Sunday, October 12, 2014

A Way Out of No Way: Sermon on Joshua 24:1-15


 Scripture can be found here...

“Can’t get there from here.”

Anyone who has ever lived in New England—and most everyone who has traveled there—has heard this. It’s said in a Down East accent, meant to evoke a grizzled, salt-wrinkled guy in waders who’s just stepped off his trawler, and who is trying to “help” hapless travelers who are utterly flummoxed by the Maine coast.

“Can’t get there from here.”

Have you ever said that to yourself?

Maybe you were really on an actual road, with a co-pilot trying diligently to read and interpret an incredibly confusing map, to no avail. Lost. (This may only apply to those of us over a certain age).

Or maybe you had depended on your brand new GPS, one you’d even affectionately given a name (Greta). And instead of leading you to the cool restaurant/ brewery, she’d led you to a dark hill, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of Nowheresville, PA. (This may apply to family members of the person in the pulpit).

Or maybe your GPS was of a different kind—the internal kind, the inner voice, that said, “Sure, you should definitely try out for the team, or try to get into this graduate program, or apply for that job, or ask that girl out.” And it became evident—over time, eventually, or maybe sooner than that—that you had somehow been misdirected. That this plan, this road, this map, was not going to work out. Not at all.

Can’t get there from here.

For some of us, these are distant memories. Even fond ones, memories that we draw upon in conversations over coffee that start, “You wouldn’t believe what I used to…!” Memories shared from the perspective of the good land of plenty in which we are now planted and flourishing.

For some of us, these are not memories at all. They are the present vortex, the crucible in which we live, study, work, and toss and turn all night long, so that the next day of living, studying, and working is made all the more dreary and long. For some of us, we are living “Can’t get there from here,” right now, and it’s awful. Just awful.

Allow me to introduce to you, one Joshua. Joshua, whose name in Hebrew means, “YHWH is salvation.” Joshua, who took over for Moses, once it was clear that Moses, personally, was not destined to cross the toll-bridge that led from the desert wastes to the land of promise.

And before Joshua, there was Moses, who heard the voice of God in the middle of a desert wasteland, speaking to him from a burning bush, and who, as a result, worked alongside God to lead God’s people out of slavery in Egypt, and into freedom—and also forty years of wandering in the desert wasteland.

And before Moses, there was Joseph—the hated second-to-youngest son of Jacob, whose brothers were so jealous of him they turned him into a kind of “Gone Boy,” selling him into slavery and telling their father he was dead. Joseph, who worked alongside God as second-in-command in Egypt, to make a home, to provide food, not only for Egyptians, but for his own remorseful, traveling, long-lost family.

And before Joseph, there were Abraham and Sarah. Called at ages 75 and 65 to uproot themselves, to leave home, family, and gods behind, to follow and enter into covenant with a new God, the God YHWH, who promised them children, and land, and blessing.

And before Abraham and Sarah, there was Noah, called at the age of 600, for God’s sake, to craft an ark to save a faithful remnant from the destruction of the floodwaters, to help that remnant to pass through the waters to a new beginning.

At each stage of this story—this story of God’s people, which also happens to be our story—at each and every stage, any one of these people could have said, must have thought, had to have believed:

Can’t get there from here.

Can’t become a mother at age 65-plus, never mind moving all around to God-only-knows-where.

Can’t go from being a hated boy sold into slavery to being the second-highest ranking official, in a country not even your own.

Can’t singlehandedly walk into Egypt—where, by the way, you’re wanted for murder—and say to the Pharaoh, “Let my people go,” and expect him to take you seriously.

Can’t get there from here.

There is an African-American folk saying, “Our God can make a way out of no way.” And that means, if you are a slave in Egypt or a slave in Montgomery, and you are longing for freedom, God can make that happen. God can make a way, even if it seems there is no way. That is the gist of the long speech Joshua has just made to the people of Israel. He goes through their salvation history (not backwards, like I did), and he reminds the people. God did this. And this. And this. And all that time, we were thinking it could not be done.

Who could save an entire sampling of God’s creative powers on a single boat? (Noah—with God’s help.)

Who could go from being a small family consisting of one childless, retirement-age couple to being a great nation? (Abraham and Sarah, with God’s help.)

Who could climb out of the hole of hatred and find, not only power, but integrity, faithfulness, and forgiveness? (Joseph, with God’s help.)

Who could speak for a group of slaves and be heard? (Moses, with God’s help.)

In each and every instance, the temptation—the strong temptation—is to say, no way. There is no way. We cannot get to that promised land of safety, of fullness, of reconciliation, of freedom. Can’t get there from here.

And yet. So the story goes.

Joshua recounts all the history of God’s people. And he includes a less savory part, the part often known as the “conquest” of the land. And it amounts to some serious chest-thumping. We beat those guys, and we beat those guys, and we annihilated these other guys, and look. “Weee are the champions, my friends. And weeee’ll keep on fighting, till the end.

Weeee are the champions. Weeee are the champions!

No time for losers! ‘Cause weeee are the champions! Of the world!

And they are!

And yet, in a fashion decidedly atypical for the commander of a conquering army, Joshua takes great care to say, “We didn’t do this. God did it.”

And if we look at our passage, we see all kinds of signs that, while there was violent conflict, there was also some measure of restraint, some effort to frame God’s victories differently.

God, speaking through Joshua, says: “… it was not by your sword or by your bow. I gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant.”

This is tricky terrain. I walk upon it, and invite you to walk with me, with tremendous trepidation. Here we are, with a part of the story that makes us wonder how we are to connect with it, and live into it. And it makes sense, as Joshua asks us to consider in his speech—his last speech, by the way, his deathbed speech: who will we serve?

Joshua: his name in Hebrew means, “YHWH is salvation.” Do you know how to say Joshua in Greek? Jesus. Jesus and Joshua: “God is salvation.” God saves. God makes a way where there is no way. God even makes a way through a sticky, prickly, thorny passage like this, which simultaneously asks us to accept a story in which God’s people claim their right to a land with no concern for its native inhabitants, and also to serve a God whom we claim to see reflected in Jesus of Nazareth.

Can we get there from here?

Can God make a way from stories of conquest to the stories of the table we find in the accounts of our New Testament Joshua, Son of Joseph?

Can God make a way for us to find, in this little snippet of God’s story, some continuity with the God who is pleased, as Paul tells us in our first reading, when we persevere in suffering, and open our doors to strangers?

Can God make a way for those of us who feel we can’t get there from here? Whatever we might mean by that?

God not only can; God does. As for me and my household, ours is not to ignore these passages, or try to wish them away, or pray them away, or pretend them away. Ours is to read them with empathy. Empathy for the fervent hopes of a people who had traveled those desert wastes for many, many years. Empathy for their fear that God’s promises might all come to nothing. Empathy, even, for the dying warrior Joshua, a human man who has spent his whole life way out on a limb. A man whose bones probably need to be in the ground before a new day can dawn in which a new set of ears can listen for the words of YHWH. A man who is but one in a great cloud of witnesses who listen and discern what are God’s desires and dreams for God’s people in a new day, today. 

And even some empathy for ourselves, as we claim these stories as our own, even as we struggle to recognize ourselves in them.

These are our stories. We are in there. We are the tired ones. We are the frightened ones. We are the ones who wander through stages, and years, and false starts, and the wrong job and the wrong major until—zing!- we figure out where we are meant to be. We are the ones who wonder, can we get there—wherever our personal “land of promise” might be—from here?

We are the ones to whom God makes the promise: I will make a way for you. I will make a way with you. We are the ones who call Jesus “the Way.” We are the ones who are asked, even today: who will you serve? And we are the ones who are privileged to have a moment, an opportunity, to take a deep breath, and give our answer.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

But- And- A World Communion Sunday Meditation

Scripture can be found here and here....

Have I mentioned how very much I loved studying Hebrew in seminary? There was something about it that I never expected: the pure astonishment when I realized I was reading stories in the language spoken and understood by God’s people thousands of years ago. It gave me the shivers. I frightened me and enthralled me all at once.

I will never forget the thrill of translating, for the very first time, a fragment from the book of Genesis. I was working late in my little dorm room at Union Theological Seminary. It was almost 2:00 in the morning, and I was laboring away, letter by letter. It took a long, long time. I was close to giving up. And then, like those scenes in movies when the camera shifts focus, and something goes from being completely blurry to being crystal clear, the meaning revealed itself to me. I could read it. The sentence was, “Although Joseph recognized his brothers, they did not recognize him” (Gen. 42:8).

One of the most valuable things I learned in Hebrew concerned a certain word—a certain letter, actually. The letter “vav.” The letter vav, all by itself, is an amazing word in that it can mean two things that are distinctly, startlingly, different. It can mean “and.” Or it can mean “but.” And the way the word is translated normally comes down to context.

Think about that for a second. Think about a normal sentence with the word “and” in it. I’ll give you one. “The Lord was with Joseph, and he became a successful man…” (Gen. 39:2a). Now, imagine translating that, instead, “The Lord was with Joseph, but he became a successful man…” That is a very different sentence. Both are viable translations, but in the context of the faith described in the Hebrew Scriptures, only one makes sense to us. of course, the first translation is correct. The connection between God’s presence with Joseph and his success seems obvious. God’s presence enabled Joseph to prosper in all he does. That is a very classic Hebrew Scriptures theme. And—but—it is an idea that is exploded just as often as it’s held up.

Now, how about this sentence: “Indeed, the whole earth is mine, but you shall be for me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:5-6). The use of the word “but” in that sentence implies something. God is in the midst of telling the people of the Exodus how precious and beloved they are, how special and chosen. And, that is surely the witness of scripture. And—but—imagine now an “and” instead of a “but” in that sentence. Indeed, the whole earth is mine, and you shall be for me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation.” How does that change the sentence, ever so slightly? Instead of God’s people being plucked out of the mass that is humanity, removed and set apart, does this tiny little change in translation instead locate them firmly in the human family? Does it somehow say, as God says to Abraham, “In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed”?

“Although Joseph recognized his brothers, they did not recognize him.”

Isn’t that the story of the struggle of the human race? In our readings this morning, we move from a story of a creator God giving a rainbow promise never to destroy the earth by flood; to the story of God calling together a covenant community by beginning with one little family; to the story of a faithful servant of God’s languishing (though, somehow, thriving) in jail. We have the stories bookended by the Ten Commandments, the Ten Words spoken through Moses—the law to be obeyed by God’s people. And the whole second table of the commandments—all the ones that have to do with humans interacting with one another—can be boiled down to: when you see your brother, recognize him.

All around the world today Christians are remembering: we are all brothers and sisters. And that is so easy to say. And that is so excruciatingly hard, sometimes, to live out. 2014 so far is an object lesson in folks not remembering that we are connected to one another as God’s children—“The whole earth is mine,” says the Lord, and everyone and everything that is in it. The making of peace is more than our pondering this for a few moments in our Sanctuary on an October Sunday morning. When we see our brother, we are called upon to recognize him. See him in the rich and the poor, the schooled and the illiterate. When we see our sister, we are called upon to recognize her. See her in the frail elder and in the fragile newborn, in the woman showing her faith in a hijab and the woman showing her strength and athleticism in a bathing suit. My brother, though he speaks with an accent, though he was born in another land. My sister, though her heritage, or coloring, or size, or idea, is different from mine. My sister and my brother. Different from me, but- and- my sister and brother, nevertheless.

Peacemaking requires laboring away, in our hearts and in our homes and on the streets and in the world. It can—it will—take a long, long time. At times we will feel close to giving up. But—and—it is the call of our gracious God. It is the yearning of a hurting world. It is the rainbow promise, and the call to the table. In us, by us, through us, O God, I pray: let all the world be blessed. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Deep River: Sermon on Revelation 22:1-5

 Scripture can be found here....

Deep river—my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground.
Don't you want to go to that Gospel feast,
That promised land where all is peace.
Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground.

~ African American Spiritual

From the beginning, people in anguish have called out to God for relief. At least 2500 years ago, the writer of Psalm 13 wrote,

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?

~Psalm 13:1

And almost 20 years ago, Dan Haseltine, the front man for the Christian group Jars of Clay, wrote,

Rain, rain on my face.
Hasn’t stopped raining for days.
My world is a flood. Slowly I become one with the mud.

~ “Flood”

Who hasn’t felt like that? These songs, disparate as they are, are all part of the same genre, songs of lament, songs of supplication to God. Help me God. Rescue me God. Can’t you see me God?

“Deep River” is an African American spiritual, and like so many songs in that tradition, it grew out of the experience of slavery. On one level, we hear words that evoke images from scripture: the deep River Jordan, the place of baptism and renewal, beyond which is a place of safety and rest—heaven, maybe? And on the other hand, we have a song that is speaking in code of real opportunities for escape—cross the mighty river, and the hounds that are tracking you lose your scent, and you have a chance for freedom.

This morning we have reached the final Sunday of our September “Season of Creation.” I particularly love the text from last week. But instead of preaching Wilderness Sunday, I got to go to the wilderness—my own private little, short-lived wilderness of pain, fear, calling out to God for help, and restoration.

The Season of Creation lectionary is set up to take us through that story. It gives us the story of salvation in four weeks—a very abbreviated story, to be sure, and not the story the way we usually hear it. But it gives us the story of creation, fall, wilderness, and salvation/ restoration/ resurrection. The first week, we heard the story of the garden—God’s perfect creation, filled with all the things we need to thrive. The second week, we heard stories of sin and suffering—we watched as disobedience turned murderous, though—did you notice? God was faithful still. Last week, you heard the story of Jesus’ baptism—his immersion into all of humanity’s pain and beauty—turned to the story of wilderness wandering, complete with wild beasts—and angels.

Today, we come to the river, the river of salvation. The river of restoration and rescue. The river of resurrection. The river at which we gather—for baptism. For new life. For welcome into the household of God. For refreshment. For a life-sustaining drink. For healing. And our immersion into this river comes from the book of the Revelation to John. Hear these words from Holy Scripture:

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads.  And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.

~ Revelation 22:1-5

The Book of the Revelation to John is just that—an uncovering, a dreamscape, maybe, of John, a devout Jew, a mystic, who lived out his life in exile on the Isle of Patmos.[i] It was written during a time of deep anxiety in the early church, a time when people were wondering when, or even if, Jesus would ever return to rescue the people from persecution under Rome. And the theory that it describes the way the world will end, is a relatively recent notion, not even 200 years old. And all this idea has done is: to scare some people to death; to cause some people to demonize people they disagree with politically; and to make other people massively, obscenely rich through their twisting and exploitation of the scriptures. This book was written for comfort. It was written for hope. Author Elaine Pagels says, Revelation is not about how the world will end. It’s about how John’s world ended. The destruction of the Temple. The long, agonizing wait for Jesus to come to save and comfort.[ii]

Near the end of Revelation, John shows us this river—or, more accurately, John tells us how an angel showed him the river. And the river is described like this:

It flows with the water of life.

It flows from the throne of God.

It flows through the middle of the streets of the city.

It waters the tree of life, which gives twelve kinds of fruit, and, whose leaves will be used for the healing of the nations.

The river flows with the water of life: in a sense, isn’t all water the water of life? In our service for baptism there’s always a prayer of thanksgiving over the water. This prayer is a little walk through scripture. We thank God for the watery chaos of creation, the cleansing and renewing waters of the flood. We thank God for leading Israel through the parted waters of the sea, and for Jesus being nurtured in the waters of Mary’s womb. We thank God for John baptizing Jesus in the waters of the Jordan, and for Jesus speaking and hearing the truth from the Samaritan woman at the well. It’s all there: Creating, cleansing, renewing, parting to make a way for freedom; birthing, baptizing, springing up: the river flows with the living water, the water of life.

The river flows from the throne of God. In the end, we go back to the beginning. The river flows from its source, the place and person of its origin: It is a creation of God. From God, it flows out to the whole world.

The river flows through the streets of the city. One of my seminary professors was famous for the simple but astute observation that the bible begins in a garden and ends in a city.[iii] It begins in the pristine perfection of creation and plenty—call it childhood, call it innocence—and it ends in a place where people are called out of childhood and into maturity; out of innocence and into wisdom; out of the protective cocoon of the individual family unit and into community. And still:

A river and its streams bring joy to the city,
    which is the sacred home of God Most High.
God is in that city, and it won’t be shaken. God will help it at dawn.

~Psalm 46:4-5

God is with us. The river of the water of life flows through the streets of the city.

The river waters the tree of life. The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. And really, the remainder of our passage describes this perfectly:

Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him… And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light…     ~ Rev. 5:3, 5

The Season of Creation comes to its conclusion by reminding us that God is with us at the end, just as God was with us at the beginning, whether “the end” is “the end of the world as we know it,” or the end of a stage in life, or the end of this day. Last week I lay on a gurney in the Emergency Room and pondered the “end of life as I knew it.” Lying there in pain, I seriously contemplated the possibility that my fall at the ‘Y’ might be the beginning of decline, disability, a life of pain, and surgeries. Nothing many of you haven’t been through, or haven’t been present when someone you love has gone through it. The fact that I was wrong (Hallelujah! for now) doesn’t mean that I wasn’t in a real wilderness of fear and pain for those hours and days. And God was there, which I know because I cried out for help, and God helped. I’m not talking about the fact that my back wasn’t broken (though, that was definitely a good thing). I’m talking about the fact that God put a little sentence in my head, that went, “I am completely powerless here.” And that’s the God moment. The moment when we know we need God, is the moment in which there is a space for God to enter. Spirit, enter here.

It wasn’t, as it turns out, the end of life as I knew it two Wednesdays ago, though I am profoundly grateful these days for things like being able to walk unassisted, and being able to reach out my arms without doubling over in pain. But in all circumstances, God, our creator, is in our endings and our beginnings, our source and our goal. God our redeemer turns our endings into beginnings—new life, flowing through that river. God our sustainer teases out our gratitude, alerting us to the ways we can begin again, no matter what kind of ending we have just experienced.

Deep river—we are carried along on the river of John’s dreams, which are our dreams, too, as we live the cycle of creation over and over again. Dreams of new and vibrant life beginning. Dreams of failure and falling, literal or metaphorical. Dreams of wandering and wondering in the wilderness. Dreams of renewed life, the gospel feast, the promised land where all is peace. Thanks be to God. Amen.

[i] John Blake, “4 Big Myths of the Book of Revelation,” CNN Belief Blog, March 31, 2012,
[ii] Ibid.
[iii] Larry Rasmussen, Reinhold Niebuhr Emeritus Professor of Social Ethics, Union Theological Seminary.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Trouble in the Land: Sermon on Genesis 3:14-19, 4:8-16

 Scripture can be found here...

There are a few ways we could talk about today’s passages. I’m thinking we could go micro, focus in; or we could go macro, we could pull out and use a wide lens.

Here’s what we see when we pull in close: In the beginning, the woman and the man eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, against the express directions of their Creator God. After their disobedience is discovered, God doles out punishment. The serpent that tempted them is made the most despised of creatures and his offspring become eternal, mortal enemies of the humans. The woman is given painful childbirth and the punishment of being “ruled over” by her husband. And the man? His punishment is all about the land. The ground is cursed. Instead of a garden producing things for him to eat without any effort, he will have to work hard—and he’ll get thorns and thistles for his pains. And then that final reminder to the man that, after all, he came from the ground—the dust—and he will return to it. In the next generation, sin continues to infect and affect people and land: brother murders brother for no good reason we can discern, and the blood soaks the earth and calls out to God.

At the micro level, we have a story of sin and disobedience and punishment.

Now, if we pull back, take a wide view, we see: a story in which sin adds to the suffering of the world.

There is a lot of misunderstanding about sin. “Sin” is not a word or a concept most of us are comfortable with. To add to that, we Presbyterians have, as part of our Constitution, something called “The Book of Confessions,” which contains eleven historic statements of faith, beginning with the Nicene Creed, dating from the fourth century, and continuing through the ages to our most recent “Brief Statement of Faith,” dating from 1983. The concepts of sin found throughout the confessions are startlingly diverse. For example, one of our older creeds, the Scots Confession (written in 1560 during the Reformation) describes the outcome of the events the garden this way:

By this transgression… the image of God was utterly defaced in man, and he and his children became by nature hostile to God, slaves to Satan, and servants to sin.[i]

On the other hand, the Confession of 1967 was written in during the Civil Rights movement in this country, and is founded on a single verse from 2 Corinthians: “In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself…” Here, sin is described this way:

In sin, men claim mastery of their own lives, turn against God and their fellow men, and become exploiters and despoilers of the world. They lose their humanity in futile striving and are left in rebellion, despair, and isolation.[ii]

The descriptions of sin are diverse, but a common thread runs through them: Sin is separation from God, and enslavement to something other than God.

In our passages, that separation seems to take on a very distinct shape: the humans, created from the earth, are no longer at one with it. Instead of living in harmony with the land, as the original design for Eden demands, the humans struggle with the land. Instead of living peacefully on and with the land, they are at war with it. “…Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life” (Gen. 3:17b). “Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground” (Gen. 4:10). “When you till the ground, it will not yield to you its strength” (Gen. 4:12).

Sin adds to the suffering of the world. Literally. Separation from God leads to trouble in the land. The land suffers, the earth cries out. And the humans cry out, too. Cain cries out, “My punishment is greater than I can bear! Today you have driven me away from the soil, and I shall be hidden from your face…” (Gen. 4:13b-14). The land suffers, the earth suffers, and we suffer.

It’s often said that liberals like to focus on corporate sin—the things we do as societies, or governments, or big corporations. And it’s further said that conservatives like to focus on individual sin, the things we do one-on-one. These passages don’t allow any of us to retreat to our comfort zones, liberal or conservative. Sin—personal and corporate—has devastating effects, and we can’t ignore them.

Early last year, the New York Times reported:

A mysterious malady that has been killing honeybees en masse for several years appears to have expanded drastically in the last year, commercial beekeepers say, wiping out 40 percent or even 50 percent of the hives needed to pollinate many of the nation’s fruits and vegetables.[iii]

Last year the percentage of lost hives came down to 23%, which, according to one researcher, is still “not a good number.” He said, “We’ve gone from horrible to bad.”[iv] One scientist speculated that, if all the bees should die out, humans would not be far behind. He gave us four years.[v] God created us to be connected, to one another, and to the earth. Science fiction movies that have us relocating to Mars notwithstanding, we cannot live without it.

It’s not clear what’s killing the bees, but lots of people are working on it. It IS clear that the world is suffering, and we don’t even have to look outside our own country: from the hives of California, to the particulate filled air of Wyoming, to the devastated marine life and birds of the Louisiana Gulf, to the toxic drinking water of places as disparate as Oklahoma and Pennsylvania, the earth is crying out. This is God’s creation, God’s gift, given to us for our sustenance and plenty. And we have a part to play. It is described right there in the story… in last week’s passage. “The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it” (Gen. 2:15).

The verb translated “keep” is a verb I am very familiar with. It’s the Hebrew verb, shamar. I’m familiar with it because, when we were taught the Hebrew verb forms in seminary, shamar was the verb we always used. And the meaning of the verb is “to guard” or “to protect.” And that verb, translated “till”? It turns out that is the verb form of the Hebrew word for “slave” or “servant.” So, this little verse, really, properly, could read, should read, “The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to serve it and protect it.”

Imagine. We are all creatures of God, created from the earth. And our first job, the thing God tells us to do, right off, is to serve the earth, and protect it. That is our first vocation, our first calling. Our first priority. And, of course, it is a calling that is completely self-serving, since, without the earth thriving and healthy, our time as a species is not long.[vi] The call to protect the earth is not a call to self-sacrifice. It’s a call to save ourselves.

At the end of our passage, God consoles Cain, who has murdered his brother, by telling him he will not be killed. God brands him with a protective mark so that no one will harm him. This is how God responds to our sin, to the things we do that cause the earth to run with blood, human or honeybee. God protects us. God serves us. God reassures us. God sends us on to a new place, in hopes we will do better from now on. God reminds us, as in Psalm 139, that, there is really nowhere we can flee from God’s presence. Sin might be separation from God, but God is having none of it. God won’t be separated from us even if we try to climb in our roadsters and make a getaway.  Sin adds to the suffering of the world, but God steps in to ameliorate even that with second and third and four-thousandth chances. God remains faithful. God remains creative! God keeps inviting us to be a part of the divine creative plan. God’s love never fails. Thanks be to God. Amen.

[i] Scots Confession 3.03, Presbyterian Church (USA) Constitution Part I: The Book of Confessions, 11.
[ii] “The Sin of Man,” Confession of 1967 9.12, op cit.
[iii] “Mystery Malady Kills More Bees, Heightening Worry on Farms,” New York Times, March 28, 2013, p. A1.
[iv] “Report Says Fewer Bees Perished Over the Winter, But the Reason Is a Mystery,” New York Times, May 16, 2014, p. A 19.
[v] Leonard Shlain, quoted in the documentary “Connected: An Autoiography about Love, Death, and Technology,” 2011.
[vi] Noam Chomsky, “The End of History?”

Sunday, September 7, 2014

The Forest for the Trees: Sermon on Genesis 2:4b-22

 Scripture can be found here...

I was born in a beach-town, a suburb of Atlantic City, the daughter of parents who were born and raised in Philadelphia. We didn’t spend a lot of time in forests. In fact, my mother considered forests to be kind of sinister. Maybe she read too many spooky fairy tales in the Philadelphia Public Library, but when it was time for me to go to Camp Acagisca, mom sent dad to drive me, saying “Put me between two trees, and I’ll get lost. Put me between two trees, and you’ll never see me again!”

That said, I’ve had a kind of gentle initiation into forests all the same. My parents took me to California when I was seven, and we spent a day among the giant redwoods. I’ve been camping on Cape Cod. I’ve roamed through the beautiful and well-marked trails at the Waterman Center, inhaling the sweet smell of pine and cedar. I’ve read J. R. R. Tolkien! These are my limited credentials, as we start our four-week “Season of Creation” series with “Forest Sunday.”

But trees: ah. Trees are another matter. Trees, I know. I have fallen in love with trees, individual trees, in my life. Let me tell you about one such tree.

There is a weeping copper beech outside the parish house of West Presbyterian Church. When I went there to work as director of Christian Education almost fifteen years ago, I parked near the tree on my first day in the office, and was very nearly late because I was so taken by it. For those of you who have never seen this tree up close, it is very like the image of a woman with extraordinarily long hair, flowing right down to the ground, which she can completely hide beneath. Think Cousin Itt, only not weird and creepy. You usually can’t see the trunk of a weeping copper beach. But the sight of such a tree makes you want to part those cascading boughs and walk into the fragrant darkness of its canopy. It’s mysterious, you want to step inside. I did. On warm days I took my lunch and picnicked there. I can truthfully say that not one day of my tenure at that church passed without me stopping and taking grateful notice of that extraordinary, stunning tree.

On Forest Sunday we are offered a creation story, and it features no forests, but a number of trees, some trees with names. The tree of life. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And then more ordinary trees— let’s say apple trees, and peach trees. Since Eden as it is described is probably somewhere in modern day Iraq, or Turkey, or even Israel, let’s be sure to include orange trees, and also date, plum, apricot, and olive trees. Lemon trees, very pretty. Fig trees, powerful biblical symbols of wisdom and peace.

And there, folded into the stories of the creation of trees and forests and food-crops and animals, is the creation of man and woman. And do you notice how connected everything is? The earth is created, and later man is created from the earth. The man is created, and woman is created from the man’s own body, “bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh,” as he will call her, right after our passage ends.

And all the parts of creation—all of them—are in some sense made for one another. The man and woman to “till and keep” the trees and forests and food-crops, and the trees and food-crops to provide the humans with food and even, science tells us, air. When we exhale, we provide carbon dioxide for the plants and trees, and the plants and trees, in turn, provide oxygen for us.

Everything is so connected, so intimately connected, that, a theory emerged in the 1960’s that the earth is, in fact, one complex organism. Think of the remarkable photographs of the earth taken from space by the Apollo astronauts. There are no borders. Everything is connected. God has created it all in such a way that we have real impact on one another—for good or for ill.

And that is the story of the man and the woman. They will have an impact on one another. Their fates are inextricably entwined, and not simply because the woman is described as the man’s “helper.” [By the way, if you do a search for the word “helper” in scripture, roughly a third of the references are to God. God is our helper. It’s a good word.] The fates of the first humans are connected, and so, I believe, are the fates of all humans today, sometimes in ways we can’t see or predict in advance. This is how we were created: we were made to be a part of one another.

Recently I saw an illustration of a stand of redwood trees, with a written description that went like this:

Redwood trees are among some of the most majestic trees. They grow to be over 300 feet tall, and can live thousands of years, and their wood has special properties that make it resistant to mold, insects, and rot. Also, despite growing so old and so high, they have relatively shallow roots – around 6 to 12 feet deep. This root system could not hold up the tree by itself if it were not for a unique interaction between the trees. Redwoods get their stability and strength from growing up together with other redwoods in groves, and then intertwining their roots. In essence, they hold onto each other, and this enables them to grow incredibly tall, strong, and live long lives.[i]

We are like those redwoods, we people of faith. This is how we were created. We come together in a community of believers and seekers and people who are looking for a better way to live. We seek to put down roots here, roots that stretch out broadly, connecting us, not so much to the place, as to one another. What holds us up is what holds us together. We intertwine our roots, we hold on to each other. This is what enables us to grow strong, in our faith and in our lives.

Everything is connected. This is how everything was created. Trees in forests. Men and women in gardens. People to plants, plants to animals, animals to people, in an endless round-robin of creation, one that was designed by God to give us delight and abundance of life. We find that abundance by noticing that some fruits are delicious and nourishing. We delight by pausing to notice its sheer deliciousness and beauty and mystery. We find trees that take our breath away, and make us want to sit in their shade for peace and solitude. We see late summer flowers that make us want to take pictures so that we share them with our friends. We hold on to each other, like the stands of redwood trees.  And all this connection—to nature and to one another—points us back, again and again, to the One who fashioned all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful. The Lord God made them all. Thanks be to God. Amen.


Sunday, August 31, 2014

The Beloved Community: Sermon on Ruth 4:1-22

Ruth and Naomi by He Qi

Scripture can be found here...

We come today to the last act of the Book of Ruth, and we find ourselves in the middle of what truly feels like a romantic comedy—one last obstacle to be overcome, the other goel, the (Hebrew word meaning) “next of kin redeemer.” This is the part at the end of “My Best Friend’s Wedding” where Julia Roberts chases Cameron Diaz to a White Sox game at Comiskey Park to convince her that Dermot Mulroney really does love her. Except, in our story, this is the part where Boaz slyly leaves out the crucial bit of information—the land comes with a woman!—to first, give the unnamed “other guy” the thought that he can redeem the land belonging to the family; and then to allow that other guy to reveal himself as the guy who wants the land, but not the woman, too much baggage, too much responsibility, thank you very much, I’ll go home now.

And so Boaz is left as the closest kin, the one who truly can redeem the situation and the family—buy back their honor, and their stability, and their sense of place, their sense of home.

Let’s step back for a minute, and look at the big picture.

You’ve been taken by the wind… you have known the kiss of sorrow.

The story begins with Naomi finding herself to be a wife with no husband, and a mother with no sons. She has two daughters-in-law who don’t belong with her. She thinks herself to be as good as dead.

But she has this one daughter-in-law Ruth, who insists: Wherever you go, I will go.   

Doors that would not take you in… outcast, and a stranger.

When they return to Bethlehem, Naomi is bitter. But her daughter-in-law, Ruth the Moabite, begins, little by little, to restore life’s sweetness for Naomi. First, she feeds her with the grain she has harvested. Then she lets it be known that the owner of the field is a relative of Naomi’s husband.

Notice, none of the three are blood relatives to one another.

You have come by way of sorrow, you have come by way of tears…

After a time, Naomi sends Ruth to make a case to Boaz that he should step up, and obey the laws of their people, and take Ruth as his wife. Boaz is persuaded.

Then we have our romantic-comedy-type Big Last Obstacle, and it is overcome. Ruth and Boaz are wed, and they have a child, Obed. One last name definition for you: Obed means “servant,” “worker.” And Obed does indeed serve God’s purposes mightily, because he provides us the great punch line of the story, the information saved for the very last moment: Obed will be the grandfather of King David, the greatest king in all the stories of God’s people.

But for Naomi, this is a resurrection story. “Blessed be the Lord…” say the women of Bethlehem, as baby Obed is placed in Naomi’s arms. “He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age; for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has borne him.” Naomi, who was dead, has come alive again. She is so full of life she becomes the baby’s nurse.

But you’ll reach your destiny, meant to find you all these years,
meant to find you all these years.

What can we take from this story?

Scripture tells us stories of creation and re-creation.

We read in Ruth about the breakdown of not only a family, but an entire society, about the moment when its members might scatter to the winds like the seeds of a dandelion, but instead, come together again, when family is re-created by being re-defined. Ruth says, no matter that we are not related. I choose to make you, Naomi, my family. We are kin.

Scripture tells us stories of God’s love through the covenants we make.

We have the initial unseen covenant between Naomi and her husband, and then between Ruth and her husband.

We have the completely unexpected covenant between the foreigner Ruth and her mother-in-law Naomi.

We have the further marriage covenant between Ruth and Boaz.

And we have God’s unseen hand, guiding the makers of these covenants to provide for God’s people in ways that startle and surprise us.

Scripture tells us stories of outsiders who, mysteriously, end up being the lynchpins in God’s surprising designs.

Ruth is a Moabite, which means all kinds of coded things in scripture about being an outsider, about being hated—in one psalm [108:9] we actually read, “Moab is my washpot,” which is a very cleaned up translation of something much more like, “I will wipe the floor with you, Moab.” Naomi’s people despise her people. But of all the players in this little tale, it is Ruth who is most closely aligned with not only the character, but the purposes of God. Ruth is the one whose actions speak of hesed, of loving-kindness, and faithfulness.

And it is Ruth who is the necessary player—it is her re-crafting of familial relationships that ultimately can be credited with the birth of King David.

Think of how this story was heard in an era when intermarriage with non-Israelites was forbidden. Think of how this story was heard as people were being forced to break up their families, sending their wives and children away if they were not descendants of God’s covenant with Abraham.

Think of how God was speaking to God’s people through this gentle little tale of loss and hunger, and re-vitalization and fullness—all because one of those hated foreigners exceeded all expectations and definitions of love and loyalty.

Think of how we can hear this story today.

As summer comes to an end, I want to end, not by talking about a romantic comedy, but a big sci-fi action picture, “Guardians of the Galaxy.” So, we have our hero, a guy kidnapped from family when he was just a kid, and we have what ends up being his truly motley crew—a green killing-machine of woman, a genetically engineered raccoon man, a very extensively tattooed wrestler-type, and a man who is a tree. A tree-man. The tree-man’s name is “Groot.” We know this, because he speaks only the words, “I am Groot,” in response to every situation. “I am Groot.” For those of you to whom this means anything, think “Hodor.”

I am going to spoil the end of this movie for you, so plug your ears if you haven’t seen it. In the great crisis near the end, when it seems all our motley crew is sure to die, Groot does something that will save everyone, but probably kill him. The raccoon man, Rocket, tries to talk him out of it—“But Groot, you’ll die.” And then, with tears brimming in his tree-man eyes, he says, “WE ARE GROOT.”

We are Groot. It’s the most scriptural moment I’ve experienced in a summer blockbuster in a long, long, time. And it speaks a truth that is at the heart of, not only the Book of Ruth, but all of scripture: our redemption, our salvation, always, always, happens in community.  And it almost always happens because we have defied the rules that society clings to about where our loyalties are supposed to lie, and instead, stretch ourselves, open ourselves, to come together in a beloved community of those outside our own tribe.

This is what church is. A beloved community. A community where we come together, not because we are a biologically related family, but to find and forge a new definition of family that does not rely on shared genes or skin color or ethnic background.  Like Ruth. Like Naomi. Like Boaz.

You have drunk a bitter wine with none to be your comfort,
You who once were left behind will be welcome at love's table.
You have come by way of sorrow, you have come by way of tears,
But you’ll reach your destiny, meant to find you all these years,
meant to find you all these years.

Thanks be to God. Amen.


Song Lyrics: "By Way of Sorrow," Julie and Buddy Miller