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  • Jesus’ other parent

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    Jesusy Other Parent

    Isaiah 63:7-9; Matthew 1:18-2

    Martin B. Copenhaver

    Wellesley Congregational Church, Wellesley, Massachusetts

    I have always had a particular fondness for Joseph, perhaps in part because my son played Joseph in our congregation’s annual Christmas pageant, talcing a role his sister had played two years before. (Apparently we Copenhavers are of the house and lineage of Joseph). But Joseph gets rather short shrift in most renderings of the Christmas story. For instance, our congregation’s hymnal does not have a single hymn that even mentions him. By contrast, many hymns praise Mary:

    What child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary’s lap is sleeping?

    Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright Round yon virgin, mother and child…

    For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all around While mortals sleep, the angels keep, their watch of wondering love.

    Bring a torch, Jeannette, Isabella! Bring a torch to the cradle and run! It is Jesus, good folk of the village, Christ is born and Mary’s calling. Ah! Ah! Beautiful is the mother! Ah! Ah! Beautiful is her son!

    But what about Joseph? Is he beautiful? Are there no songs to be sung for him? Visit some of the world’s great cathedrals and look at the stained glass depictions of the nativity, or flip through a book of religious art, and you will see countless renderings of Mary and the babe, beautiful and glowing portraits of the mother and child. Sometimes Joseph isn’t even depicted, as if he were nosed out of the scene by the cows and the sheep that press toward the manger, or as if he were cut out of the painting, as one might crop a snapshot. Even when Joseph makes it into the family portrait, he looks more like a bystander than a participant in the scene, as if he is merely part of the scenery rather than a player in the drama. This would be in keeping with Luke’s version of the Christmas story. Luke barely mentions Joseph. As Luke tells the story, it is all about Mary. Luke is the one who tells about how Mary was visited by the angel Gabriel. And Luke gives Mary her own song to sing, the great hymn known as the Magnificat. But Matthew tells the story differently. In Matthew, Joseph’s role is central. In his version of the story, Joseph gets his own artful depiction. Even in Matthew’s Gospel, Joseph doesn’t get any lines to say, but that too seems to be part of the portrait.

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    Joseph was a righteous man, Matthew tells us, one ofthose good people of few words, solid and simple as the wood he works with in his trade as a carpenter. For Matthew, the heart of the story is about a just and good man who wakes up one day to find his life wrecked: his betrothed pregnant, his trust betrayed, his name ruined, his future revoked, his dreams shattered in pieces all around him. And in the midst of the shards his life has become, Joseph faces a dilemma. The law and his personal sense of honor demand that he break off the engagement. After all, Joseph is a righteous man. But Joseph also knows the terrible cost of publicly divorcing his wife-to-be on the charge of infidelity. Either Mary would be killed, as the law prescribed, or at the very least she would be disowned by her family and left to scratch out her living however she can, feeding herself and her illegitimate child on whatever she can beg or steal. So, to preserve his own dignity and to spare Mary’s life, Joseph decides to divorce her quietly, an early version of one of those quick and quiet no-fault divorces, an arrangement that would let them both try to rebuild their lives, one broken, jagged piece at a time. When your dreams are dashed, when as you struggle with fear and grief, they seem only to tighten their grip on you, when your mind spins in the same awful and familiar circles all day long, it can be exhausting. But sometimes there is a blessing in that, because sometimes it is only when we are weakened enough and tired enough that we are able to listen. So it is in sleep, when Joseph can do no more righteous things and ponder no more of his own thoughts, that he can finally hear what God has to say to him. That is, when his own waking dreams are destroyed, Joseph is invited to hear God’s dream for him and for all humankind. “Mary is pregnant by the Holy Spirit,” an angel tells him in a dream. “So don’t be afraid to marry her. Don’t be afraid.” And when he wakes, Joseph receives the salutation as a gift from God. Somehow, in the stillness of the night, in the darkest hours, in that death-like state called sleep, Joseph is able to let go of his own dreams in order to dream God’s dreams for the world. No wonder Matthew seems to have a particular fondness for Joseph. Here is a righteous man who surveys a mess he has had absolutely nothing to do with creating and decides to believe that God is present in it. With every reason to disown it all, to walk away from it in search of a neater, more controlled life with an easier, more conventional wife, Joseph does not do that. He claims the scandal, he owns the mess— he legitimizes it—and the mess becomes the place where the Messiah is born. In some way or another, at some time or another, I think all of us have been given reason to believe that we are of the house and lineage of Joseph. Perhaps you can remember times when circumstances seemed to cast you in just such a role. You had your plans, your dreams, your own idea of how things would turn out. Then one day you find yourself presented with circumstances you did not choose, living a different life than the one you had in mind. You may ask, “How did I get here? And, however I got here, how do I get out?” You may want nothing more than to divorce yourself from everything you see around you, from whatever your life has become. But it is at such a time, if you are tired enough and weakened enough, that you too are invited to hear the whisper of an angel saying, “Do not fear. God is here. It may not be the life you had planned, but God can be born here, too, if you will permit it.” “If you will permit it.” It is a fragile mystery that is entrusted to each of us, the mystery that God’s birth requires human partners—a Mary, a Joseph, a you, a me— willing to believe the impossible, that God can be at work even in the midst of our own

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    shattered dreams. Human lives being what they are, we are all invited to accept the whole sticky mess and rock it in our arms. Of course, our individual lives are not the only ones that seem to be in such a mess. There are times, and surely this is one, when the whole world seems like one shattered dream. And it will take the faith of Joseph to believe what the angels endeavor to tell us in our dreams, that God is still with us, that God is struggling to be born, not just in spite of the mess, but in some way through it, in ways that are still hard for us to imagine. I have never seen a stained glass window devoted to Joseph. That honor is usually reserved for others in the Biblical drama. Of course, a stained glass window can be a stunning thing. It seems to glow, giving the light of the sun colors that it does not otherwise possess. But the next time you see a stained glass window, note this: It is not beautiful because it is perfect. Rather, it is made of glass that has been broken into shards, all those little jagged pieces that are then painstakingly reassembled to reveal a beauty that we could not imagine if those same pieces were still scattered at our feet. So it seems to me that Joseph, of all people, deserves his own stained glass window.

  • The prophet’s flame

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    The Prophet’s Flame

    Jeremiah 20:7-13

    Frank G. Honeycutt

    Ebenezer Lutheran Church, Columbia, South Carolina

    If I say, “I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name, ” then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones. Jeremiah 20:9

    In 1967, when I was in the fifth grade, I had a stern, no-nonsense teacher by the name of Mildred Chaffin. In 1967 you could still paddle and also preach in class, and she did a bit of both. Mrs. Chaffin was a fearful woman. She had glaring biblical eyes, and you could not directly look at her for very long and expect to live. I rarely spoke in class that year for fear of offending her. I was a good boy—a class monitor at times. You know what a class monitor is. “Now class,” she would say, “I have to step down the hall for just a moment. Γ11 only be gone a second to pick up the film projector and I know you’ll be on your best behavior. I know you can be good while I’m away. But just in case, I’ve asked Frank to take names for me while I’m gone.” Of course the role of class monitor was a mixed honor. You were chosen because the teacher liked you, which was good. But the other kids hated your guts for it, which was bad. Many class monitors I know now have deep psychological problems as adults. I ignored most behavior in my tenure as monitor. It was the only safe thing to do— I just kept my eyes on my own paper and prayed that the time passed quickly. One day, though, when Mrs. Chaffin was out, Kenny Smallen did something that was difficult to ignore. Kenny left his seat and ran repeatedly, back and forth, to the blackboard. He would write a curse word plainly on the board and then pronounce it for the class (in case we had any doubts), erasing the evidence each time. It only took a second, each gallop to the board; it was hard for a monitor to ignore this. I remember Kenny’s crass words quite plainly, a rather salty display for ten-year olds. Well, Mrs. Chaffin returned, somebody spilled the beans, and she summoned her class monitor out into the hall. I knew what was coming. I knew that she would never let go of this in a million years. Not her—she was a stern woman, a hard-shell Baptist. This would not go unpunished. “I want to know those words, Frank,” she said. “You can tell me. It’s okay. You can even write them down here on this piece of paper.” We were out there for what seemed like forever. I remember looking up at her in total terror, ready to wet my pants over the moral dilemma. Kenny Smallen was in danger of losing his life. And mine too was over, you see, as she looked down at me in that hallway in 1967. It was either face her or Kenny’s fists. Not a happy choice for a fifth grader more than ready to resign as class monitor. In the year 627 B.C.E., over twenty-five hundred years before I was a fifth grader, God called Jeremiah to be a prophet. I love his response in the first chapter of the book that bears his name: “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” Some scholars think Jeremiah really was quite young, that he’s not exagger­ ating, maybe even a teenager, which would explain his hesitancy. For who wants to be a messenger of God not only to your peers who know you and would laugh, but also to your elders who would never take you seriously?

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    You can almost hear Jeremiah’s breath exhale as he reacts to God’s call. “Ohhhhh. Ahhhh Gawd. Ohhh my.” I suspect you’ve released such honest pastoral mutterings before walking into a situation where the truth needed to be told. “Ohhh God.” Later on Jeremiah will be thrown into a cistern (37:16). He will be told to hide his underwear under a rock (13:4). He’ll get into a big fight with a bogus prophet in the middle of public worship, a skirmish that could easily make it onto the Jerry Springer show (28:10). And just before our lesson appointed for tonight,1 Jeremiah is slapped into stocks for prophetic impertinence (20:2). Perhaps Jeremiah sees some of what’s up ahead in the first chapter when he’s called and doesn’t want to do it—doesn’t want to be a prophet. His daddy was a priest, and he’d already seen what life in the parsonage was like. And so our hero balks at becoming a classroom monitor for God’s wayward people, and who can really blame him? In one of his radio monologues, Garrison Keillor wryly notes, “People hurt prophets. They throw sharp things at them. They rip their clothes off ’em and make them sit for long periods of time in uncomfortable positions on top of sharp objects that are extremely flammable. That’s what they do to prophets. I don’t want that,” he says. “I don’t want any pain whatsoever. Minor dentistry is more than enough for me.” It’s a dangerous, draining thing to be a prophet—to tell the truth for God. Who would sign up for such a thing? “O Lord,” laments Jeremiah in tonight’s lesson, “you have enticed me, and I was enticed; you have overpowered me, and you have prevailed.” Old Testament scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel emphasizes that the Hebrew rendering of Jeremiah’s lament is even stronger than that. Literally, the verse should read: “Lord, you have seduced me and I am seduced; you have raped me and I am overcome.” Jeremiah’s accurate, if harsh, perception is that his life is not his own. I remember my first days after arriving at Ebenezer in Columbia. The Property Committee chair took me on a detailed tour of the place. I was grateful for the tour. The building has twenty-six bathrooms and is dripping in South Carolina Lutheran history. After twenty years in rural and small town ministry, I still get turned around in the city. Heck, I still get turned around on the church’s basement floor. What I remember most about that tour was a lingering stop at the picture gallery of pastors and the revealing editorial comments offered by my guide. “Now we really liked him,” I was told. His eyes went from the picture and then back to me several times to make sure I’d noted the name—an invitation, no doubt, to investigate the church history and why they’d liked him; a tenure worthy of clerical duplication. Silence, of course, spoke volumes about other pictures. It’s hard to be a prophet, to try and tell the truth; it’s far easier not to rock the boat. It’s tempting to get caught up in developing a reputation, succumbing to a huge pastoral siren call: being liked. Jesus names this temptation as well as anyone in Luke’s Sermon on the Plain: “Woe to those of whom all speak well” (6:26). If everyone likes what you’re doing, it’s fairly safe to say that you aren’t doing your job. Wrote the great preacher C.H. Spurgeon in the nineteenth century: “I have tried, especially of late, to take no more notice of man’s praise than of his blame.”2 It’s an enviable place from which to do our pastoral work. We would do well to forever remember the words of Balaam, who came to his senses after being confronted by a talking ass and sword-wielding angel in the Book of Numbers: “Do I have the power to say just anything?” Balaam asks of those who want him to speak in partisan fashion. “The word God puts in my mouth, that is what I must say” (22:38).

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    I suspect that part of what is going on in this lesson tonight is that Jeremiah, like any of us, wants to be liked; he just wants to fit in and shut-up, riding out his time until retirement. It’s not so hard. Smile, do the weddings, splash some water, say nice eulogistic things at funerals. Thirty or forty years will pass before you know it. God’s word, says our lesson, can be a “reproach and derision all day long” and who in the world needs that? Far easier, maybe even healthier, to remain quiet. Or is it? “If I say, Ί will not mention him, or speak anymore in his name,’ then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.” Such is the life of a prophet. Be bold to pray even with the jaded sassiness of Jeremiah. But also pray that you might be given the courage to say what really needs to be said around your place of mission, not worrying so much about churchy manners or being “nice” all the time. For all of us, in truth, are like that little boy stuck out in his fifth-grade hallway, forever torn between allegiances. And what shall we say in Jesus’ name?

    Notes

    1. This sermon was preached in October 2005 at the annual gathering of the Virginia Synod Ministerium (ELCA) in Natural Bridge, Virginia. 2.1 am indebted to Will Willimon for this Spurgeon quote in his book, Pastor: The Theology and Practice of Ordained Ministry (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2002).

  • Easter nonsense

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    Easter Nonsense

    Luke 24:1-12; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11

    Martin B. Copenhaver The Wellesley Congregational Church, Wellesley, Massachusetts

    One thing I appreciate about preaching on Easter year after year is the opportunity to notice something new in this familiar story. And so it has been for me this year with Luke’s account. There is a wonderful detail that somehow I have missed before. In Luke’s account, as in the other gospels, the women who followed Jesus are the first to receive the news that he is risen. They are the first to receive this news because they have gone to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body with spices, as was the custom. It is the kind of servant’s task that would fall to women. Then again, in Jesus’ realm, the ones who assume the role of servant are often the ones who are encountering God. The eleven apostles didn’ t venture out tö the tomb. They were probably hiding out, hoping that the ones who crucified Jesus would not go after his followers next. So when the women find the apostles and tell about the empty tomb and their encounter with those two men in dazzling clothes, the apostles—whether out of fear, or due to first century sexism—dismiss their words. “It’s just an idle tale,” they might have said. “Women like to gossip. And they’re so emotional. We’re men of the world. We know better.” One translation is even more blunt in the way it recounts the apostles’ reaction. The women come to bring them good news of the empty tomb and the word that Jesus has been raised, and the apostles derisively respond, “Nonsense!” But here is the wonderful, telling detail that somehow I have missed all these years. It is after the apostles join in a unison chorus, declaring, “Nonsense!” that Peter immediately gets up and starts running toward the tomb to check out this nonsense for himself. “Nonsense!” says Peter, and with that he is off like a shot, as if the word he had just spoken were like the crack of a gun that starts a race. I love the juxtaposition of those two reactions (“Nonsense!” and “Let’s check it out!”) because I think it says a great deal about the mix of belief and disbelief that was a part of the first Easter and every subsequent Easter as well. The head may say, “Nonsense,” but then our eager and running feet bring us here to check it out. Karl Barth, one of the great theologians of the last century, said that what brings people to worship—not just on Easter, but any day—is an unspoken question clinging to their hearts and minds and that question is simply this: “Is it true?” Is it true that God lives and gives us life? Is it true that God not only established a routine, what we call the laws of nature, but that one day God broke the routine and somehow raised Jesus from the dead? Is it true that something so extraordinary happened on that morning that we can only rebuild our lives on its foundation? Is it true? Such powerful questions. And they are unavoidable on a day such as this. Sometimes I am tempted to conclude that Easter is not a day for beginners. Rather, it can seem as if Easter is the advanced course for Christians, to be undertaken only after completing the introductory courses that deal with Jesus’ life and teachings. Begin with the Sermon on the Mount. Marvel at Jesus’ wisdom. Learn from him. Become fascinated by his life, fixed on his person. If one begins there, perhaps then one will be better prepared to hear this mysterious tale about Jesus rising from the dead.

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    How odd it is that people flock to worship on this day. Easter seems not a day for beginners. In many ways Easter seems like the advanced course. And yet, it is clear from those who knew Jesus, from the apostles of the early church and from the authors of Scripture, that Easter is not the dramatic conclusion to the story for those who are able to follow it that far. Rather, Easter is the beginning. Read the first sermons that were ever preached in the early church as recorded in the Book of Acts. With what do they begin? They make no reference to Jesus’ teachings. His earthly life receives scant attention. It is almost as if the story of his life is only of interest if we see it from the vantage points of Easter. Even Jesus’ teachings are not seen as important in their own right because there is little that is original in them. Rather, they take on meaning only when we take into full account who the teacher is, that is, God’s chosen one who is to die and be raised again. This is why the gospels have been called Easter accounts with extended prologues. For the early followers of Jesus, the beginning point of Christian proclamation was the Easter event. Over and over the disciples started with proclamations about Easter, as if it were the only place to begin. Through the centuries Christians have begun their journey of faith by running to the empty tomb. Make no mistake about this: the idea that God could raise someone from the dead would be as difficult for these people to believe as it is for us. These ancient people were not stupid. They had seen many people die and never once had they seen anyone come to life again. Yes, there was something in the story to doubt, but there is another way to put it: there was something in the story that reached the deepest regions of their hearts and minds where both doubt and faith are found. That is, in the resurrection God gave us such a miracle of love and forgiveness that it is worthy of faith and thus open to doubt. The very doubts we may hold attest to the scale and power of what we proclaim. And so, the place to begin in the life of faith is not necessarily with those things we never doubt. Realities about which we hold no doubt may not be large enough to reveal God to us. And so we say without apology or hesitation: what we proclaim at Easter is too mighty to be encompassed by certainty, too wonderful to be found only within the borders of our imaginations. Easter may be just the place for beginners, after all. The place to begin in the life of faith is not necessarily with those things that are beyond the reach of our doubt. Rather, perhaps we need to begin where the early church began, with the larger realities and deeper mysteries that are open to doubt but are also large enough and deep enough to reveal something of God to us. That is the promise that is held out to us this day, the promise of Easter, which has always been the occasion of the greatest doubt and also the source of the most profound faith throughout history. Perhaps we will find that the early church was right to begin just here, where the stakes are highest, risking doubt in order to claim a larger faith. Could it be that one of the reasons that churches are filled on a day such as this is that we long to swim in the depths of realities that are large enough to reveal God to us, where both the risk and the promise are that much greater? But let us return to Barth’s question, the question that he claimed is the one that brings us here:”Is it true?” On this the gospel writers agree, and this I believe: Jesus appeared to the disciples and others after his death, in such a sure and unmistakable way that they agree that it was Jesus. They grope for ways to express the reality of it, as we might grope to express love to a person who has never experienced it, but it is no less real for their inability to fully capture the experience in words. Of this the

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    disciples and gospel writers were sure: It was Jesus. It was not simply the power of his memory overcoming them, not some generalized sense of the presence of God. It was Jesus, in the midst of them again in a way that was previously unknown and as unimaginable to them as it is to us. It was an experience of which they were so sure that it changed their lives immediately and for all time. It was an experience of such power that they could no more ignore it than they could ignore their own lives. The accounts differ on the particulars. In some accounts Jesus appeared and then disappeared again as quickly as a thought, staying only long enough to impress their souls for all time. To some Jesus spoke, and to others he merely appeared without speaking. For some Jesus could only be described as a spiritual presence, while for others his presence was so real that they could only say he appeared in bodily form— which is really another way of presenting the striking truth to us who were not there to be struck by the experience of knowing with wonder and awe that, He lives ! He lives just as surely as you or I live, yet in a different way all the same. The variations in the accounts are not troubling, for all point unmistakably in the same direction. And they are, after all, trying to describe a reality that is finally indescribable, like trying to describe spring to those who have known only winter. So the language they use is evocative, chosen to evoke in us the same reaction that was surely theirs. It is as if the disciples and gospel writers are trying to describe music to people who are deaf—so they dance and hope we catch a small sense of what music is about, for a small sense is enough. It is as if they are trying to describe a sunset to those of us who are blind—so they say it is like trumpet fanfare and hope we catch a glimmer of the majesty and power of it, for a glimmer is still enough. Something happened that day. We know something happened because something unexpected, something powerful, something marvelous turned the followers of Jesus, this huddle of dispirited men and women, into a valiant band ready to dare anything and doing it. Something made them leave the dark comfort of the room in which they hid to proclaim in the light of day, “He lives!” Something which they could only describe as Jesus happened to them, and they could no more hold it in than a new mother could hold in the news of the birth of her child, no more than a blind man could ignore the restoration of his sight. This is the good news that the disciples claimed, or should I say, it is the good news that claimed them. And they knew from that moment on that their lives could never be the same again. That one experience propelled them into the everlasting presence of God in a way that was previously unknown and unimagined. And it can be the same for us. If we touch this truth, ever so lightly, even for a moment, our lives will be sustained by its power. Did the disciples have reason to doubt that it was true? Certainly. It says in Luke that even after seeing Jesus they “disbelieved for joy.” It seemed simply too good to be true. It was not easy to believe that good could dislodge evil. It was not easy to believe that there is a forgiveness larger than human sin. It was not easy to believe that life is ultimately triumphant over the power of death. But the same event that gave them reason to doubt also equipped them to believe. We too may respond with doubt, declaring, “Nonsense!” even as we rush with racing hearts to check out this nonsense for ourselves. We may respond by saying, “It’s too good to be true.” But is such a response really all that far from the response that is made in faith— “With God, it’s too good not to be true”?

  • It’s the economy, stupid

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    Ifs the Economy, Stupid*

    Luke 16:1-9

    Samuel Wells

    Duke University, Durham, North Carolina

    We’ve just listened together to a story, a story that’s often called the parable of the shrewd manager. What I’d like to do with you today is to read that story three times – once as a story about a manager, a second time as a story about economics, and a third time as a story about you on your last day at Duke. So let’s begin with the simple story of the manager. It comes in four scenes. In scene one, we have a very wealthy man and a manager who is very wealthy too, because he has the use of everything the rich man has. Quickly we move to scene two. In scene two the rich man hears that the manager is squandering the property and straightaway fires him. We may be alarmed that this is a world in which the manager can simply be sacked on the basis of unsubstantiated allegations. But there is a moment of grace: before he clears out his office, gets a sympathetic pat on the back from his staff and takes home the family photos, the manager gets the chance to visit all the rich man’s clients to settle up their accounts. And so to scene three, in which the manager has a bright idea. Rather than feeling sorry for himself or hiring an attorney, he sets about writing off the debts of the rich man’s major creditors. It’s too late to make money, but it’s not too late to build social capital. He starts making friends, people who will be pleased to see him even when he’s out of a job. In scene four, the rich man comes face to face with the manager. And the rich man says, “Good for you, you were in a mighty big hole and you got out of it simply by being generous. You realized that generosity is the best investment. You’re better at this than I am.” It’s a simple story, but a fascinating one. It’s fascinating partly because it’s a great escape story. We never tire of seeing whether Brer Rabbit or Huckleberry Finn or Indiana Jones can get out of a mighty big hole. We never tire of recalling what Sean Dockery pulled off in the dying seconds against Virginia Tech. But it’s fascinating also because it contains an electric shock at the end. What might it mean to live like that? What might it mean to hear a rich man say to you, “I can see you’ve discovered the secret of real wealth-generosity”? Could it really be that generosity is the best investment ? Has Wachovia heard about this? Has Alan Greenspan? Let’s read the story a second time, not so much as a simple story about a manager, but with these larger questions in mind. Let’s read it as a story about economics. So, in scene one, we have a stark picture of economic realities. One man has a huge amount of money. The story begins with him because he has all the power. Everyone else matters according to how they relate to him. He has a manager. In this kind of economy, you want to be a manager. You get to spend someone else’s money as if it were your own. But scene two tells us all we need to know about the downside of this economy. It’s dominated by sudden mood changes, by gossip and anxiety. The word goes round

    * The Reverend Canon Dr. Wells, Dean of the Duke University Chapel, preached this sermon at the university’s Baccalaureate service on May 14, 2006.

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    that the manager is doing a poor job, and snap—just like that—he’s fired. There’s no settlement package, no face-saving retirement party—he’s on the street. There’s no job security, no respect, no trust. Sure, there’s a lot of money out there, but everyone is just a puppet on the rich man’s string. Now, look what happens in scene three. The manager says to himself, “I wonder whether this is the only kind of economy going. I wonder whether in this desperate moment it might be time to try a novel approach.” What might this novel approach involve? Well let’s start by looking at the root of the word economics. Economics is oikonomia—that’s to say, it’s Greek for household management. Economics means putting your house in order. But what if you’ve lost your home, lost your job, lost your shirt in a cutthroat economy? Look closely at what the manager says to himself: “I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes” Isn’t that an interesting phrase? It’s obviously important because it’s repeated at the end of the story. Welcome me into their homes. In other words, when my economics is up the creek, it may be time to invest in somebody else’s. When my household is bankrupt, it may be time to think about other people’s households. It’s time to change economies. The Jewish and Christian Scriptures have words to name the two economies portrayed in this story. The economy of the rich man is called mammon. It’s fine as far as it goes, but the problem is it doesn’t go very far. It only includes certain people, only buys certain things, only lasts a limited length of time. Mammon is fundamentally the economy of scarcity. It is the world in which there is not enough to go round. Mammon means I must use all my energy making sure that of the limited amount of cake, at least I get enough on my plate. There’s also a name for the other economy, the economy of the manager after he’s been fired. The biblical word for that economy is manna. Manna is the food God gave to the Hebrews in the wilderness: always more than they needed. It only dried up when they tried to take two days’ supply at once. Manna is for everybody, gives what money can’t buy, and never expires. Manna is the economy of abundance. It is the currency of the kingdom of God. The secret of happiness is learning to love the things God gives us in plenty. The name for those things is Manna. What happens in scene three of this story is that the manager gives up trying to squeeze people for a living and starts making friends instead. He realizes the friends are more important than the money—or even the job. He moves from mammon to manna, from an economy of scarcity and perpetual anxiety to an economy of abundance and limitless grace. And what happens in scene four? The rich man realizes that the manager’s economy is bigger than his. The rich man, sharp as he is with the shekels, can spot a winning formula. He doesn ‘t say, patronizingly, “You’re a lousy manager but at heart you’re a decent guy.” He does say, “I can see my economy is smaller than yours. You’re the one who’s living in the great economy. I need to learn from you.” Just take that in for a moment. This isn’t a familiar bleeding-heart liberal versus hard-nosed conservative contest. This is two economies face to face. The manager’s economy of friendship is just plain bigger than the rich man’s economy of debt. The manager has left the rich man’s economy, and the investments he’s made have made him rich in a way the rich man can only begin to imagine. And now to read the story a third time, as your story, your story on your last weekend at Duke before you leave to become shrewd managers. Let’s go back to scene one. You are the manager. You have been living at Duke, like the manager, on other

    Pentecost 2007

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    people’s money – money from your parents, or financial aid, or the bank. And here we are suddenly in scene two, on the day of reckoning. You’re about to be cast out of this cozy world of ideas and study and sports and parties, out of the gothic wonderland, and you’re about to face the cold, harsh reality of scene three. And in scene three you face a fundamental choice, a choice that is what this story is all about. And if you haven’t quite grasped so far what it is, I’ll put it quite simply: it’s the economy, stupid. The choice is, which economy are you going to live in? Are you going to live in the small economy, the economy that is fine as far as it goes, but turns out not to go very far—the economy that only includes certain people, only buys certain things, only lasts a limited length of time—the economy of anxiety and scarcity? Or are you going to live in the great economy, the economy where the only use of wealth is to make friends and set people free, the economy in which you are never homeless and you cannot be destitute because you have spent your time and money making friends who will always welcome you into their homes—the economy of abundance, where generosity is the best investment? Which is it to be? If you live in the small economy you will spend your life fearing for your job, your livelihood, your reputation, your health, your family, your life itself. If you live in the great economy you won’t fear anything. You’ll have the things that money can’t buy, and you’ll know the things that hardship and even death can’t take away from you. You’ll have learned to love the things God gives us in plenty. You’ll be living truly abundant life. And if you make that choice, then when it comes to scene four, everyone will want to know you, to learn from you, to imitate you. We could call scene four Judgment Day, but at Duke we have other names for it. We call it Alumni Weekend. We call it a bunch of friends meeting up for a drink in New York—or even a funeral. We call it slyly Googling the names of your old mates to see what comes up. One way or another we see the people who were here at Duke with us years before, and between the lines we discover which economy they’ve been living in all these years. And when the word begins to go round that you’ve been living all this time in the great economy, there’s a bit of a stir, and the undergraduates begin to hear about it, and even the faculty raise an eyebrow: and together they say, “We hear you’ve been living in a world where everything you had was turned into releasing people from debt, all your energies have gone on liberating people from disease, and all your passion has gone on setting people free from despair. We can see you don’t have much money but you don’t seem to need it because you’re surrounded by friends. We’d like to be like you.”

  • The healing of a deaf man with an impediment of speech

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    The Healing of a Deaf Man

    with an Impediment of Speech

    Mark 7:31-37

    Howard Gregory

    Anglican Bishop of Montego Bay, Jamaica

    Many years ago, before I entered seminary, I worked in what is called in the U.S. a savings and loan institution. One day a lady came into the crowded office and approached me talking at the top of her voice. She had various questions and she offered some instructions. As she talked, all the customers began looking over at us. I tried going closer to her to see if I could through the modulation of my voice stop her from speaking so loudly. But the softer I spoke, the louder she became, and the more embarrassed I became. Feeling somewhat between anger and embarrassment, I quickly took her book from her and went across to my supervisor to explain what was happening and my frustration in communicating with the lady. As soon as he took the passbook from me he smiled and said: “Oh, this is Ms. X. She is deaf, but she is a wonderful soul.” We walked back to her and in a very moderate voice he spoke to her, asking what she needed. She was soon smiling as her concerns were addressed. I felt so silly after all of this, as I saw how easy it all could work out. But I could not help wondering how it must feel for her to be deaf and to encounter persons like me who could be so impatient and embarrassed by her disability. In the gospel reading for today, Jesus encounters a man suffering from a double disability—deafness and an impediment of speech. Jesus takes the man aside, “away from the crowd.” In this way Jesus removes the man from a potentially embarrassing situation and from the unhealthy curiosity of the onlookers. In my culture, and perhaps in yours, some people when they see someone with a disability want to know: “What is wrong with him or with her?” Some persons with disabilities have all kinds of stories to tell about violating questions people ask them about the nature of their condition. Jesus sought to provide a secure space where he could be with this man, and through the encounter bring transformation to his life. Those who seek to offer charity can too often be patronizing and demeaning toward those whom they seek to help. We in the Caribbean have known this kind of disrespect that sometimes comes from various international bodies, both church and non-church. They treat us as if we are a bunch of thieves and criminals. Before they give us ten dollars they want us to tell them about the whole layout of our personal lives and finances. During my tenure as president of the United Theological College of the West Indies, I often had to relate to external bodies and partner agencies that would give us a small grant. They would not only require an audited statement of how the donated funds were spent, but they would also want the audited statement of the entire college affairs. This, of course, we regarded as entirely intrusive and demeaning. In this way it seemed to us that the help offered for the challenges we faced was humiliating help, that it involved dragging us into the public arena for all to see our need. Equally challenging was the attempt to get agencies to work with us to achieve a greater level

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    of independence. An institution would be willing to give a grant each year to the college toward the support of a faculty position but balked when we proposed working together to create an endowment that would give us a self-sustaining faculty position. So what we received was an offer of help—help with one level of impediment, perhaps the hearing impediment—but not help with another, perhaps the impediment of speech whose healing would grant too much independence. If the “speech” had also been healed, it would not have been necessary to go back to the institution in a dependent posture. Jesus sets a pattern for us in his reaching out to this man. Jesus affirms the one to be the recipient of his generosity and healing power. Perhaps also, Jesus saw in this moment and this encounter the possibility of personal transformation as this man’s gift to him. This miracle of Jesus has an unusual dimension to it—Jesus does not simply speak and say a word that cures and brings healing. Instead, he does something physical. Here I want to suggest that we may need to dig a bit deeper to see what Jesus is about in this action. Jesus is in Gentile territory, and perhaps what we see is his responding to the folkways of the people. Many Jamaicans still consult the folk healer concerning their medical conditions. This person is sometimes referred to as the “foureye man.” We know full well that when people go to see the “four-eye man” or folk healer, if he does not offer a bath, a bottle of “oil of something” and a psalm to recite, he is not regarded as effective. He cannot simply utter a word or give an explanation, as there is no power in “the word.” Power resides in the symbolic action. Jesus is probably aware of the folk tradition that says that the healer must touch the affected part as a way of producing a cure, so Jesus put his finger into the man’s ears, spat, and touched the man’s tongue. Many of you who have been parents also know that when your child gets a fall or a bruise, the tears and the yelling and screaming will not stop until Mommy kisses the affected area. Jesus, of course, could have simply said the word and the man would have been healed of his double impediment. But Jesus chose to connect with the man where he was in terms of his belief system. Here we face a challenge as church. If we who proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ cannot speak to persons where they are with all of their hurts, pains, doubts, and struggles, and with their God-given uniqueness, then we have compromised the gospel’s power and effectiveness. One of the challenges facing the church in many metropolitan centers in the U.S., Canada, and Europe is how to relate to Christians from other cultures who come to live in their midst. More specifically, how to receive fellow Christians of the same denomination who come from different national, ethnic, and cultural backgrounds as uprooted and displaced persons. On the surface, the issue is about hospitality. But let me suggest that the images of impediment of speech and hearing may be an appropriate metaphor for talking about the relationships between both groups of people. Here I speak out of my own experience as an Anglican/Episcopalian. During the migratory movements of the 1950’s and 60’s, devoted Anglicans who left the Caribbean to live in England found the church unwelcoming of them. Consequently, many of them left and became Pentecostals, as this was the only place where they could find a home. Ironically, many grand old Anglican places of worship have been sold to these Pentecostals and have now become the new and vibrant centers of worship in postmodern England.

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    In New York today, most of the vibrant Episcopal congregations are made up of West Indian and African Anglicans who worship in ethnic churches whose liturgical, social, and cultural life has little relation to the life of mainstream Episcopalian life. They are there, and they occupy congregations that were on the verge of closing and which they have now restored to viable centers of worship. But the encounter between “mainstream” churches and ethnic congregations, in particular the welcoming of the ethnic congregations, is still to take place. One is also left to wonder about the extent to which seminaries reflect an openness to and facilitation of this process of encounter and welcome in the formation of the clergy and in the promotion of the life of the church in its congregational expression. Where do we see this encounter and welcome in the composition of a seminary student body, faculty, curriculum, and in the supervised ministry placements in the ethnic/ multicultural congregations? Inclusion will only take place when Christians in the larger ecclesiastical community are prepared to practice what Jesus exemplifies in his encounter with the man, not as one who is “whole” standing above one who has “an impediment,” but as one who affirms and sees the humanity in the person who may be different. It will not happen from a distance, or out of sheer curiosity, but out of due regard for the humanity of the other and the oneness in Christ that we share. It means being willing to touch the other and to engage the other where cultural and other practices and beliefs may differ. It has been suggested that this story of the healing of this man who was dumb and had an impediment of speech may in fact be a representation of the disciples of Jesus and their situation. If this story is speaking of the deafness of the disciples and their impediment of speech, then the disciples of Jesus had a lot to learn before they were ready for release from their deafness or before they were ready to have their impediment of speech removed. Indeed, the most difficult part for them to understand was who Jesus was as the redemptive agent of God—that he would suffer and die and on the third day be raised to life again. Perhaps if the church is to become the instrument of the affirming and inclusive love of Jesus we, like the disciples, will need to have the impediments to our hearing and to our speech removed. There are interesting stories told about the late revered Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago, Dr. Eric Williams. Dr. Williams had a hearing problem and had to wear a hearing aid. It is said that during many of the debates in Parliament when he did not want to hear what was being said by the various parliamentarians, no doubt especially by those of the opposition, he pulled out his hearing aid. Perhaps it is not that we lack the facility of hearing, but that many of us Christians in our private lives and in the life of our congregations pull out our hearing aids when we do not want to hear a challenging word from the Lord. Perhaps if we allowed our Lord to touch the impediments of our lives, our hearing and our speech, then we might be able to incarnate the pattern that Jesus set for us in reaching out to this man in our text. If so, perhaps we will also in our time be able to engage others, welcome others, and touch others in ways that affirm, include, heal, and transform.

  • Advent sermon: Luke 1:39-55

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    Advent Sermon

    Luke 1:39-55

    Shannon Johnson Kershner

    Woodhaven Presbyterian Church, Irving, Texas

    My parents came into town last weekend to spend time with the grandchildren and to come to worship. And, just like always, my mother came bearing gifts. One of the gifts was a book about the birth of the baby Jesus. My mother and 5-year-old Hannah began reading it together. It told a very sweet version of the Christmas story— beginning when the Angel Gabriel came to tell Mary what was going to happen in and to her. The book stated, “and when the angel told Mary she was going to have the baby Jesus, Mary was very happy.” At that point Hannah stopped my mother. “Well, actually Nini, that’s wrong. Mary was afraid.” My mother looked back at Hannah, a little shocked. “Well, yes—you are right, Hannah. At first Mary was afraid.” Indeed. Mary was afraid. Of course she was afraid. We all know why – she was probably around 14 years old, betrothed to a man she hardly knew, getting ready to leave her parent’s house for his house. And then—the angel. The pronouncement of this baby, God’s baby, who was going to grow inside of her. Her sudden desire to say “yes” to that happening and then her quick double-take at what had just happened and what she had just agreed to do. Of course Mary was afraid. And so Mary hightailed it out of there and headed to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, because she did not know where else to go. Luke gentles her fear when he reports “in those days Mary set out and went with haste.” You’d better believe she went with haste. She got out of her parents’ house as quickly as she could and went to the only other place she was going to feel safe—her cousin Elizabeth’s house. After all, the angel had told her that Elizabeth was carrying around her own growing miracle. The angel had promised Mary that her old and barren cousin Elizabeth was sixth months pregnant. Mary knew that if indeed the angel’s words could be trusted, that Elizabeth’s house was the only place to which she could run. And so she ran. With haste. Afraid. Stunned. Overwhelmed by it all. Finally, she arrived and burst into Elizabeth’s house. And her eyes must have gone right to Elizabeth’s sixth month pregnant belly. And her old cousin Elizabeth must have taken one look back at Mary and felt the child in her womb do a dance of joy. So Elizabeth shouted out, right there in her living room, “Blessed are you among women, my Mary. And blessed is that God-baby growing in your body.” Blessed? Mary had not thought of it like that yet. She had only thought of the “oh no” parts of her life. She had not yet considered that she was blessed. As Mary stood mute with surprise and confusion, Elizabeth made the first Christological confession of faith in the Gospel of Luke. “And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” And Elizabeth declares Mary blessed a few more times. Mary must have been dumbfounded at this quick turn of events. She had been caught up in the fear, the “oh no” parts of her life. She was very young, engaged, still at home with her mom and dad, and now pregnant with God’s baby? That is a lot of “oh no” to handle all at once. In all her haste to get to Elizabeth’s house, she had completely forgotten what the angel had called her when he first laid his holy eyes on

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    her face: “Greetings, favored one. The Lord is with you.” Those were the angel’s first words – words spoken even before he tried to calm her down and tell her not to be afraid. The very first thing that angel did was call this young, unmarried, terrified, poor girl “blessed,” “favored one.” But it was not until Elizabeth reacted with such joy and confidence that Mary even remembered that part of the conversation. Mary had gotten so caught up in the fear, in the “oh no” parts of her life, that she had completely forgotten how the angel first addressed her—as blessed, as favored one, as one the Lord her God claimed. Mary must have just stood there, trying to catch her breath after moving with such haste. She must have looked at her cousin’s pregnant belly, then up to Elizabeth’s weathered and wrinkled face shining with joy and wonder, and back down to her belly again. Maybe she even put her hands on her own young stomach—trying to feel what could not yet be felt—the stirrings of a miracle, the stirrings of new life. Mary must have just stood there, trying to catch her breath, trying to get her mind around all that was happening to her. She was so young, still at home with mom and dad, engaged to be married to a man she really did not know. She was poor, ordinary, a girl. And she was so afraid at what had just happened with that angel and her quick response of “yes” that had come out of her mouth from who knows where in her soul. But then, Mary looked at Elizabeth’s shining wrinkled face, saw her pregnant belly, heard her words of blessing and love, and God unleashed something in Mary’s soul. All of a sudden, Mary could release some of those “oh no’s” and some ofthat fear. All of a sudden, she felt a new kind of clarity and realized that for whatever reason, God had chosen her. God had chosen her. She was young. She was poor. She was ordinary. And God had chosen her, called her blessed, made her favored. All of a sudden, in a moment of clarity in Elizabeth’s living room, Mary realized that her status and her identity had nothing to do with her age or her station in life or anything else like that. Her identity was that she was a child of God, embraced by God’s blessing and claim, no matter how scared she was or how ordinary she felt or what other people might say about her as her own belly grew. She was blessed by God, called “favored one,” and pregnant with a miraculous God-child. And when that clarity broke out in her mind, Mary was filled with such joy and gratitude that she could not do anything but sing. She could not keep from singing. “My soul gives glory to my God, my heart pours out its praise. God lifted up my lowliness in many marvelous ways. ” Right there, in the middle of Elizabeth’s living room, Mary burst out into song. She sang a song of praise of all that God had done, was doing, would do—and not just for her. Mary sang a song of praise for all who would benefit from God’s actions. She praised God for relieving the proud and powerful of their swelled heads and overblown sense of self-importance. She praised God for filling the hungry with good things and lifting up the lowly. She praised God for sending the rich away empty so they might have room in them for more than money can buy. She praised God for God’s continuing mercy and work of justice-making. Mary burst out into song not just for herself, but on behalf of every son and daughter who thought God had forgotten God’s covenant , God’s promise to be with them forever, to love them forever, to give them fresh and endless life. Mary burst out into song for you and for me—sons and daughters living so many years later but still living in Advent time—in the time between God’s coming to set

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    things right and God’s returning to finish the job. Mary was filled with such joy and gratitude that she could not do anything but sing a song of praise for all God’s children and the way God was breaking out into the world and into our history, through her and through the child in her womb who, at that point, was no bigger than a thumbnail. Mary stood right there in the middle of Elizabeth’s living room and she sang and sang and sang. She must have sung until her voice became hoarse and she had to sit down on the couch, exhausted. She must have sung until she felt all the joy and gratitude and praise that had been properly unleashed into the world and could now grow on its own. She must have sung until she had forgotten about her fear and all the “oh no” parts of her life. She must have sung until she felt a deep sense of peace and holy presence and courage. And when her song was over, she and Elizabeth must have started comparing notes about what had happened to them, about the angel, about what Zechariah had done and about what Joseph might do. Elizabeth might have told her about the best ways to cope with morning sickness, about the perils of swollen ankles, about how you never really get a good night’s sleep when growing a child. And Mary probably spent a lot of time resting and pondering God’s blessing, God’s claim on her—and not only on her—but also God’s claim on all flesh that would soon be birthed into the world through her body. And maybe she hoped that her song would be written down one day and remembered. Maybe Mary hoped that as the generations passed, her song of joy and gratitude and praise would be sung by other men and women when they felt overwhelmed by fear and the “oh no” parts of their lives. Maybe Mary hoped her song would be sung by other girls and boys who felt too ordinary, too poor, too low to count for anything or as anybody. Maybe Mary hoped that by unleashing her song out into God’s world, that anyone who heard it would remember that God also blessed them, claimed them, promised to grow new life in them as well. And maybe, just maybe, in the three months that followed, every once in a while Mary and Elizabeth would sing a stanza or two together. “Praise God whose loving covenant supports those in distress, remembering past promises with present faithfulness.” Because, after all, in the face of God’s goodness, they could not keep from singing.

  • Realities old and new

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    Realities Old and New

    John 20:24-31

    2nd Sunday of Easter

    David J. Lose

    Luther Seminary, Minneapolis, Minnesota

    Well, I can hardly believe it, but another Easter has come and gone. What a day; I miss it. For after forty days of preparing, I wish it would have lasted a little longer. But if I concentrate, it’s not hard to recall, almost re-create, the sights and sounds of that day: the special music; the huge quantities of flowers; the liturgy, lessons, and hymns that make the day such a festive celebration. But it’s over. For those who had time off from work or school, it’s back to the same old grind. For those who traveled to see family or friends, it’s a long wait to the next holiday or vacation. And for those who were so involved in the special activities of Lent, Holy Week, and Easter, it’s time to settle back into a more regular schedule. To put it simply: it’s time to get back to normal; it’s time to get back to work. Lent and Easter were a nice break from the norm, a nice change of pace, but it’s time to get back to reality. And that can be hard, for the old routine is so…routine; and normalcy, reality, can be so crushingly unavoidable. It comes from so many angles and catches us at unawares. For some, reality swoops in with unemployment or illness. For others, it sneaks in by running across the wedding photos of a ruined marriage. For others still, reality confronts them even as they leave the Easter celebration we were just reminiscing about and return home only to look across a tense dinner table, absent of joy, and realize that their family looks nothing like the Rockwell painting they try to envision for themselves most of the year. Confrontations with normalcy—encounters with reality—they’re hard to take because they destroy both the hopes and illusions on which we often rely. They hold up old goals and ideals to mock us and unfailingly remind us of our limitations. Ultimately, confrontations with the harshly normal, and normally harsh, realities of life remind us that there is an end—to dreams, to relationships, to life—an end over which we have no control and under which we feel as captured prisoners to a cruel and oppressive conqueror. It is just this encounter with reality which today’s gospel reading describes. And Thomas, in my opinion, has always gotten a bad rap. We know him as “the doubter.” But I would contend that this passage of Scripture is not primarily about doubt; rather, it is about reality. For Thomas is, first and foremost, a realist. In John 14, when Jesus says mysteriously, “I go to prepare a place for you….You know the way to the place where I am going,” it is Thomas the pragmatist who replies truthfully, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going; how can we know the way?” (14:5). And in the 11th chapter, when Jesus speaks of going back to Judea, Thomas knows that for Jesus to return to Jerusalem is to go to his death. Thomas was no fool. He counted the costs before making a decision. Nevertheless, it is he who bravely urges the others to follow Jesus: “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (11:16). In this light, Thomas’ reaction to the news of the risen Christ should not be surprising. For he had been hardened and tempered by his experience in the world. He

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    was, above all else, a realist. And for Thomas, reality had come as never before, just days earlier in the form of a cross, when his master and friend had been crucified; when he had fled and deserted Jesus; when he realized that the hopes and expectations of the last three years were as dead as his beloved Lord. It’s not hard to imagine the bitter disappointment—in himself and in Jesus— which Thomas felt, for it’s the same feeling each of us has when disappointed by reality, when we feel let down by ourselves and by God—by the loss of a job, the inability to conceive a child, the failure of a relationship, the death of a loved one. Thomas had lost his Lord; he had witnessed the crucifixion of his Saviour! But he had survived that ordeal. In fact, sometimes I wonder if, while the other disciples were hiding in the upper room at Christ’s first appearance, Thomas was not out preparing to move on, to get on with the work of rebuilding his shattered life. No wonder, then, that when his friends share their joyous news, “We have seen the Lord,” he reacts skeptically. It is as if an AIDs patient, finally reconciled to his fate, is told of a new miracle cure; or a disillusioned spouse, who has finally accepted that her marriage is over, is told that her husband is really a “new man.” Nothing, you see, is worse than getting cut again by one’s broken dreams, and Thomas has bled enough. So he demands proof: “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Oddly, Thomas never does place his hands in his Lord’s wounds, even though Jesus invites him to. No. Though most likely filled with the fear and anger and shame of knowing that he not only doubted but also deserted his friend, when Thomas is confronted by the risen Lord, when he is greeted by the forgiveness and grace embodied in the words “Peace be with you,” he instantly believes and makes the great confession of John’s gospel: “My Lord and my God!” In a heartbeat, Thomas knows that he is in the presence of God, has been saved and redeemed by that God, and that he will never be the same. This story, then, is not about Thomas’ doubt at all; rather, it is about an encounter with the grace of God which has come down from heaven and been embodied, enfleshed, in Jesus Christ. It’s important to note that at his encounter with the Risen Christ, Thomas’ doubt is swept away—but not his realism. Thomas’ confession is just as much a part of his pragmatism, his ability to accept reality, as was his demand for proof. For it is not Thomas’ realism that has been changed, but reality itself. When he is confronted by God’s grace in the Risen Christ, Thomas is confronted by a whole new reality. Early in his magnificent novel Les Miserables, Victor Hugo describes the fall, the actual moral disintegration, of Jean Valjean, a common laborer who is sentenced to five years in jail for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. The ravages of his time in prison, which is stretched from five to nineteen years, have, as Hugo describes, withered his soul. “Jean Valjean,” he writes, “entered the galleys sobbing and trembling; he left hardened. He entered in despair; he left sullen.” Once released, Valjean’s descent continues, as no one will give him work or even sell him food or shelter because of his criminal record. Hopeless and exhausted, he stumbles into the house of an old bishop, who greets him courteously and treats him as an honored guest. Valjean, though, ever the hardened realist, is confused by his host’s generosity, and, unwilling to believe and unable to accept the genuineness of such treatment, he steals the silver plates from the bishop’s cupboard and flees into the night. The next

    Easter 2007

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    day the police arrive at the bishop’s house with the captured criminal and the silver. Valjean, naturally, is utterly dejected at the sure prospect of returning to prison. Confronted by the man who returned his generosity with treachery, the bishop astonishes both the thief and his arresters: “I’m glad to see you,” he says. “But I gave you the candlesticks, too, which are silver like the rest and would bring two hundred francs. Why didn’t you take them along with your cutlery?” As Hugo narrates, at the bishop’s astounding words, “Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.” Forced to release their captive at the bishop’s insistence, the police depart and the bishop hands Valjean the candlesticks, holding him just a moment longer before sending him freely on his way with this blessing: “Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts…and I give it to God.” In the very next scene, Hugo describes Valjean’s lengthy and pathetic weeping as he views the depths to which he has sunk and begins to comprehend the whole new world of forgiveness and grace into which he has been ushered. In that moment, Jean Valjean dies…and is reborn, and much of the rest of this long and turbulent novel is the story of the new reality which Valjean both lives and gives as a result of his encounter with transforming grace. “Peace be with you,” Christ says to the skeptical, frightened Thomas. “My friend,” the bishop calls the hardened, unrepentant Valjean. Grace, mercy, comes in so many forms—in the unexpected apology of a colleague, the undeserved forgiveness of a sibling, the all too often unnoticed tenderness and fidelity of a spouse—but when it comes, it leaves the both the recipient and the giver transformed, for they have been joined, even at times unwittingly, to the mercy of God in Christ Jesus. But though such mercy always transforms, it does not replace, the reality of this world. For in his encounter with grace, Jean Valjean, as with Thomas, is confronted not with opposition to his realism, but with a new reality altogether. Neither leaves his world. Valjean is still in oppressive and chaotic Paris, facing persecution and death. Thomas is still in Palestine, facing the same opposition which led to the death of his Lord. So, too, we are still in our often confusing and always ambiguous worlds. But there is something different, something new. For what both Thomas and Valjean gain—what we gain!—is not an escape from the world, not a break from reality, but a sense, a conviction, that God’s grace, God’s new kingdom, has already intruded into and transformed the kingdom of this world, and nothing, not work, not school, not our relationships, not even life and death will ever be the same. This is what Easter means—that we are forever transformed people. That is why we don’t celebrate this Sunday as a Sunday in or after Easter, the way we would the 2nd Sunday in Advent or the 2nd Sunday after Pentecost. Rather, we call this day and the next five Sundays, a Sunday ö/Easter to remind us that Easter isn’t just a day, it’s every day. Easter isn’t just a celebration, it’s a way of life. Easter is knowing that because we have been joined by Baptism to the Risen One, Jesus the Christ, we participate in his new reality and are, indeed, new creatures. Therefore, it is we, and not the oppressive realities of this life, who are, as Paul writes, in everything “more than conquerors through the One who loved us” (Rom 8:37). For Christ is Risen! He is risen indeed! And nothing will ever be the same again. Thanks be to God.

  • Hallelujah!: Psalm 146

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    Hallelujah!

    Psalm 146

    Gary W. Charles

    Central Presbyterian Church, Atlanta

    Psalm 146 is set in the musical key of Advent. It is just the kind of Psalm that warms the heart during this strange holding season until we can get to Christmas. It begins with that unmistakable call to worship: “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord O my soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live; I will sing praises to my God all my life long!” Listen well and you hear the toe-tapping, attitude-adjusting, down-rightjoyful rhythm of this musical psalm. Whether the English “Praise the Lord” or the Hebrew “Hallelujah,” Psalm 146 is the perfect Advent preamble to Christmas. In the words of Gershwin, “It ain’t necessarily so.” This psalm is no preamble and is not made up of sentimental theological slush. You see, they sang Psalm 146 when Fascist fires were burning in the village of Barmen. In World War II, the Third Reich had created its own church of those who called themselves “German Christians.” They pledged loyalty to the Führer and to Jesus. Their religious patriotism left all other German Christians looking delinquent in faith and suspect in patriotism. So, in late May of 1934, these embattled Lutheran and Reformed and Evangelical Christians produced “The Theological Declaration of Barmen.” A part of our church’s constitution, the Barmen Declaration announces ultimate allegiance to God in Christ and refutes the “German Christian,” or any other ultra-nationalism and anti-Semitism. In a banner created out of this Barmen conference, a swastika is crossed out and the Christian cross rises out of it, protesting against Nazi tyranny and any effort of any leaders to take the role of God. The banner also has a flaming fire at the base of the cross, symbolizing the suffering and death which follows from defense of faith, suffering and death that some of the signers of the Barmen Declaration would experience themselves. They sang Psalm 146 at that conference in Barmen. In the face of the hell before them, they sang “Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” There is something about “praise the Lord” that has more substance than those pesky “born again” folks who repeat those words again and again as a pietistic mantra. There is something more substantial to “praise the Lord” than the sentimentality that often surfaces in our celebrations at this time of year. There is something, in fact, world-shattering about saying “Praise the Lord” that gets lost in all those insipid “praise” songs that clutter Christian media. You can summarize Psalm 146 in one sentence, “Trust God, not human rulers.” That’s why Jews and Christians have sung this song for centuries. We sing it to remember to whom we pledge our allegiance, to remember that “In God We Trust” is more than something to stamp on our coins. We sing it in Advent to remember that we do wait for no one less than God. According to the Psalmist, “trust in God alone” is to be stamped on our hearts, making all other trust relative and suspect. As the Psalm says, human leaders, unlike God, are adam in the Hebrew, that is “mortal,” and will return to the adamah, that is “the earth.” Great leaders know this. Just days before the end of the Civil War, the city of Richmond fell, and Abraham

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    Lincoln came to celebrate. “No sooner had the presidential party reached the landing,” writes Pulitzer-prize winning historian, Doris Kearns Goodwin, “than Lincoln was surrounded by a small group of black laborers shouting, ‘Bless de Lord!… here is de great Messiah!…Glory, Hallelujah!’ First one and then several others fell on their knees, ‘Don’t kneel to me,’ Lincoln said, his voice full of emotion, ‘that is not right. You might kneel to God only, and thank him [God] for the liberty you will hereafter enjoy” {Team of Rivals, p. 719). Every Sunday when the ushers return to the table with our morning offerings, we sing a version of Psalm 146, not only a call to worship but a Doxology, a song giving glory and praise to God. We do it Sunday after Sunday, “and we never know what holy power is unleashed by such singing…we never know what human imagination is authorized by such singing,” writes Walter Brueggemann. “This singing is our vocation, our duty, and our delight. We name this staggering name—and the world becomes open again, especially for those on whom it had closed in such deathly ways—the prisoners, the blind, the sojourner, the widow, the orphan. The world is sung open” (“Psalm 146: Psalm for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost ,” No Other Foundation, p. 29). If we’re looking for a sweet little Psalm that will sing us a lullaby while we sentimentalize this season, we had best not sing Psalm 146. When we sing this song, the world-God’s world-is “sung open.” Sing this Psalm and we catch sight of a God who cares passionately about justice, hunger, widows, orphans, the oppressed, prisoners, and about how the vulnerable on our city streets are treated. Just when we are ready for a little season’s joy, to forget all the troubles of life for a while, this nuisance of a Psalm storms into our sanctuary shouting: “Hallelujah!” “Praise the Lord!” That chorus may sound like it belongs in an evangelical revival, but it is actually the music of a march, a revolution. Sing this Psalm and God’s world is sung wide open. Sing this song and you may find yourself shouting over all the sorry excuses until our young women and men return home from a war that should never have been. Sing this song and you may find yourself shouting over all the catchy “get tough” clichés until we as a society spend more money educating the poor than imprisoning them. Sing this song and you may find yourself shouting over a stock host of “why nots” until every child, legal or illegal, wealthy or poor, black or Latino or white, has access to good health care. Sing this song and you may find yourself shouting over the standard stereotypes until the “homeless” are not a problem to be solved, but a community of men and women and children who can teach us a thing or two about “justice.” Sing this song and you may find yourself shouting over indulgent self-interest until we live in harmony with God’s creation, not because prices are high and we can’t afford the gas, but because reducing our carbon footprint is “just.” Tucked away toward the close of 150 Psalms, Psalm 146 begins a final avalanche of “Hallelujahs.” They build upon each other until we can’t help but sing “Hallelujah.” When we sing, all the cobwebs fall from our minds, and we remember that even on our finest day, we are not God, but on our finest days, we hear God’s lullaby calling us to care about and provide for all those whom God loves. Just when we were ready for a nice quiet Advent and a calm and peaceful Christmas, here comes Psalm 146. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

    Advent 2007

  • The plague of the girl who drowned: and when Jesus has also been baptized…Luke 3:21

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    Poem

    Scott Kinder-Pyle

    Crossroads Presbyterian Church, Royersford, Pennsylvania

    Introduction When my wife, Sheryl, and I moved to the Philadelphia region, we became aware of many urban congregations who could not adjust to the demographic shifts in their neighborhoods (usually from Anglo-American to African-American). Because of these failures, many once-thriving ministries, with sanctuary seating for eight hundred , dwindled down to a scrawny remnant of elderly folks meeting in the fellowship hall. While we had been called to start a “new” congregation in the suburbs, the resources that paid our salaries came, in large part, from the sale of various church buildings. We felt terrible about this situation, but felt even worse when the Associate Executive for Finance asked us if we could use some furniture and supplies from the old Market Square Church in Germantown, which had been officially closed in December of 1995. Reluctantly, we agreed to make the trip to Germantown and to borrow a pick-up truck in order to strip the church of all its oak tables, chairs, baptismal fonts, communion tables, and a few pew benches. It would take about three hours, and great deal of heavy, cumbersome lifting, to complete the job. Navigating through mildewed corridors, and around raccoon feces, we eventually got everything we came for. Then, as I took one last look around, I noticed a plaque, hung about ten feet off the ground, on a crumbling wall. It was the memorial of a little girl who had been baptized in the church, but who had died in 1910 as a result of falling through the iced-over Schuylkill River. Apparently no one could reach that high to remove the plaque from that onehundred -year old fellowship hall. No. Not one.

    The Plaque of the Girl Who Drowned and when Jesus also had been baptized… Luke 3:21

    I didn’t notice the fissure, the frigid artery snaking its way into the heart of the Schuylkill.

    I didn’t notice until the fragments of ice reached up like arthritic fingers, until

    ruined buildings walked once more over my plummeting frame in the mist.

    So that’s my plaque on the wall, affixed to the fractured fellowship hall

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    of the Market Square Church.

    In 1910 no Presbyterian would believe I was dead. Just resting my head, they said, beneath the lens of a dim mirror,

    just drifting to sleep, or perhaps waking on some solid shore, an artifact of Germantown lore.

    I didn’t notice the fissure, the few feet shifting above the fault line into the rush of Sabbath throng.

    Was I right to test the thickness of this baptism bond?

    Who will wrap me in warm, white Unen cloth here?

    Today the river rarely freezes over. But the monolith of my memorial moves; it undulates and sways and

    shimmers in a sacred shaft of sunlight. No one will walk above me again, on the transparent plain. And no one will plunge through as I did.

    Lent 2007

  • Protagonist corner [Advent 2007]

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    Protagonist Corner

    Eduard Loring

    Open Door Community, Atlanta, Georgia

    Last summer, my wife Murphy and I departed the Three V Motor Court (the oldest motor lodge in America) for the 19,000 acre, 5,000 inmate Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, Louisiana. It was named for the West African country where the majority of slaves were stolen until Abraham Lincoln rode east out of Illinois, changing the war aims in 1862, and Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman knew it had been worth it after all the taking of toast and tea and the wealth of whites in black flesh and labor too. Today the majority of slaves (4,500 are African American men) come from New Orleans and Baton Rouge and little black bayous around and about where the abandoned and forgotten live and die here and there and in Iraq and Angola. We began, Murphy driving as always, Aaron Neville lamenting hell and prison with his powerful song “Angola Bound.” We were ready, hopeful, loving, and believing to be with our partner, son, friend: Thony Lee Green, 102340. We started off on the famous highway of Delta blues and Bob Dylan’s first truly great album, Highway 61, then turned onto Louisiana 66. Thousands of African Americans took Highway 61 to Chicago, but the lash of the whip, white hate, and the sin of segregation rode right up that highway too. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said Chicago was the meanest city he had ever seen, and he included Bombingham, Alabama, and St. Augustine, Florida, when he said it. We saw only old plantations and signs celebrating the three months of James Audubon’s life and painting in the area until he was fired and told to leave Oakley Plantation before the sun set behind the graceful, blood-dripping magnolias. Strange Fruit. Entering the processing room for visitation, even before we stood in the small booth to be sniffed by the dog (not my copilot) for drugs, I said to the black staff of three, “We have come to visit George Bush and Dick Cheney.” After a second of silence, laughter broke out and roared down the hallway. A minute later the single man officer roared across the room: “They are in J. House.” Again, laughter rolled down the hallway like a big wave hitting the Mississippi coast. (We all understood that J. House is death row.) I wore our Open Door Community “No War” tee shirt with an additional “no hand gun” sticker which I wear daily now as the only feeble response I know how to make to the Virginia Tech Massacre. Many folk were rejoicing to see the tee shirt and affirmed the message. Thony came with gifts for Murphy and me, beautiful wooden roses, a carved cross with prayer hands, and himself. Funny how this black man was kidnapped by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation from our soup kitchen in 1982, taken to St. John the Baptist Parish Jail, and then to court to be given 481 years of hard labor for soft white folk—cannibals really—of the domination system of American slavery and prisons. Funny how this Christ figure has shaped and reshaped our lives. So we sat in the visiting room with 100 other folk, black and white together. Murphy and I were the only ones in the room who were not from the poorest of the poor or working class. We had attended Eucharist Service at Grace Episcopal Church the evening before

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    journeying to Angola. Now, with Eucharistie crawfish etoufee, garlic bread, coffee in styrofoam cups, Jesus fed us and we experienced again the substantial character of love, body broken, cup shared. Bonhoeffer joined us for a moment, reminding us from his time in prison, “only a God who suffers is a God worth knowing.” Justice is important , but meals in prison are essential. 2:55. Thony had been funny, playful, and shared a soliloquy (and would not look at us though we saw his eyes break water) on the waste of his life and his fear of dying in prison. Time to go. Thony and I always kiss several times upon parting. I am so joyful to stand in that place and kiss this black man in front of the guards and visitors. (The guards, more gracious than those I know in Georgia, allow kissing, knee presses, and an occasional tender touch. Hurts to see.) Later Murphy and I held each other in the dark—very still, very silent. What can we do? What can we do? By 3:30, we were out of the prison bus, back on Highway 66. We were heading home again. Reflection: The hard truth for Christians is how easy it would be to tear this system down. If we could get 100,000 liberal, college-educated, engaged people to visit state prisons in America, we could change the system toward justice. But we cannot. Conservatives visit prisons all the time. The Christianity in prisons in far right, fundamentalist , and evangelical. The fundamentalists visit prisoners as Jesus said do. The Christian Right has curriculum for convicts, and they have houses for prisoners upon release. And they, in the Radical’s name, teach submission, Republican politics, and acceptance of the domination system. Oh, how I wish you could have experienced with Murphy and me the hunger prisoners have for the Word of liberation, justice— an alternative to this system. But then the Pope, upon arrival in Brazil last spring, said the most important issue in Christianity and the world today is abortion. Goodgodalmighty . Don’t these men who never have made love, raised a child, or been married know that the American prison system is murderous? Sure, these 5,000 men at Angola made it out of the uterus, but what about now? How the hell is it that the embryos are so much more important to these folk than Thony Lee Green, 102340?

    Advent 2007