Preached on May 23, 2010, Pentecost Sunday and day of Confirmation, at First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC
Acts 2:1-21 Romans 8:14-17
Dedicated to the Confirmands, who confirm their faith and join the congregation today; and always to the glory of God.
How do you find out who you are? How do you find what brings you deep and meaningful happiness? How do you find what you need to complete your life? And what if these things cannot be found by looking for them?
One of our enduring hopes for our children is that they will be happy. “Do what makes you happy,” we say. But when people study this, it is actually very difficult for researchers to figure out what makes you happy. They are very good at figuring out how to get you to buy things, how to get your vote, and what makes you scared. But what makes you happy is a tough question. To illustrate the problem, here is a typical experiment. Randomly chosen people are asked to keep a beeper and a notepad. Whenever the beeper goes off, they quickly note what they are doing, and then rate their present level of happiness on a scale from 1 to 10. So, the beeper goes off, and you write down “family picnic: 8; at work: 4; frantically trying to get the kids out of bed and out the door on time for school: 1.” Then they would average the numbers, and see where people stand on a balance sheet of happy hours and unhappy hours. Think about how your days would average out: maybe a bunch of low or middle numbers for things you have to do, and then a couple high numbers for things you enjoy, at least on the weekend.
Here’s the problem, and I bet you’ve already spotted it: when we change the experiment and ask people to look back at the times in life that were full of those less happy moments related to having children at home, or stressful hours related work or a volunteer project, people will often say that those days, those months, those years were times of deep happiness because they were deeply meaningful. By contrast, people who had built up a lot of individual happy moments (eating out: 8; watching baseball: 9; napping: 10) tended to be so free of commitments and responsibility that they look back on those years as more or less forgettable and wasted. In the big picture, it turns out that when we pursue happiness directly, we end up with a lot of shallow moments. You will not find happiness by looking for it moment by moment. There is no manual on how to find what can’t be found.
Have you ever heard people say that they needed some time to find themselves? It usually has to do with not being sure about the right path in life, what career to pursue, where to live. Somehow, we get the idea that the point of life is to figure out who we are, but that makes life rather a lot about ourselves, and I remember something about those who try to save their own lives only end up losing them. It may be that another thing that can’t be found is myself.
No one can tell you how to find something that can’t be found, because there are some things that can only be received at the moment when we stop looking for ourselves. In the land of Oz, the scarecrow, the tin man, and the lion, were all convinced that they were lacking something that would make them complete: a brain, a heart, and courage. And perhaps you are just now thinking “well, they found what they wanted! When they conquered the wicked witch and unmasked the wizard, he gave them a brain, a heart, and courage. Doesn’t that story make the point that we should look for what we want until we get it?” Or, maybe you have a more specific memory of the Wizard of Oz, and you know very well that the wizard did not give them those things. The wizard gave the scarecrow a diploma; he gave the tin man a testimonial to his compassion; and he gave the lion a medal for his courage. All the wizard did was to celebrate what they already had, because, along the way, they forgot what they were looking for and focused instead on helping Dorothy. And they did that by using their brain, heart, and courage. The wizard was only celebrating something that was already true.
So it is on Confirmation Sunday. In a few minutes we will lay hands on these young people who are confirming their faith, and we will welcome the older class as new members of the church. The laying on of hands recognizes the gift of the Holy Spirit, just like the church received on Pentecost, just like Jesus himself received when the Holy Spirit descended on him as a dove when he was baptized. But I don’t think that we should be so foolish as to say that these people are receiving something they didn’t have before. We have seen the Spirit of God in them for a long time, since they took their first breath. We are celebrating something that is already true.
They were created in the image of God, as were all people created in God’s image. In the very first chapter of Genesis we read how the spirit of God hovered over the deep, and then spoke and created light, and stars, and land and trees, and fish and animals, and finally humankind in God’s own image. They already have the Spirit of God, as do we all, only we tend to forget.
We spend so much time searching for our identity because we have forgotten that we already have one. We are children of God, and therefore we are people whose best work is to love, to create, to forgive, to restore, to be compassionate. All those things are the business of God, and you inherit the family business when you’re in God’s family. But we forget. Made in the image of God, yes, but the image has become distorted.
Still, there are moments when we can see the image clearly. One of them is this morning, in worship. Worship is so much about remembering what we tend to forget. Remember your baptism; remember at the communion table, the presence of Christ in the bread and cup; be confirmed, and remember who you are.
People remember on a mission tour, when we get away from the habits of our lives to spend a week in service for others. Never are we more like God than when we go to the trouble to be of service to others in the human family, and to our fellow creatures on the earth. We have 14 high school students and 11 adults who are giving up a week this summer, taking time from their jobs, missing their families and friends, and they’re going to work all day. And isn’t it amazing that so often on these trips, people will discover deep happiness. It sneaks up on us when we finally stop looking for it. Happiness always comes indirectly, through the backdoor when we are focused on relationships and giving with compassion. And we also remember ourselves. We don’t find ourselves, we remember ourselves as children of God, inheritors of the family business.
Those of you in the past weeks who have walked in the middle of a “relay for life” in any community, when people of all kinds come together to ease the ravages of cancer. Think of that night, and tell me if you can’t see the image of God in the crowd of human faces.
Paul wrote that “all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, "Abba! Father!" it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.”
For today, I offer my own updated translation of that passage:
The Spirit of God tells us that we are children of God. It is the opposite of the spirits that pull us into selfishness, consumerism, addiction, or fear. The Spirit of God adopts us back into the family of God when we have forgotten. We can sense the Spirit working in us whenever we stop focusing on finding what we want, and focus instead on God. That is when we remember that we are children of God, and if we are all God’s children, then we will receive the same as Christ: true joy, deep happiness, and our inheritance of God’s business and all its fortunes. Jesus showed us how to be God’s children by loving others no matter the cost, rather than trying to find for ourselves what can’t be found.
Call off the search.
Step off the merry-go-round that spins round and round the center of yourself, never seeing anything new.
You don’t need to find yourself.
You don’t need to figure out what will make you happy.
You don’t need to find anything to make you complete.
Could it be that you already have more than you know?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Sermon - A New Day
Preached on April 18, 2010, Third Sunday of Easter at First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC
John 21:1-19
Dedicated to my mother-in-law, Margaret Craft, on her birthday; and always to the glory of God.
I'm sure you know that feeling of thinking of the perfect thing to say too late to say it. It doesn't come to you in the moment that you need it, but only later, when you have missed your chance to say or do the perfect thing. There you are, thinking back on the moment, and you come up with a funny line that would have had everyone laughing. Or you think of the perfect comeback, the zinger that would have felt so good to say, or at least it would have felt good at that moment. Life is full of missed chances for humor and comebacks, for some people more than others. But this morning I'm thinking particularly about the times when we miss a chance be good, when we look back on a conversation and think of the perfect thing to say in defense of someone, or in favor of a more thoughtful approach, or to promote a more gracious relationship. “OH!” we think, “that's what I should have done! That would have been the perfect thing to say!”
I wonder if Peter had been having these thoughts in the days and weeks after that first Easter. I wonder if he thought back to the night when Jesus was arrested. I bet he did. What I am sure of is that the writer of this gospel wants us to remember that night because of the way he describes Peter on the beach, beside the charcoal fire, being asked three questions. Those details take us back to the night before Good Friday, when Peter was by another charcoal fire, outside the trial of Jesus by the high priest. Inside, Jesus was on trial, and the gospel according to John tells us that “the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and about his teaching. Jesus answered, ‘I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why do you ask me? Ask those who heard what I said to them; they know what I said.’” Inside, Jesus tells them to ask anyone who was there. Outside, one who was there is asked three times if he had traveled with Jesus, and three times, Peter said “no.”
I wonder how often he thought of those moments. I wonder if he realized what he could have done differently. He might have told himself that his actions were understandable. He had been scared, afraid for his own life. But still, why hadn’t he had more courage? And what will happen the next time? Maybe Peter has decided that next time it would be just the same. Maybe that’s why he went fishing.
The gospel tells us that after they had seen the risen Christ at least two times, a few of them were together and Simon Peter said “I’m going out to fish.” And the others said “we’ll go with you.” Can’t you picture that? It seems like they just don’t know what to do, so they go back to what they know best. When the risen Jesus first appeared to them, he had said “receive the Holy Spirit,” “as the father has sent me, I am sending you.” But they seem to make of that about as much as you and I usually know what to make of it. It sounds like good news, but we don’t know how it applies to our lives. Their Easter was very different from the one we celebrated two weeks ago, but I’m not sure that we know what to do with it any more than they did. We say goodbye to family visitors; we finish telling each other what a wonderful service we had; we put away the baskets, and then we join the disciples for that moment when Peter says “well, I’m going out to fish,” which is a fisherman way of saying “it’s time to get life back to normal.” And that’s pretty much what we have done. If you look back at the mystery of Easter and realize that you haven’t sorted out yet how it affects your life, then you are in good company. The disciples did the same thing. They went back to fishing.
I wonder if Peter was still worried about his lack of courage. I wonder if he had decided that he wasn’t going to make a good disciple, based on his track record so far. But then Jesus shows up and asks a simple question. “Have you any fish?” He doesn’t ask them why they aren’t out offering good news to the outcasts, and care for the sick, and bread to the hungry like he had taught them. He meets them where they are, fishing, and he just asks them “have you any fish?”
The Reverend Peter Gomes, who preaches at the Memorial Chapel at Harvard University, says that what this question really means is how are we doing in life as usual? “How are you getting on in your work? How is it going? Are you happy in your job as a teacher? Are you satisfied in your work as a lawyer? Are you successful in your labors as a housekeeper, as a merchant? …Children, have you any fish? Children, do you have anything to show for what it is that you spend most of your time doing, and what it is you think you are good at and best at?”
The simple answer for the disciples is no, they haven’t caught a fish all night. And now it’s morning, a new day. So Jesus builds a charcoal fire, and then he asks Peter a new set of questions: Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me? Peter can’t go back and change what he said in the past, anymore than we can go back and have a do-over when we realize what we should have done. But Jesus won’t let us be a prisoner to our old failures. Peter can’t go back and stand up for Jesus at the trial, but he can act with courage and love for others. It’s a new day.
When Jesus asks “do you love me?” and Peter responds that he does, Jesus says “feed my lambs,” “tend my sheep,” “feed my sheep.” Our love for God is always lived out in love for other people. So Peter has two choices, which are also our choices. Knowing the mistakes we have made, the times when we have not done what others needed from us, we can either hold on to our failures, assuming that our past predicts our future, or we can allow the risen Jesus to give us a new chance, on the new day that dawns for us every single morning.
When we think of the right thing to do too late to do it, those missed chances can become rehearsals. The first time it happens, you are caught off guard - you are surprised. The moment passes too quickly for you to realize your potential to act. You missed the chance, but at least now you know what to look for, and it won’t be as surprising next time. The next time it happens, you recognize the moment, but perhaps fear of confrontation holds you back, or uncertainty about doing something different. Looking back on it, you rehearse a bolder action, you convince yourself that your fears are overblown, and that the good you might do outweighs the cost. You can't go back and change what's happened - those chances are missed forever - but God isn't done with you. And the next time there is a decisive moment in which to act, you are ready.
Maybe it means sticking up for someone. Maybe it means stopping to help when a stranger looks troubled in a public place. Maybe it is the call to give a donation to an urgent cause. Maybe it will be the person you need to care for in a way you wish you could have cared more for a parent, child, or friend in the past.
It may just be the case that our failures are what make us most valuable to the ministry of Jesus. I’m reminded of a story I heard once. I don’t know if it really happened, but I know that it is true. It’s about a business man who made a terrible mistake in his work, costing they corporation $30,000. He went in to see his boss, took full responsibility, and said “I lost this money, and I understand that you have to let me go,” to which his boss replied “fire you?! I’m not going to fire you. We just spent $30,000 on you. You’re more valuable to us now than ever.”
Peter can’t go back and change what happened when Jesus was on trial, when they were calling for witnesses to testify, and he had been just outside, denying three times that he had been with Jesus. He can’t change that, just as none of us can change the things that we have done or not done in our lives. We have all hurt people; we have failed to be there for those we care about. But that never means that God would be done with us. A new day begins, and God comes to meet us where we are, to feed us, and to point us in a new direction.
“You, out there in the boat with no fish. Out there in the world, wondering what your purpose is. I need you. No matter what you’ve done before, you are the one I need now. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. I know that you are ready for it.”
Let us pray:
God of new days and new beginnings, bless us with your mercy and your calling to us. Assure us that you are never done with any one of us. Amen.
John 21:1-19
Dedicated to my mother-in-law, Margaret Craft, on her birthday; and always to the glory of God.
I'm sure you know that feeling of thinking of the perfect thing to say too late to say it. It doesn't come to you in the moment that you need it, but only later, when you have missed your chance to say or do the perfect thing. There you are, thinking back on the moment, and you come up with a funny line that would have had everyone laughing. Or you think of the perfect comeback, the zinger that would have felt so good to say, or at least it would have felt good at that moment. Life is full of missed chances for humor and comebacks, for some people more than others. But this morning I'm thinking particularly about the times when we miss a chance be good, when we look back on a conversation and think of the perfect thing to say in defense of someone, or in favor of a more thoughtful approach, or to promote a more gracious relationship. “OH!” we think, “that's what I should have done! That would have been the perfect thing to say!”
I wonder if Peter had been having these thoughts in the days and weeks after that first Easter. I wonder if he thought back to the night when Jesus was arrested. I bet he did. What I am sure of is that the writer of this gospel wants us to remember that night because of the way he describes Peter on the beach, beside the charcoal fire, being asked three questions. Those details take us back to the night before Good Friday, when Peter was by another charcoal fire, outside the trial of Jesus by the high priest. Inside, Jesus was on trial, and the gospel according to John tells us that “the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and about his teaching. Jesus answered, ‘I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why do you ask me? Ask those who heard what I said to them; they know what I said.’” Inside, Jesus tells them to ask anyone who was there. Outside, one who was there is asked three times if he had traveled with Jesus, and three times, Peter said “no.”
I wonder how often he thought of those moments. I wonder if he realized what he could have done differently. He might have told himself that his actions were understandable. He had been scared, afraid for his own life. But still, why hadn’t he had more courage? And what will happen the next time? Maybe Peter has decided that next time it would be just the same. Maybe that’s why he went fishing.
The gospel tells us that after they had seen the risen Christ at least two times, a few of them were together and Simon Peter said “I’m going out to fish.” And the others said “we’ll go with you.” Can’t you picture that? It seems like they just don’t know what to do, so they go back to what they know best. When the risen Jesus first appeared to them, he had said “receive the Holy Spirit,” “as the father has sent me, I am sending you.” But they seem to make of that about as much as you and I usually know what to make of it. It sounds like good news, but we don’t know how it applies to our lives. Their Easter was very different from the one we celebrated two weeks ago, but I’m not sure that we know what to do with it any more than they did. We say goodbye to family visitors; we finish telling each other what a wonderful service we had; we put away the baskets, and then we join the disciples for that moment when Peter says “well, I’m going out to fish,” which is a fisherman way of saying “it’s time to get life back to normal.” And that’s pretty much what we have done. If you look back at the mystery of Easter and realize that you haven’t sorted out yet how it affects your life, then you are in good company. The disciples did the same thing. They went back to fishing.
I wonder if Peter was still worried about his lack of courage. I wonder if he had decided that he wasn’t going to make a good disciple, based on his track record so far. But then Jesus shows up and asks a simple question. “Have you any fish?” He doesn’t ask them why they aren’t out offering good news to the outcasts, and care for the sick, and bread to the hungry like he had taught them. He meets them where they are, fishing, and he just asks them “have you any fish?”
The Reverend Peter Gomes, who preaches at the Memorial Chapel at Harvard University, says that what this question really means is how are we doing in life as usual? “How are you getting on in your work? How is it going? Are you happy in your job as a teacher? Are you satisfied in your work as a lawyer? Are you successful in your labors as a housekeeper, as a merchant? …Children, have you any fish? Children, do you have anything to show for what it is that you spend most of your time doing, and what it is you think you are good at and best at?”
The simple answer for the disciples is no, they haven’t caught a fish all night. And now it’s morning, a new day. So Jesus builds a charcoal fire, and then he asks Peter a new set of questions: Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me? Peter can’t go back and change what he said in the past, anymore than we can go back and have a do-over when we realize what we should have done. But Jesus won’t let us be a prisoner to our old failures. Peter can’t go back and stand up for Jesus at the trial, but he can act with courage and love for others. It’s a new day.
When Jesus asks “do you love me?” and Peter responds that he does, Jesus says “feed my lambs,” “tend my sheep,” “feed my sheep.” Our love for God is always lived out in love for other people. So Peter has two choices, which are also our choices. Knowing the mistakes we have made, the times when we have not done what others needed from us, we can either hold on to our failures, assuming that our past predicts our future, or we can allow the risen Jesus to give us a new chance, on the new day that dawns for us every single morning.
When we think of the right thing to do too late to do it, those missed chances can become rehearsals. The first time it happens, you are caught off guard - you are surprised. The moment passes too quickly for you to realize your potential to act. You missed the chance, but at least now you know what to look for, and it won’t be as surprising next time. The next time it happens, you recognize the moment, but perhaps fear of confrontation holds you back, or uncertainty about doing something different. Looking back on it, you rehearse a bolder action, you convince yourself that your fears are overblown, and that the good you might do outweighs the cost. You can't go back and change what's happened - those chances are missed forever - but God isn't done with you. And the next time there is a decisive moment in which to act, you are ready.
Maybe it means sticking up for someone. Maybe it means stopping to help when a stranger looks troubled in a public place. Maybe it is the call to give a donation to an urgent cause. Maybe it will be the person you need to care for in a way you wish you could have cared more for a parent, child, or friend in the past.
It may just be the case that our failures are what make us most valuable to the ministry of Jesus. I’m reminded of a story I heard once. I don’t know if it really happened, but I know that it is true. It’s about a business man who made a terrible mistake in his work, costing they corporation $30,000. He went in to see his boss, took full responsibility, and said “I lost this money, and I understand that you have to let me go,” to which his boss replied “fire you?! I’m not going to fire you. We just spent $30,000 on you. You’re more valuable to us now than ever.”
Peter can’t go back and change what happened when Jesus was on trial, when they were calling for witnesses to testify, and he had been just outside, denying three times that he had been with Jesus. He can’t change that, just as none of us can change the things that we have done or not done in our lives. We have all hurt people; we have failed to be there for those we care about. But that never means that God would be done with us. A new day begins, and God comes to meet us where we are, to feed us, and to point us in a new direction.
“You, out there in the boat with no fish. Out there in the world, wondering what your purpose is. I need you. No matter what you’ve done before, you are the one I need now. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. I know that you are ready for it.”
Let us pray:
God of new days and new beginnings, bless us with your mercy and your calling to us. Assure us that you are never done with any one of us. Amen.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sermon - God Holds On To Us
Preached on Easter Sunday, April 4, 2010 at the historic First Congregational Church of Tallmadge, UCC.
John 20:1-18
Dedicated to the Euclid Congregational United Church of Christ; and always to the glory of God.
When Mary began her day on that first Easter Sunday, she knew exactly what to expect. When she prepared for her visit to the tomb where the body of Jesus had been laid on Friday, she had a good idea of what it would be like. It had been a week of dashed hopes and unexpected turns, but all that was over now. She would go to the place where his body lay to remember, to honor his life, and to mourn his death. It was a ritual of grief and love that brought her to the tomb.
In the same way, we all knew exactly what to expect of this morning when we awoke. You guessed the songs we might sing, you remembered feel of the early morning air, and you knew for sure the story that we would tell. Whatever the turmoil of this past year, whatever unexpected turns we took in our lives, or saw in the world, on Easter morning we know what to expect. And, like Mary, our worship is a ritual of love.
When Mary arrives at the tomb and finds the stone rolled away, her mind grasps the only logical, rational conclusion. Someone has taken the body. She rushes to find Peter and John and tells them so. Then they all rush back to the tomb. Peter and John have a look and then return home, partly understanding and partly not. Then Mary finally looks in the tomb and we are told she sees two angels there. But her mind has no room for angels (how could it?) and so she asks them if they know who has taken the body. Finally, she turns around and runs right into Jesus. Only her mind, so filled with what it expects to see that it cannot see what she does not expect, does not recognize him. She guesses him to be the gardener, and asks him where the body of Jesus has been taken.
We began this day like Mary, knowing just what to expect on Easter Sunday. But quickly we find that our lives no longer match up. Mary’s expectations are shattered. It takes a few surprises to finally break through her expectations, but finally she can see what has happened.
There are two possibilities to explain why our morning is different from Mary’s: that is, why we have not encountered the unexpected. On one hand, we are not surprised because we live on this side of Easter. Mary couldn’t have known what to expect, but we do. The resurrection that surprised Mary no longer surprises us. On the other hand, can we really believe that God is done with surprises? Isn’t it possible that our expectations about today and every day make us just as blind to what God is doing as Mary’s expectations made her blind to Jesus standing in front of her? Might Jesus be present in our lives, mistaken by us for just an ordinary part of our experience? Maybe we have seen grace and called it luck. Maybe we have seen beauty and been unimpressed. Maybe we have seen people whose lives have been radically changed and thought they seemed phony. Maybe we are sometimes just as unseeing as Mary was, set in our expectations.
What if you had come to the church this morning and found it empty? Would you check your watch? Would you think about when the time change was? Would you wonder if the service had been moved to another location? Would you, perhaps, call someone and ask where the service had been moved? And how would the story continue from there? How might you meet the living presence of Christ in a way that undoes all of your expectations?
When Mary realizes that it is Jesus, she calls him Rabbouni, which means teacher, and was what his followers had called him for years. And then Jesus says something strange: “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” It’s a strange thing to say because it doesn’t seem like Mary is holding on to him. In her book Bread of Angels, Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor suggests that while Mary isn’t holding on to him physically, she is holding on to him in a different way. Rabbouni is what they used to call him. It’s his Friday name, but this is Sunday. It’s as if Mary is trying to hold on to the old Jesus, wanting to go back to the way things were before he was arrested and killed. Jesus explains that he is not coming back to her and the disciples like before. He is going to God. Jesus is going to God, and he is taking the whole world with him.
We have a tendency to want to hold on to Jesus right here with us. We’d rather keep him here, in the midst of our lives as we know them, where we feel comfortable. But that’s not the life of faith. We don’t hold on to God; God holds on to us, and takes us to the other side of the cross and out of the tomb.
Too many times, people have been taught that Jesus died as a substitution for us. Jesus died to pay a penalty on our behalf; he substituted his life for our lives. But that doesn’t cut it. Jesus died for us, yes, but not as a substitute. He died and rose as a representative. Jesus, who showed us who God is also showed us what humans can be. He showed us how we can commit our lives for the sake of love, conquering every fear, and conquering even death itself. He rose from the grave and comes to hold on to us, taking us to God.
It is as if when Christ died and was raised to life, that he showed us an open door that we may all pass through. He opened a door in the barricade of all that leads to death: violence and hatred, fear and selfishness, prejudice and everything else that has ever kept us from true life. Christ opened a door to the other side of all of that, and now he holds on to us, to take us with him. Take up your cross and follow me, he said.
In Christ, we die to everything in the world that holds us apart from God, and we die to everything inside of us that holds us apart from God. And because of Easter, we know that those powers are not nearly as strong as the power of God to give us new life. When we see Jesus on Easter morning, we discover not just something new about God. On Easter, we discover who we truly are.
John 20:1-18
Dedicated to the Euclid Congregational United Church of Christ; and always to the glory of God.
When Mary began her day on that first Easter Sunday, she knew exactly what to expect. When she prepared for her visit to the tomb where the body of Jesus had been laid on Friday, she had a good idea of what it would be like. It had been a week of dashed hopes and unexpected turns, but all that was over now. She would go to the place where his body lay to remember, to honor his life, and to mourn his death. It was a ritual of grief and love that brought her to the tomb.
In the same way, we all knew exactly what to expect of this morning when we awoke. You guessed the songs we might sing, you remembered feel of the early morning air, and you knew for sure the story that we would tell. Whatever the turmoil of this past year, whatever unexpected turns we took in our lives, or saw in the world, on Easter morning we know what to expect. And, like Mary, our worship is a ritual of love.
When Mary arrives at the tomb and finds the stone rolled away, her mind grasps the only logical, rational conclusion. Someone has taken the body. She rushes to find Peter and John and tells them so. Then they all rush back to the tomb. Peter and John have a look and then return home, partly understanding and partly not. Then Mary finally looks in the tomb and we are told she sees two angels there. But her mind has no room for angels (how could it?) and so she asks them if they know who has taken the body. Finally, she turns around and runs right into Jesus. Only her mind, so filled with what it expects to see that it cannot see what she does not expect, does not recognize him. She guesses him to be the gardener, and asks him where the body of Jesus has been taken.
We began this day like Mary, knowing just what to expect on Easter Sunday. But quickly we find that our lives no longer match up. Mary’s expectations are shattered. It takes a few surprises to finally break through her expectations, but finally she can see what has happened.
There are two possibilities to explain why our morning is different from Mary’s: that is, why we have not encountered the unexpected. On one hand, we are not surprised because we live on this side of Easter. Mary couldn’t have known what to expect, but we do. The resurrection that surprised Mary no longer surprises us. On the other hand, can we really believe that God is done with surprises? Isn’t it possible that our expectations about today and every day make us just as blind to what God is doing as Mary’s expectations made her blind to Jesus standing in front of her? Might Jesus be present in our lives, mistaken by us for just an ordinary part of our experience? Maybe we have seen grace and called it luck. Maybe we have seen beauty and been unimpressed. Maybe we have seen people whose lives have been radically changed and thought they seemed phony. Maybe we are sometimes just as unseeing as Mary was, set in our expectations.
What if you had come to the church this morning and found it empty? Would you check your watch? Would you think about when the time change was? Would you wonder if the service had been moved to another location? Would you, perhaps, call someone and ask where the service had been moved? And how would the story continue from there? How might you meet the living presence of Christ in a way that undoes all of your expectations?
When Mary realizes that it is Jesus, she calls him Rabbouni, which means teacher, and was what his followers had called him for years. And then Jesus says something strange: “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” It’s a strange thing to say because it doesn’t seem like Mary is holding on to him. In her book Bread of Angels, Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor suggests that while Mary isn’t holding on to him physically, she is holding on to him in a different way. Rabbouni is what they used to call him. It’s his Friday name, but this is Sunday. It’s as if Mary is trying to hold on to the old Jesus, wanting to go back to the way things were before he was arrested and killed. Jesus explains that he is not coming back to her and the disciples like before. He is going to God. Jesus is going to God, and he is taking the whole world with him.
We have a tendency to want to hold on to Jesus right here with us. We’d rather keep him here, in the midst of our lives as we know them, where we feel comfortable. But that’s not the life of faith. We don’t hold on to God; God holds on to us, and takes us to the other side of the cross and out of the tomb.
Too many times, people have been taught that Jesus died as a substitution for us. Jesus died to pay a penalty on our behalf; he substituted his life for our lives. But that doesn’t cut it. Jesus died for us, yes, but not as a substitute. He died and rose as a representative. Jesus, who showed us who God is also showed us what humans can be. He showed us how we can commit our lives for the sake of love, conquering every fear, and conquering even death itself. He rose from the grave and comes to hold on to us, taking us to God.
It is as if when Christ died and was raised to life, that he showed us an open door that we may all pass through. He opened a door in the barricade of all that leads to death: violence and hatred, fear and selfishness, prejudice and everything else that has ever kept us from true life. Christ opened a door to the other side of all of that, and now he holds on to us, to take us with him. Take up your cross and follow me, he said.
In Christ, we die to everything in the world that holds us apart from God, and we die to everything inside of us that holds us apart from God. And because of Easter, we know that those powers are not nearly as strong as the power of God to give us new life. When we see Jesus on Easter morning, we discover not just something new about God. On Easter, we discover who we truly are.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sermon - No Chance of Silence
Preached on Palm Sunday, March 28, 2010 at First Congreagational Church of Tallmadge, UCC.
Audio of the sermon is available here
Luke 19:28-48
Dedicated to the Confirmation I Class; and always to the glory of God.
As the crowds of pilgrims made their way to Jerusalem from every direction for the Passover festival, imagine the voices of the disciples rising above the noise, shouting and singing “blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” The gospel according to Luke recounts this day and tells us that they shouted for him these words of the psalms because of “all the deeds of power that they had seen.” Think of what they had seen in their time with Jesus. Here was a king they could get behind, one who was bringing about the kingdom of God, in which people received healing and mercy regardless of their wealth or purity or social status. Everyone was welcome by this king, and so they sang for him on the way to Jerusalem, and today we join in singing for him too. We also sing for the king who brings in God’s kingdom, who teaches that the grace of God meets us wherever we are and gives us new life. What a joyous day is this Palm Sunday! Who cares about the warning?
The warning is that we had better not get too carried away in our faith in Jesus, because it will cost too much. In fact, we had better just keep quiet about it all. The warning comes from some concerned Pharisees, who tell Jesus to make his disciples stop with the singing and shouting. Earlier in the gospel of Luke, when Jesus was up north in Galilee, some Pharisees had warned him there that the local Roman governor was looking to kill him. Now they are warning him again, because they know full well that you can’t ride into town with people singing “blessed is the king.” Jerusalem only recognizes the rule of Caesar, the Roman emperor, and his local stand-in Pontius Pilate. They’re in charge, and those who challenge them are not long for this world. Jesus himself had recently heard the reports of the men who had been killed by Pilate’s order in the Temple court. Pilate is a cruel and unjust ruler, but what can be done but to submit? It’s better to accept the way things are than to allow our faith to get us into trouble. “So, Jesus, if we could just get the disciples to stop.”
That warning has been repeated again and again to the followers of Christ. In the first centuries, people were warned not to admit being Christian during the Roman persecutions, because it might get you killed. You and I don’t have to worry about that anymore. In 16th century, people were warned not to own a Bible in translation, or worship in a Protestant community, because those might get you killed, and we don’t have to fear that either. In the middle of this last century, people were warned not to allow their faith to get them involved in demonstrations against the evils of segregation, because it only caused trouble and invited violence or prison. A group of white ministers asked Martin Luther King, Jr. to make them stop and be quiet, but he wrote them a letter from a Birmingham jail and told them why they could not be silent. We don’t have to worry about that danger either. But we might be warned in other ways not to go overboard with this whole business of following Christ. Some of those things he said, for instance, might really get in the way of life as we know it: his teachings about loving our enemies, and overcoming them with generosity, or turning the other cheek, carrying someone’s load the extra mile, being willing to drop our fishing nets, give away all that we have, pick up our cross, and follow him. These words are as clear as they are troubling. As someone once said, “it’s not the parts of the Bible I don’t understand that bother me. It’s the parts I do understand.” We had better stop our celebration before it costs us something we don’t want to give.
Which is what the Pharisees are recommending. But Jesus tells them that if the disciples were silent, the very stones would cry out. In other words, there is no chance of silence. The disciples might stop singing about a new king and a new kingdom, but what about those stones in the Temple court that are stained with blood? Will they keep silent about the need for the kingdom of God and the peace that it brings? And what about the stones of other cities, bearing witness to war and oppression, torture and apartheid? You can’t pretend that everything is all right in Jerusalem when the stones have blood on them. And that’s why Jesus has come, to proclaim a different kingdom in which the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick alike are invited to share in the riches of God’s world, where curing the sick is more urgent than religious ceremony, and feeding the poor is more important than our own wants. He has come as a different kind of king, to confront all that is not right in the name of love. And it will cost him, and it will cost those who follow him, but you can’t sit by when the stones cry out. There are some things that cry out to us no matter how much we ignore them or try to silence them.
I wonder what cries we try to silence. Perhaps it is the photograph of a brother or a daughter that you’ve hidden in a drawer because you don’t want to repair a relationship broken by anger and hurt? And yet it cries out from the drawer. Is it that email from a friend asking for some money for an agency in Africa that’s helping people to become educated and support their villages – they just need a bit of your support, but you can’t deal with one more thing, and so you’ve let the message get buried in your inbox? And yet it cries out to you still. Is it the road you drive by, where someone you know is very ill, but you are nervous around hospitals and nursing homes, so you decide that a visit from you isn’t really very important? The road cries out each time you pass it.
We don’t have time, we can’t solve anything ourselves, we’re too small to make a difference. With those words, many religious people in Jerusalem had learned to live with the blood on the stones. It was just the way things were, and in time, they stopped noticing. They didn’t weep over their city the way that Jesus came and wept over it, lamenting that its people did not know the things that make for peace.
Sometimes it takes a new eyes to see what we have become used to. This is what happened to Kevin and Joan Salwen one day when their daughter upended everything that they had tried to do as parents. The Salwens were a successful, and they had been able to provide many good things for their two children: music lessons, baseball camps, and a big house in a nice neighborhood, with plenty of room for sleepovers and games in the yard. They knew that the house was a bit over the top, but they were able to use it for good causes, like fundraisers for Habitat for Humanity, and they’d even taken in a family from New Orleans for a couple months after the hurricane, so they kind of got used to living in their dream house and didn’t think much of it.
One day, while Kevin was driving his daughter home, they pulled up at one of those intersections where the traffic is always backed up, and there on the roadside was a man holding a sign that said “homeless. hungry. please help.” Then a brand new Mercedes pulled up beside them: black, convertible. Hannah looked at the car and looked at the man with the sign, and she said “if that man had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.”
Now, these are important moments for a parent, and so Kevin said “well honey, if we had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.” You really have to watch what you say to your kids, because this stuck with Hannah, and she talked about it that night at dinner, and then a few days later she brought it up again and said that she didn’t want to be a family that talked about things, she wanted to be a family who did things. So her mom decided to test her conviction, which was kind of like the warning of the Pharisees about not getting carried away. She asked Hannah “would you be willing to sell our house and buy a smaller one so that we could give half of the money to the poor.” Hannah said “yes. That is absolutely what we should do.” And that’s what they did. We should not underestimate the willingness of people to accept the cost of acting when they see that something is not right in the world. (The Salwen story is told by Kevin and Hannah in The Power of Half).
And we should not underestimate ourselves. We are invited to join the joyful procession of Palm Sunday, following Jesus Christ, even though we are fully aware that he will give his life at the end of this journey, and that following him will cost us something too. But what is the alternative? Even if the procession is silenced, still we will hear the stones cry out, still we will hear the voice from somewhere deep inside us that calls us to do our little part for the kingdom of God. There’s no chance of silence.
Audio of the sermon is available here
Luke 19:28-48
Dedicated to the Confirmation I Class; and always to the glory of God.
As the crowds of pilgrims made their way to Jerusalem from every direction for the Passover festival, imagine the voices of the disciples rising above the noise, shouting and singing “blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” The gospel according to Luke recounts this day and tells us that they shouted for him these words of the psalms because of “all the deeds of power that they had seen.” Think of what they had seen in their time with Jesus. Here was a king they could get behind, one who was bringing about the kingdom of God, in which people received healing and mercy regardless of their wealth or purity or social status. Everyone was welcome by this king, and so they sang for him on the way to Jerusalem, and today we join in singing for him too. We also sing for the king who brings in God’s kingdom, who teaches that the grace of God meets us wherever we are and gives us new life. What a joyous day is this Palm Sunday! Who cares about the warning?
The warning is that we had better not get too carried away in our faith in Jesus, because it will cost too much. In fact, we had better just keep quiet about it all. The warning comes from some concerned Pharisees, who tell Jesus to make his disciples stop with the singing and shouting. Earlier in the gospel of Luke, when Jesus was up north in Galilee, some Pharisees had warned him there that the local Roman governor was looking to kill him. Now they are warning him again, because they know full well that you can’t ride into town with people singing “blessed is the king.” Jerusalem only recognizes the rule of Caesar, the Roman emperor, and his local stand-in Pontius Pilate. They’re in charge, and those who challenge them are not long for this world. Jesus himself had recently heard the reports of the men who had been killed by Pilate’s order in the Temple court. Pilate is a cruel and unjust ruler, but what can be done but to submit? It’s better to accept the way things are than to allow our faith to get us into trouble. “So, Jesus, if we could just get the disciples to stop.”
That warning has been repeated again and again to the followers of Christ. In the first centuries, people were warned not to admit being Christian during the Roman persecutions, because it might get you killed. You and I don’t have to worry about that anymore. In 16th century, people were warned not to own a Bible in translation, or worship in a Protestant community, because those might get you killed, and we don’t have to fear that either. In the middle of this last century, people were warned not to allow their faith to get them involved in demonstrations against the evils of segregation, because it only caused trouble and invited violence or prison. A group of white ministers asked Martin Luther King, Jr. to make them stop and be quiet, but he wrote them a letter from a Birmingham jail and told them why they could not be silent. We don’t have to worry about that danger either. But we might be warned in other ways not to go overboard with this whole business of following Christ. Some of those things he said, for instance, might really get in the way of life as we know it: his teachings about loving our enemies, and overcoming them with generosity, or turning the other cheek, carrying someone’s load the extra mile, being willing to drop our fishing nets, give away all that we have, pick up our cross, and follow him. These words are as clear as they are troubling. As someone once said, “it’s not the parts of the Bible I don’t understand that bother me. It’s the parts I do understand.” We had better stop our celebration before it costs us something we don’t want to give.
Which is what the Pharisees are recommending. But Jesus tells them that if the disciples were silent, the very stones would cry out. In other words, there is no chance of silence. The disciples might stop singing about a new king and a new kingdom, but what about those stones in the Temple court that are stained with blood? Will they keep silent about the need for the kingdom of God and the peace that it brings? And what about the stones of other cities, bearing witness to war and oppression, torture and apartheid? You can’t pretend that everything is all right in Jerusalem when the stones have blood on them. And that’s why Jesus has come, to proclaim a different kingdom in which the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick alike are invited to share in the riches of God’s world, where curing the sick is more urgent than religious ceremony, and feeding the poor is more important than our own wants. He has come as a different kind of king, to confront all that is not right in the name of love. And it will cost him, and it will cost those who follow him, but you can’t sit by when the stones cry out. There are some things that cry out to us no matter how much we ignore them or try to silence them.
I wonder what cries we try to silence. Perhaps it is the photograph of a brother or a daughter that you’ve hidden in a drawer because you don’t want to repair a relationship broken by anger and hurt? And yet it cries out from the drawer. Is it that email from a friend asking for some money for an agency in Africa that’s helping people to become educated and support their villages – they just need a bit of your support, but you can’t deal with one more thing, and so you’ve let the message get buried in your inbox? And yet it cries out to you still. Is it the road you drive by, where someone you know is very ill, but you are nervous around hospitals and nursing homes, so you decide that a visit from you isn’t really very important? The road cries out each time you pass it.
We don’t have time, we can’t solve anything ourselves, we’re too small to make a difference. With those words, many religious people in Jerusalem had learned to live with the blood on the stones. It was just the way things were, and in time, they stopped noticing. They didn’t weep over their city the way that Jesus came and wept over it, lamenting that its people did not know the things that make for peace.
Sometimes it takes a new eyes to see what we have become used to. This is what happened to Kevin and Joan Salwen one day when their daughter upended everything that they had tried to do as parents. The Salwens were a successful, and they had been able to provide many good things for their two children: music lessons, baseball camps, and a big house in a nice neighborhood, with plenty of room for sleepovers and games in the yard. They knew that the house was a bit over the top, but they were able to use it for good causes, like fundraisers for Habitat for Humanity, and they’d even taken in a family from New Orleans for a couple months after the hurricane, so they kind of got used to living in their dream house and didn’t think much of it.
One day, while Kevin was driving his daughter home, they pulled up at one of those intersections where the traffic is always backed up, and there on the roadside was a man holding a sign that said “homeless. hungry. please help.” Then a brand new Mercedes pulled up beside them: black, convertible. Hannah looked at the car and looked at the man with the sign, and she said “if that man had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.”
Now, these are important moments for a parent, and so Kevin said “well honey, if we had a less nice car then that man could have something to eat.” You really have to watch what you say to your kids, because this stuck with Hannah, and she talked about it that night at dinner, and then a few days later she brought it up again and said that she didn’t want to be a family that talked about things, she wanted to be a family who did things. So her mom decided to test her conviction, which was kind of like the warning of the Pharisees about not getting carried away. She asked Hannah “would you be willing to sell our house and buy a smaller one so that we could give half of the money to the poor.” Hannah said “yes. That is absolutely what we should do.” And that’s what they did. We should not underestimate the willingness of people to accept the cost of acting when they see that something is not right in the world. (The Salwen story is told by Kevin and Hannah in The Power of Half).
And we should not underestimate ourselves. We are invited to join the joyful procession of Palm Sunday, following Jesus Christ, even though we are fully aware that he will give his life at the end of this journey, and that following him will cost us something too. But what is the alternative? Even if the procession is silenced, still we will hear the stones cry out, still we will hear the voice from somewhere deep inside us that calls us to do our little part for the kingdom of God. There’s no chance of silence.
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