Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Micah 6:1-8, Matthew 5:1-12
January 30, 4th Sunday of Epiphany
Our adult Sunday School class has just finished watching a four-part series on the Crusades. Many of you have heard us talk about the narrator and producer of this documentary, Terry Jones. Jones was one of the founding members of Monty Python, who if you don’t know, was a British comedy troupe from the 60s and 70s. They became popular in America with their films “The Life of Brian” and “The Search for the Holy Grail.”
I confess. I love Monty Python. In fact, I am a self-proclaimed Monty Python nerd, even going to the lengths in college to memorize bits of their films, to banter back and forth with others .
Of course, now being a pastor you will assume I am above such foolishness.
Well, I’m not.
In the film, “The Life of Brian” a couple stands around in a field amid great crowds, listening to a man, we can only assume to be Jesus because he is saying very familiar words: “How blest are the sorrowful. They shall find consolation. How blest are those of gentle spirit. They shall have the earth for their possession. [Blest are the peacemakers…]”
Kim: [I can’t hear him…] What was that? Martin: I think it was 'Blessed are the cheesemakers.' Kim: Ahh. What's so special about the cheesemakers? Martin: Well, obviously, this is not meant to be taken literally. It refers to any manufacturers of dairy products. Kim: [OK OK…shh. What’s he say?] You hear that? Blessed are the Greek. Martin: The Greek? Kim: Mmm. Well, apparently, he's going to inherit the earth. Martin: Oh, it's the meek! Blessed are the meek! Oh, that's nice, isn't it? I'm glad they're getting something, 'cause they have a [heck] of a time.
Now one reason I love this bit is not just because it is funny, which it is, but because it reveals something to me about these words we all know and love: The Beatitudes. Even when we have heard them clearly many times in sermons, or pored over them in bible studies…these words can be hard to understand. Or perhaps more accurately, we often misunderstand the purpose of these words. We don’t quite catch the radical nature of them.
This description of the eight blessedness we call the Beatitudes, start off the Sermon on the Mount. Now for those of you who are new to the Church of the Brethren, I can tell you a few of historical realities: we like peace, we’re supposed to like washing each other’s feet (whether we do or not is debatable), and we love the Sermon on the Mount. And if you look at the three chapters that make up the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew you’ll understand why.
From the Beatitudes to love your enemies to do not judge lest you be judge to do not store up treasures on earth….the Sermon on the Mount is a rhetorical and philosophical marvel.
It’s no wonder Matthew concludes these three chapters with the words “Now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded at his teaching.”
[pause]
The Sermon on the Mount is astounding. It is packed full of social and spiritual guidance and Brethren and Mennonites love. Some have referred to this as the Brethren’s canon within the canon, our gospel within the gospel, that if we had to boil it down only a few sections of the Bible to guide us, it would be the Sermon on the Mount.
And it all begins with the Beatitudes. Those beatitudes many of us memorized as children. Those beatitudes that tell us about God’s notion of blessing
And because we have heard it so much, it all seems pretty clear. Here is a list of people: meek, pure of heart, peacemakers, the sorrowful. Given what we know about other lists in the Bible, such as the Ten Commandments, it is easy for us to think about the Beatitudes in the same way.
We might think what do I need to do to inherit the kingdom of heaven? If I was just persecuted more, or more people reviled me, or if I mourned more…
OK, that sounds extreme.
But who hasn’t thought, I should just be more merciful, work more for peace, if only all of my motives were pure…I think we’ve all desired those things once in a while. It’s easy to see the Beatitudes as a “to be” list.
I had an entire class on the Sermon on the Mount in seminary (really, we love it so much seminarians take a class on it.) And the first two things I learned, and remembered, were these:
• the beatitudes are not a list of Christian virtues and
• they are not a design for human happiness
They are often seen as these. One author even wrote a book called the “Be-Happy Attitudes.”
I think Jesus would challenge him on that title.
When Jesus speaks of these people as blessed, Matthew uses the Greek word ma-ka-ri-os, which means not only blessed, but brings with it a sense of being honored. We have a lot of preconceived notions about the word blessed, don’t we? It is easy to spiritualize and personalize “blessed” which is not much in keeping with Matthew’s theology.
For so long we have seen these people Jesus speaks of as people of virtue, because it’s obvious they are going to get good things! But in Jesus’ day these people were considered weak. By thinking of these people as not just blessed, but also honored, we are forced to reexamine what it is Jesus is doing.
These people Jesus talks about were shamed, looked down upon, pitied (which was a form of shaming). Matthew shows Jesus giving honor to those who have been pushed to the margins. He is describing who God is and what God is doing to those already feeling crushed by defeat.
It’s easy for us in our Western world with our notions of self-improvement and individualism to jump on the Beatitudes as something about “me,” my “how to be-happy attitudes.” But step back. Take yourself out of the picture for a moment. Try not to be the one Jesus is talking about, but listen to him talk about God. Listen to him talk about the others.
Who is it in our society that is shamed? Looked down upon? Who would you hesitate to welcome into your home for a meal because of how they looked, or talked, or smelled, or dressed? If you saw how they spent their money? If you knew some of the choices they made.
These are the people Jesus would likely be talking about if he gathered us all together today. These people, and a whole lot more.
To be sure, I don’t mean to say none of you here are mourning, or have put a lot on the line for what you believe in, or have felt defeat. We have all experienced something like we see in the beatitudes. The last time I preached I talked about claiming God’s call of blessedness on your life, that recognition that comes with baptism. And as Christians we need to recognized it and believe it.
And once you do, maybe it’s onto the second step of claim God’s blessing. What would it look like to join Christ in blessing those whom God blesses?
What would it look like to honor those whom God honors?
So yes, you do have a place in the beatitudes. There is a reason that, on this particular Sunday, the beatitudes are coupled with Micah’s call: do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God. Can you hear, not a list of things to be…but perhaps an invitation? Perhaps we’re hearing cheesemakers when Jesus is saying peacemakers, and perhaps we’re hearing a prescription when what Jesus is doing is giving you an invitation, and perhaps…that invitation is to join him in the work he’s already doing.
When we attended Mennonite Convention in Columbus two summers ago, we had the opportunity to hear Shane Claiborne speak. Shane has long dreadlocks…and a southern drawl. He lives in inner-city Philadelphia and practices what he calls “the new monasticism.” He blends evangelical Christianity with radical discipleship with missional mindset with social justice. At times, he seems like a walking conundrum.
I don’t really remember the focus of Shane’s sermon. I had six-month old Alistair with me, so my memory is patchy. But I do remember this story.
Shane had a friend who was trained as a massage therapist. We’ll call her Claire. As Claire completed her training she was deciding where she should take her new skills. Now as many of you know, a massage is a luxury. It is something that, I believe, every body needs but few bodies get. They can cost between 40-100 dollars an hour depending where you live. Some massage therapists work in hospitals, but the majority are found in private spas or massage studios. Claire wanted to use her skill, her gift, but she also felt called to something other than the ordinary.
Claire lived in a neighborhood in Philadelphia that you could say…wasn’t the best in town. Inthe walk to her apartment she passed drug dealers, drunks, and prostitutes. This was her community. These were her neighbors. So she decided to use her gifts to serve some of them.
Claire began a service where she gave free foot and leg massages to the female prostitutes in her neighborhood. Feet that stood for many hours a day, in very uncomfortable shoes. Feet that took women into situations that most did not desire, nor enjoy, but situations born out of desperation, misfortune, perhaps addiction. These are people who are the opposite of honored. These are people who are shamed.
And Claire blessed them. She honored them. She didn’t dismiss them or avoid eye contact or toss money at them. She didn’t pity them.
She honored them. She blessed them.
The Beatitudes give us a portrait. Who might we start with when we begin living out the call in Micah? One way we do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly is to honor those who have been shamed around us.
Who is around you?
Whose feet will you massage?
Whose mourning are you comforting?
Whose embarrassment are you responding to with encouraging words?
Whose persecution will you accompany?
From the baptismal waters we hear God call us blessed.
From the mount, we hear Christ asking, “In whose desperate situation can you be God’s blessing?”
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Light of Life
sermon by Torin Eikler
Matthew 4:12-23
Good … evil. Life … death. Day … night. Winner and loser, we live in a world full of dualities, full of words and ideas that would have no meaning if one of the pair did not exist to give definition to the other, and we seem to crave those polarities. Even as our ethics, our morality, and our faith live in the gray areas that fall between them, we seek out the absolutes that define our world as anchors and guides. How would we know good if we didn’t know evil? What would life be if there was no death? Would we even have a name for light if there was not darkness?
That last pair – light and dark – has been a preoccupation of humanity from the very beginning. From before we understood that the Earth spins on its axis and day will follow night for millions of years before the sun burns out, we have feared the darkness and been drawn toward the light.
We have built fires in our caves and wired our homes so that we can keep the darkness at bay. We have marked the dark of the moon and the shortest day of the year with religious celebrations and rites meant to placate the gods so that light would return. We have stacked gigantic stones on top of one another and built monumental pyramids in order to offer some degree of assurance that the cycle of the year is reliable. In one corner of the world, we built a mound designed with such accuracy that the light only reached into the inner chamber on the morning of the solstice.
As the days grew shorter and shorter, the fear increased. The powers of darkness were growing stronger, threatening the life of the very land itself. People began to wait anxiously, lighting great fires around and on top of the mound as beacons of hope. Priests and leaders spent nights in the great tomb as sentinels. The people began to pray as they watched each morning for the sun to rise, waiting … hoping that it would soon be time for the rites of light.
Slowly … slowly … the light of the rising sun crept up the tunnel until at last it reached the altar. The priests enacted the rites welcoming the new year, and the people waited anxiously around fires for one more night for proof that the sun was coming back. And when the light fell in just the right place the next morning, the celebration erupted with joyful singing and brave fire dancing replacing despair are and fear. Life and light would come again.
There is another meaning to the phrase “the light at the end of the tunnel” – one that we are more familiar with. The light at the end of that tunnel is the beacon of death, not life. It brings out both hope and fear in each of us, because we don’t know, can’t be sure what it means. At times like now, when we have just buried our sister Margaret, it poses a question of particularly poignant power. What comes next?
Once again, duality asserts itself. Death or life … fear or joy … hope or despair. What should we feel?
At one point in the movie “Shrek,” the title character winds up with an arrow lodged in his … well … “posterior?” after a fracas with Robin Hood and his Merry Men. When his friend, Donkey, sees the arrow stuck there, he goes into hysterics which are only brought under control when he is sent off on a useless errand, searching for blue flowers with red thorns. Having something to do gives him an outlet for his fear-driven energy, yet as he leaves on his mission, he calls back over his shoulder, “…and if you see a tunnel, stay away from the light.”
Those are the words of our fear … and our love. Stay away from the light. Don’t leave. Stay here with us. We love you. … And yet for Christians, the light at the end of the tunnel is a reason for hope. As we envision our loved ones walking out of the darkness of death’s valley into that light, we feel joy in the midst of our sadness because they are entering the arms of God’s all-encompassing love.
Here the duality ends for us, for it is not the wan, sickly light of decay. It is the light of new life, a litany of promise and a beacon to those who dwell in darkness. It is the light shining out of the tomb on Easter morning. Life or Death, Christ is the light “and that light is the life of the world.”
It may seem strange to be talking about this now when Easter is still almost four months away, but it is an inevitable part of our life. Not just because we will all die, but because we already have.
What does it mean to be a believer? What does it mean to be a follower of Christ? What does it mean to be called to the work of Christ’s ministry as a disciple?
It means different things for different people. For Peter and Andrew it was a simple and as complicated as dropping their nets. For James and John it meant leaving Zebedee on the shore mending nets. For all four of them, it meant leaving behind the relative security of life as they knew it – fishing each day, from time to time catching enough to sell for oil or flour or other necessities of life. It meant letting go of comfort and home and following Jesus farther than they had probably ever gone before – physically, spiritually, and philosophically. They left behind the simple dualities of life as fishermen and wandered/wondered about learning to be fishers of men.
What's the difference between fishing for fish and fishing for people? In a word, metanoia. Metanoia is the Greek word that gets translated as “repent” in the scriptures. It means to "change one's mind." In the Greek it has no religious connotation though it may be related to an Aramaic word that meant reconciling with God, and that’s the way that both John and Jesus seemed to use it.
In either case it has the sense of making a change in the direction of one's life: "Get yourself a new orientation for the way you live and then act upon it.” In Jesus’ proclamation, this new orientation was a response to the kingdom coming near, to the reality that the world was starting to look like it would if God were in control. Perhaps a more accurate translation of that line would be: "Turn your lives around, because here comes the kingdom of the heaven." I like that; it makes me feel as though God's promise of new life is bursting at the seams to catch our attention!
And for Peter, Andrew, James and John answering the call of that promise was just the beginning. When you fish, the primary objective is to shorten the life of those fish. On the other hand, when you fish for people – at least as Jesus seemed to have meant it – your primary objective is to bring them to new life. "Turn around; see things a new way!"
It would have been quite a major “turn around” for those four fishermen, bringing life to people without ending any. And it was a whole different kind of life. Apparently, they leapt at the chance though they couldn’t have understood all that offered and all that would be asked in return.
I wonder if they ever regretted the decision. In the midst of all the action or in the time between miracles when their feet were sore from unaccustomed walking and when they began to realize that they didn’t really understand what Jesus was about, did they think back with nostalgia? Did Peter and Andrew start to wish that they had nothing more complicated to worry about than how and where to cast their net to get the best catch? Did James and John long for simple scolding of Zebedee in place of the rancor and rebuke of the Priests and Pharisees? Did they feel like a part of them … maybe even everything they had been was dead and gone?
That’s how the apostle Paul talked about the kind of change they made. He understood from his own experience and that of others that it was so powerful, such a deep and fundamental transformation of all that we have been and all that we are that it is like dying. Dying to our selves. Dying to the ways of the world. Dying to our old desires, our old habits, and our old way of relating to each other.
It’s a terrifying prospect that transformation – that become what God most wants us to be. Sometimes aching and painful, sometimes confusing and disorienting, it squeezes and shapes us into something new. But it is only when we have put all the old things away, buried them deep in the earth that we can fully embrace the new life that Christ offers us. That’s the central reality of life in Christ – the guiding principle of discipleship.
It’s a long process even for those of us who jumped right in with all the enthusiasm of a fisherman. We begin to answer the call, and slowly, step by step, we walk into the darkness of the tomb. We lay our lives and our selves to rest, piece by piece, trusting in the promise we have heard and the love of the One we have chosen to follow … trusting but still at the mercy of fears that are generations old…. What will happen to us there in the darkness? What will become of us if we lay aside everything we have known? How do we live if not like this? How do we survive … raise our family … push back the chaos and confusion of the unknown without the fish that have sustained us?
As we wait there … feeling lost in the darkness of the tomb … light begins to creep in on us. Little by little, we become aware of its glow limning the edges of the crypt and highlighting the altar before us. Turning toward it, we see the path laid out before us, bright with the hope and bursting at the seams with promise of life returning – new life, abundant life, life redolent with the light and joy of God’s all-encompassing love.
Matthew 4:12-23
Good … evil. Life … death. Day … night. Winner and loser, we live in a world full of dualities, full of words and ideas that would have no meaning if one of the pair did not exist to give definition to the other, and we seem to crave those polarities. Even as our ethics, our morality, and our faith live in the gray areas that fall between them, we seek out the absolutes that define our world as anchors and guides. How would we know good if we didn’t know evil? What would life be if there was no death? Would we even have a name for light if there was not darkness?
That last pair – light and dark – has been a preoccupation of humanity from the very beginning. From before we understood that the Earth spins on its axis and day will follow night for millions of years before the sun burns out, we have feared the darkness and been drawn toward the light.
We have built fires in our caves and wired our homes so that we can keep the darkness at bay. We have marked the dark of the moon and the shortest day of the year with religious celebrations and rites meant to placate the gods so that light would return. We have stacked gigantic stones on top of one another and built monumental pyramids in order to offer some degree of assurance that the cycle of the year is reliable. In one corner of the world, we built a mound designed with such accuracy that the light only reached into the inner chamber on the morning of the solstice.
As the days grew shorter and shorter, the fear increased. The powers of darkness were growing stronger, threatening the life of the very land itself. People began to wait anxiously, lighting great fires around and on top of the mound as beacons of hope. Priests and leaders spent nights in the great tomb as sentinels. The people began to pray as they watched each morning for the sun to rise, waiting … hoping that it would soon be time for the rites of light.
Slowly … slowly … the light of the rising sun crept up the tunnel until at last it reached the altar. The priests enacted the rites welcoming the new year, and the people waited anxiously around fires for one more night for proof that the sun was coming back. And when the light fell in just the right place the next morning, the celebration erupted with joyful singing and brave fire dancing replacing despair are and fear. Life and light would come again.
There is another meaning to the phrase “the light at the end of the tunnel” – one that we are more familiar with. The light at the end of that tunnel is the beacon of death, not life. It brings out both hope and fear in each of us, because we don’t know, can’t be sure what it means. At times like now, when we have just buried our sister Margaret, it poses a question of particularly poignant power. What comes next?
Once again, duality asserts itself. Death or life … fear or joy … hope or despair. What should we feel?
At one point in the movie “Shrek,” the title character winds up with an arrow lodged in his … well … “posterior?” after a fracas with Robin Hood and his Merry Men. When his friend, Donkey, sees the arrow stuck there, he goes into hysterics which are only brought under control when he is sent off on a useless errand, searching for blue flowers with red thorns. Having something to do gives him an outlet for his fear-driven energy, yet as he leaves on his mission, he calls back over his shoulder, “…and if you see a tunnel, stay away from the light.”
Those are the words of our fear … and our love. Stay away from the light. Don’t leave. Stay here with us. We love you. … And yet for Christians, the light at the end of the tunnel is a reason for hope. As we envision our loved ones walking out of the darkness of death’s valley into that light, we feel joy in the midst of our sadness because they are entering the arms of God’s all-encompassing love.
Here the duality ends for us, for it is not the wan, sickly light of decay. It is the light of new life, a litany of promise and a beacon to those who dwell in darkness. It is the light shining out of the tomb on Easter morning. Life or Death, Christ is the light “and that light is the life of the world.”
It may seem strange to be talking about this now when Easter is still almost four months away, but it is an inevitable part of our life. Not just because we will all die, but because we already have.
What does it mean to be a believer? What does it mean to be a follower of Christ? What does it mean to be called to the work of Christ’s ministry as a disciple?
It means different things for different people. For Peter and Andrew it was a simple and as complicated as dropping their nets. For James and John it meant leaving Zebedee on the shore mending nets. For all four of them, it meant leaving behind the relative security of life as they knew it – fishing each day, from time to time catching enough to sell for oil or flour or other necessities of life. It meant letting go of comfort and home and following Jesus farther than they had probably ever gone before – physically, spiritually, and philosophically. They left behind the simple dualities of life as fishermen and wandered/wondered about learning to be fishers of men.
What's the difference between fishing for fish and fishing for people? In a word, metanoia. Metanoia is the Greek word that gets translated as “repent” in the scriptures. It means to "change one's mind." In the Greek it has no religious connotation though it may be related to an Aramaic word that meant reconciling with God, and that’s the way that both John and Jesus seemed to use it.
In either case it has the sense of making a change in the direction of one's life: "Get yourself a new orientation for the way you live and then act upon it.” In Jesus’ proclamation, this new orientation was a response to the kingdom coming near, to the reality that the world was starting to look like it would if God were in control. Perhaps a more accurate translation of that line would be: "Turn your lives around, because here comes the kingdom of the heaven." I like that; it makes me feel as though God's promise of new life is bursting at the seams to catch our attention!
And for Peter, Andrew, James and John answering the call of that promise was just the beginning. When you fish, the primary objective is to shorten the life of those fish. On the other hand, when you fish for people – at least as Jesus seemed to have meant it – your primary objective is to bring them to new life. "Turn around; see things a new way!"
It would have been quite a major “turn around” for those four fishermen, bringing life to people without ending any. And it was a whole different kind of life. Apparently, they leapt at the chance though they couldn’t have understood all that offered and all that would be asked in return.
I wonder if they ever regretted the decision. In the midst of all the action or in the time between miracles when their feet were sore from unaccustomed walking and when they began to realize that they didn’t really understand what Jesus was about, did they think back with nostalgia? Did Peter and Andrew start to wish that they had nothing more complicated to worry about than how and where to cast their net to get the best catch? Did James and John long for simple scolding of Zebedee in place of the rancor and rebuke of the Priests and Pharisees? Did they feel like a part of them … maybe even everything they had been was dead and gone?
That’s how the apostle Paul talked about the kind of change they made. He understood from his own experience and that of others that it was so powerful, such a deep and fundamental transformation of all that we have been and all that we are that it is like dying. Dying to our selves. Dying to the ways of the world. Dying to our old desires, our old habits, and our old way of relating to each other.
It’s a terrifying prospect that transformation – that become what God most wants us to be. Sometimes aching and painful, sometimes confusing and disorienting, it squeezes and shapes us into something new. But it is only when we have put all the old things away, buried them deep in the earth that we can fully embrace the new life that Christ offers us. That’s the central reality of life in Christ – the guiding principle of discipleship.
It’s a long process even for those of us who jumped right in with all the enthusiasm of a fisherman. We begin to answer the call, and slowly, step by step, we walk into the darkness of the tomb. We lay our lives and our selves to rest, piece by piece, trusting in the promise we have heard and the love of the One we have chosen to follow … trusting but still at the mercy of fears that are generations old…. What will happen to us there in the darkness? What will become of us if we lay aside everything we have known? How do we live if not like this? How do we survive … raise our family … push back the chaos and confusion of the unknown without the fish that have sustained us?
As we wait there … feeling lost in the darkness of the tomb … light begins to creep in on us. Little by little, we become aware of its glow limning the edges of the crypt and highlighting the altar before us. Turning toward it, we see the path laid out before us, bright with the hope and bursting at the seams with promise of life returning – new life, abundant life, life redolent with the light and joy of God’s all-encompassing love.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Is this the water that makes you safe?
sermon by Carrie Eikler
Psalm 40:1-11, John 1:29-34
Epiphany 2
(Context: The issues going around in my mind during the preparation of this sermon are revealed in the text. Close to home, our town and congregation is grappling with the death of a 15 month old baby, believed to be from neglect. A member of our congregation worked hard a year ago to get this family support and the congregation donated furniture and other items to help this family out. I had this young child in mind, and Rachel (the member of our congregation who worked tirelessly to help them). Our prayers go to the family of Madison Violet and to Rachel as she reclaims her baptism, working for justice, living compassion)
Scripture Reading - John 1:29-34
"In other words..."
[worship leader] Sara Miles was raised an atheist and happily lived a secular life as a cook and journalist. Then one morning, she went to church, took communion and was transformed. She said “I could not take communion, read the Bible, and not feed people.” With that, she started a food pantry in the sanctuary of St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco. The following comes from her book Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion.
--
I was unloading groceries on Friday when I spotted Sasha standing out back by the baptismal font, as if she were waiting for someone. Sasha was a very small black girl, maybe six or seven years old, who usually came to the pantry with an impatient, teenage aunt. I’d never met her mother. Sasha’s hair wasn’t always combed, and this day she had a split lip. “Sweetheart!” I said. I was glad to see her again. “Want a snack? There’s some chips inside.”
Sasha looked at me, not smiling. “Is this water the water God puts on you to make you safe?” she demanded abruptly, in a strangely formal voice.
I put down my boxes. What was she asking for? Was I being asked to baptize her? My mind raced, flashing back to when I’d stood at the font for my own baptism just a few years ago.
…
How could I tell this child that a drop of water could make her safe? I had no idea what Sasha was going through at home, but I suspected it was rough. And baptism, if it signified anything, signified the unavoidable reality of the cross at the heart of Christian faith. It wasn’t a magic charm but a reminder of God’s presence in the midst of unresolved human pain.
I remembered what [a priest] had asked me, when I was contemplating baptism. [I presented Sasha with that same question.]
“Do you want it?” I asked
Sasha locked her eyes on me. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want that water.”
There was something so serious in her face that it stopped me cold. I dipped my fingers into the font, and Sasha turned her face up to me, concentrating. I made the sign of the cross on her forehead.
I took Sasha into the church and found Lynn, [one of the priests,] who was trying valiantly to help out at the pantry, despite her illness. I was so glad she was there. Of all the priests at St. Gregory’s, Lynn was the one least fazed by suffering: She was, as the Bible said dryly of Jesus, “acquainted with grief.” I told her what had happened, and we walked over to the small wooden shrine by the preacher’s chair, where Lynn asked Sasha if she wanted a special blessing.
“Yes,” Sasha said again, gravely. “I want that.”
From the shrine, Lynn took the small container of oil and showed it to Sasha. The girl stood up, very still, in front of Lynn’s chair. “I’m going to put my hands on you and pray now, if you’re ready,” Lynn said, and Sasha nodded.
[silence]
[Carrie]
“Is this the water God puts on you to make you safe?”
What a big question for such a little girl. Not big in the sense that it’s theologically complex, which it is—
but big because it reveals something about Sasha’s life that seems beyond her years.
Safety is something we assume to be a right for children.
But as we discovered in church last Sunday, and read in the papers, that is not always the case.
A 15-month old baby, in a family this congregation tried to support, dies from neglect.
A seven-year old girl named Sasha comes to the sanctuary [slash] food pantry with a split lip.
A five-year old Haitian boy still lives in a tent village, without parents or grandparents.
And a nine-year old girl born on the tragic day of September 11, 2001 dies with five others at a political rally in Arizona.
Sasha went to the water to find safety, and Sara wasn’t sure it could offer her that.
For Sara, as we heard, baptism is more about the cross than it is about protection. Our faith ancestors would agree with that.
For them, baptism as adults was a death sentence. It was the opposite of safety.
It was foolishness.
As the Apostle Paul says, it is the foolishness of the cross.
So I have to agree with Sara. Baptism will not keep you safe.
But to be clear, neither Jesus nor John the Baptist ever said it would.
“I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he [meaning, Jesus the Christ] might be revealed to Israel” (John 1:31).
The only magical qualities this baptism had was to reveal the unseen.
To make intangible the tangible.
To let people see, and touch, and smell God in a way they never had before.
And once Jesus is baptized, he is revealed in a spectacular, yet simple, way.
The Holy Spirit descended on Jesus...spectacular
and God calls him… beloved...simple.
In this action, in water and being named Beloved, God’s presence was made flesh. From this point on God walked among us.
And God walked to the cross.
But not straight to the cross.
God healed, and ate, and laughed, even cried.
Is this the water God puts on you to keep you safe? No.
This is the water God puts on you to tell you that you are beloved.
This is the water God puts on you to tell you that
each action you do from this point on
has the capacity to reveal God to the world.
A world where children die.
A world where we come into God’s sanctuary with split lips, and broken hearts.
--
Sasha was ready to receive God’s blessing through the priest, after Sara put water from the baptismal font on her head.
Was it a real baptism? Sara wasn’t a priest, Sasha didn’t say any vows, or take a membership class.
“Behind us,” reflects Sara, “a crowd was circling around the Table, gathering up rice and beans and Froot Loops cereal. A bunch of other kids were dodging in and out, shouting and punching one another and eating snacks.
‘Jesus is always with you,’ Lynn [the priest] told Sasha, ‘no matter what happens to you, even when bad things happen. You’re not ever alone.’ Sasha closed her eyes for a moment, then looked down directly at the seated priest, and I saw something flowing between them: the child, crucified, anointing Lynn with the power of her crucifixion, and Lynn, receiving it, anointing Sasha.”
Is this the water God puts on you to keep you safe?
Unfortunately, no.
But this is the water that reveals God, through you,
so you may hold others,
and be held by others.
As Lynn, the priest reminded young Sasha,
This is the water that reminds you
that you are held in the palm of God’s hand.
‘Jesus is always with you, no matter what happens to you, even when bad things happen. You’re not ever alone.’
[silence]
It’s fitting that we talk about the baptism of Jesus in the new year. If we think about it, perhaps the call to remember our baptism can fit in along side our New Year’s resolutions.
Remember your baptism.
Come to the water again and again.
You cannot be called Beloved too many times.
We will be entering into a time of renewing our promises that we made on our baptismal day or our confirmation day. These words are printed in your bulletin.
For those of you who have not been baptized, please feel free to speak them as an invitation to consider what Christ might be calling you to. Consider entering into the water with Christ.
And for all of us, baptized or not, may we renew our promises to be the hands and heart of God in a world of trouble, and a world of suffering. All the while, knowing that you are beloved.
Please stand.
We turn to Christ
In the Love between us,
The passion within us,
The hope inspiring us.
As we remember the promises of our baptism
We commit ourselves again
To renounce sin and evil,
To do justice,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with God.
Hymn Rain Down SJ #49
As we sing our closing hymn, you are invited to the baptismal waters again—to receive the feel of God’s love for you on your forehead. If you cannot come forward, please raise your hands and we will come to you.
May clean clear water bless us,
wellspring or waterfall,
God’s life in abundance
flowing, cleansing, refreshing
Benediction –
As you leave, remember your baptism.
As you walk through the week, remember you are beloved.
As you laugh and cry with the rhythms of life, remember you are held in the palm of God’s hand. Amen.
Psalm 40:1-11, John 1:29-34
Epiphany 2
(Context: The issues going around in my mind during the preparation of this sermon are revealed in the text. Close to home, our town and congregation is grappling with the death of a 15 month old baby, believed to be from neglect. A member of our congregation worked hard a year ago to get this family support and the congregation donated furniture and other items to help this family out. I had this young child in mind, and Rachel (the member of our congregation who worked tirelessly to help them). Our prayers go to the family of Madison Violet and to Rachel as she reclaims her baptism, working for justice, living compassion)
Scripture Reading - John 1:29-34
"In other words..."
[worship leader] Sara Miles was raised an atheist and happily lived a secular life as a cook and journalist. Then one morning, she went to church, took communion and was transformed. She said “I could not take communion, read the Bible, and not feed people.” With that, she started a food pantry in the sanctuary of St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco. The following comes from her book Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion.
--
I was unloading groceries on Friday when I spotted Sasha standing out back by the baptismal font, as if she were waiting for someone. Sasha was a very small black girl, maybe six or seven years old, who usually came to the pantry with an impatient, teenage aunt. I’d never met her mother. Sasha’s hair wasn’t always combed, and this day she had a split lip. “Sweetheart!” I said. I was glad to see her again. “Want a snack? There’s some chips inside.”
Sasha looked at me, not smiling. “Is this water the water God puts on you to make you safe?” she demanded abruptly, in a strangely formal voice.
I put down my boxes. What was she asking for? Was I being asked to baptize her? My mind raced, flashing back to when I’d stood at the font for my own baptism just a few years ago.
…
How could I tell this child that a drop of water could make her safe? I had no idea what Sasha was going through at home, but I suspected it was rough. And baptism, if it signified anything, signified the unavoidable reality of the cross at the heart of Christian faith. It wasn’t a magic charm but a reminder of God’s presence in the midst of unresolved human pain.
I remembered what [a priest] had asked me, when I was contemplating baptism. [I presented Sasha with that same question.]
“Do you want it?” I asked
Sasha locked her eyes on me. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want that water.”
There was something so serious in her face that it stopped me cold. I dipped my fingers into the font, and Sasha turned her face up to me, concentrating. I made the sign of the cross on her forehead.
I took Sasha into the church and found Lynn, [one of the priests,] who was trying valiantly to help out at the pantry, despite her illness. I was so glad she was there. Of all the priests at St. Gregory’s, Lynn was the one least fazed by suffering: She was, as the Bible said dryly of Jesus, “acquainted with grief.” I told her what had happened, and we walked over to the small wooden shrine by the preacher’s chair, where Lynn asked Sasha if she wanted a special blessing.
“Yes,” Sasha said again, gravely. “I want that.”
From the shrine, Lynn took the small container of oil and showed it to Sasha. The girl stood up, very still, in front of Lynn’s chair. “I’m going to put my hands on you and pray now, if you’re ready,” Lynn said, and Sasha nodded.
[silence]
[Carrie]
“Is this the water God puts on you to make you safe?”
What a big question for such a little girl. Not big in the sense that it’s theologically complex, which it is—
but big because it reveals something about Sasha’s life that seems beyond her years.
Safety is something we assume to be a right for children.
But as we discovered in church last Sunday, and read in the papers, that is not always the case.
A 15-month old baby, in a family this congregation tried to support, dies from neglect.
A seven-year old girl named Sasha comes to the sanctuary [slash] food pantry with a split lip.
A five-year old Haitian boy still lives in a tent village, without parents or grandparents.
And a nine-year old girl born on the tragic day of September 11, 2001 dies with five others at a political rally in Arizona.
Sasha went to the water to find safety, and Sara wasn’t sure it could offer her that.
For Sara, as we heard, baptism is more about the cross than it is about protection. Our faith ancestors would agree with that.
For them, baptism as adults was a death sentence. It was the opposite of safety.
It was foolishness.
As the Apostle Paul says, it is the foolishness of the cross.
So I have to agree with Sara. Baptism will not keep you safe.
But to be clear, neither Jesus nor John the Baptist ever said it would.
“I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he [meaning, Jesus the Christ] might be revealed to Israel” (John 1:31).
The only magical qualities this baptism had was to reveal the unseen.
To make intangible the tangible.
To let people see, and touch, and smell God in a way they never had before.
And once Jesus is baptized, he is revealed in a spectacular, yet simple, way.
The Holy Spirit descended on Jesus...spectacular
and God calls him… beloved...simple.
In this action, in water and being named Beloved, God’s presence was made flesh. From this point on God walked among us.
And God walked to the cross.
But not straight to the cross.
God healed, and ate, and laughed, even cried.
Is this the water God puts on you to keep you safe? No.
This is the water God puts on you to tell you that you are beloved.
This is the water God puts on you to tell you that
each action you do from this point on
has the capacity to reveal God to the world.
A world where children die.
A world where we come into God’s sanctuary with split lips, and broken hearts.
--
Sasha was ready to receive God’s blessing through the priest, after Sara put water from the baptismal font on her head.
Was it a real baptism? Sara wasn’t a priest, Sasha didn’t say any vows, or take a membership class.
“Behind us,” reflects Sara, “a crowd was circling around the Table, gathering up rice and beans and Froot Loops cereal. A bunch of other kids were dodging in and out, shouting and punching one another and eating snacks.
‘Jesus is always with you,’ Lynn [the priest] told Sasha, ‘no matter what happens to you, even when bad things happen. You’re not ever alone.’ Sasha closed her eyes for a moment, then looked down directly at the seated priest, and I saw something flowing between them: the child, crucified, anointing Lynn with the power of her crucifixion, and Lynn, receiving it, anointing Sasha.”
Is this the water God puts on you to keep you safe?
Unfortunately, no.
But this is the water that reveals God, through you,
so you may hold others,
and be held by others.
As Lynn, the priest reminded young Sasha,
This is the water that reminds you
that you are held in the palm of God’s hand.
‘Jesus is always with you, no matter what happens to you, even when bad things happen. You’re not ever alone.’
[silence]
It’s fitting that we talk about the baptism of Jesus in the new year. If we think about it, perhaps the call to remember our baptism can fit in along side our New Year’s resolutions.
Remember your baptism.
Come to the water again and again.
You cannot be called Beloved too many times.
We will be entering into a time of renewing our promises that we made on our baptismal day or our confirmation day. These words are printed in your bulletin.
For those of you who have not been baptized, please feel free to speak them as an invitation to consider what Christ might be calling you to. Consider entering into the water with Christ.
And for all of us, baptized or not, may we renew our promises to be the hands and heart of God in a world of trouble, and a world of suffering. All the while, knowing that you are beloved.
Please stand.
We turn to Christ
In the Love between us,
The passion within us,
The hope inspiring us.
As we remember the promises of our baptism
We commit ourselves again
To renounce sin and evil,
To do justice,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with God.
Hymn Rain Down SJ #49
As we sing our closing hymn, you are invited to the baptismal waters again—to receive the feel of God’s love for you on your forehead. If you cannot come forward, please raise your hands and we will come to you.
May clean clear water bless us,
wellspring or waterfall,
God’s life in abundance
flowing, cleansing, refreshing
Benediction –
As you leave, remember your baptism.
As you walk through the week, remember you are beloved.
As you laugh and cry with the rhythms of life, remember you are held in the palm of God’s hand. Amen.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Voices, Voices, Voices
sermon by Torin Eikler
Psalm 29 Isaiah 42:1-9 Matthew 3:13-17
If I were to tell you that I hear voices, what would your first thought be? Mine too.
Over the week between Christmas and New Years, Carrie and I watched a movie called “Stranger than Fiction” in which the main character heard a voice narrating his life. His first response – and that of the therapist he consulted – was that he was crazy (or schizophrenic to be exact). But the man, Harold was his name, did not feel crazy. So, he continued to search for another explanation.
The voice was able to predict his future with perfect accuracy, but it never spoke directly to Harold. In fact, it spoke of him in the third person, which surprisingly, turned out to be the key to understanding. In consultation with a literary theoretician, he began to track his life in an effort to determine what type of story (real or imagined) he might be part of. In the end he discovered that he was the protagonist of a novel that was being written as he lived it. Sadly, it was a tragedy. He was doomed to die a poetic death, but as Harold came to terms with the story of his life, he found strength and courage in knowing that his life would have power and meaning and that his death would serve the world and bring life to another.
In point of fact, I do not hear voices, and, in some ways, that makes me sad. Not sad because I think that it would be great fun to have other personalities in my head, but sad because I wish that I was open enough or perceptive enough to hear God’s voice speaking to me – though if I’m really honest, I would terrified if I were chosen that way. History speaks volumes about what happens to prophets and most of it is not what I would call “good.”
All the same, I wish that I were “special” enough to have God speak to me directly. Everything would be so much clearer if God would just tell me directly. There would be no more wondering what I’m called to do or be. There would be no more struggling to figure out what to do when confronted with morally ambiguous situations. There would be no more questioning my faith – at least not in the existence of God. But as I have thought about it, I have to wonder if I would recognize the voice of God if I heard it.
There are many people I have known in my years of work in shelters and soup kitchens who heard voices. Some of them have believed that they were prophets or mystics, though I never saw evidence of that in their lives or the messages they shared. I have known a prophet of sorts who heard three voices that she understood to be the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and though I remain a skeptic at heart, the words and visions that she shared were often significant. Even if we throw out everyone who have a valid psychiatric diagnosis to explain their voices, it seems clear that God speaks in different ways to different people. So, maybe I have heard, and I just missed it.
In the hymn we just sang, God’s voice is the still small voice of Elijah. That’s one that we hear about a lot. It speaks quietly into stillness, and Christian teachings (at least in the recent history of Western Christianity) have claimed it quite happily. When we talk about discernment and prayer, we often think of this form of divine expression. We strive to hear it by clearing space around and within us. We quiet our thoughts, our worries, and our obsessions and hold ourselves open and ready in the hopes that our inner ears will hear more acutely or that any whispers fluttering in our spirits will echo and be amplified until they become clear.
Phillip Cary, in his article from the October 5th issue of Christian Century, argues against our infatuation with this still small voice. For him, our reliance on that form of hearing God has drawn us away from what God really wants us to be doing. Micah 6:8 tells us, after all, that God “has told us [what] is good.” God requires of us nothing more or less than to “do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with [our] God.” Spending too much time listening and not enough time doing has led us down a false path to complacency.
All the same, I like the still small voice. Many of us do. In my generous moods, I believe that’s because it’s more intimate. It brings us closer to a God that we can relate to more easily and more directly when our commun-ication takes place in the quiet of our hearts and the secret places of our souls. In my cynical moments, I chalk it up to our need to control and compartmentalize God. If God is never in the whirlwind, never in the earthquake or the raging fire but only in the still small voice heard in silence, then we can choose where and when to listen for God simply by choosing where and when we make space for quiet stillness.
And yet, God cannot be limited in that way. God will speak when and how God chooses to speak whether it fits our schedule or not. It’s more than a little scary to come to terms with that truth. The power of God is not easy for us to make peace with, but if we trust the inspiration of those who wrote the scriptures, it is the very stuff of which life is made. In the beginning there was nothing until the voice of God spoke bringing light and substance into being, and imbuing creation with life born on the very breath that carried those words.
The power of God’s voice is something to celebrate even as we stand in awe and fear of what it can do … of what it may mean for us if we hear that voice. The Psalmist understood that truth and celebrated it in the hymn of praise Dave read for our call to worship this morning:
The voice of the Lord is over the waters….
The voice of the Lord is powerful ….
The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon ….
The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire …
[and] shakes the wilderness ….
And in his temple all say, “Glory!”
That kind of power is intimidating, but it is also reassuring. The God we worship, the Spirit we lean on, the Savior and teacher we follow is more powerful than the strongest trees. They are above and within the raging fire and the flowing waters. God is beyond time and tide, greater even than death. In that reality Job found peace with his trials. In that assurance we can find comfort and peace ourselves.
(pause)
Most of you probably listened to that last bit without really hearing it. I think it begs a question. Why should the cosmic power of God bring comfort and peace to lowly humans? The answer can be found in the words of the prophets and in those spoken to John at Jesus’ baptism.
The words of the prophets, at least the ones we have recorded in scripture, are definitely a mixed bag. There is much condemnation and judgment in them, spoken to the people of Israel when they had turned away from God’s desire for them to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with her. Those words are just as potent for us today given all the ways our society takes advantage of the weak to benefit the strong. We, ourselves, are complicit in that injustice when we benefit from the system even if we don’t give into the temptation to act in similar ways ourselves. And so the pronouncements of the prophets sit on our shoulders as well as those of ancient Israel.
But imbedded in all those oracles of judgment are words of hope and promise. The voice of God speaks to us of new beginnings, of servants bringing justice, of the end of suffering and the dawn of a new reality in which all peoples will come together in peace. Those promises are ours, too, just as surely as the condemnation. There is, though, that pesky little condition that seems to be a favorite of the prophets – we must shuv. That is to say, we must repent – turn back to God.
What that means is different for each of us … is difficult for each of us in its own way. None of us is perfect, and the call to repentance – to righteousness in the face of God must continually be faced for we continually fall away. And into the despair of that knowledge the voice of God speaks again, “This is my beloved Son,” … my beloved son.
My beloved Son … a benediction spoken over the dripping head of Christ. And a benediction spoken over each of us, for we have been invited into it by Christ himself. All who believe in me, he says, will not perish. All who believe in me are my family. All who love me are loved by God as I am loved … as I love.
When I was in high school, I played on an indoor soccer team with several of my friends. We traveled weekly to Fort Wayne, about an hour from our homes to play, and few people ever made the journey to watch us. One evening, though, my father came from his work at the hospital around the corner to cheer us on.
In the midst of the chaos of play, while we were all calling direction and warning to one another, I discovered an interest trick of my upbringing. My father was my first soccer coach and taught me the game during the years of my childhood. More than that, he is my father, and I am attuned to his direction … to his voice.
What I discovered was that no matter how loudly anyone else was yelling, I could hear that one voice cutting through all the noise. I heard his warnings and his encouragements above and beyond all the others around me. For good or ill, he was my coach again during that game, and I instinctively followed his advice.
I don’t remember whether we won that game or not. I do remember that I came out of it with quite a few colorful bruises.
Whether we hear the voice of God crashing over us with power of all the cosmos, or calling us to repent or face the suffering we have brought on ourselves or whispering guidance and direction in the recesses of our souls; that voice is always and forever carrying the same message. You are my beloved children … my beloved children. I love you.
Would that we could hear that voice over all the distracting, misleading tumult of the world.
Would that its thrumming warmth broke through our own willful desires and need for control.
Would that the sound of the crashing waves, the soughing wind, and the crackling fire spoke its true message to our hearts.
If our ears were only so attuned to hear, we would find the comfort and the joy of the beloved resounding in our beings and giving us the courage and assurance – the peace of faith beyond all understanding calling us to a fullness of life equal to all that we might do in the service of our God.
Psalm 29 Isaiah 42:1-9 Matthew 3:13-17
If I were to tell you that I hear voices, what would your first thought be? Mine too.
Over the week between Christmas and New Years, Carrie and I watched a movie called “Stranger than Fiction” in which the main character heard a voice narrating his life. His first response – and that of the therapist he consulted – was that he was crazy (or schizophrenic to be exact). But the man, Harold was his name, did not feel crazy. So, he continued to search for another explanation.
The voice was able to predict his future with perfect accuracy, but it never spoke directly to Harold. In fact, it spoke of him in the third person, which surprisingly, turned out to be the key to understanding. In consultation with a literary theoretician, he began to track his life in an effort to determine what type of story (real or imagined) he might be part of. In the end he discovered that he was the protagonist of a novel that was being written as he lived it. Sadly, it was a tragedy. He was doomed to die a poetic death, but as Harold came to terms with the story of his life, he found strength and courage in knowing that his life would have power and meaning and that his death would serve the world and bring life to another.
In point of fact, I do not hear voices, and, in some ways, that makes me sad. Not sad because I think that it would be great fun to have other personalities in my head, but sad because I wish that I was open enough or perceptive enough to hear God’s voice speaking to me – though if I’m really honest, I would terrified if I were chosen that way. History speaks volumes about what happens to prophets and most of it is not what I would call “good.”
All the same, I wish that I were “special” enough to have God speak to me directly. Everything would be so much clearer if God would just tell me directly. There would be no more wondering what I’m called to do or be. There would be no more struggling to figure out what to do when confronted with morally ambiguous situations. There would be no more questioning my faith – at least not in the existence of God. But as I have thought about it, I have to wonder if I would recognize the voice of God if I heard it.
There are many people I have known in my years of work in shelters and soup kitchens who heard voices. Some of them have believed that they were prophets or mystics, though I never saw evidence of that in their lives or the messages they shared. I have known a prophet of sorts who heard three voices that she understood to be the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and though I remain a skeptic at heart, the words and visions that she shared were often significant. Even if we throw out everyone who have a valid psychiatric diagnosis to explain their voices, it seems clear that God speaks in different ways to different people. So, maybe I have heard, and I just missed it.
In the hymn we just sang, God’s voice is the still small voice of Elijah. That’s one that we hear about a lot. It speaks quietly into stillness, and Christian teachings (at least in the recent history of Western Christianity) have claimed it quite happily. When we talk about discernment and prayer, we often think of this form of divine expression. We strive to hear it by clearing space around and within us. We quiet our thoughts, our worries, and our obsessions and hold ourselves open and ready in the hopes that our inner ears will hear more acutely or that any whispers fluttering in our spirits will echo and be amplified until they become clear.
Phillip Cary, in his article from the October 5th issue of Christian Century, argues against our infatuation with this still small voice. For him, our reliance on that form of hearing God has drawn us away from what God really wants us to be doing. Micah 6:8 tells us, after all, that God “has told us [what] is good.” God requires of us nothing more or less than to “do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with [our] God.” Spending too much time listening and not enough time doing has led us down a false path to complacency.
All the same, I like the still small voice. Many of us do. In my generous moods, I believe that’s because it’s more intimate. It brings us closer to a God that we can relate to more easily and more directly when our commun-ication takes place in the quiet of our hearts and the secret places of our souls. In my cynical moments, I chalk it up to our need to control and compartmentalize God. If God is never in the whirlwind, never in the earthquake or the raging fire but only in the still small voice heard in silence, then we can choose where and when to listen for God simply by choosing where and when we make space for quiet stillness.
And yet, God cannot be limited in that way. God will speak when and how God chooses to speak whether it fits our schedule or not. It’s more than a little scary to come to terms with that truth. The power of God is not easy for us to make peace with, but if we trust the inspiration of those who wrote the scriptures, it is the very stuff of which life is made. In the beginning there was nothing until the voice of God spoke bringing light and substance into being, and imbuing creation with life born on the very breath that carried those words.
The power of God’s voice is something to celebrate even as we stand in awe and fear of what it can do … of what it may mean for us if we hear that voice. The Psalmist understood that truth and celebrated it in the hymn of praise Dave read for our call to worship this morning:
The voice of the Lord is over the waters….
The voice of the Lord is powerful ….
The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon ….
The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire …
[and] shakes the wilderness ….
And in his temple all say, “Glory!”
That kind of power is intimidating, but it is also reassuring. The God we worship, the Spirit we lean on, the Savior and teacher we follow is more powerful than the strongest trees. They are above and within the raging fire and the flowing waters. God is beyond time and tide, greater even than death. In that reality Job found peace with his trials. In that assurance we can find comfort and peace ourselves.
(pause)
Most of you probably listened to that last bit without really hearing it. I think it begs a question. Why should the cosmic power of God bring comfort and peace to lowly humans? The answer can be found in the words of the prophets and in those spoken to John at Jesus’ baptism.
The words of the prophets, at least the ones we have recorded in scripture, are definitely a mixed bag. There is much condemnation and judgment in them, spoken to the people of Israel when they had turned away from God’s desire for them to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with her. Those words are just as potent for us today given all the ways our society takes advantage of the weak to benefit the strong. We, ourselves, are complicit in that injustice when we benefit from the system even if we don’t give into the temptation to act in similar ways ourselves. And so the pronouncements of the prophets sit on our shoulders as well as those of ancient Israel.
But imbedded in all those oracles of judgment are words of hope and promise. The voice of God speaks to us of new beginnings, of servants bringing justice, of the end of suffering and the dawn of a new reality in which all peoples will come together in peace. Those promises are ours, too, just as surely as the condemnation. There is, though, that pesky little condition that seems to be a favorite of the prophets – we must shuv. That is to say, we must repent – turn back to God.
What that means is different for each of us … is difficult for each of us in its own way. None of us is perfect, and the call to repentance – to righteousness in the face of God must continually be faced for we continually fall away. And into the despair of that knowledge the voice of God speaks again, “This is my beloved Son,” … my beloved son.
My beloved Son … a benediction spoken over the dripping head of Christ. And a benediction spoken over each of us, for we have been invited into it by Christ himself. All who believe in me, he says, will not perish. All who believe in me are my family. All who love me are loved by God as I am loved … as I love.
When I was in high school, I played on an indoor soccer team with several of my friends. We traveled weekly to Fort Wayne, about an hour from our homes to play, and few people ever made the journey to watch us. One evening, though, my father came from his work at the hospital around the corner to cheer us on.
In the midst of the chaos of play, while we were all calling direction and warning to one another, I discovered an interest trick of my upbringing. My father was my first soccer coach and taught me the game during the years of my childhood. More than that, he is my father, and I am attuned to his direction … to his voice.
What I discovered was that no matter how loudly anyone else was yelling, I could hear that one voice cutting through all the noise. I heard his warnings and his encouragements above and beyond all the others around me. For good or ill, he was my coach again during that game, and I instinctively followed his advice.
I don’t remember whether we won that game or not. I do remember that I came out of it with quite a few colorful bruises.
Whether we hear the voice of God crashing over us with power of all the cosmos, or calling us to repent or face the suffering we have brought on ourselves or whispering guidance and direction in the recesses of our souls; that voice is always and forever carrying the same message. You are my beloved children … my beloved children. I love you.
Would that we could hear that voice over all the distracting, misleading tumult of the world.
Would that its thrumming warmth broke through our own willful desires and need for control.
Would that the sound of the crashing waves, the soughing wind, and the crackling fire spoke its true message to our hearts.
If our ears were only so attuned to hear, we would find the comfort and the joy of the beloved resounding in our beings and giving us the courage and assurance – the peace of faith beyond all understanding calling us to a fullness of life equal to all that we might do in the service of our God.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Then you shall see and be radiant
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Isaiah 60:1-5, Matthew 2:1-12
Celebration of Epiphany
A couple of weeks have gone by since the Winter Solstice and the Longest Night. Believe it or not, the days are actually getting longer. Gradually, you can almost hear the creaking of the returning sun breaking through the darkness.
And if you are inclined to skywatching or star-gazing, you will know that this Solstice was special because for the first time in almost 400 years a full lunar eclipse took place on the Winter Solstice.
This is what we know about this eclipse: A lunar eclipse has not fallen on the Winter solstice since 1638. Think about it, the last time this occurred Galileo himself may have likely watched the phenomenon…perhaps from a window in his villa, where he was on house arrest for heresy.
We also know the moon on this Solstice was called a super moon, which means the moon was the closest to the earth as it will ever be. It appeared absolutely huge. And if you are interested in what some astrologers and astronomers have to say, on this particular night the earth was aligned with the Milky Way’s Galactic Center, the place where the galaxy gives birth to stars.
Now, I don’t know how many of you, like me, crept out of bed early in the morning of December 21st to get a glimpse of this historic event. I figured, I’m usually up at some point between 1:30 and 3:30 in the morning for some night time child tending, so this would give me a nice reward. After all, when we went to bed, the sky was clear, the moon full and bright, the stars just waiting in anticipation for the light of the moon to dim so they could really show off.
So as I crept around in the middle of the night, you can imagine how I felt as I looked out the window, then stuck my head out the door, then ran outside—if only so briefly. Nothin. Lots of clouds, no moon and earth-shadow dancing.
So Morgantown wasn’t so lucky to see the eclipse. Millions of people, avid skywatchers or no, were drawn to the sky that early, early morning. Even the possibility of seeing such a historic, cosmic event, was enough for many to at least try to catch a glimpse of the moon turn blood red as the sun slipped behind the earth.
And whether or not they saw it, if they were like me, we were at least satisfied knowing that we that something was happening. And in some way, we were part of witnessing it. Even if we didn’t see it.
[pause]
And hey, if it didn’t make for an awesome entre into the Christmas story, especially as we lay the foundation for some of the most fascinating characters. Today we celebrate Epiphany, when we celebrate Christ being revealed to the whole world. The Magi, those Sojourners from the East symbolize this. They seek, recognize, and adore the child Jesus as the Christ.
The story of the Magi is unique to Matthew. It does not appear in any other of the gospels depicting Jesus’ births. Somehow we’ve condensed all the different gospel stories of Jesus’ birth into one, making a nice menagerie of sheep and cattle, and lowly shepherds and opulent kings kneeling before the newborn baby in a feeding trough. No gospel story has all of these things.
And Matthew’s depiction of Christ’s birth is as far as you can get from the lowly stable, and the child born to a poor carpenter’s family. Matthew’s story takes place in regal courts, with chief priests and royal foreigners. The story doesn’t so much foretell of the servant who will wash the feet of the poor, but the Messiah who will reign in earth as in heaven. It’s an epic story, completing the line begun with Abraham, this child will save the people.
Our text from Isaiah fits nicely with Matthew’s story. Now Isaiah’s prophecy and wolf and lamb lying down together, that’s a good one for Luke’s story of shepherds and poor wanders. But Matthew…with the Magi, and the royal antagonist, and fear of the people, it’s almost a continuation of Isaiah’s words: “lift up your eyes and look around, they all gather together, they come to you, your sons shall come from far away, and your daughters shall be carried on their nurses’ arms. Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice”.
The one is born who brings the people to him. He is who they have been seeking for. He is the one getting them out of bed, to run barefoot into the night air turning their heads to the sky. From the far corners they come. His light will shine and we, in turn, will shine as well.
But the Magi are mysterious characters, aren’t they. There’s not much that we know about them. In fact, it is what we don’t know about them that make them such a riveting addition to our nativity scene.
So, this is what we don’t know about them and their journey.
One - The Gospel of Matthew doesn’t say how many Magi there were. Three became the most popular answer because of the three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But some paintings in Christian catacombs have two or four, some early non-Biblical writings have a list of twelve Magi with names, and some imagine an entire army of Magi, more like what we witness going on in Isaiah 60.
Two- Early Christians didn’t agree on where the Magi were from. The most popular answer was Persia (modern Iran), but others thought they were from Babylon or Arabia. Some believe they came from a land called Shir, which is probably equivalent to China. But we don’t know where they are from.
Three - Nobody knows what the Star of Bethlehem really was. Some early Christians thought it was an angel or the Holy Spirit, and more recent theories include a comet or a supernova. Some early writings lead us to believe that some understood the star to be none other than Christ himself in celestial form.
Four - We don’t know how long it took the Magi to reach Jesus. Based on Herod’s asking of Magi when the star appeared, followed by his command to kill all male infants under the age of two, many Christians thought it took them two years. Some imagined a much faster journey of twelve days, based on the “twelve days of Christmas” between December 25th and the celebration of Epiphany on January 6th. Some early Christian stories even said that the star “carried” the Magi to Bethlehem in the blink of an eye.
Five - We don’t know how the Magi knew that a star signified the birth of the King of the Jews Many Christians thought that the Magi must have known some prophecies that that “a star shall come out of Jacob.” [Numbers 24] In the some ancient writings the Magi are believed to be descendants of Seth, who learned about the prophecy of the star from his father Adam and that the same star used to stand over the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden.
There you have it. Five things we don’t know. And there’s a lot more we don’t know as well. The Magi are a mystery. But we do know one thing. We know they sought the Christ. They streamed over the hills to the light they had seen. With hopes of clear skies and an honest king to give them directions (who we know turns out to be a hypocrite), they stepped into the unknown to follow the star to the Christ.
In the midst of everything we don’t know, we know that they sought him.
There are lots of “who” and “what” and “from where” questions in this story. And there are lots of “whys” as well. If the one thing we know is that the Magi were motivated to find him, the next logical question is “why”? Why did all these people seek the Christ child? Magi, King Herod, the Jewish populace…
Why did they seek him?
Well for the Magi, it simply states they came to pay him homage. However they heard about him, wherever they were from, whatever they hoped to get out of it, they came to honor him…at least honor a moment, and experience that they knew had cosmic repercussions, an event they would never again see in their lifetime.
King Herod, of course, sought him for less noble reasons. Can’t you imagine the hair on the back of his neck prickling up when tehse strangers come asking for the King of the Jews, and it was clear they did not mean him. He may have first written them off as strange, foreign, stargazers, but wait…is that gold I see in your satchel?
Not to mention the problems this could stir up among the Jewish people who had been waiting for a King with Jewish blood, just waiting for the royal descendent they heard about in the synagogues, around the fire, maybe even told to children as bedtime stories…stories about the kingdom of Israel and how a king, like them, would come again.
[pause]
And what about you?
You are here.
In some way, you are seeking the Christ.
For some reason, you are wondering, looking for the meaning of this event.
And there are lots of reasons people seek the Christ, aren’t there? To save you, to motivate you, to guide your decisions, to empower us, to be with us.
If you’re here, you’re seeking him. Enthusiastically or skeptically. Maybe for less than noble reasons, like to appease someone, or to appease yourself. Maybe to help you see the light that can help you, and the world, become radiant-through compassion, justice, and grace. Or maybe you’ve forgotten there is something worth searching for.
Like the Magi, we don’t have to have all the answers, even of ourselves. But we know that we are seeking the Christ, and it is the perfect time of year to ask yourself “why”?
Why do you seek the Christ?
Benediction-
A poem, by Ann Weems, called The World Still Knows
The night is still dark
And a procession of Herods still terrorize the earth,
Killing the children to stay in power.
The world still knows its HErods,
But it also still knows men and women
Who pack their dreams safely in their hearts
And set off toward Bethlehem,
Faithful against all odds,
Undeterred by fatigue or rejection,
To kneel to a child.
And the world still knows those persons
Wise enough
To follow a star,
Those who do not consider themselves too intelligent
Too powerful
Too wealthy
To kneel to a child.
And the world still knows those hearts so humble
That they’re ready
To hear the word of a song
And to leave what they have to go
To kneel to a child
The night is still dark,
But by the light of the star
Even today
We can still see
To kneel to a child.
Isaiah 60:1-5, Matthew 2:1-12
Celebration of Epiphany
A couple of weeks have gone by since the Winter Solstice and the Longest Night. Believe it or not, the days are actually getting longer. Gradually, you can almost hear the creaking of the returning sun breaking through the darkness.
And if you are inclined to skywatching or star-gazing, you will know that this Solstice was special because for the first time in almost 400 years a full lunar eclipse took place on the Winter Solstice.
This is what we know about this eclipse: A lunar eclipse has not fallen on the Winter solstice since 1638. Think about it, the last time this occurred Galileo himself may have likely watched the phenomenon…perhaps from a window in his villa, where he was on house arrest for heresy.
We also know the moon on this Solstice was called a super moon, which means the moon was the closest to the earth as it will ever be. It appeared absolutely huge. And if you are interested in what some astrologers and astronomers have to say, on this particular night the earth was aligned with the Milky Way’s Galactic Center, the place where the galaxy gives birth to stars.
Now, I don’t know how many of you, like me, crept out of bed early in the morning of December 21st to get a glimpse of this historic event. I figured, I’m usually up at some point between 1:30 and 3:30 in the morning for some night time child tending, so this would give me a nice reward. After all, when we went to bed, the sky was clear, the moon full and bright, the stars just waiting in anticipation for the light of the moon to dim so they could really show off.
So as I crept around in the middle of the night, you can imagine how I felt as I looked out the window, then stuck my head out the door, then ran outside—if only so briefly. Nothin. Lots of clouds, no moon and earth-shadow dancing.
So Morgantown wasn’t so lucky to see the eclipse. Millions of people, avid skywatchers or no, were drawn to the sky that early, early morning. Even the possibility of seeing such a historic, cosmic event, was enough for many to at least try to catch a glimpse of the moon turn blood red as the sun slipped behind the earth.
And whether or not they saw it, if they were like me, we were at least satisfied knowing that we that something was happening. And in some way, we were part of witnessing it. Even if we didn’t see it.
[pause]
And hey, if it didn’t make for an awesome entre into the Christmas story, especially as we lay the foundation for some of the most fascinating characters. Today we celebrate Epiphany, when we celebrate Christ being revealed to the whole world. The Magi, those Sojourners from the East symbolize this. They seek, recognize, and adore the child Jesus as the Christ.
The story of the Magi is unique to Matthew. It does not appear in any other of the gospels depicting Jesus’ births. Somehow we’ve condensed all the different gospel stories of Jesus’ birth into one, making a nice menagerie of sheep and cattle, and lowly shepherds and opulent kings kneeling before the newborn baby in a feeding trough. No gospel story has all of these things.
And Matthew’s depiction of Christ’s birth is as far as you can get from the lowly stable, and the child born to a poor carpenter’s family. Matthew’s story takes place in regal courts, with chief priests and royal foreigners. The story doesn’t so much foretell of the servant who will wash the feet of the poor, but the Messiah who will reign in earth as in heaven. It’s an epic story, completing the line begun with Abraham, this child will save the people.
Our text from Isaiah fits nicely with Matthew’s story. Now Isaiah’s prophecy and wolf and lamb lying down together, that’s a good one for Luke’s story of shepherds and poor wanders. But Matthew…with the Magi, and the royal antagonist, and fear of the people, it’s almost a continuation of Isaiah’s words: “lift up your eyes and look around, they all gather together, they come to you, your sons shall come from far away, and your daughters shall be carried on their nurses’ arms. Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice”.
The one is born who brings the people to him. He is who they have been seeking for. He is the one getting them out of bed, to run barefoot into the night air turning their heads to the sky. From the far corners they come. His light will shine and we, in turn, will shine as well.
But the Magi are mysterious characters, aren’t they. There’s not much that we know about them. In fact, it is what we don’t know about them that make them such a riveting addition to our nativity scene.
So, this is what we don’t know about them and their journey.
One - The Gospel of Matthew doesn’t say how many Magi there were. Three became the most popular answer because of the three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But some paintings in Christian catacombs have two or four, some early non-Biblical writings have a list of twelve Magi with names, and some imagine an entire army of Magi, more like what we witness going on in Isaiah 60.
Two- Early Christians didn’t agree on where the Magi were from. The most popular answer was Persia (modern Iran), but others thought they were from Babylon or Arabia. Some believe they came from a land called Shir, which is probably equivalent to China. But we don’t know where they are from.
Three - Nobody knows what the Star of Bethlehem really was. Some early Christians thought it was an angel or the Holy Spirit, and more recent theories include a comet or a supernova. Some early writings lead us to believe that some understood the star to be none other than Christ himself in celestial form.
Four - We don’t know how long it took the Magi to reach Jesus. Based on Herod’s asking of Magi when the star appeared, followed by his command to kill all male infants under the age of two, many Christians thought it took them two years. Some imagined a much faster journey of twelve days, based on the “twelve days of Christmas” between December 25th and the celebration of Epiphany on January 6th. Some early Christian stories even said that the star “carried” the Magi to Bethlehem in the blink of an eye.
Five - We don’t know how the Magi knew that a star signified the birth of the King of the Jews Many Christians thought that the Magi must have known some prophecies that that “a star shall come out of Jacob.” [Numbers 24] In the some ancient writings the Magi are believed to be descendants of Seth, who learned about the prophecy of the star from his father Adam and that the same star used to stand over the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden.
There you have it. Five things we don’t know. And there’s a lot more we don’t know as well. The Magi are a mystery. But we do know one thing. We know they sought the Christ. They streamed over the hills to the light they had seen. With hopes of clear skies and an honest king to give them directions (who we know turns out to be a hypocrite), they stepped into the unknown to follow the star to the Christ.
In the midst of everything we don’t know, we know that they sought him.
There are lots of “who” and “what” and “from where” questions in this story. And there are lots of “whys” as well. If the one thing we know is that the Magi were motivated to find him, the next logical question is “why”? Why did all these people seek the Christ child? Magi, King Herod, the Jewish populace…
Why did they seek him?
Well for the Magi, it simply states they came to pay him homage. However they heard about him, wherever they were from, whatever they hoped to get out of it, they came to honor him…at least honor a moment, and experience that they knew had cosmic repercussions, an event they would never again see in their lifetime.
King Herod, of course, sought him for less noble reasons. Can’t you imagine the hair on the back of his neck prickling up when tehse strangers come asking for the King of the Jews, and it was clear they did not mean him. He may have first written them off as strange, foreign, stargazers, but wait…is that gold I see in your satchel?
Not to mention the problems this could stir up among the Jewish people who had been waiting for a King with Jewish blood, just waiting for the royal descendent they heard about in the synagogues, around the fire, maybe even told to children as bedtime stories…stories about the kingdom of Israel and how a king, like them, would come again.
[pause]
And what about you?
You are here.
In some way, you are seeking the Christ.
For some reason, you are wondering, looking for the meaning of this event.
And there are lots of reasons people seek the Christ, aren’t there? To save you, to motivate you, to guide your decisions, to empower us, to be with us.
If you’re here, you’re seeking him. Enthusiastically or skeptically. Maybe for less than noble reasons, like to appease someone, or to appease yourself. Maybe to help you see the light that can help you, and the world, become radiant-through compassion, justice, and grace. Or maybe you’ve forgotten there is something worth searching for.
Like the Magi, we don’t have to have all the answers, even of ourselves. But we know that we are seeking the Christ, and it is the perfect time of year to ask yourself “why”?
Why do you seek the Christ?
Benediction-
A poem, by Ann Weems, called The World Still Knows
The night is still dark
And a procession of Herods still terrorize the earth,
Killing the children to stay in power.
The world still knows its HErods,
But it also still knows men and women
Who pack their dreams safely in their hearts
And set off toward Bethlehem,
Faithful against all odds,
Undeterred by fatigue or rejection,
To kneel to a child.
And the world still knows those persons
Wise enough
To follow a star,
Those who do not consider themselves too intelligent
Too powerful
Too wealthy
To kneel to a child.
And the world still knows those hearts so humble
That they’re ready
To hear the word of a song
And to leave what they have to go
To kneel to a child
The night is still dark,
But by the light of the star
Even today
We can still see
To kneel to a child.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)