sermon by Torin Eikler
Hosea11:1-11 Luke 15:11-32
Fifth Sunday in Passionate Spirituality Series
One of the places that our family tends to frequent in town is Black Bear Burritos. It’s not just their policy that children eat free until they are six years old – though that certainly doesn’t hurt. Or that their food is pretty good, and they have relatively “green” practices for a restaurant. I think what draws us back there is their friendly, welcoming, and low-key atmosphere. (Frankly speaking … it just helps a lot to know that your kids can make a bit of noise and a bit of a mess and you still get a smile and a warm greeting when you are recognized at the counter.) And, there is usually family-friendly music starting at 6:30 – which serves as a great distraction for a three-year-old boy who only eats a few bites and doesn’t like to sit at the table while we finish our meals.
More often than not, we have found ourselves enjoying the performance of one particular duo – The Weedhawks, and Sebastian enjoys their music enough that we bought a CD to listen to (as a welcome addition to the other three we hear all the time). Over time one particular song on the CD has risen to the top of Sebastian’s favorites list. It’s called “ ,” and it tells the story of the relationship between a man and his truck-driver father. It’s a fun song with a nice beat and a catchy refrain, and I think that (as well as its position at the beginning of the CD) is what has Sebastian hooked. But, it tells a sad story of brokenness, pride, and stubbornness.
One verse in particular catches my attention almost every time we listen.
He called out on his death bed to make amends with me,
But there’re too many memories I can’t hide.
So I put it off and I put it off … for over a year.
And that’s when my daddy died ….
I’m not sure what gets to me about these words. Part of it is that it expresses so much pain – pain from the mistakes that his father made while he was alive and pain that he feels at not having reconciled the relationship before his father died. But there is more to it than that.
Each time that I hear that song, I start to feel a little bit trapped, and lately I find myself thinking of broken relationships in my own life – particularly the ones where I still hold on to my anger at what people have done to me. There is something there that needs to be explored. And, I am reminded of something said in a conversation that I had with a remarkable woman I have met a few times across the years – Diana Ortiz.
In the 80s, Diana went to Guatemala as a young nun to work with the poor, indigenous people. It was a time of upheaval in the country with kidnappings and political killings on the part of the government and the guerrilla Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union. In 1989, Diana herself disappeared. Some time later, she managed to escape by jumping out of a vehicle that had taken her out of the prison where she had been held, and a nearby woman took her in until she could get in touch with her order and eventually return to the United States.
During her time in the prison, Diana was repeatedly raped and tortured with dogs, rats, and burning cigarettes. She was forced to participate in the torture of others and even made to kill another prisoner - all on video tape. For years, Diana lived at a community in Chicago under a constant suicide watch while she worked with the Kovlar Center for Survivors of Torture in the hope of recovering from her ordeal.
While all the work she did was an important part of her recovery, what she told me was that, “it wasn’t until she was able to come to terms with what was done to her and find it in [herself] to forgive them that she finally felt free of their hold on [her.]” It gave here a sense of rebirth and resurrection, and while the memories of that time still haunt her, she is finally able to move forward with her new life.
(light candle in the middle of dancing trinity statue)
I’m definitely not putting the little slights that I have experienced or the relationship between the truck driver and his son on par with the horrors that Sr. Diana experienced in Guatemala. Yet, her words hold a truth that has power across all of our broken places. They get at the heart of the feeling of being trapped that comes when I hear that last verse – the same feeling that rises up in me whenever I think of running into those people who have hurt me in the past. And, they get at the heart of the freedom that lies in forgiveness because until I – until we can find a way to forgive those who have hurt us we are trapped in the emotions of those painful moments. A part of our selves and our lives is held back, and all of our relationships are affected by the distrust, the fear, and the bitterness we carry with us. We can only really move forward when forgiveness frees us from the power of the past.
Forgiveness is, of course, about finding reconciliation. And it is nice for all of us when someone else asks for forgiveness. It makes it easier to let go of the pain we feel when we know that the other person feels regret or remorse for what has been done. Often, once that happens we are almost eager to let the past be the past and rebuild our relationships.
But even then, it is important to pay attention to the process – to take care that we follow the steps of the dance of forgiveness. There are many steps that can make up that dance. L. Gregory Jones lists six in his chapter of forgiveness in Practicing Our Faith, and though each of us must find the steps that work for us, they are a good place to start. They are (and you can follow along on your inserts if you like) …
- Become willing to speak truthfully and patiently about the conflict(s) that have arisen.
- Acknowledge both the existence of anger and bitterness and a desire to overcome them.
- Summon up a concern for the well-being of the other as a child of God.
- Recognize our own complicity in conflict, remembering that we have been forgiven in the past, and repenting of our own mistakes as necessary.
- Make a commitment to struggle with changing anything that we do to cause and/or perpetuate our conflict(s).
- Confess our yearning for the possibility of reconciliation both to ourselves and to others involved.
This list reminds us that forgiveness, as a practice born out of passionate spirituality is more complicated that we often want to make it. They also underline the fact that (and this is something that many of us may not realize or often forget) forgiveness is ultimately a practice that happens within us as we, each dancing to our own tune, release the anger and the bitterness that hold us back and open up to the promise of wholeness and peace. And, it can be granted without the cooperation or the knowledge of the other person. It can even be granted against their wishes. It is a radical act of love and grace that has the power to draw us and those whose lives we touch closer to the Realm of God.
Our scriptures speak of this truth in many places. Paul proclaims it when he says that “while we were yet sinners and didn’t know Christ,” he forgave us and opened the way to new life for us all. The father in the parable models it, forgiving the prodigal son while he was still far away and welcoming the one “who was dead” into a renewal of life. Jesus, himself, shows us the way when he prays on the cross, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
Forgiveness is about finding reconciliation, and it is more deeply about finding freedom. It frees us to love people in spite of themselves. It opens the way to put aside our grievances against our brothers and sisters, our neighbors and friends, our enemies and those who persecute us and to embrace them as cherished, if imperfect, children of God. It offers the chance not only to put away the Big-Boy Boomeroos we hold at the ready and step down from the wall – but to tear down the wall itself and dance with one another among the rubble.
Forgiveness frees us from the hatred and bitterness that can consume our lives, turning us into twisted, vengeful people, and it frees us to embrace love and compassion for all of God’s children – a love and compassion that transforms us into the children of light following the Prince of peace. And though it is difficult work that requires us to risk being vulnerable enough to offer words, gestures, and actions that change the patterns of brokenness for just the chance of reconciliation, it is holy work given to us by God. What’s more, it is easier to do when we have the support from others seeking to embody the same practices – a gift and a blessing that we can see if we just look around us this morning.
And so, I invite you all to look around you now. Get together with one or two other brothers or sisters and find a space a little bit apart from other groups (this may mean that some of us need to get up and move). As you sit together for the next several minutes, I encourage you to share your thoughts and experiences with forgiveness with each other, be they stories of struggle or success, frustration or hope, freedom or on-going captivity. There are some leading questions to start you off on the insert in your bulletin. When the time comes, I will gather us together again for our closing hymn.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Passionate Spirituality – Hospitality
sermon by Carrie Eikler
Genesis 18:1-8 Hebrews 13:1-3
Fourth Sunday of Passionate Spirituality Series
A couple of weeks ago, the news was abuzz with a story, proving to us that hospitality, neighborliness, and welcoming aren’t as easy or clear cut as we may think them to be. Many of you probably have heard the stories about the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr , a Harvard history professor.
As they say, “the facts are these”: a woman in the affluent community of Cambridge, MA called 911 because she saw two men trying to force their way into a neighbor’s home. Somehow in the police reports it was recorded that she suggested those in question were two black men. The police came to the house and discovered that one of the two men was in fact the homeowner, Professor Gates. Gates was returning home from a trip and with the help of his driver, was trying to open the front door that was jammed.
When the police arrived, Gates had already gained entry into his home, and the police asked to see his I.D. The interaction spiraled downward as Gates asserted that he was the homeowner, and called the police racist when they demanded to see identification, saying “This is what happens to a black man in America.” Sgt. James Crowley then handcuffed Gates and arrested him for, what he described as, disorderly conduct. Charges were later dropped, and the media coverage began full tilt.
If you are like me, you probably had an initial reaction to this story. We may not have the same reaction, but you likely formed an opinion quite quickly. Let’s try to draw out some more questions about the situatiojn
If your neighbor called the police because they saw someone (and that someone turned out to be you) trying to force in the door to your home, would you be thankful for your neighbor’s attempt to protect your home?
Would you wonder why your neighbor didn’t know you?
Would you be thankful for the police responding to such a call?
Would the police have persisted in their engagement with you if you are white?
If you shouted at the police in your own home where a crime was not being committed, something that legally does not constitute disorderly conduct, do you think you would be arrested?
Would you have taken offense at being called a racist?
Were any of these people acting in hospitable ways?
I’m not asking these questions because I have the answer. I’m asking them because, I think when it comes to hospitality, we play a variety of roles in the homes of our lives, shown in this story: we’re either trying to get in, trying to keep people out, trying to protect people, trying to defend our innocence, trying to feel safe. How many of us are on the inside seeking the best way to welcome others, whether or not those at our door are invited guests or strangers, trying to barge in?
Our homes are sacred places to many of us. Homes are meant to be sanctuaries: holy places, a place of divine service, a place of refuge and protection. Unfortunately, not everyone’s home is safe, or holy, or protected. Our homes, however, are places that are meant to be spaces of hospitality, for those who live within their walls, and visitors who come to their doorstep.
During the Great Depression, when millions were out of work and thousands took to migrating across the country, a sign was developed to identify hospitable homes. If the homemaker was a welcoming, generous, and kind person, wanderers who found help at that home would somehow construct a picture of a cat-- with sticks or in the dirt, around the front gate, or close to the house. When one saw this picture of a cat, one knew the people inside were kind and would likely offer hospitality. Think about how you welcome visitors, invited or especially, an uninvited guest…would someone be compelled to draw a cat outside your home?
To me, hospitality is the actions that are called out of ourselves when we recognize the sacred in each person. It is likely that Abraham didn’t have a cat drawn outside his tent on that evening as he sat in the blazing heat, but I think his actions, his extravagant hospitality, gives us this insight from the divine: God is in the stranger, the wanderer, the needy, the thirsty. God is in you and me. And when we meet one another and offer rest, and refreshment, even a listening ear and an understanding spirit, it is another opportunity to meet God. And when we meet God, we are compelled to welcome God into the sanctuary of our lives, allowing God to work and transform our deepest selves.
But again, some of us may not have homes that feel like they can be sanctuaries of hospitality. If you have ever felt that way, it can be refreshing to remember that our bodies are temples, our lives are sanctuaries—mobile, fleshy reminders that God is with us. My friend Sara, a pastor in California, is actively involved in interfaith study and dialogue. But she confessed to us this week that she showed her ignorance about her Muslim sisters and brothers. Last week she entered a meeting, and heartily greeted an Imam, an Islamic leader, by putting her hand out for him to shake it. He hesitated, looked at her hand and then slowly shook it. As the conversation began the Imam politely said that according to his religious understanding, he should not shake hands with a woman. Sara was mortified that she (someone so dedicated to interfaith learning and understanding) would make such a taboo gesture. The Imam smiled reassuringly, however, and suggested that next time they will simply try to welcome each other in a different way.
[pause] He could have scoffed at her ignorance. He could have refused to shake her hand. He could have done any number of things, but as surprised as he was, he entered into the invitational space with grace and reassuring pardon. Now, we may not agree with the Imam’s view about men and women, but we can certainly hope to have such grace and hospitality extended when someone violates our sense of what is right and wrong, what is acceptable and taboo.
Shaping hospitable spirits shapes hospitable homes and, we pray, shapes hospitable churches. The practice of hospitality goes far beyond offering a cup of water (though it likely includes that), it goes beyond offering a listening ear (though it certainly requires that), but it invites God’s people to respond with radical welcoming those whom others have turned away. To invite into this sanctuary all those who seek God, this place of pews and hymnbooks, but also this place of flesh and spirit…this sanctuary, our home.
As many of you know, the story of Sgt Crowley and Professor Gates is far from over. Even some questionable comments President Obama made fueled the story. But Obama did do one thing to reach out to strangers who became enemies, as many of you know. He invited them both to have a beer with him at the White House. To sit together as people, and to listen. The “beer summit” as it was dubbed was so fascinating to the media, and probably many Americans, because it modeled a way of welcoming that we don’t often see in the world stage, a glimpse at the third way of holy hospitality. Of course, Obama had some of his own political mending to do, and undoubtedly hoped to heal some wounds from comments he made, but it shouldn’t surprise us that perhaps welcoming strangers, even enemies, to refreshment and reflection is a beginning to moving forward.
As is the intention of this series on Passionate Spirituality, this meditation is only meant to spark the discussion and the further deepening of spirituality in your life. We aren’t having a beer summit here in the church, but I do invite you to a time of table discussions, as we continue hearing a message from the Spirit on the topic of hospitality. You are invited to, take a hymnal and take a seat at a table, and reflect with those around you on the questions at the table, for the next 10 minutes or so. Torin and I, as a reflection of a hospitable practice we find important in our home, will come around to your tables and pour you each coffee or tea or water as you discuss. So please, rise with your hymnal and join a table.
Genesis 18:1-8 Hebrews 13:1-3
Fourth Sunday of Passionate Spirituality Series
A couple of weeks ago, the news was abuzz with a story, proving to us that hospitality, neighborliness, and welcoming aren’t as easy or clear cut as we may think them to be. Many of you probably have heard the stories about the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr , a Harvard history professor.
As they say, “the facts are these”: a woman in the affluent community of Cambridge, MA called 911 because she saw two men trying to force their way into a neighbor’s home. Somehow in the police reports it was recorded that she suggested those in question were two black men. The police came to the house and discovered that one of the two men was in fact the homeowner, Professor Gates. Gates was returning home from a trip and with the help of his driver, was trying to open the front door that was jammed.
When the police arrived, Gates had already gained entry into his home, and the police asked to see his I.D. The interaction spiraled downward as Gates asserted that he was the homeowner, and called the police racist when they demanded to see identification, saying “This is what happens to a black man in America.” Sgt. James Crowley then handcuffed Gates and arrested him for, what he described as, disorderly conduct. Charges were later dropped, and the media coverage began full tilt.
If you are like me, you probably had an initial reaction to this story. We may not have the same reaction, but you likely formed an opinion quite quickly. Let’s try to draw out some more questions about the situatiojn
If your neighbor called the police because they saw someone (and that someone turned out to be you) trying to force in the door to your home, would you be thankful for your neighbor’s attempt to protect your home?
Would you wonder why your neighbor didn’t know you?
Would you be thankful for the police responding to such a call?
Would the police have persisted in their engagement with you if you are white?
If you shouted at the police in your own home where a crime was not being committed, something that legally does not constitute disorderly conduct, do you think you would be arrested?
Would you have taken offense at being called a racist?
Were any of these people acting in hospitable ways?
I’m not asking these questions because I have the answer. I’m asking them because, I think when it comes to hospitality, we play a variety of roles in the homes of our lives, shown in this story: we’re either trying to get in, trying to keep people out, trying to protect people, trying to defend our innocence, trying to feel safe. How many of us are on the inside seeking the best way to welcome others, whether or not those at our door are invited guests or strangers, trying to barge in?
Our homes are sacred places to many of us. Homes are meant to be sanctuaries: holy places, a place of divine service, a place of refuge and protection. Unfortunately, not everyone’s home is safe, or holy, or protected. Our homes, however, are places that are meant to be spaces of hospitality, for those who live within their walls, and visitors who come to their doorstep.
During the Great Depression, when millions were out of work and thousands took to migrating across the country, a sign was developed to identify hospitable homes. If the homemaker was a welcoming, generous, and kind person, wanderers who found help at that home would somehow construct a picture of a cat-- with sticks or in the dirt, around the front gate, or close to the house. When one saw this picture of a cat, one knew the people inside were kind and would likely offer hospitality. Think about how you welcome visitors, invited or especially, an uninvited guest…would someone be compelled to draw a cat outside your home?
To me, hospitality is the actions that are called out of ourselves when we recognize the sacred in each person. It is likely that Abraham didn’t have a cat drawn outside his tent on that evening as he sat in the blazing heat, but I think his actions, his extravagant hospitality, gives us this insight from the divine: God is in the stranger, the wanderer, the needy, the thirsty. God is in you and me. And when we meet one another and offer rest, and refreshment, even a listening ear and an understanding spirit, it is another opportunity to meet God. And when we meet God, we are compelled to welcome God into the sanctuary of our lives, allowing God to work and transform our deepest selves.
But again, some of us may not have homes that feel like they can be sanctuaries of hospitality. If you have ever felt that way, it can be refreshing to remember that our bodies are temples, our lives are sanctuaries—mobile, fleshy reminders that God is with us. My friend Sara, a pastor in California, is actively involved in interfaith study and dialogue. But she confessed to us this week that she showed her ignorance about her Muslim sisters and brothers. Last week she entered a meeting, and heartily greeted an Imam, an Islamic leader, by putting her hand out for him to shake it. He hesitated, looked at her hand and then slowly shook it. As the conversation began the Imam politely said that according to his religious understanding, he should not shake hands with a woman. Sara was mortified that she (someone so dedicated to interfaith learning and understanding) would make such a taboo gesture. The Imam smiled reassuringly, however, and suggested that next time they will simply try to welcome each other in a different way.
[pause] He could have scoffed at her ignorance. He could have refused to shake her hand. He could have done any number of things, but as surprised as he was, he entered into the invitational space with grace and reassuring pardon. Now, we may not agree with the Imam’s view about men and women, but we can certainly hope to have such grace and hospitality extended when someone violates our sense of what is right and wrong, what is acceptable and taboo.
Shaping hospitable spirits shapes hospitable homes and, we pray, shapes hospitable churches. The practice of hospitality goes far beyond offering a cup of water (though it likely includes that), it goes beyond offering a listening ear (though it certainly requires that), but it invites God’s people to respond with radical welcoming those whom others have turned away. To invite into this sanctuary all those who seek God, this place of pews and hymnbooks, but also this place of flesh and spirit…this sanctuary, our home.
As many of you know, the story of Sgt Crowley and Professor Gates is far from over. Even some questionable comments President Obama made fueled the story. But Obama did do one thing to reach out to strangers who became enemies, as many of you know. He invited them both to have a beer with him at the White House. To sit together as people, and to listen. The “beer summit” as it was dubbed was so fascinating to the media, and probably many Americans, because it modeled a way of welcoming that we don’t often see in the world stage, a glimpse at the third way of holy hospitality. Of course, Obama had some of his own political mending to do, and undoubtedly hoped to heal some wounds from comments he made, but it shouldn’t surprise us that perhaps welcoming strangers, even enemies, to refreshment and reflection is a beginning to moving forward.
As is the intention of this series on Passionate Spirituality, this meditation is only meant to spark the discussion and the further deepening of spirituality in your life. We aren’t having a beer summit here in the church, but I do invite you to a time of table discussions, as we continue hearing a message from the Spirit on the topic of hospitality. You are invited to, take a hymnal and take a seat at a table, and reflect with those around you on the questions at the table, for the next 10 minutes or so. Torin and I, as a reflection of a hospitable practice we find important in our home, will come around to your tables and pour you each coffee or tea or water as you discuss. So please, rise with your hymnal and join a table.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Discernment
sermon by Torin Eikler
Galatians 5:19-25 Acts 1:16-17, 21-25
Third Sunday of Passionate Spirituality Series
As most of you know by now, we are in the midst of a series of Sunday worships that are delving into passionate spirituality through the exploration of some of the spiritual practices that have been significant for Christians across the centuries. All of these practices, as I’m sure you will discover, tend to flow together, overlapping in our spiritual lives to the point that it’s hard to truly separate them. And, that’s particularly true of the first two.
Carrie started us off on the topic of “Saying Yes and Saying No” which, for those of you who we missed last week, is all about paying attention to how we use our time. It is a way of carefully picking our commitments so that, on the one hand, we are not crowding God out of our lives, and on the other, we are creating space for God to come into our lives and shape who we are and how we live. In essence, I suppose, it is the practice of choosing for a life that is actively rooted in God rather than a life that is so busy that we hardly notice God speaking to us.
Today, we will be looking at discernment which Frank Rogers Jr. defines as “the intentional practice by which a community or an individual seeks, recognizes, and intentionally takes part in the activity of God in concrete situations.”
I realize that a definition like this doesn’t necessarily clarify things … especially when it’s read out loud and quickly, but I also think that most of us have a sort of gut feeling on what discernment is all about. What it boils down to is that discernment – Christian discernment – is the spiritual practice of seeking out what God wants us to do when we are faced by decisions and then (and this is the part that we rarely make explicit) doing it.
The question at the heart of things is, what do we do when we “come to [that] place where the streets are not marked, and some windows are lighted while others are darked?” Dr. Seuss certainly had it right when he said that there’s no simple answer and that confusion seems to reign supreme. But, the practice of discernment offers us hope because it puts legs on our belief that God is always present, offering guidance and direction in times when we feel lost and alone.
Across the years, various Christian communities have put together a variety of concrete, workable methods for doing discernment. They mirror the many ways in which we make decisions in everyday life ranging from flipping a coin to weighing the pros and cons to consulting with people whose experience and opinion we value. The big difference, though – the thing that makes discernment a decidedly spiritual experience – is that all of these practices put an openness to hearing the voice of God’s Wisdom at the heart of decision-making rather than relying on human logic or ingenuity alone.
Take the story that we just heard from Acts for example. The disciples were faced with the question of who would take up the work that was left behind when Judas died. They did their best brainstorming and came up with two options – Joseph and Matthias. Then, they turned the final decision over to God. They prayed for guidance as to who was the better choice, and they cast lots in the faith that God would show them the way. It’s not a method that most of us would use for discernment today because casting lots just sounds silly to us, yet it’s not all that different from flipping a coin except that the gathered body had spent time in earnest prayer for guidance before hand.
Perhaps if we approached the process from such a faithful, prayerful position, coin tossing wouldn’t be such a bad option. But, I still don’t find the idea too palatable, and I think you all would agree that there are other options that would serve us better or at least give us more confidence in the outcome.
One of those other practices was refined by Ignatius of Loyola and has been regularly practiced by the Jesuit order he founded (and others as well) for centuries. For Ignatius, the process of discernment aimed at enhancing our participation in the work of God for the glory of God and the healing of the world. So, we start by enhancing our passionate commitment to follow God, an attitude of indifference toward all other drives and desires, and a deep sensitivity to the ways and being of God in a period of time set aside for prayer and/or retreat. Then, we do our best to understand as many aspects of the decision before us as possible and clarify the choices available to us – much the same way the disciples did. After that, we leave behind our ambivalence and spend several days living out the reality of the option (or options) that we feel less inclined to choose.
During that time – and this is the difficult part - we prayerfully and honestly reflect on what it is about this particular choice that we don’t like and whether our motivations are rooted in divine guidance or something less desirable. As the test period nears its end, we ask ourselves, “Is this a life-giving decision or is it destructive?” For Ignatius, the answer to that question lies in whether we feel a sense of consolation – meaning are we more joy-filled, loving, creative, and at peace – or a sense of desolation – meaning are we more confused, alienated, despairing, or discordant. This part of the process requires real honest and deep self-awareness because we tend to shy away from the difficult and dark parts of our nature, and it is often easier to deceive ourselves than face the truth…. Like I said, this is the hard part.
Once we have lived into one possibility for a time, we follow the same path with each of the others that we have identified, noting each time whether the choice is life-giving or destructive. Then, we take some time to reflect on and compare the different experiences. Using both our minds and our hearts, we determine which option brought us the most consolation – which option was more life giving. Even then, we are not quite done because as we act on our decision, we need to keep a part of ourselves actively engaged in listening for God’s confirmation that we have made the right choice.
One other way of discernment that I have found particularly helpful fits right in with our Anabaptist heritage of trusting the community for guidance. It also comes out of the story of the early church in the 15th chapter of Acts where the council of leaders met in Jerusalem to discern God’s will concerning the circumcision of gentiles, and it has been formalized in different ways by different Christian communities over the years. I am most familiar with the process used by the Quakers, a process called the clearness committee.
Again, the process begins with a time of prayerful re-orientation to the voice and the will of God. Then, we call together a diverse group of people whose wisdom we trust though they may often have widely different viewpoints on many issues. This group of people gathers for two or three hours and listens as we explain the situation and the decision to be made as well as all the best thinking we have done and the feelings that has raised in us. For a time, the group holds what they have heard in silence. As they feel led by the Spirit and the search for God’s will, they ask questions with the goal of helping us untangle our feelings and reach greater understanding of how the voice of God is speaking to guide us.
After the time together is over, the group leaves. We make our decision on the issue and share that decision with the group. Over time, they check in on how things are going both for accountability – to make sure we are living according to the decision we made – and for reassessment – to help us with the process of confirming that our decision is actually in line with God’s will for us.
As you may now have realized – or may know from experience – one of the great challenges of discernment is that it rarely yields absolute certainty. Another is that it takes time. That’s a hard reality for us to deal with caught up in we are in the gray-ness and busy-ness of life and the desire for something, at least, to be black and white, short and sweet. Often, it feels like we’ve just found our way to the waiting place. Yet, when we take time to make decisions – especially important decisions – in a prayerful attitude of seeking first God’s will and wisdom, our choices are rarely bad, even if they are a little off the mark. And, as we move out of the waiting place – which we must do if we are true to the process – we can trust that not only have we done our best to find the way, we have also moved closer to the Spirit of God and are more likely to notice the divine nudges – big and little – that will help keep us on the right track.
Well, that’s a lot to chew on, and I’m sure that as you sat there listening moments from your lives and decisions that you have made have come to mind. So, I invite you now to take out the journals that were provided at the beginning of the series (if you didn’t get one or forgot yours, there are a few extras back by the entrance to the sanctuary) and take some time to write down your thoughts about your experiences with discernment or your ideas about how you might engage in decision-making as a spiritual discipline in the future. To help you along, there are a few leading questions printed on the insert in your bulletins. There are also summaries of the two methods of discernment that I described today on that insert if you would like to review them.
Galatians 5:19-25 Acts 1:16-17, 21-25
Third Sunday of Passionate Spirituality Series
As most of you know by now, we are in the midst of a series of Sunday worships that are delving into passionate spirituality through the exploration of some of the spiritual practices that have been significant for Christians across the centuries. All of these practices, as I’m sure you will discover, tend to flow together, overlapping in our spiritual lives to the point that it’s hard to truly separate them. And, that’s particularly true of the first two.
Carrie started us off on the topic of “Saying Yes and Saying No” which, for those of you who we missed last week, is all about paying attention to how we use our time. It is a way of carefully picking our commitments so that, on the one hand, we are not crowding God out of our lives, and on the other, we are creating space for God to come into our lives and shape who we are and how we live. In essence, I suppose, it is the practice of choosing for a life that is actively rooted in God rather than a life that is so busy that we hardly notice God speaking to us.
Today, we will be looking at discernment which Frank Rogers Jr. defines as “the intentional practice by which a community or an individual seeks, recognizes, and intentionally takes part in the activity of God in concrete situations.”
I realize that a definition like this doesn’t necessarily clarify things … especially when it’s read out loud and quickly, but I also think that most of us have a sort of gut feeling on what discernment is all about. What it boils down to is that discernment – Christian discernment – is the spiritual practice of seeking out what God wants us to do when we are faced by decisions and then (and this is the part that we rarely make explicit) doing it.
The question at the heart of things is, what do we do when we “come to [that] place where the streets are not marked, and some windows are lighted while others are darked?” Dr. Seuss certainly had it right when he said that there’s no simple answer and that confusion seems to reign supreme. But, the practice of discernment offers us hope because it puts legs on our belief that God is always present, offering guidance and direction in times when we feel lost and alone.
Across the years, various Christian communities have put together a variety of concrete, workable methods for doing discernment. They mirror the many ways in which we make decisions in everyday life ranging from flipping a coin to weighing the pros and cons to consulting with people whose experience and opinion we value. The big difference, though – the thing that makes discernment a decidedly spiritual experience – is that all of these practices put an openness to hearing the voice of God’s Wisdom at the heart of decision-making rather than relying on human logic or ingenuity alone.
Take the story that we just heard from Acts for example. The disciples were faced with the question of who would take up the work that was left behind when Judas died. They did their best brainstorming and came up with two options – Joseph and Matthias. Then, they turned the final decision over to God. They prayed for guidance as to who was the better choice, and they cast lots in the faith that God would show them the way. It’s not a method that most of us would use for discernment today because casting lots just sounds silly to us, yet it’s not all that different from flipping a coin except that the gathered body had spent time in earnest prayer for guidance before hand.
Perhaps if we approached the process from such a faithful, prayerful position, coin tossing wouldn’t be such a bad option. But, I still don’t find the idea too palatable, and I think you all would agree that there are other options that would serve us better or at least give us more confidence in the outcome.
One of those other practices was refined by Ignatius of Loyola and has been regularly practiced by the Jesuit order he founded (and others as well) for centuries. For Ignatius, the process of discernment aimed at enhancing our participation in the work of God for the glory of God and the healing of the world. So, we start by enhancing our passionate commitment to follow God, an attitude of indifference toward all other drives and desires, and a deep sensitivity to the ways and being of God in a period of time set aside for prayer and/or retreat. Then, we do our best to understand as many aspects of the decision before us as possible and clarify the choices available to us – much the same way the disciples did. After that, we leave behind our ambivalence and spend several days living out the reality of the option (or options) that we feel less inclined to choose.
During that time – and this is the difficult part - we prayerfully and honestly reflect on what it is about this particular choice that we don’t like and whether our motivations are rooted in divine guidance or something less desirable. As the test period nears its end, we ask ourselves, “Is this a life-giving decision or is it destructive?” For Ignatius, the answer to that question lies in whether we feel a sense of consolation – meaning are we more joy-filled, loving, creative, and at peace – or a sense of desolation – meaning are we more confused, alienated, despairing, or discordant. This part of the process requires real honest and deep self-awareness because we tend to shy away from the difficult and dark parts of our nature, and it is often easier to deceive ourselves than face the truth…. Like I said, this is the hard part.
Once we have lived into one possibility for a time, we follow the same path with each of the others that we have identified, noting each time whether the choice is life-giving or destructive. Then, we take some time to reflect on and compare the different experiences. Using both our minds and our hearts, we determine which option brought us the most consolation – which option was more life giving. Even then, we are not quite done because as we act on our decision, we need to keep a part of ourselves actively engaged in listening for God’s confirmation that we have made the right choice.
One other way of discernment that I have found particularly helpful fits right in with our Anabaptist heritage of trusting the community for guidance. It also comes out of the story of the early church in the 15th chapter of Acts where the council of leaders met in Jerusalem to discern God’s will concerning the circumcision of gentiles, and it has been formalized in different ways by different Christian communities over the years. I am most familiar with the process used by the Quakers, a process called the clearness committee.
Again, the process begins with a time of prayerful re-orientation to the voice and the will of God. Then, we call together a diverse group of people whose wisdom we trust though they may often have widely different viewpoints on many issues. This group of people gathers for two or three hours and listens as we explain the situation and the decision to be made as well as all the best thinking we have done and the feelings that has raised in us. For a time, the group holds what they have heard in silence. As they feel led by the Spirit and the search for God’s will, they ask questions with the goal of helping us untangle our feelings and reach greater understanding of how the voice of God is speaking to guide us.
After the time together is over, the group leaves. We make our decision on the issue and share that decision with the group. Over time, they check in on how things are going both for accountability – to make sure we are living according to the decision we made – and for reassessment – to help us with the process of confirming that our decision is actually in line with God’s will for us.
As you may now have realized – or may know from experience – one of the great challenges of discernment is that it rarely yields absolute certainty. Another is that it takes time. That’s a hard reality for us to deal with caught up in we are in the gray-ness and busy-ness of life and the desire for something, at least, to be black and white, short and sweet. Often, it feels like we’ve just found our way to the waiting place. Yet, when we take time to make decisions – especially important decisions – in a prayerful attitude of seeking first God’s will and wisdom, our choices are rarely bad, even if they are a little off the mark. And, as we move out of the waiting place – which we must do if we are true to the process – we can trust that not only have we done our best to find the way, we have also moved closer to the Spirit of God and are more likely to notice the divine nudges – big and little – that will help keep us on the right track.
Well, that’s a lot to chew on, and I’m sure that as you sat there listening moments from your lives and decisions that you have made have come to mind. So, I invite you now to take out the journals that were provided at the beginning of the series (if you didn’t get one or forgot yours, there are a few extras back by the entrance to the sanctuary) and take some time to write down your thoughts about your experiences with discernment or your ideas about how you might engage in decision-making as a spiritual discipline in the future. To help you along, there are a few leading questions printed on the insert in your bulletins. There are also summaries of the two methods of discernment that I described today on that insert if you would like to review them.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saying Yes and Saying No
sermon by Carrie Eikler
Passionate Spirituality Sermon Series
Genesis 1 excerpts
Luke 18:18-22
Story for All Ages: Green Eggs and Ham
(This is the second sermon in our summer sermon series on Passionate Spirituality, inspired by the book Practicing our Faith by Dorothy Bass. Accompanying each sermon is a "Story for All Ages" where we will read a Dr. Suess story that ties with the theme. Shorter sermons lead into greater time of congregational reflection, which are posted below the sermon)
At some point in our lives who has not felt like either Sam-I-am or Grumpy Man (as referred to in our home)? Big questions and big responsibilities come our way and we are either saying no-no-no or encouraging someone else to say yes-yes-yes. Forgive me for an alternate comparison, but often in my life I’m not so much on a Green-eggs-and-ham conundrum, but more the conundrum posed by one of the original British punk rock bands…The Clash. (Yes, I confess. One of your pastors is a fan of British punk). In one of their most popular songs The Clash asked the question “Should I stay or should I go?” followed with an answer “If I stay there will be trouble, if I go there will be double.”
Should I say yes or should I say no? Should I accept or should I decline? Should I add another responsibility or should I let go of a commitment?
I know that many of you struggle with this, because when we surveyed the congregation on which spiritual practices you were most interested in exploring, “saying yes and saying no” was at the top of the list…along with prayer and forgiveness I might add. I have a feeling many of us in our lives have said yes to so many things, that we are looking for permission to say no. I have a feeling that many of us are looking at ways to clear the decks, to begin rebuilding our lives with just those things that are really important--hose things that fill us, that energize us.
Saying yes and saying no to the demands that come our way may not seem like a traditional spiritual practice. But as we talk about passionate spirituality for the next seven weeks, I think we’ll soon realize that each step towards God will be a process of saying yes to making space for God and saying no to those things that crowd God out.
In the words of M. Shawn Copeland, a Catholic laywoman, “If we are to enhance and build up the capacities for a good, wholesome, and holy life, we must learn to say yes to what affirms and renews wholeness and life. And we must learn to say a related no to what induces and brings about destruction and ruin.”[1]
Deep and passionate spirituality is a constant dance of accepting and declining dance partners, weighing and evaluating the music that guides us, and refining and improving our steps. When we learn the deeply difficult and deeply blessed discipline of making space for God to dwell deeply in us, the steps may seem a bit more fluid, more true to who we are, more graceful as we dance in and through this life.
But then, life is a constant balance of yeses and no’s, isn’t it? When you wake up in the morning and get out of bed, you are saying “yes” to meeting the day. When you go to work or school you are essentially saying “yes” to the life of occupation or study. When you eat food you are saying yes to nourishment and essentially saying yes to life.
You could stay in bed, you could stay home from work or school (although if you’re in school, you might have to do a bit of work to convince your parents), you could say no to eating healthy food and no to nourishing your body. Those no’s have consequences. But essentially, your actions are responses to life’s questions an affirmative or negative answer. Each moment you live is a balance, often an unconscious one, of saying yes and no.
But this is not to make it seem like saying no is a bad thing. In fact many times by saying “no” we are opening up space in our lives for God, especially when we say no to things that clutter our spirits and depress our energy, those things that leave us feeling exhausted rather than passionate. Yeses and no’s often exist as “companions in the process of a whole and holy life.”
Perhaps our Brethren and Mennonite ancestors were best known for their “no’s” in life: no to material trappings, no to violence, no to creeds. But it would be shortsighted for us to think this was simply a way of negativity, preferring to embrace all that is harsh and grim and rejecting life’s pleasures.
What if we took to heart our ancestors’ wisdom: that by saying “no” to materialism allows us to say “yes” to the simple abundance of God’s creation. No to violence and war and oppression means yes to affirming life for everyone, yes to peace for all God’s children. No to creedal doctrine and dogmas means yes to an openness in the spirit in which we all can live by God’s work through the living Gospel.
And that living Gospel and the story of Jesus is filled with people seeking balance and the faithful rhythm to their dance of life… Jesus encountered a rich ruler. This man wanted affirmation that all he was doing was exactly what was needed, that there was plenty of space for God in his life since he was doing all the right things. But for this man, Jesus pointed out, one thing kept him from God: his money. We are to assume that since he was rich, he likely said yes to many things that kept him at a distance from God: perhaps exploitation of his work force, perhaps valuing luxury over charity. Jesus said if you want to join me in this dance, you’ve got to say no to those things and if that can only happen by giving away your money, by reconciling and readdressing financial wrongdoings, then isn’t it worth it?
But it wasn’t just about saying no, saying “sell everything you have and renounce your wealth.” It was about picking up a yes in its place. Sell what you have and give it away, take action. Simply saying no isn’t good enough. Letting go of all your commitments and saying no to every request that comes your way won’t necessarily bring you closer to God. It must be bound up with a positive, even if that positive is protecting that extra space you’ve made (by giving up a habit or responsibility) space to continue discerning God’s work in your life.
And God’s work had its limits, too. Saying yes also means knowing when enough is enough, when to say no more is needed. God created earth, sky, wind, light, dark, water, life…and God knew when to rest. When to call it good.
If we were in charge of re-creating this earth, and in many ways I believe that we are, it is likely that our pride would get in the way don’t you think? We might say, “Well if I don’t do this or that then who is going to do it?” or “If I stay up just two more hours I can perfect this world.” God didn’t call it quits, God simply called it good…enough…that’s enough. God said yes, I can rest. And so can we.
Living a life in which we can faithfully and confidently say yes and no is a life long project. It is a spiritual practice, something to work with, something to engage our relationship with God, and help us see more clearly the priorities in our lives. M Shawn Copeland wisely understands this practice as one in which “we are invited and challenged to make a fully conscious choice about what it is we are…
and who it is we shall become.” May we each find the strength and grace to do so.
And now, may the conversation continue…. You have each been given a sheet of reflection questions and I invite you to gather in groups of two or three and each take time to reflect on one of the questions that jumps out at you. You don’t have to all reflect on the same questions, just share as the spirit leads. Let each person have about 3 minutes to share…
(Guiding questions in bulletin)
[1] “Saying Yes and Saying No” by M Shawn Copeland in Practicing our Faith edited by Dorothy Bass (Jossey Bass, San Francsico, 1997).
Passionate Spirituality Sermon Series
Genesis 1 excerpts
Luke 18:18-22
Story for All Ages: Green Eggs and Ham
(This is the second sermon in our summer sermon series on Passionate Spirituality, inspired by the book Practicing our Faith by Dorothy Bass. Accompanying each sermon is a "Story for All Ages" where we will read a Dr. Suess story that ties with the theme. Shorter sermons lead into greater time of congregational reflection, which are posted below the sermon)
At some point in our lives who has not felt like either Sam-I-am or Grumpy Man (as referred to in our home)? Big questions and big responsibilities come our way and we are either saying no-no-no or encouraging someone else to say yes-yes-yes. Forgive me for an alternate comparison, but often in my life I’m not so much on a Green-eggs-and-ham conundrum, but more the conundrum posed by one of the original British punk rock bands…The Clash. (Yes, I confess. One of your pastors is a fan of British punk). In one of their most popular songs The Clash asked the question “Should I stay or should I go?” followed with an answer “If I stay there will be trouble, if I go there will be double.”
Should I say yes or should I say no? Should I accept or should I decline? Should I add another responsibility or should I let go of a commitment?
I know that many of you struggle with this, because when we surveyed the congregation on which spiritual practices you were most interested in exploring, “saying yes and saying no” was at the top of the list…along with prayer and forgiveness I might add. I have a feeling many of us in our lives have said yes to so many things, that we are looking for permission to say no. I have a feeling that many of us are looking at ways to clear the decks, to begin rebuilding our lives with just those things that are really important--hose things that fill us, that energize us.
Saying yes and saying no to the demands that come our way may not seem like a traditional spiritual practice. But as we talk about passionate spirituality for the next seven weeks, I think we’ll soon realize that each step towards God will be a process of saying yes to making space for God and saying no to those things that crowd God out.
In the words of M. Shawn Copeland, a Catholic laywoman, “If we are to enhance and build up the capacities for a good, wholesome, and holy life, we must learn to say yes to what affirms and renews wholeness and life. And we must learn to say a related no to what induces and brings about destruction and ruin.”[1]
Deep and passionate spirituality is a constant dance of accepting and declining dance partners, weighing and evaluating the music that guides us, and refining and improving our steps. When we learn the deeply difficult and deeply blessed discipline of making space for God to dwell deeply in us, the steps may seem a bit more fluid, more true to who we are, more graceful as we dance in and through this life.
But then, life is a constant balance of yeses and no’s, isn’t it? When you wake up in the morning and get out of bed, you are saying “yes” to meeting the day. When you go to work or school you are essentially saying “yes” to the life of occupation or study. When you eat food you are saying yes to nourishment and essentially saying yes to life.
You could stay in bed, you could stay home from work or school (although if you’re in school, you might have to do a bit of work to convince your parents), you could say no to eating healthy food and no to nourishing your body. Those no’s have consequences. But essentially, your actions are responses to life’s questions an affirmative or negative answer. Each moment you live is a balance, often an unconscious one, of saying yes and no.
But this is not to make it seem like saying no is a bad thing. In fact many times by saying “no” we are opening up space in our lives for God, especially when we say no to things that clutter our spirits and depress our energy, those things that leave us feeling exhausted rather than passionate. Yeses and no’s often exist as “companions in the process of a whole and holy life.”
Perhaps our Brethren and Mennonite ancestors were best known for their “no’s” in life: no to material trappings, no to violence, no to creeds. But it would be shortsighted for us to think this was simply a way of negativity, preferring to embrace all that is harsh and grim and rejecting life’s pleasures.
What if we took to heart our ancestors’ wisdom: that by saying “no” to materialism allows us to say “yes” to the simple abundance of God’s creation. No to violence and war and oppression means yes to affirming life for everyone, yes to peace for all God’s children. No to creedal doctrine and dogmas means yes to an openness in the spirit in which we all can live by God’s work through the living Gospel.
And that living Gospel and the story of Jesus is filled with people seeking balance and the faithful rhythm to their dance of life… Jesus encountered a rich ruler. This man wanted affirmation that all he was doing was exactly what was needed, that there was plenty of space for God in his life since he was doing all the right things. But for this man, Jesus pointed out, one thing kept him from God: his money. We are to assume that since he was rich, he likely said yes to many things that kept him at a distance from God: perhaps exploitation of his work force, perhaps valuing luxury over charity. Jesus said if you want to join me in this dance, you’ve got to say no to those things and if that can only happen by giving away your money, by reconciling and readdressing financial wrongdoings, then isn’t it worth it?
But it wasn’t just about saying no, saying “sell everything you have and renounce your wealth.” It was about picking up a yes in its place. Sell what you have and give it away, take action. Simply saying no isn’t good enough. Letting go of all your commitments and saying no to every request that comes your way won’t necessarily bring you closer to God. It must be bound up with a positive, even if that positive is protecting that extra space you’ve made (by giving up a habit or responsibility) space to continue discerning God’s work in your life.
And God’s work had its limits, too. Saying yes also means knowing when enough is enough, when to say no more is needed. God created earth, sky, wind, light, dark, water, life…and God knew when to rest. When to call it good.
If we were in charge of re-creating this earth, and in many ways I believe that we are, it is likely that our pride would get in the way don’t you think? We might say, “Well if I don’t do this or that then who is going to do it?” or “If I stay up just two more hours I can perfect this world.” God didn’t call it quits, God simply called it good…enough…that’s enough. God said yes, I can rest. And so can we.
Living a life in which we can faithfully and confidently say yes and no is a life long project. It is a spiritual practice, something to work with, something to engage our relationship with God, and help us see more clearly the priorities in our lives. M Shawn Copeland wisely understands this practice as one in which “we are invited and challenged to make a fully conscious choice about what it is we are…
and who it is we shall become.” May we each find the strength and grace to do so.
And now, may the conversation continue…. You have each been given a sheet of reflection questions and I invite you to gather in groups of two or three and each take time to reflect on one of the questions that jumps out at you. You don’t have to all reflect on the same questions, just share as the spirit leads. Let each person have about 3 minutes to share…
(Guiding questions in bulletin)
1. Think of one commitment you have in your lifeWhy did you say “yes” to this commitment?
Does it help you encounter God, or does it crowd out God?
If it crowds out God, is it possible that there are ways to encounter God within it? If not, what would happen if you let go of the commitment?
If you encounter God within it, how do you feel it enriches your life?
2. What are you currently saying “yes” to that feels like it crowds God out (a habit, responsibility, decision, or life choice)?
What might happen if you said “not” to it, and let go?
3. What are you currently saying “no” to that may enhance your life and relationship with God (a habit, responsibility, decision, or life choice)?
If you choose to say “yes” to it, what needs to happen to make space for it to enhance your life?
4. What has this worship on “Saying Yes and Saying No” brought up for you in your mind and heart?
[1] “Saying Yes and Saying No” by M Shawn Copeland in Practicing our Faith edited by Dorothy Bass (Jossey Bass, San Francsico, 1997).
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Passionate Spirituality - The Call
sermon by Torin Eikler
Mark 13:32-37 Matthew 5:13-16
In the last week, crude oil prices have fluctuated between $80 and $53 per barrel. Gas prices are down about 5 cents. General Motors made it through bankruptcy in an amazingly short 40 days and 40 nights, and its new CEO seems to be confident that the job cuts and debt relief will allow the company to thrive despite the depressed car market and the fact that the governments of the United States and Canada now own about 72% of the company. The G-8 summit ended with pledges totaling $15 billion in aid for farmers in poorer countries. California is still trying to come to terms on a budget that stands any chance of dealing with $26 billion short fall, and the national debt currently stands at $11.5 trillion with deficit spending in the range of $2 trillion dollars threatening to drive it on up. 5 more soldiers were killed in Afghanistan. Bombings in Mosul and Baghdad resulted in at least 41 deaths. And the protests of the Uighur minority in Northwestern China have brought on a police crack down leading to at least 156 dead and 1,000 injured.
Well, that’s a rough summary of the news that I heard on the radio Friday afternoon, and it all seemed to be about the numbers. To be honest, I’m not really surprised that the news is more than a little obsessed by numbers lately – though it left me feeling anxious and confused rather than informed. As the recession has gone on and on and on with its bank failures, bail-outs, massive stimulus packages, and substantial cases of fraud the economy has taken over the media’s center stage just as economic concerns seem to have come to the fore-front in people’s lives. And, economics – be they household or national – are all about numbers. And our focus on the economy has affected our whole perspective, making the relevant information about any given situation the numbers involved.
So, it doesn’t seem to matter quite as much what is actually happening in Iraq and Afghanistan or what’s behind the Uighur and Tibetan protests in Western China. What matters is how many people – soldiers, insurgents, and innocent bystanders – are killed or injured. It doesn’t seem to matter quite as much that people are having trouble getting food or health care for their families. What matters is that their ranks are growing by the thousands and the unemployment rate might soon top 10%. It doesn’t matter … unless you are one of those caught up in the struggle for survival, and we are hearing less and less about those people.
Now, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t keep an eye on our finances or those of the government under which we live. Nor should we ignore the number of people killed on the battle field or threatened with death by hunger or illness. On the contrary, I think that it’s a very good idea to pay attention to the flow of money in and out of our lives and to bear in mind the cost of “life as we know it” in human suffering. But, I do find something within me rising up against an excessive concentration on numbers and statistics when that focus erases the individual lives involved, numbs our hearts’ compassion, and blinds our spirits’ vision of what could be – what should be.
That’s particularly troubling when it enters the world of the church as it has been lately. With church membership and attendance in decline, many people have become obsessed with church growth by the numbers. Study after study has shown that the unchurched in this country number in the millions, and it’s probably safe to assume that they number in the tens of thousands in Morgantown. Researchers, church leaders, pastors, and even members have latched onto this as the answer to church growth, seeking ways to bring those people into the fold so that churches can return to the size and stability they knew in the last century. Yet, here too the focus on numbers can bog us down us. Certainly, it would be nice to have a full sanctuary every Sunday …. But, that is not the end all and be all of church life.
I wonder, in fact, if concern for attendance at or membership in a church really has a place in the life of the Christian community. Certainly we should care about people, and we should take to heart the call to share the good news of Christ with everyone – especially those who have not heard the gospel (who, I think, may be surprising large in number). Yet, the work of conversion is ultimately the work of Spirit and not, perhaps, our work. What we, as a community, are called to occupy ourselves with is our own spiritual growth and the lives of discipleship that spring from it. When we lose that focus, we risk falling into a spiritual doze when we are called to be a light for the nations.
Let me share a story that I heard from a colleague not long ago. It is the story of a small, struggling congregation in the midst of Missouri’s farmland. Even though the church stood in the middle of fields miles from any cities, it had once been a thriving community filled with the families that worked the surrounding land. Over the years, the congregation shrank as the farmland was consolidated and new generations moved away to work in other areas. And, for the last twenty or so years of its life, it had just a few dozen members.
Even as the congregation struggled to keep up the building and members worried about what would happen in the future, they continued to meet together faithfully. Eventually, of course, the church closed its doors. But on the final Sunday, the atmosphere was not one of sadness and regret, though those emotions were certainly present. Over the years, and especially in the final few decades, the passionate faith of the membership had profoundly affected those who were part of the community. Of the people who had grown up in the congregation and left, twenty of them had gone out to do mission work both overseas and in the inner cities of this country. Another fifty had found their way into non-profit organizations dedicated to the welfare of the marginalized in our society. And, six had become pastors themselves – three of them planting congregations marked by the same vibrant spirituality that had characterized the small country church. So, instead of mourning, the congregation along with many former members celebrated the powerful ministry the church had carried out during its life and the way their presence would continue to be felt throughout the world. And, every one of those who returned to mark the end of this particular era told stories of the many times that others had shared with them how the example of their lives and their faith had brought them back to the church.
It’s an inspiring story. A little sad, perhaps, but all great stories have a bit of sadness in them. More to the point, though, it reflects the picture of the church we have in the Bible.
From the beginning, the story of Christ and his followers has been about a passionate desire to follow the new way taught by Jesus. During his life and ministry, Jesus called people to wake up and see the Kingdom of God around them. He challenged the status quo and the humdrum lives lived by those who followed it. He invited people to lay down that life and find a powerful new connection with the Life that God had in mind for them.
And, for some that invitation was irresistible. They heard the good news, and they left behind or changed their old lives – sometimes even leaving behind their family – in order to follow. They risked their lives, literally as well as figuratively, because the joy and passion they had found. And, against all odds (at least according to the wisdom of the time), their numbers grew. Despite all the forces working against them, the “Spirit added to their numbers” – not arbitrarily, but through the powerful light of their own powerful faith and the passionate spirituality that drove them out to live lives of discipleship and service to one another and to those they lived among.
Another inspiring story, isn’t it? And, if we might pass the other story off as not our own, we cannot do so with this one. It’s our history, and it’s the story that inspired our spiritual ancestors to reform the church they felt had fallen asleep. It is our story, and as we read it each week, it reminds us of Christ’s call to each of us – a call to continually seek a passionate spirituality within ourselves and shine our own light into the world.
Now, if you are like me, you might hear those last words and think, “That’s all well and good, but that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. Where do I go from here?” And, that’s a very good question. Sadly, I don’t have an answer for you. Or, rather, I don’t have the answer because passionate spirituality is something that we each have to discover for ourselves.
But the good news is that those who have gone before us have left us a sort of guide to what they found helpful on their journeys. And, for the next several weeks we will be exploring some of those spiritual practices together, and though the list of possibilities is extensive, we will be focusing on saying yes and saying no, discernment, hospitality, forgiveness, healing, dying well, and prayer in response to the input we received on the surveys last month.
As a part of the process, we will be inviting you all to participate in some new and different ways. Instead of a time of silent reflection following the sermons, we will invite you to join in a variety of activities including small group discussions, congregational conversation, and individual journaling all guided by some leading questions. It is our hope that this process of group study will help our faith community awaken to a renewed sense of vibrant faith that will shine an inviting light for those who are seeking the One it is our passion to follow.
We will begin this process today with a time of individual journaling. So, please pick up one of the journals we have provided, get a pen or pencil, and spend the next several minutes writing about one or all of the following questions:
What do you find exciting or challenging about exploring some new spiritual practices?
Are there any particular practices that feel more inviting to you and why?
How do you hope this experience will change or enhance your own spiritual lives?
Please feel free to take the journals with you to use throughout this time of exploration if you wish, but bring them with you on Sundays so that they are here for future journaling times. Or, if you don’t feel they would be a helpful tool during the week, you may leave them here. Either way, please put your name on the front cover so that we are all able to respect one another’s privacy.
Now, I invite you into a time of silence as we continue to worship through this medium of expression. The leading questions, once again, are:
What do you find exciting or challenging about exploring some new spiritual practices?
Are there any particular practices that feel more inviting to you and why?
How do you hope this experience will change or enhance your own spiritual lives?
Mark 13:32-37 Matthew 5:13-16
In the last week, crude oil prices have fluctuated between $80 and $53 per barrel. Gas prices are down about 5 cents. General Motors made it through bankruptcy in an amazingly short 40 days and 40 nights, and its new CEO seems to be confident that the job cuts and debt relief will allow the company to thrive despite the depressed car market and the fact that the governments of the United States and Canada now own about 72% of the company. The G-8 summit ended with pledges totaling $15 billion in aid for farmers in poorer countries. California is still trying to come to terms on a budget that stands any chance of dealing with $26 billion short fall, and the national debt currently stands at $11.5 trillion with deficit spending in the range of $2 trillion dollars threatening to drive it on up. 5 more soldiers were killed in Afghanistan. Bombings in Mosul and Baghdad resulted in at least 41 deaths. And the protests of the Uighur minority in Northwestern China have brought on a police crack down leading to at least 156 dead and 1,000 injured.
Well, that’s a rough summary of the news that I heard on the radio Friday afternoon, and it all seemed to be about the numbers. To be honest, I’m not really surprised that the news is more than a little obsessed by numbers lately – though it left me feeling anxious and confused rather than informed. As the recession has gone on and on and on with its bank failures, bail-outs, massive stimulus packages, and substantial cases of fraud the economy has taken over the media’s center stage just as economic concerns seem to have come to the fore-front in people’s lives. And, economics – be they household or national – are all about numbers. And our focus on the economy has affected our whole perspective, making the relevant information about any given situation the numbers involved.
So, it doesn’t seem to matter quite as much what is actually happening in Iraq and Afghanistan or what’s behind the Uighur and Tibetan protests in Western China. What matters is how many people – soldiers, insurgents, and innocent bystanders – are killed or injured. It doesn’t seem to matter quite as much that people are having trouble getting food or health care for their families. What matters is that their ranks are growing by the thousands and the unemployment rate might soon top 10%. It doesn’t matter … unless you are one of those caught up in the struggle for survival, and we are hearing less and less about those people.
Now, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t keep an eye on our finances or those of the government under which we live. Nor should we ignore the number of people killed on the battle field or threatened with death by hunger or illness. On the contrary, I think that it’s a very good idea to pay attention to the flow of money in and out of our lives and to bear in mind the cost of “life as we know it” in human suffering. But, I do find something within me rising up against an excessive concentration on numbers and statistics when that focus erases the individual lives involved, numbs our hearts’ compassion, and blinds our spirits’ vision of what could be – what should be.
That’s particularly troubling when it enters the world of the church as it has been lately. With church membership and attendance in decline, many people have become obsessed with church growth by the numbers. Study after study has shown that the unchurched in this country number in the millions, and it’s probably safe to assume that they number in the tens of thousands in Morgantown. Researchers, church leaders, pastors, and even members have latched onto this as the answer to church growth, seeking ways to bring those people into the fold so that churches can return to the size and stability they knew in the last century. Yet, here too the focus on numbers can bog us down us. Certainly, it would be nice to have a full sanctuary every Sunday …. But, that is not the end all and be all of church life.
I wonder, in fact, if concern for attendance at or membership in a church really has a place in the life of the Christian community. Certainly we should care about people, and we should take to heart the call to share the good news of Christ with everyone – especially those who have not heard the gospel (who, I think, may be surprising large in number). Yet, the work of conversion is ultimately the work of Spirit and not, perhaps, our work. What we, as a community, are called to occupy ourselves with is our own spiritual growth and the lives of discipleship that spring from it. When we lose that focus, we risk falling into a spiritual doze when we are called to be a light for the nations.
Let me share a story that I heard from a colleague not long ago. It is the story of a small, struggling congregation in the midst of Missouri’s farmland. Even though the church stood in the middle of fields miles from any cities, it had once been a thriving community filled with the families that worked the surrounding land. Over the years, the congregation shrank as the farmland was consolidated and new generations moved away to work in other areas. And, for the last twenty or so years of its life, it had just a few dozen members.
Even as the congregation struggled to keep up the building and members worried about what would happen in the future, they continued to meet together faithfully. Eventually, of course, the church closed its doors. But on the final Sunday, the atmosphere was not one of sadness and regret, though those emotions were certainly present. Over the years, and especially in the final few decades, the passionate faith of the membership had profoundly affected those who were part of the community. Of the people who had grown up in the congregation and left, twenty of them had gone out to do mission work both overseas and in the inner cities of this country. Another fifty had found their way into non-profit organizations dedicated to the welfare of the marginalized in our society. And, six had become pastors themselves – three of them planting congregations marked by the same vibrant spirituality that had characterized the small country church. So, instead of mourning, the congregation along with many former members celebrated the powerful ministry the church had carried out during its life and the way their presence would continue to be felt throughout the world. And, every one of those who returned to mark the end of this particular era told stories of the many times that others had shared with them how the example of their lives and their faith had brought them back to the church.
It’s an inspiring story. A little sad, perhaps, but all great stories have a bit of sadness in them. More to the point, though, it reflects the picture of the church we have in the Bible.
From the beginning, the story of Christ and his followers has been about a passionate desire to follow the new way taught by Jesus. During his life and ministry, Jesus called people to wake up and see the Kingdom of God around them. He challenged the status quo and the humdrum lives lived by those who followed it. He invited people to lay down that life and find a powerful new connection with the Life that God had in mind for them.
And, for some that invitation was irresistible. They heard the good news, and they left behind or changed their old lives – sometimes even leaving behind their family – in order to follow. They risked their lives, literally as well as figuratively, because the joy and passion they had found. And, against all odds (at least according to the wisdom of the time), their numbers grew. Despite all the forces working against them, the “Spirit added to their numbers” – not arbitrarily, but through the powerful light of their own powerful faith and the passionate spirituality that drove them out to live lives of discipleship and service to one another and to those they lived among.
Another inspiring story, isn’t it? And, if we might pass the other story off as not our own, we cannot do so with this one. It’s our history, and it’s the story that inspired our spiritual ancestors to reform the church they felt had fallen asleep. It is our story, and as we read it each week, it reminds us of Christ’s call to each of us – a call to continually seek a passionate spirituality within ourselves and shine our own light into the world.
Now, if you are like me, you might hear those last words and think, “That’s all well and good, but that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. Where do I go from here?” And, that’s a very good question. Sadly, I don’t have an answer for you. Or, rather, I don’t have the answer because passionate spirituality is something that we each have to discover for ourselves.
But the good news is that those who have gone before us have left us a sort of guide to what they found helpful on their journeys. And, for the next several weeks we will be exploring some of those spiritual practices together, and though the list of possibilities is extensive, we will be focusing on saying yes and saying no, discernment, hospitality, forgiveness, healing, dying well, and prayer in response to the input we received on the surveys last month.
As a part of the process, we will be inviting you all to participate in some new and different ways. Instead of a time of silent reflection following the sermons, we will invite you to join in a variety of activities including small group discussions, congregational conversation, and individual journaling all guided by some leading questions. It is our hope that this process of group study will help our faith community awaken to a renewed sense of vibrant faith that will shine an inviting light for those who are seeking the One it is our passion to follow.
We will begin this process today with a time of individual journaling. So, please pick up one of the journals we have provided, get a pen or pencil, and spend the next several minutes writing about one or all of the following questions:
What do you find exciting or challenging about exploring some new spiritual practices?
Are there any particular practices that feel more inviting to you and why?
How do you hope this experience will change or enhance your own spiritual lives?
Please feel free to take the journals with you to use throughout this time of exploration if you wish, but bring them with you on Sundays so that they are here for future journaling times. Or, if you don’t feel they would be a helpful tool during the week, you may leave them here. Either way, please put your name on the front cover so that we are all able to respect one another’s privacy.
Now, I invite you into a time of silence as we continue to worship through this medium of expression. The leading questions, once again, are:
What do you find exciting or challenging about exploring some new spiritual practices?
Are there any particular practices that feel more inviting to you and why?
How do you hope this experience will change or enhance your own spiritual lives?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Faith in the Storm
sermon by Torin Eikler
Mark 4:35-41 Job 38:1-11
It’s all well and good to sing about joys flowing like a river or giving our fears to the winds. That is what we should be doing, releasing our burdens and our fears to God and receiving the gift of joy in return. But it’s so much harder in real life. Growing up, as I did, in the Midwest, it’s particularly hard to sing that with feeling and authenticity. Tornadoes were a big specter in our childhood lives, and whirlwinds bring feelings of fear and awe rather than the promise of relief. When the wind comes, I tend to run away and hide rather than embrace it. The words of “When the storms of life are raging” come a little closer to my way of thinking.
Yet, storms, too, are a little iffy for me. While I love to watch the play of lightning on the canvas of the sky, I can’t help but head inside and count the seconds between light and sound to see just how close those striking flashes of electricity are … just in case. And, the story of the disciples on the Sea of Galilee took on new life and reality for me when I found myself in a storm-tossed boat in the Galapagos archipelago some years ago.
I was visiting my Mom in Ecuador at the time, and I got to join the group of exchange students she was responsible for their end-of-the-year trip. As a student of biology, I was terribly excited to visit those islands with all their unique wildlife, and the trip was wonderful. But, on one memorable night a storm came up while I was sleeping on the top deck of the smallish boat taking us around. There really wasn’t any rain to speak of, but the winds were something else.
I woke up when the boat started rocking pretty badly to the beat of eight or nine foot high waves, and I remember thinking I was probably safer lying down on the deck than trying to get to the stairs down to the main level. But, I changed my mind when the spray from a few waves coming over the bow-rail splashed across my face. It would have been very comforting at that moment to feel Jesus standing there beside me as I pulled myself along, crawling with my hand on the low wire “railing” at the edge of the tossing deck.
I have found myself feeling the same way at times when my life is in upheaval, and I know from what other have shared with me that I’m not alone. We all feel lost and helpless when we hear news about health problems among our families and friends. It’s hard to release our fears of what people will think of us if we do anything out of the ordinary. We can’t just stop worrying about where the money is going to come from to pay our mortgage or send our children to college. The list goes on and on and tossing all that into the wind could lead to it blowing right back in our faces. In the midst of the storm, it often seems like our fears and our worries are the only solid things left to hold onto. They are the little scrap of a boat that stands between us and the rising waves, and most of us aren’t really ready to “let go and let God.”
That kind of faith grows through practice. Each time you really do cast your fears to the wind, it gets a little easier – especially if things have worked out for you before. But boy that first time is hard. Come to think of it, so are the second and the third. It doesn’t help that we are generally taught self-reliance and self-sufficiency. Our parents (if they have done their job well) tell us that the ultimate mark of maturity and independence is when we can move out of the house, get a job, and pay our own way. Our society underlines that message with its stress on getting ahead and its ridicule for anyone who moves back in with mom and dad (although the current economic circumstances may be changing that). With all that pressure, it seems to take a whole lot of practice to get to the point where it actually gets easier … if it ever does.
It’s easy, you know, to think that the disciples had that kind of faith. In the midst of their storm, they woke Jesus up to help them, and he calmed the storm. And, that’s what we’re talking about isn’t it – turning to God to calm our fears and our uncertainty? But that last verse makes me wonder if they weren’t in the same boat we are. If they are left asking who Jesus really is to still the winds with a word, were they really expecting a miracle when they woke him?
Most of those in the boat that day were experienced sailors. It almost certain that they would have been caught out fishing when a storm came up before, and they probably knew what they needed to do to get through it all. I suspect that they might have been more frustrated that Jesus wasn’t helping out and woke him hoping for another hand at the sails or the bailing buckets rather than expecting some kind of miracle. I’m not sure it had to do with faith at all. Put in another way, the disciples may have woken Jesus more because they were hurt by his indifference to their plight rather than because they wanted him to save them. If there was faith there, it seems like it was just as sleepy as Jesus.
There is another story about a sailor at sea in the midst of a storm. It takes place in the Gulf of Mexico on a lowly shrimp boat with just two sailors and no sleeping messiah on board. And, if you haven’t guessed already, it comes from the movie Forrest Gump.
In that story, Lt. Dan – who has lost both legs from the knees down in a battle in Vietnam – is out trolling for shrimp with his resented rescuer, Forrest Gump. While they are fishing the Gulf, a hurricane blows up and catches them away from the harbor. As the skies darken with threatening clouds and the winds rise, the two work seal up the ship, preparing to ride out the storm, but Lt. Dan refuses to go into the relative safety of the bridge.
When the hurricane begins to hit its stride, he lifts himself up the center mast and lashes himself to the top. As the wind increases and the rain and the waves whip across the boat, he begins shouting and cursing – challenging God and the fury of the storm. And, there he stays throughout the night venting his anger, releasing all his frustration at the way his life has turned out and his fears about his future.
In the morning, Forrest comes out on deck in the light of a glorious sunrise and finds Lt. Dan smiling as he tosses himself over the side for a short swim. In the narration, Forrest speculates that his friend has finally made his peace with God.
Now that’s faith that’s awake and alive. That’s a faith that is not afraid to answer the question of who Jesus is, that has already answered that question by acknowledging the author of the storm. It’s a faith that knows it’s talking to (challenging even) the One who laid the foundations of the earth, stretched stars across the heavens, and put the boundaries of the sea in place, and it’s the kind of faith that give us the courage to cast our burdens to the winds. And, if Forrest is to be believed, it really can free us to receive peace and joy in return.
I feel pretty safe in speculating that all of us would pay enough attention not to be caught on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. And, if we were, I think we would all find ourselves sitting inside with Forrest rather than on the top of the mast with Lt. Dan. Still, we do often find ourselves right at the center of unexpected storms all the time.
Of course, I’m speaking metaphorically here, and the storms that catch us off guard are life experiences that upset our peaceful voyage through the days. The loss of treasured loved ones is a big one. Changes in the work place that leave us jobless or facing a big move to a new place can be turn us on our ears. Difficult relationships with abusive or depressed partners, disagreements with friends or family, even the simple struggles of getting along with parents or children can catch us up and spin us around until we aren’t quite sure who we are or what we really want anymore.
And even though everything is easier when it’s just acting in a movie, and it’s much, much harder to live embrace the vibrant faith that offers all our struggles up for God’s care or screams in the face of the whirlwinds that blow through our lives, we still have to face the question: are we awake and strong in our faith or are we just a little bit sleepy and unsure or ourselves and the power of our messiah?
All our justifications and excuses aside, do we have the faith and the courage to answer the question the disciples ask? Can we stand up and say that the One we follow is the Son of God – One with the power to calm the storms without and within? And if we can – if we do – do we still have the courage no only to turn and recognize that same One in our little boats with us but also to reach out for embrace that promises us release?
As difficult as it can be to make it through the storms of life on our own … as much as we often feel all alone in the midst of the struggle despite our claim that Christ is always with us … it is still difficult to step out of the boat in faith. It’s scary to let go of the fear and worry that we know and reach out, trusting that our Father with his great whirlwind of power will hold us with tender and caring hands. Yet, the promise of our teacher and Lord – the great claim of our faith – is that the God who loved us so much as to become one of us will save us if we but open our hearts and ask. If we can do that, there is hope for peace and joy. The worries and the fears that keep us holding onto the railing with white disappear with the storm, and we find that Jesus was there with us all along, holding us tenderly and calling us to wake up from the nightmare and see the beautiful, joyful sunrise.
Mark 4:35-41 Job 38:1-11
It’s all well and good to sing about joys flowing like a river or giving our fears to the winds. That is what we should be doing, releasing our burdens and our fears to God and receiving the gift of joy in return. But it’s so much harder in real life. Growing up, as I did, in the Midwest, it’s particularly hard to sing that with feeling and authenticity. Tornadoes were a big specter in our childhood lives, and whirlwinds bring feelings of fear and awe rather than the promise of relief. When the wind comes, I tend to run away and hide rather than embrace it. The words of “When the storms of life are raging” come a little closer to my way of thinking.
Yet, storms, too, are a little iffy for me. While I love to watch the play of lightning on the canvas of the sky, I can’t help but head inside and count the seconds between light and sound to see just how close those striking flashes of electricity are … just in case. And, the story of the disciples on the Sea of Galilee took on new life and reality for me when I found myself in a storm-tossed boat in the Galapagos archipelago some years ago.
I was visiting my Mom in Ecuador at the time, and I got to join the group of exchange students she was responsible for their end-of-the-year trip. As a student of biology, I was terribly excited to visit those islands with all their unique wildlife, and the trip was wonderful. But, on one memorable night a storm came up while I was sleeping on the top deck of the smallish boat taking us around. There really wasn’t any rain to speak of, but the winds were something else.
I woke up when the boat started rocking pretty badly to the beat of eight or nine foot high waves, and I remember thinking I was probably safer lying down on the deck than trying to get to the stairs down to the main level. But, I changed my mind when the spray from a few waves coming over the bow-rail splashed across my face. It would have been very comforting at that moment to feel Jesus standing there beside me as I pulled myself along, crawling with my hand on the low wire “railing” at the edge of the tossing deck.
I have found myself feeling the same way at times when my life is in upheaval, and I know from what other have shared with me that I’m not alone. We all feel lost and helpless when we hear news about health problems among our families and friends. It’s hard to release our fears of what people will think of us if we do anything out of the ordinary. We can’t just stop worrying about where the money is going to come from to pay our mortgage or send our children to college. The list goes on and on and tossing all that into the wind could lead to it blowing right back in our faces. In the midst of the storm, it often seems like our fears and our worries are the only solid things left to hold onto. They are the little scrap of a boat that stands between us and the rising waves, and most of us aren’t really ready to “let go and let God.”
That kind of faith grows through practice. Each time you really do cast your fears to the wind, it gets a little easier – especially if things have worked out for you before. But boy that first time is hard. Come to think of it, so are the second and the third. It doesn’t help that we are generally taught self-reliance and self-sufficiency. Our parents (if they have done their job well) tell us that the ultimate mark of maturity and independence is when we can move out of the house, get a job, and pay our own way. Our society underlines that message with its stress on getting ahead and its ridicule for anyone who moves back in with mom and dad (although the current economic circumstances may be changing that). With all that pressure, it seems to take a whole lot of practice to get to the point where it actually gets easier … if it ever does.
It’s easy, you know, to think that the disciples had that kind of faith. In the midst of their storm, they woke Jesus up to help them, and he calmed the storm. And, that’s what we’re talking about isn’t it – turning to God to calm our fears and our uncertainty? But that last verse makes me wonder if they weren’t in the same boat we are. If they are left asking who Jesus really is to still the winds with a word, were they really expecting a miracle when they woke him?
Most of those in the boat that day were experienced sailors. It almost certain that they would have been caught out fishing when a storm came up before, and they probably knew what they needed to do to get through it all. I suspect that they might have been more frustrated that Jesus wasn’t helping out and woke him hoping for another hand at the sails or the bailing buckets rather than expecting some kind of miracle. I’m not sure it had to do with faith at all. Put in another way, the disciples may have woken Jesus more because they were hurt by his indifference to their plight rather than because they wanted him to save them. If there was faith there, it seems like it was just as sleepy as Jesus.
There is another story about a sailor at sea in the midst of a storm. It takes place in the Gulf of Mexico on a lowly shrimp boat with just two sailors and no sleeping messiah on board. And, if you haven’t guessed already, it comes from the movie Forrest Gump.
In that story, Lt. Dan – who has lost both legs from the knees down in a battle in Vietnam – is out trolling for shrimp with his resented rescuer, Forrest Gump. While they are fishing the Gulf, a hurricane blows up and catches them away from the harbor. As the skies darken with threatening clouds and the winds rise, the two work seal up the ship, preparing to ride out the storm, but Lt. Dan refuses to go into the relative safety of the bridge.
When the hurricane begins to hit its stride, he lifts himself up the center mast and lashes himself to the top. As the wind increases and the rain and the waves whip across the boat, he begins shouting and cursing – challenging God and the fury of the storm. And, there he stays throughout the night venting his anger, releasing all his frustration at the way his life has turned out and his fears about his future.
In the morning, Forrest comes out on deck in the light of a glorious sunrise and finds Lt. Dan smiling as he tosses himself over the side for a short swim. In the narration, Forrest speculates that his friend has finally made his peace with God.
Now that’s faith that’s awake and alive. That’s a faith that is not afraid to answer the question of who Jesus is, that has already answered that question by acknowledging the author of the storm. It’s a faith that knows it’s talking to (challenging even) the One who laid the foundations of the earth, stretched stars across the heavens, and put the boundaries of the sea in place, and it’s the kind of faith that give us the courage to cast our burdens to the winds. And, if Forrest is to be believed, it really can free us to receive peace and joy in return.
I feel pretty safe in speculating that all of us would pay enough attention not to be caught on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. And, if we were, I think we would all find ourselves sitting inside with Forrest rather than on the top of the mast with Lt. Dan. Still, we do often find ourselves right at the center of unexpected storms all the time.
Of course, I’m speaking metaphorically here, and the storms that catch us off guard are life experiences that upset our peaceful voyage through the days. The loss of treasured loved ones is a big one. Changes in the work place that leave us jobless or facing a big move to a new place can be turn us on our ears. Difficult relationships with abusive or depressed partners, disagreements with friends or family, even the simple struggles of getting along with parents or children can catch us up and spin us around until we aren’t quite sure who we are or what we really want anymore.
And even though everything is easier when it’s just acting in a movie, and it’s much, much harder to live embrace the vibrant faith that offers all our struggles up for God’s care or screams in the face of the whirlwinds that blow through our lives, we still have to face the question: are we awake and strong in our faith or are we just a little bit sleepy and unsure or ourselves and the power of our messiah?
All our justifications and excuses aside, do we have the faith and the courage to answer the question the disciples ask? Can we stand up and say that the One we follow is the Son of God – One with the power to calm the storms without and within? And if we can – if we do – do we still have the courage no only to turn and recognize that same One in our little boats with us but also to reach out for embrace that promises us release?
As difficult as it can be to make it through the storms of life on our own … as much as we often feel all alone in the midst of the struggle despite our claim that Christ is always with us … it is still difficult to step out of the boat in faith. It’s scary to let go of the fear and worry that we know and reach out, trusting that our Father with his great whirlwind of power will hold us with tender and caring hands. Yet, the promise of our teacher and Lord – the great claim of our faith – is that the God who loved us so much as to become one of us will save us if we but open our hearts and ask. If we can do that, there is hope for peace and joy. The worries and the fears that keep us holding onto the railing with white disappear with the storm, and we find that Jesus was there with us all along, holding us tenderly and calling us to wake up from the nightmare and see the beautiful, joyful sunrise.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Seeds of the Harvest
sermon by Torin Eikler
Mark 4:26-32 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13
In the Anabaptist tradition we talk a whole lot about discernment and following the call as an essential part of our lives of discipleship. We are generally encouraged (and indeed encourage each other) to constantly be on the alert for the tugging of the Spirit that urges us to take on new roles or focus our energy in new ways. And, of course, it’s always in the service of growing the Realm of God – of nurturing into fullness the seeds of the Kingdom that we find sprouting all around and within us.
I must confess that I, myself, am usually just too tired or distracted to do any real discernment during my day to day living. Sometimes, a reminder to return to that quiet space of listening and contemplation is most welcome and leads me to new understanding, but most of the time, I find it frustrating and burdensome … and maybe just a little annoying to be reminded of my failure to make time or space for the Spirit’s guidance in my life.
I think some of my frustration with the whole process comes from my wish for a kind of bolt of lighting sign. You know something dramatic like a neon sign dropping from the heavens right in front of me telling me what to do. Or maybe the birth of an all-absorbing passion somewhere within me. Or even something as simple as having one outstanding talent that leads me down an obvious path. And, perhaps you have felt the same way.
Well, that hasn’t happened to me yet, and I it may not. And, while it doesn’t hurt to hope, I suppose, it seems much more likely that our lives will be filled with small nudges and little deeds in the service of our God. Most of us will be among the anonymous seeds that, together, yield the harvest that prepares for and supports the work of God across history. According to the parables, that’s the way the Realm of God works.
When we look back at Samuel’s time, we can see the pattern at work in the story of David. He was the least of the sons of Jesse – the youngest, relegated to lowly task of herding the sheep. Yet, it was in that unassuming youth that Samuel saw the potential for the greatest of Israel’s kings. And it was with God’s blessing and through divine power and providence that David was protected in his battle with Goliath and his struggle with Saul, until through any number of more and less trivial moments he grew to become the greatest of the kings of Israel.
Little things are planted here and there and they grow by the power of God. Unassuming moments and actions take place all over the place all the time, and they build on each other until all of the sudden, there is a great harvest ready to be brought in. That’s the way it was in the glory days of Israel when there really was a kingdom, and it’s still that way today – even though only those with eyes to see find God’s realm among us.
A few years ago, I ran across a book called The Sparrow in a friend’s library. Like many of the books I enjoy reading, it was science fiction, but it wasn’t filled with technological miracles or space-faring warriors or even an earth advanced almost beyond recognition. It could have taken place just a few decades from now. But, the biggest difference – the reason it has become one of my favorite novels – is that The Sparrow is actually a parable that explores human nature, the nature of faith, and the intricacies of our relationship with God.
It is the tale of humanity’s first voyage to encounter another civilization on a distant planet, and among the main characters (really the main character) is a Jesuit priest named Emilio Sanchez. An orphan from the slums of Puerto Rico, Emilio was taken in at a catholic school where the priest discovered his gifts for language while he discovered a sense of calling that led him to ordination. Throughout his career on Earth, he was moved from country to country, ministering to the poor – especially orphans like himself. With each move, he grew more and more frustrated and began to question his place in the work of God and his calling as a priest.
When the Vatican decided to fund an expedition in response to radio messages intercepted from space, it was clear that Emilio was an obvious choice as part of a crew. In the course of his work, he had become fluent in more than a dozen languages and had developed a system for identifying the role and meaning of words that allowed him to take languages apart, understand the way they worked, and put them back together in next to no time. It was a skill that would be essential to a mission that would have to communicate in decidedly non-human languages on the fly.
When he hears about his new assignment, Emilio feels like he finally sees the hand of God in the pattern of his life. His frustrations fade away and with a sense of awe and excitement, he embraces his role in the mission. He says goodbye to the two or three friends he has cultivated across the years, and boards the ship for the trip to Rakhat.
Across the arc of the story, Emilio and his companions experience both great beauty and terrible horrors as they learn about civilization on Rakhat. In the end, only Emilio survives to return to Earth when a second delegation arrives years later. Yet, despite all the grief that he has experienced, his faith survives his anger and despair. And, though he struggles to make sense of the results, he never doubts that his many experiences on Earth were part of God’s plan to prepare him for his role in the first mission or that the mission was somehow part of God’s greater plan for all creation.
Most of us, I think, probably won’t ever find ourselves with that feeling that our whole lives have led up to one moment or made us uniquely qualified for one particular role in God’s plan. Still, there will be little moments along the way – moments when we find that our past has prepared us for the task at hand in a special way. At times, we can come to recognize those intersections – to make out how the seeds that have been planted in us are growing – through time spent in contemplation and discernment. At other times, we only find understanding after the fact, perceiving the pattern after the seeds have matured and been harvested. The seed cannot always know what it will become after all, and the time of the harvest is in God’s hand.
Many of you, I know, are gardeners. You know the joy and the challenge of planting seeds and watching them grow. You know about the frustration and inevitability of weeds. No matter what you do, they come back. Dandelions, thistles, crabgrass, or whatever they may be, they just won’t die. And once you’ve rooted them out of one area, they pop up in another.
Enter the mustard plant.
We all know about one or two varieties of mustard. There is the one, sinapis hirta, whose seeds are pretty common in spice racks though most of us probably don’t use it very much – at least in that form. Probably, though, we all have it in another incarnation since it is the key ingredient in the mustard that we put on our hot dogs, hamburgers, and maybe even French fries.
Another variety, brassica juncea, is grown for its leaves and is more commonly known as mustard greens. That one is a favorite in some regions of the United States, especially when mixed with bacon, butter, and garlic. I was introduced to this one when I lived in South Carolina, and I came to love it. But, it’s an aquired taste. So, be prepared for something a bit different if you decide to try it yourself.
Neither of these two mustard plants, though, are the one Jesus speaks of in the second parable we heard today. That one, generally agreed to have been brassica nigra, was known throughout the biblical world as a noxious, if beautiful, weed. Like the weeds that we struggle with, it proved to be nearly impossible to eradicate once it found its way into a field or a garden. For that reason, Jewish law actually prohibited the planting of mustard in a garden, and several Roman writers suggested that it only be planted in a segregated field so that it didn’t get in among the other crops.
I described the plant as a noxious weed, but that may not be exactly the right word. Clearly people did cultivate the plant and probably used the seeds in cooking. So, I guess it wasn’t considered to be harmful, but it was a tightly controlled plant that still managed to get loose and cause trouble. Yet, Jesus used this well-known weed as a parallel for the Kingdom of God.
Usually, we concentrate on the image of that tiny seed growing into a huge shrub and providing shelter as the reason for his choice. And we interpret the parable as meaning that the Realm of God takes root at the slightest indication of faith and grows to create a safe and welcoming space for us to make our spiritual home. But, I have been wondering if that is all that Jesus intended.
Maybe he chose the mustard seed precisely because it was such a prolific weed. No matter what we do – no matter how we try to stamp it out or control it, it spreads. It pops up in all manner of unexpected places and is capable of completely taking over. I suppose we could call it invasive though that’s not a term that we normally associate with the Realm of God because of its negative connotation. Maybe that’s part of the point. Parables, after all, are not intended to be logical and straight-forward. They surprise us with truth that we wouldn’t see otherwise.
Earlier in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus announced that the Realm of God is among us and within us. Now we hear that it is like a seed – but not just any seed. It is a tiny seed that grows according to God’s time and God’s plan, and it cannot be controlled or stamped out. Slowly and surely, despite our best efforts or the efforts of the world around us, it begins to take over any place it gets a foot hold. It matures within us over the course of our lives as our experiences shape us and prepare us for the moment of the harvest. And we in turn become gardeners, planting seeds of the Kingdom.
And, even though spreading seeds of the Kingdom can be frustrating, and we all wish, in some way, that we could just get there – just see the world covered with shining flowers or sweet fruit or nourishing grain – there is comfort in knowing that we are planting seeds – that we are ourselves seeds in God’s garden. Seeds in that garden are different. No matter how small they seem and how much resistance and abuse they receive, they can and do become something special. They grow, and we grow, into something with unexpected promise – something that does provide shelter, sustenance, and surprising beauty.
Whether we find our way into the work of the Spirit through meditation and discernment or we happen upon it through a chain of events in our lives; we can be assured that we are a part of that work. Even as our own faith grows and matures, even if we don’t realize it, we are planting seeds of surprising promise. As we follow the path of discipleship, we join in the Spirit’s work of transforming the world into a beautiful place run wild with peace and justice – into God’s garden.
Let us embrace that vision and our part in it, for God has looked on our hearts and chosen us. Let us go into the world as disciples of Christ; feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, sheltering the destitute, spreading the good news, and welcoming all we meet in love. Let us grow into “weeds” of the Kingdom, humbly spreading seeds of hope and promise in the faith that, in God’s time and through God’s grace, they will grow into a bountiful harvest of peace and justice.
May it be so.
Mark 4:26-32 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13
In the Anabaptist tradition we talk a whole lot about discernment and following the call as an essential part of our lives of discipleship. We are generally encouraged (and indeed encourage each other) to constantly be on the alert for the tugging of the Spirit that urges us to take on new roles or focus our energy in new ways. And, of course, it’s always in the service of growing the Realm of God – of nurturing into fullness the seeds of the Kingdom that we find sprouting all around and within us.
I must confess that I, myself, am usually just too tired or distracted to do any real discernment during my day to day living. Sometimes, a reminder to return to that quiet space of listening and contemplation is most welcome and leads me to new understanding, but most of the time, I find it frustrating and burdensome … and maybe just a little annoying to be reminded of my failure to make time or space for the Spirit’s guidance in my life.
I think some of my frustration with the whole process comes from my wish for a kind of bolt of lighting sign. You know something dramatic like a neon sign dropping from the heavens right in front of me telling me what to do. Or maybe the birth of an all-absorbing passion somewhere within me. Or even something as simple as having one outstanding talent that leads me down an obvious path. And, perhaps you have felt the same way.
Well, that hasn’t happened to me yet, and I it may not. And, while it doesn’t hurt to hope, I suppose, it seems much more likely that our lives will be filled with small nudges and little deeds in the service of our God. Most of us will be among the anonymous seeds that, together, yield the harvest that prepares for and supports the work of God across history. According to the parables, that’s the way the Realm of God works.
When we look back at Samuel’s time, we can see the pattern at work in the story of David. He was the least of the sons of Jesse – the youngest, relegated to lowly task of herding the sheep. Yet, it was in that unassuming youth that Samuel saw the potential for the greatest of Israel’s kings. And it was with God’s blessing and through divine power and providence that David was protected in his battle with Goliath and his struggle with Saul, until through any number of more and less trivial moments he grew to become the greatest of the kings of Israel.
Little things are planted here and there and they grow by the power of God. Unassuming moments and actions take place all over the place all the time, and they build on each other until all of the sudden, there is a great harvest ready to be brought in. That’s the way it was in the glory days of Israel when there really was a kingdom, and it’s still that way today – even though only those with eyes to see find God’s realm among us.
A few years ago, I ran across a book called The Sparrow in a friend’s library. Like many of the books I enjoy reading, it was science fiction, but it wasn’t filled with technological miracles or space-faring warriors or even an earth advanced almost beyond recognition. It could have taken place just a few decades from now. But, the biggest difference – the reason it has become one of my favorite novels – is that The Sparrow is actually a parable that explores human nature, the nature of faith, and the intricacies of our relationship with God.
It is the tale of humanity’s first voyage to encounter another civilization on a distant planet, and among the main characters (really the main character) is a Jesuit priest named Emilio Sanchez. An orphan from the slums of Puerto Rico, Emilio was taken in at a catholic school where the priest discovered his gifts for language while he discovered a sense of calling that led him to ordination. Throughout his career on Earth, he was moved from country to country, ministering to the poor – especially orphans like himself. With each move, he grew more and more frustrated and began to question his place in the work of God and his calling as a priest.
When the Vatican decided to fund an expedition in response to radio messages intercepted from space, it was clear that Emilio was an obvious choice as part of a crew. In the course of his work, he had become fluent in more than a dozen languages and had developed a system for identifying the role and meaning of words that allowed him to take languages apart, understand the way they worked, and put them back together in next to no time. It was a skill that would be essential to a mission that would have to communicate in decidedly non-human languages on the fly.
When he hears about his new assignment, Emilio feels like he finally sees the hand of God in the pattern of his life. His frustrations fade away and with a sense of awe and excitement, he embraces his role in the mission. He says goodbye to the two or three friends he has cultivated across the years, and boards the ship for the trip to Rakhat.
Across the arc of the story, Emilio and his companions experience both great beauty and terrible horrors as they learn about civilization on Rakhat. In the end, only Emilio survives to return to Earth when a second delegation arrives years later. Yet, despite all the grief that he has experienced, his faith survives his anger and despair. And, though he struggles to make sense of the results, he never doubts that his many experiences on Earth were part of God’s plan to prepare him for his role in the first mission or that the mission was somehow part of God’s greater plan for all creation.
Most of us, I think, probably won’t ever find ourselves with that feeling that our whole lives have led up to one moment or made us uniquely qualified for one particular role in God’s plan. Still, there will be little moments along the way – moments when we find that our past has prepared us for the task at hand in a special way. At times, we can come to recognize those intersections – to make out how the seeds that have been planted in us are growing – through time spent in contemplation and discernment. At other times, we only find understanding after the fact, perceiving the pattern after the seeds have matured and been harvested. The seed cannot always know what it will become after all, and the time of the harvest is in God’s hand.
Many of you, I know, are gardeners. You know the joy and the challenge of planting seeds and watching them grow. You know about the frustration and inevitability of weeds. No matter what you do, they come back. Dandelions, thistles, crabgrass, or whatever they may be, they just won’t die. And once you’ve rooted them out of one area, they pop up in another.
Enter the mustard plant.
We all know about one or two varieties of mustard. There is the one, sinapis hirta, whose seeds are pretty common in spice racks though most of us probably don’t use it very much – at least in that form. Probably, though, we all have it in another incarnation since it is the key ingredient in the mustard that we put on our hot dogs, hamburgers, and maybe even French fries.
Another variety, brassica juncea, is grown for its leaves and is more commonly known as mustard greens. That one is a favorite in some regions of the United States, especially when mixed with bacon, butter, and garlic. I was introduced to this one when I lived in South Carolina, and I came to love it. But, it’s an aquired taste. So, be prepared for something a bit different if you decide to try it yourself.
Neither of these two mustard plants, though, are the one Jesus speaks of in the second parable we heard today. That one, generally agreed to have been brassica nigra, was known throughout the biblical world as a noxious, if beautiful, weed. Like the weeds that we struggle with, it proved to be nearly impossible to eradicate once it found its way into a field or a garden. For that reason, Jewish law actually prohibited the planting of mustard in a garden, and several Roman writers suggested that it only be planted in a segregated field so that it didn’t get in among the other crops.
I described the plant as a noxious weed, but that may not be exactly the right word. Clearly people did cultivate the plant and probably used the seeds in cooking. So, I guess it wasn’t considered to be harmful, but it was a tightly controlled plant that still managed to get loose and cause trouble. Yet, Jesus used this well-known weed as a parallel for the Kingdom of God.
Usually, we concentrate on the image of that tiny seed growing into a huge shrub and providing shelter as the reason for his choice. And we interpret the parable as meaning that the Realm of God takes root at the slightest indication of faith and grows to create a safe and welcoming space for us to make our spiritual home. But, I have been wondering if that is all that Jesus intended.
Maybe he chose the mustard seed precisely because it was such a prolific weed. No matter what we do – no matter how we try to stamp it out or control it, it spreads. It pops up in all manner of unexpected places and is capable of completely taking over. I suppose we could call it invasive though that’s not a term that we normally associate with the Realm of God because of its negative connotation. Maybe that’s part of the point. Parables, after all, are not intended to be logical and straight-forward. They surprise us with truth that we wouldn’t see otherwise.
Earlier in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus announced that the Realm of God is among us and within us. Now we hear that it is like a seed – but not just any seed. It is a tiny seed that grows according to God’s time and God’s plan, and it cannot be controlled or stamped out. Slowly and surely, despite our best efforts or the efforts of the world around us, it begins to take over any place it gets a foot hold. It matures within us over the course of our lives as our experiences shape us and prepare us for the moment of the harvest. And we in turn become gardeners, planting seeds of the Kingdom.
And, even though spreading seeds of the Kingdom can be frustrating, and we all wish, in some way, that we could just get there – just see the world covered with shining flowers or sweet fruit or nourishing grain – there is comfort in knowing that we are planting seeds – that we are ourselves seeds in God’s garden. Seeds in that garden are different. No matter how small they seem and how much resistance and abuse they receive, they can and do become something special. They grow, and we grow, into something with unexpected promise – something that does provide shelter, sustenance, and surprising beauty.
Whether we find our way into the work of the Spirit through meditation and discernment or we happen upon it through a chain of events in our lives; we can be assured that we are a part of that work. Even as our own faith grows and matures, even if we don’t realize it, we are planting seeds of surprising promise. As we follow the path of discipleship, we join in the Spirit’s work of transforming the world into a beautiful place run wild with peace and justice – into God’s garden.
Let us embrace that vision and our part in it, for God has looked on our hearts and chosen us. Let us go into the world as disciples of Christ; feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, sheltering the destitute, spreading the good news, and welcoming all we meet in love. Let us grow into “weeds” of the Kingdom, humbly spreading seeds of hope and promise in the faith that, in God’s time and through God’s grace, they will grow into a bountiful harvest of peace and justice.
May it be so.
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