The Mayberry Preacher

THE YEAR OF LIVING BIBLICALLY - GIVE ME A BREAK!

Exodus 20:8-11; Mark 2: 23-28
Steve Lindsley
September 2, 2012

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It’s been an interesting three weeks so far for me in this sermon series on the book The Year of Living Biblically.  Interesting in the sense that there’s always a tension, I’d guess you’d call it, with preaching on biblical commandments that we may or may not always follow.  Take today, for instance.  Today’s commandment puts me as a preacher on precariously thin ice.  Because if there is one commandment that I struggle with on a weekly, daily, hourly basis, it is the commandment to observe Sabbath. And it’s more than just the fact that Sunday happens to be a workday for me, as it is for Shasta and every other church professional. I’m notorious for taking a perfectly good Friday off and filling it full of stuff – non-church stuff – so that, at the end of the day, it looks like anything but a day of rest.

And the thing of it is, I’m not alone in doing this.  Not by a long shot!  The inability to rest and give ourselves a break every now and then is rampant in our day and time.  Just consider some of the data:

• Americans work hundreds of hours a year more than their counterparts in other developed countries: 137 more than Japanese workers, 260 more than the British, and 499 more than the French.
• Americans also have fewer days off than Europeans, who typically take four to six weeks of paid vacation a year.  
• At least 134 countries have laws setting the maximum length of the work week; the U.S., of course, does not.
• In the United States, 85% of men and 66% of women work more than 40 hours a week.
• Some 88% of Americans carry electronic devices while on vacation to communicate with work, and 40% log-on to check their work email.
• A third of all Americans don't take their allotted vacation and 37 percent never take more than a week at a time.

(Statistics from:   http://20somethingfinance.com/american-hours-worked-productivity-vacation/, visited on 8.27.2012; http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/working-less-would-provide-much-to-americans/2012/01/26/gIQArhKPWQ_story.html, visited on 8.27.2012; http://www.alternet.org/story/61122/the_vanishing_american_vacation, visited on 8.27.2012)

Now I’m not a medical doctor or an expert on the matter, but the situation seems pretty clear: we have an aversion to experiencing and embracing sabbath.  Maybe we draw too much of our sense of self and or sense of worth from our work.  Maybe that’s it.  Or maybe we’ve grown so accustomed to the rat race that we’re truly terrified of what life would be like if we stopped running it. 

So – where to start?  Let’s start where our first scripture leaves us: right at the foot of Mount Sinai, with Moses and his two tablets.  Commandment number four, to be exact: 

Observe the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Work six days and do everything you need to do.
But the seventh day is a Sabbath to God.
Don’t do any work!
For in six days God made everything,
And then rested on the seventh day.
Therefore God blessed the Sabbath,
Setting it apart as a holy day.

Keep in mind that Israel was very much an agrarian society at the time, even as they were in transit to the Promised Land.  Their livelihoods centered around that land; the same land we talked about last week that needed to rest every seven years.  Preparing and tilling and seeding and growing and harvesting that land was a six-day-a-week job. But the seventh day – that day was a day of not-working.  A natural rhythm, in the same way that God rested on the seventh day of creation.  There was a very practical reason for this one day of rest.  Work any less, and the land and yourself would be underused.  Work any more, and over time both you and the land would experience diminishing returns.

The thing is, this day of rest is not a passive day of rest.  It is an active day of rest.  Which is what we call “worship.” Think about it: when we pause from our labors, when we turn our focus away from the crops in the field that are right in front of us, we cannot help but, in that pause, turn our attention to everything else around us, especially the God who created us and created the land and makes all things new.  Worship, then, is the natural conclusion of rest. 

So – here’s the commercial for weekly worship.  Which very much has the feel of preaching to the choir, I know, since you’re obviously here today!  But here’s the thing: of course there are ways to worship God and experience holy rest outside the sanctuary.  God is not tied down to granite and wood paneling and carpet and pews.

But if there is one thing in our individualistic society that gets on my nerves the most, it is the notion that you and I can experience the fullness of the Christian faith by ourselves, like it is some sort of self-serve line at the fast food restaurant.   I’ll take a Holy Day Happy Meal with a side of love and forgiveness, topped off by a Grace-filled Sundae, please. 

As long as you let me stand behind this pulpit, I’m going to keep reminding you that our Christian faith is a communal faith.  By it’s very design, it needs to be experienced and expressed with other people.  Those Israelites who received the Sabbath commandment at Mount Sinai, were not on individual expeditions in the wilderness.  They were on a journey together.  And Sunday morning is our weekly seventh-day journey to the foot of the mountain; where we come together to give thanks to God, praise and worship God, sing and speak to God.  We are designed, from the very first days of creation, to live and worship in community.

The rub, though, is that we can’t get so rigid with the notion of Sabbath that we miss the point of it entirely.  That’s what the Pharisees were so good at doing, bless their little Pharisee hearts.  Which is why Jesus gently reminded them in our scripture today that, as he put it, “the Sabbath was not made for humankind, but humankind for the Sabbath."

What does that mean, anyway – that we were made for the Sabbath?  Sounds a little egocentric almost, doesn’t it?  You know, sometimes I wonder if at that very moment of creation, as God was fashioning the first of us, that God already knew us so well – knew about our hundreds of hours more working a year, or the third of us who would never take a vacation, or the 88% who’d whip out our iPhone to check work email when we were on one – maybe God already knew us so well that God knew Sabbath would be essential.  And not just a day of the week for restful worship together, but the little Sabbaths that come to us when we least expect them.

You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?  Like the long grocery store line and the “technical glitch” up front at the cash register that means you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.  Or the traffic jam on Hwy. 52 north coming home from work – it’s not like you can vault over cars, as much as you might want to.  You’re trapped; you’re stuck.  You can’t do a thing about it.  How in the world is this a moment of Sabbath?   

Let’s let A.J. Jacobs tell us how, shall we?

********************

Day 97. It’s a Tuesday afternoon in December, but I feel like I’ve just experienced my first real Sabbath.

Let me explain: The doorknobs in our apartment fall off on an alarmingly regular basis. We don’t even need to be touching them—it’s more of a natural-life-cycle type of situation, like my hairline retreating. I’ll be in bed and hear a thud and know that another doorknob succumbed to gravity.

Usually, I screw the knob back on. No big deal. But this morning, it became a big deal. At 9:30 I stop typing my emails and shuffle over to the bathroom—and close the door behind me. I don’t realize what I’ve done until I reach for the nonexistent inside doorknob. It had molted sometime during the night.

For the first ten minutes, I try to escape. I bang on the door, shout for help. No answer. Julie is away at a meeting, and Jasper is out with his babysitter. I’m trapped.

The next half hour I spend going through a checklist of worst-case scenarios. What if I slip, cut my forehead on the bathtub, bleed to death, and end up on the front page of the New York Post? What if there’s a fire, and I’m forced to hang by my fingernails from the window ledge?

Even more stressful is that the outside world is speeding along without me. Emails are being answered. Venti lattes are being sipped. (Other writers are putting the finishing touches on their future Pulitzer prize-winners.)

At 10:30 the phone rings. I hear a muffled voice leaving a message. At 10:35 I make a pledge to put more reading material in the bathroom if I ever escape. By 11:00 I’ve become the world’s greatest expert on this bathroom. I know the fake marble tiles with their spider-vein pattern and the power outlet that is tilted at a rakishly diagonal angle. I spend a half hour tidying the medicine cabinet. I notice that the ingredients in Chlor-Trimeton go all the way from A (acacia) to Z (zein).

By noon I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the shower door. I sit. And sit some more. And something odd happens. I know that, outside the bathroom, the world is speeding along without me.
But I’m OK with it. It doesn’t cause my shoulders to tighten. I’ve reached an unexpected level of acceptance. For once, I’m savoring the present. I’m admiring what I have, even if it’s thirty-two square feet of fake marble and an angled electrical outlet. I start to pray. And, perhaps for the first time, I pray in true peace and silence – without glancing at the clock, without my brain hopscotching from topic to topic.

This is what the Sabbath should feel like. A pause. Not just a minor pause, but a major pause. Not just a lowering of the volume, but a muting.

At about 1:30 I hear Julie come home. I pound on the door.

“Where are you?”

“In here! In the bathroom!”

I hear her footsteps approaching.

“You can’t get out?”

“No, I can’t get out.”

“How long have you been in there?”

“Four hours.”

There was a pause. I knew she was weighing her options. After a few seconds, she just opened the door.

I am free. I can return my emails, make my calls.

It’s kind of a shame.

(From "The Year Of Living Biblically" by A.J. Jacobs, pgs. 123-125).

********************

It is kind of a shame, isn’t it?  It’s a shame whenever we get out of the rhythm of work and rest that God created in us.  But when you and I step out of the rat race for just a moment, and allow ourselves to feel God’s rejuvenating spirit fill us from the inside out, it’s something we want more of – because that’s exactly what God made us to want.  As one of our Bob Chilton Bible study participants put it last week, “Sabbath is our little reward for having the privilege of walking around on this planet.”   

So rest. Relax. Give yourself a break!  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

MUSTARD SEEDS ARE BETTER THAN COSMIC TREES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STANDING BEFORE PARTED WATERS: "WEREN'T THE CEMETERIES LARGE ENOUGH IN EGYPT??"

Exodus 14: 10-14, Mark 4: 35-41
Steve Lindsley
September 12, 2010

It very well could be the most powerful image in the entire Bible.  It is the story of a people and their God and their relationship over the years – the joys of freedom and answered prayers, the hardship of the journey through the desert.  And all of it, it seemed, was culminating in this one moment: a moment of incredible promise and salvation, but also one of reservation and trepidation.

And however you choose to envision it in your mind, this is what it boils down to: the people have a path across the waters of the Red Sea; a path opened for them by none other than the hand of God.  It is the path of their deliverance as they make their long journey to the Promised Land.  And it is a path that will lead them out of harm's way, as there is another making their own path to them: the fast-approaching Egyptian army led by a vengeful Pharaoh.    So there they are – quite literally on the doorstep of God's greatest act of salvation in their long and storied history.  The waters are parted!  The way is clear!    Salvation is theirs!

And yet, the people of God do not move.  Contrary to what Charlton Heston Moses movies might have us believe, the Israelites stood there, as if paralyzed.  But paralyzed by what??  Were they afraid that the waters, suspended high in the air, would come crashing down on them?  Did they hold out hope that Pharaoh and his band of merry men were coming to rescue them from peril?  Or were they simply afraid to embrace the chance that the impossible might actually be possible?

This, my friends, is the journey I invite us, the family of First Presbyterian Church, to embark on over the next three weeks.  You know well the season that we have come to call Fall Discipleship, where our Discipleship Ministry Team asks each of us to prayerfully consider how we can support the work and ministry of this great church in the coming year.  Part of this task is a practical one – there is a budget that our session has recently approved, and we are asked to support that budget with our financial giving. 

But part of the Discipleship journey is about much more than simple dollars and cents.  It is about grasping hold of the promise God has made to us here; a promise we are all part of by virtue of our presence in this family of faith.  And this is not always an easy thing.

Because the truth of the matter is that you and I are in very much the same situation that those Hebrews were thousands of years ago – in a figurative sense, of course, but no less significant.  We, too, are standing before parted waters; the impossible promise of God made possible right before our very eyes!  A path to our deliverance has been opened up for us, clear as day, leading us in the way God would have us go.  It is God at work in the most magnificent, complete, and unquestionable way.  It is exactly what we have prayed for all these years, what we have longed to come to fruition!

Except......except we, too, do not make our way through the parted waters.  We too are as if paralyzed.  And why is that?  Why do we sometimes fail to take hold of God's promise for us?  What is keeping us from walking through those waters?

Answering that question is the task that lies before us over the next three weeks, and it will undoubtedly lead us to do some soul-searching as individuals and as a community of faith.  It is a task that will involve us taking time in each sermon – and I mean this quite literally – to consider some very direct and powerful questions.

Because it wasn't any different for the Hebrew people, really.  They were full of questions.  In the five short Exodus verses that we'll be looking at over the next three weeks, the people of God asked three specific questions of their leader Moses – and, in essence, asked them of God.  And not only do these questions tell us an awful lot about why the Hebrews remained still in front of those parted waters, but I would suggest that at their heart they are very similar to the questions we ask this time of year as a community of faith.

The three questions the Israelites asked, using The Message translation, were as follows:

Weren't the cemeteries large enough in Egypt??

What have you done to us??
Didn't we tell you this would happen??

Each question, going deeper and deeper into the heart and soul of those people, revealing what kept them from taking hold of that promise.  Our task, over the next three weeks of Fall Discipleship, is to ask ourselves these questions and discover what keeps us from doing the same.

And you know, you've got to chuckle a bit at the first one, don't you: weren't the cemeteries large enough in Egypt??  Even in their turmoil they still had a sense of humor!  Sarcasm often makes itself known when people are at wit's end, as the Hebrews certainly were.  And the truth of the matter is that it had been brewing for quite some time. 

It started brewing the moment the gates of Egypt were flung open and Moses led the people out into the vast wilderness, and some quietly wondered if the devil they didn't know would be worse than the one they'd know for a generation.  It grew as the people went hungry and thirsty for days, enduring hot days and cold nights, moving deeper into an endless desert.  And it was crystallized as they were caught between an expansive sea and the approaching Egyptian army.  Even the parted waters did not allay their biting sarcasm, because fear had blinded them from the very thing they had so longed to see.

Fear can do that, you know.  Oh man, if there's one thing we know fear can do, it is blinding us from seeing “parted-waters” moments in our lives.  Fear paralyzes us, obstructs our view of the promise, makes us focus on the worst-possible scenario instead of the best that could happen.  Fear keeps us from seeing the redemptive power of God that is literally embodied in us, the body of Christ. 

And perhaps there is no greater sign of the power fear has over us than this past weekend, the ninth anniversary of 9-11.  For the past few months, the fires of fear have been stoked in full, fanned by concerns about an Islamic Center two blocks from Ground Zero and a pastor and his 50-member church in Florida that came this close to hosting a “Burn the Koran” event yesterday.  For these reasons and for so many more, it is hard to deny that our fears are truly getting the best of us.  And it is disheartening that, even after all these years, despite our noblest efforts, we continue to be defined by those things that separate us from “the other,” rather than those things we share in common with one another.

Harvard religion professor Peter Gomes once wrote this: 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, 10)

Gomes is right – fears define who we are.  They hold us captive, in fact.  And the only way we can break free from that captivity is to name those fears – to call them out into the open.  Which is why I want to do something we've never done in a sermon before, at least one of mine.  If you look on the back of your announcements sheet in the bulletin, you'll see two sections with some lines for writing.  If you would, please grab a pencil from the back of the pew or a pen out of your purse.

I want to ask you to take a few moments in silence and jot down your thoughts in the first section, answering this question: What are your greatest fears?  What fears define your life?........................

Now I'd like to ask you to consider this next question in the second section: How do these fears keep you from fully engaging your faith?  How do these fears keep you from fully engaging your faith?............................

Take a second and look at what you've written.  And ask yourselves: how much are you defined by those fears?  Do you find those things written down in front of you dictating the course your life takes, guiding what you do or do not do, rather than being guided by the promise of the God that is in your very midst?

If that's true, then trust me, friends, you are in good company!  That's the way it was for those disciples in our New Testament reading.  Jesus was in the boat with them – Jesus himself, in the flesh!  But the disciples weren't focusing on him.  All they could think about was the storm that surrounded them; the swirling winds and chaotic waters.  If you've ever been on a boat when a storm's at sea, you know the totally helpless feeling it is – anchored to nothing, totally at the mercy of the wind and waves.  Sometimes life can feel like that.

Scripture makes a point of mentioning that, during all of this, Jesus was sound asleep on the boat, until the disciples woke him in panic.  And all he had to do was utter the words, Peace, be still, and the storm stopped.  And it's interesting – while the disciples are all caught up  in a man who has divine control over nature, Jesus is focusing on something else entirely: God's redemptive power in the world, bringing order to the chaos that engulfs us.  Which is why he asks them, Why are your afraid?  The disciples were paralyzed by their fears; Jesus points them – and us – to God's promise.

On that monumental day long ago in the desert, when the people were in turmoil and Moses stood on the rock ledge, God brought order to the waters of the Red Sea, parting them aside so the Israelites could continue on their quest for the promise.  And at the same time, God also brought order to the chaos in their lives; reminding them that they did not need to be defined by their fears one minute longer.  And to the people's question, Weren't the cemeteries large enough in Egypt, Moses sees right through the sarcasm to the real question and answers it accordingly: Do Not Be Afraid.  Do not be afraid of the approaching army; do not be afraid of the parted waters, do not be afraid of the promise that God has laid right in front of you.  And thousands of years later, as you and I stand before parted waters of our own, the same God bears the same message to us: Do Not Be Afraid. 

So let us re-imagine and remake our lives so that it is not our fears that define us, but our hopes and our passions.  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 as we begin together our journey of Fall Discipleship and prayerfully consider how we support the work and ministry of this great church, let us not place limits on God's redemptive power by talking about what we can't do, but what we can.  We need not be afraid one moment longer.  And for that, thanks be to God!  AMEN.

WHO WE SAY HE IS

Mark 8: 27-38
Steve Lindsley
February 14, 2010

They were making their way to a town down the road called Caesarea Philippi.  This wasn't some “event,” like the Sermon on the Mount or the Feeding of the 5000.  It was just Jesus and his friends, talking along the way, tucked ever so neatly in the middle of Mark's gospel.  

And the thing is, I don't know if what I'm getting ready to describe to you is how it actually happened.  Because the story, just a few verses long, leaves a lot to the imagination.  And so I imagine them walking on that dusty road, probably in three or four little groups, talking about simple things like family and weather and politics. Bartholomew's son won his class spelling bee, how about the hot streak we've been having around here these days, stuff like that. Eventually the conversation, as it always seems to, drifts to religion; and the smaller groups begin to merge into one.  And at some point Jesus poses the question that would start it all.  And I picture him kind of looking down as he says it, in a nonchalant sort of way: Who do people say that I am?  Everyone chimes in; some talk about those who say he’s John the Baptist come back to life, or Elijah the great prophet or another prophet.  They toss these names out there, and it brings smiles to their faces and even a few laughs here and there, although no one's quite sure why.

And then, while everyone enjoying the playful banter, Jesus changes the entire feel of the conversation with seven simple words: Who do YOU say that I am?  And he's no longer walking when he asks this – in fact, he's stopped right there in the middle of the road and he's looking eye-to-eye at each of them – as least as I imagine it.  I picture everyone walking with him stopping as well, abruptly, almost stumbling.  The casual look on their faces has vanished – because this question isn't as innocent and benign as the first one.  This isn't simply asking them to report on what others have said.  It's asking them to look within themselves and say, out loud, what they feel, what they think, what they believe. 

And I could be going out on a huge limb here, but do you know what I imagine?  Silence.  Lots of it, where the only sound heard is the cool afternoon breeze blowing through the trees on the side of the road to Caesarea Philippi.  The full weight of the question rests heavily on each of the disciples, and they simply don't know what to say.  They know what they want to say, but they can't bring themselves to say it; to actually voice the embodiment of the hope of the people for generations.  And so they stand there in awkward silence, kicking dirt on the ground. 

Until Peter speaks up.  Which doesn't surprise me in the least, as I'm sure it didn't surprise the disciples either.  Peter voices four words that resonate with every one of those other disciples and what they were thinking as well.  Four words that would change the course of history: You are the Messiah. 

Again, I know I'm embellishing the story, but somehow that vision makes sense to me.  It is not by accident that the writer of Mark places this little exchange right in the middle of his gospel, as Jesus and the disciples make their way to Jerusalem.  At some point, Jesus' identity had to be stated clearly, verbalized for all to hear.  And while it wouldn't be revealed to everyone until the cross, Peter's statement in the 8th chapter is a glimpse of things to come – baby steps.

But to think that this little story in the middle of the gospel is nothing more than an exchange between Jesus and his disciples is missing the point.  The way that Mark writes it, the audience here extends far beyond the group of people walking on the road that day.  You and I are part of this conversation – we have been all these years.  And the question Jesus posed his followers then is the same question he asks his followers today:  who is Jesus, really?  Who do we say he is? 

I mean, think about that for a minute.  And don't take the easy way out and summon up all the fancy names and titles we use for him.  There's an old tune called “Jesus, Name Above All Names.”  We used to sing in youth group all the time.  The lyrics are nothing more than a string of names from scripture commonly associated with Jesus – Emmanuel, God is With us, Blessed Redeemer, Living Word, Son of God.  It's a great song!  But ironically, I don't know that singing the song and all those names ever really gets us in touch with this Jesus who is “above all names.”  I'm not sure if it ever helps all that much with the question, who do we say Jesus is?

So we have to go deeper than the names.  And that's where the fun begins!  I mean, how do we ever really know a person anyway?  You ever wonder that?  When you first meet someone, anyone, there's a fairly standard ritual of questions.  It's not like there's some manual out there; it's just the questions that typically get asked.  What's their name, where do they live, are they married, what music do they like.  And the all-important question in Mayberry, it seems: where do you go to church? 

And so you begin with the questions; and if the relationship develops a little more, there's a second level of knowing someone.  But it's not through questions that you do this, as much as it's just gathered in general conversation.  Like what kind of values shape their behavior and decisions; what their dreams and goals are.  This is also when you gauge the other's trustworthiness, whether they possess the kind of integrity thats going to allow you reciprocate that trust.  It kind of reminds me of a line from a song by a popular folk band these days:

I wanna have friends that I can trust

that love me for the man I've become, not the man that I was.
I wanna have friends that will let me be
All alone when being alone is all that I need 

(from "The Perfect Space" by The Avett Brothers off I And Love And You, 2009)

I think The Avett Brothers are on to something there.  The way we know another person – really know them – is not through those first questions or titles or the info tab on their newly-redesigned Facebook page.  The way we know someone is to take the long and winding journey to the heart of who they are.  And the best way – some would say the only way – to get to that heart is in the context of the relationships of our lives – husband, wife, son and daughter, neighbor, church member, business colleague, cycling team member.  It's in relationship that we most know someone.

And that might be the very reason that Jesus chose to ask this question when he did – when he was with his closest friends, in the context of their relationship and all the time they'd spent together.  So when Peter says what he says, he was doing much more than prescribing a title to Jesus.  He is making a statement of faith – our statement of faith: You are the Messiah, the son of God.  That's who he was to them.  Who is he to us?

I'll tell you why that question is so critical for the church today – because of what Jesus does next.  They've just had their little revelation experience, so a celebration would seem to be in order, right?  Not so fast.  Instead Jesus started telling them that the future isn’t looking so good.  He’s going to suffer, he says; those in authority will reject him and even kill him.  And it's important that we hear Jesus' words here not as American Christians in 2010 who are well-aware of the crucifixion.  It's important that we hear his words as Jesus' original audience did – a group who was repulsed by the cross, a Roman punishment reserved for the worst of criminals; a scandalous shame not at all befitting of a just-affirmed Messiah!

Which is probably why Peter pulls Jesus aside for a little chit-chat; and we can let our imagination fill in the gaps: Jesus, what are you doing? Cut it out!  That’s not going to happen, not to you.  We’re just getting started here.  We’ve got a great future ahead of us!  Don’t say stuff like that!  You're going to scare us off!  To which Jesus replies:

If any of you want to become my followers,
Let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.
For those who want to save their life will lose it,
And those who lose their life for my sake will save it.

Do you see now why that question is so incredibly important – who do you say that I am?  Do you see why it changes everything?

So now we are walking along with Jesus on the road.  And ultimately, what each one of us is looking for in this Jesus a depth of authenticity; one that sinks its roots deep into the “stuff” of life so that it's nurtured and withstands the coming storm.  But the thing is, you and I, we don't hand our lives over easily.  We don't transfer our allegiance on a whim.  If we're going to turn our lives over to someone, we've got to know, in the most intimate of ways, who that person is to us.  We've got to trust them and know the relationship is real.

That's a big question to ask.  But the even bigger question, the one that really matters, is the one Jesus doesn't ask but certainly implies: Now that we know who Jesus is, are we ready to follow him to the place where he is going?  Now that we know who Jesus is, are we ready to follow him to the place where he is going?  That's where the rubber meets the road on our walk of faith, doesn't it?  Because if following Jesus means we actually have to live it instead of just verbalizing it because it sounds nice to say; if following Jesus involves things like “taking up our cross” and “losing our life,” then we darn well better know who it is that's taking us there.

Are we willing to follow Jesus to the Sunday school classroom, where our children need us to share the story of our collective faith – are we?  Are we willing to follow Jesus up the street to a sister church where people's hungry stomachs are fed every Thursday night – are we?  Are we willing to follow Jesus to Mexico and the good works God is doing there, realizing that the fellowship of those who profess faith in Christ extends far beyond our borders – are we?  Are we willing to follow Jesus into the brokenness of human relationships, when it would be easier to just look the other way – are we?  Are we willing to follow Jesus on this journey of Lent we begin next week, as we look anew at our calling and commitment to God's mission here – are we?  Are we truly willing to follow Jesus where he is going?  Are we truly willing to look for the Messiah among us?

That idea of “looking for the Messiah among us” comes from a story about an European monastery that had fallen on hard times and was close to shutting its doors, with only five monks left.  One day the abbot went to seek advice from a wise old rabbi who lived in the woods.  His only suggestion: tell your brothers to look for the Messiah in your midst.  He shared this message with the others, and none of them knew what it meant.  There were too many chores to be done, too many concerns to keep the monastery breathing.  Still, they kept looking.

And over time, things changed.  Attitudes changes.  And most importantly, relationships changed.  The more the monks tried to look for the Messiah among them, the more they got to know their fellow brothers better.  They got to know more than just a name and a title.  And they came to see the others around them not just as companions in their journey of faith, but part of the journey itself.  And as all of this transpired, others started to notice.  Outsiders became insiders, bringing others along.  More monks came on board.  A mission with the local poor was started.  The monastery went from a place near death to a thriving, living entity.  All because they found the messiah in their midst and followed him wherever he went.

My friends, this is the kind of thing that happens when we go head-first into Jesus' question, and come out ready to follow him wherever he goes – even when we know where he's going.  This is what happens when, together, we allow authentic relationships of faith to nurture and thrive.   And as we begin the Lenten season next Sunday, I challenge you during your 40 days walking on the road with Jesus to ask yourself who Jesus is to you, and to follow him forever.  Who we say he is matters.  It always matters.  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)

THE RACE TO FINISH LAST

Mark 10: 35-45, 31
Steve Lindsley
February 8, 2009

It doesn't take long living in Mount Airy to recognize that we have a healthy cycling community in our midst – many of who are members of this church.  You see them gathering on weekday afternoons and on Sundays in the Moravian church parking lot.  Later on you see them riding along in groups out in the county somewhere, or even up Ward's Gap road to the Parkway.  I get tired just driving my car up that mountain; I can't imagine riding my bike up it!

Most of these folks are in it for the fun and the fellowship and to keep in shape, but there are a few hard-core cyclists in the mix – and they participate in a lot of races near and far.  I doubt, though, that they'd have any interest in a race I heard about a while back.  I can’t remember where it took place, but I do know it attracted participants from all over the world.  Cyclists donned the normal bicycles, helmets, and other necessary gear and lined up for the race.  But the normality ended there.  You see, it seems the goal of this particular race was to go as slow as possible.  Seriously.  The cyclist who finished last was the winner.  Contestants tried to go as slow as they could without falling off the bike or losing their balance. 

You know, I try to imagine this scene and it cracks me up every time.  Can you picture this?  A bunch of cyclists are standing out there before the race, all suited up, water bottles and energy bars in hand.  They're stretching out, shaking their legs; they've got their game face on.  They click their shoes into the pedals; they get the countdown and the gun goes off.  And the bikers............ease over the starting line, the tires barely rotating.  Fans are lining the streets, waving flags and cheering for the person at the back of the pack.  What kind of cheers do you cheer at this event, anyway?  “Come on, you can do better than that – slow down.”  “Keep it up – you don’t want to be first.” 

This race strikes us as odd because it's not what we expect in a competition of any kind, is it?  And in a larger sense this goes so much against what we've come to expect in our world today - the desire to be first.  You see it as early as childhood, when assembling a pick-up basketball team.  I know this feeling very well, let me tell you.  Muggsy Bogues and Spud Webb may have done a lot with basketball despite being “vertically challenged,” but I was not blessed with the same ability.  If the game was basketball I was guaranteed to be picked pretty close to the end of the line.  And believe me, I hated this.  Like all of us, I wanted to be first. 

The same can be said for the two brothers who make a particular request of Jesus in our scripture reading today.  James and John come to him and ask that they sit at his right and left hands - positions of power and prestige.  You figure this had to happen sometime!  The disciples saw Jesus as a man of amazing influence and potential power – he had a plan; a vision.  And they're thinking perhaps it'd be a good idea to get on his “good side,” kind of paving the way for returned favors down the road, if you know what I mean 

Two things stick out in my mind about this request.  First is how they ask for it.  They actually have the audacity to say,  We want you to do whatever we ask of you.  Something about saying that to Jesus just doesn't seem right, does it?  And then on top of that, look at what they're asking for.  I mean, really?  Even Jesus appears caught off-guard.   So the tendency when we read these verses is for us, the readers, to chuckle to ourselves and to look down despairingly on these silly brothers.  How dare they ask something like that!  we wonder to ourselves.  What were they thinking??

And yet it's funny, isn't it – because so often, perhaps more than we'd like to admit, the stories of people in the Bible are our stories as well.  Adam and Eve in the garden contending with that scrumptious-looking fruit is the story of us each and every single day.  Those Israelites wandering around in the desert for years and years trying to find their home – well, that kind of smacks of our spiritual journey too, doesn't it?  And how about those churches Paul wrote his letters to; churches who allowed little petty things to disrupt their fellowship as a community of faith – how dare they!
So really – we're not all that different from James and John, are we?  We know what it’s like to want to “climb the ladder” - in work, in school; in all we do, really.  We know what it's like to want to secure a position of influence for ourselves.  It comes down to this simple fact - no one wants to finish last.  No one wants to be left at the back of the pack.  That’s why the idea of a bike race where the last person wins is so strange to us - it’s not the way we operate in our culture. 

We’ve heard over and over again that verse we find in his passage: The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.  It's a great little line to throw around every now and then.   Well, that may be all well and good, but the truth of the matter is this: if you want to succeed in life – and most of us do – then the first are first.  And the last are most assuredly last.  And there's really no way around it.

Consider a few popular advertising slogans of our time:  No pain, no gain.  Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.  The one who dies with the most toys wins.  Consider the fact that no one remembers the student in their class who scored the second highest SAT grade, or the team who lost the World Series this past year, or the politician that our current governor defeated when she won the lieutenant governor's race eight years ago.  Just for the record, the baseball team was the Tampa Bay Rays and the politician was Betsy Cochrane.  You'd have to check with your old guidance counselor about the SAT guy.

And that's my point – we don't remember things like this very much.  So the question before us – and the issue Jesus faced with his disciples – revolves around what defines success, and more specifically, what the drive to win at all costs may actually cost us.  And that's something that a guy named Ralph knew very well.  Ralph's story is chronicled in a book titled The Men we Long to Be.  In the book, author Stephen Boyd tells the story of a group of men who gathered each week to talk about the difficulties and challenges of their respective lives.  One man in the group, Ralph, had been notoriously silent for most of the meetings.  And then one day, he broke that silence – and this is what he said:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

All my life I wanted to play baseball.  When I was a sophomore in high school I was pretty hot stuff, and my uncle told me, ‘Ralph, you might make it to the pros.  But only the best make good money for a long time.  If you really want to be good to yourself, get a good job - one you can depend on for life.’

I figured I’d ‘play the system,’ raise my grades, then when I got into college, I could do what I wanted after that.  I got into a top-notch university.  But it soon became clear that if I wanted to really stand out I should get into a good grad school or law school; and then, once I did that, I could do with my life what I wanted after that.

I decided I’d be a social work lawyer so I could make a real contribution to people who most needed it.  But I later realized that if I really wanted to be an effective social-work lawyer, I’d better get some experience in corporate law first - to get the respect I needed.  So I joined a top corporate law firm.  I knew I could work there for a couple of years and then really do what I wanted with my life after that.

After a couple of years, I realized that if I dropped out after two years it would be seen as a sign that I just couldn’t hack the pressure of corporate law.  If I continued for just a couple more years, I could be a junior partner - one with potential - then I could really do what I wanted with my life after that.

You see a pattern developing here?

It took seven years to get the junior partnership.  But by that time I had lost some of the desire to be a social-work lawyer - it was considered a step backward.  I also realized that the people with real ins in the legal community were the senior partners.  It took eight years of hard work, but I finally got it.

Ralph went on to describe how his success in the work field had cost him in his relationship with his wife and son.  Ralph withdrew from the group, and the group members noticed he was fighting back tears.  When asked what he was thinking, Ralph said this:

I feel like I spent forty years of my life working as hard as I can to become somebody I don’t even like.  What really gets me angry is that I did everything I was supposed to do for forty years, did it better than almost any other man I know, and I lost everything that was important to me in the process, including myself… (from The Men We Long To Be by Stephen Boyd, HarperSanFrancisco, 1995, pgs. 19-23)

A man who spent so much of his life trying to be “first” wound up, for him at least, being “last.”  Maybe Jesus was right.  Because what Jesus says to James and John, and then later to the rest of the disciples, radically alters our perception of what “first” and “last” is.  Ralph’s story, on one hand, shows us that one can wind up losing all they have in the race to finish first.  But Jesus’ example demonstrates the exact opposite - those who are “last” shall be first. 

You know, it’s always been kind of interesting to me – and perhaps you too – how we in modern times tend to mold Jesus into this rock star almost, like the popular kid in school or the successful quarterback on the football team.  We fail to recognize that Jesus – by society’s standards, by our standards – was anything but first.  He was born to a peasant family in a wooden shack.  He was a nomad, kicked out of his own hometown.  He hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes and made acquaintances with all kinds of folks on the fringes of society.

And yet, Jesus was first.  Not because he climbed any ladders, and not because he demonstrated a desire to succeed in the world.  Jesus was first because of his faithfulness to God and his willingness to endure the “cup” – and that cup led to his death on the cross.  And in doing so, the last was made first.  Death, seemingly an ending, was instead just the beginning of amazing things to come. 

I like the way one biblical commentator described this passage as the “Jesus model of success: The criterion for Jesus' leadership is not effectiveness (who gets the job done the quickest), but faithfulness (whether one has followed Jesus).  In other words, what defines success in God's order of things is not the one who races to the top or winds up winning the race.  In fact, in a way it's not about anything we do.  It’s about the kind of person we are, and how faithful we are to God’s calling in the community of faith.  

Now, let me clarify: I am not suggesting that it’s wrong to want to do well in school or work, or to be the best at something.  I think we can, and should, pursue excellence in everything we do.  But it just seems that what Jesus wants from James and John, from the disciples – and wants from you and me, really – is to always ask ourselves the question.  Is our drive to succeed motivated by a desire to come in first, to win at all costs?  Or is it motivated by a desire to be faithful to God's calling for your life, and God's calling for this family of faith?

Because when we ask ourselves that question, we're already demonstrating it.  And it can be a rather odd cycling race, or a man named Ralph whose life had passed him by, or a group of disciples trying to stake their positions around Jesus.  The first shall be last and the last shall be first.  The question we are asked is, where in the race are you?  Here's to those at the back of the pack.  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.