Creeping around the Edges (Mark 5:21-43)

Rev. Derek Penwell's sermon for 7/1/2012

In the recent debate over healthcare reform one focus of the argument centers on whether the government or the private sector can better provide healthcare service at a manageable cost. Distilled to its essence, the debate seems to me to focus on which bureaucracy is less bureaucratic.

Private insurance providers claim that the free market is more efficient, because competition drives prices down—which, given the metastatic growth in healthcare costs, is a dubious claim at best. Public healthcare advocates say that the profit incentive in private healthcare makes the job of insurance companies center around figuring out how to deny coverage. Whatever your position, though, the main argument revolves around how to get more healthcare for less money.

Our society spends a great deal of time doing cost-benefit analysis. That is to say, we're socialized to ask, “Does the benefit I derive from a thing exceed the cost I lay out?”

I love cherries, for instance. But whereas I will pay $2.99 a pound for them, $4.99 a pound strikes me as unreasonably high.

Advertising is the practice of convincing you that the prices we're charging for toilet brushes are worth the investment. This makes a certain amount of sense in a market based economy. The problem, though, is that we don't just apply cost/benefit analysis to stuff—we also apply it to one another.

John Stuart Mill wrote in the middle of the nineteenth century that ethics is a matter of “maximizing utility.” Maximizing utility means doing that which leads to the greatest happiness.

According to Mill, if I have to make a choice about whether to save one person or to save ten, I make that choice based on the greatest benefit I can achieve by my action. The sacrifice of one person to save ten is good utilitarian math—though it may not necessarily be good Christian math.

But utilitarianism in Western calculations concerns not only thorny ethical dilemmas, but also the investment of energy. Does it make more sense to teach one special needs child to read or ten average kids? We only have so many resources. We need to get the biggest bang for our buck, right? You see the problem.

But it's one thing to have to figure out how to divide up food for six among seven people on a life boat; it's an entirely different thing to apply utilitarian calculations to our everyday social arrangements. Under this kind of cost/benefit analysis, people can be judged to “cost” more than they're “worth.”

How do we deal with the mentally handicapped, with alzheimer's patients, with people in a persistent vegetative state? What do we do with people who've gotten in over their heads with mortgages they can't afford, or who've had to buy groceries with credit cards? What kind of return on our investment can we expect from them? These are tough questions.

We much prefer to deal with the easy ones: should Jr. go to Harvard or Yale? Can we really afford private Zamboni lessons for our sweet little girl? Do we want our child to date the doctor or the lawyer? Does it make more sense to be a Cubs or Yankees fan?

By and large, people want their kids to be voted “most likely to succeed,” not “best body piercing.” That's the way our society operates. The pressure is to move forward and upward—and to associate ourselves with those who do.

If you have any experience on Facebook, you know that one of the moments of pleasure it can bring is when someone you've sent a friend request to responds by accepting you as a Facebook friend. On the other hand, it can be a little unnerving to send out a friend request to somebody, and never have them respond.

You start thinking, “Did he get it? Is he ignoring me? Did I do something to insult him at some point? Does he think his other friends will think less of him if they see I'm also his friend? Am I

goofier than I thought? That can't be right, because I hung out with way cooler people in school than he did?”

It becomes a sort of endless social calculation of worth—who's more important? Who's worth my time? Do other people think I'm not worth their time?

Of course, these endless calculations of worth aren't unique to us. People throughout history have been doing these sorts of things. Even Jesus isn't completely removed from the social pressures of figuring out who's worth his time and energy.

In our Gospel, Jesus has just calmed the storm and exorcised the demons from the Gerasene demoniac. He crosses back over the sea he's just calmed, where he is approached by an important man, a leader of the synagogue named, Jairus. Up to this point in Mark, Jesus is getting a bad reputation for hanging out with the wrong sort of folks. He's paying attention to all the wrong people. Healing lepers and paralytics and the demon possessed.

Back in chapter two he does some leadership recruitment—not at the finest business schools—but at a “tax booth,” where he calls Levi. Then, he adds insult to injury by going to Levi's house to eat with a bunch of “tax collectors and sinners.” People are starting to talk. You have to be a bit more discerning about the company you keep. Jesus is getting a bad reputation.

So, when Jairus prevails upon Jesus to come see about Jairus's sick little girl, everyone’s relieved. Jairus is the kind of ally Jesus is supposed to cultivate. He's head of the Men's Morning Breakfast down at the synagogue, president of the local Lion's club; he's got contacts. He can help Jesus network.

The disciples must have been thinking, “Finally. Now, we're getting somewhere.” Do a favor for this guy, and no telling the kind of political capital Jesus can start building.

On the way to Jairus's house, though, something happens. It shouldn't have been a big thing. Jesus probably should have just kept going. When you've got a big one on the hook like Jairus, you don't

want to lose your concentration, don't want to get distracted. But Jesus stops anyway. Somebody's yanking on his shirttail. “Who touched my clothes?” he wants to know.

The disciples look at each other, their eyebrows knitted. “What do you mean, 'who touched my clothes?' You're in a crowd, for Pete’s sake.”

A woman approaches. She's owns up to grabbing onto his cloak.

If Jesus is going to turn over a new social leaf, quit hanging out with the wrong crowd, this is the perfect time to start. Women weren't supposed to touch men who were not their husbands. Jesus could make a real statement about how he's willing to play ball in the current political environment by giving this woman what-for.

Moreover, not only is she a woman, she's an unclean woman. She has, what the King James called, an issue of blood. She's been bleeding for 12 years, which is a nice way of saying she's had female problems—not just monthly, but daily . . . for 12 years.

A menstruating woman was considered unclean—which is to say, untouchable. She wasn't supposed to touch anyone, let alone a strange man.

Jesus could really signal his willingness to play by the rules by doing the right thing, the thing that would grease the social gears, the thing that would maximize utility, making the largest number of people happy. He could humiliate her, should humiliate her. But he doesn't.

He tells her that her faith has healed her. “So what?” you ask.

The outrage is that he gives tacit approval to the woman's actions. She’s a drain on society. You can’t encourage that kind of behavior. We know how people are, they’ll take advantage of you every time if they think they can get something for free—especially healthcare.

But rather than do the socially and politically expedient thing, Jesus walks the margins again in search of those folks who are creeping around the edges.

Soon, he and Jairus make it to where the sick little girl is. But by the time they get there, she's already died.

Oh well, nice try, Jesus. Thanks for coming. We appreciate you taking the time, but all that's left to us now is to start preparing her body for burial.

Jesus says, “I'd like to see her anyway. She's really only sleeping.”

Mark says that everybody laughed at Jesus for saying this. They've seen dead people before. They know what dead people look like.

Jesus persists, though. As far as Jairus is concerned, Jesus has done all that could be asked of him. Now that she's dead, Jesus will only make himself unclean by going to see her to hold her lifeless hand.

He never learns, this Jesus. What's the public relations upside here? You've got to think about how this stuff is going to play on cable news.

Not Jesus. Ignoring the cost/benefit analysis, Jesus goes to her, takes her hand, and tells her to get up, and together they walked the margins hand in hand.

What I find interesting about these two intertwined stories is the issue of how short-sighted they make Jesus appear on the front end. In both cases, Jesus participates in activity guaranteed to marginalize him in everyone’s eyes. In both cases, he risks the social and political costs of being unclean by touching those who are unclean. A true test of your convictions is what you’re prepared to look like a complete idiot for.

But the great shock of the story, however, is that once Jesus touches them, they are healed, made alive—and not only is Jesus not unclean as a result of the this encounter, neither any longer are they.

In touching these two in an unclean state, Jesus has not only healed them physically, he’s restored them to the social world in which purity is boss. In other words, he’s given them back their lives . . . in more ways than one.

When Jesus walks the margins looking for those who creep around the edges, he redefines the edges, so that the margins are set in the center; and it's the folks who usually occupy the center who risk finding themselves on the margins.

Once again, Jesus turns the world on its head. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last. The one who wants to find life, must first lose it. Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. The one who wants to gain the world, must forfeit everything.

But Jesus, that doesn't make sense; it's just not good math. You need to put your money on a winner, get a good return on your investment, ride the middle of the road. And Jesus says, “Life's much more interesting out here with those folks on the edges.”

Ask them. Ask those folks who, because society’s told them repeatedly that they’re not worth the effort, what it means for Jesus to go out of his way to reach out a hand, to risk the bad opinion of those bigwigs who occupy center. Ask them whether somebody finally willing to go looking for them means anything.

Walk the margins with Jesus, go looking for those folks creeping around the edges, and sooner or later your cost/benefit analysis is going to get really goofed up.

I promise you.

-Amen. 

The Rocks of the Ground Will Cry Out

“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord” (Phil. 3:1a).

“In other words, authentic praise of God acknowledges what is true about God; it responds to qualities that are ‘there’ and not simply ‘there for me.’”  (Leander Keck, The Church Confident, 30).

 “Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.”  Fascinating phrase–very simple, to the point, no beating around the bush.  Rejoice in the Lord.  Paul says it as if it were self-evident, as if everyone who would read this would know what it means without thinking about it.  No explanations, just “rejoice in the Lord.”  Maybe the Philippians saw what he was driving at right away.  I don’t know.

 All I do know is that there is general confusion about what “rejoice in the Lord” means today.  Praise today is often seen as utilitarian; that is, we say “thank you” to God so that . . . so that God will not withhold future blessing, so that we can be sure God knows that we like good things, so that we don’t feel like ingrates, or so that we feel like we have, in some way, repaid our debt of gratitude.  The focus, however, is “us,” or more specifically, “me.” 

Take a cursory glance at some of the familiar hymns:  “I love to tell the story”; “Pass me not O gentle Savior”; “Jesus, I come”; “God will take care of you”; “He touched me.”  None of that is bad, necessarily, but it may be out of balance.  Our rejoicing in the Lord, if we’re not careful can be just another exercise in narcissism.  What God has done for me is of very real importance to me.  But regardless of whether I ever understand or appreciate all the good that God has done for me, God is great and worthy to be praised. 

So whether or not we ever understand what “rejoice in the Lord” means, creation knows.  Even the rocks of the ground cry out in praise.  

I suppose there’s a lesson in there somewhere for me.

Movie Night

Join us for our July Movie Night on Friday, July 6^th.    We’ll be watching Freedom Writers starring Hilary Swank.  It’s about a young teacher who inspires her class of at-risk students to learn tolerance, apply themselves, and pursue education beyond high school.

We will meet at 6:30 to snack and visit then begin the movie at 7:30  Contact Paula Spugnardi if you have any questions.

Reflections on PRIDE! (Dennis Blake)

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to attend Louisville’s PRIDE FESTIVAL…my third…as I have only been active in the LGBTQ community for about 4 years. The festival began with the parade on Friday evening. My church, Douglass Blvd. Christian Church, has participated for several years now. I experienced real joy as I marched alongside some of our gay and straight members, carrying our banner of support. I have been involved in church music ministry for 50 years, and experience real joy at being part of a faith community which welcomes and affirms ALL people gathering to worship and fellowship, regardless of gender, age, color, creed or sexual orientation. It brought sheer joy to my heart to witness the smiles of people watching, knowing that many of them were not members of the LGBTQ community, but there to support it. On Saturday, I volunteered, along with some other church members, at our booth…passing out information about DBCC, and engaging in conversation with those who stopped by. I felt great joy in my heart as I heard person after person express thanks that we (representatives of the church) were there with our support. (And lest I forget, there were other churches there as well. Hopefully, next year, there will be even more.)
The balance of the afternoon was spent walking around the festival, meeting old friends, making new ones, and taking in all that the festival had to offer. While there, I could not help but notice the others who had come. As I walked, I saw outfits of every color of the rainbow. People in long pants, short pants, underpants, t-shirts, no shirts, crazy hats, crazy hair, nipple rings, ear gauges, tattoos, lip rings… you name it and it was there. I heard some comments about how the news media only seemed to film and photograph the ones who dressed and behaved in such outlandish manner. I was asked, “Is that the message that we want delivered to the larger Louisville community about the LGBT population?” What about those who choose to be less conspicuous about their “gayness”? After all, the LGBT community contains not only those who blatantly flaunt their homosexuality, but those who dress and act in a more conservative manner. The fact is: we are lawyers, doctors, teachers, servers, sanitation engineers, accountants, students, real estate brokers, managers, construction workers, nurses, bartenders, etc. I would daresay that those in the “straight” Louisville population cannot go anywhere in the area without some contact with a member of the LGBTQ community, and may not even realize it. Some of us are noticed, while others are well-hidden. We are black, white, Asian, Indian, and of mixed descent. We are teenagers, baby boomers, and members of the X and Y generations. Are you getting my point? We represent DIVERSITY, within our own LBGT community.

For the Sake of the Gospel (2 Cor. 6:1-13)

 Rev. Derek Penwell's Sermon for Sunday 6/23/2012

Have you ever noticed that reading Paul places you in one of two categories: either you identify with him, cheering on his bold brand of righteousness, or you feel like you’re being ruthlessly subjected to judgment? Paul doesn’t leave many people lukewarm.

On the one hand, as has often been noted before, bad biblical interpretation usually begins with the reader reading herself or himself into the role of the hero. If when you read scripture, you always read yourself into the part of the little hero David rather than the frightened Saul, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Scripture is subversive in that it exposes us all for what we truly are—broken, often lacking the appropriate amounts of courage and faith, desperately in need of redemption by a merciful God. Therefore, if we read Paul and find ourselves cheering a little too loudly as Paul chastises yet another wayward congregation, we’re probably missing the point.

On the other hand, if when we read Paul, we think only of him as an arrogant authoritarian whose sole method of pastoral care seems to come at the end of a very sharp tongue, we’re probably not getting the point here either.

Because we live in an environment that finds claims to authority outrageous, if not shockingly tyrannical, reading someone who purports to tell others the best way to live sounds patently undemocratic, unnervingly anti-American. We’re taught not to put ourselves forward as examples for other people to follow because . . . well . . . it just sounds so pompous.

The thought that people ought not to put themselves arrogantly forward as role models, however, is a modern development. For most of history, there was a common belief that people couldn’t learn anything useful without someone to show them the way. Nobody believed, for example, that it was possible to learn anything of value on your own. You had to watch somebody else who knew how to do it. The very idea of “self-help,” in which anyone with a library card or an Internet connection and a Saturday afternoon can learn to do anything, would have been unintelligible prior to the Enlightenment.

Consequently, a modern reading of Paul that sees him as “merely” judgmental completely misses the point of how people learned in that cultural context, of the kind of mutually understood interaction between Paul and his audience.

Admittedly, though, most moderns are prone to reading Paul from one of those two perspectives—either as unfailingly like us, or as completely unlike us—as always right in the way we like to think of ourselves as always right, or as wrong in the way that all arrogant blowhards are always wrong. And in so doing we miss a profoundly significant lesson about what it means to live like a Christian.

What’s going on here in our lesson for today? Paul has just finished one of the most beautiful descriptions of this new life that comes to us in the wake of the risen Christ. The paragraph immediately preceding our text for today says anyone who is now in Christ is “a new creation.” And this new creation came not because of our initiative but “All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ.”

And because we’ve been reconciled to God, we’ve been given “the ministry of reconciliation.” We’re no longer free- agents. Paul says we’re “ambassadors for Christ, since God is making his appeal through us.” We’re God’s plan for saving the world.

When Paul says “we,” he is, of course, first of all thinking of himself and his companions who’ve heard the call to full time ministry. And if we were to leave it at that, we might conceivably let ourselves off the hook by seeing ministry as an act reserved for the ordained, the officially sanctioned.

But Paul’s not going to let the vocation of ministry given all of us at baptism slide by so easily. He says, “As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain.” In other words, “What I’m fixing to say about how we full-time clergy types approach ministry has implications for everybody who’s been made ‘a new creation.’”

Why? Because all who’ve been reconciled have been given “the ministry of reconciliation.”

So when Paul says, beginning in verse 3, “We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry,” he is first of all speaking of those full-timers with whom he’s associated, but he is by implication adding to the rest of us, “Pay attention. Here’s how we do it, and this is, therefore, the way you should do it too.”

Do what? What is it that should characterize the ministry of those who have been reconciled, called to be ambassadors for Christ? How, in other words, should the baptized live?

Paul indicates that he and his colleagues have “put no obstacle in anyone’s way” by commending themselves through “great endurance” in virtually every situation imaginable: in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, and hunger . . . in honor and dishonor, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

Well, that’s really impressive, but how? How have they kept their integrity in the midst of such disheartening situations? That’s what we want to know?

Paul says they’ve done it “by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and the left.”

But what does that mean? How do you do all those things?

I think it’s something like this: For the sake of the gospel, Paul and his companions lived what they knew to be the truth, regardless of their situation. They didn’t just talk about it. They put skin and bones on their ideas, made them get up and walk around.

When things got a little intense, they could have soft-soaped some of the harder demands of the Christian life—you know, downplayed some of the more controversial aspects of the faith. Nothing big, just enough to get a little breathing room. Go along to get along, and all like that.

But apparently Paul is in the habit of “speaking frankly,” and he decided a long time ago that the only way to be a minister of the gospel, the only way to be a follower of Christ is to say and do that which is right, even though the consequences of your speech and actions might bring you trouble.

And have no doubt, if we live our lives faithful to the gospel, as one called to the ministry of reconciliation, as an ambassador for Christ, we’re going to ruffle some feathers. But, let me be quick to add that, according to Paul, if we’re living out our faith without making any waves, we’re probably not doing it right.

Now, be careful here; I’m not saying that just because you happen to have an annoying personality and perpetually walk around irritating people that that’s proof of a life well lived. If that were true Ned Flanders and Gilbert Gottfried would be saints.

It’s possible to get crossways with people for all the wrong reasons. Paul doesn’t want that. But he’s wise enough to know that the world is situated such that if you live as a minister of reconciliation in the midst of people who love to be at war, you’ll invariably find yourself at odds.

But Paul says that they put “no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with” their ministry.

If you make people angry, aren’t you putting obstacles in their way?

That’s our modern question in the church, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, we church types tend to read Paul here as saying that the responsibility of those who’ve been called to the ministry of reconciliation is to tailor all our speech and actions in such a way so as not to upset anyone—as if true reconciliation might ever really be achieved absent true speech and right behavior—as if the guiding principle for Christians had to do with finding out what makes the fewest people agitated, rather than being true to the one who has made us now a new creation.

But Paul says that they put “no obstacles in anyone’s way.” How do we square that with Paul’s claim to speak frankly, and to live with integrity in every situation?

What we often fail to realize is that the greatest obstacle to the spreading of the gospel is a failure to live the gospel.

What brings disrepute to the Christ for whom we are ambassadors is to say we believe one thing, but when the going gets tough we wind up living something totally different.

According to Paul, the greatest witness is to speak and act in ways that bring glory to God, even though our speech and actions are misunderstood. For the sake of the gospel, Paul is willing to risk being misunderstood in the short run, in order to be faithful in the long run.

Why?

Not because he cares about piling up personal points for himself with Jesus (according to Paul, we’ve already been reconciled), or because he’s one of those people who always has to be right, but because the health and witness of the church are at stake. That’s the whole point: what is at issue here is the integrity of the church.

Personal integrity is important, but it’s important just to the extent that it contributes to the overall ministry of the body of Christ. We aren’t called to live faithfully just so we can get our heavenly bus passes stamped.

We’re called to live faithfully so that the body of Christ can continue to stand as a sign of hope to a world that wouldn’t know faithfulness or integrity if it came up and bit us right on the nose, to a world whose notions about how to act are always concerned with how it will effect me.

The hope of a lost and dying world is a church dedicated to the mission of speaking and living the truth in the service of the ministry of reconciliation—even though at first glance, the world may hate us for it.

Being an ambassador for Christ often causes problems you might otherwise have avoided by keeping a low profile. If you do it right, you risk being misunderstood; you risk making people angry.

On the other hand, Jesus died a misunderstood man in the midst of a lot of angry people. For the sake of the gospel, apparently, he figured it was worth it.

In fact, he bet his life it was worth it. Thank God he did.

-Amen. 

Shalom Dessert Series: Caring for Our Children

Hilary Clinton famously said, “It takes a village to raise a child.” Because it is the job of all people in the community to help and nurture our children, this series of presentations deals with the following issues: How do we provide spiritual nurture to our children? How do we prevent, detect and treat child abuse? How do we help undereducated and underemployed teens? What are the current health issues for children and how do we foster good health? How do we support children who enter the justice system? How do we encourage and support educational achievement for our children?

June 14, 2012 - Spiritual Formation

Rev. Mary Ann Lewis, Christian Church (Disciples)

June 21, 2012 - Child Abuse: Prevention, Detection, Treatment

Sheryl Schneider, M.D., practicing Child Psychiatrist

June 28, 2012 - Undereducated and Underemployed Teens

Lynn Rippey, Youthbuild of Louisville

July 12, 2012 - Health Issues for Children

Liz Fitzgerald, Ph. D., Certified Clinical Nurse Specialist in Child and Adolescent Nursing

July 19, 2012 - Advocating for Children in our Justice System

Ambrose O’Bryan, CASA Volunteer Recruitment Coordinator

July 26, 2012 - Education

Ann Walls, M. Ed., and Rosemarie Sprawls, M. Ed.

Presented by Douglass Boulevard Christian Church, 2005 Douglass Boulevard 7:00 p.m. Coffee and Dessert will be served.

Being a True Nonconformist

“Instead, put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh” (Romans 13:14).

“The television commercial is not at all about the character of products to be consumed. It is about the character of the consumers of products. Images of movie stars and famous athletes, of serene lakes and macho fishing trips, of elegant dinners and romantic interludes, of happy families packing their station wagons for a picnic in the country–these tell nothing about the product being sold. But they tell everything about the fears, fancies and dreams of those who might buy them. What the advertiser needs to know is not what is right about the product but what is wrong about the buyer” (Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death, 128).

Advertising, at this point in our cultural development, is the proverbial straw that stirs the drink. We know that. Instinctively, somehow, it makes sense. If consumption is the gas that drives the capitalist machine, we understand that somehow or another we must be motivated to go to the pump and do our part to keep the whole thing humming along. Of course, advertisers do not want us to think of it in such vulgar terms. Otherwise, the magic would be gone. Rather, advertising is designed to keep us from thinking much at all, except insofar as it can get us to think about ourselves. And in that sense, advertising is less concerned with selling us a new product as it is with selling us a new vision of ourselves as the sort of people who might benefit from buying a product.

In other words, commercials are inherently preachy. Only the moralizing is so subtle that we hardly even notice it. Later Postman says, “The television commercial is about products only in the sense that the story of Jonah is about the anatomy of whales, which is to say, it isn’t. Which is to say further, it is about how one ought to live one’s life” (p. 131).

I find the whole notion of commercials as the great moralizers in our society fascinating, given our current bent toward the accepted orthodoxy of radical self-determination. Let’s face it, we live in a culture where everyone is moving through an elaborately orchestrated morality play in which each character is convinced that nobody is going to tell another how to live.  The seduction happens to effortlessly that we hardly even feel it.

Why, though? Why does it work so well? I think commercials have the power to shape us because we are so preoccupied with ourselves. It seems as though we care less about being good people, for example, than about being perceived as good people. Why? Because while actually being good takes a great deal of hard work, looking like a good person takes very little effort at all–just the right kind of aftershave and breath mints. Nowadays, one doesn’t actually have to put in the grueling hours it used to take to be smart; one need merely stay in the right hotel.

Paul, however, suggests a way to release us from the relentless grip of commercials. He tells us to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh.” If what we are primarily concerned about happens not to be our own image, but that of the one who gives us a self with which to be concerned in the first place, then psychodramas about acne and sports utility vehicles will have lost their power over us. By understanding that what we truly need is not the tweaking provided by the right brand of toothpaste or the coolest brand of beer, we begin to see ourselves the way Christ sees us, rather than the way Madison Avenue needs for us to see ourselves.

According to Paul, maybe being your own person isn’t such a great deal after all. Living the life Jesus calls you to live . . . now, that would be true nonconformity.

Book Sale Continues

The Second Hand Book Sale will continue the next two Saturdays in Briney Hall Library. The cost is $.50 for kid books, $1.00 for soft cover and $2.00 for hard back.  Hours are 10 a.m. - 2 p.m. 

Movie Night

The movie group will be meeting on Friday June 1^st at 6:30 in the Youth room.  We will meet and share snacks from 6:30 – 7:30 and begin watching A Walk to Remember at 7:30.   Please see or call Paula Spugnardi if you have any questions 452-9113.

Sermon Podcast: "The Protection of the Truth"

The Protection of the Truth

(John 17:6–19)

I pulled into a parking lot yesterday. Only one space available. The owner of the Lexus apparently figured that his car was worthy not only of its space, but also of about 10 inches worth in the next space over—not surprisingly, the only space open in the lot.

What am I going to do? My kid’s got drum lessons. So, I pull my admittedly anti-earth-friendly Dodge Ram pickup into the extremely cramped but only open space, leaving an impossibly small gap between our two vehicles.

I say “impossibly small,” by which I mean it appeared impossibly small to me. It seemed doable, however, to the Lexus-owner, who appeared as I put the truck in park, and told his pre-teen son to get in the back seat.

The young boy did as he as told; he pulled the car door open, and surprise! He cracked the rear fender of my truck. I’m sitting in the driver seat watching all this. In response, the father says—not, “Careful buddy! Watch out for the truck.” He doesn’t look up at me sitting in the driver’s seat observing the whole thing with great interest and say, “Sorry about that! You know how kids are.” Nothing like that.

Instead, he yells over the top of the car roof, “Watch out for the guitar!”

Then, without ever once looking at me, he gets in the car and drives off.

And I thought, “You know, silence can be a form of lying, a way of avoiding having to take responsibility for your actions. You can stand by while injustice is perpetrated without saying anything for fear of ”getting into it.“ And though you never say a word, by failing to own your life, it’s possible to commit a sin against the truth.”

When you’re a kid, they tell you not to lie. Honesty is always the best policy. That’s what they tell you, isn’t it?

When you get older and you start reading the New York Times, they modify the wording a bit: “The coverup is always worse than the crime.” It all means pretty much the same thing, though.

Life is always a lot easier if you tell the truth.

Except it’s not always easier, is it? It’s way more difficult to tell the truth. It’s easier to fire up the Lexus and take off.

Honesty is always the best policy—unless you don’t get caught.

The coverup is always worse than the crime … that is, unless nobody ever finds out about the plumbers and the Watergate Hotel, or about Rielle Hunter and her baby—then lying looks like the most effective strategy.

So, here’s today’s moral lesson from Uncle Derek: Keep quiet. And if you can’t keep quiet, lie. Lie your rear end off … unless it looks like you’re about to get nailed. Then, by all means, sing like a canary. Roll over. Drop dime. Tell the truth.

Isn’t that what Jesus is getting at in today’s Gospel? Life is tough. If you get the chance, make it easier on yourself. Life is difficult enough. Following Jesus should be “user-friendly.” You shouldn’t have to put up with any more than is absolutely necessary. And, if anything arises that threatens to get your world tied up in knots—don’t worry, Jesus’ll fix it.

That’s pretty much the gist of it, isn’t it?

No? I can see the disapproval in your faces. Am I not getting this right? I should really read this stuff more carefully before Sunday morning.

All right, then. If I’m headed down the wrong track, let’s go back and see if we can get pointed in the right direction.

What’s going on in our passage for this morning?

The scene begins all the way back in chapter 13. Jesus and the disciples are gathered together. It’s Thursday night, the eve of his coming violent death at the hands of the Roman authorities. He’s washed his disciples feet, predicted his betrayal at the hands of one of his trusted lieutenants and a series of heartbreaking denials by one of the others.

Then, he starts talking about going away to a place the disciples can’t follow.

“What? You’re leaving?”

Things on the political front are pretty well stirred up. Something’s getting ready to happen. Everybody can feel it. Whatever it is is in the air.

Jesus has made all the wrong people mad, and the whole Judean population knows it’s getting ready to hit the fan.

You can imagine the disciples are pretty well freaked out by now. Their world’s about to implode, and Jesus is talking about bugging out.

“Who’s going to stay with us?”

“Don’t worry. I’m sending along somebody to look after you.”

Skittish. You can see it their eyes. “Come on, Jesus. Throw us a bone here. We’re feeling extremely exposed here. Can’t you offer us some assurance of protection?”

In our Gospel for this morning Jesus turns his eyes toward heaven and starts praying: “God, so here we are. You sent me here for this moment. Glorify me so that I may glorify you. You’ve given me some friends, Lord, and I showed them who you really are. So, I’m praying for them. Protect them. I’ve protected them since I’ve been here, but now I’m heading out, so you’re going to have to look out for them. Really, we kind of owe it to them, since everybody hates them now because of me.”

The disciples are doing well with this prayer so far.

“It’s tough out there, keep an eye on them when I leave.”

Good stuff. The disciples are kind of peeking, looking at one another, nodding their heads: “See, I told you he wouldn’t leave us high and dry. God’s going to look out for us.”

Relief. They were sure they were going to be left holding the bag, but it looks like Jesus is going to take care of them. Pressure’s lightening.

       “As long as there’s a back-up plan, we should be good.”

Jesus keeps praying. He’s being realistic: “I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one.”

“Ok. Fine. We’ve got to stay here, but we’ve got some protection. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s a start.”

But then Jesus makes a mess of things.

What’s Jesus plan? What are the amazing forces unleashed to protect Jesus’ followers from the evil they will encounter?

It’s got to be something good, right? Maybe an invisibility cloak, a long sword with maximum hit points, some kind of escape portal when things get tough. Something.

But what does Jesus ask for? Truth.

That’s it? Really? Sanctify them in truth? That’s the plan? The truth is supposed to protect them?

And I can understand that. I go to God, anxious, afraid … and I’m looking for God to do something big—if not “take me out of the world,” then at least more than what Jesus prays for.

If not “take me out of the world,” then at least jigger the world so it’s not such a threat.

Fix the world, Lord. That’s what we need. It’s too dangerous as things stand now. Life is getting too uncertain.

But instead, Jesus’ answer to the impending danger his disciples face is to ask that they be made holy in the truth.

What does that even mean? Sanctify them in truth?

In my experience the truth can get you into a lot of hot water. Tell people the truth and you’re setting yourself up for a great deal of animosity from people who are more than satisfied with the lies they embrace.

But Jesus doesn’t say, “God, things are fixin’ to get hairy for my friends here, so please help them to speak honestly”—although, of course, he expects that too. He prays that his followers will be sanctified in truth.

But if Jesus isn’t just saying, “Make sure to tell the truth no matter what,” then what is he saying?

I think Jesus prays that his disciples will be sanctified in truth, not as a way of “taking them out of the world,” but as a way of embracing the world in which they live—not the world they imagine God should surely want if God were paying attention to the way things are currently situated. The disciples are looking for a world where everything turns out well for the good guys, a world where it doesn’t cost anything to follow Jesus.

According to Jesus, however, this world is the only one there is—and God wants to bless it, not the one we think is worth blessing. This one … in all its messiness and violence and pettiness, in all of its craven sneaking around and brazen wantonness.

“But how is that going to protect Jesus’ followers? How is embracing the truth going to help, when what really appears necessary is a heart transplant?”

If you spend much time around people in recovery, you’ll eventually hear someone say, “I went through hell, but even if given a chance, I wouldn’t change it.”

“What? If you could go back and change your life you wouldn’t do it—even though it’s caused you and so many others inexpressible pain? Why not?”

“I could never be who I am without being who I was.”

Did you hear that? That’s called owning your life. It’s called the truth. And once you’ve been through the fire of truth, there’s nothing left to fear. If you can own your life, if you can tell yourself the truth about who you are, you need not be afraid—you’ve already confronted that which can harm you.

My first reaction is to want Jesus to pray for it to be easy. I want to him to protect me from the world by installing some kind of force field, some heat shield around me that won’t allow the slings and arrows to touch me.

But he doesn’t do that. He prays not that there be a protective wall around me to guard against the damage life can cause, but that I can endure the damage, that I can embrace the truth that life is full of fear and horror.

Implicit in his prayer Jesus promises not that we will be protected from the truth of an often hostile and scary world, but that the truth will protect us from being undone by that world. It is the crazy, paradoxical notion that we are protected by our vulnerability.

       “What?”

Growing up in Michigan, apparently unlike some folks in the south, I learned to drive in the snow. I had to. If you didn’t know how to drive in the snow where I’m from, you’d have to sit in your house watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island for about 5 months out of the year.

Anyway, they teach a few things about driving in the snow that are absolutely counter-intuitve—like if you start to skid, don’t hit the brakes.

“Are you crazy? Brakes, if you didn’t know, are those contraptions they put on modern motor vehicles as an aid to stopping. If you don’t put on the brakes, you can’t stop.”

I know it sounds crazy, but hitting the brakes when you’re skidding in the snow is about the absolute worst thing you can do.

Here’s another one: If your car starts to skid, not only should you not hit the brakes, you should steer into the skid. If you’re losing control of the car and it’s skidding to the right, you should turn your steering wheel to the right.

I know. Crazy ain’t it? I have neither the time nor the intellectual wattage necessary to explain why it’s true: leaning into a skid feels like the absolute worst thing you can do—but it can save your life. As someone who’s driven thousands of miles in the snow, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one.

       “Jesus, the truth exposes us. We want some protection.”

And Jesus says, “Being exposed by the truth is the greatest protection you have. Lean into it. As someone who laid down his life in the name of truth, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one.”

—Amen.

Sermon Podcast Audio

Mothers' Day Carnations!

The youth will be selling carnations in the gathering area this Sunday in honor of Mothers' Day. They will be sold for $2 a piece and proceeds will go toward the youth's mission trip to Mexico!

So He Got Up and Went

So He Got Up and Went

(Acts 8:26-40)

On January 31, 1872, Henry Ward Beecher, brother of Harriett Beecher Stowe, of Uncle Tom’s Cabin fame, traveled to Yale to deliver the first Lyman Beecher Lecture on preaching — a lecture series that has included such homiletical luminaries as Phillips Brooks, Harry Emerson Fosdick, Reinhold Niebuhr, George and David Buttrick, and Fred Craddock.  The lectures were named after Henry Ward Beecher’s Father, and it was thought fitting that Henry Ward should give the first lecture in the series.  Frederick Buechner recalls what Beecher’s biographer wrote of the occasion:

He had a bad night, not feeling well.  Went to his hotel, got his dinner, lay down to take a nap.  About two o’clock he got up and began to shave without having been able to get at any plan of the lecture to be delivered within the hour.  Just as he had his face lathered and was beginning to strop his razor, the whole thing came out of the clouds and dawned on him.  He dropped his razor, seized his pencil, and dashed off the memoranda for it and afterwards cut himself badly, he said, thinking it out.

Henry Ward Beecher faced some very trying times as he mopped the blood from his cheek and prepared to go to the hall and tell others how to preach.  The rumors about his relationship with the wife of one of his parishioners had ceased to be harmless gossip, appearing now in bold face type in the news.  He was about to face, perhaps, a public trial for adultery.

The work that he cherished and the life that he loved were dangerously in jeopardy; and yet the word about the work he cherished and the life he loved could no more be silenced than the incoming tide at sunrise.  Buechner comments on the situation:

So when he stood there looking into the hotel mirror with soap on his face and a razor in his hand, part of what he saw was his own shame and horror, the sight of his own folly, the judgment one can imagine he found even harder to bear than God’s, which was his own judgment on himself, because whereas God is merciful, we are none of us very good at showing mercy on ourselves.  Henry Ward Beecher cut himself with his razor and wrote out notes for that first Beecher Lecture in blood because, whatever else he was or aspired to be or was famous for being, he was a man of flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood.  Seems to me we’ve got an awful lot of that in Scripture too.  Remember Moses?  He stands barefoot on holy ground as God says, “I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people out of Egypt.”  And what does Moses say?  “O my Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor even now that you have spoken to your servant; but I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.”

Remember Jeremiah?  God tapped him to go be a prophet to the nations.  “Before you were born I consecrated you,” God says.  And what does Jeremiah say?  “Ah, Lord God!  Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.”

Remember Isaiah?  One day Isaiah sees the Lord sitting on a throne — high and lifted up.  Isaiah, we are led to believe, experiences the vision as a call.  And what’s the first thing out of his mouth?  “Woe is me!  I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips.”

And how about Jonah?  God says, “Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me.”  And what does Jonah do?  He doesn’t even bother to offer up an excuse, he just turns tail and sneaks off to Tarshish, the text says, “away from the presence of the Lord.”

We can understand that way of responding to God’s call.  We know ourselves to be inadequate to the task.  God calls and we have our defenses up in a heart beat.  

I can’t go there.  

I can’t do that.  

I’m really not the one for the job.  

If you really knew anything about me, you’d realize what a mistake this is.  I’m just little ol’ me — nothing big, no bells and whistles.  I can’t talk good.  I’m too young.  I’m not a very holy person.  I actually don’t see the sense in it.  Well, yeah, but my kids have soccer practice then.  I have to work too much overtime.  

Flesh and blood.  Nick us and we bleed.  For better or worse, we are all of us flesh and blood.  And the fact that we’re imperfect is one that we lose no time in explaining when the call comes.  So we understand all those characters who lit up the excuse-’o-meter when God came calling.

But, then there’s Philip.  In our text for today, Peter and John have just returned to Jerusalem, and an angel of the Lord comes to Philip and tells him to pack his bags and head on down the road toward Gaza, which, parenthetically, we’re told is a wilderness road.  That is to say, this is not the road to go walking on if you value your life.  

You remember what happened the last time Luke had someone walking down a wilderness road?  That road led from Jerusalem to Jericho, and the man who walked it, Luke says, “fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away leaving him half dead” (Luke 10:30), before a Good Samaritan finally wandered by to help.  

So the angel isn’t telling Philip to put on his walking shorts, in order to see the sights and pick some daisies.  He’s telling Philip to walk on the other side of the tracks—where smart people don’t go if they don’t have to.  Lot’s of car-jackings and drive-by shootings.

How does Philip respond?  What does he do?  The angel comes, doesn’t even say “Hi.  How’re the wife and kids?” and tells Philip to get up, pack his bags, and go for a walk in the wrong part of town.  And the text says with eloquent understatement, “So he got up and went.”  

Don’t you love that?  No fussing.  No arguing.  No whining about how it’s too dangerous, and how he can’t speak, and how his in-laws are coming over for dinner, and how he promised his wife he’d clean out the garage, and how his back’s been hurting him—and he’d love to but this is just a bad time for everybody.  

The angel of the Lord said, “Get up and go.”  So he got up and went.

And on the way, apparently, there was an Ethiopian eunuch.  

Now, let’s try to understand what’s going on here.  Luke reports the encounter straightforwardly, but we must remember it wasn’t every day that—even when one was on business for God in the hinterlands—one bumped into a eunuch from Ethiopia.  

The fact that the man was a eunuch was odd enough, but that he was from Ethiopia was downright amazing.  

Why is that?  Because Ethiopia was believed to be at the end of the earth. The Land of Oz.  Timbuktu.  Luke’s audience wouldn’t have been able to conceive of a place more mysterious, farther away.  In Homer’s Odyssey, he wrote about those exotic Ethiopians from the other side of the world.  

But all of a sudden, out in the middle of nowhere, Philip runs into a eunuch from Ethiopia.  Kind of like walking from here to Seneca Park and bumping into a dwarf from Burundi.  

What are the chances?  That, of course, is exactly what we’re supposed to ask.  How could that be a coincidence?  

The point, you ask?  The point is that God tells Philip to go, Philip goes, and the gospel is brought to an Ethiopian Eunuch—to the ends of the earth.  Why does it happen?  Because Philip went.

We keep thinking that it takes a seminary degree, or a certificate from the Mother Teresa school for the spiritually gifted.  We think we have to be all that and a glass of ice tea before we can ever do something important for God.  Important stuff is for other people.  I’m slow of speech, slow of tongue.  I’m too young.  I’m not worthy.  I don’t want to go.  I have to do some things differently before I can do anything for God.  I have to believe better, be better.  Something!

In his book, The Cost of Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, sets up a situation between a pastor and a troubled parishioner.  The parishioner complains that he’s having a hard time with his faith.  Bonhoeffer says that the pastor in this hypothetical situation ought to take the bull by the horns and say, “Only those who obey believe.  You are disobedient; you are trying to keep some part of your life under your own control.  That is what is preventing you from listening to Christ and believing in his grace.  You cannot hear Christ because you are wilfully disobedient.  Somewhere in your heart you are refusing to listen to His call.  Tear yourself away from all other attachments and follow him” (p.61ff.).

“Gladys, we’ve prayerfully considered it, and we think you’d be the perfect person to teach this class.”

“Well, I’d love to, but I don’t hardly think I’m qualified.  I’m quite busy right now.  But thank you very much for asking.  I’d really like to be of service, if you can find something that won’t take any time or ask anything of me.  I’d love to do more—as long as it doesn’t entail speaking, cooking, lifting, cleaning, teaching, painting, mowing, or praying in public.  But, believe me, if you could find something, I’d love to help.”

“Arthur, we’ve been talking it over, and the leadership of the church believes you’d make a great elder.  We think you’ve been given gifts for service.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.  Being an elder is a big responsibility, and I don’t think I’m the right type of person for the job.  I have all kinds of personal things I need to work through before I’d ever consider something like that.  I mean, how could I tell someone else how to live, if I can’t even get it right?  Right?”

My friend Mike has a young girl going to his church.  Brandy’s 12.  She’s been coming faithfully to Mike’s church all by herself for some time now.  Not long ago, Brandy came to Mike, who is the pastor, and told him that she wanted to be baptized.  Of course he was pleased.  But he said to her, “Brandy, we need to talk about some things before you’re baptized.  And, I also need to talk to your parents.”  She said that would be fine.

So Mike went to talk to her folks, who don’t go to church, about Brandy being baptized.  He introduced himself, and told them why he’d come, that Brandy had approached him about wanting to be baptized, and he wanted to check with her parents to see if they’d allow it.  Brandy’s mom, looked puzzled—almost confused: “We don’t go to church.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Well, we’ve taken sort of a ‘hands-off’ approach to Brandy’s religion.  We want her to make up her own mind about God.”

“Hmmmm,” Mike said.

“You know, let Brandy make her own decisions.”

“Do you let her make up her own mind about using cocaine or playing with firearms?  Because those things can prove to be a lot less dangerous than what she’s about to do.”

“Well, we’ve tried to let Brandy express her spirituality in her own way.”

“So you don’t care if we baptize her?”

“If that’s what she wants.”

“Let me get this straight.  You don’t care if we baptize her.  And you don’t care if we read the Bible to her, and help her understand how to live her life, and what to do with her money, and who she has the gifts one day to be?  You don’t care if someday we may tell your daughter that she’s being called by God to go to Africa and work as a missionary, and that she may have to give up everything, including perhaps her life, in order to follow?”

“If that’s what she wants.”

“If you don’t want to take responsibility for her, we’ll be more than happy to.”

Let me ask you something: Why?  Why would we take all the trouble of baptizing and raising someone else’s kid?  

I’ll tell you why.  Because we know what Brandy’s mom has no way of knowing: A little girl in the church’s hands, a weak minister with blood on his chin, or a stuttering sheep herder who will hear the voice of God in a burning bush, or a deacon who’ll follow the Holy Spirit to Timbuktu can change the world.  It doesn’t take much.  

God’s not picky . . . but God’s awfully persistent. 

-Amen.

Sermon Podcast: "So He Got Up and Went"

Do I Really Have to Forgive?

I had a conversation with a parishioner one time that still vexes me. At one point some years prior, she and her husband had opposed me on the issue of homosexuality. A wealthy and influential couple, they were convinced that I was leading the flock down the road to perdition. I was a young pastor at the time, so their opposition proved particularly worrisome from a vocational standpoint. But, after a great deal of work, we mended fences--unfortunately, without ever really addressing the hurt I'd experienced.

A few years after the controversy, we were sitting in my office speaking candidly with one another--about what I don't remember. But I do remember feeling like it was important for me to say something out loud about the kerfuffle we'd had. So, apropos of nothing we happened to be discussing at the time, I said, "Gladys, you know that whole big thing we had a few years back over homosexuality?"

I saw her eyes widen. She nodded her head, perhaps more as a warning gesture than an affirmation. "Yes," she said.

Gladys was a true southern woman, one who did not like to engage in direct interpersonal dust-ups. She was the kind of person who preferred never to attack a problem head-on. Instead, she preferred to circle it for a while, sneak up on it, then strike passing blows—hoping, I think, to wear it down and force it to surrender. I, on the other hand, grew up in the North thinking that speaking directly is a virtue. Two different ways of communicating, the conflict between which often trips me up still.

"Well," I said, not picking up on the signs, "I felt very hurt by you and Henry in that whole thing."

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I guess I hoped she would say, "I know, Derek, and we're so sorry about that. I hope you'll forgive us." Or, "Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I wished that had never happened." Or maybe even, "Mistakes were made."

Instead, what she said was, "That's behind us now. We don't need to talk about it."

I wanted to object: "No. It's really not behind us. Otherwise, I wouldn't bring it up."

What I said instead, however, was . . . well, not much of anything.

I've been thinking about forgiveness. There are things in my life I need to forgive, things for which I need to be forgiven. But what exactly does that mean? Say, for instance, you've been involved with an addict, who's left a trail of devastation behind. This person has done some work to get clean and work through the process of recovery. What now, though? What does forgiveness look like in this situation? I don't think Gladys' response that "that's behind us now. We don't need to talk about it" is the answer. Forgiveness is not willed forgetfulness.

On the other hand, I realize that forgiveness at some point means taking a chance on getting hurt again. When is it time to take that chance? If I'm the offended party, is it up to me to decide when is the right time? This seems right to me.

But what if I'm content to nurse my wounds, to savor the wrongs? Does the offender ever have a right to say, "I've said I'm sorry every way I know how. I've tried to regain your trust, but you won't let me near?"

I'm torn because I realize that some hurts are so grievous that getting past them seems impossible. The offender has a difficult time regaining the moral high ground in this interchange.

But as someone who follows Jesus, who regularly preaches that forgiveness isn't part of the optional special off-road package upgrade, I think the offended has certain responsibilities to the offender.

(I'm a thoroughgoing liberal, so let me just say that that last sentence scares me—since this sounds eerily like what the powerless are often urged to offer the powerful who've hurt them.)

What does that forgiveness look like? When, and under what circumstances should I offer it? I wish there were an algorithm into which I could plug my experience, the depth of the hurt, the nature of the offender's remorse and recovery, and have it spit out answers to those questions.

But I don't have such an algorithm. All I have is a community. So, let me ask you: What does forgiveness look like? When, and under what circumstances should I offer it? Do I really have to forgive?

Sermon Podcast: "In Truth and Action"

In Truth and Action

(1 John 3:16-24)

John appears to be hunting big game today—perhaps the favorite target of everyone sensitive to religious excesses.  As far as the quarry goes, it’s huge, slow, and tough to miss.  As I said last week, I don’t know of any studies, but just going on my own experience, I’d be willing to bet that it’s the most frequently cited reason for giving up on Christianity—either leaving the church or deciding never to start up.  

Oh sure, some will say that the problem of evil sits at the top of the list.  And other folks will mention the church’s irrelevance in a modern, scientific culture.  But for my money, you’d have a hard time beating hypocrisy as the favorite choice of the religiously disenchanted.  

So, when John says, “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action,” it seems he’s on the trail, about to bag the big one.  Seems pretty clear what he’s getting at, doesn’t it?  Word and speech occupy the realm of the fluffy and insubstantial on this reading.  

You know what I’m talking about.  Show me a sermon, don’t preach me one.  Conventional wisdom in some circles has it that the church is populated with hypocrites—people who’ve got the “word and speech” part down, but are a little light on the “truth and action.”

When I was in middle school, we got a new student from Detroit—Wesley.  Wes was a nice guy.  We liked him.  But, boy, he told some whoppers.  He said he was related to Magic Johnson, that he played pick-up ball with NBA players over the summer.  That kind of stuff.

One day, Wes was late to school.  We asked him where he’d been.

“Well, man, it was awful.  I was walking to school, like I always do.  I looked up, and saw this red Ferrari coming down the road, straight at me—like 100 miles an hour.  I didn’t have time to do anything, so I jumped up straight in the air—and that car went right under me.  The thing is, I didn’t get quite high enough, and the roof clipped my heel.  I flipped like three times, and landed in the ditch.  I don’t know how long I was there.  When I finally woke up, I was a little wobbly.  But I knew I had to come to school—so here I am.”

“Where are the marks.  You look fine to me.”

“I got hurt mostly on the inside—where the marks don’t show.  Man, I was lucky.  I coulda been killed.”

Ever know anybody like that?  So many stories—too good to be true stories—you find it hard to believe them.

The first question that pop into your head is, “How do I know that’s true?”  I mean, anybody can say stuff like that, right?  The world is full of people claiming to be something they’re not.  Talk’s cheap.  You don’t get to be that interesting in my mind until I’ve seen some results.

We learn early on to negotiate the world, more or less, in precisely this fashion.  You remember from the playground.  There was always that kid who was your rival.  There was this kind of competition.  Unlike many adults, for whom the response to rivals is passive-aggression—kids haven’t yet learned all the subtle nuances and are completely satisfied with just plain old active-aggression.  “I’m faster than you.”  

“I can draw better than that.”  

And what’s the standard reply to the “my old man can beat up your old man” strategic assault?  

“Oh, huh.  Prove it.”

So when John throws out “truth and action,” over against “words and speech,” we figure he’s calling Christians on their commitments: “Prove it,” John says.  

And that’s just it, isn’t it?  On a casual reading, it looks like he’s merely saying, “Refrain from being a hypocrite.  It’s more important to do it than to talk about it.”  And, to be honest, I have some sympathy for that reading—except, of course, when it can be applied to me.  

But you know what I’m saying.  Gandhi said, “Be the change you want the world to see”—the implication of which is, “Don’t just talk about change—do something.”  I’m sold.  Part of my job as a minister is to convince people that that’s true.  We’ve got things that need doing around here, and I’m supposed to persuade you to do them.”

On the other hand, I also get paid to muck around in a garden of “word and speech,” so I don’t want to walk exclusively down the other side of the street.  In fact, I’d make the case that words are a form of action.  I believe words do things.  They don’t just fill the space between our mouths and our ears.  

In fact, the Hebrew word davar stands for both word and act.  When God speaks a word in the Jewish Scriptures, for instance, God’s already acted.  When God says, “I will bless you,” God doesn’t say, “I intend to bless you—all things being equal and the transmission problems on my Dodge Omni don’t turn out to be serious.”  Rather, for God to speak a word is already to have that word realized, enacted, alive, moving.  Think the incarnation.  Think Jesus.

Jesus stands right smack in the middle of what John is trying to say in our text for this morning.  Rather than merely arguing against hypocrisy (Who, after all, would argue in favor of it?), John is driving at something else. 

Notice the parallel construction of verse 18: “word and speech” are set against “truth and action.”  In other words, John opposes “word and truth,” and “speech and action.”  

Now, of course, we get the “speech vs. action” part—the hypocrisy clause.  What seems less clear is the “word vs. truth” part.  In the binary word/truth, “word” obviously means falsehood.  That is to say, John’s not coming down on words, in general, as necessarily inferior to action, but rather words that are spoken falsely.

But what kind of truth is John after?  What kind of action would qualify, on John’s reading of things, as truth?  Simply put, according to John, those actions are true that are loving.  We act in truth when we act in love.  

We hear that, though, and we say (rightfully, I think), “Loving in what sense?  Love how?”  We live in a culture that has systematically worked love over—from “Love is all you need” to “What’s love got to do with it?” from “Love is the answer” to “Love stinks.”  So, we may be forgiven for wondering just how it is that “love” answers the question about truthful action.  After all, a lot of horrible, unspeakable things are done in the name of love.  People kill and manipulate and abuse, claiming love as the motivation—so love as a generic principle proves less than satisfactory as a set of moral guidelines.

But John doesn’t let love stand alone—a word without content.  He puts some flesh on it, “We know love by this, that Jesus laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another.”  According to John, we aren’t to love falsely by saying pretty things, while living another way. 

We love in “truth and action,” the way Jesus did—which is to say, sacrificially, sold-out, all-in.  We follow Jesus in offering up ourselves to be used by God for God’s purposes rather than our own.  

It’s not enough to avoid hypocrisy by acting in congruence with our words—that is, it’s not enough just to be who we say we are.  Realistically, who would ever argue otherwise?  

Moreover, we’re not just trying to be loving by some broad calculation of human niceness.  Rather, we’re trying to be loving in the way Jesus was loving.  

The truth we’re after is not the truth of love defined as the world defines it—in a million different ways—most of the roads of which lead inexorably back to me and my grasping, clutching little self.  The truth we’re after is the truth of love demonstrated in Jesus, who gave himself up, who laid his life down.

And all of this might remain at the level of abstraction if we left it there.  It would be possible, if that was all we said, to leave here feeling edified, having been exhorted to lay down our lives like Jesus laid down his life.  “That’s nice dear, but what’s for lunch?”  

John’s not satisfied with abstraction, though—not content to let us feel affirmed in our determination to live quiet, honest lives—uncontaminated by controversy or expense.

John gets particular: “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?”

Ouch!  Give preachers enough time and we’ll find some wiggle room in there for you—but I’ve got to tell you, it’s hard.  John doesn’t seem to be opening things up for a long series of qualifications: “I would help, but you know the kids have oboe lessons, and the in-laws are coming for the weekend.  The Dow’s down, and if things don’t improve, we’re going to wind up having to dip into savings to maintain the box at the race track.  Times are tight.  

“Plus, if you start helping those people, pretty soon they’re going to start expecting it.  Then, what’re you gonna do?”  

In fact, there are some politicians who think the best way to help those kind of people is to cut ‘em off, let them learn to start doing for themselves.  Don’t help them more; help them less.

John’s not having it.  He’s got a pretty narrow view of this issue, if you ask me: “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s good and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?”  

I much prefer conditional sentences: If the brother or sister in need seems redeemable, then you should help.  If he’s an American citizen who appears to bathe semi-regularly, then it’s o.k.  

If she keeps having babies when she can’t afford it, then you don’t need to worry about her.  

If they were smart and got a good, fixed-interest rate mortgage they could afford, then maybe they’re worth helping.  

Conditions.  Simple, really.  If this, then that.  In not this, then don’t bother with that.

John’s not into conditional sentences, though; he’s full of declarative sentences: “Do this, whether or not that.”  He says, “Little children, let us love . . . in truth and action.  Obey God’s commandments.  Love those in need.”  I’d love to find some wiggle room in there, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.

Mother Theresa, the saint of the gutters, who gave herself to the dying on the streets of Calcutta, had a hard time following God.  You’d think with spiritual superstars that it’d be easy.  But, as most of us have probably heard, Mother Theresa struggled mightily with her faith.  She regularly questioned the existence of God, feeling alone and isolated, abandoned by the one she felt called to serve.  But, in spite of doubts that would paralyze most people, serve she did.  

In August 1982, Pope John Paul sent her to war-torn Beirut so that the victims of war would know of his solidarity with them.  Mother Theresa determined shortly to go into the heart of the killing fields in West Beirut to rescue a small group of the victims of the violence.  Everyone warned her against going.  It was too dangerous.  She would only be able to help a handful.  It wasn’t worth it.  

She ignored them, and said she’d pray for a cease fire.  On August 12 at 4:00, she lit a candle she’d brought with her to Beirut, and started praying.  At 5:00, the shooting stopped.  Shortly thereafter she went to a place where there were 38 Muslim children, ages 7 to 21—all mentally or physically handicapped—all starving, dirty, and frightened—for all practical purposes, left for dead.  She organized their extraction from the war zone.  Two days later, she went back and brought out 27 more children.  

Before she came, nobody wanted these children.  Too sick, too much trouble, too much else going on.  After her journey into West Beirut, however, people began to step up.  Neighbors started bringing food.  Pretty soon the government officials and the doctors showed up.  

One of the Red Cross officials who admitted quite candidly that his initial reaction to Mother Teresa’s presence had been that a saint was not what he needed most, afterwards acknowledged that he’d been astonished at the efficiency and energy that went hand in hand with her spirituality.  She was, he said, “a cross between a military commander and St. Francis” 

(http://74.125.95.132/search?q=cache:GgGCVO4KR-J:www.sjbcatholicparish.org/generator/downloads/Story_about_Mother_Teresa.pd.  

Mother Theresa, in her 1979 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech said, “It is not enough for us to say, ‘I love God, but I do not love my neighbor,’“ since in dying on the Cross, God had “[made] himself the hungry one — the naked one — the homeless one.” Jesus’ hunger, she said, is what “you and I must find” and alleviate (http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1655415,00.html).  

That’s how Mother Theresa said it.  The way John said it was, “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?  Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”  

So how do we know love?  According to John, we know it when we see it.

-Amen.

Sermon Podcast: In Truth and Action

Jennifer Knapp in the Highlands

The True Colors Ministry at Highland Baptist Church is hosting Inside Out Faith a concert featuring Jennifer Knapp at Highland Baptist Church this Sunday, April 28th. DBCC has sponsored this event, and have been given a number of complimentary tickets. If you are interested in seeing this concert/conversation session, please contact the DBCC church office immediately.

Please join us for what is sure to be an incredibly moving and enlightening evening of worship and fellowship! 

Sermon Podcast: That Kind of Church

 That Kind of Church 

(Luke 24: 36–48)

As a kid growing up in the Evangelical heartland in Grand Rapids, Michigan, one of the things I learned early on was that God expected me to evangelize. We called it witnessing. You know, tell people about Jesus.

I believed in some vague way that God would hold me accountable for the people I failed to lead to Jesus through, what occurs to me now was, a kind of celestial sales pitch.

Now, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not making fun of my upbringing. I’m not ashamed of where I come from; there are some sincerely wonderful Christians who—like the rest of us—are working their way toward God in the best way they know how.

But this whole witnessing thing weighed heavily on me. On the one hand, I’m a pretty good talker. I think I can be fairly persuasive when necessary—a quality much prized by those who took evangelism seriously.

On the other hand, I’m an introvert. I’m shy. Oh, I’ve learned how to act like an extrovert when I have to—my job sometimes demands it. But temperamentally, witnessing always struck me as the same kind of affair as cold calling as a Cutco knife salesman—a job at which I failed miserably.

There was always this premium on having the right words at exactly the right moment. If they say this, then you can counter by saying that—which sounds good, until you’ve had somebody do it to you. Then it’s not brilliant verbal jiujitsu that gives you control over your conversational opponent; it’s just annoying.

“Mr. Penwell, what would say if I could save you 50% on your monthly long distance bills?”

“I’m really not interested.”

“You’re not interested? So, you like giving money your money away.”

“Yes, I like giving my money away. It saves me the trouble of having to pretend that I want to talk to people who call me on the phone in the middle of supper.”

Being a verbal ninja for Jesus was always a big deal growing up. Unfortunately, it felt too much like being a telemarketer—always trying to steer people in the direction you want them to go, having to be unwilling to take “no” for an answer.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dismissing words. I love words. I use them frequently—every so often, well.

One of the problems with words, however, is that in order for them to be helpful (persuasive even), they have to line up with reality.

The fifth step on the Buddha’s Eightfold Path is “Right means of livelihood”—meaning, the way you make your living matters. In other words, if you’re seeking enlightenment, there are certain jobs you cannot do.

When I talk to my students about this, someone will invariably say, “What I do isn’t who I am. It’s my job. It’s not me.”

“The Buddha would say, however, that if you’re walking along a certain path to a final destination, anything that causes you to turn around and walk in the opposite direction is leading you away from where you’ve said you want to go.”

Puzzled looks. Then, I say: “If your life’s work and passion is to see equal treatment for women, you have to live and work in certain ways to sustain that passion and see it succeed. If your day job is as an advocate for women’s rights, you can’t punch out at the end of the day, and go to your second job as a pole dancer. It just doesn’t work like that.”

When I speak with my students about the “Spiritual but not religious” question, many of them are really positive about “spiritual,” but really negative about “religious.” That’s not unique to my students, though.

When I ask why, it usually comes down to two complaints: 1) Dead structures and rituals, or 2) Hypocrisy.

“What do you mean by hypocrisy?” I ask.

“You know, people saying one thing and doing another.”

And there it is: Words are important, but they have to have at least a vague relationship to reality, which is to say, the words and the actions have to occupy the same conceptual space.

What the young people want to know is: Do you actually live this stuff, or do you just talk about it?

In our Gospel this morning, Jesus ends his appearance to the disciples by saying, “You are witnesses of these things.”

What things?

The suffering, death, and resurrection of the Messiah. “And that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem.”

As our text for this morning opens, the disciples have heard a story from Cleopas and another unnamed disciple, who’ve met the resurrected Jesus on a road trip to Emmaus; and Jesus was revealed to them in the breaking of the bread. So, the disciples are listening to this bizarre tale when Jesus all of a sudden appears in their midst, saying, “Peace be with you.” Luke tells us that the disciples were “startled and terrified.”

And who could blame them really. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen very often.

The disciples keep trying to figure out how a man, who just a few days before had been laid out cold on a slab, could be standing there asking whether anyone had saved him his 3-piece fish combo from Long John Silver.

What are they supposed to do with this?

Jesus says, “All this stuff? The stuff I’ve taught you, the stuff you’ve seen? Go. Be my witnesses. Do something.”

And do something they did. Acts, the second half of Luke’s account of the early days of the Jesus revolution, reports that the disciples witnessed every chance they got. They could hardly keep their mouths shut.

The early church produced some notable preachers. People good with words. Their words get a lot of attention.

Peter preaches on Pentecost and over 3,000 people convert. Paul gathers people together whenever he goes to a new town, preaches, and BOOM! A church is born.

See, but here’s the thing: These words came at great cost. These words weren’t carelessly strewn about. No, sir!

The words of witness did things. Acts shows us that speaking these words built churches, healed the sick, fed the hungry, and provided for the poor. Heck, these words even got people killed.

As angry folks raised the stones they would eventually use to kill Stephen because he wouldn’t shut up, nobody stopped to wonder: “You think he meant that?”

No. Everybody knew. And they killed him for his words. Those are words that do something, words backed up by a commitment to being something, someone.

You see, that’s the thing with witnessing. For a witness to be successful, she has to be believable. And in order to be believable, her life has to correspond to the words she speaks.

“Of course,” you say.

“Everyone knows that,” you say.

Unfortunately, at least according to my students, most religious people with whom they come in contact aren’t able to pull it off. A recent Georgetown University and Public Religion Research Institute study found that young people (those born between 1980 and 1999) are leaving the church in record numbers. The fastest growing religious self-designation among this demographic is “none.”

In fact, while only 11% of young people were religiously unaffiliated during childhood, fully one quarter now don’t affiliate with any religious body—a 14% increase of people walking away from religion over the course of a few years!

The church across the board is losing people, in large part because who we say we are, and how we live seems too far apart. Our witness, if you will, apparently leaves much to be desired.

But the good news is: When we get it working together, when our words and our actions line up, when our witness is solid, we can change the world—or at least that part of it we occupy. And that’s a start.

Tony Campolo, a sociologist and theologian from Eastern College in Pennsylvania, tells the story about a time he went to a conference in Honolulu.

One of the things about Honolulu is that if you’re from the East Coast, you wake up at 3:00 in the morning because of the time difference. So, Campolo woke up and went out to find something to eat.

He wandered up a side street and found an all night greasy spoon. After sitting down at the counter with a cup of coffee and a donut, he looked up to see 10 or 11 prostitutes come in. The sat down around him.

Campolo says that the one sitting next to him was extra boisterous, and she leaned over to one of her friends and said, “You know, tomorrow’s my 39th birthday.”

Her friend said, “What do you want me to do about it? Sing ”Happy Birthday?“ Get a cake? Throw you party?”

“I don’t want you to do anything. I was just telling you it was my birthday. Why do you have to hurt my feelings? Besides, I’ve never had a party in my whole life. I don’t expect one now.”

That did it. After they left, Campolo called the guy tending grill over. His name was Harry. And he said to Harry, “Do they come here every night?”

“Yeah.”

“The one sitting next to me? The one with the birthday?”

“Oh, that’s Agnes.”

Campolo said, “It’s her birthday tomorrow. What do you say we have a party for her tomorrow night? She’s never had a party in her whole life.”

Harry grabbed Campolo’s hand and said, “Mr., that’s beautiful! Beautiful! Nobody ever does anything for Agnes, and she’s one of the good people in this town. I know what she does for a living, but she’s a good person inside.”

The next night Campolo went into the diner at 2:30 in the morning, and decorated the place. Put crêpe paper all over, put a big sign on the mirror behind the counter that said, “Happy birthday, Agnes!”

Word got out. “By 3:15,” Campolo said, “every prostitute in Honolulu was crammed into that diner. Wall to wall prostitutes.”

At 3:30 Agnes and her friends walked in and everybody screamed, “Happy birthday, Agnes!”

He said, “I’ve never seen anybody so stunned in my life. Her knees buckled. We sat her down on a stool. We sang happy birthday. But when they brought out the cake, that was it, she lost it.”

After the candles got blown out, she turned to Campolo and said, "Mr. I don’t want to cut the cake. Do I have to cut the cake?

“It’s your cake. You can do what you want to with it.”

“I want to take it and show it to my mom.”

“Now?”

“I just live two doors down. I’ll take it and bring it right back.  I promise.”

She lifted the cake like it was the holy grail, and she walked out.

Campolo said, “We were all just standing there. Awkward silence.”

Finally, he said, “Would it be ok if I prayed?” A request, that in retrospect seems like a crazy thing to do under the circumstances—a sociologist leading a prayer meeting with a bunch of prostitutes in a diner at 3:30 in the morning. But it turned out to be the right thing to do.

He said, “I prayed that God would deliver her from what filthy men had done to her, probably starting when she was too young to know what was going on. That’s how these things start, you know, some kid gets messed over by some filthy slob, and she’s destroyed, and we blame her when we ought to be blaming him. And I prayed that God would make her new, because we’re here to give witness to the claim that no matter who you are or what you’ve done, Jesus can make you new.”

Campolo said, “When I finished, Harry said, ‘Hey, you said you were a sociologist. You’re a preacher! What kind of church you preach in?’”

And in one of those moments, when you come up with just the right words, Campolo said: “I preach at a church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at 3:30 in the morning.”

And in an unforgettable response, Harry said, "No you don’t. No, you don’t. I would join a church like that!

“Wouldn’t we all? Wouldn’t we all love to belong to a church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at 3:30 in the morning? I’ve got news for you, that is the kind of church Jesus came to create.”

I can talk all I want, witnessing about how people need Jesus. But until I’m prepared to start throwing parties for prostitutes at 3:30 in the morning, until I’m ready to live all this stuff out, what good is going to do? And maybe even more harm, once people see I don’t actually live what I say I believe.

Until the church can be that kind of church, it better prepare for even more young people to keep walking back out through those doors.

But if we were that kind of church? What if we were that kind of church?

Who knows what kind of craziness God could unleash through us?

-Amen.

Sermon Podcast for Sunday, April 22, 2012

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Taming the Chihuahua Brain

As I sat at the kitchen table yesterday, reading the paper, I heard one of our dogs barking outside on the deck. We have five dogs, so hearing a dog barking just outside the kitchen is not particularly noteworthy. Our dogs are so sensitive, they bark at cross-eyed gnats. It is, however, annoying to the neighbors. I got up to let the dog in, so he’d stop ruining everyone’s leisurely Saturday morning. As I opened the door, though, I noticed a man I didn’t recognize walking away from our neighbor’s garage. I found our six-pound chihuahua delivering, what I’m sure he intended to be, a bracing message of warning. The strange man, looked back over his shoulder at me, and hurried down the driveway. Something didn’t feel quite right about the stranger’s presence. As I walked back into house, I remember observing, “Well, maybe the dogs get it right once in awhile.” I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. The whole thing got me to thinking, though. Evolution has honed canine senses to acute levels[1]. They are so sensitive, in fact, that they respond to any new stimulus as a threat. And they can sniff out a threat a mile away. Living in the wild, constant vigilance against natural enemies is evolutionarily advantageous. Living in a suburban home, on the other hand, where the fiercest threat is the neighbor’s dachshund three yards over, constant vigilance is maladaptive behavior. Besides, what exactly could a six-pound chihuahua save me from anyway? Noting the highly sensitive threat detection systems that patrol our back yard, people have said, “You’ve got some good watchdogs.” Usually, I smile and nod my head. What I want to say, however, is: “No, they’re not. They’re horrible watch dogs. If everything makes them bark, then they’re useless as watchdogs.” Fear only works as an effective warning signal if there’s truly something to be afraid of. To walk around in a perpetual state of fear is not only exhausting, but sustained long-term stress is damaging to the body. It releases all sorts of chemicals that are helpful for short term confrontations with genuine threats; but perpetual stress is corrosive. Prolonged stress has been linked to heart disease, hypertension, stroke, cancer, diabetes, gastrointestinal disorders, as well as sexual disfunction. In other words, thinking that everything will kill you … will eventually kill you. In addition to the physical impairments caused by prolonged stress, the psychological toll can be debilitating. If you’re afraid all the time, you lose perspective about what to be afraid of and when it’s appropriate. It’s possible, in other words, to be afraid of, and react with hostility to, things that are good for you–and inevitably to tune out real threats. It occurs to me that churches often confront the world with the nervous system of a chihuahua–treating each new change in the environment as a threat. They’ve evolved highly sensitive threat detectors over time. Unfortunately, these threat detectors issue an unacceptable level of false-positives. If you bought a pregnancy test, for instance, that gave you a false-positive 90% of the time, you’d quit using it. If you had a security system that went off every time the baby cried or the parakeet belched, you’d be on the phone imploring your provider for an emergency service call to recalibrate the sensors. Threat detectors that go off indiscriminately and often are useless (at best), and insanity-inducing (at worst). Why do churches settle, then, for a life wired to respond to every new thing like a six-pound dog–certain that calamity is behind every bush? (Fortunately, I think DBCC responds pretty well to change. I'm just thinking out loud.) The only way to tame the chihuahua brain is to relinquish control of the future to God. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 16:25). In other words, thinking that everything will kill you … will eventually kill you. It’s God’s church, after all. God’s plenty capable of taking care of God’s stuff. What exactly could I save God from anyway?

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1. It has been called the “lizard brain” or the “triune brain,” but I have more experience observing chihuahuas, so I’ll stick with “chihuahua brain” for the purposes of this post.  ↩

Sermon Podcast: You Were Dead (Ephesians 2:1-10)

“She survived to within eleven days of her ninety-second birthday,” Frederick Buechner writes of his mother, “and [she] died in her own bed in the room that for the last year or so of her life when her arthritic knees made it virtually impossible for her to walk and became the only world that really interested her.  She kept track more or less of the world outside.  She had a rough idea what her children and grandchildren were up to.  She read the papers and watched the evening news.  But such things as that were dim and far away compared to the news that was breaking around her every day.  Yvonne, who came days, had been trying to tell her something but God only knew what, her accent was so thick.  Marge, who came nights, was an hour late because of delays on the subway, or so she said.  My mother’s cane had fallen behind the radiator, and the super was going to have to come do something about it.  Where was her fan?  Where was the gold purse she kept her extra hearing aids in?  Where was the little peach-colored pillow, which of all the pillows she had was the only one that kept her tray level when they brought in her meals?  In the world where she lived, these were the things that made headlines.”

Sound familiar?  Dying is difficult.  No news there, right? 

But one of the most difficult things to observe in someone you love is their world shrinking.  It may be that as death nears, we’re more aware of the limits of our vision, the finite character of our experience. 

It may be that dying just takes too much energy to keep up with everything else that’s going on in the world—you only have enough vigor to focus a few feet in front of your face.

Whatever the reason, whether contemplating eternity or conserving resources to make it through the next moment, the closer we move toward death, the smaller our world becomes.  We need not hear death’s slow, steady footsteps outside our door, however, to begin the process of turning our focus inward. 

Indeed, we all start out that way. 

As infants, we come out of the womb believing that the world revolves around us.  Growing up is that progression of events whereby we begin the painful process of coming to understand that there exist other misguided souls, who arrogantly believe the world revolves around them. 

Temper tantrums and pouting are expected in toddlers; they become difficult to justify, however, in people capable of long-division and multi-syllabic utterances.  As Fred Craddock once said, “There is finally no way to modulate the human voice in such a way as to make whining an acceptably adult response in any situation.”

I remember in a church where I was pastor, there was a woman who was extremely upset about something.  Who knows what?

Ms. Ollie called me up and said that if I didn’t do something about what was upsetting her, she was sorry, but she was going to have to give up the Sunday School class she’d taught since the Hoover administration and go to another church where she’d be appreciated.

I told her that I was sorry to hear that she felt that way.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“I have no doubt that you mean what you say.  Again, I’m sorry you feel like you need to make that decision.”

Somebody in the church heard about my conversation with Ms. Ollie, and said, “You said that to her?”

“Yes.”

“Weren’t you afraid she’d leave?”

What I wanted to say was, “What I was really afraid was that she wouldn’t.”

Actually, what I said was, “Listen, I’ve got two toddlers.  I’m constitutionally immune to pouting.  Ms. Ollie will be just fine.”

Selfishness, self-absorption, self-centeredness mean you’re still a child, or it could mean that you’re dying.  Neither of which, it seems to me, are happy alternatives.

But most of us, if we’re honest with ourselves, spend the bulk of our time dealing with the world relative to its relationship to us. 

In fact, until we’re taught otherwise, that’s how most of us read the Bible—as if when the author was writing, there was within the author’s mind a suitably flattering picture of me. 

Having been taught by popular Christianity to read the bible this way, the first question most American Christians are liable to ask of Scripture when they read it is, “What is this passage saying to me?”  Which, if you stop to think about it, is a fairly presumptuous question with which to begin one’s inquiries into the good news of Jesus Christ:

“What about me?  What’s in it for me?”

God created the world, and finally sent Jesus into it to redeem it by living, dying, and being raised on the third day.

Well, that’s a nice story.  But what about me?  What about my needs?

You see the problems inherent in that approach to reading Scripture? 

Jesus is cool and all, but let’s talk about the real focus of the story—me.  But Paul takes that most favored of hermeneutical options away from us here in the second chapter of Ephesians.

How do we know that?

For one thing, we’re tipped off that this movie isn’t starring us when we read the first verse of chapter 2 only to find that we’ve been killed off in the first three words.  Paul writes, “You were dead.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d be willing to bet that Brad Pitt wouldn’t keep reading a script in which he got whacked in the first sentence.  Even with his legendary charisma, Brad Pitt would find it difficult to compensate for a screenplay that left him with the theatrical disadvantage of being dead.

No.  Try as we might.  We can’t get this passage to be about us.  Keep reading. 

The second thing that clues us in to the fact that we’re not going to get any Academy Awards for our participation in this blockbuster: Notice how the verbs in this passage unfold.  (It might help you to have your Bible open as we do this.) 

English 101. 

Starting with verse four, who’s doing all the acting? 

God. 

God is rich in mercy.  God loved us with a great love.  God made us alive together with Christ.  God showed us the immeasurable riches of his kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.  God has saved us by grace through faith.  God has made us what we are—created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.

Are you getting the picture here?  Oh, we’re the primary actors in a few verbs: We lived once—apparently.  Of course, what we lived in was our trespasses and sins, following the course of this world, following he ruler of the power of the air—which ultimately led to our death. 

Sure, we lived once—in the passions of our flesh, following the desires of our flesh, and senses, making us children of wrath. 

Not a very promising beginning from a cinematic perspective.  Not even living strictly defined—at least according to Paul.

But this story isn’t about us—which winds up being the most merciful thing we could hear, isn’t it?  In a world in which our reference point for all experiences, all calculations of worth are ourselves, it’s good news to hear that God has something bigger in mind than our private, shrinking worlds. 

God has a a new reign in mind that’s big enough for each of our lives, but too small for even one of our egos.

According to God’s reckoning, the smaller our worlds, the more self-absorbed we are—the closer we are to death. 

Even when the worlds we inhabit are filled with our own attempts at good works, they’re still focused on the wrong person.  That’s what Paul’s getting at when he says that it is “by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God—not the result of good works, so that no one may boast.”

On the other hand, death seems to be God’s favorite medium in which to work.  If you read Scripture with God as the main character, you begin to see that God has a penchant for yanking the rug out from under death at every opportunity.  God has a long and storied history of working with the dead.

Why do you think that is? 

Why go to all that trouble with the lifeless?

I suppose it could have something to do with the fact that the only folks not likely to be overly preoccupied with themselves, with climbing the ladder, with winning the rat race under their own steam are . . . the dead.  Successful, self-absorbed people—it would appear—are too busy for resurrection.

You were dead.  That’s not a very promising beginning in Hollywood.  But God can do a whole lot with very little.

“For we are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.”

Life, on this reading of things, pushes us beyond the borders of our own small worlds, and out into the big new world that God is busy creating and sustaining through the in-breaking of God’s reign.

It’s not about me.  It’s about God, and God’s love of those whom God has created . . . those whom we--in our hurry to fortify our own worlds--have often forgotten.

It’s about the last, the least, the lost, and the dead--which, Paul tells us, is what we were until God “made us alive with Christ.”

Being dead, according to Paul, is no way to go through life.

-Amen.

Sermon Podcast: You Were Dead

The Problem with Expectations (Mark 8:31-38)

We like to think the world is shaped a certain way, don’t we? That life is predictable, and that everyone else is pretty much the same as we are.

I remember the first time I found out that the world was not shaped exactly the way I thought. When I was in 7th grade, a Jewish teacher spoke to one of my classes about Judaism. He told us about some of the customs and holidays, as I recall.

He also told us a little about Jewish theology, and what differentiated Christians and Jews–specifically that Jews didn’t believe in Jesus as the son of God. I led a pretty sheltered life. My father had been a minister. I went to church three times a week–once on Wednesday and twice on Sunday. I figured everybody pretty much believed like I believed.

So, at the end of class, during the question and answer time, wanting my view of the world reinforced, I asked, “But you believe in Jesus, right?”

He was very nice about it. He didn’t look at me like I had two heads. Very patiently, without explicitly saying so, he explained to me that my understanding of the world was inadequate. He said, “No. Jews don’t believe that Jesus was the son of God–or at least that he was the son of God in a way that’s different from you or I being a son of God.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Different. The world became a stranger place that day.

Reality, as Postmodernism has been busy trying to explain to us, is a slippery thing. Our expectations of how the world is situated often come up inadequate.

I guess I realized I was an adult when I found myself in East Tennessee with a new wife and no job at the ripe old age of 22. I’d graduated from college four weeks earlier, and then got married just two weeks prior to loading up my grandfather’s Chevy pickup and launching out into the great unknown of, what I took to be, adulthood.

We moved to Tennessee so I could go to graduate school. There was a little money left over from the honeymoon, which I thought would last us a month or so, providing we could eat on fifty dollars a week. I figured a month would be plenty of time for us both to find jobs and start living like grown-ups.

It occurs to me now that foresight was not a virtue I possessed at twenty-two, because I did not, as I had anticipated, find a job. My wife, at nineteen, already much more readily employable than I, found a part time job as a hostess at the restaurant in the Holiday Inn. Her income, it will not surprise you to know, didn’t turn out to be enough to sustain us. And so, with a nearly empty refrigerator and no prospects for employment on the horizon, we packed up the truck and headed back to Detroit to live with my in-laws.

We didn’t stay too long—though her parents couldn’t have been nicer. After four months we’d both found jobs making sufficient money to move to a small apartment—her working in a doctor’s office, and me in a Speedway.

I spent a great deal of time while we were in Tennessee, assuming that somehow, magically, something would happen that would take care of all our problems–some job that would pop up out of nowhere, some rich benefactor would show up and sort out our financial situation. I thought that was how the world worked–at least for me.

But what I finally realized about our predicament was that nobody was going to live our lives for us. Being an adult takes courage and some intentionality, a commitment to hanging on when hanging on seems impossible. The world isn’t magically fitted to make sure everything comes out all right.

But that’s hard. It’s a difficult thing to readjust your assumptions about the way reality is ordered.

Peter and the disciples in our Gospel for this morning experience a similar jarring readjustment to their expectations about the way the world works.

By the time this scene takes place, the disciples have been following Jesus for some time. In Mark’s gospel, if you’ll remember, the disciples don’t get very much right. They’re constantly missing the point. But by now they figure they’re getting a pretty good handle on what this whole business is about when, out of the blue, Jesus asks them, “Who do people say that I am?”

They give a variety of answers ranging from John the Baptist to Elijah. So he asks, “But who do you say that I am?” And Peter answers, “You are the Messiah.”

Not bad. He’s trying. At least he’s caught a glimpse. Chalk one up for the perpetually misguided.

We’re not surprised, though, when Peter still doesn’t get it as Jesus begins to tell them what it means to be the Messiah–to be rejected, and to be killed, and to rise again in three days.

Peter rebukes him.

And we see Jesus, shaking his head, “Get behind me Satan!”

Up to this point in the conversation, everything is going pretty smoothly. The disciples may not understand the finer points of what’s going on, but they’re at least starting to get the drift of who this Jesus of Nazareth is. Messiah. Now, that’s something they can hang their hats on.

Messiah wasn’t a fuzzy term used by socialites over tea and cucumber sandwiches. The disciples know what Messiah means—with all its political significance.

But Peter has a problem; a problem, to be sure, not unlike our problems, but a problem nevertheless. The way his world is constructed, he cannot conceive of the Messiah dying. Messiah’s don’t die. They conquer and rule. They tear down and they build up. They kill, but they are not executed like common criminals.

The way Peter’s world is shaped, there’s no room for anything like Calvary, and crosses, and losers, and death. By the very way that Peter perceives reality there’s no way he can see the Messiah standing before him, ready to die.

Here’s the kicker, though. After Jesus chastises Peter, he turns to the rest of the disciples and to the crowd and begins to tell them what it means to follow a Messiah who’s rejected, who is killed, and who is resurrected again on the third day. And I think that this is the part that really confuses everyone, makes everybody uncomfortable.

“If any want to become my followers, let them 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. For what will it profit them to gain the world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their own life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in glory.”

“Whoa, wait a minute! It’s one thing to talk about you dying, but it’s something entirely different to drag us into it. If you want to suffer and die, fine; but how come we have to get our hands dirty?”

And that’s really it, isn’t it? We know that if we serve a Messiah who suffers and dies, then we’re also called to come and take up our crosses. If Jesus is who he says he is, then that changes everything, doesn’t it?

And don’t be mistaken, everyone takes up a cross—it’s just a matter of which one. Everyone is willing to give their life for their Messiah, it’s only a question of who or what that Messiah is. We’re all dying for something, for someone. The question we must all answer is: Is your Messiah worth dying for?

I’m not necessarily being romantic about this either. Obviously, there’s martyrdom–giving your life away in one grand gesture. But, as Fred Craddock points out, the matter of giving up our lives is usually much more pedestrian, much less cinematic and glorious:

"We think giving our all to the Lord is like taking $1,000 bill and laying it on the table–‘Here’s my life, Lord. I’m giving it all.’

"But the reality for most of us is that [God] sends us to the bank and has us cash in the $1,000 for quarters. We go through life putting out .25 here and .50 there …

“Usually giving our life to Christ isn’t glorious. It’s done in all those little acts of love, .25 at a time.”

The world, as we know, is exploded by the death of Christ. All the myths to which we have clung so tenaciously are ignited by the fire of discipleship. That, of course, is what makes Lent such a hard time for us.

It’s difficult to come to church on Sunday morning during Lent and be told that you’re mortal, due at some point to die, and then to go home and turn on the T.V., only to be told that if you buy the right exercise equipment and refrain from eating Doritos, you can live forever.

It’s hard to be told in church that you’re a sinner saved by grace, only to go home and find out that you are a specially endowed, if sometimes misunderstood, individual saved by your own efforts.

The new world established in the wake of Christ’s death doesn’t look like anything we find proffered as reality by the world. Unlike the world, as one author notes, “Jesus doesn’t promise us that by following him, things will go better for us. Rather, he promises us that nothing worse will happen to us than happens to him. We follow him, not because he will make us feel better. We follow him because he is true, he is the way to God.”

The payoff, of course, lies in verse 31, tucked all the way in the back—almost out of sight: “Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

Did you hear it? That little snippet changes everything. That tiny clause shatters all our perceptions about what’s real; it crushes our worlds as we’ve built them. In our minds, even if it doesn’t make sense for a Messiah, we can follow everything up to the last part—you know, the rise again after three days part. That’s the final brick in our vision of reality that is unceremoniously dumped on the rubbish heap of misdirected perceptions—death can be conquered.

In Christ, death has no power. Death reaches for us, clutches us in its grasp, but the real conceptual framework that Christ shattered, the new vision of reality that comes to us in Jesus is that, no matter what the world may tell us about being in charge of our lives, we all die, but the truth of Easter is that death will not have its way with us.

We have a way of wanting the world to conform to our expectations. Jesus, as messiah, heads in an unexpected direction.

The problem with expectations comes when we find out that the world doesn’t always live up to them.

On the other hand, when it comes to Easter and the death of death, having your expectations shattered about the way reality’s ordered is the best news there is.

–Amen.