Sermon: "God, alone, fills us" Preached on March 24th, 2019 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture:Isaiah 55:1-9 Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Free food, free drink, free luxury chocolate! Free Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, free coffee, free pastries, free wine, free beer! What kind of a way is this to begin a Lenten reading? Many Christians are just two weeks into our annual Lenten fast. They have given up coffee, chocolate, alcohol, or some other luxury item. For those who are fasting, this is about the time when we discover, after that initial resolve, how much of a hold that particular “vice” has on us. In this part of the world, we are surrounded by food almost all the time. We have access to every type of rich food and drink. The bakeries, restaurants, and coffee shops pay no attention to the Lenten fast. The grocery stores had chocolate eggs and other Easter goodies on display before Lent even began. We have to make a special commitment to fast in order to find out what it means to miss those things. And so the surprising passage we read today from the book of Isaiah presents us with some questions: What does faith have to do with bodily hunger and desires? What does our access to food have to do with our faith? And if it hunger and thirst are connected with faith, how might Isaiah’s message of luxury food in abundance apply to us today? The biblical book of Isaiah book spans three different eras. It is generally understood as prophetic writings from these times, written in the tradition of the prophet Isaiah. The text we heard today comes at the end of the second of those eras, known as “Isaiah of Babylon”. The prophet is writing to the people of Israel who lived some 600 years before Christ and were forcibly deported from Jerusalem to Babylon. The language is tender and comforting, it’s quite different from the exhortations of the part written in the period before the exile. As we have noted before, prophets are often called to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted. For some 50 years, the exiled children of Israel lived in a foreign land, separated from their beloved one-God who could not be named. They believed their Lord, to be literally resident in the temple in Jerusalem. They were separated from Jerusalem and so they were separated from God. To which members of the community is Isaiah speaking, in this free food/free drink poetry? Is it to the ones who have assimilated and made good in this new strange land? Is it the ones who sent their kids to college in Babylon and have taken up positions in government, artfully adapting their skills for the “new reality”? Or, perhaps, on the other hand, Isaiah is speaking to - the ones who have never been able to grasp the language and have never been able to make a home in Babylon? - the ones who live with their meager belongings still bundled up from the forced relocation? Perhaps he is speaking to the ones who cannot bring their hearts to this place, because they buried their spouse or their child back in Jerusalem? Or to the ones who had little to offer to the Babylonian culture, other than cleaning the bathrooms, and nursing the infants, of this imposed new ruling class? How must Isaiah’s “words of comfort” seem to these homesick people? What is meaning of the finest bread, milk, and wine, without price? Don’t these words sound insane, given their poverty of the hearers? And yet, perhaps they might also sound hope-filled. Perhaps they also serve to remind the exiles that their God has not forgotten them. Perhaps they assure them that God will fulfill God’s covenant with them in God’s own way. They encourage them to hang in there, that deliverance will come and Jerusalem with be restored along with all the good things they hunger for. The book “Take this Bread”, by Sara Miles, focuses on themes of hunger and food and the connection with the sacrament of Holy Communion. Miles was raised in an intellectual atheistic household, but her story tells of her ‘radical conversion’ to Christianity as an adult. She says: “One early, cloudy morning when I was 46, I walked into church, ate a piece of bread, took a sip of wine. A routine activity for tens of millions of Americans - except that up until that moment I’d led a thoroughly secular life … This was my first communion. It changed everything.” [1] Faith, for Sara Miles, isn’t an argument, a creed, or a philosophical ‘proof’ “it is a lens, a way of experiencing life and a willingness to act.” [2] The book “Take this Bread” borrows a verse from Psalm 34, inviting the reader to tasteandseethat the LORD is good! From the moment Sara Miles received communion at St Gregory’s of Nyssa in San Francisco, she knew she wanted to become a Christian. Sara heard the gospel stories in church with the fresh ears of a convert. And soon she noticed that something wasn’t quite right. There was a conflict between the lovely communion services she was attending, with wealthy educated people at St. Gregory’s, and Jesus’ command to feed the hungry. She says, “The Christianity that called to me, through the stories I read in the Bible, scattered the proud and rebuked the powerful … It was an upside-down world … in which the hungry were filled with good things and the rich sent out empty.” [3] Prior to coming to San Francisco, Sara Miles spent a period living among the poor in El Salvador, as a journalist. In that community food was scarce, and what food there was, was of a very poor quality. When Miles moved to San Francisco, she could not help but notice the stark contrast between the educated and affluent “foodies” and the poor of the city. She was primed to do something. Miles began a food ministry out of St Gregory’s, collecting the abundant supplies of fresh produce that would otherwise go to waste and redistributing them to the poor. In time this ministry grew into a wonderful meal service. She recruited helpers from the food pantry clientele to cook and serve. Meanwhile, communion and worship at St. Gregory of Nyssa fed a hunger in Sara of which she had been unaware. Over time Sara Miles’ ministry to the poor and hungry of San Francisco developed into what she describes as a service, modeled on the liturgy of the Eucharist, or communion. When St Gregory’s kitchen served meals, they imparted the love of God. Miles met with the Bishop of California to talk about her ministry, and he told her “there’s a hunger beyond food, that’s expressed in food … and that’s why feeding is always a kind of miracle. It speaks to a bigger desire.” [4] There’s a hunger beyond food, that’s expressed in food. Sometimes I celebrate communion with a group of people who are experiencing an exile of their own. They are the Christian residents of the eldercare facilities that I visit. Most of these elders are afflicted with some combination of dementia, blindness, deafness and other serious challenges. They are exiled from the places they called home due to their need for residential care, or they are dislocated by the loss of their memories, and other faculties. I have preached sermons, sung hymns and said prayers with these little congregations. And I have learned that a thoughtful sermon, or a meaningful prayer may or may not touch their souls. The hymns and songs will engage them depending on their recognition or mood. But, these elders always come ready and hungry for communion, even if it can only be a drop of juice on the tip of their tongue, even if is can only be the touch of the blessing on their head or arm. A hunger beyond food, that’s expressed in food. What was the hunger you brought to here to church today, the hunger of which you were unaware? - Was it the hunger for true friends who understand you – rather than empty friendships: the superficial, the temporary? - Or was it a hunger for a more meaningful relationship with God and with your loved ones? Was it a hunger for an honest relationship with your spouse, or your sweet heart? Was it a hunger for a relationship that will honor the reflection of God you meet in that person? - Or was it a hunger to be true to yourself, and so true to God? Was it a hunger to put down the pretenses of “doing fine” and being “put together”? Was it a hunger to admit, that you, like those marginalized Israelite exiles, don’t feel quite comfortable in this changing social landscape of ours? Do you keep the treasure of your heart in bundles, still unable to find the right place to put them down? During the season of Lent, whether we fast from food, drink or other distractions, we discover the holes and hungers in ourselves that our addictions, our indulgences, our treats, were filling. Because, as Sara Miles says, there’s a hunger beyond food that’s expressed in food. Today, during our music for reflection, I am inviting you to come and receive a sacramental chunk of fresh baked bread to fill that space. And in receiving that bread, may we remember that “God, alone, fills us.” Amen. [1]Miles Sara, Take this Bread: The Spiritual Memoir of a Twenty-first Century Christian, (New York: Ballantine Books, 2007), xi [2]Ibid, xvi [3]Ibid, 68 [4]Ibid, 175
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Shining Light on the Shadows Preached on March 10th, 2019 at Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 4:1-13 This, the first Sunday in Lent, we hear the story that underlies the season, yet again. The forty days and nights of the season of Lent mirror the forty days and nights Jesus spent in the wilderness in preparation for his ministry. This episode takes place right after Jesus’ baptism by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. At that time the Holy Spirit had descended on Jesus, like a dove. And a voice came from heaven and proclaimed “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.” Now the Holy Spirit has led Jesus into the wilderness for a time of fasting and preparation. At the end of the forty days and nights the devil shows up and begins his testing. It’s telling that he waits until Jesus is at his weakest. In English we read that the devil begins with the conditional “If you are the Son of God.” But the word “if” would be better translated as “since” or “as” … “Since you are the Son of God” the devil is not disputing Jesus’ relationship to God. “As you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” To which Jesus’ responds, from scripture “One does not live by bread alone.” The Devil goes on: “I will give you authority and glory over all the nations, if you will worship me, all will be yours.” Jesus responds with part of the Jewish prayer, the She’ma Israel “Worship the Lord your God and serve only Him.” And for a third test, the devil takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple in Jerusalem and says “since you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here … God will send his angels to save you.” And once more Jesus responds from scripture “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” The devil tries to trick Jesus with his lies. He tries to trick Jesus into giving away his identity as Son of God. If Jesus succumbs to magic or stunts, turning stones into bread, or throwing himself off the pinnacle of the temple … if he turns his allegiance over to the devil, in order to rule the world … Jesus will no longer be God’s Son. Jesus will be stripped of the power given to him by God, and the devil will win. Jesus’ resists, because Jesus is the Son of God. Once Jesus shines a light on the devil’s lies, the devil disappears. He cannot stand the truth. On Wednesday evening, we observed Ash Wednesday worship with our neighbors, Quincy Point, United Church of Christ. During the reflection on the beginning of Lent, we talked about a new Lenten practice: “getting real for Lent.” Getting real means showing on the outside of ourselves what is on the inside. Lent is a time for confession and repentance: a time for telling the truth and turning toward God. It is a time for standing in the light of Christ, and allowing that light to penetrate what we are hiding in the dark corners of our souls. It is a time for getting real. Molly Phinney Baskette, pastor, writer and church revitalizer, discovered something called the “liturgist program” when she came to pastor First Church in Somerville. Each week in worship, a different person, the “liturgist”, makes a public confession of sin and vulnerability. The liturgist begins with the words: “Now is the time when we bring our stories before God.” They tell a story they have prepared, which is related to the scripture passage for the day. There are stories of love and betrayal, addiction and recovery, anxiety and depression. At the end of each story there is a prayer and silence, and then the liturgist gives the Assurance of Grace. The assurance is the epilogue to the story. It tells the ways in which the liturgist discovered God in the midst of their struggle, along with the assurance that they had received God’s grace. Baskette says this practice of humility and truthfulness saved their church’s life. As Baskette says in her book “Naked Before God”, you might think that church is the place we go to be unmasked – to be truthful about who we are, what are our insecurities and fears. [1] And yet, we know this often isn’t the case. Even in these days, people feel the need to come to church with in their Sunday best. Faces are scrubbed and hair is neatly combed. Year ago, when our children were young, I remember talking to a woman whose family had recently begun attending our church. She and her husband had six children in their blended family. This woman told me of the time she spent laundering and ironing all their clothes for church, and washing and brushing their hair. She’d confessed to me that as she swung her minivan into the church parking lot, she was cursing under her breath from the stress of it all. I never did convince her that church is a place that she and her children could come “as they were.” And, yet, isn’t church the place we can come as we are? Although I am convinced of this, I am still tempted to “paint a pretty picture” in my sermons and reflections. I remember one of my first sermons at my home church. It was during Advent, and there happened to be a substantial snowstorm. Sunday School was cancelled, but worship was still on. My husband stayed home with the kids while I went to the service. My home church pastor and I had conducted a dialogue sermon, taking the parts of Mary and Joseph, reflecting on their journey to Bethlehem and the birth of Jesus. I loved the idea of getting inside Mary’s persona, connecting the story with the context of the time. I wanted to project Mary’s courage and grace in bringing the infant Jesus into the world. I enjoyed the compliments I received from the congregation afterwards. I drove in state of serenity, until I arrived home. The kids had been out playing while my husband was shoveling snow. They had then stuffed their snow pants and jackets, snow, grit and all, into the drier. I arrived home to hear the salt and sand ricocheting around in the drum. I just about hit the roof! And then was so sad that I’d lost my temper with the kids, right after I’d just “performed” the perfectly serene Mary. I was sorry that I had soured what could have been a lovely day. A few days later my pastor told me that a member of the congregation had said he’d imagined a halo over my head as I told Mary’s story. I laughed so hard, as I told my pastor that that halo had slipped dramatically the minute I arrived home! Looking back, it was the story of the grit in the drier and my angry reaction, that I needed to share with the congregation. Baskette says the “raw unprocessed side of our nature, [is] what Jung calls the ‘shadow side’”. To tell the truth about the shadow side is to shine light onto it. When light is shined onto a shadow, the shadow disappears like the devil in the desert. We are reluctant to reveal our shadow sides, though, especially in church. We guard our privacy carefully. At our Pancake supper on Tuesday, we talked about the penitents of early Christianity. People were mortified by the notion that in those times, those who had sinned egregiously were required to wear sackcloth and ashes for the entire season of Lent. Their sins were on display for the 40 days of penitence, after which they may have been received back into the community of the church. I am truly glad that we do not practice this kind of shaming any more. Instead, my hope is that we could learn to become more transparent, more real, during Lent so as to be open to God’s abundant mercy and grace. Molly Baskette wisely curates the stories members of her congregation wished to share. Sometimes a “real story” can be too raw and can provoke anxiety or re-traumatize the hearers. Baskette calls this “floodlighting”: the storytelling is used by the teller to meet their own unmet needs. We all need some time for healing, before we are ready to tell our stories in a public setting. The intention of the liturgist program is to tell stories of grace, rather than sharing open wounds. If your story is not ready for prime time, fear not! There are other places where light can be shone in the shadowy corners. Our small groups, such as the book group or our weekly Lent groups might be a good setting for your story. If not please meet with me, your pastor, with a trusted friend, or a therapist. Sometimes seekers from outside the church come through our doors to looking for some kind of healing. They may seek healing from loneliness and lack of connection. Or perhaps they are looking for a community that will help them in their recovery from addiction. Some come with the pain of anxiety and depression. Their expectations are often high. After all, we are the people who are supposed to have it all figured out. We are supposed to treat one another with kindness and love all the time. We “have the love of Jesus in our hearts.” Sadly, we have to disappoint those high expectations. But I hope we will not disappoint those who are looking for God’s grace and mercy. The first step in showing God’s grace and mercy, is to confess our own need. When we bring our stories before God and before the congregation, there will be touching points. Confessions ring true. People who struggle with the same issues are reminded that they are not alone and there is hope. When we recognize our own need of grace, it is so much easier to be gracious to others. The devil will try to tell us lies. He will say that our members and guests want to see the magic of stones turned into bread. He will say that they expect this church to show power and influence in the public square. He will say that they are hoping for dramatic stunts. To defeat the devil’s lies, we simply need to shine a light on who we really are and who we are called to be. And so, this Lent, may we begin our practice of “getting real.” Jesus will be true to his calling as Son of God. And we will be his humble truth-seeking followers. [1] Phinney Baskette, Molly, Standing Naked Before God: The Art of Public Confession, (Cleveland, The Pilgrim Press, 2015), 9 Seeing the World the Way God Loves the World Preached on March 3rd, 2019 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 9:28-43a It’s been a rough week in our corner of the world. Yet again, our attention has been drawn to the pervasive nature of human trafficking. This came to light through the charges of solicitation leveled against a popular celebrity. It also seems that the political administrations in this nation, as well as the United Kingdom, are in disarray. And our siblings in Christ, the United Methodist Church, voted to tear their denomination apart rather than welcome LGBTQ individuals to the church and ministry. In their General Conference, UMC delegates voted to pursue the “Traditional” plan which reaffirms the denomination’s prohibitions against same-sex marriage and LGBTQ clergy. From our vantage point, the world is not looking too lovable. Add to that the stream of local news: stories of anger and violence, drug deals in our communities, robberies and animal abuse. And the world is looking even less lovable. This Sunday we stand on the threshold of Lent, but still in Epiphany, the stunning season of light and revelation. The three disciples closest to Jesus experience light and revelation is on the mountain. What is their view down from that mountain, over the mountain’s base and out into the world? When we look out from the mountain what do we see? Is it a world in need of healing? Some years ago, I traveled with my family to South Africa for a very special vacation. I was celebrating a significant anniversary with my husband, and we had decided not to delay going to Africa any longer. We wanted to visit my younger cousin who had lived there for many years, and also to take in the experiences unique to that part of the world. Our first stop was Capetown, close to the southern most tip of the continent. We arrived during South Africa’s fall season and Capetown was characteristically windy and brilliantly sunny. On our first day we decided to stretch our legs and hike the nearby Table Mountain. Before we reached the summit the path changed from a hiking trail to more of a climbing trail and so I decided that was enough for me. My family went on and I found a rock on which to perch and take in the scenery. The view was spectacular, taking in all of Capetown: both the city and the bay. I basked for a while in the peaceful sounds of nature, the birds that flitted back and forth to the sparse bushes. And the sound of the town below drifted up to greet me. As well as my panoramic view, I could see details of the life going on at the foot of the mountain. I could hear church and playground bells, and take in the sights and sounds of children running and playing in their neat little uniforms. I could also take in the blue bay, and the harbor in the distance, and glimpse the infamous Robben Island out in the ocean. I enjoyed a spiritual time reflecting on the beauty of it all, and my good fortune – being on this amazing journey. That was just the beginning of course. The next day we took a ferry out of the harbor to visit windswept Robben Island. This is the place where anti-apartheid activists were imprisoned during the time of apartheid. We saw Nelson Mandela’s tiny cell and felt the chill of the place. A former political prisoner shared with us his horrific experiences of the prison. We viewed the quarry in which the prisoners were forced to break up limestone rocks, and learned that Mandela’s eyes and lungs were permanently damaged by the brilliant sun and the dust of the rocks. During the week, as we were walking around, sometimes children would stop and ask us for money for food, or offer to “watch” our car in exchange for a few rand. We always took up the offer. As we traveled we noticed the still vast wealth gap between white and black South Africans. The world does not look so lovable, when we are up-close and personal. It’s hard to love the world, when we drive by rundown strip malls, and notice those massage parlors, that are not about health and healing at all. It’s hard to love the world in the places where violence seems to rule, and those who should find a welcome do not. It’s hard to get engaged in the political process when those in power disappoint us. Sometimes it’s too hard to love, and all we can do is to turn a blind eye. Perhaps this is why we need a transfiguration experience on the mountain, to see the world the way that God loves the world. And, perhaps, that is why Jesus chose to take those first disciples: James, John and Peter, up the mountain that day. Maybe it was a hard hike. Or maybe the three disciples were exhausted from the teaching, healing and the casting out of demons they had been doing over the past months. Or perhaps they were simply weary from the needs of the world and their own inability to meet those needs. By the time they reached the mountain top and they began to pray, the disciples were falling asleep. Perhaps that is why they missed Jesus stepping a few paces away from them. Perhaps that is why the whole event seemed to take place in a dreamlike mist. And yet, they most definitely glimpsed the holiness embodied in Jesus, his face glowing and his clothes shining like lightning. They witnessed his mysterious meeting with the “greats” of the Jewish story: Moses and Elijah. Then a great cloud descended shrouded them all on the mountain top and they heard the mighty voice of God, blessing Jesus for the hard days ahead. God’s voice reminded them “this is my Son, the chosen one” and telling them to “listen to him.” Once the voice had spoken, the cloud lifted and they were alone again with Jesus. They were left with only the view, from the mountain top, over the surrounding land. Perhaps, at that distance, they could see the world the way God loves the world. They could understand why God would send God’s only dear Son for the sake of that world. They could return to the base, to the crowds, with a vision of that love. The next day, when they had come down from the mountain, they come across a chaotic scene. The crowds have not gone away. A man emerges from the huddle with his young son who is tormented by terrible seizures. He is understood to be possessed by a demon. The boy’s father cries out “teacher I beg you, look at my son, he is my only child.” The disciples who stayed behind have tried to heal him, but they have been unsuccessful. Only Jesus can heal the boy, which he does. James, John and Peter have seen Jesus heal many times before. Yet now they have a new perspective. On the mountain they heard God’s voice, and they heard God claim Jesus, once again as God’s own Son. Now they see the world as Jesus loves it. They see the child as Jesus sees him, beloved of his father and beloved of the Father in heaven. They see that God, in Jesus, loves the world up close and personal. Each child suffering from sickness. Each terrified trafficked young woman, held hostage in a sleazy massage parlor. Each young person, forced to choose between the church where they thought they belonged, and a life true to their God-given orientation and identity. The disciples have gone to the mountain top, they have seen Jesus transfigured, they have heard the voice of God claiming Jesus as God’s own Son. And they have seen the world as God loves the world, as Jesus loves the world. That love does not stop at the mountain top vista. In the weeks ahead they will learn about the extent of that up close and personal love. That love will take the Son all the way to the cross. And so we are left with the question: how do we see the world as God loves the world in every day life? It’s unlikely I’ll be going back to Table Mountain very soon. And even if I did, I doubt I’d be able to take you all with me. Still, there are ways even the ones of us who have no desire to go up any mountains may be able to see the way God loves the world. This past week, I attended my monthly meeting for supervision, a group of ministers and chaplains of various faiths. One member of the group had no childcare that afternoon, and so she had brought along her 9 month old baby boy. I laughed to watch the little one, clapping and waving from across the conference table. His secure and healthy attachment to his mom gave me another vision of the way God loves the world. And in the midst my social media stream there are little videos and photographs of Carrie and Katie’s delightful twins and Jenn’s beloved foster babies. I see LGBTQ colleagues resplendent in their robes and stoles, leading worship, preaching the word. Last week we admired Linda’s grandson, Silas, here for a visit on his first birthday showing off his walking skills. Another vision of the way God loves the world. We pause from daily life each week to come to worship, to sing the hymns, take in the lovely music provided for us by Jing and JiaRong, and lift up our prayers. We meditate on the stories of God so in love with the world, the only Son is sent to be with us, up close and personal. And, for that moment of transfiguration, from that beautiful view, we can see the world as God loves the world. Amen |
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