Author: Sara Palmer

  • ‘Crucial Questions for Such a Time as This: What Does this Mean?’

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    “Crucial Questions for Such a Time as This:

    What Does this Mean?”

    William D. Watley

    Marietta, Georgia

    This sermon was preached on May 23, 2021, at Emanuel Baptist Church, Brooklyn in New York City.

    Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem . And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “What does this mean?” But others sneered and said, “They are filled with new wine.” But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them, “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: ‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. – Acts 2: 5-17 “You that are Israelites, listen to what I have to say: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know—this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law.” – Acts 2: 22-24 “This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses. Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God, and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this that you both see and hear. For David did not ascend into the heavens, but he himself says, ‘The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand  until I make your enemies your footstool.”’ Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.” – Acts 2: 32-36


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    The Pentecost narrative is a familiar one to a number of us who are members of the church. Pentecost was one of the major holidays and observances of the Judaic faith. It occurred fifty days after the celebration of Passover, which was another major Jewish festival. On the Day of Pentecost the members of the early church gathered in one place were also on one accord. Suddenly a sound came from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind that filled the house where they were assembled. There appeared to them cloven or divided tongues of fire that rested on each of them. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages or tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance. Not as they gave themselves, not as they mimicked each other, not as they repeated what they saw or heard others saying or doing, and not as they allowed others to tell them that unless they spoke in other languages or tongue, then their baptism in the Holy Spirit was not valid, did they speak in those languages or tongues. Rather, only as, only when, and only as long as the Holy Spirit directed them personally in that context did they speak or deliver the message they received from heaven. The church was so full of praise when the power from heaven fell upon them, that people passing by on the outside heard them and were drawn to where the believers were gathered because of what was happening on the inside. People are always drawn to a church where and when they perceive something significant is happening on the inside. When members of a church go out into the community and talk positively about their church, their pastor, and their ministries and programs, outsiders will be drawn to it because they want to see what’s happening on the inside. I have never seen a church grow when members either talk it down, their pastor down, or their fellow parishioners down. I have never seen a church grow when people are apathetic and angry and evil and envious regarding their leadership or about each other. I have never seen a church grow when the membership have an “us” and a “those people” attitude toward each other. There is enough ugliness in the world; people are not interested in belonging to a church of mean people with ugly attitudes and warring and disagreeable spirits. When church members have a smile rather than a scowl or a frown, and gratitude rather than gripes; when members have genuine joy with faces that light up when they speak, outsiders must conclude that something worthwhile must be happening on the inside. When a church has activity throughout the week even when the building is closed on Sunday; when lights burn in a church throughout the week, even when the building is closed on Sunday; when people are seen going in and out of a church throughout the week, even when the building is closed on Sunday, outsiders will know that something worthwhile is happening on the inside. No one wants to go any place where nothing is happening, other than church people who are more concerned about their tradition and looking back to how it used to be, rather than renewal or revival. If a church is to grow then something significant must be happening on the inside, and people on the outside take notice.


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    What applies to the church also has implications for those of us who belong to it. When we church members live in such a way that the beauty of Jesus can be seen in our lives, outsiders will know that something worthwhile is happening on the inside. When those who know us before we joined the church or became deep in the Lord, can recognize that nobody but the Lord has made a change in our lives, they will know that something worthwhile has been happening on the inside. When the Holy Spirit descended upon the church, the activity in the upper room caused those on the outside to take notice. As they stood on the outside and heard the rejoicing in the upper room they marveled at what they heard. Those on the outside knew that those on the inside were Galileans as they listened to their accents. As we can sometimes tell a person’s race or the region of the country they come from by their accent, the Galileans spoke with a distinctive accent. All of the Lord’s twelve disciples were Galileans with the exception of Judas (he was from Judea). Thus in the Gospel of Matthew 26:73 when Peter is denying the Lord, one of the bystanders says to him, “Surely you are one of them, for your accent betrays you.” While those on the outside heard the Galilean accents of the believers, each of them heard them praising God in the native languages of the places they come from throughout the world. Those who were from Africa heard the various dialects of the Mother Continent. At the same time that the Africans were hearing God’s praises in the various dialects and languages of Africa, those who were from Asia heard God’s praises in the various dialects and languages of Asia. At the same time that the Africans and Asians were hearing God’s praises in their native tongues, those from other regions in the Mid-East were hearing God’s praise in various Semitic dialects and languages. At the same time that those from Africa, Asia, and Mid-East heard God’s praise in their native tongues, those who were from Rome heard God’s praises in Latin. As those on the outside heard the unusual praise going forth in the upper room, a number of them who were amazed and perplexed asked each other, “What does this mean?” Others, however, mocked the praise of God’s people and said, “They have had too much wine.” When those of us who follow the Lord hear the mockery of the world, rather than being overly defensive, or becoming either discouraged or ashamed, or losing whatever cool or religion we have, we must understand we as humans tend to mock and laugh at, and even persecute newness, change, and difference . Even those of us who belong to the Lord, if we are not spiritually discerning and careful, can become so locked into our own traditions, well-worn modalities of thought, and secure and comforting routines of sameness, that we can also be guilty of mocking and persecuting anything that is new and different. However both biblical and secular history is one long lesson and reminder that we have to be careful about mocking what we don’t understand and laughing at what is new to us. After all, Noah was mocked in his day when he built his boat in the middle of the desert. Joseph, was mocked and persecuted because of his different


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    dreams. The early church was mocked and persecuted because their lifestyles were so different from the pagan society that surrounded it. Lest we forget, when the black explorer Matthew Henson went with Admiral Perry in search of the North Pole, people laughed. They said that the fingers and toes of black people would fall off in weather that cold. But the first person to reach the North Pole was the black person they had derided, and he got there with all of his fingers and toes intact. Lest we forget, Jackie Robinson was mocked when he became the first black professional baseball player. He was mocked when he started playing first baseman for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Branch Rickey, the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, was mocked for hiring him. But in 1949 Jackie Robinson was voted the National League’s most valuable player. People once laughed at the idea of black airplane pilots, but after the Tuskegee Air Men, people stopped laughing. People once laughed at the idea of a black woman demanding to be called “Miss” or “Mrs.” However, after Miss Mary McLeod Bethune became advisor to the longest tenured U.S. president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and after Mrs. Shirley Chisholm went to Congress, and now that Mrs. Kamala Harris is the Vice-President of these United States, people have stopped laughing. People once laughed at the idea of a Catholic being president of the United States, but when John F. Kennedy was elected, they stopped laughing. The day after Jimmy Carter announced for presidency, the headlines of the Atlanta Constitution, Georgia’s leading newspaper, read, “Jimmy Carter is Running for What?” But soon and very soon, people stopped laughing at the country, southern, born-again Christian from Plains, Georgia. If anyone had ever brought up the idea of a black person being president when enslaved and freed African Americans, along with European immigrants, were building the White House, they would have been laughed to scorn. If in the year 2000 when George W. Bush was first elected president, if someone had said that a young black man named Barak Hussein Obama, would succeed him in office just eight years later, they would have been laughed to scorn. And when that black president said he would initiate health care reform, in spite of the failed efforts of so many presidents before him, he was also laughed to scorn. Lest we forget, when the Lord was hung high and stretched wide on a cross on a hill called Calvary, he was mocked. As he hung between a sorrowing heaven and a sinning earth his enemies jested and said, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.” However rather than come down from the cross and fit in with a fickle and foolish crowd he chose to remain faithful to his purpose and faithful to his God. And early Sunday morning God raised him to stoop no more with all power in his hands, and God has given him a name that is above every other name, that at the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow and every tongue shall confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.


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    Some of us remember how we used to laugh at how people praised God. We used to laugh at how the saints of old stayed in church and how they used to talk. But now that we have done a little living ourselves, now that we have been burned by enough fire and have come up on the rough side of the mountain ourselves, and now that we have discovered the devil to be the liar that he is, we have come to our own appreciation of the wisdom of those we once laughed at. We are now in the church doing the same things, giving the same praise, knowing the same joy, serving the same Lord, and trying to live the same kind of saved life that we once laughed at others for doing. While mockery can be personally painful and lonely, before we jump ship we should look at the source of the mockery. It is a compliment to be mocked by some groups and not fit in with some people. Better to be mocked for being educated and intelligent than to fit in and be accepted by ignorance. Better to be mocked for trying to be something and doing something worthwhile than to fit in with people who are going nowhere, doing nothing, and talking about nothing. Better to be mocked for having vision than to fit in easily with a bunch of vision-blind people. Better to be mocked for having values and standards than to fit in with a crass, classless, vulgar, profane, and low-life crowd. Better to be mocked for being saved, free, and delivered than to fit in with a bunch of infidels who are still in bondage and on their way to hell. Better to be mocked because we are tithing and giving according to the word and Spirit of God, and live under an open heaven and enjoy the favor, overflow, and promises given to those who are obedient to the word of God in their giving, than to fit in with a whining, grumbling, and rebellious group of people who are under the curse of limitation because they are not obedient to the will, word, and instruction of God regarding tithing and giving. Some of us would rather have God’s favor than the approval of certain people any day. Better to be mocked and told that we are cheap because we are trying to be financially free than to fit in with a bunch of broke people who are in debt and are always struggling to make ends meet. Better to be mocked for trying to own something than to fit in with a bunch of renters who will be leasing and renting for the rest of their lives, always subject to the whims of some landlord and never have anything they can call their own or be able to pass on to their children and grandchildren. Better to be mocked for trying to be different and go farther, than to fit in with a frustrated crowd that lives in constant regret because they were too afraid to take a risk. We never know what we can do, how high we can fly, and how far we can reach unless we try. We never know what doors God will open unless we try. We never know what miracles God will perform on our behalf unless we try—yes, even at our age and stage, yes, even with our backgrounds and limitations, and yes, even with our past mistakes and failures, because God still has a vision for our lives that is greater than any vision we can have for ourselves or that others can have for us.


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    When Peter heard the cynical mockery of some of those who were in the crowd, with the eleven other apostles standing with him, he stood up and raised his voice and addressed those who misunderstood, misinterpreted, and mocked what they did not understand. He said, “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: ‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.’” Peter first informed his hearers that they were trying to comprehend the move of God with human understanding and that they were trying to explain divine occurrences with human explanations. That’s why they were puzzled and that’s why they laughed. One writer later picked up on such futile efforts and wrote: Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

    God’s work cannot always be grasped by the human mind or described by human vocabulary. Much of God’s work is a mystery and consequently it must simply be accepted as God’s work. Healing cannot be explained—it must be accepted as God’s work. Miracles cannot be explained—they must be accepted as God’s work. Salvation and redemption cannot be explained—just accepted as God’s work. Love that lifts, grace that is sufficient , mercy that endures from one generation to another, forgiveness that removes all our sins as far as the east is from the west, cannot be explained—just accepted as God’s work. Ways that are made out of no ways cannot be explained—just accepted as God’s work. Christ, the eternal creative word of God who became Jesus, the human suffering servant cannot be explained—just accepted as God’s work. The movement, life-generating, and transforming power of the Holy Spirit cannot be explained—just accepted as God’s work. Some things cannot be explained any more than one can explain how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly or how every river in the world flows from north to south with the exception of the Nile River, which flows from south to north. They must be accepted as God’s work. Some things cannot be explained any more than one can explain how a drop of sperm that fertilizes a woman’s egg contains all of the physical and personality traits of the child to be born or how out of all of the billions upon billions of snowflakes that fall during the winter, no two or exactly alike. They must be accepted as God’s work. Some things cannot be explained any more than one can explain how some of us got up off of some sickbeds or how some of us got out of some of the situations we were born into or some of the messes we got ourselves into. They cannot be explained any more than one can explain how some accidents that should have hap-


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    pened to us didn’t or how some of us ended up going to the schools we went to and graduated. They cannot be explained any more than one can explain why some of us are still standing. We just have to be accepted as God’s work. Peter told them of the futility of trying to give human explanations for God’s work. Then he told them about the fulfillment of God’s word because some of the things we do and some of the stands we take only make sense when we are governed by the word of God. He told them, “This is what was spoken through the prophet Joel.” Our faith is centered and grounded in the truth of God’s word—the word that is written down; the word that is living within our hearts; the word that has been validated by history and proven by our own personal experience; the word that has been revealed in Jesus Christ; the word that has been guaranteed by the Holy Spirit; the word that is believed by faith; and the word that is to be consummated in the fullness of time. When the world is puzzled as to how we can make it through the maze of traps set for us, our faith rests in God’s word, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own [understanding]. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”1 When the world is puzzled as to how we can tithe and make financial sacrifices with all of our bills and then end up as stable as they are, if not better, even when we started off with less, our faith rests in God’s word, “Bring the full tithe [and offerings] into the storehouse, so that there may be food in my house, and thus put me to the test, says the Lord of hosts; see if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you an overflowing blessing. I will rebuke the locust for you so that it will not destroy the produce of your soil; and your vine in the field shall not be barren, says the Lord of hosts. Then all nations will count you happy, for you will be a land of delight, says the Lord of hosts.”2 Faith for our provision rests in the word of God, “Honor the Lord with your substance and with the first fruits of all your produce; then your barns will be filled with plenty, and your vats will be bursting with wine.”3 Faith for our provision rests in the word of God, “And my God will fully satisfy every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”4 When the world is puzzled as to how we can keep our heads in a storm, our faith rests in the word of God, “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding , will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”5 When the world laughs at our dreams, our faith rests in the word of God, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”6 When this world mocks our faith and tells us that we are forsaken and are all alone, our faith rests in the word of the Lord, “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”7 When this world mocks our faith and tells us that we believe in myths and fairytales, our faith rests in the word of the Lord, “Heaven and earth shall pass away but my words will not pass away.”8 When this world mocks our


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    lifestyles of sacrifice and service and tells you that “You only live once and when you’re dead you’re done, so you might as well let the good times roll,” our faith rests in the word of God, “And as it is appointed all [persons] once to die, and after this the judgment.”9 Our faith rests in the word of the Lord, “See, I am coming soon; my reward is with me, to repay according to everyone’s work. I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.”10 Peter explained to a mocking world about the futility of trying to explain divine occurrences with human understanding. Peter told them about how some things can only be comprehended by an understanding of, faith in, and commitment to the word of God. Peter did all of this. Note that I said Peter, whose voice had once been raised with curses and denials of his relationship with Jesus, stood up boldly so the multitude so could plainly see who he was and how we was. Standing before them was no weaving or wobbling drunk, no timid, fumbling or fearful, mumbling, ready-to-run disciple, but a clear thinking, sure footed, steady, unfaltering, and unflinching man of God. Where did Peter get all of his courage? Whence did the change come? When the Holy Spirit fell, Peter was included in the room and in the number, and so when he opened his mouth and talked about the work of God and the word of God, he was talking from his own experience. He gave his own understanding of who Jesus was. There was nothing profound or deep about his message. Peter just related his own understanding of who Jesus was and what his death meant. He said: “You that are Israelites, listen to what I have to say: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know—this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law … This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses. Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God, and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this that you both see and hear. For David did not ascend into the heavens, but he himself says, ‘The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand  until I make your enemies your footstool.”’ Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.” How do we avoid being a victim of a mocking world? We stand in front of the world and tell them, “Look at me. If you want to see what God can do with a life that is messed up, then look at me. If you want to see the difference that faith in the word of God can make in your life, then look at me. If you want to know if the word works, if God will forgive you, if Jesus can save you, and if the Holy Spirit can fill you and sanctify you, then look at me. If you really want to know if your future can be better than your past then look at me.” How do we stand up to a mocking world—by remembering our own story. In times like these when there are so many efforts to disprove the claims of the Gospel, in times like these when we are constantly bombarded by negative news about the


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    faith and the church, if we ever begin to doubt the truth of what we believe, remember your own story. No matter what old manuscripts are discovered to refute the truth of the Gospel, no matter what novels are written to dispute the historic understanding of the faith, no matter what discouraging and disheartening news you hear about scandals in the church and imperfections among the saints, remember your own story. No matter how many of your leaders that you believe in and have trusted fall to their indiscretions, no matter how many times you may be disheartened, disappointed , and heartbroken because of the dirt you discover in the lives of the saints, remember your own story. You were saved and redeemed by a real Savior whose life was without blemish. No myth or fairytale dug you up where the world had buried you and placed you upon a solid rock to stand. You have your own story to tell about the grace and the mercy of God, what Christ can and will do for you, and how the Holy Spirit will keep you, comfort you, and direct you when you don’t know where to turn. The saints who brought you this message were not perfect, but God was able to use them to help you see the light. The church, whose worship inspired and nourished you when your soul was hungry and thirsty, whose ministries nurtured you, whose teachings directed and gave clarity to you, and helped you discover your gifts, was far from perfect. But God was still able to use it, warts and all, to bless your life, to give you hope, and to sustain you during dark moments of your life and the life of your family. Your own story will keep you steady in the face of your mocking world. What kept the Samaritan woman with her held high in the same town where she was once the object of gossip? She remembered her story of how the Lord Jesus had given her living water. How was the demoniac Legion able to go back to the same region and win souls where he had once lived as an object of horror and shame? He remembered his story of how the Lord had set him free. How did the man born blind deal with the public disgrace of being put out of the synagogue when even his parents would not back him? He remembered his own story of how the Lord had given him sight. How was the woman who was caught in sin able to go back to the same community and live with dignity among those who had tried to stone her? She remembered her story of how the Lord had shamed her hypocritical accusers and given her another chance at life. How was Paul able to preach the same Gospel he had once mocked and wrote as colleague among those whom he had once persecuted? He remembered his own story of how the Lord had turned him around on the Damascus Road. How was Peter able to talk boldly to a crowd about a Savior he had once denied? He remembered his own story of how the Lord forgave him and allowed him to receive his portion of the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Therefore no matter what happens, remember your story, because every child of God should have one about what the Lord can and will do in your life if we give him a chance. And while we are remembering our story, don’t forget to do what Peter did. Don’t forget to tell those who may question or mock your faith the good news that


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    Peter told his audience—that the same Jesus who saved him, who forgave him, who cleansed him, who gave him another chance is also available to them. Don’t forget to tell them that your story can become their story too. And what is your story? This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long; This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long.

    Blessed assurance Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His spirit, washed in His blood.

    Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of rapture now burst on my sight; Angels descending, bring from above Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

    Perfect submission, all is at rest; I in my Savior am happy and blest, Watching and waiting, looking above, Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

    Notes

    1. Proverbs 3:5-6 2. Malachi 3:10-12 3. Proverbs 3:9-10 4. Philippians 4:19 5. Philippians 4:6-7 6. Philippians 4:13 7. Matthew 28:20b 8. Matthew 24:35 9. Hebrews 9:27, KJV 10. Revelation 22:12-13

  • ‘Sighing’: Romans 8:22-27

    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.

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    “Sighing”

    Romans 8:22-27

    Kristy Farber

    Bellevue, Washington

    A few weeks ago I had … a day. The kind of day that feels like a string of one thing after another. It started with small things: coffee leaking out of my mug, a phone that wasn’t charged, paperwork that took too long and conversation that didn’t get long enough. Finally, I got home. We didn’t have everything we needed for dinner so I walked to QFC to slow down my mind and grab an onion and two limes. When I went to check out, I reached in my pocket only to find that I had no credit card, no way to pay for my items. I closed my eyes and I heaved a deep sigh, exhausted and exasperated by the day. Then I apologized to the checker and walked back home. I’m not sure if my apology was for leaving my produce at the front or for the pained sigh I left him with. Likely both. When I was young, I learned that sighing was rude. I’m sure that I came by that lesson honestly.

    “Kristy, pick up your room.” (deep breath) *sigh* “Kristy, stop reading a book, it’s time for dinner.” (deep breath) *sigh* “Kristy, you can’t do that thing just because your older brothers do …” (deep breath) *sigh*

    As a young person, I heard adults complain about the sighs from angsty teenagers and our lack of communication skills. Taking offense to this, I tried to use my words instead, buying into the idea that a sigh was rude and I should avoid it. It was just recently that I read fairly new research out of UCLA and Stanford talking about the importance of sighing.1 Sighing, it turns out, isn’t rude. It is, in fact, an essential action our brain signals to our lungs to keep our lungs fully inflated. There are times when our bodies need to sigh, when we hold onto breath, closed off for all sorts of reasons. There are even times that without sighing we could be in danger of our lungs failing us.2 A sigh can help inflate the part of our lungs where carbon dioxide and oxygen are exchanged. Sighing increases the oxygen—the life—in our bodies, opening us up to the air and life around us. It’s like a biological reset button, bringing on a feeling of relief. With all these great benefits, it seems like a wise move for us to pause and try sighing together. I promise, I won’t feel offended. You can make it a sigh of relief if


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    you came in here holding your breath for some reason. Or an exasperated sigh if you hate an interactive sermon. Whatever works for you. Take a deep breath and then …*sigh* And again … deep breath and then …*sigh*

    There are so many reasons in our lives and in the world for which we may need to stop and sigh. It’s what my body did involuntarily when I first read about Robb Elementary School two weeks ago. It often how I feel as get home after a long day, when I’m worried about someone. Sometimes I don’t realize how much I’m holding my breath, waiting for something , waiting for some sign of relief of good new or hope, just waiting to exhale. I wonder how often the early church felt like they were holding their breath as I read a passage like the one we have today. Paul is writing to the church in Rome, faithful people waiting for the world to be set right. People who looked out on their community and witnessed personal pain and broken systems, who saw grief and injustice taking root. He describes the whole of creation—the earth and land AND the people—groaning in pain for new life to spring forth. Addressing their pain, he reminds them of God’s promise to them. He reminds them of the presence and the power of the Holy Spirit. There is this line in Romans, this beautiful promise, that the Holy Spirit who is present with us here, now, always, will intercede on our behalf with sighs too deep for words. INTERCEDE … with sighs too deep for words. That is a promise of God that we don’t talk about nearly enough: God sighs on our behalf.3

    God sighs. For us.

    God sighs for us when we are not getting enough oxygen. When we feel weak and light-headed. God sighs for us when hope seems lost. When the next step seems unknown. When we Just. Want. To. SCREAM! God sighs for us when it feels like everything is collapsing around us and we need a path forward. God sighs for you and for me. God does not sigh because God struggles for air … God breathes just fine. The breath of God is steady and present. This sigh is for us. And for all of creation. And it has a name—the Holy Spirit. The Spirit, who has been present since the beginning, who gathered the church together at Pentecost and gathers us still today, who moves in and among us now, creating and renewing, challenging and comforting. Interceding in our lives with sighs too deep for words, sighs that open up our lungs AND our hearts and minds. This isn’t the only place we see someone sighing in scripture.


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    There is a story of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark where a group of people bring a deaf man to Jesus, hoping Jesus could help him to hear and to speak. Jesus then looks to heaven and he sighs. He sighs and he says, “be opened.” Immediately the man could hear and could speak. A sigh is meant to open something up in us.

    The Spirit intercedes on our behalf with sighs too deep for words. I wonder what needs to be opened up for you and for me this day? Since 2020, it seems like much of our conversations have been about closing things down. These closures were all about safety as we navigated a world that was so uncertain. Yet as we closed school buildings and theatres and libraries and sanctuaries and physical structures where we go to, I have heard from many people who have expressed feeling emotionally closed off to the world. It doesn’t take a pandemic to do this. We can find ourselves closed off from the world in all sorts of situations and for all sorts of reasons. It can happen because we are exhausted. Or misunderstood. We can close ourselves off because we don’t want to explain ourselves. Or we are holding onto a grudge. Or we’ve been hurt. It could be anxiety. Or the weight of the world. Maybe feeling a little distant or closed off others is not even something we recognize. I was born and raised in this area and think that we are lovely humans in the Pacific Northwest, BUT I am also aware that the Seattle area has a reputation for being unwelcoming, dating back to the 1920s. It’s called the Seattle Freeze, the idea that those of us who live in this area are closed off from meeting new people, from building new relationships. Maybe we don’t even notice when we have closed ourselves off. But once we close ourselves off, it’s hard to open again on our own, open ourselves up to people, to ideas, to hope, or to new paths. That is what the Spirit moves in to do. That is the gift of the Holy Spirit this day. Are there things that feel closed to you in life and in this world? Is there an ending where you long for a beginning? Where are you praying for new life? The Spirit intercedes with sighs that go beyond our words. And what happens next cannot be mapped out. God sighs for us, opening our lungs and our lives to something bigger, and then our lives change.

    * * * Last summer, in a neighborhood on the North Side of Chicago, Carmen Cruz was thinking about her 13-year-old son Nikolas and how much he loves baseball. Carmen is a single mom who so wants to give her kid everything, but she can’t play baseball. At all. In fact, she is deeply scared of being hit by the ball.


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    Her son Nikolas loves the game but needed someone to help him practice to have a chance to make his middle school team, to keep up his skills in this pandemic summer. Knowing that she couldn’t be this person for her son, Carmen went to social media and posted on her neighborhood page:

    “Looking for any baseball-oriented individuals. I suck as a parent for even asking this but my son needs a little help honing his baseball skills and I’m soooo afraid of getting hit with the ball again. Anyone willing to throw the ball with him 1 day a week please let me know. He’s a really cool 13-year-old!”

    Carmen believed that she was a bad mom for reaching out to ask. For seeking help on behalf of her kid. But her willingness to reach out led to them meeting Ashvin Lad, a neighbor up the street who had experience coaching baseball. Ashvin figured that throwing a ball after work would be a great way to wind down his day and be a good neighbor. They started playing catch in the park after school with Carmen cheering them on. They talked strategy. They went to the batting cages. And they became friends. Carmen shares that their family had been in a really hard place after the death of her older son. That it was hard to learn how to reach out. But meeting Ashvin feels like a God send. And Ashvin feels the same way, delighted to share a game he loves with a kid who made space in his heart for it.4

    It can be hard to open ourselves up.

    You and I have countless reasons right now, good reasons, to close ourselves off from the world, from new ways of being, from new relationships, from new hope. Countless reasons to hibernate and hunker down and make our worlds and our lives smaller. But today we celebrate Pentecost, where the Spirit moves in with wind, and fire, and languages and sighs too deep for words, and changes everything. The day God’s Spirit OPENS up the CHURCH and brings together unlikely people, to be a people together. We are called to be God’s people in the world. As the church, with one another. To proclaim hope. And peace. And love. To hold the hands of those who are struggling. And weep with those who weep. To seek out justice with our voices and our action. To BE God’s people in this world. This work is made possible by a God who sighs. With us. And for us. Opening up our breath and our lives. It’s a promise we don’t remember nearly enough. God sighs.


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    For me and for you. Amen.

    Notes

    1. Mary Grace Garis, Well and Good Magazine, June 7, 2019, https://www.wellandgood.com/ meaning-of-sighing/ 2. Fiona MacDonald, Science Alert, “Sighing is Actually Life-Saving,” February 18, 2016, https://www.sciencealert.com/scientists-discover-that-sighing-is-actually-a-life-saving-biological -function 3. The Reverend Lucinda Isaacs gave me the idea of writing a sermon on God sighing for this Sunday. She and I worked on this sermon together, sharing ideas and stories as we talked through this text for Pentecost. 4. Heidi Stevens, Chicago Tribune, June 16 2021, https://www.chicagotribune.com/columns/ heidi-stevens/ct-heidi-stevens-boy-needed-someone-to-play-catch-cubs-game-0616-20210617-2nmxspyahndhfov4vndj6jpmjm -story.html

  • ‘An Out of Hand Church’: Acts 2:1-21

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    “An Out of Hand Church”

    Acts 2:1-21

    Ben Johnston-Krase

    Durham, North Carolina

    And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. – Acts 2:2

    My childhood church had a Pentecost tradition of eating birthday cake after the worship service. Lots of it. Someone always decorated the fellowship hall with streamers and balloons, and tables and chairs were arranged into twelve seating areas , one for each month of the year. We were invited to sit according to the month of our birth, and together we sang “Happy Birthday dear church …” and dug in. The birth of the Christian church was delicious and fun. Looking back, I’m struck by the pleasant, tamed nature of those Pentecost observances . Chocolate cake? Yes, please. Violent wind? No thank you very much. Pleasant table conversation? Sure. Tongues of fire? Um, no. Rather, we’d like the fullbore , unleashed nature of the Spirit to be filtered and condensed for a user-friendly Sunday morning experience. Which is par for our course in so many ways, as our church pageantries are so often orderly, benign retellings of sacred stories too large and unkempt for the confines of our expectations, let alone our worship bulletins. The flood and the burning bush, the wrestling with angels and the lion’s den, the fiery furnace, dry bones rising up, a baby born to a virgin, thousands fed with a few pieces of bread, Lazarus walking out of that tomb, the stone rolled away … It would be strange if the Spirit’s appearance in Acts were anything other than unexpected, unnerving, and completely upending. Unexpected, unnerving, and upending: these are not things many of us are looking for in a church. When you imagine folks in your congregation inviting their neighbors to a Sunday service, you can call to mind what they’re definitely not saying : It’s a blasted free-for-all in there. Week in and week out, we never know what to expect. Just when you think you know what’s going on, everything changes. Please join us! Said nobody ever. This is not the church we’re looking for—perhaps because in a world full of that which is unexpected, unnerving, and upending, we’re not looking to God for more of the same. Perhaps the church we’re looking for is something more like what we imagine the disciples were doing pre-Pentecost. We read that they’d devoted themselves to prayer, and in the closing verses of Acts 1, we learn that they’ve responded to the fact that Judas is no longer in the picture. So apparently, they’ve formed themselves a little nominating committee and elected a replacement disciple. Which sort of begs the


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    question, what else have the disciples been up to these fifty days? Did they approve a budget? Do they have a mission statement? I wonder if they’ve set some objectives with measurable goals? (Or are those goals with measurable objectives?) Perhaps they’ve formed a few subcommittees and task forces already and maybe even laid some groundwork for that first capital campaign. Maybe not. But certainly we see some evidence in Acts that these early followers have been picking themselves up by their sandal-straps. They’re ready to work to make this thing go, to get some momentum behind their Christ movement.

    In a world seemingly full of that which is unplanned, unnerving, and upending , it’s understandable if we’re particularly attracted to this part of the story—to thoughtful, industrious disciples with capable minds getting the church off to a good start. By extension, it’s reasonable that we would also be drawn to modern-day versions of the same: religious moments and movements that project logical, calculated vision and steady competency and religious leaders who operate among us as astute strategist/gurus for the church’s vitality and growth. Acts 2 says no to that and yes to a God who creates, redeems, and sustains with God’s agenda and not ours. Acts 2 reminds us that the church is not our thoughtful creation but rather God’s reality breaking into our own. So honor the ways that our lives, our communities, and our world feel so undeniably unplanned, unnerved, and upended. Yes, on any given Sunday morning, our congregations gather not to experience a violent wind, but rather to seek shelter from it. Polarized communities and families, systemic racism, wars overseas, division in our homes, overscheduled lives, exhaustion, economic hardship … this is the hard wind we face. And perhaps a big part of us just wants a church experience to be so pleasantly unlike the week/month/year we’ve been having. We might ask, can’t we just have another round of Jesus calming the storm? Honor that reality, yes. And then play with the story of a God who breaks into a chaotic world with holy chaos. A violent wind, tongues of fire, less-than-sober behavior … could these exist in the narrative as signs of a God who is always hovering over the chaotic waters of this world and artfully drawing up that which is good? Could it be that the Holy Spirit did not birth the church to give us one more doggone thing to manage and do in this complicated life, but rather to usher in a reality ever -infused with a holy, windswept nature? What are the stories and experiences in our communities that give voice to this untamed reality? A friend of a church I once served worked as a fouth grade school teacher. She and her students had just finished a unit on C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the first of his Narnia series. She’d gotten a hold of a big empty refrigerator box and decorated it to look like a wardrobe. Early one morning, she brought it in and put it in an empty classroom just


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    Pentecost 2024

    off the school’s library. Her students arrived and when they finished their last lesson, she told them that she had a surprise for them. “I’m going to take you to the land of Narnia,” she said. She led them out of their room, down the hall, through the library, and into that room, empty except for the box. The kids came in, a few at a time, and walked into the wardrobe. Before long, they were lost in play as characters in the story. They were fawns and centaurs and elves and talking animals. And before too long, they got pretty loud! They made such a ruckus that the librarian finally had had enough. She came into the room and scolded the class. “The level of noise in this room is inappropriate!” she declared. “And I want it quiet! Don’t you know where you are?” Well I guess the correct answer was, “a library,” but one of the children peeked her head around the corner of the wardrobe and spoke up. “We’re in Narnia,” she said. Carried away. Out of hand. I’m in Narnia! It’s a fun way to imagine the church, isn’t it? Carried away so much that we actually start believing and living the stuff we say, like love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you, the first shall be last and the last first, don’t worry … These are not agenda items in an already overscheduled life—they’re Christ-born, Spirit-breathed realities offered for our being and believing. One other story. Today we live in an age of viral videos online, or as I sometimes like to call them, “viral sermon illustrations.” For better or for worse, we have unprecedented access to moments sacred and mundane that anybody with a video camera can post online for all the world to see. One such video I love features a street musician named Tyler. Tyler the Guitar Man. Tyler has a long, scraggly beard, he wears a floppy leather hat, and he’s got tattoos up and down his arms. His singing voice is older than he looks; it’s deep and weathered with a few rough edges. Tyler the Guitar Man sits atop a small plywood box, and as he plays, he keeps the beat with his cowboy boots, stomping in time to the music. The scene’s not that unusual. A street busker playing a few songs, a few dollars lying in his open guitar case, folks passing by … But there’s a mom and her son. They’ve stopped and they’re listening. The boy’s name is Jacob. He’s eight years old, he has autism, he is blind, and it is clear that Jacob is digging Tyler the Guitar Man! Tyler’s playing that old Leadbelly song, “Midnight Special,” and Jacob’s rocking back and forth, back and forth …

    Let the midnight special shine her light on me Let the midnight special shine her ever-loving light on me

    Mom has one hand on Jacob’s shoulder because with each back-and-forth he’s inching a step closer to Tyler the Guitar Man. She’s not sure. Is this ok? Maybe not, but Tyler doesn’t seem to mind, so she lets her son get a little closer, a little closer.


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    Finally Jacob’s right toe touches the plywood box. Back and forth, back and forth he’s rocking, and Tyler the Guitar Man stomps his boots and keeps singing …

    Let the midnight special shine her light on me Let the midnight special shine her ever-loving light on me

    Jacob holds up his little hands, feeling the music in the air. And finally he does what we can tell he’s been wanting to do. He touches the guitar. Mom tries to stop him, but she doesn’t want to make a scene. And she doesn’t really want to stop him, either. I mean, look at the kid! He’s loving it! She quickly asks Tyler, “Can he touch your guitar?” And Tyler keeps playing, keeps stomping his boots, and just nods his head in time. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” And then it happens. What you can see are three people : a cautious mother, a grizzled street musician, and a boy who is blind rocking back and forth, back and forth with his palms flat against that guitar. What you can only see if you look closely are the tongues of fire hanging above their heads, enabling them to speak to each other words of Spirit, words of grace …

    Let the midnight special shine her light on me Let the midnight special shine her ever-loving light on me

    Remind yourself and your people: the Good News of Pentecost is not that it happened. The Good and Gracious News of Pentecost is that it is always happening. Unplanned, unnerving, and upending? Yes. Out of hand? Maybe. But it is always happening—the Church of Jesus Christ is always being born—again and again. The question is not “Can you plan for it?” or “Can you make it happen?” And good heavens , it’s certainly not, “Can you effectively manage it?” The holy question is, rather, “Can you put your hands on it and can you sing along?”

  • ‘Speak People, Fluently’: Acts 2:1-13

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    “Speak People, Fluently”

    Acts 2:1-13

    Amy Starr Redwine

    Richmond, Virginia

    I grew up in southwest Virginia, surrounded by people from similar religious, political, and cultural backgrounds. So it was something of a revelation to move into my dorm room at Middlebury College in Vermont. Next door lived two women who would become my best friends: one from DC, who was Jewish and had relatives who perished in the Holocaust; the other was from Boston, from a Greek Orthodox family whose grandparents emigrated from Greece to America. Both of them exposed me to new religious rituals and traditions, including my first Passover Seder and Orthodox Easter. And they introduced me to some spectacular foods—kugel and matzo-ball soup, baklava and spanakopita. I learned a lot in college—much of it outside the classroom! What I learned in the classroom was languages. Sophomore year, I decided to take ancient Greek so that I could read the New Testament in the original language. Greek was part of the Classics Department and there I found myself immersed in a whole different culture—the logic and precision and mathematical nature of the Greek language, as well as the philosophical assumptions of the ancient Greeks. Later that year I enrolled in Biblical Hebrew, and when I showed up for the first day of class, I met my professor, who was an ordained rabbi, and three other classmates who had learned Hebrew in preparation for their bar mitzvahs. Once again, as I struggled to learn this strange language with a whole different alphabet and way of writing and reading, I was immersed in a new culture as well, one shaped by the stories and people of the Hebrew Bible. Learning another language connects us to the people for whom that language is their native tongue. Language brings us together, not just through sound and speech, but through culture and memory, land and place, food and fashion, art and stories. In this way, says Acts scholar Willie Jennings, language creates intimacy. On Pentecost, the Holy Spirit comes and enables the gathered disciples to suddenly and fluently speak the languages of the peoples who have come from other lands to live in or visit Jerusalem. Jennings claims it is “this revolutionary intimacy … [which gives] birth to a belonging we will call church.”1 The disciples had waited for the Holy Spirit since Jesus promised it would come and give them power to share the gospel. And indeed, when the Holy Spirit arrives, it gives them the ability to speak new languages so that all people could hear of the love and grace of God. In this story, language gives rise to belonging. When the gathered disciples start talking about Jesus in languages they had not previously known,


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    it creates powerful connections between the disciples and the Jews from every nation who had settled in Jerusalem. Not surprisingly, this miracle raises a question for those who witness it: “What does this mean?” they ask. Jennings invites us to ask an additional question: “What is God doing here and now?” The answer—always—is this: God is sending the Holy Spirit to empower us. And the Spirit empowers us to speak to one another, hear one another, understand one other, and overcome divisions of all kinds—not just divisions created by language and culture and experience, but divisions created by education and class and politics and race and religion—all these divisions that the gospel breaks down. What does this mean? It means, that, by the power of the Holy Spirit, everyone belongs. The late Arthur Schlesinger wrote a book in the 1990s in which he raised concerns about what he called the looming “Balkanization” of American society. He worried that tribal interests and ethnic identities would unravel the fragile bonds of unity in American culture. He predicted that if left unchecked, America would see the kind of social disintegration that occurred in the former Yugoslavia and eventually led to ethnic cleansing.2 It’s not hard to see the wisdom in Schlesinger’s prediction. And yet, Pentecost suggests that God imagines and conscripts us in a very different endeavor, one in which the things that divide us become the very things that invite us to move closer to each other in wonder and curiosity, to move beyond our circles of comfort and familiarity and get to know people who are not just strangers but who may even seem strange to us. This is the power Holy Spirit grants us, a Spirit-filled desire to know and understand and connect with people whose lives and backgrounds and culture differ from ours. After all, writes Jennings, “God speaks people, fluently. And God, with all the urgency that is with the Holy Spirit, wants the disciples of his only begotten Son to speak people fluently too.” The meaning of Pentecost is that everyone belongs. But the miracle of Pentecost is that the Holy Spirit enables us to speak people, fluently, so that we might all discover the belonging we call the church. Matthew Desmond grew up in the railroad town of Winslow, Arizona—yes, the one from the Eagles’ song. His dad was a pastor and his family never had a lot of money. The bills didn’t get paid and their utilities got turned off. While Desmond was in college, his family lost their home. “That experience worked its way inside of me,” he says, “and made me see how poverty diminishes and stresses a family.” Desmond became a sociologist and when he decided to write a book about America ’s housing crisis, he moved to Milwaukee where he lived in a mobile home park on the south side and then in a rooming house on the north side. Desmond became intimately acquainted with the families around him.


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    Pentecost 2024

    “[I] saw a level of poverty I’ve just never seen or experienced,” he says, “… grandmas living without heat in the winter … kids getting evicted.” He followed families to eviction court and shelters, watched their kids, slept on their floors, ate at their tables, went to funerals, even a birth. He also got to know the landlords, getting just as close to them as to their tenants, helping them fix up their properties and pass out eviction notices. Matthew Desmond learned to speak people, fluently; people whose experiences and challenges he recognized but did not know until he lived among them. And that led him to realize “that I’m accountable to folks that are struggling … when you get proximate to families that are enduring a level of hardship that so many of us can’t even imagine, it really washes over you. It makes you accountable to the problem in a different way.” He concludes, “I think there’s some spiritual violence we do to our lives when we live apart from each other, when we’re segregated from each other … There’s real happiness, there’s real joy in binding your lives to folks that are quite different from you …”3 Before the arrival of the Holy Spirit, Jesus’s disciples kept to themselves. They were confused and afraid and uncertain of what was going to happen now that Jesus had gone. The Holy Spirit comes bearing the joyful news that they don’t have to be afraid anymore, don’t have to associate only with those who see things the way they do. And to prove it, the Spirit gifts them with the very thing they need to connect with others: the ability to communicate with people outside their circle, to share the good news and to hear what others had to say about what God’s love means for them. The meaning of Pentecost is that everyone belongs—to God and to each other. And the miracle of Pentecost is that the Holy Spirit enables us to speak people, fluently . Our experiences of the Holy Spirit today, in our various churches and ministries, will probably be a little more subtle than suddenly being able to speak new languages . But if the Spirit empowers us to speak people, fluently, then could it be the Spirit at work whenever we step out of our comfort zones and get close to people who are different from us? In a recent episode of the hit TV show “Ted Lasso,” a player on a football team finally comes out as gay to his teammates. Their response is almost anticlimactic. “That’s cool, bro” they reassure him, and then one says, “You’re gay, big whoop, we don’t care.” But then Coach Lasso speaks up, “Hold on,” he says, “that’s not quite right. We do care … we care very much, because we care about who you are and what you must’ve been going through. And from now on, you don’t have to go through it by yourself.” “Yeah,” another player says, “You’ve got us. We’ve got you.”4


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    The meaning of Pentecost is that everyone belongs—because God cares about everyone and invites us to care, too. And the miracle of Pentecost is that the Holy Spirit enables us to speak people, fluently. Today, may we be ready and open and willing to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, to learn a new language, to speak people, fluently, and to rediscover and joyfully proclaim the promise of the gospel: everyone belongs.

    Notes 1. Jennings, Willie James, Acts: A Theological Commentary on the Bible. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2017). 2. Michael Jinkins, “Acts 2:1-21, Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 3, David Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. WJK Press, 2010. 3. “Matthew Desmond on America’s Addiction to Poverty,” podcast, The Ezra Klein Show, 2023. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/21/opinion/ezra-klein-podcast-matthew-desmond.html?- showTranscript=1 4. “Ted Lasso,” Season 4, Episode 9.

  • Tree Gospel (or, Easter in October)

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    Tree Gospel (or, Easter in October)

    Daniel Cooperrider

    Madison, Wisconsin

    (

    -F. Scott Fitzgerald

    Zacchaeus, a wealthy tax collector, once climbed a tree to get a better look at Je­ sus. The crowd was thick around Jesus in Jericho that day. Zacchaeus, perhaps being below average in height, and having his heart set on seeing just who this person was, was quick on his feet and nimble in hand as he scrambled up a nearby tree. Although Jericho was known as “the city of palms,” the tax collector chose a rare tree species for the area. While the English-speaking tradition claims it as a sycamore, the tree that scripture mentions is more accurately the sycamore-fig, or the fig-mulberry, Fi­ cus sycomoris. About half the size of the American sycamore, the sycamore-fig that Zacchaeus climbed is native to Egypt—suggesting that the social outsider status that attended the tax collector found a kindred spirit in the slow spreading boughs of this botanical outsider. If his original intention in climbing the tree was to see Jesus, the more powerful effect of his action was that being in the tree allowed Jesus to see the tax collector. Speaking directly to Zacchaeus’s deepest longing, Jesus invites the wealthy outsid­ er to be his host for the evening. The estranged one is offered the deeper truth of belonging. And being seen by Jesus in this way, the tax collector in the tree is able to see the truth of his life’s purpose more clearly, or maybe better to say that his life’s purpose has been raised back from the dead, resurrection as raison d’etre. He declares immediately that he will give half his possessions to the poor, and will pay back any debts he owes fourfold. “Today salvation has come,” Jesus says to the be­ wildered crowd. “Because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Human One came to seek out and to save the lost” (Luke 19: 9-10, CEB).

    It’s early October, the season of painted leaves, and I’ve been wandering the woods in northern Wisconsin for the last half hour, trying to find a good tree to climb. I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t remember the last time I climbed a tree. Likely it was childhood. Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector. A wealthy, grown man. I picture someone ponderous and serious. And yet he must have been in touch with that deep well of human playfulness, climbing a tree like a child. Perhaps it was this play­ fulness that Jesus saw and commended when he declared that salvation had visited Zacchaeus that day. You must become childlike, if you want to enter the kingdom of heaven.


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    Finding a tree to climb in a mature northern forest can be more challenging than one might think. Most trees are either too tall or too short, with branches either too far out of reach, or too thin and spindly to support any weight. Some birch trees seem to be about the right size, but they wouldn’t offer the sturdy perch I have in mind. Looking slender and lithe, they are more of a swinging tree than a climbing one, as Robert Frost would say. The white oaks would be sturdy enough if I could reach any of the branches. They dominate the forest I am in, rising tall and straight until they branch out into a canopy of copper, tan, burnt ochre leaves and taupe, jaunty squir­ rels. The maples, too. There are no goldilocks (for climbing purposes) specimens to be found in this forest. I do find a few immature white pines of climbable size, but after a couple of reaches up, I lose interest in their prickly hand holds and wispy, tickling needles. It’s no matter because October in the northern woods is play and glory and en­ rapture enough. There is a party of colors above my head and an afterparty below my feet. It is perhaps the most dramatically beautiful thing that happens on the landscape here each year, as summer’s sea of green slowly at first and then in rapid succession morphs and blends and fades and explodes into a fully stocked crayon box of color. Chrome yellow ash, lemon yellow aspen, and yellow orange birch fill out part of the color wheel. The maples take care of all the possible shades of red. The oaks can seem to paint with all the colors at once. Overhead, each tree comes to the party donning its particular candidate for color of the year. Underfoot the leaves of all the species mingle together in a confetti carpet that makes the foot traveler feel like roy­ alty or like a high fashion celebrity walking the red carpet. That all of this beauty is a result of the death of the trees’ leaves is deeply stirring. On a crisp, lightly breezy day like today, the leaves overhead and underfoot chime back and forth to one another—a taut, crisp, confident, cheerful sound. There is no fear of death in their last words, in this leafy postlude on the turning of the year. When an oak leaflets go of its branch, its friendly hand waves goodbye to its siblings above before flipping over and offering a friendly hello to its companions waiting be­ low. It settles on the party-colored forest floor for a time of interspecies commingling before its season of deeper union comes when all the spent leaves come together in creating the humus below. This humus will feed the trees in seasons to come, and the leaves in their leaf-energy will find themselves rising up to the top of the canopy once more. Thoreau, in “Autumnal Tints,” the final essay of his life, rightly called the fall leaves “the flower,” “the harvest,” and “the ripe fruit” of the year. They speak to us of the endless mystery of death and resurrection, stooping and falling in order to rise again. If it can sometimes feel a bit thin and trite to speak of resurrection in springtime, comparing new life to a dainty tulip, in autumn resurrection energy is more robust and musty, a crunch of yellowed leaves underfoot jumpstarting the dis­ integration and reintegration process of the earth’s cycle of renewal.


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    “How beautifully they go to their graves,” Thoreau wrote of the fall leaves. “They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die.”

    ‘Tor there is hope for a tree, if it is cut down, that it will sprout again and that its shoots will not cease.” -Job 14: 7

    Time and again in his wisdom teachings, Jesus drew on trees to make his point, as if trees were a metonym for his life’s gospel message of resurrection and the hope of new life. He was struck by the natural abundance of trees, and compared their generativity to that of people. “A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit,” Jesus said, talking simultaneously about trees and about people. “Thus you will know them by their fruits” (Matthew 7: 17-19). To teach about abundance and generativity as signs of God’s presence, Jesus pointed to a mustard seed, “the smallest of seeds.” “But when it has grown,” he taught, “it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches” (Matthew 13: 31-32). In my North American context, the acorn and the oak metaphor lands closer to home and speaks the same message. As I watch a squirrel bury a quarter-sized acorn beneath an oak that is about 250 years tall, the message continues to awe and inspire—God’s creation and creativity is such that apparent endings alchemize into small beginnings from which immense and great things come forth. Perhaps the strangest reference to trees when we read Jesus’s life from an arbo­ real perspective is the story of the healing of the blind man in Bethesda. According to Mark’s Gospel, when Jesus arrived in the Galilean town, he was introduced to a blind man. Jesus took the blind man by the hand and led him outside of town. The moment is one of many when Jesus prefers to hold his teachings and healings outside of the village center in a less terraformed or human-shaped landscape. This is a fea­ ture of Jesus’s method that sets him apart from many other philosophers and teachers of his day. Socrates, for example, famously criticized teaching outside of the town square, saying that “the country places and the trees won’t teach me anything” (Pla­ to’s Phaedrus, 230a). So Jesus leads the blind man out into the country, perhaps to a spot where the trees outnumber the people. Jesus spits on his hands, and lays them on the man. He asks him, “Can you see anything?”

    “And the man looked up and said, T can see people, but they look like trees, walking.” —Mark 8: 23


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    It’s a remarkable, even surreal moment in scripture. I think of Tolkien’s “Ents” or Giacometti’s “Walking Men” sculptures. The text moves on with Jesus having to do something he never does elsewhere in his healing episodes—return to the person for a follow-up procedure. Jesus lays his hands on the man again, and, in something like the moment when Mary Magdalene finally recognizes the gardener by the empty tomb as the risen Christ, when the man looked again “his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly.” This healing miracle, as with Mary’s eventual recognition, is often interpreted symbolically—that spiritual enlightenment—“clear seeing”—is a gradual, unfolding process. But also like the powerful metaphor of Christ-as-gardener , I can’t shake the literal image of the first vision—people, looking like trees, walking. Trees, of course, do look a bit like people, and people look a bit like trees. Which was it, I wonder, that the blind man actually saw—people that looked like trees, or trees that looked like people? Given that it seems like it was just Jesus and this man alone outside of town, I’m inclined towards the latter—that the man opened his eyes, and he saw trees. We don’t know whether this man was recently blind or whether he was blind from birth. He seems to have known that trees tended to appear stationary, and that people tended to be ambulatory. Perhaps the blind man saw trees in a similar way to an artist like Van Gogh, in whose vision cypress and olive trees do seem to be on the move, the olive trees each walking or dancing their own path through the sunlit grove, as in his olive tree studies from St-Remy in southern France (1889). In her chapter “Seeing,” from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard tells the story of a young girl who had her sight restored. She had gotten used to reading the world by feel, and this carried over to when she could see again. Even with restored sight, she preferred to touch an object first before naming it. This happened with trees, too. The girl was led into a garden with trees and asked what she saw. She walked up to a tree and put her hands on it. This is “tree,” she said, before following up with a more descriptive account—“the tree with the lights in it.” Dillard, more accustomed to seeing trees as trees from a lifetime of sighted living, sets out on a personal quest to find this “tree with the lights in it.” For years, she cannot find the tree. “Then one day,” she writes, “walking along Tinker Creek, thinking nothing at all, I saw it—the tree with the lights in it. It was the same backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost, only charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame.” In the October sun, it’s not hard to see trees with lights in them everywhere—the aspens with their candle-flame leaves that flicker in the wind, the maples with their fire red glow, the ash leaves, ovate and pointed like obelisk sunbeams. As obviously stunning as they are, I can’t help but think that Zacchaeus in the tree, the blind man of Bethesda, Mary at the empty tomb, the Impressionist painter, and the blind girl of Tinker Creek all saw something a bit different, or had a moment when they saw this world a bit differently. A type of visual “resurrection of the ordinary,” as Marilynne Robinson has put it. And so I too am searching for the tree with the lights in


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    it. I can’t claim to have found it yet, but yesterday I did see something new, or I saw something that has been there all along in a new way. Under October’s Full Harvest Moon, I looked for the tree in the moonlit darkness. Suddenly I saw the trees in the shadows of the trees. It seemed as if something about the trees’ substance or spirit had slipped into their shadow for the night, and the tree essences were lying down, resting on the soft pillow beds that they have been preparing for themselves these last autumnal days and weeks. The trees were resting in their own shadows and on their own leaves on the forest floor. And rather than night-lights, they held up night-darks around their sleeping hall. The shadows from the leaves still on the trees brought pockets of quiet dark to the moonlit forest floor, as if each tree were sleeping beneath its own chandelier of darkness.

    “people who are going to be in a few years bottoms of trees bear a responsibility to something besides people” —Lucille Clifton, “generations”

    Going even a bit beyond the New Testament scriptures that speak of the cross of Jesus’s crucifixion as a “tree” (e.g., Acts 5: 30), when we think about the type of forgiveness, the type of grace, the type of new life offered freely to all that the cross has come to mean, it’s not surprising that over the course of history, particularly in this history of Christian art, there has been a connection made between the literal wooden cross of Jesus and the mythical Tree of Life—the idea being that the cross, once a symbol of death, has now become the ultimate symbol of life. The cross as the Tree of Life is an evocative image to ponder, especially in comparison with the stark, minimalist geometric form of the cross that adorns most Protestant churches that I’m familiar with. The cross as the Tree of Life seems closer in spirit to the Celtic Cross, itself full of knots, vines, and leaves, capturing some­ thing of the ecological interrelatedness of the cosmos more so than simply the stark intersection of two wooden beams. As Christianity ’s central symbol, it raises the question—what does the cross mean to us today? What message might it have in our age of acute climate crisis, with so much of the earth’s ecological instability driven by deforestation and an immature human relationship to life’s biotic communities such as mature, old growth forests? What type of cross might speak to the moment we’re in and guide us into a more sustainable, earth honoring future? Sensing that the image of the cross as the Tree of Life can speak to us anew in today’s eco-theological situation, Australian artist Andrew Finnie (b. 1957) has at­ tempted to update the Renaissance representation of the cross as a Tree of Life for the digital age. His 2015 work “The Body of Christ, the Tree of Life,” reimagines


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    Jesus on the cross as speaking not just to the reconciliation of the human-divine rela­ tionship, but of the redemption of all of creation, the earth with its Maker. An androgenous Jesus, whose body image was taken from a medical textbook, hangs on a cross that seems to be actively engulfed by a dense tangle of roots and fungal networks. Indeed, roots and shadows set the overall earthly and crepuscular tone of the work, differing dramatically from the upward and celestial vision of many Renaissance works, like Bonaguida’s “The Tree of Life” (c. 1305). In Finnie’s representation, the cross as the Tree of Life is less about a vertical movement toward heaven than it is a descent into the depths of the earth. This descent, moreover, isn’t a descent into death, but into life in its biological fullness and complexity. With its underground perspective, Finnie’s digital image confirms recent research on how trees communi­ cate and connect with the world through vast root systems and mycorrhizal systems. The “wood wide web,” as it has been called, an internet of intelligence always right below our feet. Gazing at Finnie’s Tree of Life, our gaze returns again and again to the things of this earth, suggesting that God is most concerned not with another world, but with this world, this earth with its trees and roots and fungi and owls and flowers and con­ stellations of stars in the dark night sky. This Tree of Life is radically incarnational, arguing that the greatest miracle of all is that God becomes flesh and blood and leaf and vine and dwells among us and among all the creatures and connections in this vast, dark, luminous web of life. We still, by the grace of God, live among creative presences as wondrous as trees, and sometimes among forests of trees, I ponder as I resume my walk in the October woods. We can look to them, I think, to teach us about Christ, and we can look to Christ to teach us about them. Like with the Christlike lesson of the leaves, which are falling one by one all around me these weeks, soon to leave nothing but bare branches for a season of patient and quiet rest. Soon to change form and turn back into tree. It’s time, the trees are saying, for a final burst of beauty and color and panache. It’s time to sing last songs and speak last words. It’s time to dance on the way to the grave, and to turn the cemetery floor into a celebration of life. It’s time to learn how to die an unhurried, crisp, confident, and generative death, and to bless the good brown earth. The leaves stoop so they can rise again. Every tree is a tree of life and indeed, of new life, I think, as I hum a little autumnal alleluia. This year, I’m celebrating Easter in October.

    Sources

    F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (New York: Scribner, 2003) Henry David Thoreau, October, Or Autumnal Tints (New York: W. W. Norton, 2012) Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (United Kingdom: Hymns Ancient & Modern, 2015). Marilynn Robinson, Housekeeping (United States: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004) Lucille Clifton, How to Carry Water: Selected Poems of Lucille Clifton (Rochester, NY: BOA Edi­ tions Ltd, 2021) Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees (Vancouver: Greystone Books, 2016), VIII

  • Pentecost: Finding Yourself on Holy Ground

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    Pentecost: Finding Yourself on Holy Ground

    Marthame Sanders

    Atlanta, Georgia

    When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Acts 2:1-4

    Most congregations’ celebration of Pentecost is confined to a single Sunday each year. And while it is important to mark that day to celebrate the birth of the church, I have come to believe that its lessons should echo out throughout our lives. Pentecost, after all, is a potent reminder that God speaks in a multiplicity of voices. We would do well to live and serve as though it does. What I want to set out before you in this piece are a couple of things. First, I want to share my own experience in ministry, within both traditional and non-traditional contexts, and how that experience has shaped the way I see the art of preaching as a Pentecostal exercise. Second, I want to share some practical suggestions and ideas that might be adaptable to different ministry contexts. And third, I want to leave you with some reflection questions to ponder, ways that the Pentecostal moment might stretch your own preaching and proclamation. My longest ministry tenure to date was serving as solo pastor of a Presbyterian congregation here in Atlanta. During those beautiful and challenging eleven years, I was keen to share the pulpit with others. We welcomed seminary students, professors , mission agency staff, traveling mission personnel, and more. Even with this approach, though, the truth was that I alone was the preacher at least three Sundays out of every month. Though I remain a work in progress, it was still my vision of God that became the dominant voice in our congregation’s life. There were experiments along the way. We had a few “dialogue” sermons here and there. They were generally well-received, though it was clear that this would be a periodic experience and not a “new normal.” After all, preaching was part of my job description. The one place where we leaned into a multiplicity of voices was in the Scripture readings. It began when we switched over to the relatively new Narrative Lectionary, whose approach meant that we would use a single reading that was much, much longer than what we were accustomed to doing. A single voice would lose the congregation ’s attention before the text was finished. But if there were two, three, or even four readers, that was a recipe for success. So while I could claim there was theology


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    at work behind this artistic choice, it was a decision borne out of necessity—but one that worked well. Perhaps you can imagine this process working well for narrative readings: one voice reading as the “narrator,” another, as Jesus, yet another as the “crowds,” and so on. The process worked well, though, for all readings. It allowed us to break up some of Paul’s run-on sentences or to create an antiphonal approach with different phrases read by different voices. It also allowed us to play with the types of readers: a woman’s voice for God, the preacher’s voice for the Pharisees, phrases to be read in unison, and more. My favorite day for this approach to Scripture readings was Pentecost. Not only would we employ several readers, we would also dip our toes into a multi-lingual celebration. At first glance, we should not have been able to pull this off—after all, we looked like most Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) congregations of our size: mostly older, mostly white, mostly monolingual Americans. But when you barely scratched the surface, you discovered far more than meets the eye: immigrants and their children , bilingual ESL teachers, and many more—all willing to stretch the expectations of what the “word of the Lord” sounds like. Take Acts 2:6, using just a few available languages within our congregation, by way of example: Liturgist 1 (in English): And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered , because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each … Liturgist 2 (in Spanish): … in the native language of each … Liturgist 3 (in Georgian): … in the native language of each … Liturgist 4 (in Mandarin): … in the native language of each … All Liturgists (in English): … in the native language of each! Pentecost Sundays also presented an opportunity to play with language in other parts of the liturgy, such as the passing of the peace. We would print bulletins with the phrase “The peace of Christ be with you” translated into a number of languages (along with English pronunciation guides). Worshipers were invited to share their particular translation as they greeted others. On some days, the Peace could be the longest part of our liturgy! I look back fondly on my years as a solo pastor, and I am deeply grateful for that congregation’s willing and playful Spirit. I also wish we had let Pentecost roll over us so that we might expand our Godly vocabulary.

    Prior to landing in Atlanta, my wife, Elizabeth, and I had spent three plus years serving as mission personnel in a Palestinian village in the northern West Bank. Living in the midst of conflict and under Occupation, we saw brutal suffering and unexplainable hope through it all. In short, we experienced the gospel through the lives and witness of our Palestinian siblings in Christ. They trace their spiritual roots back to Pentecost itself, with Arabs among those identified in the great crowd of those


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    who heard Peter preach. They see Christ not only as Lord, but also as a compatriot of their lands. The Scripture comes alive among Palestinian olive trees in ways that it cannot amid Georgia pines. We were also able to travel throughout the region in our time there. In each place we visited, we met the church. We worshiped with Syrians who still pray in Aramaic, the language of Jesus. We attended Coptic Orthodox liturgy in Egypt, following the custom of removing our shoes because we found ourselves on holy ground. We sang multilingual hymns with Presbyterians in Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon. We visited the holy sites in Jordan, Israel, and Palestine; and we met the “living stones,” the local Christian community, each and every time. It was, in short, an education in learning just a few of the multitude of ways that God is expressed, loved, and served around the world. In recent years, I have shifted to decidedly non-traditional ministry. For the last seven years, I have focused on building a community centered around art, faith, and justice. The centerpiece of this community has been a weekly podcast, aijcast. This conversational format is one that I have grown to love and cherish. I have met an incredible variety of artists from a remarkable breadth of artistic expressions. We have discussed their art itself, what inspires that art, and how that art seeks to make the world a better place. The unique gift of this ministry has been the opportunity to cross paths with a much wider range of God’s beloved humanity than any other ministry of which I’ve been a part. This has come alongside the ways cultural conversations have made me aware of my particular identity as a straight white dude and the overwhelming—and often, invisible—privilege and access those traits grant me regularly. I have met Black playwrights, Queer musicians, Latinx filmmakers, Trans visual artists, and so much more. And each time, my understanding of God, the world, and my relationship with Jesus ends up being stretched, changed, and transformed. This work has also helped me understand the role that art can play in faith formation —both within the confines of the sanctuary and far beyond it. And to me, it continues to be an extension of that early Pentecost. First, as with all “signs and wonders,” there is a kind of performance art at work in the gift of tongues. Second, the miracle that allows the crowd to communicate across language barriers resonates with John Calvin’s notion of accommodation—that God’s divine wisdom is so thoroughly unknowable that God consistently finds ways to bridge the gap with human understanding. And third, art—as a creative enterprise—echoes the divine imprint within us, giving us a multitude of ways to express the inexpressible. The Eastern Orthodox have a lovely way of putting this when it comes to iconography: in Christ, God blessed the material; so we use the material to bless God. Another wild piece of this non-traditional ministry work has been my experience with the world of improvisation—and especially, that of improv comedy. Like many, I first came to know of this practice through its popular versions—such as the


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    television program Whose Line Is It Anyway? But the more I went down the improv rabbit hole, and the more I learned its foundational principles, the more I saw the intersection of it with the work of ministry leadership. I bring this up in an article about preaching not because I think it wise to discard a manuscript in favor of an audience suggestion, but rather because of the way these practices have caused me to radically change the way I approach communication. This improv work has led to a number of invitations to speak at forums on the topic of adaptive theological leadership. But rather than being the expected “sage on a stage,” I relish the opportunity to move the group immediately into playing simple improv exercises, which then moves into reflection on those activities. And what I have discovered, each and every time, is that the theological wisdom that comes out of the group is far wiser than anything I had planned to share. In truth, it is the work of the Spirit in the gathered crowd, lifting up both the possibilities and challenges of ministry. I have also come to believe that the act of preaching is, itself, an art. And so, when I do get the opportunity to preach these days, I take all of the above experiences into account. One thing that has become a regular part of my preaching practice is that I make sure I no longer do it alone. The dialogue sermon is no longer just a gimmick for me, or a periodic experiment. It has become, for me, the most faithful way to proclaim the gospel. And so, I do it in conversation with others who have been called to preach. I intentionally seek out folks whose identities are different from mine. This has included, among others, sermon and communion in a Presbyterian congregation alongside a female CME elder; a Zoom conversation with a Palestinian scholar of queer liberation movements in the Arab world; and being one of four Easter preachers—whose identities included gender, sexuality, and racial diversity—in a Baptist congregation. In these experiences, my conversation partners and I find ways to proclaim the gospel, even—and especially—when we might disagree on how we understand the text with which we wrestle. In fact, those moments of theological tension have become my favorite part of the sermon. They sit as yet more Pentecostal reminders that there is this beautiful diversity of voices through which not only is God praised, but through which God speaks to us. Below, I want to offer some reflection questions for you to consider in your own Pentecostal preaching practice:

    1. What are some of the overlooked gifts in your ministry context that could be brought into the work of proclamation? Are some identities— racial, age, gender, physical ability, etc.—prioritized over others?

    2. Are there places in worship where more than one language can be spoken /shared with authenticity? How could you do that while making sure that worship is accessible? Or would doing so increase accessibility?


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    3. How would your ministry context respond to a widened approach to proclamation—whether that’s in the form of a dialogue sermon, a sermon “talk back,” a prompt to which the congregation is invited to respond , or other approaches?

    4. How can various art forms expand the work of proclamation in your context? Who are the artists in your community who would relish the opportunity to be part of a broadened conversation?

    The world of the church is a grand, beautiful, diverse one. We see this so clearly in the Pentecost miracle, which birthed the church into existence. Our ministries, including our preaching, should strive to reflect this beauty in every way that we can.

  • The Shock of Easter

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    The Shock of Easter

    Thomas G. Long

    Cambridge, Maryland

    The original disciples were shocked into bliss by the Resurrection—and they never recovered. Dom Sebastian Moore O.S.B.

    The theologians who gathered in the nave of Westminster Abbey in 1643 to reform the English church soon encountered an embarrassing problem. Eventual­ ly they would produce an impressive array of theological literature, including the legendary Westminster Confession of Faith and two catechisms, plus a cluster of other significant theological documents. But in the middle of their deliberations one member of the assembly raised a pesky and impertinent question: “What is God?” The question was prickly, uncomfortable, the embarrassment in the room pal­ pable. Here they were, distinguished divines, propounding away confidently about the things of God—God’s eternal decree, God’s Holy Scripture, God’s will, God’s church, and other theological profundities—only to be jerked back on the leash by the most elemental of queries: What exactly are we talking about here? What is God? Who among them had the chutzpah to venture an answer? Vanity of vanities. The very idea of God was too vast, too holy, too lofty for mere mortals to encompass in ordinary words. The name of God, so freely uttered in the debates and deliberations of the Westminster divines, now stuck in their throats. “All shrunk from the too sa­ cred task in awestruck, reverential fear,” noted Westminster historian William Heth­ erington.1 The question could not be avoided, though, so finally the assembly decided that their best shot at humility would be to ask not the eldest but the youngest person in the room to try his hand at a definition of God. Scottish pastor George Gillespie, barely thirty and unlucky enough to be the junior member of the group, stood hesi­ tantly, no doubt terrified that the tail had been pinned on his donkey. “I need God’s wisdom,” he said, his voice surely cracking. “Will you join me in prayer?” And then Gillespie prayed, “O God, thou art a spirit, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable, in thy being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth.” Someone in the gath­ ering cocked open one eye, quickly scribbled down those words, and the assembly had its definition of God. But assemblies being assemblies, the prayerful definition fell into the hands of a committee, and, by the time it appeared in the Westminster Confession, it had me­ tastasized:

    There is but one only living and true God, who is infinite in being and per­ fection, a most pure spirit, invisible, without body, parts, or passions, im­ mutable, immense, eternal, incomprehensible, almighty, most wise, most


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    holy, most free, most absolute, working all things according to the counsel of His own immutable and most righteous will, for His own glory, most loving, gracious, merciful, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth, forgiv­ ing iniquity, transgression, and sin; the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him; and withal most just and terrible in His judgments; hating all sin; and who will by no means clear the guilty.2

    It is difficult to imagine, when Moses spoke toward the burning bush and asked just who it was who had interrupted his day and dared to send him on a terrifying mission to confront Pharoah, that the voice from the flames would have cranked out anything like this prolix divine self-definition involving body parts, passions, size, and immutability. If it had, I doubt the Exodus would ever have happened. Instead, Moses got a terse “I am who I am,” which is as mysterious as it is oblique. What­ ever “I am who I am” may mean, it almost certainly implies that if the Westminster divines and whoever else might wish to know who God is, they would do well not to begin with metaphysical speculation but by watching the action on the field. God is known through what God does. It’s all about verbs: “I am who I am.” Theologian Robert Jensen gets close to the truth when he answers the question “Who is God?” this way: “God is whoever raised Jesus from the dead, having before raised Israel from Egypt.”3 Whoever raised Jesus from the dead and Israel from Egypt. Jensen’s radiant definition implies that Exodus and Easter shock us into a new understanding of God. It’s not as if we (or the Westminster divines) have already in place this grand under­ standing of a cosmic deity named “God” (“pure spirit, invisible, without body, parts, or passions”) and that the claim of Easter is, “Look what this universal deity did out there in a Jerusalem garden!” It’s not as though we must now fit the Resurrection (or the Exodus) as one more bit of data into our concept of God, but the other way around. We must now refashion our understanding of God in the light of what God did in the Resurrection.

    Easter Laughter So, what did God do in the Resurrection, and who is this God who raised Jesus from the dead? We should start with the awareness that what happened on that first Easter is, in its own extraordinary way, an enormous, laughter-producing joke on the powers of Death. “With Easter,” says Jürgen Moltmann, “the laughter of the redeemed, the dance of the liberated … begins.”4 Humor often is generated by the collision of incommensurate worlds. The col­ lision produces at least a mild shock, and the shock electrifies laughter. This is true even in silly jokes. On one of his A Prairie Home Companion “Pretty Good Joke” shows, Garrison Keillor quipped, “Never say anything bad about a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. By then he’s a mile away, you’ve got his shoes, and you can say whatever you want to.” The humor springs up because what starts out as a


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    piece of inspirational advice about developing empathy turns out to be a crass word of self-centered cynicism. The incommensurate worlds simply do not belong on the same page and they collide; the world of moral vision crashes into the flat-earth logic of the utterly utilitarian and venal, and the shock of laughter erupts. Easter, too, in a much more profound way involves a collision of incommensu­ rate worlds: the world of inevitable death and cemeteries and the women who make their sad pilgrimage to the tomb of Jesus, a world of fixed limits and low horizons thrown into sudden juxtaposition with the world of the now risen Jesus, full of life and joyful greetings and assurances not to be afraid. The whole cosmos catches the great joke, and “laughter of the redeemed begins.” The writer of the Gospel of Matthew is also in on the joke. He tells us, for ex­ ample, that a gaggle of hapless temple militia were given what must surely be the unluckiest assignment in military history: to make the tomb of Jesus “as secure as you can” (Matt. 27:65). Matthew’s readers already titter in anticipation. We can pic­ ture those chunky soldiers out there by the rock sepulcher, tramping around in their heavy breastplates and clunky metal helmets, working up a sweat sealing the stone into the open gash of the tomb and then, in shifts, placing themselves dutifully to the right and left of the stone, swords at the ready for whatever might happen. What did happen, Matthew tells us, was that on the first day of the week, two women approached the tomb in the early morning light. The yawning guards on the watch at that hour surely stiffened to attention, their hands warily shifting to their side weapons. Before they could bark, “Halt! What business have you here?” the land trembled with a great earthquake, the skies split, and a dazzlingly resplendent angel flashed onto the scene like a lightning bolt. The angel announced the aston­ ishing Easter news that Jesus “is not here; for he has been raised” (28:6), but Mat­ thew doesn’t even wait for the angel’s homily before delivering the punch line: “the guards shook and became like dead men.” Who is dead, here? Who is alive? Two worlds collide. In the first, the guards, flush with imperial and sacral authority, stand confidently on the solid ground of mil­ itary might, equipped with the weapons sufficient to outmatch any mortal foe, firm in their responsibility to keep the corpse of Jesus safely in the tomb. In the second, that once-steady world is rattled to its core, and the guards are left shaking along with the trembling earth while the angel preaches the world’s first Easter sermon: “He is not here for he has been raised, as he said” (Matt. 28:6). The joke is on the old, decaying world. In a blazing instant the Jesus we thought dead is now alive, and it’s the guards who we assumed to be alive who are now “like dead men,” and the reality they be­ lieve they are living in that is passing away. The first world has been destroyed by the second, and the laughter of the redeemed begins. The great joke of Easter is one that God’s people have been rehearsing for a long time. Sarah got the joke, too, when she bore the improbable son, Isaac, the son so ridiculously untimely and unimaginable that she named him “Laughter,” because the


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    barren and immutable world of aging, infertility, and fruitlessness suddenly collided with the utterly improbable world of God’s fullness, potency, and abundance. “God has brought laughter for me,” she said, “Everyone who hears will laugh with me.” And we do laugh, Sarah’s laughter reverberating generations ahead to the empty tomb and eventually resounding with our own. Who then is God? God is the one who raised Jesus from the dead and who sent a seismic shock and ripples of cosmic laughter through all time and history, bringing the mighty kingdoms of the world tumbling down like shacks on Vesuvius’s hillside and establishing a new world, the true world, the world of God’s kingdom.

    The Coffee s Better at Starbucks Many Easter sermons miss the joke and thereby end up downsizing both the power of the Resurrection and the God who raised Jesus from the dead. Too many Easter sermons are trapped in the confines of the old world, the world that Easter de­ stroyed, and consequently they sound more like the halftime locker room pep talks of football coaches than the radical gospel of Easter. “Life may be hard,” they say. “We may be down, but it’s only halftime. Remember Jesus was down, too. He had his cross to bear, but he was rewarded by the triumph of Easter. So, keep giving your all, and never give up!” This is coach Joel Osteen on Easter, and the message is, “This is your best life now! Be the best person you can be in this world!” What this overlooks is that Easter is not a way to get along better in the world as it is but is instead the end of this world. Easter destroys the perceived world at hand, and before we sing about the joy of Easter’s new reality, it is crucial to feel the shock and to see the destructive power of the Resurrection on the old reality. The Resurrection was not merely some good thing that happened one day, like the title screen of a scene in Monty Python’s movie The Life of Brian’. “Judea, AD 33, teatime …” It is instead the unmasking of the present reality, the world we assumed was permanent, the world of business as usual, the world of inevitable death. Easter is an earthquake destroying the reality we thought could never change, a world in which dead people stay dead and in which some little tyrant is always placing guards in the cemetery to make sure it remains that way. Easter is a lightning-bolt-illuminated flash forward to that time when “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah, and he will reign forever and ever” (Rev. 11:15). The joyful good news of Easter is an obituary and a birth announcement combined: the old world has passed away and the new has come. This is why, I think, the Gospels let us know that the first response of those earliest eyewitnesses was not joy but fear. Laughter and joy would come, but not before there was fear, not fear because they had seen a ghost, but the sudden rush of fear like when you wake up in a strange city somewhere, disoriented, unsure of where you are and what time it is. When the glory-filled presence of the risen Jesus appeared to them, the seemingly solid ground on which they were standing suddenly


    Page 7

    melted away. Easter means that the world in which they (and we) thought we live and move and have our being, is but an illusion, exposed as a lie in the light of the new and real world disclosed in the Risen One. Easter demands that we let go of the assumed and assured world. Easter calls for a change of citizenship. The frightening demand, the more-astounding-than-can-be-imagined invitation, of Easter, is to leave the familiar but dying world behind and to enter the new, unexpected, and uncertain world revealed in the Resurrection. A New Testament scholar friend, in a slightly profane moment, uttered truth, I believe, when he said to me, “More than likely, the early witnesses to the Resurrection didn’t respond by exclaiming ‘Holy Awe!’ but ‘Holy Sh*t!’” What now? Who are we? What do we do? How do we live when the world we thought we knew has passed away in a flash of lightning? The Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann claims that the church, in so many ways, has turned away from Easter’s new reality, choosing not the new world revealed in the risen Christ, but instead choosing to reinforce its standing in the old world.5 Christianity reinvented itself as “a major world religion,” and as a major re­ ligion set down in an increasingly secular world, it has debated two options, Schme­ mann argues, for understanding its mission. The first is say to the secular world, “We can help you be at least a little more religous. That’s our mission, to add a few religious motifs to the symphony of the world.” The church acknowledges that the secular society is in charge of delivering the big stuff: economic stability, justice in the law courts, military security, and all the other essentials of a functioning society. “But,” the church pleads, “there’s more to life than that. Don’t forget that human beings have spiritual needs, too. We can help with that!” When the world growls back, “What spiritual needs?” we have a hard time coming up with anything. Ethics? Health? Truth? Justice? If we’re honest, there is not a single virtue, Schmemann says, “that would be ‘basically’ different from what secularism at its best also proclaims and offers .. .”6 Even when we retreat to the tiny landscape of inner peace, we soon confess that all the help we can give derives from borrowed therapeutic models. How can the church offer any unique help? Even our convivial coffee hours are outstripped by the community and the java at Starbucks. Years ago, I had a colleague whose ministry was serving as the chaplain of a large department store. We would tease him unmercifully by coming up behind him and making the little chime sound that big department stores in those days used on their public address systems: “Ding! Calling the chaplain … men’s accessories.” Schmemann deflates the tease, though, when he points out how many of us have signed up to be chaplains in the world’s department store. We float through the pres­ ent society like pious ghosts wafting through housewares, sporting goods, and linge­ rie, but we are operating in an environment that is controlled by the values and goals of the secular age. We intone our invocations at the employee banquets, but the show is run by Macy’s.


    Page 8

    The second option, Schmemann says, for the church in a secular world is to pump fist over the arrival of secularity, celebrate it as the world coming of age, the maturity toward which the faith has always leaned. Christ has knocked down the wall between the sacred and the secular, and the mission of the church has been transformed entirely into protest songs and ethics. We are called to join in solidarity with the most enlightened forces of our time to build a world of justice and peace. We don’t separate ourselves from others as people of Christian faith, but instead lock arms with all others of good will who work for justice and to translate the gospel as a command to be human beings living entirely for others. Schmemann finds this option to be both understandable and also tragic, a dev­ astating mangling of the gospel. Yes, understandable, because many of the better virtues of the spirit of secularity—intellectual freedom, the insistence on the dignity of all people, the quest for universal justice—are actually checks written on the bank account of the gospel. Tragic because the secularized version of these values are verites chretiennes devenues folles. Christian truths that “went mad.”7 At the core of this madness is the conviction that the mature human being lives in a world without God. Easter’s true liberation is not freedom merely from immature faith but much deeper, the liberation from Godforsakenness.8 In a recent op-ed piece in the New York Times. “Why I am Still a Christian,” Af­ rican American biblical scholar Esau McCaulley wrestled with the vexed question of how he could still be a person of faith given the stained history of the church and the fact that racism still courses through the veins of many American Christians today.9 McCaulley wrote that he was not unfamiliar with the charge that Christianity is “a white man’s religion,” and he knows that, during slavery, white preachers preached to the enslaved a corrupted gospel of docility and obedience to the “master.” Mc­ Caulley’s forbears were in fact enslaved on a cotton plantation in Alabama, and Mc­ Caulley maintains, perhaps surprisingly, that his continuing commitment to Chris­ tianity does not spring from working carefully through the issues in conversations and debates with his university colleagues, but, in fact, comes from his powerful connection to the faith and hope of those very enslaved ancestors:

    I believe that my ancestors wrestled with the questions of faith when the evil was not literary or historical, but a material thing of flesh and blood. How did they manage to see goodness in this religion?

    I think that for them, the Black church did not just provide an answer. It was the answer. In a world that proclaimed that the enslaver was lord of all, the idea that something more mighty ordered the tide of events that swept up their lives was the hope needed to survive the day. What if belief in the unrelenting love of God combined with trust in his power to bend history was not a tool to make chains but to break them?10


    Page 9

    McCaulley closes his essay by reporting that his mother recently purchased an acre of land on the former planation property where so many of his ancestors lived and died. She got the land cheaply, paying only $500 for her acre, because the land she acquired was the old slave burial ground. His mother’s purchase, he said, is a sign of trust and Easter hope. “Their bodies,” he wrote,

    … never finding rest on land owned by others, now repose on land pur­ chased by their descendants. We hold it in trust for them as their due. If the hope of Christians is true and there is indeed a resurrection of the dead, they will emerge from those graves as free people, and their last moments on this side of the new creation will be spent on their own soil. That is a hope worthy of my allegiance.

    There it is, the shock of Easter. It’s not a trivial message that a few potted lilies decorating the church on Easter will inspire us to make life better by-and by. It is the much more radical word that new life we yearn for has come to us as an act of God, that worlds have collided and that the world of death, the world where some are enslaved and others are enslavers, the world that foolishly believed the enslaver or whoever holds the cruel hand of power was “lord of all,” has been destroyed, exposed as a lie by the revealing of the new world in which God’s children will be raised in freedom and new life and Jesus is Lord of all. Actually, the cry “Jesus is Lord!” might be made even clearer to us, argued Moltmann , if we said, “The Lord is Jesus!”11 That way, the lordship of Jesus could not be misunderstood as the result of some kind of contest occurring within the rules of the power plays of the world at hand, as if somehow, in a last-minute Easter surprise, Jesus edged out Caesar Augustus, Genghis Khan, Elon Musk, and Taylor Swift for the position of lord of this world. No, the cry “the Lord is Jesus!” proclaims that there is but one real world, God’s world, and, good news! The Lord of this one true and everlasting world is Jesus, the one who came to us as a servant. As is the case for almost all op-ed essays about religion that appear in The New York Times, it doesn’t take long for intellectual secular critics to pounce at the smell of red meat. McCaulley’s moving resurrection testimony was no different. “A total­ ly unconvincing article,” snarled one reader, who went on to say,

    Latching on to some concept because it makes you “feel better” has no real relevance as to whether it is actually true. I am sure many people would be happier if they convinced themselves they were going to win millions in the lottery sometime in the next ten years or that they will inherit a fortune from some unknown relative.

    To be specific, there is no evidence of some supernatural entity that some­ times [or even just occasionally] interferes with natural law with an inde­ pendent intelligence. That is why there are so many different religions as


    Page 10

    none can point to any independent and objective evidence supporting the validity of its creed versus that of another.12

    It’s hard to know where to start. There is so much wrong here. One gets the impression that this reader, if he ever had faith, stopped growing in faith when he was eight years old and can now self-righteously keep faith at bay by skewering his leftover third-grade level misunderstandings of what Christianity is. For starters, take the idea that faith is an exercise in wishful thinking aimed at making one “feel better.” The gospel of Jesus Christ, with its call to “deny yourselves; pick up your cross and follow me” is an odd formula for “feel good” self-therapy. Or how about the reader’s notion that the Christian God is actually only some abstract, post-en­ lightenment “supernatural entity” who swings into history on a chandelier from time to time and “interferes with natural law” (whatever that is) and “independent intelli­ gence” (whatever that is), thereby not worthy to be believed because this God refuses to saunter into a biology lab and lie down in a Petrie dish so that scientists can decide whether there is any “independent and objective evidence” (whatever that is) to sup­ port belief. Christian faith does not, in fact, see God as “up there” and outside the natural world, as does popular piety, nor does Christianity see God is “in” the world, like the gods and goddesses of the pagans, nor is God subject to laboratory testing and proofs. God is not in the world; the world is in God, and intercessory prayer and resurrection are baked into the world as surely as gravity and thermodynamics.13 On Easter the world that is truly in God became luminescent. But the Times reader seems smugly to believe that Christianity is, in Terry Eagleton’s insightful words, “a botched attempt to explain the world, which is like seeing ballet as a botched attempt to run for a bus.”14 This critical reader’s views may well be reminiscent of a conversation those unlucky cemetery guards could have had as they stood at attention outside the tomb of Jesus. “Yes, yes,” one of the guards may have chortled, “religion, with all those promises and commandments and rituals, may make people feel better, but in the end, what’s it worth? I mean, face the facts, when you die, you’re dead. Take this miserable schlemiel inside the tomb behind us. I’m telling you, when your number’s up, it’s up, and dead is dead.” He may still have been shaking his head, sniggering with worldly wisdom, when, irony and shock, an angel arrived on a lightning boh, the new world broke forth in all its glory, Jesus was alive, and the guards, with the world they thought was real evaporated, were left quivering among the caves, pale and stricken, looking for all the world like death.

    Living as Easter Christians: “Hoping ” People Theologian Richard John Neuhaus often argued that all Christian mission is done from an awkward place and in a difficult position. We are emissaries of the kingdom of God, of the Lordship of Jesus Christ, but the world does not yet recognize this kingdom or this sovereignty. So Christian are always laboring as ambassadors of a


    Page 11

    disputed sovereignty who have arrived at court prematurely and without portfolio.15 Christian ministry and the mission of the church often are expressed by people who do many of the same things that others of good will do. They look like all other seekers of justice. Christians serve in soup kitchens, march for racial reconciliation, labor for peace, care for the sick, stand with the poor and the weak, work to end gun violence, and strive in many other ways and with many people of differing convic­ tions for a more loving and compassionate society. What is different for Christians is the Easter vision, the Easter hope. In the risen Christ we have already glimpsed the new world that even now is established in the life of God and is surely adventing in the unfolding of human history. For Christians, then, war, oppression, poverty, and violence are not simply evil; they are also obsolete. The world in which the tyrant reigns has already been vanquished. We have glimpsed the first fruits of this victory outside the Jerusalem tomb. We do not work to save the world. The world has already been saved by Jesus. We work instead with the Spirit who makes that re­ demption manifest in every corner of creation, and as we work, we do not fear what the world fears and we are ever ready to give to all who ask “an account of the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15). It is no accident that the ministry of Easter people is done in places of broken­ ness and pain. On a Sunday visit to Madras Cathedral, Czech Catholic priest Tomás Halik was asked to read the Gospel lesson in early mass that morning. The reading was from John 20, the story of Jesus on the first Easter saying to a doubting Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” When he read this text to the congregation, Father Halik assumed that the pas­ sage was about what he had always thought it was, Jesus offering his wounds as “evidence” to a disbelieving Thomas, turning his doubt into belief. Before that day was over, however, Halik would have an experience that would open this story with dramatic freshness and, as he wrote, even revealing “to me in a new light the greatest mystery of the Christian faith: the resurrection of Jesus .. ,”16 What happened was that a priest friend took him that afternoon first to the place near Madras where, according to legend, the Apostle Thomas was martyred, and then to a Catholic orphanage nearby. Halik said that he was accustomed to looking suffering in the face. He had visited the sites of Nazi concentration camps, Hiroshi­ ma, and Ground Zero in New York, but nothing prepared him for what he saw at the orphanage:

    In cots that were more like poultry pens lay small, abandoned children, their stomachs swollen with hunger, tiny skeletons covered in black, often in­ flamed, skin. In the seemingly endless corridors their feverish eyes stared out at me from everywhere, and they stretched their pink-palmed hands out to me. In the unbreathable air, with all that stench and weeping, I felt a men-


    Page 12

    tai, physical, and moral nausea. I had the suffocating sense of helplessness and bitter shame that one feels when confronted with the poor and wretched, shame at having healthy skin, a full stomach, and a roof over my head. I wanted cowardly to run away as fast as I could … to close my eyes and heart and to forget…17

    Suddenly Jesus spoke to him. From somewhere deep inside came rushing the very words he had read in mass that morning: “Touch my wounds! Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side …” He heard those words anew. No longer did he hear Christ waving away the doubts of Thomas with the “evidence” of his wounds. He now understood that “all painful wounds and all the human misery in the world are ‘Christ’s wounds,’”18 and that Jesus was saying to Thomas, and to him, and to all who waver in their faith and lose confidence in the promises of Easter, to touch the wounds of humanity. By entering into the anguish of others we encounter the risen Christ anew. There in the pain and suffering is where the risen Christ is at work, where the risen Christ is to be found. Halik wrote, “If we ignore pain, poverty, and suffering in our world … then we have no right to say to Christ, like Thomas the Apostle when he touched Jesus’s wounds: ‘My Lord and my God.’”19 Civil rights activist William Barber II knows well about finding the risen Christ among the poor and suffering. When he preaches, he often wears a dark suit and a clerical stole which reads “Jesus was a poor man.”20 Barber was born in Indianap­ olis, where his father, William Barber Sr., a native North Carolinian, was a college educated high school physics teacher, his mother was a government clerk, and his family had a stable income and a good life. But then a friend from back in Carolina called Barber Sr. The civil rights movement was gaining momentum in the South, and Black teachers were needed to integrate the school system and to enroll their children in the formerly all-white schools. So Barber Sr. moved his family to Roper, North Carolina, where he grew up as a boy and where his mother still lived. Coming back to Roper meant that the Barbers exchanged a comfortable life in Indiana for a life of poverty and service. Barber Sr. not only taught physics in the local school, he also preached in the tiny Disciples of Christ churches dotted across the countryside outside Roper. William Barber II learned how to preach and how to organize civil rights efforts by watching his father, but he also learned how to be an Easter Christian by watching his grandmother, whom he idolized. Every Sunday afternoon after church, his grandmother would visit someone who was ill and suf­ fering. “We’ll be back shortly,” she would tell the family. “We’ve got to go and hope somebody.” For a long time, young William thought his grandmother, in her Carolina accent, was mispronouncing the world “help,” and that what she meant to say was that she was going out to “help somebody.” Gradually, though, he realized that she meant just what she said. In a time of suffering, she was going out to hurting people, people who were despised by the white society around them, downtrodden by the


    Page 13

    forces of poverty, and in the name of Christ she was “hoping” them, bearing witness to the Lord whose wounds are still seen and to the Easter world that has overcome all hatred and oppression.21 “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me,” he told them on that astonishing day. “Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age,” he said, and the hopeful laughter and the ecstatic dancing of the liberated have never ceased.

    NOTES 1. William Hetherington, History of the Westminster Assembly of Divines (Edinburgh: James Gemmell, 1878), 370. 2. Westminster Confession of Faith, 2.1. 3. Robert Jensen, Systematic Theology, vol. 1: The Triune God (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 63. 4. Jürgen Moltmann, The Church in the Power of the Spirit: A Contribution to Messianic Ecclesiology (New York: Harper and Row, 1977), 110. 5. See Alexander Schmemann, For the Life of the World: Sacraments and Orthodoxy (Crest­ wood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998), Chapters 6 and 7. 6. Schmemann, For the Life of the World, 108. 7. Ibid., 111. 8. Moltmann, The Church in the Power of the Spirit, 93. 9. Esau McCaulley, “Why I am Still a Christian,” New York Times (October 1, 2023) Section SR, 11. 10. Ibid., 11. 11. Moltmann, The Church in the Power of the Spirit, 102. 12. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/27/opinion/christianity-slavery-faith.html#commentsContainer 13. See Janet Soskice, “God of Power and Might,” Theology Today, 54/1 (April 1997), 19-28. 14. Terry Eagleton, Reason, Faith, and Revolution: Reflections on the God Debate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 50. 15. See Richard John Neuhaus, Freedom for Ministry (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), esp. 71. 16. Tomás Halik, Touch the Wounds: On Suffering, Trust, and Transformation (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2023), 2. 17. Ibid., 7. 18. Ibid., 7. 19. Ibid., 2. 20. Gary Dorrien, “Born to Struggle: William J. Barber II in the Shadow of MLK,” Commonweal 150/9 (October 2023), 14. 21. Ibid., 15

  • ‘A Tale of Two Tombs’

    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 39

    “A Tale of Two Tombs ”

    John 20:19-31

    Lucinda Perera Isaacs

    Cincinnati, Ohio

    If everything we knew about resurrection was from Easter morning, we might find this story from Easter evening a little jarring. I might, for a moment, think that the disciples were running down the streets playing brass instruments. Or I might think children were marching around with tulips. Maybe the disciples gathered all of their friends for a rousing rendition of Han­ del’s Hallelujah! Chorus. “Don’t worry,” they’d tell them. “There is plenty of sheet music, just come on up.” That’s fine! Resurrection certainly involves exuberance and joy. Mary must have had such feelings standing with Jesus in the garden before running back to announce to the others that she had seen the Lord. Resurrection is a little messier than that. Of course, it is. It involves death and loss. Old, familiar things pass away and new life emerges with all of its uncertainty and possibility. Resurrection comes with fear, conflict, doubt, grief, and disorder. Newness doesn’t fit neat into our lives. There is a part of us that would prefer to keep parts of ourselves hidden away. * * *

    Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit priest who has worked in the inner-city of Los Angeles for decades. He founded Homeboy Industries which primarily works to keep people out of gangs or to lead people out from gangs. He was once invited as a guest on Dr. Phil’s television show. The producers wanted to feature Homebody Industries. Father Boyle worked closely with Dr. Phil’s producers trying to tone down some of the wild, crazy ideas they had for the show. Once he thought he finally achieved some form of moderation, he agreed to appear. But when Father Boyle came out on the stage of the television set in front of a live audience, he was immediately horrified by the optics. There were two large props in the middle of the set. One prop was a beautiful mahogany coffin, and the other prop was a perfect replica of a jail cell. Dr. Phil flew teenagers in from all over the country. Mostly, these were teens on the brink of gang involvement. He brought out the children and figuratively grabbed them by the lapels. In front of their distraught mothers, he shouted, “Don’t you see that your choice will only lead to here or here—to death or to prison.” It happened again and again. Eventually, Father Boyle couldn’t take it any longer.


    Page 40

    “Phil …” he sneered, “these kids know this. They know it better than we do. They know it will end in death or in prison. They don’t care!” Dr. Phil was trying to save these kids by offering them more information about the consequences of their choices. But Father Boyle has learned that such informa­ tion is irrelevant. He knows change is not made because they read the right article, or go to a Bible study, or hear the truth from Dr. Phil. “It isn’t information that changes people; it is experiences.” * * *

    It was evening of the resurrection when the disciples had an experience of their own. Mary returned to the disciples to say, “I have seen the Lord.” The disciples were not running in the streets or polishing brass instruments or tending to the lilies. But they were sitting with their uncertainty, doubt, and fear. They were experiencing the messiness of shattered expectations. This means to me that there is more than one tomb in the story: “When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked in fear.” What a loss! They didn’t make it to the sunrise service with the women. They were exhausted and fatigued. Every difficult feeling had coursed through their body, and now they were drained and lifeless. * * *

    These SHUTTERED doors make me RETHINK resurrection.

    What if the resurrection was pure ambition?

    What if JESUS was forlorn that the disciples themselves were BURIED?

    Perhaps, Jesus was so upset that the disciples were behind locked doors that he got out of his tomb to get them out of their tomb.

    Jesus wanted them to unlock the door, go back into world, and continue what he had started.

    However, the disciples needed to experience resurrection themselves; they needed to know that they, too, were resurrected.


    Page 41

    They are not simply locked in a house together, but they were buried.

    The stone may have been rolled away that morning, but the door was locked that night.

    And our tombs are places where fear tries to rob us of our capacity to love without reservation,

    where shame makes people question their own dignity,

    where hostility inhibits hospitality,

    where there is violence that demands that we pretend that it is beyond our ability to confront.

    This is not what God intends for us. This not the promise that animates the life of the church.

    * * *

    It is interesting that the disciples were in a house because the early church met in houses.

    This is something in this story about what it means to be church

    The disciples are questioning their own significance to the world.

    Some of them may have been feeling rejected.

    Others felt abandoned.

    Still, other felt confused and wondered, “What just happened?”


    Page 42

    Being locked in that house together meant they started to limit what they believed was possible.

    Their imagination was fragmenting.

    Their boldness was crumbling.

    Maybe, even the small disagreements were feeling insurmountable.

    This isn’t a mistake.

    The purpose of crucifixion is to bury the people who are still alive and to fill them with fear —to silence their resolve for a better world.

    And it worked … for about three days. Jesus was gone, and the disciples were entombed—barricaded—locked in.

    All the doors that Jesus had opened in his life and ministry —doors to those who hungered, doors to the excluded, doors to the marginalized, doors to widows and orphans. They were all slammed shut.

    Who was going to fill the baskets with bread? Who is going to remind people that are forgiven and beloved and cherished? Who is going to clothe the naked or visit the prisoner? Who was going to heal and pray? * * *

    A friend of mine named Jacob has a rich life of faith

    He’s Episcopalian, attends church regularly, even volunteers on the church’s finance committee.

    But a couple of years ago, he called me after a Maundy Thursday service and said that for the first time in his life he didn’t want to attend Easter worship.


    Page 43

    “After all I’ve been through,” he said, “I’m boycotting this year.”

    He had been through too much; he had lost a family member and his company downsized without him.

    “I’ll be back in two weeks but I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for Easter again. There is too much pageantry for me.

    It feels too rehearsed and scripted. I can’t fake it right now.

    I’m not saying it’s wrong; it’s not just for me this year.”

    But then he remembered that he had to go to Easter; His teenage daughter was playing the trumpet.

    (Maybe, that’s why he thought things were too rehearsed!)

    He rolled out of bed that morning, forced a smile, and sat in the back pew of the sanctuary.

    He skipped the singing and played on his phone.

    He felt, mostly, numb.

    When he got back to the car after the benediction, He actually felt okay—relived even!

    It wasn’t too bad!

    The next day it hit like a ton of bricks. He woke up crying and wept all day.

    But it was that day, he said, that felt like Easter. That day that he finally felt like he released all of the burdens that had been burying him.


    Page 44

    By the end of the day, he could breathe more easily again.

    “It was the best Easter I’ve ever had,” he said. “Because it was the most honest. I wasn’t looking for hope and joy. I no longer thought they were possible, but hope and joy found me anyway.”

    To me, it sounds like Jacob spent Easter with the disciples. * * *

    Notice that when Jesus APPEARS at this LOCKED door no one gets up to let him in.

    We don’t even know if anyone knew he was at the door.

    I don’t think he KNOCKED.

    No one UNLOCKS the door.

    No one OPENS the door.

    Jesus just FINDS a way in.

    Jesus interrupts the emerging pattern of DEATH and FEAR. And OFFERS peace.

    Not once, not twice, but three times.

    Locked doors … fear … disbelief… uncertainty … doubt… shame … none of that stops the resurrection.

    Jesus FFNDS a way INTO the most SHUTTERED places and he does the most TENDER things.


    Page 45

    He offers PEACE. He SENDS them away from their tomb. He breathes on them with God’s SPIRIT. He lets them TOUCH his wounds.

    That’s the experience of resurrection.

    * * *

    It might be easy to stop the story right there, but it is not quite the end.

    It is nice to know that no fear can shutter a door so well that God can’t get in.

    And it is tempting just to STOP there and make it a story about disciples’ comfort.

    Jesus always has a purpose, which is God’s redeeming love.

    And Jesus simply can’t have the people of God’s redeeming love tucked away in a tomb of their own making.

    I used to believe none of the Gospels describe resurrection. Instead, we just hear reports of the women finding an empty tomb.

    I think we really do see an actual resurrection.

    After showing them his wounds, Jesus breathes on them.

    It is like a resuscitation, but it is more than that.

    It is the same word as Spirit.


    Page 46

    Jesus gives them a Spirit and sends them back into the world.

    It is the birth of the church. And God’s Spirit that doesn’t flinch. This Spirit that overwhelms their despair —this Spirit that prevails in the face of rejection. With that Spirit, the disciples are sent back into the world: “As God has sent me, so I send you.” Or try this paraphrase: “As God got me out of my tomb; I am getting you out of your tomb.”

    * * *

    Writer Megan McKenna shares about studying resurrection with a large group at her church. Her discussion focused on “that some of the most powerful acts of resurrection happen to the least likely people; that we are the people of resurrec­ tion and hope, called to live passionately and compassionately with others, to defy death, to forgive, and to bring others back into the community, to do something that is life-giving, that fights death and needless suffering.” Then someone challenged her from the back of the church calling out harsh­ ly, “Have you ever brought someone back from the dead?” She answered in the affirmative: “Every time I bring hope into a situation, every time I bring joy that shatters despair, every time I forgive others and give them back dignity and the possibility of a future with me and others in the community, ev­ ery time I listen to others and affirm them and their life, every time I speak the truth in public, every time I confront injustice—yes—I bring people back from the dead.”

    * * *

    Jesus got out of his tomb to get us out of our tombs. Then he breathes on us and tells us to do the same.

    Notes 1. Gregory Boyle, Barking to the Choir (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2017), 129-130. 2. Megan McKenna, Not Counting Women and Children (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1994).

  • Creation Out of Chaos

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    Creation Out of Chaos

    Ryan P. Bonfiglio

    Decatur, Georgia

    In my first systematic theology class back in seminary, I remember being mesmerized by the concept of creatio ex nihilo, or creation out of nothing. Perhaps it was the Latin or maybe it was my own utter lack of artistic ability, but the notion that God could create something—let alone the entirety of the universe—from sheer nothingness inspired in me a sense of awe and wonder. This one little phrase brought into focus God’s immensity and generative potential more than any other I knew. It signaled the power of God to do anything—in me, the church, or the world. Years later, I still find value in a theology of creation out of nothing. But I now know that the opening pages of the book of Genesis tell a slightly different story. At the beginning of the first creation account there is definitively something present. The NRSV describes it as a “formless void” (or in Hebrew, tohu wabohu). Despite what the NRSV’s translation might imply, in Hebrew tohu wabohu is not exactly a synonym for nothingness. It signals the presence of a watery, dark, and deadly chaos. Close parallels are found in the Babylonian creation myth, Enuma Elish, in the figure of Tiamat, the chaos deity of the salt sea whose defeat in battle by the chief deity Marduk is the necessary starting point for the process of creation. Unlike Enuma Elish, the biblical creation account is decidedly non-militaristic in tone. But much like its Babylonian counterpart, Genesis 1 describes creation as emerging out of chaos, not nothingness. In verse 2 we find God’s wind (or Spirit, ruakh) sweeping across the watery chaos like an evening breeze that glides over the surface of a lake. In Hebrew, the imagery has additional layers. The verb translated sweep (rakhaph) elsewhere in Scripture is used to describe the activity of a mother bird hovering over her nest. Such hovering is a protective and nurturing posture, with the mother’s wings being a source of refuge for her young.1 In Genesis, creation proceeds from this hovering of the Spirit over the tohu wabohu. That God brings forth creation out of chaos rather than out of nothing is not a technical point for contemporary systematic theologians to quibble about. For ancient Israel, it was a matter of profound pastoral significance. Ancient Israel’s history was one of perpetual chaos. Located at the intersection of major geopolitical powers (e.g., Egypt, Assyria, Babylonia, Hatti, Persian, etc.), the land of Israel was often and repeatedly the subject of imperial conquest. In fact, what was arguably the only period of relative stability for ancient Israel—the United Monarchy under David and Solomon—lasted less than sixty years, and even that was more tenuous than we often admit. For the Israelites, the experience of exile, division, displacement, and uncertainty was not only the norm but was the very context for the writing of much of what we now call the Old Testament. Much like creation, the canon emerged out of chaos.


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    A vivid example of how a theology of creation out of chaos served as a point of pastoral comfort for ancient Israel is found in the book of Jeremiah. Writing during the exilic period and at about the same time as the author of Genesis 1, the prophet Jeremiah describes the reality of the land of Israel after the Babylonian invasion in this way: “I looked on the earth, and lo, it was waste and void” (4:23). The phrase “waste and void” in Hebrew is tohu wabohu—the exact phrase we encounter in Genesis 1:2. For Jeremiah, the fall of Jerusalem and Judah in 587 BCE brings about a state of chaos reminiscent of, if not exactly like, the pre-creation conditions. The tohu wabohu of conquered Israel, much like the tohu wabohu of the primordial deep, is a barrier to God’s shalom and a cause for lament. Such a description is not all that uncommon for Jeremiah, who, as it turns out, is something of a bull frog when it comes to pronouncing the harsh reality of Israel’s fallen state. Be that as it may, Jeremiah 4:23 is a word imbued with expectant hope. Jeremiah realizes that in bearing witness to a God who brings life and beauty out of toho wabohu, Genesis 1 offers an important insight into God’s character and way of being in the world. What God did in the beginning is a pattern of what God can and will do again. This was not lost on Jeremiah’s original audience. For them, the message was clear: What was happening in the exile, though novel in its details, was not unique in its dynamics. The God they worshipped is one whose pattern is to bring life out of chaos, even the chaos of exile. Like ancient Israel, few of us today face the sort of blank slate implied by the theology of creatio ex nihilo. Our families, churches, and communities all are the products of complex, messy, and often broken systems. We don’t get to parachute in and start creating, loving, and leading out of nothing. We inherit chaos—it is, in fact, the very context for life and ministry. Our calling is thus not to create loving families, healthy churches, and flourishing communities out of nothing. Rather, our calling as disciples and ministers is to follow God’s example of finding a way to nurture something good and beautiful out of the chaotic tohu wabohu that we are facing, whatever form it might take. Much like Jeremiah, I find the theology of creation of out chaos deeply hopeful. The chaos we are facing in our lives and ministries is not unfamiliar to God. This chaos is the very stuff from which creation proceeds. God isn’t in need of a blank slate or a fresh start. It is in the very nature of God—in the beginning and still now—to bring forth something new and beautiful out of the messy, often despairing , surely disordered stuff of our lives and our world. Equally significant for the church today is the manner in which God creates out of chaos. Consider again the imagery from Genesis 1. The Spirit hovering over the tohu wabohu is, at one level, a protective posture. It is exactly what we might expect of a mother bird seeking to shelter her young from harm, be it in the form of the natural elements or predators. However, the same Hebrew verb, rakhaph, carries the secondary meaning of “to arouse or stir up.” The job of a mother bird is not just to protect her chicks from danger, but also, when the time is right, to nudge them


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    out of the nest so that they can learn to fly on their own. Mother birds are thus both protective and disruptive. The disruptive quality of the Spirit brings into focus two aspects of what it means for God to create out of chaos. First, as implied by the imagery of a mother bird stirring up her brood of fledglings, life is not something God brings to the chaos from the outside. It is something God urges forth from within the chaos itself. In the creation story, the potential for life and goodness is already there within the tohu wabohu . It only need be stirred up and urged to come forth. In other words, God doesn’t flee chaos or even lament its disorderliness—God dares to work with it. Second, the disruptive work of God’s Spirit is inherently risky. When a mother bird nudges her young out of the nest, it is with the hope, but not yet the full assurance, that her chicks can fly. The potential for failure—even injury and harm—cannot be avoided. The disruptive hovering of the Spirit in Genesis 1 is thus an expectant movement that, though filled with hope and possibility, is not guaranteed to succeed by either empirical data or the promise of a false gospel. God’s creation out of chaos, then and now, is risky, vulnerable, and open-ended. The rest of the first creation story bears this out. The account of creation in Genesis 1 comes to us in a highly structured literary form, with each day beginning with the declaration “let there be” and each ending with the chronological tag “and there was evening and there was morning.” The rhythmic quality of the narrative belies the complex, even chaotic, nature of what God brings forth. On days three, five, and six we learn that God has created trees, birds, fish, and animals “of every kind.” The picture that emerges is of creation swarming with diverse and sundry things of dizzying variety, form, and function. Humanity for its part was also created according to its kind (i.e., male and female). More significantly, the first commandment given to them is to “be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth” (1:28). From the beginning, humanity’s calling is to increase and scatter, processes that from an anthropological perspective will ultimately lead to further diversification. As people spread out, change inevitably follows. The scattering of humanity thus leads to the diversification of languages, customs, traditions, experiences, and even physical appearance. Theologically, God assesses the complexity and diversity of what is created out of chaos as being “very good” (1:31). What is clear from Genesis 1 is that God does not respond to chaos by demanding conformity or by limiting variety and difference. The problem is, that’s exactly what we often try to do in the face of chaos. When we encounter chaotic things in our lives and ministries, our impulse is to grip more tightly, to find ways to simplify the situation and tidy up the loose ends, to invent or apply rules ever so rigidly with the hope that it will keep the chaos at bay. With pre-made categories and solutions in hand, we try to bring some artificial order to the complexity of our world. We seem fixated on always being able to clearly label the differences we see: male or female; black or white; Republican or Democrat. And often we live in ways that ensure


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    that the things created according to their kind stay with their kind. Our blue neighborhoods have gotten bluer and our red states have gotten redder; our conservative churches have slid right and our progressive churches have leapt left. Even those congregations who would be quick to affirm the value of diversity and inclusion have often lived into a type of liberal Puritanism in which only a small band of viewpoints is tolerated. Rather than embracing our calling to follow God’s model of stirring up the nest, we seem bent on ushering the fledglings back into the nest, where at least it’s easier to keep things decent and in order. Paradoxically, what God brings forth from the chaos we end up treating as a type of chaos that must be overcome. The human impulse to suppress and constrain the work of God’s disruptive Spirit is not new. A telling case is found in the story of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 11). Whether in sermons or children’s Sunday School lessons, this story is often framed as a classic tale of pride and punishment. The people of Babel want to build a tower up to the heavens and to make their name great among all the nations. In response, God comes down and mixes up (the Hebrew verb balal is a play on the name of the city) their language, a process which apparently brings the project to a grinding halt (11:8). Be that as it may, there’s something more at work in this story than hubris run amuck. In Genesis 11:1, we learn that “the whole earth had one language and the same words.” This phrase is often interpreted as a description of a natural linguistic condition —that is, at this time only one language existed. Such a reading, however, is at odds with the situation described in Genesis 10. This chapter, often referred to as the “table of nations,” charts the offspring of the three sons of Noah. As they increase and scatter, the families and nations these offspring give rise to come to have their own languages (vv. 5, 20, 31). Thus, when Genesis 11:1 says that the people of Babel “had one language,” it is not to be understood as a statement of natural linguistic homogeneity but rather a description of forced linguistic conformity. In other words, there were plenty of other languages in use at the time of the building of the tower (as Genesis 10 affirms), but at Babel only one language was allowed to be spoken. Why? The answer is found in the concessive clause in verse 4: “otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” This is the crux of the matter. The building of the tower, much like the establishment of a linguistic monoculture , was the perceived antidote to the fear that the people of Babel—a thinly veiled cipher for Babylonia, the author of Israel’s exile in 587 BCE—would, as God intended from the beginning, scatter and diversify. Through the eyes of the rulers of Babel, such scattering and diversifying is an unwanted form of chaos that must be controlled and suppressed. The tendency of empire then and now is to grip more tightly, to double down on the insistence of cultural conformity, to shore up the borders , and to ratchet up systems of control. With this detail in view, the ending of the Tower of Babel story takes on new meaning. The confusion of languages is a punishment, but only for those whose am-


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    bition it was to build the tower and establish an empire that would be as permanent as it was prominent. For everyone else, including those tasked (or likely enslaved) to build the tower, the confusion of languages was not a punishment but an act of liberation. It unleashes in them the freedom and potential to speak other languages, including their own native tongues if we assume, as was often the case in the ancient Near East, that the slave labor needed for monumental building projects was supplied through foreign conquest. This confusion of languages is exactly the sort of activity we would expect from God’s disruptive Spirit. Just as God’s Spirit urges forth staggering diversity from the tohu wabohu of pre-creation, so, too, does that same Spirit arrive on the scene in Genesis 11 to disrupt an empire-building process that at every turn favored conformity and homogeneity. Thus, the picture that begins to emerge from Genesis 1 and 11 is of a God who creates out of chaos, but not in a way that establishes or demands simplistic uniformity. In God’s economy the opposite of chaos is not tidiness but rather is a form of holy disruption that urges forth something new, beautiful, and vital. This is God’s way throughout the Old Testament, and it is also the pattern we find at work in the New Testament. A striking example is the story of Pentecost in Acts 2. Much like Genesis 11, Acts 2 is a story about languages.2 As the chapter begins, we find Jews from all over the world gathered in Jerusalem for the festival of Pentecost . In the Old Testament, Pentecost (also known as Weeks or Shavuot), along with Unleavened Bread and Ingathering was one of the three main festivals that required a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. By the first century CE, most Jews lived in the Diaspora, separated from the land of Israel by great distances. For them, a pilgrimage to Jerusalem would have been no small feat. The long, arduous, and no doubt expensive journey to the Temple was a sign of deep piety and devotion. As Pentecost began, the population of Jerusalem would have swelled exponentially . Those who arrived from all ends of the earth (cf. 2:9–11) would have brought with them different languages, cultures, and traditions. While there would have been a certain type of chaotic beauty in this intermingling of pilgrims, there also arose a practical problem. The disciples in Jerusalem were eager to share the news of Jesus, but very few, if any, of the pilgrims would have known Aramaic, the native language of Jews living in Judea.3 This communication gap is addressed by the Holy Spirit who, as the story goes, descends on the scene in the form of tongues of fire (v. 4). What is more remarkable is how the Holy Spirit bridges the linguistic gap. It would have been possible for the Spirit to have descended upon the pilgrims and downloaded Aramaic into their brains, thus instantaneously creating a new lingua franca amongst the pilgrims and the disciples. This would have worked just fine in terms of cross-cultural communication, but it’s not what happens. Verse 4 specifies that the Spirit descends upon the disciples and enables them “to speak in other languages.” Thus, rather than creating a lingua franca out of Aramaic, the Spirit enables the disciples to speak in the native tongues of those pilgrims who had gathered for Pentecost.


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    Can you imagine the scene that would have ensued? The disciples would have been speaking of Jesus in all sorts of different languages, all at once. I once experienced something akin to this situation while visiting the Church of the Beatitudes just off the southwestern edge of the Sea of Galilee. There, in a hot, octagonal-shaped sanctuary, pilgrims from around the world gathered to pray out loud in languages that were utterly unfamiliar to me. I tried in vain to pick out familiar words or even syllables . Instead, I was enveloped in the hum of indecipherable prayers. It was, admittedly , a dizzying and disorienting moment—and far from what my Presbyterian roots would consider decent and in order. Part of me yearned for silence. Or failing that, a translator to make sense of it all or some type of agreed upon liturgy that would unite our voices in English or Latin or Spanish. Of course, none of this was possible, nor would it have been beneficial. What I was encountering in that moment on the Mount of Beatitudes was a holy cacophony of the faithful convening with God. Much like in Genesis 1 and 11, the Spirit in Acts 2 does not demand simplistic uniformity. Those on the margins (the pilgrims in Diaspora) did not need to conform to the ways and language of those at the religious center (the disciples in Jerusalem). Rather, it was the other way around. The center changes to accommodate the margins . The pilgrims hear the disciples speaking each according to their own native tongues (v. 8). The birth of God’s church could not and would not be founded on the insistence of a linguistic monoculture. The way of Babel would not be the way of the church. Though not explicitly recorded in Acts 2, after Pentecost the pilgrims would have returned to their native countries equipped to bear witness to Jesus in and through language, idioms, and imagery that their friends and neighbors would already have known. This not only would have made sharing the gospel easier. It would have underscored theologically that the message of Jesus could not be pinned to any one culture, it could not be tethered to any one set of experiences, traditions, practices, or modalities. Acts bears witness not so much to the birth of the church but rather the proliferation of different churches, each according to its kind. What God does in Acts 2 is thus not all that different from what God does in Genesis 1. Rather than creating the church from a clean slate or blank canvas, God brings forth the church from what would have been a disordered array of pilgrims, languages, and cultures. As these pilgrims scattered away from Jerusalem, so, too, did the forms and expressions of Christianity. For the earliest followers of Jesus, this was not a problem to overcome but a tangible expression of the work of God’s disruptive Spirit. The ecumenical councils of the second through sixth centuries would eventually try to impose some measure of order on this situation by insisting on uniform adherence to certain formalized doctrines and creeds (including creatio ex nihilo ). While the work of these councils had value, it once again highlights the human tendency to want to usher the chicks back into the nest. But this is not typically God’s pattern. Our calling as disciples and ministers is to follow the example of God’s hov-


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    ering Spirit, bringing forth something good, beautiful, vital, and not necessarily tidy out of the chaos we find in our churches and communities.

    Notes 1. Such imagery is found in Psalm 57:1, where the psalmist declares, “in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, until the destroying storms pass by.” 2. The Revised Common Lectionary pairs Acts 2 and Genesis 11 on Pentecost Sunday of Year C. 3. Throughout the Roman Empire, the lingua franca of the 1st c. CE was Greek. However, it is uncertain how many of the disciples, let alone the pilgrims, would have known this language.

  • Words to Ourselves: What Preachers Use to Guide Their Preaching

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    Words to Ourselves: What Preachers Use to Guide

    Their Preaching

    Mark Ramsey, Charlottesville, Virginia

    Ted Wardlaw, Austin, Texas

    Whether they are formalized or not, each preacher has some “rules of the road,” some list of do’s and don’ts, a set of values, aspirations, cautions, or goals in their preaching. To try to bring some of these (by no means an exhaustive list) to the sur­ face, we reached out to over seventy preachers, representing diverse backgrounds of race, gender, denomination, generation, tradition, and theological orientation. The question we asked: As a preacher, what are your ^^rules of the road”? In other words, when you approach your preaching, what are things you most keep in mind—either things you make sure you attend to in your preaching or things you try to stay away from? The words these preachers offered were decidedly words to themselves. No one shared them as anything other than personal admonitions. In these diverse and abundant “rules for the road,” some diverged from one another, and others were, of course, particular to the preacher’s ministry setting. But among the responses, we were able to identify clear threads of common values.

    1. God. We preach to tell of the love and grace of God in Jesus Christ. Preaching needs to focus on how God is described. Sermons should at­ tend to the reality of God and invite others to wonder with the preacher about who God is and how God is active in our lives and the life of the world. As one colleague offered: • People don Ï participate in church to just learn about God, they do it to experience God. Several others responded in a similar spirit: • Preaching should remind myself and others that God is the cen­ ter of the universe (and not me). • Put God in the lead. For me personally, I need the sermon to name for me yvhat God is doing and/or has done, and then help me see the way to respond. I sometimes ask myself, especially when I listen to sermons, does a living God make any difference to this sermon?

    2. Hope. In a culture awash in despair and isolation, the church has a cru­ cial word of hope and love to offer. The magnitude of the force of that despair in daily life can intimidate even the best preachers into holding back from offering a full-throated expression of God’s power and pres­ ence. Who are we to stand in this chasm of need with … mere words?


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    But the boldness of our proclamation has never been more needed. • I try to pay attention to what I call ”hidden hope”—preaching that helps us look for places where we wrongly assume God will not—or cannot—show up. Several colleagues described how they remind themselves not to fall into the trap of a muted or diluted message of hope: • I never want to preach a sermon that is basically a shallow inspi­ rational speech. Is what this sermon says “too small” compared to the breadth and depth of the imagination of God?

    • The Gospel is a hopeful message—regardless of how tough the text or challenging the circumstances, the Gospel is a hopeful response! And finally:

    • I am constantly mindful that, as a listener, if a sermon doesn i in­ vite me to thinkfor myself, doesn 7 even try to take me somewhere thrilling (I mean, come on: we’re talking about a personal rela­ tionship with the Creator of the universe), if it doesn’t open up for me any holy mystery to engage with or any challenge to con­ tend with in a spiritual context that practically forces me to think about the quality of my relationship with God or my response to it, I find it an aggravating, alienating waste of time.

    3. Formation. While preaching is about curating an experience of God, part of experiencing God is building on that experience to craft a durable foundation of faith. The era has passed when participants engaged multi­ ple times a week—a small group, an educational offering, kids at youth group, etc.—so that worship and preaching has become one of the prime (and for some, only) place for formation. Preachers get the privilege of a long-term theological conversation with a particular group of people, especially as that conversation intersects, day by day, with life’s losses and global challenges. The urgency and primacy of using preaching in service of faith formation surfaced in diverse ways. One colleague of­ fered this joyful rule for their own writing: • Help them fall in love with the biblical text, make it intriguing, mesmerizing, and relevant. The way preachers took up the task of faith formation varied, but the theme was consistent: • I try to remember that most of my people don’t know the Bible stories we often think everybody knows. • 1 work to make sure my sermons speak to the head, the heart, and the will.


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    • Does this sermon have any relevance to the seven day a week life of the laity. Are we equipping them to flourish as disciples and to enter into their missional calling?

    4. Disruption and Comfort. The constant challenge of balancing the pro­ phetic word and pastoral word came through loud and clear. There were self-cautions … • to not sand down the rough edges of the text and to remember that… • preaching should destabilize and disrupt, leaving more questions than answers; • no Christian sermon has more bad news than good news; • I always think about the person who is hurting. It was clear from all the responses that this is a complex area of overlap­ ping values and challenges. • I increasingly believe that most people showing up on a Sunday are carrying all kinds of hidden suffering and long for hope. Ad­ ditionally, I want people to see that the kingdom of God touches everything … challenging, affirming, inviting to new depths. Its personal and public. But even in my preaching I try to have more of a ”centered set” ethos … draw people to Jesus, nurture an encounter with Jesus, and see what happens. One contributor put it directly: • If my sermon won’t land with someone who has recently experi­ enced suffering, I shouldn’t preach it. In a time when there is so much brokenness in our world and communi­ ties, balancing a comforting word to those suffering with a message of truth and justice describing how God seeks to set the world right takes care, understanding, and courage. A helpful word on this was offered by one colleague: • I’m not interested in saying “be courageous. ” I’d rather invite people to receive courage because of what God is doing.

    5. Proclaim. Proclamation does not necessarily mean a twenty-minute monologue, delivered from a high pulpit with a booming voice. In our context, proclamation means everything we do to share the good news of hope and life given to us by God in Jesus Christ. One respondent said that their “rule” is, • Ami offering generally good news or am I spouting moralism ? Our colleague and JP partner Tom Long shared, • I remind myself that biblical texts are not jewel boxes with won­ derful things inside, but events in the consciousness of faith.


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    These texts exert claims upon us, and my job is to proclaim them, not merely explain them. As a preacher, lam in the news division of the church, and, whatever else there might be in my sermon, there should always be an element of ‘‘Something has happened! God has surprised us again! News! Good news!”

    6. So What? Among the most helpful values offered was for preachers to ask themselves this simple question when they have finished prepar­ ing a sermon: “So what?” Why does this matter? Where does it land in our lives? Where might this sermon change us? Invite us? Comfort us? Move us? • [I try to remember that] sermons are life purposing. They ex­ press Jesus’s call and vocation—and ours. Authentic preaching goes beyond “That was then; take a look. ” After Jesus s “Come, ” there is always his “Go!” And one preacher summarized: • Clearing the “so what” standard is so important to me. Some weeks I don’t succeed answering this as well as I had hoped, but I ask it every time.

    7. Who is listening? • As I preach weekly, 1 try to be intentional in asking about the people in my congregation: What are they facing? What gives them life? What makes them afraid? Some weeks, especially when I’m stuck, I will go into our worship space, and I will sit in the chair of my brother or sister and try to imagine their joys and challenges. • There was a keen value placed on giving attention to those who sit and listen to our sermons and not just trying to preach “ev­ ergreen ” sermons that could be preached anywhere or any time. And, pointing to an ongoing challenge of preaching in our culture, • Who is my audience and what is taking place in culture at this moment? A sermon on tithing in the weekend of George Floyd’s death just isn’t wise. I only alter my preaching plan if the culture event is major. (There is so much more to explore on that last point, We are planning an article in an upcoming issue of JP on that very challenge—how does one preach in a culture where injustice crowds out worship with tragic regularity.)

    8. Preaching to ‘‘the fringes.” Preachers offered a real awareness of who is not present—or barely present—as they preach and how should that shape their preaching.


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    Preaching is not an “inside task.” Just as churches must learn to play “away games” in the whole of our ministry, there were many respon­ dents who seek to remind themselves of that each week as they preach. • I must be mindful of the person in the room for ^vhom it may be their first time in church. • Write for those on the fringes; resist the temptation to speak to insiders. People on the fringes include those w’ho have been hurt by church, those vvith questions, and those ^vho have never heard a sermon before. • I steer away from anything that encourages (denominational) groupthink. Such as assuming there are no shades of gray to the Dobbs decision, to medical care for trans youth, or that hell doesn ? exist, etc. • I try to think like the biggest skeptic in the room, then find the hope that the passage offers to a world of brokenness. I always leave the congregation with hope, but we may go on a journey to get there. • My personal ethic in preaching is first to do no harm. I am often led to challenge, uproot, and cast down, and I want to do this boldly and prophetically, but not harmfully.

    9. When all is said and done, preaching is the work of God’s Spirit. We were gifted with so much wisdom on this point. • Hold on but not tightly. I have spent time preparing and praying so I have an outline in my mind and manuscript on the lectern, but I hold them loosely so that the Holy Spirit has room to lead the sermon. • I have to talk about God; I cannot talk about God. If I neglect the obligation, Christ stays on the periphery. If I forget the inability, I become Pat Robertson or the Taliban. All I can do is speak up, laugh at the absurdity, and give God the glory. • Remember that great line from the Second Helvetic Confession: ”The preaching of the Word of God is the Word of God. ’’ Allow that thought to both frighten and uphold you. One preacher remembered … • the musing of Fred Craddock that “the longest journey we ever make is from the head to the heart” and the importance of trust­ ing that to the critical work of the Spirit. And, crucially, this word of hope and comfort for preachers: • I prepare a sermon with all the time, effort, struggle, and care that the important nature of the work demands, and then I get


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    up in the pulpit and breathe a sigh of relief because its all up to God in the end.

    10. Finally, there is the toolbox of guidelines. Perhaps not all big enough to be themes, but interesting ideas to share nonetheless in service of encouraging conversation about preaching. • Don y be ever be a hero in a story you tell in a sermon. • Don ’Z bore people to death! • Hoyv can I communicate in a way that is easily comprehensible, creative, relevant and, whenever possible, fun. • Whenever possible, show don 7 tell. Don 7 over explain. (And that will help us not bore people to death.) • Be honest and don ? lie. • Edit. Edit. Edit. Edit again. • I ‘m struck by the fact Eve never seen an editing class in any sem­ inary curricula. Why? We as clergy might be able to write great sermons, but every single one of us can use an editor. • I have one just-before-worship practice: I always preach it once from the pulpit before the service. Its amazing at what I cut and what seems less important from that space than from the coffee shop or my living room when Em writing. • Don y condescend to your listeners. Treat them like adults. • Don y offer yourself as ‘Ihe authority” on anything. • Nothing has improved my preaching more than giving up the need to sound smart. • I try to resist the ‘‘expert upfront’’ model of preaching whenever possible for several reasons. 1 most often do so by preaching in conversation or dialogue, and 1 endeavor to do so with someone who occupies different identities from my own. • Think carefully, creatively, and intentionally about your first sen­ tence and your last sentence. Please don’t begin a sermon with some version of “as I was thinking this week about what to say. ” That is lazy writing. • At the end of a sermon, don’t close the door unless the text is conclusive. Most sermons should not have a conclusion. Trust that the Spirit authors the conclusion of the sermon and its ap­ plication, maybe on a Tuesday morning and maybe a year later. A sermon isn’t a well composed essay or a perfect argument. So many colleagues coalesced around these values in their sharing with us. Of course there is room for so many more, and some that may be essential to you were left out. But surfacing what is often unspoken and out of sight as to values in preach­ ing—those things that just roll around in your head on a Thursday afternoon in front


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    of your computer—is important. These values, too, leave plenty of room for discus­ sion and different views. Is it all right to use personal stories—or stories about my family—in the pulpit … or not? (If it is, how many and how often?) What are the best cultural references … poems, fiction, movies, blogs, music? Series or lectionary ? There were many ideas and questions like these that we will explore in greater depth in upcoming issues of JP. It is clear in the wisdom shared that, even in fractious times, we are blessed by thoughtful pastors serving faithfully in pulpits and in so many other arenas of minis­ try. We are reminded that, these pastors are … well, pastors. Whatever their various homiletical convictions, preachers are called to be pastors who attend to the regular, disciplined scholarship that enables faithful preaching to emerge. But virtually ev­ erything else that a pastor encounters across the week might also feed the insights of a sermon. News accounts or novels or plays or Netflix or stray conversations one hears on a street corner: paying attention to all of this is essential to enabling one to be a good and effective pastor and preacher. Pastoral gear also includes all the rhythms of ministry: visiting parishioners in the hospital or the nursing home, sending a card to a grieving family, checking in with a couple enduring tough times, inviting to lunch someone who has not been seen for a while. Another part of the pas­ toral gear includes finding fellowship with trustworthy neighboring pastors or other friends with whom one can relax and can enjoy unguarded moments. Such moments enable the pastor to remain attentive to all the dimensions of the pastoral life. All these moments find their way, in one manner or another, into the sermons we preach. Each of the responses from preachers either explicitly or implicitly framed a challenge: How do preachers bring their best selves to this important moment and do it in such a way that they are not the center of attention? In our culture, few are invited to be the only one speaking to a group for ten-twenty minutes while everyone else (presumably) listens. Yet preachers are asked to do just this each week. To focus the time and attention of a group of people on his or her words. In order to fulfill this call, preachers need to bring remarkable passion, preparation, and insight to their task—and at the same time to point relentlessly beyond themselves to the gospel. To raise up the hope and love provided by God in Jesus Christ. The Good News makes preachers messengers far beyond anything they can come up with on their own. Listening carefully to all this wisdom preachers shared with us brought both of us—individually—to pulpits from which we preached early in our careers. One of the oldest churches in the Rocky Mountains (where Mark served) was built in 1893. The pulpit was nearly as old as the building. Carved on the base of the top of it— facing back toward where the preacher sat, unseen to the congregation—^were words from the King James Bible translation of John 12:21, “Sir, we would see Jesus.” (Alas, this was crafted into the pulpit at a time where neither the congregation nor the woodcarver imagined the bold, faithful, and inspiring preachers who would fill that pulpit regularly in years to come and who, decidedly, were not “sirs.”)


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    “Historic” has a different meaning in the Northeast, where the fifth-oldest Pres­ byterian congregation in America, located on the North Shore of Long Island, was established in 1660 (Ted served there early in his pastoral career). It was a beau­ tiful building and looks for all the world like a New England meetinghouse, gor­ geously simple with its clear-glass windows, a soaring steeple that provided light for mariners navigating Long Island Sound, and an ancient cemetery that encircled the sanctuary. In the sanctuary, the pulpit is notable. Attached to the back wall and enabling the preacher to eyeball each worshipper sitting either in the nave or the three-sided balcony, that pulpit all but dared any preacher who stepped into it across three-and-a-half centuries to do so unprepared. A bronze plaque on the pulpit desk held the preacher’s notes and provided a weekly reminder to every preacher through the centuries, a profound caution and guide—the Gospel’s description of John the Baptizer’s pointing to Jesus in the first chapter of the Gospel of John: “He was not the light, but he came to bear witness to the light.” Faithful admonitions to the preacher: “we would see Jesus” and “you are here to bear witness to the light.” All the guidelines, rules of the road, and lived wisdom of preachers help us to this point. To get out of our own way and let the Spirit work so that all of us may know God more clearly and experience the love and hope of Jesus Christ more deeply. Getting to that place with that wisdom is the mission of JP—and seems to us to be the ultimate faithful admonition embodied in each of these “rules of the road.”