“A Father’s Story”

(based on Matthew 2:18-25)

When the time was accomplished that my wife should be delivered of our first-born child, we made our way to the Methodist Hospital in Houston, Texas. It was one o’clock in the morning, and there was little traffic on the streets. When we entered the doors of the Emergency Department, there was no delay. One look and the nurse commandeered a wheelchair and speeded us on our way to the elevator that would take us to the labor and delivery room. We had pre-registered and in no time we were at the swinging doors of the Delivery room. “Give your husband your wedding ring and kiss him goodbye” were the instructions given to her. I think it was the first time either of us had considered what it was going to feel like having to say this abrupt “goodbye” and face this moment alone.

I thought of that moment as I reread this passage in Matthew. Though procedures have changed a great deal since that moment in Houston in 1965, and fathers can take a much more active role in the birthing event than we were allowed in those days, yet there’s still a poignant element to this scene where Joseph must stand by, empty handed and subject to fears named and unnamed. It’s all very well to honor Joseph for his role in the Christmas story, but the truth remains that his position in that stable is clearly a supporting role.
He had a right to fear and wonder. Though marriage customs were different in his day, and pregnant brides probably no more uncommon then than they are now, yet he had a right to know this pregnancy was different. He certainly knew he was not the father, and if he was not, then who was? And if word should ever get out about this, Mosaic law was clear on the matter. An adulterous woman was to be shunned, if not stoned outright. Of course he was afraid. No one would blame him for putting her away, perhaps in the care of some distant relation in a village far away.

Then comes the dream.

I suppose we might consider him remarkable for giving credence to it. Could it not have been wishful thinking? No doubt we all would like to have an angel give us advice, especially in a difficult and embarrassing situation like his. But on a deeper level, heart-wrenching circumstances cry out for divine guidance. How comforting and reassuring to have a dream give us the answer we can’t find on our own.

In Joseph’s case, I rather doubt he’d understand our talk of dream analysis, or how wishful thinking and rationalizations can produce vivid and convincing images. In his day dreams were respected, trusted. They were to be divine communications that not only were significant for the dreamer, they could have significance for the whole community. Pharaoh’s dreams, in the time of Joseph, is a case in point. His dreams about seven fat calves and seven lean ones bore a message that the whole country of Egypt needed to hear.

So we would expect Joseph to take his dream seriously. But he also had to deal with a message that would mean shame and hardship and grief before it was over. He must take on responsibility for a child, not his own, that was to be a threat to Herod and who could say what beyond that? My fears about becoming a father in Houston in 1965 pale by comparison.

The lesson I learn from this moment is how Joseph dared to trust the dream, dared to believe that God was an active God, alive and well and initiating something new that would make a permanent difference to the world. That is a remarkable faith.

There are many sadnesses in our world, many tragedies that overwhelm us. But one sadness I think we don’t notice, and should, is the numb inertia of human hearts that have stopped looking for wonders, that no longer dream dreams or expect visions. We are so completely submerged in our man-made miracles of technology we are immune to wonder. If God were to initiate a miracle in our midst, chances are likely we’d never notice it, or dismiss it as some new kind of marvel created by science.

We need the simplicity of Joseph who still believes in the miraculous, but not the kind of miracles we can analyze and dissect and turn to some profit of our own. His miracle was the kind that unsettled, displaced, drove him to the edge of all he’d ever believed and known and forced him to continue on into the unknown.

In my life, the real living has begun when I was in foreign lands where I seldom could speak the language or find my bearings. My real growth began with the admission “I don’t know what I’m talking about.” My advance occurred when I dared go to Egypt - dared? Was forced more likely. That’s why I sometimes chuckle when I hear someone say, “I’m not comfortable with this” or “I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that.” Good words, and appropriate words, but sometimes I think those are the very moments we should be uncomfortable. Birth isn’t comfortable. For the mother or the child. We are foolish to think we could ever grow without it.

Joseph took his family to Egypt on the instruction of a vision. We probably will not have any such vision, but we will take risks. How silly of me to think, at my wedding, that merely saying “I do” with this person whom I thought I knew and loved so well, was just a formality. It meant a whole new world, one I still explore, even all these years after she’s gone. And who could have predicted the life that was about to open to me when I first made the discovery of the magic of alcohol? That first drink would mean a journey that wold take me virtually around the world. And how could I ever have imagined that an innocent remark from my pastor when I was still a teenager, suggesting I might have a calling for the Ministry, would find me here in Delta long after I had retired still trying to make sense out of that call?

Joseph trusted the angel and the dream. He faced his fear and took action. He dared to be open to a God who asked so much and to act upon that trust. Amazing. We thought the miracle of God happened in Bethlehem centuries ago - who could ever have believed that stable was right here, in our hearts, today? Amen.

Are You the One

Are You the One?   (based on Matthew 11:2-11


I stumbled across a quote from the great (and admittedly controversial) stage and film director Elia Kazan who, in his autobiography, summed up his philosophy of life with a few simple words: “Wonder is our need today, not information.” I am forced to admit this is not a popular philosophy. We are products of a different culture and a different way to thinking. We demand understanding. We want clear explanations for everything. We measure our progress by our scientific knowledge and technological no-how. What works? We ask. And what will be in it for us? Pragmatists, materialists, even in our religious beliefs, we are not as concerned about how we might best live our lives today as we are in how much we can assure ourselves of salvation and eternal life in the hereafter. To counter that, I would suggest we re-examine this interchange between John and Jesus.

John, please remember, was sent as the prophet who would foretell the arrival of the messiah and the new kingdom of heaven for which the Jews had longed for centuries. He had a following of his own. He had met Jesus at the river Jordan and baptized him, a sign of passing on his prophetic mantle to the new prophet of God. Surely he must have known who Jesus was and trusted him more than anyone else who ever met him. But John is in prison. His followers are being torn between faithfulness to John and curiosity about Jesus. John succumbs to doubt, uncertainty, wonder. He needs reassurance and asks for it.

In this sense, John is our stand-in. We too know prisons. Perhaps not with bars and guards, but we know the cold, damp confinement of fear, uncertainty. Perhaps we are struggling with financial problems. Perhaps we are in a relationship that is eroding our self-worth. Perhaps we are battling some addictive behavior. Perhaps we are in the grip of a relentless disease that seems to have no cure. All these, and God knows how many more forms of prison can trap us and leave us feeling helpless and lost.

Do we wonder? Do we question? Do we face a black and empty sky, and ache for some security, some place to stand that will not let us down? Of course we do. We would scarcely be human if we did not. I’ve quoted him before, but he keeps coming back to mind: the poor young Jew who, in a time of devastation, having just been told he and his neighbors must leave their home village in three days, cries out to the rabbi, “We’ve been looking for the messiah all our lives. Wouldn’t now be a good time for him to come?” We may not be Jews, but we do look for a savior nonetheless. John thought he had found him. But had he? He did not know. And he had met Jesus, some accounts claim they were even related. Would not he - of all people - be certain?

My first word to you today: do not be dismayed that you have your moments of uncertainty. You are not failing your Christianity because you can’t see the clear road ahead. You are no less Christ’s friend because you find yourself in you own private prison. Send for help. Ask. See if God cannot give you help at a time you need it most.

But now notice the answer Jesus gives. Rather than reply, “Of course I am” as we might desperately want him to do, he says “Tell John what you see happening.” This is scarcely the kind of answer we were looking for - or John either, I imagine. Explanation, education, clarification, instruction - this is what we expect, what we want. Instead, Jesus says nothing about himself. He doesn’t even say explicitly “I am giving sight to the blind, I am curing leprosy, I am raising the dead.” He simply points to these miracles and - by implication - points us to a renewed trust in God who is doing these things. The Kingdom of God is that gathering of trusting folk who embody the presence of a very much alive and active and involved and caring and loving God, right here and right now.

This is a message too little heard or remembered. We are quick to look for someone to rescue us. I will be the first to confess this. Give me something to deal with, a strange ache or pain in my body, a new grief at the loss of a friend, a fear that overwhelms me as I face some new dilemma I can’t seem to unravel, and instinctively I begin wondering “Who can I call?” “Who can I turn to?” Where’s my messiah, now, when I so obviously need him?

We think that is Jesus’s job. He is the ultimate rescuer. I remember hearing a young girl remark, “When trouble knocks on my door, I tell Jesus to answer it.” I liked that idea. I even tried it. It didn’t work. I could just imagine Jesus saying “Answer it yourself, it’s your door.”

Today I think that may be pretty much what Jesus did say to John. What you need, John, is not my telling you who or what I am. What you need is to wonder, to puzzle over, and discern the signs of what God is doing in this situation - not what I am doing.

My second word for you is to depend on wonder, not on answers. Wonder prompts us to look for signs we have overlooked or forgotten, or failed to see the significance of. It may be a small point, but the very fact we ask is a sign of trust. We look for answers because we expect answers to be there, somewhere. What we don’t realize is that many times the signs point us in directions we either did not expect, or could not see the importance of.

We have often been told God never closes a door without opening a window. What I would like to suggest is that it isn’t always God who closes those doors. And the windows that open aren’t always the best choices either. Wondering about them both frees us to explore, to choose, to backtrack and examine again until we do find the key that opens our prison. But in order to do that, trust must come first. And Jesus remembers this by pointing toward the miracles that are taking place all around us.

You see, God is, and God is here. God is alive and he lives here in us. Even in our prisons, God is present. Theologians speak of this living, abiding God as both Emmanuel (meaning God with us) and the Holy Spirit. This living, present God gives the lie to the idea that we are somehow abandoned, on our own, left out, forgotten, lost.

I remember Helen. She once remarked - and quite possibly she was quoting someone else: so much of the wisdom that finds its way into our lives is borrowed from somewhere else - “I love you, not for what your are, but for what I become when I am with you.” I think Jesus would have smiled at that remark. He did not need to be the center of attraction. (May I tell you a secret? I am really uncomfortable with prayers that keep repeating Jesus’ name. I’m especially disturbed by all this emphasis on how “Precious” Jesus’ name is. I think he would be equally uncomfortable.) Instead, Jesus lived his life as a walking billboard of the presence of God, and he dedicated himself totally to making God more real. What he saw was transformed lives - not because of him, but because of the transforming love of God.

And that leads me to one final word: if Helen spoke truly, and she loved her friend - not for what her friend was, but for what she became when she was with her friend - is it not quite possible that you may well be “The One” through whom God is at work for someone you may not even know? “Look, the blind see, the lame walk, the leper is cleansed, the deaf hear, and even the dead are raised to life.”

Such miracles are the work of God - who’s to say they may not be works God is achieving through the use of you? Wonder, my friends, please wonder! Amen.

Wait and See

Based on Matthew 24:36-44
Can one truly be human and not be impatient?



We human beings have the gift of imagination which means we also have the ability to live in the future. Some of my happiest times have been those when I imagine what a party is going to be like, or what I’ll see when I open a package, or what I’ll feel when I hold my grandchild in my arms. The bliss of imagining future joys has always been one of my favorite pastimes.



Of course, it also has a dark cousin: anxiety and fear are products of the imagination that can cripple the strongest person. The one who dwells in the halls of perpetual dread knows the tortures of hell. For them, there is scarcely a sillier word of advice than the assurance, “Don’t worry.” “Don’t worry? “Who wants to worry, for heaven’s sake. But I can’t help it. I was born worrying.”



Daydreamers and doomsayers both reside in a future that rarely ever turns out the way they thought it would. But they share something in common: the dread of waiting.



Down through history, Christians have had to make peace with what appears to be an endless waiting. Many speculations have been spread abroad about the “end time”, or the return of Jesus. Although the scripture clearly states “No one knows when it will come,” such advice rarely puts an end to the speculations. So many dates have been set, and then broken, that fewer and fewer people put much stock in these announcements. Still, we are as curious as we ever were wondering, “Could this be it?” The fact that the world has not come to an end would seem proof that we could better spend our time reading “War and Peace” or painting a new “Mona Lisa”.



I have noticed two main schools of thinking about this puzzling question - “How long, O Lord, how long?” One school is eager for the world to come to an end so they can live in heaven, a paradise where death and disease and tears will be no more. The other school sees the second coming of Christ as a continuing occurrence. This latter view is a little harder to describe, but in essence, it has to do with striving to bring the Kingdom of God into being here on earth where we live and work now.



How would this work? Well, the first group basically sees human life as a temporary phenomenon. We put up with this world until we can be released and live in the “real” world of God’s house. Although we don’t want to rain on anybody’s parade, we simply can’t get too excited about issues in this world. Global warming, AIDS, over-population, economic hardships, war, poverty, drugs - those are the givens in this far from perfect world. Thus it has always been since the sin of Adam and Eve, and such it will always be. Have as little to do with it as possible. None of it really counts anyway. Given that perspective, Christ’s second coming will be the release from this far from perfect world. Be attached to nothing here since glory is only in the yet to come.



The second group sees God coming to us continuously. This world is God’s obsession. His love for his creation is limitless and he is eager for us to love it too. The poet and the artist are but extensions of the creator God. Their talents are on loan that God may bring into being that which has not been seen before. When we despise this world, we despise the handiwork of God. This includes God’s mightiest creation by the way - self-hatred spits upon the goodness of the God who gave us form and life in the first place.



When we listen to the scriptures speak of no one knowing the day or the hour when Christ will come, we may either hear this as an announcement of the possibility of a cataclysmic end of the world, a dreadful conflagration that snuffs out all of the world and its inhabitants with a few hopeful ones enjoying eternity in paradise because they’ve lived pious lives. Or, we may think of it as those serendipitous moments when Christ confronts us unexpectedly in our daily lives, bringing about a transformation of how we view ourselves or the world in which we live. This second view, paradoxically enough, is the true hopeful one, for it sees more chances for all. It sees hope for improvement. It sees doorways that invite us to new realms of possibility. It rejoices in the dawning of new ways of seeing that which we hadn’t seen, or thought of before.



The first view remembers the parable of the bridegroom barring the door of his banquet to those who arrived too late and tremble at the horror of being left out of heavenly bliss with God. The second takes seriously the caution to stay awake, stay attentive, be ready to have your eyes opened, your souls fed, even when you thought you were too late. Perhaps the doors are closed at this banquet, but who’s to say what other banquet awaits you still unannounced or undreamed of?



I remember many a feast that I missed, and was glad of it later. I remember many doors that were useless to me until I was ready to appreciate what I could find on the other side. Remember the broken heart you thought would never mend, which left you still available for a new relationship that would prove far more suitable and enduring? Remember the job you thought an ideal opportunity which can’t compare with the one you were yet to discover?



Luke speaks of Jesus meeting discouraged disciples on the Road to Emmaus. They do not recognize him. Only later are their eyes opened. How joyous they were! How their hearts burned within them. But when they do recognize him, instead of having a permanent relationship now in place, to their amazement, he disappears. They find glimpsing Jesus is a short-term affair. He will not stay confined in one particular moment or one specific place.



This realization could lead us to despair. Yet think again. It is the Jesus who goes ahead of us that beckons to us to come see what else may yet be. This Jesus, rather than seated sedately on his throne in heaven, strives in the trenches of our war fronts, labors beside our scientists in their laboratories, guides the sensitive fingers of our surgeons, grants glimpses of new color and form for our artists and fine-tunes the ears of our singers and musicians who live and move and have their being in the enveloping presence of the Holy Spirit of God.



I worship a God who has come to us, not once, but many times. And I worship a God who still comes. Our Christmas Carols celebrate one of those comings. We have yet to hear the rest of the angels’ songs. Amen.

In Whose Image

We have been pummeled in recent days with campaign rhetoric, media spin, half-truths and other examples of tortured logic, all in the good cause of seeking the victory of one candidate and the defeat of another. What wins that have occurred seem to have come too often at the defeat of solid reasoning and glimpses of truth. But all’s fair in love and war, and politics seems to fit into both categories. Lest we think this is proof of the deterioration of Western culture, we might notice the Pharisees were employing the same tricks in the time of Jesus. It’s a proven strategy: if you wish to embarrass your opponent, ask him a question that cannot be answered without displeasing somebody. This juxtaposition of taxes to Caesar and reverence for God seemed ideal for their purpose. If Jesus sides with the orthodox Jew, as he is expected to do, he will be in trouble with the Roman governors. On the other hand, if he sides with the Roman authorities, which is the expedient and politic thing to do, the Jews will be offended. Either way, Jesus will be discredited.

His reply, coupled with a bit of showmanship, seems like a simple trick of slipping through the thicket of opposing opinion. It is not really an answer. Today’s politician uses that tactic all the time. Don’t like the question asked you? Answer one you do like. “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar and unto God what belongs to God.” Very well: Jesus has demonstrated he is an obedient citizen as well as a legitimate son of Abraham. Put down your spears and your stones, folks: this man out-foxed you.

Unfortunately, for too many of us, this easy answer isn’t as easy as it looks. On first reading, it merely proposes we live in a society of divided loyalties and it is appropriate that we support both. Yes, we can have our cake and eat it too, if you will. However, if you push that logic very far, you find yourself in a divided world where God gets his divine due and Caesar gets his. So who gets the 54 inch flat screen TV and who gets the BMW? Well, that’s not too hard to answer. What would God do with either of them? Caesar can have the sales tax, we’ll keep the BMW.

But there’s a deeper issue here, and both Jesus and the Pharisees knew it. The question isn’t just about taxes, it’s about loyalty. Who comes first: Caesar of God? I enjoyed the days when Ken Jennings racked up a $2,500.000 prize winnings at Jeopardy. I really hated to see his winning streak come to an end. And part of the fun was to hear him freely acknowledge that 10% of his winnings were already ear-marked for his church. He didn’t question it; he didn’t seem to be trying to find loopholes that would allow him to keep a little more of his gains. His church was, no doubt, watching each day’s performance and tallying its share by the time the last commercial came on the air. Some might point out that, at two and a half million, he could well afford to give his ten percent to his church. It may have been a handy write off. That’s beside the point. I enjoyed the smile and the sparkle in his eye that suggested he had no problem paying God his dues.

There are others, however, who find such decisions foolish. Come on! That’s a lot of money. Let’s be practical here. God’s kingdom is not of this world. God does not need our shekels. Have we not already been told “The love of money is the root of all evil?” The church should have no accumulated wealth. It’s not good for it. God wants cheerful hearts, not soiled money bags. Others counter, “That may well be, but there are light bills to pay, repairs on the roof, salaries for the employees, and that takes money. Trying to decide what belongs to this world and what to the next isn’t as easy as it sounds.

Besides, dividing the world into two realities tends to marginalize God and make the religious life totally separate from this world. We are strangers on this earth. We belong to the eternal city of God. We don’t have to worry about this world and its needs. I still remember calling on the pastor of another church in the town where I lived to ask him about a possible donation to the community United Fund. His look of shock was a revelation. He quickly corrected me by telling me he and his church did not participate in such endeavors. In other words, their loyalty was to another world and not this.

I have trouble with this “two world” notion. In the very first chapter of Genesis, we are told God created this world and pronounced it good. Whatever else we may think of the manner in which this creation took place, I think we are on respectably solid ground when we affirm God made us and blessed what he made. I see nothing here suggesting we are now to despise and neglect it, use it up, and throw away the heritage of future generations because “This world doesn’t really count. We should only be concerned about escaping this earthly realm and do our best to deserve a blessed eternity in the life that is to come.” If that were really true, why on earth did God create this world in the first place?

No, this two-world concept is too divisive, it puts God too far out of our world, especially as we learn more and more about the vast reaches of the universe. I want to look again at this vignette of Jesus. We see him take a coin and ponder it for a moment and then ask “whose image is this?” The answer is clear: “Caesar”. The image of Caesar is etched on a coin. Have you stopped to think where God’s image is etched? Ah, intriguing question. The answer was read in our scripture this morning. The first chapter of Genesis, the creation story, says plainly “Let us make human beings in our own image.” The image of God resides in you and me.

Granted, theologians will quickly point out that we have fallen from that original image. We have not kept the image polished. The only one who clearly reflects the Image of God is Jesus Christ. And that point is well taken. However, the faith of the Christian adds, “Christ restored that image in us.” However we look at Jesus’ life and death, this much is clear, we have been cleansed, we have been redeemed, and we have been given the status of children of God. This may be adoption, we may not have deserved such a name originally (although I have long believed there was more of that original image in us than we’re usually given credit for), there’s no question the prodigal child has been welcomed home, the broken relationship has been mended, we now live free men and women, beloved by God and now channels of God’s love that reaches out to all the world.

The Image of God is stamped on us. We don’t “look” like God: heavens, who dares claim what God really looks like? We wear the image of God in our capacity to be like God – that is, we can reason, we can enter into relationships with one another, we can empathize, we show compassion, in a word, we LOVE. That is the important sign of the Image of God. The First Epistle of John declares this truth most clearly. “God is love, and when we love we show God”. It’s that simple and that clear.

Now hear Jesus’ answer: “Whose image is this?” Ah, render Caesar the respect and support to which he is entitled, but render to God what belongs to God. And that something is far bigger, far more important, far more powerful than mere coins. We render to God what belongs to God when we give yourselves to God.

When you approach the Joash chest this morning, you will be performing a symbolic act. You will be giving as the widow gave. Your promise to support God’s ministry through the ministry of this church is sealed with this visible token of your giving. But I hope it will be a moment for you to consider the greater gift: your life, your being, the essence of all your hopes and dreams, of your creativity, your unique view of the world, your imagination, your passion, all that makes you completely and entirely you.

Because, finally, ultimately, completely we do belong to God. Amen

 

A Fruitful Faith

based on Mark 11:12-14, 20-22



This is a puzzling story. It only occurs in Mark and Matthew. Luke and John don’t mention it at all. Mark slips it in with only three verses and then adds two more verses later. He makes no comment other than to record the disciples heard Jesus say this. Matthew, when he recounts the story, embellishes it slightly, telling us that the fig tree immediately withered and presumably died. (In Mark, the tree is found dead the next day) It seems to suit Matthew’s purpose. He likes to see God work wonders. Again, no moral is drawn from this; we must find whatever sense we can out of it ourselves.



Either way, the story remains troubling. What can we make of a Jesus who curses a tree and makes it promptly die? This is not the gentle Jesus, meek and mild we are accustomed to. This is more like the mischievous boy who appears in what we call the apocryphal gospels which is pretty much discredited by later Biblical scholars. These stories, thought to have been written centuries after Jesus, presumably by some pious monks somewhere, show Jesus getting angry with other children for not letting him play with them and telling one of them, “You won’t make it home alive.” The boy promptly drops dead. Hardly good PR for the Messiah who came to show us the mercy and love of God, is it?



Still, the cursing of the fig tree remains for us to ponder, and perhaps it will yield up a useful lesson. We might notice, for instance, that the gospels tell us Jesus was hungry. This tidbit is useful for it makes clear that Jesus was flesh and blood. He was not a heavenly being just parading around as a human being. We could forget this in our worship of the Son of God. For many, Jesus is held so high he is unapproachable. We forget he depended on his disciples. He spoke of loving one another, which implies we all have a need to be in relationship with one another. Including Jesus! After all, why would God send his son to us if he didn’t love us and ask for us to love him in return? Yes, a hungry Jesus is a metaphor of a God who wants as well as a God who gives. And by implication, a God who wants something from us must believe that we have that something, or he wouldn’t be asking us for it, now would he.



So we stand before a fig tree. Jesus is hungry. He wants fruit. The tree is not providing it. And the curse is uttered.



Is this kind of Jesus? Mark tells us the tree was not at fault. It was not the time for it be bearing fruit. Surely Jesus knew that. Then cursing an innocent tree is unkind. Are we to expect Jesus to do the same thing with us? We have our seasons too, don’t we? We have our times when we can be cheerful, generous, loving, compassionate, understanding - all the things we think of as our “better nature”. But we have other times as well. Other seasons when our faith is shaky, when our brains aren’t functioning too well, when we are frightened, or angry, or stubborn or just plain thoughtless and unable to make sense out of our lives or the world around us. Who among us escapes these very human frailties? Are we to be cursed for our very human weaknesses? We’ve heard of Jesus throwing a temper tantrum in the Temple because of the godless attitude of the money changers. We know he can be angry. And there is another intriguing episode in the gospel of John, when Jesus “flies off the handle” at the lack of faith he sees in Mary and Martha outside the tomb of their brother Lazarus. (For that’s a pretty close approximation of what the original Greek means. Our English translations tone it down quite a bit!)



What I’m beginning to see is a Jesus who has high hopes for us, has great expectations, and he is frustrated when we consistently fail to live up to those hopes. In other words, the lesson of the fig tree is not so much how Jesus has to go hungry and is mad about it. No, he’s used to that kind of spiritual hunger. He will soon hang on a cross and implore God not to be angry with we human beings who have committed this terrible deed. Why? “They don’t know what they’re doing!” Even in his dying Jesus can see and understand this. He is not a vengeful vindictive Jesus - even though the Jews had long seen God as just that. From the time of Moses their view of God was one of a supreme being poised ready to hurl destruction down on his enemies. With Jesus, that vision is erased forever.



But Jesus is clearly angry in this story. There’s no getting around it. All the disciples know it. So what is touching off this anger? Could it be frustration at a fruitless people who could do so much more if they dared to believe more? Could it be an impatient Jesus who has waited so long and is weary of how slowly we progress? Could it be that Jesus is tiring from the effort to inspire faith and hope and love in us who have no clue about the potential inside us? Thomas Merton captures this truth so vividly in his journals when he writes:



Thank God! Thank God! I am only another member of the human race, like all the rest of them. I have the immense joy of being a man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.



Think of it! Being the Son of God and seeing this kind of potential, this kind of glory, this kind of hope for the future in every person you meet. And then think of the repeated disappointment heaped upon your heart as you watch we human beings as the poet once put it:



The world is too much with us, late and soon.

Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.



Our scramble to make another dollar, climb another rung of success, find more ways to secure our future - oblivious to the glory that already resides in us. I can hear God crying out, “Oh my children, if only you could see. If only you could realize the harvest that lies sleeping in your souls!”



Then I understand the fig tree. It could have been so much more. That, I believe, helps me make sense out of this puzzling story. Jesus expects so much more of us because he - unlike we - can see the possibilities, can trust what we don’t trust, needs what we so reluctantly and so unthinkingly refuse to give.



This is stewardship season. We could make this about giving money. Personally, I hate money. It has a nasty way of shifting my attention away from what is really important in life – the business of recognizing and utilizing the resources that already reside inside us. But as we are often reminded in this “giving” season, true stewardship is about bearing fruit. It is about letting the riches of our intelligence, our time, our talents, our sensitivity, our skills as giving back to the world beauty and strength and hope and wholeness. We are harvesting an inexhaustible supply of goodness within, and seeking ways to bless the world with those fruits.



I have a crab apple tree in my front yard. It bears a fruit I’ve never tasted. When I planted that tree I was assured it was a non-fruit bearing tree. Why it defied its name and bears that fruit anyway, I have no idea. But I think of that tree - faithful to its nature, giving what I did not ask for, continuing to be fruitful even when I blindly ignore its gifts. It is a far better steward than I. I think Jesus would have loved my tree.



What about yours? Amen.

ATTENTION: Jesus Calling

based on Luke 19:1-10


I want you to use your imagination. Word has come that God is going to be coming to town. You can’t really believe it. There is no precedent for such an event. Angels maybe, but very unlikely. Even prophets are in short supply, and too often unreliable. What would you do?



As skeptical as you might be, let’s say you are still curious. Maybe not expecting to see anything that special, but at least to take a look at the stranger. More likely, your eyes focus on the crowds that clog the village street. That gives you some idea what to expect. If it’s the unwashed rabble, you can ignore the whole thing as unworthy of your attention. If the local rabbi is there, maybe you need to pay it more heed. Considering your wealth and your position in the community, you might be interested to see if any of your social circle shows up. Whatever you do, you may well prefer keeping a low profile until you have tested the waters to be sure you aren’t making a fool of yourself by being there. You may even be wondering why you’d show up in the first place. This is not your usual kind of event. Being a tax collector, you aren’t exactly welcome amongst your neighbors. Normally, that doesn’t bother you. You have a business to conduct, just like any other businessman. You’d be pretty bad at it if you let your feelings get involved. Widows with no resources, men down on their luck, fathers who have sick children or sons off in that secret militia of theirs - there’s always some excuse why they can’t pay their taxes. If you listened to them all ... well, you can’t collect taxes like that. And Rome is not going to excuse you from meeting your quota. If Pilate throws commoners into jail without blinking an eye, why would he hesitate throwing his tax-collector into the jail too? Everyone knows the tax-collector is the wealthiest man in the town. You pay up, and you pay up first.



So you go. You keep your eyes peeled. You try to figure the odds, even while you are asking yourself “Why should I care?” Well, why shouldn’t I care? I’m a human being, aren’t I? I’m as curious as the next guy. Only there are a lot of people who aren’t curious and could care less. They are standing out here in this dusty street craning their necks to look at a stranger, that’s all. This is Jericho. Strangers come through here all the time. Granted, they don’t usually claim to be the Messiah. On the other hand, neither has this man. It’s those disciples of his that make him look suspiciously like a holy man. It’s true, he’s done some strange things that look like miracles. Still, most of Jericho would usually ignore such a man.



In this case, there’s a big enough crowd here that you can’t see around them very well. Ah, the curse of being small. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? That promised growth your parents said would come some day, long after you and they knew it wasn’t going to happen? It didn’t come. You knew it wouldn’t. You are old enough now not to pay attention to the teasing. You’ve heard it all before. And you’ve gotten your own back for it. Ah yes, you’ve made them pay, and pay handsomely. You’ve learned to make an asset out of your lack of height Only being in a crowd like this, it can still be a nuisance. A nearby tree looks handy. And it will cover you from public scrutiny. It might be inconvenient if people saw you staring like a wide-eyed child at a traveling magician in hopes of seeing some marvel or other. Best be inconspicuous After all, you owe it to your reputation to be above that sort of thing. You can’t be too careful.



You would never admit you had any other reason for being here, some hidden thought, some childish wish that at last you had seen - with your own eyes - a true visitor from God. You had looked for that God once, and the search was fruitless and painful. How can one go on believing in God when God so clearly doesn’t want to be seen by you? You and God aren’t friends. Can’t be. But still you wish you could be. Isn’t that ridiculous? Puzzle that one out if you can. You’ll never understand it. You do all the religious observances. You know the law of Moses in and out. You pretend to scoff at them, to act as if you’re too sophisticated and grown up to believe in those childish ideas. Yet, inside you there’s still that hurting soul that wishes it could believe. How comforting it would be.



Of course, it would be a problem too. Given the life you lead, the people you’ve cheated, the contempt you’ve had for your pious neighbors - no, you’re better off in a world where gods are just superstitious fancies. Leave your offerings at their temples if you like, but make them small so you won’t miss them. No one need ever know of that one offering you would gladly make if you could be sure that the God they all speak about was truly real.



So the crowds are thicker now, the furor more intense, and you’ve found a perch on a limb of a tree where the leaves are thick enough to keep you out of sight but also thin enough you can see what’s going on down below. When Jesus arrives, no one is more surprised than you when he stops, speaks to you directly and insists you come down out of the tree and hurry home to prepare a meal for him. This is the one thing you could never have imagined happening, and it is very embarrassing. Now everyone knows you were not only in this crowd, Jesus has chosen you to be his host for his stay in Jericho. Normally hosting dignitaries was a political function reserved for the Roman authorities. While you are wealthy and can afford the duties of a host, still you do not have the social standing such a person is entitled to. This is especially unsettling for your Jewish acquaintances because your general attitude toward things religious is well-known. No good Jew would do the things you have done and continue to do. Eating with a woman of the town would be easier to imagine than eating with you.



Then why on earth didn’t you laugh, sneer, mock this ridiculous idea? “You’ve got to mean somebody else, not me. Let your pious Jewish friends prepare your meal for you, the way Moses would insist it be prepared.” How did this total stranger convince you and make you climb down out of your tree? You didn’t have to. It’s true, you dislike scenes. It makes you uncomfortable having people scrutinizing you. Knowing all the acts you’ve committed that could blacken your name even more should they ever become public knowledge, you are always nervous when people start looking at you. So be inconspicuous, stay anonymous, shun the public eye. Perhaps it was just easier to go along with this unexpected command from Jesus than cause an even more embarrassing scene. At least it gave you an excuse to scurry home and hide your face.



You still could have turned Jesus away when he got to your door. “You were mistaken Jesus. I’m not your host. You would never be comfortable here.” Even as you survey the sumptuous surroundings of your home, the fine carpets, the silver and gold dishes, the silk hangings, you could still see they do not measure up to what the Roman palace could offer. Your staff of house slaves is far too small to accommodate Jesus and his entourage. No one could fault you for turning down this request. It was so unexpected, and so untimely. Such a feast would normally take months to prepare. The house is a mess.



Yet you work miracles with your slaves. When Jesus arrives at your door, the floors are swept, the carpets turned, the furniture ready. The cooks are well on the way to producing a fine feast, and even the best wines from your stock have been decanted and are ready to be poured. You scarcely know yourself. The last thing in the world you ever wanted to do - host a banquet for a visiting rabbi, a carpenter’s son from Galilee, along with his fishermen associates who have no manners at all - why are you so excited? What is there about this man that has made you forget Rome and taxes and jealous neighbors and stinging taunts and a whole life of never, never, never being able to measure up. You are so carried away by this impossible occurrence you find yourself volunteering to give away half your wealth to the poor and repaying four-fold any of the monies you have cheated out of your neighbors. This is not you.



And yet, this is you. To the marrow of your bones, to the core of your being, to the soul of your soul, this is the you you always knew was in you though you’d never once seen it, heard its cry, or felt its stirring. Something inside you always knew it existed. You almost danced with its leap of joy, shouted with its elation, stripped the walls of its finery and decked your guests with silks. All that stopped you was the certainty no one would understand. They would have been embarrassed, looked at each other with questioning eyes, made note of this man gone berserk and reported you to the authorities for at least deserving a reprimand if not severe punishment and demotion.



But even that would not have mattered to you - not really. For something in the tone of his voice and the look in Jesus’ eye gave you assurance beyond any certainty that what you were feeling he understood and recognized. Though born a Jew, a true son of Abraham, you had never ever belonged to this family of God. Here, now, before a disbelieving and amazed crowd, one man recognized you for who you truly were and called you his brother. You would live on that the rest of your life.



No wonder St Luke felt compelled to record this story, as bewildering and unlikely as it seems, for it fit so well his wider gospel - a story of a God who comes into our midst, calling our name and relying on us to make a space for him in our lives. It should come as no surprise that the tax- collector who once knew only one God, the God of money, should so eagerly seek out ways to give it away. For on this hot, dusty day in Jericho, Zaccheus, a lost and hurting soul was found at last. Amen

Why the Chimes Rang

There was once in a far-away country where few people have ever traveled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.



When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old.



But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells. At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as once could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and, as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.



Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been build, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest: however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.



But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church, who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard.



It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes. Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.



Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration.



“Nobody can guess, Little Brother,” Pedro would say, “all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?”



The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the light of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.



It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said:



“It’s no use little brother. You will have to go on alone.”



“Alone?” cried Little Brother. “And you not see the Christmas festival?”



“No,” said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. “See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket.”



“But I can not bear to leave you, and go on alone,” said Little Brother.



“Both of us need not miss the service,” said Pedro, “And it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to the church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother–once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! If you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one’s way, take this little silver piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you.”



In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planing for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.



The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him.



At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church, as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the holy Child. “Surely,” every one said, “we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before.”



But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower, and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.



The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed–so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells.



But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro’s little piece of silver on the altar.

Raymond MacDonald Alden, 1902

On Faith

based on  Lamentations 3:19-26, Luke 17:5-6




Here’s one of those saying that have continued to puzzle me all my life. How much faith will it take to move a mountain? The very question bewilders me. How does one measure faith? Presumably that’s what’s asked of us. Increase your faith. Step up to the challenge of doing some real faith. We’re in the Olympic Games of Faith here. Only the most fit, the best trained, the most earnest practitioner of faith need bother to come forward for measurement.



Isn’t that the image that comes to mind when you contemplate this mystery? Is that enough faith Lord? Or That? Or THAT? If you’re at all like me, none of these tests work. Gigantic efforts to make myself believe just exhaust my imagination. I give up on Faith.



One commentator, George Buttrick, tries to redirect our attention by saying having enough faith is not a matter of quantity, for we have already established it is impossible to measure such an elusive thing. It’s a matter of quality. Here we face the challenge: improve the quality of your faith and that mountain will be flying through the air in the wink of an eye.



What a relief. Not quantity, quality. But wait a minute. Aren’t we still being asked to measure something? How does one measure a quality? Once more we have the impossible before us. Quality is as elusive as quantity.



Then let us agree not to talk in terms of measurement. More or less is all but meaningless. Let’s see if there aren’t some mountains that have been moved. I think of the film “The Blind Side” Based on a true story, a wealthy Southern woman Leigh Anne Tuohy, notices a large colored high school student, poorly dressed, trudging along in the rain. Something stirs in her. This is a sight she cannot ignore or forget. She tells the boy to get into the family car. This begins a journey to a whole new life for the boy and the family. He has no way of knowing how a mountain is about to be hurtled into the ocean. Neither does she, for that matter. She only sees a need and feels a compulsion to do something to meet that need.



Perhaps faith is that blessed gift of second sight that not only sees a need but sees the way to do something about that need.



Not many people ever heard of Cordell, Oklahoma. There’s not that much there to notice or talk about. But for someone interested in classical music and especially Wagnerian opera, Cordell has something to brag about. The Wagnerian soprano Roberta Knie was born and raised there, and returns there frequently to visit her family. I had the good fortune to meet her and she graciously allowed my 14 year old son to interview her. A lad with budding aspirations of becoming a performer in musical theater himself, he was naturally interested in how a nobody from Cordell ever dared to become an opera star. She took his question seriously and said, “well I became an opera singer because nobody ever told me I couldn’t”



Could it be that there is no more mystery in these words of Jesus than that? See a need and have an idea you can do something about it, and then act. That may be the heart and core of faith.



Faith: it’s not about how much, it’s a matter of what in, or who in.



The author of Lamentations, usually assumed to be the prophet Jeremiah, reflects on the grief he felt at the desolation surrounding the Jewish people who were about to be shipped off to Babylon in slavery. “Just thinking of my troubles and my lonely wandering makes me miserable. That's all I ever think about, and I am depressed. Then I remember something that fills me with hope.” What he thinks of is the ever present goodness of God. The core of his faith is the dependability of God.



I don’t believe this is simply a matter of attitude. It’s far more than that. It is also a remembering. It is holding a clear vision of what once was right and good and filled with real hope. Viktor Frankel says that it is this kind of reality-based remembering that got him through the horror of the concentration camps in Germany. When counseling a discouraged woman, he reminds her of the dependability of faith. The woman replies, “In what? I can’t believe in anything right now.” “All right,” Frankel went on, if you can’t believe in anything else, you can believe in me.” “In you?” she responded, puzzled. “Yes. Tell yourself, ‘even though I can’t believe in myself, Dr. Frankel believes in me.’” It may sound meager, insignificant, beside the point to say to someone “I believe in you”. And in fact, the words alone are easily spoken and much harder to believe. But I know, from my own experience, they make a difference. The words joined with the look in the eye and the feel of the hand have a way of igniting power that helps us do things we never dreamed of doing. We have moved a mountain - a mountain of doubt and disbelief.



This kind of faith is not magical. It does not depend on spells and incantations. It rests on reawakened memory, of sanctified moments we had taken for granted but which now look remarkably like huge accomplishments. ‘ I can’t believe I did that’, we say to ourselves. Or perhaps the more familiar remark, “I’m glad I didn’t know before hand what I was going to have to go through, or do. I’d have never made it if I’d known.”



All that tells us is that we’ve not had too little faith, we’ve had too much faith in the wrong thing. We were more ready to believe in our weakness, or insignificance, or unworthiness, than we were to believe we were people of worth, people with talent, people with gifts to offer the world around us. In my experience, that faith was generated by someone seeing possibility in me I was unable to see in myself unaided. In virtually every case, there was someone who sat beside me, listened to me, trusted me, believed in me.



That’s what Jeremiah experienced. God was no stranger to him. That’s what the disciples experienced. Jesus took them seriously, relied on them, trusted them, expected great things to come from their efforts. This of the apostle Peter.



It may only be a parable, but it tells a great truth. Peter saw Jesus walking on water and suddenly found himself doing the same thing when he asked Jesus to help him. At first it seemed easy. Then he became self-conscious, distracted, and took his eyes off Jesus. That’s when he began to sink in the water. Faith is putting aside one’s usual doubts and looking instead on Jesus who has already believed in you. Lack of faith is only shifting your eyes to something else. Paul said, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Fear says, “No way, this ain’t going to happen.”



Viktor Frankel’s patient looked in the eyes of the doctor who believed in her and found the beginnings of faith in her self. Teenager Bobbie Knie had a dream and saw no reason why it should remain a dream. Her teachers shared her dream and believed in it too. She followed that dream to stardom in the most demanding roles of all opera. Leigh Anne Tuohy saw a boy who needed help and she did something about it. When that boy proved to have talent and eventually became a star football player, his success was born in her faith in him.



In each of these examples, the miracle wasn’t a matter of a lightning bolt slashing out of the sky producing a fabulous fortune, or fame, or whatever. It was seeing a possibility, believing in it, and living as if of course it was going to happen.



I dare say some mountains have been dug up. Maybe they’ve even been deposited in the sea. Isn’t that what the Arabs have done in that city they’re building, Dubai? The site of the tallest building in the world? Yes, even mountains can be transported into the sea.



Jesus’ words aren’t so mysterious and puzzling after all then, are they? If we have faith, enough faith, amazing things can happen. But first be sure to ask “just what is my faith?” What do I have faith in? Who has shared that faith with me? Remember our faith is grounded in a good and gracious and loving God. Then there can be no measuring that kind of faith. It is boundless.



Look out mountains! You’re about to make a move. Amen.

Don't Forget to Remember

based on II Timothy 2:8-15, and Luke 17:11-19




If you can't remember your last drink, you haven't had it yet!



This is a saying I learned from my friends in AA. Those who have battled the demon of alcoholism don't have to have this saying explained to them. You see, that last drink is a dramatic experience. It represents what the recovering alcoholic refers to as "hitting bottom". That is the necessary watershed moment for recovery. Until you have hit bottom, you are not ready to begin the new life of sobriety. In the old days of AA, it was often believed that if a newcomer arrived at an AA meeting still wearing a wrist watch, he hadn’t hit that proverbial “bottom”. He wasn’t desperate enough. He was not ready to undergo the discipline of the Twelve Steps.



There is wisdom in that belief. Psychologists know that one is not likely to change his or her behavior until that behavior is no longer satisfying. We have learned that people drink alcohol because they like the effect it produces. When they stop liking the effect it produces, (the hangovers, the blackouts, the family problems, the job losses, the legal difficulties, the financial disasters - all connected to the drinking) and continue to drink anyway, then they have crossed over that invisible line from social drinking into alcoholic drinking. So, remembering that last drink serves as a deterrent against taking another drink. If you no longer remember that last drink, you do not have that deterrent to guard you against relapse.



As I read the scriptures this morning, I was struck by two different references to remembering. One in Paul’s letter to Timothy urges his disciple to remember Jesus Christ raised from the dead. The other is a vignette of Jesus who, having healed a group of lepers, is struck by the way only one remembered to come thank him for his healing. This memory was even more striking to Jesus because he remarked “that man was a Samaritan!” This is significant given the then current prejudice of the Jews and the Samaritans. It’s rather like a Tea Party patriot having to admit a liberal Democrat had done something commendable.



Let me suggest something to think about. We are who we think we are. We are a summary of all our experiences. We are the next chapter in the soap opera we call life. We are always, always living in the “to be continued” mode. And if we remember that, then we must remember that, on a continuum of A to B to C, A is our past, B the present moment and C what is yet to come. Of the three B is the only real moment. But if we’re going to ever get to C we must be as completely in the present moment as we can be, and that means we must continually review A. I am who I am when I embrace all of who I was and rightly assess what that can mean for who I can become.



OK. That was a chunk of philosophy, and I’ll back off a bit. When Paul wrote to Timothy, he was interested in reminding the young man of what had happened to him. He had met Jesus Christ. Now this wasn’t just anybody, this was God himself in human flesh, come to alert us that ours is a God intimately involved in our creation including you and me. This great God rescued us from the insanity we had chosen, this delusion that we were - and are - independent, on our own, in charge of our own lives and by extension, in charge of everything and everyone around us.



This - as I understand it - is the true dynamic of what we call sin. It’s not how much booze we drank, or how many swear words we uttered, or how sexually lustful and lascivious we have been. No, sin is how much we have turned our backs on God in the pursuit of our own will and our own way. The consequence, Paul reminds us, is death. Our bodies will die any way, but that’s not the point. The point is, the essence of who we are dies in the morass of our self-centered living.



I think of that moment when James Cameron accepted the Oscar for his accomplishments with the film “Titanic” and his joyous declaration “I’m king of the world!” He was misunderstood. What he thought he was doing was aping a pivotal moment in the movie when Leonardo diCaprio stands on the bow of the ship screaming that announcement. What we saw and what we heard was the universal declaration of every human soul, momentarily stripped of all pretense and showing its true desire and character. We all hunger for just that accomplishment. We all want to be “King (or Queen) of the world”.



Paul knew it. He lived it. He was living it when Christ met him on the road to Damascus and Paul would die. Quite literally, he died. Even his name changed. (He had formerly been known as Saul.) So it seems quite natural for him to remind Timothy, “you’ve died in Christ.” We aren’t the people we once were. The past is finished and gone. We have become something entirely new. The challenge facing us now is to live that new life. And one of the most important ways we do this is by remembering. Don’t forget that last drink. Don’t forget what you used to be like. Don’t forget who you once were. Don’t forget what happened. Don’t forget what God has done.



Jesus’ observation about the Samaritan thanking him for his healing is usually put before us as a reminder to be grateful. That’s a good one. But don’t forget what gratitude really is. It is a reminder of what once was and has now been changed through the gracious healing of God. Often we like to put the bad memories behind us. The recovered alcoholic puzzles the non-alcoholic person with his insistence upon still calling himself an alcoholic even though he no longer drinks. Why bring that up? Aren’t you over that by now? Yes. He is over it, the drinking part, but he is reminding himself of what he once was and will be again should he decide to drink again. You see, we don’t change our metabolism when we quit drink. Well, we do change it, but it is not a permanent cure. It is in remission if you will. Forget what you once were and you open the door to revising your opinion of what you are. It won’t hurt me now. Wrong. I’ve known too many who lost their sobriety after long periods of abstinence. They forgot to remember.



Paul tells Timothy, “deny Jesus and he will deny you.” We deny Jesus by forgetting him. By marginalizing him. By relegating him to the status of a fair weather friend. Or a fox-hole colleague when the going gets rough! But Jesus doesn’t deny us out of spite, or hurt feelings, or anything that petty. He didn’t reverse the healing of the nine lepers who forgot to thank him. What Jesus does do is waits for us to “come to our senses” if you will - and in that waiting, we are alone. We are abandoned. We have denied ourselves the pleasure of his company. That blessed relief of no longer having to exist in that living-death we once were in has been neglected, lost, become useless.



Gratitude is a reminder that something has changed. Something is uniquely different. And if I am going to fully appreciate that difference, I must never forget what it was like before. I remember hearing a story years ago about a boy whose parents left him with a guardian while they went on a trip. He had been told to be good. He’d also been told if he misbehaved, the guardian was to pound a nail into a fence post in the yard for each misdeed. The boy paid little attention to this instruction until he noticed how many nails had appeared in the post. Since he’d also been told good deeds could take nails out of the post, his behavior dramatically changed. By the time the parents returned, not a single nail remained in the post. When they praised him for his good behavior, he shame-facedly replied, “Yes, but the holes are still there where the nails were.”



This is not a particularly good story on several levels. For one thing, contrary to popular opinion, God is not keeping track of all our bad deeds and recording each one in a big book in heaven somewhere. Nor do we get to erase them by performing good deeds, as the parable of the boy and the post suggests. I don’t even think there are holes left that God sees. But the story is useful in this regard - when we remember, our eyes are drawn to the loving face of God who did for us what we cannot do for ourselves. Our hope is all the sweeter when we recall what we used to be like, and what we could so easily become again if we forget what happened to make this dramatic change.



For who we are today is dramatically different from who we used to be. That’s the point. Not only did Christ die for us, we died in that same death, and we are new creatures launched on new adventures if you will. We are growing up in Christ.



Each Sunday morning we take a moment to make our confession to God. This act may seem a little ritualistic, old-fashioned, superfluous, but in fact it is not. It is an essential element for the right worship of God, for this is our “remembering” time. This is when we - like the prodigal son - come home to ourselves, and remind ourselves who we used to be and who we now are. Repentance is not about how bad we’ve been and how ashamed we are - although those are the words we continue to use. Repentance is about truly acknowledging what we’ve been and can continue to be -if we forget. Then repentance takes on powerful new meaning for it is our way of reminding ourselves we still need God’s grace, God’s cleansing, God’s love.



Those who forget to remember - pray for them. And be sure, when you do, you remember to pray for yourselves as well. Amen.

Jesus Wept

Directly across the street from the site of the Murrah Building Memorial Plaza in Oklahoma City stands a larger than life-sized statue of Jesus, his face in his hands, weeping. It is a touching sight, made even more poignant by the fact that Jesus stands facing away from the site, as if he cannot bear to look at it - at least, not yet.



I think of that when I hear the dispute raging over the plans to build a Islamic center two blocks away from the site of the World Trade Center in New York City. Both sites are tragic. They are hallowed sites, made so by the loss of life, sacrificed in the name of extremist ideologies. Whether the god be Allah or political fervor, these acts are somehow linked to religious belief and have left a bitterness that is likely to hang on for no one can say how long.



In Oklahoma the pain was easier to bear for it was commonly assumed the perpetrator was a lone maniac; he did not represent a religious group or nation. The Twin Towers tragedy will forever be linked to Islamic extremists compounding the bitterness. Never mind that true Islam teaches peace, the terrorists have indelibly stained the image of Islam itself. Now we must struggle with our repugnance over their acts as well as our far from clear picture of their religion. The struggle is compounded by people confusing the name of our new president with Islamic culture, and tarring him with a guilt he did not earn or deserve.



I am proud to be an American, proud to revere and enjoy our government and its laws which protect the religious freedom of all individuals. I am shaken when those freedoms are threatened, no matter what the reason. I am also deeply touched by the pain that lives on in the hearts and minds of people directly touched by the tragedy of 9/11. But I think we must be very careful not to confuse the insane acts of a handful of terrorists with the beliefs and culture of the Islamic people as a whole.



I can remember breaking a dish because it had “made in Germany” stamped on its back. We were children in grade school. We knew nothing of Germany or Japan, we only knew our countries were at war, and it was a show of patriotism to destroy a product that “belonged to the enemy.” Childish? Yes, but understandable. We heard our parents talk. We saw the posters on the walls. We lived under the strictures of rationing. We could name the boys who had left our community, some never to return. We saw and wept over, the gold stars that hung in the windows of our friends and neighbors.



Now a patriotism that must break a dish because it came from a certain foreign country strikes us as foolish. Perhaps the present controversy over building a cultural center meant to educate and inform people about the true meaning of Islam and to honor the believers in Allah who died in the 9/11 catastrophe will also one day disappear. Meanwhile, I still see that statue of Jesus in Oklahoma City, weeping, his face turned away from a sight too painful even for him to see. And I think, “He is facing the other way, but he’s nonetheless there. He has turned his back, but not out of anger or disgust. He is hiding his tears.” We too must weep - for the living and the dead. But God help us, let us not also shake our fist!

Serious Christianity based on Psalm 139, Luke 14:25-33

I saw a woman crossing the street this week. She carried a white cane. She walked briskly as if she could see where she was going. Then she reached the curb and it was clear she could not see. Once on the sidewalk again, she stayed close to the wall of the storefront, her cane reaching ahead of her to give her warning of unseen obstacles. She walked so confidently! That surprised me. Blind people aren’t supposed to have confidence.



Then as I reflected on that thought, I remembered something I’d been told many years ago. “If you are in a strange town, one you’ve never been in before, and you are trying to find your way, the best person to ask for directions is a blind person. They know better than anyone else. They have to. They have counted the steps, memorized the obstacles, know each step up, each dip down. Their life depends on knowing.”



I thought of that as I reflected on Jesus’ teaching about the cost of discipleship. His words sound harsh, unreasonable, impossible to accept and follow. If we take them seriously, we must ask - as his disciples once asked - “Lord, if this is true, who can ever be saved?” Here Jesus tells us we must give up everything. Our family, our homes, our very lives, all must go. And beyond that, once we have let everything go, we must take up a cross and follow Jesus. Too much, we cry out, way too much. Who can ever do all this?



Jesus does not consider that question. He leaves that to us, and wisely so. In another place he speaks of the narrow path that few may follow. The parable of the sower and the seeds is really about the same thing. There are many kinds of soils, but only a few seeds find their way to fertile ground. And when the disciples suggest they want to do what is right so they may win a place in the Kingdom of God, Jesus puts the bar so high they conclude it is impossible. No one can get it. Jesus agrees saying, “with human beings it is impossible, but all things are possible with your father in heaven.”



I would be a wiser man than I am to be able to say I know for certain what Jesus is trying to say here. It is a mystery. As the Psalmist put it long before Jesus was born, “ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high , I cannot attain unto it.” But this much has dawned on me. Whatever else Jesus is trying to make us see, our faith is a serious business. Like that woman counting her steps so she may find her way, we must pay attention. We must be alert. We must be noticing people, always on the look-out for telling clues to help us find our way.



The early Christians lived with the expectation Jesus was coming back in triumphant glory and their suffering would be replaced with eternal bliss. They walked the dusty roads of the Roman Empire with one eye on the lookout for Jesus to come towards them. However, that belief was short-lived. Before the first century was out, they had accepted the fact that Jesus was not coming back any time soon, at least not as they had expected. Now 2000 years later there is no consensus of opinion just what that “return” will be like.



I take a more dynamic view of that “coming”. I see the Kingdom coming in a gradual unfolding, and Jesus’ presence in the Holy Spirit as the leaven in us as we strive to make that Kingdom a reality. But in order for that to happen, we must be willing to surrender self, surrender ego, surrender anything that attaches us to this world, so that God has space in us and in our society to do his work. Such a belief is difficult to maintain and carry out. We are challenged to give up the usual things we consider important - family ties for one, all our resources for another - while at the same time living very firmly in this world. There are towers to be built and wars to be fought. Jesus is not a hermit who turns his back on the world and retreats into a haze of contemplation. A balance has to be struck between this world and the Kingdom of God, and one way of achieving that balance is to treat them both as one.



In that case, I see our task as taking our life here seriously. With respect. Reverence. Awe. The Psalmist says to God, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made”. I take it he means there is much more to my life than I know, that I shall ever know. And I must treat it with care. To do any the less is to forfeit our inheritance, if you will. The artist has a gift for creating music, but it is a gift that cannot be realized without practice. The athlete may be a star contender, but he must work at it, hone his skills, study his moves, be constantly examining what he is doing to achieve greater and greater levels of competence. Jesus points us at this truth and reminds us, “the possibility is in you, you must give yourself to it completely.” To me, that is what he means when he urges us to count the cost.



If that is true for the gifted and talented, it is just as true for the rest of us in the arena of human life. In Zen Buddhism, one practices how to prepare and serve a cup of tea impeccably. Does the tea taste better that way? Or is it a matter of honing one’s self to a high point of attention, of focused purpose, or total respect for one’s self and one’s task? I shall never be a house painter. I haven’t the eye for it, or the intention, either one. I have watched my father lying on his back painting the inside of a cupboard in a space no one but he would ever see. But still it must be done. I watched my uncle disassemble an antique clock, reverently placing each part, large and small, in specific order. He respected the integrity of the clock and served it, even as he expected it to serve him in the end.



Less than that kind of total commitment will accomplish nothing. The cost is total in our lives as well. Discipleship on Sundays and Wednesday, while we reserve the other five days of the week to our other plans, will achieve scant returns. Will God love us any the less? Of course not. Will we be relegated to the tourist class section of paradise? I’ve never heard of any such arrangement. But how we rob ourselves of glory, when we give only a little.



I remember Dr. Lake. She was my professor and did so much for me in my study of the Bible. I had produced a very poor piece of work on a project she assigned us. I knew it was poor work and she did too. She gave me a passing grade, but she also gave me a look I shall never forget. “You are capable of so much more” that exasperated look said, “I just wish I knew how to get you to do it!” I left her office hating her because she made me see how I had wasted her time and mine. I also hated her because she saw possibility in me I was not willing to see. Don’t expect so much of me, I wanted to cry out. If you do, I might have to start expecting it of myself, and such responsibility frightens me. But that look stayed with me, I see it still today. And I no longer hate her. What I once took as an accusation of my failure, I came to recognize as an affirmation of love.



It was the look Jesus was giving those who aspired to being his disciples. And it came with a price and a challenge. Be serious. And be ready. Your faith will ask far more of you thank you can yet imagine. I remember Gert who was a very rich but also a very sick alcoholic. At the point of death, she experienced conversion. She was so astounded at what had happened she gave her entire life over to spreading the word of the goodness of God and what God is ready to do for us, if we will but accept the gift. She traveled all over the country, all over the world, telling her story. She was a woman of wealth who gave it all away in a trust fund she could not touch or control. She was hampered by paralyzing stage fright, and gave that to God too as she spoke to audience everywhere. She said one day she was so tired from all her speaking engagements and travels she said to God, “Can I have a night off? I’m worn out.” God’s answer? “No, Gert, you got started late and you still have a lot of work to do. Get going.”



I don’t expect us all to hear such a challenge, but I do think Jesus was alerting us of one thing: take your life seriously. Respect it. As the Psalmist reminds us, we are the product of God’s handiwork, and we have so much more to us than we will ever know.



The blind woman I saw this week reminds me not only do we have resources inside us we must honor and nurture, it really is a matter of life and death. To walk blind without attention being paid is unthinkable. Her very life depends on her keeping track, alert, counting, making sure she knows her path and is faithfully following it. In the life of faith, we must do the same. Without such single-mindedness, we become but aimless wanderers on a vast, unbroken plain, helpless beneath an empty, uncaring sky.



Count the cost Jesus said, pay attention, be serious. That’s the challenge of the gospel. And guess what. Gert was not the only one who got started late - We ALL got started late. God help us to get going. Amen.

Famous Last Words based on Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

Many people are interested in the last words of a person who is dying. I believe it was W.C. Fields who said “I’d rather be in Philadelphia!” and the French satirist and philosopher Voltaire, when a priest urged him to renounce Satan, supposedly replied, “This is no time to make new enemies”. One friend fondly remembers the passing of a beloved pastor who, just before he died, sat up in his bed, a look of amazement and wonder on his face, and said “I didn’t know it would be so beautiful!”



Our passage this morning is not a death-bed utterance, but it has that quality of finality, of urgency, the intensity of the speaker who desperately wants his or her listeners to get the message. Forget all the rest, but don’t forget this. This is what I need for you to remember. This is important.



The gospel of Matthew tells us Jesus’ final words, before his ascension into heaven were, “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world.” The gospel of John reports Jesus’ final words to his disciples when he appears to them by the sea of Galilee. He tells Peter, “If you love me, feed my sheep” and “follow me”. Paul’s likely last greeting, written to the young Christians in Philippi, is a word of joy and thanksgiving and a brief prayer of benediction, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”



The author of Hebrews writes, “Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters.” Somehow these final words, for me, are connected with each other and establish the distinctive mark of a Christian. A promise of the abiding presence of Christ in us. An exhortation that we follow or stay close to Jesus. These are our final “orders” if you will, and in doing them, we will nourish all those we meet. The author of Hebrews sums it all up with the single word, “love”.



We are used to talking about love. It is the banner word of our society. Well, maybe I should say, in the 60's it was the motto of the hour. Remember the old slogan, “Make love, not war?” It sounded nice. For those of us who still had fresh memories of the Second World War and were living under the threat of a mushroom cloud from an atomic bomb, we longed for some better truth than a frantic search for wealth. Love was the key. I still enjoy the romantic ditty we used to sing. Remember it? “Nature Boy”, and we couldn’t hear it often enough. I would not be surprised to hear it still being sung today. Its lyrics tells it all:



There was a boy,

a very strange enchanted boy,

they say he wandered very far,

very far, over land and sea.

A little child, and sad of eye

but very wise was he.



And then one day

one happy day he passed my way

and as we talked of many things

fools and kings,

this he said to me,

“the greatest thing, you’ll ever learn

is just to love,

and be loved in return.”



Come down to more modern times and you’ll hear Andrew Lloyd Webber assure us “Love changes everything” and we were eager to believe it. Or, as my daughter reminds me, perhaps the more plaintiff lyrics of Don Henley in his song - Heart of the Matter, which speak just as poignantly about the centrality of the need for love:



These times are so uncertain

There's a yearning undefined

And people filled with rage

We all need a little tenderness

How can love survive in such a graceless age?

The trust and self assurance that lead to happiness

Are the very things we kill, I guess

Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms

And the work I put between us doesn't keep me warm





Time passes, fashion changes, old truths become yesterday’s cliches, and while we haven’t exactly “given up” on love, we’ve learned there’s more to it than mere words. As a minister, who is called upon to perform marriages, and later to offer counseling for the disillusioned pair who can no longer do the hard work of love, I am saddened by how often the word is shunned, or discounted. It is as if, once people get close to one another, they discover closeness requires intimacy, a stripping away of our protective masks, and risks exposure, disgust, humiliation. The poet may believe it is “better to have loved, and lost, than never to have loved at all.” Today’s generation seems more inclined to get its love vicariously through movies and TV where it looks nice in others but is too hard for us. Odd, isn’t it, that we should continue to praise the ideal of love while personally denying its possibility at all.



Keep on loving one another, the author of Hebrews says. Of course, we shrug. Easy for you to say. You knew Jesus. It was all still real for you. It’s a different world now. Aside from the fact it’s quite unlikely that the author did know Jesus, is our world so different? Oh, I know we are much more sophisticated - although I wonder if we are as intellectually astute as were the Greeks. We are more mobile. Although, I read recently Americans are moving less now than they did in the 18th and 19th centuries, or even the first half of the 20th. Alright, but we have better technology, we have - as the slogan goes - better living through chemistry. Of course, with our chemistry we also have pollution. Our technology may have tied us closer together through our Twitterings and our Facebooks, but the downside to that is how impersonal we have become. Deprive us of our cell phones and our laptop computers and we are at a loss knowing how to interact with another human being.



As for the age of the Romans and the early Christians, while they had none of these advantages and disadvantages, yet they had to cope with persecution from the Roman Empire AND from their own Jewish families. They were outcasts from both. Their’s was a time that demanded conformity just as ours does, and when they sought to follow the teachings of a Jewish rabbi who had been executed in the most cruel and indecent way, they weren’t simply misunderstood, or thought of as lunatics, they were seen as dangerous rebels, enemies of the state, disrupters of the status quo who threatened the political establishment by creating unrest. The religious community of the Jews were equally aghast at this stark heresy that threatened the very foundation of Judaism. The new Christians must have found the commandment to love one another as difficult to live and do then as we find it today.



Love requires connectedness. Love recognizes both our isolation as unique human beings and our reliance on relationships in order to be complete. Americans historically have prized the rugged individualist. A Davy Crockett or a Daniel Boone is a true American hero, and the Robber Barons like Carnegie, or Gould or Vanderbilt or Rockefeller were our icons of success. Horatio Alger set the pattern for us and we rejoice when we see someone scale the heights from obscure poverty to fame and fortune. What we don’t see is how none of these heroes were finally truly independent. They all relied on help from someone or some group who gave them the vision, the courage, the strength they needed to succeed.



We are incomplete as isolated individuals. We need one another. Our vary ability to speak is dependent upon interaction with other human beings. Our ability to discern values comes from that same interaction. The myth of a Tarzan or a Mowgli, raised with animals in the wilderness, is just that, a myth. The command that we love one another is just as important for our own well-being as it is for those around us. Those who cannot love are to be pitied most deeply, for they are robbed an essential requirement of being human.



When Paul was summing up his anthem of praise to the concept of love, in the thirteenth chapter of his first letter to the Corinthians, he says quite simply, “when all else fails, love still stands”. It is love, more than anything else, that provides the pattern for what we call the “image of God”. Our ability to love, to interact with others, to relate to others at the deeper levels of our beings, is what not only makes us fully human, but what makes us most nearly like God. We show our kinship to God when we love one another.



So it strikes me as vitally important, essential, that we be continually reminded of the centrality of love as the essence of our humanity. If we would be truly human and truly alive, we must truly love. Such a love is not a bit of romantic fluff, it is the essence of our beings.



Keep on loving each other, it’s the only thing that really matters. Do that, and you will know God, and in knowing God, you will finally know yourself. Amen.

Famous Last Words based on Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

Many people are interested in the last words of a person who is dying. I believe it was W.C. Fields who said “I’d rather be in Philadelphia!” and the French satirist and philosopher Voltaire, when a priest urged him to renounce Satan, supposedly replied, “This is no time to make new enemies”. One friend fondly remembers the passing of a beloved pastor who, just before he died, sat up in his bed, a look of amazement and wonder on his face, and said “I didn’t know it would be so beautiful!”



Our passage this morning is not a death-bed utterance, but it has that quality of finality, of urgency, the intensity of the speaker who desperately wants his or her listeners to get the message. Forget all the rest, but don’t forget this. This is what I need for you to remember. This is important.



The gospel of Matthew tells us Jesus’ final words, before his ascension into heaven were, “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world.” The gospel of John reports Jesus’ final words to his disciples when he appears to them by the sea of Galilee. He tells Peter, “If you love me, feed my sheep” and “follow me”. Paul’s likely last greeting, written to the young Christians in Philippi, is a word of joy and thanksgiving and a brief prayer of benediction, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”



The author of Hebrews writes, “Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters.” Somehow these final words, for me, are connected with each other and establish the distinctive mark of a Christian. A promise of the abiding presence of Christ in us. An exhortation that we follow or stay close to Jesus. These are our final “orders” if you will, and in doing them, we will nourish all those we meet. The author of Hebrews sums it all up with the single word, “love”.



We are used to talking about love. It is the banner word of our society. Well, maybe I should say, in the 60's it was the motto of the hour. Remember the old slogan, “Make love, not war?” It sounded nice. For those of us who still had fresh memories of the Second World War and were living under the threat of a mushroom cloud from an atomic bomb, we longed for some better truth than a frantic search for wealth. Love was the key. I still enjoy the romantic ditty we used to sing. Remember it? “Nature Boy”, and we couldn’t hear it often enough. I would not be surprised to hear it still being sung today. Its lyrics tells it all:



There was a boy,

a very strange enchanted boy,

they say he wandered very far,

very far, over land and sea.

A little child, and sad of eye

but very wise was he.



And then one day

one happy day he passed my way

and as we talked of many things

fools and kings,

this he said to me,

“the greatest thing, you’ll ever learn

is just to love,

and be loved in return.”



Come down to more modern times and you’ll hear Andrew Lloyd Webber assure us “Love changes everything” and we were eager to believe it. Or, as my daughter reminds me, perhaps the more plaintiff lyrics of Don Henley in his song - Heart of the Matter, which speak just as poignantly about the centrality of the need for love:



These times are so uncertain

There's a yearning undefined

And people filled with rage

We all need a little tenderness

How can love survive in such a graceless age?

The trust and self assurance that lead to happiness

Are the very things we kill, I guess

Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms

And the work I put between us doesn't keep me warm





Time passes, fashion changes, old truths become yesterday’s cliches, and while we haven’t exactly “given up” on love, we’ve learned there’s more to it than mere words. As a minister, who is called upon to perform marriages, and later to offer counseling for the disillusioned pair who can no longer do the hard work of love, I am saddened by how often the word is shunned, or discounted. It is as if, once people get close to one another, they discover closeness requires intimacy, a stripping away of our protective masks, and risks exposure, disgust, humiliation. The poet may believe it is “better to have loved, and lost, than never to have loved at all.” Today’s generation seems more inclined to get its love vicariously through movies and TV where it looks nice in others but is too hard for us. Odd, isn’t it, that we should continue to praise the ideal of love while personally denying its possibility at all.



Keep on loving one another, the author of Hebrews says. Of course, we shrug. Easy for you to say. You knew Jesus. It was all still real for you. It’s a different world now. Aside from the fact it’s quite unlikely that the author did know Jesus, is our world so different? Oh, I know we are much more sophisticated - although I wonder if we are as intellectually astute as were the Greeks. We are more mobile. Although, I read recently Americans are moving less now than they did in the 18th and 19th centuries, or even the first half of the 20th. Alright, but we have better technology, we have - as the slogan goes - better living through chemistry. Of course, with our chemistry we also have pollution. Our technology may have tied us closer together through our Twitterings and our Facebooks, but the downside to that is how impersonal we have become. Deprive us of our cell phones and our laptop computers and we are at a loss knowing how to interact with another human being.



As for the age of the Romans and the early Christians, while they had none of these advantages and disadvantages, yet they had to cope with persecution from the Roman Empire AND from their own Jewish families. They were outcasts from both. Their’s was a time that demanded conformity just as ours does, and when they sought to follow the teachings of a Jewish rabbi who had been executed in the most cruel and indecent way, they weren’t simply misunderstood, or thought of as lunatics, they were seen as dangerous rebels, enemies of the state, disrupters of the status quo who threatened the political establishment by creating unrest. The religious community of the Jews were equally aghast at this stark heresy that threatened the very foundation of Judaism. The new Christians must have found the commandment to love one another as difficult to live and do then as we find it today.



Love requires connectedness. Love recognizes both our isolation as unique human beings and our reliance on relationships in order to be complete. Americans historically have prized the rugged individualist. A Davy Crockett or a Daniel Boone is a true American hero, and the Robber Barons like Carnegie, or Gould or Vanderbilt or Rockefeller were our icons of success. Horatio Alger set the pattern for us and we rejoice when we see someone scale the heights from obscure poverty to fame and fortune. What we don’t see is how none of these heroes were finally truly independent. They all relied on help from someone or some group who gave them the vision, the courage, the strength they needed to succeed.



We are incomplete as isolated individuals. We need one another. Our vary ability to speak is dependent upon interaction with other human beings. Our ability to discern values comes from that same interaction. The myth of a Tarzan or a Mowgli, raised with animals in the wilderness, is just that, a myth. The command that we love one another is just as important for our own well-being as it is for those around us. Those who cannot love are to be pitied most deeply, for they are robbed an essential requirement of being human.



When Paul was summing up his anthem of praise to the concept of love, in the thirteenth chapter of his first letter to the Corinthians, he says quite simply, “when all else fails, love still stands”. It is love, more than anything else, that provides the pattern for what we call the “image of God”. Our ability to love, to interact with others, to relate to others at the deeper levels of our beings, is what not only makes us fully human, but what makes us most nearly like God. We show our kinship to God when we love one another.



So it strikes me as vitally important, essential, that we be continually reminded of the centrality of love as the essence of our humanity. If we would be truly human and truly alive, we must truly love. Such a love is not a bit of romantic fluff, it is the essence of our beings.



Keep on loving each other, it’s the only thing that really matters. Do that, and you will know God, and in knowing God, you will finally know yourself. Amen.



Dr. George Miller