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.

Both/And

This is a sermon I preached on March 22, 2009 in Alice Millar Chapel.

I think it was my sophomore year in college, and I think it was during Fall Break. My friend Naoko, from Japan, spent the weekend with my family. I have to tell you, this is one of my mom’s favorite stories about my friends to share. Dinner was nearly ready – all that was left to prepare, the salad. Mom called into the living room, asking Naoko whether she wanted to have coleslaw or tossed salad. I think it was a combination of a slight problem of grammatical translation, and surely the fact of having grown tired of cafeteria food, but Naoko’s face lit up, her eyes widened, as she most politely said, “Yes, please!” My mom gave me “the eye,” I know you know what I’m talking about. The raised eyebrow and the quick darting movement that, in no uncertain terms, says, “Get out here and help me grate the cabbage, or cut up the cucumber.”

Mom had been thinking along the lines of either/or, while Naoko was a bit more interested in both/and. I can even think of one or two people I know, a little bit leery of anything resembling a vegetable, who would have certainly preferred “neither/nor.”

I generally try to avoid labeling and categorizing people – it’s usually in bad form, I think. But… work with me for just a moment or two. This morning I am going to suggest that there are three types of folks in the world – the “either/ors,’ the “neither/nors,” and the “both/ands.” There are people who are able to make a choice decisively, clearly affirming what they want, given two possibilities. They see the world in black and white, simply, clear cut and definite. There are people who have no difficulty rejecting both of those possibilities. They have something else in mind, or maybe they are just plain disagreeable. For them, the world might be a disappointing place, failing to live up to expectations. And finally, there are people who either can’t decide, or see no reason to – yes, please! Their appetite for life, their thirst for just about everything is overwhelming. They see the world as wide open – nothing is impossible, provided we perhaps embrace every good thing that comes our way.

It seems to me that many of the folks responsible for bringing us the word of God fall into the either/or camp – maybe sometimes neither/nor, depending on the circumstances. It’s really quite simple – you do what you know to be the right thing to do. You might whine and complain about rumbling stomachs and parched throats over the course of a long journey. Or… you acknowledge sinful behavior, repent, and ask for deliverance, forgiveness. You believe in Jesus, thus affording you eternal life. Or… you don’t, doubting claims which likely sound outrageous at the time. (Frankly, I tend to agree it’s all rather difficult to wrap your head around!) You love the darkness, or the light. You are condemned, or you are saved.

What I find compelling about this morning’s scripture readings lies not so much in what is written, as what is unspoken. I am drawn to the suggestions, those thoughts which grab hold of our minds and tend to keep on running. For instance, the Israelites in our lesson from the Hebrew Bible are a little bent out of shape – hungry, thirsty, it’s probably safe to say they are tired. They lash out, cursing God and Moses alike. God is not pleased, sending poisonous serpents to rain upon them. Poisonous serpents tend to bite, killing their prey. As the death tolls rise, the Israelites realize it is time to take action. They repent, begging Moses to pray to God to intercede on their behalf, which he does. God tells Moses to fashion a poisonous serpent (Moses opts to make one in bronze) and affix it to a long stick. If someone is bitten, all they need to do is look at the bronze serpent and all will be well. And lo and behold, all is well.
But I wonder… that had to have been a little awkward. The antidote, so to speak, was to face the very thing that had done the damage in the first place. It is hard enough facing our fears – things which might possibly prove to be dangerous, let alone those things we already know are bad news. What does that mean? That we need to acknowledge head on the destructive forces in our world, in our life, and stare them down, so to speak? That admitting when we are wrong, and doing what we are told in the aftermath makes the difference? That our healing lies somewhere in the reality of our brokenness?

The Gospel according to John tells us that those who believe in God will have eternal life. Those who don’t – they will be condemned. But, our imagination suggests that there is a great deal more to that line of reasoning than clear cut doubt or certain belief. What about those who wonder? Who consider? Who aren’t quite sure? Is that middle ground really a no man’s land, or maybe just a holding pattern? Are people driven by fear of condemnation, or by the promise of life eternal. Do we really have an idea of what eternal life looks like?

The writer of this gospel also posits that people love either the darkness or the light. Darkness conceals evil deeds, while that which is true has no need to fear being brought into the light. It’s a very tidy suggestion, really. But, what about those liminal moments locked in twilight, or the seconds just before daybreak? As the rays of the sun sink into the horizon, and the stars slowly stake their claim in the sky. As the yellows and oranges and electric blues emerge, slowly but surely. When maybe, just maybe, you aren’t altogether sure what is coming next?
Jesus was sent into this world that we might be saved rather than condemned. Is there a difference between salvation and redemption? Saved from what? Saved for what? Condemnation – who exactly decides the term? Is there a way to appeal the decision? Is there room on the continuum for verbs like shame or scold, even better, sustain, or support? I realize it wasn’t a terribly popular song, but a Billy Joel track is running through my mind at the moment, “I don’t know why I go to extremes…”

What happens when we open ourselves to the spaces in between? What exactly is in the spaces in between? I wonder… Do you suppose it might be grace? That illusive gift that is always already ours, yet remains untenable as a gentle breeze, or a shimmering moon beam? The letter to the Ephesians reminds us that we are saved by grace – not by what we do or don’t do, or how we do or don’t do it. We are saved by grace – artful enough to slip in undetected and offer a glimmer of hope, of promise. We are saved by grace – bold enough to barge in unannounced, shifting the dynamics of just about anything and everything. We are saved by grace – illusive enough that we can never seek it out, it simply comes, and we simply (or, sometimes not so simply) accept it.

Grace sneaks into the cracks in any life broken by fear and frustration, deceit and deception, anger and animosity. It lingers wherever mistakes are made, harsh words spoken, tears shed. It washes over years of hatred, pain, and wavering doubt. It expands to fill the gaps created by our extremes, our either/ors, our neither/nors, our both/ands. I believe it should be said – grace doesn’t undo what can’t be undone. It doesn’t take away the memory of wounds inflicted, of untruths told. It doesn’t justify unkindness, or insist upon our undying gratitude. Grace simply – or, again, not so simply – is.

Our closing hymn this morning speaks of the wideness in God’s mercy. I’m thinking that wideness very well might be grace. There’s plenty of room for all of us who prefer the both/and approach to life. And for those of us who don’t always act as we should – knowingly, or unknowingly. There is plenty of room, even, for ambiguity. For questions which never get asked, and answers that have forgotten their questions. Plenty of room for coleslaw and tossed salad, and probably even potato salad, too. Amen.

Process, Product, and everything in between

This is a sermon I preached February 16, 2003 in Alice Millar Chapel at Northwestern University.

I consider myself very fortunate, even blessed, to have a number of mentors. These treasured folks are quite often dear friends who have taught me powerful lessons I would never have had the opportunity to learn had my education been confined to the classroom, or the library. With a masterful blend of patience (but not too much) and persistence (just enough), our mentors help us to grow into the people God would have us become. They model such a process of becoming with confidence and grace. Our mentors show, rather than tell, us how to do what we do. And, sometimes, they show us what not to do.

I am thinking this morning of one of my mentors from seminary. Sam. Sam has a gift for asking deeply penetrating questions, cutting through any number of defenses with great compassion. One of his most oft-repeated statements is, “Say more.” He is never satisfied with what resides on the surface. Gently but insistently, he encourages all those in his midst to dig deeper. Problem is, often digging deeper hurts. A lot. It can open up wounds we thought had healed, exposing vulnerabilities of which we hadn’t even been aware. In such raw moments, when words evade, elude, and escape, our emotions often find their release through tears. Sometimes just a trickle trailing down a cheek, easily enough written off, explained away. It’s our contacts -- they are bothering us. Or, maybe it’s allergy season. Sometimes, though, the trickles become torrents. Our bodies convulse with sobs that choke us, as we gasp for breath. We are overcome by our fears and anxieties, and even our hopes and dreams. We need, among many other things, a tissue. I remember one “say more” conversation with Sam that found me needing not only a tissue, but the whole blessed box. I looked hopefully around his office -- no tissues to be found. “How can you not have tissues?!?” I asked with disbelief. This somehow struck me as irresponsible -- for one who often found himself sitting with people in pain to be without easy access to something as basic as tissues? What was that about? To this day, every time I replenish my box of tissues in my office, I think warmly of Sam.

I also thought of Sam earlier last week. I was just outside of San Francisco for a gathering of younger clergy. We were brought together from across the country, from Virginia to Southern California, from Montana to Texas, from Chicago to Carbondale, to discuss issues of ecumenism -- the challenge and blessing of being one in the body of Christ, though divided across denominational lines. We discussed issues of interfaith dialogue -- what we bring to the conversation when we meet others with faith perspectives different from our own. We talked about everything under the sun, it seems. Early on, we were invited to help create what would become our worship space for the remainder of the conference -- a table upon which we were to place symbols of faith. I glanced around the room and noticed what else but a box of tissues. I decided that would be my contribution. I found myself quoting this morning’s Psalm: “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

The bible studies we shared around that place of worship were particularly meaningful. We were encouraged to approach the texts with a playful spirit, more so than with analytical angst. We listened to the stories, and wondered. We put ourselves in the places of the protagonists, the supporting cast members, and imagined. We had fun.

And then I found myself back at home, with familiar faces all around, and familiar routines to occupy my time. I sat down, to put pen to paper to figure out what exactly I would say this morning. I surrounded myself with the usual trappings -- my bible, plenty of paper, a lined yellow legal pad, actually. (I know -- shocking, isn’t it? I’m still not one to compose at the keyboard!) So, plenty of paper, a pencil, several pens, a commentary or two, a couple of books of poetry, hopefully harboring the perfect quote, a cup of hot tea, and oh yes, a box of tissues -- my nose was a little stuffy. And I read. And nothing happened. And I thought. And nothing happened.

You may be wondering, perhaps rightfully so, why on earth I am sharing all of this with you. It is not my intention to draw you in to the sometimes-scary recesses of my mind and simply leave you there. Rather, I share all of this with you out of a strong conviction that the process is sometimes more important than the product, the journey more telling than the destination.
So, as I sat surrounded by all I thought I needed, all it generally takes to craft a sermon, it dawned on me -- as suddenly as a light bulb illuminating, as surely as a ton of bricks. Something was missing. The playful spark that had been kindled at the gathering in San Francisco. The creativity that assures us there is more than one way to approach any given situation. And so I rummaged around a bit and found my markers -- the scented kind you might remember coveting when you were in second grade. I thought I would try something slightly unconventional. Okay, maybe really unconventional. I decided to draw what I had read. To graphically represent the text. I’m not much of an artist, so it was mostly isolated words and a few stick figures. And arrows. Lots of arrows. I think arrows and asterisks are among the primary reasons I don’t use a computer for first drafts of just about anything. Perhaps I am stubborn, but “cutting and pasting,” unless scissors and actual paste are involved, is not nearly as satisfying as drawing an arrow to remind me were to go next, and to jog my memory as to where I have been. So too, the arrows in my drawings pointed something out to me. Something crucial, I think.

Both our reading from 2 Kings as well as our gospel text feature individuals in search of healing. Leprosy was cause for ridicule and isolation. Other generally feared lepers, lest they themselves become contaminated, infected. It was also commonly held that leprosy was punishment from God -- a dire consequence for an unspeakable sin. Naaman seems to have escaped some of the typical scorn, perhaps by virtue of his prowess as a warrior. In fact, the king of Aram appears to regard very favorably. We see this as Naaman is sent to Samaria at the suggestion of one of the servants -- she claims there is a prophet there who would cure him of his leprosy. It’s certainly worth a try! Bearing many gifts, as well as a letter from the king, to the king, Naaman sets forth.
Well, the king of Israel, upon reading this letter, is shall we say less than cordial. He is overcome, as he tears his clothes, perhaps in frustration. “What do you want from me? Who do you think I am? What do you think I can do?” Quickly, this overwhelmed feeling transitions to one of fear, one of threat, one of suspicion. “What are you up to? Why are you here?” At this point, I find myself wondering the same thing. The king isn’t the prophet! The prophet is the one thought to have the power of healing.

Eventually, things sort themselves out, and Naaman is to have his audience with the prophet Elisha. Or, so he thinks. Naaman arrives, entourage in tow. A messenger appears at the gate with instructions as to what he is to do – simply bathe in the River Jordan seven times. Well, let’s just say that Naaman is more than a little put out. He storms away, furious. He doesn’t understand why the prophet refused to see him. He doesn’t understand why hands were not laid upon his body, covered in sores and pustules as it likely was. He doesn’t understand why the name of the Lord was not invoked, why his healing presence didn’t simply spill from the heavens. He doesn’t understand why he is being told to bathe in the Jordan River, of all places, when there are much more august waterways in his own neck of the woods. “I came all this way, for what?”

One might imagine Naaman’s servants mustering all the courage they perhaps never knew they had. Slowly they approach, lest he lash out more directly at them, as well. “What could it hurt to try? If the instructions were complicated, you’d have been all over that. All you are being asked to do is ‘Wash, and be clean.’ Why not at least try?” And so, Naaman opts to be reasonable, no matter how reluctantly. He trudges to the River Jordan, immerses himself seven times, and… what do you know? It worked!

Now, the lectionary would have us screech to a halt at this point – largely in the interest of time, no doubt. There are naps to be taken, sporting events to watch, even studying to be done. But, if we read just a bit further, we discover Naaman’s healing has led to a renewed sense of faith, of belief. He is grateful beyond all telling.

So, too, in the Gospel According to Mark – an anonymous leper approaches Jesus on bended knee, pleading. This leper opts to lead with his faith: “If you choose, you can make me clean.” He believes as much to be true, and clearly establishes his conviction. Jesus does choose – he touches the outcast and derided man, and he was healed, made clean. Instructions follow – let’s keep this between you and me – don’t tell anyone! Well, maybe you might mention it to the priest, when you go to make the appropriate offerings, but… Apparently, silence is clearly too much to ask. The recently healed, recently clean man simply can’t keep it to himself. He has to share the good news! What this means for Jesus – he has to beef up security. The lame, the downtrodden, the hopeless – they are all going to beat a path to his door. Jesus is going to be exhausted!

So… where are the arrows, and to what do they point? Back to the process. First, I wrote the word “HEALING” in the center of a page. Then I listed all of the things, tangible or otherwise, Naaman and the unidentified leper brought with them – money, clothing, a letter, impatience, frustration, anger, reluctance, faith, broken bodies and spirits, pain, vulnerability. Then I listed what they took away – cleansed bodies, healed bodies, belief, excitement, energy, relief, joy. Arrows point toward healing, and then away. Another sketch – a stick figure wearing a t-shirt bearing the word “SACKCLOTH,” a pronounced frown on a very round face. Another stick figure wearing a t-shirt bearing the word “JOY,” smiling to beat the band. The word “MOURNING” written plainly, in black. The word “DANCING” written in many colors, many different shades. In between both images? Two arrows, fat, substantial. A becomes B. “A” is all well and good, and perhaps “B” is somehow even better, but… what fascinates me is the arrow. The movement from one to another. The perhaps inexplicable moment in which the shift, the change occurs. Is it a moment, or a lifetime? Or, are the two one in the same? Who’s to say?

I am wondering whether my friend Sam might share this fascination with me. Maybe his reluctance to equip his office with tissues points to his profound respect and appreciation for the moment at hand. To wipe away the tear somehow rushed things, perhaps dismisses something prematurely. Instead, to sit with the sobbing, caring less about what it comes from than that it comes from something. Caring less about where it will lead, than that it will lead somewhere. “Wash and be clean.” “If you choose…” “I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.” It sounds so easy. It may be.

Within one of those books of poetry I mentioned earlier, Linda Hogan concludes a poem entitled “Sickness” with the following words:

I saw disease.
It closed doors, turned on light.
It owned water and land.
It believed in its country
and followed orders.
It went to work.
It tried to take my tongue.
But these words,
these words are proof
there is healing.

These words. (Bible) These words. (sermon) These drawings – yes they really do exist! The words you share with you, and you share with you. By our faith. By our belief. We are healed. We are made clean. We move from here to there, and everywhere in between. Tentatively. Confidently. “Weeping may linger for a night, but joy comes with the morning.” Good morning! Amen.

"The mad that you feel..."

The following is a sermon I preached in Jeanne Vail Chapel at Northwestern University, March 23, 2003. I've decided to post a few sermons this week, since I will be out of the office.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Mr. Rogers lately. Are you familiar with Mr. Rogers? In our house, he was affectionately known as “Shoes,” because every afternoon he would take off his suit jacket and put on a cardigan sweater – one with a zipper – and change from oxfords into sneakers, but not before gently tossing the shoes into the air. He would then spend the next thirty minutes visiting with his television neighbors. I very much enjoyed being neighbors with Mr. Rogers.

This wonderful man, who you might know was also an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church, had a special gift for helping children cope with all kinds of feelings – happy, sad, scary, even mad. I remember one of the songs he sang: “What do you do with the mad that you feel when you feel so mad you could bite? When the whole wide world seems oh so wrong and nothing you do seems very right?” The song continues with suggestions for some healthy outlets for anger – punching a bag (not your little sister), pounding some clay (not your little brother), having a came of tag and running just as fast as you can.

Anger is one of those emotions I think many of us don’t “do” very well. Anger can be explosive and very messy, or almost corrosive, insidious. Anger is rarely polite. Sometimes anger embarrasses us, and sometimes it frightens us. How interesting that something that generally feels so much bigger than we are can sometimes make us feel so very small.

Jesus was a little angry in today’s gospel text. But, Jesus doesn’t seem to have too much trouble expressing that anger. He had gone to the temple – it was almost time for Passover. Apparently, it looked more like a market than a temple! Folks selling livestock – to be used to offer a sacrifice, to be sure. Moneychangers – providing appropriate coinage for the temple tax. This is a house of worship? Well, something snapped, and Jesus, generally a peaceable man, goes on a rampage. He made a whip out of cords and began flailing it about. He drove the riff raff right out of there. He grabbed the coins from the moneychangers and dumped them all over the floor. He started knocking over tables, all the while chastising the merchants: “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” He made quite the mess.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking. We are told that they remembered having read somewhere, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” But, I would like to know what they thought, how they felt, as they watched their friend and teacher basically go off the deep end. We might assume they took it in stride – just another of his moods. I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that Jesus had a bit of a temper. Of course, we might just as easily surmise they might have been dumbstruck. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. This Jesus character – always full of surprises. We’re just along for the ride.

That’s probably enough about the disciples. But, what about everybody else? What must they have been thinking? “Uh, Security? We’ve got a situation here.” We might imagine more than a little indignation. “Who are you? Who do you think you are? What gives you the right? Give us a sign!” And Jesus is quick to reply – “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Right. Whatever you say. It’s taken 46 years to get the temple to this point, and you’re going to rebuild it in three days.” Okay.

In retrospect, we know, as the disciples would come to know in their remembrance of this exchange, that Jesus wasn’t exactly talking about the physical structure of the building that was the temple. Instead, he referred somewhat cryptically to the temple that was his body, his physical flesh and blood, soon to be silenced, however briefly.

We are several weeks along in the season of Lent, that time during which we prepare our hearts and minds for Jesus’ betrayal and death, and eventually, his glorious resurrection. It is a time during which we wrestle with difficult questions, and perhaps question easy answers. It is a time during which we wrap our minds around some of the central tenets and sticking points of our faith.

The letter to the Corinthians was written to a people wrestling and struggling with some of the same tenets. If we take a look at the verses immediately preceding where this morning’s Epistle lesson begins, we discover the author is a bit disappointed with his friends in Corinth. They were having some issues concerning division within the church. Division within the church? Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Anyway, the author wants these folks to understand that such divisiveness might cause the cross to be robbed of some of its power? “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

I have to be honest – this particular passage always trips me up a bit. I never know what to make of it. First of all, I tend to hear a somewhat harsh, almost angry undertone: “Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” Situated as we are, in the midst of a university campus, we tend to be very concerned with the wisdom of the world. I think it can be useful to give some thought, from time to time, to how exactly it is we define wisdom, perhaps contemplating the extent to which wisdom differs from intelligence, and intelligence from intuition. Here at Northwestern University, many of our days, not to mention a fair portion of our nights, are consumed with the pursuit of knowledge – in the lecture hall, in the laboratory, in the library. It can be all too easy to discount the learning that takes place outside of the ivy-covered walls of academia. It can be all too easy to insist that wisdom is solely a by-product of the number of degrees amassed, the number of languages fluently spoken, or the extent to which one’s hair is graying. Some of the wisest folks I have had the good fortune to know have never set foot on a college campus. Others of the wisest folks I have had occasion to know are about three feet tall and gather around me during A Moment with the Children. You think I have something to teach them? No, not really. I’m just trying to learn what I can from their insightful revelations!

It can be all too easy to overlook the wisdom all around us, if we would only open our eyes. A few weeks ago, I found myself on a ferry traveling to Whidbey Island in Washington State. It was in Seattle for a conference of college and university chaplains. As I stood on the deck, a rather brisk wind more than rustled. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. The mountains – just fascinated, captivated me. This reverie was interrupted as someone standing nearby remarked, “Our God surely is amazing!” Several of us exclaimed in agreement. Who could argue with that?

Well, another country heard from, as my grandma used to say. Someone else remarked, “Yeah, it’s beautiful, but I don’t need the mountains to tell me God is amazing – I just need to look at your face.” She went on to voice somewhat of an impatience with nature, and a decided preference for the city, as one who draws her energy from an urban environment. Now, I’m a confirmed city girl as well, don’t get me wrong. But, those mountains…

“The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims God’s handiwork.” The firmament, built up to such incredible dimensions, proclaimed a great deal for me that afternoon. They offered a quiet wisdom, to be sure. Those mountains have been, for a very long time. God willing, they will continue to be. Those mountains are much more sure, more secure, than they molehills that comprise much of our daily lives. I needed that gentle yet certain reminder.

Let’s turn our attention back to another reminder, not exactly gentle, but surely certain – the cross. Two sturdy beams of wood, positioned perpendicularly. As innocuous as the pendants hanging around our necks may seem, we know the cross to be a particularly brutal means of a very public, very humiliating execution. “But we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” I don’t know. I tend to do a fair amount of stumbling over the cross. I won’t go so far as to call it foolishness, but it is a lot to take in.

What exactly is the message about the cross? That which is meant to be “Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God?” On one level, one could almost say the message about the cross has far less to do with God, far more to do with fallen humanity. Important people were feeling threatened by this radical character who was generating quite a following. They plotted and conspired, orchestrated his betrayal. Mob mentality went to work, and before we know it, Jesus is hung on a cross, crucified, left for dead.

But, we know the story doesn’t end there. We have to stay tuned. I don’t mean to rush the season, but we have to hold out for the message of the empty tomb. The resurrection. That’s what these forty days are all about. We preach Christ crucified, to be sure. But we also preach Christ raised from the dead, ascended into heaven. Which is the point? The death, or the life?
I can’t help but wonder – why is it that the cross is such a central symbol of our faith? Why not the empty tomb, the stone rolled away? I think it may have something to do with the privileging of presence over absence. There is something appealing about a savior who will suffer with us, for us. God in human form, vulnerable, subject to frailty. The very physical reality of Jesus’ death. The tomb is empty. Miraculous – yes. Full of God’s grace and power – yes. But, somehow inaccessible. Out of reach.

Let’s return to Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. The song I mentioned earlier continues: “It’s great to be able to stop – when you’ve planned a thing that is wrong, and be able to do something else instead and think this song: I can stop when I want to, can stop when I wish, can stop, stop, stop any time.” I’m going to stop before I actually break into song.

Now, I certainly don’t want to incite a crisis of faith for anyone – although there is a part of me that firmly believes such crises can be moments of tremendous growth – or, maybe that’s what I need to tell myself. At any rate, far be it for me to second guess the scriptures, but… Intellectually, I understand the drama of the crucifixion as a necessary backdrop for the promise of the resurrection. An unavoidable precursor, a divine inspiration, so to speak. But I wonder… had we been present some two thousand years ago, would we have joined in with the crowd? Would we have betrayed our teacher, what is more our friend? Or, would we have raised our voices in protest? Would we have pled with the powers that be for a better way to manage the threat they were feeling? “For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

Practical Considerations -- Numbers 9 & 10

Spring Break is right around the corner. Tomorrow, eight students and I will travel to Red Bird Mission in Beverly, Kentucky. I am particularly excited because Red Bird Mission was my first work trip when I was but a freshman in college twenty some years ago. I have a picture on my desk from that trip. I am sitting next to Dr. H, my first college chaplain. (I am working on it feeling more natural to call him "Don" -- it's a little easier each time I see him, which is not nearly often enough.) His arm is around me. Tears are in my eyes. My grandma had died at most a week before. And, I was also working on getting strep throat and a raging ear infection. Good times.


It really was a good time, though. I grew up standing in the church parking lot waving good bye as my mom drove off with the youth group year after year. Then, it was my turn. It opened my eyes to an entirely different culture, no passport needed. It opened my heart to the beauty of generosity. It opened my mind to the complexity of issues of social justice.


There are many practical considerations which must go into such a trip. All of the proper paperwork must be filed with the college. Fundraising fundraising fundraising... Eighty some "Live United" bracelets made and sold for donations, six batches of Chaplain Brown's brownies (I am told things got a little ugly when they ran out... students chasing them down with a fistful of quarters..."Gimme another brownie! Whatdya mean they're gone?") Medical release forms and emergency contacts gathered. Work gloves, safety glasses, flashlights... Extra whatever it is someone might forget... And then there's the getting there. We will meet at the train station in Wilmington DE, take a train to Washington DC, take a bus to Knoxville TN and then rent a van to drive to Beverly KY. It's either a well oiled machine, or organized chaos.


A stark contrast to the way the Israelites traveled in the passage from Numbers. Moving when the cloud lifted from the tabernacle... stopping as it came to a stop... truly a spirit led itinerary. I find it hard to wrap my head around such a prospect. Why is it that we find it easier to rely upon timetables and schedules and never ending 'to do' lists than upon our faith in God?


I am going to endeavor to continue to have postings up next week. They won't be linked through Facebook, though.