Lift High The Cross

Sermon based on Numbers 21:4-9 and John 3:14-21

This week, my friend’s cousin in Palestine was killed.  Because we live in a 21st century world with instant access, I watched on social media as his shrouded body was lifted high in the air, and paraded down Prayer Road, while his mother wept and could not be consoled.  I listened to the heartbroken crowd confidently cry out, “Allah Akbar”–God is the greatest. I wept with my friends, even from thousands of miles, as we watched his body lifted high for all to see.

I’ve never witnessed a funeral like this–one that comes so soon after the death, and becomes such a scene of community grief.  But what moved me most profoundly, and also disturbed me, was that as the crowd lifted this dead teenager over their heads, they said over and over, “God is the greatest.”  

It’s times like this–when a teenager is senselessly killed–that I reserve the right to NOT say, “God is the greatest.”  When children are shot in their schools, on our streets, or by the military in occupied territory, I reserve the right to purse my lips, turn my head and refuse to say that God is the greatest.  It is a phrase that is dissonant in my ears and heart when something so unnecessary and so outrageously violent happens.

This funeral procession is not unlike Moses lifting up the snake in the desert.  In this strange story from the book of Numbers, God’s people are plagued by poisonous snakes, who are biting and killing the people at random.  And the only way to survive the bites was to look at that snake that Moses is holding up. In order for the people to live, they had to look at the thing that was killing them.  

This is the opposite of what we usually do.  If something is hurting us, we run from it. We don’t look at it, we avoid it. 

But this is what God told Moses and the people to do.  Look At the thing that’s killing you. That will save you.  

And just as Moses lifted up that snake in the desert, so must the Chosen One be lifted up.  Just as Moses lifted up the thing that was killing the people, so must we look at the cross, that symbol of all that killed Jesus, and all that is killing us.  

In our story from the gospel of John, Jesus met Nicodemus in the cover of darkness.  Nicodemus was a Pharisee and religious leader, who couldn’t be seen with Jesus in the light.  Nicodemus represented the religious establishment, the powerful and the privileged in Jewish society.  And Nicodemus had all of that to lose in coming to Jesus.

But he saw something, heard something in Jesus that he found irresistible.  He wanted to be part of the reign of God, but was struggling to understand it fully.  

So Jesus said these words to Nicodemus in the darkness:  Just as Moses lived up the snake in the desert, so must the Chosen One be lifted up.  God loved this world so much that God sent their child–God made flesh–so that everyone that believes will live.  God didn’t send this child to condemn the world, but so that the world would be saved. Whoever believes is not condemned, but whoever doesn’t believe is already condemned.  Here’s the verdict:  Light comes into the world, but the people love the darkness, because that’s where evil hides.  Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear of being exposed.  But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so all they have done comes plainly into view.

Jesus, who was talking to a proud and powerful Nicodemus in the darkness, was talking about a couple of things at once.  First, he’s scolding Nicodemus for coming to him in the darkness. All Jesus did and taught was about coming out of the darkness and into the light.  Second he’s revealing himself as God’s child, the light of the world. And finally, he’s calling Nicodemus, and all people, into the light, into the truth of the reign of God.  

And, it seems, into order to do that, we have to look at Jesus raised high in the light.  We have to look at Jesus on the cross. We have to look at all that killed Jesus in order for the truth to be revealed.  And in the case of Nicodemus, he’s being asked to look at the thing that was killing Jesus, killing him, and killing all of us, and face it in the light.  

I hate to break it to you, folks, but Christianity is not some sort of sanitized religion, or a feel good faith.  This Jesus Christ we follow is calling Nicodemus, and us to look at the thing that killed Jesus, and to look at the thing that is killing us.  

The thing that killed my friends’ cousin this week was a system of oppression that demanded obedience to military orders barked at him, and did not care that he was deaf and couldn’t hear the instructions.  The thing that killed Jesus was a system that demanded blood, demanded a scapegoat so that people could feel safe. What killed Jesus was a religious and political system that demanded things be hidden.

And that’s what kills us too.  Hidden things. Things we refuse to believe, things we are afraid to bring to light in this world.  

Yesterday I attended the funeral of an old friend’s fiance. He was 57, and he died of a stroke while on a business trip. I didn’t know Steve–I was there to support my friend–but after hearing so many stories about him yesterday, I decided that I’d like him.  He was a talented musician, a rabid sports fan, and he loved good theological conversations.

One friend shared Steve’s favorite toast to make when he and his friends would gather together.  They’d get together to sing, laugh and make music, and after the second or third round of drinks, Steve would stand and make a toast–the same one he’d make every time they gathered.  He’d lift his beer in tha air and say, “Onward, towards death.”

Steve’s friend said the thing that we often hear at funerals.  “Steve wasn’t afraid to die.” Now, I don’t know how true that is, but I’m sure that however Steve felt about death, he was looking it straight in the eye.  He was levelheaded enough to know that death is inescapable, and God asks us to look at what is scaring us, and what is killing us.

God doesn’t take away the snakes that bite us–I wish God would.  God doesn’t take away the pain of this world, even though I wish God would.  God doesn’t even take away death. But God says, look at the thing that kills your body and your spirit, and you will be healed.  

In the same way Jesus said to Nicodemus, and to us (who are more like Nicodemus than we’d like to admit)–Just as the Moses lifted up the thing that was killing the people, just as the people lifted up the body of Mahmoud Al Jabari, just as Steve lifted his beer in the air and said, “Onward,towards death!”, so Jesus must be lifted up, so that we can see the things that are killing us, and see the truth of the world.  Because that truth–brought into the light of day–will save us. That truth, brought into light, is healing us. And maybe as we who have our battle scars, see how far God has brought us, and experience our healing, we too can say, “God is the greatest.”

AMEN.  

Let your anger guide you

Sermon based on John 2:13-22 and I Corinthians 1:18-25

A few weeks ago, I attended a training on Non-Violent resistance put on by Christian Peacemaker Teams. We did several activities that involved us being put in uncomfortable situations–like pretending we were at a rally, or role playing bystander intervention.

All of those role plays are uncomfortable and thought provoking.  The thing that really had me thinking was one particular exercise.  We were given scenarios, and based on what we heard, we had to stand in a circle that had been divided into quadrants.  Violent on one side of the circle, and nonviolent on the other. And on the other axis–effective or not effective.

Here was the scenario that was given to us:  You are at a peaceful demonstration, and police arrive in riot gear–shields, helmets and face masks–and they throw tear gas into the crowd.  The tear gas lands in front of you, and immediately begins to spray the noxious fumes everywhere. You think fast, and grab the tear gas and throw it back towards the police.  

And then we were asked: Is this violent? Is this effective?

Most people in the room stood over on the violent, non-effective side.  I stood on the nonviolent, effective side. It felt pretty lonely over there on that axis, I’ll admit.  But I had my reasons. I put myself in that scenario, and was worried about the people around me being hurt by teargas when they had no protection from it.  And I knew that the police had protection. So, while they would be mad that I threw it back in their direction. They would also be safe from its impact. And the protesters would be safe too.  This move felt to me like the safest option.

There’s was a lot of great conversation generated here.  And some people changed their minds, and others did not.

It had me thinking about this text we read today.  This one where Jesus entered the temple, makes a whip out of cords, and drove the vendors and animals from the temple.  He turned over the money changers table, and the money flew everywhere. This story confounds those that read the texts and try to see Jesus as non-violent.  Because Jesus seemed angry and aggressive here. But Jesus calls us to peace. So how do we reconcile this?

This story is often called the “Cleansing of the temple” story.  But I’m not sure if cleansing is the right word. I have the sense that Jesus is doing more than simply cleansing.  I think Jesus wants to do away with the system altogether, he doesn’t just want to clean it up.

Here’s why:  This story is happening in Jerusalem during the Passover, the biggest festival of the year where folks are required to come to the temple to make an offering.  

Jesus came to Jerusalem expecting to see a celebration of the people’s liberation from slavery in Egypt, and instead he witnessed a scene where poor people were being exploited.  

There were two points of exploitation in the temple that day, and both had become commonplace.  First, the selling of ritually pure animals to poor people who could only buy the animals at the temple at outrageous prices.  And, the money changers who changed money from international currency to local currencies so it could be used in the temple. Both vendors were corrupt.  

The animal sellers sold animals of all sorts in the temple.  If you were rich, you’d sacrifice a cow or ox, and if you were poor you’d sacrifice a dove or a pigeon.  But the temple couldn’t take just any animal–the animals that were sacrificed had to be unblemished, and in order to ensure that, they had to be purchased at the gates of the temple, where the prices were higher than the countryside prices.  And, as with any tax or pricing system, the costs tended to be felt more by the poor than the rich. If you wanted to purchase two doves, you paid two days wages just outside the temple. The doves had to be inspected just inside the temple, and if they were found to be blemished, you had to buy two more doves inside the temple for the equivalent of two months of pay.

The second place of exploitation was found with the money changers who were located just inside the temple court–they bought and sold money because temple taxes could not be paid with roman images on them (graven images).  So roman money had to be exchanged for usable local currently.

While money changers were important, they were also corrupt, because they could inflate the exchange rate and exaggerate the fees.  So for poor people, the money changers exchange rate was the equivalent of a day’s wages, this was before the person purchased an unblemished animal and had to buy them again at a higher rate because the temple inspector found a blemish.  

When all was said and done, a one day stay in Jerusalem could cost $3,000-$4,000 in contemporary value. This was an outrageous expense for a poor family in occupied Palestine.  

Jesus, coming from a poor family himself, understood that this system was designed to exploit people, especially poor people.  So he made a whip out of what he found lying around, and he ran the money changers out of the temple. He turned over the tables, poured out the coins, and demanded that these folks “Stop making the realm of God into a realm of commerce.”  Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t call for a systemic reform, but an end to this system altogether.

Jesus was calling for an end to this system that was oppressing people. And Jesus was bringing about an end–at least temporarily–to this system, by mixing up the blemished and unblemished animals as they ran out of the temple.  He was bringing about an end to the money changers, at least temporarily, by having coins scatter all over the courtyard. He was bringing about and end to this oppressive system in the chaos by mixing up who had paid and hadn’t, and by demonstrating the chaos of the oppressive system on poor people’s lives.  

Meanwhile–those in power were more concerned about HOW Jesus did something, than they were outraged by WHAT Jesus is exposing. We get more worked up about the anger of Jesus than we do about the system Jesus is calling out.  We get more upset that tear gas is thrown at cops in riot gear than we do that cops in riot gear show up at a peaceful demonstration.

And I’m not talking about those people out there that do that–I’m talking about me.  I’m talking about us. Mennonites spend a chunk of time deconstructing Jesus’ actions here.  Because they scare us. His actions certainly scare me. It scares me that our peaceful Jesus appears angry.  It scares me that in order for reign of God to come near, that the world must be turned upside down, property must be scattered, my life must be radically changed, and the system that we comfortably exist in must be chaotically overturned.  

Perhaps we are more scared of Jesus’ anger here because it will upend our lives and the ways that so many prosper on the backs of poor.  

But anger is a healthy emotion, a good emotion.  Because it tells us that something isn’t right. It tells us there is danger.  It tell us that we have to pay attention to what is underneath that feeling. Are we feeling protective and that’s why the anger is bubbling up?  Are we fearful? Are we feeling deep love?

And what do we do with that emotion, with that anger?  Because yes, anger can be toxic–anger can turn into violence, but can also turn into creativity, it can tell us to change our behavior, it can call us to deeper discipleship.  

In Jesus’ case here, even in his outrage and anger about what he saw happening in God’s temple, he took time to let his anger guide him. He took time to fashion a whip out of cords.  Jesus was resourceful. He was coming up with a plan. This was a well thought out demonstration. He knew what he was doing.

And we are so focused on his behavior, that we forget to look at the system he is criticizing.  Where is Jesus’ anger taking us? Where is this outrageous display taking us? Some would argue that our anger and outrage makes us look foolish.  How can we work towards the reign of God? It’s wishful thinking. It’s impossible. But I think our anger and outrage at injustice takes us to the cross.  The cross is foolishness to those who don’t understand, but to those who have a better sense of what God is up to, this cross–this perceived foolishness–is saving our lives.  This outrageous expose’ of injustice and unfair treatment of poor people would send Jesus to the cross, and it would save him and us in resurrection.

Don’t let your anger scare you.  This anger could be the Holy Spirit at work–calling you deeper into discipleship.  Let it take you to the cross. Let it take you to the place where injustice is exposed and all the hidden things are brought into light.  Let your anger guide you to a world as it should be. Let your anger guide you to resurrection. AMEN.

Bow in the Sky

Sermon Preached on 2.18.18, the first Sunday of Lent

Lent has often been perceived as a time when we need to deprive ourselves.  We talk about what we should give up, or let go of for a time.  In fact, the season begins with indulging in that one (or three) last donuts before a somber, sugarless, coffee less, chocolate less season begins.  

But this is the season not to give things up (although if that’s what you feel you need to do this season, go for it), it’s a season to dig deep, to recall God’s work and ways, as we move towards a hopeful Easter story.  

But, as with everything in life, before we get to the good stuff–to Easter–we will need to talk about the hard things.  

Today’s stories–of the ark and of Jesus’ baptism are stories of God’s presence.  Both of these stories have a little something in common–both stories demonstrate God’s presence in signs from the sky.  

For most people in ancient cultures, the movement of the stars and other celestial phenomena were viewed as “heavenly writing”.  They were omens, placed in the sky by God, and these omens crypically communicated God’s plans to humanity.  The rainbow, though not written in the stars, was also viewed as a sign placed in the heavens by God.  

Our Genesis story is about God placing a sign in the sky, but not for us to interpret.  This sign in the sky–this bow–is placed by God to remind God of the covenant they have made with humanity and all of the animals of the earth.  This sign in the sky is placed there by God to remind God that they promised never to destroy the earth by flood again.  

This bow in the sky is not actually a rainbow in Hebrew.  This bow in the sky is a weapon–a bow used to hunt and kill–and God is hanging it up.  God is hanging up God’s weapons and covenanting not to do violence to humanity again.  This weapon is  not pointed down at God’s creation to threaten the earth, but pointed towards the heavens.  

It’s a reminder to God that God cannot force humanity to do what they do not wish to do, even if it’s for their own good.  In many ways, God has made a developmental change in parenting tactics.  This is the moment for God that many of us have in parenting–that moment where we realized that we cannot make our children do something.  We can’t pick them up and move them.  And corporal punishment doesn’t work.  Instead, we must be in relationship with our children.  And we know well that our children, even with the best council, don’t always do what we want them to do.They have to make their own mistakes and we walk with them through those lessons.

So God is realizing here that God’s tactics aren’t worth the damage it does to God’s people and God’s creation, and to the relationship God has with their people.  So, God makes a covenant.  

I won’t do this again humanity.  I won’t destroy you, creation.  We are in this together.  We are bound together in this covenant.  And this bow in the sky is a reminder of that.

This covenant doesn’t say that others will  not hurt God’s people.  It doesn’t say that humans won’t get themselves and creation into a big mess, as is demonstrated by ALL of human history.  But God is promising here that God is not going to be the one to do the destroying.  God will choose instead to walk with us.  

In the Gospel of Mark, we read of Jesus’ baptism, where the spirit descends on Jesus in the shape of a dove.  This is another sign in the sky–another unusual sign, because, like the rainbow, it’s not in the stars, but in the pure bright light of day.  

And the sign Jesus is given is the spirit in the form of a dove.  Now the dove also showed up in the story of Noah’s ark.  It was a sign that life was beginning again.  It was a sign that Noah’s family would soon find land, and could get off that boat and away from all those smelly procreating, high maintenance animals.  

Like the bow in the sky, the dove is a reminder to Jesus of that covenant.  God is promising not to destroy Jesus, but to be present with Jesus through all the difficulties that will come.  And we know how this story ends.  We know Jesus will face more trials than he even bargained for.

And God’s voice came from the sky to say, “You, Jesus, are my beloved, my own.  On you my favor rests.”  This sounds like a promise–a covenant–from God to Jesus.  You are my own.  Remember that promise I made to humanity and creation.  I’m making it with you, Jesus.  I will not destroy you.  I am with you.  

This week was ash Wednesday and valentines day–on the same day.  Nothing says romance like ashes of mortality smeared on your forehead.  This year I witnessed a mom giving ashes to her 3 month old son.  This week, I saw the image of a grieving community member standing outside of that school in Lakewood, Florida after 17 people were killed, holding on to someone and weeping, with the sign of the cross smeared on her forehead in a mixture of ash and anointing oil.  Remember humanity that you are dust, and to dust you will return.  Remember humanity that you will die.

Death is a promise for all of us.  It is one of the few things promised to us in this life.  Death is promised, but God has also promised to hang up God’s bow. God has promised that death is not at God’s hand.  And God is with us through our lives.  

Death is a promise.  And so is God’s presence.  

In hanging up God’s bow, God has said to humanity, “What are YOU going to do about this?  How will YOU live in this world as my people?”  

This covenant is more than God promising not to kill us.  It’s also God handing  a measure of responsibility to humanity.  

So here, in lent, we begin to see the signs.  We see the bow in the sky–God hanging up their weapons against humanity–and we see that dove–a reminder of God’s promise after the great flood.  God is with us in all the seasons of our lives.  So, how then shall we live?  AMEN.

Fly, Eagles, Fly

Sermon based on Isaiah 40:21-31.  Preached on February 3, 2018 at Germantown Mennonite Church.

Those that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength, they will mount up with wings as eagles; they will run and not be weary, they will walk and not faint.  

This has been an ongoing joke among those that pay attention to football and the lectionary texts of the week.  This is clear proof to some that the Eagles are destined for a win today.  

It’s not clear proof.  It’s a funny coincidence, but not proof of anything.

We all have a bit of Eagles fever around here right now.  Even for those of us–like me–who have little idea what’s happening on the field, we want our team to win.  We would love to see Philadelphia finally get a win, wouldn’t we?

Philadelphia is a scrappy city, loyal to each other, and also quick to point out the faults and limitations of those that represent us.  And this year, after never quite getting a super bowl win–with our skyscrapers, bridges, clothing, hair and nails painted a loyal kelly green–we are ready for a win. So ready.  

Eagles fans aren’t the only ones who were ready for a win.  

God’s people, who spent hundreds of years enslaved weren’t looking for a Super Bowl win, they wanted something much more.  They wanted freedom.  They wanted to return to their home, after being enslaved in Babylon for hundreds of years.  

In Isaiah 40, the text we heard today, they had been waiting for God to speak for a long time. The last time God had spoken through the prophets was just before the Babylonian enslavement.  We hear the last words of the prophets in Isaiah 39–Isaiah said to the king, “Hear the word of the Lord Almighty: The time will surely come when everything in your palace, and all that your predecessors have stored up until this day, will be carried off to Babylon. Nothing will be left, says the Lord.  And some of your descendants, your own flesh and blood who will be born to you, will be taken away, and they will become eunuchs in the palace of the king of Babylon.”

And that was it from God speaking for a couple hundred years.  So, for hundreds of years, the people heard nothing from God through the prophets.  And then the people heard from the prophet again in Isaiah 40:  

Be comforted my people.  Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, for your cries have been heard and your debt has been paid.  

Why do you complain that God does not hear you, that God knows nothing about your life? Don’t you know that God is everlasting?  That God understands more than you know?  That God never grows tired?  

God gives strength to those that are tired, and power to those who are weak.  Even the young will get tired, but whoever waits on God will renew their strength, the will soar like eagles.  They will run and not get tired; they will walk and not get faint.

These are words from God to people who are waiting for a long time.  To people who were old and tired in spirit.  God says that those who wait will find strength from God.

After waiting for God to speak for generations, God offers words of comfort to God’s displaced people–your strength will be renewed; your strength is being renewed.  

At the last Eagles playoff game, I saw something I didn’t know happened at Eagles game.  Maybe it only happened this one time–I’m not sure.  But during the national anthem, where an enormous American flag covered the field, an eagle was released and flew across the stadium full of screaming fans.  It didn’t flap its wings or work hard to get across the the field.  It just glided over the field while the national anthem played.  This majestic bird made no effort, expended no energy, to get to the other side.  

In the same way, the text today implies that those that are waiting for God will find that their strength has been returned to them. They that wait on the Lord will renew their strength.  They will glide and soar like an eagle.

The next lines says this:  They will run and not be weary, they will walk and not faint.  There’s no way to run and not be weary, and walk and not faint unless you’ve been walking and running a long time.  Unless your body is conditioned to run and walk long distances, it’s difficult to do.  

Waiting on the Lord then is not about sitting around simply waiting for an answer from God, but running, walking, training and practicing for the work ahead.  Our waiting involves readying ourselves for the work.  

They that wait on God will have their strength renewed, they will soar as eagles.  They will run and not get tired, they will walk and not faint.  

We talk a lot in this congregation about the world and the difficulties we see.  And I know that the hard work we’re doing is practice for a time in the future when we will need to use our running and walking skills.  

And there are also difficult times in our personal lives that feel like there have been hundred years of silence from God. There are people in this room who have been waiting a lifetime to hear from God.  You are tired, weary, faint.  And God says to you, and to God’s exiled people in Babylon.  Don’t you know that I’m everlasting?  Don’t you know that I never get tired?  Don’t you know that I’m always listening?  

You who have waited, and been running and walking for what feels like eternity, God is renewing you.  I wish I could say that God is taking away our need to run.  I wish I could say that those that wait upon the Lord will get a nice comfortable bed to rest on.  But those who have waited for God will have the strength to continue.  And that continuing sometimes feels like running a marathon or walking from one end of the universe to the other, but some days it will also feel like gliding on air, or like an endorphin rush from running or walking for so long. God is giving us strength and courage to go on.

I don’t know what this means for the Eagles today.  I hope for the sake of everyone that dyed their hair green that it means a win.  I hope for every Philadelphia fan that never seems to catch a break, that it means victory for us, and a joyful somewhat out of control parade through the streets of Philadelphia this week.  I hope it means a win for the city that loves each other enough to defend this city’s honor against those TV announcers that think we are all a bunch of brutish, horse-punching super fans, that like to throw snowballs at Santa Claus.

But I do know that God promised to give God’s people strength for whatever came next.  In the case of the Israelites, it was a long road home, and out of Babylon.  For all of us, we know what God has brought us through, is bringing us through.  For you who have waited for a word from God, here it is.  Be comforted.  God does not get tired.  God does not have a limited understanding.  For you who have been waiting a long time, God is giving you strength to continue your journey.  God is continuing to give you strength so that this journey doesn’t feel like an endless marathon, but that in this journey there will be moments where you can glide and soar like an eagle.  Go Eagles.  AMEN.

The Power to Bring Down Evil

Sermon preached at Germantown Mennonite Church o 1/28/18

Based on Deuteronomy 18:15-20 and Mark 1:21-28

Every year, I meet with a group of Jewish Confirmation student.  They are high schoolers that are learning more about their faith and other religious traditions after their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.  It’s always a lot of fun for me to meet with them, because they ask questions that no one ever asks me.  They take nothing for granted about Christianity, like those of us steeped in it do.  

One of the questions I had from this group of young people was about prophecy.  I get questions from the Jewish kids about prophecy every year.  And every year it throws me.  Because I NEVER get questions about that in this church.  

The Jewish students asked me this:  Do you believe we still have prophets today?  And how do you know they are prophets?

My response was quick.  Yes, we still have prophets.  And we know they are prophets by how quickly we try to kill them and their message.  

I talked about Dr. Martin Luther King’s 1967 speech on the three evils of our society–militarism, capitalism, racism.  Eight months after this controversial speech, Dr. King was murdered.  He wasn’t just preaching about racism anymore.  He was talking about our bottom line, and the things that move this country, being the root of evil.  

They didn’t seem surprised by my answer.  They had already asked some other Christian clergy who mentioned Dr. King as an example.  

But they asked me again, “How do we know the prophets are actually prophets.  What is it that they are saying that makes them so controversial?”  

And I didn’t really have a satisfying answer for them right away.  

This week the texts beg for this conversation to continue.  How do we know who is a prophet and who is not.

Deuteronomy gives warning about being a false prophet. Later in the text it identifies the mark of a prophet is someone that brings people back to Torah, back to the word of God, back to the center, to the good news.  

Our passage from the gospel of Mark looks at the announcement of Jesus as bringer of good news in the gospel.  Jesus here doesn’t announce that he is the Messiah, but he enters the temple and begins teaching.  And people were amazed because he had authority in his teaching.  He clearly had studied and knew the scriptures well.  

In Mark’s account, it’s an unclean, evil spirit inhabiting a person in the synagogue that spilled the beans.  This unclean spirit knew that Jesus was the Messiah, and told everyone in the temple.

In other gospel accounts of this story, Jesus went to the temple, announced that he was the Messiah, God’s chosen one, and his was run out of town.  People tried to kill him immediately.  

But in this text, the unclean spirit recognized Jesus, and Jesus cast out the demon with power, and the people were amazed.  They say, this Jesus is teaching us something new, and with such power and authority.  They still don’t understand what it means that Jesus has just been outed as the Messiah.

Isn’t that the way.  Evil recognizes the good news and tries to kill it long before others even understand what’s going on.  And even when evil forces understand, everyone else is looking at Jesus like “Cool party trick! Do it again!”

The Jesus in Mark has the power to destroy evil by speaking the good news.  While the bystanders are saying, “Jesus does magic tricks,” the demon is terrified.  This demon knows they are done.  Game over.

We followers of Jesus don’t always know prophets when they are right in front of us.  But evil knows.  And evil tries to shut it down.  

Evil tries to deport based on arbitrary, moving lines of state and country.  And the prophets call us back to the heart of the gospel, a gospel that welcomes the strangers among us, for we were once strangers too.  

Evil keeps people bound up in systems that promote poverty, and the prophets call us to actively love our neighbors as ourselves.  

Evil allows addictions to flourish, and accuses the addicted of lacking will power.  And the prophets keep bringing us back to love.  

Evil teaches bias and bigotry, that results in unequal treatment in our criminal justice system.  And the prophets call us to the center, over and over and over again. Love. Love. Love.

While we’re simply amazed at Jesus power and authority, evil is trembling in fear.  So pay attention to what we know is evil.  That evil is showing up in the form of militarism, capitalism and racism.

Here’s something else you need to know about the gospel of Mark.  He talks about evil spirits–a lot. Enough to make me feel very uncomfortable.  Enough to make me have this inner conversation that sounds something like’’Well, it wasn’t REALLY demons.  Maybe it was something else they couldn’t understand or describe, so it was called demon possession instead.”  

The Jesus of Mark’s gospel knows that evil is real.  Jesus has no trouble identifying and casting out evil.  Jesus has no problem being powerful and public about his power in the gospel of Mark.  And this seems to be the good news here.  Evil, tremble in fear, Jesus is coming for you.  

We can all agree that Evil is bad. Evil spirits are bad, even if we may not quite know what Jesus meant when he described them.  And we can all agreed that casting out evil is good.  

But the thing that is important to remember is that evil serves a purpose.  It’s there to protect.  It’s there to keep the current order in place.  The evil spirits are here in Mark’s gospel, inhabiting bodies, so that the religious folks here know who is bad, and feel good about themselves while remaining only simply amazed by Jesus.  They can be amazed, yet unmoved, by this party trick Jesus.

But the evil is more than just inhabiting this body.  It has shown up in a religious center.  Think about that for a moment.  The first evil spirit in Mark is found in the temple, sees and knows Jesus, is terrified by him.  Jesus sends this spirit out of the body of a person in the temple, and out of the temple itself.  And in doing this, brings people back to the heart of the Torah–Love God, love others.  Jesus eliminates the barriers between that person and God.  There was no more evil to stop that person from relationship with God.  There was no more evil to keep the “good people” from thinking better of themselves than they ought.  There’s no more evil in that space for people to say, “Well at least I’m not that guy, who is full of evil.’

This is what makes Jesus so completely dangerous.  This is what makes Jesus’ words, teachings, and his very life so much more than a cool party trick.  When the demons are cast out, there’s no one to scapegoat.  There’s no one to be better than.  There’s just you, face to face with yourself, called deeper into God’s urgent reign, with no one standing between you and God.  

The Jewish Confirmation students wanted to know how I knew what a prophet looked like.  I should probably have brought them this story from Mark.  Prophets look like those that call us back to the heart of the gospel.  Prophets are those that break down the barriers between us and God.  Prophets speak with the power given to them by God.  

Of course, Jesus was a prophet and MUCH more.  Jesus was also the Savior that the people had been waiting for.  But at the time, only evil knew it. Soon, the whole people of God would know that.  And they would try to kill him.  Because that’s that we do.  We kill the messenger and the message.  

Pay attention to where evil is trembling, to what these evils in our world are preying on.  They are attacking those things that they understand to be good.  We have power and authority as followers of the powerful, authoritative Christ, to call out these evils as we see them, to name them for what they are, and to participate in the reign of God by casting them out.  Let’s not simply be amazed by the authority of Jesus’ words and teachings, because there are no barriers between us and God.  Let’s proclaim the good news–with power.  In Christ, we have the power to bring down evil.  We have the power.  AMEN.

Repent

Sermon based on Jonah 3: 1-5, 10; Mark 1:14-20

Jonah was a stubborn guy.  In order to avoid being the messenger to the people of Nineveh, he booked a cruise heading the opposite direction of the place where God called him.  When a storm kicked up, and the cruise staff were convinced that there was someone on their three hour tour that was responsible for this storm, the entire boatload of people drew straws, and unsurprisingly, Jonah was discovered with the short straw.  So he walked the plank, was eaten by a big fish.  When the fish realized his personality tasted as badly as his aftershave, the big fish spit Jonah out at Nineveh.  And reluctantly, Jonah agreed to send the message from God to the people he already wished would be wiped off the face of the planet.  

So he took a day’s long walk into the middle of this bustling city, and there he delivered the news:  In 40 days, Nineveh will be overthrown!  He delivered this message with a biting tone, confident that God hated these people as much as Jonah did.  He was so confident, he didn’t even tell the people what to do to get themselves right.  He just declared that the overthrow was imminent.  

And just like that, the people of Nineveh, and the animals of Nineveh repented.  They immediately turned around, changed their ways.  They declared a fast, they put on their best–most itchy–bag shaped dresses.  

This was not what Jonah had in mind.  He did not expect the people to repent, to turn around.  And he certainly did not expect God to change God’s mind.  

We have another story of immediate change, in the calling of the disciples found in the gospel of Mark.  Now, Mark is a big fan of this word–immediately–and he uses it A LOT.  He also is not one to embellish a story.  He tells it plainly.  Mark says that after John the baptizer was imprisoned, Jesus immediately began to preach the good news.  The reign of God is near.  Repent and believe the Good news.  (reminds me of the words of Jonah. Another short message.  Another call to turn and transform.)  And then Jesus is in Galilee calling the disciples.  He just walked up to them, said follow me, and IMMEDIATELY they dropped their nets and followed.  

Mark doesn’t set the scene at all.  Because it’s not about the scene.  It’s about the pace.  This is all happening very quickly.  Because there is urgency here.  The reign of God is near.  Let’s go!  

I hear a lot of folks quoting MLK (who actually quoted someone else) who said: The arc of the moral universe is long, and it bends towards justice.  I hear a lot of us say things like, “Progress is slow.”  “Be patient.” “We have to make compromises.”  But here in these texts, we hear a lot of immediately.  There are calls to turn, to repent, and the disciples and the people of Ninevah do repent–immediately.  Jesus called the disciples to follow and they drop everything and leave their family, immediately.  In fact, in most of the stories from Jesus, healing happens immediately.  People turn, repent immediately.  

The only people upset by the immediate repentance of the people of Nineveh was the self-righteous messenger himself–Jonah–who delivered the message, but really hoped these Ninevites would be annihilated by the anger and wrath of God.  So the immediacy of the transformation of this whole city really twisted up the messenger of God.  

Pastor Juan, my friend and fellow Philly Anabaptist Minister, told me a story last week that involved a lot of immediatelys.  He and some of the folks from his congregation, Christ Centered Church in Fairhill, were in the basement of their newly renovated church, and they noticed that a lot of water was coming into their basement.  And they were upset.  They quickly realized it was coming from their neighbor’s house, and not from the street, so they went over to the neighbor’s house to see what was going on.  

Now this is a neighbor that they have struggled to reach out to, but she’d rebuffed their overtures every time. So they were a little hesitant to bang on the door of a mom and her two daughters.  Would they be angry or defensive?

But they did it anyway–their basement was flooding, after all.  And when the neighbor answered the door, they saw the problem.  There was water leaking from the ceiling, down the walls, and through the window sashes.  This family was in big trouble.  In the frigid temperatures of the latest cold snap, the family’s pipes had burst.

Alex and Ed immediately ran down into the basement and waded into knee deep water.  They didn’t put on waders or wonder if there was electricity flowing through that water, they just went in, looking to turn off the water, and protect the house from further damage.  

They learned that mom had been crying and praying to God for someone to save them.  The family had been without heat for months.  The waitlist for help from LIHEP and other bureaucracies was months long, and they couldn’t find support elsewhere for help.  The pipes freezing was another expensive indignity after suffering in the cold.  

Juan, Alex and Ed told their neighbor not to worry.  They’d replace her broken heater.  They’d fix up the house from the water damage.  These guys made an immediate commitment to their neighbor–an immediate expensive, labor intensive commitment, without knowing where all the money was coming from–and they are transforming their neighbors’ lives as they are themselves experiencing the immediate transformation of repentance, of turning.  As they turn their lives to God, to new life, to discipleship, just like in Nineveh did, their neighborhood and city are transformed too.  

I’m thinking about how I’d respond to an immediately situation like the ones Juan and the folks at Christ Centered Church faced.  And I have to admit, my first thought is, “Who else can help? What is the program available for a problem like this?”  I don’t immediately turn towards the problem, I turn towards someone else to fix it.  

That has been a sobering thought to me this week.  My instinct, and maybe yours too, is NOT to immediately turn towards the difficulty of a stranger, it is to turn towards a government structure, or a program to help.  My instinct is to turn towards bureaucracy and institutions to help.  

I’ve been trained that way, social work being my first job out of college.  I’ve been trained to look for a program to handle that, a system to refer someone to.  

But the bureaucratization of services means that we believe we can wash our hands of problems right in front of us, problems that we can immediately turn towards with our resources and skills.  

Bureaucracy has become our own protection from immediately turning towards the problems.  Bureaucracy has become something that protects people of privilege from getting directly involved in people’s lives, from turning immediately towards our own salvation, and the salvation of others.  Bureaucracy is one of many ways that we are buffered from true repentance and change.  

These systems are designed to give just a little bit of help, but ultimately keep folks in terrible poverty.  They are not designed for immediate, transformative aid.  They are not designed to repent of the structures that have kept some poor, and others rich.  They are not systems that are saving and turning towards life.  

Bureaucracy is not bad.  The systems and institutions that have been created in this country protect millions of people with health care, housing, job support, education, etc..  But bureaucracy can also become the crutch people of privilege lean on to protect ourselves and our wealth.  We don’t have to turn immediately because someone else is taking care of it.  

But friends, we find ourselves in a position where others are not taking care of things.  We find ourselves understanding these systems and bureaucracies we’d come to have faith in were never really taking care of things to begin with.  

We live in brokenness.  And God is calling us to repent. To turn.  To follow.  To seek after wholeness and shalom. Immediately.  

Can we let that message sink in, through all of the protections we have–through the good health insurance policies some of us have, through the nest eggs we’ve created, the 401Ks we’ve been working on, the home equity, the family systems and structures we are born into, the safety we enjoy.  Can we let that need for repentance seep through all of that institutional protection that we enjoy, and take hold of our hearts?

Friends, the reign of God is at hand.  The reign of God is calling us to repentance. Immediate repentance.  

Sulha

Sermon based on Matthew 18:15-20

About ten years ago, Charlie and I ended up in a feud with our next door neighbor.  Earl was a gruff guy, and not very friendly.  He also didn’t keep his house up, and it made our newly renovated home look kind of bad.  There were a lot of things that needed to be repaired, and he had the skills and time to do it, but he had not interest in it.    

One day, my sister in law was preparing to move out, so we blocked a few open spaces in front of the house with chairs while we waited for the moving truck.  Earl came home, saw the chairs, and parked directly between them, commenting loudly about it to himself, and suggesting that we engage him bodily.  

We were furious, and so was he.  And we didn’t understand why he made this aggressive move.  

The day did not end well between our families.  Words were said.  Harsh words.  The next morning, I woke up to the sounds of Earl telling all the neighbors what terrible people we were.  He threatened to burn his house down, so that ours would burn with it.  

I was really scared.  

So, I took a deep breath and  went outside to talk to Earl, with my neighbors as witnesses.  Not because i was following the principles of Matthew 18 here, but because I knew I was right and I could explain it and defuse the situation.  And sitting in the house he was threatening to burn down didn’t seem like a great idea to me.

Turns out, we’d been making him mad for months.   MONTHS.

There were four cars from our house that were parked on the street–we had a lot of people living with us at the time–but apparently there was a street agreement that if you had more than one car, you were supposed to park it on the side street.  It’s actually a great idea, but no one told us.  

He was also mad that the people that renovated our home did not hire black owned contractors.  Now, we didn’t renovate the house–but he thought we had–and he was mad at us for that.  

When we realized that we both had been misunderstood, a wave of relief rolled over us.  This relief turned into a pretty good neighbor relationship.  He never improved his house as we hoped he would, but he was good to my kids–bringing them books, and encouraging the training wheels to come off when Charlie and I couldn’t.  And he fixed our heater a time or two.  And, in turn, we’d bring him a cold six pack now and then and pay him a union wage when he fixed our heater.

I think often about those misunderstandings that brewed because we didn’t talk to each other, because we didn’t exchange simple neighborly information, or ask the right questions of each other.  Who knows would could have happened if that misunderstanding continued.  

In our gospel lesson today, Jesus offers practical advice to the church.  If you have trouble with your fellow Christian, go to them and talk it out.  Seems so simple, doesn’t it?  But I can probably count on one hand the number of times someone has come to me to tell me they were having trouble with me.  And on the other hand I can count even fewer times that I’ve gone to someone with a grievance.  It’s much easier to complain to our friends that agree with us, than it is to go to the one who we feel has offended us.  

But it’s hard to take that step.  It’s hard to go to our friend or community member and say that we’ve been hurt, or that we are concerned about something that we see happening. It is a risk to say a hard thing.  We risk getting hurt if we say something and are rebuffed.  We risk being totally wrong about what we’re seeing and experiencing.  

It’s normal to worry about the risk of saying something, but it seems that there is a much greater risk in not saying something.  A small conflict can grow and evolve into resentment, anger, taking sides, or threats to burn down your neighbor’s house.  

It seems to me that not saying something is more of a risk in the long run, than taking the risk to speak up.  There’s too much potential left for misunderstanding and it can tear a community apart.  

This is the other thing I know about talking to your sibling in Christ about something that bothers you:  No matter how hard it is to go to someone, it is a sign of investment in your faith community to have those difficult conversations.  To put it another way–putting yourself out there is a sign that you love and care about this body, this community of faith and the people in it.

A little part of me loves hearing about conflict brewing.  It means that there is opportunity for deeper relationship, for deeper understanding.  Not just between two people, or a few people, but for the whole group.  Because when a conflict is between two people, it’s ultimately between two groups, two tribes of people.

There’s an old Middle Eastern tradition of conflict resolution called Sulha.  In Hebrew, sulha means “table”, and in Arabic, it means to mend.  This tradition was born at a time before there were laws, and criminal justice systems–when tribes settled disputes between other tribes.  Sulha came into being before Islam, and while Muslim communities use it, it is also rooted in the other Abrahamic traditions–understanding that if you have a dispute, you must go to your neighbor.  

Sulha is rooted in tribe, it is rooted in loyalty.  In Sulha, disputing families are brought together by their muhktars, their tribal elders, to talk about the conflict.  We’re not talking about small families either.  In these communities, families can be 40, 50, 60 people large.  So two families gather, and the dispute is named by the tribal elders.  The victim and offender do not speak, but the tribal elders describe the dispute.  

And then they share a meal.  

At a certain point after the meal has been shared, when the time feels right, the offender’s family offers restitution.  Maybe the family’s oldest son will do community service, or offer financial restitution.  Or maybe a goat will be offered.  And in return, as a show of good faith, the victim’s family will offer something too.  Both families, both tribes put something on the table, and both tribes become bound to each other.  In being bound, they leave their grievances, and work together as reconciled tribes.  

Sulha is as old as Jesus’ last meal shared with his disciples.  It’s as old as the table spread in the presence of the Psalmist’s enemies.  It is the practice of going to your neighbor to air grievances, and coming back with an elder or two, and finally the whole tribe if necessary.  

This ancient practice is a practice to bring people together, acknowledging the grievance and leaving it on the table after eating together.  It’s not easy.  It may feel a little risky.  But, I believe that tribe, or community, or church is worth the risk.  If we weren’t willing to risk a bit of ourselves for it, what is even the point of being part of it?

This morning we gather in this room.  We praise, we confess, we bless, and when the time is right, we eat together.  And here, we lay our grievances, and affirm our tribe, our kinship, our bond of faith.  Because what is bound on earth is bound in heaven.  

We were created by God to love each other and be in relationship together.  We often describe this as easy work–just love each other–but in reality, loving our tribe, our church, our community, isn’t always easy.  It involves being hurt, and risking hurting others.  It is difficult conversations over the table, hearing another person’s perspective, disagreeing, trying to find a new way.  Sometimes it involves periods of silence, anger, and space.  

But this is what church has been created for.  Not just the happy times, not just the times of agreement.  Church is created for the disagreements.  Because in those difficult spaces are opportunities for deeper relationships, and a better understanding of who we are, and who we are called to be.

AMEN.   

Fight or Flight

Sermon based on Exodus 3:1-15

Many years ago, when I was a social worker, I led a crisis intervention training for families that worked in the child welfare system.  At the beginning of every training I would talk about about the definition of a crisis.  It seems a bit of an obvious place to start, but it’s important too.  A crisis in the life of a child in the foster care system is a time of great danger for the child and those around them, but on the other side of that danger, there is an opportunity.  

I’ve been thinking about this definition of crisis as I visited Palestine in the last few weeks.  Crisis is danger and opportunity.  Spending two weeks in the West Bank is to be ready for crisis at any time–checkpoints, military presence, witnessing arrests of Palestinian children–all of these things keep the heart rate elevated.  

A week into the Palestine delegation last month we were in Bethlehem, and I was leading the group from one appointment to another.  It was the equivalent of a two block walk to the next visit, but it couldn’t have felt more distant or difficult than that.  We walked from Wi’am–a Palestinian Conflict Resolution organization–to the nearby refugee camp.  To get there, we wound past the apartheid wall, kicking at empty tear gas canisters and stun grenades as we walked, then entered the Muslim Cemetery, which was overlooked by multiple military guard towers.  The cemetery was not a simple set of rows, as they are here.  It was a maze of elevated rectangles adorned with broken stones and Arabic calligraphy.

I led the delegation through a maze of gravestones, with the smell of tear gas that had been dispensed that morning still hanging in the hot afternoon air.  Things felt tense and dangerous.  

And, in the middle of that tense, dangerous, two block walk, where I could feel the eyes of the soldiers on us, I got us lost.  I could see where the destination was and I couldn’t get us there.  It felt dangerous.  But it also felt like a opportunity for the group to work together, to listen deeply, to pay attention to our surroundings, and to trust each other.  

Everything turned out fine, but in that brief moment of crisis–lost in a cemetery, being watched by soldiers, and knowing there had been clashes where we were walking just a few hour before–there was a sense of danger, and a strange sense of opportunity for the group to come together and take care of each other.

Our Moses story is also another crisis moment–a time of danger, and of opportunity.  Now Moses was an Israelite, but had grown up as Egyptian royalty.  He was bi-cultural.  He understood both worlds in some way, and could code switch, communicating with royalty and slave alike.  

But Moses had killed an Egyptian in response to witnessing this Egyptian attacking one of his own Hebrew people.  And after this murder, he fled to Mt. Horeb (also known as Mt. Sinai), was taken in by Jethro and his family.  There he married, and took on the family vocation of sheep herding.  Moses–once bi-cultural, is able to communicate with another tribe of people, and having joined a new community, is now versed in another language, culture and vocation.

As multi-lingual, cross-cultural, man in hiding, Moses, led the sheep to graze on the mountain, he encountered his own crisis–a bush that was burning but not consumed.  Moses ran from Egypt and the enslavement of his people, but here on Mt. Horeb, he could not hide from the face of God, which he encountered in this burning bush.  

This was a crisis moment for Moses.  It was a time of great danger–to encounter God face to face–but it was also a moment of opportunity for Moses.  There he encountered God, and learned where all his multi-vocational, multi-lingual, and multi-cultural skills and experiences would be directed–to the release of his Israelite siblings from slavery.  

In that crisis intervention training I would lead, I talked about the two basic human responses to crisis–fight or flight.  To fight in a crisis is to combat and destroy everything, without really addressing the crisis.  It shows up in name calling, accusations, and saying and doing things you don’t really mean, and will probably have to apologize for later.  

To flee is to avoid the conflict altogether, to hide from it, to pretend it doesn’t exist.  Avoiding the crisis for some is easier than looking at ourselves, how we’ve contributed to a crisis, and how we might need to change.

Fight or flight responses are buried deeply into our DNA–It’s what our hunter gatherer ancestors did to protect themselves from danger, and it’s what we do to keep ourselves and our families safe..  But not every crisis is life or death.  There is something we can do in a crisis besides fight or flight–we can pause.  We can examine.  We can take a moment and ask good questions.  We see that moment of crisis as holy.  

It seems a little counter intuitive to pause. But a crisis, while potentially dangerous, is also an opportunity.  It’s an opportunity to grow, to change, to see God and to notice God’s presence.  When things continue, business as usual, and there is no crisis or the crisis has been hidden, there is also no change, and no impetus to change.  

A week ago, the Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation spent the night in the little village of Umm Al Khair.  The village is right up against a settlement in the South Hebron Hills, and is constantly under threat of demolition.  The village is in a perpetual state of crisis–they never know when soldiers will come into the village, or when bulldozers would enter the village and tear down a home.  

Our presence that night was one of solidarity.  We were there to witness any crisis that would come.  It holds a lot of power when internationals witness these sorts of events.  And the village was expecting trouble at any moment.

But there’s the thing about a constant state of crisis–you can only sustain it for so long.  At a certain point, you need laughter to break through the chaos.  And that night, relaxing under the stars on the side of the hill, just feet from an illegal settlement, our group laughed and played with the people of Umm Al Khair.  We shared stories about our lives–how many children we each had, how many spouses we had, and what our hopes for our lives are.  We exchanged cigarettes and sweets, as barefoot children ran in and out of the space where we talked.

And then we went deeper.  We talked about our faiths traditions, the meaning of family and multiple spouses, and the beauty and utility of our language.  

The Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation knew the risks of being there–we could expect to be awoken in the middle of the night by soldiers, or the headlights of bulldozers.  We could be startled awake by rocks thrown from the settlement onto the tin roofs of the village homes.  But, while there was a sense of danger, I was more aware that I was seeing the face of God in the eccentric village elder, Yusef, and his nephews, Tareq and Bilin.  I was seeing the face of God in the children that played, un-phased by the looming crisis of home demolitions and settler attacks.

Before our group went to bed, the village kids disbursed from our space.  They were barefoot–I remember thinking how hard the rocks of the village must be on their feet.  But I also felt very strongly that bare feet was appropriate.  This village was holy ground.  This gathering was communion, and the crisis was a moment of transformation.

Moses recognized that the place of crisis–standing in front of that burning bush–was a dangerous moment.  It was a holy, dangerous moment.  And it was a moment of transformation.  Trying to extinguish or stamp out the fire would not stop God.  Running from this bush would not prevent Moses from seeing the face of God.  

So, there on the rocky cliffs of Mt. Horeb, Moses took off his shoes.  There among his sheep, and surrounded by sharp thistles that grew out of the ground, Moses paused, took off his shoes, and recognized that in this crisis, he was seeing God.  

This year has been full of crises, personal and global.  I see us tearing each other apart with accusations about who is responsible for what.  Antifa’s good; no, it’s bad.  Whose fault is Houston?  What’s wrong with Joel Olsteen that he won’t open up his church?  What’s wrong with Joel Olsteen that he’s taking offerings to help flood victims?  Why is the First Lady wearing stilettos to a hurricane?  Why isn’t the President hugging children?  

We tear each other apart with accusations, and they get us nowhere.  Or we turn off the news, hoping that that if we turn it off, it will stop.  Fight or flight.  

This is no difference in personal relationships and the crises that come.  Fight or flight.  

But perhaps instead of fight or flight, we need to take a moment.  Take off our shoes, and see the holiness buried in the crisis.  In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity for transformation, for change, for seeing God at work where we couldn’t before.  

Friends, the ground feels unsteady beneath us.  The rocks are sharp, the way is uncertain.  But we are on holy ground.  In the midst of this chaos, we are on holy ground, and God is here. God is here. God is here.  AMEN.

God is Love

Sermon based on Psalm 145

God is love.  

It’s a phrase that rolls off our tongues pretty easily.  

God is love.  

It’s a statement of fact, and a statement of reality.  

But this week I’ve had myself tied up in knots about these three little words–God is love.  

It’s the kind of thing that when you say it enough, you start to wonder, “what does this even mean any more?”  Like a kid that learns a new word, and repeats it over and over, dissecting it and trying to understand it until it makes less sense than when they first learned it. “Butterfly. Butterfly. Butter. Fly.  Butter? Fly?”

God is love seems like one of those things.  We say it so much, and I’ve thought about it so much that I’m beginning to wonder what it even means anymore.  

What does God is Love mean in this world full of hate and violence, this world where basic human rights are not met, even when there are resources to do so?  What does God is Love mean every day this week, when our governing authorities have said or done something more painful and destructive to the people that live here?  What does God is love mean when we are numb from all the sadness and brokenness?

God is love.  What does it even mean any more?  How do we understand it as more than just something we say here?

A friend told me a story of her teen aged daughter, who struggles to understand Christianity and God and everything that the Church believes.  She admitted to her Grandmother recently that she does not believe in God.

Grandmom didn’t get upset, like  the child thought she would.  Instead she replied, “Do you believe in love?”

“Yes, of course!” the child said.  

“Then,” said grandmom, “you believe in God.”  

This snapshot of a moment between Grandmother and granddaughter has me trying to think about God is love a little differently this week. In my mind, God is love has always translated to God is loving. And while that statement is true, it feels harder when we put it up against the state of affairs in this world.  

Instead, I’m thinking about God and love being the same thing.  God equals love.  God is the same as love.  

Which means that God is intimacy.  God is relationship.  God is holding some newborn twins this week and smelling their heads and holding their teeny tiny fingers while they sleep.  God is hugs.  God is that moment–that split second where all is right in the world.  God is reconciled relationships.  God is the same thing as love.  

I told you that I have been tied up in knots about this God is love thing this week, so I went to my spritual director and asked her about love.  Because we’ve been talking a lot lately about what fear and anger feel like, so she asked me what love feels like.  I thought about it for a moment, and said, “Love feels like I can breathe, and when I breathe in, I am full of love.”  

God is love.  God is breath, God is fullness.  God is the same thing as this love, this breath, this fullness.  

This week, we’re focusing on the congregational core conviction, which says that: God the creator of the universe, is a God of love, and longs for mercy and justice, for humanity and creation.  

So, translating this a bit, we could also say that Love created the universe, and longs for mercy and justice for humanity and creation.  God longs for mercy and justice.  Love longs for mercy and justice.  

And while we are doing some translating here, let’s go back to Psalm 145, which we read earlier.  Let’s exchange the word “God” for “love.”

Love is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger.

Love is good to all and compassionate to all creation.

All creation praises love, and all people bless love.

They tell of love’s glory and power and speak of love’s strength.  Love makes known all mighty and glorious acts of love.  

Love reigns for all ages, and love’s dominion endures from generation to generation.  

There’s something else about God in this that is important.  There’s something about love that is important.  Love is more than longing.  Love is more than a warm feeling when holding babies.  Love acts for mercy and justice.  Love is an action.  Love is God and love is the action of God.  

This week, my friend from Hebron in the West Bank, Hamed Q., visited Philadelphia, and many of us who have taken the Christian Peacemaker Teams trip put on a fundraiser for his organization.  Hamed’s the energizer bunny of Hebron.  When he’s not working as for an organization that reports on the conflict, he’s supporting the communities that are most deeply impacted by the conflict.  For folks that struggle to stay on their lands because another checkpoint has been added, Hamed sneaks supplies in to build an addition on their home.  

For families who have to send their kids to school through several checkpoints, soldiers and settlers, Hamed builds schools so kids can go to school in their own neighborhoods, without crossing checkpoints and facing soldiers.  

Acting on a macro level is difficult these days in the west bank, but what Hamed is doing–keeping families in their homes, and opening schools in places where they can’t get supplies in to build–these are acts of love.  And this love looks like defiance and insubordination to some, but they are deep love.  

I asked Hamed this week how he kept himself sane in Hebron.  It’s so easy to be depressed and overwhelmed by living in this most occupied city.  He told me he works with these most difficult communities because it’s how he stays sane.  He said, “I have to do this, or I couldn’t live here.”  Love has to act to stay sane, to stay alive.  

Just like we have to say God of Grace Hear our prayer when we share our prayers and praises here.  Just like we have to reach out to people here when they are hurting.  Just like when someone is sick, we have to send flowers or check in, or text, or make a casserole.  

To stay sane, God has to act.  To stay sane, love has to act.  To stay sane, we have to act.  

We are not God, but we are made in God’s image.  We aren’t love, but we know how to give it, now to share it, and we know we need to receive it. To combat the hate in this world that makes our chests tighten, and makes us want to stay in bed, we need to channel love, channel God.  We need to do things that give us breath and life, that take away power from those forces that deal in death and fear and hate  

Our core conviction says, “God the creator of the universe, is a God of love, and longs for mercy and justice, in humanity and creation.”  We believe in God because we believe in love.  And we know how much we need love right nowadays.  

God is a God of love.  God is love.  And we believe in love here.  I can see that.  So we believe in God.  AMEN.

We Follow in the Way of Jesus

In June of 1995, my mom was given six months to live.  After many rounds of cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, she got the news that her cancer was incurable.  Radiation would slow it down, but this cancer would eventually kill her.  

Mom was 44 at the time, and had just graduated from college.  As a new empty-nester, she had big dreams.  She planned to be a social worker with young women in her hometown.  But, the cancer diagnosis changed all that.  

Facing that diagnosis, my mom was determined to take every day and live.  She cashed out her life insurance and gave money away.  She planned a big vacation with my dad to the west coast, and they visited friends and drove down route 1.  She squeezed in every moment she could, caught every sunset, sat on the beach as often as possible.  Until one day in November when the cancer made it impossible to walk.  And then she held court from her bed until mid-December when the cancer took her speech.  

She didn’t waste a minute.  She said all the things she needed to say.  She made sure we all knew how she felt about us.  

She once described her death as a healing of sorts, and I recall having some very strong, angry feelings about that.  How dare she say that her leaving this earth and all that loved her was a form of healing.  

But as I approach the age she would have been when she died, I appreciated the sense of fearlessness she had about death.  She was not afraid to die.  Death didn’t sting when it was up close like that.  It didn’t frighten her.  It was an end to her suffering.  

And in dying, she was somehow learning how to live.  In letting go of that fear, she was learning about what was most important.  She was living by free-falling into the arms of death.  And it was the most terrifying thing I’ve witnessed.

Our core conviction this week is about a key tenant of our Anabaptist beliefs–discipleship.  Our core conviction states: “We follow in the way of Jesus, whose life, death and resurrection teaches us how to live.”

This is what discipleship is in it’s essence.  We are followers of Jesus.  Our lives are not spent mimicking Jesus–I haven’t recently been able to turn water into wine, I haven’t healed the sick or been raised from the dead.  None of these are skills I’ve been given.  Discipleship is more than just doing exactly what Jesus did–we live in a different world and time.  But discipleship is instead thinking bout the times we live in now, and wondering together–what would Jesus have to say about this time and place?  How would he want us to live?  What tables would he be turning?  Who would he be eating with, walking with?  Who would he be admonishing?  

This is discipleship–living our lives having learned lessons from his teachings, his life, and his ministry, and applying these lessons to our modern lives.  

As Anabaptists–peace loving, Jesus followers–we have much more of an affinity towards following the life of Jesus.  It’s the death and resurrection that feels tricky.  Living life like Jesus lived life is it’s own challenge, but it feels more manageable than thinking about dying like Jesus did, or resurrecting like Jesus.  

Jesus death taught us how to live without fear of death. Jesus–with his own life and witness–asks us to live as people that aren’t scared of the all consuming, all powerful death dealing empire that we live in.  

Just as you do with your family that have have died, I think about what my mom would be saying about the world we live in, what kind of grandmother she’d be, how she would be influencing my life.  But, I also think about what is possible because of her death.  Because of her death, I ended up dealing with the theological issues the thrust me into seminary.  Because of her death, I’ve had to do things on my own that I hope my kids never do alone.  But because of that, I am who I am.  Her death taught me how to live.  

And because of the life and death of Jesus, we are who we are.  We see the world the way we do because Jesus showed us the ways our thinking is so deeply influenced by empire and fear and old, entrenched ideas.  Jesus looked at religious authorities in the face and said, “ I am Jesus, God’s son, sent here to set people free.”  Jesus upset the social system by eating with people that were working for the roman authorities, and by eating with women that everyone else looked at suspiciously.  And Jesus did these things knowing that it could and probably would get him killed.  He was well aware of the consequences, and he did it anyway.  

Jesus life and death has changed how we Christians think about risk.  At least I hope it has.  When we think about what it means to be a sanctuary for our undocumented sisters, brothers, and siblings, we know the risk.  The fear is there.  But we know what is right.  We know what discipleship looks like in this moment.  

When it comes to bringing in our friends who are without homes through Interfaith Hospitality Network, it sometimes feels like a risk, or more often an inconvenience, but we know who Jesus made time for, and who Jesus ate with, and his life and death changes us again.

And these are the easy things.  The more we walk with Jesus, the more we hear the call to go deeper, to walk closer to the life and death of Jesus–in our work, in our neighborhood, and in this faith community.  

Shortly after my mom died, I had a vivid, personal dream about her.  We were at a SEPTA train station, and she was sitting on the platform, with her little yappy dog in her lap, and a big bright bag sitting next to her.  We talked about my work, our family, my life, how much I missed her.  And then the train arrived, and she slipped on almost without me noticing.  And before the doors of the train closed, I realized she had left her big bright bag on the platform.  I called after her, “Mom, don’t leave!  You need your bag!”  I was crying, worried that she had left something important behind.  I knew it was the last time I’d see her in life, or in my dreams.  And as the doors closed, I heard her say, “You know what to do.”  

And then I woke up. I didn’t know what was in the bag.  And I didn’t know what to do.  

There are times in my life that I like to imagine what was in the bright bag she left for me.  I certainly wasn’t family heirlooms.  It’s the intangible things that are gifted to me from my persistent, relentless, free-falling mom.  These characteristics show up in a flash of anger from one kid, or a persistence from another.  It shows up in a particular looks I’ve been known to give.  Most people don’t know that it’s my mom, but I know it’s her.  And those are ways that I see her living on in the world.  Those things in that bag and resources constantly used, a well of love drawn from with regularity.  

Jesus first disciples found the resurrected Christ in the breath of calm blown on them in their most fearful moments.  They found the resurrected Christ walking with them when they didn’t even see him at first.  They found the resurrected, hopeful face of Christ as they ate together, as they looked across the table at each other.  

And as they told the unbelievable stories of Jesus’ life, and told how the cross didn’t have power because it couldn’t kill Jesus, and how they saw Jesus, ate with Jesus, walked with Jesus just days after he came off that deadly cross–that had power for those 1st century Jewish and Roman folks.  It changed hearts, and behaviors, and gave Christians the courage to face whatever would come, because Jesus had already done it.  It wasn’t scary anymore.  

My mom was no saint, and she was not Jesus.  But there are important things I learned from walking alongside of her. And when I die, most of those stories die with me.  Those looks that were quintessentially my mother’s looks will become my look.  Her persistence–that gift passed on to one child, and it is all theirs to make their own.  

But in Jesus, we have these stories to hold onto.  We have his life to examine, and his call to go and do likewise.  And we have more than that.  We have his death and resurrection story.  The death meant to warn us to not fight against the powerful has become our marching orders.  The unbelievable resurrection stories have become our reminders to look for signs of the resurrected Christ everywhere.  

I strive to live as Christ did, not afraid of death, but convinced of God’s love and prepared to demonstrate it at all times.  And I hope in those moments when I am afraid, I can feel the breath of Christ breathe on me, I hope I can remember the things I’ve learned.  I hope I can follow in the example of Jesus Christ, whose life, death and resurrection teaches me, and you, and the whole Church how to live.  Without fear of death, without fear of the consequences that will come.  And with full certainty of Christ’s presence guiding us as we go.  AMEN.