Freed to Share

sermon by Torin Eikler
John 20:19-27             Acts 5:27-32

Our story begins, today, with the much maligned Thomas.  Thomas the doubter … Thomas the disciple who refused to believe in the resurrection without proof … Thomas the man who had the gall to actually stick his fingers in the wounds on Jesus’ hands…  Thomas.

Some of us (raise hand) have spent a significant amount of time and energy over the years defending Thomas.  Most of us grant him a measure of grace and understanding just as Jesus did.  But, I think that we also hold him in contempt just a little bit … or at least we pity him. We are the ones who are blessed to believe without seeing after all.  We are the ones who have faith without needing proof.

And yet, we are a people of the scientific approach on the whole.  We explore the world around us through our senses, and we demand proof whenever we are faced with something new or different, especially when it’s something that doesn’t seem to fit with what we are familiar with.  I would even hazard a guess that faith is the probably the only thing that we take … on faith.  Maybe one of a few things, but all the rest of what we “know” comes to us from our experience or the experience of others who, we trust, have done the necessary and proper work to prove that it is true. 

That’s not so different from the way Thomas seems to have seen the world … at least from the little that we know.  He was a reasonable man … something of a skeptic perhaps, but reasonable … a pragmatist.  He believed in the miracles that Jesus had performed, and he accepted Jesus’ authority … trusted his words.  But this was different … something new and difficult to believe.  Sure others had been raised from the dead (some even in his presence), but if the words of the disciples were to be believed, Jesus had escaped the tomb by himself – no voice to call him back, no one to breathe life back into him, no hands to unwind his shroud or lift to his feet, no crowd of people to roll away the door.  He did it all by himself.  This was unprecedented, impossible, and Thomas just wanted something … some proof before he would believe … believe and hope and risk the agony and despair of being wrong.

But, while that attitude was a tiny little stumbling block to his experience of the resurrection and the joy and freedom that it brought to other disciples, it was also the thing that let him continue to function during those three days that Jesus was in the tomb.

The others were afraid.  They were devastated at the loss of their friend – the man who had taught and amazed and inspired and led them for the past three years.  He was gone, and all the signs pointed toward the authorities coming after them too.  They would be better off if they finished cleaning up this mess after all.  Even if those threats hadn’t been so very real, they would still have had to face the jeers and judgment of the crowds who had so recently cheered Jesus.  So, they cowered together behind a locked door and prayed that no soldiers would show up and take them to face the “justice” that awaited them.  What else could they do?  Without proof, none of them believed they had any hope let alone good news to share.  Ironically, locking themselves away did the authorities job just as well as they could have … at least for awhile.

Only reasonable, pragmatic, “Doubting Thomas” had the courage to be out and about.  As he put it in the monologue, “It was good while it lasted, but I knew I had to face facts:” Jesus was gone, the glory days were over, and the authorities might be after them, but they still had to eat and they needed to know the lay of the land if they were ever going to leave that room.  And that way of thinking freed Thomas to go and do what needed to be done despite the danger.

 

I have a strange question to ask you now....  Have any of you ever been arrested by the police?  Okay ... there are a couple, but most of you haven't had the pleasure.  I have not been quite as fortunate.  No, I haven’t actually been arrested, but I have been “harassed” a couple of times.  Once was when I was living and working on the south side of Chicago.  I had been out running some errands, and on my way back I was pulled over, pulled out of my van, frisked, and interrogated by a couple of police officers who insisted that “white guys only came to that part of the city for drugs or sex.”  The questioning went on for about ten minutes despite my insistence that I was volunteering at Su Casa Catholic Worker House and my repeated invitation to go the 50 feet to the building and ask them to confirm my story.

The other time I was “escorted” to the police station and fingerprinted as a suspect in the theft of my aunt’s car which had disappeared the night before when a couple of my friends and I had spent the night.  They me go after I agreed to return for a lie-detector test if they felt the need.  The car was discovered three days later on a side road two miles away much the worse for the wear.

Both of those experiences are still so clear in my memory despite the 15 years of a very full life that have passed since then.  They are still vivid because I was so afraid of what would happen.  Afraid and trapped at the questionable mercy of the authorities who, in the one case, never took their hands off their guns and, in the other, had me sitting in cell with the door locked.

Even though I was not really under the threat of death, I can appreciate what drove the disciples into that room, and I think I have an inkling of the courage it took for Thomas to leave.

So what happened to those sad, terrified men?  Something brought about a pretty big change.  On the one hand we have a handful of people cowering in a room with the door locked.  On the other hand we have disciples sharing their message just a few days later…  and not just sharing.  They were speaking boldly, passionately, and with authority without regard for the power or the penalties the high priests’ court threatened. 

Standing in front of the same people who executed the teacher they now call Lord, they didn’t offer a defense or an excuse.  Instead, they simply explained about their vibrant and living relationship with God who they knew with an intimacy and certainty that trumped all other claims to obedience.  In the face of anger and the threat of violence, they responded as that relationship demanded:  by simply proclaiming the irrepressible love they had come to know so fully in their experience of Christ.  In short, they did what needed to be done.

Speaking of the profound transformation wrought in these men by the blessing of the risen Christ, Marilyn Chandler McEntyre says:

I am struck not just by their courage in speaking truth to power but by the simplicity and clarity of their response to accusation. With such clarity there is little need for defiance. Their point is not to argue in their own defense but to bear witness to the one they must obey. Must is a key word: what compels them can’t be argued away because it is not matter for argument. Bearing witness is not the same as making a case.

I am even more struck by the disciples’ freedom. The high priests don’t have power over them; the disciples live outside their jurisdiction: as they are no longer under the law, the agents of the law cannot bind them. No longer afraid of death, they are free indeed. In a few bold sentences they tell a story that is more invitation than defense, offering great good news to the very people who killed their Beloved.[1]

Our “high priests” are not so deadly.  Even our police, guns and all, are mostly just intimidating.  But the opinion and judgment of the society that surrounds us inspires their own particular brand of fear.  None of us want to face embarrassment or humiliation at the hands of friends and neighbors.  None of us want to see people laughing at us or to find ourselves dismissed – ignored because we are too weird or seem to be fanatics.  And we certainly don’t want to find ourselves isolated and alone having scared off our friends and perhaps even our families.  (That’s the worst one.)

So, we put up walls of our own making and a door that can only be opened from the inside.  We lock up the voice of our faith inside so that it won’t come out an offend anyone.  We turn away from the moments when we could share the Good News that we hold onto.  We silence ourselves more effectively than any authorities could. 

And yet … we are not alone in that room.  God is there with us.  The Spirit of Christ sits there with us offering the same grace and benediction that Christ shared with the disciples:  “Peace be with you.”  Do not be afraid.  I am with you always.  Comfort … comfort … and then a challenge: Let my light shine in you.  Go.  Leave this locked room and share the joy that lives at the heart of your faith.  Share it so that you can live and be free.  Share it so that others might live and be free.

---

[1] McEntyre, Marilyn Chandler.  “Living by the Word,” The Christian Century: Thinking Critically, Living Faithfully, April 3, 2013.  20.

The Web of Life

Love Feast Meditation by Torin Eikler

In pockets around the Midwest there are people who hold to the old ways of the Church of the Brethren.  They are called the Old Order German Baptist Brethren, and I grew up near one of their churches.  My classmates wore plain clothes and prayer coverings.  They came to school in black cars with the chrome painted over.

Once, I went to a Love Feast at an Old Order church … not the whole thing, but the part that mirrored what we do tonight.  You see, Love Feast in the older tradition is a week-end long event.  People come from other congregations nearby and stay in guest rooms, barns, and even tents.  They gather every day for worship, meals, and fellowship together.  And in the middle of the celebration, on Saturday night, they come together in the church building for what we call Love Feast.

It is a solemn occasion, the men and women sitting on different sides of the room around long tables.  Ministers rise and speak throughout the evening, recounting the passion of Christ and encouraging reflection and earnestness.  The footwashing takes place in silence.  The simple meal is blessed and shared from common bowls and common cups … in silence.  The communion is blessed and distributed – long strips of unleavened bread and a single cup shared around by the people … in silence.  The oldest minister rises to give a final word of encouragement to continue in the life of discipleship, the congregation sings a simple hymn from memory, the congregation passed the holy kiss.  Then they depart for the evening to return the next morning for worship.

 

Just a little different from our Love Feasts here.  We sit with our wives and husbands, and we’ve got jeans and children and laughter.  … We even have our own cups to drink from.  But in the ways that are most important, we are connected with those brothers and sisters who hold to an older way:  we all celebrate this night in reverence and community

 

We Anabaptists are not sacramental.  Baptism, communion, anointing … these are special moments in our lives but not because they give us any special measure of grace. We do not believe that grace is granted to us through any particular rites or rituals.  Grace comes freely from God, and, often, it seems easier to receive … more fully experienced when it comes through the hands and hearts of others.

That’s when the Body of Christ takes on life, when we serve one another in love.  You can hear it in Eric’s poem which we read at the beginning of the service.  ‘Hands surrounding boney, swollen, callused toes, washing the debris of life away, … warm soup, cheese, dates, and nuts waiting to be shared with friends, … cups and bread waiting to be broken in the candlelight, … families gathered to wash and be washed, to serve and be served, to eat and be consumed.’ 

When we wash one another’s feet, when we share the simple meal of love, when we break the bread and take the cup together, when we practice all these things that we have learned, then we take on the Christ life … we become the Body of Christ … together.

 

So tonight, as we pray, eat, and serve one another, let us do so together.  Let us embrace the Christ life as we resurrect the Body of Christ among us.

A Fragile Day

Meditation by Torin Eikler
Luke 19:28-40

What are we to make of Palm Sunday?  It’s a strange day – a day of rejoicing – a moment near the end of Christ’s ministry when we get to celebrate all that he did and all of the possibilities for a changed world.  But we know what happens next.  We know that all the bright futures seem to fade away.  In a matter of days Jesus will be arrested, beaten, condemned, and executed, and all the dreams of the people will shatter.

It makes today seem a little … off … a little fragile.  Like somehow we shouldn’t be celebrating.  Like joy has no place here.  Like any moment, the bubble will burst and darkness and despair will take the place of light-hearted joy.  And yet, every time I hear this part of Jesus’ story, I feel the hope of the people who gathered to cheer on this unlikely king – this man who they thought was the messiah come to overthrow the Romans, and I feel hope rising in me too … a fragile hope in the shadow of the cross, but enough to make me want to celebrate this messiah – this king with them.

 

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, he did so as a king, but his royalty was not pomp and power but on a donkey in humble obedience.  In obedience he set his face to Jerusalem, knowing that violence awaited him at journey’s end.  In obedience he traveled along the way, eating and drinking with sinners, and remaining faithful to God’s desire to gather the rejected and the lost.  Then he entered the city for one last try at helping the people understand.[1]

 

It was a moment filled with fragile possibility.  The best hope of the people was riding on that borrowed donkey.  Oh, what might have been!  Everything was just right – if only Jesus had seized the moment; if only the people of Jerusalem had responded as they should have; if only God had fulfilled the dreams of those who followed Jesus. 

Life is filled with moments of what might have been – moments when everything seems right, but then it just doesn’t work out as we had hoped.  It can be so hard to go on believing in God when life doesn’t give us what matters so dearly to us, but there is always a danger when we attempt to chart the course for what God will do.  God was about to do something powerful and wonderful – but that day the disciples were not looking for a different kind of king.  Their imaginations anticipated a far more limited kind of kingdom, and their disappointment led to anger and death.

It is so easy to project false images of the Lord we worship, to make for ourselves a king whom we can worship rather than to worship the Christ as our king.  We construct cults to the god who is always on our side and looks after our interests rather than those of our adversaries and enemies.  We desire a God who promises health and prosperity, and so we join the train of those whose worship is false because they do not know that the kingdom of God belongs to a different kind of king.[2]

But God has a different plan – a fragile hope of her own.  God is hoping that the people of this world will turn away from the kings of their own vision – the kings of power and wealth, and turn toward the humble King of Love who rode into Jerusalem to the cheers of widows and orphans, beggars and outcasts, the sick and the searching.  Every day, God calls to us … invites us … pleads with us to join this other kingdom.  And, every day, we choose:  follow in the footsteps of the Obedient One or chase after the dreams of the crowd.

 

Each day is a fragile day for us.  If we choose Christ – choose the way of love - then our lives, as we have known them, may well be forfeit for one more day.  If we choose the crowd, then the world will remain as it is, and there will be no change in the suffering and the despair that haunts us all … for one more day.

 
Let us choose … this day … to follow Christ.  Let us welcome … this day … our strange King.  Let us enter the even stranger kingdom he brings.  And, let us rejoice even though we know what is coming.  Let us celebrate … for this one day at least … the hope that love can bring.

---

[1] adapted from Thomas Long’s “Season’s Greeting” in The Christian Century, March 21-28, 2001 p. 13.

[2] Culpepper, R. Alan. “The Gospel of Luke: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections” in The New Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary in Twelve Volumes, Volume IX (Abingdon Press, Nashville) 1995.  370-71.

The Accumulated Misbehaviors in Punxatawney

sermo by Carrie Eikler
John 12:1-8, Philippians 3:4b-14
March 17, 2013 (Lent 5)

In this month’s edition of the magazine The Atlantic, I was alerted to the fact that it is the twentieth anniversary of the movie “Groundhog Day” with Bill Murray.   True to its nature, Groundhog Day was a movie that I watched over and over as a teenager.  It must have, in some way, spoken to the existential angst that many teenagers feel, but don’t quite know how to express.

So let’s retell the central plot of Groundhog Day one more time.  The Atlantic article did a great job of summing it up, so I’ll use their synopsis:   Groundhog Day is a “bizarre romantic comedy about a grumpy, middle-aged weatherman who must relive the same day over and over until at last he bursts the spirit’s sleep….Weatherman Phil Connors, of Channel 9, Pittsburgh, is dispatched one freezing February to the town of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. His assignment: to cover the Groundhog Festival, a strange bit of real-life pagan whimsy involving a groundhog, its shadow, and the possibility of six more weeks of winter. Phil ([played by Bill] Murray) is bored and hostile; he flirts spikily with his producer, Rita ([played by Andie] MacDowell), and bullies his cameraman; he disdains the cheery locals and their festivities ([calling them ]“hicks … morons …”); he spurns a dozen occasions to chat/connect/relate; he can’t wait to wrap up this piddling gig and get back to Pittsburgh. But a huge snowstorm—which he had predicted, with meteorological hubris, would pass by harmlessly—blocks his way home. Trapped in Punxsutawney for the night, comprehensively disaffected, he signs off and crashes out. When he wakes up the next morning, it’s Groundhog Day. Again.  Same conditions, same people, same ritual. So it goes the morning after, and the morning after that, and on and on ad (apparently) infinitum. Phil is in a loop, a temporal locked groove. He’s stuck.”

Quite a heady bit of entertainment.  Apparently, when the writers, Harold Ramis and Danny Rubin, were creating the film they talked about what should cause Phil’s problem-they considered using an external cause such as a magical clockmaker, or a gypsy’s curse.  In the end, as we know, it is left unexplained why it happens.  There is no reason given why Phil is reliving this day over and over.  It begins quickly and its and how exactly it is resolved is unknown to us the viewer.  But, as the Atlantic article explains, it does seem like “Phil’s stopped clock is all about his Phil-ness, his unrecognized  despair…We accept Phil’s never-ending Groundhog Day as a sentence passed upon his character, the net result of his accumulated misbehaviors in Punxsutawney.”

Stuck.
Stuckness
Imprisoned in time
Imprisoned in a loop of our own despair.
Stuck, stuck, stuck.
Groundhog’s Day…all over again.

Do you feel, or have you ever felt…stuck?
So, maybe you are stuck by feeling your job is unfulfilling, but in these times,
can you really follow your heart’s desire?

Maybe you feel stuck in negative thoughts
maybe negative thoughts about a certain person that no matter what happens
you will always think that person is a jerk.

May you feel stuck in a family system
where no one takes you seriously,
or everyone expects everything from you,
or no one seems to care about your opinion
and no matter how much things seem to change,
they will always stay the same.

Maybe you feel stuck in a tradition
like, you were raised Mennonite but wonder if you are really Catholic
or you were raised Catholic and you are flirting with us Anabaptists.
but could you really do anything about that?
what would they say.

And here, I am an expert about “they”
“have loads of “they’s” in my head.
What will “they” say about me wearing boots when I preach?
What will “they” say about our need for a sabbatical?
What are “they” saying about x, y, or z.

Oh yeah.  Church, home, family, friends.
I have a whole chorus of “theys” in my head.
But that’s part of my stuckness.

I’d wager that in some way,
big or small,
insignificant or debilitating
you may have your own feeling of being stuck

and you wonder what caused it.

What clockmaker’s magic or gypsy’s curse
or bit of divine karma has brought you to this
place?

What did you do wrong—what is your “philness”
that brought this about?

When Paul wrote to the Philippians,
he was in a physical prison,
but speaking of a spiritual release.
He was saying how everything in past should have led him to
a certain path--
and for a while, it did.

He had the perfect resume so to speak
physically, spiritually, intellectually, genetically
he had it locked in—a future that was bright
and secure
with status and acknowledgement.

But once he met Christ
it shifted.

I don’t know if Paul is expressing remorse
or regret for his past.
But I think he does recognize that it shaped him
The past shaped him,
but his future is now a different goal.
He’s not locked into his previous notions
anymore.

--

So, we sit somewhat
in the prisons of our lives:
mental prisons, emotional prisons, spiritual prisons.
Even if it is simply a prison of a routine that feels dry,
there are things in our lives we feel unable to break free of
escape.

During Lent we are invited to turn inward and look
at what needs released in our lives.
So we give things up or take things on and hope
that seven weeks is enough to start us
on the path of liberation.

But then Lent will end, and
who knows?
Maybe things will be the same as before.
Maybe things will start to turn a corner.
Maybe we will start to unstick from the stuck parts of our lives
and it won’t be…finally…Groundhog Day anymore.

--

The artist Jan Richardson reflects in her book Sanctuary of Women: “ I sometimes have a keen sense of the shadows of other lives — fleeting impressions of what might have happened if I had made a different choice or if another path had opened to me at a crucial juncture or a seemingly ordinary one. I am not meant to inhabit or linger too long amid these glimpses of other lives, yet they visit nonetheless. They come as reminders of how it matters what we choose.

They come too as a reminder of grace:
that God can work within every choice, even the ones we made long ago. “

I find that to be an amazingly comforting thought,
that God can work within every choice,
even the ones we made long ago.
Isn’t that an amazing definition of grace?
One I think even Paul, who was big on grace
could approve of, as he sat in his
own prison cell.

 And I imagine if that is the case,
that God can work within every choice,
even the ones we made long ago,
God can work within any prison walls we create for ourselves,
or stuck-ness that our circumstances have put us in
that have nothing to do with what we’ve done or not done.
But the things that happen just because life happens
and life isn’t fair.

I’d like to take a few minutes and have you reflect, silently,
your place of “stuck-ness.”
It might be a huge barrier to happiness for you. 
It might be small roadbump, something you wouldn’t have thought
of calling “stuck” unless I invited you think about it.

What is do you feel prisoner to in your life?
How are you feeling stuck?

[silence]

Remember Groundhog’s Day?
Well, as anyone could guess, Phil figures it out.  
He learns contentment, and he learns forgiveness, and he learns kindness.  
And he gets unstuck.
Could we learn from that?
Contentment, forgiveness, kindness?

Christ has come to promise us new life
no longer bound in prison,
stuck in a loop,
pulls us from the perpetual Groundhog Day
into the Resurrection Day.

Holy God,
there are many ways we are feeling stuck
show us what we can learn to
move forward
what extravagance of spirit or action
will help us break free.

Teach us contentment, forgiveness, and kindness
But also while we wonder and work
teach us patience.  Teach us faith.
New life is ahead of us
and we reach for it.

Root us in your mysterious love
as we press towards you.

Love and Justice

sermon by Torin Eikler
Luke 13:1-9     Isaiah 55:1-11

Two weeks ago, I watched the movie, “Arbitrage,” which is one of the first critically acclaimed post-financial meltdown films to explore the world of high finance.  As you might guess, the story has a lot to do with risky and questionable business practices by men who make million-dollar deals every day.  But it gets much of its power to captivate from a plot twist that comes when a detective shows up to investigate the accidental death of the main character’s mistress (he did do it, by the way).

In the course of the investigation, the detective has a bit of an argument with the District Attorney and a judge about how to proceed.  His two superiors recommend a cautious course, and the detective vents his frustration in response, saying something like, “So we just sit back and let him get away?  … Why?!  Why should these scum get away with things like this.  They bury it in money, and we just look the other way.  This is a chance to get one of them… to bring him to justice.  Just once I’d like to bring one of them to justice.”

I liked that line.  It appeals to the part of me that really likes balance.  A person collects immense wealth by preying on those lower on the economic ladder … they deserve to be preyed upon themselves.  A person does something wrong … they deserve punishment.  When there seems to be no sense of remorse … even when there is remorse, but especially when there’s not … I want justice to be served.  So, I completely understood that detective’s frustration and anger.

Then I remembered the words of Sister Helen PreJean in our Sunday School class a couple of months ago, sharing her distinctive perspective on the in-justice of the death penalty in particular and much of our punitive system of justice in general, and the voice of my younger self and my friends in heated conversation came back to me, and I began to wonder, again, about the balance between “good” and “evil” … between justice and mercy, and about the difficulty of understanding and accepting God’s justice while welcoming and trusting God’s compassion.

Recently, I read something interesting about justice and compassion in the Bible.  It seems that the concept of compassion was somewhat different in the culture of the time.  We understand it to mean “a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.”[1]  We act on our compassion by trying to help people directly.  We give them money or food or sit with them in their grief and despair hoping that our company will ease their suffering.

It was not that way in the past.  I don’t mean to say that people did not take care of one another in exactly the same ways.  I’m certain they did.  It’s in our nature as loving beings to reach out and offer support and comfort to one another, and there is ample Biblical evidence of people doing exactly that.  Yet, compassion in that time was not so personal or individual a thing.  While people undoubtedly felt “deep sympathy and sorrow” for each other, their compassionate response was directed toward achieving justice for victims, and that often meant seeing those who caused suffering punished or the unfair situation “fixed.”

That sounds like a good process.  I’d love it if our system worked that way, but there was a bit of a twist there as well.  If there was no obvious cause for suffering or if there was no justification or simply no way to “fix” things, then it was often assumed that Divine justice was a work in the situation.  The person or people who were suffering, were suffering because of something they had done in the past … some hidden and evil action that God was seeking to punish in order to bring about justice.  At least that was the general consensus, and it was that perspective on justice that Jesus was addressing with his parable.

 

Leading up to the passage that was just read for us -- just the chapter before -- Jesus was speaking to the crowds who were following him.  He warned them against greed and against taking advantage of others in order to gain added wealth or respect for themselves.  He called on them to embrace mercy and to be prepared at all times to welcome the Kingdom of God.  And he got a little apocalyptic on them, announcing that he “came to bring fire to the earth” – fire that would set father again son and mother against daughter.  Then, he finished off by telling them that they were good at interpreting the weather, and then asked them, “Why do you not know how to interpret the present time?”

Some in the crowd rose to the occasion, challenging Jesus himself to interpret the meaning of a case of unjust suffering.  The case was a recent headliner.  Some Galileans had been murdered by Pontius Pilate in a ghastly event.  There was no explicit question asked, but there was certainly one implied.  Did those Galileans deserve it?  Was Pilate the instrument of divine judgment against them and consequent punishment?  Was God’s justice served by their deaths?

According to the wisdom of the day, the answer would have been “yes” to all those questions.  As hard as it would have been to stomach, the only option people had to explain why such a horrible thing would happen to people would have been to assume that it was God’s will.  And since God would never do such a horrible thing to innocent people, they must have deserved it.

If that was their understanding, you can’t really blame them for posing this question … and, in fact, Jesus doesn’t chastise them.  He lets them know he understands their dilemma with the question he asks in return, “Do you think that … these Galileans were worse sinners than all other Galileans?”  “No,” he says, but he doesn’t let them off the hook.  This may have been a case of incredible injustice on the part of the Roman Empire, but that doesn’t mean that God is happy about the greedy, unjust lives of the people.  They still need to repent or risk the hand of divine justice when it comes right down to it.

 

And yet, Jesus doesn’t leave them hanging there, dreading the hand of God.  Instead he tells them a parable – the story of a barren fig tree.  A landowner had planted the fig tree in his vineyard three years earlier, and he figured that it was about time to gather figs from it.  But when he went to take a look, he found that the tree had no fruit. As a good steward of his land and crops, the he concluded that there were two problems at hand: the tree is worthless, and it was taking up space that could otherwise have been productive in the vineyard. It was time to cut it down.

Enter the caretaker – the gardener who had been hired to care for the vineyard.  He pleads for patience.  “Give it another year,” he says.  In the meantime I will loosen the soil around it and add fertilizer.  It might still produce fruit in another year, and that would be good.  There would be no need to replace the tree with another.  Besides, if the tree were replaced by another, the new tree would need several years to produce fruit.  There is good reason to give this tree another chance.  On the other hand, if it does not produce fruit in another year, then it can and should be cut down.

 

It’s fairly common to assume that the landowner is God and the gardener Jesus.  But Luke doesn’t show us a picture of an angry God who needs to be placated or dissuaded anywhere else in his gospel.  So, why would he throw one in here?  Luke’s God is the father who scans the horizon day in and day out waiting for his wayward son to come home.  She is the woman who spends all night sweeping her house in search of a lost coin and, then, throws a party costing more than its value to celebrate its recovery.  He is the shepherd who leaves behind the entire flock to go and save the one lost sheep.  Given this picture of God’s reaction to sin, I wonder if it would be better to imagine that this peculiar gardener is God – a God who is curiously partial to unyielding fig trees.

That’s a new way of thinking about it for me, I’ll admit.  I have more often named God judge rather than advocate, and I like having a divine Arbiter of Justice to go along with the equally divine Bringer of Mercy.  Yet, Isaiah reminds us that God’s thoughts are not like our thoughts and God’s ways are not like our ways.  And I think that might just mean that God isn’t beneath loosening the soil around us and even spreading manure in the hope that we may bear fruit. … Why? … Because God loves us and wants the best for us.[2]

 

That’s what this parable is about.  It takes us out of ourselves in order to give a more complete perspective on the balance between judgment and grace.  And it says in no uncertain terms that scales tip in favor of grace every time.  How could it be otherwise when we follow a God who has come to us again and again – even sent his son – to try and help us understand the truth of God’s love? [3]  

God’s love is beyond our understanding.  So excessive that it embraces all of this world – the good and the bad alike.  So complete that it cares about even the smallest child.  So abundant that it never ceases to gush forth in an endless spray that caresses every moment of our lives.

That doesn’t mean that we get to just sit back and let the good times roll.  God’s grace … God’s love is not casual or indifferent.  It begs for action, and as God’s children, we are called to respond.  We are called to bear the fruit of the Kingdom, and to do that we need to change.

Are we, ourselves, not still guilty of a thousand sins little and big.  Don’t we still choose to act on the impulses of greed and pride?  How often do we put aside mercy and compassion when they are inconvenient or deprive us of the satisfaction of seeing a neighbor get his or her comeuppance?  Are we any better – any less sinful – any less in need of repentance than the Galileans in the crowd?

We need to turn off of the paths of barrenness and return to God’s way of abundance.  AND the good news is that God is waiting for us … and not just waiting.  God is digging the compost of our lives in around our roots, encouraging us to change … to bear fruit. 

 

God’s love and mercy … God’s compassion and grace are working to give us a second chance at life – real, true life.  In God’s infinite and incomprehensible wisdom and love, we have a second chance … or a third … or a forty-third.  Grab hold of it, turn onto the paths of abundant life so that you, too, can bear fruit worthy of the Gardener who cares for you.

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[1] definition taken from dictionary.com

[2] draws on material posted by David Lose at http://www.workingpreacher.org/dear_wp.aspx?article_id=671on February 27, 2013.

[3] draws on material posted by Arland J. Holtgren at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?tab=4&alt=1 as commentary for March 3, 2013.

Waiting

sermon by Torin Eikler
Psalms 27        Luke 13:31-35

A few weeks ago, I was at home with Alistair and Patrick on a Thursday morning.  (The day of the week matters since Alistair has school on Tuesday and Wednesday and Carrie and I are both home with the boys on Monday morning.)  That makes Thursday a bit of a challenge sometimes, and I usually deal with it by scheduling a trip to do errands that morning.  At least then we are out of the house with a schedule and a change of scenery every twenty to thirty minutes.

I say that I usually make Thursday errand day, but it doesn’t always work out that way.  Sometimes there is just too much that needs to be done around the house, or there isn’t a reason to go out on the town.  When that happens, mornings get long and tedious, and this was one of those days.

All morning Alistair was asking me to play a game or put together a puzzle or read a book – to give some time and attention to him.  My hands full of a baby and  my head full of the many things that needed to be done, I repeated again and again that we would do something later … once I had finished all my chores.

He seemed to be taking it well as he usually does, and we worked our way through the first couple hours.  Then, after yet another request … to build a marble run I think … and yet another (mildly frustrated) response of, “you just have to wait,” I heard Alistair say to himself as he turned away, “I’m in the waiting place.”

 

The words brought me up short.  In case you don’t know what the waiting place is, it’s one of Dr. Seuss’s inventions.  I described it in detail last May.  So, I won’t go into the details, but it is a dis-spiriting place.  Filled with people who are just standing or sitting around waiting for something to come or to change or to open up for them.

That is what Alistair was telling me.  Our house that morning was his waiting place.  He was stuck there … just waiting for something to happen … for me to find time in the morning to do something with him.  And that kind of waiting is hard.  I don’t have to tell you that.  I’m sure you have experienced it for yourselves.  It’s a part of every day of our lives.  Waiting at the grocery store.  Waiting at the doctor’s office.  Waiting, waiting, endless waiting …, or at least it always seems endless … and often pointless.

 

That’s what makes it so hard, I think.  We are all people who prefer to be doing.  We like being caught up in the business of life.  In our better moments, we are good Anabaptists who like doing the work of the kingdom wherever that takes us.  It can feel like a waste of time and energy to just sit and wait. 

When it comes down to it, though, I don’t believe this is the same kind of waiting that Dr. Seuss was talking about.  It is somehow more.  The Hebrew word we translate as “wait” comes from two other roots that mean “to twist or stretch” and “the feeling of enduring.”  It implies some sense of movement or tension even as it describes staying put.  In any case, it certainly isn’t just passively sitting there as we might think

 

Have you ever watched ants at work?  I found in youth great joy watching ants meandering along invisible chemical trails. I didn’t know about the chemical trails at the time, but I delighted in seeing their animated dances of life. There was something about a sense of purpose and a zest for life in their segmented bodily movements. I marveled at how fast they could run and how much a spirit of adventure seemed to mark their steps. Maybe it was my own desire to run with speed or spirit of adventure that I was transferring to the ants. Whatever it was, it was there.

When one ant would find a piece of discarded peanut butter and jelly-smeared bread or a bit of cracker that I had dropped near the line, it was almost as if I could hear an audible cry of delight from that ant who then quickly informed his siblings about the find. In moments the day of searching erupted into a dance of delight for the feast to come as they brought the bounty provided by an unnoticed hand back to the hive. I could spend great lengths of time just watching them dismantle the bread and carry it away. [1]

 

I think that’s the kind of waiting the Psalmist is talking about.  Going about what we need to be doing – following the chemical trails of God’s desire, if you will – the chemical trails discovered by believers over the years.  AND staying open and alert to the new possibilities … the new treasure troves of God’s grace that show up along the way.

It’s still waiting, but it’s waiting with the confidence that “we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living” and not just in the life we have after our bodies die.  It’s waiting with a sense of assurance that God is at work among us and expecting that we will discover what God has for us to do when the time is right.

That’s the kind of waiting that I see in Jesus as he laments over Jerusalem.  He did not sit idly by until the time came for him to enter into the city.  He did not twiddle his thumbs until the moment when he was arrested, tried, and condemned.  He kept busy following the path laid down for him by centuries of prophets and by the Holy Spirit going before him.  Even though he had longed to “gather [those] children together” and bring them under the protective wings of God’s loving salvation, he was – if not content – than at least willing to wait until the time was right to go to them.

 

I know that we usually talk about expectant waiting as a part of the Advent season, and it is a particularly appropriate theme when we are anticipating the coming of the Christ child.  But I think that it should be an integral part of our lives all the time.  God does not wait until Advent to move in the world after all.  She is shaping and transforming our lives and all of creation all the time, and if we want to be a part of that good work (as we so often say that we do), then we should be living each day with the expectation that God will reveal his purposes and the hope that we will see and understand how we can be a part of them. 

So, I propose that we all take up the practice of being ants for Lent.  Some of you may have already given up something for Lent.  You may even have added something else to take its place as Carrie and I have suggested before.  But whether you have or not, I would like to ask you to take up this spiritual practice – the practice of expectant waiting – for the next several weeks (and maybe even beyond Easter morning as well).

As you prepare for each day, remind yourself that God is at work in your life and in the world.  Focus your attention for a few minutes on your connection to God and your desire to be part of what God is doing.  Reassure yourself with the words of the Psalmist, saying “I am confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord….”  And then head out into the business of life, following one of the many trails laid down for us with an eye open for the surprising morsel or grace that the Spirit will reveal to you.

It may be that you will go days without discovering one of those crumbs, or you may uncover a feast worthy of a king in no time at all.  It’s not really about the results – or at least it’s not about getting results quickly.  It is about orienting ourselves the right way … about setting our minds and hearts on recognizing and embracing God in our daily living.  And it is important because seeking God in the middle of our confused and busy lives is one of the most essential parts of our calling as disciples.  How can we follow the one we call Teacher, Lord, Savior, and Friend, if we can’t or don’t find the paths prepared for us?

Wake up calls come in many different forms.  Alistair’s words on Thursday reminded me that there are things that are more important than loading the dish washer or making bread.  Without meaning to, he called me out of my morning’s manic obsession and into the time and space that God wanted us to share, and the two of us (three of us, counting Patrick) sat and read and built towers with blocks and laughed and loved and found joy.

The Psalmist is calling us to the very same thing.  Pay attention to God’s time and space, and you will find that God does not fail.  God’s goodness is always before us here and now and it brings hope for our spirits and provides strength for getting through the day.  So, “wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord,” and you will find hope and love and joy overflowing into your life.  You will find the presence of the Lord who is our light, our salvation, our stronghold, our confidence, our safety, our shelter, our teacher, and our Savior leaving all sorts of trails throughout your life.

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[1] inspired by Paul O Myhre from http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx

It all starts wtih a story

sermon by Carrie Eikler
Luke 4:1-13 Deuteronomy 26:1-11
First Sunday in Lent

Stories. 

Who doesn’t like a good story?

Long stories, short stories.

Tales that get taller and taller the more time goes by.

Accounts where we aren’t so much concerned about the facts

as we are about the fact this really happened.

We all love stories.

 

I’m sure if you think about it, you could quickly come up with probably five stories

that you are likely to hear over, and over, and over again

at a family gathering.

 

My family does this.

But Torin’s family really does this.

 

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the story of when Torin’s mom

was called into the principal’s office b/c he had said the anatomically correct word

for a certain part of the human body.

When he was 5.

 

Or the story about deciding which brother gets what when his parents die:

The joke is that Torin gets the money

Josh gets the house and everything in it

and the youngest, Austin, gets the coveted Christmas candle.  Just…the candle.

And that when that arrangement was made

they were all happy with that.

Even Austin.

 

And the funny thing is, they tell these stories as if

I’ve never heard it before.

They tell it, as if

those who they are telling it to, even though they were involved in the story

have never heard it before.

 

So many times, Torin’s mom will interject in our conversation

“I remember the time when….”

and I’m just guessing which one of the top 10 stories will this be?

And I’m usually right.

--

But the thing is…

I never stop her from telling it.

I never put on the brakes and say

“Hold up Bev, I know this one”

She may believe it is the first time she is telling me this

and I know it is the 27^th,

but that doesn’t matter.

 

Because she wants to tell it.

Maybe, she needs to tell it.

 

Stories are not really stories if they aren’t told.

Stories have no power if they remain silent.

--

“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor;

he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien,

few in number

and there he became a great nation,

mighty  and populous.”

 

These words of Moses, as recorded in Deuteronomy

tell a story of the Jewish people

It’s a story that is told and retold at every Jewish Passover.

 

When the seder meal begins,

the gathered body hears these words,

called the Haggadah.

“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor…”

 

This briefly retells the story of their

ancestor Jacob who went to Egypt,

was enslaved the people multiplied

and God delivered them from slavery.

 

and as we heard today when

Moses is fresh on the heels of this Exodus,

looking over into the promised land,

 he gives the people these instructions about what to do

when they enter that new home

 

They are to give of their offerings-

their first fruits—

but not just that.

They are to tell their story.

 

So at every Passover,

the story is told again.

Even though they’ve heard it 27 times

or more.

Because they want to tell it,

And probably more so,

they need to tell it.

“My ancestor was a wandering Aramean…”

 

__

 

We have entered into the season of Lent

this wild and wooly 40 days before Easter.

 

And for Christians, it begins with a story.

One about a wandering Aramean, yes.

One about a tempted Jew in the wilderness, yes.

But one the shakes us to our bones.

 

If you went to a service on Ash Wednesday, you heard it:

“From dust you were made, to dust you shall return.”

On Ash Wednesday, we marked ourselves

with ash to call us to awareness of our mortality.

 

It is a story that doesn’t sound like a good one at the onset.

The mark reminds us of two things:

you have sinned and you will die

(now it is a theological debate on whether each one of these is

related to the other, but

you get the message).

 

You have sinned, and you will die.

But it is more than that… 

The ash it calls us to remember our own story.

Yes, the juicy, tidbits of our story

as a sinner.

 

It seems to me that people fit broadly into three camps

when we talk about sin.
(and yes, I am making generalizations here)

There are those who love to talk about their sin

(or at least, the sin they used, to engage in).

They are the ones who beat themselves up

and others because they only

see humankind as sinful creatures

Who must repent, over and over again.

to escape the fiery depths of hell.

 

These people… have a story to tell.

 

Then there are those who for whatever reason

don’t want to think of sin at all.

Maybe they’ve been turned off

by those first people.

Maybe they don’t see the need to

call into question their behavior.

Maybe they question the concept of original sin, so

are quick to discount any sin.

 

These people don’t see the need to examine their story.

 

Then there’s the broad middle range,

that place where probably most of us sit.

We know we have sinned.  We know we hurt people.

We participate in systems of injustice.

We know we try to be better, and often fail

and many times succeed.

We just don’t feel it’s helpful to go on and on about it.

So instead of sin,

we talk about “brokenness” and “improvement” and “self help”.

We don’t mind spending 40 days in the wilderness of self-examination,

we just want to be sure that it’s only 40 days.  No more.  Until next year.

 

Yes, we have a story too.

We just don’t quite know how to talk about it.

--

So Lent gives us that chance to tell the story.

 

It kind of reminds me of an iconic type of storytelling.

You needn’t have gone to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting

to know how many of the gatherings start out.

After the coffee and the doughnuts and the scuttling to their chairs,

the people turn their focus to one person

who has been chosen to share.

That person stands up and says

“My name is ‘Carrie’  and I’m an alcoholic.”

and they proceed to tell their story.

 

No ifs ands or buts.

This is me, this is what I am, this is how I got here.

A very straightforward  but

a very vulnerable and difficult thing to do, I’m sure.

 

Telling the story in an AA meeting is a crucial part of the recovery process.

Not all get up and speak in front of the “congregation”

but they do have sponsors,

sober individuals who have been alcoholics

who are assigned to them to

hear their story

encourage them along the way.

 

Telling their story of struggle in some way

is the first step.

 

Programs like AA have at the heart of their recovery

twelve principles…twelve steps.

And if you hear the steps,

you may recognize that, it’s not only

alcoholics who could benefit from these principles,

 

But us, as well.

The 12 steps can be condensed into 6 processes:

 

First, and foremost, admitting that you cannot control your addictions or compulsions

Recognizing a higher power can give you strength

Examine past errors with the help of a sponsor

Making amends for these errors

Learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior

Helping others who suffer from the same addictions

 

That sure sounds like a good spiritual process for

many of us, doesn’t it?  In fact, it sounds

a lot like the movement of our liturgy in worship

 

We come before God, welcoming ourselves into holy space and call upon God to strengthen us.

We confess our sins

We ask forgiveness for our sins

We listen to the word of God and the gospel of Christ to give us a new way

and we do all this joined together with others who

are wandering, struggling, sinning, forgiving, and just trying to find that new path.

 

During Lent, we have the chance,

(justified by the religious calendar J)

to say “Hi God.  I’m Carrie and I’m a sinner

here’s my story”

 

And God is probably exhaling a great big

sigh of relief.

Thinking, “Wow, it’s been awhile.”

 

And even though God has heard your story

27 times or more

it’s ok.

Because God wants to hear it. 

But perhaps more importantly,

 you need to tell it.

 

Because that’s the only way you’ll experience Easter

is to go through Lent.

 

The only way to find resurrection,

is walk into death

 

Or as the English mystic Evelyn Underhill said

“No Christian escapes a taste of the

wilderness on the way

to the promised land”

 

Because, the only way to find healing,

is to name your brokenness.

 

And that starts with telling your story.

 

You don’t have to get up in front of everyone.

 

But, telling it to yourself is a good start.

God already knows it.

And while you’ve lived it,

you may not have heard it before.

 

So what’s your story?

I invite you now into a time of confession, where you can begin to tell your story to God.  Please turn to the back of the bulletin and join in speaking the words of confession.