Out with the Old, In With the New: A Sermon for Sunday, December 30th

Scripture Texts: 2 Corinthians 5:16-20 and Revelation 21:1-6a

Out with the old, in with the new. That tends to be a pretty popular sentiment around this time of year. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and as is the custom for many people, it will be a time for new beginnings, new dreams, new goals, and of course, New Year’s resolutions. Personally, I don’t always make New Year’s resolutions. Some years I do, some years I don’t-- I suspect it usually has something to do with how much free time I have to reflect on such things. There are other people I know, however, who are more consistent. I have one friend who is so religious about her new year's resolutions, that every year, she types up a document-- usually several pages long--with a list of resolutions that includes short term goals, long term goals, and an action plan with a clearly laid out time line for how she intends to accomplish and keep her resolutions. As an added measure of accountability, she then sends this list to several of her closest friends, which of course in no way makes any of the rest of us feel inadequate or lazy at all about our own New Year's resolutions-- or lack thereof.

On the other end of the spectrum, I have some friends who are completely opposed to the idea of New Year’s resolutions, seeing them as nothing more than frivolous promises that are meant to be broken. These are the people who scoff at the rest of us and our good intentions to eat healthier, read more non-fiction, or finally buckle down and start learning that second language.  "Can't teach an old dog new tricks," these folks might say. "What you see is what you get."

Most of us, I suspect, fall somewhere between these two extremes. Maybe we like the idea of New Year’s resolutions. Maybe we have good intentions. But maybe we also don't take them too seriously because we know from experience that our resolve doesn’t always last terribly long into the new year.

The truth is, New Year’s resolutions can sometimes be frivolous, and they are not usually anything we should lose sleep over. Still, this morning, since it is the day before New Year's Eve, I would like to make an argument in favor of New Year’s resolutions. Not necessarily the kind that have to do with losing weight or going to the gym more often-- though those are certainly worthy goals. Rather, I’m talking about the kinds of resolutions we make with the aim of transformation-- with the aim of becoming better people.  Kinder, more courageous, more educated, or more compassionate. Resolutions to become more spiritually minded and more devoted to prayer or meditation practices. Resolutions to be less selfish and more giving of our time, our resources, and our hearts. This morning, I would like to come out in favor of transformation-based resolutions. In part because it seems as if our scripture texts somehow demand it. Both of our readings today are rich in imagery of transformation--of new life and new creation.

“There will be a new heaven and a new earth,” the book of Revelation says. “Death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more.”

“If anyone is in Christ,” Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians, “there is a new creation: everything old has passed away, everything has become new!”

Out with the old, in with the new. Just like we said.

There’s only one problem with that.

We have become accustomed, in this scientific age, to view things in a very binary manner. Things are either black or white, good or bad, fact or fiction—old or new. It’s a way of looking at the world, and ourselves, that leads to sentiments like our mantra this morning--“out with the old, in with the new”--as if it were just a switch that we could somehow flip on or off at will. The problem is, in my experience, and I would imagine in many of yours as well--God’s timing and God’s transformation rarely, if ever, works that way. And for most of us, that being the case, we may read our scripture texts this morning with a certain amount of skepticism.  Hearing within them beautiful words of hope, but also not quite sure if we actually see that new creation taking place in the world around us.

There’s a great book that came out a few years ago with a rather enigmatic title. It's called: A Visit from the Goon Squad. It’s a complicated book, and it’s about many things. But mostly, it’s a book about time. It’s a book about how we change over time, and how we tend to go both forwards and backwards in our personal and spiritual transformation. The book centers around the lives of two characters--Bennie and Sasha-- but the book does not flow in chronological order. The reader has to pay close attention to know if they are in the past, the present, or the future. The evolution of the characters in the story does not happen in a single straight line. There is no one moment when lightening flashes and everything changes.  There is no moment when old becomes new, wounds are healed, and people are transformed. Rather, it’s all part of one, great big, messy and sometimes confusing mosaic. A larger picture that one can only see if one sticks with the story right up to the very end. And it is only then, at the end of the story, when the transformation that has been taking place all along--sometimes in very small and unexpected ways--finally becomes clear. 

I have a theory that when it comes to God’s transformation and the bringing about of new creation, in our lives and in the world--it's a little bit like that. That our lives, and the life of the world around us, are all part of one great big mosaic--one that is sometimes confusing, often messy, at times beautiful and always changing. A mosaic that blends past, present and future.  One that takes the old and blends it with the new in order to create something entirely different.  

It’s not about flipping a switch, because the truth is, we need our past along with our future. Our past is part of what makes us who we are. Even the mistakes we’ve made, the promises we've broken, and the bad habits we struggle with-- those too are an important part of who we are and who we will become.

Our lives are a mosaic in which we constantly move backwards and forwards, ever so slowly inching towards the new creation of who we will ultimately become. We may not see it clearly now, but we will--if we stick with the story, right up to the very end.

And so when it comes to our New Year's resolutions-- those promises we make at the beginning of a new year with the aim of transformation- they are important. Not because we will miraculously change every bad habit we've ever had or wipe away every imperfection or flaw, but because they help us reset our focus, and remember that no matter what happened yesterday, and no matter what may happen tomorrow, what we do today, in this moment, will become a vital thread in the final image of who we will become.

What we do today-- the promises that we make and keep today-- will bring about our transformation in the future. So go ahead and make those resolutions, and know that God is there in the midst of it all. God is there in the midst of who we were, who we are, and who we will become. Old and new. Alpha and Omega. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

 

Let us pray...

 

Oh God of Life, we give you thanks for new beginnings, new opportunities, and the coming of a new year.  We pray that you would give us strength of purpose in the days ahead, help us to believe in the power of your transformation.  Help us to have faith in the story you have given to us at Christmas.  May we catch a glimpse of your transformation as it occurs in our lives and in the world around us. 

 

 

 

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A Pastoral Letter Following the Tragic Shooting in Newtown

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The following letter will go out with the Park Congregational Church January newsletter.  I pray that there may there be something within this letter to calm and comfort our weary and saddened hearts.

Dear members and friends of Park Church,

As the last few days have gone by, I’ve struggled to know what to say to all of you, and how to say it.  Many have noted, quite wisely, that there are no words for such unspeakable tragedy.  It’s true that there are no words that can fix what has happened.  There are no words that can heal the hearts that have been broken.  There are no words that can put everything back the way it was, so that we might go on unchanged.  There are no words we can say to one another to make everything okay, because everything is most definitely not okay.  Lastly, there are no words that can explain or make sense of what has happened, because this was a senseless act which is impossible to fathom or understand.

And so when it comes to all of those things, it’s true that there are no words.  I do not believe that these words which I write to you now can do any of the things I mentioned above.  These words that I write now will not fix, heal, explain, or make sense out of the senseless.  And so I struggle to know what to say.  Or even if I should say anything at all.  I have heard more than one person complain that everywhere they turn, there is talk of tragedy.  Television, radio, social media—it’s everywhere.  And people are overwhelmed with the sadness of it all.  Do you really need one more person adding to the cacophony of voices already out there?

But, then, I am your pastor.  And we are a community that stands together during difficult times.  As Christians, we do not shrink from difficulty or darkness, we stand up to it, holding the light of Christ which we carry in our hearts.  We do not let darkness have the last word.  As the apostle Paul says, “do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

And so yes, there is something I can and need to say to you now.  I can say that in times like these, we may not know the right words to pray, but we can still come before God in prayer, even if our prayers have no words, and the Spirit will give voice to the deepest sighs of our hearts.  And we may not have the words to heal the hearts of those who have suffered such tremendous loss, but we can hold them in prayer— perhaps tighter and deeper than any we have ever held in prayer before.  We can carry the light of faith for them, because perhaps it is too heavy a burden for them to carry right now.  We can send cards, prayers, prayer shawls, teddy bears, and other simple comforts, if only to let them know they are not alone.  We can stand together with them, as much as we are able, and pour out all the love and support we might find within ourselves to give.

In the days ahead, there will be a need for honest conversations about how to prevent such unspeakable tragedies from happening in our schools and other public spaces.  All of us will need to search our hearts and ask difficult questions about how we might make our world safer for our children. That is the task that we will set before us in the days ahead.  For now, however, on this day, and during this Christmas season, your one and only task is to seek out those whom you love and cherish, and hold them a little closer this year.  Tell them how much you love them.  Remember that they-- the ones we love and the ones who love us-- are the most important and priceless gifts we will receive this Christmas.      

May God’s peace be in your hearts and homes this Christmas.  May God’s light shine in the darkness, never to be overcome.  And may we have the strength and faith to believe in such a promise.

                                                                                                            Sincerely,

                                                                                                            Rev. Sara Ofner-Seals

The Truth About Jesus: A Sermon for Christ the King Sunday

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Giving Thanks in a Worried World: A Sermon on Matthew 6:25-33

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Some of the poorest streets in the world are located in the city of Calcutta, in India. In the heart of this city are some of the world’s most poverty stricken communities. Here one finds people living on next to nothing, their very survival often dependent upon the kindness of strangers. Occasionally, those who have a heart for the poor will travel across the globe in order to spend a few weeks or months volunteering there- people who feel their lives have been blessed with abundance and want to give something back. One such volunteer was a young man named Shane. Shane wanted to go to Calcutta to make a difference, he wanted to change the world.  But as is so often the case in these kinds of stories, what he ultimately discovered was that his experiences there ended up changing him much more than he was able to change the world. He describes one experience he had in which a poor child approached him on the street, begging for money. He put his hands in his pockets, and found to his dismay that he had nothing to offer the child but a single stick of chewing gum. Thinking it a rather poor offering, he gave it to the child anyway, not wanting to turn her away empty-handed.  Perhaps he thought she would turn away with disgust at such an inadequate and hopeless gesture.  After all here is someone starving on the streets of Calcutta and he offers her a stick of gum!  But to his surprise and amazement, upon handing her the stick of gum, the young girl’s eyes lit up and a huge smile began to spread across her face. Turns out, she had never had chewing gum before, and so in her eyes, this was actually a great gift. But then something even more unexpected and extraordinary happened. The child tore the stick of gum in half-- keeping one half for herself and giving the other half back to the young man. The girl was so excited to get such an extravagant gift, that she couldn’t help but want to share. She couldn’t help but want to give it away— such was the extent of her joy. The young man describes similar experiences, in which he would purchase an ice cream cone for one of the street children, and they would be so excited by the gift that they would run around the entire neighborhood with it, making sure all of their friends could have some, before taking a single bite for themselves. These experiences changed this young volunteer forever, because what he saw in Calcutta was that even though these were some of the poorest people in the world, they were also among the most generous and the most joyful that he had ever met.

How is it, one may wonder upon hearing these kinds of stories, that these people, living in such deep poverty and need-- not knowing from one moment to the next where their next meal is coming from (or if there would even be a next meal)-- how is it that they are so happy??  What do they know that we don’t?

I will come back to this question.  But first, I want to contrast the picture that these stories paint with a snapshot of our own culture, and put them both into dialogue with our gospel text this morning.

We live in a much more affluent society here in America. And yet, for all our affluence, we are also a culture riddled with anxiety and worry. We live in a world in which we are constantly anxious about something. Maybe we are anxious about our jobs— if we are lucky enough to have one. Maybe we are anxious about our kids-- their safety, their education, and their futures. Many of us are anxious about the economy— the most current crisis being the so-called fiscal cliff that we are approaching as a nation. For these, and perhaps for many other reasons, we live in a culture filled with anxiety and worry. So much so, that upon hearing Jesus’ words to his disciples in this morning’s gospel— “do not worry about your life”-- one may be tempted to want to argue with Jesus a little bit. After all, the lilies of the field and the birds of the air may not worry, as Jesus says, but they’re not the ones who have to send their kids to college, or pay the hospital bills when a family member gets sick, or put food on the table. We may be inclined to want to argue, or, we may even be inclined to discount Jesus’ words entirely, seeing them as hopefully naïve at best, and at worst, simply irrelevant for the times we live in. After all, the world is far more complicated these days, and there is far more to be worried about. Jesus lived in much simpler times. Who is he to tell us not to be anxious??

Putting aside for the moment that Jesus actually carries some pretty serious clout, and maybe we shouldn’t try to argue with him, I think we also have to make sure we understand what he’s really saying here. I think there is a very important distinction to be made between not being anxious, as Jesus says here, and simply not caring. Jesus is not telling us that we don’t need to care about providing basic necessities for ourselves and our loved ones. He’s not telling us that we shouldn’t care that there are some in this world who truly don’t have enough— like the young beggar in Calcutta, or even the homeless and poor in our own city. He’s not telling us not to care. But he is telling us that even in the face of great need, there is a better way to live than to be constantly anxious about the things we lack.

Which brings me back to our question this morning-- what did those street children in Calcutta know that we don’t?

In so many ways, we are much better off in life than that young girl begging for scraps on the streets of Calcutta. Compared to her, every single person in this room is rich beyond measure. Compared to her, we have everything we could ever want or need. So why do we worry so much?  Why are we so anxious? Perhaps, for all our advances and affluence in this country, for all our education, and our unlimited access to information, we might actually still have a lot to learn from stories like hers. Or maybe it’s that we have a lot to remember—things we’ve forgotten about what it means to be truly thankful, and therefore what it means to find true joy and fulfillment.

Earlier this week I participated in an interfaith Thanksgiving service. And it was very interesting because it was an incredibly diverse gathering of faith communities. There were people there representing the Christian and Jewish faiths, as well as the Islamic community, Sikhism, and even Baha’i spirituality.  And certainly, there are many differences between all of these religions in terms of how we think about God, how we worship, and what we believe. But what was interesting to me was that when it came to the subject of giving thanks, all of those differences began to melt away. Universally, everyone who was there spoke of the profound importance to be found in the act of giving thanks. Because in doing so, we are able to shift our perspective from anxiety about the things we lack, to a joyful appreciation of the blessings we already have. In remembering to give thanks to God for our blessings, we maintain the proper perspective on our lives and our place in the world. Pausing to give thanks for the extraordinary gifts we already have, helps us remember that while we can’t always control everything that happens to us, or everything that’s happening in the world around us, we can control to some extent how we react to those things, and we can always find things to be thankful for, if we are willing to see them.

Perhaps that’s what Jesus is really getting at here in this passage. Times may have been simpler then in a lot of ways, but I suspect human nature was still very much the same as it is now. We constantly turn away from God because we wrongly believe that somehow we can control and manipulate our environment in order to force certain kinds of blessings— the ones we think we need— to come our way. And the more affluent we become, the more vulnerable we are to this line of thinking.  But I believe that it may just be that desire to control everything-- including how we want to be blessed—that is what causes so much of our anxiety. Because a great deal of what actually happens in life is completely outside of our control. And so Jesus is asking us to approach life differently. To seek God, rather than seeking control. And in doing so, we may just be opening ourselves up to unexpected blessings and small miracles that are already happening all around us.

Now I realize I still haven’t answered the question— what did that young girl in Calcutta know and understand that we don’t? Well I can’t pretend to have all the answers, but here’s one possibility: oftentimes, it’s the folks with the very least who are the very best at giving thanks, precisely because they have no illusions that they can control what sort of blessings they might receive. And so they are more open to every gift and blessing that may come their way, no matter how small an insignificant it may seem.  Like a stick of chewing gum, or an ice cream cone.

And perhaps there is a deeper truth here for us as well. The young man went to Calcutta wanting to change the world, but in the process, found himself deeply changed as well. Imagine how different our lives would be— imagine how different our world would be-- if we could all learn and somehow internalize what he learned about the importance of giving thanks for small blessings. Imagine how different our culture would be if we focused more on giving thanks for the gifts we already have rather than constantly worrying about the things we lack? Imagine how this might change our attitudes towards our lives, towards others, and towards how we use and share our resources? What if the act of joyfully and recklessly giving thanks is actually the best way to change the world?

If we believed that, would we do it more often? Not just once a year on a holiday that is admittedly rather limited in scope, but rather every moment of every day? If we truly believed in the power of giving thanks, could it actually change us? Well you know there’s only one way to find out, and that’s to give it a try. So this Thanksgiving season, our challenge--and our gift-- is to wake up every single day and ask: what blessings might come my way today? And then, to rejoice in each and every one of them— small and insignificant though they may seem. This Thanksgiving season, find a reason to say “thanks be to God” every single day.  I know it might seem cliché, or trite, but it just might also have the power to change your life. Amen, and let it be so.

Giving Without Counting the Cost: A Stewardship Sermon on Mark 12:41-44

It was pretty much exactly this time last year— the first Sunday in November-- that I joined all of you at here Park Church for my first official Sunday as your new settled pastor.  And so I was reflecting on that this week, and remembering how on that first Sunday, I felt slightly overwhelmed and nervous, and maybe a little unsure of myself, but also excited and hopeful about what was to come. At that point I had been able to talk with a few of you about your hopes and dreams for Park Church, your love of this church and this community, and I felt so humbled and honored that you had invited me to be a part of it, and I still feel that way. I also remember, however, that coming in at the beginning of November felt particularly intimidating to me because here at Park church—as many of you know-- November also happens to be Stewardship month. Which meant that before I even had time to learn any of your names I had to stand up here and ask you for your money.  And I have to admit, it felt a little awkward. But we made it through, and you all responded with incredible generosity, and I thank you for that. Now, here we are-- having come full circle. It’s stewardship Sunday once again, and I stand here before you once more, asking for your contributions to help nurture and support this community of faith. And this time, I know all of your names. But it’s still a little bit awkward, because as we are all aware, no one really likes to talk about money. Especially not in the church. Which is kind of odd, really, when you consider the fact that Jesus actually talked about money all the time! Throughout all of the gospels, Jesus talks about money, possessions, and wealth more than he talks about almost any other topic— including prayer, his death and resurrection, even topics such as compassion or forgiveness. So many of the stories in the gospels revolve around money or possessions in one way or another. And this morning’s story from the Gospel of Mark is no exception.

Mark tells us that Jesus and his disciples are hanging out by the temple, and they were watching people put money into the temple treasury. According to the story, there were many wealthy people putting in large sums of money that day. But that’s not what catches Jesus’ attention. What catches Jesus’ attention is the poor widow who comes forward and puts in two small copper coins-- basically the equivalent of two pennies today. I imagine that no one else noticed this woman, except for maybe to cast one or two pitying glances in her direction. But Jesus noticed her. For some reason, she caught Jesus’ attention that day. And he found her action important enough to call his disciples over to make an example of her. Why? Why was this so important?

I imagine it might have been because even though the amount this woman gave was practically nothing compared to the donations of the more wealthy givers, her gift cost a whole lot more. I imagine this woman caught Jesus’ attention that day because in the act of giving all she had, she became a walking illustration of one of Jesus’ other teachings about money— “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Now, one could question if it’s really such a good thing that Jesus is praising this woman for giving her last two cents to a corrupt religious institution. One could question if that’s really such a good model for Jesus to be giving us. What about the poor widows of today— one might counter-- who give their savings over to corrupt televangelists or religious scam artists? Is that really something to be admired? But I think that question takes the story a bit too literally, and therefore misses the point. In this story, it’s not the amount of the woman’s gift that matters, or even so much the fact that she is poor. What matters in this story is the woman’s ability to give without counting the cost, and the level of sacrifice, devotion, and trust that goes along with that.  Whether one is rich or poor, or more likely-- somewhere in between, we can all learn from what the poor widow does in this story. In giving all has, she places her treasure, and therefore her heart, squarely before God-- regardless of the cost. In this day and age I think we can recognize this as a truly remarkable thing. We live in a culture where everything revolves around and comes down to the bottom line. We calculate everything. We count the cost of everything we give in order to be practical and frugal— and sometimes that’s good. But I think this story also challenges us to let go of some of that. It reminds us that there are times in life when it’s important for us to be able to give without counting the cost. To free ourselves from the tyranny of bottom line thinking in order to put our full faith and trust in God, and God’s kingdom, rather than in wealth.

And so when it comes to stewardship, I think part of what this story teaches us is that what matters most in our giving is not so much the dollar amount attached to your gift, but rather the amount of faith and trust that you are willing to put behind it.  And so that’s the first part of the challenge that this story offers us this morning. The challenge for us to give without counting the cost in order to place our hearts more squarely before God.

But you know, as is the case with most of Jesus’ teachings on money and wealth, while this story is about money, it’s also about much more than money. Regardless of what you are able to give monetarily, that’s not the most important thing. Yes, we need money to help pay the electric bill and keep the heat on. Yes, we need money to buy Sunday School materials and fund community outreach efforts. But even more than we need money for all those things, we need you. We need the gift of your whole self, and all that you have to offer. We need you to place your whole heart— not just your checkbook— squarely before God. I sometimes wonder if there was a deeper reason why the poor widow caught Jesus’ attention that day at the temple. If in her small act of sacrifice he saw his own future played out in front of him. A future that would require him to give everything he had— indeed his very life. And that maybe he made an example of her that day because he knew that what he would ask from us in return for his sacrifice would be nothing less than our whole selves, our whole hearts, and our full devotion.

Those of you who got your stewardship letters in the mail already received two cards with it. You got a card that says this is how much money my family will pledge to the church this year. But you also got a card saying this is how I want to participate in the life of the church. This is how I pledge my self--my time and my talent. And this is so much more important than money, because we could have all the money in the world, but if we didn’t also have active, vibrant community, that money wouldn’t matter one bit. And while community is something that no amount of money can buy, it does cost us something. It does require us to give of ourselves-- to give our time and our energy to build up the Body of Christ. And so that’s the second part of our challenge this morning. The challenge to give of ourselves and of our lives without counting the cost.

But even that’s not all of it. There’s a third thing here that’s even more important than your money, or your time, or your talents. And that’s your faith. Yes we need money, and yes we need volunteers, but more than any of that, we need you to pledge your faith. Your faith in this church, your faith in this community, your faith in these people sitting around you. Because ultimately, that’s what makes the Body of Christ alive in the world. That’s what truly makes us a church. And that’s not something that can be written on a card, or quantified in a line item on a spreadsheet. But it’s the most important thing. And so this year, I stand before you and I ask for your pledge. Your financial pledge, yes. The pledge of your time, yes. But also the pledge of your deep faith and commitment, and the pledge of your sincere prayers for this community. That’s giving your whole self, that’s placing your whole heart and soul squarely before God. And that— brothers and sisters— is true stewardship.

Follow the progress of our stewardship campaign at www.parkchurchnorwich.org/churchblog.html

 

The Importance of Being... Awkward

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Confession: I struggle with youth ministry sometimes.  In part because I’m not a trained youth pastor, and in part because I’ve always been kind of a shy awkward person.  I was awkward around other teenagers when I was a teenager myself, and sometimes, I feel like I never quite grew out of that.  Yet as much as I may not always feel completely at ease doing youth ministry, and as much as I feel like I often don’t have a clue what I’m doing, I know it’s important, and so I keep on trying.

This past week, at our most recent youth group gathering while trying to get an icebreaker going, one student observed, “well this is awkward”, as most of the kids were still feeling a bit shy, and admittedly, the icebreaker turned out to be kind of a dud.  In the moment, I felt deflated by the comment.  Oh no! Anything by awkward!  But upon further reflection, I thought to myself that maybe being awkward in youth group isn’t so bad.  Maybe being uncool isn’t so bad.  After all, in most other areas of their lives, kids are constantly having to measure up to a standard of coolness.  Awkwardness in high school is one of the greatest sins.  So maybe it’s not so bad to have a place where being awkward is, well, just fine.  A place where kids know they don’t have to work hard to be cool, because we’re accepted just as we are.  Seriously.

So come to youth group, where yes, things are awkward sometimes.  But hey, so is real life.  And I bet Jesus had more than a few awkward moments with his disciples as well.  So embrace your inner “awkward turtle,” have fun, and better yet, let your guard down and relax.  We’re all a bit awkward around here.

 

Faith in the Cracks: Sermon for Sunday, October 21st, 2012

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Hey folks-- sorry about all the extra audio at the end... forgot to turn of the recorder!!

Letter to the Norwich Bulletin dated 10/17/12

There has been a lot of negative press surrounding the move of St. Vincent de Paul Place to Cliff St. in Norwich-- mere blocks from it's former location at 10 Railroad Place.  I recognize that there are arguments to be made on both sides, and there are legitimate concerns all around.  However, I believe that as a community, it is absolutely essential that we get past the accusations and negativity in order to come to a workable solution.  While there are some who accuse the city and the diocese of having dubious intentions, I think that the majority of Norwich residents recognize that everyone involved with St. Vincent de Paul Place has intentions that are compassionate, noble, and honest. A few days ago, an editorial in the Bulletin said that "the soup kitchen cannot simply be evicted from the school and forced to close its doors. There are residents of this city who rely upon those services. They have no place else to go."  This is true. All of us in Norwich have a responsibility to solve this problem, and we cannot in good conscience allow the soup kitchen to close and leave these needs unaddressed.  These are our brothers and sisters in Norwich, and we cannot forget that at the heart of this debate are real people with real needs.  No matter what happens, we cannot abandon them. 

St. Vincent de Paul Place deserves our utmost respect for working hard to make lives better every single day for the most vulnerable in our community.  Theirs is a thankless job, and they receive a lot of criticism without much public affirmation to go long with it.  I applaud them for their courage and hard work every day as they stand up for the powerless and give voice to the voiceless, and I know I am not alone in my support.  These kinds of issues ultimately show our true character and commitment as a community, so let's show our character and work together to ensure that the vital ministry of SVDPP is able to endure. The work that SVDPP does is not easy.  They face challenges every single day about how to meet rising demand with dwindling resources.  It's time for the rest of us to stand up and say thank you to SVDPP for the work they do, and get behind them as they seek a permanent solution to this unforeseen problem.  It's time to show who we really are, and I believe we are up for it.

Called to Seek the Lord and Live: A Sermon on Amos 5:6-7, 10-15 and Mark 10:17-31

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I want to take you back to the year 2007 and tell you a story about a man-- we’ll say his name is John. As far as John can tell, things could not be going any better. He just moved into his own office in a beautiful building on the corner of Broadway and Wall in Manhattan. It’s not a corner office-- those are for the real big shots-- but it’s a perfectly respectable office. It’s got a window, and there’s a name plate on the door with his name on it. And to top it all off, he just got a nice hefty bonus check. Yes, things are definitely going well for John. Everything seems to be going his way.  The only thing that could possibly put a damper on all of John’s success is that in the midst of his prosperity, there is the dim awareness of a kind of background noise— some doom and gloom guy, probably from somewhere in from Washington, who thinks himself some kind of prophet, who keeps saying that the success that John and his colleagues are enjoying is somehow not fair.  That it’s been built on the backs of the poor and vulnerable.  Something about predatory lending… But John brushes all that aside. Because even if all that were true, he’s not the one making the loans, he’s just a numbers guy. He can’t be held accountable for other people’s bad decisions. And what do they expect him to do about it anyway? Is he supposed to just walk away from it all? After all he’s got a mortgage to worry about too, he’s got kids in college and a family to support. No, he’s worked hard for his success, and he’s not going to let a bunch of naysayers in Washington that have nothing to do with him make him feel guilty about it. He just keeps on doing what he’s doing, because it’s working out just fine.

Well. We all know how that turned out, don’t we? 2008 rolled around, and the doom and gloom prophets turned out to be right this time around. Tremendous financial gains that had been built on unethical practices turned out to be bad for everyone. We all know this story very well by now. We’ve heard it told a hundred times—though often it’s by politicians who are trying to make one another look bad.  I am telling you this story, however, to help us understand—even if only by a tiny fraction-- how the people of Israel might have reacted to the words of the prophet Amos which we heard in our first reading this morning.

Around the time Amos came along, Israel was also at the top of its game as a nation. They were expanding their territory, agriculture was booming, and cities were clothed in elegance and splendor. The rich built palaces adorned with costly ivory, and food and wine was plentiful. Things were going pretty well for Israel. And so I sort of wonder if the prosperous elite of Israel may have felt the same way about the prophet Amos as the elite of Wall Street may have felt about those who were predicting their demise back in the mid 2000s. Just another doom and gloom prophet begrudging the success of others and trying to make everyone else feel guilty.

            “You who turn justice into wormwood,” Amos says, “and bring righteousness to the ground. Because you trample on the poor and take from them in order to build your houses of stone, you will not live in them.  You have planted pleasant vineyards, but you shall not drink their wine. Seek the LORD and live, or he will break out against the house of Joseph like fire, and it will devour Bethel, with no one to quench it.”

Ouch.

Even those of us who hear the words of the prophet today may feel they are a bit harsh. So full of fire and brimstone, anger and judgment. For those of us who may have grown up in churches that placed a heavy emphasis on sin and guilt, this may be exactly the kind of religion we are trying to get away from.  But there’s a little more to it than just that fire and brimstone version of old time religion. The prophets are harsh, yes, but that’s because they are passionate about a better world.  They are tough on us only because they believe deeply that we can be better, and that we were created for something more than just economic advancement. Old Testament scholar Carolyn Sharp writes that the words of the prophets can be daunting and challenging, but it’s because we have only one life to live, we only have one life to offer to God, “and the prophets want to make sure we know what is at stake in every moment of it.”

“Seek the Lord and live!” the prophet Amos declares. Reminding his people that luxury, ivory palaces, and opulent feasts may be nice, but they will not give us true fulfillment in life. And in fact, it’s more likely, that those kinds of things will only ever get in our way. The affluence of the Israel had dulled their Spirits to the Lord. The decadence of their ivory palaces dulled their eyes to the beauty of God’s creation. The excess of food and wine had dulled their minds to the presence of the Spirit. The isolation of their wealth had dulled their compassion for the poor.

“Seek the Lord and live!” Amos cries, calling them and us to live into the best versions of ourselves.  The version of ourselves that God created us to be.

We listen to the prophets because they call us towards greater purpose and closer communion with God. And we listen to the prophets because they were in fact the ones who paved the way for Christ himself, who called his own disciples to a higher and more noble purpose. And lest we think that Jesus was willing to accept mediocrity or lackluster faith where the prophets were not, we have this morning’s gospel reading to shake us out of our complacency. The story of the rich young ruler is one we also all know well.  It’s presence in three of the four gospels makes it pretty likely that his story is true, though perhaps many of us wish that he hadn’t shown up at all. Because of this man, we have one of the most challenging texts in the Bible.  More challenging perhaps, than any of the words of the prophets, because quite frankly, Jesus is a little harder for us to ignore.

“Go, and sell all that you have.  Give the money to the poor.  Then you can come and follow me.”  Again-- Ouch.  Are we really supposed to do that? Could we do that— even if we wanted do? As far as we know, the rich young man was unattached— no family, no debt, no mortgage, no children. Perhaps he was free to leave his riches behind with no negative consequences for anyone else.  But what about us? We have kids to raise and put through college, mortgages and student loans to pay off, families to support and care for. We can’t just walk away.  Not to mention we how much money we do give away. Not to mention that many of us already struggle with the feeling that we don’t do enough. We already feel guilty because of our own inner critic-- the one that chides us for our doubts, our weaknesses, and our attachment to material things.  I mean, honestly, do we really need more voices from the outside reminding us of all the ways we aren’t living up to our potential? Don’t we do quite enough of that ourselves?

Let’s be real here for a minute.  None of us are rich Wall Street executives. We’re not the elite of ancient Israel living in ivory palaces. We’re not the rich young man, unattached and uncommitted. We’re just regular people, doing the best we can.  And yes, we know that sometimes, we could do better. But still, we are doing the best that we can. So where do we fit into all of this?

The gospel says that when Jesus saw how earnestly this man desired to follow God, Jesus looked at him and loved him. Jesus looks at the man, and really truly sees him.  Jesus sees past the wealth, and into the depths of this man’s heart. He sees that this man is a seeker—a man who knows there is something more beyond desperate accumulation of wealth, and he wants desperately to know what that something more is.  But like a doctor making a diagnosis, Jesus also sees the problem. He sees what it is that is holding the man back. And like the prophets before him, he offers the man a harsh course of treatment, because he knows that it’s the only course of treatment that will truly allow this man to live the life to which he has been called. Give it all away,” Jesus says. “It’s your stuff that’s holding you back. So get rid of it.”

Preacher Barbara Brown Taylor writes that we Christians tend to misunderstand this story in one of two ways— either by thinking it’s all about money, or by thinking it’s not really about money at all.

First of all, let’s be clear-- this is very much a story about money. Jesus and the prophets before him understood that money has a lot of power. Power to do good—yes— but also power to dull our senses and our hearts to true freedom in God. It’s about money for this rich man in particular, and it’s also about money for us, because we all have the same appetites towards material comforts. As human beings, it is simply our nature, that the more affluent we become, the more easily we cast aside dependence on God. In our Thursday night Bible study this week, one member observed this quite keenly by pointing towards the trends of decline and growth in Christianity around the world. In affluent countries like ours, fewer and fewer people are going to church. Fewer and fewer people are finding it important to set aside time for communal prayer and worship. In the global south, however, in some of the poorest countries in the world, Christianity is exploding. And while I’m quite sure there are many reasons why this is so, I’m also quite sure that one of the reasons is that in some of these poorer countries, wealth has not yet become an idol to place above God. Faith in human economics has not yet trumped faith in God. So make no mistake, this story is about money. It’s a story about how wealth can easily distract us and keep us from truly seeking God.

But… it’s also about more than money. Because we all know- or at least we should know- that the kingdom of God is not for sale. The rich cannot buy it with their riches any more than the poor can buy it with their poverty. The kingdom of God is free. Grace is free. God’s presence is free. Tapping into who it is that God created us to be—that’s free as well. But here’s the catch-- we have to be free as well.  We cannot receive it if our hands are already full, if our lives our already too preoccupied with other things.

And so ultimately, I think that where we fit in all of this, depends on what Jesus would see if he were to look into our own hearts. What would he see holding you back from being the person who you were created to be?  What would he see holding you back from seeking the Lord and truly living? What are we holding onto so tightly that we are unable to reach out a free hand to take hold of God’s grace?

No one can answer that question for us. Each of us must answer it for ourselves. And I suspect that many of us already know the answer, or at least we have a pretty good idea of what it might be. And so maybe what we need this morning, more than words of judgment, would just be a word of encouragement to keep us on the path. We’ve already received the challenge this morning: Seek the Lord and live. That’s the challenge. And so here is the encouragement: With God, all things are possible.  Now I know, maybe it seems like despite the words of the ancient prophets, despite Jesus’ example, despite the modern day prophets who challenge and inspire us and call us to do better, we keep on dropping the ball.  We keep on filling our lives with more and more stuff that prevents us from being free to receive God’s grace.

But just forget about all of that for a moment. Just forget it.

Because you are here right now.

And you can be here again next week, and the week after that, and the week after that. And every day—rather every moment-- is another opportunity to seek the Lord and live. To become the person you know you have been called to be. Because with God, all things are indeed possible.

God's Healing: A Sermon on Luke 13:10-17

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do was a couple of summers ago, when as part of my ordination process, I was required to spend a summer working as a hospital chaplain.  The hospital I ended up at that summer was a large, level one-trauma center, which meant that all of the worst accidents in the area ended up at this particular hospital. As I started the summer, I was terrified by this. I was terrified to be on call— having to respond to whatever came into the emergency room at any hour of the day or night. Gunshot wounds, car accidents, motorcycle accidents— you name it, I saw it. Yet while those first few on-call experiences were indeed terrifying, as it turned out, that wasn’t the hardest thing I had to do that summer. The hardest thing about that summer was actually my experiences working on the oncology and intensive care units-- working with patients who were there day after day after day, and seemingly not getting any better.  Sometimes, their families would ask me to pray for them— to pray for a miracle, a cure. I would comply, yet day after day, despite our prayers, I would watch patients continue to decline in health and their families continue to suffer. At times, the patients themselves would confide in me about their anger with God. Why was this happening to them? What had they done to deserve this suffering? Why hadn’t God answered their prayers for healing? Were they doing something wrong?

These were the questions that haunted me over the course of the summer. These were the questions that challenged me more than anything else I experienced. And this morning’s gospel story— for me— calls to mind those experiences. It calls to mind those questions that I think all of us have, about prayer and healing, miracles and human suffering.

It’s a familiar scene— our gospel reading this morning. Jesus crosses paths with someone who is in need of healing. And despite the restriction of not working on the Sabbath, Jesus doesn’t hesitate to heal the woman of her ailment. I say it’s a familiar scene because time and time again, in every gospel, Jesus does not fail to work anything short of a miracle when he encounters those who are sick and suffering. Every single time, he provides a miraculous cure— one that wipes away any trace of illness or deformity.  For many Christians, these are stories of hope. But I have to admit, that summer, that when confronted with patients and families who wanted to know why God wasn’t answering their prayers, I sometimes found more frustration in these stories than hope. I would think to myself, if only there were a few stories where Jesus didn’t provide a miraculous cure, and instead, offered simple compassion and care to a sick or dying person-- care that didn’t necessarily cure them, or rid them of their physical infirmity, but that comforted them in their time of distress. If only there were such a story I could point to so that these patients and their families didn’t have to feel abandoned by God. So that they didn’t have to feel that their prayers somehow weren’t good enough, or that their faith wasn’t strong enough.  Even the book of Job— the quintessential biblical tale about the nature of human suffering-- has a happy ending. Yes, Job suffers tremendously. But in the end, he regains everything that he had lost.  The very last line of the story says that “Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children’s children, for four generations. And Job died, old, and full of days.” I’m pretty sure this is the biblical version of “and they all lived happily ever after.”

This leaves many of us asking the question: what about all those times when fortunes aren’t restored? When illnesses aren’t cured? What about those times when disabilities and deformities aren’t taken away? How do we, as Christians who process the healing power of God, make sense of all those times when continued woundedness and brokenness-- not miraculous cures-- seem to be the result of our prayers?

I was in a Bible study once, when the subject came up of the difference between praying for a cure and praying for healing. One member of the group gave an example from a film called “The Robe”— a film which takes place after Jesus’ death and centers around a Roman centurion who wins the robe worn by Jesus during the crucifixion. In one very powerful scene in the movie, the centurion comes across a character by the name of Miriam. Miriam is filled with love and light— she is an inspiration to those around her, and her community sees her as an example of Jesus’ miraculous healing power. Miriam also happens to be crippled. And so the centurion is mystified by Miriam and the claims made by her community.

“How is it,” he asks, “that you claim she has been miraculously healed?! She’s a cripple! Can’t you see that??”

An elder in the community explains to the centurion that since she was paralyzed at a young age, Miriam had been bitter and hateful for most of her life. She had affected everyone around her with her envy and malice. But one day, in their small town of Cana, there was a wedding. Everyone in the town went— everyone except Miriam. She stayed at home-- bitter and weeping— for what man would ever ask to marry her? But when her parents returned home from the wedding, they found Miriam changed. She was smiling, singing, and full of joy.

“Wasn’t Jesus at that wedding?” the Centurion asked.

“Yes,” the elder said, “but he came late.”  He had another stop to make first.

The healing that Miriam receives is no less miraculous than the one we read about in the Gospel story for today. In some ways, it is even more extraordinary. For it is not a healing that takes away her physical limitations.  Rather, it is a healing of her soul.

“He could have healed my body,” Miriam explains to the centurion, “but he did something even better for me. He made me an agent of his word. He left me as I am, so that all others like me would know that their misfortune needn’t deprive them of happiness, or their place in God’s kingdom.”

Now this is, of course, a fictional story.  It’s just a movie.  But in some ways, this is the kind of story that I wish we found more of in the bible. Perhaps then there wouldn’t be so much hurtful theology out there. Theology that tells people with chronic illness or disability that the reason for their continued suffering is that they are weak in faith, or that there is some hidden sin that keeps them from being cured. There are plenty of Christians out there who would argue that if God does not heal people in the visible, dramatic way that is expected, then those people have not prayed hard enough.  Their faith is weak. But I don’t think that’s true. I disagree with that theology, because I believe that God does not always heal in the way we demand or expect. I believe that God’s healing does not always amount to God delivering us from every trace of what ails us.

It is perhaps worth noting at this point that there is at least one character in scripture who has a story that mirrors that of Miriam’s story.  The apostle Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians that he was given a thorn in his side— something that plagued him a great deal. We don’t know what this “thorn” was, many have speculated, and many biblical scholars suspect it was some kind of physical disability or deformity.  We don’t know for sure.  However, what we do know is that Paul appealed to the Lord multiple times for it to be taken away. Whatever it was, it was something that burdened him deeply. One can imagine that in the religious culture of the day, in an age when any kind of physical illness or disability was seen as the product of sin, that he may have received quite a bit of grief for this. 

“Look at him,” some might have said, “he talks a whole lot about the power of faith, so why can’t he free himself from this ailment? Why doesn’t Jesus deliver him?  Why doesn’t God just cure him?”

But unlike the woman from our gospel reading, Paul is not cured. The thorn in his side does not leave him. Nevertheless, he remains to this day one of the most powerful witnesses to the gospel of God’s love and grace that there has ever been. His writing on the power of faith in the midst of suffering has offered us comfort to many going through difficult times.

“We do not lose heart,” he says, “because we look not at what can be seen, but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”

The thorn— whatever it was-- led Paul to the most earnest kind heartfelt kind of prayer— the kind of pouring out of the soul that requires total dependence on God’s love and grace. A grace that is sufficient, Paul learned, to hold us together in the midst of whatever challenges life may bring our way.

I think perhaps one of the biggest differences between a healing and a cure is that while we tend to think only sick or disabled people are in need of a cure, there is not a single one of us that is not in need of healing. Almost all of us have some aspect of our lives in which a “healing” is needed. Some “thorn in our side” that we wish the Lord would take away. Maybe we suffer from chronic pain, or perhaps we or someone we love has experienced depression or some other mental illness. Perhaps there has been a traumatic event in our lives that has kept us enslaved to feelings of fear, bitterness, or resentment. In some way or another, I suspect we can all relate to the woman from the gospel this morning— bent over, struggling under the weight of what ails us, unable to see the sun. We pray consistently for God to heal us and to take away that which ails us. But it may be that God is already sending healing grace into our lives— perhaps in unexpected ways. And it may be that while there are aspects of our lives that are difficult, we are intended sometimes not to be rid of them, but to allow Jesus to walk with us as we go through them. For only then do we come out on the other side— healed in ways that we could never have imagined.  Paul says that we are to be agents of Christ’s reconciliation and Christ’s healing in the world. Perhaps it is to be that like Miriam, like Paul, and indeed like Christ himself— our own woundedness can often be the very thing which allows us to be a healing force for others.

We yearn— all of us do— for healing and wholeness. For ourselves, for our loved ones, and for the world. I believe that one of the greatest miracles of all, is that God offers this healing to each and every one of us— without exception. I believe that even in the midst of brokenness, there is hope to be found. A hope which can be summed up for me in four words: we are never alone.  God does not abandon us in our suffering— God walks with us. And just as God walks with us in our suffering, we can then find the strength to stand, and walk with others in theirs— allowing the hope given to us by the gospel to heal not only us, but to begin that great and grace-filled work of healing all of creation.

There's Always Room for One More

What do you imagine when you think of home?  Do you picture your house-- a physical place where you live, eat meals with family and friends, and take shelter from the cold?  Do you think of your family? Is home the place where you spend time with your spouse, your children, or other loved ones; is it the place where you gather with family and friends for holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas? When you conjure images of home of in your mind, do you think of the past-- the house and town you grew up in, with all its nostalgic sights, sounds, and smells?  Or do you think of the present-- the place where you live now, even if you haven’t lived in that particular place very long?

            What do you imagine when you think of home?

Preacher Barbara Brown Taylor writes that ‘home’ can be an elusive concept. It’s something all of us yearn for, hunger for, and spend our lives looking for.  And yet for some of us, it can seem like a hard thing to find, and even harder to hold on to once we’ve found it. Especially when you start to think of home as more than just a physical place, and rather, a place where you truly belong.  A place where you are known, loved, and accepted for who you are and all of who you are—the good, the bad, and the ugly.  A safe place in which you can take refuge from the storms of the world. This kind of home is harder to find.

And to make matters more complicated, our society is becoming more transient, with more and more people who have moved multiple times in their adult life. More and more children now grow up, not just in more than one house, but also in more than one town. People tend to switch jobs more frequently than they used to, and it seems like the days are gone when people would hold down one job for 30 years or more. All of this contributes to a sense that many people have these days-- that of being a kind of professional nomad-- moving from place to place, never quite putting down roots. Given all of this, how do we go about finding our true home? How do we find that place where we are fully known, fully loved, and fully accepted?

Henri Nouwen is a well known and beloved writer on spirituality and prayer, and he has written that for him, the place where we find true home-- no matter what the changing circumstances of our lives might be-- is the place where we can find rest for our spirits in God’s presence. He writes, “home is the center of my being-- a place where I can hear the voice that says: you are my beloved, on you my favor rests… home is the never interrupted voice of love speaking from eternity and giving life and love whenever (and wherever) it is heard.” For Nouwen, home is the place where we are connected at the deepest level to our Creator and source of life.  That is the place where we can be most fully known and most fully loved, no matter where we are in the course of our lives.

In reflecting on this idea of home as we celebrate homecoming Sunday here at Park Church, it occurred to me that Nouwen’s definition of home— that of a place where all can find rest their spirit in God’s love-- that is church at its best.  The church has been its best throughout the ages when it has said to every single person who walks through the door—“no matter who you are, no matter where you come from, no matter your past, no matter your present, you have a home here, and we welcome you as a beloved child of God. No exceptions.” That is the church at its best.

It also occurred to me, however, that perhaps one of the greatest shortcomings of the church throughout the ages is that we often haven’t been that kind of home for people. And while many churches— including ours— have tried very hard in recent years to overcome that deficiency, the truth is, the church has had a history over the last couple thousand years of finding ways to exclude certain kinds of people.  To pass judgment on people who are different and to keep certain people out. For many people, that history is what prevents them from seeing the church as a place to call home. There have been all sorts of surveys done in recent years about the reasons why people don’t go to church anymore. And while there are many reasons given— from everything from the rise of postmodernism to soccer games on Sunday-- an overwhelming majority of people reply that the reason they don’t go to church is because they believe that churches are filled with judgment and hypocrisy. They don’t want to go to church because they are afraid they will be judged rather than welcomed. And given much of church history, I think most of us can recognize that this is not an entirely irrational fear. Maybe even some of you have experienced this at a church at some point in your lives.

There are, however, many of us who are working to change that perception.  There was a video that surfaced about a year ago and went viral on the internet (it’s actually up on our church facebook page right now).  It’s a video in which people name some of the reasons why they don’t go to church. And when someone says, “well, the church is just full of hypocrites,” a man responds, “yes, but there’s always room for one more!” There’s always room for one more. For those of us who have experienced home at a church, for those of us who have experienced the kind of healing that comes with being accepted somewhere for who you are— no matter how many imperfections and quirks you may have— the power of this statement rings true. It’s a statement that is at the heart of what it means for a church to be home. There’s always room for one more. One more sinner. One more hypocrite. One more person who is divorced, remarried, young, old, gay, straight, poor, unemployed, over-employed, under-employed, homeless, filthy rich, flawed and imperfect. There’s always room for one more. I truly believe that this is the kind of spiritual home the church is called to be. That we are called to be the kind of church where all can find a place to belong and all can find a place to be fully known. A place where there is always room for one more.

I know many of you share this vision for the church. And I believe in many ways we are already living that out. We embrace the radical welcome that Jesus himself exemplified, and we deeply desire for others to discover that welcome here in this place. But here’s the thing: finding our home with God isn’t just about how we welcome others. It’s also about how we embrace God’s welcome for ourselves. That’s where it all starts. Because if we do not experience God’s radical welcome ourselves, how can we possibly even begin to offer it to others? And in many ways, this can be a lot harder. It can be a lot harder for us to accept the kind of welcome for ourselves that we desire to give to others, because it’s not just the judgment of others that keeps us from finding our home with God. Most of the time, I suspect, it’s the judgment that we place on ourselves that’s even harder to let go of. It’s the imperfections and faults we see in ourselves that make us feel less than worthy to be called beloved children of God. It’s the inner critic that sometimes shouts so loudly about all the things we don’t do well and all the things we haven’t done right (or haven’t done at all) that we don’t hear God’s still small voice shepherding us and calling us home. We don’t hear that voice that Nouwen was talking about, the voice that speaks to us in the deepest places of our hearts, telling us we are beloved.

And so what it all boils down to is this: do we really believe what we say we believe?  That each one of us is so important to God that we are like the lost coin or the lost sheep whose homecoming gives God more joy than the 99 others who are already there? Do we really believe what we tell others about God’s radical welcome and grace-- that all of us have a home here? That there really is room for one more, and that one more is US? Do we believe it for ourselves as much as we might proclaim it to others?

I’m sure that most of you probably noticed when you walked in this morning, that there is a new addition to our sanctuary. It’s going to be with us for a little while as we work to repair the beam in that corner of the church. And I have to confess something to all of you this morning-- that when the engineers told us that we would have to put up this temporary support beam right before Homecoming Sunday, the Sunday when we are all so excited about moving back into our beautiful and historic sanctuary, my heart sank. “Our beautiful sanctuary!” I thought, “It’s not going to look perfect!”

But then as I was reflecting on the theme of this morning’s service, I realized what a perfect illustration this could be for us. Our sanctuary is not perfect this morning, and in fact there is a rather glaring imperfection. But that doesn’t make God any less present, that doesn’t make this any less our home, and it doesn’t make our worship any less meaningful. Just as our own imperfections— whether they are barely perceptible or whether they are glaring, to ourselves or to others, do not prevent God from being present with us and calling us home as beloved children.

So this morning we are going to do a little experiment.  I told you earlier to hold on to those colored pieces of paper because you would be needing them-- well now I want you to pull those out.  If you have a pen or pencil, I want you to pull those out as well-- there are pencils in the pew pockets in front of you and there are also pens scattered around at the end of many of the pews. If you don’t have something to write with, see if you can borrow something from a neighbor. What I’m going to ask all of you to do in just a moment, is to think about whatever the thing might be that keeps you from being fully at home with God. What are the self-judgments and imperfections that you see in yourself that keep you from recognizing yourself as God’s beloved child? What are the things you need to let go of, in order to find full rest for your spirit in God? Think about these questions, and in a moment, I want you to write your answer down on that card. You’ll notice that there are colored strips of fabric hanging from the beam, and there tables on either side of the beam with bowls of mini-clothes pins. What I want you to do, once you’ve written something on your card, is to stand, and go over to that beam, and pin those imperfections and self-judgments to one of the strips of fabric. And then-- and this is the most important part-- leave it there. Let it go. Leave it there for God, and know that God loves you and welcomes you in this place— that this is your home-- No matter what it is you’ve written on that card.

Let us reflect and pray…

This sermon ended with a congregational action designed to help people begin to let go of the things that get between them and God's radical welcome and grace.  Join the conversation here!  What are the things that get in your way of feeling at home with God?  Can you let them go?

 

Dirty Hands, Clean Hearts: A reflection on Mark 7:1-23

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This morning’s lectionary readings put forth one of the most central questions that has been asked by people of all faiths over many centuries of religious history: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God? 

In our reading from James, we read that a life of faithful obedience to God means that we not only hear the word and believe, but also that we act— that we are doers of the word as well as hearers of the word.  We also read that religion for the sake of religion, or piety for the sake of piety, means nothing if we do not also live out our faith through acts of caring for others. “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God,” writes the author of James, “is to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” In other words, it’s not just about what you say you believe, but also how you live out that faith.

Similar themes are found in this morning’s gospel reading from Mark, in what is admittedly—by our modern standards-- a rather peculiar story.  It is a story in which the Pharisees chastise Jesus and his disciples for eating a meal without having first washed their hands in order to be ritually clean.  Jesus, in turn, responds rather harshly, calling the Pharisees a bunch of hypocrites who do nothing but pay lip service to God with all their rules and regulations and religious rituals.  To be quite honest, the whole affair can seem a bit like much ado about nothing. After all, this wasn’t a fight about the appropriate use of sacrifice— a hot topic in that day and age. It wasn’t an argument about how to best care for the poor or widowed among them, the correct use of tithes and offerings, or even proper interpretation of scripture. It was a fight about the importance (or lack of thereof) of washing one’s hands before a meal. It almost seems a little silly, and maybe even trivial.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe this is actually a pretty good illustration of what it looks like— really looks like— when a community of imperfect people are trying their best to figure out the answer to our question of the day: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God? When it comes to religious life— and our common life together in a community of faith-- what are the things that are most important to God?

The Pharisees, in regards to this question, often come across to us as looking rather silly in the gospels, with all their rules and regulations, and their stubborn adherence to tradition. We often think we are so different than them.  We think if it had been us, of course we would have aligned ourselves with Jesus and the disciples, not those stuffy old fashioned Pharisees! But maybe we are too hard on the Pharisees sometimes. After all, how many times do we, even being the modern, enlightened Christians that we are, find ourselves fighting about the little things more often than we engage in discussion and debate about the big stuff? 

The truth is, it’s very easy for us to be just like the Pharisees—to get caught up in the minutia of every day religious life and whatever our modern day equivalent of ritual hand washing might be—and forget about our larger purpose as the Body of Christ.   We are creatures of habit, and thus as human beings we prefer order over chaos, rules over anarchy (most of us anyway).  And when it comes to religion, this is even more the case.  Jesus saw this tendency in the rituals of the Pharisees, and he saw that adherence to tradition was holding them back.  This is why he challenges them, and continues to challenge us today, with the question: what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God?

Obviously there are many ways to approach the answer to this question. There is not just one path or one single formula for faithful living. But our Gospel story this morning does offer us one particular way of looking at the matter, which is to say: it doesn’t matter if your hands are clean, if your heart is not.  And, sometimes it’s okay, and maybe even necessary to let our hands get a little dirty if we want to keep our hearts clean before God.

Jesus and his disciples, for example, got their hands plenty dirty, and not just because they didn’t wash them before they ate. When they went from town to town, laying hands on those who were considered “unclean”-- the sick, the lame, the sinners, and perhaps worst of all, the lepers— they got their hands dirty. Back then, to touch someone who was considered unclean meant that you yourself became unclean as well. And those who were ill or unclean for any reason were not allowed in the temple because it was thought they would contaminate the house of God. Such ostracism of those most in need meant that the religious leaders certainly kept their hands clean, but their hearts were hardened.

Jesus and his disciples, on the other hand, in treating others with compassion and care, broke the rules and got their hands dirty. But they kept their hearts clean before God.

I almost wonder if this story about ritual hand washing isn’t really about ritual hand washing at all.  That perhaps it’s something of a metaphor for the larger conflict Jesus had with religious leaders when it came to who was considered unclean, and why. Jesus and his disciples disregarded the rules when it came to who was supposed to be untouchable. They laid their hands on those considered to be unclean as if to say, “we do not see you as unclean, and neither does God.”

These same principles hold true for us as modern day disciples of Christ.  Sometimes we have to get our hands a little dirty if we want to keep our hearts clean before God.

I bet anyone who has ever served a meal at a soup kitchen can relate to this.  When you’re in the kitchen preparing a meal for 80 or 100 people, when you are running from the kitchen to the dining room with heaping bowls of chili or paper plates filled to the brim with baked beans and macaroni salad-- you get your hands dirty.

Or what about those of you who have ever cared for an ailing parent or aging loved one?  I imagine you might be able to relate to this as well. When you care for someone who can no dress or even feed themselves, God knows, you tend to get your hands dirty.

Or consider any situation in which you have aligned yourself with someone who may be considered “untouchable” by some standard of society.  While we may not longer use the language of “clean” and “unclean” in this day and age, we do still have our untouchables.  Are we willing to lay our hands on them—the homeless, the poor, the sick and the aging, the addict, and the outcast—and say to them, “we do not see you as unclean, and neither does God.”  If so, perhaps we are moving a little closer towards the answer to our question—what does it look like to live a life that is pleasing to God?  I say a little closer because at the end of the day, we must recognize that it’s not just about our actions— admirable and worthy as they may be. Our readings this morning make it abundantly clear that ultimately, in striving to live a life that is pleasing to God, it’s not just the work of our hands that matters, but also the state of our hearts.  As honorable as it may be to feed the hungry and care for the sick, if we do these things out of a sense of obligation or even— God-forbid— with resentment, that’s not going to cut it either.  Ultimately, it’s the intent behind the actions that God really cares about. Which brings us back full circle to our Gospel story this morning.

Jesus wasn’t picking a fight with the Pharisees because he thought the tradition of washing one’s hands before a meal was a bad thing. He wasn’t throwing out tradition because he was lazy or disrespectful. He was simply trying to point out that the Pharisees had let adherence to tradition overshadow their commitment to God. There’s nothing wrong with keeping tradition and holding fast to the things our elders held dear, so long as we are willing to sometimes let them go, if at anytime they get in the way of caring for others— particularly for the least of these.  So long as we do not put opinions above people, tradition above the gospel, or ritual above compassion and authentic community.  Every time we gather together in Bible Study, or committee meetings, or even social gatherings as a church, and we enter into conversation about the tasks set before us, and even as we argue— as people naturally do— about the best way to accomplish those tasks, we must never lost sight of who we are and why we are here.  We must always be intentional about keeping our hearts clean before God, so that we are ready at a moment’s notice to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty, to do the work we are called to do as disciples of Christ, and to strive at all times to live a life worthy of that calling.

 Amen, and let it be so.