Did you see the trees yesterday? My social media feeds were filled, for a time, with photos and glad remarks from friends who stopped what they were doing and took note. The afternoon sun passing through ice-encased twigs was perhaps the best after-effect of Friday night’s weather. Driving along a country road on Saturday was like driving through a jewelbox, all glittering crystal. I thought it looked like a hymn. My daughter and I debated how you might paint such a marvel. These curves and branches - the shapes had seemed so dull and ordinary, late-February drab fading into the background just a few days before. Yesterday? Glorious.
This is transfiguration: that which surrounds us everyday, elevated, made more beautiful. For a while, holy imagination reigns and we can see the glory.
And then we round the curve into town, and pull into the garage, and somehow it’s all still there waiting for us. There is still homework to be done, a sermon to be finished, dinner to be sorted out, and the cats have an opinion about the state of their litterbox.
There are the times when your holy imagination is filled with sunsets and mountains, crystalline trees and freshly-washed baby, hope and newness and the glory of God. The stuff of life, transfigured. Flesh, milk, water, bark, sunshine, photosynthesis, DNA, …which coexist with diapers, spitup, sweat, dirty litterboxes and the desperate need for sleep.
Jesus took his closest followers up the mountain to pray, and Luke tells us they were so gosh darn tired they were ready to drop. There are the times when human limitations tell holy imagination to stuff it. Aching muscles, tired of paying attention, do we have to do this now?
Yes, now. Even though we are tired, and smelly and messy, just ordinary human beings. He wants to do this now. Right now is the time for glory to meet our footsore, fumbling attempts to follow.
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Sunday, September 25, 2016
In the Middle of It All
Look at all this beauty! “You may eat freely,” God said - consume freely, take it all in, make it a part of you -
So you accept this gift of unguardedness, wandering freely. You open your heart to receive the world, using the fullness of your senses; feel the warmth of the sun on the back of your neck, say thank you for the blessed choice of the mosquito to take her meal elsewhere; enjoy the taste of water when you scoop it to your mouth, know the particular scents of the morning and evening, hear another creature’s movements somewhere in the garden, your soul enlarging with each particle of creation -
And then your eye settles on the tree. You remember the word, “except.”
It’s all yours, except for that one tree.
A curious word, except. Here we are, so close to the beginning of Creation, and there is already an “in” and an “out” group, what’s ok and what’s not. “In” and “out” makes the possibilities feel a little more limited.
In the fertile land, the story says, God grew every beautiful tree with edible fruit, and also the tree of life in the middle of the garden and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Go about your business. Enjoy the expansiveness of God’s garden. Delight in the diversity of creation. Wander freely and let your senses absorb the richness which surrounds you. Care for all of it. Eat your fill, except – see that one, there, right in the middle of everything? Eat from that one, and it’ll kill you. Have a nice day. Enjoy your freedom. Try not to think about the tree.
Except.
That not-insignificant limit might have been easier to take if the tree were at the edge of the garden instead of right.there.in.the.middle.of.everything. If it took a day trip to get out to the tree; if you had to go out of your way to see it, a bit of thoughtful tourism perhaps, a diversion. Somewhere in the corner, or on one of the side paths you didn’t travel every day, where you could credibly pretend it didn’t exist, now and then, instead of constantly catching glimpses when you were vulnerable and unprepared to deal with it.
Sunday, October 04, 2015
Another Damn Sermon on Gun Violence
We just had our nine hundred and eighty sixth mass shooting since Sandy Hook. That was in 2012, in case you’re keeping count. Two hundred and seventy four days into this year, there have been two hundred and ninety four mass shootings. The satirical news site, The Onion, has taken to simply reposting the same article each time a shooting happens, with updated locations and dates.
I was chatting with a good friend this week and said that I didn’t want to preach one more damn sermon about gun violence. She suggested, why don’t you just say that, bluntly. I replied, "I did. Four gun violence sermons ago." Dear ones, I am tired of this sermon. As (I’m sure) are you. As (I’m sure) is God.
I came home yesterday from presiding at a memorial service, and sat down to begin writing this sermon which I don’t want to be delivering. Naturally, my gift for procrastination took hold. I decided I would turn to my news feed to read a bit of what others were saying; it doesn’t do to compose a sermon while uninformed. At which point, I learned that our military forces – the United States’ – had bombed a hospital run by the international charity Doctors Without Borders. A hospital serving victims in a war zone in Afghanistan, with coordinates made known to both sides.
Words fail.
“Deliver us!,” the people cry out on Facebook, on Twitter, in the coffee shops and cafes. “Deliver us!,” they cry out under their breath while driving to work and hearing the latest death toll. "Deliver us!" while huddled in the corner of a classroom with the lights off. “Deliver us!,” the people cry out as they hug their children to bed at night. “Deliver us,” with the lighting of candles, the sharing of articles and saying of prayers.
While the politicians say, too, “Deliver us!” Deliver us into office. Deliver us into the halls of power, and then beyond, to the halls where the lobbyists and campaign contributors wield their greater power with a higher paycheck and higher stakes.
We stand in the presence of the Holy One. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Deliver us from the temptation to despair. Lead us into prayerful action.
We have been caught up in a repetitive loop of lament, captive to endless news coverage and a dystopian vision that the odds are so overwhelming there is no realistic path to change. It is as if we were still living in the days of the Romans, when the crucified lined the roads as a warning to those who dared challenge the might of an empire. Understand that every death in every mass shooting, every proclamation that nothing can be done, is another cross raised to keep you living in terror. This is all those news stories are designed to achieve: keep the way of death foremost in our hearts.
Is this the way Christ calls us to live? Enslaved, captivated by the power of death? We belong to a different story. The apostle Paul says this of Christians: We do not grieve as others do, who have no hope. We believe there is an end to the cycle of sin and death.
I am the God of the ancestors. I hear the cries of distress. I am aware of the suffering. Now go...for I am sending you to do something about it.
The burning bush is where we are called out. God knows who we are, and how we are tempted to slide back into our comfortable lives of sheep-herding and goat-tending. But at the burning bush, when people are dying and God calls you to act, prayer and refuge in personal holiness are not an acceptable retreat. God knows that Moses is far from perfect. He is a murderer and a coward, and not a very good public speaker, either. There are a multitude of excuses to be offered, but none are sufficient to disqualify him.
With every stammer of Moses, God repeats, “I Am; I Will Be.” And it is there we find our answer. Remember God’s name: I AM. God’s name is existence itself, a declaration of life. Do you really think a God like that will give any ground to the power of death?
If you have seen the flames and know the name of the one who calls you, if you admit this ground is holy, then you have no refuge in excuses. Yours is the voice God will use.
Such is the power of naming.
Followers of Christ’s way: the road does not end with death on a Holy Friday, or with lament on an empty Saturday. The road doesn’t even end with a glorious Sunday on which Resurrection is proclaimed. The road doesn’t end.
One of the earliest names for Christians was “followers of the way.” We are disciples – students; and apostles – messengers. If we are serious about our Christianity, then we proclaim life in the face of death; abundance in the face of scarcity, freedom in the face of enslaving powers that would oppress and impoverish God’s children. We allow ourselves to be broken open and poured out for the sake of the world. We do this, not under our own power, but rooted in the power of the one who sends us. We are given God’s name that we might use it in times of need.
If we believe in these things, then we pray without ceasing, and write without ceasing, and walk and speak without ceasing. We stand alongside the grieving, bearing witness to the temporary dominion of death, and we confront the powerful, demanding to know why human life is being sacrificed for financial gain.
We say to the ones who walk in the halls of power, enough with these damn sermons about gun violence. Deliver us from your excuses and your platitudes. There are solutions and we demand them.
Moses, you have been called to action by a voice from a burning bush. There is nothing about this which will be comfortable.
So make politicians uncomfortable. Moses had to do a lot of badgering of Pharaoh to become more than a joke to the political elite. Show up at campaign rallies and media events and office hours and ask how many people have to die before these policymakers take action.
If we are serious about this Christian thing, maybe we become single issue voters. Refuse to vote for a politician who will not take a stand on this, and let them know. Shift investments away from funds which support the machinery of death -- the guns and the bombs and the drones. Begin the de-funding of war, both domestic and foreign.
If we are serious about this Jesus thing, we bring these issues up in polite conversation. Don’t be timid. Make sure everyone knows your feelings: bring it up with your card club, your book club, your coffee klatsch, your curling and hunting and football-watching buddies. You do not know how many opinions you may sway.
We have been given the name, Christian. We need no longer tolerate a culture of death, the worship of the gun and the sacrifice of untold numbers on the altar of violence.
Dear ones, you want to know how you are being called to use your gifts? It is ever and always to challenge the dominion of death. This is the work of Christ, who came in the name of abundant life. We have not been given a spirit of fear, but of power, and love, and self-control. When we speak on the side of life, the Holy One will be with us. God will give us the words to say.
Amen?
Preached on 10/4/15 at McFarland UCC. Text: Exodus 2:23-25, 3:1-15. Statistics from vox.com and washingtonpost.com. Photo copyright: bennymarty / 123RF Stock Photo
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Whatever You Want: A God on Broadway Sermon (Chicago)
The Text from Broadway: “When You’re Good to Mama” from the Broadway musical Chicago.
There's a lot of favors I'm prepared to do - You do one for Mama, she'll do one for you!
The Text from Scripture: Mark 6:14-29
Herod’s daughter came in and danced, thrilling Herod and his dinner guests. The king said to the young woman, “Ask me whatever you wish, and I will give it to you.” Then he swore to her, “Whatever you ask I will give to you, even as much as half of my kingdom.”
Our soloist and I had a little chat when she was in to rehearse the other day, “Are you ok with me vamping it up a little bit?” It happens all the time with this Broadway series – a singer will come and say “are you sure you’re ok with…..” Ab-so-lutely. Nobody could ever honestly slap a G rating on the Bible. If we were to just focus on the nice wholesome bits on a Sunday, there would be a whole range of human experience that would not be reflected in our common worship. Life is not G-rated. So we bring it all to God – heart, soul, mind, strength… hands, feet, and head (whether it’s connected or not).
Let me give you a little window into King Herod’s court: the royal family tree has enough scandal embedded in it to parallel the most sordid reality television. Let me recap just the current generations: Woman marries her uncle. Woman dumps her uncle and marries her other uncle. Great-niece dances for great-uncle and a room full of party guests in a way that’s worth half a kingdom…or the head of a prophet.
Just what kind of a Gospel are we running here? Perhaps it would be best not to invoke Biblical family values too hastily. Herod’s birthday banquet offers an unsettling vision of what it’s like when self-interest is the name of the game, when everybody’s a free agent waiting to be bought off, and every decision is high stakes.
A fabulous birthday party thrown by Herod, for Herod. It’s a great day in Herod’s world– he knows his own tastes, and he’s in charge. Nobody’s going order the anchovy pizza or give him a clunker of a gift. Nothing but the best for Herod. Nobody he doesn’t want there, either. Everybody invited for a reason – someone to impress, someone to intimidate, someone to manipulate. He knows how to throw a razzle-dazzle kind of party.
Sunday, March 08, 2015
Speechless: A Parable
A Sermon on the Parable of the Wedding Party
And each week, instead of hearing a straightforward comparison, a basic lesson in similes and metaphors, we have been unpacking a deeper story. Parables are not Aesop’s fables with a simple moral and life application that will make you a better person; parables mess with your head.
Instead of a direct comparison, they twist our thinking. They help us explore more complicated questions such as, “What are the boundaries of forgiveness?” and “What if our central organizing principle was hospitality?” Today, we receive another kingdom sketch that seems to tear both of these prior lessons to shreds.
Today’s parable comes from the 22nd chapter of the Gospel according to Matthew. In our Bible study this week, we discovered that a similar story is told in Luke and in the Gospel of Thomas. Matthew’s version gives George RR Martin a run for his money. If you’re familiar with his novels, or the HBO series Game of Thrones, the storyline might seem familiar.
Imagine an occasion spun out of control. A scene where the soundtrack grows dissonant, you know something awful is about to happen, and yet you are powerless to leave.
(I ask your forbearance if you have known difficult tables of your own. You already know the agony of which I speak, the terror in the pit of your stomach, the sense of being glued to your chair. Many of us have been seated at difficult tables where our presence seems to be mandatory. The question before us today is, “how do we wrangle a blessing to accompany us in times such as these?”)
Imagine a wedding feast in a kingdom far, far away. The invitations go out by priority courier, to those from all over the kingdom. Both friends and enemies to be present, but an occasion not to be missed. Imagine the complex seating charts, who it would be permissible to seat at table with whom. Imagine the preparations, boxes and bins of food brought in to a buzzing kitchen. The smell of an extravagant meal in the works. Streamers and banners billowing from a high ceiling. No expense spared to make this a memorable occasion.
And imagine that, when this feast was ready, those invited said, no. “No, we cannot come.”
Imagine such an insult to the king’s honor. Imagine the heralds returning, from east and west and north and south with variations on, “no.” Imagine that some of them did not return at all. Imagine that others came back, not hot and dusty from the road, but cold, across the saddle, their lifeless bodies all the answer the king needed to demonstrate his alleged esteem in the eyes of those who had refused him.
Imagine the king’s growing rage. And then, in your mind’s eye, picture fields and cities destroyed at the hand of the king’s soldiers, the skies filled with smoke and scavengers.
Imagine a parody of normalcy, a grim scene in which the banquet takes place after all, and survivors are marched in to eat of what has been prepared. Imagine their terror. Imagine the stark reality that this could be all there is, this kind of king, this kind of banquet among the smoking ruins.
Imagine, too, the stark reality that the food within this hall might be all that is available for some time, the fields now empty, storehouses burned, and winter coming on. Imagine eating this food out of necessity, the opulence of this hall at odds with everything you know is happening outside these doors – one foot in unearned privilege, the other in destruction and terror.
And in comes the king, sweeping up the aisle, when his eye falls on one of these secondary guests. Not you, thank God, not you. But a neighbor, perhaps. Someone across the room. Dressed in their everyday clothes, quaking in terror, failing to celebrate sufficiently the king’s generosity. And for the crime of being merely human, and catching the king’s eye, they are seized by guards, bound hand and foot and cast into the cold, cold night.
A traditional interpretation of this parable has it that God is the King, and Christ is the king’s son, whose wedding the feast celebrates. Those unwilling to recognize or celebrate the occasion are victims of the king’s wrath. And heaven help you if you make light of the occasion by forgetting your fancy clothes – you’ll be cast into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Jesus says, “To what shall I compare the Kingdom of God?” And once again I say, “not this.” Not every parable draws a bright connecting line between the parable and the Kingdom. And while sometimes we do proclaim God as King and Lord – among other titles - not every king in a parable is a figure for the Holy One.
The traditional way of reading Jesus’ banquet story reveals more about humanity than it does about God. What does it say about us that we leap to the idea of a sadistic brutal God?* A ruler we cringe in terror of offending? A ruler whose operating style is at odds with previous teachings on forgiveness and hospitality and grace?
This king sounds more like King Herod, who committed genocide in the interest of maintaining his own power, murdering the children of Israel. This is not a kingdom parable or a kindom parable – it is an anti-king parable. It cuts down the power players, the kings and the elites of this world, who hold the power of life and death in their hands. We are constantly invited – mandated – to attend their banquet.
They know it is not an occasion for peace. I mentioned the series Game of Thrones earlier. There’s an event called The Red Wedding and it is even bloodier and more terrifying than this parable. In that tale, one of the people tricked into coming to the wedding notices, underneath a host’s wedding garment, a glimpse of chain mail. You would not wear armor to a festive occasion unless you knew violence was going to break out.
The way of violence always calls us to violent retribution. And yet, Christians, we are not called to return like for like. There is power in standing witness. On this weekend when our nation commemorates fifty years since the civil rights marches in Selma, on this Madison-area weekend when another community mourns the loss of another black teen, it is good to remember that we do not engage the brutal powers of this world with violence.
Especially on this weekend when we baptize a child in our midst and we say, “you are God’s beloved,” it is good to remember the other garment that we wear. It is not made of metal or lace; it is fit for neither fighting nor parading one’s material wealth. It is a simple garment, a servant’s garment. A baptismal garment.
We wear Christ. The Apostle Paul would say, we “put on Christ.” This is our armor against the violence that eats the soul. This is the finest robe that makes us fit to sit at any of the world’s tables. This is what warms and shields us when surrounded by weeping and gnashing of teeth.
This is a garment available to anyone who desires it and is bold to wear it. There is no shortage. It will not keep us away from bad news or guns or tear gas or grief. But it gives us strength to stand up to corrupt systems and power players who would burn the place down to preserve their privilege.
It is not an easy word we have from Matthew today, a parable of a king who is not God and a kingdom that is not heaven. But it is a piece of a story told by Jesus, and it is a gift that it has been passed on to us by a beloved community.
May we wrestle with it for generations to come. Amen?
Preached for the 3rd Sunday in Lent, for a series on parables. March 8, 2015 at McFarland United Church of Christ
Image copyright: 123RF Stock Photo.
*I am indebted to The Hardest Question for calling my attention to this line of thought.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Thou Shalt Not (a sermon on the child refugee crisis)
As I was made more aware of the child refugee crisis at the southern border of the United States, I felt the call to preach on the issue. Although we were in the midst of our summertime 'God on Broadway' series, I found an unexpected parallel in our previously announced selection for the week. As it turns out, Shrek - in both its film and Broadway musical forms - happens to provide an entry point into the issue of refugees fleeing violence. Bear with the first couple of paragraphs that made the contextual link for the people who were in the room, to get to the meat of the message...
Thou Shalt Not (preached on July 20 2014 at McFarland UCC)
Thou Shalt Not (preached on July 20 2014 at McFarland UCC)
The most famous self-help book ever written was – is – “The Power of Positive Thinking.” Since it was published in 1952, a whole industry has grown up around the idea of stopping negative self-talk. Coming from the same stream, we find the “Law of Attraction” and the “Power of Intention,” in which focusing your energy on the positive is supposed to bring all the good things you want in life. It’s in the parenting and teaching and leadership literature, too: “use positive language”. “Please do this”, not “stop, don’t.” (When you hear the question “Can I have a cookie?” at 5 pm, the best answer, according to the latest authorities is not "no," it’s, “you may, after dinner.”)
It would be nice if positive language did it for us all the time. And yet, it's not quite sufficient.
At the opening of Shrek, the Musical, the young ogre’s parents sing him a song, “it’s a big bright beautiful world...but not for you.” At the age of seven, they warn him against men with pitchforks. They let him go out on the road, telling him, “Just keep walking…and you’ll find somewhere to go.” There’s something a bit warped – broken - about a world in which parents have to put those images into their children’s heads, for their own protection. It’s enough to drive you to live in a swamp. By yourself. With a ‘Keep Out’ sign.
There are good reasons to frame things in the positive. But sometimes, for the most compelling reasons, we have to identify ourselves in the negative. In the story of the nation of Israel, a good portion of the law is occupied by statements of, “we are the people who do not ___.”
It would be nice if positive language did it for us all the time. And yet, it's not quite sufficient.
At the opening of Shrek, the Musical, the young ogre’s parents sing him a song, “it’s a big bright beautiful world...but not for you.” At the age of seven, they warn him against men with pitchforks. They let him go out on the road, telling him, “Just keep walking…and you’ll find somewhere to go.” There’s something a bit warped – broken - about a world in which parents have to put those images into their children’s heads, for their own protection. It’s enough to drive you to live in a swamp. By yourself. With a ‘Keep Out’ sign.
There are good reasons to frame things in the positive. But sometimes, for the most compelling reasons, we have to identify ourselves in the negative. In the story of the nation of Israel, a good portion of the law is occupied by statements of, “we are the people who do not ___.”
The LORD spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the people of Israel and say to them: I am the LORD your God. You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you lived, and you shall not do as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you. You shall not follow their statutes. My ordinances you shall observe and my statutes you shall keep, following them: I am the LORD your God. You shall keep my statutes and my ordinances; by doing so one shall live: I am the LORD.
- from Leviticus 18
In the story of the Israelites, there is much attention given to identifying as the people who do not - who will not, who shall not. Surrounded by other cultures that worship other gods, cultures which demand sacrifice in the name of cultural stability, it is important to be the people who do not – who never would.
Among all the thou shalt nots, there was a particular kind of sacrifice that was singled out for attention in the law of the Israelites, as given to them by God - child sacrifice:
Among all the thou shalt nots, there was a particular kind of sacrifice that was singled out for attention in the law of the Israelites, as given to them by God - child sacrifice:
You shall not give any of your offspring to sacrifice them to Molech,
and so profane the name of your God: I am the LORD.
- Leviticus 18:21
Molech was a god worshipped in the region, and in the worship of Molech (those who study such things tell us) the sacrifice of children figured prominently as an act of deepest devotion.
For the nation of Israel – our faith ancestors - child sacrifice was utterly forbidden. And yet, it was apparently common enough that God needed to say it, over, and over again – through the law and through the prophets – with the strongest language imaginable. An abomination, it is called. Something that defiles. Something that cuts you off from the worship of God, from the sacred assembly.
For the nation of Israel – our faith ancestors - child sacrifice was utterly forbidden. And yet, it was apparently common enough that God needed to say it, over, and over again – through the law and through the prophets – with the strongest language imaginable. An abomination, it is called. Something that defiles. Something that cuts you off from the worship of God, from the sacred assembly.
… I myself will set my face against them, and will cut them off from the people, because they have given of their offspring to Molech, defiling my sanctuary and profaning my holy name. And if the people of the land should ever close their eyes to them, when they give of their offspring to Molech…
- Leviticus 20
And yet, despite such dire warnings, the people do not listen. By the 7th chapter of Jeremiah, the prophet is raging against the Israelites themselves, because something has broken in the sacred relationship. The people, while still claiming to worship the Lord, have embraced the sacrifice of children. In a valley outside of Jerusalem – a valley from which we get the image “the valley of the shadow of death” – there, they have built a place of worship to another god. A place where children are turned over to be sacrificed, and the sound of the drums and the tambourines is made loud so the city will not hear the children’s cries.
Never was this commanded by God. Never did it come to God’s mind, the prophet laments. Through Jeremiah’s voice, the Holy One tells us what happens when the children are turned over to the fire:
Never was this commanded by God. Never did it come to God’s mind, the prophet laments. Through Jeremiah’s voice, the Holy One tells us what happens when the children are turned over to the fire:
I will silence in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem the voice of mirth,
the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride.”
Jeremiah 7:30-34
The horror of this is beyond imagining. We want to turn away. We do not want to imagine this in scripture, we do not want to hear this in worship, something so terrible that it causes God to mourn and simultaneously, to condemn. Might we have some more pleasant scripture, on a week when the news has been unremittingly negative? Yet, in our demands for relief, we are just as guilty as those who turned up the volume on the music so as not to hear the children’s cries. There is no secret chord that can make this go away.
When you present your gifts and offer up your children in fire, you defile yourselves with all your idols to this day. And shall I be inquired of by you, O house of Israel? As I live, declares the Lord God, I will not be inquired of by you.
- Ezekiel 20:31
Hear this: The children come from places with names like, “Little Hell.” El Infiernito. Burning with violence. Read some of their stories.
The Children of the Drug Wars: A Refugee Crisis, Not An Immigrant Crisis, NY Times.
It’s a terrible kind of desperation that would drive a parent to send children that young, hundreds of miles away…or a children that age to leave all they had ever known. It is clear that to send the children back is to send them into likely death. Into the valley of the shadow, the valley of the fire, the place where children are sacrificed to a burning god and we turn up the volume so we don’t have to hear their cries.
The messenger will bear witness against those who thrust aside the alien.
- Malachi 3:5
There is much more to say on the topic of welcoming the stranger, but if we focus on whether we should secure the border or leave it wide open to immigration, we are asking the wrong question. Christ comes to our doorsteps in waves of children. One, two, ten, ten thousand. Christ sleeps on the floor of the detention center, under a donated blanket. Christ comes to free us, knocking at the gates of our hearts. How is it that we turn him away?
Being made a Christian means getting a heart transplant, and a new identity to go with it. We become the ones who clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the sick and imprisoned. We become the people who do not neglect the stranger.
We are the people who do not turn away the children.
We are the people who do not send children back into the sacrificial fire.
Amen?
Amen.
Being made a Christian means getting a heart transplant, and a new identity to go with it. We become the ones who clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the sick and imprisoned. We become the people who do not neglect the stranger.
We are the people who do not turn away the children.
We are the people who do not send children back into the sacrificial fire.
Amen?
Amen.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
What I thought I knew....
From the God on Broadway series at McFarland UCC, June 15, 2014
Children are supposed to be safe at school.
The shooting in Newtown, Connecticut would be the beginning of the end of the fight against licensing restrictions on firearms.
I thought I knew that the solution to poor dating prospects generally does not lie in ramping up one’s antisocial behavior. I thought ‘day of retribution’ referred to a dusty, archaic Biblical prophecy…or maybe a new video game…not a YouTube clip full of threats against women.
Speaking of ancient history, I thought I knew that we were done with Wild West showdowns over grazing rights. I thought past due grazing fees in the amount of one million dollars was a pretty good reason for not being able to graze your cattle on federal land. I was pretty sure that it didn’t meet the definition of tyranny to pay a 20-year-past-due tax bill.
I thought I knew that it was a reasonable expectation to go shopping at a Target (no double-entendre intended) or eat at Chili’s without seeing someone carrying long guns. That there was no plausible reason one would need them while buying a grande-nonfat-caramel-ribbon-crunch Frappuccino.
The text from Broadway: "Any Dream Will Do" from Joseph & the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
----
"I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain,
To see for certain, what I thought I knew.
Far, far away, someone was weeping,
But the world was sleeping. Any dream will do."
Things that I thought I knew:
Children are supposed to be safe at school.
The shooting in Newtown, Connecticut would be the beginning of the end of the fight against licensing restrictions on firearms.
I thought I knew that the solution to poor dating prospects generally does not lie in ramping up one’s antisocial behavior. I thought ‘day of retribution’ referred to a dusty, archaic Biblical prophecy…or maybe a new video game…not a YouTube clip full of threats against women.
Speaking of ancient history, I thought I knew that we were done with Wild West showdowns over grazing rights. I thought past due grazing fees in the amount of one million dollars was a pretty good reason for not being able to graze your cattle on federal land. I was pretty sure that it didn’t meet the definition of tyranny to pay a 20-year-past-due tax bill.
I thought I knew how to kick my sarcasm problem. Apparently not.
I thought I knew that it was a reasonable expectation to go shopping at a Target (no double-entendre intended) or eat at Chili’s without seeing someone carrying long guns. That there was no plausible reason one would need them while buying a grande-nonfat-caramel-ribbon-crunch Frappuccino.
I did not think, when I completed seminary, that I would have developed an entire sermon series on violence and terror – most of it gun violence – in less than five years of ministry.
I checked. I went back and counted. My ninth sermon to this congregation was on the shooting of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and others in Arizona, January 9, 2011.
Then, March 24, 2012, following Trayvon Martin’s killing.
I somehow missed the Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting in July 2012. I think I was away from the congregation that weekend. The same summer, the Sikh temple right here in Wisconsin. I was away for that one, too. No sermon.
I did preach on December 16, 2012, following Newtown.
April 21, 2013, following the bombings in Boston.
July 14, 2013, in the wake of the George Zimmerman verdict.
And today. In the wake of the UC-Santa Barbara shooting, in the wake of Tuesday’s shooting in the state of Oregon, a foiled plan for a high school mass shooting in Tennessee and countless others that I didn’t have time to read in my news search.
“How long, O Lord!”
Seventy-two incidents of gun violence in schools since Sandy Hook. Forty-one deaths in 62 documented incidents in US schools. Eighty-six people die from bullets in the US on an average day.
Hear these words from the prophet Joel:
Hear this, O elders, give ear, all inhabitants of the land!
Has such a thing happened in your days,
or in the days of your ancestors?
Tell your children of it,
and let your children tell their children,
and their children another generation.
What the cutting locust left, the swarming locust has eaten.
What the swarming locust left, the hopping locust has eaten,
and what the hopping locust left, the destroying locust has eaten.
Wake up, you drunkards, and weep; and wail, all you wine-drinkers… (Joel 1:2-5a, NRSV)
Joseph says, “far, far away, someone was weeping, but the world was sleeping…
To this sleeping world, the prophet Joel says, “Wake up!”
The shooting in Oregon last Tuesday was the thirty first firearms attack in a US School since the start of the year. Where are we – not even halfway through the year? That’s more than one incident a week.
And the solution we get? One-thousand-dollar-a-piece “Bodyguard Blanket” made of bulletproof material five-sixteenths of an inch thick. For our students.
That's a thing now; there's a company marketing it. To schools where they can’t afford enough textbooks and paper and teachers. What if we spent that $20,000 plus per classroom to provide the support they desperately need so we don’t have more kids growing up to choose the violent solution?
We close our eyes, and we draw the curtain on our national sickness. We treat vulnerable bodies a human shields, arraying them between us and what we do not wish to see, what we do not wish to confront: that our worship of the right to keep and bear arms, the lifting up of the Second Amendment to the US Constitution as a false idol, has led directly to a culture of death.
The prophet Joel, again:
Blow the trumpet in Zion; sound the alarm on my holy mountain! Let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, for the day of the Lord is coming, it is near— (Joel 2:1, NRSV)
Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly;
gather the people. Sanctify the congregation; assemble the aged;
gather the children, even infants at the breast.
Let the bridegroom leave his room, and the bride her canopy.
Between the vestibule and the altar let the priests, the ministers of the Lord, weep. Let them say, “Spare your people, O Lord, and do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations. Why should it be said among the peoples, ‘Where is their God?’” (Joel 2:15-17, NRSV)
One mass killing a week. I could be preaching one of these gun violence sermons EVERY WEEK. What if I did? What if all of us did? What if the seventeen percent of the United States that attends to church refused to close its eyes, refused to sleep through this problem? What if we refused to admit defeat? What if we refused to make of our heritage a mockery?
What if we stood on the side of the Risen Christ, the visionary Spirit, the Great Creator who is the source of Life and not Death? What if we didn’t just stand, but spoke, and acted, and insisted– held our government accountable for these deaths, for its failure to act?
What we have had, to date, is a lack of vision.
Remember who we are. We are followers of a visionary who dared to act and speak as if money and military might were not power. We are followers of a visionary – and we walk in footsteps of visionaries – who gave everything for the sake of the work of God.
Remember who you are: You are dust and ashes, and you have the breath of God within you! You have seen death and you have risen. You have seen apparent defeat, and yet here you are, walking and talking and singing Alleluia! Community of Christ, how dare we act as if we had no power?
Peter’s first sermon -- after the arrival of the Holy Spirit set the church aflame -- used this text from Joel as its anchor. Hear it again:
“I will pour out my Spirit
on every kind of people:
Your sons will prophesy,
also your daughters.
Your old ones will dream,
your young ones will see visions.
I’ll even pour out my Spirit on the servants,
men and women both.
I’ll set wonders in the sky above
and signs on the earth below:
Blood and fire and billowing smoke,
the sun turning black and the moon blood-red,
Before the Judgment Day of God,
the Day tremendous and awesome.
Whoever calls, ‘Help, God!’
gets help.
On Mount Zion and in Jerusalem
there will be a great rescue—just as God said.
Included in the survivors
are those that God calls.” (Joel 2:28-32, The Message, adapted for inclusive language)
Community of Christ, you are those whom God calls.
There will be a great rescue. This a great and holy work. The world is waiting.
Amen?
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Shepherd's Song
Shall we just acknowledge, right up front, that it was a HELL of a week? Any week that starts with taxes and goes downhill from there deserves that recognition. Let’s be honest with ourselves and with God, that this was a week when we needed to lean on something, someone bigger and broader and deeper and stronger than ourselves as we navigated a relentlessly violent news cycle.
In Boston, death and destruction on what should have been a day of celebration. An industrial explosion in Texas that partially leveled a town. Poisoned letters through the postal service. A gun control vote that brought back the horror of December’s school shootings. An earthquake -- did you know there was a major earthquake in China while all this was going on? The manhunt for the bombing suspects in Boston, a major metropolis in lockdown, a city living in fear. Our collective post-traumatic stress from 9/11 was triggered once again.
And closer to our own geographic location, personal dramas gripped us all the while – finances, health, work, school, relationships – because those things never stop coming either. And the rain. The seemingly-never-ending, spirit-flattening cold rain that has only been interrupted by April snow. We ran out of adjectives and resorted to expletives. Dear Jesus, can you please send us puppies and rainbows and unicorns next because we’re drowning in bad news and there is no ark in sight. How long, O Lord? How much do you expect us to take? We address the questions to God, not because God did it, but because God is the only thing we know on this scale.
Heaven help us, this has been a week of God-sized terrors, which take our fiction of being independent, self-guided and self-actualized and make of it a mockery. This has been a week of being reminded that “independent” doesn’t preach when the blast has knocked you to the ground and you need perfect strangers to tie a piece of cloth tightly around your leg, carry you away in their arms and save your life. Self-guided and self-actualized doesn’t cut it when you’re stunned by the rapid swirl of events, when a misfire in your brain has left you foggy and confused and you desperately need someone to take your hand and help you keep walking through the valley of the shadow lest you fall down and cry your heart out there in the valley and never get up again.
Dear God, we need a shepherd. We need Holy Words and a Holy One, a Holy Resurrected One, because the terrors of the week were quite enough, thank you, and we need somebody bigger to be in charge. We need someplace safe to lie down. We need a drink of cool, healing water. We need green things and flowers and beauty and softness and birds twittering like they do in the animated movies, not that other Twitter that this week carried violence and rumors of violence to us minute by minute, scrolling by on electronic streams.
Among the oldest depictions of Jesus is the image of the Good Shepherd, a fresco on the ceilings of the catacombs, the burial places of the early Christians near Rome. We have always needed a shepherd. Oh, dear God, we need a shepherd. Because to be shepherd-less is terrifying, wandering aimlessly, stumbling near the cliffs in the night. Because without a shepherd, we’re not a flock, not really. We’re just a buffet dinner in wooly clothes waiting for the next wolf to walk by. We need your Holy Words and Holy Nudges and the comfort of learning your songs because you need a song to sing in a time like this.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. The odds are good that someone, somewhere taught you that. You learned it in Sunday School or Religious Education or by recitation at countless funerals, or perhaps from your grandmother. There are other Holy Words too, touchstones, sacred songs from scripture and tradition, songs that you lean on because they are heart-songs, heart-prayers, borne of constant repetition.
A woman with dementia in the hospital where I did my chaplaincy, who had witnessed violence in her own home, was practically nonverbal until the day I said the 23rd Psalm alongside her, mumbling along until we came to the valley of the shadow of death where she proclaimed triumphantly with a prophet’s voice so the entire wing could hear, “I will fear no evil!”
My Catholic grandmother used to say the rosary when I was in her cool apartment on a summer’s day. And though I was raised protestant, my heart knows the words. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death, Amen. I know this, from hearing my grandmother recite it countless times. It was, and is, a heart-prayer.
I was scared of the dark as a child, scared to go down the dark hall to turn on my bedroom light, scared to get out of bed in the night to use the bathroom, and I remember running down the hall reciting the Lord’s Prayer at lightning speed as if it were a talisman against terror, leaping onto the safe haven of my bed. “And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”
Maybe it’s not Psalms or the prayers but more recent songs you sing in these times. Maybe it’s from the hymnal in your childhood church where the spine cracked open to “Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” Perhaps it is Jesus Loves Me, Amazing Grace, or “Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn… through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light, take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.” Perhaps it is the echo of an organ resounding with the great chords of “A Mighty Fortress is Our God, A Bulwark NEVER failing…” and a congregation, a cloud of witnesses singing in four part harmony.
"For still our ancient foe, doth seek to work us woe…” When we are scared, when we are terrified, when we are wounded, sick in body or spirit, what Holy Word, what Holy Tune is so deeply ingrained in us that it comes to our lips, unbidden? It is that tune, that prayer, that story, that we learned in childhood. It has been said that in singing songs to our children, we are preparing them for their deathbeds. Such are the songs they will sing, the songs and prayers and theology that will pulse through their heart, be breathed through their lips in their last days. Such were the Psalms offered up by the wounded and dying in Boston, by the first responders, by the ambulance drivers and trauma surgeons, by the police officers in their cruisers, on their house-by-house search, by those behind locked doors and drawn shades, and even by those watching their televisions and computer screens with bated breath.
And though it makes this mother ache to think of, in a time of terror, these are the songs that our children will someday have to draw on.
So I ask this body of Christ, on this Bible-giving Sunday, on this Sunday following terror (not after, never after, not until the last trumpet sounds) on this day where we talk of sheep and shepherds, I ask you parents and you grandparents, you aunts and uncles, you Godparents and faith friends and adoptive and surrogate parents, you brothers and sisters in Christ, you baptismal promise-making, flock of Christ-following ones: How are you claiming your promises? How are we preparing our children to walk through life? How are we preparing them to walk through the valley of the shadow of death? With what holy words and sacred songs, with what heritage are we equipping them?
How is this flock showing its children that this is the Shepherd and you can trust his voice? How can we teach them the song the shepherd sings and how good it is? How do we set the table for their adulthood?
Let us pray together:
I believe I need a shepherd.
Because I am sometimes timid and other times overconfident,
because I often don't know the best path yet pretend I do,
because I rush into dead ends or lead others into hazardous places,
because my brightest ideas are seamed with darkness,
because the things I crave may not be what is good for me,
I need a shepherd.
I believe in Jesus, the best possible shepherd;
his wisdom leads me to the best opportunities,
his word comforts me when I'm anxious or afraid,
his arm steadies me when I feel weary and heavy-laden,
his wounded body displays the cost of my rescue,.
I believe in Jesus, the best possible shepherd.
I believe that I do not find him but he finds me,
that I live under his care by virtue of sheer grace,
the love he gives me is to be shared with others,
that he treasures my name and prepares a place for me,
that his fold transfixes earth and heaven.
I trust Jesus, the good shepherd. Amen.
The Shepherd's Song by Rev. Kerri Parker is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Friday, March 29, 2013
everyday bandits
we have been letting them kill jesus
different names to be sure different
baptismal names given names adopted
names of poor rich artbringing musicmaking
different skin different attitude different
when things are less than clear we call
for a scapegoat face mixed-up mixed-in
out of place lingering in the margins face
so an everyday bandit in a three piece suit
or casual friday khakis may just get away
but the one who declines to rule who just
wants to celebrate the sheer power of life -
that one, we crucify.
we have been killing jesus for a long time now
jesus with different names faces genders loves
family trees places of being passions and tastes
but this passion for life shown by a child of god
is the one that must be crushed obliterated
ignored marginalized not matter not ours no
an affront. dust and ashes whose insignificance
we must prove by forcefully casting aside a threat
to everyday bandits everywhere
Inspired by the passion story
in the Gospel according to John
Holy Week 2013
different names to be sure different
baptismal names given names adopted
names of poor rich artbringing musicmaking
different skin different attitude different
when things are less than clear we call
for a scapegoat face mixed-up mixed-in
out of place lingering in the margins face
so an everyday bandit in a three piece suit
or casual friday khakis may just get away
but the one who declines to rule who just
wants to celebrate the sheer power of life -
that one, we crucify.
we have been killing jesus for a long time now
jesus with different names faces genders loves
family trees places of being passions and tastes
but this passion for life shown by a child of god
is the one that must be crushed obliterated
ignored marginalized not matter not ours no
an affront. dust and ashes whose insignificance
we must prove by forcefully casting aside a threat
to everyday bandits everywhere
Inspired by the passion story
in the Gospel according to John
Holy Week 2013
what is truth?
things are moving too fast
can we not stop this dissonant parade?
passover dinner to garden to prayer
and in a sleepy fog they came, we fought
over him and thought not much in a torchlit
terror-filled garden
to Annas to Caiaphas to Pilate we cannot
keep straight where they have taken him
but he is moving, always moving, they are
moving him and striking him and asking
ever more questions that have no fair answer
questions that lead to one conclusion
a painful one a shouting crowd
the kingdom of something certainly
not the one we were looking for
what is truth?
Inspired by the passion story
according to the Gospel of John
Holy Week 2013
can we not stop this dissonant parade?
passover dinner to garden to prayer
and in a sleepy fog they came, we fought
over him and thought not much in a torchlit
terror-filled garden
to Annas to Caiaphas to Pilate we cannot
keep straight where they have taken him
but he is moving, always moving, they are
moving him and striking him and asking
ever more questions that have no fair answer
questions that lead to one conclusion
a painful one a shouting crowd
the kingdom of something certainly
not the one we were looking for
what is truth?
Inspired by the passion story
according to the Gospel of John
Holy Week 2013
Sunday, December 16, 2012
You will say in that day....
“I will trust, and will not be afraid,” rings a little hollow in a society where kindergarteners are gunned down with semi-automatic weapons while sitting in their classroom on a Friday morning. We are broken-hearted. How can we not be afraid? How can we not be angry? How can we not be sick inside? How can we not be in murderous fury and anguish and deep, deep, sorrow all at once?You will say in that day,…
Surely God is my salvation;
I will trust, and will not be afraid,
How can we find words adequate to describe what is going on inside us after one more in a line of horrific incidents?
In today’s scripture, the prophet’s song begins, “You will say on that day….’God is my salvation’.” And struggling humanity wants to know: just what day will that be? What day is it that I will be able to trust, and not be afraid? On what day, now, can we send our kids or our grandkids or ourselves off to school trusting that we, or they, will come home at the end of the day?
An ancient lament gives the sense of the spasm of grief that convulsed our nation on Friday:
“A voice is heard in Ramah; wailing and loud lamentation,What day is it that the world becomes a safe place? What day is it that we have peace? What day is it that we stop hearing news of school shootings, and mall shootings, and movie shootings, and temple shootings, and college campus shootings? Because I want to live in that day, God.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
She refuses to be consoled, for they are no more.”
Show of hands: Who’s emotionally exhausted by this news? Who’s anxious, worried? Who’s sick at heart? Who’s P.O’d? Who would like to take “that day” right now?
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.”Let’s face it: We need God. Let’s stop this pretense that somehow it’s all working out fine as an arms-length relationship. We are here because we need Jesus. We need the Prince of Peace. We need the God whose heart breaks for us, for twenty students and their families, for teachers and staff and those whose sense of safety has been shattered. We need some evidence that this is not all there is.
We know, too well, how to live in a society built on fear. But we were not born for fear. We were not born for such brokenness. We know this week’s act, deep within, for what it is: evil and broken and pain-ridden and sorrowful and desperately needing to be redeemed. And it is the fruit of a society needing to be redeemed. We know – very well - American independence and individualism and we know “I’m gonna make it on my own.” But these are not Gospel values.
Our misguided attempts at saving ourselves have come to nothing. We are sick, and we are heart-sick and we come to the point at which we know, we cannot fix this ourselves. We do not have anything more to offer as a solution to this horror. We cannot fix it with wishful thinking and we cannot fix it with avoidance, and we cannot fix it with mere sentiment, no matter how deeply heart-felt.
We cry out, “How long, O Lord, how long….” And the answer comes: As long as we pretend that the time is appropriate for mourning but not prevention. As long as we value our guns more than our children. As long as we give assault weapons moral and constitutional equivalency to a colonial-era musket. As long as we slash mental health funding and glorify violence and expect these twin evils to have no consequence.
I am praying for a day when children do not need to go to school in fear, when parents do not need to send their children to school in fear. I am praying for a day when I no longer have to write these damned sermons about gun violence. I am praying for a day when we will have the courage to face our American demons around gun rights and find a solution that keeps all of our children safe.
But until that day, to hold all of this, I need Jesus.
Sisters and brothers, God knows that we’re tired. That we’re weary and anxious and heart-sick and soul-sick. So the messengers keep coming, to remind us that salvation does not lie in pretending a naive faith despite the latest horror. God keeps knocking at the door to remind us that we are not alone. What is it the angels say, every time they show up? “Be Not Afraid.” What is it the prophets proclaim, to a sick and weary and disenfranchised people? “Be Not Afraid.” What is it the grown Jesus says when the boat is rocking and the storm threatens? “Be Not Afraid.”
God was not born into the world because it was practically perfect and just needed a little window-dressing. These are the circumstances of the incarnation: Violence. Loss of life. Anguish. Fear. Blood and tears and spit and vomit and the messiness of life in a land occupied by the powers of death. That is where God came, and that is where God comes: to a broken world in desperate need of a Savior.
It take so much energy to live with this level of fear. The land of fear has left us with parched and dry souls. It is impossible to praise from a dusty, scratchy throat; knowing that our cracked lips have forgotten the song of the angels, God offers living water from a deep, inexhaustible well.
We have a sickness for which there is only one cure: the Holy One who offers freedom, hope, love, peace. Some day, we will stop living in the illusion that we can save ourselves, from ourselves, and we will let go of the fear and the agony and the anxiety that goes with it. Some day, we will have the sense to say, “Surely, God is my salvation.” Until then, with Advent anticipation, we wait.
We wait through the world’s brokenness, through violence, and fear. We wait for love to be born. On that day, the deep wisdom of the holy writings will be ours, and the Gospel will be ours, and the Savior will be ours. On that day, the body of Christ will proclaim, together, prophets to the world, “Be Not Afraid.” And great in our midst will be the God who made, and saves, and sustains us.
Christmas comes to us on that day: when we proclaim:
Surely God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid.
Let all God’s people say, “Be Not Afraid.”
And let all God’s people say, “Amen.”
Text: Isaiah 12:1-6. Preached at McFarland UCC on December 16, 2012 (Advent 3), in the wake of the shootings at Newtown, Connecticut. Following the sermon, we proclaimed life in the face of death, light amid darkness, and hope amid despair, by singing together, Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.
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