last week's sermon--Luke 11:1-13

Once upon a time a young man went on a retreat. As a kid he’d been a bully, but he gave that up quickly because his priest had told him it was wrong. On the retreat however he remembered that he had teased a skinny little girl about her buck teeth and her glasses. She cried every time he teased her and then whenever she saw him. He really liked to see her cry. Then she and her family moved away and he grew out of his teasing phase, and quickly forgot it altogether. But at this retreat, a nun gave a talk about bullies. That conveniently repressed phase of his life came back and horrified him. He felt terrible. How could he have been such a jerk. The poor little kid. He might have ruined her life. He talked to the nun about it. “Typical boy behavior,” she observed. “But I stopped doing it. I grew up. I haven’t been a bully for a long time. Will God forgive me?” “Yeah, probably,” said the nun, “but I’m not sure about the little girl.” He went home from the retreat really upset. He had done a terrible thing. He had to find the little girl and apologize.

For a couple of weeks he couldn’t sleep he felt so guilty. So he began to search for the girl. He discovered where she had moved to and then that she was a lawyer and worked for a firm near him. It took him another two weeks to work up the nerve to seek her out. Then by accident he encountered her in the grocery store. She had grown up to be gorgeous. He stumbled and bumbled and muttered and apologized. “You were a bully all right,” she said. “But you were kind of cute too. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”—That’s the way God is.

Another once upon a time, in cold November, my husband and I were leaving Christ Hospital in Clifton…with our brand-new, delightful, much-beloved baby. We’d been there three days and, though we were terrified by our new responsibility, we were excited to get home, eat some dinner with my folks, and introduce little Abby to her new home. We packed up, checked out, took off. I was more waddling in pain, but whatever. Leighton started driving out of the carpark, but we heard a kind of lub-lub noise. I suddenly remembered that one of my tires had had a slow leak. And it’d had three days to slowly leak and was now flat. Ok, we pulled over and Loving Husband Leighton got out to change the tire. Only he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t know how but that he actually couldn’t. One of the lug-nuts was stripped. Ok, so we call AAA. Meanwhile, little Abby has woken up hungry and with a dirty diaper. Of course. So, while Leighton’s waiting for the guy from AAA, I painfully waddle myself and my new baby through the biting cold into the hospital in search of a bathroom in which to change my first diaper ever. When I returned, I found that the AAA guy had arrived and he, too, couldn’t budge the lug-nut. So another guy had been called to tow the car. By now it was 9pm. We were tired and hungry and just wanted to get home. But how? We racked our brains for people who (a) we had phone numbers for, (b) who had a car seat, and (c) would be willing to come get us. We called friend Mark who dropped everything to help us. He showed up with an almost empty gas tank, but that’s another story. With just a phone call, Mark came and helped us out—That’s the way God is.

Another once upon a time, one of my students at the University of Cincinnati—Edward his name is—was hanging out at our campus ministry house. He was there alone, holding the fort as it were so other students could stop by if they liked. And, while he was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea, someone came in. But not one of our students. When Edward came back into the living room, Elijah was sitting on the couch, his cell phone plugged in and charging. Edward was a little astonished but took it in stride. They talked about this and that and it became obvious to Edward that Elijah was not on the up-and-up. He said that his brother had forgotten to pick him up from campus, that his car had broken down, that his girlfriend was waiting for him to come home with diapers, and other things. They shared some tea and a soda and when Elijah asked for money, Edward wisely said, “no.” And, while Edward didn’t have the wherewithal to call Elijah on his dishonesty, he offered what hospitality he could, even knowing he was being lied to—That’s the way God is.

What is God like in these stories? In bringing together the people God does, what is God saying? How is God acting in them?

“Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived and I have nothing to set before him.’ And he answers from within, ‘Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.’ I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs. So I say to you, ‘Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.’ For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”—That’s the way God is.

What is God like here?

Some folk would say that, at the beginning of this passage, when the disciples saw Jesus praying and finally work up the courage to ask him to teach them to pray, Jesus looked at them, and loved them. And didn’t answer their question. They said, “teach us to pray” and Jesus said, “this is what God who you’re praying to is like.”

I’m going to be honest here, folks—I don’t know what to do about Elijah. Or about Bennie, another homeless guy I know. Or any other of the down-and-out folks I run into on campus. Or folks who’ve been abused or are abusers. Or about folks who have it comparatively easy and don’t know what to do about it themselves. And I don’t know how to pray. I mean, of course, I know how to pray, right? The Lord’s Prayer, at least, is an easy one. But you know what I mean—what to say? What words to use to get my point across clearly and convincingly and, of course, beautifully? How do we convince God to do what we think needs doing? What do I do with my hands? We want to do this RIGHT, right? The disciples didn’t know how to do this either and they asked—“teach us to pray.” And we ask that same thing—“Lord God of our fathers and mothers, we hallow and bless your name and we want to talk to you. Teach us how. Teach us to pray.” And then Jesus looks at us and loves us and says, “this is what God is like.”

On my way back, from the Edge House yesterday, I had a little set-to with God. In my car. Out loud. I told God everything I knew about Bennie, this homeless guy who sleeps on the porch of the Edge House, though he’s not supposed to. I told God about how Bennie’s life was surely complicated and about how he drives me crazy. I raised my voice in anger that despite my conversations with him and even regular police sweeps, he stays on the porch, leaving his trash and sometimes peeing in the corner. I cried in frustration that I had to clean up his trash. And then I cried in repentance, knowing that cleaning up other people’s messes, serving our brothers and sisters, is exactly what we’re called to as Christians. What am I supposed to do for Bennie, when he’s been kicked out of every helping agency in Cincinnati, when Jesus tells me to serve him, when I don’t know how? And I asked in desperation, what do you want me to do?—And this was prayer. It wasn’t beautiful and it wasn’t the “right” words, but it was prayer.

All this because the God I know is one who listens. Who perhaps metaphorically rubs my back and murmurs understanding sounds. Who sometimes offers advice and sometimes keeps silent.

God is like many things: like the surprise visitor who may or may not be wanted, like the host falling over himself to offer food and drink no matter the hour, like the sleeping neighbor who first questions the request but ultimately responds. God is like a parent—loving and tearful or even angry but not abusive. God is like a homeless guy sleeping on your porch or asking for change on the corner. God is like a king or queen ruling the realm for the common wealth. God is like a farmer sowing the seed—sending us out to grow in Claremont County or Cincinnati or the Dominican Republic, sending us out as guests in others lives at school, at work, in our neighborhood organizations or sports leagues. And at the heart of this being sent out, God is our creator, is our Father and Mother, is the abba we cling to in the infancy of our faith.

That night Leighton and I struggled to get home from the hospital, that was three days after little Abby had come into our lives. Three days after the night we met her, when, in a delirium of medication and exhaustion, I saw Leighton hold our daughter for the first time, watched him fall in love with her, watched him tell her he’d always protect her and never leave her. I saw him pledge with his eyes and his arms that he would watch and care and challenge and listen no matter what. That’s the way God is. Amen.

sunday's sermon--Luke 10

Once up on a time, there was a Certain Man. “A Certain Man,” right? What was he like? No one knows. The story is vague on this point. So vague, it reminds me of Bella in Twilight whose character is so empty that any girl or grown woman can easily put herself into the story. So vague you can imagine anyone in this Certain Man’s place—your toddler grown up, an alcoholic friend, your pastor, someone like you, someone different from you, someone who wears glasses so she can see, someone blind, someone so holy you can’t bear to look at them.

This Certain Man was walking down the road from Clifton to Avondale—maybe he came from church, maybe he was going to a party, maybe he was going to make mischief—and he was set upon by robbers—by people who couldn’t see farther than their own greed or by people who couldn’t see farther than their own destitution. They beat him with a tire iron, they kicked him and took his clothes, they took his wallet and his dignity, leaving him naked and dying in a deep ditch on the side of the asphalt in a stagnant puddle.

This Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on a Starbucks coffee cup sitting in a moldy mess near his nose, groaned mightily with the little breath he had left, and began to cry. He cried with the pain we’ve all felt—when it hurts to cry but it’s all you’ve got left, when the injustice and randomness of the pain overwhelms and the tears are mingled with rage and helplessness.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. Would you believe it? A priest was walking by! Episcopal, Catholic, Jewish, or Buddhist—who knows—but a priest! And this Certain Man cried out, “Brother can you help me? They beat me and took from me and I’ve fallen into a hole. Will you help me get out?” And the priest, he looked in the ditch, he looked at the man, and he looked right through him. He couldn’t see past his own sense of urgency, past assuming this Certain Man was drunk or a serial fall-in-a-ditch kind of person. So he wrote down a prayer on a slip of paper and tossed it into the ditch with the man.

And the Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on the slip of paper now absorbing the scum on the surface of the water, saw the words dissolving in front of him, and began to cry. He cried for every prisoner of war or conscience and every wallflower at the junior high dance, he cried for every collapsed building in Haiti and every small, struggling church, he cried for every addict and every sinner.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. Would you believe it? A business woman was walking by! Procter & Gamble, Kroger, small-business owner, government employee—who knows—but an upright citizen! And this Certain Man cried out, “Sister, can you help me? They beat me and took from me and I’ve fallen into a hole. Will you help me get out?” And the business woman, she looked in the ditch, she looked at the man, and she looked right through him. She couldn’t see past getting her suit dirty before a meeting, past getting more involved in a stranger’s life than she was comfortable with, past what else he might ask of her. So she wrote down a couple self-help book titles on a slip of paper and tossed it into the ditch with the man.

And the Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on the second slip of paper lodged against his bruised and bleeding arm, and began to cry. He cried for his pain, for his loneliness, for the world’s cruelty and and the world’s vulnerability.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. You won’t believe it. ‘Cause this woman was walking by. And not just any woman, but a woman like the American West’s Calamity Jane. Calamity Jane in her rough men’s clothing, with her bull-whip, with her abrasive, foul-mouth and non-existent manners. They say that when she walked into a bar in Deadwood, South Dakota, the long-time, inveterate drunks, the men who virtually lived in the bar—would leave, disgusted by her obscene language and attitude. She drank and fought and swore with the best of them. This is the woman who passed by and heard a Certain Man crying out.

And she stopped.

She looked in the ditch, she looked at the man, and she saw him. And seeing him, not just looking at him but truly seeing him, meant that she was responsible. The others tried not to see, we try not to see this Certain Man’s pain. We know that if we really look at him, if we see him, then we see him with God’s eyes. Abraham’s concubine Hagar—another person we might have crossed the street to avoid—named God “el-roi”—“the God who sees” because God heard her cries of misery and saw her as she was and had mercy.

Problems should be solved by those who see them, someone once said. So we try not to see—because it hurts too much to really see the problems. Because there’s not much we can do to solve the problem anyway. It’s too expensive or too time-consuming or too complicated or requires too many people to work together. Or because we don’t know what to do.

The historical Calamity Jane didn’t think so. When smallpox came to Deadwood, Calamity Jane stayed and nursed people back to health. Or held their hands as they died. This rough, unexpected woman laid cool cloths on their heads and gave them comfort. Our Calamity Jane, or whoever she is, jumps down into the ditch with this Certain Man, getting mud and muck all over her clothes, bruising her leg as she does so. And the man says, “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.” And Calamity Jane says, “Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.”

And she gently lifts the man out of the ditch, cleans his wounds with alcohol and binds them with strips from her clothing. This foul-mouthed woman who no one would have anything to do with, who no one would even look at twice, cradles the man in her strong arms and carries him to the Days Inn on the corner. She pays the desk clerk two-days’ wages and says, “You treat him right, ya BLEEEEEP, and if you need more BLEEPIN money, I’ll be back and pay you whatever the BLEEP you need.” She wipes this Certain Man’s forehead one last time, and leaves, not asking for repayment, not leaving a forwarding address.

* * *

Blessed are the eyes that see what you see, Jesus said to his disciples, just moments before he told them this story. Who was the Certain Man’s neighbor? The one who had mercy on him—the one who saw him.
The one who had been there before—whether or not she’d been robbed and beaten and left for dead, our Calamity Jane had been rejected, had been despised, had been hopeless. She saw herself in the man and felt his pain. His cry had been her cry at some point. And she saw in the man the face of God.

Blessed are the eyes that see what you see—we are all recovering from something, whether it’s substance abuse or sin—and we have all been there before. Blessed are we when we don’t ignore another’s pain or joy but see it, recognize it, name it. Even when we don’t know what to do, even when we don’t know the way out of the ditch, blessed are the eyes that see what you see—because what we see is God. And the God who sees, see us.

We don’t have to be beaten on the side of the road to cry out and we don’t have to feel the extreme misery of that Certain Man for someone to see us. You know it as well as I do—sometimes we’re the man in the ditch, sometimes we’re the priest or the business women (maybe more often than we’d like), sometimes we’re the Days Inn desk clerk—the next person to see the problem and respond, and sometimes we’re the Good Samaritan, the Calamity Jane, seeing in the other person a need we can fill, seeing in the other person a big or small part of our own lives. And seeing means responding. “Eternal life is found not just in knowing the commandments but in doing them.” And in that response, we all live happily ever after.

sunday's sermon--Galations 6

The Apostle Paul is not known for his clarity of writing. Certainly there are times when he seems crystal clear, like in Romans 8, “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” He has his moments. But I’d hate to have been in a restaurant with him back in the day, “And what will you have, sir?” “Greetings, dear one in Christ. I thank God for you and for all you’ve done for the saints. I would like most especially to order and procure a flank steak yet of the hamburger variety. Do not be deceived, dear one, for the flank steak is of the better part yet is also of the hamburger…”

Well, maybe not, but today’s lesson leaves me with some confusion: “If anyone is detected in a transgression, you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness…bear one another’s burdens and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” he writes, but then he turns right around and says “all must carry their own loads.” What to make of that? Everyone should help everyone else with their troubles and each person should carry his or her own burdens. Within a sentence-distance of one another. It’s not entirely obvious what he’s meaning here, except maybe for the sentence before, “you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one”—restore—it’s about restoration. It’s about putting one another back together, for we are all broken in one way or another. And because so much of both Hebrew and Christian Scriptures are about group salvation rather than individual, it’s about returning as a community to our original state of one-ness with God. It’s about radical forgiveness and hospitality. And about a peculiar kind of freedom. We are not so much called into an individual freedom wherein we are not taxed for tea without representation but one in which we have obligations. Peculiar, indeed. We are supposed to help carry one another’s burdens in addition to our own and in turn, let others bear ours. It’s a kind of a dance, or a musical round with the weight and the parts shifting from one person to another, never being dropped.

In fact, let me teach you a round and you’ll see what I mean.
Teach: Peace, perfect peace, perfect peace. [key: G]
Canted part:Peace, perfect peace—with Jesus by our side—
That wasn’t so bad was it? You relied on your friends
Peace, perfect peace—with Spirit hovering over—
You hold your own part, then pass it off to your neighbor…
Peace perfect peace—I cue you in to sing—
And you bear one another’s burdens…musically.

Could you feel that give and take? Where one group begins, the others wait, listening, feeling out where the group is. Then a second group responds, taking up their own part, which is also part of another group’s burden, following, making harmony, holding responsibility for the music. The musical line is handed back and forth among us and no single person has to control it—if you forgot the notes or when to come in, someone else had it and you could follow her. Perhaps this is what it is to bear one another’s burdens and our own at the same time.

For many of you, music is a powerful reminder of joy, that there is order in the chaos of our lives, that in a moment of misery or frustration or triumph, there is beauty and therefore truth and hope.

For some of you, this experience of singing is not a helpful image. For folks like my loving husband, an occasion of public song is an occasion of discomfort and exclusion. He doesn’t sing. Doesn’t like singing. Maybe there are more of you out there—and you know as well as I do that there are other things you do that show you that mutual reliance—playing on a soccer team or a baseball team, working on a construction project with a group, or for that matter, raising children—if that’s not a communal dance, I don’t know what is.

And this is freedom in Christ—not as the world sees it, but as we Christians see it.
Freedom that we celebrate today as a country is wonderful—I love that I can vote and assemble with people of like minds and that we all have the right of due process under the law—great stuff. But remember what Pastor Jess spoke about last week, about not making our families into idols. That idols are anything that stands between us and God. Perhaps our nation can become an idol at times. When we equate good citizenship with Christianity or assume Jesus would vote the same way we do, we all commit the sin of idolatry. Perhaps we all need the restoration Paul talks about in Galatians—that freedom looks different when we become Christians.

Freedom in Christ involves obligations—and do not be deceived, brothers and sisters, sometimes we dislike what we’re asked to do. Sometimes we have to choose what is right over what is easy, but we can grow to love them in the practicing of them. And we certainly grow from the practicing. We take care of our ailing parents or spouses because we have to, of course, and because our love and our God tell us this is what we do. We come to worship each week because we are set free, given a 2nd, 3rd, or 4th chance to try again. We call up a friend or relative and listen or forgive or invite them to church—whatever it is we’ve been avoiding—because we are a sacrificial people. We give away our time and money because God tells us to, and because in giving away, we become whole. We are restored. Our Jewish brothers and sisters, at least theologically, delight in these obligations, these good works. Like the music we sang earlier, there’s an obligation there to sing a harmonious note but also a freedom. Listening to and participating in congregational singing is freeing—we can lose ourselves in the melody, we can make up new parts, we can let go of the idols we hold in our regular lives. And all because we are tied to the music—we bear one another’s burdens and others bear ours.

This song is what we’re called to this Independence Day. We are witnesses that there is a better way, that we don’t have to buy into political spin or the God of Consumerism or the sacredness of national security. And we don’t have to buy into the Lutheran Way or the Non-Denominational Way either. We are citizens of the Kingdom of Heaven and the way we celebrate freedom is in helping others carry their burdens. Friends, enemies, the person sitting next to you in the pew who you don’t really know what to think about, complete strangers—all are one body, one Spirit in Christ and we have one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism.

So, sing with me again, a different tune now:
Teach: Open my heart... [key: F]

sunday's sermon--Acts 2

Please forgive the formatting--I am too tired to fix it.

---

Happy Pentecost!
Two baptisms on Saturday/tonight, a passel of confirmations this morning—God is good! All the time! All the time, God is good!
but it wasn’t always easy
for a long time, people weren’t together like this
we Christians didn’t used to be able to gather without bloodshed
for a long time, peoples across the world didn’t understand each other
there’s people walking around all over the world who don’t understand each other’s languages now
do you know Russian? Gaelic? Chinese?
Me neither–I wouldn’t understand if someone came up to me right now
people walking around all over the world don’t understand English–hard to believe, I know...
and it was the same 2000 years ago
when that story from Acts took place
the people who were there didn’t speak Russian or Gaelic or Chinese
but they also didn’t necessarily speak the same language as each other
–they could get by on a little Greek or Latin
but these weren’t their native tongues
so they went about their business
going to school, running businesses, raising children
having no idea what another person was saying
having no idea how that other person thought
see, language isn’t just about words
we communicate with our bodies, with our actions, with our beliefs
language is about culture, about what we value
and it is so difficult to understand what someone else means
even if you do speak the same language

Sister let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you
Pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too.

When I was a youth minister, we held a semi-regular Parents and Teens event
if there were ever two groups who didn’t understand what the other was saying, it’s these
the idea was to talk about the same questions but in separate groups
adults in one room, teens in another
and then come back together to share their thoughts
we asked
what are you afraid of that’s coming up soon? What do you wish your parent or teen knew about your life? How do you talk to your parent/teen?
what did we hear?
They don’t get it, why don’t you just ask us, how can I trust you?
From both groups
I’ve seen teens at their worst
I’ve seen them angry and sulking, I’ve seen them broken
I’ve been them, not so long ago
in the middle of a fight, in the middle of heart-wrenching sorrow
where is the Holy Spirit? Who can understand this pain?
We went into those parents and teens events not understanding the other
not hearing what she had to say, not speaking the same language
and if there are ever groups of people who feel alone and isolated
because no one understands, it’s teens and parents
but this is almost a small problem in our world now
our history is one of violence and misunderstanding
The writer of Acts says
the Spirit is like the sound of a “rush of violent wind”
Our God is like a violent wind
and we have taken that violence to heart
few of us in this room speak Arabic or even fluent Mexican Spanish
How can we peacefully resolve the wars
in Iraq and Afghanistan
or the controversy over Mexican immigration
when we can’t communicate with one other?
we don’t understand, we don’t speak the same language
few of us in this room would look on
while a young woman was beaten in front of us
or would we?
Three years ago, a young Iraqi woman named Dua Khalil
was beaten to death by members of her family
and members of a crowd of onlookers
several men looked on
and captured the moment on their phones
the police in the area just watched
this was an “honor killing”
the men in Dua’s family thought
she had brought dishonor on them
and so they killed her brutally
and this kind of thing happens all the time, around the world
even here in the US
women are beaten and abused the world over
because they are seen as
as artist and critic Joss Whedon writes
“weak, manipulative, morally unfinished, and expendable”
how alone was Dua? Who could give her help?
Whose hand was stretched out to offer her life?
Who was speaking to her in a language she could understand?
Where was the Holy Spirit in that moment?
In the middle of this beating,
in the middle of heart-wrenching sorrow,
where was the Holy Spirit?
Who can understand the language of this pain?
We can.
Who among us has never felt alone?
Who among us has never felt rejected?
Who among us has never inflicted pain?
WE can understand this language, WE can reach out and understand the other
This is what (you/our students) are confirming today:

I will hold the Christ-light for you in the nighttime of your fear,
I will hold my hand out to you, speak the peace you long to hear.

the Apostles, the book of Acts says, were “all together in one place”
All together–
not moping or sulking in their own houses
or refusing to have anything to do with each other
out of pride for their homeland or tradition
no, the apostles were “all together in one place”
celebrating? Worshiping?
Mourning the loss of Jesus who’d ascended? Hanging out?
They were together when the Holy Spirit came to them
and they heard the word of God in their own languages...
They were alone no longer–there was another person who understood
There was another person who knew where they were coming from
There was another person who knew their sorrow and their pain
and who had a word of comfort
and after the mountain-top experience of the tongues of fire and all
Peter told them the Good News of Christ
in their own languages, they heard of the Apostles’ passion and connectedness
and they say 3,000 people were baptized that day
3,000 people heard the Word of God
and were moved to commit themselves to God
and each other in baptism
who can understand the language of our pain? God can
God’s Holy Spirit was there that day
the Spirit moved in those Apostles and in that crowd
the Spirit touched each person in the midst of their pain
in that moment of heart-wrenching sorrow or of overwhelming joy
or of apathy or of exhaustion or of disconnectedness or of doubt or of love
the Spirit touched each person and drew them together
“they were all together in one place”
that connection is what we’re about
that commitment, that understanding, that belonging
we are not alone
there is a moment of clarity, a moment of connection
when you understand another person’s point
another’s frustration or joy
there are people in the world who are refusing to be weak, manipulated, or expendable
There are women who will stand up when Dua Khalil could not
They are about connection, understanding, persistence, the surprise of the Spirit
Where the Dua’s of the world are asking “why?”
Other women are saying, “take my hand”
And those conversations between parents and teens yielded fruit
Those folk were having some great conversations together
half of the parents in those conversations we started
called or emailed the church office to say
they’d had some of their best conversations ever
with their teens
They’re listening to one another
recognizing that they do speak different languages
and that they’re in this together
I wonder if (you/our confirmands) have had the same experience?
Of speaking different languages than your folks
and of trying to learn that other language?
If not, give it a try
—it’s hard to believe, but your parents aren’t that dumb
—nor are your teenagers, parents
“we’re all together in one place”
you are not alone, someone understands, someone hurts with you
and we are not meant to be alone
we are meant to share this love, this connection we have with the world
when Jesus said “Go make disciples” it was not a suggestion
but a commission
and it was not for the sake of numbers but for the sake of relationship
we will not survive without each other
here is your challenge: find someone this week who you don’t understand
someone you don’t think you could ever understand
or someone you don’t think could ever understand you
find someone who speaks a different language
verbal, physical, cultural
and get to know them
learn their language, learn how to talk to them, learn why they
speak/act/exist the way they do
show this person that they are not alone simply by knowing them
show this person the Holy Spirit
written in every word you speak and in every line of your face
and (last night I told) little _________ and _________, you are not alone–
today you join the great cloud of witnesses, the Body of Christ
when you feel that water on your skin, remember that you have been reborn
remember that you have a higher purpose
remember that you are loved

I will weep when you are weeping, when you laugh I’ll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow till we’ve seen this journey through.

book thoughts

I suspect I will not make it to my goal of reading 50 books in 2010. However, I've read several recently:

3 and 4 The Mirror of Her Dreams and A Man Rides Through by Stephen R. Donaldson

Handsome one-volume edition given to me by Loving Husband, these books were my favorites in high school. I pored over them in multiple readings, certain that they held the spiritual truths that would help me understand God, Christianity, my faith, and why the world was so bizarrely crappy and beautiful. They did help. And upon an adult reading, they're still good. Not as life-changing as before, but well worth the read.

5 Doctor Who: The Writer's Tale by Russell T. Davies and Benjamin Cook

Interesting look inside not just Dr Who but a writer's process. Collected emails from a year of writing the TV show.

6 The Hunger Games and 7 Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

Amazing. Absolutely fantastic. If you like things that are awesome, why haven't you read them yet?

In the future, North America has been destroyed and rebuilt as the Capitol and the Districts. The Districts (only twelve, now that District 13 was annihilated for insurrection)live hardscrabble, unstable lives under the thumb of the Capitol, constantly on the verge of complete starvation. Every year, the Capitol puts on the Hunger Games for which each District must supply two Tributes--a boy and a girl between the ages of 12 and 18--and in which they must kill one another. The winner and last one standing will live a life of luxury.

Very well written from page one on. Engaging, complex, and a propos for our world of greed and environmental challenge.

8 The Teaching of the 12 by Tony Jones

A new translation and commentary on the Didache, a very early church "how to" document from one of the earliest Christian house-churches. The commentary is not particularly inspired, though it constantly points me back to the included text which is itself fascinating.

The Didache is probably contemporaneous with Paul's writings but seems to have no knowledge of him. It includes a brief order for the Eucharist which includes no references to the Last Supper or Jesus' death and resurrection.

What to make of this little document? Ought we take it's insights to heart because of its age? Or is it just a small off-shoot of Christianity which was left behind for a better way?

last Sunday's sermon--John 10:22-30

Alleluia, Christ is Risen! The Lord is Risen indeed! Alleluia!
So what?
I mean, for us now, more than 2000 years later, if we’re really honest with ourselves, a lot of the time it’s just a story. A really great story—fun and challenging—but ancient history all the same. We long for the stories to be as real as the person sitting next to us and at the same time are glad they’re not, because what would we do if faced with the real Jesus or the real resurrection?

We’ve been talking about this on campus—I’m a new campus minister at UC, I meet with students for meals and pastoral conversations, and I’ve started a small discipleship group where we talk over one another’s stories and theologies. Recently, we considered the question of what difference Jesus death and resurrection really makes. The conversation went something like this:
ONE, incarnation is so important—Matthew and Luke focus a lot of energy on Jesus’ birth stories, particularly that it’s miraculous; John’s prologue includes, “In the beginning was the Word and the word was with God and the Word was God…” “…and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us;” and even the name that we give the Messiah from our Jewish brothers and sisters is emmanuel, God is with us. Clearly the simple fact of God becoming human is of exceeding importance—it implies a weight and power to this physical existence, that what we do matters.
TWO, next, Jesus as teacher is so important—and I don’t mean “just” a teacher, I mean as the son of God, as The Teacher, as the teacher whose teaching came directly from God, as the teacher who lived everything he taught.
THREE If these are true, if Jesus’ life and teachings are so overwhelmingly powerful and memorable, then is his death necessary to validate his ministry? Is his death, as we tell the story, necessary for our salvation? And is his rising to life again necessary to make us pay attention? To show us the grace we receive freely? Hasn’t that all already been done in the mere presence of Jesus among us? So, Jesus has risen—so what?
My students have been pondering this question in all seriousness. Not in a sarcastic, “what difference does it make?” kind of way but “no, really, how does this make a difference?” One student described the struggle he was having as a cherry on top of a milkshake: is the cherry integral to the experience of the milkshake, or is it a lovely garnish but unnecessary to a well-made shake?

And it’s the pivotal question for Christianity—what difference does Jesus make? Not just the death and resurrection, but his whole person. Are we different now than before as a group of people? Are we different now as individuals than before we knew Jesus? Theologian Shane Claiborne puts it this way in his book Irresistible Revolution:
“If you ask most people what Christians believe, they can tell you, ‘Christians believe that Jesus is God’s son and that Jesus rose from the dead.’ But if you ask the average person how Christians live, they are struck silent. We have not shown the world another way of doing life. Christians pretty much live like everybody else; they just sprinkle in a little Jesus along the way.” (117)

So here’s your million-dollar question. Or maybe your milkshake question. In your life, what difference has Jesus made? If I walked down into the congregation and picked you out to share, what story would you tell us about how you treated someone differently, about how you took the right path not the easy one, about how you chose love over appearances? What is your story of resurrection?

Do you remember a few years ago, a man walked into an Amish school room and shot several of the girls before shooting himself? And how the families of those girls reacted? Grief, yes, but also with grace. They contacted the man’s wife and took care of her. They forgave the man and took care of his wife. That, that is not normal. That is because of Jesus.

Nearer to home, the other day, I was meeting a friend in Clifton and parked on the street near the IGA. There are often two or three folks on the street near that IGA with signs saying they’re homeless, asking for change. I don’t know about you, but I often tense up when I see them. I was faced with a decision—to give or not to give, right? And to acknowledge or not to acknowledge their presence. And as I approached them, I decided to create a third option. I approached them, asked how each was, shook their hands, wondered aloud if there was anything I could do for them, listened. Each exchange took only a little longer than it might have. And it became about people rather than an ethical dilemma. They’re still in poverty and I still don’t know what to do about that, but we parted with a smile of recognition. That…was not normal. That was because of Jesus.

Now, I share this story not to pat myself on the back but to tell you that these resurrection moments happen all the time. At any moment, we can make a decision to react differently than expected, to live for that moment as though everything Jesus said and did and was is 100% true. In that moment, when you share part of your life, part of your story with someone else, you become an evangelist. And it is a beautiful and thing. When you allow Jesus to change what you do, the question changes from “so what?” to “so that…?” Do you get it? Think about that story of resurrection in your life—fills you with, what? Joy? Excitement? Gratitude? And doesn’t it kind of push you a little—“tell someone,” it says, “find out if someone else has the same story,” it says, “go try something else,” it says. I should note that, in addition to being a campus missioner, I am also on the Evangelism Commission for the Diocese, and this is precisely what we’re encouraging folk to do. Share your story.

Notice that it’s all about the story. That story of Jesus back in the day, the story woven in our Scriptures, the stories we tell one another about our lives and fears and hopes. These stories aren’t just pretty and they aren’t just history—they matter, they are everything. And the resurrection is the only real ending, because without it, the story just stops and we have no motivation to follow in Jesus’ steps. Without the resurrection, we aren’t even a milkshake.

So the “Jesus is alive, so what?” question is really replaced with “Jesus is alive so that…what?” Jesus is alive so that we no longer live in fear of the end. Jesus is alive so that death is not the end. Jesus is alive so that the story continues. Jesus’ story is a gift—life, death, and resurrection—Jesus said and did and was so that we would love him and show that love. That story is THE STORY. What difference does Jesus death and resurrection make? It means that death is not the end of the story.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

last Sunday's sermon--John 21:1-19

Scripture is a little odd. It’s got these great, pretty bits like “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” and “Consider the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin…” But just as often it’s confusing—I sometimes read passages and think “What?”
And I think I’m not the only one.

After the resurrection, Mary Magdalene sees the empty tomb and she tells the other disciples: she’s saying, “woah, what?” and maybe they’re saying, “sorry, what?” So she goes back and she sees the resurrected Jesus but doesn’t recognize him, she thinks he’s the gardener: what? And then Jesus appears dramatically to the disciples in a locked room…Twice! What? And of course, Thomas the Doubter famously says: what?

You just heard another one of these stories. Some of the disciples are fishing and Jesus shows up and they don’t recognize him: what? Wait, after seeing him once already, after longing for his return, they don’t recognize him? And Peter figures it out and jumps naked into the lake: what? And then Jesus makes them breakfast on the beach, very Martha Stewart of him: wait, what?

They just didn’t get it, couldn’t get it before. No matter how many times Jesus said it, now they don’t believe their eyes with evidence right in front of them. For us now, more than 2000 years later it’s often just a story—if we’re really honest with ourselves, we want these stories and people to be real, we long for them to be as real as the person sitting next to us,…but we don’t really think they are. They’re ancient history, they’re fun and challenging stories, like LOST.

Because when was the last time that you denied Jesus—intentionally, several times in a row—and then were given a second chance by the man Jesus? When was the last time you said to Jesus as Peter does “Lord you know I love you” and when was the last time Jesus said to you, “feed my sheep”—and you did it? Because what else could be your reaction when the man you left everything to follow, the man whose words kindled a fire in your heart, the man who made everything more focused and also more confusing, the man who you saw beaten and killed in front of you—what else could be your reaction when he’s standing right in front of you? I think a gawping, “what?” would make complete sense. Followed immediately by, “Lord you know I love you.” Right?

But he’s not here, is he? Is he? Because the disciples didn’t recognize him—here or other times—when he walked on the sea, they didn’t quite know it was him, Mary Magdalene mistakes him for the gardener, the disciples don’t seem to know it’s him until he shows his wounds, and the fishermen—who knows who they thought he was? They didn’t recognize him after his resurrection—not because they were stupid, and not because they didn’t want to or had given up. They didn’t see him because they didn’t expect to see him.

They didn’t expect to see him…and there he was, telling them to fish on the other side of the boat—of all the things to say when you’ve come back from the dead—so, since they’ve had no luck at all, even though this is a silly suggestion—as though the other side of the boat is going to be so very different—they give it a try and have the single greatest haul in the history of fishing. So many fish it takes all of them to haul it in, so many fish that the net really should break, but it doesn’t.
What?!

It’s amazing and wonderful and a little scary and miraculous. And suddenly they looked up and saw Jesus…I had a professor in seminary who said that whenever we say “Come Lord Jesus” in worship—often at communion—he looks up and tenses a little, because he fully expects Jesus to respond to the call, he expects Jesus to show up.

Do you expect to see Jesus?

He could be anywhere, anywhen, anywho even…Paul had a vision of him on the road to Damascus years after the resurrection. Julian of Norwich saw him in a vision in the 1400s. People see his image in grilled-cheese sandwiches all the time—what? And that seems ridiculous sometimes. We don’t expect to see Jesus out and about in Cincinnati…

We think we’re so rational, so right not to give into these emotional moments. Jesus is resurrected, but that’s the end of that—our moral and spiritual existence is now based on a memory, a story, not the real deal. Because we don’t expect to see him. But in our communion service, in the Eucharistic Prayer, we often say “we remember” and it’s not this rational kind of memory. It’s a Greek word, Anamnesis—sense memory—we were there and we are there. Like pitching a baseball 10,000 times so that your body can do it without your brain. The Meal we offer, the lives we live—they aren’t divorced from those stories—we practice them over and over so that we can do them in our sleep because practice is how we learn to see Jesus present with us.
Mystic Julian of Norwich had a vision of God. She saw in her hand something like a hazelnut: she writes, “In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it. The second that he loves it. And the third, that God keeps it.” You might well ask, “What?” along with the folks on Lost—this little thing represents all of Creation, it is a reflection of God. In this one tiny thing, Dame Julian saw the overwhelming love of God, and the sustaining power of God—it wasn’t just made and then let go, but cradled and cherished by God. So, too, are all of us, and all that we encounter. Dare I say it, even disease and hardship are encompassed by that love and reflect back to us the face of Jesus.

He is here all the time in the guise of other people offering something surprising, in the guise of a new shoot coming up in the garden (continually resurrecting), in the guise of tv programs pushing you to consider things differently, in the guise of a flamingo balancing impossibly on that one skinny leg and in your toddler daughter’s delight in seeing that same flamingo
We don’t see Jesus in our lives, not because we’re stupid or because he’s not there, but because we don’t expect to see him. Because we don’t practice seeing him. But what if we did? What if we approached meetings and conference calls expecting to see Jesus there? What if we went to classes expecting that Jesus would reveal himself somehow? What if we did our grocery shopping expecting to see Jesus on the skin of an orange or the face of our checkout clerk?

All it takes is practice—and maybe asking “What?” deliberately and often.