February 5, 2012

My friend, Carrie, had a bad year.  In 2011, two of her family members died, one after a long battle with cancer, and one relative died quite unexpectedly.  She also lost her job and could not find a new one.  She was struggling emotionally, economically and spiritually. 

          And, as if this were not enough, she couldn’t eat. 

          She tried, but her stomach would not tolerate it.  The only thing she could keep down was liquids.  And some days even that was a stretch—some days it was all she could do to get 20 ounces of fluid down. 

          Carrie’s doctor was concerned and suggested a round of tests on her stomach.  But she knew her stomach was not the issue.  And she wasn’t too anxious to pay out of pocket for the tests—being unemployed meant she had no insurance and no way to pay for the expensive tests. 

          As a last resort, and if led by the Spirit, Carrie went to a massage therapist her friend had been talking about for years.  Up until the moment Carrie got onto the massage table, she would have called healing massage  “hocus pocus.” 

          And then the massage began.  Carrie began to relax into it, and as she relaxed, she began to cry. 

          The massage therapist pointed out things to Carrie about her body.  She noted that Carrie was holding a lot of pain in certain parts of her body, and began to work on them.  And Carrie continued to cry, releasing all the pain and sadness she held on to from her terrible year.  And from that day on—after that kathartic massage--Carrie was able to eat. 

          I cried with Carrie when she told me this story.  It was truly unbelievable, miraculous.  Carrie said she would have never believed it herself, except that it happened to her.  She was healed on the massage table.  Now, this doesn’t mean that she still doesn’t grieve her awful 2011, and this doesn’t mean that doesn’t have any work to do.  But she saw that healing massage as a turning point.  All because she was willing to let this woman touch her and notice her pain.  She opened herself to the possibility that healing could happen, and it did. 

          I have been thinking about Carrie’s story as I’ve been reading this story from Mark this week.  How powerful it was for Jesus to touch people, to speak directly to them, and to heal them.  How powerful it was for Carrie to let someone touch her, to be open to healing.  And how incredible it was that Simon’s mother in law--sick with a fever that they feared would kill her--was able return to her work immediately after a touch by Jesus. 

          The story of salvation—the good news Jesus was declaring in the first chapter of Mark—was not just an intellectual message.  “The reign of God is here—change your hearts and minds and believe the good news!”  This is not simply something that creates a shift in perception—although it does—it’s more than that.  Jesus impacted the emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical lives of the people he encountered.

          In our text last week, Jesus declared in the temple that the reign of God is here.  And then, as if to give us a visual demonstration of the reign of God, Jesus cast out the demon, he cast out fear.  Jesus silenced fear so that the reign of God could be more fully visible. 

          In this week’s text, after the unclean spirit was cast out of the synagogue, Jesus immediately went to the house of Simon and Andrew, and gave us exhibit B of the reign of God—he healed Simon and Andrew’s mother in law. 

He put out his hand, she took it, he helped her up, and she went back to work.  Her fever was gone.

          We have two examples in the first chapter of Mark of what it means for the reign of God to be here—Fear is cast out, and people are healed.  In fact, after Simon’s mother in law was healed, it says that people brought to Jesus those who were sick and possessed, and he healed the sick and cast out the unclean spirits.  The healing and casting out got mixed up together into one messy group of people, sitting together in awe of what God could do. 

         

          This week, when I was picking up Reba after school, I ran into someone who had a question about church.  He asked me, “What does it mean to worship?  Why do we do it?”  The standard, pat answer is “we worship to glorify God, to say thanks”.  But, there are other reasons too—particularly in the way we see the text as Mennonites.  As followers of Christ, we see God in each other.  The chairs face towards each other, so that we can hear the harmony in our singing, so that we can see the face of God in each other.  We come to offer strength and healing and hope when we have some to spare, and we come to seek healing and hope as we need it.  We come to give and we come to receive.  We come to bear one another’s burdens.  And as we leave this place, we go out to serve God, renewed and refreshed.  That’s the ideal at least.  

          The people that Jesus healed in his ministry became the church.  Those that had been healed, who had fear cast out of them, they gathered together to follow Jesus, to live the life that God had called them to live.  And those that had been healed—like Simon and Andrew’s mother in law—in response to their healing, went out to serve. 

          As our congregation grows, being church to each other—taking care of each other, and being present to each other’s needs—this can get challenging.  We don’t know everyone here.  The size of the group on a given Sunday can sometimes discourage folks from disclosing their joys and pain in our sharing time.  Sometimes we worry that our pain and joy may seem small in comparison to the others, and we hold back. 

          As a newer person, it can be intimidating to join in, to participate in the life of the church, when we don’t know everyone’s names and stories.  And for a person that has been her for a while, new folks means new names and stories to learn too. 

          Sharing our stories, sharing our hope and healing, can be a challenge in a larger group.  There are no simple answers to the challenges of a growing and evolving congregation.  But just as Carrie sought healing and a sign of hope in the hands of a healing massage therapist, we seek healing and hope here.  We seek to be touched by our brothers and sisters in Christ, to find support and encouragement, to name those things that give us pain and to cast them out.  

          And as we are being healed, we offer that healing hope to others.  We follow in the way of Christ, who lived fully the life God called him to. 

          Let us offer our hands to those around us, to lift them up, to share their burdens.  Let us together—with God’s help and guidance--cast out fear. AMEN.  

Published 07 February 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Mark 1:21-28

January 29, 2012

When I was a teenager, I was introduced to a Christian novel series by author Frank Peretti—the series was all about demons and evil forces in the world.  It captivated Christians because it dealt with the matter of spiritual warfare.  In the small town of Aschton—the town where the series was set—a reporter discovered that the local New Age society had conceived a plot to take over the town, while at the same time a local pastor discovered that the town was full of demons.  The reporter and pastor met by chance, compared notes, and discovered that something truly sinister was going on. 

The plot sounds rather silly to us post-modern progressive Christians.  But, this book sold millions of copies.  People loved it, because it explained in story form this thing that Christians wonder about.  Possession.  Demon Possession. 

What are we to make of demon possession and exorcism?  Does this really happen today?  Do people really become possessed by demons, a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist?  Is that possible? 

Or do we have a more sophisticated way to understand this?  Perhaps it’s a form of schizophrenia manifest in a pre-psychiatric world?  It could be, considering what little people knew about mental illness centuries ago. 

But, to go down this road—to try to understand what exorcism is—would feel like it was losing sight of the story, I think.  As entertaining as it may be to go think about demon possession, what it meant then, and what it means now, I think we miss the point of the story to do this. 

So let’s get a better sense of the context of this story by starting at the beginning.   The beginning of Mark. 

Mark begins with the words of Isaiah—I send my messenger before you to prepare your way, a herald’s voice in the desert, crying, “Make ready the way to our God. Clear a straight path.” 

Jesus is being set up as the one sent by God. 

Following this proclamation, John the Baptizer arrived from out of the desert and baptized Jesus, and immediately the Holy Spirit showed up, and descended on Jesus in dove form. 

That same holy spirit, after blessing Jesus, sent him immediately into the desert to be tempted. 

After the desert, Jesus went to Galilee, proclaiming, “This is the time of fulfillment.  The reign of God is here.  Change your hearts and minds and believe this Good news!”  And then Jesus called the disciples and they went—without questions or debate. 

Next, Jesus went to the temple in Capernaum and taught the people—“This is the time of fulfillment.  The reign of God is here.  Change your hearts and minds and believe!”  And the people were astonished—a combination of fascination and outrage.  But, Jesus taught with authority.  It was like nothing they’d ever heard.

It’s with all this background—the Isaiah passage, the baptism, the desert, the declaration that the reign of God is here, the calling of the disciples, and the teaching in the temple—that we meet the demon, or the unclean spirit. 

This unclean spirit recognized Jesus and freaked out—“What do you want from us, Jesus?  Are you here to destroy us?” 

Reading this story sequentially and contextually, there’s a stark difference between the holy spirit, that called Jesus to share the good news, and sent him out, and the unclean spirit who was so afraid of what Jesus might do. 

Rather than Frank Perretti-izing this story—making it about spiritual warfare—and rather than making this story about mental illness, I’d like to think about possession and this unclean spirit as something more universal—Fear. 

This unclean spirit said to Jesus in the temple, “I know who you are.  Are you here to destroy us?” 

Notice how the pronoun changes.  I know who you are.  Are you here to destroy US? This unclean spirit is worried not only about himself, but about the whole group gathered there in the temple that day.  Perhaps even the whole people of Israel.

The good news that Jesus came to the synagogue to share—that was terrifying to people.  “The reign of God is here.  Change your hearts and believe the good news.” 

What is so terrifying about the good news to the unclean spirit? 

What is Jesus offering the people that evokes such fear?

You need not look any further than the beginning of the story to see why this unclean spirit might be afraid.  Jesus said yes to the call on his life, was baptized by John the Baptizer, and then the holy spirit showed up, blessed Jesus, and sent him out to the desert.  This does not seem like a good thing.  This could not possibly be a blessing. 

From the desert Jesus went to Galilee to call the disciples.  The disciples believed and followed, and left their lives behind.  And then Jesus  showed up in that temple in caperneum, preaching the message of liberation, freedom, and hope.  Isn’t it a little ironic that after spending all that time in the desert, Jesus’ message is about liberation?

It sounds strange at first that this unclean spirit would oppose the message of hope, and freedom and liberation.  What does fear have to lose? 

Perhaps this unclean spirit was worried that believing in God’s reign would mean that he would be sent into the desert too.  That perhaps—if he accepted this good news—that God might ask something of him, and of the people of Israel?

Belief, salvation, conversion—this is scary stuff.

My favorite story of conversion comes from Sara Miles in her memoir Take this Bread.  This is what she writes: 

“Early one morning, when I was 46, I walked in to a church, ate a piece of bread, and took a sip of wine.  A routine Sunday activity for tens of millions of Americans—except that up until that moment, I’d led a thoroughly secular life.  This was my first communion.  It changed everything.  Eating Jesus, as I did that day to my great astonishment, led me against all my expectations to a faith I’d scorned and work I’d never imagined.” 

Sara went on to organize food pantries all over her city of San Franscico, recruiting thousands of volunteers to help her. 

She said of her new call, “(it) didn’t turn out to be as simple as going to church on Sundays, folding my hands in the pews and declaring myself ‘saved.’  Nor did my volunteer church word mean talking kindly to poor folks and handing them a sandwich from a sanctified distance…I had to struggle with my atheist family, my doubting friends, and the prejudices and traditions of my newfound church…I met thieves, child abusers, millionaires, day laborers, politicians, schzophrenics, gangsters and bishops—all blown into my life through the restless power of a call to feed people, widening what I though of as my ‘community’ in ways that were exhilarating, confusing, often scary.”

“This is my belief: that at the heart of Christianity is a power that continues to speak to and transform us.  As I found to my surprise and alarm, it could speak even to me:  not in the sappy, Jesus-and-cookies tone of mild-mannered liberal Christianity, or the blustering hellfire of the religious right.  What I heard, and continue to hear, is a voice that can crack religious and political convictions open, that advocates for the least qualified, least official, least likely; that upsets the established order and makes a joke of certainty.  It proclaims against reason that the hungry will be fed, that those cast down will be raised up, that all things, including my own faulures, are being made new….It doesn’t promise to solve or erase suffering, but to transform it, pledging that by loving one another, even through pain, we will find new life.  And it insists that by opening ourselves to strangers…we will see more and more of the holy, since, without exception, all people are one body:  Gods.”

Sara Miles’ story is compelling, partly because she breaks all the rules, partly because she can name what happened to her. But, most profoundly she can name the salvation, the liberation that is brought about by following in the way of Jesus.   

  When we believe this message of liberation, it is taking the place of fear, of that unclean spirit that is part of all of us.  With God’s reign fully present, we don’t need to hold on to the fear any more.  Something better and more sustaining is exorcising that spirit. 

And when we believe, we know that letting go of that fear is a journey we take, on a path which we do not see clearly.  It leads us to the waters of baptism, and from there—who knows. Perhaps the desert, perhaps the church.  Maybe to the food pantry, or to the street, or to our neighbors.  There is no certainty, but there is the holy presence of God, leading and sustaining us.

When we lay down the fear, those demons—unclean spirits—whatever you want to call them—can be exorcised, and we experience the terrifying liberation of Christ. 

I understand what scared that unclean spirit that day in the temple.  This journey of discipleship is not safe or clear nor does it make a lot of sense.  Holding on to the fear can feel safe than jumping into the unknown.  But we hold onto the promises today that love is stronger than fear, and that discipleship is freedom.  

AMEN.  

Published 07 February 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

John 1: 6-8, 19-28

December 11, 2011

This season of advent, our theme is “holy interruptions”.  We’re paying attention to the ways that God has been breaking into our lives.  We’re adjusting the receiver on our God antennas a little bit, doing some fine tuning.  We’re waiting,  listening, and anticipating. 

          There’s something funny about Advent.  It seems like a bit of a trick for us to live in a culture that speeds up for Christmas, while here at church we are slowing down for advent.  It seems like an impossible task, to manage both worlds.  There are some Advent seasons where I feel like I’m stretched beyond what my intellect and spirit can handle.  Get all those things you need for the holiday, but slow down.  Finish that “to do” list, but don’t worry about it. Get it done, but let it all go. 

         Sometimes it is the tension of living in both worlds—the world of advent waiting, and the world of holiday bustle—that is our December challenge.  So, I’m not going there this morning.   I’m not going to tell you to breathe deeply, to be reflective, to listen for God.  I’m not going to tell you any stories about the power of yoga help you.  That was the sermon from two weeks ago.

          I’m going to ask you to think about Advent completely differently this week.  I want you to think about advent today as a time of action.  A time to get to work, to task ourselves with the holy role of interruption.

         

          But, first I have a confession to make.  I don’t like to preach from the gospel of John.  Some of us have favorite gospels.  I personally like Matthew, Mark and Luke for their own reasons.  Mark—the gospel we’ll be focusing on for much of 2012—is a no-frills, factual reporting of what happened.  Matthew involves angels, and relies on the Jewish geneology to connect Jesus to his messianic role.  Luke is written to speak more to a greek audience, and focuses on social justice and reciprocity. 

          Because I love the transformative power of stories, I love the first three gospels.  But, John is not so much of a storyteller—at least not in the traditional biblical storytelling kind of way.  He frames the world as being engaged in a cosmic struggle between a heavenly world and a world of flesh, not unlike the advent world vs. the holiday bustle.  Very dichotomistic, either/or language, which I also tend to find difficult.  So, when John came around in this week of advent, I was a little worried.  What is there to say about John’s writing? 

          But, the gospel of John does engage us with a crucial—though awkwardly placed—story in the first chapter.  After the beautiful poetry of John 1—“In the beginning was the word and the word was with God, and the word was God”, and “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkenss did not overcome it.”—after the most poetic introduction to any book of the Bible ever, the gospel writer does not go to talk about Jesus.  The first person the gospel writer talks about is John—here called not “John the baptist”, but “John the witness.” 

          And what do we hear about John here?  He was sent by God to testify to the light.  But he was not the light.  John came into the world to point to the light. 

          Those around John the witness couldn’t help but look at him—the man looked edgy, and subversive, and he was eating bugs and honey.  The transition in the story of John is kindof jarring too.  We go from thinking about the word being God, to the light shining in the darkness, and then John the witness gets plopped down in the middle of this conversation.  It reminds me of the children’s book, Harold and the Purple Crayon.  There’s a blank page, and then, there’s Harold on a blank page.  John is plopped down in the middle of the darkness, not as a light, not as an antidote to the darkness, but as a pointer towards the light. 

And then John the witness gives his testimony when asked by the priests and Levites, “who are you?”  And the answer is directly from the prophet Isaiah.  “I am the voice crying out in the desert—in the dark, wilderness—make straight the way of the Lord.”  John the witness didn’t say anything new.  He said what the prophets had been saying for hundreds of years. 

Here in the season of Advent, John the witness gives us a clarifying message.  Yes, we are to watch, of course we are to wait.  But, we are also called to prepare the way.  Make the paths straight.  Point to the light.

That is a call to action.  In advent.  But it is also a word of comfort.  We are not the light.  We are not God.  We just point in God’s direction.  But there is a kind of action and activity happening there.  While we wait for God to be fully present, while we look for God among us, we make straight.  We prepare. 

Perhaps this gives permission for those worker bees among us to keep at it.  And, it’s a reminder for those of us who are more comfortable in the waiting and watching, that our waiting and watching are active things.  It is a reminder that we need to flex both of these muscles at the same time. 

The day after Thanksgiving, the city of Philadelphia handed out eviction notices to Occupy Philadelphia, notifying the residents that they had to leave their encampment at city hall by 5 pm that Sunday, or they would be removed.

The Interfaith Clergy group called on Philadelphia pastors to go to City Hall on Sunday evening, to stand as a witness and reminder that we are called to the way of peace. So, my pastor friend, Steve, and I headed downtown, each of us wearing symbols of our call and our role. 

When we got there, we were relegated to the edges of the event, and that was OK. We were observers, not participants.

It so happened that the Eagles played (and lost) that night, and when the Eagles football game let out in South Philadelphia, we saw more movement around the Occupy Philadelphia encampment. Disappointed sports fans were coming up from the subway and were streaming into the square. Many were intoxicated. A few were very angry with the Occupiers.

One group of young men concerned me right away. I heard them making plans to pick a fight with the protestors, to get themselves on the news. They were convinced that by doing this, they would be hometown heroes.

I watched them scheme, and as I did, I stood up and looked directly at them. And as they moved toward the Occupiers, I continued to try to catch their eyes.  And then, distracted by police activity at the other side of the square, I lost track of them.

I found the young men again, because they approached me. They were large, muscular, intoxicated guys, and I’ll be honest, I was scared of them. I forgot my own role until one of the men extended his hand to me and said,

“Sister, I don’t need forgiveness or absolution. I just need you to know that I’m about to do something you aren’t going to like. You can’t change my mind. But I’m probably going to say and do some things you don’t want me to do.”

I stuttered and stumbled over my words. “Uh. OK. Please be safe. Please be safe.”

And then, they disappeared into the crowd again.

Several minutes later, the young men returned. “We blame you for this, Sister. We couldn’t go through with it, because you were standing there … watching…waiting.”

These men weren’t much different than the protesters. These men had all been unemployed at some point during the recession. Dave, an experienced electrician, said that if the Occupy movement started last year when he was out of work, he may have been out there with them.

Steve and I listened, laughed and shared stories with these new friends.  We stood on the steps of city hall with these men, between the Occupy Philadelphia protestors and the police on the street. And by our very presence, we discovered that we were pointing the way toward God. 

We certainly didn’t intend to go to the protest, clothed in perverbial camel hair.  We didn’t intend to be anything more than watchers.  We were feeling very human that night—as waves of emotion rolled over us, emotions ranging from fear to anger to joy and laughter.   Steve and I had no idea at the time, but in our standing and waiting for something to happen, we were pointing the way. 

I share this story with some hesitancy, recognizing that anyone who preaches can’t make themselves the hero of their own story.  So, please know that I didn’t feel like a hero that night.  In fact, for much of the night, I felt pretty silly standing there.  I didn’t feel godly, and I didn’t feel like I was pointing towards the light. 

What I discovered standing unwittingly between the protesters and police, and what I hope you are able to hear today, is that even in our Advent watching and waiting, we have opportunities to act, to point the way to the one who does the real work of change—our God. 

The more I reflect on these strange verses from the strange and incomprehensible gospel of John, the more I begin to see the importance of the presence of John the witness in the middle of the poetry of the first chapter of John.  The jarring presence of John the witness reminds us that we are the created, not the creator, but that we have a role.  As we wait, while we listen, we also point, we also prepare, we also make straight. 

This advent season, as we practice the waiting, watching, preparing and making straight, we point to God.  As we re-assess how we spend money during the holidays, as we re-evaluate the place of God in this season—this very radical, counter-cultural act of preparing for advent is an act of preparing and making straight.  It is pointing to God.  We aren’t saying or doing anything the prophets haven’t already said throughout time.  Our very presence in our world is a holy interruption, when in our deliberate work and action, we point to God, the one who intervenes in history, breaks into our lives, and illuminates all darkness. 

Thanks be to God, our Great Light.  AMEN.

Published 11 December 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Mark 13:24-37; Isaiah 64:1-9

A few weeks ago, I was driving Willem to school early in the morning, and he asked me an impossible theological question.  This is the usual time when I get the “Stump Pastor Mom” questions—in the car, where we don’t have to look at each other, kids feel this sense of safety to ask the hard questions. 

On this particular morning, when I was not yet at proper levels of caffination, Willem asked me this question:  “Mom, why did God create free will? 

Free will?  Really?  At 7:30 in the morning?

The question was intriguing to me, but the “why” of the question was of more interest.  “Why do you ask such a thing (so early in the morning)?”

Turns out that what Willem really wanted to know was not why God created it, but why God allows us to do stupid things, to our own detriment?  “Isn’t there a place we get to where God just reaches down and fixes it, so we don’t make such a mess out of things down here?”

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,

That the mountains would shake before you!

As fire kindles the brushwood and makes water boil,

Make your Name known to your adversaries,

And let the nations tremble before you!

When you did awesome things that we could not have expected,

You came down, and the mountains quaked in your presence!

From ages past no ear has ever heard,

No eye has ever seen any God but you intervening for those that wait for you!

Oh, that you would find us doing right,

That we would be mindful of you in our ways!

          The question of a curious 5^th grader is the same question of the Israelites.  “God, when will you open up the heavens, come down, and fix this mess?  We know you can and will intervene—we are waiting for you to do it—now!”

         

This text from Isaiah finds the Israelites in post-exile.  They had been in exile in Babylon (as Ezekial was in last week’s text), but when King Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, he decreed that the Israelites could return to their home—to Jerusalem.

          It sounded like a dream come true—after years of slavery, heading back home is what the people had longed for all these years!  But, that great feeling quickly left when it came time to get to work on rebuilding the city, and restoring the temple, the house of God.  The city was not coming together as some had hoped.  And, the people of God were calling out to God, saying, “Fix this!  Rend the heavens, come down, and make this right!”

          This demand of the Prophet Isaiah also implied something difficult to hear:  That the people of God—the chosen ones—were not feeling the presence of God among them.  They lament that God was not there and begged God to show up, to be present to them again. 

         

          If the Isaiah passage are the questions—Where are you God?  When are you going to intervene?—the Gospel of Mark could be the answer.  The prophet Isaiah called on God to open the heavens, and Mark showed in vivid images what happens when the heavens open up. 

But in those days, after that time of distress, the sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.  Then they will see the Promised one coming in the clouds with great power and glory; then the angels will be sent to gather the chosen from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

            The people of Israel want God to show up in grand fashion, showing God’s power.  But, I wonder if they actually considered what that experience might be like.  A dark sun, pale moon, stars falling from the sky, and the heavens being shaken up, God coming down in the clouds—none of that sounds like the welcome event the prophet Isaiah was hoping for.  It sounds downright terrifying.  It sounds more like God leaving that God arriving.

          No, the apocalyptic God is not what Isaiah is hoping for.  In fact, I think that Isaiah was hoping for quite the opposite.  Isaiah was hoping for a God of order, a God that would straighten up the chaos of post-exilic life, that would solve the problems created by slavery.  Isaiah was thinking pragmatically—come down and solve these problems God! 

          But, take another look at Mark.  The author gives us some more ideas of what it might look like for God to show up:

Stay alert!  You do not know when the owner of the house is coming, whether at dusk, at midnight, when the cock crows, or at early dawn.  Do not let the owner come suddenly and catch you asleep.  What I say to you, I say to all:  Stay Alert!

          Do you catch anything interesting here in this verse? 

The time when God might show up is at dusk (when Jesus and the disciples gathered together to share a meal), at midnight (when Jesus prayed with the disciples and was arrested), when the cock crowed (when Jesus was put on trial and Peter denied him), and at early dawn (when Jesus arose from the grave). 

God showed up in the very middle of the most terrible, awful, sinful moments of life.  In the betrayal and denial, God was there.  In the death, God was there.  And in the resurrection, God was most certainly present. 

It seems that Mark may be giving us a few ideas of how God might show up—in terror and glory, in sin and doubt, right on our doorstep.  And it seems that the coming again doesn’t have to happen once.  It can happen again and again. 

For some—like me—this is a welcome relief.  Because I can be a little dense.  Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on to the fact that God is here—again—in all of God’s glory and big energy, or in the smallest whisper of a moment. 

This week—of all weeks—I resumed my yoga practice.  Now, it’s probably been a good year that I’ve taken a little break from it.  I had another plan, another way that I was going to engage my body in fitness.  And it totally didn’t work.

So, a few months ago, I realized that I needed to get back to yoga.  I began researching places to go, looking at the times of the classes, and getting up the courage to get back to it.  And just when I was ready to go back, I couldn’t find my yoga mat, so I took a few more weeks to purchase  a mat that I liked (ok, the only spec was that it had to be purple), and THEN I was ready. 

So, I went back on Wednesday.  And it started out just awful.  I huffed and puffed through it.  The things I could do a year ago, I just couldn’t do any more.  I kept forgetting to breathe.  I began cursing certain positions that I was being made to hold for endless minutes. 

I was not in a yoga state of mind.  At all.  My mind was fighting with my body.  And losing.

Now, if you have ever attended a yoga class, the instructors are known to throw out nuggets of wisdom in the middle of the class—something about being kind to your body, or gratefulness or something positive.  Sometimes the wisdom feels corny.  Sometimes it’s nice but not necessarily applicable to where you are in that moment.  And sometimes it just smacks you right in the face. 

So, on Wednesday, as I was struggling along and feeling pretty mad at myself and my body for not doing what I wanted it to do, my instructor said this:  Be thankful for where you are right now; don't think about where you'd rather be.  I had to look around to see if she was talking to me directly.  It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.  It brought me to focus and clarity.  And that simple, yoga-style nugget of wisdom got me through the rest of the class.  It was my holy interruption, in the middle of my internal structure. 

This holy interruption did not come in a cloud from the heavens.  There was no atmospheric disturbance.  There was no major life event (besides coming to terms with my physical reality), but it was the interruption that aligned my mental and physical state. 

There are plenty of other holy interruptions that I miss though.  There are many times that my mind and body argue in yoga, and I forget to breathe, and no words of wisdom break through.  There a plenty of times that I’m looking for a detail, while God’s doing a heavenly jig in front of me.  There are plenty of times that I’m looking for the sky to open, and I miss the still small voice. 

This season in advent, we have so many distractions.  Black Friday sales that begin at midnight the day after Thanksgiving, holiday concerts, trees to get and decorate, Christmas cookies to make, cards to order and remember to send, suitcases to pack, travel arrangements to make. 

Expectations are high during this season.  We want things to be perfect.  We want things to go well.  We want nothing to interrupt our schedule or our well organized plans. 

But here, in our time together at church, we have an opportunity.  We can—in our worship together, listen for those places, both big and small, where God is interrupting our lives.  Perhaps God is breaking open the heavens in a big way, and wowing you with glory and terror both. 

Notice it.  Pay attention to what God is saying to you.

Perhaps God is revealing herself to you in small, quiet ways. 

Notice it.  Stay awake.  Pay Attention. 

God did not show up to the people of Israel in the way that the prophet Isaiah asked, but God was present—in the suffering, in the slavery, in messy return to Jerusalem.  God was with them in all of it.  God came to them, again and again. 

Mark reminds us of this in his text today.  God comes in big and glorious ways and in small whispered ways too.  God—our holy interrupter—is present to us, and comes to us in the most plain, and the most unusual of ways. 

Stay alert—Stay awake.  You never know how God is intervening in your life—in our lives—in big and small ways.  AMEN. 

Published 29 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Ezekial 47:1-10, Leviticus 25:1-12, Luke 4: 16-22

In the late 90’s U2 front man—and my personal hero—Bono, lent his voice and his passion to the Jubilee project.  This project was an attempt to get first world countries who lend money to third world nations to forgive the debt, to erase the slate, and to allow these poor nations to make a new start without the crippling debt. 

Bono and others met with world leaders, to try to convince them to cancel debt.  There were some successes with this project.  Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister at the time, publicly expressed his personal support for, and dedication to, debt forgiveness. The United States during the G-7 meeting in 1999 to cancel 100% of the debt that qualifying countries owed the U.S.  Jubilee also lobbied the U.S. Congress to make good on this promise. Congress committed $769 million to bilateral and multilateral debt relief.  It wasn’t 100% debt relief, but it was a start.

I love this idea of Jubilee.  Land returned, debts forgiven, slaves freed—it’s beautiful, and means that the gospel, the message of our holy scriptures, are more than just spiritual.  It has an immediate, justice effect on people than need freedom from financial and physical slavery. 

But as much as I love Jubilee, as much as I respect and honor this part of the levitical code—there’s something important you should know about it—in reality it was never fully practiced.  It has never been fully practiced, at least not to the extent that the levitical code required.  There is no record that anyone ever left all  of their land fallow for a year, or freed slaves from servitude, or forgave debt.  Jubilee is talked about in Exodus and Leviticus, and I see no record that anyone ever practiced this part of the law.  If it was ever practiced, it was a token, a shallow version of the Levetical mandate. 

In fact, no one much talked about this decree in the stories of Jesus.  Pharisees and Saducees instead talked about cleanliness—keeping themselves away from the unclean, and striving to be pure, both inside and outside.  The part of the Levitical code that is about personal purity somehow seems more attainable, and more do-able perhaps than the year of jubilee. 

Plus jubilee meant that one had to give up wealth and status for the sake of the oppressed.  Personal purity instead became a form of status in and of itself. 

The only ones that really talked about jubilee in the Hebrew scriptures were the prophets.  And the only one in the gospels that really talked about jubilee  was Jesus—in fact this is how he began his ministry in the gospel of Luke.  Jesus opened up the scroll in the temple, and read the words of the prophet Isaiah, and declared that in his reading it, the scripture was fulfilled. 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me

Because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

And recovery of sight to the blind

To let the oppressed go free

To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Jesus doesn’t say it explicitly, but he is declaring the jubilee.  Releasing the captives, recovering sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free—this is jubilee.  This is what Jesus came to do. 

Jesus lived a life of Jubilee.  Jesus modeled it.  Jesus showed us how it was to be done, and send us disciples off to make it happen.  But still, Jubilee has not ever been practiced with totality.

Rather depressing to think about.  And this has shattered my view of jubilee.  I always thought the Isrealites accomplished the laws set out by God.  I always thought of the Levitical code as the laws that the Isrealites put into action, rather than ideals that they held up, but never really observed.

So then, why do we talk about jubilee?  Why do we social activist types hold up this jubilee concept, yet never practice it?  Why do the Israelites tout this law, yet never put it fully into practice?

Which brings me to the text from Ezekial. 

If Bono is my rock star hero, Ezekial is my prophet hero. Ezekial, a member of the priestly class, was sent into exile by the Babylonians.  The Babylonians thought that if they got rid of the leadership the people of Israel, then the people would be more easily controlled.  So Ezekial was sent into exile.  He went from being a leader among the Jews to being a common laborer, losing both status and prestige. 

Ezekial tried to understand why this had happened.  Where does the blame lie—what have the Israelites done to deserve this?

It is unclear whether he was a performance artist prophet or skitzaphenic, or smoking something trippy.  Regardless, Ezekial has many visions regarding what is happening to the Isrealites.

Ezekial described God—as a spirit of glory and terror both.  He described this glory and terror—this kavod—as a spirit that has left the temple.  God was so disgusted with the people of Israel that God just left.  God had enough and left. 

Of course God does come back to God’s temple.  The temple is renewed as a place of hope and life.  And it culminated in this glorious vision of what the temple—what the church--can be. 

In his vision, Ezekial was led through the temple, a temple where water flowed from its center.  Outside the temple, the water flowed, first ankle deep, then knee deep, then waist deep.  The water was so deep that it was over Ezekial’s head .

Then Ezekial was led to the bank of the river, where he saw trees that were lush and thriving, and producing fruit.  In this river, people could fish, and eat from what they caught.  This river was full of fresh water and flowed to water that was stagnant, and it gave that stagnant water new life. 

This was a beautiful vision of what the house of God—the place of worship—could be.  And it inspires me.  What if the church was this place—what if Germantown Mennonite was a stream of new life that turned into a deep river of life that ran over our threshold, into the parking lot and down Washington Lane?  What if this water flowed from there down to the wissahickon, and made that dirty undrinkable water clean again?  What if that water that flooded from our doors made it possible for people to eat, not just one meal, but to eat in a sustainable way? 

This vision of the church gets me very excited!  It gets me far more excited than the jubilee texts.  Not that they are any different.  They both are calling for the people of God to be people of liberation.  They both seem rather unattainable.  How can we possibly bring about Jubilee?  How can we possibly create a church that is a source of liberation and life, from which clean waters flow?

What excites me about the Ezekial text is that it is the gospel—in this middle of this prophet’s possibly drug induced vision is a declaration that prisoners are free, that the captives are released.  In the middle of the Hebrew Scriptures is the image of what it looks like if we practice jubilee. 

Ezekial is not telling us—this is the law.  You must give money to make this vision happen.  Ezekial is not saying that God says you’d better tithe, God says you’d better give up all your wealth.  The prophet is showing us what it looks like when we participate in the vision.  He’s showing us in this beautiful, rich, elaborate vision what we can be as the people of God, participating in the vision with all that we have.

I like Jubilee.  But, I have some trouble with the idea that Jubilee is law.  It’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do.  And I know that I’m not the only one here with this stubborn streak.  I don’t want to be told that I must, I need to know the why.  I want to see the reason for following—for following this law, for following Jesus.  Perhaps this line of thinking sounds stupid to you, but I need to know why it’s important.  Why is it important that I follow the law of God, written thousands of years ago?

The prophet shows us this vision in Ezekial—when we all loosen our grip on the material, and share our resources—in this particular image, we are sharing with the church—we begin to see that church can be a place that is more than just paying for a building, or buying Sunday school materials, or paying the pastor’s salary.  Sharing our resources with the church is sharing in a vision that together God’s people will be nourished.  Together the captives will be released.  Together all we come to know the saving grace of God, not just intellectually, but spiritually and physically.  Because we share our resources with this community, this place becomes a place of hope and sustaining grace. 

Ultimately this vision of Ezekial is not different than Jesus declaration of what he was called to do.  And that’s not much different from Jubilee.  All of these things are a call to the people of God to share what we have—I share all three of these texts with you today because for each of us these texts appeal in different ways.  Some of us like the trippy vision of the prophet—we need to see that vision of what will be, when we work together.  Some of us need that Jubilee law—the commandment that is so lofty, but that pushes us.  And for others of us, it is important to hear that Jesus declare this vision to be so—in the reading of the word.  And as his diciples, we share in that vision.

Whatever the reason that we give, we give so that the grace of God is shared—in word and deed.  Let us hold to this vision—as unattainable as it might seem—as we look towards the future of the church. Let us hold on to this vision as we consider carefully how we share our resources with our church.  Let us hold on to this vision, as we—the disciples of Jesus—seek the kingdom of God with all that we have.

AMEN.  

Published 21 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)