"even unto the Gentiles.." given April 24, 2016

Back when I was pastor in Hampshire I got acquainted with a local man—not a member of the congregation. But he was a member of a very well established, very well known area family—a huge family in fact—a founding family of three or four of the towns around—none of which of course, were very big. In fact there are so many of them that one my fellow retired pastors in the annual conference is in that family—in case you’re curious, his name is Pastor David Seyller and he was last pastor at Crystal Lake.

Well, the man I  got to be friends with was David’s cousin, Art. During one of our conversations,  Art  mentioned that he was single—and didn’t expect his situation was likely to change. He commented—“Who am I going to date? Every time I meet a new woman, it turns out I’m related to her.”

That’s one of the things that it means to be in a family. Families have boundaries. You can’t stop being in the family just because you think that your second-cousin-once-removed is cute. If Uncle Cedric is a pompous blow-hard with politics slightly to the right of Genghis Khan, you’re still stuck with him. If your Grandma’s wacky younger sister takes you for a drive in her ’49 Buick the wrong way up a one-way street while talking a mile a minute about her wardrobe, all you can really do is not ride with her anymore. 

There are no divorces in families. A couple might get a divorce, but the in-laws are still grandparents to the same children. Functional or dysfunctional--that’s the way families work. You’re either in it, or you’re out.

            Our families nurture us when we are tiny and weak, nurse us back to health when we are ill, and will try to protect when we find ourselves in trouble. It is in our families that we are honored and sheltered when we are elderly and feeble. It is our family that first welcomes us into this world. And it is our family who hopefully will weep and bless us as we depart it. There are no divorces in families. They have boundaries. You’re either in it, or you’re out.

Some churches are like that, too. Everybody knows your name—in fact they’ve all known each other for years. People notice if you aren’t there. Everyone gets along well enough, and everybody tolerates each other’s quirks and cares about their children—even though they’re not related. They make accommodation for the occasional congregational grump. There’s an underlying set of values and beliefs they all pretty much believe, they have significant shared history. People are treated as valuable, worthy human beings, despite income or address. There’s a lot of sentimental attachment to the building, and they throw one heck of a potluck.

            And if you ask them to describe their congregation, they’ll often say, “We’re all like one big family.” And in many ways, such a church does become a second or even a substitute extended family.  If you can get into it.

            You get into a family in one of three ways—and three ways only—you’re born into it, you’re adopted into it, or you marry into it. Churches work the same way.  And that can become a problem for a feels-like-a-family church.  What happens when we all get older and start dying off? Or start moving to Florida?  

Where will new members come from to fill up the gaps in our family?  Who’s going to invite them? Who decides if we are going to adopt these outsiders? How do they get in? Do they have enough in common with the rest of us to fit in?

Just like in a family, there’s got to be some boundaries. There’s got to be some shared connections. In a family or in a church—we need some kind of common ground—don’t we?

In this morning’s Reading from the Book of Acts, the earliest church found itself on strange ground. A Gentile, an officer in the Roman Army of occupation in Jerusalem, had been converted, baptized as a Christian. How on earth did something like this happen?

            It began with the work of the Holy Spirit. We don’t know how observant he’d been before encountering Jesus, but now, in those first decades after our Lord’s resurrection, Peter found himself a major leader of the infant church. Along with James the Brother of our Lord, good old Peter had also become a spokesman for the Judaizers--a faction of Jewish Christians, some of who were apparently ex-Pharisees. 

They saw Christianity as a movement that was totally anchored within the bounds of the historic faith of Israel.  Following the Law, Circumcision, keeping yourself ritually pure, keeping kosher were not quaint ethnic customs— they were part and parcel of the many things that made you one of God’s chosen people. They were straight from Scripture. Israel had endured centuries of scorn and persecution from pagan neighbors and conquerors for her loving adherence to the Law. So what you ate, and whom you ate with, and consequently whom you did not eat with, were issues of life and death faithfulness to the Will of the Living God.

But in his vision at Joppa, when a sheet was let down from the sky—a sheet containing all sorts of animals, kosher and tref—clean and unclean—Peter’s old horizons,

and expectations, and set attitudes were exploded. A voice said to him,

“Rise Peter, kill and eat. “ Peter indignantly replied that he had never eaten anything

“Tref “ (“Unclean”—the opposite of “Kosher”) in his life.  But the voice and the vision came to him three times—once for each of the times he’d denied his Lord.  Three times the voice commanded, “Rise, kill and eat.” And “Don’t call anything I have created unclean” The voice had added.

When he awoke, Peter found men sent to him by Cornelius, an officer of the same army that was so cruelly oppressing his land and people. Peter went, met Cornelius and was surprised to learn that he too, had received a vision from the Risen Christ. Peter

entered Cornelius’ home. He ate with him. He baptized Cornelius and his household. When God’s Holy Spirit touched Cornelius and his household, Peter saw that his vision had not been so much about clean and unclean food, as it had really been about clean and unclean people.

            “Now I see that God plays no favorites!”  Peter had exclaimed in wonder.

            Back in Jerusalem, Peter found himself called to account for his actions.

In his defense, Peter shared his vision with James and the Judaizers.  This radical intermingling hadn’t been his idea. Quite frankly, it was an idea so outside the box, so disruptive, so unsettling that it couldn’t possibly have come from Peter or any of the other Apostles. Such a thing would never have occurred to them. They were still trying to integrate the Greek-speaking Hellenized Jews into the movement. This idea was so far-reaching, so powerful, and so bold that it could only have come from God.

 It had come in a vision, Peter told them, and he added that through that vision God had given Jesus and His Spirit, and their gifts of Salvation and Eternal Life and power, not only to the Jews, but also to the Gentiles. He had gone  to the Gentiles, not by his own design, but through the leading of God’s Spirit.

            I doubt you and I can even begin to imagine the shock.  Israel had been chosen as God’s people back in the time of Abraham. For two thousand years, she had suffered terribly because of that chosen-ness.  And now, one of their own, a Jew, an Apostle,

a man who had walked beside their Messiah, was telling them that God had told him the Divine promises were now extended to the Gentiles—to their persecutors, to pagans, to everyone! 

            At the end of the story, Luke tells us that everyone at First Church Jerusalem “glorified God” when they heard Peter’s vision.  Of course, Luke doesn’t tell us how long that process of acceptance and change took in some of their hearts. It must have taken a while certainly, because we know that the issue did not go away.  By the time the Apostle Paul came along and started converting Gentiles left and right, establishing churches all over the Roman Empire, some of those ex-Pharisee fuddy-duddies at First Church Jerusalem really got their shorts tied up in knots.

            “Who gave Paul the right to preach to Gentiles? Who gave him the authority to convert them? If these outsiders are going to become Christians, they should be like us! They should be circumcised, and should be made to keep the dietary restrictions, and follow the Laws of Moses. No more eating meat that has been sacrificed to idols, no more associating with pagan friends. You’ve got to be a Jew first in order to be a Christian.”

            If you’re curious about how that episode was resolved, read Acts 15 for the details. If you want the short answer though—just look around. How many of us in the Sanctuary this morning are strictly following the Laws of Moses? Men, where are your yarmulkes and prayer shawls? And why aren’t you ladies covering your heads? When was the last time you had a ham and cheese sandwich? Or a shrimp salad?

You and I—all of us here-- are the spiritual descendants of the people Israel.

But we are the spiritual descendants of those Greek God-fearers and ex-pagan converts as well.  We are here today, as we are—in part because of Peter’s vision.  But more than

that, we are here because of the work of the Holy Spirit of God.

 That’s because the Holy Spirit is a spirit of unity, not of division. Like the wind that blows where it will across borders and boundaries, the Holy Spirit is not terribly interested in boundaries between people. In fact, the work of the Spirit lies in breaking through the walls and barriers that you and I build up between our Maker, and us and between one another and us.

            For  the previous eleven chapters in the Book of Acts, we can see the Spirit dragging the early church—God’s family-- kicking and screaming, outward from that cozy little original circle of Aramaic speaking disciples and women, into Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost. And in the remaining chapters of Acts we can read how the Gospel spread into Samaria, to Greece, to Europe and out to Rome herself the very center of the world they knew in obedience to that same Spirit.

            That Roman world was in a time of cultural and spiritual ferment in the First Century. The old pagan religions were no longer working for many people. The Greek philosophies were in a time of change as well. New religions and cults and ideas were stepping forward into a competing marketplace of faiths. The world was ripe for the Gospel. It was a powerful and exciting time.

The greatest periods of growth and deepening for Christianity have always come at those sorts of times. Whenever cultures and peoples and understandings have met and interacted and learned from one another, the Biblical faith has been deepened and broadened and enriched. And consequently, the family of God’s people has grown by leaps and bounds.

Of course, such times can also be dangerous. They call into question long-held preconceptions and rigid dogmas with new ideas and perspectives. They  test the limits. They stretch the boundaries.  This time we’re living in right now, is a time like that.

That makes many of us nervous. Like James and the Judaizers, we want to grab onto the way things have always been and hold on for dear life. We want to shut the windows and lock the doors lest heresy leak in. We want, in effect, to shore up the boundaries and resist change and shut out all those people who threaten our faith—with their suspect beliefs, or their unfamiliar practices, or the way they lead what they believe is the Christian life.

On the other hand,  the only continent in which Christianity is not growing is North America.  We are living in the greatest mission field in the world.  Christianity has been evangelizing on this continent since Columbus.  What we’ve been doing, no longer works.

Boundaries may be necessary.  What is new and different is not automatically what is best.  But I for one cannot help recalling G.K. Chesterton words that  “every heresy has been an attempt to narrow the church.” 

Church History teaches us that the Holy Spirit has always been about broadening, not narrowing. The Spirit prods us out of our comfortable stereotypes and preconceptions. The Spirit stretches us and our boundaries--pushing us --as the Jerusalem church was pushed-- out from our old familiar ground onto dangerous, new ground. The Spirit invites us to walk away from the security of our everyday lives and step into a life built around the

excitement of sharing the Gospel with new and different people and expanding our relationships with the God within. Tennessee Williams wrote, “security is a kind of death”.

Will we allow the Holy Spirit to prod us in our lives, or to give us a vision, or to drag us, as it dragged  Peter and James and the early church family, kicking and screaming toward the wideness of God’s mercy? Or will we hunker down in our old attitudes and ideas—living and worshipping and socializing with people just like us—safe and secure with our boundaries firmly fixed—but running the risk that God’s Holy Spirit goes elsewhere in the task of reclaiming the wide whole world for it’s Maker?

            

Garrison Keilllor on "Methodists"

GARRISON KEILLOR ON "METHODISTS"
We make fun of Methodists for their blandness, their excessive calm, their fear of giving offense, their lack of speed, and also for their secret fondness for macaroni and cheese.
But nobody sings like them. If you were to ask an audience in New York City, a relatively Methodist-less place, to sing along on the chorus of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," they will look daggers at you as if you had asked them to strip to their underwear. But if you do this among Methodists, they'd smile and row that boat ashore and up on the beach! And down the road!
Many Methodists are bred from childhood to sing in four-part harmony, a talent that comes from sitting on the lap of someone singing alto or tenor or bass and hearing the harmonic intervals by putting your little head against that person's rib cage.
It's natural for Methodists to sing in harmony. They are too modest to be soloists, too worldly to sing in unison. When you're singing in the key of C and you slide into the A7th and D7th chords, all two hundred of you, it's an emotionally fulfilling moment. By joining in harmony, they somehow promise that they will not forsake each other.
I do believe this: People, these Methodists, who love to sing in four-part harmony are the sort of people you can call up when you're in deep distress.
*If you're dying, they will comfort you.
*If you are lonely, they'll talk to you.
*And if you are hungry, they'll give you tuna salad.
*Methodists believe in prayer, but would practically die if asked to pray out loud.
*Methodists like to sing, except when confronted with a new hymn or a hymn with more than four stanzas.
*Methodists believe their pastors will visit them in the hospital, even if they don't notify them that they are there.
*Methodists usually follow the official liturgy and will feel it is their way of suffering for their sins.
*Methodists believe in miracles and even expect miracles, especially during their stewardship visitation programs or when passing the plate.
Methodists think that the Bible forbids them from crossing the aisle while passing the peace.
*Methodists drink coffee as if it were the Third Sacrament.
*Methodists feel guilty for not staying to clean up after their own wedding reception in the Fellowship Hall.
*Methodists are willing to pay up to one dollar for a meal at the church.
*Methodists still serve Jell-O in the proper liturgical color of the season and think that peas in a tuna casserole adds too much color.
*Methodists believe that it is OK to poke fun at themselves and never take themselves too seriously.
And finally, You know you are a Methodist when:
It's 100 degrees, with 90% humidity, and you still have coffee after the service.
You hear something funny during the sermon and smile as loudly as you can.
Donuts are a line item in the church budget, just like coffee.
When you watch a Star Wars movie and they say, "May the Force be with you," you respond, "and also with you."
And lastly, it takes ten minutes to say good-bye!

Nouwen

"Through the Valley of the Shadow" given April 17

A funny thing happened to me, on my way to Church this morning.  Just as I was starting to cross the parking lot, a flying saucer landed right in front of me. A couple of little green extra-terrestrial people got out, asked me for directions to Chicago, and jumped back into the saucer and headed back up into the air.

            You don't believe me? You think I'm pulling your leg? Okay. I admit it didn't happen.  The truth is, they were headed for Milwaukee. No, I'm kidding. No, the pastor hasn't been working too hard. Yes the pastor is kidding. We don't have to call the D.S.

What I’m pointing at is the fact is you and I have something of a stake in reassuring ourselves that I didn't meet a group of little green men and women on my way to church this morning. Just for fun, ask yourself this for a moment. Why didn't you believe me? In point of fact, you have no way of knowing for sure that this did not really happen.

            But what if it did? How could I possibly tell you that?  If I had met a flying saucer full of little green people looking for directions to Milwaukee, I would have one very strong reasons for not daring to mention that experience to anyone.  You'd think I was crazy.

            And if I did tell you about it, if I strenuously insisted that it really did happen, you would have one of two options.

(1)                           You might have to call those nice young men in the clean white coats to give me a quick ambulance ride to a nice, comfy, padded room for a few days.

(2)                           Or you would have to grope for an explanation-- a quick, logical alternative explanation---like for instance, swamp gas, or a weather balloon—any explanation  that would explain why such a thing had never happened, could never have happened, simply because it has never happened to you.

            There’s a kind of powerful mental monitoring going on inside most people’s heads. It polices and censors any claim or concept or testimony that doesn’t  fit into our nice, neat, scientific pre-existing worldview. Nothing is to be believed that hasn't happened to us. Nothing can happen that hasn't already happened before.

            About the time of Columbus, this nice, neat, scientific, Enlightenment world-view yanked Western Civilization out of the superstition and squalor and death of the Middle ages, and into the Modern Age— the age of the Industrial Revolution-- the age of cars, trains and automobiles--the age, the culture that put men on the moon. 

But in that journey, humankind has come close to losing its’ soul.  Now we live in wnat some call the Post-Enlightenment, or Post-Modern, or Digital Age—the age of computers and I-Pods, and e-mail.

Even more than in that previous age, you and I live in a culture that is constantly  de-bunking and devaluing the experiences we have that cannot be readily quantified, or easily categorized, or explained.. We live in a world where just about anyone will reveal and talk to anybody about just about anything going on in their lives—except for their money and their spirituality. There are reasons having to do with the limits of our culture's so-called "post-modern" view of the world that make it tough for us to think about or talk about unorthodox points of view, or unproved scientific speculation, or most especially about spiritual or religious truth.

            In this morning's lesson from the Book of Acts, we read about an older woman who lived at Joppa. Her name was Dorcas, or Tabitha in Aramaic-- both words mean "Gazelle"-- a pretty name in any language.

            What sort of person was she? Suffice to say that Dorcas or Tabitha was the only woman in the entire New Testament who is described by the feminine form of the Greek word for  "disciple". Tabitha's discipleship is evident in her "good works and acts of charity".  She has been sheltering and caring for those for whom no one else in the early church would care, nursing them and making them clothes.

            But then Tabitha becomes ill and dies. Peter is called. When he arrives, he is greeted by weeping widows who Tabitha supported. They show him the clothes Tabitha had made for them. With no one else to protect them, no one else to see to their needs, what will happen to these poor, vulnerable women? There is no Social Security, no pension funds, no Public Aid in the first Century.  Tabitha, their protector is dead, so now these widows are as good as dead.

            The story opens with death-- seemingly ubiquitous-- death the final enemy. Poor people, people who can't get health care, people who are frail and vulnerable, are enslaved to the power of death. That was the reality in the First Century world, and it is still the reality in most, in far too much of the world in the opening decade of the Twenty-First. That's the way that the stories about the poor of this world end-- in death—and sooner rather than later, usually. In point of fact, that is the way all of our stories eventually end—at least, according to our nice, neat, scientific pre-existing post-modern worldview.

            Surprise! This time, death does not have the final word! This time, the narrative moves on to a new and fresh affirmation of Divine power. Peter's command,

"Tabitha, get up!" reminds me of Jesus' command to the corpse of Lazarus.

             “Lazarus, come forth!”

            "..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

 I will fear no evil. For thou art with me."

 We say that all the time at funerals. Do we truly believe that great piece of poetry?

            Luke, the complier and author of Acts, wants us to believe that the disciples of Jesus now have the same power over death that our Lord did. Just as Jesus raised Lazarus, Peter raised Tabitha. In the world of death, in the world of grief, a word of life has been spoken. If you thought Easter happened three Sundays ago, think again. The Easter story continues.

            "..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."  Do you believe it? It's a tough one. Jesus' own Resurrection is at the core of our faith. Most of us believe in that, one way or another, or we wouldn't be here. Believing that He raised up Lazarus may perhaps be a bit tougher.  But believing that Peter raised somebody up-- loud mouthed, impulsive, fallible, slightly dense, comic relief sidekick Peter-- that's a stretch.

            As I said at the beginning of this message, there are powerful cultural forces at work against the possibility of you and I believing in this story. They tell us that things like this don't happen. They tell us that things like this can't happen. They tell us that a dead widow stays dead, that death always has the final say--especially over the lives of the poor and dispossessed—and sooner rather than later, usually..

            "..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."  It's not only that you and I don't necessarily believe that it's even possible for someone to be raised up from the dead.  It's that you and I are unsure that there truly is an unseen, inexplicable, mysterious power let loose in this all too secular post-modern world of ours. And it’s difficult for us to believe that this power is unto life rather than a power unto death.

The problem with this story for us is not that we're unsure that good old Peter could actually raise this dear old woman to life. And indeed, we may have a problem with the idea that any of those all-too-human disciples could actually have power over death. The core problem with this story for you and for me, is that we really are unsure that we could be raised to life.

            Ask yourself, I invite you. Where in your life today, are things fixed, closed, settled, dead?  For what do you grieve today? Your relationships? Your job? Your family? Your past or your future? Your dreams and hopes and prayers and possibilities?  Where in your life, have you given death power?

            “I hate this job I’m stuck in. I’m too old to go out and find something else, and too young to retire. All I can do is tough it out until I turn 65.”

            “Sometimes I feel that I can’t stay in this relationship any longer. But if I left, where would I go? Who would I be with? And what about the kids?

            “He promised me that he’ll never do it again.”

            “This company is going downhill, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

            “ I pray and pray, but it just feels like my prayers never get past the ceiling.”

            “He may not be Mister Right, but I’ll settle for Mister Right Now.”

            “I’m afraid my job is going to go overseas—but I’m too old to change.”

            “Pregnant again? O no!”

            “I tell myself that I can quit anytime.”

            “You can’t fight City Hall”

            “It’s Cancer. I’m sorry”

            “What’s wrong with our church the way it is?”

            “You’d better sit down, I have something to tell you.”

            “It’s important that our country stay the course.”

            `Remember Simon and Garfunkel?

                        “Life a rat in a maze, my path before me lies.

                     And the pattern never alters, until the rat dies.””

            But take heed friends.  For Luke is telling us that when the life-giving Good News is spoken and truly heard, the dead just might rise.  The future is opened up. Circumstances mysteriously change. Previously unseen options appear almost magically. Buried possibilities spring up from the earth and blossom. Coincidences that are too meaningful to truly be purely coincidental begin to occur. Serendipity begins to happen. Hope for change is reborn in hearts that were barren.

            The needs of others become important to us. . Hidden opportunities suddenly present themselves. And all of a sudden, new directions become apparent. Seemingly critical obstacles are easily overcome. Dead ends are easily side-stepped. Suddenly, we discover new meaning and purpose in the living of our everyday lives. And everything makes way for Easter. 

“Death has been swallowed up in victory,

where O death is thy victory? Where is thy sting?”

"..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

Here, as dear old Tabitha rises to life, we can see Easter happening all over again. The poor have someone who comes among them and boldly speaks the words of life. Believers find themselves empowered to change. Death, in whatever form it presents itself, is defeated. The future is open. And life—new life in God-- triumphs.

Do you believe it? "..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."  A few years ago, a woman was interviewed on CNN who had lost everything

due to the ravages of a hurricane in Florida. Through both private and Government aid, through the efforts of teams of volunteer homebuilders, this woman was able to buy a new home. In the interview she said,

"It's like being born again. I thought my life was over. Now I'm going to have a new home. I'm born again."  "..though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."  She believes. Can you and I?

"Who do you think you've been persecuting?" Given April 10

The Book of Acts doesn't tell us how long Saul lay there face down in the dirt on the road to Damascus. But whether it was a matter of a few seconds, or minutes, or even longer, it must have seemed like a century to Saul. These Christians he had despised had been right after all!

Who did he think he’d been persecuting? He’d thought he’d been persecuting a crazy, heretical, dangerous cult. But if Jesus of Nazareth really had what it took to burst free of the grave, if that truly was Jesus up there in the blinding light, then Saul the persecutor, Saul the Christian-baiter, Saul, who had been a willing accomplice in the murder of Stephen, was in deep, deep trouble.

Everything he had been and was up to that moment, was suddenly a fraud. His religion, his profession, his education, his social status, his Roman citizenship, his place in the community, his nationality, his career, his immediate future, even his eternal future-- all of them meant nothing. If Jesus was truly the Messiah, then Saul's life had been built on a lie

All of his achievements and accomplishments, and all his pious deeds, and religious scrupulosity suddenly meant less than the dust he was lying in at that moment. In a flash of light,  Saul’s very existence had become meaningless and empty.  What could he possibly do, except lay there and wait for the ax to fall?  Only it wasn't an ax that fell.

"That crowd in Damascus," Jesus said. "Don't fight them. Join them. I want you on my side." Saul the Pharisee fell to the ground on the road to Damascus. Paul the Christian, Paul the Apostle rose up. Paul was never to forget the sheer joy and astonishment his heart felt in that moment.

Of course, Paul was blind as a bat for three days after that encounter. He had to be led around by the hand by strangers like Ananias. He couldn’t eat or drink. But at last he made it to Damascus, and was baptized on the spot.  He was never the same again. And neither was Christianity.  Neither for that matter, was the world.

We modern, mainline Christians might have a couple of problems with that story. We aren't, by and large, oriented to believe in instantaneous, life-transforming visions that come to us out of the blue. Oh, we may hear about them in church. We can tune in and see instantaneous healings of everything from hangnails to cancer and personal conversions on Christian television any night of the week. But something makes many of us look askance at such radical, emotional, life-changing moments.

We wonder, at the back of our minds if such sudden,  abrupt changes in people's lives ever really last. Or if it's just the excitement and emotion of the moment. That's not to say that we don't wouldn’t like a  little instant change now and then. We'd all probably appreciate a quick fix miracle in our lives, now and then. It’s just that we don't necessarily trust the evidence that such things exist.

It's like the joke. How many psychotherapists does it take to change a light bulb? Only one. But it takes a long, long time, and the light bulb really has to want to change.

That's our attitude. We don't really believe in transformation. At best, we believe in growth. We look for process. We don't trust sudden changes in people-- much less changes that they weren't working on for a long, long time.

We scan Paul’s letters for anything that hints of a previous spiritual hunger-- a possible foundation for this radical conversion. You and I can engage in tons of extra-Biblical psychological speculation to explain Saul’s conversion into Paul as something more comprehensible to our modern mind-set. But the truth is, none of that is in the actual story.

Saul isn’t searching for something more meaningful in his life-- he isn’t searching for anything but Christians to persecute.  He isn’t filled with inner doubts.  Like all inquisitors of all stripes, Saul has no doubts at all that the terrible things he’s doing are exactly what God wants him to do.

            A pastoral counselor was asked  what he had learned in 30 years of listening to people and their problems.

            "I have learned that people almost never, hardly ever, change."

            Wow, that's got to be tough.

But then he added, "But sometimes they do. And that's enough to make you nervous!"

This is a tough story for some of us to swallow.  It makes us nervous. We don’t like that image of Paul wandering around, stumbling, confused, blind. Dependency, vulnerability, painful self-knowledge, honest hard won humility--  are not experiences we necessarily covet.

Who did we think we’ve been persecuting? To fall on our knees before God and to face one another blinded by our own sense of sin and guilt-- our pride destroyed, our justifications and excuses and alibis exploded, our naked soul exposed-- warts and sins and shortcomings and all-- is not a comforting experience. We don’t want to think that we’ll ever have to live through that sort of personal Good Friday. We don’t want to think that we’ll ever need that sort of second chance. We don’t like to think that we’ll ever have to change in such a radical and painful way.

 We want to be in control. We want to call the shots.  Like Saul, we want to ride confidently down the road, knowing exactly what’s ahead of us, knowing exactly where we’re heading, marching to the beat of “I did it my way”.  And we want to believe that our way is of course, identical with God’s way. We want letters of introduction in our hands, a diploma in our hip pocket, a few CDs in the bank, a good medical plan with dental coverage now,  a nice home, a loving family, an interesting career and a generous pension supplemented by an IRA waiting for us when we’re 65. Who did we think we’ve been persecuting?

But that’s not what our God  has in mind for us.  Read the Gospels. Jesus was always calling men and women away from their o-so-carefully planned lives, away from their sins, away from death. Jesus was always calling people to abrupt decision and immediate change.  Jesus was always calling people to new life.

"Follow me!" He said. And Peter and Andrew and James and John laid down their nets and walked away from their fishing boats-- to follow. Matthew rose up from his counting table, leaving behind accounts and ledgers and piles of uncollected tax bills-- to follow. More than one prostitute walked away from the trap of pimps and clients and paying protection-- to follow.  Lazarus walked out of the tomb-- to follow. Paul rose up from the Damascus road-- to follow.

Like it or not, sometime or the other in this life, you and I already have, or someday will, or will again, find ourselves thrown up against the immediate necessity to change or flounder. Sometime or the other, our God, working through apparent accident or blind circumstances, through serendipity  or seeming coincidence, through other people and their needs or their love, through radical conviction of our own guilt and sin,  even through our mistakes, will confront each and every one of us with the absolute demand to confess, to change our lives,  to transform our very selves-- Now. Who did we think we’ve been persecuting?

            Sometime or other, Jesus is going to walk down the beach and call out to us that we need to stop running back to old lives on the fishing boat every time things get tough. Come and have breakfast so that we can be nurtured to go out and feed his sheep.  Sometime or the other we'll find ourselves challenged by and empowered by the Holy Spirit to follow in faith, without knowing where exactly it is that we're going.

It’s a second chance. It’s a call that we dare not resist-- sometimes cannot resist. And it’s a call that won’t necessarily come cheaply or easily. All of a sudden you lose everything you believed about yourself,  all your previous certainties.  And all your pride, all your defenses and delusions and walls are unexpectedly gone. You don’t even know who you are anymore, you wander about, confused, stumbling, and blind. 

Of course, not all change is that way. Not all conversions are that way. Not all messages from God come to us in such dramatic ways. If like Ananias, we are used to praying and listening on a regular and disciplined basis, God will be able to speak to us in those quiet times The more in tune we are with our Maker in our lives, the more able we will be to experience God’s word to us as a kind-hearted, loving but firm conversation, that points out a previously unseen path before us.

There are times in this life-- as a friend of mine from college used to say-- when the Holy Spirit unexpectedly reaches down and grabs us by the ears and puts us where God needs us. Then there are times in this life-- as a friend of mine from seminary used to say-- when we look around and all at once realize that we've been gently led to where we are right now.  There’s a plaque on the wall of my office that reads: “The sign of God is that we will find ourselves led where we did not plan to go.”

 But there are those times-- as Paul discovered-- when we have been so deaf to our Maker’s word and will,  that God has to lay hold of us in a powerful and unmistakable way. Such moments can only be described in terms of concrete reality-- lights and voices. And when that happens, the purity of it's brightness will literally blind us to everything else in this world but itself.

It's called a “Theophany”—that’s a Greek word that means essentially: a 100% genuine, certified all organic, real live encounter with the Holy. And after it, we are no longer the same person. We have come face to face with the risen Christ. We have experienced a Resurrection moment.  We have come face to face with ourselves--warts and all--gifts and all. It's our moment of Judgment. Who did we think we’ve been persecuting? It's realized eschatology-- the end of our old world, the death of our old life.

It’s being born again. And it is the beginning of a new life-- abundant life, eternal life. It’s a life that isn’t necessarily always going to be easy,  but it will be fulfilling and challenging, joyful and purposeful.

Maybe we’ll be awakened by an insistent knocking on the door of our apartment in the middle of the night. We’ll open the door and our neighbor-- a woman we hardly know-- is standing there covered in nothing but blood and bruises. She thrusts her baby into our arms. “Please keep her safe till he sobers up-- I don’t want him to hurt her too.”

One day perhaps, we finally find the courage to refuse to move to the back of the bus. Perhaps a friend or a neighbor or a loved one asks us for help-- a hand up in their hour of need. Perhaps the company where we’ve been working for the past twenty years suddenly files a Chapter 13. Perhaps the rabbit dies and we suddenly find ourselves on the road to unplanned parenthood. Perhaps a child, or the child of a friend, or a friend tells us that they've got AIDS. 

Perhaps a phony acquittal of a killer cop in Chicago, or a bombed building somewhere or other, or two bombed buildings in downtown Manhattan, or a school shooting in Colorado, or Virginia, or DeKalb, or wherever, makes us uncomfortably aware that injustice and racism and hatred and violence are still very much alive all over our beloved land and in our world.  At such moments, something like scales fall from our eyes and we can see.

Maybe our boss tells us that she knows we’re addicted-- and it’s time to either get help or be fired.  Maybe our spouse one day tells us to decide-- her or me.  Perhaps we find ourselves confronted with the terrifying knowledge that the game is up, the deception is over, our old life of sin and lies must now die-- in order that we can be born again. Who did we think we’ve been persecuting?

At such moments-- just like Saul-- you and I are suddenly stuck with the unbearable knowledge that literally everything in our life up to that very moment, has been empty and meaningless. We’re a fraud, our religion is empty, our heart is filled with anger and self-pity and sin. We’ve been cruising on charm and talent and hot air. Our self-centered behavior has hurt others-- we’ve wounded those we care about and love. 

Who did we think we’ve been persecuting? And then, wonder of wonders, this same Jesus who we've been persecuting by the very way we live our lives, tells us to get up on our feet, spit the dirt out of our mouths and get on down the road to Damascus. He wants us on His side. 

We’ve got that second chance. He's got work for us. We've got new hope, new possibility, new life in front of us. Tithe! Go volunteer at the pantry! Take a church office!! Go re-start our choir! Teach Sunday School! Teach adult literacy! Comfort a neighbor in pain. The possibilities are limitless when we open our eyes and our ears.

He is Risen, and His love has raised us up from sin and death!.  We've got Good News to share. We've got a world to tell it to.

Friends, you and I need to keep our ears open, through prayer and worship-- listening for that word. You and I need to keep our minds open to the possibility of change in our lives. Who did we think we’ve been persecuting? We’ve been persecuting Jesus—and we’ve been persecuting ourselves.

You and I need to keep our eyes open to the needs of this world-- and of Christ's hungry sheep in it. You and I need to keep our lives open to Christ's invitation to follow.  You and I need to keep our spirits open to the hope and joy that comes from walking the path of faithful integrity.  Above all,   you and I need to keep our hearts open to the touch of the Holy Spirit.

            No matter our age, our circumstances, our gender, our stage of life, our skin color or tongue, our way of worship, you and I need to keep our hearts, our spirits, our minds, our lives, our very selves, and our world,  open to God's plan.  Amen. 

"You Call This A Church?" given April 3, 2016

            There are a few things common to all churches, whatever their denomination and wherever they find themselves. Clergy tend to act like clergy the world over. Most churches have a women's society, covered dish suppers for fellowship, and some sort of educational outreach.

            But beyond that, churches quite often don't have much in common. They gather in vastly different circumstances. There is no common architecture.  They all worship with different orders.

            Some churches I have visited seem to have everything--a number of huge choirs--both vocal and bell, an orchestra or two, stained-glass windows with a million pieces of imported glass, four pipe organs, closed circuit TV to the nursery. I've know of a church with a genuine imported-from-Lebanon, cedar communion table with twelve chairs—that only gets used once a year on Holy Thursday

            What else would you need to have church? I read the other day that Robert Schueller of the Crystal Cathedral said that the most important attribute of a church was an accessible, large, fully available parking lot.

            Granted, good parking is great, but what else would you need, other than a good parking lot, to have a church?

            Today's gospel gives us a picture of a church that had no pipe organ, or even an old upright piano.  No choir.  Not even a pastor.  In fact, it's a picture of the church at its worst, the first miserable little group ever to take upon itself the name "church."

            It's the disciples of Jesus gathered after his resurrection. Look at them! For long, painstaking chapters in John's Gospel, Jesus has been preparing his disciples for his departure. He has gone over and over his commandments to love one another, to be bold, to trust him, to be ready to follow him at all costs.

            Somebody wasn't paying attention. Look at them, cowering like frightened rabbits behind closed, bolted doors. They were supposed to be walking confidently out into the world, full of the Holy Spirit, announcing the Easter triumph of God.  Look at them hunched down, cowering, hoping that nobody in town will know that they're there. Here, is the church at its worst - "scarred, disheartened, and defensive."          

            What kind of advertisement might this church put in the Saturday paper to attract members?  "The friendly church where all are welcome"?

            Hardly.  Locked doors are not a sign of hospitality.  "The church with a warm heart and a bold mission"?  Forgedaboudit! This is the church of sweaty palms and shaky knees. "The church where everybody is somebody and Jesus is Lord?" To judge by their actions, they're more convinced that everybody is a nobody and Jesus is dead.

            Could this sad collection of losers even be called a church? Not only is there no sanctuary, no pulpit, no choir, no parking lot.  More  significantly it has no plan, no mission, no conviction, no nothing.

            Not long ago, in a questionnaire, laity of our United Methodist denomination were asked what they looked for most in a church and they  said "friendliness." Number two was "bold, interesting preaching." Nobody replied "locked doors." "Frightened members." "Fear.". Here is a church with absolutely nothing going for it except . . Except that, when it gathered, the risen Christ pushed through the locked door, threw back the bolt, and stood among them.

            Maybe that's every church. Even the one in Houston with a dozen bowling alleys and a pool, or the big one at the former restaurant on Perryville Road with a large-screen closed circuit TV and the piped in worship services, or our church with its terrific bands and outstanding choir, its gorgeous windows, and its adorable preacher. Because the truth is that left to our own devices, we are nothing, nothing more than a huddle of confused, timid, cowering failures to follow Jesus.

            We ministers and musicians have learned this. Every Monday-- sometimes even on Sunday afternoon we evaluate in our own minds the service from top to bottom. And every week, we try to carefully select every hymn and prayer and song coordinated to the texts and/or theme for the coming Sunday.  Yet the truth is that despite all of our educated planning, worship -real worship-is not of our creation.  It's a gift.

            In fact, sometimes I think that our laborious planning, or selecting and evaluating, is just another form of those disciples' locked doors. We plan the service, proofread the bulletin so we  can  keep it all fixed,

planned, tied down. This can be death.

            But sometimes, by the grace of a living God, the Holy Spirit slips through our closed doors, our plodding through the bulletin, and there is worship, worship not of our own creation but worship as a gift.  And we take off our shoes in awed wonder, for we have become church.

            I would venture a guess that there are many churches which, to the outside observer, maybe even some of those on the inside, look successful, prosperous, and thriving with their attractive, well- maintained buildings, their numerous programs and activities. Yet, at their heart, they're cold and dead.  Too many churches, I suspect, are "a-theistic," that is, they kept cranking along, offering ceramics classes for older adults, yoga classes for busy homemakers, trips to Disney World for the youth so that God really didn't matter.

            They may well be very successful at being an uplifting moral improvement society for the youth or a place for retirees to hang out during the week, but they have failed at being church.

            If you want to see us, stripped of our sacred trappings, our pretense peeled away, then look there in this 20th chapter of John -a pitiful huddle of timid souls hanging on to one another behind our locked doors. Without the presence, the presence which makes our human gatherings the church of God, this is who we are.

            The good news is that it was to this church, which was hardly church, that the living, risen Christ came saying "Peace be with you" Into this busy, buzzing void there was a voice, a presence. You might have thought that Christ would come like our bishops, when our church has failed to pay its’ full

apportionments from the  general church, saying, "shame on you all!  You call yourselves a church?"

            No. He says, "Peace be with you," showing them His pierced hands

and feet. He says again (in case we failed to get the point, He knows  how dull we are) "Peace be with you," telling them that He is sending  them out into the world. Then He breathes on them, giving them the Holy Spirit, bestowing upon them the awesome power to forgive sins.

            You put these gifts together, and they are the church. To the church which had nothing, He gives everything.  Spirit.  Mission. Forgiveness.

            We are church, not because of the building we've built and cared for, not because of the choir, the organ, the preaching, or the various activities. We are church because to us, even to us, He has come and given us His gifts of Spirit, mission, and forgiveness, commissioning  us to give them to the whole world in His name.

            That's why we're called church.

            Church isn't my hard work, your earnest effort, our long-range  planning, or heavy-duty giving.  Church is a gift, a visitation, an  intrusion of the living Christ standing among us.