That They Might Have Lifestyle

How is everyone? Seriously. I’m wondering. If you want to comment here, or email me. Remember if you are one of those who receives this by email, if you hit reply it goes to everyone. Which might not be a bad thing. Unless everyone responds and some folks feel overwhelmed by the emails. But I really want to know. I promise to check the blog for comments, I promise to respond to your email. I just want to know how you’re doing.

We watched the “One World: Together At Home” concert event last night. We heard amazing stories, terrifying and wonderful stories. There were moments of tears and worry, alongside those of hope and amazement at the compassion of people. We know many folks in the medical profession and are worried about them. But then we also know folks in the food industry of all kinds (grocery, restaurants, farms), and those who deliver packages and mail, child-care workers, and service workers of all kinds. We know those who are suffering and those who are worried about the future, we know those who are safe and doing their best to follow the rules (anyone else tired of washing hands so much?). We know of those who have contracted the virus, those who have succumbed to it, and those whose lives will never be the same because of it. And we are concerned, but hopeful. We have faith.  Faith in the goodness of people. Faith in the strength of our humanity. Faith in decision-makers and leaders, scientists and researchers who are working for the good of all and not just for some. Most of all we have faith in God. God is with us. God’s body the church is with us even when the doors are closed. The church was never a building anyway, we just got confused at times. We love our buildings, but they aren’t the church. If there is one thing this time is reminding us, confirming in us it is that the church is more than a building.

We are the church. You are the church. Claim it and live it in whatever ways you can right now. And remember, as I and too many others have said, we do what we not just to keep ourselves safe, but for the safety of others. We do this because we were taught to love by the One who loves us unto death and rose from the grave out of love for us. So, how can we do otherwise? How can we not love one another as He loved us?

It’s easy to be frustrated. It is easy to think that this is all an overreaction. That, sure, a few might get sick and a few might even die from this, but the risks we take by this shut down are worse. We are, some have said, killing our lifestyle to save a few lives. The protests to open up the economy are making that argument. We want to save our lifestyle. 

No one appreciates our lifestyle more than I do. I like the stuff I have, I like the freedom that I have to just go and get something that I want, whether I really need it or not. I like having enough money in the bank so that I won’t worry about the future when I retire. I like the benefits and the privileges I have here. I really do. But, who am I willing to sacrifice in order to keep it?  Because that’s the culmination of the argument being made. Some lives are worth sacrificing in order to keep our lifestyle. 

Wait, some will say, we make sacrifices all the time. Someone, a “Doctor” with only one name, went on TV and pointed out that we don’t shut the country down because of the car fatalities, or the cigarette fatalities. He’s right, we don’t. But then as far as I know car accidents aren’t communicable. You can’t spread them by breathing. On the other hand, we have shut down certain facilities to smoking, and there were those who complained saying we were going to ruin the economy by declaring no smoking zones. But we decided that life was more important than lifestyle. So, we lost the smoke filled rooms, good riddance. We adapted, we adjusted. There’s a pub in our neighborhood that everyone was worried about, said it was a shame that it had to close. But now they are so busy we couldn’t place an order for take out. We adapt, we adjust. 

Because we believe life is more important than lifestyle. Someone taught us that. Here’s another of my favorite passages: John 10.

John 10:9-16  I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. 11 "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. 12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away-- and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. 13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. 14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, 15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.

“I have come that they might have lifestyle,” no, wait, that’s not it. Oh, I know He says “abundant life.” And our image of abundant life is all the stuff we could want. But I don’t think that’s what He meant. I think He was offering us a life that meant something, to us and to everyone else. A life that was rich in love, that was spent in service not because it was what we were supposed to do, but because we couldn’t help it. Helping, serving, loving, caring just flows out of our heart like streams of living water. It isn’t what we do it is what we are. We are the ones who believe that life matters. Life, not lifestyle. We believe that all life matters.

“I have sheep that do not belong to this fold.” You’ve noticed that, haven’t you? Yeah, He meant the Baptists down the road.  He meant the Lutherans and Presbyterians, He meant all those who are just like us with a different label. Right? Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think He meant the ones we would least expect. The ones living in a care facility where a stray virus can run through like a tsunami. The ones struggling to breathe, carrying around oxygen in a tank, hooked up to tubes to bring air. He meant the ones who can’t shelter at home because they don’t have a home. He meant the ones who are crowded into inadequate housing, gathered into home unequipped to care for them, to feed them, to love them, or keep them safe. He meant the ones dumped into refugee camps and prisons and ships at sea. He meant the ones have suddenly become “essential” and yet still don’t make enough money to feed their children. He meant the ones across the globe who look to us to set an example of what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves. Those are the sheep of other folds. Sheep we may never see, may never love in person, and yet by choosing to do all we can, all we can including sacrificing some of our lifestyle, in order to love we bear witness that life is more precious than lifestyle. 

There are supposed shepherds who are running away because the wolf is at the door. Let’s admit it. So, let’s look to another shepherd. One who invites us to value life. Not just our lives, but life. (I wonder how many of those protesters at various statehouses also call themselves “pro-life”) I love too many people who are vulnerable to say we’re ready to go back to our lifestyle as we knew it. In fact, I would venture to say we will never go back. But we will go forward and live differently because of what we have learned and how we value life. We go forward and maybe even begin to understand what abundant life really means.  

And maybe that’s what we’re learning right now. Thanks be to God. And really, how are you?

Shalom, 

Derek

Living in Saturday

John 19:39-42 Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. 40 They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. 41 Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. 42 And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Luke 23:50-56 Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, 51 had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. 52 This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. 53 Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. 54 It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning. 55 The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. 56 Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments. On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

Mark 15:43-47 Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, who was also himself waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God, went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. 44 Then Pilate wondered if he were already dead; and summoning the centurion, he asked him whether he had been dead for some time. 45 When he learned from the centurion that he was dead, he granted the body to Joseph. 46 Then Joseph bought a linen cloth, and taking down the body, wrapped it in the linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock. He then rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. 47 Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where the body was laid.

Matthew 27:62-65 The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate 63 and said, "Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, 'After three days I will rise again.' 64 Therefore command the tomb to be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, 'He has been raised from the dead,' and the last deception would be worse than the first." 65 Pilate said to them, "You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can."

Twice in during this odd kind of Holy Week I heard a preacher say that because of the quarantine, because of the pandemic, we are Easter people living in a Good Friday world. That we usually are people able to embrace the possibilities of life and thus it is easier to proclaim hope and joy to the world and ourselves on a daily basis. But now, the shadow of death hangs over us like never before. We hide in the darkness of our homes, afraid of normal human contact because of what might overcome us or those we love, or the vulnerable among us. 

I understand their point, and might have made one like it myself had I been still attempting to preach to a scattered congregation through technological means. I agree that this shadow darkens our existence in such a profound way that we are not even fully aware of it until we find ourselves staring into space, or with an ache in our hearts that we can’t really explain even to ourselves. The symptoms of depression seem all too evident around us and within us. 

Maybe it is because of my new role, one that makes me an observer, a participant in worship rather than a proclaimer, but that didn’t ring quite true even as I heard it coming through my television on a livestream feed from my church here in Nashville. True, but not completely true. It wasn’t until much later in the darkness of the night that another metaphor came to mind. I was watching the news before going to bed on Good Friday night. The weather person was warning us about storms to come. Not the next day, but the day after that. Strong storms, bands of storms, three maybe four bands would roll through our area all day that day, starting early in the morning and then continuing throughout the day. The danger, she reported sternly, was that these bands were far enough apart that the temperature could begin to rise in between the fronts. When the temperature rises before a cold front, the air begins to circulate. If it rose enough before dropping in the trough of the front, tornadoes could form. High winds certainly, maybe hail, and lots of rain. Flood level rains. That’s our Easter forecast. Her advice? First decide where in the house we should go when it gets really bad. Second, have the egg hunt on Saturday, it’ll be a nicer day.

When I was in the parish, I struggled with local traditions in many places. Easter egg hunts are fun and active and a family occasion. I have no problems with egg hunts. Even enjoyed chatting with the Easter bunny in between her hopping around delighting children on a green lawn that sunny day. My problem was a part of me thought we shouldn’t have them until Easter. Not on Palm Sunday, or the Saturday before Palm Sunday, or, and this one was the hardest for me, on Holy Saturday. 

I pulled out all the Gospel descriptions of Holy Saturday. There isn’t a lot there. Most of them don’t even mention it. Because it was the Sabbath all the good Jews would have been at home. Not working, not preparing a meal, not planning a funeral, just being at home. So, after they got the body down off the cross and carried it to the tomb late on Friday, as the sun was setting and the Sabbath was rolling in the like the tide, they went home. They washed their hands. They sat down. They said their prayers and they tried to eat the ritual meal that was prepared to welcome the Sabbath. The candles they lit seemed dimmer somehow, as if even that flame couldn’t pierce the gloom that settled in their souls. The prayers they prayed from memory sounded like a language they barely knew. Then they waited. For a long sleepless night and a dim silent day. They looked at the walls of their house as if it had become a prison trapping their hopes inside. They kept their distance from each other, no doubt. Social distance. So that no one would see their pain. Their shame. Their doubt. And they waited. Though if you were to ask them what they were waiting for, they wouldn’t have had a clue. 

Matthew says things happened on Saturday. Those Romans didn’t know a Sabbath from a Saturday. And wait, there were Priests and Pharisees there too, breaking the law to make sure that the lawbreaker didn’t have an escape clause worked out with his followers. They were the essential workers of the society. Doing the work that had to be done. Maybe they wore a mask so as not to be infected by the gentiles they spoke to on the Sabbath. Maybe it wasn’t after dark, Matthew just forgot what time it was. Maybe it didn’t matter to them, or to anyone that day. Maybe it didn’t feel like Sabbath to them. Even them.

I think we are living in Holy Saturday. It is an in between kind of existence. And even though we know how the story ends, there is still so much uncertainty before us right now. We don’t know when this will end, maybe soon, maybe not.  Maybe it will end only to begin again as the virus takes hold when we step out of our tombs, out of our waiting to greet the Risen Son. And what will be like when it ends. We keep saying “when things get back to normal.” But do we know what normal is any more? Will normal feel normal, or will there be a new normal? When my neighbor coughs will I flinch? When your co-worker sneezes will you say bless you or rush to spay down the tables and chairs? What will community be after this?

We don’t know. And maybe we’re afraid. Afraid of the fallout, the collapse of the economy, which was much more precarious than we realized. Afraid of the other, not just those across the water or across the border, but those across the street, or across the hall. Will we trust again? Will we live again. 

Holy Saturday was a quarantine of earth shattering proportions. It was a hinge day around which all of creation swung. When the world started over the next day, there was fear and great joy. And a proclamation. He is going before you. When we reenter the world after this Holy Saturday time, we can be assured He will be going before us. Thanks be to God.

Shalom,

Derek

Fraying at the Edges

If I have to be on one more Zoom call I’ll scream. OK, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but nonetheless, I’ve had my share. We are working from home, these days, as are many. Those who can. Us non-essentials. Side note: liquor stores are essential? Never mind. I was talking about Zoom meetings. They are great. Really. It’s almost like sitting in the same room. Except for almost everything. No, sorry. It is a way to connect. To see the faces of those you work with. To be able to talk some instead of just sending emails and trying to have a conversation but feeling a step or two behind. My daughter Maddie started a Weber family WhatsApp group. We’ve got some of the family on it. Others are boycotting, I think. Anyway, La Donna and my sister Tricia were trying to do family genealogy through the app last night and it was hilarious. Losing the reference and answering questions two texts up and forgetting what the subject was and having to repeat yourself because it was too hard to scroll up and find the thread again. I don’t know if anyone was any wiser after that long text conversation, but it was fun to watch. 

Zoom meetings. That’s that I wanted to talk about here. Zoom meetings. How did I get to WhatsApp and email? That’s the big problem with this work at home thing. Too many distractions. I’m trying to write and the cat sits in the hallway and yells at me because if I’m going to be home and interrupt her nap time, then by golly I might as well be useful and feed her. And if I try to ignore her she beats on the door. Well, the big one does, Dora. The little one gets up and walks across my keyboard. Hard to type when a cat is walking across your keyboard. At least I’m not La Donna. When we’re down stairs reading or watching TV and the little cat, Cato, short for Catastrophe, will get up on the back of her chair and chew on her hair. I guess I don’t have enough to chew. She doesn’t do that to me. Just climbs up on top of me and sticks her face in my face. Which is also how Dora will wake me up if I’m sleeping past get up time. She’ll just get on the bed and stick her furry cat face in my face. Try to sleep through that. Can’t be done. Trust me.

Zoom meetings. I haven’t had a zoom meeting with my cats, or the dog for that matter. The dog has learned a new trick. Again, because we’re home all the time, he has to go outside more often. At least he says he has to go outside more often. But in fact he’s figured out that every time he goes outside he gets a cookie when he comes back in. But we’re now wise to his game, so we only give him a half a cookie. Which means he now does it twice as often. Who’s winning here, I can’t tell.

Zoom meetings. My original point, was that I thought the other day that someone should have taken a screen shot of our zoom meetings from the beginning of this quarantine thing. When we began it was truly like we were in our office, meeting in the little conference room night across the hallway. We were bright eyes and frankly a little excited about the change and the possibilities of working at home and yet still staying connected. Technology seemed like a gift from God that was here to make sure that we didn’t lose a sense of community, that we were reminded that we were on the same team, working on the same projects, a part of the same church body. We knew we were the lucky ones, able to take what we were doing and without too much upset and begin working remotely. It was a good thing. 

But then as the days and then the weeks progressed, it went from being a good thing, to being a necessary thing. We were trying to keep producing the content that pastors and churches were needing, some of which they asked for, some of which they didn’t know they needed. But we, and a whole lot of folks, just kept pushing out content. Articles, podcasts, reflections, liturgy, conversations, questions, lots and lots of questions. Some of them were of the “have you thought about this” variety, others were “are you sure you want to do that” and a few were “don’t you want to rethink this whole thing?” To make sure we were asking the right questions, we had to check in, with each other and with others. Zoom meetings.

Then other departments, other teams began making suggestions about what our team ought to be doing. They want to be helpful, of course. I don’t question that. But it seemed like the piles were getting higher and the requests were getting harder, and the list of things to do that I left the office with a couple of weeks ago have now been neglected in favor of a million other things, it seems. And when we log on to the Zoom meeting I sometimes have to wait for someone else to speak so that I can know what this one is about. 

Zoom meetings. I look into the eyes of my team members and the others who have dialed in or logged on and the eyes seem just a little more glazed, the smiles a tad more forced. I’ve had to start combing my hair, you see. That sounds odd, I know. I keep my hair short, what’s left of it, yes thank you, so that I don’t have to comb it. But now it’s growing out and needs to be cut, but there’s this quarantine thing, maybe you’ve heard about it. So after my shower, I actually have to find a comb and comb it. 

And here’s the thing with Zoom meetings, not only do you get to see you teammates, your co-workers, but you see yourself. Right there on your computer screen. I keep trying to adjust the little built in camera to make myself look like I think I look rather than what I really look like. But so far that hasn’t worked. We’re all fraying around the edges. The tension of this unusual situation is getting to us. I get wounded by email that aren’t personal, I feel burdened by responsibilities that are implied if not directly given. We started this thing thinking it was going to be a week or two, then we’d be back to the office, back to the restaurants, back to school, back to sports, back to concerts, back to life before we knew it. Now it stretches before us like an abyss and the other side is obscured by the gray clouds of unknowing. 

And we can’t feel too sorry for ourselves, not really. We’ve got it easy. There are so many other suffering much worse than I am, than most of us reading this are. Businesses that might not reopen, workers wondering if they’ll be recalled, those for whom the promised stimulus, should it ever come, might not make a dent in the debt accruing. There are those on the front lines of the pandemic whose lives are at risk daily. There are populations who are so much more vulnerable and for whom we worry. And all of that makes us reluctant to admit our own stress, our own fears and anxiety. And yet it is real. It isn’t a weakness to admit we’re all fraying around the edges. 

Which is why we need to turn to praise. Praise, really? What about lament, that seems more appropriate. Yes, certainly, there is time and space for lament. Let it out. Offer it up. But one thing I’ve learned from the lament psalms is that always, almost always turn to praise. We need praise. We can’t live in lament this whole time. We can’t let lament be our only word, as real and as necessary as it is. We need praise.

One of my supervisors sent this video today. I put it on my Facebook page. I link it here, if I can. It’s worth looking at, if you haven’t seen it. And if you have, then watch again. It’s done by a group called “the Work of the People” which is the definition of liturgy. It’s called “Praise Song for the Pandemic” and written and read by Christine Valters Paintner, from Abbey of the Arts, music by Giants & Pilgrims. Please take a look. https://www.facebook.com/theworkofthepeople/videos/2606014466331448/?vh=e

And to accompany that thought, I’ll leave you one of my favorite passages of scripture, a reminder that no matter how great the struggle, we are never alone in that mess. There is a presence, there is a living hope. Sometimes it is hard to sense, so that’s when faith kicks in. We know that God is with us. Even on zoom meeting. Even at home. Even apart. Even afraid. God is with us. We are not alone.

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.

Shalom,

Derek

Need a Little Jesus

I was driving to work on Friday, a week ago. Before things really got bad and borders were closed and flights canceled and gates put up and shelves cleared.  There were signs that something was coming.  There was noticeably less traffic. Not empty to be sure, but an easier trip than usual.  The radio was on and the morning team of the local station I listen to was reflecting on the month we’ve had so far.  First there was what is now considered to be seven tornadoes through middle Tennessee, causing at least 24 deaths and many injuries and millions of dollars of property damage.  The city and area was beginning to recover because of an incredible response of volunteers and donations of all kinds, when the Coronavirus took everyone’s attention away.  Schools and universities were closing, or extending spring break, sports leagues were canceling seasons and tournaments, businesses were considering remote working wherever possible, and disinfecting everything.  And of course washing hands.  Everyone needs to wash their hands.  The only debate was what ten to 20 second song do you sing in your head to make sure you are washing enough. Then they got to talking about the fact that a lot of churches were going to go streaming only. And one of them said, “I think that is a good idea, like all the concert and sports venues, you’ve got to be careful.  But you know, it seems like right now we all need a little Jesus.”

Far be it from me to argue with such a sentiment.  With the world seemingly crashing down around us, and is anyone else also sorry that we watched all those post-apocalyptic movies now?  Who would disagree that we need a little Jesus right now?  We need Jesus to come and put some sanity to all the craziness right now.  We need Jesus to come and give us a sense of peace and maybe even hope.  But more than that we need Jesus to come and remind us that what we do isn’t for our own safety and security, but for the whole world, or at least our corner of it.  We don’t seclude ourselves just so that we can be kept safe from the virus, we do it so that it isn’t shared.

There were videos on the news about spring breakers who decided that they could still party on the beaches in large crowds. One young college student was even interviewed.  “I'm not going to miss the opportunity to party” he declared, “if it get it, I get it.  But I’m not worried.”  You can blame him really.  He’s taking the risk, and he knows that his age group isn’t really in grave danger from the virus.  And who can fault him or any of them for wanting to celebrate in his youth?  If he gets it, he gets it and will probably shake off the effects after a time.  Probably.

Except that with a little Jesus we can be reminded that it isn’t just ourselves that we are trying to protect, it is the hundreds and thousands who might contract the virus, and who might be more vulnerable, because we are too selfish to keep ourselves away from people for a short period of time, because we aren’t willing to sacrifice a little bit of our leisure and our space and our time to keep people safe.  

Of course the sacrifice is more than just a bit of our leisure and bit of our ability to go where and when we want to.  Some are really suffering right now.  Not from the effects of the virus itself, but from businesses shutting down and many being laid off.  Some who were living paycheck to paycheck now find themselves in the situation of trying to survive in a fragile economy, that is getting more fragile by the day.  Then, of course, there are those on the front lines, our health care workers who aren’t able to self-quarantine because someone has to care for the rising numbers of those who are getting sick.  I won’t put the numbers here because by the time I finish and you read this it’ll be different.  It’ll be more.  Here in Tennessee the number infected rose almost 100 from Thursday to Saturday.  Part of that is because of the testing that is not finally taking place, some because the virus is extremely contagious.  But there are health care workers out there who aren’t able to protect themselves completely, in part because people who don’t need them have been buying and hoarding medical masks.  With a little Jesus, those who are fearful for themselves, might be able to see that there are others who’s need is greater and be able to let go of the things that they think will bring them comfort and safety and lean on the one who really can.

Philippians 4:4-7 Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. 5 Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. 6 Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Paul would certainly agree that we need a little Jesus to help us through this moment of crisis.  Actually, he wouldn’t.  He would argue we need a lot of Jesus.  We need all of Jesus, and to receive all that Jesus has to offer, we need to surrender all of ourselves.  We need to not rely on the things of this world, but to focus on the things of the Spirit, the things from above.  So, OK, we think, does that mean we shouldn’t self-quarantine?  We shouldn’t social distance ourselves?  We shouldn’t wash our hands because that is relying on the things of this world, the things I can do to protect myself?  And that I should just go about my regular life “trusting in the Spirit”?  Suddenly, I’m looking like that guy on the beach.  He could have said, I just put my faith in Jesus and if I get it I get it, and we would have applauded him.  

No, we wouldn’t have. We shouldn’t applaud anyone who makes that choice.  Remember, we aren’t washing our hands and keeping our distance to keep ourselves free from the virus, though it will have that effect.  No, we are doing all of this, WE are doing all of this for everyone else.  We are trying to keep the nation safe.  Sitting on your couch is your patriotic duty!  More than that, it is your Christian duty to maintain your distance.  So that this virus can die out without enough hosts to keep it thriving and growing and changing.  You have heard that the virus has already evolved, and what we’re facing now is different from what originated months ago, right?  We need to think of others, particularly the most vulnerable.  

So, who would argue that we need a little Jesus right now?  Well, I would.  First of all, I agree with Paul that a little isn’t enough.  Not enough to change hearts and minds and not just temporary behaviors.  We need all of Jesus.  My other argument against the well meaning statement from the radio host, is the right now part of the phrase.  We may feel a more urgent need right now.  But we don’t just need Jesus right now.  We need Jesus always.  Always.  Even when we think we’re OK.  

The good news is that Paul reminds us that the Lord is near. The need we feel suddenly has already been met.  And the peace we require is already offered.  

Here’s an idea, when you wash your hands recite Philippians 4:4-7.  It’ll take you a little longer than 20 seconds.  But why not!

Shalom,

Derek

Tamar Wore Her Ashes

So, here we are at the end of February and this is my first post of 2020.  I admit the deadlines at work have kept me so busy I haven't had time to do this.  I certainly intended to post more often than this and hope that you won't give up on me.  

So far my job is mostly writing and finding time and space for more writing is proving difficult.  What I'd like to do, therefore, is share some of the writing that I've been doing for work.  I hope it will be meaningful here as well.  In addition to the preaching notes that I write on our website (umcdiscipleship.org, then go to worship planning), the worship team is also in the midst of writing a book for our "See All the People" series, which is about Intentional Discipleship Systems, and I regularly respond to questions posed by some of our users that range from worship questions to theological inquiries and pastoral issues. Plus I do on occasion preach in the Upper Room Chapel and help lead worship there and other places around our building.  All of that keeps me pretty busy. 

It's another new avenue of expression, however, that I want to share with you in this space for my first post of 2020.  At Christmas time, my team leader, Dr. Cynthia Wilson, asked me to write a version of the Magnificat, Mary's song in the Gospel of Luke (1:46-55) to go along with a song that Carol Ann Smolka, our team manager wrote and sang.  It was received well and so for Ash Wednesday we were asked to do it again.  But the rubrics were more general.  "Something about ashes," we were told.  Carol Ann found a song, not one she wrote this time and gave me the lyrics.  It's the song "Ashes" sung by Celine Dion. The song was actually written for the Marvel movie Deadpool 2, of all things.  And was designed to be a satire of the genre of emotional movie songs.  But the song got a life of its own and, thankfully, carries a meaning beyond that film.  

So, I was tasked to write some words to accompany the song.  I began by scanning through the Bible to see who wore ashes and for what reason.  Ashes were a common symbol of grief and mourning, but also suffering and repentance.  So, I chose three characters from the Old Testament to sit alongside us, because we too wear the ashes.  First there is reference to Tamar, she gave the title to the piece.  Tamar's story appears in 2 Samuel 13, you can read it there.  Then Job and all the trials he went through through the book that bears his name.  And finally Mordecai, from the book of Esther.  Mordecai was the relative who encouraged Esther to speak up for her people to prevent a grave injustice.

When I think of Ash Wednesday, I can imagine all sorts of reasons why we would wear the ashes.  But whatever they might represent in terms of our limitations or brokenness, they also are a sign of hope.  Or at least a sigh that we recognize our need for a Savior.  Thankfully, there is One available.

So, here, with the added in lyrics to the song, is "Tamar Wore Her Ashes."

Tamar wore her ashes

Like a crown of her shame,

a reminder of her rejection by her brother, her rapist

              a taste of the brokenness dry as dust on her tongue.

Job wore his ashes

              A shell of his emptiness,

                             A reminder of all that was ripped away and the despair left behind,

                                           And they choked out his cries to the unresponsive sky.

Mordecai wore the ashes of a people

              As he cried at the gate for justice

                             A reminder of the helplessness of exile

                                           And the tears of all the people carved canyons through the soot

We wear our ashes

              As if they weren’t there, as if we were fine, and whole, and good, all the time

                             Until we stumble,

and fall face first into the volcanic residue of our failure to love

                             Until we stub our toes on the limitations of our mortality

and watch our snowflake impermanence float away on the slightest breeze

              from the fires of our frustration

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,

              And down, and down, and down

                             Like children laughing at our dizziness,

                                           Until we aren’t, and we don’t, and we can’t

And we wear our ashes,

              And our tears, and our brokenness,

                             Hiding our faces from the One who calls.

                                           While we wear our ashes.

Song - “Ashes”

What's left to say?

These prayers ain't working anymore

Every word shot down in flames

What's left to do with these broken pieces on the floor?

I'm losing my voice calling on you

'Cause I've been shaking

I've been bending backwards till I'm broke

Watching all these dreams go up in smoke

Let beauty come out of ashes

Let beauty come out of ashes

And when I pray to God all I ask is

Can beauty come out of ashes?

Can you use these tears to put out the fires in my soul?

'Cause I need you here, woah

'Cause I've been shaking

I've been bending backwards till I'm broke

Watching all these dreams go up in smoke

Let beauty come out of ashes

Let beauty come out of ashes

And when I pray to God all I ask is

Can beauty come out of ashes?

Can beauty come out of ashes?

Can beauty come from ashes?

              Can hope rise from brokenness?

                             Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

                                           But what if there was a hand to lift us?

Tamar wore her ashes, Job and Mordecai,

We all wear the ashes of our mortality and our sin

But what if there was one who would wear the ashes with us

              Who would put on the ashes of our death, the stain of our sin

And bring beauty from our ashes.

Tamar wore her ashes, and we all remember to weep and to hope and to live, from the ashes.

Shalom,

Derek

Marvel of the Night

Before the marvel of this night adorning  / fold your wings and bow / then tear the sky apart with light / and with your news the world endow. 

I sat in the pew on Christmas Eve while the choir sang me into the heavenly host.  Let me say that again, it is an astounding statement.  I sat in the pew on Christmas Eve.  Yeah, that part.  That’s what was so astounding.  I sat in the pew, on Christmas Eve.  Do you know how long it has been since I sat in a pew on Christmas Eve?  Tell me, because I don’t.  It seems like forever.  I have been up front, leading the event for more years than I can count.  

OK, there have been years, in Edinburgh in the late 80's for example, when I didn’t lead worship on Christmas Eve, but those are dimly remembered.  I sat in the pew on Christmas Eve in Nashville Tennessee this year.  Two different pews.  I did it twice.  Just because I couldn’t believe I was doing, I guess.

No, I did it twice, partly because we have a couple of churches that we like and so we decided to go to each of them on Christmas Eve.  Plus, for some reason Nashville prefers an early Christmas Eve service.  The vast majority of the services offered were between 4:30 and 6pm.  I love an early service, especially one designed with children in mind.  The wild chaotic, barely holding in the longing hearts of the little ones who are all space shuttles rumbling on the launch pad read to leap into the joy that is Christmas morning.  

Proclaim the birth of Christ and peace / that fear and death and sorrow cease: / sing the gift of peace!

Those early children’s services might speak of peace, but it is a vibrating peace, woven with joy and anticipation and a living hope so real you can taste it, as strong as the peppermint candy canes you hand out knowing it is going to make fingers sticky and lips a bright shiny red.  Now, the earlier of the services was more a family service, not simply for children, so it had a calm about it, a sober embrace of the Christmas joy, with choirs and preacher and candlelight and communion.  It was a beautiful experience, though odd to sit in a pew and observe, participate like the assembled masses, crowded into the pews.  A glorious celebration of the night.

Awake the sleeping world with song / this is the day the Lord has made. / Assemble here, celestial throng / in royal splendor come arrayed.

I do love the early services on Christmas Eve, but precious to my heart and my thirsting soul is the late night service on Christmas Eve.  Our Catholic friends call it Midnight Mass, though it usually starts at 11 to end at midnight.  Here it was ten thirty, the latest we could find in our United Methodist tradition here in Nashville.  And we went early, expecting there to be another crowd, seating limited.  Rhys, who went with us to the early service was fading fast and he decided to stay home and go to bed.  So, La Donna and I went and found a seat and waited.  

Assemble here, celestial throng / in royal splendor come arrayed. / Give earth a glimpse of heavenly bliss / a teasing taste of what they miss: / sing endless bliss!

A taste.  The organ played a full half hour before the service began.  It was glorious, and certainly an invitation into a celestial throng.  The crowd was smaller than I expected, and subdued, leaning in to all that took place, the carols, the anthems, the sermon and the story.  There was a friendly camaraderie in the sanctuary that night, like we all belonged there, together, one family because of the child in a manger.  When we went forward to kneel at the rail for communion, it was as if we knelt on straw and were straining to see the baby.  And the little crumb of bread and tiny thimbleful of juice was a Christmas meal of love and acceptance, of fellowship divine.  And all the strife that seems ready to rend the denomination asunder was pushed aside in the darkness of that vast space.  And we were enfolded into a new hope, and a new possibility. 

The love that we have known / our joy and endless light / now to the loveless world be shown / break upon its night. / Into one song compress the love that rules above: / God is love!

“Before the Marvel of This Night” is the anthem the Chancel and Sanctuary choirs of West End United Methodist Church sang on that late Christmas Eve.  It is indeed an invitation to stand with the angel host who sang Christ’s birth to the shepherds on that lonely Bethlehem hillside.  Carl Schalk wrote the beautiful music for this piece, but the words were penned by Jaroslav Vajda.  Vajda was born in Ohio, despite the Slovak name.  His father was a Lutheran pastor there in the early 1900's when Jaroslav was born.  Jaroslav himself became a Lutheran pastor and served churches in Pennsylvania, Missouri and Alexandria, Indiana.  He wrote over 200 hymns, including a few in the United Methodist Hymnal (#122,  235, 619) before his death in 2008 at the age of 89.  

Now the silence / Now the Peace / Now the empty hands uplifted / Now the kneeling / Now the plea / Now the Father’s arms in welcome / Now the hearing / Now the power / Now the vessel brimmed for pouring / Now the body / Now the blood / Now the joyful celebration / Now the wedding / Now the songs / Now the heart forgiven leaping / Now the Spirit’s visitation / Now the Son’s epiphany / Now the Father’s blessing / Now / Now / Now

That hymn is listed as a communion hymn in our hymnal.  But it could be the promise of Christmas Eve.  It could be the hope of a world in need of peace.  And not willing, not needing to wait.  Now, Vajda and Schalk wrote, Now.  I write this, after mulling it over since Christmas Eve, on New Year’s Eve.  Another threshold into new possibilities and new hope.  Or maybe just another year, another day, another sunrise so much like all the others we have seen.  

Except it isn’t.  The world is new.  God has promised to do a new thing in our midst.  

Isaiah 43:18-19 Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.  I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Join me in working and watching for the new thing that God is doing in our midst.  And I wish you all the blessings of Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous New Year.

Shalom,

Derek

Wondering Love

“Preaching is the bringing of truth through personality.”  That’s a famous quote I learned many years ago when I began to study preaching in earnest.  It’s not terribly sophisticated, not erudite or wrapped up in incomprehensible theological jargon.  Yet, it always appealed to me as a definition of this thing that I do.  It points to two significant elements in the preaching moment.  The first is something bigger than the individual involved in the task.  Preaching is about reaching beyond the mundane into something of eternity, about grasping hold of the kingdom of God and bringing it into the consciousness of the people.  Admittedly, it fails more often than it succeeds.  At least I failed more often than I succeeded.  But the attempt was made, and perhaps even through my fumbling attempts a glimpse was possible, a hope was kindled.  Truth was experienced.  

That’s the part of the equation that speaks of eternity.  Truth.  Truth through personality.  But Truth disconnected from real life isn’t compelling.  It needs a place to be grounded.  There needs to be a point of contact.  Personality.  The preacher.  The speaker, the witness.  Me.  You.  Anyone who tries to speak of something profound, who tries to share the truth of Christ.  Personality.  The you that is you.  Essentially you.  This preaching thing takes something profoundly personal in order to make it work.  When I teach preaching, I join with lots of other teachers or preaching who say that their task it to help each preacher find their own voice.  We aren’t trying to make clones of ourselves.  We are trying to help the preacher be the most authentic self they can be.  

Which is a lot like faith.  See, preaching is just one aspect of this faith thing.  And we’re all trying to do it.  You may not consider yourself a preacher, but you are.  You preach with your speaking, but also with your doing.  With your being.  Preaching is bringing truth through personality.  The life of faith is living truth through personality.  It’s your call as well as mine.  To live a life that is authentically you but also points to something beyond you, something bigger than you.  A truth that you can’t contain.

And why?  Why are we bringing this truth through personality?  Because that’s what Jesus did.  That’s who Jesus was.  He was the originator of bringing truth through personality.

John 1:1-16 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being 4 in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. 6 There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. 7 He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. 8 He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. 9 The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. 10 He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. 11 He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. 12 But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. 14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth. 15 (John testified to him and cried out, "This was he of whom I said, 'He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.'") 16 From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.

It was in a series of lectures on preaching at Yale University in 1877, where the Rev. Phillips Brooks declared that preaching was bringing truth through personality.  Brooks was Rector of Trinity Episcopal Church in Boston at the time.  He had accepted that position in 1869, coming from Philadelphia.  A huge man, six feet four inches tall and weighing 300 pounds, personality radiated out from him. Considered by many the finest preacher of the 19th Century, he captivated congregations with his eloquence and optimism.  He was ordained in 1859 and began his ministry at the Church of the Advent in Philadelphia.

After only three years there, he then took a position at Holy Trinity in Philadelphia where he served until his move to Boston.  Shortly after moving to Holy Trinity, he took a year off to travel abroad.  Included in his journey was time in the Holy Land, and he was especially taken by his visit to Bethlehem.  Upon his return, he worked for three years on a poem attempting to capture his experience there.  And in 1868 he wrote “O Little Town of Bethlehem” for his congregation.  His organist Louis Redner set the tune to music (after a restless night of struggle, where he claimed an angel whispered the tune in his ear) and it was presented to his church.  Neither of them thought it would last beyond the Christmas of 1868, but it has become a favorite of many, sung year after year.

“O little town of Bethlehem / How still we see thee lie / Above thy deep and dreamless sleep / The silent stars go by / Yet in thy dark streets shineth / The everlasting Light / The hopes and fears of all the years / Are met in thee tonight”  

Junius Dotson, the General Secretary of Discipleship Ministries, spoke this season about the war over Christmas.  But not the one you might have heard about.  He meant the war between our hopes and our fears.  Brooks’ carol speaks of that struggle, and hints at the resolution, of hope winning out over fear.  But it’s only a hint.  There is still a plea sung in the carol.  “O holy Child of Bethlehem / Descend to us, we pray / Cast out our sin and enter in / Be born to us today / We hear the Christmas angels / The great glad tidings tell / O come to us, abide with us / Our Lord Emmanuel.”

We’re still waiting.  But we wait with hope, because of what has already happened.  For the truth that came through personality, for the Spirit that was wrapped in flesh.  We saw His glory, John says, full of grace and truth.  And now we live that truth out in our lives, in our flesh, in our personality. 

And in our hope.  That’s our call this Christmas season.  To keep on hoping. Or, as Phillips Brooks said, to join with the angels in keeping a watch in wondering love.  “For Christ is born of Mary / And gathered all above / While mortals sleep, the angels keep / Their watch of wondering love / O morning stars together / Proclaim the holy birth / And praises sing to God the King / And Peace to men on earth.”

We can either sleep through this season, this time, or we can take our place alongside the heavenly host and watch with wondering love.  Which means continuing to live and work, to serve and give, to believe, in the end, that God is not far, that the “kin-dom” of heaven is among us.  That is the truth that the gospels proclaim.  That is the truth that we proclaim, by being who we are, by living in wondering love.  It is the truth that the world needs.  

Bringing truth through personality is not just for preachers.  It’s for all of us.  It’s for a world where truth is a rare commodity.  We don’t bring this truth with a hammer, crushing those who dare to disagree.  Instead we bring it with wondering love.  Because we believe in Christ who is with us even now.  Because we believe in Christmas.  

Shalom,

Derek