Jonah, Jesus, and Judgment: Part Two

sermon by Carrie Eikler
John 8:2-11, Jonah 3&4

scripture readings from Jonah 3&4 and John 8:2-11. (This was read in two voices, one reading from Jonah, the other from John. I found it drew interesting parallels with the emotion of the "angered" with the reaction from God/Jesus)

The word of the LORD came to Jonah a second time, saying, 2“Get up, go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to it the message that I tell you.” 3So Jonah set out and went to Nineveh, according to the word of the LORD. Now Nineveh was an exceedingly large city, a three days’ walk across. 4Jonah began to go into the city, going a day’s walk. And he cried out, “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”

Early in the morning [Jesus] came again to the temple. All the people came to him and he sat down and began to teach them. 3The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery; and making her stand before all of them, 4they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. 5Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him.

And the people of Nineveh believed God; they proclaimed a fast, and everyone, great and small, put on sackcloth. 10When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it.

Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. 7When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground

But this was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry. 2He prayed to the LORD and said, “O LORD! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish at the beginning; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. 3And now, O LORD, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live.” 4And the LORD said, “Is it right for you to be angry?”

When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders; and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. 10Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” 11She said, “No one, sir.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

Last week we began with the story of AJ Jacobs, a New Yorker, editor of the magazine Esquire, and secular Jew who decided to take on the wild and wonderful Biblical world. He did this by actually attempting to live by its laws and prescriptions literally for one full year. As we discovered last week, this meant doing what many of us would never dream of doing: physically stoning someone the Bible says to condemn. In Jacobs’ case, he lightly pebbled a 70-year old adulterer he met while sitting on a park bench.

And if you remember, he admitted to feeling a sensation of power and righteousness in the act, while also feeling morally stunted at the same time. We began poking at our sense of righteousness whenever we pass judgment: whether we hurl verbal and emotional stones at people—like the Pharisees wished to throw physical stones—or if it is criticism of individuals or groups or situations made from a safe distance—like Jonah perched outside of Ninevah complaining to God about sparing the lives of the heathen Ninevites.

If you were like me, you felt more sensitive to your own tendency to judge this week. I paid attention to what situations began drawing out judgment in me, and to be honest, I didn’t really realize what I was doing until I was in the midst of my judgment: talking back to the radio, or rolling my eyes at someone I saw in the grocery store. But at least I was recognizing it. Did you recognize it?

My humble hypothesis from last week, is that our delight in judgment and criticism comes from a place within us that feels deep pain, and at the same time deep passion. Last week we talked about the pain and how it enters our lives when we think that life is “survival of the fittest …” that we must be on top and superior to everyone around us … that until we make the world in our own image, the our neighbors are completely misguided. Like Jonah, we understand that even God’s mercy, especially for others, isn’t a consolation when all we really want is to be right and to be better than.
Pain and passion seems like a dangerous mixture. Yet it can be a joy to discover the passion at the heart of our judgments because we can begin to cultivate the goodness of our passions, rather than allowing them to take us down judgmental paths.

So this is how it worked for me this week. I’m quite passionate between the hour of 5:30 and 6:30pm when it’s my night to cook dinner. Many of you know, I feel passionate about food and cooking, and while I give thanks for that passion, it has shown me one of my major judgments: I judge people who I feel do not appreciate food the way I do.

I have come to have a spiritual relationship with food: preparing it, serving it, eating it, and most of all trying to enjoy it. I think I’m passionate about it because for so long food has been something that I have had a lot of pain attached to. As many women in America have experienced, I’ve been told to fear food. I’ve been conditioned to think of the bad things it can do to me rather than the joyous things it can give me – to look at good food and picture fat thighs. Welcome to being a woman in America.

But in the past few years I have begun to see it differently. I have begun to delight in it. I have begun to let it really feed me. And I hope that any extra fat on my thighs has come from birthing two babies and not my new found love of baking homemade croissants. But it’s true the pain and fear are still there. When the baby weight from Alistair hasn’t fallen off as easily as with Sebastian. When my body just looks differently now than it did before. Those dark fears, those pains come creeping in and there is a head on cage match with my passion.

So rather than dealing with that collision in myself, I project it onto others: those who eat junk food, those who are obese, those who I see lining up at the drive-through at McDonald’s. And I find myself harshly judging. “If people just appreciated food like I do, took the time to prepare good food like I do, had the knowledge, the resources, the background that I do…” and it’s a downward spiral from there.

And since I’m too busy looking down on those people over there, I’m not able to look down at what’s in front of me: Jesus, drawing in the dirt. Can I join him there? When faced with the opportunity to judge, can I crouch down and be a bearer of love, rather than a giver of criticism?

I worry I may have given the impression last week that I would be giving you a quick fix to your judgmentalism today — and I realize that I am completely unqualified to tell you what to do on this matter. But as I’ve thought about it this week, there are some findings can share with you. But first and foremost, it is clear that an attitude of non-judmentalism is kind of like pacifism. It gives the impression of withdrawal, of “not doing” anything. But when we are serious about not judging, we discover it is a very active process.

So this is what I learned from a Mennonite peacemaker, Buddhist meditation, and Lenten devotions.

I heard John Paul Lederach speak at Bethany Seminary when I was a student. Lederach is a Mennonite who currently teaches at Notre Dame, but, more notably, Lederach is a well respected practitioner of international conflict transformation. I was reminded of him and his work when he was featured on NPR’s “Speaking of Faith” a couple weeks ago. And I was struck by how his approach to conflict transformation is relevant to so many aspects of our lives, even helping us drop our stones of judgments.

It involves cultivating, within ourselves, what he calls a “moral imagination.”

According to Lederach, the moral imagination is the capacity to recognize and take advantage of turning points and possibilities present to us in order to venture down unknown paths that create something entirely new. But first and foremost it requires us to see ourselves as part of a web of relationships, one that even includes our enemies … and people or situations we consistently judge.

We need to recognize we are all connected, one organism based on mutuality. It urges us to suspend the polarities of our judgments—moving beyond seeing the world in black and white, recognizing that human situations are more complex than winners and losers, best ideas and worse ideas, right choices and wrong choices. If we can do this, the moral imagination replaces our judgment by showing us surprising opportunities for connection, and unexpected potential for relationships, even in the face of differences.

Isn’t it relationships over polarities that Jesus emphasizes? I think Jesus is exhibiting a bit of moral imagination in our scripture for today. He is recognizing a turning point, a moment of tension where things could go any which way, the possibility of a new outcome, a new reaction, a new heart. In the midst of attack and judgment … when Jesus was invited to judge, he saw a turning point and he simply stopped.

Perhaps that is a good starting point for us. In my studies of Buddhism and in my on again off again yoga practice, I’ve been introduced to a practice called mindfulness. It is, simply put, trying to be absolutely present in the moment. Not dwelling on the past, or anticipating the future. Perhaps practicing mindfulness can help us crouch with Jesus as he writes in the dirt.

So while we’re here, let’s stop ourselves and practice a little – a moment of mindfulness. Take a few moments to think about what, or whom you are very judgmental, or critical, about. Maybe it’s an individual, or a behavior. It might be a group, or a way of thinking, or a belief system. What is that judgment you have? [pause]

Now imagine you encounter that person, that group, or that behavior. And you feel that bubbling of judgment starting to heat up. It shoots from your brain down to your stomach where it ferments for a moment. Then it rises up your throat and comes out in critical or hurtful words.

The first step of applying mindfulness to our judgments starts here, where you recognize what is happening. You notice what is going on, especially the physical sensations. You might notice your chest getting tight, your lips pursing, your brow knitting. I notice I’m rolling my eyes or feel the beginning of a smirk. What is your body doing.?
Now describe what you’re seeing – put into words what is going on that might be causing that sensation. The person in the grocery line has food I don’t approve. The news story is talking about a politician I don’t like. My friend has made bad decisions. But that description is itself a judgment. Practice seeing the person over the problem. Be in the moment with what you are seeing, describing the person you see, not what they’re doing or saying…. I’m looking at the person in front of me in the checkout line. I am watching a news story. I am talking with a friend. Dwell with the image of the person

And if through practice we can get to the point where we see the person rather than the problem, we might be sewing that web together where we would otherwise be cutting it apart. Simply stopping that runaway train of immediate evaluation and snap judgment helps us to be less judgmental people.

Perhaps in some way this is what Jesus was doing. Jesus stopped and wrote in the dirt. We don’t know what he’s wrote, but the act of writing itself was important enough for the author of John to include it. It meant something. Something was happening. Maybe it wasn’t so much what he was writing but what the process of his writing did in the situation.

He confused the process, forced things to stop. He threw everyone off guard and got them to look at themselves instead of the adulteress. He stopped the violent cycle

Now maybe that still seems vague and complex. Maybe it would be more helpful to look at non-judmentalism as a spiritual discipline just like any other. You could apply the spiritual discipline of silence.

This is what Torin and I did last year during Lent when we found our tendency to be judgmental was spinning out of control. We simply practiced silence and stopped giving voice to your judgments. Even if you think them, don’t say them. It can seem simplistic or misguided, but we found that it helped. Often in our sharing our judgments with others (especially if they are not those people we are judging) we are really looking for someone to agree with us that we are better than the person we are judging. If I have the ear of someone else, my judgments become catty, even more hurtful, and I become more and more separated from that web of relationships.

Now, not speaking your judgments doesn’t mean you won’t have them, but like Jesus writing in the dirt, it stops that cycle for a moment—when we actively think that silence is needed, it brings it to our attention that we were about to say something judgmental. We can then look at the judgments mindfully. It allows us to ask questions of our judgments. We can ask ourselves, will this observation build up or tear down? Will I be more connected with the web of relationships, or leave me disconnected? Is this about making me feel superior?

Connectedness, mindfulness, prayer, and silence. That’s a tall order. But I believe it can be worth the work. Jesus gives us an example of mercy, but he also gives us, with stones in hand, a chance to also practice it. He didn’t just give the angry crowd words of non-judgment, he gave them an opportunity to participate in his gospel of mercy. When he says, “Go and sin no more,” it is hard to hear it as a command to the woman without hoping it will touch the ears of those walking away.

Our work at relinquishing judgment, is our living out Christ’s gospel. May the passion overcome the pain as we become bearers of Love.

Jonah, Jesus, and Judgment: Part One

sermon by Carrie Eikler
John 8:2-11, Jonah 3&4

(*earlier in the service we lit our peace lamp for Sakineh Ashtiani, an Iranian woman who was charged in 2006 with adultery and sentenced to death by stoning. The UN, US and British governments, as well as many humanitarian organizations have appealed for a stay of execution, and for the time being, this week we heard her stoning has been put on hold. For Sakineh Ashtiani, we light this lamp for her safety, and for mercy on the part of the Iranian government. May they, and we, receive God’s merciful peace.)

"Jonah, Jesus, and Judgment: Part One"
When AJ Jacobs set out on a quest to live out the Bible literally for one full year, he had no idea what to expect. Jacobs is the editor at large of the magazine Esquire. He lives in New York, and was raised a secular Jew: as he puts it he is a Jew in the same way Olive Garden is an Italian Restaurant. Which is to say: not very. In his book, entitled The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible he outlines his adventures of seeking the meaning of religion, while also attempting to satisfy some deep spiritual yearning of his own, by living out the Bible--literally. For one full year. Trying to obey the entire Bible without picking and choosing.

So that meant to obey the Ten Commandments. To be fruitful and multiply. To love his neighbor. To tithe his income. But also to abide by the often-neglected rules: To avoid wearing clothes made of mixed fibers. To leave the edges of his beard unshaven. To stone adulterers. Yes, to stone adulterers.

The scene that is presented before us in John, sadly, has biblical backing. Stoning an adulterer, like the one standing in front of Jesus, was a justifiable punishment. In many biblical respects, she had it coming. Yet, while the Bible gives grounds for such a punishment, we realize it doesn’t make it less abhorrent in our eyes.

When AJ Jacobs tackled capital punishment, number two on what he called Most Perplexing Laws [of the Bible], (right after the law of not wearing mixed fibers), he thought he found a loophole: it doesn’t say what size the stones should be. So he chose only tiny pebbles…

Imagine yourself witness to this scene…from Jacobs’ book:

I am resting in a small public park on the Upper West Side, the kind where you see retirees eating tuna sandwiches on benches.

“Hey, you’re dressed queer.”

I look over. The speaker is an elderly man, mid-70s I’d guess. He is tall and thin and is wearing one of those caps that cabbies wore in movies from the Forties.

“You’re dressed queer,” he snarls. “Why you dressed so queer.” [Now remember, he is trying to dress as prescribed in the Old Testament] I have on my usual fringes, and, for good measure, have worn some sandals and am carrying a knotty maple walking stick I’d bought on the Internet for $25.

“I’m trying to live by the rules of the Bible. The 10 commandments, stoning adulterers…”

“You’re stoning adulterers?”

“Yeah, I’m stoning adulterers.”

“I’m an adulterer.”

“You’re currently an adulterer?”

“Yeah. Tonight, tomorrow, yesterday, two weeks from now. You gonna stone me?”

“If I could, yes, that’d be great.”

“I’ll punch you in the face. I’ll send you to the cemetery.”

He is serious. This isn’t a cutesy grumpy old man. This is an angry old man. This is a man with seven decades of hostility behind him.

I fish out my pebbles from my back pocket.

“I wouldn’t stone you with big stones,” I say. “Just these little guys.”

I open my palm to show him the pebbles. He lunges at me, grabbing one out of my hand, then chucking it at my face. It whizzes by my cheek.

I am stunned for a second. I hadn’t expected this elderly man to make the first move. But now there is nothing stopping me from retaliating. An eye for an eye.

I take one of the remaining pebbles and whip it at his chest. It bounces off.

“I’ll punch you right in the kisser,” he says.

“Well, you really shouldn’t commit adultery,” I say.

We stare at each other. My heart is racing.

Yes, he is a septuagenarian. Yes, he had just threatened me using corny Honeymooners dialogue. But you could tell: This man has a strong dark side.

Our glaring contest lasts ten seconds, then he walks away, brushing by me as he leaves.

As critical as AJ Jacobs is of biblical capital punishment, he admitted that in that experience, he found some satisfaction in his light stoning. He said: It felt good to chuck a rock at this nasty old man. It felt primal. It felt like I was getting vengeance on him. This guy wasn’t just an adulterer, he was a bully. I wanted him to feel the pain he’d inflicted on others, even if that pain was a tap on the chest…

[But], he confessed, I also knew that this was a morally stunted way to feel.
*
When Jonah cried out a warning that the people of Ninevah would be overthrown, as directed by God, he likely wasn’t expecting them to listen. And more than that, he probably wasn’t expecting God to show mercy. Jonah perches himself high on a hill, looking down on the blasphemers and evildoers-waiting for a show of God’s wrath, waiting to see what would become of the city.

When the crowd cornered an adulteress in front of the popular rabbi, Jesus, they likely weren’t expecting him to ask them about their sin. And more than that, they probably weren’t expecting Jesus to do what he did: to crouch down and show mercy. They had perched themselves symbolically above, scowling down on the sexually deviant woman, waiting for a word of condemnation, waiting to see what would become of this woman…adulteress…sinner.

When I told my friend this weekend that I was preaching on judgment, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Really? My wife should go and listen to that.” Scriptures like these are what I like to call “yeah-those” stories. I call them that because my initial reaction when I hear them is to say “Yeah-those people who really need to hear this story should listen to what it has to say to them.” If those people would just hear these “yeah-those” scriptures they could sort themselves out.

But what I have come to find is that the more vehemently I latch onto a “yeah-those” scripture or story for what I think it has to say to others, the more I have found it is really an “Oh-I” story. “Oh. I guess this says more about me, than about them.” “Oh. I think the one who really needs to listen is myself.” And in the case of today’s stories, “Oh. I guess these stories about judgment could be less about others shaping up first and more about my delight in judging.”

Why do you think we judge? No, I really am asking a serious question because I would love to know, so I could fix myself, at least. It would make sense if there was some logical biological reason behind it. Like judging other people aids us in our survival of a species, or something like that.

Granted, we know that there is definitely a place for judgment—we like to call it discernment, or reasoning, or assessment. It is essential in making good choices: How do I feel about this book I just read. Would I want to make that mistake again? Do I take this job, marry this person? Should I eat this piece of rotten smelling meat? Judgment is important in our day to day living.

But obviously, this is not what Jesus is talking about, or what Jonah is experiencing. They are shining light on the personal. The interior condemnation we have of other people. The joy we get in passing judgment on others.

I do think however, from my own struggle with judgmentalism, that judgments come from a place within us that is simultaneously passionate, and yet painful. Next week I hope we can explore the hopeful transformation of our passion beyond our judgments, but before we get there, we probably need to poke at the pain.
*
I see two major types of judgers. And yes, I am in the mix. I see these both in myself. Consider this part of my confession.

First are the judging zealots. I am the stoning type. I am not afraid to get in your face, or at least send you a nasty email or get a radio talk show, and say just what it is that you are doing wrong. Or, as really is the case with me, I want to have conversation after conversation with you about my views, whether you invite me to or not…because I don’t think you’ve quite heard me yet. If you would do what I say, or see it my way, you would have it figured out and somehow you will be saved.

And I think salvation is a big part of being a judging zealot. All I want to do is save you from something: maybe it’s salvation from hell or sin, maybe I want to save you from your lifestyle choices of food or drink or stress, I want to save you from the a sexually deviant lifestyle. I want to save you from the destruction of your intolerance. I want to simply save you from your own ignorance.

As a zealot, I’m in the minority, but I’m really loud. Yeah, I might turn you off, but it’s only because I have the truth and you can’t. handle. the. truth.

But usually, I am like most people, who aren’t those zealous judgers. I’m not terribly loud, and god-forbid, I don’t judge. I’m not throwing stones or proclaiming God’s wrath. I simply stew in criticism of other people. Not only individuals, but groups of people. Those with a label, or a behavior I don’t like. Or different ideas. It’s an easier way of being a judger because I really don’t have to go out of my house or engage anybody at all. I simply have to think I’m more knowledgeable, more experienced, more superior in power or intellect …closer to knowing what God wants.

Oh, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. It’s much easier to be a critic if you absolutely do not surround yourself by anyone who thinks differently than you do. A little bit is ok, but dramatically different. Nope. don’t do it

As a criticizer I’d really love those people to be saved from their wayward thoughts, but I’ll just continue to think how wrong they are, and feel better about myself. Quietly criticizing….
**
The book of Jonah is a strange, short story. If he is not surviving in the belly of a big fish, he is proclaiming judgment on Ninevah and then sulking when God decides to show mercy. And it’s that last bit that we zealots and critics can really relate to (unless any of you have been swallowed by a big fish). And when we look at the pouting Jonah through our own experiences, we understand what he is doing.

When I judge--and yes I do believe that uninvited criticism of others (to their face or in the safety of your own solitude) is judgment—when I judge or criticize I am not wanting to “save” anything. Not really. Not Ninevah. Not people who don’t “get it.”

Quicker than it takes God to move from wrath to mercy, we realize that our judgment never brings salvation to others. It doesn’t even bring it to ourselves.

No, I don’t want to save anybody. I simply want to feel superior. I want to set myself apart and above. To look down on the once-heathens. To look down on the current-sinner. To look down on those who just don’t get it like I do.

Why else would Jonah not rejoice Ninevah’s repentance? Why else would he say he would rather die than witness God’s mercy on these heathens?

Jonah reflects the self-destructive powers of our own judgments. Instead of the salvation we may be convinced of, it brings division that is hard to see, but easily felt.
**

When the woman who was caught in adultery was forced before Jesus, he didn’t look down on her. Rather, he lowered himself to the ground…and wrote in the dirt—all eyes down…on him. We don’t know what he writes, but we know it is a moment of tension. What will he do? What will he say? Is he pondering the question, or does he already know the answer? Will he do what we know the law says?

And to me this is a pivotal moment in the slow unfolding of Christ’s gospel.

Don’t think you are any better than she.

When we judge and criticize others for who they are, what they believe, how they live, it is never about them. As AJ Jacobs discovered, even a small pebble bouncing off the chest of a big bully has ramifications for ourselves. Our criticizing judgments are about our own fear that somehow this world is made up of those better than and those less than. And we want to be on top. Superior. Looking down on others.

Today, we hold pebbles in our hands. There is no doubt we are judgers: zealots and critics. How do your judgments or criticisms have a hold on you? Do you build yourself up by tearing others down, if only in your mind? What is this stone you are holding and who are you holding it against?
**
We want the tiny pebbles in our hand to fling at will. Do we really see life as a zero-sum game—that there is no room in our world for people who are different from us? Do I really think that the world should be just like me. Or if not like me, then at least how I wish I could be. Do I really think that when the world is made in my own image, things would be perfect.

If that is how we really feel, then yes, we are more like Jonah than we think.
If this is how we really feel--what a painful life we live.

But Christ, bending down in the dirt, writes something different for us…

The God of Elijah

sermon by Torin Eikler
I Kings 17:1-23,19:1-19
Fourth in series: "God's People in the Hebrew Scriptures"

Though the prophet Elijah does not have a book of his own, he is unquestionably one of the most entertaining prophets in the Hebrew Scriptures that make up our Old Testament. His story is told in the books of the Kings that chronicle the time between the division of Israel into a northern and a southern kingdom in 922 BC … and 587 BC when the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem marked the end to the “golden age” of the chosen people. Elijah, himself, lived and right in the middle of that period and prophesied to three of the kings who turned the northern kingdom to the worship of the Canaanite god, Baal. In the course of the six chapters in which he appears, he experiences and accomplishes more than most of our other characters do in their whole lives.

He predicted a drought and its ending as well as the death of two kings. He carried out a duel in divine power with 500 priests of Baal and had all of them put to death upon his victory. And, he delivered general critiques on the apostasy of the nation.

As a result, he had to flee to the wilderness at least three times: once to the wilderness where he was fed by ravens and then guided to the door of a poor widow where he performs a resurrection; once to the desert where he was fed by the hands of angels before trekking forty days and nights to a cave on Mount Horeb where he encountered God in the “sound of fine silence;” and once to the hill country where he brought down fire to consume fifty hapless soldiers and their commander … twice before going to condemn king Ahaziah to death.

Finally, Elijah goes on a whirlwind tour of Israel with his successor, Elisha, and I mean that literally. The two of them were actually carted around the country by whirlwinds before landing on the banks of the Jordan. There he parted the waters with a touch of his cloak, and while the two men were walking along on the other side, a chariot of fire came and carried him into heaven.

Quite a busy guy! … But such was the life of only prophet of the true God to survive Jezebel’s rule as Queen.


Of all his adventures, the text that Jacob sang for us today is probably the one most often heard in sermons. It is the part of the story where Elijah runs to the desert to escape Queen Jezebel’s wrath after destroying her royal priests. There he laments the hardships of his life and pleads with God to let him die. In response, he is given Angel food … cakes of bread and jars of water to strengthen him for the journey to the mountain of the Lord. There he hides in a cave through a stone-splitting wind, a bone-rattling earthquake, and blood-boiling fire until the sound of fine silence coaxes him out to speak with the still, small voice of the Lord.


I imagine the whole experience was quite harrowing for the prophet. Such a hot, dry trek through the rough land of the wilderness that lasted as long as the flood could not have been easy. Throw in all the dangers of wild animals, the trauma of hunger, and the incredible sense of alone-ness, and I suspect Elijah was regretting his request for death or at least wishing that it would have been granted in a much easier fashion. And given his attitude – both at the beginning of the story and in the way he speaks to God on the mountain – one would expect a divine rebuke to come along at any moment. Instead, God accepts him as he is – anger, depression, passion, faith, and fear all rolled up together – and meets him there in his wilderness.

Jesus said, “Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will opened to you,” and I know of many people who have experienced this to be true. In times of dire need or even in the midst of everyday life, they have asked for help from God and received exactly what they needed: angels appearing to help change a tire or the chance appearance of a stream of water in front of someone lost in the desert or a miraculous recovery from terminal disease. Elijah doesn’t even ask. He doesn’t knock. And he certainly doesn’t seek. If anything, he closes his eyes for fear that he might find. Yet he receives what he most needed: food to eat, angelic company to encourage him, and the promise of a partner to help him in his work.


In my own experience (and that of many others) thing don’t work quite that way. I’ll admit that I don’t often resort to asking God for help. I tend to trust to my own efforts or find my own way out a mess instead. Yet in the times when I have been at the end of my rope and turned to God, I have never heard the voice of an angel or felt the hand of God reach out to support or save me.

Despite what many people say, I don’t think that shows a lack of faith on my part. Nor does it imply that God is fickle or doesn’t really care most of the time. In fact, I think it’s exactly the opposite because the other side of my story is that each time I that I asked (and many, many times when I didn’t) I did receive. Friends have shown up to help me out of my depression. Travelers have stopped to offer me a ride and gone out of their way a half hour or more to get me home. Strangers opened their door to me in the middle of a "blizzardy" winter’s night while I waited for the wrecker to come and tow my car. And, in the midst of the most dangerous situations in my life, there has been a feeling of calm and peace that has settled over me, reminding me that God is with me always.

What does that mean? How do I … how do any of make sense of experiences like those? I don’t know. I don’t know if we can make “sense” out of them because in a very real way, God resists our attempts to limit the way we experience her presence. God came to Elijah in the parching hunger of drought, in the purging fire of righteousness, in the upending power of the whirlwind, and in calm sound of fine silence. God comes to me in a sense of quiet stillness. And God, I believe, comes to all of us in the hands and hearts of those around us.


There is a joke about a devout man who was caught in a flood. He climbed to the roof of his house to escape the rising water and began to pray to God to save him. The water continued to rise, and some short time later a neighbor came by in his fishing boat. He stopped and called to the man on the roof to come down so that he could ferry him to safety, but the man refused, saying, “The Lord will save me.”

Some hours later, the water had begun to pour through the windows on the second story, and the man once again prayed to God for salvation. Soon, a small ship found its way to the house, and the people on board tossed a rope onto the roof so that the man could climb on board. The man calmly got up and threw the rope back to them, saying, “My God will save me.”

When the water had reached halfway up the roof and was just ten feet below the man’s feet, he knelt on the peak with his head bowed low, beseeching God to rescue him from certain death until the sound of an approaching helicopter caught his attention. The rescue crew lowered a ladder to the roof and shouted for him to climb up, but the man waved them away, shouting that his faith would save him. Shaking their heads in disbelief, the crew relayed the message to the pilot, and they flew off in search of others in need of help.

Eventually, the water swept the man away to his doom, and he found himself standing before God with just one question burning in his mind. “Lord,” he said, “I prayed to you for help three times. Why didn’t do anything.”

God replied, “What do you mean. I sent you two boats and a helicopter.”

In my life, God has chosen to work through others rather than through miraculous manifestations of divine power. My guess is that has been true for most of you, too. It was also the experience of the early Anabaptists. As they sought relief from persecution and the threat of death, they found the homes of others – Anabaptist or not – open to them. There are stories of soldiers and community leaders who turned a blind eye to their presence or even gave them help when asked though doing so could mean death or imprisonment for them. These experiences, together with their understanding of Jesus’ teachings led them to value the practice of caring for one another as a central part of the discipleship of the faith community. They came to rely on each other and trust that they would receive the care of the God who was always with them even if it was through the hands of strangers.

Elijah experienced that reality too. When he first found himself in the wilderness fearing for his life, the ravens fed him, but he didn’t remain there. He was sent back to civilization when his stream dried up to seek the help of an unknown widow in the town of Zarephath. The widow and her son took him in. They fed him the last of their food only to find that her stock of flour and oil was continually replenished for three years until the drought ended. And in the end, Elijah cared for the widow in return, giving her back her son who would provide for her in the time to come.


What the story of Elijah’s life illustrates … what the early Anabaptists understood … and what we recognize in our own experience when we pay attention is that God is there for us. God surrounds and supports us wherever and whenever we find ourselves in need. It may not come in the way we expect it to or even in a way that we really want it to. It may come in the form of a minor or major miracle. More often it comes at the hand of a brother or sister or friend or stranger who reaches out to us with compassion and, by their actions, invites us to reach out to others in turn

I think that’s the way God works … by bringing people together to love and care for one another. I think God knows that that is the way to heal the brokenness within and between us … to bring reconciliation and renewal to all of humanity. I think that’s why God came to us as Jesus … to show us how powerful that kind of love can be and to invite us to follow his example … to become God’s people with hearts full of compassion and lives embodying loving care for all God’s children.

On Love and Loyalty

sermon by Torin Eikler
Ruth 1-2:13
Third in series: "God's People in the Hebrew Scriptures"

Today we continue our series with the Book of Ruth which is strangely appropriate given the current controversy over immigration policy. Though we call the book Ruth, it is as much the story of her mother-in-law, Naomi, as it is hers, and it is full of irony that we miss if we don’t know Hebrew.

Naomi, whose name means sweet, sets out from Bethlehem, the “house of bread,” with her husband because there is a famine in the land. They immigrate to Moab for relief even though Moabites were universally held in contempt by Israelites. There they settle, and their two sons marry Moabite women who Naomi loves as daughters. Eventually, all three men die, leaving Naomi, Orpah, and Ruth widowed and destitute, and Naomi, no longer sweet but embittered, decides to return to her ancestral home because just as bread has finally returned to Bethlehem.

On a deeper level, this story is set in opposition to the book of Judges. As we have heard from the previous two stories in our series, the time of the judges was not Israel at its best. Though the era started out fairly well, the Israelites began to turn away from God, and by the end, as Carrie pointed out, “all the people did what was right in their own eyes.” They lived selfishly and ignored the needs of those around them rather than following the Law that had held them together as a people. Over time that lack of loyalty and kindness led to division and death.

In contrast, Ruth chooses the way of kindness and loyalty. She leaves behind her home, her family, and her country to follow Naomi. She leaves behind a certain amount of security and a future with some hope for a “normal” life. She sets out into an uncertain future in a country where she is sure to be despised for the sake of love, and her faithful love reaches beyond the obligations and requirements of duty to bring a scattered family together in the promise of new life.


Jesus told his disciples, once, that following him might well mean leaving behind mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and all the comfort and familiarity of home to make just such a trip into the unknown. Of all the instructions that he gave his followers, that has always seemed the most difficult to understand.

“Sell all you have and give it to the poor.” That’s a hard one, and I haven’t heard of anyone actually doing it – even the disciples. Still, it makes sense.

“If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” Even apart from certain interpretations of this as an act of resistance to the Roman Empire, I can get behind this one. I can even put it into practice from time to time.

But … “I have come to set a man against his father and a daughter against her mother …. And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children for my name’s sake, … will inherit eternal life.” That’s one that gives me pause.


I remember when I was preparing for my baptism about a year after Carrie and I were married. That scripture came around in the lectionary cycle, and it hit me hard. I have no recollection at all of the rest of worship that day. I was stuck, wrestling with the thought that God might require me to leave my family behind. That’s not how I understood God, but it seemed to be a hard fact … right there … staring me in the face.

A few days later, I broached the topic with Carrie and shared my fears that my vows to God might, one day, have to take precedence over my vows to her. To her credit, she responded calmly and compassionately. We talked for awhile, and she reminded me that Jesus’ words were spoken to people who might have to leave their family if they chose to become disciples of Christ not to families who were already committed to that path. She also agreed with my belief that God would not choose to pull families apart … at least most of the time. So, I continued down the path to my dunking with only a manageable amount of anxiety.


Yet, what I shied away from as a possible duty of discipleship (well … ran away kicking and screaming might be a better description), Ruth embraced wholeheartedly. She left behind everything – even her gods – not because she had to, but because of her love. Having known Naomi for 10 years while she was true to her name – that is pleasant and sweet, she stays with her even when the turns of life have twisted her heart, turning her into Mara - bitter and resentful. Perhaps she was motivated by compassion. Perhaps it was something else. Whatever the reason, she models the steadfast love of God and becomes a stranger in a strange land.

Now, the Israelites were not known for treating Moabites - or any other foreigners – very well, especially during the time of the judges. And Naomi didn’t do very much to make the situation any better. She didn’t introduce her to the women of Bethlehem … didn’t explain the situation … didn’t even acknowledge her presence there beside her, turned in on herself as she was. But it seems that things weren’t too bad for Ruth.

She was confident enough in her safety to go out gleaning – to follow along behind the harvesters and pick up any little bits of barley that had fallen to the ground. Gleaning was a sacred right preserved in the Law of Moses as one of the few ways for widows and orphans to sustain themselves, but it was hot and tedious work without any protection from the sun or, apparently, the unwanted attention of the harvesters. So, it was particularly fortunately that Ruth found herself in fields that belonged to Naomi’s cousin, Boaz, who chooses to honor Ruth’s steadfastness with a blessing where others would have ignored and mistreated her as an unwanted immigrant.


When I was in sixteen or seventeen, a boy named Ricardo attended high school with us for a couple of years. He was Guatemalan by birth though he had spent much of his life living in the United States. His parents crossed the border in the 70s trying to escape the harsh realities of civil war. They hoped to find good work and make a better life for Ricardo and his brother and sister, and they were able to do pretty well for awhile.

That was before public sentiment began to turn so strongly against illegal immigrants in the 80s.

When that happened, the hostility of the people around them and increased pressure made life hard for Latino immigrants in the southwest. Ricardo’s family was one of those who responded by picking up and moving on … and on … and on … and eventually to rural Indiana where they lived in a house owned by our church.

I like to think that my circle of friends would have included Ricardo anyway, but the truth is we probably took him in simply because he was a part of the congregation. And I expect, though I don’t actually remember that our youth pastor made a request of us to welcome him. So, he became a part of my daily life, and getting to know him and the story of his life gave me a perspective on immigration that I wish more people would have.

In the June 15th issue of Christian Century, the editors quote Jeffrey Kaye in their discussion of the current immigration dispute. “Immigration is not a problem to be solved; it is a fact of life. For millennia, humans have been migrating in search of a better life.” In his work on the issue, Kaye often asks people, “If you had to support your family on $3 a day or less, but had the opportunity to cross a border illegally to raise your living standard, would you migrate?” The response, consistently, is “yes” … even from the most vocal anti-immigrant advocates.

People cross borders, legally and illegally, for all different reasons – some good and some bad. And while our faith doesn’t easily translate into public policy suggestions in this area, we do proclaim a Christ who welcomed strangers … who directed his followers to reach out in love to all they met … who went as far as to die in order to offer fuller, deeper life to all. Knowing that and knowing that many, many people get caught in crossfire of American immigration politics simple because their love for their family drove them to leave home and search for something better should at least lead us to listen and respond to the stories of the foreigners we find among us.

And lest we forget, we Anabaptists were strangers in our own lands once upon a time. Our ancestors answered a call to a different way of living, and they were forced to give up houses, family, and all they had known for the sake of their faith. They became immigrants, wandering from country to country and wondering where they would find welcome – or at least acceptance. Now we are all but natives of this country if not this land, and the question for us has become, “How will we treat others who leave behind home and family to come live among us?”


When the time came for Ricardo and his family to move on to Canada, the youth group had a little goodbye party for him. It was nothing big, and I don’t think it would have meant much to me since I wasn’t very close with him except for the fact that at one point Ricardo broke down into tears. “I just want to thank you for everything,” he said…. And, like Ruth, “I hope you will all remember me like I will remember you. You have been so kind to me…. I’ll never forget you.”


There is a lot about love in the scripture we heard today. From Naomi and her daughters we can learn how love binds us together and care for one another. From Ruth we can learn about the power of being steadfast and loyal in love even when it takes us out of our comfort zone. From Boaz, we can learn how we are to love the least of these who are our neighbors without regard for their origins. Each one reaches beyond duty for the sake of love, and that love brings a richness, a fullness to the lives of the others they touch.

Among Jesus’ last words to his disciples were, “by this [the world] will know that you are my disciples, that you love one another.”

It makes you think about how the world sees us….

Deborah: Judge and Warrior, Sitter and Singer

sermon by Carrie Eikler
Judges 4:1-10
June 13, 2010 (3rd Sunday after Pentecost)
Second in Series: God's People in Hebrew Scriptures

“The book of Judges is one of the most exciting, colorful, and disturbing books of the Bible.” So says commentator Dennis Olson . “It combines stories of political intrigue and assassination, lies and deception, rape and murder, courage and fear, great faith and idolatry, power and greed, sex and suicide, love an death, military victories and civil war.” (New Interpreters Bible Commentary) At the beginning of the summer blockbuster season at the theaters, it almost feels like we should be serving up popcorn in the back of the church, as we brace ourselves for this Biblical Blockbuster.

But before the feature presentation, let me back up to the previews a bit. Remember last week when I gave an introduction to the lectionary—that sequence of scripture readings that guide weekly worship? If you remember, one reason I said I liked using the lectionary was that it tied the Christian community around the world by hearing the same scriptures on Sunday morning, no matter where we are. Well, there’s another reason I like using the lectionary that helps mediate myself a little bit. By giving me four options of scriptures to choose from, I’m encouraged to encounter texts that may be less familiar to me, scriptures I’d rather not deal with.

In short, it forces me to wrestle with a variety of scriptures that I might too easily dismiss simply because I don’t like the story. It’s too tempting to preach on the scriptures that I like and I think others will like and that make writing sermons a whole lot easier. Lots of lilies of the fields and blessed are the peacemakers would be coming from my lips.

Unlike last week’s story about Balaam and the talking donkey, today’s scripture actually is in the lectionary, but not on this specific day. And I’m sure if I came upon it, I would feel torn. It is about a woman in leadership, but our introduction to Deborah paves the way for a grisly description of war and murder. Hmm…I think I’ll skip over that. Too challenging. Not peaceful. Let’s see what else the lectionary suggests…

But here I am, our second Sunday in our series on Old Testament characters—and let me tell ya, there are a lot of characters in the Old Testament—and I’m presenting to you the story of Deborah. Deborah the judge. Deborah the prophetess. Deborah the woman whose name was familiar to me but whose influence on the Israelite people and Biblical literature I was largely unaware of. A fate, unfortunately, of many Biblical women: if they are lucky enough to be given a name in scripture, they are unlucky in that we don’t often remember who they were and what they did.

Now to call Deborah a judge is accurate, but perhaps a little misleading if we think about her in our contemporary understanding of a judge. We might be tempted to see her, sitting under her palm, dispensing justice like some ancient Israeli Judge Judy. She did settle disputes, but judges during this period in Israel’s history were the rulers, the warrior leaders who led Israel in fighting oppressive enemies.

Deborah is the only female judge we know about, but is the only judge to be called a prophet—a mouthpiece of God! The judges early on, including Deborah, were successful and faithful, but as we read further in the book of Judges, as we encounter more and more violence, the leaders became more unsuccessful and unfaithful. By the final chapters of Judges, Israel has fallen into anarchy and it says “all the people did what was right in their own eyes.” The makings of another blockbuster.

Our scripture starts with a bit of political background. The Canaanites had captured the Israelites and it says they “had oppressed the Israelites cruelly for twenty years.” And then we are introduced to Deborah, judge, prophetess, sitting under a palm, people bringing disputes to her. Wisdom being dispersed. Resolution being offered. Seeking calm and giving leadership in a time of war.

Scripture translates her name as Deborah, wife of Lappidoth, which is actually one of three possible translations from the original Hebrew. It could mean Deborah, wife of Lappidoth. It could mean Deborah, woman of the town Lappidoth, or it could mean, “woman of torches” or… “fiery woman” ! It sure seems as though given the situation surrounding the Israelites at the time, it would be less important whose wife she is, or where she is from, but the character of this judge—this fiery woman, this judge Deborah, this prophetess!

And here is the plot background of our summer blockbuster, (just imagine it being recited with a big booming, Hollywood voice): Fiery Deborah summons Barak to be her general, and tells him that God has commanded him to take ten thousand men to Mount Tabor to the battle against the Canaanites. Barak will only go if she will as well, and she agrees to go, but tells him that he will get no glory from the victory for the “Lord will deliver Sisera (the enemy leader) into the hand of a woman.”

And that woman is not Deborah, but another woman named Jael. Sisera comes to Jael’s tent because his people and her people have a peace agreement. She welcomes him in, makes him a bed, gives him warm milk, covers him up…takes a tent peg and a mallet and hammers it into his temple…

No you can see why I have a problem with this scripture, and generally the book of Judges because it is filled with violent images and actions, often done by people motivated by God’s voice. But I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I’m not going down that road. There is enough to wrestle with this text, and I’d rather do it as a conversation and beside, it feels like there is something else troubling here. A word we don’t like to use very much. Something we’d rather not hear, or give, sermons about: leadership.

Some of you would rather now go back to the tent peg through the temple scene, I imagine.

After Jael killed Sisera, and the Israelites are again freed from slavery, Deborah sings a song. It is a song recounting the entire oppression, the battle, the death of the enemy. She sings out of her memory, a story for her people. It is actually one of the oldest writings in the Bible, Deborah’s song. What, as people who pursue peace and question violence even in the Bible, what can we see as admirable, as worthy in this story. How can Deborah challenge us into faithful leadership? As 19th century women’s movement leader Elizabeth Cady Stanton asks in her commentary on Deborah, can we “slay the enemies” of our time, which to her were ignorance, superstition, and cruelty in order to restore peace?

Church of the Brethren and Mennonites are part of an Anabaptist theology which emphasizes the priesthood of all believers. We are all leaders, and not just in the church. Our lives blur the line of who we are called to be as Christians and who we are “out” in the world. Our call to lives of discipleship, as a priesthood, is also a call to be leaders where we are, with what we have, “out there” as much as “in here.”

It doesn’t matter if you have leadership positions or not. It matters that you bring to the world God’s light. To me, that’s discipleship, and that’s leadership. And I think that fiery Deborah can teach us a lot about that life. Now I know it is hard to think of ourselves as leaders. Those are often “other people” people “trained,” people who have that special something that makes them worth following, right?

I appreciate what pastor Talitha Arnold had to say on the matter. Here are her words: “As a seminarian, I was impressed by Deborah's many roles and responsibilities. She was a leader of men when women could only be wives, sisters and mothers. A judge, when a woman's testimony never counted as much as a man’s. On the front line, when a woman's place was in the home. I am still impressed by all that. But 20-plus years later, as a minister with a considerable number of roles myself, [or you could insert here…a teacher, a bus driver, a lawyer, a student] I'm equally impressed with the phrase: "She used to sit." I think it's the most radical thing she did, especially as a leader. We leaders organize, plan, execute, strategize. We lead. We don't sit.

“My mother used to sit. As a widowed parent to four children, a science teacher and a volunteer for church and 4-H, she had little time to sit. Yet every morning before we got up, she'd sit in her chair in the living room, a cup of coffee in one hand, the Bible in the other. If the afternoon permitted it, she did the same, although a cup of tea or a can of beer (if the day had been really long), and with the newspaper instead of the Bible. We kids knew the time was sacred and did not disturb her with "What's for dinner?"

“I think we knew that sitting made all the other activity possible. It didn't solve all our problems as a family, of which there were many, or guarantee order out of chaos. But sitting offered my mother a chance to catch her breath, to remember life was more than the task at hand, and to tap into some sense of peace in the midst of the maelstrom.

“I suspect that was true for Deborah as well. Leaders need wisdom and courage and can't find those qualities if they're always out front leading the charge. Sometimes they need just to sit.” (Christian Century, 2002)

And when Deborah stopped sitting, she started singing. That song of encouragement. That song of memory, of recalling who we are as a people and God’s presence among us through the opression and victory, joys and concerns, the times when we feel deeply blessed and deeply depressed. We sing by sharing the story with one another. We think of leaders like Barak (the general, not necessarily the president) and the bloody work, the adreniline pumping work, the glorified work.

But Deborah, fiery Deborah. She’s a leader for me. Maybe for you. Not because we are lazy, but because we know that it is a blessing to sit so we may love others. To sing our encouragement to others. Deborah doesn’t give us permission to breath a sigh of relief because all we have to do is sit there and do nothing. She says we sit so we listen for God so we can then sing the words of God to our people.

The late Catholic priest and theologian Henri Nouwen wrote about his move from the ivory towers of Harvard where he was a well established professor, to L’Arche, an intentional community of people with mental and physical disabilities. In his book In the Name of Jesus, he reflects on Christian leadership out of his life with those who are considered marginal in society’s eyes. He became convinced that Christian leaders, and that’s not just me, but that’s you, too, need to make a move from being moral judges, what is right and wrong, to becoming mystics.

Nouwen reflects that when we are securly rooted in relationship with God, the source of life, we will be leaders by remaining “flexible without being relativistic, convinced without being rigid, willing to confront without being offensive, gentle and forgiving without being soft, and true witnesses without being manipulative.” (A mystical leadership yet a fiery leadership. A leadership rooted in sitting and singing, like Deborah.

Again, the glitch is that many of us don’t want the responsibility of title “leader.” Too much will be asked of us. We already did our time as leaders. It’s time for others to step up and do it. I’m not a leader, I’m a follower. For Anabaptists, we understand the call to discipleship and the call to leadership as one in the same. Through our baptism we have taken on the mantle of leader in our own special ways. By quietly sitting and listening for God’s word. For bravely leading the people into the struggles of church structure. For singing the song of encouragement. For being a warrior in prayer.

It is mystical work for a fiery people, we Pentecost people. “The central question is,” asks Nouwen, “Are the leaders of the future”—are we-- “truly men and women of God, people with an ardent desire to dwell in God’s presence, to listen to God’s voice, to look at God’s beauty, to touch God’s incarnate Word, and to taste fully God’s infinite goodness?”

Claim it. Accept it. Deal with it. You are a leader because Christ’s light burns within you.
Sit with it. Sing it out. How will you let it shine?

Balaam and the Donkey

sermon by Carrie Eikler
Numbers 22:1-35
June 6, 2010 (Second Sunday after Pentecost)
First Sunday in Series: "God's People in Hebrew Scripture"

I can remember vividly, one of the most freeing days I had in seminary. As any seminarian would tell you, at least, if they are not those arrogant, pompous, know-it-all kind of seminarians, one of the biggest fears many of us have is preaching…every week (or every other week)…in front of (gulp) people. The idea of it all seemed so overwhelming to me, the Bible so big and dense, the things to say on one hand being so mind-blowing, and on the other hand, so obscure that it was enough to make me want to hide in the bathroom before my first preaching class, feigning illness.

But before that unfortunate event ever occurred, (and honestly, I never hid in the bathroom), before any preaching or worship classes. I remember asking a fellow seminarian, who was also a pastor, “How do you know what scriptures to choose when preparing your sermons?” How many of you ever wondered that? How do they choose their scriptures? And like a breath of cool wind she spoke the beautiful words: “The Lectionary.”

“The what?” I asked. “The Lectionary” she repeated.

“What is the lectionary?” I shyly asked. Even though I was not one of those arrogant, pompous, know-it-all-seminarians, I did want look like I knew what she was talking about. But I asked anyway. What is the lectionary?

She proceeded to tell me that the lectionary is a list of scriptures, broken up into weekly readings for a cycle of 3 years. So for any given Sunday, I can go to my minister’s manual, find which year we are in (a cycle of year A, B, or C—we’re in year C by the way), and it will give me four options to choose from for the day I’m preaching: a Hebrew Scripture, a Psalm, a Gospel reading, and an Epistle (those are basically all the other books of the New Testament that aren’t Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John). If you look at the back of your bulletin you will see “bible readings for today” and “for next Sunday.” Those are lectionary readings.

Torin and I, for the most part follow the lectionary to guide our worship planning. Historically, Brethren and Mennonites haven’t followed the lectionary. By following the lectionary, we know that what we hear in scripture here, in Morgantown, WV is likely also being heard in a small church in Brooklyn, NY or along the Eder River in Germany, or in the Sistene Chapel in the Vatican City, or in a gathering of Christians in Samoa. I like how taking readings from the lectionary can tie the breadth of the Christian family together in worship.

But there are definite draw backs. In case you haven’t noticed, the Bible is huge. There are so many things in it that could not possibly be explored in such a system of three years rotation. And like many things in church history, the choice of what got put in the lectionary, and what got left out of the lectionary, had a lot more political motivations than we would like.

But for we Anabaptists how have chosen this preaching path of the lectionary, we have to supplement much of the Sermon on the Mount that gets forgotten, and other scriptures that are vital to the living discipleship we believe we are called to.

Stories are neglected in the lectionary rotation, particularly stories about women. Strange stories are left out, beautiful yet perhaps too challenging of stories are left by the wayside. The lectionary leaves lots of gaps so we are encouraged to stray a little bit, and like wanderers in an unknown land, we pick up the unknown, turn it over in our hands, look at it from this way and that way, and present it, to the community of faith…in all it’s beauty and challenge, and gore and strangeness.

So…speaking of strangeness. This is not just a worship planning 101 an introduction to the lectionary. It’s kind of a lead up. Now that you know a little bit about what the lectionary is, are you not surprised that today’s scripture…about a talking donkey…is not included in the lectionary? And just image all those poor souls whose pastors only preached from the lectionary, who have never heard this story. Maybe you have never heard it. If not, I’m so glad Torin and I decided to do something different this summer!

It makes one stop and think, what we might miss if we aren’t open to hearing something out of the ordinary, in places that aren’t part of our ordered way of hearing the word of God…All those stories…go unheard.

And yes, this is a doozy of a story. We don’t hear many stories out of the book of Numbers either, so let me quickly catch you up. Moses and the following generation of Israelites have been wandering in the desert these many many year It’s been a pretty rough go, as you can imagine, but God has been faithful to God’s promise and has begun multiplying the Israelite people—this is really a wandering nation we’re talking about here. And they become so big that kingdoms nearby begin getting a bit nervous: after all, a large number of people, without a place to call home can seem pretty threatening. This could be a matter of severe national security.

Which is exactly how Balak, the king of Moab responds. He wasn’t just a bit nervous, he was “overcome with fear” as it says, he was in “great dread” it says--Balak was shaking in his sandals and he uses a colorful metaphor: “This horde will now lick up all that is around us, as an ox licks up the grass of the field!” So King Balak calls his messengers to take a message to a man named Balaam who we gather was a diviner—someone who can predict the future. Balaam was from the land of Mesopotamia. Balak asks Balaam to curse these people, to do the king’s dirty work.

But Balaam, for all the bad things we are supposed to believe about diviners (divination was considered evil to the Israelites) this man pauses and says—I have to talk to YHWH about this. And that night YHWH says no don’t do it. But King Balak doesn’t take no for an answer and with even more desperation, returns his messengers—more messages, more distinguished messengers, no government lackies, these are heads of state here—and again implores Balaam to curse the Israelites.

And Balaam, this man, who never even heard of a people call the Israelites, uses the Hebrew’s special name for God YHWH—he says YHWH said no and not for mansions full of gold or silver will I curse them. God came to Balaam that night and said that he should go with these men, but do only what I tell you to do. So Balaam got up in the morning, saddled his donkey, and went with the officials of Moab.

Now. Here is where it gets strange. I know you haven’t forgotten about that talking donkey, that’s strange enough. But, also, I can’t understand why we just hear God giving Balaam permission to go, and in the next line it says God’s anger was kindled because he was going.” What? Can’t a guy catch a break? And here is where it all begins, what Thomas Dozeman calls “a burlesque, slapstick story about a clairvoyant animal who speaks a word of common sense to a seer.”

An angel stands in the donkey’s way and the donkey goes off the road. Balaam hits him and brings him back. Two more times the donkey tries to divert the path and Balaam hits him until the donkey lays down in front of this angel thatwe can only assume Balaam does not see, even though it is standing right in front of him.

And then… “the Lord opened the mouth of the donkey, and it said to Balaam”…and forgive me, but I can only image the voice of Eddie Murphy coming out of this donkey: “Hey! What did I do?” and without hesitation, without a look of horror or a double take, Balaam answers him. And a dialogue takes place, the donkey wins an argument, and Balaam’s eyes are opened to actually see what is in front of him, an angel. After criticizing Balaam for the abuse of the donkey, he repeats YHWH’s command, to go and speak only the words of YHWH, which we know would be words of blessings for the Israelites, and not curses.

It is widely understood that this section of the story, this talking donkey section, was another story, added in at another time which is why the entire story seems so disjointed, why YHWH says go in one breath and is angered in the next breath. This is a bit of folklore. But folklore doesn’t mean that we can’t learn from it. But, I’ll admit hearing God’s voice in folklore, or myth, may seem as strange to us as—hearing God’s voice coming from a donkey. or witnessing divine revelation from someone outside the fold, a Mesopotamian diviner rather than a Hebrew prophet.

But I think therein lies a message for us. We can tell each other “listen to God’s voice, or for God’s voice” seek it out! Open your ears, your eyes! Search for it! We make “listening” a sport that we are told to practice and practice so we can win the game. The end goal.

Yet theologian Renita Weems, reminds us that life isn’t full of donkeys telling us what to do all the time. She says ".we rarely recognize what we ought to recognize at the moment we ought to recognize it. It usually takes us hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps years for most of us to realize, that we were visited by an angel. We are usually too preoccupied with our own thoughts, own prejudices, own self interest to notice."

If you are anything like me you likely dance between the two Balaam’s in this story. Earnestly seeking God’s direction, God’s voice, going to God in the depths of the night asking what should I do and sometimes—oh, sometimes if we are lucky—God speaks to us in that clear voice that we know is of God.

And then, the next day, only one scripture verse of our lives later, we’re riding that path we think we’re supposed to be on and we can’t see the angel in front of us. We don’t understand that what is moving us off this path is actually saving us. Too preoccupied with our own thoughts, own prejudices, own self interest to notice.” What don’t we notice…what don’t we hear?

How do we negotiate with these two parts of ourselves? The ready and willing with the too-often preoccupied donkey abusers? I think we introduce the two in a practice of willingness. Of openness. Of receptivity. Being open to hear. Being willing to see. Be present and mindful enough that when the voice of God does come, we will hear it faintly but compellingly.

Somehow, I don’t think it is the active listening that allows us to hear God, the work of straining our ears or our eyes to catch any divine breath. It seems like when we actively search for God’s word we let our own thoughts, own prejudices, own self interests into the quest. The focus is on the end message, not the listening, not the gift that we can receive when we realize that what we are doing is not clamoring or searching, but listening.

If we become open, simply opening ourselves through prayer, silence, witnessing God’s work around us, maybe we don’t have to strain to hear as much. Perhaps we are preparing ourselves to receive. It makes one stop and think: what we might gain if we are open to hearing something out of the ordinary, in places that aren’t part of our ordered way of hearing the word of God…All those stories…available for us to hear.

In these moments of waiting worship, don’t strain to listen, yet don’t fly away on the thoughts of your own self interests. Prepare yourself. We have often heard the phrase, “Don’t just sit there, do something!” How about for just a moment we “Don’t just do something…sit there.” What happens when we prepare ourselves to hear? What stories might God share with us?

Ring Around the Rosy

sermon by Torin Eikler
Psalm 8 Romans 5:1-12

One evening not long ago, the doorbell rang, and I was surprised and pleased to see one of our neighbors on the front porch. Pleased because I like Charlie and his wife and have often wished we were more conscientious about spending time with them. Surprised because Charley has never actually rung our doorbell before. As I took in the pamphlets in his pocket and the bible in his hand and the other man standing there with him, though, I realized that he was not making a social call, and I began to feel a little uneasy.

I suspect that many of you have felt the same way when you opened the door or looked out the window only to find a pair of earnest-looking individuals standing ready to bring you the Word of salvation through one church or another. In our case it is usually Mormons, but we have also seen a Jehovah’s Witnesses and Lighthouse Baptists from time to time. Usually I take a deep breath, open the door, and invite them because I want to show them hospitality and respect for their deeply held beliefs. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I simply turn away from the door, hushing Sebastian and pretending that they won’t have heard his voice … that they won’t know that we are home.

Since this was Charlie, though, I pushed aside my misgivings and greeted him. After all, he knows that we are pastors, and I thought he would appreciate a warm welcome since most of his visits had probably ended with doors shut in his face if they had been opened at all. A few questions later, my suspicions in that area were confirmed, and I was congratulating myself on being such a good neighbor and such a “good Christian” when he surprised me by asking if I knew whether or not I was going to heaven.

I suppose that if I had just said, “Yes,” the conversation would have been over or at least moved on to more casual topics. But, I was caught off guard, and I gave the more honest answer of, “as sure as we can be this side of death.” Let me tell you, if you are trying to avoid a conversation about the state of your soul that is not the way to go.

In short order, we had been through the usual set of doctrinal statements that can be over-simplified as “we have an assurance that we are saved by grace through faith in the power of Christ.” I thought that we were pretty much done, and was getting ready to head inside to help get the boys to bed when Charlie asked, “So, do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” After a pause, I answer, simply, “Yes.” I made my excuses and went inside to help Carrie with the boys.

I don’t know why Charlie asked that question. It seems like the answer would be a given with a Christian pastor no matter his denomination. Yet, it stuck with me for a couple of days … not because I was questioning my answer to any degree. No, I was considering what it means to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.


This past week, the seeds planted by that question grew into dozens more. Thinking about my relationship with Christ in the context of Trinity Sunday, I began to wonder about the Father and the Holy Spirit. God is no less than all three – creator, redeemer, and sustainer. Why do we only concern ourselves about our relationship to the one and not the others? Is Jesus the only one that we can relate to? Is the creator God so far above us that we can’t reach out to make a connection? Is the Spirit to unknown to trust ourselves in her care? Would it be more proper to work at a personal relationship with the Holy Spirit since Jesus very clearly told us that he was leaving us and would be sending the Spirit in his place? Is it enough to build a relationship with just one of the three? How does the trinity work?


In the history of Western Christianity, theologians tend to envision the trinity according to a linear model. From the Father comes the Son and from the Father and the Son comes the Holy Spirit. The image that comes to my mind when I think from this perspective is a tree. God the Father is the roots. God the Son is the trunk. And, God the Spirit is the leaves. They are still one though they are distinct, and no part exists without the other.

Would that make us tree-huggers, then, with our arms wrapped around the trunk? What about the leaves? Do we simply enjoy the shade they provide or do we cloth ourselves in their comforting presence? And do we take the roots for granted though they are the source of our existence just like the rest of creation?


In some sense, the almighty Creator is too big, too powerful to approach. What do you say to the One who laid the foundations of the earth, who commands the morning, and who put the stars in their places? Even though we have been “crowned with glory” and “made just a little lower than God,” tradition says that even a glimpse of his face would destroy us. So, we kneel in awe and offer praise.

The Holy Spirit seems too mysterious, too unknown. We don’t see her. We have no stories that speak of her “personality” or explain the way she works. And what we do have is enough to give us pause: people caught up from one place and set down in another, death dealt out for lying, prophesy and tongues overwhelming people so completely that they remember nothing of the event. It’s risky to embrace the Spirit because we never know what will happen or who we will become.

Jesus, though, feels easier. He shared the human experience, and we can relate to the stories of his frustration and struggle. We can commiserate with him in his grief and pain. We can aspire to a life like his. The promise of new life is easier to accept … easier to believe when it comes from the lips of our brother than when it is thundered through the heavens or whispered on the breeze blowing in our souls.

And yet, John tells that he was there at the beginning and “all things came into being through him.” He had the power to still the winds, bring life to the dead, and alter the fabric of creation so that water became wine and the crowds were fed on five loaves and two fish. … How many people did his touch transform? How many lives have changed just because of hearing his words shared in loud proclamation or whispered consolation?


Jesus is no less God for all that he walked the Earth among us. He is not bound in history though he died some 2,000 years ago. That should make it easier for us to relate to the Creator and the Spirit, but somehow we still want to stop with Christ – to hold onto the trunk for dear life, pressing our faces against the bark with only an occasional thought of the roots beneath our feet or a thankful glace at the leaves shading our heads.

Maybe it’s an artifact of that linear view of the trinity. Maybe it’s just hard for us to overcome our need for control and our fear of change. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I really don’t know, and I suspect the reasons are different for everyone. For myself, I have found that I can begin to move past my fears and reach out for more of God if I approach from a different angle.


One of my favorite ways of understanding God comes out of the Eastern Orthodox tradition. The technical word for it is perichoresis. I’ll say that one again … perichoresis. It’s a Greek term referring to the “mutual inter-penetration and indwelling within the threefold nature of the Trinity”[1] … which doesn’t go much farther toward helping us understand anything, I know. But, one of my teachers in seminary described it as a divine dance of relationship - the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit holding hands as one God while they continually move around and through each other in patterns so intricate that it sometimes seems you can’t tell them apart.

It puts me in mind of a group of children playing ring around the rosey before they learn that you have to let go when you fall down or you end up in a big twisted pile. And that’s why I love this way of thinking about God: dancing, laughing, falling all over God-self in a messy pile only to get back up and keep going. When I picture that, the Creator doesn’t seem so far away, the spirit so strange, or the way of Christ so demanding. I do feel a sense of lightness and excitement. I want to part of that dance. I want to jump in and grab hold of whichever hands are offered in order to rediscover the joy at the heart of life.

I don’t exactly lose my fear or my sense of awe. If I stop to think about it, which I almost always do, I still hold myself back. But, it feels like I have opened up a little more to all that God is. It feels like I have invited God a little more deeply into my heart and my life in a way that will change me – that will make me more what God dreams I could be. And as I change, I become more open,
and I am further transformed,
and I become more open,
and Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, and I go around and around and around holding hands and laughing as we dance until I am lost in the wonder of divine love and mercy and grace.

At least I hope that’s the way it will work….


Whatever you picture when you imagine God … however you feel about Jesus or the Father or the Holy Spirit, I hope that you can find a way to reach out to all three because our relationship with each one is important. Paul’s language ties it all up in knots to our ears, but he does have that right. Creations of God, we know salvation when we are at peace with our creator. That peace is ours through the grace of Christ that forgives our sins, heals our brokenness, and makes us one with God. And that grace comes to us through the presence of the Holy Spirit pouring God’s love into our hearts bringing peace that passes all understanding.

The tree cannot exist without any one of its parts. The dance cannot go on without all the partners in the circle. And tree or dance or whatever other image sparks your imagination, this is the source of our being, offering the water of new life, and providing the bread to keep us going. Without any one of these blessings, the Life within us withers.

The truly amazing thing is that God, in a wondrous act of love and compassion, has opened the way for us to join in the dance, to lean against the trunk and feel the deep roots beneath us even as the leaves caress our faces. Yes … build a personal relationship with Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior … and explore your relationship with God your Creator … and embrace the presence of the Holy Spirit in your heart, so that your life may be renewed, filled with peace, and overflowing with love and joy to be shared with all of God’s children.


[1] taken from Wikipedia on May 29, 2010.