He Carried Me Away

Maddie is coming home this weekend.  Rhys comes home in three weeks.  The world changes yet again.  It won’t be as dramatic as the first time they came home.  That was world changing in almost incomprehensible ways.  I was not prepared for that.  I thought I was prepared, but wasn’t, not really, not for the transformation that was before me, before us.  That was seismic, cataclysmic, never to be the same again sort of scale.  This one will be ... an adjustment.  Like finding someone in your pew at church.  Oh, you think, but that’s where I usually ... Well, hmm, I guess I’ll ... adjust ... survive ... make do ... sitting over here.  

Maddie asked the other day if we were excited that she was coming home.  I said yes, and then realized that excited didn’t cover it all.  Yes, of course we’re excited to have her home safe and sound, to hear all her adventures from her semester in Europe, excited that she is a part of us again.  But also uncertain, who will she be?  Every time she goes away she comes back herself, but not quite.  Or herself and something more.  So, what will this chapter hold for her and for us.  We’ll be the family we have been, except we won’t.  None of us are the same.  And that’s good!  That’s what is supposed to happen.  But it doesn’t mean I’m not a little nervous about it.  

Rhys graduates from college in a few weeks.  Sorry, had to sit and stare at that sentence for a few moments.  It seems incomprehensible to me.  It hasn’t been that long since his world was Thomas the Tank Engine, or books about hyenas.  Has it?  Years you say?  Wow.  Where did they go.  And no he isn’t sure what he’s going to do.  Graduate school is in the plans, making some money, spending time away from academia so that he can go back to it with new enthusiasm.  It will be feet on a path that leads who knows where.  Somewhere.  Away, I know there is that, and I’m OK with that.  I think.  It is what is supposed to be.  He has a life to live and his world will be bigger than me, than us.  It already is, I know.  There is excitement about that too.  And concern.  Yeah.  

It’s what is supposed to be. I know that.  It’s just that I’d like to know.  You know?  I’d like to know that the path they put their feet to is a good path.  A path that will lead them to a good place, a happy place, a satisfying, life-affirming, soul enriching place.  I believe in them and in the God that shaped them and gave them into our care.  I believe in the minds they have cultivated and the hearts that they have grown and tended.  I am amazed at them both and trust that they will find their way.  But still.  I’d like to know.  To stand on a mountain and look over the promised land they are about to enter.  So I could know.  And maybe relax just a smidge.

Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5 And in the spirit he carried me away to a great, high mountain and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God. ...  22 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. 3 Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; 4 they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. 5 And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.

Amen.  It just seems like you need to say Amen after reading a bit of Revelation.  Not necessarily a word of agreement.  But a liturgical act, a response drawn from the sense of being in the presence of something you can’t quite understand but somehow know is significant.  It’s why you whisper when you walk in a cathedral even though there isn’t a reason to do so.  It is why you stand silent on the rim of the Grand Canyon, or the skywalk from the Willis Tower in Chicago, or the bank of the Mississippi River or ... well, you fill in the awe inspiring vista you’ve encountered.  

The Book of the Revelation to John is an awe-inspiring work of literary art.  Amen seems the least we can do in response.  “Thanks be to God!”  That might work too.  An acknowledgment of the gift, of the vision that is provided, even when it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.  Revelation is the book that comes to mind when hearing that quote, sometimes attributed to Mark Twain – “It’s not the parts of the Bible I don’t understand that trouble me, it’s that parts I do!”  There is plenty here that stumps full-time, life long biblical scholars.  And yet there is also plenty that a child could grab hold of without too much trouble.  The beginning of the book is like a splash of cold water to our sleepy faith, a two by four upside our dull discipleship.  And then the end of the book is a warm comfy bed we just want to crawl into and pull the heavy blankets over our longing for home.  It’s the middle bit where things get wonky.  Kinda like our lives.  It’s in the middle bits where we’re not too sure about things, we’re apt to lose our way, or at least to lose our grip on where we’re going and who we’re called to be.  And the only solution is to get carried away.

John was carried away, repeatedly it seems.  And so he gave us this vision.  He used a language we don’t know all that well anymore.  And no, I don’t mean ancient Greek.  I mean the apocalyptic language of codes and symbols used to communicate something profound and - believe it or not - ultimately comforting to the people who first read this book.  But to us it reads like the script to a Wes Craven film or a Stephen King novel.  At least until we wade our way through the rivers of blood and find ourselves in the last couple of chapters of the book.  

John reminds us he was carried away.  And now placed on a mountaintop to view the end of all that is.  Not the end as in time, it’s all over, that’s all folks.  But the end as in the destination, the vision of what we are heading toward, what we are trying to emulate as we follow the path that Christ trod for us.  Heaven, that’s where we’re going, that’s where we’re bound.  

And what we find is restoration.  God restores paradise.  Not as a garden, but as a city.  As a habitation for all the people.  Restores.  There is a garden, but it is there to feed and to heal, not to test and to challenge.  And in the garden there is a river, crystal clear waters of life, the living waters that Jesus promised the woman one hot and thirsty day outside the Samaritan city of Sychar.  Go back a few chapters in Revelation and you’ll see the waters are poisoned, dispensing death.  But here is restoration, refreshment, life.

The kings are restored.  Now they can bring their glory into the presence of the greater glory that is the Lord.  Earlier they were diminished, destroyed, darkened.  But now restored they enter into God’s presence with rejoicing.  And with them the nations they represent walk in the light of the Lord.  Just like Isaiah promised, just like they all promised, those who spoke the Word of the Lord.  Restored.

It also strikes me what isn’t there.  What heaven is lacking.  Did you notice?  No temple.  Because the temple is the dwelling place of God and now God is present everywhere, no need to locate that glory, it’s all around.  No sun or moon, because the light is everywhere, no need to gather it into one place when it can be in all places.  No night, because night was always the place of the absence of God, and God will never be absent again.  No loved gates because there is nothing to trouble us, nothing to disturb us, and all are welcome into the dwelling place of God.

  

There is more, more there and more not there.  More that John saw, but maybe that is enough.  Maybe all we need is a glimpse to carry on carrying on.  Maybe once in a while we need to get carried away so that we can be reminded that we are heading somewhere.  And then come back off that mountain and put our feet on the path that winds ahead of us in ways we cannot see.  But we trust.  We rejoice in the journey because we trust the destination.  And we celebrate the companions on the journey.  I’m excited they’re coming home.  Because we’re all heading home.  Together.

Shalom, 

Derek 

So That You May Be Healed

New York.  That’s where I was last week Rochester New York.  I know there is a Rochester Indiana.  And probably Rochester a lot of places. A quick internet search shows that we are surrounded with states that have a Rochester in them.  We can probably assume even further out, but I’m not that interested in finding out.  The point is I told everyone who reads this that last weekend I was in Rochester instead of in my pulpit in Fort Wayne Indiana.  But I didn’t say where.  A few read on to see that I flew there, so they assumed it wasn’t Indiana.  But they didn’t know.  And they wondered.  

My bad.  I should have given more information.  I could have said no one asked, but that’s a little disingenuous.  I was asking for prayer.  I should have been more specific.  Should have trusted, should have shared, should have informed.  OK, it seems a minor point, but it might be revealing of a deeper issue.  We’re afraid to share too much information about ourselves, our lives, our hearts, our hurts and our joys.  We’re afraid, or hesitant for lots of reasons - we think no one cares, or that someone will take advantage of us, or that we will be seen as weak, or we just don’t wanna.  Who knows what the reasons are.  We are private people.  We keep to ourselves.  Faith is personal, we believe, just between me and God.  Never mind the constant scriptural witness that tells us faith is a public, community, shared experience.  Our culture tells us to keep it to ourselves.  To go it alone, to bear our own burdens, to keep quiet.  

It’s a seductive call, this desire to go it alone.  Self-sufficient, self-motivated, self-actualized; these are all valued in our culture, goals to be reached, traits to claim.  They look good on a resume.  Any of us can see this as the ultimate way to live, Dependent on no one, beholden to no one.  And a certain amount of this self stuff is good.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m proud of the independence of my children.  They are growing into adults who are complete and content in and of themselves.  But I also pray that they know they need others, need me and their mom, need friends and loved ones, need a community of faith.  And above and beyond it all, they need the indwelling Spirit of God without whom they will always be searching, be incomplete.  

What if, just supposing, what if we all knew that our health and well-being was wrapped up in the health and well-being of every other child of God?  That might change our attitudes toward health care, not to mention intercessory prayer. Or actually, to mention intercessory prayer.  That’s what we’re about this series, mentioning prayer.  And it is what James is about in our text for today.

James 5:13-18 Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. 14 Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. 15 The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. 16 Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. 17 Elijah was a human being like us, and he prayed fervently that it might not rain, and for three years and six months it did not rain on the earth. 18 Then he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain and the earth yielded its harvest.

James.  The Epistle of Straw.  Luther called it that.  He was upset about the fact that James wanted followers to do something.  He was light on just believing, Luther thought, seemed to imply that salvation was based on what you did and not on the grace that comes through faith in the resurrected Christ.  Works righteousness, that’s what Luther thought, and others who frown at James seemed to think.  I think he was wrong.  I know, who am I?  Luther launched a reformation that changed the face of the Christian world.  Who am I to challenge him?  Well, it’s not just me.  I’m nobody.  But we, the community of faith we, are somebody. 

What I think they were wrong about is simple.  The accusation that James claimed that salvation is based on works is not a careful reading of the text.  In fact, I think James would say the opposite of that.  He would argue that our works are based on our salvation.  See what I did there?  His argument is that if our faith hasn’t made a difference in how we live our lives then do we really have it?  Do we really understand it?  Has it seeped into every corner of our being and now we walk with a skip in our step, we greet the world with a smile on our face, we offer a hand with a hope of a better tomorrow.  We are called to live optimistically.  Called to trust that the tomorrow God has in store is better than the todays that the world can offer.  And because we hope, we are able to pray.

That’s how James ends his whole letter, with a call to prayer.  But there are some fascinating statements in these verses that we sometimes slide over.  Verse thirteen simply says pray always.  Whatever our circumstance we should offer it up to God.  Bad stuff?  Lift it up to God.  Good stuff?  Lift it up to God.  It’s just a given of the life of faith.  We include God in our conversations.  We seek God’s help, we give God thanks.  It is just who we are.  I can almost hear the “duh” at the end of verse thirteen.

The next verse gets a little more specific.  Are any sick?  They should call for prayer.  They should call.  We don’t want to impose.  We don’t want people to know our business, our weaknesses.  If someone stumbles on my hurt, then ok, go ahead and pray, but don’t let anyone else know.  James envisions a different kind of church.  One where we demand prayers from the community.  Call folks, say get over here and pray for me!  

In that culture the sick were to be avoided.  Jesus scandalized even his own followers by embracing a leper.  The sick are akin to outcast, until they can prove they are well again.  But James says, no the sick have authority.  The authority to call on the church to come and pray.  To lay hands on, to anoint with oil - you can’t do that over the phone.  You can’t do that from across the room.  They should call the elders of the church, the leaders who should be leading by example, the leaders who show the whole church how it ought to be done.  This isn’t just the prayer team, this is everyone, it’s the kind of community we should be.  Don’t be sick alone, call the church.

Why?  Because verse fifteen.  The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven.  Wow.  That verse has a lot in it.  But not what we might assume is in it.  First of all some have seen an implied connection between sickness and sin.  While that was a common belief at the time, we know that it isn’t necessarily the case.  Illnesses have many points of origin, a lot of which are accidental.  But the verse points out that they have a similar effect, both illness and sinfulness separate the community and there needs to be reconciliation.  That’s the connection, not a cause an effect.  

The trickier point, however, is the implication that if the prayer is faithful enough then the sick person will get well again.  But if you look closely, it doesn’t say that.  The prayer of faith can save the sick.  Sozo in Greek, sometimes means physical wellness, but also means spiritual well-being.  Save the sick.  We save someone who is ill by including them, by remembering them, by telling them they matter to us and they matter to God.  Our prayers save them and remind them and us that God will raise them.  Maybe off the sick bed, maybe from the grave, raising is raising.  It isn’t what we want, many times, but it is the promise.

But the part that caught my eye the most is what follows.  Not the Elijah part, which simply says “See? Prayer works in amazing ways!”  But the second person part.  The passage begins in third person - they and them.  In verse sixteen it become personal.  You! Confess your sins to one another, pray for one another, so that you may be healed.  You may be healed.  But I’m not sick!  But someone is, someone in the community is sick, is in need of your prayer.  And you are not whole, you are not well, not healed as long as any are sick.  My wellness is wrapped up in yours.  Your wholeness is wrapped up in mine.  As long as there are sinners to redeem and the sick to be made well, we are not healed.  So it is in my interest to know your need, and in your interest to know mine.  

Righteous means faithful to relationships.  We pray righteously when we remember we belong to others, when we remember that our well being is dependent upon those for whom we pray.  We are righteous in our prayers when we praise God first, lift up others second and confess our sinfulness and need for a savior last.  That kind of praying is powerful and effective.  In whichever Rochester you find yourself.

Shalom, 

Derek

Whenever

“Pray for me.”  It was a text out of the blue.  A friend of many years who lives some distance away, told me part of the story.  Not all the story, but part.  Enough, I’m sure he believed, for me to pray.  So I prayed.  Have been praying since that text.  I asked him if he has anyone to talk to.  He said yes, and listed a umber of people.  I was relieved but also troubled.  He reached out to others, he asked for hands on help, for real conversation from them.  He only asked me to pray.  Only pray.  Granted those others were closer to him, could sit down with him and talk face to face.  I am hours away.  But still, I could have ... I dunno ... done something.  Something more.  Pray for me.  That’s what he asked.  But I wanted to do something ... more.

Prayer is our last resort.  There’s nothing to do, might as well pray.  We really want to help, we really want to contribute to making things better, but all we can do is pray.  Maybe next time we can be part of the solution, instead of just sitting on the sidelines.  Maybe next time was can make a real difference in someone’s life.  But for now, I suppose, might as well, just pray.  Just pray.

I can’t help but feel that Jesus had a different concept of prayer than that.  Healthier, perhaps.  More robust.  Prayer is not a last resort, it is the sharpest tool in the box.  It is the one we turn to first.  The one that sustains and transforms.  The one that makes a real difference in the world.  It is What sustains us and strengthens us, what reminds us of our mission but also of the resources available to us at any time.  Just by speaking a word, just by calling on a presence.  The world is changed.  Really?  

Matthew 6:5-15 5 "And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. 6 But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. 7 "When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words. 8 Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. 9 "Pray then in this way: Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. 10 Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. 11 Give us this day our daily bread. 12 And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. 13 And do not bring us to the time of trial, but rescue us from the evil one. 14 For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; 15 but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

Matthew says that Jesus put this prayer in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount.  His Summa Theologica, if you will.  His final paper for Professor Schubert Ogden’s Christian Theology class.  (Excuse me, I just had flash backs and chills running up and down my spine.)  This prayer, implied in the placement, is the definition of what it means to be a follower of Christ.  If we claim this prayer – and the warnings surrounding it – if we pray this prayer, no, if we live this prayer, then we will be followers.  

Luke says a similar thing with the placement of the prayer.  In chapter 11, the disciples approach Jesus and say, “teach us to pray.”  Some commentators say that they weren’t looking for a lesson on prayer, but for a prayer that they could keep in their pockets, a prayer that would identify them as His followers.  It was a secret handshake, a code phrase that would identify who was in and who was out.  

Well, maybe.  Maybe it was a sign of the followers. Or maybe it was a plea.  They saw him in prayer.  They knew that He didn’t do anything without praying about it first.  That He began every day in prayer, that He ended every night on His knees before the One He called Father.  Maybe they were hoping it was in the technique.  If we just knew how, if we had the formula then we could get as much out of spending time in prayer as He does.  All we get is sleepy.  So, they asked him and He gave him this prayer.

Whether it was in response to a question, or a part of His thesis, here it is.  A simple prayer that we remember and recite and say so often we’ve stopped listening to it.  Stopped realizing that we are tearing down the world as we know it and building up one more like the one God intended.  Stopped noticing that we are making a commitment in this prayer, that we are aligning our priorities with the Kingdom.  Stopped understanding that we were putting ourselves in a place farther down the line than we are used to wanting.  Stopped admitting that this prayer that we pray in our sleep sometimes is admission of failure, of brokenness, of the great need for a savior.  This prayer shakes the foundations of the world every time we pray it.  And we often yawn our way through it.  Ho hum, here we go again ... Our Father ... Our - a sense of community, we’re a part of something bigger than ourselves, bigger than we can see with our eyes, something we can only grasp through faith.  Our - it’s not just me and my needs and my hurts and my wanting to be fed, to be filled, to be blessed.  Our - it’s about us together, with friends and family, but also the stranger and the enemy, the ones who don’t look like us and think like us, the ones we enjoy and the ones we hide from.  Our - we are joining a community, a movement when we pray this prayer, we can’t escape with thinking it is an editorial we that really means just me.  No, that won’t work any more.  Our - we’re in this together.  With the one who called us children.  Our Father.

Our Father - no matter how well our earthly fathers measured up to this ideal, no matter how well we who are called father fill those shoes, we are told to call on the Father, the father of the fatherless, the One who wants to gather us like a mother hen gathers her chicks.  Our Father – this isn’t some distant, unapproachable, incomprehensible, nameless power of the universe, “use the force Luke!”  No this is personal, this is intimate, this is the One who knows you.  Jesus’ instructions say so try to dazzle with words, don’t try to pull the wool over the divine eyes by flattery, the Father knows us already, knows our needs, knows our hurts, even the ones we hide from the world, hide from ourselves, we are known.  Already known, and yet loved.  Still loved.  The Father, who loves like a Mother, knows and still claims, still calls, still wants to hear from us.  

But wait, it all sounds so conditional, a trade off, do this then that happens.  At least that comes out at the end.  If you forgive then you will be forgiven, if you don’t then you won’t.  So there!  Take that!!  Conditional?  So, in the end we are bargaining with God?  Better shape up, better measure up, or else.  Or is Jesus giving us a truth here, not a law?  Is He trying to help us understand that we are indeed a community even as He and the Father are a community that we call Trinity?  That just like He and the Father are one, we are one in the spirit with God and with each other.  And if we refuse to live in community, then we won’t have access to the fullness of grace.  That if we hold ourselves apart, wish vengeance on those who have wronged us, look down at those not worthy of us, turn away from the one who needs us, then we can’t – not because God withholds it some how, but because we can’t –  experience grace for ourselves.  Because we are not in a grace receptive position.  The same walls we build to keep the riff raff out, the same shells we create to keep us from crossing paths with undesirables, keep us from receiving what God longs to give us; forgiveness, grace and wholeness.  

Our prayers tear down those walls.  Real prayers, prayers of humility that are directed toward God and not the people around us.  Jesus isn’t saying that we can’t pray in public anymore.  How could we be the community of “our Father” if there was no such thing as corporate prayer?  But He is saying stay focused on God.  Pour out your heart to God, not on saying a prayer to impress.  

Teach us to pray.  So He does.  And perhaps the most important point of all is hidden in the way Jesus talks about prayer.  You notice?  He doesn’t say if you’re going to pray.  He doesn’t say if this seems like a good idea.  He doesn’t say if you’ve tried everything else.  No, the only if is the condition of our hearts.  But he says over and over, whenever.  Whenever you pray.  There is an expectation here.  When, not if, when you are praying, He says.  Whenever.  Kind of like, whenever you breathe.  Whenever your heart beats.  Whenever you pray.  Whenever. 

Shalom, 

Derek

Without Ceasing

It’s Spring Break week here in Fort Wayne.  At least our end of town.  Gray and cloudy and 35 degrees at the moment, Spring Break.  No wonder a lot of folks are heading out of town this week.  Going to search for a Spring in which to break.  Which also leads to the other designated nomenclature for this weekend: Low Sunday.  

Some argue that the designation “Low Sunday” comes from the usually low attendance on the Sunday after Easter.  One online dictionary actually stated that it was called Low Sunday because of the relative unimportance of the day after the grandeur of Easter Sunday.  Seriously?  There is a kind of let down after major celebrations, isn’t there?  A “now what” feel to it.  A shrug of the shoulders and a same old, same old back to the treadmill kind of vibe.  Attendance will be lower than the heights of last Sunday, there won’t be as many musicians, not as much celebration, the smiles will be even rarer, the glad to see you’s more infrequent.  Low Sunday.

We’re kind of feeling low this week at Aldersgate.  We had an intense and powerful Holy Week with the highs and lows of the Passion and Resurrection of Christ, accompanied by stellar performances by our choirs and musicians, from a deeply moving Good Friday cantata to a cheer producing Easter celebration.  I am so grateful for the commitment and dedication, not to mention the abilities and gifts of the Aldersgate Music Department.  But we weren’t allow to rest in that high point for long.  We had three funerals in succession in the week following Resurrection Sunday.  Three grieving families, surrounded by a church who was grieving too, three funeral dinners served three days in a row by another amazingly dedicated group of Aldersgate servants, served with compassion and precision and love, comforting families who had traveled for long distances to grieve a loved one.  I am grateful for the service of our funeral dinner women.  But it was tiring work, hard work, and wearing on grieving hearts.  

In addition, we have a long time staff member, who served Aldersgate, from children and youth to the whole family, served well and with love, going above and beyond her job description in ways that most don’t even know, who decided that she needed to enter a new season in her life and concentrate on home and family in a deeper and more profound way.  I was, needless to say, shocked by her decision, and I must confess didn’t handle it well.  I was more focused on the loss to the church and staff and less on the celebration of her changing focus of personal ministry, more on fearing how to fill the gap and less on respecting her decision.  And our communication in those last few days did not go well and she felt cut off and abandoned, misunderstanding some of my words.  I deeply regret the exchange and would give anything to be able to redo those conversations.  Low Sunday.

We have those moments, don’t we?  Where communication seems difficult, if not impossible. Where what is in our mind and our heart seems stuck there because of the words we choose and the emotions we wrap around them.  It’s a delicate thing, something we take too much for granted, this communication thing.  How many movies do we watch and think if only they would talk to one another?  How many books do we read and find the plot is entirely based on a false assumption that never gets corrected because people won’t talk, and people won’t listen.  Our political process these days is more about talking about or talking at and hardly ever talking with.  And almost never listening.  Marriages suffer when communication lacks, long term friendships whither and die when the conversation dries up, teamwork is impossible when the willingness to speak and to listen is lacking, when hurts are nursed privately and misunderstanding is compounded by repetition with those other than the principal parties.  A difficult, delicate, yet oh so important thing - communication.

And we struggle with it.  No wonder prayer is so hard for us.  Oh, not the formalized, ritualized, reading the lines in the bulletin, repeating the words we have memorized since childhood.  We can do that, we can pray.  But can we Pray?  Pray like Paul, as the song goes?  Pray like our lives depended on it?  Because they do.  Our life anyway, the life we were created to live, the life we long for in the depths of our hearts.  The life that begins when we speak a word to the Word, when we say yes to Jesus, the resurrected one, the living one.  When we start a conversation that literally changes our lives for the better.  For eternity.  The conversation that saves us.  Redeems us.  Reclaims us from the brokenness that we’ve become used to, from the way things are to the way things ought to be.  We’re created to be.  It starts with a conversation.  

1 Thessalonians 5:12-25 But we appeal to you, brothers and sisters, to respect those who labor among you, and have charge of you in the Lord and admonish you; 13 esteem them very highly in love because of their work. Be at peace among yourselves. 14 And we urge you, beloved, to admonish the idlers, encourage the faint hearted, help the weak, be patient with all of them. 15 See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. 16 Rejoice always, 17 pray without ceasing, 18 give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 19 Do not quench the Spirit. 20 Do not despise the words of prophets, 21 but test everything; hold fast to what is good; 22 abstain from every form of evil. 23 May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24 The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this. 25 Beloved, pray for us. 

Did you know that First Thessalonians is considered to be the first book of the New Testament written?  Some of the first words that got written down were about this conversation we’re supposed to be having with God, but also with each other.  There is a whole lot in this passage, most of which we are simply going to set aside for another time.  So that we can concentrate on the one part, the conversation.

We are launching a prayer series for April here at Aldersgate.  There is a series of videos as companions for the series and can be found on the Right Now Media site that everyone at Aldersgate has been invited to be a part of (if you haven’t gotten your invitation yet, let me know and I’ll get you hooked up).  But videos are actually a youth series with a variety of young people talking about this conversation that they are trying, sometimes not so successfully, to have with God.  And Francis Chan, the author of Crazy Love, is the Bible study leader.  There are four videos in the series and the first is “The Purpose of Prayer.”  

Why pray?  That’s the question that is before us this first week of our prayer series.  What’s going on here, in this act of praying?  And how in the world does one do it “without ceasing”?  That seems insane.  JD Salinger wrote a book in which one of the characters tries to follow this instruction literally, and even when she is in conversation with someone else, her lips are moving to the words of the Jesus prayer, over and over and over.  Needless to say it is ... annoying, to say the least.

What did Paul mean?  In this passage we have a description of the Christian life as lived in community.  This is how we treat one another, this is how we keep focused on God, this is how we climb to the heights Christ calls us to climb as His followers.  And it begins and ends with a call to pray for others, for those in leadership, those in servant roles, those who help us reach for all these aspects of love and life.  And in the middle is the injunction to pray without ceasing.  Meaning that we are always on.  We are always trying to connect, trying to communicate, trying to love.  To love God and love neighbor, you know, the easy stuff.  Always.  Prayer is communication, prayer is entering into the presence.  And it reminds us that we are always in God’s presence.  Without ceasing.  Our whole lives - the highs and the lows, the successes and the failures - are lived out within conversation distance of God.  So, keep praying.  Even on Spring Break.  Even on Low Sunday.

Low Sunday isn’t low because it is unimportant.  It is actually Easter again, the Second Sunday of Easter.  In the Catholic tradition it is called Octave of Easter.  Eight days later.  Octave.  The Anglicans changed it to Low.  Maybe thinking it was an octave lower!  They were singing in a lower range.  I don’t know.  In 2000, John Paul II changed it to “Divine Mercy Sunday” which maybe sounds better than Low Sunday.  Any of us, all of us could use a little more mercy when we pray, when we communicate, when we talk to God and one another.  Mercy, forgiveness is one of those things only happens when we care enough to communicate, care enough to talk, care enough to pray.

Open those lines of communication, even when it is hard, even when it needs to begin with an apology, even when your heart is broken and you are full of shame, even when you have been wounded and wonder if you’ll ever walk without a limp again.  Pray without ceasing, to and with God, with one another.  Pray.  Don’t stop.  Please.

Shalom, 

Derek 

Spices They Had Prepared

Ten years ago we were getting ready.  I had been awarded a Lilly-sponsored Clergy Renewal Grant, and we were preparing to take a series of journeys beginning with a family trip to Korea.  It was called a Homeland Tour and was made up of families like ours, with one or more children adopted from South Korea.  Naturally there was a lot to prepare.  Especially since I was going to be out of the pulpit for an extended period of time.  We had to prepare, the church had to prepare.  La Donna’s dad had to prepare, since he decided to accompany us on this trip, for a couple of reasons.  He figured we needed a grandpa along, and he wanted to go back and see the country in which he had spent his military service.  Mostly, he told me, he wanted to see if it had rebuilt, to see if anything grew there, since the war had pretty much devastated the land.  It reminded him of a gravel pit, he said, and he really wanted to see if there was something green there now.

So, we were all preparing for this trip.  A long trip, to what was for most of us anyway, an unknown destination, an undiscovered country.  But we weren’t the only ones preparing for a long journey.  La Donna’s mom was also putting things in order, getting ready for a journey.  She was dying of cancer, had been fighting it for some years, but was beginning to tire from the struggle.  Our journey had a schedule, hers didn’t.  At least not one we knew.  In the end, she set out on her journey before we were finished with the preparations for ours.  

Which meant, of course, that we had a whole other set of preparations to make.  These preparations caused us to set aside those preparations for a while.  Many of you know when someone you love dies there is a lot of work to be done.  And wrapped all around the doing is the feeling - of loss, of hurt, of anger, of ... well too many emotions to mention here.  The emotions often get aside so that we can do the planning, make the preparations.  Don’t they?  “I ain’t got time to grieve.”  Or is the grieving, the feeling, a part of the preparations?  

When Beverly died, Don said that he probably shouldn’t go to Korea.  It just wouldn’t be right.  We nodded our heads, we understood.  In the midst of the preparations it didn’t seem right, it didn’t seem possible.  Who could go on a journey of discovery when one’s heart was broken?  Who could plan for tomorrow when today seemed so bleak, so painful, so empty?  No, keep your head down and make preparations.  It is the only think that makes sense.

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

They brought the spices that they had prepared.  It was the only thing that made sense that Sabbath day following the darkest Friday they could remember.  There is work to be done here.  Preparations to be made.  At Aldersgate when a death is announced the machinery goes to work.  The system of caring  for leaps into gear.  Preparations are made.  Is there grief, is there brokenness and doubt and hurt so real that you can almost taste it in the air you breathe in?  You bet there is.  More or less depending on how close you are to the person being celebrated.  But regardless of feelings, of personal grief, there are preparations to be made, meals to cook, tables to set.  

They brought the spices they had prepared, because they had a job to do.  Luke doesn’t even know how many went to work that Easter morning.  He names three and then throws up his hands - other women, he says.  Don’t ask me.  The workers, the preparers.  They were ready, they were at work.  Ready to go and deal with the body.  Except ...

The tomb was empty.  Well, ... dang.  Luke says they were perplexed at this.  Hmm, you sure we got the right tomb?  Maybe it is that one over there.  Maybe it was not this cemetery at all.  I thought you were here when Joseph and Nicodemus put him in it.  Weren’t you paying attention?

Did they start to accuse one another?  Or were they all equally perplexed?  Retracing their steps.  It was dark that Friday afternoon.  They’d slept since then.  Or hadn’t slept, as the case may be. But Luke’s choice of words seem fairly benign, just confusion.  That lasts about a verse, however, half a verse until the shiny guys appear.  Who are they?  Luke calls them men who glow.  He says angels earlier in the book, but now it is men.  Has he gotten hesitant toward the end of the story?  Chapters one and two have angels dripping from the pages.  But now it is men.  In dazzling clothes.  Wandered there off the Las Vegas strip perhaps.  They show up and just stand there.  At first.  Then the women notice them and fall on the ground.  “Bow their faces to the ground” our translation says.  Could be a simple nod, a look away, women don’t look men in the eye in public, not in those days.  But given that he also says they were terrified, falling face down seems more likely.  Plus it is an undeniable sign of the holy.  

Then they speak.  Once the women fall down, the shiny guys give directions.  Like cemetery caretakers who notice the women are in the wrong place.  But in this case it isn’t the wrong place in the cemetery, or the wrong cemetery either.  They shouldn’t be in a cemetery at all.  “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”  The guys had to have smiles on their faces when they said that.  They had to know that such a sentence wouldn’t make any sense to the women while they lay there face down in the dirt.  Not dead?  What do you mean not dead?  Of course he was dead.  He breathed his last!  Didn’t you read the last chapter?  For heaven’s sake!

Which must have set off another round of laughter from the shiny guys.  For heaven’s sake.  Of course for heaven’s sake.  And for earth’s sake too.  For your sake and for mine.  That’s why he’s not in that tomb.  That’s why he’s roaming the countryside looking for the bus back home.  

Then, Luke says, they gave their only word of instruction: Remember.   And they remembered.  They had to be reminded to remember.  Remember what he said?  Remember all those words?  All that instruction?  All that teaching, all that warning?  Remember, they said looking at the spices they had spilled all over the ground when they fell, all the preparation he was doing for you?  Then they remembered.  That’s what we’re doing when we gather week after week, Easter especially, we’re being reminded to remember.  All those words.  All that life.  Remember?

The funeral had taken place, the preparations continued.  There were people to notify, insurance companies to contact, death certificates to hand out.  The preparing never ends it seems.  But Don says to La Donna in passing, “If I were to go to Korea, what would I need to take with me?”  He wasn’t committing to go, just wondering.  Is there life after death?  The preparations continued.  And one day when La Donna and her dad were out delivering papers to proper authorities, he says, “maybe we should run over to Sears and get me some traveling clothes.”  So, she smiles and changes the route a little bit, squinting in the light of the sun that peeked out from behind the dark and dreary cloud.  She came back to Fort Wayne and we completed our preparations and then the five of us flew to a home we didn’t know across the sea.  And Don was pleased to see how green it was, how new, how alive.  Death, the death of a nation or of a land, had lost its sting, as up from the gravel pit of a grave arose a nation of beauty and innovation, of creativity and of faith.  What faith, churches of the tens of thousands worshiped the resurrected Lord.

Sometimes it is in the preparations that we come to grips with life.  Life in the midst of death, life after death and life before death.  The theology of Easter is so deep and rich and full, but one thing that it clearly proclaims is that death is not the end that we sometimes think it is.  And the preparations we made for one purpose might be needed for something else entirely.  

I don’t know what those spices the women prepared that first Easter morning all included.  But I suspect that the next person who came to the cemetery to look for a loved one caught a new scent, one that hinted of life in all its fullness. 

Shalom, 

Derek

All the World's a Stage

It’s the weekend where I get to pretend again.  One of my favorite things - pretending.  I was a theatre major in college, was a part of many plays and a few musicals.  I loved the performing, but also the preparation.  I loved learning the lines and thinking about the movement.  I loved setting the stage and even building the sets.  I loved the whole experience, to be honest.  I could have done it for the rest of my life, to be honest.  And in a way, I do.  And on this weekend I come the closest to those days.

Palm Sunday is the Sunday I don’t preach.  Or don’t preach in the usual way.  It’s all preaching for me, all proclamation, all exhortation.  Incidentally, one of my person goals is to redeem the word “preach” for our use once again.  I’ve read in the paper a lot recently about how being “preachy” is a bad thing, and we don’t want our leaders to “preach” to us.  All this negativity.  Preaching is what I do.  And, frankly, it is what you are supposed to do too.  We’re all about proclamation.  We’re all about exhortation.  About creating an experience, about changing hearts and minds, about opening windows in the soul so that the Holy Spirit can blow through and bring about transformation.  I’d love a leader who could preach in such a way that I begin to believe in possibility, to believe in greatness.  I don’t want to be shamed into making America great, to be bludgeoned into a blind patriotism, or cajoled into drawing lines and pointing fingers.  I’d rather be exhorted to a better dream, I’d rather hear a proclamation of a better hope.  Preach to me!  

Sorry, a little preachy there, I suppose.  A little soap boxy.  Anyway, this weekend I am not preparing a sermon but using the one Dr. Luke prepared some years ago.  I use Matthew’s sermon some years and Mark’s too.  Can’t use John’s, however, my head won’t hold all the words.  The Jesus of John’s Gospel was pretty talkative.  But this year it is Luke’s sermon that I intend to present.  So, today I learn my lines again.  Today I think about staging and about emotion, I think about impact and interpretation.

Yes, there is interpretation in the presentation.  There has to be.  I could, I suppose, read the words in a monotone, conveying nothing of significance other than the “pure word” of the text.  There are some who think that is the way scripture ought to be read.  Let the words do their work, they will argue.  Just cast the seed of the Word of God and it will take root and produce fruit.  You don’t need to do anything to them.

I disagree.  Words always have something done to them.  Words always come to us laden with emotion and interpretation.  Tone of voice is crucial to proclamation.  The context in which the words come to us make all the difference in the world.  The emotional context as well as the interpretive context.  How are we to hear this news?  How are we to appropriate this information?  Some of the words from scripture are simply conveying information, and for those a dispassionate delivery would be best.  But most of those words are trying to proclaim an experience.  And without that interpretive context we would miss much of what is going on in that text.  If we hear the story of the passion of Christ as mere information, even information for our good, then we miss the depth of what was done on our behalf.  We miss the power of the Christ event that is Holy Week.

But perhaps the best defense of a dramatic presentation of the story of Christ’s passion is that Jesus knew the power of a dramatic presentation.  That is what Palm Sunday was all about.

Luke 19:29-40 When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 saying, "Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. 31 If anyone asks you, 'Why are you untying it?' just say this, 'The Lord needs it.'" 32 So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. 33 As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, "Why are you untying the colt?" 34 They said, "The Lord needs it." 35 Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. 36 As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. 37 As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, 38 saying, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" 39 Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, "Teacher, order your disciples to stop." 40 He answered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."

Jesus took to the stage in this story.  All along the way he had been holding them back.  His disciples were chomping at the bit to run with this story.  To let people know, to shout and sing and wave their arms around that the one they had been waiting for was here.  And he was better than we had hoped.  More real, more loving, more powerful and more caring than whatever they had dreamed up.  He was God with skin on, right in front of them, right among them and He knew them by name.  But Jesus kept saying, wait.  Not yet.  Keep it quiet.  Over and over He held them back.  Now is not the time He would patiently repeat to their misunderstanding faces.  Hush.  Sit down.  Wait.

But now, the waiting was done.  Who let the dogs out!  He did.  He let the dogs out.  And like the golden retriever pups that they were, they bounded all over the place with joy.  They threw off their cloaks.  Made a red carpet of many colors for the little donkey with the incarnate God on its back to stroll into town.  And they shouted.  They laughed and cheered and waved branches they ripped off the trees along the route.  I know, Luke doesn’t mention the palms, but the others do.  The Old Testament does.  

Jesus was acting out a scene from the Old Testament.  An enthronement scene.  A king riding the cheers of the adoring crowd right into the seat of power, the throne of authority.  A victory scene.  A conquering hero, a general back from the wars, still striped with the blood of vanquished foes, riding the relief of a saved society, finally feeling safe and secure, and wanting someone to bless, someone to thank.  Jesus took the role of the king, the role of the victor.  And changed the script a little bit.  Instead of war horse, it was an unridden donkey.  Instead of a well-drilled but war weary military force marching in step at his side, it was a rag-tag bunch of back country disciples, eyes goggling at the sight of the big city, jumping and dancing with joy as though their team made it to the final four.  Instead of the leaders of government and establishment, he was surrounded by the broken and the needy, the poor and the outcast, the lost and the forgotten.  He changed the script, rewrote the scene and then played it to the hilt.

It got so loud that those who stood outside the circle of drama, shook their heads and complained about the noise.  “Keep it down, will ya?  You’re making a spectacle of yourselves.  Calm down a little bit, for heaven’s sake!”  But Jesus just smiled and said “Now’s the time.  The time for shouting, the time for singing, the time to let the story be told, be felt, be lived.  You can’t stop it.  This story is bigger than you, bigger than your fears, bigger than your hesitations, bigger than your decorous behavior and proper manners.  This is a belly laugh in the midst of funeral.  This is a guffaw that breaks out during a reprimand.  This is a waving of palms in front of the wagging of fingers.  You can’t stop it.  Now’s the time.”

Now’s the time to act out the story.  So we can feel it.  So our hearts can soar and then break and then sing again when we thought the music had died.  So our hopes can rise to be dashed into pieces only to be puzzled back together again with joy.  So our eyes can smile and then weep and then shine again.  This is not just a head story, this is a full body story.  And you’re in it.  Come and take the stage with me.  You won’t be sorry.

Shalom, 

Derek

Like a Dream

I was all set to send a quick note saying that I won’t be writing a Bible Study this week because I was not preaching this weekend.  Aldersgate’s Director of Music and Assistant Pastor Chuck Scott is preaching this Sunday and I’m looking forward to it.  He’s already shared some of his ideas and I know it will be a great sermon.  As usual, I worry about losing my job after the congregation hears someone else, but it was certainly time.  He will be filling in for me when I am out of town a couple of times over the next couple of months, so we thought it would be good if he were to preach while I’m here this time.

Anyway, I was enjoying a rare Saturday off, well sort of off, I did go to the men’s group this morning and enjoyed their company, and I’m also planning for the Confirmation class that will meet tomorrow night.  But compared to preparing to preach, it was a Saturday off.  Then the phone rang.  On the other end was a woman asking me to go visit her ex husband who was dying of cancer in one of our rehab facilities.  “We used to be good members of Aldersgate,” she told, but after the divorce they just drifted away.  They didn’t have a church and wondered if, for old times sake, I would go and visit him.  I said sure and got myself ready and went.

When I got to his room, the ex-wife was sitting there and was so grateful that I came.  But then she excused herself and left me to talk.  After some considerable time getting him adjusted in his bed to a little more comfortable position, we talked.  He is obviously not long for this world.  He had lost over sixty pounds in the past month or so, was basically a skin covered skeleton.  But we talked about the past couple of years, about how his ex wife was “a god-send” and helped him out because he had no one else.  We talked about how food didn’t taste good, about how basketball didn’t interest him anymore, about how the doctors decided he couldn’t take any more chemo and it wasn’t doing any good anyway.  We talked about the on again off again spring and whether he would manage to see the real thing come when it did.

He thanked me for coming in that way that indicates it’s time to go.  So, I asked if we could pray together.  He said that would be great.  So, I held the bones of his hand, the one not covered in bandages from where various IVs had torn his flesh to ribbons, and I prayed.  I prayed, as I usually do in these situations a prayer of thanksgiving.  Which seems odd, I know.  But I thanked God for care givers of various sorts, professional and otherwise, for a place to rest when that was possible and a to find a lessening of pain when it wasn’t.  I thanked God for life that is always in those divine hands, even when we forget.  And I prayed for a chance to return home, when the time was right, our true home, our eternal home, where our bones won’t hurt and the loneliness won’t overwhelm us.

See, here’s the thing, I would have come to visit and to give what small comfort I could have without the lever of being former members of the church I serve.  It’s what I do, and have done more times than I can count.  But my heart was breaking because here was one who had been a part but was allowed to slip away and now when he needed it most they felt like they had to beg.  I went out to talk to the ex wife who was so grateful I came there were tears in her eyes.  And she hesitantly asked, after a time whether we could be willing to hold the funeral when the time came.  Of course, I replied, but didn’t say, it’s what we do.  Then she said we were good members, very active  for a long time, involved in lots of things.  But after the divorce it didn’t feel like home any more.  It didn’t feel like there was a place for me, when it was just me.  I don’t know if you understand that.

There are lots of reasons why people leave the church.  Some, like her, don’t feel at home anymore.  Others don’t feel they need it, or they got angry at someone, or disappointed.  Their needs weren’t being met, that is a common explanation.  It didn’t feel like home.

The men’s group this morning, studying Red Letter Christians: What if Jesus really meant what he said, a dialogue between Tony Campolo and Shane Claiborne, talked about the nature of family.  The authors point out that Jesus is kind of hard on the idea of family.  “Who is my mother?  Who are my brothers?”  You remember that bit?  There’s more, but I won’t trot it all out here.  I just found it ironic that in the early morning group of faithful men we could discuss family and cross the boundaries between the family with whom we share a name and the family with whom we share a faith quite easily.  See the value in both, allow both to define us and shape us.  And even talk about how we grow the family, how we invite and include.  And then this afternoon I met a couple who couldn’t make the shared name family work and because of that they lost their grip on their faith family too.

I wonder if there are those who have left their name family because they weren’t meeting their needs?  Probably, stranger things have happened because of it.  And I remember running away from home for most of a day because someone hurt my feelings or disappointed me.  And I know that families come apart for all sorts of reasons.  But maybe we’ve got the wrong end of this for both families.  Maybe it isn’t really about how I can get my needs met in either family, but rather about how I can pour out love on the other.  Maybe it is about what I can give.  And give.  And give.  Not counting, not measuring, not expecting a return on my investment.  Maybe how I live in my family - either and both - is training for how I will live in eternity.  By pouring myself out.  By loving with my whole being.  By giving anything and everything I have for those I love.  Not to be paid back, but to be given the change to surrender myself to something beyond myself.  And that something is bound up in the faces and bodies and, yes, needs of those I am learning to love.

Maybe those who leave the church because their needs aren’t being met are really right, in the end.  But the need they aren’t getting met is the need to give, to love, to surrender.  No one taught them how to do that.  No one showed them the joy of that.  No one was ready to receive that from them.  Maybe we should practice loving one another a little bit more.  Then everyone would know there is a place for them.  Then everyone would be at home no matter what their personal circumstance.  Because home is the place where we can love unconditionally.

So get ready Aldersgate.  Sometime soon, I believe, we’ll welcome someone home.  Someone who used to be home among us, but now is going home before us.  And we’ll celebrate a life some may remember, but that God remembers into eternity.  And we’ll continue to dream of being who we are called to be.

Psalm 126:1-6 When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. 2 Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then it was said among the nations, "The LORD has done great things for them." 3 The LORD has done great things for us, and we rejoiced.

            4 Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like the watercourses in the Negeb. 5 May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. 6 Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves.

Keep sowing the seeds of dreams.  Keep loving the family you find yourself in.  Keep opening the door and finding room.  

Shalom, 

Derek