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.
______________
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.
Sermon based on Phillipians 2: 1-14
Preached at Germantown Mennonite Church
This week, Reba and I were talking about a song that is important in our family–My life flows on. It’s a song I would often sing to the kids at bedtime, when they were little. It’s a song that makes me a little weepy, because it’s full of meaning and embedded with so many stories from my life.
Reba asked, “What is it about this song? Why is it so special?”
We talked about the power of this song–of singing despite life’s difficulty because “since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth. That’s the most powerful line in this song. The song doesn’t say “IF love is Lord”–I often mistakenly sing it that way–but the song is “SINCE love is Lord.” It’s a given, not a possibility. Love IS Lord.
Love is Lord of Heaven and Earth.
Paul had a loving, tender relationship with the church in Philippi, so this text today reads as a bit of a love letter. He’s reminding his Christian friends of their need to love, to be united in love, with a common purpose and a common mind. Paul here gives a model of leadership that is oriented not towards self-interest and ego, but to humility and service.
And then Paul moves into this piece of poetry that BIblical scholars believe is actually an early Christian hymn. Paul says, Your attitude towards each other should be like that of Jesus:
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a servant,
being born in human likeness,
And being found in the form of oppressed humanity,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
Therefore God also highly exalted him
and gave him the name
that is above every name,
so that at the name of Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every mouth should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord.
Paul described Jesus in this text as the average Roman citizen would describe Caesar. Because at the name of Caesar, every knee should bow, and every mouth confess that Caesar is Lord. But Paul turns Lordship upside down. The Lordship of Jesus is not like the leadership of a ruler–it is humble, it is obedient to a God that doesn’t promise to make our life easier, and it is a life of service to others.
The Lordship of Caesar is one of control, of empire, of enforcement. Paul says that the Lordship of Jesus is love.
And more than even the contrast between Jesus and Caesar’s leadership style, Paul is saying Jesus is Lord. Which means, Caesar is not. Jesus is in charge, and Caesar is not.
To declare that Love is Lord or Jesus is Lord is a strong statement. It’s a political statement. In Paul’s letter to the Philippians, he is making a dangerous political claim when he says Jesus is Lord. Jesus is in charge.
Lord was a term used only for Caesar only. To call anyone else Lord was a radical and dangerous assertion. It was to declare that Caesar had no power. Claiming another Lord was treason.
To claim that Jesus is Lord is also a preposterous proposal. It meant that Jesus–who died a public and gruesome death, was in charge of the world. That’s not just treasonous, it’s impossible to those who don’t understand the power of Jesus’ story, and of his resurrection.
It sounds pretty silly to claim that Jesus is Lord. No wonder the early Christians were so misunderstood. They were claiming that Jesus–a Palestinian Jew murdered by the Roman Empire–was actually the most powerful being in the known world.
I believe that Paul, if he had a word for us today would say to the Church in Germantown, “Jesus is still Lord.” As treasonous and ridiculous as it sounds–Jesus is Lord.
It seems like an important season for us to remember that Jesus is Lord, that love is Lord of Heaven and Earth. Because I’ve been doing a pretty bad job of remembering that lately. We’ve been whipped into a collective froth around this election. I’m scared, friends. My kids are worried. Charlie has suggested alternative countries we might move to if this doesn’t go well.
This season is a test of our belief that Jesus is Lord, that Love is Lord of heaven and earth. Because, while we follow in the way of Jesus, we are humans, living in the American empire, with concerns about our children, our retirement, our housing value, our wages. We are also concerned about those who don’t have access to basic human needs. There are things our Ceasars can do to make lives in this country better, if only they would.
And yet, Caesar is not Lord. Jesus is Lord. Love is Lord of heaven and earth.
Here’s something you may not know–historically Mennonites have dealt with this Jesus is Lord idea by refusing to participate in government. Mennonites have traditionally not voted, or held public office–that was pretty common until the mid-20th’s century. It was the Mennonite way of saying, “Do whatever you want, Caesar, because Jesus is Lord, Love is Lord of Heaven and Earth.”
But, like most things, it’s more complicated than all that. I’ve heard many Mennonites express that while Love is Lord of heaven and earth, voting is also an important personal choice for them, especially when so many disenfranchised people in this country–like the undocumented, the incarcerated, or those with a criminal record–cannot vote. So while we do not believe that Caesar is Lord, we do have an opportunity to make lives better in this country with our vote. And we have the opportunity to assert a morality of love into our government systems with our votes, our letters to leaders and our protests.
More than anything this election season, I’ve wanted to find ways to express the Lordship of Jesus, the power of love. The election feels very high stakes, but so does forgetting how to love each other. Caesar is not Lord, our nation does not have the power to cut the lordship of love from our lives.
When I hear about folk being afraid to come to polling places for fear of bullying, I do not want to fall into the trap of Caesar being Lord, but find ways to express the Lordship of Jesus, the Lordship of Love over heaven and earth. And since this Mennonite church is a polling place, I will express the Lordship of Love on November 8th, by offering coffee or tea to everyone that enters this building, by introducing myself to every neighbor that comes through these doors.
When I read about how starkly divided this country is in this election season, I am committed to not gloat should my chosen candidate win. Instead, I want to express the Lordship of love in ways that keep us united in purpose and with a common orientation of love.
And maybe the best way to elevate the Lordship of Jesus is turn off the news, to stop franticly checking fivethirtyeight.com, and other election predictors. Every bit of drama from the news cycle serves to elevate Caesar, not Jesus.
When this election is over in a few short weeks, the issues that concern us will still exist. They don’t go away because our chosen candidate is in office. The Lordship of Christ needs to be asserted again and again.
We live in strange times, friends. There has never been an election like this, and it fills me with fear and terror. And yet, through all the tumult and the strive, I know that Jesus is Lord, that Love is Lord of heaven and earth. Let us orient ourselves towards this way of love, taught to us by Jesus, and amplified by Paul as he navigated life in the Roman Empire. AMEN.
Sermon based on Luke 12:49-56 and Hebrews 11:29-12:2
Preached at Germantown Mennonite Church on August 14, 2016
My delegation to Palestine this summer had two nicknames for me. “Iron Lady” and “Momma Bear.” Momma Bear was the name that stuck. When I told my family about this nickname, they liked it too. They thought it was fitting.
So, why did I get the nickname, you may be wondering? I did not tolerate members of the delegation being late, or forgetting things and needing to run back to their room. We were a team, we did things together, and we needed to respect each other by being on time and being ready for what we were going to see and do that day.
What my team probably didn’t realize is that most of my momma bear behaviors came from being worried about their safety. I was worried if there were stragglers, because we were in a refugee camp that was continually raided by watching soldiers. I raised my voice if we couldn’t stay together in a militarized neighborhood, because there were soldiers everywhere, and they didn’t want us there. Often the delegation didn’t see the soldiers, but the Christian Peacemaker Teams staff and I always knew where they were. I became fierce if I saw the team doing things that would get us into trouble. Because I know what can happen in these places. I know what has happened in these refugee camps when others have visited. I know, and I needed to be fierce so that we could stay safe.
Two weeks in protective momma bear mode. It’s a several levels above regular protective parent mode, because thankfully I’m not responsible every day for 12 fiercely independent adults in occupied territory. I’m only co-responsible for two sensible, self-aware teenagers in Philadelphia.
Why do I tell you about my momma bear self? Because after two weeks of this protective mode, I came back home, and was forced to face the occupation I’d just seen. My focus in Palestine was on keeping everyone safe, knowing what was next, how to get to the next event, how much the bus fare was, and trying to remember if it was a Muslim, Jewish or Christian holy day, and how that would impact travel. I didn’t have time to let the occupation hit me.
But when I came back home, and settled into the horrors of what I’d just seen, it was ugly. I was angry. Beyond angry, I was raging. Everything set me off. Innocuous emails. My own forgetfulness. The lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, misplaced shoes.
Thankfully, I work with people like Michelle and John who have been to the West Bank, and who know this rage. Thankfully, I am married to someone that has seen me in this mode before, and doesn’t take it personally.
Today’s text and my last two weeks of adjusting to home has me wondering what about the place of our rage in our faith. I’m wondering today about what good it is to us, what is says to us, and how it teaches us. Because, I’m raging still, and maybe your raging too. And Jesus himself in this text is raging.
“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”
Don’t tell me that Jesus said this calmly. Or with a sad, gentle demeanor. No, Jesus said this in anger. “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” Jesus was pissed.
Being in the West Bank, I witnessed the repeated indignities of the Palestinian people. In the repeated raids of the Aida refugee camp, where children were afraid to play, and parents were afraid to send their children to the playground. A camp where a net had to be put over the new soccer field so that tear gas canisters and stun grenades didn’t hit the children when the played, or set fire the new turf on the field. I visited a village that had been demolished 101 times, in an attempt to drive these Bedouin people off their land. I heard stories of families living across from an illegal settlement who were repeatedly harassed and shot at by settlers and soldiers. I saw that checkpoints in Hebron have become more dangerous, more militarized, separating Palestinians from soldiers,and increasing the danger that they will be shot or arrested at a checkpoint.
So, when Jesus yells and rages, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” I hear that anger. I feel the rage, the quivering in his voice, the righteous anger of a man with a baptism to be completed, a Jesus tired of the slow change, and tired of people not getting it.
I’m feeling some Jesus-y rage today, a rage that comes from seeing injustice, a rage of impatience for things to change for people I love. I’m furious that despite my best efforts, and the efforts of so many of us, our nation’s politics moves towards self interest and away from caring for all God’s people.
So, what is this rage, and where does it come from?
Rage helps us feel powerful when we feel powerless and small. It’s is the emotion that stirs and motivates us to do things we wouldn’t otherwise do. Sometimes that rage causes people to do some pretty bad things. We see plenty of rage gone bad in our city–especially on these hot summer days–and that is terribly problematic and dangerous. But often, if directed well, rage can motivate folks to move towards love, towards truth, and towards justice.
Many of us have grown up being told that rage is a bad thing. That’s especially true of women. Our rage is sinful. It’s not feminine, or socially acceptable. So we need to tap that down. Kill our anger. Because nothing good can come from it. Have you heard this before?
What happens when we kill our anger? I believe that when we do that, we lose f touch with what scares us. Our anger shows us our deepest fears. For Jesus, his anger showed us his fear as that no one really understood what Jesus was talking about, and if they did, they would not follow him. If they really understood the divisions that following Jesus would bring, they would go back to their homes, back to their neighborhoods that were under Roman occupation, but at least they weren’t on the front lines of family and community division.
Jesus was fearful that no one understood. And he knew they didn’t get it. How many parables did this man have to share before people understood? How many people did Jesus have to have to heal before his own disciples understood? How many different ways did he have to say it nicely?
I also believe that when we kill our anger, when we do what so many of us were taught to do, we lose that fire, we lose our motivation. When we aren’t angry about the ways of the world we live in, we can become apathetic. We don’t try to be better neighbors, personally and globally. We don’t try to follow Jesus, because it can be such a challenge to us and to our community. If we don’t tap into our anger, we don’t dare do the things that scare us, even if they are the right thing to do, and they right things to say.
We need anger and rage. Jesus needed the anger. He needed the fear that it brought. He needed to speak it out. He needed to shake people from their apathy, and to be shaken to his core. He said, “Do you think I’ve come to bring peace on earth? No, I’ve come to bring division. From now on, a household will be divided–three against two and two against three.”
Here’s the other thing about rage. It doesn’t bring us simple answers. It actually complicates story lines that we’ve been given, and those polarizations we’ve created. Our anger forces us to see the complexity of something that’s been made too simple. It’s not as simple believing this or that. It’s as complicated as the further down you get on the road of discipleship, the messier things become. Because discipleship bring division. It does not bring us simple answers. And the anger keeps us going, as the scales fall from our eyes, and as the way becomes less certain.
The rage will be there. It should be there. It serves to drive us, to motivate us, and to force us to pay attention to our inner lives. To pay attention to what lives under those strong feelings. It forces us back to the very source, the fire of life, that lives and grows within us.
But, we also need to step back from our anger, to get perspective. And thank God for that Hebrews text today–this text gives us a long view. Our ancestors have been doing the hard work for many centuries, for millennia. They never quite arrived. They never got their prize. The injustice didn’t ever completely end. The promised land was always just out of their reach. But we still keep reaching. We still keep moving towards the goal. The rage is a motivator, but we can’t let it spin us out of control. The rage is there, we can’t kill it, and we shouldn’t.
We have Jesus as an example of how to live with our rage. We speak it. We let it motivate us. We don’t fear it. We don’t kill it. We embrace it, and allow it to move us towards deeper faith and discipleship, just as it did with our ancestors. AMEN.
Sermon based on Proverbs 8:1-4; 22-31 and John 16:12-15
Every once in awhile, a new musical comes to Broadway that changes everything. This year, the game-changer has been Hamilton: The Musical. The next big musical is about this nation’s’ founding father, and the current face on the ten dollar bill, Alexander Hamilton.
It’s the most ridiculous premise for a musical, and that’s not the only thing that makes it great. What is powerful about this piece is what the writer, Lin-Manuel Miranda, has done to distinguish the music of the revolution against the music of the establishment. Establishment language and roadway ballad and chorus song, but the music of the revolution in Hamilton is all rap and hip-hop. The radical ideas, arguments for justice and against slavery, are done in rap battles between Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, George Washington and Aaron Burr.
The music of the revolution is not music that we hear in polite society. If we think of fancy parties, we imagine a nice string quartet. Here in church, I can’t think of a single time that I’ve heard rap or hip hop. Our music is rich four part singing, often unaccompanied, and all of it easy on the ears.
But the music of the revolution is what we hear outside. In my neighborhood the music of outside is rap and hiphop. It is loud. It is fast. Urgent. The rhymes are creative. The bass reverberates in our chests. The music describes the reality of life in our country that is not the reality we present in polite society–but hip hop can be a challenge because it’s not our story, and we don’t always want to hear these words that challenge our systems and ways of living.
Does not wisdom call,
and does not understanding raise her voice?
On the heights, beside the way,
at the crossroads she takes her stand;
beside the gates in front of the town,
at the entrance of the portals she cries out:
“To you, O people, I call,
and my cry is to all that live.
The wisdom of the street shows up in many different forms–
Outside the Damascus gate in Jerusalem, wisdom shows up in the form of old women selling sad looking figs and dates. It’s young Palestinians boys being arrested and detained. It’s the sounds of the call to prayer wafting over the city, calling Muslims (and all of us) to turn to God, to remember God’s greatness.
This is the wisdom of the street. This is the cry to all who live, at the gates of the city.
The wisdom of the street is at the intersections, where folks who long for home ask for something to eat. Or, teenagers who want to play in the underfunded school marching band, hold out their boots and ask you to help their school get new uniforms. Or the well dressed man sells mini-pies and a newspaper to make a living and to spread his truth.
This is the wisdom of the street. This is the cry to all who live.
The wisdom of the street is Philadelphia high school students organizing a protest on Broad Street in Philadelphia, in front of school district headquarters. They were protesting that their friend, Brian, was beaten and assaulted by a police officer in one of our public schools. These children organized, publicized and spoke out against the injustice they experience in the halls of higher learning. The cried out for their humanity to be remembered, and restored in their own schools–that they not live in prison conditions, but have the their human rights restored
This is the wisdom of the street. This is the cry to all who live.
So, what is this wisdom that is calling out at the city gates and at the crossroads?
This text is specifically read today to remind us of the work of the Holy Spirit. Today is Trinity Sunday, a Sunday when we remember the complicated theological dance of God the Creator, Jesus the sustainer, and the Holy Spirit, the life-giver.
But, rather than laying out a theological treatise, I’m choosing to focus on the holy spirit, also known as wisdom.
And here’s what we know about the Holy Spirit. She is wild–she shakes things up, and blows things around. She sets fires.
The Holy Spirit tells the truth, even when we don’t want to hear it. The Spirit also tells us things in ways we don’t want to hear it.
And, according to this text, Wisdom is directional. It shows up at the gates, and crossroads of our journey–those places where we ask for directions–and she shows us the way to go.
What we often hear and see at the gates and crossroads of our city are the stories that are unfolding in front of us. Stories of pain. Stories of exclusion. Stories of desperation and last resort. And in those stories, wisdom sits.
There are many ways that we choose to hear or tell these stories. We can look at the Palestinian youth detained at the Damascus gate and tell the story of a young “terrorist in the making” or we can tell the story of a frustrated kid living in occupation. Stories at the gates and the crossroads are wisdom, and they are calling out to all who live. But they are not wisdom if they are about protection, because the holy spirit is anything but safe.
The author of Hamilton: The Musical, Lin Manuel Miranda, a second generation Puerto Rican immigrant spoke at the University of Pennsylvania’s graduation last week. He’s a storyteller, so he talked about what he knows best. He said this (and I think it relates directly to our text today): Every story you choose to tell, by necessity, omits others from the larger narrative…this act of choosing will reverberate across our lives.
Stories are essential. They are life changing. It’s important that we tell stories, but what kinds of stories are we telling? Who do they include and who do they omit?
It’s so easy to tune into only the stories in this circle, to keep out wisdom’s cry for life outside these walls. It would be easy to plug up our ears as we crossed the busy intersection of Washington Lane and Germantown Avenue. But if we do that, we close ourselves off the wisdom, to the call to all who live. Inside the city walls is safety, but outside the gate, at at the intersections of our journeys, there is no safety and protection. We are open to the Spirit’s wisdom to blow us right over. We are open to hear wisdom in the voices that we don’t ever elevate.
The thing that has been so revolutionary about Hamilton the musical is that it elevates a different story. It tells the story that we are so completely familiar with, the story of our founding fathers, but puts it on the edges of the city, and at the crossroads. It tells the story from the perspective of Alexander Hamilton, a “bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman.” It tells the story from another perspective, and gives an urgency to the message in a history that’s run cold and self-protective.
Wisdom is at the gates of the city and at the crossroads. And if it is wisdom we seek, if it is the holy spirit winds we long to have blow over and through us, why are we not also in the streets, listening to unfamiliar, uncomfortable story?
Holy Spirit guide us until all truth. Let us be changed by the stories we hear. Because in those stories are life. AMEN.
Sermon based on Acts 2: 1-21
I’m constantly amazed at the ways that the church throughout the centuries has domesticated the Bible.
Take the Creation story. The story of the creation of the first people on earth is one of humans made from dirt and the hand of God, and this story of awe and beauty somewhere along the line was twisted into a story about gender power and gender roles. And, in nearly every artistic rendering we see of this story, the first humans always look well groomed with the right sized leaves being placed just in the right spot. Where’s the vulnerability? Where’s the mess? Where’s the dirt out of which they were created?
Or how about Jesus’ birth: God became a vulnerable child in an infant Jesus, a strange unlikely answer to the cry of God’s suffering people. This story has been turned into the cute little baby Jesus, whose cheeks we want to pinch.
Even Jesus’ stories and words–which are the most counter-cultural things you’ll read– have become a model of piety for the church, when they were anything but that.
Jesus violent death at the hands of the empire, has been deformed into a personal Jesus, dying on the cross for you. And don’t you forget it.
And Jesus’ resurrection has come to represent this pristine, perfect, and spiritual act. When it was anything but that. It was defiance, against death, against everything that tried to kill goodness and love. It was big and unexpected, and we still don’t know what to do with it.
Likewise, the church has domesticated the wildness of Pentecost fire. We have turned dangerous fire into a carefully encased candle, a gentle flame dancing daintily over the heads of awaiting disciples. Even the lovely rendering of fire behind me is tame, although let me assure you, taking down the cross that has been up, and putting up the Pentecost fire was about as wild and harrowing an experience as I’ve had in a while.
What happens when we domesticate the scripture? It turns our scripture into a nice story, rather than a dangerous one, a pretty metaphor, rather than an event of utter destruction, where new things arose from the ashes.
And honestly, domesticating the story makes it more difficult to relate to. How many of you have perfect lives? If you raise your hand, I don’t believe you for a second. So, why, why, why does the church keep trying to impose perfection onto this book.
Every good and perfect thing that happened in this book comes from mess. Jesus birth–a mess. It didn’t happen where it was supposed to happen, and the mother was not who we imagined she should be. Jesus was not the royal messiah the people hoped for, he didn’t deliver the message they wanted, he didn’t live and he certainly didn’t die the way they hoped.
The Pentecost story is read as if the tornado and flames in the room is tame and fanciful, like something magical and enchanting from a Harry Potter book. But, pentecost was anything but that.
Folks, the church was born amidst terrifying wind and fire that filled a room. It was not organized and pretty, as we also see documented in art. It was a tremendous mess that took the disciples breath away. And as a result of this weather event in a room–the disciples were compelled to leave the fear behind, the fear that brought them into that room to hide. After the fire and wind, the fear was gone, and they couldn’t help but be in the streets.
Fire and wind are a dangerous mix. Wind causes the fire to spread. Wind makes the fire hot. And when fire comes, it destroys everything. Some of you who have experienced the power of fire know this all too well. Fire is traumatic, life threatening.
Beyonce’s new album came out a few weeks ago, and it it one of the most incredible pieces of musical art I’ve ever seen or heard. It documents a marital crisis between her and her husband. She lets him have it about his infidelity and lies. With her words, burns everything in her relationship down, and says, “I’m not sorry.” But at some point on her journey in this album, she sees the seeds of something beautiful that still exists between the two of them, and says, “If we are going to heal, let it be glorious.” And from the ashes, these two people, begin again. She and her partner had to burn everything down to see what was left. Their relationship had to burn to the ground so they could see what was left.
This happens in forest fires too. As terrifying as they are, they serve an important purpose. They kill off diseased trees and insects, and they allow those smaller groundcovers to grow. Those ground covers are what hold the soil in place. When the trees get too big, the other plants are denied sunlight.
And, when the forest fire dies, it leaves strong tree seeds to grow in the earth, in a soil nurtured by the ash from the fire.
Today I’m thinking about Pentecost in the wildest way possible–On that day when the wind and fire entered that room, everything burned away. And what was left were seeds.
And those seeds were the disciples, and their passion to tell the story of Jesus, who showed them the way to live, and in his death and resurrection, showed them the way to live and die without fear. These disciples–after this weather event in the upper room where they waited fearfully–they were sent to all parts of the world. We know some of the disciples traveled all around the world–to Spain, Africa, Italy and elsewhere–to tell the story of Jesus. They did not have a book. They didn’t have a theological perspective. They had the stories and their experience.
Today I pray for fire. Not an actual fire to consume this building, but a fire to burn away all the things that have been created and called church. I want to burn away all the bad theology that has been used to hurt, exclude and keep people away from God. I want a fire that will burn away all the extraneous, distracting things that cover up what is what is truly the gospel.
I want all of that to burn away, so that we can see what’s left. What is left are the seeds that grow strong in the rich soil of what was. What is left is a story that is radical again, that–under all the theology has been layered on top of the creation story, Jesus’ birth, death and resurrection stories–under all of that is a radical, counter cultural, message that we need to hear again. Under all those layers of cultural normativity we’ve put on the biblical story is a story of God reaching out to us, of God wanting relationship with us, and wanting us to love and care for each other.
So maybe this sounds more angry than I mean it to, but let’s just let this whole thing burn down. Let’s let this system of Christianity we’ve inherited be burned by the intense fire of God’s love, and by God’s original intentions for us. Let it burn. Let’s let go of all those things that we’ve inherited that have nothing to do with the gospel. And let’s see what’s left.
And then let’s let what’s left be blown about by the great wind that is the holy spirit. Because, this gift we’ve been given is not ours to hold onto so tightly, it’s not ours to tame or control or even define. It is God’s gift to us.
AMEN.