2015 Festival Journal - Day Two Part Two

Festival of Homiletics, 2015 – Denver Colorado

Day Two Part Two

After Nadia, I traveled to the third venue for the festival, St. John’s Lutheran Church (which is also a Catholic Church, oddly enough.  A move that indicates in some spots community is beginning to overcome history and long standing animosity.  There is hope.)  The speaker this time was listed as Don Davis, storyteller. 

I went, frankly with low expectations.  I’ve heard and always appreciate storytellers.  But also feel like I know what storytelling is about.  So, I went not expecting to learn and even to greatly enjoy, but it was the best on offer at that time.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  Yes, Don started with a story that was good, but not overwhelming.  But then he began to explore with us how stories happen.  

His title was “Our Stories tell us who we are: An experience in discovering our own stories and some ways of using them in proclamation settings.”  A bit clumsy, I thought, and not gripping.  But after his story he told us of the need to stock our kitchen with the makings of stories so that when it came time to cook we had a full pantry.  By that he meant get the bones of the stories and have them ready.  And the bones he argued were not plots, not the what happened.  He says our education establishment is “plot obsessed” and that we are trained to reduce every story to just the action.  But stories don’t begin with action.  They begin with people and with places.

Four “P’s” to storytelling, and plot isn’t one of them.  Make a list of people and places.  When you walk around the places the stories “raise their hands and beg to be told.”  When you remember the people you remember who they were with you, and the stories are told.  The third P is problem.  Without trouble, Don says, there is no story.  Now it isn’t always bad things.  How many of you got married, he asked, how many have children?  That’s trouble that we choose.  And I thought of all the stories I’ve told of receiving and raising those kids.  Trouble, it’s a good word.

But the final P is one we often forget.  He called it a Progress Report.  What did you learn in this story, from this person, in this place that you wouldn’t have learned in any other way?  No matter how terrible or wonderful the moment.  How did you grow?  Progress report.

Then he spoke about biblical stories and how they neglect three of the P’s.  He says they aren’t good on people and places because they figure everyone knows them, we get names but no descriptions.  We don’t really know either well, he argues.  And he says too often, especially with Jesus’ stories, there is no progress report.  That was done on purpose, he argued, because we are to finish the stories.  Did the elder brother ever go in?  Did the Samaritan return and pay and did the beaten man ever meet his rescuer?  I see his point and while I may argue a few details, I agree and was entranced by his presentation.  Which wasn’t even his best of the day.

Then it was lunch and I met up with Nathan, the associate pastor from St Joe there in Fort Wayne.  A long way to go for lunch.  But it was good to catch up.

After lunch I went to the wrong venue and didn’t want to hear the speaker, so instead I went and found a plug to charge my phone for a while.  But then hurried back to hear Don Davis for his second session. This time in the United Methodist Church, he shared the stage with Rabbi Ben Romer who has served as a military chaplain for more than twenty years.  His stories were about crossing boundaries.  About interfaith.  He says interfaith dialog is about being strong enough in your own faith to set aside some of your language so you can listen to the other, and help them on their journey.

Don Davis took the stage afterwards and used his allotted time to tell one long convoluted story that was just masterful and gripping, funny and poignant, and in the end about hospitality, about welcoming the stranger and about Christ appearing in the strangest of places through the least expected of people.  To even attempt to give you bits from the story would be to demean the power of story and the gift of Don Davis.  Suffice it to say, I was in awe.

After a dinner break and shuttle ride back to the hotel and then back to the venue.  I ended the night with worship and more stories.  Don Davis told two stories, again was captivating.  My favorite part was the role of the ex-vet from the Cincinnati Zoo who settled in the little town where Don was pastor, and the unorthodox way the vet had of neutering 20 some cats owned by the crazy lady in town.  Nuff said.

But the sermon in our closing worship was preached by Dr Walter Brueggemann.  A venerable Old Testament scholar with immense reputation and an irascible demeanor.  His text was Matthew 11:25-30, “I thank the Father that you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants.”  And then proceeded to call us both wise and intelligent and therefore not privy to the understandings of God, and babies asking us to remember what it is that we know.  He said we need to stop trying to figure everything out and just be followers and imitators.  That sometimes our plans get in the way, our knowledge gets in the way.  And we just need to trust more.

The other interesting dimension to the worship is that besides the sermon and scripture ready, the rest of the service was sung.  Prayers, liturgy, everything was sung.  It was beautiful and different.  There is a bluegrass feel to the Festival this year.  Not sure whether Colorado is considered a bluegrass state, but it does permeate much of the worship here this week.  And it kinda catchy, I must say.

Another great day in Denver. 

2015 Festival Journal - Day Two, Part One

Festival of Homiletics, 2015 – Denver Colorado

Day Two

I neglected to mention that the first session on Monday night was held at the Denver Convention Center in the theater there.  That was because there is no church large enough to seat all the attendees of the Festival.  So, that meant that this morning after catching the shuttle into town, I had to navigate an unfamiliar city to venues I hadn’t taken the time to find the day before.

There are three churches downtown Denver that we are using for the Festival.  Central Presbyterian, Trinity United Methodist, and St. John’s Lutheran.  And the Festival runs concurrent events at each venue.  Which means the first order of the day it to decide who to go hear and who to miss.  And every year it is a struggle for me to decide whether to hear someone I know is good, or to go hear someone who might be good, but might not be.  There are some regular speakers/preachers that I don’t care for - others do, but I don’t.  So, in some cases the choosing is difficult.  I must confess there are some that I would be hard pressed to miss.  And one year, heaven forbid, two of my very favorites were scheduled at the same time in different places!  Horrors.

No such problems today.  The speaker at the Presbyterian church was one of those I don’t care for, so off I went to the UMChurch to hear Michael Curry, an African-American Episcopal Bishop from North Carolina.  I’ll let that sink in for a moment before moving on.  

I’ve heard Bishop Curry before and always appreciate his preaching.  He preached about love.  And said many of the same things I have heard or said before.  But he says them in such a way that you can’t help but be intrigued by them again.  John framed the passion story with love – A new commandment I give you on one end and Simon, son of John do you love me at the other.  He also gave a nod to the Methodists since he was on our turf.  He said “I love coming to the United Methodist Church.  It feels like coming home.  When you all left us, you took all the energy with you!”  Hmm, I wonder if he would say the same if he dropped in on some of our UM Churches today?  

Bishop Curry always manages to weave music into his preaching.  Usually turning to the spirituals his grandmother would sing to him when he was a little boy, “I was sinkin’ deep in sin,” Bishop Curry sang to us. “Far from the peaceful shore / Very deeply stained within / Sinking to rise no more. / But the master of the sea / Heard my despairing cry / And from the waters lifted me / Now safe am I.  Chorus (everybody sing!) Love lifted me / Love lifted me / When nothing else could help / Love lifted me.”

You can almost hear it now, can’t you?  But that wasn’t the only hymn he referenced.  No, again, he gave a nod to his hosts and quoted Charles Wesley.  Specifically the third verse of that great Easter Hymn “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”: Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia! / Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia! / Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia! / Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Methodists got that one right, he proclaimed.  And I pray he is right.  Thank you Bishop Curry. 

Now he was about to give a lecture on some of the same themes and I could easily have stayed for more.  But Nadia was lecturing back at Central Presbyterian, so I headed over there.  Nadia began with a disclaimer saying she didn’t grow up in the church and therefore her vocabulary isn’t very churchy.  And she said she tried to clean it up but it felt inauthentic, and also very hard to change, so she kept it.  And some of those words, she said are very useful in the circles within which she works.  But, she hastened to add, she wasn’t advocating that all us clergy take up swearing.  Because “You aren’t very good at it!”

She always also begins by saying she doesn’t know why she gets asked to speak at places like this, she doesn’t have anything profound to say.  Except that she does.  She drops profundities more often then the swear words she claims to live by.  Like this little gem: “I preach from my scars and not my wounds.”  Wow, that was amazing.  A truth I knew but had never articulated like that.  It helps explain why some personal stories are powerful gospel illustrations and others just make you squirm.  

At the center of her lecture, she read from her forthcoming book: Accidental Saints: Finding God in All the Wrong People.  The passage she chose had to do with demons.  Lots of demon talk in the bible, she noted.  And like most moderns she dismissed it as an outdated form of talking about disease and mental illness.  Those who did talk about them like they were real, she said, were like Christian Rednecks, and Demon possession was like a monster truck rally.  

While we were all laughing at this, she then proceeded to turn it around and talk about her own struggle with depression.  And that when she was in the throes of it, it seemed as though another person had come to take up residence in her life.  And this person could cause her all sorts of trouble.  She even named the person and tried to let others see her too.  So whether you call it, Nadia claimed, a demon, a disease or an addiction, we were no longer in control.  And until someone comes to cast out the demon, you are helpless and cut off.  Because what demons do, she claimed, is keep us from people who love us.  They isolate us from feeling worthy of love.  To takes (thank you Bishop Curry and Charles Wesley) Love’s redeeming work for healing to begin.  

But healing isn’t completed until you are brought back into community where others can love you too.  She then talked about her continued struggles with anger.  And one Sunday there was a church meeting between services (? Bad idea, seems to me) and someone got her so angry she didn’t think she could lead worship.  So she called on another member of her church to come pray for her to help her get over her anger.  And she chose a pregnant social worker to come and pray that she might be able to lead a peaceful liturgy of worship.  The prayer said “Nadia is in a bad way, so break her heart with our love for her and let her lead us in worship.”  

Break her heart with our love for her.  The church, she said, loved her into being the pastor they needed.  I was struck by that.  How often do I resist being loved enough to change?  And instead are forced into change by anger and spite?  Hmmm.  But the biggest profundity was this: “Faith is not an individual competition, it is a team sport.”

And it is still morning!  (End of Day two, part one!)

2015 Festival Journal - Just Arrived

Festival of Homiletics, 2015 – Denver Colorado.

My favorite annual continuing education event is called the Festival or Homiletics (which is fancy talk for preaching)  And each year I write reflections on the event.  It is an amazing experience.  I hope through this journal, you might see why.

Day One

After much ado about traveling, I arrived in Denver a little ahead of schedule.  Get this, I left Indy at 2:15pm and arrived in Denver at 3:00pm, wow that’s fast. OK, a two hour time difference, but still.  Going home on Friday will be very slow, by contrast.

The big struggle about traveling to Denver is that the airport is a long way from the city.  And no Denver hotel runs a shuttle to the airport, just isn’t cost effective, I was told. So, taxi, city bus, or super shuttle.  Super Shuttle sounded right up my alley, so I got a ticket and went to where I was told.  Along with a lot of other people who didn’t have a clue what was going on.  Waiting and waiting, shuttles came and went.  Waiting and waiting some more.  Super shuttle one arrived and drove way to the other end of the island we were on.  Traffic island, Denver isn’t on the coast.  Super Shuttle number two came and when we lined up, most of us were told wrong shuttle, he was going to Bolder.  Nice town Bolder, but not on my itinerary.  Finally a lady in a super shuttle came and asked who was going downtown Denver.  I said I was and she looked at my ticket.  You’re not downtown, she said.  That was my first indication that something was wrong.  The driver said, but he’s on my list.  So, I got in the black unmarked SUV.  I felt like a politician or something driving an unmarked car into town.

Got to my hotel to find out that it wasn’t within walking distance of the venues for the festival.  And I like to walk a lot.  I was pretty bummed about it all and resolved to have a terrible time.  Then I discover that the hotel has an hourly shuttle that goes to the sites, free of charge.  OK, better, but still too limiting.  Grump, grump, grump.

Then I rushed in for the first session.  Almost missing the start time because of having to wait for the shuttle (both the airport one and the hotel one!).  And by almost missing I mean not being at least an hour early, like I prefer!

The opening session is usually something significant, powerful and this year did not disappoint.  Nadia Boltz-Weber is an edgy Lutheran pastor here in Denver who is breaking molds all over the place, even while she claims a tradition that is ancient and postmodern at the same time.  She and her husband and a musician friend named Kent Gustavson composed what they called a Bluegrass Eucharist.  It was fun and lively and foot-stompin’ good.  But would take the right kind of musicians to pull it off.

As usual, though, my favorite part was the sermon.  Nadia preached on the text where Jesus came in from Capernaum and asked the disciples what they were talking about and they were embarrassed because they has been talking about who was the best.  So Jesus grabbed a child and said whoever welcomes one such as this welcomes me.  A text we all knew and had all preached.  And for a while she took a fairly typical approach about hospitality and welcoming the stranger and she affirmed all those meanings.  

But then she paused and said but I wonder if tonight we need to hear something different.  Over 1800 preachers had gathered for this week here in Denver.  And most of us were worn out trying to do too much and feeling guilty about what wasn’t done or wasn’t appreciated.  So, she says what if tonight this isn’t about hospitality, about welcoming anyone, but was about being the child.

What if we were able to rest in Jesus arms and that he was willing, because he is willing, to love us even when we don’t or don’t know how to love him back.  What if, like children in Jesus day, we weren’t valued because we were cute and cuddly and were marginalized and only valued for what we might someday be able to produce, basically replacement parts for adults, and yet we were loved by Him?  What if we knew, really knew that we don’t have to earn that love or be worthy of that love, it was just given?  

When I left the service and called the shuttle for a ride back, I realized that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.  Nothing was open in the section of downtown where I was, well nothing I could get a take home bag from in the few minutes before my ride would arrive.  So, I went back to the hotel, only to find the restaurant there was closing.  We had passed a Dollar Store on the way, so I set out.  Only about a mile away, it turned out.  I got there and got a few things and walked back.  

While I walked on tired feet through an industrial/railroad area of town where the hotel was, my daughter texted from home.  They couldn’t get the internet to work, and then the tv in her room wouldn’t turn on and they were asking me, some 800 miles away to trouble shoot.  I finally gave up when every suggestion I had was met with a “tried that. Nope” response.  Told her to go watch TV in the main room.  At that moment as I was walking past one business their sprinklers turned on and I was tired and sore and now wet too.

And loved.  That was the point.  Loved in spite of, loved through it all, loved.  Somewhere in the night, it all turned around and I’m having the time of my life.  As I usually do here at the Festival of Homiletics.  

And just wait until you hear what happened the next day!

Shalom,

Derek

Tangled Threads

I've been on the phone to Paris Health Care for the past couple of days.  That’s the facility in Paris Tennessee where my mom resides.  There was an incident there, mom wasn’t hurt, but they needed to let me know as her power of attorney that something happened.  They are investigating and will make a determination of what might be next.  It involves my dad and the care he provides her while she is there.  He says, they say, hard to tell what really happened.  Happy Mother’s Day.

Further evidence that dementia has a communal effect.  The ripples circle out and wash over many of us.  The threads that bind us together get tangled and twisted, sometimes broken or at least frayed to a breaking point.  Sometimes we say and do things, even to those we love, that have nothing to do with them. But the threads have us so tangled up that we don’t know where the pain is coming from.  All we know is that we hurt and wish it would stop.  And every question feels like an accusation, every comment like a threat.  It isn't logical, it isn't rational, it isn't even right, but unless we are Vulcan like Mr. Spock, we rarely respond purely to logic.  Those threads that bind us to others, family and friends and members of the body of Christ, get us so tangled up we don’t always think straight.

Take Mother’s Day, for example.  I know that to ignore the holiday on a Sunday morning is to commit something akin to blasphemy in the minds of most people.  I’ve had my ear bent by passionate souls on that score.  Mothers are certainly due all the honor we can give them.  I know I want to honor my mother, and I want to honor my wife as the mother of my children.  And there are so many mothers who occupy our pews that deserve a little thank you, a little symbol that we know how important they are to us.  To the community as a whole.  What’s wrong with giving a little honor?  

At the same time, I know that an emphasis on saintly mothers would grieve those who suffered with a mother who didn’t epitomize the kind of love that Hallmark sells to us on their cards.  I know that calling motherhood the desire of God for every woman would wound those who have chosen to be childless or who suffer from infertility, or who lost their children in some heart rending tragedy.  And because within our community there are some from all those categories, a Mother’s Day celebration in worship is a tricky proposition.  The threads that bind us together make us want to be sensitive to those to whom we are bound.

Wow, I did not intend to follow this thread today.  But there it is.  And the more I write, the more the only sensible  response is the Monty Python Holy Grail response: “Run Away!”  Cut loose those binding threads, shake off those relationships.  “I am a rock, I am an island,” sang Simon and Garfunkle many years ago.  

Except ... I don’t want to live as an island.  And rocks are just too ... hard.  I don’t want to cut the threads that tangle me into the lives of those I love.  If anything I want them to be stronger, tighter, more binding.  I know, it doesn’t make sense, it is potentially too much pain.  But oh how I want those threads to stay connected.  The threads from my mother which are growing so thin they are almost transparent, how I wish they were strong and vibrantly colored with her love and her teaching and her reproof and her forgiveness.  The threads from my kids which are stretching longer and farther with each passing day it seems, how I wish they were shorter and younger and so full of the life we used to share.  The threads that bind me to a congregation and are strained to the breaking point, how I wish they were like it was before so many mistakes, so many decisions, so many choices were made putting us in different places.  How I wish we could hold on to what was.

Like the members of a little church on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.  Joppa First UMC lost one of the pillars of the church, no, of the whole community.  And they decided to grab a desperate hope.  You know their story.

Acts 9:36-43  Now in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to good works and acts of charity.  37 At that time she became ill and died. When they had washed her, they laid her in a room upstairs.  38 Since Lydda was near Joppa, the disciples, who heard that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the request, "Please come to us without delay."  39 So Peter got up and went with them; and when he arrived, they took him to the room upstairs. All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them.  40 Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, "Tabitha, get up." Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up.  41 He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive.  42 This became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.  43 Meanwhile he stayed in Joppa for some time with a certain Simon, a tanner.  

The threads that bound Tabitha to the community were many and they were strong.  And when the illness and death came to sever those threads, the community was bereft.  Their hearts were broken, so they reached out to one who might be able to retie those threads, to re-weave the tear in the tapestry of their community.  They sent runners to Peter the apostle who had just performed a miracle.  And they thought maybe ... possibly ... But you notice they didn't ask for anything in particular.  Just that he come, quickly.  It wasn’t like that father who hoped Jesus could get there before his little girl died.  No Tabitha was dead.  They washed her and laid her out in the upper room.  They just wanted him to come.  

They washed the body, but didn't prepare it for burial.  Didn’t anoint it, didn’t wrap it.  Maybe they did hope, a wild desperate hope.  Hope for something they couldn't even bring themselves to speak out loud, or the sheer ridiculousness of it would ring in their ears and cause them to lose heart.  Just come quickly.  And, well, just come.

He did.  Drawn by their threads, Peter came, quickly.  And they fell all over themselves trying to tie him to her.  She was a servant, they said, a devoted servant, lived in two communities, didn't just care for us in the church, but for folks in the wider community.  They called her Dorcas, ‘cause that means “gazelle” in Greek, just like Tabitha does in Aramaic.  They called her gazelle, the folks out there, the ones she clothed.  Like this, they pointed to the clothes that they wore, proudly pointing out the straightness of the stitch and the line of the seam and the perfection of the fit.  They did a twirl like they were on a Paris catwalk.  Peter smiled at their love for their sister and friend. 

But then they stopped twirling as they caught sight of the body lying on the table in the middle of the room.  How dare they smile, how dare they take pleasure in anything, even the work of her hands, in a moment like this.  Peter felt the mood change and he sighed, then shooed them out of the room and got to work.  On his knees.

He prayed.  What did he pray for?  Who knows?  He prayed for the threads to be binding.  He prayed for the sake of the community who loved her so much.  He prayed for her lying there washed and cold and ready for what might be next.  He prayed for the will of his Lord to be done.  Then he stood up, and remembered another room with a body laid out.  He was there with Jesus that day, saw him reach out his hand to the dead girl and whisper “talitha coum - little girl rise.”  So, Peter reached out his hand and said “Tabitha rise.”  And her eyes opened and locked with his, and the smile on his ruddy fisherman’s face caused her to sit up at once.

He opened the door to their joy and disbelief and thought to himself with a wry smile, now where have I felt that before?  Nobody seemed to notice when he left.  He just passed by them hugging and crying and laughing, and he smiled when he heard Tabitha say, “that seam is coming undone, where is my needle?”  And he walked down to the seaside and knocked on the door of a man he hadn't seen since they were boys.  He never would have made this re-connection before, against the law, you know, because of the business that took place in this house.  But he shrugged and thought, things are changing everywhere and made himself at home with Simon the Tanner.  And somewhere a face familiar to Peter lit up with a massive smile and then thought, he has no idea.  No earthly idea.  Yet.

Sometimes miracles happen, and those we thought gone are returned to us.  More often the miracle is that the threads remain but they grow and change and become something new, something holy.  And we find we can continue on after all.  I am who I am because of my mother, a disease can’t take that away, can’t undo the threads of my being.  And whatever the future holds, I will honor her for what she has stitched for me.  Stitched into me.  We are the lives we touch and which touch us.  We are the threads we wear.  Thanks be to God.

Shalom, 

Derek

Pay Up

Well, what an interesting couple of weeks this has been!  Forgive my absence for the past couple of weeks.  But we were moving.  Packing and loading and moving, not changing appointments mind you, just houses.  We are in temporary housing, prepared to move into the parsonage at the end of June.  A lot of work, a lot of effort, a lot of energy expended.  On Monday night when the first a biggest hurdle was managed, La Donna and I looked at each other and said this used to be easier when we were younger.  Then moving was an adventure, now it felt like a burden.  A chore.  A weight we had to bear.

But bear it we did.  We are fine, settled, looking forward to the next part that settle us even more.  And then we will sing praise to God.  And then we will participate in the life of the community.  Then we will ... Why not now?  Why wait until all gets sorted out? 

That’s what we tend to do, you know.  When things aren’t going well, when the burdens seem too great, too much to bear, we tend to back off from the community of faith.  We tend to withdraw.  When I’m ready, we say.  When I feel better, we say.  When I get these things taken care of, myself sorted out, get back on an even keel, on the right track, then I’ll come back and sing praises among the community of faith.  

It’s as if we believe that church is only for those who have it all together.  Only for those whose lives are neat and ordered and obedient.  And many of us come to church fearful that we will be exposed as the one, the only one in the midst of the congregation, who doesn’t have it all together.  Who isn’t on top of the world.  Who can’t answer that ubiquitous social convention question - “how are you?” - with the usual answer - “doing just fine” - without severe cramping in the crossed fingers hidden behind our backs.  Without risking biting off that tongue in our cheek.  

We want to praise.  We really do.  Even when we don’t realize it, we do.  There is something deep down inside of us, something in the design of our very being that causes us to need to praise, to lift up our hearts to God.  We just don’t think we are worthy of singing God’s praise.  We don’t think God wants to hear our voice.  We’re pretty sure that God would prefer praise sung only by those who have it all together.

Except that we’d be wrong, if that’s what we think.  We’d be wrong.

Psalm 22:25-31  From you comes my praise in the great congregation; my vows I will pay before those who fear him.  26 The poor shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the LORD. May your hearts live forever!  27 All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the LORD; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him.  28 For dominion belongs to the LORD, and he rules over the nations.  29 To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him.  30 Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord,  31 and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it. 

“From you comes my praise.”  Did you notice that?  From you, from God comes the praise from my lips.  God is not just the object of praise, God is the source of praise.  It isn't our goodness that allows us to praise, it is God’s.  

This is Psalm 22.  Let that sink in for a moment.  Why?  Well, psalm 22 is the psalm we know well, except we know the other end.  We know the beginning of psalm 22.  We know it because it was the psalm Jesus remembered as he was dying on the cross: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.”  Go back.  Take a look at the rest of the psalm.  By just looking at this end of it we are missing the depth of what is going on here.  We are missing the pathos of the human condition.  We are missing the struggle we all face if not regularly, then at some point.  At some point in our lives we will feel abandoned, we will feel cut off, we’ll feel like a worm as the psalmist does in verse six.  We’ll feel like our bones are all out of joint, like our hearts are melting like wax, like in verse fourteen.  Like dogs are snapping at our heels, like the sword is about to descend, like our hands and feet aren’t working any more.  

God back and read the rest of Psalm 22.  It is a tragic tale.  Except that interwoven throughout, not just here at the end, but throughout the psalm there is the call to praise, the call to faith, the call to trust in the goodness of God.  How do you trust in God when your bones are out of joint?  How do you praise when your heart is melted like wax and the enemies are dividing your clothes like spoils of war?  

Go home.  That’s how.  Home where you belong.  Where you are a part, where you pledged your faith, where you made your vow to belong.  “From you comes my praise in the great congregation; my vows I will pay before those who fear him.”  In the great congregation we can find our voice again.  And great doesn’t just mean big, it means important.  It means the group that matters, the people of God, who have helped to shape you, who have made you who you are, who you couldn't do without if you ever stopped to think about it.  From you, From God comes the praise, come the words that I need to sing, even through melty hearts and dislocated joints, from you comes my praise, in the midst of the great congregation.  In the midst of the people who have decided to love me even though I’m not all that loveable.  In the midst of the people who build me up even when I am coming apart. In the midst of the people I have loved back to wholeness even as they have loved me back into wholeness more times than any of us want to count.  From you come my praise in the midst of the great congregation.

Thanks be to God!  And because of that knowledge and not because the prayer was answered.... Take a look throughout all of psalm 22 and tell me where it all got better.  Show me where it says, it was bad for a while there but I’m better now.  It says God heard me, which could mean healing has happened, or it could mean that his faith was shored up enough to believe that even thought bones are still dislocated and hearts are in puddles in the midst of bony chests, God has not forsaken after all.  All this praise may be coming from a sick bed, or a wooden cross.  But a sick bed surrounded by the congregation, the great congregation of the people of God.  

And because of that knowledge, because of that presence, not because of a resolution we might hope for, vows must be paid.  No, wait, vows will be paid.  What vows?  Where did vows come into the picture?  The vows of belonging, the vows of covenant and commitment.  I will uphold the church with my prayers, my presence, my gifts, my service and my witness.  Those vows.  Remember?

This is a stewardship emphasis remember.  An out of season stewardship emphasis, reminding us whose we are.  And Psalm 22 gives us the motivation for giving back to God, praise.  Praise that comes from faithfulness.  Faithful praise because of the relationships formed in the body of Christ.  Faithful Covenantal Praise that comes out in our words and in our deeds.  In our fulfilling of our vows.

Because those vows are fulfilled, the whole world changes.  That’s what the psalmist promises.  The result of our faithful fulfilling of our vows, giving to God and church, the poor are fed, those who seek can find, the word goes out to the ends of the earth.  Our fulfilling of our vows spreads out geographically until the whole world knows and joins us in praise.  But wait, there’s more!  Our fulfilling of vows spreads out temporally as well.  Those who have gone before join us in praise, those who are yet to come will join us in praise.  All time, all space, all belong to the God we praise in the midst of the great congregation.  

It staggers the imagination, frankly.  That my giving just might help change the world.  Just might help someone else, whose bones are out of joint and whose heart is melted like wax, stand in the midst of our great congregation and sing the praises God gives them to praise.  Because I was, because you were faithful.  Wow.  And when I have gone down to the dust, the praise will still ring in this congregation, because we were faithful.  Wow.  

Praise be to God.

Shalom,

Derek

The Doors Were Shut

Dora the Upstairs Cat is often on the wrong side of the door.  Doesn't matter which door.  Doesn't matter which side.  It’s the wrong side.  And she complains mightily about it.  Sometimes by sitting and yelling at the people who just don’t seem to get it.  Sometimes by banging on the door, persistently, loudly, unflinchingly, she just keeps banging.  Could be that I’m in the shower and inadvertently left her inside the bathroom with me and she wants out.  Or that I am in the shower and inadvertently left her outside the bathroom and she wants in.  Could be that it’s the middle of the night and she wants somewhere where she isn't but there is a door in the way.  She can sit and bang on the door until it either opens on its own, or someone gets up and lets her out.  Or in.  Or maybe she changes her mind and says “since you’re up...”

One of the interesting features of the house we are leaving is that the bedroom closets have automatic lights.  You open the door and the light comes on.  Dora can bang long enough to open these doors and a shaft of light comes stabbing into the darkness of the bedroom and someone has to get up. Usually me because someone manages to sleep through lights being turned on in the middle of the night.  Someone.  

Anyway, my point is cats hate doors.  They always seem to be in their way.  They don’t seem to take the hint that a closed door means no access.  Stay out.  Be content with where you are.  A closed door means no admittance.  Unless you are a cat.  Or Jesus.  

Jesus seems to have an almost feline dislike of doors.  He won’t let them keep him in when he wants out.  Nor will they keep him out when he wants in.

John 20:19-31  When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you."  20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.  21 Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you."  22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit.  23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained."  24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  25 So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."  26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you."  27 Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe."  28 Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!"  29 Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."  30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book.  31 But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. 

You know what?  There is simply way too much stuff in these verses to adequately deal with it all in this space.  Way, way too much.  In church we are looking at Thomas, and we just might come back to him here in a moment, but for the most part, I’ll skip over the usual.  There is also the whole Pentecost theme that appears here in John’s Gospel.  “He breathed on them and said ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” Very different from Luke’s version that appears in Acts, with tongues of fire and mighty winds.  A quieter, gentler Pentecost perhaps.  But we’ll leave that one too.

Then there is that pesky “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”  Yeah like that hasn't caused centuries of abuse of power from the hierarchy of the church, or caused self-righteous Christians to think it is their job to be judgmental and to point out specks while conveniently overlooking logs.  But hey, he said we have the power to determine what sins are the bad ones and which ones don’t really matter all that much.  Right?  Well, no.  But we’ll have to return to this one at another time.  Sorry.

And then there are those curious verses at the end there that seem to open the door to all kinds of stuff.  Like maybe is it possible that Jesus kinda sorta wanted us to think for ourselves sometime? That we've got to take his life and teaching and apply it to stuff he never took the time to tell us about?  Or John and the others didn't take the time to write down what he said about hedge funds and immigration?  You think, maybe?  Well, someday we’ll come back and cover that.

But right now what occupies my thinking are those doors.  On Easter evening they were locked. Locked for fear, John says.  But locked up tight.  The disciples were locked in, behind doors, piles of furniture too perhaps.  Blinds drawn on the windows and nobody moved much in case someone below heard the footsteps on the floors.  They were huddled, hunkered down.  Behind the doors.  And who was there?  Well, Thomas wasn't, we learn that later.  So, what’s that leave now ten?  Maybe ten. But maybe more.  See, in the Gospel of John, the word disciples is a slippery term.  It’s not just the twelve, usually. John rarely just talks about the twelve.  He’s interested in a bigger crowd.  The twelve, now ten, plus the women who were there.  And maybe others.  At one point Jesus sent out seventy.  Maybe there were seventy, or sixty-eight, in that room, crowded in, avoiding eye contact. Which would be hard if there were seventy.  Maybe less, maybe ten, maybe a few more.  

And if the women were there, did they try again?  “Look,” Mary of Magdela says, “It was Him.  He’s alive!”  Yeah, sure Mary.  Maybe your demons have come back?  Just sayin.  And didn't you think it was the gardener?  You have no idea who it was, do you?  It was early, you were up all night, none of us slept.  You must have been dreaming. “No, it was Him.  He said my name.  When he said my name I knew it was Him.”  She crossed her arms and turned to Peter and John who were trying really hard to be interested in the pattern of the rushes thrown on the floor.  “You were there.  You came running in like your shorts were on fire and dashed into the tomb.  What did you see?”  The silence hung in the air behind the locked doors.  Nothing.  They saw nothing.  Not what they expected to see. Not what they hoped to see.  They saw nothing.  Now they sit, comforted by nothing, afraid of everything, hoping locked doors would save them.

They didn't.  Jesus came.  That’s what John says.  The doors were locked and Jesus came.  How did he come?  Dunno.  John doesn't say, he just came.  “Peace be with you.”  He had to say it twice because the first time they didn't hear it for fear of ... Him.  He sighed (must have) and showed his hands and his side.  Then, John says, then they rejoiced.  How long did he stand out there banging on the doors hoping someone would let him in?  Jesus who had earlier that morning burst through a stone door, now appeared through a locked door and said “Pace be with you.”  

Then Thomas shows up.  How much later?  We don’t know.  Later.  They tell him, those almost seventy or maybe ten disciples tell him, “we saw the Lord.”  Yeah, sure, says Thomas.  Ah, Thomas, why did you doubt?  Because the doors were still locked.  “We saw the Lord!  He showed us his wounds be which we were healed.  He offered us peace.  He gave us power, he sent us out to forgive!”  Yeah?  The doors are still locked.  A week later, the doors are still locked.  The truth is none of them believed.  They saw but they didn't believe.  Not enough to open a door anyway.  Not enough to venture out. 

But a week later the doors were shut, but Jesus came anyway.  With a sigh, undoubtedly, but He came.  He came to show them what they needed to see.  Just like he shows all of us what we need to see.  Remember?  That’s the Easter proclamation.  He is going before you, going back home, going to familiar territory, going where you belong, where you live and work, and there you will see him. That’s the promise.  That’s what they were offered, what we are offered.  We will see him.  

But wait.  What about that “blessed are those who haven’t seen and yet believe”?  What about that? Well, I think he threw that in because he heard the locks turning on our own doors.  And he wanted to pry them open.  Maybe coming through locked doors was strenuous, maybe it was painful.  Or maybe he wanted to spare us the false security of locked doors and just be open enough to see Him in our midst, showing us his wounds, the brokenness of this world, the suffering of Christ on the backs and sides and hands of our brothers and sisters.  But also to see the grace and the forgiveness that is poured out even on us just when we’re sure we won’t get it, just when we are afraid we can’t have it and we turn to push the doors closed against a world too cruel to live in, too empty of Him. Or so we think.  But he’s there.  

He doesn't like your locked doors.  Like a cat on the wrong side we try to shut Him out.  But he’s persistent, he keeps banging, he keeps coming through.  And in our darkness he appears, with a shaft of light that’s almost blinding.  And he says Peace be with you.

Shalom, 

Derek 

Who's Who in Easter

I was so excited the first time I received notification that I was going to be included in Who’s Who.  I mean, what an honor, right.  Who’s Who, for heavens sake.  It meant recognition and notoriety and ... well, good stuff.  I read the fine print and was getting ready to write the check for a copy of the book, and a check for the framed notice and a check for ... it was the third charge that tipped me off.  I’m slow, but not that slow.  It wasn't an honor, it was a scam.  A moneymaking enterprise that played off everyone’s inner desire to be someone, to be recognized.  You got listed in this book that no one would see unless they had shelled out the cash to get one of their own.  Your achievements were the ones you listed in the form provided.  It was a way of tooting your own horn and paying someone for the privilege of doing so. 

We all want to be remembered.  To accomplish some great feat, or create some great work of art, we want to perform a rescue, or invent a cure.  We want our lives to have meaning, and that is only when we accomplish something.  Only?  Well, intellectually we know better.  But our guts tell us that we are defined by what we do.  Who we are is what we do.  Right?

No.  Not right.  At least not according to Easter.  At least as Mark portrays it.  Take a look.

Mark 16:1-8  When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him.  2 And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.  3 They had been saying to one another, "Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?"  4 When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.  5 As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.  6 But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.  7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you."  8 So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. 

Most scholars agree that this is the original ending of the Gospel of Mark.  Verses nine through twenty were added later, on at least two different times.  Probably because the church was uncomfortable with the original ending.  “And they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”  Kind of a damp squib of an ending.  A what?  Is that an idiom used over here.  I get confused.  A damp squib.  It means a dud, a firework that didn't go off.  A sputter instead of an explosion.  

You’d think resurrection calls for fireworks at the end, wouldn't you.  A big, wide-screen, special effects kind of moment.  Filmed in “Vista-Vision!”  In “Technicolor!”  In Hi Def, three D!  But no, we get “they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

And who are the they in this case?  Well, the women, who went to do something.  At least they tried to do something, to care for the dead body.  To anoint him, Mark says, forgetting that he was already anointed back in chapter fourteen, by an unnamed woman with an alabaster jar.  Maybe it was Mary.  Mary Magdalene, or Mary who was Martha’s sister or some other Mary, the mother of James, perhaps, Jesus mom maybe.  There were just too many Marys.  Mark couldn't keep them straight, no wonder we get confused.  And Salome?  Wasn't that Herod’s daughter who danced a dance that won her a prophet’s head?  Surely not.  Another Salome.  Thought to be the mother of James and John, Zebedee’s wife.  Mother of James?  Isn't that Mary?  Or is it a different James?  Arghh.  We need a cast list.  We don’t know who’s who in this story.  We know what they did.  Or didn't do.  Or tried to do.  Don’t we?

They intended to anoint the body, to prepare it for burial.  The practice was actually to aid in the decay process.  The spices were to help with the smell, but also to accelerate the decomposition.  Bodies would like in the tomb for a year and then the family would go and collect the bones and put them in a box, called an ossuary, that would be stored in a different section of the tomb.  So, when Joseph loaned his family’s tomb to the family of Jesus, it was only supposed to be temporary.  But little did he know.

They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  It was what they didn't do that Mark was interested in.  They didn't anoint the body because there wasn't a body to anoint.  So they were given a different task by the young man in the tomb.  A young man who seems eerily familiar.  A young man in a garden tomb reminds us of a young man in a garden of violence and betrayal.  And yet that young man ran off without clothes and this young man was dressed in white.  That young man was scared to death, this young man was filled the confidence of life eternal.  He’s not here, look see that empty spot?  He has been raised.  He wasn't interested in tombs, but in what came out of one.  Or rather who came out of one.  Who’s who?  We aren't introduced to this young man, because it isn't his story.  He’s a pointer, a reference to another.  He’s not here.

But go and tell his disciples.  A new mission was given.  They came with one task and they didn't do it.  They couldn't.  It was no longer necessary.  The things of death are no longer necessary.  The attitude of death, the victory of death was no longer.  So, a new mission was needed.  Go and tell his disciples, and Peter.  

And Peter?  They had to blink at that.  The last we saw Peter he was collapsed, sobbing in the courtyard of the high priest’s house.  The last we heard from Peter he was spouting curses and swearing oaths that he didn't have clue who this Jesus person was.  The last we knew of Peter he was condemned by a rooster crowing in the dawn of a terrible day.  The worst day of Peter’s life.  And he knew he had failed.  Failed to keep his word, that he had so vehemently declared mere hours before that damnable rooster.  “Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you!”  And die he did.  Inside, in his soul, in his sense of self.  Who’s who Peter?  Who’s you?  Nobody, that’s who.

But now, “go and tell his disciples, and Peter.”  What did Peter do to deserve this?  What did he do? Nothing.  What did the women do?  The said nothing to anyone for they were afraid.  Nothing.  What did any of them do to make this Easter moment happen?  Nothing.  What do any of us do to deserve Easter?  Nothing.  What do we do to receive Easter?  Nothing.  Who’s Who in the Easter story?  Not them.  Not us.  Only Him.

And Mark doesn't even have Jesus appear in this original ending.  Jesus doesn't pop up from behind a rolled away stone and shout surprise.  He doesn't encounter anyone wander in the garden.  It is just a presence.  No, a Presence.  He’s not here.  He will meet you though.  He will meet you where you live.  He’s already there, ahead of you.  Get moving.  Get going, or Easter will go on without you.  

That’s what we do on Easter.  We run to catch up.  We run to find the one who has gone before us.  The one who was raised for us.  What did we do to make Easter happen?  Nothing.  What did we do to deserve such a gift, such a moment?  Nothing.  What can we do to stop it or to make it better?  Nothing.  Easter is.  Easter was and is and always will be.  And we did nothing.  

That’s Mark’s way of telling the story.  It isn't our story.  It isn't our doing.  It is God.  God is the actor.  God is the doer.  We barely appear.  And those who represent us doing do so well in their doing either.  It isn't a human story, it’s a divine one.  It isn't our story.  And yet.  And yet.

Who’s who in Easter?  Why we are.  We are someone because of Easter.  We are who we are not by our doing but by the grace of God.  We are made new, not because we earned it, but because God gives it.  We have hope, not because we are strong enough to work it, or respond to it, or claim it.  We have hope because God gives it.  And because the resurrected Jesus leads us home.  You will see him, he told you that, remember?  You will see him.  And in seeing him you will know who’s who.

Shalom,

Derek