We’re continuing to work our way through our “Shhh… Things we don’t talk about in church” series. I preached on death.

May 1, 2016
Duke Memorial UMC
Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5
1 Cor 15:51-58

A couple months ago I was talking excitedly to a clergy friend about green cemeteries, a new kind of eco-friendly form of burial. (I have no idea if this is normal discussion for clergy women in their thirties, but there it is.) I told my friend that I had actually researched green burial and have written it into my funeral plan.

As soon as I said it I realized that I might have sparked some worry in my friend, who could be thinking my demise was imminent.

I almost said it. I almost said, “Don’t worry. I’m just planning ahead, I’m not dying.”

But I caught myself, because the reality is more complicated. In that moment I remembered the words of Richard Lischer: “we are all creatures of the gap, living out our days between the giddy promises of youth and the inevitability of death.”

So I rearranged the words in my head, and told my friend, somewhat awkwardly: “Don’t worry. As far as I know I’m dying at an average rate.”

We are in a culture that hopes to avoid death, a culture that refuses to engage in the difficult work of grieving, of saying the difficult truth —that, one day, we will all die. We’ve constructed a world that makes it very easy to get around the subject.

It wasn’t always this way. We used to be surrounded by aging relatives who were cared for at home until the end. It used to be that people died at home. Bodies were prepared at home, graves dug by hand.

This is where we get the language of a “wake.” Today a wake is an informal time separate from the funeral where family and friends gather to tell stories and be together. A generation ago the wake was the time when the body of the dead was at home for a final night before the funeral. Family and friends stayed awake throughout the night beside their beloved, in prayer and remembrance.

In a previous generation we saw death, we participated in the passages of time, we experienced it in our daily lives. Our world has changed. Now we live in an age of incredible opportunities for health care that prolong and enrich our lives. That’s also made it possible to keep death far from us. Our elderly almost always spend their final months or years in hospitals or nursing homes. Family care has been replaced by professionals.

I am incredibly grateful for the ways modern medicine has enabled people to live and die in more peaceful ways, how professional caregivers have come to the aid of loved ones who struggle to provide round the clock care. I am also aware that a consequence of these changes is that the end of life has become lonelier and more isolated. Because we interact with death less it’s easy to say, as I almost did, I’m not dying.

Removing ourselves from death so thoroughly has made it harder to talk about it with loved ones. This is often a scary conversation we put off longer and longer, sometimes until it is too late.

We are often so paralyzed by these conversations that new tools have been invented to help us start talking. One of my favorites is a website that will help you plan and host a Death Dinner. A Death Dinner is a time set aside to discuss end of life issues, in particular your wishes. Or it could be you feel the need to broach the subject with a loved one who is aging. The website includes dinner prompts, icebreakers to get the conversation going, a form email to send out to guests. You can attach film clips and articles to get everyone on the same footing. There is even a suggested menu for those so overcome by anxiety that they cannot decide what to prepare for the table.

The Death Dinner people are on to something. While 90% of Americans believe that it is vital to discuss end of life care with loved ones, only 30% have actually done so. While 82% say that it’s important to write down their final wishes, only 32% have put pen to paper with this important information.[1]

Today’s Scripture talks about that sting, about the way we feel when we encounter death, those feelings and fears that make us put off these conversations. Here the Scriptures offer us a word of hope:

O death, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

The theologian Jurgen Moltman explains that these are lines from an Easter hymn, one that should be accompanied with sarcastic laughter.

A couple weeks ago I told the Wednesday morning women’s group about Holy Humor Sunday. Each year, at the end of Lent, my clergy friends ask for my best knock-knock jokes. On the first Sunday in the season of Easter these friends follow the ancient tradition of the Greek Orthodox church. These days following Easter were times for laughter, of telling jokes, of being silly together – because Easter is a joke on Satan. Jesus’ resurrection is a practical joke played on death.

In Jesus the Devil got tricked. Death has no more power, no more power to rule us. O death, where is thy victory, we laugh. Sin, the brokenness of creation, the death-things at work all around us, the death that worked its way into the soil of our world has been uprooted and burned away. There’s nothing left to be afraid of, nothing left to hold us captive. That’s the gospel. That’s the good news.

That doesn’t change the fact that death is still painful and sad. After all, death isn’t natural. We are not built for death. We are not built for our bodies and spirits to be ripped from one another. We were made for God’s eternal love. With the resurrection, God has prepared another way for us, clothing us with the immortal bodies we heard Sarah read about in today’s Scripture. At the same time I can’t get over the fact that we know that something is not right. Death is not the way it was supposed to be.

I wonder if part of the reason we don’t like to talk about death is that most of us are aware that we start to feel the sting of death long before we’re facing our final hours. Those conversations conjure up all sorts of emotions, things we don’t like to think about. Death is a series of losses, an accumulation of little deaths over time.
It happens the first time you realize you’re scared walking through a parking lot alone at night.
It’s the time when your grandparents die, and you realize that you are only one generation removed from your own death.
It’s the slow amassing of doctor’s appointments for your parents.
It’s moving a loved one into nursing care, cleaning out a childhood home.
It’s forgetting more often.
It’s not understanding the technology, feeling left behind.
It’s not being as influential on that committee or in that job.
It’s going to funeral after funeral after funeral after funeral.

When I hear in 1 Corinthians that death has lost its victory I go back to these losses, the little deaths that come into our mortal bodies, into our lives. I want to believe that Jesus’ victory over death isn’t just at the end, but is present as we experience these other losses.

In Jesus’ resurrection we have been given the power to remove the sting of those little deaths along the way. We remove the sting of death when we invite others into our grief. We remove the sting of death when we trust others, when we see people beside us, listening to our story, caring for us, caring about the things we love. We remove death’s sting when we trust each other with new possibilities, when we make space for the dreams and hopes and plans of others, when we let ourselves hear in a new way. We remove death’s sting when we can name that death is the enemy.

 

One of the greatest privileges of my calling, what makes it a calling, is that I am able to be with beloved members of our church during those times when death has found them. But I have a confession. I never know exactly what to say. When you get the worst news, when your son has died, when we realize that you aren’t going to recover from this illness. All my words seem trite and silly. There’s nothing to be said, but something still needs to be said.

So I open my mouth and I pray for you. And I’ve realized that I always pray the same thing. I say that there is no place you can go from God’s love. I ask that God would make this real in your life, that God would help you to know that you’re never alone.

And then I ask you to believe that we are with you. I tell you that you don’t have to have it together when I come to see you, or when someone from church comes to visit. You can cry or laugh, or we can sit and watch TV. You can be angry or sad or resigned. I can take it. We can take it. We’re ready for whatever you have, ready for whatever you’ve got. And God is like that, too. God will love you no matter what. God will always love you.

It’s the thing I know that is most true. You are not alone, even at the end, past the end as we know it, past our knowing.

A friend of mine was telling me about the way he explained baptism to his Sunday school class. The children in his class did trust falls. Do you remember those? The kind where you cross your arms over your chest and close your eyes. You stand stiff like a board. And your heart beats fast as you say “falling,” but you can’t see who is behind you.

And then you hear voices. There are people there, waiting for you. You aren’t alone. There are people standing behind you with their arms open arms, waiting to catch you. “Fall” they respond. Go ahead and fall.

Go ahead and fall, baptism tells us. Fall into this life. Fall back into God’s love, into the church, into these people. One day you’ll fall into death and I will catch you, Jesus says. You died in the waters of baptism and rose into new life, into eternal life.

And we say that, too. Go ahead and fall. We’re here. You don’t have to uncomplicate the past or secure the future. Go ahead and fall. We’re all waiting here. We’ll catch you. Go ahead and fall.

[1] Survey of Californians by the California HealthCare Foundation (2012)

My church, Duke Memorial UMC is preaching a series on “things we don’t talk about in church.” We started off with the topic of mental illness. We had a resource guide printed in the bulletin, and at the end of the service we offered space for our congregation to process and pray with our Stephen Ministers and retired clergy.

Most of you are sitting next to two people today, one on your right and one on your left. Here is a statistic about mental illness. If you or someone in your family does not struggle with their mental health then it is likely the person sitting to your right does.

Because 50% of North Americans will have a mental illness over the course of their lifetime, or will have a family member who does. That means that mental illness will touch, in one way or another, half of this congregation. It’s every other person who passes you walking on the street. It’s a part of the lives of every other co-worker, every other friend at school, every other parent on your kid’s soccer team.

Today’s reading is a story about a man who self-harms, a characteristic of some severe forms of mental illness. In the Bible we don’t have a clear picture of these diseases. There wasn’t a category for mental illness in the time of Jesus. But many of the symptoms associated with mental illness come out in stories about demon possession. These ancient writers, prior to modern psychology, believed external spiritual forces were at work in people. Now we may give different names or diagnoses for what we see in these stories.

The man gives us a window into the experiences and stigmas surrounding mental illness. He experiences the vulnerability of his body and mind, and of his social world. Like many people who struggle with mental illness he finds himself cut off from community, isolated and sent away. In Jesus’ day that was the way that the community dealt with mental illness – by pushing it the outskirts, as far as they could put it out of their minds and communities and their lives.

This story also gives us insight into the stigmas around mental illness in our culture. The man is portrayed as more animal than human, possessed by a demon, violent and unable to be restrained. So many of these images still attach to mental illness. These stigmas around mental illness are rampant, and many of them are portrayed in this story. Some of us may have been taught that mental illness is chronic, impacting a person’s whole life. Yet 90% of mental health issues are treatable and manageable, especially with early intervention and support.

Like the man in today’s Gospel reading, we also have a tendency to associate mental illness with violence. Most people who struggle with mental illness do not exhibit severe signs like the ones we heard about in today’s reading. But that’s not what we often hear on the radio or sees on the news. It seems like every time there’s unexplained and horrific violence in our community the very next news commentary is on the mental illness of the perpetrator. In reality less than 1% of persons with psychosis ever become violent – less than 1%.

Men in our culture face their own stigmas around mental illness. On average men suffer more incidents of mental illness than women. Yet young men and boys are often taught to put on a brave face, to suck it up, to keep their feelings to themselves. We persist in a culture of masculinity that glorifies individualism, lack of emotion, and independence. Asking for help becomes a sign of being inept or weak.

In our contemporary world we want to pretend mental illness isn’t happening, or at least not here. We’re supposed to have it all together, to be able to manage our lives. And when you can’t it feels like you’re the only one. Why can’t I hold it together? Why is it that everyone else can keep doing life and I can’t?

We don’t send people out to the tombs any more. We get rid of mental illness in a different way. We try to pretend it doesn’t exist.

It doesn’t have to be like this. We can do better for one another, for our church, for those who come here looking for a community to receive their whole selves, to be a church that welcomes whole selves. We can be a people who see the seamlessness between our bodies, our minds, and our souls. Together we as the church can challenge and change the stigma’s attached to mental illness.

I used to work at a church in northeast Philly. On the first Sunday of each month, right in the middle of our worship service we’d have celebrations, times when we’d invite people to come up to the front and share what was happening in their lives – a birthday, an anniversary, or a graduation.

Every month Paul brought someone to church who was celebrating his sobriety. Paul was the church advocate for Alcoholics Anonymous. AA was his other church, and he brought me to a few open meetings to meet his friends who were in recovery. Paul was amazing at bringing people to church, people who were newly sober, some relapsing, others grinding through their second month off the bottle.

Each month Paul would cheer someone on to the celebration. A couple guys would stand there with their chips in their hands – these round markers that celebrated how long they had been sober. 1 week. 30 days. 10 years. They would hold up these chips like they were Olympic medals, earned with blood, sweat, and a lot of meetings.

One day a couple came up for celebration. They were a lovely family in our church, with these two sweet little kids. They are professionals in our community. They taught Sunday school and helped with the canned food drive.

On that Sunday they shared the anniversary of their sobriety. They shared about how their lives had been changed, how God had met them, how they wanted to share the good news, but how they always knew not drinking would always be a struggle.

I was amazed. They could have fooled me. I could have spent the rest of my time in that church without ever knowing that this family struggled with addiction. Drug abuse and drug dependence are types of mental illness. Addiction changes the brain, disturbing a person’s normal hierarchies. They could have kept their struggles with mental health hidden, but they didn’t. They let us celebrate them. They trusted us, trusted that we wouldn’t see their addiction as weakness or ineptitude, but as an illness, an illness that required patience, care, and understanding.

The culture of celebrating sobrieties in church changed the way I thought about mental illness. As I came to see how common addiction was in our community it started to normalize as another illness, another space where we could share life. That opened doors for us to notice others with mental illness. We organized meals and childcare for a woman in our church struggling through a debilitating depression. People would give thanks for new meds for bipolar in the same way they share thanksgiving for the birth of a niece or nephew.

I came to realize something. It isn’t mental illness that we don’t like to talk about in church. What we really don’t want to talk about is how hard it is to be broken, to have a brokenness that no one can see, an illness that’s on the inside, one that doesn’t show up like a cough or a cold. We don’t like to expose the illness of our brain because we’re afraid of the isolation, afraid of being sent away from friendship, from trust, from love.

We want to be trusted instead of being shut out. We want to be fragile without reactions of discomfort and fear. We want to be received the way Jesus received the man in today’s story, as someone’s beloved, someone’s child, someone who has a future and a hope.

If we look at the story through this lens then we can hear Mark telling us about two conflicting communities. The demon that enters the man says his name is Legion – because he is many, a community in himself – this one sustained by isolation and terror. But there is another community in this story – a village of family and friends, a place that offers respite and relief.

The brother of a man named Robert, who struggles with severe mental illness, described an ideal imaginary community that would compete with that of Legion. In it people call Robert by name. They talk to him about ordinary things, and don’t give undue attention to his agitation. They gently guide him through difficult days.[1]

Donald Capps writes that these persons have their own vocation. These who seems strange to us help us to see the stranger inside each of us, often unacknowledged and unrecognized. This recognition of our own self-alienation is “the first step on the difficult journey to making peace with ourselves.”[2] These persons may help us to see our own longing for community, of our own need for healing.

If you do struggle with a mental illness, if you love someone who suffers from an eating disorder, or anxiety, or schizophrenia, then the ending to today’s Gospel lesson may be hard to hear. Jesus heals the man, instantly. He says the word and this illness is gone, off into a bunch of pigs. The man is restored to his former self and then he returns to his community. In this story everything changes in a flash.

That’s not how most people are healed of mental illness. For most of us returning to wholeness is a long road. On that road is prayer and trust, but along the way we meet other healers – psychologists and counselors, sometimes medication or hospitalization. For a few of us mental illness will be chronic, it will require love and commitment without the expectation of ever getting back to where you used to be. For all of us healing involves a whole world of healers, a lot of people who are willing to say, “I am with you, now until this is over, and I will never leave you.”

When I hear these stories of healing in the Bible I’m reminded that Jesus tells us they are signs. They are sign of the kingdom of heaven breaking in, signs of God coming into our world. You are those signs, too. Doctors and licensed clinical social workers are those signs. The neighbor who babysits for free so you can go to therapy, the small group that brings you dinner when you just can’t get out of bed – those are all signs of God’s in-breaking kingdom. We also know that this too is healing because through these signs Jesus’ does for us what he does in Scripture. Jesus is in the work of reuniting, of restoring community. Jesus is here to return us to one another.

[1]Holly Toensing, “Living among the Tombs” in This Abled Bodied (eds: Hector Avalos, Sarah J Melcher, and Jeremy Schipper. Society of Biblical Literature, 1997), 143.

[2] Donald Capps quoted in “Living among the Tombs,” 143.

Melissa Florer-Bixler
Palm Sunday 2016
Luke 19:28-40
Duke Memorial UMC

It’s a tense time. There’s mistrust between the government and the people. The political system that always seems on the tip of disaster is fraying at the edges. It’s the time of year when these things happen. But something feels different this time around. People are angrier. The country seems to be erupting in violence and rage.

It’s that time of year. I’m not talking about election season in the United States of America, but Passover in Jerusalem.

Passover was always a tense time in Israel. It reminded the people of revolution, of the time when God saved Israel, brought them out of the land of their oppressors in Egypt. Could God do it again? Could this be the year? Could everything change, the people taking back the city from Rome? The people rising up? Could this be the year, the year of God’s favor?

And on this particular year, during this tense season, this season of watching and waiting, two parades take place.

If you’d been there you would have seen him, riding in from the West. Herod on his warhorse leads a charge of imperial guards into the occupied city. The people make the way wide. There are soldiers and a cavalry. Purple robes and a crown. Herod the Great, the Kind of Judea. His bodyguard numbers 2000. He is a tyrant known for his ability to sniff out and crush the rebellions of the people.

If you’d been there you would have seen him, riding in from the East. On a colt borrowed for this little parade. This little horse totters down the steep grade of the Mount of Olives, a ragged band of unemployed fishermen turned beggars beside him. As he reaches the city a band of the poor greet him, spread out there dirty laundry and shout “Hosanna to the King!”

If you’d been there you would have seen them. And you might have laughed. Because there’s something absurd about what is taking place here on Palm Sunday, a kind of street theater carefully placed during the Passover, here after the procession of Caesar, here before the looming Cross, here in politically contested Jerusalem. It’s all here – the costumes and the props, the stage and the script.

What kind of king is this? This doesn’t look like the hundreds of rebellions that sprang up and died out just as quickly, quashed by the power of Rome. Jesus’ ragged procession mocks the costly gold and silk of the Empire with narrow streets lined with the tattered coats of peasants. Jesus doesn’t offer an alternative to Caesar, king for king, lord for lord, another hand off of Roman power in a long succession of brutality.

In this political satire Jesus reveals the uncertainty of Rome’s power. Jesus demonstrates that coercive power, the power that maintains order and control, the power of domination, the power of rich over poor, of the occupier over the occupied – Jesus reveals their fragility.

The Wednesday women’s group is reading a book by Lauren Winner called Wearing God, and in it she tells this story about a Ku Klux Klan rally. When it was announced that the rally would take place in their hometown, the citizens of Charlotte, North Carolina were rightly horrified. They had two options. One was to take on the KKK with all seriousness, to launch a counter protest, to mirror back the weightiness of the Klan. Instead they chose a different direction.

As the Klan took to the streets, forming lines of white hooded men, people began to emerge from their homes. Every one of them was dressed like a clown. The laughed and juggled, blew horns, and danced. The absurdity of racism and hate met with the absurdity of clowns. When the Klan chanted “white power” the clowns responded with cheers of “white flour” or “wife power.” The clowns joined the parade. By the middle of the march there were five clowns for every member of the Klan. The rally dispersed.

The group that organized this counter protest wrote something called the Clown Manifesto that perfectly sums up the possibilities of satire: “Nothing undermines authority like holding it up to ridicule.”

In the Palm Sunday procession, in the Clown Manifesto we begin to see that the way coercive power fortifies and exerts itself is by making us believe it is inevitable. Palm Sunday reminds us not to take tyrannical power seriously.

A few weeks ago I saw some pictures that were taken at an action planned by a group of young people in our community. This was a group that is working with Durham CAN, the community organizing group to which our church belongs. These young people wanted to organize around the deficit of counselors in their high schools. They staged a public action to show the city and the school board that the numbers of counselors currently employed is below the recommended average, that young people are slipping through the cracks in college admissions, ACT prep, and career guidance.

I suppose these young people could have made signs that said something like “we demand more counselors.” Instead they didn’t something amazing. They gave out report cards. Standing outside, these students held up large cardboard reports. They listed the recommended teacher to counselor ratio and then gave a grade. Durham School of the Arts received a B. Southern High School earned a letter grade of D, while Northern and Jordan received a C.

As we know, this isn’t the way things usually go. Students don’t give grades. They receive them. They don’t make demands. They are told what to do. When I saw these pictures something about the way I think about power shifted.

A month later two of these same students climbed up a set of stairs and stood at the pulpit at First Presbyterian Church. These incredible young women talked about what their schools needed, their experiences with school counselors, how students continue to struggle without guidance. Then they called forward the candidates running for the five open seats for county commissioner. These ten or so candidates stood on the floor, the two teenage women towering above them. The young women looked down, as the candidates craned their necks to see them, and asked each a set of questions. Would they redirect under utilized funding towards the goal of getting more counselors into school? Please answer with a simple yes or no.

As we know, this isn’t the way things usually go. Students sit in assemblies and classrooms while adults tell them what to do. They don’t put questions to their elected officials. They don’t hold them accountable. They don’t set agendas for city money. At the Durham CAN assembly last Sunday the room was electric. My eyes were filled with tears. Something about the way we thought about power shifted.

When I think about Easter I usually think about upending power, of turning power on its head. Palm Sunday Jesus, riding a colt, giving no power to the procession of Caesar offers us another way to understand the journey to the cross and into resurrection. Jesus helps us see that power is negotiable, fragile, transferable, and available. We see how we continue to be distracted by those who want to rule through violence, through the rhetoric of force. We learn that the power of Rome is a construct, and that it isn’t the way things will always be. On Palm Sunday we don’t have to buy what Rome is selling anymore.

And on Palm Sunday we learn that Jesus doesn’t give us a grand theory of power. Jesus doesn’t tell us what political party to align ourselves with. Jesus doesn’t run for President. Instead, the God of creation, the one who knit together the earth at its founding, reveals to us what has always been – that there is no power outside of God’s love and God’s justice.

This power is always changing, always taking new forms, always surprising us, always showing up in people and events and places that we least expect. In Palm Sunday we discover that the power of God isn’t a toppling or an overturning – it’s a revelation, God revealing to us that God’s power has always been disruptive and elusive, is always slipping out of the grasp of tyrants and kings.

That moment at the CAN Assembly last Sunday, it’s the same kind of thing happening in Palm Sunday, the same kind of reorienting of power to the places we do not expect. Today, I find myself in the midst of those crowds in Jerusalem, looking at Herod passing by. I can feel the rage in some, the revolution in their silence. In others I can hear their longing and their hunger, the ways they have been broken time and again.

I hear it today. I heard it here on our front lawn this past week as young people from Black Lives Matter brought their demands for lives free from fear and violence. I heard it again a few days ago when children and adults from around Durham gathered in the same place, right here in front of our church, to protest the impending deportation of Riverside high school senior, Wildin Acosta. Could this be the year? The year of God’s favor.

And then I see Jesus pass by. He doesn’t seem that interested in the Empire. He doesn’t want to be king.

Then I see Jesus, not looking to replace one tyrant, one king with another.

Then I see Jesus. I see power slipping, making a new way, interrupting, asking new questions, seeing with new eyes.

If we want to see it we have to look in unexpected place for these moments happening around us. We have to look at children and beggars, at high schoolers giving out report cards, at protests on the church lawn, at clowns in the street. If we want to be a part of it we have to pay attention.

The answer is always yes. Yes, this is the year of God’s favor, God among us. Hosanna in the highest.

Melissa Florer-Bixler
Lent I/Year C
Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Tennyson and I just finished a book about a superhero squirrel who writes poetry. The first poem that the squirrel, Ulysses, types out at the computer, to the utter amazement of his onlookers, goes like this:

I love your round head,
the brilliant green,
the watching blue,
these letters,
this world, you.
I am very, very hungry.

Each time I read one of the chapters about Ulysses I was reminded to notice things. Ulysses notices. He’s confronted by the beauty of the world, sometimes the overwhelming fragility and feeling and beauty of the world. “What is the word for that?” he asks. Is there a word for the lighted windows of other houses, how his human friend, Flora, looks when she sleeps, the wind blowing through the trees, a donut with sprinkles on top and cream on the inside. Or jelly, maybe.

Is there a word for all that? For all those thoughts and feelings, for all that love bound up together? Is there a word for that?

It’s the question I can imagine God asking in today’s Old Testament reading. A people in a desert, lost in a desert, find a way into this green place, a place with all these beautiful things. Everywhere they look they come up against it, find it there, notice it. And in Deuteronomy we learn that God notices, it too. God wants to hold it up, to turn it over and taste this land, to take in all these beautiful things.

The rabbis say that the offering of first fruits in Deuteronomy 26 included sweet things, things like milk and dates, honey and pomegranates. It’s not just staples that are put into the basket, left before the altar for the priests, consumed by those who serve as the bridge connecting God to God’s people. Not just the flour for bread, not the basic nutritional staples. But also jelly donuts. The lighted window. The slow rise and fall of breath in sleep.

These things don’t have to mean anything. They are complete in themselves. They don’t have to point to anything except their own goodness, to fall into the hands of God and God’s people, for them to turn them around, look them over in wonder. And in Deuteronomy God notices. God sees it all, the texture and smell and feel of this world. God asks the people to go into the land and to bring it near, a little bit of all of it. God doesn’t need sustenance, doesn’t need to eat the things the people bring before the altar to stay alive. God desires as God is confronted by beauty, by all of these promised things bound up in one place. Is there a word for that? What is the word for all of this together?

What does it mean for us to worship a God who wants something like this to happen, this Feasts of Ingathering, a festival meant to be carried out by Israel continuously, every three years, forever? What does it tell us about God, that God wants this, that God is drawn to grapes and honey, the first “a-ha” of new life that spring from trees and out of vines, the strange surprise that every year the harvest will come again.

We worship a God who sees the world and turns it over, tastes it, and loves it. Perhaps you have loved things in the world this way. Perhaps along the way you have loved the world for itself, have found yourself confronted by wonder.
The sound of gravel kicked across concrete.
The stutter of light through the guardrail as cars pass on the other side of highway.
The sound of Leon Bridge’s voice.
Anything from Janna’s kitchen.
The warmth of a piece of bread pressed into your palm.

God notices, God loves it for itself, puts it here with no other purpose than to be lovely, to be noticed by you. And in Deuteronomy God points God’s people to all these lovely things. See, God says, look and see! Taste, touch, and see.

Of course the thing that God most desires, the most beloved is you. The most beloved are the people in this story, and you, your life, grafted into theirs. Bringing their basket before the altar the Israelites will recite their history, speak it back to God. A wandering people, who became great in Egypt, afflicted and abused, and then God rescued them. God brought them up, brought them to safety and to abundance, to the land of these dates, right here before me, brought us to these trees, to this hill, to this grass, to the fruit in my hand. “Look,” a closer translation of vs 10 might say, “Look at it right here.”

As we hear the story that God wants the people to retell there are significant pieces left out. Important historical details are omitted. In the recitation of Israel’s history there is no disobedience. No complaining in the wilderness. Not a word about wandering for forty years, Moses hitting a rock for water, of distrust and disloyalty, failure and death. There’s no word of the ten commandments. No mention of golden calves and broken tablets. Not a breath spent on promises made and kept and broken. No responsibility. No getting better, being more faithful, following the rules. Not a word.

A friend reminded me of how this sounds a lot like how Dorothy Day begins her autobiography, A Long Loneliness. “When one writes the story of his life and the work he has been engaged in, it is a confession in a way,” writes Day. “When I wrote the story of my conversion ten years ago I left out all of my sins but told of all the things that had brought me to God, all the beautiful things, all the remembrances of God that had haunted me, pursued me over the years…” She continues writing that it is difficult to do that “without a ritual, without a body with which to love and move, love and praise.”

In the Feast of Ingathering God gives the people a ritual, a ritual of noticing and awe. God gives them words to say, words about wonder and grace. And God has left out the parts about sin. It isn’t mentioned, it’s all left behind. All that remains when everything else is pushed aside is this beloved stuff, these wonders. God inscribed this ritual into the life of a people, inscribed this ritual into their bodies, this act where the useless wonder of these good gifts returns back to the bodies of the people.

Communion is like this, too, a sort of Ingathering of our gifts and our bodies, these good things returning back to us. I have often marveled at how God chose to pass on Jesus’ body to us through food. I suppose God could have called our attention to the horror of crucifixion by having us pass around bitter herbs. Jesus could have told us to remember him among us by saying some words, or holding silent meditation. Instead we are given something to eat. Good bread, a good cup. Sweetness and warmth. “This is my body, for you.”

Of course, as it was for Israel so it will be for us. There will be failure. There will be death and covenants, promises broken and promises kept, but mostly promises broken. There will be exile and war, sins that follow kings and priests and children for generations. But here, in Israel’s body, in the ritual of Ingathering they hear the good news of a God who remembers only that they are beautiful. “Look, here it is” they are to say. See what I have here in my hand, to God, from God, through me, through God.

Wick and I always put our faces down in the garden beds each spring, waiting and watching. Each sunny day we come out to stare and see if the first wisp of sweet pea shoot has emerged over night. “Anything yet?” we’ll say, searching the dirt. And when we see it, when it finally appears it feels like a miracle. Every time, every year. We dance around and whoop and holler. We take pictures of these little tendrils, so small they look silly on my iphone screen. We want you to see these pictures. We want to share them with you. We want you to love them, too. First fruits. We notice it all, and it is all beloved.

And of course this is how God feels about you.

You who must do nothing else for God to notice, for God to notice the soft roundness of your head, the way your laugh starts with a burst.

There is nothing you can add to you, nothing you can do to better yourself, make yourself more useful to God or the world,
nothing that could make you more beloved than you are right now.

There is nothing you have to do,
nothing you have to be for God to wonder at the beauty of your right foot that turns out just slightly when you walk.

You do not have to be braver or smarter or kinder or more faithful.

You don’t have to get over your fear or your sadness or your grief.

You are enough, just as you are, enough for God to delight at the way you lick your finger to turn a page,
and how your eyes close when you taste the tomato sauce off the spoon.

You are God’s first fruit. What is put before the altar is you, your life, your beautiful body, one beloved of God.


Flora and Ulysses (
by Kate DiCamillo) ends with a final poem. It is God’s word to you written through the vehicle, as it were, of a superhero poet squirrel:

Nothing
would be
easier without
you,
because you
are
everything,
all of it —
sprinkles, quarks, giant
donuts, eggs sunny-side up —
you
are the ever-expanding universe
to me.

Duke Memorial UMC
11 pm Service

A few days ago, this past Sunday, we had an Advent play here at the church. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent, a season in the church when we prepare and we long for the coming of a Savior, the coming of Jesus. And in that worship service our littlest children acted out the song “The Friendly Beasts.” It’s a song about the animals in the stable where Jesus was born. They prepare the stable. They prepare it when no one else was there to do so. They offer Jesus the gifts of their lives, of their bodies – the donkey gives hay for Jesus’ bed, the sheep gives wool for a blanket, the doves coo a lullaby from the rafters.

The children dressed as the animals from the song. They also brought their own gifts to prepare our little manger scene. I asked them, what would they bring to get a room ready for Jesus? What comforts you? What makes you feel safe? What do you need?

By the end of the song our manger was brimming with baseball trophies, bells on string, dreamcatchers, a football helmet, stuffed animals, a plastic worm, and many security blankets.

Jesus, the one who receives our gifts. It isn’t the image that I often ascribe to the King of kings and Lord of lords. Because for Jesus to receive our gifts, to truly receive them as a gift, Jesus must want. God must need.

Yet, the story of Jesus begins in want. It’s a story that begins with neediness. It begins in utero, Jesus infused with Mary’s blood, nourished through her body, connected by a cord of flesh as an utterly dependent fetus.

The story of Jesus begins in want. It begins in the body of Mary, her lungs breathing for him, protecting him with layers of her own flesh—her bones holding his, her skin stretched around his, her life his home.

The story of Jesus begins in want. It begins with an infant fed at Mary’s breast, a baby able to communicate only through cries, subject to the people who surround him, who feed him, who cradle him to sleep, who comfort him in the night.

The story of Jesus begins in want. A makeshift labor and delivery room in a stable, the gift of an innkeeper.

The story of Jesus begins in want. This is the mystery of the Incarnation, the mystery of God among us – with us and for us.

Without the incarnation, God experiences almost everything we can. In the Old Testament God weeps and fears. God loves and relents, cries out and punishes. But, without the incarnation, these stories about God are without want. They are stories of a God without need. It is only in being drawn into human life, dependent now on Mary’s body, that God becomes like us in all things. In Jesus God hungers in the wilderness. In Jesus God is tempted by power. In Jesus God longs for others to stay by his side in his time of need, to stay by his side, to stay awake.

At the first Christmas, what we see in the life of Jesus, here at the very beginning, will continue to reveal to us this God incarnate, made flesh among us. Jesus receives the gift of his disciples’ lives, of fish and loaves, the gifts of prayer and anointing with oil, the gifts of touch and tears, the gift of baptism, the gift of a cross carried by another.

At the cross, at the end of his life, Jesus will continue to be a body that receives. “I thirst,” he says from the tree. “I thirst.”

The God who nursed at Mary’s breast, who drinks in the waters of Mary’s womb, here at the end as in the beginning – here Jesus thirsts. Julian of Norwich, a fourteenth century theologian, is fascinated by this admission—that Jesus thirsts. This is a revelation for her. Julian envisions these words projecting back into time. Jesus thirsted before there was a beginning because God in Jesus thirsts for us. And until we have all been joined to Christ’s body, Jesus will still long for us. “And so, gathering his living members,” writes Julian, “always he draws and drinks, and still he thirsts and he longs.”

In her mystical visions, when Julian sees Christ’s body, she sees us–the members of this body, bound to one another. The church is a community of gifts, of gifts given and received. Tonight, here, as Christmas is about to dawn, we remember God as a child, someone utterly dependent on the people around him–dependent on their care, on their love. It is no wonder that this story, the story of the birth of Jesus, is paired with the prophecy of Isaiah. There is light. Light is coming. The tools of war, bloodied and broken, boots and bayonets, they are cast into fire. How can it be that a baby could usher in this kind of hope?

Isaiah imagines a new kind of power, an alternative to military might: the power of love. Our ability to receive one another’s gifts, the vulnerability of our lives before one another – this is “the power of grief and repentance, of the overcoming of pain and suffering, of neutralizing violence and death, and of transforming defiance and shame through the embracing of it – the risking of encounter with – that which threatens and frightens us in our very midst.”[1]

We are in anxious times. In the air there is suspicion. Suspicion of hijabs, suspicion of the homeless, suspicion of refugees, suspicion of black men and boys. And into this world, into this suspicion, Jesus is born – wanting and needing.

The power of receiving a gift, the gift of the unexpected other is that it yields compassion. We begin to see that, as Julian of Norwich reminds us—we begin to see that Jesus thirsts for each of us, longing to receive the gift of our lives, to receive you, and for us to receive one another, to receive the gift of my life, to receive the gift of the life of your neighbor, your neighbor across the street and across town, your neighbor sleeping on benches downtown, your neighbor on the Greyhound bus, your neighbor in refugee camps.

On Sunday as I was watching our little ones, dressed as donkeys and doves, make their way to the manger, I remembered that each of the gifts they brought for Jesus was first a gift to them. This precious thing, this beloved plastic worm, this blanket that comforts through the night, this was first a gift bestowed and treasured. Our lives, like Jesus’ life, begin in want. And from the beginning they are bound up in grace, in gift-giving, of giving and receiving what is precious, of sharing it with others, of seeing this transformed again and again into the strength of love, a love that refuses to give up on one another, that refuses to give up on this world that Jesus loved and received as a gift.

This is the hope of this day, the hope of Jesus, not what we have to offer our world but what I have to give to you–our lives, the gifts granted to us. Our lives are gift. Your life is a gift. To follow after this Jesus is to do as he did, to follow after others, to receive the gift we did not expect, the gift we may not yet know how to receive. This body, this church–we are called to thirst for one another. To be like this Jesus is to need and receive, to see that your life is a gift, received by others.

Like Jesus, always we draw and drink, and still we thirst and we long.

 

[1] Rita Nakashima Brock. “A New Thing in the Land: The Female Surrounds the Warrior” in Power, Powerlessness, and the Divine, 158.

Advent 1C – Jeremiah 33/Luke 21
Duke Memorial UMC

On Monday I was reading the oracles of Jeremiah 33, today’s Old Testament reading, when Ann called to tell me the church was on lock down. I wasn’t at the church at the time. I knew there was a threat down the street. Besides that there wasn’t a lot of information. White man. Gray hoodie. No one knew much.

For the next half hour I kept eyeing the door of the coffee shop nervously. I checked possible exits. I wondered if I should say something to the woman sitting across from me as she got up to leave. At the top of the window I could see helicopters circling.

“In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety.”

Those were the word on the page. Live in safety. They pounded in my ears as I got back into my car after being told it was all right to return to the church.

I turned the keys in the ignition, and that’s when I heard it. “We Need a Little Christmas” pouring out of my speakers, on the 24/7 Christmas music station that as been in playing since Thanksgiving.

Do you know this song?

Haul out the holly
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again
Fill up the stocking
I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now

I sat in the car and listened for a while before driving off. There was something so jarring about it. The lyrics continue:

For I’ve grown a little leaner, grown a little colder
Grown a little sadder, grown a little older
And I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder
I need a little Christmas now

I’d never really listened to the words but here it was so clear. Christmas is the great diversion, the sentimental distraction from the leaner, colder, sadder, older world, the world in which things are falling apart around us. A lot of us are good at pulling it together for the holidays. We put on a good face, we pretend like everything is fine. It’s easy to find distractions to keep us from looking around. When the distraction is gone – that’s when things start to slip. That’s when we realize this just isn’t enough—this life I have, day in day out, the same old thing. This is world is too much.

“Be alert at all times,” Jesus tells us. “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down.” Jesus says this after describing a chaotic scene. Signs of distress in the sky. Nations perplexed by the roaring of the ocean. The kingdom of God is near. This is our world. This world around us, the world on the nightly news, the news that is recorded from helicopters buzzing above our own heads.

The Gospel lesson is a reminder that this is a season of waiting and expectation, a season when we are anticipating God’s coming among us. If there’s anyone who knows about anticipating God in the midst of destruction it is the prophet Jeremiah. His words echo back the groaning of our world.

Jeremiah writes to us from the heart of a city gripped by fear. Homes will be destroyed by an invading army, families ripped apart. Destruction is at hand, and the future grows more and more dim. There is violence, poverty, and trembling everywhere. This is a city where birds will not land, where even animals flee.

Kathleen Norris wrote a chapter about her experience reading Jeremiah at daily prayer. Each morning Norris gathered with the brothers of the Benedictine monastery where she was writer in residence. I’ve been to this monastery, too. I’ve walked the mile down the street to St John’s Abbey, and I’ve sat in those same raised seats behind the altar. Each day a lesson is read, a full book parceled out a little at a time.

I can imagine Norris waking early, and, still groggy with sleep, sitting in those hard chairs. There she is exposed to the grief of Jeremiah, immersing herself in the terror of a world in shambles. At one point Norris writes how, after some particularly grim passages she felt like shouting, “have a nice day” to the entire assembly. “Easier to mock a prophet than to listen to him,” she tells us.

“Taking Jeremiah to heart, day in day out,” writes Norris, “I got much more than I bargained for. I found it brave of these Benedictines, in late twentieth-century America, in a culture of denial, to try to listen to the prophet at all.”

Today we are stumbling into the latter sections of Jeremiah. From the words we heard Kathy read today it might be hard to imagine that Jeremiah writes these oracles imprisoned in the king’s palace courtyard. Those in power, and those against whom these prophecies of destruction are aimed, they cannot stand his words. They burn, like fire.

But Jeremiah doesn’t shy away from the world as it is. He can’t. He can’t help but name the horror and tragedy around him, the way things are falling apart.

“We have heard a cry of panic, of terror, of no peace.”

“See, disaster spreading from nation to nation, and a great tempest is stirring from the farthest parts of the earth.”

“All of them turn to their own course, like a horse plunging headlong into battle.”

Jesus warns us to be mindful of ourselves, that paying attention to this kind of terror can weigh down our hearts, can become its own distraction. Don’t let the day catch you unexpectedly, he tells us. Redemption requires us to have ready hearts, lives ready to receive it in unexpected ways. We have to pay attention.

And it is Jeremiah who reminds us we have to give our attention not only above but also below.

“In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land,” writes Jeremiah.

Here, imprisoned for his words, among a people who would rather murder him than hear his prophecies, Jeremiah puts his ear to the ground. And he can hear something stirring, deep in the earth, deep in the dark.

There’s something there, almost imperceptible. He tells us to listen, to listen for the earth’s slight movements, to listen for what is being made, the possibilities for a new life created beneath the surface. I imagine that root, the one Jeremiah waits to see erupt into a branch, I imagine it working through the soil, working it’s way, unseen, hidden below our feet.

Looking up, looking at our lives and our world, we see that life is for more than this. There has to be more. Below, below the surface, God is stirring. Underground, winding below the surface, whispers of life you can’t yet see. A shoot. A bud. A branch.

I wonder what it has been like for you, what you see when you look around. Maybe this is the first time you are spending Christmas separated from your mother, separated from your child. Maybe you’re grappling with being rejected by your family, or by your church. Maybe you’re realizing that you were numb after the 355th mass shooting this year. Maybe you are confused and frightened that Islamophobia and racism are trending well among American voters. Maybe this year contained the worst day of your life.

I confess that I need the hope of Jeremiah this week, a complicated hope that nestles in between dark days, the kind of hope that is silent and hidden, an expectant hope, a hope waiting in the dark. I need Jeremiah’s hope, something more than a distraction from pain and sorrow. I need something more.

Friends, beneath us something is stirring. God’s life, so near to ours that longing for us drew God into human life, into an infant child, this life is stirring. A child, born for us, born in the cold and the dark. This root, ready to erupt. God’s longing for you, for me, for us.

Raise your heads, look up. See the signs in the sun, and the moon and the stars. See the destruction. And once you look around, once you take it all in, put your head on the ground next to mine. I’ll listen with you. We’ll listen for movement, listening for what is happening deep in the warm earth, where we cannot see, where, in spite of it all God is moving and making, putting out roots. I’ll listen with you. I’ll tell you what I hear if you’ll tell me when you can hear that first sounds of God working and making a way. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you and wait.

James 2:1-17
Melissa Florer-Bixler
Duke Memorial UMC
Sept 6, 2015
Is it good news?

Last year my neighbor came to see me. Her subsidized housing unit, a dilapidated duplex, had been sold to a new rental company. In exchange for a break in the rent she’d agreed to move out early, to move to another part of town. In her seventies, frail and tired, she wondered if we would help her pack up her things.

And I wondered, is it good news?

A few weeks later a renovation team pulled up, turned over the entire property. Central heating, hardwood floors, a new paint job and appliances. A young man, who looked and talked like me, moved in with his dog. More houses of long-term Walltown residents are on the market today. Property values, including that of my house, have gone up.

And I wonder, is it good news?

Is it good news?

For the Christians at whom James directs his pen class and status cloud the answer to this question. The situation before them is where they seat visitors to their worship service. It’s rare that we are given an example from first century Palestine that translates seamlessly to our own context. But today we get just that.

Two people walk into church. One, James describes, as dressed in a well-tailored suit, gold rings flashing as he makes his way down the aisle. At the same time in walks a woman in filthy clothes. Maybe she slept in them. Maybe these are all she owns.

For the congregation in James’ letter it is obvious how the seating arrangements will unfold. The places up front, to be seen and to see others, there we will seat the man in his finest suit. The other woman – her we’ll keep out of sight, maybe in the balcony.

Is it good news?

This question echoes throughout today’s Scripture readings, throughout the course of Jesus’ ministry. This question haunts Christian history. Are we preaching good news, and is that good news being borne in our lives? Who decides? For whom is it good news? And for whom is the life that we live actually bad news – bad news for someone else’s job and children and school and neighborhood?

The community addressed in James’ letter sees good news in a well-dressed man walking into their sanctuary. He will boost their social status, maybe increase the church budget. Middle-income people, ready to be taken seriously by their wider community, the people of this church want to blend into the social world around them. They are drawn to these well-suited visitors. Respectable people. People who have something to offer.

It makes sense. It’s logical. But is it good news? In James the answer is no.

Thomas Long reminds us that the set up of worship in the book of James is a result of this tendency to rely on our natural inclination towards what is good. “James’s point,” write Long, “is not to encourage the ushers to smile with equal warmth toward all who come to worship but instead to remind the church that in the economy of God’s grace, the very ones for whom the world has little regard have become the guests of honor in the household of God.”

We can hear in James how, in this moment of ordinariness, in this moment of simply placing one’s body in the pew, that the good news requires a revelation. We know good news when it is good news for the poor, not when it is fair. And to hear this as good news we need to be changed.

We will not come to this on our own. We are too steeped in an ethic of fairness to imagine that God could possibly be for some and against others, that the good news for the poor may end up being bad news for those who oppress, that “God [has] chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom.”

We cannot see the good news before us of our own will or accord. The very fact that we can be “hearers and doers” of the Word of God is an act of divine intervention, a miracle of God’s reaching down into time.

Is it good news? We need a revelation to tell.

Our Gospel lesson is a moment of revelation, one that answers this very question. And this time the one who receives the good news is Jesus. In this story Jesus comes to be surprised by the ways the abundance of the kingdom spills over, erupts, and runs wild.

Jesus is tired. He has set off for Tyre, a gentile part of the country. Avoiding more confrontation, more miracles, more teaching Jesus ducks into a house. But even here, we read, he cannot escape notice. He is seen by a Gentile woman with a sick child, a woman who begs Jesus to cure her little one.

Jesus dismisses the woman. He insults her. “Look,” he tells her, “it’s not fair to give the food of children to dogs.” He calls her a dog. He belittles her. He reinforces ethnic boundaries, saying I’ve come for my people, for Israel. “You,” he says, there’s nothing left for you. There isn’t enough.”

So she asks him a question. She says to him, “even dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She asks him, is this good news? Is it good news? Do you know there is enough? Can you see through your exhaustion to the person sitting here before you, begging for a miracle? Is it good news? Can you see that I am the bearer of good news?

It’s not the first time that Jesus is surprised by the abundance of the kingdom. There are other times in Mark’s gospel when the good news gets away from him, slips beyond his reach, beyond his expectation. Earlier a woman approached Jesus for healing but, being pressed back by the crowd she decides instead to reach out. If I can only touches the edge of his garment I’ll be healed, she reasons. She brushes the cloth with her hand, I imagine just her fingertips as her arm presses through the crowd. Instantly she feels her bleeding stop. She can feel it inside her. Stopped after decades. She is healed.

Jesus power gets away from him. It’s superabundant, profligate, extravagant. And the Syrophonecian woman reminds Jesus of this, that there is enough. She reminds him that she bears this good news in her body because the Gospel, the good news will shatter the boundaries of Israel, going where it will.

Jesus heals this Gentile woman’s daughter. He does it because of this word she has spoken to him. He receives the good news from her.

I imagine that this is why the lectionary points us towards James and the ragged people seated at the back of the sanctuary, those who show up to worship with their despair worn on their very bodies. Consistently, without exception the people who bear the good news in the Gospel are those who suffer oppression. To put ourselves in a position to receive these people impartially is to make ourselves available to the revelation of the partiality of God’s good news, that God is for those on the margins.

Is it good news? It’s the question that finds it’s way to us when we make ourselves vulnerable to those who are the victims of systems by which so many others profit.

It’s the question that confronts us as we see Syrian refugees, camped in the train stations of Hungary.
It’s the question that confronts us in the child whose only meals will be those she receives in her public school cafeteria.
It’s the question that confronts us when a homeless person joins us for lunch on the lawn.
It’s the question that confronts me as my neighbor packs her bags for another move to another part of town.

It should come as no surprise that James reminds us that mercy, not judgment are what will find their way to us when all is said and done. The mercy of good news, of discerning it, is that we cannot control it. We cannot earn our way to it through study or piety or spiritual practice.

The kingdom, the outpouring of this good news, will spring up in unexpected places, like wild seeds that take off, enclosing the ground in thick weedy undergrowth. Like the yeast of our Communion bread that required no kneading, no effort on our part – yeast that worked itself into the bread before you.

Instead the good news will avoid the scholarly and the learned. Instead it will erupt from a little boy’s lunch, from a begging demon, from a windstorm. The good news will find it’s way into our churches. It will keep surprising us, keep upending us, keep us wondering and watching and waiting.

The abundance of God. It sounds like something we might want to be a part of. But James reminds us that our faith requires us becoming ourselves vulnerable to the places where we do not expect God’s kingdom to erupt. We are constantly in negotiation, constantly unsettled, constantly attending to the question before us: Is it good news?

Friends, that’s mercy. You cannot earn your way into understanding the good news, but you can wait, ready to receive whoever walks through these doors. You can ask for eyes to see the messengers of good news in your life, or the ones you try to avoid. You can lean not on your own understanding, in your natural sense of goodness. You can interrogate it. You can welcome the good news you never expected, hands outstretched, ready to receive the one you never knew was waiting for you.

welcome the good news you never expected, hands outstretched, ready to receive the one you never knew was waiting for you.

Two weeks ago our family was in Charleston, SC. We’d planned some time to break up our drive to Orlando with some distractions for our kids. Of course it was hot and humid. When our children were covered in ice cream and soaked in sweat, we headed off the main streets and over to Waterfront Park. It took about three seconds for my fully clothed children to jump into the fountain along with twenty other children.

Since then I’ve wondered if the 87-year old Susie Jackson brought her children and her grandchildren to play in this same fountain. I’ve wondered if she sat on that very same bench where I sat, just a few blocks from her church, Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal.

How different things are two weeks later. A sudden storm blew over Charleston, a chaos of violence and hatred. Two weeks after that storm claimed Susie Jackson’s life and the lives of eight of her fellow worshipers inside a place that she considered sanctuary, a place that was her own.

Ms. Jackson reminds me of the disciples in today’s Gospel text. They also knew about storms. We find them with Jesus on the shores of the sea. He has finished his teaching on the kingdom of God. He is no doubt exhausted from the crowds and preaching, and he is ready to cross to the other side of the Galilee. With him are former fishermen, men Jesus called from their work on this very lake, from boats just like the one they are in. These are men who knew the varieties of clouds and signs of danger in the wind, men who knew the difference between a terrible storm and a storm that would kill.

If the disciples knew their fishing ground, each inlet and fishing season, then Susie Jackson knew her church just as well. Ms. Jackson was a trustee of Emanuel AME, and a member of the choir. And she showed up for Bible study almost every Wednesday night.

While Ms. Jackson was not expecting the storm that erupted inside her church, she was no stranger to bad weather. Her life is a reminder that racism is not a storm quelled over time. Instead, it ebbs and flows. Ms. Jackson lived racism that was overt, and racism that went underground. She lived through Jim Crow segregation. She lived through the Tuskegee experiments. And in her late 70s Ms. Jackson lived in a country where 1 in 6 black men are incarcerated. In her 80s Ms. Jackson saw the number of hate groups in South Carolina grow to 19. In neighboring North Carolina that number ballooned to 24.

Yes, our black brothers and sisters know about storms.

The storm at Emanuel AME on Wednesday night is devastating. To know that the welcome and hospitality of this small group of brothers and sisters was met with such ferocious hostility. To imagine the heartbreak of those left behind. To think about those who will go to worship this morning, reflexively looking with fear at the stranger next to them. I cannot help but echo the words of the disciples who scramble against the waves as Jesus lies asleep in the boat. Do you not care? Do you not care that we are perishing? I want to wake this Jesus up. With the disciples, with my brothers and sisters at Emanuel, I want to scream at Jesus to wake up, to pay attention. Doesn’t he see that we are in trouble?

But I read something that convicted me of my desire to bring this prayer to God. These words were written by Crystal Lewis, a graduate student at Wesley Theological Seminary. She writes:

“I continue in this day of sadness and bewilderment with a heavy heart and with the conviction that we religious folks may, perhaps, need a moratorium on our talks with God— for a short time at least.

I understand, my religious friends and colleagues, how desperately you desire to pray, given the tragic nature of last night’s events. However, I have run out of prayers and only desire to ask you: Will you instead talk face-to-face with someone about white supremacy and racism? Are you willing to start a conversation about what the world needs in order to move forward in peace?

Is it possible that our prayers for God to somehow “fix” the world seem unheard because we don’t yet see ourselves as the answers to those prayers? And if so, how do we change our faulty perspective?”

Ms. Lewis challenges us to claim the power to calm seas that Jesus gives to the church. In her words I am reminded that in the Gospel of John Jesus tells his followers that they will do even greater acts than he. The body of Christ that is here now, the way that God will confront racism in our country, is through you and me.

“I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you for ever,” says Jesus. “The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.”

We can boldly be Christ’s body for one another because we know that none of us is the savior. That work has been done. Jesus has accomplished bringing about the salvation of world. We are invited participate in the kingdom of God that is already here. We may be patterned after this Jesus who has chosen us as his body, has sent his Spirit to empower us, to bind us together, to silence the winds.

But I am reminded that, though we are one body, we have different work to do within this body. Many of us long for reconciliation. A few nights ago some of us here gathered to pray with others from Durham at St Joseph’s AME. At the end of that time locked arms and joined together in singing “We Shall Overcome.” We long to look at one another and say we are one.

As I read the Gospel text this week I was reminded that before Jesus rebuked the storm he had to wake up. Before he could confront the chaos that was surrounding them, beating down on them, threatening to take their lives he woke up. As Christ’s body on earth empowered by the Holy Spirit we can rebuke this storm, but before we can do the work of silencing this chaos we have to wake up.

This week my black brothers and sisters have told me that white Christians have work to do. What they have asked me to hear is that racism will continue to be news to the black community long after it falls off the national news cycle. They have asked us to wake up.

Waking up means we know how we got to this place. Waking up means truth-telling is a prerequisite to reconciliation. For those of us who call the Methodist church our home this begins with the very origins of racism in our church. Waking up means being truthful even with the painful parts of our past.

We have to know our past. We need to know how early Methodism’s anti-slavery resolve faltered under the thriving slave trade in America. We need to know that the African Methodist Episcopal Church resisted racism in the Methodist Church, what one writer describes as an “act of holy defiance.” The AME was founded in 1760 by Richard Allen who was born a slave in Philadelphia. After he purchased his freedom, Allen became an evangelist.

He worshiped at St George’s Methodist Church. Segregation was enforced both in and outside the walls of the church, and black and white parishoners had their own seating areas in the sanctuary. During this time the growing number of black worshippers began to worry white parishoners. One Communion Sunday a black man named Absalom Jones sent these worried white folk over the edge when he responded to the call to repentance. He wanted to kneel at the rail. He came down from the segregated galley and got to his knees. Panicked murmurs filled the sanctuary before he was yanked to his feet by a white trustee. Allen left, vowing never to return. He formed a church called Bethel Church for Negro Methodists. It is likely the first black church meeting in the United States.

In the same way Mother Emanuel AME was a response to racism in the Methodist church. Mother Emanuel AME was founded by black Methodists who left their church over the decision of their white-majority elder board to pave a garage over top of their black cemetery. Among those who joined them was a freed slave named Denmark Vesey who, in his spare time violated the city ordinance by teaching other black women and men how to read and write. Authorities raided Mother Emanuel and shuttered it after declaring it a school for slaves. Vesey later organized a failed slave rebellion out of the church. In response the town burned it to the ground. It was rebuilt by Vesey’s son until the city outlawed all-black churches in 1834.

Waking up also means self-examination of our contemporary stories, analyzing the systems in which we operate today, looking to see the ways in which the past is not past. What would it look like to ask our black friends and neighbors to name for us the ways they see racism operating in their schools and churches and workplaces and neighborhoods? What would it look like to learn the racial history of our city? What would it look like to participate in conversations about race, opening ourselves up to the uncomfortable possibility that we are more complicit in racism than we thought we were?

As I thought about being the body of Christ, of Jesus gift of the Advocate, it also made me wish Jesus was here. A few weeks ago we celebrated Ascension Day, the day we remember when the resurrected Jesus returned to the Father. In the Amish church this is the most important day of the year, but it is also a day of mourning. No one works and every person who can fasts. I’ve wondered if the reason for this tradition is that we long for Jesus. We long for a Jesus who can fix this. We long for the Jesus who can feed the hungry simply by breaking bread. We long for the Jesus who can remedy illness with a touch. We long for the Jesus who could end this storm with a word.

Instead Jesus promises us that he has given us everything we need. The Spirit working through us is enough. We together as Christ’s body are enough. What Jesus has done, what Jesus has defeated is enough. What we have been given is enough to confront the hard truths of our past, enough to navigate the complicated relationships and questions of our present, and enough to hope for a future where we can live the truth that “we are one.”

I mentioned that on Friday night some of us gathered at St. Joseph’s AME church as we were led in prayer by pastors from around our city. We sang and wept and read Scripture together. One of the pastors, I can’t remember who, prayed these words, “You didn’t say hell would not come against your Kingdom… you said it would not prevail. Help us to remember that.”

We are in the middle of a storm, brothers and sisters. It is a storm of racism and it has claimed the lives of nine more of God’s beloved, nine more who join us in making up Christ’s body. Hear their names:

Rev. Clementa Pinckney

Rev. Sharonda Singelton

Myra Thompson

Tywanza Sanders

Ethel Lee Lance

Cynthia Hurd

Rev. Daniel Simmons

Rev. DePayne Middleton-Docter

Susie Jackson

O Lord, You didn’t say hell would not come against your Kingdom… you said it would not prevail. Help us to remember that. Help us to live it. Wake us up.

Amen.

I was at a reading group this morning where someone brought up the issue of how we preach against patriarchy, both in overt forms like domestic violence but also in the more subtle forms of self-sacrifice. I remembered preaching a sermon on domestic violence, knowing this is a topic not always preached from the pulpit. Here it is from a ways back.

Nehemiah 8 (Epiphany, Year C)
Raleigh Moravian Church
1/27/13

If you have regular interaction with a young child, a niece or nephew, grandchild, neighbor, son or daughter, you probably have a lot of experience with forgiveness. I would define much of my life right now as a laboratory. In this laboratory the boundaries of rules and the boundaries of my patience are tested hourly. Living with a preschooler and toddler reminds me that most of the time forgiveness is a well-worn path upon which we go back and forth, over and over again. There is an infraction. The rule broken is addressed. Punishment is dealt. Forgiveness is granted. And life resumes as normal.

Now I don’t want to disparage this process. There’s a lot to say about this ritual of forgiveness. The fact that we have to do it so often really is a testament to the power of love, even when the offense occurs over and over again. We readily forgive, because we love the offender.

We see something similar happening in today’s Old Testament reading. We are placed in the middle of a scene that requires some context. So here’s what’s been going on. For seventy years the people of Israel had been living under the occupation of Babylon. When the Babylonians swept in they destroyed the Temple, the most important place of worship for the Israelites. Now, this wasn’t an ordinary church. The Temple was required for Israel to worship God. It was a very big deal.

Not only that, all the people who helped organize society, the priests, kings, prophets, teachers, all those folks were sent into exile. Everyday people were left behind to figure things out on their own. But with no Temple, and no access to the law of Moses, the people of God started to integrate themselves into the rest of Babylonian society. They didn’t witness to God’s love and provision. They didn’t remember the stories of the past. Instead, they started to do what everyone else around them did. They did this for seventy years. An entire generation passed by.

At the seventy-year mark the politics changed. A new super power emerged – the Persian Empire. The Persians had a different strategy when it came to ruling over foreign peoples. They allowed everyone to go back to their places of origin and to rebuild their old places of worship. The books of Ezra and Nehemiah are about this return, and about the restoration of Jerusalem and the Temple.

In today’s Scripture we find the people of God in their newly rebuilt capital. The Temple has been restored. The elders and priests have returned. The people are gathered to hear the law of Moses read allowed. These are the books of the Bible that contain the history and rules of community life, those things that set the Israelites apart from the nations around them. There was a time of explanation of the laws in case anything went over their heads. And when the people finally get it, when they hear how they were supposed to have acted over the past seventy years, they weep.

When I first read this passage I was surprised that the Israelite’s reaction wasn’t fear. Now, the law of Moses is pretty clear that there are serious consequences to not following God’s rules. Yet, despite this, the words used to describe Israel’s reaction are not words of fear. They are words often used in the Bible to describe mourning at funerals. This same word is used to describe Joseph’s reaction to seeing his starving brothers kneeling before him in Egypt asking for food. These are words of deep emotion – regret, sadness, and loss.

What happens next may sound surprising to those of us who have a particular idea about God’s character in the Old Testament. God doesn’t bring the hammer. Despite decades of disobeying the law there is no fire and brimstone. Instead, Nehemiah tells the people to stop their weeping. This day is holy, set apart, he tells them. Instead of mourning they are to rejoice. They are to eat the richest foods they can find. They are to drink the sweetest drinks they can make. And then they are to give out portions of this food to those who don’t have any. Do not grieve, he tells them. God’s gladness over your return to him is a hiding place from your grief. It is a shelter from the distress and sadness that comes from discovering that you have hurt one who loves you and cares for you.

There’s something really wonderful about that. And if we stopped reading right here we’d have one idea about what forgiveness looks like. We can imagine that God wipes the slate clean. Forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones. All’s well that ends well.

But if we follow the text a little ways further we’ll see that this isn’t the end of the story for Israel. In fact, there’s a lot more mending that needs to happen to make things right. And it isn’t easy. First, the Israelites have to face the past full on. They have to remember God’s never-ending, world-altering love for them. They have to come face to face with how deeply they had betrayed this love.

The Israelites also had to change the way they lived in real, practical ways. They had to change their marriage practices. They committed to the economic burden of no longer selling or buying grain on the Sabbath. They agreed not to grow crops the entire seventh year, and to forgive debts as the law of Moses required. Life as they knew it would never be the same. God had forgiven but intrinsic to this forgiveness was remembering and repenting in tangible ways.

What I hope we hear in today’s Scripture, in this snapshot of God’s forgiveness from so long ago, is that forgiveness doesn’t always look like just one thing. Some forgiveness looks like a father to a toddler, consistent return and reconciliation. But some forgiveness can be hard and it can be costly. It can be rooted in a kind of remembering that causes upheaval.

Dr. Halee Gray Scott knows exactly what this is like. In her article in Relevant magazine Scott describes how she came to this realization. It came at the end of an early relationship with a young man that she describes in this way: it was “something like the nightlock berries in the Hunger Games—sweet, a little bitter and toxic. We had chemistry and a lot in common, so when it was good, it was really good. But when it was bad, it was a disaster.” Dr Scott was the victim of an emotionally and verbally abusive relationship. Women, and occasionally men in relationships like these are called names, are publically humiliated by their partner, or are criticized, demeaned and judged into submission.

Other forms of domestic abuse take on a more violent form. I read a story this week about a smart, young Harvard grad who fell in love with a charming young man. It was on their honeymoon that he first attacked her after she got lost on the highway. He hit her so hard that her head slammed into the driver’s side window. She dismissed the event, justifying it by saying that he was stressed out. But eventually the abuse became routine. It took one particularly terrifying incident that concluded with a visit from the police before she said enough is enough.

Leslie Steiner became part of a frighteningly large group. Depending on the study you look at there are between 1.3 – 2 million women who are physically assaulted each year by an intimate partner. Some studies show that domestic violence of this kind is the leading cause of injury among women ages 15 to 44—more than car accidents, muggings and rape combined. It will take women in situations like these six to ten attempts to leave a partner for good. And every day three women will die at the hands of their abusers.

But often times good Christian women find themselves in a bind when it comes to facing a situation of domestic abuse. And the church all too often becomes and accomplice in their terror. After all, we reason, aren’t we called to forgive? Doesn’t Jesus explicitly say we are to turn the other cheek? Isn’t forgiveness required seventy times seven?

In the face of these questions I am thankful for the ways in which Nehemiah complicates our ideas about forgiveness. He reminds us that forgiveness can be a difficult and life-changing road. What we find is that forgiveness doesn’t nullify the consequences of sin. Neither is forgiveness synonymous with reconciliation. Dr Scott explains how “In the case of domestic abuse, the relationship between two people has been irreparably ruptured because trust has been violated. Though studies on domestic violence are rare, the patterns of violence are so deeply ingrained that most experts agree that very few perpetrators will actually change. We can forgive another person and even, in a sense, be at peace with them without a full restoration of the relationship.”

Yes, forgiveness can be a difficult road, a road marked by painful choices and life changes for all parties. For some it will mean confronting the past, holding memory up as a shield. It may mean that the routine of life, what seems normal and regular is upset. Forgiveness may be the end of a much longer journey.

The reality is that someone here today needs to know that he or she does not deserve to bullied or hit. I want to believe it isn’t true, but the statistics say that 1 in 4 women will find themselves in an abusive relationship at some point. Domestic abuse isn’t limited to a specific age group, race, economic bracket, or gender. But there are common factors within domestic abuse, and one of those factors is isolation. Abusers thrive on isolation, believing that those who witness or experience abuse will refuse to stand up or speak out.

We as a church need to do better than that. And this brings us to the second Scripture we heard today, the moment when Jesus stands before everyone in the synagogue and pulls out the scroll of Isaiah. And there before them he proclaimed what is at the core of this kingdom he came to bring about: “to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.” Yes, friends, to let the oppressed go free.

For those in our congregation who do find themselves in relationships of humiliation, degradation, and violence – you may feel alone, but you are not alone. And I promise there is another life waiting for you. It may not feel like that now. It may feel like there is so much holding you back. But there is a God who has set this people in motion to walk down that long, difficult road with you. This is the God who rejoices in your very being, who wants to make himself a shelter for your grief.

That love is incarnate in real and practical ways here at Raleigh Moravian. That love is among us is in the form of our Stephen Ministers. These are men and women who are being trained to help each of us along the difficult terrain of life changes, like moving out of an abusive relationship. Craig, Fran, and I are also ready to walk with you, to help you locate the resources of safe housing, counseling, and support that you will need to begin the new life God has waiting for you.

May we all find the wisdom, strength, and courage to do the work God has given us to do.

Amen.

John 17
Duke Memorial UMC
May 17, 2015

My friend Marilyn sees the world in black and white. There’s out there and there’s in here.

Out there are institutions, faceless, nameless institutions for people with intellectual disabilities. Out there low-paid shift workers are in constant turnover. Out there Marilyn has a caseworker. She’s another file, one of hundreds piled on the desk of her huge-hearted, pure as gold, but completely overburdened social worker. Out there Marilyn is a clinical diagnosis, a Medicaid waiver, a problem to be solved.

But in here Marilyn is a gift. In here is a community called L’Arche. Here Marilyn is a core person, a person who makes up the center of our life together in L’Arche. She loves to buy me Starbucks mugs she finds on sale for 50 cents at the Goodwill. She’s a devout Catholic who goes to Mass as often as she can. In here Marilyn is a beloved sister, daughter, and friend.

When I hear these words Jesus prays for his disciples I think about Marilyn:

“I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world.”

In today’s Gospel reading we hear the prayer Jesus prays for the disciples before his betrayal and crucifixion. It’s a prayer for them, and it’s a prayer for us. It’s a prayer about what it’s going to be like now, when the doubts come rushing back in, when Jesus’ risen body disappears, into the clouds, without a trace. It’s a prayer for those of us who are still here, still figuring out what we do in this messy, complicated, beautiful, terrifying, broken world.

And this world is complicated. The “world” shows up a lot in the Gospel of John. In this prayer we hear that the world the disciples will face is fearful and painful. It’s a place marked by conflict and persecution. Chris Hoke in his book Wanted helps us get a better grasp of what Jesus might have meant about being hated by the world. You may remember Chris came here last month for a book reading. Well Chris spends a lot of time with people who don’t seem to fit in to the world. Gang members, inmates, street people. And in one chapter he talks about a Bible study he does with homeless street kids, gutter punks who hang out at this free clinic on Monday nights. He’s reflecting on how the examples these kids give of how they have experienced “the world.” Chris writes,

“I was struck by how their examples were not stories of being wronged by individuals, necessarily. They didn’t seem to be complaining about the anonymous employee who locked them in the dumpster, for instance…. They all gave examples of general procedures, policies put in place to deal with unwanted people.”[1]

I think that my friend Marilyn would have a similar definition for the world. The world is a way to deal with the unwanted, the broken, the people who can’t keep up.

For Jesus’ followers, being in the world was going to be rough. And it has been. Some of you may know that I am a licensed minister in the Mennonite Church. Mennonites have a strong sense of being separated from the world. First this was because of persecution. Over time if became a choice to separate from the world.

Some Mennonites take this idea of being hated by the world into the very clothes that they wear. It’s a way to identify the visible church. It shows you who is in and who is out.

If we’re honest, our experience of the world is not that simple. It’s not as easy as identifying someone by her cape dress. We don’t get a line that divides “out there” and “in here.”

In fact a lot of us get along pretty well in the world. We can keep up with the pace. We can make it in the system. We have the right social networks and safety nets and retirement plans.

Jean Vanier is someone who knew how to make it in the system. He had a career, first in the navy then as professor of philosophy. Until one day he felt God calling him to live with the poor. The problem was that he’d been in the world for so long that he didn’t exactly know where to find the poor. So he went his priest and asked him, “where do I find the poor?”

In the 1960s the answer was in institutions for the mentally ill and the disabled, horrific places of abuse and squalor. With no training, no experience, nothing but a call to somehow figure out how to be in this world but not of this world, Vanier took three men out of the institution and lived with them in a home. That was the first L’Arche community.

For a while Vanier was consumed with wanting to “do something” for these men. But after a while, after eating together and caring for another, they became friends. They learned together to see the brokenness in one another and the way that God was transforming them.

What I love about L’Arche is that it doesn’t make sense in the world. It’s not a place where we “do something” for someone else. No one is rehabilitated. No one becomes a good citizen. No one becomes a productive member of society. But people are healed. They are healed of loneliness and busyness.

One of my strongest memories of L’Arche was how long it took to make dinner. Our core people would return from their job sites in the late afternoon and it was already time to start cooking. For one, we had a lot of people to feed. Four core people, three assistants, a few volunteers, a friend from the neighborhood who happened to stop by. But what also took time was that we cooked as a community. We didn’t cook for our core people, we cooked with them. It took time to find out a role for the people who were helping. It took creativity to think about how chopping and simmering and setting the table could involve even the people who couldn’t use their hands.

It wasn’t efficient. To the world it looks like a waste of time with a people who put a drain on society. But to God it looks like the kingdom.

I often wonder if that’s the reason the people who chose to be near Jesus were the people who couldn’t make it work in the system. They were outsiders, sinners, sex workers and tax collectors and shepherds and children. These were people who didn’t matter, people who would get run over or left behind if they couldn’t keep up. These people saw that Jesus was offering something different. Maybe it just made sense to them what Jesus was trying to do. Here they saw someone else who didn’t seem to operate in the system.

For a while I worked at a university in Oregon. One of my jobs was to set college graduates up with a year or two of volunteer service. The Jesuit Volunteer Corps had the very best slogan of all the programs. “Ruined for life.” They knew that the kinds of experiences, the kinds of relationships, and the kinds of time wasting they were setting up for young college grads would ruin them. These young people wouldn’t be able to go back to the system and live in it in the same way. They’d be ruined for it. Instead, they were ruined for life.

Being ruined for life means that the world as you knew it gets upended. Graduates from JVC begin to doubt. They begin to doubt that the story of upward mobility and excellence is a good story.

Someone else was ruined for life after a chance meeting after an encounter with the people of L’Arche. In 1985, after serving on the faculties of the University of Notre Dame, Yale Divinity School, and Harvard Divinity School, Dr. Henri Nouwen packed his bags for Richmond Hill, Ontario to become the assistant to Adam. Nouwen traded lecture halls and famous pulpits to sit beside a young man who couldn’t speak or walk. He fed Adam, bathed him, prayed beside him.

To the world it looked like a waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of the gifts of intellect God had given Nouwen. But that’s not how he saw it. Nouwen instead was ruined for life. About his time with his housemates in L’Arche Nouwen wrote:

“While at first it seemed quite obvious who was handicapped and who was not, living together day in and day out made the boundaries less clear. Yes, Adam, Rosie, and Michael couldn’t speak, but I spoke too much. Yes, Adam and Michael couldn’t walk, but I was running around as if life was one emergency after the other. Yes, John and Roy needed help with their daily tasks, but I, too, was constantly saying, ‘Help me, help me.’ And when I had the courage to look deeper, to face my emotional neediness, my inability to pray, my impatience and restlessness, my many anxieties and fears, the word ‘handicap’ started to have a whole new meaning. The fact that my handicaps were less visible than those of Adam and his housemates didn’t make them less real.”[2]

What Nouwen and I both discovered is that L’Arche is a place that holds up the light of Christ. When Jesus prays for the disciples, when he asks for God’s protection, when he says they do not belong to this world what he means is that no one is meant to live “out there.” We keep trying to make it in the world. Some of us can and some of us can’t. Some of us can for a little while, until we too come up against mental illness, disability, addiction, something for which the rules and systems of the world have no tolerance.

None of us belongs out there in the dark. The Gospel of John reminds us of this because it keeps calling Jesus a light. Jesus doesn’t come to condemn the world, he comes to disperse the darkness. The world can’t understand the light so it snuffs it out.

Today we’re coming to the end of our series on doubt. You may be thinking, “I still have a lot of questions. I still have a lot of doubt.” My hope is that, perhaps, those doubts have shifted. In fact, I hope you have new doubts as we’ve encountered together, week after week, the risen Jesus Christ. Karl Barth writes that we are still asleep until we begin to be nagged by the questions of doubt. He doesn’t mean just any questions, but the deep questions, the gut questions – “What is true? What is good? What is valuable?” These are the questions that Jesus unsettles in us. Because Jesus unsettled everything. My prayer is that you will find that, in Jesus, this doubt is awakened.

If you do find yourself awakening to these questions then it may be time to put your doubt to the test. When I was at Duke I had a teacher who told this story in lecture. One day he was walking with a professor from another department. This professor – I can’t remember if he was in philosophy or law – he wanted an explanation of prayer. How did it work? He wanted to know. Philosophically, how did one understand the efficacy of prayer. My teacher stopped him right there. He said, “There’s no theory of prayer. You don’t figure out how prayer works. You pray. I’ll show you how prayer works. Let’s get on our knees, right now, in the middle of the sidewalk, and pray the Lord’s prayer together.”

Putting your faith to the test. I hear that phrase all the time. But what about testing your doubt? What about taking that unsettling, that “restless disquiet” and seeing where it takes you? What if you put it in the hands of those whom the world has hated?

If you’re up for it then waste your time. Waste it on someone whom the world considers a waste of time. Don’t serve someone. Don’t fix it or make it better. Find your way to a people who don’t seem to fit into our world. Get to know them. Ask them what it’s been like for them to live in the world.

Talk to Roger Lloyd about having a meal with the IHN families who stay at our church.

Get to know Jenn and Sarah from Friendship House.

Spend some time with the folks at Reality Ministries.

Talk to our friends Randy or Nicole or Michael who panhandle on the corner.

Find your way to the people who surrounded Jesus, the people who felt that there was no place for them in this world. You might find that these deeper questions that Easter awakens are pulled to the surface. What is true? What is good? What is valuable?

At the end of those questions is Jesus. In Easter Jesus places us in the insecurity of systems that bring death, the world that will leave all of us out in the dark. To death Jesus says no. To you, in the certainty of goodness and truth he says yes. Hallelujah the Lord is risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Hallelujah.

 

[1] Chris Hoke. Wanted. Harper Collins Publishers, 2015.

[2] Henri Nouwen. Adam: God’s Beloved. Orbis Books, 2012.

ccblogo150

Flickr Photos

DSC_0680

DSC_0677

DSC_0676

DSC_0688

More Photos

Archives

Blog Stats

  • 99,488 visits
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.