"Our Advent Joy" given Dec. 17, 2017

 This morning our Advent candle is pink. Today is the Sunday of the Church year historically known as "Gaudette" Sunday. The name comes from the Latin word for "Rejoice". It's kind of a shame that the Liturgical color for Advent is the same as for Lent. That gives the impression that Advent is something of a dour, solemn season. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth.

The four Sundays of Advent should be a time of rising excitement, happy expectation and prayerful preparation for the celebration of the coming of Christ. This expectancy is well symbolized by the lighting of one additional Advent candle each Sunday, until the wreath is a glowing circle of light beside the altar.

The liturgy, prayers, music and readings for the Third Sunday of Advent have traditionally called Christians to prepare for the coming of the Christ child into the world with celebration. "Sing and shout for joy" proclaimed the OT prophet Zephaniah. "Rejoice in the Lord always. The Lord is near" exclaimed the Apostle Paul. "Draw water from the wellsprings of joy" cried the prophet Isaiah. "Good Christian Friends, Rejoice with heart and soul and voice." we've been singing.

If rejoicing is what today is all about though, what's that old killjoy John the Baptist doing in this morning's Gospel reading. Where did he come from, with his long hair and untrimmed beard and his camel-skin jockey shorts? We know all about John.

He was the original end-of-the-world-nutcase Christian. "Repent of your sins, you brood of vipers!" he called. "Come be washed in the river of your disgusting, revolting hypocrisy and secret lusts and sleazy desires and slimy back- stabbing behavior." He nagged.

"Don't think you can be saved by just coming here and making a public show of your baptism. Repent of the evil within you. Change your sinful ways. Don't think yourself superior to your pagan neighbors because of your Hebrew ancestry. Why God can make better descendants of Abraham and Sarah out of these rocks than you are." John thundered. "You're all going to hell in a bucket!"

And standing there, as big as life, preaching on the banks of the Jordan, John might have pointed to the opposite shore. Perhaps there was a grove of fruit trees planted there. Maybe a crew of workers were cutting down the trees that had not brought forth fruit that season. If so, the crowd might have been able to hear the sound of their axes.

"God will judge you by your fruits. See, the ax is already laid to the base of the tree." And then the Baptist pointed to the smoke rising behind the workers, where the twisted and marred branches were being burnt. "See the smoke! The bonfires are already lit! Repent and produce the fruits of righteousness or be cast into eternal flames!" He thundered.

Talk about a party-pooper! Who wants to hear all that? What has hell and damnation preaching got to do with Advent? What has all that talk of sin and repentance got to do with our joyful expectation of the birth of the Baby in the Manger? Nothing! Or does it? Could it be that repentance and rejoicing are part of the same movement in our lives? Could it be that repentance and rejoicing are more than that--that they are actually opposite sides of the same coin?

Maybe that sounds strange. But on the other hand, maybe we haven't looked at either one of these concepts closely enough. We tend to associate repentance with giving up our treasured personal indulgences, with painful self-discipline, with sacrificial giving, with living some sort of ultra-straight-laced, phoney, goody-two-shoes, prissy, hypocritical life-style. None of that sounds particularly pleasant, much less joyful. We tend to think of repentance as giving up things that we like to do, in order to do things that others tell us we ought to do.

Although we may not consciously recognize it, what most of us hope to do is beat the system. Whether we admit it or not, we take the thief on the cross as our model. We intend to go on judging ourselves, and our secret, and our not-so-secret sins for as long as we possibly can.

We call that "sowing our wild oats". Then, when the kids are old enough to be impressionable, or when we figure we're too old to enjoy our vices anymore, we'll give them up. We call that "settling down". And eventually, we figure we'll become a church-goer so that we can squeeze our way into heaven at the last moment with a minimum of effort and self-sacrifice.

This morning's readings, if we look at them with care, lay out for us a very different sequence of events in the life of the spirit. First, we sensed with surprise the presence of God in our lives. That Divine presence fills us with awe and joy. And in response, totally of our own free choice, we feel an almost overpowering outbreak of unselfishness in our lives.

To our surprise, we find that the expectations of other people, or of the church, have nothing to do with our response. A sense of duty or guilt has nothing to do with it, either. Even commandments or Bible passages, or social conscience, or outright pity have nothing to do with our response. It doesn't come from outside us. It comes from inside us.

We choose, we yearn, we want with all our hearts to freely and openly respond to the grace that has been given to us, with generosity and love.

We want to turn our lives around. We want to begin living in new directions. How else can we respond to a God who actively seeks us in the midst of our world? How else can we respond to a God whose deepest desire is to draw us nearer, ever nearer in joy? When you and I have known that touch, felt that Divine Presence, our only possible response is joy. And then the repentance, the self-giving, the discipline, the service just happens, growing forth from our joy.

God doesn't have to tell us at that moment to change our lives. Nobody has to tell a tax collector he'd feel less like a louse if he stopped skimming off the top and gouging his already overburdened clients. Nobody has to tell soldiers they's be more comfortable with their spit-and-polish attitude if they didn't use it as a another weapon against the weak and the oppressed. Nobody has to tell you, or me that we'd like ourselves better if we respected the way in which we were conducting our own lives.

We're all aware that we feel better about our own selves after doing something concrete to feed the hungry, or shelter the homeless, or simply help out a friend in a jam. We're all aware of how good it feels to give someone truly needy the shirt off our back. We'd all like to be like that. Our God simply reminds us that the truest joy, the deepest satisfaction, the peace that passes understanding are all tied to a loving and generous heart.

Unfortunately, we're as tentative about rejoicing as we are about repenting. We can't handle that pure, unadulterated, 200 proof stuff. We're afraid of joy. We've traded the possibility of the joy of God's presence for what we call worldly security. Open-ness, joy, generosity go against our careful, tidy, thrifty, tiny little souls. We forget that another word for thrifty is mean. We forget that another word for careful is afraid.

We tell ourselves, take it easy. Don't get involved. Look before you leap. Don't get emotional. Look out for tomorrow. Don't give it away or there won't be enough for you if you ever really need it. Don't let yourself feel too much or get out of control.

We've bought a bill of goods from somewhere or the other that tells us that religion is supposed to be private, and quiet, and internal, and prudent and basically confined to Sunday mornings. We feel awkward applauding in church, or laughing too loud, or witnessing in front of the congregation. Because "we don't do that in our church."

There’s the story of the out of town brother who came to visit a very prestigious, high toned church—he walked on double thick Persian carpeting in the sanctuary, gorgeous stained glass windows, the organist playing Bach, and the ushers wearing tailcoats. During the sermon, the out of town fellow, suddenly let out with an “Amen! Preach!”. Before he knew it, the ushers had closed in on him, and were escorting out the Sanctuary.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“We don’t shout ‘amen’ during the sermon” answered one of the ushers.”

“But I’ve got the spirit!” the guy protested.

“Yeah well, you didn’t get it here!”

Our very real religious feelings and yearnings have been straight- jacketed. We fear or mistrust genuine expressions of the presence of God in our heart-- like joy and hope. We think those are private emotions. We don't want to express them in worship. But the truth is, those feelings are more than private.

They are meant to be shared. They die unless they are shared. They grow when they are shared. We hunger for them in our deepest hearts. Yet we stifle and control and bury that ache for warmth inside us until it becomes spiritual heartburn.

And by then, we've squeezed God out. By then, we've forgotten that our faith, our God is about nothing more than simply sharing and giving and loving and caring. Joy? Love? Peace? Hope? We act as if we think those sort of feelings have nothing to do with how we should be living our lives in the world.

Frankly our values are warped. We'll pump a friend for their most pressing emotional trials, for all the ins and outs of their relationship with their spouse. But we wouldn't think of embarrassing them by offering financial assistance. We'll support capital punishment and oppose a woman's right to control her own reproductive system. We'll blather on about the most intimate details of our sex lives before we'll share our spiritual journeys. Our society encourages us to turn to the bottle, or to the lotto, or to illicit relationships, or to pop psychology, or just to wallow in our own private misery, rather than turn to God.

Our values are warped. We're too tentative about joy. Even our good deeds have an awkward air about them. It's as if they were being done out of duty, rather than naturally, freely, out of love. Too often we say without words, "Look how good I am to be doing this, even though I'm not very comfortable doing it. Ain't I a saint!" Too often, we spoil even our most successful efforts by a cloying, self-conscious self-righteousness that, to our surprise, sours our joy.

But there is One who is the source of true integrity, true joy in doing good. There is One who can free us of such creaking stops and starts. We forget that. And so we force God to prod us, to wheedle us, even to fool us with worldly lessons and circumstances and coincidences that are not really what they seem. There is One who is actively struggling to get into our lives, with joy and hope and peace.

It takes great faith to repent. It takes great faith to admit that our so-called spiritual life is empty and shallow. It takes great faith to come with honesty before the God who is steadier than we are in sustaining joy. It takes great faith to admit that it is God who has the generous heart, and that our own hearts are empty.

And sooner or later the judgment, the word of that old sourpuss John the Baptist comes to us again.

"You children of snakes! Produce the fruit which shows your repentance."

And sooner or later the word of the Apostle comes to us, calling us, begging us in God's name to unbend our hearts and our lives and get on the bandwagon, to loosen up and let go, and let God in.

"Rejoice... again I say rejoice... Be anxious about nothing, but in everything let your requests be known to God by thankful prayer and petition. Finally, sisters and brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, what- ever is of good report-- if anything is excellent or praise-worthy-- think about such things, live out such things.. and the peace of God will be with you." Amen.

Mahalia Jackson - I Wonder, As I Wander

Sister Rosetta Tharpe - Up Above My Head

"Waiting in Hope" given 12/10/2017

 Mark begins his Gospel by boldly proclaiming, "Good News about Jesus Christ." But immediately after that opening fanfare, we meet, not Jesus, but his cousin, John the Baptizer. In fact, all of the Gospels begin their stories of Jesus by first telling the reader about John.

It's as if they were trying to say "You can't hear Jesus unless you first hear John". It's as if they were trying to say, "In order to comprehend Jesus' message in full, you need to put it in context." Jesus' words had antecedents. The Bible doesn't say so, but Jesus might easily have spent some time sitting at John's feet. Jesus might easily have learned how to preach the Good News by hearing John speak it before him.

John burst onto the scene, creating new excitement and drawing the people of Judah and Jerusalem out to the banks of the river Jordan. John preached to them the message of repentance, calling upon them to confess their sins and receive baptism and forgiveness.

John is the beginning, the forerunner, the introduction if you will, to the Good News. It is he who prepares Israel for the one to come, who he admits will be mightier than he. And the Gospel accounts make it clear that John's popularity and influence had a direct impact on the political and religious leaders of the land, as well as on the common people.

How can we account for that? Some of it may have been simple curiosity--a taste for the novel and the bizarre. The Baptizer was indeed like some crazy prophet out of the Old Testament. He came from nowhere, from out of the wilderness. His hair was uncombed, he wore uncured animal skins for clothes, his nails and beard were untrimmed, and worst of all , his body probably smelled of grime and sweat and honey and the insects that made up his diet.

But when he preached, it was like the prophet Elijah had returned. He spoke the plain, unvarnished truth. It could not have been particularly comfortable, or easy to hear. But it was the truth. John's sermons brought a message of sin, of the need for immediate response, of impending doom. And he did not spare the religious authorities, or the prosperous merchants, or even the royal court from his condemnation.

"Repent you sinners! Turn your lives around, you corrupt politicians! Prepare the way of the Lord, before it's too late! The ax is laid to the root of the tree! You priests and Pharisees call yourselves children of Abraham. Phooey! Abraham can get better descendants from the stones on the ground than from you. I baptize you with water, but there is one coming who will baptize you with fire. His winnowing fork is in hand to clean out the threshing floor, to gather the wheat into his granary and sweep the chaff into the fire!"

And this is the message that the Gospels call "good news"! Scripture accounts tell us that the people flocked to hear John! They trotted out into the wilderness to hear this strange preacher. And when they arrived, he confronted them with an ax, stones, a winnowing fork, and fire. Why would anyone go very far-- much less out into the desert to hear that?

Why? Because the ax, the winnowing fork, children from stones, the refiners fire, are all images of change! Weird old John had a simple message. It was a message that everyone wanted to hear, yet nobody wanted to hear. "Prepare the way of the Lord. Make a highway in the wilderness!" Repent!" The Baptizer's message to them, and to us was, "You can change!"

That's what "repentance" means-- turn around-- change. That's why Herod had John killed. Those at the very top of the heap never really want change--they're perfectly happy with the status quo.

Perhaps you've heard the story of the 100 year old man. A reporter came from the paper to interview him and get a picture.

"Grandpa, you've seen a lot of changes in your day, haven't you?"

“Yep! And I been agin’ every durned one of ‘em!”

Some people always feel they have an investment in the way things are. But the multitudes-- the common people who came opt to hear John did not. And the majority of us today-- even though we may be part of the status quo-- are not always totally content with it.

It's a rare person who's totally happy with every dimension of their life. If pressed, we all would admit that we'd like to be better people, or enjoy more fulfilling relationships, or feel closer to God, or just simply lead better lives. So, if we're prepared to believe in it, the possibility of change can sound like good news to us.

Most counselors and therapists assume that people rarely change in significant ways. Oh, with enough work, some troubled folks learn to cope. But fundamental, immediate, drastic personality change is rare. The wise counselor aims instead for slow progress, minor changes in behavior, gradual growth.

And most of us, I think accept that idea. We content ourselves with "one day at a time", or "day by day, I'm getting better and better". And all things considered, we figure that's pretty good. Pick up the paper, turn on the news and what do we see? The same old sad, tragic stories. Change? "Maybe a little, but Naw! People never really basically change."

And yet, occasionally, every once in a while, there will be a voice. A word, an image, a call, a moment sent from God will grab us by the ears or turn us on our heads and radically re-orient us. Very, very occasionally our lives get turned around, and we begin to live in new directions.

The ax cuts a straight path through the wilderness of our lives. From nothing but stones dipped into the muddy water of the Jordan, children are born. The chaff of sin and self is burned away so that good wheat is left. Dirty, ugly lumps of ore are refined and refined and refined, until nothing but pure gold is left.

Before there can be change, there must be the possibility, the promise of change. That was what John preached. "Prepare the way!" He spoke to the religious establishment, to the cultured and the refined, to the common people, the soldiers, the sinners. He announced the advent of God. He proclaimed the possibility change. And that is good news.

In the disastrous world in which he lived, John dared to preach hope-- the possibility of change to both those caught in, and those who were the cause of all the disaster! In a nation occupied by foreign armies, John preached fairness and mercy to the soldiers, and forbearance and hope to the occupied. In a land under the heel of repressive religious leaders, John preached the coming of God's Reign of mercy and justice. To a people trapped in poverty and oppression, John preached charity and integrity.

He told them they were not bound by the evil ways of the world in which they lived. He taught them of the power within to change their lives the power among them to change their world, and the power beyond them lending strength to persevere, to overcome, to transcend and transform their world. The Baptizer offered them hope and promised them life--life lived in a new direction, lived if new ways-- new life. "Prepare the way!"

Granted, change can also be scary. Bad as things can be, often something inside us wants to hold back, not believe in possibility. Something inside us fears to face the unfamiliar. Something inside us would rather live with the insecurity and discomfort we know, than risk what we don't know. Something inside us says, "Maybe a little, but Naw! People never really basically change."

I recall the story of the young pastor on his first hospital call. Frankly, his parishioner didn't look to be doing too well. She lay there in the hospital bed, hooked up to the IVs and the oxygen, gasping for every breath.

"Would you like me to pray for you?" He asked. She nodded yes. "What would you like me to pray?"

"Pray that God will heal me, and restore me to perfect health." The pastor gulped and prayed something along the lines of, "Dear God, if it be thy will, send a miracle and restore this sister to health. However, let us accept thy will, so that whether she receives her health or not, she will rest secure, knowing you are still close to her."

Immediately, the old lady's eyes flashed open. She sat up, pulled the IVs out, threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. She stretched her arms, turned to the astonished preacher and announced,

"I feel better. I think that God has healed me!" With that, she turned on her heels and walked out of the room and down the hall to the nurse’s station, wearing her hospital gown and shouting out at the top of her lungs,

"Hallelujah! It's a miracle! I'm healed!"

The startled young preacher didn't say a word. He picked up his coat, staggered out, went down the stairs, out the front door of the hospital and into the parking lot. He got into his car, and looked up.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!"

Are we really ready for God to enter our lives and change us? We must believe. We must hope. We must keep our hearts and lives open to all the possibility that surrounds us. We must be prepared.

Election Week Cold Open - SNL

"Stay Awake! Wait!" given Dec. 3

 He was born in a stable, over two thousand years ago. For all the centuries before that, men and women, youth and elders had been waiting for Him, hoping for Him, praying for His coming, watching for Him. They really had no idea of who, or what exactly it was that they awaited so eagerly, watched for so diligently. But they waited. They watched. They hoped.

The history of humanity before His coming is a history of blood and pain and yearning-- reaching, searching, wondering-- for peace, for meaning, for justice, for purpose, for a reason, to touch and be touched by the Ultimate Reality that undergirds Creation. Before His coming, and ever since, we cannot name a people anywhere on this planet, who haven't reached out for somebody, for someone, for something beyond themselves-- to worship.

Before He came-- it was all fruitless. The Creator sent prophets and teachers and lawgivers, and holy men and women-- trying to reach us. But we ignored or killed them, or misinterpreted them. Worse, sometimes we put them on a pedestal and tried to worship the messenger instead of the message. Finally the Holy One decided that in order for us to get the message right, God would have to come to us in person. And so that is what our Maker did.

In the man Jesus of Nazareth, our God somehow mysteriously came among us. How? We don't really know. Does it matter?

In Jesus' life, God showed us the perfect model for our lives. In Jesus ' teachings, God gave us a glimpse of the Divine Will for us, for the world, for all of creation. In Jesus' healings and feedings and acts of compassion, God showed us that we are supposed to be about the business of healing and feeding and caring for one another.

In Jesus' willingness to die for us on the cross, God showed us the ultimate act of love-- even in the face of rejection. In Jesus' resurrection, God broke the boundaries of human existence and gave us the promise of new and abundant life-- in the world to come and in the world here and now.

Now, two thousand years later, we are waiting. We wait for the Christ to be born again in the past, the present, and the future. We wait throughout the season of Advent to celebrate His past birth in a manger. We wait for Him, invite Him to be born in our hearts, that He might remake us into new and forgiven people-- His people in the world today. We wait for His future rebirth into this world and the coming of His eternal Realm of Shalom-- of, Justice and Mercy, as He promised.

We are waiting, we are hoping, we are watching. Every child hanging a stocking or putting out an empty shoe on Christmas Eve is an expression of that hoping, that watching, that waiting.

"It doesn't matter," we tell the children, "if your house doesn't have a fireplace. You can put up your stocking on a wall, or on the tree, or on the door to your bedroom."

And when the child does that, it becomes a sign of the everlasting hope within,that gifts will come down upon us from above. It becomes a sign of humanity's dream that all peoples hopes and desires and wishes and needs will one day be fulfilled. The child is only looking for an American Girl doll, or a transformer robot. But we Christians, we adults, we human beings are hoping for so much more.

Christ was born two thousand and seventeen years ago--give or take thirty years. But humanity's desires have yet to be fully realized. There are hundreds of million people starving in Africa-- the same continent that Jesus knew as a refugee child. They look to the skies everyday-- watching, waiting, hoping for some relief-- some corn, or beans, or rice or oil. To the hungry, how else can the grace of God come except as food?

Jesus was born two thousand years ago. But for far too many people in this world, it is as if nothing at all happened on that night so long ago. In the cities and towns of our world, hundreds of thousands wander the streets right now, searching just as Jesus' parents did, for shelter. Those not as lucky as Mary and Joseph will sleep in the street—perhaps even heve their babies there.. Others will bed down in shelters, in missions, on church gym floors. To the homeless, how else can the grace of God come except as shelter?

Jesus Christ was born about two thousand years ago. But there is less peace in the sky than when the angels sung that night. Despite the end of the Cold War, with the “war on terror the night skies are still filled with warplanes. In our land, and in lands far away, missles still point at enemies new and old. Bombs, chemical weapons, land mines, guns and bayonets still threaten, not only new born babes in Bethlehem, but all of us. To all of us, how else can the grace of God come except in the promise of Christ's coming Reign of peace and plenty and justice?

Jesus seems to be far away-- like the householder in the Gospel for this morning, who left for a far off country. It's true that He warned His disciples and friends that He would be returning to the Heavenly Parent. But hadn't He also promised that He would come back? Hadn't He graced His followers with the abiding and empowering presence of His own Holy Spirit? And hadn't He entrusted them-- and us-- with tasks to perform?

"If you love me, feed my sheep." He said.

Hadn't He literally entrusted His mission, His life's work into the hands of His earthly Body—the church? Hadn't He entrusted His home-- this world-- to those who followed Him, who called themselves by His name? Hadn't they understood-- don't we understand that we have been equip and called to continue that ministry-- to feed the hungry, to satisfy the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to heal the sick, to visit the imprisoned, and organize the oppressed? To theneecy, how else can the grace of God come except through theministry of God's own people?

Hadn't He told them-- and us-- to watch? Didn't He promise that He would be back soon-- hoping to not find us, His church, asleep? And truth be told, isn't that what we are-- asleep in a world that needs to be reawakened? To the needy, how else can God's grace appear except in the witness of Christ's church?

Didn't He tell us not to be anxious or fret about the exact day and hour of His return? Didn't He admit that not even He knew the day and hour? Didn't He make it clear that far more important than all the speculation about when, was our call to watch and wait now, to be faithful doorkeepers, to keep His house safe from violence and war-- pure from the grime of sin and separation between people-- unpolluted by the trash of greed and self-serving and exploitation of human being by human being?

"Therefore, keep awake," Jesus says, "for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cock- crow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: keep awake" The word is Gregoreite, the same word Jesus uses in the Garden of Gethsemane when he begs Peter, James, and John to stay awake and pray with him. “Gregoreite!:” He says, “Stay awake! Stay conscious! As hard as it is, as long as it takes, please don't go to sleep on me!”

It's been a long time since He first came. It's been almost as long since He left, promising to return. And we've been watching and waiting for such a long time. I suspect many of us don't really expect that He ever will literally come back to this world---at least not in our lifetimes.

But the truth is, Jesus Christ comes into this world all the time. He's not really distant at all. He enters into your life and my life all the time. He calls us to acts of charity and compassion and love and mission all the time. He seeks to come into your heart and mine all the time.

He offers us here, at His table, renewed strength for the many challenges you and I must face. In the Bread and the Cup, He brings to us renewed hope for our lives, renewed purpose for the tasks of discipleship, renewed love in His presence.

Sisters and brothers, let us prepare ourselves to celebrate the feast of His birth. Let us invite Him to be reborn in our own hearts and lives. Let us come to His Table and be reminded that He will indeed return once more, to our world. Let us watch. Let us hope. Let us wait.

"Br Prepared" given November 12

"It's like this," says Jesus, "the Coming Kingdom is like 10 young women, five of whom acted prudently, and five who acted imprudently. Some ended up on the inside at the feast. The others were excluded. Keep watch. Keep awake."

It must have been difficult for those who first heard these words in Matthew's Gospel to stay enthused--awake. Despite Jesus’ promise to return soon—it had been at least two generations since his time of earthly ministry. One can almost feel their energy and expectations sagging as Matthew's church settled in for the long haul. Jesus' promised return would not happen soon, it appeared. The Kingdom would be delayed.

You and I have never known a time other than that of a Kingdom delayed. In Jesus, we have experienced the in-breaking of God's Kingdom, but not in its fullness, not in completeness. And so we wait as well.

And one of the skills one gains as one waits is the skill of not getting too excited about the prospects of time fulfilled. Don't drop everything and run when someone shouts, "He's back!" That will only lead to disappointment when things don't work out as expected. False alarms produce people who no longer move when they hear the alarm sound. We all remember the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf."

Half of the young women in the parable prepared themselves, procured oil for their lamps, and were ready for the beginning of the wedding festivities. Half were caught unawares, off guard when doors shut and the music began. Their cries of, "Lord, Lord, open to us," went unheeded.

Life is like that, Jesus seems to say. We say we want God in our lives, that we pray God's will to be done at last on earth as it is in heaven. Yet, when the alarm sounds, when the cry goes out, we are not ready. To be fair, it is hard to wait, particularly when the wait lasts for two thousand years plus seventeen—give or take a decade or two.

Life may be more urgent than we know. Our lives do not go on forever. The parade passes by. Will we be ready? Will we be prepared to commit?

Jesus' use of parables in his teaching is meant to surprise—to shake us up, to disrupt the accustomed flow of our lives, to make us sit up and take notice. The placid surface of our lives is disturbed by the form of the parable.

Most of us know what it's like to be unprepared. I say "most of us" because I know there is a disgusting minority of people who always do things on time—or worse early. They never rush their income tax form to the Post Office at 11:59 on the 15th of April. They've never needed an extension on the deadline for their term paper. They've even got their Christmas shopping done for this year.

You and I all know people like that. These are the same people whose lawns are always immaculate and whose cars never have a McDonald's cup protruding from under the front seat. They make the rest of us look slothful and uncaring. Yes, many of us can relate to the five foolish bridesmaids who neglected to bring extra oil for their lamps when the crisis finally arrived.

Of course, Jesus is talking not just about any crisis, but rather the crisis which occurs when the Kingdom of Heaven breaks into our lives, when there is the Advent of God. So many of Jesus' parables talk about the problem of the absence of the master followed by the master's sudden, unexpected return. But is the return of the master ever truly unexpected? Is that hour when we stand face-to-face with God unexpected?

A young child hears that the circus has come to town and the child jumps for joy, breathless with excitement. The child begs for us to get in the family car and go directly to the city auditorium to buy the tickets. Don't wait. Go now. It's a circus!

Two days before a family's annual vacation, the kids were already packed, ready to travel. They were sleepless the night before, so filled with anticipation.

The parents, on the other hand, were adults. Vacations come and go every year. What's the big deal in a circus? There's no chance of a sellout. We can get tickets next week when it's more convenient. We'll have plenty of time to pack tomorrow. For there will always be a tomorrow, right? Wrong.

On Memorial Day weekend, Donna and I were making a routine trip to our daughter Gwyneth’s home, only to be rear ended on I 94. Although we were shaken up, neither of us were critically injured, though our car was history. It's always a bit frightening to realize how fragile life is. One moment you are moving along fine when, bang, out of nowhere, everything ends.

Many of us have had the experience of friends dying in their 50s. or 40s. A woman in my ordination class died in her late 30s. She died unexpectedly--only six or seven years after ordination. She must have had a heart condition or a tendency toward strokes, or some disease I didn’t know about. Twice a year I receive the Alumni magazine from my college—whether I want it or not. I was shocked. She was the first of my contemporaries to pass on.

Twice a year I get the alumni magazine from my college—whether I want it or not.

And for more than a issues when I turn to the section on the doings of the class of 1969, somebody—a friend, or someone I barely knew--has passed on—unexpectedly—at least to me. When will we learn to stop using that curious expression, "died unexpectedly"? We are creatures. We are terminal, our lives are short-lived as grass in the field, as the Psalm reminds us. Our bodies are not destined to go on forever.

Yet something about us wants to conceive of our lives as a river, a river that goes on and on. Like Little Orphan Annie in the Broadway play—we believe—without thinking about it, “The Sun’ll come up tomorrow”. But whether or not it does, the truth is we won’t necessarily see it. Our lives have a beginning and an end. That means that opportunities come our way that do not come again. There are moments that occur that do not reoccur.

God intrudes, but often only in a momentary, fleeting way. You and I must be ready. Isn’t that the message we take from Jesus' parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids?

We are toward the end of Matthew's gospel, toward the end of the church's year, and here is a story about endings. Time is up. The ones who were locked out perhaps intended to prepare themselves, had good intentions to get oil for their lamps. You know where the proverbial road of good intentions leads.

Somehow, we continually reassure ourselves with, "There will always be a tomorrow. The sun comes up every morning. Don't rush to judgment."

But life cannot be endlessly deferred. There are opportunities that come to us that don't come again. Jesus urges us to be alert, to watch, to be prepared, for the time in which we live at this moment may be the time for decision, for commitment, and a verdict.

A psychiatrist was commenting on the millions of Americans who require regular doses of sleeping pills and sleep aids in order to sleep. He was asked, why do we need these narcotics in order to get a good night's rest?

"Regret," was the doctor's reply. "The longer a person lives, the more there is to regret. Late at night when things are quiet and our lives pass before us, we need some help suppressing, forgetting the regret."

That insight ought to make us more decisive, more willing to risk, to venture forth, more expectant. I expect that it has just the obverse effect. We have missed so many opportunities by the time we are 50 or 60 or more, why expect more?

"People are always ascribing their situation to good or bad luck," says a management consultant, a man who helps business do better. "But from what I can see," he observed, "good luck, lucky breaks, good opportunities come everyone's way from time to time. The future belongs to those who expect to get a good break and are ready to cash in on that break when it comes their way."

I wonder if this is a parable for our relationship to God. We say that we want God close to us, that we would like God in our lives. But are we ready when God comes?

Novelist Reynolds Price, in his book A Whole New Life, tells of a stunning vision of meeting Jesus, Jesus baptizing in the Jordan, a vision that Reynolds was given one night during the depth of his illness with cancer.

He reports the vision in the book with calm certitude and many people, after having read the book, have written to Price telling him of similar experiences when they vividly knew the real presence of Christ. He has received thousands of these letters.

When he was being interviewed about the book, the most frequently asked question was about the vision. Did it really happen? Did it happen just the way he described it? Was he sure that it was really a vision of Christ or just something in his imagination?

When one interviewer on a New York television program pressed him at length on this, Price finally said, "Look, I'm from North Carolina. Maybe that explains it. When you grow up in that part of the world, you just naturally get the impression that Jesus cares about you and that one day he will get to you. So, when the vision happened, I just thought to myself, "Well, here it is. I was ready for it, being from North Carolina."

Jesus ends today's parable with the admonition to watch. To be ready for the time that is the right time, time fulfilled, our moment when God arrives on tiptoes, or comes rushing in, or surprises us with light, or flirts, or speaks.

St. Augustine, in his Confessions spoke of his life as a journey back to God. He searched for God, only to discover that, throughout his life, God had been searching for him:

Ask the beauty of the earth, the beauty of the sky. Question the order of the stars, the sun whose brightness lights the day, the moon whose splendour softens the gloom of night. Ask of the living creatures that move in the waves, that roam the earth, that fly in the heavens.

Question all these and they will answer, "Yes, we are beautiful." Their very loveliness is their confession of God: for who made these lovely mutable things, but he who is himself unchangeable beauty?

Too late have I loved you, O beauty ever ancient, ever new, too late have I loved you.

I sought for you abroad, but you were within me though I was far from you. Then you touched me, and I longed for your peace, and now all my hope is only in your great mercy.

Give what you command and then command what you will.

You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless till it rests in you. Who will grant me to rest content in you? To whom shall I turn for the gift of your coming into my heart so that I may forget all the wrong I have done, and embrace you alone, my only good? (Augustine, Confessions, Book 8.)

Question: Have we stopped journeying, ceased searching? Are we so content with present arrangements in our lives that we, unlike Augustine, have no expectation of conversion, of meeting, of being swept up in the great purposes of God? Perhaps those five maidens who neglected to acquire oil for their lamps simply stopped imaging that the promised party would ever begin. 

"Something Beautiful" given Nov. 5, 2017

I wonder how many of us have ever been to a place that is really beautiful to us. I'm thinking about someplace so lovely, so tranquil, so engaging, so wonderful that we look on it for the very first time and say,

"Why would anyone want to leave this place?"

I can think of a few places like that-- Door County Wisconsin, the Big Sur coastline in Northern California, the Columbia River Gorge, the Rockies. Many of you, no doubt, have a list of places that you feel that way about. Places you can't imagine anyone ever wanting to leave. To some extent, I have to confess that I've always felt a little bit that way toward Chicago. Although when I tell people that, some of them look at me like I'm crazy. Yet three times, I've lived in various parts of that area, and always ended up moving away.

Why would anyone want to leave a place they love? If you're fortunate enough to live there, why would anyone want to leave a community where they have roots and ties, memories and friends? If you don't live there, why not open a restaurant and settle down? Or retire there? Why would we ever leave a place, a job, a home, a family, a relationship that we like?

Yet we do that very thing all the time. All of us are always leaving in some sense of the word, all the time. We leave one kind of life for another. We move away from one project or another, one job, one stage of life, one set of friends, one kind of time. We enter the next relationship, the next career, the next school, and the next after that, and so on. We human beings are always moving on, until we come to the end of our pilgrimage, the last of our life stages.

Life itself is movement and change. Whether we leave home, or spend our entire lives in the home where we were born; whether our changes are peaceful and gradual or wrenching and sudden; pleasant or unpleasant; we never stop leaving for that next change.

That's the way life is. And so the cliche question, "why would we ever want to leave here", is as deep a question as ever gets asked in this life.

And all the "becauses" that we give to answer it, get drowned out in the depth and force of the question itself. If we are reasonably content with our life-- why would any of us-- all of us-- ever want to leave where we are now?

Frederick Buechner, a novelist and minister, wrote about the Boys Prep School where he was once chaplain. The Latin motto of that school loosely translated as "come to this place, little boys-- in order to become men". Buechner suggested an alternate, more inclusive paraphrase that wouldn't make too bad a motto for life itself. "Come to this place, all of you-- come to whatever place you choose-- in order to become human beings."

Maybe that's the reason we spend our lives moving from place to place, stage to stage, way of living to way of living.

Question: "Why would anyone ever want to leave this place?"

Answer: "In order to become a human being.

No matter what a particular place, or school, or city, or job, or community can offer us in education, or entertainment, or challenge, or friendships-- sooner or later, something else will be needed. Unless those places can offer us that something-- that opportunity to keep on growing, keep on becoming, keep on moving toward a fuller humanity-- sooner or later, that place will become a part of our past, rather than our future.

After all, that's what we're here for. The fact is that ultimately, each and every one of us has been planted on this earth by our Creator with the task of becoming a real live, self-actualized, full-fledged, fully grown, emotionally balanced, spiritually mature, intellectually aware human being.

In The Power and the Glory, novelist Graham Greene tells the story of a seedy, alcoholic priest, who is about to be executed for his faith. On the eve of his execution, he sits in his prison cell with a flask of brandy to keep his courage up.

...Tears poured down his face. He was not at that moment afraid of damnation--even the fear of pain was in the background. He felt only an immense disappointment because he had to go to God empty-handed, with nothing done at all. It seemed to him at that moment that it would have been quite easy to have been a saint. It would only have needed a little self-restraint, and a little courage. He felt like someone who had missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place. He knew that at the end there was only one thing that counted--to be a saint.

At the other end of the religious spectrum from the Catholic Greene, is Albert Camus, the self-proclaimed atheist existentialist. In his classic novel, The Plague, there is recorded a conversation between two atheists. One is a journalist, the other a physician trying to battle the plague that has devastated the city in which they live.

"It comes to this," says one of them, "what interests me is learning to become a saint."

Why would we ever leave this place? Why are all of us, always leaving all the places and times, and stages, and relationships, and ways of living, and worlds? What is the underlying motivation that underlies this never-ending

movement in our lives? Why would anyone keep striving to grow? What is the purpose of our lives on this planet, anyway? What are we here for?

To become men, says the Latin motto. Which is to say, to become human beings. To become a saint, says this pair of oddly mismatched novelists. And although they use different words, the underlying reality is the same.

To become a saint is nothing more or less than to live, striving to fulfill our potential, to become and to live as authentic human beings-- just as our Creator intended.

To be a saint means to live with courage and self-restraint-- as the alcoholic priest says. But it's more than that. To become a saint is to strive to live-- not with my hands clenched to grasp, or in a fist to strike. Rather it is to live my life with hands open-- stretched out-- to give, or to receive, or to pray-- all with equal gladness.

To become a saint is to weep for the broken and suffering of this world. But it is also to be strangely light of heart in the belief that there is something greater than this existence. There is something that mends and renews in this universe. There is something-- Someone who cares about us.

More than that, to be a saint is to know joy. Not the happiness that comes and goes with momentary circumstance. To be a saint is to know the joy that is always present with us-- supporting and undergirding us like a deep underground well. This is the joy of the saints-- always there to nurture-- always available-- no matter how dark and terrible the night.

To be a saint, you see is to be just a bit out of touch with the rest of the world-- and maybe just a bit out of our mind. It is to lead a life that is always giving away, and yet is always full.

The question arises, how do we find such a life? What do we do in order to begin living such a life? Where do we go to learn to live compassionately, spontaneously, generously, joyfully, naturally-- as naturally as the grass grows?

I wish I knew. I wish I had a sure-fire blueprint for total human- ness, for sainthood. I wish I had that plan-- and that it was usable for all of us. But the way will differ radically for each of us. How do we become human beings? How do we become saints? How do we discern the Divine Will and Realm of our God?

In this morning's Gospel-- the Beatitudes-- we find a portrait of human beings caught up in the Call and Rule of God for their lives.

Blessed-- says Jesus-- are the humble, the peacemakers, the pure of heart, the merciful, the non-violent, the persecuted, those who mourn for their own sins, those who hunger and thirst for God's coming Realm of Justice and Righteousness in the world.

An impractical dream? An impossible model? A prescription you and I could never hope to fill?

Yet aren't those really the exact qualities we would like to be able to show forth in our lives? Aren't they exactly the way that we'd like to be able to live? Isn't there at least a little bit of room for us there? Aren't we all of us--somewhere--to some extent--sometimes--in that list? Don't we think that we could like a little bit closer to that model if we tried?

Aren't these Beatitudes really the exact way of living and being in this world that we are so desperately seeking? Aren't they, as best as we can discern, God's Will for each one of us in our personal lives? Aren't these

traits really manifestations of God's Holy Spirit in human life? Wouldn't we all be happier if we could live that way?

Jesus taught about God's Realm in parables-- a pearl of great price, a treasure hidden in a field. There's a note of almost unbridled joy and surprise. God's Reign-- in our world-- and in our lives-- will be and is so much more wonderful than anyone of us could have believed or hoped for or imagined.

There is a sense in Our Lord's teachings that once we have glimpsed God's Realm, once we have tasted the new life in Christ, nothing else will ever quite matter as much. All the other pearls-- next to that pearl-- will become as costume jewelry. Every other field we ever walk across will seem to be a vacant lot covered in weeds.

In the end, there is only one thing that really counts, says the alcoholic priest to himself. There is only one thing that really interests me, says the atheist to his friend. To be a saint-- to be fully human—to be true to our highest self--to enter into that Kingdom that Jesus taught about-- the coming and Eternal Realm of God.

In that light, the Beatitudes no longer seem like an unattainable, impossible model of perfection. Rather, they become an accessible aim for the living of our everyday lives. They are no longer insurmountable tasks, but rather

the very reason we find ourselves in this world. They become, not impractical ideals, but a style of life, exactly the way of life God has called us to live.

If you stop and think about it, it is a radical and unexpected idea that we've been placed here in this world to become saints. So many of us stand in opposition to religion-- like Camus' atheists. So many people say they want nothing to do with sainthood-- yet ironically it is saints that we all strive to become. It is joy-- the joy of the saints that we pursue all our lives long.

God knows, so many of us settle for so much less. People settle for achievement, money, power, prestige, job, security, respect, friendship, contentment, or maybe living in a place we call beautiful. Yet all of these things are mere pearls. Not the pearl of great price we long for and would sell all we have for-- but the other pearls-- the ones that inevitably become costume jewelry and turn to ashes in our mouths.

It's hard to know how to fit into this world. It hard to know how to live at times. A little more courage and self-restraint, maybe. More than that, maybe we need to stop looking so hard, and begin to simply stretch out our hands and let it come to us. It may be challenging, or it may come to us naturally—but if we are true to it, it will bless ourselves as well as others.

However inanely, however desperately, however blindly we thrash about seeking God, and God's Realm-- no matter where we look-- it is always, also seeking us. If it is our secret purpose in this life to become saints, it is also God's not-so-secret purpose to make us into saints.

According to the Scriptures of the Buddhist faith-- this is a "Buddha -making universe". Which is really a way of saying that it is the nature of reality itself to enlighten and set free the whole creation-- down to the last blade of grass. In Christian language, it is the ultimate purpose of our God to redeem and save the world, to make full human being-- saints-- of all of us, "to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ", as Paul put it.

Why would anyone want to leave this place? No matter how beautiful the place may be, and then the next place, and the place after that, and the place after that-- all of our lives long? We can never answer that question in full. At the end of the day, we can only say, that's how we are.

We leave, sooner or later, because it's part of our very nature. We change because that's the way life is. We grow because something has been planted inside us. Something has been planted within us by God that calls us out--calls us to become more than we were. “To go on toward perfection” as Wesley put it.

And that something might be no larger than a mustard seed-- perhaps a face in a crowd-- a kind deed-- an important event-- a teacher who changed our life-- a glimpse of dawn-- a dream we can never quite remember or totally forget-- an act of worship— a child’s love-- the need of another-- the embrace of a friend.

Whatever form it comes to us in, God calls each of us to strive, to grow, to become. This creation is ablaze with miracle-- and only the Creator knows how the seed of the Divine Realm may best be planted within us. But for each of us, the seed is there-- the seed of sainthood-- and it has a lifetime to blossom and grow and bear fruit.

Siyahamba - Mwamba Children's Choir

"Uneasy" given 10/22/17

In today’s gospel, Jesus is asked to judge between the comparative worth of two valuable things: God and Caesar. Maybe one of the reasons why we come to church is to determine the relative worth of the conflicting values in our lives. There are those special moments when, in a flash, the true value of things comes into focus and we see what is valuable.

Imagine Jesus leading a Bible study group, made up people who know next to nothing about Scripture,. They begin to tackle Matthew 22, the story of Jesus and Caesar’s coin.

In the story, Jesus has been confronted by a bunch of Pharisees, strict interpreters of the Law, who hold themselves aloof from anything that is or might become, or even smacks of possibly being or becoming profane—unclean. They “build a fence around the Law”--go out of their way to avoid breaking the Commandments—even accidentally--including the Commandment not to make or have anything to do with graven images.

That's why there were money-changers in business in the outer courtyard of the Temple. Idolatrous coinage could not be used as offerings within the sacred precincts. No sir! No filthy lucre in God's house!

“Jesus, should we pay taxes to Caesar?” Jesus says,

“Who’s got a coin on him? My pockets are empty.”

Everybody automatically reaches for their pocket. Nickels, dimes, quarters, half dollars are in every hand. Jesus points to a nickel.

“ Funny that all of you should have this on you. Whose picture is on it?”

“Er, uh, Thomas Jefferson,” we say.

Jesus says, “Well, give it to him. But you be careful. Don’t give to Caesar that which belongs to God. End of the lesson.” And Jesus leaves the room.

One student asks, “Did I miss something? He didn’t answer the question! Should we pay taxes or not?”

“Yea,” said another. “What is Caesar’s and what is God’s?”

“Good question, I still don't know.”

Widespread frustration with Jesus arises in the group.

Finally, a student said something quite wise. “Perhaps,” she said, “when it comes to what belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God, we never can be too sure. Maybe Jesus wants us to be permanently uneasy.”

Permanently uneasy. That’s not a bad theology of church and state. Pity Thomas Jefferson for not having the moral courage to release his slaves, even though he knew slavery was evil. Yet before he died, as he considered this peculiar institution, Jefferson said, “I tremble when I remember that God is just.” At least Jefferson had the ethical insight to be able to tremble.

Thank God that Abraham Lincoln learned enough backwoods religion to admit, in his Second Inaugural address, the ambiguity of even his righteous cause, the tragedy of violence, especially violence in the service of good. God save us from becoming too easy, too sure, too smug in our sense of righteousness.

A Rabbi and a Methodist Chaplain were talking about Jews and sports.

“Basketball, baseball, just about everything except hunting,” the rabbi noted.

“Why not hunting?” the Methodist asked.

“Jews don’t hunt,” he said authoritatively. “We are permitted to kill animals, but never for joy, never out of pleasure. We can kill only with regret.”

Regret? Isn’t that a bit weak to serve as a basis for morality? “Don’t knock regret,” said the Rabbi. “It’s tragedy’s cousin. There are some things that are not so much right or wrong as deeply, unavoidably, regrettable.

Don’t knock regret. In a context in which nine out of ten Americans were able, without a twinge of regret, to march forth with banners flying and flags unfurled in righteous indignation to once again have the war to end all wars; where we can urbanely cite some normative doctrine as our justification and then roll over and go back to sleep.

God grant us someone who,, has the grace “permanently uneasy” about the confusion of human life, the injustice that infects our earnest efforts to work justice, in short, our sin.

When, after the horrid events of "Nine-Eleven", the people of the United States were cast down into great grief, when we needed help and hope, to whom did we turn? Americans reached, on the whole, not for the cross but rather for the flag. After all, if right is to be done in our world, if we are to be secure, if we are to have confidence in the future, where will that be given to us if not from the hands of the all powerful state? It is up to the government to work peace, security, and justice, or peace, security, and justice won’t be done.

After President Bush II gave his speech to congress, shortly after September 11, 2001, a commentator said, “The American people desperately need to believe that the President has the character, the power, the intelligence, and the wisdom to bring us through this crisis safely.”

We want to imbue our governmental leaders with divine attributes because we need a god to save us, even if we have to make up our gods for ourselves. And when they don't come up to take impossible standard, we either demonize them, or or justify their actions, or blindly ignore their shortcomings. But do we ever stop and think about that attitude?

So that day, when asked about Caesar’s tax, Jesus didn’t tell us exactly what belongs to the government and what belongs to God. He did note that, whereas the coin was stamped with the image of Caesar, you and I are created in the image of God.

It is no simple matter. Christ and Caesar. Permanently uneasy. Throughout the last 2000 years, the question of church and state has been something of an ethical teeter- totter for those who have called themselves Christian. The Roman Empire actually practiced religious tolerance—you could worship any and all the other gods you wanted to—so long as you honored the Roman pantheon as well. It was a patriotic duty imposed on you—placating the gods of Rome in order to ensure their continued blessings on the Empire and Caesar himself. So the Romans persecuted early Christians because they were thought of as Atheists-- for refusing to honor the gods of Rome.

Then, in 325 AD, a Roman noble and general named Constantine, following a dream he had the night before, had his legionnaires paint a cross on their shields and won a crucial battle that put him on the Imperial throne. And all of a sudden Christianity was the official state religion of the Empire that had been persecuting it on and off for 300 years.

Official “Christianity—or “Christendom” became an arm of state in the nations of the Western world through the Dark Ages, and the Middle Ages, right up to the Reformation. Yet even that was not unanimous. Groups of pesky dissenters kept popping up from time to time to question the official line—to say that the Church had no business being in bed with Caesar--Albigensians, Hugenots, Anabaptists, Non-conformists, Puritans, just to name a few.

Despite their witness, various denominations are still the state religion in most of Europe today.

And of course, “Islamic states” have been established all over the Eastern hemisphere of the planet since the beginning of that faith . Then, in 1947 the world saw the first “Jewish state” established since ancient Israel. Ironically, those state religions are on the decline in Europe and many other places in our modern world.

It was our own American Revolution that introduced the concept of “Freedom of Religion” to the world. Because, despite the claims of some of our more conservative brothers and sisters, our “Founding Fathers” (and mothers) were adamantly opposed to the concept of a state church—much less that their noble experiment should (d)evolve into becoming a “Christian country”.

So, along with that freedom, we American Christians have the task of wrestling in our own hearts and minds with that age old “Christ and Caesar' controversy. Should individual Christians pay taxes to finance what seems to them to be an unjust war? Is there such a thing as a just war? A holy war? If so, what are the critereon?

Should Christian young people serve in the military as do young people of most denominations, or take a pacifistic stand as do the Quakers and Amish and Mennonites and other "Peace Churches"? What is appropriate loyalty to the state? Does it conflict with faithfulness to the Gospel? The Jehovah’s Witnesses think so. They refuse to salute the flag, claiming they are citizens of God’s Kingdom and God’s Kingdom alone. What does faithfulness to the Gospel look like? When do we cross that line between valid affection for, and loyalty to the state and idolatry to the state? Should we have a flag in the Sanctuary? Some of the churches I’ve served have one, others do not. I don’t know. These matters are not that clear.

Perhaps the worst sin is not to give to Caesar that which ought only to be given to God. Perhaps the greatest sin is not to care, to act as if there is no problem, no cause for concern.

“This is not a time for nay saying and criticism of the administration’s foreign policy,” said a letter to a preacher, complaining about his sermon. “This is a time for Americans to stand together, to stand with our leaders, and to show that we are loyal Americans.”

Such sentiments may be fine for those who are not trying hard to follow Jesus. For Christians, we cannot afford to stand back, to consider, to critique, to bring judgment to bear when we think our nation is wrong, to seek to rectify those wrongs because our love for Christ is stronger even than our affection for our country.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu wrote:

“There is no where that the writ of God does not run for everything belongs to (God). Caesar must be accorded what is appropriate for him, and God must have all—including Caesar’s domain; otherwise there would be a part of the universe, of life, that does not fall under God’s control.”

So, when your flag passes by, when you vote, when you are asked to support some government policy, when you are considering the future of your nation, your town, and what you ought to do about it, be careful! Don’t give to the state that which you ought to give to God!

I can’t tell you exactly where that line lies, can’t tell you in every case just what belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God. All I can do is to pray that God will grant you the grace to be permanently uneasy!

"A Wedding Banquet" given Oct.15, 2017

We don't know what it was that Euodia and Syntyche were squabbling about in First Church, Philippi. We have no idea who these two First Century Church Ladies were, much less what was the cause of their disagreement. It might have been a major argument about doctrine and belief. Or it may have been a petty squabble around who broke whose casserole dish at the pot-luck.

Whatever it was, it must have evolved into a heckuva fight. Whatever was going on, the anger and the hurt had come to the point where it was threatening the harmony, possibly even the very existence of that fledgling congregation. Their feud eventually grew do divisive that The Apostle Paul, rotting away in a Roman prison, heard of it. Paul was troubled enough by word of discord in this congregation that he took time to include a personal plea for harmony into his pastoral letter to the Philippian Church, and to urge their pastor to take a more active role in reconciling these two sisters in the faith.

"Stand firm, my dear brothers and sisters. I love you and long to see you all. You are my joy and my crown. Stand firm in the faith, dear friends.

And now Euodia and Syntyche, you must forgive me for mentioning this, but I urge you to come to agreement in Christ. And I urge you, my dear colleague, to help these two sisters in Christ to make peace with one another. They have labored faithfully in the Gospel along with me, and along with Clement and with many others. God has already written their names in the Book of Life."

Notice. Following this obviously heart-felt expression of love and hope for reconciliation, Paul says this odd thing. "Their names are already written in the Book of Life". You can almost predict the next sentence. Something along the lines of "Don't allow your names to be erased from the Holy Book, I entreat you dear sisters." That would seem to be the logical way to deal with a divisive dispute.

First, express concern for the parties in the dispute. Second, plead for harmony. Third, appoint a neutral third party to arbitrate. Fourth, appeal to their better natures by affirming their past success and cooperation. And finally, remind them very diplomatically of his authority over them. That's good practical psychology, as well as good conflict management. Any personnel director or social worker would be comfortable with such an approach.

But Paul doesn't do that. The next sentence is not a veiled threat, or even a chastening. Addressing not only Euodia and Syntyche, but the whole Philippian congregation, Paul issues, not a call to reconciliation, nor healing, nor fellowship, but rather, a call to joy.

"Rejoice in the Lord! Again I say Rejoice!" More than entreaties to stand firm, more than personal expressions of care and concern. more than calls to harmony, more than pastoral counseling, more than personal praise and reminders of past efforts, Paul seems to be counting on one thing and one thing alone to make peace in this troubled congregation.

And that is the gift of Joy in the Lord.

Paul figured that if Euodia and Syntyche could get busy rejoicing and ministering in their everyday lives, they would be so filled with the joy of service, that they’d be able to put aside their hurt feelings and anger with one another. The Apostle understood that the deep and abiding joy that comes from a genuine experience of the loving presence and forgiving grace of God is the only thing in this world powerful enough to drive out feelings like anger and resentment, envy and malice, sin and self-pity from the hearts of Euodia and Syntyche --and from your heart--and from mine.

Further on in the Letter, Paul talks about some of the virtues that would seem to be characteristic of the Christian life. The Apostle calls the church at Philippi, and the church at Lindenhurst, to lift up in our lives all that is noble and right and good and honorable and lovely and true. But, truth be told, none of those are distinctly Christian virtues.

Those characteristics of the moral life actually come from the Greek philosophy of Stoicism. Truth, nobility, purity, beauty, gentleness and goodness are just as possible for the First Century pagan, or for the modern secular humanist as they are for the contemporary Christian. Make no mistake. Those virtues are all, as Paul says, excellent and praiseworthy. And, if our personal lives are characterized by a lifting up of the right, the pure, the noble and the good, we will indeed be leading lives that are praiseworthy and excellent in the eyes of our God.

But such lives are not in and of themselves Christian. These are not the distinguishing marks of the Christian life. Neither are the spiritual gifts of Faith, Hope and Charity unique to followers of Jesus. The Christian, first and foremost, now and always, rejoices in her Lord. To paraphrase the Westminster Confession--"Humanity's chief end is to love God and enjoy God forever." That might be a Presbyterian creed, but it's just as true for us United Methodists as well. Unfortunately, so many Twenty-First Century believers of all denominations seem to have forgotten it.

"Rejoice in the Lord!" says Paul. "The Realm of Heaven is like a Wedding Reception" says Jesus. And our Lord teaches us that the Heavenly Sovereign has issued personal invitations to us. The Divine Realm of peace and plenty for all will be an occasion of great joy and celebration.

The Scribes and the Pharisees and the party of Herod, the oppressors, the wealthy slumlords, the powerful, the exploiters and the pimps, the corrupt politicians and the warmongers and war-profiteers all choose to ignore the Divine invitation. And then, the common people, the workers in Christ's vineyard, the faithful followers, the poor and the despised, the exploited and the oppressed and the needy, are invited to enter. And they gladly do so. Compared to the reality of their everyday lives, the abundance and equity of God's Realm becomes a veritable paradise.

A Wedding Reception. As long as I don't have to dance the "Chicken" or the "hookey pokey" it sounds like a good deal to me. We are to enjoy our faith. And we ought to be joyfully anticipating the Christ's coming Realm of Shalom. If not, what's the point? I can't imagine what that Heavenly party might be like--except I doubt it'll be like a riverboat casino. But if there's going to be no fun, no pleasure, no laughter, no justice, no shalom, what's the point?

Maybe you've heard the story of the sober-sided layman who decided one day that he'd been called to be in mission. So he approached his pastor and asked her advice. Taken by surprise, she suggested that perhaps this good-intentioned brother might want to go down to Morning Star Mission in Chicago and help out there. So he hopped in his car, drove down to Skid Row, walked in, introduced himself to the Superintendent of the Mission, and offered his services. Since it was rather late in the day, the only thing the Superintendent could think to do with this rather sour-faced brothers was put him out on the streets of skid row, inviting indigent and homeless people into the meeting that night.

The man agreed to give it a try. Soon he was out on the sidewalk accosting passers-by in a mournful tone, inviting them to come into the mission. To his surprise, no one responded. Everyone he spoke to, turned their heads and walked away. Finally he approached one man.

"Brother, won't you come into the meeting?" Cynically the man looked at his solemn face and replied.

"No thanks buddy, I got troubles enough of my own."

Troubles enough of my own. Is a solemn face and a judging frown the best recommendation we can for our faith? Rejoicing in the Lord doesn't mean we go around with a goofy grin on our faces all the time. But if we are glad in our Lord, if we are grateful for the gifts and graces we have received, it ought to somehow or other be apparent in our everyday lives and demeanors and our commitment to serve.

Happiness can come about in our lives by circumstances, coincidence, even by our own efforts. A new car would make me pretty happy. Only God can give me joy. The joy of faith is a gift from God. Once we recognize all God has given us and begin to give and live out thanks in Christ, joy will come to us. What joy will mean in our individual lives will depend on our nature, our expectations, our culture, but most especially by our needs.

For some, joy is an ecstatic experience. For others, it is a quiet certainty that we are loved and accepted by our Creator. For some of us, joy comes in the unconditional and affirming love of a partner, a parent, a child. Joy can come as the helping hand of a friend, lifting us out of a moment of sin and despair, or the satisfaction of a task of kindness well done

In the name of our Lord.

Joy can be loud or quiet, exciting or undergirding, fulfilling or challenging, or all of the above. However the experience of joy comes to us, it is always gracious, always unexpected, always undeserved, always empowering, often overpowering, and always a surprise. And when joy comes to us, what else can we do but acknowledge it, accept it, and give praise for it?

And at that moment, all of our disputes, all our envy and anger and grudge-holding becomes unimportant. At that moment we find that all of those poisonous attitudes and feelings have been washed away from our hearts by the in-flowing of God's love.

And at that moment, what else can we do except spread that joy to others? That means more than just pasting a phony smile on our deadpan mugs. It means praising God and immediately turning to wipe away the tear of our neighbor. It means testifying to the power of God in our lives by the way we live them.

It means witnessing to the lost and confused. It means getting more deeply involved in our local church. It means beginning to practice real stewardship, working at a church event, organizing a pantry, taking a foster child into our home, swinging a hammer at the Habitat house, lobbying for what is right. It means giving and witnessing and sharing in the struggle for justice and equity and peace and the planet, in Christ's name.

Whatever it was that so divided Euodia and Syntyche has been lost in the mists of history. But the joy that Paul called them, and the Philippian congregation, and us to, still lives today. Paul thought that Jesus was going to return in his own lifetime. Two thousand years later we must acknowledge, along with Jesus, "...of that day and hour no one knows, not even the Son."

But even if we have to wait another two thousand years, or just until lunchtime for the Divine Wedding Banquet, the invitations have been issued. Can we disengage our hearts from petty worries and concerns in order to free them up to rejoice in the Lord? We're all invited. The party is already starting--in our hearts and lives.

Shall we respond, or ignore the Sovereign's call and go off to our homes and workplaces? Will we seize and mistreat the messengers of God, or pay them heed? The word goes out on the street corners. Let us put on our party clothes and enter the hall. For many are called, but few choose to respond.Amen.