Push is quickly coming to shove, and my upcoming move approaches at an alarming rate,  As I was packing up the contents of my desk at school, I started waxing nostalgic every item as I wrapped each piece.  And I decided it was time for another blog entry.

A little wooden plaque given to me by my college chaplain, who became my mentor and colleague, but now I simply call her my dear friend. It says, "When God created man, She was only fooling."  At the time I was no doubt undone by…  well, I know exactly who it was but discretion demands my silence!  In any event, Marty told me that someone had given it to her at some point, and someday, I would pass it along, as well.  And I am sure I will.  Someday        

A miniature “wall”  made of Lego knock offs, with a bandage on the front.  When I was at Mount Union, bell hooks came and spoke on campus.  My friend and I were moved beyond belief.  We were in awe of her intellect, inamored by her passionate presens, inspired by her prophetic prose.  We made a promise to one another to devote more time and engergy, not to mention intellect, to those things that mattered the most to us.  Dr. H, the original chaplain turned full time professor and advisor extraordinaire for all things environmental, overheard a bit of our coversation.  He sat down with us, shaking his head with a look of concern in his very gentle eyes.  “I worry about the two of you sometimes.  You have such great vision, and wonderful plans and ideas.  I am afraid that you will spend much of your lives slamming into brick walls.  One of us, I don’t remember who, joked that we would just have to make sure to have a box of bandaids with us.  I made this little reminder when I was serving a church in Danville IL.  It was a part of a devotional I led with a group of clergy women.  It is a wonderful symbol of a very formative time in my life…  not to mention a great story to share with students!  When I have students…  And I will, again, have students.

                                            

An unbroken geode.  Not very attractive.    It came from a bin at some or other science store.  No special significance beyond that which I have assigned it.  I have given them as gifts as friends have celebrated their ordinations.  It isn’t much to look at.  It’s just a rock.  But even though I can’t see it, I know that its beauty lies within.  People are like that, too.  Rough around the edges, difficult to take, downright aggravating and annoying.  But hidden underneath, treasures unfold as we open up to the possibility it sometimes takes someone else to recognize in us.  You have to use a hammer to open up the geode.  People require a more gentle touch – even if that touch turns into a bit of an insistent shove sometimes.  I often wonder whether my friends who also have unbroken geodes have chosen to break them open.  Or, like me, are they opting to sit with the rough exterior, trusting in what they know lies inside.

                                                

A rock I painted for my grandpa when I was a little girl.  On the back, Grandpa wrote “pet rock,”  appropriate for the time frame of the mid to late seventies.  One the front, he wrote my name.  I can tell that he used one of his felt-tip pens, the ones he kept in one of two repurposed frozen juice containers which resided, respectively, on his bedside table and on the table next to his chair in the living room.  Another treasure on that table, the crossword puzzle dictionary I gave him for Christmas one year.  Grandpa was a crossword aficionado!  He did at least two a day, every day, always in ink.  Inside the crossword dictionary, he wrote down tidbits he tended to forget… such as the fact that the theme song for Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer is “Harlem Nocturne.”  If I had such a list, I would include Gene Hackman as an actor I rarely remember.  And the fact that there are five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in a year, which I learned from the musical “Rent.”

                                                  

A stone, mossy green and polished smooth upon which someone carved the word “peace.”  It goes along with the figurine of two hands, cupped for holding, into which I have placed a blue marble.  Because I grew up watching “Big Blue Marble” on PBS, just like Alice Walker’s daughter, Rebecca, who once told her mom that there was a world in her eye.  Alice has scar tissue on her eye from an accident with a BB gun when she was a child.  Indeed, it looked just like the earth as shown from outer space.  “The world’s a big blue marble when you see it from up there.”  “There is a World in  your eye” was the first part of the title of my MA thesis.  Which is on spirituality in the writings of Alice Walker.  Also held in the hands on my desk, a string of prayer beads.  I think there are 36 beads, one for every country at war when I made them.  I don’t remember.  I could have written it down in my hypothetical list.  I can’t share a picture of the hands, becaue they are already packed.  And I am not going to open up a box that has already been packed.  Although, I admit, that is probably something I would do.

                                          

A stone, smallish, smooth, but not polished.  Painted upon it, a purple spiral, or swirl.  It was a favor from friends’ covenent ceremony.  I don’t remember if that is what they called it, though.  It’s not important.  What is important is that they love one another deeply, and that they made a commitment to share their lives, each with the other, and now with a beautiful little girl.  It was my privilege to officiate at their ceremony, and I think of them whenever that stone catches my eye. It occurs to me that I have a lot of rocks and stones on my desk.  That probably isn’t the greatest idea in the world.  I’ll leave it to the imagination concerning why.

                                                    

A star made, I believe, of tiger’s eye, given to me by a parishioner.  A dear woman, homebound much of the time due to debilitating pain.  Our visits together were a gift…  I always left feeling uplifted, held in positive regard.  Not everyone has the capacity to make one feel that way.  Especially when one is of the mindset that it should be the other way around.  I don’t know.  I think that there is a mutual quality to ministry that cannot be taught…  it must be discovered, experienced, happened  upon.  Now I am thinking about a Robert Frost poem:  “Choose something like a star to stay your mind on and be stayed.”

                                               

I think you might call this an “executive decision maker.”  It was given to me in appreciation for my service on the Sexual Assault Hearing and Appeals Board several years ago.  That was one of my “other duties as assigned” that I did not enjoy.  It was heartbreaking, truth be told.  Every decision we made was painstakingly deliberate.  Which makes this an almost ironic choice for a token of appreciation.  I do enjoy having it on my desk, though.  I like the arbitrary nature, when so much seems so arbitrary, as much a matter of luck and chance as of skill, or will.  As though as much is something of which I need to be reminded.

                                      

Two worry dolls, I think from Guatemala.  I bought them in San Antonio, at a NACUC Conference – National Association of College and University Chaplains.  Two probably aren’t really enough.

                                                          

A picture of my mom and dad.  I would love to know what he has just said, given the sly grin on his face and the subtle irritation registering on her face.  Love her dress, and the shoes…  Also love that you can see Grandma’s nativity on the mantle, and the praying hands on the table. 

                                                     

A picture of my favorite soon to be five year old, Ethan.  Although I am pretty sure that he is only three in this particular picture.  Which is entirely my fault.  His mom has generously supplied me with more recent photos, I am just a little behind in my updating.

                                                             

A picture of the pastoral staff at Rockefellar Chapel 1998-1999.  I cannot tell you how many times in my first (and second) call, I looked to this picture for a reminder of three people who I knew had my back, and my heart, in hand.  Three people who had shared so graciously with me, and I with them.  Three people I continue to believe are “there” for me, no matter where time has taken us.

                                                       

A picture of me and Dr. H, taken at Red Bird Mission in 1990.  I have written about it before, many times.  This picture has a lot to do with how I ended up where I ended up.  And I’ll leave it at that for now.

                                                      

A picture of my 12^th grade English teacher.  We are friends on Facebook (and, we actually did keep in touch through the years before the onslaught of social media) and this particular photo was her profile picture a while ago.  There is something in the look…  I can be feeling frustrated, down on myself and the world in general, and I glance at that picture, and I see that expression, that smile, that slightly raised eyebrow…  And I try a little harder, push a little farther, look a little deeper.  So, yes… a picture of my 12^th grade English teacher, who I now call “Beth,” somewhat comfortably.

                                                             

A box, given to me by one of my mom’s friends when I received my M.Div degree.  This box contains notes that I have collected through the years from people who evidently look to me as I have looked to Marty, or Dr. H, or Sam, or Alison, or Beth.  I open it up and pull one out when I need a boost.  When it gets full, I transfer them to an annex location in my apartment.  Everyone should have something like this.  Everyone.

                                                    

There's a Hole in My Bucket

I preached this March 3, 2002 in Alice Millar Chapel.

I was among the first generation to grow up with Sesame Street. Big Bird, Bert & Ernie, the Count, Oscar the Grouch -- all great friends. Now, this was pre-Elmo, when Grover pretty much had the market cornered on adorable furry little monsters, and also before everyone could see Snuffleupagus. For some reason, I was deeply disturbed when I learned of that development!

Anyway, one of my favorite recurring skits was two country bumpkin-esque puppets by the names Liza and Henry singing a duet: “There’s a hole in my bucket.” As the folk song goes, Henry complains, as you might guess, that there is in fact, a hole in his bucket. Liza, evidently busy with the demands of her day, responds, essentially -- what do you want me to do about it! Fix it, you fool! It soon becomes clear that she is going to need to walk him through this process. It would probably be easier for her to do it herself. How do I fix it? With a stick. What if the stick is too big? Oh, for crying out loud, show some ingenuity -- cut it! With what? The understandable exasperation grows. A knife! What else!?! Well, what if it’s too dull? Then, sharpen it! With what? Do I have to tell you everything? With a stone! What if it’s too dry? Then wet it! Liza’s temper is flaring at this point, while we pretty much need to check for Henry’s pulse. Well, how do I get the water? With a bucket! But, Liza... there’s a hole in my bucket! And, Liza runs off into the sunset, clutching her head and screaming in sheer frustration.

Thankfully, I don’t think the woman at the well in today’s Gospel lesson had to contend with a hole in her bucket, but one never knows! Our lesson begins as we find an exhausted Jesus resting by Jacob’s well in the heat of the noon day sun. We later learn that his disciples have gone to gather provisions, leaving him alone. His solitude is interrupted as a Samaritan woman arrives, ready to draw a supply of water. Thirsty, he asks her for a drink. She is clearly caught off guard by his request. Jews simply did not mix and mingle with the people of Samaria. Perhaps she was a bit suspicious, maybe even frightened. What did he really want of her?

Out of the blue, Jesus responds: If you knew who I am, you’d be asking me for a drink, and I could and would offer you living water. And the woman doesn’t understand. All these years, not to mention commentaries later, and I’m not all that sure I understand. The woman chooses a very literal approach to her confusion -- you have no way to draw the water! Who exactly do you think you are? Are you telling me you’re better than our ancestors? That what you’ve got is better than what they’ve given us? Maybe she isn’t as confused as we initially thought. Maybe she does understand that Jesus isn’t necessarily talking about a cool and refreshing glass of H20.
And, indeed, Jesus suggests that the water she may draw from the impressive well of her impressive ancestors is only temporary -- a quick fix. Physical thirst always returns, and, quite frankly, always will. Jesus speaks of a spiritual well, where the proverbial pump is always primed. He speaks of water that will quench dry spirits, water that “... will become ... a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” in the parched souls of its recipients. The woman, likely tired of the tedious chore of drawing water on a daily basis, takes Jesus quite literally. From a very practical and tangible standpoint, she would very much like some of this water. Who among us wouldn’t! So often, we’re all about time saving gimmicks and that which is almost too good to be true -- not to mention the all consuming task of satisfying our insatiable hungers and thirsts.

Tom Hanks relatively recent movie Castaway tells the story of a survivor of a plane crash marooned on a deserted island. “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!” One day, he discovers coconuts. He rattles them, and can hear the liquid sloshing inside. He throws them against a rock. He pounds them against one another. He beats them with a stone, which separates into sharp pieces, a primitive knife. He works and works and works, and finally cuts through the green skin and the fibrous inner layer... the coconut splits open and the milk spills everywhere. He must be more patient, more gentle, more ingenious. Throughout the course of the movie, we see him collecting dew in the mornings, and storing rainwater in emptied coconuts. In a rather poignant comment toward the end of the movie, after he has made it back, he comments on the ice in his glass -- something he wouldn’t soon take for granted.

But, returning to our scripture... we have a rather abrupt shift. Jesus entreats the woman to go, and return with her husband. Where does this come from? There are those who suggest it might have something to do with the tradition prevalent in the Hebrew Bible, where by the well was quite the singles hotspot -- the best place by far to meet all the eligible young women of the day. You might recall the story of Jacob, for whom the well in the Gospel lesson is named. I tend to hold, however, with those who maintain Jesus was setting himself up -- a sort of deliberate means to an end, establishing the proper circumstances so that he might shine!

But, perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. We might imagine the woman averting her eyes, perhaps shuffling her feet in the dust: “I have no husband.” And, perhaps Jesus smiles gently as he affirms her response: “You are right in saying ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband.” Maybe that explains why she is at the well at the rather unconventional hour of high noon. With that many marriages and re-marriages, she is very likely living in sin. It would not do for her to be out and about with the respectable ladies of the village, now would it?

A discussion follows in which the woman acknowledges Jesus as the prophet he is. Worship places and practices are also considered. The conversation culminates as Jesus reveals to the woman that he is Christ, the Messiah. That’s certainly quite a bit to take in, quite a bit to process. In the mean time, the disciples return, somewhat taken aback that Jesus is lost in conversation with a woman, of all people. Never mind that she is a Samaritan. But, they keep their mouths shut. Perhaps they have learned by now there is nothing to be gained by challenging their teacher.

The woman hurries off, leaving her water jug behind. The wonderful news of living water bubbles and gurgles within. She is eager to share with others all Jesus has shared with her: “Come and see a man who has told me everything I have ever done!” This feeling of being known is particularly powerful. And, don’t we all, at least to an extent, desire to be known? I am not talking about notoriety and fame and world renown -- though, there may be those among us who aspire to such celebrity, and stand a good chance of attaining it! I’m not even talking about being recognized by the teller at the bank, or the cashier at the coffee shop. No, I am talking about being deeply known -- as perhaps only those closest to us know us. We are, all of us, stories aching to be told, songs longing to be sung. When we meet those people with whom we may share our stories, with whom we may sing along, it is a gift and a treasure.

How amazing, and certainly overwhelming, to be known all at once. How frightening! We all have skeletons in our closets -- those things we don’t want anyone to find out, those things even we ourselves deny. All Jesus does is look at this woman, listen to her hesitant response to a contrived question, and he knows all there is to know about her. But, what is more, he still accepts her. He doesn’t send her from his presence, with bitter chastisement. He doesn’t condemn her indiscretions. He sits with her, draping the bare bones of her past with a gauze of compassion. He shares with her the truth of who he is, who he will be for so many people.
The woman at the well is asked, in so many words, to believe a number of seemingly impossible things. I seem to recall Alice in Wonderland, or one of her colorful companions, saying something about the practice of thinking impossible thoughts -- sometimes as many as five or six before breakfast. Anyway, the woman is asked to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, and that he has access to living water -- whatever that might mean.

So too, Moses and the Israelites in this morning’s reading from the Hebrew Bible are called to stretch their beliefs just a bit... asked to embrace the improbable, if not impossible. The Israelites, having placed their confidence in Moses, are beginning to lose patience. They are tired, they are testy, and above all, they are thirsty. A drink of water seems a most reasonable request -- were it not for the fact that there wasn’t any water to be had! Moses implores them -- “Why do you quarrel with me? Why do you test the Lord?” In a flash of ingratitude, they whine, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt? To kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?”

Now, I don’t think we ought to be too hard on these Israelites -- it has been a hard row to hoe. Questioning the presence of God, even in the face of all God’s gracious gifts, seems only human, only natural. All they want is a drink of water! Is that too much to ask, as they mercilessly taunt Moses: We’re thirsty! Are we there yet!?

Understandable or not, what did Moses do to deserve that kind of treatment? He’s doing the best that he can, isn’t he? He’s only following God, and he’s seems to be on a “need to know” basis -- apparently, there isn’t much he needs to know. Hurt, and probably a little bit frightened, Moses cries out to God, “What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.” Maybe things are getting a little bit out of hand. Maybe it’s time for God to pull out all the stops -- or at least some of them. A few bells and whistles never hurt anyone.

God tells Moses to go on ahead of the people -- little surprise there. Don’t we expect that he will be told to press on? He is to take a few of the elders with him -- I wonder if this makes Moses uncomfortable at all? I mean, he is clearly not the most popular person at the moment. To be sent ahead with the key figures of the church? Are these folks with whom he really wants to be alone? God doesn’t really allow Moses the opportunity to give voice to such fears, if such fears are in fact present. God simply sets forth the plan. Moses is to take his staff with him. Not just any staff, mind you. This is the staff. If we go back several chapters, we see that God has turned this particular staff into a snake, in order to compel people to believe in God’s power, God’s presence. This staff was used to strike the Nile river, turning its waters into blood -- the fish died, there was no longer any drinking water -- rendering it useless for the Egyptians
Drinking water? We seem to have a theme this morning. This time, the staff is to be struck upon the rock at Horeb, where God has gone ahead. As Moses strikes the rock, waters will pour forth for the people to drink. So Moses strikes the rock, and the waters pour forth, and the thirst of the people is satisfied. We are told that Moses then names this place Massah and Meribah, “because the Israelites tested the Lord, saying ‘Is the Lord among us or not?’”

Water from a stone. Living water. “Is the Lord among us or not?” I think we know what the answer has to be. Yes. God is in our midst in our plenty and our want. In our accomplishments and our failures. In our friends and our enemies. God is in our midst not only in spite of who we are, but because of who we are.

Let’s visit once more with our friends Henry and Liza. Henry has a bit of a difficult situation, doesn’t he? To fix the hole in the bucket, he needs a stick; to size the stick, he needs a knife; to sharpen the knife, he needs a stone, which, by the way, needs to be wet. To wet the stone, he needs water, and to draw the water, he needs a bucket... but there’s a hole in his bucket!
I think, just maybe, we all have ‘holy’ buckets. But, just maybe, that’s the point. Every time we gather together to worship, we come seeking living water. We scoop it up -- we would fill our travel mugs and our coconuts with it if we could. But, all we have is the vessel that is our life, cracked as it may be. The living water, the love that escapes through the cracks, through the hole, touches those whose paths we cross, watering their way. And, just maybe, they will drink deeply as well.
Amen.

Borrowed Time

I preached this sermon in Alice Millar Chapel February 13, 2005.

Act One. Scene – The Garden of Eden. Paradise. Actors – One serpent, one man, one woman, Adam and Eve. Lush vegetation, verdant, healthy, abundant, adorns the stage. Trees dripping with fruit, every kind you might imagine, everywhere you look. And it’s all at their disposal. Well, maybe not all of it. There is that one tree in the very center. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil, I believe God said. And God was rather clear about this. If you eat of this tree, if you even touch its fruit, you are going to die. That, my friends, is fairly straightforward. There isn’t a lot of wiggle room. Not much space for individual interpretation.

Eve is enjoying your typical day in paradise – nothing out of the ordinary. Slithering toward her, a serpent. We tend to think of this serpent as a garden-variety snake. Take a look in the stained glass, right behind me, for one depiction. So… along comes this snake, which we are told is by nature craftier than all of the other animals. Troublemaker that he is, probably trying to incite outrage, he wants to know what exactly God has said concerning consumption of the garden’s bounty: “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” No, no – she assures her inquisitive reptilian friend. It’s just this one tree that is off limits. No big deal, really.

She should have walked away, gone on her merry way, but no… She had to stay to hear the snake out. “That’s a bunch of hooey – the only reason God doesn’t want you to eat from that tree is because once you eat from that tree, you will be wise! You will know the difference between good and evil. You will become like God – and God just doesn’t want the competition. Go ahead. You know you want to.”

So, she looks at the tree, its forbidden fruit hanging just within reach. It does look luscious. And what could be wrong with wanting to know more? Surely nothing. It couldn’t really be said ‘she should have known better,’ now, could it? She grabs a hold, the fruit falls off the branch, as the branch rebounds, and the leaves brush her face. She takes a bite. It is good. Wow. She offers a bite to her husband, who happily partakes, as well. And then… and then their eyes are opened. And then… and then they realize that they have no clothes on. And then they realize that to be naked is a shameful thing, so they fashion for themselves loin clothes of fig leaves. Now they know.

Act Two. Scene – The wilderness. Actors: Jesus and the devil, not to mention the angels, but they will be running a little late. We can assure you they’ll get here in time. Be warned this act is 40 days long – there will be no intermission. Forty days, forty nights, cut off from civilization. Forty days, forty nights, of fasting – no food, no drink. Forty days, forty nights. Jesus is ravenous. Maybe he’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. Maybe he doesn’t so much care how much longer he can hold out. Enter the tempter, the devil: “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” Chances are good that Jesus might have already thought that the stones were loaves of bread. Deprived of life’s most basic necessities for that long, hallucinations would not be uncommon. But, nevertheless, Jesus kept his resolve: “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’ ” Now, some of us might have more experience than others in eating our words, but… I would have to question the nutritional value of language.

The scene changes, and the devil leads Jesus to the holy city, and places him on top of the synagogue, perhaps a rather precarious perch. “If you the Son of God, jump! Go on! Isn’t it also written that God’s angels will save you? You won’t even get a scratch. Prove it. I dare you.” And with composure one might not expect, Jesus simply states, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’ ” Seems to me he could have just as easily said, “What? Are you nuts? Have you seen how far down it is? Angels or not, I’m not stupid! What’s with you, anyway?

What’s with you, indeed! One more scene – this time, atop a very high mountain. The view – phenomenal. He could actually see all the kingdoms of the world, in all their glorious splendor. “See this? It’s all yours. All you have to do – bow down and worship me. That’s all. What do you say? You know you want it!” Never blinking, never batting an eyelash or even breaking a sweat, Jesus thunders a reply: “Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’ ” Which part of ‘Absolutely Not’ don’t you understand? The devil exits stage right – enter the angels, in the nick of time, I might add. They take good care of Jesus – he is likely in dire need of good care. A few years ago, the theater group at my mom’s church performed the musical version of “Cotton Patch Gospel.” I think one of my favorite scenes was at the conclusion of the 40 days in the wilderness, when the angels appeared bearing a bag full of chili cheese dogs from The Hot Dog Shop, the most well known fast food joint in town.

Temptation – the promise of good things, ill begotten. A trap. A trick. A test. Living dangerously, with little regard for consequence. Doing the wrong thing, for the wrong reason. Justifying un-just acts. Rationalizing what should be irrational. Giving in. Giving up.

I think more often than not, thankfully, our own brushes with temptation tend not to be as “glamorous,” shall we say, as snakes in the grass and devils in the desert. Perhaps we struggle with that sumptuous plate of brownies, just calling our name at a community meal. Or the group of friends who have just asked us to come with on this or some other outing, even though two midterms and one twenty page paper await. Or the sharp, biting comeback that we don’t really mean, but somehow manage to say anyway. Chances are good the ramifications of yielding to these temptations probably aren’t going to get us kicked out of paradise, or flub up the salvation of humankind.

But, what is it about temptation? Why is it so very seductive? Why are we able to stand firm sometimes, while other times we fold? I certainly hope you aren’t expecting me to offer an answer, once and for all. I don’t really think there are many, if any, questions or answers that can claim to tow such a line. But then, since I suppose you are expecting me to say something…
I think it has to do with self-discipline. With resolve. With the ability to look beyond the immediate payoff to the eventual reward. When I think about just some of the differences between the way Adam and Eve handled their temptation and the way Jesus handled his, the first thing that comes to mind – Jesus had something to say. He had a response on the tip of his tongue. Eve just kind of stood there, taking in all the of the snake’s rhetoric. Before she knew it, she had assimilated his lies, accepting them as truth. Jesus, on the other hand, was ready. Well versed in what is written, he is able to articulate what he believes to be true, what he knows to be true.

Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, began our observance of Lent. Our forty days of trial and temptation in the wilderness of our own lives. And what a wilderness some of us may know! Perhaps loss weighs heavily upon your heart and mind – the loss of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, the loss of a sense of direction. Perhaps health is a concern – physical, mental, spiritual, your own, or that of someone dear to you. Perhaps the uncertain state of the world keeps you up at night – hunger, homelessness, violence, at home and far away. Only you know the landscape of your personal wilderness. Only you are even vaguely familiar with the terrain.
From a word origin standpoint, Lent has to do with the onset of spring. Interesting, given that it certainly doesn’t feel much like spring this morning. I’m going to suggest another connection, founded on nothing more than my love of words and the playful quality they can at times possess. What if we think of these forty days of Lent as borrowed time? A time apart? A part of that which makes us who we are? What if we think of Lent as a time to step back, so that we can move forward? A time to reflect, so that we might better project to others that which we hold to be truly important?

I like this notion of borrowed time, because it seems so much of our time is spoken for. Between classes and committees and appointments and jobs and family and friends and the gym and groceries and laundry and the library and rehearsals and… there’s hardly time to take a breath! But, these forty days invite us, encourage us, to slow down. To find our center, or rediscover it anew. To give something up. To take something on.

Borrowed time. In a few moments, we will celebrate the baptism of a beautiful child. She is a gift from God. A child of God. Today her parents will covenant to raise her within the church, to teach her and surround her with God’s love as well as their own, during this borrowed time they have with her.

Borrowed time. Whether you welcome it, or wrestle with it, whether you find yourself embraced or eluded… resist the temptation to wish it away. Lent is a time of preparation, and we’ve much to do. Let us be about the business of doing it! Amen.

God Bless You!

I preached this sermon February 15, 2004 in Alice Millar Chapel.

If timing was truly working in my favor this morning, I would have stepped into the pulpit, offered a prayer, and upon saying, “Amen,” sneezed. And you all would have said… [Come on, work with me! And you all would have said…] Very good! Have you noticed that each one of us has a very unique sneezing style? Some sneeze once, some twice, some three times. I’ve even heard some sneeze five or six times straight. I may have even sneezed five or six times straight, on occasion. Some sneeze very delicately – stifling as much as possible. I’m of the opinion that can’t be healthy, but that’s just me. Some let it all hang out. I had a teacher in high school with a sneeze that sounded as though someone was hurting a French poodle. When I sneeze, they pretty much know about it in Winnetka!

I tried to do some research as to why we say “God Bless You” after a sneeze. It seems there are as many theories as there are sneezing styles. But, to be honest, my point isn’t really why we do it, but that we do it. Chances are good, at least once a day – considerably more if you happen to be in the Chapel office – we ask God to bless one another. We also ask God to bless the food we eat. Sometimes, when signing a letter, or a card, or even an e-mail, we might include “God Bless,” depending upon the circumstances. Couples preparing to get married seek the blessing of loved ones, parents in particular, as well as the church. Casual, everyday blessings abound in the midst of our ordinary, everyday lives.”

So, too, blessings abound in our scripture texts for this morning – and with them, their shadow selves, curses. Shall we begin with the Psalter? “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked, or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers; but their delight is in the law of the LORD, and on his law they meditate day and night.” A particular lushness is reserved for the “good,” the “pure,” the “prosperous.” “They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.” As cold and snowy and wintry as it is, isn’t it nice to think of trees with rich, green leaves, and streams with cool, clear water? Not, icy, frigid “water like a stone?”

And then, the shadow self: “The wicked are not so, but are like chaff that the wind drives away.” Finally, “…the Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.” I wonder… is that something we truly believe? Let’s be honest, as often as not, doesn’t it sometimes seem as though “the way of the wicked” most certainly has the upper hand? As Rabbi Kushner tells us, sometimes bad things happen to good people – and good things happen to bad people!

If we look to Jeremiah, we find more of the same: “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord. They shall be like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see when relief comes. They shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land.” Again with the imagery – dry, cracked land, parched, unlivable. Those who place their trust in the Lord, those who look to God, those folks are to be blessed. Again with the imagery – lush ground, green leaves, fruitful bounty. “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord.”

Are you familiar with the one about the man and the flood? No, not Noah! There was a terrible rain storm – flood warnings, evacuation plans, it was all very serious. The sandbags were no match for the torrent of water pouring down. There was quite a flurry of activity, as folks fled the area. One man couldn’t understand all the commotion. Perhaps he had just been to church and heard the text from Jeremiah! At any rate, he was sitting on his porch when a school bus drove by. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride.” “No thanks! God will provide.” The waters rose – our friend was leaning out of a second story window as a speed boat approached. “There’s room for one more – come along!” “No thanks! God will provide.” The waters rose – our friend had moved up to the roof, where he sat, leaning against the chimney. The roar of a helicopter, a life line being dropped – “Grab ahold – we’ll pull you up!” “No thanks! God will provide.” The waters rose higher still. Our friend is over come, and eventually drowns. Once in heaven, he is granted an audience with the Almighty. “God, I trusted you! I put my life in your hands! Why wouldn’t you save me?” To which God replies, “I sent a bus, a boat, and a helicopter – what more did you want?!?” Indeed, we would all do well to remember that God often works through those mere mortals, the community of faith of which we are a part, as well as folks well beyond our comfort zones. Sometimes, God even works through us! Trust in God, about all else, but by all means, pay attention to those at times unlikely spaces where God is made manifest.

Our passage from Jeremiah concludes with a somewhat harsh declaration: “The heart is devious above all else; it is perverse-- who can understand it? I the Lord test the mind and search the heart, to give to all according to their ways, according to the fruit of their doings.” Now, this passage brings to mind a dear friend from college – and I am quite certain she would not be offended by my saying so. We often found ourselves consoling and counseling one another in matters of the heart. Without fail, Shelly would advise, “Listen to your head – your heart’s stupid.” I can’t say that I ever bought her theory whole heartedly, but I will admit she may have had a point. Our hearts often shy away from reason, tending toward gut reaction instead. And, as often as not, that gut reaction can get us into trouble! But the Lord resolves to see through the nonsense and sort it all out, whatever it might be. The pure will get their just reward, as will the perverse receive proper punishment.

And now we come upon our Gospel lesson – the Beatitudes, as recorded in the Gospel According to Luke. I think, quite often, when we think of the Beatitudes, the rendition that comes to mind may be found in the Gospel According to Matthew: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” Buffered by such language, we can skirt the issue. Surely we are poor in spirit. Surely we hunger and thirst for righteousness. Surely we will be blessed. Surely we will be blessed. The author of Luke is in our face, telling it to us like it is – no sugar coated metaphorical mumbo-jumbo. “Blessed are you who are poor,” “Blessed are you who are hungry,” “Blessed are you who weep,” “…when people hate you, exclude you, revile you…” And then – the shadow: “But woe to you who are rich,” “Woe to you who are full,” “Woe to you who are laughing,” “…when all speak well of you” You cannot have the sweet without the bitter, the calm without the storm.

My hunch – we are more than a little uncomfortable with the Luke text. I know I am. Perhaps we feel indicted. Into which camp do you fall? Let me help a bit – did you sleep in a warm bed last night? Did you shower this morning, put on clean clothes? Did you eat breakfast this morning? Will you eat lunch? Certainly, we all have occasion to weep. But, as a rule, as much makes people uncomfortable. Society would have us relegate our tears to our pillows at night, or the shoulders of perhaps one or two friends, or, better yet, our therapists’ couches. We are encouraged at every turn to be done with it. To suck it up and deal. Finally, from time to time we may be excluded, derided, mocked and belittled. But, many of us spend an inordinate amount of time and energy wanting to be liked, wanting to be loved, wanting to be respected. From my perspective, many of us would appear to be waiting on woe. That kind of turns my stomach, as perhaps it should.

Alice Walker, in her novel The Temple of my Familiar, offers a religious treatise, if you will, entitled “The Gospel According to Shug.” Ultimately, it amounts to a recasting of the beatitudes. Some of my favorites: “Helped are those whose every act is a prayer for harmony in the Universe, for they are the restorers of balance to our planet. To them will be given the insight that every good act done anywhere in the cosmos welcomes the life of an animal or a child.” “Helped are those who risk themselves for others’ sakes; to them will be given increasing opportunities for ever greater risks. Theirs will be a vision of the world in which no one’s gift is despised or lost.” “Helped are those who love the broken and the whole; none of their children, nor any of their ancestors, nor any parts of themselves shall be despised.”

These phrases carry a different connotation – that we might be helped, more so than blessed. Some might say this flies in the face of grace. A blessing is perhaps a gift, unmerited. But remember – the blessings recorded in Luke do not come cheaply, nor do they come without a corresponding curse. Tit for tat. Cause and effect. That, too, would seem to fly in the face of grace.

These texts have gnawed at me all week long. Perhaps now they might gnaw at you, too. Simply put, I’ve struggled with the harsh words, the black and white of it all. My world has many shades of gray.

Yesterday, I sat in this sanctuary, as did some of you, and listed to Helen Caldicott speak of the ongoing nuclear crisis. Caldicott is a respected pediatrician, not to mention that she was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. During the Q&A session, she invited a woman to bring her child up to the front. Dr. Caldicott took this infant in her arms, gently cradling him, rocking back and forth, and powerfully drove home the urgency of her concerns. As a chaser to this deeply disturbing call to consciousness, or perhaps call to conscience, I went to see the documentary feature film, The Fog of War. If you’ve not heard of it, it is Robert McNamera’s take on the Viet Nam war, and his experience as Secretary of Defense under JFK and LBJ. The world in which we live is not black and white. Good and bad. Right and wrong. It is blessing and curse. And we need not simply wait and see.

Was that a sneeze I heard? God bless you! Amen.

Who Knows What to Make of it?

I preached this sermon in Alice Millar Chapel March 6, 2005


Friday night I enjoyed an evening with the Chicago Symphony. Now, I say I enjoyed my evening, and I did. But it was not an effortless enjoyment. It was not an evening of basking in unquestionably beautiful music. I found it asked a bit more of me. The program was honoring the 80th birthday of Pierre Boulez, Principal Guest Conductor for the CSO. The first thing we noticed upon finding our seats – a rather unconventional configuration of chairs and music stands upon the stage. There were several groupings of percussion instruments, scattered about along with seemingly random numbers of chairs. I looked up into the balcony and discovered a violin quartet, and oddly enough a percussionist.

In time, the rest of the musicians took to the stage, as did the conductor. He declared that this was indeed the most unusual performance of which he had ever been a part. He went on to speak of the first piece, Boulez’s Rituel. He explained that the symphony was seated in seven groupings of wind and string instruments, all with a percussionist. There was an additional brass ensemble, as well. Several of these groupings were scattered throughout the various balconies. Most interesting. He prepped us, sharing that there would be a number of repeating themes and variations, which would sort of chase from one group to the next.

As I listened, admittedly intrigued, I couldn’t help but think of this morning’s scripture readings. We hear many different voices, coming from many different directions, speaking many different ideas, somehow coalescing, one with another. Fascinating and compelling, to be sure, but also somewhat frenetic, not to mention exhausting. Shall we do our best to follow the rhythm?

I Samuel. Things are not always as they seem. The Lord sends Samuel on a mission to Bethlehem to anoint his new king. Samuel is understandably a little anxious about this. He is fearful that Saul, shall we say an also-ran who has fallen out of the Lord’s favor, might be less than supportive of his task. God brushes aside the concern, believe it or not, basically encouraging Samuel to, well, lie. “Take a calf with you, tell him it’s a sacrifice – make sure Jesse and his lineage are all there. Don’t worry – I’ll walk you thorough it!” I don’t know – it sounds like a slippery slope, if you ask me. As a general rule, aren’t we usually told that deception of any kind us pretty much frowned upon? Who knows what to make of it!

In any event, Samuel follows instructions well, and soon he finds himself in Bethlehem, surrounded by Jesse’s progeny. He takes one look at Eliab, and he’s sure he’s the one, impressive strapping young man that he is. Strangely enough, however, it’s not him. God offers gentle words of reproach: “Do not look upon his appearance, or on the height of his stature, for I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” I just love that – as I think does anyone who is or ever was a gangly or chubby thirteen year old, awkward and sorely lacking in poise and self-confidence. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts!” perhaps our parents assured us, as we likely thought, “Yeah, right. Whatever!” With apologies to mothers and fathers everywhere, I somehow have a sense that such a sentiment carries a little more weight when it comes from the Almighty!

Don’t we all long for someone who will look past the façade and really get at who we are, what we are all about? I don’t know, though. Things are not always as they seem. We don’t always know who we are, what we are all about. Perhaps we might worry about what might be found out, what might come to light.

But back to Samuel. Eliab – no. Abinadab – no. Shammah – no. And so it went with seven of Jesse’s sons. Samuel looks at Jesse, perhaps a bit suspiciously: “Are you sure all of your sons are here? And Jesse comes clean: “Well, there’s my youngest – but he’s busy with his chores! Somebody’s got to keep an eye on things!” Strikes me a bit like a Cinderella story. Do the mending, scrub the floors, and maybe, just maybe, you can go to the ball! Having no other choice, Jesse sends for David, as Samuel instructs. Well, what do you know! If the glass slipper fits… We have a winner!

But again, nothing is as it seems. Even though we have been cautioned against looking to outward appearances, the writer takes care to describe David – “…he was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome.” Sounds like a bit of a looker! But, clearly, his beauty is more than skin deep – for he is the one the Lord has chosen. Who knows what to make of it?
The 23rd Psalm. Things are not always as they seem. What could I possibly say about this well-known psalm that you’ve not already heard, that you’ve not already thought yourself? Certainly, the words are meant to be a comfort in times of distress, conflict, grief… They are invoked in hospital rooms, on death beds, around open graves. But I have a feeling the comfort this psalm offers is derived not from its content, but from its familiarity. It settles us because we know what to expect, we know what is coming. The text itself, if you stop to think about it, can be quite terrifying. Darkest valleys, tables set in the presence of our enemies… who knows what to make of it?

Ephesians. Things are not always as they seem. Or, at least I hope that is the case. I found myself really wresting with this brief passage. It is quite clear, quite concise, I’ll give it that. The light is good. The dark is bad. Pretty straight forward. I get that. I’m thinking about one of my favorite Indigo Girls songs, Closer to Fine. One phrase resounds, “Now darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable. And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.” At times an accurate truth. Darkness has a tendency to be seductive, sometimes hard to resist. Lightness, on the other hand, can be a bit more elusive, as it speaks more softly.

But, it’s not the distinction between light and dark that trips me up. It is disconcerting to me, even jarring, that our early church leaders would encourage such an “us and them” dichotomy: “Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly…” Such people? Who exactly are such people? I bristle a bit – perhaps you do, too. How can this be helpful? But, come to think of it, how are we any different? Don’t we all too often distill those around us into distinct groups? Those like us, and those not like us? Who knows what to make of it?

And, last but not least, the Gospel According to John. Sometimes, things are exactly as they seem. Jesus and company come upon a man, blind from birth. The disciples wonder whose sin caused the affliction – the man’s or his parents. “Silly disciples!” Jesus counters. “Neither! This man was born blind so that I might heal him, so that God’s glory and goodness might be made known!” Oh, now that’s much more reasonable! Hmm… Are you maybe scratching your heads, too? This strikes me as a familiar, if disturbing theme. I have a really hard time reconciling the idea of a God who would afflict someone for the sole purpose of proving a point. Perhaps I am over simplifying – but then again, perhaps not. Who knows what to make of it?

So, Jesus spits into the dirt and makes mud. Now, that’s attractive, I’m sure. Then he takes the mud and smears it all over the blind man’s eyes, and sends him off to the Pool of Siloam to wash his face, clean himself up, already. The blind man washes his face – and he is no longer the blind man! His eyes are opened, and he can see! Apparently, our friend was a regular beggar in this part of town, and the townsfolk were a bit divided as to whether or not he was in fact the same person. One the one hand, it could be; on the other, it might not be.

Again and again, they ask him – how did this happen? Again and again, he tells them. Finally, they take the matter to the Pharisees. Well, they are all out of sorts. After all, it is the Sabbath. And we can’t have anybody doing any healings on the Sabbath, now, can we? They ask him what happened – he sticks to his story. They go to his parents – perhaps they will clear things up. His parents want nothing to do with it, as frightened as they are of the Pharisees. “He’s a big boy – he can take care of himself – ask him!”

Finally, it seems the newly sighted man has had enough. “You keep asking me. I keep telling you. This Jesus has to be of God. Who else could use a mud pie to restore sight? Could you? I didn’t think so!” Well, of course, this doesn’t exactly sit well with the Pharisees: “Who exactly do you think you are?!? You need to go, and you need to go now.” So, he goes.

Jesus, we know, has a special place in his heart for the outcast, the exiled. He goes to the man and asks if he believes in the Son of Man. The newly sighted man is open enough – why wouldn’t he be? He’s game: “Who is the Son of Man? Sure, I believe.” And what do you know, you’re looking right at him! Then Jesus says, “ I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” I think this is perhaps meant as a “you know who you are” kind of a thing. Some of those tricky Pharisees overhear, and nervously inquire, “Not us, right? We’re not blind, are we?” And Jesus says, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.” Figure that out. It seems the Pharisees’ need to know ultimately does them in. Who knows what to make of it?

I think you might agree that we have certainly done our fair share of bouncing all around the sanctuary and back again. I am reminded once more of that Indigo Girls song. Part of the chorus – “There’s more than one answer to these questions, pointing me in a crooked line. And the less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine.” The truths we’ve stumbled upon this morning, the ideas with which we’ve grappled are as diverse as the oboe and marimba and viola and xylophone I encountered Friday evening. Sometimes the chords are dissonant, and difficult to sit with. Sometimes it is hard to determine their precise source. But somehow, they coalesce. We may clamor for the answer, only to be met with even more questions. We may search out certainty, only to be caught in the midst of options, some wonderful, some frightening. Sometimes all is not as it seems. Sometimes all is exactly as it seems. And who knows what to make of it?

Prodigal Grace

I preached this sermon March 18, 2007 at Alice Millar Chapel.

Have you ever made a mistake – a really BIG mistake? I’m not talking about a “turned right instead of left” kind of mistake. I’m talking about a “where did that light post come from and what is it doing lodged in my hood” mistake. I’m not talking about an “oops, I grabbed my roommate’s textbook instead of mine” mistake. I’m talking about a “what key did I just accidentally push and what happened to my twenty page paper?” mistake. You get the picture, I’m sure. Have you ever been impatient, insistent, and impudent all at once?

The younger son in this morning’s gospel lesson made a mistake – a really BIG mistake. Perhaps it was wanderlust. Perhaps it was boredom. It might have simply been poor judgement/ But… this younger son demanded his share of his father’s inheritance on the spot. He might as well have said, “I don’t want to wait for you to die, old man. Show me the money! Show it to me, and give it to me! NOW!” This was an incredibly presumptions request, not to mention down right disrespectful and rude. I’m going to venture a guess that the father would have been well within his rights to dis-inherit his ungrateful offspring then and there. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he swallows his anger, he swallows his pain, and divides his wealth, his property, amongst his two sons. Having succeeded in getting his way, the younger son wastes no time – he’s got places to go, people to see, money to spend. He’s outta there!

Have you ever realized you’ve made a mistake – a really BIG mistake? Have you ever made your bed, and while lying in it fully appreciated just how uncomfortable it is? Have you ever admitted you were wrong? The winds change soon enough for our prodigal. And what a stench they carry! The younger son finds himself hired out, feeding pigs in a field – all the while starving himself. Picture, for a moment, pig slop. Now, imagine it striking you as appetizing fare. What a mess he has gotten himself into! His father treats his slaves better than this! This is ridiculous!

Well, when you are that hungry, I would imagine it is little enough to swallow your pride. Yet, there is very little nutritional value in pride! So, tail between his legs, he heads for home. He knows just what he will say – he’s rehearsed it again and again. He will tell his father that he was wrong. He will say he is sorry – he will apologize. He will grovel, admitting his unworthiness and beg to be received as a hired hand. It just might work. Bedraggled, exhausted, famished, he nears the house.

Imagine his surprise when his father runs to meet him, throwing his arms around him. Why, he was barely able to get through his prepared speech before his father sent the servants for new clothes, new shoes, jewelry, even. “Kill the fatted calf!” Who knew?

Have you ever been… jealous? Maybe even… resentful? Under-appreciated, taken for granted? The elder son was jealous, resentful… well, he was furious! Hard at work in the fields, he missed his brother’s homecoming. And perhaps that was a blessing. Can you even imagine the ugly scene that would have likely followed? At any rate, he hears the music, the dancing, maybe he even smells the wonderful foods being prepared. Wonder what’s going on? Well, he learns from the hired help what’s going on. “Your brother’s back – he’s okay! Your dad couldn’t be happier! Let’s party! Woo-hoo!” And an anger, a rage, builds up within him, creeping up from his toenails extending to the tips of his fingers, and finally escaping through the smoke coming out of his ears.

To add insult to injury, his father tries to convince him to join the feast. Can you believe the nerve? “What about me? I always do the right thing. I’ve always been here for you. I’m the good one, not him! What are you thinking? How is this fair? You never let me have a party. You never celebrate me! You never make a fuss over what I’ve done, or more importantly not done. What gives?” And then, perhaps, what he didn’t say, but what he might have been thinking. “I thought he was gone for good – the lazy slacker. Spoiled brat. He hurt Dad. He embarrassed me… There’s one in every family. And now… Kill the fatted calf…” (Humph.) Who knew?
Have you ever watched someone make a mistake? A really BIG mistake? Have you ever allowed a mistake to happen, because you knew that there was no stopping it? The father, as he prematurely handed over his son’s inheritance, likely knew that no good could come of this. What do you suppose went through his mind as he bore the brunt of his younger son’s disrespect? Can you imagine the pain he must have known as he watched him stride pride-fully out of his life? Can you imagine the joy as he caught sight of him slowly making his way home, with barely a thread of dignity attached?

A lesser person would have also enjoyed the moment – for decidedly different reasons. “Well, well, well. This is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it? And I should help you… why?” But, the father is not a lesser man. He doesn’t even give a thought to why lies behind them – only what lies ahead, as he basks in the present, the wonderful present: “…this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” What an unexpected blessing! What a gift! Worthy of a celebration! Worthy of a feast! “Kill the fatted calf!” Who knew?
Who knew indeed. The younger son didn’t know. He had anticipated being treated as poorly as he have treated his father. And yet… The elder son didn’t know. I am suspicious he might have thought that his father had taken leave of his senses – rewarding his brother’s inexcusable behavior. And yet… The father didn’t know. He probably never expected to see his younger son ever again. And yet…

The father’s response is one of abundant joy, of wide welcome, of prodigal grace. Indeed, it seems to the elder son that such joy, such welcome, such grace is squandered – wasted on one so very undeserving. The forgiving father is faced with quite a challenge. How is he to make his faithful son, also beloved, understand? “Yes, you’ve been here all along. Yes – what’s mine is yours – you know that. I know you do. But, don’t you see? Don’t you understand? What was dead is alive. What was lost is found.”

But, he doesn’t understand. The elder son’s response to his brother’s homecoming is a stingy, self-righteous indignation. He wants what is due him. He wants his years of obedient compliance to be recognized, to be praised and applauded. A very human response, if not terribly becoming. I wonder… did he ever join the party? Or did his stubborn arrogance get the better of him? Did he eventually welcome his brother home, or even further estrange him? Did he relax his proud defenses long enough to receive some of his father’s prodigal grace?

And, what about the younger son? We can only speculate concerning his response to his father’s open arms. Did he collapse into that embrace with relief and gratitude? Was he dumbfounded, perhaps at a loss for words? Did he maybe slip into the smug certainty of his former days, his earlier days – pre pig-slop. Did he revert to the cockiness that had initially carried him away – “I knew he’d take me back!” But, then, does it really matter?

We might find it tempting to sympathize with the younger son, with the perhaps painful memories of our own indiscretions clearly in mind. It may be just as tempting to be critical of the elder son. Disengaged as we are, we can clearly see how selfish, how unreasonable, he is being. But… it may be just as easy, if not easier for us to empathize with the elder son, and to condemn the prodigal. And that, friends, just may be a difficult realization to swallow.

But, what about the father? How often do we forgive, unconditionally? How often do we embrace the lost soul, struggling to come home? I dare say, not nearly enough. As I wrestled with this text, one aspect of the father’s behavior kept coming to the foreground for me. With the younger son, the father allowed him the disrespect, the unfortunate leave-taking, the mistake. And then he waited. Patiently or anxiously – it doesn’t really make a difference. He didn’t follow him, or threaten him. He didn’t go after him, or belittle him. He knew him too well. He knew also what the younger son needed to do, painful as that might have been. But, then, as soon as the young man gets within sight of the farm, the father goes out to meet him, to welcome him, to receive him into his loving embrace.

With the elder son, his tactic is slightly different. Noticing his absence at the celebration, the father goes to his son and invites him to the party. He meets him where he is, aware that he is hurting, that he is confused. He doesn’t necessarily wait for him to come around. He knows him too well. He makes certain that his elder son, too, feels welcome.

Wide is God’s welcome. Prodigal is God’s grace. Amen.

"If you choose..."

I preached this sermon at Alice Millar Chapel February 19, 2009.

Perhaps he was unkempt – clothes tattered, torn, hair every which way, more than overdue for a bath. Perhaps his skin was covered with open sores, boils, lesions, unpleasant pus draining in the heat of the day, emitting a nauseating stench. Perhaps his teeth were decayed, his breath a bit foul. Bottom line, he was an outcast, an exile, barred from polite company, considered unclean.

He approached, begging, pleading. Perhaps to a certain extent brazen, perhaps quite simply desperate. He falls to his knees, imploring Jesus, just shy of accusing him – “If you choose, you can make me clean.” “If you choose…”

Is this a set up? A trick of some sort? A challenge posed, a gauntlet thrown? If you choose… How is Jesus to respond? Could he really say no? “Thanks for playing, but no?” No. Of course not. Is this a recognition? An accusation, an admission, a confession? “I’m on to you. It is within your power. If you choose…” Or, is it exactly what it sounds like – an act of desperation, a deeply held desire, a last, best hope. “Please. Choose. Make me clean. Make me well. Make me whole.”
Jesus, we are told, is moved with pity. Jesus, we are told, stretches out his hand, maybe just a bit gingerly, with the slightest hesitation. Jesus, we are told, touches this… this… leper… this… this… man, I guess we could say. “I do choose,” he exclaims, maybe just a little defensively. “Be made clean.” And this… this… leper is made clean. His skin clears, almost instantly, surely curiously.

I mentioned, I believe, that we are told Jesus was moved by pity. We are not told, however, that it is quite possible that Jesus was actually, are you ready for this, angry. That’s right. There are those biblical scholars who find anger far more likely, offering slight variations upon the translations. From a purely practical standpoint, Jesus generally doesn’t perform miracles because he feels sorry for someone. True enough, I think we have to believe, at least we want to believe, that Jesus doesn’t like to see anyone suffer. So, it is that much more plausible, at least palatable, that Jesus be moved by pity.

But maybe, just maybe, Jesus was angry. Angry at the injustices that made it so easy, that make it so easy to marginalize those who are ill, those who are too old, too young, those who don’t look, or act, as we would have them look, or act. Maybe Jesus was angry at the lack of compassion, the rigid rules in place to stratify rather than synthesize, to divide rather than develop, to ridicule rather than raise up.

Maybe, just maybe, Jesus was tired, a little cranky? Last week’s gospel lesson reported that he was kept quite busy in Capernaum, healing the sick, casting out demons… True, he stole away for a time of prayer, but… all of that is sure to take a lot out of a person, to leave them feeling at least a little depleted, even if you are Jesus. As we know all too well, humanity has some definite limitations.

Maybe, just maybe, this possible exhaustion prompted Jesus to beseech, to “sternly warn” the man whom he had healed, to “say nothing to anyone,” rather to go to the priest and offer appropriate thanksgiving as Moses had commanded in days of old. There were actual protocols for this sort of thing! Now, I get the importance of giving thanks, of entering into longstanding ritual pertaining to having been cleansed, to having been cured. But, to expect him to say nothing? To keep it all under wraps? Really?

First of all, I’m thinking people are going to notice – at least to the extent that they noticed lepers in the first place, which, I admit, might just be negligible. But beyond that, if you have spent your whole life in the shadows, skulking about because you are deemed unclean, impure, unfit for society at large, it stands to reason that the moment you are liberated, so to speak, you are going to want to shout it from the rooftops, to spread the word far and wide, however you can. Keep silent? Tell no one? Seriously?

So, as we might expect, the once and former leper tells the world, “proclaiming it freely,” as it were. He couldn’t contain himself, and really, can we blame him? Wouldn’t we do exactly the same thing? The perhaps unintended result, though – Jesus is absolutely inundated. Everyone and her brother in need of healing flocks to him, begging, pleading. It gets to the point that Jesus is unable to move about freely. Rather, he maintained a certain degree of seclusion. Those who were truly determined, of course, still found their way to him, but at least there was something of a buffer zone. This brings to mind our current crop of celebrities, forced to travel incognito, unable to avoid completely crazed fans or pushy paparazzi. And we think as much is a modern invention, when in fact, as Ecclesiastes reminds us, “there is nothing new under the sun.”
It should be noted, however, that there are those commentators who suggest this command to “say nothing” really isn’t about the need for silence, and, by proxy, secrecy. They counter that the real issue is the urgency in going to the priest, following the aforementioned established protocol, offering up thanksgiving, a profound sense of gratitude. In either event, the outcome remains the same. Although I do wonder… Do you suppose the healed leper did eventually make it to the priest? I’d like to think so, but then… the freedom he would have then known as one miraculously cured, might very well prove intoxicating. Something to consider, at any rate.
So, one “once upon a time” leper quite pleased with the result of his “cleansing,” his “healing.” Jesus did choose. The man was made clean.

Now, let’s shift our attention to Naaman, from our reading from the Hebrew bible. A war hero, a commander of the army of Aram, Naaman was well revered. Under his capable leadership, coupled of course with the favor of the Lord, Aram was proved victorious. Naaman had a good thing going. His wife was even given a servant girl – no doubt more than questionable in our day and age, but more or less in line with the times.

But… There’s always a “but,” isn’t there? But, Naaman, as it turns out, suffered from leprosy. Evidently his prowess on the battlefield afforded him respectability generally unknown, unheard of, for a leper. Even so, when his wife’s servant mentions a Samarian prophet who would likely be able to cure him of his unfortunate condition, Naaman jumps at the chance. The King of Aram endorses his journey, sending him forth with a letter for the King of Israel. Naaman also brings with him ten changes of clothes and a substantial amount of money – ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold. Now, I did the math. Given that one talent weighs 75 pounds, and a shekel weighs just about point four ounces… according to my calculations, that comes to some 900 pounds of money, to say nothing of the actual monetary value. Any way you look at it, that’s quite a chunk of change.

So, Naaman travels, eventually arriving to request an audience with the king of Israel. The King reads the letter – “When this letter reaches you, know that I have sent to you my servant Naaman, that you may cure him of his leprosy.” Now, what we have here is a failure to communicate, pure and simple. Where to begin? First of all, the King of Aram more or less misunderstands what the servant girl has said. It isn’t the King, it’s the prophet who possesses this gift of healing. Okay, but maybe the King assumed the king of Israel would know who he was talking about, who he meant. Surely such a powerful prophet would be in the employment of the King! Surely the King would have no problem enlisting his services.

The King of Israel, on the other hand, is frustrated, fearful even. Who does this King of Aram think he is, anyway? He isn’t God! He can’t cure someone of leprosy! From his prospective, this sounds like a trap. What if its all an excuse? Set him with an impossible task, and when he is unable to deliver… What if the King of Aram launches a no holds barred raid on his people? What then? Utterly despairing, he tears his clothing, signaling his extreme distress, perhaps a premonition of the seemingly inevitable mourning to come.

Well, Elisha gets wind of all that is afoot and suggests that Naaman be sent to him. Elisha was the prophet the leprous warrior sought all along. So – Naaman and his entourage are greeted at the entrance to Elisha’s home. He is greeted not by the prophet himself, as he expects, but rather a messenger, a mere emissary. His instructions are straight forward, direct, very much to the point. He is to bathe seven times in the river Jordan, then he shall be made clean. We might think this sounds rather simple. We might think Naaman is well on his way to a cure. We would be mistaken. On the contrary, Naaman has a bit of a temper tantrum. Who does he think he is? This Elisha fellow? Surely, the prophet owed him the courtesy of an appearance. Surely the prophet could have easily called upon his God, and Naaman would have been healed then and there. What is this ridiculous nonsense about washing in the Jordan? There are, after all, rivers in Damascus. Perfectly respectable rivers. Why couldn’t he have just washed in one of them, if that’s all it required? And, in quite the angry huff, he storms off.

What courage it must have taken his servants to follow after him, ever so gently, ever so cautiously, calling Naaman to task: “Ya know…” they might begin. “If Elisha had told you to do something else, something more complicated, something more difficult, you would have been all over that, right?” Perhaps a little massaging of the old ego – “That’s just who you are, a fearless warrior, up for any challenge, ready for any struggle. Why are you then so reluctant to do this simple thing? Really, you’ve nothing to lose, save your leprosy, and you’ve pretty much got just about everything else to gain.”

When all is said and done, Naaman somehow or other saves face. He bathes in the Jordan, though he still might feel it is beneath him. And of course, as we know, his wounds are healed, the leprosy but an unpleasant memory. “Wash and be clean.” Who knew? It really was as simple as all that.

Some two thousand odd years later, a good bit has changed, yet all too much has remained the same. In the broadest of terms, as a rule, we no longer sanction, or at the very least condone, behavior that would see the ill, the infirm, intentionally harmed, or otherwise neglected. We do not believe physical, or even mental, afflictions to be the result of demonic forces. For the most part, we are not afraid we will catch another’s disease through the most casual of contact. For the most part.

Even so, I dare say every one of us has something we would just as soon keep quiet, something for which we are ridiculed, of which we are ashamed. I dare say every one of us harbors a brokenness in need of repair, a hurt in need of healing. I dare say every one of us, on some level or another, shudders at all that is, or isn’t, asked of us, as the case may be.
Healing, wholeness, restoration – I think these are things to which we perhaps all aspire, if perhaps in different ways. When we are under the weather, we want to be returned to health. When we are broken and battered, we long for someone to collect the pieces parts that may have shattered, then scattered. We want someone to put us back together. When we are undone, we want to be remade, gathered together once again.

The curious thing about our text from Second Kings… Interestingly, it stops just short of Naaman’s conversion. Verses 15-19 record his realization, his eventual understanding that his miraculous cure had next to nothing to do with the prophet, and perhaps even less to do with the ritual, or lack there of. It has everything to do with God’s great power, made manifest among us – often in the most unlikely of places. A Samarian river bank. The town of Capernaum. A place of worship in Evanston, Illinois. It has everything to do with God’s great power, made manifest among us by way of the most unlikely faces – a leper or two, of all people, a faithful servant who is thinking clearly, maybe even the very person seated next to you. Amen.