Keeping the Season

"Color" by Thomas Wiborg, on Flickr

Common Dust
by Georgia Douglas Johnson

And who shall separate the dust
What later we shall be:
Whose keen discerning eye will scan
And solve the mystery?

The high, the low, the rich, the poor, 

The black, the white, the red, 

And all the chromatique between, 

Of whom shall it be said:

Here lies the dust of Africa; 

Here are the sons of Rome; 

Here lies the one unlabelled, 

The world at large his home!

Can one then separate the dust? 

Will mankind lie apart, 

When life has settled back again 

The same as from the start?

photo by chicagophoenix, on Flickr

Job 38:1–11
Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind:
"Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man,
I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
"Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements — surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone
when the morning stars sang together
and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?
"Or who shut in the sea with doors
when it burst out from the womb? —
when I made the clouds its garment,
and thick darkness its swaddling band,
and prescribed bounds for it,
and set bars and doors,
and said, 'Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stopped'?

Mark 4:35–41
On that day, when evening had come, [Jesus] said to them, "Let us go across to the other side." And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Peace! Be still!" Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?"

--
Our readings today are full of questions. Job has questioned God about his fate. God responds with a series of questions about God’s sovereignty over all creation. The disciples question Jesus in the midst of the storm. Jesus questions them back about their fear and their faith. I’m glad that we have so many questions in our readings, because I have lots of questions, too.

I am standing here in Decorah, Iowa, but my heart is firmly planted in Charleston, South Carolina, where earlier this week, nine members of Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, a historically black church, were gunned down by a 21 year old terrorist. I have no answers today. I have no palatable word of comfort for a world struck by violence, racism, anger, despair.

Like Job, like God, like the disciples, like Jesus, today, all I have are questions. But I pray that these questions might help each of us uncover some glimmers of truth about our world, about our God, and about ourselves, and in doing so, push us toward hope.

Question #1: Who taught you to fear? (Who told you that you were naked?)
Before the disciples in today’s gospel climbed into the boat, before Jesus started his ministry, before his birth and before the prophets, before the great and not-so-great kings of Israel and Judah, before father Abraham or Moses, God appeared in the garden, as he did every day, to walk and talk with Adam and Eve, the children of his creation. And on one morning in particular, he came to the garden and found his beloved children cowering behind a bush, fearful and ashamed of their nakedness. God's first question to them "Where are you?" was followed up quickly by the question, "Who told you that you were naked?"

This is the symbol of our original brokenness: that we have been taught of our nakedness - our vulnerability - and have thus been taught to fear what God had so perfectly created.

We have all been taught to fear.

Some things are absolutely worth fearing: Riptides, oncoming traffic, tornados, wild animals, high cliffs, hot ovens, climate change. Other things are scary but improbable: Airplane crashes, the sun burning itself out, natural disasters foreign to our area of the world, our houses spontaneously catching fire.

But friends, we have also been taught to fear difference, to fear one another, to turn fear into hate. Nelson Mandela is credited with saying, "No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate."

Who was it that first taught you to cross to the other side of the road when passing men of a different race on a dark street? Who was it that taught you that faith and society alike will crumble if we let men love men and women love women? Who was it that taught you to feel personally threatened when a member of the other political party took office? Who was it that taught you to fear the future of Christ and Christianity and Christendom at the hands of Muslim immigrants, or the ongoing separation of church and state, or the rise of the "nones?"

Fear is a great motivator. It compels us to wear seatbelts, to pay attention to our diet and exercise, and to avoid rattlesnakes. But fear can also motivate us to hate. It can motivate us toward violence. It can motivate us to take up arms instead of taking up our crosses.

This first question - Who taught you to fear? - is a question that reveals our brokenness, our sinfulness, our need for God's grace.

Question #2: Why are you afraid?
Jesus, his disciples, and a small fleet of boats set out to cross the sea. While they were traveling, a storm blew in, rocking the boats, flooding them with water, blowing them off-course. The thunder roars, the lightning flashes, certain death is at hand, and Jesus has the audacity to ask the disciples, "Why are you afraid?” As if he didn’t know.

Maybe it seems just as redundant to ask myself that same question, because the answers seem obvious.

Why am I afraid?

I am afraid because even a house of worship - a sanctuary - is not safe from violent acts of terrorism.

I am afraid because violence in our world continues to be glamorized and and rationalized and dismissed; especially violence against people of color.

I am afraid because I live in a first-world, wealthy nation that still cannot figure out a way forward on issues vital to our health and security - things like gun control and hate crimes and race relations and access to mental health services.

I am afraid because even as God created each one of us in his image, with great capacity to serve, to love, and to do good in this world, I also know that each and every one of us has great capacity to also do great evil in this world; that not one of us is nearly as different from the Charleston shooter as we might like to believe we are.

What I wish I could to preach to you this morning is the message that the God who created us is the God who loves us and saves us from dark and despair and the waters that threaten to swallow us. I want to preach the good news that there is nothing to fear, that this IS the acceptable time, that this IS the day of salvation...

But how do you preach that message to the Emmanuel AME congregation? How do you say to them, "there is nothing to fear," when you know perfectly well that there is something to fear, that there are church-going gunmen whose heads and hearts are filled with such demons and darkness that they would sit through an hour of Bible Study before opening fire on an unsuspecting group of our brothers and sisters in Christ?

Question #3: Do you not care that we are perishing?
The winds blow furiously, the waves crash, the disciples fear for their lives. They look to Jesus and ask, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" It seems a reasonable question. Certainly, we, with all of our broken world, can turn our eyes to heaven and ask God, "Lord, do you not care about our broken world?" It's not a bad question.

But sometimes we are called to ask a different question.

There's one detail in today's gospel reading that most of us have probably never noticed or cared about. It’s right at the beginning of today’s lesson. Jesus leaves the crowds, calls together the disciples, and gets into a boat. And then Mark tells us, "Other boats were with him."

Other boats. Other boats were sailing across the sea. Other boats were being pummeled by the storm. Other boatfuls of people were fearing for their lives.

The disciples weren't wrong in being concerned about themselves and asking, "Do you not care that we are perishing?" But maybe they would have done better to ask the question, "Do you not care that they are perishing?"

Like the disciples, we sometimes are slow to cry out to God for healing or justice unless it is our boats that are flooding. But our calling is to care about all the boats, not just our own. This is why we have to care about Charleston. This is why we have to fight against systems of racism in our nation and society. There are other boats. And those boats are perishing.

Question #4: Have you still no faith?
So here we are. Storms rage. Boats flood. Hopes sink. Violence prevails. Hate thrives. Fear paralyzes.

What is the way forward?

The way forward is faith. Renewed faith. Faith that moves mountains.

Even as their lives are threatened by the storms, Jesus asks the disciples, "Have you still no faith?" What he's really asking is, "Do you not yet understand what faith is all about?"

The disciples have spent the entirety of Mark's 4th chapter thus far learning that the seeds of faith and the seeds of God's kingdom have been planted among them. They have been told to let their light shine before others; they have been assured that the kingdom of God is going to grow through them and beyond them, whether they like it or not; they have been taught that this kingdom is the very power of life to rise up out of death. And yet here, in the boat, these very disciples are still stuck assuming that the deepest meaning of faith is their own comfort and security. They still believe that faith is all about their own lives and their own boat and their own fears and their own seasickness.

Jesus asks, "Have you still no faith?" because if any one of us claims to have encountered the unfathomable grace and love of God, if any one of us has felt our heart strangely warmed, if any one of us has been drawn by the Spirit to cling to the promises of God from the very depths of our being, then we cannot count our faith as true if it does not set fire to our hearts and limbs, driving us out, beyond ourselves, beyond our own boats, even while the rain pounds and the wind swirls.

Have we still no faith?

Question #5: Who is this, that even the wind and waves obey him?
Brothers and sisters, there is yet one question in today's gospel that comes with a simple answer. The disciples ask, "Who is this, that even the wind and waves obey him?" Who is this who can calm the storm? Who is this who speaks peace into chaos?

Who is this? It is the Lord, Jesus Christ. God-in-the-flesh; God-in-the-boat; our Savior.

The storms may rage outside, but we continue place our trust in Christ. We do not know when the storms will pass, we do not know when the groanings of creation will cease. But we do know that Christ is our hope and our faith and our restlessness for the coming of God's kingdom.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come, Lord Jesus, and push us out us out of our boat, that we might weather the storms alongside those who are the most vulnerable.

Come, Lord Jesus, and stir us up, that we might have no more patience for oppression and injustice in our midst.

Come, Lord Jesus, and help us to listen louder than we speak.

Come, Lord Jesus, and give us a faith that betrays our trembling hearts to do courageous acts of love and mercy in the world.

Come, Lord Jesus, we pray. Still the storms. Bring us justice. Give us peace.

"Pentecost" by Fr Lawrence Lew, O.P., on Flickr

Acts 2:1-21
When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.

Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, "Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs — in our own languages we hear them speaking about God's deeds of power." All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, "What does this mean?" But others sneered and said, "They are filled with new wine."

But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them, "Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o'clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:

'In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
in those days I will pour out my Spirit;and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
and signs on the earth below,blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
and the moon to blood,before the coming of the Lord's great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.'

"Kanakuk K-7 Trust Fall" by Kanakuk Kamps, on Flickr

Luke 24:44–53
Then [Jesus] said to them, "These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you — that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled." Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, "Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things. And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high."

Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them. While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven. And they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy; and they were continually in the temple blessing God.

---
I always hated trust fall night at youth group.

The youth room in the church I grew up in had four sets of gray-carpeted risers that you could roll around to move into any configuration you wanted. Basically, it was like a rolling, carpeted, giant staircase, with four levels for people to sit on.

Or, on trust fall night, these risers were there for you to climb to the top of, and then fall backwards into the waiting arms of your friends. No ground-level trust falls for us. Nope, crazy scary trust falls. Off of a riser five feet in the air.

We were trained well. You had at least ten people standing behind you, their arms outstretched and overlapping. You promised, on your part, to keep your arms tucked over your chest, and to fall straight back like a board, and not to bend at the waist. I watched friend after friend fall, successfully, into our waiting teenage arms. But when I was the one standing up there, glancing over my shoulder at the waiting arms below, I froze. Didn’t matter how many other people they had caught. What if they dropped me? It’s not that I didn’t trust them, per se, but I really didn’t trust that their skinny teenage arms would be strong enough. I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t mess up and fall to the side of them, missing their arms completely. I didn’t trust that some act of God wouldn’t happen behind my back and that they wouldn’t all run off to check it out and forget to tell me that they’d left.

I honestly don’t remember whether I actually did the trust fall or whether I crept back down the risers.

Isn’t that just how it is to be human? No matter how many proofs, now matter how much training, no matter how much evidence and precedent and learning we have, it still is so very hard to trust one another, especially when it feels like we are being asked to trust one another with our very lives or souls.

So here we are on Ascension. The disciples have watched Jesus rise up into the heavens, they are nudged down the mountain by two mysterious figures, and they are called and empowered to pick up where Jesus left off and share his good news with all the ends of the earth.

But before they can head down the mountain to do this work of faith, they have to do two things.

1. They have to realize - and believe - that Jesus trusts them to do this work.
2. They have to trust one another to do this work.

For all of the difficult things that Jesus asked the disciples to do - saying "Come follow me," or sending them out in ministry saying, "Take nothing for your journey," or telling them, "If you want to become my followers you must deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me," or saying to them in the garden, "Stay awake" - of all of the difficult things Jesus asked the disciples to do, maybe most difficult thing that Jesus ever asked the disciples to do was to trust one another to carry on his ministry without him.

This is a tall order. Is it any surprise that they just stood there, looking to heaven? Lowering their gaze would mean having to look each other in the eye instead. And it is one thing to trust God, but a far different thing to trust one another on God's behalf.

After a little nudge down the mountain, they bounded to flat ground, rejoicing, which is great and all, but as we read through Acts and through all the letters written to those first Christian communities, we know that the joy of the disciples soon turned into quibbling about what it really meant to follow Jesus and do his work in the world. Do we eat food sacrificed to idols? Do new believers have to be circumcised? In whose name should we be baptizing people? Who gets to talk in worship? Which is more important, faith or good works of the law? What of the Gentiles? What of the Jews? Was Jesus really a human or did he just appear human?

If Jesus had any idea that these mistrusts and arguments were going to happen, he didn’t let on. And it didn’t stop him from sending the disciples out in his name.

The disciples, the apostles, the early church, all of us who have come after: we take what we have learned from Jesus about service, witness, resurrection, and forgiveness, and try to live out his legacy; we chase after a Holy Spirit who likes to get places first and who is keen on the work of improvisation and surprise, and in all of this we are being called to trust that if we are doing the best we can, then so also are our brothers and sisters in faith doing the best they can, and so doing the work of God in the world means getting over ourselves and our anxieties and giving up a little bit of power and control, and giving one another the benefit of the doubt.

Where there are real abuses of power in the name of God, of course, we need to speak out about those things. Never should the name of Jesus be invoked to oppress or harm one another, to hurt or destroy. But when it comes to figuring out the best way to do the work of faith - prayer, devotion, service, witness, advocacy - Jesus empowers us not just to do these things, but to trust one another to do these things, even if we don't quite agree on how they should be done.

But let’s be honest. It’s hard.

I mean, when I walk by that guy with the portable sound system at the corner of Adams and State Street, in downtown Chicago when I'm visiting family after Christmas, and he holds a posterboard sign in one hand that says "Repent," and holds a microphone with the other hand into which he says things like "This is an evil age and you are children of corruption, repent of all your sins or be cast into the fires of hell"...I'm not too keen on trusting him as a fellow steward of God's mysteries.

And sometimes, when my Type A personality is feeling particularly ornery, I don't find it easy to trust that ministry projects will be successful unless all the i's are dotted and t's are crossed and paperwork filed in a timely and responsible manner.

A poll conduced a couple of years ago found that we, as a society, don't trust each other any more. Fewer than one-third of those polled expressed trust in clerks who swiped their credit cards, trust in other drivers on the road, or trust for people they meet while traveling. This lack of trust, according to the author of the report, "diverts energy to counting change, drawing up 100-page legal contracts and building gated communities."

We do the same thing in the church, diverting energy into checks and balances, setting up criteria for trustworthiness, whether it be church membership or being a part of the right denomination; by vetting ministry projects through multiple layers of taskforces, committees, councils, and congregational votes; by setting up expectations about how much Bible or theology one should know before they do ministry.

Except that Jesus gave the disciples about two and a half things - total - that made them worthy to do ministry. He gave them himself - his death, his resurrection, his word; he gave them the Holy Spirit (which will show up in full force next week!); and he gave them his blessing. Or maybe half a blessing, because he was snatched up into heaven while he was still blessing them.

But anyway. That’s what it takes to be a disciple and to do Jesus’ ministry in the world. It takes the word of Jesus, the gift of the Holy Spirit, and blessing. Things that we receive in baptism. Things that we receive at the table. Things that we receive each week in worship.

So this is our only criteria for trusting one another, inside these walls and outside, to carry out Christ’s work of forgiveness and salvation in the world.

And when we don’t trust each other, we have helpful things like confession and forgiveness, corporate or individual, to help us get over ourselves and our egos. We have the sharing of the peace, which isn’t just a greeting time, but is, historically, a chance to make amends with brothers and sisters in faith before approaching the holy mystery of communion.

Our challenge and our calling today is to look at one another and to say, “Jesus trusts you to do his work…and so do I.”

And when we start really believing that Jesus has empowered each and every one of us for his work, when we really start giving up a little control and trusting each other, crazy, beautiful, unexpectedly powerful things start happening.

I think about this last week’s Project Care graduation party, and the way that 80+ people celebrated the graduation of six youth, mostly unknown to them, and how this church and community donated thousands of dollars’ worth of gifts to help these students live independent lives after graduating high school and leaving the foster care system. I think about how grassroots ministries like these happen, and how nothing like this would ever get off the ground if we didn’t trust each other to do ministry.

I think about how there are so many pop-up ministries and charities in our world these days - people banding together for disaster relief, joining together in advocacy efforts, giving micro-loans to women across the world to empower them and improve their lives, feeding ministries, random acts of kindness: whether planned by the church or not, these are all ministries, these are all the work of God in our midst, and the kingdom is unfolding in our midst, if only we trust each other enough to open our eyes to these Spirit-driven acts of service.

Because this Spirit - that calls us together and sends us out - moves forward and backward and sideways, is pesky and unpredictable, and this Spirit is in each of us. But this Spirit is always moving along a trajectory toward God and toward the fulfillment of the kingdom. So if we are empowered by this Spirit, sometimes we are moving across each other and around each other and next to each other or in opposite directions, but we are all always moving toward the same end goal.

So today, remember that Jesus trusts you do to his work in the world. He has given you the Spirit to empower you and to bind us together. He has blessed you. And he has given all of these gifts to the people sitting next to you as well.

May you be blessed today by your faith in Christ. May you be blessed by Christ’s faith in you. And may you be blessed to have faith in one another, for the sake of the one who binds us together and sends us out. May nothing stand in the way of all of the things to which God is calling us, for the sake of his kingdom and for the sake of the world.

Amen.

"1 John 4:18" by philipcdavis, on Flickr

Acts 8:26–40
Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, "Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza." (This is a wilderness road.) So he got up and went. Now there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, in charge of her entire treasury. He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning home; seated in his chariot, he was reading the prophet Isaiah. Then the Spirit said to Philip, "Go over to this chariot and join it." So Philip ran up to it and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. He asked, "Do you understand what you are reading?" He replied, "How can I, unless someone guides me?" And he invited Philip to get in and sit beside him. Now the passage of the scripture that he was reading was this:

"Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter,
and like a lamb silent before its shearer, so he does not open his mouth.
In his humiliation justice was denied him.
Who can describe his generation? For his life is taken away from the earth."

The eunuch asked Philip, "About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?" Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. As they were going along the road, they came to some water; and the eunuch said, "Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?" He commanded the chariot to stop, and both of them, Philip and the eunuch, went down into the water, and Philip baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away; the eunuch saw him no more, and went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found himself at Azotus, and as he was passing through the region, he proclaimed the good news to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.

1 John 4:7–21
Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God's love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.

By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and do testify that the Father has sent his Son as the Savior of the world. God abides in those who confess that Jesus is the Son of God, and they abide in God. So we have known and believe the love that God has for us.

God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment, because as he is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because he first loved us. Those who say, "I love God," and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.

John 15:1-8
[Jesus says,] "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples."

---
There are plenty of Sundays that I have stood up here in the pulpit and started out a sermon by saying “Wow, today’s readings were really tough,” or “As preachers, we cringe when we have to find some good news in difficult texts like these.” So I feel like I need to balance things out a bit, and not just complain about the hard Sundays, but also share joy over Sundays like today. Here we have three rich texts, all filled with good news. Yes, sometimes as a preacher you luck out. There are six or eight or a hundred different sermons that I could preach.

As I prepared for today, I was struck by one of the common themes in these readings, the theme of being bound together as community in Christ.

In our first reading, we encounter an Ethiopian official serving the queen’s court, a eunuch who, not to be crass, has quite literally been cut off from the temple community, and who is reading a passage from Isaiah about this suffering servant who we know to be Christ. Desperately seeking to be a part of God’s community, and emboldened by the good news of the sufferings and resurrection of Christ, he asks Philip, "Here is water. What is to prevent me from being baptized?

In other words, “What is preventing me from becoming a part of God's community, despite my race, despite my nationality, despite my physical impairment, despite my job?" Because for all of the reasons that he was cut off from society, he knew in his heart that there was nothing - nothing - that could actually cut him off from the life-giving promises of God's grace and the community of Christ, the suffering servant.

I've been thinking a lot about community these days - about the way that we are called to love our enemies and seek the good of our neighbors and to live in harmony with one another and to live peaceably with all. I've been thinking about that question of barriers, about who are those on the outskirts, those who don't have the privilege of health or happiness or justice.

I’ve been thinking a lot about struggling communities in Nepal who are still unearthing bodies, dead and alive, from last week’s earthquake, who are piling up bodies along the sea to be cremated, who are waiting for relief to come at the mercy of many and various international aid organizations, and all of the complicated lessons that disasters like this might be teaching us about being citizens of a global community.

I've been thinking a lot about the city of Baltimore these days, about Freddie Gray and his sister and his family who grieve his death, about how his life was taken from him at the hands of six police officers sworn to serve and protect life, about race and class, peaceful protests and angry riots, and all the layers upon layers of complicated lessons this tragedy might have us about community, about who is in and who is out and who gets to decide that.

As we watch these sagas unfold on our televisions and news feeds, we are presented with a huge list of unanswerable questions.

How can we efficiently and sustainably help unearth the rubble and rebuild infrastructure across the globe after natural disasters? And what do we do with the knowledge that poorer communities suffer more deeply than affluent communities when environmental disasters hit?

How do we respond to the reality that racism is still alive and well in our country? How do race and class intersect?

What do we do with violence done falsely in the name of justice? What do we do with violence done in the name of protest? How do we speak about right and wrong ways to stand up to power without condoning or victim blaming the protestors?

Who in our society has the power, explicitly or implicitly? Who suffers under this power? How do we use the power we are given for good? How do we claim power when we are oppressed?How do we know when to live under the law and when to rebel against it? How do we speak the truth about abuses of power without either blindly defending or demonizing law enforcement?

Why does any of this even matter to us, residents of Decorah, Iowa, far removed from either Maryland or Nepal?

Why does it matter? It matters because Jesus is the vine, and we - all of us - are the branches. And to be connected to the vine is to be connected through Christ to all of those other branches, whether those branches are here in Decorah or all the way in Baltimore and Nepal; whether those branches are black or brown or white, rich or poor, straight or gay, liberal or conservative.

The crises in Baltimore and Nepal make it impossible for us to ignore the fact that so many people in our world live in fear: Young black men. Practicing Muslims. Neighborhoods built on fault lines and typhoon-threatened coastlines. Families living in crime-ridden areas because it's the only housing they can afford. Women who feel vulnerable to unwanted sexual advances. White middle class men and women who feel threatened or defensive when they are confronted with the privileges that they take for granted.

Our news culture keeps us up close and personal with every threat, big or small, likely or unlikely; political, nutritional, international, criminal. There is fear all around. And this fear stands as a symbol of our broken world, as a symbol of sin and death in our midst. Fear stands in the way of God's intentions for this one holy community of all humanity and all creation.

Today in 1 John, we hear these words: "Perfect love casts out fear."

Perfect love casts out all fear. As trite as it may sound, love, I think, is the solution to all the calamities facing our world. Love deeply. Love divinely. Love so strongly that fear is banished. For love, as an action, is what we are called to do in response to the love that was shown to us in Christ.

Love brings justice. Love speaks the truth. Love shows compassion. Love inspires sacrifice. Love gives us responsibility to care for one another and all creation. Love binds together rather than pulling apart. Love creates community. Love brings joy. Love gives life. Love casts out all fear.

All these acts of love are possible only because we are branches of the Christ the vine. He is this main artery of love and goodness and resurrection that flows, unceasing, and we each are branches through with his love flows. This love pulses through us and, ultimately, we bear the fruit of love for the world and we grow green with leaves for the healing of the nations.

"I am the vine and you are the branches; abide in me as I abide in you." In the Greek, those "yous" are plural. This is hugely important! We don't do this work of love as individuals. We are called as a community of faith to love our world back into place; to let God graft onto the vine those who have been cut off by society; to invite others into our work of loving as Christ has empowered us to do. Because not one of us can do any of this alone.

Tuesday morning, after the violence of Monday night’s riots, in one Baltimore neighborhood, volunteers made sack lunches and delivered them to children, because school was canceled and they knew that these children wouldn’t have any lunch without the school’s free meal program.

On Thursday, a colleague of mine serving a congregation in Baltimore sent me a picture of a young girl from his congregation, four or five years old, standing in the street on a sunny morning, wielding a red plastic hammer and a huge smile. Behind her, family members and congregation members raised up real hammers, boarding up broken windows as an act of tenderness for their wounded city. They carried hammers and snacks and love and not fear.

There is love out there. There is hope.

But it takes a community to show love. It takes a community to rebuild the community of this world. It takes a community of divine love, a community gathered and called and sent by a bigger power than just our own spirits. It takes a community of Christ.

Friends, standing here in front of us is this font. Standing here in front of us is this table. Through the splashing of this water and the eating and drinking of this fruit of the earth and the vine, we have already been grafted as branches into the one vine, the one body of Christ. Be empowered by these sacred signs to love without fear. Be strengthened by this holy community to be Christ in a weary world.

Christ is the good vine. We are the branches.
Christ’s love casts out all fear: This is our hope.
Love one another: This is our calling.
We love because he first loved us.
Amen.

"Vine By Me" by Jackson Carson, on Flickr

John 15:1-8
[Jesus says,] "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples."

"Christus Vineit" by Phil Roussin, on Flickr

Isaiah 6:1–8
Romans 8:12–17
John 3:1–17
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?

Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

--
Friday night, I was jolted awake by the sound of a loud, unidentified crash from somewhere in the house. I shot out of bed and down the dark staircase to figure out what the cats had knocked over. I looked in living room: nothing. Study: nothing. Downstairs bathroom: nothing. Kitchen: nothing. Dining room: nothing. Back up the stairs I went. Upstairs bathroom? Ah, there it was. A basket full of nail polish bottles and assorted extra toiletries, that usually lived on a shelf above the sink, dumped over and scattered across the floor. I scooped everything back into the basket - nothing was broken, thank goodness! - and staggered back to bed. My heart was still pounding. I looked at the clock: 4:27 a.m.

I laid back down, pulled the covers up to my chin....and, nothing. No heavy eyes, no drowsy face, no sleepy limbs. I was wide awake. And inexplicably anxious.

You've all been there, right? Awake in the middle of the night, feeling every anxiety, every worry, thinking about everything that you wish you could forget and everything that you can't afford to forget, all at once. It is in the middle of the night that we feel most certain that our prayers have been lost, and when we also feel most certain that we have no other option but to keep praying.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I often find myself thinking about my dad, replaying over and over again his last days and moments in the hospital, as if there were anything I could do now to have changed the outcome.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I try to reason with the universe in order that I might make any sense of tragedies that shake our community. Tragedies like freak accidents that claim the lives of loved ones, or the dark and fear and inner demons that could drive a terribly young person to take his own life.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I worry about everything that is beyond my power to fix or to understand.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I have no patience for mystery. Insomnia makes me a chaser of reason, rationality, and control.

The same might be said of poor Nicodemus. He is a chaser of reason, of understanding, and I wonder if Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night because he too was already lying in bed awake, struggling with all of the mysteries of the universe, struggling with his own doubts, struggling with impossible questions that need answers.

Nicodemus gets out of bed, and comes to Jesus. They have this conversation that goes in circles, all about the work of the Spirit to rebirth and recreate hearts, and about the work of God in Christ to save the world and not to condemn it.

But dear Nicodemus, bless his heart, can’t wrap his head around all of it. He can’t for the life of him figure out the mechanics of rebirth, or what on earth Jesus means when he talks about being born of the Spirit, and even this business of a God who loves and a God who dies and a God who brings eternal life is a puzzler for him. Nicodemus tries to figure out the inner workings of God and gets stuck in mystery instead. He leaves with more questions than he started with.

Which is pretty much what happens to us every time we try to find answers for this mysterious thing called the Trinity. A word, of course, that Jesus doesn’t use, and a word that never shows up in the Bible, but a word that describes the very Biblical phenomenon of a God who exists and acts as Father and Son and Spirit.

Questions abound. How is God simultaneously three and one? How can God exist in three persons, but we still say that we are monotheists, worshiping only one God? How is God different than merely a shape-shifter? What is the heavenly “division of labor” and which person of God - Father, Son, Spirit - is responsible for which divine tasks?

Let's be honest, there is no "figuring out" the Trinity. Many have tried, many have failed. Heresies abound! In fact, over dinner earlier this week, Pastor Chad jokingly asked me if I was a risk to preach heresy this weekend, to which I responded that preaching heresy is a risk I take every single week, not just on Holy Trinity Sunday!

But very seriously, you'll never hear me claim to understand the Trinity. Because I don’t. Even Martin Luther himself, preaching on Holy Trinity Sunday in 1522, conceded that the best thing you can say about the mystery of the Trinity is that you don't understand it: "We cling to the Scriptures, those passages which testify of the Trinity of God, and we say: I know very well that in God there are the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; but how they can be one I do not know, neither should I know it."

I might not understand the Trinity, but I understand dark sleepless nights. And I understand grief. And I understand that our souls constantly need to keep making the choice for hope and against despair. And I think the Trinity might have something to say about this.

Because having a God who exists as three means that we have a God who has experienced everything that there is to experience. God as Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer has the divine ability to hold together all creativity, need, hope, suffering, and salvation. There is no dark night, no creative moment, no mystery or question or joy or confusion, on earth or in heaven, that God-in-three-persons has not already experienced, loved, and redeemed.

But more than that, at the heart of our faith is the cross. And at that pivotal moment when Christ died to destroy death, the whole Trinity was at work. While God in Christ faced death head-on, God the Creator took on the work of grief, God the Spirit made space to do the work of hope and resurrection. Because the Godhead is three-in-one, God didn't die alone on the cross, God didn't grieve alone in heaven, and God didn't lose hope.

And when you put all three of these truths together, you find the whole work of salvation; a mystery as expansive as Isaiah's smoky, terrifying vision of God filling the temple, and yet it is a comfort as dear to us as a father's tender touch.

Paul writes, "When we cry, 'Abba! Father!' it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ — if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him."

Yes, even as we cry "Holy, holy, holy" to a God bigger than we can fathom, we also cry "Abba! Father!" to the one who loves us and claims us, and carries us through our sufferings to the glorious promise of our salvation.

And so in our sleepless nights, in our dark nights of the soul, no matter what mysteries we face, no matter what anxieties plague us, no matter what feeble prayers we raise, no matter how out of control or fearful we feel, the Trinity reminds us that God is bigger than all of it. And God has been through all of it. And God will redeem all of it.

The God who fills the temple is the God who fills the earth, who is Creator and Redeemer and Life-Giving Spirit, who is so huge that there is no place on earth or in heaven, in our heads or in our heart, where God is not present.

Madeleine L'Engle says, “I will have nothing to do with a God who cares only occasionally. I need a God who is with us always, everywhere, in the deepest depths as well as the highest heights. It is when things go wrong, when good things do not happen, when our prayers seem to have been lost, that God is most present. We do not need the sheltering wings when things go smoothly. We are closest to God in the darkness, stumbling along blindly.”

Brothers and sisters, I do not know what your darkness is right now, whether you feel a few casual doubts or whether you wrestle with the very meaning of your life itself. But I do know when we, with Nicodemus, stumble along blindly under cover of night, we do not stumble to our doom; rather, we stumble blindly into the waiting arms of Christ. I know that in the waking hours of the night, when we reach out into the darkness, we do not reach out in vain; rather, we brush fingertips against the hem of God’s kingly robe, which stretches like a blanket over all creation. I know that when we face deepest darkness and long for sheltering wings, we do not go unembraced; rather, God pours upon us water and Spirit, flooding us with assurance of our baptisms, drenching us in the promise of God’s presence, cradling us in the reassuring and persistent flow of all love and rebirth and hope.

The Trinity is an eternal mystery. But it is proof for us that God is able - and willing - to reconcile all things to himself, no matter how painful or contradictory those things may be. The Trinity is assurance for us that we are yet children of light, even when we sit in darkness. For God loves the world. Christ saves the world. The Spirit breathes rebirth into the world. Even in the middle of the night, there is hope.

Let us pray.

God of the Heavens,
keeper of the stars,
Lord of the darkest, most remote places
of the universe,
the one who hovered and breathed life,
and the Creator of every living thing:
Be our salvation, our comfort,
our hope, for you are holy and righteous,
your words are true
and your light dispels all darkness.

Glory to the Almighty God,
Sun of Righteousness
and Breath of Life.
Amen.

(prayer by Thomas Turner; posted on everdayLiturgy)

"chocolate chip cookie @ Eagle's Nest" by ledge, on Flickr

1 Corinthians 9:16–23
If I proclaim the gospel, this gives me no ground for boasting, for an obligation is laid on me, and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel! For if I do this of my own will, I have a reward; but if not of my own will, I am entrusted with a commission. What then is my reward? Just this: that in my proclamation I may make the gospel free of charge, so as not to make full use of my rights in the gospel.

For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God's law but am under Christ's law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.

Mark 1:29–39
As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon's mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.

That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, "Everyone is searching for you." He answered, "Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do." And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

--
Sam and I were out for a walk on Friday afternoon, enjoying the sunshine and mild weather. I had to run a few errands, one of which was stopping by Java John’s to pick up a few gift certificates. When I got there, I noticed that Sam had fallen fast asleep, and I decided to take advantage of the situation. I ordered myself a cup of tea, with plans to sit and read for a while. As I finished paying and was dunking my tea bag into my mug, Mike appeared at the edge of the counter with a broken oatmeal chocolate chip cookie on a plate.

“Could I interest you like a free cooking for...free?" he asked. Apparently a broken cookie has no place in the pastry case.

I commented that a free cookie for free was a much better deal than free cookie that cost something. And then said that I supposed I could help him out, just this once. Even if it meant eating a cookie. Yeah, I'd make that sacrifice. It was a most delicious free cookie for free.

Paul in 1 Corinthians today talks about his obligation to preach the gospel free of charge. For those of us who understand the gospel message as God’s free grace and salvation, proclaiming a gospel "free of charge" might sound almost as silly as getting a free cookie for free.

Whether we begin worship with confession or with thanksgiving for baptism, each week we hear that that God's forgiveness is freely given to us out of his enduring and unsearchable love. And this is a lovely message. Our hearts need this message of freedom, because we know very well that there are plenty of things out there that try to bind us: our fears, our failings, the violence and greed and divisiveness in our world. It is a much-needed balm to our weary souls to hear that we are free from all of that.

But freedom, as we know, is not just a matter of being free from. It is also a matter of being free for. If you've been paying attention these last few weeks, Paul has been instructing the church at Corinth in the ways of Christian freedom. The Corinthians had some strong ideas about what the gospel of Christ freed them from, but they often missed the boat when it cam to what the gospel of Christ freed them for.

In his letter, Paul address everything from food sacrificed to idols to issues of sex and relationships; over and over again he has to remind the church at Corinth that being free in Christ means nothing if your freedom hurts others or causes them to stumble in their own walk of faith.

In today’s reading, Paul uses words that Martin Luther will later quote almost verbatim in his treatise "On the Freedom of a Christian.” Paul says, "though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all.”

Paul goes on to talk about how he becomes all things to all people, that he might proclaim the gospel of Christ. “Becoming all things to all people” means approaching his task with humility, not lording the gospel over those to whom he preaches, but instead trying to embody their cares and concerns, that he might best speak a word of grace and hope to them. For Paul, his freedom in Christ is not an excuse to boast or to act recklessly. His freedom in Christ is a reason to serve others and to preach the gospel in a way that others will be able to hear it.

There are echoes of this sentiment in today’s gospel. Simon’s mother-in-law, being freed by Jesus from her illness, responds by reaching out in service. The crowds, being freed from various illness and demons, search for Christ, that they might better understand and share his message.

On this annual meeting Sunday, my heart is lingering on this question of what it means to use our freedom - and limit our freedom - in service of others. What it means to “become all things to all people” by entering into the cares and concerns of one another for the sake of building up the body of Christ.

When we meet later this morning, we will spend time checking on the state of our shared ministry here at First, and we will set priorities and goals for the year to come. This is a perfect time to think about how well we are accomplishing our task of offering to the world the free gospel…for free.

I was asked earlier this week, "don't you think we are really past the time when people still think of First as the college congregation?" It's an interesting question, one for which I don't know that I have a good answer. It is one of many questions we might ask ourselves in our current context.

Other questions we might ask ourselves:

• Does this congregation offer the same welcome to Luther College faculty and staff as it does to nurses and shopkeepers and elementary school teachers in town?
• Is our Norwegian heritage something welcoming to many? Does it close us off?
• Is our congregation a comfortable place for both academics and those without a degree?
• Is our worship life accessible and inviting both to musicians and to those who are tone-deaf?
• Is our sense of Lutheran identity something that makes us distinct and gracious? Does an emphasis on our Lutheran identity ever shut out those who are questioning, searching, or seeking?
• Are people likely to feel as valued in the congregation if they are well-off or if they are struggling financially?
• On an average Sunday, do people feel like they can walk into the sanctuary and find a warm welcome wherever they choose to sit?
• On an average Sunday, do people feel like they are welcome attend fellowship hour, and do they also feel confident that someone will invite them over to their table?

I need to be careful, and I need you to listen carefully to me in this moment. None of these questions are intended to be judgements. Every congregation has its own set of questions related to its identity and its ability to welcome those who don't fit that identity. And every congregation should regularly be asking itself these hard questions if we are to take seriously the idea that the gospel is something to be shared and proclaimed.

My hope this morning is to challenge us, as individuals and as a congregation, to consider both the ways that we are - and are not yet - "being all things to all people," by which I mean the ways that we are and are not yet willing and able to meet people where they are - theologically, financially, educationally, liturgically - all for the sake of serving them, loving them, and valuing them as partners in the gospel.

Because our call, as Christians, is not just to recognize the needs and concerns of one another, but to embody them, to bear them, to empathize with them, just as Christ bore in himself our own needs and burdens on the cross.

Without this Christ-like hospitality and mutuality, we risk offering the world a free gospel at a cost. Because let’s be honest. It's easier to welcome new members when they come from a Lutheran background or have a prior connection to Luther and to Decorah; and it's easier to plan worship when we all know the same hymns; and it's easier to plan projects when we all share the same values; and it's easier to plan adult education when we all are interested in the same topics; and it's easier to write budgets when we all agree on how our money should serve our ministry.

It is much harder to offer the free gospel for free, because it means embracing our diversity and being humble and honest about those who differ from us and those who do not yet find a welcome here.

Now, that being said, we have a fantastic groundwork set here. Turn to that welcome statement inside your bulletin. Right there is our shared commitment to offer the free gospel for free. We say, "no matter what," you are welcome. No matter who else has rejected you, you are welcome here, because Christ welcomes you and loves you and so we love you too. We say it

One of my hopes and dreams is that we continue to talk about this statement, and we continue to view it as our mission. A mission of welcome is a mission of freedom. Because it’s not just that it’s good to be different from one another. And it’s not just that our differences build up an increasingly intricate and beautiful body of Christ. It’s that our differences - and our willingness to humbly and purposefully engage those differences - push us ever closer to proclaiming a free gospel that is truly free, extended to all without reservation, without resentment, without restraint.

My brothers and sisters, you are each free and beautiful children of God. So are each of your neighbors. So are your enemies. Today, let us remain united in the truth of Christ’s saving death and resurrection - the truth that sets us free - and go forward to use that freedom for the sake of wisdom and understanding, partnership in the gospel, and holy hospitality, offering welcome to friends and strangers as they come to this place for hope, healing, and the grace of God.

"All saints' Day - Kära farmor" by Capelson, on Flickr

"They live on, those giants of our childhood. They manage to even take death in their stride. Death may take them, but it can never take our relationship with them. However else they still live on, they still live on in us. Memory is more than looking back to a time gone by; it is looking into another kind of time altogether. A time where everything that was continues to be – and grows and changes with the life that is in us.

The people we loved and who loved us; for good or for ill, taught us things. Dead though they may be, as we come to understand them in new ways, it is though they come to understand us – and we come to understand ourselves – in new ways too.

Who knows what 'the communion of saints' means, but surely it means that these people we once knew are not just voices that have ceased to speak. They are saints because though them the power and richness of life not only touched us once, but continues to touch us still.

They have their business to get on with – moving 'from strength to strength' – whatever that means. We might imagine ourselves on a fading shore as they move on to whatever shore may await them. But they carry with them something of us, as we do of them. And so, to think of them is not only to remember how they used to be. It is, in some way, to see and hear them as they now are.

If they had things to say to us then, they have things to say to us now – as we have to them. And the things now spoken may not be what they once were."

-Frederick Buechner

"Jesus heals a man born blind" by Peter, on Flickr

John 9:1-41
As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" Jesus answered, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world." When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man's eyes, saying to him, "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, "Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?" Some were saying, "It is he." Others were saying, "No, but it is someone like him." He kept saying, "I am the man." But they kept asking him, "Then how were your eyes opened?" He answered, "The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, 'Go to Siloam and wash.' Then I went and washed and received my sight." They said to him, "Where is he?" He said, "I do not know."

They brought to the Pharisees the man who had formerly been blind. Now it was a sabbath day when Jesus made the mud and opened his eyes. Then the Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, "He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see." Some of the Pharisees said, "This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath." But others said, "How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?" And they were divided. So they said again to the blind man, "What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened." He said, "He is a prophet."

The Jews did not believe that he had been blind and had received his sight until they called the parents of the man who had received his sight and asked them, "Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?" His parents answered, "We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself." His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews; for the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue. Therefore his parents said, "He is of age; ask him."

So for the second time they called the man who had been blind, and they said to him, "Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner." He answered, "I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see." They said to him, "What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?" He answered them, "I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?" Then they reviled him, saying, "You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from." The man answered, "Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing." They answered him, "You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" And they drove him out.

Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, "Do you believe in the Son of Man?" He answered, "And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him." Jesus said to him, "You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he." He said, "Lord, I believe." And he worshiped him. Jesus said, "I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind." Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, "Surely we are not blind, are we?" Jesus said to them, "If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, 'We see,' your sin remains.
---

Today’s gospel is one of my favorites. I have a soft spot for Bible stories that make me chuckle. Here we have a man, healed of blindness, and nobody believes him. They pass him back and forth amongst themselves, and they even go visit his parents to double check if he was really blind, and the Pharisees and crowds make him tell his story over and over again, and in a moment of exasperation, the man asks, “Why do you want to hear this again? Do you want to be disciples too?”

It is a story of sight, but it is really a story of people seeing past each other, and people whose sights are set on the wrong questions.

For as many times as I’ve read this passage in my lifetime, I noticed something new in the text as I prepared to preach it. For the first time, I noticed just how preoccupied everybody seems to be with seeing sin.

From the very beginning of the passage, the disciples set the tone when they ask Jesus, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” See, in Jesus’ time, there was the belief that sin came with real, physical consequences. Physical ailments and deformities were believed to be God’s punishment for something that you or someone before you did. So to be born blind must have meant that God was pretty unhappy with you.

And then the Pharisees are in rare form in today’s gospel. They reject the healed man’s testimony, writing him off as a sinner. They also call Jesus a sinner for healing on the sabbath. The question of whether Jesus is a sinner is really a question of whether he is doing God’s will or not. The Pharisees believe that they are doing God’s will, upholding the law and being piously religious in all areas of their lives. The Pharisees know that Jesus is not like them, and in fact routinely criticizes them. So in their eyes, only one of two things can be true. Either a)They are doing God’s will, which means Jesus is not, which means that he is a sinner for healing on the Sabbath, or b)Jesus is doing God’s will, which means that they are not. So they are quick to write off Jesus as a sinner, because they are afraid.

And then, finally, the crowds. They, too, are used to seeing this man for his limitations and shortcomings. When his eyes are opened, the crowds don’t recognize him anymore. People in the village ask each other, “Doesn’t he remind you of the blind man who used to sit here and beg?” When they can no longer see him for his limits, they don’t see him at all.

I mean, my goodness! Instead of rejoicing with a man who had been handed back his life, everyone around him reacts with fear, suspicion, and judgement. They are so preoccupied with seeing sin and limitation that they are blind to the beautiful, amazing, limitless work of God in Christ.

And then I turn on my radio and listen to news stories about political scandals, and I think about our media obsession with negative celebrity gossip. I think about how society’s knee-jerk reaction is to blame people for their troubles. I think about our own tendency to jump to the worst conclusions about each other, especially in the midst of situations that challenge us, scare us, or disagree with things that we hold dear. I think about the ease with which each of us can pick out our own faults, failings and shortcomings, how we don’t know how to receive compliments well because we are by nature self-conscious of the ways that we don’t live up to our own expectations.

We aren’t that different than the crowds and disciples and Pharisees, are we? We, too, are in the sin-seeing business. It is far easier for us to see limits than it is to see and rejoice over the good work that God in Christ is accomplishing in our world.

There are two people in today’s gospel, however, who see clearly, who see possibility rather than limit.

The first is Jesus. Jesus looks at the blind man standing before him and doesn’t focus on his limitations, his sinfulness, or his worthiness. Jesus looks at the man born blind and sees in him a man who can be healed. Jesus looks at the man born blind and sees a medium through which the glory of God can be revealed.

Jesus looks at us the same way. He says at the end of today’s reading that his judgment is not for those who know their own sins and limitations, but for those who don’t see their brokenness. Friends, how many of us know too well the places in our lives where we don’t measure up, where we are broken and in need of forgiveness!

And so Jesus looks at us with eyes of compassion. He doesn’t define us by who we are not, by what we can’t do, by what we’re ashamed of, by what limits us. Jesus sees in us, just like in the man he healed, the immense possibility that the glory of God might be revealed in and through us.

And the second person who sees rightly in today’s gospel is the man who once was blind, who now can see. Healed by the man who saw in him the image of God, the once-blind man sees Jesus for who he really is: the Messiah, the Son of God, the Savior. And having seen Jesus, he wants others to see Jesus, too. He shares his testimony, and he sees the Pharisees and villages with eyes of patience and compassion. Even as they continue to pester him and challenge him, he yet responds with words of praise for the God who has been revealed in the regaining of his sight.

Knowing that Jesus sees us and loves us for who we are and for who we may yet become, Jesus empowers us to look out at our world with his eyes of forgiveness and love.

You might now the adage, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.”

This isn’t what Jesus calls us to do. We are not called to see others for their sin and then love them anyway. Jesus simply calls us to see his possibility where the world seems limitation. We are not called to judge, but to show mercy. We are called to rejoice with the triumphs of our brothers and sisters instead of worrying about whether they are deserving. We are called to love our neighbor as ourselves. We are empowered by our own encounter with Christ to look for ways that God’s glory shines in one another and in our world.

It has been nearly two weeks since the death of Fred Phelps, the founder of Westboro Baptist Church, a small congregation infamous for holding anti-gay protests at military funerals, celebrity funerals, and other public, media-heavy events. While some, even (or especially) in Christian circles saw his passing as a relief, a “good riddance” to a man full of spite and hatred, others chose to see him with different eyes.

Many Christians, of all stripes, prayed for his peace and comfort in his last days of life, and prayed for his family and his congregation.

Even more striking was an episode that took place two days after his death.

Westboro Baptist set up a protest outside of a concert in Kansas City, Missouri. They stood on one side of the road with signs telling people that God hates them, that they are sinners, that they are doomed to God’s wrath.

Across the street, a surprising counter-protest emerged. Concert-goers had organized themselves to counter negative messages with positive ones. They held up signs and banners expressing messages of love and compassion, including a big banner that said, "Sorry for your loss.”

Where it would have been so easy to see sin in those who carried on a legacy of seeing and judging the perceived sins of others, this small group across the street chose to see their Westboro brothers and sisters with the eyes of compassion, grace, and love.

My prayer for you and for me today is that we might see our world through the eyes of Christ. That we might look at ourselves with grace and that we might look upon our neighbors with mercy. That we might look for God’s possibility instead of human limitation. That we might seek out loveliness in our world and in one another.

Madeleine L’Engle wrote a poem about the man who received sight, the song that she imagined was on his hear and lips. It praises God for all of the beauty and possibility that he sees around him:

Song of Blind Bartimaeus After His Healing
All praise to thee, my God, this night
for all I see, both night and day.
All praise for loveliness of things!

During the shadows of un-sight
you kept the raging fears at by.
All praise to thee, my God, this night

for all the blessings of the light,
for sand and sun and eagles’ wings,
all praise for loveliness of things!

Praise for sandals, garments white,
for children’s faces, eyes alight,
all praise to thee, my God, this night.

All praise for butterflies in flight,
for work-worn hands, for golden hay,
the purple shadows evening brings,

for brass and copper polished bright,
for lifting light that shows the way,
all praise to thee, my God, this night,
all praise for loveliness of things!
(from The Ordering of Love)

May God empower you, this day and always, to see the loveliness of things, of all that he has made, and may your eyes be blessed by the sight. Amen.

"Peaceable Kingdom" (1987) by John August Swanson

"All Saints' Day" by Lady Nessa, on Flickr

A Litany for All Saints Day
by Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB

O Cosmic Christ,
in you
and through you
and for you,
all things were created;
in you
all things hold together
and have their being.

Through Teilhard de Chardin,
scientist of the cosmos,
you imagined a new heaven and a new earth.
Through Teresa of Avila,
charismatic leader,
you inspired a church of courage and wisdom.
Through Mahatma Gandhi,
great soul,
you became nonviolent in the struggle for justice.
Through Catherine of Siena,
fearless visionary,
you forged a new path for women.
Through Meister Eckhart,
creative mystic,
you refused to abandon the inner light.
Through Hildegard of Bingen,
greenness of God,
you poured out juicy, rich grace on all creation.
Through Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
drum major of freedom,
you shattered racial barriers
and freed dreamers to dream.
Through Anne Frank,
writer and witness,
you preserved goodness in the midst of great evil.
Through Cesar Chavez,
noble farmworker,
you transformed the dignity of human labor.
Through Harriet Tubman,
prophet and pilgrim,
you led the captives into freedom.
Through Vincent Van Gogh,
artist of light,
you revealed the sacredness
in sunflowers
and in starry nights.
Through Thea Bowman,
healer songbird,
you danced the African-American culture
into the Church.
Through Pope John XXIII,
window to the world,
you awakened awareness to the signs of the times.
Through Mother Teresa of Calcutta,
guardian of the unwanted,
you enfleshed a reverence for all life.
Through Thomas Merton,
universal monk,
you explored the sanctity of every human search.
Through Mary Magdalene,
apostle to the apostles,
you ordained women to proclaim the good news.
Through Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,
musician of Holy Mystery,
you bathed the world in beauty.
Through Julian of Norwich,
anchoress and seer,
you showed the Mother image of God.
Through Dom Bede Griffiths,
marriage of East and West,
you unveiled the divine face
at the heart of the world.
Through Joan of Arc,
defender and protector,
you remained true to personal conscience
over institutional law.
Through Rumi,
poet in ecstasy,
you illuminated friendship as mystical union.
Through Maura Clarke and Companions,
martyrs of El Salvador,
you rise again in the hopes of the dispossessed.
Through Rabbi Abraham Heschel,
Hasidic sage,
you answered our search for meaning
with wonder, pathos for the poor, and Sabbath rest.
Through Dorothy Day,
pillar of the poor,
you recognized holiness as bread for the hungry.

O Cosmic Christ,
in your heart
all history finds meaning and purpose.
In the new millennium,
in the celebration of jubilee
help us find that which we all seek:
a communion of love
with each other
and with you, the Alpha and Omega,
the first and last,
the yesterday, today, and tomorrow,
the beginning without end.
Amen.

This is, in some ways, a complete antithesis to "For All the Saints" or other grand hymns remembering the saints. I learned it back in seminary, and it's been stuck in my head all day. Instead of lauding the saints that have gone before us, it reminds us that we are all saints, and that there are saints walking this earth, living out God's love in their ordinary lives. Simple and charming, and draws us close to the face of God in our neighbor.



I sing a song of the saints of God
by Lesbia Scott

I sing a song of the saints of God,
Patient and brave and true,
Who toiled and fought and lived and died
For the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
And one was a shepherdess on the green;
They were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.

They loved their Lord so dear, so dear,
And his love made them strong;
And they followed the right for Jesus' sake
The whole of their good lives long.
And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,
And one was slain by a fierce wild beast;
And there's not any reason, no, not the least,
Why I shouldn't be one too.

They lived not only in ages past,
There are hundreds of thousands still.
The world is bright with the joyous saints
Who love to do Jesus' will.
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
In church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea;
For the saints of God are just folk like me,
And I mean to be one too.

Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

"Perhaps the World Ends Here" from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo. Copyright © 1994 by Joy Harjo.
Source: The Woman Who Fell From the Sky (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1994), via The Poetry Foundation

Sunday's gospel began with a discussion of where to sit when you attend a fancy dinner:

"When [Jesus] noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, 'Give this person your place,' and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher'; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted." (Luke 14:7-11)

This idea of where you choose to sit reminded me of a funny diagram I encountered not too long ago, all about how to pick the best seat at the table depending on its shape and size (click the picture for a bigger view):

Alex Cornell's "Choosing the Right Seat"

To read the full blog post behind the picture, check out Alex Cornell's "Musical Chairs (Choosing the Right Seat)" [apologies for a few instances of colorful language].

I first encountered this post as a humorous recommendation to introverts, to figure out how to partake in communal meals when you don't have a personality much inclined to make conversation or small talk easily. But really, the post is all about how to choose a powerful place at the table. It's about how to guarantee that you don't get stuck talking to somebody boring, or get left out of the important and interesting conversations. I chuckled at the last scenario, with the two tables, when he makes the observation that no matter what you do, the other table will always crystallize into "the superior group," because I've thought that at a few points in my own life. That no matter what I do, the other table ends up being the cool table, or at least the dynamic table.

And so it's not just the Pharisees that Jesus is talking to in this gospel reading. He's talking to us. He's talking to the parts of our brains that scan the room when we walk in, that make calculated decisions about who we want to be seen with and who we want to avoid. And he's telling us that maybe, instead of worrying about how people see us, we should be seeing - and seeking out! - those who aren't usually seen. Sitting at the table which is slower to fill up. Chatting up the people longing to be pulled in.

Because when we all gather at the table on Sundays to share in the Lord's Supper, there are no set-apart places of honor, no jostling for position, no better or worse dinner company. We are all equals, all beloved, all honored and deserving of honor. Because we are part of the communion of all the saints, and we are made one in the body of Christ, and every seat at the table is blessed.

"Feasting" by aneye4apicture, on Flickr

On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely. When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, 'Give this person your place,' and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher'; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

He said also to the one who had invited him, "When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous." (Luke 14:1, 7-14)