Sunrise Service
Easter meditation by Carrie
23 March 2008
Rocks. Big rocks, small rocks, smooth rocks for skipping, sharp rocks for cutting, you can even have pet rocks. I think of the rocks I’ve experienced in my life.
In college I studied in India and after the semester of classes I went hiking in the foothills of the Himalayas. After a morning of slogging through forests and rivers in the rain, I had blistered feet and bloody legs from the leeches that attached themselves to me. That was the valley of the hike. Ahead of me stood a huge (at least it felt huge) five mile trek up a big rock of a mountain. That was one painful rock.
My favorite rock…rock that had transformed into concrete…the sidewalk at my home growing up. In the summer as a child after playing in the water of the hose I would lie in my bathing suit on the smooth warm pavement, letting the steamy warmth encircle me as I drifted off into a summertime dream.
I see rocks on the news, rocks thrown by young people, old people…rocks thrown when life becomes tragically occupied by fear, injustice…desperation.
Out of all my experiences with rocks, perhaps it is this type of rock that the women expected to encounter that morning, as they came with their spices, their broken hearts, their fear and desperation.
Perhaps we have similar stones standing between us and fullness of life. These stones are unique to each one of us, and unfortunately, most of them we can’t easily roll away with mere strength, or we can’t simply skip them across to the other side of the pond with a quick flick of the wrist. The stones of fear, pride, hate…you have your stone, I have mine.
Some stones MIGHT be opened by our own will. The women went intending to roll that stone away themselves to anoint Jesus’ lifeless body with the spices...yet they were together, not one person alone.
These stones will often need the help of others to be rolled away, like those two angels sitting at the entrance of the tomb.
And some stones…well some stones might simply wear down with time, being the welcome victim to the torrential downpours and blistering sun of time passing.
Before the women understood the full meaning that Jesus had been resurrected, they recognized that the stone had been rolled away. The stone that had stood between life and death, sorrow and joy. And surprisingly, it was in that empty space where the fullness of who Jesus had become was revealed. Jesus…the Christ.
Now, rolling away the stones isn’t easy and I don’t have any specific answers on how your stone can be moved. But we can learn from the women: we know there is a stone, we approach it together, and we bring with us what we believe we are to offer to the task.
And the women taught us something they weren’t aware of until they arrived at the terrifying, glorious sight.
When that stone is rolled away, prepare to be amazed, even perplexed, at how radically different what we find on the other side of that stone might be from the pain we had expected.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Who is This?
March 16, 2008
Mathew 21:1-11, Matthew 27:11-54
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 6 – Palm Sunday
Today marks the beginning of Holy Week. As we relive this week so critical in our story, I think we could safely say that this week is a time of crisis. If ever there were a need for some serious emotional attention, perhaps some quality communal pastoral care, this would definitely be it. An emotional and spiritual roller coaster. Agony and ecstasy, humility and exuberance, commitment and betrayal, life and death: the reality of our whole lives packed into one week. Luckily, and I don’t say this glibly, but luckily we Brethren have the rooting practice of Love Feast to bring us to some centered-ness in the midst of what, if we take seriously, can be a pretty chaotic week.
But the week begins with this event, what we often call “the triumphant entry.” Author Ched Meyers speculates that it was less likely such a triumphal entry, as it was a sort of street theater. One thing many of us don’t know about this procession, myself included until just recently, was that it wasn’t the only procession going on at the time. There was another parade of sorts, one led by Pontius Pilate, the man who would later help seal Jesus’ fate for crucifixion. On the other side of Jerusalem enters Pilate’s parade, a massive display of military power, whose presence was intended to keep the peace in Jerusalem during the upcoming Passover.
In stark contrast to the military power and intimidation of the Roman procession, Jesus led a political protest march characterized by folks shouting "Hosanna." These two processions stand in stark contrast to one another: Pilate with his legions of troops, riding on the war horses, displaying their capacity of force; Jesus riding on his donkey with his multitudes waving palm branches, signaling a great king coming in peace. Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan refers to these as something of dueling parades, and “even if you love parades” he says, “you have to choose which one to join.”
So people have come to the Jesus parade, And it’s electric! It’s crazy! Palm branches are waving like huge Styrofoam fingers at a hockey game, (tada dada dada) “Hosanna!!” and the crowd goes wild! And that’s it. What’s not to love about a story like this? It appears to be a clear acknowledgement of this uniqueness of this man, this prophetic equestrian. But if we listen beyond the rustle of branches and the shouts of hosanna, the story goes on. Along side the exclamations of joy and excitement, an equally revealing word is spoken and rather than proclaiming, we hear a quiet inquiry… “Who is this?”
Now, this is where I can see each one us, perhaps more clearly than anywhere else in the events of the Holy Week: in the crowds, asking the monumental question of faith: Who is this?
Who is this? It is not a simple question. We wrestle with it. We run away from it. Or, maybe you’re the kind who charges head on into it. And perhaps more than any other week, this week of passion, is when we ask that question with renewed urgency, hoping to be lead into increased clarity, as the world looks to us-- to Christians-- and asks us the question: “Who is this?” Who is this that you say died and in three days lived and moved and breathed and loved again? To me, this is one of the most foundational questions of our Christian faith, but not one of the easiest.
Suzanne Gutherie puts this another way: “The incarnation and the resurrection require athletic leaps of faith. Christians don't just sit down and decide to believe in the mysteries she says. Yes, we find ourselves drawn to Jesus' teaching, ministry, death—and yes, to the resurrection and ascension and the coming of the Holy Spirit. Something here seems deeply true in nonrational ways. But some of us need a great commitment of time and practice and learning before this consciousness becomes part of our inner landscape.” ("Ready or Not," Christian Century, March 08, 2005)
Most of us need the time and space to cultivate our inner landscape and really examine that question: “Who is this?” Perhaps this week, this time between a high-energy street theater with palm branches and the lily-laden joy of Easter…perhaps this is the most fertile time to begin really cultivating that question for our lives.
Because two thousand years later there are still the crowds asking this question. “Who is this?” and the answers today are “Jesus the messiah...the apocalyptic prophet...the cynic sage…the social activist… the personal friend…the chief executive officer of Christianity etc. etc.” The question is the same, yet the answers that we have, or I should say, the answers that we believe we can have about Jesus, have been irreversibly transformed since the first century.
One need only to walk around the classrooms of a church, or brows the aisle of a video store or bookstore to see the overwhelming diversity of Jesus images that are available to purchase, consume, or watch over and over. It has been over two thousands years since the birth of Jesus. Each age and culture has brought a new perspective to the portrait of this person. Doctrines that have shaped our theology, such as Jesus being part of a trinity, were not created until centuries after his death. Even the gospel writers had differing views of who Jesus was and we have plentiful biblical illusions that roll off our tongue: Jesus as the way, the bread of life, the shepherd, the vine, the door, rabbi, prophet, messiah. All very different images for one person.
In his book Jesus Through the Centuries, historian Jaroslav Pelikan critically examines art throughout the ages and specifically Jesus Christ as depicted in art to help us understand the temper and values of each age. Throughout time cultures adapted their understandings of the world into their vision of who Christ was. So, in the fourth century with the rise of the Christian empire, Christ was understood to be an emperor, far different than the humble man riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. In medieval Christian mysticism, many understood Christ to be a bridegroom, or a lover, of the soul. During the enlightenment Jesus was seen primarily as a teacher of common sense. Communities in the last two centuries who have endured oppression and violence, particularly Latin American communities, have unearthed the characteristic of Jesus Christ as a liberator, one who struggles for justice and confronts the powerful.
Take a moment and close your eyes. If you were to craft an image of who Jesus is to you, what might it look like? What has been a meaningful characteristic to you? Does he look different than common pictures you’ve seen? In a culture where long white robes aren’t the fashion trend, what might Jesus be wearing? Who might Jesus be speaking to? How might Jesus be spending his time?
Images help shape our understanding of who Jesus is to us, how his life is relevant to our lives. Images are ways we grapple with the question of Jesus. They are helpful tools and allow us to somehow touch the divine in ways we can’t do on our own. And I’m reminded of the ways that portrayal of images stir up the best, and the worst in ourselves. We were in seminary when Mel Gibson’s movie “The Passion of the Christ” came to theaters. Do you remember the frenzy that this movie stirred up? Many came out of theaters saying they felt closer to understanding the meaning of Christ in their lives, the suffering, the love. Many came out saying it was an inaccurate portrayal of the fullness of who Christ really is, that it isn’t only in his death but also in his life and resurrection that calls us to faith.
It probably was the Jesus film for this generation, as much as the Martin Scorsese film “Last Temptation of Christ” was for a previous generation. “The Last Temptation” talked as much about the broken humanity of Jesus as “The Passion” focused on his inherent divinity: in this movie Jesus was flesh and bone, not only in his death, but also emotionally and sexually. You can imagine, if you don’t remember, the controversy that stirred up. It is almost as if Martin Scorsese and Mel Gibson were in the turmoil in the crowd asking the question “Who is this?” each trying to present an answer of what makes sense. And we remember that while images help us grapple with the question, the answer lies far beyond any one response we might give.
This is a passion filled week for Christians. Often we move from the jubilance of Palm Sunday to the ecstasy of Easter, but there is much time in between to give us clues to the question of who this Jesus is. This man reclaimed the temple as a place of worship rather than an economic entity…this man took time for people who were outcasts, he showed compassion to those others would be too busy for…this man happily engaged in serious dialogue about God, about morality, about scripture, about faith…this man, with his own death approaching, said that what is done to the weak and the marginalized, to those who we may think deserve their fate, all of those things are done to him…this man, sat at a meal with his friends, friends who rarely understood him or even believed him, bent down, and washed their feet. And while the external events of the week rage on in all its emotional turmoil, we stop and listen to the muttering voices that call us deeper into the internal landscape. Who is This? It’s not a question of doubt, as some might think. In fact, I think it one of the most critical questions “the faithful” should be asking.
The week begins with this question, and remains important throughout the week. Listen now at the many questions, answers, and expressions that are given in the last hours of Jesus’ life:
Matthew 27:11-54
Mathew 21:1-11, Matthew 27:11-54
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 6 – Palm Sunday
Today marks the beginning of Holy Week. As we relive this week so critical in our story, I think we could safely say that this week is a time of crisis. If ever there were a need for some serious emotional attention, perhaps some quality communal pastoral care, this would definitely be it. An emotional and spiritual roller coaster. Agony and ecstasy, humility and exuberance, commitment and betrayal, life and death: the reality of our whole lives packed into one week. Luckily, and I don’t say this glibly, but luckily we Brethren have the rooting practice of Love Feast to bring us to some centered-ness in the midst of what, if we take seriously, can be a pretty chaotic week.
But the week begins with this event, what we often call “the triumphant entry.” Author Ched Meyers speculates that it was less likely such a triumphal entry, as it was a sort of street theater. One thing many of us don’t know about this procession, myself included until just recently, was that it wasn’t the only procession going on at the time. There was another parade of sorts, one led by Pontius Pilate, the man who would later help seal Jesus’ fate for crucifixion. On the other side of Jerusalem enters Pilate’s parade, a massive display of military power, whose presence was intended to keep the peace in Jerusalem during the upcoming Passover.
In stark contrast to the military power and intimidation of the Roman procession, Jesus led a political protest march characterized by folks shouting "Hosanna." These two processions stand in stark contrast to one another: Pilate with his legions of troops, riding on the war horses, displaying their capacity of force; Jesus riding on his donkey with his multitudes waving palm branches, signaling a great king coming in peace. Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan refers to these as something of dueling parades, and “even if you love parades” he says, “you have to choose which one to join.”
So people have come to the Jesus parade, And it’s electric! It’s crazy! Palm branches are waving like huge Styrofoam fingers at a hockey game, (tada dada dada) “Hosanna!!” and the crowd goes wild! And that’s it. What’s not to love about a story like this? It appears to be a clear acknowledgement of this uniqueness of this man, this prophetic equestrian. But if we listen beyond the rustle of branches and the shouts of hosanna, the story goes on. Along side the exclamations of joy and excitement, an equally revealing word is spoken and rather than proclaiming, we hear a quiet inquiry… “Who is this?”
Now, this is where I can see each one us, perhaps more clearly than anywhere else in the events of the Holy Week: in the crowds, asking the monumental question of faith: Who is this?
Who is this? It is not a simple question. We wrestle with it. We run away from it. Or, maybe you’re the kind who charges head on into it. And perhaps more than any other week, this week of passion, is when we ask that question with renewed urgency, hoping to be lead into increased clarity, as the world looks to us-- to Christians-- and asks us the question: “Who is this?” Who is this that you say died and in three days lived and moved and breathed and loved again? To me, this is one of the most foundational questions of our Christian faith, but not one of the easiest.
Suzanne Gutherie puts this another way: “The incarnation and the resurrection require athletic leaps of faith. Christians don't just sit down and decide to believe in the mysteries she says. Yes, we find ourselves drawn to Jesus' teaching, ministry, death—and yes, to the resurrection and ascension and the coming of the Holy Spirit. Something here seems deeply true in nonrational ways. But some of us need a great commitment of time and practice and learning before this consciousness becomes part of our inner landscape.” ("Ready or Not," Christian Century, March 08, 2005)
Most of us need the time and space to cultivate our inner landscape and really examine that question: “Who is this?” Perhaps this week, this time between a high-energy street theater with palm branches and the lily-laden joy of Easter…perhaps this is the most fertile time to begin really cultivating that question for our lives.
Because two thousand years later there are still the crowds asking this question. “Who is this?” and the answers today are “Jesus the messiah...the apocalyptic prophet...the cynic sage…the social activist… the personal friend…the chief executive officer of Christianity etc. etc.” The question is the same, yet the answers that we have, or I should say, the answers that we believe we can have about Jesus, have been irreversibly transformed since the first century.
One need only to walk around the classrooms of a church, or brows the aisle of a video store or bookstore to see the overwhelming diversity of Jesus images that are available to purchase, consume, or watch over and over. It has been over two thousands years since the birth of Jesus. Each age and culture has brought a new perspective to the portrait of this person. Doctrines that have shaped our theology, such as Jesus being part of a trinity, were not created until centuries after his death. Even the gospel writers had differing views of who Jesus was and we have plentiful biblical illusions that roll off our tongue: Jesus as the way, the bread of life, the shepherd, the vine, the door, rabbi, prophet, messiah. All very different images for one person.
In his book Jesus Through the Centuries, historian Jaroslav Pelikan critically examines art throughout the ages and specifically Jesus Christ as depicted in art to help us understand the temper and values of each age. Throughout time cultures adapted their understandings of the world into their vision of who Christ was. So, in the fourth century with the rise of the Christian empire, Christ was understood to be an emperor, far different than the humble man riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. In medieval Christian mysticism, many understood Christ to be a bridegroom, or a lover, of the soul. During the enlightenment Jesus was seen primarily as a teacher of common sense. Communities in the last two centuries who have endured oppression and violence, particularly Latin American communities, have unearthed the characteristic of Jesus Christ as a liberator, one who struggles for justice and confronts the powerful.
Take a moment and close your eyes. If you were to craft an image of who Jesus is to you, what might it look like? What has been a meaningful characteristic to you? Does he look different than common pictures you’ve seen? In a culture where long white robes aren’t the fashion trend, what might Jesus be wearing? Who might Jesus be speaking to? How might Jesus be spending his time?
Images help shape our understanding of who Jesus is to us, how his life is relevant to our lives. Images are ways we grapple with the question of Jesus. They are helpful tools and allow us to somehow touch the divine in ways we can’t do on our own. And I’m reminded of the ways that portrayal of images stir up the best, and the worst in ourselves. We were in seminary when Mel Gibson’s movie “The Passion of the Christ” came to theaters. Do you remember the frenzy that this movie stirred up? Many came out of theaters saying they felt closer to understanding the meaning of Christ in their lives, the suffering, the love. Many came out saying it was an inaccurate portrayal of the fullness of who Christ really is, that it isn’t only in his death but also in his life and resurrection that calls us to faith.
It probably was the Jesus film for this generation, as much as the Martin Scorsese film “Last Temptation of Christ” was for a previous generation. “The Last Temptation” talked as much about the broken humanity of Jesus as “The Passion” focused on his inherent divinity: in this movie Jesus was flesh and bone, not only in his death, but also emotionally and sexually. You can imagine, if you don’t remember, the controversy that stirred up. It is almost as if Martin Scorsese and Mel Gibson were in the turmoil in the crowd asking the question “Who is this?” each trying to present an answer of what makes sense. And we remember that while images help us grapple with the question, the answer lies far beyond any one response we might give.
This is a passion filled week for Christians. Often we move from the jubilance of Palm Sunday to the ecstasy of Easter, but there is much time in between to give us clues to the question of who this Jesus is. This man reclaimed the temple as a place of worship rather than an economic entity…this man took time for people who were outcasts, he showed compassion to those others would be too busy for…this man happily engaged in serious dialogue about God, about morality, about scripture, about faith…this man, with his own death approaching, said that what is done to the weak and the marginalized, to those who we may think deserve their fate, all of those things are done to him…this man, sat at a meal with his friends, friends who rarely understood him or even believed him, bent down, and washed their feet. And while the external events of the week rage on in all its emotional turmoil, we stop and listen to the muttering voices that call us deeper into the internal landscape. Who is This? It’s not a question of doubt, as some might think. In fact, I think it one of the most critical questions “the faithful” should be asking.
The week begins with this question, and remains important throughout the week. Listen now at the many questions, answers, and expressions that are given in the last hours of Jesus’ life:
Matthew 27:11-54
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
And Then What?
March 9, 2008
Ezekiel 37:1-14 John 11:1-45
Sermon by Torin
Lent 5
And then what?.... That is the question that has been on my mind this week. Ezekiel was taken to a valley full of bones. He prophesied to them and they came together again. Tendons and ligaments grew over them. Muscle and fat melted back onto them. Skin and hair and eyes and fingernail spread over them, and they were brought back into the semblance of humanity. Ezekiel prophesied to the רח – the same spirit wind that moved over the face of the deep at the beginning – and the breath of life entered into the bodies. And a vast multitude stood before the prophet. “Tell the exiles in Babylon,” said the Lord, “that this is what I will do for the nation of Israel. It will be brought back to life from the dust of exile just as these bones were.”
And then what? What happened after Ezekiel left the valley of bones? What happened to this multitude of living people brought forth from the bones of the past? Did the prophet lead them out into the world of life? Did they wander back to the places they had known before? Did they die again after another lifetime or did they fall back into the dust as soon as God’s point had been made?
Ever since I first read this text as part of a Sunday school assignment in fourth grade, I have wondered how the story played out. It seems strange that such a multitude would be brought to life only to wither just as quickly – skin and hair receding, flesh and sinew melting off the bone like in some horror movie. Yet such a large number of people could hardly have moved back into society without a great upheaval. Alas, there are no answers to be had one way or the other, and more recently, I have come to understand that most biblical scholars (and most pastors) understand this passage as a prophetic vision. I’m not so sure that being brought to the valley by the spirit of the Lord necessarily makes this a vision, but this perspective certainly makes all these questions less urgent even if it doesn’t answer them.
Such a claim, though, cannot be (or at least has not been) made about Lazarus. He had been dead for four days. … Long enough to be sure that the soul had separated from the body according to Jewish law … long enough to smell of rot and decay. Then, at a word from Jesus, the stone closing his tomb was rolled away. Three more words spoken and Lazarus rose back to life, his blood warming, the rotting flesh knitting back together, רח flowing back into his body carrying his soul with it. The dead man hopped out of the tomb. In the warmth of the sunshine, his shroud unwound, he was released back into life.
And then what? Did Lazarus live a long and happy life? Was he dogged by the Jewish association of death with ritual uncleanliness? Did the smell of stinking flesh linger in his nostrils or was he newly aware of the mundane freshness of life? Did he live in fear of death or was his fear shattered by this experience of resurrection?
we actually have just a little more information about Lazarus’ story. Several verses later, John tells us that the chief priests also planned to put Lazarus to death because his resurrection had brought so many Jews to follow Jesus. But that’s the end of it. We know nothing else. So, was he next in line for crucifixion? Was he stoned? Did he spend the rest of his life in hiding? Or, was the resurrection of Jesus himself a big enough threat to make the priests forget Lazarus?
These abrupt endings are not so unusual. The bible is full of the tales of God’s life-changing intervention – tales that are largely unfinished. In just the past few weeks, we have heard three of them. Jesus healed a man who was blind from birth. Even though he was no longer bound to life as a beggar and he professed a new faith in the Son of Man, he was expelled from his village by those who still thought him to be the child of sin. What became of him? Where could he go with nothing to his name and no family home to support him?
Jesus prophesied to the Samaritan woman at the well, offering living water that brought hope and excitement into a life of drudgery and despair. She ran off, leaving her water jar behind in her excitement. … And then what?
Jesus spoke with Nicodemus, inviting him to accept new life born from above – born again in the spirit … and then what?
We don’t get many stories like these in our modern mythology. Our novels and movies typically end with more resolution. Either they say outright, “and they lived happily ever after,” or they imply the same kind of ending. Sometimes the main character or one of the heroes dies, but the rest of the gang is all set. And perhaps, that is why I find myself asking questions at the end of all these stories. In the end, I suppose they are not so different from the stories of our lives, but I just can’t help myself.
This week, one of my internet friends told this story.
Maryln, she wrote, has a brother Jim, who must be in his late 60's or early 70's. He lives down in Limon (Colorado) and was at a High School baseball game where he had a heart attack. They raced him to Colorado Springs to the hospital and worked on him for a number of hours, and finally declared him flat line and dead. His children had been called in and his wife was there and they all said their goodbyes. On their drive back home, they were calling the rest of the family, including Maryln, to tell them about his death.
Meanwhile, the chaplain was sitting by Jim's bed at the hospital with the death certificate in hand waiting for the morgue to come and get him, when Jim lifted his arms and crossed them on his chest. The Chaplin put a hand to his chest, felt a heart beat, and went to get the nurse. At two in the morning, just after his children had gotten home, the hospital called them and told them their father was alive. So they all went back to the hospital, making phone calls again - informing the family he was not dead. Maryln decided she needed to see this for herself, and went down to Colorado Springs instead of coming to church. She thought it was a pretty good excuse and that I should know what had happened.
It sounds like another happily-ever-after story, but I still wonder … And then what? How was Jim’s life and that of everyone he knew changed by this encounter with surprising hope in the midst of the grim certainty of death? Or perhaps it wasn’t changed. And that, I think, may be a sad reality for many of us. When we run into God’s mysterious touch, we simply go on with our lives without even telling the story to those closest to us.
There are many examples to the contrary even though we don’t hear much about them. I heard one such story from a holocaust survivor when I was a student in France. My classmates and I went to visit a concentration camp not far from Strasbourg. When we arrived - even before we went onto the grounds, we saw a stark, black statue of a huge open hand reaching toward the sky. There was no way to tell what it meant or who put it there, but we found that out as soon as we walked through the gates in the razor-wire fence that still surrounds the site.
There I met an eighty-year old volunteer who had been an inmate in the camp for three long years before the liberating armies arrived. She told us the story, among others, of how she had been spared from the shooting squad and the crematory ovens on three occasions. Once when she had sprained her ankle too badly go back to work (a death sentence at that camp), she had hidden under her thin blanket while others stood in front of her bed protecting her. For the other two times, she had no explanation. Both times she had been sick, and when the soldiers came to collect the prisoners who couldn’t make it to work, they looked right at her and just didn’t see her there. No blanket. No friends to hide behind. Yet, somehow she was invisible even in the glare of the bright search lights they held. Despite these miraculous experiences (her words, not mine), she spent years embittered and angry that God had let so many die in such a way, in such a place.
Then, she said, she had a dream-like vision that inspired her to seek out other survivors and the families of those who didn’t make it. As she talked with them, she found that most were as trapped in anger and grief as she was, but slowly an idea, an image formed in her mind. She went back to all those people and proposed that they plant a statue on the grounds of the camp and surround it with flowering trees. Everyone she spoke with was glad to help and in a very short time, the statue we had seen was erected on the site as a memorial to the pain of hundreds of people who cried out to God as their bodies melted away under the strain of hard work with little food. Planted around the statue in ground saturated by the ashes of the dead, twelve flowering trees symbolized the power of life in the face of horror and death.
When the ceremony of dedication took place, those gathered at the site raised their voices in prayers for healing and peace, and as they listened to a harpist play music written for the occasion by a survivor, the woman felt the breath of God dissolve the chains that had held her spirit captive. With a little chagrin edging her voice, the woman admitted that it took all four of these encounters with power of God to bring her back to faith. And though many of the others walked back into unchanged lives after the dedication, she began to write and to travel, telling her story. Too old to travel much now, she still goes back as a volunteer, guiding visitors through the empty grounds and telling her story of suffering, faith, and the grace-filled gift of new life rising from the ashes.
And that’s what God is all about – the gracious gift of new life rising to surprise us in the midst of chaos and death. In the beginning, God brought forth creation and breathed out חר so that life would flow through it all. In time, the word that is life took on flesh and lived among us…. lived a life that lit the way for others, speaking words of hope and new life to those lost in the valley of dry bones. Even now and for all future time, the Spirit of God is at work in the world – wafting … teasing … inviting us all to new life, offering hope in the midst of fear and despair.
And how will the world respond? How will we respond? Will we turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the wonders we experience? Will we stop; struck dumb by the majesty and power we have seen? Or will our lives change as we respond to the touch of God’s breath … bending and swaying to the Spirit’s rhythm … floating and flying, filled with life anew. For that is the undying invitation, the gift that awaits if and when we turn into the way of God: life in abundance drawn from the midst of death … life eternally renewed.
The truth of this is something we know deep in our soggy-wet bones. We feel it in our sinews, in our muscles, in our skin, in the beat of our hearts for our lives and our bodies are miraculous. We all feel the Spirit of life swirling around and through us. If we look with awareness, we can see that power touching and changing the world, guiding us all more fully into the Realm of God. If we listen with open hearts and minds, our spirits can hear the song of whistled by the Spirit as it gusts and dances through the canyons and across the meadows of our soul. God has touched our lives, is touching our lives even now, will touch our lives in the future. That is the gift of grace so freely given. And whenever we find it, we receive it with open and grateful hearts….
And then what?
Ezekiel 37:1-14 John 11:1-45
Sermon by Torin
Lent 5
And then what?.... That is the question that has been on my mind this week. Ezekiel was taken to a valley full of bones. He prophesied to them and they came together again. Tendons and ligaments grew over them. Muscle and fat melted back onto them. Skin and hair and eyes and fingernail spread over them, and they were brought back into the semblance of humanity. Ezekiel prophesied to the רח – the same spirit wind that moved over the face of the deep at the beginning – and the breath of life entered into the bodies. And a vast multitude stood before the prophet. “Tell the exiles in Babylon,” said the Lord, “that this is what I will do for the nation of Israel. It will be brought back to life from the dust of exile just as these bones were.”
And then what? What happened after Ezekiel left the valley of bones? What happened to this multitude of living people brought forth from the bones of the past? Did the prophet lead them out into the world of life? Did they wander back to the places they had known before? Did they die again after another lifetime or did they fall back into the dust as soon as God’s point had been made?
Ever since I first read this text as part of a Sunday school assignment in fourth grade, I have wondered how the story played out. It seems strange that such a multitude would be brought to life only to wither just as quickly – skin and hair receding, flesh and sinew melting off the bone like in some horror movie. Yet such a large number of people could hardly have moved back into society without a great upheaval. Alas, there are no answers to be had one way or the other, and more recently, I have come to understand that most biblical scholars (and most pastors) understand this passage as a prophetic vision. I’m not so sure that being brought to the valley by the spirit of the Lord necessarily makes this a vision, but this perspective certainly makes all these questions less urgent even if it doesn’t answer them.
Such a claim, though, cannot be (or at least has not been) made about Lazarus. He had been dead for four days. … Long enough to be sure that the soul had separated from the body according to Jewish law … long enough to smell of rot and decay. Then, at a word from Jesus, the stone closing his tomb was rolled away. Three more words spoken and Lazarus rose back to life, his blood warming, the rotting flesh knitting back together, רח flowing back into his body carrying his soul with it. The dead man hopped out of the tomb. In the warmth of the sunshine, his shroud unwound, he was released back into life.
And then what? Did Lazarus live a long and happy life? Was he dogged by the Jewish association of death with ritual uncleanliness? Did the smell of stinking flesh linger in his nostrils or was he newly aware of the mundane freshness of life? Did he live in fear of death or was his fear shattered by this experience of resurrection?
we actually have just a little more information about Lazarus’ story. Several verses later, John tells us that the chief priests also planned to put Lazarus to death because his resurrection had brought so many Jews to follow Jesus. But that’s the end of it. We know nothing else. So, was he next in line for crucifixion? Was he stoned? Did he spend the rest of his life in hiding? Or, was the resurrection of Jesus himself a big enough threat to make the priests forget Lazarus?
These abrupt endings are not so unusual. The bible is full of the tales of God’s life-changing intervention – tales that are largely unfinished. In just the past few weeks, we have heard three of them. Jesus healed a man who was blind from birth. Even though he was no longer bound to life as a beggar and he professed a new faith in the Son of Man, he was expelled from his village by those who still thought him to be the child of sin. What became of him? Where could he go with nothing to his name and no family home to support him?
Jesus prophesied to the Samaritan woman at the well, offering living water that brought hope and excitement into a life of drudgery and despair. She ran off, leaving her water jar behind in her excitement. … And then what?
Jesus spoke with Nicodemus, inviting him to accept new life born from above – born again in the spirit … and then what?
We don’t get many stories like these in our modern mythology. Our novels and movies typically end with more resolution. Either they say outright, “and they lived happily ever after,” or they imply the same kind of ending. Sometimes the main character or one of the heroes dies, but the rest of the gang is all set. And perhaps, that is why I find myself asking questions at the end of all these stories. In the end, I suppose they are not so different from the stories of our lives, but I just can’t help myself.
This week, one of my internet friends told this story.
Maryln, she wrote, has a brother Jim, who must be in his late 60's or early 70's. He lives down in Limon (Colorado) and was at a High School baseball game where he had a heart attack. They raced him to Colorado Springs to the hospital and worked on him for a number of hours, and finally declared him flat line and dead. His children had been called in and his wife was there and they all said their goodbyes. On their drive back home, they were calling the rest of the family, including Maryln, to tell them about his death.
Meanwhile, the chaplain was sitting by Jim's bed at the hospital with the death certificate in hand waiting for the morgue to come and get him, when Jim lifted his arms and crossed them on his chest. The Chaplin put a hand to his chest, felt a heart beat, and went to get the nurse. At two in the morning, just after his children had gotten home, the hospital called them and told them their father was alive. So they all went back to the hospital, making phone calls again - informing the family he was not dead. Maryln decided she needed to see this for herself, and went down to Colorado Springs instead of coming to church. She thought it was a pretty good excuse and that I should know what had happened.
It sounds like another happily-ever-after story, but I still wonder … And then what? How was Jim’s life and that of everyone he knew changed by this encounter with surprising hope in the midst of the grim certainty of death? Or perhaps it wasn’t changed. And that, I think, may be a sad reality for many of us. When we run into God’s mysterious touch, we simply go on with our lives without even telling the story to those closest to us.
There are many examples to the contrary even though we don’t hear much about them. I heard one such story from a holocaust survivor when I was a student in France. My classmates and I went to visit a concentration camp not far from Strasbourg. When we arrived - even before we went onto the grounds, we saw a stark, black statue of a huge open hand reaching toward the sky. There was no way to tell what it meant or who put it there, but we found that out as soon as we walked through the gates in the razor-wire fence that still surrounds the site.
There I met an eighty-year old volunteer who had been an inmate in the camp for three long years before the liberating armies arrived. She told us the story, among others, of how she had been spared from the shooting squad and the crematory ovens on three occasions. Once when she had sprained her ankle too badly go back to work (a death sentence at that camp), she had hidden under her thin blanket while others stood in front of her bed protecting her. For the other two times, she had no explanation. Both times she had been sick, and when the soldiers came to collect the prisoners who couldn’t make it to work, they looked right at her and just didn’t see her there. No blanket. No friends to hide behind. Yet, somehow she was invisible even in the glare of the bright search lights they held. Despite these miraculous experiences (her words, not mine), she spent years embittered and angry that God had let so many die in such a way, in such a place.
Then, she said, she had a dream-like vision that inspired her to seek out other survivors and the families of those who didn’t make it. As she talked with them, she found that most were as trapped in anger and grief as she was, but slowly an idea, an image formed in her mind. She went back to all those people and proposed that they plant a statue on the grounds of the camp and surround it with flowering trees. Everyone she spoke with was glad to help and in a very short time, the statue we had seen was erected on the site as a memorial to the pain of hundreds of people who cried out to God as their bodies melted away under the strain of hard work with little food. Planted around the statue in ground saturated by the ashes of the dead, twelve flowering trees symbolized the power of life in the face of horror and death.
When the ceremony of dedication took place, those gathered at the site raised their voices in prayers for healing and peace, and as they listened to a harpist play music written for the occasion by a survivor, the woman felt the breath of God dissolve the chains that had held her spirit captive. With a little chagrin edging her voice, the woman admitted that it took all four of these encounters with power of God to bring her back to faith. And though many of the others walked back into unchanged lives after the dedication, she began to write and to travel, telling her story. Too old to travel much now, she still goes back as a volunteer, guiding visitors through the empty grounds and telling her story of suffering, faith, and the grace-filled gift of new life rising from the ashes.
And that’s what God is all about – the gracious gift of new life rising to surprise us in the midst of chaos and death. In the beginning, God brought forth creation and breathed out חר so that life would flow through it all. In time, the word that is life took on flesh and lived among us…. lived a life that lit the way for others, speaking words of hope and new life to those lost in the valley of dry bones. Even now and for all future time, the Spirit of God is at work in the world – wafting … teasing … inviting us all to new life, offering hope in the midst of fear and despair.
And how will the world respond? How will we respond? Will we turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the wonders we experience? Will we stop; struck dumb by the majesty and power we have seen? Or will our lives change as we respond to the touch of God’s breath … bending and swaying to the Spirit’s rhythm … floating and flying, filled with life anew. For that is the undying invitation, the gift that awaits if and when we turn into the way of God: life in abundance drawn from the midst of death … life eternally renewed.
The truth of this is something we know deep in our soggy-wet bones. We feel it in our sinews, in our muscles, in our skin, in the beat of our hearts for our lives and our bodies are miraculous. We all feel the Spirit of life swirling around and through us. If we look with awareness, we can see that power touching and changing the world, guiding us all more fully into the Realm of God. If we listen with open hearts and minds, our spirits can hear the song of whistled by the Spirit as it gusts and dances through the canyons and across the meadows of our soul. God has touched our lives, is touching our lives even now, will touch our lives in the future. That is the gift of grace so freely given. And whenever we find it, we receive it with open and grateful hearts….
And then what?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Here's Mud in Your Eye
March 2, 2008
1 Samuel 16.1-13, John 9.1-41
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 4
Our Lenten Journey is halfway through. Over that past three weeks we have explored our own place in a rowdy caravan as we make ourselves through the wilderness, like the Israelites did so long ago. The broader theme for our worship through Lent has been “Out of the depths.” We have explored the ways we are deeply affected by the abyss of sin, injustice, intolerance, impatience. First we spoke about coming out of the depths and into the wilderness, where we looked at what we might do to prepare for continuing our ministry, both as a congregation and as individuals…an area that certainly has its temptations for taking the easy way, the path of the religious and social status quo. Two weeks ago we were invited out of the depths and into new birth where we might broaden our sense of how God works in our lives, so we might be born again by growing in compassion and love. And last week, we were encouraged out of the depths and into the open, where our spirits become receptive to the mysterious works of God, and as we confronted our own impatient and complaining spirits. We have been invited out of the depths…into the wilderness…into new birth…into the open.
This week we are invited out of the depths and into new sight. I love the image on the front of the bulletin this morning. In the heart of the earth, under the undulating hills, comes the mud that gives us new vision. It is such an involved picture as well. The hands aren’t just patting the mud on the eye, or carefully dabbing it on. The hands are holding open the eyes and rubbing the goopy stuff onto it. Slathering it on. What do you think? Are those eyelids resisting? Are they flinching? Is it like going to the optometrist and being the victim to one those annoying glaucoma tests? Do you know what I’m talking about? The kind where the puff of air explodes onto your eye? It seems like no matter how much I am prepared for it, how much I steady myself, it always, always makes me jump.
And I am ever visioning mud these days. This week Torin and I used the precious evening hours after Sebastian is put down for bed to pour over the seed catalogs we received, peering out through the swirling snow visualizing our garden in the back yard. We have been imaging the first green of spinach and peas, the bold purple and red of the eggplants and tomatoes, the playful vines of the orange squash. I can’t wait to dig in the dirt. I can’t wait for the spring rains to come and turn that dirt into mud. Not this mud we track in the house on those teasingly mild February days, but the mud that comes from the spring rains that nourish the newly planted seeds.
But then, when it comes to mud, it doesn’t seem as though Jesus is very particular. He spits, he stirs, its mud. No big deal, no miracle there. It is easy enough to make mud, but have you ever stopped to wonder, why did he do that? There are precious few times that Jesus chooses to use anything in his miracle making. We often think all that is needed is his touch, sometimes not even that. We often think he needs only to mutter the words “Be healed,” but sometimes he doesn’t even have to do that! Sometimes people are healed miles away from him without any contact, or utterance of words, certainly not any mud.
And isn’t mud a funny thing to use, anyway. That mud should bring clarity of sight flies against the contemporary metaphors we often use. To say something is clear as mud, of course, is used as an ironic play on words. For something to “muddy the waters” means to complicate matters. Sometimes we say that things are muddy, not clear, such as “his intentions are a bit muddy.” And I particularly love this variation on the word mud: muddled. Now I’m not sure if this word has its root in the word mud, but we certainly evoke the characteristics of mud when we use it : “I muddled through my work this week,” or “I am muddling through my taxes” or “I muddled through the Gospel according to John,” which is widely shared muddling, let me assure you. The only positive saying I can think of regarding mud is the age-old toast, “Here’s mud in your eye.” Perhaps not a biblically-inspired saying, but it infers something positive, hopeful, good luck, a blessing even. Perchance, if we wallow in mud for a while, we might see something new.
So, here’s mud in your eye. It might seem strange, but there it is, that’s what Jesus uses. But the story doesn’t stop with the mud and the man gaining his sight back, which might tell us something important. It’s easy to see the stories of the miracles and focus solely on those who are immediately healed. But often, if we delve into many of the miracle stories, we find that they aren’t simply about the miracle themselves, or about what Jesus did or didn’t use to perform them. They aren’t solely about the people who found healing from Jesus. These miracle stories expose something. They point to who Jesus is. They point to who we are. And more often than not, we aren’t the ones in the story who become healed. We read these stories in our woundedness, as people who long to be healed. As you experienced with our “congregational acting troupe,” and their Oscar-winning dramatization, there are lots of people involved in this story. There’s Jesus, the disciples, the blind man who becomes a seeing man, there are neighbors, there are religious authorities, there are parents.
If we look at the story beyond the first miracle, we might ask ourselves, who is it that is really blind? Who lacks vision? Who lacks perspective? At the end of the story, Jesus gives a clear as mud explanation that those who thought they saw everything clearly were really hazy in their perceptions on sin, on Jesus, on the poor, on the differently-abled, on Sabbath, on God. Jesus muddies the water for those of us who think we’ve got it down pat, whether its our understanding about God, or our understanding about the world around us, our air-tight ethics and philosophy on life, or our confidence in our superiority—and we each think we are superior in some way.
I have been revisiting the writings of the late Henri Nouwen, a prolific writer on Christian spirituality. Nouwen was a Catholic priest who taught pastoral psychology and theology at some of the countries most distinguished academic institutions. He wrote over forty books, was a sought out speaker and teacher. Apparently many days during the academic year, students would gather around Henri as he randomly opened the Bible, found a scripture passage, and would begin to speak to the scripture at hand--sometimes up to an hour he could speak in this impromptu fashion. To use our “muddied” language, Henri Nouwen was a “muckity muck” among the upper echelons of theological academia.
In his book In the Name of Jesus, Henri reflects on the threat that he faced, even in the midst of such comfortable notoriety and position. He said that after twenty years of being a teacher, he wondered if it brought him any closer to Jesus, and he realized he still had a long way to go. So Henri moved from Harvard to a L’Arche community called Daybreak, a residential community for people with mental and physical disabilities. He moved there to be a chaplain and a full community member. He went to find a renewed purpose in his ministry. In his words, “I moved from Harvard to L’Arche, from the best and the brightest, wanting to rule the world, to men and women who had few or no words and were considered, at best, marginal to the needs of our society.” (In the Name of Jesus) He continues, “The first thing that struck me when I came to live in a house with mentally handicapped people was that their liking or disliking me had absolutely nothing to do with any of the many useful things I had done until then. Since nobody could ready my books, the books could not impress anyone, and since most of them never went to school, my twenty years at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard did not provide a significant introduction. My considerable ecumenical experience proved even less valuable….In a way, it seemed as though I was starting my life all over again. Relationships, connections, reputations [that I once had] could no longer be counted on.”
So for Henri, when the ivory towers of academia made way for the dirt roads of the community living, he was faced with a muddy reality—he was no less impaired than those who became his family at Daybreak. Sure, it may not have been so obvious – his limbs worked, his mind was sharp, his level of functioning just where it should be for a man his age. But he was aware of how his spirit at times had been blind, and he was in need of care as much as any of his community members.
Sister Sue Mosteller, one of Henri’s community members at Daybreak remembered the following at Henri’s memorial service in 1996: “People coming to Daybreak usually arrive in their jeans, carrying a backpack. Henri came in a caravan of cars, with friends accompanying him to his new home. The last thing to pull into the driveway was a moving van! He entered into our midst in a whirlwind and we, as a community, to suddenly have this well-known, well-loved celebrity in our midst, were shaken to our foundations! I believe that soon after his arrival, when Henri realized the intensity of the demands of life in community, he was shaken to the foundation of his life as well! We invited [Henri] to care for [a man named] Adam, and to learn Adam’s routine of care. Adam was to become Henri’s friend, mentor, and guide. We said, “Could you wake [Adam] in the morning and help him to get up, bathe him, dress him, feed him, and help him get off to work?” At first Henri was frightened because he had never done that for anyone before, but it soon became a very significant and important moment in his day. Adam was a man who was silent and who never read any of Henri’s books, but he taught Henri about presence, about giving and receiving peace from one another, and about compassion and care. Adam gave himself totally into Henri’s hands, offering himself in his poverty to be washed, dressed, fed, and cared for… Adam was a wonderful teacher.” (Seeds of Hope: A Henri Nouwen Reader.)
In our lives, we rarely have such opportunities to have such dramatic awakenings, to have our eyelids held open by the healer of all misperceptions and have them vigorously bathed in mud. But there are moments in every day and unconscious moments of decision making that ask us – “How are we going to see this situation?” “How are we going to judge this person?” “How are we going to move through this day?” We have the choice of taking the easy road where we can put our lives on cruise control, on the flat smooth asphalt of life (which if we admit it, is really only an illusion) or getting off to experience the muddy, and yes, often bumpy roads of the life that Jesus models for us.
But I don’t think this is easy, and I know I certainly haven’t bathed in the mud bath as much as I should. There is a lot at stake when we receive new sight, isn’t there? To live in darkness and to suddenly see light, colors, shapes, motion—it is a dramatic change. Those who thought they had the world perfectly in line with who was in, and who was out, what was sin, and what was holy, who was relevant and who was disposable…they had a lot to lose if they were to give up their spiritual blindness. We have a lot to loose too. So, no, I don’t think it is easy, and like in my sermon two weeks ago about being born again, I doubt it happens like this miracle story—where we are the blind man who automatically receives his sight. Rather we see what Jesus has done, what Jesus offers, and we are invited to dabble in the mud. While we may be like the religious authorities, or the doubting neighbors, we strive to be the blind man who is healed, putting on the mud, bit by bit.
Christian communities mark the beginning of Lent during Ash Wednesday with a marking of ashes on their foreheads. Our congregation did not hold an Ash Wednesday service this year, rather we participated with a neighboring church. During our waiting worship, I invite you if you feel led, to come forward and receiving a mark of mud on your forehead, a response to Christ’s invitation to receive the mud of new sight.
Can we take on the difficult new life, relinquishing our spiritual blindness? I pray that we can. We are invited out of the depths, into new sight.
1 Samuel 16.1-13, John 9.1-41
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 4
Our Lenten Journey is halfway through. Over that past three weeks we have explored our own place in a rowdy caravan as we make ourselves through the wilderness, like the Israelites did so long ago. The broader theme for our worship through Lent has been “Out of the depths.” We have explored the ways we are deeply affected by the abyss of sin, injustice, intolerance, impatience. First we spoke about coming out of the depths and into the wilderness, where we looked at what we might do to prepare for continuing our ministry, both as a congregation and as individuals…an area that certainly has its temptations for taking the easy way, the path of the religious and social status quo. Two weeks ago we were invited out of the depths and into new birth where we might broaden our sense of how God works in our lives, so we might be born again by growing in compassion and love. And last week, we were encouraged out of the depths and into the open, where our spirits become receptive to the mysterious works of God, and as we confronted our own impatient and complaining spirits. We have been invited out of the depths…into the wilderness…into new birth…into the open.
This week we are invited out of the depths and into new sight. I love the image on the front of the bulletin this morning. In the heart of the earth, under the undulating hills, comes the mud that gives us new vision. It is such an involved picture as well. The hands aren’t just patting the mud on the eye, or carefully dabbing it on. The hands are holding open the eyes and rubbing the goopy stuff onto it. Slathering it on. What do you think? Are those eyelids resisting? Are they flinching? Is it like going to the optometrist and being the victim to one those annoying glaucoma tests? Do you know what I’m talking about? The kind where the puff of air explodes onto your eye? It seems like no matter how much I am prepared for it, how much I steady myself, it always, always makes me jump.
And I am ever visioning mud these days. This week Torin and I used the precious evening hours after Sebastian is put down for bed to pour over the seed catalogs we received, peering out through the swirling snow visualizing our garden in the back yard. We have been imaging the first green of spinach and peas, the bold purple and red of the eggplants and tomatoes, the playful vines of the orange squash. I can’t wait to dig in the dirt. I can’t wait for the spring rains to come and turn that dirt into mud. Not this mud we track in the house on those teasingly mild February days, but the mud that comes from the spring rains that nourish the newly planted seeds.
But then, when it comes to mud, it doesn’t seem as though Jesus is very particular. He spits, he stirs, its mud. No big deal, no miracle there. It is easy enough to make mud, but have you ever stopped to wonder, why did he do that? There are precious few times that Jesus chooses to use anything in his miracle making. We often think all that is needed is his touch, sometimes not even that. We often think he needs only to mutter the words “Be healed,” but sometimes he doesn’t even have to do that! Sometimes people are healed miles away from him without any contact, or utterance of words, certainly not any mud.
And isn’t mud a funny thing to use, anyway. That mud should bring clarity of sight flies against the contemporary metaphors we often use. To say something is clear as mud, of course, is used as an ironic play on words. For something to “muddy the waters” means to complicate matters. Sometimes we say that things are muddy, not clear, such as “his intentions are a bit muddy.” And I particularly love this variation on the word mud: muddled. Now I’m not sure if this word has its root in the word mud, but we certainly evoke the characteristics of mud when we use it : “I muddled through my work this week,” or “I am muddling through my taxes” or “I muddled through the Gospel according to John,” which is widely shared muddling, let me assure you. The only positive saying I can think of regarding mud is the age-old toast, “Here’s mud in your eye.” Perhaps not a biblically-inspired saying, but it infers something positive, hopeful, good luck, a blessing even. Perchance, if we wallow in mud for a while, we might see something new.
So, here’s mud in your eye. It might seem strange, but there it is, that’s what Jesus uses. But the story doesn’t stop with the mud and the man gaining his sight back, which might tell us something important. It’s easy to see the stories of the miracles and focus solely on those who are immediately healed. But often, if we delve into many of the miracle stories, we find that they aren’t simply about the miracle themselves, or about what Jesus did or didn’t use to perform them. They aren’t solely about the people who found healing from Jesus. These miracle stories expose something. They point to who Jesus is. They point to who we are. And more often than not, we aren’t the ones in the story who become healed. We read these stories in our woundedness, as people who long to be healed. As you experienced with our “congregational acting troupe,” and their Oscar-winning dramatization, there are lots of people involved in this story. There’s Jesus, the disciples, the blind man who becomes a seeing man, there are neighbors, there are religious authorities, there are parents.
If we look at the story beyond the first miracle, we might ask ourselves, who is it that is really blind? Who lacks vision? Who lacks perspective? At the end of the story, Jesus gives a clear as mud explanation that those who thought they saw everything clearly were really hazy in their perceptions on sin, on Jesus, on the poor, on the differently-abled, on Sabbath, on God. Jesus muddies the water for those of us who think we’ve got it down pat, whether its our understanding about God, or our understanding about the world around us, our air-tight ethics and philosophy on life, or our confidence in our superiority—and we each think we are superior in some way.
I have been revisiting the writings of the late Henri Nouwen, a prolific writer on Christian spirituality. Nouwen was a Catholic priest who taught pastoral psychology and theology at some of the countries most distinguished academic institutions. He wrote over forty books, was a sought out speaker and teacher. Apparently many days during the academic year, students would gather around Henri as he randomly opened the Bible, found a scripture passage, and would begin to speak to the scripture at hand--sometimes up to an hour he could speak in this impromptu fashion. To use our “muddied” language, Henri Nouwen was a “muckity muck” among the upper echelons of theological academia.
In his book In the Name of Jesus, Henri reflects on the threat that he faced, even in the midst of such comfortable notoriety and position. He said that after twenty years of being a teacher, he wondered if it brought him any closer to Jesus, and he realized he still had a long way to go. So Henri moved from Harvard to a L’Arche community called Daybreak, a residential community for people with mental and physical disabilities. He moved there to be a chaplain and a full community member. He went to find a renewed purpose in his ministry. In his words, “I moved from Harvard to L’Arche, from the best and the brightest, wanting to rule the world, to men and women who had few or no words and were considered, at best, marginal to the needs of our society.” (In the Name of Jesus) He continues, “The first thing that struck me when I came to live in a house with mentally handicapped people was that their liking or disliking me had absolutely nothing to do with any of the many useful things I had done until then. Since nobody could ready my books, the books could not impress anyone, and since most of them never went to school, my twenty years at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard did not provide a significant introduction. My considerable ecumenical experience proved even less valuable….In a way, it seemed as though I was starting my life all over again. Relationships, connections, reputations [that I once had] could no longer be counted on.”
So for Henri, when the ivory towers of academia made way for the dirt roads of the community living, he was faced with a muddy reality—he was no less impaired than those who became his family at Daybreak. Sure, it may not have been so obvious – his limbs worked, his mind was sharp, his level of functioning just where it should be for a man his age. But he was aware of how his spirit at times had been blind, and he was in need of care as much as any of his community members.
Sister Sue Mosteller, one of Henri’s community members at Daybreak remembered the following at Henri’s memorial service in 1996: “People coming to Daybreak usually arrive in their jeans, carrying a backpack. Henri came in a caravan of cars, with friends accompanying him to his new home. The last thing to pull into the driveway was a moving van! He entered into our midst in a whirlwind and we, as a community, to suddenly have this well-known, well-loved celebrity in our midst, were shaken to our foundations! I believe that soon after his arrival, when Henri realized the intensity of the demands of life in community, he was shaken to the foundation of his life as well! We invited [Henri] to care for [a man named] Adam, and to learn Adam’s routine of care. Adam was to become Henri’s friend, mentor, and guide. We said, “Could you wake [Adam] in the morning and help him to get up, bathe him, dress him, feed him, and help him get off to work?” At first Henri was frightened because he had never done that for anyone before, but it soon became a very significant and important moment in his day. Adam was a man who was silent and who never read any of Henri’s books, but he taught Henri about presence, about giving and receiving peace from one another, and about compassion and care. Adam gave himself totally into Henri’s hands, offering himself in his poverty to be washed, dressed, fed, and cared for… Adam was a wonderful teacher.” (Seeds of Hope: A Henri Nouwen Reader.)
In our lives, we rarely have such opportunities to have such dramatic awakenings, to have our eyelids held open by the healer of all misperceptions and have them vigorously bathed in mud. But there are moments in every day and unconscious moments of decision making that ask us – “How are we going to see this situation?” “How are we going to judge this person?” “How are we going to move through this day?” We have the choice of taking the easy road where we can put our lives on cruise control, on the flat smooth asphalt of life (which if we admit it, is really only an illusion) or getting off to experience the muddy, and yes, often bumpy roads of the life that Jesus models for us.
But I don’t think this is easy, and I know I certainly haven’t bathed in the mud bath as much as I should. There is a lot at stake when we receive new sight, isn’t there? To live in darkness and to suddenly see light, colors, shapes, motion—it is a dramatic change. Those who thought they had the world perfectly in line with who was in, and who was out, what was sin, and what was holy, who was relevant and who was disposable…they had a lot to lose if they were to give up their spiritual blindness. We have a lot to loose too. So, no, I don’t think it is easy, and like in my sermon two weeks ago about being born again, I doubt it happens like this miracle story—where we are the blind man who automatically receives his sight. Rather we see what Jesus has done, what Jesus offers, and we are invited to dabble in the mud. While we may be like the religious authorities, or the doubting neighbors, we strive to be the blind man who is healed, putting on the mud, bit by bit.
Christian communities mark the beginning of Lent during Ash Wednesday with a marking of ashes on their foreheads. Our congregation did not hold an Ash Wednesday service this year, rather we participated with a neighboring church. During our waiting worship, I invite you if you feel led, to come forward and receiving a mark of mud on your forehead, a response to Christ’s invitation to receive the mud of new sight.
Can we take on the difficult new life, relinquishing our spiritual blindness? I pray that we can. We are invited out of the depths, into new sight.
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