Preached on December 2, 2007, first Sunday of Advent, at the First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC
Dedicated to the Muslim leaders who signed “A Common Word between Us and You” and the Christian leaders who have responded; and always to the glory of God.
Isaiah 2:1-5 Romans 13:11-14
Advent means the arrival, or coming of God into the world. In our prophetic text this morning, the prophet Isaiah speaks of a future in which peace for all nations will be established by the presence of God in Israel. We understand this as a text about the birth of Jesus Christ when the angels proclaim goodwill and peace on earth. It is also about that future time when Christ will reign over a new heaven and earth, our hope that is yet to come. And so it is a text about Christmas past and about Christmas future, but for us, this is also a text about Christmas present: God coming into our lives today, to bring peace, and so Isaiah’s words are for you and me. “Let us walk in the light of the Lord.”
I am convinced that Jesus Christ is bringing peace into our world, peace into our lives, and peace into our souls. I also know that there are barriers to this peace, and that God will ask us to give up that which keeps us from peace.
Giving something up for peace is evident in what Isaiah says about the people beating their swords into plowshares. Now, let’s think about what this means. In ancient times, strong metal was difficult to come by. Perhaps the only significant metal in a family’s possession would be the plowshare, used by farmers to plow their fields. Plowshares were curved metal blades that turned over the earth as the edge sliced through the dirt. If a nation went to war, there was no extra metal for weapons, and so a farmer would take his plowshare and make of it a sword. He would make of his pruning hook a spear. But notice that now there is no way to till the fields, no way to prune the vineyards. A choice has been made to go to war. Elsewhere in the Old Testament, the prophet Joel said “Prepare war….beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruning hooks into spears.”[1] But the prophets Micah and Isaiah both make the opposite claim on behalf of God: beat your swords into plowshares. Apparently, it was commonly known that these were the choices. You could farm and provide for your family and people, or you had to go to war. You couldn’t do both.
It seems to me that those were times when the consequences of our choices were clear and immediate. To choose one thing is to give up on something else. As the monks say, every choice is a renunciation. If I choose to do this, I have chosen not to do these other things. If I choose to spend my time here, I have renounced spending time anywhere else. To choose war is to give up on growing food, and to grow food is to give up on going to war. It seems to me that such a choice would affect our judgement about when war is necessary.
I think we have lost something that they had. They understood that you have to choose one or the other. We have forgotten that; we think that we can have everything. We think that we can go to war at the same time that we eat our fill and prosper. We think that we can increase our national spending on things like defense and care for the disadvantaged and at the same time reduce our taxes. We think that we can enjoy our vices and be healthy. I have seen advertisements that promise losing weight without effort, making money from the comfort of your home, five easy steps toward a better life. We can have our swords and our plowshares, because this is the age of plenty. But I believe that this is an illusion. Trying to choose everything costs us deeply, but the costs are hidden from us, as if in darkness, and we are not at peace. Sometimes the darkness is comfortable, because it hides the things to which we would rather not pay attention. If a room is a bit dirty, we turn off the overhead light and just light the lamp on the end table. Deficit spending, personal credit debt, long-term health risks, the gradual alteration of our atmosphere: these are costs that are easy to hide, to push off into the darkness of some future day. We don’t see them anymore, and we think that we can choose everything. But the light is coming. Let us walk in the light of the Lord.
Think of that in terms of your lives in these next weeks. We are told that while we carry on with our normal work and school and responsibilities, we can also give lots and lots of great gifts to many people, send cards, bake sweets, host grand dinners, throw parties, or go out to restaurants, parties, and concerts, pack, travel, return, unpack, hosts guests, change sheets, entertain, and sing carols. We can do all these things, and more that you might be thinking about right now, and we can also receive the gift of Christmas, the peace of the presence of God. Do we really have the energy for all that? Or is it like the swords and plowshares, must we choose one or the other? The light is coming. Let us walk in the light of the Lord.
We think that we can fill our lives with pleasure and comfort, and also with depth and meaning at the same time. I think that all the time! I think that I can balance both of those, but if I am honest, then I know that happiness cannot be sought directly. We don’t become happy because of the nice things we get, which is an odd thing to say at this time of year, especially when I’m adding things to my wish list. We can’t package happiness. Happiness only comes to us indirectly while we are pursuing meaning in relationships with family, friends, neighbors, with God. Happiness sneaks in the back door when we have given our lives and our resources away in service to others. Remember it was Jesus who said that those who try to save their lives will lose them, and those who give their lives away will save them. Let us walk in the light of the Lord.
Think about swords and plowshares in reference to the Middle East. This week we followed as peace talks began again between the Israeli and Palestinian leaders in Annapolis. I must say that I have read the news with hope tempered by skepticism. Both parties come to the talks with contradictory demands, which they cling to so tightly. It seems that all the world can clearly see the basic idea that for these people to find a way toward peace will demand that both sides will have to give something up. But it’s easier for me to say that than for them, who are holding onto the things that their ancestors have held dear for centuries. Instead of judging them for their stubbornness, I should ask myself, “what am I clinging to so tightly that keeps me from knowing the peace of God?”
What must we give up in order for God’s peace to reign?
You probably don’t know this, but you and the rest of the Christian church recently received an open letter from this Islamic world. It was signed by 138 Muslim clerics, intellectuals and scholars, representing all branches within Islam, and it was titled, "A Common Word Between Us and You.”[2] It is a letter written to initiate important dialogue between our faiths, and it comes not with demands or criticism, but with an emphasis on two things: our common faith in one God, and the centrality of the commandment to love thy neighbor. In November, a response was written by Christian leaders in this country, including John Thomas, the General Minister of the United Church of Christ. They wrote, “We receive the open letter as a Muslim hand of conviviality and cooperation extended to Christians worldwide. In this response we extend our own Christian hand in return, so that together with all other human beings we may live in peace and justice as we seek to love God and our neighbors.”
Establishing strong relationships among our faiths will require that we give up stances of superiority or exclusive claims to righteousness. We will have to make difficult choices and sacrifices. But isn’t it better to have our plowshares than our swords? Instead of staking our interests by the sword, we could put our plowshares to work and raise a crop of understanding, service, and peace. Let us walk in the light of the world.
Isaiah’s words paint for us the vision and hope of the Christ child, the prince of peace. Isaiah says:
They will beat their swords into plowshares
and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation will not take up sword against nation,
nor will they train for war anymore.
Come, O house of Jacob,
let us walk in the light of the LORD.
Amen
[1] Joel 3:9-10
[2] See http://www.acommonword.com/ for the letter and Christian responses.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Season of Advent
There is something about the seasons of Advent and Christmas that touches me very deeply. For me, the most meaningful affirmations of the gospel and of the Christian mystery are found in this season. At the end of the hymn “O Come, All Ye Faithful” when we sing “word of the father, now in flesh appearing,” and the voices all sing strong above the organ’s fullness, I am struck anew by the wonder of knowing God in so close a way as humanity. And the further mystery of the incarnation is that we believe that God is found not only in the flesh of Christ, but also in our own humanity, because the church is also the body of Christ. Suddenly, I’m looking for the famous “word of God” in everyone I meet, even when it seems unlikely. I think that this insight is a marker on the trail toward peace on earth.
I am also moved by the symbolism of light and darkness. Christmas is in the darkest week of the year. During all the weeks of advent, our nights grow longer and our days shorter. But we do not allow the darkness to overcome us! We dispel it by adding lights to our advent wreath, one more candle each week. We light our houses and our trees. Finally, we gather on Christmas Eve in the sanctuary, where no light shines through the windows, and we light our own candles. And all of this is to say that we will not stand by while darkness grows. We will bear light against the dark.
What I hope we are really saying is that when the darkness of hatred, fear, prejudice, war, and injustice grow, we will respond with the light of kindness, love, honesty, peace, and justice. The word of God will be made flesh, and as it says in the gospel of John, this is the light of the world, and the darkness shall not overcome it.
I am also moved by the symbolism of light and darkness. Christmas is in the darkest week of the year. During all the weeks of advent, our nights grow longer and our days shorter. But we do not allow the darkness to overcome us! We dispel it by adding lights to our advent wreath, one more candle each week. We light our houses and our trees. Finally, we gather on Christmas Eve in the sanctuary, where no light shines through the windows, and we light our own candles. And all of this is to say that we will not stand by while darkness grows. We will bear light against the dark.
What I hope we are really saying is that when the darkness of hatred, fear, prejudice, war, and injustice grow, we will respond with the light of kindness, love, honesty, peace, and justice. The word of God will be made flesh, and as it says in the gospel of John, this is the light of the world, and the darkness shall not overcome it.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sermon - The Power of Goodness
Preached on November 4, 2007, All Saints Day, at the First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC.
Dedicated to my Uncle Tom Harper, and all the saints who have gone before us; and always to the glory of God.
Luke 19:1-10
A man was starving. In desperation, he stole some food, for which he was arrested, convicted, and jailed. After a failed escape, his sentence was lengthened, and he spent decades in prison doing hard labor. Finally released, he had no money or friends, and no one would hire a convicted criminal. This is the story of Jean Valjean, from Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables, and known to many by the musical we call Les Mis. If you know the story, you know that the only person who will take him in for the night is a humble country priest. The priest has converted his rectory into a hospital, and reserves only a small collection of rooms for his own lodging. He has no possessions to speak of, except for the silverware for his table, and two silver candlesticks, inherited from his great-aunt.
Jean Valjean is desperate once more. He doesn’t know any other way of survival. So, he steals the silver from the cupboard and runs off into the night, only to be arrested once again and brought back to the priest so that he can be charged and sent back to prison. But the priest doesn’t press charges. In fact, he tells the officers that the silver in Valjean’s possession was a his gift to him, that in fact Valjean had forgotten to take the two candlesticks, which were also gifts. When the officers have left, the priest says “Jean Valjean, my brother: you belong no longer to evil, but to good.” This act changes Jean Valjean from a thief into a man who will spend his entire life in generosity to those who need his help, even to those who do not deserve it. There is a power in goodness.
In another part of the novel, the priest teaches that “If the soul is left in darkness, sins will be committed. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but he who causes the darkness.” And the narrator observes: “he had a strange and peculiar way of judging things. I suspect that he acquired it from the Gospel.”[1]
Here’s a story that goes the other way. This is the story of Robert Hanssen, who spent his career in the FBI, specializing in intelligence, but meanwhile he was selling classified documents to the Russians. He was arrested in 2001 and pled guilty to acts of espionage over twenty-two years. His story is interpreted in the recent movie Breach, which shows us a man of great intelligence who works hard in the FBI but is overlooked for accolades and promotion, and is derided and ostracized by his colleagues for his grim demeanor. Although he handles high priority secrets, he is made to feel like a meaningless cog in the bureaucratic machine. He doesn’t sell secrets just for the money. He sells them in order to feel that he means something. He betrays his country and those whose lives depend on him because in a twisted way it proves that he is important. You might say that he lived in darkness.
We don’t know why Zacchaeus turned on his fellow Jews, but that’s what he did. When Israel was ruled by Rome, Zacchaeus collaborated with the Roman empire, collecting Caesar’s taxes from his poor and beleaguered neighbors. Tax collectors of that time would often travel with a team of Roman soldiers. Try telling them you didn’t have the money Rome demanded. And what’s more, his salary was made by what he collected above the Roman tax. The more he got from people, the richer he became. Corruption was built into the system. Tax collector became a synonym for sinner. Read through the gospels and see how often they refer to any group of undesirables as “tax collectors and sinners.”
We don’t know why Zacchaeus chose is path. Maybe it was because he was so short. When he shows up in the gospel, he can’t get a look at Jesus because he can’t see over the people in front of him, and what’s more, they all shove him out the way. He’s short, Luke tells us. Maybe he had a Napoleonic complex. Or maybe we should say that Napoleon had a Zaccheus complex. Maybe his power grab with the Roman guards was a reaction to all the times he had been abused and taken advantage of in his life. I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters.
What does matters is that he is a traitor and a cheat, a sinner, and now he’s up in a tree above the crowd, because that’s the only way he can get a look at the famous rabbi Jesus. But when Jesus walks through this crowd of people, and we can imagine that many of them are very nice, upstanding folks, it’s Zacchaeus that Jesus calls to. It’s Zacchaeus that Jesus wants to spend time with. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Zacchaeus is not laughed at, or reviled, but befriended. And wouldn’t you know that this simple act is the only thing that can change him, and in changing him, makes this village a more just and peaceful place for everyone.
Sometimes I imagine the story going the other way. I imagine that Jesus stopped in the road and said “I want to have a special meal with all of you who have been so faithful all these years and have come here early to get a good spot right on the road to see me. You’re all invited. Well, except you, Zacchaeus. You’re not on my list. But if you get your act together, maybe next time I’ll invite you too.” I wonder about that. But I don’t think that Zacchaeus would have changed at all.
I can’t name to you one time in my life that I became a better person as the result of someone telling me how bad I was. I become better when I am inspired by the light of goodness that I receive by the grace of God. Is that your experience? I think that the church has done much better for God and for the world when we have invited people to “come and see” with no strings attached. “Come and see” was what Jesus said to his first disciples in the gospel of John, and it has always been the best way to spread the gospel. When we have gotten it wrong in the church is when we start to fix the world by pointing out its flaws, become aggressive in our condemnation, and even trying to enact laws to enforce moral behavior. That didn’t work for the Puritans, or the Spanish Inquisition, and it will never work for us.
A church research team called The Barna Group recently completed a survey of young Americans, in which high school and college students were asked about their perceptions of Christians and the Christian church. What they found was the primary perception of this generation is that Christians are hypocritical and judgmental, and they are not interested in the church. I read that, and what I hear is people crying out to us: don’t tell us how awful we are, how badly we are spending our time, how we are hurting ourselves, other people, and the earth itself. Show us instead how we can mean something, how we can make a difference. Show us how we can find a sense of peace deep down that always eludes us. I think that’s a call that we can answer, as the body of Christ.
But here’s the catch. Every time Jesus shared his time and food with sinners, just to be with them and with no strings attached, people started to grumble and criticize from the sideline. Read through the gospel of Luke, and notice how many times Jesus heals someone, or associates with a tax collector, and gets blamed for being ‘soft on sin.’ The complaint is always the same. It’s the complaint of the older brother when the prodigal son comes home. He comes in from the field and sees the party in full swing. When he learns that it’s for his younger brother, who wasted half the family fortune, who broke his parents’ hearts, was gone for years and never even wrote, he refuses to even come inside.
When the father comes out to get him, the son complains that it’s not fair, probably just the same way the crowd felt when Jesus singled Zacchaeus out for some one on one time. “It isn’t fair,” he says. “I’ve been with you faithfully all this time and you’ve never thrown me a happy hour, and now this son of yours returns and it’s like New Year’s Eve! What kind of consequences are those? Don’t you realize that the party, the gifts, and the welcome home are all really just so much permission for people to go out and sin all they want?” To all of which the father says “cut that out.”
We have spent centuries trying to overcome the false theology that God is fair, that God punishes sinners and rewards the righteous. Grace isn’t about being fair; grace is about finding the lost, healing the sick, mending the broken. The priest who gave his silver to Jean Valjean knew it. The father of the prodigal son knew it. Jesus knew it.
I wonder where we find ourselves in this snapshot of Jesus, Zacchaeus, and the crowd gathered around..
Maybe we find ourselves in Jesus. I wonder if we are the ones who have an opportunity to show generosity to someone with no strings attached, but with trust in the power of goodness to transform.
Maybe we find ourselves in the crowd. Maybe we are sick of being unthanked while someone else is smiled upon. I wonder if we are holding so tightly to keeping score and bookkeeping that we can’t appreciate the grace of God for those who don’t measure up.
Maybe we are Zacchaues: closed out by others, driven into darkness. Doing things we don’t want to do. I wonder what might inspire us to come closer to Christ, just to get a better look? I wonder what trees we could climb to put ourselves in touch with the sacred? I wonder how God might call our name, might befriend us with no strings attached, and in so doing, might invite us to a new way of being fully human, more gracious, more loving, and more at peace?
I wonder.
[1] Victor Hugo, Les Misérables, trans. Carles E. Wilbur, Everyman’s Library edition, page 21.
Dedicated to my Uncle Tom Harper, and all the saints who have gone before us; and always to the glory of God.
Luke 19:1-10
A man was starving. In desperation, he stole some food, for which he was arrested, convicted, and jailed. After a failed escape, his sentence was lengthened, and he spent decades in prison doing hard labor. Finally released, he had no money or friends, and no one would hire a convicted criminal. This is the story of Jean Valjean, from Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables, and known to many by the musical we call Les Mis. If you know the story, you know that the only person who will take him in for the night is a humble country priest. The priest has converted his rectory into a hospital, and reserves only a small collection of rooms for his own lodging. He has no possessions to speak of, except for the silverware for his table, and two silver candlesticks, inherited from his great-aunt.
Jean Valjean is desperate once more. He doesn’t know any other way of survival. So, he steals the silver from the cupboard and runs off into the night, only to be arrested once again and brought back to the priest so that he can be charged and sent back to prison. But the priest doesn’t press charges. In fact, he tells the officers that the silver in Valjean’s possession was a his gift to him, that in fact Valjean had forgotten to take the two candlesticks, which were also gifts. When the officers have left, the priest says “Jean Valjean, my brother: you belong no longer to evil, but to good.” This act changes Jean Valjean from a thief into a man who will spend his entire life in generosity to those who need his help, even to those who do not deserve it. There is a power in goodness.
In another part of the novel, the priest teaches that “If the soul is left in darkness, sins will be committed. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but he who causes the darkness.” And the narrator observes: “he had a strange and peculiar way of judging things. I suspect that he acquired it from the Gospel.”[1]
Here’s a story that goes the other way. This is the story of Robert Hanssen, who spent his career in the FBI, specializing in intelligence, but meanwhile he was selling classified documents to the Russians. He was arrested in 2001 and pled guilty to acts of espionage over twenty-two years. His story is interpreted in the recent movie Breach, which shows us a man of great intelligence who works hard in the FBI but is overlooked for accolades and promotion, and is derided and ostracized by his colleagues for his grim demeanor. Although he handles high priority secrets, he is made to feel like a meaningless cog in the bureaucratic machine. He doesn’t sell secrets just for the money. He sells them in order to feel that he means something. He betrays his country and those whose lives depend on him because in a twisted way it proves that he is important. You might say that he lived in darkness.
We don’t know why Zacchaeus turned on his fellow Jews, but that’s what he did. When Israel was ruled by Rome, Zacchaeus collaborated with the Roman empire, collecting Caesar’s taxes from his poor and beleaguered neighbors. Tax collectors of that time would often travel with a team of Roman soldiers. Try telling them you didn’t have the money Rome demanded. And what’s more, his salary was made by what he collected above the Roman tax. The more he got from people, the richer he became. Corruption was built into the system. Tax collector became a synonym for sinner. Read through the gospels and see how often they refer to any group of undesirables as “tax collectors and sinners.”
We don’t know why Zacchaeus chose is path. Maybe it was because he was so short. When he shows up in the gospel, he can’t get a look at Jesus because he can’t see over the people in front of him, and what’s more, they all shove him out the way. He’s short, Luke tells us. Maybe he had a Napoleonic complex. Or maybe we should say that Napoleon had a Zaccheus complex. Maybe his power grab with the Roman guards was a reaction to all the times he had been abused and taken advantage of in his life. I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters.
What does matters is that he is a traitor and a cheat, a sinner, and now he’s up in a tree above the crowd, because that’s the only way he can get a look at the famous rabbi Jesus. But when Jesus walks through this crowd of people, and we can imagine that many of them are very nice, upstanding folks, it’s Zacchaeus that Jesus calls to. It’s Zacchaeus that Jesus wants to spend time with. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Zacchaeus is not laughed at, or reviled, but befriended. And wouldn’t you know that this simple act is the only thing that can change him, and in changing him, makes this village a more just and peaceful place for everyone.
Sometimes I imagine the story going the other way. I imagine that Jesus stopped in the road and said “I want to have a special meal with all of you who have been so faithful all these years and have come here early to get a good spot right on the road to see me. You’re all invited. Well, except you, Zacchaeus. You’re not on my list. But if you get your act together, maybe next time I’ll invite you too.” I wonder about that. But I don’t think that Zacchaeus would have changed at all.
I can’t name to you one time in my life that I became a better person as the result of someone telling me how bad I was. I become better when I am inspired by the light of goodness that I receive by the grace of God. Is that your experience? I think that the church has done much better for God and for the world when we have invited people to “come and see” with no strings attached. “Come and see” was what Jesus said to his first disciples in the gospel of John, and it has always been the best way to spread the gospel. When we have gotten it wrong in the church is when we start to fix the world by pointing out its flaws, become aggressive in our condemnation, and even trying to enact laws to enforce moral behavior. That didn’t work for the Puritans, or the Spanish Inquisition, and it will never work for us.
A church research team called The Barna Group recently completed a survey of young Americans, in which high school and college students were asked about their perceptions of Christians and the Christian church. What they found was the primary perception of this generation is that Christians are hypocritical and judgmental, and they are not interested in the church. I read that, and what I hear is people crying out to us: don’t tell us how awful we are, how badly we are spending our time, how we are hurting ourselves, other people, and the earth itself. Show us instead how we can mean something, how we can make a difference. Show us how we can find a sense of peace deep down that always eludes us. I think that’s a call that we can answer, as the body of Christ.
But here’s the catch. Every time Jesus shared his time and food with sinners, just to be with them and with no strings attached, people started to grumble and criticize from the sideline. Read through the gospel of Luke, and notice how many times Jesus heals someone, or associates with a tax collector, and gets blamed for being ‘soft on sin.’ The complaint is always the same. It’s the complaint of the older brother when the prodigal son comes home. He comes in from the field and sees the party in full swing. When he learns that it’s for his younger brother, who wasted half the family fortune, who broke his parents’ hearts, was gone for years and never even wrote, he refuses to even come inside.
When the father comes out to get him, the son complains that it’s not fair, probably just the same way the crowd felt when Jesus singled Zacchaeus out for some one on one time. “It isn’t fair,” he says. “I’ve been with you faithfully all this time and you’ve never thrown me a happy hour, and now this son of yours returns and it’s like New Year’s Eve! What kind of consequences are those? Don’t you realize that the party, the gifts, and the welcome home are all really just so much permission for people to go out and sin all they want?” To all of which the father says “cut that out.”
We have spent centuries trying to overcome the false theology that God is fair, that God punishes sinners and rewards the righteous. Grace isn’t about being fair; grace is about finding the lost, healing the sick, mending the broken. The priest who gave his silver to Jean Valjean knew it. The father of the prodigal son knew it. Jesus knew it.
I wonder where we find ourselves in this snapshot of Jesus, Zacchaeus, and the crowd gathered around..
Maybe we find ourselves in Jesus. I wonder if we are the ones who have an opportunity to show generosity to someone with no strings attached, but with trust in the power of goodness to transform.
Maybe we find ourselves in the crowd. Maybe we are sick of being unthanked while someone else is smiled upon. I wonder if we are holding so tightly to keeping score and bookkeeping that we can’t appreciate the grace of God for those who don’t measure up.
Maybe we are Zacchaues: closed out by others, driven into darkness. Doing things we don’t want to do. I wonder what might inspire us to come closer to Christ, just to get a better look? I wonder what trees we could climb to put ourselves in touch with the sacred? I wonder how God might call our name, might befriend us with no strings attached, and in so doing, might invite us to a new way of being fully human, more gracious, more loving, and more at peace?
I wonder.
[1] Victor Hugo, Les Misérables, trans. Carles E. Wilbur, Everyman’s Library edition, page 21.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Hope for Health Care for All
In the early days of Tallmadge, before the church was built on the north end of the circle in the center of town, there stood an Academy building, where the children and youth of the town came for education. The Academy was built and run with the resources of our church’s founders, notably Elizur Wright, Sr., Salmon Sackett, and Rev. Simon Woodruff, who, in addition to being the first minister to serve this church, was the first instructor when the Academy was built in 1815. The Academy building was destroyed in a fire, but was rebuilt in a different location, with classes held at the Wright house in the interim.
The high value of education is great tradition in our congregation, and in the United Church of Christ as a whole. It has always been important to us to provide for the education of the next generations. In many cases, education was provided by those in the community who had the time and resources available to support it, as it was here in Tallmadge. Eventually, our nation decided that the education of our children was of such importance both as a moral value to itself, and in the national interest to have an educated citizenry, that we couldn’t depend on the ability of individuals to provide for it. Once again, it was our Christian ancestors who made public education, then called common school, available to everyone. We recognized that we could do this together, and that it was worth doing for our country’s general welfare, which is what our Constitution says that the government was created to promote.
I want to remember this story, because I believe that the Christian church has a similar calling in our time. Churches have always worked for the health of others. Many hospitals have religious roots, and today our church hosts blood drives and health screening services. But just as education was once limited to those of fortunate geography or means, so is adequate health care limited today. I believe health care should be for all our neighbors. Everyone should be able to afford the outstanding treatment and care that is available in this country. As I remember our heritage in this church, I am inspired that good people of this generation can see this come to pass. I have great hope.
The high value of education is great tradition in our congregation, and in the United Church of Christ as a whole. It has always been important to us to provide for the education of the next generations. In many cases, education was provided by those in the community who had the time and resources available to support it, as it was here in Tallmadge. Eventually, our nation decided that the education of our children was of such importance both as a moral value to itself, and in the national interest to have an educated citizenry, that we couldn’t depend on the ability of individuals to provide for it. Once again, it was our Christian ancestors who made public education, then called common school, available to everyone. We recognized that we could do this together, and that it was worth doing for our country’s general welfare, which is what our Constitution says that the government was created to promote.
I want to remember this story, because I believe that the Christian church has a similar calling in our time. Churches have always worked for the health of others. Many hospitals have religious roots, and today our church hosts blood drives and health screening services. But just as education was once limited to those of fortunate geography or means, so is adequate health care limited today. I believe health care should be for all our neighbors. Everyone should be able to afford the outstanding treatment and care that is available in this country. As I remember our heritage in this church, I am inspired that good people of this generation can see this come to pass. I have great hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)