Up and away?

While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.

Many of you may have seen depictions of the Ascension – on a trip to the art museum, or in a stained glass window in a church. Most of them show Jesus floating upward in flowing robes, clouds around his feet, while the disciples look up, their faces expressing the whole range of emotions from wide-eyed wonder to the primal fear of abandonment. In one painting dating to the beginning of the 16^th century, the body of Jesus has all but disappeared, and we only see his feet, still bearing the marks of his crucifixion, and the hem of his robe. It looks like his toes would disappear any moment now, and then the disciples would be on their own again.

All the stories in the gospel that tell about encounters between the disciples and the Risen One reflect experiences of absence and sudden presence, of Jesus appearing and disappearing, of almost familiar physicality and a kind of bodily presence that you can’t quite put your finger on. Luke is very clear that coming to know Jesus as risen is not a simple matter of seeing, but of learning to see and struggling to understand. You could say that the fact that we celebrate seven Sundays of Easter, reflects this process: the resurrection of Christ is the truth that challenges our ways of seeing and thinking and knowing; it is a reality we cannot grasp, but are nevertheless invited to enter. And as the new reality takes time to sink in, we take time to enter it – not all at once, but Sunday by Sunday.

In the final lines of Luke’s narrative, the disciples are together, talking about their first encounters with the risen Jesus, when suddenly he stands among them. They are startled and terrified, some are convinced they are seeing a ghost – but a ghost doesn’t eat, and Jesus asks for something to eat and they give him a piece of broiled fish and watch him chew and swallow it.

Coming to know Jesus as risen is an emotional and intellectual roller coaster – fear and trembling one moment, joy and wonder the next; the finality of death one moment, the power of God to raise the dead the next. Too much to take in all at once. Who knows what all this means? Who knows how we can know?

In Luke’s story, Jesus himself told the disciples, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you, that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” While I was still with you, he said, acknowledging that this new way of being with them was very different, not at all like it used to be.

Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures. Their minds needed opening, it wasn’t a simple matter of reading the right texts. And it wasn’t some teacher who helped them connect the dots or discover new meaning in ancient prophecies, it was Jesus himself, moving between absence and presence like there was no boundary between the two. And when the disciples had learned to see and read and understand in new ways, they received his commission to live as witnesses, and to proclaim the good news of repentance and forgiveness of sins to all, beginning from Jerusalem.

Stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from high.

What we call the ascension is the conclusion of Jesus’ earthly ministry and the bridge to a new way for disciples, including you and me, to follow and know Jesus.  I love that there are so many stories that reflect the disciples’ confusion and struggle, because that makes room for our own sense of ambiguity and for hope during times when our own certainties are in question. In recent years, I’ve started comparing this with wearing glasses.

I used to be able to pick up any book and read it – in bed, on the couch, at my desk, it didn’t matter – and then, about three years ago, things began to become blurry. I had to put a bit more distance between my eyes and the text to see more than just fuzzy lines of grey. Now I can still read road signs two blocks away, but I can’t see what’s on the menu without glasses. “Nothing that being under 45 wouldn’t fix,” the optometrist said when I asked him what was wrong with my eyes. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was the end of how I used to live in the world.

When Jesus, in a complete collapse of justice, died on the cross, the whole world became blurry for those who followed him. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing fit together, unless they were willing to surrender to the notion that injustice, betrayal and violence, rather than love and forgiveness defined human existence. And then things became even blurrier when they heard talk of resurrection, and the fuzzy reality didn’t come into focus until the risen Christ put a new set of lenses in front of their eyes. The resurrection of Jesus changed everything, and they needed new ways of looking at the world in order to see clearly. Once they saw, they knew what to do: they would continue to follow Christ, proclaiming repentance and the forgiveness of sins in his name, clothed with power from on high.

Ascension is the hinge moment between Jesus’ resurrection and the mission of the church. Jesus withdraws and is carried up into heaven, but now it’s no longer a moment of loss and anguish, but of joy: Christ’s relationship with those who follow him is no longer restricted by the boundaries of time and space. Christ is now available to all people, all of the time through the work of the Holy Spirit.

Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy!

These are the opening words of Psalm 47, the psalm assigned for the celebration of the Ascension.

God has gone up with a shout, the Lord with the sound of a trumpet. Sing praises to God, sing praises!

You watch Jesus’ feet slipping out of sight, and you may want to say, “Wait a minute – we are shoveling mud out of our homes, and God has gone up?”

We are anxiously watching the beaches and marshes of the gulf coast, worried about the destruction the oil spill will cause, and God has gone up? With a shout? We can’t carry a bottle of shampoo on an airplane for fear of bombs, and God has gone up, with the sound of a trumpet? We are up to our knees in the messiness of the world, and God has gone up? Up and away? Away from the refugee camps in Sudan and the villages of Eastern Congo? Away from the the tent cities in Haiti and Nashville? Away from the gutted homes in over forty counties in Tennessee, and away from the path of death and destruction left by tornadoes in Oklahoma? Away from the violent clashes between religious and ethnic groups, away from the dead ends of our politics? Away from us? Christ is risen and gone to heaven and we have been abandoned at last, left to our own devices, up to our knees in this earthly mess.

Everything’s blurry, fuzzy, foggy – until we look at it through the lens of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus has gone up, not away. Jesus has gone up to a place of powerful presence, not away. Our true hope in the messiness of life is that Jesus has gone up, not away. Jesus has gone up, bearing in his body the marks of human sin and human suffering. Jesus has gone up, bearing our deepest brokenness and taking it into the very heart of God.

The disciples returned to Jerusalem with great joy because Jesus has gone up, not away. He is present with us and with all, and the work of redemption continues: The proclamation of repentance and the forgiveness of sins continues in the power of the Spirit. The work of compassion and service continues in the power of the Spirit. The work of peacemaking and imagining life in fullness for all continues in the power of the Spirit.

We live up to our knees in the messiness of the world, and we all seek a way through. When we feel helpless and threatened, we are tempted to try and do anything, just to do something. But the word of the risen Christ is clear:

Stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.

Stay until you have been clothed with the power that inspired and empowered my work. Stay until my going up has been made complete in the powerful coming down of the Spirit. Don’t rush, but learn to rest in the movement of God in the world – for even now, in this time of deep anxiety, God is moving the whole creation toward redemption and fulfillment.

The movement of God is not away from the world, but ever closer to the world and deeper into its brokenness and pain in order to transform and heal it. Christ carries in his body the marks of our sin and the pain of creation, and he carries them into the heart of God, where brokenness is healed and forgiven, and life is renewed.

And out of the heart of God flows the Spirit like a healing river to inspire and empower us to participate in the movement of God in the world, healing, forgiving, reconciling, and serving in Christ’s name.

A letter to my mom

Dear Mama,

You sounded worried when you called. You had seen the pictures on the evening news, pictures of a city under water, and you didn’t know if we had just moved to a new house only to watch it disappear in a flood.

You sounded worried and I was happy to assure you that we were all OK. I didn’t have time to chat, though, as we usually do. We were still trying to get updates about all our members and their families, about friends and neighbors, while working long hours to get the water out of the church basement and fellowship hall.

Imagine how many mothers were worried – the ones with small children to take care of, who had to leave their homes just to keep them safe, and the ones living in another part of town, or out of town, who kept trying to call and the phones didn’t work.

Charlie and Sylvia just had their first child back in March, and their home, their first home, had five feet of water in it – that’s more than one-and-a-half meter. They lost everything, furniture, clothes, car, guitars, everything, even the pictures from their wedding and from the trip they took last year on their first anniversary. They weren’t at home when the waters rose, and when they were finally able to get to their house, they were shocked, but opening the front door, they found their dog alive and well, sitting on its favorite spot on the soggy, muddy couch, and they were just happy to see it.

Juan and Lauren had just moved to Nashville from New Jersey to make a fresh start. They lived in a trailer, rent to own, and they worked hard to save some money; they want to get married in June. When the water began to rise, they only had seconds to grab their dog and the cat and get in the car. They escaped with nothing but the clothes on their backs – everything else, gone.

There are hundreds, thousands of stories like these, stories of belongings buried in mud and memories washed away, stories of escape and loss, and stories of death. There was this elderly couple on their way to church early on Sunday morning in Belle Meade. Perhaps they didn’t realize how deep the water was on the road, and how treacherous the current. They tried and managed to get out of the car, but they didn’t have the strength to make it to higher ground; they both drowned. The one comfort I find in that story is that they died together – that’s what I would want, I think, if I had a choice. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but being the surviving spouse in such tragic circumstances seems unbearable to me.

And there’s another story, one that will be told for years. It’s a story with hundreds and thousands of chapters. It’s the story of this wonderful city and the people who call it home. It’s the story of bass boats and canoes turned into rescue vessels, of neighbors carrying neighbors on their backs across roads turned into rivers, of strangers risking their lives to pull strangers from cars trapped in the current. It’s the story of families opening their homes so their neighbors could spend the night in safety and enjoy the small comforts of a hot meal shared around a table. It’s the story of women, men, and children helping their neighbors carry their belongings to the curb, and rip out wet carpet, sheet rock, and insulation.

Dear Mama, you taught us that it’s hard to tell what exactly the church is, but that we would love being part of it when it happens. I can tell you, church has been happening in Nashville big time these past few days. The gospel wasn’t preached from pulpits (and God knows, there are plenty of pulpits in Nashville), but embodied in places of need.

I can almost see you sitting at the dining room table, reading this and nodding. We can talk all we want, but the gospel needs hands and feet to be known. Hands with gloves, hands holding shovels and hammers, hands giving a cup of cold lemonade and a sandwich to tired workers, arms hugging the brokenhearted, feet wading through water and mud, faces unafraid to cry and smile.

Dear Mama, I don’t know what it’s like to be a mother, but I know what it means to me to have you as mine. You have taught your children well. You have taught us that life flourishes when we share it, and that God desires for all life to flourish.

Nashville is on the Cumberland River, and the river is a stream of blessing for the city. In just three days, though, after rains that broke every record, the river and its many tributaries, every creek, brook, and ditch, flooded and brought devastation and suffering to our community.  

The Cumberland has crested, the waters are receding, and in many places the destruction is only now becoming visible. But there is another river flowing through this city. It is a mighty river, deep and wide, its waters clear as crystal, its currents gentle and still: it’s a river of compassion and generosity, a river of neighborliness and of healing mercy, a river inspiring service, prayers, and new songs. May its waters continue to rise, and may it wash the muddy places and heal the broken hearts. God is in the midst of the city.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love, thomas

God is in the midst of the city

God is in the midst of the city. The line is from Psalm 46.

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.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy habitation of the Most High.
God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved;
God will help it when the morning dawns.

photo by Jesse KimballThe Cumberland River is a river of blessing for the city of Nashville, but in the last few days it has brought devastation and loss. The Cumberland and its many smaller tributaries, every river, brook, and creek, bring gladness to our city, but in the last few days they brought fear and suffering.

The Cumberland has crested, and the waters are receding, and in many places the destruction is only now becoming visible. But there is another river flowing through this city: it's a river of healing mercy, a river of neighborliness, a river of compassion and generosity, a river inspiring service, prayers, and songs. May its waters continue to rise, and may it wash the muddy places and heal the broken hearts.

God is in the midst of the city.

Hands on Nashville - volunteer coordination

Community Foundation of Middle Tennessee - donations for flood relief

Will you be a part of the river?

Little Words of Power

Little words of power, you know them. Words like please (there’s a reason that parents and teachers refer to it as the magic word), or no (a small child’s discovery of self-assertion infuses this little word with considerable physical and emotional energy), or yes (it opens arms and doors). Nothing, however, is more powerful than why – since every why begets another why.

Moms and dads (and children) know that sometimes the only way to stop the next why from popping up like the next pearl on an endless string is the ancient parental reply, “Because I said so.”

Quite often the only good response to why is, “I don’t know,” and occasionally the best reply is to hand it back, “Good question. What do you think the answer might be?”

Why quickly takes us to the heart of things. Why is the sky blue? Why do the stars only shine at night? Why does skin get wrinkly?

And why takes us to the places where we find ourselves completely surrounded by deep mystery. Why do some people suffer more than others? Why does love end? Why is there something rather than nothing?

A couple of weeks ago, one of our children raised a beautiful question in Sunday school, “Why did God make us?”

What do you think? Is it because God loves stories? Is it because God needs company? Is it because people are more interesting than other creatures? Are we? Is it because God delights in creatures that ask questions?

Sometime this summer, I will preach a sermon in response to this fine question. I decided to do that the moment Sarah Ligon told me how the question emerged in her group of children one Sunday morning. Later I wondered if there were other questions that hang around the corners of the hallways, waiting to be asked.

Do you have a question you would like me to address one Sunday morning? Would you share it with me? We may have a lovely little series of sermons triggered by when, why, what, who, where and how. Please send me an email or simply leave a comment below, will you?

Worship - another conversation

The worship task group met again on April 15, and this time we discussed a proposal for an order of worship for our 10:45am Sunday worship service.

This proposal is based on maintaining the current overall structure (gathering, listening, giving thanks, and being sent), while improving flow and disrupting patterns of "too much predictability."

We recommend that the Passing of the Peace be replaced with an informal greeting at the very beginning of the service.

The Scripture reading that informs the Children's Conversation should actually take place while all children are in the sanctuary. When appropriate, a very accessible translation (other than the standard NRSV) can be used or storytelling can take the place of the reading.

We encourage the formation of a diverse group of lectors, i.e. people who lead prayers and responses, read scripture, etc. The members of this open group love participating in worship leadership, they are willing to develop their skills, and they understand the importance of practice. We believe that a web page with simple instructions, e.g. for how to introduce a scripture reading or how long to pause between two readings, would also be helpful.

We strongly recommend that Ministerial Interns participate in all aspects of worship leadership.

Diverse musical styles should be included in every worship service, and "special music" like harp, flute, guitar, violin, viola, trumpet, etc. should continue to move from "only occasionally" to "just about every Sunday." Selection of music, songs, and hymns, as well as their place in the service must always follow the overall theme or design of the service rather than random patterns.

Several members of the group commented on the section headers (The People Gather, The People Listen, etc) as being more engaging and action-oriented than the current ones.

After our conversation, the emerging proposal looked only slightly different, but the comments and recommendations are essential pieces of whatever may become final.

At our next meeting, we will discuss the current Sunday morning schedule.

Facebook

The Vine Street page on Facebook had 463 visitors last week, and we have 125 fans. That's pretty cool, isn't it?

After Easter

What are we going to do now? Now that we have journeyed through Lent, marked the days of Holy Week, reached the glorious summit of Easter morning – what are we going to do?

Some will say, thank goodness, baseball season has started, or I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Others will say, thank goodness, the rummage sale is coming up, it’s time to get all the stuff down from the attic and up from the basement and over to church. Again others already have plenty of dirt under their nails from preparing the garden, and all they are waiting for is overnight temperatures remaining in the 50’s so they can get their tomatoes in the ground.

With Easter behind us, what are we going to do now? I briefly considered as a topic for this sermon settling once and for all the profound question of how the Easter bunny got into Easter, and if said bunny is a rabbit or indeed a hare, but then, thank goodness, I remembered that Easter is more than an annual spring holiday. Easter is a festival of praise and joy, proclaiming the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, and the beginning of nothing less than a new creation.

So the question we must consider today, and in fact every day, is, “Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, what are we going to do?” Or with a slightly different angle, “Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, who are we going to be?” How will tomorrow be different from that dark Friday?

I’ll tell us a story that begins with the high priest.

The high priest slept well on Friday. Jerusalem was quiet again, after the many disruptions this Jesus had brought to the city and the temple. Now he was dead and buried, and the high priest wouldn’t have hesitated to call it a peaceful night.

The high priest slept well on Saturday. The Roman authorities had taken care of Jesus, and Jerusalem was quiet again. The unrest this Jesus had created in the city – it could have become a major crisis, especially during the holidays. Any kind of disturbance of the status quo bothered Rome – but now things were under control. The high priest was proud of himself – he had nipped the problem in the bud. He was done with Jesus, done with civil unrest and with excited crowds, Jerusalem was quiet again. The holy temple would once again be a place for orderly worship and proper sacrifices, with the established hierarchy in place to protect and preserve the sacred tradition.

The high priest slept well – until Sunday. On Sunday he began hearing reports of disturbing rumors; a handful of men and women, most of them, no doubt, Galileans, were making claims that they had seen Jesus, that he was indeed alive because God had raised him from the dead.

“Hello, insomnia,” the high-priest said to himself, “Rome will not be pleased.”

Very soon, he heard reports that Peter and John were in the temple just about every day, teaching people and healing the sick, and attracting large crowds. People were gathering not just from the city but even from the surrounding towns, bringing the sick and those tormented by demons, and they were all cured.

In the book of Acts, the church is presented as a movement of fearless witnesses whose presence and proclamation bring wholeness to the city; a movement that inevitably collides with settled authority in much the same way Jesus did. No wonder, the high priest was nervous; settled institutions – be they religious, political, or economic – settled institutions have a deep interest in keeping things as they are. Which means that any change, any transformation must only occur on their terms and under their control. Peter, John, and Mary and their companions didn’t meet those requirements; they acted with a different kind of authority.

Soon the temple leadership – chief priests, rulers, elders, scribes – assembled to discuss the matter with one another: “What will we do with them?” They called Peter and John, ordered them not to speak or teach at all in the name of Jesus, and released them.

Peter and John went to their friends, and they talked about what had happened at the council meeting. And then they prayed, “Lord, look at their threats, and grant your servants to speak your word with all boldness, while you stretch out your hand to heal, and signs and wonders are performed through the name of your holy servant Jesus.”

They prayed for courage to speak and act in the name of Jesus, and their prayers were answered. Their boldness gave the high priest a headache, and after yet another sleepless night he took action. This Jesus thing had to stop, whatever the cost. And so he had the apostles arrested and shut up in prison.

He slept well that night. But while he was dreaming of taking back control of the temple and the city, and of all that is and was and is to be, an angel of the Lord opened the prison doors, and before daybreak, the good news of Jesus’ resurrection was again being proclaimed in the temple and the streets of Jerusalem.

Again the high priest had them brought in and stand before the council for questioning.

“We gave you strict orders, didn’t we, not to teach in this name. Why have you defied the express directive of this council to desist this preaching?”

Peter and the apostles answered with disarming simplicity, “We must obey God rather than any human authority.”

It was human authority that killed Jesus to stop and silence him. It was human authority that resisted his authority to teach and heal, to forgive and invite. It was human authority that accused him and found him guilty, convicted and executed him. It was human authority that did all it could to put an end to Jesus in the name of religion and public order.

But God raised him up. God exalted him that he might continue to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins. And we are witnesses to these things. You want to forbid us to witness? You might as well forbid us to breathe, or tell the wind to cease to blow! This is who we are, now that Jesus is risen from the dead, and this is what we do.

Who would have thought that one day Peter would speak like that? Who would have thought that Mary would take a stand like that? Who would have thought that they and the others would look human authority in the eye and defy it with bold grace? Who would have thought they could be so free?

The Gospel according to John shows us a different snapshot of the early church. In it, we see a terrified little band, huddled in a dark room with a chair braced against the door. The air is thick with fear, and nobody says anything. Christ is risen from the dead, but they are stuck in the tomb. Easter has dawned, but they still sit in Friday darkness with little hope and little courage. The gospel makes it very clear: this is a community that will have only one thing going for it – the risen Christ.

And he did not leave them orphaned. He came to them, spoke to them, showed them his hands and his side, and their fear melted away. It didn’t happen all at once, but they encountered the Crucified One alive in their midst and were transformed. The place in their hearts occupied by terror and anxiety became a dwelling place for the peace of Christ.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” he said to them. Now they were a people with a mission. He breathed on them, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit,” and gave them authority to forgive the sins of any.

They spoke with boldness, because the Spirit of Christ was alive in them. They acted with authority, not because they had made it to the top of the hierarchy, but because they obeyed the Risen One. They became recognizable as companions of Jesus not because of their bumper stickers, but because they claimed his authority to teach and heal, to forgive and invite.

Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, what are we going to do?

Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, who are we going to be?

As long as there are chief priests, rulers, scribes, and other authorities, and as long as most of them sleep way too well, every city needs disciples of the Risen Christ, ordinary men and women who make reconciliation and wholeness their business, in the name of Jesus.

As long as human authority dreams of complete control, the world needs disciples of the Risen Christ, ordinary men and women who surrender daily to God and become bold in their submission to the authority of no one but Jesus.

Christ is risen, and he continues to call us to repentance and new life. He continues to meet us in the tombs of our hopelessness, to breathe on us and send us out. He continues to break in on us and push through our timidity and our reservations. He continues to transform and equip us for his mission until God’s shalom fills all creation.

This is who we are, now that Jesus is risen from the dead, and this is what we do.

A Little While

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb, and all she saw was that the stone had been removed from the tomb. She had spent the sabbath at home, but it had not been a good sabbath, not a day of holy rest and rejoicing in creation’s beauty and abundance. It was nothing but an endless stretch of grey time and numb silence, interrupted only by her sighs and moments when memories welled up and her tears just started flowing.

She was heartbroken and sad, angry at the world and the powers that ruled it violently. Only a little while ago, Jesus had dared her and his other followers to imagine a world where masters wash servants’ feet, where the blind see and the lame dance, where the hungry are fed, and all who mourn are comforted.

She had allowed this man to awaken hope in her, boundless, beautiful hope. Because of him, she had dared to believe in the possibility of forgiveness, the possibility of a community shaped by mutual love, the possibility of life abundant for all, young and old, friend and stranger, wolf and lamb.

And now he was dead; and with him, her hope had died. She found herself lost in a void that swallowed up light and life like a black hole. All she had were memories – and the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid Jesus’ body.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb. She was by herself, she wanted to be alone, I suppose, or she could have asked one of her friends to come with her. She came to the garden and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. Talk about a black hole – this gaping mouth of death, it was all she saw. The body was gone.

Mary Magdalene had lost everything she loved, everything that had made her life an overflowing well of joy, and now even that last place of tangible connection with Jesus’ body had been violated. She ran back with the news and told the others, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” They – whoever they were – had managed not only to quench the light of his luminous presence in the world, but to make his absence unbearably complete.

She returned to the tomb; she stood outside, weeping.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” the angels asked her. Had she had any strength left in her, she would have asked them, “Why am I weeping? Why aren’t you? Haven’t you been paying attention? Don’t you see what is going on here? Don’t you see how they take away everything that is beautiful, destroy everything that is promising, and pile up ugliness and death on every side? How can you not weep? They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

The angels had no comfort to offer. They just sat there, the silence of heaven in the face of human loss and pain. What do angels know about the brokenness of life? What do angels know about betrayal and denial? What do they know about abuse and torture in the name of political calculation and religious conviction? What does heaven know about them that turn the garden of life into a graveyard where our best hope has been buried?

Mary turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. You see, there was and is nothing obvious about the resurrection. There were no trumpets playing, high, bright, light, and clear, no timpani, no choirs of children and angels. Easter doesn’t so much burst forth with an eruption of light and sound as it creeps onto the scene, barely noticed, emerging from the darkness and the sorrow and confusion.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” the stranger asked, sounding just like one of the angels. “Whom are you looking for?”

And a third time she talked about her loss, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

You almost want to step in and say, Mary, can’t you see?­ but there’s nothing obvious about the resurrection.

On the night before his arrest, Jesus told the disciples, “A little while, and you will no longer see me, and again a little while, and you will see me.” They said, “What does he mean by this ‘a little while?’” and he responded, “You will weep and mourn, you will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy. I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice” (John 16:16-20).

And there in the darkness before dawn he saw her, but she didn’t see him, or saw him but didn’t recognize him until he spoke her name. “Mary!” – and she turned, and light and life returned to the garden, and she sensed a joy no other had ever known. “Rabbouni!” she said, calling him what she had always called him, “My teacher!” She wanted to hold on to him, she was determined not to lose him again, but then she heard his call to turn once more and tell the disciples what she had seen and heard, and she left the garden.

“I have seen the Lord” she announced to them, beginning the church’s proclamation of the Risen One.

“A little while, and you will no longer see me, and again a little while, and you will see me.” These words describe not only the experience of the first disciples, but of all followers of Jesus. The vision of God’s reign awakens hope in us, but then the powers of this world destroy and bury that hope. We mourn, we weep, we seek to reconnect with what we once knew, wondering who has taken it away, wondering where we might go and find it. We seek answers from silent angels and all kinds of chatty experts, we run back and forth, and most of what we see is ambiguous, and for a while, like Peter and the other disciple, we may just go home – except that home without that hope isn’t much of a home.

And so we keep searching and wandering, until we hear the familiar voice calling us by name, and we see the One whom we didn’t recognize, and we dare to believe that death cannot destroy the love that makes us one with God and one another, the love that makes, redeems and completes all things.

Easter is not the triumphant return of what was. Easter is the glorious beginning of what shall be, the first day of a new creation, high, bright, light, and clear. That’s why we bring in the trumpets, roll in the timpani, and Julia pulls nearly all the stops on the organ.

The resurrection is not a turning back of the clock that somehow undoes the reality of injustice and suffering, the brutal reality of the crucifixion and of ultimate loss. The resurrection is the beginning of a new relationship between Jesus and his followers, between God and the world God loves. The resurrection is the beginning of new life in the midst of the old, the birth of hope for complete redemption.

When Jesus met his first followers, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” and he invited them to come and see (John 1:38-39). When Mary stood outside the tomb, mourning and weeping, he asked her, “Whom are you looking for?” and, calling her by name, he invited her again to come and see. Like them, like her, we listen for that call and we follow, we seek, we find, we lose, we see without recognizing, we hear our name, we want to hold on, and we let go for the promise of fulfillment beyond our imagining.

We hold on, not to the way in which we once knew Christ, but to the promise that he will not leave us orphaned in a world of our own making. A little while, and we can see nothing but the gaping mouth of death that swallows everything, and again a little while, and we see God present among us to abide with us. A little while, and we find ourselves alone in a god-forsaken world, and again a little while, and we find ourselves embraced by the God who will not let us go.

“What does he mean by this ‘a little while’?”

There is the moment he bowed his head and gave up his spirit, and the moment he breathed on his disciples, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit” (John 19:30; 20:22), and there is the darkness between them – a little while.

There is the deep sadness of Mary’s words, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him,” and the deep joy of her witness, “I have seen the Lord!” and there is the daybreak between them – a little while.

There is our own loss of faith and hope in the face of what human beings are capable of doing to each other, and the renewal of our hope in the face of God’s unshakable faithfulness, and there is the resurrection between them – a little while.

The Risen One speaks our name, and the Friday darkness gives way to the light of the new day. The Risen One breathes on us, and the Spirit gathers us into the intimacy and joy of the divine life.

Easter doesn’t so much burst forth as it creeps onto the scene, silent as light, barely noticed, emerging from the darkness of death and the shadows of sorrow. In the place of our most profound loss, the Risen One calls us again by name and invites us to live as the body of Christ in the world.

Thank You

Saying thank you is a beautiful thing, and I try to do it here on behalf of all Vine Streeters and all who worshiped with us during Holy Week. I want to do it very much, because my heart is full of gratitude. I also dread it a little, because my awareness and memory are limited. I invite you to add your thanks in the comments, especially for those whose names and contributions I failed to mention.

Thank you, John Fleming, for the cross we followed from the sanctuary to the place outside on Palm Sunday, and thank you, Michael Ligon and John Marshall, for carrying it.

Thank you, Kathy Berhow and the worship committee, for preparing a place for us, Sunday after Sunday, and especially during Holy Week and on Easter.

Thank you, Linda Edwards, for the many moments with our children filled with love, wisdom, and joy.

Thank you, CROP Walkers, for walking and for raising awareness and much-needed money for the fight against hunger.

Thank you, Andra Moran, for keeping our sign updated, and thank you all, who assemble the letters for those messages.

Thank you, youth group and Hope Hodnett and your band of helpers, for a beautiful Maunday Thursday service.

Thank you all, who gave flowers, palms, and lilies.

Thank you KK Wiseman, our Elders, and all who participated in the Good Friday Way of the Cross.

Thank you, Jim Carls, for filling the baptistry with water, water, water, and keeping it at just the right temperature.

Thank you, Alex "Rico" Carls, Reagan Freeman, Miles Kleinert, Carson Lovell, and Julia Matthews, Emily and Elizabeth Crenshaw, Brian Berhow, Julia Keith, Greg Rumburg, Kevin Clark, and Hope Hodnett for a meaningful, fun, and adventurous baptism retreat.

Thank you, Julia Callaway, Sarah "Pickles" Steeves, Andra Moran and Stephen King, Ally Faenza, Children's Choir, TJ McLaughlin, Chancel Choir, and guest musicians for the music, music, music.

Thank you, Tallu Schuyler, for pictures that speak and sing like Isaiah.

Thank you, KK Wiseman, for getting up early and watch for the dawn, and Joe Keith for keeping the fire.

Thank you, Elders and Deacons, for leading well by serving well.

Thank you all, whose presence and voices fill the sanctuary with glory and praise.

Thank you, Ted Parks and Stephen King, for taking pictures and sharing them generously.

Thank you, youth group and your many helpers, for preparing and serving a sweet and fluffy breakfast, and for washing our dishes, and thank you, Hope Hodnett, Kennedy Shuler and Bruce Oulsen for cleaning up when the rest of us were at lunch.

Thank you, Holy One, for using us to fashion your Easter people.

At the Heart of Worship

“Worship at Vine Street is home. I come for the message. I get to sit and listen to something. It slows me down. It’s not about me. It gets me outside of my world; reminds me of the world outside of my own.”

The worship task group met on Maundy Thursday for a meal and conversation.  We talked about what is, for us personally, at the heart of worship at Vine Street, and how other Vine Streeters name that heart, that soul of worship. The text with quotation marks aren’t exact quotations, but snippets of conversation.

“For me, at the heart of worship at Vine Street is the focus on social justice, social issues. A connection with outreach in our city, not just “the world” in a global sense. I come to be inspired to action. Sometimes it’s the music, sometimes a story, etc.”

“For me, it’s about centering, learning, focusing on God. I get to cut out all the noise and get my priorities straight. I remember there’s something outside of my life that is bigger, it helps me make sense of the world, and the world is often crazy. I love communion. Worship keeps me going in the direction I need to go, and just being there is comforting.”

“For me, word and table are at the heart of worship. Centering and being called to respond outwardly. God’s kingdom through social justice. It’s very “Disciple” in the intentionality of the table and the connection to mission.”

• Music can be powerful, and we desire more opportunities for being touched deeply by images, clips, stories, moments, etc. We want to make room to include creative and memorable elements that break the mold of predictability, room for a little playfulness within the pattern/flow of the service. 

• We want to find ways for worship leaders to introduce elements of the service in a way similar to the invitation to the table (“this is why  we do this, this is what we are doing here” without becoming overly didactic).

At our next gathering, we will discuss how we will include the characteristics mentioned in the previous two paragraphs into the current order of our 10:45 worship.

Oberammergau

Richard and Peggy Ziglar are hosting a trip to see the Passion Play in Oberammergau, Sept. 24-Oct. 4 and  invite you to share this experience with them.

The Itinerary is as follows:

Sept. 25 - Depart US

Sept. 26 - Arrive Zurich, Switzerland  If you arrange your own air, you must meet us with Compass Tours between 7 am-11 am outside customs where you will meet escort and motor coach. There will be groups leaving from Chicago, Atlanta, New York but you may go independently.

Upon arrival, transer to Lucerne for 2 night stay

Sept. 27 - Mt. Pilatus Tour, incuiding Aerial Cabie Care, Cogwell Tran to Alpnachstal and Lake Lucern steamer back to Lucerne - Allpine Folklore Show & Dinner

Sept. 28 - Drive to Salzburg via Innsbruck and the Austrian Alps Highway - visit to Swarovski Crystal Factory in Innsbruck - wecome Salzburg Dinner - evening walking tour of Old Town Salzburg

Sept. 29 - Drive to Obersalzberg via Rossfeld Rd. - Hiltler's Beghof Home site and the EAgles' Nest - afternoon tour of Salzburg area (in Salzburg for 2 nights)

Sept. 30 - "South of Music" Tour, including Mondsee Church, Schloss Fuschi, gazebo and other filming locations - Shopping and sightseeing time in Salzburg

Oct. 1 - Drive to Hohenschwangau - visit Ludwig's Neuschwanstein Castle and Linderhof Castle (2 nights in Hohenschwangau)

Oct. 2 - Drive to Oberammergau - see Passion Play in afternoon and evening.

Oct. 3 - Drive through German and  Austrian Alps to Zurich, for city sightseeing tour and farewell dinner.

(overnight in Zurich)

Oct. 4 - Depart Zurich for USA 

 

Cost: $2695 per person for double occumpancy

Single supplement: $300 per person

Deposit needed now: $350.00 Balance due June 15.

Additional cost: Roundtrip air, insurance, noon meals

 

I am not endorsing this trip, but gladly share the information with you. Richard Ziglar is a former minister at First Christian Church in Tulsa OK. If you need additional information, please get in touch with him at 918-742-6826.

The Sweet Aroma of Love

Baby powder.

All I have to do is say the word, and you remember the scent, don’t you? It’s clean and cuddly, light, a happy smell.

When we stick our nose into a fresh towel, we want to smell the equivalent of a spring morning with mist on the grass, the rising sun and chirping birds.

And when it comes to body wash, we seem to like the smell of grapefruit, but not banana – too much heavy sweetness, not enough citrus notes for balance, perhaps?

Smells are big business. The smell industry generates $20 billion a year globally, developing and selling the fragrances that go into our laundry detergents, soaps and shampoos, after shaves and perfumes, and a host of other aromatic products, including so-called air fresheners and new-car smell for your aging vehicle.

Luca Turin is a man whose nose has the olfactory equivalent of perfect pitch. He  can detect and name even the subtlest nuances in a bouquet of fragrances, and, not surprisingly, his hobby are perfumes. And he doesn’t just love to smell them, he writes about them as few others can. In 1992, he wrote the first-ever perfume guide, and he continues to write perfume reviews.

Turin can give raves to fragrances he likes, e.g. “Thanks to Rive Gauche, mortals can at last know the scent of the goddess Diana’s bath soap.” He also knows how to slam fragrances he hates, e.g. “57 for Her is a sad little thing, an incongruous dried-prunes note with a metallic edge that manages the rare feat of being at once cloying and harsh.” According to Turin, Gucci’s Rush “smells like an infant’s breath mixed with his mother’s hair spray,” and it is left to the reader to decide whether that is something she might want to wear or not.

It is not easy to describe an aroma or an odor, it is much easier to evoke memories in the minds of listeners and readers.

Baby powder. You know the smell. Moth balls. Shoe polish. Hot cinnamon buns.  Freshly brewed coffee.

In the gospel of John, there is a beautiful scene of Jesus appearing to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. They had been out fishing, and coming ashore, they saw a charcoal fire, with fish on it, and bread. And Jesus said to them, “Come, and have breakfast” (John 21:9-12). We don’t know what the scene looked like in detail, but we know very well the aroma surrounding that breakfast on the beach, that blend of smoke, grilled fish, and warm bread.

Today’s passage from John is more intentional in drawing our attention to the fragrance of the perfume that filled the house (John 12:3). The house belonged to Jesus’ friends, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus in Bethany, and Jesus stopped in for dinner the day before he entered Jerusalem for the last time.

Just a short time ago Jesus had brought life to their house. The sisters had sent him a message regarding Lazarus, saying, “Lord, he whom you love is ill,” and when he arrived, he found that his friend had already been in the tomb four days. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it.

Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to Jesus, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

Jesus said, “Take away the stone,” and then he shouted, “Lazarus, come out!” and he restored him to life.

In the gospel of John, there are only two smells, two instances where our attention is drawn to the scent surrounding the scene, and both happen in Bethany, in and around the house of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. There are only two smells, the stench of death and the fragrance of extravagant love, and the way John tells the story gives us a hint which one will fill the house in the end.

Jesus came to Bethany, just two miles outside of Jerusalem, knowing full well that his opponents in the city planned to put him to death. Death was closing in on him. He knew that this might well be their last supper together. Martha served, Lazarus was one of those at table with him, and no one had noticed that Mary had gone until she came back, holding a small jar in her hands.

Without a word she knelt at Jesus’ feet and poured the content of the jar on his feet, a pound of perfume made of pure nard – don’t you wish you knew the smell of nard? Don’t you wish you had words to describe the fragrance that filled the house at that moment of love poured out in the face of death?

Judas objected.

“Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?”

It sounds like the voice of moral outrage, the voice of thrift and good stewardship, of advocacy and service to the poor – but Judas didn’t know what Mary knew.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus said, brushing all objections aside. “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Death was closing in, and Mary knew it, and she responded with lavish love. She could have poured the fragrant oil on his head, anointing him king of Israel, preparing him for a triumphal procession into the city, but she knew where he was going. And so she dropped on her knees and poured the precious balm on his feet, preparing his body for burial.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus said to those who would have prevented her. “Leave her alone.”

Mary responded with lavish extravagance, pouring out her love and gratitude, because she knew the extravagance of God because of this man. She knew what lay ahead for him, she knew that he would hold nothing back, and she acted on it. And so her gesture of boundless generosity became a sign of his life poured out for all, a witness to the excessive nature of divine love and mercy.

Just as Jesus began his ministry with wine freely poured at a wedding when the wine gave out, so the ministry of his friends began with this lavish outpouring of love and caring. It was and remains the only appropriate response to God’s giving.

In the next chapter, John tells us about the last evening Jesus spent with his disciples in the city. It was during supper, in an act curiously reminiscent of Mary’s, that Jesus got up, took off his robe, tied a towel around himself, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet and wipe them with the towel. Then he put on his robe and returned to the table.

“Do you know what I have done to you? I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet. You also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as have done to you. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

Mary of Bethany was the first to live that new commandment, and she did it even before it was given, because she knew who Jesus was.

The house of Jesus’ friends, just outside the city where murderous plans were being plotted, the house of Jesus’ friends became a house of witness and worship. Those who lived there remembered the stench of death, but what lingered was the sweet aroma of love, a fragrance even more difficult to describe than nard.

When I think about the aroma of extravagant love, one of my favorite movies comes to mind, Babette’s Feast.

In a small town in 19^th century Denmark lived an old man and his two daughters. The man, called the Dean, was the leader of a small Lutheran sect, and he and his daughters led a puritanical life. After the Dean died, the sisters continued his legacy, keeping the church going and ministering to the poor. Now, many years later, the aging churchgoers are bickering and bringing up past wrongs.

One day, a ragged-looking woman appears on the sisters’ doorstep with a letter from a friend. He explains that this woman, Babette Hersant, has fled Paris for her life. He hopes that the sisters will be kind enough to take her in as a maid, as she has nowhere else to go, having lost her husband and son in an uprising. Babette assures the sisters that she will work as their maid and cook for nothing, and the sisters agree to the arrangement.

At first, they are wary of their new maid. She speaks only French, looks like a beggar, and she’s Catholic. As they get accustomed to her, however, they realize that she is strong and kind. They show her how to prepare the plain dishes to which they are accustomed, and Babette tweaks them just a little; the poor love her cooking.

One day Babette finds out she won the lottery in Paris just as the sisters are trying to plan a celebration of what would have been their father’s hundredth birthday. Babette asks that they allow her to prepare the meal for the occasion, and the sisters reluctantly agree.

Babette leaves for several days to purchase everything she needs, and after her return strange bottles, boxes, and ingredients begin arriving at the house.

Then the great day finally comes. The guests arrive, they chat and sing the Dean’s favorite hymns. And then they sit down to the meal. Course after course, they eat food they never tasted before, they drink the finest wine, and around the table, frozen faces begin to melt, hardness softens, and the men and women of the congregation begin to make amends for their recent bickering and grudges. Arguments are dropped. Past misdeeds are forgiven. They laugh and embrace. They step outside and, holding hands in a large circle, they sing under the stars.

After the guests have left, the sisters find Babette in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of dirty dishes, pots and pans. They thank her for the fine meal and for all of her work. She admits that she was once the chef at one of Paris’s finest restaurants, but when the sisters ask about her return to Paris now that she has money, she answers that she will never go back to Paris. The sisters are relieved but surprised. And then they learn that Babette has spent her entire lottery winnings on this one meal.

She has given it all away in one extravagant gesture of hospitality. What lingers is the sweet aroma of love – still difficult to describe, but the recipe is so easy to remember.

Sailing On: 2010 Report

At our planning event on Monday, March 22, we adopted six major goals for this year. Each one is a result of our Journey process. Each one is essential for helping us live into our future story.

1. Raise the funds and complete the search for an Associate Minister
2. Review and revise the bylaws
3. Coordinate Christian Education for adults
4. Start at least one or two neighborhood groups
5. Wrap up worship conversations and introduce changes
6. Plan a capital campaign to be launched in 2011

We encouraged one another, and especially those of us chairing committees, boards, and other groups, to read and write about our ministry programs and events, take pictures and share them.

We encouraged all committee chairs and officers of the board to write brief monthly reports, based on a simple template, and to submit a narrative report once a quarter. The monthly reports are primarily for internal communication (leadership and congregation), the quarterly reports are also excellent to be shared with visitors to our website to give them a taste of who we are and what we do.

We encouraged one another to continue to familiarize ourself with our online social network and take full advantage of its potential for discussion, sharing pictures and video, posting documents, etc.  Thomas volunteered to meet with small groups and do an introduction for a cup of coffee.

We encouraged one another to move away from announcements before the worship service, and to move toward minutes for mission that are part of the worship service. The ultimate goal, according to our future story, is to move announcements to the gathering time in the welcome area prior to our worship services.

We asked the staff to find a way to publicize the weekly news/bulletin in an online archive.

We looked at the whole year together, and determined which groups and/or  individuals would be in charge of organizing various events.

Laura Bell Book Tour

Laura Bell, daughter of Wayne and Virginia, will be in Nashville on March 31 to promote her memoir, published by Knopf, Claiming Ground. The publisher writes,

In 1977, Laura Bell, at loose ends after graduating from college, leaves her family home in Kentucky for a wild and unexpected adventure: herding sheep in Wyoming's Big Horn Basin. Inexorably drawn to this life of solitude and physical toil, a young woman in a man's world, she is perhaps the strangest member of this beguiling community.

By turns cattle rancher, forest ranger, outfitter, masseuse, wife and mother, Bell vividly recounts her struggle to find solid earth in which to put down roots. Brimming with careful insight and written in a spare, radiant prose, her story is a heart-wrenching ode to the rough, enormous beauty of the Western landscape and the peculiar sweetness of hard labor, to finding oneself even in isolation, to a life formed by nature, and to the redemption of love, whether given or received.

Quietly profound and moving, astonishing in its honesty, in its deep familiarity with country rarely seen so clearly, and in beauties all its own, Claiming Ground is a truly singular memoir.

Laura Bell’s work has been published in several collections, and from the Wyoming Arts Council she has received two literature fellowships as well as the Neltje Blanchan Memorial Award and the Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Award. She lives in Cody, Wyoming, and since 2000 has worked there for the Nature Conservancy.

Laura will be at Davis Kidd on Wednesday, March 31, at 7pm.

Worship tomorrow

As a community, we have spent significant time over the last two years talking about worship at Vine Street. The conversation was part of the Journey process from day one.

In the late summer of last year, the Elders hosted a series of Worship Forums, where we looked at how Christian worship evolved over the centuries and how our Sunday morning services at Vine Street are structured.

The Elders asked me to put together a task group that would work on a proposal outlining changes we will make this year.

The group - Kathy Berhow (Chair of Worship Committee), Sarah Ligon (Deacon), Greg Rumburg (Elder), Pat Cole (who has served in every capacity imaginable), Stephen Moseley (Chair Elect of the Board), and myself - had our first meeting on Tuesday, March 16, where we clarified our goals (see below). I will continue to blog about the process, so you can follow our discussions.

These are the notes from our first meeting:

For the time being, we only look at Sunday morning; i.e., we won’t talk about Sunday evening, Wednesday evening, or Christmas.

Sunday morning currently means 8:30 chapel/9:30 christian education/10:45 sanctuary; we will discuss this arrangement and its merits.

From the Journey Story we get two key directives:

• “clear profile” – How do we describe what makes any worship service a Vine Street service (outside of our people)?
• “unique format” – How and why does each differ from the other?

We will

• Refer to the Journey notes when appropriate
• Take concrete action by June 2010
• Make changes motivated by who we say we become according to the Story
• Pay attention to how changes are introduced and implemented, and measure the response
• Look at worship as the core of what we do as a church, and let it define who we are and what we do in education and other areas of our ministry
• Make worship easy and meaningful for those for whom it has become a chore
• Keep three dimensions in view at all times during our conversations

o    What is at the heart of worship?
o    What are the logistics?
o    How does this shape us as a community?

When we come together again, we will have thought about and answered two questions:

What is, for me, at the heart of Vine Street worship?

What is, the way I observe it, at the heart of Vine Street worship for Vine Streeters?

Sailing On: 2010

The Journey continues. Now it's time to make plans for the year and bring everybody on board.

I hope you will join us!

The House of Laughter and Light

The story begins rather harmless. A man had two sons prepares us for a familiar story pattern, one that usually ends with the audience nodding in agreement: this one’s the good son, that one is not. This one did the right thing, that one did not. Such a story might go something like this:

A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, “Son, I want you to mow the yard today.” He answered, “I don’t think so,” but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, “Sure, Dad,” but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?

We may think about it for a moment, perhaps we discuss it briefly, but in the end we will agree that actions speak louder than words, and so the first one gets the blue ribbon for being the good son.

Jesus’ story begins in the familiar way, but then it leaves us scratching our heads, “Which one’s the good child?” The younger is disrespectful, selfish, and reckless, the older is jealous, bitter, and self-righteous. Neither is a particularly attractive character, but we can also identify with them, and that complicates things even more.

There’s a part of us that can relate to the younger one who wants to leave home and see the world. Sure, he is reckless, but he is young and we admire his adventurous spirit. We identify with him, because once we were just like him, or perhaps we wish we could be more like him.

And there’s the part of us that can relate to the firstborn, the responsible one who works hard and takes care of the family business, and we’re willing to excuse his anger because we too make sacrifices every day that no one seems to notice, let alone appreciate or celebrate. Is it too much to ask to be treated fairly? The property had been divided, and each one had been given a fair share, and the younger chose to cash it all in and squander it. It may be good and right to give somebody a second chance after he’s shown signs of remorse and maturity; give him work to do, food to eat, and a roof over his head—but a party? That fatted calf they killed for the BBQ – whose herd did it come from? How’s that for irony?

The story begins in the familiar way, but it leaves us off balance because it doesn’t offer a simple good son / bad son moral. The father is a confusing character as well, perhaps the most confusing of all. Apparently he doesn’t consider that children who are old enough to go away should also be ready to live with the consequences of their choices. When the one who went away comes home – broke, humiliated, and hungry – dad is beside himself, acting like a fool. Forgetting all that is proper for a patriarch in that ancient culture, and ignoring most of what we would consider reasonable or wise, he runs down the road and throws his arms around the young man, shouting orders over his shoulder between kisses and hugs, “The robe—the best one—quickly—put it on him. The ring—bring it—put in on his finger. And sandals, bring sandals—only slaves go barefoot—this is my son! Kill the calf! Invite the whole town! Let us eat. Let us celebrate! This son of mine was dead and is alive again!”

Only Jesus could come up with a story like this. In our version of the story, the younger son would have some explaining to do. In our story, the father would be waiting in the house, sitting in his chair, arms folded, and with a stern expression on his face. He would listen to what the young man had to say for himself, and then, perhaps, he would look at him and say, “Well, I’m glad you’ve come to see the foolishness of your choices and the error of your ways; I hope you learned your lesson. Now I want you to go and help your brother in the field.” In our story, there wouldn’t be a party.

But it’s not our story.

Sinners felt at home in the company of Jesus; even notorious sinners who were shunned by everybody in town came near to listen to him, or just to be around him. He did not avoid them, nor did he turn them away; he even broke bread with them, openly. He didn’t mind being seen with them; he just welcomed them like he welcomed anyone who came to him, “Sit down, eat something.”

People with a deep concern for right and wrong were not pleased. They were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them. Why does he show so little respect for boundaries and rules? Doesn’t he know that righteousness must be protected? Couldn’t he at least wait until they have changed their ways?” They were confused, some perhaps angry, moving back and forth between wanting to understand and demanding an explanation.

In response, Jesus told them stories about the joy of heaven, God stories that would shed some light on who he was and what he was doing. He told them about a shepherd who lost one of his one hundred sheep, and worried out of his mind, went searching for it. And when at last he found it, he was overjoyed and called together his friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me for I have found my sheep that was lost” (Luke 15:4-6).

Then Jesus told them about a woman who had 10 silver coins and one of them got lost. How she got a lamp and a broom, and swept the house from top to bottom and searched carefully until she found it. And she called together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ And he added, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents (Luke 15:8-10).”

And then Jesus told them the story about the father and his two sons. And when he got to the end where the elder son stands outside the house, light, music and laughter pouring through the windows, and the father pleading with him to come in, they didn’t know what to say. They felt left out. I guess they felt like Jesus was squandering what was rightfully theirs. Attention, recognition, grace.

The younger son woke up when he hit rock bottom. Feeding pigs and being so hungry that you find yourself wanting to eat from their trough – it doesn’t get any lower than that. He realized just how distant, lonely, and hungry he was, but no one gave him anything. He was at the end of his rope. That’s when he started thinking about home and bread; that’s when he started rehearsing his little speech about sin and unworthiness, and wanting to work in exchange for food; but he didn’t grasp the full extent of his hunger until he was welcomed and embraced with exuberant joy.

The elder son stood outside – distant, lonely, hungry, and resentful.

“Is that what do you have to do to get a party around here? Go off and burn through a bundle of cash and then come back to be embraced, and kissed, and assured that you belong? What about me?”

He refused to go in, but again the father came outside searching for one of his children, and began to plead with him. But the elder son interrupted him, “Listen, for all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back – you killed the fatted calf for him!”

He couldn’t speak his name, he called his own brother “this son of yours,” and nothing in his little speech indicated that he was talking to his father. The elder son was so alienated, so starved, he may as well have been feeding pigs in a distant country. He no longer had a brother or a father, both had become strangers to him.

The story, it turns out, isn’t about morality, about who is the good child and who is not; it is about estrangement and reconciliation. The father has lost both sons, and he’s outside searching for them, not to demand explanations or hand out blue ribbons, but to restore and bring together what belongs together.

“Child,” he says to the elder son, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

The ministry of Jesus isn’t about morality, about who is good and who is not; it is about our estrangement and God’s gift of reconciliation. Our being children of God and our being each other’s brothers and sisters are two sides of the same reality, two sides of the one life. Our lives aren’t whole until we see that.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if we got lost wandering off to a distant country or if we got lost never leaving at all. What matters is that God is not only waiting for us, but out looking for us, pleading with us, and rejoicing over each precious one being found.

 “Child, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”

These are words spoken not just to one child, but to every child of God. And every child of God has a seat at the table in the house of laughter and light. Because the joy in heaven and on earth will not be complete until the brothers embrace and the sisters kiss, and all children of God sit at the banquet.

My Soul Thirsts

Our sanctuary is filled with pictures this morning. There are photographs on every pillar and wall, pictures of rabbits, goats and chickens, corn and beans, bananas and tomatoes, tortillas and mango juice, heavy melons and tender seedlings, pictures of children, men, and women.

Tallu Schuyler took close to ten thousand pictures last year, while working in Nicaragua with a number of food security projects. Church World Service and its partner organizations in Nicaragua are supporting small scale farming to help improve nutrition and encourage community development through local markets.

Why did we ask Tallu to hang all those pictures in the sanctuary? Why did we quite literally surround ourselves with images of food and the people who grow, produce, prepare and sell it, people hungry for life as we are?

The exhibit is part of our hunger:360 ministry project. During Lent this year, we take time to approach hunger from as many angles as we can:

• We prepare  and serve food for Nashville’s homeless and working poor.
• We learn about the work of organizations like Second Harvest Food Bank, Mobile Loaves and Fishes, and Church World Service.
• We are reading a book by Sara Miles who argues convincingly that the bread of the Lord’s Table and the food given away in any soup kitchen or food pantry is the same bread.
• We will participate in the CROP Walk to raise money and awareness for the fight against hunger around the block and around the world.
• Next week, we’ll start Mapping the Pantry to visualize where the food in our pantries and refrigerators is coming from.
• Just this morning, we learned what hunger does to human bodies as well as societies.

We fast and pray, we listen and watch, we walk and study and wonder. hunger:360 is a way to approach and address a human experience from as many angles as possible and to grow as followers of Jesus Christ.

Half of the stories Jesus told about the reign of God speak of seeds and farmers, barns and banquets, fields and vineyards, figs and grapes.

Jesus told Peter, “Feed my sheep,” and to his disciples who wanted to send a crowd of people away because they were hungry, he said, “You give them something to eat.”

When Jesus instructed the disciples about prayer, he taught us that we need forgiveness like we need bread, daily. And on the night before he died, he spoke of his body while breaking a loaf of bread and giving it away to those who would betray, forsake, and deny him. We do indeed need forgiveness like we need bread, daily.

This morning, we come to Jesus waving the newspaper, reciting last week’s headlines, parched thirsty and hungry for answers:

Chile Earthquake Aftershocks Cause Panic

Suicide Attacks Kill at Least 32 in Baquba

With Haitian Schools in Ruins, Children Are in Limbo

We get in line behind those who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. They too are hungry for answers, they want Jesus to explain to them the bloody violence in the Temple.

Was it the Galileans’ fault? Did they provoke the Roman guards with anti-Roman slogans? Galileans were known for that kind of thing. Or was it Pilate’s fault? Was he unable to control his own military, or was he himself behind this blasphemous act? Or did they die in this way because somehow they deserved it?

Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?” We hunger for meaning, for knowledge or wisdom that makes sense of  the inexplicable. “Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them – do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

Or those hundreds of thousands who were buried in collapsing buildings when the earth quaked under Port-au-Prince and Concepción – do you think that they somehow deserved to die that way—and you, somehow, did not? Do you think that the fact that you are still among the living in a world where lives are cut short daily and violently by droughts and famines, hurricanes and earthquakes, crimes and tyranny – do you think you are alive because you are good and righteous? Do you think you can just step back and explain the world’s brokenness and the tragedies of life with a concept of divine justice that somehow spared you?

No. The answers you crave are found only by turning around. Turning around is another way of saying repentance. Repentance means you begin with yourself.

Let me tell you a story. A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?”

That’s one way to think about the fruit of righteousness and divine justice; three strikes and you’re cut. You had Moses to teach you. You had the prophets to remind you. You had John the Baptist to warn you: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” You know he wasn’t talking about figs and olives. Plenty of  teaching, of pleading and warning, but no fruit to be found on the tree. Why should it be wasting the soil?

The story could end there. The story could end with the gardener going to the shed to get the ax. But the gardener hasn’t left yet. Standing beside the fruitless tree, or perhaps kneeling beside it in the dirt the gardener says, “Let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good, but if not you can cut it down.” Or perhaps the gardener says, “... but if not you can cut it down – because I won’t”? And the story ends with the gardener going to the shed to get the cultivator. That’s another way to think about the fruit of righteousness and the work of God.

We can pretend that we are spectators looking over the wall into the vineyard and speculating about the fate of that tree, but in truth we are that tree. We long to live lush and fruitful lives, but the soil is hard and dry. The soil is so packed down that the rain cannot penetrate it and the water cannot get to the roots and we remain thirsty and dry, despite our desire and good intentions.

John the Baptist points to the ax to remind us of the urgency of change and taps into our fear to motivate us to action. Jesus reminds us that we are not alone in our hope for fruitful lives by pointing to the gardener who works with dedication and patience to break and soften the soil.

But we got to let the gardener do some digging. We got to let the gardener break the dry soil in which we are trying to grow roots. When an earthquake buries thousands of people in just a few seconds, there is a moment, just before we start stepping back, distancing ourselves to explain or find blame, there is a moment of pain and truth, a moment when we feel just how fragile life is.

We usually run from that moment. We step back and pretend to be observers who can control the chaos by explaining it. Or we jump into a action to get a sense that we have done something to push the chaos back behind boundaries.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with trying to understand. There’s nothing wrong at all with responding to tragedy with acts of compassion. But we shouldn’t run too quickly from that moment where we know life as vulnerable, threatened, and in question. We shouldn’t run because that moment is a place where we meet the God who knows and bears our pain. That moment is a dry place where the gardener pours out grace to soften the ground. That moment is a holy place where healing water finds its way to our parched roots. It is in that moment that we come to know our real thirst and say, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

They say that in the southwestern United States, where the humidity is low, you may be thirsty and not even know it. It can be extremely hot, but your perspiration evaporates so quickly, you don’t even get a wet spot in your arm pit. You are becoming dehydrated and you don’t have a clue. In Grand Canyon National Park they have signs strategically placed along the trails that say, “Stop! Drink water. You are thirsty, whether you realize it or not.” [Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary: Year B, Vol. 2, 2008, p. 74]

Do you find it hard to imagine that you could be thirsty without realizing it? How about getting so settled into routines that keep you busy and distracted that you can’t tell whether it’s your heart and soul that are hungry, or your stomach? We have a hunger for God and a thirst for life, but we get lost in a culture of insatiable appetites and false promises of fullness and fulfillment.

Isaiah asks just the right question, “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” The prophet reminded God’s people in exile and reminds us, that we are people of a different bread, bread not from the Babylonian bakery, but from God’s kitchen.

Isaiah shouts with urgency, inviting any within earshot to God’s banquet, to the feast where all are fed simply because all are hungry.

“Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.”

When we listen, we are given a word as delightful as the richest food. And we have a piece of bread placed in our hands, bread that speaks of God’s faithfulness and mercy like nothing we have ever tasted.

In many ways, Lent is a persistent invitation to get to know our real hunger and to eat the bread of life.

Courageous Compassion

"Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you,” they warned him. It was Herod Jr. they were talking about.

Herod Sr.’s claim to Biblical fame was the massacre in and around Bethlehem, when at the time of Jesus’ birth he had all children under the age of two killed (Mt 2:16-18) just to make sure he got rid of a potential contender for his throne, he thought.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Herod Jr. was nervous because of reports that people were flocking to this rabbi from Nazareth. He was nervous because it was said by some that John had been raised from the dead, by others that one of the ancient prophets had arisen. Herod read the briefs by his intelligence people, and all he could say was, “John I beheaded; but who is this about whom I hear such things?” (Lk 9:7-9)

People knew that Herod wanted to see Jesus, but they also knew that his curiosity was dangerous, and some of the Pharisees warned Jesus to get out of Galilee.

There was something about Jesus that attracted the attention of men in power, although there is no sign of Jesus ever having made any overt political threat to the ruling authorities. He had no interest in Herod’s throne or Pilate’s, he didn’t play by the rules of their game, and that may have been what made him such a threat.

He was fearless, and a man who knows no fear cannot be manipulated.

I imagine Jesus laughing dismissively when he replied to their warning, “Go and tell that fox for me, listen, I do what I do, and I finish my work. I must be on my way.”

He called Herod a fox, a metaphor that paints the ruler as sly and cunning, but also several sizes smaller than a lion or a wolf. Only Jesus didn’t portray himself as a lion or a wolf either, nor as an eagle or a hawk. Instead he spoke of a hen gathering her brood under her wings – and fox and hen make an interesting pair.

I find it curious how we identify human traits and intentions with certain animals, and I wonder what fables and stories animals would tell about us if they could – but that’ll have to wait.

Jesus called Herod a fox and compared his own work to a mother hen’s desire to protect her chicks. Don’t call him a chicken, though, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go in order to protect her young from danger. If you haven’t seen The Natural History of the Chicken on PBS yet, I recommend that you do.  After you’ve watched the last ten minutes of that delightful video essay, you’ll never look at chickens the same way again.  In those ten minutes you meet Eliza, a fluffy Silkie Bantam hen, who literally throws herself between a handful of chicks and a hawk, protecting them with her own body.

Like I said, don’t call Jesus a chicken, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go to protect her young from the hawk or the fox.

Jesus did leave Galilee, but he didn’t leave to escape death. He didn’t turn west and spend a couple of weeks on the beach to give Herod a chance to relax or to allow tensions to cool. He was already on the way to Jerusalem where political and religious power resided, and where he knew he would die.

Jesus didn’t choose death, though. He chose to live the life he was given, and that makes a world of difference. He chose to live in God’s reign, he chose to live a life of compassion and truth, he chose to share his life with all, and he refused to trade it in for mere survival in Herod’s little world, or Pilate’s, or Caesar’s, or whatever their names may be who sit on their thrones, afraid to lose their power, afraid to lose control over their little kingdoms.

Jesus was fearless because he knew who he was; he knew in his bones that he was God’s beloved; and he knew that nothing in the universe is more real than the love of God for God’s creation.
When he had the friendly Pharisees tell Herod, “I must be on my way,” it wasn’t geography he was talking about or the pressures of a crowded schedule. He was talking about his faithfulness to God’s way with God’s people, he was talking about fierce, courageous love.

One moment Jesus was laughing at Herod, and then his voice changed from easy defiance to anguished, divine lament.

Jerusalem. Jerusalem! The city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Jesus gave voice to God’s desire, and more than voice. He embodied God’s desire to gather us closer in God’s embrace, and he bore in his body the wounds of our unwillingness, the wounds of our desire to be human without God.

Week of Compassion has been on our minds quite often recently, particularly in the context of our response to the devastation caused by the earthquake in Haiti. Just yesterday, barely more than 24 hours ago, there was news about another earthquake, this one in Chile, causing death and destruction, and terror as far away as Asia. We may not yet know the full scale of devastation, but we do know that our partners have been at work on the ground literally within minutes.

We call it Week of Compassion because this ministry began with a week-long special offering after W.W. II; it was a gesture of courage as well as compassion to reach out to former enemies and find reconciliation by building peace together.

We know it’s more than a week of compassion; it’s a way of being in the world. Courageous compassion is Jesus’ way of being in the world. It is what brought him to Jerusalem. Courageous compassion is one of the names we give to God’s desire to be with us and gather us in.

Through Week of Compassion we have the privilege of embodying that desire, that love that holds all things, in places of great suffering, places that many would call God-forsaken. We have the privilege of being present through search and rescue workers, medical professionals, counselors, civil engineers, pastors and teachers and farmers and the many who follow Jesus on the way to the place where life has been shattered and hope is in short supply.

Jesus lived fearlessly and with extravagant love, and he calls us to follow him, to enter the life of God’s reign. Courageous compassion is not foolishness in the face of danger, but the courage to trust, more than anything else, the love that raised Jesus from the dead.

The psalm for this Sunday is Psalm 27, and a few verses are printed in today’s bulletin.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life;
of whom then shall I be afraid?
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—
my adversaries and foes— they shall stumble and fall.
Though an army should encamp against me,
my heart shall not fear;
though war should rise up against me,
yet I will trust in the Lord.
One thing I have asked of the Lord, one thing I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,
to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, to seek God in the temple.

I cannot say these words without hesitating; they haven’t yet become fully my own. The only way I can say them without feeling like I’m reading somebody else’s prayer journal, is by saying them with Jesus, by listening to him saying them, and repeating after him.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

Though an army should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.

Those words are his, and my voice trembles.

Though war should rise up against me, yet I will trust in the Lord.

Those words are his, and I seek shelter in his faith like a chick under the wings of a mother hen.

One thing I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life.

Those words are his, and I follow him to dwell where he dwells.

Jesus is the fearless one who laughs at Herod. Jesus is the compassionate one who cries in anguish over Jerusalem. We are the ones whose desire is to follow him, to serve him and work with him, to pray with him, to rest and be at home with him. And so we repeat and rehearse the lines and the steps, again and again, repeat and rehearse compassionate presence and attentiveness, repeat and rehearse, repeat and rehearse until God’s extravagant love has driven out all fear.

Every day and everywhere, the gift of life is in question in some way.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for witnesses who will follow Jesus in the struggle against all that threatens, weakens, and corrupts life.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for courageous compassion in the face of tragedy or injustice.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for some who practice with Jesus how to laugh at Herod, how to laugh at fear, and how to hold on to a vision of the city that truly is the city of God.

Garlic And Other Magic

Friday I had the pleasure of spending a couple of hours in the kitchen with friends. We browned turkey breast, cooked rice, chopped  and sauteed onions, sweet peppers, broccoli, sweet potatoes, and celery. And when we were finished - the last ingredient we added was a handful of fresh oregano - there were several trays of delicious lunch, ready to be served.

It all began with the lovely fragrance of garlic from the marinade that had infused the turkey. With the magic of heat and olive oil, all the other flavors emerged and blended, sweet and salty, meaty, malty, musty, hot and mmmh. Cooking a meal is alchemy, beautiful magic.

We loaded the food on a truck - a great truck equipped with heated compartments - and then the miracle continued in the streets of Nashville. We had made lunch for men and women who spend the night in shelters and tents, under bridges, or just walking until morning. We had cooked a good meal for people who spend the better part of the day hoping for better days.

There is hunger in Nashville. Food security is a term from the dictionary of bureaucrats. Hunger is a human experience.

There are food deserts in Nashville. And there are people who help us see and understand and address those realities.

Next Sunday, February 28, following the 10:45 worship service, Tallu Schuyler will talk to us about hunger in Nashville. Tallu is the Executive Director of Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a ministry named after a miracle. We will eat lunch together (rice, beans, and cornbread) and we will learn together - statistics, terms, facts, and the human experiences that so easily get lost behind them.

On Saturday, February 27, you have an opportunity to be part of a little kitchen magic. There will be rice, black beans, onions, peppers, garlic, corn meal, eggs, salt, milk, water and fire. Would you like to be part of turning all that into a meal for many? The cooks will meet in the Vine Street kitchen sometime on Saturday. Just complete the form at the bottom of this post.

Before you scroll down: on Friday, February 26, a group will gather at 9am in the kitchen at Woodmont Christian Church's South Hall to prepare lunch for the homeless. Contact Caitlin Dally caitlin.m.dally@vanderbilt.edu or Tallu Schuyler talluschuyler@gmail.com for details.