Prayers of the People, The Dover Church UCC, Sunday July 3rd,
Oh God of spacious skies, and fields of waving grain We give you thanks for this beautiful land, its majesty its resources its diversity.
We give thanks for the freedoms we enjoy, and humbly acknowledge that we would not enjoy these freedoms were it not for the sacrifices of many who are gone before us.
But, also, God of justice, we confess that we have not always used abundance of our land for the good of all. We confess that we have allowed the fields of grain to be engineered to provide less nutrition and greater profits. We confess that we protect access to the most beautiful places, for those who have the greatest financial resources. We confess that we often edit our history, emphasizing its glory but omitting its painful shadow side.
Give us the courage, o holy one, for our nation to face what must be faced and to make amends to the people who have been hurt by the dominance of a few.
Oh God of the harvest, we hold up to you the needs of the community and of the world today.
We remember all those who are dealing with illness of mind, body or spirit today. May they feel the presence of your healing love.
We remember, in the midst of our celebrations, the parts of the world in turmoil: especially holding up the people of Turkey and Iraq, following the most recent acts of terrorism and hatred in their lands. May they know your mercy.
We lament the acting out of ideological differences in terrible violent ways, and we pray earnestly for your coming reign of peace. Amen
Last Sorrowful Words Reflection for the Maundy Thursday Service, Bethel AME Church, Thursday March 24th, 2016
Matthew 26:26-30 While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, "Take, eat; this is my body." Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying, "Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father's kingdom." When they had sung the hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.
In the days ahead, trauma would blot out the words. But the sight of Jesus’s hands raised in prayer for the blessing, the sound of the wine poured into the goblet. The chewy loaf, and the rich red wine. Jesus offering each one a hunk of bread and a deep satisfying swig. These are things that would stay with them when the dust had settled, these are the ways they would remember him.
A couple of years ago, I was going to serve as an intern in a Boston area church. But, right before I came on board the pastor of the church, who had once been so full of verve and spirit, was cut down by cancer. Not only was she beloved of the congregation, she was beloved of the small youth group. Pastor's absence from the church was most keenly felt by this group.
Now there was no settled pastor for me to report to, but the acting interim pastor asked me if I would go ahead with the internship anyway. An experienced woman minister, gifted in biblical story telling, would to serve as my supervisor. I felt called by God, and supported by this new mentor, and so I decided to continue with the internship.
My responsibilities would include pastoral leadership for the youth group.
The group was despondent. Their beloved pastor was gone – the one they trusted to teach them, laugh with them and guide them through the minefield of their teenage years. They felt betrayed, by God, and by those who had taught them their childhood faith. Some of them had simply left. A decimated little group remained, disappointed in this new “student pastor” leader. Their attitude bounced between normal teen silliness and despondency. They communicated their worries over Pastor, and other events in their lives, via prayer requests written on little slips of paper. Mostly they couldn’t bring themselves to talk out loud about it with me.
My mentor helped me discern that my time with this group would be spent ministering in their loss. I’d need to prepare them for what would be the greater loss when the pastor finally died. This required the youth making a quantum leap from the faith of childhood, to the faith of mature adulthood. This is something few adults have achieved. They would need to do all this in the midst of trauma.
And I was to be their guide. But … how?
My prayers and reflections revolved around this daunting task. My mentor encouraged me enter more deeply into the story of Jesus to guide me in this journey. Soon I found out that the group would be responsible for leading the Good Friday worship service for the church. This would be exactly one year after Pastor had been diagnosed. The memory of the event would be resonating through the congregation.
I began to work with the youth on a dramatization of the passion narrative. We had the familiar scene: the accusations; Peter’s denial; Judas’s betrayal; Jesus making his sad and lonely way to the cross.
And then the crucifixion.
How would we show Jesus body, broken for us – in the midst of our own feelings of loss? How would we express, with respect and devotion, Jesus blood poured out for us and for many? It was Jesus, himself, through the sacred story, who provided the answer.
When the moment came one solitary girl in somber dress came forward in front of the scene of “Jesus” who draped his arms around a wooden cross. She was carrying a beautiful loaf of fresh baked bread.
Music played “Bread for the world in mercy broken”
The girl broke the loaf, clean in two.
The song continued “Have mercy, have mercy, have mercy, on us”
She processed out, the group following silently behind.
The congregation left the sanctuary in silence each taking a piece of bread as they went. The teens had gathered in the fellowship hall, excited for an overnight “lock in”. In this moment, I listened for what to do next … Then I knew…
I carried the remaining loaf into the hall and asked the youth to “circle up”. They stood around, itching to be on their way. Yet, I could tell they had been moved by the drama they had just portrayed.
I tore off chunks of bread … this is Christ’s body broken for you ---- we ate, hungrily. Then we prayed, “…thank you Jesus for being present with us in worship, be with us as we wait for Sunday and the resurrection morning.” Then they were off, the breaking of the bread a memory, stashed away for when they would need it.
Taste, sight, aroma, touch, the senses are awakened time after time. May Jesus become every more present in each morsel of bread, each gulp of the fruit of the vine.
Amen, Amen!
Maundy Thursday Welcome, Old South Church Maundy Thursday 2015
Freedom was at hand - the freedom of the Israelites from slavery in the land of Egypt some 1000 years before the time of Jesus
... freedom from the daily grind ... freedom from abuse ... freedom from being stepped upon ... freedom from being pushed to one side ... freedom from being looked upon with contempt ... freedom from working multiple shifts to just barely cover the rent.
But freedom would not come easily, it would not come without upheaval. It would come under the cover of night, after a day of arduous work, after a hastily eaten meal. This opportunity would not last long. There was only a narrow opening. The Pharaoh had been worn down by plague after plague … until this last plague, when the Lord passed through the land and struck down the firstborn of every Egyptian family. There was just long enough for the Israelites to seize the moment. They got up from their hearths and homes where they had collapsed at the end of the day hopeful for a few hours of oblivion. They would need courage and fortitude for this venture that would be commemorated with a meal of lamb and bitter herbs.
Led by God, the Israelites ventured out into the wilderness. With only the courage to live by faith and hope and trust in the living God, they stepped out into freedom.
And so again, remembering as they had remembered for 1000 years, the Jews gathered in Jerusalem for the Passover meal. Jesus and his followers were among the Jewish people who were crammed into every nook and cranny of the holy city. In the days before they had gathered what they would need to eat at that final supper together. They had made arrangements to meet in an upper room in which they would celebrate the festival of the Passover. And they would remember that day of courage and fortitude, faith, hope and trust.
And so we welcome you
... you who feel downtrodden and weary ... you who feel pushed to one side ... you who are afraid ... you who feel abandoned ... you who need the courage to step out into freedom from abuse, from addiction, from depression, from pain, from fear, from shame, from toxic relationships, from fragmented living.
Welcome to this service of shadows…
It's Lent: Be Ready to Step Out into Freedom
You must not eat anything leavened. For seven days you shall eat unleavened bread with it—the bread of affliction—because you came out of the land of Egypt in great haste, so that all the days of your life you may remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt. (Deuteronomy 16:3)
My first experience of a real Passover was when I served as a chaplain intern in a Jewish eldercare facility. The entire organization was to be “kosher for Passover”. I thought that eliminating bread from my bagged lunch would suffice, but a rabbi there corrected my mistake; additionally, I would not be able to bring chicken-rice soup, or lentil or bean stew, she explained. During Passover, Jews exclude chametz, anything that “puffs up” when it is cooked: peas, beans, rice, and many other grains. Removing chametz from one’s home and diet symbolizes removing feelings of being “puffed up” or proud.
For the seven days of Passover, all the residents in the facility conformed to this diet. Matzah with jam substituted for toasted muffins at breakfast. Lunch was matzah with chicken soup. It was monotonous and unsatisfying. And yet, this is the way our Jewish brothers and sisters relive the story of the Exodus.
When the Israelites made a break for freedom in the great Exodus, they could not risk slowing themselves down. Not only would the leavened bread have taken too long to rise, it would have sat full and comfortable in their stomachs. They would have lost the edge of their hunger for freedom.
It takes courage to step out into the freedom God is calling us to. We cannot do it if we are too stuffed with the leaven of the world. We cannot do it if we are puffed up, swollen with everything that catches our eye. We need to be ready to go, when God calls, cleansed of all those things that weigh us down. So maybe one way to think of a Lenten fast is as a cleansing diet: a diet that makes us hungry for the freedom to be as God intends us to be.
A question for Martin Luther King Day:
Have you or have I ever loved someone, some community, some part of the world, so much that we could not keep silent? Could not keep silent at the hurt or desecration or devastation being inflicted on that loved one, that place, that people? Have we ever loved fiercely, with that kind of passion?
Perhaps, like mama bears, we could not keep silent because our child was suffering. Or perhaps it was a child of a friend, a family member, or a neighbor. We could not keep silent because our community was being threatened by pollution or violence or neglect. Perhaps we could not keep silent because we saw innocents being treated cruelly.
This is the kind of love of which the prophet Isaiah spoke. This is the kind of love Rev. Dr. Martin Luther spoke of. This is the kind of love Jesus spoke of.
Isaiah’s cry emerges as the exiles return to Jerusalem from Babylon, “For Zion's sake I will not keep silent, for Jerusalem's sake I will not remain quiet, till her righteousness shines out like the dawn, her salvation like a blazing torch.” (Isaiah 62:1, NRSV) The city and the temple are desecrated, ruined. The people are reduced. Their hope for the restoration of Jerusalem seems remote, perhaps unattainable. Isaiah’s cry is not a measured, reasoned response. Instead it is born out of a passionate love, for Judah and the future of the people.
Centuries later, Jesus quoted an earlier verse of Isaiah, as he began his ministry by preaching in Galilee. "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." (Luke 4:18-19, NRSV) Jesus’ ministry began in this way, with an announcement. For the sake of the poor, the captives, the blind and the oppressed, Jesus would not keep silent. This is the kind of passionate love Jesus spoke of.
Many centuries later, Rev Dr Martin Luther King emerged in the 20th century United States. In his passionate love for his people, Dr King could not keep silent. In his final speech he chose the words of the prophet Amos, "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream." And he quoted Jesus saying “Somehow the preacher must say with Jesus, ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me,’ and he's anointed me to deal with the problems of the poor." (“I’ve been to the Mountaintop”, Martin Luther King, Jr.)
Prophecy is not easy, and it often does not end well for the prophet. All three of these exemplars, Isaiah, Jesus, Martin Luther King, lost their lives because they did not keep silent. But in the end, it is not a matter of eloquence and learning, it is not measured, reasoned response. It is a matter of love, passionate love.
Have you or have I ever loved someone, some community, some part of the world, so much that we could not keep silent?
The Joy of Youth Bible Study on “Christmas Sunday”
It was the fourth Sunday of Advent, “Christmas Sunday” as some New England congregations like to call it. The air was charged with excitement and anticipation. The music was wonderful, “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” followed by an anthem accompanied by handbells. And I was teaching youth Bible study.
In the previous session we had heard the story of Sarah and Abraham and their gift of a child, Isaac, very late in life. This week we were reading Luke’s account of Elizabeth and Zechariah, as well as the annunciation and Mary’s song, the Magnificat. Such riches! I was excited to reflect on the echoes of the ancient story of Abraham and Sarah in Jesus’ birth narrative. I was excited to point out that Zechariah was a priest and to note his muteness during the Elizabeth’s pregnancy. We would talk about Elizabeth’s greeting of her relative, Mary, and Mary’s willingness to birth the savior. I wasn’t sure where to start but I knew it would be an awesome class. The youth would be transfixed with the story in a new way.
I arrived to an empty classroom, and it first occurred to me that maybe no one would come. Perhaps they would all choose to stay in worship, and with the richness of the Christmas music who could blame them? But I wasn’t disappointed. First there arrived three of the quieter kids. With an addition. They had brought a toddler, a younger brother of one of the girls. “I’ll hold him” she assured me. “OK” I said, inwardly asking “Oh, my, what are the parents thinking? What about nursery care?” Then I realized that the sister was the nursery care. The teens concentration is pretty difficult to engage, adding a toddler to the mix would be challenging. We gave him couple of Playmobil characters from my sandtray, Abraham and Isaac (or maybe a Victorian child and a farmer). He sat on his sister’s lap for about 2 minutes before he began exploring the room.
I’d just started in on the text when the clatter of feet descended the staircase next door and we were joined by four teenaged members of the choir, still enrobed, and another 7th grader. Having burst into the room, the choir members left to disrobe, and returned a few minutes later. The energy was exhaustion, punchiness, and complete lack of focus. The kids didn’t know whether to fall asleep on the couch or bounce off the walls.
“So… as I was saying ….” I began. I scrambled for damage control, as the toddler attracted the remaining attention, cutely exclaiming “uh oh!” as I waded through the text. How much of it could I get through before I completely lost them? Even Brian McLaren’s commentary that usually engages them was falling flat.
But I had one more thing up my sleeve: the song “Miriam” by Pierce Pettis. We began to listen …
“No banners were unfurled, When God stepped into the world Held in the arms of a little girl Named Miriam Who would ever believe Your fiance, your family The teenage pregnancy of Miriam"
As the song ended there was quiet in the room. After a few moments I asked “what surprised you about the scripture today?” “I didn’t know Mary was so young, how old was she?” I told them we don’t know for sure, but probably she was right around puberty, maybe 13, to be at the age of betrothal. “Younger than some of you.” “Wow!” they looked around the room at one another, seeing each other with new eyes. The toddler continued his antics. “Mary had her hands full” I laughed, “with a little one like this.” He looked up at me with big brown eyes from under the table, “uh oh!” Really, Jesus, you show up in the most surprising places.
It's the Third Sunday in Advent. Why are we still in the wilderness with the Baptist?
Luke 3:7-18John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax-collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.
It’s the third Sunday in Advent: “Joy”! Time is running out, Christmas is almost here. Lights are now up, all over town. Shopping becomes a increasingly more frantic. Holiday parties are in full swing. Christmas is almost here.
And yet, in the Revised Common Lectionary, this Sunday, we are presented with John the Baptist. The one who prepares a way. The one who cries out in the wilderness. The one who is the announcer and I’m left wondering: Where is Mary? Where are the shepherds? Is it not time to get on the road to Bethlehem? Should the manger scene be set, all ready for the baby Jesus? What are we doing, still out in the wilderness, with the wild honey-and-locust-eating John, giving us scary images of a mighty God with a winnowing fork in his hand?
You see, the Revised Common Lectionary people must have it wrong. They didn’t anticipate Christmas 2015. They didn’t think of a year when gun violence would have reached outrageous proportions in the United States. Didn’t anticipate a year when European cities, poised to celebrate a Joyeux Noel, would be unnerved by terror attacks. A year when a different American college campus would go on lock-down almost every day of Advent. A year when religious extremism would threaten from one side, and xenophobia and racism from the other. A year when there are more displaced refugees in the world than ever before. A year when we would be despairing and longing for that baby Jesus to be put in the manger, to blot out these and the many other evils of our time. A year when we needed him more than ever. A year when “How Long, Oh Lord?” has become our cry. We, like John’s followers, are filled with expectation. How long to the birth? How long to the manger? How long to holy innocence, flickering candles, silent night?
And yet … and yet, we have John. Maybe, Revised Common Lectionary people, it is because we are simply not ready. Not that we haven’t done our shopping or prepared our food. Not that we haven’t put up the tree, or strung lights all around. We’re not ready, because we’ve never been ready. Not this year, not the year before, or the year before that. In fact not even 2000 years before that. We are not ready for what needs to be done, what God would have us do to make all things right.
John reminds us, yet again, that while we prepare for the baby in the manger, that child has already been. John prepares his people for Christ, but John also looks forward to what that child’s coming would ultimately mean. John’s vision was a collapse of time. The time between Jesus coming to the world, and the era of justice and peace passing by like the blink of an eye. So John’s work is to prepare his followers, and if we listen he will also prepare us. He’ll tell us, once again, because we are so slow, here is the way you should live. If you have more food, clothing, warmth, than you need, share. If you have authority, administrative or physical power, that’s a serious responsibility, don’t abuse it.
In the midst of the call for civil rights for African Americans, Martin Luther King cried out “how long?” The response was “not long!” But, Blue Grass singer Bob Amos asks “will he wait a little longer?” (to give us time to gather in). The coming of the reign of justice and peace, the kin-dom of God, is what we long for every time we cry out “how long?” And yet, it scares us too. The image of the mighty One with the winnowing fork in hand is worrisome because we are not ready. We know that we have behaviors, habits, attitudes, or privileges, that would be thrown into the fire. These may be extra coats; undeserved authority and power; or thoughts and feelings that do not orient us toward God. And yet we cling to them.
My suspicion is that God is not ready either. In spite of all the imagery of the threshing floor and unquenchable fire, God does not want to throw any one of us to waste. The “How long?”/”Not long” longing exists in tension with “Will he wait a little longer?”
This third Sunday in Advent, let’s ask for the courage turn toward God, as John would have us do. When it’s too scary, let’s follow his simple instructions. Give warmth to those who are cold, food to those who are hungry, and use any power and authority we may have for God’s purposes. Amen
Epiphany Thoughts
“On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh” (Matt 2:11)
I hadn’t noticed until I was preparing for a bible study on this scripture, but when the Magi arrived at the house where Jesus was, they opened their “treasure chests” in adoration. Perhaps they hadn’t planned on giving those particular gifts of such value – gold, frankincense and myrrh - ahead of time. Perhaps, it was the experience of encountering Mary and the infant Jesus that caused them to open their chests, and respond so generously. I have to think that opening your treasure chest is like opening your heart. Everyone can see what you have in there – what you value the most – it exposes you and makes you vulnerable.
What is your treasure chest? Your wallet? Your bank account? The little box where you store your keepsakes? That place in your heart no one ever gets to see, where the hurts, losses, and longings live?
Let’s follow the example of those wise ones. Let’s open our hearts and give our treasures — our hidden treasures — in adoration of the one who has come to be with us.
The Fuluka Man
We visited Cairo in the summer of 2012 during Ramadan. Here we are taking an evening "cruise" on the Nile in a sailing boat known as a "fuluka". Our cruise took place while the sun was setting, so our driver, the fuluka man, picked up his dinner from the dock when we boarded. When the sun went down, before he ate himself, he offered us a share of his simple meal and was quite insistent. We said he must eat it for himself, as he was fasting. A little later the "call to prayer" sounded, echoing across the water from the surrounding mosques ... I glanced back and he had set the boat on a course, holding the rope with his toe, while he went through the motions of prayer.
A Call for Offerings - First Worship, Old South Church
In the community where I grew up, people were not very wealthy. But every student at my Sunday School brought something for the offering. This was in the days when loose change was worth much more than today – even the littlest children would generally bring a few pennies. Now, they held on to their pennies until the offering was taken right at the end of Sunday School. Often these pennies were tucked inside their woolen mittens , sometimes they found their way into mouths, usually they were clutched in sticky or sweaty palms. And so, I think if the offering plate had been given to a forensics expert, each penny would be traced back to the child who brought it! Gross as it may seem, the children left their DNA on these offerings. A part of themselves, if you like – was going towards God’s work in the world. So, I hope you don’t put your offering in your mouth before it goes into the basket, but rest assured, when you give, a part of yourself becomes a part of God’s work in the world. This morning’s offering will now be given and received.
Sample Prayers of the People - Pentecost 2015, Old South Church Festival Worship
Spirit of our living God, fall afresh on us. Fall afresh on the ones whose hearts are singing with the joy of this morning. Fall afresh on those whose hearts are broken, with grief, despair, worries or fears.
Gather us in to this time of prayer, open our ears, our hearts, our minds us the murmurs and sighs of those with whom we worship. May we rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.
We give you thanks, Oh God, for this place of sanctuary, where we can make known our joys, our celebrations, our hurts, and our needs. We remember that you can hold all this, and more, surrounding us with your protecting love while we are in this vulnerable place.
And so, loving God, we bring to you the needs of our world, lifting them to you for your healing love.
We remember those who have departed from their homelands to seek out safety and security elsewhere. We remember migrants stranded on boats at sea and all those who are at the mercy of those who would profit from the their plight.
We remember those who are unhoused in our community, praying for all who continue to search each night for a place to rest their heads. We pray for mercy and compassion in government, that safe, affordable, dignified housing will soon be a reality in this city.
And on this weekend when our nation remembers, we remember all those who suffer from the effects of war. We remember those who have lost loved ones; those who have been wounded in mind, body or soul; those whose lands are still torn apart by the machinery of war. Make us peacemakers, God of peace, working for and hoping for the day when swords will be beaten into ploughshares and spears into pruning hooks.
Now merciful God, we turn to you with the names of those beloved of this community who are suffering in mind, body or soul. We lift to you … <names of those in need of prayer>.
And all-loving God, we offer you the prayers of some who have entered this place of sanctuary this past week and left us their hopes and fears: One who prays for a soul mate One who lifts up the health of her grandmother One who prays for the safety and health of his wife and children One seeking God’s calling for her life One who lifts up a strained family relationship
Faithful God, we confess that there are times when we have been distracted, impatient, and have wandered from your love. We have placed our hopes in idols of our own making, quick fixes, and lifeless things. Then we have wondered why they have disappointed us. We ask your forgiveness.
Hear all our prayers, tender God, those we have spoken and those we hold in the silence of our hearts. Hear even the prayers we cannot form into words … the joys, the longings, the sighs too deep for words.