The Mayberry Preacher

SIGNS AND WONDERS - WHAT WAS LOST IS FOUND

John 20: 1-18, John 11: 17, 21-27, 38-44
Steve Lindsley
Easter Sunday
April 8, 2012

 

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Have you ever lost something that was so precious and dear to you?  So important and so vital that you didn’t think you’d be able to live without it; and how you’d give anything – anything – to have it back?  Have you ever missed something like that so badly?

Because I’m telling you, as I stood outside the empty tomb that morning all those years ago, I was drowning in my loss.  They have taken my Lord and my savior, and I don’t know where they put him.  It was all I could think about.  See, I had already lost Jesus once on the cross.  And now I had lost him a second time.

Going to the tomb that morning was the last thing I wanted to do, you understand.  Rising out of bed long before the sun’s light raced across the earth.  If I had my druthers, I would’ve stayed in bed all day long.  Hiding from the new day that would remind me, excruciatingly so, all that had happened to Jesus in just three days. Captured and tried and executed as a criminal; put to death by the Roman empire and those who simply could not stand anyone else claiming authority.  I had been forced to face his death alone when everyone else ran away.  I stood my ground. I was there when he breathed his last and died; I was there when they sealed him in that cold dark cave, entombing not just him but all the hope and light and love he embodied.  And now, every bit of it would decay and rot in that tomb.  Because nothing that goes into a tomb ever comes out.

It was not at all what I wanted to do; to go and anoint his dead body, as is our Jewish custom.  But I did up anyway.  I did it for him; only for him.  Even in his death, I still walked where he led me.  And so as I made my way along that winding path with the new day sun peeking around rock crevices and trees, I prepared for the onslaught on my senses – the smell of decay, the sight of decomposing flesh, the sound of silence that finds its home in tombs.  All reminding me of the harsh truth that I was still coming to grips with – that Jesus, my teacher and preacher, my Lord and my savior, my master and my friend, Jesus was dead.  Alive no more.

We all had seen the signs, first-hand.  How he filled the jars with new wine at the wedding, wine that was even better than what was in them before, saving the best till now.  How he healed the centurion’s son and the crippled man, showing us that God’s grace was meant for all.  How he fed the thousands of hungry with an abundance we never even knew we had; how he walked on water and lifted Peter right out of his very failure.  How he gave sight to the one who had never seen before, and how he exposed as blind those who had made such a great pretense of seeing.

And then, just a week or so before, how Jesus walked right up to that tomb; a tomb much like the one I was heading to at this very moment.  A tomb that belonged to his friend Lazarus, who was our friend too.  He had died to us; he was lost to us. 

His sister Martha, expressing to Jesus her faith in the resurrection to come.  But Jesus told her something else: I am the resurrection and the life, he said.  And with that, he turned to the now open tomb, all the stench coming out, and told Lazarus to get out of there.  And Lazarus walked right out!  Still wrapped in burial cloths, but alive again, breathing again, living again!  What was lost was found!
Signs, every last one of them.  Not signs to “wow” the crowds or to prove anything.  Signs to point us all closer and closer to Jesus, like mileposts along the journey.  Signs showing us who Jesus was, revealing the glory of God to the world!

But now, now all that glory was lost forever, sealed away in a tomb with a stone rolled in front.

Except that stone was no longer there!  That’s what I saw with my own two eyes as I rounded the corner to the place where they laid him.  The tomb was wide open.  Burial cloths folded on the ground; the stone off to the side.  And my stomach sank as I realized that I had lost my Jesus again.  They have taken my Lord and my savior, and I don’t know where they put him. 

What do you do with loss like that, huh?  What do you do with yourself when you lose something that can never be replaced?  When what you’ve lost is so much more than a possession of yours, but is the very definition of who you are?  Because we all found our true selves in Jesus.  We all had our jars filled, our brokenness healed, our hunger satisfied.  We all were lifted right out of our failures and healed of our blindness.  That’s who Jesus was to us!  So what do you in that hopeless period that follows the cross, when empty tombs are all you’re left with; a painful reminder that Jesus is nowhere to be found?

Because, see, I think so much of life happens in that place.  Loss is a frequent companion along the journey, isn’t it?  Loss of a loved one.  Loss of innocence.  Loss of a relationship, loss of a job.  Loss of what was familiar and comfortable; loss of a much hoped-for opportunity.  Jesus came to put an end to loss forever; and show us the beauty of what we can find in and through him.  Jesus came to do all that, and more.  And now he was lost to us.  He was lost to me. 

They come running back to the tomb with me, running back up that same path, running to see what I had seen – or not seen, as it were.  Peter and the “other disciple,” who ran faster than the rest of us.  So fast that we couldn’t even remember his name!  But that’s the way it is, isn’t it?  We all make our own pace in the journey that leads us to the tomb, don’t we?  Some of us take more time; others can’t get there fast enough.   The important thing, though, is that we’re all heading in the same direction.  We’re all headed there together.

They see exactly what I had already seen, what I had told them about – the moved stone, the open tomb, the folded burial cloths.  One says he believes – but what, exactly?  What does he believe?  He doesn’t say, he just runs away, so excited.  Me?  I am as lost as ever.

And so it is there, standing outside the open tomb, where he finds me.  The gardener.  He finds me there, weeping my eyes out.  And he asks me what’s wrong.  He asks me who I am looking for.  So I tell him, as I’ve told them all a thousand times:

They have taken my Lord and my Savior, and I don’t know where they put him.

And I respectfully ask this gardener that if he has taken my Jesus, if he has put his body somewhere, to just let me know where, so I can go with my ointment and anoint his body as is our custom.  Just grant me this one favor, please.  One small grace so I can bring closure to all of this and entomb Jesus one last time. 

And it is at that moment, at that very moment, that I find him.  And all he has to do is say my name!  Mary.  He says “Mary” and the last sign reveals itself to me, like the early morning sun illuminating the darkened earth.  It is the miracle to end all miracles!  Because this man before me is not the gardener.  He is the one I’d been searching for all morning long – all my life, really.  He is Jesus!  And he is not lost, he is found.  He is not dead, he is alive!

Tell the others, he says to me.  And so I do.  I run back and tell everyone that I have seen the Lord!  Seen him with my own eyes; heard him with my ears.  Jesus – not lost, but found.  Not dead, but alive!  I tell them all, and they hear me.  And they go and tell others.  And even now, we are still telling the story – after all these years, the wonderful story of a moved stone and an empty tomb and folded burial cloths and a gardener who was not a gardener and Jesus calling me by my name and being alive all over again.  Alive for every one of us!

And you know what I eventually came to understand, much later?  It took awhile, but I know it’s the truth.  Jesus was never lost – I was.  I was the lost one.  We all are lost, aren’t we – if we’re honest with ourselves?  Every one of us, trying to figure out who we are, what we’re here to do, what our life means.  Trying to make sense of a world where jars are always empty, where human bodies are perpetually broken, where stomachs go hungry all the time, where failure is a constant companion, where eyes are overcome with blindness.

That is the world we know – until that moment when Jesus finds us!  He finds us when he comes out of an empty tomb that simply cannot contain him one moment longer.  He finds us and embraces us in everlasting love.  And he fills our empty jars, he heals our brokenness, he feeds our bodies, he lifts us out of our failures, he makes the blind to see.  Signs, pointing us to the glory of God.  Pointing us to him.

There is no doubt: Easter is a miracle!  But do you know what the real miracle of Easter is?  It is not that Jesus walked out of a tomb.  It is not that one man defied death.  The real miracle of Easter, the real sign of God’s glory, is that Jesus, like he did with Lazarus, beckons each one of us out of our own tombs – he tells us to “get out of there!”  All those things that lead to decay and rot; all those things that bind us up like burial cloths.  Jesus frees us from them!  He frees us so we can be who we were created to be: children of God, walking in newness of life.  And what a precious life it is!  Not a life to be wasted, but a life to be lived to the fullest!  And not an ending to our journey of faith, as if victory is all we’re after.  But a beginning.  A beginning to the real work of the kingdom that is just getting started.

That, my friends, is the miracle of Easter.  And it’s a miracle that changed the world.  For we all are lost.  But through the risen Jesus, we all are found.  Called out by our very name and claimed forever by the God who loves us.  Jesus Christ is Risen!  Alleluia!  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN!

IN THE WILDERNESS: A TRIUMPHANT ENTRY LEADS TO GETHSEMANE

Mark 11: 1-11; Mark 14: 32-42
Steve Lindsley
April 5, 2009

(NOTE: today's sermon is a joint venture between myself and the chancel choir, where the choir sings a song and a I follow with a short first-person sermonette.  I think it came out pretty cool.)

Lift yp your heads, ye mighty gates, ye everlasting doors
Fling open wide your hearts and greet the coming of the Lord
Who is the King of glory?  The Lord of hosts! 
He is the King of glory
All glory, laud and honor to Thee, Redeemer, King
To whom the lips of children made hosannas ring.
Thou art the King of Israel, Thou David's royal Son
Who in the Lord's name comes, the King and Holy One!
("The King of Glory" - Martin)

They have him on this colt and they're parading him through the streets of Jerusalem.  It's quite a sight.  They're laying their cloaks down in front of him; waving palm branches high in the air.  Some of them are shouting all kinds of things: Hosanna!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!  It's not that he needs the adoration or even wants it.  But I can tell – it means a lot to them.  It means a lot to our people who've had it hard for so long.  For once, we're finally getting a chance to celebrate.  For once, we can smile.

And yet as great as this is, I wonder – I wonder if they really understand what it is they're doing.  Because way on the other side of the city, there's another parade going on.  It's the parade that happens every year at this time, ever since the Romans took over.  See, this is the week of Passover, the most holy week of our Jewish faith.  Hundreds of thousands make the pilgrimage from all over Palestine to Jerusalem, to be at the temple, to sacrifice and worship God.  This city swells to twice its normal size, perhaps even more.  That's a lot of people – a lot of people that make the Romans nervous.  They have to hold on to their precious Pax Romana – Roman peace – by any means necessary.  Any means.

So a while back they started sending a not-so-subtle message on the first day of Passover – they staged a parade.  They hold it at the main city gates, on the other side of the city.  The Roman governor is welcomed in with all the pomp and circumstance, legions of Rome's military finest, trumpets blaring and purple and gold flags waving.    People come out by the thousands.  It's a lot of fun – the kids all point at things and “ooh” and “aah.”  But it's also dead serious, and everyone knows what's really going on.  No trouble during Passover – or else.

That's the parade that's happening right now on the other side of Jerusalem.  Which means this little thing we have going on here is not some innocent celebration.   Over there, they're claiming Caesar as their Lord.  Over there they are putting their trust and faith in Rome's military might and the false illusion that true power comes from how many troops you have, or how many cavalries process in, or how much clout you possess.  Over there, they are waving their palm branches and throwing down their cloaks for something else entirely.

But here, here we are claiming Jesus to be “Lord” - borrowing Rome's own imperial language, even!  Here we are putting our trust and faith in a man who was trained as a carpenter and has spent the better part of three years wandering the countryside in flip-flops and a worn cloak.  Here we recognize that true power comes from nothing of this world. 

They have him on a colt and they're riding him through Jerusalem.  And I don't think any of them have a clue how dangerous this is, or where it's all heading.  I guess we'll find that out soon enough.

Flowering trees shower petals and leaves
all around on the ground where He weeps on his knees
Flowering trees shed their leaves in the garden of ears
In the garden alone, Jesus prays for the courage to face the day
Though He has known from birth why He came to earth
the reality now is moments away
Just a heartbeat away, lay his friends sleeping on their innocence
Completely unaware of the burden he bears
All alone in the garden of tears
In the garden of tears, Jesus' sweat drops like blood,
as he pleads with the Father to take away the cup
Yet He knows Ye will drink His fill on Calvary's hill,
Do the Father's will
In the darkness, the soldiers appear, like a lamb he is led away
Flowering trees shed their leaves in the garden of tears.
("Garden of Tears" - Schram)

I don't want this, okay?  There, I said it.  I don't want any of this.  I'm tired, God.  I'm so tired.  I've been at this for – what – three years, now?  And where has it gotten me?  Here, in this garden, all by myself.  And I know they're coming – I can feel it.  I've felt it all week long, from the minute I sat on that colt and they paraded me through town and greeted me like a king.  I knew it would come to this, when the crowds would be gone and I'd be left only with my thoughts and fears.   And I don't want this any more.  You can have all of it back.

Why did I not follow in my father's footsteps – I mean, my other father?  I could be at home right now, sleeping peacefully in my own bed.  I could wake up later this morning and head to my shop for a full day's work.  Maybe I'd make a table for the family down the street, or a gate and fence for the herdsmen in town.  Man, what I'd give for the life of a carpenter right now!  I was pretty good at it, you know.  I could've had a family and kids, and watched them grow up as I grew old.  I could be anywhere other than here – all by myself.  Even my friends can't stay awake.  I don't want this!

You know, the thing is, maybe I'd be able to come to terms with this a little easier if I thought more folks actually got it.  But most people saw in me only what they wanted to see.  The Zealots saw the leader of their military revolution that would bring the Roman empire to its knees.  The Pharisees saw the source of all their law-abiding angst – an easy target.  The rich young man saw validation for a lifestyle he was not willing to part with.  Even my disciples, my closest friends, even they had their own agendas at play.

And that's why I lived for those moments when your brilliance shone through to me, when I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that you were right there in the thick of it all.  When Peter recognized me for who I was!  When the blind man was able to see!  When thousands of people on a mountainside went home with full stomachs!  When that little guy up in the tree had me over for dinner!  Those were the times I lived for, when I knew who I was and what I was here to do.

And now, I'm here in this garden.  And I'm going to be honest with you, okay? I'm going to shoot straight – if there's any way to sidestep this, to go a different route; if there's any way for me to exit stage left and kind of ride off into the sunset, I'll take it.  In a heartbeat.  You made me human, God, you made me to feel like this. I can't help but want it to end a different way.  I can't help but be scared.

But I know, Daddy, I know.  I know what happens to people who dare to show and tell the world just how much you love them.  I know.  So I'll go along with this, okay?  I'll go along with your plan.  Just don't leave me, alright?  You haven't left me yet.  All I'm asking is that you don't leave me now.  Especially now. 

Alas!  And did my Savior bleed, and did my Sovereign die!
Would He devote that sacred head for sinners such as I!
Was it for sins that I have done He suffered on the tree?
Amazing pity!  Grace unknown!  And love, love beyond degree!
Will might the sun in darkness hide, and shut its glories in
When Christ the Great Redeemer died for human creatures' sin
Christ died for our sin!
But drops of grief can ne'er repay the debt of love I owe
Here, Lord, I give myself away, tis all that I can do
Christ laid down His life for me, what love, what love beyond degree!
("Love Beyond Degree" - Johnson)

JESUS, AISLE 4

Luke 2: 41-52, Psalm 139: 1-10
Steve Lindsley
January 25, 2009

It happened a couple of years ago in the check-out line at the grocery store.  I was buying the usual milk and canned vegetables and other assorted items that find a home in the Lindsley’s fridge and pantry.  I can’t remember exactly when it happened as the young woman was scanning my items – perhaps between the grapes and orange juice – but she suddenly stopped what she was doing and looked upward.  My eyes followed hers to see nothing but a sequence of fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.  I looked back at her face; it was quizzical, as if some thought process was running rampant inside her head and she couldn’t make sense of it.

She looked back at me, took in a breath and somewhat hesitantly asked: Did they just say, “Jesus, Aisle 4?”  I hadn’t noticed, but apparently just a few moments before some voice had made an announcement over the speakers.  You know, the mysterious voice that relays important messages like “Checkout 10 is now open” or “Assistance needed in meats.”  Apparently, according to the woman at the checkout, it had just said, “Jesus, Aisle 4.”

Jesus, Aisle 4.  You know, this is the kind of magical moment that ministers live for – an entry point into an obvious conversation of great spiritual depth!  I could have gone any way with it.  Yes ma'am, Jesus is on Aisle 4 – he's waiting for you.  Or He's on Aisle 4 and Aisle 5 – he's on every aisle; Jesus is everywhere!  Instead, I think I said something cheesy like I thought I recognized that guy in produce.  We laughed a little – emphasis on “little” – and proceeded back to the business at hand.  A few moments later I was wheeling a half-full grocery cart out to my car.

But on the ride home I couldn’t let it go.  And I didn't know why.  It seemed silly; obviously she heard wrong.  I mean what, really, would be more ludicrous than to picture Jesus himself, the Son of God, strolling around in a grocery store?  You know, picking up the apples to see if they’re fresh or checking the fat content on a bag of  chips.  And that's when I realized that it wasn't really about whether we'd find him there or not.  What's important, and why I think I couldn’t shake this from my mind, is that the mere idea of it was ridiculous, that it caught both of us off-guard.  And, at the very least, it made us stop what we were doing and think.  Jesus in a grocery store.  That’s not where you find him. 

We do fall victim, don't we, to only looking for Jesus in the places where we expect him to be?  I imagine that's what his parents had been doing – looking for their son in the expected, usual places.  Problem was, he wasn’t there.  They had lost him, we are told.  The whole family – father, mother, son – had made their annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the Passover.  You can let your imagination play for a little bit as to how many people this would entail – it had to be thousands upon thousands.  It was a huge crowd.  And at some point Jesus and his parents are separated.  Mary and Joseph finally realize this when they're a whole day’s journey from the city.  They had assumed, we read, that he was simply hanging out with other travelers, friends in their little entourage.  They start checking around and realize Jesus is nowhere to be found.  And it hits them, like a punch in the stomach, that their only son is lost and could be anywhere among the hundreds of thousands either still in this huge city or making their journeys back to countless hometowns.

I've heard my parents tell a story of something that happened when I was almost three.  It was during the couple of months that we I lived in a high-rise apartment in downtown Toronto; Dad was there on business.  We'd come in from, of all things, grocery shopping; and we made our way to the elevator that would take us to our floor.  When the elevator doors opened there was a moment of confusion, people going in, people coming out; and in the craziness of it all I stepped into the elevator but my parents did not. And the doors closed.

Now I figure I stood there gazing at the nifty flashing buttons over my head, assuming that the two pairs of legs on either side of me belonged to my parents.  But I really can’t remember, to be honest.  So instead I get my father’s version, which is noticeably different.  You can imagine how cold his blood went when, looking around, I wasn’t there.  Then he noticed the closed elevator doors, and put two and two together.  He tells me he instinctively ran around the corner to the stairwell and bolted up the stairs, wondering – as he was doing this – how he was going to find a two-and-a-half year old boy in a 20-story building.  As it happened, on the very next floor my dad ran out the door to the elevator lobby and found me there, standing with some newfound friends who had taken concern for me.

I have to think my parents, in the moments leading up to our reunion, could understand a little bit what Mary and Joseph were going through.  They had made the journey back to the city, one imagines, a lot faster than what it took for them to leave.  The Bible doesn’t say but I can picture the kinds of places they first looked for Jesus, places you’d expect to find a twelve-year old boy.  They checked out the burger joints.  No Jesus.  They looked in the video arcade.  He wasn’t there.  Excuse me, we’re looking for our son, he’s about this tall, dark eyes and hair, answers to the name “Jesus.”  Please, have you seen him, we’re desperate!

This went on, the Bible says, for three days.  Three whole days, can you imagine?  They looked everywhere and couldn’t find him – not a trace.  I figure they had all but given up hope when they headed to the temple – perhaps to make grim arrangements for a son presumed dead.  And there, in a corner of the great temple in Jerusalem, sits their son.  Talking to a group of rabbis, nonetheless.  One imagines they ran over and gave him the kind of hug my father gave me when he found me outside the elevator.  Overwhelming relief soon turned to anger.  You knew it was coming.  Mary says in no uncertain terms, Jesus, why have you done this?  We’ve been frantic for three days trying to find you!  We’ve been sick with worry!  Why?!

Jesus, however – and this is great! – Jesus doesn’t appear to be phased by the raging emotions of his parents.  It’s like a typical teenager – he doesn’t see what the fuss is all about.  I love this!  I just find it kind of neat that Jesus, as a teenager, would have the same disagreements and arguments with his parents that any teenager would!  So Jesus says, What’s the big deal?  Didn’t you know I’d be right here where I belong?   

See, in Jesus’ mind, he was right where he should've been.  Not the burger joints.  Not the arcade.  But the temple.  That’s not where we’d expect to find him, and it wasn’t where Mary and Joseph expected to find him either.  But that's where he was.

I love the fact that Luke includes this story, for a couple of reasons.  One, it's the only story we have in all four gospels of Jesus' childhood or youth  The others pretty much make the jump from an 8-day old infant to a 33-year old man.  It leaves a lot out, and we're left wondering what Jesus was like as a teenager.  And the answer, according to this story, is that in some respects Jesus was a whole lot like any twelve-year old kid.

But there's another reason why I want to thank Luke for putting this story here, and it has less to do with Jesus himself and more to do with us.  There’s no denying that Jesus is present in our lives – we profess him as Lord and Savior, we call out to him in prayer, we try as best we can to follow his example.  But if we’re honest with ourselves – truly honest – he is part of our lives only to a certain point.  We let him in at the appropriate intervals, like Sunday mornings and some other days – the times and places where it is “acceptable” to include him.  But other times we're hesitant to look for him much. 

You know what I mean?  I’m talking about those times and places where we feel less inclined to invoke his name, talk about “Jesus” kinds of things; and instead censor ourselves, use a different dialect, one that is safe lest we might offend others or embarrass ourselves.  Singing “How Great Thou Art” on Sunday morning feels perfectly natural, but you won’t find many people belting that hymn out while pumping gas at the gas station – and if you do, you turn away.  Praying a prayer of confession in worship is not only okay, it’s called for in our Presbyterian polity.  Sharing that same prayer in the context of a business meeting, however, would seem quite odd, to say the least.

It's interesting, isn't it, how we do this – struggling to live two lives: one a life where Jesus is ever present in our thoughts and words, and another where we tame our speech and behavior just enough so as not to give away our identity.  And all of this comes back to our assumptions, I think, about where we expect to find Jesus and where we don’t.  And right there lies the problem.  Because it is not about where we expect to find the man as much as it’s about where he finds us. 

Twelve-year old Jesus didn’t bat an eye when his parents came to him, crying hysterically.  Why were you searching for me, he says.  Is it possible, that their reunion might have come about sooner had they worried less about where they would find Jesus and focused more on where he would find them?

So we find ourselves in a grocery store buying groceries and a message supposedly comes over the PA – Jesus, Aisle 4.  And we think to ourselves, That’s crazy!  Well, perhaps it is – perhaps we wouldn’t find him there.  But it is possible – in fact it’s one of the core beliefs of our Reformed tradition – that Jesus finds us there.  We call it the Omnipresence of God.  And it claims that wherever we are, God is there also.  It’s what the psalmist talks about:

Where can I go from your spirit?  Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. 
You hem me in, behind and before….

God is there when we are aware of God’s presence, and when we're not.  When we’re awake, and when we’re asleep.  When we’re at church, and when we’re standing in the line at the grocery store.  Every moment of every day of our lives, God is there.  And why is this?  Because it is precisely where we are – in the grocery store, in our places of work, in our schools and at the bank.  In meetings and on vacations.  In prisons and in foreign lands.  God finds us – not the other way around.

It's funny, you know – we hear stories about people making a profession of faith; when they were “saved.”  And sometimes they use language like “I found God” or “I made a choice to let Jesus in my heart.”  But the truth of the matter is that the only thing they really found was a God who had already found them.  They didn't find Jesus any more than a newborn baby finds their parents.  Jesus finds us .  And all we do is simply respond.

I love the way Luke ends this story – Mary is left contemplating all of this,  “treasuring all these things in her heart.”  And we are left wondering exactly what “these things” are.  Was it that she and her husband had found Jesus?  Was it the deep warm love that only a mother can feel for her young as they move through life? 

Or might it have been that she finally came to understand the truth in this: that we are all sojourners in this life, like pages in a book breezing through chapter after chapter.  And at some point along the way we encounter Jesus.  We see him in our dreams and hear him in our prayers, we are moved by his healing presence.  And eventually we take that step and make the relationship permanent.  We live renewed lives and our faith grows each day.  And as the sun begins to set on us, we look back at all that was there and recall with great joy how we found Jesus and how he was all we expected him to be.
And I think it's then when we hear the still small voice within us saying, My child, I have and will always be with you.  But not because you sought me out and chose me.   No, because it is I who sought you out and chose you. 

When you look at it that way, hearing Jesus, Aisle 4 the speakers in a grocery store doesn’t seem all that unexpected, now does it?  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

TURNING CHEEKS AND SECOND MILES

Matthew 5: 38-48
Steve Lindsley
January 18, 2009

I've shared with you before one of the faith-formative experiences of my life; back when I was in sixth grade and involved in a local community theater. One of the other guys in the cast, named Mike, was a bit of a showoff and loved being the center of attention; and he would typically get that attention by choosing someone to harass and pick on non-stop. Four days before opening night, that individual happened to be me. I got sick and tired of it – to the point where, in the dim lights of the theater, a swing that was supposed to just miss and scare him wound up connecting hard on his left jaw, knocking him to the floor. Shocked by my actions, he rose, hand covering the left side of his face, and left.

Now in the world of pre-teenage boys, actions like this do not go unanswered, so I knew it was only a matter of time. Opening night came; and as fate would have it I was late getting there. Everyone else had left me alone in the dressing room – and then Mike came in. I instinctively clinched my fists in preparation for the inevitable. But instead, Mike told me that he was a Christian and that Jesus had taught people to turn the other cheek – which is exactly what he proceeded to do, offering me another shot at him. The story has not changed since I last told it – I did not take advantage of his offer. And that was the end of that.

I have no idea where the guy is today. But Mike's actions will forever remain a part of how I envision that passage from the fifth chapter of Matthew. Because every time I hear it, it is not Jesus I see offering the other cheek, but a twelve-year old kid in a theater dressing room.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing, really. Sometimes it's good to imagine scripture in different ways than we traditionally think – not changing the story, just changing the scenery. And the more I think about this Matthew passage, these words that Jesus spoke to the masses on the mountainside that day, the more I realize how important it is for us to do this.

Let me tell you what I mean. See if this sounds like a typical understanding of these verses. Jesus is about unconditional love and enduring suffering in his name; and he expects the same from us. So we should welcome the suffering when it comes. In fact, we should even go so far as to invite it. If we are hit on the right cheek, we offer our left. If someone asks for our coat, we give our cloak too. And if someone, other than a friend we exercise with, makes us walk a mile with them, we offer, before they ask, to go a second mile. We should rejoice, the thinking goes, in being martyrs; letting people walk all over us in Jesus' name.

Now that's how some Christians, I think, understand this passage. And yet it's terribly ironic, isn't it, because this is hardly the way most Christians around the world – especially in this country – actually live. I mean, you don't see a slew of Christ-followers walking around with bruised right and left cheeks they willingly invited upon themselves. Nor do many of us find ourselves worn out from excessive mile-walking from someone else's initiative. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in our me-first, self-reliant society.

You know, I'm no rocket scientist, but it seems that this means either one of two things. It could mean that we are just way off message – that the gospel does in fact call us to be “doormats-for-Jesus” and we're just doing doing what we should. The other possibility, of course, is that it's not our actions that are out of whack, but our interpretation. We're reading it the wrong way. And that's why it's helpful sometimes to have folks like Mike step into your life and get you thinking about things a little differently.

I mean, let's look at this again, shall we?  Bear with me, folks, I'm gonna get kind of technical. But has it ever seemed odd to you that Jesus would specify striking the right cheek? Why the detail – what difference does that make? It doesn't make much of a difference – unless the person doing the striking is right-handed. And with all apologies to the lefties out there – my wife and father included – this is probably a safe assumption to make, given that some 90% of the population are right-handed.

So how exactly does a right-handed person strike someone on their right cheek? Think about it – it can't be with an open fist, can it? You'd hit their left. No, it has to be a backhand. And you don't backhand someone if you're in a fight between two equals, do you? You backhand someone who is inferior to you – it's not about inflicting injury as much as it's about insult. It's as if to say, I'm the superior here, and you are less than me.

Now – think about that, and think about the audience Jesus is speaking to there on that mountainside: Jewish peasants at the mercy of the rule of an all-powerful Roman empire. Do you see what's going on? Jesus is not painting some hypothetical here. He's describing a scene those people undoubtedly saw over and over again every day in their midst: a Roman solider – a superior – striking a subordinate Jew.

Now Jesus knows – as every one of those Jews knows – that striking back is not an option. Not giving the Roman soldier your coat that he asked for is not an option.  Not carrying his pack for a mile is not an option. But you can't just stand there and take it, either. So what can you do? You do as Jesus says. You turn the other cheek, the left one. You see? This has the effect of disrupting the blow – they can't backhand you anymore; it won't work. And even if they do hit you, they're forced to change and make it an open fist – which means it's an equal hitting another equal. In an ironic sort of way, the superior elevates the status of the one they're hitting to their own level.

Man – that Jesus was a pretty crafty guy, wasn't he?   But the thing is, he wasn't just offering some self-defense tips. There's a much deeper message going on here. Turning cheeks and second miles is not about letting the powerful and influential have their way with you. But it's also not about fighting fire with fire. It's about finding that third way that does something amazing – resisting oppression without becoming like the oppressor.

Some have a name for this sort of thing: they call it nonviolent resistance. Jesus knew about it. In his teachings and preachings he boldly painted a picture of a world far different from the one he and everyone else lived in – a world where all people were valued; where the meek and hungry inherited the earth; where the power structures were turned on their heels and where love reigned supreme. This was just an idea, a goal, a dream he spoke of; and yet it absolutely terrified those who were in control. They understood the power of hope and promise in the hearts and minds of the people. And that is why they worked so hard to bring about an end to this man. It was Jesus' message of turning cheeks and second miles that led him straight to the cross.

Not too long ago, another man echoed this same message when he said this:

Somehow we must be able to stand up before our most bitter opponents and say: 'We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We will meet your physical force with soul force. But be assured that we'll wear you down by our capacity to suffer, and one day we will win our freedom. And we will not only win freedom for ourselves, we will so appeal to your heart and conscience that we will win you in the process, and our victory will be a double victory.
(from The Words of Martin Luther King, Jr. - Selected by Coretta Scott King.  New York: Newmarket Press, 1983; pg. 72)

The man who said these words was Martin Luther King, Jr – one whose life and, more importantly, whose work for nonviolent resistance we honor tomorrow. In a time when our country had systems in place that denigrated another human being simply because of the color of their skin, King rightly dared to speak out and challenge the status quo. But he did it through words and marches and rallies, and never through force. And because of that, he lost his life.

Now I realize that in some ways, I'm preaching to the choir here. I know we all long for the day when, as the writer of Revelation says, death and crying and pain will be no more; as the prophet Isaiah writes, the wolf shall live with the lamb and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and as Joel proclaims they shall beat their swords into plowshares and war will be no more. I know we all pray earnestly for the arrival a radically different world where we're not having to figure out who bombed who first or, more importantly, who will be the last to bomb.

But it's so hard, isn't it? It is so hard to find that third way, much less actually go about living it. Turning cheeks and second miles seems to be absent from our DNA. When we are struck, our immediate urge is to strike back. When someone tells us they want us to go another mile, we are tempted to tell them exactly where it is they can go. It is a vicious cycle that never ends.

And then every once in a while, something happens that stops that cycle cold in its tracks.  It happened back in May 2007 at, of all things, a Klu Klux Klan rally. In the midst of all that hatred, the kind that makes you sick to your stomach and causes you to want to respond in like kind, a group of people did something extraordinary. I don't know if you heard about what happened, but my friend David Lamotte did – at it inspired him to write a poem about it. And as I share it with you, I ask that you imagine the scene playing out in your mind. It's called White Flour:

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be

In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee

The men put on their uniforms and quickly took their places

In white robes and those tall and pointed hoods that hid their faces
Their feet all fell in rhythm as they started their parade

They raised their fists into the air, they bellowed and they brayed

They loved to stir the people up, they loved when they were taunted

They didn’t mind the anger, that’s precisely what they wanted

As they came around the corner, sure enough, the people roared

They couldn’t quite believe their ears, it seemed to be – support?

Had Knoxville finally seen the light, were people coming ‘round?

The men thought for a moment that they’d found their kind of town
But then they turned their eyes to where the cheering had its source

As one their faces soured as they saw the mighty force

The crowd had painted faces, and some had tacky clothes

Their hair and hats outrageous, each had a red foam nose

The clowns had come in numbers to enjoy the grand parade

They danced and laughed that other clowns had come to town that day

And then the marchers shouted, and the clowns all strained to hear

Each one tuned in intently with a gloved hand to an ear
“White power!” screamed the marchers, and they raised their fisted hands

The clowns leaned in and listened like they couldn’t understand

Then one held up his finger and helped all the others see

The point of all this yelling, and they joined right in with glee

“White flour!” they all shouted and they felt inside their clothes

They pulled out bags and tore them and huge clouds of powder rose

They poured it on each other and they threw it in the air

It got all over baggy clothes and multi-colored hair
All but just a few of them were joining in the jokes

You could almost see the marchers turning red beneath white cloaks

They wanted to look scary, they wanted to look tough

One rushed right at the clowns in rage, and was hauled away in cuffs

But the others chanted louder marching on around the bend

The clowns all marched along with them supporting their new friends

“White power!” came the marchers’ cry ― they were not amused

The clowns grew still and thoughtful; perhaps they’d been confused?
They huddled and consulted, this bright and silly crowd

They listened quite intently, then one said “I’ve got it now!”

“White flowers!” screamed the happy clown and all the rest joined in

The air was filled with flowers, and they laughed and danced again

“Everyone loves flowers! And white’s a pretty sort!

I can’t think of a better cause for marchers to support!”

Green flower stems went flying like small arrows from bad archers

White petals covered everything, including the mad marchers
And then a very tall clown called the others to attention

He choked down all his chuckles, and said “Friends I have to mention

That what with all the mirth and fun it’s sort of hard to hear

But now I know the cause that these strange marchers hold so dear

“Tight showers!” the clown blurted out, and hit his head in wonder

He held up a camp shower and the others all got under

Or at least they tried to get beneath, they strained but couldn’t quite

There wasn’t room for all of them, they pushed, but it was tight
“White Power!” came their marchers’ cry, quite carefully pronounced

The clowns consulted once again, then a woman clown announced

“I’ve got it! I’m embarrassed that it took so long to see

But what these marchers march for is a cause quite dear to me!”

“Wife power!” she exclaimed and all the other clowns joined in

They shook their heads and laughed at how mistaken they had been

The women clowns were hoisted up on shoulders of the others

Some pulled on wedding dresses, “Here’s to wives and mothers!”
The men in robes were angry and they knew they’d been defeated

They yelled a few more times and then they finally retreated

And when they’d gone a black policeman turned to all the clowns

And offered them an escort to the center of the town

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be

In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee

People joined the new parade, the crowd stretched out for miles

The clowns passed out more flowers and made everybody smile
And what would be the lesson of that shiny southern day?

Can we understand the message that the clowns sought to convey?

Seems that when you’re fighting hatred, hatred’s not the thing to use

So here’s to those who march on in their massive, silly shoes

(based on true events of May 26, 2007 - ©2007 David LaMotte)
http://lowerdryad.wordpress.com/white-flour-poem/

Don't you wish you could've been there to see that? Turning cheeks and second miles, changing this world of ours, changing us. Thanks be to Mike! Thanks be to King! Thanks be to Jesus! Thanks be to God. AMEN.

CONFESSIONS OF AN UNSUSPECTING INKEEPER

I know you’ve heard of me before – everyone has.  Let me tell you what it’s like being me – imagine being remembered as the guy who called the timeout near the end of the Carolina-Michigan championship basketball game when there wasn’t a timeout left?  Or the Chicago Tribune back in 1948 predicting Dewey over Truman?  Or Napoleon at Waterloo?  Well, some will say you’ll find me in this select company.

See, I’m the innkeeper, the one who, on a cold winter night long ago, relegated a scared-looking young man and his pregnant wife to my stables in the backyard.  I had to do so, you see, because all the rooms in my inn were booked up.  Not one single vacancy, I promise.  And yes, of course I felt bad that they had to stay outside in that dirty manger, especially with the young woman about to give birth to her first child.  But what were my choices?  What options did I have - kick a tenant out?  I couldn’t do such a thing.

You see, it had been a very busy couple of weeks.  The Emperor at the time, Augustus of Rome, had issued a decree for a massive census to be taken.  This census covered the whole Roman empire - which ended up being most of the civilized world at the time.  Quite an undertaking - not only for the government, but for its residents as well.  You see, everyone had to register in their original hometown, their place of birth.  This caused a huge movement of people across the land as they traveled to their destinations.  You can bet I was thrilled with this!  For quite some time my inn remained booked solid, and in just a few weeks I took in more income than I had all year.  Suffice to say that the emperor’s census was good for the empire and even better for my business!

I guess I was so used to turning people away that when the young couple came to my door late that night I didn’t hesitate with my standard response:  Sorry, no room.  It was then that I noticed two things: first of all, the young woman was pregnant – very pregnant, in fact.  Secondly, I saw how tired she was - both of them, for that matter.  I guess that was what compelled me, as they slowly turned away and headed back to the street, to call to them: Hold on a minute!  Listen, I don’t have any room inside.  But I do have an empty stable in the back.  It’s not much, but it’s shelter and the hay will keep you and the baby warm.  I sensed a ray of hope in their eyes and a slight smile; and they followed me to the backyard.

Now let me stop here for a second to say that this wasn’t a standard business practice of mine – just in case you were wondering!  I don’t typically make a habit of utilizing my animal stables as room overflow.  But you would’ve thought I gave them the president’s suite at the Taj Mahal, the way they reacted.  We entered the dingy, smelly stable and I pulled some hay loose for them.  The young man lovingly and carefully helped his wife off the donkey she was riding and lay her to rest in the hay.  I brought them a pail of water and a few old torn blankets that had lived out their human usefulness and were now part of stable supply.  They thanked me profusely - I actually felt embarrassed.  With that I left this couple in the dark of night.

You know, actually I remember now - it wasn’t all that dark.  It was strange.  Sometimes, when the moon is full it’ll light up the sky to the point that you can see the whole terrain before you.  That’s the way it looked this night.  But it wasn’t the moon.  It was that strange star.  I had never seen it before.  It hung there high in the sky, glistening in the night.  It seemed to warm up the chill in the air.  It made everything it touched seem as bright as day.  As long as I live, I will never forget that star.

I remember the star not only because it was so bright, but because its light allowed me to witness the strange events that unfolded.  You wouldn’t believe what happened next!  Actually, I take that back.  I know you believe what happened because you talk about it every year around this time.  You tell this story over and over again.  Your ministers preach about it.  Your children act it out in their Christmas pageants.  Your choirs sing about it in their Cantatas, and your advent wreaths and the hymns you sing tell the story.  So of course you believe all of this.  But try putting yourself in my shoes, just for a second, to see what it was like to be the first witness to all of this.

I guess the young woman had had her child by now - I saw her and her husband cradling what looked like a tiny baby in their arms.  In my stable - wrapped in my old blankets, they had their child!  Later that night a group of shepherds came and visited them.  And I thought that was the strangest thing.  I mean, shepherds are known for being nomads and folks out on the fringes of society.  They didn’t appear to be acquaintances or friends - so how did they know these people? 

My question was answered as their excited voices traveled from the stable to my window.  They had received a message from an angel, they said, that a child was being born, and that child was….the Messiah!  I must confess to you that my cynicism kicked in at first - maybe these shepherds had been spending a little too much time out in the middle of nowhere!  But the man and woman seemed happy to have them there, and they showed them the newborn child, to which they paid great honor and respect.  It was almost as if the young couple anticipated the strangeness of these events.  It was almost as if they knew…

A few days passed and this couple and their newborn child went on their way.  They thanked me for the accommodations; and once again I felt embarrassed.  I haven't seen them since.  But I’ve heard the stories.  I heard about how they were paid a visit by three kings from the east not long after they left me; men who had heard of this birth and who followed that star, which still lit up the midnight sky.  Imagine that - a child so revered that he would command the attention of both nameless shepherds and great kings!  It was then that I began to let go of my cynicism and start believing that perhaps – perhaps – this was a special child.

My beliefs were confirmed many years later; it didn’t take long for me to hear the wonderful tales about this man.  How he roamed the countryside, preaching and teaching about God.  How he healed those who were sick and even brought a young girl back from the dead.  How he challenged the authority of the Sadducees and Pharisees and tried to share with folks something new about the God they believed and worshipped.  And, of course, how he would be put to death for a crime he didn’t commit and was resurrected three days later.  So now I can see in hindsight what I would’ve never imagined before.  Jesus, child of Mary, born in a stable; savior of humankind, Son of God. 

I know today you all make a big deal of this.  You call it Christmas, and you go all out with it.  You decorate your houses and have parties for each other, you give presents to loved ones and remember those in need.  Your entire schedule and way of life is dramatically changed for a month or so because of this.  Most importantly, you experience the never-ending reality of God’s grace and love for you.  And to think this all started in my stable, with some old blankets, some hay, a bright star, and some visiting shepherds. 

Some people ask me if I ever regret doing what I did - putting them in the stable.  My answer is always the same - No.  No, I don’t regret it.  I didn’t give them much, but I gave them what I had to give.  And over the years I’ve come to understand that that is exactly what God expects of you and me – to give God what we have, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  Out of so little came so much.  Out of a stable comes the Christ.  Don’t you see the truth, the beauty of it?  I have; and I’ll tell you, it has changed my life forever.  I hope it does the same for you.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

IF SHEEP COULD TALK

Luke 2: 8-15
Steve Lindsley
December 21 2008

They're standing right over there – can you see them?  The Shepherds?    They're talking like crazy, and they're shaking in their shoes.  And who can blame them?  I'm not exactly so firm in my hooves either.  I mean, after what just happened, after what took place in our presence, what would you expect?  You'd be a little on-edge, too, if it were you.  I may not be the smartest animal in the barn – ok, I'm definitely not the smartest animal in the barn – but even I know what they're talking about.  They're trying to decide – should we stay, or should we go?

See, I'm just a bystander in all this.  Me and my type don't get to play much of a part in the decision making process.  Ovis aries, is what they call us.  I kind of like the sound of it, you know?  It's a whole lot more sophisticated than just “sheep.”  And that's a good thing, because there's not much sophisticated about us anyway.  If you were to ask me what it's like being an Ovis aries, this is what I'd tell you: not much.  Here's our daily schedule, if you want to call it that: we wake up in the morning.  We eat.  We rest some.  We eat some more.  We take a nap, and then we wake up.  And then we eat.  We chill out for a while, and then we go to sleep.  After which – you guess it – we eat.  That's pretty much the agenda for our day, and while the location may change the routine doesn't.  I guess you could say we don't do a whole lot.

Ah, but that's why we love our shepherds!  I honestly don't know what we'd do without them.  I mean, seriously – there's no way for our little sheep-brains to imagine a world without shepherds in it.  We have a hard time taking care of ourselves, you see.  The world is a big mean place and there's all kinds of stuff out there we don't want to mess with.  Wolves, for instance.  We don't like wolves.  We don't like them because they eat us.  That's why we need the shepherds to keep the wolves away.  The weather can be a problem, too.  A little rain is fine, but when it starts getting all loud and flashy, that's not good.  Or when it's the middle of a scorching summer day – those shepherds take us under a big tree to protect us from the elements. 

And that's not even mentioning the vast open land we live in; and how those fields go on forever.  Let me tell you: that's a sheep trap just waiting to happen; just waiting to swallow us up if we dare wander away from our flock.  Which we're very inclined to do, by the way.  That's where those shepherds come in handy; keeping us all together, grabbing us by that crook thing and yanking us back into the fold. 

So, in short, our entire sheep lives are pretty much indebted to the men in burlap carrying their big sticks.  And I must say that I personally admire these guys for what they do.  I may be just a sheep, but even I know how hard a life it is for them.  It's not exactly the pinnacle of one's career aspirations, if you catch my drift.  Mama's don't let their babies grow up to be shepherds.  Standing around all night and day, watching animals eat and sleep.  Exciting!  

It's interesting – there's actually a pecking order in the shepherding world.  You wouldn't think so, but it's there.  Those with the most “clout,” if you can call it that, get the daytime hours – maybe even a lunch break if they're really high up on the totem pole.  The “newbies” get stuck with the third shift; the late night hours.  Let me tell you – I'm happy to be a sheep.  I like my sheep life.  But if I were a shepherd, the last kind of shepherd I'd want to be is the one stuck with the night shift.  Because nothing ever happens on the third shift.

Well, I take that back, actually.  Most of the time nothing happens.  Most of the time it's as dull as dull gets.  Unless you have a night like the one we just had, and then everything changes.  And the thing is, it happened so suddenly.  So suddenly, with no warning whatsover.  It went from, Shepherds were keeping watch over their flock by night to And then an angel stood before them.  From boring to shocking, from ho-hum to omigosh!  From the peace and quiet of a third-shift shepherd watching a bunch of sheep sleeping to Hello, I'm an angel, how are you?  Seems to me that God has a way of interrupting people's routines suddenly and without warning; kind of crashing in on their world, doesn't he?

We sheep may be dumb, but our instincts are pretty sharp.  It didn't take too long after that angel guy made his sudden appearance for the flock to huddle up tight like we do when we're scared; this little cluster of wool with our heads and necks in and around each other, peeking out to see what's going on.  And when I dared to take a look, I saw this strange person talking with the shepherds.  Glowing, sort of; all bright and shiny.  I could tell the shepherds were terrified – why wouldn't they be?  They were the third-shift newbies.  They had no idea what was going on.  And to be honest, we didn't either.

And I guess the stranger noticed this, because that's when he told them not to be afraid.  Riiiiiight.  That's like taking a four-year old on the “Death by Twists and Turns” roller coaster at the theme park and then telling them to chill out.  It ain't happening.  No matter what this stranger said, they weren't going to calm down all that much.

But then the shiny stranger went into this thing about someone being born, and some guy named David, and something about a manger.  The manger bit sounded good to me, personally.  I could use a nice tuft of hay and roof over my head.  It was hard to make out everything he was saying – remember, I'm in my sheep huddle over here – but I did pick up on a few things.

First, he told the shepherds that he had some good news for them.  And I'm thinking to myself, wow, I wonder what kind of news this must be to be good news for a shepherd.  A promotion to first shift?  A brand new shepherd's crook?  It could be something like that – but seriously, that'd hardly be the kind of news that a bright shiny stranger would bring so suddenly in the middle of the night.  No, this news must be bigger than that.

He also told the shepherds that this news would be news of great joy.  Hmmm.  I'm hearing this and thinking to myself, not just joy.  Great joy.  “Joy” is kind of a hard concept for us sheep to get, you understand.  I guess we're in our joy when we've got a good field of green grass to munch on and a place in the shade.  That's “joy” for us.  So I'm wondering – as I'm sure those shepherds were – what kind of “great joy” this good news would be to them? 

He told them one more thing that I could pick out – he told them that this “good news” of “great joy” would be for all people.  For all people.  This got me thinking, as I was huddled there in my sheep mass.  I don't have a lot of experience with people, you see.  My interaction with the human race has pretty much been limited to the handful of shepherds who care for us night and day.  That's like, what, six or so?  Still, I know that there are a whole bunch of people out there; people I'll never get to see.  People I can't even imagine in my little sheep brain.  People who lived long ago, and people who haven't even been born yet.  And here's this angel, bringing “good news” of “great joy” for every single one of those people.  No one is getting left out of this news.  Especially not the shepherds.

Everything after that was pretty much a blur.  I remember some singing coming from somewhere, something about “Glory to God in the highest” and “peace among those whom he favors.”  It sounded pretty, whatever it was.  And then, just as quickly as it all came about, it was over.  The angel stranger was gone, and the shepherds were left standing there, wondering what in the world had just happened.  Eventually everyone kind of relaxed a bit; we sheep broke from our huddle and lay down in the grass.  Some of us even went off to sleep.  But not me.  I'm still thinking about everything, as much as sheep can do that sort of thing. 

And so are the shepherds – which brings us to where we are now.  They're talking over there, and they're trying to decide: should we stay or should we go?  I can tell they want to make their decision quickly, you know.  You just don't sit on good news like this for very long.  You don't respond to a shiny angel by doing what you've always done before.  Something's gotta change.

And that's the thing of it, I guess, isn't it?  Nothing will ever be the same for these guys.  I mean, they can't just go back to their lives as they were before.  Third shift will never be the same for them ever again.  Or for anyone, really.  I mean, don't you think it's interesting that this angel chose to appear to shepherds?  If this really is the kind of good news that will bring great joy to all people, wouldn't you think it'd shared with people who have the most clout; who can do something about it most effectively?  See, if I were the angel, if I were calling shots, I would've first gone to some of those other people out there I've heard about – the governor or temple leaders or someone like that.  People who are in charge and can actually do something.

But that's not what the angel did.  Instead he came and told shepherds – the guys who are hopelessly stuck in a dead-end career.  And not only that, not only did he choose to share his news with shepherds, but he chose the lowest of the low – the third shift shepherds – to be his inaugural audience.

I don't know.  I'm just a sheep, mind you; but the more I think about it, the more it really amazes me.  Shocks me, to be honest.  Some might say that the angel made some kind of mistake – oops, wrong address, sorry!  But I don't think so.  In fact, I'm willing to bet – whatever sheep bet – that those shepherds are exactly who needed to hear the news first.  Maybe that's precisely why this news is so good, and why it's full of great joy.  And maybe that's why this news is for all people.  If the third shift shepherds get to hear about it, then it really is for everyone.

Whoa, look!  There they go.  They're packing up their stuff.  Looks like they're going to do it.

And so I guess the question now is: are you going with them?  Are you going to make the trip?  Take the journey that leads you and the shepherds to a manger scene with the animals and the hay; and two very young parents, and “a child wrapped in bands of cloth?”  And if you do, when you get there, will you find not just those things but so much more – the hope and promise that comes whenever God decides to break into our little world, even the world of third-shift shepherds?

Are you going?  I hope so.  After all, like the angel said, this is good news of great joy for all people.  And that includes everyone.  Good news for you and your family.  For your church.  Good news for your neighborhood and your city and your country and your world.  Good news for people who have expected this their entire lives, and those who expected nothing.  Good news for people who believe with all their hearts, and people who don't.  Good news for the content and satisfied, and the needy and lacking.  Good news for the well-off, and the poor.  Good news for those who are in, and those who are out.  This is good news for everyone.  This is news for you.  Especially for you.

Here they go, heading off to the manger.  I really hope you'll come along.  Like I said, I'm just a sheep.  But I get the feeling you'll be glad if you did.  Very glad at what you find there.  Emmanuel – God with us.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

IF JESUS WAS BORN IN A WAL-MART WORLD

NOTE TO READER:  Today was our annual Christmas Cantata, which becomes the "sermon" for Sunday worship.  I subscribe to the belief that God's word can be sung as well as spoken.  My plan was to provide a link here to our church website where you could listen to the service and cantata (the link is actually at the top of this page to the far right - you can click it any time)

Alas, my plans were thwarted when computer hiccups prevented us from recording the service.  Bah humbug.

Instead, I've decided to post an Advent sermon from last year.  Hope this will suffice.  Thanks for reading!

TMP

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Luke 2: 1-7
Steve Lindsley
December 2, 2007

It happened a little over three years ago, somewhere around the video aisle at Wal-Mart.  I remember her grabbing her abdomen and a twinge of discomfort across her face.  You okay?  I asked.  She responded that she was.  But in the silence that followed we both frantically wondered to ourselves – was this it?  Was our second son about to be born?

Maybe we just didn’t want to admit it to ourselves.  Last thing we wanted was to unnecessarily set into motion “The Plan:” my parents getting the phone call to hightail it to Mount Airy, her parents meeting us at the hospital in Winston, and a good friend of ours dropping whatever they were doing at the moment to come watch Connor.  Maybe it was that, and admitting to ourselves that our life was on the cusp of dramatically changing once again.

We temporarily parted company so we could do some Christmas shopping for the other.  She didn’t say anything else about it until long after we left Wal-Mart; probably while unloading bags in the kitchen.  By then the contractions had gotten stronger and more frequent; and it was only a matter of time.  Finally, around 9:00, phone calls were made to grandparents and our good friend came to stay with Connor.    We packed our bags and made the long drive to Winston-Salem; my wife actually encouraging me to go well over the posted speed limit.  Which I did.  We arrived at the hospital a little after 11; and two hours later Hunter Logan came to be with us. 

It has been said that the average person has a life expectancy of around 80 years, which works out to be a little under 710,000 hours.  Some of these hours come and go leaving hardly a trace in our memory banks.  But three years after the fact – Hunter celebrated his birthday this past week – three years later I can still recall every minute of what happened that Sunday evening – engrained in my psyche forever.  Zooming down 52, coming home in the morning to tell Connor about his new brother. 

And Wal-Mart – I’ll never forget Wal-Mart, because it was there where the crazy journey of the day began.  I have what I like to call a “strained fascination” with Wal-Mart.  On one hand I’m not crazy about some of their business practices and how they treat their employees with wages and health insurance.  But on the other hand I gotta admit – it’s got everything you need!  And I also see this store as a microcosm of our society – our consumer mentality, our desire to have “the latest thing” at the cheapest price.  You find all kinds of people at Wal-Mart – the wealthy and prosperous, right alongside the working poor.  All races and lifestyles, all family histories – they’re there under the same roof, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  And I think that’s why when I look back on Hunter’s birth, part of me will always think of Wal-Mart.

Sometimes the journeys of our lives begin in the strangest of places; places you and I least expect them to.  It certainly was that way for Jesus, don’t you think?  I mean, it was bad enough for Mary and Joseph that she was pregnant.  Keep in mind, we’re talking about two teenagers.  Two unmarried teenagers.  It was as scandalous back in the day as it would be now.  No one believed her explanation that the child inside her was from God; a gift of the Holy Spirit.  And can we blame them?  Would we have believed her?

Then to make matters worse, a census was decreed by the high emperor and each man had to return to his homeland to be registered – he and all members of his family.  Joseph was from Bethlehem, which was a hundred miles away.  Mary was eight months pregnant.  Talk about lousy timing! 

So this was the scene: a scandalous pregnancy that had everyone talking, and a long hard trip they absolutely had to make.  There’s a great scene in the movie that came out a year ago, The Nativity Story, about the events leading up to the birth of Jesus.  The scene begins just as Mary and Joseph are heading out of town to Bethlehem – Mary on the donkey’s back and Joseph leading the way.  We see some of Mary and Joseph’s friends in the mix; “former friends” they should be called, because they couldn’t handle the fact that Mary got pregnant and Joseph continues to love her anyway.  They’re staring at Mary and Joseph with disgust and scorn.  The young couple is aware of this; and as they make their way through town Joseph turns to Mary and, with a wry smile, says, I think they’re going to miss us.

You and I know this story; we’ve had it seared into our brains for as long as we can remember, thanks in part to children’s pageants, Luke readings, manger scenes, and a certain hymn we are prone to sing this time of year:

Away in a manger, no crib for his bed
The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head
The stars in the sky look down where he lay
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay

Awww!  It is a scene we have successfully romanticized over the years.  But is it a realistic romanticism?  For if we stop to think about it – I mean, really think about it – it doesn’t make a lick of sense.  Jesus – born in an animal stable!  Last time I got near one of those, I had to hold my nose because of the stench.  How is it that we have become so comfortable with the idea of God’s son being born in a place like that?  And what would it look like, I wonder, if we brought the manger scene into the 21st century – if Jesus was born in our “Wal-Mart” world?  What would that look like?

They’re heading back to his hometown of Mount Airy for a number of reasons.  One is simply because they need to get away from where they had been.  Their teachers and friends had not been too thrilled when they began dating, but when she started showing it was like the end of the world had arrived.  Plus, a few months prior he picked up a traffic ticket in Surry County and had to have his day in court.  It didn’t help matters that Mary was about due, but the law’s the law, so they say.

So they pile into Joe’s 1987 Ford Mustang and make the 100-mile trip to Dobson, and he can tell she’s not comfortable.  Things get worse after his court appearance, although he did get improper equipment.  But the baby’s arrival is imminent, and making the trip back home is out of the question.  They don’t know what to do – they are young, lonely and confused.  They cruise down Highway 601, stopping at every hotel, but unbeknownst to them it is Mayberry Days and there’s not a vacant hotel room in sight.  Frantic, they pull into the Wal-Mart parking lot, because they need to pick up a few things, and because they have no idea what else to do.

She doesn’t want to be left alone in the car, so despite how much it hurts they walk into the store together.  People pass them by and know something’s wrong, but no one stops to help.  They grab the few items they need, but as they stand in the checkout line Mary doubles over in pain.  Joe shouts out for help – anyone, please!  The store manager comes over.  It’s obvious that it’s too late to get to the hospital now.  He doesn’t have much to offer, but there is the staff lounge in the back, and there’s a somewhat decent couch there, along with some tables and chairs.  They’re welcome to it, he says.

Mary and Joe stumble into the window-less room.  And later that night, but not much later, their baby son is born.  Born not among barnyard animals but amidst the Coke and snack machines.  Born not in the presence of wayward shepherds, but beside the “Employee of the Month” display (last month it was “Corinne.”)  Born not underneath the shining light of a celestial star, but from the light of the room’s harsh fluorescent lights.   “And Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

Can you imagine this scene – it’s almost comical, isn’t it?  It’s not almost comical.  It is comical.  It is side-splitting, jaw-dropping, laugh-until-you-drop hilarious!  This story would make front page of half the newspapers across this country.  CNN would add it to their daily feed, and Cameron Kent and company would interrupt their regular newscast with “Breaking News! Baby born in Wal-Mart!”  And you and I would hear about this story, tell a few friends, shake our head in amazement, and then get on with our life.  And years later, when folks realized just who that Wal-Mart baby really was, somebody would surely wonder: how could God’s son ever have been born into the world like that? 

You know what I think, though?  I think it’s the only way God’s son could’ve been born.  I think Jesus had to enter our world right where we are – not in some sweet, peaceful serene scene we conjure up in our minds, as if an animal stable is the next best thing to a nice condo on the beach.  No, Jesus had to come into the world in all of its messiness; the very human, very radical, very raw reality we call our home.  Jesus – breaking into our world amidst all the good and all the bad; all the consumerism that takes over this time of year; all races and classes of people that sometimes get along and often don’t; all the many stories that define who we are and how we live our lives.  Jesus, born in a manger!  Born in Wal-Mart!  Born into our world!

Which begs the obvious question, of course: if Jesus actually came into the world this way today, would we recognize him?  Would we praise him as the Messiah and follow him with our lives?  That, my friends, is why we have four weeks of Advent: to prepare for what we know is coming, and to remind us that God often comes to us in the most mysterious of ways, when we least expect it.  We need four weeks to make sure we see him coming into our lives, for we dare not miss him.  We want to see the baby Jesus, wherever he is.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

AT THE END OF THE WAY

Mark 1: 1-8; Isaiah 40: 1-11
Steve Lindsley
December 7, 2008

It didn't happen like this, of course.  It's not really the way the writer of Isaiah wrote it.  But I like imagining it anyway.  Prepare the way of the Lord, he said.  The Way – he's talking about a road.  They were preparing a road in the middle of the desert.  Not a real one, of course.  But if it were a real one, I imagine it might have gone something like this.

It's a massive building project that the prophet Isaiah describes – utilizing every resource available, every piece of equipment they could find, and numerous workers.  The bulldozer fleet is out in full force.  Earth movers work night and day to lift up the valleys and make low the mountains.  The greatest engineering knowledge of the day is put into practice.  Literally and figuratively, no stone is left unturned.

Two of the workers are side by side, digging their holes and moving their earth.  One turns to the other and, over the hum of the machinery, asks, So what is this thing we're working on, anyway?

Without taking his eyes off his job, the other replies, We, my friend, are working on The Way.

What way? the first says.

THE way, is his answer.  It leads to the greatest of places.

He still doesn't understand, so he tries a different take.  So where does this “way” go?

With a wry smile the other turns to face him and says, You'll just have to see it for yourself.

Months and months they labor on this “way.”  Years, in fact.  It never seems to end, but instead it keeps on going and going, through whatever terrain lies in its path.  On the hottest of days and the coldest of nights they continue to “make this way.”  And all the time, the first continues to think to himself: what can this be?  Where in the world could this road be leading to, and what will we find at the end of this road?  A huge metropolitan city?  An oasis in the desert?  The ninth wonder of the world?  What?  What could possibly be at the end of this road?

Years and years go by, and finally – finally – they reach the end.  The massive construction, engineering project concludes.  And as he peers around the corner to see what this road has finally brought him and everyone else to, he is shocked and dismayed to find  not a huge city, not an oasis in the desert, not the ninth wonder of the world – but sheep.  A bunch of sheep and their shepherd.  He will feed his flock like a shepherd, Isaiah says, he will gather the lambs in his arms and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother's sheep.

And other than that, nothing.  Nothing else.  Nothing that in his mind would've merited all the fuss, all the hard work, all the resources and years and time invested.  When he is finally somewhat over his shock, he turns to the guy beside him, who had been with him every step of the way.  And he asks incredulously, What is this??  Is this it?  Is this what we've been working for all these years?

And without taking his gaze off the flock, the other says to him, Yeah, it sure is.  And isn't it just wonderful!

Of course, it didn't really happen like that.  It's not a real road Isaiah is writing about.  It's an image – an image of a way that is prepared for us, prepared for the Lord; a way that cuts through the harsh desert and leads the people to God, who is both strong and meek, both powerful and powerless, both ruler and shepherd.  It is wonderful.  And it is not at all what we expect.

Advent is a season of expectations.  The word itself means “awaiting the coming.”  At least that's what it tries to be.  It tries to be about waiting expectantly for things to come, but the world you and I live in makes that hard sometimes.  There's very little to expect or wait for when December rolls around these days.  That's because this world has a nasty habit of giving away the secret before it's time – when we start seeing Christmas decorations up in Wal-Mart before Halloween, and Christmas music on the radio 24/7 before Thanksgiving, and Christmas ads out in full force in mid-fall.  Back in September, Amazon.com sent me an email reminder about the “upcoming holiday season” and buying that special gift for that special someone – from them, of course.  In September.  What's to expect anymore?

So it is probably hard for us to get a feel for the expectant times that the prophet Isaiah lived in.  For years they had endured captivity, thousands of miles from their beloved Jerusalem.  There were plenty of roads that led out of Babylon, but there were none they could take.  When it came to their faith and the future of that faith, every road around them was a dead end.

And that's when the prophet spoke new words to the people; and it was a message far different from the one they had heard before.  They were words of comfort and peace.  Of being spoken to tenderly instead of with a harsh tone.  They were words about how penalties had been paid and how the time of suffering was over.  And out of these words came the road they had hoped for for so long; the “way” that would lead them home:

A voice cries out:
In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low.
The uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all the people shall see it together.

And with the prophet's words, the long-awaited building project had finally begun.  And it wasn't with bulldozers and earth movers and engineering know-how that the way would be made.  It was with a strengthened faith and a renewed hope.  Their time of expectation had come – and, unlike us, they didn't have TV or radio or our cultural conveniences to give the ending away.  They only had the limits of their heightened and overjoyed imagination to keep them going on this spiritual and figurative journey back home, as they wondered what waited for them at the end of the way.

So – how would you have felt if you came to that figurative ending, the one Isaiah describes for us, to find nothing more than a sheep and their shepherd?  Not a symbol of power and might, as we might expect, but one of meekness and humility?  Not one of victory and rule, but one of nurturing and submission?  How would you have felt if you were one of them, finding that all your years of hoping, all your years of labor, led you and everyone else to this most unexpected ending?

I don't know.  This may sound strange, but in a weird sort of way it reminds me of that scene from the Charlie Brown Christmas special – you know, the one they show ever year before Thanksgiving.  You remember.  Charlie Brown has been appointed director for the annual Christmas pageant, but things aren't going so well.  No one's really focusing all that much on the task at hand.  After some thought, Charlie Brown decides what they need is something to help get them in the “Christmas spirit.”  Like a Christmas tree, for instance.  That's exactly what they need.      

So Charlie Brown and Linus head out the door to go find the perfect Christmas tree.  They walk outside, all bundled up in their coats and hats; and looking up in the sky they see these two huge skylights shining all over the place, the same lights the car dealership uses when they have a sale going on.  They follow the lights to a Christmas tree lot, draped with strings and strings of small lights.  Now the trees in this lot are all aluminum trees – Linus knocks on one with his fist and it makes this hollow, metallic sound, like when you hit an empty gas can.  As Linus surveys the scene he looks to Charlie Brown and says, Boy.  This really brings Christmas close to a person.  And Charlie Brown can only say, Fantastic!

The camera scans through the lot of multi-colored aluminum Christmas trees – red and blue, gold, silver and purple – until it stops at one in the middle which stands out from the rest.  It is a puny little tree; and unlike the others it's a real one.  Three stubby branches hang off its tiny trunk, each containing a handful of needles.  It is anchored to a cross stand with some nails.  And in perhaps the most classic line of any Christmas television special, Linus asks, Gee, do they still make wooden Christmas trees?

What Linus sees as a curiosity, though, Charlie Brown sees as an opportunity.  This tree, he declares, will be the one they'll take back to bring Christmas spirit to the Pageant.  Linus is skeptical, reminding him that Lucy wanted a tree that would “represent the modern Christmas spirit.”  But Charlie Brown insists and picks the tree up – only to see half its needles fall to the ground.

Now if you're like me, and you've watched this special religiously every year, you know the rest of the story – the other kids make fun of his “poor Christmas tree, Linus goes on stage to recount the second chapter of Luke, Charlie Brown takes his tree and decorates it and all the kids huddle around it and sing “loo-loo-loo....”  Like any good Christmas special, it has a happy ending.

But see, I wonder if the lesson in all of this is found not at the end as the credits roll, but right there in that aluminum Christmas tree lot.  It is, to be sure, the most unlikely of trees Charlie Brown chooses, isn't it?  Because it's exactly what everyone least expects.  Because like Linus and Lucy and Pig-Pen and Schroeder and Snoopy and all the rest, we too expect big and flashy at the end of the road.  We expect the “way” to lead us to something that holds our attention in a world that moves a mile a minute.  The last thing we'd ever expect to find at the end of the way are shepherds and sheep, or a puny little Christmas tree.

Or, for that matter, a dusty old shack.  We'd never expect in our wildest dreams to find that at the end of the way.  Nor would we expect to find in that shack a random assortment of some barnyard animals.  They're scattered about the place, lying on whatever tuff of hay they can pull together, trying to keep warm on this chilly night.  They look cute, but the smell that emits from the place is anything but.  We don't expect to encounter that at the end of the way.

And we certainly don't expect to find at the end of that way, in that dusty old shack, a teenaged couple, probably high school sophomores at best.  They look like they hadn't slept in days, because they hadn't; and the look on their faces is one of absolute joy and absolute fear and exhaustion all rolled together.  She has that glow about her, and he is looking around trying to figure out exactly how he got here.  No, we don't expect to find them there either. 

But most of all, most of all, the last thing we'd ever expect to find at the end of the way is a newborn baby, just hours old.  Hours old!  He is wrapped in what amounts to a burlap sack, and the wooden structure he's laying in is used to feed the animals when morning rolls around.  He is asleep for the moment, but that will change when he gets hungry, and he'll let the whole world know it.  Right now, though, he's sleeping peacefully; teenage mom and teenage dad are looking on, as are the animals, all of them in this dusty old shack at the end of the way.

Now none of this, if we really think about it, is what we expect to find at the end of the way – a way that the prophet spoke of us preparing for; a way that the Baptist yelled and screamed about from the wilds of the desert.  You don't “prepare the way” for some animals and a couple of teenagers.  You don't “make straight” the path that leads to a baby in a food trough.   How is it, exactly, that thousands of years after the fact, we continue to follow the way prepared for us and come upon something as simple and profound as baby Jesus? 

If we are truthful with ourselves, Advent is a journey that makes no sense. A rewarding one – absolutely.  A life-transforming one – you bet.  But it makes little sense to a world who expects big and bold at the end of the way.  And until we realize that they have a point, until we recognize the absolute scandal of the manger – God of the universe, enfleshed in a lower-class, first-century Middle Eastern baby – until we get a grasp on the enormity of that, it is hard for us to ever really appreciate the journey that takes us there. 

So let's take time on this journey, shall we?  Let us marvel at the majesty of the way prepared for us, and how the valleys have been lifted up, and the mountains made low.  Let us stare in amazement at all the machinery and soak in the engineering masterpiece.  And when we finally – finally arrive at its end, let us never lose the ability to be utterly astonished, down to our foundations, at what we find there.  As followers of the baby, let us never be surprised about being surprised.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

   

KEEP THE BLESSINGS FROM GOING STALE

Numbers 11: 1-15
Steve Lindsley
November 30, 2008

The story is told at just about every Thanksgiving.  If I had my way, the story would seep into the recesses of the family's collective consciousness, tucked away in some distant corner of the mind where it would be conveniently forgotten. But that never seems to happen.  So just about every Thanksgiving it is dragged out once more for consumption, like grandma's nutty fruitcake.

The story, as it goes, has me around two or three years old, depending on the year it's being told.  We are at my grandmother's house in Asheville – my mother's mom – for the Thanksgiving feast.  The dining room is small but we've pulled together a few tables and draped them with one large table cloth.  There are a dozen or so of us there, and the food – which had been in the works for days – is strewn out all over the table in the finest of silver.  Even at my young age, I know this is a masterpiece before me.

We all take our seats, and my great grandfather – G.G., we used to call him – G.G. asks for us to bow our head as he returns thanks.  And return thanks he did.  It may not surprise you to know that someone related to me bore a tendency to talk for long periods of time.  The story is that G.G. went on with his prayer for at least five minutes; and that the more he blessed the food, the more I wanted to be eating it.  And at some point when my patience had been fully exhausted, I blurted out in a loud voice, “Amen, G.G., Amen!”

Oh man, do they love telling this story!  I honestly don't remember it, but I don't have to, really, because my family has yet to forget it.  But can you really blame a toddler with the full Thanksgiving spread before him?  I wasn't as interested in giving thanks for those wonderful blessings, as I was interested in sinking my teeth into them!

It's easy to be thankful and grateful for God's blessings when they're right in front of us.  But it is harder to be in tune with those blessings when they seem so far away.  And I think that's the problem the Israelites kept running into, you know?  There they were, somewhere out in the desert, trying to find their way to this “Promised Land.”  God had rescued them from bondage in Egypt and gave them Moses to guide them to a “land flowing with milk and honey.”  A land of promise and hope, where they could be a nation forever.

But the journey to that land was not an easy one; and it didn't take long before they started having second thoughts.  The grass is always greener on the other side, you know.  It got harder for God's people to “count their blessings.”  And they started longing for their thanksgiving feasts of old:

If only we had meat to eat!  We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.

That “manna,” by the way, was some kind of flaky substance that would appear on the ground every morning.  The story goes that God provided the manna for them every day as food for the journey.   And before we give them a hard time for not being so gracious, it wasn't like this stuff was some delicacy.  Some scholars believe it might have been a bug secretion they were eating,  but no one really knows.  In fact, the word “manna” itself actually means, “What is it??” - which is undoubtedly what the Israelites would think to themselves as they shoved some of it into their mouth. 

As Holly Mills so eloquently put it in her sermon last week, “It is easy for people to think that they've got it so hard.”  That's what those Israelites were doing as they made their way from Egypt to the Promised Land.  They let this view of their past – a past that was undoubtedly not as romantic as they made it out to be – they let that view of their past cloud their present.  And because of that, they failed to see the blessings right before them, even if it was in the form of some flaky bug secretion.

But none of their “ungraciousness” changed the fact that God provided for God's people.  God blessed them every day of the journey, whether they chose to receive it or not.  Whether they chose to yell out “Amen, G.G., Amen!” and get on with it, or whether they recognized the many ways God worked through them, every day of their lives.  It made no difference – God blessed them every time the Israelites gathered together for a meal.

That same blessing continues to this very day.  Mealtime is a sacred place for returning thanks, for receiving God's blessings with grateful hearts, and being nourished for the journey.  It's not just about human survival – it's about fellowship, too.  Last week we as a congregation shared in a wonderful Thanksgiving feast in our Fellowship Hall.  Today we will share another kind of meal – a meal that Jesus once had with his disciples as part of the Jewish Passover, a meal of deep meaning about that time in Egypt when God provided for God's people, and how Jesus took that meal and made it extraordinary.

Now I don't know about you, but I personally have a hard time “explaining” communion to someone.  It's kind of like watching your child being born – you can give the “play-by-play,” but the real significance, the real essence is very hard to capture in words.  That's why I'm big on the stories of communion, rather than the science of it.  I think communion – mealtime with God and each other – comes alive when we tell the stories. 

I asked you all for your communion stories, and I got some wonderful ones.  One church member shared with me about the time he was at a youth conference in D.C.  His small group decided to celebrate communion on Friday evening at the National Mall.  They all sat in a circle, and the minister passed the bread and the cup of grape juice around.  Everyone served the person next to them.  And what made it memorable for him was not the process of presenting each other the bread and wine, but “the sense of fellowship among a group of people who six days earlier were complete strangers.”  Times like these remind us that communion is not just an “act” but something that has life to it (as told by Dave Petri).

Another member recalled a time when his preschool-aged daughter decided she wanted to receive communion for the first time.  She ate the bread and got a smile on her face (incidentally, the same smile that shows up on my boys' faces when they eat what they affectionally refer to as “Mrs. Jane's bread.”).  And after this little girl drank the juice, she proceeded to smack her lips and give out a sigh that everyone heard.  And why not!  God's blessings certainly are good enough to deserve a little lip-smacking every now and then (as told by Bob Chilton).

The point is that amazing things can happen when we gather together for a meal and graciously receive God's blessings.  Because if communion is about anything, it is about how God takes the ordinary among us – some bread and some wine or juice – and makes it extraordinary.  And communion, at least in a spiritual sense, doesn't have to be limited to a thanksgiving feast or a sacrament in church.  God's meal and God's blessings can take place anywhere, anytime.

I will forever carry with me a story told by Presbyterian minister and author Fred Craddock about a communion meal he once experienced.  This is his story:

I gave a weekend lecture in mid-October at the University of Winnipeg in Canada.  As we left Friday night after the first lecture, it started snowing.  I was surprised, and my host was surprised because he had written, “It’s too early for the cold weather, but you might bring a little windbreaker, a little light jacket.” 

The next morning when I woke up in my hotel room, two or three feet of snow pressed against the door.  The phone rang, and my host said, “We’re all surprised by this.  In fact, I can’t come and take you to breakfast, the lecture this morning has been cancelled, and the airport is closed.  If you can make your way down the block, there's a little bus depot, and it has a café.  I’m real sorry.”  I put on that light jacket and a small cap, but I was still freezing, and I hadn't left the hotel room.  I went into the bathroom and unrolled long sheets of toilet paper and made a nest in the cap so that it would protect my head against that icy wind.

I went outside, shivering.  The wind was cold, the snow was deep.  I slid and bumped and finally made it down to the bus station.  Every stranded traveler in western Canada was there, strangers to each other and to me, pressing and pushing and loud.  I finally found a place to sit, and after a lengthy time a man in a greasy apron came and said, “Whadya want?”  I said, “May I see a menu?” He said, “What do you want a menu for?  We have soup.”  I said, “What kind of soup do you have?”  And he said, “Soup soup.  You want some?”  I said okay.

He brought the soup, and I put the spoon to it.  It was awful.  It was kind of gray looking; it was so bad I couldn’t eat it, but I sat there and put my hands around it.  It was warm, and so I sat there with my head down, my head wrapped in toilet paper, bemoaning and beweeping my outcast state with the horrible soup. 

The door opened again.  The wind was icy, and somebody yelled, “Close the door!”  In came this woman clutching her little coat.  She found a place not far from me.  The greasy apron came and asked, “Whadya want?”  She said, “A glass of water.”  He brought her a glass of water, took out his tablet and said, “Now whadya want?”  She said, “Just the water.”  He said, “You have to order something, lady.”  She replied, “Well, I don't have any money; I just want a glass of water, and some time to get warm.”  He said, “Look.  I have customers that pay – what do you think this is, a church or something?  If you’re not going to order, you’ve got to leave!”  And he got real loud about it, so that everyone could hear him.

So she got up to leave.  And then an amazing thing happened.  Almost as if rehearsed, everyone in that café got up and headed to the door.  If she was going to have to leave, they were leaving as well.  And the man in the greasy apron saw this happening and blurted out, “All right, all right, she can stay.”  Everyone sat down, and he brought her a bowl of soup.

I said to the person sitting next to me, “Who is she?”  He said, “I’ve never seen her before.” The place grew quiet, but I heard the sipping of that awful soup.  I said, “You know, I’m going to try that soup again.”  I put my spoon to the soup – you know, it wasn't bad soup.  Everybody was eating this soup.  I started eating the soup, and it was pretty good soup.  I have no idea what kind of soup it was; I don’t know what was in it.  But I do recall that when I was eating it, it tasted a little bit like bread and wine.  Just a little bit like bread and wine (a story told by Fred Craddock, from Craddock Stories).

Amen, G.G., Amen.  And thanks be to God.

DO NOT FEAR!

(Note to readers: We had a guest preacher this past Sunday, so I don't have a "new" sermon to post.  However, I thought it would be appropriate to post an older sermon of mine; one I preached prior to starting this blog.  I wrote this sermon during the combative primary election season of the spring/summer.  As we enter the final month of the presidential campaign and are once again forced to endure "fear-mongering" by political campaigns, I felt this message was once again appropriate.

I make reference in the sermon to a number of faxes the church received that used fear tactics to malign one particular candidate.  It's not in the text, but I actually received one of these faxes the very morning I was to deliver the sermon.  I took it with me into the pulpit and, after making my point, tore it up in front of the congregation!  They weren't expecting this, and to be honest neither was I.  One of those "spontaneous" things. Spirit-driven, perhaps?

Whatever the case, take the sermon for what it's worth in our presidential election/crumbling economy situation.)

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Isaiah 43: 1-4; John 14: 1-6, 25-27
Steve Lindsley
May 4, 2008

What are you afraid of?  That question was posed to a group of football players in the 2000 movie The Replacements.  The real players had gone on strike, and teams were stocked with second-rate players who just the week before were working in grocery stores or factories or – in one case – in prison.  The head coach, played by Gene Hackman, was faced with the daunting task of uniting a motley group of misfits into a cohesive team in a matter of weeks.

What are you afraid of?  He asked the question at a team meeting, hoping it would stir players to dig deep into their personal and collective psyches, to the heart of what was ailing this rag-tag group of wannabees.  He asked the question in hopes that, through admitting their deepest fears, they could conquer them, get beyond them, and realize their full potential as a football team

A 300-plus pound, former sumo wrestler offensive lineman named Franklin was the first to speak up: Spiders, he said, I’m scared to death of spiders.  Another player nodded his head, and a third chimed in: Yeah, spiders creep me out too, man!  Hackman shook his head in disgust: No, no, I’m talking about on the football field. What are you afraid of on the football field?  Franklin, with a quizzical look, offered, Spiders on the football field? 

And when it seemed as if this little pep talk was ending before it begun, Falco the quarterback raised his hand.  I’m afraid of quicksand, he said, but not the way you think.  See, you’re playing football.  You think everything is going fine... but then one thing goes wrong... and then another... and another.  And you try to fight back, but the harder you fight, the deeper you sink.  Until you can't move, you can't breathe, because you're in over your head.  He shrugged and said, Like quicksand.

The head coach smiled, and the conversation took off from there – and one by one the players shared how they were deathly afraid of messing up this second chance at a career in professional football, one they’d only dreamed of.  A successful team meeting, as they went on to win some football games.

Well, listen – I’m not all that afraid of spiders; and I’d probably be afraid of quicksand if I ever got in some, but there are other things I’m afraid of.  I’m afraid of stepping into this pulpit on Sunday morning without a sermon – I have nightmares about that one every so often.  I’m afraid of not being the best parent or spouse I can be.  I’m afraid of rising gas prices and lost jobs and food shortages and how these things make it even harder for those living on the financial edge.  I’m afraid of how much longer we’ll continue to lose fine young women and men, like our own Adam Marion, in Iraq. 
We all are afraid of something, and it starts early.  A few months ago I was stirred to consciousness late one night by our eldest, who in a hushed but slightly panicked voice informed me that there were, in fact, monsters in his closet.  In my sleep-deprived state I offered the typical parental response: there were no such things as monsters and he could go back to bed rest assured.  This did not do a whole lot to convince him.  So together we stumbled down the hall to his room, turned the light on and inspected the closet ourselves.  No monsters – so we pronounced an “all clear” and returned to our respective beds, and eventually sleep.

As we grow into adulthood our fears change to other monsters in the closet. And rarely do we talk openly about those fears of ours, perhaps because we don’t want anyone to get concerned or worried – especially ourselves.  In our country’s recent history, 9-11 is perhaps the most prominent instance where we, as a collective group, came face to face with our greatest fear.  When those towers fell, it shattered our innocence and opened our eyes to see the hate and violence and anger that most of the rest of the world had seen long before us.  Nowadays our fears are many: recession, terrorism, insecurity, apathy, just to name a very few.  And so we go running into God’s room in the middle of the night to tell God about the monsters in our closet.  Kind of funny, isn’t it – not much has changed.

You know, I would venture to guess that Jesus sensed that his disciples were at that same sort of place.  It shouldn’t surprise us, really.  It was the night before Jesus was crucified; and although they didn’t know that’s where things were heading, they sensed something was up.  There was just a different “feel” in the air that evening.  What began as an innocent meal among friends quickly turned into chaos and uncertainty.  When Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, as John tells it – well, that’s when they really started to wonder.  And when they saw Judas leave them and later learned why, it was all too much.  Something bad was about to happen and their time together as rabbi and followers was quickly coming to an end.

So in his rather long speech to his disciples – it goes on for three whole chapters – Jesus offers these words:   

Do not let your hearts be troubled.  Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.  If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself – so that where I am, there you may be also.

Now I like these words of Jesus.  You may have heard them read at a funeral perhaps; a time when the fear of death can get a grip on us.   Jesus, though, wants to tell us something quite different: that death does not have the last word, and that fear of any kind never can separate us from the ones we love or from God.  Because it’s not the “where” of this place that Jesus prepares that really matters – it’s more of the “who.”  Do not let your hearts be troubled is God speaking directly to our hearts, for any occasion, for any fear that life can throw at us.

But here’s the thing – it is not about God getting rid of the fear – that’s not what Jesus is talking about here and that’s not what this sermon is about.  See, I don’t think Jesus ever envisioned a life on earth where you and I are free from pain and hardship and things to be fearful about.  Lord knows Jesus knew all about life’s difficulties in his 33 years!  The truth of the gospel is that Jesus never promised us a pain-free existence.  God never said that he would take all our fears and make them disappear.  God simply said that he would make a place for us where we can bring those fears to him and be comforted.

Some believe – and I would tend to agree – that this “place” he speaks of is right here – in the community of faith.  For it is in the presence of fellow brothers and sisters in Christ that you and I can confide our fears, share them with one another, renewed for service in and through them.  And I have to think that’s precisely what Jesus was trying to say to his disciples that night; his very last night with them: saying, I’m sending someone to take care of you, called the Holy Spirit.  But don’t ever forget that I want you to take care of one another. 

And let me tell you, that’s a very good thing, my friends.  It’s a very good thing that we have each other.  Because the fact of the matter is that you and I don’t just live in a world of fear; you and I live in a culture that is unashamedly obsessed with fear.  Fear-mongering, it’s sometimes called – when fear is used to coerce people into doing what you want them to do.  Promising them the worst, so they can give you their best.

Where is this in our world today?  Where is it not! I think of factions of the church that twist the words of the Bible, like the book of Revelation, to “scare” people to Jesus.  I think of the horrible stigma placed on people who are different from us, just because of what they believe or what they wear on their heads or what their lifestyle is or what disease may be flowing through their veins. And especially in this season of election, I think of three faxes our church and other churches have received over the past month – faxes with no names or contact numbers – suggesting that a vote for a particular candidate in this year’s presidential election is a vote for an “apostate”, is a vote against the will of God, and is a vote that would lead to the complete deterioration of the Christian church and American society.

What is going on??   I mean, these sorts of things have always been with us, but they seem to have crystallized and taken on a sense of urgency in our post 9-11 world.  In his book The Scandalous Gospel of Jesus, Harvard religion professor Peter Gomes had this to say:

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of September 11th, 2001…..is not the loss of the human lives or the buildings, tragic as those losses were and painful as they are to recall.  The greatest tragedy may be that we have since been programmed to live by our fears and not by our hopes.  Once we were a people defined by our compassions; today we are more and more a people defined by our fears.  And to be defined by our fears is to accept the lowest possible level of emotional intelligence. [from The Scandalous Gospel of Jesus by Peter Gomes (New York: HarperOne, 2007), 104, 106]

This twisting and abuse of fear is not just tragic and wrong.  It is unbiblical.  Hundreds of years before Jesus promised his anxious disciples a dwelling place, God’s people were devastated by the destruction of Jerusalem and the holy temple, carted off to live in Babylonian exile.  It was an unrivaled emotional and spiritual obliteration, and many of them felt as if God had hung them out to dry.

It would’ve been so easy for the people to succumb to their fears and respond in like kind.  It would’ve been easy for those in power to use their circumstances to sway God’s chosen for their own purposes.  And yet, to this horrible situation the prophet Isaiah delivered God’s radical and unwavering message: DO NOT FEAR.  Why?  Because God goes with you into the unknown, into the devastation.  Why?  Because God is God; and God is your God.  Why?  Because more than anything else, more than anything else in the world, God loves you.  God loves you and will never leave you.  So Do Not Fear.

Fifty-eight times in the Bible, God says these three words, loud and clear.  Fifty-eight times, God implores the faithful not to be misguided by their fear, not to have their life dictated by what Gomes eloquently calls the “absence of courage” and the “poverty of imagination.”  Fifty-eight times, God proposes a radical alternative – to replace fear with hope, hate with love, prejudice with acceptance, indifference with compassion, judgment with forgiveness.  This is what God said to his people thousands of years ago; and this is what God still says to us today.

I’ll be honest with you – I’m tired of all of this.  We all are tired of it! We are tired of fear ruling our lives and our world.  We are tired of people using fear to get their way with us for their own gain.  We are tired of the faithful, time and time again, succumbing to fear when the very foundation of our beliefs calls us to something else entirely.

So let us do something else entirely, shall we?  Let us re-imagine and remake our lives so that fear is replaced with hope and compassion. Let us live into the beauty and promise of a world that is guided by its possibilities instead of its pitfalls.  Let us embody a church that stands against the power of fear, and for the hope of the gospel of Jesus Christ.  And most of all, let us not allow those in our world to tell us what their fear can do to us; let us tell them – and show them – what God’s love can do for everyone.

Because maybe, just maybe, those ol’ monsters in the closet won’t seem as bad as we sometimes make them out to be, you know? Thanks be to God.  AMEN.