The Mayberry Preacher

AS THE TREMORS SHIFT MOUNTAINS

Psalm 46: 1-11; Philippians 4: 4-7
Steve Lindsley
April 21, 2013

Listen to Sermon

I’m going to level with you this morning, folks: today’s sermon just may be the most honest sermon I’ve ever preached from this pulpit.  And that’s not to say that all my other sermons have been “dishonest” or that I haven’t been truthful.  What I mean is that I’m coming at today’s sermon from a different place than I usually do.  I had a seminary professor who told us that we should write sermons with a balance between the head and the heart – not too intellectual, but not overly emotional either.  And so for the past sixteen years I’ve pretty much taken that advice and have tried to be balanced in my preaching.

But I need to let you know this morning that you are going to get an unbalanced sermon today, because this one is coming almost exclusively from the heart – from my gut, really.  That’s where I feel I’ve been for most of the past week, since Monday afternoon.  I was actually working on one of those nice balanced sermons, one you’ll eventually get to hear, I’m sure.

And then I heard the news.  It popped up in my Twitter feed first: the Boston Marathon.  An explosion.  No wait, two.  Right at the finish line.  I went online and watched the video footage once, twice, three, four, more times.  So many times that, within an hour, I was able to play it out in my mind without looking at the screen: the runners running along, the finish line in sight, a gorgeous Monday afternoon in a great American downtown city.  And then BOOM, and runners instinctively veering in the opposite direction; one runner crumpling to the ground under the shockwave.  Smoke billowing up in the air.  Sirens and screams.

I went to Ridgecrest that night for my monthly dinner with the Presbyterian saints there – we talked about it some, but details were still scarce.  When I got home, there was more coming from the TV.  Scores had been injured, my wife told me, and two were dead – one of which was an eight-year old boy.  I looked over to the couch at my eight-year old boy, and you know what I felt?  Anger.  I was angry.  Still am.

And it’s not just the senseless death of innocent people, and our children, that I’m angry about.  It’s the foreboding familiarity of it all. I’m tired of this ritual our society seems to be engaging in more and more these days: the sudden, out-of-nowhere "breaking news," the multi-tasking of watching cable news and scanning websites, trying to piece together a puzzle whose final picture we already know we will not want to see; the increasing injury and death counts, the names and pictures and faces and personal stories of lives ended, the revelation of the perpetrators’ identity and how quickly their story overshadows the others; the conclusion-jumping some engage in when that person’s name is hard to pronounce or when they subscribe to a different religion than ours (as if no one in the history of Christianity has ever done anything horrible), and the inevitable movie/music star benefit concert televised live on a Friday night with the 888 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen. 

I'm tired of the ritual of having one more location stripped of its innocence, a mental checklist we keep and remember: elementary schools, movie theaters, houses of worship, college campuses, summer youth camps, and now marathon finish lines.  I'm tired of the thought that eventually settles in my head, after the initial shock wears off when I momentarily pull my thoughts away from the television screen and the websites: the thought, Here we go again.  It is a ritual I hate and despise; and because it’s feeling more and more familiar, I hate it even more.

What can I say – I told you this sermon was coming from the gut.

So here we are yet again, First Presbyterian: proclaimers of the “Good News,” slapped in the face with “Breaking News.”  Here we are, yet again – people of Easter’s new life facing horrific tragedy and death.  Here we are, yet again – awash in a sea of anger and fear and vulnerability that always gets stirred up by random and senseless acts of violence.

And I so wish I could share with you some magic formula that takes the world’s chaos and strings it all together in a way that makes perfect sense.  But that magic formula does not exist.  I wish I could tell you with 100% certainty that everything will be okay and a tragedy like this will never happen again. But I care too much about you as your pastor to give you that false sense of hope.  If being authentic in our Christian faith means being authentic in how we live our lives, we have to face the fact that, first and foremost, there is no easy answer to this kind of madness, and that asking the “why” questions will get us nowhere fast. 

No, our job as followers of Jesus is to lift our collective voices to the God who never stops hearing us, no matter how loud the bombs blast.  And if there’s any place in our ritual of faith where the people’s voice is lifted to God the most, it is in the Psalms.  All voices of the people – sometimes sung, sometimes whispered, sometimes cried, sometimes screamed.  All voices.  We look here, and the scripture that Nelson read earlier:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.

Right off the bat, we get the sense that this is the voice of someone in distress, do we not?  Someone awash in uncertainty and fear, clinging to God amidst the chaos.  Someone like us.  I actually prefer the way The Message translation renders those last two verses.  Listen:

We stand fearless at the cliff-edge of doom,
courageous in seastorm and earthquake,
Before the rush and roar of oceans,
the tremors that shift mountains.

Isn’t that what this past week has felt like – “the tremors that shift mountains?”  Tremors that shake us much deeper than bomb blasts and shockwaves ever could.  Tremors that shake our very soul, and remind us that we live in a world of both light and darkness; and that every now and then the darkness rears its ugly head in such grotesque fashion that, if we’re not careful, it consumes us through our fears and our vulnerability and our anger.  That same anger I was feeling so acutely Monday night.

Paul Rauschenbusch, a religious writer and blogger, had something interesting to say about that anger, by the way.  He said that being angry in light of the Boston Marathon bombings is not necessarily a bad thing, as long as it’s the right kind of anger.  There is what he calls “demonic anger,” which he describes as “…a fury that takes over or possesses us; demanding a clear target no matter how blunt or unrelated, and compels a fulfillment of our anger.”  The problem with demonic anger, Rauschenbusch says, is that it never can be fulfilled.  There is no end to it.  When demonic anger has conquered our heart, it has completed its mission.

But there is another anger we can choose – what he calls “holy anger.”  As he puts it,

(Holy anger) means taking time to stop, to pray, to meditate, to ask for wisdom and to not let my anger take over my heart, head and spirit. (Holy anger means) supporting the first responders and those investigating the crime; praying for those who suffer and if necessary offer financial support. And when we know more, supporting the effort to bring justice for those who perpetrated this horrible crime. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paul-raushenbush/responding-to-boston anger_b_3092758.html?utm_hp_ref=religion&ncid=edlinkusaolp00000008, visited on 4.16.2013)

So when the tremors shift mountains, when we are rocked to our core with the worst kind of tragedy – yet again – we as people of faith can respond faithfully with holy anger. 

We can also respond with something else, according to the apostle Paul – a man who penned words we heard earlier; words penned while he was incarcerated in prison:

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!
Let your gentleness be known to everyone.
And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Now how was it, that during that darkest time of his life, Paul was still able to say “rejoice”?  How does someone do that? 

I remember something a pastor friend of mine shared in a sermon she preached the Sunday after the Newtown shootings; about a member of her former church.  His name was Wassim.  She described Wassim as “one of those irritatingly happy people, kind of like a human smurf.”  She talked about he would go around saying to people, Rejoice in the Lord, always! - even when the circumstances didn’t always merit it.   “To be completely honest,” she said, “it kind of annoyed me.” (from “Rejoice In The Lord. Always?”, a sermon by Meghan Davis)

Over time, though she learned about Wassim’s story – how as a Lebanese man he had lived in Beirut during the years of brutal civil war and the Israeli invasion. She found out that Wassim was a hostage survivor and had seen some of the worst that human beings could do to one another, when the darkness is at its darkest.  And it was then she realized that “Rejoice in the Lord always” was not a pithy catch-phrase for Wassim.  It was his statement of faith!  It was his life’s mantra!  It was rejoicing that got Wassim through all those horrible years; and it was rejoicing that helped him understand for the rest of his life the crucial difference between happiness and joy.  Happiness, my pastor friend said, is something outside of ourselves that, as our Declaration of Independence reminds us, we pursue.  Happiness is circumstantial.  Lots of things can make us happy: chocolate, a pedicure, a sunny Saturday on the golf course.  And lots of things can take that happiness away, too.

But joy – the joy that Paul speaks about to those Philippian Christians and to us – joy runs much, much deeper.  Joy is not “out there” – it resides here, in the heart and in the soul.  And it is not circumstantial.  Joy cannot be imprisoned or held captive or blown up or shot to death. 

You know how we respond as people of faith to the Boston bombings and the Newtown shootings and every other tragedy that has happened and has yet to happen?  We respond with heartfelt prayer.  We respond with holy anger.  We respond with assistance, if the situation merits.  And we respond by countering the ritual of our fear-based “Breaking News” culture with the rituals of daily, joy-filled living.  So we go to work and school.  We run marathons.  We fly in airplanes.  We live on college campuses.  We gather in churches.  We never succumb to fear and we live in joy!  Because no matter how dark the world may get, there is always light shining in it.  Shining in and revealing the darkness for what it is: powerless over us, cowardly in the face of truth, weak in the presence of God’s mighty and everlasting love.

This is a giant planet, someone wrote this past Monday, and we're lucky to live on it, but there’s a price we pay for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is that, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness. 

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak.

So when you see violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.”  (http://www.wxii12.com/news/project-economy/technology/Patton-Oswalt-s-post-about-Boston-attacks-goes-viral/-/9677548/19769514/-/12lh00kz/-/index.html#ixzz2Qdu8kLeJ, visited 4.16.2013)

Beautiful, isn’t it?  Who do you think penned those awesome words – a noted theologian?  A great statesman?  No, it was Patton Oswalt, a Bostonian comedian and actor, best known perhaps as the voice of “Remy the Rat” in the animated movie Ratatouille. 

The heart of the gospel message in trying times, from the voice of a rat – how about that!  How about that indeed. My dear, dear friends, never forget that you are the light of Jesus’ love, shining in the darkness.  You are the light.  And the darkness – no matter how dark it may get – the darkness will never overcome you.  So do not fear.  Rejoice and live in the light.  Live in joy!  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

TO EACH IS GIVEN: THE GIFT OF KNOWING WHAT TO DO

Judges 6: 36-40; Philippians 1: 3-11
Steve Lindsley
February 21, 2010


Last week, in our first sermon of the Lenten season, we talked about Paul's powerful words to the Corinthian church: To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.  We noted his important distinction: to each is given.  And we pondered the idea, instead of giving up something for Lent, of “taking something on.”

It's been interesting hearing some of you respond to that last claim in the week since.  One individual came up to me and voiced what I imagine is going through the minds of many of you: I'm fine with giving up giving up stuff for Lent, they said.  But what is it exactly that I'm supposed to take on?  And that's the question now, isn't it?  What is it we are called to do; what gifts do we possess that can be put to use in the life of the church?  This is not necessarily an easy question, is it?  Because it is a question of discernment; a question of calling.

Which is why one of our scripture readings today chronicles perhaps the Bible's most blatant, over-the-top instance of discerning one's call.  It involves Gideon, a judge God has raised to help Israel defeat the Midianites.  Keep in mind all of this is happening prior to King David and the monarchy, when Israel’s power and prestige were at their peak.  It wasn’t long before that God had led God’s people out of bondage in Egypt and through the wilderness for 40 years to the Promised Land.  And now, in their new home, they were constantly fending off attacks from other nations with the help of divinely-appointed military leaders known as “judges.”

Now some would think that being appointed by God would be enough for Gideon to know he was taking on the right thing.  Some would surmise that being called for divine service was all that was needed to convince him that he was fit for the job and equipped to take on whatever God asked.  But apparently that wasn't the case.  Even though God has all but guaranteed Gideon victory in battle, he still needed to know for sure.  He needed a sign. 

So before going to bed one night, Gideon “lays a fleece before the Lord” – literally.  A small piece of lambs wool, laid on the stone floor.  And a test attached to that wool – that if he wakes to find the wool wet and the surrounding floor dry, he will know that God is behind him 100%.  Night falls and dawn arrives, and Gideon wakes to find the scene just as he requested – the wool damp with moisture and the floor around it dry as a bone.

For whatever reason, though, Gideon is still not convinced.  Enthused, probably.  Confident, a little.  But not convinced.  Maybe he surmises that it’s not stretching the laws of nature all that much to expect early morning dew to collect on the wool and not on the stone floor.  Or maybe he just needs one more sign, one more nod in his direction to be sure, to be completely convinced that God’s path for him was true. 

So almost apologetically Gideon asks for a second sign – this time the reverse, a damp floor and dry wool at dawn’s light.  Which is exactly what he discovers the next day.  And apparently that's enough.  Gideon goes on to defeat the huge Midianite army with just 300 Israelites and assures himself not only a place in Hebrew history, but Hebrew lore – as the man who put God to the test with a piece of wool.  Twice.

You know, I'm torn by this story – torn in the sense that I wrestle with what to do with it.  Part of me really likes the clarity of it all – the clean-cutness, plain and simple; the fact that there is no middle ground, no gray areas.  Twice, Gideon has confirmed for him his calling, in dramatic fashion that even the most seasoned skeptic can't deny.

I like it when life works like that, don't you?  I like it when decisions I face are obvious; where doubt is minimal.  I like it when I wake up in the morning and just somehow know that I am meant to have Corn Flakes for breakfast instead of Cheerios.  I like it when something inside of me is fully convinced that I am to work on my sermon in the morning and go visit at the hospital in the afternoon, and not the other way around.  Gideon's story celebrates this sort of picture-perfect clarity in our lives, and when it happens like that, it's a great thing!

That's what one part of feels.  The other part, though, can't help but feel a little cheated by Gideon and his fleece trick – if not downright resentful of it.  Because the fact of the matter is that life rarely happens like that.  Sure, there are times when the planets align and the fleece comes out the way it needs to, and we have the clarification, the discernment we need.

But what happens when we wake up the next morning and check out our fleece, laid out all nice and neat on the threshing floor, and find that it's not soaking wet like we asked?  Or, better yet, what if we find that both the fleece and the floor are equally damp, or equally dry – what's that telling us?  So much of life is lived like this, in that nebulous “middle space,” in the places where the right solution or answer or choice isn't always obvious.  And that's when living our lives as people of faith can get kind of tricky.

A relationship with a good friend is on the rocks and we're struggling with what to do.  One day on a talk show we see an author interviewed who has just written a book about healing wounded friendships.  Is this a sign that God wants us to make our amends?  Or is it just coincidence?

We are summoned to the manager's office, and we know what's coming.  Word had been getting around all week.  And so, later, as we pack up our belongings, we have no clue what tomorrow will bring, or the day after that, or the day after that.  It would be so much easier if we had been able to call this shot ourselves – we could've made other plans, pursued other opportunities.  But now the rug has been pulled out from under us, so what do we do next?

Three colleges have sent us acceptance letters.  Each has their own merits and their own hangups.  There's not one factor tilting the scale in any particular direction – we wish there were!  We really can see ourselves at any of the three, but the bottom line is that we can only go to one.  Which one?

These kinds of things are the real stuff of life, stuff people are dealing with right now, dealing with all the time.  And I struggle with how to reconcile Gideon's story with scenarios like this.  How do we know what to do?  And not just in life in general, but specifically in our calling to the church.  I mean, To Each Is Given sounds nice, Mr. Paul, but it still begs the question: what is given??  What are our gifts and abilities?  And how do we go about finding them out? 

How indeed.  I imagine Paul was wondering the same thing, actually.  But not the Paul we met last week, writing to a Corinthian church who was letting their God-given gifts get in the way.  I'm talking about the Paul in our reading today, writing to the church in Philippi.  Earlier, Jane read the opening verses; a rather compassionate and heart-felt greeting to the congregation.  It concluded with this:

And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more
with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best,
so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless,
having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes
through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.

Now there's something we should know about this letter, something more than just the words that are being said.  It's the man behind the words – Paul actually wrote this letter while he was in prison, cast away there because of his work in ministry.  Throughout the letter we get the sense that Paul is honestly not sure what's going to happen – how long he'll be there, or if he'll ever get out at all.  For Paul this is a telling moment: even as he is uncertain about his own future, he pleads with the Christians in Philippi to be confident in what they are called to do; to have faith in their community, to still believe. 

Because that’s what it all boils down to, doesn't it – believing?  Believing in God, believing in ourselves?  Believing that you and I are part of something bigger than us, something beyond our capacity to understand; and that we each can play a part in that “something,” if we have faith, if we can just see a sign, if we just believe….

Did you ever see that Sunday morning cartoon with the two fleas?  It's two fleas  amidst a forest of animal fur; each hair follicle reaching high up above the tiny insects like trees.  And with a whimsical look on its face, one flea turns to the other and says, You know, sometimes I wonder if there really is a dog.  What makes the joke funny, of course, is that even as this tiny creature is able to question its place in the universe, it is completely and hopelessly immersed in that which it questions.  Doubts and uncertainties are real, but they cannot change in the least what is already there.

Author Kathleen Norris once made the observation that the Greek root of the word “believe” literally means “to give one’s heart to.”  This would become an important truth in her own life.  As a younger woman Norris challenged furiously her Christian upbringing and was consumed by doubts – doubts, she might say, were what she had given her heart to.   So she visited a Benedictine abbey and openly shared her intellectual frustrations.  And she discovered, much to her surprise, that the monks were less concerned with trying to eliminate her doubts and more interested in encouraging her to embrace and celebrate them.  Because, as one monk put it, “doubt is merely the seed of faith, a sign than faith is alive and ready to grow.”

Isn’t that interesting?  Makes me wonder if Gideon's fleece thing wasn't what I've always thought it was – a silly little game with God – but more of a demonstration of tremendous faith, even as he was unsure what to do?  You and I try out best to follow what we perceive to be God’s will for our lives.  Sometimes it's obvious.  Other times it's not; a mass of gray rather than the black and white we’d prefer.  And we want to be sure that we do the right thing; that we make the right choices.  We want to know for certain that we’re “going with God.”

Sometimes, though, I have to wonder if what really matters – and what the fleece really teaches us – is that God isn’t as concerned about the direction we go in as much as that we invite God to go with us wherever we go.  That our task is not to figure out the minutiae and try to align ourselves with some huge “plan” God has us, but that we embrace God and invite God on the journey with us. 

So we invite God to go with us to the places where we find ourselves; the myriad of changes life throws at us.  Like Gideon, we invite God to go into battle with us, uncertain as we are about the outcome.  Like Paul we invite God to come with us to the places we're not sure we'll ever get out of. 

And all the while we listen for God's leading – not just at certain times, but all the time.  And not just that “still small voice” within us.  We listen to God speaking through the voices of others in the community of faith; the things they see in us that we may not see ourselves.  And when others voice what they see in us – You'd be an excellent Sunday School teacher, would you consider having your name put in nomination to be an elder, can you help out with Friends Feeding Friends this week – when we hear God's voice this way, we don't immediately write it off.  We have faith that what others see in us may very well be what God sees in us too.

Because ultimately, I figure, that's all Gideon wanted.  That's all Paul wanted.  That's all each one of us wants on this windy journey of faith.  We look.   We listen.  We discern.  And we go.  We may be surprised with what we see and hear and where we wind up.  We may be surprised.  I can pretty much promise you, though, that God won't be.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.