Fathers and demons

In his autobiography, With Head and Heart, the great American teacher and prophet, Howard Thurman, recalls a heartbreaking scene.

On one of our visits to Daytona Beach I was eager to show my daughters some of my early haunts. We sauntered down the long street from the church to the riverfront. This had been the path of the procession to the baptismal ceremony in the Halifax River, which I had often described to them. We stopped here and there and I noted the changes that had taken place since that far-off time. At length we passed the playground of one of the white public schools. As soon as Olive and Anne saw the swings, they jumped for joy. “Look, Daddy, let’s go over and swing!” This was the inescapable moment of truth that every black parent in America must face soon or late. What do you say to your child at the critical moment of primary encounter?

“You can’t swing in those swings.”

“Why?”

“When we get home and have some cold lemonade I will tell you.” When we were home again, and had had our lemonade, Anne pressed for the answer. “We are home now, Daddy. Tell us.”

I said, “It is against the law for us to use those swings, even though it is a public school. At present, only white children can play there. But it takes the state legislature, the courts, the sheriffs and policemen, the white churches, the mayors, the banks and businesses, and the majority of white people in the state of Florida – it takes all these to keep two little black girls from swinging on those swings. That is how important you are! Never forget, the estimate of your own importance and self-worth can be judged by how many weapons and how much power people are willing to use to control you and keep you in the place they have assigned to you. You are two very important little girls. Your presence can threaten the entire state of Florida.”

Howard Thurman, With Head and Heart: The Autobiography of Howard Thurman (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1979) p. 97

I wish I had half the wisdom and presence of mind this father showed in affirming his daughters’ worth and dignity in a society bent on robbing them of their full humanity.

He could have but he didn’t sneak them into the playground so they could pretend to be free for a few moments, swinging high with the tips of their shoes touching the clouds, and hoping that they wouldn’t get caught.

He could have but he didn’t make up a story that allowed him to avoid naming the ugly reality of racism. He didn’t tell them that they couldn’t swing on those swings because their mother was expecting them at home, or that he would build them a much better swing in the back yard.

He told them the truth, and he did it in a way that didn’t break their spirits or confine them to the role of victims in a demonic system of oppression. Olive and Anne learned how important they were by the amount of resources needed to keep them in the place those in control had assigned to them. Their dad didn’t tell them that they were his little princesses no matter what the rest of the world said; he told them the truth in a way that affirmed their humanity and allowed them to grow up strong in a world designed to keep them out and down. That design, of course, has nothing to do with the world God wants us to live in.

The story of Jesus we heard this morning is like a condensed version of the entire Gospel: God comes to free us from sin and restore life in fullness.

In this story, Jesus enters the land of the gentiles, the territory of those who are outside the land of promise. And there, on the far side of the lake, he meets a man of the city, and he meets him outside the city.

This man hasn’t worn clothes for a long time, and he hasn’t lived in a house but in the tombs—and to say that he was living naked in the tombs is to say that he was worse off than the dead, for the dead at least have their bodies wrapped in grave linens and they are at peace. This man doesn’t know peace.

To be human is to be part of a family, to be in community; to be human is to love and be loved, to know God and to know one’s name. And Jesus asks the man, “What is your name?” and he says, “Legion.”

That’s not a name, that’s a diagnosis. Legion means a few thousand. Legion means the man’s identity, his true self has disappeared amid the pull of thousands of demonic forces that possess him. His soul has been buried in desolation, under thousands of lies and oppressions, voices that slowly robbed him, saying,

You don’t count.

You don’t matter.

You’re not good enough.

You are ugly.

You are worthless.

You are nobody.

Jesus asks him, “What is your name?” And there is no name, only the thousandfold absence of what makes a human being a human being. There is no memory of knowing love and hope, no ability to imagine ever experiencing them again.

In the book of Psalms, a voice whispers in torment, The enemy pursues my soul, he has crushed my life to the ground; he has made me dwell in darkness like the dead, long forgotten. Therefore my spirit fails; my heart is numb within me (Psalm 143:3-4). But this man has no name, no memory or hope, not even a prayer.

This little story, however, this fragrant essence of the gospel boldly declares that all that keeps the man from living life as a human being created by God, that all the voices and powers cannot rule in the presence of Christ. They come out and enter a herd of swine and they finish their destructive work by destroying themselves in the depths of the sea. That is the end of all that keeps us from living life as God intended it from the beginning.

The people from the city find the man sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and his right mind. Perhaps you wonder where he found his new clothes so quickly, out among the graves. The Apostle Paul would suggest that the man had put on Christ, for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ (Galatians 3:26-27).

In Christ we are given our true identity as children of God, we are given our true name, and with it our true purpose. The world will call us names, but only God knows us fully and gives us Christ that we may come to know ourselves and one another as beloved by God.

And in Christ, there is no longer Jew or Gentile, only one humanity of God’s people.

There is no longer slave or free, only one humanity of free people serving God and one another.

There is no longer black or white or brown, only one humanity of many shades of beautiful.

There is no longer male and female, only men and women who know their true identities as God’s sons and daughters.

And with that new sense of identity, with that new name we are sent to declare what God in Christ has done for us. The call to mission and witness may take us halfway around the world, but more than likely it takes us back to our homes and our places of work and to the places where we and our children face the demons of our time.

The better we know who we are, who we really are, the better we will be able to encourage in our children a sense of self that isn’t determined by a thousand demanding voices, but by their dignity and importance as sons and daughters of God.

I began with a story of a father who gave his daughters the strength to know and resist the forces that would rob them of their humanity. I want to end with another story, one that comes to us by way of the Brothers Grimm, and it also addresses the fragile nature of our humanity.

There was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears dull of hearing, his knees trembled, and when he sat at table he could hardly hold the spoon, and spilt the broth upon the table-cloth or let it run out of his mouth.

His son and his son’s wife were disgusted at this, so the old grandfather at last had to sit in the corner behind the stove, and they gave him his food in an earthenware bowl, and not even enough of it.

And he used to look towards the table with his eyes full of tears. Once, too, his trembling hands could not hold the bowl, and it fell to the ground and broke. The young wife scolded him, but he said nothing and only sighed. Then they bought him a wooden bowl for a few [pennies], out of which he had to eat.

They were once sitting thus when the little grandson of four years old began to gather together some bits of wood upon the ground.

“What are you doing there?” asked the father.

“I am making a little trough,” answered the child, “for father and mother to eat out of when I am big.”

The man and his wife looked at each other for a while, and presently began to cry. Then they took the old grandfather to the table, and henceforth always let him eat with them, and likewise said nothing if he did spill a little of anything.

The Old Man and his Grandson, by the Brothers Grimm, translated by Margaret Taylor (1884) 

Wherever we are in the long procession of generations, I wish us all a happy Father’s Day.

Vineyard or vegetable garden?

Naboth had a vineyard, and King Ahab had a palace in Samaria. The palace sat on a hill Ahab’s father had bought from a local for two talents of silver (1 Kings 16:24).

Naboth had a vineyard, and King Ahab had a dream of a vegetable garden near his palace. It all sounds innocent enough. The king made Naboth an offer, “I’ll give you a better vineyard for it, or money, whichever you prefer.” It was a reasonable offer, you might even say a generous one.

Wouldn’t you trade your vineyard on the Cumberland plateau for one in the Napa valley? You get better soil, better climate, better wine – and if the Napa valley is a little too far from home for you, name your price: it’s a seller’s market, the king really wants that piece of land! Why not make a deal? Strangely, Naboth didn’t even ask, “Let me sleep on it. I’ll get back with you tomorrow.”

Naboth said no, and he did so emphatically. “The Lord forbid...” he said, invoking God in what, for a moment, looked like a standard real estate proposal. “The Lord forbid that I should give you my ancestral inheritance.”

From Naboth’s point of view, the vineyard wasn’t a commodity to be bought and sold at will. That vineyard was land that had been in Naboth’s family for generations and would remain in his family for generations to come. Naboth remembered that the land wasn’t anybody’s personal property, but God’s. Naboth remembered that God’s people were tenants on God’s land, and that every clan in Israel had received a portion. According to God’s covenant, each family had a plot of land to farm and to enjoy the fruit of the earth. The intent was to allow every generation thrive and find peace in the shadow of their family’s vines and figtrees. The land was God’s, not a commodity.

“The Lord forbid that I should give you the land that has been in my family for generations and that will be a source of food and income for generations to come,” said Naboth. King Ahab didn’t like the answer. He went to one of his many rooms in the palace, lay on his bed, face to the wall, and pouted; he didn’t even come down for dinner. He really wanted that vineyard, and the queen was genuinely concerned—until she heard his story.

“Aren’t you the king around here?” she mocked him, “Do you want me to go and get that vineyard for you?” She was a Phoenician princess, she didn’t know how royalty in Israel were supposed to behave, or perhaps she did know and just didn’t care. “Get up, eat something, stop moping. I’ll give you the vineyard.”

She didn’t have the power to just take the land, but she had the power to play the system in her favor. She sent a couple of memos in the king’s name, and with bogus charges and the help of two scoundrels who were willing to testify anything for the right price, she had Naboth killed. Then she went to the king and said, “Go, take that vineyard, it’s yours. Naboth is dead.” And Ahab put on his straw hat, got a ball of twine and a few sticks, and went to lay out the beds in his vegetable garden.

I love this tale, and the only thing that bothers me is the tendency in biblical stories, starting with Adam and Eve, to put the blame on women when there’s plenty of blame to go around. Ahab got what he wanted, and he didn’t even bother to ask, “How did you do that, dear?”

How did the king get what he wanted?

You shall not covet your neighbor’s house or anything that belongs to your neighbor, the ten commandments declare, but the king really wanted that vineyard. And who wouldn’t agree that the king’s wish should be everybody’s command?

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, the ten commandments declare, but who says that kings and queens have neighbors – aren’t they all underlings?

You shall not steal, you shall not murder – but what are divine commandments when royal wishes have been made known?

In this tale, everything that keeps a society from drifting into chaos is corrupted by royal covetousness, and the king’s hankering after cucumbers, onions and leeks leads to death by judicial murder. It is ironic that the one person in the story who shows genuine reverence for God’s will is killed on a charge of blasphemy. And the king and queen get to wear the robes of righteousness in front of the public for putting down the blasphemers in Israel.

The systems of law, government, and religion not only fail to protect the innocent man’s life, they become tools in the hands of the powerful who manipulate them for their own purposes. But more is at stake here than the occasional abuse of the system by those in power to serve their own needs and desires.

In Israel’s imagination, the vineyard is a way of speaking of God’s people on God’s land; the vineyard is an image of the flourishing relationship between God and God’s people and the land. In contrast, Egypt, the land of Pharao, the land where the Hebrews served as slaves, is compared to a vegetable garden. The vineyard is planted on land watered by rain from the sky, land that God looks after, but the vegetable garden must be irrigated by foot, with hard labor ( Deuteronomy 11:8-12). The story suggests that if royal covetousness has its way, God’s people return to the house of slavery.

The story could end as it so often ends, with the vineyard gone and the king taking a walk in the royal vegetable garden. But is doesn’t.

Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah the Tishbite, saying: Go down to meet King Ahab of Israel, who rules in Samaria; he is now in the vineyard of Naboth.

Just when Israel began to look like Egypt, the word of the Lord came to one like Moses. Just when the royals thought nobody was paying attention to what they were doing, the word of the Lord came to Elijah:

Go to the vineyard of Naboth and tell King Ahab, “Thus says the Lord: In the place where dogs licked up the blood of Naboth, dogs will also lick up your blood.”

Elijah, the truth-teller, found the king and said, “You have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the Lord.” He could have just said, “You have done what is evil in the sight of the Lord,” but he said, “You have sold yourself.” Naboth wouldn’t even sell a piece of land out of reverence for God’s covenants, but Ahab had sold himself. Sold himself to whom or what?

A few years ago, Bob Dylan sang an answer:

You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance

You may be a businessman or some high-degree thief
They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief

You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed:

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody.

That’s the kind of song Elijah sang to Ahab in the vineyard:

You may live in a palace or live on the street

You may own half of Samaria or just a vineyard

You may be the king or the king’s gardener

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

You sold yourself to idols that promise you your heart’s desire. You sold yourself to visions of power that promise you the world – as long as you give yourself to them. You have sold yourself. You imagine yourself to be free and sovereign in your refusal to serve the Lord who brought Israel out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

You say you serve nobody but yourself? You are of all slaves most to be pitied, for you have sold yourself to serve the whims of your desires. You have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the Lord.

What does that ancient story have to do with you and me, with our lives? We live in a culture that has gotten used to treating greed like a virtue, a culture that depends on covetousness for its flourishing. We surround ourselves with images that tell us we are kings and queens, when in truth we are selling ourselves to powers that promise us the world. We worship at the altars of the gods of consumerism, and we imagine we can grow our way out of every problem and crisis. We live as if the earth wasn’t the Lord’s but ours—and ours to do with as we please.

We look at the disaster in the gulf and we can see the failure of systems of law and government to protect the lives and livelihoods of the most vulnerable families and of future generations. We can look at the mess and demand better oversight, better laws, better risk analysis, better engineering – and we should – but we’re missing the opportunity this moment of crisis presents, if we don’t hear the voice of Elijah, the voice of Jesus calling us to renewed covenant faithfulness.

We imagine ourselves to be free, when in truth we act like addicts who have sold ourselves to promises that aren’t God’s but the products of our own unbridled desires.

We’re gonna have to serve somebody, and we’re all better off if that somebody isn’t our respective myself. Moses, Elijah, and Jesus all point to the same alternative to royal covetousness and anxious selfishness: Life in covenant with the God who called Israel out of Egypt and who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. Life as free men and women who serve no one but the Lord of heaven and earth, and one another in neighborly love.

The Invasion of Death's Dominion

The story begins with Elijah of Tishbe in Gilead and king Ahab, the worst king Israel had known. One day, Elijah came to Ahab and said, “As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.”

The king was angry, very angry, and then the long drought began. God sent Elijah across the border, away from Ahab’s reach, to Zarephath, where a widow would take care of him. When he came to the gate of the town, he saw her. She was gathering sticks. Sticks for one last fire, as she told him, to cook her last handful of grain with a little oil, one last meal for her and her son. The drought on top of her already marginal existence as a widow meant that starvation was inevitable for her and her child. And Elijah, who had asked her for a little water to drink and a morsel of bread, said to her, “Go and do as you have said, but first…” First do this other thing, this rather odd thing to do on the verge of death, this radically generous and hospitable thing, first “make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son.” That last handful of grain, divide it by three instead of two, and feed me before you feed your child and yourself.

And then Elijah, the stranger from across the border added, “For thus says the Lord the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.”

And so it was. They didn’t die of starvation. They ate for many days, and the jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail.

If this were a Hallmark movie, you’d see smiling faces, perhaps rain clouds on the horizon, and the closing credits with the sound of thunder in the background. But in the Bible the story continues. In a tragic turn of events, the widow’s son becomes ill, and the illness is so severe that there is no breath left in him. Death comes again very close, but God listens to the prayers of Elijah, and the boy is miraculously revived and returned to his mother.

The names of king Ahab and queen Jezebel are written in the royal archives and the chronicles of Israel, but nobody wrote down the names of the widow and her son. Their story is not for the history books, but for people who live in dry times. In dry times, we tend to look at our own meager resources, that last handful of grain, that spoon of olive oil at the bottom of the jug, and we go and gather sticks for that last fire. This story blows up our assumptions and reminds us that God’s possibilities go beyond what we can imagine. The woman’s radical hospitality and the prophet’s prayer open the gates through which life returns.

The cover of the current New Yorker shows a familiar scene, a congressional hearing. In the foreground, we see a man in a grey suit, standing behind a table, his right hand raised as he is being sworn in to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He faces a panel of committee members; they are the ones who ask the questions that will bring the truth to light. It is an unusual group of investigators, among them a pelican, a dolphin, a large fish, and a penguin.

Obviously, this isn’t a banking committee hearing, and the gentleman in the grey suit isn’t a hedge fund manager from Wall Street. More likely he’s Tony Hayward, C.E.O. of BP—and while we also have a number of questions we would like him to answer for us, in this hearing we are lined up behind him, and we can’t just sit in the audience. Before this panel, Mr. Hayward is not only answering for his company, but for all of us and our part in the disaster that is unfolding in the gulf and along the gulf coast. We must answer, because we have created a culture that interferes constantly with natural systems, and too often with very limited knowledge of the risks involved for other living things or future generations.

Last week the Boston Globe published a portfolio of pictures by A.P. photographer Charlie Riedel, pictures of pelicans and other sea birds drenched in oil, taken on East Grand Terre Island, one of several barrier islands on the Louisiana coast. They are pictures of agony and death, and almost too much to look at and allow in. It is hard to see these pictures, knowing that I can’t just point at Mr. Hayward and the senior management at BP and blame them for the deadly mess, knowing that the way I live my life has a lot to do with the death and suffering in the water and on land. It is like living through a different kind of drought, where it’s not rain that is lacking, but wisdom and care.

The story continues in Nain, a small town in Galilee. Jesus approached the gate of the town just when a man who had died was being carried out. A large crowd, probably the whole town, followed the bier with the body on it. Apparently the man had not been married; there was no young widow, no children – only his mother. A woman who had already lost her husband, and now her son, her only son. She carried more than the weight of her grief. Without a husband or a son to take care of her, her future looked grim. Most widows had to depend on the compassion of their husband’s family to survive, and many ended up sitting in the gate or by the road side together with the blind and the crippled, begging neighbors and strangers for a little mercy.

Death is a biological reality, and all living things eventually die. But death is also a social reality. Life expectancy is significantly higher for the rich than for the poor. In many places, child mortality rates among girls are higher than among boys. And in many societies, after the death of a spouse, life offers more opportunities to men than to women. Death is the great equalizer that ends every life, but it also invades our lives and prevents them from flourishing with different rules for men and women, for people born in poverty and wealth, for people with access to education and without. Death doesn’t just mark the end of life, it is a present reality that keeps it from thriving.

In a good funeral procession, people cry in their grief, but they also strengthen the ties of friendship between them, they share stories that make them smile, memories of the one whose body they accompany to its final resting place. In a good funeral procession, people travel in gratitude, with tears and smiles, carrying seeds of hope and joy and new life. But when people make that journey without a promise for tomorrow, they follow a bier in a procession of death. It’s a different kind of drought, where it’s not rain that is lacking, but hope and imagination.

So we see an old widow on the way to the cemetery to bury her only son and with him her own life. Traveling with her, the many women from areas where it hasn’t rained in years, gathering sticks for that last meal for themselves and their children. Traveling with them, the children born in cities of blatant inequality, the men and women whose hope disappeared like smoke from a snuffed candle. Traveling with them, fishermen with empty nets and people carrying the bodies of pelicans drenched in oil, dolphins and turtles. A long procession of those who know all the ways in which death invades life and sucks it dry.

They pass through the gate, and there, outside of town, coming toward them, is another procession. The two columns meet, and the Lord of life touches the bier on which the body lies, and he says, “Rise!” And it begins to rain—it rains hope and imagination, wisdom and care, it rains life and joy. The young man sits up and Jesus gives him to his mother and the crowd shouts and sings, praising God.

The procession of death stops, and it does not just stop temporarily, it ends here where the Lord of life says, “Rise!” The procession of death stops, because with Jesus the reign of God has invaded death’s dominion, and life restored in fullness begins to shine forth in glorious beauty. The procession of death stops, because it can go no further than to the cross, and at the cross God said “No!” to all that keeps life from flourishing, and “Rise!” to a new creation where sin and death are no more.

The Psalm for this Sunday praises the Lord, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever (Psalm 146). And line after line unfolds how the Lord keeps faith,

executing justice for the oppressed

giving food to the hungry

setting the prisoners free

opening the eyes of the blind

lifting up those who are bowed down

loving the righteous and caring for the stranger

sustaining the poor but bringing to ruin the way of the wicked

The Lord keeps faith by paying close attention to those living on the margins. The Lord keeps faith through acts of judgment and redemption that bring to ruin the way of the wicked and stop the procession of death. The Lord keeps faith by calling us to follow Christ who leads the procession of life.

And we keep faith by doing the small things that never make the history books. Small things like sharing a meal with the stranger at the gate, because that is how we honor the Lord of life. Small things like paying attention to those living on the margins, even if they are seabirds and dolphins, or little wiggly things whose names we barely know – because that is how we honor the Lord of life. We keep faith by doing small things like not pointing the finger at one man, because we realize that three fingers are pointing back at us.

We are not the ones who stop the procession of death and say, “Rise!” But we follow the One who did just that, and he will always show us a way to continue the invasion of death’s dominion with hope and imagination, with wisdom, care, and new life.

Summertime

No more exams for a while. No more tests. No more papers overdue or homework turned in late. School’s out. Summertime. It’s Meet-you-at-the-pool season. It’s “Off to camp, to the mountains, to the beach, to Italy and France” season. Summertime.

I don’t know if you noticed, but this year, after the final half-day of school was over and after the commencement speeches were delivered, the cry of relief wasn’t quite as euphoric and loud as in the past. Some of that lack of enthusiasm can be explained as post-flood soberness: we’re still working, still cleaning up, still trying to figure out what’s next, and we’re just not quite ready yet to go party or do our usual lazy-summer-stuff. Then there is the economic uncertainty where too many are still looking for work and too many are still worried they might lose their job if the markets don’t start humming again soon. And there is the hole in the bottom of the gulf with millions of gallons of crude spewing into the water – and who knows what this means for life in the ocean and on the coast, and for our demand for energy or our standard of living? It’s summertime, and we wish we could sing, ‘…and the living is easy,’ but we can’t because it isn’t.

My mom and my brother have been with us for a few precious days. Sometime last week, I took my mom to Green Hills Mall; she wanted to do some shopping. I dropped her off between Panera and Davis-Kidd, told her that Panera would be a good place for lunch, and off she went. She had a great morning; she loved Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma, and especially Coldwater Creek.

When she got hungry, she started looking for a place to eat. More specifically, she started looking for the food court. Now, you all probably know that there is no food court at Green Hills Mall, but she kept looking for a while, wondering if she was on the right level or at the wrong end of the building. Eventually she decided to ask a couple for directions.

She could have said, “Excuse me, where is the food court?” or “Pardon me, can you recommend a restaurant in this mall?” Instead she began by telling them the reason for her quest. She said, “I am hungry.”

She meant to add, “Where can I get a sandwich here?” but never got there, because the lady immediately took a step back. When my mom told us the story, I started laughing and said, “Did she offer you a couple of dollars or a cookie from her purse?” No, she didn’t. With both hands raised in a defensive gesture she sought protection behind her husband’s back. She was afraid.

She wasn’t afraid of my mom, a slender woman without any of the traits you expect to see in the large women in a Wagner opera – No, the lady was afraid that real human need had intruded what was for her a safe place, a place where she could look at pretty things and forget the world for a while.

It’s summertime, and we wish we could sing, ‘… and the living is easy,’ but we can’t because it isn’t. Whether we care to admit it or not, there’s uncertainty in the air, even fear.

Don’t you wish Jesus were here? Don’t you wish he simply appeared in all the places where fear threatens to overwhelm hope? Don’t you wish he had sneaked into a commencement celebration somewhere and given the speech the whole world needed to hear right now?

We have these fantasies of God having created the world just a little different or of intervening now with one decisive action from on high to set things right. We have dreams of God sending a strong leader who won’t get corrupted by power or crushed between the wheels of interest groups. We wish Jesus were here.

Beginning with chapter 13, John tells the story of Jesus’ last night with his friends. They didn’t know it would be there last hours together. They didn’t know that he would be arrested, convicted, and crucified the very next day. They didn’t know what was coming next, but Jesus did [for this view of the “farewell discourse,” I follow Eugene Peterson, The Story Behind the Story, Journal for Preachers Vol. 26, No. 4, Pentecost 2003, pp. 4-8].

And so he spent that last night with them preparing them for what they couldn’t even begin to imagine: how to follow him without seeing him; how to do his works without him there to teach and admonish them; how to hear his voice in the noise of the world.

During supper, Jesus got up from the table, got a towel, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet. And after he had washed their feet, he asked, “Do you know what I have done to you?”

And then he began to talk, and he talked for a long time – it’s more than three chapters, the longest conversation we know of between Jesus and his friends. It’s actually not much of a conversation, because the disciples listened the whole time, only occasionally did they throw in a comment or a question.

And after he had spoken, he prayed. He gathered up the life they had lived together and the life they would continue to live without him. He prayed his life and work and their life and work together into one – one life, one mission, one movement of God’s love to the world and in the world.

That is how he prepared them for the difficult transition. That is how he helped them move from seeing in his life who God is to letting others see in their own lives who God is.

He washed their feet, down on his knees before each of them, teaching them to do to each other what he had done to them, choosing the lowly task of a servant.

He prayed to the one he called Father that their mission and his would be one.

He worked and he prayed, and between those focal points of service and worship, he created a tapestry of images, promises, and commandments. Two things he said over and over again.

I am with you only a little longer (13:33).

Now I am going to him who sent me (16:5).

I am leaving the world and am going to the Father (16:28).

Fifteen times in this conversation, Jesus told his disciples, in one way or another, that he would be leaving them.

The second thing he said, and this also over and over again, was that he would send them the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of truth (14:16, 26; 15:26; 16:7).

Two things he said over and over again, “I am leaving…, I am sending…; I am leaving…, I am sending.” Jesus would leave, but he wouldn’t abandon them. He would no longer be with them, but the Holy Spirit would be in them and continue to connect their life and work with his.

The repetitions in these chapters may seem reduntant, but this speech isn’t just information about God, Jesus, the Spirit, and the church. The rhythms and patterns are themselves formative, and listening attentively and reading receptively become the very gates through which the Spirit comes and speaks.

We wish Jesus were here, but he isn’t. But in continuing to live the Jesus way, we are not left to our own strength and imagination. Jesus is sending the Spirit. “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now,” Jesus said. “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.” Jesus’ words are not locked in the past, restricted to a particular period in history. The Spirit allows all generations to receive the word of Jesus in the changing circumstances of our lives, and not just to recall the life of Jesus but continue to live it.

There are words of Jesus that we need to hear to make sense of the church’s role in the current messes of the world, and it is the Spirit who helps us to remember faithfully what Jesus has said and receive obediently what Jesus is saying. We believe that the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh – men and women, young and old, poor and wealthy – and to me that means that we who long to hear the word of God for this day must be attentive to all flesh. Women and men, old and young, poor and rich, trust fund babies and undocumented immigrants. We must listen for the word of God not just in the reading of Scripture or the proclamation of the word, but in every word spoken, whispered, sung or censored among us. We must listen very carefully.

I keep thinking about the two women at the mall. One says, “I am hungry,” and the other is afraid. Of course it is just a simple misunderstanding. Of course it is one that can be easily resolved. And it is soo funny. But it is also true. There is much hunger among God’s children; hunger for bread, for justice, for meaning, hunger for community. And there is much fear; fear of strangers, of the unknown, of losing control, fear of moving down the ladder. I can hear the Spirit speaking: There is hunger and fear, and God wants to make us partners in addressing both, in the name of Jesus.

It's Sunday morning

The Worship Task Group continued our conversation with a discussion of Vine Street’s Sunday morning schedule. The current schedule is

• 8:30am worship in chapel
• 9:30am Christian education for children and adults
• 10:45am worship in sanctuary
• Coffee & fellowship in the columbarium/reception area before and after the 10:45am service

We recommend that we continue to follow the basic order of events, but start earlier in order to allow an earlier start time for the current 10:45am service. A new schedule could look something like this

• 8:00am worship in chapel (45 minutes)
• 9:00am Christian education for children and adults (45 minutes)
• 10:00am worship in sanctuary (55-75 minutes)

We consider it crucial that we move ahead with plans for transforming the fellowship hall into a welcome area (see Journey story) where guests can be greeted, information can be shared in a variety of ways, friends can hang out, and good coffee is available from 7:45 till noon (we pay a barista and help offset the cost by charging for the coffee). The current entrance to the fellowship hall from the parking lot would become the main point of entry on Sunday morning.

We highly recommend hiring teachers for the children’s Sunday School to allow parents to participate in groups on Sunday morning. This may be a good opportunity for students in general, and students of early childhood development/education in particular.

We urge members and leadership to continue to greet guests on Sunday morning and help them find their way around our complicated campus.

We suggest roping off sections of the sanctuary, both to enhance the sense of being part of a community on the part of the congregants, and to make serving communion with trays less awkward.

We are very aware that changes in schedule are difficult to make; we suggest that we use the summer to introduce the changes and invite feedback from congregants, guests, and staff.

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?