sermon by Carrie Eikler
John 12:20-33
5th Sunday in Lent
Our family has had a real dose of Easter fever this week. Recently we have made a few trips to the store, Southern States, in search of onion sets, asparagus crowns, peat pots and the like. If you have been to Southern States in the last few weeks you will remember what is right in the middle of the entry way. Two huge tubs: one with tiny yellow chicks prancing around under a heat lamp, the other filled with baby bunny rabbits, each vying for seems be the premium spot to make ones bed: strangely enough, the food bowl. Sebastian was enthralled, wanted to touch, pick up, hug, cuddle, pet these soft furry creatures.
Unfortunately for Sebastian patrons aren’t suppose to touch the animals. Unfortunately for me, they were out of asparagus crowns.
Torin told me about the bunnies ahead of time. He and the boys saw them there earlier in the week. We thought when Sebastian is a little older, and he learns to stop tormenting Moses the cat, we might get him a bunny to take care of. So I joked as we got in the car to head to Southern States: “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring home a bunny?” I asked. We chuckled, but then I remembered a sad fact.
Somewhere, whether a newspaper article, or radio report, or a circulated e-mail…somewhere it was encouraging people NOT to buy bunnies and chicks at Eastertime.
Apparently, there is a huge demand for these fuzzy symbols of the season in the weeks leading up to Easter. But after Easter passes, and maybe around the time that school is out, children get bored with their bunnies and chicks and begin to neglect their pets. So this article, or e-mail, or whatever reputable source of information I had was discouraging people from contributing to the pre-Easter demand, practice a little Lenten patience, and if they still wanted a new pet, to wait till summer.
Trying to curb the cycle of consumer excitement and consumer neglect is a tricky task, especially with cute bunnies and chicks.
So we do not have any new pets at home. All in all, I thought it was a good practice in restraint. And while we didn’t purchase one of these non-religious symbols of Easter, it gave me a little dose of the emotional paradox we confront during the season of Lent. We begin the year with joyful Christmas proclamations, spend some time exploring the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, we’re feeling pretty good about faith and discipleship and then BAM! It’s Lent and we are forced to confront a difficult reality: the death of Jesus.
And if we scratch the surface a bit more, we also confront the entire topic of death: our own death, the death of people we loved, our fear of death, our close-encounters with death. Some sisters and brothers in our own congregation are facing this right now, either living in the shadow of the death of loved one, or anticipating the likely death of a friend.
The difference between Christmas and Lent is like having a child glowing with the possibility of bunnies and chicks, only to have an overly-conscious, and perhaps guilt-ridden, mother say “no” to all the fun.
Perhaps this analogy is a bit far-fetched. But who wouldn’t rather skip over Lent, and go straight from Christmas to Easter, birth to resurrection, light to light? But instead, we are invited to spend time in a dark period of reflecting on our mortality, contemplating the darker sides of our lives, sweeping out the dark corners of our souls so light can shine more clearly. We are invited to contemplate death, and even venture into the question that every parent of a toddler is faced with, whether or not they are asking for a bunny rabbit: the question “why?”
The day after Christmas this past year, two of our friends and colleagues, Phil and Louie Baldwin-Rieman, were killed instantly in a car accident. We were good friends with their children. Torin’s dad grew up with Louie, both missionary kids in Nigeria. They worked tirelessly for peace and spent much of their lives walking with brothers and sisters in Africa. When they died they were co-pastoring a Church of the Brethren in Indianapolis.
As we reflected on Phil and Louie’s death with a friend, it was evident that our questions about these deaths made us think anew about God’s working within death. Their deaths just didn’t make sense. There was no disease that took them. It wasn’t an end to any long drawn out-suffering. There was no martyrdom. There was no sigh of relief that the struggle was now over. Just a random patch of ice and bad winter weather. Our friend put it well. She said, “I don’t necessarily believe God caused it to happen. But all I could think when I heard about Phil and Louie’s dying was that God had to be stupid to take away two of his best hands he had on earth.”
We all ask these questions about death. But the painful reality is that we rarely find satisfactory answers. We often find temporary answers to get us through the immediate pain, but we never find the answers that make us feel deeply at peace with death.
We ask the question of death when thinking of our faith. The death of Jesus is such an important part of Christianity that we sometimes take it for granted. Of course Jesus had to die, that way he could be resurrected, we might think. It’s simple, right? But it’s not simple. Jesus’ death means a lot. Not just that he died. But we believe there was reason behind his dying. That there was some greater purpose. It’s a tricky theological question that many of us don’t want to dwell on for very long.
As I was thinking about the question of Jesus’ death this week, I was trying to think about how we often ask the question about Jesus’ death. I don’t think I’ve often heard people pose the question simply as “Why did Jesus die?” Generally, I hear the question asked, “Why did Jesus have to die?” When we move from the question “Why did Jesus die” to “Why did Jesus have to die” we are swimming in a deep theological sea called atonement.
Here’s your theological term for the day. Atonement is a scary word that looks at the questions of the cross, sin, suffering, and death. Atonement asks the question, Why did Jesus have to die?
There are multiple theories of atonement that attempt to answer that question. The early Christian church believed Jesus had to die because he was paying a ransom. Humanity was in bondage to the devil, and so Jesus had to die in order to free us from the powers of evil. It was a popular theory in the middle ages that Jesus’ sacrifice satisfied God’s need for justice. Essentially, Jesus had to die to pay a debt humanity owes to God. And others around that time believed that Jesus had to die in order to show us how to love one another.
Ransom, satisfaction, love. Do these ideas sound familiar to you? Maybe you would use some of these words to answer the question why Jesus had to die. Did Jesus have to die to act as a scapegoat? To act as a sacrificial victim? To be an example of how much God loves us?
These are three common answers, but after all the time and energy and mind-numbing debate that went into these three theories, John’s gospel takes a very different approach. In my mind our scripture for today speaks to the meaning of the English word atonement, which simply means “at-one”: to “atone” means to reconcile, to bring together, to meld, to be as one. “At-one-ment” refers to all the ways in which divisions between God and creatures are overcome and brought into harmony.
Commentator Gail O’Day suggests that the gospel writer of John understands Jesus’ death differently than the three popular theories. John expresses that Jesus’ death is necessary because of the community that was formed as a result of his death. Jesus speaks of dying and bearing much fruit. O’Day says, “The faith community is the fruit of Jesus’ death; it is what shows forth Jesus’ love to the world….It is critical to believe in Jesus so that one can share in the gift of his life—the gift that leads to eternal life, to the confident assurance of God’s[…]abiding presence.” [1]
“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
In these words, it seems like Jesus is broadening the scope not only of his death, but about the life of his disciples and how they participate in the work that God was doing through Jesus. It’s not about being a single grain, It’s about growing fruit. It’s about breaking out of singularity and living into ripe fruitfulness. It’s not dying in order to become something completely different, but falling out of our solitary state into the earth--“dying” if you will to those things that are not fruitful.
As John’s scripture says, Jesus said these words to indicate what kind of death he would have. He said them to indicate what kind of resurrection he would have. But we can also receive these words as invitations to do the same in our lives. The fruit of Jesus’ bodily death was the faith community that followed on his heels. It is that same community that carries each one of us as we strive to bury those things that keeps us from being at-one with God, and grow the necessary fruit that reflects God’s love.
Some of you may have given something up for Lent. Others of you are taking things up for Lent. Rather than denying yourself some guilty pleasure, you are adding something beneficial to your life, something that brings you closer to God, or closer to others. In the past years, this is the route I have preferred to take for Lent—adding into my life new spiritual disciplines, being more intentional about writing letters, things like that.
This year, Torin and I have taken something up together that is difficult for many of us. In Torin’s words, "we have decided to look for the best intention in people’s actions and approach our reflections on those actions with a positive and compassionate attitude."
To break it down…we’ve decide to stop talking about people behind their backs.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we aren’t people who regularly talk behind people’s backs. But, just like everyone of you, I’m sure, we have used each other to express frustrations about people in our lives be they friends, family, even church family, I’ll admit. When things get frustrating, we all need to talk about it and sometimes people’s eccentricities get the better of us. Generally it’s the people we love that drive us the craziest. Sometimes, all of us need to vent.
But Torin realized that by doing this, it made him a more negative person in general. As he shared with me his Lenten covenant, I asked to join in with him. After all, we can help each other, right? So we talked about what happens within ourselves when we “talk behind someone’s back.”
It makes us angry. It makes us righteous. Even if we love the person, it puts up tiny bricks, even pebbles, like a wall between us. And lets face it, it is easier to build up the pebbles that knock them down. We realized, “talking behind people’s backs,” just made us angrier people, more jaded in our love, and more guarded in our interaction.
So we needed to bury it. We needed to take that grain that alienates us, use our spade of confession, dig a hole in the dirt of God’s forgiveness, let it rest in peace for a little while and sprinkle it with the water of compassion. And what has happened? Well it hasn’t been easy. If either of us starts going down that “griping” road, we lovingly, but pointedly ask one another questions like: “so what do you think was really behind that statement that your mother said?” or “what is going on in that person’s life right now that might have caused that reaction?”
We have tried to step back and bury that seed that alienates us and find ways to let it bear fruit. Even though it may have died, or been buried, it is still there. We don’t bury it to forget about it, to let it die and wither away. We bury it so it gets nourishment from God. Throughout Lent Torin and I are trying to bury our irritation and frustration, so it may live as something else that is productive, that brings us closer “at-one” with others… “at-one” with God. We bury it so it gets the feeding that we can’t give it ourselves, so that it might to bear fruit.
What is it in your life that needs to die in order for it to be fed, transformed, and resurrected? What keeps you from feeling at-one with God and the community of faith? While Lent might seem to be a time of denial and focusing on death, Jesus reminds us in John’s gospel that it’s so much more than dying. It’s about preparing our lives for a powerful rebirth.
“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” May it be so. AMEN.
[1] Gail O'Day. The New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, "John."
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
An Idle Tale?
Lent 4
sermon by Torin Eikler
Numbers 21:4-9 Ephesians 2:1-10
Just this past week, our family went out to the plot of land that has been sitting idle in the back yard all winter and planted the first seeds of our garden – sugar snap peas. It was a marker of sorts for the beginning of spring. We were, perhaps a bit early since that season didn’t officially start until yesterday. But our early planting does not speak to a sense of hope or anticipation as much as it shows how disorganized we have been this year. Others have had seeds in the ground for a couple of weeks, and we have been eager to get into the garden for a few weeks now. We just didn’t get our ducks (or our seeds) in a row in time to join the earliest plantings. It’s a relief, in some ways, to have that first planting done. All the pressure and anxiety has found a release. The ball is rolling, and now we just have to keep up. Yet, in another way those seeds represent a whole new challenge – waiting.
Ever since I was a kid, I have had trouble waiting for the first delights of the garden. I used to go out and check on the plants each day, and I was talked to more than once about eating the spinach before it had a chance to grow large enough to produce very much. But my very favorite thing – the thing that I just couldn’t wait for – was the sweet peas. Not only were they crunchy, juicy, and sweet, they were fun to pick and a challenge to find. Needless to say, my mother made a rule very early on that we had to wait until she picked the first peas before we could plunder the plants. Not surprisingly, we rarely followed the rule. Our way of enjoying the garden, in this case, was not in keeping with my Mother’s way.
Well, I never lost my love of those emerald treasures or the burgeoning impatience that comes between the planting and the time when the first pods begin to appear and fatten. This year, I think, will be even harder now that my son has discovered sweet peas and all the impatience that goes along with being two and a half years old. It’s amazing how hard it is to wait for anything at that age. If I had forgotten what it was like to be so impatient, Sebastian has reminded both by showing his own frustration with waiting and by evoking it in me. My own particular weakness seems to be when Sebastian can’t see that I am busy with Alistair’s diaper or “refuses” to follow the rules we have made – never mind the fact that it’s developmentally normal for two-years-olds to want things their own way. I mean really, how many times does one need to tell a child that he is not to take things off the counter without asking first?! How hard can it be to wait for just a minute before I come to read to him?!
It has been an eye-opening few months for me, and I have begun to wonder if any of us ever really outgrows that impatience or if it just goes underground. After all, we all feel the urge to honk at someone if they are not moving as soon as the light turns green or make annoyed comments in our heads or under our breath when we are stuck behind someone who seems to be disorganized and dense in the checkout line. Waiting is just something that we all have trouble with. Perhaps that’s tied up in the protestant work ethic that has come to obsess our culture. After all, most of us grew up with the concept that “idle hands are the devil’s playground” somewhere in the back of our minds.
And, if we are dogged by the need to keep busy in the relatively easy lives we live, is it really surprising that the Israelites would be impatient after years of wondering in the fruitless wilderness after lifetimes spent at work from sun up to sun down? They had been waiting for years to get to work on their own land, living on manna with the tantalizing promise of abundance always before them. I think that they actually showed an enormous amount of patience. How long were they supposed to wait on God? … But, then again, I look at things from a human perspective, and things are clearly different in God’s eyes. And so, in much the same way that my children reap the consequence of their own impatience despite a different understanding of time the children of Israel find themselves beset by fiery or poisonous serpents – actually seraphim in the Hebrew – when they complain about having to wait.
Now, this passage has always been a little hard for me to stomach, and I’m sure some of you have the same reaction. Even as parenting has helped me to see things a little differently, I still have trouble with a God who seems so vindictive. Wider perspective or not it seems out of proportion to condemn so many people to death because they are impatient – even if that might imply some lack of faith. Why not just find some way to sit them on a stool or in the corner for a timeout. After all, in the words of Morgan Freeman playing the role of God in “Evan Almighty,” ‘if you want someone to be more patient, you give them opportunities to be more patient.’ You don’t sentence them to death. None of us would still be here if God dealt with every lack of faith in such a harsh manner.
What is one to do when faced with a face of God that leaves us shaking – a tale that seems so incompatible with the God who came to offer mercy to humanity in the person of Christ? Well, I try to look deeper and find a different interpretation – a perspective that reveals a link to the God of I John 4 – the God who is love. Usually, when we do that, we can find something – some piece of information that opens a way out of our quandary which is precisely why it’s important to question the process. No matter how much we don’t like some of the stories about God, it is important to remember that we cannot throw out things that make us uncomfortable. In some ways, God is simply beyond our understanding, and we should be wary of simply re-making the image of God to suit our own sensibilities – simply trying to fit God’s way into our way. In a sense, that’s exactly what the Israelites in this passage were trying to do. And yet, the question remains… What was God thinking?
I certainly can’t answer that question, and I’m not sure anyone can. Still, it is interesting that poisonous snakes that plagued the Israelites were actually seraphim. That’s the same word that names the fiery beings that float above the throne of God. According to Isaiah’s vision, those same serpents were actually his salvation. Standing before the power of God, imperfect as he was, the burning power of the seraphim was able to purify him, making him holy so that he was not destroyed. It seems that though the fiery serpents can be deadly as the story relates, as bearers of the power of divine holiness they can also be agents of healing and purification.
When I was working as a chaplain, several cancer patients spoke to me about the harrowing experience of chemotherapy. As anyone who has been around a cancer patient can attest, it is not a pleasant experience to have deadly chemicals injected into one’s system week after week. You become weak and tired, and there is a lot of nausea as the body struggles to deal with the poisons circulating in the blood. And, there is a particular sensation that comes along with each new dose. Some people have trouble describing the feeling, but the overwhelming impression is that of a burning that starts at the injection and spreads as the drugs are carried along in the blood. In the end, many people feel as if their whole body is on fire. The only thing that keeps them coming back is the hope that this suffering will purify their bodies of the insidious tumors. Not everyone survives the process, but most feel that it’s worth the risk given the alternative.
Perhaps the fiery serpents in the wilderness were intended to serve a similar purpose. Certainly the people were not physically sick, but scripture often describes sin in terms similar to those we use to talk about cancer. While impatience and complaining probably don’t qualify as sins in anyone’s book, this story characterizes them as a symptom of a tendency among the people to turn away from God’s guidance in favor of more immediate, more understandable gratification. That, we know, was one of the ongoing struggles of the chosen people – a struggle that we have inherited in our own turn – and that path does lead to sin.
When the body of the people recognized the situation it was in, the people found themselves faces with the same choice – do we continue on with things the way they are, or do we turn toward the path of hope for the future. And, like others, they chose hope. They turned back toward God, and the burning of the seraphim became a healing presence, purging the chosen people of the death that dwelt among them, purifying them as it purified Isaiah. It still seems like an extreme solution, but sometimes the extreme is justified.
The good news for us is that the seraphim are not coming. We do not have to worry about poisonous serpents appearing among us because God has taken even more extreme action. Leaving behind the fiery servants, God has come among us to show us the hope and the promise of following God’s guidance. Through merciful grace, Christ has justified us in the eyes of the divine perspective even if – even when we don’t always realize that we need it.
To paraphrase Paul’s words: ‘even though sin still lives and grows within us, Christ is continually at work, healing and purifying us.’ When we follow our own paths, trusting ourselves and our lives to the work of our hands and the wisdom of our minds, we journey more deeply into the sin and the spiritual death it brings. Yet, Christ journeys with us, rests beside us as we suffer, and stands ready with grace to heal us and bring us back to life.
In the greatness of perfect love, God desires that we turn over all that we have and all that we are to the divine guidance so that we may become all that God dreams for us. Yet, where we are impatient, God waits. When we turn away, forget the wisdom we have heard again and again God waits for us to turn back. Each time we hold a part of ourselves back, screaming “no” into the face of our teacher and protector, Christ sighs, waits for the tantrum to pass, and calls us once again to come to our senses. Every time we realize what we have done and what we are becoming, God greets our apologies with a smile, offers us a healing embrace, and invites us to accept the grace that brings new life.
We have been invited to repent and be purified. We are being invited even now to turn back from our own ways – the ways made inviting by our impatience and the false promise of gratification – and follow God’s way. And God is waiting… welcoming … offering new life … life filled with joy and surrounded by the loving embrace of our God. We have been invited to come, and this time we don’t have to wait.
We have been invited. Let us turn and go and receive our promised welcome.
sermon by Torin Eikler
Numbers 21:4-9 Ephesians 2:1-10
Just this past week, our family went out to the plot of land that has been sitting idle in the back yard all winter and planted the first seeds of our garden – sugar snap peas. It was a marker of sorts for the beginning of spring. We were, perhaps a bit early since that season didn’t officially start until yesterday. But our early planting does not speak to a sense of hope or anticipation as much as it shows how disorganized we have been this year. Others have had seeds in the ground for a couple of weeks, and we have been eager to get into the garden for a few weeks now. We just didn’t get our ducks (or our seeds) in a row in time to join the earliest plantings. It’s a relief, in some ways, to have that first planting done. All the pressure and anxiety has found a release. The ball is rolling, and now we just have to keep up. Yet, in another way those seeds represent a whole new challenge – waiting.
Ever since I was a kid, I have had trouble waiting for the first delights of the garden. I used to go out and check on the plants each day, and I was talked to more than once about eating the spinach before it had a chance to grow large enough to produce very much. But my very favorite thing – the thing that I just couldn’t wait for – was the sweet peas. Not only were they crunchy, juicy, and sweet, they were fun to pick and a challenge to find. Needless to say, my mother made a rule very early on that we had to wait until she picked the first peas before we could plunder the plants. Not surprisingly, we rarely followed the rule. Our way of enjoying the garden, in this case, was not in keeping with my Mother’s way.
Well, I never lost my love of those emerald treasures or the burgeoning impatience that comes between the planting and the time when the first pods begin to appear and fatten. This year, I think, will be even harder now that my son has discovered sweet peas and all the impatience that goes along with being two and a half years old. It’s amazing how hard it is to wait for anything at that age. If I had forgotten what it was like to be so impatient, Sebastian has reminded both by showing his own frustration with waiting and by evoking it in me. My own particular weakness seems to be when Sebastian can’t see that I am busy with Alistair’s diaper or “refuses” to follow the rules we have made – never mind the fact that it’s developmentally normal for two-years-olds to want things their own way. I mean really, how many times does one need to tell a child that he is not to take things off the counter without asking first?! How hard can it be to wait for just a minute before I come to read to him?!
It has been an eye-opening few months for me, and I have begun to wonder if any of us ever really outgrows that impatience or if it just goes underground. After all, we all feel the urge to honk at someone if they are not moving as soon as the light turns green or make annoyed comments in our heads or under our breath when we are stuck behind someone who seems to be disorganized and dense in the checkout line. Waiting is just something that we all have trouble with. Perhaps that’s tied up in the protestant work ethic that has come to obsess our culture. After all, most of us grew up with the concept that “idle hands are the devil’s playground” somewhere in the back of our minds.
And, if we are dogged by the need to keep busy in the relatively easy lives we live, is it really surprising that the Israelites would be impatient after years of wondering in the fruitless wilderness after lifetimes spent at work from sun up to sun down? They had been waiting for years to get to work on their own land, living on manna with the tantalizing promise of abundance always before them. I think that they actually showed an enormous amount of patience. How long were they supposed to wait on God? … But, then again, I look at things from a human perspective, and things are clearly different in God’s eyes. And so, in much the same way that my children reap the consequence of their own impatience despite a different understanding of time the children of Israel find themselves beset by fiery or poisonous serpents – actually seraphim in the Hebrew – when they complain about having to wait.
Now, this passage has always been a little hard for me to stomach, and I’m sure some of you have the same reaction. Even as parenting has helped me to see things a little differently, I still have trouble with a God who seems so vindictive. Wider perspective or not it seems out of proportion to condemn so many people to death because they are impatient – even if that might imply some lack of faith. Why not just find some way to sit them on a stool or in the corner for a timeout. After all, in the words of Morgan Freeman playing the role of God in “Evan Almighty,” ‘if you want someone to be more patient, you give them opportunities to be more patient.’ You don’t sentence them to death. None of us would still be here if God dealt with every lack of faith in such a harsh manner.
What is one to do when faced with a face of God that leaves us shaking – a tale that seems so incompatible with the God who came to offer mercy to humanity in the person of Christ? Well, I try to look deeper and find a different interpretation – a perspective that reveals a link to the God of I John 4 – the God who is love. Usually, when we do that, we can find something – some piece of information that opens a way out of our quandary which is precisely why it’s important to question the process. No matter how much we don’t like some of the stories about God, it is important to remember that we cannot throw out things that make us uncomfortable. In some ways, God is simply beyond our understanding, and we should be wary of simply re-making the image of God to suit our own sensibilities – simply trying to fit God’s way into our way. In a sense, that’s exactly what the Israelites in this passage were trying to do. And yet, the question remains… What was God thinking?
I certainly can’t answer that question, and I’m not sure anyone can. Still, it is interesting that poisonous snakes that plagued the Israelites were actually seraphim. That’s the same word that names the fiery beings that float above the throne of God. According to Isaiah’s vision, those same serpents were actually his salvation. Standing before the power of God, imperfect as he was, the burning power of the seraphim was able to purify him, making him holy so that he was not destroyed. It seems that though the fiery serpents can be deadly as the story relates, as bearers of the power of divine holiness they can also be agents of healing and purification.
When I was working as a chaplain, several cancer patients spoke to me about the harrowing experience of chemotherapy. As anyone who has been around a cancer patient can attest, it is not a pleasant experience to have deadly chemicals injected into one’s system week after week. You become weak and tired, and there is a lot of nausea as the body struggles to deal with the poisons circulating in the blood. And, there is a particular sensation that comes along with each new dose. Some people have trouble describing the feeling, but the overwhelming impression is that of a burning that starts at the injection and spreads as the drugs are carried along in the blood. In the end, many people feel as if their whole body is on fire. The only thing that keeps them coming back is the hope that this suffering will purify their bodies of the insidious tumors. Not everyone survives the process, but most feel that it’s worth the risk given the alternative.
Perhaps the fiery serpents in the wilderness were intended to serve a similar purpose. Certainly the people were not physically sick, but scripture often describes sin in terms similar to those we use to talk about cancer. While impatience and complaining probably don’t qualify as sins in anyone’s book, this story characterizes them as a symptom of a tendency among the people to turn away from God’s guidance in favor of more immediate, more understandable gratification. That, we know, was one of the ongoing struggles of the chosen people – a struggle that we have inherited in our own turn – and that path does lead to sin.
When the body of the people recognized the situation it was in, the people found themselves faces with the same choice – do we continue on with things the way they are, or do we turn toward the path of hope for the future. And, like others, they chose hope. They turned back toward God, and the burning of the seraphim became a healing presence, purging the chosen people of the death that dwelt among them, purifying them as it purified Isaiah. It still seems like an extreme solution, but sometimes the extreme is justified.
The good news for us is that the seraphim are not coming. We do not have to worry about poisonous serpents appearing among us because God has taken even more extreme action. Leaving behind the fiery servants, God has come among us to show us the hope and the promise of following God’s guidance. Through merciful grace, Christ has justified us in the eyes of the divine perspective even if – even when we don’t always realize that we need it.
To paraphrase Paul’s words: ‘even though sin still lives and grows within us, Christ is continually at work, healing and purifying us.’ When we follow our own paths, trusting ourselves and our lives to the work of our hands and the wisdom of our minds, we journey more deeply into the sin and the spiritual death it brings. Yet, Christ journeys with us, rests beside us as we suffer, and stands ready with grace to heal us and bring us back to life.
In the greatness of perfect love, God desires that we turn over all that we have and all that we are to the divine guidance so that we may become all that God dreams for us. Yet, where we are impatient, God waits. When we turn away, forget the wisdom we have heard again and again God waits for us to turn back. Each time we hold a part of ourselves back, screaming “no” into the face of our teacher and protector, Christ sighs, waits for the tantrum to pass, and calls us once again to come to our senses. Every time we realize what we have done and what we are becoming, God greets our apologies with a smile, offers us a healing embrace, and invites us to accept the grace that brings new life.
We have been invited to repent and be purified. We are being invited even now to turn back from our own ways – the ways made inviting by our impatience and the false promise of gratification – and follow God’s way. And God is waiting… welcoming … offering new life … life filled with joy and surrounded by the loving embrace of our God. We have been invited to come, and this time we don’t have to wait.
We have been invited. Let us turn and go and receive our promised welcome.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Wisdom of the Mountain
sermon by Carrie Eikler
3rd Sunday in Lent
Psalm 19, Exodus 20:1-17
As many of you know, my parents visited last week. It was a fun but, I can imagine, exhausting visit for them. Having a two and half year old’s tantrums and the gas-filled tummy wails of an infant is trying even for the most doting and loving grandparents. At the end of the day we often fell into couches, chairs, and pillows with big sighs.
Part of our nightly “winding down” ritual for most of those six days was to watch an episode or two of the award winning HBO miniseries, “John Adams,” documenting the life of the second president of the United States. Now, you might not guess this of me, but I have always been somewhat fascinated with colonial history, and our country’s original “Adams Family”. My birthday is July 4th, so there is a sense of connection with this auspicious day in the life of our country and I know most of the songs from the musical 1776 by heart. My middle name is Abigail, so looking to historical women for my namesake there was a clear connection with Abigail Adams, John Adams’ wife and his “dearest friend” as he always addressed her in their famous letters.
I admit, however, my great romantic interest in the colonial period and the birth of our country was tempered over time as I have sought to explore the world through Christ’s gospel of peace, which includes looking at history with a more discerning eye and heart.
But this week, I put all that aside as I once again, fell willingly into the awe of history, and the dramatic retelling of a difficult period in the life of a people. Whether it was an accurate portrayal or not is debatable. But it did give some great insights into one of the most formative people in the life of America.
These are the things we know about John Adams. He was an outstanding lawyer and wordsmith, gifted in rhetoric. He was adamantly opposed to slavery and tended his own farm while others, even in Massachusetts, used slave labor. He was persistent and determined in the cause of independence from Great Britain, thus being essential for the drafting and acceptance of the Declaration of Independence. He and his wife Abigail were deeply in love until death and Abigail, his dearest friend, was his center, drawing him back into focus when his eccentricities got the better of him.
Because in spite of all these notable characteristics, John Adams was, in his own words, “obnoxious and disliked.” He was stubborn, rude, and single-minded in many matters. He allowed fear to guide early decisions of the new country, such as the Alien Sedition Act, which attempted to squelch criticism of the government and imprison potential threats to the union. He was pitiless to the faults of his son, Charles, which included drunkenness, deserting his wife and children, and wasting away family money. Charles died relatively young without John’s forgiveness—even after his son died, John still could not forgive him.
As wise as the founders of our nation were, it is obvious, no matter who wrote the history books, that their human wisdom too easily gave way to fear, violence, and unforgiving spirits. To paraphrase David McCullough, author of the Adams biography the miniseries was based on: it was an amazing time with an amazing group of people ushering in the birth of a new nation. But we can’t forget the very humanness they exhibit in the midst of their greatness.
I can relate to that statement. Not because I think I am terribly great, or incredibly wise…I certainly think I’m flawed. But it does seem like many of the wise people in history that I have looked up to have turned out to be terribly flawed.
When I found out Martin Luther King, Jr. wasn’t a very good family man, I was crushed. Same goes for Mahatma Gandhi, who had a less than ideal relationship with his wife. And the world was stunned when they found out that Mother Theresa struggled in life with depression and deep doubt. All these people--very wise in their own unique ways, but very human, which means, very flawed.
Luckily God understands and loves us, with all our flaws. And in fact I bet God grants us more grace than we grant ourselves. After all, the creation story says God looked on us and called us good, not perfect. Not even the tree of the knowledge of good and evil allowed us to obtain God’s wisdom. Perhaps it just allowed us the illusion that we could somehow possess God’s wisdom, and goodness! how much we struggle with ourselves when we find out that will never happen.
But it was obvious that humans needed a little help. Americans had the Declaration of Independence declaring their freedom; the wandering Hebrew people had the booming voice of God, and writing on stone tablets declaring theirs. The current cultural debate seeks to define the line between the two, or blur the line between the two, or erase the line between the two. Groups are fighting to display the Ten Commandments and other religious symbols in public and political sphere as ferociously as others are fighting to keep them out.
For some, the connection is clear: God and the state (Christianity and the US, to be specific) go together like apple pie and baseball and the religious faith of the founders of this nation are clear examples of that. For others the connection is less clear: religion and politics make bad bedfellows, and the philosophies of the same founders of the country that are invoked on the other “side” are clear examples of this point as well.
In spite of the factions of the culture wars, and our own positions on the matter, we might impart a bit of grace with one another. Perhaps what is at the heart of the matter is less about the displaying of massively large tablets, but about seeking a wisdom that is beyond our own-- Because we know we don’t have the answers. Or maybe that in spite of our own wisdom we recognize there is something flawed and we need a little guidance. Or maybe we recognize we all need an Abigail to our John Adams, reining us in when our dark side gets out of hand, and calls us to center ourselves in the heart of our “dearest friend.”
Whether it is the ten commandments given to the Hebrews, or the seven pillars of Islam, the eight-fold path of Buddhism, or the Constitution of the United States, most people in the world recognize that our own wisdom, generally, isn’t enough. We need a heart to return to, where we are reminded that there is wisdom beyond ourselves.
Mt. Sinai was a place of craftsmanship. God was crafting a community, or re-crafting the community that had forgotten who it was. This often is the case for communities held in bondage and slavery, far from home. Moses went up the mountain to talk to God and brought down from the mountain a charter of sorts, attempting to regroup the wandering people.
But instead of the best attempt at human wisdom, like a political charter, these Ten Commandments were about God’s wisdom, and God’s attempt to draw these abandoned and lost people back into the heart of their dearest friend. Moses had all the responsibility of bringing that reminder, carved in stone, to the people.
And while at first they seem like rather simple rules to keep—most of us aren’t going around committing murder, or fashioning golden idols, or desiring our neighbor’s ox or donkey—we realize that they aren’t so easy to keep as we might think. The taxes we pay go towards paying for war which inevitably leaves thousands dead every year. We put the pursuit of comfortable living ahead of the pursuit of a relationship with God. We feel dissatisfied with our jobs, or homes, or children, or partners when we see the jobs, and homes, and children, and partners other people have.
And it is here where God’s wisdom seems foolish to us. When our wisdom encourages endless productivity, God says “Sabbath!” When our wisdom dismisses the experience of the old folks in favor of the energy of the younger folks, God says “Honor your elders.” When our wisdom says that making money while profiting off the debt of others is sound economics, God says “Don’t steal.”
There are many ways to slip into the commandment breaking spiral. Maybe we would be wiser if we had the Ten Commandments in public spaces. But, somehow, I doubt it. What it may do is remind us of the obligations God set before the Israelites, and then simply turn the commandments into a finger-waving document, attempting to control our own rebellious society
But, God did not boom from the clouds that the people were rebellious and therefore needed rules to burden an already difficult life. Rather God gave a “breathtaking” declaration “of freedom” [1]: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.”
Tom Long, professor of preaching at Emory University in Atlanta, suggests that we can think of these ten declarations not as a set of rules, but descriptions of the life that has God at the heart of it: “Because the Lord is your God, you are free not to need any other gods. You are free to rest on the seventh day; free from the tyranny of lifeless idols; free from murder, stealing and covetousness as ways to establish yourself in the land.”
Long goes onto say that [The Ten Commandments] begins with the good news of what the liberating God has done and then describes the shape of the freedom that results. He compares the workings of the Ten Commandments to a dance. The good news of the God who set people free is the music; the commandments are the dance steps of those who hear it playing. He says, the commandments are not weights, but wings that enable our hearts to catch the wind of God’s Spirit and soar.”
Long reflects on a story he once heard about a man named Jack Casey, a volunteer fireman and ambulance attendant. When Jack was a child he had to have some teeth pulled which required a general anesthetic. Jack was terrified, but a nurse stood by him and kept telling him “Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you no matter what happens.” When he woke up from surgery, she had kept her word and was still standing by him.
That experience stayed with Jack. 20 years later his ambulance crew was called to an accident. A pickup truck had flipped over and the driver was pinned beneath. Jack tried to crawl inside the wreckage to remove the man, gasoline dripping on both he and the driver. To add to the anxious situation, power tools were being used to dismantle parts of the car, and the likelihood of a fire was a serious possibility.
The whole time, Jack recalls, the driver cried out that he was afraid of dying. Jack kept telling him, as did the nurse so many years before, “I’m with you, I’m not going anywhere.” After the man was rescued and he realized what had happened he told Jack, “You’re an idiot, you know that the thing could have exploded and we’d have both been burned up!” Jack said, simply, he felt he just couldn’t leave him.
As Long explains, that is how the commandments work. First we are cared for and set free (“I am the Lord your God who brought you out of slavery”). Then we are compelled to live our lives that are shaped, ethically and emotionally from that freedom. A nurse telling a child that she won’t leave him, became the action of the man who risked his life to do the same. A people set free from slavery are invited to act as free women and men. Not bound in fear, but freed into love.
The commandments reveal God’s wisdom of the good life, the life lived in the heart of God, our dearest friend. They can act like the Abigail Adams to our John. The wisdom that came from God to Moses on the mountain is far greater than our own, and God’s commandments are powerful. They are powerful because they were given to care for us, more than to enslave us; to free us more than bind us.
We will never have God’s wisdom. But I think we might touch God’s wisdom and purpose for humanity when we find the ways the commandments can set us free. Amen.
[1] Long, Tom. “Dancing the Decalogue” Christian Century, March 07 2006)
3rd Sunday in Lent
Psalm 19, Exodus 20:1-17
As many of you know, my parents visited last week. It was a fun but, I can imagine, exhausting visit for them. Having a two and half year old’s tantrums and the gas-filled tummy wails of an infant is trying even for the most doting and loving grandparents. At the end of the day we often fell into couches, chairs, and pillows with big sighs.
Part of our nightly “winding down” ritual for most of those six days was to watch an episode or two of the award winning HBO miniseries, “John Adams,” documenting the life of the second president of the United States. Now, you might not guess this of me, but I have always been somewhat fascinated with colonial history, and our country’s original “Adams Family”. My birthday is July 4th, so there is a sense of connection with this auspicious day in the life of our country and I know most of the songs from the musical 1776 by heart. My middle name is Abigail, so looking to historical women for my namesake there was a clear connection with Abigail Adams, John Adams’ wife and his “dearest friend” as he always addressed her in their famous letters.
I admit, however, my great romantic interest in the colonial period and the birth of our country was tempered over time as I have sought to explore the world through Christ’s gospel of peace, which includes looking at history with a more discerning eye and heart.
But this week, I put all that aside as I once again, fell willingly into the awe of history, and the dramatic retelling of a difficult period in the life of a people. Whether it was an accurate portrayal or not is debatable. But it did give some great insights into one of the most formative people in the life of America.
These are the things we know about John Adams. He was an outstanding lawyer and wordsmith, gifted in rhetoric. He was adamantly opposed to slavery and tended his own farm while others, even in Massachusetts, used slave labor. He was persistent and determined in the cause of independence from Great Britain, thus being essential for the drafting and acceptance of the Declaration of Independence. He and his wife Abigail were deeply in love until death and Abigail, his dearest friend, was his center, drawing him back into focus when his eccentricities got the better of him.
Because in spite of all these notable characteristics, John Adams was, in his own words, “obnoxious and disliked.” He was stubborn, rude, and single-minded in many matters. He allowed fear to guide early decisions of the new country, such as the Alien Sedition Act, which attempted to squelch criticism of the government and imprison potential threats to the union. He was pitiless to the faults of his son, Charles, which included drunkenness, deserting his wife and children, and wasting away family money. Charles died relatively young without John’s forgiveness—even after his son died, John still could not forgive him.
As wise as the founders of our nation were, it is obvious, no matter who wrote the history books, that their human wisdom too easily gave way to fear, violence, and unforgiving spirits. To paraphrase David McCullough, author of the Adams biography the miniseries was based on: it was an amazing time with an amazing group of people ushering in the birth of a new nation. But we can’t forget the very humanness they exhibit in the midst of their greatness.
I can relate to that statement. Not because I think I am terribly great, or incredibly wise…I certainly think I’m flawed. But it does seem like many of the wise people in history that I have looked up to have turned out to be terribly flawed.
When I found out Martin Luther King, Jr. wasn’t a very good family man, I was crushed. Same goes for Mahatma Gandhi, who had a less than ideal relationship with his wife. And the world was stunned when they found out that Mother Theresa struggled in life with depression and deep doubt. All these people--very wise in their own unique ways, but very human, which means, very flawed.
Luckily God understands and loves us, with all our flaws. And in fact I bet God grants us more grace than we grant ourselves. After all, the creation story says God looked on us and called us good, not perfect. Not even the tree of the knowledge of good and evil allowed us to obtain God’s wisdom. Perhaps it just allowed us the illusion that we could somehow possess God’s wisdom, and goodness! how much we struggle with ourselves when we find out that will never happen.
But it was obvious that humans needed a little help. Americans had the Declaration of Independence declaring their freedom; the wandering Hebrew people had the booming voice of God, and writing on stone tablets declaring theirs. The current cultural debate seeks to define the line between the two, or blur the line between the two, or erase the line between the two. Groups are fighting to display the Ten Commandments and other religious symbols in public and political sphere as ferociously as others are fighting to keep them out.
For some, the connection is clear: God and the state (Christianity and the US, to be specific) go together like apple pie and baseball and the religious faith of the founders of this nation are clear examples of that. For others the connection is less clear: religion and politics make bad bedfellows, and the philosophies of the same founders of the country that are invoked on the other “side” are clear examples of this point as well.
In spite of the factions of the culture wars, and our own positions on the matter, we might impart a bit of grace with one another. Perhaps what is at the heart of the matter is less about the displaying of massively large tablets, but about seeking a wisdom that is beyond our own-- Because we know we don’t have the answers. Or maybe that in spite of our own wisdom we recognize there is something flawed and we need a little guidance. Or maybe we recognize we all need an Abigail to our John Adams, reining us in when our dark side gets out of hand, and calls us to center ourselves in the heart of our “dearest friend.”
Whether it is the ten commandments given to the Hebrews, or the seven pillars of Islam, the eight-fold path of Buddhism, or the Constitution of the United States, most people in the world recognize that our own wisdom, generally, isn’t enough. We need a heart to return to, where we are reminded that there is wisdom beyond ourselves.
Mt. Sinai was a place of craftsmanship. God was crafting a community, or re-crafting the community that had forgotten who it was. This often is the case for communities held in bondage and slavery, far from home. Moses went up the mountain to talk to God and brought down from the mountain a charter of sorts, attempting to regroup the wandering people.
But instead of the best attempt at human wisdom, like a political charter, these Ten Commandments were about God’s wisdom, and God’s attempt to draw these abandoned and lost people back into the heart of their dearest friend. Moses had all the responsibility of bringing that reminder, carved in stone, to the people.
And while at first they seem like rather simple rules to keep—most of us aren’t going around committing murder, or fashioning golden idols, or desiring our neighbor’s ox or donkey—we realize that they aren’t so easy to keep as we might think. The taxes we pay go towards paying for war which inevitably leaves thousands dead every year. We put the pursuit of comfortable living ahead of the pursuit of a relationship with God. We feel dissatisfied with our jobs, or homes, or children, or partners when we see the jobs, and homes, and children, and partners other people have.
And it is here where God’s wisdom seems foolish to us. When our wisdom encourages endless productivity, God says “Sabbath!” When our wisdom dismisses the experience of the old folks in favor of the energy of the younger folks, God says “Honor your elders.” When our wisdom says that making money while profiting off the debt of others is sound economics, God says “Don’t steal.”
There are many ways to slip into the commandment breaking spiral. Maybe we would be wiser if we had the Ten Commandments in public spaces. But, somehow, I doubt it. What it may do is remind us of the obligations God set before the Israelites, and then simply turn the commandments into a finger-waving document, attempting to control our own rebellious society
But, God did not boom from the clouds that the people were rebellious and therefore needed rules to burden an already difficult life. Rather God gave a “breathtaking” declaration “of freedom” [1]: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.”
Tom Long, professor of preaching at Emory University in Atlanta, suggests that we can think of these ten declarations not as a set of rules, but descriptions of the life that has God at the heart of it: “Because the Lord is your God, you are free not to need any other gods. You are free to rest on the seventh day; free from the tyranny of lifeless idols; free from murder, stealing and covetousness as ways to establish yourself in the land.”
Long goes onto say that [The Ten Commandments] begins with the good news of what the liberating God has done and then describes the shape of the freedom that results. He compares the workings of the Ten Commandments to a dance. The good news of the God who set people free is the music; the commandments are the dance steps of those who hear it playing. He says, the commandments are not weights, but wings that enable our hearts to catch the wind of God’s Spirit and soar.”
Long reflects on a story he once heard about a man named Jack Casey, a volunteer fireman and ambulance attendant. When Jack was a child he had to have some teeth pulled which required a general anesthetic. Jack was terrified, but a nurse stood by him and kept telling him “Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you no matter what happens.” When he woke up from surgery, she had kept her word and was still standing by him.
That experience stayed with Jack. 20 years later his ambulance crew was called to an accident. A pickup truck had flipped over and the driver was pinned beneath. Jack tried to crawl inside the wreckage to remove the man, gasoline dripping on both he and the driver. To add to the anxious situation, power tools were being used to dismantle parts of the car, and the likelihood of a fire was a serious possibility.
The whole time, Jack recalls, the driver cried out that he was afraid of dying. Jack kept telling him, as did the nurse so many years before, “I’m with you, I’m not going anywhere.” After the man was rescued and he realized what had happened he told Jack, “You’re an idiot, you know that the thing could have exploded and we’d have both been burned up!” Jack said, simply, he felt he just couldn’t leave him.
As Long explains, that is how the commandments work. First we are cared for and set free (“I am the Lord your God who brought you out of slavery”). Then we are compelled to live our lives that are shaped, ethically and emotionally from that freedom. A nurse telling a child that she won’t leave him, became the action of the man who risked his life to do the same. A people set free from slavery are invited to act as free women and men. Not bound in fear, but freed into love.
The commandments reveal God’s wisdom of the good life, the life lived in the heart of God, our dearest friend. They can act like the Abigail Adams to our John. The wisdom that came from God to Moses on the mountain is far greater than our own, and God’s commandments are powerful. They are powerful because they were given to care for us, more than to enslave us; to free us more than bind us.
We will never have God’s wisdom. But I think we might touch God’s wisdom and purpose for humanity when we find the ways the commandments can set us free. Amen.
[1] Long, Tom. “Dancing the Decalogue” Christian Century, March 07 2006)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Global Women's Project Storytelling Intro.
reflection cum introduction to storytelling by Carrie Eikler
Mark 8:31-38 Mark 5:21-34
As we were driving to and from Indiana this week, I found myself taking in the billboards. I filtered out the predictable fast-food, gas station, and chain restaurant advertisings that dot the interstates, first, towering above the trees on the hills around Wheeling, then Barnesville, Ohio, then Zanesville. Then, the terrain flattened, trees gave way to fields, and the messages stood like solitary beacons of rest, refreshment, and opportunities to renew weary travelers on the road. They still zoomed by me, unaffected. Like each of the restaurants they were advertising, their message was the same over the miles. These Cracker Barrel biscuits will taste the same in Columbus, Ohio as they will in Richmond, Indiana. And the billboards will be the same as well. It can all be rather dull reading.
But as we got off the interstate and began taking US Highways to Northern Indiana, I found the billboards change, or at least, I found that I was paying more attention. Here are some of the ones I saw
“You wouldn’t say to someone ‘It’s just cancer, get over it.’ www.depressionisreal.org,” “Pregnant and scared? Call 1-800-Get-Help”
“You don’t have to have to do it alone. Gamblers Anonymous can help.”
“Mother, Teacher, Cancer Survivor—Reid hospital”
It was almost as if there was a connection between the roads and the messages. The big, impersonal, wide interstates had big, impersonal billboards attempting to satisfy immediate needs: the munchies, gas stops, etc. But as the roads got smaller, and the boards were closer to the roads, not so big and imposing, they reached out to the personal needs—the intimate struggles of our daily lives.
On these small roads, these messages were reaching out to people who need help. Real help. These billboards know us. They know our dark secrets. The vulnerable places in our lives. The need for healing, so fast, that it would take billboards on the longest stretch of highway possible to encompass the our hurting and broken places.
For Jesus it seems like no billboards were necessary to convey the needs that affected the people around him. As the saying goes, there were “walking billboards” all around. But unlike many of us, who would rather hide in the darkness of our brokenness, not wishing to share it with anybody but trained professionals who assure us they can fix our problems…unlike us, these people came right up and asked for healing. In his face. At his feet.
At times, it seems like the world’s brokenness is in our face, at our feet. Even though we struggle without our own need for help, most of us can still muster enough energy, or time, or money, to help others. We want to take up Christ’s cross of service, even in our brokenness, and help heal: our friends, our neighbors, the world. We want to be the billboards along the road, offering help, giving answers to problems. We don’t expect the healer that Christ was, but we do expect we can do a little something to help.
But what happens if we function simply as billboards? We assume we know people’s problems. We loom above the hurting, giving answers to fix it. Jesus healed in a different way. If you read the healing stories of Jesus, you will rarely find one where Jesus simply fixes the problem without first asking what the people need, or listening to them speak of their condition.
In our haste to be people of service, we can quickly rush to respond without taking the time to listen. Jesus-healing involves first listening and then responding. First listening to our friend who doesn’t know why she is thinking sad thoughts all the time and doesn’t want to get out of bed. First listening to the person in our congregation who feels alienated because they are, for whatever reason, not quite like the rest of us.
The work of Global Women’s Project is not simply to help poor women in poor countries. It is a service of listening. Of hearing what women in various circumstances face in their daily lives, and supporting the work the women decide need to be done. As affluent Western Christians, it may seem like the needy are in our faces, and at our feet. But, they also must be in our minds, our conversations, our decisions. We don’t need to be a voice for the voiceless, as the saying often goes. Everybody in need has a voice—Jesus’ healings gave witness to this. They all vocalized their needs. The difference is, that Jesus listened. Instead of being simply a voice, we need to first be ears that hear, receivers of stories, discerners of how we each can speak with women and men around the world, not speak for them. How we can be healed alongside them, not simply heal them.
But it is true, that we can’t hear the voices of women in the far reaches of the world…giving them voice in some way in order to share there stories is needed. I've invited some of our steering committee to share with you the stories of women around the world, and how listening have opened Christ-like healing in these women's lives.
Listening and hearing are very difficult things to do. In many ways, our culture is not very good at sitting, and taking in the stories of another, and letting them guide our actions showing us the best way to help. And it is difficult to hear stories, when we know they will nudge us to somehow act in ways that are different from our everyday motions, or give in ways that are extravagant, or confront the stereotypes and assumptions we have in our own minds.
I invite you to join me in a prayer of confession, as we lift these places in need of healing up to our merciful God.
Mark 8:31-38 Mark 5:21-34
As we were driving to and from Indiana this week, I found myself taking in the billboards. I filtered out the predictable fast-food, gas station, and chain restaurant advertisings that dot the interstates, first, towering above the trees on the hills around Wheeling, then Barnesville, Ohio, then Zanesville. Then, the terrain flattened, trees gave way to fields, and the messages stood like solitary beacons of rest, refreshment, and opportunities to renew weary travelers on the road. They still zoomed by me, unaffected. Like each of the restaurants they were advertising, their message was the same over the miles. These Cracker Barrel biscuits will taste the same in Columbus, Ohio as they will in Richmond, Indiana. And the billboards will be the same as well. It can all be rather dull reading.
But as we got off the interstate and began taking US Highways to Northern Indiana, I found the billboards change, or at least, I found that I was paying more attention. Here are some of the ones I saw
“You wouldn’t say to someone ‘It’s just cancer, get over it.’ www.depressionisreal.org,” “Pregnant and scared? Call 1-800-Get-Help”
“You don’t have to have to do it alone. Gamblers Anonymous can help.”
“Mother, Teacher, Cancer Survivor—Reid hospital”
It was almost as if there was a connection between the roads and the messages. The big, impersonal, wide interstates had big, impersonal billboards attempting to satisfy immediate needs: the munchies, gas stops, etc. But as the roads got smaller, and the boards were closer to the roads, not so big and imposing, they reached out to the personal needs—the intimate struggles of our daily lives.
On these small roads, these messages were reaching out to people who need help. Real help. These billboards know us. They know our dark secrets. The vulnerable places in our lives. The need for healing, so fast, that it would take billboards on the longest stretch of highway possible to encompass the our hurting and broken places.
For Jesus it seems like no billboards were necessary to convey the needs that affected the people around him. As the saying goes, there were “walking billboards” all around. But unlike many of us, who would rather hide in the darkness of our brokenness, not wishing to share it with anybody but trained professionals who assure us they can fix our problems…unlike us, these people came right up and asked for healing. In his face. At his feet.
At times, it seems like the world’s brokenness is in our face, at our feet. Even though we struggle without our own need for help, most of us can still muster enough energy, or time, or money, to help others. We want to take up Christ’s cross of service, even in our brokenness, and help heal: our friends, our neighbors, the world. We want to be the billboards along the road, offering help, giving answers to problems. We don’t expect the healer that Christ was, but we do expect we can do a little something to help.
But what happens if we function simply as billboards? We assume we know people’s problems. We loom above the hurting, giving answers to fix it. Jesus healed in a different way. If you read the healing stories of Jesus, you will rarely find one where Jesus simply fixes the problem without first asking what the people need, or listening to them speak of their condition.
In our haste to be people of service, we can quickly rush to respond without taking the time to listen. Jesus-healing involves first listening and then responding. First listening to our friend who doesn’t know why she is thinking sad thoughts all the time and doesn’t want to get out of bed. First listening to the person in our congregation who feels alienated because they are, for whatever reason, not quite like the rest of us.
The work of Global Women’s Project is not simply to help poor women in poor countries. It is a service of listening. Of hearing what women in various circumstances face in their daily lives, and supporting the work the women decide need to be done. As affluent Western Christians, it may seem like the needy are in our faces, and at our feet. But, they also must be in our minds, our conversations, our decisions. We don’t need to be a voice for the voiceless, as the saying often goes. Everybody in need has a voice—Jesus’ healings gave witness to this. They all vocalized their needs. The difference is, that Jesus listened. Instead of being simply a voice, we need to first be ears that hear, receivers of stories, discerners of how we each can speak with women and men around the world, not speak for them. How we can be healed alongside them, not simply heal them.
But it is true, that we can’t hear the voices of women in the far reaches of the world…giving them voice in some way in order to share there stories is needed. I've invited some of our steering committee to share with you the stories of women around the world, and how listening have opened Christ-like healing in these women's lives.
Listening and hearing are very difficult things to do. In many ways, our culture is not very good at sitting, and taking in the stories of another, and letting them guide our actions showing us the best way to help. And it is difficult to hear stories, when we know they will nudge us to somehow act in ways that are different from our everyday motions, or give in ways that are extravagant, or confront the stereotypes and assumptions we have in our own minds.
I invite you to join me in a prayer of confession, as we lift these places in need of healing up to our merciful God.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Turning from the Flood
First Sunday of Lent
sermon by Torin Eikler
Genesis 9:8-17 Mark 1:9-15
Have you ever been in a flood? Or seen the aftermath of one? For myself, I have been lucky enough not to witness a disaster like that first hand, but I have seen the results. Walking through the streets that aren’t really streets anymore because they are covered with mud and branches and lawn furniture and worse. Trying not to breathe too deeply because of the smell – a unique bouquet of rotting vegetation and putrefying animal carcasses. Overwhelmed by the amazing amount of stuff piled up against anything and everything left standing. Surprised by the occasional chair hung up in a tree’s branches. Stunned by how drab a world is when everything is a covered in a healthy coat of light brown. It’s quite an experience, but it can’t hold a candle to what people see in the midst of it all.
This past Thursday was the anniversary of the Buffalo Creek flood and West Virginia Morning aired an interview with Roger Osborne who survived the disaster. On that morning thirty-seven years ago, one of the dams holding the coal sludge from the local mine failed and a 60-foot wave of black water came down the ravine and swept away the town of Lundale. At 8:00 in the morning, Osborne woke to his neighbor’s wife as she drove down the street honking and yelling for everyone to get out. He and his family drove to higher ground with the water already up to the windows of the car. As he stood with his wife, three daughters, and his mother on the hillside, they watched as cars, houses, and people were washed away by the wall of water. They stood and watched as neighbors, friends, and relatives were taken by the flood. When it was all over the valley was wiped clean. There was literally nothing left. The worst part, according to Osborne, was not losing everything they owned. It wasn’t the terror he felt as they made their get-away. It wasn’t even the horrific experience of looking over the 125 bodies in the morgue and discovering 26 of his closest relatives. It was standing on that hill side and watching helplessly friends he had known his whole life, mothers with babies in their arms, and whole families screamed for help from rooftops, from inside houses disintegrating around them, and from the midst of swirling black water. It was a horrible experience, and it has taken him years to come to terms with the visions and dreams he has had ever since.
I imagine that Noah and his family may have experienced some of the same trauma. Standing on the ark as the rains came harder and harder and water began to rise, I expect the people who had derided his work began to gather around, asking … pleading to be allowed on board. Refused, they may have looked for other places – higher ground or rooftops that were above the water level. Eventually, though, the eight people inside must have heard the screams as hundreds of people were swept away by the tide. Riding out the storm, I imagine they stopped looking out the windows for fear of seeing the remnants of civilization – lives and property floating on the surface as they slowly rotted away. Even when they landed, the ordeal wouldn’t have been over. We have the image of a pristine world washed clean by the flood, and maybe that’s the way it was. But, maybe they found chairs in the branches of trees or dishes piled up in the hollers where the water made its last stand before draining away. Maybe they were assailed by the smell of rot wafting through the fresh air to surprise them in unguarded moments. Certainly, they were left with the memory of the family and friends that could never have survived the months of landless drifting. It’s no wonder that Noah turned to drink a little more than he should have. Do you blame him?
And yet, Noah’s family received something that Osborne never got – a promise. And not just any promise – God’s promise. This flood was on a grand scale, destroying all the living things left behind on the land, and God’s response was in kind:
As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and with your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.
And, that grand promise was sealed with an equally grand sign – wrapped up with a bow (if you will) - a splash of color arcing through the sky. When the rains came and old fears reared up, the rainbow would shine forth serving as a beacon of hope and reassurance. The rain will stop this time. There will be no flood wiping everything away. It may not have had much power to wipe away the grief and the memories of the past, but it was enough to help that small group of people begin building a new future – a hopeful future blessed by God.
Jesus was born into a flood as well. All around him, people were suffering. The sick, the possessed, the poor, and those pushed to the edge of society by custom and misfortune – they were all around him …. a flood of humanity in need. And there was another flood as well, a less visible torrent overwhelming the people of Israel and sweeping them away from faithful life as the chosen people.
Carrie talked about this last week just a little when she mentioned the Pax Romana. Her quote from “The Life of Brian” illustrated it through Monty Python’s strange sense of humor. Roads, medicine, sewer systems, and “security” were just the beginning. Roman culture with its different customs, its looser, freer morality, its wealth, and its many gods were flowing all around, through, and over the Jews as they tried to hold on to the security of their own beliefs and traditions.
In one sense, they were lucky. In other provinces of the empire, people were forced to give up their native religions, laws, and traditions and take up those sanctioned by the Romans. For some reason, the empire respected the heritage of the people of God and allowed them to continue in their own ways. The Temple was left to function as it had for centuries, Jewish law and leadership were allowed to exist along side the Roman authorities and the laws they enforced. The ceremonial guard was even left in tact. All very strange since the region of Judea was considered to be a troublesome area prone to rebellion. Despite all that, the people of Israel were being inundated with Roman culture. And, it was changing them like a great river or tidal surge remake the shores they touch: eroding the structure of commandments and laws that had defined their lives, eating away at the customs and traditions that had shaped them as a people, threatening to wash away the covenant they had with their God.
He watched all of this as he grew up. He saw the people around him struggling against the flow. He saw many of them get swept up, turning and tumbling away. And he knew that the covenant still held – that God would not suffer the people to be washed away. I suppose that he may have wondered what to do. How does one turn the tide of a flood? Even more than that, how does one drain it all away?
When it was time for him to begin his ministry, he went to John. He went into the waters of repentance and spent forty days of his own, enduring the hardships of the wilderness. And when he returned, he began. He began to preach repentance. He called people back to God and God’s way. He pointed to the Realm of God – there with and among the people, and invited everyone to turn and step out of the current and onto the higher ground of the covenant promise. And, fulfilling the promises made in the past and offered people hope. He became the new sign of a renewed covenant with the people of his time – the image to remind them of God’s presence, God’s love, and God’s grace – the light shining into the dark to show the way to higher ground – safe ground – the ground of the Kingdom. Not all welcomed that light, but all received the sign and the promise.
The light still shines. The sign and the promise still stand for us today. And what a blessing, for do we not also live in the midst of the flood? Take a step back and look at the bigger picture. Is this time any different? We do not live under the thumb of Ceasar, but what rules our lives in this place and this time? Is it the covenant and law of grace that governs the Realm of God? Or is it something else?
Now take two steps inward and look at your own hearts, your own souls. Are you standing on the safe, solid ground? Are you struggling against the currents of our own time? Or are you adrift in the midst of an overwhelming stream of demands that pull you one way and another? Are the cry of John the Baptist and the call of Christ meant for your ears? Who and what are the lords of your life?
On Sunday mornings, we come to worship the God who is our salvation. We sing hymns of prayer and thanksgiving. We give tithes and offerings to support the work of the church as it seeks to become a truer representation of the Kingdom, as it seeks to reach out to offer the promise to others. We listen to the words of our good and gentle shepherd – words that reassure and words that challenge. And when we offer prayers for forgiveness we are assured that our petition is answered because that is the nature of God’s love and grace. It is available to all of us when we seek it. Yet, when we leave here, have we changed? Do we live differently? Are we building on the blessing we have received or is this hour each week just a moment spent with one foot on the dry ground – a moment to catch our breath before we turn again to plunge into the swirling waters?
The covenant with Noah still stands. God repented – turned away from the way of destruction to find another way. God will never again send a flood to cover the earth and blot out all life. But we, we make our own floods. They cover our lives and threaten to blot out our identity as beloved children of God. And into those treacherous waters, Jesus came to throw us a life line. He was, he is the new way – the way of love that promises to wash away the sludge and the debris that cover us. His light shines into the drab desolation that we see when we look around us, calling, commanding, inviting us to come out of the rain and into the Realm of God.
What stops us? What is there to lose? None of us lives the promise fully, and we each have our own reasons, our own delusions holding us back. I can not tell you what yours are. I hardly even begin to understand my own. Yet, I feel the pull of the promise fighting against the tug of habit and the tide of daily life.
As we sit here, rooted for a time in the covenant, take a moment to pause. Rest within yourselves and within the embrace of the Spirit. Search amidst all the thoughts and desires – the many demands that clamor for your attention, for your life’s energy. Search for the light of the promise inviting you into a different way. Listen for the call of the One who wandered the wilderness and rode the tide of humanity’s flood – “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
When you find that life line, turn and lay a hand on it (even a finger would be enough). Feel the pull of the promise and let it grow within you. Let it build until it draws you up out of the storm swell of morass that surrounds you. And hold on. Hold on as it frees you from the things that hold you back, gently guiding your feet as they stumble onto the dry, solid ground.
Look up and see the sign of hope stretching across the horizon of your spirit. Look … really look at your life and all that you are.
Turn and look at what your life could become … at all that you are meant to be.
Beloved ….
Repent. Turn from the flood and into the power of God’s promise, and believe in new life open to all. What’s holding you back?
sermon by Torin Eikler
Genesis 9:8-17 Mark 1:9-15
Have you ever been in a flood? Or seen the aftermath of one? For myself, I have been lucky enough not to witness a disaster like that first hand, but I have seen the results. Walking through the streets that aren’t really streets anymore because they are covered with mud and branches and lawn furniture and worse. Trying not to breathe too deeply because of the smell – a unique bouquet of rotting vegetation and putrefying animal carcasses. Overwhelmed by the amazing amount of stuff piled up against anything and everything left standing. Surprised by the occasional chair hung up in a tree’s branches. Stunned by how drab a world is when everything is a covered in a healthy coat of light brown. It’s quite an experience, but it can’t hold a candle to what people see in the midst of it all.
This past Thursday was the anniversary of the Buffalo Creek flood and West Virginia Morning aired an interview with Roger Osborne who survived the disaster. On that morning thirty-seven years ago, one of the dams holding the coal sludge from the local mine failed and a 60-foot wave of black water came down the ravine and swept away the town of Lundale. At 8:00 in the morning, Osborne woke to his neighbor’s wife as she drove down the street honking and yelling for everyone to get out. He and his family drove to higher ground with the water already up to the windows of the car. As he stood with his wife, three daughters, and his mother on the hillside, they watched as cars, houses, and people were washed away by the wall of water. They stood and watched as neighbors, friends, and relatives were taken by the flood. When it was all over the valley was wiped clean. There was literally nothing left. The worst part, according to Osborne, was not losing everything they owned. It wasn’t the terror he felt as they made their get-away. It wasn’t even the horrific experience of looking over the 125 bodies in the morgue and discovering 26 of his closest relatives. It was standing on that hill side and watching helplessly friends he had known his whole life, mothers with babies in their arms, and whole families screamed for help from rooftops, from inside houses disintegrating around them, and from the midst of swirling black water. It was a horrible experience, and it has taken him years to come to terms with the visions and dreams he has had ever since.
I imagine that Noah and his family may have experienced some of the same trauma. Standing on the ark as the rains came harder and harder and water began to rise, I expect the people who had derided his work began to gather around, asking … pleading to be allowed on board. Refused, they may have looked for other places – higher ground or rooftops that were above the water level. Eventually, though, the eight people inside must have heard the screams as hundreds of people were swept away by the tide. Riding out the storm, I imagine they stopped looking out the windows for fear of seeing the remnants of civilization – lives and property floating on the surface as they slowly rotted away. Even when they landed, the ordeal wouldn’t have been over. We have the image of a pristine world washed clean by the flood, and maybe that’s the way it was. But, maybe they found chairs in the branches of trees or dishes piled up in the hollers where the water made its last stand before draining away. Maybe they were assailed by the smell of rot wafting through the fresh air to surprise them in unguarded moments. Certainly, they were left with the memory of the family and friends that could never have survived the months of landless drifting. It’s no wonder that Noah turned to drink a little more than he should have. Do you blame him?
And yet, Noah’s family received something that Osborne never got – a promise. And not just any promise – God’s promise. This flood was on a grand scale, destroying all the living things left behind on the land, and God’s response was in kind:
As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and with your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.
And, that grand promise was sealed with an equally grand sign – wrapped up with a bow (if you will) - a splash of color arcing through the sky. When the rains came and old fears reared up, the rainbow would shine forth serving as a beacon of hope and reassurance. The rain will stop this time. There will be no flood wiping everything away. It may not have had much power to wipe away the grief and the memories of the past, but it was enough to help that small group of people begin building a new future – a hopeful future blessed by God.
Jesus was born into a flood as well. All around him, people were suffering. The sick, the possessed, the poor, and those pushed to the edge of society by custom and misfortune – they were all around him …. a flood of humanity in need. And there was another flood as well, a less visible torrent overwhelming the people of Israel and sweeping them away from faithful life as the chosen people.
Carrie talked about this last week just a little when she mentioned the Pax Romana. Her quote from “The Life of Brian” illustrated it through Monty Python’s strange sense of humor. Roads, medicine, sewer systems, and “security” were just the beginning. Roman culture with its different customs, its looser, freer morality, its wealth, and its many gods were flowing all around, through, and over the Jews as they tried to hold on to the security of their own beliefs and traditions.
In one sense, they were lucky. In other provinces of the empire, people were forced to give up their native religions, laws, and traditions and take up those sanctioned by the Romans. For some reason, the empire respected the heritage of the people of God and allowed them to continue in their own ways. The Temple was left to function as it had for centuries, Jewish law and leadership were allowed to exist along side the Roman authorities and the laws they enforced. The ceremonial guard was even left in tact. All very strange since the region of Judea was considered to be a troublesome area prone to rebellion. Despite all that, the people of Israel were being inundated with Roman culture. And, it was changing them like a great river or tidal surge remake the shores they touch: eroding the structure of commandments and laws that had defined their lives, eating away at the customs and traditions that had shaped them as a people, threatening to wash away the covenant they had with their God.
He watched all of this as he grew up. He saw the people around him struggling against the flow. He saw many of them get swept up, turning and tumbling away. And he knew that the covenant still held – that God would not suffer the people to be washed away. I suppose that he may have wondered what to do. How does one turn the tide of a flood? Even more than that, how does one drain it all away?
When it was time for him to begin his ministry, he went to John. He went into the waters of repentance and spent forty days of his own, enduring the hardships of the wilderness. And when he returned, he began. He began to preach repentance. He called people back to God and God’s way. He pointed to the Realm of God – there with and among the people, and invited everyone to turn and step out of the current and onto the higher ground of the covenant promise. And, fulfilling the promises made in the past and offered people hope. He became the new sign of a renewed covenant with the people of his time – the image to remind them of God’s presence, God’s love, and God’s grace – the light shining into the dark to show the way to higher ground – safe ground – the ground of the Kingdom. Not all welcomed that light, but all received the sign and the promise.
The light still shines. The sign and the promise still stand for us today. And what a blessing, for do we not also live in the midst of the flood? Take a step back and look at the bigger picture. Is this time any different? We do not live under the thumb of Ceasar, but what rules our lives in this place and this time? Is it the covenant and law of grace that governs the Realm of God? Or is it something else?
Now take two steps inward and look at your own hearts, your own souls. Are you standing on the safe, solid ground? Are you struggling against the currents of our own time? Or are you adrift in the midst of an overwhelming stream of demands that pull you one way and another? Are the cry of John the Baptist and the call of Christ meant for your ears? Who and what are the lords of your life?
On Sunday mornings, we come to worship the God who is our salvation. We sing hymns of prayer and thanksgiving. We give tithes and offerings to support the work of the church as it seeks to become a truer representation of the Kingdom, as it seeks to reach out to offer the promise to others. We listen to the words of our good and gentle shepherd – words that reassure and words that challenge. And when we offer prayers for forgiveness we are assured that our petition is answered because that is the nature of God’s love and grace. It is available to all of us when we seek it. Yet, when we leave here, have we changed? Do we live differently? Are we building on the blessing we have received or is this hour each week just a moment spent with one foot on the dry ground – a moment to catch our breath before we turn again to plunge into the swirling waters?
The covenant with Noah still stands. God repented – turned away from the way of destruction to find another way. God will never again send a flood to cover the earth and blot out all life. But we, we make our own floods. They cover our lives and threaten to blot out our identity as beloved children of God. And into those treacherous waters, Jesus came to throw us a life line. He was, he is the new way – the way of love that promises to wash away the sludge and the debris that cover us. His light shines into the drab desolation that we see when we look around us, calling, commanding, inviting us to come out of the rain and into the Realm of God.
What stops us? What is there to lose? None of us lives the promise fully, and we each have our own reasons, our own delusions holding us back. I can not tell you what yours are. I hardly even begin to understand my own. Yet, I feel the pull of the promise fighting against the tug of habit and the tide of daily life.
As we sit here, rooted for a time in the covenant, take a moment to pause. Rest within yourselves and within the embrace of the Spirit. Search amidst all the thoughts and desires – the many demands that clamor for your attention, for your life’s energy. Search for the light of the promise inviting you into a different way. Listen for the call of the One who wandered the wilderness and rode the tide of humanity’s flood – “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
When you find that life line, turn and lay a hand on it (even a finger would be enough). Feel the pull of the promise and let it grow within you. Let it build until it draws you up out of the storm swell of morass that surrounds you. And hold on. Hold on as it frees you from the things that hold you back, gently guiding your feet as they stumble onto the dry, solid ground.
Look up and see the sign of hope stretching across the horizon of your spirit. Look … really look at your life and all that you are.
Turn and look at what your life could become … at all that you are meant to be.
Beloved ….
Repent. Turn from the flood and into the power of God’s promise, and believe in new life open to all. What’s holding you back?
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