introduction to retreat "women in the Bible"

Hello, I’m Alice Connor.

I’m an Episcopal priest working for the ELCA because of our agreement to be in full communion. I work as a campus missioner at UC with college students at the Edge campus ministry house. We drink really good coffee and argue theology. I meet students for lunch because it’s always good to have food and drink around so you have something to do with your hands. I talk with folks about theology and spiritual practice. I make art with students for the Edge House and for the campus. And I hang out with lovely folks like you. It’s really the coolest job ever.

I have been married to my husband for over 13 years and we have two ridiculously adorable children: Abby who’s four and Jackson who’s 7 months. Seriously, at the break just try to stop me from showing you pictures.

        

We love dark, ambiguous TV shows like Battlestar Galactica and Arrested Development. We also love Barbecue and once drove 1700 miles round trip to Kansas City to go to Arthur Bryant’s.

I am a great lover of scripture—which means that I both delight in it and fight it. The stories present in our Bible are messy and challenging and beautiful and I relish the opportunity to converse with y’all about them.

Here’s what I have in mind for our time together. Each of the three addresses tomorrow will consist of: first, a two-minute sitting meditation; second, 12-15 minute storytelling about one or more women from the Bible; third, a 10-minute sitting meditation to consider the story and listen for what God might be telling us; and fourth, a time for questions and discussion. Does this sound acceptable?

For tonight, I’d like to chat a bit about women in scripture first, followed by a more general conversation about our own experiences, then spend a little time in silent meditation.

One summer a few years ago, I was chaplain at our diocesan summer camp for the week of Outdoor Adventure Camp. We set up tents in the woods, made our own food, chopped our own wood, did educational and spiritual exercises based on the natural world and God’s fingerprints on it. This year particular was special because I was enormously pregnant with my daughter. I was staying just over the hill in the retreat center—air-conditioned and mattressed comfort. One afternoon, I was sitting by the campfire watching campers and counselors chopping wood. It’s hard work, chopping wood. Even watching it made me tired. And I observed to the counselor nearby that in the American pioneer days, pregnant women had to chop the wood, start the fires, cook the food, wash the clothes, fight off scavengers, care for the other children, and much more and I could barely stand up to get a cookie from the storage bins. Those pioneer women were fierce. And probably exhausted. We decided to form the Women’s Pioneer League—the only requirement for membership was a deep awe for the women who’d gone before us and all they’d accomplished, pregnant or not.

Women are all over our scriptures—not a controversial statement, really. But so many of our stories are, for lack of a better term, less than those of our brothers. Their stories are about conquest and seeing God face-to-face and “let my people go” and “Mortal, can these bones live?” Our stories are predominantly about childbirth or the lack thereof or about rape or about something other than us. Or at least they seem to be.

Friends, I don’t know where you are on the spectrum of feminism. In the conversations around feminism we have in the church, in the workplace, in our families, we talk about equality and a woman’s place and no matter where you fall on the spectrum, these conversations are all about power: who has it, who doesn’t have it, what it’s used for. These are good questions to ask, don’t get me wrong. But as Christians we are called to something different. The God we worship, the God made human, seems to be all about the powerless. And so often in our scripture God calls us not to success but to faithfulness. God calls us not to power but to presence.

Tamar had married three brothers in succession and each died. Her father-in-law was horrified and refused to marry her to another brother, sent her away in disgrace. So she dressed up like a prostitute and put herself in his path. He didn’t recognize her, slept with her, gave her his staff as his promise that he’d pay her a goat later, then was enraged when his daughter-in-law came up pregnant. When she presented him his staff as proof of the baby’s paternity, he said “this woman is more righteous than I.”

Tamar’s story is about going after justice in whatever way you have at your disposal and about calling the ones in power to account. Tamar’s story is about being present to her own life.

Ruth had married and then buried a foreigner, an Israelite, and had nothing left. She followed her mother-in-law back to Israel where they again had nothing. She met, wooed, and was married by a wealthy man named Boaz and bore him a son who would be King David’s granddaddy.

Ruth’s story is about God choosing outsiders to be part of the divine family and about love crossing human-made boundaries. Ruth’s story is about being present to how God is working in less-than-ideal situations.

Mary the mother of Jesus was meek and mild. And young. And maybe a little freaked-out by the annunciation and pregnancy. Or maybe not. She was not sent away by Joseph as an adulterer but birthed her baby Jesus in a dirty cow stable. And he grew up to be a good Jewish boy, studied Torah, healed the sick, and died for the sins of the world. Her story is about him. But she also sang a song about the mighty being brought low and the poor raised up. She sang the Magnificat which is a great example of prophetic literature.

Mary the mother of Jesus’ story is about bearing the Word of God to the world no matter how hard it might be. Mary’s story is about being present to how God is working in each of us.

In a number of places in the Hebrew Scriptures, righteous men are said to pull down the symbols of pagan worship including the “Asherah’s”. Asherah was an ancient Near Eastern goddess of fertility and home. And many scholars write that in a very early form of Judaism, she was Yahweh’s wife.

The Asherah’s story is about being on the same footing as men and having that footing taken away. Maybe the Asherah’s story is about absence rather than presence.

Eve, for goodness sake, was created as an equal partner to Adam in both creation narratives and has an extensive theological discussion with the serpent. Eve’s story is about disobedience and growing up. Eve’s story is about being present to our mistakes.

What happened to these stories? What happened to these women with their stories of neglect or celebration, anger or mercy? What, for that matter, has happened to the stories of our mothers and grandmothers and greatgrandmothers? My great aunts—there were 6 of them, though I only met 2—lived in a house that used to be a speakeasy. For years after they moved in, men would come to the backdoor asking for bathtub liquor. They worked during World War II in a factory that made sanitary napkins. And that’s all I know about them. There are stories there. There are stories here in this room, because we are all part of the story that God is telling.

I want to invite us now to take [_____] minutes to share some stories with one another. Let’s break into groups and each person share the oldest story about a woman in your family you can remember, even if it’s only a few words.

[break for storytelling]

What was that like? What did you notice?

Before we break for the night, I want to introduce the concept of sitting meditation. How many of you have done sitting meditation before?

[explain about not clearing mind, candle focus, breath focus, word focus, uncrossing body, being present in this room]

[practice for three minutes]

Sisters, I look forward to being with you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.

sermon on Isaiah 62

When I’m driving around town, 

maybe on my way to the Edge campus ministry house or running errands, 

I like to play a little game with the radio. 

I turn on the top 40 pop music station and then assume that, 

whatever song is on, it’s about Jesus. 

Either that someone wants Jesus to see them and love them 

or that Jesus is singing about wanting us to see and love him. 

It works 9 times out of 10.

See, most popular music is, forgive me, not written very well. 

Of course there are gems in there, but like movies or fiction, 

much of it is forgettable. 

Popular music, specifically of the “romantic” genre, is vague 

and filled with clichés about how great the other person is

—you’re so beautiful, so awesome, I just want to be with you.

So much of what is on is kind of hilarious if you put Jesus in place 

of the boyfriend or girlfriend being sung about. 

This is how I amuse myself.

Interestingly, a lot of Christian pop music is kind of the same. 

Vague, clichéd statements about how beautiful and awesome God is

and how we just want to be with him.

These are what I often call “Jesus is my boyfriend” songs.

Innocuous examples might be 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord, blessed be your Name…” by M. Redman 

or “Indescribable, uncontainable,

You placed the stars in the sky and You know them by name

You are amazing God.” 

Or even some Taize chants like “Jesus, your light is shining within us.

Let my heart always welcome your love.”

Then you’ve got more obvious examples

like Elvis Presley’s “He Touched Me:” 

“He touched me, oh he touched me

And oh the joy that floods my soul

Something happened and now I know

He touched me and made me whole”

or the song popularized by Josh Groban “You Raise Me Up”. 

It’s a great example, 

a Christian praise song very akin to “Wind Beneath My Wings” (“You raise me up so I can stand on mountains/You raise me up to walk on stormy seas/I am strong when I am on your shoulders/You raise me up to more than I can be”)

—is it about Jesus? Or a lover? Or both?

There’s even a whole subculture 

that some of our evangelical sisters connect with 

like in this quote from a book called Love Letters From Your Prince:

“When a royal princess is rescued by a brave prince, every girl’s heart pitter-patters at the thought. But women of all ages can easily miss the glorious truth that Jesus is the Prince who has already chosen her and is waiting at her door.”

Now, I am poking a little bit of fun at 

one of the many bizarre things we Christians do. 

Of course it’s true that God raises us up and is indescribable 

and to be loved beyond all things. 

The problem here is that we end up with a simplistic theology 

for something we all know is vast and complex and mysterious. 

And I think we all know it’s not just our music 

that gives us this surface understanding of God’s presence with us. 

Lots of “Christian” art is only about being nice or pretty. 

Maybe you remember last year’s Lenten Journey 

about understanding scripture more deeply

—we talked a lot about truth not being only literal 

but also metaphorical, 

—we talked about truth hitting us on a deeper, difficult, 

protected place within us, 

a place that can be transformed but we don’t want it to be 

because we like who we are thank you very much.

I’m poking fun at some of our church music 

because it is often a symptom of surface-level faith.

Now, let’s pause for a moment, 

because the Isaiah passage for today seems to contradict what I’m saying. 

Isaiah says that Israel (and we) marry God. 

And it’s not just here, 

but many times in the Hebrew and Christian Testaments

—Jesus is the bridegroom and we, by implication, 

are the blushing bride. 

It’s here in our scripture—Jesus is our collective boyfriend. 

If you think of it literally, it’s a bit creepy. 

But also beautiful—this metaphor is called bridal mysticism

and has a long history in the church. 

We see married people all the time

—certainly we see broken marriages, 

but also connectedness and reliance and mutual giving. 

Of course we’d use it as a metaphor for our relationship with God. 

Look at the Song of Songs, if you don’t believe me.

Bridal mysticism takes Jesus as the boyfriend to its logical extreme 

and puts the mystic or the reader in the place of the bride

—when we read these passages, when we pray, 

we can experience the great hope a bride feels, 

the anticipation of new life, 

the excitement of being with the one our heart most desires

—you know this feeling. 

Not just the heart palpitations of a crush, 

but the deep connectedness to someone we truly love 

and who loves us back. 

For some of you, that might be a married partner, 

for others it might be a deep, soulfriend, 

for others it could be the relationship you have with a parent or sibling. This is the experience of having our name changed, 

as the bride often does, from one thing to another. 

For Israel, Isaiah says her name changes from “Forsaken” and “Desolate” 

to “My Delight is In Her.”

There is intimacy and tenderness in this new relationship, 

in this partnership with God. 

Consider these deeper relationships you have, whether romantic or not

—what feelings do you have there? 

Connectedness? Safety? Willingness to take other risks? 

Challenge to become a better person?

Being accepted and balanced by another?

These are beautiful experiences and we ought to want them

—but they require a certain vulnerability on our end. 

We have to be able to be vulnerable to God

—no more posturing, no more 

“look how great I am, God, and all the stuff I’ve done for you”, 

no more “look how humble I am, how little I think of myself 

so that you can come and walk all over me.” 

No, bridal mysticism requires us to present ourselves 

exactly as we are to our bridegroom Jesus.

There’s a song by Lady Antebellum

—one of those pop songs I mentioned at the beginning that I think 

is hilarious when you put Jesus in the place of the boyfriend or girlfriend. 

(and we’ll hear it in a bit from the praise band)

It’s called “I need you now” and the chorus is 

“It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now

Said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now

And I don't know how I can do without
I just need you now
”

We’re all drunk or angry or ashamed or confused or broken in some way 

and we all want to call on God—this is what it means to be vulnerable. 

It’s to be that broken person and not hide it and call God anyway. 

A sort of spiritual drunk-dial. 

Let’s be clear—bridal mysticism is not triumphalism. 

It’s not about our comfortable state in this life 

being a sign of God’s favor on us. 

This good news of being God’s beloved means nothing 

if we are content in our own blessedness, 

means nothing if we’re comfortable in our wealth 

and perceived happiness

—this is the gospel of wealth and it is no gospel at all.

Good news means nothing if it doesn’t speak into some bad news

Isaiah is speaking to a people who have returned from exile 

in a foreign land, people who have been ripped from their homes, 

who have concluded from the experience that God is in fact dead, 

people who are returning to those homes changed 

and find that other people have moved in 

and have taken over the exiles’ lives. 

Isaiah is speaking to a people who are desolate and forsaken, 

who could have easily changed their names, as brides often do, 

to Mrs. Desolate and Mr. Forsaken, it’s that bad. 

And Isaiah is saying, 

in the midst of this emptiness and confusion and drunkenness, 

God is alive and delights in them. 

God is, in fact, bringing them to a new home, 

calling them by a new name 

“Mr and Mrs You’re So Darned Amazing”, 

God is giving them hope, God is showing them a new way to be. 

God is showing us a new way to be.

And it’s not just the surface level of how pretty God is 

or how God makes our hearts go pitter-patter

—those can be true—

this is the gut-instinct moment of knowing who we are 

and what ought to be done that we often ignore. 

The moment of seeing someone being hurt 

when we could speak up for them. 

The moment of loss when someone we love dies or leaves us 

and the little we have left is God. 

The moment of sudden understanding. 

That moment is the truth, 

that moment is what Jesus was talking about in the Kingdom, 

that moment is what it’s like to be married to God.

So, these praise songs we sometimes sing—in church or on the radio—

could speak of a shallow faith.

And they could speak to something much deeper. 

How aware you are of what you’re singing is the key. 

And how you respond to it as well. 

Do you hear “I’m okay, you’re ok?” 

Or do you hear, “I love you, you know that’s not good for you, right?” 

Or even, “I love you, let’s go fix the world.”

I leave you with the words of a bridal mystic from the 1200s, Hadewijch. 

Her poems refer to God as Love:

This is a marvel difficult to understand

Love’s robberies and her gifts

I pray and invite Love

that she may incite noble hearts to sing in tune 

the true melody of Love

In humble anxiety and high hope.

sermon on Luke 21

[Watch Pixar's Boundin' short--it's before The Incredibles or somewhere on the interwebs.]

That jackelope, my friends, is Jesus. Not that Pixar is a Christian filmmaking company being stealthy about putting Jesus in front of millions if theatre-goers...As far as I know, they’re not. No, the jackelope’s essence is that of Jesus—he sees the miserable sheep and stops, mid bound, to see what can be done. 

Think of the children that the disciples wouldn't let near Jesus or the blind man they told to keep quiet—for all of whom Jesus stopped, mid-bound, as it were, to see what could be done. And, while Jesus doesn’t speak in rhyme, as far as we know, he did speak wisely and apocalyptically. 

Now, let me break that down for you. We assume that "apocalypse" means the end if the world in fire with a beast and signs and blood and just weirdness happening, right? Think a surface reading of Revelation. 

Or of a Hieronymous Bosch painting.

And we make “apocalypse” synonymous with “rapture” and “eschaton” (fancy word for the time of the end).

That would be wrong.

Apocalypse certainly looks like that stuff to start with, like the reading from Luke today: “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars,” he says, “and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.” But if we stop there, we miss the point. Apocalypse is literally “uncovering” or “revealing,”  It’s a drawing back of the curtain--think of The Wizard of Oz and Toto revealing the dude behind the curtain.

Apocalypse is poetry written to oppressed people to give them hope that a better day is coming and even that that better day could be here now, if we just see differently. And it is a change, a change of perception and of life. Things aren't as they seem, God’s hand is in the mix, and we can live into that revealed world. Jesus talked about this all the time. It was his primary message. Sometimes he spoke in the poetry of apocalypse and sometimes he spoke about it more straightforwardly. 

And that is exactly what the jackelope did. The sheep was lost in the misery of his nekkidness,

the jackelope stopped,

really saw what the story was, and revealed a different way to look at it.

Instead if his nekkidness being a shame, it was an opportunity for bounding. Fun! Delight! Silliness! The Jesus jackelope called the sheep into a new, deeper life of bounding in love. So too, in his letter to the folks in Thessalonika, Paul tells us to respond to God’s call to abound in love. (See what I did there?)

What does that mean, though, to “abound in love”? I suppose a true but snarky answer would be “everything Jesus says in the Gospels." Abounding in love means that your default setting is love, is patience, is understanding, is care and concern for others rather than ourselves. Abounding in love means we don’t just give ourselves and our stuff away 

once a year at the holidays, but every moment of every day. Abounding in love means knowing in the front of our brains

that we are loved so deeply by God that God became human and moved in next door to us. Abounding in love means knowing in the pit of our stomachs that our new next door neighbor knows what we’re doing behind closed doors 

and loves us anyway. All of this learning to abound in love is an apocalypse. It is an uncovering of our “made in the image of God” natures and of our own nekkidness, our sin and our shame. It is a revealing of what we were made for in the first place. Rather than stewing in our own nekkidness and misery like the sheep, Jesus comes bounding in and teaches us to see in a new way.

This new Advent season is time to get excited about lil baby Jesus, but it’s also time to prepare for the discomfort of wise, incisive adult Jesus who will help us change the world if we just let him in. His presence with us, Emmanuel, 

wonderful counselor, mighty god, everlasting father, prince of peace, holy jackelope, is an apocalypse. Jesus reveals to us...love. Which is Fun! Delight! Silliness! And which also draws us out of ourselves and shows us the world and God’s presence in every bit of it. In a way, this baby that are preparing for is the end of the world. Or the end of the world we’ve become accustomed to.

We all have a story one of being the oppressor, one of being the oppressed, one of being the lover, one of being the loved. We all need apocalypse one where God stops, really sees what the story is, and reveals a different way to look at it. This is what Advent is about. Welcome to the end of the world.

sermon on John 18:33-37

Happy Christ the King Sunday! Hooray!
So, what does that mean, exactly? Anyone? Aside from being a kind of New Year’s Eve for the Church—next week is Advent and a whole new church year, you know—what’s Christ the King Sunday about? I mean, don’t we celebrate Jesus the Messiah as King every Sunday? Isn’t that kind of the point of the Resurrection and/or Ascension?

The Greek word for King basileus occurs 9 times in Jesus’ conversation with Pilate before he’s condemned—nine times—so, it’s kind of a big deal. Some history: Catholic Pope Pius XI established Christ the King Sunday in 1925
because he saw many of the Christian flock turning their attention and adoration to secular leaders,
dictators on the rise. See, at the time, totalitarianism was seen by many folks as a viable concept. A “sure, get the right guy in there, he could do some amazing things” kind of situation, and a lot of folks thought the whole world might soon be run by dictators. Pope Pius saw how folks were making idols of their national leaders and said, “NO, Jesus Christ is our king, not these folks. Don’t forget who brought you into this world and who can take you out.”

Let’s talk a bit about Jesus, shall we? What was he like? (invite answers—shepherd, truth, healing, etc.)
And now let’s talk a bit about kings—what are they like? (invite answers—rich, in control, despotic, figurehead, etc. Also consider other kinds of kings: political leaders, military leaders, economic leaders?)
What’s similar about these? Yeah, you get the point there—Jesus was and is not what we expect in a king.  He’s not Prince Charles or even Queen Elisabeth. And he’s definitely not Mohamed Morsi of Egypt who is not a king, but who this week proclaimed that his office is no longer subject to judicial oversight—his decisions cannot be changed by other arms of government, he is above the law—this is precisely what kings have done in the past and what folks came to expect of them. And this is precisely the point—we proclaim Jesus as King and he’s nothing like those other folks we’ve called King.

Back in the day, the Israelites begged the prophet Samuel to ask God for a king because all the other nations had them. And Samuel said, “you’ll regret this—a king will lord it over you and take your money and make you miserable” and the people said, “nah, it’ll be okay.” And what happened? They got kings who lorded it over them, who took their money and made them miserable. Jesus is not that king.

Just a couple of weeks ago, we went to the polls to elect a new leader of these United States. Some voted for one guy, some for the other, all of us with an eye to making the country a better place And all of us, to some extent, thought, “if we just get the right guy in there, he could do some amazing things." Some sociologists have noticed that we so identify with a political party or ideology that any criticism of the ideology is a criticism of us personally. You don’t like liberalism? Clearly you hate me and all I stand for. You don’t like conservatism? Why don’t you like me? And so we focus inward, on only those we agree with, we lift up leaders who will further our agenda, try to elect folks who will fix everything once and for all.

Course, we know that’s not how it works. For one thing, no matter who is elected, they’re broken and human like the rest of us, prone to mistakes and pride. And President Obama and Mitt Romney were not our saviors—the job was taken already. So the night of the election, some of my cross-denominational clergy friends and I got together our congregations for an Election Night Communion—we gathered for word and meal and remembered whose we were. We remembered God as our President, Congress, School Board, and King. Jesus turns our idea of what Kings are on its head—kings give up their lives for their people, kings don’t eat spectacular banquets while others starve, kings give away both food and wisdom instead of hoarding them in the treasury, kings touch sick, coughing, oozing people and have compassion for the folks no one else will even look at.

But this king is not one to be a doormat. Anyone who says the New Testament is all soft and sweet Jesus hasn’t read it. Jesus our King will tell us NO when we’re going wrong. Jesus our King will turn the governments of the nations to dust if we but follow him and enact his command to love wastefully—Pilate and the Pharisees and all nations do well to feel threatened by our calling him a King. Jesus the King holds all things in his hands,
but not in the control-freak-despot kind of way, holding loosely, cradling, keeping us from falling completely apart. The true King is the one who lives with the people, who speaks Truth to both power and to the powerless,  who dies for them both, who defeats death by rising again. The true King who we celebrate today is not our government or our retirement funds or our spouse or anything else we put in the place of God. He is Truth itself, he is humble to the point of death, he sees into the heart of us, our sin and our virtue, and, looking at us, loves us.
The King is dead. Long live the King.

election day communion

I'm a liberal. There, I said it. I believe in taxes and the welfare system and equal pay for equal work.

But I also believe, maybe even more, in bridge-building. I believe that elected officials are trying to do the right thing, no matter how broken they or the system are. I believe voters have much in common and much to commend them no matter which party they identify with. I believe each major party (and the minor ones as well) have nuggets of truth. And I believe we often use those nuggets to bludgeon each other.

I believe we are made by God for connection and relationship. And I believe that connection-building with folks we really, really disagree with is holy.

I believe this Election Day we--liberals, conservatives, independents, and non-voters--will be faced with a choice beyond that of party affiliation. I believe we will choose between fear and hospitality, as my friend Aaron Klinefelter has written. I believe we have an opportunity to choose not only the candidates we believe in but also the way of living Jesus asks of us. I believe my conservative brothers and sisters have something to teach me and that God loves them just as much as me.

Therefore, I believe I will talk to them, inquire about what they hold dear, and listen for understanding. I believe I will vote. And I believe I will pray with my brothers and sisters with whom I may or may not agree. Join us, won't you?

Election Day Communion
November 6, 7:30pm
Cincinnati Mennonite Fellowship (4229 Brownway Ave.)

sermon on mark 9.30-37

Jesus used metaphor to describe the world and God’s action in it, but sometimes we don’t get the metaphor. Sometimes, 2000 years later, we have trouble understanding his object lessons and need another object lesson to explain it to us. So, [hold up onion] scripture is like an onion.

It’s got layers, see, and each one is meaningful and important but isn’t the whole onion by itself. Let’s look at the first layer of today’s gospel—

We start with the kids bit—the disciples are arguing about who’s the greatest and Jesus asks what they’re talking about (probably knowing already as none of us are that subtle and he’s, you know, Jesus). And they don’t want to tell him. So he sighs, sits down, and pulls a nearby child into his lap—from where? Not the point. He says, the first shall be last and the last first. Welcome children and you’re welcoming me. Aaw, we say, we can do that! Kids are great! And they sure say the darndest things, am I right? No problem, Jesus! Sunday School and Vacation Bible School and Precious Moments all on the way! We will have the best programs here at church you’ve ever seen!

But “Jesus isn’t interested in who we say is the greatest or even in who acts like the greatest or looks to be great.  Jesus is interested in who acts with the greatest grace, compassion, and love.” The first layer of our scriptural onion is good, but it’s not the only thing to consider. Here’s the second layer: Jesus says, “hold up, folks, that’s only the beginning. Yes, teach them the Word with macaroni art and coloring pages—that’s good, but it’s about more than that. It’s not about being the greatest, it’s about service. Look at this cute kid—serving her means serving me. So, go serve some kids.”

And so we did: prayers before bed with loving parents, volunteer gigs with Kids Against Hunger and such to help needy kids around the world. Check. Kids served. Next! 

This story isn’t just about raising and treating kids well. Again, the second layer is good and necessary, but not the only message. Jesus is also talking about the disciples’ childish argument about who’s the greatest—he loves me best, does not, does too!—dudes, you’re still missing it! Maybe he’s cuddling a child in his lap and talking about intentionally coming in last because they’re acting like children, that they’re the ones who need to be welcomed into his arms.

That third layer is good and something we all need to hear, no matter how much we don’t want to hear that we are acting childishly. Yet again, that is not the final interpretation. The next layer of the onion is about hospitality. Not the mint-on-the-pillow, free-continental-breakfast, coffee-in-the-church-lobby kind of hospitality, though that’s lovely and needed. No, he’s talking about a deep, way-of-life kind of hospitality. The kind of hospitality that requires sacrifice.

Let’s talk about rats for a moment—don’t worry, we’ll get back to the onion… The recent book How Children Succeed discusses research on rats showing that the single most important determining factor for the health and thriving of adult rats was how much their mother rats licked and groomed them. Infant rats whose mothers took care of them more were more likely to take risks when at play and ate more than those whose mothers did not. And not only that, the researchers discovered "big variations in the size and shape and complexity of the parts of the brain that regulated stress" (30). Obviously, it's more complex than that—all research is, and I commend How Children Succeed to your reading—but put simply, and translated into human behavior, children whose mothers cuddle them, praise them, take care of them in a consistent way grow up healthier and more resilient. Our brains, our bodies are physically transformed…by love. These researchers have found the gospel writ large in the brains of rats.

Getting back to our scriptural onion, here’s the thing, we all know that raising children is difficult. And we know that it involves sacrifice on our parts. These first few months of my new baby Jackson’s life have been delightful but also very difficult. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t cried a lot—partly from sleep deprivation, partly as I see clearly the life I had outside work shrinking and changing into changing diapers, nursing, and tummy-time. I have had to sacrifice time with friends, time to work on art projects, time to do whatever it was I did before I had kids. And it’s not just about kids. The things worth doing in this world require sacrifice. One of my former students enjoyed cooking for us while on mission trips—he’d spend the afternoon making a huge amount of food, then insist on going last through the line. When someone needs to talk when I need to write an article or finish a report, I sit and chat—sacrifice. The coffee in the lobby isn’t just coffee, it’s a symbol of our willingness to engage deeply with newcomers—we sacrifice time with our old friends to gather new people in to our community. When we at Good Shepherd begin our annual stewardship drive in the spring because we value sharing our resources with folks who need it—sacrifice. When, dare I say it, your tax bill comes due, you probably feel the sacrifice, but again, it’s because, the details of the tax code aside, we as a nation find helping one another worth doing. And so we have a system of sacrifice. And that sacrifice is precisely what we mean when we talk about hospitality. And what Jesus is talking about with the children. We make ourselves last to put someone else first—hospitality.

These sacrifices we make for one another, for our loved ones, for the least of these around the world, they transform us. Our bodies are physically transformed by our sacrifice, by our love. The hospitality we show to the stranger, whether it be a newcomer to this church, the children at Taft Elementary, the gays and lesbians in our communities who think we Christians hate them, the families around the world who don’t have clean water to drink—the hospitality we show to these strangers we show to Jesus himself.

And so we come to the center of the onion—the core of truth that Jesus offers us in everything he said and did. Love is our driving force, and love demands something of us. Often more than we’re prepared to give. Jesus tells us to love our enemies, after all, and I don't think he meant that in a purely abstract way. Yet that love is what we ourselves yearn for, that love is what God offers us freely with Jesus own sacrifice, and that love will transform us body and soul.

Who is the stranger you meet? How can you love them? How can you sacrifice for them to show them hospitality? What can you give up to show them how much you and God love them? And how will you be transformed by that love? Like an onion, it will bring you to tears if you give it a try.

leaving something out

 I learned in seminary to try to leave something out of the sermon--you can't say it all and there's always something that will distract from the main point. This was a note I had in my manuscript that I wanted to use but couldn't find a way to make it fit.

“the least of these”—not very comfortable to talk about who the "leasts" are

we don’t want to admit who we think of as least, to ourselves and definitely not out loud, in church

Jesus says to love the least, so we can’t have resentful or condescending thoughts about anyone, right?

It’s a question of how you react to those thoughts, not the having of them.

What do you think?

sermon on James 3:1-12

“I don’t love you.” My daughter says. I know she doesn’t mean it, but for a brief moment, it hurts. She’s only three and has no filter. She says it in anger, in jest, because she gets a response from me. She says hurtful things and she probably gets it from me. And I probably got it from my folks. This is what we in the business call “original sin” and, whether you believe that’s an accurate theology or not, it’s a good description of the world we live in. We are all of us sinners, wounding one another with our words. Surely I’m not the only one who wants to physically pull back my words sometimes—no, I didn’t mean that, I was speaking in anger, I didn’t know what I was saying, I didn’t know all the facts, I’m just hurt, I’m so sorry… In an argument with my husband the other day, in the heat of my anger, I said something about hoping he would die of whatever it was we were arguing about—pecans? Politics? I don’t know. I confess that to you now, here in the assembly of Christians, because I need to repent of it. I confess that to you in the hopes that you understand, in the hopes that you see the same idle talk in yourselves, that you, too, need to repent of something.

Maybe you’re not ready for that confession yet. I hear you. Let’s move on. But we’ll be back.

Let’s talk about current events instead. In the discipleship groups I lead at the campus ministry I serve, the students and I have just read a blog post called “Why are Christians so mean?” The author herself is a Christian and had noticed that many folks in our country look at us askance—“you follow the Prince of Peace yet yell at one another and us all the time—what gives?” they seem to ask. She wondered if she was alone in noticing this and she writes:
“Within one quarter of a second, a Google search of ‘Why are Christians so mean’ returned 5,190 results.
To put these numbers in context, I ran the same query for other faiths.  As we would expect in the post 9-11 environment, “Why are Muslims so mean” yielded 8,320 results.  More telling, however, are the following comparisons:
There were seven results for ‘Why are Jews so mean?’ and four results for ‘Why are Hindus so mean?’ ‘Why are Buddhists so mean’ yielded one result with no results at all when I asked, ‘Why are Sikhs so mean?’
It wasn’t always this way.  Certainly not in the early Church, when Tertullian remarked, ‘Look, how they love one another’ or when Aristides wrote, ‘They walk in all humility and kindness.’  When is the last time you heard anyone say anything even close to that about Christians?”
How we act and what we say makes a difference, like James said in his letter. “[N]o one can tame the tongue—a restless evil, full of deadly poison” he writes, and “From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so.” Well said, James.

Let’s make this very concrete. You’re aware of the kerfuffle recently over Chik-fil-A? Perhaps some of y’all showed up to buy a chicken sandwich that day or perhaps you were angry at those who did. I’m not here this Sunday to talk about the right or wrong of CEO Dan Cathy’s remarks nor even of the right or wrong of homosexuality. No, in keeping with brother James, consider how Christians responded. How were we perceived by the world when large masses of us went to Chik-fil-A on a particular day? Consider that 99% of the gay population of the world saw that and assumed that we all hate them. And then consider how those same Christians perceived the gay community when some loving, gay couples showed up for a Kiss-In—they assumed that the gay community are all exhibitionists and wanted to force something on them.

Neither of these is true. Both were hurtful. “From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so.”

The blogger I mentioned closed her post with these questions: “What are the consequences of those things I have done and left undone?  How are others likely to interpret my actions?  How are they likely to respond?”

How we use our tongues, as James writes, what we say… is everything. And yet our words can be meaningless as well. In someone’s grief, we struggle for the right words, filling the sad silence with platitudes trying to heal the pain. I’ve talked to so many folks who said a well-meaning friend told them God needed another angel and how much they hated God in that moment.

James says that we’re wild horses needing to be broken with a bridle—not very complimentary. I don’t want to think of myself as a dumb beast needing physical restraint, or as a boat going only where the captain directs me with no creativity of my own. But there’s truth in what he says. Our tongues can run wild, speaking truth and lies indiscriminately. We can’t help it. We need something to hold us back from the hurt we inflict. We need a divine and maybe sometimes harsh “no” to pull us up short, to show us what we’ve done. God is, in this moment, a divine parent, speaking truth to us rebellious children, trying to aim our energy in a better direction.

Because sometimes we get it right. Sometimes our tongues speak love and comfort or encouragement in just the right moment. A couple of months ago, in the first week after I gave birth to my son, my mother-in-law stayed with us and helped us out. She cooked for us, cleaned the house, brought me things while I was still in pain. It was, in some ways, her job to be here—she was happy to do it—but I needed to say thank you for that gift. I sent her a thank you note which arrived on a day when everything was going wrong for her.

My words worked, but not because of their poetry. She was comforted in the middle of a cruddy day because I was present with her. Sure, it was only in the form of a note, but it’s like we say, “it’s the thought that counts.” In that thought, I was present and that, more than the words I wrote, made a difference.

And now we get to the heart of it. Showing up is what we are called to do. When someone is in mourning, we sit with them, maybe bring a casserole. When someone is imprisoned, we show up, speak to with them through the glass. When someone is celebrating, we show up and celebrate with them. When someone says something hurtful to us, like “I hope you die from pecans” we stay with them—my husband forgave me because he loves me and because we show up daily in each other’s lives. In the church business, we call this incarnation—I am physically present here with you fine people today, I’m incarnate here. This is what Jesus did—the word became flesh and dwelt among us—he showed up. He sat with us, he ate with us—sure, he talked a bunch, said some impressive and convicting things—but what he did was show up. He was present with us. Most of us don’t take that time—we don’t get to know our gay or conservative evangelical neighbors. We only react, speaking the emotional truth of the moment—I’m angry! I’m hurt!—and don’t think of how we’re perceived. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so.

Friday afternoon, this discipleship group I mentioned, we met for our weekly conversation. Partway through our conversation we became aware of a group of Muslim students demonstrating across the street. They held signs in support of Chris Stevens, the US ambassador to Libya who was killed. They handed out flowers and stood calmly supporting peace. And so we joined them. I and my students crossed the street, showed up, you might say, with our brothers and sisters.

If we can come to rest in the knowledge that God is here too, that God is incarnate in Jesus and a little in us and our neighbors, maybe the drive to be right or to say the right thing can slip away. If we can try to see our neighbors and our enemies as people, as distant family, maybe we can be content sitting with them at a dinner table or on the front stoop. Maybe we can show up and simply be with one another, letting our presence speak for itself. Maybe then there’s room for God to work the wonders that need working. My brothers and sisters, may it be so.

sermon for Maundy Thursday

A very long time ago,

a man and his friends sat down at a table for dinner.

They had been through a lot together, these friends.

They had given up a lot to be together—more than they knew.

They ate together most nights

and because it was the celebration of the Passover,

of course they would meet again

—nothing was out of the ordinary.

Something was coming—they all felt it—

but they didn’t know what.

The men and women around the table talked and joked

with the comfort of brothers and sisters.

They ate slowly,

savoring the plates of lamb, eggs, bitter herbs,

and unleavened bread they passed.

They drank wine and delighted in one another’s company.

And at the same time, even longer ago,

the people called the Israelites sat down for dinner.

They had been through a lot together, these people.

They had given up a lot

—and had had a lot taken from them—

to be together—more than they knew.

They ate together most nights, but this night was special.

They ate with their shoes and hats on,

their walking sticks in their hands,

their luggage packed for a journey.

They ate quickly,

pausing only to pray to Hashem for mercy.

They barely tasted the bread and wine and bitter herbs.

And they ate in both fear and excitement.

And at the same time, far in the future,

a group of brothers and sisters sat down at a table for dinner.

They had been through a lot together, these brothers and sisters.

They had given up a lot to be together—more than they knew.

They didn’t eat together very often any more,

at least not in one another’s houses.

But they did meet every week

to pass a plate of bread and a cup of wine.

They loved one another deeply

and yet didn’t quite know what to do about it

in the vast and changed world.

They talked and joked with the intimacy of family

and remembered all the times they’d eaten together,

every meal for 2,000 years.

They knew something was coming,

they knew what it was

—had heard the story for 2,000 years—

yet they didn’t understand it, didn’t really know their part.

They ate, loving one another, loving God,

loving what they thought they knew.

* * *

The man and his friends, a very long time ago,

were about to depart:

the man would depart this life and he grieved to think about it;

his friends would depart from each other and from him,

running away in fear and grief.

Only Judas would have the courage of his convictions

and only the women would return.

The man knew that this departure, this ending

would also be a beginning

And he knew that beginning would not make the end less painful

His friends knew something was ending

Maybe they thought the rule of the Roman oppressors was ending

Maybe they thought their poverty and directionlessness were ending

They didn’t know that this would be their last dinner together

That this was the last meal of a condemned man

That this last supper would feed them in the wilderness

And at the same time, that people called the Israelites, even longer ago,

Were about to depart:

They would depart from Egypt and the slavery they had endured

They would depart from the life they had known,

oppressive as it had been

and embark on a long journey into the wilderness

but before they left, they covered their doorposts with blood

marking their homes

so that the angel of death would pass over them

they killed the lamb, and ate it in fear and joy

ready to leave for a new life

terrified by what was happening outside their doors

this people had a leader, a man named Moshe

Moshe knew that this departure, this ending

Would also be a beginning

And he knew he would not survive this new story

He knew that beginning would not make the ending less painful

And at the same time, far in the future,

The brothers and sisters gathered here were about to depart

They didn’t know it

They thought their weekly meal was comfort and beauty and joy

And it was

But it was also the last supper before the storm

They would eat hastily, knowing something was coming

They would pray to God to pass them over

Marking their foreheads with ash

And their hearts with regret

These brothers and sisters are the ekklesia, the church

the gathering of people

the people, literally, “called out” of our normal lives,

we are that beloved community

we will depart from the empire,

from mammon,

from the way we’ve always done things

we are always on the move, always at an ending and a beginning

our weekly supper of bread and wine

will be food for the journey

our love for one another will sustain us in the wilderness

* * *

This [gesture to table] is the end, brothers and sisters.

We will eat our meal together hastily,

our shoes on our feet and our walking sticks in our hands,

our luggage packed

For we have been called to witness to the world

We have been called to an ending

We will depart from this place like the Apostles—the ones Jesus sent out

We will leave the expectations of the world like the Israelites left Egypt

We will travel in circles where our calling is foolish

Where we will look ridiculous

for insisting on love and compassion

Where we will be mocked

Where we will be hungry for more than bread

Every time we eat this meal together,

We remember every other time we have eaten together for 4,000 years

And every time we eat this meal together,

God is present with us

Jesus returns

God is with us on this journey

We are not alone

Yet, for now, it seems God has abandoned us

We cannot see or feel him

We feel battered and bruised

By the Story we enact this week

By its contradictions and problems

The light is departing this world

Jesus, our brother,

Is betrayed into the hands of us poor sinners.