The Mayberry Preacher

MUSTARD SEEDS ARE BETTER THAN COSMIC TREES

Daniel 4: 1, 10-15a; Mark 4: 26-32
Steve Lindsley
June 24, 2012

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The other day I was down in the small garden our family has in our backyard at Folly Farm Circle.  I was remembering an old hymn that my grandmother used to sing to me when I was a kid; a hymn I also remember hearing on the local Christian AM radio station I listened to as I fell asleep at night.  It’s called “In The Garden,” and it talks about Jesus taking a walk with you in a garden.  The refrain goes like this – feel free to sing it with me if you like:

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

And so I’m standing there in my garden, and I’m thinking about this song and Jesus walking with me and talking with me and telling me I’m his own.  Except there’s something else he’s telling me: he’s saying, Steve, what is up with this garden?!  See, there are a lot of wonderful things I inherited from my father, but apparently a green thumb was not one of them.  Because, as hard as I’ve tried over the past few years, I cannot seem to grow much of anything in this garden.  I mean, it’s pitiful, y’all.  And there’s no doubt in my mind that Jesus wouldn’t mince words. Seriously, Steve, I love you forever, but you call these tomatoes?  How can you mess up tomatoes?  And I’ve never seen a more pitiful green pepper.  No, I daresay there would little joy shared as we tarried in my garden.

I think I know what our problem is, though.  See, we have these big trees around the edge of the garden, and they cast just enough of a shadow to keep what’s below from getting full sunlight.  I think that’s why our little garden struggles so much.  Trees can do that, you know - cast a long shadow.  We heard about one in the scripture passage Octavia read earlier.  The tree that King Nebuchadnezzar dreamt about one night.  Except this tree was much bigger than the ones around our garden.  In fact, this thing was enormous!  Tall and mighty, reaching to the heavens – so high you couldn’t even see the top of it.  It was visible from all over the earth – imagine a tree as big as that!  Full of leaves and foliage that provided shade for all matter of living creatures, as well as fruit to sustain them.

Kind of reminds me of the trees I remember seeing in the Redwood National Forest a number of years ago on a family vacation.  Now, talk about some tall trees!  300 feet tall, dozens of feet in diameter.  You stand in front of the trunk of one of these things for a picture, like my brother and I did; and you look so incredibly small, comparatively speaking.  Enormous things those trees are.

And that’s the thing – their size symbolizes something.  At least they do in Nebuchadnezzar’s dream. These “cosmic trees” in ancient lore symbolize power, domination, influence.  They reach up to the heavens, suggesting that they are inspiring to be divine, or already are.  You don’t mess with trees like this.

And that is probably why the rest of the king’s dream troubled him so deeply, and why he sought the counsel of young Daniel.  Because this huge tree, this life-giving tree that reached to the heavens and was divinity itself, this huge tree and its branches were all cut down.  Nothing but a stump, it says!  All that foliage and fruit, stripped away.  All that shade, gone.  All that power and domination and influence and divinity – no more. 

And even though Nebuchadnezzar asked Daniel to help him understand his dream, he knew – he knew what it meant.  And he was terrified by it; the thought of losing his power, as all people in powerful positions are.  Just think of our own day and time; governments on the other side of the world, the “Arab Spring;” citizens forcing change upon regimes and leaders who do not want to give their power up.  That’s the way it is with the cosmic trees – that’s the way it’s always been.  When they are at their most powerful, they dwarf everything around them.  But their power doesn’t last forever.  It can’t.  And so those trees eventually come down.

So what does last forever?  That's the question, isn't it?  What lasts forever?  Let’s head back to the garden for a minute, shall we; back to that garden I can’t get anything to grow in.  Well, that’s not entirely true, actually.  There are a few things that grow quite well in there.  Problem is, I don’t want them to!  Weeds, my friends – wild plants that have no problem flourishing and taking over the beds I’m trying to till.

Strangely enough, Jesus talked about weeds a lot – he even made a parable about it.  About a mustard seed.  And the crazy thing is that, unlike the huge cosmic tree, this plant starts from something so small.  Your typical mustard seed is usually one or two millimeters in diameter. They don’t make national parks for mustard seeds, y'all.  Nobody gets their picture taken with one. But once these things start growing, it takes off and covers everything, like a blanket.  Like kudzu, in fact – you know that stuff?  “The vine that ate the South,” as it’s sometimes called?  God’s kingdom is like kudzu – it grows wild and uncontrollable, and keeps on growing.

That’s what the kingdom of God on earth looks like, my friends.  At least that’s the way Jesus describes it.  It’s like a mustard seed. Think about that!  It is the very antithesis of the cosmic tree Nebuchadnezzar dreamed about.  It’s tiny and hardly visible at first.  But when God’s kingdom takes root, it grows.  Like kudzu!  It takes over everything; and not by towering over it, but by spreading through it.  You don’t even realize you’re under its reign until you wake up one morning and BAM, it’s there!  You don’t really see God’s kingdom coming until you’re suddenly in it.

If only it were that easy, right?  If only God’s kingdom really did spread like kudzu.  The problem is, that’s not how things tend to work in our world.  I mean, Jesus may be talking all about mustard plants, but we still prefer tall trees over tiny seeds, don't we? We want taller, bigger, better, stronger – something we can name a park after, something we can get our picture taken with.  We gravitate toward what already is, not what someday will be.  And that has always been the stumbling block for us as people of faith; as people preparing for God’s kingdom: we are a mustard-seed people living in a cosmic-tree world.

So how do we prepare for God’s kingdom?  How do we contend with trees that tower over us?  It’s interesting, the ways the church has dealt with this over the years.  On the one hand, there are those who think that the way to go is to make God’s kingdom look like a cosmic tree.  And so there are mega-churches run by mega-pastors and facilities that look more like entertainment complexes than tabernacle tents.  But remember – tall trees eventually fall.  Then there are those who take an opposite approach; something smaller than even the mustard seed.  They withdraw from everything and try to build their own little garden in their own little corner of the world.  Problem is, nothing can grow where there’s no room for it to.

You can’t make a mustard seed look like a cosmic tree.  Nor can you put conditions on the growth of God’s kingdom on earth.  To be the church, to be the active and vibrant body of Christ, we have to grow when and where God wants us to.  We have to be tuned in to the movement of the spirit among us.  And most importantly, we have to realize that the faith of a mustard seed is subversive and radical – living in a way that changes not just us, but the people around us as well.

I was thinking about one of those “mustard seed-kingdom” people as I was visiting my backyard garden the other day, remembering that old hymn about Jesus walking and talking with me and telling me I’m his own.  The man’s name was Carl. Carl was in his 80’s and lived in a rough part of south Chicago, where gangs and drugs ruled the day and night.  Carl was a quiet man many people didn’t know well, but he would always greet you with a big smile and firm handshake.  When he saw the flyer at a local church asking for a volunteer to care for the garden behind the minister's manse, Carl responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed on. 

One summer day, though, the inevitable happened.  Carl was finishing his watering when three gang members approached him.  He offered them a drink of water, and they returned the favor by throwing him to the ground and robbing him of his watch and wallet.  They had barely run away when the minister came out the front door and found Carl on the ground.  Carl was matter-of-fact: Just some kids, he said. I hope they wise-up someday.  And then, despite the minister’s protests, Carl went right back to his work in the garden.

A few weeks later, the three returned.  Carl again offered them a drink from the hose.  This time they didn't rob him. There was nothing more he had to steal.  Instead, they wrenched the hose out of his hand and drenched him head to foot. Carl just watched them as they went on their way, laughing.  Then he picked up the hose and started watering again. 

Those three made a point of harassing Carl on and off all summer.  He would always offer them a drink of water, and they in turn would mock or humiliate him.  The minister tried to get Carl to quit, but Carl showed up every day on time, never missing a chance to care for the garden.

It was fall now, and Carl was doing some tilling one day when he was startled by the approach of someone behind him.  He turned to see one of the young men in the group who had tormented him all summer.  But this time, his demeanor was different.  He held out to Carl a crumpled paper bag and told him that it was his stuff, everything he and his friends had taken from him before – the watch, the wallet, everything.  

Why, Carl asked.  The young man responded: I learned something from you.  I ran with that gang and hurt people like you because I could.  Because they couldn’t hurt us back.  But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate.

Carl died one cold day after Christmas that year.  There were many people at his funeral, even though he hardly said a word, even though people didn’t know much about him.  The following spring another flyer went up in the community, asking for help with the church garden.  One day soon after, the minister heard a knock at his door.  Opening it, he saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer.  It was the same man who brought Carl’s stuff back to him that fall.  I believe this is my job, if you'll have me, he told the minister.  He gave him the job.   

There were many things that happened in that young man’s life besides getting the gardening gig.  He got married, he went to college, and became a prominent member of the community.  One day he knocked on the minister’s door and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any more: My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday.

The minister was elated at the news and congratulated him.  What’s the baby’s name, he asked.  With a wide smile the man said, His name is Carl.

Mustard seeds are so much better than cosmic trees, don’t you think?  Because the kingdom of God is not about the size of the shadow we cast, or how powerful or influential we are.  It’s about how we live our lives, who we live our live for, and how those whose lives come into contact with ours are changed for the better.  It’s about the gospel of Jesus Christ growing like crazy in and around and through us, spreading to whomever we touch, changing them and us from the inside out.  And I’m telling you folks, I’m telling you: that sort of stuff makes any garden a beautiful sight to behold.  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

IT'S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT THE DESTINATION

Genesis 12: 1-5; Hebrews 11:1-13, 12: 1-2
Steve Lindsley
June 17, 2012

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I’ve said it before, folks – I’m a fan of airports.  I know it sounds strange to some, as airports are loathe to those who travel for a living.  But for me, flying remains a novelty, and I enjoy every minute of it.  Well, once I get pass security, that is.  That’s always a pain.  But on the other side, I soak it up.  I love flying and even cramming into undersized coach seats, and the takeoff and landing and free soft drinks.  I love the people movers and random bookstores and overpriced merchandise I’ll never buy.
But you know what I really love, most of all?  I love strolling the length of the concourse, as for some reason my gate is always at the other end.  And I’m not in a hurry, I take my time, unlike the majority of my fellow travelers.  All variations of speed from a heightened walk to a full-blown sprint.  Dragging suitcases with wheels or small children, or both.  People I feel certain I’ll never brush by again, in this lifetime at least.

And I’m always fascinated by all the destinations at the various gates along the way: Chicago, New Orleans, Nashville.  New York City, Buffalo, St. Louis, Phoenix.  Seattle, Oklahoma City, Atlanta, Jacksonville, Charlotte, Detroit, Louisville, Houston, Sioux Falls.  It’s wild, thinking that one little enclosed strip of metal and glass and carpet can be the launching pad to so many different places.  At each of these gates, people standing in line, handing off boarding passes, strolling down tarmacs with an agenda and a plan.  They know their final destination.  They know exactly where they’re going.

In that respect, at least, they have the upper hand on one particular traveler; the one we happen upon in our scriptures today.  The 11th chapter of Hebrews is one of the more heralded parts of the New Testament; a “Who’s Who” of the Bible greats and how they followed God “by faith.”  A cloud of witnesses, it’s called.  And the one who gets the most press time is none other than Abraham, the guy who started it all way back in the Genesis passage Elaine read earlier.  It was Abraham whom God appeared to out of nowhere one night, taking him outside and showing him a star-studded sky that would number his descendants.  That was the promise.  It was Abraham whom God called to lead his chosen people.  And it was Abraham whom God gave, at the ripe old age of 100, a son – Isaac, who would begin the storied family lineage and all those descendants God had promised.

But the thing we should note here is how Abraham began that journey: a very, very curious beginning; as the writer of Hebrews tells us:

By faith Abraham obeyed
when he was called to set out for a place
that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out…

…and catch this last part…

… and he set out not knowing where he was going.

Now let’s just chew on that for a minute, shall we?  Let’s think about that long and hard, y’all; because so often these stories in the Bible become so routine, so second-hand to us, that we often fail to see their full dimension.  Let’s ponder the fact that the foundation of the Israelite nation, the Jewish faith and Christianity, this foundation begins with God appearing to an unsuspecting 75-year old man, and essentially saying: Abraham, I want you to pack everything up, all your family and all your belongings; and I want you to go on a trip from which you will never return. Oh, and I’m not going to tell you where you’re going, either.

You know what that’s like?  That’s like standing at the starting line of a 10K race one Saturday morning, and having no idea where the race finishes up – you’re just going to run until you think it’s over.  Or it’s like piling into the family car for the summer vacation trip with all the preparations made – the newspaper stopped for a week, the pet sitter lined up, the car packed.  Every detail is completed, except one: you have absolutely no idea where it is you are going.  No room reservations, no address to plug into the GPS.  You literally don’t know, as you prepare to pull out of your driveway, whether you’re going to turn right or left.

Now I don’t know about you, but I find it amazing that, over the years, we’ve actually applauded Abraham for this.  I mean, who gets a pat on the back for running a race without a finish line, or leaving on vacation with no destination? Going through life without an agenda in mind, without any goals?  We characterize that behavior as reckless, irresponsible, even selfish, don’t we?

I mean, we tell our children from day one, do we not, to do their best in school and get involved in all kinds of extracurricular activities.  And why?  Because it’ll look good on a college application and help us get into a good college.  And when we get into that college?  We make the best grades and apply for the best internships, because a solid transcript coupled with a strong resume will help us land a good job.  And when we land that job?  We put in overtime and go above and beyond the call of duty so we can make partner, or get the big salary, or put ourselves in a position to buy into the business.  So much of our lives in the first world is driven by the desire to take the necessary steps to get to a particular destination, a goal, a finish line.  Achieving to succeed. Forward-focused.  That’s a huge part of what drives so much of the Western mindset.

And then this guy Abraham comes along, and he’s embarking on some life-long journey without having a clue where he’s going, all because God told him to.  Just go, and don’t worry about where you’re going, Abraham, because God will lead you there – some day.  Don’t worry about the finish line, Abraham, because God will show it to you – eventually.  And the writer of Hebrews takes Abraham and lifts him up, celebrates him for his non-destination, anti-finish line behavior; as a charter member in the cloud of witnesses and a paragon of excellence in the faith.

Does this sound as ludicrous to you as it does to me?  Or to put it more personally: if it were you God had asked instead of Abraham, would you have gone?

As many of you know, my father works with the Olympics and is gearing up right now for some time in London later this summer.  I can’t remember if it was he or someone else who shared this with me. They’d asked me if I had ever heard of the unique race that was part of the original Greek Olympics.  The only thing I could think of was the fact that all the athletes competed in the nude – which was true, he told me, but that wasn’t what he was talking about.  No, he told me that there was this one event categorically different from all the others.  Most of the races, like today, were all about finishing first; but there was one event that had nothing to do with where one finished.  It wasn’t even about a destination, really.  The winner of this particular event, my friend told me, was the person who finished with their torch still lit. 

A torch – flame, burning.  Now think about that.  If that’s the race you’re in, are you really concerned about whatever finish line is in front of you?  No – your focus is all on the torch, doing whatever you can to keep it burning.  Whatever to keep the flame lit.

See, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the kind of faith Abraham and all the others in this “cloud of witnesses” are celebrated for.  What do you think?  So much of Christian faith today is focused on the destination – be it heaven, or a blessed life.  We manufacture a finish line that God has no desire for us to manufacture.  We make it up!  And when we get there, or think we get there, we take on a role that is not ours to take on.  We convince ourselves that we’re finished, we’re complete.  That the journey is over.

How crazy is that, given that the father of our faith was sent by God on a journey and didn’t even know where he was going?  How can we ever say we’ve arrived if Abraham and all those others couldn’t say the same? 

No, my friends; the Christian journey is not about the destination.  It’s about something else – or, more precisely, someone else. As Hebrews says:

Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,
let us run with perseverance the race set before us,
looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith….   

Folks, you and I are on a journey – a journey of faith.  But this journey isn’t always about where we’re going or what our destination is.  It’s about keeping the flame on our torch lit.  And that flame is none other than Jesus himself – the “pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”  He is our goal, he is our destination, he is our finish line.

Don’t you see how dramatically this changes things?  We never “arrive” – we are never “done” as sojourners in the faith.  We are always works in progress, doing our little part to build a portion of God’s kingdom on earth.  And the minute we think we have arrived is the minute that flame starts to go out.  The minute we think “we don’t need to go to that Bible study, we already know enough about the Bible” or “we went to church last month, we can skip this Sunday,” or “I served Friends Feeding Friends three months in a row; someone else can do it this time” – the minute we start thinking stuff like that is the minute we’ve manufactured a destination that God never intended for us.

The journey of faith never ends!  And isn’t that a beautiful, enriching, freeing kind of thing – even for us destination-minded Westerners?  Our journey of faith keeps going, because God goes with us.  And that can’t help but change the way that we take part in the journey.

It’s like an airport, but a little different than the one before.  Imagine O’Hare or Hartsfield in Atlanta – one of the big ones – the day before Christmas or the day after Thanksgiving, when the place is slammed with people, frantically going here and there, trying to get to their gate so they board their plane and make their way to their pre-determined destinations…

And in the midst of all that that chaos is a family of four, sitting in a group of chairs in the corner of the concourse.  They’re obviously traveling somewhere for the holidays, but unlike everyone else they don’t seem to be in a rush.  Mom and Dad are looking at a Time magazine and talking about the cover issue.  Brother and Sister are tossing a small ball back and forth, seeing how many times they can pass it without letting it drop.  They all talk and laugh and seem perfectly at ease.  They’re heading somewhere; of course.  But that somewhere isn’t monopolizing all their time and energy.  They’re just “being” with each other; they’re enjoying each other.  They’re keeping their torch lit.  And that’s the greatest journey of all.

Someone once said this:

The truth is that God’s will for us isn’t bound up in the final destination, be it heaven, a career choice or even a particular ministry.  God’s will is for us to be in relationship with Jesus, to trust him with everything in our lives and to live each day in his presence.

And when you think about it, isn’t that a lot better than just getting to somewhere?  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

TRADING YOKES

Mark 11: 28-30; Psalm 51: 1-14
Steve Lindsley
June 10, 2012

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This morning, I want to share a little story about yokes.  I’m not talking about the egg kind, either. You know what a yoke is, right?  It’s a wooden beam, used between a pair of animals so they can pull a load together.  That’s the literal yoke.  There’s also the metaphorical one – a burden that must be carried; ramifications of a mistake you or someone else made.  The “yoke” that you bear….

So here’s my story about a yoke.  Some years ago, I went on a date.  A first date, in fact.  I’d met this wonderful woman through a mutual friend – she an attorney and me the new minister.  And in case you didn’t know, introducing yourself to a prospective date as a minister does not typically work in your favor.  In seminary my buddies and I would try to come up with the most creative way to tell a girl you were a minister without actually telling them you were a minister.  “I study ancient languages” was one way.  “I’m in sales” was another.  I think the winner was, “I sell Life insurance.”

But with this particular lady, I didn’t have to make anything up.  I told her I was a minister from the get-go, and when I asked her out, she said yes.  Thank the good Lord.

So we went out to dinner.  Had a wonderful time – in fact, we closed the place down.  After our meal, which was fabulous, I ordered dessert – a huge slice of double chocolate cake.  Now I didn’t usually get chocolate, if I got any dessert at all; but the night was going so well, we were talking up a storm, so why not some chocolate cake?  My date didn’t order any for herself, and when I offered some of mine, she politely declined.  Oh well.  I sure thought it was good. 

The next day, I called her up, and we talked about how much fun we had the night before.  And in that conversation, one of the things I learned about her was that she was a chocolate fan – a full-blown choco-holic, in fact.  So when I asked her why she didn’t get any cake the night before, or take the bite that I offered, you know what she said?  She said that Lent had started that week, and the one thing she had decided to give up for Lent was her beloved chocolate!

Ah, the yoke I had to bear!  Because for whatever good I might do in my life, I will always be remembered as the guy who ate chocolate cake in front of a girl who had given chocolate up for Lent – and on a first date, even!  Sitting across the table, watching me spoon those scrumptious bits of chocolate goodness into my mouth.  It was a miracle she even picked up the phone when I called, much less agreed to a second date.  But we had that second date, and many other dates.  And then one year later to the day, at that very same restaurant, at that very same table, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.  And we celebrated our engagement dinner with – you guessed it – chocolate cake!

I’m telling you, it’s nice when guilt gets transformed into grace.  It’s nice when the yoke, the burden we sometimes have to bear, winds up being more of a temporary pit-stop on the road of life, rather than a final destination. 

But you know something?  As I look at the world around and see all the things that bind people and hold them captive and keep them from living into God’s amazing grace, more and more what I see are not people who are held captive by greed or a thirst for power or selfishness or fear.  What I see more and more are people held captive by guilt.  Guilt – guilt over things they have done that they shouldn’t have; guilt over things left undone.  Guilt over people they have hurt, opportunities they have missed; guilt over things that they shouldn’t even feel guilty about. 

Now there are some who claim that guilt serves a purpose – it can be, after all, a tremendous motivator.  The popular humorist Garrison Keillor once quipped: I kind of like guilt myself. A strong sense of personal guilt is what makes people willing to serve on committees.   Makes you think, doesn’t it?

The thing is, I’m not sure guilt is as much a motivator as it is a stalled condition, you know?  Not natural.  In the psalm Bill read earlier, the great King David is at the lowest of his low.  For as great a man as David was, he, like all of us, made mistakes.  And that appears to be the backdrop of this particular psalm.  Maybe he was wallowing in regret over his Bathsheba debacle.  Maybe he was lamenting the fact that he had failed God.  Whatever the case, David hits himself right between the eyes:

For I know my transgressions and my sin is ever before me;
Against you, God, you alone I have sinned
And done what is evil in your sight.

No mincing words, huh?  No excuses.  It’s painful, isn’t it – that point when it all comes to a head and you have to say to yourself, and to God, and maybe even to someone else, I messed up – I blew it!  It’s painful.

The thing is, that doesn’t have to be the end of the story, thanks be to God!  Because after we’ve faced up to it, after we’ve acknowledged our brokenness, there is a door that appears before us.  It is a door that leads to repentance, to transformation, to forgiveness.  And it is not a door of escape; it is a door of completion – of not just God forgiving us, but us forgiving ourselves.  David seems to recognize that door in the psalm itself, when he says:

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love;
Wash me thoroughly and cleanse me from my sin
Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation.

That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?  That’s how God intended for it to be.  But you know, too many of us – way too many of us – fail to open that door.  And that’s how we get stuck – literally – in our guilt. That’s when the yoke we bear becomes our burden. And my friends, that is not the way it’s supposed to be – not one bit.  Guilt is not God-given; in fact, guilt works against what God is trying to do with us. Guilt paralyzes and imprisons us.  Guilt tells us we are not children of God.  Guilt convinces us, in no uncertain terms, that we are unforgivable.

Do you know people who are held captive by the guilt in their lives, unable or unwilling to open the door to God’s transformation?  Do you know folks who truly feel they are not worthy to be called children of God; who can’t even bring themselves to set foot in the doors of a church and into the embrace of a family of faith?

Do you know anyone like that?  I do; and I bet you do too.  Heck, maybe it’s you.  Maybe you’re here today not because you feel worthy of being here, but because you feel you have to be, like an obligation.  Like a yoke.  Maybe you get through your day okay, running errands and pushing papers and making dinner and driving the kids to practice.  Maybe your facade is strong from dawn to dusk.  But in the quiet and still of the night, when it’s just you, maybe that’s when the cracks start to show, and the pain and hurt of the yoke you bear weighs the heaviest on your heart.

If that is you, or if it’s someone you know, then I want you to hear a letter I received years ago from a member of my former church.  I asked their permission to share it some day, and that day is today.

**********
Dear Steve - since we talked about guilt in our Bible study this past week, I thought you’d appreciate this true story about my Dad.

My dad's mother was 16 when he was born, and his father abandoned them when she was still pregnant.  No one in the family ever talked about it.  Dad didn’t know who his father was, or even his name.  He assumed he was illegitimate and was subjected to the taunts of school chums and the whispers of old ladies.   When he was young, his mother remarried a man who didn't like children and they moved out of town.  So Dad was raised by his grandmother, a God-fearing woman who believed in beating any sign of the devil out of her grandson.  He was given his grandmother's surname and didn't know his birth name or the details of his early life until he was a young man and Aunt Bertha decided he should know. There was always a black hole in Dad's life where his father should’ve been. 

Dad had an uncle, Uncle Bub, who lived an hour away in rural South Carolina and was the only real male figure in Dad's upbringing. He had a wooden leg from a World War I injury.  He was a successful farmer and owned the local bank in Johnston, South Carolina.  Bub died Dad's first year in seminary.  He left the bulk of his estate to his son and daughter; but to Dad he left a single leather pouch. There were three things in this leather pouch.  The first was a pile of bank mortgage notes on local farms which Bub held.  Bub had acquired these mortgages during the Depression, when many farmers were unable to make their payments.  The pouch also contained a handwritten list with the name of the farmer on each mortgage note.  Lastly, there was a letter from Bub to Dad directing him, upon Bub’s death, to personally go to each farmer on the list, identify himself, verify that the person he was talking to was the farmer on the mortgage, and then in their presence, tear up the mortgage note. Dad was to perform these acts immediately following Bub's funeral.  

So Dad arose early the next morning and took Bub's car and drove the dusty country roads and began his visits.  By the time he got to the farms, the farmer and his family were already in the field.  Dad had to either call them in or meander through rows of corn and cotton and tobacco to get to the farmer.  He introduced himself and asked the farmer if he was John Smith.  He marked their name off the list; and then he pulled the farmer's mortgage from the leather pouch and tore it up.   My Dad watched as grown, brusque men would fall to their knees, weeping openly.  Hunched-over farmers would then stand tall as the huge burden was literally lifted off their shoulders.  I don't know how many names were on the list or how many mortgages were forgiven, but I know my Dad made these visits from early morning until dusk and did not return home for over a week.

Dad didn’t tell any of this to us kids until we were grown.  I remember my brother asking him why Bub did what he did.  Bub wasn’t rich, money had to be tight with Dad in seminary and three little kids.  Dad said that Bub wanted him to learn the power of releasing burdens, because that is what Jesus does for us every single day.  Indeed, this was Dad’s inheritance.  Through the process of forgiving these mortgage notes and seeing the power of burdens lifted, Dad slowly began the process of learning to relieve his own guilt, a holdover from his childhood, that somehow his pain was his fault; that he was tainted. He needed to forgive himself, even for that which was not his fault.   The process did not sink in with the first torn note, nor did it end with the last. 

Until the day he died, Dad kept that list with the scratched-off names in the pages of his Bible. He told us that letting go of guilt is never easy.  It's hard work.  It takes repeated effort.  Discipline.  And the power it releases for both the forgiver and the forgiven is one of God's greatest miracles.

I just thought you would like to hear this story.

Love, Mary Lou

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Come to me, Jesus tells us.  Come to me, all of you who are weary, all who are carrying burdens.  Come to me whether the burdens are yours or whether they belong to someone else.  Come to me if guilt has set up permanent residence in your soul because you are unable to forgive and love yourself as I have forgiven and love you.  Come to me, and I will give you rest.     

Take my yoke upon you, Jesus tells us.  Take my yoke, please!  My yoke is easy; my burden is light.  Yours is so heavy – so very heavy!  It never ceases to amaze me, how heavy .  Why do you do this to yourselves?  Why do you beat yourself up, feel there is no one you can turn to?  Turn to me, and let’s trade yokes – my easy yoke for your heavy one. I can take it, you know.  I can bear your burdens.  I want to, because that’s what people do when they love someone as much as I love you.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.


 

DID SAMUEL GET IT WRONG?

1 Samuel 15: 10-23, 34-35
Steve Lindsley
June 3, 2012

Listen to Sermon

Every year it happens, in some form or fashion, in both the collegiate and professional sports world.  A coach is hired, or a player given a fat new contract.  The coach is either a big-name or an up-and-coming-er on the fast track.  The player is an all-star, set rushing records, batted over .300 the past five seasons.  There is a big press conference held in their honor; a table with two microphones and two bottles of water; a back drop emblazoned with the team logo.  The college athletic director or professional sports team owner steps up to the mic; and before clicking cameras proudly introduces his prized acquisition – a new coach slicked up in an Armani suit; a player holding the team’s jersey.  Both beam with pride at the promise and success that awaits.

Except sometimes, it never happens.  Maybe the big-name coach couldn’t recruit in his new surroundings, or the up-and-coming-er took one step up the coaching ladder a little too soon.  Maybe the big-name player got his money and lost his desire to win; or never found chemistry with his new teammates.  Hundreds of thousands of booster dollars, paid to fire the last coach and bring in the new one –down the drain.  Shrinking cap space from an overblown player contract, now strangling the team like a vice. 

And so the athletic director or team owner has to face the cameras once again, but this time he is not beaming.  Before the sports world and with forlorn face, he makes his mea culpa; and he is forced to say the four words that are as bitter coming out of his mouth as the losses that brought him to this place: “It didn’t work out.”  “We made a mistake.”

Every year this sort of thing happens in college and the pros, in football and basketball and other sports.  It happens in the business world, too; when you bring in a CEO that doesn’t take the company to the next level.  It happens everywhere.  And so someone else is hired to take their place, and it starts all over again.  You never can tell, really, if a new coach or player or other hire is going to work out like you hope it will.  But you can always hope – and that’s the thing.  You always have hope.

Hope is what the priest and prophet Samuel had in mind when he left the confines of the tabernacle one day to go out and anoint Israel’s first king.  Except it wasn’t an Armani-suited coach or a free agent running back he put his trust in.  It was a farmer – a rural farmer he was called to anoint king.  Think Jimmy Carter, plucked from the peanut farms of Georgia and plopped in the White House!  That’s kind of what it was like when Saul became king.

Now the fact that the Israelites even had a king was worth noting.  God’s people had been settled in the Promised Land for a hundred years or so, making it their home and slowly forming the Israelite nation.  And at some point the people began to look at the nations around them, and they noticed: everyone else had a king, except them.  So they complained to God and to Samuel, and told them they wanted a king, that they needed a king, that they couldn’t be a “real nation” without a king.

To say God was less-than-enthused about the idea would be putting it mildly.  Through Samuel, God told the people that it wasn’t all fun and games with a king around.  That’s because kings had ultimate power and authority; which meant they could do kingly things like levy taxes whenever they wanted, or institute forced labor, or take livestock from people on a whim.  There was a definite downside to having a king, and God tried telling them.

But the people kept insisting: we want a king!  And so God finally gave them one; and a rural farmer from the sticks was sent to the throne.

At first there was great hope, as there always is at the start.  But soon that hope began to fade.  And it wasn’t that Saul was a bad person or abused his power as future kings would.  It was just – well, it was just he wasn’t up to the job.  That’s pretty much it.  And you can’t help but feel sorry for the guy as you watch events unfold.  The more Saul tried to do the right thing, the more he messed things up.  You know any people like that?  You know people who seem to perpetually take one step forward and two steps back?  Meet their patron saint, King Saul of Israel! 

Like the time he engaged the Philistines in battle without Samuel present.  That would be like the Yankees of old beginning a baseball game without a Steinbrenner in the stands.  Or the time Saul got angry at his troops after a lost battle and decided to punish them by withholding food for a couple of days.  Cause, you know, starving soldiers are going to perform so much better than well-fed ones!

The last straw occurred when Saul took riches from a foreign nation after defeating their army – breaking a strict Hebrew code against collecting spoil.  He told Samuel he was taking it to offer as a sacrifice to God – and in all honesty he probably was.  That was pretty much the story on Saul – good heart, poor execution. 

And that was it – both God and Samuel realized that Saul was unsalvageable.  There was no denying it.  And so Saul, bless his heart, was let go, without even the dignity of a press conference and thanks from his former employer.  And God, we are told, was sorry that he ever made Saul king, and regretted the decision, as did Samuel.

Sometimes in the sporting world, a school or team is able to bounce back from a difficult period fairly quickly.  And that certainly was the case for Israel.  The very next chapter takes Samuel to a man named Jesse, and a son of his out in the fields named David.  We know all how that turned out!  So it’s easy to kind of brush over the whole Saul thing, because in the end everything worked out okay.

But you know, I think it may be worth our while to stop for a minute – stop and kind of hover in this state of uncomfortableness.  This whole deal with Saul’s failure and God’s regret.  I mean, that sounds kind of harsh, doesn’t it – especially coming from an omniscient and omnipotent God.  It forces us to face some difficult questions, like: whose failure is this?  Is it Saul’s, or is it Samuel’s?  Did Samuel get it wrong?  Did God?

At the Bob Chilton Bible study this past Wednesday, where we look at the scripture I’m preaching on that Sunday, one of our members point-blank asked me, “There are hundreds of thousands of verses in the Bible – why in the world did you pick these?”  And it’s true, the 15th chapter of 1 Samuel is not exactly a feel-good, everything-wrapping-up-all-nice-and-neat passage!  I’ve been kicking this one around for months.  It’s one of those weird preacher things where a scripture gets stuck in your head and, try as you might to let it go, it won’t let you go.  Which is unfortunate, since this whole notion of something God ordained not working out doesn’t exactly leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

I used to have a little old lady who lived next door to me in my condo outside Winston-Salem, right after I got out of college.  Ruby and I would always have these wonderful little conversations when our paths crossed during the day – about the weather, or the latest election, or the goings-on in our town.  Ruby was also a master theologian, and her sadness at seeing me leave a few years later was brightened only by the fact that I was going to seminary.  Her theological arsenal consisted of a dozen or so sayings that voice her supreme and utter faith in God – one of those being, “God don’t make no mistakes.”  Every time I hear that, I think of Ruby.

I wonder what Ruby would think about this story in the 15th chapter of 1 Samuel.  Did God make a mistake in picking Saul?  Or, even worse, was God trying to prove a point with him?  After all, remember, God didn’t want the people to have a king anyway – what better way to “show them” than give them a lemon from the start.  Is it true that Saul should’ve never been king in the first place?

You know, it’s funny how we always look for blame when things don’t go right – you notice that?  When the coach or star player doesn’t pan out, there has to be a reason; the coach wasn’t ready for the big job or the player was simply past his prime.  When the business tanks, what errors did the CEO make?  When the election is lost, who’s responsible for the failed strategy?

Sometimes there is blame to go around.  But you know, sometimes, when life doesn’t go according to plan, it’s not about blame as much as it’s about circumstances and choices – and what we do with those.  Sometimes it really is as simple as that.  And the fact is that Saul made some pretty bad choices in certain circumstances.  It wasn’t that Saul wasn’t trying; and it wasn’t that Samuel or God had made a bad decision.

No, what it boils down to is this: people make mistakes.  People mess up.  It is the one thing that every single person on this planet – past, present, and future – has in common with everyone else.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a legendary coach or a janitor; a star basketball player or a CEO, an anointed king or the guy serving your hamburger at the drive-thru.  It doesn’t matter if your salary is in the millions, or you have no salary.  Everyone makes mistakes.  And when we put our full trust and confidence in someone else, if we expect them to be someone they are not, they will disappoint us.  They will never live up to our expectations as long as we expect more out of them than we should.

So does this mean we should stop trusting people or expecting good things out of them?  Of course it doesn’t!  All it means is that we don’t make people out to be bigger or more important or more valuable than they are.  When that new coach is brought on board, or when that star player is signed, we have to be reasonable with what to expect from them.  Because in the end, we are called to see everyone around us in the same way that God sees them – as equal children of God. 

It also means that we place our ultimate hope and trust in the only source deserving of it.  Because in the end, God is the true source of our grandest hope; a hope that came to full fruition when God walked this earth with us, lived among us, taught and healed us, died for us, and rose to new life for us.

So if we want a king, like those Israelites did; a king that won’t abuse his power and will rule us with justice and compassion, we need to king Jesus.

If we want a political leader who is above reproach and who takes everyone’s interest at heart, we need to elect Jesus.

If we want a CEO or local business owner who manages our assets wisely and always keeps the best interests of the investors in mind, we need to hire Jesus.

If we want a minister who will preach the best sermons and never makes mistakes or lets us down, sorry to say it folks, you got the wrong guy – you need to call Jesus.

If we want a parent who never loses their temper, always fixes the best meals and never misses a soccer game or dance recital, we need Jesus.

You can go on and on!  And see, that’s exactly what God was trying to tell the people all those years before, when they were begging for a king, said they couldn’t live without a king.  It’s what God tried telling them: Kings will disappoint you – but I never will.  Kings will let you down – I won’t.  Kings are human, just like you.  Let me be your king.  Let me be the one you place your ultimate trust and hope in.

It was a hard lesson God’s people had to learn all those years ago.  And like I said, you can’t help but feel a little sorry for Saul; for displaying the very essence of his humanity at the worst possible times.
But if Saul’s saga tells us anything, it’s that it’s not about fault or blame.  It’s not even about who is wrong or who made a mistake.  It’s about the fact that God works through all of us, sometimes even in spite of ourselves, showing us through our weakness that Jesus is – should be – our king; yesterday, today, tomorrow.  We will never live up to our own expectations.  God always will.  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.