Link to the audio file and manuscript for my sermon from Sunday, May 2nd

The 5th Sunday in Easter, and here's the link to the audio file for my sermon recorded on May 2nd, 2010. 

http://www.box.net/shared/2p224xfc6b

You can access the recording by clicking on the link and downloading the file from box.net. 



The manuscript appears below: 



The Fifth Sunday of Easter; May 02, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Acts 11: 1-18
Psalm 148
Revelation 21: 1-6
John 13: 31-35 *

“Love one Another. …Really? …Can Jesus be Serious?”

--} Today’s gospel lesson is the familiar, famous, and for many—a favorite—Jesus telling his disciples, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” And Jesus’ “love one another” is absolutely more than simply “good advice. As John’s gospel explains it, “loving one another” is how Jesus is glorified.” But “love one another” isn’t ever easy.

If you have any doubts, just take a moment and survey the text of John’s gospel where we find these golden words. Because the new commandment to “love one another” comes smack dab between the betrayal of Judas and the denial of Peter. Which means to “love one another,” comes with the threat of circumstances none of us care to have happen to us.

As I’ve been thinking about “love one another,” I’ve been reminded this week of my friend Elias Chacour

Elias Chacour describes “faith” this way:

"Faith is the incarnation. In other words, we have to identify ourselves with those who share our life, with those whom we believe in—with Jesus Christ. …For those who believe in Jesus, for those who really have faith, there is no question of privileges, preferences, differences, because we are all called to become the adopted children of God. That means that we have to change our behavior. It puts an end to nationality, to belonging to such and such a religious community, to being a chosen people—we are all invited to the same banquet, but not for any of these reasons, only because we are a man or a woman."

And then Chacour goes on to observe something I think is profound:

“Peace is not an end in itself. Peace is the result of something else. …If you want peace, you have to pay for it. …but if you are looking for peace, you often have to pay for it with your own blood.”

And I’m wondering if what goes for “peace” might not also be true of “love.”

My friend, Elias Chacour, has spent his life working for peace between Palestinians and Israelis. He knows something about peace, but I also believe he knows something about love. I want to share 3 of his stories with you this morning—stories that are about making peace, but also about learning to do “love.”

Before we begin, a disclaimer. Chacour’s life-experience as a Palestinian Christian involves things WE—in America—haven’t experienced. The controversy today in Israel between the State of Israel and Palestinians is real and violent, and complicated, and difficult—but I’m not speaking to that! YET, it’s possible you can hear these stories and think that I’m advocating “taking sides.” I’m not. Chacour’s stories are pointed toward love and peace and my point is not about taking sides. But surely, as we hear of his experience, we have to read them through the controversy that is complicated.

Chacour is the Bishop of Galilee, a Melkite priest a part of the Roman Catholic Church; but his real claim is a Palestinian Peacemaker native to Israel, who began a school where Christians, Jews, and Muslims are educated together. These stories come from a book entitled, Faith Beyond Despair: Building Hope in the Holy Land. And the “first person” is Elias Chacour.

I.

"I remember the day when there was a horrifying bomb attack in Tel Aviv. A Palestinian suicide bomber had blown himself up at the bus station in retaliation for the massacre in the Hebron mosque. That day 20 Jews were killed and 8o were wounded. But then, in the face of the bomb attack in Tel Aviv, we got together letters of solidarity and sympathy intended for the Jewish families. My students were saying to me, “This is not enough.” And one of them said, “I am ready to give my blood for those who have been taken to hospital.” Another said he too was ready to do the same. As a priest, I could not forbid them, and I was glad to hear them say it. I immediately telephoned the Rambam Hospital in Haifa. When I told them that I had some students who wanted to give blood, they hesitated but finally believed me. Sure enough, next day at eight in the morning there were several hospital vehicles in front of the school. I was afraid that no more than five or six students would give their blood, which would have made it a farce. But out of 350 students, 300 did so. I shall always remember that when it was my turn, there were lying next to me a Druze teacher, a Jew, and an American volunteer, and there we were side by side giving blood for our well-beloved brothers."


“We don't agree with what you are doing, but we will never agree to put an end to your lives”— that was the message that we hoped this gesture would convey. That day I said on Israeli television, “Today I can hope to return, for there is now 'Palestinian blood flowing in Jewish veins. It is a way of saving a life that might have been extinguished. And we are not willing it should be extinguished. We are ready to give up our own lives so that others should live. Today it is for the Jews; but the same goes for others, and it goes, of course, for our Palestinian brothers and sisters.”

II.

"Solidarity can be shown in both directions. I know that the Jews are capable of similar initiatives and can show solidarity with the Palestinian people. Some time ago seven Reformed Rabbis, arrived in my office. They wanted to talk to me about working together for peace. I said to them, “I have no wish to talk about peace just now. Far from it: my concern at this moment is to get several tons of food to Beit Jala where people are dying of hunger.” They replied, “But what is preventing you? There is no law against it.” I said to them, “No, but it costs a lot of money. We need two [trucks] and each one costs $700. If you rabbis really want peace, give me the money!” Immediately, $I,400 were laid on the table. Then I said to them, “Very well, but that is not enough. I do not know how to get these two [trucks] filled with foodstuffs across the frontier.” They replied, “But there isn't a frontier.” To which I replied, “On the contrary, there are several meters of no man's land, and if we cross it the army will shoot on us. But the Israeli army would never shoot at rabbis. Would you be prepared to go there?” They said, “But no one would accept the food from us.” I replied, “The "terrorists who are throwing stones at you, young Palestinians, will come and take the food from you.” They asked me if I was serious. I then telephoned Zogbi, a Christian in Bethlehem who is committed to non-violence. “Zogbi, tomorrow morning at seven o'clock two [trucks] will arrive full of food. Find 20 strong young fellows to unload it and distribute it to Muslim and Christian families.” He asked me, “But how will you get across the frontier?” I replied, “You can stay on your side, and some rabbis will have got the [trucks] through.” That's impossible!' he said, “It can't be true!” “But it is,”' I replied."


"Next morning, at a quarter to seven, the rabbis telephoned me to say, “We have arrived at the rendezvous, but no one's here.” I said, “There is still a quarter-of an hour. You must wait.” At exactly seven o'clock the young men came out from behind the wall and began to unload the [trucks], not forgetting to offer a drink to the rabbis. In all, it took two hours. Later on, two of the rabbis came to see me. They had tears in their eyes—as indeed I had. They said to me, “All our lives we have been trying to do some good, but the good you made us do today was worth everything we have tried to do all our lives until now. Now we know it is possible to make peace.”

III.

"There is another story I would like to tell. In November I was on my way down from Beit Shean to Jericho. The Intifada was still extremely active and violent. I was taking an Australian in my car. It was raining slightly, the road was wet and the dust had turned into something like soap. It would not have been difficult to lose control of the vehicle. Suddenly, in the distance, we saw a car spin round and land up in the ditch on the side of the road. Fortunately, the ditch was not very deep. Then another car arrived and stopped. Five men got out of it and stood round the car that had broken down. They were five strong Palestinians. We stopped too when we got there. A young Jewish woman of about 30 was sitting in the car, apparently paralyzed. The men asked her to get out, but the car windows remained closed and it seemed as if she was not reacting. The fright she had had from the accident was less than her fear of the five Palestinians. She did not know a word of Arabic, which was the only language they spoke. I went up to the car, smiled, and opened the door, all the time reassuring her and encouraging her to come out. “They will not do you any harm, ma’am, all they want is to help you. Come out of the car and go and sit in mine while they get yours out of the ditch.” I stretched out my hand. After much hesitation, and doubtless still much afraid, she gave me her hand and came out to take refuge in my car. It took the men about ten minutes to get her car back on the road. Meanwhile, some soldiers arrived. The first thing they did was to point their guns at the Palestinians to interrogate them. At that moment the Jewish woman, forgetting her fear and her shock, opened the door of my car, rushed out and placed herself between the soldiers and the Palestinians shouting, “What are you doing? Don't you see that they have saved my life? Do you want to kill them? Put down your rifles!” The soldiers, caught off guard by this reaction, told her to come and stand beside them. She refused, saying, “Get away, I am not going to stand beside you but beside those who could have killed me but instead protected me and comforted me.” Fortunately, the soldiers understood. They let the Palestinians go, and the woman for her part went off in her car. As for me, I went on my way praying for peace between these blood brothers.”

If we’re going to “love one another,” we have to thread the needle between betrayal and denial; we have to get up on our own two feet, and with our own two hands—do something. We learn “love”—and peace—by “doing.”
--+ Christ is risen—indeed! AMEN.


As always, thanks for checking it out. 

Link to the audio file and manuscript for my sermon from Sunday, April 25th, 2010

Today was the 4th Sunday of Easter.  We're still celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, still trying to come to terms with Jesus being raised and in our midst. 

Here's the link to the audio file for the sermon recorded in this morning's worship service: 

http://www.box.net/shared/5x7skh8aa2



The manuscript I worked from follows below: 



The Fourth Sunday of Easter; April 25, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Acts 9: 36-43
Psalm 23
Revelation 7: 9-17
John 10: 22-30 *

“Believing Jesus is the Christ”

--} Western Christianity has a strange view of the world. When we’re asked about believing in Jesus, we’re easily convinced it’s simply about getting into heaven. “Where are you going to spend eternity…” And the answer goes something like, “If you don’t want it to be ‘down there,’ you need to believe in Jesus….” And just like that, Western Christianity tends to have us “having faith rather than our living “in faith.” In part, because of our westernized history, we often fault the Jews around the Temple in John’s story for “not believing in Jesus.” But we fail to apply the critique to ourselves.

As I read today’s gospel lesson, it seems to me that the Jewish leadership around the Temple is asking something that you and I already have the advantage of “believing.” From our perspective we might ask, “How could these Jews not know already or believe that Jesus is the Messiah?” But there are a lot of reasons—even good reasons—for the Jewish Temple folk to be in doubt, or shock, or awed, or threatened… even when we’re not. We often assume that our post-modern faith should be exported “backwards” through time—thinking that everyone should or could believe as we do. WE don’t find it so challenging to “believe” Jesus is the Messiah, and think other’s shouldn’t either. And yet, FAITH—now or then—still comes with the significant challenge of changed behavior.

While many modern “believers” feel slighted by the Jewish authorities’ lack of belief in Jesus, we needn’t. What we should be trying to cope with is what Jesus’ messianic appearances mean in terms of a post-resurrection and post-modern faith. And we can start, not by asking ourselves about how first-century Jews could have doubts about Jesus, but by asking ourselves what it means that WE BELIEVE Jesus is the messiah. Since we believe that Jesus is the Messiah, what is supposed to be different about our lives? Our story? Our Church? Our Faith? Consider that for a moment: What is “different” about your life because you believe?

Because in any age, the faith of Jesus the Messiah should have a powerful expression in human living. In first-century Palestine, the powerful expression Jesus offered was belief that the signs pointed to God’s kingdom being present in the world—both in Jesus, but also in the faith of people who trusted as they saw him and acted on that trust. Time and again, Jesus invited people to believe and take stock of a new way of being—a way not dominated by the ways of the world, but a way that capitulated to the norms of the Kingdom of God. It sounds good, doesn’t it? But BELIEVING in Jesus means our lives have to be reshaped by that faith. And that’s where the rub is. “It is not enough to say “I have faith,” one has to BE in faith!”

What kinds of things did you consider were different in your life because you are in the faith of Jesus the Messiah? We often come up with differences like:

• I go to church;
• I act morally;
• I believe in God;
• I respect others.

But how often do we consider the more stringent rubrics of being in faith and find them necessary for daily living? Things like:

• Loving our neighbors;
• Praying for our enemies (we probably don’t think we have any enemies!);
• Ensuring all people have access to the necessities of life (food, water, shelter, pursuit of happiness);
• Do we find ways of being compassionate, kind, and truly just every single day! And do we think about those who have less than we do and are we willing to work toward ways of sharing?

These things COST us something; and we often fear the price must be too high, literally and otherwise. People actually say things like, “do you think we should have to pay for ALL people to have healthcare in this country? For everyone to have a doctor, to be able to go to the pharmacy, to have needed surgeries? It’s too expensive! We can’t afford it.” Really? Is that our answer? Why isn’t our answer, “health care should cost less; our morality means something more than our net worth! Shouldn’t we WANT everyone to have healthcare and have their needs met? Wouldn’t we want THEM to do the same for US? And why aren’t we working hardest to solve these problems!

Faith COSTS US SOMETHING! To believe Jesus is the Messiah forces us to deal with a reality of life that is more than just ourselves. We would do well to remember that the first two questions God ASKS of human beings are these: “Man, where are you?” And, “Where is your brother—what have you done to your brother.” In the aftermath of “be fruitful and multiply” and “have dominion over all of creation” comes the reality of human cruelty. And it’s into this reality that God sends us the Christ.

But it’s not hard to understand why human beings—not just the Jewish folk around the Temple with Jesus, but even ourselves—would be resistant to this new and special reign of God. To live like God in Christ COSTS us something.

I imagine for the Jewish leaders at the Temple that even if they could believe that Jesus was the messiah, the costs of that “believing” were perceived to have been too high. If Jesus is the Messiah, it would have turned their world upside down. They would be removed from power; they would be incorporated into a necessary rebellion—by their actions. It would have cost them their jobs, their families, their security—probably even their lives. What seems amiss, is that we blithely ask them to make such a sacrifice, without seeing the same mandate for ourselves.

WE somehow find it possible that our believing in Jesus doesn’t threaten life, family, job-security, or standing in the community. But it’s not true. We have the privilege of living in one of the most powerful nations on the globe—and quite possibly one of the most unjust. Our cultural concern for “self” often fundamentally obliterates not only the concern for others, but the rights others may have toward meeting their own needs. Healthcare is still a good example. We are told to believe the cost is too high; our perception is pushed and changed, so that we’re convinced it would be “cheaper” if we don’t have to cover people who have unhealthy lifestyles (those who smoke, those who don’t exercise, those who eat too much at McDonalds or other fast-food places). Is it right to save a few dollars for our own pocketbooks at the expense of other people being sick? Because plenty of hard-working decent people these days don’t have healthcare and they’re not the unhealthy types—they can’t afford to be.

While we may believe that because it’s true that most of us don’t rob banks, kill other people, or have sexual affairs; we should think we’ve done pretty well with the commandments—that because we’ve tried to live what we might describe as “good and honorable lives,” we don’t have to answer to the larger concerns of humanity’s ill-treatment of the world and human beings. Even though we’ve tried to keep to ourselves and tried to help in ways that we could, what Jesus calls us to do is to proclaim the gospel and live out the life he shows to us. Because I’m absolutely certain, that the people at the Temple whom we think can’t or won’t believe in Jesus probably could have said the same things about themselves that we think about ourselves. They, too, thought they were doing right and living justly.

So when we consider what it means for us to put our faith in Jesus Christ, our believing that Jesus is the Messiah needs to be demonstrated BEYOND just the affirmation of faith in worship on Sunday mornings. We need to become people who are known for our association with Jesus—despite the costs. The works we do, should testify to the living Christ. As Jesus says to the Jews, “the works I do in my father’s name testify to me. …my sheep hear my voice, and they follow me.” The claims of the gospel should be our claims too. And if they are, our lives have to demonstrate them. Maybe even at great cost. Elias Chacour says, “If you want peace, you have to pay for it… often with your own blood.”

As people who claim the resurrected life of Jesus for ourselves, what we do and make in the world is not insignificant. WE have the advantage. WE BELIEVE Jesus is the Messiah. We don’t have to fret about it, we don’t have to try and figure that out. We know and are convinced. YET, what remains are lives that demonstrate that BELIEF every day—beyond the platitudes.

But here’s the thing. We think too often as Westernized Christians that once we commit ourselves to believing in Jesus as the Messiah, we’re assured a good outcome—that because of our faith “we can’t be snatched out of the savior’s hands.” That our place in heaven is uncompromisable. But I don’t believe that’s what John was trying to teach us.

Instead, John demonstrates for us that if Christians are convinced that Jesus is the Messiah, WHAT’S STOPPING US FROM LIVING ACCORDING TO THE MESSIAH’S WAYS? All the “costs” can be worked out. The worst thing that can happen to you is that you’ll die; but the resurrection of Jesus means that death is never the last word. Worst case, you die…. I don’t want to make light of dying for our faith, but I’m just saying that John’s intent seems to be to convince believers and followers that part of the Kingdom of God is up to us. We have to help God make it happen. We have to work with God—because we believe.

So “believing” isn’t ever just a way of getting ourselves to heaven. Believing is a way of transforming the world in the ways of Jesus Christ. It’s a way of giving up our fetters, for us to be unbound by the world, and instead, to demonstrate the full life of the Kingdom of God in all its glory—in us, through us, and among us.

--+ Christ is risen - indeed! AMEN

Link to the audio file and other materials from my Sermon on Sunday, April 18, 2010

This morning we had a special power-point presentation for the sermon.  Since our congregation doesn't have a projector, we had to borrow one from our Presbytery's Office.  We did that. 

So this week, there's a link to the Audio File, for the sermon as recorded during worship; AND, there are two additional links for the powerpoint.  The powerpoint files include the sermon notes I used to preach from.  If you click on the powerpoint files, you can "view" them, but you have to download them in order to see the slides with the sermon manuscript notes. 

Here's the link to the audio file:  http://www.box.net/shared/dmmc7y6nrq


Here are the links to the powerpoint slides (with notes if you download them)
Link to powerpoint part 1:  http://www.box.net/shared/vh21jqi2qg
Link to powerpoint part 2:  http://www.box.net/shared/dr1d8980k8


As always, thanks for checking it out.

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my sermon from Sunday, April 11th

April 11th was the SECOND Sunday of Easter.  Easter is the longest special Season in the liturgical season and covers the 50 days or 7 weeks until Pentecost.  So, we are still celebrating Jesus' resurrection! 

The audio file for my sermon recorded on Sunday, April 11, 2010 can be downloaded using the following link:  http://www.box.net/shared/n6vyfcpyk8. 



The sermon manuscript appears below: 



The Second Sunday of Easter; April 11, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Acts 5: 27-32
Psalm 118: 14-29 or Psalm 150
Revelation 1: 4-8
John 20: 19-31 *

“Jesus is Raised. …Now what?”

--} “Jesus is raised. …Now what?” That’s really the question the gospel writers try and answer for us, isn’t it?

I’m going to begin this morning with a couple of observations about John’s text in today’s gospel reading.

First, we should take notice that FEAR is important to understanding the resurrection of Jesus. John tells us that on the night the resurrection is discovered, the disciples have gathered, with “the doors locked for fear of the Jews.” Sometimes we’ve gotten in the habit of believing that the “locked doors” Jesus has to navigate to get to the disciples somehow “proves” his resurrection is valid—but in fact, the doors are locked because the disciples are afraid. They’re afraid because the religious authorities were out to get them as much as they were Jesus; and because dead people don’t just come back from the dead! A week later and having already witnessed Jesus alive, the disciples again show up, and again the doors are locked—they’re still AFRAID!—even when they know Jesus is alive.

Contrast that with you and I who find great JOY in the news of the resurrection and we aren’t the least bit afraid! Shouldn’t we be?

Second, “Doubting Thomas” almost always gets a bad rap. We would do well to believe the Bible’s testimony that Thomas “saw” or experienced nothing more than the other disciples got to experience and witness for themselves. Yet, BECAUSE of Thomas, we have a second—and what must have surely been an “unexpected”—visit from a “resurrected” Jesus. We have it “demonstrated” again that truly Jesus was the one who appeared to the disciples a week earlier, and not some kind of imposter or body double. We often discount that “doubt” and “fear” are a part of every gospel-writer’s account of Jesus’ resurrection. Mark, telling us that the women were amazed and terrified and they didn’t tell anyone anything. Matthew, reminding us that when the disciples are together with the resurrected Jesus on the mountain, that they worship him “but some still doubted.” Luke, informing us that the disciples were all “terrified” when he stood among them and that they thought they were seeing a ghost! Is John’s story about Thomas really that much different from everyone else’s?

But it is different from our telling and often from our experience, isn’t it? In the wake of the resurrection, “doubt” seems—well… “normal.” Quite the contrast to Christians today, who often think it is unconscionable that anyone would have “doubts” about the resurrection. And yet, even in the face of “believing” in the resurrection, we often forget how important it is for us to not get caught up in the resurrection being “true” or by the promise of our getting to go to heaven; but instead, to keep alive the witness of Jesus. That seems to be the challenge the gospel writers are pointing us toward. Not just believing in the resurrection, but keeping alive the witness of Jesus!


John’s gospel tells us in verse 29: “Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe’.” Here may be why. It’s widely believed that John’s gospel was written “last,” at the very end of the 1st Century. This is significant because by then, it’s likely that all of the “eyewitnesses” to Jesus’ death and resurrection would have died. By then, no one was left who could say, “I saw Jesus in the days after his resurrection,”—people like Thomas and the other disciples who could literally “testify” that Jesus was raised. The community for whom John’s gospel was written was going to be made up of folks who could not ever “see Jesus” and “believe” in the same sort of way. They were people who were going to have to “believe” not having seen the signs or having the visible, eyewitness testimony. John is writing to the first generation of believers who would need to speak to people saying, “I believe Jesus is raised,” but for all practical purposes, would have no “verifiable proof.”

For that first generation of believers beyond the testimony of eyewitnesses as well as for ourselves, it’s important that we remember we are not simply called to be about “proving” that Jesus was “resurrected” some 2,000 years ago, “just as the Bible says.” Instead, we’re called to give witness to what the Bible teaches: that “Jesus is alive” now just as much as he was then; but “resurrection” means more than an event of history. When we say, “Christ is risen,” we mean more than a date or a memory—we speak of reality.

Even when the disciples told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord,” do you think they meant, “we saw him die, then we saw him alive, ain’t it great!” Do you believe it was simply a matter of “proving” once and for all that dead people can be raised? Didn’t Jesus raising of Lazarus do that? But if Jesus is alive…, isn’t it true that his claims are still alive and true! And that probably means there’s something in it for us. Not just something for us to “believe,” but something for us to DO?

We often think the resurrection is about Jesus being raised—in fact; and we like to believe because of “resurrection” we are bound for heaven—in fact. But these concerns aren’t really the focus of the gospel writers. In a new book, New Testament scholar N.T. Wright offers some sage advice about the meaning of the resurrection in the gospel stories. Wright points out that none of the GOSPELS talks about the resurrection meaning anything related to what we might call “an assurance of heaven” or an “afterlife.” The gospel writers weren’t concerned with what happens to us when we die. And while we’re often used to affirming that “Jesus died for our sins …so that we can go straight to heaven,” this is not an emphasis of the gospel stories. And for us to really understand the resurrection, such claims need to be better understood.

In the New Testament, it’s Paul who introduces us to the idea of “life after death.” Yet, that we know of, Paul never met Jesus prior to the resurrection. But Paul, writing and preaching to new believers BEFORE any of the gospels were written, teaches that as surely as Jesus dies, we are buried with him in baptism, and that as surely as Jesus is raised, we are raised with him in new life. And most of the time, most of us are willing to stop there. “Good,” we think. Jesus’ resurrection means we get to go to heaven—isn’t that “good news”? But just like the question of resurrection as a singular historical moment, doesn’t the resurrection mean MORE than just the promise of life after death?

This is precisely what the gospels try to indicate for us. If you accept already that there’s life after death, the gospel stories push us in a radical new direction for how we live our lives. If we don’t have to worry about death or dying being the last word or our final destination, what we “DO” with THIS LIFE that we’ve been given seems far more important than simply convincing ourselves that there’s a life to come. And suddenly, Jesus’ resurrection can move us from a doctrine the church “believes” to the reality of what Christians are called to be “DOING” in the world, because we know the truth of the phrase, “Christ is risen!”


So when John tells us about Jesus’ appearances with his disciples, the POINT is more than life after death. We can’t miss that John’s story takes place “behind locked doors” where the disciples are afraid. While Jesus says three times, “peace,” the disciples won’t immediately follow. And “peace” becomes key when Jesus offers believers a commissioning: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And, having breathed on them, Jesus says to them and us, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” The truly scary part of the resurrection for us may be that according to the Biblical facts the resurrection doesn’t seem to be just a particular promise about heaven, it’s a commissioning to continue Jesus’ witness! Jesus being alive lends NEW MEANING to our life as FOLLOWERS. Which is maybe why the Book of Acts tells us that shortly after his resurrection, the disciples are teaching in his name! Flaunting the power of the religious authorities.

Both for the disciples and for people like us, the story of Jesus’ life and ministry, death and resurrection, means that every encounter we have with others has the potential for us to help or hurt them, to forgive sins or retain them. It means that our “faith” has consequences beyond heaven and hell. “Believing” the resurrection stories of Jesus, not only teaches us that Jesus is alive, they proclaim a ministry and mission for believers and followers that Jesus intends to enable. Freed from the threat of an “end” in death or dying, the gospel stories promise opportunities to continue Jesus’ ministry and mission between now and then.

Back in John chapter 11, before Jesus raises Lazarus, Jesus says to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” And once again, the temptation is for us to rush ahead to the “never dying” part, tempted to think of Heaven and a particular afterlife we envision. But when Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life…,” in the present tense, surely he intends for believers and followers what he says. So that Jesus’ “resurrection” is primarily about a way of living—not just for them but for us!

If Jesus’ resurrection assures us that death is not the last word or our final destination, are we not truly “free” to live in this life? Even in the face of persecution, domination, violence, disease, misfortune; even in the face of joy, wealth, satisfaction, justice and righteousness? Jesus’ resurrection frees us in any moment—in every moment—to not only confess, “my Lord and my God,” but also to use our moments to recreate Jesus’ ministry and mission. So that Jesus is alive not only in the sense of having been raised from the dead, but that he is alive in us—in our actions, in our working, in our faithfulness to Jesus’ ways.

Or, as Daniel Ingram wrote this week in an online devotional about “how” we believe in the resurrection: “we believe that Jesus is alive because of the great joy that comes from knowing him. When we share that joy with others, the story of Jesus’ resurrection continues through us. Jesus is alive when we share the good news of forgiveness. Jesus is alive when we worship, sing and pray. Jesus is alive when we make friends. Jesus is alive when we help others. Jesus is alive!”

So it’s more than believing in an historical event, or a moment when Jesus appears, the resurrection of Jesus invites us to continue to believe in and act upon the witness of the living Christ. In fact, that’s what I believe the original commissioning for the disciples was all about—to believe that they, too, had in fact been sent by God; commissioned so that they too could act in the ways of Jesus. And, if John’s testimony about resurrection frees us from a concern about dying, shouldn’t it really inspire our living? I believe it must.


--+ Christ is risen - indeed! AMEN.




* Special thanks to my Lectionary Study Group pals who offered a lot of the inspiration for the direction of this sermon.  Our study group meets on Tuesday mornings in the conference room at the offices of the Presbytery of Des Moines, where we're famous for the questions: "What are you going to preach about?"  "I don't know--it's only Tuesday!"  And, "Where are we going to eat for lunch."  And in between happens a lot of great discussion, wrangling, and seed-planting about the lections for the next Sunday and their various meanings interpretations. 

Easter Sunday--the link to the audio file for my sermon from Sunday, April 4, 2010

Today is Easter Sunday, when the Church celebrates the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. 

You can hear the audio recording of my sermon from this morning's worship service by clicking on this link and downloading it. 

http://www.box.net/shared/5btv7nx4ck


Worship was such a joy this morning, that this preacher couldn't stick with the text as prepared.  Being so much more "off" the manuscript than with it, I don't have a manuscript prepared yet for this sermon.  I may add one in the coming days if you wish to look for it later--or perhaps, like Jesus, the tomb (or the blog) will remain "empty."  a

Here are a couple of pictures from Jerusalem's Garden Tomb from my pilgrimage last fall: 

Though we are want to go and see... he is not here. 

He is risen! 

Link to the audio file for my sermon from Maundy Thursday, April 01, 2010

Here's the link to the audio file for my sermon preached and recorded on Maundy Thursday, April 1st, 2010.  This is no April Fool's joke! 

You can listen to the sermon by clicking this file and then downloading:

http://www.box.net/shared/azf8uombar



The manuscript for the sermon follows here:


Maundy Thursday; April 01, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Exodus 12: 1-14
Psalm 116: 1-2, 12-19
1 Corinthians 11: 23-26
John 13: 1-17, 31b-35

“The ‘Traditional,’ “Love one another”.”

--} Tonight begins with “tradition” in one form or another. Many church traditions start with the story that many readers of Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s gospels refer to as the “Last Supper.” That’s the story of the institution of the Lord’s Supper—on the night of Jesus’ arrest, he took the bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to his disciples….

The other tradition, from which Maundy Thursday takes its name, is the story from John’s gospel—where Jesus takes off his outer clothes, wraps a towel around his waist, washes the disciples’ feet, offering them “a new commandment”—“love one another.” “Maundy” taken from the word meaning, mandate—“mandate” referring to Jesus’ command.

As modern Christians, we’re not used to having to “choose” one bible story or the another; we often have them squished together for us into one easily discernable form. But, in fact, church tradition gives us BOTH stories—two traditions; and the part that’s most interesting to me is that John’s gospel doesn’t have any story about an “institution” of our familiar “Last or Lord’s Supper.” If we were to read John’s story in isolation, tonight would be a much different experience for us—where we’d be focused more on what Jesus says for us to “do” rather than “doing” or “reenacting” what the other 3 gospels “say” happened. And I want us to think about that for a few minutes. What if there were no last supper or memorial meal? What if the dinner party ended after Jesus’ act of extreme servant-hood followed by that famous “new commandment,” to “love one another?”

I do want to point out that what Jesus DOES in John’s story is a radical act that made his disciples uncomfortable, and should make us uncomfortable, too. First, only the wealthiest of households typically had slaves who would wash people’s feet. Jesus and his disciples didn’t fit that description. Further, Jesus puts himself—the teacher and leader—in the place of the lowest person in the room; inviting the disciples (and us, it seems) to a similar social position. And the mandate is not just to “serve,” but to “love”—as Jesus demonstrates. Jesus does seem to aim at followers putting aside social status and comfortability. And to do so makes this night a radical calling to meet other’s needs rather than our own.

Sometimes—I think we treat the Lord’s Supper as an act for our own comfortability. We declare it a special table (only at church), reserved for only special people (believers) and it can happen only in this serene, meditative environment. So cleansed from the outside world, we celebrate and remember Jesus and his death and resurrection—helping us to feel good, primarily about ourselves (since we don’t typically encounter others). It seldom is interpreted as a call to service.

But in John’s story, any “institution” of a “Lord’s Supper” is absent—missing. What scholars suggest that the closest John’s gospel comes to a “Lord’s Supper” is not the night before Jesus died—not at all; rather, it’s the day Jesus breaks the bread and fish beside the Sea of Galilee for at least 5,000 people to eat a meal and be filled. Yet even without a so-called “last supper” or formalized “Lord’s Supper,” it should be no surprise to us that LOVING is also about “feeding.” One of John’s unique stories is of Jesus asking Peter three times, “do you love me,” and Peter answering three times, “yes;” and Jesus’ follow-up is “feed my sheep,” “tend my lambs,” “feed my sheep.”

The feeding of the 5,000 is a much different story as a vision of a “Lord’s Supper.” John tries to tell us that Jesus is like the “manna” that comes down from heaven to give life to the world—reminiscent of the Israelites’ experience in the wilderness. “Manna” is not the bread of Passover—or unleavened bread. Passover bread is human-made bread; it belongs to the earth and to us as creatures. But it’s different from “manna” because “manna” is the bread that belongs to and comes only from God. “Manna” is reminiscent of Jesus’ statement, “human beings do not live by bread alone.” “Manna” is entirely God-provided; and to share it, to be fed by it means to live relying on God’s ability to love and deliver us and provide for all our needs—especially in the valley of the shadow of death.

John’s gospel almost deliberately distinguishes between Passover-bread and “manna”-bread; forging a distinction between a “Lord’s Supper” (what we call “communion”) and God-provided meals. One of my pet peeves is that we call it the “Last Supper” as if it were the “only Supper”—or the only supper that really matters. The other, is that we distinguish “this table” that we share at church from every other table that we share—as if this one has more meaning than the tables we use for “daily bread.” The Lord’s Prayer teaches us to pray, “give us this day our daily bread,” a reminder of God-provided bread in the wilderness that provided daily sustenance.

So, what could happen if we began to see AGAIN that every meal were sacred, reminding us to “remember”—not just one particular meal, but the power of what Jesus said and taught and how he lived, every day?

What John tells us about that day in Galilee was that people were hungry, and there were no means by which to feed everyone. Some commentators laud the reality that everyone would have carried a small supply of food for themselves, the “bread for tomorrow,” and that what must have happened was a “miracle of sharing,” where everyone suddenly broke out their small provision and shared with one another—enough for all to be fed with leftovers. But this seems, as John tells it, like “bread of the world”—human provided, human made. The other way of understanding Jesus’ act is to require us to see it entirely as God-provided—“manna bread”—that comes straight out of heaven to nourish and sustain. I believe John intends to tell us that this feeding of the 5,000 was a wholly other meal, by which God promises us, “human beings do not live by bread alone” and only God can sustain us completely.

In tonight’s gospel lesson, Jesus seems to say, “If you love me, you’ll do as I do.” He’s referring to his radical servant-role to be sure; but he’s also referring to all the things he said and taught along the way. He’s telling us about the meals, too—and there were plenty! Plenty of times when Jesus sat at table with friends and others and “ate.” I think about the places that you and I “eat,” and can’t help but believe that Jesus and his friends and others “ate” similarly, too—both bread of the world and the sustenance of God.

I think about our great family celebrations—Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter—and know they most often take place around food and tables.

I think about “loving the least of these,” and reckon the advertisements for the DMARC food pantry and Door of Faith and soup kitchens everywhere, speak to the powerful hope that is found in “breaking bread.” And then I think about John’s story and wonder….

There’s Jesus, not talking fancifully about bread and body, but taking the role of a slave and washing feet.

There’s Jesus, not just saying, “remember me,” but instead, taking food from the kitchen and spreading it before them, “feeding them,” and inviting them into a similar ministry.

There’s Jesus, hoping that we don’t just build a ritual which we can celebrate over and over in order to feel special, but a means by which tending to other’s needs can be made “special.”

And I think about John’s story and wonder… what did Jesus really have in mind?



Many of you know that last fall I had the privilege of taking a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And one of the places I most wanted to see was a place called Tabgha—the traditional “location” for the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I marvel at John’s description of Jesus inviting the crowds to sit down on the grass, then breaking the bread and fish and having them distributed—kind of like a Hy-Vee catered picnic or something. I imagined seeing that “place” and dipping my toes in the grass with a view of the Sea of Galilee. Well, it didn’t happen. Much to my surprise, you get off the bus in a parking lot, choking on the diesel fumes of 30-50 other busses, get herded into a modern church (built in 1964) to see a famous mosaic that dates back to the 4th century, to which you can’t get close enough to in order to take a good picture—and in a few minutes you’re back on the bus. There’s no “green grass” to dip your toes in, not even a view of the Sea of Galilee—I still have to use my imagination.

I lamented not getting to see the “place” where the loaves and fishes may have been broken and served. But then something extraordinary happened; I began to see the “bread” and “fish” both in human-provided ways and in God-provided ways. I found them literally on the lunch table when we had “loaves and fish.” I found them in compelling stories where people were being fed or sustained. I found them in the ways God was providing for me on the pilgrimage, and I related them directly to the ways that I know God feeds us from heaven every single day.

Several days later, one of the other places we visited was a school that had it’s beginnings in a church’s simple summer program. What began as something akin to what we would call vacation bible school eventually developed into a full-time school, where children who are Jewish, Christian, and Muslim all study and attend classes together as “people of faith” without having to deny one another’s humanity. But that first summer, such an idea was “new” and when the children from the community were invited, so many showed up that they didn’t have food enough to feed them—kind of like Jesus on that hillside. The Church leader had to go into the community to beg food from families that already didn’t have enough to feed themselves, let alone provide for others. And I suppose, in a manner not unlike that of Jesus—the food happened.

Several years later, the children of this one-time “summer program” would design murals to decorate the walls of their school—stories of their faith; and one of the murals they made was a “re-creation” of that 4th Century mosaic I had longed to get a picture of at Tabgha—but couldn’t. The school children’s recreation is the picture that appears on the long paper in your bulletin tonight, a piece of paper that I hope you will take and use as a placemat at a meal for you and someone else. A meal by which you can be reminded not of “A” meal or “THE” meal, but reminded nonetheless that God feeds us every single day—and on the basis of that “love” from God, we are called to go out and “love one another.”

Because tonight’s bigger tradition that we celebrate is that the love of God in Jesus goes out from the table to love the whole world—sustaining it not with bread alone but the unfathomable, salvific work of Love. And we, too, are called to serve likewise.


--+ AMEN.

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon From Sunday, March 28, 2010 (Palm Sunday)

Here's the link to the audio file for my sermon preached on Sunday, March 28th, 2010--Palm Sunday.  You can listen to the sermon by clicking on the link and downloading the audio file (it's in windows media format). 

http://www.box.net/shared/0bjt30zzm7


The manuscript appears below. 



Palm/Passion Sunday; March 28, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Palm: Psalm 118: 1-2, 19-29; Luke 19: 28-40 [41-44]
Passion: Isaiah 50: 4-9a  Psalm 31: 9-16  Philippians 2: 5-11  Luke 22:14 – 23:56 or Luke 23: 1-49

“What’s Not to Like about Palm Sunday”

--} I like Jesus. I like parades. I like joyous celebrations. I like the 4th of July, apple pie, and fireworks. But I don’t always like Palm Sunday.

I don’t like Palm Sunday—because we often get our proverbial Palm Sunday “cart” before our Palm Sunday “donkey.” Like we do at Advent for Christmas, Christians get eager to celebrate Jesus’ “victory,” so we import our certainty of the resurrection into the parade—ahead of time! Some churches even treat Palm Sunday as if Easter has already happened; believing the parade is simply about welcoming Jesus’ victory over sin and death. So eager are they, they simply dismiss the parts of the gospel story where the crowd that lauds and hails Jesus’ coming into Jerusalem turns out to be the same crowd shouting, “crucify him!” before it’s over.

I don’t like Palm Sunday because sometimes eager Christians can cover up the fact that at the end of the parade there’s a cross—forgetting that the entry into Jerusalem is the prelude to Jesus dying and the theological importance of such a death. In our rush, we quickly re-write the details of the gospels in our head, lauding Jesus as “King of Kings” and “Lord of Lords,” as if there were no other; failing to recognize that first-century believers knew the Roman prefects insisted on the same titles for themselves! That the faithful claim such an “equal” or even “greater” title for Jesus only serves to put the “faith” in danger.

I don’t like Palm Sunday—because the Bible isn’t the only history book, and sometimes we read it as if it were. We use it to confirm the stories we like, but writing off the rest. We imagine a large parade for Jesus coming into town, mainly to support how WE see Jesus; but historically speaking, first-century Jerusalem might best be described as a powder keg, with someone always threatening to light the fuse. Rome, the preeminent world power rules Palestine, and is well known for its bringing peace through the power of the sword. It was Herod the Great who helped the Israelites rebuild Solomon’s Temple that had been destroyed by the Babylonians. Herod had become a Jewish convert, but he rebuilds the Temple to gain the peoples favor, making it easier to govern them—to dominate. But by the time of Jesus’ processional entry, history’s pages had turned. Herod the Great was dead, the regional Roman prefect was Pilate, and the Romans were notoriously nervous about Judaism’s celebration of the Passover—which brought thousands of pilgrims to Jerusalem to celebrate the Israelite’s escape from Egypt, when without an army, the Israelites defeated Egypt’s military might and drowned it in the sea.

So by the first “Palm Sunday” (whichever day it was) the Romans had developed a unique way of dealing with Judaism’s religious observances. “Keeping the peace by the power of the sword,” Rome moved scores of troops up to Jerusalem in a huge show of force. This added thousands of soldiers on top of the thousands of pilgrims streaming into the city. Think about the images of the last presidential inauguration! The big Roman capital in Palestine was actually Ceasarea Maritima, an elaborate city built by Herod the Great on the Mediterranean coast with huge palaces and all the great Roman comforts. By many accounts, it was actually a “downgrade” to have to go up to Jerusalem, where things were not as nice and the quarters far more cramped and the company not so desirable. The Romans were already grumpy, they didn’t ever take kindly to any actual or perceived “threats” to their worldly power; and so if the parade Jesus leads into Jerusalem is more than a few dozen rag-tag unarmed followers, the Romans are likely to have waltzed over and squashed the procession before it ever got to the city walls! And there would have been no crucifixion for the world’s stage.

I think that may partly be why Luke tells us in his version of events that the Pharisees wanted Jesus to “shush” his followers—because they didn’t need to be attracting the ire of the nervous Roman authorities. It’s why some scholars today—including Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan—suggest that while the Roman parade is making its way up the eastern side of Jerusalem from the Mediterranean, with chariots, cavalry, infantry, in a powerful show of worldly force; that Jesus and a very small band of followers is coming down the Mount of Olives on the western side of the city being led by a donkey with little fanfare. Everyone in town, or nearly everyone would have been captivated by the Romans and their expected arrival. No one knew Jesus was even coming; and even if they had, he was only one of thousands of pilgrims coming to celebrate in Jerusalem.

I don’t like Palm Sunday, because in the face of all this history, it almost makes Jesus’ entry out to be something it never could have been!

I don’t like Palm Sunday, because most of the time, the way we read the gospel stories it obscures what may be God’s greatest act and what I believe the gospel writers were really trying to tell us or show us—that in the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression, Jesus dies. It’s not a huge victory lap for the Son of God because of his resurrection, but the very death of God’s beloved Son.

I don’t like Palm Sunday because I don’t believe it’s a victory march; Jesus goes into Jerusalem and doesn’t come out alive. In order to demonstrate the power of the Kingdom of God, Jesus goes into Jerusalem to take on all the power of Rome, all the power of Judaism’s religious authorities, maybe even all the world’s power. And in the face of that power, Jesus’ followers are scattered, the “Jesus movement”—if we can call it that—is effectively squashed. And all the powers of the world look very much like they’ve won—unless….


I don’t like Palm Sunday; but the truth is, I don’t have to. And you don’t have to “unlike Palm Sunday” or agree with me about Palm Sunday at all. But what we should notice together, is that the gospels tell us that Jesus decisively enters Jerusalem as seriously as God entered the world in Jesus. That Jesus goes into Jerusalem in the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression—to demonstrate the values of the Kingdom of God. He doesn’t take up arms or threatening gestures, he doesn’t “dominate” or demand adherence to his way as the right way, but visibly “shows” the whole world—it’s powers, it’s dominators, it’s religious fanatics—that the ways of the Kingdom of God are unconquerable.

In the face of worldly domination, violence, and oppression, Jesus does the unthinkable—for those looking for a victory—he dies. The world kills him, and he doesn’t even lift a finger against it. That’s God’s response. To demonstrate not the power of the world, but to demonstrate the love and power and freedom of the Kingdom of God—a different way, a new call, the kind of life that yields life. The great victory of Jesus is to deny the powers of the world by demonstrating the very different power of God.

Worldly power is forceful power—violent power—peace by way of the sword. And Luke reminds us of what happens to Jerusalem in the years following Jesus’ death. Almost certainly reflecting the Roman siege and destruction of Jerusalem, including the Temple, Luke’s Jesus wept over these foreboding words:

“your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

Violence may have its way in the world, but it cannot conquer the Kingdom of God and its ways. But stand the world’s ways against God’s ways, like Jesus does in Jerusalem, and we’re often surprised by what happens—or doesn’t!

Palm Sunday is the announcement, really, of what’s coming—but not just that Jesus is riding triumphantly into town! What we “expect” may not be what actually happened. It’s true, Jesus rides into town, one way or another, for a showdown. But it’s to “show” people the demonstration of the Kingdom’s ways. In the face of domination, violence, and oppression—by the world’s standards, Jesus’ loses. But that’s not the end of the story! Not just because Jesus is raised, but because of what we see and know of him in the gospel stories.

In the Holy Land I met Elias Chacour, Bishop of Galilee in the Melkite branch of the Catholic Church. He wrote an inscription for me in one of his books that I’d purchased: God does not kill. It’s a hard point. Bishop Chacour has faced a dominant, violent, oppressive government nearly every day of his life—much like Jesus did. It’s always tempting to believe that by way of power, we can stop violence; “Peace through strength”—or something like that. It just doesn’t square with a God who doesn’t view violence and killing the same way human beings do. God does not kill. Which is why, I think, Jesus doesn’t lift a finger to save himself in the face of human violence. It’s not a matter of choosing some human beings over other human beings, but of human beings being called to live out God’s vision.

God’s vision—the ways of the Kingdom of God—are often antithetical to the ways of the world. Where earthly rule often gives in to violence, domination, and oppression, God’s kingdom is unconquerable by such things. How might our world be different if we gave witness to this path of Jesus? If we recognized God’s vision and allowed it to intercept our own? Where we live by the threat of violence and worldly power—what if we could choose Jesus’ way instead?

Sometimes, rather than joining the parade on Palm Sunday, I just want to be an observer. I see who Jesus is in the gospel stories. I too, know and see the world’s powers of domination, violence, and oppression at work. So I want to see and know what happens to Jesus—not because I believe it happened one way or another, but so I can see the values of the Kingdom of God at work and apply them to my own life. If the Palm Sunday parade is to mean anything, it means learning to give witness to the ways Jesus exhibits the Kingdom of God. It means for me to emulate him—by proclaiming loudly not only his kingship and lordship for my life, but proclaiming even more loudly the values of the Kingdom of God that Jesus demonstrated in those days for the sake of the whole world!

--+ AMEN.

The Audio Link, Pictures, and Manuscript from my Sermon on Sunday, March 21st

Here's the link to the audio file for my sermon, recorded on Sunday, March 21st, 2010.  You can listen to the sermon by clicking and downloading the file (it's in windows media format). 

http://www.box.net/shared/cyf9usv77v


This was the 5th Sunday in Lent, and I began the sermon with a story from my pilgrimage to the Holy Land last fall.  I had printed a page with 5 pictures on it for the morning bulletin, and have posted the pictures below. 

If you continue scrolling down, you'll find the manuscript--always the "plan" going into Sunday morning. 



HERE ARE THE PICTURES:

[above] The Old City of Jerusalem, and the Dome of the Rock from the Mt. of Olives.

[above]  Looking at the Mt. of Olives across the Kidron Valley, seeing the oldest Jewish Cemetery in the world. 

[Above] The sign going into the Garden of Gethsemane

[Above]  Looking up and out of Gethsemane toward the Old City of Jerusalem

[Above]  Inside the private, worship and prayer area at Gethsemane

HERE IS THE SERMON MANUSCRIPT:

The Fifth Sunday in Lent; March 21, 2010

Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa

Texts: Isaiah 43: 16-21
Psalm 126
Philippians 3: 4b-14
John 12: 1-8 *

“A More Determined Jesus to Save the Lost”

--} I’m beginning this morning with a story about one of my experiences in the Holy Land—related to the pictures on your insert.

Our first morning in Jerusalem, after breakfast we took a short bus ride from our hotel to the Mount of Olives, to walk down the Mount of Olives, through the Kidron Valley and into the Old City of Jerusalem—the same kind of route Jesus would have taken into the city any number of times, but especially in our Palm Sunday story.

In the valley between the Mount of Olives and the Old City is Gethsemane. In one garden area is the Church of All Nations, that houses the rock on which Jesus is said to have knelt and prayed while his disciples were sleeping. And across a small street was another garden where small groups could gather to worship, or pray, or talk about the significance of these places, etc. Our group got to spend time in both places, eventually having a sizeable garden in which to spend some personal time and reflect.

The garden is surrounded by high brick walls that help to muffle the hustle and bustle of the city and the many tour busses nearby; it’s somewhat quiet, but by no means removed from the city’s chaotic pace. And I found myself thinking about the night Jesus may have been near this place, waiting—as it were—for the inevitable. His years of ministry had forcefully set in motion what was coming next, and while his disciples might have been sleeping, surely he was anxious.

But then I took pause. I wondered about the soldiers who were coming—not really soldiers but the religious police. John’s gospel tells us they had weapons with them and Jesus seems surprised! I found myself snickering—really, what good are weapons when you’re facing down the one who just brought Lazarus back from the dead? Surely these so-called policemen and their mob had heard of that! And then Peter, when he draws his sword and cuts of the ear of the high priest’s slave—and Jesus puts it back on! I could imagine these guys quaking in their sandals, holding shakey swords up to Jesus and asking rather politely if Jesus would help them out by coming along, that they didn’t want any trouble.

And suddenly, it was a very different kind of transaction for me. It wasn’t the High Priest or even Pilate who was going to be “in control”, not the soldiers who would eventually harm Jesus, not the disciples or even Judas who betrayed him. No! The one in control was Jesus—who would go willingly with them. The guards, having to move him along like soldiers guarding enemy prisoners with no bullets in their rifles. I now saw the captian of the guard assessing Jesus—deciding for himself in the face of the ear getting put back on, that Jesus didn’t need to be put in the cuffs!

It was almost as if Jesus wanted to die—wasn’t just willing to die, but wanted to die. To accomplish the purpose for which he’d been dispatched. Almost with a sigh of relief that the hour had finally arrived, smirking slightly as if saying to the men who’d come to possess him, “take me to your leader”—even though this so-called “leader” wouldn’t have any of the real power and authority on this night!

Jesus, having been sent to seek out and save the lost, was finally getting down to business. And he wasn’t the victim. Jesus, in his death, was the victor.

I begin with that story because sometimes (maybe even often) I think we read the gospel stories the wrong way. We read them as if we were already the experts who don’t have to pay attention to the details. It’s easy to forget that John’s Jesus isn’t an innocent victim in Jerusalem. Sometimes, his acts are intentional, intended, and pointed. John’s story points us squarely at the reality that Jesus is going to die in Jerusalem—not because he gets betrayed in the last hours of his work, but because Jesus intends to die. Mary anoints him long BEFORE Judas intervenes. And I believe that changes the nature of the story and invites us to consider some different kinds of questions for John’s story.

John’s gospel, in particular, reveals a Jesus who is intentioned. Most everything Jesus does is related to signs and symbols. Surely, when Jesus comes to Jerusalem toward the end of his life and ministry the signs and symbols surrounding and including his death and resurrection are more than just a promise of everlasting life. What about redemption; and the lost being forever found?

Theologian George Stroup observes about this morning’s gospel reading from John that,

“those who accompany Jesus on his journey to the cross include not only Mary, a faithful disciple, ..but also Judas, the unfaithful disciple who steals from the common purse and who will betray Jesus. BOTH are included in John’s story of Jesus’ death, …and their inclusion tells us a great deal about the meaning of the cross and the inclusive nature of God’s grace.”

As I read that quote this week, I had an immediate flashback to the story we read last week about the man who had two sons, the one faithful and the other seemingly not. And Stroup suggests that “within the bright, transforming light of the cross” we have to see both kinds of characters.

That raises a serious question for us, doesn’t it? What’s the deal with Judas? And does that offer us a view to what Jesus’ death really means?

We are often quick to presume that Mary is accepted by God because of her precious gift of faith, demonstrating her love for Jesus by anointing his body with the costly gift of nard. But Judas, for his part, is rejected by God because of his rejection of Jesus—betraying him and stealing the purse. Somehow, we even got the idea that we’re entitled to choose the winners and losers in the great divide between heaven and hell—eternal life and eternal damnation—too frequently believing that we control for our very selves, by our assent to faith or our rejection of it, whether we are to be heaven-bound or taken in by hell. As if OUR faith, or OUR confession were all that were required to make the difference—all that were necessary for salvation. But John’s gospel seems to argue clearly that it isn’t.

I don’t mean to suggest that we have no part in faith at all, but I want to be sure we recognize that it’s Jesus’ death that becomes the ultimate act of redemption, isn’t it? Karl Barth observes that “until he dies, Jesus has not yet loved His own unto the end.” So, not prematurely, not selfishly, not of his own accord—does Judas get Jesus killed. Not for greed, not for fame or glory, not for power or prestige—because Jesus is walking a path that is already God-determined. Jesus is not the victim in his death; he is the victor. Jesus goes to Jerusalem to accomplish this death; which seems to explain why his friends and closest followers are gathered at a funeral dinner.

So John’s story puts faithful, truth-filled Mary and unfaithful, treacherous Judas in the same scene. Yet despite what we are told of him, Judas is no less a witness of Jesus and his ministry, no less of a follower, no less of a believer. He does end up with the unfortunate position of the “betrayer,” but he is not the only one. Peter will deny Jesus three times, the disciples all scatter; but when Jesus rebukes Judas, it’s not nearly as severe as what he reserves for Peter. And unlike Peter, Judas appears to “get it,” that Jesus and his ministry are all about saving the lost and the least, the poor and hungry. As John tells the story, Judas, in his own way, “no less than any of the other disciples, serves God’s great purpose of saving the lost”—by handing Jesus over to his death. Can that still be, even if unknowingly, faith-filled?

As Christians, we believe that Jesus “came to save the lost;” and yet, we’re often found suggesting that there are some people who are more “lost” than others. Some, so “unsavory” that surely there are “limits” to God’s ability to love and save them to the end; that in fact, some people “escape” the saving work of Christ by somehow “rejecting him.” We even comfort ourselves with the idea that there surely are some people who are “too bad” to be saved; and Judas, most of the time, looks like one of those. But what if it’s true, that in his death, Jesus intends to “save the lost”? Does that include Judas and others like him?

There’s quite a tension if you hold Judas and Mary together with Jesus. We can’t pick and choose, based on our fancy, those who are heaven-bound and those to be taken in by hell. We witness Jesus willfully walking toward death to save the lost—all the lost, rejectful or not. It’s how we know there’s a place to turn around, no matter who we are or what we’ve done. It’s the goodness of God that ultimately prevails—not just when Jesus is raised, but more certainly when he dies. In a manner of speaking, only Judas can make that happen. And in an awkward way, that also makes him a hero of the story. Doesn’t it?

John’s gospel presses the point harder and farther that death isn’t always what we think it is. The worst thing in life is not having to die or pay taxes; the worst thing might be not recognizing the goodness of God and following that goodness. Judas may not have the anointing perfume for Jesus before he dies, but he does carry with him the means of Jesus’ death. While Mary prepares Jesus for death, Judas will help Jesus die. One can argue without either one, Jesus can’t complete his intended mission.

Jesus demonstrates that they can “kill him,” but it’s not the ending they think it is. This is the faith that comes from knowing that we come from God and we return from God. This is the faith that comes from learning and believing that death is not the final word. Cancer or disease, unintended consequences, bullets fired in anger, earthquakes and storms, fires, floods, winds and hail—may be the agents of death sometimes, but they are not the final judgment. Judas, for whatever accusations are thrown at him or attached to his memory, was someone who recognized God’s goodness in Jesus and followed him. And in the end, Judas had the task of becoming the one who would help make Jesus’ salvific death possible—a death Jesus was determined to accomplish in order to save the lost.

--+ AMEN.

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon from Sunday, March 14, 2010

Here's the Link to the Audio File for the live recording of my sermon, as delivered, on Sunday, March 14th. This was the 4th Sunday in the season of Lent.  Again this week, the audio link will be followed by the manuscript I used in preparing and delivering the sermon. 

http://www.box.net/shared/cylkhkk1dq



The Fourth Sunday in Lent; March 14, 2010

Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Joshua 5: 9-12
Psalm 32
2 Corinthians 5: 16-21
Luke 15: 1-3, 11b-32 *

“There Is Mercy For All Who Wish to Be Freed”

--} Several weeks ago, we began this Lenten season with this story about a valiant King, a dragon, and one of the King’s sons.

Once upon a time, there was a great and noble king whose land was terrorized by a crafty dragon. The scaly beast delighted in ravaging villages with his fiery breath. And though the king led his sons and the knights of the realm in many valiant battles against the dragon, they had never succeeded in vanquishing him.

One day, one of the king’s sons was riding alone in the forest when he heard his name being whispered. In the shadows of the trees, was the dragon. “Don’t be alarmed,” said the dragon. “I am not what your father thinks.”

“What are you, then?” asked the prince.

“I am pleasure,” said the dragon. “Ride on my back and you will experience more than you ever imagined. Come now. I have no harmful intentions. I simply seek a friend, someone to share flights with me. Have you never dreamed of flying?

Visions of soaring high above the forest and hills drew the prince from his horse. The dragon unfurled his wings after the prince had climbed on his back, and with two powerful thrustsof his wings, they were airborne. The prince’s apprehension rapidly melted into awe and exhilaration.

From then on, the prince met the dragon often, but always in secret lest his father and the knights of the realm should discover his treachery.

Then, one day, while the prince and dragon were flying over the countryside, they spied a village in the distance. Before the prince realized what was happening, the dragon was already torching the thatched roofs with fiery blasts from his nostrils and roaring with delight at the sight of people fleeing their homes in terror.

The following day, the refugees made their way to the king’s castle to seek protection. The prince tried to remain in the shadows, so as not to be noticed, but some of the refugees stared and pointed at him. “He was there!” one woman cried out. “I saw him on the back of the dragon.” Others nodded their heads in angry agreement.

“Banish him!” one of his brothers cried out.

“Burn him alive!” another shouted.

Slowly, the king strode toward his son, and the prince steeled himself, fully expecting his father to kill him on the spot. Instead, the king embraced him and wept as he held him tightly. As he held his son in his arms, the king called out, “The dragon is crafty! Some fall victim to his wiles and some to his violence. There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed. Who else among you has ridden the dragon?”

The prince lifted his head to see someone emerge from the crowd. To his amazement, he recognized an older brother – one who had been lauded throughout the realm for his brave battles with the dragon. Soon a steady stream of others were stepping forward, some with tears streaming from their eyes, others with their heads bowed in shame.

One by one the king embraced them all. “This is our most powerful weapon against the dragon,” he announced. “Truth. No more hidden flights. Alone we cannot resist him.”

How interesting this reaction of the King and Father. At just the very moment that the son expects to be killed—and we think, "rightfully so"—his father embraces him. “The dragon is crafty!” And clearly if the King were to kill all those who had ridden the dragon, there would be none left to fight it. And if God dealt with sin in the ways we often proclaim…?

All too often we come to Luke’s parable expecting to engage it by allegory. We like to name the people in the characters. We call the Father God, the younger son, sinful; and we don’t quite know what to do with the older son. He’s probably the one that beckons us, though. Few of us like to admit that we’re “sinful enough” to be represented in the younger son; few of us like to believe that we are called to the great and valiant graciousness of the father to offer such a “return” to his son; and that leaves only the older son, who we find not so savory, either. To come at the parable allegorically though, almost always leaves us with the Father pleading with US to come into the party celebrating the wayward son. And if we’re honest, we never want to be so willing. But maybe there's another way into the parable. 


I LOVE how Luke tells us this parable. Listen to the beginning: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Pharisees… think “older son.” But notice that Jesus frames the scene by saying, “ALL the tax collectors and sinners,” by which I think he means “ALL.” So think, in particular, all the government regulators and CEOs who took that bank bailout money and squandered it, Congressional representatives who sometimes listen and are responsible and often aren’t; think sinners and make your favorite list—bank robbers, murderers, thieves, homosexuals, heterosexuals, child molesters, abusive spouses, cheating friends. And gathered together, Jesus would turn to those who would take offense—think older son, the Pharisees, and my guess is all of us… “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them…”—you know the rest.

As Luke tells it, the younger son says to the father, “give me the share of the ousia that will belong to me.” Ousia, is a Greek word we’re all familiar with, but you might not know it. My lexicon for translating biblical passages tells us ousia means “property” or “wealth;” and while that’s accurate enough, ousia is also a word that the Church has fought long and hard over. Not quite three hundred years after Luke is writing his gospel, ousia becomes the word the Church Council at Nicaea uses to define the relationship between God and Jesus. The exact line of the Nicene Creed says, “of one Being with the Father”—or, “of one SUBSTANCE.” It’s a word that conjurs not just “property” or “wealth” being transacted, but perhaps something more akin to “substance”—like God promises Abraham will have a child with Sarah of his very own “issue.” DNA, a last name, family heritage. Read this way, the father in our story appears to be giving more than just money to his son.

What the Church believes about God and Jesus is that they are of one substance. The Son comes to inhabit the earth as a human being with the “substance” of God. Some theologians even suggest the parable of the prodigal plays on that relationship: God the father, Jesus the son who goes far away to another country—earth—to the dissolute living of human beings. But before we go back to allegorizing again, Luke’s story seemingly suggests that father and sons are connected in their very “being-ness”—the father and the younger son, the father and the older son, the older son and the younger son.

Luke throws another twist at us too. Notice that it isn’t the “dissolute living” or what we often call the “sinful behavior” that gets the younger son into the story’s real trouble. It’s true, he squanders, or spends all the money—yes. But it’s the famine that does him in. And famines—like earthquakes, storms, tornadoes, fires, and disasters of all kinds—affect human beings in a variety of ways, the good and bad alike. His trouble comes not because he stupidly spent his fortune and now has nothing; trouble finds him because the place where he finds himself isn’t willing to recognize his ousia. He’s the low man on the totem pole because he’s got no family. No one will give him anything because the rule is, “fools get what they deserve.” If he had family, they would be OBLIGATED to take him in. So the redemptive moment becomes when he decides to return to his ousia—when he remembers his “substance”—who he really or truly is.

Notice too, that this “repentance” is not “forgiveness.” That despite the son’s intention to seek forgiveness the father will have none of it. Grace trumps forgiveness in this story. But what ousia means is that “substance” never wears off. So he still gets the best robe, the ring, the fatted calf, the celebration… no matter what he did. Repentance, “finding oneself” is one thing; forgiveness… that’s another story.

But isn’t Luke’s story able to offer us an important view toward who and whose we really are. We believe that Jesus—the same “substance” or “ousia” as God—comes to earth to live in the same “ousia” as human beings. In a way, that’s how Jesus is able to drag all of us back up to heaven, because he “unites” human beings with God—in the waters of baptism, there in the font; in the feasting at the Lord’s Supper, here in bread and cup; in the word—the logos—proclaimed from forever. In Jesus we are melded to God in that we are even called brothers and sisters with Christ and therefore, we bear some of “God’s ousia ourselves.”

That bears striking resemblance to what we proclaim in the creation story; that God created human beings, literally “breathing into us the breath of life”—the pnuma or Spirit of God. And in imparting life to us, we believe God gives us God’s own image—so that we bear the image of God if not God’s same substance. It’s how we can say in all seriousness that we can see “Christ” in one another. And we believe that we are created by God and that we return to God when we die.

So that at least part of what Luke offers us is a story that seems to bear out that truthful reality that because of Jesus Christ, human beings belong to and are related to God’s own substance. That human beings—no matter who we are or what we’ve done—always have a way home.

What does this mean? I believe it means that we can say of every human being—by “ousia”—you belong to God, you are of God. That fathers and sons can meet with an embrace rather than the business end of a sword. It means that we can say, “we belong to God,” and mean it. It means we know God’s ousia trumps whatever mistakes we’ve made in life—how ever the ways we have “ridden that dragon” thinking we were alone all that whole time, given over to our own desires. God says, “no so”—that’s not your story! “I” am your story!

And people always want to ask, “does this mean the perpetrators of those despicable acts—do they get into heaven, too?” Luke’s parable doesn’t address that. What we’re saying is that “coming to one’s self,” human beings find a way to God in Jesus Christ. We are not saying, “oh you murders, you traitors, you child molesters, it’s really OK what you did, come into the party.” We’re NOT saying that AT ALL. We’re saying that every human being belongs to God no matter who they are or what they’ve done. And that God bears the burden of what happens next. And if the parable’s any indication, don’t we have to believe that at the minimum, God invites them to enter the grand party—by dying to an old way of living and embracing a new one? The same thing God says to us—even if our sins aren’t perceived by us to be quite so bad.

Shall we not dare to say, as the other father does to his son, “There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.” Mercy and forgiveness are not the same things. Mercy is the way of coming home, of returning, of the door being opened from death to life anew.

“There will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.”

Too often, you and I stand like Pharisees, trying to guard the door, not letting any sinfulness get past. Even for us, “there will be mercy for all who wish to be freed.”

Brothers and sisters… the party beckons.


--+ AMEN.




As always, thanks for checking this out. 

The Audio Link and Manuscript for my Sermon from Sunday, March 07, 2010

Here's the Link to the Audio File for the live recording of my sermon, as delivered, on Sunday, March 7th.  The link will be followed by the manuscript I worked from. 


http://www.box.net/shared/fovcsaamk0



The Third Sunday in Lent; March 07, 2010
Park Avenue Presbyterian Church; Des Moines, Iowa
Texts: Isaiah 55: 1-9
Psalm 63: 1-8
1 Corinthians 10: 1-13
Luke 13: 1-9 *

“It's Not Too Late to Get the Manure on Your Shoes?”

--} Lent is a time when the Church turns toward Jesus’ death—not resurrection, DEATH. The old wisdom is: “you can’t have an Easter resurrection without a death”—so, we walk with Jesus toward his death. And let’s face it, that just “feels” weird.

Death almost always makes us uncomfortable—especially unusual circumstances. One of my Facebook friends, a seminary colleague, a pastor in Houston, posted this earlier this week:

Visited a friend of a friend in hospital... This young couple's son, age 14, is slowly suffocating due to rejection of a lung transplant. No hope for survival. They are hoping for a swift and painless death because that's the best they can hope for.

Last year they lost their other son, age 16. He had cystic fibrosis and went septic after a visit to Universal Studios in Orlando and died in the car in his mother's arms on the drive home. The mother is 40 years old. GOD help her and her husband and their son who's dying. Keep them in prayer.

Death bothers us so much, that we Americans cling to life as if any kind of death were bad. We even try and legislate for it, or often find ourselves labeling it, “a shame,” or “a tragedy”—perhaps like some of the people coming to Jesus. Stanley Hauerwas, a well known Christian ethicist and theologian says that if most Americans were asked to name the purpose of life, we would answer, “the purpose of life is not to die.” [Really?]

Yet Christian doctrine, like Jesus in our gospel lesson, has an emphatic corrective. Commentator Ralph Wood asserts:

“Christians… believe that we have come from and that we will return to the God of Jesus Christ. Our central conviction, therefore, is that the purpose of life is indeed TO DIE—faithfully, graciously, perhaps even in martyrdom—so as to indicate that God’s kingdom is indeed our reason for living.”

I take it that he means our “reason for life” isn’t captured only in being with family and friends, that it isn’t simply a desire to live longer, or to give up or throw away our lives easily, but that we would be intentional about living out our FAITH that says, “we belong to God.” Not tragically, not shamefully.

Luke’s gospel reports that when Jesus is told about the “Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices,” Jesus throws back at them a longstanding question about life and death:

“Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? …Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

Jesus acts as if people were asking “who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” or more pointedly, trying to answer the question about the relationship between one’s sinfulness and personal accountability. In searching for the “reason” someone dies, too often we think people must have done something wrong to cause God to get mad at them.

This presumption has led Pat Robertson and other irresponsible Christians to conclude that the Haitian earthquake was the result of some “deal made with the devil,” or that New Orleans—for its well-known parlors of iniquity—brought on itself the destruction of Hurricane Katrina or that Chilé must have done something even more self-destructive in earning God’s wrath. In response to all such proclamations hear the voice of God in Jesus answering with an emphatic: “NO!!!!!” For us, Jesus forever breaks the link between sinful behavior and supernatural consequences. Life and death ARE NOT related to sinfulness. Sinning more or less does not effect one’s chances for premature death or survival of tragic happenings. We cannot and must not presume that particularly moral or righteous behavior is rewarded by less tragedy or that less righteousness earns more wrath. After all, the central story of Christian faith is that a sinless Jesus suffers and dies because of the sins of others. Humans beware! Sinfulness alone doesn’t keep people out of the kingdom of God. [Thank goodness!]

What Jesus does say, however, is that unless we experience metanoia, we can never leave death behind. Metanoia is the Greek word which is often translated in this passage as “repent,” but the word literally means to turn, or to turn around—“to change one’s mind,” or perhaps even better, “to have a change of heart.” “Repentance” is a loaded term implying for me some kind of sinfulness has occurred. I think what Jesus is saying, to break the link between sin and death, is that unless our hearts are changed, we can’t leave death behind. And here, Jesus offers us a parable:

“A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ [The gardener] replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’ ”

Notice in the parable that change was expected, but not achieved; but also, that the tree was not without an advocate. Advocating for a change, the gardener proposes a kind of intervention—that judgment be suspended until such time as the roots could be dug around and manure applied. Even despite no apparent change in 3 seasons, the possibility of fruitfulness yet remains. It would seem that every opportunity might be given for the desired change to occur before judgment is rendered.

Many commentators suggest these stories are meant to emphasize that the “time” is short, that Jesus is declaring something like, “repent, before it’s too late!” But to me, there’s a difference between saying, “repent before it’s too late,” and “it’s not too late to have your minds changed,” or “it’s not too late to start bearing fruit.” After all, it seems to me that the Jesus is saying as well, “the ‘gardener,’ the ‘advocate’ is with you to help enable your fruitfulness—prepare to receive the manure.

The difference between Jesus demanding a change of heart that I have to accomplish for myself and Jesus who declares a change of heart is necessary and that he stands ready to help bring it into being—is huge. The one results easily in the attitude, “well, I guess the Haitians or the Chileans didn’t change their ways, or they wouldn’t have suffered God’s judgment.” The other possibility, that of Jesus standing ready to help us, means that we can “be changed” by our relationship with Christ. Jesus, breaking the link between sin and death, is the shovel-er of manure for our sake—declaring for us, “it’s not too late to bear fruit.” The one providing the manure to “feed” the tree and its produce is the same one who becomes our bread, that we too might be nourish and bear fruit. Or could it be as well, Jesus reminding us that we, too, have hands and tools and can help others by helping to dig and shoveling manure for them, too.

About that manure… one of my other Facebook pastor-friends shared some thoughts recently about our relationship to God in light of the things that can happen to us. He wrote:

As pastors, my wife and I live in a church “manse,” a house owned by the church in which the pastor lives while serving that congregation. Ours is a beautiful old 3-story home, built in 1872. In between the church and the house is an equally historic cemetery. The well-groomed cemetery is separated from the house by a hillside that is covered with trees and brush and is home to a family of deer during the summer and foxes and squirrels and groundhogs the whole year long.

I’ve decided that if these woodland creatures have any concept of a higher power, it is probably similar to that of many Christians. That holds especially true of the squirrels. Knowing that we have so many animals living right next to our house, we often toss bits of fruits or vegetables or breads up on the hillside, instead of throwing them away. When our Halloween pumpkins are done, we toss them on the hill; if grapes, apples or oranges start to spoil, they get tossed on the hill. Stale cookies or bread, up they go to the hill. And in a very short while, you’ll see the squirrels appear from everywhere, gathering food as quickly as it was tossed on the hillside.

There’s one other thing that ends up on the hillside – dog poop. We have two dogs, a Black Lab and a small dog of indeterminate breeding. They generate the usual amount of dog poop and, having grown up in farm country in the Midwest, I tend to just scoop it up out of the yard and toss it back into nature – right there on the hillside. So I imagine that the squirrels must think there is some deity out there, sometimes tossing gifts of fruit and vegetables and at other times, throwing some poop into their lives. Do they wonder what they’ve done to deserve either? Do the squirrels wonder what they’ve done wrong when the poop starts to fly? Do they reflect on what they could have done better so that the “God of the hillside” wouldn’t poop on them? When the fruit and vegetables come raining down, do they congratulate themselves, thinking they’ve finally lived the kind of “squirrel life” they were supposed to?

Or maybe the squirrels say to themselves, “Well, I don’t know where this poop is coming from, but it must be part of God’s plan for us. The poop is being thrown at us to test us. God surely won’t give us more poop than we can handle.” Does any of this sound familiar? I’m really not making fun of people’s faith, but I do have to wonder what we base some of our beliefs on – maybe nothing more than some random instances of gifts and poop. After all, sometimes “poop” happens – all on its own, not God-sent.  [My thanks to Rev. Mitch Trigger who share this story about his own experience and observations.] 

Perhaps it is important that we Christians say as boldly as we can that God loves us so much, that God takes every opportunity to provide the metanoia—the change of heart—that is necessary for us to live with the vision of the Kingdom of God, and not be caught up in the suppositions of the world. There is no way to insure ourselves of better things or longer life by avoiding sin. The truth is that even with all the manure and careful digging, the tree cannot live forever. Jesus doesn’t say that by living a more moral or fruitful life, we somehow avoid dying. Even if it isn’t cut down, but bears fruit, the tree eventually will die—so did Jesus, and so do we.

The difference is what we believe about God; and what we believe about death.



--+ AMEN.