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  • Please visit us!

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    Please Visit Us!

    Joseph L. Roberts, Jr.

    Pastor Emeritus, Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid….” (Luke 2:9-10)

    In his book titled The Last Battle, CS. Lewis states that an awareness of Divine Holiness in our midst brings both a mixture of mental reflection and emotional reaction in the deep places of our souls. Furthermore, he contends that one constant emotion occasioned by encountering the Divine Presence is frightening fear: “And the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified” (Luke 2:9). Let us reflect upon the presence of God in our midst and try to imagine our emotional response to the divine presence among us today. Think about it. If we had the option of allowing or not allowing God to look straight into our souls, would we cherish this opportunity or be frightened by it? I think we would be scared to death of full disclosure. For you see, in God’s presence we are exposed for who and what we really are, no evasions, no excuses, no escapes. But wouldn’t such exposure be an invasion of our privacy? And isn’t this one of our cherished constitutional protections? No, we will not willingly surrender our independence to any human being nor to even our Divine Creator unless there is absolutely no way to avoid such an encounter. Besides, aren’t we at times a little hostile toward God? Don’t we remember that we didn’t receive what we asked for, what we desperately needed at a given time in our lives? And isn’t it true that we have had a small grudge against God because God didn’t give us what we thought we desperately needed? Yes, let’s confess it. Some of us have a covert, silent hidden rage against the Almighty. We are angry with God, but fear God at the same time.

    “Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid….”‘

    Now let us return to CS Lewis’s observation. When we look into the face of God (how awesome), the constant emotion we feel is fear. But we need to know that God doesn’t want us to be afraid of Him, for fear immobilizes us. We are frozen and can do nothing good for Him, or for that matter, for ourselves. “God is love, and perfect love casts out fear” (I John 4:18 ). Can we really grasp this truth, hold on to it, and wrestle it to the ground until the angel blesses us? Well, this is precisely what the frightened shepherds on the Judean hillside succeeded in doing. For in spite of their initial fear, they pressed on, after hearing the angel’s reasons for telling them they had no reason to fear any longer.

    ” I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born

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    this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

    When they heard these words, knowing that they and all people needed a deliverer, they worked through their intimidating fear to a tentative statement of faith. They cried out in desperation, ” Please Visit Us….” You know the rest of the story, but let’s listen to the message of the angelic choir, as they sang to the shepherds that night:

    “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” (Luke 2:14)

    Someone has asked the question: ” Is this angelic song only a hymn from some far distant past, only a sweet memory of the first Christmas?” Or is it not the original Christmas song, which we all may copy in our own lives and in our world today? Do not be terrified, for God is here with us. (His name shall be called Emmanuel.) He is here at Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, and throughout the entire journey of our individual lives. What is the meaning of Advent, Ad Veniol It means God has graciously decided to visit us and stay with us. Yes, if we but ask him, He will stay with us for the long haul! Will we join the shepherds and honestly cry out for the Savior in our time? Do we honestly cry out – “Please Visit Us?” First and foremost, advent is personal ! Did we realize there is an individual advent for each of us, if we will make room for the heavenly visitant in our daily journey? For what is regeneration if it is not the beginning of the Divine life within us? (Nicodemus had to learn this, so perhaps we can also.) When we are born anew by the presence of the Lord Jesus in us, God’s displeasure with us is turned away, and God’s peace begins to take place in our lives. Now this is no cheap, easy task for God. Our regeneration and salvation are terribly expensive ! A cross looms ahead in the not too distant future, on which His son will die.. .for us. And then (amazing grace) he permits us to spread our testimony about Him throughout His world. Yes, the angel of the Lord made known this glorious news to ordinary shepherds, common, hard working people, first and foremost. And we love the shepherds because they did not hesitate to investigate this angelic announcement. They responded in action : “Let us now go even to Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to past, which the Lord hath made known unto us….” They provide such a blessed example for us. We are rational, calculating people in some areas of life. But the shepherds’ response was immediate. No doubt, no vain questions asked. They needed (as we do) the blessings of a visit from God. God has sent them a wonderful message, and they had to authenticate it for themselves. And they did; they saw the Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Then they “returned to their flocks, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them” (Luke2:20). But now we are 2000 years beyond this first Christmas. Yet our cry is the same as the original shepherds, might be the same as the shepherds: “Lord Jesus, Please Visit Us again. For we are in gross darkness, we desperately need good news of peace and joy for all of your people. Please Visit Us in so many places where deliverance is needed at right now:

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    Please Visit Us in Afghanistan and Iraq, where the blood of the innocent young is being shed on all sides, in conflicts which seem irresolvable.

    Please Visit Us in the Middle East. Help us deal, even-handedly and with fairness with all parties involved in this conflict. It has lasted so long.

    Please Visit Us in Iran, Korea, and other locations where nuclear weaponry seems to be a major priority, signaling death, not life.

    Please Visit Us in the Sudan, where men in Darfur are driven from their villages and killed or placed in refugee camps, their daughters and wives raped and abused every day.

    Please Visit Us in the United States, where in so many instances, there is little peace, safety, or security.

    Visit all places where children are killing children, where weapons of lethal destruction are far too available.

    Please Visit Us in homes where there is domestic violence against spouses, children, and the elderly.

    Please Visit Us wherever hate groups form and mob rule would prevail.

    Please Visit Us and help us change our attitudes and relinquish rigid ideologies that work against the love of God for all of us.

    We know the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Please visit us and show us how to love and live with each other.

    Love Divine, all love excelling, Joy of heaven to earth come down. Fix in us thy humble dwelling, all Thy faithful mercies crown. Jesus, thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art. Visit us with thy salvation, enter every trembling heart.

    Please visit us. We are not ready, but please come anyhow! We need You now! Amen.

  • Toward a theology of migration

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    Protagonist Corner: Toward a Theology

    of Migration

    D. Cameron Murchison

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    In a recent article Daniel Groody observed that today “there are more than 200 million people migrating around the world, or one out of every thirty-five people on the planet.” 1 And as one family he interviewed said, “We are migrating not because

    we want to but because we have to I’m already dead in Mexico, and getting to the U.S. gives us the hope of living, even though I may die.” 2 Here in the macro and micro

    perspectives we confront the phenomenon that is most often described in the U. S. as the “immigration problem.” Frequently this description leads to a variety of political and economic analyses that pay little attention to either the macro or the micro perspective on migration, but rather seeks to capitalize on the “opportunities” that the “problem” offers. Two days after Christmas 2008, The New York Times published an article that described how the small Rhode Island town of Central Falls discovered a way to make its state of the art detention facility actually begin to generate some of the revenue for which the city had hoped when it was built. 3 An improved financial balance sheet came

    from Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) payments for the housing of immi­ grants detained at the rate of $101.76 per day. A special agony for Central Falls arose from the fact that a city, founded on waves of earlier immigrant populations and currently a mostly Latino town, discovered that some of its own valued citizens had been secretly incarcerated there. These familiar faces in the community had been caught in crackdowns on supposed illegal immigration. Even so, both city and deten­ tion center officials continued to say they are only running a business that tries to meet the needs of its clients, in this case a chief client being ICE. But surely the “immigration problem” deserves to be considered on grounds other than that of the economic opportunities it may present to distressed communities needing jobs and revenue to support their public services. The Bible’s own account of migration as a fundamental experience of God’s people in the world invites us to a richer understanding of the phenomenon of global migration so evident in the present. One particularly instructive starting point for such an understanding of global migration is Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel, in which he gives a remarkably comprehensive account of the dispersion of humans around the globe. Beginning in the heart of Africa in approximately seven million B.C., human migration reached across the Middle East and Central Asia by one million Β .C. and into central and West­ ern Europe by 500,000 Β .C. Thereafter, the human dispersion reached through South­ east Asia to Australia by 40,000 Β .C. Subsequently, the path of human movement went through Siberia by 20,000 Β .C. and across the Bering Strait sheet into North America around 12,000 B.C. and to the tip of South American by 10,000 B.C. For a theological approach that tries to understand the human experience sub specie aeternitatis, this expands the frame for one of the Bible’s most fundamental themes, that of “”promised land.” Whereas we might easily and readily think of the theme of “promised land” in the history of Israel, Diamond’s account leads us to

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    ponder whether Israel’s experience might not be paradigmatic for the human family as a whole. Israel ‘ s vision of a place of security, livelihood, and well-being (“promised land”) may well represent a vision that God has placed in the heart of humankind. What else than a universal, divine summons to a land in which humans might flourish explains the impulse that would lead them to venture in hope from known places to others unknown—again and again, for millennia? Christian communities have a manifest theological obligation to approach the contemporary phenomenon of global migration in light of the Biblical theme of “promised land.” Instead of mindlessly joining in political and economic debates about the “immigration problem,” they have the opportunity to bring special insight to the conversation. Rather than criminalizing those who are on the move from places of death to places of human flourishing, Christians may fairly ask if the God who promised a land of bounty to Israel may be the same God who moves in the hearts and struggles of today’s migrants. Those who have pondered the traditions about “promised land” in scripture are careful to note that there is both variety and ideology in the way the theme is sounded. Walter Brueggemann notes in the preface to the second edition of The Land that recent analyses of the “promised land” in the Old Testament have drawn attention to the political arrangements which the theme may justify and privilege.5 In The Land is Mine, Norman Habel agrees that the land traditions of the Old Testament are ideologically cast, but he describes one of those traditions, the immigrant ideology of the Abraham narratives, in a way that may give special purchase on some of the most vexing issues that may be experienced in the face of global migration. Habel notes that in the Abraham story, the land is “a host country where immigrant ancestors find God at sacred sites, discern promises of future land, and establish peaceful relations with the indigenous people of the land.”6 Thus a biblical contribution to current angst about the intrusion that “immigrants” may represent to existing residents is that the arrival of the others does need to be taken as inherently hostile. This is emphasized as well in the way the issue of entitlement to the land is expressed for Abraham. “Where land is in dispute, he negotiates peaceful settlements. When the land is attacked, he fights for the peoples of the land. When he needs a burial site for Sarah, he buys land in accordance with the local laws of land purchase. Abraham is a peaceful immigrant who willingly recognizes the land entitlements of the peoples of the host country.”7 At least in the light of this stratum of “promised land” theology in the Bible, Christians may reassure the wider community that the influx of migrants is not inevitably aggression against the interests of those already arrived. Thus a theology of migration informed by the theme of “promised land” will function to help understand both migrants and host peoples. Regarding those on the move, it will see in their movement the implicit promise of God that they will be shown to a land in which they may have security, livelihood, and well-being. Regarding those in the host or receiving land, it will testify that as God sent Abraham into Canaan peacefully and in full recognition of the needs of those abiding there, contemporary migrants may be received with the same, responsive hospitality.

    Pentecost 2009

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    Notes

    1 Daniel G. Groody, “Dying to Live: Theology, Migration, and the Human Journey,” Reflections, Vol. 95, no. 2, (Fall 2008) New Haven, Yale Divinity School, 31. 2 Ibid. 3 Nina Berstein, “Leaning on Jail, City of Immigrants Fills Cells with Its Own,” The New York Times, (December 27,2008). 4 Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1997), 35-52. 5 Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith, 2nd edition, (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), xiii-xvi. 6 Norman C. Habel, The Land Is Mine: SixBiblical Land /¿feo/ogies, (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 135. 7 Ibid., 146.

  • How to hate your parents

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    How to Hate Your Parents

    Luke 14:25-36

    Frank G. Honeycutt

    Ebenezer Lutheran Church, Columbia, South Carolina

    “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, even life itself, cannot be my disciple. ” Luke 14:26

    I noticed during the recent campaign that Fred Thompson, presidential hopeful from my home state of Tennessee, made a quick whistle-stop at the Minnesota State Fair. His handlers at the fair made sure he peeked in on the “Butter Princess.” My source reports: “[The Butter Princess] is one of the fair’s main attractions, and it’s easy to see why. She is blonde and beautiful and all of 90 pounds—of butter. Carved that morning from a solid block, she smiles vacantly through the glass of her 38-degree display case.”1 All the candidates—Barack, Rudy, Mitt, Hillary, you pick—employed astute advisors who’d been around the political block and knew why visits to the Butter Princess were important in the public eye. Image counts for a lot in politics. Every word and action and youthful gaffe are scrutinized by somebody on the other side, so it’s important to have a handle on how your horse is coming across in this long race to the finish line. Polls matter. A candidate should seemhuman, aregular guy or gal who eats corn dogs and funnel cakes; somebody who seems approachable, loves kids, and avoids saying stupid things that might bury the campaign by morning. You know all this. Candidates pay top dollar to a cadre of handlers who massage, position, and manipulate public image. You cannot get elected on image alone, but it certainly helps. I’m pondering all this because sometimes I wonder if Jesus might have benefited from an advisor or two. I hope that doesn ‘ t sound blasphemous to tender ears, but really now, What is Jesus thinking today? The very first sentence of our gospel lesson reports that “large crowds were traveling with Jesus.” Maybe he’s at the equivalent of the Galilee State Fair. Flocks of admirers surround him. The polls are up for the Lord, in other words. He’s a popular guy, and people hang on every word. That’s a sure sign of success in politics or sports or church life, correct? If the crowds are present, then things must be going well. I was at the Florida State-Clemson game over the Labor Day weekend, my first visit back to my alma mater for a football game since the fall of 1978—29 years ago. Eighty-three thousand orange-clad fanatics packed in there for the Bowden Bowl. I got kind of misty-eyed when the team ran down the hill, touched Howard’s Rock, and the band broke into the “Tiger Rag.” But what if only 500 people had shown up in that spacious place? We’d have to conclude that something was terribly wrong in the Tiger Nation. The same is true in church life. We very often measure success through numbers—two numbers in particular, church attendance and offering dollars. When those are down, we wring our collective hands and wonder what we’re doing wrong. But have you noticed in the gospels that Jesus is not too concerned about public opinion? He doesn’t seem to have speech writers or appealing commercials claiming that discipleship will “solve all your problems.” Jesus seems to have missed the course

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    on image-projection. Conventional wisdom assumes that he’d want these large crowds to get even larger. Jesus, however, says a few things that probably thinned out the throng considerably by the end of the day. Twenty centuries removed, I’m cringing for the guy and almost wish the disciples had carried some sort often-second delay device. Here’s what he said that day, almost unbelievable advice about discipleship for ears like ours tuned to political platitudes and famous people putting their best foot forward. “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother and family and, yes, even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross can forget about knowing anything about me. Whoever does not significantly downsize in the possession department can never follow me.” Now each of those three statements is worthy of a whole series of sermons, but what I really want you to again notice about this speech is that Jesus said these offensive things at the very zenith of his popularity. “Large crowds” were hanging on his every word—maybe not 83,000, but enough to pay the bills and fund the movement and get this new thing called the kingdom of God up and running. Jesus would never have to rely again on a little boy’s lunch offish and bread to feed everybody. The disciples could just collect a free-will offering and have the thing catered. There is a huge siren appeal in religious life for the leadership to try and make everybody happy. It’s tempting, very tempting, for pastors and church council leaders to give people what they want and call that church. But if we take our evangelical cues from Jesus, words shared in church life may be so utterly honest, so free of populist manipulation, and so unhindered by opinion poll that we regularly risk offense in the name of the gospel. This is not to say that we become rude and abrasive on purpose, but it does suggest that we will be unflinchingly honest about what discipleship and life in the church does (and does not) mean. It is almost unthinkable, for example, for anyone (even pastors) to question participation patterns in most Lutheran churches I know. We prefer a ministry of handholding and sympathy and “understanding” in all behaviors rather than asking someone out of care and concern, “What’s kept you away from the Lord’s table for the last six Sundays?” or “Why did you decide out of the blue to up and leave your spouse for somebody else?” or even: “I’ve missed you. Is anything wrong?” Some might say we should never risk such things because it’s none of our business. The truth in America is that we have a tacit and almost holy agreement which is very close to this: “You stay out of my life, and I’ll stay out of yours.” One of the reasons I love Jesus is that he refuses to play games in order to further his popularity. His words today may seem a little over the top. We may wish that Jesus had had a speech-writer, a good editor, to soften the blow and explain his real meaning. But all in all, he ‘ s just telling the truth. He ‘ s being honest about the cost of discipleship. “First, sit down and estimate what signing on with me is going to cost you.” First, sit down, he says, think hard about this, because you may not want to be standing up when the life I have in mind for you really sinks in. Jesus says that unless the cross is at the center of our lives, we’re playing at church. He says candidly and forcefully that possessions can possess us. Jesus demands a practical priority in our lives, even surpassing the commitment to those in our family. Why does he seem so unswerving here? Because he knows that we can suffocate one another in the name of love. He knows that we can be no real good to family members unless we love them with the love and wisdom of Jesus rather than with our own best

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    efforts. He knows that even the gift of family can become an idol. (By the way, don’t let the word hate trip you up here. It’s not the same as saying the venomous “I hate you.” It’s a word denoting priority, primary allegiance.) Jesus is on the road. Large crowds were traveling with him—some of them undoubtedly troubled and confused, looking for something to make life go down a little easier. Jesus refuses to define discipleship according to the least offensive common denominator. Instead, he tells the truth. And I suspect the crowds thinned out considerably that day. The polls were not kind to Jesus in the next morning’s newspaper. This story is an excellent cautionary tale for the church. How will we share Jesus with others? What motivates us and defines a “successful” church? Are we more concerned with numbers or depth in discipleship? What structures and programs need to be in place to help us grow in our following of Jesus? Or are we content just to count heads and dollars every Sunday and accept every behavior under the sun because it’s just none of our business? These are hard questions for Lutherans. There’s a lot of hand-wringing about the state of the church nationally. Lots of blame to go around as to why we’re in such a fix. But I think our central challenge is this: we’re not honest with people about what following Jesus really means. “First, sit down,” he says. Think hard about what you’re getting into. Maybe you hear that as judgment. I hear it centrally as real gospel care. “First, sit down.” That’s not bad advice. It’s probably not a good idea to be standing when this discipleship speech really sinks in.

    Note

    1. Holly Bailey, “Grin and Bear It,” Newsweek, September 10,2007,22.

  • Protagonist corner: conversions

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    Protagonist Corner: Conversions

    R. Leon (Lee) Carroll, Jr.

    Decatur, Georgia

    My earliest years—my most formative ones—were lived out in the pre-desegregated society of the deep South. That culture taught me that black people were inferior to whites, that blacks must be “kept in their place” on the lower end of the social spectrum, that laws are to be applied differently to blacks, and all the other venomous messages that came with Jim Crow-ism. In spite of my congregation teaching me to sing “Jesus loves the children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white,” the clear message was that our segregated ways were, in fact, God’s ways. During my high school days, I merely assumed that those learned values were just the way things were supposed to be, but I also remember wondering why this was so. Somehow it just seemed incongruous with the Gospel. Later, during my junior year in college, I was selected to be one of several college and seminary students to represent Presbyterians from the US at the World Alliance of Reformed Churches when it gathered in Germany in 1964. The civil rights bill was being debated in the US Congress that year, and the Alliance was preparing to speak on the proposed bill. As it turned out, partly because I was from the southern United States, I was among a handful of students invited to help draft a resolution in support of Congress passing the civil rights legislation. Two of the students in that group were college/seminary students from Africa—black Christians who were articulate, personable, theologically grounded, and deeply committed Christians—precisely the kind of African American Christians my isolated world had intentionally kept me from knowing! As we wrestled with that resolution, I found myself steadily being drawn into a new worldview. For the first time in my life, I was discovering a new integrity about the Gospel, seeing that God’s vision for a just society has profound implications for the way we relate to people who are different from us, and that segregation might not be God’s way at all. I have long pondered that “conversion” in my life, incomplete as it may be. I realize that there were numerous influences that led me toward a new moral perspective —my parents, a special uncle, college experiences, some courageous clerics, and a few friends. But in the South in the 1960’s, such voices were rare. Still today, I wonder how that change came to pass, but at long last I have finally concluded that it was simply a gift of God—indeed, pure grace. And I know that it could have turned out very differently. It disturbs me to think of all the twisted things that the church throughout history has done in the name of Jesus Christ—the Crusades, the Holocaust, slavery, segregation , and the list goes on. It disturbs me even more when I consider that we still continue to claim that God is on our side as we trivialize the plight of the homeless or reject immigrants or ban gay and lesbian persons from the full life of the church. The details may differ from issue to issue, but the fact is that we still think of ourselves as gatekeepers for God. Charles Marsh, in God’s Long Summer, wrote of five very different persons whose lives intersected in Mississippi during the turbulent struggle over civil rights in the

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    summer of 1962. Marsh describes how the theological convictions of these five leaders—some/or civil rights, some against—informed the positions and actions that each took in that struggle. One of these featured people was Sam Bowers, the charismatic Grand Dragon of the KKK in Mississippi. He was suspected of orchestrating at least nine murders, 75 bombings of black churches, and 300 assaults, and was eventually convicted of some of these crimes. Throughout that reign of terrorism, Bowers served as a Sunday School teacher in his church, and he always maintained that he was acting out of his “Christian convictions,” out of his firm belief that segregation was God’s answer to communism and atheism. He saw himself as a modern-day Elijah called to slaughter the prophets of Baal. Twisting the Gospel is not always quite so exaggerated. Marilynne Robinson’s novel, Home, illustrates a subtler, more common form of Gospel-twisting. Set in a small mid-Western town in the mid-1950’s, the story describes an exchange between Robert Boughton, an aging, traditionalist Presbyterian minister, long since retired, and Jack, his prodigal middle-aged son. Jack was disturbed by the unjust treatment of black people by “American Christianity,” and the elder Boughton argued that Jack was overly concerned about the race question because he had been watching too much television! As the sparring continued, the father eventually said, “I don’t believe in calling anyone’s religion into question because he (sic) has certain feelings (about the treatment of African-Americans). A blind spot or two. ” “A blind spot or two?” Subtle perhaps. But it was that same “blind spot” that led so many of us to stand on the sidelines while thousands of black men, women, and even children were systemically denied their human dignity and civil rights for generations. The point is that theology does matter. It matters a lot! Theology shapes our lives in deep and profound ways—including our actions or lack of actions. If we have learned anything in more recent times, it is that our culture deeply shapes our values and beliefs. The challenge is to sort out how much of our theology is driven by the materialism and fears of our culture and how much of it is driven by the mission of God. Such sorting is hard work, especially in the heat of a battle. But in the end, even theology, or perhaps I should say, especially theology depends upon the grace-ful ways of God converting us to more faithful perspectives and practices. A few years ago, I conducted a modest research project in which I sought to identify some key qualities of congregations that have proven to be excellent “teaching congregations ” for seminary students doing supervised ministry. In my role as a theological field educator at a Presbyterian seminary, I had observed that even though pastors of our stronger teaching congregations change from time to time, these congregations could always be counted on to provide generative experiences for pastoral interns. There was just something about them that made them strong contexts for teaching about faithful ministry. In that project, I visited numerous congregations, asking lay and pastoral leaders what qualities they thought best defined their congregations. It was no surprise to me that most of them were focused on mission rather than their own survival; most saw worship as central to their sense of purpose; and most saw themselves as theologically grounded in the belief that God is still at work among us. I also found them deeply hospitable congregations that were especially good about welcoming visitors. But what I had not anticipated was that in spite of their welcoming capacity, these same congregations found it extremely difficult to speak about their faith, that is, about God

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    or Jesus Christ, with the same visitors they had so warmly welcomed. Talking with strangers, or even with one another, about matters of faith was simply uncomfortable for these devoted people of faith. In other words, even our stronger congregations struggle with speaking of God to others in ways that help us respond to the public issues of our day in ways that have theological integrity. In that sense, I wonder if these congregations are really so different from my childhood church that accepted segregation as “the Christian way,” or from the Robert Boughtons among us who want not to deal with the realities of racism. Are they so different from the Christians of an earlier generation who justified human slavery by arguing for the “spirituality of the church”? Congregations who fail faithfully to connect private theology and public practices have more than just “a few blind spots”! One of my theological mentors, Neely McCarter, used to speak about the need of pastors to have an “authentic sense of personal piety.” He was not encouraging us to escape into a “spiritual realm,” divorced from the quest for social justice, as is suggested by some recent devotees to “Christian spirituality.” Rather, I understood him to say that the Christian life includes both practices of justice ministries and piety, and that these must always be held together in ways that have integrity with the mission of God. And so it is with preaching. Faithful preaching requires that we challenge listeners to welcome and honor the stranger in our midst, precisely because the God of Jesus Christ is hospitable to humankind. Faithful preaching requires that we confront the rampant fears that allow our consumer values to dictate our theology and our actions, precisely because the message of Jesus frees us from being captive to unjust social norms. Faithful preaching requires that we challenge the church to enter the world, seeking justice and living in peace, precisely because the activity of Yahweh is not confined to temple practices. A tall order for the preacher! Fortunately, the result of our preaching ultimately does not come down to how articulate or dynamic we may be as preachers. Preachers may interpret or motivate, but ultimately human lives are changed by the grace-ful activity of God at work in our preaching, as well as our teaching and acting, converting our fears into new courage, bringing new vision to our blind spots. Sola gratia! Thanks be to God!

  • With both hands

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    With Both Hands*

    Luke 1038-41

    Samuel Wells

    Duke University, Durham, North Carolina

    I came to America three years ago determined to understand baseball. Perhaps the symbol of baseball – perhaps the symbol of the American summer now upon us – is the large padded mitt you wear on your non-throwing hand. You have to realize, I’m a person who’s spent a lot of time trying and failing to catch a cricket ball with two hands, so the one-handed method makes me feel pretty small. That single baseball glove says to me, “Of course I can catch and prepare to throw at the same time. We are, after all, a culture committed to multi-tasking.” We are indeed a culture committed to multi-tasking. It sometimes seems every aspect of life is being shaped to ensure it can be performed with one hand. We drive vehicles with automatic transmission so we always have one hand free to fight with the road map or speak on a cell phone. We eat fast food so we can have a hand free to browse the web while the other hand reaches for the French fries. We write a paper, go to a party, text message our way into a new romantic encounter, and follow the basketball score all in the same evening, or even all at the same moment. This is something we learn quite early, at least in middle or high school, and we notice it in teenagers because they’re doing several things at the same time, but they haven’t yet learned the art of seeming fully present in each one. (Of course not, we might say – you have to go to college for that.) But teenagers are really no different from the rest of us. It’s as if life is a supermarket, and we have one hand on the cart while the other hand is always available to touch and sample the myriad experiences and opportunities available on one or other side of the aisle, tossing each consumer possibility into the cart with little or no thought to the checkout. Well, life-consumers that we all are, today is checkout day. From time to time in a student existence something comes along that can’t be addressed with just one hand. I wonder whether you’ve ever held a baby. It’s pretty scary, because all your well-developed social skills go out the window. Especially if it’s someone else’s baby, this is not an exercise you want to get wrong. It really does take two hands. And if new life needs two hands, so does death. You don’t want to be sitting by the bedside of a suffering loved one thumbing out a text message or scrolling your way through Facebook. And from time to time you realize that friendship needs two hands too. Thirteen months ago many of us here today were together in this very place trying to make sense of the death of your classmate Chris Sanders. It was a very difficult event to comprehend within what we might call a “one-hand culture.” What made it more poignant and more agonizing is that those close to him really had held him in two hands. They really had. Those of us who walked away from his memorial service did so resolved all the more to hold one another in two hands. I wonder what things make you interrupt the one-hand culture. What are the things you take with both hands? Maybe a ticket to the Duke-UNC basketball game. Maybe

    * This sermon was preached in May 2008 at Baccalaureate in Duke University Chapel.

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    a top job offer or a place at your number one graduate school. As you look back at your time at Duke, I wonder which have been the moments that needed two hands. To put the question another way, I wonder which are the places where you’re content just to be silent – with no iPod, no conversation, and no jogging or snacking -just beauty or peace. And I wonder who are the people you are content to be silent with – not have great laughs or great debates or great dancing, but just company and stillness and companionship. Those are the places and the people with whom we can be still, through whom we can know what matters most, for whom we think it’s worth using both hands. Sixteen hundred years ago St Augustine of Hippo distinguished between two kinds of things. One kind ofthing we enjoy. These are the things that are worth having for their own sake. They aren’t a means to an end: they’re a joy in themselves. They’re things that never run out. You don’t have to make an argument for why they matter: they speak for themselves. The other kind ofthing we use. Things we use aren’t good for themselves – they’re a means to some further end. They do run out. They serve only a limited purpose. I want to suggest to you that what we grasp or take or juggle in one hand is what we use, and what we yearn for and treasure and shape our whole posture to receive and cherish is what we enjoy. What we use only requires one hand: we can use a number of things at the same time. But to enjoy something, or someone, we really need both hands, because it takes all our concentration. Now a central insight of the Christian faith, and this is an insight I believe shared with Jews and Muslims and perhaps others as well, is that the distinction between use and enjoy applies to God too. God doesn’t use us. God enjoys us. In other words we’re not a consumer good God tosses into the cart and thinks about dealing with later at the checkout. On the contrary, the whole life of God is shaped to be in relationship with us, to enjoy us. God never deals with us with one hand. God always approaches us with both hands – because we mean everything to God. There’s nothing more important in God’s life than us – there’s no reason to multi-task, for God’s joy is us. The great mystery, of course, is the mystery of whether we will enjoy God in return and shape our life in order to receive God with two hands or simply try to use God as just one more consumer good in the shopping cart. One Reformation description of the Christian faith says that we were made to enjoy God for ever. That doesn’t sound like a onehander to me, however big the glove on that one hand. That’s a project that needs both hands. In the story of Mary and Martha, we see Martha, who wants to take God with one hand while doing everything else at the same time, contrasted with Mary, who realizes that God truly is a project that needs both hands. There’s a story about the Irish humorist Oscar Wilde. He was at a party, and the hostess came up to him and said, “Mr Wilde, are you enjoying yourself?” He replied, “Madam, there’s so little else here to enjoy.” I want to say a little more about what it means to enjoy. Think about the moment you’re on your computer in the library, and you’ve been on blackboard and read the assigned text for class. It’s late in the evening, and you feel like heading out to find some friends to play with or maybe even doing the radical thing and having an early night. But something tells you you’ve read something that night that really matters in a way your other assignments haven’t seemed to matter. That something makes you look up the book that the blackboard text came from and take it from the shelf and curl

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    up with it in a large chair and hold it with two hands. That’s what it means to step from using to enjoying. Education you use gets into your head. Education you enjoy gets into your heart and soul. And it’s the same with friends. You’ve met a lot of people here. Some are challenging, some are troubled, some are serious, some are fun. But one or two are different. You can’t end calls to them by just saying, “Might catch you later,” while you see if you have more lively plans for the evening. They want you, not just your odd five minutes here and there. And you’re a bit scared, because you know if you really allow them to know you, you’re going to be changed. They say to you, “Don’t use me to idle away your free time or mask your loneliness. Either be fully present to me, receive all that I am, enjoy me, or don’t bother at all.” That kind of a person needs two hands. And if you’re committed to one-handed life, you never get to enjoy a friend like that. Living life with both hands takes time – because what you receive with both hands takes longer to assimilate than what you grab with one. Above all, living with two hands takes gentleness, because treasuring moments, people, or places with both hands, rather than grabbing them with one, means cherishing them, tenderly noticing their details, carefully attending to their difference from you but rejoicing in your presence with them. I don’t know if any of you have ever seen an ibex. An ibex is a large and very rare mountain goat about 5 feet tall. The male has enormous ridged horns that curve all the way round to his back. I once climbed a mountain up to 12,000 feet and suddenly caught sight of an ibex 300 feet away. I gently stepped closer and closer. This wasn’t a moment I could grab with a quick camera shot and move on. If I was going to see the ibex close up, even though I ‘d already been walking six hours, I had to change my plans for the day. Softly and slowly I went closer and closer, one careful step at a time. I saw its proud chin, its huge curving horns stretching back behind its head. Finally I was 20 feet away from this prince of the mountains. And how I enjoyed that moment. I don’t know how long I was there. But I felt so privileged and moved and deeply, deeply alive. And it took more than two hands. It took everything in me. That’s what it means to enjoy. And that brings me to the question I want to ask each one of you on this, your last weekend at Duke, and it’s a question you can only answer for yourself. No one can answer it for you. The question is this: Have your four years at Duke taught you how to enjoy and what to enjoy? Or have they simply taught you how and what to use in a more sophisticated way? A Duke degree opens doors and smoothes introductions. It makes an even wider aisle of goods to graze past and put in your consumer cart and gives you a whole range more of things to use. Everyone knows that. But if your Duke education has really mattered, it’s because you’ve allowed it to really change you, at the core of your being. You can look back on moments, people, books, classes, professors and places and say, “Those were the times when I really learned to enjoy.” Then, my friends, you’ll know you’ve had an education. Now, it’s time to depart, to commence the rest of your life. And my prayer and commission to you is just one word. Enjoy.

  • Sam Mayer’s Christmas letter: ‘sitting beside Joseph on Christmas Eve’

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    Sam Mayer’s Christmas Letter:

    “Sitting Beside Joseph on Christmas Eve”

    Matthew 25:31-40

    Paul Debenport

    First Presbyterian Church, Albuquerque, New Mexico

    When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

    I had planned to preach what I hoped would be a useful sermon on the lectionary ‘ s Gospel text for today on the baptism of Jesus. But things happened. First, last month I preached a sermon on Mary reminding us all—especially me—that we need to stay open to God’s interruptions of our plans. Secondly, at Andrew Black’s ordination on December 28, Elder Bruce Black charged our congregation to, among other things, “continue to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, empower the peacemakers, and love your neighbors, especially when they trespass against you.” But mainly, Joseph happened, here in this room, on Christmas Eve. And while I, and many of you, witnessed what happened, our own Sam Mayer was so moved, so blessed by it, that he went home and wrote it down as his Christmas letter to his family and friends. I believe it is a moving proclamation of the Matthew 25 passage we’ve already heard and the Hebrews 13 passage I’ll read at the end. Sam titled his letter Sitting Beside Joseph on Christmas Eve. Sam’s a little embarrassed by all the attention, but since I believe this needs to be proclaimed here, he gave me permission to do that today. Hear now, Sam’s letter to all of us:

    He swirled in like a dust devil, right past Ruth Price, ushering in the narthex on Christmas Eve 2008. All she could do was mouth quietly, “Sam,” since the Service had already started, pointing down the aisle, and whispering, “He’s looking for Central and Bridge.” Being summoned, I looked and saw something that reminded me of Charlie Brown. Actually, it was “Pigpen,” in a cloud of dust, heading toward the chancel. Moving quickly, I still didn’t catch up to him until he stopped, bowed, made

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    the sign of the cross, and en-tered the second pew from the front of the sanctuary. He left me just enough space to squeeze in next to him as he sat down. “So, you’re looking for Central and Bridge?” I asked. “Yes, but first I need to see the Midnight Mass,” he replied. I welcomed him and hoped that others around me weren’t disappointed with my decision. Also, I hoped that they weren’t bothered by his stench of stale beer and an unwashed body. The young dad with his kids at the end of the row looked nervous. The 8:00 p.m. Candlelight Service was progressing, and I showed him where we were on the bulletin he held. The night’s Service included a baptism. Pastor Mike officiated, and the Saffron and Layne Families were all aglow as their new baby boy joined the Covenant. My new friend looked at me and said something like, “Oh my God…It’s Baby Jesus !” And in many ways it was. He was clearly moved, and all I could think about was getting back to my duties on the lights and such. I had abandoned Margaret Cunningham with all of it. Reasoning that keeping our congregation safe was also an inherent part of duty to the church, I stayed seated next to our visitor. Giving him one more opportunity to exit, I asked if he’d like those directions to Central and (the) bridge. “No,” he said, “I want to hear this.” We settled in and he listened and was awed by the music and the choir. He said he was Joseph. I told him I was Sam. He learned how to follow a bulletin. At one point he noticed two Albuquerque police officers across the aisle. It was our Ben Saffron and his colleague. They signaled me, asking if I needed help, and I responded with an “all is okay” sign. I felt more comfortable knowing they were there, but had to assure Joseph they were here to worship and not to bring him harm. He behaved and occasionally lost his place in the service. When Pastor Karen gave her meditation in the place where a priest would stand, he declared, “This isn’ t a Catholic Church.” I told him he was right and that we worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and he did too. He took in every word. During the offertory I slipped him $5. He fought, “No, that’s yours.” I told him it was now his, and he could keep it or give it to the Baby Jesus. He threw the five in the plate as it passed, gleefully. The Candlelight Service brought him to tears. We held on to each other as we sang Silent Night. I sensed others around him touching him too. He was so grateful and asked to come back. At the postlude, Joseph was greeted by many with very enthusiastic Christmas wishes, handshakes, hugs, and kisses,/röm both sides of the aisle. Now, I was getting teary. 2008 is an incredible year for many, many reasons. Some are good and some are not so good. Times are tough, but they can be a lot worse for some. After the bells, Pastor Mike and I attempted to direct him to Central and “bridge.” He suffers from seizures. Mike asked him if he had family to visit on Christmas, as I packed up his belongings from the huge sewer pipe on the Copper Street construction project in front of the sanctuary. All he had was in a bag or on his back. I let him keep the two six packs, since he said he sold them to earn money to eat. He promised Mike that he’ d go to see his brother, although his brother fought with his wife. I pray now, “Lord, thank you for Joseph’s being with his family today. May it also be a better day for all of us.” I think Mike and I and several others were touched by Joseph on Christmas Eve. He certainly helped put my world into greater perspective. I never seem to have enough interesting information to be able to write a Christmas letter. However, since

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    this was not about my entire year, I thought I could manage sharing just One Great Hour of joy As Dennis Selly said to Joseph upon greeting him, “It’s all about love.” Christ’s Love, indeed! Happy Birthday, Jesusl

    And the writer of Hebrews 13:1-2 proclaims: “Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels unawares.” Amen.

  • Waiting for death. chosing life

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    Protagonist Corner

    Waiting for Death. Choosing Life.

    Lauren E. Cogswell

    Georgia Council for Restorative Justice, Atlanta, Georgia

    I really don’t want to go. Jack’s visit is the one I save for the last visit of the day, knowing that it will be a time of resting in his friendship, listening, laughing at his wild stories, and knowing something of the journey toward God. But this is the part of the journey I do not want to take, and this is not about me. I am not alone. Long-time pastors to the imprisoned—Randy Loney, Murphy Davis, Eduard Loring—and Jack’s long-time and faithful legal team will be there waiting, watching and praying. Underneath my fear and rising grief, there is nowhere else I want to be. There is, after all, holy space at the foot of the cross. On the hour drive from Atlanta to the prison in Jackson, Georgia, I ask myself how in the world I can accompany someone awaiting his own murder. What does it mean to be a pastor for someone who knows the hour of his unwelcome and unnatural death? There are no answers. Showing up and paying attention seems all I have to offer. As so often before, Jack would show me the way. Jack Alderman has lived for 34 years on Georgia’s death row. The year I was born, he went to prison and hasn’t felt the earth since. I am a gardener. Holding the earth in my hands gives me life and hope. How has Jack remained alive for 34 years without touching the earth? We never talked about; it seemed too close to a living death. The death machine is at full throttle at the prison in Jackson where Georgia’s death row is housed. Muscle pumped guards wearing full black uniforms and combat boots have replaced the regular prison staff, cement barriers block the road way to make access to the prison difficult, and the prison is on lock down: no family visits for the other inmates, no visits for anyone. There is the cold sense of a hard wait ahead. Two guards came to Jack’s cell with a multiple page chart to collect Jack’s belongings in order for the prison to list them, bag them up, and after Jack’s execution, deliver them to his family. When the guards asked for Jack’s belongings, Jack said that he had none. “What do you mean you don’t have anything?” one guard asked, confused . “I don’t have anything,” Jack replied. They looked around his cell for what he might be hiding. It was empty. They could not complete their job for the executioner and did not know what to do. Bewildered, they turned to the next form. “What do you want for your last meal?” the guards continued. “Nothing,” Jack answered. “Nothing ?” they asked again, surprised. Knowing he was from Savannah, they asked, “C’mon Jack, not even a pile of fried shrimp?” “No, nothing,” Jack replied. They wrote down “no meal request.” Perplexed and unsatisfied, unable to complete the machinery of death’s checklist, they left Jack’s cell. Later, as Jack was recounting this story to us, he said, “Of course, I would love a pile of fried shrimp, but not here, not from the people who are going to kill me. If I wasn’t about to be murdered here in this prison, I would want a spoonful of every kind of ice cream that has been invented that I’ve never tasted in the last 30 years, but not here. I will not allow the ones who are killing me to pretend that they can both be kind to me and kill me at the same time.” Before the officers came to Jack’s cell, Jack had given away all of his belongings.

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    He gave to a loved one the cross which he wore every day. He gave away his shoes, books, towel and cup. Every meager possession that Jack had, he gave to another prisoner on death row. In his last weeks, as loved ones made sure he had money in his jail account for items at the commissary, Jack emptied his account and bought food for everyone on his cell block. He gave away everything he had so that even as the prison tried to murder him in shame, he would walk toward God with compassion and dignity. The week before Jack’s execution, I came to visit him. He was already segregated from the other death row inmates and under watch by a squad brought in to guard him under his death warrant. A guard in combat boots escorted Jack to the visiting room and ratcheted his handcuffs so tight that Jack winced in pain. When the cuffs were removed in our visiting room, they left deep red imprints on his wrists. After the death squad left, Jack rubbed his wounded wrists and then with a warm smile, he introduced me to the staff prison guard who stood outside the door where we were visiting. He introduced us, as a pastor introduces parishioners at the church house door. We greeted one another. At the end of our visit, the guard turned to me and said with honest sincerity, “Thank you for coming to visit. It was nice to meet you, and I’ll hope to see you again sometime.” I thanked her, and we shook hands as we departed. Even at this moment when Jack was being humiliated and harmed, he remained rooted in love. In a moment of suffering, this prisoner on death row was filled with grace. Jack brought out the best in both of us and made us more human and more fully alive. In the Lenten journey towards the cross, Jesus resists the death of the empire that oppresses the poor and the most vulnerable. Jesus transforms moments of suffering and judgment into life-giving moments of grace. Yet the cross looms ahead of him. In those days with Jack, I felt both the weight and the mystery of Lent. While we were waiting for death, he was immersed in life. Jack was able to spend all day with his aging father, his closest loved ones, his pastors, his lawyers who had fought so hard at every turn. And over and over again in the face of death, Jack chose life. I remember the story of the Hebrew peoples’ long journey through the wilderness and Moses’ final teachings before they entered the promised land, just before his death. Moses, who had been guilty of murder as a young man, said to his people, “I am now giving you the choice between life and death, between God’s blessing and God’s curse, and I call heaven and earth to witness the choice you make. Choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19). In those last two days Jack was allowed to make a visitation list of those whom he wanted to visit him on his last two days. In addition to our names, Jack wrote the names Jesus and Buddha. This was both Jack’s wry sense of humor and his deepest truth. The guard looked at the form and laughed, “Seriously, Jack? You want me to turn it in like this?” “Yes,” Jack said. “You asked who I wanted to visit me in my last two days, and I want them on my visitation list.” Not understanding that he was a vehicle for grace, the guard took the form as it was written and turned it in. Yes, Jesus and Buddha were there with Jack and, by God’s mercy, with us too. Jack Alderman was executed by the state of Georgia at 7:15 p.m. on Tuesday September 16,2008. Jack had given away his few personal items to fellow inmates. In the weeks following his execution, his friends remarked how healing it was to see everyone with a little piece of Jack’s kindness. Even in the long and dark wait for death, there is life, there is grace, and yes, hope of resurrection.

    Journal for Preachers

  • Rend your heart: an Ash Wednesday meditation

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    Rend Your Heart: An Ash Wednesday Meditation*

    Joel 2:1-2,12-17

    Thomas E. Sagendorf

    Hamilton, Indiana

    Picture a quiet country road on a summer’s evening. A gravel road. Up ahead there’s a railroad crossing with a silent signal. No bells or flashers. The tracks emerge from a knoll on the right. You can see a semaphore block signal in the distance. The rails pass the crossing, curve to the left, and disappear out of sight, heading down a gentle slope. The year might have been 1944. Into this peaceful scene comes an automobile which stops about fifty yards from the crossing. Out of the car climbs a young man holding an infant. And there’s a little boy. They’ve come to watch the 6:15 arrive from Detroit. You have the impression that they’ve been here before. The little boy spots a bulldozer working a grade near the tracks and asks his dad if he can take a closer look. With hesitation, the father says, “OK, but don’t be long.” We watch the boy lope across the field to where the machine is working. And, because it seems to be the safest vantage point, he steps up on the tracks to watch.

    II Suddenly, the tranquility is broken when the father hears an unexpected whistle in the distance. In an instant, his heart is filled with fear. Another train—an earlier freight—is roaring toward the crossing ahead of the 6:15. It’s headed straight for where the little boy is standing on the tracks. He begins to call the boy ‘ s name. He yells a warning to turn and look. But the boy can’t hear because of the bulldozer. The father begins to run across the field, carrying the baby in his arms. By now he can see the train, and terror pours through his entire body. He sees that he will never reach the boy in time. Yet, he keeps on running, calling, running. But the boy doesn’t hear. The father begins to envision the horror which is about to come.

    Ill The voice we hear tonight is a cry of warning. It’s the voice of the Prophet Joel, calling to his people. To the old, the young, the drunk, the sober. Even those who are lost in honeymoon bliss. Calling anyone who will hear to look up, to listen, and to see the great calamity which is about to befall. It’s just outside the door—open and it’ll stare you in the face! It’s just around the corner—take a step and it will swallow you alive ! Can anyone hear? Will anyone open their eyes? A great and terrible day is descending upon God’s unfaithful people. A day which will do to Zion what a roaring locomotive would do to a child. “This is what’s happening,” cries the voice. We must respond! Immediately! There’s still time to return to the Lord. To be spared from calamity. “Yet even now,” says the Lord, “return

    This sermon was preached on March 1,2006, at First Congregational UCC, Angola, Indiana.

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    to me with all your heart. Rend your heart and not your garments!”

    IV It’s never been easy to go deeply into the heart. The heart can be a frightening place. I think you know what I mean. There are too many shadows. Too many fears. Too many mixed motives. Too many guilts and sorrows which are difficult to bear. Going deeply into the heart is like going into the attic of Mike Christy’s garage. All the kids said it was haunted. It was the most scary place of my childhood! We talked about it a lot, but, to my knowledge, nobody climbed up to take a look. I suppose this is why Lent is such an ambivalent season. Because it’s a time for rending the heart. A time for probing those inner places which are dark and scary. Lent is the time when we go into Mike Christy’s garage attic and stay for a while. Given our culture’s obsession with comfort, it’s something which most of us don’t want to do. Yet, in the distance, the prophetic voice calls, warns, and calls again. Stop! Listen! Open your eyes! See how late it is! There’s still time to return to the Lord. With your broken heart; your troubled heart; your checkered heart; your whole heart. For, the Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.

    V Well, you’ll be happy to know that the scene at the railroad crossing didn’t end with tragedy. When the father saw that he couldn’t reach his son,he froze. But,atthat very moment, the boy turned, saw the locomotive bearing down on him, and calmly stepped off the tracks to watch the train go by.

    VI My father is gone now, but there was always terror in his voice when he recounted the story. He remembered how his knees were weak for hours. And how it took a week before he could tell my mother. I never knew the danger, even when I turned and saw the locomotive. But he knew the calamity which narrowly missed his family. And he knew the grace—the unexpected grace—which had rescued the moment. Shaking, sweating, he could only say, “Thank you, God. Thank you!” So it is with those who hear the voice, who respond and return to the Lord. The voice of warning is not a voice of doom. It’s a voice of promise and assurance. Beyond all our journeys into the shadows of the heart, there awaits a God of infinite love and mercy. A God who seeks us in our confusion, calls us to return, and holds us securely. Even as a parent holds a child when danger approaches.

    VII Nowhere else but in the biblical story could we hear a voice which warns of disaster, demands repentance, and yet promises grace. Yet, such is the passionate voice which we hear. Calling us to rend our hearts, renew our lives, and walk in the way of the Lord during this journey called Lent.

    Lent 2009

  • A poetic prophet

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    A Poetic Prophet

    Luke 1:39-56

    Christopher A. Henry

    Morningside Presbyterian Church, Atlanta, Georgia

    Leave it to God to choose a poet. Of course, Mary was not the only one. Amos was no prophet, nor a prophet’s son. But when God called this simple shepherd, his words were transformed into poetic metaphors of God’s own justice rolling like rivers and righteousness like streams that always flow. Another poet, Martin Luther King, Jr., echoed the prophecy of Amos thousands of years later in another era of injustice. His sonorous tone and imaginative verse brought national institutions of bigotry to their knees in confession of sin. When Dr. King was only a child, God called Dorothy Day to speak divine words on behalf of the poor and oppressed, and so the Catholic Worker Movement began. Adapting the words of the young Galilean peasant woman, Day wrote, “I firmly believe that our salvation depends on the poor.”1 It is no surprise that God would choose these poets to speak divine words from very human positions. Poets have a way of seeing the world that is not bound by reality. They see beyond what is apparent to the eye. Perhaps, this is why God works through poets. And this is why the powers and principalities must destroy them. In the words of one poet, “Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one. But another is born.”2 God, it seems, keeps raising up poets to speak holy truth to those in power. Mary’s vision, like all good poetry, opens our eyes to what is true. Like the beatitudes that her son will speak later in Luke, the Magnificat of Mary does not predict the future. It re-describes the present. It is not that the poor and lowly will be blessed in some heavenly realm beyond death—the poor and lowly are blessed. God comes to them, God speaks through them, God’s work in the world depends on them. Mary’s is not an otherworldly vision; it is her response to the incarnation. Gabriel has paid Mary a visit with the news of God’s coming embodiment in the world, and Mary’s response is poetry. The words, it seems, mystically come to her. And so she speaks God’s truth to the world. Like Isaiah, who spoke of a coming messiah for Israel, Mary speaks hope to those who need it most and warning to those who stand on top. Mary’s words outline a program of apocalyptic reversal—the hungry are filled and the rich leave with nothing. The lowly are lifted high and the mighty are brought down. This may not seem good news to those of us who are rich and powerful and filled already, those who find themselves with homes and food and education and comfortable surroundings. In Mary’s words, we too can find comfort in the midst of challenge. Because of Mary’s prophecy, we know that our salvation depends on the wellbeing of all humanity . We are freed to serve. We are freed to release our stranglehold on money and possessions and to trust the abundance of God’s grace. Because we believe Mary’s poem, we can free ourselves of worldly attachments and work for justice for all. The rich who are sent empty away are blessed. God comes to us in our emptiness. Our fate and our future are undeniably joined to the wellbeing of all. Mary’s poetic words create the world that we long to see.. .where all those who hurt and cry out are delivered.

    Journal for Preachers

    Page 29

    Where those who have nothing are given the kingdom. Where those who are servants are called blessed by all generations. Where those who are lowly are lifted up. Where those who are hungry are filled with good things. God fills the hungry with good things—and so we come to this table hungry for the birth of Messiah. We come in our richness of possessions, hoping to be emptied of this burden. We come in our poverty of soul, begging to be filled with the presence of God. We come in despair, hoping for a sign of the time when all God’s children live injustice and in peace. Before he was destroyed for his poetic words of prophecy, Bishop Oscar Romero wrote, “No one can celebrate a genuine Christmas without being truly poor. The selfsufficient , the proud, those who, because they have everything, look down on others, those who have no need even of God—for them there will be no Christmas. Only the poor, the hungry, those who need someone to come on their behalf, will have that someone. That someone is God. Emmanuel. God-with-us. Without poverty of spirit, there can be no abundance of God.”3 And so to this table of abundance we come empty-handed. As we approach the bread and wine, we are keenly aware of the spiritual catastrophe in which the rich live. We need someone to come on our behalf. We need to be fed. We are no more prepared for the birth of the Messiah than Mary was. But her words give us hope. This semester I met a woman whose five-month-old twins have still not left the hospital. Every morning, she is there. Every night, she is there. Holding. Praying. Crying. Waiting. I asked her, “What gives you strength?” With a look that showed wisdom beyond her nineteen years, the woman simply responded, “I see a new world coming.” Her own Magnificat, her own poetic prophecy. Mary sees a day that is surely coming, and so she speaks her hope into existence—the mighty one has done great things for me, she says defiantly. God has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. And then she waits, expectantly, for signs of this time to come. Advent is a season of waiting. Mary’s poem reminds us that the whole world is waiting. Waiting for justice. Waiting for food. Waiting for peace. Waiting for redemption. Waiting, all of creation waiting. Into this waiting, groaning world, the Messiah comes.

    Notes

    1 Robert Ellsberg, ed., Dorothy Day: Selected Writings (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1992), 271. 2 Czeslaw Milosz, “You Who Wronged,” Selected Poems: 1931-2004 (New York: Ecco Press, 2006), 103. 3 Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2004), 141142 .

    Advent 2009

  • ‘Reading scripture as a time machine’

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    Page 51

    ‘Reading Scripture as a Time Machine’

    Mary Kennan Herbert

    Long Island University, Brooklyn, New York

    Psalm 38 mentions those lovers standing aside

    with no mercy, no empathy.

    No hands reach out to pull out those arrows,

    no one to lift us from the well or to soothe our sores.

    Commentators dwell on stereotypes, the repetition

    of a dread-filled mission.

    This misery certainly has been described before:

    been there, done that, thus a diminishing sorrow.

    Wait! Did anyone notice the word “lovers”?

    Conventional wisdom focuses on relatives, kinfolk.

    Look again at the chorus in that Psalm.

    “Lovers”? The writer suddenly becomes more

    appealing. More than one, eh? At last, intriguing.

    Here, I’m willing to help. I’ll help pull out those barbs

    if you can hold still. Or is it me? Am I the one stuck

    in this morass? Yet I feel more happiness than grief,

    just reading this takes me back to a Sunday School past

    and I still hear our youthful voices in synchronicity,

    calling in harmony, “Who is the King of Glory?”

    No one answers, but the replay is satisfying. I am ten

    again, titillated by the word “lovers” and all that

    wonderful repetition, like waves at the beach

    sending me into a good night, a good night,

    the way summer vacation can teach, now and then.

    Lent 2009