Sermon for May 31, 2015 / Trinity Sunday

Hineni

It was in the year King Uzziah died that I saw the Lord. He was sitting on a lofty throne, and the train of his robe filled the Temple. Attending him were mighty seraphim, each having six wings. With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. They were calling out to each other,
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Heaven’s Armies!
The whole earth is filled with his glory!”
Their voices shook the Temple to its foundations, and the entire building was filled with smoke.

Then I said, “It’s all over! I am doomed, for I am a sinful man. I have filthy lips, and I live among a people with filthy lips. Yet I have seen the King, the Lord of Heaven’s Armies.”

Then one of the seraphim flew to me with a burning coal he had taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. He touched my lips with it and said, “See, this coal has touched your lips. Now your guilt is removed, and your sins are forgiven.”

Then I heard the Lord asking, “Whom should I send as a messenger to this people? Who will go for us?”

I said, “Here I am. Send me.” Isaiah 6:1-8

People often ask me how I got into ministry. How did I know? The question usually comes from new encounters at dinner parties. When guests find out I’m a minister, they start trying to figure it out – at least those who don’t avoid me. Being a minister is a familiar but uncommon occupation, after all. You’d think I’d have a pat answer by now, but the question still makes me stumble. How did I know? Well . . . I just knew. I’ve known since I was 12 years old. Picture a serious, 12-year old boy who hears the voice of God and begins ordering the complete set of John Calvin’s commentaries on the Bible so that he can get an early start on his clerical studies; a boy staying up late and reading theology by flashlight long after his parents have told him to turn out the lights and go to sleep; a boy so caught up in the bliss of biblical studies, he cannot focus on world geography and mathematics. Got the picture? Well, that wasn’t me. I was  loud-mouthed, 12-year-old who teased others relentlessly, watched Three’s Company and the Love Boat faithfully, listened to Toto sing Africa endlessly, and did not have much interest in reading anything. I was an average kid and an average student living in an average American household. That’s the kid God called into ministry. As I grew, I tried on different ideas for occupations.  By my college years, I talked myself into training to be a High School English teacher. But I could not shake the call to be a pastor.

I was ordained to ministry in 1997. It was a big worship service, concluding with me kneeling in front of the sanctuary as 15 or so ministers gathered around me. They were liberal and conservative; Black, White and Asian; male and female; younger and older. The ministers touched me head and shoulders, and prayed, and conferred the time-honored tradition of ordained ministry through the laying on of hands. Since then, I have enjoyed privileges and challenges that many others do not – I have baptized my children. I’ve been at bedsides as people take their final breaths. I have presided over funerals that have broken the heart of the community. I have more crazy wedding stories than I should. I have received death threats. I get to listen to people’s greatest joys and fears. Being a minister comes with a lot of enjoyment and a lot of heartache. It comes with the territory of partnering with people as we learn to become more compassionate, just, and peaceful. For me, it all began that first time I sensed God saying, “Whom should I send as a messenger to this people?” – the first time I said, “Here am I. Send me”?

Do you remember the first time you sensed God calling you?  Because you are a minister too! In the United Church of Christ, we believe God calls each and every one of us to build a more compassionate, just, and peaceful world. It doesn’t take a seminary degree or an ordination service. Everyone gets to build God’s world. One of the responsibilities of a church member is to listen to and reflect on life's journeys in ways that help us understand how God prods us in a certain directions. Sometimes that process seems very clear and understandable. Sometimes it seems almost impossible to understand what God wants from us. But make no mistake, in some way or another, God calls each of us: “Whom shall I send?” When have you said, “Here am I. Send me.”

Those words of response actually come from the Hebrew Scriptures. In Hebrew it’s just one word: Hineni. We hear it a few times in the Bible. Like in the book of Genesis when God gets the attention of someone by calling out his name: “Abraham.” And Abraham says, “Hineni. I’m here. I’m ready.” On Abraham’s part, there is no surprise, no hesitation. God speaks, and Abraham responds as if the two of them were just sitting side by side, each fully present to the other.

We also hear the same phrase in the book Exodus. Remember the story of God speaking to Moses from a burning bush? The bush calls out, “Moses, Moses.” And Moses says “Hineni. I’m here. I’m ready.”  Just imagine what it must be like to hear God calling your name, and to be so familiar with God that it would not be unexpected. Imagine what it must feel like to be so open to the moment that not only are you assured that God exists, but that God knows you by name. Imagine what it must be like to be so at peace that when God’s calls you by name, your calm and comfortable response is, “Hineni. I’m here. I’m ready.”

Hineni. Each time this word is used, it is a pivotal moment. It’s as if God says. “Listen! Pay attention! Something important is about to happen! Something is about to change, but only if you can open yourself up.” If we are here in the moment, if we are open and receptive, then we can begin to see the hand of the Eternal all about us. “Hineni. Yes. God, I am here.” Our response opens us to the power of a sacred, imminent encounter with a new reality.

Hineni. We hear it in today’s reading from the Prophet Isaiah. We sometimes refer to this story as Isaiah’s commission. Isaiah is probably in the Jewish temple at prayer. In a mystical moment, the heavenly realm penetrates the earthy realm. The Temple is filled with God’s presence, complete with a retinue of angelic creatures who flank God and sing praises. Isaiah falls apart. He knows he is not holy or wholesome enough to see God in all of God’s glory and live to tell about it. One of the angelic creatures takes a hot coal off the Temple incense altar and touches it to Isaiah’s lips as a kind of cleansing ritual. Then God speaks. “Whom should I send as a messenger to this people? Who will go for us?”

Isaiah has an instant response. Hineni. “Here I am. Send me.” In other words, “I’m fully present for you. I’m focused on you. I’m ready and willing to hear you, to receive you, to be present with you and for you, and to do your work in the world”

That’s really what it’s all about. Hineni means the ability to be present and receptive to the other. To say, “Here I am,” is one of the most important things we can say to God. It’s also one of the most important things we can say to each other. Too many of us are not really here for each other. I think we are losing the ability to be present and receptive to others. It’s getting worse in our society because of our electronic distractions—our smart phones, our tablets, our laptops, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. These things have us so plugged in that we are paradoxically tuning out. We are not there in the moment like we need to be. This is hard for me to admit, but I’ve noticed it in myself. Just one more e-mail and I’ll listen. Let me answer this text while we talk. I even find it hard to watch television without having some other device by my side. You know what I’m not doing as much? I’m not playing games with my kids to taking out my guitar and singing. I’m not talking to my wife about how our days went as much as I need to be. It is not what I hope for and expect from myself. I’m not as hineni as I need to be – not as fully present and receptive to others.

I can’t be alone in this. I know that far too many of us are telling ourselves we are multi-tasking, when the fact of the matter is, we are distracted, not paying enough attention to anything. We are becoming less present for others; less hineni.

Here is another problem. If we are less present for others, if we are not as ready to receive God, then we are probably less present to the Self as well. Remember, I said each of us has a call – each of us is a minister? We must listen to that which calls us to create a world in which each of us is secure enough to be unafraid to love and be loved. The world will not give us love. It will frighten, tease, confuse, seduce and dominate us. Hineni means we look at the condition of our personal lives and say, “Here am I. I am ready to love fully and be fully loved. I am focused, willing, receptive, and open.”

So how about it? What can you say "yes" to? Can you say Yes to God? To others? To your self? When have you be able to answer God's call with "Hineni. Here am I. I am ready. I am open. Send me”?

Listen closely, because God calls us by name. Listen, because it may be a still small voice. It may be a soft, steady heartbeat in the turmoil of daily events. It is there. When you hear it , know that you are experiencing a moment of grace. It may be God commissioning you to be part of our commitment to justice, freedom and love. God knows you.  God knows us. God calls us. Our response? Well, that’s our chance to be hineni – fully present to God and one another. Here we are. Send us.

Sermon for May 24, 2015 / Pentecost

Pentecost Doxology

All who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For the Spirit that God has given you does not enslave you in fear; instead, through the Spirit, God has adopted you as children and by that Spirit we cry out, “Abba!” God’s Spirit joins with our spirit to declare that we are God’s children. And if we are God’s children, we are heirs as well and coheirs with Christ sharing in Christ’s suffering and sharing in Christ’s glory. Romans 8:14-17(Inclusive)

The Granby Gorge was one of the most dangerous places in town where I grew up. We all knew the stories about kids who dove into the gorge, broke their necks and never walked again. We heard the legends of heedless swimmers who jumped off the cliffs and were pulled into underground caves by the currents of the waterfall. I remembered the words of my father, who told me what he’d do to me if he ever caught me swimming at the Granby Gorge. Let’s just say that, it involved his foot connecting to my rear end, followed by weeks of hard labor on our family woodpile.

So, , there I stood, at the tender age of 16, toes curled over the edge of the rocks atop the Granby gorge, hands in the air, ready to perform a record-breaking cannonball to the cheers of my high school friends. One well-placed leap could put me in the fabled pantheon of gorge jumpers. I was about to have fame, respect, and girls who liked to go out with risk-taking daredevils like me. Yes, I was about to have it all in one 30-foot jump. No more feelings of abandonment. No more snubs. No more bullies. I would be unique and special, and people would finally appreciate the real me.

I took a deep breath and looked to the left. I loosened my neck as the underlings on the rocks below started to chant. “Jump! Jump! Jump!”  Then I took another breathe, looked to the right, and did a quick double take. There, watching the spectacle from the street, was my father in his Chevy Silverado half ton pickup. Let’s just say, I never jumped the Granby Gorge that day, but I learned a lot about splitting and piling wood.

I didn’t really want to jump the gorge. I really wanted to be popular, and liked, and accepted. I really wanted people to see something heroic, intense, and mysterious about me. I wanted to be like The Most Interesting Man in the World, like in those Dos Equis commercials: “He once won a staring contest with his own reflection. His business card simply says 'I'll Call You.’ Once he ran a marathon because it was ‘on the way.’ When he orders a salad, he gets the dressing right there on top of the salad, where it belongs . . . where there is no turning back. Dicing onions doesn’t make him cry . . . it only makes him stronger. He’s against cruelty to animals, but isn’t afraid to issue a stern warning. Who is this man of mystery? Matt Braddock!”

Much later I realized that those cheering at the base of the gorge were not cheering for me. They did not care about me. They just wanted to see me jump. My need to belong provided their entertainment. This happens a lot in my life. I misinterpret some people’s support for care. I forget that some people have veiled motives behind their behavior, just like I do sometimes. In the end I feel embarrassed. Used. Hurt. Betrayed. It is a kind of suffering -- a craving to be unique; a need to be needed; a desire to be desired. But life doesn’t always work that way.

Desire can be compared to fire. If we grasp at fire, what happens? Does it lead to happiness? If I say, “Look at this beautiful fire! Look at the stunning colors! I love red and orange, and the silvery greenish-blue in the flames; those are my favorite colors,” and then grab it, I would find a certain amount of suffering entering my body, right? If I thought about the cause of my pain, I would discover it was the result of having clutched that fire.

Now imagine that we don’t want to get burned, but we keep reaching for the fire. I know it will hurt. I know I will suffer. But I keep doing it anyway. It sounds crazy, but we do it all the time. Buddhists have a word for this kind of suffering. They call it attachment, or craving. Craving is like a fire that burns everything with which it comes into contact.

In the South of India, people used to catch monkeys in a very special way. Actually they let monkeys catch themselves. A hunter cut a small hole in a coconut, just large enough for a monkey to put its hand in. Next, the hunter tied the coconut to a tree and filled it with something sweet. The monkey smelled the sweetness, squeezed its hand into the coconut, grab the contents, and found that its clenched fist did not fit back through the hole. Here’s the trick. The last thing the monkey will think of is to let go of the sweet. The monkey holds itself prisoner. Desires . . . attachments . . . cravings . . . they catch us again and again. Trying to fulfill our desires is like reaching for an alluring treat and getting caught rather than letting go. It’s like reaching for the fire again. You get burned. This is life: full of suffering from self-made pain. We tend to long for what we do not have, or we wish for our lives to be different than they are; we often fail to fully appreciate how wonderful life actually is.

I think this is what’s happening in the Upper Room on Pentecost. Here cower the fearful followers of Jesus: afraid they will be found and persecuted, ridiculed, exposed, tortured, and killed; afraid they’ll be given the same treatment that the empire gave to Jesus. They are confused. They are powerless. They are attached to old behaviors and worn-out understandings. They are obsessed by the presence of Christ’s absence. They never really understood what Jesus was teaching them about a new kingdom. So they tremble in secret. Trapped, they live only for their safety, longing for the comfort of their old lives. And they suffer. They long for what they do not have: peace, harmony, safety, comfort, trust, belief, security.

In the reading from Romans, Paul writes about two ways to live. The difference between these two ways means everything. Earlier in the book of Romans, he talks about living, “according to the flesh.” To live according to the flesh is to live with ego at the center. My desire to be loved as an original man of mystery is a self-centered way of life. My impatient anger in the traffic jam is a self-centered thing. It is MY schedule that is supreme and MY destination that is most important. MY ego that needs attention. Everyone else should yield to MY needs. Paul thinks that this ego-driven way of living, this attachment to our obsessions, leads to suffering.

Paul says there is another way to live -- a way to overcome suffering. He calls it “living in the Spirit.” He means, simply, allowing the Spirit of God to lead us. We put God’s interests at the center of our lives. Instead of reaching into flames and getting burned again and again, we allow the fire of the Spirit to come upon us and control our lives. 

When we are captive to the suffering of the past, we turn inward, tempted to wallow in self-absorption. Injustice becomes the only measure of our attention. But the flame of God, the gift of the Spirit, turns us outward to the world, no longer alone. The Spirit is upon those who realize that craving does not make life better. They have a purpose beyond self-protection. They appreciate the world around them because it’s God’s world. They enjoy it without trying to cage it, control it, or own it. They seem to enjoy what many of us long for: peace, harmony, safety, comfort, trust, belief, and security.

I once read a story about a church deacon who decided she would serve God by taking the youth group to visit a retirement home. Once a month the youth group went to the retirement home and put on a little worship service for the people who lived there. One day, as the young people led worship, a resident rolled his chair over to where this deacon was standing, took hold of her hand and held it all during the service. The man did the same thing the next month, and the next month, and the next month, and the next month. Then they went one Sunday afternoon and the man wasn’t there. The deacon asked the nurse in charge, “What happened to that man?”

“Oh,” she said, “He’s near death. He’s just down the hall, the third room. Maybe you should go in and visit him. He’s unconscious, though.”

The deacon walked down the hall and entered the third room. She saw the gentleman in bed, close to death. She did not know what to do. Those moments can feel so awkward. Then, instinctively, led by the Spirit, she held his hand and said a prayer. And when she said “Amen,” the man squeezed her hand. The deacon was so moved by that squeeze, she began to weep. She needed to get out of the room.

As she was leaving, she bumped into a woman who was coming into the room. The visitor said, “He’s been waiting for you. He said he did not want to die until Jesus came and held his hand. I tried to tell him that after death he would have a chance to meet Jesus and talk to Jesus and hold Jesus’ hand. But he said, ‘No. Once a month Jesus comes and holds my hand and I don’t want to leave until I have a chance to hold the hand of Jesus once more.’”

There is something very important that God wants to do in you and through you. It might be just as simple as this: to go some place and to hold a hand and be Jesus for somebody. Our communities are waiting for us to be aware of our cravings, to learn how to stop living for ourselves and to be led by the Spirit of God. They are waiting for us to awaken them to the holiness and giftedness around us. In the Spirit we move away from the attachments that trap us. We move from isolation to unity. We go from oppression to liberation. We recognize failure and accept grace. We have shared in the suffering. Now it is time to live in the Spirit and allow God to transform the world by transforming us.

May the breath of God stream within you.
May the wind of renew you.
May the flame of God invigorate you.
May the Spirit of God embolden you to confidence into this day.
Let us go out in the power of that Spirit
to live lives like Jesus,
to cheer and restore  those are broken and forsaken.
The spirit is blowing. The future is waiting. Amen.

Sermon for April 19, 2015

The Roar of the Faithful Tide

We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life— this life was revealed, and we have seen it and testify to it, and declare to you the eternal life that was with the Father and was revealed to us— we declare to you what we have seen and heard so that you also may have fellowship with us; and truly our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. We are writing these things so that our joy may be complete. This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.  1 John 1:1-7

Dorothy Sölle was a theologian and writer. As A German who watched the atrocities of Auschwitz, Sölle wrote passionately that humans are to struggle together against oppression, sexism, anti-Semitism, and other forms of authoritarianism. For Sölle, the idea of a God who sat in “heaven in all its glory” while Auschwitz was organized was unbearable. Sölle she developed a powerful “post-Auschwitz theology,” an understanding of God who does not float above history and its trauma but who shares intimately in the suffering of the victims.

In an article in The Christian Century, published in 1982, Sölle thought about sin and suffering. She wrote a caricature of a woman named Marianne, which I want to share with you today.  

Marianne is an attractive young woman who owns her own home in the suburb where she lives with her two children. She talks about the gold jewelry her husband gave her for Christmas. The gold comes from South Africa; but she doesn’t see the blood on her gold chain. She hardly understands the connection between racism, infant death rates and exploitation, on the one hand, and profit and the low price of gold, on the other hand. Another thing she doesn’t (yet) know is that gold can’t keep her warm.

For her, “sin” is a ridiculously old-fashioned word, connected with eating too many calories, illegal parking or uncondoned sexual behavior. You really can’t take any of that seriously. Marianne feels guilty about her mother because she doesn’t visit her often enough; occasionally she asks herself if she takes proper care of her children. But sin?

Like so many people, Marianne is superficially Christianized. In her youth she was taught that sin means separation from God, turning away from the Creator, revolt against God, worship of other gods. But all of these are empty phrases which have nothing to do with her life. She experiences the actual meaning of this word sin -- namely, being separated from God -- most closely when she is depressed.

Recently she’s been depressed a lot without being able to say why. Soon, the emptiness of her life will catch up with, her. Then she will either have to change her life, or she will go right on living in her modernized doll house and denying, repressing, sweeping under a thicker and thicker rug everything that disturbs or challenges her. She will remain underdeveloped rationally, emotionally, socially and therefore individually as well. A colonized being, governed by trends in which she has no say but to which she submits, cut off from life.

Thanks to her feminine upbringing, Marianne feels like a victim of her environment. She doesn’t know her own strengths and capabilities. She’s been brainwashed long enough to believe that she can’t patch an electric wire; that only young, attractive women have anything to say on television; that she doesn’t understand anything about business and politics.

Marianne’s relationship to her neighbor is very reduced. She has to do only with people of her own class. She keeps her children away from contact with different people, different experiences, different cultures (unconsciously, of course). Unrecognized racism has become an integral part of her life. But even her relationship to people of her own class is essentially based on competition and envy.

Marianne’s relationship to the creation and to nature is perhaps somewhat less disturbed. She rides a bicycle, but she’s lost her original joy in the returning birds, the rise of the moon. Everything she loved as a very young girl is further away now, more indifferent.

Marianne’s relationship to the human family, to her sisters in the Third World, is troubled. I’ve given up even trying to answer her occasional “But what can anybody really do?” This question just masks the fact that she really doesn’t want to do anything.

I wonder if there is some resonance – some truth in this caricature? I wonder if there is a little bit of Marianne in each of us; people who have been trained to live a water-logged existence. How many of us would like to experience the abundance of love while denying the death-dealing power of sin. I ask that question because I don’t think we can have one without the other. We can’t understand love without also experiencing separation. We don’t understand light without shadows. Artists call it negative space: the area that surrounds an image. Negative space helps to define the boundaries of the main image and brings balance to a composition. In the same way, can we understand fulfillment without yearning? Peace without violence? How can we know forgiveness without sin?

Like Marianne, we may think of sin as a ridiculously old-fashioned word. Some of us were taught that sin is any willful act against God’s rules for us – an open revolt against God. Or, there are sins of omission – failing to do the things God wants us to, like all those rules about loving our enemies. In this worldview, God becomes the moral lawgiver who establishes the boundaries of proper human conduct.  Since we are always overstepping the boundaries, God has to judge our sin. We become candidates for some of God’s renowned and notorious wrath. When I was growing up, I was taught that sin was an individual problem that could be solved with some good old fashioned prayer and repentance, or some blood atonement from an innocent victim that sacralizes victimization. As today’s scripture says, “the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.”

At this point in my life, I have some problems with this definition. First and foremost, the idea of individualized sin as rebellion against God tends to keep marginalized people down.  It’s so easy to say, “That person must be poor, or sick, or jobless, or suffering because of some rebellion against God. That person must be afflicted because God is punishing some sin.” If my life is going well, then I must not be sinning enough to get God’s attention. I can claim that if my life is good, then God must be on my side. So now there are sinners and saints. Them and us. Outsiders and insiders. Locking our doors, building our fences, clutching our purses, we begin to hide from the possibility of relationship with “those people.” Now I can marginalize those who are suffering while praising my own inherent goodness. Now I can look at people who are different than me with fear. Now I can judge others. Now I can protect ourselves from “them.” Now I talk about “those people” but fail to think about how we function in the system. Now I can use religion as a justification to hurt others. Now I can use violence as an instrument of God’s wrath. It’s a tactic as old as time: use religion to blame and hurt the victim. As we remember Holocaust Remembrance Day, we realize that what I’m describing is a world view that takes us only a few steps away from the gas chambers of Auschwitz. As the 100^th anniversary of the Armenian genocide approaches, we recognize that religion-invoked murder begins with theology that flourishes by creating outsides and sinners who are worthy of God’s wrath.

I think Western Christianity got this one wrong. I think we did the exact thing that 1 John warns us against: we say we have fellowship with God while walking in darkness.  What if the people I thought were saints are really part of the sin? What if calling other people out on their sin is a way to distract others from the big problems of organized, systemic immorality? For example, I can mistakenly think that the level of personal happiness in my life has to with how pleasing I am to God. In reality, my happiness can be attributed to the fact that our culture affords me privileges as a white, middle-class, heterosexual male.  If I unconsciously benefit from white supremacy, then who is really involved in sin? Is it those who are devalued because religion says they suffer due to personal rebellion against God? Or is it me? Am I caught up in sin because I can benefit from unjust social structures that reward me for the arbitrary color of my skin, or my gender identity, or my sexual orientation? If there is sin, then where does it lie?

Yes, we were taught that sin is the destruction of our relationship with God. But let’s think this through some more. When the tradition says that sin destroys of our relationship to God, it doesn’t mean individual “sins” but rather the destruction of our human capacity for relatedness. Let’s get back to Dorothy Sölle’s image of Marianne. Sin means that life around us seems to us to become shadowy and unimportant; it loses its taste. We can take it or leave it. Sin means being separated from the ground of life; it means having a disturbed relationship to ourselves, our neighbor, the creation and the human family. Sin means not knowing one’s own strengths and capabilities; never experiencing solidarity; giving oneself credit for nothing; having no self-confidence. It means living without self-determination, without power, without hope – it’s what Black theologians define as the apathy of those who have given up.

I think we need a different kind of discourse. Instead of heaping judgment on the sinner, we attune ourselves to the voices of those who have been sinned against. So, using my example of white male privilege, I can lament my own complicity in racial injustice and the ways white supremacy continues to leave racial relations undone in the United States. I can listen to the pain and anguish of my sisters and brothers who are hurting and suffering, and then do something about it. I can relinquish my economic and racial advantages, beginning with ways that whiteness has been used to name God and define the human condition.

The same can be said about hetero-patriarchy (that’s fancy talk for being a straight male). What might it mean to hear those who have been sinned against and relinquish heterosexual male advantage? What an uncomfortable conversation we must have about this! And yet, we cannot talk about sin in ways that render us comfortable in the face of rampant injustice. If our sin-talk can lead us to healing, it must disrupt the idolatry of the individual and the veneration of the narcissist

What we need is a different method -- a different relationship with the world that has borrowed the eyes of God. A different set of ears that hears God summoning us, like the lulling, rhythmic roar of the faithful tide, eternally wearing away immovable pillars of stone on the shoreline:

Solid stones of separation,

Towering rocks of recklessness,

Conceited cliffs of chaos,

Prideful pillars of prejudice,

Ceaseless shores of injustice,

Venerated veins of violence,

All of those sins, those obstacles that seem like they will never change, those boundaries that separate us from one another – they are not as fixed as we think. The roar of love’s faithful tide wears them all away.

You are I are living in a condition that God wants us to change. Love erodes our defenses and opens us to fullness. Love ashes over all the obstructions and helps us give way to God. All will be gathered in God. All will be made whole. And each moment, each wave, each demanding and insistent tide of love crashing upon us, helps us live as forgiving and forgiven people.

Sources:

http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=1314

The Fall to Violence: Original Sin in Relational Theology, by Marjorie Suchocki

Beyond Apathy: A Theology for Bystanders, by Elisabeth T. Vasko

Reclaiming the Faith; Sermons by a Liberal Christian Wil Bailey by Carlos David.

Sermon for April 5, 2015 / Easter Sunday

The Rush to Completion

Saturday evening, when the Sabbath ended, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome went out and purchased burial spices so they could anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on Sunday morning, just at sunrise, they went to the tomb. On the way they were asking each other, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” But as they arrived, they looked up and saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled aside. When they entered the tomb, they saw a young man clothed in a white robe sitting on the right side. The women were shocked, but the angel said, “Don’t be alarmed. You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead! Look, this is where they laid his body. Now go and tell his disciples, including Peter, that Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee. You will see him there, just as he told you before he died.” The women fled from the tomb, trembling and bewildered, and they said nothing to anyone because they were too frightened. Mark 16:1-8

This week, a lot of families packed up for road trips to visit relatives or go on vacations. And about 1 hour into the 10 hour trip, drivers heard the classic complaint coming from backseats of millions of cars: “Are we there yet?” We’ve all asked some version of this question. We want immediate answers about our futures; our jobs, our relationships, what schools to attend, which organizations to join, what car to buy. “Are we there yet?” We pray for a sick loved one and want God to get involved yesterday. We grow discouraged if our prayers aren’t answered on our time and in our terms. We work for justice among the downtrodden and it feels like we make no difference. One community worker I talked to, who serves the poor of our county, said, “It’s the same thing ever day. I give out money to meet immediate needs, I try to help people learn how to earn a living, but every day more people come to me for help. Often the same people are the first in line.” She was saying it. We are all saying it. “Are we there yet?”

I confess, I’ve asked it as a minister. Is our pledge to create a just peace stanching the flow violence we see in our communities? Is our church doing enough to offer radical hospitality that welcomes people of all races cultures, ages, abilities, sexual orientations, and gender identities? Are we known for the quality of our caring and our commitment to compassionate justice? Are we there yet? Well  … yes and no. Yes, we are on the way. And no, we are not there yet.  Whether its church, work, family or our personal lives, each of us lives in a constant tension between the already and the not yet, the what is and the what is still to come.

Let’s be honest. How many of us woke up today singing, “My God, what a morning,” and how many of us woke up saying, “O my God, it’s morning”? How many of us came here with the full assurance that Christ has given victory over all our problems? I mean, isn’t that what churches are supposed to say at Easter? Aren’t we supposed to holler hallelujah and insist that on Easter, everybody’s a winner? Because Christ arose, isn’t love supposed to bloom, health flourish, sinking careers suddenly soar, acne clear up, miracles abound, church attendance skyrocket, and ruptured relationships get healed?

Well, maybe some of us aren’t there yet. Our days can feel so trivial. We roll out of bed when the clock wakes us up, get battered by news headlines, and tested by traffic. Our concentration is interrupted by meetings and small crises that feel like cosmic ruptures. Eventually we settle into well-defined lives of comfortable piety, well-fed virtue, and practicality. For some of us, life is a victorious limp.

That’s my experience, at least. I won’t speak for you. My life is up and down, peaks and valleys. Sometimes I feel fired up with the Spirit. Other times I fill my spiritual hunger with unhealthy substitutes like work, reading, ice cream, TV, day dreaming, or sleeping. Sometimes I sense God’s presence leading me in new exciting directions. And sometimes I allow myself to be hardened to God and I don’t to pay attention to the call of love in my life. Am I there yet? No. My life is already and not yet. My life is, and it’s yet to come. How about yours?

Something strikes me about today’s resurrection story from Mark. I’ve read it dozens upon dozens of times. I’ve preached on it at least 5 times. Something new jumped out at me this week. It has to do with the words of the angel at the empty tomb. Remember, the women approached the tomb and saw the enormous boulder that closed the entrance to the rock–hewn grave of Jesus was rolled away. Now they are terrified. You can sense the chill running down their spines. Then they see a young man – an angel – who says, “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He isn’t here!”

I want to tell you something about that phrase. Hang in there with me – you are about to get a Greek grammar lesson (The text we have was translated from Greek). The Greek phrase “Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified” is written in something called the perfect tense. In Greek, the perfect tense lets us know that something decisive has happened, but the effects are ongoing. Think of the ripples on a pond after a stone has been tossed in. The stone is the decisive event. The ripples are the ongoing effect. So, the Greek phrase in the perfect tense can be translated, “Jesus of Nazareth, who has been crucified.” It’s a witty way for Mark to get at the point: The risen Christ still has holes in his hands. The angel declares that even though Jesus is risen, he is still in the state of being crucified. Jesus is already and not yet; already risen, but not yet healed; already alive, but wearing the perpetual marks of death. The foundations of Jesus’ new Earth are already established, but his kingdom is not yet finished.

Resurrection is not just a one-and-done moment.  I know we want to hurry the resurrection. We want to rush to completion. But the transition from death to life is not complete, yet. The effects of crucifixion still ripple out today. Our world is far from Christ’s new earth. We see heartache, pain, illness, evil, bullying, unemployment, death, and all kinds of frightening events that seem to blot out God’s light. Jesus-The-Already reminds us that the beginning of something new has begun. Jesus-The-Not-Yet reminds us that we are not there yet. The risen Christ, invites us to live into the reality of new life, wounds and all.  He summons us to get in touch with our own wounds and then help liberate humanity from our death dealing ways.  In other words, there’s still some work for us to do in this already-but-not yet world. There is still some work for us to do, because we are not there yet.

Therefore, I’m not going to talk anymore about the risen Christ as if it’s something that happened way back when and has no impact on my life today. Instead, I’m going to watch for the Rising Christ. Resurrection is not a done deal. Resurrection is an ongoing process. We can still experience its effects. Jesus still has those scars -- those nail marks in his hands and feet -- and they remind us that Christ is rising for all oppressed people who have been tortured or victimized. Christ is rising to make God’s presence known among the poorest and most despised of humanity. Christ is rising to give power to those who are cast aside. Christ is rising to restore us to abundant compassion. Christ is rising to say, “Yes” to freedom and, “No” to bondage. Christ is rising to be present in our struggle for a better today and a greater tomorrow. Christ is rising to show us how it’s done, because we are supposed to be following his example -- because we are supposed to be rising with Christ in this already/not-yet world.

When we find a way to keep hope alive, even when doubled over by our wounds, we are rising with Christ

When we admit our failures and breathe in forgiveness, we are rising with Christ

If we find love when it seems impossible in a world of despair, we are rising with Christ

If we let God touch our deepest sorrow and find the strength to become agents of joy in this already-but-not-yet world, we are rising with Christ

When we can stand in solidarity with the victim and the oppressed, when we hold unjust systems accountable for their actions; when we use our resources to promote equity and justice; when we teach our children Black Lives Matter; when we scream “No” to anti-LGBT laws like those proposed in Indiana; when we petition the Maryland assembly for prison reform and transgender equality; when we resist gun violence at home and abroad -- be it Garissa, Kenya or Ferguson, Missouri; when we open our lives to the spirit of unity God intends for all humanity, we are rising with Christ

When we approach our communion table and say, “No matter what … no matter who you are, no matter where you came from, no matter what you’ve done or where you’re going, no matter what, you are welcome here,” when we do that, we are rising with Christ.

Maya Angelou was a poet, and like most poets, she was a truth-teller; an unwavering voice who would not tolerate pushing people to the margins of life. The second class status and silencing of women, especially African-American women, really bothered her. Maya defied counterfeit social constructs that allowed men to treat women like they weren’t fully human. So, I want to close with a selection of verses from her poem, “Still I Rise.” As you listen, imagine Jesus speaking. Yes – I want you to imagine Jesus as a Black woman. Imagine her confident voice of strength, offering power for the broken. Imagine she will no longer be pushed into being a passive voice. Imagine she is the Rising Christ, inviting us to keep rising with her.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries …

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise …

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Good Friday Meditation | April 3, 2015

Thirst No More

Jesus knew that his mission was now finished, and to fulfill Scripture he said, “I am thirsty.” A jar of sour wine was sitting there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put it on a hyssop branch, and held it up to his lips.

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for You

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend

That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and ben

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new . . .

Now that’s a God for you. Those words were written by the English poet John Donne in his 14th Sonnet. John Donne’s God kicks butt and takes names. We know all about this God – the God of unlimited power and might who breaks down prison doors and bends human will like Superman curls an iron bar. We were taught to put our hope in the One who shatters the chains of evil and conquers death. And don’t get in this God’s way. His anger and fury are notorious. Many of us were raised with this image of an eternal, almighty, irate Being who smites enemies for all eternity.

But God on a cross? We’re not so comfortable with that. SuperGod is nowhere to be found on Good Friday. Jesus feels abandoned. And he’s thirsty.  Maybe the words of Psalm 22:15 come to his mind: My strength has dried up like sunbaked clay. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. You have laid me in the dust and left me for dead. Jesus begs his torturers for the smallest sip of relief. At this moment, Jesus is just so fragile. Dehydrated. Powerless.

Scholars think John’s Gospel was written around the close of the first century. Right around that same time, a political exile banished off the shore of modern-day Turkey, also named John, records some visions he’s had. This John is part of a growing group of Christians known as Followers of the Way. The members of his church have a tough decision to make. The Roman Emperor, Domitian, summoned citizens to the dedication of his new temple in the city of Ephesus. You don’t say no to Domitian. The Christians need to decide, do they worship Christ or Caesar? Will they protest the invitation and face punishment and death? In John’s vision, The Book of Revelation, those who stay true to Christ lose their lives, but gain the reward. They enter a new paradise where God wipes away every tear from their eyes. And get this: these martyrs get to drink from streams of living water. As soon as they drink, they thirst no more (Revelation 7:9-17).

Thirst no more . . . You know what that means to me? Those Christians might have felt like Jesus on the cross -- laid in the dust and left for dead. They dare to thirst for an end to violence borne of intolerance. They thirst for a renewed earth where everyone has enough, where children survive, where the oppressed go free, and the strangling grip of evil is finally undone. They thirst for a world where the poor and needy have enough, where those on the margins get treated with dignity and respect, where aliens and immigrants are welcomed.

Sound familiar? Sound familiar you dreamers who can see a word where beauty is restored, tears are wiped away, and thirsty souls drink the waters of life?
Sound familiar you prophets who call us to build societies based on equity and justice?
Sound familiar you servants who work to soothe and heal the pain of injustice?
Sound familiar, you who are tired, weary and worn … You who feel forsaken by God and left for dead … You who feel fragile … weak … thirsty?

We still follow the Ancient Way, and we must decide who we worship and whether we participate in the unjust structures of empire. The church was supposed to create redemptive communities who find strength in weakness. Instead, Christians started using theologies, rituals and political power to shame people instead of healing their thirst.

Rich was diagnosed with cancer when he was a student in college. He was not that religious, but in his physically wasted state, he remembered a teaching from his boyhood church. He had not been baptized, which meant he was not saved and would go to hell. He was terrified by the thought of eternal punishment. One morning, after a fit of coughing and with death’s face staring back at him in the mirror, he called his mother’s pastor to come and baptize him by immersion, the only method acceptable to their tradition. Rich had no idea what baptism meant, but he feared the consequences of not going through with it. The logistics were complicated. The hospital staff secured a large tank, loaned from the physical therapy department. Lowering Rich into the tank would be painful, as would be his trip from his room to the basement where the tank was located and filled with warm water. Lifting him off the bed caused excruciating pain. Even the most experienced therapists winced at Rich’s screaming. Some had to leave the room as Rich prepared to receive his sign of God’s acceptance. When they lowered Rich into the water, he was too weak to keep the fluid out of his mouth. He came up out of the water strangled and close to drowning. Then the tortured trip back to his room began. Rich died three days later.

Just to be clear, I’m not criticizing Baptists or immersion baptism. I’m talking about the ingredients in our theological recipes that feed Empires and create outsiders. I’m talking about what happens when Christians offer an overflowing chalice of guilt when someone asks us for a drink. I guess I’m feeling kind of thirsty, too.

• I’m thirsty for an honest church where fear is not used as a technique to manipulate others into obedience.
• I’m thirsty for a church that gives preference to the other; the-called “weak people” who are the victims of the world's power.
•  I’m thirsty for a church where we have one and only one immutable claim on each other – the claim of love.
• I’m thirsty for us, people of God. I’m thirsty for us to sit by the bedsides of people like Rich and say, no matter who you are, what you’ve done, where you come from or where you’re going – no matter what, you belong to God who formed you in the divine image and will never leave you or forsake you.

At the foot of the cross, we stand together, looking at thirsty, broken Jesus. It’s right where we need to be. It’s where we get in touch with the power of protest that rises up from innocent suffering and calls out against it. You dreamers and prophets, you servants and wounded healers, it’s here at the foot of the cross where we can dry the tears and nourish the bodies of those who live in this beautiful, terrible, wonderful world. It’s here at the foot of the cross where we offer thirsty victims the waters of life.

Maundy Thursday Meditation | April 2, 2015

It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun’s light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last. Luke 23:44-46

In Matthew’s version of the crucifixion of Jesus, Matthew uses a Greek phrase we translate as, “He yielded up His spirit” or “He released his spirit” (27:50). John uses a similar phrase: “He gave up His spirit” (19:30). These descriptions of Jesus’ last breath are bold and active. They emphasize the voluntary nature of Jesus’ death. Jesus is in control up to the very last breath. It fits in well with John’s theology. He’s the one who has Jesus say, “I lay down my life so that I may take it again. No one has taken it away from me, but I lay it down on my own initiative. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again (Jn. 10:17–18, emphasis added). For Matthew and John, It ain’t’ over ‘till Jesus says it’s over. Jesus is on top of the whole salvation process up to the very end of life . . . and beyond.

Mark and Luke use a different Greek phrase to describe Christ’s last breath. According to Luke, “Jesus cried in a loud voice, “Abba (Daddy), into your hands I entrust my spirit.” It still sounds like Jesus has some self-determination. It feels like Jesus is in control. He actively commits his spirit to God. Then Mark and Luke add this phrase: “With those words he breathed his last.” He just . . . expired. It’s one of those polite phrases we use when someone dies, similar to saying, “He passed on. He passed over. He was taken home. He’s lost.” It’s what we say when you don’t want to be blunt about death. It is also passive. For Matthew and John, Jesus’ last breath has some intentionality to it. For Mark and Luke, Jesus simply stops breathing. He’s had it. He’s done. He cannot suffer any longer. He takes one last gasp and he’s dead as a hushed world looks on in horrified disbelief.

Did Jesus die on the cross an active, intentional, voluntary act, becoming obedient unto death and securing eternal life for all who believe? Or, did Jesus die as a passive victim, exposing the human tendency to evil and corrupt systems? It’s a question theologians have fun arguing about: Was Jesus’ suffering on the cross active or passive?

The answer is yes. I want to suggest that our journey to Easter involves both the active and the passive. We need to hold them together to experience the fullness of God’s promise.

On one hand, transformation requires active, untiring effort to face the love of God. God puts us face-to-face with the reality of sin, suffering and death in order to heal us. Facing God’s love is painful for us. It means we need to face our own death-dealing ways actively. Because salvation has already taken place. The presence of God is already in and around us.  To grow in our awareness takes some activism. We have to give up our idolatries and biases. We need to reunite our dualistic perceptions. Our active role consists of reminding ourselves, day and night, at home and on the road, at work and at play, that we can entrust ourselves to God, that we can commit our spirits, to God’s mercy. So, transformation is active.

After all, the Apostle Paul tells says, “Transform yourself by the renewing of your minds,” right?

No way. He says, “Be transformed.” I other words, transformation is also passive. I need to be open for something vital happen to me. I not only actively contemplate God, I allow God to contemplate me. So, we are transformed by a mutual loving encounter in two dimensions: Active effort and passive receptivity. Works of compassionate justice balanced by open accessibility. Insistent love tempered by the capacity to be loved in return.

Scripture gives us another way to think of this balance. Paul says, “Love is patient. Love is kind.” The literal phrase actually has more flair: “Love does patience,” or as the KJV puts it. “Love suffers long.”

Love suffers long when your friends and co-workers drive you crazy or your kids and grandkids wake you too early in the morning when you were planning to sleep in.  Long-suffering is a survival strategy we use to put up with people who make us nuts, because at the end of the day, we love them more than they grate on our nerves.

That’s what God shows to us, isn’t it? Long-suffering is the passive side of God’s love. Even when we have actively defied, God is patient. God suffers long for us.

But God’s love is also kind. It’s the active side of love. God’s love forgives. God’s love restores. God’s love makes us whole.

Active and passive.

We give and God receives.

God gives and we receive.

God’s insistent love is tempered by our need to be loved in return.

Our growing love is balanced by God’s desire to be loved with all of our heart, mind, and strength.

Sometimes I use a term around here to define this process. I call it spiritual activism.  Spiritual Activism is like a breath . . . a heartbeat . . . a rhythm. It means we breathe out and go out and do the works of compassionate justice in the world that God calls us to do.  But we know we don’t get it right the first time around. So we gather together and breathe in. We pray. We listen. We receive. We refine our approach. And we realize we can’t stay in the pray circle forever. So we go back out. We exhale and reach out actively with God’s love in our communities. We feed and house the poor. We clothe the naked. We visit the prisoners. We include those who live on the margins of our communities. Then we breathe in again. We come back together to talk, pray some more and listen to for the wisdom of the Spirit. Then, with another exhalation, we reach out to our families to make them healthier and more loving. Then we gather our families together to pray, and feel God, and listen to how we can be a better family. Then comes the hardest work of all. I breathe out and work on myself, doing whatever it takes to grow in spiritual maturity and wholeness. And I also receive what God wants to do in my life. It’s a breath. A heat beat. A rhythm. And it’s what I wish for all of us as we approach the miracle of Easter resurrection.