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  • Navigating Paul: an introduction to key theological concepts

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    One New Book for the Preacher

    Richard M. Simpson

    St. Francis Episcopal Church, Holden, Massachusetts

    Jouette M. Bassler, Navigating Paul: An Introduction to Key Theological Concepts, Louisville, Kentucky: John Knox Press, 2007. 139 pages.

    For twenty years I have been watching lectors struggle to make enough sense of St. Paul’s epistles to try to read the lesson for the day with some degree of confidence. Given the choice between unpronounceable Old Testament names or tackling one of Paul’s infamous eighteen line run-on sentences, most of them would gladly choose Jehoshaphat. For my own part, while I am rather fond of Paul’s writings in my private devotions, I find the epistles challenging to preach om Most Sundays it feels as if Paul is in the middle of an important argument, but it’s challenging to remember what he said last week or anticipate what is coming next. So how far back and how far forward does the preacher need to go to make sense of it all? Moreover, since we are only hearing his side of the story, I sometimes find myself trying to do my best Paul Harvey impersonation by telling “the rest of the story” of what might have been happening in Corinth or Galatia at the time, knowing full well that reconstructing the arguments from the other side is always a bit of a house of cards. That can all feel daunting, and so I find that as a preacher I mostly avoid Paul because I am hesitant about wading into the mess of it all. Like my lectors, I, too, would rather tackle Old Testament narratives or the parables of Jesus than the Epistle to Romans. The only exceptions have been on those occasions when the shorter epistles come up in the lectionary for four or five weeks in a row and I am in the mood for a preaching series. This fall, toward the end of the long season after Pentecost, provides just such an opportunity with both Philippians and I Thessalonians. In the meantime, for the truly fearless preacher, there are sixteen straight weeks of Romans beginning right after Trinity Sunday! If one were to choose that path, or even just to preach from Romans a few times over the summer months, thert is a greater challenge than dealing with Paul in periscope-sized chunks. Paul’s mends and foes (especially those of us influenced by the Protestant Reformation) both tend to assume that we already know what Paul has to say, because we have read Luther and Barth and they have already told us what Romans says! The challenge for preachers and congregations alike is to meet Paul again for the first time. Jouette Bassler’s new book, Navigating Paul: An Introduction to Key Theological Comments offers a way to do just that. The opening words of the preface encourage the preacher to tackle Paul not as a systematic theologian, but a pastor who practices theology in the context of ministry. Bassler writes:

    This is not a book on Paul’s theology. I am not at all certain that he had “a theology,” that is, a reasonably well ordered and integrated set of beliefs. Even if he did, I am not convinced that it would have remained constant over the course of his tumultuous life or that we could hope to recover it from the few and focused letters that remain of his correspondence. Clearly, though,

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    Paul did practice theology. That is, he thought about the problems afflicting his churches in light of the gospel; and in so doing he referred frequently to concepts of obvious theological importance: grace, faith, righteousness, and the like, (p.ix)

    The metaphor of navigating Paul is an apt one, and Bassler provides something like a map and a compass that help in that exploration, rather than to try to fit Paul into systematic theological categories. She does a superb job of orienting pastors and informed laypersons to the concepts and contours of the current debates in Pauline scholarship. The first chapter, previously published in Interpretation in 2003, is entitled “Grace: Probing Its Limits.” It is worth attending to with some care because it sets the tone for the rest of the book. Building especially on the contributions of Krister Stendahl (Paul Among Jews and Gentiles, 1976) and E.P. Sanders (Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion, 1977), Bassler leads us through the questions raised by a better understanding of the richness of first-century Judaism. Even though both of these books were published more than thirty years ago, I suspect that most congregations (and too many preachers) continue to read Paul and preach Paul in ways that view grace and law antithetically. But Bassler reminds her readers that the old certitudes about grace have been shaken and replaced by “the chaos of vigorous debate” (p.l). While grace is clearly central to Paul’s thought, she reminds us that grace was central to almost all forms of first-century Judaism. What then does Paul mean when he contrasts grace and law, as he does in Galatians 5:4, for example? Bultmann suggested that the basic human perversion is self-reliance, and the law inevitably evokes the sinful response of “self-powered striving.” We mistakenly believe that we can save ourselves, yet we find ourselves caught in a web of self-righteousness. There is no response but that of self-surrender to God’s mercy and grace. I suspect that many good sermons on Paul have preached something very close to this Bultmannian interpretation of Paul. Bassler comments, however, that “Bultmann’s interpretation is a magisterial theological achievement of stunning scope and compelling power. It is also, however, almost certainly wrong (p. 6). She reminds us that this juxtaposition of law and grace is limited to Romans and Galatians, where the central theological questions are about full inclusion of the Gentiles within the community of faith and the polarizing issue of whether or not circumcision should be required of Gentile converts. She then raises the question of whether the real issue here might be about the breadth of God’s grace, “a grace that negates any restriction of salvation to those under the law” (p. 8). True to her words in the preface, Bassler resists one-dimensional conclusions. Instead, she maps the way, raises the questions, reminds us where scholarship has taken us over the past thirty or forty years, and then invites her readers to continue their exploration. She encourages us to follow Paul’s lead by “probing the limits of grace” (p. 9) in order to reflect theologically on the challenges of ministry in our own time and place rather than to take Paul’s insights (or our reading of Paul) as normative. Obviously , this context in which we find ourselves includes how we understand the relationship between Christians and Jews. Chapter six, “The Future of ‘Israel’ – Who is Israel?” opens with these words:

    Pentecost 2008

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    The future of Israel was an issue close to Paul’s heart, and he could be passionate in discussing it. It is also an issue about which contemporary interpreters of Paul have strong passions. Add to that the fact that Paul, in his passion, did not write about the topic with utmost clarity, and we have the foundation for the current state of affairs: radically disparate assessments of the issue that are passionately defended by scholars appealing to the same set of texts but interpreting them in very different ways. There is no prospect of a consensus view. All that can be done is to survey the evidence and discuss the options, (p. 71)

    Bassler proceeds to do just that, charting a course that helps us to navigate texts written to the first-century congregations in Thessalonica, Corinth, Philippi, Galatia and Rome. She concludes that the allusiveness of Paul’s language allows for (and even requires) that the pieces will be put together differently by different interpreters, but that at the very least, we can become clearer about our own presuppositions. Yet she is clearly sympathetic to Lloyd Gaston’ s observation that the context of the second half of the twentieth century is such that Christians cannot do theology without coming to terms with what unfolded in the first half of the twentieth century: “Very central [after Auchwitz] is the recognition that Judaism is a living reality and that the covenant between God and Israel continues” (p. 84). This conviction, Gaston says (and I think Bassler agrees) doesn’t inspire us to revisionism of ancient texts, but it does “open exegetical eyes and make it possible to see texts in a new way and perhaps understand them better” (p. 84). The unresolvable ambiguities of Paul can become “a mirror for us to see and examine not Paul’s views on the future of Israel but our own convictions about that future” (p. 85). So here, as well, Navigating Paul is an invitation to preachers and their congregations not to use Paul dogmatically, but to follow his lead by practicing theology in our own contexts. For many of us these issues of inclusion and what it means to be in relationship with Jewish congregations are part of where we live and move and have our being. Navigating Paul doesn’t offer any easy prescriptive answers for us, but it points us in the right direction and maps out the territory ahead in ways that are accessible and faithful (and, I think, a helpful corrective to overly dogmatic interpretations of Paul). This book won’t make it easier on lectors who draw the short straw of having to read the epistle in worship, but it will make it easier for preachers to navigate these texts and to invite the congregations they serve along for the journey.

  • Preaching Mark in two voices

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    One New Book for the Preacher

    Joseph S. Harvard III

    First Presbyterian Church, Durham, North Carolina

    Brian K. Blount and Gary W. Charles, Preaching Mark in Two Voices. Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002. 273 pages.

    “Practice what you preach” is an exhortation which makes me a bit uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I want there to be consistency between the words I preach and how I live, but it is not always an easy task, as those who read the Journal for Preachers know. We talk these days a lot about the need to be in conversation with those who are different from us. It is a major theme of the recent Report on the Peace and Unity of the Church adopted by the Presbyterian Church, USA. It is an important commitment if we are going to move towards the unity in Christ which the Bible suggests is God’s vision for the church. However, it takes time and energy, so we continue to talk to ourselves and those just like us. In this book, Brian Blount and Gary Charles seek to practice what they preach by carrying on a conversation about the Gospel of Mark. They are both ordained Presbyterian pastors; one has a career as a scholar and teacher of the New Testament, and the other as a pastor-theologian. One is African American and the other is white. Since they wrote the book, both of them have accepted new calls, Brian Blount to be the president of Union/PSCE, and Gary Charles is pastor of Central Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, Georgia. They share a long and rich friendship. There are differences of race and life-experiences along with much that they have in common. I simply want to applaud the effort this book represents in working in conversation with a colleague. The book is not your usual commentary with verse by verse examination of the texts. It does offer extensive exegetical perceptions into the material and the theological perspective of Mark. The commentary is enriched by sermons that were preached by the two authors. This approach leads to a beneficial dialogue and fulfills the promise of the title: “Preaching Mark in Two Voices.” The commentary by both authors is full of reflection for the writings of biblical scholars from whom they have gleamed helpful observations. I am reminded of the preacher who in his prayers always included the phrase, “Keep us mindful of the needs of others.” Only one day he got confused so he ended the prayer, “Keep us needful of the minds of other.” This book reminds us of how we are enriched in our understanding of the Bible by “the minds of others.” In addition to my gratitude to the authors for undertaking this innovative approach to the study of Mark, I am grateful for many insights they share. Let me suggest a couple that I hope will encourage you to read the book. There is discussion of the difficult encounter between Jesus and the Syrophaenician woman. It is in their sermons on this text that we get a glimpse into how one’s experience in life influences how you hear a text. Brian Blount provides a moving account of growing up in a desegregated school where he was mistreated as an “outsider” (“Makes Me Wanna Holler” p.127-138). Gary Charles reflects on the challenge of “insiders” to be open to the

    Easter 2008

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    presence of “those people” who come into our midst (“Take Time to Be Holy,” p. 138143 ). Not only do they raise our awareness of how our context and background influence us, but also h ow important it is to listen to other voices who have experiences different from our own. As we approach Easter, I found the discussion and sermons on “the shorter ending ” of the Gospel to be provocative and useful (Chapter 12). The reasons the authors support the shorter ending (v.8) are not only from the nature of the material; they also explore the literary themes in Mark which are reinforced by the shorter ending. The theme of discipleship, which they point out as central, for Mark is the challenge in facing the empty tomb. The invitation to go to Galilee is a call to discipleship. The Gospel narrative invites the reader into the story and then solicits our response. I find this literary emphasis extremely relevant to our current situation in life as we are called upon to finish the story by following the Risen Christ. Gary Charles emphasizes this when he uses that classic quote from Albert Schweitzer, “He will reveal Himself in the toils, the conflicts, the sufferings which they shall pass through in His fellowship, and as an ineffable mystery, they shall learn in their own experience Who He is” (p.272). The book offers many other gems which I found valuable for preaching. Let me also offer a word of encouragement for us to practice what they preach.

    Journal for Preachers

  • Journeying out: a new approach to Christian mission

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    One New Book for the Preacher

    Marilyn Hedgpeth

    First Presbyterian Church, Durham, NC

    Ann Morisy, Journeying Out. London/New York:Continuum, 2004.

    “There is nothing new under the sun,” the author of Ecclesiastes says (Ecc. 1:9). However, I always find it refreshing to encounter new descriptive language for enduring concepts. Spring-boarding from David Bosch’s 1991 Transforming Mission, Ann Morisy gives new urgency and fresh language to the church’s need for an engaged holistic spirituality that includes social action as an essential component of mission. Perhaps it is because she is a Brit that I found her prophetic pounding and prodding so refreshing and not directly threatening (After all, she’s probably talking to her people, not to us); or perhaps it is because she uses jargon either specific to sociology or to Great Britain that makes her points intriguing. (She includes a glossary at the back of the book to help the reader stay in the conversation.) At any rate, I’ve already quoted her twice in sermons and feel a good retreat topic could be eliciting from another point she makes in her book. Morisy notes early on:

    We (Christians) have been seduced into believing that we can organize our lives around the pursuit of pleasure and leisure. We are the first generation in human history where this fantasy dominates to the extent that we assume that easy living is the norm. Thus we fail to recognize that for 99 percent of human history, and for two-thirds of the world’s population, struggle is an essential motif. Yet the very notion of discipleship implies struggle; the notion that the world is in travail as it reaches for the fulfillment that God has promised also implies struggle. The avoidance of struggle has profound repercussions for our spirituality and theological understanding, for the hope of the Kingdom of God on this earth…. Given this centrality of struggle , our churches have a pastoral responsibility to provide structures that enable people to engage the struggle, or to use another code, to express the venturesome love that Karl Rahner suggests is at the heart of discipleship. (p. 37)

    This is Morisy at her prophetic apogee, calling the church to task for opting for pleasure and leisure instead of entering the struggle of the people around us. Her chapter on “The Suburban Challenge” is a stinging critique of suburban Christianity which has established its daily agendas around “undisturbed convenience ,” as if living in a “play-pen,” where life is safe, secure, and pleasurable. Suggesting that the suburban church has taken “the Cross” out of life, she challenges suburban Christians to step out in venturesome love and risk being without power and becoming overwhelmed as we make ourselves open to the helplessness and failure of the other’s struggle. She suggests doing this by reaching out to the other in ways of concern and kindness, but also by opening ourselves to the other in ways of radical

    Journal for Preachers

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    hospitality. And while I might find this offensive as I work in the “bull’s eye of poverty” in downtown Durham, NC, but live in the relative security of the suburbs, I found Morisy’s critique and exhortation to mission as convicting and as motivating as any of William Wallace’s clarion calls to action in Braveheart. A second point she makes with equally passionate conviction concerns what she calls the explicit domain of the church, the power of our worship, churchmanship (her word) and denominational culture. She makes a stunning observation about our use of high symbols, words, metaphors, and depictions that “allude to the sacred, and signify the more in life that is only partially knowable and point to the mystery of life” (p. 145). For those of us who are daily surrounded by crosses, alpha and omegas, grapes and chalices, loaves and fishes, beehives and harps, we overlook sometimes the power of those symbols to transport people to another realm. Morisy alerts us to the latent power within these symbols to “lift our eyes and sense the holy or to recognize the felt presence of God that is potentially ours.” She encourages believers to “attend to the challenge of helping people to have confidence in their inkling (another great British term; think CS. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkein, The Eagle and Child) that we do not live by bread alone and that there is more to life than meets the eye” (p. 145). Another source of venturesome love Morisy encourages the church to consider is through “apt liturgy.” She defines apt liturgy as “including people with little faith and Christian knowledge and often focusing upon a particular distress that has arisen within a community” (glossary). It is liturgy that “does not require people to cross the threshold of the church,” she explains. It is liturgy that is specifically “about wide accessibility, usually engaging with people who are having to deal with hard emotions ” (p. 156). I understood this to mean taking liturgy to the people and meeting them where they are, instead of requiring that they become theologically savvy and come to the church. We clergy participate in apt liturgy most frequently when conducting weddings or funerals, although those events may take place in the church. But churches might make inroads into the wider culture with apt liturgy at the site of a tragic fire or upon the occasion of an unnecessary death or while waiting for words of rescue of survivors from an accident. These are times when the church could be building bridges to link people with abiding or eternal constructs, Morisy says. “When the going gets tough people know their need for God” (p. 159), she notes. Using apt liturgy, the church is able to identify occasions where Jesus and His stories meet our stories and resonate with the people’s struggles. All of these topics will preach—and there are more. A good retreat topic could be fashioned from her characterization of the “third age” of life: the time after age one, socialization, and age two, household generativity (p. 79). This third age is comprised of the healthy years between child-rearing and physical decline, the wonderfully productive age where many of our church members find themselves. The church needs to help them find telos/purpose beyond pleasure seeking and taking it easy, she says. Great book! Nothing new – but newly engaging!

    Lent 2008

  • Preaching on the environmental crisis: speaking of the crisis in God’s creation

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    Preaching on the Environmental Crisis:

    Speaking of the Crisis in God’s Creation

    George W. Fisher Johns Hopkins University and The Ecumenical Institute of Saint Mary’s Seminary Baltimore, Maryland

    Environmental crises have become part of the daily news. Authoritative reports warn that increasing population and consumption are causing climate change, depletion of marine fisheries, loss of tropical forests, development of agricultural land, the end of oil, and so on. Critics argue that the severity and timing of these crises are not yet certain. But given their collective importance, uncertainty is itself unnerving. So we begin to wonder: Should preachers join the conversation? Can churches say anything worthwhile about environmental issues? In what follows, I will try to show that preachers and churches can greatly enrich the conversation by exploring the moral aspects of environmental issues. Most public discourse on the environment asks practical questions about the efficient use of resources and about what ways of living are sustainable. Those questions are important. But questions of our moral responsibilities to Earth’s environment and to others who depend upon the environment are at least as important. A vital task of twenty-first century churches will be to ask questions like What does it means that “the environment” is God’s creation? Who should share in the benefits of God’s creation? What kind of future is worth sustaining? This article will emphasize Scripture’s insistent voice that our use of God’s creation must be grounded in “justice, and only justice” (Deut 16:20), and will show that just use of resources is remarkably consonant with what science tells us about the workings of healthy ecosystems. Scripture and science both insist that there can be no flourishing apart from mutual flourishing.

    The Voice of Scripture Living in the land is one of the central themes of Scripture, a theme that offers a powerful way of framing contemporary discussions of the environment.1 Especially in the Hebrew Bible, land is understood as a gift from God, the heart of the covenant with the Israelites. But the land was not a simple gift. The methods of farming that the Israelites brought from Mesopotamia and Egypt were useless in the Judean hills, a land of sparse rainfall and fragile soil. To realize the promise of the covenant, the Israelites had to be alert to the signs of the soil and to learn new ways of farming that responded creatively to those signs. By paying careful attention to successes and failures, they gradually learned to conserve soil and water by terracing2 and to keep soil fertile by fallowing (Lev 25:2-3), by fertilization (Ps 83:10), and probably by crop rotation.3 As God made the Earth productive by ordering cosmic chaos, the Israelites learned to make the soil productive by ordering a difficult land, wisdom that they understood as God’s “wonderful counsel” (Isa 28:23-29). When the rains came at the right time and the land rejoiced by producing grain, the people flourished, and, in their mutual flourishing, sensed that God was blessing them, the land, and the creatures of the land (Psalm 104). When the rains didn’t come, the land was parched and barren, and the

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    people went hungry, and, in their mutual desolation, sensed that God was punishing them, the land, and the creatures of the land (Joel 1:2-12). That sense of mutuality in success and in failure led the Israelites to see the land as their partner in the joint struggle to live fruitfully, a connection so fundamental that it was inscribed in the Hebrew words for human padani) and soil (‘adama). This sense that the well-being of the Israelite people and the land were deeply entwined went well beyond the practical bond between farmer and land. Daniel Hillel, an environmental scientist who has spent many years studying land and water resources in Israel, noted that for the Israelites the land became,,, a sort of moral seismograph, an indicator of the nation’s collective behavior. Its manifestations were to be watched at all times for telltale signs of the return of the desert. The fluctuating polarity of the environment imposed a kind of dialectical mind-set on its inhabitants. To the Israelites, it was not merely the land that might revert, but – in a symbolic way – they themselves. [Return of] the desert meant retrogressing to the utter destitution and homelessness that had been their condition before entering the promised land.4 Their careful attentiveness to the mutuality of success and failure taught the Israelites that the blessings of the land were for all who depend on the land, not just the wealthy and powerful. The sabbatical laws (Exod 23:10, Lev 25:3-7, and Deut 15:1) explicitly link rest for the land to justice for the poor and the wild animals. But the message of justice is tragically easy to forget. In his book The Land, Walter Brueggemann reminds us that at times when the Israelites felt secure in the land, they found it easy to take the land and the covenant for granted, and to see the land as property to be managed, instead of gifted partner in the covenant.5 People who feel secure in the land find it natural to rely on their own ability to manage the land instead of trusting God’s promise in the land. And secure owner-managers find it natural to manage the land primarily to benefit themselves and the politically powerful, maximizing productivity of the land, and giving no thought to the well-being of the land and the poor. That pattern is clearest in the stories of David and Solomon. It began with David’ s transition from a king shepherding the people to a manager secure in kingly power and capable of ordering a murder to cover up his affair with Bathsheba.6 It came to its peak with Solomon’s institution of a bureaucratic regime and his use of conscripted labor to build his lavish palace and the temple. The temple was ostensibly a tribute to God, but it had the effect of casting God in the role of “a domesticated preserver of [Solomon’s] regime,” reducing the Lord of the land to the patron of the king.7 But God would have none ofthat. Speaking through Ahijah, God said, “I am about to tear the kingdom from the hand of Solomon…” ( 1 Kings 11:31). And in time, of course, despite the self-confidence of the powerful, the land was lost, the temple destroyed, and the leaders exiled to Babylon. The Israelites responded to that trauma by thinking deeply and creatively about the meaning of land, and rewrote much of Torah in ways that reflect the wisdom that emerged in the Exile. God had given the Israelites a land rich in water, a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees, a land where they would lack nothing (Deut 8:7-9). But once in the land, they had become comfortable, had forgotten to trust the giftedness of the land, and had forgotten the instruction to live by “justice, and only justice” (Deut 16:20). And so they had lost the land. One of the major themes of the Bible is the difficulty of living creatively with the

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    blessings of the land. Land is the source of life, but it is also a powerful temptation, one that can lure us “to substitute for the vitality and precariousness of history the sureness, sameness, and closedness of dull existence in secure land without decision, without promise, without word, without mystery.”8 And the more skilled we become at managing the land (or, in contemporary terms, the environment), the deeper the temptation to forget the insistent warnings of Scripture and rely only on our knowledge and technologies. As the Israelites learned during the Exile, the temptation to injustice is easy to recognize when the structures of society collapse. But it is much harder to sense when the economy is booming and when we seem to be in control. Modern people, insulated from the blessings of nature by technology, by a global economic system, and by the complex structures of western civilization, are especially vulnerable to that temptation . They urgently need to hear a prophetic voice reminding them of the need to live justly and to trust and nurture the vitality of the land. At first, this understanding of Scripture as instruction to trust God’s promise of the land seems to diverge from the New Testament message, widely taken to urge that we be indifferent to this world, and simply believe that Jesus offers salvation in a different and better place. But that purported indifference ignores Jesus’ deep concern for healing in this world, for loving neighbors in this world, his prayer that God’s will be done “on Earth as it is in heaven,” and his sense of God’s kingdom breaking into this world.9 It also ignores the clear sense of the texts that Jesus and his Jewish disciples understood the land as one of the principal domains in which God worked. The importance of land in the New Testament has been widely neglected, but is beginning to be recognized by biblical scholars.10 It is perhaps most obvious in the fact that five of the six parables attributed to Jesus by Mark are grounded in agricultural themes, and derive their impact from the listener’s sense of God at work in the mystery of soil fertility and plant growth, seemingly ordinary processes that are filled with wonder for people who understand the deep connections between human beings and soil.11

    The Voice of Earth Science The sense of mutuality in flourishing or desolation that informed the biblical awareness of the connections between people and land is also the central wisdom that emerges from reflection on ecology. The rich ecosystems that support all life are constrained by the fact that Earth is closed to the elements essential to life – Earth can neither gain nor lose carbon, water, or nutrients like phosphorous and potassium. For nearly four billion years life on Earth has flourished only by recycling those materials, and all life now and in the future must continue to do so. The most familiar example of recycling is the food chain, in which carbon, energy, and nutrients move from plants to herbivores, and to one or more levels of carnivores. But the food chain doesn’t stop there. Plants and animals produce a huge amount of litter – roughly two tons per acre in the forests of the Mid-Atlantic. Life as we know it would cease were it not for microorganisms, fungi, and bacteria living in the soil that consume that dead organic material and convert the carbon and nutrients it contains back into a form that plants can utilize. No complex organism can live alone; each relies on other organisms to consume the waste it produces, and to produce the materials it needs to live. Species in healthy ecosystems flourish by a balance between individual well-being and fruitful relationship with other community members-a

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    fertile mix of individuality and reciprocity that expresses itself in community-wide symbiosis. The ability to live in community is vital, in both senses of the word. In nature, there can be no flourishing without mutual or communal flourishing. To continue to flourish, ecosystems must cope with disruptions. For example, the death of a large forest tree suddenly exposes the ground cover to full sunlight. Those shade-loving species cannot survive in full sun, and they die, exposing the soil to erosion. But the system has evolved a way of coping. Weeds that do well in full sun, like crabgrass and goldenrod, jump in and quickly put down roots that hold the soil in place. In a year or two, small shrubs and briars take over, putting down deeper and stronger roots; in a few more years, saplings that will eventually fill in the gap in the forest canopy begin to grow. But saplings don’t do well in full sun, and deer tend to browse their tender shoots. The saplings that survive are often those that take root beneath briars or bushes that provide shade and protection from deer. In time, one of those sheltered saplings will grow into a mature tree, filling in the forest canopy. But as it does, the tree creates deep shade again, and the briars and shrubs that once sheltered that sapling die off. Briars, weeds, and shrubs survive by finding open ground wherever it exists, and so continue to provide the resilience that enables a forest to survive for many thousands of years, though the trees that make up the forest live only a century or two. The untrained observer is unlikely to notice these itinerant species in a mature forest, but they are vital members of the community, essential to a forest’s ability to propagate itself over time. Again, the reciprocity between complementary species enables the flourishing of each species and of the community. The importance of community becomes even more striking from the perspective of geological time. At every stage from the recovery of terrestrial systems in the aftermath of a glacial period, to the initial colonization of the continents by plants, to the recovery of life from five major periods of extinction, all the way back to the beginnings of multicellular life half a billion years ago, life has required healthy communities. Only species able to live in community have survived for long.

    Linking the Voices of Scripture and Earth Science There seems to be a deep connection between justice in the biblical tradition and system-wide symbiosis in ecological science. Justice and symbiosis both require mutual vulnerability and openness to the needs of the other. Neither justice nor symbiosis is compatible with the imposition of rigid control over another. Both allow all participants to respond creatively to opportunities as they see them, provided that they respond in ways that maintain just and symbiotic conditions. The importance of justice in human communities and symbiosis in ecological communities suggests that each is profoundly fertile or creative. The creativity that has given rise to Earth’s extraordinarily rich ecological systems depends fundamentally on the symbiotic character of ecosystems. From a religious perspective, it seems as if God’s manner of being creative in nature is symbiotic, through and through. The mandate that humans are to pursue “justice and only justice” (Deut 16:20) might then be taken as the condition for creativity in human community, in effect instructing humans to image God’s way of being creative. Recognition of this connection between God’s creation in the non-human world and creative human behavior is not new. Many psalms, prophetic passages, texts from

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    the wisdom tradition, and of course Jesus’ parables reveal that connection. That understanding also grounds some of our best thinking on environmental ethics. Aldo Leopold, for example, expressed much the same view half a century ago in his classic book A Sand County Almanac.n But, as Deuteronomy (8:11) clearly understood, the importance of justice and symbiosis is tragically easy to forget. People living comfortably in the land have always found it difficult or impossible to remember the importance of living in ways that are vulnerable and open to the needs of the other. The profound “tension between royally secured land and covenanted precarious land” was central to Israel’s history.13 An analogous conflict emerges in contemporary western society in the tension between confidence in the human power of technology to secure our world and allowing creation the freedom to be creative. The nineteenth-century controversy over how to provide flood protection for New Orleans is a poignant illustration of the difficulty. One protagonist, Charles Eilet, suggested a flexible approach to flood control that would rely on relatively low levees to channel the Mississippi most of the time, but would set aside then-unused wetlands to act as reservoirs that could absorb overflow during periods of unusually high water. His rival, A.A. Humphreys, insisted that the Mississippi could be controlled by levees, and only levees, the higher the better, thereby leaving the wetlands open to development . Unfortunately, Humphreys was appointed head of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and his view prevailed, setting in place a flood-control strategy based on levees and pumping stations that, as Katrina recently reminded us, is anything but secure.14 Other reminders of the dangers of relying on technology to protect us from nature are the San Francisco earthquake of 1906, the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s, the current concerns about climate change, and the looming possibility of a bird-flu pandemic. Perhaps one of the reasons why the importance of justice and symbiosis is so easy to forget is that both require that we respect the other, and authentic respect for another depends upon our personal knowledge of the other. Leopold knew that well. Before he presented his “land ethic,” he took the reader on a personal, month-by-month tour of the land on his Wisconsin farm, introducing the creatures living there, one by one. He next expanded the tour to include the whole of Wisconsin, and then added five other North American ecological settings, from Mexico to Manitoba. The effect was to give the reader a deep sense of the intricacy and beauty of creation, so that when Leopold finally got around to arguing that it was essential to love, respect, and admire the land, and that maintaining the well-being of the biotic community was vital to all concerned, the reader could only respond, “Of course!” Unfortunately, modern technologies have the effect of widening the gap between humans and the rest of creation, making it difficult for us to know creation in ways that can sustain love and respect. That gap poses a serious challenge to deep engagement with nature or creation that the churches must meet.

    Preaching the Crisis So what does this discussion suggest about how we might preach on the environmental crisis? Perhaps the first thing to be said is that we should avoid speaking of an environmental crisis at all. That is the language of environmental organizations, and it too easily obscures the cause of the crisis and conveys the false impression that

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    the crisis lies somewhere in the background to human life. Religious communities can and should speak more directly. The crisis is in God’s creation, and the crisis is a direct consequence of human failure to live by the watchwords of justice and symbiosis. The details of the crisis are of course distinctively modern and distinctively technical. But from the point of view of the church, the reason for the crisis is the same moral failure that has long plagued people who feel themselves to be secure in their own management of the land (or the immense swath of creation now shaped by human hands), and who seek security in technologies that shape creation for human uses only, giving little thought to the needs of the land or the rest of creation, and even less thought to the needs of the poor of the world. The world urgently needs a prophetic voice to repeat, again and again, the instruction to pursue justice, and only justice; and to repeat, again and again, the need to live in symbiotic relationship with all of creation. Finally, the church must insistently remind us that God created all that is, and that God found all of creation good. Churches can help us to learn what that affirmation really means by getting to know the rest of creation with which we are to live symbiotically and the men and women with whom we are to pursue just ways of living. We might begin by identifying particular places and communities that allow us to develop close personal relationships that can reveal the good in others, and provide a basis for the love, respect, and admiration that make mutual flourishing possible. We might end by recognizing a world that is worth sustaining.

    Notes

    1. Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2003). 2. Oded Borowski, Agriculture in Iron Age Israel (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1987), 15-18. 3. Ibid., 143-51. 4. Daniel Hillel, The Natural History of the Bible: An Environmental Exploration of the Hebrew Scriptures (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 215. 5. Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2003). 6. Ibid., 74-79. 7. Ibid., 80-83. 8. Ibid., 54. 9. Brian McLaren, The Secret Message of Jesus: Uncovering the Truth That Could Change Everything (Nashville, Tenn.: W Publishing Group, 2006). 10. See, for example, Norman C. Habel and Vicky Balabanski, eds., The Earth Story in the New Testament, vol. 5, Earth Bible Series (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002). 11. Mark’s six parables are the sower (4:3-8), the seed growing secretly (4:26-29), the mustard seed (4:3032 ), the wicked tenants (12:1-11), the fig tree (13:28-29), and the doorkeeper (13:34-37). The parables of the seed growing secretly and the mustard seed are explicitly said to image the kingdom. See discussion in John R. Donahue, The Gospel in Parable: Metaphor, Narrative, and Theology in the Synoptic Gospels (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). 12. Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There (London: Oxford University Press, 1972). 13. Brueggemann, The Land, 94, ital. original. 14. For a brief summary of this story, see Ari Kelman, “Water Damaged: Disaster History in New Orleans and on the Gulf Coast,” Reviews in American History 34, 222-230 (2006).

  • Preaching the advent texts

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    Preaching the Advent Texts

    Theodore J. Wardlaw

    Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Austin, Texas

    Advent is a particularly dicey season in which to preach. It is one of those times in the life of the church when the purposefully minor-key melody line of lectionarybased worship and preaching is in danger of being drowned out by the raucous background noise of popular culture. It is played out against the backdrop of conspicuous consumerism which, by the time Advent actually rolls around, has already engorged church people with a whole year’s worth of Christmas elevator music, window decorations, bell-ringing Salvation Army Santa Clauses, daily arrivals in the mail of yet more slick four-color catalogues, and sidewalk smells of chestnuts roasting on open fires. Rarely is the church called upon to be more countercultural than during Advent. Rarely is there a greater disconnect between the church’s hopes and secular sentiments , as people step from the surrounding cacophonies into quiet sanctuaries that display the hues of purple or deep blue rather than red and green and are invited (somewhat grudgingly) to mark time—carefully and deliberately—toward a destination , finally, that is on a horizon more distant than December 25. Rarely, as any pastor knows, do the worshippers in our churches settle altogether happily for “Prepare the Way, O Zion” instead of “Silent Night” or “Joy to the World.” Advent, after all, is a season in which text struggles annually with context and thus lifts up the contemporary tensions between our church and its attendant culture. The good news, though, in this Advent season, is that the preacher has a sympathetic companion in Matthew the gospel-writer. More than any other New Testament gospel, Matthew addresses a church that was at many points analogous to ours. It was an urban church. (On multiple occasions, Matthew takes out Mark’s word “village” and replaces it with “city.”) It was a pluralistic church, both Jewish-Christian and GentileChristian in composition. It was a fairly wealthy church, one with its own ambiguous relationship to culture. If we take the time in our Advent sermon preparations to tell Matthew about our people and the challenges they face, chances are that he will understand . And traveling together with us through Advent, chances are he will introduce us to a Jesus who exhorts and challenges us and our people too, with his own minorkey melody line, which will be heard—in both an ironic contrast and a majestic harmony—with the elegant notes offered by the prophet Isaiah.

    The First Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 2:1-5; Matthew 24:36-44 It ends with God. At the hands of our lectionary, Matthew’s Jesus wastes no time getting to his first exhortation and challenge to us. It is to remind us that the One Whom we most properly await in Advent is not the baby boy born in a barn, but the Son of Man Who is coming to meet us at the end of time. Hence in this text for the First Sunday of Advent, as in Mark’s and Luke’s texts in other years, the scale of things is appropriately cosmic and the tone is apocalyptic. Christians in Matthew’s time were embarrassed by the delay of the Son of Man’s return and received considerable scoffing from their theological opponents. Matthew, therefore, wanted them, and us,

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    to acknowledge the uncertainty of the Son of Man’s coming and to urge a faith stance of constant watchfulness in the meantime. “But about that day and hour no one knows, says Jesus in Matthew’s gospel, “neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.”1 This way of dealing with “the delay of the Parousia” forges a union between eschatology and ethics2 and has shaped mainline Christian theology ever since. To believe that, as Isaiah puts it, “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains…”3; and to believe that the Son of Man is coming some day to gather up and redeem all of the brokenness and loose ends of the world and of our lives is to mean—in the meantime—that our lives have purpose and direction. As Tom Long put it, “If the dam twenty minutes upstream breaks, then the Rembrandt on the wall is less valuable than the rubber raft in the attic.”4 Knowing what lies ahead clarifies what to value, and not value, now. Years ago I knew of a prominent African-American pastor who served a large and powerful church in Harlem, above 125th Street in New York City. From its gothic spire, one could see just about anything one would want to see. Or, to put it more accurately, one could see just about everything one would not want to see: blocks of burned-out buildings, shabby little pawn shops and boarded-up storefronts and roachinfested grocery stores, in the shadows of which prostitutes and crack dealers plied their trades. Many churches had given up and moved elsewhere, but that church just continued to hang in there—keeping watch, staying alert, as if every moment mattered! They organized a locally-owned bank (so the neighborhood could have a bank), they set up latch-key programs for children, they put together neighborhood redevelopment agencies, they set up Bible studies in high-rises, they conducted successful boycotts against price-gouging corporations. But still, it was Harlem. A newspaper reporter once interviewed this pastor. “Sure,” he said as he framed one question, “you’re doing great stuff. But it’s hard to see what difference any ofthat is making. What enables you and your folks to keep going?” The pastor said, “We’ve read the Bible, and we know how it ends. We aren’t at the end yet,” he went on, “but we know how it ends, and that’s what makes the difference.” We, too, know how it ends, don’t we? It ends with God! And so, with our people, we return on the First Sunday of Advent to worship one in whose presence we are wrenched away from the world as it is in order to get a view of the world as it might be. A holy power keeps shaping us by the waters of the font and keeps feeding us the bread and the cup of the table; and, time after time, we remember how it all ends and therefore what’s finally important about our lives in the meantime. Keep awake, therefore, for you know how it ends.

    The Second Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12 The surprise entrance. When it comes to comedy, there’s a whole genre that has built up around the surprise entrance. We all know of those actors and comedians who have perfected the completely jarring way in which they step onto the set and reduce us all to laughter. In those old “Bob Newhart Show” reruns, for example, the pristine parlor of a colonial New England inn looks like it’s ready for a group of people straight out of the “Land’s End” catalogue to stand around the inviting fireplace sipping hot apple cider. Suddenly the front door swings open, and in step three mountain men desperately

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    needing baths and haircuts, wearing dirty green fatigues and ski caps with holes in them, and carrying an ominous box in which there’s probably a reptile. Then comes the classic line—”Hi, I’m Larry, and this is my brother Daryl, and this is my other brother Daryl”—and the audience roars with appreciation. It’s the same way in those “Seinfeld” reruns, when Kramer bursts into Jerry’s apartment looking like he’s just been unplugged from some wall outlet. As he slides across the threshold and into each episode, everybody applauds. There is great humor in the surprise entrance! But the test for us on the Second Sunday of Advent is to discern what’s funny about the surprise entrance in this text from Matthew. The temptation is to think that it’s John the Baptist who’s so funny— all hairy and unshaven and bedecked in animal skins as he munches on insects. Granted, he crashes the dignity of our worship, and we are startled enough—by his entrance, by his wardrobe, and by his message—to laugh. But maybe, in the final analysis, it’s his uptight audience that is funnier. Something similarly humorous literally happened, in fact, on the Second Sunday of Advent last year in the church that we attend in Austin. The service had just started and was being led by one of our Associate Pastors. The other Associate Pastor, her colleague, stomped into the chancel—wearing, in addition to his alb and stole, a black, long-haired Cher wig, and carrying a shepherd’s crook—shouting “Prepare the way of the Lord!” at the top of his voice. “Hi,” he said to her as he approached, “I’m John the Baptist!” “And I’m Judy the Presbyterian!” she responded. We loved the surprise entrance and the dialogue, and we laughed out loud as they continued through the rest of the unexpected skit. It wasn’ t really the ridiculously clever approximation of John the Baptist that I was laughing at in that exchange. It was instead, I believe, the universe of assumptions wrapped up in the retort, “I’m Judy the Presbyterian.” We Presbyterians, after all, are often quite taken with our pedigrees, our theological credentials, our heady customs— so much so that maybe we assume Heaven will be a lot like a graduate school for religion in Geneva, Edinburgh or Charlotte. In this sense, maybe we are a lot like the Pharisees and Sadducees of Matthew’s day. They, too, are so wrapped up in their theological credentials—their kinship to Abraham, the notion that the faith is theirs by birthright— that they are unable to envision a future that God may be opening up to them through none less than that bizarre and surprising Baptizer named John. But John is in fact challenging them to envision and grow into a different future— a future that assumes an inherited tradition, for sure, but that also recapitulates it in the light of one who is to come. John’s job is to prepare us for that one. “I baptize you with water for repentance,” he says, “but one who is more powerful than I am is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”5 Sometimes we see evidence of how the future available through that one recapitulates and re-orients all that has gone before. Once, while living in Atlanta, I took a tour of a remarkable and historic building. In the nineteenth century it had been known as the Atlanta Stockade—a prison with walls that were four feet thick and impermeable with their steel-reinforced concrete. Debtors were sent there to work off their debt; some were never heard from again. It was a dreaded place in its early years—a breeding-ground for tuberculosis and syphilis and the crudest forms of inhumanity. Then, sometime well into the twentieth century, it was abandoned; and

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    over several decades it became a haven for drugs and crime and all sorts of unsavory behavior. But a little more than ten years ago, some faith-filled visionaries saw the possibilities of what that building could be, and they began turning those possibilities into reality. By the day of my tour, it had been successfully transformed into an attractive, modern complex filled with apartments and amenities and services for people who had once been homeless. What had earlier been a prison had been transformed into a marvelous locus of Christian hospitality! That is a kind of repentance. An inherited tradition is recapitulated in the light of new information. Isaiah’s vision of “a shoot [coming] out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch [growing] out of his roots” is now given new shape by a strange intruder fresh from the wilderness. A different future is on the way, he says. A time—our time— is being redeemed by the light of a holy surprise drawing near. And all of a sudden, the landscape of life changes. This is the surprising word of John, whose message is: “Prepare the way of the Lord!”

    The Third Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 35:1-10; Matthew 11:2-11 The right kind of eyesight. In this text, we see John beginning to doubt his own message. In prison now, in a setting where his message has brought dire consequences for himself, he is beginning to question the effectiveness of the one whose coming he had earlier proclaimed so exuberantly. Backing off of his previous confidence, he sends a message to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”6 Some may thus be disappointed in John, clucking disapprovingly over his lack of staying power. For others, though, this may be a new moment to take John seriously. These words of commentary on this text are being written as the secret doubts of Mother Theresa, as recorded in her diaries, are being revealed to the world. This dedicated nun who, in life, gave herself away to the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, and who, in death, is on a fast-track toward being declared a saint by the Catholic Church, may also be disappointing some people with the posthumous revelation of her serious doubts about God. For me, though, this new information only makes her more extraordinary . A new element of her humanity has been uncovered, and she—and her tenacious faith—become somehow more accessible to me. No longer is she so much larger than life that I cannot successfully relate to her. I now see her as one who struggled with some of the same impediments to faith that I struggle with—the daily evidence of poverty and greed and inequity and apathy and self-questioning that seem to refute the claims we make about God’s presence in the world. I feel the same way about John, nursing his doubts there in prison. Moreover, I am encouraged by Jesus’ response to him—and to me. Jesus invites John—and the rest of us—to cultivate the right kind of eyesight with which to see his project taking shape in the world. It is eschatological eyesight. Without it, we end up using the kind of eyesight that the world is more comfortable using to gauge the effectiveness of our faith claims. We end up determining a church’s health or a denomination’s health, for example, simply by assessing its size, by its worship attendance, by its budget, by the number of powerful people involved in it, by how successful it is at keeping the peace by looking the other way and muzzling its own voice. For the sake of the world, we in the church so desperately need the right kind of eyesight. Without it, we get discouraged in a heartbeat. But with it, we are able to see, amid the apparent setbacks

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    and struggles of people of faith, the emerging presence of the Kingdom of God. When Jesus sent word back to John—”the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them”7—he wasn’t just cataloguing his previous day’s to-do list. Nor was he just quoting Isaiah: “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped… .”8 Most important, he was encouraging John to cultivate an eschatological eyesight to see past what is yet unfinished in our world in order to catch a glimpse of the Kingdom of God drawing near. A few years ago, near the end of the twentieth century, some people in the Presbyterian denomination pulled out their calculators and assessed things from a certain angle and then went public with a startling prediction. Influenced by all the literature about the decline of the mainline church, they predicted that if present trends continued, Presbyterians would become virtually non-existent sometime in the twenty-first century. They put this prediction in what they thought was a particularly clever way. They said that, if present trends continued, Presbyterians would become “the Amish of the twenty-first century.” It was a way of saying that, for all practical purposes, Presbyterians would be marginalized and irrelevant, as if we were horseand -buggy people—totally out of date and rendered invisible by our irrelevance in a world that had totally eclipsed us. I saw that prediction made in print, I heard it repeated at this or that meeting, and whenever that prediction was voiced—”the Amish of the twenty-first century”—people laughed at that thought so cleverly put. Then, in the fall of 2006, we all watched as one particular Amish community in Pennsylvania—in the midst of grieving over and burying a group of their own schoolchildren who had been slaughtered by a rage-filled man with a gun that he finally turned on himself—paused nonetheless to send a delegation to reach out to and financially support the widow and family of the one who had done the slaughtering. We watched in open-mouthed disbelief as they summoned a strength that ultimately was impossible, humanly speaking, and then dealt with the sin and tragedy that had penetrated their world by beholding it all with the right kind of eyesight. We watched as they returned love for evil, as they reached out in healing and redemption. We watched in complete awe as they directed our gaze, if we had the eyesight ourselves to see it, toward a light shining in the darkness that the darkness—try as it might— could not overcome. And, speaking for myself, I would be pleased for any church in the twenty-first century to be compared to that witness. I would praise God if our church, too, could be compared favorably with people who see the world—dark and threatening and incomplete and full of terror as it often is—with that kind of eyesight. That would be more good news for John—and for us.

    The Fourth Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 7:10-16; Matthew 1:18-25 In defense of Joseph. As this text from Matthew rolls around again this year, I find myself focusing this time around not upon Mary or the angel or dreams or the etymology of the name “Jesus” or Matthew’s penchant to link Old Testament prophecy with events in the life of Christ and the early church or any of the other clever angles that have interested me in the past. This year I am interested in the one who is self-evidently the main character in this text, Joseph. But rummaging around in that vast closet in which the Christian church for twenty centuries has stored its Christmas

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    trappings, I find hardly a thing on Joseph. Look in a hymnal, for example, and try to find one hymn in which Joseph plays anything more than a bit-part. There’s a lot of “Gentle Mary laid her child, lowly in a manger,” or “What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping V or “Born in the night, Mary’s child, a long way from your home; coming in need, Mary’ s child, born in a borrowed room.” Everywhere you look, it’s Mary this and Mary that! What is Joseph—a potted plant? It’s not fair! And, when there is a hymn about Joseph, it’s a hatchet job. Take that ancient carol, “The Cherry Tree Carol.” Joseph is walking in a cherry orchard with Mary, who is great with child. Mary meekly asks Joseph to pick a cherry from one of the trees for her, and he responds gruffly: “Let him pluck thee a cherry that brought thee now with child.” In other words, ask the guy who got you in this situation to pick fruit for you. And then, just to thoroughly humiliate Joseph, Jesus, so the carol goes, issues a command from his mother’s womb that the tallest tree in the orchard bow down before her so that poor Mary can pick as many cherries as she can stomach.9 So it goes for old Joseph. Here and there, he has emerged from obscurity to carry some ideological torch or other. In the nineteenth century, when people went about applying the political and economic philosophies of Karl Marx, a new church in some industrial community would occasionally get named “The Church of St. Joseph the Worker.” But for the most part, Joseph is the Rodney Dangerfield of the Christmas story—one who suffers at the hands of the church either from complete slander or utter disregard, one who has practically fallen off the map of the church’s devotional life. Why are we so down on Joseph? Perhaps, in part, it’s that we have consolidated the Christmas story into one seamless cut of cloth and have assigned every character a carefully-scripted role to play. Shepherds and wise men and choirs of angels get to make big entrances onto the scene, and, by comparison, there’s no terribly essential role for Joseph. He’s just not an easy fit. Give him some tools and say, “Joseph, go plug those leaks so the place won’t be so drafty.” Give him the car keys and say, “Joseph, go to the 7-11 and buy some diapers and some Similac.” But really, as things stand in our consolidated version of this story, there’s not much for him to do. He’s awkwardly placed in the little creches around our homes at Christmas —bending stiffly down on one knee as he looks at the baby in the manger, trying to be sensitive. Whatever our reasons, he’s the fall guy. Maybe more significantly, we’re down on Joseph because, from the standpoint of our culture with its high regard for radical individualism, he appears so tepid and benignly compromising in the way he deals with Mary’s dilemma. When Mary’s pregnancy is revealed, Matthew says that he “planned to dismiss her quietly.” Dismiss her quietly! That sounds so unheroic! What we want is a Joseph who will be a sort of Leonardo deCaprio who will thumb his nose at the social conventions and whisk Mary away to a place where they can be who they are meant to be. So we don’t forgive Joseph for his apparent reluctance to play his part in this story with more single-minded enthusiasm. This means that we have hardly begun to understand this remarkable man and the way in which the whole story of Christmas, and all that happens thereafter, hinges upon him. The Joseph and Mary whom we encounter here in Matthew’s first chapter are “betrothed” but not living together. “Betrothal” in ancient Palestine meant more than “engagement” does in our setting. Through “betrothal” a woman was “bound” to a

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    man through formal words of consent, and it was often arranged when the woman was still but a young girl, maybe not yet a teenager. Even though she did not yet live with the man, she was viewed already by society as the man’s wife, and it could be years before the woman betrothed to the man moved out of her family’s house and into the home—and the bed—of her husband. And just here—somewhere between betrothal and marriage—is where Joseph and Mary are. Joseph, as Matthew tells us, is “a righteous man,” which means that he is utterly devoted to keeping the commandments of God. Here is where the problems start. For when Mary is found to be pregnant and Joseph knows he’s not the father, he knows from the Scout handbook of religious righteousness just what he has to do. According to the law—to which he is righteously committed—he must turn her out or even put her to death. The problem for Joseph is that he’s both compassionate and righteous. Because he’s compassionate, he will quietly release Mary from the bonds of betrothal. But because he’s righteous, he will not ignore the law. Just here is where the story of Joseph and Mary takes a surprising turn. An angel appears to Joseph in a dream and reveals to him that what looks like a moral outrage is in fact, a holy disruption. “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife,” the angel says, “for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”10 We can practically hear in the background Handel’s setting of the Old Testament text for this day: “Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”11 In the purposefulness of God, this righteous man Joseph shall be a genealogical bridge, thus bequeathing to Jesus the family name of the house of David. And just as important , as a bridge between all of the religious heritage that has been and the evolving thing that God is doing in the world now, Joseph will break through the confines of the old law in order to respond obediently to God’s new act in this mysterious one whose name will be Jesus. What an amazing thing—that this man who has always seen righteousness as a matter of coloring inside the lines now accepts the promise ofthat angel and takes Mary as his wife. Thus Joseph becomes the primary example, here at the beginning of Matthew’s gospel, for true righteousness and faithful discipleship. Hardly the fall guy at all, he is the keystone in the bridge that is built by the Christmas story. Because he is willing to be such a link between old and new, between past and present, everything in the drama of Jesus Christ that will unfold from this moment hinges upon this one man and his righteousness.12 It’s a righteousness not unlike the greater righteousness which God calls us to through Jesus Christ our Lord. It is something begun in love, and while it regularly shatters what we know and leaves us stepping out into some new unknown on not much more than sheer faith, the promise is that it can only—will only—lead to good. The one who is to come to save us from ourselves will call us from the Scout handbooks by which we try to live and move and have our being. The one who is to come will lead us from that about the law which does not liberate and only absorbs the self, and toward the whole offering of ourselves unto God. The one who is to come will beckon us from our own worst errors and bad decisions and chronic sins, and toward the truly righteous people God would have us be—a people whose righteousness exceeds that of the Pharisees, whose righteousness, when all is said and done, approaches that of Joseph.13

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    Notes

    1 Matthew 24:36, New Revised Standard Version. 2 I am grateful here for the insights of David E. Garland, A Literary and Theological Commentary on the First Gospel (New York: Crossroad, 1993), 346-347. 3 Isaiah 2:2. 4 Tom made this remark during a discussion of this text at the meeting of the Moveable Feast cohort, meeting in Holmes, New York, in January 1992. 5 Matthew 3:11. 6 Matthew 11:3. 7 Matthew 11:5. 8 Isaiah 35:5. 9 From The Oxford Book of Carols (London: Oxford University Press, 1948). 10 Matthew 1:21. 11 Isaiah 7:14. 12 I was assisted in this section by the exegetical work of Thomas G. Long, in his book Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 12-14. 13 I am grateful in this approach to the Rev. Christine Chakoian, pastor of the Lake Forest, Illinois, Presbyterian Church, whose insights from an unpublished paper presented once at a meeting of the Moveable Feast cohort influenced greatly my work on this text.

  • Preaching on psalms: Psalm 146:5-10, third Sunday in advent

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    Preaching on Psalms

    Psalm 146:5-10, Third Sunday in Advent

    J. Clinton McCann, Jr.

    Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, Missouri

    Because this is the first in a series of four essays on preaching on Psalms that will appear in successive issues of this journal, it is appropriate to begin with abrief defense of this practice. Given the church’s long and distinguished history of preaching on Psalms1, such a defense may seem to be unnecessary; however, there is still resistance to preaching on Psalms in some contemporary liturgical and homiletical quarters. For instance, in its description of “The Service for the Lord’s Day,” the Book of Common Worship offers the following guidance for using the psalm appointed for the day by the lectionary: “The singing of a psalm is appropriate at any place in the order of worship. However, the psalm appointed in the lectionary…is intended to be sung following the first reading, where it serves as a congregational meditation and response to the reading. The psalm is not intended as another reading.”2 The clear implication is that the Psalms are meant to be used in worship as responses to the reading of “The Word,” which is the title of the section in which the above quote appears, but that the Psalms do not qualify as “The Word,” and hence are not suitable for preaching. The logic of the Book of Common Worship at this point is unflinchingly form-critical; that is, because the Psalms originated in worship as responses to God, they should continue to be used accordingly. The same logic apparently guides those instructors of homiletics who teach their students not to preach on the Psalms. What this logic ignores, however, is the canonical process. Granted, the Psalms almost certainly originated in and for the worship life of ancient Israel and Judah, primarily as responses to God in prayer and praise. At some point, however, they were collected and transmitted as Scripture—as “The Word.” Klaus Seybold describes the results of this process as follows: ” [T]he existing Psalter now takes on the character of a documentation of divine revelation, to be used in a way analogous to the Torah, the first part of the canon, and becomes an instruction manual for the theological study of the divine order of salvation, and for meditation.”3 If the Psalms are indeed “a documentation of divine revelation,” they beg to be preached! As James L. Mays points out, “The psalms…contain more direct statements about God than any other book in the two testaments of the Christian canon.”4 The church and its preachers simply cannot afford to ignore the Psalms in proclamation; they are clearly suitable material on which to preach. Psalm 146, the psalm for the Third Sunday in Advent (the Revised Common Lectionary lists Ps 146:5-10 as the psalm for the day, with Luke 1:47-55 as an alternative), demonstrates admirably what Mays points out. Beginning in v. 6, it contains several “direct statements about God” and about what God has done and is doing in the world. In the following analysis, I shall focus on how Psalm 146 may function as “a documentation of divine revelation,” and I shall suggest several possible directions to pursue in preaching on Psalm 146.

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    Verses 1-4 Even though the Revised Common Lectionary regularly dissects the psalm for the day, the interpreter should not ignore vv. 1-4, which the lectionary omits for the Third Sunday in Advent. These verses include the hymn’s invitation to praise (v. 1), the statement of the psalmist’s commitment to unceasing praise (v. 2), and a warning that helps us to discern what is at stake when praise becomes one’s lifestyle (vv. 3-4). Not only does Psalm 146 begin and end with “Praise the Lord!” but so also does eachofPsalms 147-150, marking Psalms 146-150 as the Psalter’s final collection. The invitation to “O my soul,” or better translated, “my whole being,” is unusual but not unique (see also Pss 103:1,22; 104:1,35). While this invitation focuses on the individual self, it introduces a collection that concludes in Ps 150:6 with an expansive invitation to praise, “Let everything that breathes praise the Lord!” And at the heart of this final collection of the Psalter, Psalm 148 invites virtually everything that exists to praise God! Thus, the literary context of Psalm 146 suggests the perhaps startling conclusion that to praise God is somehow to put our individual selves in tune with the entire universe. It is a conclusion that raises interesting questions: What does it mean that we participate in a worshiping community that includes every other living creature – “everything that breathes” (Ps 150:6; see 148:10) – and even the inanimate features of creation (see Pss 148:3-4,7-9)? Does our response to God in praise enable the nonhuman creatures, and even the earth itself, to praise God by existing and by being what God created them to be?5 The ecological implications of these questions may be overwhelming; but at a point in the history of our planet in which species are disappearing at an alarmingly high and unprecedented rate, a hole in the ozone layer is growing noticeably each year, and the temperature of the earth is rising precipitously, these questions are well worth pondering and perhaps even pursuing in an Advent sermon. We might even find ourselves beginning to recover the nearly lost penitential dimension of this liturgical season. If the above questions seem too staggering or overwhelming, perhaps one might want to pursue the significance of the psalmist’s self-portrayal as an exemplar of lifelong praise. What does it mean to praise without ceasing? What does it mean that, in essence, praise becomes the goal of human life? These questions resonate clearly with the Reformed tradition and its understanding of the purpose of humankind. One need look no further than the first question and answer of “The Shorter Catechism”:

    Q. 1. What is the chief end of [hu]man[ity]? A. [Hu]Man[ity]’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.

    In a secular era in which it sounds hopelessly naive (or embarrassingly pietistic) to say that the goal of human life is to praise God, and in a cultural context in which the concept of enjoying God is completely nonsensical, the above questions are well worth pondering and perhaps even pursuing in an Advent sermon. A clue toward at least beginning to answer these questions is found in vv. 3-4. Praise is inseparable from the matter of where or in whom one places one’s “trust” (v. 3). Given the suspicion of government in our current political context – we are all too familiar with a war that was started on the basis of “bad intelligence” – perhaps we are inclined to embrace the instruction “Do not put your trust in princes” (v. 3a). But the advice is more sweeping and challenging in v. 3b; no trust is to be placed in “humanity”

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    (NRSV “mortals”), including ourselves! What a challenge to us and to our culture’s prevailing, pervasive, and arrogant sense of autonomy and self-sufficiency! This resounding “no” to human autonomy and self-help prepares for the description of appropriately directed trust in v. 5, which is followed by a description of God and God’s activity in vv. 6-9 that intends to affirm why God is worthy of trust.

    Verses 5-10 The movement from vv. 1-2 to vv. 3-4 to vv. 5-10 suggests that praise is not only a liturgical act (see “sing praises” in v. 2), but also a way of living characterized by the disavowal of human autonomy (vv. 3-4) in favor of living constantly in fundamental dependence upon God (v. 5). As such, praise is the source of what makes human beings genuinely “happy” (v. 5). Thus, to “enjoy God forever,” to use the words of “The Shorter Catechism,” is to trust God and to entrust life and future to God. The NRSV s repetition of “help” in vv. 3 and 5 (even though two different Hebrew words are involved) sharpens the contrast between trusting God and living autonomously. To trust humans, even the most powerful humans, amounts finally to “no help” (v. 3) ; but, “Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob” (v. 5). It is not coincidental that vv. 5-9, especially the opening and closing lines of this section, recall Psalm 1, thus linking the Psalter’s concluding collection to the Psalter’s beginning. The Psalter’s opening word is “happy”; and Psalm 1 defines happiness as constant meditation upon-that is, attention and commitment to-God’s torah, “instruction ” (1:2; NRSV “law”). In short, Psalm 1, like Psalm 146, commends a fundamentally God-centered existence. Also like Psalm 1, Psalm 146 features the contrast between “the righteous” (v. 8; see 1:5-6) and “the wicked” (v. 9; see 1:1,56 ), concluding that “the way of the wicked” (1:6; 146:9) will not endure. As is clear in Psalm 1 and throughout the Psalter, wickedness is the assertion of the self over against God and God’s instruction – that is, wickedness is essentially autonomy, which is strongly disavowed by both Psalms 1 and 146. In a culture in which happiness is probably most frequently understood as a pleasurable feeling that derives from getting, often buying, what we want, and in a culture in which autonomy is generally viewed as an unambiguous virtue and a mark of maturity, it is essential that we ponder the thoroughly God-centered definition of happiness offered by the Psalter’s first and final beatitudes (1:1; 146:5) and perhaps pursue the implications in an Advent sermon. The following quotation from a recent essay by Ellen T. Charry will help:

    Contemporary culture offers us various versions of happiness. We are told that happiness is a feeling, or that happiness is a result of wealth or health, or that it can be attained by having the right product for the right moment or by perfecting one’s circumstances so as to build a buffer against ill fortune. None of these visions is the Christian vision of happiness. Instead, happiness is a life nourished by the love and goodness of God that contributes to the flourishing of creation.6

    Notice how thoroughly God-centered is “the Christian vision of happiness” in keeping with the direction of Pss 1:1 and 146:5. What ultimately matters is not pursuing our own way or getting our own way. Rather, what matters is pursuing and

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    contributing to God’s way on nothing short of a creation-wide scale. (See 146:6, and notice Charry’s definition of happiness as “a life…that contributes to the flourishing of creation.”) As opposed to “the way of the wicked,” the way of autonomous self-assertion, God’s way is the focus of vv. 6-9. God is not only the creator of the world, but also the one who remains faithfully committed to the world (v. 6), especially committed to those who most need help. The common element among the categories of people mentioned in vv. 7-9b – “the oppressed,” “the hungry,” “the prisoners,” “the blind,” the “bowed down,” “the righteous,” “the orphan,” and “the widow” – is that these people are not in a position to be able to assert themselves or to help themselves. On first glance, “the righteous” do not seem to belong in this list; but in the Psalms, “the righteous” are nearly always afflicted, oppressed, or, in some manner, opposed (see Ps 34:19). To be “righteous,” in psalmic terms, is not to be sinless, but rather to live in fundamental dependence upon God and God’s help – to live a thoroughly Godcentered life, intent upon God’s torah, understood as God’s instruction or God’s will. In this regard, it may not be coincidental that the precisely central poetic line of Psalm 146 (vv. 6b-7a, as the poem is laid out in Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia) features the crucially important word “justice.” Walter Brueggemann helpfully suggests that v. 7a articulates “the main claim for Yahweh.”7 To put it slightly differently, “justice” is a one-word summary of God’s way, what God wills for “the flourishing of creation.” Not surprisingly, “justice” is a keyword in the Psalms. The pivotal collection of enthronement psalms (Psalms 93,95-99) that explicitly identify God as “king” or assert that God reigns (93:1 ; 95:3; 96:10; 97:1 ; 98:6; 99:1) also features the word “justice.” (See 96:13 and 98:9 where NRSV’s “judge” is better translated “establish justice”; see also 97:2; 99:4.) Psalms 96 and 98 portray the creation responding joyfully to God’s “coming” (96:13; 98:9), thus suggesting that the word “justice” does indeed summarize God’s way or will for “the flourishing of creation.” Then too, the remarkable Psalm 82 identifies the criterion of true divinity as the pursuit and implementation of justice (v. 3)-the setting of things right-on behalf of those in need, including “the orphan” (146:9). In short, justice is quintessentially God’s way. Because the enactment of justice is inseparable from the proper role of a sovereign, Ps 146:10 forms a natural conclusion to the psalm, as well as providing another link to the centrally important enthronement collection. In view of the inter-vening verses between the opening and closing “Praise the Lord!” the movement of Psalm 146 has made it clear that praising God is both a liturgical act and a life lived in complete orientation to God and God’s way, to the point not only of enjoying the benefit of God’s help, but also deriving enjoyment by conforming the self to God’s way or will for the creation – contributing “to the flourishing of creation,” to use Charry’s words again. In short, praise ultimately takes the form of mission. We simultaneously glorify God and enjoy God as we conform our own selves and our lives to God’s way – in a word, “justice” – which has been concretely illustrated in vv. 7-9. Submitting our selves and lives to God’s sovereign claim both puts us in tune with the universe and promises genuine and enduring happiness. That is good news – “a documentation of divine revelation,” to use Seybold’s characterization of the Psalms — and it begs to be preached!

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    Joy Sunday The Third Sunday in Advent is traditionally Joy Sunday, and as suggested above, the mention of “happy” in Ps 146:5 offers an opportunity to relate proclamation to this traditional theme or emphasis, which is also present in Isa 35:1-10, the Old Testament Lesson for the day. (See Isa 35:1-2,10.) Here too, the source of joy is thoroughly Godcentered – “Here is your God” (Isa 35:4); and God’s presence is accompanied by the enactment of God’s way or will. (See Isa 35:5-6, which recall Ps 146:7-9.) Psalm 146:7-9 is also similar to Matt 11:5, a portion of the Gospel Lesson for the day. The issue in Matt 11:2-11 is whether Jesus is really the Messiah, who in the Psalter is the human agent responsible for the earthly implementation of God’s way or will. (See Psalm 72, a prayer for the king/Messiah, especially vv. 1 -7, which feature the keyword “justice;” Psalm 72 is the psalm for the Second Sunday in Advent.) When the Psalter was finalized in the post-exilic era, the monarchy had disappeared; and there is evidence within the Psalter itself that the mission of the Messiah had become the responsibility of the whole people of God. (Compare, for example, Ps 2:7-9 with Ps 149:5-9 – that is, “the faithful” are now entrusted with what formerly the Messiah or “anointed” was supposed to do.) To be sure, we Christians view Jesus Messiah as the ultimate embodiment of God’s way; but we also understand ourselves to be “the body of Christ,” called to conform to God’s way revealed in Christ. Thus, insofar as Psalm 146 anticipates Matthew 11 and Jesus’s Messiahship, emphasis is again placed upon our calling or mission. The complete orientation of our selves and our lives to God and God’s way is both the ultimate form of praise and the ultimate source of human joy.

    Notes

    1 For a brief history of preaching on the Psalms, see James C. Howell and J. Clinton McCann, Jr., Preaching the Psalms (Nashville: Abingdon, 2002), 20-32. 2 The Theology and Worship Ministry Unit, PCUSA and the Cumberland Presbyterian Church, Book of Common Worship (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 37. 3 Klaus Seybold, Introducing the Psalms, trans. R. G. Dunphy (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, 1990), 27. 4 James L. Mays, Preaching and Teaching the Psalms, ed. P. D. Miller and G. M. Tucker (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 69-70. 5 For assistance in pursuing these question further, see Terence E. Fretheim, “Nature’s Praise of God in the Psalms,” ExAuditu 3 (1987): 16-30. 6 Ellen T. Charry, “Happy Pursuits: A Christian Vision of the Good Life,” The Christian Century 124/ 15 (July 24,2007):33. 7 Walter Brueggemann, “Psalm 146: Psalm for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost,” No Other Foundation 8/1 (Summer 1987):28.

  • What cancer teaches

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    What Cancer Teaches

    Exodus 17:8-13; Romans 8:18-39

    Carlos Wilton Point Pleasant Presbyterian Church, Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey

    / consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18

    “Illness,” writes the late journalist and cancer patient Susan Sontag, “is the nightside of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.”1 For most of my life, I’ve been privileged to live as a citizen of “the kingdom of the well.” I never knew how privileged I was—until one day last fall, when my doctor handed me a prescription slip for a CT scan. At the bottom he had written these two words: “Suspect lymphoma.” I hadn’t been feeling sick. I’d gone in for an annual physical, and—at my request—the doctor had ordered an ultrasound scan. I’d been growing concerned, as I moved into mid-life, that I ought to be checked out for an aortal aneurysm— something my father had had, and nearly died from. The ultrasound revealed no aneurysm, but it also uncovered something I’d never suspected was there. The doctor called it a “mass” in my abdomen, somewhere between the size of a baseball and a grapefruit. I didn’t know it at the time, but there are few other medical explanations for such a growth in that part of the body, other than lymphoma—cancer of the lymphatic system. I’d never given much thought to my lymphatic system. Most of us don’t. It’spart of the body’s circulatory system, kind of a parallel bloodstream. It’s a network of vessels that serves as a highway for cells called lymphocytes, which our immune system uses to fight off disease. The lymphocytes congregate injunction-points called lymph nodes. If the lymph vessels are subway tunnels, then the lymph nodes are the stations where the passengers congregate. In a certain number of us, the lymphocyte cells become cancerous. They grow in size, and increase in number. As more and more lymphocytes congregate in each lymph node, the node itself increases in size. For me, all this was happening deep inside my body. I had no idea, until the ultrasound picked up that mysterious mass— which turned out to be a bundle of swollen lymph nodes. Further tests revealed other enlarged lymph nodes, elsewhere in my abdomen and also in my groin. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was lucky. Because I’d happened to go for the ultrasound when I did, the doctors were able to diagnose my cancer before I had any symptoms. Yet “lucky” was hardly a word that would have occurred to me this past December, as Claire and I sat in the oncologist’s office, and heard him tell me I had Stage 3 Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, a form of cancer. I never dreamed that, at the age of forty-nine, I’d have cancer. As a minister, I’ve visited plenty of cancer patients, but the vast majority have been people much older

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    than me. I’ve always known, of course, on an intellectual level, that some day I’m going to die—and that the mode of my death could, conceivably, be cancer. Yet, suddenly, as I heard the doctor say the word “lymphoma,” the prospect of death seemed very real, very immediate. It was as though I’d been out driving on a foggy day and gotten distracted for a moment. The next thing I knew, the brake lights of another car were looming up in front of me, and a cold jolt of fear hit me in the gut. Nothing to do, then, but slam on the brakes—and pray. Lance Armstrong, world-champion cyclist and cancer survivor, has written about his experience with testicular cancer that spread to his lungs and his brain. Armstrong underwent surgery, then chemotherapy. After that he went on to make one of the most amazing comebacks in the annals of sports, winning the Tour de France a total of seven times. In his autobiography, It’s Not About the Bike, Armstrong describes his experience of cancer as “being run off the road by a truck”:

    One minute you’re pedaling along a highway, and the next minute, boom, you’re face-down in the dirt. A blast of hot air hits you, you taste the acrid, oily exhaust in the roof of your mouth, and all you can do is wave a fist at the disappearing taillights…. Good, strong people get cancer, and they do all the right things to beat it, and they still die. That is the essential truth you learn. People die. And after you learn it, all other matters seem irrelevant. They just seem small.2

    There’s a Latin phrase, memento mori. What it means, loosely translated, is “Remember that you will die.” They say that, in ancient Rome, when a victorious general was parading into the city in triumph—his troops proudly marching in columns behind him, and his captives being driven before him, in chains—he employed a servant to stand beside him in the chariot. The servant’s job was to say to the general from time to time, “memento mori—remember that you will die.” Remember, in other words, that you are mortal—and that, like all mortals, you will one day be gasping out your final breath. On that day it will no longer matter that you once rode into the Eternal City at the head of a victorious army. On that day, your fate will be exactly the same as the most miserable prisoner standing here in ragged despair. Maybe it was that same sort of insight Lance Armstrong had, as he went—in the space of just a few days—from world-class athlete to cancer patient undergoing surgery. Maybe it’s because of his abiding sense ofmemento mori that Armstrong can write:

    The truth is that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know why I got the illness, but it did wonders for me, and I wouldn’t want to walk away from it. Why would I want to change, even for a day, the most important and shaping event of my life?3

    I’m not so sure I’d be so bold, personally, as to use those words about my own cancer – to say it’s “the best thing that ever happened to me.” If I could somehow turn the clock back, wave a magic wand, and make those swollen lymph nodes disappear forever, I would. But you and I know that’s impossible. I am what I am—and what I am, as I stand before you this morning, is a cancer survivor. It’s the path on which

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    God, for whatever reason, has set my feet. It’s a good path to be on, as good as any. The first time I used that word “survivor” to apply to myself was not long after I was first diagnosed. I was filling out a form for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society—an evaluation form for an educational teleconference Γ d just participated in. I was feeling pretty scared that day. I knew chemotherapy was almost certainly in my future, and I dreaded the as-yet-unknown side effects. Just below my name, on that form, was a series of boxes to check. I was to choose one option, from among “medical professional,” “family member,” or “survivor.” “Now, wait a minute,” I said to myself. “There must be some mistake. Whoever designed the form left off the check-box for ‘patient.’ That’s the one for me.” But then ithitme. There had been no mistake. The box I was supposedto check was “survivor.” Even though I was newly diagnosed. Even though that huge mass in my abdomen had grown no smaller since my diagnosis, and possibly even larger. Even though I had received, as yet, no treatment. The cancer hadn’t killed me yet, and that made me a survivor. AndacancersurvivorIremain,tothisday. I’minremission,now. Chemotherapy’s over and done with. There’s no sign of cancer on the PET scan, and the doctors have decided I don’t need radiation after all. The hair is slowly growing back—and, eventually, I’m sure I will be able to walk around the block without stopping to catch my breath. The news is good. And life is good. Yet even if the news is, one day, bad— even if life becomes a series of unremitting challenges—I will have learned one thing: I’ll still be a survivor. Memento mori. It’s one of the things cancer teaches. Let me tell you a few more… In today ‘ s Old Testament lesson, we heard that peculiar story of the army of Israel in their battle with the Amalekites. Down on the battlefield, the soldiers are going at it, while Moses stands on the top of a hill, holding his staff up in the air. As long as Moses holds his staff up high, the Israelite army is winning. Yet, whenever Moses’ arms grow tired and droop to the ground, the tide of battle turns and the Amalekites start to prevail. Moses has two trusted lieutenants, Aaron and Hur. These two men realize what’s happening and go stand beside their leader. They sit him down on a nearby rock, and, whenever his hands begin to droop, Aaron and Hur reach over and hold them up. Moses’ miraculous staff continues to be held high, and Israel wins the day. It’s a model for us all. There’s a part of us that wants to whine, like some petulant pre-schooler: “Go away! I can do it myself!” Our culture teaches us to value independence, and cherish individualism. Most of us would rather not feel beholden to anyone. Yet cancer teaches otherwise. When Claire and I got a call telling us that members of Presbyterian Women wanted to bring us meals-on-wheels three days a week, our first impulse was to say, “No thanks, we can manage on our own.” But then we considered the grueling schedule of upcoming medical tests and appointments, and we took stock of the chemotherapy side effects and what they would likely mean for all of us, and we said, “Thank you, that’s very generous.” Those meals were a tremendous help, and we’re grateful for them to this day. I’ve lost track of the number of times members of the church staff, or deacons or elders, said to me, “Would you like me to cover for you…?” I learned to say, “Yes, thank you, that would be a big help.” Probably the hardest day of all was Easter

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    Sunday. I’d had chemo just a few days before, and was feeling wiped out by nausea and exhaustion. I sat in our bedroom over across the street, and looked out the windows on that beautiful spring day. I watched a long line of you make your way down the sidewalk to church: a procession of cheerful-looking people, in pastel colors, with even a few Easter bonnets thrown into the mix. It’s a hard, hard thing for a preacher not to be in front of a congregation, on that greatest of festival days—and, more than that, to not even be in church at all. Yet, knowing the worship service was in capable hands, I sank back into the pillows and gave thanks that others were making sure the staff of God was held high in the air. And don’t get me started on family. Claire, the kids, members of the extended family: they were a rock through all of this. To them I will always be grateful. So, besides memento mori—the awareness of our death—cancer teaches: “Don’t be afraid to ask for help.” Another lesson cancer teaches is found in Romans 8, our New Testament lesson: “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us”(v.l8). There’s something about this human life of ours that invites us to make ceaseless comparisons. You and I take stock of our condition in life, and immediately compare it with others. “Keeping up with the Joneses,” as they say, has to do with far more than just material wealth: the houses we live in, the TVs we watch, the cars we drive. Some of us are blessed with years and years of healthy living, while others of us are in and out of hospitals. Some of us will live longer than others: decades longer, in some cases. The cancer I have—non-Hodgkin lymphoma—has no identifiable cause. There’s no environmental risk factor, no hereditary predisposition, no lifestyle choice—such as smoking, exercise or diet—that influences who gets it, and who does not (at least, not in the vast majority of cases). Some cancers can be influenced by such factors, but lymphoma generally isn’t one of them. It is what it is. I’ve got it, and the doctors can’t tell me why, or how. Moreover, I’ll probably have it for the rest of my life. Even in the best-case scenario—that the remission started by these six rounds of chemotherapy will continue, and I’ll never have a relapse—I’ll still need to keep going for scans for the rest of my life. Always, as I’m awaiting those test results, I will wonder and worry whether the cancer has come back. That means, one way or another, healthy or sick, I’ll always be living with cancer. That truth is starting to dawn on me, and it is what it is. I can’t escape it. These are, for me—as Paul puts it—”the sufferings of this present time.” Yet, as he goes on to say, these sufferings “are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.” My human sufferings are not to be compared with the circumstances of other people. Human comparisons do nothing for us: they only make us bitter and alienated. Yet, there is one comparison Paul cheerfully invites us all to make. Compare your sufferings, he urges the Roman Christians, with “the glory about to be revealed to us.” Compare the temporary, time-bound trials God sends us in certain seasons of our lives with the promise of eternal glory for all who believe. Last summer, I preached a sermon in which I told a story of the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Little Prince. Saint- Exupéry was a pilot in the French Air Force during World War II, stationed in North Africa. He became friendly with some of the local Bedouin: that tough, resourceful race of desert-

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    dwellers. On one occasion, he even managed to fly a few of them back home with him on a visit to France. On that visit, he expected those desert nomads to be wowed by Western technology: the Eiffel Tower, the railroad locomotive, the automobile—but the desert tribesmen observed these things with indifference. The one thing that truly impressed them was a waterfall in the French Alps. The thing about the waterfall that filled them with wonder was that it never stopped. These were men who had measured their lives by water: by how much water their canteens could hold, how many hours’ ride it was to the next oasis, how long they or their camels could hold out without taking a drink. Yet here, gushing from the side of a mountain, was an endless cascade of God’s abundance. In the author’s own words:

    They stood in silence. Mute, solemn…gazing at the unfolding of a ceremonial mystery. That which came roaring out of the belly of the mountain was life itself…The flow of a single second would have resuscitated whole caravans that, mad with thirst, had pressed on into the eternity of salt lakes and mirages. Here God was manifesting Himself: It would not do to turn one’s back on Him.4

    The hardscrabble reality of Bedouin existence was not worth comparing to the glory of a free-flowing alpine waterfall. In the same way, “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.” It’s not that these present difficulties are in any way illusory, or unreal. It’s just that there are bigger things in the universe than the struggles, strivings, and worries that weigh us down. Bigger, even, than cancer. The whole of creation, Paul says, “was subjected to futility” (v. 20). If the entire universe is characterized by futility, should you and I, then, be surprised when our own, small lives likewise demonstrate some aspect of random suffering? No, God has far greater things in store. The creation, for now, is “groaning in labor pains” (v. 22). Yet, soon and very soon, we will witness the birth of something so new and wonderful that the pain of this present moment will no longer be remembered. And so we Christians live in hope. Our hope is fueled by the vision of a glorious new life that awaits us on the other side of this one. We can’t see that life in any of its details—indeed, as Paul points out, if we could see it, we would then have no further need of hope: “Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience” (vv. 24-25). Cancer teaches those of us who have it to be aware of our death. Cancer teaches us to rely on friends and family, who love us and want to be here for us. Cancer teaches us to live by hope: for there is no other alternative. There are other lessons cancer teaches as well, that I have learned and am still learning: and I could go on for a very long time, telling you about them. Yet, here we stop: for these lessons I’ve mentioned are enough for one day. I would never wish that any of you come down with cancer, or contract other serious illness. Yet, if you do—and the statistics say that a great many of you sitting here today will experience something like it, sooner or later—know that there is much joy, even in the midst of it. And know, also, that, on the other side of every experience of suffering undertaken in faith, there is the bright promise of glory.

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    Let us pray: We ask, O God, not so much to be spared the time of trial, but that, in the midst of it, you would deliver us from evil. Deliver us from hopelessness, from despair, from rank unbelief. Deliver us from all that directs our eyes to the dusty ground at our feet, rather than up to the heavens on high. In every trial and struggle of life, keep our minds fixed on you: the giver of strength and courage. In the name of Jesus—who looked up to you, even from the cross. Amen.

    Notes

    1. Illness As Metaphor (New York: Picador, 1978), 3. 2. Lance Armstrong with Sally Jenkins, It’s Not About the Bike (New York: Putnam’s, 2000), 2-3. 3. Armstrong and Jenkins, 4. 4. Antoine de Saint- Exupéry, Wind, Sand and Stars (New York: Reynal & Hitchcock, 1940),143, quoted by Beiden Lane in The Solace of Fierce Landscapes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 203204 .

  • Post-War preaching: Isaiah 2:1-5, 11:1-10, 35:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; James 5:7-10

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    Post-War Preaching Isaiah 2:1-5, 11:1-10, 35:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; James 5:7-10

    Mark A. Jumper Hope Evangelical Presbyterian Church, Liberty ville, Illinois

    “Someday this war’s gonna end …” (Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore, Apocalypse Now)

    Five Post-War Issues What happens when wars end? Even Colonel Kilgore, who reveled in “the smell of napalm in the morning,” knew that his war in Vietnam would someday end. Warriors such as Kilgore, seemingly fearless in battle, may yet fear to face the peacetime battles of everyday life at home. Adjustments can be difficult. Post-war struggles may not be as clear-cut as wartime battles. The later life in safety may be shadowed by the former life of danger. Life’s resumption of regular rhythms may make a difficult dance for one who is used to war’s “long periods of boredom followed by moments of sheer terror.” Warriors may also retain certain wartime responses, feelings, and habits, more helpful for war than for peace—that make post-war life a real challenge (Shay 2002). They will at least need some ritual of cleansing, if not work to deal with grief and guilt. It is also increasingly recognized that many warriors, in their wartime experience, may have contracted psychic and spiritual wounds. Those at home, post-war, have their own challenges. Their lives were changed by war’s realities. This must be so in spite of official policies that attempt to minimize war’s effects on normal society. The Johnson administration, contemplating escalation in Vietnam, deliberately chose to shield America’s life from war’s effects by not putting society and the economy on a wartime footing. The George W. Bush administration , regarding the War on Terror, has emphasized the importance of “continued participation and confidence in the American economy,” albeit accompanied by “your patience, with the delays and inconveniences that may accompany tighter security” (Bush 2001). Bush says to help fight the war by buying more. However, in spite of these policies, the war was the major issue for each of these societies. Casualties were only one unavoidable reminder of war’s reality, as all sectors— political, cultural, religious, economic, social, and personal—became involved and affected in one way or another. In many other cases, entire societies mobilized and militarized to support war efforts. In all cases, a nation cannot be involved in hostilities without its home front populace being affected. Peace therefore brings change from wartime realities, and change is seldom easy. Interrupted lives must be resumed, but the presumption of resuming former activities unchanged is usually mistaken, for time and war have both brought new realities, leaving the pre-war world Gone With the Wind. World War II, for example, brought several changes to the United States: African Americans expected real progress in their lot, having deferred it during their wartime support; many women had experienced life in the workplace outside the home and wished to keep some involvement with that life; many veterans received higher education through the GI Bill; and America’s stance on the stage of the world had moved from isolation to involvement. Such post-war changes present major chal-

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    lenges for every part of society. Repair and rebuilding from war’s destructions constitute another major challenge . Damaged and destroyed buildings, infrastructure (such as transportation, sanitation, and communication), the economy, the environment, public safety are all typically present urgent needs. Post-war famine is not unknown. Mass dislocations of populations are common. There is often a pent-up desire among people to experience gratifications that were put off during wartime. There is also a need, perhaps less expressed, to understand and deal with the ways individuals, populations, and societies were changed. War is the occasion of great sacrifice, loss, and adjustment, typically requiring some sort of rebuilding of personal and social lives, a work every bit as real and demanding as replacing bombed out buildings. Relationships to former enemies can be a particular challenge. In some cases, the word “former” may not even apply, as the war’s end may not have ended the negative relationship and may even have amplified it. Also, negative portrayals of the enemy during war may have been exaggerated, even to the point of dehumanizing. War crimes may or may not have been addressed. Rules for identification and rehabilitation of transgressors need explication and enactment. Forgiveness and reconciliation are often difficult. Yet even as hot memories of loss and abuse still burn, some form of new relationship is required after war’s end. Life goes on, trade and ties may pragmatically resume, and former enemies may even become fast friends. This is true on both the national and the personal level. Warriors are often most desirous of forming relationships with those with which they had grappled in combat. Their mutual fascination may provide an opening that society at large can follow. Many other aspects can come to mind regarding post-war realities and actions. However, the preacher will have a full task addressing even these four areas: warriors, those at home, rebuilding, and relationships to former enemies. Justice is the fifth and overarching concern. Looking back, was war right? Was it fought for good ends, in good ways? Perhaps the war was perceived to have righted certain wrongs. If so, how may those rights be reinforced and maintained? The war may have left some issues of justice unaddressed or exacerbated. How may those issues yet be remembered, perhaps in the face of fatigue that finds it easier to forget? The war may have engendered new injustices, either in its practices or its effects. Some observers, indeed, may interpret the war itself as unjust. How may such depredations be addressed, not only with justice, but healing?

    Five Advent (A) Scriptures The Advent scriptures paint some remarkable pictures that present a rich resource for the preacher when viewed through a post-war lens. Isaiah 2:1-5 refers to a time of Messianic rule in which all nations come to be taught the ways and paths of the post-war ruler. In other words, there will be a “new world order”—a new political and international system. There is also reference to post-war judgment a la war crime trials: “He shall judge between the nations, and rebuke many people (2:4).” Serious sociological and economic change will also come. It is somewhat common for swords to be beat into plowshares after a war. However, this particular post-war change goes farther: the very relationships of nations will change to exclude further war, to the point that even training and readiness for war will no longer be needed. This revolutionary change serves as a model of the best hopes

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    for any post-war experience. In the light of this messianic, best post-war outcome, any current situation is illuminated in hope. Isaiah 11:1-10 expands the Messianic post-war reality. The Messiah’s just rule is reiterated, but with a much more detailed description of the “ways” and “paths” previously alluded to. This righteous rule (11:2) is based on a spiritual foundation (“the Spirit of the Lord”) that expresses itself specifically in six ways: wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, and the fear of the Lord. The description continues (11:3) with a reference to judgment that will be fair and impartial—certainly a fervent hope of many in any post-war environment. It will be a strong, decisive judg­ ment (11:5), including appropriate punishment. Such judgments, made with equity, provide comfort especially to the poor and the powerless (11:4) who yearned for justice during the war, but had as yet no champion or vindicator. To the extent that any post-war society seeks such qualities, based on spiritual reality, it will find itself in congruence with Messianic peace. In this case though, the circle of peace is drawn ever wider. Creation itself will benefit through radical transformation, extending even to a change in the basic food chain and its aggression, “red in tooth and claw” (Tennyson). Even the patterns of prey will be eliminated. The universal nature of the peace includes residing together on the radically reformed earth, for both Jews (the Root of Jesse) and Gentiles (11:10) who live in common recognition of the Messiah. There is thus great diversity in terms of peoples, but also great inclusion and unity in terms of their new common allegiance. Isaiah 35:1-10 repeats some post-war themes, but adds more depth. Ecological repair and renewal are prominent. As with the previous major paradigm change in the animal kingdom, there is here a major change in the ecological setting ofthat kingdom, with the desert both blooming (35:1-2) and bursting forth in various sources of water: streams, pools, and springs (35:6-7). Healing of wounds is also prominent, particu­ larly apropos if one thinks in terms of common war wounds: blindness, deafness, and lameness. Rebuilding includes the all-important infrastructure—a highway—upon which all returns to normality must travel (35:8). This highway will then serve to support the return of refugees, joyfully coming home (35:9-10). Romans 5:4-13 quotes the Isaiah 11 scripture as it focuses on an invitation and application to the Gentiles of a spiritual peace that not only brings them to God, but brings them to God in unity with Israel. This is a repeat of the grand theme of diversity in terms of the call and also of unity in terms of the response, as Jews and Gentiles come together as people under God and in God. That is, there is great reconciliation between people groups, but also between humanity itself, and God. The former enmities are beautifully subsumed in this new reality. ι James 5:7-10 explicates the yearning for peace, resolution, and justice that the Messiah will bring. This yearning is especially intense during war. However this passage emphasizes that the one who hopes may also be the one who is judged. It is common for people in conflict to think themselves in the right and without fault in a matter, with most or all of the blame thrown onto the enemy du jour. Self-justification is practically derigueur. While James does reassure his readers regarding the Judge’s coming, he also cautions them that their own actions will also fall under judgment. This echoes the Isaiah 2 and 11 passages, in that fair, impartial judgment will apply without bias to all, friend and foe, and also that such judgment will be strong and vigorous, regardless of who it affects. One can almost hear James saying, “Be careful

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    what you pray for—such as the Messiah’s coming—for you may get it, and it may include elements of justice that surprise you!” Such “bringing to earth” of high-flying pre-war self-righteousness may be a surprise, if not for passages such as this. The heartening side is that Messiah’s rule is fair, whether striking friend or foe. This makes Messiah’s coming a matter, and an object, of hope. To summarize, these scriptures mark not only several elements of change that are not unknown in numerous post-war scenarios, but also a number of changes that go far beyond the norm. The hope of radical transformation, transcending normal cycles of violence and ending them to the core of Creation, is a glittering promise. The preacher is led to ask: “How may I take this hope and these promises and apply them in ways that reach effectively into the post-war present? It’s all well and good that war will end and Creation will change one day, but how does the final post-war paradise apply in the midst of our own brokenness?”

    Applications Advent is a time of preparation, focusing on the “not yet” of hope. It has much in common with the post-war process. Those in a post-war status hope for a better future; but they realize that it will take much preparation and work to get there. Advent thinking is founded on prior prophetic words. From those words, preparation ensues. Postwar thinking tends to refer back as response to a war just experienced. A post-war people are emerging from war’s reality. They are still in a transition phase, no longer at war, but “not yet” beyond the war. They are anchored in their recent experience of war; but they yearn and strive to fly beyond it to find a better future. It might be said that the discipline of peacemaking is an ultimate goal of post-war activities. While post-war studies tend to work from and on those events just past, peacemaking strives, among many goals, to create structures that avoid war; to defuse conflict before it escalates; to intervene with direct war prevention; and to engender a milieu of comity that makes war unthinkable and unnecessary. In this, peacemaking could be said to be forward looking, while post-war activities refer to and respond to the past. This is so, even if post-war activities eagerly look to the future and as peacemakers take the hand that they are dealt from the past. However, for purposes of study and application, these two disciplines, post-war and peacemaking, will be separated, even though they share many common concerns. The Advent preacher’s hearers, anchored in the present struggle, want to know of hope and how they may prepare for hope’s fulfillment. They will want to hear what God has said, what God has done and may do, and what people have done and may do. In the case of post-war preaching, we have examined some words from God that refer to future actions of God to create a reign of peace. Under the umbrella of God’s peace, we see people finding healing, rebuilding, and reconciliation. Are there some ways that this future peace may be experienced in the present? Perhaps some stories of past achievements can help. It is helpful, from the Advent texts above, to realize that an overarching paradigm of enemies becoming friends does exist and is possible. A dramatic and unexpected transformation between two former enemies may be found in the case of Germany and France following World War II. These two nations fought each other three times from 1870 to 1945. Prussia humiliated France in 1870 and annexed parts of Alsace and Lorraine—part of the cause of war in 1914—and then lost those provinces in 1918.

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    Germany, after its own dispiriting dismantling, then toxic rebuilding, defeated France in 1940 and occupied parts of it into 1945. The Nazi occupation, besides its horror and many brutal aspects, drained the French of resources and self-respect. There was no love lost between these peoples. Enmity, distrust, and wounds were the rule. France occupied part of Germany following World War II, with revenge definitely on the agenda. The very continuance of Germany as a nation was in some doubt. However, a most remarkable alternative emerged. Edward Luttwak has documented that amazing alternative of “Franco-German Reconciliation” (Luttwak 1993) through a group known as the Moral Re-Armament Movement (MRA), renamed Initiatives of Change in 2001. MRA sponsored a series of reconciliation retreats at a recently acquired hotel in Caux, Switzerland, nestled in beautiful Alpine mountain and lake surroundings. Participants included leaders from both nations in fields including government, trade unions, industrialists, clergy, and education. There, in a neutral, informal setting, performing kitchen and housekeeping duties together, meeting for intentional, intense discussions, all under subtly spiritual leadership, these leaders found their way to reconciliation and a new model for their future relationship. Numerous prominent participants affirmed that these retreats, with their revealing dialogue and the forming of warm personal relationships, formed the background basis for the Schuman Plan (1950) and the European Coal and Steel Community (1951), leading eventually to the European Common Market and the European Union. Such progress, against a seemingly insurmountable history, demonstrates the possibility of reconciliation between former implacable enemies. The preacher does well often to hold up such transformations, not only as possible examples, but realistic goals. Among fighting forces, the curiosity to meet former foes, and even a sense of respect developing into camaraderie between them, is illustrated by the elements of the U.S. 2nd Cavalry Group and the German 11th Panzer Division from World War II. They fought each other through France in 1944 and on through Germany and into Czechoslovakia in 1945, where the Germans surrendered to the Americans they had fought so often. Since the war these veterans have held severalyomi reunions, alternating in each other’s countries. If fighting forces and leaders of opposing nations can become friends, what of those from different sections of the home front! In the U.S., most of our wars (all but perhaps World Wars I and II) have entailed varying degrees of strong domestic division, including significant opposition to the war at hand. It is true that civil wars make the hardest cases for reconciliation. But whether the domestic conflict was only political, or escalated to military, obstacles to resumption of normal social interaction loom large. The preacher can be a key leader in the process of reaching mutual understanding and acceptance (if not agreement). The Advent texts prominently feature disparate groups coming under a common umbrella. The preacher can promote those of common background, likewise reaching reconciliation by common commitment to and application of those spiritual values of wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, and the fear of the Lord. Truth and Reconciliation commissions have been one means by which participants in civil conflicts can resume living together in a common community. The commission in South Africa is perhaps the best known, but over two dozen such bodies have operated around the world (Avruch and Vejarano 2002). A typical commission

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    offers some level of amnesty to those who committed war crimes—if they publicly confess their actions in detail with some acceptable level of remorse. While these commissions are no cure-all and sometimes stumble with designs not adapted to the local culture (Shaw 2005), they nonetheless have provided great service in helping societies move to the healing of psychic and spiritual wounds. When memory has been hijacked by manifest evil, it must be recovered through the public telling of truth (Hedges 2003). A particular congregation or community coalition could provide a spiritual (not legal) forum for confession and communication among former adversaries who desire to live constructively together. The preacher is in an ideal position to present the moral case for such possibilities. War crimes trials have also played a prominent role in recent post-war history. The Nuremburg trials of Nazi leaders after World War II established precedentmaking procedures of internationally cooperative prosecution (even by such disparate entities as the U.S. and the U.S.S.R.). These procedures provided full legal rights for the accused, measured verdicts and sentences ranging from acquittal to death, and opportunity for victims to testify. Later, horrendous war crimes in countries such as Cambodia, Bosnia, and Rawanda impressed the need of a permanent, rather than ad hoc, system of international justice. The 1998 Treaty of Rome established a permanent International Criminal Court at the Hague (Orend 2006). The preacher can note how such courts make serious attempt to reflect respect for human rights, fairness, and justice, all in the way of our Advent texts that stress the liberating value of true justice that is tough, impartial, and final. There are times when nothing will serve but a court examination and judgment of certain wartime events. The preacher performs a valuable function in stressing the need for justice—even if it falls upon those of one’s own side. The James text makes it clear that such a turn can indeed come to be and can be necessary—as we see even now when our own errant soldiers are convicted for various levels of war crimes. Such convictions can cleanse a culture of culpability if they are taken to heart not simply as picking out the few “bad apples,” but as warnings for all to carefully examine themselves in order to avoid even the thought of criminal behavior. The preacher’s encouragement for all to support the work of such courts can provide a powerful bulwark of social legitimacy that reflects the burden of our Advent texts. Rigorous self-examination of one’s own side, again according to our texts’ standards of justice, can also be applied with profit by the preacher to the war’s original purposes and the practices of its prosecution as the post-war phase arrives. Time and events can reveal new perspectives on events and decisions that once seemed certain, but may now seem different. The post-war pause gives an ideal moment to measure those perceptions, applying in a less pressured environment those same principles that it is hoped one lived by all along. Proper judgments can be reinforced, questionable ones exposed and corrected, bad judgments opposed and renounced, and communal commitment to act in congruence with its core principles reaffirmed. Again, our texts ‘ standards in this regard are quite high. Finally, what of those who fought—returning warriors! They will have been desensitized, by necessity, to perform their killing tasks (Grossman 1996). Now it is time, not only for them to be resensitized to the standards of society, but to renew and restore the parched springs of the spirit. Some may have responded to horrendous experiences by deadening themselves through self-medication. Others may find it

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    difficult to change their combat conditioning. It is time now to come alive again, both to the pain of wounds—spiritual and psychic, as well as physical—and their healing. If they went beyond the bounds of desensitization into the moral morass of breaking the ethical warrior’s code (French 2003) or dehumanizing the enemy, they have problems indeed, for their very character is at risk of destruction (Shay 1995). The preacher can stress the value of all people’s lives in God’s sight, including those of the enemy, all together, as our texts teach, under the umbrella of common grace. Warriors desperately need the opportunity to renounce and discard dehumanization. The preacher has special opportunity to proclaim the reality of human dignity, bringing with it a sense of conviction in those who have dehumanized others, leading ultimately to freedom. The common hope of a post-war era is rebuilding and renewal. Those of the faith community do God’s work as they assist in rebuilding infrastructure and then use the resulting structures for righteous purpose, such as the highway in the desert that then carries returning refugees. While the Messianic transformation of the animal kingdom and the earth itself has not yet arrived, those paradigms are powerful enlistments for hope as we repair the damage of war with botti beasts and Creation. It was impressed upon U.S. Marines deployed in the field in South Korea that the Korean park rangers knew every tree and shrub on a given mountain, having carefully nurtured them since the total deforestation that followed the war of 1950-1953. Every branch, then, must be treated with care. This care is completely in tune with the eager expectation of Creation’s fulfillment, one day, in transformation. Perhaps the most powerful tool available to the preacher, post-war, is the hope that our texts express: the job, with God’s help, is not too large; even massive traumas may be healed; wrongs may be named and righted; relationships may be restored; the sinews of society may be rebuilt; warriors and civilians may all return to new life. This is a hope that preaches!

    Reference Notes

    Avruch, Kevin, and Beatriz Vejarano. 2002. ‘Truth and Reconciliation Commissions: A Review Essay and Annotated Bibliography.” The Online Journal of Peace and Conflict Resolution 4.2. Available at http://www.trinstitute.org/ojper/4_2recon.htm. Bush, George W. September 20,2001. President’s Address to a Joint Session of Congress and the American People. French, Shannon E. 2003. The Code of the Warrior: Explonng Warrior Values Past and Present. New York: Rowman and Littlefield. Grossman, Dave. 1996. On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society. Boston: Back Bay Books. Hedges, Chris. 2003. War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning. New York: Anchor Books. Luttwak, Edward. 1993. Religion, the Missing Dimension of Statecraft. Edited by Douglas Johnston and Cynthia Sampson. New York: Oxford University Press. Orend, Brian. 2006. The Morality of War. Toronto: Broadview Press. Shaw, Rosalind. February 2005. Rethinking Truth and Reconciliation Commissions: Lessons from Sierra Leone. U.S. Institute of Peace: Special Report No. 130. Shay, Jonathan. 2002. Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character. New York: Simon and Schuster. Shay, Jonathan. 2002. Odysseus in America: Combat Trauma and the Trials of Homecoming. New York: Simon and Schuster. Tennyson, Alfred Lord. In Memoriam.

  • The Lord’s prayer

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    The Lord’s Prayer

    Lillian Daniel

    First Congregational Church, Glen Ellyn, Illinois

    This sermon is accompanied by five narrators, who speak sections of the Lord’s Prayer throughout, representing the voices of the family members described in the sermon’s story.

    The Lord’s Prayer Father: Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. It had been a long day for Jay, a long day of meetings that hadn’t turned out the way they should have. Sometimes the people you work with just let you down. His presentations had been in order, he had been ready. Then, someone else fouls the deal, from your own team. Work had been like that a lot lately. It’s hard enough to deal with the competition without people from your own team letting you down. He pulled into the driveway in the dark and braked just as he heard a crunching sound under his wheel. Leaving the car running, he jumped out into the freezing rain to find a scooter wedged under the left tire. Returning to the car, he put it in reverse to assess the damage. The car was ok, but the scooter, which someone had left in the middle of the driveway, was a goner. Jay’s evening was not going any better than his day. As he entered the house, his wife called out, “Did you get my message about stopping at Walgreens for the medicine? Kimmie has a cold. And why on earth are you bringing that wet scooter inside the house?” Kimmie, wrapped up in a Sponge Bob Square Pants blanket, watching a Sponge Bob Square pants episode for the 80th time, surrounded by a sprinkling of Kleenexes, suddenly looked at her father accusingly, her six year old eyes filling with angry tears. “Dad, what did you do to my scooter?” “Did you get the cold medicine?” his wife repeated. Jay put down the mangled scooter and pulled out his cell phone to see the blinking signal of a voicemail from an hour ago, a message he had not yet listened to. Walgreens. The door opened and his son Mack slumped in, dropped his jacket on the floor of the front hall, and lumbered upstairs, dragging his backpack behind him so that it hit and lurched on every wooden step, chipping at the finish Jay still remembered writing a check for. Reaching down to pull the jacket off the floor and hang it on the hook, the father asked, as if to no one in particular, “What kind of person just walks in and drops a coat on the floor?” “A teenager,” his wife Marie replied. “That’s not a good enough answer,” Jay thought to himself, but instead the words that came out were these, “I guess I’m going to Walgreens.” And from the couch, a sniffling voice said, from underneath the pile of Kleenex and over the songs of that annoying singing sponge, “Dad, can you at least get me a new scooter?” Walgreens. It sounded to Jay like a trip to paradise. His own house was stressing him out and making his blood pressure rise.

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    Father: And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. But in the car, Jay ended up letting the engine idle and took a minute to try to center himself. He’d had a way of doing this since he had been a kid, and it always seemed to help, although he couldn’t quite say why. He would just take a quiet minute to sit, and in his mind, recite the Lord’s Prayer. Whenever he did that, he found that something in it, some phrase, some word even, always seemed to hit him, always seemed to apply in some important way. Every time it might be a different phrase, but always something would seem to address what was going on and help him refocus, calm down. In this case, he got stuck on the first words of all, “our father.” And in particular, the word “our.” Fatherhood was hard enough for Jay, a constant test of his patience. So, as he said “our father,” he wondered as he often did how one entity could be the parent of all these people. How one God could keep the whole world in his heart. And what about the bad people? Or really, if he was honest, it wasn’t the truly awful people who bothered Jay on a day to day basis. It was that larger, more common group of people who didn’t hold up their end of the bargain, from the woman at work who showed up for the meeting unprepared to the kids who leave jackets on the floors and scooters in the driveways to Jay himself, who had probably let someone down that day himself, as he looked down at the blinking cell phone and a message not picked up. Our father. Not just the perfect people. The debtors, our father, all of us. Father: Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Mother: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Son: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Daughter: Give us this day our daily bread. Son: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Mack collapsed in his bedroom, his school back pack on the floor, and he just stared up at his ceiling, remembering the events of the day and then his father’s words, “What kind of person just leaves a coat in the middle of the floor?” Like that was some sort of marker of the heart of evil. Like a coat on the floor meant you were up there with Hitler, Saddam Hussein, and all those people who don’t recycle. Heaven forbid a coat gets dropped by accident. The whole foundation of the house might shudder and crumble under the weight of that one all important, all powerful down jacket, upon which apparently hangs the future of the entire universe. What a homecoming. Mack’s head ached, and his arm too, where he had taken a punch that afternoon. Bullies. He couldn’t stand bullies. They mostly never bothered Mack though. He was the kind of kid who tried to get along with everybody and didn’t let little things bother him if he could help it, didn’t take offense usually. But bullies, they made him mad. There was something about seeing someone else get hurt that hurt Mack more than getting hurt himself. And that day, coming out of rehearsal, the bullies were loping behind this one kid, calling him names. Now Mack didn’t really know this kid; in fact, he thought he might have just transferred to the school. But Mack did know that in his family you didn’t use words like that as an insult or a way to put someone down. He had been taught in his family and also in his church that all people deserved respect. We’re all God’s children. Our father who art in heaven. Everybody included. But the world of school wasn’ t like that. Here, words got thrown around as insults,

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    as yet another way of calling someone different. And heaven forbid you be different when the bullies are out. They drummed each other up and soon kids that Mack liked were joining in the teasing of this new guy. Mack hated that, to see how easily some kids caved in. He told them to cut it out. Son: And lead us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil: Mack had told them to cut it out. And now, his arm ached where he’ d been hit, and he wondered how the other kid felt. Probably just fine, since Mack’s punch had missed. And then he’ d sort of waked up and realized this was going nowhere and walked away. After all, if he was mad at the bullies who hurt people with their words as often as with their bodies, he didn’t really want to join them. But as for the kid they were teasing, he just rushed off, sort of embarrassed. Had he wanted someone to stick up for him or not? And why had Mack even done it, why had he gotten involved? He regretted getting physical, but as for the anger, he had felt in his heart how those kids were acting. He knew that was righteous. He always believed that there would be a day when the principles he had been raised with would truly work, and at church that time was called the kingdom. Every Sunday when they prayed the Lord’s Prayer, they said that. Son: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Every Sunday, they admitted that the world is not perfect, but that we should still want to make it better. Each one of us, in our own way, can always make a choice to bring a little bit of heaven to earth. And sometimes, when you get angry about something unfair, that’s what’s happening. It’s God calling you to stand up and bring a little bit of heaven to this earth. Mack’s arm hurt, but he was glad he had stood up for that kid. Daughter: Give us this day our daily bread. Deliver us from temptation. “Mom,” Kimmie whined. “Mom, is Dad going to get me a new scooter?” “I doubt it,” Marie responded. “You were the one who left it out there in the driveway instead of putting it away.” “That’s so unfair,” Kimmie said, blowing into her Kleenex for emphasis. “And I’m sick.” Marie sighed and thought about the prayer she said over and over in her head. Give us this day our daily bread. “Ok, then Mom, can I have a motorized scooter?” Silence from her mother. “But Mom, I’m sick.” Marie wondered at times about the culture in which she was raising her kids, a culture in which every problem has a material remedy, a culture of entitlement where nothing is ever anyone’s fault. Leave a scooter in the driveway and it gets run over? No problem, just tell the house chauffeur, chef and servants, also known as parents, that you need a new one. Feeling sick? Then sit on the couch watching one TV ad after another that tells you that the cure lies in the next item on your Christmas list. But in the prayer, all it says is this: Mother: Give us this day our daily bread. No more, no less. We can ask for that, but it’s pretty clear. Give us what we need to live, to survive, and to flourish for the day, but not everything. Just enough. Yet people around Marie defined their daily bread so differently. For some people daily bread included so many extras and luxuries that they had come to view as necessities. Sometimes she wondered if those “some people” included her own children. Daily bread for Marie was more modest. It was about being thankful for having

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    a roof over her head. Daily bread was about cooking a meal for someone who was sick. Daily bread was the shelter her church provided for people who had nowhere to lay their heads. Daily bread was giving thanks that she was able to cook a meal for her kids, and now it was time to eat. So she walked over and turned off the television, to a chorus of moans from Kimmie. “But I’m sick….” Mother: Deliver us from temptation. She thought about not having this argument right now, of telling Kimmie she could have a new scooter and watch television forever and do whatever it took to avoid an argument. But nobody ever said that being a parent would be easy. Nobody ever said that passing your faith along or your commitment to live a life that matters would be easy. Daughter: Deliver us from temptation. That was the other part of the prayer that kept Marie on track when the part about keeping your mind on daily bread got hard. Deliver us from temptation. Marie loved that her faith had taken this sort ofthing into account. For two thousand years, Christian people had been admitting that none of this would be simple, that there would be temptations. But there was also daily bread, the simple spiritual reminder to resist a culture that tells you that you never have enough. Because it’s the daily bread, the ordinary things, that in the end are the most important. Father: For thine is the kingdom, Coming in from the drugstore, Jay was more careful as he pulled into the driveway this time. He looked to see what modes of transport might be lurking around for him to roll over, monster truck style. Happily, in the last twenty minutes nothing had appeared, and he made it safely into the garage. His daughter had dragged her sniffling self to the kitchen table, and Mack had made his appearance to eat a quick bite before practice. And now Jay was spooning the medicine into Kimmie, whose face was scrunched up in anguish at the terrible taste of cough medicine disguised as cherries, which just really never works. “It’s disgusting , Dad,” she said, as she swallowed it nonetheless. And suddenly Jay was back in time, remembering a day when he was six years old, and someone had worried about his cold and convinced him to take a spoonful of something that must have tasted even worse than medicine does today. He was back to a time when he was young and small and vulnerable, a time when losing a scooter was of utmost importance, and staff problems at the office did not yet exist. It was the memory of his mother spooning the mixture into his mouth that reminded him of all he had received from her, and he missed her presence on this earth. Father: For thine is the kingdom, Son: And the power, Father: And the glory, Son: For ever. Both: Amen. “You look sad, Dad,” said Mack. “I am, a little,” Jay said. “Thanks for asking.” “What is it?” his son asked. “I’ll tell you what it is,” Jay’s wife responded. “Your dad is sad because today would have been Grandma’s 71st birthday, and he misses her very much.” As Jay realized that his wife had remembered what he had not allowed himself to, there was

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    stillness in the room, a strange quiet, a moment of remembering. “Well, what should we do?” asked Kimmie. “Sing Happy Birthday?” “How about we say a prayer,” Marie suggested. And since they weren’t usually ones for making up their own prayers, they fell back on the one they all knew, the one that seemed always to speak to them in times when their own words failed. Mother: Our Father, who art in heaven, Father: Hallowed be thy Name. Daughter: Thy kingdom come. Son: Thy will be done, All four: On earth as it is in heaven. And that night, when they prayed it, once again it opened their eyes, each one in a different way. And although they never said this to one another, that night, all four of them did have the sense that it wasn’t just the four of them praying, but that they had been joined by those who had gone before. Mother: Our Father, who art in heaven, Father: Hallowed be thy Name. Daughter: Thy kingdom come. Son: Thy will be done, All four: On earth as it is in heaven. Grandmother: Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. All five: And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil: Grandmother: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, All five: For ever. Amen.

  • Preaching in ordinary time

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    Preaching in Ordinary Time

    Gail R. O’Day Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia

    “Ordinary” comes from the word “ordinal” and means “counted” or “numbered.” The numbering of Sundays in Ordinary Time is evident in the Revised Common Lectionary listing of lections. The Sundays between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday are numbered as the “Sundays after Epiphany”: first, second, third, etc. The Sundays after Pentecost continue that numerical sequence.1 Note that in this counting, the emphasis falls on “Sunday.” That emphasis is a reminder that at the heart of Christian worship is the central observance of the Lord’s Day. The Sundays that fall outside of the Advent and Christmas (incarnational) and Lent and Easter (paschal) cycles are not understood as a liturgical season, in the same way that Easter and Christmas are seasons, but receive their liturgical importance from their regular, indeed numbered, celebration of the Lord’s Day. Sunday after Sunday, the focus is not on the reenactment of the particular stories of the incarnational and paschal mysteries, but on the many facets of the Christian story as known through Scripture and the worship and mission life of the church. The Sundays of Ordinary Time do for each week what the liturgical seasons of Advent/Christmas and Lent/Easter/Pentecost do for the year— they make the counting of time sacred. Even the succession of “ordinary” weeks in Ordinary Time is counted in relationship to worship. The New Handbook of the Christian Year helpfully articulates the liturgical and theological significance of the Sundays of Ordinary Time: “The preeminence of the Lord’s Day indicates the presence of the risen Christ in all our experience. The resurrection punctuates our perception of time by its commemoration once every seven days, regardless of what else may be occurring in the church calendar or in our own lives.”2 As crucial as the story narrated and enacted in the two central cycles is to Christian life and faith, the weekly celebration of the Lord’s Day remains the defining liturgical moment. This means that “ordinary time” is not liturgical “down time” for the church, but is a time when the church regularly reaffirms that God defines all time and all moments of Christian life.

    Text Selection in Ordinary Time In incarnational and paschal cycles, the readings are chosen according to the principle of selected reading ^lectio selecta”). The selection of lessons is governed by the time in the liturgical season: the Gospel lesson established the theme for the Sunday, and the other lessons are selected in relationship to the Gospel text. In Ordinary Time, a different principle of text selection is at work: in Ordinary Time, the lessons are chosen according to a pattern of semi-continuous reading. This principle of text selection, like lectio selecta, has its origins in an ancient liturgical practice, the continuous reading (“lectio continuo”) of the synagogue and early church. In ancient synagogue worship, the Torah was read continuously in worship as part of the lectionary cycle: on each consecutive Sabbath, a portion of the Torah was read, each week’s passage following in sequence from the passage that was read the week before. This pattern of continuous reading was carried from the synagogue into the early church.

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    One can find evidence of this pattern of continuous reading in the sermons of the early church. Most of the sermon collections that are extant from the third and fourth centuries are in the form of sequential readings of biblical books, and indeed, most of the early commentaries began as series of homilies on biblical books. The sermons of Origen and Chrysostom on the Gospel of John provide good examples of sequential, continuous reading. These sermons take their content and their form by following the biblical book, verse by verse, Sunday by Sunday. Chrysostom, for example, refers to reading Scripture “portion by portion” (Homily 9, John 1:9) and speaks explicitly of “the continual reading of the Holy Scriptures” (Homily 11, John 1:14). The primary purpose of continuous reading of Scripture in worship and as a basis for preaching was largely catechetical—to instruct a worshipping community in the particulars of Scripture and to increase familiarity with Scripture.3 The scriptural story was the primary lens for worship in these services. A passage from one of Augustine’s sermons describes the place of selected and continuous reading in worship:

    You remember, holy brethren, that the Gospel according to John, read in orderly course of lessons, is the subject on which we usually discourse: but because of the now intervening solemnity of the holy days, on which there must be certain lessons recited in the Church, which so come every year that they cannot be other than they are: the order which we had undertaken is of necessity for a little while intermitted, not wholly omitted. (Prologue to the Homilies on the First Epistle of John)

    Recognizing the difference between the principle and practice of selected reading and of continuous (or semi-continuous) reading is pivotal for understanding Ordinary Time. In the incarnational and paschal cycles, the Christ story determines how the lectionary is constructed, as texts are selected to proclaim the stories of Advent, birth, and the paschal mystery. By contrast, in Ordinary Time, reading through the biblical books assigned provides the structure for the season. The three lectionary years (A, B, and C) are built around a semi-continuous reading of the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Year A; Mark, Year B; Luke, Year C).

    Preaching in Ordinary Time What difference does this pattern of text selection make to the preacher? For the majority of the Sundays of Ordinary Time, the preacher is presented with three semicontinuous readings—Old Testament, epistle, gospel—that are not interconnected. The three distinct semi-continuous cycles mean that for the majority of Sundays of Ordinary Time, the lessons do not go together and usually should not be preached together. The Old Testament, epistle, and gospel provide three different perspectives on the story and life of faith. This distinction between lectionary cycles and seasons is often ignored in lectionary aids, so that the preacher is left confused about whether or not to coordinate the lessons in Ordinary Time. The semi-continuous reading pattern creates opportunities for congregational exposure to a wider range of biblical texts than is possible in the incarnational and paschal cycles. In Ordinary Time, the preacher can place before his or her worshipping congregation large sections of the stories of the Hebrew Bible, as well as continuous readings from the synoptic gospels in narrative/chronological order. The Sundays of

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    Ordinary Time also provide one of the few opportunities for a congregation to hear continuous readings from Pauline or other epistolary material (Year A, Romans, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians; Year B, 2 Corinthians, Ephesians, James, and Hebrews; Year C, Galatians, Colossians, 1 and 2 Timothy, 2 Thessalonians). The breadth and diversity of Scripture move to the center of homiletical interests. In the Sundays of Ordinary Time, the biblical texts themselves provide the main context for preaching, not the liturgical year. If in Advent, Christmas, Lent, and Easter the liturgical calendar is the shaping context for lesson selection, in Ordinary Time something closer to a canonical context shapes lesson selection.4 There is no overarching story such as Advent or Lent with which the lessons are placed into conversation. Rather, in the Revised Common Lectionary (RCL), Ordinary Time is the “season” in which the congregation can place its life in the flow of the biblical stories and experience the intersections of the biblical texts and world with the contemporary world.

    Preaching Strategies for Ordinary Time 1. Independent Lessons. When all three sequences of lessons are studied, the rich array of texts at the preacher’s disposal becomes apparent. What the preacher actually has in Ordinary Time is three independent sequences of texts from which to build his or her preaching ministry. The independence of the lessons is the key to any preaching strategy for Ordinary Time. It can require considerable discipline to resist the urge to find a theme that connects one or more of the lessons during ordinary time, especially for the lectionary preacher who is used to looking for and finding connections in the other seasons of the year. Because of the independence of the appointed lessons, Ordinary Time provides the opportunity to tell the story of faith in much broader and diverse perspectives than is the case at other times in the liturgical year. To look for the one thread that unites the lessons in Ordinary Time is to undercut this diversity, because one ends up manufacturing themes that distort all the lessons. Each of these stories has something to offer the worshipping community, but that offer will only be heard if each lesson is allowed to speak in its own voice and not forced into a conversation with the other lessons assigned for the day. In essence, the RCL provides the preacher with three distinct cycles of texts. Since the preacher will not be able to preach all of the lessons provided in Ordinary Time in any single year, the RCL can be seen as providing the preacher with a nine-year cycle of texts.5 To think of the lessons as containing enough texts for a nine-year cycle helps to illustrate the richness of biblical resources that the RCL makes available to the preacher and through him or her, to the worshipping congregation. 2. Lessons in Sequence. A synonym for Ordinary Time is counted time. This means, as we noted earlier, that the major organizing principle for Ordinary Time is simply the regular succession of Sundays. Week after week passes in the community’s life, punctuated by the regular weekly celebration of the Lord’s Day. The passing of time—and the record of the passing of time (e.g., each week the church bulletin records where in the count of Ordinary Time the community stands)—is the character of this season. In this way, ordinary as “counted” is also synonymous with ordinary as “commonplace,” because there is nothing special about the passing of time. Rather, the weeks of Ordinary Time enable the community to count the regular movement of

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    its life with God and with one another in the world. The semi-continuous reading practice of Ordinary Time communicates this regular passing of time—the lessons move in an orderly fashion through the biblical books appointed for this time of year. The preacher needs to select lessons for preaching in a way that communicates this regular, continuous movement of time. That means it does not make sense for the preacher to jump weekly from lesson to lesson—that is, preach a lesson from 1 Samuel one week, a lesson from 2 Corinthians the next, Mark the week after that. To follow such a pattern will not help a congregation increase their biblical fluency, because they will hear a series of unrelated sermons. Instead, the congregation is best served if the preacher follows the arc of the lessons to construct his or her sermons on a semi-continuous pattern. For Year Β, for example, the preacher could begin the Sundays after Pentecost with a series of sermons on David, using the lessons from 1 and 2 Samuel; then turn to a series of sermons on Mark; then to a series of sermons on James; a series on Ruth, etc. If the preacher constructs sermons for Ordinary Time in this way, he or she will provide the congregation with enough readings in succession from a particular book that the congregation will begin to hear the theological particulars of that biblical witness. 3. Discovery of the Breadth and Diversity of the Biblical Material. To undertake to explore coherent lesson blocks in the sermon will also move the preacher away from preaching only texts with which he or she is already familiar, which in most instances translates into the fallback position of preaching the gospel lesson every week. 6 To

    preach only lessons from the synoptic gospels communicates that the only part of the Bible that is necessary for Christian life and faith is stories about Jesus, even though the breadth and depth of the canon witnesses otherwise. While the preacher may not consciously intend to communicate this, such a narrowing of the biblical conversation is the effect of nurturing a congregation’s faith and witness only with gospel lessons. The preacher’s own spiritual nurture suffers as well, because he or she misses the opportunity to explore the breadth of the biblical witness and discover afresh the dynamism of the Christian faith. At the heart of the Christian faith is the proclamation that for the Christian community, God is known decisively in Jesus Christ, but the early Christians were able to recognize God in Christ because of what they already knew and had experienced of God through the stories of God in the Hebrew Scriptures. The books of the Old Testa­ ment cover the sweep of history in the way that the New Testament, recording the faithful witness of just a few decades of religious life, cannot. The Old Testament enables the worshipping community to engage the stories of real communities who tried to live faithfully within the realities of domestic and political life. The Old Testament contains examples of people who both succeed and fail in their efforts to live in right relationship with God and with one another, and to proclaim the presence and good news of God in all those struggles is to come closer to the ways that contemporary peoples struggle to be at one with God’s hopes for the world. Perhaps most importantly, when the preacher neglects the Old Testament as a resource for preaching, he or she severely limits the ways in which God can be known and will be present for the worshipping community. Paul articulates this powerfully when he speaks of the continuum between the God of Abraham and the God who is revealed in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The God in whom Abraham believed is the God “who gives life to the dead and calls into existence things that do not exist”

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    (Romans 4:17). Paul and other early Christians were able to speak powerfully about the revelation of God in Jesus because their Scriptures had already revealed to them the life-giving powers of God. In the creation stories, the stories of barren women giving birth, the exodus journey from slavery to freedom, the journey from exile to restoration—all of these stories testified to God’s power of life over death. The resurrection belongs to this deep and rich story of God and God’s will and hope for God’s creation. A congregation’s experience of God and of God’s place in their lives and their world needs to be sustained and formed by the proclamation of the Old Testament. A church’s experience of the preached Word of God also is limited when the epistolary literature is not a regular part of preaching. Given the proportion of sermons that are preached on the gospel lessons, one would think that the gospels are the dominant literary form in the New Testament, but of course they are not. There are four canonical gospels compared to twenty-one epistles, and to omit the epistles from preaching is to limit the picture of Christian proclamation and witness. Not only do epistles testify to the ways and places in which Christianity spread in the first century, but perhaps more important for contemporary communities of faith, they provide glimpses into the particularities of how early Christian communities tried to define the new life and faith to which they were called. The epistles witness to very pragmatic struggles of these early communities—how do we order worship, how do we define community membership, what behaviors are detrimental to community life—as well as to the theological questions that animated and resolved these struggles. The epistles remind us that part of Christian faith is to ask about the stuff of religious life—e.g., what is reconciliation, what is hope, what is faith? Early Christians and their leaders thought and talked intensely and with great seriousness about the meaning of their faith. To include the epistles as a regular part of the preaching and worship life of a congregation creates new possibilities for similar conversations in contemporary communities. To preach from the epistles also challenges a preacher to stretch his or her own preaching style. Preachers tend to gravitate toward the stories of the Bible as the mainstay of preaching, and to preach non-narrative texts like Paul (and the Old Testament prophets and wisdom literature) creates opportunities for the preacher to try new ways to proclaim the good news of God. Not all of life can be captured in stories, and the situational immediacy and theological directness of Paul can model new pastoral and homiletical directions. 7

    To Preach or Not to Preach: Leaving the Lectionary in Ordinary Time Even though the three years of lessons for Ordinary Time cover a vast amount of Scripture, they do not do justice to the full range and diversity of biblical texts. The major narrative cycles of the Old Testament lessons in Year A (Pentateuch) and Year Β (1 and 2 Samuel), for example, tend to focus on the “great men” of those cycles (Abraham, Jacob, Moses, David) and not on the fullness of the stories in which those men are embedded. In all three years of the lectionary, only one lesson from Leviticus appears (Lev 19:1-2, 9-18), and only a sampling of texts from Numbers and Deuteronomy. Joshua and Judges are almost invisible in the lectionary, and there are no texts from the Chronicler’s version of the David story. The prophets are heavily weighted toward Isaiah and Jeremiah. For the New Testament, Acts is represented

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    only in the seven Sundays of Easter, and the only texts from Revelation are those that depict scenes of heavenly worship or celebrate the New Jerusalem. The heart of that important book is completely absent from the lectionary. If the preacher takes seriously that Ordinary Time provides the opportunity to present his or her congregation with the breadth and depth of the biblical witness, then that very commitment can guide the preacher in varying some of the lessons prescribed by the RCL. Since the lectionary cycles repeat every three years, the regular lectionary preacher can use this repetition to insert even more texts into a congregation’s repertoire. If a preacher preached a sermon series on David one year, when Year Β comes around again he or she could either read and preach on 1 and 2 Samuel texts that are excluded from the lectionary, or read and preach on Chronicles or Ezra-Nehemiah. The guiding principle should be the same as that which structures Ordinary Time— not to jump from text to text but to provide enough of a particular body of literature that the congregation can begin to get a sense of its theological voice and perspective. Since the lessons in Ordinary Time lend themselves so naturally to sermon series, the preacher does not need to leave the lectionary if he or she wants to preach a series. If, however, the preacher wants to preach a series that is more thematically than textually based, he or she can still be guided by the goals of Ordinary Time in selecting texts for such a series. That is, Ordinary Time marks the regular progression of weeks, punctuated by the celebration of the Lord’s Day. A thematic sermon series that honors that regular progression of time and text could still honor the possibilities of Ordinary Time while working with a slightly different textual repertoire. Certain underrepresented biblical books can carry great power in the contempo­ rary situation, and so pastoral attention to the needs of a congregation can suggest ways to broaden a community’s biblical repertoire. The wisdom texts, which struggle with the perennial questions of the meaning of life and death, can model for contemporary Christians a way to think and talk about life and faith that does not trade merely in extremes and absolutes and does not settle for easy answers. The prophets asked their communities to struggle with questions of wealth and power. Were many of the difficult texts that the lectionary omits, both in the Old Testament and the New Testament, restored to the worship life of contemporary communities, new ways to think about violence, judgment, and the shape of the future might become possible. The essential abandonment of Revelation by the lectionary, for example, has contrib­ uted to the sustained misunderstanding and misuse of this important book, because many churches simply do not see modeled how it could be a regular part of the life of faith. The decision when to vary from the lessons that are provided in the RCL also depends on the experience and length of ministry of the individual preacher. For the beginning preacher, who is working through the three-year lectionary cycle for the first time, the lessons available in Ordinary Time in the RCL provide more than sufficient material and grounding for the development of a preaching ministry and homiletical voice. The more experienced preacher, who has preached several rounds of the three-year cycle, will begin to notice what theological voices and perspectives are not represented in the lectionary and may want to address those limitations through alternate text selection.

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    Notes

    1. Because the date of Easter can shift dramatically, depending on the coordination of the lunar calendar and the spring equinox, the distribution of Sundays in Ordinary Time varies from year to year. When Easter is late—and hence Ash Wednesday is late—there are more Sundays between Epiphany and Lent than there are in years when Ash Wednesday is early. That is why there is such variation in the numbering of Sundays in Ordinary Time. The spread of calendar days that are included in the RCL listings after Pentecost (e.g., Sunday between September 25 and October 1 inclusive) provides a way to count the Sundays that takes into account the variations in the dates of Lent and Easter. Some traditions refer to these numbered Sundays as “propers.” This terminology is also reflected in the listings in the RCL. 2. New Handbook of the Christian Year, 33. 3. As, for example, in the following quote from Chrysostom, Homily 9, John 1:9: “The reason, O children greatly beloved, why we entertain you portion by portion with the thoughts taken from the Scriptures, and do not at once pour all forth to you, is, that the retaining what is successively set before you may be easy. For even in building, one who before the first stones are settled lays on others, constructs a rotten wall altogether, and easily thrown down while one who waits that the mortar may first get hard, and so adds what remains little by little, finishes the whole house firmly, and makes it strong, not one to last for a short time, or easily to fall to pieces. These builders we imitate, and in like manner build up your souls. For we fear lest, while the first foundation is but newly laid, the addition of the succeeding speculations may do harm to the former, through the insufficiency of the intellect to contain them all at once. What now is it that has been read to us today?” 4. See Fritz West, Scripture and Memory, and “Scripture, Bible, and Lectionary: A Quest for Common Ground,” Worship 74 (2000): 290-307. 5. New Handbook of the Christian Year, 242. 6. See Wade P. Huie, Jr., “Lectionaries Offer Freedom,” Reformed Liturgy and Music 24 (1990): 183186 . Quoting from this article, Fritz West (“Scripture, Bible, and Lectionary,” 291 ) notes Huie’s analysis of a survey of eight years of one preacher’s sermons: no sermons on nineteen books of the Bible, only one sermon from eighteen other books, and less than twenty percent of the total sermons on Old Testament texts. 7. See, for example, Nancy Lammers Gross, If You Cannot Preach Like Paul… (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmanns, 2002) and Brad R. Braxton, Preaching Paul (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2004). 8. This essay is an abbreviated and revised form of the author’s chapter on preaching in ordinary time from Gail R. O’Day and Charles D. Hackett, Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary: A Guide (Nashville: Abingdon Press, forthcoming, fall 2007).