Stories of Earth, Water, Fire and Air
My first week at the new church, Frazer Mennonite Church, was the church retreat. I was given the challenge of telling four stories at the retreat–one about earth, water, fire and air. Here they are….
Bloom where you are planted
My grandfather had a saying, “Bloom where you are planted.” I remember learning about this saying from him when I was in high school. He had someone make two buttons with the saying on it–one for him and one for my mom. They both put them in their cars, right next to their visors above, so they would see it when they were driving.
It only occurred to me recently that my mom and grandfather must have had some sort of significant conversation about Bloom where you are planted. And it must have meant something to both of them, if they would both post these buttons prominently.
Bloom where you are planted.
This means that someone plants you somewhere. You don’t always get to choose. You don’t always have the best view or the best spot. But, according to this little saying, you have one job–BLOOM. Live. Do the thing you are made to do.
I’ve been thinking about my grandfather, my pop-pop, this week as I’ve settled into the church office. He would have loved the flowers and the garden on the property. He is the reason I have missed getting my hands in the dirt. He’s the reason I get excited about gardening. He’s the reason I love Jersey Corn and Jersey tomatoes.
It’s hard to imagine that this man I revered might have needed to be reminded to Bloom where he was planted. It’s hard to imagine that my strong mama may have needed to be reminded that her job was to bloom. Because, from where I sat, I only saw their blooms. I didn’t see the doubts and the questions. But given their need for this simple reminder, they may have wondered what God had in store for them, and what God was calling them to do and be.
This week, as I begin to serve as your pastor, I am also inspired by this motto of my grandfathers: Bloom where you are planted. Because this week I’ve been transplanted from one place to another. I’m excited for my roots to unravel in this Great Valley soil, and to be nourished by the waters of the rain that falls here. After the shock of the transplant has given way and the roots dig into the soil, I look forward to the opportunity to bloom here with you all.
The Last Will and Testament of Amy Anne Yoder
When I was 15, I spent a summer on a missions trip in the most indigenous tribal nation in the world–Papua New Guinea. PNG is made up of thousands of tribes and thousands of languages. Which meant there were a lot of communication issues.
Infrastructure was minimal. In order for my group of teens to get to the village of Wewak, we had to fly from Australia to PNG, take a small plane to the other side of the island, flying in some of the worst winds I’ve ever experienced in my life, take a 4 hour ride up a pot holed road in a DUMP truck full of kids and supplies, and then a 12 hour boat ride up the crocodile infested Sepic River.
It was an adventure. And I was sure I was going to die. I wrote out my last will and testament while I was there because between the plane ride, the boat ride and the truck ride, I thought, I’m never going to make it home.
My group of teens had 1 big project and one small one. The big one was to build a hospital. But in order to do that we actually have to make the blocks. We had the concrete and sand, but we needed to buy the gravel, which we couldn’t do for the first two weeks of the trip because we had offended the local tribe and they wouldn’t sell it to us.
So for two weeks, we made concrete blocks without gravel. I’m sure the hospital is not currently standing.
The other side project we had was to build a swinging rope bridge across the river. Because….crocodiles. Crocodiles were a big problem in this community. The locals did everything in the river. Bathe, drink, and other things. And they tried to do it where the current was strong because in still water the crocs could sneak up on you.
Those of us on the team had our own trouble in the water. Not only did we have to bathe in the rushing currents, but we also keep shoes on in the water because there were parasitic worms that would enter through the soles of our feet, and give us a lot of intestinal problems when we got home.
So a bridge was a good idea.
To build this bridge there were four ropes going across the river already. Two for the bottom part of the bridge, where we would take wooden slats and attach them to the ropes. And the top two ropes would be to hold on for your life.
In order to attach the wood slats to the ropes, it was my job to hang out on the bottom ropes with one rope under my knees, and holding on to the other rope with my hands. Once I was in position, I would squeeze my knees towards my hands, and the people with the wooden slats would secure the slats to the rope. And then I’d scooch out a little further, and it would continue until my arms and legs were numb.
One day, someone from the team was supposed to be cleaning out a canoe in the rushing water below. And he lost the canoe in the currents.
My adult leader looked at me, and said, “Go get it.” So, I swung my legs over the ropes, and let go. I fell feet first into the Sepic river, swam against currents and finally grabbed the boat, which was, by now, filled with water. I managed, with the help of a friends, to avoid crocodiles and bring the boat to shore.
I didn’t manage to die that year. The last will and testament of Amy Anne Yoder was not required. I didn’t get eaten by a crocodile. I didn’t get parasitic worms. But two weeks after we got home, the bridge fell down.
A Bad Idea
I’m always trying to think of interesting ways to try to explain Pentecost, especially to children. And one year, I had an especially brilliant idea. I would take a Chinese Lantern, and light it in the sanctuary, and allow it to graciously flow through the window and out into the atmosphere.
You know what a chinese lantern is, right? It’s a paper lantern, that requires a wick to be lit in it’s center. The heat from the lit wick will generate enough hot air to lift it.
I had one lantern, so I didn’t have a spare to test out ahead of time. But what could go wrong, right? This was a brilliant idea. And how amazing it would be to watch the fire go into the air, sending this fragile, flammable lantern into the sky.
I gathered the children by the open window in the sanctuary for children’s time, and set the wick alight, while carefully holding the lantern out of the window.
There were a few lighting issues, but then the wick really got going. And then the fire inside the paper lantern got big–fast. But I was still confident. This will definitely work. What could go wrong.
And then I heard the voice of little Henry behind me. “Um, Pastor Amy, this seems like a really bad idea.”
And I realized in that moment that it was more than a bad idea. It was definitely the worst idea I’d had for children’s time. EVER.
So, I let go of the paper lantern as it completely caught on fire. And it landed–safely–on the sidewalk below. No one was injured, no property was destroyed. But no one in that church ever felt safe near me with an open flame.
You are not Alone
I learned that my friend, Mark, died when I was in the South Hebron Hills of Palestine in 2013. I was walking into Firing Zone 918 with a delegation from Christian Peacemaker Teams, into land that was taken by the military for training purposes, but was still the home of several thousand rural Palestinian farmers.
Mark’s friends called me in the firing zone, and told me that at his death he was surrounded by friends who loved and held him as he passed to the other side.
Mark was a theatre professor at Eastern University, and a brilliant, albeit quirky man. Several years ago, he directed a version of the play, “My Name is Rachel Corrie,” based on Corrie’s journals. Rachel Corrie was a student and member of the International Solidarity Movement, a group that opposed the demolition of Palestinian homes in the West Bank and Gaza strip. She put her body in front of a bulldozer, acting as a human shield against the destruction of a Palestinian home, and was killed.
After the tears of the news of Mark’s death subsided, I lifted my head up and saw the beautiful desert landscape, I breathed in the dry desert air. The hills of South Hebron were stunning, especially as the sun was setting. The colors of the sky were transformed from blue to bright pink, orange and yellow. The distant sun reflected off the rocks, and they sparkled.
All along the bumpy path of the firing zone were Ebeneezers, places where people had stacked rocks to show the way. Some were regal and solitary, and others were short and seemed to multiply along the side of the path towards the tiny village of Al Fahkeet.
I saw these markers on the way, and thought of Mark’s journey toward shalom, towards wholeness and completeness after a long period of illness. All was being made clear for Mark now, and he could rest at his journey’s end.
Our journey in life is a journey toward shalom–towards God’s peace and wholeness. And all along that journey we meet people that show us the way. Sometimes they are landmark people–they are those big markers on our journey. Sometimes they are among a group of people that leave smaller markers on the path. But everyone we meet has the potential to change us.
So, it seemed appropriate (and I know it would be funny to him) that I heard the news, of Mark’s death when I was walking through a military firing zone in the West Bank of Palestine, a place that Rachel Corrie loved, a place that Mark taught me about in his art.
So, what else could I do in the Firing Zone but place my own Ebeneezer on the trail? I left a vibrant bracelet in an olive tree, a colorful sign of hope for the next traveler on this rocky path that says, “You are not alone, friend. You are going the right way. Sometimes the hard way is the most illuminating.”
You Will Be Found
Friends, this is my last sermon at Germantown Mennonite Church, and it’s based on Luke 15:1-10. In a few days, I begin a new ministry with the people at Frazer Mennonite Church in Malvern, PA.
I know a bit about being lost.
The first thing I know about being lost is that I really don’t enjoy it. I’m not one of those folks that is like, “We’re lost! That’s great! Adventure time!”
I’m usually more like, “I’m lost? What’s wrong with the GPS? How can this happen? We’re gonna be late!”
The other things about being lost is that I’m usually the last to realize that I am lost. And I will not ask for help. Charlie McGloughlin can testify to this, as can John Bergen. I’m sure I know where I am until I’m absolutely sure I don’t know where I am. And then it’s a crisis.
When I prepare to lead a Christian Peacemaker Teams trip, I spend a lot of time making sure I know how to get where we’re going. That’s not an easy task because using google map in Palestinian territories is nearly impossible. Many of the locations I visit literally can’t be found on any GPS, because Israel only recognizes Israeli territory on the GPS systems. So I take a lot of notes about which bus to take, landmarks and anything else I can find to make sure I know where I’m going.
But even with the best of directions, and the best notes, sometimes I take the wrong bus.
The first day of the delegation this year was my worst nightmare as a leader. I got us on the bus headed to Anata road. But the bus was actually to the village of Anata, more specifically the refugee camp of Anata, outside the city of Jerusalem and through a checkpoint.
The bus driver dropped us off in the center of this town that we weren’t supposed to be in, and sped off, and the group looked at me expectantly. I looked around for someone that could speak English. By the way, even though I hate asking for help, it’s an amazing experience to ask someone, “Do you speak English?” and have that activate an entire group of people to help me. This sort of thing never happens in this country.
One of the men in the group contacted his cousin, who spoke English, and I talked to him on the phone. I told him where I wanted to go, and he instructed me on how to get there.
So, I confidently began to climb a steep hill with the delegation. And a block in, I knew that I was in the wrong place. So, I started to look for help. “Do you speak English?” “Do YOU speak English?” I was hot, exasperated, and really embarrassed to be leading my delegation astray on the first day, when I found someone to ask….one more time. “Please…..do YOU speak English?”
The man didn’t speak English, but jumped into his car, began backing up the hill, and motioned for us to follow him.
What choice did we have? We were at his mercy. We were lost, and he found us. So, we followed.
The man excitedly backed into the driveway of his home, jumped out of the car, ran up the stairs to the entrance to his home, and then wildly gestured for us to come in.
In the United States, this is the beginning of a horror film. Cue the stabby music. But, what choice did we have? We were so lost.
We reluctantly entered the house and found this man’s family in the living room. They jumped up, offering us comfortable chairs, bottles of water and fans. And still, no one spoke English.
And then Islam entered. She was 22, beautiful in her colorful hijab, and radiating joy. She greeted us in perfect English, introducing herself, and all the other members of her family. The father, who brought us to the house, the mother (Reem), the sisters, brothers and Aunt.
Her family offered us classic Palestinian hospitality–tea, then coffee, then grapefruit juice, and sweets. Then, once we were all comfortable, hydrated and smiling, Islam asked, “Now where were you going?” I showed her the website for the organization we were visiting, and she called them. She laughed and said, “You are nowhere near where you are supposed to be”, which I knew. Islam instructed her father to call a van to pick us up, and we prepared to leave.
But this family was not done showing us love and hospitality. Islam’s mother, Reem, said to me, through her daughter, “Can you all come back? For dinner?”
By now we were all practically family. So how could I say no. We arranged to come back in a few days for dinner.
And as, you might imagine, the dinner was amazing, the hookah was top notch and the kinship was easy. The Issa family, even though we haven’t known them for long, are connected to me now in deep ways.
And this family that found us by pure accident is now our family. A few of us are hoping to be in Palestine next summer in time for Islam’s wedding. Because that’s what family does.
I don’t like being lost. Because I am not in control. But I can’t think of a better way to begin this year’s trip than to get lost in Anata. I can’t think of a better way to begin this trip than to be out of control, to be at the mercy of strangers, to be forced to rely on people and relationships rather than my GPS and my good planning.
Because when we are lost, we will be found.
This experience in Palestine this year feels very familiar to me. Because it reminds me of the ways I have felt found by this congregation.
I arrived here at this congregation in 1996, and I was very lost. And angry. And overhwelmed. I had just moved to Philadelphia with Charlie, and made big plans to do a rational, reasonable church search in Philadelphia. But, all that changed when I walked into 21 West Washington Lane.
I felt at home here the moment I stepped into this building. And there’s no reason I should have. There was a lot of crying that first Sunday. The kind of crying that should scare off new folks. The kind of crying about personal pain that leaves strangers feeling awkward and uncomfortable. But all I could think was, “My people! I found them!”
To try to describe the feeling of being found by this congregation only makes sense to a small group of people–usually it’s folks like me that have walked through these doors and described this place as “home.” I can look out into this room and see plenty of folks that have no other word for this feeling than…home.
This is home.
And it feels good to have been found by you. It feels good to know that even when I was busy making rational, reasonable plans, God laughed and dropped me at the door to this community. God showed me the green doors of Germantown Mennonite, and I knew I was home. I knew i was found.
And not just found, but celebrated, loved and cared for.
Y’all have celebrated with us when our babies were born, you rejoiced with each new job we’ve taken on, you’ve made us food (Rita–that chicken salad is legendary in our home, and Ruth Marino, your pies–delicious!), brought us flowers from your garden. You’ve sent cards, which in my opinion is an underappreciated spiritual gift. Beth Sutter remembers me on Mother’s day every year, because she knows how hard it is for me.
When I was lost, you found me. You showed me the way of Jesus, a way that is risky and daring doesn’t care what others think. And you celebrated with me, just as you have celebrated each other here.
Being found by all of you 22 years ago gives me the courage, the strength, and the certainty to get lost again. You give me the courage to get lost in a denomination that I’ve been taunting from the sidelines for the last year.
Because I know you will be here, finding each other, looking after each other, feeding each other, celebrating and grieving with each other. I know that you will be found.
And I know that I will be found. Wherever I go. Whether it be the suburbs, the village of Anata, or some other place I didn’t mean to end up. God will keep finding me, and God will keep finding you. And God will celebrate us all!
I don’t like getting lost. It’s a terrible, out of control feeling. But I have enough past experience to know that God’s going to keep finding me. And I have enough experience here at Germantown Mennonite Church to know that God will find you in this transition, in our national uncertainty, and in the chaos of our personal lives. God will find us. God is finding us. God will rejoice in finding us. AMEN.
Be Opened
Sermon preached at Germantown Mennonite Church
9.2.18
Based on Mark 7:24-37
Jesus was heading into Canaanite territory to take a respite from his work. He didn’t want to be noticed. But it was difficult for the Rabbi to be incognito in Tyre and Sidon. Because he wasn’t Canaanite. Jesus was an Israelite, a Jew, a Rabbi. And he probably stood out. He probably didn’t look or dress the like the Canaanites of the area.
He certainly caught the attention of one woman, who recognized Jesus right away. This woman, described as Syrophoenician in this text, and Canaanite in others, was Gentile, she was from the area, she spoke Greek, and she knew all about Israelite men. She knew of the long standing rivalry between Canaanites and Israelites, going back thousands of years to the time when Moses sent the Israelites into the promised land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and a land that happened to be already inhabited by Canaanites.
This woman knew that an Israelite man would take one look at her, and determine that he was better than she was, simply because of this conflict–inscribed into Israelite mythology–that went back millenia. It’s not something that Jesus was conscious of, but it was taught to his parents and their parents and theirs. This feeling of superiority went way back.
But this woman was desperate–her daughter was sick, and when your kid is sick or hurting, you do desperate things for them.
So she went to Jesus, who looked out of place, but who she thought she recognized, and asked him to heal her daughter.
Desperate words from a desperate woman.
Now, I’ve preached from this text pretty regularly. It’s one of my favorite stories. Each gospel tells it a little differently, but the common factor in this story is that Jesus’ ministry changed because Jesus met this woman. What started out as a reform movement for Judaism, became a movement that included all people–and, I believe that his ministry pivoted around this encounter.
Everything for Jesus changed after this encounter with the Canaanite woman. Jesus began to hang out with non-Jews, he began to heal them, to eat with them, to share life with them. All because this Gentile woman asked Jesus to heal her daughter.
I want to be careful here not to overlook the details of this encounter. Because it wasn’t an easy one for Jesus or the Canaanite woman. Because Jesus said some mean, un-thinking words to the woman. He compared her to a dog.
And the woman–even though she’s desperate for help–does not take this remark silently. She gave Jesus a comeback that changed his ministry. When Jesus called her a dog, she replied, “Even the dogs get the crumbs from the table.” Even we Canaanites deserve a little something, Jesus. We Canaanites are human, you know. We are more than the savage stories written in your holy book.
When I read this story–and it comes up in preaching every year–I notice the bravery of this woman. That’s important.
And I also notice that Jesus didn’t get indignant when this woman corrected him. He wasn’t mad. He didn’t say, “I didn’t mean it like that”, or “I don’t think you understood what I was saying,” or “Why does everyone have to be so politically correct nowadays.” He didn’t say, “Give me a break, lady, I’m working on my stuff.” or “You Canaanites are so touchy.” He heard her correction. He received her admonition. And he changed course because of it.
Jesus changed because this woman, this foreigner, called him out.
This call out from Jesus has me reflecting on these last decades here at Germantown. I’ve certainly received my fair share of call outs from you, from colleagues, from friends and family. I’ve been working on being grateful for them all. I certainly haven’t always taken them kindly. Some of them have made me angry, hurt my feelings and left me reeling for days and even weeks.
But in the end, these call outs have shown me my growing edges, have forced me to at least consider change, rather than digging in my heels.
And let’s face it, we cannot grow until we encounter other world views and perspectives that shake our own assumptions, that challenge the dominant, supersessionist language we use, and that force us to change.
The first queer people I met in college forced me to change. When one friend came out to me, and asked me, with tears in her eyes, “Am I going to hell because I love another woman?”, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I understood love and desire.
When I met Jewish folks that called me out on the anti-semetic ways I read the text, I had to change how I read the scripture, and how I talked about other religious groups.
My first encounter with a Palestinian man happened here in this church, when we hosted Christian Peacemaker Teams meetings here in 2011. He reflected on the ways that Christian Zionism has made life difficult for his people on the other side of the world. I had to change.
Those behavior and perspective changes mean that life can’t go on as usual. I had to live differently because of this.
Jesus took the criticism of the woman. Because, she was right. There’s never a good or right reason to compare someone to an animal, to dehumanize them.
In fact, Jesus went as far as to say that this woman’s child had been healed because she called out Jesus. Jesus changed, this woman’s daughter was healed, and Jesus’ ministry turn a turn towards inclusion.
But this isn’t the end of the story. We read in the next story about how Jesus changed.
When Jesus left the region where he met this Canaanite woman, Jesus met more people that needed healing. And Jesus didn’t turn them away. In fact, Jesus, so transformed and moved by the encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he healed one person by putting his fingers in their ears, and uttering to the heavens “Ephphatha”, which means “be opened.”
This word, Ephphatha, is a Greek form of Aramaic, a language certainly used by the Canaanite woman. Jesus is so transformed by his encounter with the Canaanite woman, that he used her language, her dialect, to call out to their God.
This is no magic word. In fact, I wonder if this word is a reminder to Jesus that he must stay open. He must be opened by the encounters he has with those he met. In opening the ears of that person, Jesus himself knew how much more open his heart, his ears, his eyes and his mind needed to be as his ministry continued.
Be opened. Stay opened. Ephphatha.
Our inclinations in difficult encounters is to be closed, to protect ourselves from criticism, to save face and avoid looking like a jerk.
But what if we did the more difficult thing. What if we called ourselves to Be Opened. What if we called out to God for an openness, a willingness to change, a desire to be moved in an unknown direction.
Jesus was challenged by a foreign woman to see the work of God as bigger than just for the Israelites. She asked Jesus to see her humanity, to see that God’s love was for the Canaanites, the Kushites, the Midionites, the Romans, the Greeks, the colonized, the colonizers, the poor, the rich, the included and excluded.
Jesus saw in this encounter that he had a bigger project than he had even anticipated. And he took it on. He learned from his mistakes. He healed those he encountered. And he called on God–Ephphatha. Be opened. Stay opened.
Let us too be opened to call outs, because they show us our boundaries and limits. And they may even show us those places where we are being pushed. Ephphatha. Be. opened. Stay Opened. AMEN.