Sermon Series: The Things that Make for Peace
incomplete sermon by Carrie Eikler
Isaiah 65:17-25
I hope you might agree with me, that one of the benefits of not having your regular pastors giving sermons every week, is the opportunity to hear new, or at least, different voices from the pulpit. While Torin and I were on parental leave, you had the chance to hear others bring their perspective and interpretations to the community. It was a blessing for me to finally be able to hear Reba Thurmond speak. She shared with me how much she loves coming to speak here, and I know many of us appreciate the message she often shares.
And as we conclude our series on “the things that make for peace,” I wanted to come back to something Reba shared, a frightful number that sends my mind reeling at the depths of human destruction. If you weren’t here, hold on to your hats. Reba shared the work of Will and Ariel Durant, from their 1968 book entitled Lessons of History. Now, I will take liberty with the dates since this was published 41 years ago. Out of the last 3,462 years of recorded history, only 268 of those them were years of no war. 268. And this was written at the beginning of the Viet Nam War, yet to see the First Gulf War, 9-11 and Afghanistan, the Second Gulf War, the military dictatorships of Central America in the 80s and 90s, Rwanda, Bosnia, etc. etc.
I wonder what those 268 years looked like. I notice they reference these years as years with “no war,” not years of “peace.” I imagine the number of years of peace would be much smaller. But then, it is probably because there are different understanding of what peace means. For some peace does simply mean “no war.” But for others, including the prophet Isaiah as we have read this morning, peace is something much more. And therefore more difficult. Visions of peace are not universal by any means. What may seem “peaceful” to one group of people may simply be repression, or indifference.
I’m reminded of what many of us probably learned in history or Western Civilization courses regarding the Pax Romana, or the “Peace of Rome”. (27BC-180AD) Many understand this to be a …
This idea is playfully recreated by the British comedy troupe, Monty Python, in their 1979 movie “The Life of Brian.” In this film, a child named Brian who was born on the same night as Jesus, just in the stable down the road from Jesus’ birthplace in Bethlehem. Brian, like Jesus and all Palestinians at the time, attempts to make sense of a life that is lived under Roman occupation. In one scene, we see a group of radical activists talking politics. One man Reg, is bemoaning the presence of their oppressors, while the rest of the group brings a different opinion.
Reg begins his diatribe on the Romans with “They’ve bled us…They’ve taken everything we had, and not just from us, but from our fathers, and our father’s fathers, and our father’s father’s fathers,” etc. “And what have [the Romans] ever given us in return?” To which one of the other faithful, innocently states, “the aqueduct?” and another says, “and the sanitation,” and yet another replies honestly, “and the roads.” Well, this builds and builds until Reg in his frustration explodes: “All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?” And one last voice squeaks, “Brought peace?”
Yes, all these wonderful things were brought by the Roman Empire. It would seem that with all these wonderful, progressive improvements, those living in the Empire should be happy and content with the benevolent power. But was it really peace? While this time of the Pax Romana did not see the bloodshed of other times in Rome’s history, Rome still had to use its military power in order to quell rebellions. While benefiting from what Rome brought to the people of Palestine, I wonder if those non-Romans—the Jews, the Galileans, the Egyptians, the—if they actually felt safe, and at peace.
After all, the events of our Christian story take place during this time of “relative peace.” As I read the gospel accounts of Jesus’ life and times, I don’t get a sense that it was one real peace. I don’t think killing prophets who spoke of God’s power and a new order is the sign of a stable and secure peace. I don’t think that a political and social order that creates and thrives on marginalizing people, impoverishing people, killing people, and degrading people is an order that is even in “relative peace.”
So yes, the roads, the sanitation, the education, irrigation are all signs of a powerful nation. But are they signs of a peaceful one? Is this a vision of peace that reflects what Isaiah speaks of? That Christ embodied?
And in a way, I think we Americans live under the same vision. Our standard of living is the highest in the world, we have roads, education, medicine, opportunities to exercise our freedoms of speech, worship, and of course, our freedom to buy buy buy! This is the stuff of the good life we may think. Even though we are waging two regional wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Americans still believe that we have this good life, a life of peace here at home. But is that the case? Is this the new earth and new heavens that Isaiah speaks of? Do we live in true peace or just a vision that we want to believe?
Isaiah’s vision is not one of peace equals no war, or peace equals prosperity, or even peace equals opportunity. In our conditioning to see the world as a game of power, of manipulating other sides, of getting what each individual wants and deserves, Isaiah… "Pay close attention now: I'm creating new heavens and a new earth. All the earlier troubles, chaos, and pain are things of the past, to be forgotten. Look ahead with joy. Anticipate what I'm creating: I'll create Jerusalem as sheer joy, create my people as pure delight. I'll take joy in Jerusalem, take delight in my people: No more sounds of weeping in the city, no cries of anguish; No more babies dying in the cradle, or old people who don't enjoy a full lifetime; One-hundredth birthdays will be considered normal— anything less will seem like a cheat. They'll build houses and move in. They'll plant fields and eat what they grow. No more building a house that some outsider takes over, No more planting fields that some enemy confiscates, For my people will be as long-lived as trees, my chosen ones will have satisfaction in their work. They won't work and have nothing come of it, they won't have children snatched out from under them. For they themselves are plantings blessed by God, with their children and grandchildren likewise God-blessed. Before they call out, I'll answer. Before they've finished speaking, I'll have heard. Wolf and lamb will graze the same meadow, lion and ox eat straw from the same trough, but snakes—they'll get a diet of dirt! Neither animal nor human will hurt or kill anywhere on my Holy Mountain," says God.
How about this vision? Is it as delusional as saying the Pax Romana was truly a peaceful time, or that the American lifestyle reflects a just measure of abundance, therefore we can feel at peace? Is this just another ideological poet speaking flowery feel good words—some hippy talking about utopian ideals, the Shangri-la of good intentions? Some might say they are closer to hallucinations than visions!
Yet Isaiah is not a feel-good prophet. There is plenty of fiery speech and judgmental pronouncements in Isaiah’s words, in the other 65 chapters of his words.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Puzzling Out Unity
Sermon Series: The Things that Make for Peace
sermon by Torin Eikler
Colossians 3:12-17 Ephesians 4:1-16
Have you ever seen a painting by Kandinsky? Or a stained glass window by Chagall? Or a Rembrant? All three artists work with colors very creatively as they express their own particular take on some theme, but they produce very, very different results. Kandinsky is well known for canvases covered in swirls and geometric designs defined in bright colors that represent something – though you would have to know what he had in mind before you could have a chance of figuring it out on your own. Chagall’s work is much more fluid though equally colorful. His windows tell stories. Usually they are scenes from the volumes of Christian folklore telling the stories of martyrs and prophets, saints and sinners in the watery, flowing medium of light streaming through stained glass. And Rembrant is the guy who painted all those little angels: bored, excited, naughty little cherubs that some think give you an idea about artist’s emotional perspective as he was working on each particular piece.
I was fortunate to grow up with these four artists and many, many more as a part of my education and not just as pictures in books. The English classes that I was a part of in Junior High and High School were a bit unique. We were always a small group, and we followed a different curriculum than most of the students. That meant that we got to do a lot of extra things: attend plays, work with mentors in the community, study the oh-so-fascinating details of grammar, and write several extra papers among others. But the one thing that we all looked forward to was our annual class trip to Chicago and the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue.
Wandering through that museum each year, I walked past wall after wall of famous paintings most of which I have no memory of. One year, there was a special exhibition of modern art sculpture with pieces like “Hoovers in Repose” – a collection of three 1950-60s model Hoover vacuums leaning back on each other in a strange sort of circle – and “Mobil #3” – a group of about 20 items taken from a public park trash can and hanging from invisible wires above our heads. Each year, I would dutifully look at stylistic or thematic sections we were suppose to be appreciating, and then I would take some time to stand in front of the one Rembrant, the three O’Keefe flowers, the two or three Kandinskys, and the Chagall window in the front. But, the place that I always found myself - sitting or standing - almost without realizing it, was in front of the Seurot painting “A Sunday on the Grand Jatte.”
Seurot, for those of you who don’t know, was a pointillist, and is probably the best known pointillist in the world. His well-known works are large canvases covered with circular dots of paint about the size of a large pencil eraser, each dot distinct and separated from the others by exactly the same amount of space (or so it seems.) Up close, they look like the little LED bulbs that make up tail-lights on a semi trailer or a child’s pre-colored water color (the kind where the paint is already imbedding in the paper and you just use a wet paint brush to make the picture come to life.) The farther away from the painting you get, the more the dots come together, disappearing in your eye as a scene from daily life takes form – in this case, a park on one Sunday afternoon in 1880s Paris.
Paul, too, was an artist. His palette was the words he wrote in his letters. His canvas was the faith community. That was a tricky medium. So easy for words to be misconstrued. So important to pay attention to inflexion and context. So many different hearts and minds from all different backgrounds – Jews and gentiles, wealthy and poor, wise, foolish, strong, weak, bold, meek. Given all this uncertainty, you might think that the results would be a muddy mess, but Paul shows himself to be one of the greats. His work not only helped support and encourage the congregations he pastored, it still speaks volumes to us today.
The base layer – the foundation that Paul lays for his work – is painted in bold strokes. All of us, he says, will have gifts – talents, skills, and passions granted to us by Christ. Some will be apostles, holding in trust the authority of the master.
They are the elders (though they are not always elderly).
Weighty Brethren …or an equivalent term in the Mennonite church
The ones we go to for advice when we are struggling because we all respect
them, and though they may sit silently for a long time, when they open their mouths, everyone stops to listen because when they speak, wisdom flows.
Others will be prophets, hearing the voice of the Spirit and passing on that inspiration to the rest of us.
Our conscience, they listen to the still small voice and call us back, again
and again, to the vision God has for us as a people.
Some will be evangelists, ranging across the world to share the promise of the Realm of God and the hope we have in Christ.
Missionaries ... overseas and at home.
The ones who cannot help but share the good news they hold
and find ways to do it that are not imposing or absolute but
inviting and welcoming.
Others will be pastors, shepherding communities of faith through their spiritual journeys.
They help us find ways through the dark and dangerous times of our
lives.
They guide us back to the green fields for nourishment…
The deep, still waters that refresh our faith.
Still others will be teachers, opening the scriptures, the traditions of the church, and the great mysteries to the minds of believers.
They hold the storehouse of our knowledge.
Through study and inspiration they have found their way deep into
the wonders and challenges that live in our holy books and the
wisdom that comes from our ancestors in the faith.
Their curiosity compels them to explore the mysteries of theology
and spirituality, faith and science.
Their flexible minds and skills as moving from one perspective to
another serve us all as they pass on what they have learned.
And, though he does not say it outright, Paul implies that many will have other gifts and callings to other work within the body of faith. Deacons to care for the needs of the community. Those who speak in tongues of angels or the language of music and art, and their counterparts who can interpret their words. Administrators and other workers with skilled hands and logical minds who keep things running smoothly and prevent little problems from gumming up the works. Prayer partners to hold us all – the whole world and each living things within it – before the presence of God, opening paths for grace to flow. Story-tellers to hold our past and our traditions as living, vibrant things rather than flat words on a page.
Every one of us here and every one of God’s children near or far has a special role, a unique color to add to the mix. And Paul splashes these colors – bright primaries and secondaries, subtle undertones that give depth, rich hues that glow – splashes them freely across the canvas as he describes each distinct element that makes up the body of believers.
Then after outlining the image of God’s people in these bold strokes, the master moves on to another layer that begins to bring shape and form. Stepping back from the canvas, Paul invites us to take a broader perspective. With a delicate brush filled from the palette of unity and peace he begins an overlay in which all those pieces begin to fit into a large whole.
Humility, gentleness, kindness, compassion, meekness, and patience… these are the things that hold it all together. With these things, shared in common by all, the bright flashes of passion and talent are molded together into one. One body – the body of believers – brought together by the promise of Christ. One Spirit – the spirit of peace – bringing inspiration and hope to each of us and to the world. One faith expressed through baptism and service to the will of the One God who made us all and whose great love redeems and saves us – who is above all, through all, and within all.
The interesting thing about that painting by Seurot, probably the thing that kept me coming back, was that I could never get far enough away from the canvas to see the whole without seeing the dots as well. Always, the picture was just a little fuzzy – a little soft – because of the style the artist chose to use and the context in which I saw it. It kept me moving back and forth from the details to the larger whole, and with each circuit I discovered something new, learned a little more about the scene itself and the artist who painted it.
Paul’s letters do the same thing as they describe the body of Christ. We read them and we ponder, moving back and forth because we just can’t seem to get far enough away for it to come into focus. It’s much easier to focus on each little piece – our own piece or that of another – than it is to understand the whole, but we are drawn to try again and again by the intriguing way things seem to come together.
It happens on all different levels. When we try to understand the Christian church as a whole with all its different incarnations and all its mixed up history, we swing back and forth from the big picture to the details. When we look at our particular denominations, we find the whole a little undefined and each detail leads us to another until we are standing back trying to grasp the big picture once again. Our own congregation stands on the edge of an exploration in the same vein as we seek to understand each other’s gifts, talents, and passions and how they will come together in the greater body of our ministry together. Even within ourselves, we feel the reflective movement of discipleship as we move from particular expressions of faith and passion to explore the holistic expression of our faith in our lives and back again.
On every level, we know there is a bigger picture, but at best we see it darkly and it stays fuzzy in our minds. Yet, our wondering takes us back and forth, and we learn a little more about ourselves and each other even as we come to understand the entire body and the one who created it a little better. Somehow, in the midst of all the shifting – all the searching movement inward and outward – everything holds together. And, it will hold together as long as we remember compassion and patience and humility – bearing with one another in love. With that as our glue, we will continue to learn and become, growing in the unity of the faith, growing in the Spirit of peace, and growing up in every way into Christ who stands with us and among us.
sermon by Torin Eikler
Colossians 3:12-17 Ephesians 4:1-16
Have you ever seen a painting by Kandinsky? Or a stained glass window by Chagall? Or a Rembrant? All three artists work with colors very creatively as they express their own particular take on some theme, but they produce very, very different results. Kandinsky is well known for canvases covered in swirls and geometric designs defined in bright colors that represent something – though you would have to know what he had in mind before you could have a chance of figuring it out on your own. Chagall’s work is much more fluid though equally colorful. His windows tell stories. Usually they are scenes from the volumes of Christian folklore telling the stories of martyrs and prophets, saints and sinners in the watery, flowing medium of light streaming through stained glass. And Rembrant is the guy who painted all those little angels: bored, excited, naughty little cherubs that some think give you an idea about artist’s emotional perspective as he was working on each particular piece.
I was fortunate to grow up with these four artists and many, many more as a part of my education and not just as pictures in books. The English classes that I was a part of in Junior High and High School were a bit unique. We were always a small group, and we followed a different curriculum than most of the students. That meant that we got to do a lot of extra things: attend plays, work with mentors in the community, study the oh-so-fascinating details of grammar, and write several extra papers among others. But the one thing that we all looked forward to was our annual class trip to Chicago and the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue.
Wandering through that museum each year, I walked past wall after wall of famous paintings most of which I have no memory of. One year, there was a special exhibition of modern art sculpture with pieces like “Hoovers in Repose” – a collection of three 1950-60s model Hoover vacuums leaning back on each other in a strange sort of circle – and “Mobil #3” – a group of about 20 items taken from a public park trash can and hanging from invisible wires above our heads. Each year, I would dutifully look at stylistic or thematic sections we were suppose to be appreciating, and then I would take some time to stand in front of the one Rembrant, the three O’Keefe flowers, the two or three Kandinskys, and the Chagall window in the front. But, the place that I always found myself - sitting or standing - almost without realizing it, was in front of the Seurot painting “A Sunday on the Grand Jatte.”
Seurot, for those of you who don’t know, was a pointillist, and is probably the best known pointillist in the world. His well-known works are large canvases covered with circular dots of paint about the size of a large pencil eraser, each dot distinct and separated from the others by exactly the same amount of space (or so it seems.) Up close, they look like the little LED bulbs that make up tail-lights on a semi trailer or a child’s pre-colored water color (the kind where the paint is already imbedding in the paper and you just use a wet paint brush to make the picture come to life.) The farther away from the painting you get, the more the dots come together, disappearing in your eye as a scene from daily life takes form – in this case, a park on one Sunday afternoon in 1880s Paris.
Paul, too, was an artist. His palette was the words he wrote in his letters. His canvas was the faith community. That was a tricky medium. So easy for words to be misconstrued. So important to pay attention to inflexion and context. So many different hearts and minds from all different backgrounds – Jews and gentiles, wealthy and poor, wise, foolish, strong, weak, bold, meek. Given all this uncertainty, you might think that the results would be a muddy mess, but Paul shows himself to be one of the greats. His work not only helped support and encourage the congregations he pastored, it still speaks volumes to us today.
The base layer – the foundation that Paul lays for his work – is painted in bold strokes. All of us, he says, will have gifts – talents, skills, and passions granted to us by Christ. Some will be apostles, holding in trust the authority of the master.
They are the elders (though they are not always elderly).
Weighty Brethren …or an equivalent term in the Mennonite church
The ones we go to for advice when we are struggling because we all respect
them, and though they may sit silently for a long time, when they open their mouths, everyone stops to listen because when they speak, wisdom flows.
Others will be prophets, hearing the voice of the Spirit and passing on that inspiration to the rest of us.
Our conscience, they listen to the still small voice and call us back, again
and again, to the vision God has for us as a people.
Some will be evangelists, ranging across the world to share the promise of the Realm of God and the hope we have in Christ.
Missionaries ... overseas and at home.
The ones who cannot help but share the good news they hold
and find ways to do it that are not imposing or absolute but
inviting and welcoming.
Others will be pastors, shepherding communities of faith through their spiritual journeys.
They help us find ways through the dark and dangerous times of our
lives.
They guide us back to the green fields for nourishment…
The deep, still waters that refresh our faith.
Still others will be teachers, opening the scriptures, the traditions of the church, and the great mysteries to the minds of believers.
They hold the storehouse of our knowledge.
Through study and inspiration they have found their way deep into
the wonders and challenges that live in our holy books and the
wisdom that comes from our ancestors in the faith.
Their curiosity compels them to explore the mysteries of theology
and spirituality, faith and science.
Their flexible minds and skills as moving from one perspective to
another serve us all as they pass on what they have learned.
And, though he does not say it outright, Paul implies that many will have other gifts and callings to other work within the body of faith. Deacons to care for the needs of the community. Those who speak in tongues of angels or the language of music and art, and their counterparts who can interpret their words. Administrators and other workers with skilled hands and logical minds who keep things running smoothly and prevent little problems from gumming up the works. Prayer partners to hold us all – the whole world and each living things within it – before the presence of God, opening paths for grace to flow. Story-tellers to hold our past and our traditions as living, vibrant things rather than flat words on a page.
Every one of us here and every one of God’s children near or far has a special role, a unique color to add to the mix. And Paul splashes these colors – bright primaries and secondaries, subtle undertones that give depth, rich hues that glow – splashes them freely across the canvas as he describes each distinct element that makes up the body of believers.
Then after outlining the image of God’s people in these bold strokes, the master moves on to another layer that begins to bring shape and form. Stepping back from the canvas, Paul invites us to take a broader perspective. With a delicate brush filled from the palette of unity and peace he begins an overlay in which all those pieces begin to fit into a large whole.
Humility, gentleness, kindness, compassion, meekness, and patience… these are the things that hold it all together. With these things, shared in common by all, the bright flashes of passion and talent are molded together into one. One body – the body of believers – brought together by the promise of Christ. One Spirit – the spirit of peace – bringing inspiration and hope to each of us and to the world. One faith expressed through baptism and service to the will of the One God who made us all and whose great love redeems and saves us – who is above all, through all, and within all.
The interesting thing about that painting by Seurot, probably the thing that kept me coming back, was that I could never get far enough away from the canvas to see the whole without seeing the dots as well. Always, the picture was just a little fuzzy – a little soft – because of the style the artist chose to use and the context in which I saw it. It kept me moving back and forth from the details to the larger whole, and with each circuit I discovered something new, learned a little more about the scene itself and the artist who painted it.
Paul’s letters do the same thing as they describe the body of Christ. We read them and we ponder, moving back and forth because we just can’t seem to get far enough away for it to come into focus. It’s much easier to focus on each little piece – our own piece or that of another – than it is to understand the whole, but we are drawn to try again and again by the intriguing way things seem to come together.
It happens on all different levels. When we try to understand the Christian church as a whole with all its different incarnations and all its mixed up history, we swing back and forth from the big picture to the details. When we look at our particular denominations, we find the whole a little undefined and each detail leads us to another until we are standing back trying to grasp the big picture once again. Our own congregation stands on the edge of an exploration in the same vein as we seek to understand each other’s gifts, talents, and passions and how they will come together in the greater body of our ministry together. Even within ourselves, we feel the reflective movement of discipleship as we move from particular expressions of faith and passion to explore the holistic expression of our faith in our lives and back again.
On every level, we know there is a bigger picture, but at best we see it darkly and it stays fuzzy in our minds. Yet, our wondering takes us back and forth, and we learn a little more about ourselves and each other even as we come to understand the entire body and the one who created it a little better. Somehow, in the midst of all the shifting – all the searching movement inward and outward – everything holds together. And, it will hold together as long as we remember compassion and patience and humility – bearing with one another in love. With that as our glue, we will continue to learn and become, growing in the unity of the faith, growing in the Spirit of peace, and growing up in every way into Christ who stands with us and among us.
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