How Does the Body of Christ Learn?

Sermon preached for First Presbyterian Church of New Haven on August 5, 2018

Texts
Romans 12:1-8 (read by liturgist, prior to sermon)
John 14:1-12 (read by preacher, with contextual introduction)

Our reading from the Gospel of John begins just after the friends have shared the meal that has become our Communion liturgy. Jesus is still comforting his disciples and preparing them for his departure. It’s the passage including the well-known words: “I am the way and the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me.”

Before we read the rest of it together, there are two things I’m obliged to mention.[i]

Number 1: I would like to hold space for a moment for all those whose previous encounters with this text were not always life-giving. For some of us, those encounters took place in settings where the intent was to close Christians off from the rest of the world, or to invoke fear or conformity without any real space to breathe, without the encouragement to perceive a God that was not spoken at us. Breathe in a deep breath of new air… and let it out again. I am not suggesting that our reading today will heal every hurt, but I want to offer the assurance that today’s word is not one of condemnation. You and your whole self are welcome here today, and especially to the Communion table. Take the time to notice what you are feeling in your body as we read the text together, and do not let your heart be troubled if any of it is difficult to name.

Number 2: While I have a map of something I’d like us to explore, let’s not assume that a wandering mind is a bad thing. Preachers and teachers like me believe that sometimes a listener hears something worth hearing that isn’t said aloud. There are a lot of questions to ask of this text—and a lot of good things to wonder that have little to do with it. If at some point later on you’d like to talk more with me or Pastor J.C. or the church community about anything that bubbles up, anything in your mind or heart, we are here as spiritual companions to do that.

But while I was preparing this message, I received a prophetic word from my Dove chocolate wrapper. It said, “You can do anything, but you can’t do everything.”[ii]




So this morning, at least out loud, we will focus.

I’d like to imagine what it may have felt like to Jesus to be reassuring these people who knew him in what was about to be their darkest hours without him—and what the story of this night means to a community now striving to teach and grow in Christian faith. How does the Body of Christ learn?

Let us hear from the 14th chapter of John, picking up shortly after the meal, and just a few chapters before Jesus’ death. Jesus is speaking:

14 “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. ² In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? ³ And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. ⁴ And you know the way to the place where I am going.” ⁵ Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” ⁶ Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. ⁷ If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.” 

⁸Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” ⁹ Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? ¹⁰ Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. ¹¹ Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. ¹² Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.

The Word of God for the people of God.

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Let us pray.

Holy Spirit, you infuse this space. You fill our lungs, whisper at our ears, and breathe life into our curiosities. Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable to you, O God. Let this preaching moment be one not only for our minds, but for our bodies and spirits; and not only for ourselves, but for the ongoing creation of our communities of faith, that we might live fully into your promises and purposes. Through our faith in Jesus Christ and Christ’s faith in us, we pray. Amen.

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“Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he says, and for some reason when I read it this time I hear a tinge of frustration in his voice as he searches for the Right Words, because how on earth is he going to capture the enormity of what he wants to tell them in the Right Words? He says, “Believe in God. Believe also in me.”

This word “believe” sometimes carries with it a bit of baggage. Now that so many teachers over time have understood it in a specific way, it may be even more difficult to hear it differently.

Years and years and years of hearing this text as though it were a battle cry or a command or an indictment of non-believers.

It was a comfort.[iii]

Some translations of this text go like this, “You believe in God. Believe also in me.” Or, in my best Frustrated Jesus voice, “Well, you believe in God, right? Yes? Okay! Build on that. Go from there.”

Frustrated, you see, not out of anger or impatience with his disciples but because time is short. A teacher who knows that the dismissal bell is about to chime. A man on death row having his last visit with his friends. He cares about the people listening to him and what they take with them from their time together.

(How does the Body of Christ learn?)

So Jesus leans on what he knows of his friends and the knowledge they already have. He’s not talking to people who haven’t met him yet. And he isn’t weighing for them the likelihood of whether or not God exists. The Gospel writer of John more than any other chose words to emphasize Jesus’ divine being, but is that all that Jesus himself is saying?

What does it mean to believe in someone you know?

[to J.C.] I believe in you, J.C. I believe you are the Pastor and Teaching Elder God has called to us, for such a time as this, to lead us in our hearing of the Word and our communing at the Table, in offering Sanctuary to our immigrant neighbors, in learning all the new ways we will be Christ’s hands and feet and ears in this world. I believe in you.

[to the congregation now] At any point of that did it sound like I was telling J.C. that I think she exists?

See, we do understand on a deep, resonant level this use of the word “believe,” but whenever we start using it for Jesus or God it can take on this whole other connotation. A purity test of opinion or a creed to affirm as though it’s little more to us than a passcode into heaven. And none of this is necessarily what Jesus is saying.

He’s saying to those with him, those who already know him, those for whom he has been an access point, that they can believe in him and who he is to them.

To Believe is to trust; to Believe is to sense — not necessarily that something is verifiable fact (maybe because it is still in progress) — but that it is the ongoing fulfillment of a promise, or something hoped-for, or something worth witnessing.

Truth itself, as in the line where Jesus says “I am the truth,” is not a static noun, the Fact we crave in the so-called age of ‘Fake News.’ Instead, it’s that ongoing process, the fulfilling of the promise. One author[iv] writes that it’s as though Jesus is saying, “I am the unforgetting.”

The Unforgetting; the very act of not-forgetting. The act of remembrance. Yes, our remembrance of God, and also God’s remembrance of us and promises made to us. That is the truth we trust in. That is the truth we teach.

(How does the Body of Christ learn?)

Every time we gather for worship or study with faith or care for our neighbors, we participate in the unforgetting. When we join together around the Communion table today we will share Jesus’ message, “Do this in remembrance of me.” Be part of the unforgetting.

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Right up there with the words “believe” and “truth,” do you know what my favorite phrase of this Gospel text is? It’s when Jesus tells the disciples, “but if you do not.” The full line is: “Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves.”

By saying this, Jesus creates space for his disciples to breathe. To be unsure. To learn by some other means than the one he’s just presented. “If, after that explanation, it doesn’t make sense, then try this activity instead.” And then, like any good teacher, he provides the alternative that’s accessible in a different way. Witnessing the works themselves. And not only witnessing them but doing them.

He says, “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these…”

People mixed up with Jesus are going to find themselves drawn to do some peculiar things, like sharing food with strangers. Proclaiming the sacredness of people the world degrades. Housing the guests that others build walls to keep away.  Singing in a crowd on a Sunday morning.

His death will shake them. His absence will test their faith. His resurrection and ascension will be an unforgetting that stays with them long after he’s gone.

And when he’s gone, they altogether will be the physical form of his Body on earth. Every time we gather as members of the Body of Christ, we are literally and figuratively “re-membering.” Resurrecting the Body in a living Church.

And the disciples will not know everything they need to know or do in an instant. They will lean, as even Jesus has, on discernment and prayer and the wisdom of the generations.

Then, to do the things that Jesus believes in them to do, they will need to trust their muscle memory. And to be able to trust their muscle memory, they will need to hone it. They will need to practice. Sometimes, the practice itself will be a comfort. During our confirmation class this past year, I was moved to hear how many of the youth talked about our traditions as a comfort to them—particularly the Doxology. The Sunday school children have said the same about lighting candles and the quiet of prayer.

And what does J.C. tell us in worship every week about passing the peace?

‘We practice this sign of peace here not so that we can keep it to ourselves, but so that we can take it with us out into the world.’

Practice. We don’t do this only for ourselves. We learn here how to greet our neighbors and reconcile with anyone estranged to us. And then we bring what we have learned, how we have been renewed and transformed, to those we meet. For non-believers, the Good News of this story is that they are not to be condemned for disbelief or belonging to another Body; they are to be invited as neighbors and friends of the resurrected Christ who lives on in a peace-filled people. Whether or not they ever sense themselves to be a part of this Christian Body, they will have occasions to know us. And if we study and practice well, we will be renewed and transformed into something worth trusting.

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In June, our Session voted for us to become a Sanctuary church, meaning we are prepared to open our doors to an immigrant or refugee and bear public witness if ever ICE tries to deport them before the person has the opportunity for legal defense. At three separate events before that decision, 70 people completed Sanctuary training here in this very room.

What did that training look like? We learned why the work mattered and what difference it could make to anyone we host. We voiced our concerns, reflecting on what troubled our hearts. We searched our faith tradition and our scriptures for guidance. Then we discerned together what kinds of practical help might be needed – a list of tasks that would be physically impossible for only one person to fulfill. We didn’t concern ourselves yet with who might have the gifts to do what. At that point it still wasn’t about each of us volunteering or being nominated to do a job. It was about saying, “What would it look like if ICE were to come to the door, looking for our guest? When one of us is responsible for hosting, what will they need to know? What should they do? When one of us is responsible for leading our crowd of witnesses in prayer and song to draw public attention to this injustice, what will they need to know? What should they do?” It would all be needed, if and when the time should come. And if we each did our best to prepare ourselves to do any role that might be needed, each of us would be ready to contribute anything. Together, we would be able to do everything.

And then we practiced it. We volunteered to “try on” a role and work together as one unit.

On the night that I was trained, Art had a chance to feel just how uncomfortable it might be to listen to an ICE agent on the other side of the door and practiced remaining steady under pressure.

Tim drew from his love of worship to lead the crowd of witnesses in singing, quickly recalling a song everyone could sing from memory.

One of the training instructors played a news reporter who was actually doing very little to help amplify our message and a whole lot more to get in the way of our witness. Sue, in a moment of outstanding inspiration, managed to distract her with food.

And we, a crowd with courage in our purpose and the confidence of prior instruction, answered J.C.’s call-and-response loud and clear.

All of this, you could say, was pretend. Imaginative play, not unlike the scripts that our children bring to life at church a few times a year. Our ideal situation, of course, is one where we never need to confront ICE agents in that context at all, and it’s possible that we will never need to.

But we are people of both prayer and preparation.

(How does the Body of Christ learn?)

It’s two chapters later, in John’s chapter 16, by the way, that Jesus and the disciples have an exchange that, to a teacher’s ear, sounds kind of like this: “Oh!!! We get it!” I mean, from some of the larger context it seems the disciples may only kind of get it, but still! They share a moment!

Back in chapter 14, the disciples are telling Jesus they don’t even know yet what he says they know. And unless they’re just stalling their teacher, they mean it. They need a new perspective. But by chapter 16, the disciples say to Jesus, “Now you are speaking plainly!”

And the Good News is this: Jesus teaches the Body in any way that will get us to those moments of assurance and understanding, no matter how much more there is for us to understand. Sometimes—sometimes he uses words.

(How does the Body of Christ learn?)

(1) By recognizing that troubled hearts can cloud our minds; by comforting our hearts enough that we are in a position to listen. Do not let your hearts be troubled.

(2) By building upon knowledge or resources we already have, and knowing that Jesus will always meet us first wherever we are. You believe in God, believe also in me.

(3) By trusting that Jesus himself is the ongoing fulfillment of his promises to his disciples, promises for abundant life and a directed path. I am the way, and the truth, and the life.

(4) By exploring alternate avenues of understanding, recognizing that a God who prepares a place for us would not prepare it somewhere inaccessible to us. But if you do not.

(5) By participating in the Unforgetting, in the remembrance, in the witness. Believe me because of the works themselves.

(6) And by receiving the Holy Spirit and entrusting her with opportunities to practice within us, honing the muscle memory of our embodied faith. The one who believes in me will do the works that I do, and greater works than these.

Creating a Christian community of faith like ours means we will recognize that not everyone will learn as we do, trust as we do, even believe as we do.

It means being patient and reflective, honoring one another’s wounds and giving those parts of the Body of Christ the care they need to heal before they can be asked to stretch, carry, lift, perceive, speak, sustain. Healing work is learning, too.

And creating a community of faith means humbly acknowledging that, no matter how much we may know alone, we must practice together. We promise to one another that we will show up – to share in our practicing whatever way we are able, so that the Body of Christ is wholly prepared to move as one.

And all the people of God said, “Amen.”

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[i] I learned the importance of such hospitality and embodied care from Heather Elkins, my professor for courses on the Church at Worship and Narrative Preaching; from Angella Son, my professor for Pastoral Care and a week-long intensive on the Spirituality of Joy; and from Lynne Westfield, my professor for Educational Ministries and a week-long intensive on the Holy Spirit, all at Drew Theological School (2010-2014).

[ii] Literally a Dove chocolate wrapper. First Presbyterian Church of New Haven (2018).

[iii] I draw mostly from ideas presented to me by Wesley Ariarajah in Interfaith Dialogue and Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre in New Testament at Drew Theological School (2010-2014) and Cameron Afzal in a course on the Gospel of John at Sarah Lawrence College (2009-2010), alongside other biblical and theological influences and meditation.

[iv] Author Stant Litore

Do Not Be Daunted

A sermon I wrote for four children, ages 13, 10, 10, and 8, to preach in worship at First Presbyterian Church of New Haven on December 18, 2016.

For context, much of the congregation had recently read the book Faithful Resistance: Gospel Visions for the Church in a Time of Empire (compiled and partly written by Rick Ufford Chase). The Gospel reading of the morning was Matthew 1:18-25. Shortly after the reading, the children acted out a play which elaborated on the text, and the play led directly into the sermon. Find the scripture passage here.

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L: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
A: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
M: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
R: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.” *

A: Did you know that Jesus was Jewish? This is something that surprised me when I first learned it. When we read our Bible as Christians, we don’t want to make it sound like God left the Jewish people or thought their faith was not good enough. Joseph and Mary were Jewish, too. That’s why in our play, Joseph makes a point of telling his sister that he still loves God and Torah, which is the Hebrew Law.

M: Later on in Matthew, Jesus even says that he has come to fulfill the Law, not to abolish it. Sometimes it isn’t really obvious, but most of the things that Joseph, Mary, and Jesus do are in light of their faith, not in spite of it. In today’s text, Joseph has a decision to make. What does the Law require of him?

L: “What does the Lord require of you? Do justice. Love kindness and mercy. Walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8. His faith would have taught him to honor both justice and mercy.

R: The Bible says Joseph planned to “dismiss Mary quietly.” We don’t know what really made him decide that, but we do know he didn’t want to hurt her or shame her. A public accusation would have done that. So why isn’t it good enough for Joseph not to hurt Mary? Isn’t that both justice and mercy? Why does he decide to stay with her, and what difference does it make?

M: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
R: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
L: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
A: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

R: The Harper Collins Commentary tells us what it means for Joseph to be a righteous man. Besides valuing justice and mercy, Joseph is also “open to divine revelation that corrects his traditional way of thinking.” In other words, Joseph is open to God telling him something that Joseph wouldn’t recognize as holy without God’s help. This too is righteousness.

A: Joseph dreams that an angel tells him who Jesus will be and what his birth will mean. This is the Messiah the Jews have been waiting for. This is Emmanuel, “God with us.”

M: Faith does not only challenge us to be more just and more merciful. Faith challenges us to stay with God and the vulnerable people God loves.

L: When people are in danger or pushed to the edges of power, even if the threat doesn’t affect us directly, it still changes our lives. It must.

A: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
M: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
R: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
L: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

R: Faith changes how we witness crisis and pain. The Global Bible Commentary tells us not to ignore the political implications here: “Having hope is a political act of resistance against death-wielding powers.” These powers might be government, economics, social norms, or religious convictions.

L: In our play, Joanna shows us what’s at stake for Mary. Mary agrees to help bring Jesus into the world, but even if she tells people the whole story, they might not believe her. Because of social and religious customs, acting on her hope could put her in danger.

M: Brian Merritt writes in Faithful Resistance that salvation is not something a person can own. Instead, “we understand salvation to be resistance that pushes … toward equality and compassion for all living creatures.”

A: Along with Joseph, we might also learn that there is more to loving people than sparing them from harm. Sometimes faithful resistance means being a friend or companion to someone other people wouldn’t blame you for ignoring.

L: Merritt writes, “This is why direct action and mutual aid are so central to our own spiritual growth. These actions put us at risk in ways similar to the constant condition of those who are oppressed. It may be our only opportunity to find Christ in this world.”

A: Remember, Joseph is not the Savior here. Jesus is.

R: And God’s salvation work will happen whether Joseph decides to participate or not.

M: But through the dream, God tells Joseph exactly what it is he has the chance to do. And just like with Mary, God already knows what Joseph’s answer is going to be.

R: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
L: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
A: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
M: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

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*Citation: This quote, used here as a refrain, is commonly attributed to the Talmud and appears to paraphrase/be influenced by a few voices, such as Rabbi Rami Shapiro.

Reclaiming the Goodness of Darkness

Each year, First Presbyterian Church of New Haven prints a Lenten Reflection booklet with contributions from the community, one 200-word reflection for each of the forty days of Lent. I agreed to write one and was assigned John 8:12-20.

Source

¹²Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” ¹³Then the Pharisees said to him, “You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid.” ¹⁴Jesus answered, “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going. ¹⁵You judge by human standards; I judge no one. ¹⁶Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me. ¹⁷In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid. ¹⁸I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf.” ¹⁹Then they said to him, “Where is your Father?” Jesus answered, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” ²⁰He spoke these words while he was teaching in the treasury of the temple, but no one arrested him, because his hour had not yet come. (John 8:12–20)

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With our sights set on Jesus, the Light of the World, have we fallen into a system of light supremacy? Is a language of light as salvific and life-giving as the intentions of Christ?

Bodies and souls cry out to us: It's time to reclaim the goodness of darkness.

To reclaim the good darkness of the body is to affirm that Black lives matter, not only denouncing acts of violence but confronting even prejudices which are so pervasive that they are silent and unconscious. Jesus embodies his rightful authority because divine justice overrules legal privilege. Black bodies are their own living testimonies and God is their witness.

And reclaiming the good darkness of the spirit beckons us to live into a spiritual life of seasons, affirming the dark night of the soul as a time of renewal and transformation in its own right. As you meditate on God's splendor, do you find the eyes of your soul squinting in the light? Find a dark place to rest. Don't be afraid. Splendor may appear inviting, but you are no less safe in the depths of mystery. The God of day is also God of night, and that is good.

Your Mistake Is Not the Last Word on You

Before I preached this narrative sermon to my classmates, I read aloud from John 21:1-19 (NRSV), projected the image below, and lit one candle to bring into the chapel the faint but unmistakable scent of fire.

Your name is Peter.  You remember that night—the night that Jesus was arrested.  It was the night that you did that thing you said you would never do, became what you said you would never be.  How could you forget that?  You never will.

Over and over again the people asked, “Are you not Jesus’ disciple?” and over and over again you said, “I am not.”  Three times.  Three times, just like he said it would be.  And you didn’t just deny Jesus or that you knew who he was.  You denied who he said you were and what he called you to do.

Are you not Jesus’ disciple?

No. No, I am not.

When it happened, you were warming yourself by a charcoal fire.  The air is still thick with the smell of it, even when you aren’t by a fire, because you will never forget that scent.  It’s always been unmistakable, but now it’s the smell of the most humiliating moment of your life.  Every time you warm your hands you relive that shame a little bit more.

And where do you find yourself now but right here at another charcoal fire?  It’s the first time Jesus is sitting with you by a fire since the night you wrapped yourself in the protection of lies.

But that’s not what Jesus talks about.  “Come and have breakfast,” he says, and as he cooks the fish you breathe in the smell of sustenance and wonder if things between you will ever be what they once were, what they should have been.

Here you are sitting down to a feast like nothing has even changed between you.  You became what you swore you would never be and you two have never even talked about it and this silence is actually starting to weigh on you as much as the shame ever has and God—Are you ever going to talk about it?

Jesus breaks bread and gives it to you, and as you reach out to take it, you can still see the wounds in his wrists where they nailed him to the wood.  But the fish are hot and the bread is fresh and you are hungry.  So you let the whole meal go by in friendly conversation, and you don’t ask Jesus about the awful thing burned into your memory to this day.

But he knows, doesn’t he?

And after you’ve eaten together, he speaks.

Your name is Peter.  At least, it is to Jesus.  Isn’t it?

“Simon, Son of John,” he says.  It’s a little like when your mother used to scold you for teasing Andrew when you were kids.  Except there’s a look on Jesus’ face now, and even though all you can think about is the burning coals and the heat of shame, there’s this look on his face and you can’t describe it, but whatever it is means you’re not in trouble.

“Simon, Son of John,” he says, “do you love me more than these?”

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to feed his lambs.

Maybe some time passes. You can’t be sure how much, because all that matters is that Jesus turns to you again.

“Do you love me?” he says.

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to tend his sheep.

The next time he says it like he knows what hearing a question three times will mean to you.  He says, “Do you love me?”

Someday the story of this conversation is going to be written down in Greek, and many well-meaning preachers are going to focus on the use of different words for love—agape love, phileo love—and what they think those words mean.  Some will preach how this goes to show that, even now, you can’t get where Jesus is or where he wants you to be.

Poor Simon Peter, they’ll say, because they too will never forget the night you denied Jesus and everything you were supposed to be for him.  It will be easy for them to interpret the words to reflect what they already know about you: That you fall short and Jesus needs to meet you in your weakness.  They will shame you even in your redemption.

Maybe they wouldn’t preach it like that if they could hear what you hear.

You and Jesus don’t speak Greek.  You speak Aramaic, and what you hear is the very same question spoken three times.  What you hear is three opportunities to affirm your love and three instructions to cherish Jesus’ people the way you cherish him.  What you hear is Jesus calling you to be the disciple you were always meant to be.  What you hear is the emotion in his voice when his third question both breaks you open and restores you.  What you hear is the voice drowning out the crackle of fire.  What you hear is love.

Jesus calls you Simon, but you both know that you are and forever will be Peter.  You are the rock on which your beloved Jesus will build his church.  You are the one who will shepherd his flock.  You are the one who will speak to the Jews and the Gentiles.  You are the one who will die for them all—for Jesus, for his people.  You are the one who cherishes your friend no matter how ashamed you feel of your failure.

Peter, someday a Christian named C.S. Lewis will write about this kind of love between people who know each other the way you and Jesus do—that between friends, the question Do you love me? means, Do you see the same truth?  Do you care about the same truth?  Lewis won’t mention you or this conversation with your Lord, but if you could know what he would write, you might say, “Yes!  That’s what Jesus is asking of me.  Do we see the same truth?  Am I ready to care for his people as much as I care for him?  Am I ready to lay down my life?  Am I able to bear the name Disciple, to be the person Jesus made me and do what he called me to do?”

And Jesus thinks you are.  At Passover, you told him you wanted to follow him wherever he was going, but back then you weren’t ready.  Now, Jesus says, “Follow me.”  And you will.  The last word on you in this story is not your mistake.

And you don’t know this yet, Peter, but someday millions of Jesus’ people will put the ashes of burnt palms on their foreheads. Those sooty dark smudges will remind them that they are mortal and that they have fallen short of what Jesus has called them to be.  But there but for the grace of God, those ashes will mean so much more.  Through the ashes, anointed on each forehead in the form of a cross, Jesus will speak to their hearts: “My friend, do you love me?”

And if they can hear those words above the crackle of fire, and each and every reminder of fall and failure, then like you, Peter, the people you nourish and lead and all of their spiritual descendants—they too will know who they are and what they are meant to do . . .

If only they will hear love over the persistent whisper of shame.

The Psalm of Margaret Wise Brown

Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?

    to be out of your sight?

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
    If I go underground, you’re there!

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I flew on morning’s wings
    to the far western horizon,

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

You’d find me in a minute—
    you’re already there waiting!

(Text from Psalm 139:7-10, The Message)

Puzzle Wars

"You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight.

That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family."

-Matthew 5:9 (The Message)

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Today the kids of our Children's Church enlisted in the Puzzle Wars.

First they divided themselves into two groups.  Actually, I divided them into two groups which slowly shifted on their own--and I let them.  The genuine alliances formed in unspoken rebellion made the fight all the more fierce and the activity all the more meaningful in the end.

I found this collection of 24-piece children's puzzles and used two with similar color schemes for our two groups.

Available for purchase here.

Each group received an array of double-sided puzzle pieces. They inferred very quickly that this was a race to see which group would solve their puzzle first.

Partway through the activity, the kids in one team questioned one of the pieces in their assortment. It didn't seem to fit into their puzzle. They asked me about it, but I was nonchalant and they pressed on, grappling not only with the strange surplus but an underlying feeling that they were also missing something.

The other group soon reached the same critical moment.

And the same solution.

And the same results.

Finally, in the midst of their questions and petitions, both groups had an epiphany. They realized that I, their leader and the original source of their materials, didn't physically have the missing puzzle pieces in my possession. I had already given them all away.

They needed to communicate with the people on the opposite side of the room--the same people they had all but ignored entirely once the Puzzle Wars began, save for appraising glances to judge their competition's progress and periodically declare their own superiority.

What followed was something of an informal détente. It was an incongruously peaceful moment during the Puzzle Wars.

It could have been awful. It could have been rife with pillaging and sabotage.

But instead it was an exchange more mutually giving than any negotiation or transaction. It seemed there was no doubt in their minds that their opponents' need was just as great as their own, and that they would quickly and gladly produce the pieces for each other.

And then, with one picture completed, all of the children gathered around the other puzzle to collaborate and finish it together.

And the Puzzle Wars ended with two things:

Collaborative and joyful destruction of the puzzles--the work that, as it turns out, maybe didn't matter so much after all...

Source

...and the natural emergence of one beautiful, cohesive team that will hopefully matter to them for years to come.

Liturgy for Change in Pastoral Leadership

This is an original liturgy that I wrote for a worship service in a United Methodist Church. The senior pastor of six years has been appointed to serve elsewhere now, and this will be the first week in his absence before the incoming pastor arrives in July.

The scriptural reading for the day will be Joshua 1:1-9 (NRSV), so the other elements of the service incorporate that text, as well as a nod or two to it being Father's Day and a significant event in the life of the congregation.

Bold font indicates that the entire congregation reads the portion aloud.

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CALL TO WORSHIP

One: We gather in this place meant for service and sacred conversation.
All: Hear God's word to Moses:
The place where you are standing is holy ground.

One: But this is just one of many places where we can encounter God.
All: Hear God's word to Joshua:
I will be with you wherever you go.

One: We travel near and far, seeking the God who is ever-present.
All: Hear God's word to Moses:
I AM. This is my name forever.

One: We bring with us our fears and our failures.
All: Hear God's word to Joshua:
Be strong and courageous.

One: We trust in God's Word; God's presence and promise.
All: Steadfast and sure, God leads us in every age and season.


MORNING PRAYER

Loving God, you who are our father and our mother, we thank you for giving us life and teaching us to live. We thank you for all of the family and friends, leaders and communities who have nurtured us and guided us. Forgive us when we lose our way. Forgive us when we forget that we belong to each other. Teach us to recognize your presence and to trust in your promise. In the name of your Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.


PRAYER OF DEDICATION (OFFERING)

Eternal God, you do so much to prepare us for the work you would have us do. You provide resources and leadership. You enliven us with energy and inspire us with ideas. You call on us while we are still flawed and fragile people, yet you sustain us with your Spirit. Let our offerings be part of your healing, life-giving work. And in all things, help us to be ministers to one another and to the people of the world. Amen.

Getting What We Deserve

A sermon I delivered in class this month, based upon Job 2:1-8 (NRSV). I preached off of notes and pictures rather than written text, so this is just an adaptation of that presentation.

I invite you to read Job 2:1-8 first, noting that the Hebrew for "(the) Satan" also translates to mean "the accuser."

By the time we catch up with Job in the beginning of Chapter 2, he's already lost his numerous sons and daughters and all of his livestock and property. Job was a well-respected man in his community, and having all of these things had helped to shape his high social status. They're the kinds of things that made other people in the community look at him and say, "That Job must have done something right to be so blessed."

And then, just when it looks like it can't get any worse, he even loses his very health.

For the people of Job's time and place, all of this loss indicates one thing: Job must have done something wrong and now he's getting what he deserves. People believed that God would dish out rewards and punishments, an idea well established in Deuteronomy, which the storytellers and early audiences would be thinking with here.

But for the life of him, Job can't figure out what he could have done to be suffering this series of unfortunate events. His friends use common sense and religious tradition to make their point, but in the face of all of this logic and theology, Job only knows that this doesn't line up with his own experience. He has to rethink what he and his community have believed about God.

This is what Job's integrity is really about - being authentic. Not just doing good things or praising God (and by Chapter 3 Job won't seem as patient as we might think); but also standing by what he knows to be true.

Even if we don't experience the same losses that Job does, we 21st century Christians have plenty of voices competing to explain suffering to us.

Some voices ask, "Why do bad things happen to good people?"

Some say, "You're too bad to be forgiven."

Some voices pray, "Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven," and then urge people to be stoic and to bear pain and hardship - even the kinds that humans cause one another - because somehow God derives glory from this.

Being apathetic or desensitized to pain is not the mark of strong faith. Seeking the power of God, even in the midst of human weakness and crisis, can be the mark of strong faith. Having the strength and compassion not to condemn someone for their own suffering can be the mark of strong faith.

Unfortunately, we - the church, the world - may have come up with even more ways to justify suffering than to alleviate it.

Over the course of history, religious peoples have:

...claimed that the pain of childbirth was inflicted on women because of Eve's part in the Fall,
...identified illness and disability with demon possession,
...blamed victims for bringing acts of violence upon themselves,
...speculated that AIDS arose to punish homosexuality,
...sanctioned genocide and slavery in the name of God,
...and - just like Job's friends - touted the adage that "you reap what you sow."

It's time to realize that suffering, like grace, is not so conditional. It's a realization we need to face for all of those people like Job whose hardships only become worse when accusations rain down on them.

Accusations.

And it's even more than that: it's important for everyone who has ever been told that they are "undeserving" in one way or another - too innocent to face pain, too guilty to find grace.

Because if we don't acknowledge that bad things can happen to people in spite of the good that they do, how can we ever accept the idea that grace can come to people in spite of their sins and mistakes? How can we accept forgiveness for what we ourselves have done?

Do you know that you are forgiven? For everything. No matter what.

We must believe that grace is just as real and unconditional as suffering is - and ultimately more triumphant.

The Gospel of Matthew says that God causes the sun "to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous."

So what's the point?

Maybe the point isn't our righteousness or whether or not we deserve what comes our way, but that God aches with human suffering, and rejoices when we find grace and hope in spite of it.

An Open Letter to Paul from a Woman Prophet of First-Century Corinth

A letter written in response to 1 Corinthians 11 in the voice of a woman praying and prophesying in first-century Corinth (minus my footnotes and further references).

Greetings, Paul! Grace and peace to you. I pray that this finds you well, and that your presence and wisdom continue to bless others in Christ's name. We Corinthians give thanks to God for your guidance and loyalty. We are a raucous bunch, but you continue to care for us. We care for you, too.

By the way, I covered my head while composing this letter so that the thought of me speaking to the scribe would not be too distracting to you. I know you advised us in your letter not to eat meat offered to idols (even knowing that we are no better for either eating or abstaining) if it might cause someone else to stumble, so I imagine that you would appreciate that I veil myself as I author a letter to you, even though I'm not in the habit of doing so. I would never wish for you to stumble, Paul.

Now, I would like to respond to a particular passage of your letter. But it's not the meat thing I wanted to write to you about. I think we understand that one pretty well, and anyway, it's just meat, right? Indeed, the purpose of my letter is the topic of women speaking in the assembly, covering our heads, and your intriguing logical wordplay about women coming from men and men coming from women. All of this, possibly more than anything else in your letter at the moment, has certainly got everybody at the assembly talking—especially we women—so maybe you can help us think through it. We don't mean to be contentious for contention's sake, but rather speak amongst ourselves and write to you for the sake of understanding in the community.

For ease of reading and discussion amongst ourselves, we have divided your lengthy correspondence into different chapters and verses (for instance, the aforementioned advice regarding meat is Chapter 8). Don't worry; I've enclosed herein a duplicate of your letter, fully marked for your reference. Feel free to turn to Chapter 11 and follow along.

First, my own greatest uncertainty: I don't understand your explanation that man was not "created for the sake of woman, but woman for the sake of man" (v. 9), if we are also to acknowledge that each is made from the other (v. 12). Humanity was not made for hearts, but hearts for human bodies; and yet without functioning hearts, bodies would fail and humanity would cease. What's more, if either men or women were to cease to be created—or, perhaps, were all female children actually put to death before maturity —it would be the cessation of the other. Only the ultimate Creator, the God who could miraculously restore life to a body without a beating heart, could also create new life without both a male and a female parent. A boy-child who would serve as Lord and Savior to male and female both entered the world by way of a woman's womb, like you and I, Paul. Yet some think that Jesus' Mother, Mary, conceived him solely by the Spirit; if this is true, it means more than one woman's purity maintained: it also raises the importance of woman in the salvation of humanity and reminds us that we, females and males, are quite interdependent indeed, even in spirit. Therefore, I pose to you that your argument of male authority by way of nature is weak if you must rely on the concept that man preceded woman in the beginning and yet understand the cyclical nature of our human creation, let alone our salvation. I do agree with you, though, that "all things come from God" (v. 12) and that neither sex is "independent" of the other (v. 11). Your argument about origins substantiates that much.

Speaking of origins, what makes you conclude that man "is the image and reflection of God; but woman is the reflection of man" (v. 7)? There are certain anatomical differences between females and males—from our facial features and builds to the genitals that most simply differentiate us at birth. Do we believe that God has genitals? A large nose; a tall frame? If woman is a "reflection of man," the "image and reflection of God," why are these features still different? Even ripples in the stream do not cause such discrepancies in the reflections we see. I have not seen the face of God, but I wonder if my face bears closer resemblance to the Creator in whose image all humanity was made than it does to that of a man—even my own father and brother. I suppose I cannot know.

Now I would specifically like to address the matter of covering one's head, an act which you have clearly set aside for women, lest a man disgrace himself. I'm concerned because I've heard that Jesus was crowned with thorns before his crucifixion. Did Jesus disgrace his head when he prayed to God on the cross, or when he prophesied to the criminal beside him? If he was disgraced, surely it was for the thorns given in derision; not for praying while crowned. Yet you say: "Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces his head" (v. 4). Logically, Jesus was indeed a man and a mortal one at that point, or else we may need to reconsider our understanding of his death and resurrection. Should Jesus have removed the thorns when he wished to speak (provided that his hands had been free to do so)? Should he have simply refrained from audible prayer and prophecy so as not to be disgraced? Paul, what would you have had Jesus do? What does it really mean to be disgraced, and are there not exceptions in which a disgrace by human measure may be instead a sign of glory for the Lord?

I have decided to listen to you, Paul, when you instruct us to judge for ourselves on the matter of whether or not it is "proper for a woman to pray to God with her head unveiled" (v. 13). You reason that nature has given my long hair to me as a covering; that it is my glory. I can think of nothing more sound than to offer such glory openly to God. Furthermore, nature itself teaches me that I was created with vocal cords, but not with a veil. When I pray and prophesy, I typically choose to use only the former to invoke our Creator.

However, out of respect for the men in the room, lest they be distracted from God even as I speak solely of God, I will continue to remain clothed—and, if they are particularly weak men, I may even cover my head. Because we are so interdependent, so influential over one another, I realize that this may not simply be about my identity as a woman, but also about preventing man from being distracted by what you call the "reflection of man." (I hear that an unhealthy preoccupation with a reflection didn't work out so well for Narcissus.) Thank you for your insights into the limitations of men in our civilization and what we women might do in order to keep them safe and pure.

Before I forget, Paul, please send my love to your Mother. It's been so very long since we were together in Tarsus. Why, I think you were just a little boy still learning to talk. We had such a good time teaching you the power of words. Your Mother must be so pleased to see how eloquently you write today! No matter how much your life has changed in Christ, every time I read a letter from you, to this day, I swear I hear your dear Mother's voice.

Follow Through

A meditation on Mark 1:14-20 that I prepared for a service at a nursing home (actually an abbreviated revision of a sermon I haven't preached yet).


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What if the disciples' initial decision to follow is important--the event that starts them on their journey--but what if there's even more to this? The story of "Jesus and his disciples" could have ended at any moment had the followers stopped following. (There seem to be a few close calls when the disciples are not having their finer moments.) But because they ultimately follow through, the Gospels don't end at Chapter One.

Sports folks! I know you're out there. In baseball, golf, tennis, what makes a good swing? Is it only the moment that you lift your hands, or the moment of impact, or is it also the follow-through?

What makes your friend your friend? Is it that day back in kindergarten (or college!) that you were both so nervous about not knowing anyone that you made a pact to stick together? Or is it every day of your friendship since then that you do stick by each other?

What makes your spouse your spouse? Is it only the signed marriage license from the state? Or is it every day that you keep the vows you made to each other? If you were a traditionalist on your wedding day, you may have vowed to love and cherish your partner. "Love" here is a verb, and like the verb "follow," it beckons a choice, a commitment.

We also practice commitment to our communities and neighbors, to our work, to our rest and our self-care, or in devoting our time or energy to something with meaning to us. When we offer this kind of dedication to Jesus, we are not just following, but we are following through.

One more thing to mention: Being a person of commitment doesn't mean that we won't also need to make difficult choices and sacrifices. There are going to be activities and relationships in our lives that, for whatever reason, we will need to let go. Sometimes Jesus will call, and Zebedee and the hired men will stay behind.

But we may be surprised to see who has been called to travel with us and who else we'll find along the way. We are called to love enemies and strangers. We are called to love the enemy or the stranger that our friend or our spouse or our ex has become to us. We are called to forgive and to accept forgiveness, to heal and to accept healing. And we are called to share God's message with other people; to encourage others to take a life-changing swing at life and then follow through.

Because when Jesus called people to follow him, he called them to journey with him. He vowed that he would shape them into new people living with a new purpose, for however long they committed to the process and to him.

And so, when we have decided to follow Jesus, to see what he will teach us about who we really are, it is a decision that we must make again and again: to follow through, every day.