Who Do You Say That I Am?

It’ll be 5 years ago this October/November that I had the chance to pilgrimage in the Holy Land.  And one of the “journeys” of that trip was to travel from our hotel in Tiberius up to “Caesarea Philippi”—or at least to the site of the first-century Roman city. 

I remember the day well.  It was cloudy and rainy.  There were parts of the journey in heavy fog—so that you couldn’t see the mountains.  And we traveled from land that was established as “Israel” in 1948 to land that had since been acquired and controlled by Israel—what was once a part of Syria that now is occupied by Israeli defense forces and citizens.  Traveling through this new territory, we didn’t see tanks or barracks, but we knew it was heavily defended, seeing plenty of signs along the road indicating that it was “mined” with landmines beyond the shoulders, noticing, too, that if required a vigorous defense stood at the ready for any military attack. 

I’ve since wondered if this was also how Jesus’ disciples might have felt about the journey Jesus was asking them to undertake in last Sunday’s gospel lesson.  “Who do people say that the Son of Man is? (Matthew 16: 13-20)” is a question Jesus is asking in the face of cultural, military, and imperial opposition to the people of God.  Jesus presumably takes the disciples to show them the human opposition that the ministry of Jesus Christ faces in the world.  And when Peter offers up the right answer, it’s an anti-imperial choice, a reflection that the true power of the world is found in God—in Jesus.  But this power is opposed by the world around it! 

Frankly, this isn’t much different that the challenges we face in our world, today.  The call and claim of the ministry of Jesus Christ calls us to be anti-imperial, counter-cultural, and to choose non-violence in the face of violence.  Because at the end of the day, “who do we say that Jesus is?”—if not anti-imperial, counter-cultural, and non-violent?  The identification of Jesus as “the way, and the truth, and the life,” prescribes a different world-view for us—one of compassion, peace, and justice.  These are not just good words; they must compel us to act. 

Jesus calls us to identify with the Kingdom of God.  To love her virtues, to claim her values, and to give witness to God’s desires for the world—where every life is valued and acts of violence are abhorred.  This must call us to revalue our commitments to privileged “rights” and public policies.  The problem is, we’re simply afraid of alienating anyone; and when we take strident stands, we’re accused of cutting someone out. 

Unfortunately, the temptation is to believe that if we hold too tightly and rigidly to the calls and claims of Jesus, we’ll make people mad.  If we call for non-violent solutions in places like Gaza, Syria, and Iraq, we’ll look foolish in the world of an “eye-for-an-eye” kind of retributive justice.  If we stand up for victims of violence and discrimination like Mike Brown we’ll be seen as “anti-police” or “reverse-racist.”  And if we try and steer toward a middle way, we aren’t leading with Jesus’ voice in any clear direction. 

Jesus stood in the face of worldly power and gave witness to the Kingdom of God. 

And frankly, Jesus calls us to stand in the face of this world’s power and at the very least, admit our allegiance to God’s power above and beyond human power. 

We’re fond—at least in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A)—of trying to carve out a safe place for everyone; in other words, we’re famous for not telling people what to believe or how to vote or forcing people to support certain policies.  But what we sometimes lose is remembering to proclaim boldly the kind of life Jesus lived and calls us to. 

The biblical witness of Jesus calls us toward a lifestyle of not killing, a way of life that values all human beings, and care for neighbor that identifies even our enemies as our neighbors.  Even in the face of public opinion. 

The congregation I serve doesn’t tell you what to believe; but we do want you to “do the math.”  We should be telling the world what Jesus did, what he believed, what he stood for, how he called people to live.  And that’s a pretty good indication of the values we should be holding and living out, too. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

The Delicateness of a Wildly Creative God

I’ve returned from two weeks of being isolated on vacation.  My family and I spent two weeks camping in the wilds of Pennsylvania forests, most of that time in the Allegheny National Forest.  There were lots of opportunities to witness God’s creation and few chances to be “connected” by cell phone, text message, Wi-Fi, e-mail and certainly no cable television! 

Just prior to leaving on our vacation, our congregation hosted our annual Vacation Bible School and one of the activities I invited the children into was an exercise of “walking with God/Jesus.”  We walked in our neighborhood and I invited the 3-4 year olds, and the 5-6 year olds, and the 7-8 year olds and the 9-10 year olds to practice “walking with Jesus” by looking for the signs of God’s presence in the world. 

I had in mind, birds chirping, or a squirrel crossing our path, or the abundant sunshine on a beautiful day.  But I wasn’t at all prepared for how well they’d take it!  “Walking with Jesus” was a good reminder for me; and sharing with the children made it more important for me to consider the ways I connect with God in God’s wondrous world. 

Every day on our vacation we had opportunities to connect with God’s beauteous creation.  And I tried to soak up every bit of God’s presence.  We saw grand forests, substantial vistas, and really cool stuff.  It’s hard not to wonder about God’s creativeness—especially when you discover an Eastern Newt (a bright orange, lizard looking thing that ambles along on the forest floor in this really interesting way). 

It was easy “looking for God” amidst all the natural beauty that was so different from our neighborhood back in Havertown. 

But here’s what really “got me.”  One of the things I was “hoping for” for this trip, was the opportunity to see a bear—in the wilderness.  Yes.  I wanted to share wilderness space, together, with a bear.  I know.  That’s not exactly what one is taught to hope for, and if you find yourself with the bear, you are supposed to move in another direction.  But then, all of a sudden it was happening.  And not just any bear, try a mamma bear with two of the cutest cubs you could ever imagine! 

To be honest, the bear looked a lot like any bear you might see at the zoo.  And at about 50 feet, not close enough for us to feel threatened or for the bear to be too concerned.  For that matter, the bear was totally unconcerned about the people in the area—even though the people were somewhat apprehensive about the bear, particularly a mother bear with reason to be defensive about her cubs.  Yet, neither we nor the bear seemed the least bit afraid. 

The surprising thing?  Here was this big black bear foraging through bushes and shrubbery, but not making any noise whatsoever!  In fact, were it not for some other hikers, we would have missed the bears altogether.  No grunts, no rustling of leaves, no distinctive rubbing of branches.  The bears were quiet as the proverbial church mouse!  And it was breathtaking—literally. 

I held my breath, hoping this moment could go on and on, quickly trying to get a picture of the bears.  My children even made fun of me because as I took pictures, I seemed to catch only the bear’s backside each time—their giggles were far louder than the bears rustling.  It was simply awesome! 

So what awed me?  The delicate creativity of almighty God!  The delicateness of small Eastern Newts ambling in their peculiar way and big black bears rummaging the forest in almost total and complete silence!  I had to rethink Elijah’s still, small, voice and the sound of sheer silence!  The awesome sound of God—who makes no sound, like a black bear in the forest.  It makes it hard to notice God sometimes.  We have to be practiced at “looking for God” even as that sounds kind of silly.  Of course, the kids will tell you, “God is everywhere.”  But it’s kind of like that bear… you look up and are caught off guard, caught in the moment, there and yet sneaky quiet. 

Where have you met the delicateness of our wildly creative God? 

Where have you found God sneaking up on you? 

And how do you carry that with you everyday? 

The delicateness of that black bear, silently moving about the forest!  What a wildly creative and delicate God.  That’s the God I meet—delicate, wildly creative, giving me hope and inspiration in a world beset with troubles.  Wildly creative and delicate enough, un-harried enough, un-fearing enough.  I walk with that God. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

“On God the Solid Rock I Sleep; all Other Ground Is Not As Sweet”

Elizabeth Evans Hagan, writing this week for the online devotional at www.d365.org invites us to pray, “Remind me today that I can trust You to be my rock!”  It seems a fitting image as we come to the 6^th Sunday After Pentecost where the alternate Old Testament lesson shares the story of Jacob who sleeps in the wilderness with a “rock” for a pillow—only to be awakened in the night to discover that the “rock” is rather uniquely connected to God and a gateway to heaven. 

“A rock for a pillow” strikes me as a rather bad time in the wilderness!  Surely, Jacob had something more tangible with him that could have better served as a place to lay his head.  Jesus, however, was plainly and painfully forthright telling his disciples, “the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”  While Jacob is not the Son of Man these are still the reminders that there are times when we journey in difficult places and circumstances.  The lesson, as always, seems to be for us to learn time and again to rely on God; and that even when we have not sought God out, God manages to seek us out, to find us, and to reveal for us God’s promises. 

It is striking to me that in the wilderness, with nothing to his name and only a rock for a pillow, Jacob is found by God.  That rock becomes the keystone—where the ladder appears and the angels are ascending and descending and where Jacob can see into God’s realm.  At some point, God must descend, or at least God appears beside Jacob—right there in the wilderness, in a time of uncomfortability and uncertainty.  And maybe more than God’s promises that get laid out again, the reminder—and one of the most appealing elements of this story—is supposed to be that we are never abandoned or alone. 

God is indeed our rock! 

But this is more than just comforting words in a harsh moment.  Jacob will go on to bless that spot and that rock as a reminder of who visited there.  And we all should have places where God has appeared to us giving those places special meaning.  But it isn’t just in the places.  The Bible reminds us that God appears in all kinds of situations; and our Sunday School lessons teach us that God is everywhere.  Yet, when we say that God is our rock… are we not lending ourselves both to something concrete but also less definitive? 

I’m thinking today about an upcoming family vacation that my family and I are planning.  We’re going to be camping, and we’re always worried about picking camping sites where we literally won’t be using rocks for pillows.  Still, part of the experience we hope for is to encounter one another and God in new ways—and places.  We know that a sunset, a patch of wild blackberries, wildlife, or scenic spots and opportunities all lend themselves to the breathtaking promises of God’s abiding with us. 

But just beyond are the reminders of God that change us. 

Our Christian culture seems to be struggling with the idea of a change-less God.  For some, the basis of faith is having God “nailed down” in the Bible’s stories and teachings with the point revealing an un-changeable, and unchanging God—where God is the same, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  For others, the Bible’s promises are of a God that is always doing something new among us, breathing newness and freshness into our lives.  Many, see a God adept at change, able to fashion God’s love in spite of human foibles, where a changeless gospel of the good news of God’s love constantly and consistently invites and cajoles us to be changed by God’s love and where God is changed because God is in relationship with us. 

To say that God is our rock—isn’t saying that we’re stuck in a sanctuary of unchanging, immoveable existence; but instead, is to plant ourselves within a journey—where we’re firmly rooted in God’s faithfulness and loving kindness but always moving, changing, rediscovering, being moved and cajoled and inspired by a God who cannot be nailed down! 

So in this season of traveling, journeying, vacationing—in our trips, tours, and treks—may we be open to laying our heads down upon the rocks of God’s love.  May we be kept safe; may we accomplish our assignments; may we relax and enjoy and be encouraged.  And may we also be open to discovering again God’s presence among us.  Let us learn again that God is with us—no matter our travels or troubles.  Let us feel God as our rock and resting place.  And like Jacob, may we go away inspired to never be the same. 

  

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

“The Yoke of Jesus—Binding Up One Another’s Wounds”

For the past fortnight I’ve been thinking about the necessity of “binding up one another’s wounds.”  My beloved Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) feels “dinged” to me—like a historic piece of silver communion ware (say, a chalice) that got dropped and now bears the physical signs of imperfectness.  I’m comfortable with the church being an “imperfect place”—it is, in fact, how God calls us to be; if nothing else, as a kind of hospital for sinners, which means we bear the realities of dealing with human sinfulness all the time. 

That’s a little easier when you’re dealing with the “trash-passers” as the Family Circus cartoon referred to those who “trespassed” in the Lord’s Prayer. 

It’s a little more difficult when we’re talking about brothers and sisters with whom we openly disagree. 

There are wounds on every side.  For a long time, those “wounded” were those who believed our church was denying those who were LGBTQ the same rights and authorities and opportunities in service.  And after years of conversation and debates, our General Assembly has moved to allow not only ordination of LGBTQ persons for church service, but now has granted ministers and congregations permission to officiate same-sex marriages in places where it’s legal.  So now, wounded-ness is also being felt by those who fervently believed by conscience and their reading of scripture that same-sex marriage is wrong, and the reality that “Presbyterian-ness” is now associated with permitting it.  I’m not sure the wounds are the same; but I know that there’s a lot of wounded-ness among us. 

I for one like Presbyterian meetings.  But I’m not looking forward to the conversations over this issue that will happen where members and elected commissioners will be divided and where our wounded-ness is again rubbed raw in conversations, deliberations, and decisions that must still be made regarding the definition of marriage in our church’s constitution. 

I keep going back to an experience I had while on pilgrimage in the Holy Land.  Our group pulled over on the highway between the Dead Sea and Jerusalem at a place I had only heard and read about—the Good Samaritan Inn.  Yet, there we were, beside the highway, in a barren desert-esque, wilderness place with lots of dirt and sand and weeds, and where we didn’t actually see any inn; there was a locked gate and we were told they were building an inn. 

The place is named, of course, for the famous story in Luke’s gospel—“The Good Samaritan”—where the hero turns out to be an enemy.  Despite major divisions—religious, political, and otherwise—the Samaritan binds the wounds of the one who was beaten, robbed, and left for dead in the ditch beside the road.  How’d that happen?--especially when other folks simply "passed by on the other side."  I don't blame the passers-by; I'm feeling like passing by, too.    

OK, so maybe the injured one wasn’t in a position to argue, fight back, or dissent.  Nonetheless, he is the beneficiary of great human kindness and love.  This love prevails despite the deep divides.  Maybe it was easier because the injured was just one—not like a whole raft of enemies, not like a 60-40 split down the center aisle of the Presbytery meeting. 

We in the church aren’t dealing with victims beside the road.  We’re looking across the aisle or around the room at friends and colleagues, about whom we have answered ordination vows to be “a friend among colleagues.”  In our assemblies we have different opinions; different interpretations; different hopes and dreams—to be sure.  But what we claim together in Jesus Christ surely means we already have a leg up on the injured Jew beside the road and the Samaritan who tends to him.  Shouldn’t we do no less than they in binding wounds? 

I believe our common calling—even with those with whom we disagree—is what a colleague is calling in a sermon this weekend, “the yoke of Christ.”  My friend is telling his congregation about the legend of Jesus the master carpenter, who becomes famous for his ability and willingness to craft perfectly fitted yokes for working oxen.  It’s Jesus—“measuring twice and cutting once” to unite two different animals in their work in a way that is “perfectly fitted” to be both humane and enabling. 

In these days when our church faces the struggles of more discussions and decision-making, it’s important to remember that we are yoked to Christ.  But also, I think, that we are called to be yoked to one another.  This will not mean “agreeing to disagree.”  It means we are stuck with each other—for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.  But we are not “stuck,” so much as we are fitted for service—TOGETHER—with, by, and for Jesus Christ. 

It is Christ who has joined us as brothers and sisters and called us into ministry.  It is Christ who has fitted us together for this journey.  It is Christ who calls us to be one and who sustains us. 

I don’t know exactly what that looks like.  But I hope that we will all demonstrate care for one another and live into it—TOGETHER. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The Presbyterian Church of Llanerch, Havertown, Pennsylvania

“What to Make of Us Now”

Last week, the 221^st General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) the Christian denomination in which I am an ordained Teaching Elder, was meeting in Detroit, Michigan.  If you weren’t napping during the evening news or snoozing through the Sunday papers, you probably know about the two decisions of our church’s highest council that hit all the headlines.  (To be sure, the General Assembly made decisions, took many actions, and approved scads of recommendations—and all but two or three failed to make headline news!  Unfortunately, this is not uncommon.)

The Assembly approved an authoritative interpretation that allows PCUSA Teaching Elders (ministers/pastors) and congregations—in states where it is legal—to celebrate same-gender marriages.  What you probably DID NOT READ OR HEAR was that the same authoritative interpretation also allows PCUSA Teaching Elders and congregations the right to decline participating in such celebrations for reasons of conscience and conviction.  In practice—this secondary, non-headline grabbing part, has always been true of any marriage—ministers and congregations could and still can decline any request if they believed the marriage was or is unwise. 

The Assembly also voted narrowly (310 in favor to 303 against) to redirect some of our financial investments with respect to three North American companies by “divesting” our financial holdings in our investment portfolios.  After years of corporate engagement, these companies have consistently refused to address changes in business practices or shift away from taking advantage of violence and occupation in the Middle East to make corporate profits—from which our church’s portfolio benefited, too.  And while there have been wide-ranging condemnations of this action from the Jewish community and others, (including churches and members who disagreed) I believe it’s important to keep in mind that this action DID NOT remove any money from the nation of Israel, nor did it withdraw our support from a two-state solution, nor does it presume to affect our nation’s historic alliance, support, or commitment to Israel’s statehood. 

So, for a week now, e-mails, telephone calls, and letters—both in support of these and other actions as well as to decry them—have been hot and heavy for many of my colleagues in local congregations, judicatories, and national offices.  And while I haven’t faced angry parishioners or distraught members of my Township, it’s been a hard week of fallout for me.  It’s been hard, because I’ve personally become aware of the acute pain that is being felt in real-life relationships—including some of my own—BECAUSE of a General Assembly. 

Let me be clear.  Most of us in the PCUSA have grown accustomed to taking each General Assembly with a grain of salt.  We almost never make headlines.  Consider that we’ve been arguing and debating over issues of homosexuality, sex, marriage, fidelity and chastity, and same-sex marriage for nearly 40 years.  This year I celebrated 19 years of ordained ministry.  In that time, I’ve had to vote at least once each year on an issue related to homosexuality in our church and I’ve never received an angry phone call or e-mail from a church member, or an inquiring phone call or e-mail from a news reporter—and I still haven’t! 

And if I had one reaction or one hope as a result of the General Assembly’s action this time it would be that maybe we can take this topic of the table—as in for good.  I don’t want to have to ever talk about it again!  I’m weary of it, worn down, and feel mostly beaten. 

But we can’t! 

In the week since General Assembly the news has invaded not the governing body but our constituent churches.  Those of us who “weren’t there” in the assembly hall to hear the arguments and give witness to the presence of the Holy Spirit and feel the breath of God and the winds of change on our faces have been left back at home to pick up the pieces.  And we’re definitely not used to the shock-waves of all the attention! 

This time, it’s different. 

This week, I listened to a colleague who had important personal friendships and ministerial relationships with Jewish friends and congregational leaders.  He’s not getting phone calls, e-mails and letters, either—they’re not even calling to say “goodbye”—because they disagree with what they’ve heard in the news reports about the actions of the General Assembly. 

This week, in my own family the General Assembly’s actions are a matter of contention, controversy, and pain.  My wife is Catholic.  Our churches and faiths are not of one voice on the issue of same-sex marriage.  And what many of my colleagues and friends can celebrate as a moment of joy and triumph has been for me a bitter knife plunged into my own marital relationship. 

This week, while some “hooray” the turning tide, others I know are left with open wounds.  In an almost, “Thank God the fighting is over” comment, one of my colleagues indicated relations are no longer about fighting the denomination—the evangelical cause has lost; “there’s only room now for sharing the truth in love,” he said, promising that’s what he intended to do. 

The new reality in my beloved PCUSA has come at a great PERSONAL cost for many of us.  Those who’ve been fighting for years would say, “of course,” even that their cost has been so great for so long.  But this isn’t because some people are mad or uncomfortable; it’s not that there will be painful votes by sessions and congregations to leave our denomination for another.  It’s not just the brokenness of a theological divide in the sanctuary when we gather for presbytery meetings. 

There’s actually very real pain and suffering.  So much so, that if we could have given witness to it at the General Assembly, maybe the Spirit would have blown another way. 

But it didn’t. 

Now, we face the real, authentic, genuine pain.  And if people out there think the hard work’s over—then our victory is just the pride of separation and division.  And on each of these issues, I believe the hope of the General Assembly was to in some measure OVERCOME the specter of separation and division. 

So now, what we’re going to be testing, isn’t how far we can press a fragile alliance toward one view or the other, but our commitment to loving one another, our agility at helping to bind up one another’s wounds, and our obligation to beat our swords into plowshares—both the literal and figurative. 

Now, all of us in the whole of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) must face the old nemesis to any and every marriage—the challenges of brokenness and the search for reconciliation!  And that isn’t what happens when people just leave! 

The question for me is this: What will the world make of us now? 

If we plan on staking a claim to prophetic actions and hope-filled proclamation, what will the world say of us or make of us if all we’re interested in is conquer and divide.  If that’s all the hope we can demonstrate, we don’t deserve the headlines or the influence. 

But, if they can see that we are Christians by our LOVE—for one another—we may be given headline-worthy ministry at the 222^nd General Assembly in 2016. 

Put Away the Guns Already--my heart is breaking!

 These pictures are apparently a new advertisement for the “latest bulletproof” technology available to schools, parents, and children.  So you know, it’s also touted as “protective gear” for events like tornadoes. 

In the wake of more gun-related violence, hearts again are broken.  Not just any violence, like an angry outburst or an enraged response of someone hurt or spurned; instead insidious violence at a school.  I said to the congregation I serve in my sermon this past Sunday, after learning about another university shooting on the west coast—“prepare yourselves, there will be others.”  I didn’t think it would come in less than two days. 

I’m told that since the horrific day when the world learned the name of Columbine because of the violence that happened there, that there have been 149 gun-related events.  There were 75 in the 14 years between Columbine and the shooting at the elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut; and in the not quite two years since Newtown, another 74 events of gun-related violence. 

My heart is breaking.  After this week’s news, I found this picture circulating on the internet; part of a news report on an advertising campaign for a new kind of protective body armor that can be deployed in our schools.  My heart is breaking, because this kind of response is simply confirmation that we seem more than prepared to accept more death, more innocent deaths, more harm perpetrated by individuals and groups.  And we’d rather accept death in order to protect the rights to bear whatever kinds of weapons we deem fit, knowing for certain that this right will result in more deaths.  My heart is breaking. 

Here’s the thing.  While we cling to this right to have and use guns that so many see as most necessary—as if freedom itself depends on a loaded weapon with a finger on the trigger—we seem to have no view of Jesus and his ministry. 

Jesus never used a weapon of any kind against other human beings.  

Jesus, I’m convinced, would never hold a gun against any other human being for any reason. 

As Elias Chacour says in the inscription in each book he signs, “God does not kill.”  Further, Jesus asks his followers to put their weapons away when he is threatened with arrest: “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.” 

Of course, a sword is a far cry from a gun or an assault rifle.  As some have observed, would the perpetrators of these violent incidents have used swords instead of guns, the death and damage likely would have been less and less costly.  No, Jesus doesn’t favor swords over guns.  Jesus clearly sides with beating swords and guns into plowshares. 

Last week, I watched a recorded segment of the Tonight Show with David Letterman in which the host, Letterman, in an interview with Anderson Cooper, declared in references to these shootings: “For the love of Christ, when are we going to do something about this nonsense.”  I don’t know about Mr. Letterman’s religious leanings or even if he is a practicing Christian; but it sounded like a siren-call for those of us who claim the name and life of Jesus. 

I don’t know how to practically go about beating our swords and guns into plowshares.  Abolishing the 2^nd Amendment is likely not a political or reasonable solution.  We live too much in the shadow of guns; but hoping or aiming to ban them altogether hardly seems a winning possibility.  Jesus didn't banish swords; but he did say, put them away. 

To those who so vehemently defend the 2^nd Amendment as if we cannot ever imagine reversing it, I ask you to consider the observation that the original constitution declares the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  These days, the 2^nd Amendment right to bear arms and the resulting violence seems to stand stridently in conflict with the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  Even more menacing, increasingly it's innocent children who are victimized by this gun violence enabled by our zest for firearms. 

For me, while it is my right as a citizen of our great nation to have a gun, buy a gun, handle a gun, use a gun, I will not—for any reason.  And in order to save the lives of others, I believe a Christian witness worthy of Jesus, would be for all of us who claim his name to do no less than to put away our guns.  To voluntarily lock them up—effectively making them useless instruments of violence—figuratively beating them into plowshares. 

One of my Facebook friends, Aric Clark, observed in the aftermath of the time before last with one of these shootings, where pictures were circulating of people carrying assault rifles to places like Wal-Mart: 

If you own and openly carry an assault rifle in public spaces you are intentionally sending the message that you are capable and willing to cause massive bodily harm and death to other human beings. It is not irrational for other people to fear you. It is actually what you want. You are a dog baring your teeth. A gorilla beating your chest. Don't pretend it is innocuous to wave an assault rifle around. It is an open threat. 

These days, it simply stands to reason that ANY GUN is a threat.  And that EVERY GUN sends the message that the one holding it is capable—and willing if necessary—to cause massive bodily harm and death to others.  And even when that gun is in the hands of one of the “good guys”—like a soldier or a police officer—the threat is simple, “comply with what I say or I have the right to injure or even kill you.” 

Guns aren’t keeping us safe.  They trick us into believing that we don’t have to rely completely on God’s goodness.  They trick us into believing that the power we create for ourselves is better than God’s provision.  They trick us into thinking that we can have whatever we want without consequences if we can just hold the power in our hands and demonstrate it a time or two for others.  Like, “if the bad guys know we can shoot and kill them, they won’t be tempted to rob the bank.”  We feel the need to protect ourselves, but in that desperate attempt to feel safe, we put others AND OURSELVES at more risk. 

And instead of releasing the grip on the weapons, it will be the plan of many to simply try and clothe the would-be innocent victims in some sort of body armor.  Have fun playing on the playground under a bullet-proof blanket, kids! 

Even that can’t stem the tide; and in the meantime, we’ll live in fear.  How many days till the next shooting?  Since Columbine, the number of days is down to about one shooting per week.  Like Sabbath—one in every seven! 

Stop already.  STOP ALREADY!  My heart is breaking.  The losses are far too real--and unnecessary.  The chances are, the violence will only get closer and closer to home.  74 more events since Newtown; 149 episodes since Columbine. 

I can already begin to count when my own children must take their turn as victims.  Does it take that before I join the chorus—“for the love of Christ, why didn’t we when we had the chance.” 

In fact, why does it take any victim at all. 

Can’t we find a way, for the love of brothers and sisters and care for the world to simply put the guns away.  It’s about 2-3 days until another shooting.  

After Easter. Now what?

Christians celebrate Easter with the joy of new life, second changes, and the promise that death doesn’t have the last word.  Easter is grand, glorious, and hope-filled; and it lasts until Pentecost. 

Because the gospels portray Jews—and in particular the Jewish religious leaders, the scribes and Pharisees—in rather unflattering ways, it’s often forgotten that Jews and Christians share the 50 days between Passover and Pentecost.  Leviticus in the Old Testament recounts the “counting of days in chapter 23: 

 “You shall count until the day after the seventh sabbath, fifty days; then you shall present an offering of new grain to the Lord.”  

In that same timeframe, Christians are counting from the celebration of Easter.  And if this is news to you, it all comes together in Acts chapter 2 with the disciples gathered together and proclaiming in the native tongues of all the travelers on pilgrimage to Jerusalem to celebrate Shavout—the Festival of Weeks. 

Yes.  Christians and Jews share this sacred time, together.  A time of “counting.”  A time of “waiting.” 

But what happens when the counting and the waiting are over? 

Jews celebrate God’s gift of the Torah at Mt. Sinai.  Following the great escape from Egypt, God leads the people to Sinai and delivers the books and stories for God’s people to live by, including the Commandments gifted in those well-known tablets of stone. 

Christians celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.  Perhaps in similar ways, the reminder, the help, the power of God to live in relationship with God.  This time, no rigid tablets of stone—quite the opposite—the sound of a mighty rush of wind, flames of fire dancing over people’s heads, it’s the Advocate who helps us know what to say and do since Jesus has ascended or returned to God. 

Jesus, in several accounts of instructions to his disciples, followers, and believers, points out the ministry of caring for one another, treating one another with respect, and in a famous parable in Matthew’s gospel of the sheep and the goats says to us—“whenever you do unto the least of these, you do also for me.”  Undoubtedly that’s a part of going to all nations and baptizing them and teaching them.  And just as undoubtedly that’s what it means to be “witnesses” as Luke describes in Luke and Acts. 

For Jews, chapter 23 in Leviticus goes on to describe the conclusion of the “counting of days” with this observation and instruction:  “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and for the alien: I am the Lord your God.” 

It seems to me that Jews and Christians, as well as all people of great faith, share a vision of the world that includes care for one another—especially those who are suffering, especially those who don’t have enough, especially those who are at risk.  For Jews and Christians in particular, these days of counting and waiting end not just on a prescribed date, but when those who celebrate this time begin again to live into the covenant that God has shared with us and shown us.  For Jews, it’s the life Torah prescribes.  For Christians, it’s the life of the Torah lived out in Jesus. 

And somehow, Easter seems to lose some of its special meaning, if all we do is hold up a picture of an empty tomb without going forth to live the life Jesus teaches us.  Come Pentecost, the time of waiting is over.  The Holy Spirit comes to inhabit us and we are called to move with a purpose in the world—caring for one another, “doing unto the least of these,” and leaving the gleanings of the harvest for the poor and for the alien. 

Easter days are waning.  It’s time to move into (new) life with a purpose—sharing, witnessing, telling, doing for others. 

Chrysalis

This week the church celebrates the Ascension of Christ; and this coming Sunday we will celebrate the last Sunday of the season of Easter.  While everyone’s societal calendar will tell you that Easter was April 20^th this year, EASTER is not a single date, but rather a liturgical SEASON. 

This EASTER, the congregation I serve has been trying to be mindful living an Easter life means being raised from an old life.  For Lent, we kept an eye on “leaving behind” certain parts of our lives, so that come an Easter resurrection we could emerge into a new, renewed life—hoping it wouldn’t be just for a day! 

I think the end of Easter is a better example than the beginning.  Jesus’ ascension reminds us that the disciples, followers, and believes are left awaiting a fuller transformation.  And come Pentecost (that we’ll celebrate on June 8^th), the disciples, followers, and believers finally seem to become the embodiment of the Church.  While in the immediate aftermath of Jesus’ death and resurrection there are stories of fright, fear, discombobulation, and uncertainty; by the end of the Easter season there seems to be renewed excitement, new revelations, hope, and a new way of being emerges. 

Common Crow Pupa

These last few days, as Spring has more fully sprung, as the familiar creatures and bugs have emerged from winter, I’ve been thinking about the transformation and transfiguration afoot in the world and I’ve been thinking about chrysalides—the plural of “chrysalis.”  A chrysalis is the pupa form of a butterfly, and one of the images of Easter transformation. 

In the insect world, a chrysalis is the “in-between” stage of transformation and transfiguration during a caterpillar’s metamorphosis into a butterfly.  The caterpillar spins a cocoon, sheds its outer skin to help form a protecting cover, and transfigures itself—before emerging as something almost entirely new.  It’s amazing!  Some have likened this to Jesus in his death and resurrection—entering the tomb as a wrapped body and re-emerging as the “risen one.” 

As I encounter the stories of the disciples and the early church post Jesus’ resurrection, this is also something that seems to happen to the disciples and believers.  When Jesus departs for the last time from an earthly life, the responsibilities for his earthly ministry seem to shift from him to the disciples and the group of early believers.  And I’m wondering if we really “get” that? 

Following Jesus’ resurrection, Luke and Acts report that the disciples, followers, and believers were continually in the Temple and constantly devoting themselves to prayer—waiting in Jerusalem until they are clothed with power from on high.  Hmmm.  They enter that protected space, waiting to be transformed (or is it transfigured?).  When they emerge—we find them speaking, teaching, traveling, tending, and all around them are the acts and works of Jesus! 

There’s so much written and in conversation in church circles these days about changes happening in the church.  It’s the end of the great Christendom age—many think; we are dealing with changes and challenges unimagined; we are facing struggles amidst the reality of the decline in the numbers of people participating actively in churches.  Yet, there is an unprecedented hunger for the works and ways of Jesus. 

Perhaps this is our chrysalis-time as the church—in which we are being transfigured and transformed by individually and corporately.  What has been is not going to be in the same way.  What will be is not exactly who we are, now.  So…, as Easter comes to a close, will our life as the Church look different and be different as the scripture stories suggest it must be? 

For so many people, Easter morning is often portrayed as our “emergence”—“Up from the grave he arose with a mighty triumph o’er his foes…” declares the popular refrain.  But for the disciples and early believers, those early days of Easter are borne out sometimes behind closed doors, sometimes not being able to “see” Jesus at all, sometimes terrified about what this means or if they’ll be killed next, John even tells a story where the disciples all go home to Galilee; Mark ends without the women saying anything to anyone. 

No.  Easter requires us to stop and think, to reflect and take stock.  Almost as if we pull the covers over us tight on a cold winter’s night to hide in the darkness.  Or, like a caterpillar in a chrysalis-state. 

No.  This is the time of personal and corporate transfiguration and transformation.  We will soon be invited to take wing and fly.  It’s suddenly going to be EASTER everywhere! 

Cue the Avery & Marsh music, here. 

 “Every morning is Easter morning from now on!  Every day’s resurrection day, the past is over and gone!  Goodbye guilt, goodbye fear, good riddance! Hello Lord, hello, sun!  I am one of the Easter people!  My new life has begun! 

Steps and Steps Toward Home

I'm not preaching this coming Sunday--and it's been planned that way. We're celebrating Music Ministry Sunday in worship in our congregation; we're also celebrating and giving thanks for our congregation's 105 years of ministry; and—it’s Mother’s Day.  If I were preaching, it'd be harder than usual, I think. 

But mostly because I'm disheartened by the news this week of the nearly 300 young women who were taken captive and carried off in Nigeria, and the unfathomable lack of response to seek, find, and return those victims to their families.  I am angry and confused that the major news outlets could drone on and on day after day regarding the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines Flight 370--going to great lengths to describe the safety features and the technology deployed to find the missing plane, even when we all presume all of the passengers must surely have perished early on.  Yet, as news trickles in of next to nothing being done to find these young women, it seems there’s little more than a collective “shrug of the shoulders” going on. 

It is almost unimaginable.  And yet, it’s what we do.  It’s who we are—though some of us fight back against this reality. 

Mother's Day is not a liturgical holiday. I say that to the worship team every year as we make plans for observing it without naming it as such. I struggle each year knowing that for many women, the idea of Mother's Day is difficult, painful, and challenging. I "get it" and I'm always trying to find ways to help my congregation "get it" that Mother's Day is more than roses and Hallmark cards. But as we come to this year's observance that has such deep roots in our American culture, we're now face to face with this traumatic happening in another part of the world.

Say what you will about mothers and Mother's Day. We have nearly 300 mothers grieving the loss of children--who haven't suffered from some disease or accident, but who have been unmistakably and intentionally stolen. While we wrangle over the appropriateness of honoring mothers in worship, knowing the traumas of infertility, abuse, or thinking that “every woman wants to be a mother;” here are those whose precious babies have been ripped from their arms--and there's seemingly been little effort to go get and bring the babies back. 

Our lectionary scripture lessons this week put us in the liturgical cross-hairs of this trauma, too.  The famous 23^rd Psalm—with it’s green pastures and still waters, fearing no evil in the valley of the shadow of death, and dining at the table prepared in the presence of mine enemies—leaves me wanting even though the opening verse would deny it!  And Jesus’ promise in the gospel from John 10--

“Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  ⁸All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  ⁹I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.  ¹⁰The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

--seems only to serve to exacerbate my hopeless and helpless feelings.  THOSE WHO TOOK THE YOUNG WOMEN WERE THIEVES AND BANDITS!  AND JUST WHERE WAS THE GATE, TO PROTECT THEM, AND CALL THEM OUT/BACK JESUS? 

Aren’t we all now simply standing by as if these schoolgirls are just akin to the other schoolchildren who were victims of the ferry accident in South Korea?  As if they were lost by way of tragic accident and there’s no way we can get them back?  From which we now just have to “move on” and quit our whining! 

So—I have been heartened to know that this is never the only answer.  The writer of the Book of Acts points Christ-followers to this example:  “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”

And so, as the names of the lost ones were revealed this week, Christ-followers responded with encouragement that all of us pick a name of one of these victimized schoolgirls and pray for that one’s safe return, and for her mother and father, her family and community. 

All of us as Christ-followers can take that first step.  And hopefully, in that step, we will also find the courage and the voice and the urging to move beyond that step.  That we would raise our voices and dis-contentedness to make a difference—to cajole those with the power and authority to do something other than just standing by and hoping this news cycle will pass. 

And that as we take our steps toward home—that is the way and the witness and the will of the Kingdom of God—the world might see our faithful witness, and see in us that which we are and shall be.  And in that dawning, the world will be resurrected and made new. 

It’s Easter.  Jesus lives again.  We live again.  Those lost must be found.  

CHECK YOUR FUEL GAUGE

Between Philadelphia and the Jersey shore a common, familiar route is the Atlantic City Expressway.  By my standard it’s just not that far; nonetheless, along the express toll way there’s a service area, and as you approach there’s this sign: “check your fuel gauge.”  No doubt it’s a good practice.  No doubt many a driver has been “caught out” along the way to the shore not remembering to “check the fuel gauge” until after passing the service area.  But the fact is, it’s just not that far from the service area to the next exit (less than 7 miles)—and it’s only a few more miles to Atlantic City!  Though I’m sure it happens a lot, I just don’t get the urgency.  It’s not like rural Nebraska where there were signs and reminders like this: “next exit, 81 miles.” 

The gospel this week takes us from Jerusalem to Emmaus (about 7 miles) and from Emmaus to Jerusalem (about 7 miles).  Two of Jesus’ followers were traveling to Emmaus (it seems like they were going home from the festivities in Jerusalem) and they end up making the journey with Jesus himself (though their eyes were prevented from seeing that it was Jesus).  The story seems to blossom when Jesus is invited to stay with the followers, and the jig is up when Jesus breaks bread for the supper and they recognize him immediately.  Mysteriously, Jesus then vanishes and his followers head back to Jerusalem to make a full report of their experience. 

This week I’ve been reminded of just how far 7 miles can be and what it might mean as news reports have again circulated regarding the horrific damage sustained in southern states, including Arkansas.  I lived in Arkansas growing up and later served a congregation in Hardy.  I know the names and places of lots of towns—even the small ones that don’t make the news unless something awful happens—like Mayflower and Vilonia.  Fercliff Camp and Conference Center, where I attended many a church and camp function, reported damage from the storms was less than 7 miles to the west in the Brushy Mountain area.  Ferncliff itself was unscathed. 

Better check your fuel gauge—believe it or not, 7 miles makes all the difference.  I can’t explain it.  I still remember the sinking feeling in my stomach driving along the highway in Nebraska witnessing perfectly undamaged and healthy corn on the left side and totally ravaged, hail-destroyed stripped stalks on the right side. 

For Jesus’ followers, their mission objective changed quickly.  They made a sobering trip home only to turn around and make an excited return trip to Jerusalem back-to-back—with barley any time to eat!  For the last couple of days it’s felt like that as storms have made their way across the country leaving a path of death and destruction and lives that won’t ever be the same.  And 7 miles can make all the difference! 

This week, “check your fuel gauge” seems to mean something a bit different to me.  If we’re in a position where we have plenty of fuel, we would do well to share with those who have been caught out.  As one of my friends reminded me a couple of tornado stories ago, “people need your prayers, but even more, that extra $20 you’ve been saving for something special.”  And while the call to “check your fuel gauge” is a call to help those who have been harmed or damaged by the weather, it should also be a reminder to consider those who struggle every day though no thunderstorm has supplanted them.  “Check your fuel gauge”—not with regard to what you might need; but with regard to what you already have to share. 

If you have fuel to help, Presbyterian Disaster Assistance responds immediately to afflicted people in the United States and around the world and is often the first (or one of the first) agencies responding when need erupts; they can use it.  You can find more information about PDA, including how to make a donation by clicking HERE. 

Remember, Jesus’ followers—not knowing they were traveling with Jesus—invited and implored the stranger (who ended up being Jesus, and who seemed content to continue his journey) to “stay with them” at least for a meal.  A meal that ended up making all the difference.  You’ve asked Jesus to “stay with you.”  There are people who need us to “stay with them,” too.  Now, more than ever.