The Lord's Prayer

"The Bread That I Give" given August 12

The day after the feeding of the multitudes, the crowd found Jesus again. “Feed us again!” They asked. “Feed us, like Moses fed our ancestors in the desert, and we'll believe in you.” They were looking for sardine sandwiches—bread that would fill their bellies

 But Jesus offered them something else. He told them that He was the Bread of Life, He was Bread that would satisfy their inner-most cravings. But they didn't get it. They were looking for bread made of flour and water and leaven. Jesus went and got all symbolic and spiritual on them. 
 Presbyterian pastor Ted Wardlaw once told of the day a slicked-up church supply salesman in a three-piece suit came to this office to try and sell him some Bible games for the youth group. The top of the line game was called "Dollars and Sense." It was a board game, much like Monopoly, and the salesman said it was great at teaching children about "Christian economics." The way it worked was, if the players landed on a square labeled "college graduate," they received a certain sum of money, and if they landed on the square named "middle level executive," they received a greater sum of money. But if they were lucky enough to land on the square labeled "company president," they would get a very large sum indeed. 
 Regardless of the amount of money they received, however, if they gave 10 percent to the "church" square on the board (and here's the alleged lesson in Christian economics), they would reap a bonanza should they land on the "showers of blessings square," being showered in this case with all the money in the game's jackpot. 
 Wardlaw was, to say the least, not impressed. "I think that's a crass lesson to teach a child," he said to the salesman, "that the word 'blessings' is so easily associated with the word 'jackpot.'" 
 The salesman did not flinch. Looking Wardlaw straight in the eye, he said, "Yes, Reverend, but isn't that the way the world works?" 

 Yes, I suppose it is the way the world works. "I'm hungry for a blessing," we say when what we really want is a jackpot. Blessings come as a sign of grace. They are gifts that deepen and enrich our humanity. Jackpots come as a sign of luck, windfalls that give us more of what most people are after - fame, power, fortune. 
 A child in an urban school in Jolliet or Aurora has a passionate and caring teacher and receives a blessing. A high roller in the riverboat casino located in the same town, comes up big at the roulette table and receives a jackpot. Sadly, given the choice, many of us would happily trade the passion of learning for a few lucky strikes at the roulette wheel. "Yes, Reverend, but isn't that the way the world works?" 
 This preference for jackpots over blessings is easy to spot, of course, when it comes at us full force and undisguised. The picture of Wall Street financiers working leveraged buyouts of companies whose employees they neither know nor care about, simply to line their pockets with more cash, is easy to decipher. They may say, "Being in the right place at the right time to find this opportunity was a real blessing." But it is no blessing; it's a jackpot, pure and simple. 
 Despite the fact that no one has ever confessed on his deathbed, "I wish I had worked harder on weekends, stayed more evenings at the office, spent less time with my children, poured more of myself into the pursuit of my career," the fact is that countless of us do those things, hustling at warp speed right past life's blessings on our way to some elusive jackpot. "Yes, Reverend, that's the way the world works," and it's fairly easy to spot. 
 However, it is more difficult to tell the difference between the hunger for a blessing and the lust for a jackpot when it takes a religious form. Take, for example, the crowds, described in John 6, who had been fed by Jesus on the mountainside and who followed him eagerly all the way to Capernaum. At first, we are impressed by their spiritual earnestness. They want to be near Jesus, we say. They thirst for his teaching. They long to deepen their encounter with God. In short, the crowd clearly seems hungry for a blessing. 
 Actually, no. Jesus discerns their true motive and calls it as he sees it. "You are not looking for me because of the signs of God's presence," He says. "You're looking for me because you got well fed on the mountain." They weren't after a blessing at all, but a jackpot. 
 Now, we must be careful here - this is not a simplistic story. This is not the crass account of people who got their bellies filled but who cared nothing for the life of faith, of people who came to church for the potluck supper and not the preaching, who showed up in the sanctuary to make business contacts rather than to sing praises. Not at all. This crowd believes that it is following Jesus for good and true religious reasons. After all, when they had been fed on the mountain, they said of Jesus with one voice, "This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world" (Jn 6:14). 
 So why is it that Jesus challenges their motives? In the first place, Jesus perceives that the crowd is following him because he can make their lives better, but on their terms and in their categories. Jesus wants to give them life; they want an improved lifestyle. "Yes, Reverend, that's the way the world works,"
 Bishop William Willimon writes:
 Many years ago, when I was just beginning my ministry, I managed to save a few dollars from my first paycheck and decided that the wise thing to do was to invest it in the stock market. Inexperienced in such matters, I simply walked into the local Merrill Lynch office and told the receptionist that I was there to make an investment. Quickly sizing me up as a small account, she shuttled me off to the greenest broker in the place. Evidently, he had been trained to make a little small-talk at the beginning with a client, so he asked me what I did for a living. 
 "I'm a minister," Willimon said, "pastor of a church." 
 The young stock broker turned a bit pale. "Give me a lawyer, a dentist, a life insurance agent, anything but a minister," he seemed to be thinking. "What can you say to a minister?" Finally, and with some relief, he thought of something. "I read the Bible when the market's down," he announced triumphantly. 

 Now there it is - the confusion of a blessing and a jackpot. This broker no doubt thought he was doing a righteous thing, reading the Bible when the Dow dropped. But the presumption was that religion's task - or worse, God's job - is to make his life better, to hold him together when the market faltered, or even to turn the bears into bulls. We do the same thing when we assume that God's role is to make the life that we have designed and planned work out smoothly.  "Yes, Reverend, that's the way the world works,"
  "O God," we say, "I have these plans. Make them work." That's not a blessing, but a jackpot. Jesus is not a short-order cook preparing food to suit our whims. He offers not the "food that perishes," but the "food that endures for eternal life" (Jn 6:27). 
 The "food that endures for eternal life" is, of course, Jesus himself. "I am the bread of life," he tells the crowd (Jn 6:35). This is not perishable bread that feeds a passing whim, but the nourishment of God that feeds our souls. 
 This is not bread that we are supposed to knead and bake, as if we could. This is bread that God gives us as a gift. When the crowd, continuing to be confused, asked Jesus, "What must we do to perform the works of God?" (Jn 6:28), He said in effect, "You cannot 'perform' the work of God. It will transform you, but you cannot perform it. God performs the work of God. You are to believe it, receive it, and live it." 
 Faith in Jesus is not something to be measured or calculated. It isn’t an algebraic equation with so many miracles equaling so much of a savior. It isn’t a matter of knowing Jesus’ parents or discovering his historic identity. Faith is trusting in the poetry that says Jesus is more than you can wrap your mind around. He is Word that can never be fully spoken. He is bread that will not much feed your body, but will eternally nourish your soul. 
 So what Jesus was offering the crowd was much more than filet-o-fish sandwiches. It was more than even the Sacrament of Bread and Cup that we cherish so much. It was what the Bread and Cup symbolize and can convey to us. It was a relationship with Him. He was calling them—and us to a radically different attitude, a radically different way of living and being in this world. It was—and is a life lived for others, turned around and lived in a totally new direction, a new version of human existence.
 He called them—as He calls us today to a life lived without violence, a life filled with love, a life lived always with respect, a life of generosity, of compassion,  of surrender that mysteriously becomes total freedom. A life of vision, a life of poetry if you will. It is, unfortunately a life that is all too rare in our broken world.
 I wonder if you've ever heard the expression that something or other is “bread and butter to me”? By that expression I think we mean that something is so familiar, so much a part of who we are that it literally becomes second nature to us. Maybe that's a way of decoding some of Jesus' poetry that day. 
 Take me as the bread of your life. Take me as bread in your life. Take me as the bread God sends to you from heaven.  Take my life as your example for living. Take my teachings as your underlying principles for living. Take me as your foundation. Take me as your bread and butter. Have faith in me and my words.
 Faith takes vision-- imagination. It takes a heart that is open to see what the mind cannot.  That kind of seeing—seeing with the heart and not with the mind is something that adults grow out of. But children can teach us how to see things that don’t appear to be there. “Do you want a cookie, Grandma? Here you go. I made them myself. And how about a glass of milk? Don’t they taste just yummy?”
  Imagination. That’s what faith is all about. A torn off piece of bread hand dipped into grape juice becomes the Bread of Heaven and the Cup of Salvation. It takes imagination, but in faith, Christ is truly there.
 I am the bread of life,” Jesus said. If this is true, what does it mean? It means that your soul will never be fully satisfied with the things that fill your belly. No food, no loved one, no job, no wealth, no success, no fulfillment, will satisfy a lover of poetry. 
 The open heart will understand when Jesus says that he is the Good Shepherd, the Vine, the door of the sheepfold, the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The open heart will be moved by a world in need because it sees beyond the surface. It sees the face of Jesus in every person who is poor or ill, is naked or in prison. The open heart will be moved and transformed by the message of the poet. 

There are times, of course, when even the person of faith loses his or her vision. To live in the world means to be bombarded by its calculating ways. These hits take their toll and weary the imagination. At such times, faith can seem distant and impractical. These are the times when we rely again on the poetic power of Jesus’ unrealistic words. In a way that defies observation and cannot be measured like sugar content or calories, ordinary bread and grape juice become for us the Bread of Life

Neither the sacrament of Bread and Cup nor the Bread of life relationship will fill your belly. But they will fill our spirits, and our lives. Through our faith, our relationship with Jesus will provide nourishment for the soul and strength for the imagination. The unreal becomes real; the metaphor becomes a meal; the meal reminds and points to and strengthens the relationship.

In this discourse, Jesus is talking about about bread given, more than bread eaten. He reminds us that the bread that He gives comes down from heaven as a gift. All bread, when you think about it, "comes down from heaven." All bread is a gift of God, of God's rain, sun, and soil. Our relationship to Christ is utterly dependent upon Christ.

And, in today's gospel, Christ Jesus promises to give us what we need to fill our hearts, to empower and strengthen us for life's battles, to keep us going on in faith through the challenges, the victories, even the defeats.

 A preacher was conducting a workshop in a little church on the meaning of the sacraments. They had discussed baptism and its meaning. Now they were working on the Lord's Supper.  The pastor had told them that a sacrament is something, some experience from everyday life that is lifted up, in the context of worship, and thereby sanctified, given sacred significance because of its use in worship. But that sounded too sanctimonious, too abstract. So he asked them, "What is the most memorable meal you ever ate?"
 They told of memories of meals in fancy French restaurants in Toronto, of a great little bistro they discovered on a trip to San Francisco, of an elaborate ten-course extravaganza in an expensive hotel in New York. Then one man said, 
 "The best meal I ever had was in World War II, the morning after a night of terrible battle. I staggered up over a hill and saw a woman from the Red Cross in a little trailer in a muddy field. I staggered through the muck to her trailer. She was handing out stale doughnuts and cold coffee. When she handed me mine, she smiled. After the night I had suffered, in that place, at that time, I'd have to say that was about the best meal I ever had."
 Jesus says, "I am bread. I am bread come down from heaven to nourish you forever." I believe in such bread. Come to him and be fed forever. Amen.

"Speaking the Truth in Love" given August 5

Have you heard the story of the young Pastor's first sermon in a new church? This Pastor was newly ordained. Since it was his first sermon, he wanted badly to impress the congregation with what a good preacher he was, and with the outstanding moral standards he preached.

This young preacher had been given to understand by his predecessor that his new congregation were not above expressing themselves during worship with a "Amen" now and then. So he figured, what the hey, he'd go for broke-- try for some "Hallelujahs". So he worked harder on this sermon than he ever had on any of the ones he'd written in seminary. The first Sunday came. After his introduction, he began to preach. It seemed to be going allright, and then he came to his first point.

"All of those people in this town who hang out down at the corner bar are sinners, and going to go to hell."

"Hallelujah!" came a chorus from the congregation. Hey, that was all right. He liked getting an "Amen." So he thought he'd try for another one.

"And I know that while very few of you may hang out in the bars, some of you are not above tipping the bottle at home every day. And those of you who do that are no better than any of those sinners, even though you do go to church."

"Amen!" Came the chorus. It seemed to him this was a little weaker than that first Hallelujah. But he might have been mistaken, so the new preacher plodded on.

"And all of those of you who covet their neighbor's spouse and sneak around cheating on your own spouse are sinners, and you're going to go straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

"Amen." There were distinctly fewer voices this time. Since he was new in ministry, he was too inexperienced to preach off the cuff, or to vary from his text.

"And all you who smoke that devil's weed, those cigarettes, and pipes and cigars, you're just getting your mouths set for the smoke you're gonna be breathing in hell!"

"That's right, preacher." Came even fewer voices. He couldn't help notice though, one elderly sister down in front enthusiastically leading the chorus of affirmation. Not knowing what else to do, he continued.

"And all of you women who wear that sinful lipstick and rouge, you're going to hell too!"

"Uh huh!" There were very few women's voices that time. But he noticed that his cheerleader was right there, leading those in agreement. “Amen!” she said.

"And all of you people who gossip and backstab and tell tales about neighbors are headed for perdition!"

"Yes sir." Only four or five people responded. But he could still hear the voice of that sister down front. “Amen!”

"And all of you who gamble on those horses and play that sinful bingo at the church down the street are going to hell."

"Amen!" Came the thin voice of that single elderly woman.

"And all of you who chaw on that nasty old tobacco, you're going to hell."

In the silence that ensued he could hear his last supporter turn to her neighbor and comment aloud,

"Now he's quit preachin' and started in to meddlin'."

That young man didn't know how to get his point across. But the prophet Nathan knew how. In this morning's OT Reading, we see him sneak up on his erring King. Before David is aware of what's happened, Nathan has zapped him.

The Apostle Paul calls it "speaking the truth in love." Whatever we call it, the fact is that poor old David doesn't even get a chance to claim that Nathan has started in to meddlin'.

"The man who did this thing surely deserves to die", says the King in a straight line that's too good to ignore.

"You are the man!" Ouch! Down through the ages, many commentators have objected to the historicity of this story. And certainly, as a piece of literature, Nathan’s parable is no great shakes. How could a sharp operator like David have been so dumb as to not see where Nathan was going with his parable? It does after all, seem like a pretty obvious parallel between the wealthy man in the parable who stole his neighbor's only sheep, and the King who stole his servant's wife.

But it was indeed the custom for the King to hear cases brought to him for judgement. David had no reason to believe this was not such a case. And we need to recall the power of parables as well. Especially if we don't know we're hearing one, they can slip in on us and crawl in between the cracks of our minds' o-so-carefully-crafted mental defenses. They lure us into agreement, after agreement, and then, "gotcha"--

"You are the man" proclaims God's messenger. And our eyes are opened. And we find ourselves convicted of our own sin. And we find that we have been convicted by our own agreement, our own words, our own consciences.

It was no accident that Jesus used parables so much. Like a joke, they depend on common understandings of reality. They depend on a shared agreement as to what is right and wrong and funny and tragic. But in this context, parables also depend upon a shared faith, a shared experience of what it is to worship God and a shared understanding of what it is that God expects from us.

The irony then, is that in order for the king to be surprised and caught by the prophet's parable, he must first of all be formed and converted by the prophet's God. The irony is, that in order for us to hear the truth of God spoken in love, we must share that common faith as well.

The other reason that Nathan's parable struck King David so close to home was David's own moral and spiritual blindness. Granted, he had committed adultery with Bathsheeba. But David had tried to make it right! It wasn't his fault Uriah had gummed up the works by refusing to sleep with his wife on his weekend furlough! David had no choice! If he hadn't acted to protect her, Bathsheeba could have been convicted and stoned as an adulteress! It was too bad for Uriah, but it had to be done.

David's not so different from us. We're blind too. We're all whizzes when it comes to rationalization and justification. We're great at fooling ourselves that our sin "didn't really hurt anyone", or "turned out for the best", or that "it would have turned out that way anyhow". We're great, like David, at turning a blind eye to our own short-comings, or to those of our friends and families while being ready to condemn someone else.

"C'mon Terri. You'll do it if you love me. No one'll ever know. Nothing's gonna happen."--- "How do I know it's my baby?" "I'm sorry, honey. I swear, I'll never hit you again. It's just that I love so much." But the truth is, you are the man, you are the abuser.

"No you can't have them over. I just cleaned the house. Go over to one of your friend's. Besides, I'm talking on the phone to Aunt Susie right now."-- “Well Susie, I know that my kid would never have a thing like that. It's those other little monsters. I don't know why the school board didn't prosecute. I can't imagine how those other parents can let their children run wild in the streets of this town." But the truth is... You are the woman.

"Well, by the time the store sends the check to the bank, I'll have made my deposit--with any luck." "Hey, it's not really lying. It's creative accounting. Besides, the government wastes so much tax money that they won't miss this little white amount." But the truth is....

"One little lottery ticket can't hurt. Besides, the money goes to education.” “One little poker game can't hurt. One little bet can't hurt. It's no worse than playing the lottery." But the truth is....

"Hey, you distract the clerk, and I'll cop this candy bar. It's just one. They'll never miss it." "Hey, you distract the clerk while we sneak into the adult room. What the heck. It's not hurtin' nobody." But the truth is....

"I feel trapped in my work. But I have to do it. It's expected of me.” "I feel trapped in this marriage. But we're staying together for the kids. So how about you and me getting together some time?" "They never really had a stable marriage. If it hadn't been me, it would've been someone else." “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her—or me.” But the truth is... .

We human beings have a seemingly endless capacity for self-deception. We kid ourselves about who we are. We kid our selves about what we do. And we kid ourselves about what are the consequences of what we do. We blind our selves to the truth.

That way, we don't have to take responsibility. That way, it's somebody else's mess to clean up, somebody else's baby to raise, somebody else's kid who gets in trouble. Or, like David, if we do recognize there's a mess, we concentrate on covering up, keeping the public image, rather that recifying the real harm that has been done.

David figured he had the situation handled. Bathsheeba's reputation was saved. Her baby had a name and a father. And David had her. David had provided a neat solution to every aspect of the problem.

Except... David forgot about someone else who felt wronged--someone else who had a stake in the King's moral behavior-- someone who is far more concerned about honesty than about appearances-- someone for whom questions of right and wrong are paramount, rather than peripheral.

"Once there was a man...." began the prophet.

"Surely this man deserves to die!" decreed the King.

"You are the man!" declared the prophet.

"I have sinned against the Holy One."

But David does not die. His recognition of his sin, his act of confession is his salvation before God. This Sunday's reading ends here. But the story doesn't. There's no happy ending.

Though David eventually gets right with his Maker over the murder of Uriah, the human consequences of that act are not so easily erased. The story will haunt not just David, but Israel. It is the beginning of David’s fall. David's spiritual blindness continues as well. Eventually it will cost him the affection of his children, and the deaths of four of them.

The plain fact is, that our sins or wrong-doings do have a way of boomeranging back on us and zapping us. The plain fact of the matter is, there are consequences when you and I stray from the path of righteousness and integrity. The plain fact is that those consequences have a way of haunting us, and wrecking havoc on our lives, and even on our families and their lives.

There’s a dark, self-centered, shadow side—a secret sinner-- within each and every one of us-- buried deep down inside-- that wants what it wants when it wants it. And it wants because it is wounded, or incomplete, or broken, or scarred, or scared, or just plain immature. And it wants regardless of what the better part of us wants.

It wants regardless of what reason or faith or ethics or morality tell us. And it wants regardless of the consequences-- for us or for others. And in order to achieve what it wants, our shadow side wraps itself in inner darkness that blinds us to the truth about itself, and about ourselves, and about our motives, and about our actions. And in order to achieve what it wants, our secret shadow sinner will generate ferocious energy in us, and can lead us to develop amazing abilities solely directed to acquiring those self-centered shadow goals.

Part of the process of becoming a real, live, adult is recognizing and naming that shadow side of ourselves-- its nature, its desires, its roots, its power over us, its perils and yes, sometimes its gifts. Part of the process of becoming a real, live, mature Christian is learning to give that energy and those gifts over to our Maker, the Source of all truth and light--the only One who can teach us to harness and channel them for growth and ministry.

Make no mistake. Our God is willing to forgive us our sins when you and I honestly repent. But we also have to be willing to clean up the mess we have made. And after we’ve done that, after we’ve accepted the consequences and made our amends, sometimes we can even go on to make a positive contribution to God’s plan and to our world.

But in order to do all that, you and I first have to be willing to look at ourselves-- our lives, our work, our world, our actions, our deepest natures. We have to be willing to look all around us and look within us through eyes that are open, not blinded by shadow and self-deception.

Let us pray,

Lord, open our eyes to the truth spoken in love. Open our ears to the cries of others. Open our hearts to your word. Amen.

Psalm 91 - On Eagles' Wings - by Shane & Shane (Lyric Video) | Christian...

"Enough to Go Around" given July 29

The "Feeding of the Multitudes" is one of the most widely known and beloved of Jesus' miracles. It's the only miracle story found in all four Gospels. That fact, it seems to me, tells us in no uncertain terms that it is God’s Will that the hungry be fed.

Mark tells us the story in order to point to Jesus' deep compassion. John is telling us the story in order to point to Jesus himself. John calls the story "A Sign". It is for him, a mighty act of God that points to Jesus' true identity, as the Holy One who comes among us from the God of Israel.

But if we stop and think about it, the “Feeding of the Multitudes” is not only a "Sign", not only an example of Divine compassion, not only a miracle story. It is also a tale of faith-- and a paradigm for our times.

Jesus and the disciples and the women had gone out into the wilderness for some time apart-- a retreat. Instead, they found themselves surrounded by a huge crowd. Jesus guts had been twisted with compassion and instead of resting he' d spent the day teaching them, preaching to them, healing the sick they brought to Him. And, then at the end of the day, yet another issue arose. Jesus brought it up himself-- to test them, John tells us.

"So, guys, anybody got any ideas where around here we can go to buy enough bread for all these people?"

The whole day had been after all, a spontaneous happening. There'd been no Planning Committee, no Arrangements Committee, to plan and set up a buffet. There was no United Methodist Women's circle around to throw a potluck. There were no handy caterers nearby, or apparently had any street vendors followed them into the wilderness with pushcarts peddling hot dogs and Pepsis.

"How are we going to feed them?" Jesus asks-- with his tongue planted in cheek. Philip, who apparently has a bit of bean counter in him, answers

"With all due respect Master, I'm afraid you're putting the cart before the horse here. We don't have enough money to buy bread for all these people."

Probably Philip was getting ready to suggest that they pass the hat around in order to scrounge up enough money to buy food. (Philip apparently even hadn't gotten around to figuring out where they were going to buy food out there in the wilderness.)

But Andrew had an idea. He turned around to the crowd and yelled out,

"Hey! Anybody out there got any food?" And suddenly that huge, noisy crowd-- all those thousands of men, women and children-- must have gotten very, very quiet. They must have all looked around at one another in nervous silence. Nobody had the nerve

It would seem to me that there would have had to be some food out there in such a large crowd. Some of them must have had enough foresight to bring a picnic basket along. But nobody ranted to admit it. No one wanted to start sharing what he or she had, because they all knew. There would not be enough to go around.

Nobody was willing to be the first one to admit that they even had a crust of bread or a scrap of meat. They were afraid, because they were sure that even if everyone who had some food contributed, there still wouldn't be enough to go around. All those hungry people would eat the food they'd brought for themselves, and they'd end up with nothing-- or at best, not enough.

It's at this point that the hero of the story shows up. No, it's not Jesus, nor Andrew, nor Philip, nor any one of the Disciples. The hero is not one of the women either. The real hero of the day was just a young boy. He'd been watching Jesus all along-probably just standing there with his mouth open. Maybe he had a front tooth or two missing, a runny nose, dirty face, bare feet, and was dressed in a hand-me-down patched tunic.

When he heard Andrew’s request, the kid must have felt under his tunic and found the lunch his mom had packed for him that day that he’d likely forgotten to eat. And finding it, the boy didn’t hesitate.

“Hey mister! Over here. I got somethin’.” And he held out five barley tortillas and a couple of sardines. And the people nearby who saw him probably smiled. Likely even the disciples found it amusing. But Jesus didn’t laugh at the unhesitating generosity of a child. He took that small boy and his willingness to share with ultimate seriousness.

“Bring them over here, son.”

And Jesus took the bread and the fish, and had the disciples tell everybody to sit down on the ground. Finally everybody was sitting down except for Jesus. And of course that one small boy-standing there beside him—his eyes full of wonder and his hand still outstretched, offering Jesus his lunch of bread and fish.

John tells us that Jesus took the five loaves and the two little fish and blessed them. Then he handed them to the Twelve and told them,

“Divide these among the people.” Knowing there wouldn’t be enough to go around, the Disciples probably looked at Jesus wondering if he’d gone crazy.

“Divide what? What are five barley loaves and two small fish among so many people?” But Jesus told them to just go ahead and do it.

So they started tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread in two, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish…until, until somehow or other, there was enough to go around! Everybody got to eat their fill, and there was still food left!

There was in fact so much food that after lunch, the disciples went around and collected the left-overs. John tells us there were twelve baskets full. And I’m sure, given who Jesus was, the kid who was willing to share his lunch got at least a couple of baskets of those left-overs to take home to his mom.

So what happened? Maybe that small boy’s open-handed generosity shamed those adults who were hoarding some food of their own to step up to the plate and share. Maybe on the other hand, Jesus actually made more bread and fish materialize. Or maybe both those things happened together. Maybe the people started sharing, and in response the bread and the fish were multiplied—the human and the Divine working in concert to feed God’s hungry sons and daughters. (Personally, I kind of like that last possibly best, myself.)

But I want to suggest that it doesn’t really matter which of those three explanations you choose to believe. If you and I try to dwell on, or try too hard to explain what happened, we’ll miss the sheer extravagance. We’ll miss the overflowing, unexpected, unmerited, wondrous grace that the story conveys.

Five thousand fed. Not just a dab of fish paste on a cracker like you’d get as a sample at Jewel’s. Not just a flimsy cardboard box from the caterer containing an ounce of cream cheese, half a bagel, and an apple. But five thousand full meals. Five thousand people fed and satisfied—everybody’s belly filled and still twelve baskets filled with left-overs. Give the reality of human nature, whatever happened was still a genuine, dyed in the wool, honest to goodness miracle!

I don’t want to ignore John’s original intent in telling this story as one of the signs of Christ’s divinity. That’s a crucial theological understanding. But in our day and age, in this world of ours, there’s another crucial lesson in the story—and in it’s own way, it’s just as serious a lesson as the theological one.

I hardly need to tell you that you and I are living in a world of diminishing resources and rising expectations. We have famines today in countries you and I never heard of a few years ago—countries that didn’t even exist a few years ago.

And since the last Great Depression, our nation’s government—under Republicans and Democrats alike, has been paying some farmers not to farm some of their fields. And for some reason or the other, proposed legislation that would address that is irrevocably tied to legislation that would cut the funds for our Food Stamp program.

And of course, the deadly irony is that we have now—and have had for decades—the agricultural technology and expertise to produce enough food so that no one in this country—or in any country in the world—needs to starve. The capabilities are there. Only one thing stands in the way of the whole world being fed—politics.

We live in a world where hunger has become a political tool. There are countries where international food aid is withheld or distributed by local governments in order to enhance their control over their own population. There are food producing countries—such as our own—that shamefully use food aid as a political lever, distributing it to other lands solely on the basis of their government’s cooperation with the political aims of our own.

In the ancient and medieval world, it was considered acceptable to conquer castles and walled cities by “laying siege” to them—which is to say “starving them out.” Today, we live in a world where hunger has become more than simply a weapon. In a very real sense hunger has become the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

There are countries where famine is actually created by warring factions as a tool of war waged on civilian populations. There are countries where famine is purposefully being used as a tool of “ethnic cleansing”—which is just another way of just saying genocide.

I’m not sure I can think of a greater evil than to callously use human hunger in that way. It’s certainly a horrible sin that calls out for a strong and strident witness by Christians. The time has come for those of us who call ourselves by His name what the Jesus who commanded “Feed my sheep” would do. The time has come for us to take a stand.

The time has come for Christians to pressure our leaders of both parties to change this sinful situation. The time has come for us to make hunger an election issue. The time has come for us to ask candidates questions around the politics of world hunger when they come before us seeking our votes. The time has come for us to inform ourselves, and write letters, and support organizations that attempt to address the problem of hunger—both immediate and long-term. The time has come for believers to look once more to the compassionate One who fed 5,000 in a single afternoon.

In Jesus’ time, hunger—need—resulted from scarcity. There truly was not enough bread, not enough resources, not enough energy production, not enough wealth to go around. In much of the world today that would still seem to be the case. But overall—for most of the world it isn’t shortage, it’s surplus—it’s waste, it’s human greed. We convince ourselves that there’s not enough to go around , we look at those measly five barley tortillas and two sardines and say to ourselves,

“What are they among so many?” We don’t really believe in the extravagance of our God. If there’s gonna be only five slices of bread we figure we might as well have them. If there’s gonna be only so many barrels of oil, we should get it. If there’s gonna be limited resources, we’ll be the ones to use them.

We see a need or a possibility that will bring benefit, but will require resources. We know we ought to do something. We can actually visualize something that might make a difference. But then, Philip the bean counter kicks in.

“How are we gonna balance the budget if we do that?” We don’t really believe—or we don’t want to believe in the extravagant grace of God. I see that attitude on the floor of Annual Conference every year. I’ve seen that attitude in every one of the churches I’ve pastured. I’ve known that attitude in my own heart, in my own home. “Tighten our belts. Don’t spend money we don’t have. What’s the bottom line? What are so few among so many?”

Don’t mistake me. I know that budgets are crucial. Families need budgets, businesses need budgets, churches need budgets. And every single time I’ve heard some faithful believer say “Don’t worry. The Lord will provide” a little tiny voice in the back of my mind has replied “Yeah, but the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

Because sometimes we, as individual believers are called to set our own fears and hesitations aside. Sometimes we’re called to stop saying the Lord helps those who help themselves. Rather, we’re invited at times that those who are willing to help themselves to hope, to risk, to reach out in compassion, to give without worrying about bottom lines, to share without having to stop and consult the budget or count the cost, all in His name—will indeed find that their Lord will help them. They will discover the benefits of giving—both spiritual and material benefits will far out weigh the costs.

To their astonishment they will find that there will indeed be enough to go around—in surprising ways and yielding joyous possibilities the bottom line could never imagined. And sometimes the people of God are just called to set the bottom line aside and leap forward in faith, doing their best as they discern it, to accomplish what they’ve been called to do, and trust that there will be enough to go around, that the God whose compassionate hand opens and provides for the planet will provide. Sometimes a congregation is called to believe that God will not allow a congregation whose heart and hands are genuinely engaged in mission to die.

Jesus told us that those who give in faith will receive back in abundance.

That’s awfully hard for many of us to believe—much less live out. But all around us are the cries of need. Every day it seems, you and I are challenged to believe and share. But we fear that we’ll lose in the giving, that at some point they’ll be nothing left to give, nothing left for us because there isn’t enough to go around.

We don’t really believe—or we don’t want to believe in the extravagant grace of God. At such moments we would do well to remember a small boy who was unhesitatingly willing to share his lunch with thousands—without checking a budget or looking at the bottom line or wondering if there’d be enough to go around. That boy had no reason to believe he’d end up with anything to eat that day—and yet he still gave. And instead, he went home with so much more than he’d had in the first place. Given to him because he’d been willing to offer all he had.

"Sabbath Time" given July 22

    A lady opened her refrigerator and saw a rabbit sitting on one of the shelves. "What are you doing in there?"  she asked.  The rabbit replied:  "This refrigerator is a Westinghouse, isn't it?" To which the lady replied "Yes."  "Well," the rabbit said, "I'm westing." 
      I guess everybody needs a westinghouse. Everyone needs a quiet spot--a place that they can get away to recharge the batteries, to re-nourish the spirit. 
 In the Northern Hemisphere it's summer: a time of vacation, rest, and renewal, a timto find a westing-house—a resting place. But not necessarily for all of us. The word is out. We Americans take less time off and enjoy fewer days of vacation than just about any  industrialized nation in the West. Americans average just over two weeks of summer vacation. That makes us vacation misers when compared with say, the Germans (whom we once thought of as such hard workers), who enjoy an average of six weeks of summer vacation, or the French, who have over five weeks of vacation. Just try to find a native wandering the streets of Paris this time of the year.
 Americans are working more and producing more, to be sure, but they are working longer in order to do it. Surprisingly, the average productivity of the Germans or the French is not much less than that of Americans, considering how many more hours Americans work. And the French and the Germans have lots of holidays throughout the year on top of all this summer vacation!
 Which brings us, as you knew it eventually would, to this Sunday's gospel. Jesus and his disciples have been busy. When his disciples gather to report on "all that they had done and taught" (Mk 6:30) Jesus must really be impressed. He says to them, 
 "Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while" (6:31). Mark says that Jesus proposed this vacation because, "many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat" (6:31). So "they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves" (6:32).
 Alas, when they get there, it is anything but deserted and Jesus and his disciples are forced to go into action. Later, when they cross over to the other side of the lake (perhaps in one more attempt to get away from the crowds), the "people at once recognized him," (6:54) so that Jesus and his disciples had to go into action again.
 I see in these little vignettes more than accounts of spoiled vacations. I see here evangelical permission for sincere, earnest followers of Jesus to take a vacation - to take time off. 
 Now maybe you're thinking, "I've certainly heard more demanding commands from Jesus before. This is easy!"  Maybe not. Often it is the sincere, dedicated, earnest disciples who are the worst about this matter of Sabbath. We don't mean to, I'm sure, but our busyness, our ceaseless activity sometimes gives the impression that we believe that it's up to us to do good or good won't be done. It's up to us to set the world right or the world is lost. 
 Behind our busyness is the blasphemous belief that we are saviors of the world and that we are the solution to what ails the world. No, to stand and say in the Creed, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth," is to say that we believe that it is not up to us to make the world come out right. God not only created, but is yet creating and creative. Our God is not dead, not inactive, or ineffective.
 Thus, we can take off. We can relish times of inactivity, reflection, and the good grace of doing nothing. Sunday worship gives us a taste of this. Here, while we do much activity - praying, singing, listening, meditating - little of it is useful, productive, or essential, as the world defines these matters. We are here relaxing, resting, simply enjoying being with one another and with God. Christians believe that these Sunday mornings are a foretaste of eternity when we shall have nothing better to do but to rest from our labors, to relax and to enjoy being in the presence of God, not just one day a week on Sunday, but always. Our destiny, in God's hands, is rest - Sabbath rest forever. 

That rest is a great tribute to God. Our ultimate destiny is not in our hands. It is not the result of our vigorous, hard work, or even our good work. The significance of our lives is in what God is doing, not in what we do.

I know that this flies in the face of what many of you think to be the purpose of church. “Church is where we come to find out where we’ve done wrong and to get motivated to do right,” says a man of my acquaintance. And sometimes, that is the purpose of our Sunday gatherings.

“I come to church to get motivated for more committed service in the world,” says a woman. And there is truth in that. “Church is a spiritual filling startion. I come to get filled so that I can go,” said someone else. And that's part of what I'm driving at here as well.

But will you understand me when I say that church is also where we come to rest? We come here to celebrate, not what we have done, or to repent of what we ought not to have done, but rather to glorify what God in Jesus Christ has done.

Many clergy take great pride that they have never, in 10, 20, 30 even years of ministry taken all of their vacation time. Year after year their vacation days accumulate but they never went on vacation. They consider their lack of time away from their church to be a great virtue. Vacations? Those are for wimps who don’t enjoy their work and who are always whining about how tired they are; not for good, sturdy stock like me!

I’m afraid that in reality, failure to take vacations is a vice rather than a virtue. They thereby show little life outside the congregation, telling themselves that their church’s entire fortune restw solely on their sturdy, restless shoulders. It's not that they are so strong, so committed to their minstry that they do not need vacations. Rather, it 's that they are vain, full of self-righteous pride, and self-absorbed. And in the end their health, their marriages, their families, and especially their ministries-- their churches suffer.

Thus I take as my text Mark 6. Jesus’ disciples report to him all the good things that they have accomplished as his disciples. Then he invites them, permits them, commands them to rest and to get away from the press of the crowd to rejuvenate, renovate, and be restored.

We stress other commands of Jesus to love the poor, to feed the hungry, to bind up one another’s wounds, and to bear one another’s burdens. Why not equally stress this command? Jesus commands us to take a vacation!

Thank the Lord, the world is not in our hands; the future is not ours to determine. We can do God’s work as it is entrusted to us. We can work and pray and do our best to be light and salt to the world. And then we can take Sabbath, resting secure in the faith that the most important work is God’s.

 So, if you have not yet taken a vacation, gotten away from it all, experienced a change of scenery, or wandered into the wilderness, I hope that you will do so soon. After all, Jesus permits, invites, commands you to rest!
 “Come away with me and rest for a while.” Jesus told them. Even more than simply resting and relaxing, I can see here an invitation—to take that rest time with Jesus—to make it holy time—Sabbath time.
.   “Rememeber the Sabbath and keep it holy!” The commandment about the Sabbath is the longest of the commandments, which takes nearly a third of that entire holy discourse.
  The Sabbath is the only one of God’s creations called holy.  Everything else is called “good.” Only the Sabbath is called “holy.” The sanctification of time, preceded the sanctification of persons. The people weren’t sanctified until they became the chosen people. Places were not sanctified until the tabernacle. The Sabbath was the first and truest medium of God’s presence and holiness.

The Sabbath is the first and truest medium of God’s presence in creation. Observing the Sabbath has always kept God’s people from being absorbed by the alien cultures where they resided. The Sabbath commandment came long before the rest of the commandments. Even as slaves in Egypt, they observed Sabbath.

For six days of the week, they belonged to Pharaoh, but on the Sabbath, they were free men and women who belonged only to God. The Sabbath was not a day simply for recovering their strength. It was not free time. It was freedom time. It was time to recover their identity, time to remember who and whose they were.

Later, there were 234 specific tasks prohibited on the Sabbath. The basic idea was to cease and desist from all acts of creation, to stop competing with God, to stop helping God, so that we might remember that the world was created by God totally without us. The world would be preserved, at least until Monday, without us.

The Sabbath was a mandated gift, a gift we were commanded to enjoy.

We don’t like this. We like to control our own time. Even though God created us for the freedom of this day, we voluntarily become slaves once again.

To be fair, Jesus said, “The Sabbath is made for us, and not for God.” Works of mercy can be possible on the Sabbath. He liberated us from Sabbath regulations that took all joy from the day.

But did we misunderstand him? Did Jesus free us from the Sabbath, or for the Sabbath? Did he mean for us to turn the Sabbath into just another ordinary day? Or did he mean for us to turn all our ordinary days into Sabbaths?

Sabbath time is not useless time. It is time we use. It is time we stop in order to remember. That’s all that Sabbath first meant in Hebrew, to stop. And yet, we get caught up with the acts of subduing the earth and having dominion over it. Sabbath reminds us that we are creatures and not the Creator.

This is particularly stressful for those of us who have so much internal and external encouragement to play God. After all, if we don't do it, who will? As a wise colleague reminded me when I was a hyper-active baby pastor , the cemetaries are full of people who couldn't be replaced.

The proper word for this refusal to stop is idolatry, the refusal not to be God. We even sin against Sunday, turning it into just another day of ceaseless activity.

One preacher suggests that we find some way of specifically signaling withdrawal, when we go on Sabbath. We ought to dress differently, change ouir accustomed locations, take the phone off the hook for the day, something specific which signals to us, and to the world, even to God, that we are on Sabbath.

Hindu India developed a magnificent image to describe God’s relationship with creation. God “dances” creation. God is the dancer, creation is God's dance. The dance is different from the dancer, yet it has no existence apart from the One who dances. You cannot take it home in a box. The moment the dancer stops, the dance ceases to be.

In our quest for God, we work too much. think too much, reflect too much, talk too much. Even when we look at the dance we call creation, we are all the time thinking, talking (to ourselves and other), reflecting, analyzing, philosophizing. Words. Noise.

Be silent and contemplate the dance. Just look. A star, a flower, a fading leaf, a bird, a stone – any fragment of the dance will do. And, hopefully, it won’t be long before you see the Dancer

Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence (from The Concert in Central Park)

"Dancing and Risking" given July 15

In our Gospel readings lately we’ve been reading Mark’s narrative of the early days of our Lord Jesus’ earthly ministry. And that narrative will go on. But sandwiched in-between in the Gospel, we get this story, this seemingly out-of-place, possibly even suggestive, certainly bloodthirsty account of how King Herod Antipas, after he had blown out the candles on his birthday cake, snuffed out the life of John the Baptizer. John had confronted the king because he’d violated the laws of Moses— by taking his brother’s wife as his own. Herod responded by imprisoning this loud-mouthed meddling prophet.

But Herod has not executed John. He apparently fears, or at least respects the Baptizer. He visits him, to talk, to listen. But on the basis of a drunken promise, he will callously sacrifice John.

John’s life ends up taken because Herod was enchanted by the dance of his new stepdaughter. We’ve all heard the story many times. But there’s a lot that we aren’t told. What was the girl's name? What kind of dance did she do? We may think we know the answers—but we don’t

Neither Mark, nor the parallels in Matthew and Luke, mentions the name Salome. None of them refer to a seductive so-called “dance of the seven veils." Some of those images have come down to us from the Jewish historian Josephus, some from the imaginations of composers and artists down the years.

What the Gospels leave us with, in the end, is a macho fool too obsessed with his own image to risk humiliating himself before his guests. The text paints Herodias as the scheming villain, much as Genesis paints Eve. Whether that's fact or bias, it is still Herod who comes off in the least flattering light. Rather than the story of a dance of seven veils, what we’re left with here is the story of a dance of deception and manipulation — a dance of death.

The story is powerfully subversive of all those in power. Kings and Governors and Politicians like Herod don’t get a very sympathetic portrait in the New Testament. From the beginning, they are major adversaries to Jesus and the message he’s come to proclaim. They pipe the tune of greed and pride and human power. They dance the dance of death.

In contrast, in our Old Testament Reading we see David, who has at last been made King of both Judah and Israel dancing a different kind of dance before the sacred Ark of the Covenant as it is brought to Jerusalem—the new capital of his newly united kingdom. This is not just a politically important moment for David. It’s also religiously important. It’s in fact, ultimately important.

The Ark is not just another piece of liturgical furniture, like candelabra or even an altar. The physical presence of the Ark actually reflects of the Living Presence of Yahweh, the God of Israel, among God’s people. Once the Ark is in Jerusalem, it will show to all God’s blessing and continuing Sovereignty over this new nation. Although David has been crowned king— God is still in charge. It is still God who ultimately rules, and it is only from God that David’s authority flows.

The moving of the Ark is so significant that it must be done with utter liturgical scrupulosity. The Ark must be transported correctly, carefully, and reverently. Anything else reduces the Ark to nothing but a man-made symbol.

Anything else demeans God’s ultimate authority and asserts human authority.

Anything else is a dance of death.

So David dances before the Ark—a dance of joy, and of belief, and of awe. David poured his whole being into the music, into being present with God, into dancing before his God a dance of life. David dances in praise before his God, dancing a dance of faithfulness and commitment.

That’s the same dance and praise you and I are invited to join in, as well. Jesus didn’t come, after all, urging us to think about him, or feel deeply about him, or make intellectual and theological assertions about him. The Lord of the Dance isn’t looking for our disembodied individual spirits. Jesus didn’t come asking people to give their hearts and souls. Jesus came, calling us to join him in becoming citizens of a country he called the “Kingdom of God.”

The Lord of the Dance wants you and me body and soul, mind and heart— all that we are. After all, a human being requires feet in order to dance. And we need a voice to praise, hands to reach out, a heart to care, and a mind to understand the tune. You and I will need to bring all of ourselves if we’re going to join in Jesus’ dance of the Realm of God.

When we see Jesus dancing in the Gospels-- casting out demons, and healing the broken ones, and feeding the hungry, we’re invited to see that, as He says again and again, “The Kingdom of God has come near to you.”

Mark tells us that Jesus began to speak in this way right after the authorities seized the Baptizer.

“Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God has come near. So repent, and believe the good news.’”

Mark makes a direct connection between John’s arrest, and the inauguration of Jesus’ Kingdom. And that Kingdom was going to be the source of conflict. John gets arrested, and despite the better judgement of Herod Antipas, he is killed by the powers of this world. The same thing, Mark is warning us, is going to happen to Jesus. Despite the hesitations of this same Herod, the Lord of the Dance will end up nailed to a cross by the authorities and executed as a revolutionary. The Gospels say he was crucified between “two thieves”, but the same Greek word could just as easily have been translated as “revolutionaries”.

Crucifixion was a method of execution the Roman Empire reserved as a deterrent. It was a horrible, painful, degrading way to die-- intended to serve as a brutal example of the fate of those who defied its power, who had tried to upset the established political order—escaped slaves, outlaws, rebels, and agitators.

Mark is warning us that when disciples go out to do the work of the holy realm, when God’s people begin to truly dance the dance of faithfulness and new life, when the church rises up to be the church, that the world rises up to be the world. So, the disciples go out to preach the gospel. But John preached the Kingdom, too, and the world snuffed him out. So, the disciples go out to cast out demons and to heal. But the Baptizer sought to confront and heal the demons that raged in King Herod’s life, and it cost him his life. Mark’s right. When the people of God begin to dance the dance of new life, when the church rises up to be the church, the world rises up to be the world.

Now this may sound a bit strange to us, because this is not our usual experience. It looks to us like when we do the work of the church-- the world rises up to call us blessed. When we preach the gospel, the world invites us to join the Kiwanis. When we reach out to heal, the world puts us on the hospital board.

Mark would have understood that problem. According to Mark, at first Herod did not want to harm John; he just wanted to domesticate him. Herod was threatened by John. But as long as he could keep him in chains, Herod heard John gladly.

But then when push came to shove, Herod was just as sorry as he could be, but John had to go. When believers refuse to dance the dance of fear and subservience any longer, when the church rises up to be the church, the world inevitably rises up to be the world.

But Mark wants us to know something else as well. If Mark wants us to learn the hard truth that when the church rises up to be the church, the world rises up to be the world, he also wants us to know that, when the world rises up to be the world, Jesus Christ rises from the dead.

In fact, Mark tells us that, when Herod found out about the church being the church, he slapped his forehead and exclaimed something like, "I thought I had that nailed down that Jesus. Somebody's been raised up from the dead!"

The dance still goes on. And it’s a dance of life—new life.

To be a part of Jesus’ earthly reign was—and still is risky. To give yourself to the dance of new life is to make some pretty radical affirmations. To be part of any kingdom is to acknowledge who is in charge-- whose will it is that ultimately counts in this world. To join Christ’s Kingdom means we consciously stop dancing the dance of this world— the dance of power and authority and violence and death-- and instead join in the dance of new life, the dance of the new world Christ is calling into being.

Any kingdom has citizens and non-citizens. When you and I begin to pray the prayer our Lord Jesus taught us— “Our Father” there is a kind of inclusivity implied. God, we’re asserting, is Father—Heavenly Parent of all. But then we go on in the prayer to add, “Your Kingdom come,” and we’re suddenly in the realm of exclusivity—we’re talking about God’s earthly reign—not Caesar’s kingdom or Satan’s kingdom, or even an American people’s kingdom.

Any kingdom has borders. There’s a gap between this sad and sorry world and that Holy Realm Jesus was talking about. It’s obvious to anyone who cares to look. The people who first encountered Jesus face to face understood this—like him or loathe him, no one could deny that this. The Lord of the Dance was fundamentally different. He was talking about and living out and dancing a new way of life—a holy realm fundamentally different than anyone or anything anyone had ever encountered or even imagined before.

That Kingdom he was talking about—God’s Holy Realm enables us—indeed requires us-- to stand in opposition to the artificial borders established by the world and it’s kingdoms. The world’s borders are inevitably established on the basis of differences between people—such as their sexualities, or class, or race, or economics, or tongue, or age, or even their accents. The kingdoms of this world will set up geographic boundaries and defend them with murderous intent.

But the Kingdom Jesus kept preaching about has most powerful boundary in history-- because it has the power to obliterate all of the parochial, provincial, false demarcations between people that the world can dream up. His is a Kingdom open to all— an earthly reign with no consideration given for the world’s borders or boundaries. Paul wrote in Galatians 3:

“As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourself with Christ. There is now no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer woman or man, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

Baptism, the Rite of our Christian initiation, is our call to become citizens of the new Israel. It is our invitation to become part of God’s unusual, unique, unexpected way of saving the world. It is our invitation to join in dancing the dance of new life.

When you join Kiwanis, they give you a handshake and a lapel pin and a membership card. When you join Christ’s Holy Realm, we splash some water on you, hand you a Bible, and tell you that you’ve just been born again. And then we push you out the church door and tell you to listen for the music, to pick up your feet and start dancing.

Barbara Langdon tells of waiting at a bus stop in Nairobi, on her way to the center of the city to go to church. As she sat waiting, she heard some music off in the distance. She asked the person on the bench beside her what it was.

"It is from the people running to church," he said.

"Running?"

"They run together in a rhythm. And they sing all the way there and all the way back. It is five miles they run and sing every Sunday."

Then she saw them, fifty or so people running down the road, singing as they went. Ten miles of singing each Sabbath.

Langdon wondered what would people in this country think of Christians if we were to begin to truly run and dance and praise and sing the Gospel?

The Baptizer danced and died as a prophet of God, because he understood his call to speak the truth to those in power. The Lord of the Dance calls you and me to become his disciples, to live our lives after his example, to speak words of healing and truth—just as He spoke. The story of David invites us to offer our praise with whatever gifts we have been given. The Gospel reminds us that part of following is to become a prophet when necessary—to speak the truth to those in power—and to speak words of comfort and hope to the powerless, the oppressed, and the needy. And to dance and praise.

Jesus invites us to go out this day and be His church. He says we needn't take two coats, a bag of money, an insurance policy, or anything else we think may protect you as we do God's work in the world. Nothing can spare us from the evil intent of the Herods of this world. We need take only the gospel and our confident faith that, when all is said and done, all the Herods in the world will say, "Somebody has been raised from the dead. The power we thought was nailed down is loose again in the world." The dance goes on.