"Evensong and Tricycles" Festival of Homiletics 2018, Washington D.C.

Our nation's capital is the venue for this year's Festival of Homiletics.  So of course the theme would  be "Preaching and Politics."  It's a treacherous road to walk, full of pitfalls and quagmires on every side.  And yet, how can we not?  Politics - not the partisan muddle that we find in this place all too often, but the ordering of the polis - the people and how their lives are lived out day by day - is the subject of preaching.  It's about connecting and opening eyes and revealing the relevance of Word and life.  Nothing is more political than the gospel.  Nothing is more needed in a world of bad politics than preaching that reveals truth and considers grace.  

At least that's how I understand it.  I'll let you know what I hear this week.  We began tonight in the National Cathedral.  We were welcomed by the Dean of the Cathedral and the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, welcomed to "your cathedral" they said.  The nation's church.  A beautiful place, still recovering from the earthquake of 2011.

It is awe inspiring.  The evening's events began with Evensong.  The choir was made up of young women from the Cathedral School and they sang like angels, filling the large Gothic nave with voices raised in praise to our God.  The sound reverberated, giving the impression that heaven was echoing the praise, adding to, enhancing what we mere mortals could provide.

There is no sermon in Evensong, just prayers and scripture and singing, choral and congregational.  Perhaps an odd beginning to a preaching conference, but appropriate nonetheless.  All of us preachers need to be quiet before we speak.  We need to listen, we need to be lifted, we need to be reminded that the church doesn't rise and fall on our words, but on the Word of God.  So we listened.  And we sang.  And a little bit of the Spirit crept back into our souls.  Well, mine anyway.

Then we began worship as a Festival.  Another procession, this time no choir, but lots of celebrants, and preachers and liturgists.  And three Cathedral school youth, carrying the candles of the light of the Spirit and the cross that led the procession.  I sat on the aisle and saw them pass.  Their faces were serious, almost grim.  Perhaps drilled in the proper respect to the august occasion.  Perhaps burdened by the weight of the objects they carried, candles and holders taller than that little girls carrying them, and a processional cross that seemed to weigh more than the slightly taller young man who carried it confidently.  Or perhaps they had a sense of the need of the world that had gathered there that evening.  1700 preachers from many mainline denominations across the country and the world, had gathered to listen, to learn, to be inspired, transformed, healed perhaps.  There were more casts that I remembered seeing in previous years.  Crutches and canes, walkers and wheelchairs; we are the wounded preachers, it seems.  Some of our wounds weren't so visible.  But deep hurts, tender hearts bruised by the rough and tumble of leading the church, vocations stretched to their limit and even beyond; all in need of healing.  All in need of encouragement.  All needing convinced that we can climb into that pulpit, the one we left behind to come here, one more time.  

The preacher was Karoline Lewis, Associate Professor of Biblical Preaching and Chair of Homiletics at Luther Seminary in Minneapolis, and one of the sponsors of the event.  Maybe that's how you get to go first, run the thing!  She preached on "The Politics of Pneuma."  The Spirit is political, she argued, no sense trying to keep her out.  The Spirit goes where it wills and we would do well to follow, to listen, to speak where the Spirit speaks.  A risky thing, letting the Spirit lead us.  Who knows where we might end up?  Who knows who we might end up including?  Who knows what we might become?  

Dr Lewis was accompanied by a Gospel trio.  Striking black women who sang with power and presence, sang with the Spirit.  I love African American gospel singing.  They sang some familiar songs, and some I didn't know.  Accompanied by the powerful gospel piano and the voice from the bench, they filled the room with praise and challenge.  But it sounded different in that vast space.  It didn't lilt like the Cathedral Choir at Evensong, didn't float in the spaces breathlessly.  Instead it rang, like a bell, bouncing off the stone, ringing in our ears.  It had an edge to it, a challenge.  These angels were there to trouble the waters, not soothe them.

We concluded with Communion.  And once again I was reminded that clergy are better at giving instructions than following them.  It was chaotic, to say the least.  It required a little patience for all to be readied for a crowd this size.  And patience was in short supply.  Lines formed and then unformed, some went one way then rushed back the other way, stood and then sat and then stood again, as if waiting for a bus coming through the traffic to bring them home.  I sighed and shook my head, wondering why we have such trouble sitting and waiting.  Why we want to press into the flow and not let it come to us.  But the elements waited, were made ready and all were eventually served.  There was grace enough for all.

The evening concluded with a lecture from Richard Rohr, Franciscan Priest and founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation in New Mexico.  And a favorite of some in my congregation at Southport.  He spoke about authority in the grand Episcopal Cathedral in the city of political power for the nation.  But he spoke humbly and with humor and gentleness.  He asked us to reconsider our considerations.  He asked us to think again about what we stand on.  What we say we stand on and what we actually stand on.  He pointed out in the politically confused point in history that saying you stand on the Bible as your foundation doesn't actually mean you've ever read it.  

Father Rohr pointed out that Jesus went out of his way to avoid binary thinking.  Binary thinking - this or that, right or wrong, black or white.  Every time Jesus was cornered and forced to give an answer is it this or is it that, He always found another thing.  Or a way of saying this and that, or neither.  Binary thinking, says Rohr, is the limitation of grace.  He encouraged more contemplative thinking.  

Then he challenged us Wesleyans.  Saying he had great respect for Wesley, considered him something of a mystic.  But chose to ride a three wheeled tricycle instead of a four sided quadrilateral.  What he wanted to leave out was reason.  Reason is what leads to binary thinking.  He would rather lead with experience.  It's what we all do anyway, he claims.  We say we're based on our thinking and deciding, when in fact we go with our experience.  With what we live, what we feel, what we take up in our being.  Let our experience lead the way, but be guided and shaped by scripture and tradition.  That should keep us on track.

I find myself leaning into this way of thinking.  And want to know more about a center of action and contemplation - that sounds fascinating to me.  But I need to think about it some more.  Need to reason?  Maybe.  Or need to live it for a while.  Dwell on it.  Grow with it.  

Lots more to come over the next four days.  I am anxious to experience more.

God's Shalom,

Derek

#Homiletics2018

When You Walk

I’m excited.  I’m excited that it is time for my favorite continuing education event of the year.  On Monday morning I fly out to Washington DC for a week of preaching and preachers.  I know, right?  It’s called the Festival of Homiletics and the event gathers together some of the best preachers and teachers of preaching from the mainline traditions of the Church, along with about eighteen preachers like me from all over the country and the world.  And for a week or most of a week, we worship and we learn and we hear preachers from morning until evening.  Four or five sermons a day, along with three or four lectures on preaching a day.  Can you imagine?  Aren’t you envious of me?  Wouldn’t you like to come along with me and listen to preachers all day long for five days?  

I’ve been going to this event for many years, almost twenty years by now, and I haven’t found very many lay people who think that even sounds interesting, let alone consider for a moment that they would go along.  Maybe one that I can think of.  But most consider it something akin to torture to image listening to sermon after sermon for a whole week.  

To each their own, we say, one person’s meat is another person’s poison.  Yeah, I get that.  The idea of spending an afternoon watching fast cars drive in circles doesn’t really excite me at all.  But this city is pretty stoked about it.   It takes all kinds to make a world.  That’s another thing they say.  We say.  Because it is true.  Because there is so much variety in the world.  So much difference in preference and behavior, in ways of walking through the world.  It’s a wonder that any of us get along, frankly.  Yet we do.  Somewhat.  And we need to more than we do.  We need to be bound up.  We need to be one heart and one mind, as the church was, once upon a time.  

I’m excited because it is Pentecost again.  It is that time where we remember that what we are is not just what we see.  When we are reminded that the real power we have to do anything as the church is not our own power, but God’s power poured out in fire and wind.  And we are reminded that the first thing that happened was that bridges were built.  Barriers were overcome.  By the power of the Spirit, on Pentecost, the followers of Jesus spoke in other languages.  They could have said, no, if they are coming here, these foreigners, they have to learn our language, they have to be like us, speak like us.  But they didn’t.  They spoke to them in their language, crossed that barrier of separation and told everyone they could the good news that had saved them from despair.  

It’s about a church coming together.  Recognizing that they can only be the church if they are together.  That their doubt and fear and despair had driven them apart.  But when they came together, that’s when the Spirit came.  That’s when the power came.  That’s when the hope came.  Despite their differences they came together.  

I’m excited because this Pentecost we will welcome some new members to the church here at Southport.  A group of young people have walked a path of learning and growing that we call Confirmation, and on Pentecost Sunday will say yes to the church.  They’ve already said yes to Jesus, and to the faith.  Some of them years ago.  But now they will say yes to the church.  They will acknowledge that if they are going to walk in the way of faith it will be better to do it together.  

Because not every step will be an easy or a certain one.  Not every turning will be a helpful one.  We need each other if we’re going to walk in the way.  We need the family, the body of Christ.  If only to remind us that there is One who walks with us always.

Isaiah 43:1-3a  But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 3 For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. 

This has always been a favorite passage of mine.  Favorite from Isaiah, certainly, favorite of the whole Bible.  Partly because it is so brutally honest.  When you pass through the waters, Isaiah says God says, when you walk through fire.  When, you notice, not if.  When.  It’s going to happen.  It is part of life, this wading through the waters of doubt and despair, this plunging into the fires of suffering and sin.  It is just as certain as your next heartbeat, as that breath you just took.  Anyone who tells you that a life of faith is a life of safety and security is lying to you.  Anyone who says Jesus promises a protective bubble around you, health and wealth and prosperity, is not telling you the truth.  

So, what’s the point, you might ask?  And many do ask.  Even those on the inside, those who are walking.  We all ask from time to time.  Why bother?  Why not just make your own way.  You are as likely to be as happy following your own nose as you are trying to keep up with Jesus who insists on walking through some rough neighborhoods and over some dangerous terrain.  So why bother?  The young people in the Confirmation class asked that.  Why bother with the church?  Why bother standing up and making these vows, these promises?  

I’m excited because we’re all going to say yes again on Pentecost.  We are engaging in a renewal of baptism ritual all morning long.  A chance to say yes to walking in the way of Christ, the way of faith, the way of grace.  We are remembering that we made a choice at some point in our journey.  Maybe a long time ago.  And maybe someone made it first for us, but then we said yes, ok, I’ll claim those promises, I’ll confirm those vows.  It’s now my choice, my decision.  I’m going to walk through the waters, I’m going to stride through the fires.  We may forget from time to time. We may want to follow our own way, our own desires, our own laziness or sinfulness or just stubbornness.  Or we may think we’ve got a better idea, one of safety for me and those like me, those I can love easily.  And we forget that we said that we wanted to walk differently.  We wanted to walk hand in hand with the One who loves us more than we can even imagine.  

We forget.  So we’re remembering.  On Pentecost.  Wind and fire, water and covenant.  We’re remembering together.  And that’s precisely what we’re remembering.  That we’re together.  That for us, it isn’t all about me.  It isn’t just what I want, what I earn, what I deserve.  Because when we decide to live by that accounting, we will come up a lot more short than we realized.  What we deserve, what we’ve earned, is a lot less than we imagine.  Our eyes are truly bigger than our stomachs.  Our glorification of self is bigger than our reality, than our influence.  Until we decide and remember we decided to walk in the way of the One who was glorified in His suffering, in His surrender, in His dying, and by His living we are made more than we could possibly be on our own.  

And no one is going to remind us of that but the community of faith, who knows us in our weakness and loves us in our hope.  No one is going to keep us alive in faith than the partners on the journey who remind us who we are.  And that no matter how deep the water, no matter how hot the fire, we come through because we are surrounded by those who have walked this way before and are walking it again with us.  That’s why we bother.  Not to protect us from this life, but to help us experience it with hope.  Not to shield us from pain but to help us let that pain transform us into something more, something better, something more alive.  

I’m going to the Festival by myself, but not alone.  There will be many others there, most of whom I don’t know but yet am indebted to.  And I get to extend the event this year and go spend a few days with my daughter Maddie in Boston, that’s a bonus I give thanks for.  But more than that, I go with you.  The family of God.  Not to drag you along to something that just might bore you to tears.  But to carry you in my head and my heart as I continually ask what can I share from all of this that just might make a difference to my brothers and sisters at Southport and beyond?   How can I walk with them through their waters because they have walked with me in mine?   I’m excited about finding answers to those questions.

Shalom,  

Derek

Fitting for the Saints

Landmine Day.  No, not an official event on the calendar.  Rather it is a reference to the delicacy of this day.  An indicator of how it just might go wrong.  Mother’s Day.  A day worthy of honor, certainly.  A subject worthy of recognition.  More than Shrimp Scampi Day, at least as much as Nurses Day, or any other day of honoring. Yet, a difficult day, nonetheless.  What might start out as an attempt to give honor ends up with hurt feelings. And the potential for hurt seems so vast. Not out of maliciousness but out of unknowing.  You didn’t know how your story of a mother’s selfless love rubbed against the one who lived under the thumb of a domineering mother, or endured a lifetime of neglect from a mother ill-equipped for the task thrust upon them.  You didn’t know.  You didn’t know how your little story of how becoming a mother changes a person inside and out and makes you a little more aware of the power and presence of God broke the heart of the woman who ached to have a child and yet seemed unable to the increasing frustration of the family as whole and stretched the marriage to the breaking point.  You didn’t know.  

Some might think this is just “political correctness” run amok.  That people shouldn’t be so sensitive.  Can’t we just recognize the institution of motherhood without all the tears and hurt feelings?  Probably not.  These are deep matters, things that strike at the very core of our being.  Mother, like father, isn’t something we do.  It is something that we are.  It is the essence of the self.  Or, it is the primal need we are each born with, created with a need to be nurtured, cared for.  Oh, I know we value the rugged individualist who carves his or her own path through the world, not dependant on anyone for their sense of worth and value.  But, frankly, it’s a lie we’ve bought into.  That we don’t need anyone.  That we don’t need to be mothered.  To be tended, supported, loved.  That’s not a flaw to need this, it is part of the design.  It is how we are made.  

And God wants to be our Mother.  Wants to be the One who comforts us in our distress, who encourages us when the winds of opposition blow so hard we can barely move, who directs us when the clouds of doubt obscure our path.  God wants to be the One who takes us by that hand and teaches us how to walk.  Hosea told us that.  Poor Hosea who was asked to live an impossible love so that he could bear witness to a mothering God who won’t give up on us no matter what we do, where we go, who we hurt.  And the One we hurt is usually the One who loves us most. 

God is our mother, care-giver, nurturer.  This is a biblical image as meaningful as the father image.  And in such an overwhelmingly patriarchal culture, it is even more significant that God as mother images appear at all, let alone with such poignancy and power.  We struggle with the language sometimes, assigning gender roles to God, but it is our limitation, not God’s.  It is our hesitation, not God’s.  Our inability to see God at work in the best of us regardless of gender.

See, that’s how this works, this nurturing thing, this caring for thing, this mothering thing.  It’s God, the model, the vision, the hope.  But since we have trouble dealing with things beyond our reach we need intermediaries.  We need those who stand in the place of God.  Not limiting access, but opening doors.  Not gatekeepers, but windows into a deeper reality, a higher plane.  God designed life in such a way that we have these contacts.  We have access to the divine through the community that surrounds us.   We find our way into the Presence of God by staying close to the people God puts in our path.  

Romans 16:1-16  I commend to you our sister Phoebe, a deacon of the church at Cenchreae, 2 so that you may welcome her in the Lord as is fitting for the saints, and help her in whatever she may require from you, for she has been a benefactor of many and of myself as well. 3 Greet Prisca and Aquila, who work with me in Christ Jesus, 4 and who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I give thanks, but also all the churches of the Gentiles. 5 Greet also the church in their house. Greet my beloved Epaenetus, who was the first convert in Asia for Christ. 6 Greet Mary, who has worked very hard among you. 7 Greet Andronicus and Junia, my relatives who were in prison with me; they are prominent among the apostles, and they were in Christ before I was. 8 Greet Ampliatus, my beloved in the Lord. 9 Greet Urbanus, our co-worker in Christ, and my beloved Stachys. 10 Greet Apelles, who is approved in Christ. Greet those who belong to the family of Aristobulus. 11 Greet my relative Herodion. Greet those in the Lord who belong to the family of Narcissus. 12 Greet those workers in the Lord, Tryphaena and Tryphosa. Greet the beloved Persis, who has worked hard in the Lord. 13 Greet Rufus, chosen in the Lord; and greet his mother-- a mother to me also. 14 Greet Asyncritus, Phlegon, Hermes, Patrobas, Hermas, and the brothers and sisters who are with them. 15 Greet Philologus, Julia, Nereus and his sister, and Olympas, and all the saints who are with them. 16 Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the churches of Christ greet you.

What an odd passage to read on Mother’s Day.  Or any day for that matter.  It’s a list.  Just a list.  We’re not going to get a lot of inspiration from the list.  From this list.  Or any list, come to think of it.  We’ll be preaching from grocery lists next.  From inventories.  From the table of contents, or the index at the back of the book.  What’s with the list?

I like it.  I suspect Paul does too.  He likes it because it is his.  His list, his memories, his family.  Did you hear it?  In the recitation of the unpronounceable?  Tucked away in the funny names, and the formal mission oriented language?  There is a heart here.  Paul’s heart.  Which is surprisingly like our hearts. 

Of course I honed in on verse thirteen.  Rufus.  Greet Rufus.  Chosen in the Lord.  Chosen for what?  We don’t know.  Chosen how?  We don’t know that either.  Did Rufus know he was chosen?  Was this the big reveal?  Did Rufus read this and slap his forehead?  OMG, he says under his breath, Chosen?  I was chosen?  For what?  But, if Rufus was surprised there was one who wasn’t.  His mom.  Right there behind him.  She knew a good thing when she saw it, and her Rufus was a good thing.  She was his cheerleader, his main support, the one who believed in him when he forgot how to believe in himself.  She knew he was chosen before any Tarsus born Saint came along to name him as chosen.  She knew.  But she also knew who would help her boy find himself.  So when Paul showed up, looking like something the cat dragged in because he’d been running for his life, she made up the guest bed and showed him where the towels were and what time breakfast was served, and if he knew what was good for him, he’d wash his hands before he sat down at her table.  Paul says, with a smile, she was a mother to me also.  Got his elbows off the table and told him to sit up straight and he wasn’t going out preaching wearing that, was he?  And yeah, ok, he could raise the dead, but maybe he should cut his sermons short anyway, so another kid doesn’t doze off and tumble out a window.  

I don’t really know what she did to get this mention in Paul’s magnum opus.  No one knows.  Except Paul, and Rufus and his mom.  And that’s the story behind all the names in this list.  Somehow they made a connection.  Epaenetus, he was the first one who thought maybe Paul had something to say, not just a crazy preacher with an odd accent, but a Word of life somehow.  He thanks the workers, Mary and Persis and Urbanus, and Prisca and Aquila who not only worked but went out on a limb with him, strayed into the wrong part of town because folks there needed Jesus too.  Oh, and Tryphaena and Tryphosa, workers in the Lord, Paul says.  They have to be twins, with names like that.  And you know Paul kept getting them mixed up; called Tryphaena Tryphosa more than once and while anyone else made them mad when they couldn’t see that in their own eyes they were as different as night and day; when Paul did it it only made them giggle and shake their heads at him.  Then he greets his cell mates, Andronicas and Junias, the ones who helped him with the third verse of the hymns he tried to sing when they were locked away in the dark.

There are two he doesn’t greet directly, but greets their family.  Greet the family of, he says, Aristobulus and Narcissus.  Maybe they were traveling, and Paul wanted to thank their families.  Or maybe they had died, gone ahead into the kingdom, and Paul wanted to tell them he remembered them, they were part of the family, numbered among the saints.  That they too, through their loved ones, were windows into the grace of God.  All these windows that Paul mentions and the ones you’re thinking of right now and the ones on my list they don’t replace God in my life, but they help make God knowable.  The invitation this holiday is to give thanks to all those who have nurtured us, all those who have mothered us, all those who have helped us know God our Mother.  Happy Mother’s Day. 

Shalom,  

Derek 

The Leaves of the Tree

One of the most definitive sounds of spring assailed our ears early this morning - lawnmowers.  Everywhere, everyone.  Some have been mowing for a while now, but most have waited.  But the recent warmth and the rains that fell last week made even the most reluctant finally decide to break out the mower and get to the work of taming the unruly lawn.  And getting an early start is the prudent approach, despite those who might have thought sleeping in on a Saturday was a precious gift.  Serious sleepers could pull the covers over their heads and ignore the drone of the neighborhood.  But it was inevitable, persistent.  First one a block away or more, then another, an antiphonal sound from a perpendicular street, then more, a different pitch, more insistent, nearer then farther.  Soon it was a chorus, a lawn maintenance choir singing full-throated praises to the green of spring.  

Like any volunteer chorus, there is a pull to join in, to get up and add your voice to the choir.  Our lawn mower sleeps in on Saturday though, but he’ll get to it, eventually.  Maybe a solo, an aria to signal the second movement of singers, those who wait until later, until the grass has awakened to the percussion of the symphony of spring.  Some of this second wave are the sleepers, but some are those who have to prepare the lawn for mowing.  Raking last season’s coat from the edges and the gardens.  We live in a wooded older neighborhood, with trees hemming us in on every side.  As the grass grows green and lush and tall, so too the trees clothe themselves in the beauty of the new season.  The old brown leftovers from a colorful fall are replaced by the fresh green foliage of spring.  

Leaves.  If mowers are the unmistakable sound of spring in our communities, then leaves are the sight that tells us it is here at last.  Here is fullness, here to stay.  The trees fill out and muffle the sound of the interstate down the hill, and the very mowers singing this Sabbath morning, making it a sweet reminder of spring rather than the irritation of suburbia. The leaves on the trees convince us that we live in nature not in a human construct of concrete and asphalt.  The old leaves are bagged up and carted away or mulched into the ground to feed the next generation of grass and weeds of various kinds.  They are sustenance for what is to come.  The foundation for what will grow and thrive and then feed what follows.  

There is something of the work of creation around us today.  Indeed it is around every day, but we manage to ignore it most of the time.  We are more focused on our own creation, our own efforts, than on the workings of what God has put into place.  But some days it just seems to leap to our attention and demand that we take notice, demand that we remember we are but a part of all God has put into place, a cog in the machinery of creation, a cell in the organism that is our cosmos.  And rather than grumbling that it isn’t all about us, that we aren’t the center of all that we see and all that we know, we can instead rejoice that we were given the great privilege of partnering with the Creator of all that is in building the Kingdom, the true face of Creation.  We can help realize what God intended in how we choose to live, in what we choose to offer, in the way we walk through this world and this life.  We don’t have to accept what is, what has come to be because of sin and brokenness, because of greed and suffering.  We can claim something else as definitive. We can reject walls and build bridges.  We can turn away from oppressing, from hating, from wounding and killing and embrace healing.  God’s kingdom, God’s reign, God’s realm is about healing.  God wills healing and wholeness always.  Always.

Rev. 21:22-22:2 I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. 23 And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. 24 The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. 25 Its gates will never be shut by day-- and there will be no night there. 26 People will bring into it the glory and the honor of the nations. 27 But nothing unclean will enter it, nor anyone who practices abomination or falsehood, but only those who are written in the Lamb's book of life.  22:1 Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb 2 through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.

Revelation: that most misunderstood, terrifyingly misused manifesto of God’s sovereignty.  We’ll tackle the whole at another time (Join us this summer for our “Meet the Bible” series beginning May 31st and June 3).  But for now we take a look at the final statement.  The final image, the description of all that is right, all that will be right with what God has made.  I just took a snippet of that image for this message.  Just a glimpse around the corner of what is coming.  

And what we see is light.  Light and life.  That’s what marks the Kingdom of God.  Light of such a power and presence that the lights of this world no longer are needed.  There’s no temple in the city of heaven, notice that?  The temple, the churches, the place of worship and of faith that have been the only light in a dark and distant time are no longer needed.  Because light permeates the place.  Light is everywhere and everyone.  You don’t have to seek God, God is among us, God is in us.  We don’t have to point out God, God is the air that we breathe in heaven.  We don’t have to bow to remember the light, we are lifted up by the light.  

So, if there is no temple, no place of worship, then will we not worship in heaven?   Of course we will worship!  Worship will be our main mode of existence.  The difference is there won’t be a place and a time for worship, because life will be worship.  Living and breathing and moving and speaking will be worship.  And any earthly thing that we once thought worthy of worship, like position and power and wealth and accomplishment will pale in that light, the light that encompasses all.  And we will worship not the human things any of us have done, but the divine spark that dwells in each and all of us, in all of creation.  And that which will inevitably seek to pull us away from that light will not find a place in the city of God.  We will live in, we will be beings of light.  The light we are now but cannot see because of the smudge of sin that clouds our vision.  But creation waits for the revealing of the children of light.  We will see it.  We will live in it.  God will be among us and in us and around us.  In the light.

And we will be alive.  That’s the other part of this vision.  Life.  The Evangelist is shown a river.  Because rivers are alive.  They run, they flow, they speak, babbling words of praise as they run from headwaters to delta.  A river that is life.  Because the kingdom is a place of life, a place alive.  A river running down the street.  Or maybe, the river was the street.  The means of locomotion, of transportation, from one end of the kingdom to the other.  We will move by life, travel by life, and live not far from life for eternity. 

The river isn’t the only representation of life, however.  There is the tree.  One tree notice.  Not trees, but tree.  Lots of fruit, twelve kinds of fruit from one tree.  Fruit that feeds and sustains.  Fruit that builds up and creates community  and gives order to life in eternity.  Fruit that is no longer forbidden, but encouraged.  Eat and let your eyes be opened.  Eat and let your life be sustained.  Eat and live in love.  Eat.

But, this isn’t about the river or the tree.  It isn’t about the light or about the fruit.  Surprised?  This is about the leaves.  It’s all about the leaves.  Sunday, May 6th is National Nurses Day.  We’re celebrating healing.  And healers.  We are saying thank you to those who partner with God in helping make our lives in this life more like the life in the next one.  The leaves are for the healing of the nations.  Peacemaking, to be sure.  Building of bridges and burying of hatchets.  But also healing.  Making well, patching open wounds and setting broken bones.  Have you thanked a nurse lately?  They are doing God’s work.  God is about healing.  Always.  Always.  

I know, I know, healing doesn’t always happen.  Actually it does.  It always happens.  But not always in the way we want.  Not always in the way we can see.  But sometimes, thanks be to God, it does.  Maybe it was a seeming miracle, maybe it was just the course of things.  But when healing happens we get a glimpse of eternity.  We get insight into the will of God, the plan of God, the promise of God that we will all be healed one day.  By the leaves.  The leaves of the tree that stands by the water of life.  The leaves that we rake and mulch and gather and give God thanks for are but precursors to those leaves that will heal us.  Remember that as you tend your yard this spring and this fall.  Remember the blessing and the promise.  And the leaves of the tree.

Shalom, 

Derek 

These Are the Creatures

I came home from the memorial service with a load.  It’s not an uncommon thing, really.  To come back from a funeral or memorial service carrying packages, bags, containers of various kinds.  Food, that’s what I’m talking about.  The funeral dinner leftovers.  There was plenty, as usual.  Our church ladies know how to make sure no one goes home hungry.   Well, that and the fact that no one knows how many folks will actually come to a funeral these days.  So a large crowd was prepared for and the small crowd that attended got to take home extras, if they wanted.  And I did.  Well, just being polite you know.  

In a previous church I started a leadership group of laity in the church.  It was a strategic planning group of sorts.  And we couldn’t find a convenient meeting time, so we met early in the morning, before work.  Then we decided that in order to make sure everyone attended we needed to fix breakfast.  So, the members took turns preparing these wonderful breakfasts to aid our study and thinking together, and to get a good start on the day.  One day I was offered some leftovers to take home to the family.  Then when I reported how much the kids loved that special breakfast, the habit became for the group to always prepare enough for me to take home.  My kids were in early elementary then.  It was the one day we didn’t have to struggle to get them out of bed and ready for school.  They looked forward to those great breakfasts provided by their church family.

It’s a family thing to do, to gather to eat.  Bring folks in from far and wide, the ones you don’t see every day, and to bring the food they are famous for.  Grandma’s green bean casserole, Aunt Suzi’s seven layer salad, Uncle Dave’s smoked brisket, you know.  You have your list.  The foods you only got when the family got together.  The recipes that were guarded like gold in Fort Knox, secrets passed down only to the favorite grandchild and only when they were ready to respect it.  

One of the most important parts of a memorial service is the meal afterwards.  It is the time to sit and be together, to weep and to laugh in equal measure, because that is how we grieve.  At least how we do it together.  And sitting around a table, eating food that someone else prepared feels like a blessing on a difficult day.  Feels like a gift given when something precious has been taken away.  I have often said that the women who prepare and serve and clean up the funeral dinner do more pastoral care in that afternoon than I do a week’s time.  

Eating together is a declaration that life goes on.  That there is such a thing as eternity.  That while the void is real, the loss is real in this world, life is bigger than this world, bigger than our eyes can see.  Just like that second slice of pie is the result of eyes bigger than our stomachs.  Eating is one of the precious gifts of living, a gift of God.  God didn’t create a dull, bland world of simple sustenance.  God created a colorful world with flavors and tastes and experiences aplenty. So, celebrate, and enjoy the tastiness of this world in which we are blessed to live.

Celebrate food.  Sunday, April 29th is National Shrimp Scampi Day.  I had no idea.  I don’t have my Shrimp cards ready, or the Scampi tree up in the family room yet.  I’m not ready.  But then, how does one celebrate National Shrimp Scampi Day?  Besides the obvious, I mean.  Eating it.  Well, I’m not sure it’s on the menu for this Sunday.  Hmmm, maybe we’ll have to pretend.  Or we could just claim to be Jewish.

Yeah, that’s where I was going with this.  As soon as I saw that it was Shrimp Scampi Day I remembered that it was forbidden.  For the Jews anyway.  No shrimp, scampi or otherwise.  Why not?  Because it’s on the list.  You know.

Leviticus 11:1-12 The LORD spoke to Moses and Aaron, saying to them: 2 Speak to the people of Israel, saying: From among all the land animals, these are the creatures that you may eat. 3 Any animal that has divided hoofs and is cleft-footed and chews the cud-- such you may eat. 4 But among those that chew the cud or have divided hoofs, you shall not eat the following: the camel, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you. 5 The rock badger, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you. 6 The hare, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you. 7 The pig, for even though it has divided hoofs and is cleft-footed, it does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. 8 Of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall not touch; they are unclean for you. 9 These you may eat, of all that are in the waters. Everything in the waters that has fins and scales, whether in the seas or in the streams-- such you may eat. 10 But anything in the seas or the streams that does not have fins and scales, of the swarming creatures in the waters and among all the other living creatures that are in the waters-- they are detestable to you 11 and detestable they shall remain. Of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall regard as detestable. 12 Everything in the waters that does not have fins and scales is detestable to you.

Detestable.  Wow, no pulling of punches here.  No trying to spare the feeling of the cook who brought you that lobster bisque.  No, oh, I’m sorry, I’d rather not.  No, goodness that looks delicious but I had a big breakfast, or some other social lie we tell so as not to hurt feelings.  Instead it is “Take it away!  It is detestable!” 

The chapter goes on, of course.  Forty-seven verses of what you can and what you can’t eat.  And then it is repeated in Deuteronomy, with a slightly different list - no conflict, I hasten to say.  Just some additions.  Some different emphases.  But mostly the same.  This is good, holy, worthy.  That is bad, detestable, trief.  That’s the word they use for food that is unclean.  Trief.  It means torn.  Some say it means torn by other animals and therefore not worthy.  Others say torn from the list.  Detestable.  An abomination, in older translations.  Everything, in the Old Covenant, declared unclean is an abomination.

But why?  That’s the inevitable question.  Why are these unclean and those clean?  No shrimp but tuna is OK.  No rabbit but goat is OK.  Why?  Well, no one knows exactly.  Some have tried to tie it all into hygiene.  God, who knew better than ancient humans, determined that something would make them sick given the primitive means of preparation.  Pork has trichinosis unless properly prepared, so put it on the detestable list.  OK, maybe.  But some things don’t quite fit that explanation.  There has to be more.  Others note that many of the things on the abomination list are scavengers, certain birds of prey, scaleless fish that reside in the muddy river bottom could be considered unclean because they feed on dead things, which was also an abomination.

Well, perhaps.  But if you read the rabbis throughout history, they will say that things are on the list because they are on the list.  This is the “because I said so” argument that every parent has used.  We’re to avoid these things, they say, because God told us to avoid these things.  We don’t need any more of a reason than that.  We don’t need a why, we just need to obey.  Holiness comes from obedience.  What God is trying to tell us is that there is no part of our lives exempt from this obedience.  No aspect of our lives that God isn’t interested in.  No activity in which we engage that we can’t at the same time honor God in doing it.

The food laws, or “Kashrut” (from which we get Kosher), were a way of separating out the people of God, but also of bringing them together.  They were different from the world around them, but they were a family who ate together.  Sometimes I wonder if we have lost something when we did away with them.  Oh, like everything God gives us they can lead to abuse, to pharisaical devotion to the law while neglecting the holiness behind it.  That’s why Jesus wanted us to pay attention to what the laws were for.  In Mark’s gospel, chapter 7, He talks about what really makes us unclean, and says it isn’t the food going in but the words, the life coming out.  Mark adds an editorial comment saying that in so doing He was declaring all foods clean.  I’m not sure that was Jesus’ intent, but that was the effect.  And then Peter and his vision on the roof top (Acts 10), one he had to three times until he got it, sealed the deal.  But then Paul comes along and says that even in our eating we can give glory to God (I Corinthians 10:31).  

That’s what was really behind the kashrut laws.  Giving glory to God.  There may have been some health benefits to a kosher diet, but that was just a bonus.  The real key was paying attention to every detail of our lives as God’s people, and asking how does this give glory to God?  So, praise the Lord and pass the Shrimp Scampi!

Shalom, 

Derek 

Creation Has Been Groaning

We woke the neighbors today.  Well, I don’t know for sure that we woke them.  It wasn’t crack of dawn early.  But early ish.  On a Saturday.  We had asked at church is anyone had a wood chipper.  We had a growing pile of sticks that came from the old trees in our yard, every time the wind blew there were more and more, sticks.  Branches, limbs, sticks, everywhere.  We picked them up from time to time.  Put them in a pile in the back yard.  On the firepit, actually.  Thinking that we would burn them.  But the pile kept building, getting bigger and bigger.  Now it was bonfire size, threaten the neighboring dwellings size.  We thought it might not be a good idea to burn it.  So, we asked about a chipper.  

Turns out someone had one, and was willing to bring it by, and stay for the chipping party we had in the back yard this morning.  It was a loud party.  Grinding those sticks and twigs and branches makes a bit of noise.  A bit.  OK, a lot of noise. Gnawing, grinding, coughing, chewing and spitting out sticks and branches and twigs.  Making mulch to spread on flower gardens and lawn edges, but also not adding to the stuff in the air that we breathe by burning all that pile.  But then it was a gas powered chipper, the little bit of gas that we burned smelled worse than the wood smoke would have smelled.  But was it worse?  Did it do more damage to a fragile environment than a bonfire in the back yard?  Sigh.  You can’t win it seems.

Years ago La Donna came to one of my bible studies because the members had heard me talk about all the things we do or don’t do in order to be “green”, to be ecological.  So she came and made a presentation about the choices we make on a daily basis, the homework we have to do on companies and their impact on the environment and which ones we should support and which ones we should avoid.  There were weights and counterweights, balances and trade-offs, choices around every turn.  Finally after some time sharing all of this, members of the class said, “this is hard!  Maybe too hard.” 

Why should we bother? Worrying about our impact on the environment, reducing our carbon footprint, reduce - reuse - recycle?  Surely my little bit isn’t going to make the much of a difference.  And are things really all that bad? Aren’t we being alarmist?  Aren’t there conflicting views of the human impact on climate and the planet as a whole?  Can’t we just wait and see?  Go about our business and trust that it will all come out ok?  And if not, if worst comes to worst, aren’t we as Christians not really all that worried about this world anyway?   It’s just temporary, we’re just passing through, right?  It’ll all get swept away and the new heaven be established, better than this one by far.  Right?

Who better to look beyond this world to the next one than Paul?  Who better to get our priorities straight, our vision properly focused, our eyes on the prize.  We’re straining forward, he tells us, for the finish line, the goal that lies ahead.  Surely, he won’t be concerned about this world, his whole focus is on the next one.  Right?

Romans 8:18-25  I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?  25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

Well, now that’s a bit of a surprise.  The whole creation, he writes.  Groaning in labor pains, hurting because of what it wants to birth, what it wants to bring forth.  Of course, we say, he’s talking spiritually, he’s talking metaphorically, about spiritual matters not physical ones.  Or is he?  It seems like Paul is hinting that our salvation is tied up with the bondage and decay of all of creation.  The fate of the world, the fate of the planet is woven into our fate, into our future and our hope.  

Not only that, but all that God has made relies on us.  Not just us, but our better selves, our true selves, our lives as the sons and daughters of God.  Which is a round about way of saying that we treat our world as though it was a part of God, and a part of us.  

It is not God, that’s an important distinction to make.  We don’t worship the creation.  We aren’t tree worshipers and mountain disciples, we’re not grass gurus (any kind of grass, for that matter!) or flora and fauna followers.  No, we are followers of Jesus the Christ, worshipers of the Creator of all that we see and all that we are.  Creation is not God.  Yet, we get a glimpse of the Creator when we comprehend the creation.  We know the artist when we examine and protect the work of art.  We commune with the author when we spend time in the writing.  

Psalm 8:1-9 O LORD, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens. 2 Out of the mouths of babes and infants you have founded a bulwark because of your foes, to silence the enemy and the avenger. 3 When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; 4 what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them? 5 Yet you have made them a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and honor. 6 You have given them dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under their feet, 7 all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field, 8 the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, whatever passes along the paths of the seas. 9 O LORD, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

In order to approach God, we need a better sense of ourselves.  We need a proper perspective on who we are.  One of the places to grasp that perspective is in the contemplation of nature.  You can’t stand on the rim of the Grand Canyon and not be humbled by the grandeur and the beauty of the place, overwhelmed by the forces of time and nature that carved such a structure, a natural wonder.  You can’t walk the beach of any ocean and watch the pounding of the surf and the power of the currents and not feel small and helpless despite our ability to fashion machinery and dwellings we think can withstand this power, until the storm surge comes and our efforts are swept away in a few tumultuous seconds.  You can’t contemplate the vastness of the universe and feel more significant than a speck of dust.  And yet, the psalmist tells us, God loves us.  Cares for us.  Blesses us. Honors us.  And gives us dominion.

Now there’s a word that needs another look: dominion.  It’s a word that has gotten us into trouble, I believe.  Because we only look at one side.  The power side.  The authority side.  “You have made them” – people, that is, you and me – “a little lower than God.”  “You have crowned them with glory and honor.”  Woo hoo.  I don’t know the Hebrew for woo hoo, frankly.  And even if I did, I wouldn’t find it in this psalm.  It’s not there.  This isn’t about power.  This isn’t about dominating, about using, exploiting, abusing and casting aside.  No, it is about caring for, like God cares for creation.  It is being mindful of the planet where we live.  It is caring for creatures and habitats like God cares for us.  Don’t think creation deserves that care?  Do we?  The psalm begins and ends with a doublet about God.  In our translation it reads “O Lord, our Sovereign.”  Older translations read: “O Lord, our Lord.”  It is a reminder that all of our “dominion” is the power to care like God cares, to be mindful - to be woke! - like God is mindful of all of creation.  Including us.

Yeah, it’s hard. It takes effort and energy.  It takes planning and going out of your way to be mindful, to be caring.  But it’s worth it.  Because it’s our home, and it is the world that is dying to be born again.  Groaning to be fulfilled as God intended.  Groaning in hope.  I see more sticks fell today.  Sigh.   

Shalom, 

Derek

Render Unto Caesar

Let me tell you how it will be / There's one for you, nineteen for me / 'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman.  It’s April 15th, tax day.  The day we have to justify our existence to our country for the privilege of living in the already great country.  Although, because April 15 falls on a Sunday this year we get an extra couple of days. Not sure why a couple, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.  We’ll take it and run.  Before writing those checks.  Should five per cent appear too small / Be thankful I don't take it all / 'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah I'm the taxman.  Some say the Beatles wrote this song in protest of the tax rate for entertainers in the UK at the time.  Which were and still are frighteningly high.  But though we pay a lower rate, we still grumble, we still chafe, we still wonder if it is worth it.  A tax cut sounds good to everyone, except when it benefits everyone but us.  If you drive a car, I'll tax the street, / If you try to sit, I'll tax your seat. / If you get too cold I'll tax the heat, / If you take a walk, I'll tax your feet.  We just can’t win. So we grit our teeth and pay what’s due.  Whether all at once or a bit a time from each pay check.  If the latter, we think we’re coming out ahead when we get our refund, until we realize it was our money all along.  Don't ask me what I want it for / If you don't want to pay some more / 'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman.  And we don’t question, we can’t because we can’t figure out what we’re paying for anyway.  Every attempt to “simplify” the tax code only adds more lines and more pages and we’re already lost in the face of the forms.  We’re overwhelmed, oppressed, yet dutiful, responsible, respectful citizens and will pay our taxes because that’s what we do.  Now my advice for those who die / Declare the pennies on your eyes / 'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman / And you're working for no one but me.  

OK, there’s where we have to draw the line, “Taxman.”  We don’t work for you.  I know it feels like it.  I know that’s the attitude that comes over us at tax time, that we’re working for The Man, the government, the machinery of politics as usual (and don’t let the advertisement fool you, it happens to everyone we send, no one is immune to the “way things get done” on that level - state or nation.  Everyone we send thinks they can make a difference, can drain the swamp.  Well, we may have changed some of the inhabitants, but the swamp still thrives.)  But despite our feelings, we don’t work for the taxman.  We don’t work for the nation, in the concrete or the abstract.  Our allegiance is not ultimately to our country, as great as it is.  We have a higher allegiance.  We work for Another.

Mark 12:13-17 Then they sent to him some Pharisees and some Herodians to trap him in what he said. 14 And they came and said to him, "Teacher, we know that you are sincere, and show deference to no one; for you do not regard people with partiality, but teach the way of God in accordance with truth. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not? 15 Should we pay them, or should we not?" But knowing their hypocrisy, he said to them, "Why are you putting me to the test? Bring me a denarius and let me see it." 16 And they brought one. Then he said to them, "Whose head is this, and whose title?" They answered, "The emperor's." 17 Jesus said to them, "Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." And they were utterly amazed at him.

We stand now in the glow of Easter.  This is a season for running.  For leaping.  For dancing.  This is a season for laughter and for living.  We walked the stony path of repentance, the way of the cross.  We followed in stunned silence as He poured out His life for us.  We waved our Palms as He rode into town, our town, our neighborhood, on the skittish little donkey that looked as bewildered as we felt.  But we shouted with the best of them.  Hosanna, save us, King Jesus, Prince of Peace, Son of our ancestor David.  Then we watched as He turned over the tables of our comfortable worship and drove out those who were in it for themselves instead for God and Father of us all.  And we wondered if we were next.  If that whip of cords He made was going to be used for more than setting pigeons free and sending lambs to their mothers.  Then we sat at table with Him and at the meal that we had shared a hundred times, except this time it was different, He made it different.  We squirmed uncomfortably in our seats as He washed our dusty feet.  We sat uncomprehendingly as He turned bread into flesh and wine into blood.  And He told us to remember.  How could we forget? But that wasn’t all He said.  He told us we would betray Him, we would deny Him, we would run to save our own skin when push came to shove.  We shouted Him down for that, told Him off, said He offended us with His low opinion of us.  Then we fell asleep in the garden, and woke to a riot.  Flashing lights and badges and weapons of all sorts. And they took Him and we ran.  For our lives we ran.  But we watched.  From a distance we watched as they tore Him to pieces, as they ripped His body and shed His blood.  We shouted with the worst of them, who screamed for His death.  And then we watched as they marched Him out to that trash heap of a hill, and with ruthless efficiency they removed the problem and washed their hands of the whole affair.  We watched as the world grew dark.  Darker than we had ever seen.  Darker than we could even imagine.  A darkness only broken by the sound of tearing, like a curtain somewhere, like a heart we knew.  And we sat in the darkness.  A darkness we thought would never end.  

Here at Southport UMC we walked in that darkness by remembering grace.  The Way to Heaven, the life of grace that we followers are called to live, to walk, to be every single day.  It’s the only way through the darkness, the only way to come into the light again.  The way to heaven includes a promise.  A hope.  The light that conquers darkness.  Life that conquers death.  We’ve been remembering God’s grace as the means by which we can walk in this world, when we embrace the light and when we are overcome by darkness.  The way to heaven ends with the promise of glory.

So now what?  We have come through our Lenten re-enactment, our journey to the cross and beyond.  We now embrace the light again, grab hold with both hands, with joy that sets our feet to dancing.  So now what?  Now we live.  Now we dance.  Now we walk.  We walk in the way.  

Our new sermon series that begins this weekend is called Walking in the Way.  It’s the so what after Lent.  OK, so let’s assume we understand grace (and I realize that’s a huge assumption – let’s say we have an inkling, a glimpse of grace).  But what do we do now?  We walk in that grace.  We live in that grace.  So for next month and half we’re going to explore some test cases, some case studies about how to walk in the way.  Some serious, some funny, some a little out there.  But all of them a slice of life as people of grace.

Which brings us back to tax day.  If we were hoping Jesus was going to give us permission to skip paying taxes, then we’re going to be disappointed.  He gives the questioners a slip by answering and not answering the question at the same time.  First of all it isn’t a sincere question, despite their flattery about sincerity at the beginning.  They just want to trap Him.  He can’t answer this one, they think, either way they’ve got Him.  If He says “yes, pay the tax”, then the people, who hate the tax will rebel.  If He says “no, don’t pay the tax”, then they can turn Him in as a traitor to Rome, preaching sedition.  (And in fact, this is one of the false accusations against Him later - “He forbade us to pay taxes to the Emperor!”  A case of yet another person who doesn’t listen to the sermon.)  

But He doesn’t say yes and He doesn’t say no.  He says what world do you live in?  He says where are your priorities, where is your security, where is your hope?  That’s what He says.  If you are going to invest in government, then you’ve got to pay for it.  If you’re going to use the benefits of a nation, then you’ve got to support it.  If you are beholden to Washington, if you voted thinking you were getting a savior, then cough it up.  If you think I’m being a bit harsh, that He was just being nice and drawing a line between church and state, then notice how it starts.  “Show me a coin.”  He doesn’t have one.  He doesn’t carry one.  He asks them and they reach in their pockets.  Give to Caesar, render to Caesar the old versions said.  Render.  Like surrender, like give up, give in, give all to that which you think will save you.  That’s the choice. 

See, we do enjoy the benefits of living in this nation and therefore owe our fair share.  But we don’t work for the Taxman, despite George Harrison’s compelling lyrics.  We don’t.  We work for God.  We live for God.  We love for God.  So our true allegiance and our debt and our joy to give is to God.  We can surrender to the state if we want, but as for me and my house ...

Shalom, 

Derek