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.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
"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.
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.
Friday, March 2, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Poetry in motion -- Psalm 22
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest."
In all its pain, in all its despair, Psalm 22 is breathtakingly beautiful. It strikes a chord when tears well up in the throat, threatening to choke else they are released. When the weariness that you feel is all but paralysing. When your best intentions and fondest hopes fail, fall flat, come short.
"I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death."
Empty.
Spent.
Broken.
Dissolved.
Parched.
Forsaken.
Verse 21b swoops in and gives me a bad case of whiplash.
The Psalmist celebrates having been heard, after such a trying time. And the remainder of the psalm is a call to praise and reverence.
But...
For every time God answers our prayers with great dramatic flair, there are surely ten times the response is understated, sometimes barely perceptible, if perceptible at all.
I wonder... is there a psalm that sits with that tension?
Lord knows many of us could come up with one.
In all its pain, in all its despair, Psalm 22 is breathtakingly beautiful. It strikes a chord when tears well up in the throat, threatening to choke else they are released. When the weariness that you feel is all but paralysing. When your best intentions and fondest hopes fail, fall flat, come short.
"I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death."
Empty.
Spent.
Broken.
Dissolved.
Parched.
Forsaken.
Verse 21b swoops in and gives me a bad case of whiplash.
The Psalmist celebrates having been heard, after such a trying time. And the remainder of the psalm is a call to praise and reverence.
But...
For every time God answers our prayers with great dramatic flair, there are surely ten times the response is understated, sometimes barely perceptible, if perceptible at all.
I wonder... is there a psalm that sits with that tension?
Lord knows many of us could come up with one.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Almost, but not quite... Genesis 17
My bible is to my left, perched precariously atop several other books. I've been wrestling with this blog post for well over an hour now. I'm starting to get frustrated. I have a meeting in a little over an hour, I'm ready for dinner, and I have lots to do once I finally get home. But this is, more or less, beside the point. I glanced at the text and happened to misread one piece of one verse. The text reads: "I am God Almighty; walk before me and be blameless. And I will make my covenant between me and you, and will make you exceedingly numerous." What I read -- "walk with me..." I had an image of a Very Important Person squeezing in some face time as she hurried from one engagement to another, perhaps trying to seal the deal. Indeed, in a manner of speaking, that is exactly what God is doing with Abram-soon-to-be-Abraham. God outlines what he intends for Abraham, and stipulates what he is asking in return. True, "walk before me and be blameless" lends a different flavor. It requires worship and devotion, a measure of loyalty. Almost, but not quite.
Monday, February 27, 2012
A life giving proposition -- Mark 8: 31-38 and Mark 9:2-9
The pastor yesterday began his sermon with a joke. And I laughed, maybe a little louder than is appropriate. Oh well. The joke, roughly paraphrased: A chicken and a pig are walking down the street. They come upon a diner with a sign in the window -- "Eggs and Bacon -- $2.50" The chicken remarks to the pig, "You know, that's really a great deal!" The pig answers, "Speak for yourself... for you it's $2.50, for me it's a life giving proposition!"
This joke seems to work with this passage in Mark, as well. Jesus is talking about some fairly uncomfortable notions -- namely, his own impending death, which is to follow humiliating suffering. But he doesn't stop there. He mentions that after three days, he will rise from the dead. This makes Peter more than a little nervous, and he lets Jesus know. And Jesus lets Peter know. Boy, does Jesus let Peter know: "Get behind me, Satan!" He chastises him bitterly for being too caught up in this world, when he really needs to be setting his sights beyond.
And then, Jesus really puts it all out there: "If any want to becomes my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it." Jesus wants us to be all in. Go big or go home. It's truly a life giving proposition.
This joke seems to work with this passage in Mark, as well. Jesus is talking about some fairly uncomfortable notions -- namely, his own impending death, which is to follow humiliating suffering. But he doesn't stop there. He mentions that after three days, he will rise from the dead. This makes Peter more than a little nervous, and he lets Jesus know. And Jesus lets Peter know. Boy, does Jesus let Peter know: "Get behind me, Satan!" He chastises him bitterly for being too caught up in this world, when he really needs to be setting his sights beyond.
And then, Jesus really puts it all out there: "If any want to becomes my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it." Jesus wants us to be all in. Go big or go home. It's truly a life giving proposition.
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