Sandy Strauss
Filed under: Sermons and Devotionals
This was a sermon preached at Faith UCC in New Cumberland, PA on June 1, 2014.
Several years ago, I decided to step out of my comfort zone to take on the task of painting the stenciled versions of several biblical scenes that had been transferred onto the hallway walls in the education floor at Pine Street Presbyterian Church downtown. I am DEFINITELY not an artist, but I figured that I’d always been able to color within the lines in coloring books as a kid. How hard could it be?
One of the scenes I chose was of Jesus ascending into heaven. He was standing with arms outstretched as the disciples watched. I’m not sure if it was my lack of artistry or just the simplicity of the drawing, but the finished product looked more like Jesus either levitating above the disciples, or perhaps attempting to fly away. One of the pastors dubbed it the “flying Jesus” scene.
What it didn’t have was the drama of what the disciples must have witnessed as Jesus bid them his farewell—at least from his earthly physical presence. Many artists have depicted this scene much better, and it’s certainly a scene worthy of Cecil B. deMille, or perhaps the greatest special effects of a Steven Spielberg Star Wars epic. The role of Jesus would merit the best efforts of a gifted actor—though I really can’t think of any of our modern actors who could pull it off. This role would require a talent for making an impressive exit.
Certainly Jesus knew how to make a dramatic entrance. It began with his entrance into public ministry with God’s proclamation, “This is my son, with whom I am well pleased.” It was followed by his overturning the money changers’ tables in the temple, his appearance to Mary in the tomb, and then to frightened apostles in a locked room. Yes, Jesus definitely had a flare for the dramatic.
Unfortunately, the disciples were more often than not a little dense. Despite witnessing these kinds of events, seeing miracles performed, and following Jesus in his ministry over several years, this ragtag band of followers simply didn’t seem quite capable of taking it all in. Now Jesus was leaving them—again. So much had happened—what would they do without Jesus to guide them?
Like any good parent, Jesus knew what he had to do. He had to do his best to assure them that they were ready to leave the nest, ready to be his witnesses, proclaiming the good news of repentance and forgiveness from sins, as he had instructed them. And then, because Jesus knew he was dealing with a fearful lot, he bolstered them with the promise that he would give them the gift of the Holy Spirit to strengthen and embolden them in their work.
Finally, in true dramatic fashion, Jesus blessed them and was lifted up and away from his friends, disappearing into a cloud. Luke tells us he was carried into heaven. If this was a movie, it would almost certainly be the climax, and that would be that. How could a director or actor top that scene?
But we know better. At first, the disciples just stood looking up into an empty sky, mouths hanging open, as I could imagine myself doing—probably thinking “What the heck just happened?” Would they even remember what Jesus said in the wake of this miraculous event? Jesus had told them to stay in Jerusalem to wait till they had been “clothed with power from on high”—that is, until they were baptized by the Holy Spirit. Would they have done as Jesus asked if they hadn’t encountered the two men in white robes asking why they were just standing there, or would they have missed Jesus’ instructions completely?
Of course, things HAD changed after the Resurrection. Prior to Jesus’ death, the disciples had given up a lot to follow him—they’d left their livelihoods as fishermen, tax collectors, and the like. Jesus obviously had the kind of charisma that led them to walk away willingly from family, friends, and work. As they joined Jesus in his ministry, they came to believe that he was the long-awaited Messiah, come to save them from their suffering under the Roman Empire. What they couldn’t seem to accept was Jesus’ telling them he must die—death just didn’t fit the scenario of a messiah.
But die he did—in the most ignoble of fashions, on the cross. We read, particularly in Luke, just how afraid the disciples were after Jesus’ death—they were, in fact, hiding when Jesus came to see them in a locked room. With the Resurrection, however, Jesus had defeated death. And while his followers remained fearful and did not wish for him to leave again, they knew that he had, indeed, come back to them as he had promised. Certainly, if he rose from the grave, he must be the Messiah, and if he came back once, he could certainly do it again. I think this had to bring some comfort to the disciples.
It would be easy for the drama of the event—Jesus’ incredible ascent, disappearing in the clouds as he returned to his father in heaven—to overshadow the message that I think Luke was trying to share with us.
At the heart of these texts is the clear command from Jesus to his followers to WAIT. Go to Jerusalem. Wait to be baptized by the power of the Holy Spirit to strengthen them for the task ahead.
It would have been much more characteristic of the apostles to run off, willy-nilly, without a plan, without really knowing exactly what to do or how to do it. How many times did we witness such impulsive behavior, particularly by Peter, in the gospels? But their hearts burned for Christ, and they were eager to share the good news of repentance and forgiveness, making as many new disciples as they could in as short a period of time as possible. Passion is good, but…
Laurence Peter once said, “If you don’t know where you are going, you will probably end up somewhere else.” Most of us know Peter as the father of the Peter Principle—everyone rises to his or her highest level of incompetence. Throughout Jesus’ public ministry, the disciples more often than not didn’t quite understand where they were going, and often ended up somewhere else. I believe Jesus wanted to do everything he could to make sure this didn’t happen after he was gone. There was much work to be done, and his disciples were essential to its completion.
His charge to the disciples—to wait for the Holy Spirit to give them the power they would need to make disciples in all corners of the world—is really the charge to the church—then and now.
How often have we witnessed churches, congregations, losing their way, forgetting the church’s true mission? How often have we seen people, hearts burning for Christ like the disciples, running without a clear path forward, losing their way, then losing heart because they didn’t succeed in accomplishing anything?
It seems that today, more than ever, we need to be reminded of Jesus’ call to WAIT. There are so many distractions—hundreds of channels on the TV, talking heads, newspapers, Facebook, Candy Crush and Farmville, Twitter, cat videos, and the demands of home and work. Setting priorities can be hard when the demands of what seems to be urgent trump the call to think and act on what is truly important in our lives.
I certainly understand—I know I feel driven to be able to mark accomplishments, to check things off an endless TO DO list. It’s tempting, and certainly easier, to do the things that can be ticked off quickly, and ignore those things that we know will take time.
But Jesus called his disciples to go to Jerusalem and WAIT for the Holy Spirit to enlighten and empower them. This was Christ’s call to his church, for this small band of his followers to go out and make disciples of many. However, it was more than just getting people to join the club. The disciples had an important message to deliver—in Christ, there is redemption and forgiveness. We are loved by God. We are to love God, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. Work on many, perhaps most, of these truly important things in our lives, takes time, including time to discern the best path to take in accomplishing them.
Churches encounter many of the same things we encounter in our individual lives. Contributions are down. The roof is leaking. Older members are dying and there aren’t younger members to replace them. When will the other shoe drop? And how can it all be fixed quickly?
In short, none of these things can be fixed quickly, and acting urgently and impulsively to implement quick fixes usually doesn’t work. These are the times when God calls us to WAIT, to be patient, to seek the Holy Spirit, and to discern where God is calling us as the church.
Diana Butler Bass, in her book “Christianity for the Rest of Us,” asserts that congregations that are vibrant and growing are those that are actively engaging in the kind of work Jesus called his disciples to do in their communities. She features congregations that are practicing Jesus’ call to wait, seeking the help of the Holy Spirit to guide their path forward.
One church featured is the Church of the Redeemer UCC in New Haven, CT. This congregation has revived the old Puritan practice of requiring members to give public testimonies of faith. As a result, attendance has grown from 40 to 240. In fact, as Bass said, “They have a rule now—no Godless announcements. Any time you get up in front of the congregation, even if it’s to talk about the Sunday School, you have to be able to link it to some element of the biblical story.”
Another church featured is a Pennsylvania church, Calvin Presbyterian Church in Zelienople. When the session that governs the church meets, elders do not vote “yea” or “nay,” but instead pray over each issue to discern whether or not it is God’s will for the congregation. Bass noted that while the average Presbyterian church membership has fallen below 150, Calvin’s membership has doubled to around 400 in recent years. As the pastor said, “We are really trying to be a church that knows tradition and at the same time moves into the future.”
In our busy, busy lives, perhaps we should be heeding Jesus’ message at the time of his ascension more than ever. Perhaps a bit of quiet waiting and prayer, individually and communally, seeking the Holy Spirit, would lead us to a renewed sense of enthusiasm and direction in our lives and in our congregations. Perhaps, just remembering that in the drama of Jesus’ return to heaven in the ascension, he promised he would always be with us through the Holy Spirit. Doesn’t that promise merit some of our time so we can hear what the Spirit has to say to us today?
Filed under: Reflection, Sermons and Devotionals | Tags: Genesis till and keep, Jesus in the wilderness
This is a reflection on two texts–Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7 15 and Matthew 4:1-11–lectionary texts from the first Sunday in Lent (March 9). I wrote this for worship at the Pennsylvania United Church Center in Harrisburg on 3/12/14. Here it is:
I’ve been celebrating the longer days, the sun, and the rising temperatures of the last week or so—made especially sweet after such a long, hard winter. I’m celebrating that it appears that at least two of our five beehives made it through the winter—we were sure that we’d probably lost all of them. My gaze is beginning to fix on starting the seeds I saved from last year in my house in preparation for planting in very late April or early May. However, there is much to do in order to prepare the earth to receive this new life.
This past Sunday’s lectionary text from Genesis got me to thinking about the need to prepare.
We read in Genesis about how God created the heavens and the earth, and then pronounced it all good. But it appears that God thought some intentional tending was needed—so God created humans in the form of Adam and Eve, placed them in the garden, and instructed them to “till it and keep it.” Only one stipulation—they could eat freely of every tree but one, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Of course, we know what happened next…
At some level, it’s comforting to know that the problem of sin goes back to the very beginning of humankind. At another level, however, it’s a puzzle to me that God placed a level of trust that God must have known could—even would—be violated in the hands of we frail humans. Even for those of us who are so very conscious of our own proclivity toward sin, avoiding it seems to be next to impossible. I think Paul may have said it best in his letter to the Romans:
I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate…Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?
We are now just one week into Lent, that forty days in the wilderness leading to Calvary on the way to the Resurrection. We know, as Paul did, that it is the Word made flesh, Jesus, the Christ, who was sent to rescue all of us from this “body of death.”
Lent is a time for us to prepare anew to receive the risen Christ into our lives and our hearts. In many of our traditions, we’ve looked upon Lent as a time of self-sacrifice, most often characterized by giving up something—sweets, caffeine, alcohol, or perhaps even a moratorium on social media or any of a long list of those things that we tend to overdo and that get in the way or our being the kind of person God calls us to be. As a child in Catholic school, we all had to stand up in class and share what we were giving up. Usually it was candy, though most of us would have preferred that it be peas or turnips… Most of us can manage the temporary hiatus from these things, knowing that once the magic day of Easter comes, we can go right back to having or doing whatever it was we gave up.
I’d like to propose that this directive to till and keep that God issued to Adam and Eve in the garden, coming as it did at the very beginning of human life, might just be at the foundation of all that God calls us to on this earth.
While many of us in Christian circles have focused on this Genesis text as speaking to God’s call to care for the wonderful, yet fragile creation we have been given—and I have done exactly that often in my work—I don’t think it’s an accident that it appears in the lectionary at the very time we are entering into Lent. I think it’s a reminder and a clarion call to us to look deep inside ourselves to determine what we need to do to “till and keep” our own lives to prepare during this season.
I should note that this kind of self-reflection isn’t for the weak or faint-hearted! But then again, neither is the difficult work of preparing the hard, damp, cold ground for the new life of spring!
And I’m sure that it’s no coincidence that another text that is paired with this in the lectionary is Sunday’s text from Matthew. This is the familiar story of Jesus going into the wilderness at the very beginning of his public ministry to fast for forty days and forty nights—preparing for all that lay ahead. At the end of that time, when Jesus was at his most vulnerable, he is visited by the top tempter himself, Satan. And Satan played on Jesus’ most obvious vulnerability—if Jesus was truly the Son of God, it would be easy to take advantage of the situation for not just food in a time of hunger, but for fame and power. But Jesus, after these forty days in prayer and preparation, was ready for Satan, for he had been well-fed spiritually during that time.
We can’t exactly return to the garden for a “do over,” and it’s not very likely that any of us can go off for forty days in seclusion to be with God and our thoughts without losing our jobs or our families! However, in Jesus’ resurrection we are offered new life even in the wake of every mistake we have made along the way. Lent is the time when we are reminded in the most profound way of all that God has done for us through Christ—even to death on a cross. It is a time when we are again called to till and keep the gardens of our lives so that they remain fertile for receiving the great gifts of God’s love, mercy, and grace.
Fasting—giving up something as a spiritual practice—is certainly one way to do it. But I’m going to suggest that adding something—sometimes much more difficult to do in the context of our over-busy lives—is another way. My own practice is trying to set aside even 15 minutes every day to meditate and live with scripture, and to journal my thoughts. Like Paul, it is much easier for me to do what I do not wish to do, rather than committing myself to the time with God that is truly the desire of my heart.
As we begin to ponder all the tilling and keeping that we need to do as we emerge from a cold, nasty winter, I encourage you to consider what you need to do to till and keep your own spiritual lives, especially if you’ve been living in a long winter of the soul. As you envision the world around you springing into bud, leaf and flower, envision also your soul as a warm and fertile place where God can abide and flourish and overflow into your relationships and communities.
The writer of Genesis tells us that Adam and Eve’s eyes were opened to a world where good and evil exist in tandem. Let us remember that we are created with eyes open as well—and we have the opportunity to make choices. I pray that we all make the choice to choose the lives that God calls us to, and that we make this Lent a time for preparing to live God’s call to the fullest.
Filed under: Reflection | Tags: depression, fragility of life, hopelessness, suicide
I just learned this afternoon that a friend committed suicide. I knew he had been struggling for quite a long time, keeping up somewhat through a joint friend who was much closer to him than I. There are days when I feel sad, depressed, frustrated, or any of a number of negative emotions, but I can’t imagine getting to the point of wanting to end my life. It’s tremendously sad to hear that another person felt so hopeless that he decided life was no longer worth living.
My sister-in-law experienced this a number of years ago when her husband took his own life. She knew he had been depressed, but it seemed that with treatment and counseling he was getting better. She was left asking why–and why didn’t she recognize that it was coming?
Sometimes no matter how much we care, no matter what we do, a loved one ends up in a place where we can’t rescue him/her. How do we handle that? Perhaps we just need to accept that and hold that person in prayer, in our hearts, in the light, as the Quakers say. Offer whatever help we can–if it’s only checking in, letting that person know that you care. If that person decides to end his/her life, we can’t blame ourselves. What we can do is know that it’s now in God’s hands, and offer our prayers and help to the family.
Please, God of healing and consolation, be with his family as they grieve the loss of a wonderful person. Surround them with your love, and help them to find peace and healing. Amen.
Filed under: Reflection | Tags: Anne Lamott, depression, detox, grace, starting over
I started this blog as a vehicle for getting me to commit to writing. I can’t remember exactly how Anne Lamott said it in “Bird by Bird,” but she essentially said you must just put behind on chair and write every day–even if it sucks. So here I am again, feeling a real need to do this, and trying to renew the commitment.
Perhaps it has to do with what feels like the unending funk I’ve found myself in–for months now. Tired all the time, depressed, lethargic, foggy-headed, and desperately wanting to feel alive again. I know many of the things I need to do–eat better, exercise more, get more sleep, read, walk, reflect. I’m looking at picking them off one at a time. When I get into one of these “starting over” places, I usually try to do too many things at once, and then end up failing because I fall short and then give up. I think it’s time to be a little more gentle on myself if I don’t reach perfection. I’m not God, after all.
I also realize that I’ve become too self-absorbed, and it isn’t pretty. Instead of feeling sorry for myself when it feels like things aren’t going my way, it’s time to focus outward, considering how well off I really am, and seek the places where I can be a blessing to others. There are so many, and when I’m wallowing in self-pity, I can’t see them.
Tomorrow morning is the first piece. I’m starting a detox regimen that goes on for 10 days. A reset for my body would be good–getting rid of the toxins that have built up because I’ve not taken good care of myself. I’m telling myself this is enough for now. My brain is screaming at me about all the other things I “should” do–exercise every day…meditate…read. My heart knows better. One thing at a time.
I give thanks for Dave and for those around me who have been patient as I’ve struggled. A little grace is good. A lot of grace is undeserved, but much appreciated.
This is an Epiphany devotional a prepared for a group in January 2009, based on Matthew 2:1-12 and Luke 2:21-40.
We are coming to the end of the Christmas season. For most of the world, however, and even for many of us, Christmas already feels like ancient history.
As Christians, of course, we are always thankful for the birth of Jesus, but for twelve days, beginning with Christmas Day, we officially celebrate his birth as part of our liturgical year that begins with Advent. Tomorrow we begin the season of Epiphany, which commemorates the revelation of Jesus as savior and king of the Jews to visitors from the East.
Ironically, these early worshippers were not Jewish—and they were probably not kings, either. Different sources portray them as sorcerers, or astrologers or astronomers—certainly knowledgeable about stars and the night sky. And the text never actually gives a number—I suspect we have assumed there were three because the text names the three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The number doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that this is the first manifestation of Jesus as something other than a tiny, vulnerable baby to anyone outside of his community, and that these sojourners undertook quite an effort to make sure they were there to witness this remarkable time.
The Greek word epiphaneia, from which our Epiphany comes, means manifestation or appearance. We often use the word in secular terms when we are struck with a realization that is significant or even life-changing. Well, the dispirited people of first century Palestine were very much in need of an epiphany!
Seeing beyond their current circumstances, however, would have been difficult. Jesus was born into turbulent times. Just managing to survive would have been a challenge. Palestine was under Roman rule, but hostile outside forces constantly threatened the land, and Rome struggled to keep control. Rome had chosen Herod, a ruthless leader who struck fear into the hearts of his subjects, as the man responsible for keeping the peace. His policies, designed to keep him in the good graces of Caesar Augustus, nearly crushed Jewish peasants, who paid the heaviest price for Herod’s excesses. Matthew’s account of the slaughter of the innocents—while not verifiable in any other historical records—does portray the man’s cruelty and willingness to do anything to maintain his hold on power.
Common people like Mary and Joseph would have little, if any, chance of upward mobility. They were taxed heavily to cover the cost of Herod’s financial homage to Caesar and his massive building program that would leave a permanent mark upon the land. These activities were offensive to his Jewish subjects, but fear and Herod’s manipulation of the high priests and aristocracy ensured there would be no serious challenge to his authority. Jews living in Palestine, including Mary and Joseph, must have been hoping and praying for a break, putting their faith in God to send them help.
Of course, we now see Jesus’ birth as the amazing event that these people had longed for over many centuries, but it is certainly understandable that the masses didn’t recognize this immediately. Over time, many would indeed come to see that Jesus was a gift from God, the anointed one who had come to save not just the Jewish people, but to free all people from slavery to sin and injustice. Folks in Jesus’ time, however, didn’t have the luxury of the internet, television, radio, or other means of broadcasting this good news quickly. They had the shepherds’ telegraph system—since they were the earliest witnesses’ to Jesus’ arrival—but they certainly would not have been viewed as the most credible of sources. I’m guessing the arrival of the Magi would have been a huge event—one that would have created quite a stir among the people. Why would these men be bringing such expensive gifts for a baby born of such humble parentage? Sadly, Herod’s actions following their visit led Jesus and his family to travel far away to Egypt. Their disappearance may have resulted in the phenomenon of “out of sight, out of mind.” Jesus had had his 15 minutes of fame. And since the family returned quietly after the death of Herod—unlike the Britney’s and Lindsay’s that keep doing things to stay in the media limelight—by the time they returned, they were yesterday’s news.
What we do understand from Matthew’s account was that these “wise persons” recognized something in this innocent babe that most others would not see for many years—at least this is what we assume, since the evangelists write almost nothing about Jesus’ time as a child up until the beginning of his public ministry. Why, however, was it so hard to see, since this Jewish community had been hoping for a Messiah for so many years? Was it because it was impossible to believe that the Messiah would come wrapped in such a modest package? Or was it fear—fear of change, fear of the unknown, fear of something worse—perhaps even the kind of fear that drove Herod to his own reprehensible deed? Perhaps it is easier for an outsider to see things that we struggle to see from our own myopic perspective.
While I do believe skepticism and fear affect the way we perceive all of the events in our lives—I suspect there is something else at play as well. I think many of us have buried—or maybe even lost—our ability to experience wonder and awe. Abraham Joshua Heschel, long time Professor of Jewish Ethics and Mysticism, once said, “Among the many things that religious tradition holds in store for us is a legacy of wonder. The surest way to suppress our ability to understand the meaning of God and the importance of worship is to take things for granted. Indifference to the sublime wonder of living is the root of sin.” Wonder is something we experience often in our early years as we are in a constant mode of discovery. But who’s got time to wonder now that we are adults with more responsibilities than we can possibly manage?
We probably remember the sense of wonder we had as children experiencing Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany—it seemed such a magical time! Unfortunately, we often lose that sense of wonder as adults as we become immersed in the flurry of shopping, cooking, wrapping, and decorating, and then getting back to the daily grind at the end of it all.
Matthew’s account of the visit of the Magi attests to the power of wonder—a force so powerful that it led a delegation to travel many miles to witness the coming of this child and to bring him gifts. This was quite an undertaking since travel could be dangerous, with exposure to the elements and to thieves and thugs ready to attack travelers along the way. However, I think Luke’s account of Simeon and Anna at Jesus’ presentation at the temple might be an even more compelling statement about the power of wonder—especially in light of their stories and their lives.
Simeon and Anna had each spent years in the temple in Jerusalem in anticipation of the fulfillment of God’s promises—Simeon for the consolation of Israel, and Anna for the redemption of Jerusalem. They waited patiently, despite disappointment after disappointment. Simeon, in particular, hung on, firm in the knowledge that the Holy Spirit had told him he would not die before seeing the Messiah.
How did they know that this child was, at long last, the Messiah they had been waiting for? Jesus and his parents were at the temple for the most ordinary of reasons. Yet both Anna and Simeon knew that this child was the promised one, despite the lack of hooplah at his arrival. Perhaps they recognized something that educator Thomas Green has described for us: “The wonder that is ceaseless, that can never be exhausted, has always to do with what is usual and close at hand; for the marvel of a thing has less to do with its frequency than its contingency.”
We seldom think about the concept of contingency—at least not in the sense expressed by Green. We usually think of contingency in terms of being dependent on or conditioned by something else—that is, one occurrence is contingent, or dependent on, another occurrence. But if we look to the dictionary, we find that Merriam-Webster online defines contingency as “an event that may but is not certain to occur”—a possibility. It also suggests something that is not logically necessary. This is the spirit in which Green uses the term. Despite the long held hope for a Messiah, despite what ancient scriptures suggested would be the case, God did not need to send Jesus to be our Messiah. God made that choice.
However, it is also important to note the notion of “what is usual and close at hand.” There was nothing out of the ordinary about parents arriving to present their child at the temple. Nevertheless, Simeon recognized this continent act of God—this event that was not guaranteed to occur, and wasn’t “logically necessary”—and he was filled with wonder. Anna recognized it as well. Despite her many difficult years as a widow, fasting and praying in the temple, Anna also recognized and stood in awe of what God had done in this seemingly ordinary and humble birth—and loudly proclaimed the miracle of this child.
I suspect there are few of us with the patience of Simeon and Anna, who waited and watched for years to experience the wonder of the Christ child—or the willingness, as demonstrated by the Magi, to follow a star into potentially dangerous, uncharted territory in the hope of finding the deepest desires of our hearts. In fact, I suspect that few of us have considered the manifestation of this life changing birth for more than a few fleeting moments in the course of this busy time. We hear the words, “Jesus is the reason for the season” tripping off the tongues of some, but these words seem trite and empty when we worry more about the perfect preparation of our churches and homes than the preparation of our hearts to receive this remarkable gift from God.
Ann Weems, in her book of Advent meditations called “Kneeling in Bethlehem,” gives us some words to think about. She says, “The Christmas spirit is the hope which tenaciously clings to the hearts of the faithful and announces in the face of any Herod the world can produce and all the inn doors slammed in our faces and all the dark nights of our souls that with God all things are possible, that even now unto us a Child is born!”
This brings me back to Abraham Joshua Heschel, who got me to thinking about the need to be open to wonder in the first place. He said, “The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living.”
In this season of Epiphany, and over the coming year, let us open our own hearts to a personal epiphany—the recognition of the manifestation of God in an innocent and vulnerable child and the hope that led faithful persons to wait for him and to seek him out.
God of love, let your light of revelation that led Gentiles to travel from a distant land, that opened Simeon’s eyes, and that caused Anna to proclaim your good news to all who would listen, remind us always of the wonder of the humble birth of your Son, so tiny and so fragile, entrusted to our care. Let that wonder instill in us a continuing sense of wonder, that we might be open to the everyday epiphanies in our lives. Amen.
Filed under: Sermons and Devotionals | Tags: gates, invitation, openings, portals
This is a sermon I preached at Ridgeway Community Church of the Brethren, Harrisburg, PA, 5/5/13, based on Acts 16:9-15 and Revelation 21: 10-22:5.
Back in the late 1990s, I had a series of dreams that involved portals—windows, gates, and doors—enough of them that they really began to catch my attention. The most memorable—actually the only one that I can remember with significant clarity—was a dream that involved a gate. In that dream, I saw an open gate, swinging in the breeze, and I walked to it and closed it. After closing it, I walked away, only to turn around and find that the gate was open again. Again, I closed it. This happened multiple times until I finally woke up. It was then that I really began to think about what it, and the other dreams, meant.
During that same period of my life, I also happened to notice something else very much related to these dreams. When I was dusting the frames on a number of photos and other artwork I had recently acquired. I realized that every piece—every piece!—featured a door, a gate, or a window. Obviously, my subconscious—the Holy Spirit, perhaps?—was trying to speak to me. Perhaps it was time to pay attention.
A period of discernment ensued. The result? I discerned my call to ministry and entered seminary.
Very recently, portals began to enter my conscious thoughts again as I looked anew at some of that artwork on my walls. Perhaps it’s some kind of ten year itch, since I graduated from seminary ten years ago this month. Then, as I began to read the lectionary texts for today, I saw, to my amazement, that gates are featured prominently in both the readings from Acts and from Revelation. That realization prompted me to begin pondering portals anew. How could I NOT talk about them?
Now I can certainly understand that the mention of gates may not have jumped out at you as it did for me when I read the text from Acts. Paul speaks of a vision where “a man of Macedonia” was calling for Paul to come and help them. Paul departed for Macedonia, traveling from city to city with the final destination of Philippi. He spent several days in Philippi before exiting, through the city gate, on the Sabbath, where he met a group of women, led by Lydia, a purveyor of purple cloth. Luke, the writer of Acts, tells us that God opened Lydia’s heart, and Lydia opened her home to Paul and his fellow travelers. Paul and his traveling companions baptized Lydia’s entire household, and Lydia became a great supporter of Paul’s ministry.
It’s harder to miss the prominent role of gates in our passage from Revelation. The holy city of Jerusalem, descended from heaven, has twelve gates representing the twelve tribes of Israel, each made of a single pearl and tended by an angel. The city is radiant and clear, built of the finest precious stones and metals—and those gates are said to never be closed by day. But John of Patmos, author of Revelation, also tells us there is no night, which means the gates are never closed. Inside the city, there is no physical temple, for, as he says, “its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb.”
So…what do portals such as gates, doors, and windows represent? The obvious is that they are openings through which the outside can be let in, or that which is inside let out—people and other creatures, light, smells, and so on. Portals permit us to examine what is on the other side. We peer out windows to see if we need an umbrella, or open doors to check out the temperature so we know how to dress. They make it possible to secure ourselves in the event that we feel fear or danger. The size of an opening can limit what can be moved through it.
However, portals can have incredibly rich metaphorical meanings. In her blog, photographer Ann Brooks says that they represent hope, opportunity, and invitation, when open, and mystery when closed. They invite coming or going, welcome or rejection, inclusion or exclusion.
In faith circles, we think about the opening or closing of doors as points for discernment and decision—as I described in the period of realizing my own call to ministry. A metaphorical open door might be seen as an opportunity, whereas a metaphorical closed door may represent something that is closed off to us or not to be pursued. For example, in discerning a call to ministry, I believe the dreams prompted me to think about such openings, and a string of things happened. First, someone suggested based on what he knew of me that I was being called to ministry. That might have been the prompt, the crack in the door that I needed to see. I mentioned this to friends, who affirmed it. During a visit to the admissions office at Lancaster Seminary, the admissions officer listened to my story and further confirmed the sense of call, strongly encouraging me to apply. Finally, after being accepted and wondering how I would manage financially to go back to school, I received an offer for a full three year scholarship that would take care of my tuition. The door had gone from a crack to being opened wide. It was up to me to walk through it—even though I was still apprehensive, not knowing exactly what would be on the other side.
But let’s get back to Paul and his journeys described in Acts. Travel was dangerous in Paul’s time—think about the story of the Good Samaritan helping the person who had been robbed and left for dead. These kinds of robberies and attacks were a common occurrence, as robbers preyed on vulnerable travelers. Cities and towns, often surrounded by walls, represented safety and security. Paul and his traveling companions had entered the city of Philippi in Macedonia and spent several days among the Philippians. Philippi had been one of the most hospitable and safe places for Paul. But Paul understood his call to be a missionary, which meant he must depart—through the gate—back into the unknown. It was outside the gate where he met a group of women gathered in prayer by the river—including Lydia, the dealer in purple cloth. While we take purple for granted, purple dye was extremely hard to come by in Paul’s time, and the fact that Lydia was able to deal in purple appears to have made her a wealthy woman.
In this passage from Acts, we see portals on both literal and metaphorical levels. Paul literally walked out the gate where he met Lydia, shared the gospel with her and her household, and accepted them by baptizing them all. Then, both Paul and Lydia walked through more risky metaphorical doors by engaging directly. In Paul and Lydia’s society, a businesswoman, much less a wealthy one, was uncommon, and it was unthinkable for a woman to invite men to stay in her home, seemingly without permission from another man. But Paul accepted Lydia on her terms, and Lydia showed him hospitality in return. It is believed that she also became his benefactor.
Acts shows us a worldly vision of portals and hospitality. However, John of Patmos introduces us instead to quite another world—God’s realm, descended from heaven as the New Jerusalem, with gates flung wide open. This is a world that is very different from ours, where windows, gates, and doors are often closed—for safety, or perhaps out of fear or discrimination. It is highly unusual now, as it would have been then, to leave every gate wide open, presumably open to all who wish to enter or leave.
And light—the light of God permeated everything! There were no dark places, no closed doors, only beauty, wholeness, and holiness. The light was so great that all nations were able to walk by the light of God.
Then John describes what one of the angels showed him—the river of the water of life, flowing out of its source in this holy city, the realm of God. This living water nourished the tree of life, situated on both of its banks. The tree of life bore many different kinds of fruit, but more significantly, as John tells us, its leaves were for the healing of the nations. I have to say that this part of John’s vision is one of my favorite passages in all of scripture because it expresses a kind of hope that makes our sometimes difficult journey as Christians possible.
John’s vision strikes me as a vision of the world as God intends it to be—a world of hospitality, openness, and light. The open gates leading to this city and this river teeming with life represent God’s gracious invitation to all of us to live in God’s light and share in the abundant life that God offers us. It is an invitation to set aside all of our hatred, our prejudices, and our fears, and to open our doors, our minds, and our hearts to accept each other and God’s love and healing of our very broken world.
But an open portal means movement can go in either direction. If gates are open, it means that those who are invited in also have the possibility of going out. However, leaving doesn’t imply a negative act of walking away from God’s light and safety. I think of it as an opportunity instead—an opportunity to extend hospitality and share the light and love of God with others who have not yet experienced God’s love and hospitality. We won’t reach everyone, but that isn’t the point—God’s light is infinite, and sometimes we are called to take it out and meet people where they are. We are to be the face, the feet, the hands, and the voice of God in the world.
Other times, going out the gate means finding or recognizing God in unexpected places—perhaps through others who come into our lives to love, support, and work with us, as Paul found in meeting Lydia.
Either way, we need to be open to and prepared for the astonishing connections and community we might find both inside and outside the walls.
Far too often, we find it easier to stay within metaphorical gated communities that feel safe for us—physically and emotionally. We find community in our congregations, but being church doesn’t start and stop at the door on Sunday mornings. Sometimes it’s difficult to reach out to others who are very different from us, and doing so forces us beyond our comfort zones. If we, as Christians—that is, followers of Christ—are to follow the example of Jesus, we need to open wide every portal. We must invite into our communities all who are unloved, unwanted, marginalized, despondent and abandoned, and also be prepared to go to wherever God’s light and love is needed—sometimes in very rough places.
Look for those portals that God places in our lives, pondering them to discern what they might mean. When they open, don’t be afraid to live boldly and walk through them, assuming the mantle of God’s light and love. Share that light and love with all who desperately need it, and invite them to enter into God’s realm to experience and bask in the light. God’s light and love are abundant. When we share it, we will never be left wanting, for we will be filled over and over again.
Amen.
This is a sermon I preached at Faith UCC, New Cumberland, PA, on July 7, 2013, based on 2 Kings 5:1-14.
Naaman was a man of action—a man in control, with fabulous wealth, a beautiful wife, and an entourage of servants who looked on him as a father. Commander of the army of Aram, he had won victory after victory for his king and country, and he was famous and beloved throughout the land.
All was right with the world for Naaman the golden boy—until he was struck by something beyond his control. In the text it is called leprosy, which is unlikely based on the description, but nevertheless, it was disfiguring, causing great discomfort both to Naaman and to those who were around him.
Of course, Naaman kept up a strong front. Underneath it all, however, it isn’t hard to imagine what might have been going through his mind. What would happen with his wife? Would she remain with him, or be frightened away by his condition? Perhaps she was already rejecting his advances, repulsed by his increasingly hideous appearance. Would those around him begin to fear they would be struck by the same affliction? Would that fear outweigh their dependency on his military prowess and cause them to force him into isolation, depriving him of both his power and his community and connections?
Then a small ray of hope came from the unlikeliest of places. An Israeli girl—captured in one of his successful military raids, and now a servant to Naaman’s wife—approached his wife with a suggestion. The servant girl knew of a prophet in Samaria, who, she believed, could cure his disease. Naaman, mighty man that he was, had to have been desperate to listen to the words of a lowly servant girl. Still, he went to his king to share the servant girl’s words about this prophet.
I’m guessing that both Naaman and the king were highly skeptical of the existence of a prophet who had the ability to heal him, but in the absence of any other options, the king urged Naaman to travel to Israel in search of this prophet and a cure. What was there to lose? The king certainly didn’t want to lose his highly successful commander, and Naaman’s healing would mean that the king wouldn’t have to bear the discomfort of seeing Naaman’s disfigured face and body. For Naaman, healing would mean he could set aside the fear of losing his wife and losing his command. And because Aram was strong and Naaman had recently won a victory in the land of Israel, there was nothing to fear by again entering Israel.
So the king of Aram prepared a diplomatic packet for the king of Israel to request cooperation—perhaps in an attempt to let Israel’s king know that Naaman was coming in peace, merely seeking a cure for his affliction. And Naaman, hopeful but hedging his bets, went to his coffers to load up heaps of his riches for his trip to Israel. Off he went with his servants to seek healing.
The trip to Israel must have felt like an eternity for Naaman. What would happen when he arrived? Would he be rejected by a king whose country he had defeated? Would he be able to find this healing prophet? What if the prophet didn’t really exist, or didn’t really have the ability to heal him? Would his riches help to buy him the healing he needed?
Naaman arrived in Israel and delivered the Aramean king’s letter to the Israeli king. In a dramatic case of diplomatic confusion, the king of Israel felt a wave of terror and tore his garments in response to what he believed was a no win situation. Either Aram’s king had gotten it wrong, or Israel’s king misread the communication. Israel’s king understood that Naaman had come to him to be cured of his leprosy. The king, who knew he was incapable of curing Naaman, believed that this was just an excuse for Naaman and the Arameans to wreak more destruction on him and his people.
Obviously news traveled fast following this incident, for word quickly came from the prophet Elisha that the king should send Naaman and his traveling party in his direction. Elisha knew that he, as a man of God, had the ability to help Naaman. The Israeli king must have been relieved—he really didn’t want to have to deal with the man who had defeated his country and humiliated him in the process—and who was all too capable of doing it again.
So off went Naaman and his servants, horses and chariots to find Elisha. And given his power and wealth, Naaman certainly must have expected to be greeted by the man himself when he rolled up to Elisha’s front door. Instead, however, out came a man with a message from Elisha: a cure would come if Naaman went down to the Jordan River and washed himself seven times in its water.
What an insult! Naaman was angry, and may even have thought seriously about going to battle again with Israel over his treatment. He must have felt disrespected—here he was with his enormous entourage, and plenty of wealth to boot—so shouldn’t Elisha have greeted him with the pomp and circumstance that was demanded by such a visit? And the message he received struck him as utterly ridiculous. Weren’t the rivers in Aram at least as good, if not better, than the Jordan? What made the prophet think this was going to work, anyway? Naaman walked away in a rage.
Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. Naaman’s servants, who loved him and sensed his desperation to be healed, suggested that he respond to the simple request by Elisha. They noted that he would have been completely willing to do even the most difficult thing if it would bring healing, so why not this? It was easy, and after all, what was to be lost by doing it?
So Naaman swallowed his pride, and went down to the Jordan. He immersed himself seven times, probably thinking it was all a waste of time, not to mention embarrassing as he bared himself, making himself utterly vulnerable in front of his servants.
But then, the unimaginable and miraculous happened—after seven times in the river, Naaman gazed upon his body and saw that something had changed. Not only was he healed, but his skin was like that of a young boy again!
I believe this story of Naaman suggests several things for us as the people of God today.
First, the loving and healing acts of God are found in unlikely places. Obviously there were no healers in the land of Aram able to help Naaman, or he certainly would have taken that route. His path to healing started with a lowly servant girl, captured from a country he had conquered. It was delivered through another woman, his wife. While Naaman certainly loved his wife, women were considerably lower on the rungs of the ladder of power than men.
Desperation then drove him to take his message to the king in order to seek healing from a prophet in a vanquished land. The prophet himself, however, doesn’t appear—again, Naaman is confronted by a servant, a messenger of the prophet. It was his own servants who then had to convince him to comply with the prophet’s message.
Like Naaman, we often look for God in all the wrong places. It isn’t in wealth and power that we find God, but in friends and community, and even completely unexpected places. We look to our elected officials, corporate titans, and others we consider more highly educated, wealthy, and superior to us, when we should be seeking out the wisdom that exists in the low places. And those of us who are in positions of power must be willing to admit that we don’t have all the answers, and look to the strength of communities and their people for the help we need.
We also need to realize that God does not belong only to some, but to all. In the Hebrew scriptures, God is portrayed as the God of Israel alone, but there are numerous instances in those same scriptures where God loves, cares for, and heals those who are not part of the people of Israel. Naaman is a case in point. Not only is Naaman an Aramean who worships other gods, he is an enemy of the people of Israel, having defeated them in war.
This story might even serve as a lesson in global affairs for us. We, as God’s ambassadors, have the ability to stretch out our hands and offer our support, and the God of all can use us as instruments of healing—just as God acted through Elisha and Israel to heal Naaman.
Here in America there is a great myth that we should be self-sufficient, and if we do all the right things, we will be just fine, thank you. That we have the ability to always remain in the driver’s seat, in complete control of our destinies—until something happens that is beyond our control.
All the riches and power in the world weren’t going to heal Naaman. And while he may have had his doubts, his experience had been that power and possessions were usually the ticket to getting whatever one wanted. As long as he believed that his money and influence were the most important things, nothing would bring him healing. When presented with a simple solution by Elisha’s messenger, he resisted, perhaps because of its simplicity, or because of its messenger—after all, his healing didn’t involve using either his wealth or power.
Naaman had to learn to let go of his ego and listen to those who were far beneath his status, risking loss of face and power in a foreign land. He had to become vulnerable and learn to trust—not easy for a warrior like Naaman.
His king couldn’t help him. His wealth couldn’t buy health. Then Naaman was confronted with the God that he couldn’t buy, control, or manipulate, who required only a simple act of obedience—to wash seven times in the Jordan River. Unlike Naaman’s troops and the people and kings of the nations he had defeated, this God did not respond to human demands or action. The God of Israel’s ways were different—they were the ways of healing and love, and not the ways of power and oppression.
We blithely toss off the phrase, “Let go and let God.” We say we believe it, but do we really? How often do we, like Naaman, resist the simplicity of responding to God’s love and healing, certain that we are in control—that if we just had enough money, or just did one more thing, or knew the right people in the right places, that all would be perfect. How often do we reject the wisdom of those we view as lowly and ignorant, trusting only in those who haven’t earned and don’t deserve our trust?
For Naaman, things would never be the same. Naaman had been forced to face his vulnerability, and to put his trust in places that made no sense to someone in his position of power. In that process, something new happened—a new horizon appeared that presented a world that Naaman could never have imagined otherwise. Not only was Naaman healed, but as is noted later in the text, God’s servant, Elisha, refused to take anything in return, simply telling Naaman to go in peace.
Go in peace—what a concept! The God of Israel, of Elisha and Naaman and all people of the world, calls us to learn from the story of Naaman’s healing. It calls us to stand at the junction of vulnerability and trust, believing that the simplicity of God’s love and healing will trump the wealth and the illusion of control that hold us in their seductive power.
Believe in the new life that is given to us in God, and the freedom it affords. Then let us all be living examples of what can be—spreading the good news and placing our trust in the God whose love has the power to heal all.
Filed under: Sermons and Devotionals | Tags: entertaining angels, Hebrews 13, mutual love
This is a sermon I preached on September 1, 2013 at Faith UCC in New Cumberland, PA, based on Hebrews 13:1-16.
Tomorrow is Labor Day—not the official end of summer, which comes later this month, but a time that for many of us marks the shift from slower summer schedules back to the hustle and bustle of school and increased work activity. For the church, it begins a new season of church activities that doesn’t really wind down again till around the beginning of June. For some of us whose schedules that remain busy year round, it means months of even greater busyness.
It’s easy to slip into routines that feel all too familiar, driven by the calendar and the ever-present stream of media that invade our lives—cell phones, e-mail, Facebook, television, and the like. We’re constantly bombarded with messages about what is important—foods you should or shouldn’t be eating, investments that you should or shouldn’t be making, products that you should be buying, and maintaining the perfect home. There are sports for the kids, doctor’s appointments, and choir rehearsals and meetings for church. For me, it’s the self-imposed garden maintenance and ongoing canning and freezing of the harvest. When is there time for you?
Today’s lesson from Hebrews gives us good reason to pause to examine what is really important as we transition from long summer days to packed calendars and the demands of holiday seasons that are much closer than they appear.
Today’s passage begins: “Let mutual love continue…” The very first thing that follows this statement is a call to hospitality. When we set our laser vision onto a narrow path driven by schedules and perceived “must do” activities, it’s easy for hospitality to get left in the dust. We simply fail to see others around us who may be in tremendous need of our love and hospitality when we are intent on just getting things we think need to be done done. I’m often guilty of this, getting hyper-focused on things that feel important in the moment, but really mean little in the whole scheme of things.
We shy away from stopping to assess what is happening around us, and then we’re surprised or embarrassed when something important passes us by—a friend struggling with an ailing parent, or a sibling battling an addiction. Perhaps we’re dealing with our own problems and fail to see the neighbor who might help us through a desperate time.
English romantic novelist Mary Webb once said, “If you stop to be kind, you must swerve often from your path.” How often have you found delight in swerving from a literal path onto a path that is not so well-traveled, and given thanks that you tossed aside your well-laid plans to do it? What did you find? I remember years ago, straying from a path that I was hiking in the winter, and finding a bright, open clearing where the trees rose up like the pillars of a great cathedral. A gentle breeze lifted snow off the limbs and sent it into a cascade of crystals that sparkled in the sunlight. It was a spiritual moment that comes to mind often and reminds me that God is ever-present with me.
The swerve can just be a pause to look around you or to free your mind to what God may be speaking to you. When I was in seminary, I was sitting at a bar waiting for some friends that were to meet me for dinner, and I was annoyed when a man plopped down next to me and started making small talk. You can imagine what came to mind—another lounge lizard looking to pick someone up. I was kind, but certainly not inviting conversation. My ears perked up, however, when I heard him say he wasn’t looking forward to going home, and I asked why. He had just been laid off at work, and wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his family. I knew, unqualified as I felt as a seminarian, that I was being called to do ministry in that moment, and grateful that I had swerved. There have been times when others have been placed in my path when I’ve had a need to be ministered to.
For those in the world when Hebrews was written, hospitality was quite literally a matter of life and death when people moved from one place to another and were in need of food, drink, and shelter. But it was also a vehicle for learning more about the world that existed outside small and provincial communities. The Greek word for hospitality is “philoxenia,” translated literally as “love of the strange.” How often do we hear the biblical admonition to welcome the stranger among us?
One commenter on this text said:
Rather than an obligation, “love of the strange” seen from either the Greco-Roman or the OT perspective provides the opportunity to be blessed by exposure to the wider world that God cares deeply about. But that is not all. In the church’s “love of the strange” one actually encounters Christ and so are led out of ourselves (13:13; cf. Matthew 25:37-46). Hospitality, then, is a gift that feeds and nourishes us as well as our guests.
In other words, we truly may be entertaining angels without knowing it!
The writer goes on from there to admonish us to remember those who are in prison. It seems to me that what he is encouraging goes beyond just thinking about people behind bars. Of course, there are those who are quite literally in prison, some being tortured physically or emotionally. Others are captive to pain, disease, or addiction. But also, I spoke earlier about being captive to schedules that keep us from stopping to see what is around us. I think the writer is encouraging us to break the chains of our own captivity—whatever it is—in order to see where others are suffering from whatever is holding them captive, so that we can offer our prayers and our hospitality in ways that bring healing and release.
Some of our busyness that keeps us on the straight and narrow is driven by fear, and one of the greatest causes of fear in our lives is money. The author of Hebrews warns us to live free from the love of money. Obviously, we live in a world where we can’t easily survive without money, but that doesn’t mean that money has to control our lives.
I do remember the fear that has gripped me off and on through the years as I wondered where the next money would come from for rent, utilities, food, a tank of gas, or to pay a medical bill. That fear is palpable, and of course, we have a role to play with the work we do and how we shepherd the resources that we have so that we have what we need to live. And for some, the fear is absolutely real in the economy and world we live in.
The fear is often driven by our consumer society telling us we need more—bigger homes, flashier cars, expensive clothes, and investments that produce enormous returns. For many, these are the marks of success, and we work harder and harder to pay for extravagances that we think will impress others. Then, while our noses are to the grindstone, we miss the signals that our children or friends really need our time and not our money. We miss wonder of fireflies on a summer evening, or the praying mantis stalking a grasshopper in the garden. We miss holding hands as we watch a roaring fire transition to a bed of glowing embers.
There is a very real lesson for us in the manna story in Exodus, and that is the concept of enough. God told the people of Israel in the wilderness to gather only what they needed, except before the Sabbath. Many, getting a little greedy, took more than they needed. Leftovers rotted before the next day. Seems to me that God’s was sending a message—that we really don’t have to work harder to hoard more than we need when we are loved by an abundant God. Perhaps we just need to learn to live comfortably with the abundance that God provides.
Moving on, the writer of Hebrews warns against being “carried away by all kinds of strange teachings.” Sometimes we become prisoners to “the way it’s always been done.” This is a big barrier for many congregations. Change can be frightening, and while there is certainly a lot to be said for remembrances and preserving certain rituals, sometimes it makes sense to assess why we do the things we do.
For the early Christians who came from the Jewish community, there were rituals like circumcision and regulations about food that were off-putting to non-Jewish communities—and not essential to living the kinds of lives that they were called to as followers of Christ. As with the apostle Paul, the writer of Hebrews warned against the carrying on of rituals that carried no real meaning or necessity, saying, “Do not be carried away by all kinds of strange teachings; for it is well for the heart to be strengthened by grace, not by regulations about food, which have not benefited those who observe them.” In other words, do the rituals and regulations we keep—and in fact, that become idols for us—serve any real and positive purpose for today?
Individuals, communities and congregations often possess identities—distinctive characteristics that set them apart from others. What happens, however, when we cling to an identity that alienates others? Our beliefs, our assumptions, our rituals and other things that we do may set us apart from others, but do they set us apart in a good way or a bad way? Do these things demonstrate love and hospitality and welcome to others, or do they constitute a barrier that prevents “undesirables” from becoming part of the community? We would do well to determine what the good and bad teachings and rituals are for us, and work to change in ways that make us communities of welcome and love, rather than hate, judgment, and exclusion.
Finally, we are told, “Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” The writer of Hebrews is imploring this community not to stray from what brought them into the community in the first place. They were warned not to be swayed by later false prophets preaching a gospel that may have sounded easier or more attractive, but to continue following Christ, who was the shining example for the way they were to live as Christians. The way of Christ was not meant to be easy—Jesus offered himself as a sacrifice on our behalf, dying for living the way of love, compassion, forgiveness, and healing, loving others as he himself wished to be loved, and encouraging others to do the same. The writer of Hebrews stresses the importance of doing the same, saying: “Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.”
All of these things we are urged to remember as important in our passage from Hebrews keep coming back to where we started—mutual love, love that leads us to practice hospitality.
So, this season, as we move from the long, hot, lazier days of summer to the shorter, cooler, busier days of autumn and winter, we would do well to remember this message of the importance of love and hospitality. For this Labor Day weekend, we give thanks for all—including those of you here today—who work hard, or have worked hard, sometimes for less than a living wage, to make this world a better place for all of us. We give thanks for teachers who nurture our children, guiding them to learn what they need to know to become good and productive members of society. We remember and pray for the farmers who’ve worked hard for much of the year to ensure that we can put healthy food on our tables. We pray for all who labor in service industries that take care of all those things that make our lives easier—in grocery and retail stores, restaurant workers, barbers and beauticians, housekeeping staff, and many others. We give thanks for health care professionals who work to keep us healthy and heal us when we are sick and injured.
Finally, we remember our families and friends, our congregations and our co-workers, and all our neighbors of every religion and race, ethnicity and political conviction. We need each other. We all thrive when we remember to accept and love one another. And…in remembering all these important things that we are encouraged to remember, we never know when we might, just might, be entertaining angels without knowing it.
Filed under: Reflection | Tags: Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird, writing process
I love Anne Lamott. No BS–she just tells it like it is. Her advice on writing, in her book Bird by Bird, is just to do it, every day. A couple of years ago when I started this blog, that was my intent. All you have to do to know that it didn’t happen is look at my previous posts. With the exception of a post a couple of days ago, I hadn’t written here for a long, long time.
There was really no excuse. I just kept finding other things to do. It wasn’t that those things were particularly important, either. I’m not quite sure why I couldn’t quite get myself to write. Fear? Laziness? Misplaced priorities? Avoidance? Something else? I wish I could say for sure.
There are so many things that I say I want to do, but never seem to get around to doing them. I’m beginning to think that fear is a big factor–fear of failure. I have dreams of doing some things that I hope to write more about soon, but I don’t really know quite how to proceed, and then, what if I spend a lot of time and do a lot of work and don’t succeed? So, instead, I end up doing lots of other things–some useful, some not–and never living out my dreams.
It’s been on my mind a lot over the last few months. Nothing will happen unless I make it happen. Lately, I’ve held this all in prayer, and do plan to start scheduling time–committing time–to work on fleshing out ideas. I really hope to have something concrete by the end of the year.
Bird by bird–at least a little progress every day. Thank you, Anne Lamott–thank you, thank you, thank you (for your thoughts on writing, and for the simple prayer of “thank you”)!
Grace in the 'Hood--Life on an Urban Homestead 