag lunch. If he could, Charles would attend chapel, and he would stand and offer a prayer for some far-flung nameless part of the globe. So when I saw Charles that Sunday at lunch, I eagerly went over to say “Hello.” And after a bit of small talk about how my summer was going, Charles asked me, “Kent where did you worship this morning? How was the service?” How could I possibly lie to a man who offers a prayer over two pieces of bread and a slice of baloney? So I sheepishly explained myself and said, “Charles, I’ve been leading worship every day, twice a day, this week at camp.” And Charles the Venerable cocked his head, fixed his gaze on me, and said, “Yes, but Kent, worship is what we do.” “Yes,” I groaned inwardly, “you’re right (as always).”

Worship is very much the reason why Christians gather as we do Sunday to Sunday. It’s the inspiration behind our prayers and songs of faith. It’s what brings us together as a congregation. And as hard as this might be to believe, yes, even the United Church continues to invite people to worship God first and foremost, no matter how hard our critics might try to paint us as simply a political party at prayer. In the end we’re here to remember J.C., not the N.D.P. That being said, do we have any good reason for why we worship God? If someone were to ask you, “Why do you worship?” what answer might you give?

It’s nice to know that worshiping God is “what we do as Christian people.” I can even appreciate the mild chastisement Charles offered. But I can’t say he offered me a compelling reason to come and worship God. Imagine a spouse asking you in all seriousness, “Why do you love me?” And your only reason is “Well that’s what I’m supposed to do.” That’s hardly the answer your spouse will want to hear and you might as well get ready for a well-deserved stay in the hotel called “spare bedroom.” When it comes to matters of the heart we want to hear good reasons and I believe that worship is very much a matter of the heart.

Whenever I work with a couple in marriage enrichment, we explore how to best grow intimacy in their relationship. I do this because I firmly believe the spare bedroom shouldn’t become a permanent alternative in any marriage. So I invite every couple to work through a top ten list of skills that help to build intimacy in their relationship. Now I won’t describe every single skill on the list. But I will share the first two, and I’m going to throw in the last one for good measure. The first skill to growing intimacy is simply this: look for the good in your partner as much as possible. Look for what is good. See what’s so strong and positive about your partner every day. The second skill to grow intimacy goes hand-in-hand with the first: praise your partner for that good as much as possible.

Now think about the wisdom of this practice. It immediately invites you to take time to focus on the positive things about your spouse. When you are looking for the good, you hopefully won’t be spending too much time looking at the not so good. We know how easy it is to look for the warts, don’t we? And when you find something good and wonderful and life-giving, well don’t keep it a secret! Praise your spouse for being the good person he or she is, and celebrate that. In fact, in marriage enrichment, I invite every couple to get in the habit of sharing at least one compliment with each other every day for the rest of their lives together. It’s daily reinforcement about what’s so good about being married to one another.

It also says something about the power of praise. Praise a dog and watch the dog respond with utter joy. Dogs thrive on praise. I’m not so sure about cats. Cats want adoration, but for entirely the wrong reasons. Want to shatter a young life? Take a child and never praise that child. Criticize that child, speak to the child in a demeaning way, and watch the child lose trust in any sense that the world is a good place and people actually care. Studies reveal that children who don’t receive regular praise at the earliest stages of life can be negatively affected for life as early as age five. All in all, I have this sneaking suspicion that we thrive on praise: it’s the sort of thing that gets our tails wagging.

So if there’s any truth to what I’ve just outlined—and I think there is—then does it not also stand to reason that when we praise God we are also growing our intimacy with God? For a moment, let’s just presume that God is what the Jewish and Christian tradition has always invited us to believe: that God is a not just an idea or a concept, but that God is a Thou, a person, a being who yearns to be in relationship with us, and yearns most of all for our trust. And if there’s any truth to that, then to give such a God our praise is indeed a good and healthy practice for our relationship with God. For in praising God we set our eyes and our senses upon what is good about this God. And perhaps like in a good and healthy relationship we begin to see why God as “the other” matters in our lives at all.

The Christian writer, C.S. Lewis, perhaps better known to younger generations as the guy who wrote The Chronicles of Narnia, Lewis would say this much of praise: “"It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to [people]." Praise your partner and watch her shine. Your heart will shine too. Praise your child and watch him glow; something inside of you begins to glow in that moment. Praise that old dog and watch his tail wag with excitement and something becomes excited in you. Praise God—sing, pray, play over in your heart and mind the spiritual truths of a few millennia of human experience—and find something within your life changed forever. It’s not that you simply discover some new fact about your spouse or your child when you offer them praise; it’s that you find your life caught up in theirs. So it is with God.

I would argue that of the people with whom I have shared my faith journey, the vast majority of us worship God not because we come here under duress, or from force of habit, or because some loathsome cleric orders it from on high; we worship God because worship changes us in ways that other experiences simply cannot. And it’s not unlike the experience of St. Augustine who went about the Roman world seeking many different paths for the fullness of life, but finally falling in step with the journey of Jesus. Of his spiritual journey that led him to God, Augustine famously wrote, “our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” And when that happens we come here freely because we want to be here. Or as a nun once put it in a terribly candid way: when I was a young woman it felt like Hell to get up and go to Mass. And now that I’m older, life feels like Hell if I miss Mass.

What if there’s any truth to the notion that as human beings we are simply inclined to worship. Or as someone put it, to worship is as basic to human life as the need to eat. Ralph Waldo Emerson, the American poet, made this truthful observation: “A person will worship something, have no doubt about that. We may think our tribute is paid in secret in the dark recesses of our hearts, but it will out. That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.”

One only need think of the most extreme cases of religion to see the truth of his words. Nazi rallies filled stadiums in Germany in the 1930s where people worshiped the most horrific tyranny of modern times. Religion and worship come in different shapes and guises, and they are not always attached to some deity, but whenever it’s thoughtless and heartless, it’s a deadly combination. It’s not for nothing that one of the monks of the Egyptian desert offered a rather blunt assessment of the world in the 2nd or 3rd century: it was the world, he concluded, that made human beings do stupid things. And I can only imagine his assessment of the world today. There are many pursuits people worship and fall over to praise, and not all are healthy.

Gathering here every Sunday has its roots in the original followers of Jesus gathering on the first day of the week to remember Jesus and share in a common meal. From the start it was a gathering of men and women. Sometimes entire Roman households gathered, including both slaves and masters. It was often counter-cultural, blurring lines of class and wealth and distinction. From that humble beginning the church grew. Today on any given Sunday Christians can be found filling entire auditoriums complete with praise bands and dynamic speakers. You can also find just a handful gathering quietly in someone’s home. But by and large, the majority of Christians around the world continue to praise God just as we do today: in small, intimate gatherings of our friends and family.

And so we come here to give voice to a different sort of thoughtfulness and follow a different sort of heart into the world around us. When we worship we find ourselves caught up in words of life, in the symbols of beauty and grace. And these words and images are not what the world necessarily celebrates or makes popular. We know that the songs of faith we sing here will not be played on Fox this afternoon. We might feel terribly uncomfortable singing because it’s not something our friends do and how strange they would think us if they see us singing like this. But the sorts of words and images of worship—the language of worship—serve a purpose all the same.

One theologian says that when we worship “we are looking and listening here for speech that will affirm and open the way to life, for speech that can be playful not just useful, for words that disturb and change us not because they threaten, but because they “fit” a reality we are just beginning to discern. In worship, we try to ‘put ourselves under the Word of God’, we try to bring our minds and hearts into harmony with what God has said and is saying, in Jesus…”1

And in these ways Christians believe that God draws near to us and changes our lives. At her son’s wedding, a mother gave the young groom a remarkable toast and blessing. Embarking upon this new journey in his life—into a life of marriage and family and new commitments—she said to him, “Put yourself in the way of beauty.” The American preacher and peace activist, William Sloane Coffin, would describe this scene in a book he wrote entitled, “Letters to a Young Doubter.” Writing letters to a fictitious young undergraduate named Tom, Rev. Coffin encourages young Tom to begin worshipping because it’s necessary and good. “By going to class,” he writes in one letter, “you’re putting yourself in the way of information and thought, and by going to church you’re putting yourself in the way of gorgeous music and spiritual truths concerning yourself, the world, and God.”2

A friend of mine said to me once that if the sermon didn’t hit home, he would be disappointed. I said what if the sermon didn’t hit home with you, but it hit home with someone behind you. But what if something in a piece of music speaks to your heart? What if something in a prayer opens a new window of thought for you? And maybe, just maybe, worship just isn’t all about “you”. But it’s about us as a people, and our life together with God. Be open, I said, and you will have an experience if indeed you are truly looking for it. Or as Rev. Coffin suggests to young Tom, “My own advice for churchgoing is to experience first, soak in the hymns and anthems, the prayers and sermon—then only later analyze. Never become dogmatic…Allow your imagination free rein.”3

So if there’s any truth to the value of giving praise whether to someone we love—or to God who loves us—then it hopefully will be something we cherish and find room to experience every day. And that brings me to that third point about how to grow intimacy in your relationships. What’s the third skill to develop in your relationship? What’s one more way to grow and maintain your intimacy as ranked by the marriage therapy big-heads? Give your relationship the same priority and attention you gave it when you were dating.

And if we think about that we realize what they’re getting at: you anticipated seeing each other, you cleared your calendars for one another, you dropped hanging out with your friends because being with the other was something that consumed you. In other words, there was a passion for one another. You want to invest your life in the life of another.

Charles the Venerable scolded me a little because of something he valued a lot. He had spent a lifetime building and growing and nurturing this passion. It was intimacy with God and it was experienced first and foremost through worship. It was, as he truthfully said, what we do. The quality of that intimacy could be seen in the gentle, and humble and gracious life he lived. He was a person of a deep and abiding faith, and after decades of worship you could see it glowing within him. He was simply a person of no small faith. And to be quite frank I don’t think had he used the excuse that he could happily worship God on the golf course that he would be half the human being he became in life. Worship was simply daily bread for him, and God is always there ready to offer it if we ask for it.

So on this first Sunday of the “101” Sundays, I hope you will take time to consider the gift of growing your intimacy with God. Consider how you might wish to develop a passion for worship. It might simply begin by starting each day with a thought about the goodness God provides. It might simply begin by ending each day thanking God for something helpful or hopeful that happened. And yes, I encourage you to also come and worship on Sunday mornings too. And I hope this morning has given you food for thought. Yes it is what we do and we do it for some very good reasons.

Let us pray:

Loving and gracious God may your Spirit enter our hearts and find a welcome home there. Help us to want to grow our relationship with you through the words of prayer, through the songs we sing and the Word of Life you offer to us through Scripture and in the life of Jesus. May we each take time to see the importance of praise in so many different aspects of our life. We pray for those who gather with us today and who are looking to find a church home, a home for worship and praise. May they find here the daily bread they need to create a life of peace and goodness; a life that will spill over with peace and goodness for others and the world around. Amen.

1. Williams, Rowan. "Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert" Medio Media: Oxford, 2003. p. 71

2. Coffin, William. "Letters to a Young Doubter" Westminster John Knox Press: Louis

A vow to keep, a life to change

2009-09-24T08:20:00.000-07:00

James 3:13-4:3,8a; Mark 9:30-37

When I was a child, I had the great displeasure of having my tonsils removed. My memories of that time in my life are growing sketchy with the passing of time itself. I do remember an overnight stay at the hospital. And I do remember waking up in the middle of the night with the aching, throbbing pain in my throat a day or so following the surgery. Not surprisingly, my mother holds a memory of that night as well. She’s the one who had to rouse herself from sleep in the middle of the night because I woke up crying. She recalls how I made a very bold statement that night. Sitting on the bathroom counter and filled with all the self-pity a seven year old can muster, I complained of my sore throat and concluded, “My life is ruined.” I couldn’t quite see beyond my immediate hurt. I couldn’t quite see any hope whatsoever. My mother knew differently and as it turned out my life was ruined for about an hour at the most. Because as I wallowed in great suffering, my mother was quietly preparing an Aspirin, crushing it up and mixing it with raspberry jam. And with that remarkable mixture of a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down, I went back to bed, the pain passed, and I discovered that my life was very much far from ruined.

In our readings from Scripture today we hear this passage from the book of Proverbs about the capable wife. I have turned to this passage over the years whenever families celebrate the life of a beloved matron, a mother and grandmother greatly loved, and a woman who gave so much of her life for the benefit of her children. Some might hear this passage and think that it describes a spiritual Martha Stewart, or a mother who goes above and beyond the call of duty. Some might hear this passage and silently remark, “That’s so not me.” I suppose there are those for whom their mothers could not simply be there for them in this way. And in truth I would highly doubt that such a capable matron truly existed. She does seem to be, well, just a little too well rounded and perfect.

What we see in these words is a glowing tribute to living a life where you care for what’s most important. This is a passage celebrating the gift of wisdom. If the book of Proverbs is a book filled with all sorts of wisdom, then it ends with this snapshot of a person who is exceedingly wise. And not surprisingly this passage doesn’t praise owning the most toys, or excelling at one’s career at the cost of family, or thinking the greatest thoughts ever and being the brightest and the best. Sorry, no Olympians, business tycoons, or Hollywood stars lifted here as examples thank you very much. The book concludes that a wise person is a faithful person: striving to put front and centre people at the heart of her life, whether it’s in business, in the community, or in the home.

Last week I briefly mentioned my suspicion that had the church gone down to the community sign-up, somehow hockey or soccer or dance would win out over say signing your kids up for a program called “church.” And given the few baptisms happening these days, one realizes how much on the periphery life as a faith community stands for many parents and families today. Despite our best intentions, and despite our attempts not to be too strict about attending church, we appear to be the least on the list of things “to do” in family life. The family that plays together stays together. This is true. So I’m certainly not knocking the benefit of family recreation. But here’s another one of those bits of sage advice: the family that prays together stays together. Couples who are involved in a faith community show higher levels of marital satisfaction, lower levels of conflict, and higher levels of commitment. As one researcher points out, being here and wanting to be here actually gives your family life and your marriage something of an edge.1

I, like so many of you, took vows on behalf of my child to raise her in the Christian faith. Like so many parents, I also stood at the baptismal font and made promises to God and to the congregation about being part of the faith community with the words, “God being my helper.” Worship has never been optional; it has only ever been necessary and good. And learning about faith was never optional either. It’s a life long pursuit; some days are better, and some days are not so pristine. But to simply disconnect from the Christian community will certainly not help in growing one’s faith.

In the years since that baptism, in some of the most typical moments of life, I have found myself drawn back to the vows I made. Every fall my daughter and I take the opportunity to hike the trails at Wilmore Park. And during one particular hike, some years ago, I was powerfully reminded of the vows I made at her baptism and how faith helps me to parent.

I don’t think the vows popped back into my head word for word; but certainly my awareness that I had made promises did. While she scampered about on the trails, knocking dead frostbitten leaves from branches with a stick, my eyes were watchful. While she kneeled by the babbling creeks to poke her stick in the water, stirring up silt and mud, my eyes were watchful.

Such a contrast I thought: on the one hand, my heart joyful to see my child relating with God’s Creation, feeling so free to do so. And on the other, a cautious watchfulness about me, the risks constantly measured by degree of danger; of being protective, but not overly so.

As parents, we find in that contrast a challenge to our baptismal vows. How do we raise children to love, and to be trusting human beings, followers in the way of Jesus? How do we do this in a world that keeps us watchful, uncertain and sometimes frightened; how does this happen in a world that doesn’t always go the way of Christ where greatness, as we heard, has more to do with living for each other, not living over one another?

At one point on our hike my daughter surprised me with the remarkable insight of an almost-6-year-old: “Dad, watch out for the bears and deer. They will try to hurt us because they want to rule the world, but we will win because humans are at the top of the food chain!” And she concluded this fascinating theory with the observation: “Humans,” she proudly declared, “rule the world!”

The cynic in me groaned inwardly and thought: “Yes, and there are about 1.5 million species worldwide suffering because of it, dear.” The person of faith, however, thought another thing: my child now reveals an idea at odds with a Christian perspective; yes, humans may desire to rule the world; and yet, from the teachings of our Jewish and Christian tradition, humans are not to rule the world, but to steward it, and to care for it.

As Jesus tried to make plain to the eager jockeying of his disciples on the road to greatness, to welcome God is to love and serve in life, not to live by force or coercion, selfishness or superiority. In humility you find true greatness.

But who wants that? Honestly, who does? Its yet another hard teaching of the gospel that Jesus plops into our laps, something that we almost naturally rail against. Is there something in the human psyche that just needs to be fed in this way? Is it our ego?

Dan Clendenin, a Christian writer and a professor spoke about a gathering of professors that happened a number of years at Stanford University. It started simply with a morning gathering of a few colleagues but over successive weeks it started to grow and grow.

He writes:

When we started, most people didn't know each other, so every Friday morning a different professor shared their story. The very first Friday morning, Doug disarmed everyone with a candid account of his disintegrating marriage. The following week Tony related his frustrations with raising teenagers. Another professor recounted his financial failures.

In the succeeding months it became clear that these remarkably gifted people who had reached the pinnacle of professional success were far more interested in sharing their stories rather than intellectual ideas. The group took on a distinctly pastoral character rather than any academic ethos. How do you balance personal and professional responsibilities? How do spouses negotiate dual careers with heavy demands? What advice might an older professor give to a younger scholar facing the tenure process? Does God care about my neuroscience research? I still remember the morning that Chuck noted with his trademark sardonic wit that "behind every great man there often lies a trail of human wreckage."

Given a safe space that offered Christian encouragement, the Stanford professors experienced the message of Jesus that Mark articulates in his gospel this week, namely, that the holy grail of human greatness that we honor, envy and pursue — rank, wealth, recognition, power, title, privilege, and prestige — can exact a very high personal price. Worldly greatness has a limited capacity to nourish authentic human fulfillment. It does not protect us from human vulnerabilities, and it often prevents us from experiencing the fullness of God's kingdom.2

Thankfully this wasn’t exactly the issue my daughter posed to me in the forest. I’ll say this much for parenting young children, their view of the world doesn’t necessarily require complex solutions. But, right there, in the midst of the contrasts, an opportunity to teach arises; and right there, in the middle of life’s muddle, an invitation to make good on a baptismal promise occurs.

It may sound a trifling thing, and yet it could be one of the most important; to take a moment on this trail, surrounded by the wondrous density of Creation, where the air drips heavy in freshness, and to suggest an alternative. That far from ruling the world, God offers us the wonderful invitation to live with an abiding respect with all of this grandeur and beauty. God invites us to care for this beautiful world by loving it, and serving it.

This, I simply suggested to my daughter, might be another way that humans can live in the world. Whether it fell on deaf ears or not, I don’t know. But it fell on the ears of a not-quite-six-year old. My daughter went on to the next tree and flicked at the dead leaves with her stick.

One never knows what seed of faith will be planted in the heart of a child when we take the time to do the planting. But just as importantly, one never knows what seed of faith will blossom when the Spirit of God warms the heart of an adult when presented with the gift of a child in his or her midst.

Perhaps this is the remarkable gift Jesus has for making the point obvious in the gospel story today: place the most vulnerable thing in the world in the midst of humanity and ask people to love and care for it and look to its interests before their own.

We are invited to believe that God’s Spirit will help make this happen in each of our lives. It’s what we pray for to descend upon us at the waters of our baptism. As the 12th century mystic, Hildegard of Bingen observed, the Spirit of God, “is radiance of life, most worthy of worship, wakening and reawakening both earth and heaven.”

In his letter James described this Spirit in these words:

But the wisdom from above is pure first of all; it is also peaceful, gentle, and friendly; it is full of compassion and produces a harvest of good deeds; it is free from prejudice and hypocrisy. And goodness is the harvest that is produced from the seeds the peacemakers plant in peace.

The vows I made at my daughter’s baptism weren’t just for a day; these were vows for a lifetime. On that particular day, and on that particular hike, the lush fall colours, smells, sights and sounds of a simple trail seemed the perfect place to me for such a vow to be revisited.

The Spirit of God sows and every day opportunities exist for seeds of faith to take root, if we can only look and see and take advantage of those opportunities. One never knows what seed will be planted; and what goodness such a seed might grow when a child receives baptism in the community of faith. And for parents and the community of faith, one never knows when opportunities to make good on the promises will arise: whether on a country trail, a moonlight landscape, at the kitchen table, at bedtime or in midday.

It happens very much in the daily round, very much in the places where we walk, and in whom we encounter. The gospel stories always occur in the everyday of life; this is where God will be found. Jesus understood this; why can’t we?

Jesus taught that the kingdom—the reality—of this God is never far away, always something within reach of us should we seek it out. Like walking into a house, and smelling the scent of freshly baked bread; you know that something good and wholesome isn’t far off, in fact it’s very present and near at hand.

Come near to God, and he will come near to you.

In the muddle of life, in the midst of the contrasts, in a world where we see so much wrong and hurtful, still God’s Spirit invites us to find great meaning and purpose in Life; still we can be a people who gather to celebrate a baptism, to pour water into a font, and affirm that despite the anxieties and fears and watchfulness, still there is God’s love to proclaim; a Holy Spirit at work in this world making this happen; as Jesus would suggest, still there is a kingdom in which God invites us to live and move and have our being; in baptism, the gates of that kingdom are graciously flung open wide. May each of us greatly desire to enter in.

Let us pray:

O gracious God, help us to remember the promises we make to our children to love and care for them. But help us to know that you may very well place in our midst this week any number of people who need our love and our care. Help us to find time in the busyness of life to make room for who is most important, not necessarily what is most important. And may our love and care be a visible sign to others of the faith that calls us to live this way: trusting that it is simply right and good to do what’s most loving, even at times that’s not the easiest truth to tell or decision take. By our baptism, and the power of your Spirit, encourage us to live life in your humble care, to seek simple joys, to love one another and find in this greatness enough. Help us to follow the way of Jesus and celebrate the nearness of your loving presence. Amen.

1. Markman, Howard. "Fighting for Your Marriage." Jossey-Bass, San Francisco. 2009. p. 255.

2. Clendenin, Daniel. "From the faculty club to the church nursery: little children and the Kingdom of God." journeywithjesus.net September 14, 2009.

Facebook Page

2009-09-17T10:19:00.001-07:00

Check out our page on Facebook. Simply search for Edson United Church.

What to Give Financially

2009-09-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

The average weekly donation in the United Church of Canada is around $20.

We encourage everyone to step up their givings. The more we give through our weekly offering, the less dependent we become on fundraising. If we all step up to the plate, we all benefit.

You can call the church office at 723-3418 and ask for offering envelopes, or sign up for PAR (Pre-Authorized Remittance) and the church debits your offering from a bank account of your choice.

Our monthly expenses average around $8,500. We currently receive about $8,170 as income each month. So the difference isn't that great, but it isn't meeting our financial needs. You can help turn that around. Please give prayerful thought to increasing your givings.

Rebuking Jesus, Growing in Faith

2009-09-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

Mark 8:27-38

When two people meet for the very first time, we follow fairly standard protocols don’t we? It begins with an exchange of names, perhaps a remark like, “Nice to meet you!” And it breaks into polite interrogation: what is it you do? Do you have any family? Are you married? Where did you grow up? Where did you go to school? All of this small talk is just a friendly way make any new person not so terribly strange and unknown to us.

If a relationship develops, even greater knowledge can be gained. You begin to draw conclusions about the other: what values guide and shape his life? What beliefs motivate her? You start to form opinions about the other person. Can I trust her? Can I believe him? Is she wise? Is he a fool? Is this a person of integrity? Or is this person really quite a lost soul, someone I should take care with? And so it is that a stranger becomes an acquaintance and the acquaintance may become a friend, and a friend may indeed become a lifelong companion.

Some couples tell me that they know their spouses so well they can almost predict the very words that will pop out of their mouths. Live long enough with someone and you probably know what buttons you should or shouldn’t push. You know what frightens your friend. You also know what can calm that fear. But even so there are limits to knowing what rests in the human heart. And no matter how well we might think we know someone, there will often be something that still surprises us about them. And it may simply be something they say or think or do that we didn’t quite expect.

This is very much what we see happening between Jesus and the disciples in this passage from Mark’s gospel. The disciples and Jesus have been working together and they’ve been forming opinions about each other with every passing encounter. What conclusions might you draw if you met someone who could do the things Jesus does? Jesus heals the sick, cures the lame, feeds the hungry and even raises someone from the dead. What’s the upshot of this for Peter? Clearly Jesus is the Messiah, the long awaited savior who will come and save the people from their distress and suffering. Here’s the long awaited savior who will put Israel’s enemies under his heel once and for all. I said to a friend this week that you could picture those disciples as nothing less than the Jesus cheer squad, complete with those big foamy blue hands with the finger outstretched for “Number One”. “Jesus! Jesus! He’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can!”

And then Jesus says the most horrific thing. “Well thanks for the support, but I will have to suffer, be rejected and put to death. And by the way, if you want to come with me, you are going to have to forget about yourself, carry your cross and lose your life.” Can you hear the pin drop? Do you see the jaws dropping open? Those big foamy hands start to lower, and the cheering quiets to a sort of mumble. Someone’s looking at his watch and muttering, “I’ve got to go and see a guy about some camels. Sorry, would love to stay and die but, I have better things to do.” So understandably Peter takes Jesus aside and begins to rebuke him. This just can’t be how it all ends? And that’s what brings Jesus to rebuke Peter telling him to stop setting his mind on human things.

Can you think of a time when you have wanted to rebuke Jesus? Can you think of any particular situation in which you wish being a Christian could just be conveniently wiped away for a much different choice in life? It’s a reality that Christians of all walks of life face in one-way or another. I have this wonderful memory from a book written by a military historian. He said that what really drove European princes and kings mad was that they were supposed to be Christian princes and kings. And while they could go off and do some very atrocious things—and sadly they often did it in the name of the church—but behind every sword stroke and every act of pillage, there stood the figure of Jesus and the gospel, condemning violence in general, and commanding forgiveness and peacemaking in particular. What a terribly inconvenient pall this Jesus casts over things.

We cast Jesus an icy stare because what he asks of us is too high a price. We much prefer Jesus to be a savior in our own image, a spiritual guru of our own making, who will kiss our hurts and give us hope, but ask nothing demanding or challenging of us in return. We certainly don’t want any of this talk about carrying a cross or losing our lives in order to regain it. The closer we draw ourselves into a relationship with Jesus, the harder it becomes to simply shrug him off. I’ve often wondered if that may be part of the reason why people walk away from faith entirely. Would it not simply be easier to live without wrestling with this savior who asks so much of us in our lives?

In October of 2006, Charles Roberts entered a one-room schoolhouse in an Amish community in Pennsylvania. You’ll remember that fateful day and the atrocity that took place. He shot 10 schoolchildren, killing five. It’s the sort of horror that can only serve to remind us that evil is not simply an outdated notion, but that it is a very real thing, however we might try to understand it or classify it. Do you remember what the Amish people did in the face of this evil? Remarkably like other Christians who have faced very similar horrors the Amish people decided not to simply resort to an “eye for an eye.” Instead they decided to find a way to overcome evil with goodness. Somehow they would find a way to forgive. And so remarkably they not only embraced the families of the victims, but the family of the shooter as well. But they did this because they wanted to be true to their faith and who Jesus calls them to be in their lives as Christians.

We might hear Jesus’ words and instantly think of some great personal sacrifice. We might even go so far as to believe that Jesus actually calls us to be martyrs of one sort or another. Perhaps we hear the words “forget yourself” and think we ought to make little of our real hurts, deny ourselves something that might genuinely be helpful, somehow turn into a people who give up our pleasures and the enjoyment of life itself. Undoubtedly there are times when we do this very thing because we know it’s more important to think of others. So we make sacrifices for our families, or for our children, or we go the extra mile so that someone else will not suffer. So yes sometimes it is good to deny ourselves for a greater good and we do this despite the hardship. But I don’t think Jesus is truly wishing us to deny ourselves in an unhealthy or obsessive way. That too won’t necessarily bring about a new life. It might just perpetuate what isn’t life-giving.

Glenn Mitchell, a spiritual director who lives in Pennsylvania, tells a story about buying an old homestead and trying to plant an apple tree in the soil. And he describes how what he thought would be a simple exercise in turning the earth, turned out to be a backbreaking exercise. The deeper he dug, the more stones he hit. Away went the shovel, out came the pick.

I kept digging. An old adage says “Make a hundred-dollar hole for a $10 tree”; I realized that I was digging a thousand-dollar hole for a $35 tree. I began to stack the stones beside the hole in pyramid fashion, one hard-won stone on top of another. The stones dwarfed the small pile of soil beside them, and by the end, three and a half hours later, the stone pile was about as high as the tree. It took five wheelbarrow loads of soil and compost to fill in the hole where all those stones had been. I was finished.1

He looked at that apple tree growing in that rocky ground and thought about all he suffered to put it there. Was it worth his time and effort? The next morning he saw the sunlight catch the green leaves and he saw the hope of the beautiful fruit that tree would bear. And he thought about what Jesus teaches in this passage from Mark:

The point of all the digging, all the toil and the sweat, is not the pile of stones—as tall as it is and as much as it marked my path of planting. The point is the presence of the apple tree growing green beside it. So often…we see the suffering…we hear “death”… and miss the life right in front of us.

And Glenn concludes:

Jesus isn’t training martyrs here but rather those who can follow him into life. Along the way we bear what suffering comes, we raise the heavy stones to the light of day. But the movement is into the green of life, toward the fruit of the tree.2

This week parents across the community gathered to sign up their children for various activities in the community. Goodness knows we want our children to succeed in life and thankfully we have a wonderful variety of activities that will help them grow different life skills. While sitting with the Lutheran pastor over a cup of coffee we wondered aloud whether or not there was any point to having a “faith sign up” sheet at these events. Would parents see faith as something of a good skill set for their children? We both agreed that somehow signing up for “faith” didn’t hold the same level of interest as signing up for karate, or hockey, or what have you. Indeed those activities will bear fruit in different ways. But, I wondered, what about the fruits that only a relationship with Jesus can bring into one’s life? What about the fruits of faith? For there are some stones we will carry in life that only faith alone can bring into the light of day.

So when I think about how the Amish decided to respond to their suffering, I think it says something about choosing to let go, to truly wrestle with any vengeance in their hearts and let that die. It’s a cross they must carry—they certainly didn’t ask for it—but they also make a choice how to carry it. Faith helps them do that. I can only imagine the stones of suffering they had to carry to the light. But they do so in a great hope. They do so in the hope and in the trust that God will provide them with a new life. Their decision to forgive and to not return evil for evil says something about the depth of their relationship with Christ. It says something about their trust in him. Theirs is a deep faith grounded in the possibilities his life and love offer for their present and for their future.

I want to close on something of a lighter note, but a little story about the value of faith all the same. Did you ever hear the story about the eagle that thought he was a chicken?

An eagle was flying over a farmyard one day when his sharp eyes spotted a field mouse near a barn just ripe for the plucking. So in an instant the bird dive-bombed to the ground, claws open for the attack. But fortunately for the mouse, it decided to scurry down its hole at the last minute. The eagle landed beside the barn but could not find the mouse its sharp eyes had spied just moments earlier. Disappointed, the eagle lifted into the air. It shot like a rocket straight up, and smacked itself right into the overhang on the barn. The poor eagle knocked itself unconscious. It spiraled to the ground. And after a few moments it came to, shook its head and started to walk around.

It must have been some knock on the head. The eagle was a little confused. For as the eagle rose to his feet, he came eye to eye with one of the farm’s chickens; and the eagle started to watch the chicken. And the chicken would cock its head to the side, and the eagle would cock his head to the side. And the chicken would flap its little wings a bit, and the eagle flapped his wings a little bit. The eagle watched the chicken peck the ground, taking little seeds into its beak as it moved about the farmyard. The eagle started to peck the ground too. Except his big beak, curved to rip and tear flesh, wouldn’t pick up the feed.

Now Farmer Ed had seen many things in his day, but when he saw this eagle acting like a chicken, he knew he’d seen it all. Call it momentary amnesia, call it knocked-senseless, but for the life of him, Farmer Ed couldn’t understand why the eagle didn’t just fly up into the air and act, well, like an eagle. And clearly this poor bird of prey pecking the ground desperately needed a little help. “But,” thought Farmer Ed, “how to get the eagle to remember he’s an eagle?”

So Farmer Ed went over and plucked that eagle up in his hands. He walked over to the porch and flung the eagle off the porch. It flapped its wings like a chicken would, but to little effect. It landed again and shot Farmer Ed a rather annoyed look. So Farmer Ed thought, “I need something higher.” So he grabbed the eagle again, and took him into the barn, and carried him into the loft. And there standing over the farmyard, Farmer Ed lifted the poor eagle and threw him into the air. And again the eagle started to quickly flap his wings like a chicken would, and down he went to the ground. This time he shot Farmer Ed an angry glare. “I need something higher,” thought Farmer Ed.

“The Grand Canyon looks beautiful at this time of year,” thought Farmer Ed as he held the eagle in his outstretched arms. The eagle looked down—way down, far, far, down—to the canyon floor below and this time he shot Farmer Ed a very nervous, a very explicit what-the-various words I can’t repeat here-are you thinking look. And Farmer Ed looked at the eagle and smiled and said, “Trust me.” He flung that eagle off the precipice and like a stone it plummeted. The eagle flapped and flapped and flapped and flapped his wings like a chicken would, and nothing was happening. And about halfway down the eagle just admitted all this flapping was pointless. And so he simply stretched out its wings as if to say, “I give up.” And he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable thud.

But the thud never came. And the eagle opened his eyes to see that he was still high above the canyon floor, and that his beautiful long wings were extended, and the very wind was carrying him forward, raising him up. And in a flash of instinct, the eagle soared higher still, up and up. He flapped his wings only when necessary, and glided effortlessly. And far below Farmer Ed looked up and watched the eagle. “Happy hunting” he called out. He never did see what glance the eagle sent him in return.

If you were to visit the seminary where I studied, you could go into the common hall and find there a big, gorgeous and stately fireplace. Sadly, I don’t think I ever saw it lit in the four years I spent at seminary. But it was a grand fireplace all the same. And over that fireplace you would find the crest of St. Andrew’s College chiseled in stone. And on the crest you would find these words, “Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.” I have often reflected on that phrase, thinking how Christ offers us a power to overcome much, the wisdom to make it happen. When we can allow God’s Spirit to catch us, remarkably it’s a spirit that can lift us up in ways we might not imagine possible. But that comes with our trust in Jesus.

So I invite you today to just think about that relationship. We’re all different. We will all approach Jesus in any number of ways. One might fall down on bended knee and worship and give him praise. Another might be curious about who he is and what he means for us in our lives. Some of us probably stand at a distance not quite ready to ascribe to him any title or trust. We just know he’s very much at the centre of this thing called being a Christian. And yes, perhaps like Peter, we’re going to take offense at how Jesus invites us to live. However we might choose to learn more about Jesus, like any person with whom we’re going to have a meaningful relationship, it’s going to take some faith, to put some stock in what he teaches, and perhaps even glimpse something of the larger truth to which his life leads.

Let us pray:

We give you thanks God for the gift of faith and the gift of Jesus the Christ. Help us to grow in our trust of Jesus and what his life can mean for all of our lives. Help us to see that to question Jesus and to bring our doubts and uncertainties are simply part of building that trust over the many years of our lives. If we find ourselves rebuking Jesus for who he is, help us to better understand why he teaches what he does, and why he gives of his life the way he does. And we pray for those this morning who are hoping to grow their faith and build their relationship with our faith community. Let them find room to spread their wings and space for your Spirit to lift them up. Amen.

Notes

1. Mitchell, Glenn. “Blogging toward Sunday: Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.” www.theolog.org/2009/09/blogging-toward-sunday-jesus-christ.html

2. ---.

Lifting Up Hope for Others to See

2009-03-24T14:45:00.000-07:00

4th Sunday in Lent

John 3:14-21

Have you ever heard of something called a “circular mill”? That’s a question for all of you biology buffs out there. It’s a name that describes something that happens to army ants when they get separated from the main column upon which they proverbially march two by two. Remarkably these lost ants find other lost ants and eventually they begin to form a large circle that moves around on itself. The ants can’t think for themselves: they instinctively follow the ant in front. And if that ant is following another lost ant, and that ant follows another lost ant, well you get the picture. And so they literally walk into a swirling vortex of lost ants. Some of these circular mills can grow to 1,200 feet in diameter if you can imagine that many lost ants. And here’s the tragic part. The ants walk on mindlessly until they die of exhaustion.

I first heard about these circular mills from a New Testament scholar speaking to a class of undergraduates at a university about what it means to be a spiritual person. He spoke about how increasingly difficult it is to really know which voice to trust in the world today. There are so many different and competing voices. Most compete for our pocketbooks: consume this, purchase that, and be happy or productive or popular. Other voices compete for our endorsements, or our vote, or our beliefs. And some compete for our hearts and minds. And so he asked the students: you might be a spiritual person, but which voice do you trust? And how do you know that voice is leading you somewhere good? What if you are simply following a voice that’s blindly leading you somewhere you do not want go?

It’s probably one of the strangest episodes in the Old Testament. The Israelites wander in the wilderness. They wander for something like 40 years. The Israelites complain for something like 40 years. They complain bitterly to Moses about their situation. They speak poorly of God. Freedom from the Egyptians obviously isn’t good enough for them; the food, they say, is terrible. Gripe, gripe, complain, and complain. But that’s not really strange. People love to complain whether they’re lost in a desert or sitting in a restaurant. So God sends poisonous snakes amongst them as a way to teach them a lesson. And after many people die the Israelites admit they’ve been more than a little impatient and impertinent and they apologize. But here’s the strange part: rather than simply get ride of the poisonous snakes, God tells Moses to fashion a pole and attach a serpent to it. And the story goes that if someone simply looked upon the bronze serpent this totem could cure any snakebite.
Sitting with a teacher over lunch this week I listened to her talk about the very depressing reality of drug use in our schools and in the community. We have access to technology, to progress, to sports and an array of social programs unheard of even 20 years ago. Still people turn to drugs whether it’s a way to acquire easy money, or an easy way to feel good. In Britain, a report issued by one children’s advocacy group pointed a finger of blame at a spirit of individualism and a deep sense of uncertainty that festers amongst youth today. And it listed tragic symptoms that included teenage unkindness, premature sexualisation, and a spirit of competition that makes life a challenge to live. Is it possible that for some of these people they’re already starting to step further and further away from the main column of human life as it were, further off into the jungle, blindly following the ant in front? If ever we would hope for a totem to be lifted up in their midst, it might be right there in the midst of this painful truth.

Perhaps some of you watch a program called The Dog Whisperer? Apparently there’s a fellow named Cesar Millan who has a knack for helping troubled dogs. But apparently he also has a knack for helping humans troubled by dogs. Any realtor or mail carrier or meter-reader has had to deal with a threatening dog in someone’s yard at one time or another. But what if you are a realtor and you have a fear of dogs? Such was the case with a man on one particular episode of The Dog Whisperer. He had a crippling fear of dogs—a fear that originated when he was viciously attacked by a dog as a young boy. His fear affected his self-esteem, his confidence and sense of competency in the world. As a realtor it affected how well he could do his job. His children wanted a pet dog but his fear of dogs denied them that joy as well.

Enter the Dog Whisperer. Cesar works with this man and has him confront dogs. The man had to go near them. He had to touch them. He had to find ways to build relationships with them. He had to literally enter into his fear. Someone remarked how painful it was to watch this man enter into his terror. But the process—uncomfortable as it was—ultimately freed him from his fear. And he and his family now enjoy having a pet dog in their own home. And he can enter into his work with more confidence.

Clearly, however, he didn’t overcome his fear alone. He did it with the help of a friend. And before he could overcome his fear of dogs, he needed to build his trust in Cesar Millan. If I had been that man, I would seriously be looking at Cesar Millan and saying, “Are you sure about this?” And if Cesar said to me, “Trust me, it will be okay,” I’m quite sure my scepticism would kick into overdrive. Once bitten, twice shy is the old saying after all.
This story, however, tells us something about what it means to live with faith in someone. I’m sure this man had heard information and facts about Cesar Millan and that helped him to learn more about the Dog Whisperer. I’m sure that he watched his show, and saw the different things Cesar could do with dogs. That probably helped him to build his confidence in Cesar.

Undoubtedly he listened to others give their experiences of Cesar Millan and his amazing ability with dogs. Would that sort of testimony go far? Probably. But in the end he needed to meet Cesar in person and build a relationship with him. That trust moved him forward through the valley of his own shadowy fears.

In the gospel of John we hear of a similar encounter between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. Nicodemus meets with Jesus under the cover of darkness. In his conversation he lays out what he obviously knows about Christ. He says, “You are a rabbi, a Man of God, and you are a worker of wonders.” It is clear Nicodemus has heard of Jesus and heard stories about what Christ can do. But now, in his home, he has this face-to-face encounter with Christ. And Jesus tells Nicodemus that hearing about him isn’t simply enough. Knowing that he’s a good teacher isn’t simply enough. He says that Nicodemus needs to be reborn into a new life, into a new reality as it were. And if this were a stage play, I’m quite sure this is where the character of Jesus would stand up and face the audience. Because while he’s still speaking to Nicodemus, it’s obvious that he’s making a statement to the world, to a world that John sees as caught in something of a dark and dim vortex. “As Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the desert, in the same way the Son of Man must be lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.” Jesus looks for our trust to take us into many different spaces in our lives, some great, some glorious, some fearful, and some uncertain.

In 1951 the Spanish painter Salvador Dali painted “Christ of St. John of the Cross.” And in this haunting painting we see very much the Son of Man lifted. But Dali’s painting does something rather remarkable. For it shows us two perspectives in one image. At the bottom of his painting you see a fisherman and a boat and what might be a lake. This is very much our world. We also see Jesus on the cross, lifted for the world to see. And one artist says that from the top of the painting we see God’s perspective as it were: it’s God looking down upon and into the world and seeing the sort of love and light that his Son brings into the world. Of this painting, Dali himself would say he wanted to depict a “Christ as beautiful as the God that He is.”
Wouldn’t it be nice to have a totem like Moses lifted in the desert to cure whatever threatens us? Wouldn’t it be nice if you had some way of taking a pole with a big ant on it, and stick it in the ground in the jungle so that all those ants in the swirling circular mill could go, “Whoa? Let’s follow that ant, because I get the strangest feeling I’m getting nowhere with this crowd.” And you could lead them out of the swirling vortex of death and back to the main column and home again? It seems to me that this is what John invites us to consider with this idea of Jesus lifted amidst the vortex that can be human living. It isn’t so much a way out of the world, as it is a way back into the world bringing, as we sometimes sing, “hope to you and me.”

Helen Keller said, “Faith is the strength by which a shattered world will emerge into light.” The power of having faith in someone can be remarkable if given time to grow and develop. In speaking to those students about what voices they might choose to follow in the world, the scholar invited them to consider listening more deeply and wisely to Jesus and see of they could deepen their faith in what he’s telling us and doing in the world. Would they wish to be part of that, he wondered?

Last week we heard Jesus make the remarkable claim that his body was the temple, a place where God’s presence dwells. It was in his person that we see such an outpouring of grace and goodness, of justice and compassion and forgiveness. What if we look upon this story or we look upon this painting and consider that as a congregation we are part of that same body. What wonderful gifts could you then bring into the vortex of people’s lives? What sort of new life might you be able to grow in the lives of others? What sort of a light might you cast into the shadowy areas of our world? This could be for a student at school. It could be for a friend. It could be for someone ill at the hospital. Into a world of individualism, and competition and unkindness we offer a different reality. How very pleased God will be to see what we’re doing in the world with our lives in those moments when we’re invited to lift high the gospel this week.

Let us pray:

Loving and gracious God may we more deeply appreciate what Jesus does in our world and in our lives today. Help us to be his body in this world. In whatever ways we might do this, help us to make your love for this world all the more real for people in our lives and community. To the lost, may we offer new direction. To the hurting, comfort. To the despairing, may we bring them hope. And in doing so, bring about that fullness of life you promise us all. Amen.

Being Sanctuary

2009-03-16T17:54:00.000-07:00

3rd Sunday in Lent

1 Corinthians 1:18-25

John 2:13-22

You are probably familiar with this much-quoted phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Do you remember who uttered those words? It was Mahatma Gandhi. And if you remember Gandhi, he was, among many things, an activist. He believed not only in practicing civil disobedience, but being disobedient in a non-violent way. For Gandhi what we do with our lives matters enormously. He said, “You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing there will be no result.”

What was the end result of Gandhi putting his belief into action? Well it was ultimately the rise of an independence movement to bring India out from under colonial rule. But more far-reaching would be how his actions inspired civil rights movements worldwide. Gandhi would spend years in prison for his efforts. He suffered for it. In the end he would be remembered for it. The International Day of Non-Violence falls on Gandhi’s birthday, October 2.

Gandhi, of course, was well aware of the civil disobedience of Christ. And probably no other story in the gospels reveals the disobedient Christ quite like the story of the cleansing of the Temple in Jerusalem. When we hear of Jesus overturning tables and picking up a whip and herding out the animals we very much say goodbye to Christmas and sweet verses about the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay. Today we see the grown-up Lord Jesus become unhinged. John writes that the disciples watched this cleansing of the temple and remembered the words of the psalmist who wrote, “My devotion to your house, O God, burns in me like a fire.” Jesus sets his eyes on his suffering and predicts the death he will face because of the disobedience he puts into practice. Jesus begins something that won’t easily be undone.

But what if Jesus had decided the cost wasn’t worth the risk? Imagine if he had simply settled for being a nice person—the go along to get along guy—rather than the disobedient Christ we read about this morning? Would a nice guy spark others to press on with their own desire to be the change they wanted to see in the world? Would it spark disciples through the centuries to press on? I think it’s a fascinating question because it’s this Christ who would inspire the likes of Gandhi some 20 centuries later. Of Jesus, Gandhi would say, “Give me more of your Christ, and less of your Christianity.”

There’s a wonderful made for TV movie starring that baritone voiced James Earl Jones. It’s called the “The Vernon John Story.” Reverend John was a minister called to Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in the late 40s and early 50s. And Reverend John was quite a character. Loud, opinionated, often uncompromising in his convictions about the gospel, he often set the church elders on edge.

In one remarkable scene you see him arguing with the soft-spoken elders who are trying to convince him to do the funeral for a young black man killed by gang violence. It would look poorly on the congregation if they didn’t reach out to the family even though the boy was an active and unrepentant gang member. Reverend John finally acquiesces to their pleading and agrees to do the funeral. In the movie, the scene cuts to a view of a casket and behind it the pulpit. You see James Earl Jones abruptly come to the pulpit, look gruffly at the congregation, and open his sermon notes and bark: “This boy lived like a dog and this boy died like a dog.” And with that he picked up his sermon notes and left the pulpit before a stunned congregation.

Reverend John also set the congregational leaders on edge for another reason: he was very active in the unrest of the civil rights movement. The good reverend believes that the gospel compels him to begin rocking the boat in his community where segregation is an entrenched way of life. The rather settled and safe life of the congregation becomes more unsettled and unsafe as this outspoken Christian shoves his way through the temple of segregation, overturning the tables of racism.

At the end of the movie the leaders ask Reverend John to move on. They explain to him that they need a more pastoral minister, someone who can care for the flock in the way they wish to receive care. It’s to be Bible studies, and teas, and visits, and fundraisers they want, not such a radical ministry that upsets people’s sensibilities. And Reverend John decides he’ll have none of it. Of course, I should tell you where Dexter Avenue Baptist Church is located: in Montgomery, Alabama. And you might think of another Baptist minister who came out of Montgomery in the 1960s. In a rather humorous scene the elders welcome their new minister. Happy to see the unpopular minister out the door, they delight in the arrival of his replacement: a young man, someone they can groom into a good and docile shepherd of the flock. And with joy they welcome their new minister, a fellow history remembers as Rev Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Christ’s disobedient spirit upsets religion and overturns tables of intolerance. I remember a most remarkable confrontation with someone in our community. It had little to do with anything I said. In fact, I had said nothing to provoke the confrontation. It was simply because of the church to which I belong. I was having this wonderful conversation with a very friendly and gregarious woman. If you had watched us you might even think we were old friends, such was the laughter and camaraderie. Finally the woman asked me, “What do you do?” And I was a little stunned. I guess when you are a clergyperson you assume you’re something of a public figure. I said, “You haven’t seen me at a funeral or a wedding in town?” “No,” she replied. “Well,” I said, “I’m the United Church minister.”

Silence.

“Really?” she asked. “Really,” I said.

Then she sort of hit me square between the eyes. With not a little sarcasm she said, “You’re the minister of that church that likes to marry homosexuals?” You know me: always the laughing-boy. I felt like saying, “Um, could we go back to the laughter and joking and the camaraderie part of this conversation?” But it was clearly too late to turn back: a table had definitely been turned. And she tied into me with a rather scathing lesson on the Bible, and how disgusting she thought this whole business was. Despite my earnest attempts at offering my perspective on this, it was clear that the friendly part of our conversation was over. And when this person chose to describe gay people in hateful words I won’t repeat here, I simply asked, “Do you actually know any gay people? Would you say such things to their face?”

The American comedian Red Foxx made this very shrewd observation about human nature. He said, “Beauty may be skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.” And in the face of such hostility I saw something not so gracious to behold: it’s the human heart wreathed in hate. Earlier this week I read a news story about some of the sworn affidavits of 5 detainees at Guantanamo Bay. Whatever our feelings about that facility, some of the words of the accused are downright chilling. In response to the criminal charges laid the American military, these detainees wrote, “These are badges of honour…we are terrorists to the bone. So many thanks to God.” And they went on to discuss how they saw their terrorism as a legitimate act of faith.

In Northern Ireland we saw acts of violence this week that undoubtedly raised fears that perhaps “The Troubles” might rear its ugly head again. Would the gears of retribution and vengeance automatically turn as old wounds opened after a decade of relative peace greased the wheels? By the middle of the week several thousand citizens were out in the streets in Northern Ireland to silently protest the violence. Catholic and Protestant church leaders condemned the violence and encouraged people not to return to the bloodletting. Placards could be seen in one demonstration that read, “No going back.” And as one reporter wrote: “the Belfast crowd -- among them firefighters and postal workers, former paramilitary convicts and child-cradling mothers -- fell stone-silent for five minutes.” One Catholic said of his six-year-old boy, “"If my wee lad here wants to be a policeman when he grows up, I'd be proud. I shouldn't have to worry that some nut might shoot him for serving his community."

By human hands alone the Temple of Jerusalem required decades of labour to build. And by all accounts it was a grand project, a wonder of the ancient world. Throughout history that temple would be built and destroyed, and rebuilt and finally destroyed by Rome and never to be built again. In his cleansing of the temple, Jesus just doesn’t just turn over money changing tables. He turns over important theological tables. John writes that Jesus has the audacity to say, “My body is God’s temple.” God’s presence dwells here in this body. Forgiveness flows from this body. Mercy gushes forth from this body. Healing and goodness can be found in this body. In this body there’s a grace that goes to the bone. If you tear this temple down, Jesus says, it will be raised again.

In response to the homophobia I encountered this week—had I a little more eloquence in the breech as it were—I might have reminded this woman of the remarkable places our faith as a United Church of Canada has taken us: the ordaining of women in ministry, the remarkable openness to seeing where God works in other faith traditions, a church where try to create a space for those in society who will not be welcomed with understanding or compassion. And I might add that where many see irrelevance to living as a congregation, I wonder if they see any purpose in being part of a faith community that goes beyond the borders of Edson. Being part of the change you wish to see means being caught up and involved in a church that can tackle social issues on your behalf in many different ways. Although I still see a goodness and purpose to being the local congregation in Edson: a place for people for all ages to gather and hopefully relate and build loving relationships that serve to enhance life.

The Christian writer and artist, Jan Richardson, offers her own thoughts on this gospel lesson of a Christ unhinged and disobedient to everything but the grace and goodness of God:

The wonder and the mystery of this gospel lection, and of Jesus’ life, lie not only in how he gives his body as a sacred space but also in how he calls us to be his body in this world. Christ’s deep desire, so evident on that day in the temple, is that we pursue the congruence that he embodied in himself: that as his body, as his living temple in the world, we take on the forms that will most clearly welcome and mediate his presence. In our bodies, in our lives, in our communities; by our hospitality, by our witness, by our life of prayer: Christ calls us to be a place of meeting between God and God’s people, a living sanctuary for the healing of the world.1

Last week we heard the idea that faith is the defeat of probability by possibility. Perhaps we now see with clearer focus that it is also faith in this one called Jesus that opens those possibilities. When Jesus purges the holiest of holies, it isn’t simply the Jewish temple, my friends, but the very heart of humanity that finds itself cleaned and renewed. As we enter into this third week of Lent may we each find time to consider what needs to be cleansed, purged, overturned, broken down and built up in our own lives?

Let us pray:

Lord, prepare each of us to be a sanctuary for you. In our living me we be a gracious people, open to the challenges that this world and human living present to us. Deepen our faith in you, in the truth that you are a holy temple wherein God’s presence dwells, opening possibilities for grace, love and forgiveness. Strengthen us in the time of trail where other voices and other wisdom in this world might pull us away from the future that lies for each of us as the Body of Christ. Amen.

1. Richardson, Jan. “Lent 3: The Temple in His Bones.” Website: The Painted Prayerbook. March 11, 2009. www. paintedprayerbook.com

From the improbable to the possible

2009-03-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

2nd Sunday in Lent

Romans 4:13-25
Mark 8:31-38

Imagine if you will the anticipation of going on a trip to Israel. You and your friends have met a remarkable tour guide. She seems to be vibrant, and passionate and charismatic: just the sort of person you would want as a tour guide for a remarkable visit to such a remarkable land. She seems to be the sort who would have great stories to share about various landmarks and hotspots. She could show you a really good time. She probably knows some great restaurants where you can get a sampling of local cuisine. You hear that she probably could line you up with her cousins and you could stay in a little villa, drink wine and watch the sun go down after a day of sightseeing.

Imagine then your dismay when she tells you about the only hitch to all of this: her cousin’s villa happens to be on the other side of the Gaza Strip. The only way to get to the villa will be to pass through some very dangerous territory. And then imagine her saying, “I really can’t even guarantee your safety what with the recent turmoil, but trust me folks, the villa’s worth it on the other side. The wine is very good indeed. The sunset will take your breath away.”

Would you go with her?

It’s this sort of scenario that the disciples face in this passage we hear from Mark’s gospel. In different ways Jesus has given them something of a foretaste of the wine at the villa—sips here and there—in the healings, and in the casting out of the not-so-good spirits. He’s painted something of the picture of the world he’s fashioning in his ministry: the sun will set upon a world of suffering, and you will wake to see the dawn of a new reality. The disciples have imagined this and Jesus has offered it to them in both words and deeds. And Jesus tells them that there’s more to come. The question is: will they journey with him through some risky territory where even he cannot guarantee safe passage?

The story is told of a rich man who goes on a journey by sea. And he takes with him two very large bags of gold coins. The journey goes well, even pleasantly one might say; until that is, a great storm breaks out, and the storm becomes a terrifying squall; and the very forces of nature rend that ship apart off a rugged coastline.

The rich man leaps into the dark cold waters with the rest of the ship’s crew; and he tries his best to swim for the shoreline. A few sailors grab hold of him thinking he cannot swim, but he seems strangely heavy to them and he continues to sink despite their best efforts. The rich man tries his best to keep his head above the waters, he screams for help, but the sailors realize that they cannot save him. He’s too heavy.

And the rich man knows why. It’s his long, richly woven gowns. They cost a fortune. They’re very well made and densely woven. But he decides he can live without them. Once free, however, he still cannot keep his head above water. The roaring wind and spray of the sea almost suffocate him. He’s still too heavy. Two bags of gold hang from his belt. The man’s mind reasons: I can afford to drop one bag of gold, but not two. He lets a bag of his life’s savings sink to the bottom of the sea. Still he strains against the wind and the waves. Still he finds himself being dragged down by his heavy burden. He’s alone. The sailors have swum ahead; no one can help him now. With his lungs burning, his breathing even shorter, and feeling the weight of his arms and legs increasing, he has but a single choice to make in what might be the next few moments of the rest of his life. The probability is that he will die unless he drops that last bag of gold. If he can let it go the possibilities include making it to shore and continuing to live, albeit a little worse for the wear.

“Do you gain anything if you win the whole world but lose your life?” Jesus asks the crowds gathered around him and the disciples. “If any of you want to come with me," he told them, "you must forget yourself, carry your cross, and follow me.”

Someone once asked me if the purpose of following Jesus must in some way require an imitating of Christ’s life. He asked me more directly: does discipleship in some way mean crucifixion? Must we all lay down our lives in order to follow Christ? Does our destination as Christians lead inevitably to that wooden symbol hanging on the south wall of our sanctuary?

We don’t know whether Jesus actually uttered this sentence about carrying your cross. Scholars debate this. But we do know that the cross was a terrifying symbol of the power of Rome and what Rome did to enemies of the state. We do know that Jesus was crucified upon a cross. We know that Rome tried to stamp out Christian leadership earlier in the 1st century. We know that whether for Jesus to say this, or for Mark to mention it, the terror of the cross would be well known by those first listeners of the gospel. Enemies of the state today aren’t treated to such public execution; but living in the Roman world, yes you would realize the implication of what these words meant. It meant “your end” for the entire world to see. So my friend thinking on these things concluded: if following Jesus means I must die, then I’ll have nothing of that thank you very much.

I can’t blame him.

And curiously my friend isn’t unlike many of us who hear Jesus talk of picking up your cross, of losing your life, of forgetting yourself. My friend is very much like the disciples who seem to forget the other half of Jesus’ teaching: which speaks of rising to life, of losing a life to save a life. It’s sort of like when you sit down with a child or a teenager and you begin to reason with them about why you are making such-and-such a decision. The child doesn’t want to listen fully to your thought, let alone your conclusion that might actually be helpful. She only hears the first part—sees the immediate implications for her life—and begins to argue and resist. This is Peter’s rebuke in a nutshell: “Lord it can’t be!”

Last night I had the rather interesting experience of walking around in a choir gown at the Legion. Yes, I was chosen and given the opportunity to act as a supreme judge at Trivia Night. So I was wearing a gown to look the part. And I learned three things about Trivia Night and those competitive teams who play for the win. First, answers aren’t always black and white. Any good United Church person knows this. Second, the questions are just as important as the answers. Any good United Church person understands this. Third, I now know why they asked the United Church minister to be one of the supreme judges.

But I learned something else last night about a rather well known Christian named Martin Luther. Not only did he translate the Bible into German. Luther also wrote rules for 9-pin bowling. But beyond translating the Bible and writing rules for bowling, Christians remember Luther for what he contributed to Christian thinking. It was Luther who would start to preach about something he called a theology of the cross. And in the theology of the cross Luther would suggest that discipleship comes with a cost. The cross would be for the disciples then—as it is for us now—a spiritual crisis. We discover that in order for us to find new life, something in us must be let go. Christian living isn’t all glory and ease from concern.

I think of the story a man told me about his experience with death. What brought him to death was not unlike what brought the rich man in the sea to his own crisis: he was trying to swim for shore weighed down by a case of beer. In his sober moments he could wake up and do his job. He could appear to his friends and neighbours as nothing more or less than a good neighbour, the one who always enjoyed a couple of drinks whenever it came to being out and about: he was a good time Charlie. But over time the sick days off work increased. Job performance dropped. His wife appeared withdrawn and smiled less and less when out and about. And one day his ship wrecked. He came home and found his wife gone. The police arrived at his door with guns drawn. The phone rang and it was an officer informing him that they were just there to take away his firearms for fear he might be a danger to himself or the public. That was the day he had to choose whether he would sink or swim?

And that was the day he decided to drop the beer and embrace sobriety. His wife’s love was worth living for. I’ve heard many stories from many people who tell me that it’s losing the one thing they cannot live without that makes them choose between two certain paths in life. But like Peter I’m quite certain many of them look at that choice and say, “Lord it can’t be!” How can I live confidently without my money and security? How can I live and enjoy life without alcohol and drugs? How can I be happy and single in life? Well honestly when do we ever get to have our cake and eat it too? It just doesn’t work that way. It’s like the woman yearning for a relationship just on her terms. She complains, “Why can’t I have an uncomplicated happiness.” There’s no such thing. You might as well chase after your shadow. You can have a complicated life and still find happiness.

At the heart of Christian living is the cross of Jesus Christ. And at the heart of the cross is the very profound need for us to live with faith: to trust when our friend Jesus tells us that his death must happen but in three days he will rise again. There’s good news even at the end of what we think as the end of things in life. Or as I’ve learned from meeting with folks in groups like Alcoholics Anonymous: it’s to trust what they have passed through themselves—there’s life—a full life—in the humble truth of saying, “My name is Dave and I’m an alcoholic.” That’s their cross. And they bear it for everyday they live sober. But it’s a cross that brings new life. They’ve let go their dependency—what weighs them down—it dies in order that they might live more fully. They too rise again from their spiritual crisis and find new possibilities in faith.

This week I opened—in a virtual sense—the pages of The Times online. And I saw an article by the Chief Rabbi of Britain, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. And he said something rather remarkable about faith:

How probable is it that one man who performed no miracles and wielded no power, Abraham, would become the most influential figure who ever lived, with more than half of the six billion people alive today tracing their spiritual descent to him?

How probable is it that a tiny people, the children of Israel, known today as Jews, numbering less than a fifth of a per cent of the population of the world, would outlive every empire that sought its destruction? Or that a small, persecuted sect known as the Christians would one day become the largest movement of any kind in the world?

How probable is it that slavery would be abolished, that tyrannies would fall, that apartheid would end and that an African-American would be elected President of the US? Everything interesting in life, the Universe and the whole shebang is improbable, as Nicholas Taleb reminds us in The Black Swan, subtitled “The Impact of the Highly Improbable”. The book’s title is drawn from the fact that people were convinced that, since no one had ever seen a black swan, they did not exist — until someone discovered Australia.

The prophets dreamt the improbable and by doing so helped to bring it about. All the great human achievements, in art and science as well as the life of the spirit, came through people who ignored the probable and had faith in the possible.

“Faith,” he suggests, “is the defeat of probability by possibility.”1

Paul would write to the Romans and suggest that this sort of faith is what ultimately puts us right in life and with God. And it’s something that can open up the possibilities in your life. I can’t imagine many recovering alcoholics disagreeing with that.

And perhaps this is where I might say to my friend: to pick up your cross is to pick up a real and authentic life where much is possible because of what God has done in the human named Jesus. God can do these things in our lives as well. But in order for that to happen there might be something weighing you down in life that needs to be let go. As one Christian puts it: “The mystery of loss becomes the material for a new beauty that we begin to see in ourselves and in each other.”2

On this second week in Lent I wonder what possibilities might open for you if you can allow your fear or your anger or your grief or boredom to fall away and die? Can you open yourself to trusting that Jesus invites us into the fullness of life and that we can confidently let go of that which only weighs us down? Where might faith open possibilities in your life where you and the world can only see probability?

Let us pray:

Loving and gracious God help each of us to be open to faith. Help us to trust you and where you are leading us in our lives. Where we see fear, help us to bring reassurance. Where we see confusion, help us to offer a hopeful direction. Where we see people who are uncertain to let go of what holds them back from living fully, help us to let them let that go. And may each of us look to the cross not merely as adornment or with sentimental eyes, but to see there very real possibility in our lives and world: a message of hope that carries us into the tumult of life and lifts us into new possibilities.

1. Sacks, Jonathan. “'Faith is the defeat of probability by possibility'” Credo. February 27, 2009. www.timesonline.co.uk

2. Warner, Martin. “This Sunday’s readings: 2nd Sunday of Lent.” Church Times. Issue 7616. March 6, 2009. www.churchtimes.co.uk

Holding Scorpions In Our Hands

2009-03-04T14:01:00.000-08:00

Genesis 9:8-17

Mark 1:9-15

A number of years ago my brother and sister-in-law and their eldest boy came for a visit. Driving from the southern corner of Saskatchewan, they made the long trek out to what is almost the very geographic center of Alberta—a place better known as Swan Hills. Have you ever driven to Swan Hills? Have you ever lived there? My sister-in-law said this to me when she arrived at the church manse for that visit. Virginia staggered out of the minivan and gave me a hug and said, “It felt like we were driving to the end of civilization!” Welcome to Swan Hills Virginia! It’s a little jarring for a prairie person to see miles and miles and miles of endless trees. You keep hoping that yet another small town or village will pop into sight in the next bend in the road, but it never does. Needless to say, my brother and sister-in-law never came back for a second visit.

My first taste of true wilderness occurred in the early 90s when a friend and I took a canoe and traveled to a river east of Flin Flon, Manitoba. We paddled onto the Mystic Creek canoe route. My friend assured me it was an easy river to paddle, hardly any rapids at all. He wasn’t kidding. The water table that year was so low, I ended up hauling that canoe over more shallows than I care to recall. But rapids were the least of my worries. One particularly sunny day we spent crossing a series of small lakes. I had no idea of the intensity of sunshine glaring off the surface of the water. In no time I started feeling sick. And we camped on a small rocky island in the middle of a lake. Sitting in the tent, taking a Tylenol, feeling my heart racing, I had but one thought: “I don’t want to die here. Not here on a small rocky island on a lake.” It dawned on me that there would be little one could do if conditions took a turn for the worse. The wilderness could be a frightening and dangerous place.

In ancient times when cartographers would draw up a map of the known world it might be that unknown or unexplored regions were simply left empty save for a distinguishing symbol: the dragon or wild beast with fearsome visage. “Here be dragons,” suggesting that it was wild and untamed and threatening. And so to go tripping off beyond the known landmarks would be to risk your life. Or I suppose if you were the adventurous type, the wild lands would beckon to be explored and mapped and better understood.

Mark’s words offer us a map of sorts, a map with a very clear symbol of the sort of threat looming in the wilderness for Jesus: here be wild beasts and here be Satan. In a series of short sentences, we see Jesus move on the map from settled Nazareth to the Jordan to be baptized, and then into the wilderness. And without giving much detail Mark takes a 40-day wilderness excursion and describes it as filled with temptation.

I’m thankful for Mark’s lack of detail about those temptations. Aren’t you curious though? People often think of temptations as sexual in nature. We probably think of our physical appetites. It might come in the form of doing something you would not like to be caught doing. If you’re Homer Simpson and you’re trying to lose weight, the temptation might be to give in and take a bite of what he called, “The Forbidden Donut.” Remember those commercials for McCain frozen cakes and that husband sneaking downstairs at night to just take a bite of that deep and delicious cake from the freezer? That commercial made me want to buy a McCain’s frozen cake every time I watched it. But in the end we honestly don’t know what Jesus faced in his wilderness, we just know that he comes out of it with a resolve to proclaim that the kingdom of God has come near.

Here’s a popular belief when it comes to trials and temptations. Every test and every challenge in life comes from God. It’s as if God is somehow this capricious being who delights in putting us to the test. Just the other day a friend rolled out a familiar mantra when I shared yet another one of life’s struggles (no it had nothing to do with running out of gas folks). She asked, “You’re doing such good work in your life. So why is this happening to you?” She couldn’t seem to make sense of my suffering in light of the fact that she believes I’m doing something good with my life. Why do such bad things happen to such good people? The mind struggles for an answer. And so in this popular belief, the answer sounds something like this: you must need to learn something, that’s why Life or Fate or God has placed this challenge before you.

I’ve never found that a terribly helpful way of looking at life’s troubles. And mainly, I think, because it all gives us a very good reason to resent God for being downright insensitive, if not unkind. We wouldn’t appreciate a parent who threw such struggles in our path in life. We certainly wouldn’t appreciate a friend doing something similar. But for some strange reason people are quite happy to accept this as God’s role in our lives.

Someone once asked a theologian to answer this question: “How do we know what the will of God is?” And the theologian replied, “We don’t. That’s the joke.”1 And to be quite honest, God being God, we cannot ever truly know God’s will or purpose. That’s about as possible a thing for me to say with 100 per cent accuracy as suggesting that I know exactly what you are all thinking at this very moment. Your eyes suggest many things. Your body posture suggests many things. But I can’t say what that is with complete accuracy.

I think of two parents who have suffered the greatest loss imaginable. Both lose a child. One loses a grown child in an act of senseless violence. The other loses a young child in the most everyday of experiences: while crossing the road to get on the school bus, a careless driver fails to stop for the child. I can only imagine the sort of barren wilderness such an experience would take you.

Both parents choose to react in different ways. The first parent looks at the accused and simply demands an eye-for-an-eye justice. Even if the accused is found criminally insane, the punishment should be the same. That would be fair and that would be just, regardless of the circumstances. The second parent doesn’t seek an eye-for-an-eye. The second parent considers a careless driver who has made a tragic mistake. Vengeance will not bring back his child; the parent expresses a remarkable compassion for the tragedy of what’s happened. In neither situation would I dare suggest that this is something God has done because in some sense both parents needed some great lesson in life.

What I can do in the face of life’s struggles is to ask myself: what is a faithful thing to do in this moment? Given an array of choices, which one might be a more faithful decision? What if in some small way I can actually respond in a way that might reflect the sort of faith Jesus lived and lives in his own life? Then our struggles become something of an opportunity. An opportunity to actually allow God to become more present, to open doors as it were for God to come through into the world because of what we do with the choices we have before us. And when I thought about those two parents and their very human responses to tragedy, I asked the same question: which response seems to open more doors for God to break through into the world and into our pain and brokenness?2

For it seems to me that the wilderness just doesn’t have to be somewhere east of Flin Flon, or on the highways of north central Alberta. The wilderness can be sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for news. The wilderness can be in the workplace where you see friends getting pink slips. The wilderness can be in the relationships that have gone off track. The wilderness can be very much in your own home as you look at the practical realities of your daily life. That can be as much a place where “there be dragons here.”

Despite some ridiculous attempts to paint Satan as downright demonic—complete with horns and cloven hoof—the origin of the word “Satan” has nothing to do with that nonsense. Satan comes from the Arabic word, “ha-Satan” which in English means, “the adversary.” And there’s a great deal of biblical material that would suggest that Satan is more a roadblock in the journey of life, than a demonic creature out to snare your immortal soul. When Jesus encounters wild beasts and Satan it says much more about encountering that which may tempt him to lose faith and become something of a lost soul in an unknown landscape. Good heavens, you only need to walk into any pub in town to see people walking through that territory here in Edson. I wager there are plenty walking that path in their homes as well.

There are no ready answers to the question of responding in faith. Like many of you, of course, I wish I could simply have the answer directly from God. Wouldn’t it be lovely to hear a voice loud and clear with a clear and direct answer? But then again, if you’re prone to hearing voices, that doesn’t necessarily fill me with much confidence either. Perhaps we can take a cue from something that invites us to think, and reflect and ponder? A picture paints a thousand words. And there’s a lovely piece of art I want to pass around so you can see it and dwell on it.

This painting is entitled, “Scorpion.” And it’s a painting by an Australian artist named Stanley Spencer. And he depicts this rather frumpy looking Jesus in the wilderness and he’s holding, of all things, a very angry scorpion in his hands. Spencer set out to paint 40 different scenes of Jesus and his temptations in the wilderness. Spencer never did finish the series. But his painting reveals I think a very human and a very divine reality. The truth is that there are going to be times in our lives when we find ourselves in the wilderness of life. And there are going to be times when we might indeed find ourselves confronted by something angry or threatening. But in this painting Jesus appears to be containing the anger of this little scorpion; he cannot change its nature; he appears to simply hold it and let it be. And someone made this observation about this remarkable painting:

He looks at this little creature with compassion and acceptance, knowing that its nature is to inflict deadly pain when it is threatened. The scorpion is a sign of the destructive force of the natural world. But the holding of it by Jesus suggests something else. Divine love consumes this raging force and will bear its pain. Out of that bearing divine love will reveal the peace of the Kingdom of heaven that lies hidden within love’s mysterious ways.3

The question I might put to you is simply this: imagine you are the person sitting there in the wilderness and imagine you are holding whatever it is in your hands that seems to you to be a destructive reality in life. What might be a faithful thing to do in that moment?

The beauty of the stories that we have from Genesis or Mark or in paintings like this appears in the reality that we’re not alone in our struggles; God is with us too. In the wilderness of a world tossed by a tempest and flood, a rainbow appears to reveal a promise of new life. In the wild landscapes of Jesus’ life and world, we see the temptations of those 40 days do not snuff out Jesus’ life or bring an end to his purpose. Angels attend to him. And in the very real wilderness of our own living one might be tempted to despair (that’s always a real possibility), but we’re invited to imagine our lives caught up in the hope these stories suggest: even in our tragedies—even if we make a mistake—our faithful choice, however small, we may very well open a door for God’s grace to enter into the picture. Holding gently onto what frightens us still gives God room to manoeuvre and act.4

On this Sunday we mark for many of us the beginning of Lent and a 40-week day period of sitting with the truth of our lives and the world. Our wilderness may not be the places in the world like Gaza, or Afghanistan and for that we can be thankful. Our wilderness may just be daily life all the same. But even here “love’s costly resistance to the cycle of greed, self-obsession and anger, on a domestic, local scale, could have significant consequences for enhancing the quality of our global life. Angels will wait upon you there; so will a hurting world.”5

As we celebrate Communion this morning, I’m going to stand and offer to mark your forehead or your hand with some ashes. You certainly can decline. Many Christians today don’t observe Ash Wednesday, that weekday when we officially begin this journey through Lent. The imposition of ashes is not merely a little ritual. It’s a renewal of your identity. This renewal is a way of saying, “yes” to the truth of our created nature and mortality. We are a living miracle made out of the very essence of the universe: dust. Perhaps the good news of this first Sunday in Lent would be to recognize our humility before a God of great love and compassion, of rainbows, and promises of new life even in the midst of our wilderness moments, whatever frightening thing we might hold in our hands.

Let us pray:

Gracious God we do not know why the things happen to us as they do. Our mind searches for answers. We want to know good reasons. Help us to find the humility to change what we can, hold lovingly and with great patience what we cannot, and trust that you will be with us in those places where we feel most vulnerable. Help us to find the space in our lives to make good decisions not only for ourselves, but faithful decisions grounded in a love and care for all living things. If we feel our hearts filled with spite, anger, envy or hate, help us to love even these. Move each of us into thankfulness, peace, acceptance, and openness to what you are doing in our world and in our lives this day. Amen.

1. Williams, Rowan. “Silence and Honey Cakes: The wisdom of the desert.” Lion Hudson plc. Oxford: 2003. p. 103.

2. ---. p. 104.

3. Warner, Martin. “This Sunday’s Readings.” Website: Church Times, Issue 7615, February 27, 2009. www.churchtimes.co.uk

4. Williams, Rowan. “Silence and Honey Cakes: The wisdom of the desert.” Lion Hudson plc. Oxford: 2003, p. 104.

5. Warner, Martin. “This Sunday’s Readings.” Website: Church Times, Issue 7615, February 27, 2009. www.churchtimes.co.uk

Shine

2009-03-04T13:57:00.000-08:00

2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9

You wouldn’t know it to look at it, but on Friday evening this sanctuary was transformed into a mountaintop experience of biblical proportion. Yes three musicians stood right here aglow in the brilliance of floodlights. They entertained us with songs and stories and laughter and thoughtfulness. It’s great to hear talented musicians like Linnea Good play music anytime. But for church folk, it’s really wonderful to hear your favourite hymns performed by the very woman who wrote those lyrics and composed those great melodies. So for those of you who didn’t get to the concert, you missed a great concert.

I also spent some time watching your faces Friday evening, basking as it were, in the glow of these performers. And what did I see on your faces? I saw wonder. I saw awe as you marveled at the skill of these musicians playing the piano, and guitar and percussion. We had top dollar talent for pretty low dollar cost don’t you think?

I saw delight. I saw delight in so many faces young and old listening to funny and heartfelt stories. I saw joy when some old, familiar hymns were given new life. Because in the hands of artists—as we all know—amazingly common things become uncommon and exciting again. Seriously folks: when is the last time you ever heard “What A Friend We Have In Jesus” played with such a tempo and with such life in our sanctuary? And I could see lots of folks just bouncing in their seats to sound of the swing tempo. So there it was: wonder, and awe, delight and joy all wrapped up in the warm glow of the stage lights and it happened right here.

And then it was done.

The concert ended. The “normal” lighting came on. Everyone shuffled upstairs to buy CDs and enjoy some refreshments. And then we went back to rearranging the furniture the way it normally looks in here. Dishes needed to be washed, and food put away. Being the merciless tyrant that I am, I spied some church trustees enjoying themselves too much, and I quickly pulled them into a short meeting because it was so terribly convenient to have them all together in one place at the same time. We watched as our guests packed up those instruments that sounded so good and said, “Goodbye.” And we shut off the lights, and locked the doors and we all went home.

Sigh.

Well at least we weren’t terrified by Friday night’s performance. At least it wasn’t a deer-caught-in-the-headlights sort of look that overcame us when those floodlights came on. It was fun, not frightening; it was delightful, not dreadful. And I suppose that’s what makes our little mountaintop moment somewhat different from that of poor Peter, James and John. Yes, poor Peter, James, and John who find they are standing on a very real mountaintop, encountering a very luminous spectacle that biblical translators can only describe with the frighteningly odd word, “transfigured.” But, Mark tells us, experience something remarkable they did and it terrified them.

How can we best make sense of what happens here?

I think of the terrifying prospect of falling in love. Two people encounter one another journeying through life and suddenly a number of experiences happen: meals are eaten together, outings enjoyed together, feelings begin to form, common interests grow, and suddenly you find yourself feeling attracted in such a way that you want to share your life more and more with each other. But fear also lingers and overshadows your feelings of attraction: what will this mean for my life? Who will I become if I pursue this? Commitments will be required and life will inevitably change. You have no idea whether for the best or not. You hope for the best, but you fear how it might not go as planned. That can happen in the first year leading up to marriage. It can happen after 40 years of marriage when your spouse lies in a hospital bed and you’re waiting to hear the prognosis.

We encounter our children. We fall in love with them thoroughly and absolutely. We cannot imagine life without them, even though I am sure we all have those days when the thought crosses our minds for just a moment. Like anyone we love, our children put demands on us, they aggravate us, they delight us, and they sometimes plain mystify us. That’s the beauty of human relationships; it’s also the great fear. Someone can pull and push on our hearts so much. Just who are these people in our lives? Why do we experience life with them?

What Jesus, and Peter, James and John share is a love story of sorts; there’s an encounter on a shoreline, an invitation given, a call that begs a response. Think of the stories we have heard: Jesus rising from the waters of baptism, moving about the countryside, healing, preaching, teaching, and the disciples get caught up in this, trotting right along. Nets will be dropped, what is familiar will be let go, different shores will be explored, and through it all not a hint to what it leads. Except this: people start asking just who is this Jesus? What is he about? And why do you follow him? And Jesus says tells those who follow him, “You know following me isn’t going to be all roses. There will be hardships to bear. Something in you will need to die if you wish to find new life.”

And then Mark, in a very creative way, tells this story about a stunning moment of singular awareness about the nature of Jesus in the lives of Peter, James and John. Yes, we see this wonderful tableau of weighty biblical characters, and the voice of God from the heavens saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him!” But really it’s just confirming one thing. I suppose it’s like looking across at someone at the breakfast table, or seeing the kids playing in the living room, or chatting with someone on the phone, or maybe you see them lying in the hospital bed and you realize—in a singular moment in time—why you love someone the way you do. You realize that there’s just nothing more to be said in that moment. It is, what it is; for the disciples this is that moment.

And then it’s done.

And you clear the breakfast dishes, or you put away the toys, or you hang up the phone. You turn and look at the laundry, or you look at the pile of papers on your desk, or you survey the mess that is your house, or you leave the hospital room and you get on with the day. But the awareness is there all the same. And you know your life is different because of it. And so it is with Jesus and the disciples. “No need to discuss this. Nobody would make sense of it now anyway. Besides, there’s plenty of work to be done, so let’s get going.”

I find it curious that Jesus and the disciples have this experience, as Mark tells us, “six days later.” In Bible-speak, six days can be very symbolic. Think six days of creation, but on the seventh day what does God do? God rests. The seventh day is a Sabbath day, a day for rest and recuperation. Six days of creating leads to a seventh day of resting from that work. It’s the end-point, the goal, something to achieve. The Sabbath day is a day for re-creation. And it’s helping us to think about we’re meant for. You set aside a day to become aware, or perhaps as Mark would put it: it’s a day for all of us to shine. The transfiguration isn’t just about Jesus. It’s also about us. Jesus might shine, but we bask in the glow.

“The story is told of a young soldier on the Western front during the first world war, in the hell of the trenches, with shells exploding all around him and surrounded by the piled-up bodies of the fallen in grotesque array, and he turns to a comrade and says, ‘We weren’t meant for this.’”1

I think we know that we aren’t meant to be addicted to drugs or alcohol. I think we know that we shouldn’t need to live in a world where schools need to feed children. I’m quite certain we aren’t meant to live in a world where self interest rules the day. We aren’t meant to live in a world where we see the sorts of injustices that we do. The sparring over the oil sands and talk of clean oil and dirty oil may sound like a war of words, but honestly, it’s healthy to have that debate if it can mean safer, cleaner and more responsible energy use. Even in industry the question of what we’re meant for has a purpose. And as Jesus and the disciples descend from the mountain, they go with purpose. Jesus and the disciples will descend from the mountaintop to a world that draws them towards a cross. They will return to a world where the light of this transfigured moment will very much be needed. Not only will the world need that light, but they will also need that light to walk into some fairly dark spaces.

What a remarkably confusing world in which the Corinthians lived. In the ancient world there were gods aplenty: a god for almost everything and a shrine where you could go and worship. But did any of these gods help explain what the people were living for? A woman gets laid off from her job. She stands out on the back deck smoking a cigarette. Barely holding back the tears she looks at the unfairness of life and says, “The gods must hate me.” I’m sure it would be statement that any Corinthian could have identified with 2,000 years ago. What is this life for?

Trying to convince his congregation that he has their best interests at heart, Paul would point to Jesus as the image of God. “This is who I proclaim,” argues Paul. “The glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” Many people find that word “God” very difficult to hear and even more difficult to understand. I suppose it’s as difficult a word to understand, as is the word “love.” So make love more understandable. What happens when we put a human face to love? Now we see our friend. Now we see our child. Now we see those loved ones who have died. When we do, love becomes known and somewhat more familiar in those moments. Love becomes recognizable. Paul uses a similar method to make God more understandable. If you could put a human face to God, Paul argues, then it would be a person like Jesus. God becomes known. And when God becomes known life becomes filled with purpose and meaning.

You could see it in the faces of three singers here on stage Friday night. You could hear it in the words. Linnea said that when she thinks about all the remarkable things Jesus does and teaches, she couldn’t help but think that he must have had a good mom. Whether it was a good mom, or a good dad, or a good heavenly mother or a good heavenly father, she believes Jesus shines in the light of God. One of the most beautiful hymns in our hymnbook is Linnea’s song “Living in the Light.” We were very much blessed to have her sing that hymn with us. One of the most enlightening verses in the whole hymn comes with these words:

…and Jesus showed us a brighter path to walk.
He showed things we hadn’t seen.
Now we, like Jesus, can help creation shine,
And this will be a sign: a light is gleaming…”

Thankfully we have these moments where we become profoundly aware of what we’re meant for. Like Peter, James and John, or Linnea, Bruce and Dave, we find this bound up in God’s presence in Jesus. At times that light will terrify us because indeed we’re called upon to help Creation shine. And that means we might just need to walk into some challenging and dimly lit spaces in our lives and in our world. We will need to grow and change. But, we do so with a love that will not let us go. And, thankfully, as we saw on Friday evening, that light will welcome us and it will light up our faces, capturing our smiles, our delight, our awe and our joy.

Let us pray:

“A light is gleaming, spreading its arms throughout the night, living in the light. Come share it’s gladness, God’s radiant love is burning bright, living in the light.” O God help us to behold your light in our lives and in this world. When we feel frightened, help us to know the confidence your love for us can bring. When we feel delighted and filled with joy, may others see that love we have for life, and shine with us. As we move into the season of Lent help us to look at our lives and the world in which we live. May your great light transfigure us all and leave us changed for the better. Amen.”

1. Stone, Reverend Dr. Lance. “Christ’s transfiguration, our transfiguration.” Sermon. February 16, 2009. http://lectionary.wolsblog.com/2009/02/16/sermon-epiphany-7b/

Tip the Balance with Fishermen and Fools

2009-03-04T13:53:00.000-08:00

1 Corinthians 9:24-27

Mark 1:40-45

This week I had the lovely experience of needing a tow truck to bring my minivan back to Edson. My mind preoccupied, I didn’t see the low fuel warning light until it was too late. I found myself on the side of the road somewhere between Wildwood and Nojack. Of course it wasn’t just a lack of fuel that was the cause of my troubles. I discovered that the battery was running low and the starter wouldn’t turnover. And so there I was without much power, without fuel, and a very long walk ahead of me to the Nojack service station.

Thankfully two Good Samaritans stopped to look in on me. One was a young woman who saw me woefully walking down the highway to Nojack, looking dejected, head down as I verbally kicked-myself for running out of gas. She took the risk to stop and drive me to Nojack and return me to my van with a little jerry can of gas. So I’m very thankful that she chose to stop and help me out. The other was our very own Ian Kwantes. Ian was driving home and recognized the familiar dents in the back my minivan and he stopped to help me. So while I was waiting for the tow truck, Ian hammered at the starter with a wrench in the hopes that perhaps it might just decide to kick over.

It’s the small things that can make such a difference in people’s lives. We see people celebrating random acts of kindness. It’s the stopping to help someone stranded on the roadside. It’s the seeing a friend in need and wanting to help as best you can. These acts of kindness often require little thought. We’re still very much a people who know that in this neck of the woods someone walking in the winter on the roadside isn’t someone you easily can pass by. This week, I’m thankful for these small mercies.

Then again, I’m not a leper. I’m gainfully employed, not down on my luck. I’m walking down the highway wearing a nice leather jacket. I look tidy and neat and clean, not dishevelled and distressed. I’m walking with purpose in my step and I’m not plaintively holding out my thumb begging for anyone to stop. I suppose I looked somewhat safe and somewhat confident. And unlike someone in desperate need, I could offer something in return for any help offered. The woman who gave me the ride got $20 cash for her time and troubles. I don’t think she truly had to go out of her way. And not many of us ever have to go out of our way to help others. That’s one of the truths of a random act of kindness: little real cost involved. But then again, most people we meet in the day aren’t lepers either.

Let us, however, imagine a leper. Let us imagine a diseased and perhaps physically deformed person coming up to Jesus and falling at his feet. Of course our first instinct is to presume—yes we presume—that Jesus will heal this man. This is what Jesus does after all. He’s in the healing business. Why wouldn’t he reach out and touch somebody to make him or her better. That’s our presumption. But what if we remove the familiar? What if we hear this story again for the first time? Lepers are a threat: you might contract the disease. You might find yourself spurned by the community. You might become just like the leper. I can only imagine the horrified looks upon the faces of the disciples or anyone else for that matter watching this leper approach Jesus and falling at his feet. What would people think? And what would Jesus do? The tension of this encounter might very well hang in the air. And Mark tells us that upon seeing this leper at his feet, Jesus “was filled with pity.”

It’s unfortunate. The word “pity” in our culture today carries with it some negative baggage. “How pitiful!” really means, “How wretched.” “I don’t need your pity” is just another way of saying, “Don’t feel sorry for me. I still have my pride.” “I pity him,” sounds more like “He’s quite pathetic.” “Isn’t it a pity” really means, “It is such a shame, there’s nothing one can do.” But “pity” in the biblical sense means something quite different. Mark uses a word in Greek that suggests Jesus wasn’t feeling sorry for this leper. We don’t hear Jesus say, “Oh, you poor soul, let me help you with that” as if the problem is simply helping the leper with his luggage at the airport. Mark describes Jesus feeling deeply moved, propelled as it were, from the guts, from the heart, as if to say, “This is just plain wrong! Of course I’ll make you clean. I won’t give it a second thought.” Some ancient versions of Mark actually read that in this moment Jesus becomes angry at the situation. This isn’t Jesus feeling sorry for anyone. This is Jesus filled with passionate outrage.

Jesus heals this man’s disease and tells him to go and throw his now purified presence in the face of the temple priests. And again English translations of this passage don’t quite capture the mood. Jesus sends the man, Mark writes, with sort of a “snorting indignation”: it’s as if Jesus shoves this healing right under the noses the very people who maintained purity laws, those people who determined who was acceptable and unacceptable.

And Mark tells us that Jesus sees no reason for the man to spread any news about this. What’s done is done. A wrong righted. But not unlike the psalmist who rejoices in her healing, the man feels so full of joy and happiness that he cannot contain himself. He must go and tell others what has happened to him. And others in need flock to Jesus. And as we will discover in the coming weeks, soon those who thrive on maintaining purity laws will notice Jesus too.

In Steven Spielberg’s film “Schindler’s List” we hear a remarkable story about a German businessman, Oskar Schindler and the Jews he saved from a certain death in the Holocaust. Schindler is no saint although he professes to be a Roman Catholic. He’s a womanizer, a man who seeks to profit from the war, so he’s not exactly what we might call “a practicing Catholic.” From the outset he seems to have only one interest: to make money before the war ends. And he’ll work with anyone, Jew or Nazi, victim or perpetrator, in order to make a profit for himself. This, he tells his longsuffering wife, is how he wishes to be remembered: that he would leave the war with trunks full of cash. But clearly as he begins to relate more and more closely with the Jewish workforce in his factory, he gets a reputation amongst the Jewish people: he is a good man, and he provides a sanctuary if you can get your names on his employee list.

When a young woman asks Schindler to put her parents on his list, indignant he tells her he has no such list and provides no such sanctuary. Schindler cannot afford to let such a rumour grow amongst the Nazi officers he wines and dines and bribes with lavish gifts so that he can secure lucrative military contracts. It would be the end of his profiteering. But within days he has her parents added to the list much to this woman’s relief.

Something, however, would happen that would almost be his undoing. The night of his birthday, he invites a number of Nazi officials to his factory for a party. Amidst the merrymaking, a Jewish girl and a young woman from the factory floor appear with a small birthday cake. The music stops. The Nazis look aghast at this interruption. The Jewish workers look absolutely terrified standing amidst those who hate them. But in the film the camera pans to Schindler and there he is simply beaming, overjoyed that his employees would think of him. And without thinking he reaches down, kisses the little girl and hugs her, and he kisses the woman. And he does this in front of the very people who think this woman and this little girl are diseased and filthy and subhuman. Within days Schindler finds himself in prison for kissing a Jewish woman. It is, after all, against the race laws. Remarkably some of the Nazi officers intervene on his behalf and Schindler finds himself a free man. Does this stop him? No, he goes on to save hundreds of Jewish people. At the end of the film he’s given a golden ring by the people he has saved. “To save a life,” a Jewish man tells him, “is to save a world.”

What almost brought Schindler down? In the end it wasn’t his profiteering, or his womanizing, or his bribery that found him in a jail cell for a few days. Schindler made the mistake of having compassion and love for those the Nazis viewed as lepers. He reached out and saved many lives because of a compassion that came more from his heart, not necessarily from his head. Remarkably he had a head for business, and a heart for greed, but in the end, compassion, outrage and love ruled both as much as anything else. Schindler would lose everything he made trying to get as many Jews safely out of Nazi hands. That is how those Jewish survivors remember him.

A businessman in Edson sits on the roof of his store fixing the roof with one of his employees. Like so many business owners, he’s brought workers from the Philippines to help him meet the labour shortage. Together they work: both caring for the business that brings them income, food on the table, a roof over their heads and good and services to the community.

I must say I find the Filipino people very friendly and warm. I was meeting with a colleague at Entwhistle for lunch. The Filipino waitress called my colleague “Mom”. I’ve heard Filipino women call older women “Grandma”. My colleague comes from Korea. She told me that it is a phrase of respect. It’s sort of like how in Korea you call older men “Uncle” or older women “Aunt”: terms of respect that we certainly don’t practice with each other here in Canada. But certainly I wouldn’t fault anyone for sharing such graciousness in our restaurants and workplaces.

So imagine my sadness when I heard that someone from Edson drove past and shouted to that young Filipino man working on the roof, “Go back home!” The business owner looked at the employee and asked him what this was about and the young man just shrugged his shoulders and kept working. Thankfully the business owner didn’t just shrug his shoulders. He told someone else about what had happened.

It is a story that we need to hear. And rather than simply feel sorry for this man, perhaps it is a story that can fill us with a little outrage. And perhaps if we can get a little angry, we might find a little compassion stirring in our hearts. And if we find enough compassion, perhaps if we do any drive-bys, it won’t be to hurl prejudice and hate. We’ll drive by and say, “Welcome to your new home!” We’ll see these new neighbours walking down the street, people looking for a friendly face, and someone here from Edson United will look at them and wave and smile in the way we do around here amongst ourselves.

Such hospitality would be a spiritual practice we can welcome into our lives and into our community. Such a spiritual practice—growing our compassion—might change the character of the lives of immigrant workers in our community. Growing such compassion might change the character of our lives too. In his letter to the Corinthians Paul suggests that Christian living involves conditioning yourself so that you can run the race and win the prize. But what prize exactly? Is it worth racing for?

I once sat down with a couple who were going through a tough spot in their relationship. After hearing the different pros and cons that they listed about their life together, I simply cut to the chase. Why don’t you make your relationship the number one priority in your lives? What’s holding you back? And the man looked at me and said, “That’s easier said than done.” You know, if I were to choose, would you believe it possible that I could have a washboard stomach? I know that it looks like it would be a near impossibility now. Then again, a year ago I was wondering how best to shed a lot of excess weight: shed weight I did. But what if I did stomach crunches everyday for the rest of my life? Would it not be possible? Oh well, it is easier said than done. I guess the question is: how badly do I want it?

I wonder if anyone could have imagined that Jesus would have reached out with pity upon someone his community had rejected and brought this man the healing he wanted. “You can do it,” the man says to Jesus, “if you choose to do so.” And what does Jesus say? “I do so choose.” Who could imagine that a German profiting from the war would lose the shirt off his back to save hundreds of those his fellow citizens listed as negligible. In creating his list, Schindler said, “I do so choose.” And I wonder in our own lives just what we could do if we so choose to find our hearts moved in selfless love?

In the ancient Christian community of Iona off the coast of Scotland, you can find people today who live out this spiritual conditioning and who run this race alongside Christ. Let me close with the words to a wonderful song that they sing. It’s a song about whom God calls them to be in this world and what prize they seek:

God asks, “Who will go for me? Who will extend my reach?
And who, when few will listen, will prophecy and preach?
And who, when few bid welcome, will offer all they know?
And who, when few dare follow, will walk the road I show?”

Amused in someone's kitchen, asleep in someone's boat,
Attuned to what the ancients exposed, proclaimed and wrote,
A saviour without safety, a tradesman without tools
Has come to tip the balance with fishermen and fools.

May our living and our choices and our compassion this week help to tip those balances in this world God sends us out to love.

Let us pray:

Fishermen or fool, father or mother, elderly or young, faith-filled or not, help us God to be the people who welcome the stranger, who heal hearts full of unease, who risk to love and dare to act because we know it is the right and good thing to do. And may our acts—whether of random kindness, or outrageous passion—help to bring healing and wholeness into the sphere of our living, whether at home, or at work, or at play. Amen.

Lifting Spirits

2009-03-04T13:49:00.000-08:00

1 Corinthians 8:1-13

Mark 1:21-28

In my days at seminary, I received one of the most unusual requests while coming home come from class. A woman living in an apartment down the hall confronted me one day as I entered the apartment building. I was just about to pass her door when it flung open and she said, “You’re a priest right?”

Now out there in the world people sometimes don’t know the distinctions we make between Roman Catholic priests and Protestant ministers. This woman I knew as Jill. She worked as an orderly at the university hospital and I was doing a practicum as a ministry student in the very same facility. It mattered not if I wasn’t fully ordained or a Roman Catholic: in her eyes, I was the priest she saw visiting the sick and infirm.

Boldly she followed her question with another question: “Will you baptize my cats?”

"Baptize your cats, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she replied. “You baptize babies, why not cats?”

Stunned, I quickly fumbled through the reasons why baptism is for the living and for Homo sapiens, not for felines. But seeing Jill suddenly knot her brow in some disbelief and hurt, I quickly followed, “But I’ll happily bless your cats if that would help?”

She agreed. I said, “Okay, well just let me know when there’s a good day for you, and we can set up a time…”

She cut me off: “How about right now?”

“Okay.”

She quickly went inside and came out with two very big and very dismayed cats in her arms. “This is Cocoa, and this is Jinx.” So, quickly and quietly, I placed my hands on Cocoa and then on Jinx, and I said, “May God bless you and keep you and may you bring your owner Jill much happiness, companionship and love for the length of your life.”

And with that, the cats were dropped to the floor and they scampered back into the safety of the apartment. Jill the orderly smiled and closed the door. And I was left in the hallway still wondering just how I got into this, how I could have avoided it, and what would my professor of theology think about it?

Mark tells us of a different confrontation of sorts in the middle of everyday life. We see a man filled with an unclean or evil spirit confront a Jesus freshly baptized and full of the Holy Spirit and teaching God’s Word. “What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Are you here to destroy us? I know who you are…” And with a few choice words Jesus exorcises this unclean spirit from the man and the people stand there in amazement. And news spreads quickly about what had happened and how Jesus had taught with authority and power.

Stories like this tend to make us sensible, reasonable and moderate church folk squirm a little. Surely there’s no such thing as unclean spirits? Talk of possession in the Bible surely must mean mental illness of the worst form? We presume Mark didn’t know any better. And as for casting out evil spirits, well we know that words are not enough to heal the many illnesses out there. We cannot simply say a few words and exorcise the cancer cells, or the virus, or the tumor, or merely fix the congestive heart failure. That’s the work of medicine, science, a perceptive medical team, and, for good measure, prayer and hopeful thoughts. Occasionally, a remarkable and inexplicable healing does happen. But, is this what Mark is getting at? Just what sort of a thing is an unclean spirit? And why should it take flight upon encountering the more wholesome spirit of Jesus?

That this story happens to be set in the context of a synagogue shouldn’t surprise us. Anyone associated with a faith community for any length of time knows exactly how easily church folk can find themselves possessed of the most petty and mean spiritedness. We are our own worst enemy sometimes when it comes to being the church.

A woman sees her marriage ending. Feeling somewhat vulnerable, she doesn’t keep up with public appearances at the church she would normally attend. It is the church where her estranged mother-in-law worships. Not exactly a comfortable space. Then one day the phone rings and she answers to hear the familiar voice of one of the church ladies. “We’re just calling to see if you’re still interested in providing baking for our Valentine’s Day Tea this year? We thought that since you’re not coming anymore, we would just put requests for baking through your husband’s family. I mean it’s not like you’re a confirmed member of our church.”

Well why not just slap her in the face while you’re at it. True story. It happened to a relative of mine just the other week in her hometown. Thirteen years of volunteering, leading Sunday School, cleaning the church, and helping out and she gets a phone call practically inviting her not to ever come back again. And most likely she won’t. But it’s an all too common story in many church families where a few choice individuals with an unhealthy spirit break the flagging spirits of others.

What would she have preferred to hear? “My dear, how are you?” “Is there anything we can do?” “Would you please bring some baking especially your chocolate squares, you know how much people love those squares.” “We’re sorry that you’re going through this difficult time. Can we get together for a visit?”

A minister sits in her office slaving over the last minute details for the Christmas Eve service when the phone rings. It’s the church secretary telling her that a man has arrived looking for help. The minister lets out a sigh. One more vagrant, one more down-and-out guy looking for a meal ticket on Christmas Eve: don’t these people know the Sunday giving doesn’t grow on trees? Oh well, she thinks: it is Christmas. So the minister gets up and opens the office door to find a complete surprise. Here is a young man tidy, well dressed, hair combed and looking for all the world like someone without a care in the world.

“How can I help you?”

“Reverend,” the young man asked, “Would you bless me?”

The minister stared dumbfounded for a moment. “Bless you?”

“Yes, bless me.”

And the young man explained to the minister that he felt he had something of a devil on his back. Tried as he might, he just couldn’t shake it from his back. Despite his best efforts, despite the help of friends and despite trying different strategies, he just felt he needed a blessing. Perhaps that would be helpful. The minister explained that this just wasn’t the sort of thing she did. She explained that she had no special or magical powers to heal or cast out demons or what have you. Regardless the young man replied, “All I want is your blessing.”

“What is your name?”

“Andy.”

And Andy kneeled on the carpet and the minister placed her hands on his head and gave him a blessing, giving thanks to God for Andy’s life, affirming the ways in which God had blessed Andy, reassuring Andy that God’s love for him would be with him in the future, and asking that whatever devil might be on his back, it would release him so that Andy could be the person God intended him to be in his life.

"Thanks,” said Andy. He got up, and he left. No request for money. No request for food. Apparently satisfied with the blessing he received.

Curiously in the Greek language of the New Testament, Mark uses the words pnuemati akatharto, pneumati meaning “spirit” and akatharto meaning “unclean.” And akatharto, is the opposite of the Greek word katharos. And when we hear that word, katharos, do we not hear something akin to the English word, “catharsis?”

At times we all want something to be cathartic in our lives. Catharsis means of course a release or a purging of something unhealthy. When we feel overly stressed, we want release. When we feel the sands of our life shifting too quickly beneath our feet, we long for a firm surface. When we feel lonely and yearn for companionship, we seek release and look for friendship. When we feel anxious, do we not want to be freed into assurance?

Mark’s story might conjure up images of demons and devils, but this isn’t really what he’s describing. I think people like Andy and Jill the orderly come much closer to what Mark has in mind: each of them living with something the devil on your back. For Andy it may have simply been a yearning for hope in the midst of despair. For Jill it might have been the need for someone to acknowledge her loneliness and the companionship of her feline friends. And both found themselves face to face with someone who in their eyes represented God, the sacred, the holy and the wholesome.

The man with the unclean spirit needs neither medicine nor magic. But he does need a miracle of sorts. And the miracle as it were is that Jesus teaches and speaks words of power. Jesus speaks and things happen when he enters that synagogue. Jesus doesn’t offer education, but edification. Jesus doesn’t offer a solution, but a resolution. Jesus doesn’t offer information, but transformation. And the devil gets off that man’s back, and the man gets back into living again.

It’s Black History Month. I can only imagine how many people in the US and Canada are seeing Black History Month in a whole new light because of what happened just this past month in that country alone. Did we witness a miracle of sorts? When we see Barack Obama standing and taking the oath of office and being sworn in on the Bible Lincoln used at his own inauguration we see how words of power make things happen. The devil on a nation’s back was confronted time and again and finally shaken loose on a cool morning in January. What that nation does with the new life given them waits to be seen.

There are more miracles here, I think, than mere enlightenment. More healing than medicine alone can do. I think it was a spiritual catharsis that brought Americans to laugh at a truth about their life together when Rev. Joseph Lowry offered this benediction at the President’s inauguration.

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. That all those who do justice and love mercy say, “Amen.”

And do you remember how millions in that moment said, “Amen”?

Jesus bids us shine with a pure clear light, like a little candle burning in the night, in this world is darkness, so we must shine, you in your small corner and I in mine. In the breaking of the bread, we shine. In the sharing of the cup we shine. And when we rest in the words of Christ and when they strengthen and lift us, the devil comes off our backs and we can go from here and help others shine with the wholesome Spirit of God.

Oh, and do you know what my theology professor said about giving a blessing to the cats? She said it was probably just what that woman needed to lift her spirits. Of course that doesn’t compare to the time when I wrapped my roommate’s cat in a blanket to practice holding a baby and administering baptism. But that’s a story for another day.

Let us pray:

Jesus you bid us shine with a pure clear light. And we know that there are days when our spirits are overshadowed by the reality of the world around us. We pray for ourselves that we might encounter the wholesome presence of your Spirit today, and that it might lift us from weariness, and fear and a flagging or confused faith. Inspire us, edify us and transform us with your presence and your teachings so that we might go from this place today to shine just that much more in the world God loves so much. Bless us and bless all your people. Amen.

'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free

2009-03-04T13:45:00.000-08:00

1 Corinthians 7:29-31

Mark 1:14-20

I’m sure many of you took the opportunity this week to watch the historic inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th U.S. President. And my what a remarkable event it was in the American capital with an estimated one million or more onlookers to watch history in the making. Satellite shots from the heavens showed the swarms of people who braved the chilly morning temperatures to cheer and pray and celebrate. And by all accounts it will be one of those “where were you when” moments that many will remember.

Of course there were two memorable moments that stood out for me and probably a few of you as you watched the ceremony unfold. The first was something to quietly smile about. Yes, even at your own inauguration you can slip up with the vows you make. Don’t worry fellas: if you fumbled the words on your wedding day in front of your guests, I’m sure it pales now in comparison to watching both President Obama and the American chief justice fumbling to get the oath of office administered correctly before the eyes and ears of the world.

The second memorable moment is a little less obvious. And it came when a quartet played “Air and Simple Gifts”, composed by John Williams for the inauguration. As I listened to the piece, a melody vaguely familiar started to surface in the notes, and it was a melody that I eventually recognized. I wonder if any of you who listened to that very light and joyous composition on Tuesday morning recognized the familiar tune? It made me wonder how many other Christians listened and heard the same dancing melody there amongst the violin, clarinet, piano and cello? Now I’ve given you one hint as to identifying the melody: it’s a tune that dances as it were, almost like a light and airy jig. And the second hint is that it’s a hymn whose notes have danced up around the rafters here on more than one occasion.

Now I have no idea if John Williams intentionally built this melody into his composition for the inauguration. But somewhere amongst the many words spoken that morning and even the prayers offered, that melody was a reminder to me of the remarkable quality of faith in our lives. Faith helps us to hear God’s voice. Not only does Jesus come and call to us in our lives, but in time we can learn to hear and recognize the Lord’s presence in the midst of a confusing world. And that need not happen just here in worship. Indeed it cannot just happen in here. It desperately needs to happen out there in our homes, in our workplaces, in our neighborhoods and in our relationships.

In stark contrast to the hopeful words and intentions of a new and young American president on the other side of the continent, this week we also heard the grim truth of the insidious goings on of two young men in our own backyard. Two young men from Barrhead are now reaping what they have sown in their own lives and it has obviously torn a hole in the heart of a farming community that’s not so different from our own. And it’s brought forth again the pain of the families affected by their actions and inaction. From reading the news reports on the police sting that brought these men to justice, it is a stark reminder to me of just how far some in our communities have forgotten what it means to love thy neighbour or walk in straight paths in life. To think that an anonymous phone call to police might have made the difference between life and death for four police officers, it’s honestly hard to believe that someone wouldn’t make that call knowing what weigh in the balance. But this is where fear and indifference and a few lost souls can take us in the world. Whatever voices they were listening to we see the fall out and it’s now hitting not just one community, but two and not just four families but six.

Have you ever wondered what Simon and Andrew and James and John were facing in their lives when Jesus came to the lakeshore that fateful day? I haven’t a clue. I don’t suppose however they lived lives of luxury and ease. I don’t suppose we can presume they lived without illness or anxiety. I suppose they might have had days where they didn’t feel like working. I suppose they argued and fought and snapped at each other after many hours in the boats. I suppose like so many sons and their fathers who work together, I suppose they had their moments of disagreement. And who knows if they dreamed of being more? Who knows if they looked at their lives and wondered: is this all I can be? I really don’t know. But, humans, being who we are, it’s likely that some of this is true. And yet in the midst of their lives Jesus arrives and calls them into something new.

We certainly know that the Christians at Corinth were in a world of less-than-perfect harmony. Read Paul’s letters to the Corinthians sometime and you’ll have something as eye catching as any Harlequin romance let me tell you. They’re a colourful bunch those Corinthians, and why not? They live in a very colourful world. But it’s how they should live in the world that concerns them. For of course they believe that the world may very well end. And because of this they are reassessing everything from their marriages, to their work, to their business transactions and their emotional states. In the midst of their lives, Jesus arrives and calls them to look at things differently.

I read about a television series called Three Moons over Milford. The series revolves around the life of people in Milford, Vermont and how they choose to respond to a horrifying reality. You see the moon has blown apart into three pieces and those pieces are hurtling towards the earth threatening to destroy it. Question is: when will the end occur? And what should you do in the meantime? So a realtor decides to sell as much real estate as possible. A judge ponders the usefulness of imposing longer sentences. We see a business executive decide to kiss his family goodbye because in the time he has he wants to do something spectacular with his life: go climb the highest mountains. And what does his wife do? She chooses to continue to be a parent to her children given the time she has.

Now unlike the poor folks of Milford, our moon is thankfully still very much intact. The world isn’t about to end. But how shall we live all the same? Sometimes we live as though we belong to our fears. And we act accordingly. Sometimes we live as though we belong to our anger. And we often react accordingly. Sometimes we live as though we belong to our greed. Yes, like the realtor, we’re making hay while the sun shines, even if that sun is actually a giant glowing chunk of moon hurtling into the atmosphere to our doom. And sometimes we belong to our selfish desires and we make choices accordingly.

But Jesus and Paul and people like Simon, Andrew, James and John and many Christians thereafter have had a different idea about to whom we completely belong. And that is: we belong completely to God. A God who is, as one theologian said, a Creator and a Judge who stands beyond this world and what it values and claims. And therefore the world really has no claim on God and the world has no claim on those who follow that God.

Two young men in Barrhead have no claim on this God. Neither did the one they admitted to helping in a vicious crime. So if in the world we see people committing violence against one another because they see violence as a means to an end, this has little purpose for us. Because we know that violence and hatred and apathy has no claim on this God. If the world tells us that we ought to indulge in our every whim at the expense of our relationships, that indeed our relationships are disposable like everything else we buy, this has little value for us. Because we know that such shallowness and emptiness has no claim on God. So if the world claims that death is final and because it’s final it stings and smarts, this has little sway over us. Yes we may grieve, but we have hope because we know that death itself has no claim on God. God brings new life.

And what Jesus and Paul and many Christians have discovered through the ages is that when you put your trust in this God, you find yourself freed from the claims of this world as well. Fishermen drop what they have at hand for this God; men and women in ancient Corinth suddenly look again at what truly matters in their lives because of this God. A mother in Milford, Vermont chooses selfless love rather than climbing to the highest mountain because such unconditional love is what matters most in the little time that remains.

This is what faith—or trust—in this God can do in your life. And just like anything worthwhile in your life, faith is something you work at, and you build, and you grow and nurture. But in the competing claims and pressures, the voices and confusion of this world, faith can help you to hear a song that reminds you of who you are, of who has called you. And this faith gives you a foundation that the world has difficulty upsetting. In the words of the psalmist you begin to realize where you soul finds rest alone.

So one day you might find yourself watching something as marvelous as a presidential inauguration. Amidst the pomp and ceremony out dances this melody and it goes something like this: (Shari plays the tune)

Do you recognize it? We typically sing this at Easter, the time of year when we celebrate God’s victory over death and finality. We sing about how Jesus comes into the world to sing and dance in the face of all that would deny life in its fullness. I am the Lord of the Dance, says he. I will lead you all, wherever you may be. I will lead you all in the dance, said he.

But I don’t know if John Williams honestly had that particular hymn in mind. The melody is there. And there’s another song that you can sing to that tune. And it’s an old Shaker song. And who were the Shakers? No, sorry, not a gospel quartet I can assure you. The Shakers were the forbearers of the Quakers. And if you know your religious history these people were very pious, doing their best to turn from their sings, to live righteously in the world while they anticipated the world to come. Perhaps Williams had these words in mind:

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free,
‘tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
and when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed,
To turn, turn will be our delight
‘til by turning, turning we come round right.

So amidst the pomp and ceremony and the great power of the world’s current superpower Williams managed to put this simple melody across the world. And the ears of faith catch it and understand it and trust it: that there’s something good in knowing that God calls us from the tumult and vanity of the world, and that by turning in life from that which is a wrong path, there is no shame to be had. And you can have that faith and it will serve you well whether you’re at work, at school, or sitting in your recliner on a Tuesday morning and watching history unfold.

Let us pray:

Jesus you indeed call us over the tumult and we live in a tumultuous world and time. We pray for those young people in our community for whom there is no clarity, just confusion; no room for faith, but living with uncertainty and sometimes despair; we pray that each of us can deepen our faith in you, listen for you in the world, draw us from the world when necessary, and help us to live in this world as a people free to live for you and one another. In Christ’s name, we pray. Amen.

Wherever we are in life, God calls us

2009-03-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

1 Samuel 3:1-10
John 1:43-51

What a wonderful assortment of characters we see crossing the biblical stage this morning! Samuel, Eli, Nathanael, and Philip each one finds himself caught up in a compelling encounter with the living God. A famous preacher once said that on Sunday mornings people really don’t come to learn about what happened between God and the Jebusites—fascinating as that might be (or not). People do, however, come to hear about what’s happening between God and their own lives and the world in which they live. Somewhere in each of these biblical characters we might very well see something of our world and ourselves if we look closely enough.

Samuel was a young person living at a time when the word of the Lord was rare; visions were not widespread. Samuel had not yet known God and the word of God had not yet been revealed to him. So when God does speak to Samuel, he easily mistakes the voice to be that of the old temple priest Eli. Samuel really doesn’t know what to listen for and he lives in a time when not many do. And this might describe any number of us, and any number of those in our community today. We might have walked through the doors of this temple and taken our seat Sunday after Sunday, year after year, and never truly understood why we’re here or what we should expect out of this thing called faith. We might sit through prayers wondering if something magical should happen or not. We might sit through sermons not quite sure what it should ignite within us. Not knowing what to listen for, we might decide to tune our ears to some New Age guru like Eckhart Tolle devouring his take on reality because perhaps it will better make sense of our own. Oprah and Dr. Phil offer more compelling material for our attention than singing and praying and praising God. The Word of God becomes somewhat jumbled amongst the many messages and words of our Information Age. Our ears tingle indeed, but not necessarily with what God will say or do, but what others say and do.

I think of a poor fellow from Ontario bilked in an email scam for an estimated $150,000. You might have come across this story on the news this past week. In an email, scam artists assured this young man that he was the recipient of a fortune awaiting him in Britain. All he needed to do was pay certain fees for documents in order to claim the inheritance. So with the help of family and friends he paid an estimated $150,000 in fees. What got this fellow to trust the scam artists? He claims it was their professed faith in God. Is this simply a case of meeting wolves in sheep’s clothing? Or does it say something about where this young man put his faith and what made his ears and the ears of his family and friends tingle? Not all that glitters is truly gold; or as someone said about this story, it’s greed that the con artist preys upon.

Perhaps some of us identify more with Eli. Yes, poor old Eli still drags himself to the temple, weary and worn out. Yes, poor old Eli who has to sit in the late afternoon of his life losing his vision, but with enough sight to see just what he has made of his life. He lives long enough to see his sons grow up and disrespect their duties and the honourable call of a priestly family serving the people of Israel. Could he have done anything to turn that around? Has he utterly failed in his own calling? Yet, despite a less than perfect life as a priest, he remains in the temple serving God all the same.

How many have wondered similar things about their own lives as Christian parents? Where did we go wrong? Why do our children not share our faith? Why is it that I can’t seem to get them to have any interest in the congregation, let alone worshipping even more than once or twice a year? Who hasn’t had their share of losing sleep or their share of being baffled by the life choices of their children? Who hasn’t felt a sense of despair because sometimes you can’t make everything right in the lives of your daughters and sons?

Someone said that Eli “may be blind in more ways than one, but has seen enough to be of help.” 1 And even in the midst of his failings, Eli is the one who at least can see what’s happening for Samuel. He’s been around long enough to know when God speaks. He knows what that sounds like. And in many respects Eli finds himself as a spiritual father to a new son. There’s something hopeful here for the old man and there’s something hopeful here for those who have poured their lives into being the church. God isn’t finished with us yet. Even in your older years God can provide the opportunity for you to play an important role in being spiritual parents—or grandparents if you will—to children who come and worship with us today. If parents today cannot or will not speak to children about God, then God may very well call upon you to respond to children in their questions and curiosity.

And let’s not forget about skepticism. In John’s gospel, we encounter the great sneer and skepticism of Nathanael. Upon hearing the good news of Jesus of Nazareth Nathanael can only retort with a smug, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” When I look at Nathanael’s skepticism, I can’t help but hear a generation skeptical of the claims of any person of faith. Nathanael’s question today might simply be: can anything good come from faith in God? Can anything good come from being the church? Maybe there are a few skeptics in your own family?

If you were to visit London today you might discover this skepticism plastered on the side of public transportation. Atheists have taken their skepticism into the streets in Britain with posters on buses that declare, “There’s probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.” To be honest folks, God isn’t what keeps me awake at night feeling anxious about things.

But not surprisingly some Christians are getting themselves up in arms over this. One English bus driver says he will refuse to drive any bus with such advertising because of what he sees as a form of prejudice against his beliefs as a Christian. The advertisements are even making their way to Italy and apparently the Roman Catholic Church isn’t amused. And back here in little old Edson United, we bicker about whether or not we should have pews or padded chairs to sit on when we worship God?

Last Sunday we had a skeptic wondering what all this business was about marking foreheads with water and sharing in bread and juice. She was about 9 years old and full of curiosity about just what we do and why we do it. I’m not sure whether or not she would have asked the question, “Can anything good come out of this?” But there was something like it behind her suspicions.

And what can we do in the face of such suspicion?

The other day I met a woman who told me that she does something most remarkable for being only 5’5”. Despite appearances to the contrary, she told me she’s a mechanic and loves to pull apart engines, and break things down and build them up again. I actually didn’t find that terribly remarkable. I’ve met many small and wiry mechanics of both genders. And regardless of a mechanic’s gender or size or ability, it’s always the same pain in the pocketbook whenever they hand me the bill. In fact she told me she used to give her minister a break until she learned how much he makes with his salary. It was a fun conversation with her until that point.

What’s remarkable isn’t that she’s a mechanic at 5’5”; what’s remarkable is that when she gets frustrated with a particularly thorny problem she chooses to take a moment and pray, as she said, “to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit” to help her find a solution. And this she does for her customers and the nuts and bolts and grease and goop that make up every engine. But I think this she does for herself and in her own way of thinking, to the glory of God. And when I heard about this remarkably uncomplicated faith, I thought of Philip. Philip who without a word of doubt or even a second glance, just says, “yes.” Jesus comes to him and says, “Follow me” and Philip responds with a simple, “M’okay.”

Well perhaps we can try Philip’s approach. Rather than brow beat and rather than try to fear-monger, Philip offers invitation. “All I can say is what I know, what I experience and what I believe. Can anything good come out of Nazareth you ask? Well, my friend, come and see.” And Jesus offers Nathanael his own affirmation: I see you are a good and trustworthy person. Now come with me. You’ll be in for a surprise.

Tell me where in your life do you practice the uncomplicated grace of welcoming God’s presence? As I once heard someone observe, and it bears repeating: you can wake up and face each day with one of two perspectives. You can wake up and say, “Good morning God!” or you can wake up and mumble, “Good God, it’s morning.” I think Philip is the sort who wakes up and say the former. And it shows. And Jesus revealed the same sort of joy that comes from faith. God isn’t a source of worry and anxiety; God is a source of hope and new possibility.

What makes the Bible such compelling reading isn’t that it’s a book filled with “do’s” and “don’ts”, frightening us into despair, clinging to a faith that’s coerced, pulling us from the enjoyment of life. No what makes the Bible such compelling reading is that it’s filled with stories of people who felt anxiety, who knew confusion, who at times despaired and at times rejoiced. And we can see something of our lives reflected in their own. God calls out to us wherever we might find ourselves in our lives this day.

Last Sunday we celebrated the baptism of Jesus and the beginning of his ministry. And so it should be that this Sunday we hear stories about God and Jesus calling people to open their ears, rousing them from apathy, shaking up their worldview and inviting them to see things they hadn’t thought possible.

Let us pray:

Thank you God for the wonderful gifts of the stories of your people: people who lived in times of doubt and people who lived in times when you were silent, people who lived with regrets and disappointments and people who lived with a healthy skepticism. And into the lives of each of these people you came and you called. May our ears tingle with your Word, may our weariness fall away from our eyes, may we invite the doubtful and affirm the faithful. And may our lives witness to your grace this week all the more. Amen.

1. Wood, Lawrence. “Homiletical Perspective: 1 Samuel 3:1-10 (11-20)” Feasting on the Word. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press 2008. p. 245.

Into what are we baptized?

2009-01-12T14:00:00.000-08:00

Acts 19:1-7

I want to take you on a little trip into history. Let’s pretend for a moment that we’re Greeks living in the early 1st century. We might actually be Greeks living in a city like Ephesus the very place Luke describes Paul visiting in the passage from Acts this morning. Ephesus was at one time home to the Temple of Artemis, the goddess of fertility, and the temple was one of the Seven Wonders of the World in Hellenistic times. Like any Greek or Roman city, Ephesus was undoubtedly home to a vibrant community of people who worshipped at different shrines and temples. It was a pagan world after all.

Like many ancient peoples, the Greeks believed that it was necessary to travel to a shrine or temple at least once a year. The purpose of this trip was to take the opportunity to fill yourself with a good spirit. Spirits, both good and evil, were very much in the air in the ancient world. One historian has gone so far as to describe belief about the presence of these spirits very much the same way you and I think of germs at work in our environment today: you might never know when you could catch a bad spirit or from whom. So it was prudent to visit a shrine or temple to make sure that you would receive a good spirit, or at least exorcise any potentially harmful ones.

If you did arrive at a shrine or temple to receive a good spirit, do you know what would be a sign of a good spirit manifesting itself in you? Well apparently if you suddenly started speaking in a different or a strange tongue, it was a sign that indeed a good spirit had entered into you.

So it didn’t come as a surprise to me when I heard the passage from Acts describe how upon their baptism, these disciples begin to speak in strange tongues. If you know the Book of Acts, this isn’t the first time such a thing has occurred. At Pentecost, the disciples suddenly start speaking in strange and foreign languages. Luke knows something of how to capture the imagination of his readers. Writing to a Greek audience, Luke wisely draws from what they know and practice in their own lives. Any Greek in the 1st century hearing this story about this baptism in the name of Jesus wouldn’t be taken aback at the news of someone speaking in tongues. For them that would be proof that something good had happened.

A mother recently told me a story of her son’s experience of going to a different church over the Christmas season. The boy and his mother visited a church in the city. During the worship service, apparently one of the congregation members stood up and started speaking in tongues. And in Sunday School the young boy heard the teacher talking about Hell and Heaven, and how to stay out of the one and guarantee your place in the other. Coming out of the church later that morning, the boy turned to his mother and asked, “What church do we go to in Edson?” She replied, “The United Church.” Thinking on all he had seen and heard that morning, the boy eagerly replied, “Mom, I think we should keep going to the United Church.”

Undoubtedly it’s an unsettling thing for us to think that somehow speaking in tongues should be a sign of anything good. However, I think we see at work in Luke’s writing more creative license than historical fact. Luke tells us that it’s 12 disciples in all who receive baptism in the name of Jesus at Ephesus. That’s highly symbolic. It reminds us of the 12 apostles—the first disciples to follow Christ. I don’t think Luke is recording history so much as giving us a story about the meaning of baptism for the early Christians. Just what sort of baptism did you receive, Paul asks? What sort of spirit came upon you at your baptism? For Luke it isn’t just a good spirit that overcomes us at baptism, it’s a holy spirit.

We shouldn’t necessarily shake our heads at this spirit-talk. Ancient beliefs about good and evil spirits continue to find a way into some of our phrases and expressions. If someone asks me how so-and-so is doing at the hospital, it’s not uncommon for me to say, “Well, he seems to be in good spirits.” We might describe a hyperactive child as being rather “high-spirited.” If we were German speakers we might look back at a certain era in history and describe its Zeitgeist, a word that means “time” and “spirit”, or to put it into English, what we might call the “spirit of an age.” We might describe an intolerant or miserly person as “mean-spirited.” Given what’s going on in the Gaza Strip this very day with a conflict that seems to be escalating, we might also think of how people can get caught up into a spirit of retribution or vengeance or retaliation.

In the latest issue of The United Church Observer, one of my former professors asks the question: why, of all people, did Jesus need to be baptized? This seems a sensible question to ask. If Jesus is without sin, if Jesus is God’s own Son, if Jesus is born to be God Incarnate, it begs the question, why any need for baptism? And after looking at the different gospel stories and what each said about the baptism of Jesus, my professor offered her own conclusion on this. She said Jesus needed to be baptized in order to make things right, or to put it into a single word, Jesus did this for “righteousness.”1 It was the first public act of his ministry to go out into the world to put things to right. And I might add that it’s Jesus going out to put things to right with a holy or righteous spirit coming down upon him.

Across Canada yesterday there were different protestors out marching against the violence and suffering in Gaza. In the face of a spirit of violence and retribution, we see people taking to the streets to put forward a different spirit in the midst of this conflict. It was encouraging to read about both Jews and Palestinians speaking out for peace. Thankfully there are times when the Holy Spirit will move us to go out and very publicly join in making such statements. Even coming here is a public witness. Worship is a very public way of expressing your beliefs. Not everyone can respond to the Holy Spirit’s invitation to come and worship and praise God like we do here Sunday mornings.

But the Holy Spirit motivates us in more intimate moments in our lives and it’s work can profoundly put things to right in the lives of others. A father sits with his daughter on the eve of her graduation from high school. Somewhere in the course of their conversation, the daughter blurts out a despairing but all too honest thought. So many of her friends are graduating and watching their parents separate and head for divorce at the same time. Perhaps the parents stay together for the children’s sake until at least they seem ready to move out of the nest. But clearly the daughter wonders what does this mean when she sees so many of her friends’ families breaking up? What does it mean when you say that you love someone and make a promise? And she concludes with not a little cynicism that people don’t make promises with any depth. It’s an entirely good question that youth can ask with the honesty it demands.

The father says this isn’t true of every marriage or every person. And ever the older teen, she rolls her eyes and says to him, “You’re just saying that.” And he replies, “No, I’m not.” He says that he meant the promise he made to his wife over 20 years earlier, and he still means it today. While he can’t speak to every marriage, and sometimes marriages do end despite the best efforts of both partners, but he can and will speak to his own and to his place in it. In that moment this father is very much in the world confronting cynicism and despair. There’s a good spirit at work in his honesty and sensitivity. He offers something hopeful to his daughter in that moment.

Chynna Laird, another writer in The Observer speaks of how the Holy Spirit moved in her family to offer healing and hope. Her mother suffered from a bipolar disorder and refused to seek treatment or help, so she and her brother had to live with their mother’s destructive choice to self-medicate with alcohol and drugs, putting them both in frightening situations. Who could possibly forgive a parent for abandoning her responsibility for raising children with love and due care? Who could possibly bring love and care she needed as any child does?

This she found in her Auntie Lois. It was Auntie Lois who took her in when she needed a safe space. Auntie Lois invited her to worship, and helped her to see that God was still with her. After her mother died, Chynna says that it was Auntie Lois who helped her to remember what was good about her mother and helped her to learn to forgive her mom. And who was Auntie Lois? Auntie Lois was Chynna’s godmother: the one person who stood at her baptism and made a promise to raise this child in the faith even when her mother could not.

I’m not sure how old Chynna was when her godmother made good on that baptismal promise, but clearly the Holy Spirit was there to bring both of these women together to put things to right. Auntie Lois said to Chynna: “God hears your prayers. God sees your tears and feels your pain. When you can’t turn to others, know that you can turn to God. And if you can’t turn to God, turn to me, because God brought us together for a reason.”2

For many of us, baptism will most likely carry with it no greater meaning than being a lovely little ceremony. At one time baptism was the way in which we registered births and citizenship. Even today you might still find parents and grandparents confusing baptism with the idea of naming a child. But today I imagine that what baptism has lost most is the radical concept that we see described here in Acts. The thought that you would be baptized into a new identity, given the Holy Spirit and commit your life publicly to putting the world to right.

Whether it’s the baptism of these 12 disciples in Ephesus, or whether it’s the baptism of Jesus himself, there’s a common thread in both stories: the Holy Spirit descends upon those who undergo such baptism and that Holy Spirit sends the disciples and Jesus out into the world to put things to right.

The good news for us today is that what this means is we need not feel compelled to speak in tongues. That was a sign of baptism taking for 1st century Greeks. For a 21st century people, the sign of the outpouring of God’s Spirit will indeed come in how we go from here to put the world around us to right.

Let us pray:

On this Baptism of Jesus Sunday may we each renew our baptismal faith. Let us deeply reflect on the sort of Spirit with which each of us lives our lives. Open us to your call, God, to go from here immersed in the waters of new life, and a Holy Spirit that compels, motivates and convinces us that what we do in your name will never be in vain.

Amen.

1. Beardsall, Sandra. “Why did Jesus need to be baptized.” The United Church Observer. January 2009. p. 49.

2. Laird, Chynna. “God’s teachers.” The United Church Observer. January 2009. p. 9.

No Obvious Angels

2009-01-05T15:57:00.000-08:00

Well if any of you are at all connected to the wider world by the Internet, the social networking website Facebook may be something you are very familiar with. You can post your photos and link to almost anything you find amusing or interesting. Users can type a message for the day for others to enjoy. Often they tell you how they are feeling. Some users update their messages by the hour. Depending on how their mood changes, some folks update them by the minute. We all have days like that.

So today I took a brief tour of my friends on Facebook. I wanted to see just what sort of a greeting they might send out on this Christmas Eve. Here are some of the messages. I think some of them might connect with your own experiences so far this holiday season:

“Darren is delivering presents,” “Bea is making cabbage rolls,” “Virginia is having a big drink after wrapping presents all afternoon! It’s done!” “Leslie-Anne needs a nap in anticipation of her midnight wrapping frenzy,” “Chanda is hampered out for another year—great work Kinettes!” and my personal favourite, “Doug says Merry Christmas Everyone! Don’t choke on your turkey!”

Whether we use Facebook or not, it might well be worth asking ourselves what sort of a message would we bear to our friends and families on this night of all nights? We’ve gathered here whether for secular or spiritual or religious reasons. I don’t find that particularly strange. In fact, I find that rather hopeful. It tells me that Christmas still holds something meaningful and worthwhile to a wide assortment of people in our culture today.

Bearing messages can be a hopeful thing for people to see or to hear. You might have heard the news that President-elect Barack Obama wishes to take the oath of office using the same Bible that Abraham Lincoln used in his inauguration in 1861. There’s no lack of symbolism there. Linking himself to Lincoln speaks of his hopes for his own presidency and bringing a better life for America. Many undoubtedly share in the hope of how a new president will shape life for the better, not just in America, but around the globe as well.

The gospel writer Luke also bears a message of hope for his time. The symbolism in what he writes gets lost on us. But for his day and age, it was no less striking than Barack Obama wishing to use Lincoln’s Bible for his own inauguration.

We know two historical facts about the passage we heard from Luke’s gospel this evening. First, Luke got his history wrong. Emperor Augustus and Governor Quirinius were never in power at the same time in Roman history. Most scholars look at Luke’s dates and say, “never happened.” So we can admit that Luke got that wrong. He’s no historian.

But he’s quite a crafty storyteller. With a piece of subversive creativity, Luke gets something historically right. By the time Luke wrote these words the people of the Roman Empire would have heard something familiar in the story he tells here. “Wondrous births and the public announcements of the ‘good news’ of those births had become a standard part of the public myth of Roman rulers.”¹ Emperors often declared themselves to be born as Saviors of Rome. If Augustus or Caligula or Octavian wanted to give the people a reason to praise them: well here’s proof of their divine right to rule, as it were.

But we know that many Roman emperors brought into play a devastating regime in the Roman world. The grand palaces and public works of the various emperors and nobles and politicians existed in a stark parallel to public poverty on a massive scale in Roman cities. The privileged were fed well; the masses suffered. The well off could live comfortably; the public didn’t always fare so well. And that was at home. We know that at least one Roman emperor leveled the city of Jerusalem and for nothing more than a political maneuver to keep him in power in Rome. This was the immoral side to the divine birth of kings. This was what Pax Romana, or the peace of Rome meant for many.

But Luke offers a striking contrast to that story. Here’s good news of a divine birth, complete with an army of angels singing in the heavens. And this good news also declares a savior born to be both lord and king. But the message is a far more humble affair: it happens in the most common of circumstances. Far away from Rome, far away from wealth and prosperity, far away from corrupt power we see this birth of a baby laying—in all things—a feeding trough for the barnyard animals.

Luke even has the angels declare that what will prove the savior’s birth isn’t pomp and pageantry; the savior will be found in something from which many creatures find sustenance and daily bread as it were. The praise these angels sing isn’t pax Romana, but pax Terrana, not a Roman peace, but “peace on earth

Luke may have had his dates wrong. I think he was right in sending a hopeful message out to his friends and neighbours that sharply contrasted the sort of life they lived under Caesar. What would life look like under a more benevolent and loving Lord found not on a throne of gold, but a feeding trough. “Luke,” as someone suggests, “may be evoking an image of God feeding the world in the quiet birth of this unlikely [Savior].”²

That’s Luke’s message of hope for his day and age. What sort of good news would you send out to the world tonight? What sort of a peace would you choose to announce and work towards in the world?

Our community has known the terror of what Shakespeare would rightly describe as “murder most foul.” Since that time, many of us have worked diligently to be messengers of peace in different ways, renewing family commitments, holding community events, teaching our children, challenging ignorance and calming fears; thinking through just what sort of a community we live in and what sort of community we want to live in. Out of great evil, good can and will come with anyone who chooses to be a messenger of hope.

Luke tells us that immediately hearing this good news the shepherds go to Bethlehem to see what has happened. And indeed off they go to find Mary, Joseph and this newborn Saviour lying in that manger. But off they go: not necessarily to convert people to Christianity, not necessarily to go and be disciples of Jesus, not necessarily to be either spiritual or religious. Off they go without any agenda so much as a message that leaves people in amazement: pax Romana isn’t the only thing that passes for peace now.

During the weeks of December a number of people sent messages to Bethlehem in a virtual way. They sent their prayers and good wishes to the youth of Bethlehem. No stranger to strife, we see Bethlehem portrayed in the media especially around this time of the year. Of course, the media never gives us more than a glimpse of the bad news. That’s often all we need to see to make us change the channel. But the mainstream media don’t have time to really dwell on some of the good work that happens there by messengers and workers for peace.

So people send prayers and messages to a peacemaking organization in Bethlehem called the Arab Educational Institute. And the Institute works to do a number of things in Bethlehem, but among them are education programs with youth, community building and getting Muslims and Christians to live together in peace. The director of the Institute admits it’s a daunting challenge.

And someone named Lynette sent a message to the youth of Bethlehem. Here’s what she wrote:

“Greetings to you in Bethlehem!

I believe that "HOPE" is the most important word in the English language, so I set about to capture in a small painting (attached) what I feel it must be like to be there at Christmas in Bethlehem now enclosed by a wall from the world. I wanted to send it to you.”³

We’re no obvious angels, nor shepherds, but spouses, parents, grandparents, family and friends. We’re messengers nonetheless when we carry something hopeful into a world like this. On this night of nights we are invited to consider just what sort of peace we wish to live for in our lives, what sort of hope we wish to engender in our families, what sort of good news we might deliver into places of strife, or discord. Maybe even into our own hearts and minds because goodness knows we are so good at building walls there too.

I want to close with words written by Shirley Erena Murray. The choir will sing those words to you shortly in a piece entitled, “No Obvious Angels.” But Shirley writes:

No obvious angels sing through the night skies.

No thunderstruck shepherds tell out their surprise.

For Christmas comes into the here and the now

Through star-sighted people, the watchful and hopeful

Who wake us to see a new world.⁴

Tonight and tomorrow, amidst the exchanging of gifts, consider that it’s not simply goodwill, nor simply giving thanks for the abundance with which we all live that the Christmas season offers us. Turn off the MP3 player. Turn off the TV. Go out and look into the night sky. Look at the marvelous gift of the very universe. Treasure in your heart—if but for a few moments—the thought that God indeed favours all people and offers them peace with the birth of Jesus. It is to this gracious God that Luke and so many still today offer praise this evening.

Amen.

1. Donelson, Lewis R. “Exegetical Perspective: Luke 21:1-14” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 1, p. 119. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008.

2. ---.

3. Information taken on December 24, 2008 from the following website: www.aeicenter.org/ChristmasMessages2008-09/#CANADA

4. Murray, Shirley Erena and Ron Klusmeier. “No Obvious Angels” MUSIKLUS. French Creek: The Digital Closet, 2003.

Did Mary Want To Be Mary?

2009-01-05T15:55:00.000-08:00

"Who wants to be Mary?"

This was the big question that the Sunday School director put to the group of seven-, eight-, and nine-year-old girls gathered in the basement of the church. It was the first rehearsal for the Christmas pageant—that annual celebration of the story of the birth of Jesus.

And a handful of would-be actresses eagerly raised their hands, each wanting the opportunity to stand up at the front of the congregation, to hold the baby-doll Jesus in their arms, just like they had seen girls do in Christmas pageants before, complete with a rather reluctant boy doomed, as it were, to have been chosen to play Joseph.

But who would get the role? And after a few moments of surveying the eager faces the director chose a second-grader named Sophie. Sophie’s green eyes opened wide—much wider behind her thick corrective lenses—and she whispered in joyful disbelief, “Me?” Yes you Sophie: you who wasn’t the most “girliest” of girls, you who seemed more tomboy and rough and tumble. You will be Mary.

Some of the girls were naturally disappointed. After all, you soon grow too old to be included in the casting call. Elizabeth, also a second-grader, was told that she could be a lamb. She was silent for a moment as her brow furrowed; then she looked at one of the pageant coordinators. "Well," she asked suspiciously, "what does the lamb do?"

Everybody wants to be Mary. But here’s a good question: “Did Mary want to be Mary?”1

The 4th Sunday of Advent may indeed by one of the rare moments in the entire Christian year where we can actually spend a little time thinking about Mary. Our Roman Catholic neighbours hold a much more intimate understanding of Mary, as do Orthodox Christians. For them Mary is—well—without sin: she may very well be the perfect model of a faithful Christian, but for many she is also venerated as someone who can intercede with God on a person’s behalf. She will often be referred to as the very Mother of God. And many venerate her as holy.

Protestants, however, hold no such worshipful view of Mary. We offer no prayers to her specifically. We do not necessarily understand her to be first among women or consider referring to her as the Mother of God. And, like so many persons in the gospel narratives, Mary plays a brief role in the wider story; the central character in the drama—the focal point of our faith—rests with Jesus alone.

Still the question could be asked, “Did Mary want to be Mary?” For her initial response to the news of the angel Gabriel is less than an enthusiastic, “Yes!” Instead, we read that Mary greets the angel’s news with perplexity and confusion. She ponders what it means to have someone utter the words, “Greetings favoured one! The Lord is with you.”

If we could all take a trip to our basements or our storage rooms and root around in the boxes many of us might uncover our old high school yearbook. What would we see if we opened the pages to look at our graduation picture? First you would say, “I was beautiful!” “I was handsome!” “I was so thin!” “I had so much hair!” What happened?” Do you remember what hopes and dreams you held for your life at 17? Some of us here may have even had the opportunity to write a little paragraph about our hopes and dreams at that time. What great things would we go on to accomplish? When would we get married? How many kids would we have? Some students had specific goals at 17 or 18; others, like me, were less than certain where we might go in life.

But at that age who could have foreseen marriages ending? Who could have foreseen where jobs would take us? Who could have foreseen the challenges life would throw down in our path? We presumed we would have perfect health. We presumed we would have healthy relationships. We presumed we would always have a secure job. I’m quite certain that none of us would have or could have imagined that our lives would take the sorts of turns they have over the years. The sorts of things that turn your hair grey, give you wrinkles, and leave you lying awake at night second-guessing yourself.

Perhaps Mary looked forward to a very normal life: keep a house, raise a brood of children, eke out a living as a peasant, make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem to sacrifice at the Temple, and go through a yearly round of cleaning, cooking, and child rearing because, after all, that’s how one defined life in rural Palestine in the 1st century. It was ordinary and unassuming until one day someone arrived at her door with an announcement that probably made her drop her water jar, along with her jaw.

And in our world—even in the most out of the way places like Edson—the extraordinary can happen: the peace and quiet and safety gets shaken to the core and life suddenly turns and we feel ourselves reeling, in the media spotlight, police helicopters flying over head, an arrest made of someone people would least expect to be arrested. Yes we know all too well that the unimaginable and unthinkable can happen in the most out of the way places: this stuff happens in the big cities, not in our community. It is equally stunning news that hits home all too well.

This young girl should utter her astonishment. It is stunning news she receives. She was no central player in the holiness of her day. The religious action—as it were—was down the road in Jerusalem where you would find the Holy Temple, the very seat of God, where sacrifices and petitions and the prayers could be made. Jerusalem was where the action was happening as far as God would be concerned. What would an angel be doing delivering news to a young girl in a rural village instead of the high priest in the Temple in the holy city?

This young girl should be cautious. She had heard the stories about heavenly messengers. When angelic visitors arrive announcing how God has taken an interest in you, she would know what sort of a life-altering truth was about to weigh in on her. Life isn’t necessarily going to be the same and for that matter, life may not get any easier. On the other hand, that doesn’t mean such news should be feared. It is God who is intervening here after all.

But this seems to be the nature of things for all of us. None of us escapes news that uplifts, surprises, astonishes, upsets, or changes the course of our lives. And we are right to conclude: maybe we’re not entirely in control of the ebb and flow of life’s course. Our destiny does not simply rest in our hands alone. And our destiny doesn’t necessarily lie in the hands of others. God, the angel seeks to reassure us, has a hand in our lives too.

Writing in the 4th century, a Christian named Augustine of Hippo would ask a question about the mystery behind his life. In a book entitled Confessions he wrote, “For all I want to tell you, Lord, is that I do not know where I came from when I was born into this life which leads to death—or should I say, this death which leads to life? This much is hidden from me.”

Mary listens to the news that Gabriel brings. With her jaw suspended and the water jar tipped over at her feet, Mary suddenly finds herself asking a question: “How can this be?”

And don’t we ask a similar question in our lives in both the good and the not so good? How can this be? It’s the question a doctor or a family might ask of any patient who suddenly has a great turn around in health. All the indictors were painting a less than rosy picture. But not any longer: so how can this be? It’s the very question I hear exclaimed by someone who loses a friend in an accident. “I just saw him the other day. How can this be?” Our little town faces a nightmare and we ask, “How can this be?” We hear a story about two people in their 80s or 90s meeting in a nursing home and falling in love again at the sunset of life. They choose to be married and we joyously wonder, “How can this be?”

And like Mary, we find ourselves entering into the mystery of life. And like Mary we discover that it’s okay not to have immediate answers. Someone suggested that Mary’s puzzlement is a wonderful gift to a puzzled and confused people. Mary’s caution grants us all permission to take time to adjust to astonishing news, to question whether or not our trials and our tragedies, our celebrations, the very ebb and flow of our lives—even God’s splendid promises—are for real or not. Mary’s example allows each of us the opportunity to wonder and think through the repercussions of it all. We need not just quickly say “Yes” or “No” to whatever life delivers. “How can this be?” “What does this mean?” are questions of faith all the same. And they only remind us how much is hidden from us. But they may also reassure us in how near God may be in our lives.

I read an article in The New Yorker about the rise of Barack Obama into the American presidential race. Perhaps the person most surprised by the unfolding events that brought him into the race was none other than Barack Obama himself. Appearing at a birthday celebration for Georgia congressman John Lewis in November of 2006, the congressman introduced Mr. Obama to his party guest as the one-day future president of the United States. The congressman said that as he watched the Senator meeting people on the streets, there were blacks and whites that would approach him and ask him to run for presidency. Whether or not Mr. Obama immediately grasped the deeper meaning of this or not, who knows? But others could see the potential. One of Obama’s political strategists said, “usually the politician chooses the moment, but sometimes the moment chooses the politician.”

The moment arrives for Mary and she has a choice to make. God has chosen her to do something remarkable through her life. Instead of responding with a blind faith, Mary ponders and questions and sits with the news the angel Gabriel delivers her. She’s cautious and apprehensive. And sensing her hesitation, the angel says, “Do not be afraid Mary…the Holy Spirit will come upon you…for nothing is impossible with God.”

And that is something we might all dwell on: that our questions, our uncertainties and our fears—all hold a place in our faith. Who knows why the particular moments of our lives come as they do? Who knows why the challenges arrive unannounced? Who knows why the delightful surprises and opportunities arrive when they do. Whenever these moment arise God may very well be inviting us to consider how best to respond to them. Not seeking an immediate and unequivocal “Yes!” Not looking for a forthright, “Forget it, man!” But hoping that we might all look for deeper meaning and look for possibilities because God is there all the same working in our lives for some good purpose, the end of which we cannot clearly see.

Mary might well have turned her back on this moment. She was engaged to a good and righteous man. Her life could have taken a very straightforward course of getting married, raising children, and doing everything the way her culture expected. Instead she looked at the risks: unmarried, pregnant, not knowing how this might affect Joseph’s relationship with her, and yet wondering what might pass by if she didn’t enter into the opportunity to bear out this moment. We shared in some of her song that she would eventually sing: words of hope, of possibility, of seeing the world transformed. It ought to send shivers down our spine because of the grandeur and nobility of the hope it expresses. We all want a world where our paths are safe to walk, where our teenagers are safe, where people are true to their calling, where goodness and righteousness blossom, where we know that homeless people aren’t shivering in this cold, and where our soldiers might be safe from harm in a land far, far away. Who doesn’t want a world like that?

Instead, Mary responds with a faithful choice to let this happen and see where it goes with her and with God. “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

I can’t say that all of us will ever be the recipients of a heavenly messenger. For most of us, the angel on the tree will be the closest thing we experience. And will say that for those of us who do believe in angels, we might ponder whether a true visitation from an angel would carry a lot more life changing consequence than merely ensuring that we arrive safely on a trip, or feel protected when we feel frightened.

But I can say that we all face moments where the mystery of life confounds us, and terrifies us, and sometimes delights us and so very often delivers us into profound joy and hope. Whatever moment comes our way, may we find the courage to not run, and hide, or to simply abandon good reason and thoughtfulness. But instead work with our doubts and uncertainties. Ask the good question: “how can this be?” and at the same time remember how “nothing will be impossible with God.”

Behind the mystery of life, God is…

So I sense that little Sophie steps into a rather cherished and faithful persona when she dons her robe and carries the baby Jesus in her arms. Perhaps there’s a good reason that every Joseph looks so reluctant. Mary’s made a choice and it involves him too.

And in answer to Elizabeth, my dear, what do lambs do? Why what would a nativity scene be without those creatures coming to celebrate something that’s good for all of Creation in heaven and on earth? The lambs—like us—have a moment in which to ponder, wonder, praise and rejoice.

And thanks be to God.

Let us pray:

On this 4th Sunday of Advent, in the midst of the bitter cold, and warm beauty of a glowing sunrise, help us all to meet the moments life gives us with faith; help us be open to the mystery of our lives and work with that mystery: acknowledging our doubts, bringing thought and consideration into everything we do. And even when we wonder, “How can this be?” help us to know that you, O God, are not far from us, but nearby and wondering how we will meet the moments of our lives all the same. Amen.

1. Coombs, Chris. “Blogging toward Sunday: Who wants to be Mary?” December 20, 2008. http://www.theolog.org/blog/2008/12/blogging-toward-sunday-who-wants-to-be-mary.html

Messengers of Good News

2008-12-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

Isaiah 40:1-11
Mark 1:1-8

When I worked in the newspaper business, two memories stand out as almost crystallizing the very essence what the news was all about. The first was an idea my editor explained to me on my first week on the job when I was very much wet-behind-the-ears. He said to me, “Pictures of train wrecks sell newspapers.” It’s an old saying in the newspaper business. What it means is that good news doesn’t sell easily but the bad news—well people will pay money for that. Here is a sampling of the headlines from two newspapers this week:

“Canadians take to streets in pro- and anti-coalition rallies.” (The Calgary Herald, December 6, 2008)

“Preacher charged with killing pastor’s daughter.” (The Edmonton Journal, December 5, 2008)

Both of these headlines reflect very much the sort of week it has been for us all. The week started with us wondering what was going on in Ottawa, shaking our heads in disbelief at our political leadership. It was farcical, it was outrageous, it was…well…it was Ottawa, what can we say? But by the middle of the week we suddenly found ourselves locked in suspense over the identity of the man police arrested in our community. Was it someone we knew? And by the end of the week we see Parliament prorogued and many in town in shock and disbelief at the identity of the accused.

Of course the rumour mill is simply churning over-time, grinding away the grist that chokes the information highway of telephone lines, text messaging, coffee row, and Facebook. I hear that a business might close down for an hour just so everyone can go to the provincial courthouse to witness the first court appearance. And of course one hopes that this is just a rumour and that folks have much better things to do—like gaining a wage and running a business. The police and the court have their jobs to do, and so do the rest of us. The news at 6 will feed our curiosity with actual facts.

But I have one more news headline for you. It’s the first headline of the week. Marion actually read it to you just minutes ago.

“This is the Good News about Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

Some suggest that when Mark wrote these words, he actually meant it as a headline for his gospel and thankfully it involves no train wrecks.

Mark quickly follows with what people in the newspaper business call the lead or the first sentence that sums up what the news story is all about: “It began as the prophet Isaiah had written: "God said, "I will send my messenger ahead of you to open the way for you.'

Now I must admit that it’s a very crappy lead by journalistic standards. It really doesn’t sum up the story at all. But then again when Mark first wrote these words, journalism wasn’t exactly a practice in the Roman Empire. But Mark shares this news with us nonetheless. And it’s a curious lead to a story about Jesus because it actually doesn’t begin with Jesus. There’s no baby here. There’s no stable or manger. It begins, instead, with people like John the Baptist, proclaiming that Jesus is coming, and you best get your affairs in order when he arrives. Take what is crooked, John shouts out, and make it straight; take what is rough and make it plain.

And his words are an echo of the words of the prophet Isaiah. A prophet who spoke to a people living in exile and who longed for home and who longed for a return to what was familiar and beloved and cherished. And so it was a word of hope to say, “Don’t despair because God is creating a highway through this mess—levelling hills and filling every valley—every possible detour will be done away with and you will be brought home again.”

I overheard a story about a rabbi explaining to people how God is sort of like a GPS system in your vehicle. Of course you start to follow to the instructions from on high—that being the GPS and a satellite—and it tells you when to turn and so on. But the person driving the car thinks she knows better, and so decides to take a short cut or a detour. And so the GPS suddenly has to recalculate and say to itself, “Okay…that’s not what I had in mind…but you’ve gone and done it so let me course-correct as best I can.” And you might listen to this course-correction, and follow it. But you still might think yourself wiser—perhaps you do know where you’re going and are persistently doing it your way—but that doesn’t necessarily take the satellite out of orbit. GPS still recalculates and corrects because that’s its job. Put it another way: whatever we may think about our left and right turns in our life or in our community or in our world, God is still speaking as it were and directing and redirecting the traffic.

But Isaiah—and John—are putting it a little more bluntly than the rabbi; to heck with correcting the course—I’m just putting down a superhighway to get you on the way. So go and tell all the towns of Judah the good news, “their God is coming!” Isaiah and John and those John baptize: these people are like reporters if you will. It’s not a train wreck they’re reporting. It’s the news that something profoundly good and world altering comes this way. And we’re the messengers of that goodness.

Eventually I would find myself sitting at the editor’s chair in the newsroom. No longer gathering the news, I was now editing the news. Nothing terribly glamorous I’m afraid. I was just sitting there, hour after hour, reading, correcting spelling errors, and where necessary, sending the story back to be re-written. Sometimes the lead needed to be changed.

And I remember one of our rookie reporters coming to me thoroughly upset that I had changed the lead on her story about a city council meeting. She had decided to bury news of a tax hike further into the story and started with a lead about the city council and a cultural exchange program. How good is that? What a wonderful piece of news to start her story. But my few years in the newspaper business had trained me to simply bury any good and lighthearted news and start with the more obviously distressing truth: your taxes are going up. And she was livid with me. And I said, “I understand. But if I don’t change it, the owner of the paper will.” She was entirely right that I was focusing on the bad news, and she was entirely in the wrong business if she thought that good news would sell: train wrecks sell newspapers. We weren’t necessarily messengers of hope; we were just messengers of the way the world is and people will pay for that which disturbs or that which tantalizes.

But thankfully the voice that shouted out in the wilderness and the good news it promised did eventually win me over. Not that I haven’t still a great deal of respect for my former profession. Tragic news, as we all know, must be told. But today I would suggest that we look at some other leads to news stories and hear something of promise in them:

“Excited children stormed an Edmonton Toys “R” Us store this morning to pick out Christmas gifts for other children less fortunate than themselves.”

“A French scientist who shared this year's Nobel prize for medicine said on Saturday he believed the transmission of AIDS could be eliminated within years.”

“Regina students sending stuffed toys to hospitals in Afghanistan.”

“Two secret Santas, one from the Kansas City area and the other from the St. Louis area, descended on thrift stores, a health clinic, convenience store and small auto repair shop to dole out $20,000 in $100 bills, hugs and words of encouragement to unsuspecting souls in need.”

“According to the Polaris Institute 17 municipalities from 5 provinces have banned [sales of bottled water], while another 45 municipalities are planning restrictions on bottled water.”

“Terry Stauffer writes on his blog that he's planning a sermon at Edson Baptist Church based on Psalm 62, which "underlines the fact that I am very weak and fragile, but it is some consolation that God's word says I'm not alone."

So if one were to write up a headline or a news lead about the news of your life today, what might it describe? Could we come up with some potential leads? I saw one the other day on Facebook, written by someone from our own faith community in the face of the news hitting our community this week. She wrote about sending out prayers to the families affected by this tragedy. That’s a message of hope.

We might think of Carly Lapointe who undertook to raise reward money towards resolving the crime. We might think of those who hosted events and benefits to draw out the compassion and charity of our community. We might think of a sign on the side of a float in the Christmas parade that simply—but so powerfully—said, “Hats off the RCMP”. I think of someone who has lived in Edson all his life and who said in the midst of what’s happened: “I don’t think we need to take back our town. It was never taken from us to begin with.” In one way or another these are all messages of hope from the human heart that says: we want to be finished with this exile from the place we call home. We want to return home, to feel safe and confident and good about who we are and where we live.

The Indian writer and activist, Suzanne Arundhati Roy, writes of this belief in being a messenger of hope. Perhaps in the midst of the craziness of the world—of the bad news—we might listen to someone who takes time to listen for the good news that’s out there in the world, filling the valleys of despair, and leveling down the rough places that would stop us from finding peace and a sense that all is well in our world. She writes, “Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”

We stand here at the beginning of the second week of Advent. We lit two candles: one for hope, and one for peace. In the midst of whatever news we might encounter this week God invites us to be messengers of hope and peace in our community today. In what ways will you declare to your friends, and your family, to your neighbours and your co-workers that there’s good news to be told, good tidings to be shared? We stand in a long tradition that stretches back to someone who simply refused to bury the good news but started with it saying, “This is the Good News about Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It began as the prophet Isaiah had written: "God said, "I will send my messenger ahead of you to open the way for you.'”

May it begin this week with us.

Let us pray:

God may each of us be a messenger of your Good News in our community this week. Help us not to bury what is good, but bring it forward to share and to celebrate. And in doing so help us to know and believe that we are opening a way for you in the lives of others. Amen.

Born to a New Humanity

2008-11-23T11:39:00.000-08:00

Ephesians 1:15-23

Matthew 25:31-46

I’m going to assume that when you opened the bulletin it immediately took you aback. I’m quite sure it was not what you expected, and you found yourself for a brief moment saying, “This isn’t right?”

Well let me say that this is a great image for the sort kingdom in which Jesus invites us to live. Not everything seems to make sense in the Kingdom of God when compared to the standards set by our world or our culture. When we first open it and take a good look it ought to at least jar us a little and make us take a second look.

Now one doesn’t need to delve too deeply into the parables and commandments of Jesus to see what I mean. “Love your neighbour as yourself”: put your neighbour’s best interest on par with your own love for your life. This, Jesus says, isn’t a choice, it’s a commandment; it’s not optional. Remember when he said, “The greatest among you must be your servant.” It’s not about self-interest but looking out for another’s interest. And then we have today’s lovely story about the final judgement. On what basis will our lives hold any eternal value or meaning? It will rest upon what we did to the least amongst us. Again it isn’t something our culture affirms as the highest calling of one’s life.

Little wonder then that as we listen to these challenging stories and parables we silently wonder, “It’s impossible to be that loving. It’s impossible to be that charitable. It’s frankly impossible to live with that sort of selflessness.”

Had you met Sophia Auld of Baltimore, Maryland, you might have had to think twice. Sophia was a single woman living in Baltimore. A devout Christian, she was known as kind and benevolent. I suppose one could say that she was a nice person and a good person, but she was a woman of no small faith. And someone who came into her household described her in these words, “she was a pious, warm, and tender-hearted woman. There was no sorrow or suffering for which she had not a tear. She had bread for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner that came within her reach.” Indeed she may very well have been the sort of person Matthew describes in the gospel story: a righteous person, a person for whom selflessness and thinking of others were as natural as breathing.1

But when she married something changed. The force to conform to the values around her seemed to change her very nature not unlike the way certain forces of heat and pressure can transform the very nature of a rock deep within the earth. At first she continued to be a loving and compassionate woman, but as the years went by it didn’t take long before one act of compassion dropped off, followed by another. Teaching someone to read or write didn’t become as important as it once did. Caring for the suffering didn’t matter as it once did. And Sophia very much descended into the values that her peers espoused in the world beyond her home in Baltimore. And it was Frederick Douglass who experienced this change first hand. It was the middle of the 19^th century and Frederick was Sophia’s slave.

Douglass would escape slavery and become a champion of the abolitionist movement. But he would never forget how this faithful woman—so loving at first—changed because of the cultural values around her. In his own words slavery took hold of her and “proved its ability to divest her of these heavenly qualities. Under its influence, the tender heart became stone, and the lamblike disposition gave way to one of tiger-like fierceness."2

Do you know what someone once said about his encounter with Jesus Christ? He took a long look at what Jesus put before a woman or a man from any culture anywhere in the world. He said, “When Christ calls a person, he bids that person come and die.”

The question we ought to ask ourselves is: die to what?

The water of baptism is an ancient symbol in the Jewish and Christian cultures. We know that Jewish people historically practiced some form of a ritual cleansing. It was John the baptizer who called people into the waters of the Jordan to turn from their waywardness and embrace a new path in life. And we know that baptism has remained the single ritual for any person to be formally initiated into the church itself.

And over the centuries baptism has certainly taken on the custom of being a nice tradition, even if no one seriously considers growing in Christian faith. A child will be born and soon the pressure to baptize will follow. Sadly it can sometimes be simply a case nowadays that someone has purchased a baptismal outfit for the child and what’s more important is that the baptism occur before the child grows out of the clothes. You’ve met people who get married for entirely wrong reasons. Well it happens with baptism too.

But here is an idea that you don’t often hear in many celebrations of baptism. For the earliest of Christians, baptism wasn’t wrapped up with the idea of welcoming a new child into the world. Baptism, in fact, had much to do with a death of sorts. The waters of baptism were very much a way of putting to death an old self in order that you might rise out of the waters with a new identity. And this sort of thinking may seem utterly nonsensical when we consider baptism for a newborn or a young child: to what in their life might they need to die in order to be born into a new identity? They’re just starting out in life. But to be honest it’s not the newborn or young child I worry about so much as it’s the sort of world into which we bring these children. The sort of world that can take the innocence and the great love of a young woman like Sophie Auld and morph it into something downright evil.

Far from being a nice little ritual, baptism challenges us to consider profoundly the sort of humanity into which we wish to grow. Because whatever sort of humanity we begin to envision and grow will give shape to the sort of world in which we live. If you don’t believe that you need only look at the most recent American election to see the sort of hope that one’s humanity can engender. People in Africa weren’t necessarily jumping for joy whenever someone from a privileged family in America took the Oval Office. That’s business as usual. Expect, then, business as usual. It was when the impossible became possible that the world sat up and took note. That made people in Africa and other parts of the world dance with joy. That’s new and it brings people genuine hope.

You may have noticed—somewhere in this upside down, back to front bulletin—that today is Reign of Christ Sunday. The roots of this particular Sunday go back to 1925 when a particular pope declared a Sunday to recognize the kingship of Christ. In Roman Catholic churches this is called Christ the King Sunday. But I want you to think about what was happening in Europe in the first part of the 20^th century and in particular the sort of humanity that was being envisioned by fascists who were growing in power in both Italy and Germany as well as influencing the thinking of people in many western countries at that time. Somewhere in the midst of this the church wanted to remind the world of just who it believed to be lord and king, yes, especially above the governments of the day.

And it wasn’t simply a pope in history who made such bold claims. Not quite 2,000 years earlier the apostle Paul would write something similar to Christians at Ephesus. Looking at the supreme power of Rome and the great Roman emperor Caesar, Paul would boldly write: “Christ rules…above all heavenly rulers, authorities, powers, and lords; he has a title superior to all titles of authority in this world and in the next.” I can’t imagine how dangerous that sort of writing would have sounded in the 1^st century. But Paul expresses a hope here that Jesus offers a very real alternative to the business as usual rule of Rome.

Do you remember how Jesus compares the Kingdom of God to a mustard seed? Jesus said it’s the smallest of seeds and yet look what it can grow into? Now why a mustard seed? You know for his listeners if he would have said “Well the Kingdom of God is like a great majestic oak, or a cedar of Lebanon” this would have made sense. An oak or a cedar is a beautiful and upright and majestic tree. We love the idea of large majestic trees. Surely that’s what God’s kingdom is all about: power and majesty. But this isn’t what Jesus says. He says the Kingdom of God is like a weed. A weed? What possible good could come from a weed?

Well for one thing a weed is tenacious and for another thing a weed is something that just doesn’t go away. A weed irritates. A weed is a constant presence that harries your plans for an orderly garden. A weed—unchecked—can become a real nuisance. And you never know where the darn thing will pop up again.

Now we don’t like weeds. But what if that tenacity is the sort of humanity that Jesus hopes will someday take root in the world? That it won’t just always be business as usual with the human heart? That indeed it’s possible for us to die to ways of being human that does not make for a more hopeful world? What if it’s like a weed then: it can come from the smallest seed planted in the heart, but it just keeps coming back, no matter how much we fight it? What if that is what the Kingdom of God is like?

Perhaps then it is possible that someone like a Sophie Auld could find her heart overgrown once again with the love of God. Perhaps then it is possible that such selflessness could overgrow the reluctance of our hearts to forgive. Perhaps it’s possible that such a nuisance could actually overcome the powers in this world that compete for our allegiance. Maybe these are all things we could allow to die in our lives in order that something new and better comes to birth?

Maybe—like this bulletin—it’s something that we open in our lives and discover that we have to take a second look. Because the world tells us it isn’t right—it’s not proper—but in truth it actually is the way things could be.

On this Reign of Christ Sunday—on this Sunday of celebrating Aesha’s baptism—let us consider the words of Rowan Williams, someone who looks at the story of Jesus and finds great hope for our lives there:

“the gospel lays before me what I regard as a coherent and credible and compelling vision of human beings becoming human in that relationship with Jesus.”

Let us pray:

Loving and gracious God, on this beautiful day, help us to look differently at the way you yearn for us to be in relationship with each other and the world you have created. If we feel like some of what you teach us would be something of a death, help us to see past that into the newness of life that you would have us embrace. On this Sunday renew our baptismal vows to commit ourselves once again to embracing the gospel—the Good News—about Jesus, and the world he came to save. Amen.

1. Keely, Karen “Justice for "the Least of These," Salvation for All” www. www.thewitness.org, November 23, 2008

2. ---.

The How of Things

2008-11-18T16:11:00.000-08:00

Matthew 25:14-30
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

When we think about what it means for Jesus to return, we might find ourselves thinking about some fairly bizarre possibilities that we’ve heard from others. Some Christians today believe that the return of Jesus will somehow magically extricate them from this world into a world to come. You might be working in the field. You might be doing a household chore. You might be teaching in a classroom. You might be flying in a plane. You might be on the toilet and then suddenly—poof—your gone, taken up as it were, into the next world while the rest of us are left behind wondering when you’ll be finished in the bathroom.

Apparently some Christians believe this with such sincerity that they’re eager to tell you that they might just disappear in a moment’s notice as if this shouldn’t alarm you. I remember a fellow telling a story about riding as a passenger in a car with one such believer at the wheel. The driver told his passenger that if the Lord arrived while they were driving down the road, he better be prepared to take the wheel lest the car careen out of control once he blinked away.

It seems rather incredulous to believe that God should simply remove someone from a moving vehicle in traffic. Imagine the ensuing chaos. Can you imagine the aircrew of a passenger plane suddenly vanishing mid-flight? The great irony is that those passengers left behind won’t be left behind for very long.

We might do well to ask what Paul meant when he spoke about the return of Jesus. From his letter to the church at Thessalonica it seems clear that he at least shared one thing with these peculiar ideas: you won’t predict with any accuracy when that day might occur. It will come suddenly. It’s not really a question of when so much as it’s a question of how. Don’t worry yourself about when—you can’t necessarily predict when. Be concerned, however, about the how of things.

I sit with a young couple in my office. I spend a great deal of time listening to their concerns about when. When will we set the wedding date? When shall we send out invitations? When will we choose the wedding service? When can we lay out the details? When, Reverend, will you stop talking to us about our relationship—it has already been one hour and 45 minutes? Please, we’re here to talk about our wedding plans, not our marriage. Reality TV shows await before bedtime.

And of course all caught up in the when of things, nobody really takes time to consider the how: how shall we make best use of the time we have before our wedding day to lay a good basis for our marriage? How seriously shall we take this opportunity to consider whether we’re ready for this step in our lives? How might we best learn to put our marriage first and keep it in balance with the other demands of life?

Now, I don’t want to simply dwell on marriages, but it seems to me (and correct me if I’m wrong) but when you ask someone about when their marriage ended, explaining when it happened—say what time of year, or what event brought it to a head—it is much easier than describing how it actually came to an end. The how of things isn’t always so obvious.

And so people say, “When will I become a better parent?” and that’s so much different than considering, “How shall I become a better parent?” “When will we ever have peace on earth?” is much different than asking, “How will we ever have peace on earth?” Or, consider this question asked amongst those Saskatchewan expats sitting in a pub at West Edmonton Mall a week ago yesterday wearing bright green and yet looking so very gray. “When shall the Riders ever win another Grey Cup?” And yet the more important question is, “How will you make it happen, and please, let’s not wait another 20 years?”

The kingdom of God is like this, Jesus says: a man with an incalculable amount of wealth leaves his property in the hands of three servants. There’s much about this parable we need to clear away to help us understand why the kingdom of God is like this.

First, this man favours no particular servant. Each receives what he believes capable of receiving. To one go five talents, to another, two, and to the last, one talent. Our text says each received a great number of coins, but to put it into perspective, one talent was worth more than 15 years of labour. Add up your own net worth over that span of time and multiply it by 15 and you start to get an idea of the sort of wealth we’re talking about here in this parable. A total of 15 talents is no small change.

Throw out the idea that this wealthy man is God or Jesus. In case you didn’t notice, the man isn’t exactly an understanding chap: his treatment of the third servant just begs the question of where compassion and understanding might have been a more godly response. It’s so not there. He’s entirely gracious but he’s also entirely indignant in the face of what he sees as laziness. In fact the third servant paints him to be a rather contemptible humbug, harvesting what he himself doesn’t sow, taking what in fact may not be his.

Throw away the idea too that this is somehow a parable that shows us that financial wealth and God’s blessings go hand-in-hand: that somehow those who work for their money and earn it are much more blessed in life than those poor sods with little to show for their investments. In case you didn’t notice, the servants don’t walk away pocketing any of this cash. All that hard work and they still have empty pockets at the end of the day: they remain servants.

So it begs the question: in what way might we find this parable at all helpful in imagining the so-called Kingdom of Heaven? Here’s one perspective I found helpful, drawn from the writings of a famous children’s book.

“Near the end of C. S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia Aslan the Lion takes Lucy, Edmund, Peter and everyone to the New Narnia--to what we would call "heaven" or the New Creation. It is a place of astonishing light and beauty; a place where every blade of grass seems to mean more and where every creature sings for the sheer joy of the Creator. It is a place where everything is just so real in depth and color that the mere sight of a daisy takes your breath away and makes you weep for the sheer beauty of the thing. But then, in the midst of all this splendor, the children see a group of dwarves huddled together, convinced that they are sitting in the rank stench of a barn--a place so dark that they cannot see their hands in front of their faces. Lucy is so upset that the dwarves are not enjoying the New Narnia that she begs Aslan to help them to see.

“Aslan replies, "Dearest Lucy, I will show you what I can do and what I cannot do." Aslan then shakes his golden mane and a sumptuous banquet instantly appears in front of the dwarves. Each dwarf is given a plate heaped with juicy meats, glistening vegetables, plump grains of rice. Each also receives a goblet brimming with the finest wine anyone could ever imagine.”

“But when the dwarves dive in and begin eating, they start gagging and complaining. "Doesn't this beat all," they lament. "Not only are we in this stinking stable but now we've got to eat hay and dried cow dung as well!" When they sip the wine, they sputter, "And look at this now! Dirty water out of a donkey's trough!" The dwarves, Aslan goes on to say, had chosen suspicion instead of trust and love. They were prisoners of their own minds. They could not see Aslan's gift of the New Narnia for they would not see it. Aslan can but leave them alone to the hell of their own devising.”¹

Many look at the third servant and see something similar happening. Given the free gift and opportunity to participate in his master’s grace and benevolence, he cannot. Unlike the other two servants, he describes his master as a hard man, not a man of grace. Unlike the other two servants, he refuses to take what’s entrusted to him and make the most of it. The master seems delighted that they do something—anything—even a meagre gain of interest—bank interest rates apparently haven’t changed much since biblical times—but he does nothing. There’s no entering in to the happiness and joy of his master’s presence; he lives in fear and his fear is his undoing; it buries him in despair, as much as it did that single talent.

C.S. Lewis of course writes about the end of time, what we might call heaven or more rightly, a New Creation. But St. Paul and many of the earliest Christians didn’t necessarily mean the same thing when they spoke of the Second Coming. Far from being snatched up into a new world, far from leaving behind this world, Paul and the early Christians understood that they were already participating in a new world. Jesus had already started it—given them a gracious opportunity to take something profoundly hopeful and good—and make it better. It wasn’t just something to wait for; it was something to live now. And continue to live out until Jesus returned or until you ended this life.

It’s not really about the when of things, as much as it is about the how of things.

Exactly when this wealthy man will return we don’t know. But there is time enough to do something at hand with the gifts given. Suddenly the when of things doesn’t matter so much as the how. Because upon the man’s return from his journey the how becomes very important: you either benefit from how you have spent that remarkably gift, freely given to you, or you won’t. It’s not even that these servants get to keep any of this wealth for it’s all returned to their master. The benefit comes with entering into the joy—the happiness—of the one who bestows these gifts.

And so I return to something that should matter to each and every one of us. It’s the how of our lives today. How are we moving forward past old hurts into new possibilities? How are we making good and healthy choices to make today’s marriage better? How are we choosing to be better parents today, and not put it off tomorrow? How are we choosing to celebrate the gift of faith—of being this congregation—and celebrating our life together as opposed to saying, “I’ll get around to it when I haven’t so many other things to juggle.” I mean perhaps we’ve all been given wonderful gifts that we couldn’t possibly attach a price too and the gospel today invites to see whether we’re growing those gifts, or burying them and ourselves in fear. We may be the authors of our own misfortune as much as anyone else.

One last story, again, from C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia.

Young Lucy finds herself in the home of a magician. And she opens as book of magical spells. Of course she’s intrigued by all the wonderful charms and incantations she sees. But when she comes across a spell that would transform her into the most beautiful mortal of all mortals, well she’s spellbound as it were. But peering into this magical book Lucy also sees the tragic consequences of such unnatural beauty. How great lords will fight each other and throw the world into great suffering because they fight in vain thinking they might capture her favour. And how her older sister Susan looks on her with resentment because her little sister has eclipsed her own fair beauty.

And Lucy says to herself, “I don’t care what happens, I want to be that beautiful.”

And in that moment she suffers the wrath of Aslan; Aslan being the Great Lion, the embodiment of Wisdom in Narnia; the King of All Creatures, his image suddenly appears in the magical book and snarls at Lucy; but it rouses her from her own selfishness and forces her to snap out of the trance of self-indulgence no matter the cost. There are greater and more important matters to attend to and catering to her vanity isn’t one of them.

Aslan knows that there’s a greater joy in which she can live, and find beauty and a better world for all. But even he cannot force her to appreciate this; he can, in the end, warn her. And he does this because he loves her and wants her to put her trust—her faith and her hope in him. These are the very same words that Paul would say to the people at Thessalonica. Faith, hope and love: find encouragement in your lives there.

And such, I think, is what this parable tells us of that kingdom. It’s what Paul tries to explain to the Thessalonians. There’s little need to worry about the grace of God. It’s there and it’s immeasurable and we each receive something of it in our lives, whether great or small. If we can live and share and even grow some of that grace, we’ll find ourselves caught up in something very lifegiving and joyful. We’re maybe not even asked to double or triple it. Perhaps it’s enough to just increase it today, even by a margin. Where we fear, where we resent, where we hide and dwell on our selfishness, we will not enter into the joy of that grace—not without a struggle.

Let me close with this poem written by Ann Weems from the book Searching for Shalom.

All of us from time to time

Have dug our hiding places

And buried our songs or our silver.

Thinking our voices too weak

And our offering too meager,

Out of fear

We have buried our talents.

What bothers us, of course,

Is the reaction to the third servant,

For Jesus is talking

Directly

To us,

The ones who have been entrusted with God’s Word.

Jesus reminds us

That it is God’s gifts we bury.

Let us in this new Church resolve

To unearth our talents

And offer unto God all that we have and are!

Let us pray:

Gracious God you offers us many gifts and blessings and opportunities. Help us to find the freedom that faith in you brings. Help us to feel free to risk, to shrewdly look at the world around us, to do what we can with time given to us. Let us dwell not so much on the when of life, but the how, for it is in the how of things that we will find your kingdom, growing in our midst, wherever love, and hope and encouragement can be found. Bless us in uncovering what you’ve given to us all and may we enter into the great joy and peace that can only come from you. Amen.

1. Hoezee, Scott. “This Week at the Center for Excellence in Preaching” November 15, 2008. cep.calvinseminary.edu/thisWeek