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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Cross Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/09/15/emerging/
The ground beneath us shifted in 2017, and to be honest, it really messed me up. I’ve been in a haze of sadness, anger, and most of all, uncertainty. How do we live when the world is like this? What do we do? How do we respond?
I’ve had no words. Everything I’ve said has felt hollow, or wrong, or disingenuous. (Hey, even pastors go through this.)
Some good spiritual direction, good friends, and hard conversations have helped me to see the world through the eyes of a God at work, present and full of love for all of us.
During the last several months, I’ve noticed that my response to this ever-changing world has been to withdraw. I’ve spent more time at home. I’ve comforted myself with food, with distractions, with anything that will fill the emptiness and sadness I’ve felt this year.
I know that these withdraws have been to protect my tender heart. I see that now. But, what we need in times like this is community. Even though it has felt difficult to reach out, I’m always glad that I do. I need community to remind me that I’m not alone, that we are strong and powerful, and that we have resources in each other.
I sense that I am not the only one that has been in hiding this year. Last Sunday, as we sang together, I sensed in the room that we were relieved to be together, that we needed to sing together, we needed to see each other and share communion together. For the first time in a while, I felt us breathe together, and it felt good. Really good. And I wanted more of it.
As we begin the fall season, and the weather changes along with the trees, I invite you to reach out to your community. Share a meal together. Invite each other into your imperfect homes and lives. And tell the truth about your lives. Because I don’t know what things will look like in the future, but I know that I want to walk with you. I know that I need you to survive. I know that we were built for community. So let’s be community to each other.
Cross0Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/05/sing-a-new-song-into-being/
Since the Church retreat a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about the “Hymn-Off” we did that Sunday morning. I had a song in mind to win, and it did not win. My Life Flows On came in a close second to Wade in the Water.
I’ve been trying to figure out why. My LIfe Flows On has been the anthem for this church for many years. When I think about being voted out of Franconia Conference (20 years ago this month), I think about singing and weeping together–”No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?” I also think about singing this song to my children in their cribs, weeping over what storms they may one day face.
It’s the song of my heart. And it’s the heart song of many others here. But, that hymn off demonstrated a new song brewing in people’s hearts.
Last week, I met with the folks that are working on a new Mennonite Hymnal. One of the songs that’s coming out of this hymnal process is called, “Sing a New World into Being.” As we met together, we pondered what world the current hymnal is singing into being, and we wondered what world the new hymnal would sing into being.
And I thought about this weekend at retreat, where the young folks sang Wade in the Water with gusto, while the out of tune piano grooved along. I thought about the enthusiasm of our kid’s singing, and how heartfelt it was.
Wade in the Water may have been a fluke in the Hymn-off. It may not be our heart song, but it did point to a new direction. We may be moving from the image of clinging to God our rock in hard times, to counting on God to stir things up. It’s holding on for dear life vs. confidence that God’s going to stir things up.
I still sing My Life Flows On, but maybe I need to recognize that this is a song from a certain time in my life. Maybe there’s a new song stirring–one of confidence in God among us, stirring up the water in our troubled world.
Cross posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/10/twenty-years-ago/
This week marks 20 years since Franconia c
onference voted to expel Germantown Mennonite Church from its body. Germantown won’t celebrate it, and most won’t mourn it. At this point, twenty years later, it’s just a fact. We were removed from the conference because our baptism and welcome of folk who are queer was just too much for that conference to handle.
I’ve been part of the Germantown congregation since 1996–in fact, I joined the church just a week before Franconia’s decision (I was 23). So, exclusion from the denomination is all I’ve known about church life in my adulthood.
I remember the pain of those early years after being removed. There were a lot of Sundays where sharing time was tearful or angry. Visitors would remark that we seemed to sing hymns in minor keys. But more recently, I notice the creative energy, the freedom, and the joy we have felt being together. We’ve seen the power of the local church community to care for each other, and to support our neighbors. We’ve seen the joy of watching a large group of kids grow from babies to teens, and supported them on their faith journeys. We’ve embodied the Anabaptist vision without a denomination, and developed language to help us understand our theology as outsiders to the denomination, but insiders in many other respects. We’ve welcomed queer folks into our body–and we’re learning to do more than just welcome. We’re celebrating and blessing our queer participants as people created in God’s image.
Maybe you’ll mark the 20 years outside of Franconia conference with grief. Maybe you’ll mark it with joy. I remember it as a time when I saw the church come together in protective, loving, fierce ways. While we felt the death of separation and broken relationships at the time, the death has given way to new life, new energy, and deeper love. That death marked us, and it created fertile soil for all that we are today.
Sermon Preached at Germantown Mennonite Church on January 22, 2017
(Sunday after the Trump Inauguration)
Texts: I Corinthians 1: 10-18; Matthew 4: 12-23
“Bloom where you are planted”–That was a phrase I remember my grandfather saying more than a few times. I remember it was something my mom started to say more, when I was a teenager. Both my mom and grandfather had this little saying written on a scrap of paper and posted in their cars. And then, later, my mom had little lapel buttons made for both of them to wear.
I always thought it was a sweet little saying–one that implied a sense of contentment with one’s surroundings. As a teenager, it gave me a sense of appreciation for my family stories and desire to be close to each other, and support each other.
But I’ve been thinking about that saying lately again. Bloom where you are planted–it isn’t just a feel good lapel button motto. This is not a saying about staying where you are, or refusing to get out of your current circumstances, this motto is about tackling what’s in front of us. It’s about being made for this moment and this time, and being diligent and humble in what we’ve been called to do.
This saying is especially powerful when I think about who my grandfather was. He was always the smartest man in the room, though he would never say so or act that way. He was reliable, stubborn, and had a way of finding a solution or a fix to problems you didn’t even know existed–these solutions often involved plumber putty or wood glue. As a child of the great depression, he made the most of every scrap of wood or metal he found. He made the most of every opportunity to teach me a new skill–like woodworking or boating or gardening. It was important to him that he passed on what he knew. He wasn’t an important man, by our standards. He didn’t make a lot of money. He was a working class guy whose wealthy family lost it all in the depression, and he made the most of where he landed.
Bloom where you are planted is powerful to me when I think about my mom. She adopted this motto in her own life, just a few years before being diagnosed with terminal cancer. I’m convinced now that this motto got her through some difficult times in her treatment and as she faced her own mortality. She was not one to shrink from her circumstances, and she faced her diagnosis with openness, honesty, and courage. I can honestly say that I never saw her more alive than when I saw her reckoning with her mortality during too many radiation and chemotherapy treatments.
Here’s the thing about this motto–Bloom Where You’re Planted–it doesn’t mean don’t go anywhere. It means make the most of where you are. It doesn’t mean that you shy away from risk. It means grow and bloom in whatever circumstances you find yourself in.
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The public ministry of Jesus begins in the gospel of Matthew with Jesus learning–after his baptism and time in the wilderness–that John the Baptist, his cousin and mentor, had been arrested. It is unlike the beginning of the book of Luke where Jesus began his ministry with a reading and mic drop in the temple, followed by an attempted assassination on his life. The book of Matthew, on the other hand, is focused on storytelling using different methods–Matthew is specifically interested in place.
In Matthew’s telling of the story, as soon as Jesus heard of the arrest of his cousin, he withdrew to the Galilee. It sounds a little bit like a fearful retreat, like the news of John’s arrest had wounded Jesus’ spirit, and he needed to rest. But, I invite you to look more closely at this. Jesus withdrew to the Galilee, which means: after hearing that his cousin and friend had been arrested for doing just a small portion of what Jesus would be doing in his own ministry, Jesus went somewhere more public. He went to the highly populated Galilee, where he could easily be found.
Jesus withdrew into a public place. He didn’t run back home to Nazareth in fear or doubt. He pushed out to a place that was not at all safe. So, Jesus’ first major act of ministry–before calling the disciples, before healing anyone and before saying a single Jesus-y thing–was to immediately go to an unsafe place.
And while moving out into a more populated, public space, Jesus also made a home. He rooted himself in Capernaum, a city in the area that used to belong to the northern Israelite tribes of Zebulun and Naphtalli–before the Israelites were enslaved by the Babylonians, and the Roman Empire took over. This is a place that had largely been forgotten by Jesus’ people–the Northern tribes were not well liked and not affiliated with the Pharisaical leadership of Southern tribes, the “true”, reigning tribes of Israel.
So, effectively in the first moments of Jesus’ public ministry, before he even had followers, he did the opposite of what any of us would do. He made his home in dangerous country, by going somewhere that could get him killed.
And, he made a home in Capernaum, a place that many of Jesus’ religious peers could have seen as a place not worth visiting. Jesus made a home in an unsafe,unpopular, marginal place. He planted himself in the unpopular region of Zebulun and Naphtali, and said, “this is where I have been called. This is where I will be rooted. This is where I will bloom.”
There is–of course–a great dissonance between making a home and being in danger. We like to assume our homes are safe. And if they are not, we try to make them safe. If we have children, we cover all the outlets with stoppers that even we can’t get out. We put gates up in front of the stairs, so the kids can’t fall down the stairs. As we age, we move furniture so we don’t trip over it, or we sometimes move to homes that have fewer stairs. We look for safety. Many in our world do not have the luxury to look for safety, but the vast majority of us in this room do have that luxury. If our home is not safe, we fix it or we find a home that feels more safe.
We look for places to live that we love, that have beauty, that we can make a life in without fear of getting hurt. We long for comfort and safety. We long to bloom in places where we feel protected.
But before Jesus even began his ministry, the first indication of the nature of his ministry was that place mattered, that he was going to live and root and bloom somewhere that was public and in doing that, he would risk his safety. And in this public, seemingly risky place, Jesus would make a home.
It’s only after Jesus moved into the public, and made a home in a place his people would consider unsavory, that Jesus went the sea and said to the disciples, “Follow me.” Live as I do.
We often focus on this text with any eye on his words, but there are other things that matter here. Where Jesus placed himself matters. How and where he lived matters too.
Jesus placed himself in Capernaum and made a home there. He lived publicly. He lived there knowing it would cost his life. And he lived there knowing that it had cost his cousin, John the baptist, his life too.
And that’s where we are called to live, too. From wherever we are planted, our work is to live our values and faith out in the open, without fear of the empire, or fear of the institutional responses. It’s hard work. It’s harder work, in fact, than speaking or carrying signs.
This work of blooming where we are planted is deeply spiritual work. It’s rooted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It’s rooted in our call and in the stories of faith that inspire us. It’s rooted in the faith community that we covenant to walk with, nurture and support.
Friends, we live in uncertain times, just as did Jesus. And if we are to–with integrity–call ourselves followers of Christ, we too are asked to live our lives, our allegiances, and our values, in public and sometimes uncomfortable ways. We are to make homes where we are, and root ourselves in our community, with the understanding that everything starts with what is local.
Now more than ever we must be willing to risk. Now more than ever we must be rooted deeply in our faith, our community and in our call to be followers of Christ.
Where Jesus rooted himself mattered. Where we are rooted matters. And not just where we root–it is important that we bloom and grow, publicly, boldly and unapologetically. And as we grow, take root, and bloom, we know that we do not do this alone. We are surrounded by the loving, nurturing support of this community to be the people God has called us to be, in this time and place.
Let us bloom where we are planted–in this time, in this community, as we are nurtured by the stories of Christ and and share the boldness of living our lives publicly. AMEN.
Sermon Preached on 11.27.16 at GMC
Based (loosely) on Matthew 24:36-44
Advent is a time of waiting. We take this time in our season to watch and wait to see the presence of God in our lives and in our world.
Some years at Advent, I wonder what I’m waiting for. Am I going through the motions of Advent, just so we can get to the good stuff? I want to jump right to Christmas hymns and baby Jesus in the manger. I want to get right to the magic and beauty of the season. I don’t want to wait, or pretend to wait. I want the good stuff right now.
Those are in the good years. Those are the years when I don’t feel like I need God all that much. Because God is here. Or perhaps more accurately–things are going well. In the good years, I don’t long as I do in other years. I’m content, so God and I must be on good terms.
But this year–well this is not one of those years. Waiting, anticipation, even desperation–they are all part of the mood this season. We know we are waiting. We know that things are not right with the world.
The waiting is perhaps a wake up call from the “everything is going to be ok” mantra we’ve been telling ourselves for so many years–that thin veil of hope we cling to. Right now, “everything will be ok” is not a comfort. It is a lie. The words I’ve heard some Christians lean into lately are “God’s still on the throne” and “God’s still in control”. And while that is true, I don’t understand how it is true, or when it will make sense.
This season of advent, we read these apocalyptic texts–the ones that come this time every year–and they seem more real and more true than I remember them to be last time around. Two in the field, and one is taken. Watch. Stay Awake. Be alert. I’m watching. I’m waiting. I’m alert. And–quite honestly–I’m feeling hopeless.
So, it’s difficult to see the candle of hope lit this morning. Because I’m not feeling hope. Hope has never felt further away than right now. It’s difficult to light this candle of hope today, because I am struggling to even know what hope is.
A few days after the election two friends contacted me from occupied Palestine to see how I was handling our new political reality. And I had to laugh. It was ridiculous to think about my friends, calling me from Hebron–where they had to walk through multiple checkpoints that day, I’m sure. They were worried about me.
I appreciate their friendship, and that they care about me. But I know their concern comes from a recognition that my sense of hope is shallow and thin. I have no lived experience to test my hope, no resolve to keep working, no sense of courage in difficult times.
I sense that we often live like hope is a matter of wishing for things to be better. We keep our fingers crossed for good things to happen. That fingers crossed mentality doesn’t get us far when we are in deep difficulty. It doesn’t get us far when we really begin to face the reality of the world we live in.
So, I want to think about a deeper definition of hope, one that goes deeper than crossed fingers in shallow difficulties.
I’m thinking today about two definitions of hope that we might be able to work with.
One is the Palestinian definition. Sumud is another word for hope in Arabic. It’s translation is steadfast hope, or steadfast perseverance. This word can best be described by two symbols: One is of a deeply rooted olive tree–it is a Palestinian symbol of life. The olive tree has existed on the soil for thousands of years. This persistent tree gnarls over the years, but continues to bear fruit. I’ve seen trees that have been burned down recover and green up again. I’ve seen olive trees, cut to their stump, begin to grow again. These are hardy trees, and the only reason they are so tough is because their roots go deep into the rocky soil.
That is hope.
The other symbol for samud is that of a pregnant Palestinian woman. When I first saw this symbol for sumud, I thought of a conversation I had with several Mennonite guys about ten years ago. Maybe you know the type–they have read all the right theology and philosophy, but lack some life experience.
I had been invited to a gathering of young Mennonite leaders (I was considered young at the time!), and we went to hear a doom and gloom theologian talk about how terrible things are. They really liked the speaker, and while I didn’t necessarily disagree with the speaker, something didn’t sit well with me.
I listened to the young Mennonite dudes engage this theologian’s work, and I didn’t contribute anything to the conversation, because I was becoming more and more sad. Finally I said, “But here’s the thing, guys–I have kids.” And that pretty much ended the conversation.
The end is near theology was destroyed by the thought of little ones living in it. The pregnant Palestinian woman represents the need to continue for whomever and in whatever comes later. It’s not about us, but this samud, this steadfast hope is for others.
So, samud–hope–is rooted deeply in people, it’s not easily destroyed by political ideology or oppressive systems, and it’s not for it’s own sake but for the sake of others. And that is why Palestinian friends could call me after the election. They were rooted deeply in who they were and in their people’s stories. They had hope, even when I didn’t, and even when the political situation here would have a much bigger impact on them than on me personally.
Let’s talk about another definition of hope. This one from Vaclav Havel. Actually Havel had a lot to say about hope, so let me throw out a couple of his thoughts on hope:
First, Havel said, “Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.” Now, I’m not sure what Havel thought made sense, even in the worst of times, but I know what I keep coming back to, and what you keep coming back to. And that is the incarnation. That is that soon God will show God’s vulnerable face to us. Soon, God with us will feel more with us than God feels right now. Hope is not optimism. It’s not fingers crossed. Hope is knowing God is with us in all this mess, even when it feels terrible right now.
Here’s the other thing Havel said–he said, the act of hope is “walking towards the things we want.” So, hope may be a feeling, but it is also an action. We act on those things for which we have conviction. If we are convinced that God shows up in the worst possible situations, we act in that direction. That is hope.
Things feel apocalyptic now. They maybe even feel hopeless now. But, we are in advent. And we have one candle lit. One small candle of hope. Our hope is not a shallow, keep your fingers crossed kind of hope. Our hope is rooted deeply in our stories that go back thousands of years. Our hope is rooted deeply in the soil of our faith and the faith of our ancestors. Our hope is not just for us, but we act knowing that this is about more than us.
Our hope is our action, our resistance, and knowing that God is here with us. God is with us. God with us. Let us access our source of all life, our hope, Jesus Christ. AMEN.