Saying and Doing

I am off to Ohio for a session with the West Ohio Conference Lay Academy all day on Saturday, so I am trying to get this bible study done early.  Otherwise it would be late.  Or not done at all, and we can’t have that.  Can we? No, of course not.  The stars would fall out of then sky if I didn’t get this done.  The planet would stop spinning on its axis, mountains would be uprooted by the suspension of the laws of gravity, rivers would change their courses, cows would give birth to two-headed calves, and all the dogs would stop barking at once.

On the other hand, who would notice?  Not about the mountains and stars and two headed calves.  Though I would notice if the dogs stopped barking, might even be worth risking a suspension of gravity if the dogs wouldn’t bark at every thing that saunters down the path out our back door.  I mean come on, that squirrel doesn’t even care that you guys are going crazy in here.  That shake of its bushy tail is from laughing at you.  Get a clue!

Sorry, where was I?  Whose day would be ruined?  What catastrophe would occur? Who would notice if I didn’t get this done?  Well, I would notice.  It’s a commitment I made.  It is something that I do.  And while it might not matter in the greater scheme of things whether or not this was done, and I have missed some weeks for a variety of reasons, it still seems like honoring the commitment is better than relying on whims of the moment.  At least to me.  And maybe to Jesus.

I’ve wrestled with the passage chosen for this week, as have many others.  It is a part of the Sermon on the Mount, that great work we are listening to this Eastertide.  And yet it is a low point in a high point focused message.  Easily overlooked, and we mostly do.

In order to get through the whole Sermon in the weeks, I actually assigned a very long passage to this Sunday.  There is an internal coherence to the verses.  The sermon title I chose to tie them all together is “A  Faith of Our Doing.”  The Sermon on the Mount is where Jesus told us what life was like.  Not just the Christian life, but life.  And it involves doing, as well as being, as well as believing.  It is found in how we treat one another, in how we honor our commitments, in how we live in community.  A lot of good stuff, radical sometimes, but good stuff nonetheless.

Yet this section begins with what some might call a bit of a downer.  With something like legalism. Or does it?  Take a look.

"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.  18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. 19 Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.  20 For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  (Mat 5:17-20 NRS)

Did they hope that Jesus would say “no more law”?  Is that why this phrase got thrown in there?  I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the issue.  Jesus saw in some of his followers this tendency to a “whatever” kind of existence.  “Whatever feels good.”  “Whatever works.”  “Whatever sounds like a good idea, as long as no one gets hurt.”  That’s all.  That’s the law we have to worry about.

I don’t know if that was the problem or not.  But since Paul had to deal with folks who thought that way, it wouldn’t be a leap to think Jesus did too.  And so do we.  Maybe even in ourselves. 

If the law was there to keep folks in line until Jesus came, then we do we still need it?  Come to think of it, wasn’t there a desire to get rid of the law even older than Jesus?  Didn’t Ezekiel say something about that.  About not worrying about the law, but following our hearts?  Yeah, that sounds better to us.  “Use the Force, Luke.”  It is the subject of many movies, just follow your heart.  Doesn’t matter what everyone is saying, just follow your heart.  As if the heart is a better moral guide than any law.  Or that we don’t want to just be obedient to a law, we want to feel it - the rightness or wrongness.  We want to go with our gut.

That’s what we figure Jesus would do, since he was always on about love.  It sounds so much more emotive than legalistic.  Jesus came to set us free from bondage to sin, from bondage to the law.  Didn’t he?  Then why does he say, I’ve not come to do away with the law?  That not one letter, not one stroke of a letter shall pass from the law?  (Personally, I like the King James Versions “jot or tittle” - it sounds even more exacting.)

I have not come, says Jesus, to abolish the law, but to fulfill it.  What does that mean?  Does it mean that he comes to obey all the law so we don’t have to?  Does it mean that he comes to show us how important following the law really is?  Or, dare we hope, does it mean that he renders it unnecessary? 

Well, yes!  And no.  I think that what he meant was that as an external force that fences us in to behave in certain ways, the law is now done.  That is the bondage that we are being set free from.  That coercive, oppressive, keep folks in their place kind of idea that is just ripe for abuse on all sorts of levels use of the law is no longer in place and is in fact a contradiction of the message of the gospel.  That’s the yes in the rendering the law unnecessary. 

But there is still a need for the law.  But from a different direction.  Go back to look at what Ezekiel was saying. (Ch 11:19)  He wasn’t advocating doing away with the law, he was suggesting that God wants to bring it closer.  He didn’t propose that it be posted in the court houses or on the church lawns.  No, he wanted it written in our hearts.

Jesus doesn’t want the law to work outside in, he wants it to work inside out.  He came to fulfill the law, means he came to live it out in front of us.  He came with the law written on his heart.  He came motivated by God’s law - the same law he describes as loving God and loving neighbor.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus then proceeds to tell us what such a law does for human community.  From verse 21 Jesus defines law at work in the community. The law of love, he says, shows no hostility (5:21-26); the law of love is not predatory (5:27-30), the law of love honors the commitment of marriage (5:31-32), the law of love is unconditionally truthful (5:33-37), the law of love does not retaliate (5:38-42), the law of love extends to the enemy (5:43-48).  And then in Chapter 6, Jesus tells us that this law of love applies to worship in the community as well.  It applies to God and neighbor, both.

Law as law, as words, even spoke words, even believed words, doesn’t serve us at all.  But law as lived out in human community and in worship is transforming.  It makes us who we were created to be.  It makes us whole.  Jesus doesn’t want to do away with the law, he just wants us to live it.

Or better, he wants it to live in us.  To live through us.  As he lives in us and through us.  Because, Lord knows, we need the help.

Shalom,
Derek

Trampled Under Foot

We are back!  I know, at least one of you is now saying “Oh, were you gone?”  Yes, yes I was.  Gone on an adventure that probably changed me in ways I haven’t even figured out yet.  For Spring Break, I took my daughter Maddie - or maybe she took me (but then she didn’t pay for anything, so I took her - that settles that) - to New York City for the week.  Whew.  You haven’t seen NYC until you’ve seen it with a seventeen year old girl still wet from crawling out of her chrysalis, but itching to try her wings.

Luckily, my younger brother lives and works in New York which gave us a base of operations and the generosity to host us in more ways than I know how to thank him for.  It would have been a poorer trip in so many ways without my brother Jason and his partner Will. It is good to have family.

We arrived the Monday of Spring Break (after a very early morning flight for which Maddie still hasn’t forgiven me), were picked up at LaGuardia by Jason who brought us by taxi to the apartment, showed us which corners of the tiny apartment were good for sleeping and storage, handed us our subway passes and then went back to work.  We set out for the adventure. 

We took the Q train to Times Square.  Why not start at the top of the mountain!  We climbed out of the dark tunnel into cacophony that is Times Square and the week went on from there.  Maddie’s first comment about her new surroundings was “New York is loud!”

Loud, indeed.  And fast and busy and distracted and distracting as well.  Maddie’s original plan some months ago was that we send her off on her own to spend a week with her uncle in the big city.  I’m glad we said no to that.  Not just because I enjoyed the week away and the sights and sounds and experiences of New York and the too rare quality time with my brother, but because the idea of Maddie wandering those streets on her own gives me the shivers.

Frankly you don’t have to go to New York to get shivers from walking the streets.  I worry about sending her to public school.  Across town to dance class.  Let alone across the state for dance or academic competitions.  Maybe we ought to just keep our heads down and our doors closed.  Just to be sure.  Just to be safe.

Safe is a good thing.  We spend a lot of time and money on being safe, or feeling safe anyway.  It occupies our thinking quite a lot.  Yet, it never seems to be on Jesus’ list of things to worry about.  He has a list, don’t get me wrong.  OK, maybe it isn’t a worry list - after all he did say “don’t worry.”  Call it a list of things to be concerned about.  A list of things to pay attention to.  And it is a long and involved list, full of significant and powerful ideas and moments and people.  But nowhere does safety enter into it.  If anything he seems to be a risk-taking kind of leader.  Get on out there, he says.  Go and do.  Or perhaps, go and be.

At least that is what it sounds like in the passage for this week.

Matthew 5:13-16  "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.  14 "You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.  15 No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.

Admit it, you are singing that song, aren’t you?  “Hide it under a bushel, NO!  I’m gonna let it shine.”  Or if you aren’t, then you should be.  Let it shine.  That’s what Jesus says.  Not, you notice, make it shine.  Not shine it, but let it shine.

We just walked through the Beatitudes last week.  At least those who go to Aldersgate did.  Pastor Chris did a marvelous job helping us wrestle with those all too familiar sayings.  I won’t re-create his sermon here, but go listen on the website.  It is worth your time.  But he reminded us that though we often try to turn them into imperatives - get out there and be peacemakers, be meek, be hungry and thirsty for righteousness - Jesus doesn’t present them that way.  He presents them as indicatives.  He is describing, not commanding.

Likewise in these verses that follow those first twelve in the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus doesn’t say Get salty!  He doesn’t say “Light up!”  He says, almost matter of factly, you are the salt of the earth.  You are the light of the world. 

If you’re like me, you can’t help but wonder “when did that happen?”  When did I become salt for the earth?  When did I become light for the world?  I’m just me.  Just doing my best.  Just watching out for me.  Just trying not to get trampled underfoot.  Jesus wants me to shine, to give light to the whole house. 

See that’s the thing about light, it doesn’t exist for its own sake.  It isn’t about getting folks to look at the light.  When we try to become the focus of attention, when we take center stage, we aren’t being the light.  The light is there to help folks find their way.  It is about shining on the path, about revealing the hazards along the way, about getting where we need to be with a minimum of detours. 

And salt, salt on its own, for its own sake is not really a good thing.  But as an enhancer, as a preservative it is invaluable.  In Jesus day it was a common practice for farmers to salt their fields to add in the right mix of minerals to help crops to grow.  The word that we translate as earth is literally ground or dirt.  You are the salt of the ground, the salt of the dirt.  Not a fun job, perhaps, but one that helps things to grow.  That’s our job.  Not to be the center of attention, but that which helps things grow.

Yeah, its risky.  No question about it.  It is a loud and noisy world out there, and we might be safer just keeping our heads down. But we can’t.  Jesus tells us that too.  “A city built on a hill cannot be hid.”  He tosses that one in, even though it doesn’t fit as well.  It is a reminder that we are exposed.  We are the representatives of the faith whether we want to be or not.  So, we might as well be good ones.  We are the manifestation of Christ in the world today, whether we claim it or not.  So, why not claim it?  Why not live as though Christ were alive in us?

That is what he is saying here, you are the salt of the earth, why not help things grow?  You are the light of the world, why not help folks find their way?  Why not mentor, why not lead, why not be what you are, a sign of Christ’s presence in the world today.

Get out there, Jesus says, out there in the world, the noisy, wonderful, scary, glorious world and let your light shine.  Don’t worry about being trampled under foot, that only happens when you stop being who you are called and created to be.  Let it shine.

Shalom,
Derek

Dancing in the Darkness

Well, you missed it.  If you weren’t at Aldersgate UMC last night for our Good Friday service you missed what was probably one of the most theologically profound acts of worship in which I have ever participated. And it was an accident.  Or was it?  Certainly not of my design or intention.  It was what I had planned when I put the service together some weeks ago.  Yet it happened.  For those who had eyes to see.

Let me explain.  A few years ago I found a Good Friday service based on the Stations of the Cross.  It was part dramatic reading, written from the perspective of the Centurion who oversaw Jesus journey to the cross and death on that cross and burial in the garden tomb.  With a certain amount of dramatic licence, the Centurion help us reflect on the impact of this death on all of us.  He struggled with this job, because it was different this time, he discovers, though he isn’t quite sure why.

The reflections from the Centurion are wrapped up with a statement on each particular Station of the Cross, and with a concluding prayer, and the Stations are interspersed with the congregation singing various verses from the passion hymns,  It is very well written, taking us deep into the emotion and the meaning of the Good Friday event.

I used it about three years ago with a more traditional, male voice reading the Centurion role consistently.  But this time I thought I would do something different.  I wanted different voices reading that part, as though the Centurion was an Everyman, or even Every-person as I had female voices reading those lines at times.  And then I was struck with a novel idea for casting.  I asked my associate pastor Chris if he thought his wife Joy would join La Donna and I as the four readers of this script. Joy not only agreed, but also wanted to play the flute for the hymns and as a solo anthem piece in the middle.  It all seemed to be set and ready for a powerful experience for all involved.

What I didn’t count on was Charlotte.  Charlotte is Chris and Joy’s youngest daughter, a preschooler who decided that Good Friday evening that only mom would do.  Though there were church members aplenty assigned to the task of watching Charlotte while the service was going on and her mom was so fully participating, she would have none of it.  Even her dad was no consolation for the poor girl, who cried her eyes out (not to mention exercised her lungs) in Chris’ office when Joy went to practice before the service.  Though those assigned child minders tried valiantly, we could all see it just wasn’t going to work. So at the last minute, as the prelude was playing, a change was made to the program and Charlotte joined us in the chancel.

When Joy played her flute, Charlotte would sit on the floor around her feet, or on a seat her mother had just vacated, partially hidden by the grand piano, and all was well.  But when Joy would step up to the lectern to take her turn at reading from the wonderful script dramatically presenting to us the impressions of the Stations of the Cross, Charlotte would wander.  And by wander I don’t mean to imply that she would walk demurely with her mother from her seat behind to the piano to the lectern in the front of the chancel where she would wait patiently until Joy was done reading before walking calmly back to her seat.  No.  If you think that is what she did throughout the service, then you don’t know Charlotte.  Charlotte took full opportunity of the freedom of that space to explore each corner, keeping her mother in sight she would stroll to the center of the open chancel and then back toward Joy.  She discovered that she could wander outside of the chancel, walking on the kneeling step and holding onto the communion rails like an office worker getting some air on a high ledge downtown.  Once she discovered the unique acoustics of the space and stomped her foot on the stone tile just to hear the echo.  Only once.  She wove around the chancel furniture, tracing a labyrinthine path that only she knew, circling the Christ candle on its tall brass pole and back to the lectern where her mother stood.  It was a sight to behold.

The dramatist in me was squirming, I must confess. The carefully constructed experience was at risk here, the heaviness of the passion of the Christ, the depth of the Stations were being swallowed up by this cherub with a cloud of blond curls dancing around the chancel without a care in the world, except that mom was in sight.  For the first time I had a little sympathy for the disciples that day when they told the parents to keep their kids away from Jesus because we were doing serious stuff.  Only to be made to be the bad guys when Jesus said “Let the children come to me, do not hinder them.”

“For to such as these belongs the Kingdom.”  It was the theologian in me that came to the rescue.  As I watched the little sprite dancing in the face of the darkness of Good Friday, I suddenly recognized her.  It was hope.  It was that little ribbon of sustenance that was how they made it through to Easter morning, fluttering here and there, outside and inside, tracing circles around the flame of Presence, even - and pay attention here - even when it was put out. 

Holy Saturday has always puzzled me.  How did those women have the wherewithal to prepare the spices?  How did the broken and despairing disciples manage to not run screaming into the hillside, afraid for their own souls as well as their bodies now that the hammer had begun to fall?  How did they follow him to the cross, even at a distance, and hover outside a tomb no matter how lovely the garden surrounding it?  How did they endure the darkness of that day?

Because of Charlotte.  Well, maybe not Charlotte in the flesh, but the hope and the joy that she wove in and through the sadness and the pain.  Maybe they couldn’t dance in their own darkness, but hope was there, hidden, almost smothered, but tenacious, determined, clinging, unwilling to leave us to wallow in our despair.

What I heard that Good Friday night in the wanderings of little Charlotte is that no matter how much we think it is, the story - God’s story and our story - never ends in darkness.  The sun does rise again.

Luke 24:1-12  But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared.  2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb,  3 but when they went in, they did not find the body.  4 While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them.  5 The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.  6 Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee,  7 that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again."  8 Then they remembered his words,  9 and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest.  10 Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles.  11 But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.  12 But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

Without a word, our angel Charlotte proclaimed that death was not the final word, and that if we persisted to live in the darkness, then we were simply in the wrong place.  He is not here, he is Risen.  Alleluia.

Shalom,
Derek

Pruning and Grafting

I’m out on a limb here.  Heh, made a pun already and didn’t even mean to.  I was referring to the risk I’m about to undertake.  Referring to the danger of speaking, or writing in this case, beyond my knowledge and experience.  Not the first time I’ve done that, I freely admit.  I have always subscribed to the idea that if you share your ignorance with confidence and conviction, then most folks will believe you know what you are talking about.  Even when you don’t.  I always tell folks asked to read a difficult scripture passage, for example, full of unpronounceable names to just pick a pronunciation and go with it.  No one really knows how it is supposed to sound, so just go with it.

Works most of the time.  My problem here is that I’m not dealing with obscure dead languages or convoluted theological points that even the originators would be hard pressed to put them into an English that normal people understand.  No, I’m going to talk about gardening. 

I hate gardening, let’s just get that out of the way.  That’s a bit harsh, I realize, and not completely true.  There are some things of a gardening nature that I will do without protest.  Too much protest anyway.  Grumbling, maybe, pouting, but not protest.  I appreciate gardens and gardeners.  I loved touring the big houses in Britain and walking through the gardens, formal and informal both.  I just didn’t want to have to do the work.

I know, I know. And that will probably be the subject of another bible study sometime.  But for all I’m admitting is that I’m out on this limb about to talk about something I know little to nothing about.  Yet, here goes.

Well, after a word from our sponsor, so to speak.  The reason why I’m about to launch into a lecture about gardening.  Because He did.

John 15:1-12   "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower.  2 He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.  3 You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you.  4 Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.  5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.  6 Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.  7 If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.  8 My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.  9 As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.  10 If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.  11 I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.  12 "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.

I like a good metaphor as much as the next guy.  He could have just mentioned the whole vine thing and left it at that.  “I Am the true vine” was a powerful statement to those first hearers.  Because the image of the vine wove all through the Scriptures of the day.  The prophets loved to talk about the vine.  But for them it was Israel.  A vine uprooted from Egypt and planted in the promised land.  A vine that bears fruit to feed many.  But also a vine that withers when it neglects the source of strength, when it becomes unconnected.  Which sounds surprisingly like what Jesus says here in this farewell discourse.  Stay connected.  Remember the source of strength, bear fruit.  What changes is that instead of a nation, the vine is now a person.  “I Am the true vine” says Jesus.  Startling, no doubt.  And maybe offensive, to a degree?  How could one man replace a nation? 

But look again, Jesus differentiates between vine and branches.  I Am the vine, but you are the branches.  He is simply bringing the source closer to us.  Instead of the people being uprooted and planted by God and sometimes withering when they forget that, now that source of strength is right there with us.  We are connected to it. It is right there, right here.  We abide in it. 

The people of God still produce the fruit, that is how God decided that it would work, God just moved a little closer because we could use the help.  Apart from God, apart from the source of strength, the vine we can do nothing.  And we have to stay close.

“In a vineyard, the best grapes are produced closest to the central vine.”  I read that, didn’t know it, in case you are wondering.  Stay close.  Because we need to be pruned.  I wish it weren’t so.  But we do.

Pruning is an art form, it seems to me, as much as a horticultural technique.  It looks like you are killing it, the plant or bush or whatever that you are pruning.  But if it is done right, then it always comes back stronger.  Always.  It produces more, it flourishes, it grows beyond where it was cut back.  Pruning, I’m told, is necessary for some kinds of plants, or it withers and dies.  Because it is trying to sustain something that isn’t necessary, or isn’t healthy, or is a distraction from its true function of bearing fruit or flower. 

Step away from the metaphor for a moment, and realize that pruning hurts.  Cutting away that which we’ve become attached to, no matter how unhealthy it is for us is hard, is painful.  And it makes us ask that question that we don’t like to admit that we ask: Is it worth it?  Is it worth the struggle, the pain, the self-denial, to live this life that he offers us, to enjoy this abundance that he wants to pour down on us?  Is the fruit that we bear - this commandment to love, God and neighbor with equal amounts of passion and service - worth the effort it takes to bear it?

“These things I have told you that my joy may be in you and your joy may be full.”  I wonder sometimes, to be honest.  But He says it is more than worth it, and I have chosen to trust Him.  And the moments of real joy that I have experienced in my life are always caught up in loving and being loved.  So, I know I want more.  More of Him, more of love, more joy. 

So stay close.  Abide in me, is the way he says it.  I am learning to abide.  To seek those moments when I can be in Christ’s presence, can soak up that word, can sing of praise and healing, loving and reconciling.  I want to stay close.  But how?

To big a question for the space I have left.  But the short answer is we need to be grafted into the vine.  I know there is nothing about grafting in these verses.  Vines and abiding, pruning and being cut off, yes.  But not grafting.  So, let me venture out a little further on this limb.  Grafting is a process whereby one plant, the scion (or offspring) becomes a part of another, the root stock (or the vine).  The process allows the plants to become one.  But the only way for the scion to be grafted into the root stock is if the stock or the vine is cut, is pierced to make room, to allow entry. 

By His wounds we are healed.

Shalom,
Derek

What the Flock

Already I’ve offended someone.  Sorry, truly, I am sorry.  It has never been my goal to shock or to offend, even though I say and do offensive things sometimes.  Mostly because I don’t know how to say what I want to say without offending. 

But I’ve stumbled over this passage for hours - well, days actually - and am still wishing I had assigned it to Chris this weekend.  Just sayin’.  Not because it is hard, necessarily.  I can understand it.  And I’m sure when you read it you will too.  There is just something unsettling about it.  Something, dare I say it, offensive here.

Wait, isn’t this the bible?  What would be offensive?  At least to us, anyway.  We’ve accepted the authority of these words, we’ve allowed this book to guide our lives, to shape our experience, to govern out understanding, how could it be offensive to us?

Well, of course it isn’t.  And it is.  Sort of.  Kind of.  Depends on how you look at it.  Maybe. ... Equivocating much?  Take a look and see for yourself.  If you dare!

John 10:11-18   "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.  12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away-- and the wolf snatches them and scatters them.  13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep.  14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me,  15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep.  16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.  17 For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again.  18 No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father."

I can hear your confusion from here.  What is difficult about this?, you are pondering.  What could possibly be considered offensive here?, let the head scratching commence.  

OK, let’s look at the easy stuff.  This is a continuation of the previous passage.  Last week Jesus said “I Am the gate for the sheep.”  Now he says “I Am the good shepherd.”  So, which is it?  Well, are you an offspring or a parent?  Are you a sibling or a neighbor?  We’ve all got multiple roles to play.  Jesus is searching for images that will make sense to us, that will connect with us.  We need access and acceptance.  Jesus is the door, the entrance, the way in to an experience of love and transformation.  We need guidance.  Jesus is the one who leads us.

And there it is.  I know it seems innocuous to us.  A no brainer to most of us.  But we live in an “I got this” culture.  “We don’t need no stinking leaders” is the mind-set.  I once heard a commentator sneering at the passage in Matthew where it says that Jesus had compassion on the crowd “because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” (Mt 9:36) Paternalistic, was the cry.  That’s the problem with religion, they would cry, it is a crutch, something to keep us down.  We are meant to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps.  Our heroes are the ones who made it on their own, the self made men and women who take what is a raw deal and turn it into gold.  Those who push themselves, who claw their way up, who ...

Whoa, slow down there, Sparky.  OK, sure there are those “dog eat dog” types out there, but surely none of them are reading this bible study.  We know better.  We are ready to follow the Shepherd.  So, no controversy here.

I know that.  Just making a point.  Just engaging in some literary banter.  I know that we always turn to the shepherd when it comes to making decisions about how we will live our lives.  I know that we will follow wherever He leads us, and do whatever He tells us to do.  That we are ready and eager to live the life of faith that we are called to live, when we get a moment.  In our spare time, Sunday mornings for sure, most of the time anyway, when we can squeeze it in.  It is a busy life we lead, and we don’t always have room for everything that we would like to be able to do.  Some days we are just getting by with the necessary stuff and are worn out before the extras.  Like faith.  Like life, abundant life.

Hmm.  OK, maybe we all struggle with the idea of a shepherd.  Of needing one, instead of being one, I mean.  Maybe we too are more likely to say we can do it on our own than we need a savior.  Maybe we are part and parcel of our culture more than we really want to admit.

I like the band fun.  That’s how you have to write their name by the way: fun.  Apparently there is a Scandinavian death metal band called Fun, so the pop group fun. had to change its name.  Lover case f with a period at the end.  fun.  Anyway, I got their latest cd and just love it, (yeah, I’m an old guy, I still look for cd’s) but was caught out by one song.  It is titled “One Foot,” and the refrain repeats the phrase “I'll put one foot in front of the other one.”  Catchy, has this “just keep swimming” feel to it (Finding Nemo - keep up here).  But when I listened closer, I was disturbed. 

The second verse goes like this: “Happiness stumbled upon a chapel last night / And I can't help but back up when I think of what happens inside / I've got friends locked in boxes, that's no way to live / What you calling a sin, isn't up to them / Afterall, afterall I thought we were all your children / But I will die for my own sins, thanks a lot / We'll rise up ourselves, thanks for nothing at all / So up off the ground, our forefathers are nothing but dust now.”  Then the refrain: “I'll put one foot in front of the other one / I don't need a new love, or a new life / Just a better place to die.”

Another slam against the church, and maybe we deserve it.  We’ve spent more time calling out sins than we have claiming all as God’s children.  But along with throwing off the authority of the church, comes the decision that we don’t need a savior “I’ll die for my own sins, thanks a lot.”  OK, I get that, again, we probably need to take some of the blame for that kind of attitude.  If we don’t live as though we are following a savior, but instead are relying on our own righteousness, then what else can we expect from our children? 

But what really got me was what we are left with when we stand on our own: “I'll put one foot in front of the other one / I don't need a new love, or a new life / Just a better place to die.”  The One who came that we might have life, weeps when his children only have aspirations for a better place to die.  These are the ones for whom He was willing to lay down his life.  These are the ones He wanted to gather in.  These, and so many others who are wandering around out there harassed and helpless are in need of shepherd. 

Which I guess means that maybe we should worry less about offending and work more on following, and welcoming, and loving, and laying down ... our tendency to be offended by those who don’t act like we do.

Shalom,
Derek

Safely Gathered In

“Pastor!”  I was passing through the Connection (or as every other church in the world calls it - the narthex) on my post worship mission of checking lights and locking doors.  Almost everyone had left, the youth bell choir was practicing in the sanctuary, a few hangers on were clinging to the feeling of fellowship that a Sunday morning brings, and others were waiting for someone to finish whatever servant task they had undertaken that morning.  Almost time to head home.  It had been a good morning, second Sunday of Lent and the One who said “I Am the light of the world” was present among us that morning.

“Pastor!” We used to sneer at those primitive cultures who talk about the power of knowing someone’s name.  We dismissed it as a belief magic, a fundamental misunderstanding of how the world really works.  Yet, when that “Pastor!” rang out through the Connection it was as if I had been lassoed by a passing cowboy and drawn into a conversation I didn’t know I was going to have. 

“Pastor!”  It was Fred.  Great guy, Fred.  Probably the best dresser in the whole congregation.  Always has opinions and isn’t afraid of sharing them.  And, frankly, they are usually pretty good ones.  So, I wasn’t sure if I was going to get a congratulations on a great service kind of comment, or a suggestion on how we ought to conduct some item of business in a more efficient manner.  “You should have gone to see her dance,” he said.  “Time goes fast, and she’ll be gone before you are ready.”

I concluded my sermon last week by letting everyone know that Maddie wasn’t in church that day because her mother took her to the Dance Showcase in Merrillville.  And how while I didn’t like that the Showcase took place on Sunday morning, that this time I wasn’t going to complain.  Then I compared (rather cleverly, I thought) Maddie’s dancing to the worship and celebration that took place during the Festival of the Booths when the people would dance in front of the four lamps in the courtyard.  Jesus claim to be the light of the world, I suggested, was an invitation to dance in that Presence.

I felt pretty good about it all, or I had been, until Fred.  “You should have gone to see her dance.”  Don’t you think I wanted to?  I have responsibilities, you know, I have a job to do.  I can’t help it they picked a Sunday morning for her to dance.  Can I?  It’s not my fault that I couldn’t be there, was it?  Who can be that present?

Uh, well, ok.  Besides Him, I mean.  That’s an unreal standard, don’t you think?  Well, don’t you?

John 10:1-10   "Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit.  2 The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep.  3 The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.  4 When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice.  5 They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers."  6 Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.  7 So again Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  8 All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  9 I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.  10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

I Am the gate.  Gates speak to us of access, of limited access.  A gate usually is accompanied by a “no trespassing” sign.  Or even a “keep out” notice.  Gates are about keeping people out, about dividing, about separating, about filtering.  And certainly in this passage there is a certain amount of that.  Thieves and bandits abound, we believe, coming to steal and kill and destroy.  So, keep out!  Keep away.  Let’s be careful as to who we let in, about who we admit into the community of faith.  We have to be careful.  We have to decide who is worthy of entrance into our midst.  We have to build big gates to protect ourselves, from a big bad world.

Except, look again.  He doesn’t tell us to build a gate.  He doesn’t tell us to become a gated community.  He says “I Am the gate.”  He is taking from us the responsibility of keeping the undesirables out.  He is claiming the task of determining who is worthy and who isn’t.  We can’t figure that out, we get confused, we are likely to follow any voice that sounds interesting.

Which means our job is very different.  We aren’t to be the one ones passing judgement on those around us.  Our job is to get to know his voice.  We need to spend time in his presence.  We need to listen to him, to study his word, to follow his practice.  We need to spend our lives getting to know him so that when we hear our name called we will know who is calling.  “The sheep follow him because they know his voice.” 

We follow because he knows us.  We follow because he loves us.  We follow because he defines us, we are his, shaped in his image, empowered by his love, transformed by his presence.  Because he wants to be with us.

Traveling across the wilds of Scotland, we noticed these odd little shelters scattered around on the hillsides.  They were sheepfolds, we were told.  It was essentially a circular construction of walls, not very high, but with an opening on one side.  There was no gate or door, just an opening.  The shepherd, we were told, would lie down in the opening and thus provide the protection at night.  He put his body in between the flock and the dangers of the world around them. 

That’s what he offers, a place to belong, a place to be safe, a place of acceptance and grace and joy and love.  A place where we can grow into what is within us to be.  A place where we can test the limits of our abilities, where we can trust that we are valued.  It can even be a place where we fail from time to time, but it isn’t the end of the world because there is always forgiveness and transformation.  That’s what he offers, that is the life abundant that he so much wants to give us, wants to open to us.  And, he promises he will be there.

I should have gone, Fred was right.  I see that now.  I haven’t figured out how to be in two places at the same time.  I wanted to see her dance, but I missed it.  I see the photos that were taken.  I’ve heard tell the story.  But I wasn’t there.  And I regret that now.  Because there will come a time when I will put her in the hands of another, and my presence with her will be rare and fleeting.

Praise be to God that there is One who promises to hold her close, to lie as a gate to guard her when she sleeps.  Praise be to God that there is One who is with her always, and who offers her life, abundant and joyous life.

Offers her life.  And me too.  And you.  Praise be to God.

Shalom,
Derek

A Light in the Darkness

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius, besides what was presented to the world in all the information broadcast around the Olympic Games in London last summer.  All I know, then, is that he was the first double amputee to compete in the “regular” Olympic games against “able-bodied” athletes.  I know that he was nicknamed “the blade runner” because of the design of the prostheses that he used to run.  I know that despite winning multiple medals in the paralympic games, he did not finish in the medal in the Olympics, but that it was a monumental achievement that he competed at all, and the world watched with hope in our hearts, urging him to do well, and was encouraged by the power of the human spirit as we watched him run.

The media plays tricks on us, making us feel as though we know someone by presenting them “up close and personal,” telling their story as though they were next-door neighbors or long lost brothers or sisters, inviting us to care about them.  Not a bad technique, frankly.  It works so well that we are stunned when this person we know so well does something that seems out of character, when this person falls from the pedestal we’ve put them on. 

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius.  I don’t know what he has done, whether the emotion displayed in that South African courtroom was the ravages of guilt for an heinous act or the despair of an individual caught in an unimaginable circumstance that he was helpless to control.  I don’t know.  I don’t know whether to be angry, or to feel sorry or cynical about people in general.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that Oscar Pistorius was walking in darkness.

Duh.  I’m sorry, you’re thinking, that’s the best you can do?  In the face of this international tragedy you fall back on banalities?  You trot out cliches that sound marginally pious but don’t say anything other than the obvious.  I mean, come on.  You can do better than that, can’t you?

Well, no, I don’t think so.  Except perhaps to say something like there is darkness in the world.  And the darkness is really dark.  Therefore, it should be our strongest desire, our deepest passion to seek the light.  And not just any light.  But a light that gives life.

OK, I can hear your eyes rolling from here.  Take a look at the text for this week while I consider how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound like something you’d read on a bumper sticker.

John 8:12-19  Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life."  13 Then the Pharisees said to him, "You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid."  14 Jesus answered, "Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going.  15 You judge by human standards; I judge no one.  16 Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me.  17 In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid.  18 I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf."  19 Then they said to him, "Where is your Father?" Jesus answered, "You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also."

I could have simply chosen verse 12 as the text for this second week of Lent.  That is where the “I Am” saying is found.  So, we could have read one verse and then all nodded our heads and gone home.  Yep, Jesus is the light.  Got it, thanks.

The purpose of the subsequent verses is to show us that this isn’t as easy as it first seems.  This isn’t a throw away that Jesus just tosses out one fine afternoon.  This isn’t just one more metaphor being presented to help us wrap our minds around the reality of Jesus.  Or rather it isn’t just that.  It is, instead, an offer.  It is an invitation to enter into a relationship that takes us to whole new reality, a different way of being alive in the world.

To say that there is resistance is an serious understatement.  Jesus’ hearers are stunned, shocked, offended by his words.  “Who do you think you are?”, they shout red-faced at him. “What gives you the right?”  And worst of all, “Who are you to tell us we don’t know God?  We are God experts, we are black belt in God, we have PhD’s in God! You, on the other hand are a nothing nobody from nowhere!!”

This was because Jesus pokes them with a sharp stick, trying to get their attention, and they don’t like it.  They are trying to take him to court, to follow the legal rules of witness and testimony.  He says, I’m not here for that.  “I judge no one,” isn’t an abdication of his role as the Lord of Lords, but an indication that he isn’t here for rules right now, but for relationships.  It’s not time for rules, it’s not time for courts, for trials and affidavits - if it was you’d be in even more trouble than you are right now. 

He gets a little heated, it seems to me.  Because they threw in his face the standard line from any who would oppose us, who would stand in our way, who would challenge our word and our faith: “Prove it!”  Arghh, I hate that line.  Whether I get it from my kids, or the pagan down the street, or the seeker in the pew, or the soul lost in the darkness of his own making, or of her circumstance.  Prove it.  And what makes this question so daggone frustrating is that I find it on my own lips, in my own heart from time to time.  “Prove it, Jesus.”  Prove you are who you say you are, prove it to me so that there is no shadow of doubt, no dark corner of suspicion in the worldly part of me, prove it so that I never waver in my allegiance, never stray from your path, never lose my grip on that strong hand folded around mine.  Prove it.  Please.

If you take out the verses at the beginning of Chapter 8 here in John (a story which many say is in the wrong place and messes up the order of things), and look back to the beginning of this long debate, you’ll discover that Jesus is in Jerusalem for the Festival of Tabernacles.  Like all the great festivals, this one is marked by ritual and ceremony, by tradition and celebration.  On the first night of the festival, four lamps, or large torches were brought out to the court of the women, one of the outer courts and lit up to chase away the darkness.  It was said that when these torches were lit there was no courtyard in Jerusalem that couldn’t see the light.  In the light of the these festival lamps, the leaders and the followers, the wise and the foolish, the saints and the sinners, the rich and the poor would dance.  It was the very Presence of God that brought them through the darkness of the exodus, so what else could you do but dance?  It was an expression of Joy, bubbling forth from the least and the greatest, made equal by the grace of that light. 

It was in that light that Jesus said “I Am the light of the world,” the source of true joy, the fulness of life.  You can’t prove it, you have to experience it.  You can’t prove it, you have to accept it.  If he did prove it for us, he would remove from us the opportunity to choose.  Or as Maddie shows me, He holds out his hand and gives us the grace to accept the invitation to dance.  He gives us the opportunity, the joy of saying yes.  The only proof he allows for those who still walk in darkness is the dance of those who have said yes.  We are the proof, our lives lived out in joy and hope and sometimes terrifying desperation.

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius.  But when the news broke of his alleged crime my heart sank.  What keeps coming to mind, however, was the photo of Oscar the blade runner holding the hand of a little girl in a pink dress and two tiny replicas of those prostheses.  Her look of pride and hope and confidence learned from a man who had overcome a disability just like hers spoke volumes.  It was a dance in the light for that moment.  No, of course, that moment does not excuse whatever crime he may have committed.  But then neither does that darkness take away the power of that moment of light.  Any more than our repeated failures diminish the good that we can do when we walk in the light, when we prove Jesus is the great I Am by how we live our lives, when we dance with joy in the presence of the light of the world.  

So, keep dancing, no matter what, just keep dancing.

Shalom,
Derek