Just another WordPress site

Author: Sara Palmer

  • Row, Row, Row Our Boat

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 48

    Row, Row, Row Our Boat

    Proverbs 1,10,30

    Elizabeth Goodman

    Monterey United Church of Christ, Monterey, Massachusetts

    It’s said a rower catches a crab, but actually it’s the whole boat that does. To “catch a crab” is to get your oar blade caught in the water during the recovery. When you’ re supposed to be heading back up the slide toward the catch of the next stroke, when your blade is supposed to be feathered and so parallel to the surface of the water and about eight inches above it, you might instead catch a crab, if the water’s rough or the boat is in check, rocking from side to side. Then the blade can get hooked back under the water, and your oar handle would come rushing toward you, and if the boat’s moving fast enough, you could even get thrown from it. Novice rowers catch crabs all the time. But the more practiced you are at rowing, the less frequently you do it, until you nearly never do. At Nationals last month, a woman on my team, though not someone I rowed with in the same event, caught a crab during a race. A long-experienced rower, she wasn’t thrown from the boat; she recovered her oar handle and got back to helping move the boat. An 8+, it even hnished with a respectable time. Nevertheless, she was ashamed. While she told the story to me back at the dock (“I caught a crab,” she admitted), someone interrupted her. “Rowers don’t catch crabs. Boats do.” This is to say something has gone wrong with the whole system of the boat. It could have been something as small as someone not keeping her weight over the oar handle once on the recovery, and someone else then responding to that slight heaviness in the hull with diving too deep with her blade on the next catch, and the coxswain then having to make a course correction to recover the line. This could then set the boat into a slight check and make that one blade somewhere among the eight vulnerable to catching a crab—none of which could be detected except maybe in watching it after the fact, and in slow-motion and several times over. Rowers don’t catch crabs—or not experienced rowers anyway. Boats do. This is to say, there’s a certain level of personal responsibility in rowing with a crew, but it’s always thickly tied into the movement of the whole boat, each rower, the coxswain and steering, and the water and wind. This is one thing I love about rowing crew boats—the thick relationships. And in my experience, crews excel with consistency and sustainably when each member understands the quality of such thick interrelatedness. When they forget this though, when their innate competitiveness and all that adrenaline have them in an attitude of rowing against members of their same boat, then what could be awesome about the experience becomes punishing. The book of Proverbs, I’ll admit, is not my favorite of the Bible. It might even rank among my least favorites. There are some gems here, to be certain, among these many, many proverbs. But there are also some that feel retrograde—at least until you do a lot of work to reimagine and re-hear. One of the things we need to reimagine and re-hear in order for this collection of aphorisms to mean much is their original context of thick community relations, thick

    Page 49

    neighborly inter-relations. This is the thing that I think we people of biblical faith these days have the most difficulty wrapping our minds around. We are so situated in a cultural context of individualism. We are so enculturated into a framework that we imagine the human being as essentially individual and into a value system that places the fully individuated person as the most mature and highly developed. Whaf s more, we live in a huge society, so that whatever offence I might cause my neighbor will have little impact. Really, we are so steeped in such atomized thinking that we utterly fail to consider ourselves as also (and perhaps more so) thickly intertwined. And this, I suspect, is one thing that makes the biblical faith untenable these days to so many people. I think this is one quality of the faith called forth in the stories of scripture that makes it all land so heavily on so many. The notion that such commandments as to love and to forgive and to offer sustaining food and drink to those who persecute you, the assumption that each and every commandment—those overt and those suggested—is to be fulfilled by each individual person, and (worse) the notion that not to do so results in something dreadful, I imagine, would land heavily on any one person as onerous if not overwhelming, enervating. Who among us can truly fulfill all the implicit commandments of the Sermon on the Mount, for example? No one, that’s who. So why bother even trying? And who was Jesus anyway? He probably never said all that, you know. Who knows? He might never have existed. There’s no proof that he did. So, let’s just live and let live. Here’s the thing though: it’s not every one who must fulfill these commandments; it’s everyone—the entirety. It’s not each of us on our own who must embody the whole of Christian faithfulness; it’s all of us, working together to build a dynamic blessedness, a beloved community. Truly, biblical injunctions aren’t to be heard as implicating only the individual person or even primarily the individual person—this because the imagination behind the stories, poems, and commandments of the Bible is an imagination that takes for granted deeply lived community. So this book that would land heavily on any one of us is actually speaking to all of us, with the assumption that this is what it is to be human: if s to be deeply and thickly bound up with one another. To be certain, there’s enormous risk in being so thickly bound up. When things get bad, they can get very bad very quickly. Systems that have little slack tend to die quick, certain deaths. But when things are good, when things have been infused with the intention for good and there’s a clear imaging as to what the good is, I imagine it can be pretty good. Not that Γ ve ever seen it…. This all presents a particular challenge when it comes to the book of Proverbs, these aphorisms that seem very much aimed at the individual. But it serves quite well when it comes to what the book of Proverbs has to say about money. It serves us quite well—what is apparently proverbial wisdom when it comes to wealth, to our wealth, to my wealth. Really, if we fail to hear the thick social context of the book of Proverbs, we who are wealthy can be served quite well. Walter Brueggemann’s latest book is a contribution to the series called Interpretation : Resources for the Use of Scripture in the Church. A trusted mainstay in the mainline church, Interpretation is a series that has a volume of commentary for each of the sixty-six books of the Bible. Lately, though, the series has been branching out into themes, considering a biblical theme and featuring a chapter for each book of the Bible to examine how that book addressed that theme. Brueggemann’s

    Page 50

    volume is Money and Possessions. And in it he reminds us in no uncertain terms that “everywhere the Bible is preoccupied with bodily existence,” and this naturally “in turn means the Bible talks relentlessly about economics, about the management and distribution of life resources, so that all the neighbors can live an ‘abundant life.’” This is no less true about the book we’ re considering today. Ostensibly a teaching tool, considered part of the Wisdom tradition of the Israelites and to be in the Bible among the other books of Wisdom (Psalms, Ecclesiastes, Job, Song of Solomon, and Proverbs), a somewhat hodge-podge collection of how best to live, it wastes no time in getting around to the question of money, the problem of money and wealth and possessions. Indeed, a mere 16 verses into it, we read, “For in vain is the net baited while the bird is looking on; yet they lie in wait—to kill themselves! And set an ambush—for their own lives! Such is the end for all who are greedy for gain; it takes away the life of all its possessors.” This should be heard as laying down the philosophical groundwork for everything regarding wealth that follows—which is a lot:

    “A slack hand causes poverty; but the hand of the diligent makes rich.” “Those who till their land will have plenty of food, but those who follow worthless pursuits have no sense.” “Do not love sleep, or else you will come to poverty; open your eyes, and you will have plenty of bread.”

    Whether these statements assure you or trouble you says a lot about you. I suppose you know about the Prosperity Gospel. Preached by televangelists such as Creflo Dollar and by mega-church pastors such as Joel Osteen, it would have us understand that “if you think positively and make affirmations, God will reward you with financial success and good health. If you don’t, you may face unemployment, or sickness.” This is according to Professor of Religious Studies Anthea Butler, writing recently for the New York Times and explaining that this teaching has been popular for decades in the American Church, and problematically so. Problematic indeed. Some blame it at least in part for the financial crisis of 2008, when people of meager means were pursued for mortgages that would, in more prudent times, have been considered wildly out of their reach. Such people, seeing this not as predatory lending but as a sign of God’s blessings, bought in eagerly, gratefully. But all too soon many, most, found themselves “underwater” financially, owing more to the bank than their homes were worth and owing more than they could ever pay. And speaking of underwater, in recent weeks, the cheapness of the prosperity gospel has been revealed anew. Joel Osteen, that so-called smiling preacher whom I used to love picking on, is pastor to a mega-church in Houston. Housed in a vast building that was once the stadium for the Houston Rockets, it might have been a perfect refuge for those seeking shelter from Hurricane Harvey. But, no, the doors remained shut through the earliest days of the storm. Osteen tweeted encouragement, though, so that’s something. “God’s got this,” he testified, likely from someplace safe. “Don’t drift into doubt and fear,” he exhorted his Twitter followers. “Stay anchored in hope,” as if the storm were a spiritual symbol rather than an all too real terror. This got a lot of people thinking, though, not least Ms. Butler, who had this to say: “So while the storm churns through Texas and Louisiana, causing floods, death, and

    Page 51

    misery, it is time to consider the damage the prosperity gospel has done to America, … its ugly underbelly [revealed anew]: the smugness, the self-aggrandizing posturing .” But that smugness, that self-aggrandizing, sounds downright proverbial, don’t you think? It sounds like some of the Proverbs: “Misfortune pursues sinners, but prosperity rewards the righteous. ” What are we to do with these? Or shall we do what I’ve long done: ignore them? Breuggemann found a third way. To be sure, as he set about the task before him—examining how each book, or at least each section, of the Bible understood money and possessions—he was cautious about proof-texting. He didn’t aim to come at the Bible with an agenda, a previously established thesis that he’d then look for specific passages to prove as right. He’s not a bleeding-heart liberal on some commie mission. He’s a biblical scholar, one who takes the Bible too seriously to see it as yet another volume of Chicken Soup for the Soul. As such, he aimed simply to report on what he found. What he found is that the Bible itself seems to have an agenda when it comes to material wealth, and it’s an agenda rooted in its thoroughgoing assumption that people exist in thick and deep interrelations within a community, that people live and move and have their being in ways that are inseparable from their neighbors and neighborhood, their relationships and community. This means that wealth and money aren’t the private, individual matter they’re considered among many people in our society to be (and not coincidentally usually among those who have, we who have it). Money and possessions aren’t some privatized thing. They are instead a matter of public concern, of neighborly concern. Really, the voices of the proverbs, according to Brueggemann, “clearly mean to interrupt and contradict any sense that money is a private thing for one’s self alone. With their sense of community solidarity, the wisdom teachers understood that we are all in this together and that peace, order, and well-being depend upon social attentiveness to every element of the community. ” So, you see, it’s a terrible challenge we face—we who mean to be faithful yet are also in the United States and live in a society where we’re not so evidently bound up with one another. No, we in this country, with our enormous land-mass, our enormous economy, our social framework of liberalism, and our holding as a highest value the freedom of individual choice, don’t actually have to buy into the notion that we’ re so thickly and intimately bound up together. Really, I can go the length of my life without ever feeling the consequences of my having cheated on that math test in 7th grade and my having stolen shampoo one summer when I was in college, to say nothing of lending practices that have long been rigged to benefit people like me. The question is then for us, who are Americans but also people who take the Bible seriously for its vision of justice and abundant life, which is it gonna be? A few years ago we Goodmans visited the Dominican Republic, a country that shares the island Hispaniola with Haiti—two impoverished republics on one tiny island in the Caribbean Sea. There’s very little opportunity to make money there. You can earn it, if you’ re lucky, if you land a job at one of the many resorts catering to wealthy visitors from the global West. There you can earn some money. But there’s little opportunity to make money, to create wealth. There’s little industry, there’s not much land, and what farming’s done on it is under the auspices of transnational corporations. There’s no higher education that leads to entrepreneurial success on a scale any larger than cottage industry. Really, everyone there is poor—has been, is

    Page 52

    now, and will be poor. But when we Goodmans landed back in Miami, I noticed a man sleeping on the heating grate of the escalator we four had just come up in the airport. Now there’s something we didn’t see in the Dominican Republic—a poor person alone. So, I wonder, which is the better way? I figured that I’d rather be a middle class American than a poor Dominican, but I’d rather be a poor Dominican than a poor American. (I’m leaving race out of this, though I should point out that race is an enormous factor here.) And Jesus tells us that the poor will always be with us—which isn’t him shrugging his shoulders or throwing up his arms. It’s Jesus pointing out that every society will have the poor in its midst, and one aspect for evaluating the goodness of any given society, the wisdom of any given society, is how the poor are held in its midst, how they’re taken into account and given the things that make human beings good—dignity, access to resources, kindness, hope. This is what is surprisingly lovely, not to mention courageous, about how money and possessions are topics in the book of Proverbs. Those who declared such seemingly puritanical, utilitarian aphorisms (“In toil there is profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty.”), those who said and taught such things, weren’t doing so from the safeguarded position of someone situated as I am. They weren’t doing so from a safe distance from those who found themselves impoverished. They were doing so from the intimacy of a small society that could really suffer hardship if things went even slightly wrong. And so such sayings aren’t as punitive as they might sound to us. Instead, they’re said from a position wherein all are implicated when something goes wrong—all are potentially at risk while also within the promise of reward. In small societies, when one person falters, the whole society falters. So, of the teachers of these proverbs, Brueggemann points out, “They could not have imagined that anyone would ever become wealthy or powerful enough to construct a privatized world apart from the community.” But now we can imagine such a thing. What’s more, now some of us can do it. And I’m not just talking about the Trumps among us or the Koch brothers. I’m not even just talking about the financial wizards of Wall Street. I’m talking about all of us. I’m talking about me. Now that we can imagine constructing a privatized world apart from the community that undergirds us, and now that I, for one, have managed to construct such a place for me and the people I hold dear, do I really mean to risk giving that up? After all, the society we’d construct in its place might fail. On the other hand, the society we might construct in its place could succeed, and then maybe no one would be left to find a damned heating grate to get some sleep on. There’s not much blessing to be found in Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, Jose, and Maria. Harvey brought Houston to its knees, and Houston is the fourth largest city in our country, not to mention a huge economic engine. Irma did God knows how much damage to the state of Florida, which has become a population center in recent decades on a scale that you’d have to be dreaming to imagine such a fragile landmass could sustain. And think of Puerto Rico! There’s little blessing to be found in these super-storms, these which have even the most stalwart among us deeply unnerved. (A Facebook friend in Florida, who doesn’t balk at much, wrote, “I’ll admit, this is scary,” just before seeking shelter away from home.) What blessing there might be found is in an immediacy of risk brought home to us all, an immediacy of relationship that our actual lived lives might be touched by

    Page 53

    the trauma. If we can’t buy what we’re used to buying because the supply chain for that thing ran through Houston, if we can’t row where we used to row because that training center in Florida was lost, if we can’t winter where we imagined we’d winter back when we began to use “winter” as a verb, these might have us understand in some new, yet ancient way, that we’re all in the same boat, and given this, we should begin spending our money as if this were true. The implications of this statement are far-reaching. Moreover, they’ re radically undermining what society we’ve been busy building here in these United States for the last four hundred years, and not even just here, but in all the industrialized world. If we were actually to take seriously the proverbial wisdom that “such is the end for all who are greedy for gain,” we’d have real grounds to despair and give up. On the other hand, I like a challenge, and maybe you do too. I mean, it’s good to have goals, right? And how much better to have goals that could really result in something good! No one who worked on the Cathedral at Chartres figured he’d get to enjoy the final product centuries hence. I wonder what blessing there was then, if any, in working on it. Strange: Proverbs, the book, begins with an ending and ends with a beginning, an opening of a better way. It begins in pointing out that those who are greedy for gain bring about their own end, and it ends with a prayer that money and possessions should not become to us as ends unto themselves but might always be regarded as a resource whose value is in their spending. It strikes me as a worthy prayer for us: “Two things we ask before we die: that we not be so full of riches so as to believe in our own self-sufficiency, our own entitled worthiness, that we might actually ask, ‘Who is the Lord?’ and that we not be so poor as to resort to theft, so poor that we rig a system that guarantees a furtherance of our wealth.” This is to say, one thing we ask of you before we die: that we remember what money and possessions actually are, that we spend what resources we have (which are great) on what actually gives life, that we treat our wealth as if it were actually the food we need, for in a powerful sense, it is. And if we have more than we need (a difficult enough conclusion to come to), we are then to expand just what we mean when we say “we.” Those thick interrelationships are who we are. If we’ve built a society that protects us from this risky truth, then we should be warned that such societies don’t last forever, and we should be further warned that if we receive what we pray for, such a warning will transform into a promise, a mission, a reward. The funny thing about rowing is that it hurts, and that it’s a blessing. Somehow those two things are intertwined.

  • Lenten Prophets’ Insider Tips for Living through Political Chaos

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 25

    Lenten Prophets ’ Insider Tips

    for Living through Political Chaos

    Jan Schnell Rippentrop Homiletics Professor, D.Min. Program, Association of Chicago Theological Schools, Chicago, Illinois, with Anna Geyer Mennonite Lay Theologian, Iowa City, Iowa

    Introduction The voices of three prophets cry out to our assemblies during Lent, 2018. They offer our assemblies bold words for faithful living from contexts of political chaos. Joel, Isaiah, and Jeremiah authored their biblical works in the midst of political, social, and ecological upheaval. They offer theological foundations for life during troubled and uncertain times. Today, the United States faces political, social, and ecological upheaval; our assemblies hunger for a biblical and theological word that sustains and activates faith and life during chaos. This article shows three prophets speaking from their contexts of political upheaval to their people and also suggests that the prophets’ approaches may inform preachers today who, likewise, speak in a time of political upheaval. Across the US political spectrum, people are concerned with the damaging decisions the president has made domestically and internationally. Domestically, from lambasting people in the aftermath of natural disasters (e.g., Puerto Rico in the days after being ravaged by Hurricane Maria) to tweeting inflammatory remarks regarding football, Trump damages unity in the US.1 Internationally, from suggesting Mexico would pay for a wall that harms their country to divulging classified intelligence to Russia, Trump undermines the ethics and integrity of the US.2 Not unlike the prophets, people in the US live in a time of political chaos. The prophets have some “tips,” i.e., theological strategies, for living through this time. In a section on Joel and a section on Jeremiah, this article explores three things:

    1. The political/social background in which the prophet lived, 2. The specific Lenten prophetic text, a. Joel 2:1-2; 12-17 for Ash Wednesday b. Jeremiah 31:31 -34 for the Fifth Sunday in Lent 3. Employing the prophet’s tips for living through political chaos.

    Between the section on Joel and the section on Jeremiah is an excurses in which Anna Geyer discusses how the alternate Ash Wednesday text, Isaiah 58, shows God’s redemptive destruction.3 These three prophets speak with gritty determination because of their theological convictions that political/social systems need to change. Joel, Isaiah, and Jeremiah discern God’s word, speak it boldly into their contexts of political/social chaos, and follow up on the change that God’s word calls into existence.

    Page 26

    Joel, Ash Wednesday, February 14, 2018 Socio-Political Background Most scholars agree that although Joel is situated between two /?re-exilic books (Hosea and Amos), Joel itself is a/?ost-exilic work.4 For example, Joel does not take time to denounce the people’s sin—a common pre-exilic theme. Instead, Joel builds up his people’s belief in restoration because he lives at a time that the walls have been toppled…and restored. Nevertheless, Joel serves a community that is under military and ecological threats. The specific threat to Joel ’s community is ambiguous, since it remains unclear whether Joel was referring to agricultural desolation or military assault. He speaks of a locust plague that destroys fields and livelihoods and brings drought. Whether or not the assault comes from armies of locusts and/or men, this land-community is devastated. “The prophetic text reimagines the years of violence and scarcity, the deaths of families as well as family markets. It breaks denials and confronts the pain of forced deportation and military defeat, which many no doubt read as the collapse of the world.”5 The threats faced by Joel’s community do not feel temporary; rather, they compromise the nation and the people’s status and wellbeing. The book of Joel takes the form of a communal lament liturgy: 1. Call to lament, 2. Cries of lament, 3. God’s response, 4. Declaration of help. The whole nation is in grief; Joel gives expression to that grief through a liturgy that holds before God the people’s cries of lament. (While some English speakers may have a negative connotation of lament, Joel’s community would have known lament as an expression of trust in God’s faithfulness. Lament is “a plea for God to come to the aid of those who maintain unswerving trust in him despite the trials of the moment.”6) The language of lament seeks not to reinjure by recalling pain; rather, lament offers images accurate enough to be honest about the despair experienced.7 Joel relies on God’s restorative acts. Addressing a context where many are losing hope while living in a time of uncertainty and chaos, Joel tenaciously recalls God’s restorative acts and anticipates God restoring the land again. Joel believes that God is in control and will renew the people through ongoing acts of justice.

    Joel 2:1-2, Ash Wednesday Two times (v. 1 & 15) the ram’s horn assembles the people, but for different reasons . In verse one, the shofar is sounded as a battle alarm for a nation who needs to prepare for a coming crisis. In verse fifteen, the shofar is sounded as a call to worship for a people who need to lament the chaos and suffering in which they are living. What is left in the wake of the attacking host vs. what is left by the presence of God in liturgy could not be more different. The attacking host leaves a desolate wilderness where Eden had been (2:3). God leaves a blessing (2:14). While the crisis is still coming—as part of preparation for an approaching threat, God calls the people to gather in worship: “Even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart” (2:12). Fast. Weep. Mourn. Rend. Return. No one can miss this liturgy; not even the bridal couple gets an excused absence from this liturgy in which the ministers will lead the people in expressing lament for the sufferings in the land. This text shows God’s desire to hear people’s lament, which is more vital than readying defenses, and this text offers a prayer of lament in which the people participate.

    Page 27

    Employing Tips from Joel for Living through Political/Ecological Chaos Joel invites assemblies to lament as an act of trust in God’s ability to restore, which is congruent with Ash Wednesday liturgies. For example, one Ash Wednesday liturgy concludes a confession in this way:

    Our waste and pollution of your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us, we confess to you. Have mercy on us, O God. Restore us, O God, and let your anger depart from us. Hear us, O God, for your mercy is great.8

    Invitation to lament is needful for people who sense that there is suffering in our polis but who lack public and brave spaces to express grief and anger over suffering . Lament enacts trust because naming the difference between the life God calls forth and the deathly practices around us generates hope in God’s coming renewal. God works toward restoration even in the midst of despair: out of the flood, an olive branch budded; out of the Exodus, a promised land flowed with new life; out of hell, Jesus burst the bonds of death. This is what God does. This is who God is. Like Joel’s liturgy, Ash Wednesday is a liturgy of lamentation seeking restoration. Any worship can be a time for lament; Ash Wednesday and this Joel text already are laments. Lamentation in preaching can end with or without resolution. A lament sermon can include resolution by overtly declaring confidence in God’s restorative acts and announcing promise of a new day. A lament sermon can faithfully end without resolution (see Ps. 88), especially in the midst of confusion or close to the time of crisis. Unresolved lament may be a way God’s word accompanies an assembly. Lack of resolution does not mean one has failed to preach the gospel, because lament itself is an act of trust that calls on God’s restorative acts. Trust, calling on God’s restoration , is itself good news—better news than any glib “It’ll be OK” that the assembly senses as false. The US has many communal laments this year: hurricanes, fires, mass shootings, global warming, and more. Ash Wednesday and Joel make space to do the hard and communal work of lament. Perhaps, this year, it is an occasion to include specific laments, for which there are bounteous resources.9 Communal lament is not something US society does well, but the church’s heritage gives resources to step into this vacuum. In the lineage of the Psalms, Joel, and Jesus, the church knows prayers that lament, “My God, my God, why?”

    Isaiah 58, Ash Wednesday, Alternate Text, February 14, 2018 Excurses: Restorative Destruction in Isaiah 58 By Anna Geyer

    Prophetic texts call for destruction that is needed for restoration (Is. 7-9, Jer. 31, Ezek. 37, Joel 2). Restorative destruction tears down what is not of God in order to restore what God desires. Let me begin by saying that the concept of restorative destruction carries enormous embedded danger. Certainly there is danger at the hand of God, that is, destruction that we tremble at, but in the end is good. The danger I want to name at this moment, however, is the danger of humans misusing the concept

    Page 28

    of restorative destruction. Humans, assuming the authority to name someone else’s destruction as redemptive, are at risk of a grave form of idolatry. The research here is never to be used as a judgment of others’ experience, but to show a process, found in the prophets, by which God re-forms people. This section explores how restorative destruction appears in the alternate Ash Wednesday text, Isaiah 58. In Isaiah 58, the prophet Isaiah addresses post-exilic Israel with a startling message . Isaiah’s community loves to seek God daily and delights to know God’s ways. They draw near to God, fast, and humble themselves (58:2-3). Israel believes that their worship will win them God’s favor and guidance. Yet Isaiah sounds the alarm—their religious practices veil a rebellion. Their rituals serve only their self-interests and lead to violence (58:3-4). Urgently Isaiah calls for the destruction of this meaningless worship, which had developed over the course of Israel’s history (58:4-5). The Israelites had become a people of entitlement who confined God to an endorser of their nation, a destroyer of their enemies, a sustainer of their wealth, their land, their religion. They ignored God’s desire that worship continually form them into a nation of justice for all people (58:6, 7, 9-10). Restoration of right worship is needed because it forms right relationships and a faithful nation. Israel needs to loosen the bonds of injustice, to throw off every yoke, to share food and home and clothing with the hungry, homeless, and naked, to fulfill duty to kinsfolk (58:6-7). Their light, then, would “rise in the darkness” (58:10). Yahweh would guide them, satisfy their needs, and make them strong. They would rebuild ancient ruins and “raise foundations of many generations” (58:11-12). The nation would be restored. The dismantling practices of Lent offer destruction for that which blinds us and stops up our ears. We emerge, stripped of what is not of God, ready to receive God’s restoration.

    Jeremiah, 5th Sunday in Lent, March 18, 2018 Socio-Political Background Jeremiah lived in Judah during massive political upheavals and socio-religious reform. To the north, the Assyrian Empire collapsed, which made way for Babylonian expansionism. To the south, the Egyptians used Judah as a political buffer against the aggressing Babylonians. Within this tense climate, Jeremiah lived through five political reigns:

    1. Josiah’s 31-year reign until he was tragically killed, 2. Jehoahas’s less than 1-year reign until he was exiled by Egyptians, 3. Jehoiakim’s eleven-year reign, 4. Jehoiakin’s less than 1-year reign until he was exiled by Babylonians along with many Israelite leaders, and 5. Zedekiah’s ten-year reign until Judah lost its independence to Babylon and experienced the deportation of thousands more Israelites.

    Tensions arose when those exiled with Jehoiakin continued to see him as their ruler, and back home, the remnant understood his brother Zedekiah to be their ruler. Jeremiah also witnessed great socio-religious change. Josiah’s reform, which came

    Page 29

    after the discovery of a new law book, led to Josiah’s destruction of shrines outside of Jerusalem and the centralization of worship at the temple. Jeremiah saw the 587 BCE loss of Judah’s sovereignty and the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple. Jeremiah argues against the royal-priestly ideology, which claimed that the rulers were legitimately placed in charge and were, therefore, exempt from God’s judgment. “The claims of the royal-priestly ideology repeatedly are embodied, generation after generation, in monopolistic centers of domination in every sphere of human life. These centers imagine they are immune from the risks and responsibilities of the historical process.”10 In his argument against royal ideology, Jeremiah shows that the rulers are not exempt from God’s judgment when he names deportation as God’s covenantal response to Judah’s unfaithfulness. God calls Judah out on their unfaithfulness because God desires restoration of a congruent covenantal relationship. Jeremiah argues for commitment to covenantal mutuality that subverts domination and, instead, offers life. God’s power subverts systems of domination, whether that system is Babylon or powerful people who benefit from royal ideologies. Jeremiah anticipates new life for Judah where God rebuilds a new community.

    Jeremiah 31:31 -34, 5th Sunday in Lent A supersessionist reading of this text has been all too common and needs to be avoided by recognizing that, with the new covenant, Jeremiah is not attempting to refer to a covenant with Christians. Jeremiah refers to a former covenant between God and the Israelites, which Israelites disobeyed, and to the new covenant between God and the Israelites in exile, which Israelites are obeying. The new covenant is a consolation to Israel that generates gratitude by giving at least four things: 1. solidarity, 2. awareness of who God is, 3. equal human access to God, and 4. God’s forgiveness that makes new life possible.11 For a people who knew intimately the gaps in their social fabric wrought by deportations and deaths—losses that Jeremiah interpreted to them as consequences of their unfaithfulness to the covenant —the announcement of a new covenant was an occasion for relief and active gratitude. New hope blossomed with God’s promise that they would be able to keep this covenant because it would be internal to them—written on their hearts.

    Employing Tips from Jeremiah for Living through Political Chaos Jeremiah knows about living through the change of reigns and divided loyalties among one’s people. He endured successions of national rule five times in his lifetime. He tried to serve people who were divided politically (and geographically). Those who serve congregations in the US can feel that people are more ideologically divided than in past decades—a trend that seems to be increasing.12 In what ways could your congregation contribute to the health of civic life and confidence in the restoration of unity? New life from God subverts royal ideologies that rule through domination and consolidate power for the powerful (e.g., money for the rich). A Christian can be certain that God is working to subvert royal ideologies of domination. How many times, after all, does the biblical witness present this pattern: God repeatedly acts with justice for the oppressed.13 There are so many topics where centers of domination lead to death and deathly practices: deportation, gun violence, irresponsible posturing between Trump and

    Page 30

    Kim Jong-un over nuclear weapons, a presidential candidate welcoming Russia to meddle in the US election, to name a few.14 Jeremiah can speak volumes to each of these crises. Following in the footsteps of Jeremiah, each preacher will find what is politically called for and, at the same time, pastorally caring—a pairing that is the very crux of prophetic preaching. Biblical preachers (consider the prophets, Jesus, and Paul) continually address the political. It is only American civil religion that has convinced some that religion does not speak to politics—which is contrary to biblical authors who also misread the US’ s First Amendment.15 Take it from Martyred Bishop Oscar Romero:

    This is the fundamental thought of my preaching: Nothing is so important to me as human life. Taking life is something so serious, so grave—more than the violation of any other human right—because it is the life of God’s children, and because such bloodshed only negates love, awakens new hatreds, makes reconciliation and peace impossible.16

    Romero was killed by or with the aid of El Salvadoran politicians for speaking and preaching against the government’s killings, injustices, and infliction of poverty on the vulnerable.

    Conclusion The books of Joel, Isaiah, and Jeremiah all emerged in contexts of political, social, and/or ecological upheaval, which influenced their writing and preaching. Joel urged communal, liturgical lament (regarding ecological and/or military disaster) in order to restore confidence in God’s redemptive action. Preaching and liturgies onAsh Wednesday are congruent with Joel when voice is given to lament that stimulates trust in God. Isaiah claimed that destruction (through exile and loss of sovereignty) was crucial but subordinate to God’s overarching movement of restoration for Israel. Preaching with the prophet’s idea of restorative destruction is never a judgment aimed at another’s experience. It is attentiveness to God’s incompatibility with evil and superabundance of restorative acts. Jeremiah showed that God and covenant people subvert systems of domination in favor of practices of mutuality. Preaching with Jeremiah will leave parishioners calling into question systems of domination that sacrifice the vulnerable for the benefit of the powerful. In times of political, social, and ecological upheaval, the prophets call preachers to expose the discrepancy between the world God calls into life and the deathly practices enacted in the world.

    Notes 1 CNN, “Trump’s NFL and Puerto RicoTweets prove his goal is to divide, not unite the country,” http:// www.cnn.com/2017/09/26/politics/trump-nfl-tweets/index.html, accessed 10.5.2017. 2 New York Times “At a besieged White House, tempers flare and confusion swirls”https: //www.nytimes. com/2017/05/16/us/white-house-staff.html, accessed 10.5.2017. 3 Isaiah texts are also appointed on Passion Sunday and Good Friday. 4 Joel has been notoriously difficult to date since Joel does not name people or historical events but refers to natural crises. 5 Louis Stulman and Hyun Chul Paul Kim, You Are My People: An Introduction to Prophetic Literature (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2010), 195. 6 Graham S. Ogden and Richard R. Deutsch, A Promise ofHope-A Call to Obedience: A Commentary

    Page 31

    on the Books of Joel and Malachi (Grand Rapids and Edinburgh: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company , 1987), 11. 7 For more on the concept of lament and trauma, see Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. 8 Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada, Evangelical Lutheran Worship., Pew ed. (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2006), 253. 9 http: //www. elca. org/blacklivesmatter; https: IIwww.futurechurch. org/liturgy-of-lament-download; https://www. reformedworship.org/article/june-1997/time-weep-liturgical-lament-times-crisis; Kathleen D. Billman and Daniel L. Migliore’s Rachel’s Cry: Prayer of Lament and Rebirth of Hope ,׳Luke A. Powery’s Spirit Speech: Lament and Celebration in Preaching. 10 Walter Brueggemann, To Pluck Up, to Tear Down: A Commentary on the Book of Jeremiah 1-25, First Edition edition (Grand Rapids: Edinburgh: Eerdmans Pub Co, 1988), 13-14. 11 Walter Brueggemann, To Build, to Plant: A Commentary on Jeremiah 26-52, First Printing edition (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Pub Co, 1991), 71-72. 12The Pew Research Center, “Political Polarization in the American Public” http://www.people-press. org/2014/06/12/political-polarization-in-the-american-public/, accessed 10.6.2018. 13 E.g., Deut. 24:14, Ps. 14:6, Proverbs 22:22ff, Is. 1:17, Jer. 22:3, Mai. 3:5, Mk. 12:40, Lk. 4:18ff, 1 Cor. 10:24, 1 Jn. 3:17ff. 14 New York Times, “Donald Trump Calls on Russia to Find Hillary Clinton’s Missing Emails,” by Ashley Parker and David E. Sanger, July 27, 2016. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/28/us/politics/donaldtrump -russia-clinton-emails.html, accessed 10.6.2017. 15 For a concise refresher on preaching and the first amendment, see page 11-12 in Audrey Borschel’s Preaching Prophetically When News Disturbs. 16 Oscar A. Romero, The Violence of Love, trans. James R. Brockman (Maryknoll, N.Y: Orbis Books, 2004), 204.

  • And Hear the Angels Sing

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 8

    And Hear the Angels Sing

    Isaiah 2:1-5

    Amy Butler

    The Riverside Church in the City of New York, New York

    Today is the hist Sunday of Advent, the very hist day of a brand new church year. Curiously, the church year begins in the dark, with the light of day waning far too early and all of us huddled inside with glowing lamps and crackling hies, trying to push away the darkness. And the darkness outside mirrors the darkness we carry inside. In these weeks leading to Christmas, the two converge: the dark­ ness of winter and the darkness of doubt, of fear, of insecurity—all of the very hardest parts of what it means to be a human being on this earth. Into this darkness we declare that something new is coming, and so during Advent, we wait. We wait in the darkness, we wait in the absence, we wait in the silence. We wait for what we believe is right up ahead of us, on its way. Like the shepherds who sat on a Galilean hillside in the darkest, inky black of night, we’ re waiting for something. We can’t see it; we can’t hear it, but we’ re stubborn in our insistence: it’s on the way. We are people who will look back and remember what happened to the shepherds when, in their darkness and silence, faint notes echoed over the hills, lilting voices carried on the wind, ears perked up in the silence, and they heard the sound…of angels singing. We’ re listening for that—something like that. In the meantime, though, we wait. And while we sit here in the darkness and in the silence, waiting, we do the very hard work—perhaps the hardest work—of living in anticipation of the in-breaking of God. Each week in Advent we start worship with the lighting of a candle—one new candle, one little light in the darkness, representing something we cling to—desper­ ately, sometimes—as we wait. This week it’s hope. Guiding our work through Advent are passages of scripture that are apocalyptic in nature. That is, they are words speaking of a future we cannot yet see and are not currently experiencing. Today’s Hebrew text comes from the prophet Isaiah, chapter two. The passage may seem familiar to you because similar words are echoed in the book of the prophet Micah. We ‘re not sure what’s going on with the country of Judah when this prophecy is spoken; Isaiah is not really meant to be read as a chronological, historical record. But if we read Isaiah, chapter two in its context, right after, say, Isaiah, chapter one, we may begin to get the impression that the situation into which these beautiful words are spoken is a dire one. Among other descriptors, chapter one says, “Your country lies desolate, your cities are burned with fire…The history of the Hebrew people isn’t an especially idyllic one; they were constantly dealing with one crisis after another, trying to figure out how to be God’s people while fending off enemies on every side and even from within. Whatever the specific situation, it seems these words are spoken into a yawning darkness, ringing hope into a silence of desolation. They defy the present reality of war and need and fear. Listen: “[T]hey shall beat their swords into plowshares, and

    Page 9

    their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more/’ Upon hearing those words, the people must have looked around them and sighed with disbelief. What is he talking about? We sit in tense silence, dismayed at the horror around us, and he dares to speak words of promise and future? Isaiah seems to be saying to the people—and to us—that what we do today, how we live today, is determined not by the circumstances that surround us, but by what we believe about the future. Isaiah’s words speak hope-filled sound into desolate silence to remind us: how we live today is determined not by the circumstances that surround ns, but by what we believe about the future. And sometimes, to gather that belief that flies in the face of current reality and defies all logic, we must listen care­ fully—pay attention—for sounds of hope, even faint, all around us. I recently heard an episode of Radiolab that told the story of Alan Lundgard and Emilie Gassio. Two twenty-one year old art students, they were living the dream in a loft in Brooklyn, studying art and basking in the glow of young love. They’d met at a party only nine months before, and had, as Alan describes, “a moment.” On the program he waxes poetic about Emilie’s “iridescent” eyes, and when the interviewer says, “So you knew in that moment that this was more than just a thing,” Alan breaks in and says, “Oh yes, it was more than a thing. It was the thing.” One day on her way to class, Emilie was involved in a traffic accident—she was on her bike, and she was hit by a huge truck. She was then in ICU, clinging to life. Alan called Emilie’s parents to hurry to the city, where all three of them kept vigil around Emilie’s bed, her parents splitting the daytime hours and Alan staying every night, all night long. For weeks they waited for her to recover, with few signs of hope. Finally, the doctors deemed Emilie medically stable but completely unresponsive. Against Alan’s urgent insistence, her parents agreed she was probably not getting better, so they made plans to transport her to a nursing home in their hometown, where she’d likely live the rest of her life. But Alan thought there was hope—in the middle of what seemed to be complete desolation. He insisted, “She’s in there; she just can’t get out.” “You have to give her a chance, you have to give her a chance,” he begged. Because Emilie had sustained some hearing loss in childhood and worn hearing aids before the accident, and be­ cause the doctors thought she’d lost her vision as a result of the accident, Alan, in a desperate attempt to prove to the doctors and to Emilie’s parents that Emilie could get better, tried something he’d read about in the story of Helen Keller. He traced out on her arm the words “I love you.” She immediately awoke and responded. Alan had proof that what he’d hoped was true. But the doctors and Emilie’s parents still weren’t sure. So Alan tried putting in her hearing aids and turning them on. When that happened, when she could finally hear, suddenly everything changed. “Just by hearing his voice…,” Emilie said, “I came back.”1 Where are you hearing hope today? Can you hear it in a song that paints a future, in a church bell ringing, in the sound of a baby crying, or in the words of grace spoken around the table of Christ? The sounds of hope are all around us. It’s our work this season of Advent to listen, to be ready—as the writer of Matthew’s gospel tells us—to welcome a future we cannot see but whose very idea we cling to with stubborn hope. Because what we believe about the future determines how we live today.

    Advent 2018

    Page 10

    Theologian Frederick Beuchner writes, “In the silence of a midwinter dusk there is far off in the deeps of it somewhere a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of the silence itself. You hold your breath to listen…. The extraor­ dinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment…. [I]f you concentrate just for an instant, far off in the deeps of yourself somewhere you can feel the beating of your heart. For all its madness and lostness, not to mention your own, you can hear the world itself holding its breath/’2 Today is the Advent Sunday of hope. Can you hear it? Shhhh. Listen.

    Notes 1 http://www.radiolab.org/ story/110206-finding-emilie/ 2 Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark (New York, FlarperCollins Publishers, 1988), 2-3.

  • Let the Journey Begin: When Our Word Becomes Flesh

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 20

    Let the Journey Begin:

    When Our Word Becomes Flesh

    Michael B. Brown

    Marble Collegiate Church, New York, New York

    I’ve always felt one of the most electric verses in all scripture is found in the prologue to John’s gospel: “And the WORD became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth… ” (1:14). We who dare to preach (with thanks to Gardner Taylor for that phrase) seek to make incarnate a WORD that is above us and beyond us and within us and for us and for all others in all places and all ages. To honor that challenging work requires that we become wordsmiths. We become those who craft a word for the listeners, often laboring to find the exact word for a precise moment. That, in my experience, has produced most of the sweat of sermonizing. Who hasn’t experienced that while working on next Sunday’s message? You write, and all seems fluid and productive for a while. But then you pause because you can’t find the exact word with which to say what needs to be said. Suppose, for example, your topic is the inner hunger for a deeper spiritual relationship. “We want God” ap­ pears on your legal pad or laptop. But as soon as want is written, you know the word is pedestrian and plain. It’s what you intend, sort of, more or less, but it’s not enough. And so you audition other words as a director would actors or singers when casting a play. “We want God.” No, that’s not quite right. “We desire.” Yeah, that’s closer. It’s not perfect, but it’s closer. But, we desire what? “God?” Too predictable. What’s the phrase, the word? “More of God?” Okay, I’ll go with that, we tell ourselves… for now, at least, though we know it still is not quite enough. “We desire more of God” will have to do. And so we push forward to exegete and illustrate and write and edit and write some more. But gnawing inside us is a shadowy feeling, a lack of satisfaction. While pushing forward, we can’t quite stop looking back. There must be a better, stronger way of saying what we were trying to say a few moments earlier. There must be a clearer word. So, back we go to the troubling phrase and hold new auditions. “Want?” Cross that out. “Desire?” Close, but not enough. “We long for ….” Better. To be sure, it is better, and we know we could settle for that. But still, we would be settling. We wait. We wonder. We write and cross out and write again like Frost seeking for the word diverge in “The Road Not Taken.” And then comes the moment, the epiphany, the light in which the right word appears. “Yearn.” That’s it! We know that’s it by the way our breathing eases when we whisper the word out loud. Yearn, like a suitor does for the return of affection when he is unsure how she feels. He yearns for her. Sometimes he yearns simply to see her, to be in her presence, which would be enough. That’s the word, we finally understand. But, it has to feed into another word, the completion of the thought, in such fashion that it becomes whole. “We yearn for God’?” Not quite. It is true, of course, but not poetic enough to capture the spirit of what we want to express. We yearn for what? For what? And again the inner writhing begins, the wrestling with words to find the word. Again we return to our work on the remainder of the sermon tormented that there is something sacred left unfinished

    Page 21

    three paragraphs back. It is the same agony one feels when trying to remember a name or fact, when it’s on the tip of your tongue but you can’t quite pull it up. And then at some wonderful, liberating moment you hear yourself think it: “We yearn for a sense of the sacred in our lives.” We rush back to the unfinished place in the manuscript and type that phrase. And we speak the phrase, tentatively at hist as if it may still not be enough. But, when we hear it from our own lips, we know it is right. It is the phrase that clarities everything around it, all that went before and is yet to come. And it had to be that phrase, that word, before the rest of the sermon can be whole. Part of the agony of preaching is the pregnancy of waiting for words to be birthed. We feed ourselves the nutrition of myriad thoughts and phrases, as expectant moms do with vitamins. And like those moms-to-be, we cast aside other inadequate words as if they were Marlboros or whiskey sours that could damage the life waiting to be born. We can have none of that here! We are birthing something holy, and it has to be kept safe from that which is not enough. Another part of the agony of preaching is beyond our control. It is the work of the listener. Maybe more than work, it is the timing of the listener’s inattentiveness. When the moment comes that the word is spoken, the word that makes sense of everything else to be said that day, just in that moment he checks his watch and wonders how much longer this will take, or she hands a lozenge to her coughing child. And the word or phrase that is at the heart of all the other words surrounding it is missed. A cynic would ask, “Was all the preparation worth it?” But you and I know. We stood on holy ground when we prepared this message. And holy ground demands our best. In fact, that is why we worked so hard—because it was about God. At some point, it was even about our own souls. Men glancing at watches or mothers tending to children do not change that. Holy ground makes no room for mediocrity. This is a taxing business, which others hope we will make look easy. I’m not much fun on Saturday night, my wife sometimes reminds me. That is because I preach the sermon, then preach it again and again until I can do so without looking at the manuscript. I preach it until it migrates from my page or screen into my head. But even that is not enough. I keep practicing on Sunday mornings until it migrates from head to heart, until not only do I know it, but I also feel it. Only then is it ready to be preached. But, in the midst of that effort to make the preaching event seem conver­ sational, even sometimes spontaneous, the carefully chosen words or phrases remain intact. Essential. Imperative. It all hangs on them. And however naturally they may seem to slip from your tongue, you will know you searched for them diligently and, once found, cherished and protected them “like a treasure buried in a held” (Matthew 13:44). They become the WORD, the right and crucial word, made incarnate in your preaching. Don’t waste your time seeking to discuss the joyful agony of preaching with the man who writes his sermons on a single sheet from a legal pad every Sunday morning in a local diner and then Googles in search of a text to support what he just scribbled down. He will not understand. He knows only the desire to have enough words to fill hfteen minutes, but they do not have to be the right words. His energy is invested instead in daydreams of some denominational committee meeting he will chair Tuesday evening. Enter rather into a mental discourse with Frederick Beuchner or Barbara Brown Taylor or some other artist who labors long and lovingly to make their own words become flesh to such extent that the One about whom those words

    Advent 2018

    Page 22

    are spoken is once more incarnate. “The WORD became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth….” That is the promise that inspires those of us who preach. It is both our agony and our ec­ stasy. And ultimately it is also our source of meaning, as the realization settles upon us that we are…. That we are what? What’s the word? Mouthpieces? No, that’s not it. Not even close. Vessels? Closer, to be sure, but there’s a better word. The realization settles upon us that… ? The realization settles upon us that… ? Ah. And ultimately it is also our source of meaning, as the realization settles upon us that we are conduits of the living Word of God.

  • This Is What Love Looks Like

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 11

    This Is What Love Looks Like

    Luke 1:39-45

    Jennie Barrett Siegal

    Old South Union Church (UCC), Weymouth, Massachusetts

    “This is what love looks like.” That’s how I captioned the photo posted on our church’s Facebook page. Love looks like 200 votive candles sitting atop our com­ munion table, shining their light into a darkened sanctuary. The candles had been lit by members of our Youth Group—middle schoolers and high schoolers who had come to the sanctuary to honor a friend who had died in a tragic car accident just the night before. When our Youth Group members enter the building, they usually make their way down to the basement and fill our Fellowship Hall with joy and energy, excitement and delight. But that night, the night after their friend died, they came into the building carrying grief and confusion, shock and despair. Our Youth Group leaders could only imagine the messy mix of emotions the teens were feeling. What we knew for sure was that they needed to be together. They needed a place to bring their grief and shed their tears. They needed a place to ask questions and find support. They needed a place to dwell in the darkness of despair, but we also wanted to give them a way to reach for the light. So we opened up the sanctuary and invited the teens to make their way upstairs where they would find space to pray and candles to light. And then we waited. To be honest, we had no idea if anyone would come—if anyone would leave the Fellowship Hall and make their way up to the sanctuary. Our Youth Group has hundreds of members—750 teens in grades seven through twelve—but only a small number of them are part of our church. The vast majority of our Youth Group is made up of teens who are only marginally connected to other church communities or who claim no church connection at all. So when we decided to open up the sanctuary as a place to pray and light candles, we had no idea if the teens would find comfort in these ancient practices of faith. As a church, though, we knew we had something to offer that the teens wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else—the promise that light shines even in the darkest of times. And we could give them a way to grab hold of that promise so that it could be a lifeline leading them through the darkness of their despair. So we set out some candles, we opened up the doors of the sanctuary, and we waited. They came. So many of them came. We kept putting out more and more votive candles because more and more teens kept coming into the sanctuary, sitting down in the pews to say a prayer, and then coming up to the table to light a candle. There were so many candles. At the end of the night, the sanctuary wasn’t dark anymore because hundreds of votives bore witness to the promise of light and the power of love. At the end of the night, as I stood in the sanctuary surrounded by the lingering whispers of prayers and the powerful light of candles, I kept thinking, “This is what love looks like.” “This is what love looks like.” That’s the caption that could accompany any of our Youth Group meetings. To be honest, “this is what chaos looks like” would be accurate on most Sunday nights, too. You can’t have 750 young people make their

    Page 12

    way through your church building without a little mischief and mayhem. But more than that, there is love. There is love that meets the fears and anxieties so many of our young people carry with them every day. The fears can be overwhelming—fears of being an outsider; fears of being bullied at school; fears of being harassed online; fears of disappointing their families; fears of being betrayed by their friends; fears of failure; fears of not making the cut or getting the part or making the grade; fears that the tenuous balance of school and sports and work and friends will tip too far in one direction and cause their lives to come crashing down around them. The fears can be overwhelming, but the love is greater. I think that’s what keeps them coming back. That’s what drives our Youth Group members to make their way into our church and down to our Fellowship Hall. They come because they need to be together. They need to gather with peers and advisors who can dwell with them in the midst of their fears and acknowledge the messiness of their lives. They need a place where they can experience the power of community—the power of connection that overcomes their isolation. And they need a place where they can experience the promise of our faith—the promise that love is greater than any of our fears. “This is what love looks like.” That’s the caption that could accompany today’s scripture reading from the Gospel of Luke. In our text, we meet up with Mary right after she receives a visit from the angel Gabriel. We can only imagine the messy mix of emotions she must have been feeling. Gabriel had revealed that she would become pregnant by the power of the Holy Spirit and that she would give birth to the Son of God. What an incredible honor! What an amazing blessing! But it was also a little crazy, right? Because Mary was betrothed but not yet married, so her growing belly would certainly draw attention—and questions. And it was complicated because the angel revealed all this to Mary, but then she had to share the news with her family and with Joseph. So she did what any smart woman would do. She got out of town. Mary went to see her cousin Elizabeth. Christian tradition says that Elizabeth lived in the town of Ein Karem, which was eighty miles from Mary’s home in Nazareth. It would have taken Mary over a week to travel across three mountain ranges to see Elizabeth. That Mary was willing to undertake such a journey might reveal something of how she was feeling. Maybe Mary needed a place to bring this good news—this wondrously complicated news. Maybe she longed for someone who would believe her—someone who had experienced a miracle of her own and so would trust that Mary’s good news was true. Maybe Mary needed a place to ask questions and find support. Maybe she just needed to be with someone who could dwell with her in the midst of her fears and acknowledge the messiness of all that was happening. Maybe she needed a place where she could experience the power of community—the power of a connection that would overcome any sense of isolation. Maybe she needed a place where she could experience the promise of her faith— the promise that God’s love would be greater than any of her fears. In this Advent season, we come together as church because we need to be together. Like Mary, we long to find people who will believe us and trust us, people who will honor the truth of our experiences and bear witness to the messiness of our lives. We need a place where we can experience the power of community—the power of connection that overcomes any sense of isolation. And we need a place where we can experience the promises of our faith—the promise that love can overcome fear, that joy can overcome grief, that peace can overcome chaos, and that hope can overcome

    Journa l for Preachers

    Page 13

    despair. We need the church to remind us of these promises because the world surely won’t. The world is too broken. We need communities of faith that can meet us in places of despair and still remind us to reach for the light. The good news of Advent is this—the Light of the World is coming, not because our lives are perfect and our fears are gone. The Light of the World is coming because the promises of our faith are true. And that, dear church, that is what Love looks like.

  • Do Not Covet: The Last Commandment

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 45

    Do Not Covet: The Last Commandment

    Genesis 3:1-7

    Camille Cook Murray

    Georgetown Presbyterian Church, Washington, D.C.

    Adam and Eve were given a commandment, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.” Eve knows this commandment so well that she can recite it verbatim to the serpent. This commandment is the first boundary recorded in the Holy Scriptures, the first time God has set a limit. The limit is not about the fruit, but it is about the relationship . With this boundary, Adam and Eve will have to decide if they will submit to a relationship with God where there are limits, where God is ultimately in control, and where they must value God more than any other object of their desire. Ultimately, the commandment placed upon humanity is about coveting—desiring things that are of less value more than our relationship with God. This first commandment is placed in the third chapter of the first book of the Bible, as though to warn the descendants of Adam and Eve that this commandment will be our greatest challenge and the biggest threat we face in our quest to love God and follow God’s son. And so it should come as no surprise that the final commandment in the list on the tablets given on Mount Sinai to Moses and the Israelites is this same commandment . It says you shall respect boundaries, you shall respect God’s authority, you shall honor your relationship with the divine, you shall love your neighbors; in sum, you shall not covet. Exodus 20:17 says, “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.” This is the final commandment, and Walter Brueggemann in his book Money and Possessions feels that in this commandment, God saved the best for last, the hardest, and the “sharpest zinger.”1 Coveting is about the desires that get the best of us. Desire is what drives the human race—the desire to succeed, the desire to possess, the desire to love, the desire to create. The American psyche is a combination of ambition and hard work. By and large, we are people who strive to better ourselves and our families. We are also competitive, and so “keeping up with the Joneses” is a real driving force in our society. Desires and ambition and competition in and of themselves are not the problem. The problem comes when our desires confuse us, seduce us, and corrupt us. Our attitudes become warped by our uncontrolled desires—we want, and so we take. This is why God has given us a boundary, so that we are protected from the seductive and corrupting power of our own desires. Brueggemann writes, “This tenth commandment refers to an originary attitude of desire, of being propelled in ways we do not understand to desire what is not properly our own, so that desire becomes a powerful, seductive force that skews one’s life. The commandment suggests that it is the stuff that the neighbor has (wife, house, anything) that evokes the seductive energy of desire.”2 The marketing industry knows the power of these desires, and they are hugely successful in getting us to covet things we do not have—the bigger house, the faster car, and the latest gadget. Our desires are not limited to material goods; we desire the

    Page 46

    comer office, we desire the perfect marriage, we desire the sculpted body. Big houses, fast cars, and fun gadgets are not the problem. Comer offices, perfect marriages, and sculpted bodies are not the problem. The problem is the way our desires for these things have the ability to take the place of utmost priority in our lives, a place that we have been told is reserved for God alone. Saint Augustine recognized our tme desire for God is distorted by our desire for lesser objects.3 The time and energy we should be spending striving after God is spent coveting things of far less importance. The comer office will not bring you peace. The fast car will not get you to heaven. The new gadget will not offer you salvation. These things feel important, and yet ultimately, they are not. If they are not of ultimate importance, then they must not hold the kind of power over us which makes us willing to sacrifice our relationship with God or our relationships with one another to get them. Nothing should have more power than to love God and to love neighbor—with nothing outranking those chief ends—not money, not status, not power, not any worldly good. Lent is the time of year when we think about things that are roadblocks in our lives of Christian discipleship. We ask ourselves, “What is preventing me from following Jesus with heart and mind and soul and strength?” We give things up or take things on in order to try to redirect ourselves towards God. In this holy season, we can use the tenth and final commandment, “do not covet,” as a way to take stock of our faith and our relationships. We should look to see what we desire and evaluate whether it might fall into the category of a “forbidden fruit” or a “neighbor’s house, or wife, or ox.” And then we should ask ourselves pointed questions: Are our desires leading us into deeper relationship with God and with our neighbors, or are they damaging our relationship with God and driving us away from one another? In the case of Adam and Eve, their desire to eat the fruit and thereby gain knowledge seriously damaged their relationship with God. This was the sin. In Lent, we examine our sins, we confess our sins, and we strive to turn away from our sin. In Lent, we are called to turn away from our covetous ways. Thankfully, there is a biblical solution for repairing the damage that our coveting has done to our relationship with God. The solution is the Sabbath. Theologian Miroslav Volf once described a conversation where a rabbi helped redefine his understanding of Sabbath.4 Volf admitted to always having thought of Sabbath as rest. This definition left him often feeling like he was failing at keeping this commandment; resting for a day was admittedly rather hard. The rabbi said that the Sabbath is not a mere rest day but rather a day to “cease from striving.” Sabbath was the day to celebrate the life you already have, a day when we can stop our endless pursuit of bigger, better, more. Sabbath was the day the Israelites were not allowed to store up food, but had to eat and enjoy what they had gathered throughout the week. Brueggemann writes, “Sabbath is a refusal of the rat race of commodity acquisition; coveting is in contradiction to the alternative of Sabbath. Or better, Sabbath is the alternative to coveting.”5 Lor six days a week, we strive, we earn, we create, we pursue, but on the seventh day we say, “ft is enough.” To keep the Sabbath means you must lean into the promise of God’s abundance6 and God’s provision. It takes faith and trust to keep the Sabbath. In 2010,1 was living in London when a volcano in Iceland erupted and effectively shut down the European Airspace. Heathrow and Gatwick airports were closed for days, as the ash in the sky was too dangerous for the planes’ engines. Living along the flight path meant I had grown accustomed to the constant air traffic noise. I never

    Journal for Preachers

    Page 47

    set an alarm clock because the first flight arriving to Heathrow every morning woke me up. But because of the volcano, for over a week, there was an eerie stillness in the air. Business travelers were stuck, either at home unable to get to meetings or abroad unable to get home. After the first 48 hours of frustrations, people seemed to settle into the notion that they were stuck, and there was nothing they could do about it. They had to visit the museums in London, something their usual schedule would never allow. Or they had to spend time with colleagues and accept the hospitality of strangers. They had to simply stop and wait and rest, knowing that soon enough, they would be back to their work and back to their striving. I remember when the first plane arrived at Heathrow. The noise seemed almost thunderous—far louder than anything I remembered before. When we keep the Sabbath , we shut out the noise of the hustle and bustle of life, the noise of the advertisements and marketing schemes, the noise of our own inner monologues of striving and desiring and coveting. In the Sabbath, we silence these things so that we might listen for God. Lent is the season to attune our ears once more, that we might realize the power of our desires and the sins that have corrupted our attitudes and our relationships. In Lent, we are called to honor the Sabbath so that we might honor our God and affirm the psalmists refrain, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

    Notes 1 Walter Brueggemann, Money and Possessions (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016), 15. 2 Ibid., 16. 3 Ibid. 4 M. Volf, personal communication, February 6th, 2016. 5 Walter Brueggemann, Money and Possessions, 23. 6 Ibid.

  • Strive to Be Poets: Charge to the Graduating Class of 2018

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 23

    Strive to Be Poets:

    Charge to the Graduating Class of 2018

    Theodore J. Wardlaw

    Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Austin, Texas

    I have discovered a new poet—new to me, at least. The truth is that she’s an ex­ tremely well-known poet, so much so that she’s the twenty-second poet laureate of the United States, an office she assumed just last year. She’s a graduate of Harvard College and Columbia University, and she now lives in Princeton with her husband and three children and teaches Creative Writing at Princeton University. Her name is Tracy K. Smith, she’s the fifth African-American poet laureate, in just her mid-forties she’s still young, and she was raised in a religious family which had deep roots in Alabama. “Her people were from there,” we Southerners might say. A while back, I was intrigued to read an article about her in The New York Times Magazine entitled “The Poem Cure,” in which the case was made that bringing poetry to the masses can be an antidote to our toxic civic culture. The writer of this article had followed Tracy K. Smith on a purposeful pilgrimage that took her to many locations in South Carolina. Now I know a thing or two about South Carolina. It’s a place where, at every dirt-road intersection, there’s an oft-remembered story about something that happened involving somebody’s ancestor that will never be forgotten—because, in South Carolina, the past isn’t even past yet. Tracy K. Smith went to South Carolina, where she took a road-trip and met at each stop an audience of people eager to hear her work. In the main, these were not crowds of the literati from Charleston; no, these were “everyday people” in the process of falling in love with her poetry. She went to Lake City, South Carolina, only fifteen miles from the small Lowcountry county-seat town in which I spent a portion of my childhood. She went to Summerton, South Carolina, only thirty-five miles from where I was born and baptized, and while there, an elderly lady named Ella Johnson asked Tracy K. Smith to sign her program, and so Ms. Smith obliged, signed her name, and wrote a one-word poem: “Grace.” The old lady responded, “’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home. ” Another stop on her tour was a little wide spot in the woods called Adams Run, South Carolina. It’s where, for maybe a couple of weeks during most of our summer vacations, Kay and the girls and I have turned off of Highway 17 to take this two-lane county road to Edisto Island and our favorite beach. We go right through Adams Run, which is hardly more than a crossroads with no red light. In Adams Run, there’s a tiny antebellum Episcopal Church named Christ Church that is surrounded by a cemetery where its oldest tombstones are often bedecked—especially on holidays—with tiny versions of the Confederate flag fluttering in the breeze. Next door to that church is an old schoolhouse that is now a community center, and in that space there was a sizeable crowd gathered there to hear Ms. Smith; they were about equal parts black and white. She was introduced there by the poet laureate of Charleston, who said, “Tracy’s making poetry cool.” Elsewhere in the crowd, there was a LInited States congressman, a state senator, not just the poet laureate of Charleston but also the poet laureate of South Carolina, a woodworker, a local councilwoman, a mother with her

    Page 24

    teenaged daughter, a guy who runs a roadside fish market, and even a pair of off-duty police officers. When the event was over, everyone surrounded her for autographs, and those policemen invited her to come back and ride along in their police car on her next visit. They wanted her to experience the work they do, and she promised to take them up on it. The thought of such community showing up and expressing itself with such beauty: it just took my breath away to read about it. After all, we live in a country in which, after Friday’s school shooting here in Texas, near Houston, we have cre­ ated a grim new statistic: in just this portion of 2018—not yet half a year in—more Americans have been killed in school than have been killed on active U.S. military duty anywhere in the world. It makes me think that we need to get political. Political in the way that people of faith get political. There’s one of her poems that, from the article’s description of it, sounded par­ ticularly interesting to me. Tracy Smith wrote this poem a few years ago while she was up in Vermont for a few days giving a seminar. She was asleep in the middle of the night, and she had a dream that she was reading a poem that was written on the wall of her bedroom, and in the dream she said to herself, “If I wake up, this can be my poem.” And so she woke up, and she wrote it down, and since it was about two men mowing their fields in rural Vermont, she named it ‘The Mowers.” Later, she changed the title. She renamed it “Political Poem,” because, she said, “A political poem in any age is valuable if it can challenge the easy sense of ‘us versus them.’ Political poems that fail,” she said, “say ‘I’m LIS,’ which is good, and I’m going to call out these THEMS.” In poems like that, she said, “you’re making bad art, even if you’re thinking about justice.” It’s not enough, after all, to simply cultivate a hermeneutic of suspicion at the expense of a hermeneutic of generosity or encouragement or humility. A dear friend of mine, who has taught for years at another seminary, wrote me recently lamenting that in this time “we have reduced theology to ethics, namely our own self-regulated and self-flattering view of righteousness.” And that’s just not enough. We need to get more truly political than that; we need to engage each other in love. In this world in which we are so often assaulted by the brutal and the vulgar—by a kind of politics that takes no prisoners, whether it’s national politics or church politics—we need a larger definition of the word “political.” I was so taken by her notion of a “political poem” that I went out and bought her book—the one that contains “Political Poem.” I hope you’ll do that, too. All of her poems are astonishing, but look hi st for this one. It’s a bit complex, but it has something to say. Two people, probably two strangers, are mowing fields not so far apart from one another. Perhaps a mile, at most, separates them. They might remain oblivious to one another forever, except that in Smith’s poem, each happens to turn and look across a huge divide, and the poet imagines that something happens. As far apart as their work places each from the other, the two mowers nonetheless sense their commonal­ ity. One waves across the distance to the other, and the other responds. To read this example of lyrical brilliance is to be reminded of what is profound about the gesture of communication. It makes room for another, and for so much more.

    Journa l for Preachers

    Page 25

    If they thought to, or would, or even half-wanted, their work—the humming, human engines pushed across the grass, and the grass, blade after blade assenting—would take forever. But I love how long it would last.1

    When I think of those mowers finding themselves, as if by accident, in a new community of two, I think of that gesture you came up with during this particular school year now ending, when you decided to endorse that wonderful community covenant you created. In many ways, community was threatened across this last year, and some walls were built. But these two mowers are not interested in build­ ing walls—be they walls of brick or stone or words or opinions—walls to separate the US-es from the THEMS. They are instead exploring an unexpected discovery of empathy and understanding, and perhaps a shared passion for the impact they are making upon their world; and none of that is enough unless they keep looking up and searching for and finding the other. Friends, this world is so broken that it breaks the heart of Jesus. So, as you go out into it—whatever else you do—don’t make bad art, even if you are thinking about justice. No. Instead, strive to be poets. Be the people who see the world as God sees it, and who tell the truth about it so that the thing that is prematurely settled gets properly unsettled. Be poets who point people toward each other, who look at certainty, and show how, in the name of God, that’s not enough. And as poets, of course, point your people toward the ultimate, most important poems themselves—the pictures of God, the poet of the world, and God’s purposes, from Genesis to Revelation, from the prophets to the martyrs, to the saints, to the apostles, to the church. Be poets, and point people toward the most important poems of all, for God’s sake and for the sake of the world.

    Notes 1 Tracy K. Smith, Wade in the Water (Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2018), 54.

  • Let the Journey Begin

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 17

    Let the Journey Begin

    Luke 2:41 -52; Psalm 29

    Samantha Gonzalez-Block Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church, Asheville, North Carolina

    Eleven-year-old Darren stood at the edge of the diving board at the local YMCA… for 25 minutes. His swimming teacher was treading water in the deep end, calling out to him to no longer hesitate and jump on in. His classmates were clinging to the pool wall encouraging him, “You got this, Darren! You’re the man! ” His mother was looking through the glass in the observation nook squeezing her rosary, praying to Jesus that her son would just finally go for it. “Ok, ok,” Darren said with a tremble in his voice. He took a tiny step forward and then three leaps backward. “No, no I can’t,” he shrieked. A collective groan echoed throughout the pool room. No one was sure if he would ever brave the water. Water is dramatic. For all of us, water possesses this dualistic nature. It can be terrifying. It can be refreshing. It can be life-killing. It can be life-saving. What is your relationship to water? What are your earliest memories of it? Is it something that you have loved to always immerse yourself in? Or are you honestly still afraid of it? Since the beginning of time (when the Spirit of the Lord blew over the watery chaos to create life), water has been a source of unpredictable power. It has sent sail­ ors to the bottom of the sea and brought explorers to unexpected places. It has drawn strangers together at the well, and it has covered cities and islands like a blanket. Too often when we come to the font, we like to focus on the sweetness of water: that which refreshes us, restores us, redeems us. We don’t like to lift up what is dangerous about water. So, we tame it. We control it. But what would happen if just for today, we allow ourselves to really trouble the water—to meditate on the part that is most terrifying? Perhaps by doing this, we might find unexpected good news just below the surface. Now, Mary and Joseph must have been terrified. Certainly, any parent or guardian here today understands the sort of fear that washes over them when a child goes miss­ ing— even for a moment, let alone thr ee days in a bustling city at festival time. Back then, there were no amber alerts or cell phones or missing person ads. In ancient Jerusalem, being lost in such a place could make someone vulnerable to smugglers or slave catchers or soldiers. One could be robbed, tormented, taken advantage of, killed. This was no place for even a twelve-year-old Jewish tourist (on the brink of manhood) to wander off alone. Throughout the centuries, many scholars and people of faith have been critical of Mary and Joseph for having lost their son. We might feel the same way. I mean how do you just happen to lose God incarnate? We wonder how they could let him go missing for so long? Why did they just assume that he was with other friendly travel­ ers? Why hadn’t they secured an emergency meeting spot: “midnight at the mikvah, don’t be late, honey”’! What kind of parents could just let their child wander off? People were asking similar questions last year during the heartbreaking incident with the four-year-old boy who fell into the gorilla exhibit at the Cincinnati Zoo. On a video taken on someone’s phone, we could see the gorilla, Harambe, pulling the boy

    Advent 2018

    Page 18

    through the water and then seemingly protecting him from it. It was a chaotic moment that didn’t stop there. After the gorilla was shot, the nation remained conflicted—both devastated that the zoo had killed this innocent animal and at the same time, relieved that this young boy was safe. But what was most amazing was the world’s immedi­ ate, fierce reaction towards the boy’s mother. Online campaigns called for her to be charged criminally for losing sight of him. One of the many tweets read, “You killed [a gorilla] for protecting a child whose parents can’t contain their own children!”1 Another said, “Harambe was killed because of stupid…irresponsible parenting.”2 For Mary and Joseph, their criticism would not come from a “tweet”; rather, they would place it upon themselves. After three days of feverish searching, they surely had lost all hope. Their son was gone. When we speak about baptism, we express that it is a symbol of our new life in Christ. But we forget that baptism also represents a significant loss—something goes missing. The old life vanishes so a new life can be born. Not unlike the Jewish mikvah baths used for conversion ceremonies, the earliest Christian baptismal fonts were shaped like tombs. Jesus followers would walk into the tomb bath and immerse themselves in the water, metaphori­ cally dying with the crucified Christ below the surface. And then they would walk up and out, a fresh new soul resurrected through the power of the Holy Spirit. In our tradition today, we don’t routinely practice immersion baptism, but the essence is still the same: typically, as infants we are brought to the font by our parents, where before community, we celebrate that through God’s grace we are freed from sin and death and invited into the joy of fresh new life. There are no shortcuts in baptism, just as there are no short cuts to Easter morning. No way to skip to the end, fast forward to the good stuff. We need the loss, the death, that which is now gone in order to truly relish the salvihc gift Christ Jesus brings to our lives. To put it simply, baptism water-marks the end of something, but it also marks the beginning of that which is endless. It begins our journey of faith in a God whose love is bound­ less and world-changing. That day in Jerusalem, something about Jesus did die: his childhood, his reliance on his parents’ protection. At Passover time in the holiest of cities, he wandered away to immerse himself in the Jewish faith they had instilled in him since his birth. He loved it, and wanted to explore it even more. So he ventured off on his own—without permission, without a plan. Through his teenage rebellion, he buried his childhood and began a new life fit for the danger and wonder of God’s only Son. He did not run away that day—not really. Rather, he ran towards what had been tugging at him his whole life. He elbowed his way through the long temple lines. He boldly planted himself before the high priests and rabbis. He did not stay silent. He asked questions. He challenged the answers. This was the essence of his faith. And all were amazed (and maybe some understandably annoyed) by this eager young man. Yes, that day Jesus the child died when he jumped feet hi st into an unknown journey, and it was there in the terror, in the danger of it all, that his ministry was born. “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house ?” Jesus’ hi st words in Luke’s gospel take his parents’ breath away. Once they had found him there, they were no doubt exhausted, relieved, probably very angry—who could blame them? And we have no idea how 12-year-old Jesus delivered his line: maybe it was

    Journa l for Preachers

    Page 19

    sweet tenderness or maybe it was more like an exasperated whine. Either way, the message was the same, “Why are you searching for me when you know I have already been found? Mom and Dad, you introduced me to the turbulent waters of faith. You yourselves knew what it was like to trust God and to dive into the unknown. You brought me on long pilgrimages by foot each year to the holy city. You taught me how to praise God on my knees singing “the voice of the Lord is over the mighty waters.” You introduced me to a community that despite being oppressed continues to faithfully believe—no matter the cost. So, here I am amongst my people, the ones you showed me to love. Here I am in God’s house, the One who calms the seas with just a voice. Here I am—right where I belong—where the Lord has always been waiting. How did you not know that I must be here?” How did you find your way here? Here to the water? Who taught you hist to dive into your faith? Do you remember? In today’s scripture, Jesus reminds us that we do not come to the water alone. We come as part of a Christian family willing to trust together in that which feels most terrifying: a life that does not promise calm seas or the easy road. It is a life that does promise hard work, rebellion, loss, sweat, and the possibility for world-changing transformation, a glimmer of hope that God’s peace, love, and justice can and will wash over. Next weekend, thirty-seven youth and adults from our congregation will be taking our own leap of faith and heading to Charleston for our winter mission education trip. We will be looking at environmental issues that the city is facing, and its connection to race and poverty. When our youth signed up, no one asked what the itinerary would be (In fact I still haven’t told them.), but it was as if it wasn’t important. This church family has raised our young people up to take bold risks, to face whatever challenge lies ahead, to trust the water. That’s what true faith entails. As Darren frantically tip-toed around the diving board, his teacher called out to him, “Darren, “You can do this! We believe in you!” Finally, Darren took a breath, closed his eyes, held his nose, and took the tiniest, tenderestjump off the board. When he felt his feet in the air, his mouth dropped; and when he burst through the top of the water, he took in a great big gulp of lukewarm chlorine. He panicked and began to move his hands and feet about. Finally, he felt two arms wrap tightly across his belly and pull him up to the surface. He inhaled a gust of fresh air with the same joy one feels when reuniting with an old friend. And in that moment, he’d never felt more alive, more afraid, more exhilarated. He had done it. He was immersed in water—for the hist time. And he wasn’t done yet. “Now kick,” his teacher said. “Kick hard.” Here at the font, our journeys of faith begin. Something old is gone and something new awaits us at the surface. Here we jump into the unknown and immerse ourselves in terrifying, glorious water. We let the danger, the risk of faith, wash over us because the good news is this: we believe, we know that God is always here—ready to catch us. We need only have the courage to trust that life-changing grace and the chutzpah to jump right in!

    Notes 1 Grinberg, Emanuella, “In Gorilla’s Death, Critics Blame Mother, Cincinnati Zoo.” CNN, 30 May 2016. Web. 5 Jan. 2017. 2 Kimble, Lindsay, “Mom of 4-Year-Old Who Climbed into Zoo Pen Defends Herself from Backlash After Zookeepers Killed Gorilla.” People, 30 May 2016. Web. 5 Jan. 2017.

    Easter 2017

  • What Does Fulfillment Look Like?

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 14

    What Does Fulfillment Look Like?

    Luke 2:22-40

    David Cozad

    Central Presbyterian Church, Atlanta, Georgia

    A morning breeze drifts through ancient Jerusalem and rustles in the old man’s ears, stirring his slumber. Or is it a voice whispering from somewhere on the other side of waking and sleeping? “Sim-e-on, Sim-e-on, are you listening? Simeon! Simeon! Awake, arise, the time has finally come. Go to the Temple, and there you will find the one for whom you have waited for so long.” The old man struggles—is this a blessed dream from which he doesn’t want to wake? Or should he waken as the voice bids him, splash water on his face, and scurry to the Temple? Long ago the Holy Spirit had promised that he would not depart this life before seeing God’s Messiah. And now, whatever is calling to him, wherever it is coming from, it is saying that the time has come! Meanwhile, here we are, you and I, gathered in this holy place on the last day of the calendar year. What whispered promptings may have brought us here today; what hopes and dreams have remained unrealized in this past year, awaiting fulfillment? Was Christmas not all it was built up to be—or was it, perhaps, a wonderful time when a seed was planted for something new? And what changes might the next year bring that would afford you fulfillment? A few election victories and a more just economy? Reconciliation with that friend who seems to have drifted away? A rekindling of spiritual connection that would put you at peace with God and the world? And just as important, what would fulfillment look like? Would you know it when you see it? Back in Jerusalem, this is the question Simeon faces. When he rises, makes his way through the streets and enters the Temple precincts, who or what is he looking for? What guides him to the child and his parents? And how does he know that this is the one? Is there a hand descending from heaven and pointing to the future Mes­ siah, or is their little dedication ceremony the obvious place to look because there is nothing else going on in the Temple that morning? In last year’s Presbyterian Outlook, my friend and former colleague Jill Dufheld offers another option for what might have guided the pious old soul to the Christ child. She suggests that Simeon recognizes, in the holy family, a devotion to the law of God and the ritual traditions that matched his devotion to the search for the Messiah.1 Never mind that Joseph and Mary don’t bring the requisite lamb for the offering; Simeon recognizes that in presenting a pair of turtle doves and two young pigeons, the couple are exercising the option for those who are too poor to afford the usual trappings. But most importantly, the young couple is dedicating their firstborn son to the service of the Lord. I would add that it may be an instance of what Cynthia Borgeault calls recognition energy—the holiness in one person being captured by the holy longing in the other.2 And so Simeon approaches the family, takes the child in his arms, and proclaims that now he can die in peace because the Lord has allowed him to see the promised Messiah. (And incidentally, if his words sounded familiar to you when we read this

    Page 15

    passage a few minutes ago, it is because we often use them verbatim at the conclusion of a funeral or memorial service. It’s called the Nunc Dimmitus, the opening words in the Latin version). And no sooner does Simeon make his pronouncement than an elderly prophet named Anna appears on the scene and begins to proclaim that this is the child to whom all have looked for the redemption of Jerusalem. She is a devout widow who has practically lived in the Temple for many decades, fasting and praying for the day that has now come. Something in her has recognized holy fulfillment as well. Yes, it’s a lovely story—but beware the temptation to domesticate it. Here is where the aforementioned Jill Dufheld chimes in with a word of caution: “The narrative this hist Sunday after Christmas could not get any churchier. And, let’s be honest, those gathered for worship the Sunday after Christmas are the Marys and Josephs, the Simeons and Annas of our congregations. The dutiful, faithful folks who show up every time the doors open and stay and clean up afterwards. So, admonishing everyone to do what God says—worship, tithe, etc.—well, that could be affirming or, alternately, could be less than revelatory, or even worse, self-congratulatory. Look at us, we’re here, we get to see Jesus! I think maybe I’ve preached that sermon.”3 In other words, whatever fulfillment looks like for you and me may be a reflection of a story that we are tempted to think we own. But Simeon did not possess the Holy Spirit; when it led him to the promised child, it possessed him. So what does it look like to hear this text with awareness of those who aren’t here this morning—those who are more interested in tonight’s revelry, or don’t feel they belong here, or who are dreading the day-after-tomorrow’s return to the same old same old? Or what about those who aren’t so sure about this God-and-Jesus stuff, but find in the Foot Clinic or the Outreach and Advocacy Center something that feels more like fulfillment? That’s why it’s important to realize that everything in this story that happens there in the Temple is for the sake of those who aren’t even paying attention. The prayer and fasting of the elderly prophet has not been for her own sake; it is for what God promises to do in the world.4 And even though the old man gives thanks that now he can die in peace, he declares in the very next breath that this long-awaited child is intended as a light to the Gentiles and for the glory of Israel. No, fulfillment is not about how good or even how conscientious we have been. And neither is it all sweetness and light. Simeon has lived and hoped long enough to know that goodness does not go unpunished in this world. Even as he holds Israel’s deliverance in his arms, he tells Mary that a sword will pierce her soul. And even if Mary and Joseph don’t yet know it, they will soon learn that they will not be able to restrain Jesus within the bounds of their care. But what if you and I keep on coming here, looking forward to fulfillment in a new time frame? What if fulfillment means simply that God is doing a new thing, and that we most likely can find it and share in it through celebrating the presence of God. Then through greeting old friends, welcoming the stranger, and marking the rites of passage of those children entrusted to our care, we can declare that we have seen the redemption of the world. So here we are, on the day of New Year’s Eve, a faithful few while many more prepare to party or dream of changed fortunes and football championships. In popular cartoons the outgoing year is portrayed as an old man limping off stage right, exhausted and defeated—while there appears at stage left a healthy, confident baby, ready to

    Advent 2018

    Page 16

    take on the world and set things right. But in this little story from Luke, the baby is held triumphantly by an old man and old woman, rejoicing that in a way, their lives are just beginning. So listen as a current of air moves through this place. Is it just the HVAC system circulating physical comfort [in a sanctuary that always seems too hot or too cold], or is it a voice from somewhere beyond our singing and praying, calling to you and me: Kemie, … Cal, … Clayton, … Keith, … Gisella, … Nan. Awake, arise, and claim the new thing that God is doing even now. And have a happy New Year.

    Notes 1 Jill Duffield, Presbyterian Outlook, 12/29/17. 2 Cynthia Borgeault, The Wisdom Jesus, 2011, 8. 3 Duffield. 4. Ibid.

  • The Life That Really Is Life

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

    Page 42

    The Life That Really Is Life

    1 Timothy 6:6-19; Mark 2:13-15

    Mary Hinkle Shore Lutheran Church of the Good Shepherd, Brevard, North Carolina

    A few years ago, I heard a public radio interview with a relatively unknown singer/songwriter. At least she was unknown to me, and she remains so—I cannot remember her name. I do remember part of the interview. She and the host were talking about the music business and her art, and the ways that the big business aspects of music can limit what an artist is able to do. The interviewer asked whether the singer was pressured by economic concerns to sell out her vision for her own work. She replied by saying, “It’s not like someone comes up to you and says, ‘We want you to sell out your vision of your work.’ What they say is, ‘We want you to talk to our wardrobe consultant,’ or Our people will touch up your photo for the CD cover.’ The moves toward losing yourself and what you set out to do are very small and subtle. Sometimes you can get pretty far down the road before you know what’s happening.” This is an insight that the writer of ITimothy also knows. The letter is set as correspondence from the older apostle Paul to the younger church leader Timothy. Its actual origin is probably a couple of decades later than Paul’s last years and Timothy’s first ones in church leadership, but the letter still makes sense as advice from experience to youth. Part of that advice is a warning about ways of life that sell out the gospel. About the desire for wealth, the writer says, “Those who want to be rich fall into temptation and are trapped by many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil, and in their eagerness to be rich, some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains” (1 Tim. 6:9). Instead of setting their hopes on the uncertainties of riches, the people should “take hold of the life that really is life” (6:19). When Christian communities live with a value—maybe the value of compassion or generosity or hospitality to strangers—when groups of Christians live with a value that is higher than the accumulation of wealth, we are bearing witness to a whole different way of going through life. The Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann calls this kind of thing “acting out an alternative economy” right in the middle of the dominant economy. And you know the dominant economy well. To use the words I want here, I have to quote Martin Luther’s Small Catechism. You may know that the first of the Ten Commandments is “I am the Lord you God; you shall have no other Gods.” Luther explains this commandment by saying, “We are to fear, love, and trust God above all things.” So anything besides God that we fear, love, and trust above all things is another god, or an idol. This is the role money plays in the dominant economy. When we say, “Follow the money,” we mean that the fear, love, and trust of money can explain some behavior or turn of events. Find out who is getting rich from something, and you’ll have the motive for why it is happening and who is behind it all. I say or I think “follow the money” a lot. But I notice a certain disconnect in my

    Page 43

    thinking, and I wonder if you see it in yourself too. I believe that money is a power. For other people, money is dangerous. The wanting it, saving it up, being afraid it is not enough, and loving it is the path to all kinds of pain. For other people. But for me, money is a tool. I can handle it. The love of money won’t seduce me. I can quit anytime. I bet you can quit anytime too. I have come to believe that money is a power, like water is a power, or fire. We use water and fire every day; we are not usually afraid of them; we are pretty sure we manage them. We think we have them figured out, and we do, until we do not. If you want to know how small you are—and how imperiled from moment to moment in this life—look at a building or a forest on fire. Watch a flood turn the Mississippi into a river that is miles across in northern Iowa, just one state away from where it is a trickle you can step over! You and I have nothing to go up against that. Oh, sure, our civil engineers and firefighters have some things they can do at such a time, but the smartest among them know the force and danger of what they are up against. The writer of 1 Timothy thinks money is like water or fire: a force, a danger, a power. It can eclipse all else that we fear, love, and trust. When that happens, we become enthralled with life that is not really life. In response to this danger, the letter charges Timothy to tell the people not “to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but rather on God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment” (6:17). The antidote to the love of money is not the embrace of grim austerity, but trust in the One who provides for joy. What is an abstract idea in the epistle takes on flesh and blood in the gospel reading. Jesus calls disciples: “Follow me, ” he says to Simon and Andrew, James and John. Off they go on a whirlwind tour of Galilee announcing the kingdom of God come near, with Jesus healing many people. A few days into the Reign of God tour, Jesus calls Levi. Levi is a tax collector. His occupation is synonymous with the accumulation of wealth through dishonest business dealings. Tax collectors were responsible to get a certain amount of money to Rome. That was bad enough: Rome was the occupying power. But it gets worse. Anything more than Rome’s share that a tax collector could shake down his neighbors for was his to keep. You can imagine the possibilities for corruption and resentment. And Jesus calls Levi to be a disciple. “Follow me, ” he says, and Levi follows him. The next thing we know, Levi is hosting him for dinner with “many tax collectors and sinners.” Jesus and his friends begin to embody an alternative economy and an alternative community. The scribes do not like the company Jesus is keeping. Jesus replies that the ones who have been running after life that is not really life need him most of all. Earlier this weekend, our church council and committee chairs met for a two-day retreat. Our task was to explore ways that this particular alternative community might be in community with people we do not know yet, or people we do not know well enough yet. We documented big dreams:

    • We want to know our neighbors better who are part of Living Waters, our sister congregation in Cherokee. • We want to walk across the street and introduce ourselves to college students. • We want to show up for people we already know who are struggling

    Lent 2018

    Page 44

    with failing eyesight or the 24/7 work of care giving or other things that make it hard to come to church. • We want to be a loving, inviting place for people with mental illness and their families.

    We have about as much experience with these things as Levi had walking in the way of Jesus before Jesus called him. We do not know enough even to know the mistakes we will make or the courage that will be called forth from us when we take our first steps. But we came away from the retreat feeling like there is life ahead on this path for us and for others, and that along this way, God means to richly provide an expanded “us” with everything for our enjoyment. With Levi and his friends in the entourage of Jesus, there is hope for us too. When we spend time with him, when we watch him in the places he frequents in the gospels, when as we gather right here at table with him and everyone he has ever shared a meal with through the ages, he will lead us into strange places and into company with people we might not otherwise have known or chosen. Along that way, he will always be more fearsome, loving, and trustworthy than anyone or anything else from which we seek security and joy. To follow him is “to have the treasure of a good foundation for the future” so that we may always and forever take hold of the life that really is life.