"Aligned with Joy"-- Isaiah 58:9b-14, Luke 13:10-17-- Aug. 25, 2013

It hadn’t happened all of a sudden. At first it was just hard to stand up straight in the morning when she got out of bed. Morning stiffness, you know; totally understandable considering what she slept on-- a thin mat on the floor, which didn’t offer much padding or support. Then she couldn’t stand up after she bent over to knead the bread. Pain shot up her back and down her legs. Steadily, relentlessly, day after day it got worse. "Watch where you’re going, old woman!" people would shout at her, as she bumped into them or their carts. "I wish I could," she’d mutter, but by now her field of vision was only about 2 feet in front of her. She couldn’t really take in a deep breath any more, because her chest was all caved in, and food barely had a chance to make it all the way down, so scrunched up were her inner organs. "And behold a woman having a spirit of infirmity 18 years, even was bent together and not able to bend up into all-fullness." That’s how Luke’s Greek literally describes her (Mark Davis, Left Behind and Loving it, 8/25/13) "... was bent together and not able to bend up into all-fullness..."

All-fullness–that’s what the Sabbath was supposed to let you feel–all full (of God,) complete, just perfect. Sabbath-keeping is the jewel of Judaism. "If you refrain from trampling the sabbath," Isaiah writes, "from pursuing your own interests on my holy day; if you call the sabbath a delight and the holy day of the Lord honorable; if you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests, or pursuing your own affairs; then you shall take delight in the Lord, and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth..."

A day of rest is good news to those who must work hard the other 6 days of the week. Shabbat (Sabbath) is life-giving to those who are worked to death. It is a gift to simply take delight in God, to rest in the care of God, knowing that you are made in God’s image, beautiful to behold. We’ve lost that sense of delight, can barely imagine what that "all-fullness" would feel like. Who has time for Sabbath? Who has the temperament to simply "rest in the Lord"? How boring! our kids say, and we must confess that we agree with them. And then there’s the dour, legalistic, anything but delightful history of Sabbath-keeping in the Protestant tradition, full of "no’s"–no dancing, no drinking, no card-playing, no fun, no playing, no nothing but church.

Sabbath arrives by the Presence of God,

[writes Nancy Rockwell] the Indwelling Spirit, in Hebrew, called "Shekinah." She is the Sabbath Bride, the transformational Spirit of God, source of prophecy, Wisdom, the feminine Presence of God.

So every week the Bride arrives.

...There is much mysticism about Shekinah in Judaism

[Rockwell continues]: it is said that she enters Jerusalem through the Beautiful Gate. It is said that the Messiah will enter through that very gate with her. This is the gate tradition says Jesus used to enter the city on Palm Sunday. This gate has been walled up for nearly a thousand years, and was walled up for fear those sayings might be true....Still, she comes, all over the world, to tables with lit candles where Sabbath bread is blessed by women bending over it. (Rockwell, Bite in the Apple, 8/18/13)

So the woman came to the synagogue that day, hoping against hope that Shekinah would enter through the doorway with her and that at last she too would be able to delight in Shabbat and praise God from her "all-fullness." And that day, Shekinah was there and, more than that, recognized her as sister. "Sister," he said, "Mother, Daughter of Abraham, you have been loosed from your bonds." It was as though he was pronouncing her healing rather than performing it. "You have been loosed"–already; past tense. He just touched her to make her feel her body and its energy. "Go ahead, you can stand up." And "immediately she stood up and began praising God."

"But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, ‘There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day." To give him the benefit of the doubt, the leader of the synagogue was trying to be faithful too. He was trying to follow the law, but he had forgotten the delight which God intended for the sabbath, the realignment to joy that the sabbath was meant to help us return to. In his duty-bound, legalistic framework, healing and restoring to wholeness were merely work, which was prohibited. When Jesus pointed out that even he, the synagogue leader, would untie his donkey or ox to lead it away to water on the sabbath, those who grumbled against Jesus were "put to shame." They could see the truth, the rightness, of what Jesus said. The law for them had gotten out of alignment with the spirit within it. Shabbat was meant for delight, for joy. Jesus didn’t set aside the law; he merely offered a different interpretation of it, and knew that it must always bend to grace. (David Lose, Working Preacher, 8/25/13) "Ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?" Wasn’t she bound to be loosed?

Luke makes clear that this bondage is spirit-driven, bound by Satan, but the woman may have had arthritis or scoliosis, osteoporosis, or any number of degenerative bone diseases. "She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight." But there are many things that make our shoulders droop and our backs bend over. What burdens are weighing you down, causing your body or spirit to bend over, rather than bending up to all-fullness? It may be concerns about your own health or the health of a loved one; it may be a relationship that is weighing you down, twisting up your insides so that you can barely eat; it may be fear that barely allows you to take a full breath and narrows your vision. It may be a dream deferred or squashed altogether; it may be a sense of shame or guilt. Humiliation causes our heads to drop and our shoulders to curve. Discouragement weighs down our steps. Schedules that are crammed from morning to night can crush us with their weight. The sadness and horror of the world’s events, the plight of our planet, may cause us to be "bent together and not able to bend up into all-fullness."

This story opens the door to possibility, offers a window into the all-fullness that is actually already in our midst. It is the story of a coming together, to hear the stories, to open up to the Indwelling Spirit of God, Shekinah, Wisdom. It gives us a glimpse of the kingdom, where we catch a vision of the image in which we were made and which calls us to realign our lives to that original intention. It is a taste of the messianic banquet already set before us. Telling the story itself, letting the story get inside us, can help with that realignment, that healing.

Jesus was quintessentially a story-teller, weaving words and melodies that were the very energy and vibrations of the "kingdom," the holy realm, that was coming and was and is already in our midst. Those stories continue to weave their wonder-working powers, told in many places in many ways. Where are you in this story?--

On a day long ago it came to pass as the Seanchai

[the story-teller] was taking his journey along the rivers and trails of Cúige Mumhan, he heard faint sounds of sean-nos [melodies] wafting along the soft waves of an early evening breeze. It came from the little village of Caiseal. His heart was drawn by the warm spirit of what was surely an especial cilidh* (gathering). During a cilidh old people and young would come together around the hearth of a village home and there would be music and dancing.

If a Seanchai was present there would also be the telling of stories and ofttimes, if the energy was just so, it was said that an extraordinary Seanchai would become a weaver of stories and music and people. In this way of working with tales the Seanchai is a weaver of energy and words; and sometimes healing will break forth in the gathered people. This cilidh is a sacred space of words and people’s hearts. Some say it is in this sacred space that Tír na nÓg, the blessed realm,

[the kingdom of God] can be known.

The sun is setting very late one evening and lengthening shadows of ancient trees cast a ghostly specter through the mist. A dusty trail leads to an old stone house where candles send a welcome to all who approach. Music and laughter can be heard and the Seanchai comes to the doorway of a large room where a fire burns in the aged hearth. Young and old are clapping and singing. They open a path in the crowded room as though they know this is one who tells tales, sings the music of the blessed realm and weaves wonder into longing hearts.

As he sits, the crowd grows quiet. The Seanchai closes his eyes and softly begins to sing a tale of new worlds and renewal of human hearts. An old woman stands in the back of the room, bent over with age and soft bones. She comes to listen, tucked away in a corner where she is no bother to those who dance. She has not danced for over two hundred moons and her heart has grown heavier with lack of hope at the passing of each season of the falling leaves.

The Seanchai, eyes still closed begins the haunting lines of ancient Sean-nos. Within him the music and the tale weaves its way into a place of dark where hope has not dwelt for much time. The crowd is quiet as all are transported to a new place. A heavy weight seems to rise from the room and floats as smoke to a place of light.

The old woman feels the words and the music; her eyes turn to the Seanchai and for the first time in many years she lifts her head ever so slightly. She has not gazed into another’s eyes since hope began to flow from her heart.

"Dance!" The Seanchai cries with a loud voice. Guests are startled and energy fills the room.

"But Seanchai," the old woman protests, "I cannot stand…" Her words of objection die in her throat as she begins to straighten.

"Dance!" He commands.

The room breaks out with joyous shouts; all are astonished and celebrate with much clapping and dancing. The guests flow apart like water as the old woman slowly makes her way to the center of the room and begins to move – sinew and bones – as in the time when her years were few.

The house is filled with rejoicing. Great love flows to the old woman who danced. Timeless wonder, love and praise so enfolds the cilidh that no one noticed the Seanchai quietly making his way out the door and into the damp night air. Though one later said he thought he heard the storyteller singing softly as he made his way along the dark trail.

You cannot go
To Tír na nÓg
Yea hosts have tried
And all have failed
Not by land
And not by sea
You cannot go
To Tír na nÓg

If the song
Of Tír na nÓg
Should fill your ears
And then your soul
Then not by land
And not by sea
You will surely come to Tír na nÓg
You cannot go
To Tír na nÓg
You can only come
A heart set free

(–John Jewell, Lectionary Tales, Aug. 25, 2013)

May the song of Tir na nOg, the blessed realm, the kingdom of God, fill our souls, and so may our hearts be set free. So may we bend up to all -fullness. Amen, and amen.

　

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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"Will the circle be unbroken?"-- Hebrews 11:29-12:2--Aug. 18, 2013

This passage from Hebrews which Tom read for us this morning could be the outline for a year’s worth of Sunday school lessons. Do you know all those stories? The story of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea as if it were dry land, the story of Joshua and the battle of Jericho, when the walls came a-tumblin’ down, the story of Rahab the prostitute and the spies whom she sheltered? How about those other names–Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel and the prophets? Great names in the pantheon of faith. And then there are others whose names have come down to us in stories– those who shut the mouths of lions (remember Daniel in the lions’ den?), quenched the raging fire (Shadrach, Mishach, Abednigo), those like Stephen who were stoned to death, and the nameless ones–most of the women, of course, but those who suffered mocking and flogging and even chains and imprisonment, ones who were sawn in two, killed by the sword, those who went about in sheep and goat skins, destitute, tormented, persecuted. "By faith" they were able to do these things, the writer of Hebrews says; "yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made perfect."

That’s really quite an extraordinary statement. All these people–some famous, most not so famous–didn’t "receive what was promised, since God had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made perfect." Peterson puts it this way–"Not one of these people, even though their lives of faith were exemplary, got their hands on what was promised. God had a better plan for us: that their faith and our faith would come together to make one completed whole, their lives of faith not complete apart from ours."

We are connected to all these people, our lives integrally woven together with theirs. "We are surrounded," the writer says, "by so great a cloud of witnesses..." "All these pioneers [Peterson puts it] who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on!" And, of course, it’s not just Biblical figures. It’s all those lives after the backcover of our Bibles was put on–Julian of Norwich, Martin Luther, John Wesley, Hildegaard of Bingen, Francis of Assissi, along with those other saints, whom we could spend the rest of the morning naming–Pat Haines, Pepper and John Morrison, Rose Tobias, Steve Green, Max and Mary Webster, Sue Dana, Estelle Atwood, Kelly Wright, Mary Madkour, Ginny Irwin, my brother Bob, my dad, Russ and June Clark, my grandmother, ....Call out a few names of the cloud of witnesses who surround us here, whether human or animal....

"God had a better plan for us: that their faith and our faith would come together to make one completed whole, their lives of faith not complete apart from ours." You may have recognized the title of the song from which I took the title for my sermon today–"Will the circle be unbroken?" Do you know it? "Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by; there’s a better home awaiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky." But it’s not just "by and by...in the sky". It’s right here and now. Their energy is as present with us as the energy within and between us. It surrounds us, infuses us.

Christian Wyman, whose book My Bright Abyss I told you about last week, writes to his twin daughters, now 6 or 7, who will have to deal with their father’s death if –and when–his incurable cancer finally wins over his body–

My loves

[he writes], I will be with you, even if I am not with you...My loves, I love you with all the volatility and expansiveness of spirit that you have taught me to feel, and I feel your futures opening out from you, and in those futures I know my own. I will be with you. I will comfort you in your despair and I will share in your joy. They need not be only grief, only pain, these black holes in our lives. If we can learn to live not merely with them but by means of them, if we can let them be part of the works of sacred art that we in fact are, then these apparent weaknesses can be the very things that strengthen us. Life tears us apart, but through those wounds, if we have tended them, love may enter us. It may be the love of someone you have lost. It may be the love of your own spirit for the self that at times you think you hate. However it comes though, in all these–of all these and yet more than they, so much more–there burns the abiding love of God. But if you find that you cannot believe in God, then do not worry yourself with it. No one can say what names or forms God might take, nor gauge the intensity of unbelief we may need to wake up our souls. My love is still true, my children, still with you, still straining through your ambitions and your disappointments, your frenzies and forgetfulness, through all the glints and gulfs of implacable matter –to reach you, to help you, to heal you. [My Bright Abyss, p. 161]

"We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses..." "...their faith and our faith... come together to make one completed whole, their lives of faith not complete apart from ours..."

And "since–because–we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith..." Looking to Jesus, who has run this race before us. All these others–Abraham, Moses, Gideon, Rahab, David, Samuel, Mary, apostles, martyrs, disciples–we know they were flawed human beings who inspite of their flaws–maybe even because of their flaws–were used by God to do great things. Somehow, often through no particular choice but maybe even because there was no choice left–somehow they trusted in God–which is what faith is-- and were able to persevere. And those modern day saints–those whose names we lifted up–we know they were flawed human beings, as much as we loved them, none were perfect. So we can look to them, perhaps, for strength, as models of how we might also overcome obstacles or hindrances. If they could do it, perhaps so can we.

But "let us look to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith"? What kind of model is a God-man for us mere mortals? Our forebears in faith knew that if Jesus was only God in human guise, he could blaze no path for us. So they insisted that he was "fully human" and "fully divine." But so much of Christian tradition pulls away from that humanity, that incarnation – that embodiment in human flesh – and talks only of the miracle man, or the shimmering figure of the Trinity who is enthroned within the Godhead. "Let us look to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith"? Jesus, if his Way is to be our way, had to be fully human, and what he was able to "perfect" was that utter trust in God, which is faith. It’s still a daunting standard, but remember that our faith is part of the circle that includes his faith. All flesh shall see it together.

You know, as we read this list of names of faithful ones, each one is set in the context of struggle and even despair. This is not a gospel of easy living, of prosperity and fame and fortune. Many thought the world was coming to an end. Many were pretty sure that their lives–the world as they knew it–were coming to an end. Their lives of faith were set in a context not so very different from our own. I’ll spare you the litany of dangers and calamities and tragedies that are part of our lives today, but there are plenty of dire, end-of-the-world scenarios out there to "shake our faith." The title of Bill McKibben’s book that many of us are reading–Eaarth–spells Eaarth with 2 "a’s" because it’s no longer the earth that human beings have inhabited for so many years.

But instead of steeling our hearts, instead of closing ourselves off from the pain and sorrow, we are called to "lay aside every weight and the sin–or separation from God–that clings so closely." We are called to open our hearts, open our entire selves, to God, to empty ourselves of everything but God, as Jesus did, in radical trust in that Love and Power. Again, it is that trust, not some list of "things to believe," that is faith.

The wise Buddhist teacher Pema Chodrin puts it this way–

These days the world really needs people who are willing to let their hearts...ripen. There’s such widespread devastation and suffering: people are being run over by tanks or their houses are being blown up or soldiers are knocking on their doors in the middle of the night and taking them away and torturing them and killing their children and their loved ones. People are starving. It’s a hard time. We who are living in the lap of luxury with our pitiful little psychological problems have a tremendous responsibility to let our clarity and our heart, our warmth, and our ability ripen, to open up and let go, because it’s so contagious.

We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, cheering us on, tugging at our hearts, assuring us that no matter how deeply we feel–the pain or the joy–nothing can separate us from them or the love of God which envelopes all of us. The circle will not be broken. Loren McGrail, the missionary from Palestine who spoke to us on Wednesday afternoon, told of a video conference with Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who suffered through the agony of apartheid. He spoke by Skype to a gathering of Palestinians and urged them on, and then in his high, joyful, yet quiet voice, she said, he told them, "We win! In the end, we win! Evil will be defeated."

"Since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us..." The circle will not be broken. In life, in death, in life beyond death, God – and this great cloud of witnesses – is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God!

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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"Are we there yet?"-- Hebrew 11:1-3, 8-16, Luke 12:32-40 -- August 11, 2013

 

The first time I came to Vermont was in the 1950's and there were no interstate highways. Our family set out early in the morning from New Jersey for Greensboro, up in the Northeast Kingdom, with a mailed, written confirmation of our reservations at a lodge there and a colorful brochure, showing simple white cottages, a shimmering blue lake with sailboats and canoes, and a dining room full of happy people eating stacks of fluffy pancakes dripping with Vermont maple syrup. For a while we traveled on the Garden State Parkway, then the Northway section of the NYS Thruway. Then we headed east to Whitehall, following my father’s carefully laid out route, up through Rutland, and on up into Killington, squirreling along Rts. 100 and 107 to Bethel and then, not onto Route I-89, which didn’t exist then, but simply on and on, around endless twists and curves, trees and more trees. I don’t remember when I started asking, "Are we there yet?" but I have a feeling it wasn’t much beyond our Northway exit. By the afternoon, my dad introduced us to the game where you would count the number of cows you saw on your side of the car (back when there were lots of cows to count), a white horse doubled your count, and a cemetery wiped out your numbers. That was fun for a little while. But the route kept going and going. It got so that every time I caught a glimpse of blue–what I thought surely must be Caspian Lake–I would ask, "Is that it?"

I realize now, having been the driver with kids in the backseat on a few similar journeys, what an incredible test of my parents’ patience that drive must have been. If they hadn’t had that brochure, if they hadn’t had been assured by friends who had been there that it was a wonderful place, if they hadn’t paid that deposit, it would have been sorely tempting to pull over at any number of spots, turn around and head for the Jersey shore, a familiar place less than 2 hours from home. Of course, I’m glad they kept on. We ended up vacationing at Highland Lodge in Greensboro year after year, and both my brother and I worked there during college summers. I fell in love with Vermont, ended up going to college here, and, lo and behold, moving here 18 years ago this week to become the pastor of Second Congregational Church.

But if my parents hadn’t ventured forth, assured that those white cottages and stacks of pancakes were real, my life might have taken a very different path.

"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen...By faith, Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance, and he set out, not knowing where he was going..." So says the writer of the letter, which is really more of a sermon, to the Hebrews, who really aren’t Jews but rather a young Christian community. "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."

What is it you hope for? That makes a difference, doesn’t it? in the direction you travel, in the path you take. It makes a real difference if your hope is more than just wishful thinking. If what you hope for is, say, fame and fortune, you’ll make certain decisions about what you’ll do, where you’ll live and work, the kind of people you’ll associate with. If what you hope for is good health, you’ll make certain decisions about what you eat, how you exercise, what you do with and for your body. If only, alas, you could choose your genes, which may be possible some day, because that has a huge effect on our health. If what you hope for is a comfortable life, with enough money to pay your bills, a few friends or family to keep you company, then that too determines the kinds of decisions you will make about what you do with your time, where you’ll live, what you’ll spend your time thinking about.

All of these hopes, at least initially, chart our course. The thing about any kind of travel or journey, of course, is the unexpected. "Life is what happens when you’ve made other plans," right? What if fame and fortune don’t come, or maybe they do, and you discover you’re absolutely miserable? What if, despite all your best efforts, no matter how many green smoothies you drink, no matter how many aerobics or yoga classes you attend or miles you run, a lump still appears in your breast or your PSA comes back elevated? What if, despite the beautiful house and brilliant children, your partner decides to leave or one of your kids starts to smoke pot? What about the "assurance of things hoped for? The conviction of things not seen?"

"Where your treasure is," Jesus said, "there your heart will be also." Where is your heart invested?

It’s faith that the writer of Hebrews says is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Faith. Too often, and in fact for generations of Christians, "faith" has been a thing, a list of propositions to give your assent to, a creed to memorize.

When my life broke open seven years ago [writes poet Christian Wyman of his diagnosis of an incurable cancer], I knew very well that I believed in something. Exactly what I believed, however, was considerably less clear. So I set out to answer that question, though I have come to realize that the real question–the real difficulty–is how, not what. How do you answer that burn of being? What might it mean for your life–and for your death–to acknowledge that insistent, persistent ghost? [My Bright Abyss, p. x.]

It’s the how, not the what, of faith that is the real question. Faith as list of agreed to propositions can sit on the shelf and not make a whole lot of difference in your life. It is possible to go about your business and not let that kind of faith impede your progress too much.

But faith that is more than a head trip, that wraps around your heart, where your treasure is, faith as trust rather than intellectual belief, that can change your life. That kind of faith can re-route not only your life path but your neural pathways as well. "The opposite of faith is not doubt," wrote the great holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, "the opposite of faith is not doubt, but indifference." (Cited by Kate Huey in Weekly Seeds, 8/11/13)

There is no way to ‘return to the faith of your childhood,’ [writes Christian Wyman], not really, not unless you’ve just woken from a decades-long and absolutely literal coma. ...No... Whatever faith you emerge with at the end of your life is going to be not simply affected by that life but intimately dependent upon it, for faith in God is, in the deepest sense, faith in life–which means that even the staunchest life of faith is a life of great change. It follows that if you believe at fifty what you believed at fifteen, then you have not lived–or have denied the reality of your life. [Wyman, op cit., p. 7]

"Where your treasure is," Jesus said, "there your heart will be also." Faith, in the sense of trust, in the sense of "ultimate concern," the center of gravity of our lives, the longing of our hearts, that is our treasure. Jesus spoke of the kingdom or reign of God as that treasure, the kingdom that was both far-country and in our midst. "Do not be afraid, little flock, [he told them] for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom." Jesus opened the door for the kingdom to come into our midst, and we’re not there yet. As long as there are people living in their vans, we’re not there yet. As long as there are children who must witness unspeakable acts of violence and depravity, we’re not there yet. As long as the earth’s air and water are polluted and the seas warm and rise, we’re not there yet. As long as some have more than they can possibly ever use while many more do not have enough, we’re not there yet. "All of these, the writer of Hebrews says, all of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them." "Not yet...."

"Don’t be afraid, little flock," Jesus said. It is indeed fear that steals the treasure of faith away, and there’s plenty to be afraid of. Look around, turn on the news, read the paper, feel the change in the weather. "The madness and lostness we see all around us and within us," writes author/preacher Frederick Buechner, " are not the last truth about the world but only the next to last truth." "Like the writer of Hebrews, Buechner knows that faith, that is trust, is a thing of the heart that helps us see the truth hidden sometimes beneath appearances, ‘the last truth of the world,’ the truth of God’s love, and God’s peace," (Kate Huey, op cit.)

If we were to miraculously find a pair of "kingdom glasses" [John Jewell, Lectionary Tales, 8/11/13] that would provide lenses through which we could see the kingdom in our midst–the real last truth about the world–what would we see? Would we see Christ sleeping next to the homeless man and his cat? Would we see small groups of people taking up rakes and mops and scrubbers, cleaning up parks and highways and vacant lots? Would we see "angels" sitting beside us at death beds, holding us and gently leading our loved ones off to the dance? Would we see artists and musicians and dancers connected by rainbow musical scores and weaving threads of light through all creation? Research tells us that what we focus our attention on grows. Appreciate the good and the good appreciates. What do you hope the kingdom of God, here in our midst, is like? "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen..."

Again, Christian Wyman, writing from the perspective of one who is actively wrestling with pain and death, but also with hope and life, says,

Perhaps it is never disbelief, which at least is active and conscious, that destroys a person, but unacknowledged belief, or a need for belief so strong that it is continually and silently crucified on the crosses of science, humanism, art, or

(to name the thing that poisons all these gifts of God) the overweening self. [p. 12]...Faith is not some hard, unchanging thing you cling to through the vicissitudes of life [he writes]. Those who try to make it into this are destined to become brittle, shatterable creatures. Faith never grows harder, never so deviates from its nature and becomes actually destructive, than in the person who refuses to admit that faith is change...faith is folded into change, is the mutable and messy process of our lives rather than any fixed, mental product...[p. 18]

What you must realize, [writes Wyman] what you must even come to praise, is the fact that there is no right way that is going to become apparent to you once and for all...Wisdom is accepting the truth of this. Courage is persisting with life in spite of it. And faith is finding yourself, in the deepest part of your soul, in the very heart of who you are, moved to praise it. (Pp. 29-30)

"My Bright Abyss" is the title of Christian Wyman’s book and is what calls God, that homeland toward which he longs. "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." We’ve all set out on this journey called life, and our faith is intimately wrapped up in the journey. It’s not a "what" but more of a "how." We’re not only headed to a far country, but are daily, in every moment, surrounded by it, it’s in the cells of our bodies. The kingdom is coming and now is. "Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit." Pay attention. Notice your life. Live it, don’t just phone it in. "Don’t be afraid, little flock, for it is God’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom."

A woman was talking about the stresses of modern life with her doctor, who happens to be Hindu. "Live in the past," he said, "and you will be depressed. Live in the future, and you will be anxious. Live in the present with gratitude and you will be at peace." (Alyce McKenzie, patheos, 8/8/10) Live with gratitude. Live with God’s promise in your heart. So may we live with wisdom, courage, and faith. Amen, and amen.

 

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

 

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"Treasure Investment" --Hosea 11:1-11, Luke 12:13-21-- August 4, 2013

 

The heading in many of our Bibles for this morning’s Gospel reading is "The Parable of the Rich Fool." Now, the thing about the parables of Jesus is they’re like Trojan horses–they sound like quaint little folk stories–you know, something to entertain folks before there was television,-- but what they actually do is get inside you and keep working on you long after they’re done. They might even creep up on you on a Tuesday afternoon, long after you’ve heard the parable on a Sunday morning. So, there should be a warning issued before we read these things. In fact, in this morning’s reading, Jesus does just that. He says, "Watch out! Be on guard! Be very certain...."

The other ruse about this particular parable is that the title makes it seem like it’s not about us. I’m not rich, and I’d rather not think of myself as a fool, so I can listen to the parable with a certain amount of distance and objectivity...until on Tuesday afternoon it occurs to me that that story that I heard on Sunday morning may actually have been about me. What was it about storing stuff away in my barn, or basement, or attic, or garage that Jesus was talking about?

So, a landowner’s farm had a bumper crop, a very good year, not necessarily because he did anything in particular to make it grow, but because the weather happened to cooperate–not too much rain, just enough heat and sun. But it produced more than he could use and even more than he could store. So he has this little conversation with himself, as Peterson translates it–

"‘What can I do? My barn isn’t big enough for this harvest.’ Then he said, ‘Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll tear down my barns and build bigger ones. Then I’ll gather in all my grain and goods, and I’ll say to myself, ‘Self, you’ve done well! You’ve got it made and can now retire. Take it easy and have the time of your life!’"

But in the only one of Jesus’ parables where God speaks directly, "God showed up, and said, ‘Fool! Tonight you die. And your barnful of goods–who gets it?’" (The Message)

The landowner isn’t evil. This isn’t ill-gotten gain. He’s just all wrapped up in himself. There’s not a single other being who he takes into consideration. He even talks to himself, answers his own questions. Until God breaks into the conversation with the ultimate reality test–"Tonight you will die."–and makes his little building project seem rather short-sighted. "And your barnful of goods–who gets it?"

Here’s how this little Trojan horse of a parable has been working on me this week since I re-read it Tuesday morning. One of the things I did over vacation was re-do our back room– stripped the wallpaper, painted it, took out the loveseat that our cats had trashed, and moved in some bookshelves and a loveseat that we had taken out of Bruce’s parents house in getting it ready for sale. But, alas, there’s plenty more where that came from. We’re not building bigger barns, we’re just stuffing more things into our current barn, and garage, and basement. For all sorts of reasons,–the least of which is, I don’t know what we’ll do with her stuff-- I’m hoping my mom lives many more years. And when I’m tempted to buy one more thing–that we’re not going to eat or use up in the next week–this harmless little story bubbles up and says, "Really?"

And that’s not even touching the challenge of being responsible–and faithful–about the stuff that I will leave behind, if I die tonight or in 40 years. Do I want to burden my children with disposing of all my stuff, or do I want to pass on to them a blessing?

Here’s an alternative version of this parable, suggested by Rev. John Jewell, which I think faithful to the spirit of the one told by Jesus–

Once there was a man who was richly blessed by God... After receiving word that he had received yet another windfall, he said to himself ‘What in the world am I going to do with all this money?! ‘ He thought long and hard about what he should do and he finally came up with how to invest his money in a way that would bring even more to his richly blessed life. He summoned his accountants and managers and said to them, ‘I have been blessed above most people I know, [and certainly most people in the world,] and now I have more money than I even dreamed of. I’ve decided how I want to invest this money to make even more. I want to put everything I own–except for enough to live on in a simple way–into a charitable foundation. Each year half the money is to be given to organizations that feed the hungry and the other half to assist prisoners who desire to transition to a life free from crime.’ Then the rich man who became poor to become rich said to himself, ‘I have been blessed beyond anything I ever imagined and now I am blessed even more." And God said to him, ‘My child, you have many good things stored up, come now and rest in the joy of your God.’" (JP Jewell, "Lectionary Tales," 8/4/13)

Now most of us don’t consider ourselves rich, with more money than we know what to do with. Some of us struggle every month to pay our bills and to provide for our families. An unexpected windfall, or winning the lottery, or finding out we’ve been named in a rich uncle’s will sounds like an answer to prayer. The thing is, unless you’re on the extreme end of survival, where receiving more money would be a matter of life and death, more money has been shown not to essentially change people’s level of happiness and well-being. There are more than enough nightmare stories from people who have won the lottery. For many, it’s ruined their lives. If you were miserable before you received an influx of money, chances are after a brief spike, you’ll be miserable again.

I’d like my life to be a version of this revised parable of abundance and letting go to become a blessing to others. I know that I have been blessed above many people, certainly above the majority of people in the world, and so I need to keep asking myself, "What am I storing up in my barn?" What am I teaching my children and others to store up?

One woman who, like most of us, was accustomed to buying Christmas gifts for her 3 children and several grandchildren, decided one year, after participating in her church’s mission festival, to give each of the families $200 and asked them to decide, with the children, how they’d like to spend the money–on people who really needed it. The kids in one family noticed that some of the kids at school couldn’t go out for recess because they didn’t have warm coats. They went to the Goodwill Store and bought several coats in perfect condition to take to school. Another family bought food for the homeless shelter. What if, instead of saying, "I’d like one of those," our children said, "I wonder who could use one of those?" (Jewell, op cit.)

This parable asks, "What is the ‘good life’?" What makes us truly happy? What is the ultimate currency in your life? Would you rather have a million bucks or a close, loving relationship? What would it mean to be "rich toward God"? Is blessing or abundance to be hoarded and stored up or shared with the community? Not only would the rich man have had the additional blessing of experiencing the joy of seeing others in his community have enough to eat or have adequate housing or education or health care–while he was alive–; he also wouldn’t have spent his last day alive on a building project that was ultimately doomed to failure. Who needs a barn or silo full of rotting grain? We need to share what we have now–as well as think about how we can share after we’re gone. As one sage put it, "You can’t take it with you, but, my friends, you can send it on ahead!" (Jewell, op cit.) Do you have a will? Are the people and causes important to you included in it?

And there’s that other sage, Miss Piggy, who said, "Many people think money is something to be set aside for a rainy day. But honestly, how much money do you really need for a dozen or so hours of inclement weather?" (Cited by Kate Huey, Weekly Seeds, 8/4/13)

Jesus was not afraid to talk about money. In fact, he talked about that and what we do with our resources more than any other single topic. So does the rest of the Bible. So we too might begin a conversation with each other; after all, we’re all in this together. What do our checkbooks and credit card statements say about our lives and what we value? How much do we need to live "the good life"? We might practice counting our blessings, which are many, and supporting one another in our struggles to "be on guard," as Jesus said, "against all kinds of greed."

Sharing the one loaf and one cup is a good place to start, reminding us that sometimes just a morsel and a sip are all you need, especially when it connects to the endless, abundant Source of Love and Life. So, take and eat. Take and drink. Let us keep the feast. Amen.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

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