sermon by Torin Eikler
Matthew 5:38-48 Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18
A couple of weeks ago I was reading an article in the Christian Century or Sojourners or some other such magazine (I don’t remember which) that talked about the well-known teachings Martin just read for us. The author talked all about how Jesus wasn’t actually saying anything new. He was reaching back into Jewish scriptures and traditions and asking his audience to look at them with new eyes – eyes that would reinterpret them in a new light.
Those of you who have heard Carrie and I preach very many times before will recognize that this exegetical process is not particularly new either. Jesus teachings are strongly marked by a commitment to upholding the authority of the prophets and the law while questioning the established interpretations taught by the religious elites. He looked beyond the particularities of the text to the spirit in which it was written and applied that understanding to the time and place in which he lived, looking through the lens of his vision of the Kingdom of God.
It sounds like a complicated process, but it’s actually one we are all familiar with. It’s what Carrie and I do each week as we prepare for worship. It’s what we all do each time we pick up the Bible, read a passage of scripture, and try to apply it to our lives. If we only had Jesus’ understanding of God’s vision we could figure it all out. (You’ll let me know, won’t you, if it ever comes to you? Wouldn’t that be great?!)
Back to the text at hand…. All my life I have heard sayings like “let your ‘yes’ be yes and your ‘no’ be no” and “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind” – sayings that remind us of the admonitions in this part of the Sermon on the Mount. And, if there is one thing that a dye-in-the-wool Brethren grows up with, it is “turn the other cheek” and “love your enemies!” I know it all by heart, but what struck me when I read that article was how mundane it seemed to me … and how little it connected with my life. And that made me a little sad, though it may seem strange to be unhappy that I don’t really run into Al Qaeda as I walk down the street.
This week, though, I heard Dr. Scott Atran speaking on an NPR program called “On Being.” He was talking about the violence and upheaval in Africa and the Middle East, and the interview got me thinking in a new way. Dr. Atran comes at the situation from a sociological background, and he begins by looking at what groups people form and why.
People form groups, he says, because they have a need to belong to something greater than themselves. Building that sense of kinship is an evolutionary urge that provides security, and it can give meaning to lives that might otherwise seem hollow. Ultimately, though, it’s an urge that grows out of our foundational experience of family that shows up in the way that “all political movements [or religious] or territorial movements or even transnational movements … consider themselves in terms of brotherhoods or sisterhoods or fatherlands or homelands or motherlands.” These movements use the sense of attachment and loyalty that grow from those terms to define who is “us” and who is “them,” who is “good” and who is “evil,” who is a “friend” and who is an “enemy.”
A colleague of mine offered this story for black history month….
One of our evening Sunday Schools, he said, recently had a guest speaker who had participated in the March for Voting Rights in 1965. He told us how he’d watched the television news with his fifth-grade daughter, and how she had said to him, “We have to do something!” He wanted to respond to her compassionate plea, but did not know how.
Shortly after that a friend of his called him and said, “We have to go to the march.” His first response was that he couldn’t possibly get away from his full schedule, but he thought better of that excuse in the end. And he went to Selma with his friend.
As he talked about the experience, he described a three hour argument between the police and the African-Americans they prevented from crossing into the white part of town. He went on to tell about some of the horrific things that were taking place. People were beaten by bystanders for no reason at all. Police rode their horses through and over crowds of people without regard for the lives they ended. The marchers were spit on, yelled at, and insulted.
Then, he told us about the training the demonstrators had received in preparation for the march. At first, he said, he resented the mandatory meeting. "We're marching,” he thought. “How much training do we need for that?" But as he listened, he began to realize that what they were about to do was something much different, much more challenging than the “march" he had pictured in his mind.
The marchers were instructed on the peaceful and non-violent method of resistance. They were told:
•to march together, and not to separate under any circumstances,
•not to return insult for insult, but to march peacefully, remembering their
purpose,
•to cover their heads if someone came at them with a club or a fist, but not to
fight back,
•to wipe it off when people spit on them or threw things on them, and to
keep marching.
The most difficult instruction by far - and one that brought tears to the man's eyes lo these many years later because he witnessed it - was the final directive:
•anyone standing near someone who fell to the ground or who was beaten to
the point of unconsciousness was to carefully nudge their way over and lay his/her body over the person. By doing this they were presenting their own body as a sacrifice to save another’s life.
I didn’t live through the years of that struggle. I don’t know what it was like to see or hear stories of everything that was happening. Some of you do. I can only imagine that if this story moved me, it must be even more powerful for you.
Most of the demonstrator survived those marches, but there were people gave their lives protecting others exactly as they had been taught. Instead of fighting back, they turned the other cheek. They loved their friends enough to give their lives, but did they love their enemies so well?
I don’t like to think of myself as having enemies, and I certainly have not experienced the kind of hatred and denigration Civil Rights activists lived through. But I have to admit that there are a few (well more than a few) people that I just don’t like. They rub me the wrong way. It may be because we disagree about something that’s important to me or I know they have talked badly about me behind my back or something about how they look or act sets my nerves on end. Whatever the reason, being around them makes me feel like I’m not safe and I have to be on my guard all the time.
One of those people was my seminary nemesis, I’ll call her Fran. I met Fran on the second day of classes. As we sat together in Old Testament, I grew frustrated by the frivolous comments she made and the way she interacted with the professor as if she was somehow special. Later that semester we had a conversation about holy war as presented in the historical books of the Old Testament. Things quickly devolved into an argument, but it was not because either of us supported war. It was because Fran thought it was just fine to throw out anything she didn’t like in the Bible. That was a perspective that I couldn’t understand and wasn’t prepared to accept, especially in another seminarian. And so began a long and torturous animosity … at least on my part.
For four years, I tried to avoid her, but in such a small community that was impossible. So, I sat in worship, at meetings, and in classes with Andrea, and every time I found it stressful. It was an exercise in self-control to avoid arguing with her or disparaging her comments just because she had made them. I even found it a struggle to be worshipful in her presence.
I suppose that Fran was less my enemy than I was hers, but finally, in my last year, we were assigned to be partners in a project. As we sat and worked together, I began to learn a bit more about her, and I discovered that my prejudices had blinded me to the truth of who she was. During those two weeks, I came to appreciate her insight and to understand the insecurities and experiences at the heart of her style of interaction. In the end, we never became close, but there is a part of me that wishes I had gotten to know her sooner rather than later. We might have made good friends instead of one-sided rivals.
How do we love our enemies?
The author of Leviticus gives us some basics for loving our enemies: take care to provide for them, do not bear false witness or take what should be theirs, and set aside vengeance. Jesus takes us farther down the road, saying: turn the other cheek, give to them if they beg from you, and pray for them. But he doesn’t stop there. He connects loving your enemies to treating them as you would a friend.
For me that means overlooking faults that might otherwise drive me mad. It means looking beyond the surface to see what pain they might be suffering or how they might need my help and support. It means opening myself up, being vulnerable to them, and forgiving them when they hurt me.
None of that is easy to do … even with friends. It is much harder to do with people that we don’t like – people we might even hate, but Jesus was quite clear that the road he invites us to travel is not an easy one. More than changing the world, it involves challenging ourselves to live more fully as God intends: to show compassion, to give forgiveness, and to recognize everyone as a child of God. Brothers and sisters in Christ, we are meant to love one another as family.
Once, after receiving flak for speaking kindly of the Southern Rebels instead of trying to destroy them, Abraham Lincoln replied, “do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?" I think that’s what Jesus was getting at … in his teaching and in his way of interacting with those around him. Whether or not others accept it, we are called to treat them as friends, to show compassion, to give forgiveness, and to accept them as family. Enemies or not, we are called to love them.
There’s a challenge in that. There’s work and love and peace and struggle, but there is peace in freeing ourselves from hate and retaliation, vengeance and fear. In the end, there is joy in loving even our enemies as friends.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Black History Month Worship Resources
On February 13 our congregation will celebrate Black History Month. We are a predominately white congregation and the challenge for shaping worship was to blend thanksgiving with confession, hope with forgiveness, recognition both of our racial unity as well as our racial diversity.
Our continued call is to unearth the White American's complicity in maintaining systems of racism and racial predjudice that denies the full recognition of the divine in one another. We pray we will be open to humility as we call on God to be our help and our guide. And we ask God to grant us grace when we are corrected, called out, and invited into a world beyond black and white.
Litany of Thanks
In Celebration of Black History Month
by Carrie Eikler
Leader: God of all people, all races and nationalities, all able and broken bodies, all people who breathe your sweet air of life.
People: We give thanks that you have made us in your image.
L: Today we are called to give thanks for the great gifts of our Black American sisters and brothers that make our lives richer and fuller.
P: Thanks be to God!
L: For the writers: WEB DuBois, Audre Lorde, Langston Hughes
P: Thank you God for their words!
L: For the healers: Harriet Tubman, Dr. Charles Richard Drew, Dr. David J. Peck
P: Thank you Jesus for their healing!
L: For the peacemakers and justice seekers: Sojourner Truth, Fredrick Douglass, Coretta Scott King
P: Thank you Spirit for their passion!
L: For the scientists: Percy Julian, Patricia Bath, George Washington Carver
P: Thank you God for their ingenuity!
L: For the government officials: Thurgood Marshall, Barack Obama, Carol Mosely-Braun,
P: Thank you Jesus for their persistence!
L: For the professors and educators: Cornell West, Ruth Simmons, Charles L. Reason
P: Thank you Spirit for their intellect!
L: For the musicians: Marian Anderson, Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday
P: Thank you God for their creativity!
L: For the athletes: Jackie Joyner Kersee, Jackie Robinson, Arthur Ashe
P: Thank you Jesus for their agility and strength!
L:For these and all our African American brothers and sisters who surround us this day we give thanks.
P: Amen. And Amen!
*Some of these names are likely very familiar to you. Some you may not recognize. As a response to our celebration, take time this month to learn about some about these Black Americans that you are less familiar with.
Prayers of the People
Prayer” by Maya Angelou
Father, Mother, God
Thank you for your presence
during the hard and mean days.
For then we have you to lean upon.
Thank you for your presence
during the bright and sunny days,
for then we can share that which we have
with those who have less.
And thank you for your presence
during the Holy Days, for then we are able
to celebrate you and our families
and our friends.
For those who have no voice,
we ask you to speak.
(silence)
For those who feel unworthy,
we ask you to pour your love out
in waterfalls of tenderness.
(silence)
For those who live in pain,
we ask you to bathe them
in the river of your healing.
(silence)
For those who are lonely, we ask
you to keep them company.
(silence)
For those who are depressed,
we ask you to shower upon them
the light of hope.
(silence)
Dear Creator, You, the borderless
sea of substance, we ask you to give to all the
world that which we need most--Peace.
[Amen.]
Prayer of Reconciliation
adapted from United Church of Canada Black History worship materials
Gracious God, we thank you for creating all of us in your image,
even though outwardly we look different.
We thank you for being faithful.
We thank you that in you there is no superior race; we are all the same in your eyes
We thank you for your justice.
Help us, O God, to look to you for guidance.
We thank you for reconciling us.
Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for inviting us to you, the spring that flows with living water.
We thank you for giving us water to drink.
Help us to accept one another in love,
like you did for us,
when you accepted each one of us in your love.
Thank you for your love that is from eternity to eternity.
As we come together to remember Black History Month,
We give thanks because you have made us equal in your sight.
You are calling us to rise and look forward,
and to serve you in justice and peace.
Thank you, loving God,
for giving hope that last forever.
Thank you, for making us to be part of this journey;
We know that you will make all things new. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Benediction from 44th Inaugural Address by Rev. Dr. Joseph Lowery
Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day
when black will not be asked to get back,
when brown can stick around
when yellow will be mellow
when the red man can get ahead, man
and when white will embrace what is right.
Let all those who do justice and love mercy say amen
[Amen!]
Hymns:
Yonder come day
Precious Lord take my hand
In Christ there is no East or West
Lift every voice and sing
Our continued call is to unearth the White American's complicity in maintaining systems of racism and racial predjudice that denies the full recognition of the divine in one another. We pray we will be open to humility as we call on God to be our help and our guide. And we ask God to grant us grace when we are corrected, called out, and invited into a world beyond black and white.
Litany of Thanks
In Celebration of Black History Month
by Carrie Eikler
Leader: God of all people, all races and nationalities, all able and broken bodies, all people who breathe your sweet air of life.
People: We give thanks that you have made us in your image.
L: Today we are called to give thanks for the great gifts of our Black American sisters and brothers that make our lives richer and fuller.
P: Thanks be to God!
L: For the writers: WEB DuBois, Audre Lorde, Langston Hughes
P: Thank you God for their words!
L: For the healers: Harriet Tubman, Dr. Charles Richard Drew, Dr. David J. Peck
P: Thank you Jesus for their healing!
L: For the peacemakers and justice seekers: Sojourner Truth, Fredrick Douglass, Coretta Scott King
P: Thank you Spirit for their passion!
L: For the scientists: Percy Julian, Patricia Bath, George Washington Carver
P: Thank you God for their ingenuity!
L: For the government officials: Thurgood Marshall, Barack Obama, Carol Mosely-Braun,
P: Thank you Jesus for their persistence!
L: For the professors and educators: Cornell West, Ruth Simmons, Charles L. Reason
P: Thank you Spirit for their intellect!
L: For the musicians: Marian Anderson, Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday
P: Thank you God for their creativity!
L: For the athletes: Jackie Joyner Kersee, Jackie Robinson, Arthur Ashe
P: Thank you Jesus for their agility and strength!
L:For these and all our African American brothers and sisters who surround us this day we give thanks.
P: Amen. And Amen!
*Some of these names are likely very familiar to you. Some you may not recognize. As a response to our celebration, take time this month to learn about some about these Black Americans that you are less familiar with.
Prayers of the People
Prayer” by Maya Angelou
Father, Mother, God
Thank you for your presence
during the hard and mean days.
For then we have you to lean upon.
Thank you for your presence
during the bright and sunny days,
for then we can share that which we have
with those who have less.
And thank you for your presence
during the Holy Days, for then we are able
to celebrate you and our families
and our friends.
For those who have no voice,
we ask you to speak.
(silence)
For those who feel unworthy,
we ask you to pour your love out
in waterfalls of tenderness.
(silence)
For those who live in pain,
we ask you to bathe them
in the river of your healing.
(silence)
For those who are lonely, we ask
you to keep them company.
(silence)
For those who are depressed,
we ask you to shower upon them
the light of hope.
(silence)
Dear Creator, You, the borderless
sea of substance, we ask you to give to all the
world that which we need most--Peace.
[Amen.]
Prayer of Reconciliation
adapted from United Church of Canada Black History worship materials
Gracious God, we thank you for creating all of us in your image,
even though outwardly we look different.
We thank you for being faithful.
We thank you that in you there is no superior race; we are all the same in your eyes
We thank you for your justice.
Help us, O God, to look to you for guidance.
We thank you for reconciling us.
Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for inviting us to you, the spring that flows with living water.
We thank you for giving us water to drink.
Help us to accept one another in love,
like you did for us,
when you accepted each one of us in your love.
Thank you for your love that is from eternity to eternity.
As we come together to remember Black History Month,
We give thanks because you have made us equal in your sight.
You are calling us to rise and look forward,
and to serve you in justice and peace.
Thank you, loving God,
for giving hope that last forever.
Thank you, for making us to be part of this journey;
We know that you will make all things new. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Benediction from 44th Inaugural Address by Rev. Dr. Joseph Lowery
Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day
when black will not be asked to get back,
when brown can stick around
when yellow will be mellow
when the red man can get ahead, man
and when white will embrace what is right.
Let all those who do justice and love mercy say amen
[Amen!]
Hymns:
Yonder come day
Precious Lord take my hand
In Christ there is no East or West
Lift every voice and sing
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Salt and Light
sermon by Torin Eikler
I Corinthians 2:1-12 Matthew 5:13-20
In my high school youth group there were three big things we did every year – three events around which our calendar of fund-raising and planning revolved. One was the ski trip we took every February. One was the summer work camp. And one was the annual musical.
The musical was the most work and the least fun, but it was a pretty big part of the fund-raising we did. And to be fair, it managed to bring us all together more than the other two – at least those of us who participated.
My Sophomore year, we made the extremely ambitious decision to put on “Godspell” which promised to be quite a challenge given the size of our pool of capable singers. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this musical, it is a creative retelling of the Gospel of Matthew in which most of the action is narrated in song. So, basically, all of us who could read music and hold a tune were going to have a part, but we had auditions anyway to see who would get which role (though I suspect the director had already cast us before we even started).
I got the part of Herb which was fine with me since Herb gets most of the funny lines and doesn’t have to sing too many solos. One song I did have to learn, though, was musical’s summary of the Sermon on the Mount – “The Light of the World.” It was mostly based around today’s scripture, and the best part – the part we all really loved – was that we got to sing the line: “We all need help to feel fine. Let’s have some wine.”
Can you imagine twelve fairly inexperienced high school students nervously trying to get through all the lines and choreography of a somewhat racy Broadway musical on the 25x40’ chancel in front of family, friends, and all the rest of the members of the congregation? We struggled through all the rest of it with a kind of resigned determination, voices cracking at the edge of our ranges and feet trying to move through tricky dance steps without getting tangled up. BUT, when we got to this song, we let loose.
I’m not sure what wine really has to do with being the light of the world or the salt of the earth, but I have to say that Stephen Schwartz and John-Michael Tebelak gave a gift to every high school kid who has been part of “Godspell” when they put that line in there. It was just the thing to take the edge off the challenge of singing “You’ve got to live right to be the light of the world” to your parents and your pastor.
But let’s set aside the wine for now because we really are dealing with a challenge … and it’s a very important one…
“You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?”
Among the emails sent between my colleagues and me on our list serve this week was a sad story that comes from Andrew Foster Connors "Preaching on the Word.” It seems there was a wealthy, well-known urban congregation with several devout members. Some of the wealthier members decided to spend a night with homeless friends on the street as a part of their Lenten discipline one year. Their goal was to clear away the assumptions and prejudices that kept them from recognizing the suffering Christ in the face of those who spent their days suffering hunger, disease and rejection – a worthy goal.
The night they were to hold their vigil turned out to be cold and rainy, and the group went looking for shelter. As they walked the streets, wet and shivering, they came upon a church holding an all-night prayer vigil. Now, the leader of the group was a respected pastor, and to her the church looked to be an inviting sanctuary.
As she stepped through the doors of the sanctuary, a security guard stopped her.
The pastor explained to him that they were a group of Christians who were wet and miserable and had no place to stay. Could they, she asked, rest and pray?
The doubtful look on the guard’s face made her aware of how the rain had made her look more than a little disheveled, and as she looked down at herself, she realized that she bore little resemblance to what one might expect of a pastor. In that moment, she gained a new understanding of how little it took to transform anyone into the image of a street person like those in her group. Still she looked up at the guard with some hope.
The security guard was not a cruel man, but he had a job to do. "I'm hired to keep homeless people like you out," was his reply, and so the group dejectedly made its way back out into the weather, surprised and deeply saddened to find their suffering turned away by Christ’s church.
“You are salt for the earth….”
“You are the light of the world…. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand [where] it gives light to all….”
Another story … one that has stuck with me since I heard it as a junior in high school. My pastor, Susan, was a born, bred, and baptized member of the Church of the Brethren. In high school she had a friend – a good friend – who was not a Christian. The two girls were interested in lots of the same things, and they spent a lot of time together. Susan cherished the friendship … all the more so because this girl was not part of her youth group, and they could talk about anything together without religion hanging over their heads. As they grew closer, Susan was surprised to find that though her friend seemed to be well-adjusted and have lots of friends, she often felt lonely and depressed. Life, to her, seemed to be a pointless progression of days leading to death.
Susan was worried. She didn’t know what to do or say to help her friend, and though she thought about inviting her to church more than once, she resisted the impulse. She was afraid that bringing the church into it would alienate her friend or that she might lose the friendship all together. Instead, she listened and talked and tried to keep things happy and light, and that’s the way thing stayed until her friend moved away.
Some years later, the two met again. Susan was excited to rekindle the friendship, and she began to ask the kind of questions that you ask to catch up. It was a good conversation. Both women had found rewarding work and had loving families. But as they talked about the years that had passed, the smile faded from her friend’s face, and eventually she asked, “Susan, you were part of that Brethren church when we were in high school weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ever invite me? Why didn’t you tell me about Jesus?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that, and I was afraid you wouldn’t want to hang out with one of those … “Jesus people.”
“Susan, when I discovered Jesus, it saved my life. It gave me hope. I wish you wouldn’t have hidden that from me.”
“You are the light of the world.” “You are salt for the earth.”
It’s hard to see friends struggle. It’s hard to look at the suffering around us. It is … harder … to be salt and light in the world, and we feel inadequate or uninspired or scared of the costs.
Who are we to take that on? It’s too big for us. What special wisdom do we have that could change the system that makes people suffer. We wouldn’t even know where to begin the task of helping people rediscover the taste of life. Who knows what would happen, what damage we could do if we waded in with our ungainly, uncoordinated efforts? We aren’t trained to address that kind of darkness. So, we often find ourselves turning away – averting our eyes, avoiding painful topics or dispirited friends. We hide our lights and water down our flavor, piling up justifications to excuse our weaknesses and ease our feelings of guilt.
Then we hear the words Jesus spoke all those years ago, and, if you are anything like me, you begin to wonder. I’ve lost my flavor. I’ve hidden my lamp until it’s on the verge of going out. How can I be salt and light any longer?
Yet into the shame that I feel, Paul speaks words that bring me comfort and hope. Even he, the great evangelist, was not beyond all of this struggle. For all of his training as a scholar and a speaker, he knew weakness and fear. All of the wisdom he had learned at the feet of rabbi’s and priests and even his vision on the road was not enough to wipe away his doubt.
And now we come back to the wine. Paul knew a way to renew his light, to bring the saltiness of back into his life. The foolish wisdom of a crucified Christ, the reviving touch of the Spirit’s breath, and the promise of God’s grace … we accept these things when we share the bread of life and the cup of grace. These things give us back our courage. They provide all the knowledge and inspiration we need.
The light of Christ was drunk by a crowd on a mountain top. The salt of his wisdom and understanding fed those he met throughout his ministry on the bread of life. People from all walks of life and all stations of society witnessed the new way it revealed. The multitudes he spoke to … touched … healed were lit on fire with the knowledge that God was with each and every one of them. They were inspired to share the power of that new vision with others, and when the wisdom and the light of Christ is offered from one to another, people are fed, spirits come back to life, and community grows as we welcome everyone to come and celebrate life together.
You are the light of the world. You are the salt for the earth. When your light is hidden under a basket or you allow your flavor to fade away, everyone suffers. People – lonely depressed, angry, hungry people – move through life without hope or relief or the bread of life to fill them. The sad and worried world remains sad and worried, filled with relationships that are coming apart at the seams while we are preoccupied with our own little struggles that leave us sad and worried.
Jesus calls us to shine the dazzling light of God's grace and vision for the world and the transforming salt of foolish wisdom into places of challenge and difficulty. Put your light on a lampstand so that it can illuminate the shadows - allowing hope to shine into the darkness. Share the salt of your being so that the savory touch of Christ’s love can transform our life together.
Be salt.
Be light.
Be the city of God that welcomes all God’s children out of the world and to the table of life in joy and love and peace.
I Corinthians 2:1-12 Matthew 5:13-20
In my high school youth group there were three big things we did every year – three events around which our calendar of fund-raising and planning revolved. One was the ski trip we took every February. One was the summer work camp. And one was the annual musical.
The musical was the most work and the least fun, but it was a pretty big part of the fund-raising we did. And to be fair, it managed to bring us all together more than the other two – at least those of us who participated.
My Sophomore year, we made the extremely ambitious decision to put on “Godspell” which promised to be quite a challenge given the size of our pool of capable singers. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this musical, it is a creative retelling of the Gospel of Matthew in which most of the action is narrated in song. So, basically, all of us who could read music and hold a tune were going to have a part, but we had auditions anyway to see who would get which role (though I suspect the director had already cast us before we even started).
I got the part of Herb which was fine with me since Herb gets most of the funny lines and doesn’t have to sing too many solos. One song I did have to learn, though, was musical’s summary of the Sermon on the Mount – “The Light of the World.” It was mostly based around today’s scripture, and the best part – the part we all really loved – was that we got to sing the line: “We all need help to feel fine. Let’s have some wine.”
Can you imagine twelve fairly inexperienced high school students nervously trying to get through all the lines and choreography of a somewhat racy Broadway musical on the 25x40’ chancel in front of family, friends, and all the rest of the members of the congregation? We struggled through all the rest of it with a kind of resigned determination, voices cracking at the edge of our ranges and feet trying to move through tricky dance steps without getting tangled up. BUT, when we got to this song, we let loose.
I’m not sure what wine really has to do with being the light of the world or the salt of the earth, but I have to say that Stephen Schwartz and John-Michael Tebelak gave a gift to every high school kid who has been part of “Godspell” when they put that line in there. It was just the thing to take the edge off the challenge of singing “You’ve got to live right to be the light of the world” to your parents and your pastor.
But let’s set aside the wine for now because we really are dealing with a challenge … and it’s a very important one…
“You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?”
Among the emails sent between my colleagues and me on our list serve this week was a sad story that comes from Andrew Foster Connors "Preaching on the Word.” It seems there was a wealthy, well-known urban congregation with several devout members. Some of the wealthier members decided to spend a night with homeless friends on the street as a part of their Lenten discipline one year. Their goal was to clear away the assumptions and prejudices that kept them from recognizing the suffering Christ in the face of those who spent their days suffering hunger, disease and rejection – a worthy goal.
The night they were to hold their vigil turned out to be cold and rainy, and the group went looking for shelter. As they walked the streets, wet and shivering, they came upon a church holding an all-night prayer vigil. Now, the leader of the group was a respected pastor, and to her the church looked to be an inviting sanctuary.
As she stepped through the doors of the sanctuary, a security guard stopped her.
The pastor explained to him that they were a group of Christians who were wet and miserable and had no place to stay. Could they, she asked, rest and pray?
The doubtful look on the guard’s face made her aware of how the rain had made her look more than a little disheveled, and as she looked down at herself, she realized that she bore little resemblance to what one might expect of a pastor. In that moment, she gained a new understanding of how little it took to transform anyone into the image of a street person like those in her group. Still she looked up at the guard with some hope.
The security guard was not a cruel man, but he had a job to do. "I'm hired to keep homeless people like you out," was his reply, and so the group dejectedly made its way back out into the weather, surprised and deeply saddened to find their suffering turned away by Christ’s church.
“You are salt for the earth….”
“You are the light of the world…. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand [where] it gives light to all….”
Another story … one that has stuck with me since I heard it as a junior in high school. My pastor, Susan, was a born, bred, and baptized member of the Church of the Brethren. In high school she had a friend – a good friend – who was not a Christian. The two girls were interested in lots of the same things, and they spent a lot of time together. Susan cherished the friendship … all the more so because this girl was not part of her youth group, and they could talk about anything together without religion hanging over their heads. As they grew closer, Susan was surprised to find that though her friend seemed to be well-adjusted and have lots of friends, she often felt lonely and depressed. Life, to her, seemed to be a pointless progression of days leading to death.
Susan was worried. She didn’t know what to do or say to help her friend, and though she thought about inviting her to church more than once, she resisted the impulse. She was afraid that bringing the church into it would alienate her friend or that she might lose the friendship all together. Instead, she listened and talked and tried to keep things happy and light, and that’s the way thing stayed until her friend moved away.
Some years later, the two met again. Susan was excited to rekindle the friendship, and she began to ask the kind of questions that you ask to catch up. It was a good conversation. Both women had found rewarding work and had loving families. But as they talked about the years that had passed, the smile faded from her friend’s face, and eventually she asked, “Susan, you were part of that Brethren church when we were in high school weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ever invite me? Why didn’t you tell me about Jesus?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that, and I was afraid you wouldn’t want to hang out with one of those … “Jesus people.”
“Susan, when I discovered Jesus, it saved my life. It gave me hope. I wish you wouldn’t have hidden that from me.”
“You are the light of the world.” “You are salt for the earth.”
It’s hard to see friends struggle. It’s hard to look at the suffering around us. It is … harder … to be salt and light in the world, and we feel inadequate or uninspired or scared of the costs.
Who are we to take that on? It’s too big for us. What special wisdom do we have that could change the system that makes people suffer. We wouldn’t even know where to begin the task of helping people rediscover the taste of life. Who knows what would happen, what damage we could do if we waded in with our ungainly, uncoordinated efforts? We aren’t trained to address that kind of darkness. So, we often find ourselves turning away – averting our eyes, avoiding painful topics or dispirited friends. We hide our lights and water down our flavor, piling up justifications to excuse our weaknesses and ease our feelings of guilt.
Then we hear the words Jesus spoke all those years ago, and, if you are anything like me, you begin to wonder. I’ve lost my flavor. I’ve hidden my lamp until it’s on the verge of going out. How can I be salt and light any longer?
Yet into the shame that I feel, Paul speaks words that bring me comfort and hope. Even he, the great evangelist, was not beyond all of this struggle. For all of his training as a scholar and a speaker, he knew weakness and fear. All of the wisdom he had learned at the feet of rabbi’s and priests and even his vision on the road was not enough to wipe away his doubt.
And now we come back to the wine. Paul knew a way to renew his light, to bring the saltiness of back into his life. The foolish wisdom of a crucified Christ, the reviving touch of the Spirit’s breath, and the promise of God’s grace … we accept these things when we share the bread of life and the cup of grace. These things give us back our courage. They provide all the knowledge and inspiration we need.
The light of Christ was drunk by a crowd on a mountain top. The salt of his wisdom and understanding fed those he met throughout his ministry on the bread of life. People from all walks of life and all stations of society witnessed the new way it revealed. The multitudes he spoke to … touched … healed were lit on fire with the knowledge that God was with each and every one of them. They were inspired to share the power of that new vision with others, and when the wisdom and the light of Christ is offered from one to another, people are fed, spirits come back to life, and community grows as we welcome everyone to come and celebrate life together.
You are the light of the world. You are the salt for the earth. When your light is hidden under a basket or you allow your flavor to fade away, everyone suffers. People – lonely depressed, angry, hungry people – move through life without hope or relief or the bread of life to fill them. The sad and worried world remains sad and worried, filled with relationships that are coming apart at the seams while we are preoccupied with our own little struggles that leave us sad and worried.
Jesus calls us to shine the dazzling light of God's grace and vision for the world and the transforming salt of foolish wisdom into places of challenge and difficulty. Put your light on a lampstand so that it can illuminate the shadows - allowing hope to shine into the darkness. Share the salt of your being so that the savory touch of Christ’s love can transform our life together.
Be salt.
Be light.
Be the city of God that welcomes all God’s children out of the world and to the table of life in joy and love and peace.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Blessing and Honor
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?”
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 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.
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