Sunday, March 28, 2010

Broken Holiness

(originally this was titled "Not Supposed to Be")
sermon by Carrie Eikler
March 28, 2010 (Palm/Passion Sunday)
Luke 19:28-40 and 22:47-62

Dr. Gregg and Kathryn Korbon had a son named Brian. Brian was a very healthy boy and was almost 9 years old when he told his parents he wouldn't make it to his "double digits," meaning he wouldn’t make it to 10 years old. "That's when I got worried," said Kathryn, who took her son to see a therapist.”

One day, Kathryn came home to find young Brian pulling a red wagon down the driveway of their home in Charlottesville, VA. The wagon was filled with his toys and camping gear. "I'm ready to go on my trip," the boy said. Kathryn replied, "Brian, I'll be so sad if you leave." "Mom,” he said, “I have to go." She told him that he couldn’t go because he was going to have a birthday party soon. He relented.

But before the celebration — planned for May 8, 1993 — Brian wrote letters to some of his friends, and put a sign on his door that read, "Brian's on a trip. Don't worry about me." After his party Brian played in a Little League game. Though he was the smallest player on the team and normally was afraid of the ball, his father recalls that during that game, Brian was fearless.

It was his first at-bat, and he was walked to first base. The next batter hit a triple — Brian ran the bases, charging across home plate. "He was the happiest little boy you ever saw. He gave me a high-five and went into the dugout," Gregg recalls, "and then he collapsed.”

When his coach brought Brian out of the dugout, Gregg tried to revive him. "I'm an anesthesiologist. That's what I do, I resuscitate people," he said. "And something inside told me he wasn't coming back."[1]

Soon after leaving the hospital, Kathryn realized her son had somehow known what would happen to him. "That's what he was trying to tell us all that time," she said. Gregg replied, But “it [just] wasn't in my belief system that something like that could happen."
*
This is not a story about how things are supposed to be. Human beings are supposed to have a prescribed sequence of events: we have happy childhoods, disruptive but decent adolescence, frustrating yet promising young adulthood, productive middle-adulthood, and then become a fulfilled older adults as we prepare for the next phase, that phase that none of us really knows about.

While we may think that’s how it’s “supposed” to be, we know it isn’t the reality for many people. It wasn’t the reality, for young Brian.
I wonder if, for a brief moment, Jesus forgot about what was supposed to be, as he entered the fanfare of the crowds. Did he think that maybe what was at the end of this journey might not really happen, like yelling at a movie we’ve seen a dozen times, hoping the girl doesn’t go down the stairs? Do you find yourself yelling at the story, “No Jesus! Don’t do it! Don’t get on the colt!”

But that’s not how it was supposed to be. All along Jesus was predicting his death, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. It was going to happen. Even though the gospels were written after Jesus died, written by people who knew what came at the end of that journey, I can believe that Jesus somehow knew—knew that what the crowds thought was “supposed to be” or what his disciples thought was “supposed to be”—he somehow knew, that wasn’t how it would be.

Martin Luther King Jr, spoke these words: “We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people we will get to the promised land.” The next day, the day after he said these words, he was killed.

Was he predicting his death? Did he know the next day he would be gunned down? I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it. But I don’t doubt that King, and those around him, knew that what he was doing, what they all were doing, would likely end in death. It is the illogical, yet somehow predictable consequence of what they were doing. Of what Jesus was doing. Of looking in the face of the powers that dominate and oppress, that kill and stigmatize, and saying “this is not how it is supposed to be.”

Today is known as Palm Sunday, but also Passion Sunday. We remember both events: the splendid parade of Jesus entering into Jerusalem that ushered in the week that would end in his death, and desertion. It is a week of paradoxes… It is Holy Week. It starts with fanfare and waving branches, moves through death and desolation, to meet the complexities of Easter. As one commentator noted, today is the most disorienting Sunday of the year.[2]

It all starts with that colt, or donkey, as one gospel refers to it. A donkey? That’s not how it’s supposed to be. The messiah should be riding a war horse, at least, something with a little more dignity than a donkey. (first Lenten cloth comes off)

No you are not supposed to cower behind your fear when people ask you if you know Jesus, you’re supposed to bravely, boldly speak your allegiance. (second Lenten cloth)

No, a kiss is supposed to express devotion and love. A kiss is not supposed to betray a friend.(third Lenten cloth)

But you know, it wasn’t only those around Jesus who were brazenly assured of how things should be.

When Peter insists that he should was Jesus’ feet at the Last Supper, an action we will participate in this week, Jesus says No Peter, that’s not how it is supposed to be. I should wash yours.

No, you are not suppose to attack your enemy--to cut off their ear, to take their life--you are to heal your enemy.

Jesus was full of “supposed to be’s.” The disciples, the crowds, the religious leaders, they had them too. And yes, even us. And maybe that’s our paradox: we want to continue being the people waving the branches, but end up being the one to betray, deny, and crucify. Proclaiming one thing, and living another. Believing one thing, and never fully living up to that belief. And we think, “that’s not how it is supposed to be.” But the reality is, that’s how it is.

And yet if we can wrap up the events of this week and call it Holy, then I think that God can wrap up these paradoxes in our lives, and call us holy as well, a broken sort of holy.Our palm branches and our kisses of betrayals, our hosanna and our cries to crucify him. God leaves us with this cup, holding it, wondering…with what are we supposed to fill this broken cup?

Young Brian Korbon, the loving, unafraid little boy whose life did not follow the path we think it should have, was determined to have died of heart failure. After his death, the ballpark where he had played that day was renovated and renamed the Brian C. Korbon Field.

Gregg Korbon, Brian’s father, returned to the field after Brian's death, to get his car. On a beautiful spring day, he watched another game of Little Leaguers. "All of a sudden, everything got very clear," Gregg recalls. "And I had this sense that if I could bring Brian back, it would be for me, not for him — that he had finished. Any unfinished business was just mine."

And yet, what was finished in Brian, was not unfinished for his community and those around him. A plaque was placed at the site: On May 8, 1993, Brian Korbon died suddenly in the south dugout after scoring the first run of his Little League career. This ball field is dedicated to his wisdom, faith and courage. May those who play here share Brian's sense of fair play and joy of life, and those who cheer them find a greater sense of community and love for their children.

The finished yet the unfinished is the journey of this holy week. God’s working and fashioning in us the broken sort of holy that surrounds us when we try to replace violence for healing, or denial for acceptance.

Maybe it’s the broken sort of holy that a father and mother experience when holding the lifeless body of a child, yet sensing the life-giving power that he gave them in their lives, and would continue to give his community.
I think it is that broken sort of holy, that paradoxical nature of God, that we see ahead of us this week.

And that broken sort of holy, is maybe, the way it’s supposed to be

[1] A son’s premonition, and a final baseball game. Storycorps http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120580047
[2] Dylan Breuer, Sarah. www.sarahlaughed.net

Confession
I clench my hands and hold them tightly in a fist.
I’m holding onto my colt-riding King.
I picture myself by the road,
throwing down my cloak,
waving my branch,
shouting blessings for the One who comes in God’s name.
*
I open my hands,
I release the Pharisee inside who says,
“Teacher, order your disciples to STOP. This is not how it should be”
Instead, I unleash the praises that sometimes get stuck inside me–
the ones I usually leave to the stones to shout.
I unleash the shouts of joy
that would otherwise be silenced by conformity, pride, and apathy.
I hold the cup, the cup of broken holiness, and ask God not to take it away,
but in some mysterious, awesome way
I ask God to fill it.

Words of Assurance
God fills our cups with love, forgiveness, compassion, and redemption. The broken people we are today can be transformed, freeing us from death, singing on. Rise now, in confidence that while we watch Jesus ride onto the Cross, death is not, and never will be, God’s last word for us.

Benediction
Go into this joyful week, weeping with the joy of God’s broken holiness for you.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Extravagant Love

sermon by Torin Eikler
Lent 5
Isaiah 43: 16-21 John 12:1-8

What would have happened if Jesus had not been betrayed by a kiss in Gethsemene?

It’s a strange question, I know, and I have to admit that, interesting or not, it probably doesn’t matter. Especially as we approach Maundy Thursday and Easter, I have to admit that questions like this one are not likely to be all that fruitful. What was done was done. Jesus, being who he was, that betrayal may have been inevitable. The writers of the gospels are at pains to point out that prophesy, at least, was certain of what would happen and that Jesus also knew what was coming.

Take this story from John as an example. In the midst of what could have been a beautiful ceremony – a holy moment of care and worship, the disciples bring everyone down. Their reaction, as summed up by Judas, is to call the gathered people back to reality. In response, Jesus evokes another reality, one that the disciples had refused to hear. “Leave her alone,” he says. “She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.” As believers and commentators from across the centuries have noted, those words are one of the more poignant foretellings of Jesus’ death, spoken as they were about a woman who had buried her brother not that long ago.

No, I pose the question not because I think there is much of benefit that we would discover down that trail, nor because I doubt the truth at the heart of the scripture. I ask it because of the verse about Judas and his motivations. In the Bible it is printed in parentheses because it was not actually part of the narrative. Yet, it is there because the author wanted to make it clear that Judas was more concerned about himself than about the poor. Sadly, I think the parentheses defeat his or her purpose since we tend to skip over them. If we give them, instead, the importance the author intended, it brings a different feel to the passage. Yes, I think we can learn a good deal from examining the differences between Mary’s self-less service and Judas’ selfish actions.


A few weeks ago, I was speaking with a friend, and the talk turned to our ability to use reason to justify ourselves. “We all,” he said (and I’m paraphrasing here), “make decisions that we know are not what God want, but they are in our best interests at the moment. Then, because our conscience rests uneasy with those transgressions, we find ways to explain away our misgivings. But, the thing is that we only half believe them, and in order to feel less troubled, we put up a wall between ourselves and God.”

Those words have come back to me several times since that day. As I drive past the man standing at the entrance to the University Towne Center mall with my eyes averted too late not to see the sign asking for help, I wonder at the integrity of my internal claim that I need the money for my family. It is almost certain that within the week I will stop by Slight Indulgence and get a cup of coffee or buy a chocolate pastry at Panera during my planning session with Cindy.

As I sit in our Sunday School discussion and listen to us talk about putting preconditions on our giving so that is used wisely … I wonder how much of our caring about doing the most good with our money comes from a true concern for those we give to and how much of it is a justification of giving less often. On the one hand, I have found it freeing, on occasion, to give without consideration of how the money will be used. Other times I have felt foolish when I see someone I have given money to lying on a park bench with empty bottles of malt liquor strewn on the grass.

As I answer the phone in the office and turn away another person asking for help with bills or the cost of a motel until Christian Help opens on Monday, I wonder about the priorities that have shaped our church’s budget. We have committed $10,000 to outreach and $1,200 of it is aimed at meeting such human need. And while we tend to keep our promises better in that area, we have budgeted about $16,000 for the maintenance of this building, and will quickly spend more if we need a new furnace or a new roof.


For love of her lord, Jesus, Mary poured out one of her treasures at his feet. A small vial of ointment - Nard, it is called (one of the ritual ointments used in preparing the dead for burial), scholars estimate that it would have cost her almost a years wages. It was a foolish waste. Judas and the others were right about that. And it was a reckless act; throwing away such valuable stuff so soon after they had used another jar of the same thing when they buried Lazarus not so long before.

Two years wages poured out and for what?? For nothing that human wisdom could understand. There was status to be gained. Nobody was truly prepared for burial. Even if Jesus cast it in that light, only his feet were anointed and they would be getting pretty dirty over the next several days. No … no gain … just a foolish, reckless act of extravagance.

And yet, Jesus praises her for it. Just a few weeks earlier, he told the righteous young ruler to sell all he had and give it to the poor. Now, he chides Judas for suggesting a similar thing. And the difference is that where Judas and the rich man were concerned with their own interests, Mary is pouring out her extravagant gift for love of Christ just as Christ would soon pour out his extravagant gift for love of us all.

When was the last time you did something like that? Have you ever? Have you ever completely cast aside common sense and gone down the road of reckless abandon into outrageous acts love? I can’t remember the last time I did, but it seems that that is what God asks of us: to let go of our own concerns – our own self-interests – and let love lead us where it will. If that means pouring out our wealth, so be it. If it means giving more of our time or energy than we “should,” so be it. If it means offering our lives for the work of Christ, so be it.

Down that road lies the Kingdom. Down that road we find paths opening up before us – paths that mark the way to new life. We have glimpsed its promise, and we chose to follow it when we committed ourselves to be disciples of the One who walked it first. But we so often find ourselves holding back. We make choices that lead us down other paths and into the wilderness, betraying ourselves and each other. We build walls around ourselves even as we long, deep within our souls, to feel grace washing over us in the warm embrace of our God. And I wonder when we will tear down those barriers, when we will come back to sit at the Master’s feet.

What will it take for us to let go of our lives of self-interested justification and take hold of the true life that is ever before us?

What will it take for us pick up our own treasure (whatever it may be) and pour it at Jesus’ feet in reckless, foolish, extravagant love?

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Prodigal or Penurious

sermon by Torin Eikler
Lent 4
II Corinthians 5:16-21 Luke 15:1-3,11-32

Quite a cast of characters in this story, aren’t there? A father, two sons, (presumably a mother), slaves, prostitutes, pigs, and one lone fatted calf to be specific. I wonder … which one is your favorite? I know I would definitely not want to be the calf. Although, at least he got to eat well while it lasted. I think my favorite is actually the slaves. According to the story, they are well fed, and though they work hard for someone who owns them, I imagine it would have been quite interesting to watch the master and his sons play out such a drama.

Certainly, though, I wouldn’t want to be one of the slaves. But, I wouldn’t want to be one of the sons either. Though I admire the elder son for his loyalty and work ethic, it sounds like he felt just as trapped by his sense of duty – just as enslaved as those who actually were property. The younger son would be a possibility … maybe …. At least he went out exploring. But then there is that whole part about sleeping with the pigs and longing for slops as his food.

The father couldn’t have had it much easier. He must have gone through all the same things the older son did when he was younger in order to have inherited; though, I suppose he could have been a rebellious youth with an understanding father. Then, he watched his two sons grow up with pride only to have his heart broken and his hopes dashed first by the one who left and then by the one who stayed.

But there is another question that is more important for us to consider as we think about this parable – this story that invites us in so that it can teach us about ourselves and about God. Where do we fit? Who do you identify with? The father, the younger son, the elder son … which one would you be?


When I was working with the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Orangeburg, South Carolina, I lived in a tiny little town called North (that’s North, South Carolina). There were about 20 houses there, and I had to drive about 30 miles on back roads to get to the site where we were building a new church building. On my morning and evening commutes, I went through a few other small towns and cruised past a bunch of those signs pointing the way to churches that were off the main road. Usually, I was going a good deal too fast either because I had slept too long or I really wanted to get back to my bed. So, I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings.

One Saturday, though, the volunteers left early, and I had the afternoon off. On my trip home, I counted those signs, curious to see how many churches the sparsely inhabited countryside supported, and though I don’t remember the exact number anymore, I do remember noticing one sign that pointed to Prodigal Holiness Church. I noticed it, I think, because the sister congregation to the one I was working with was named Prodigal AME, and I was surprised to see another church with the same name. It got me thinking.

When I got back to my little cottage, I got out my Bible just to be certain, and I confirmed my suspicions. The parable that we heard today was indeed titled “The Prodigal Son” though I have since seen some Bibles that call it “The Prodigal and his brother.” What I was wondering was why any congregation would choose to name itself after the paradigm of dissolute living.

Being a young man of 24, proud of his knowledge and loath to ask stupid questions, I was not wise or courageous enough just to ask the members of Prodigal AME or even the pastor who I had a pretty frank relationship with. So, I just decided that it must have been the repentance of the younger son that the congregations were drawn to. But, the question has stayed with me for the last 12 years, and it is a testament to my laziness and my love of the discussions the question generates that I never looked up the word prodigal to see what it means.

That changed this past January. The question came up in one of my small groups at the music and worship leaders’ conference at Laurelville, and no one in the group knew what the word meant. We had all assumed that it meant wasteful or profligate solely based on this parable which is only place any of us had ever seen it used. Yet, others had made comments that made us wonder.

One of the people in the group pulled out an iPhone and looked it up on the internet (ahh, the wonders of modern technology), and we found ourselves a bit surprised. Prodigal does mean wasteful or one who throws away money. But another meaning closer to the original root is “giving or yielding profusely; lavishly abundant; profuse,”[1] which actually a very good description of the father in the story. So, we have two prodigals: one who has spent all he has and one who gives a lavish abundance of both money and loving grace.

I don’t think that is a coincidence. As I have studied this passage, the heart of what it has to teach us is in the comparison between both of these prodigals and the older brother. On the one hand, we can see that it may be wiser to tow the line like the older brother rather than to squander all the resources we have in dissolute living. On the other hand, I’m sure we would all agree that it is the better part of grace to offer the forgiveness of the father rather than the spite of the solid and faithful son. One or the other of these two lessons have probably been the subject of every sermon we have heard on this text, and they are important. So, hold on to them.


Let’s go back for a minute. Do you remember the question I asked you earlier – the one about which character you identify with? I suspect that most of us settled on the older son. I know I always come out there. With the strong sense of fairness that is a part of middle class American culture it’s almost inevitable that we can really get in touch with the outrage he felt. Of course, it helps that we would be uncomfortable to say we feel more like the father or the younger son. If we say, “the father” it might sound like undo pride. If we say, “the prodigal son,” that could point to embarrassing character flaws.

We all have some of each of these three men within us. We all have taken the wealth that is ours to steward and squandered it in selfish pursuits at some time of other (remember that all of creation is God’s and we are just caretakers.) And we all have it within us to forgive those who have taken advantage of the love we have for them. Most of us have felt that sense of joy and celebration when something or someone we thought lost came back to us. But, the truth is that all of us here are probably much more like the older son.

We are the responsible ones, the ones who do follow our sense of duty. We don’t run off and squander our inheritance (which is definitely a good thing). We are happy when the world runs smoothly and everything goes according to our expectations. We may even feel joy in the work we do and the lives we have built. We hold our tongues as others make fools of themselves. It’s there life to live after all.

But what happens when we are faced with the unfairness of grace and forgiveness? How do we feel when someone receives things they don’t deserve – maybe even things we think we deserve?


I can’t speak for all of you here, but I know that I often find myself holding back exactly what Dave shared earlier: rage sparked by the feeling of injustice.


There is another parable which tells the story of a man who owed a great deal of money (10,000 talents or about $300,000 to us). He was brought before the king, and pleaded for mercy. The king forgave the entire debt. And as the man went out from his audience, he saw a man who owed him 100 denarii (about $6,000). He seized him by the throat and demanded payment of the debt. When he couldn’t pay, the man had him thrown in debtors prison.


When I stand in need of forgiveness, I beg for grace whether it be from God or from my family and friends. When someone asks for the same from me, I generally give it. I often give it without them asking. Yet, when I see someone else granting undeserved grace – at least from my perspective, I become (and here’s your word for the day) … I become as penurious – as stingy – as the elder brother.

What a thought … stingy with grace …. I almost seems like an oxymoron, but that’s the truth of it.

It's a hard truth. I don't like it. I don't like what it makes me, but that is the way I am. This is one time when I would rather be "lavishly abundant, profuse," and if this parable is any indication, God would rather I be prodigal with grace, in either sense, than stingy. I just don't know if I can do it … on my own.

But Paul speaks another truth: "if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, everything old has passed away." That gives me hope – hope that I can find a way to live up to the example of my Lord, the forgiving father. This being Lent, there is no better time to start the quest all over again, to make a new beginning. Will you join me?


[1] from dictionary.com 3/13/2010.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

The Cost of Satisfaction

sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 3
Isaiah 55:1-9, Psalm 63

How many here like chocolate? OK, how many here love chocolate? How many here would want to not only eat chocolate but inhale chocolate?

Believe it or not, it is now possible. It is called Le Whif, and it ranks right up there with Willy Wonka’s scrumpdidlyuptous bar and lickable wallpaper. Le Whif is an inhaler that you place in your mouth, like medicinal inhalers, and you inhale puffs of breathable chocolate. You may have heard this story on NPR this week, like I did. You may be ready to run to the internet to order it online, like I considered. You may wonder, “how much can such exquisiteness cost?” like I pondered.

Well, each canister gives you about ten puffs and costs around 3 dollars. That’s 30 cents a puff. I can handle 30 cents for such deliciousness! And no calories! I did have to question the method of airing such a radio report at the beginning of Lent when sweets are often looked down upon. But maybe it’s because it seemed so innocent, so innocuous as simple breaths of chocolate, even the most committed Lenten chocolate abstainer would cave. After all, if you are inhaling it, are you really eating it?

OK, 30 cents a whiff. No calories. It sounds pretty good. But I wondered: does it really satisfy? Would I have to go through five canisters to get the amount of satisfaction I might get out of one small square of luscious dark chocolate, therefore adding the cost of my chocolate fix up to a whopping $15?

The price of satisfaction. It’s not something we often think of. The price of immediate gratification, the price of short-term ego inflation, these are the prices we often think of—not the price of satisfaction. After all, everything has a price, everything has a cost. If we can’t buy something to satisfy our need, we somehow have to trade for it, work for it, rearrange our schedules for it. Satisfaction ain’t free, and is hard to come by...just ask Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones

I think that is what's so intriguing for me in about this scripture in Isaiah. Written six hundred years before Jesus, Isaiah speaks to a people who have been taken from their homes in Israel, and living in exile in Babylon. And in Babylon food comes with a price, and not just a monetary one: “whoever feeds, owns,” reflects Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann. “Eat royal bread, think royal thoughts.” Isaiah’s community was threatened with forgetting who they were. They were forgetting God’s covenant with them, looking more and more like their oppressors, at least in their hearts.

So Isaiah sets an image of a feast. This is not simply manna and water. It’s a lavish double entendre—it has two meanings. It’s a physical feast and a spiritual feast. It is eating and drinking… together, and before God. Last week Torin brought us a female image of God as a mother hen. I see another female image of God in Isaiah. God, like a mother in an apron, opening the screen door into the warm summer evening, and with a voice that is full of command and love, shouts “Come and get it!”

And we, her children, run in. Scraping the chairs on the floor as we pull them out, with the steam from the pots and the clink of the silverware, our hands cupped around our rumbling tummies we find our place at the table, the feast. And we don’t know what it cost. Mother doesn’t ask us for any money to go towards the cost of the meal. She doesn’t expect us to work in exchange for the food. She does ask us to wash up, be kind to one another, give thanks, and if she’s lucky, we’ll give a word of gratitude. Not that she needs it, but it sure would be nice. She’ll feed us anyway, even if we don’t wash up the dishes. But cost? No, there’s no cost.

That, sisters and brothers, is satisfaction.

Take a moment and think about a meal that left you feeling satisfied, satiated. Why did it leave you feeling that way? Was it the food? Maybe it was the reason behind the meal? Was it the company? Or maybe it was a combination of these things. Was it more than just your stomach that was satisfied? What does it mean to have a meal that satisfies, a feast that really feeds us, a host that doesn’t pass you the bill, but is just happy that you first showed up.

At Grand Canyon National Park and many places in the Southwest where the humidity is extremely low you can find signs that say “Stop! Drink water. You are thirsty, whether you realize it or not.” Maybe that’s how we can hear Isaiah today, calling us to the thirst we don’t recognize, the true hunger we’ve been trying to satisfy with other than the most nourishing food.

Now I don’t think the idea of us hungering or thirsting for something is foreign to us. But when we thirst and hunger--like the Psalm points us to, like the words of Isaiah seek to satisfy--we are forced to examine those parched throats, and rumbling stomachs. Is it just about finding that thing that makes us happy? So do we satisfy it with what we like? // With what we want? //With what makes us happy?

Thomas Merton, a Catholic monk who walked the divide between the solitary monastic life, and the active public life, thought that the question, “Am I happy?” is a North American preoccupation, not a universal human quest or seen as a universal right, and especially not a biblical concept. In In Merton’s perspective, our obsession with our happiness leads us to superficial and empty lives, striving for that wiff of pleasure rather than seeking the deep satisfaction to our hunger and thirst.

Merton reflects, “When we live superficially…we are always outside ourselves, never quite “with” ourselves, always divided and pulled many directions…we find ourselves doing many things that we do not really want to do, saying things we do not really mean, needing things we do not really need, exhausting ourselves for what we secretly realize to be worthless and without meaning in lives.”[1] Instead of asking ourselves “Am I happy” we should be asking ourselves “Am I free?”

That’s a tough question, Am I free? It's the question behind our Lenten discipline to hold on and let go. It questions what is essential in our lives, what will really satisfy our longings, and nourish our real hunger. “Ask me not where I live, or what I like to eat, or how I comb my hair…” says Merton, “but ask me what I think I am living for, in detail, and ask me what I think is keeping me from living fully for the thing I want to live for.”

That’s thirsting and hungering for God. But I bet Merton might assert that we shouldn’t only think about our thirst and hunger. Isaiah’s words are also about a God who throws open the door, calling for us. And setting down to the table with this God, we realize that the true satisfaction to our hunger and thirst, is that this God hungers and thirsts…for us. That’s the only cost of this satisfaction, which is really no cost at all—the cost of being loved and longed for by God.

--
The door is flung open, and the voice calls out to you to come to the table. As we prepare to receive the bread and cup that symbolizes God’s love and longing for us, I invite you to dwell on the thirsts you have that dries your throat, the hunger that pains your stomach. We know the obvious temptations that prey on our hunger, like the words on these empty cups: money, ego, promotions. But what about those that aren’t so obvious? The joy in criticizing others...the false satisfaction of busyness...the chronic need for affirmation. As Thomas Merton asked, are these what you want to live for, or are they what’s keeping you from living fully?

As you come forward to receive the bread of Christ and the cup of life, I invite you, as we have been doing throughout Lent, to close your hands tightly into a fist. Within them contains all the realized and unrealized desires that we have longed for that ultimately do not lead to full living. When you come to the bread and the cup, open your hands with abandon, replacing the empty promises with the fullness of Christ’s table.

Please pray with me: Source of everything good, we have hungered and thirsted for things that do not satisfy.

We come to your table now to let go of our empty desires, and to receive your longing for us. Bless us in this feast.

You are welcome to come, let go and receive.


[1] from Thomas Merton: Love and Living. qtd in “Lent’s terrible gift” by Kay Lynn Northcutt, Christian Century, March 9, 2010.