Free to Serve!

August 30th, 2009

The third part of our mission statement reads: “to share God's love for us through compassionate service to others.” Last week we touched on sharing in the midst of God's love. This week, let us focus our minds and hearts on service, on what it means to serve one another as children loved by a gracious God.

Galatians 5: 13-14; Pew Bible pg. 1815

Prayer: God make yourself known to us through these words. As we continue to listen for your voice, quiet the busyness of our minds, calm the restlessness of our hearts, and soothe the troubles of our souls. Bless my words and our attention with the fruit of understanding. Amen.

One of my football coaches in college loved to condition us. At the end of every practice, we were guaranteed to have some kind of conditioning exercise. This coach would line us up in a particular configuration and tell us to do certain things. Whatever he told us to do, we did. If he said “jump,” we jumped. If he said “hit it,” we fell to our chests. It was like a sick game of “Simon Says”: the conditioning edition.

If we didn't follow his directions exactly, then he would yell “run!” And we would run.

Now this coach was witty and he loved to ensure that we would end up running. Like clockwork, he would shout “jump!” And we would jump as high as we could, only to land and hear him say, “I didn't tell you to come back down!” And then every one of us would have to do what we hated to do: run.... I remember seeing the confused and discouraged looks on each one of the freshman's faces—those poor guys were still trying to figure out how they could levitate.

But we were not free to float, we had to come back down—and the consequence of gravity, according to my devious coach, was a lot of running. And we hated running.

Running felt like a punishment to us. It brought us fatigue, soreness, and thirst—and we were instructed, commanded, to do it. Sure, we knew in the long run we would be better for it; better athletes with more endurance to finish a game. But if you've ever done chores, if you've ever felt that heavy, dread in the pit of your stomach come chore time; then you know how so many of us felt about running. If we could have avoided it, we would have.

I think serving others can feel like a chore sometimes—and, sometimes, maybe even like a kind of punishment. If you've ever served on a church committee you likely know the feeling—meetings, duties, reports... we'd rather be doing something else—something fun, something with friends or family, something for ourselves, something we want to do.

Serving others can feel like a heavy obligation where the duty keeps us focused on what we are doing, on the tediousness of the task, on the effort we are giving, on all the things we are giving up. And the people we are helping, the good we are doing, or the meaning of our work—that all sinks under the weight of our obligation.

And so, serving one another can feel like a pile of stones blocking our path. We treat that pile of stones as a dreaded obstacle, something to be moved so we can get on with the rest of our lives.

The problem may be that serving others doesn't always feel like something we do freely. After all, when we talk about people in prison, we often say that they are “serving time.” Service, then, may bring us a sense of imprisonment to our obligations as a Christian. Service becomes more like a chore our parents told us we had to do “just because.” If we could avoid it, we would.

If only we could proceed unimpeded—to march forward with our lives without the chore of serving others. What a freedom that would be!

Our scripture passage this morning is part of Paul's campaign to proclaim the joys of freedom—but not just any freedom. Paul stands in a rich biblical heritage of freedom that, in the New Testament, centers on the event of Jesus Christ. Paul advanced a gospel of freedom proclaiming that “Christ has set us free” (Galatians 5:1).

Yet, as Paul indicates in verse 13 of our passage this morning, freedom here is not for “the sinful nature;” or, in other translations, freedom is not to be used for “self-indulgence.” In other words, freedom is not doing whatever we please.

As a teenager, I loved to remind my parents that, “as an American, I am free—and that means I don't have to listen to you. I can do whatever I want!” My principled protests often resulted in the exercise of my parents’ freedom to prevent me from driving their car.

But if Paul were to answer my adolescent anger, he would remind me that doing whatever we please is not true freedom. Doing whatever we please is still a captivity to our own desires, desires that are no bigger than our own selves. The Greek word Paul uses, which is translated “sinful nature” in the NIV and “self-indulgence” in other versions, is the Greek word sarx, literally meaning “flesh.” For Paul, “the flesh” is both something about us (like our material bodies and internal desires), and yet also some cosmic force outside us, threatening us.

Paul reminds us in Romans that we are always serving something or someone—its always a matter of what or who. And so our flesh, our sarx is the complement of internal desire and external force commanding us to do simply as we please, without regard for the lives of others.

For Paul, then, freedom is the power to resist both internal desires and the external forces which ask us to do only what we please—to serve ourselves alone. Freedom is the power to overcome a bondage to ourselves that places our own short-sighted desires at the pinnacle of the universe.

One day at football practice, as I watched the track athletes run their umpteenth lap around our field, I remember thinking, “Wow, their sport is our punishment. If I could love running like they do, football practice would be great!” But it is hard to turn something that feels like a punishment into something enjoyable, something desired.

And this is Paul's point—we can't simply change what we love. We need some help. This is precisely the power of Christ—the power to help us overcome our self-indulgence. The power to say “yes” to service, to say “yes” to others, to say “yes” to a life that is beyond just me—a life that is bigger, wider, and truer. With Christ, what we desire, what we love, is remade to include the lives of others, the lives of our neighbors. And choosing a life where our desire is remade with Christ; this is true freedom! It is the freedom, as Paul states, to “serve one another in love”!

The key here is that our heart, through faith in Christ, has changed to include the lives of those we serve, to care for people beyond ourselves, to live in love for the good of all. We are no longer focused on the service, on the duty, on the obligation. We are focused on the people, on the good, on the great meaning of our service in Christ.

And so, as a church, I invite you to consider our calling to “compassionate service.” We are not called to chore-like service. Chore-like service is not grounded in the freedom of Christ, it is grounded in indifference. When service feels like a chore it is because we are focused on the duty, the obligation, the prison of service and we quickly become indifferent to others. Sure, we may know, in our minds, that we are helping others, but our hearts are focused on the chore, on the task, on the obligation. Elie Wiesel writes that “the opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference... The opposite of faith is not heresy, it is indifference. The opposite of life is not death, it is indifference.” With Christ, indifference for others is replaced with a love that drives service toward immense joy.

With Christ, we are freed from a life where service is a chore, to a life where service is a labor of love; a love that leaves our chores in the dust of simple self-indulgence. And in this way who we are grows and enlarges—we find our true selves in a life of compassionate service to one another.
And so we can return, together, to that football field where a conditioning coach barks his orders to “jump!” In mid-air, we find ourselves suspended. The chains of gravity have been severed in this moment of decision. As we hang, we hear the voice of Christ whispering a love into our hearts...

..A love that awakens an energy to run.

When we find ourselves on the ground again, we do not lumber forward under the bondage of punishment. We do not wait for a command to run—rather we strike out on a mission, energized with a love that propels us forward boldly; running with haste in the freedom of Christ. And as we turn to look over our shoulders, to see how we could have defied gravity, we see the only power that could have held us in the air, the only power that could have enlivened this love for others. There, behind us, is Christ elevated upon a cross.

From the cross Christ held us, though only for a moment, still long enough to change our hearts.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

We Don't Get What We Deserve

Michael Swartzentruber
8-23-30

It is a joy to be with you this morning—to worship with you and to preach. I am thankful to have the opportunities this church has afforded me as a student, and for the opportunity to serve you this past summer during the sabbatical. I also look forward to the opportunity that lies ahead, serving as the minister of youth and young adult beginning this fall.

As we have heard these last couple of weeks, we are a healthy community. We are filled to the brim with promise and possibility. God is with us; enduring with us as we continue to live out our faith. Our lay leadership is with us, bringing energy and vision to the transition and transformation of this church. The region and the denomination are with us, providing us with resources and guidance.

On top of all of that, we also have the very subject of our sabbatical to lean on: our mission statement. And so we will be finishing our exploration of the sabbatical this month by focusing on sharing and service. Not to be confused with Sharon Service. Sharing and service.

Our mission statement reads:

We are called to:
welcome people into a loving and caring church family;
equip people with a Christ-centered faith that works in real life;
share God's love for us through compassionate service to others.
We are called to be Community... Christian.... Church.

Our sermon text this morning comes from the Gospel of Matthew. It is a compelling parable for us to consider as we engage what it means to share in God's love. Let us read together:

Matthew 20:1-16

Prayer: God be with us now as we listen together for your voice. Give to us ears to hear and eyes to see. Bless the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts that they may be pleasing unto You, our Rock and Redeemer. Amen.

Turn to your neighbor this morning and say, “We don't get what we deserve.”

We don't get what we deserve... Have you ever experienced something so good, you've had to say to yourself: “What did I ever do to deserve this?” Maybe you were savoring a rich, delicious piece of cake. Or maybe you were looking out over a sparkling vista of water shimmering in the setting sun.

We don't get what we deserve... Have you ever experienced something so terrible, so awful that you've had to say to yourself: “What did I ever do to deserve this?” Maybe you were changing a flat tire in the driving rain on the side of the highway. Or maybe your heart was wrenched by the sudden news of a loved one passing away.

We don't get what we deserve...

I've been told that parenthood is one of those “What did I ever do to deserve this?” kind of experiences. I've been told that seeing your child for the first time, holding her in your arms, or watching him close his eyes as a fragile, trusting infant, is one of the most blessed, beautiful experiences possible—and you have to ask yourself: “What did I ever do to deserve this?” And I've been told, also, that at 3am in the morning, when that same ball of joy is screaming at the top of her lungs and in your sleep-deprived daze you find yourself changing a diaper filled with more infant by-product than is humanly possible; that you also ask yourself: “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

The parable Jesus tells in our Scripture passage this morning brings us to this very question: What do we deserve? Yet it's a strange parable. It challenges our expectations. It's strange and it challenges our expectations because, in the end, work is not given its due—the workers get what they don't deserve.

The laborers who were hired first and worked the whole day were given the same payment as those hired last, only working a short time. If pay is a reward for work, we might reason, then these workers do not deserve the same amount, since they did not work for the same amount of time. Yet that is what they all received, the same amount, a denarius, regardless of the work they did. So it seems the last workers did not get what they deserved—they were given more than what they deserved.

Wouldn't you grumble? If you were hired first and discovered that you had been paid the same amount as those “other guys” who only worked a short time, wouldn't you be upset? I probably would be. Every time I read this story I identify with those first workers who grumble... I'd grumble too.

I'd grumble because I see myself as a hard worker. And I know what hard workers deserve—I know what I deserve. What I deserve is based on another set of stories. These are popular stories of hard work, discipline, and “responsibility.” They are the stories of sacrifice and thinking ahead. They are the stories of rising above our circumstances, no matter how difficult life is. In these stories, if you work hard, make the right decisions, and maintain discipline, then in the end you get what deserve—your just reward.

We've all heard our fair share of these stories. These are stories woven into the fabric of American life. They include rags to riches stories—stories of poor people rising above their lot in life, pursuing their dreams, and finally making it big. They are stories that often capture our imaginations. If you've seen the movie In Pursuit of Happyness you know just how inspiring and gripping these stories can be. A man in the midst of homelessness struggles to care for his son and find a job. He rises above all the adversity that comes his way to receive what he rightly deserves—enormous wealth. His hard work and perseverance pays off in the end.

There are countless other stories: Andrew Carnegie, John Rockefeller, Oprah Winfrey, Jim Carrey, and on and on and on. The focus of these popular stories is the individual, the hard-working, tenacious individual who rises above the odds with unbreakable will power. An article on Forbes.com writes that the majority of the “world's 946 billionaires made their fortunes from scratch, relying on grit and determination, and not good genes.” The article uses terms like “self-made” and “bootstrapping.”1 Anyone can “make themselves,” so the story goes, if they simply use discipline, work hard, and make responsible decisions. You will get what you deserve—you just have to commit and do the work.

I remember an interview several months after the 2008 Summer Olympic Games with 8-time Olympic Gold Medal winner, Michael Phelps. He was promoting his book No Limits.2 When asked if he thought that his Olympic success was repeatable, he proclaimed that “if you put your mind to it, anything is possible.” Even when asked if there was some natural talent he had that would make it truly impossible for just anyone to do what he did, he claimed that anything is possible—you simply have to put your effort and mind into the task.

Good news, you too can be an Olympic swimmer; all you have to do is try hard enough. After all, you will get what you deserve, right? Hard work equals success.

I could list all the freakish natural qualities that make Michael Phelps particularly suited for his task as a swimmer. But focusing on the individual is precisely what stories of Rags to Riches, or Hard Work and Discipline, or Positive Thinking, all seem to do. They focus on the individual and notions that we are “self-made.” Just work hard enough or think positively enough—then you'll get your just desserts.

This brand of individualism and a “you get what you deserve” mentality is one we are all prone to adopt. We are susceptible to it because it saturates popular American culture. We get what we deserve. Successful people deserve their success because they have done the work to be successful.

The flipside of this story is that people who are not successful are then considered with the same mentality. They wouldn't be poor, or a nobody, or unhappy if they had just made better decisions, or done the work, or acted responsibly. They must be lazy. After all, we get what we deserve.

But this is a way of thinking that quickly breaks down—there are things in life we do not totally deserve; there are things in life that come our way that we do not have so much control over that we can simply work hard enough or think positively enough—the “you get what you deserve mentality” operates on a hyper-individualism; it is a kind of individualism where the only person with any power is the individual person. But this is not how the world works. There are things in this life over which we do not have total control. We've all been there, we know.
We don't deserve to be let go because of “the economy”; we don't deserve to lose the people we love; we don't deserve to be abused, or neglected, or discouraged. Sometimes hard work, discipline, and positive thinking simply do not yield the success or the life we expect. We know, we've been there. Sometimes we get what we don't deserve.

And that's what our story from the Matthew opens up for us. Jesus is telling us all a story that shows us we are recipients of something we don't entirely deserve: God's abundant love, God's Grace. Those that have worked long and hard, who have labored doing God's work, and those that have just happened on the scene; all receive God's abundant love, God's Grace.

In the end, the very question, “what did I do to deserve this?” may be the wrong response. We don't make ourselves. We are not self-made. God's generosity makes us. God's abundance makes us. God's love in Christ makes us.

It is easy for us to overlook that the landowner in the parable actually emplowed each of the workers who were all idle at first. The laborers did not make themselves. The landowner helped make each of the laborers who they were—vineyard workers—then rewarded them equally, despite the different situations they were in. So too God helps make us, we are not entirely self-made.

The good news this morning is that no matter where you find yourself in life, you are living with God's Love, Jesus Christ, the one who endured crucifixion on a cross—the one who is present in the depths of what we do not deserve. The good news this morning is also that we are living with Christ in the heights of what we do not deserve, for Christ was resurrected from the grave. God is everywhere we don't deserve because Christ has been and continues to be everywhere we don't deserve to be.

Yes we don't get what we deserve. We get so much more. Thanks be to God. Amen.

1See the June 26, 2007 article by Tatiana Serafin entitled “Rags to Riches Billionaires” at
http://www.forbes.com/2007/06/22/billionaires-gates-winfrey-biz-cz_ts_0626rags2riches.html

2See his interview with Stephen Colbert on The Colbert Report at
http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/213742/december-11-2008/michael-phelps

Equipped for God

7-12-09

We turn now to a famous passage in the New Testament which gives us a peculiar image for Christian living: battle armor.

Ephesians 6:10-20

Pray with me: May the meditations of my heart, the words of my mouth, and the message from this text be made pleasing unto you, O God, and may we be moved to listen, act, and make real Your truth. Amen.

My father came home with a piece of balsa wood and a sharp, curved “Exacto” knife. I was in fifth grade and needed to carve a wooden canoe for a school project. I had desperately tried to begin this project with a piece of fire wood and kitchen knife. But I learned quickly that with a dull instrument and a hard, unforgiving piece of wood that I would likely graduate from high school before my project was completed. So my father stepped in and brought me home some soft, easy wood for shaping; and a sharp, precise knife for whittling. Just the tools I needed.

So, one day after basketball practice, still dressed in my cut-off t-shirt and shorts—well, if you remember the late 80's and early 90's, what I was wearing was probably more like a basketball speedo; I'm glad that trend changed. But there I am, in my athletic apparel, taking up my new piece of wood and this new tool. The work was much easier. The strips of wood were flying off my blade and the balsa wood was quickly forming the curvature of a canoe. Then, I hit a tough spot. A thick, difficult spot in the wood that was not so easy to shape. I had hit many knots in the wood I was using previously, so I knew just what to do. Grit my teeth, hold the knife firmly, and press hard. The knife quickly gave way to the force of my entire body and my hand flew across the balsa wood and swiped my thigh.

Looking at this gaping canyon on my thigh which opened before my eyes, I yelled the only think I could think of, “I CUT IT!”

My dad was sitting across the room reading the newspaper, not even glancing up, and responded: “Good Michael, I knew it would be easier to cut.”

“No, Dad, I really cut it!”

Looking up he realized that I was not effectively cutting the wood but had instead sliced my leg open.

After a trip to the emergency room, a number of stitches, and a great deal of relief that I had not damaged any muscle or tendons, I returned to my project, finishing it with a new-found respect for the tools I used. My knife was something of great value for the project I was completing, but it was also dangerous because it could be misused; even if unintentionally.

Our scripture passage today deals with the tools we have for Christian living. We read that at our disposal is:
Belt of Truth
Breastplate of righteousness
Shoes of readiness that come from the gospel of peace
Shield of faith
Helmet of salvation
Sword of the spirit which is the word of God

Each of these could be the subject of an independent sermon, and trying to address each of them in one service will take us far beyond our time limitations today. But we can draw our attention to a few important things from this list:

We do not go into this world, as Christians, without equipment—we have tools and resources which give us the ability to do the work of God. Our Christ-centered faith can “work in real life,” as our mission statement indicates, because our faith provides us tools—it equips us. The thrust of the armor metaphor is that we have equipment to use in the work God has called us to do.

The problem is that concepts like “love, righteousness, salvation, grace, peace” can seem like tools that are too abstract for us to use. So, even though we are equipped with God's love, grace, and peace, we may not see clearly what that means. I want to suggest that the bible is an additional piece of equipment, important for our lives as Christians, because it gives us stories, metaphors, and images which can bring these concept to life for us.

Yet, like the knife which I managed to use both to whittle and to cut myself, the equipment provided by our faith can be used for both good and ill.

The bible as one such piece of equipment can be used to hurt and harm. It has been used to justify slavery and the oppression of women. It has been used to guilt people into doctrinal submission. A well-intentioned man once counseled me over dinner saying that if I were to be a stay-at-home dad and let my wife work full-time, then I would be living in a life-style of sin. He quoted scripture and referred to biblical passages to “prove” his point.

The problem is that the bible, like many things, can be used to advance all kinds of agendas. Unfortunately, that might make us shrink from the task of exploring and investigating and equipping ourselves appropriately with the bible.

The challenge for us is to use well the equipment we are given; to not cut ourselves with our tools, but rather to build up God's kingdom. And I want to suggest that the bible is a piece of our equipment “bag” which opens up truth, reality, and God's vision for us. It helps us put flesh on God's love. Our lives can take shape around the stories of the bible and show-forth God's love. The bible can help us texture our lives.

I'm reminded specifically of the way Mary Jo Copeland textured her life with the bible. She took a biblical image—foot washing—and brought it new life with God's love.

She tells this story: I met a man on the street I'll never forget. He had a knit hat that came over his eyes. He had dirty raggedy clothes. He had big black boots. And he carried a big potato sack. And in that potato sacked everything he owned clicked and clanked. He was so angry. You would go near him and he would say “get away from me, get away from me.” I knew he had bad feet. So I convinced him to sit down one afternoon and soak his feet. He didn't even want me to go near him, he was so angry. People that live outside get very angry and very upset because they have been hurt. So I knelt down and started to yank off his black boots, and then his wet socks. I've never seen such sores in my life. I looked up at him and said how did your feet get so bad? He said Mary Jo, I live outside and I try to soak them in the river every single day, but they don't get any better. And then his story unfolded. He said every time I close my eyes at night I picture my dad and older brother beating my head against the side of a car and saying to my face, “I'm gonna beat you boy.” He said, “when I was 15 years they tried to drown me, they tried to suffocate me, and I slept in my own urine for days because they hand-cuffed me to beat me up and I couldn't crawl to the bathroom. I never had a bike, I never had a ball. I never smelled a home-made cookie. And I never, ever had anyone say 'I love you...' Why me? Why me? When I was 15 I left home, I bought a gun, I had rocks in both my pockets, and a knife—I've been living in the woods, under bridges, in a forest, and been arrested in every state in the union for being a vagarant, for being a bum.” Well, I looked at him and I said, “I don't know you but I know God loves you and I want to help you.” He said you “you can't help me, I'm an animal.” So I waited outside my office door for four months, and then, one night, I gave him a broom and told him to sweep. That night I told him to sweep because he couldn't sweep around the volunteers, he was so angry. Then I taught him how to turn a key in the door, how to get dressed. I took him into a trauma specialist. Brought him into the dentist to get his teeth fixed. Taught him how to drive, got him some little dogs and a house to live in. and gave him the dignity the all-mighty God intended him to have. He came in one day and said, “Mary, thank you for saving my life.” And I said, praise, God Brian. God works through people. God doesn't just work through me now. Blessed are you who are merciful. Blessed are you who are the peacemakers. We are all channels of God's peace, kingdom, and love.1

Love is not an abstract concept for Mary. The bible has helped her texture God's love as she lives for God's Kingdom. The challenge for me, for you, for us as a community of faith, is to use the equipment we've been given to give flesh to God's love. We are not each called to build our lives around foot washing... but maybe each of us can find something in the bible that textures our life, that orders, orients, and directs the work we do. So, maybe you are not a foot washer. What story are you living?

1See her speech at the National Youth Conference recorded on the video entitled It is so Hard to be Poor: The Story of Sharing and Caring Hands and Mary's Place.

A Transgressing Welcome

Last week we looked to the Hebrew Scriptures and the story of Abraham and Sarah in Genesis, who were looking to give welcome to strangers and receiving unexpected news from God. And we explored “welcome” (our theme for June) through the lens of Sarah's laughter. Today we turn to a rather famous parable of Jesus given in the midst of a conversation, of sorts, with a religious lawyer. Hear now a Word of the Lord.

Scripture: Luke 10:25-37

Pray with me: “God of Mercy, bless this reading; bless our ears that hear it, help our minds to understand it, our hearts to receive it, and our souls to be transformed by it. Grant to me Your Truth in the words of my mouth, this morning. In the name of Jesus Christ we pray, amen.”

When Rebecca and I settled into our new apartment as a married couple, one of the things we purchased for our place was a doormat. Truth be told, it was one of the less difficult decisions we made as a couple about what to buy for our apartment... as some of you may know, agreeing on home furnishings with your spouse or significant other can be a tall order. Fortunately, after trying to agree on a couch, the doormat issue seemed like a walk in the park.

But, on the other hand, it still wasn't entirely easy. We wanted something that would mark out the entrance to our new home as inviting and sincere place... and, of course, functionally useful.

Here are some doormats we did not choose:

“Come in.”
“Come back with a warrant.”
“Hi, I'm Mat.”
“Wow, Nice Underwear.”
“Remember to Wipe.”
One of my favorites, but a little wordy—this is a diary entry from a dog: “The Dog, Day 751: My captors continue to torment me with bizarre rubber squeak toys. They eat lavish meals in my presence while I am forced to subsist on dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of eventual escape... that, and the satisfaction I get from occasionally ruining some piece of furniture. I fear I may be going insane.”

What we chose was a doormat with the simple word “welcome.” Nothing too elaborate or witty, but we hoped this would reflect our attitude toward visitors at the threshold of our home, at the boundary between the world outside and our apartment.

And I want to suggest to you all, today, that such a place is where our Scripture story takes place... our exploration of “welcome,” through this story, takes us to the boundaries.

Often, we see this parable as a challenge for us to be like the Good Samaritan. We ask ourselves, “Am I willing to be a true neighbor? Would I help someone when a difficult situation comes along? Would I risk myself to be a good Samaritan?”

While I think these questions are probably part of the package of this rich story, I wonder if Jesus isn't doing something else here too.

Our Scripture reading takes place as Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. And on his way he is confronted by a religious lawyer who, it seems, did not like what Jesus was teaching. He attempts to expose Jesus as a fool, but Jesus turns the lawyers question back on him. “What should one do to inherit eternal life? Well, what do you think?” So the lawyer quotes from the Hebrew Scriptures: “Love God with heart, soul, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus agrees. Having come up short in exposing Jesus thus far, he has another plan. He knows of the many scholarly debates over the definition of “my neighbor.” And so the lawyer forces Jesus to define his terms: “Be precise, O teacher, who, exactly, is my neighbor?”

Rather than offer a dry definition, Jesus turns to a parable. Now the setting for this story is a notoriously dangerous road between Jericho and Jerusalem. This road was well-known in Jesus's day for two reasons: first, it was a very treacherous path descending from a high elevation. Second, bandits and robbers were always hiding along the many curves and mugged countless travelers.

Not only was the setting familiar to those who heard this story, but the way this story flows followed a well-known convention of the time. If a story has a series of three events, then we should expect that the first two are incorrect ways of acting and the third breaks the pattern set by the first two. Almost like those jokes you hear, “so a rabbi, a priest, and pastor walk into a bar... ” we know the first two will do something one way, and the third will come along and do something stupid and funny.

Just like those roles in a joke, there are typical roles in these parables. It was common to use a Priest, a Levite, and an Israelite as the characters, with the Israelite breaking the incorrect pattern of the Priest and Levite.

So Jesus tells a familiar kind of story about a well-known road, an un-named traveler, and a predictable mugging that leaves the traveler helpless and wounded on the side of the road. As expected, a Priest walks along and passes him by, moving to the opposite side of the road. Then, as we might anticipate, a Levite shows up only to do the same thing. A pattern emerges of seeing this body, broken and hurting on the road, and walking along without showing mercy or kindness. Then comes our Israelite... wait, a Samaritan!?!?

Talk about unexpected... the unclean, foul, detested Samaritan is the hero? This filthy figure is who will shows us what is true? Jesus asks, “which of these three men do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” You can almost see just how unthinkable this would have been by the way the lawyer responds to Jesus' question. The lawyer can't even say the word “Samaritan.” Instead, he simply says, grudgingly, “The one who had mercy on him...” And, ironically, this is exactly the point Jesus was trying to make.

Yes, this is a story about kindness and mercy, about true neighborliness, but it is about these things in a way we might not expect—the hearers of this story sure wouldn't have seen this coming. Who can show us what is true? Who can be a person acting rightly before God? You mean a Samaritan? It cuts down some pretty well fortified boundaries of the time—the boundaries between Jew and Samaritan.

From the Jewish perspective, Jews were God's insiders and clean and Samaritans were outsiders and unclean. The Samaritans were descendants of mixed marriages. As our Scripture reading from Hosea this morning indicates, the prophets and biblical writers had a particular distaste for Samaria. Samaritans had, in the eyes of many Jews, transgressed the laws of God and fallen from religious purity. And so there was bitter religious and social hatred between Jews and Samaritans, a kind of racism... there was no such thing in the Jewish imagination as a “good Samaritan.” That was an oxymoron. There was a firm barrier betwee Jew and Samaritan, between good and evil, that was not to be transgressed—you did not cross that line. And yet, it was in this context that Jesus uses the Samaritan to teach the truth of neighborliness.

I can only imagine what kind of person fits that description for us today? Who do we despise, find to be unclean or evil? Who couldn't possibly show us what is true about life?

Jesus is pushing the boundaries of welcome because welcoming happens precisely at the boundary, at the boundary between inside and outside, between “us” and “them.” Welcome is the practice of making the outsider the insider, of opening of the inside to the outside. Welcome transgresses the boundaries we so often operate with.

This is where we find doormats, right? They sit at the boundary between the inside of our homes and the outside world, and they can convey a message about how we see that boundary functioning... as a rigid barrier, or as a permeable entry-way. A doormat reading “welcome” invites what is outside inside. It opens up a point of transgression, where the outside can go beyond the barrier and move into the inside. But, that is a dangerous, vulnerable place... what if we don't like what is on the outside... what if we think its evil, or vile? After all, that was the status of the Samaritan in the eyes of many Jews at that time...

So what would our doormats say? Would they say “please wipe,” meaning “you must be clean before you can enter”? Would they say go away, our place is fine just the way it is, without you? Would they say “welcome”?

“Of course!” we say... we would give welcome. We would open ourselves up... really? Would we?
We can test our “welcome” mats this morning with a simple exercise. Who are the characters in this story, can we name them all? Who are the ones that catch our attention and stay in our minds? Is there a character or a set of characters we skim right over and fail to remember, think about, or search out for a word of truth? Well, there is the Priest, the Levite, and the Good Samaritan, of course. Our cast of three. Then there is the un-named traveler, yes. Oh, the religious lawyer asking Jesus the questions... hmm... the inn-keeper? No, who do we forget about... who failed to touch our hearts... oh yeah, the robbers. Those age-old rotten scum bags.

If we claim that we are welcoming in the spirit of this parable, then maybe we should return to the story, and give some descriptors to the unknown man, wounded on the side of the road. What if, instead of an innocent traveler, he was actually one of the characters so often forgotten in this story... what if he was actually a robber, one of the many bandits along that road? Fresh from mugging another traveler himself, what if he was heading down the mountain with a sack of loot before being jumped by another gang on that road? What if his status as “innocent” in our eyes changed...?

The Priest would likely walk-by and see this “un-churched” man, see his unrepentant and wicked heart, and claim he has made his own bed in hell. After all, we reap what we sow, right? And he would walk on by. The Levite, would then approach. He had a sister who was mugged on this road just the other day, serves this filthy robber right, he got what he deserved. Such foul people. He would walk on by.

Now comes the Good Samaritan... but wait... its not the Samaritan. No, that's who we would expect today... no, it's someone else... who is it? He looks bloody and beaten down, wearing only the shreds of tattered clothes... his hands and feet look mauled, and his head... there is a crown of thorns. He limps over to the robber who lies lifeless on the side of the road. And he tenderly bandages his wounds. Then with great effort, he picks him up, and carries him down the road.... where is he taking him, to the inn? Yes, the one called Resurrection.

“Who was the neighbor to this man?” With the eyes of faith we would answer, “Jesus Christ.” Good. Now you know true welcome. Go and do likewise.

Amen.

June Newsletter Article

Can you believe it? It's June already! The summer months have arrived and our church is moving into a time of Sabbatical. I am excited to see what God can do with our church during the next three months as we explore our mission statement in a variety of ways. I hope you will be willing and energized participants for this endeavor. We will need the cooperation and involvement of everyone to make this Sabbatical a successful event in the life of our community. So we begin with the first part of our mission statement, focusing on “welcoming.”

“Welcoming people into a loving and caring church family”

Welcoming is a great way to do church. But I'm not sure there are many churches that would describe themselves as cold and unwelcoming. Most churches I've known claim to be welcoming. So to call ourselves a “welcoming” church is note distinctive or unique. It's quite normal. What is distinctive or unique, however, is how we interpret, understand, and “do” welcoming. This month we'll uncover the many ways we understand and do welcoming here at CCC.

Our mission statement claims that we strive to “welcome people.” The word “welcome” is derived from an Old English word combining willa, meaning choice or desire, and cuma, meaning guest. One way to understand welcoming, literally, is as a demonstrated desire to include a guest. It is to show how we choose to include someone else. Thus, when we “welcome people,” we treat them like chosen or desired guests.

But guests of where and of what? We have chosen to welcome people into what we strive to be: a loving and caring church family. We are a community of faith, one that is marked by relationships (“family”) of a particular kind (love and care). So, to put it all together, when we are guided by a mission statement that is “welcoming people into a loving and caring church family,” we are hoping to purposefully integrate guests into our community of faith by offering and sustaining relationships of love and care.

Great! That sounds good, doesn't it? Several things come to mind, however, when thinking about what that means for us day in and day out. When does welcoming begin? When does welcoming end? What does welcoming look like? Do we measure up to our standard of welcoming? What if we do not?

Most churches will greet visitors and unfamiliar faces during a worship service. In some churches there are designated church members who do this, in other churches there is a general expectation that everyone greets visitors with no person acting as the official “greeter.” However, greeting is different than welcoming. Unfortunately we often collapse the difference. Just because we greet well does not mean we welcome well.

Greeting is a relatively easy thing to do. It's as simple as a “hello” and a smile. It can be drawn out to include cordial questioning like “where are you from?” But to use our mission statement as a guide to welcoming means something much greater than greeting. Welcoming is about bringing people into relationships (family) and demonstrating love and care. While this includes greeting (an action that can show care), it is more than greeting. To welcome is to open up a relationship, and relationships require the careful and loving work of time. Greeting occurs as a fleeting moment, but welcoming is a longer-term commitment. Greeting says “Hello,” welcoming says “we have a place for you, come and see.”

How, then, can we show people they have a place in our church community? What do we do to bring people in to the activity of serving others in love and care? How were you greeted, welcomed and brought into this church community? Have you experienced welcoming done well in other places? We would like to know your thoughts. This month we have a blog set up for the church where you can contribute your thoughts on “welcoming.” Please visit http://cccmission.wordpress.com and tell us what you think about this topic.

In the end, I'm afraid, we don't do welcoming perfectly. We fail to show people they are truly cared for and loved and we often get distracted from integrating others into the networks of relationships that exist in our church. We do try. And try we must. The good news is that ultimately we are sustained and lifted above our failure by that most gracious and welcoming God, the one who extends a relationship to us—we the visitors—through Jesus Christ. There we see the true love we strive to embody in our mission statement. Thanks be to God!

Mosaic Children of God

1 John 3:1-10

In the movie Slum Dog millionaire, a peasant boy from Mumbai, named Jamal, is near the land fill where he spends his life. He is using an outhouse that stands 10 or more feet above a swamp-like pool of human feces. Near the land fill is an air strip. While in the outhouse, Jamal's movie hero lands on the air strip. He can see through the cracks in the rickety wood, but, to his dismay, his friends have locked him in the outhouse. His desire to see his hero brings him over to the hole in the middle of the outhouse, where he stares in the mess below. Is it worth it? Should he jump down and wade through the feet of human sludge? He does, and coated from head to toe in human waste, he makes his way to the movie star.

Talking about “sin” can be like looking down from an outhouse. It's gross, and it just doesn't seem like its worth it to cover ourselves in that mess. Two years ago Kory preached a sermon series on “Christianity's Dirty Words,” which included a sermon on “sin.” I think Kory had a good sense for how some of us might feel about this topic. Sin is something many of us don't want to think through or deal with anymore. It's dirty. It's over-used. It belongs with the messiness of life. It's like a pile of you know what waiting for us through the hole of an outhouse. Who wants to jump into that? What wants to confront that messiness and see what it means?

The problem is that “sin,” like all theological language, can be abused, misused, and misunderstood. We may be all too familiar with the way “sin” has been used to make people feel guilty, worthless, and unfit to be a part of God's community. And so, too often, I'm afraid we'd rather just give up on the language altogether rather than try to engage it, reinterpret it, and see what it can show us. I want to suggest this morning that the Christian symbol of “sin” helps us see ourselves more clearly, the world in which we live more truly, and the God we serve more fully. Sin, while messy, is not trash to be forgotten, but a symbol to be explored. So I invite you to explore what this Christian symbol might mean this morning.

I remember receiving a call from my good friend Brian. He and I were attending different colleges but we kept in touch regularly. One day he called to tell me about a man who had come to his campus. He was a self-proclaimed evangelist who had parked himself near a main walkway to proclaim the sinfulness of the student body. He decried all the evils and sins of college life: focusing mainly on fraternities and sororities (of course). While the list of sins was predictable, his claims were quite astounding. He argued that if you sin at all, then you don't know Jesus and you are not saved. Only those who do not sin, those who are perfect before God, know Jesus and are saved. And so he exhorted the students to repent, to turn from their wickedness and come to Jesus.

I remember asking Brian, “was he using the bible at all?” “Of course,” Brian answered, “I think it was 1st John.”

Our New Testament Scripture this morning is a tough passage. While it is rich with meaning, it presents a picture of Christian life that easily lends itself to the kind of self-righteousness we often hear from street corner evangelists. Only those who are sinless know God and abide with God. Anyone who sins is, as verse 8 indicates, of the devil. Like the street-corner evangelist, the rhetoric in our passage this morning is inflated. It represents an “us vs. them” mentality. For our author, the community of faith is an isolated group, pure and holy, an escape from the sinfulness of the world. Sin is an “out there” kind of thing, not an “in here” kind of thing. Life is not very ambiguous in 1st John. You are either purified, free of sin and with us or you're not.

What's happening in our text is that a community has seen a split. A group of people haven broken off and this letter is designed to make sense of what is going on for those who remain. In doing so, those who have left are considered unfaithful and unloving, they did not “love their brothers or sisters” (v.10). So they are considered “of the devil” (v.8), not “of God” (v.9).

I find this picture of church and of sin troubling. Not only does it make anyone outside the walls of a particular church look like worthless devil worshipers; but it can also lead those of us who are part of a church to have a false sense of security, a false sense of righteousness. We can think that if we come to church and say the right stuff or do a few nice things, that we are somehow perfect and unblemished, free from sinning against ourselves, others, or God. It has led some, like that college campus evangelist, to turn out toward others and point fingers of blame and shame.

I want to suggest that the church is not a community of saints, if by saints we understand the perfect, the holy, the righteous, and the pure. We are not sinless by virtue of being in these walls. That way of thinking is inflated and doesn't take seriously the contours and complexities of life. Life is too intricate to be divided up into the pure and impure, the sinful and the sinless. We don't move cleanly from “Sinful” to “Sinless.” We are stuck, as human beings, in the midst of a world rife with Sin. Nothing is quite as clean and neat as it looks. Scam artists profit because we often want things to be easy, simple, and painless... but life usually doesn't work that way. Paul Tillich called the reality of life ambiguous. I tend to agree. Ambiguity is term that indicates there are at least two kinds of things going on at the same time.

So I don't think Sin is something that we leave behind once we come into communion with God. St. Paul struggled with the power and reality of sin. He wrestled with the law of sin in Romans chapter 7, fighting against himself and what he knew to be from God. Martin Luther, writing 14 centuries later, explained this struggle by arguing that Christians are at one and the same time made right before God (“justified”) and yet still sinners. Sin accompanies us on our Christian journey. We don't become perfect and pure by joining a church and claiming to know Jesus. While we might struggle to live our lives better, more faithfully, and with a different view of the world, we are still accompanied by Sin.

While Sin accompanies us on our Christian journey, Sin still seems like such a “dirty word.” I'm sure we would be willing to admit that we make mistakes, have imperfections, and could work on being nicer, but the “Sin” word brings the baggage of worthlessness and total depravity. We might want to admit that we could do life better, but we don't want to admit that we are total scum-bags. Something about that seems damaging and untrue.

Sin distorts the way we should see ourselves before God. But the truth about Sin is that it has two sides. Sin can take the form of pride and arrogance, it can take the form of thinking ourselves better than we are. We are, after all, only creatures and God is creator. When we think and act as if we are God, then we are living with a force of distortion known as Sin. But there is another side to Sin. The side usually ignored or forgotten. We are creatures of God. As such, we are valued and we are valuable. While we typically think of Sin as overvaluing ourselves before God, Sin is also undervaluing ourselves before God. Sins happen because we see ourselves and our world incorrectly. To think ourselves as worthless and completely depraved is a distortion as well! That too is Sin taking its toll on us! 1st John, despite its inflated rhetoric, reminds us that we are all Children of God. As God's Children, as creatures of the Creator, we are shown love and given inexhaustible value.

There are many examples of this underside of Sin. We are tempted to believe that unless we look, or dress, or act a certain way, then we won't be accepted. We are tempted to think that only if we have a certain amount of money or a particular job, or any job at all, that we are worth people's attention and respect. We look at a regrettable moment in our past, a decision we wish we could change or something we wish we could have done, and we let that define us. We let that dominate our lives and keep us from seeing how God loves us, values us, and has a future for us. That too is Sin. Its the Sin of undervaluing ourselves. It is the Sin of seeing ourselves as only worthless sinners. There are two things at work in the ambiguity of life. Our Sin, infecting how we understand ourselves and causing us to misvalue ourselves before God. And God's Grace, constantly reminding us that we are loved and valued, that we are made valuable in God's sight. Sin is a kind of forgetting, forgetting that God looks down upon us, just as God did in Genesis, and calls us “Good, very Good.”

I tend to think the church is not so much a community of saints as a hospital for sinners: we gather amidst the brokenness and sinfulness of our lives—amidst the mistakes, imperfections, difficult choices, regrets, and distorted views of ourselves—in order to hope together, heal together, serve together, and worship together. In this way we are nursed by God, week in and week out, toward spiritual health. Sometimes we need to be reminded that we are creature and not creator. Other times we need to be reminded that we are in fact God's beloved creature! In all this, we haven't escaped the reality of Sin, its toll is constantly being collected on our lives—we act out distorted self-images and are tempted to think that is the end of the story; but it isn't: we can bring our Sin before God.

Bringing our lives before God, distorted as they are by Sin, is like bringing pieces of stone to an artist. Damaged, broken, shattered stones can be joined with others to make a masterful mosaic. In much the same way, God takes the pieces of our lives, joins them with others in church community, and crafts something truly beautiful. When our Sin-tattered lives are given to God to be placed in relation to others, something beautiful and good can emerge. God can make a mosaic out of us yet. The mosaic does not cease to be a collection of broken stones; no, the brokenness remains, Sin remains. And so we remain, with ambiguous lives, living as people justified and good before God and yet still sinners. We live simultaneously as broken stones and a beautiful Mosaic.

Christian Themes and Symbols in the Shawshank Redemption

This month, we are going to take a look at the movie The Shawshank Redemption. Again, we are doing this from a certain interpretive perspective: how can we isolate questions and elements from the movie to create a Christian conversation? The movie is full of possible Christian themes and symbols, but we want to move beyond an "interpretive gymnastics" to find questions that confront us about life and death. And, in the end, seek to respond with the resources of our Christian faith--theology, tradition, scripture, experience. So, while below we have some ways to think through the movie Christianly, I would encourage you to think about questions that might map onto our Christian faith.

From the Journal of Religion and Film, article "Scripture on the Silver Screen"

Yet another Jesus-figure is Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption. Andy is an
innocent man who is baptized into the bleak world of Shawshank prison with a
cold shower and a dose of lice powder. With the patience of Job and spurred by
hope for a better future, Andy takes twenty years to chisel his way through the
prison wall and escapes Shawshank through the sewer system. After the sewer
spews him into the river outside the prison compound, Andy strips off his shirt,
stretches out his arms, and gazes upwards, to the accompaniment of a magnificent
rainstorm and a majestic soundtrack. After his departure, Andy’s prison friends,
like Jesus’ disciples, reminisce about him and draw comfort from his memory.
Andy’s best buddy and most faithful disciple, Red, follows in his footsteps
after he is finally paroled. Although Andy is not physically present, he saves
Red from despair and poverty by providing him with money, a destination, and a
purpose. The final scene, in which Red strides across the sandy shores of the
Pacific to meet Andy who is hard at work sanding down an old fishing boat, is an
eschatological vision. The images of water, boats, white clothing, and the
simple life recall the visual representations, in art and film, of Jesus and his
disciples at the Sea of Galilee.

From the Journal for the Renewal of Religion and Theology

In the American prison film, The Shawshank Redemption , corrupt Warden
Norton (Bob Gunton) was an obnoxious Bible-thumping Christian who distributed
Bibles to new prisoners and claimed: “I believe in two things: discipline and
the Bible. Here you'll receive both. Put your trust in the Lord. Your ass
belongs to me.” The Warden referred to the Bible throughout the film to justify
his sadistic brutality of the prisoners and to add an air of pious authority to
underpin his ruthlessness. In effect, the Warden had turned the holy word of God
into a symbol of oppression and hypocrisy, whilst highlighting his corrupt
Christian fundamentalism hidden behind the guise of church-going righteousness.
However, at films end, the Warden's pretentious piousness, moral hypocrisy, and
secret financial corruptions were revealed by the long-suffering, innocent
inmate, Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins), who successfully escaped prison by digging
a hole through his cell wall using a rock hammer cunningly hidden inside his own
hollowed-out Bible. Andy had thus turned his copy of sacred Scripture into a
postmodern symbol of liberation, if somewhat unconventionally packaged and
deployed.

Indeed, even deeper theological meaning can be extracted from this Bible
scene because the “top page of the carved-out space for the rock hammer is
clearly visible to the observant film viewer: it is the title page of the book
of Exodus, the biblical story of escape from bondage” (Jewett 1999: 181).
Previously, Andy almost lost his Bible-cum-escape tool when Warden Norton
accidentally walked off with it before turning around and giving it back saying:
“I'd hate to deprive you of this. Salvation lies within.” That statement was
biblically, theologically and literally true, which Andy deliciously
acknowledged within his own escape note: “Dear Warden, you were right. Salvation
lay within.” Similarly, the American prison film, Escape from Alcatraz ,
employed a Bible to hide Frank Morris' (Clint Eastwood's) material means of
escape, thus proffering another de facto symbol of hope and freedom packaged
inside Holy Writ.

February Newsletter Article

This winter quarter I am enrolled in a structured reflection and discussion class on my student internship. This class, called “practicum,” has taken up a conversation about the meaning of some pretty basic elements of Christian faith: God, Jesus Christ, Prayer, etc. My practicum instructor began this quarter with the following question: “As ministers, we often use some pretty loaded language like 'God' and 'Holy Spirit.' If we don't know what we mean by these words and ideas, should we expect the people with whom we interact to understand us?” I found that to be a profound question. These religious terms are so often thrown around in church, almost casually. But what do we mean by “God?” What does it mean to call Jesus the “Christ?” What do I mean by any of it.

That got me thinking (always dangerous!). What is church? What are we doing when we come to church? Oh, and that age old question: why church? While I don't intend to give a comprehensive analysis of what I think church “is” and “does,” I do believe that a church is, among other things, a community of interpretation. A church is where interpretation happens.

Church as “a community of interpretation” might strike us as pretty obvious. The church has a central text, the Bible, and most church services are built around interpreting this text. In the same way a preacher interprets a biblical passage, we might find ourselves coming to church to interpret the language of faith. We ask questions like the ones I posed above: what does “God,” “Christ,” or “Faith” mean? We can't help but use our lives and our experiences to interpret and understand what these things mean, and we learn from ourselves and from each other in community.

But I want to go further than that. The church is a community of interpretation in a more radical sense. Yes, the church gathers together people of various backgrounds, vocations, and interests and unites them with a recognizable language, the language of faith. But we don't simply interpret this language; no, the language of faith interprets our own lives. There is an interpretive “back and forth” involved.

What we do at church—again, among other things—is seek to understand ourselves, the world around us, and the purpose and meaning of life through the language of faith. We interpret in order to understand. With an understanding of our faith-language we come to orient ourselves and make decisions about who to be and what to do. In other words, the faith-language interprets us. Yet, this is not a wooden, rigid process. It is a fluid, dynamic one. We come to understand the faith-language—and are interpreted by it—through using it and interpreting it. We interpret in the process of being interpreted.

This is an ongoing process that happens with each other in community. In this way, what we understand God, Christ, and Faith to mean is not static, but instead unfolds for us as we interpret and are interpreted by these central elements of the Christian faith. Thus, a church, I want to suggest, is a community of ongoing interpretation about the language of faith. What it means for God to be in relationship with us, to have given us the Christ, to redeem us and offer us salvation is understood in and through the language of faith that unfolds for us together.

A church, then, asks the very same kinds of questions as my practicum instructor: What does it mean to say “God,“ the Christ,” or “Holy Spirit?” These terms are drawn out in the sermon, used in communion, and offered to the children at children's time. And they also involve are very lives. We come to see more of what and how those words mean by sharing our lives with one another. Even as we sing and pray we can come to recognize new dimensions of God's Grace or Forgiveness as they give themselves to us in each new day and every moment. So what do I mean by “God” and “Holy Spirit?” I have some basic ideas, but the rich contours of those ideas are developed each week in the elements of the worship service and in the interactions with the people of the congregation. You are a part of what “God” means to me, and together we interpret this term and use it to interpret our lives. What I mean by “God” is linked up with “a community of interpretation,” where we all interpret in order to understand. Church, as St. Augustine might agree, is a place where faith seeks understanding.

An Epiphanic Imagination

Last week, Kory mentioned that the Gospel of Mark is like an action-adventure story. Jesus jumps out of the gate like a thoroughbred and doesn’t show any signs of slowing. The frenetic, fast pace of Mark’s gospel is important to keep in mind. Jesus has been moving immediately from task to task; from healing to teaching to preaching. Then we get this famous moment, this famous transfiguration of Jesus the Christ.

Mark 9: 2 – 9

I’m not sure if you noticed, but there has been a common feature over the last few weeks in the sermons. Can you guess what that might be? Now, if you're like the children when I ask them questions during the children's moment, then you're first response might be, “I don’t know what the answer is, but I bet it has something to do with Jesus.”

Fair. Kory’s sermons have had “something to do with Jesus.” But he’s also been continually referencing movies. We’ve explored Jesus in terms of the movie Anchorman, “I’m kind of a big deal, people know me…” and as Elliot Ness from The Untouchables. We've thought through faith in terms of the movie Signs. And I’m sure the movie references will continue; in fact, if I was a betting man I might even put money on it. Okay, I’ll admit, I am a betting man and I’ve already got 10 bucks on the line; Kory don’t let me down.

But in case the plethora of movie references didn’t clue you in, let me clarify: Kory likes movies. He loves to watch them and talk about them. He gets excited about them. And, he used to be a movie critic, too. So when Kory discovered that I had never seen the movie Dead Poets Society, he took it upon himself to mend this cosmic injustice. And, to be honest, I’m glad he did. Not only is it a great movie, but it has a fascinating scene which will allow me to keep up the pattern Kory has already established.

So travel with me to a classroom, taught by an instructor, Mr. Keating, played by Robin Williams. He is the new teacher at the nation’s most reputable prep-school where he will teach a class of young men about poetry and language; and arguably, he will teach them about life itself. At a school where calculation and precision, discipline, tradition, and control are the highest virtues, Mr. Keating opens up a world of emotion, creativity, and self-discovery. He’s rather unorthodox in his teaching style, and at one point in the movie, he jumps up on his desk and asks his students why he would do this.

The students mostly stare at him and one voice from the back of the room answers, “To feel taller.”

“No,” he says: “I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way… Just when you think you know something,” he explains, “you must look at it in a different way.”

And so he has every one of his students come forward, step up on his desk, and view the classroom anew, from a different angle, to discover a new vision, to see the world with a fresh perspective. And, I think, to see something that otherwise they might have missed.
In a way, that is what has happened in our text this morning. The world has been opened up for three disciples—Peter, James, and John. These three men follow Jesus up a high mountain and watch as the clothes of Jesus turn radiant, the world is bathed in the light of Christ, and there with him appears Moses and Elijah. They have ascended to a high place, a desk above desks, to see Jesus from a different perspective. And there, at the climax of this terrifying event, a cloud moves in and a thundering voice announces, “This is my Son, the Beloved, listen to him!”

What these men witnessed in our gospel account was a transfiguration, or, more simply, a change in Jesus. Now while I think it is pretty easy to see from our story that Jesus changed for these men, it seems something else happened. They didn’t just see any kind of change, but a special change. They experienced, what we might call, an “epiphany.” But what is an epiphany? How is a transfiguration also an epiphany? While transfiguration means a change in the figure of someone or something, an epiphany is a manifestation. Epiphany comes from two Greek words, epi and phanein. The prefix epi means something like “on or to” and the verb phanein means “to show.” So, an epiphany is a “showing to,” or, as I like to say, a “showing forth.” Jesus not only changed, but in that change, showed something forth.

Peter, James and John did not witness a mundane or ordinary change in Jesus, they witnessed the divine Christ character of Jesus in this change. Jesus showed forth the Christ to them. God’s voice, echoing Jesus’ baptism, pronounced the deepest dimension of Jesus’ identity. Here was the Son of God, standing before these trembling and terrified three disciples… then, in a moment, it was over.

One writer describes the event like this, “Now, on a mountaintop, time evaporates like mist before the dawning of a great glory. If the pace of the journey [in Mark’s gospel] has left us panting, now the height is too great for us to catch our breath.”[1]

I think that is true: We are panting, we are left trying to catch our breath. In a way, it’s not just Peter, James and John who witness a transfiguration, who experience an epiphany, we too are there with them. And like the disciples we have come to this moment, here in this sanctuary from our own frenetic, fast paced lives. We’ve been scurrying between jobs, families, schools, and obligations. And we have come to a sanctuary as yet another stop along the busy roadway of life’s journeys; but here, in this place, we can hear a story and experience the Christ shown forth to us. Out of the flow of life’s demands we have ascended with Peter, James and John to a high place, we have stepped upon that desk above desks to see the deepest dimension of reality shown forth in Jesus as the Christ. If we listen carefully we can hear God’s voice announce to us that this is God’s Son, the one whom God loves.

And yet, we might ask, what makes this so different? Hasn’t Jesus, in all that Jesus is, been present with the disciples from the beginning. Why a mountaintop transfiguration for the disciples? And, what is more, don’t we already know that Jesus is the Christ, too, the Son of the living God? What need do we have for “epiphany”?

I want to suggest this morning that what was transformed in the moment of transfiguration and epiphany is not just Jesus as the Christ, but the disciples themselves. Their perception of Jesus was shattered in the brilliant light that overtook them and they were swallowed up in the cloud of God’s voice. The disciples witnessed the vibrancy of Jesus’ Christhood emanating before them… and they were terrified… speechless. Value, meaning, and reality-itself broke into their world in a way they had not yet seen nor could not quite grasp, and, as we discover through the rest of Mark’s gospel, struggled to understand.

What happens in this story, for us, might be our own transformation; our own ability to rise above the throws of life and see God’s Love pouring into the world through Jesus as the Christ. It takes a special capacity to carry the abundance of that reality with us, and within us… it takes a way of seeing things that unlocks life’s deepest dimensions. But I think we do have a capacity for this, and so I invite you to consider with me the imagination. We have inside us, I believe, an often neglected imagination that can be defined by epiphany; and, I think, this is precisely what story of the transfiguration can unlock for us, our epiphanic imagination. This is an imagination that shows forth the world in its deepest dimensions, it sees Jesus as the Christ and the Grace of God saturating the world around us. It is a way of seeing that is easy to forget. And so, like Mr. Keating in the Dead Poet’s Society, we might want to remind ourselves to see in a different way, to activate our epiphanic imagination.

Mr. Keating demonstrates this most profoundly for us in a pivotal scene. As the students open up their school-required textbook on poetry to read the introduction, Mr. Keating has the students rip out a whole essay from their books on poetry... the analysis of poetry in that essay is cold and calculating; it attempts to “mathematize” the poem, chart its axes and discover its formula to predict its value... basically, reading poetry is, for that essayist, a distanced cerebral exercise. It's all about detached reflection and not about intimate, engaged, participation with the poem—it makes the poem impotent. It loses a kind of depth. Mr. Keating wants this mundane and shallow perspective eliminated so that something else can show itself.

At the youth lock-in over this past weekend we had the opportunity to play a game called “Survivor Island.” The game was set up in such a way that everyone had a particular identity with a background, personality traits, and some secretes. Six of the thirteen participants would survive, the rest would perish, and the youth had to decide how to divide up. The exercise was a way of thinking through how we understand human beings and what we value when confronted by the reality of death. As they reflected on the game, the youth debated whether people would have been only interested in their own survival or whether it was possible to have sacrificed for others. A debate sprang up over how we understand human beings, or, what we might call “human nature.”

It is a question we might ask ourselves as well, one that might pertain to the epiphanic imagination. How do we understand “human nature”? I think there are a lot of stories out there that try to define for us “what the human is.” We hear stories, really popular ones, about human beings as political animals or economic creatures. We are supposed to be people who buy things and consume, or who grapple after power. We are supposed to be biologically self-interested after survival and be socially concerned for our own wants and desires, calculating and mathematizing life to make the most rational choices and the most efficient decisions. What’s in it for me, we’re supposed to ask, and how can I get the most out of it. I think it is amazing how we often become the very stories we tell ourselves.

That is precisely why I believe the story of the transfiguration and the gospel itself is so important. It is a different story, one that can cultivate for us an epiphanic imagination. There was something more to Jesus than healing, and teaching, and preaching. There was something that needed a mountain top to unveil, and later a cross to make complete. That reality lit up the mountain in the moment of transfiguration, and it can light up our world today. What was shown forth comes to define how we see the world, what the world itself means. I want to suggest that an epiphanic imagination sees as God does. In that moment on the mountain top the disciples witness how God saw Jesus Christ, as the beloved one. The disciples’ own way of looking at Jesus did not match up with how God saw Jesus. And so their view was exploded by the overpowering Grace of God’s view on things. “Jesus is not what you think he is,” that voice seemed to say,” he is so much more, he is the Christ, he is my Son, the one whom I love.”

The epiphanic imagination is the capacity to glimpse-forward from the now and witness the depths of reality itself—to see how God sees the world: with boundless Love. When we activate our epiphanic imagination we understand life with a value and meaning that often hides behind our other ways of seeing the world—economically, socially, politically, biologically, psychologically. To be honest, I don’t live in the world of my epiphanic imagination very often.

Those other stories about human existence often define how I understand myself and others. But, I believe, while helpful at times, those stories can miss a dimension of life, one that is opened up by an epiphanic imagination, by seeing the world the way God sees it. Those other stories, when they are absolutized and taken to be the final story on human existence miss something true, real, and important.

Our epiphanic imaginations make present Jesus the Christ as the Son of God, and, in that way, our epiphanic imaginations also show forth God’s Love, a Love that is in and for this world… From that desk above desks, with our epiphanic imagination, life looks more like God’s poetry than human calculation… and the heart of that poetry beats with a story God asks us to tell ourselves and each other: “You are my beloved.”

Amen.

[1] WIllson, Patrick J. “Time out of Time.” Christian Century, January 24 (1996). See online at: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1058/is_n3_v111/ai_14794428

The Matrix of Faith 2

This is the second post in the Matrix of Faith blog series. For the first post, click here.

In my first post I touched on the ways in which movies are more than simple products for entertainment (even if that is how we often approach them). They open up a "possible world" for us to think about and ponder. How does the world presented in the Matrix map on to our own? Should it?

Kory and I bantered back and forth about what is "real" in the Matrix, and any talk about the real and the "really real" can leave one's head spinning. But I think it might be important for us to think through, especially as we often have our own understanding of "the real" and its relation to what counts as "true."

So, several questions:

1. If you have seen The Matrix, what exactly is "the matrix"? Is the matrix what people think is real (at least at first)?
   
2. What is the "really real" in The Matrix? In other words, is it more valuable to be in the matrix or unplugged? Would you rather be "plugged in" or "unplugged"?
   
3. Do you think this way of thinking about the world works (analogously) to how we live and move in the world? Do we need to be unplugged? Are we missing the "really real"? If so, what is it? If not, why not?
   
4. Can you see anyway this would work in a Christian context?
   

Alright, your turn to respond... go!

The Matrix of Faith

There are a number of ways to watch a movie. Most of the time I like to sit and “absorb” the entertainment. While such an attitude towards movie-going might be our default mode, that is not the only way to watch a movie. Movies do not simply or only provide “entertainment value.” They are pieces of artwork, products of a culture. Movies embody values, ideals, philosophies, and even theological perspectives. Like every stroke from an artist's brush, every moment and visual image of a movie is “intended” or purposeful. The director chooses what to include and discards other material. There might be more than “meets the eye” in any particular film.

In addition, movies can evoke emotion, reflection, and a variety of interpretive responses from its audience. Audiences bring life-experiences and various perspectives to a movie that can be opened up and vitalized by the dramatic visualizations of a movie. Movies can stir our voices to our own deepest concerns and convictions.

In the middle of the 20th century, theologian Paul Tillich provided a framework for doing a “theology of culture.” Tillich thought that everything produced by a culture had a “religious substance.” As a result, the theologian could excavate this underlying religiousness and shed a light on it. In other words, the theologian could analyze a work of art--movie, book, play, etc--and discover a religious dimension. This religiousness could then be assessed on the basis of its adequacy for the human situation. In other words, the theologian could determine the “theological value” of the underlying religious substance of a work of art.

The movie “The Matrix” lends itself to a variety of interpretive frameworks. One can look for obvious allusions and subtle narrative similarities with the Christian faith tradition. This can be a stimulating exercise in religious trivia. But one might also consider the “deeper” theological voice of the entire movie to determine its “religious substance.” This is a theology of film, a way of considering the “theological value” of a work of art. It asks the question: “what is of ultimate concern?”

So I want to suggest that “The Matrix” tells a story that is not just a story. It is a narrative competing for our understanding. What is real? Is reality good? What is the highest good? What is wrong with humanity? What is the answer?

The Matrix just might give us some suggestions for these questions which are, in a Tillichian sense, always-already-present religious questions (present in any work of art).

So what should we look for? Reality. What is “real” in the Matrix? Why is the “real” different from the "not-real"? What is wrong with everyday human being-in-the-world? What do we need? Is this good?

Now, from the side of faith, do these suggestions from the Matrix align or detour from the trajectory of faith in the Christian tradition? Hmmm.... heavy thinking.... enjoy!

2009 Student Ministry Conference

Great news! The 5th Annual 2009 Student Ministry Conference is coming to Swift Hall on May 1st and 2nd:

From the Ends of the Earth:

Christianity in the 21st Century

Christianity is no longer a religion dominated by the West. It is estimated that by 2050, two-thirds of the world's then three billion Christians will be of non-European descent. The implications of such statistics require focused attention as we move into the 21st century. With this conference we hope to address issues that arise from these transformations in Christianity.

How will the co-incidence of the post-colony with the failures of nationalism influence new forms of Christian leadership? How, in turn, will developing practices of Christian organization demand and resist new approaches to cooperation and unity? Finally, how do these things influence and even produce new self-understanding for the Church in America? While building on important efforts of social scientists and missiologists, the 5th Annual Ministry Conference of the University of Chicago Divinity School will approach these topics with specifically ministerial and ecclesiological lenses. This conference seeks (1) to help deepen understanding among ministers, students and lay-persons as well as professional academics of certain realities and potential futures of being Christian around the world and (2) to equip the same with resources for engaging the issues of the conference further.

The conferece features: Dr. Kwok Pui Lan, William F. Cole Professor of Christian Theology and Spirituality at Episcopal Divinity School; Dr. Dwight N. Hopkins, Professor of Theology at the University of Chicago Divinity School; Dr. Soong-Chan Rah, Assistant Professor of Church Growth and Evangelism at Northpark Theological Seminary; and Dr. Betta Mengistu, founding member of Beza International Ministries in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

For more information, check out the website or blogsite! You can also link to it from the list of links on my blogsite.

From the Silence

1 Samuel 3:1-10

May we be blessed with understanding in the reading of the Holy Scripture.

I must admit to you all a rather foolish thought that I had yesterday. In fact this thought might reveal to you how little time I've actually lived in the Chicago area. I thought spring was on its way. I walked outside yesterday and about took my coat off I felt so warm. I haven't felt my fingers in at least a week and yesterday, yesterday they started to wiggle again. I've never been so happy to see temperatures in the mid twenties and I started thinking spring might come soon... I've since reconsidered, my optimism got the better of me, and my curiosity took me to the forecast... oh well... those of you who have lived here longer than I know well enough that warm spring weather is still a good four or five months away.

But, oh, how I wish it were warmer. It's only mid-January and I'm already tired of the snow and cold. I'm tired of shoveling and de-icing, bundling up and thawing myself out. I'm tired of putting my head down and walking as fast as I can from my car to work or home so I can step inside and be warm again. And I was doing that very thing just this last week. I was walking head down along the streets of Hyde Park in Chicago, traipsing to class on a sub-zero adventure early in the morning, just trying to reach the warmth of a building, any building. But, for whatever reason, I stopped. I stopped and I looked around at the ice and snow, at the stable trees and barren sidewalk. I turned this way and that and I noticed the world was still and silent. The parked cars were motionless, the streets empty, the whole landscape powdery and frosted. It was strange, beautiful in a way. The world was frozen in place, resting in the cold. Still. Silent.

And I wondered to myself—maybe you have too—what is it that makes us stop and see the world differently? Why, all of a sudden, do we pause and take notice? I had walked those streets in the snow and cold for weeks. What made me stop? I'm not sure I can completely explain it or figure it all out, but I think the stillness and silence had something to do with it. I may have just then realized how quiet this usually busy part of Chicago was... there were no cars speeding along, no people milling about, no sounds clamoring for my attention... just snow and silence, in the middle of the city. Strange. Beautiful, even. Yet haunting. The world frozen in place, resting in the cold. Still. Silent.

We are led into our story this morning by a stillness and silence. Our story about Samuel begins with the stillness and silence of God. For we read that the “word of the Lord” was rare in “those days” (3:1). Though there was much activity in the land, there was a stillness and silence about it, for God's voice was rare. In fact, “those days” were described in the book of Judges this way: “In those days there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes” (21:25). In addition to the selfishness of the people, the priest Eli had two sons who were wreaking havoc. We are told earlier in 1st Samuel that “the sons of Eli were scoundrels; they had no regard for the Lord or for the duties of the priests to the people” (2:12). There was a lack of attention for God's ways and so God's voice, in a sense, had withdrawn.

And so we come to Samuel, only 12 years old according to Jewish tradition, sleeping in the temple on a silent, still night. There, in the flickering shadows of dim candle light, a voice calls out: “Samuel, Samuel.” The young boy responds, “Here I am!” Out of the silence, God speaks.

Yet young Samuel does not recognize the voice of God. He says “Here I am,” but not to God, to Eli. He thinks Eli is calling him. So he goes to Eli and Eli tells him to return to the stillness and the silence of the night as he did not call Samuel. Again God's voice returns. Again Samuel responds. Again he goes to Eli. After a third round Eli suspects something and instructs Samuel to listen for the Lord, for it is God who speaks to him. When the Lord breaks the silence again, Samuel responds in a now famous way: “Speak, for your servant is listening!” (v. 10).

This is a beautiful and rich story. But we can easily gloss over it thinking it is only about stopping to hear God. I think we can discover so much more than a simplistic interpretation which urges us to “just stop” and hear God's voice telling us what to do. Yes, attention matters, and this is always an important lesson. We are, too often, not attentive enough to the world around us, to the people next to us, and to our own lives. But I invite you this morning to see how our story speaks of deeper dimensions: silence and response.

I don't think we should “just stop” so we can hear the always talking God. No, there is genuine silence. A sense in which we first don't hear God. But even then we hear something. Even if it is silence. We can hear silence. Silence can grab our attention.

I used to play basketball in high school. We trained ourselves to shoot free throws against every kind of imaginable distraction. Most fans try to yell and distract a free-throw shooter with loud noises or harsh words. I remember I used to try and distract an opponent at the free throw line by saying ridiculous stuff like, “Uh, you dropped your pocket,” or, “your socks are untied, man.” Sometimes I just tried really obnoxious and loud breathing patterns. None of them ever really worked. For most players, all the voices clamoring for their attention blend together into a kind of background buzz. Generally, I found it pretty easy to focus.

Later, in college, when I would go to watch basketball games, I remember strategizing as a spectator with people in the crowd. We were trying to figure out the best way to distract the opposing team's free throw shooter. We decided that we would yell until the moment the player would release the ball. Then, we would all go silent. We got everyone we could, most of the small gymnasium in on it. We screamed, stomped our feet, clapped our hands, all together in a rowdy ruckus. Then, just as the shooter was extending to release the ball... we stopped. Silence. The silence was more powerful than any screaming voice would have been. I could feel the silence. I could hear it. And so did that free-throw shooter.

I want to suggest to you this morning that silence can grip us. It can grip us because it is a vulnerable, fragile reality. It can be shattered by any noise, broken by a single sound. Silence can grip us, I think, because it is a lot like us. To recognize silence is, in a way, to recognize ourselves. We are like silence, we are vulnerable and fragile, we are human. And it is in our humanity, our vulnerability, our fragility, it is in our silence, that God speaks to us. God's voice calls from the silence to we who are creatures of silence.

The world was silent for Samuel. The world was fragile and vulnerable and God's voice was missing. The Israelites cared only about themselves, and Eli's sons ignored and abused the priestly ways of God. The silence surrounded Samuel, and it surrounds us too.
Our world is a vulnerable and fragile place. Too often people care for themselves and no one else. God's ways of justice and peace are shunned for political power and greed, for corporate advancement and personal comfort. With tomorrow's celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. day, we are reminded of how our nation and its people were swept up in racism and hate, intolerance and cruelty. We are reminded how the bible and faith-traditions were used to underwrite hurtful human prejudice. We are reminded that witnessing to God's Love can fall on deaf ears and an assassin's bullet.

We are but vulnerable and fragile creatures, prone to distortion and self-deception, always prone to death. We fool ourselves in our thinking and doing, too often doing what we want and forgetting the ways of God... and what is more, we find ourselves hurting and aging, fighting heartache and illness. And it's as though God recedes... As if God becomes, in a way, absent. At time's I've felt a haunting void in my own life, and in the swirl of the world around me. Maybe you have too. Our world can have a chaotic silence. A silence we can notice. A silence that can grab our attention.

So I invite you this morning to consider how hearing God means, at the same time, acknowledging the silence from which God speaks. And, when we acknowledge the vulnerability and fragility of what surrounds us, we can also sense and confess that we ourselves are vulnerable and fragile people—creatures of the silence.

Like Samuel, silence is where we can hear God speaks to us. Even though we are creatures of the silence, the Loving and Forgiving God who speaks from that silence is a God to whom we can respond. We may struggle to respond rightly and we may fail to give that voice a name. We might run to people who did not call us. But we can respond. And we can, in the end, learn who called us. Eli finally offered Samuel a language to respond to God, he gave him a way to respond rightly to the one who called him. We too, I believe, can learn a language to respond rightly to the one who calls us from the silence by our very name. That language is one of faith, and its first words are “Speak, for your servant is listening!” May those words be ours. Amen.

January Newsletter Article

Apparently, winter strikes with a frigid forcefulness that serves to remind us “yes, I'll be here for a while.” For me, the cold, snowy and icy weather is initially accompanied by the joy of the holidays and the festivities of the season. I can manage frigid temperatures and blizzard-like conditions relatively well when I consider the coming warmth of loved ones gathered to share meaningful time together. Then New Years comes and goes... the cold lingers and winter doesn't care to leave. The plunging temperatures, slippery transport, and barren terrain feel a lot less “special” and lot more depressing. Going 20 or more days without sun actually makes me glad that I am often inside reading and studying for hours upon hours.

But maybe “the cold” can do more than drive us into escapism through books, or movies, or work, or whatever else we take up to avoid the outdoors. I think “the cold” can remind us about our sources of warmth and, more specifically, about what it means to be “warm.” A detour through physics—if a student of religion may be so bold!—might be in order here. Air molecules are constantly moving around us. In moving around, air molecules produce energy or heat. What happens when the temperature drops is that air molecules are slowing down, and the slower they move the less energy they produce. When air molecules speed up and get “excited,” they bounce around and release more energy enabling us to feel warmer.

Living in a community of faith is a lot like temperature. In fact, we often use temperature as a metaphor to describe communities: “oh, that church is just so warm and friendly” or “I felt so cold and distant with those people.” In my first experience with Community Christian Church I immediately noticed the friendliness, care, and welcoming character of the members and the worship service. I've heard that observation echoed by visitors. I think it's safe to say that Community Christian Church strives to be a warm and friendly place. But if that is the case, if we approach being a “warm” church seriously, then we might wonder what it takes to be “warm.”

Just as warm air results from excited, moving molecules, so too a warm congregation is one in which its members are excited and moving. Enthusiasm and passion expressed in service and dedication to the ministries of the church are what it takes to “heat the building.” If you look at the characteristics of a “cold church,” you'll see one in which the members have lost their passion for worship, service, and community, and ultimately a place where those very members are only minimally involved (at best).

There is plenty to be excited about this year at Community Christian Church. There are plenty of activities, events, programs, and ministries for which you can be a part. The church needs you if is it to truly embody the warmth that brings life. After all, even the body of Christ needs healthy “body temperature.” Yet, what ultimately grounds the warmth of any church, big or small, on fire or lukewarm, is the God who we find revealed in Jesus Christ. There, in the passion of Christ, in the energy that was sacrifice and service, commitment and action, we find a source of warmth that can fuel any person and any community. When we tap into that source, we'll find our “warmth” can bring life.

When the parts of the church that are its people get excited and start moving, then something tangible is produced. The people of the church create a warmth that visitors and the community at large can sense. It not only sustains our life, for we all need a healthy “body” temperature, but it radiates into the world around us. “Something is happening there,” someone might say, “I can feel the warmth.” In this time of winter coldness we might find that warmth is only a church-door away. I hope its ours.