Riding the Pig

It’s hard to find something coherent and witty to begin this process this week.  Hard to focus on one thing, getting this bible study reflection done so that I can then turn to putting the pieces of a sermon together.  There are too many distractions, too many happenings, too many responsibilities begging for attention.  Calling for notice.  The crazy dogs really want to take a nap, but the nice weather means the windows are open so they hear voices - real and imagined - and they have to comment on all of them.  Loudly and repeatedly, they give their opinion of walkers and bikers and - worst of all - walkers of other dogs.  

They are such good participants in a commentary culture.  The problem is I don’t know what they’re saying.  Which is typical, come to think of it.  An event that ought to bring a common spirit of sorrow and mourning, instead flares up in our differences, plays on our fears.  All those deaths in Orlando, we need someone to blame so that we can  rest easy in our prejudices.  Radical Islam, assault weapons, aberrant lifestyles, homophobia, the Republican recalcitrance, the Democrat weakness, the wrath of God, the consequence of a platform of hate and fear ... We are legion, say the demons that reside on our souls.  

That escalated quickly.  As things are wont to do these days.  Escalate I mean.  It gets to the point where one is hesitant to make a comment, give an opinion, for fear that it will get you labeled and attacked by the other side, because there is always another side.  Many sides, many nuances of opinion, of belief, of conviction or even of fear.  We are pulled in so many directions and running and hiding seems the only reasonable choice.  Not even realizing that we choose a place of death, instead of way of living, we hide among the tombs of what was, of our dreams and hopes perhaps, or our nostalgia, or our prejudices and hatreds.  

Wait a minute.  That’s not me.  That’s not us.  You’ve been reading Luke too much.  Listening to those stories and thinking that they are about you.  When you keep telling us they aren’t, they are about Him.  Luke set out not to write our story, but to write His. When we try to make it about us then we twist the meaning, or apply it too directly, too specifically.  These are supposed to be stories of reassurance, reminding us that the One we follow is able.  Able to overcome any storm.  Able to heal any infirmity.  Able to transform any failing into wholeness.  This is all about Him.

Yes.  True.  It is.  It’s about Him.  About Him and us.  Sorry if that sounds like changing the rules.  But it’s not my fault.  Blame it on the demons.

Luke 8:26-39  Then they arrived at the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee. 27 As he stepped out on land, a man of the city who had demons met him. For a long time he had worn no clothes, and he did not live in a house but in the tombs. 28 When he saw Jesus, he fell down before him and shouted at the top of his voice, "What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me"-- 29 for Jesus had commanded the unclean spirit to come out of the man. (For many times it had seized him; he was kept under guard and bound with chains and shackles, but he would break the bonds and be driven by the demon into the wilds.) 30 Jesus then asked him, "What is your name?" He said, "Legion"; for many demons had entered him. 31 They begged him not to order them to go back into the abyss. 32 Now there on the hillside a large herd of swine was feeding; and the demons begged Jesus to let them enter these. So he gave them permission. 33 Then the demons came out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned. 34 When the swineherds saw what had happened, they ran off and told it in the city and in the country. 35 Then people came out to see what had happened, and when they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. And they were afraid. 36 Those who had seen it told them how the one who had been possessed by demons had been healed. 37 Then all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them; for they were seized with great fear. So he got into the boat and returned. 38 The man from whom the demons had gone begged that he might be with him; but Jesus sent him away, saying, 39 "Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you." So he went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.

Why is it that sometimes Jesus asks obvious questions (like to blind Bartimaeus “What do you want me to do for you? Mark 10) And sometimes he just acts?  “What have you to do with me, Jesus?”  This question was asked after Jesus started to work.  That’s kind of curious, don’t you think?  The demons knew who he was, what he could do, and indeed he had already spoken, told them to come out.  But they played dumb, it sounds like.  “What have you to do with us?”  Are you talking to me?  They recognize Him, but they don’t really want to obey Him.  They want to argue with him.  Negotiate.  You don’t really want me to go, do you?  You aren’t really driving me out.  This guy likes me.  We get along well, sure he’s naked and living in a cemetery, but it’s a life, you know?  It makes some odd kind of sense.

No, it doesn’t.  Maybe to a demon it makes sense.  Living with brokenness, living with hatred, living in fear, doesn’t make any sense.  Not to Jesus.  He didn’t ask any questions at first, just was trying to get rid of the problem.  Until the negotiation started.  It’s almost like Jesus was prepared to take care of it until the guy chimed in.  Jesus knows what we need, but is always willing to let us self determine, even if our choices make things worse.  Jesus was going to send them out, they chose to ride the pigs.  

I know, I don’t want to go too far with this metaphor.  Demons can be a slippery subject for any of us.  But it is somewhat ironic that the legion asks for a ride on the pigs instead of being sent to the abyss.  Except as soon as they get on the pigs, they end up in the abyss.  The very thing they wanted to avoid becomes their fate.  Their self-determined fate.  And Jesus lets them.  Because they asked.  Just like Jesus left because the villagers asked.  He doesn’t put up a fuss, He doesn’t argue that he could do even more good given the chance, he just goes. 

How many times with anger or even with kindness have we said, no thanks Jesus, I’ve got this.  I’ll handle my own stuff.  I’ll ride my own pigs, wherever they may take me.  It was fear that caused them to send Him away.  Luke says coming and finding the one they knew to be crazy now clothed and in his right mind scared them.  It was a change that unsettled them.  If the crazy ones start sounding sane then by what do I measure my own sanity?  They’d grown used to him being there on the edge of town, shouting in the darkness.  He was useful for keeping the children in line.  Behave, or we’ll give you to the guy in the cemetery!  Now he was just like you and me.  The enemy, the other, they are us.  That’s kind of scary.  So, they got to together and stirred up their fears and all went to Jesus and asked him to leave.  So they could build a wall.  So they could stop immigration.  So they could be safe, be great again. 

What do you have to do with me, Jesus?  That’s our question too.  What changes will you effect in our lives?  What growth will you seek?  What effort will you require?  Require?  No, the effort we expend isn’t the result of a demand.  Jesus doesn’t come and say get to work or else.  No, He just loves us into wanting to work.  What have you to do with me becomes a man who begged to be with Him.  Did you catch that?  That fear that pushes away becomes a love that desires to move closer.  He wanted to be with Him, now clothed and in his right mind all he could think to do was to stay with Jesus.

He didn’t stay with Him.  At least not in the way he probably imagined when he made his request.  Instead, like us, he stayed with Jesus by telling his story to everyone he met.  He chose, having been rescued from a life of despair, to live a life of hope and of joy, sharing the love of Jesus with all that he encountered.   

Much better than riding a pig

Shalom,

Derek 

Staying Put

I’m just back from Annual Conference, which explains the tardiness of this epistle.  At least I hope it does.  Actually, my first thought was to send a note saying I’m not going to write anything this week and just go to bed.  Three days of denominational debate and institutional shenanigans are enough to weary the strongest of us.  Yet, to be fair there were moments of glory too.  Yes, indeed, I admitted that.  Some of them were small and interpersonal, friends and colleagues, some of them were grand and wonderful, worship and ministry celebrated.  The theme of the conference, because you can’t have a conference that’s just Conference, you gotta have a theme, was “Be Hope: Embraced, Lived, Realized.”  

Be Hope.  There were profound moments of hope shared.  Patterned after the TED talks, we had Hope Talks scattered throughout the order of the day.  Some of them were inspiring, some of them were idea generating, all worth the time.  I’m thinking of adapting the idea for Aldersgate.  Inviting members to share in different ways signs of the hope that sustains them, the faith that transforms them.  Not sure how to do that just yet.  So if you have an idea or just want to talk about it, let me know.  

Perhaps the most powerful moments were right at the end.  Our Bishop, Michael Coyner, retires this year, so this was his final ordination service.  That added a poignancy to the whole event.  The night before we had a rather long celebration of his life and ministry, ending with all those ordained by him coming forward at the end.  His influence was visible in that body.  Now added to it are those who were ordained Saturday morning at the conclusion of conference.  All of us who have been there with those on that stage, leaned in to that moment with memory and hope.  Then, just before the benediction, there comes the ritual of “The Giving and Receiving Appointments.”  This uniquely United Methodist moment is where we say yes again to serving in the Church, to claiming the appointment we’ve been given, and fulfilling the call in the place where we are sent.  Some of those are receiving a first appointment, or a new appointment. Many more, most in fact, are reclaiming the appointment they’ve been serving.  We’re staying put.  Trying to be hope where we have been.  

Part of the ritual is confessional, at least in intent.  “I now reverently accept my appointment with a glad mind and will, and pray that I shall be worthy of the call to the ministry...”  I’m aware that staying put is good news for some and not as good news for others who care about the church.  And I question my worthiness on a regular basis.  And yet it seems that the cabinet and the bishop, the church and I hope to believe the Christ who calls us all says that I still have ministry to perform in staying put.  We can still be hope for one another and for the community and world around us as we seek to make disciples, as we seek to feed hungry people.

But it seems we need something else to make all this happen.  Yes, the Spirit and Word, worship and discipleship and mission.  Yes, we need that constantly.  But there is something else we need in order to be the community of Christ that we are called to be.  In order the be the hope that we could be, that is within us to be, we need something else.  Something simple and yet profound.  Something easy and yet often more difficult than we can imagine.

Luke 7:36-8:3 One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee's house and took his place at the table. 37 And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that he was eating in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment. 38 She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. 

39 Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw it, he said to himself, "If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him-- that she is a sinner." 40 Jesus spoke up and said to him, "Simon, I have something to say to you." "Teacher," he replied, "Speak." 41 "A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. 42 When they could not pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?" 43 Simon answered, "I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt." And Jesus said to him, "You have judged rightly." 44 Then turning toward the woman, he said to Simon, "Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. 45 You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. 46 You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. 47 Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little." 48 Then he said to her, "Your sins are forgiven."

49 But those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, "Who is this who even forgives sins?" 50 And he said to the woman, "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

8:1 Soon afterwards he went on through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, 2 as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, 3 and Joanna, the wife of Herod's steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them out of their resources.

“Do you see this woman?”  Jesus asks some really obvious questions sometimes.  Did you ever notice that?  It’s almost like he was rubbing Simon’s nose in it.  You see this woman?  Of course!  He hadn’t seen anything else since she walked in.  She was ruining his party, his clean home, his ethical standards and most of all, his opinion of this roaming teacher of parables and blessings, this miracle worker with a call to a different way of living.  If He really was something special, He would know what kind of woman this is.  He would know she is making Him dirty, she is fouling Him right here in my dining room!  

So, for his mental debate he gets a story.  Jesus knew what Simon was thinking, not because he could read his mind, but because he could read his face.  It was twisted with disgust, like he had tasted something so bitter it pursed more than just his lips.  Simon, here’s one.  Guests of honor at fancy dinner parties were supposed to pay for the privilege by telling stories, by making riddles and testing the intelligence of the crowd and especially the host.  Jubilee year, debts are cancelled, who’s happier?  A simple enough riddle.  I suppose, Simon drawls, feeling unchallenged by the game, the who had a greater debt canceled.  Lobbing it back into your court, Jesus.  Ready for the next one. C’mon, you can do better, Rabbi!

But Jesus changed the game.  This wasn’t a test of intellect, it was a test of obedience to a God of hospitality and inclusion.  You see this woman?  Well, no, to be honest, he didn’t.  Oh, he thought he did and probably nodded when Jesus gestures toward her.  But he didn’t really.  He didn’t see the woman.  He saw the intrusion.  He saw the sin.  He saw the embarrassment, the nuisance.  He wanted rid of her.  Jesus wanted to include her.  To welcome her.

She loved much, Jesus said.  Because she experienced forgiveness.  But Simon didn’t have a clue.  Didn’t know, didn’t offer, didn’t think much of forgiveness.  Oh, he asked for it, read the prayer of confession like everyone else in his pew, though he was pretty sure he didn’t need it.  But he didn’t believe in it.  He didn’t live it.  He didn’t love like he knew anything about forgiving or being forgiven.  

Our text includes three verses from the next chapter that don’t seem necessary.  Except that they are about loving because of forgiveness.  They are about being hope in tangible ways.  About letting forgiveness turn them into generous givers and supporters of the ministry.  I wonder if Luke wanted us to imagine the that unnamed woman in chapter seven became one of the women who being chapter eight with such hope and possibility.  She could have been a woman of means, there is that alabaster jar which Luke doesn’t quite identify like Matthew and Mark do, but it could have been expensive.  She might have been a woman of means, and a past, and a joy of knowing forgiveness and love and acceptance.  So, she stayed put there at the feet of Jesus.  Staying put only makes sense if we live in and with forgiveness.  Because that’s the only way we can be hope for the church and the world.  I’m staying put.  I hope you are too.

Shalom,

Derek

Rise!

Luke 7:11-17  11 Soon afterwards he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. 12 As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother's only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. 13 When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, "Do not weep." 14 Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, "Young man, I say to you, rise!" 15 The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother. 16 Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, "A great prophet has risen among us!" and "God has looked favorably on his people!" 17 This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.

An amazing story, a miracle story. Unexplainable by normal science, with the usual explanations.  It is just there.  To give us hope, perhaps?  Or to remind us that the certainties of this life aren’t as certain as we tend to think, maybe?  Luke would tell us that his job wasn’t to answer our questions about life, the universe, and everything, as much as we might wish it.  No, he would argue that his intention was simply to tell us about this person.  An orderly account, he says in the preface to his most remarkable book.  An account of what?  Of these things, he says mysteriously, the events that have been fulfilled among us (Lk 1:1).  The events, these things that have happened.  Luke investigated, like a detective, a researcher, to find out what happened. So that you may know the truth, he says.  The truth.  What is truth?  Sorry, that’s John’s question in the mouth of Pilate at the end of that story.  

Or maybe it’s our question.  What is truth?  What is the truth that I can claim from this story?  Am I called to hold out an impossible hope?  To rage against death, that great equalizer of us all?  Is this story to be normative for true Christian experience?  Is that the proclamation we receive from this text?  

Imagine a character not mentioned in this brief story.  Someone in the crowd, one of the many mourners coming out of the city with the widow and pall bearers.  Just another face in the crowd, who walked alone even in the midst of the many.  She felt the sadness of the gathering, it was in her bones, because she too had walked at the head of this procession not all that long ago.  It was her only son, following on the heels of her husband.  She too marched with a feeling of despair for the widow of Nain, because she knew only too well the grief that had struck, she knew how hard this journey was, how every breath was drawn in pain as though even the body refused to function, how every step was as though walking on glass, uncertain, unmoored, feet about to slip from underneath her.  Oh, yes, she knew.  She came along in solidarity to this new recruit to the ranks of the unloved and forgotten.  Maybe she thought that at last there will be someone to talk to, someone to share the burden of grief that still bore her down.

So, the disturbance from the front caught her by surprise.  And shock.  The words filtered back through the crowd passing by her as though she wasn’t there, she had to snatch at them to hear.  “Do not weep.”  Do not weep?  What else was there to do but weep?  Weeping has been her whole existence since the day she strode out of the gates of Nain to the burial caves that lined the main road.  Weeping defined her.  She was the one who weeps.  Do not weep?  Absurd.  Unreal.

The stranger moved toward the bier carrying the last hope of the widow.  He touched it.  No, wait, her eyes must deceive her.  He touched it?  No teacher, no country preacher no matter how wild, would come that close to death.  Close enough to touch.  It just didn’t happen.  He must be crazy.  We’ve stumbled across a crazy man.  He’s going to do something odd, something embarrassing.  He’s going to compound the grief of this moment.  Get him away!  The words almost came to her lips, but then died there in her head.  Because the wind carried the words her spoke to the dead man being carried, carried to be buried, to be sealed away and forgotten over time.  Like her own husband and her own son that no one remembers but her, no one mentions for fear of starting the flood of tears all over again.  Carried and buried and sealed away.  But the crazy man spoke to him.  “Rise.”  

Rise!  Rise?  She would have laughed if only she remembered how.  Rise.  No, rot.  Decay.  Fade away.  Those are the words to be spoken to the corpse lying on the open bier.  Not ... not rise.  Rise.  It’s what He said, the wild stranger with the eyes that saw what no one else could see.  Rise, it’s what He said.  And what it, no what he did.  He got up.  As though he had only been asleep.  As if he had nodded off after a hard day’s work and his mother wrapped him up and laid him to rest and they carted him off to bed.  To sleep.  Forever.

The rumble in the crowd around her was palpable.  She could feel it in her bones.  Fear and shock, making way for glory and wonder.  Songs of praise broke out from the makeshift choir that had been singing dirges and laments.  It is incredible, unbelievable, incomprehensible.  Unfair.  She feels alone again, our imaginary back of the crowd widow.  Where was this crazy holy man when her son died?  Why didn’t she get the miracle?  Why is she left to weep?  

Luke didn’t write the gospel so that we can base our lives on miracles.  He wrote it so that we can follow the one for whom life looks different.  Jesus doesn’t see life and death the same way that we do.  He sees bigger, He sees farther, He sees more deeply.  And part of what he sees is us.  That’s the message here.  That whether a miracle occurs and we receive the one we lost in an unexplainable way or not, He sees us.  Sees our grief, sees our pain, sees our limited vision and short-sighted hope.  He sees us and has compassion for us.  He sees us and cares about us.  And tells us not to weep.  Not because there is something wrong with weeping, but because we are apt to get lost in the weeping.  And not be able to see what He sees.  That life is bigger than we know.  What we think we’ve lost is not lost, just out of reach temporarily.  And He invites us to lean into His arms when the one we want to lean on isn’t there any more.  We are seen and we are loved.  From that fundamental truth we can embrace a world of uncertainty.

Then, here’s where it gets immeasurably harder, He goes to the one we’ve lost and says “Rise.”  And though we can’t see it, we can trust it.  We can live in that hope.  See, here’s the thing, we can get in the mode of praying for and being disappointed by the availability of a miracle; we can read every account of an unexplained resuscitation and start counting on that when death strikes too close to home for our liking, and more likely than not have to face the disheartening reality of the frailty of this existence.  Or we can believe every life is a miracle and every death is a continuation of that miracle.  That in life and in death we are in the Lord. 

Life is indeed fragile.  And fleeting.  And full of woe so that we are the ones on the bier being carried down the hill from the front gate of Nain.  Which means we are also the one over whom the Lord leans and whispers: Rise!  We follow the Lord of life even as we dwell in a land of death.  What else can we do but Rise?  When we make the choice to believe in hope, when we strive to bring justice to a broken world, when we choose not to rely on statistics but on the promise that all things are possible in Christ, then we hear the call to Rise.  When we embrace the stranger and try something new even though it feels odd even to us, when decide to be a people of joy when our culture tells us to mourn and to fear, we respond to the one who tells us to Rise.  When we gather in the house of the Lord to sing our praise and offer our hearts, when we give out of the sheer joy of pouring ourselves out, when we pray knowing that we are seen and loved, we are heard and embraced, then we begin to Rise.  Rise up and live.  Rise up and hope.  Rise.  Rise.

Shalom,

Derek

Holy Splendor

We sat for hours in the bright sunshine, one of the first truly sunny days this spring.  Not a cloud in the sky, pale blue, warm and getting warmer, a beautiful day.  We were sitting on folding chairs set up the night before in a quadrangle of academic buildings and the library, neatly ordered rows fitting in between the sweeping curved concrete pathways.  There were suits and fancy dresses with hats, there were t-shirts and cut-offs, children and old folks, water bottles and programs become fans.  And joy.  Lots and lots of joy.  Some of the joy was mixed with relief, some was tinged with anxiety over an uncertain future, but even there the joy would not be denied.  We were proud to be sitting in those seats.  Proud of the ones we were waiting for. Proud that we had journeyed this far, taken this step, ready to embrace a future with hope.

There was chatter and laughter, greetings and introductions, the buzz of hundreds of people gathered for a common purpose, a single focus.  The orchestra was playing, mostly ignored until the familiar notes began to sound.  How Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance became associated with graduations, I don’t really know, but I can’t imagine anything else.  (The baccalaureate service had as processional music “I’m on Top of the World” by Imagine Dragons!  Now that was fun.)  

The faculty appeared, bedecked in their multicolored academic regalia, some accentuated by headgear that wouldn’t have passed muster in the institutions of high learning conferring their degrees, but now adding to the festive moment.  Then they came, some five hundred plus of them, the graduates, the 2016 class of DePauw University, beaming with a light that they couldn’t contain, and didn’t want to.  After speeches and awarding of honorary degrees, they began.  Name after name, one black robed scholar after another strode across the stage to the accompaniment of hoots and hollers and the applause of proud parents and siblings and friends.  Again I found myself wishing I wasn’t a W, having to wait until the end almost (not, however, Zupanic, thankfully) Then it was our turn, his name was read - correctly, I might add - and he strode across the expanse to receive the official document representing four years of knowledge and many thousands of dollars, and an exit visa into a different life.  A new and exciting but somewhat terrifying life in an increasingly complicated world.  Can he possibly be prepared, equipped with everything he needs for what might be next?  And who will walk with him, who will carry him to the next stage and the next journey and the next?  

I sat there in the holy splendor of that day and wondered who was in charge.  There was a time when I thought it was me, or us, La Donna and I have been a partnership from the beginning.  She does the important stuff - like paying the bills and making the plans and filling in the forms.  I ask the questions, ponder the meanings, worry a lot.  But now, as he strode across that stage I realized I have even less control than I used to think I had.  So, who is in charge?

Psalm 96  O sing to the LORD a new song; sing to the LORD, all the earth. 2 Sing to the LORD, bless his name; tell of his salvation from day to day. 3 Declare his glory among the nations, his marvelous works among all the peoples. 4 For great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised; he is to be revered above all gods. 5 For all the gods of the peoples are idols, but the LORD made the heavens. 6 Honor and majesty are before him; strength and beauty are in his sanctuary. 7 Ascribe to the LORD, O families of the peoples, ascribe to the LORD glory and strength. 8 Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name; bring an offering, and come into his courts. 9 Worship the LORD in holy splendor; tremble before him, all the earth. 10 Say among the nations, "The LORD is king! The world is firmly established; it shall never be moved. He will judge the peoples with equity." 11 Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice; let the sea roar, and all that fills it; 12 let the field exult, and everything in it. Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy 13 before the LORD; for he is coming, for he is coming to judge the earth. He will judge the world with righteousness, and the peoples with his truth.

The collection of Psalms in what we call the Old Testament is arranged into different books, and is sometimes called the ‘Hymnbook of the Second Temple.”  Psalm 96 comes from the fourth book, which include most of what are understood to be enthronement psalms.  Some believe that these psalms were written to commemorate the occasion of a new king taking the throne.  And that while the celebration was about the person invested with this authority and the pledging of the nation to be obedient to the king, the psalms themselves were not about the king, but about God.  If you read any of the enthronement psalms you won’t find a celebration of a human king, but the joy of declaring God as ruler of all of life.  

Which then causes some scholars to say that this was never about a human king, even with the understanding that the king is God’s representative on earth, in the nation of Israel.  Instead, they argue, these psalms were used on a regular, perhaps yearly, celebration of the authority of God.  In the ordering of the Christian year, the church thought it important to signal the ultimate authority of God, and the God in Christ.  So, the last Sunday of the Christian year is called Christ the King Sunday.  The enthronement celebration was like that, a celebration, a reminder that God is in charge.

Book four of the psalter, some argue, represents the exilic period of the people of God.  Driven from their homes, the people of God sought to live their lives cut of from the land God blessed with Presence.  There are many stories from this period of history, some more positive than others.  But in all of them there is this deep sense of longing for home, of the need to belong, to believe that they had not been abandoned by the call who created them and called them to be a nation, holy and righteous.  They needed the answer to that same question that gripped me as I sat in the sun of my son’s graduation from college: Who’s in charge?

Psalm 96 has no shadow of doubt.  Sing to the Lord a new song.  Newness often brings anxiety, but if we see newness as part of God’s plan, then we can indeed sing with joy, knowing that God is in charge.  And sing out loud, psalm 96 says, loud enough for the nations to hear, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.  We are called to live out loud, not keep behind closed doors, not declare that faith is personal matter.  Or rather acknowledge that it is personal, but personal in a way that it influences everything we say or think or do.  Every invitation we make or accept, every encounter, every relationship, every breath we take is influenced by our allegiance to the one who sits on the throne of our lives, the throne of all creation.

We are asked to pay attention in the courts of the Lord.  To see the joyful obedience given the king by the creation itself.  Hear the applause for God in the roar of the sea, watch the celebration of God’s presence in the dancing of the trees in the wind, in the glory of the sunrise and colors of the sunset.  He are called to be alive to God’s presence in the working out of the activity of the lives all around us.

Ah, so that’s what brought a tear to my eye as I applauded my son on his achievement, it was the blessing of the hand of God.  His academic finery robe and cords, hat and tassel, was not just a celebration of what he had accomplished, but how God had blessed and guided and kept company along the way.  The holy splendor that surrounded us was less of our making and more of the awareness that God is in charge, thankfully.

Here on this Memorial weekend, we honor those who gave their lives for this nation, but it is God we worship in holy splendor. Hoping that as a people we can sing the new song with joy.

Shalom,

Derek

"Y'all Means All" - Day Four at the Festival of Homiletics, Atlanta Georgia, 2016

Festival Reflections

“Y’All means All”

Day Four

A great way to end the last full day of the Festival.  It was a concert/storytelling event by the folk singer John McCutcheon.  He came out playing the banjo, but also picked up the guitar, played the piano, the hammered dulcimer and the auto harp, and managed to make them all sound amazing. He played with Pete Seeger, sang in lots of famous places (including Franke Park? ) He sang a song about his mom calling them all in to dinner, he had passel of brothers and sisters.  One line goes “there was plenty for all, though we didn’t have a lot.”  Sounds like home.  Another song was about his grandma, who was from the south, and said y’all a lot.  But told them “Y’all means all.” 

A lot of his songs were about unity, about family, about home.  That’s what spoke to me.  Maybe because tomorrow I make the long drive home, and because I’m missing folks at home.  Maybe because this is a big week in my family’s life together: Maddie turned 21, and Rhys graduates from DePauw on Sunday. Change is all around, I’m feeling unsettled about what might be next, I must confess.  And yet I celebrate who we are becoming.  Really, I do.  Even while I miss home.  The home I found. The home we made in each other and with more.

The songs were about a larger unity with a smaller metaphor, the world as family, the planet as home.  McCutcheon told a story about playing a concert in Canada and discovering afterward that someone broke into his dressing room and stole a computer and phone and watch. He called his 80 year old dad in the middle of the night who said, Son, it’s just stuff.  Yeah, but, he argued, it’s not about the stuff. It’s a betrayal of the community we created during the concert, he pouted.

I know that pout. The community we are creating is being shaken.  By all sorts of things it seems.  But Dr. David Lose has a theory that seems plausible to me.  His argument is that our losses are not the result of busyness or lack of interest, it’s not because we aren’t entertaining enough or utilizing the right technology. No, Lose argues, the problem is we don’t know our story anymore. And the world is ready to provide a selection of stories to compete with ours.  And here’s the rub, they are telling their stories better than we are telling ours.  Stories define us, shape us, help us connect with others, tel us what we really believe and move us into action.  We’ve become obsessed with facts, when what the world needs is story. We are, according to Lose, no longer homo sapiens - people of wisdom (in terms of information), we are homo narrans - people of story. 

The problem is we’ve gotten lazy in telling our story.  We assumed that everyone knew our story, God’s story, the story of God with God’s people, and for us Christians, the story of Christ in God’s story. We assumed everyone knows, but they don’t.  We don’t.  We’ve forgotten our own story.  We’re like the people of God in Second Kings chapter twenty-two, when the boy King Josiah reigned.  They were cleaning out the temple and someone found the scrolls of the Word of God.  When the King read them he was astonished, they had all forgotten.  Can you imagine?  Passover had not been celebrated for years because they forgot. They wept when they discovered what they had forgotten, what they had lost.  They didn’t know who they really were.  

But they got another chance.  They remembered.  They retold.  They recaptured their identity.  I felt convicted by this.  I am considered something of an expert on preaching in our conference.  Yet I had to ask how I was doing in telling the story.  No, in teaching the story.  Making sure those in our care learn this story.  Like many in our church, I worry whether my children, who are already good people, will make good decisions, will treat people well, will do their job, will be adults worthy of praise.  But will the church be a part of their lives? That’s the question that haunts me.  As I know it does many others.  We have to be better in telling the story. We have to tell a better story than the world tells.

Before Lose’s lecture, Dr. Karoline Lewis spoke on empowered preaching. And though she used different words, she said the same thing that Lose said.  We have to know our story.  For Lewis she had some specific “keys” for this empowerment.  They were all about knowing.  Know the bible, know your theology, know your body, know your leadership, and know your voice. It is in this knowing that we can claim our story.  But knowing means more than just having information, it means being able to be in dialog with, to unpack and examine, to look at influences and nuances.  It means knowing that we are important, but also part of something much bigger than ourselves.  Community, family, home.  Y’all means all.

The morning began with worship and David Lose preaching to us from Genesis 32, Jacob wrestling a man at the ford of Jabbok. This story, he argued is about identity.  Names were important in this story.  The name he had and the name he was given. The name that had defined him was Jacob, which means the usurper, or even the trickster.  It was a name that spoke of the edgy life that he lived.  And the man, who Jacob knew was the Lord, asked for his name it was like asking for a confession.  Who are you at your worst?  Who are you in your brokenness, in your selfishness, in your scheming and your plotting, in your manipulating and treachery, in your frustrations and hatred.  What’s your name, says the Lord, who are you?  

The good news is that God doesn’t let us keep that name.  You are no longer Jacob, you are Israel the one who wrestles with God.  Just like in baptism, St. Paul tells us, we put on Christ.  We have a new name, that of Christ.  The broken self is repaired, healed in Christ.  We are made whole and brought into a family, into relationship.  Though Jacob limped from his encounter on the river bank, he also was able to reconcile with his brother, return to his family, able to go home.  Y’all means all.

This afternoon I heard the Rev. Dr. Joy Moore, a fellow United Methodist, preach to us about Contentious Conversations.  Based on Isaiah 6, which is Isaiah’s call story, where Isaiah, like Jacob, had his broken self healed so that he could be of service.  But then was given an impossible task.  Tell the story.  Teach the story, even when they won’t listen.  Proclaim the word, even when they won’t follow.  Keep telling the story.  Everywhere.  To everyone.  Y’all means all.

Then the writer Nora Gallagher spoke to us about preaching climate change.  Yeah, I know that is a contentious subject, and she admitted that too. But in the end her advice had less to do with proving or disproving climate change and more to do with living in a world in crisis.  How do we proclaim hope while also being aware of the realities around us?  How do we find good news in the midst of bad news.  Her advice?  Look harder.  Look around.  Look for help.  Y’all means all.

The string is back.  The Spirit string.  Kite string, Plumb line, it’s back, was back tonight.  As I listened to John McCutcheon sing and speak my heart was bound up, my soul was lifted up, my thoughts were tied up in going home, to those I love and those I miss so much, those without whom I am not completely whole.  That string binds us together, the Spirit makes us one.  

I probably won’t take the time to write about the last few presentations tomorrow morning.  At least not for a while.  So, this is probably the end of these reflections.  I hope they gave you a sense of the power and glory of this event for me.  And I hope it might give you a glimpse of things that are to come back at Aldersgate.  And please know that my rapture of experiencing worship at this event is not intended to be a denigration of worship back home.  It is full of the same glory and presence as what I’ve experienced here.  Part of the learning is that it is more about preparation, about expectation, about participation in the moment than anything else. I am blessed to worship with a living community of faith each and every week.  There are strings of the Spirit every time we lift our voices in praise, every time we break open the Word, every time we share the bread of life.  Every time.  From every one.  Y’all means all.

Shalom,

Derek

"Subversive Sage" - Day Three at the Festival of Homiletics, Atlanta Georgia, 2016

Festival Reflections

“Preacher as Subversive Sage”

Day Three

Hump day.  Never really used that term.  Maybe wall day works better.  As in I hit one.  I used to be younger.  But then, it wasn’t just me.  The opening worship had technical difficulties.  PRUMC (Peachtree Road United Methodist Church) is not a screen oriented church.  But when the Festival made the decision to go paperless, a screen was brought in.  It stands on the floor, a huge thing, but kinda blocks the edge of the chancel.  And because it sits on the floor, when we stand to sing it is hard to see the bottom of the screen through all the heads.  Not ideal.  

But this morning the computer was acting up, or the operator was dozing off, or the preacher took them by surprise and wandered off before they realized he was done, whatever!  Yeah, you could download it on your phone, and lots of people did, but it was a distraction, blunted the Spirit.

Though I loved the preacher.  Former Bishop Will Willimon, I always enjoy his preaching or teaching.  He has that southern twang, coupled with a sardonic wit that keeps you guessing ... Did he really say that?  His sermon title was “He Went His Own Way.”  The text was Jesus proclamation in the synagogue in Nazareth.  “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me to proclaim good news to the poor.” You remember the story. Jesus is a hit, everyone is impressed, until He went His own way in the sermon. Reminding them that being chosen isn’t a special privilege but a call to service and hospitality even of those we call enemies. Naturally that didn’t go well, and the crown gathered Him up and went to throw Him off a cliff, but again, Jesus passed through them and went his own way.

Willimon says that Jesus has that habit.  Even when we want Him to go our way.  Even when we want to claim Him for our pet projects, our pet beliefs.  Jesus goes His own way.  And the call to us is not to invite Jesus to go with us - Jesus is my co-pilot.  Rather we are called to go with Him on His way.  Our job is to figure out what is His way, to follow Him.  

Selfishly, though, my favorite line was Willimon’s suggested response to the post sermon comment along the lines of “I didn’t get anything from your sermon today, Pastor!”  “Well,” Willimon suggests, “I don’t know why Jesus didn’t have anything to say to you today.  Sorry.” Jesus goes His own way.  Let’s go with Him.  

I couldn’t go with the last hymn, as it didn’t appear. There were snickers, and rolled eyes and people wandering out. Distractions.  Lots of distractions.

Left there and went to Buckhead Theatre for the next lecture.  Claudio Carvalhaes is a pastor who has served both in the US and Latin America.  He wanted to stretch our minds a little bit.  He spoke on metaphors for preaching.  Actually for preachers.  Who are we and what are we doing.  Many of them are ones I have used both in teaching and in my own mind.  But Claudio indeed stretched us into more images that could be fruitful.  Like, the preacher as the shaper of language and reality.  Shaper of language means that as preachers we can help people understand words in new contexts, and to understand the language of faith.  He argued that since prayer is the language of faith, without being steeped in prayer we have no understanding of faith.  We are not able to call on faith, to be faithful in our lives, to claim faith.  If, he said, we see no need for prayer, then we see no need for faith.  

Even more from Claudio ... the preacher as collective artist, not to do al the art but to collect it and collect artists and give them space to create within the context of the church.  The preacher as Social Agitator, as Fire Igniter, as Signpost, as Screamer Against the Tide.  Whew, I was worn out when he finished.  At the core of all he presented was the liberation agenda.  How do we turn the world upside down, the world of haves and have nots, when we are haves?  How do we proclaim against colonialism, when we are benefactors of a colonial past and an economy that functions like colonialism?  Hard words, big questions without easy answers.

Which was the thesis of Alyce McKenzie, that the one we follow was full of hard questions without easy answers.  Her lecture was titled “The Preacher as Subversive Sage: Strategies for Wise Preaching in Foolish Times.”  Alyce is a friend, she teaches in my alma mater, Perkins School of Theology, and she is a part of the new resource team for preaching instruction that was launched out of Discipleship Ministries in Nashville.  I went with them to Rochester NY last month and Alyce was there.

Her argument is that people are distracted. She’s found a term for the preaching environment today: Continuous Partial Attention or CPA.  With cell phones and wandering minds, few are focused for the long haul, they aren’t willing to by into the meta-narrative of faith.  So, Alyce turns to wisdom literature and says we need to think of proverbs and proverbial language.  

The culture is, she argues, distracted, story suspicious, but scene loving and wisdom hungry.  The popularity of youtube says people want scenes, snippets of advice and suggestions.  WE live in an age with a pile of information, but a paucity of wisdom.  And what defines wisdom?  Wisdom is the answer to the question “and how will you live today?”  Alyce told the story of Leontine Kelley, the first African American woman elected bishop in the United Methodist Church.  When Bishop Kelley was a little girl a woman appeared at the door and instead of the usual aren’t you cute kind of comment, the visitor said “and who do you plan to be?  You must be somebody.”  Kelley said she never forgot that question, it drove her throughout her life.  The questioner on her porch that day was Mary McLeod Bethune.

Wisdom is about who are we going to be, in a world of distractions.  I want to be a subversive sage.

Thought sage isn’t on my list of names today.  I missed a few lectures because I misread a map, trying to find a place to buy a late birthday present for my daughter and ended up walking through a hot Atlanta afternoon until I was almost ready to collapse.  I did get the item, but am still feeling the effects.  I think I’ll go lie down for a while.  Not feeling very sage-like right now, subversive or otherwise.  Ow.

Shalom,

Derek  

“Sanctioned Island of Misfit Toys” - Day Two at the Festival of Homiletics, Atlanta Georgia, 2016

Festival Reflections

Day Two

I made my way back to the church for the morning worship.  I must confess it is disconcerting to not have a bulletin, but it was an ecological decision.  We were told 4 trees were saved by not printing the multiple thousands of bulletins throughout the week that the Festival required.  Instead they were projected on a screen or you could download them from the Festival app.  Makes sense, but still ... I found my seat and settled in.  

Cell phones in worship, boon or bane to seizing the experience?  Discuss.  OK, I understand it’s a unique setting and famous preachers and such, but come on. Can we put them away and just worship together?  Ahem.  Moving on....

I felt a presence as the music began, again I was transported, lifted into an attitude of worship that is hard to find when leading.  The string was back. I took hold of it this morning. But it didn’t feel quite the same.  Instead of the gentle lifting of the kite in flight in the wind, this one felt taut.  It was grounded and vibrated like I had plucked the low E string on a upright bass, the thrum filled my head.  I looked up and saw the preacher and then understood. Walter Brueggemann, the irascible Old Testament scholar who manages to look like a prophet even as he preached from them.  “Advantage McEnroe” was the sermon title. It wasn’t really about tennis, but about advantage.  Who has it and who doesn’t, who are the advantaged, the privileged and who are the disadvantaged, the marginalized.  And how does call, does chosenness lead to advantage even when we don’t want it to.  In fact, Brueggemann went so far as to suggest that it is the loss of advantage that leads to anger ... in the OT and today.  And that one way to hear “Make America great again” is restore the advantage that is being lost.  Has been lost.  Do you realize, he pointed out, that soon there will be no majority race in this country, we will be a collection of minorities.  As Leonard Pitts pointed out last night, if you’re used to being Gladys Knight, it can be disconcerting to discover you’re now a Pip.  Your best choice in that scenario is to choose to harmonize.  But will we?

Preaching from Isaiah 45 and Acts 10, Brueggemann points to Acts 10:34 “Peter began to speak to them: ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality.’”    It wasn’t easy for Peter, it won’t be easy for us, for any of us.  Even with the best will in the world.  Now I knew what the string morphed into today. Amos’s plumb line. Today was a harder day, as our presuppositions were challenged.  Presuppositions as a white male, as a preacher, as one who was called - chosen.  Did I measure up as a follower of Christ.  Can I stand with Peter and believe God shows no partiality?  Even as our General Conference is meeting in Oregon with much conversation about who is in and who is out.  It was a sobering act of worship to say the least.  Brueggemann came back to his title at the end and said “You remember how every time McEnroe lost his advantage he threw a tantrum.  It did not serve him well.

This theme continued in Brueggemann’s lecture at 11am titled “Choosing against our Chosenness.”  Chosenness, he argues leads to entitlement, which leads to exclusion (who is in, who is allowed in, who we can legitimately hate), which leads to extraction of wealth (accept those who are useful for us even as we put them down with our economic oppression), which leads to violence (bomb them until the desert glows, go after their wives and children). 

Then Brueggemann dropped the biggest bomb of the morning.  “The Church continues to be a wounding institution, of which the perpetrators don’t even realize.”  But those we wound certainly do, those we exclude certainly do.  The string dangled near as he spoke.  

The problem, he argued, is that the bible often supports our chosenness.  But that is not the only message.  There is the Acts 10 passion mentioned earlier, but other words, even in the prophets, Old and New Testaments that point to a different reality.  An inclusive reality.  His conclusions were two: Absolute chosenness is at an end, and the pastoral task of the church is to guide people through the process of the end of exceptionalism.  Our tools?  Lament, the psalms are full of them, and the certainty of God’s grace.  That last did my Wesleyan heart good.

But the string dangled near.  After lunch with a colleague from Indiana, I listened to Antony Bailey preach from Revelation, which he called (with tongue firmly in cheek) the favorite book of the mainline church.  His title was “But This I Have Against You” based on the Letter to the Laodicean Church, the only one of the seven letters in the first part of Revelation that has nothing good to say, only warning, only condemnation.  Their fault?  They relied on themselves to the exclusion even of God.  They were lukewarm and Christ wanted to spit them out of his mouth.  Ouch.  Christ is against this idea of self-sufficiency.  Against those who rely on their wealth to solve their problems.  Against us.  

But Bailey, who comes from Barbados and serves in Ottawa, Canada, told us that maybe we can listen deeper to this word.  The letter to the Laodicean Church is the one that includes the warning “Behold I stand at the door and knock!”  Warning?  Or invitation.  Maybe he wants to come in and eat with us, to sit next to us, right up against us.  Against us.  Maybe, Bailey argued, Christ wants to dance.

Dance we did this evening, as Peachtree Road United Methodist Church was taken over by the choir and musicians and preacher from Ebeneeer Baptist Church.  The gospel was sung and preached with passion and power.  And the plumb line.  Yeah, it was still there.  Dr Raphael Warnock from Ebeneezer preached on “When Prophets Collide with Profits.”  The text was again from Acts, this time chapter 16, the slave girl with a spirit of divination who was healed by Paul.  But her owners didn’t see this as good news as their money-maker was now broken.

Warnock told us to preach to power, to challenge the status quo and to recognize that the interests of the empire often conflict with the interests of the kingdom of God and that empire won’t take that lying down.  But that story ends with an earthquake.  Paul and Silas are in jail singing hymns at midnight and the earthquake shakes them loose.  God does the best work in the darkness, Warnock argued. And that our job is to sing, God will do the shaking.  Our job is to proclaim, God will do the shaking.  The Holy Spirit comes to set us free to clash, to collide even despite the risk.  The plumb line measures, and one end is the weight of judgement, but the other end is still the Spirit of grace, the kite aloft in the wind.

Interspersed between these hard words were two other presentations that lifted my Spirits more than they weighed me down.  Maybe the design of the day?  In between Brueggemann’s sermon and lecture, Anna Carter Florence came back with a lecture titled “Five Things Poetry Can Do for Prophetic Preaching.”  Because you’re getting weary of all these words (Maddie’s frequent complaint - “Too many words, Daddy, too many words), I’ll give you the over all thing.  Poetry can help us look at the world differently. To describe, even the difficult, can be healing.  To give new perspectives, to engender intimacy, new interpretations of reality.  Preaching should be about finding ways to name the Christ among us, even hidden in the mundane busyness of the world around us.  To use the text as a lens through which we see our today, not just the bible’s yesterday.  My favorite parts were the conversation of the power of metaphor to enlighten and trouble at the same time, and the story of the Russian poet who defied a censure and lived among her community and gave them hope by helping them see reality.  I came away feeling lighter and wondering which poets I might turn to when I get home.

The other different moment came from Pastor Bruce Reyes-Chow, a Filipino-Chinese pastor from California who planted a church built around the concept of conversation.  His lecture was titled “The Desire, Discipline, and Disruption of Conversational Preaching.”  A very organized approach that presented the possibilities, the pitfalls and the practices of this unique approach to preaching. I took copious notes and look forward to taking them back home and working to take Genesis to the next level.  We created Genesis with the idea of interaction, but Reyes-Chow showed me new ways to envision this happening.  

But here’s the thing, he also gave me ideas for Heartbeat.  Not to turn it into something it isn’t and shouldn’t be, but to bring a new spirit and new joy into worship.  That’s the power of this event.  Yes, I am here for me.  For me to be inspired and lifted up, reconnected to the Spirit that is always with me.  For me to be challenged with a theological kick in the pants that hopefully get me back motivated to fulfill my calling as a preacher.  But it is also for Aldersgate.  Sometimes with good ideas I might be able to utilize, and sometimes just to bring a new enthusiasm for the task of the whole community of faith.  

A community with some unique realities, some almost indefinable qualities.  Reyes-Chow described the process of rethinking preaching as one of expanding our ecclesiology, our understanding of church.  He was the one who came up with my favorite metaphor of the day, the one I used in the title.  By including the congregation in the act of preaching, we are acknowledging who they are in a new way.  They become, he says, a Sanctioned Island of Misfit Toys.  

The best description of the church I’ve heard in a long time.

Shalom,

Derek