What Just Happened Here? Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On April 28th, 2019 Scripture: Luke 24:13-35 The gospel reading recommended by the Revised Common Lectionary for today, the second Sunday of Easter Year C, is from the gospel of John. It tells a familiar tale we often hear on the Sunday after Easter about the risen Jesus appearing to the disciples in a locked room. The disciple Thomas is not there and doesn’t believe the others when they tell him the tale. John’s story is good, but for this Sunday, this first week after Easter it seems to be rushing us along too quickly. The switch from Luke’s gospel we heard last week to John is jarring. There is more to ponder about what happened in Luke’s story, after the women had come to the empty tomb on that first morning. There is a story of what happens just a little later that day, while the disciples are still in a place of asking “What just happened here?” And so this is the story we are thinking about today. “What (the …) just happened here?” (you can add an expletive if you like) is the question we are left with when life events throw us off balance. It might be a sudden death, a catastrophic event, or a conversation that rapidly escalates into a fight or a shouting match. It might be a rejection when we were hoping for affirmation, the end of a relationship we thought was going great, or a “no” when we were assuming a “yes.” It is a sudden shift in the landscape, something that throws us off our path: a literal or figurative earthquake. The question is our response to something that simply doesn’t make sense, something for which there is no clear meaning. And this is what I imagine for the disciples on this first day of the week, that they are in this stunned, shocked place, looking at one another and asking “What the … just happened here?” The women had gone to the tomb very early in the morning, intending to anoint Jesus’ body with oil and spices. Maybe their response to “what just happened here?” is to be doing. Maybe their hands need to be busy. They need to believe that they are doing something positive, something helpful. They had been following Jesus, believing in his ministry with body, heart and soul, these past three years. They simply cannot stop moving at this sudden halt: this execution of Jesus on the cross. Other disciples, Cleopas and his companion, go for a walk. They decide to travel the 7 miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus. This is how they process. They talk as they walk. I can relate, walking is definitely a way to process for me. In the wake of sudden climactic change, it takes a while for me to articulate what just happened. Once arrangements have been made, mechanically, automatically, I need to get on my sneakers and get out into the air. I remember after I experienced the miscarriage of my first pregnancy I took a few days at home from work. “Go out on walks” one of my co-workers said. She was right, she knew me very well. There was nothing to say, no explanation for why this hope of a child didn’t come to fruition. In the open air, my sobs and tears could come and go. In the spaciousness of no invented explanations I could grieve. And so, the story of Cleopas and his companion draws me in. I can imagine the placement of each step. I imagine the lengthy silence, before they begin to speak; the deep inhales of the springtime air; the side-by-side companionship, the spaciousness of it all. Then suddenly, they are joined by another companion, another walker along the way. It’s funny for those of us who know how the story ends. The two disciples think they have somehow run into the only person in all Jerusalem who hasn’t heard of the things that have taken place over the past days. When they have put some steps between themselves and Jerusalem, they articulate the situation beautifully. They tell about their disappointment that the ministry of Jesus had not worked out the way they expected. They tell the stranger about the confusion of the women’s discovery at the tomb. The stranger has some deep insight, though, and explains the scriptures to them. He tells them that their expectations are off base, that the coming of the one who redeems Israel does not mean taking Jerusalem with power and might. Instead, the route to Jesus’ glory is through his suffering. He points to the prophets and the scriptures and asks “has the coming of God ever been any different?” The stranger’s engagement with them is so compelling they are not willing to let him go. They practically grab him by the arm and drag him to the place where they will be staying the night. Finally, as the stranger takes bread and breaks it, they recognize him. It is an act they have seen him do so many times before, most recently at that very last supper. He is Jesus. He has been with them all along the way. As soon as they recognize him, he disappears. It seems that this is what the appearance is all about: letting them know who he is. And so, without a moment’s rest, not even a bite of the supper in front of them, they run back to Jerusalem to share the news. They tell of how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. Author, professor and psychologist, Pauline Boss, specializes in ambiguous loss, and has written about what she calls the “myth of closure.” Ambiguous loss arises when a loved one is psychologically absent and physically present, or when they are psychologically present but physically absent. An example of the first is a parent suffering from advanced dementia, so that they cannot recognize or remember their child. They are physically present to the child, but psychologically absent. Their family members may grieve their loss even while they are still alive. An example of the second case is a military service person missing in action, or someone who was onboard an airplane that went missing without trace, or perhaps a long-ago kidnapped child. The family cannot fully grieve the loss, because they have no remains. They cannot be absolutely certain the person is dead. In both cases, people experience ambiguous loss. I recently heard an interview with Pauline Boss on the NPR program, On Point. And as I immersed myself in Luke’s gospel account of the events following Jesus’ crucifixion, I began to wonder whether the disciples were experiencing ambiguous loss. They had seen Jesus die on the cross, and yet when the women went to the tomb early on the first day of the week the body was gone. Angels tell them a mysterious story, that he has risen. But they have not yet found Jesus’ physical presence. They are excited and hopeful, but also doubtful. The angels’ story makes no sense to them. At this point in the story Cleopas and his companion begin their walk to Emmaus. En route, of course, they meet the risen Jesus. For a brief while, Jesus is both psychologically and physically present to them. Or should I say he is spiritually and physically present to them. Then he is gone. These appearances continue with the disciples on and off for the next forty days. At the end of that time, Jesus ascends to the Father and his presence becomes purely spiritual. Perhaps in the biblical scheme of things – that magic number 40 - is how long the disciples need to sit and process their grief. There is no rushing loss, it simply has to be experienced. Pauline Boss reminds listeners that there is no timetable for grief, especially ambiguous grief. When she speaks with people about their losses she asks “how long has it been?” It could be 10 years or 14, and yet they are still grieving. She reminds us that the best thing to say in these circumstances is simply “I am sorry.” There is nothing we can do or say to fix grief and loss. We can only be with the grieving person, in their grief. We can only companion them along the road. There is no rushing to any destination. [1] And perhaps, this is what is happening here. Jesus is companioning the disciples along the road of their grief. Perhaps this is a story to let us know that Jesus will companion us along our roads. At the time we may not know it, we may not recognize him. It is only when we get to the destination and look back that we realize he was present all along, like the “footprints in the sand” poem. These past weeks there have been “What the … just happened here?” moments around the world and in daily lives …
These events shift the landscape for us, in dramatic, irreversible ways – in the same way that Jesus’ crucifixion and risen appearances did for the first disciples. The Emmaus story reminds us that Jesus is to be found in the midst of it all, our companion along the way, breaking bread with us at our destination. May all God’s people say … Amen [1] https://onbeing.org/programs/pauline-boss-the-myth-of-closure-dec2018/#transcript
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Looking for the Living Among the Living Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On April 21st, 2019 Scripture: Luke 24:1-12 There’s a meme that has been showing up on my social media feed recently. It resembles and church sign, and says: “In the interests of biblical accuracy, all the preaching about the resurrection this Easter Sunday will be done by women.” It didn’t take long from someone to comment “and no one will believe them.” And so, I will preach about the resurrection this Easter morning … and perhaps you will believe what I say, perhaps you will not. If not, don’t worry, I’m used to it. My invitation for you today is to listen for the deeper truth in the story I tell and to ponder, where might we look for the risen, living Jesus? And so the story begins. Women go to the tomb very early in the morning on that first day of the week, while it is still dark. These are the women who have been traveling with Jesus all the way from Galilee to Jerusalem, over the past months. They bring spices that they have prepared. It is their earliest opportunity to care for Jesus’ body, following the Sabbath. They are doing the right thing in their grief, coming to prepare the body of their loved one for burial. When they arrive at the tomb they immediately see that things are not as they expect them to be. The large stone that was sealing the cave has been rolled away. They go in and discover that the body is not there. They are confused, but don’t have much time to ponder the mystery. Two men in dazzling clothes suddenly appear in front of them. The women bow down to the ground in terror, but the men ask a question: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” and then they deliver unbelievable news “He is not here, but has risen.” They remind the women of what Jesus told them in Galilee, that he would be handed over, crucified and on the third day rise again. At this the women go to tell the other disciples this news, but the men do not believe them. Peter dismisses their words as an idle tale. Still, he is curious enough to go and look for himself. And so he runs to the tomb where he finds only the linen cloths Jesus was buried in. The men in dazzling clothes – angels, we assume – asked the women a strange question: “why do you look for the living among the dead?” It is strange because, after all, they were not looking for the living. They had come to embalm Jesus’ dead body. They had come to grieve their loss and do the right thing. They were not looking for anything other than what they left here on Friday evening. These messengers of God totally reorient the women’s thinking. The message is good news … remember all that he told you? Look for the living among the living. The women need to be reminded of what Jesus said, and we need to be reminded too. We might ask ourselves the same question: why do we look for the living among the dead? I’ve noticed just these last days of Lent how easy it is to slip into being forgetful. Even though we’ve had more than 2,000 years of reminders, collectively. Even though I have lived many Easters myself. I still need to be reminded to look for the living among the living. It is too easy for me to see fear, violence and anger, every way I turn. I notice angry drivers, fast and erratic. I notice hardened faces and sour looks. I notice men who leer at women in the street. I notice the self-absorption of my fellow travelers, focused on devices, unwilling to smile or make eye contact. It has been too easy for these things to become my focus, and for them to raise my hackles of anxiety. The angel’s message helps me to reset my default. It helps me to start looking out for the things that are life giving. The angels’ message redirects my sights toward tender, loving scenes … children in the park who have begun their spring sports, running and catching, cheering one another on … the gentle elder, who stoops to pay attention to a wriggly child in a stroller … … persons of different ethnicity who treat one another courteously and with respectful curiosity. Just the other day I sat at a communal table in a local coffee shop and there I met a man from Minnesota who told me an amazing story. He and his wife founded an organization that rescues dogs and gently retrains them become service animals for people with disabilities, such as autism and epilepsy. He had brought a dog he had been training all the way from St Paul to be adopted by a family in Boston. He was grabbing a cup of coffee while the new family had time to get acquainted with the dog. The organization gives new life and purpose to the rejected dogs, and the dogs provide life-giving support for their new owners. A win-win! And yet the question remains: Why do we so often look for the living among the dead? I suspect we humans are like the women who followed Jesus. Generally we are not looking for the living Jesus. Generally we are not looking for anything at all, other than for things to be the way we left them. And yet, if Jesus has been at work, if the living have been among us, things will not be as we left them. Time and again I am surprised when bursts of life have rearranged things here in the church. On Wednesday I came to work expecting most of our space to be as usual for a weekday morning: quiet and empty. Instead of that, wonderful musical theater melodies from the Greatest Showman drifted down the stairs. And the stomping feet of dancing, reverberated in the church office. Laughter and chatter was coming from the social hall which was marked out ready for a performance. The children’s musical theater group was holding a vacation camp, of course. I had forgotten. I had come expecting emptiness and quiet. These signs of life in our church provide another opportunity find the living among the living. The invitation for us, today for you and for me, is to seek out the living in our daily lives. We are not to ignore of deny the troubles of the world, grief and death, but we are prompted set our focal point on the places we might find the living Jesus. In school, at work, on our daily walk or run, on the bus or subway, in our neighborhoods, we are invited to look for signs of the living. We are invited to notice when things are not as we expected, when they are not as we left them. The season of Lent is over, and the season of Easter lasting for 50 days has just begun. Perhaps this is the challenge for us these next 50 days. The story we heard from the gospel of Luke this morning begins at the empty tomb, with the two men in dazzling clothes. We do not even meet the risen Jesus in this episode. Later in the chapter we will hear of the two disciples traveling the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus, and meeting Jesus along the way. They travel along the road with him and invite him to dinner at their destination, still thinking he is a stranger. It is only when he breaks bread with them that they recognize him as the risen Jesus. The resurrected Jesus popups up now and again in the disciple community for 50 more days before he ascends to the Father. Then the disciples receive the gift of the Holy Spirit and they are empowered to preach the good news of Jesus, and bring his ministry to fruition in Jerusalem and all the world. We see the disciples’ transformation from an end of the line, “our leader is dead” perspective. They reorient to “the Spirit is with us”: we are empowered, we will are here to serve the living, breathing people of Jerusalem and the world. It all begins with the empty tomb, and the story told by women that is no idle tale. There will be more meaning to make of this mysterious and wonderful story. We will continue to follow along in the coming weeks. But, for today the reminder to look for the living among the living is meaning enough. May all God’s people say, Amen The Stones will Shout Preached on April 14th, 2019 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 19:28-42 The procession into Jerusalem we heard of about in our gospel reading today is often called the “Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem.” The Palm Sunday hymns are upbeat, and many churches hold processions in which adults and children cheerfully wave palms. Before Palm Sunday, I often play my recording of “Hosanna Hey-sanna” from Jesus Superstar as I prepare my sermon. Like the birth stories of Jesus, the different gospel accounts of the entrance into Jerusalem are often melded into one. In fact, John’s gospel is the only one that includes the waving of palms. And in the account we heard today from Luke, there is no singing of “Hosanna”. The “great multitude” of disciples cry out: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" At Jesus’ instructions, the disciples have acquired the colt that has never been ridden. The scene is set for an enactment of the ninth chapter of the prophetic book of Zechariah. In this oracle, a peaceful king rides humbly into the city on the colt, a foal of a donkey. This is a different kind of king, a meek king who commands peace to the nations, who lets the chariots and war horses loose. This is a completely different kind of rule, from that which the people of Jerusalem are experiencing under Caesar. Jesus enacts this vision of peace, as he follows the steep and stony road down into Jerusalem on the wobbly little colt. The disciples are emboldened. This peace seems to be within reach. They are so pumped, with love, joy and hope, that their praise is noisy, rambunctious, undignified. It is reminiscent of King David’s wild dance before the Lord, as he accompanied the ark of the covenant into Jerusalem. I suspect Luke of hyperbole when he talks of “multitudes of disciples”, but still, there are at least enough to make a ruckus. And among them there are some Pharisees – religious leaders – who get uncomfortable with the scene. They are the responsible ones, who look over their shoulders nervously for signs of the Roman governor’s spies. They are well aware that the authorities are already on “orange” alert. The festival of the Passover is approaching, which is a high holiday of liberation for the Jewish people. Pilgrims from all over the land are flooding into Jerusalem for the holiday. There is an atmosphere of celebration, and yet the mood could very easily change. With the right provocation, the balance could be tipped toward rebellion and the bloodshed that comes with it. The Pharisees get alongside Jesus, whose legs are dangling over the sides of little colt. “A word in your ear … could you get them to tone it down … we don’t want too much attention, you know, of the wrong sort.” But he replies: "I tell you, if [these folk] were silent, the stones would shout out." This feeling of longing, for a leader who brings peace, healing and liberty to the oppressed cannot be put back in the box. If the Romans were to swoop in now, and take all the followers to jail, the very landscape would continue to echo their chants and songs. The stones would shout out. The landscape would bear witness and the stones would cry out, drawing attention to Jesus’ courageous, peaceful act. There are many places in the world where the landscape and the stones bear witness to what has passed in that place. Here in the United States, the grounds of Arkansas State Capitol in Little Rock, tell a story that will not be silenced. On a circular concrete setting there are sculptures that memorialize the Little Rock Nine. The sculptures are of nine African American High School students, each carrying books, each resembling a particular student. These nine students were the first black Americans to be enrolled at Little Rock High School in September 1957. This was a test case for Brown vs Board of Education, the Supreme Court bill that ruled segregation in schools was unconstitutional. The students, Minnijean Brown, Elizabeth Eckford, Ernest Green, Thelma Mothershed, Melba Patillo, Gloria Ray, Terrence Roberts, Jefferson Thomas and Carlotta Walls, were recruited and vetted for their strength and determination. The NAACP in Arkansas knew that they would face fierce opposition to desegregation. The hostilities the students faced, as they attempted to make their way into school each day, have many parallels with Jesus’ journey into Jerusalem and toward the cross. Before school began, the Arkansas Governor recruited the National Guard to resist the students’ entry into the High School, and the Mothers’ League of Little Rock High School held a sunrise service to protest the integration. But a Federal Judge ruled that the desegregation would stand. And so on September 4th, the first day of school, eight of students arrived together in one carpool. But Elizabeth Eckford arrived alone, and was spat upon by the mothers as she navigated hostile white students and parents in her way. On September 20th the school was ordered to remove the National Guard, and the police department took over, to escort the 9 students into the school. But the mob of around 1,000 protesters was so violent that President Eisenhower had to send the Army to maintain order. Finally on September 25th the nine students were able to attend their first full day of school. All nine students were routinely harassed and subjected to violence throughout their first year at the school. Melba Patillo, was kicked, beaten and had acid thrown in her face. Gloria Ray was pushed down a flight of stairs. The Little Rock Nine were barred from participating in extracurricular activities. White students burned an African-American effigy in a vacant lot across from the school. Minnijean Brown was expelled from the school in February 1958 for retaliating against attacks. The Little Rock Nine are remembered today for their courage and nonviolent resistance to an injustice that had to be overcome. Their way of peace was public and painful, like that of Jesus. This demonstration of what peace looks could not be done quietly. May the sculptures in the Little Rock Capitol continue to cry out and bear witness to their courage. [1] The stones and the landscape cry out in many places. Some stones have been fashioned into memorials, while others simply stand in witness. And sometimes the stones and rocks that are constructed to oppress a population actually bear witness to their liberation. In April 1990, while we were living in England, I went with my husband to visit his sister, brother-in-law and their young daughter in Germany. Our brother-in-law, Rolf, was particularly affected by the split of Berlin by the wall built by the Soviet occupiers of East Germany. And so we decided to take a trip to Berlin to witness the destruction of the wall, and the symbolic end of the Soviet Union. When we arrived in West Berlin, there was a party atmosphere. People were picnicking in the grass in front of the wall with their friends and family. Rolf lifted our three-year-old niece, Christina, up onto the partly demolished wall and took pictures as she walked along it. My husband, Simon, jumped up onto the wall, and reached down to pull me up. There’s a picture of that too. On the western side the wall was covered with graffiti. Street artists painted slogans like “no more walls”, “dancing to freedom”, “save our Earth.” These artists had courage. The “death strip” had been just the other side of the 12 foot wall. Soldiers had guarded East Berlin from watch-towers and were ready to shoot anyone who attempted to climb over. And yet, those graffiti artists could not allow the wall to remain silent. The stones were crying out. We were amongst the visitors that brought home a small piece of the concrete wall from Berlin that spring. It was our own piece of a stone that cried out for the end of brutal restrictions on the people of Eastern Europe. The atmosphere was of partying in Berlin that spring, and also there was a party atmosphere in Jerusalem, those many years before. In 1990, the wall came down without bloodshed, the Cold War ended. Eastern Europe opened up. The Little Rock Nine had to wait for their party. But in 1999 they were each honored by President Clinton with a Congressional Gold Medal, and, as senior citizens, the students were honored guests at President Obama’s inauguration in 2009. Later this morning we will read of Jesus’ continued journey toward the cross. Then the party will be over for a time and the crowds will be silenced for a while. But the stones will not remain silent, they will continue to cry out for all time. May all God’s people say "Amen" [1] https://www.history.com/topics/black-history/central-high-school-integration The First Supper Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On April 7th, 2019 Scripture: John 12:1-8 We don’t always notice it, but here in John’s gospel we find that the last week of Jesus’ ministry begins and ends with a dinner. There is the dinner on the night before the Passover, that is known as the “last supper." New Testament scholar and writer, Amy-Jill Levine, calls the dinner from our gospel passage today the “first supper.” [1] It’s the party that happens the night before Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey in what has become known as the palm parade. We could say that it is the beginning of the end. It is the beginning of Holy Week, which ends as we know with the crucifixion of Jesus. Jesus has recently raised the brother of Mary and Martha, Lazarus, from the dead. The news of that event attracts the attention of the religious leaders. They are already nervous of this dynamic preacher who is drawing the admiration of the crowds. The priests fear an uprising that would provoke the Roman occupiers. One member of the council of Pharisees, Caiaphas, is reported to have declared that it would be better for one man to die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed. Jerusalem is not looking like a very friendly place for Jesus. Parties for people facing difficult times ahead of them are not unusual. Family and friends of service persons may give a send off party before their loved one’s deployment. Women at my seminary held a special party to shave the head of a student as she received chemotherapy for cancer. My former pastor, Ken, had planned two events for his funeral: a traditional service at the church, and a gathering on the beach of the town lake with music, singing, story telling and all his favorite foods. The second event sounded so good to him, that the congregation pulled it together while he was still alive. The party closed with all the attendees forming a circle around Ken and his wife and singing the spiritual song: Dona Nobis Pacem, give us peace. And so, it seems that Mary, Martha and Lazarus, are putting on a party for Jesus. There’s no doubt that they are grateful to their friend for restoring Lazarus to life. And at the same time, Mary’s actions in this story show that she, at least, is well aware that this is also a send off party. This is the first supper of the last week. The disciples and friends are gathered around the long and low table. They recline on cushions. They have eaten well on Martha’s delicious cooking, they have drunk from Lazarus’s well stocked wine cellar. Their exposed feet have been washed, so that they are presentable at the table. And now Mary enters with a very special jar, from the highest shelf in the store cupboard. It is something very precious she has been saving for the right moment. And now that moment is here. Tears course down her face as she makes her way toward Jesus. She breaks open the alabaster jar and pours the aromatic essential oil over his feet. This is a startling act in itself. But then she loosens her hair from its modest fastening. It falls over her shoulders, in an array that would normally be reserved for her husband if she was married. She massages the oil into Jesus’ feet and wipes off the excess with her now free hair. The fragrance of the oil fills the whole house. The conversation settles into quiet murmurs as everyone at the dinner inhales deeply of the sensuality of the moment. They would have stayed in a state of sensory overload for much longer, but Judas’s sharp retort cuts through the heady atmosphere …"Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?" Judas is the one who can be relied on to spoil a good party. He’s the one who always wants to count the cost. Everyone else was breathing in the delights of the nard, and reflecting on the meaning of Mary’s action. Judas has evaluated the cost of the ointment, and declares it a waste. If Mary had this kind of resource ready to spare, why didn’t she give the money to the poor? But Jesus silences Judas, telling him to leave Mary alone. She has performed an act of love and an act of preparation. Even as the gospel writer, John, portrays the divine nature of Jesus, he also emphasizes Jesus’ deeply human nature. Jesus needs this act of love. He refers Judas to a passage from the book of Deuteronomy, reminding him that the mission to care for the poor is ongoing. He adds, perhaps quietly and sadly “but, you will not always have me.” The poor will always be their work. But, for now, Mary is preparing Jesus for his burial in this intimate act. It is an act that will be echoed during the last supper in this gospel, when Jesus washes the disciples’ feet and takes up a towel to wipe them dry. Mary is ministering to Jesus. If you are uncomfortable with intimacy, with Jesus and with the church – the disciple community – I’m sorry. This week, and next week: the entry into Jerusalem and the progression toward the cross, are going to be really intimate. I’m sorry you had to hear this story today, if you’re the kind of person who says “ew … feet!” If intimacy is something you can’t do, I suggest that you wait until Easter and come back then. Jesus will be risen from the dead, and you’ll be spared the icky foot touching and the ugly crying at the site of the crucifixion. I say this tongue in cheek, of course. I don’t want you to miss this next week. But I do recognize that for many of us, it is going to be difficult. Many of us are uncomfortable with intimacy, with Jesus and with one another. Intimacy makes us vulnerable, and we don’t like that feeling. For a long time I’ve wondered why people react a certain way when they find out I’m a pastor and a religious person. Some people will be careful around me, watching their ‘P’s and Q’s’. Others will outwardly mock faith and Christianity. They’ll make a joke about it, which is a sure sign that they are embarrassed. They’ll say religious people take their faith “too far.” And others will accuse Christians of being hypocritical, and failing to care for the poor. And yet, like Judas, these individuals usually do nothing for the poor themselves. If I’m not careful, I’ll leap to my religion’s defense. I’ll tell them that not all churches, not all ministers or priests, are like that. I’ll try and make a case for all the good that the Church does. But, if I have my wits about me I’ll take the time to probe and listen to what’s beneath the surface. What is this embarrassment? What is this resistance? Were you hurt by religion in the past? Or are you fearful of what would be revealed if you opened up? Does Jesus’ invitation to intimacy with him trouble you? A few years back, I was in a learning environment with Jewish Rabbinical students. In our “Group” times we were supposed to talk about our relationships with one another. One student asked, if we were sexually attracted to another member of the group, would this be a place to talk about it? Here I was, in a setting quite different from my own, with people I had just met – and this was the topic of conversation! I was visibly uncomfortable with it. I discovered these Jewish students were surprisingly comfortable talking about intimacy. And they gently teased me about my discomfort with the subject, seeing it as typical for a waspy Christian. They were both amused and annoyed by the Christian tradition that Jesus was never married and did not have physically intimate relationships. This was about the time that Karen King of Harvard Divinity School had published an ancient text that seemed to make reference to a “wife of Jesus.” According to the Jewish tradition, a Rabbi was expected to be married. The rabbinical students saw the supposed singleness of Jesus as a Christian cover-up intended to control the sexuality of the followers. You may be relieved when I say that I’m not going to speculate on Jesus’ relationship status today. We’re not going to talk sex. Good, I can already see your sense of relief. I don’t know whether Mary’s anointing of Jesus was intimate in that way. But it certainly was extravagant, it certainly was loving. For Judas it was too much, it was going too far. And still, I think that is Jesus’ invitation to us today. To go too far in love for him. We are invited to dinner – to two parties, the first supper and the last. We’re encouraged to enter into the intimacy of this season with all our senses: Sight, sound, smell, hearing and touch. We’re encouraged to return love to Jesus that he offers to us and to share it in the disciple community of the church. What will intimacy with Jesus look like in these coming weeks? Perhaps it looks like showing up for the services that will follow Jesus along the route to the cross. Perhaps it looks like participating without reservation in the songs and prayers of the season. Perhaps it looks like entering into the story today, by taking and tasting the bread and drinking the juice with one another, imagining ourselves participating in that first supper. Perhaps it means reaching out a hand to touch and comfort a lonely neighbor. Or perhaps it means making eye contact, here in this place with one another, and out in the community in the week ahead. Perhaps is means inviting a co-worker or a friend to Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday and Easter. And perhaps sharing with them what our faith walk really means to us, without worrying about “going too far.” Amen [1]Amy-Jill Levine, Entering the Passion of Jesus, (Nashville, Abingdon Press, 2018), 92 Finding Our Way Home Preached on March 31st, 2019 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 Today we heard a story … a very familiar one. This story has been called the Parable of the Prodigal Son, though the word prodigal is not used in the biblical story and few of us use the word in any other context. But, the Prodigal Son is not the only name for the story: other possibilities include “the lost son”, “the father and two sons”, “the grieving father.” My hope, this morning, is that we would hear this parable with new ears. I hope we will listen for a different understanding than we may have had learned in the past, perhaps in Sunday School. My hope is that we get away from the “shoulds” and the “oughts” that are often projected when this parable is taught. I should be generous to my destitute, wandering siblings in Christ. I should welcome home sinners to relationship with God when all other options fail them. I ought to be non-judgmental about my younger brother, his earlier wandering years, and his “different from mine” lifestyle now. These “shoulds” and “oughts” may be valid, but where do they leave us? I should and I ought, and perhaps I do, or do not. And there are a couple of reasons why shoulds and oughts will not work for our text today. First of all, our gospel text today is a story. A story does not tell us what to do. A story does not preach. This leaves us free to listen and perhaps to find ourselves in in the story. It frees us from the fear that there is a “moral” sneaking beneath the surface. Another reason for letting go of the “shoulds” and the “oughts” is the context of this story. Jesus is telling stories to the Pharisees and the scribes. They are good and righteous people who try all the time to do the “right thing.” They are concerned that Jesus consorts too much with sinners and outcasts. These religious leaders, like many of us, are steeped in the shoulds and the oughts. Perhaps, this is actually a story to help them let go of the shoulds and the oughts, and in doing so find their way home to their loving heavenly mother and father. -------------------------------------------- Renowned author and spiritual guide, Henri Nouwen, wrote about his long and intimate connection with the Rembrandt painting “The Return of the Prodigal” which resides in the Hermitage museum in St Petersburg, Russia. Nouwen meditated on the painting during a time of deep questioning, moving from a life in academia to his final vocation, in a community caring for mentally challenged individuals. He was moving from a “head” understanding of faith in the academy, to life with those who rely on their hearts to understand the love of God in Jesus. Nouwen was so taken with the Rembrandt painting that a friend arranged for him to travel to the then-Soviet Union to see the original. This was his entrance into the story of the father and two sons, and to see the parable through the eyes of his fellow Dutch man, Rembrandt. Now, I have had the same good fortune as Nouwen. In the summer of 2015, my family took a trip to Russia and St Petersburg. In the dusky sun of late afternoon, following a beautiful day of sight seeing, Maria, our guide, brought us to the Hermitage. This is the former winter palace of the Tsars and is now filled with artwork Russia had acquired from around the world. We debated with Maria what we would look at in the Hermitage. Perhaps Russian art? “No, that is not what the Hermitage is famous for” she said, “how about some classics?” I’m so glad that is what we chose. We entered a room, and were stunned to find ourselves face to face with famous paintings we had seen in books and on television. It was the Rembrandt room. Maria was well versed on the artist’s time of life and state of mind when each work was created. “The Return of the Prodigal” was painted near the end of his life at age 63. Maria was about to explain the parable, but I stopped her. “We know this story,” I said. In that moment I could understand a little of Nouwen’s feeling for the painting. The scene was familiar to me, and still new at the same time. It shows the moments after the return of the younger son from a foreign land, where he had spent all his inheritance and had been reduced to eating the food of the pigs he cared for. It shows the passionate reunion of the younger son with the father. There is the emotion of the father who believes he has lost his child forever. And the “rock bottom” state of the son, returning, head shorn perhaps from scurvy or lice, ragged clothes slipping off his skinny and grimy body. There are also a number of bystanders witnessing the reunion. The man who stands on the right simply observing, is believed to be the elder son. Luke’s story tells us that the elder son of remained in the fields until the end of the workday, ignoring the commotion of the younger son’s return. But it seems that Rembrandt included the elder in the painting for a sense of completeness. The elder son stands on the outside looking in. He is not included in the embrace of the father and the younger son. His face does not show joy, or even relief at the safe return of his brother. He simply looks aloof and disconnected. Henri Nouwen notes that Rembrandt painted himself in each of the three roles: father, younger son and elder son. There were times in Rembrandt’s life when he could be identified with each of the characters. Nouwen’s meditations also led him to a place of imagining himself in each of the roles. It is hard to believe that a deeply spiritual person such as Henri Nouwen would think of himself as the younger “prodigal” son. And yet, this is the role he had always imagined for himself. Nouwen followed a respectable path into the priesthood of the Catholic church and led a disciplined life. He excelled in academics and was a renowned spiritual guide. Still, he tells of his longing to kneel at the feet of a loving father who is overjoyed to welcome home his lost child. The source of this longing was the message he had absorbed from parents, teachers, friends and the culture as he was growing up. The message said “Show me that you are a good boy. You had better be better than your friend! How are your grades? … These trophies certainly show how good a player you were! Don’t show your weakness, you’ll be used! … When you stop being productive, people lose interest in you! When you are dead, you are dead!” [1] Nouwen paid too much attention to this message, like so many dutiful children, and it led him to a strange and dark land, very far from God. And so he had only ever imagined himself as the younger son, returning to the loving embrace of the father. That was until a friend suggested that he was actually more like the elder son in the story. I can relate. I had always been swept along by sermons that painted a picture of God, like the father in the story, waiting day and night on the porch for the lost child to return. Yes, that’s my vision of God: running down the road to embrace me, anytime I choose to turn back. That’s my longing. Until once I attended a women’s retreat in which the leader took us through the parable. I finally began to see myself as the elder child, just as I am in my family of origin. Yes, my brother was given a significant share of “the inheritance” to compensate for mistakes he had made early in life. Yes, he had broken my parents’ hearts while he wandered. There were times when I was angry over the anguish he caused them. Meanwhile, I faithfully followed the “shoulds” and “oughts” of family life. I achieved what I could achieve, never feeling it was enough. And I had taken the traditional route to career and home ownership, marriage and parenthood. Suddenly, like Nouwen, I could imagine myself in the role of the elder son. The elder son is the dutiful one, the one who is quick to remind his father of the “shoulds” and the “oughts” of his brother’s situation. The brother should not have taken his inheritance and squandered it on selfish pleasures. He should not have left the farm, and all the work, to his older brother. And his father should not have welcomed the wayward brother home as an honored guest. The elder is beside himself with rage and resentment. The father never even spared him a small goat, never gave so much as a birthday party for him and his friends. When Nouwen reflected on the parable with another spiritual friend she reminded him that he was actually closer in age to Rembrandt at the end of his life, than to the sons in the painting. She said “You have been looking for friends all your life; you have been craving for affection … you have been begging for attention, appreciation, and affirmation left and right. The time has come to claim your true vocation—to be a father who can welcome his children home without asking them any questions and without wanting anything from them in return. Look at the father in your painting and you will know who you are called to be.” [2] The final scene of the story is a riotous party, which can be heard out in the fields as the elder son returns from work. There is singing and there is laughter. The younger son, who was once lost, is dressed in the finest robe. The father loves both his sons. And so he goes out and tries to bring the elder one into the celebration for the return of his younger brother. He wants the elder son to return to the family too. There is a longing in the father, beyond the longing to have the younger son home. He longs to have both sons together with him, gathered at the table, for them all to break bread together. Nouwen learned that he was ultimately called to act as the father in the parable. He had outgrown his role as younger son, and he was free to move on from the shoulds and oughts or the elder son’s role. And perhaps this is where we are all being led, to join the host of the party in welcoming home lost children of our mother and father in heaven. In 1996, Henri Nouwen left l’Arche community for the mentally challenged in Canada to make another trip to see the painting in St Petersburg. He was going to appear in a Dutch television documentary about the painting. Nouwen died of a heart attack, in the Netherlands, his home country, en route to St Petersburg. He was on his way home. And so, in hearing this story today, and finding ourselves in it, may we also find our way home. May all God’s people say, Amen [1] Nouwen, Henri J. M.. The Return of the Prodigal Son (p. 121). The Crown Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. [2] Ibid, 22 |
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