John 15:9-17

You all might know that I have a love for yoga—a love which borders on obsession.  A couple of times a week I head up to a yoga studio in Mt. Airy for an hour of breathing, stretching and posing in various pretzel-like positions.  Perhaps it seems like a strange way to spend my time, but it is a lifeline for me—a way to get through my busy week. 

Unlike the other parts of my day, that hour is my most focused.  I am not thinking about the sermon I’m working on, or the tasks on my “to do” list.  I’m not distracted by the sound my phone or computer makes when I get an email or text message.  The only think I’m thinking is “breathe.” 

It’s when I’m not breathing properly that I get distracted.  Breathing in yoga practice is different than regular breathing.  In our daily life, our breath is usually shallow, using only a part of our lungs.  Yoga breathing fills the belly, the lungs the shoulders—the entire chest cavity.  The breath in is slow and full, and the breath out is as slow as the breath in.  And with every breath, there is another movement—another yoga pose—connected with it. 

This breathing and moving together creates a focus, a unity between the breath and the action, the body and the mind.  And, somehow, it creates a space where distraction is a little less possible. 

I used to joke that my hour of yoga was the only time in my day that I willingly obeyed anyone.  I don’t joke about it anymore—It is a truth for me.  I internally fight every instruction I’m given, every demand, every responsibility thrust on me—I think that is the curse of human nature.  I whine and complain to myself about what I know I must do.  But, in yoga, there’s no conflict, no back and forth.  If you can’t do something that’s asked of you, you just get down on the mat and rest.  And that rest is obedience to your body.  It’s listening to your body’s demand to stop. 

But that rest doesn't mean that you are interrupting your yoga practice.  That resting on the mat is active.  There on the mat you regain your breath, you breathe deeply, staying present, remaining—abiding—in focus and in breath.

This morning’s text from the gospel of John is all about abiding—in love.  This section of the gospel of John is part of Jesus’ farewell passages, his final words to the disciples before he leaves them bodily. 

There are three key concepts in this passage we must address—love, obedience and sacrifice.  And these are themes that keep coming up in the gospel of John. 

Let’s start with what seems like the easiest one—love.  Jesus says, “God has loved you, I love you.  Remain, abide in my love.  And this is how you’ll do that.  Live on in my love by following my commandment.  Just as I have lived on in God’s love and followed God’s commandment.  And this is my commandment—and notice here that there is just one (unlike the 10 commandments, or the hundreds of laws in Leviticus)—love each other, in the same way I have loved you.” 

Love and obedience are intertwined here.  To love is to obey—to follow the commandment of Jesus.  To obey is to love each other.  These two things go hand in hand.

Jesus goes on to spell out what it means to love each other.  Love is laying down your life for a friend.  This is a new and subtle turn in Jesus’ theology in the gospel of John.  In John 10, Jesus says this:  “I am the good shepherd.  A good shepherd would die for the sheep.  The hired hand, who is neither shepherd or owner of the sheep, catches sight of the wolf coming and runs away…..I am the good shepherd.  I know my sheep and my sheep know me…and for these sheep I will lay down my life. 

Now, as Jesus prepared to leave to leave his disciples in John 15, he made the incarnation—the God with us and in us—the disciples’ responsibility too.  “You are my friends, if you do what I command you.  I no longer speak of you as subordinates (or sheep) because I have made known to you everything I have learned from Abba God.”  You already know what I know.  “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friend.”  Jesus moves from talking about the disciples as sheep in chapter 10 (small, fluffly, mindless creatures), to talking about the disciples as dear friends and companions on the journey in chapter 15. 

I have to admit—It’s kind of a disappointment to break down this text.  Remain in my love, Abide in my love.  It sounds so beautiful—romantic even—doesn’t it?  So peaceful and tranquil.  We don’t have to do anything except remain in love. 

Except that when we break it down, love is active.  Love is a verb.  And more than being a verb, it is a commandment—our only one from Jesus in this passage from John.  It requires that we give something of ourselves.  It requires a sacrifice on our part.  This sacrificial love is not unlike the love that goes into bearing children and raising them.  It’s a love that comes with physical and emotional pain. There’s the pain of childbirth, the pain of the unknown as you wait for your child in the adoption process, the pain of having your kids mad at you, watching them suffer, knowing that sometimes they have to experience life’s hard lessons without your guidance.  And this is something we parents do willingly.  Moms willingly allow their bodies to be distorted through pregnancy.  Parents forego sleep in favor of feeding or comforting their child in the middle of the night.  Parents sacrifice nice things, jobs with better pay, opportunities, and relationships because of this being they are raising up. 

That is the same kind of sacrificial love God has for us.  That’s the love of the good shepherd who would willingly give up her life for us.  That’s the love of Jesus who allowed himself to be silenced in death by state execution.  That’s the love Jesus is instructing us to have for each other. 

Abide, remain, be fully present in a love that asks for everything, but brings us to a fuller, deeper understanding of God that—according to Jesus, is joy in its fullness.  There is substance to this love.  And it requires all of us.  It requires us to follow, to live into the one thing Jesus asked us to do, the one thing on which Jesus was singularly focused—love.

 But how do we get to this abiding in love state?  How do we get to the place where we are following the command of Jesus to love, where we are being fully present in the love of God?  It seems like an impossible state to obtain. 

In my yoga practice, when I think at the beginning of class about getting myself into a half wheel position, I am sure I can’t do it.  (Half wheel is a difficult position. It is where you are laying on your back with your knees bent, and you put your hands beside your ears, and push up into a rainbow shape.)  In fact, if I was to try the position at the beginning of class, I wouldn’t be able to do it.  I have to work myself into it.  I have to practice breathing for an hour, I have to warm up my muscles, and I have to get into the rhythm of breathing deeply, of filling my lungs fully, then releasing the air slowly.  I have to practice.  But when, at the very end of class I get the chance to do a half wheel, I am focused and stretched, and it is pure joy to push my body into the air, and allow it to do the thing I never thought was possible for this out of shape body, that’s been distorted by childbirth.

So it is with abiding in God’s love—we have to keep practicing it.  We have to practice loving God and loving each other.  We have to breathe in the love of God fully into our spirit, and breathe out the love for our neighbors.  These things must be a constant in our lives.  And with practice, we can do together what we never thought was possible.  

Looking across the room, we see our brothers and sisters in Christ.  Some of you have worshipped with each other for a long time, some for not so long.  Some people in this congregation may be easy for you to love, some take a little more practice, a few extra deep breaths, to help make that love possible. 

Every Sunday we gather together for an hour or so of worship.  We sing, we pray, we share our joys and sorrows, we eat.  We practice abiding in love.  This is our yoga studio, or our love studio.  This is our chance to practice abiding in love, being fully present in love.  But we don’t just sit and revel in it—this is an active love.  It requires continued practice.  So we take it with us when we walk out the doors of the church, and we practice this abiding in love with our neighbors.  Even though they are too loud, or leave trash on their sidewalk, or their kids pick our flowers.  We abide in the love of God and love each other.  And when we can’t love any more, we rest on the mat, still breathing in God, regaining our focus, and we try again. 

We are Easter people.  We are resurrection people.  This makes the commandment to love a little less terrifying because we have already begun to abide in love.  We’ve read the stories of the witnesses to the resurrection.  We've shared our own stories of hope and resurrection.  We are abiding in love.  We are working towards being fully present to the love of God as we love each other.  As impossible as it might seem.  We keep on breathing, we keep on loving…

AMEN. 

Published 16 May 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Witnesses to the Resurrection

Luke 24:36b-48

April 22, 2012

                This week I meet with some other ministers in Northwest Philadelphia.  We gather every month to talk about what’s happening in our congregations, to reflect on our faith traditions, and share our stories.  This week, we talked about a book that a local pastor had written about the story of Jonah.  He talked about his process of researching the work of a 16^th century reformer and this reformer’s understanding of the four chapter book of Jonah.  One thing he stressed was that the way we understand words in the 21^st century were not necessarily the way the 16^th century reformers used the same words.  The words of each generation are imbued with meaning, context, and their own stories.  In reading words written 500 years ago, we must take that into consideration.  That small but significant linguistic point, is—quite often—forgotten.    

          This conversation was on my mind as I read the gospel lesson this week.  The text for this week is full of “spooky stuff.”  Jesus is back—in resurrected form—and the disciples are pretty freaked out by it. 

          The disciples were gathered in this week’s text, and they were talking about how they had just encountered Jesus in their travels. The disciples talked together about how they didn’t realize it was Jesus when they met him on the road, until he broke bread, blessed it, and shared it with them.  Then their eyes were opened and they understood.  And as they were talking, Jesus appeared to them and said, “Peace be with you.”  And scared them about to death.  The text says they were startled and terrified, as if they’d seen a ghost. 

          If you’ve ever had one of those moments where you think you’ve seen something that you are pretty sure is not there—it’s terrifying.  And a little embarrassing.  Because rational minds do not believe in the spooky stuff.  To say that it happened to you, that you saw something you weren’t supposed to see, is to risk folks thinking that you are not all there.  Or that you are terribly impressionable.

          But all of them in that room saw Jesus just appear and heard him say those strange words of discomfort, “Peace be with you.”

          Jesus must have sensed that the disciples were trying to decide if this was really happening to them, because Jesus said to them, “Look at my hands and feet—it’s really me!  I’m not a ghost—I’m flesh and bones.  This is really happening.” 

          And while the disciples were happy to see Jesus, they were still skeptical.  So Jesus asked for something to eat, and he ate it in front of them, as if to prove that he was not a ghost.  And he talked with them, and connected the dots.  He told them why his death happened, and what it meant.  He helped them understand. 

          Jesus finished up by saying “You are witnesses to these things.” 

So many words have taken on new, unintended meanings in our culture.  Sin, for example, has become a matter of personal piety—something, or someone to avoid—rather than communal failings.  Sin has become more about law than relationship.

          There are some words in this text that bother me.  The last sentence is most troublesome.  Jesus says, “You are witnesses to these things.”  That last sentence sounds like I have to do something really uncomfortable —like hand out chic tracts on the street, like stand on a box in the middle of downtown Philadelphia and declare that everyone was going to hell unless they believe.  Witness.  Witnessing has come to mean that we must pound people over the head with the “good news”.  At a certain point, after being pounded repeatedly on the head, the news is no longer good.  The news hurts and is quite unwelcome.  Witnessing does not speak to the person’s needs—I’ve seen the witness become hurtful and judgmental. 

          This is what “witness” has come to mean in the Church. 

          And because we progressives have seen the destructive results of that kind of witnessing in the church, we’ve decided to reject the whole notion.  We’ve decided to not witness at all.  Not tell the story.  We’ve decided that we were going to stop doing anything that remotely looks or sounds like anything related to this bad thing—witnessing. 

          But this is not what Jesus is talking about.  We are not taking our bibles and banging them against people heads.  We are not insistent that we know the whole truth, or that “this is the way it is.”  We are simply saying what we’ve seen.  That is quite different from the certainty of street preachers and the condemnation of chic tracts. 

          So, what is it that we are seeing?  What do we see that says to you—God is here.  God has made God’s self known to us.  Christ is alive!

          On Good Friday, I attended an interfaith service commemorating all the victims of gun violence in Philadelphia this year.  While we remembered the death of gun victims, we remembered the death of Jesus, who also died violently. 

          This is the second year I’ve gone to this service and I’ll confess that I do not it.  It’s hard to go because there are always counter demonstrator that do all they can to break up the peaceful gathering.  Last year, they hired an ice cream truck to come and play the ice cream truck music while we prayed and sang and mourned.  It was very clever, I thought.  But really distracting. 

          This year, the counter protestors decided to turn their car alarms on at the same time.  It provided a difficult obstacle up against our meager sound system.  But, in the distraction, and in the fear and anger towards the counter protesters, at some point in the gathering, I sensed a calm about our group.  We were focused, prayerful, alert.  It felt as if Jesus had breathed, “Peace be with you” on the community.  We began a little spooked and nervous by what we were seeing around us, but as we prayed, we sensed calm, even as the counter demonstrators screamed and taunted us.  We were empowered to witness to God’s holy peace in the world.  We prayed for a day when God’s peace was fully known, and we began to hope together that it could happen. 

Published 24 April 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

John 20:1-18

April 8, 2012—Easter Sunday

As people of the book, we believe in the power of stories.  We have experienced the power of transformative stories in lent, as we talked about the cross, and as the cross became personal for many of us.  We heard Jay Burkholder talk about the experience of making this cross, which showed up unexpectedly last week.  We heard Ken White talk about the cross, with its embracing arms.  Katie Ernst described the cross as a reminder of God’s familiarity with our pain—but she did not let God off the hook.  She lingered with many doubts about God and God’s power. 

          Lent was a time for us to reflect on the cross, examine its meaning in our story.  But, thankfully, with the stripping of the table and its new symbols in place, lent is over, and we are reminded that this story does not end with the cross.  The cross was the confusing, low point in the story.  Today, and for the next 50 days of Eastertide, we celebrate the empty tomb.  We celebrate the resurrected Christ. 

       How do we get from the cross to the resurrection?  I wish it were as easy as just switching around a few symbols.  How do we get from death to life, from abandonment to hope?  It’s hard to switch gears, to move from the reflective and the penitential to the rejoicing, praising, and boisterous song singing that we rightly do today. 

          In our story from the gospel of John, three characters made the transition—from the cross to the resurrection—in three very different ways.  Mary came to the tomb early that morning to pay her respects, and when she discovered the tomb was empty, she ran to tell the other disciples.  Later, after she returned to the tomb with two of the disciples, Mary sat by the Jesus’ grave, crying.  When Jesus came to her, she didn’t even recognize him, until he called her by name.  “Mary!”  And then the a-ha moment, the moment of realization and recognition.  “Rabbi!”

          Peter and the other disciple, the disciple Jesus loved, heard the news from Mary and ran to the tomb.   The other disciple got there first, but didn’t enter the tomb.  When Peter arrived, he walked fearlessly into the tomb, saw the funeral clothing askew, but we don’t know what he thought about it.  The other disciple came in after Peter, surveyed the scene and understood and believed immediately. 

          We don’t know what Peter thought when he surveyed the resurrection scene.  But the other disciple understood—his eyes opened to the new reality.  And Mary—her response was to assume that someone has taken away the body of Jesus.  But it took Jesus calling her name for Mary to understand what had really happened. 

          I wonder what made it so easy for the beloved disciple to so readily believe, what made it so difficult for Mary, and I wonder why we have no response from Peter.  Why such different reactions from these three disciples? 

          All throughout the gospel of John, Jesus encountered people that were at different places in their faith journeys.  Nicodemus, that rich leader that came to Jesus in the night, had many questions for Jesus about what it meant to be born again.  But Jesus did not judge Nicodemus.  Jesus knew how hard it was for him.  Jesus was simply present, explaining his presence, his light, in the world. 

          Later in John 20, Thomas told his fellow disciples “Unless I see the mark of his nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  And Jesus did not judge.  He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. 

Reach out your hand and put it in my side.  Do not doubt, but believe.”  There was no judgment there.  Jesus met Thomas in his disbelief, and called him to belief, in whatever way Thomas could get there. Even if it meant that Thomas would put his hand in Jesus’ wounds.

All throughout the gospel of John, we meet characters that believe and do not, folks that find it easy to follow Jesus and believe his claims, and those that find it very difficult.  And for all those that were truly seeking, really trying to understand, to believe, and to follow, Jesus showed compassion. 

          Jesus saved his venom for those that were sure they knew the truth, those that had made the law their idol, those that lacked compassion.  Jesus saved his outrage, anger and vitriol for the religious leaders who had lost sight of belief in favor of perfection, in favor of the law.

          But for Mary, Jesus saw her confusion, her disbelief, and he called her by name.  Disbelieving Mary, unsure Mary—she was the one who was called to tell the disciples the good news.  She was the first person that day to really see Jesus. 

And for Peter who—for once—was silent, Jesus gave Peter a most important role.  Peter became the rock of the church.  The church was built on the denial of Peter, the questions and confusion of Peter, this loud and impulsive disciple. 

          So often, I long to be that disciple that Jesus loved, the one that came to the tomb, saw Jesus’ burial gowns eschew, and got it.  I wish it were that easy for me.  I wish I didn’t have the questions of Mary, the doubts of Thomas, and the silence of Peter.  I wish I looked at the world every day and saw the resurrection, and saw the transforming power of God breaking into our world.  Some days all I see is the cross, the brokenness of the world.  And some days that is where the story of Jesus’ life ends for me. 

          I am encouraged today to know that God does not judge our unbelief, that God is not discouraged by our questions.  Instead God keeps calling us and working with us.  And according to this story, the more our unbelief, the more opportunities we have to serve, to follow, to be called. 

         Today we celebrate the resurrection—we rejoice that death could not hold Jesus in the cold tomb.  Today we sing, and rightly so—Christ is alive, Up from the grave he arose, Lift your Glad voices in triumph on high.  We sing because we believe in the resurrection.  We sing, even though we have doubts.  We sing and pray, through our questions, our wondering, our silence.  And God honors that. 

Blessed are you, people of the resurrection.  Blessed are you in your doubts and questions, in your misgivings and confusion.  Blessed are you, people of the resurrection.  For in your doubts, God calls you by name.  In your silence, God works with you.  In your belief, God rejoices.  Blessed are you, people of the resurrection.  Rejoice and be glad!  You are being transformed by this story!  Christ is alive, and God will reveal God’s self to you, in your belief and in your unbelief.  AMEN.  

Published 09 April 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

March 25, 2012

John 12: 20-33

Both of my kids like to wear hoodies. I’ve never really understood the hoodie thing—I’m more of a hat and scarf person myself.    But they wear them like they are a uniform.  In fact, because the winter was so mild, most days in the last few months, they’ve been able to wear hoodies without even a coat. 

I’ve been glad for the beautiful and warm weather this week, but mostly glad to get rid of those hoodies.  Not because I don’t like them, but because they have begun to represent the story of Trayvon Martin. 

This 17 year old black child was walking to the home he was visiting on February 26th, after going to the store for a bag of skittles and a soda.  On his way back, he was followed by a man.  Trayvon was on the phone at the time, and told his friend that he was scared.  She told him to run.  He didn’t. 

Trayvon was killed by George Zimmerman—a member of the neighborhood watch.  George called 911 to report a person who looked suspicious—a kid in a hoodie.  The authorities said they would take care of it, and told George not to follow this suspicious, hoodie wearing character.  But George did not listen.  George followed Trayvon, and confronted him. 

Trayvon was shot and killed for looking suspicious. 

I was talking to a friend this week who was lamenting that this case had become such a big deal.  “There are plenty of kids who get shot on the streets of Philadelphia, because they are standing on drug corners,” he said.  “When do we grieve them?”  And while this is true, the harsh reality is that we see those kids on the corners as bad.  They had weapons.  They were selling drugs.  They were mixed up with the wrong crowd.  And we don’t say it like this but that kind of thinking leads us to:  they deserved it. 

What is so hard about this case of Trayvon Martin is that there is nothing to even indicate that he deserved it.  He wasn’t doing drugs, selling drugs, he didn’t have a weapon (unless you consider a bag of skittles a weapon).  He was a good kid, who looked suspicious to a renegade neighborhood watchman with a gun. 

Our gospel text today comes from John.  Jesus is talking to his disciples, Philip and Andrew, but just like last week’s text where Jesus talks to Nicodemus, it certainly feels like Jesus it talking more to all of us than to just Philip and Andrew. 

There are some gospel accounts where Jesus seems a little clueless about what he is going to happen to him—that he will die at the hands of the powerful, the weapon-clad.  Or in another gospel account, he seems like he is understanding it slowly over the course of his ministry.  But here, in the gospel of John, Jesus seems pretty clear of his fate all along.  He is living out his call to discipleship, and he knows it will kill him.

And here in the gospel of John, Jesus is also pretty clear that he will not be asking to be saved from his fate.  Jesus says in this passage of John, “Now my soul is troubled.  And what should I say—Abba, save me from this hour?  No.  It is for this reason that I have come to this hour.  Abba, glorify your name.” 

Unlike other gospels where Jesus asks God to spare him from death and suffering, Jesus in the gospel of John is clear.  Jesus was born human, and will die, human.  Jesus does not expect that God will save him from his humanity. 

Jesus’ death is because the word became flesh and dwelt among us.  Just like all flesh, there is a time for it to die.   “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” 

It feels to me like Jesus has an awful lot of faith in humanity.  More than I can muster most days.  Jesus believes here—without hesitation or pause—that his death will cultivate the earth and bear fruit, his death will matter, that his death will bear fruit that will feed and sustain others.

After the story of Trayvon Martin hit the news these last few weeks, my friend, Chaz Howard, the African American chaplain at the University of Pennsylvania, shared his experience of growing up black and under suspicion.  He writes this in a recent Huffington Post article: 

As a high school student driving with my friends in the predominantly white neighborhood our school was in, we were pulled over because we "looked suspicious." Walking around the university in which I was enrolled, I was stopped by the police there because I "looked suspicious." Perhaps most painfully, while I was enrolled in seminary studying for the ministry, I was walking back to campus one evening when a local policeman stopped me, made me put my hands on my head and kneel on the ground because "there had been a lot of car thefts lately and I "looked suspicious."

I am Trayvon Martin. And anyone who has been stopped, profiled and questioned because they didn't seem to belong in an area or they looked like they might be planning to do something illegal -- when they were not -- is Trayvon Martin too.

I feel such anger about the death of Trayvon.  I’m angry that my friend, Chaz—one of the most compassionate and kind people I know, experienced the same fear that Trayvon did. 

This is why people have worn their hoodies this week.  It’s a tricky protest for many of us—we are mostly white and educated folk.  Wearing hoodies doesn’t quite help us understand the fear that Trayvon experienced the day of his shooting.  Wearing a hoodie doesn’t mean we relate to the fear of coming under suspicion, that Chaz and so many other man of color have experienced.  But, it is an act of solidarity, heading towards empathy.

The experience of Trayvon and others is something that Jesus understood.  He knew what it was like to be under suspicion, he knew that his life would end in tragedy.  He knew that he be killed, and that his death would be supported by law.

Published 27 March 2012 - 2 comments (View/Post Comments)   

John 3: 14-21

March 21, 2012

The cross is unraveling. 

This cross behind me is literally falling apart.  Colin, along with Julia and Willem, worked really hard to get geometric origami cross together as our worship focus.  We wanted to put it up without tape or clips—just a little fishing wire.  How naive we were!  After hoisting this cross up with fishing wire we realized that the cross was coming apart.  There were places on this structure that could not hold the weight of the rest of the structure.  So, we tried to hold it together with a little clear tape.  

But when I came in on the first Sunday morning of lent the cross had slid down the fishing line, so I tried to hoist it back up, but when I did, the straining paper structure began to unravel.  It seemed like every time I put tape on something, another piece would come apart. 

So I finally stopped trying.  Colin and I got it to a certain place a few weeks ago, and decided that we weren’t going to tape any more.  If it unraveled, it unraveled. 

          This pastel cross—our Lenten focus--has become a metaphor for me.  This cross, so lovingly handmade by people in the congregation is just coming apart, as are our ideas about what the cross means.  Perhaps, as we delve into one of the most well known scriptures out there, we’ll see this cross completely unravel right in front of us.

          These verses—particularly the famous John 3:16 have become mocked by society, especially because of the one guy at every football games that holds up the “John 3:16” sign.  I still don’t understand how that helps to promote the gospel, that guy is pretty convinced that by holding the sign, he is saving souls—that when people see his sign, they’ll  google this verse, and saying it out loud, their salvation procured—just like that.

          This year, John 3:16, got some added press from football quarterback, Tim Tebow. He’s been known to write “John 3:16” on the black stuff football players put under their eyes.  And this year, in a football game against the Steelers, the Bronco’s Quarterback ran 316 yards, and averaged 31.6 yards in completion.  Now I don’t know what any of that means, but it meant something to Tebow and his fans.  His football celebrity was a way to get the gospel out there. 

          This verse alone carries a lot of heaviness and guilt with it.  For God so loved the world that God gave us Jesus, God’s only son, so that whoever might believe in Jesus will have eternal life.  Implied in that verse for some is the suffering and death of Jesus, and the threat that not believing might make Jesus’ death a waste. 

          In fact, intrinsic in Mel Gibson’s recent movie, The Passion of the Christ, is this same message.  Jesus did all this for you.  You have to believe.  Or else.  Or else…darkness, death, hell. 

          In looking again this week at this famous verse,  I looked for signs of God’s judgement and anger in this passage, and I couldn’t find it.  All I could find was my own baggage around this verse, and perhaps some residual cultural baggage.

          And to focus soley on John 3:16 misses some of the most beautiful, elegant and grace-filled parts of this John passage. 

          So, let’s look at John 3, Verses 16 and 17—together, they go like this:  “God so loved the world as to give the only Begotten One, that whoever believes may not die, but have eternal life.  God sent the Only Begotten into the world, not to condemn the world, but that through the Only Begotten the world might be saved.” 

Martin Luther once said, “If I were the Lord...and these vile people as disobedient as they now be, I would knock the world into pieces.” 

Thankfully God chose Love.  And thankfully Martin Luther was not God.  God loves humanity.  God loves us in our imperfection, our destructive tendencies, our idiocy.  God loves us enough to give up a piece of God’s self.  God loves us enough to try to understand us better. 

Notice here that it does not say, God loves us enough to kill Jesus.  That’s not the sacrifice John is talking about here—instead God loves us enough to try to get closer to us, to try to relate to us more personally, to break down the barriers between us and God. 

And God did this so we can have eternal life—this eternal life, according to language scholars, isn’t so much about duration.  It’s about quality rather than quantity.  It’s not about the length of one’s life, but the kind of life one chooses.  It is both present and future.  It is the reign of God, the here and not yet. 

Essentially, God gave up a piece of God’s self for relationship.  With us.  And in return we have an opportunity to see God’s reign—God’s presence—in a new way.   

Published 20 March 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

February 26^th

I Peter 1:18-22

          When Reba was three, and I was just starting back to school, I took her to the seminary where she saw for the first time, a large, graphic sculpture of Jesus, hanging on the cross.  She pointed in horror, and said, “Who is that?” 

“It’s Jesus, honey.”

She replied emphatically, “No, mommy.  That is not Jesus.  Jesus is the baby in the manger.” 

Then, when she realized I was serious about this man hanging in on the cross, she looked at Jesus with great sadness and empathy, and said, “Poor Jesus.  He needs a doctor.” 

It is a funny story that I like to tell about my girl, but it also reminds me of my own discomfort with this part of the story of Jesus.  The image of an infant Jesus, a healing Jesus, a teaching Jesus, or even an angry Jesus in the temple is preferable to the part of the story where Jesus hangs on the cross, in agony, the tragic and unexpected consequence of following God’s call on his life. 

I don’t think my discomfort is especially unusual.  As Mennonites, we don’t tend to focus on the agony of the cross.  We look at the life and teachings of Jesus, and sometimes the resurrection.  But it’s those 24 hours between the last supper and the burial of Jesus that really mystify us.  What do we do with this cross?

          Much of the difficulty with the cross comes from what many of us were taught about the meaning of the cross.  I don’t care if you we were raise Mennonite, Baptist, Catholic or Episcopalian or agnostic—you probably know a little cross theology.  Many of us grew up being told that Jesus suffered and died to save us from the fires of hell.   So, in order to make Jesus’ death have meaning, we must accept the violence, we must carry that weight, that burden of Jesus death. 

          It’s a heavy way to approach the cross, and the suffering of Jesus. 

          The other thing many of us heard was that God required this sacrifice.  Jesus, God’s only Son, had to die to satisfy God’s anger and disgust with humanity.  This makes God seem violent, angry, and mean, spiteful, even detached. 

         These interpretations of the cross and suffering of Jesus make our Anabaptist values feels….murky.  As people of peace, who follow the God of peace, what do we do with what we've been told about God, and God’s violence?  What do we do about God that demands sacrifice in the death of God’s only son, and how has that influenced the way we have looked at the relationship between God and Jesus, and between God and us? 

          I hope you are not here today thinking that this Lenten series on the cross is going to wrap this issue up with a big bow, and we’ll figure it all out.  Oh, I pray that it does, but I’ve been looking at this for a few years, theologians have been studying this for centuries, and this question of Jesus’ death by Roman execution continues to confound the Church.  In fact, if this symbol doesn’t leave you with questions, or cause you to squirm, I would be worried. 

          The problem of Jesus’ death has not been resolved. 

          It took the early Church a few generations to even begin to make sense of Jesus’ death and suffering.  In fact, there were letters and writings about the meaning of the cross, before the story of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, had even been written down.  People were trying to make sense of Jesus’ unexpected death before people knew the whole story of his life. 

          And we continue—two millinia later—to struggle with the meaning of this cross.  Reba was more right than a 3 year old should be when she looked at Jesus, hanging on the cross, and said he needed a doctor.  The image of Jesus has been tarnished, even beaten down, by these destructive ideas of what his death means.  We must continue to heal the wounds of centuries of shame-laden theology about this cross that have been put on our Christian ancestors.  So today, we’ll start with our text in 1 Peter, written to the Church in Asia Minor. 

          The church in Asia Minor was suffering.  This multi-ethnic congregation, attended by both slaves and free people, rich and poor, men and women, were experiencing persecution for their beliefs in this executed and resurrected Jesus.  This letter to the church in Asia Minor was a word of encouragement, hope and strength, in the midst of discrimination and persecution.  This letter was written to let this church know that they were not alone. 

          First Peter has been described as a baptism liturgy, a worshipful, thoughtful approach to this decision we publicly make to follow in the way of Jesus.  This letter called the struggling community to continue to live a holy, ordered life, even in the midst of persecution.

And this is the author’s take on Jesus’ death, even before the first gospel account had been written down.  “For Christ also suffered for sins.  Once.  For all.  The righteous for the unrighteous.  In order to bring you to God.”  The author packs a lot of dangling phrases into that one sentence, as is pretty common in the greek language.  But, it’s an English major’s worst nightmare.  “For Christ also suffered for sins.  Once.  For all.  The righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God.” 

          Christ did indeed suffer for sins.  We know this to be true, from all of the gospel accounts.  Jesus suffered for the sins of silence, of commission, of complacency, of fear, of the empire’s stranglehold on society.  Jesus suffered because the religious and political leaders were afraid and threatened, and the people that loved Jesus did not speak up in his defense.  The goodness, the rightness of Jesus suffered for all those who could not see what God called Jesus to do.  They could not see God’s reign breaking in. 

          But this is where it gets really uncomfortable for us—the author of 1 Peter says that Jesus died to bring you to God.  Forget for a moment how difficult it is for you to hear this—imagine what it meant for this persecuted community to hear this word.  This is a community that may never have heard about Jesus, if it were not for his death and resurrection. This is a community that probably understood the call of discipleship more clearly and more personally because Jesus died. Because of Jesus’ death, these followers of Jesus knew without a doubt that their decision in baptism and confession of faith meant that they too may face the same consequence.  They may also be killed.  They may also suffer.  But they do not do so alone.  The spirit of Jesus was alive and present in this Christian community.  It was inspiring this fledgling church to be strong, to live into the commitment they made at baptism, to follow in the way of Jesus. 

          How ironic that a symbol of the empire’s attempt to squash Jesus’ message is a symbol of hope for this persecuted community, a reminder that Jesus was “put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit.”

          What I hear in this text from I Peter—in this early interpretation of the cross—is not a message of guilt to this struggling community.  They are doing the hard work of discipleship already.  They are suffering for what they believe.  They do not need guilt.  They need hope.  And the author takes this cross—a symbol of empire power to destroy—and turns it upside down.  This is not a symbol of fear, but of hope.  Jesus may have died, but his spirit lives on, and continues to inspire these believers.  And in their baptism, they accept the possibility that this too could happen to them. 

          In 1961, a group of young college students, called the freedom riders—seven black and six white—got on a bus leaving from Washington DC.  Their plan was to ride through Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, ending in New Orleans, Louisiana where a civil rights rally was planned.

The Freedom Riders' tactics for their journey were to have at least one interracial pair sitting in adjoining seats and at least one black rider sitting up front, where seats under segregation had been reserved for white customers by local custom throughout the South. The rest would sit scattered throughout the rest of the bus. One rider would abide by the South's segregation rules in order to avoid arrest and to contact their supporters back home and arrange bail for those who were arrested.  Both of the first teams of Freedom Riders had some trouble on their journey, but the worst awaited them near Birmingham.  There, one group of freedom riders were attacked and beaten.  The other bus managed to escape the depot in Anniston, but not before the tires on the bus were slashed.  The bus made it a few miles out of town, where it finally had to stop.  There the bus was firebombed.  

Published 27 February 2012 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

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? 

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. 

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?”