Sermon for April 22 - Earth Day

The Scripture Reading for this sermon is Luke 24:36b-48

Meister Eckhart once said, “If I spend enough time with the tiniest creature – even a caterpillar – I would never have to prepare a sermon.  So full of God is every creature.”  This sounds like a great idea to me.  How perfect is it that I won’t ever have to write a sermon again.  And since, as many of you know, I love watching nature documentaries.  I watch them avidly, I figure I’m a step ahead.

The last time I saw a caterpillar, however, was in December.  And there was something quite tragic about that.  A caterpillar in December in Manitoba.  The little guy was in his full furriness, inching its way across the road.  There was melting snow all around it, but the possibility of spring was still very distant.  I’m not sure how this happened.  I don’t know whether the caterpillar was late in arriving, or whether it was early, hatching from an egg, its body somehow fooled by the warm weather.  Nevertheless, it would not survive until spring.  I pondered the idea of squishing it, I imagined that would be a quicker way to go than freezing.  But I didn’t.  I moved it off the road, and hoped that a hungry bird would see it. 

That I remember a simple encounter with a caterpillar 4 months later, I think speaks to Meister Eckhart’s words.  “If I spend enough time with the tiniest creature – even a caterpillar – I would never have to prepare a sermon.  So full of God is every creature.”  I say this with all seriousness, and all gratitude, but I built a little relationship with that caterpillar.  It was able to evoke feelings within me, feelings of joy and sadness.  That was its gift to me.  And I do still at times wonder what happened to my little friend, knowing full well that whatever it was, it probably was not good.

This seems so far away from our scripture story for today, where we once again find ourselves in the company of Jesus’ disciples.  Rumors are starting to fly among them.  They talk about the empty tomb, they hear about an encounter on the Road to Emmaus.  Excitement is building, but they don’t know what it could mean to them.  Finally, the Risen Christ appears before them, and their response is the most normal response I can think of.  They are terrified.  They think he is a ghost.

As in the Thomas story, Jesus then invites the disciples to reach out and to touch him, to feel his wounds.  He is no ghost, he walks among them, he breathes among them in the fullness of his body.  And sure enough, he eats among them, he physically needs nourishment.  Whoever wrote Luke is really emphasizing that the Risen Christ has a body.  This is incredibly important to the author.  This is not a story about some transcendent being.  This is not a story about an ethereal Jesus, a ghostly Christ who dwells in our hearts and minds, a heavenly presence that whispers from far away.  This is a story about flesh and bones, which we all have.  It is a story about physical bodies, about creation and the world around us where we all live.  It is right here.

So often we want to put God far away.  We want to put God in the heavenly realm.  When we do that, the purpose of Christianity becomes about getting somewhere else, about leaving creation.  This world becomes a sort of proving ground.  It becomes a world that doesn’t really matter in the long run.

But the emphasis on the body in this story, says something entirely different.  Christianity is not a faith about heavenly places and superbeings.  Christianity is about this world.  Christianity says, if we want to encounter God, we can do so right here, right now, in creation, not outside of it.  When I use a word like incarnation, that’s what I mean.  That God is incarnate, to me, means that God dwells here.  That God has a body, that God is physical, that God can be touched, and seen, heard, smelt and tasted.  This is the wonder of the Incarnation.

Today we are celebrating Earth Day.  I think this is an important day to celebrate in the Christian calendar.  It is a day where we are reminded that holiness exists all around us, that to spend time with a caterpillar is to spend time with God.  And so I’m going to invite you to do that.  Spend time with a caterpillar, or a fly, or a shrub, or even a blade of grass.  Take a seed before it is sown and marvel at it.  Just marvel at it.  Today is an invitation to the fullness of our faith as Christians, a faith that does not look for God far away in the future, but a faith that knows God right here, right now.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Sermon for April 15, 2012 - The Wounds

The Scripture passage for this sermon is John 20:19-31

Following the execution of Jesus as a criminal, the disciples were scattered.  They were without direction, without hope.  Any sense of meaning that they had established around Jesus had died and was buried in a tomb.  His calls for transformation of individuals, and transformation of the world were gone.  Any belief that God was on the side of Jesus breathed its last, when he cried out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”  Their myriad of dreams, dreams of a world remade, of justice for the poor, of the powerful overthrown, were gone.

And so they waited in a room.  Terrified of the world around them.  They feared a wraith that would come quickly.  Should they stay together?  In hiding?  Should they say goodbye, and head off each in their own direction?  Their tails between their legs as they returned to a life they had abandoned?  Would they even be welcome back home?  Where were they to go?  What were they to do?  Those great existential questions cried out deep within their souls.  The only thing they knew was that they were alone.

But everything began to change on that first Easter morning.  Everything began to change for Mary Magdalene, for Peter, for John.  And when Jesus appeared behind closed and locked doors to the rest of the disciples, everything began to change for them too.

But everything had not begun to change for Thomas.  Not yet, anyways.

When the disciples came running and told Thomas what they saw he couldn’t believe it.  He probably thought they were joking, playing some mean prank and waiting for him to go along with it, before before Philip would jump out from under the curtain, yelling “Sucker!”  And everyone would laugh. 

But this story isn’t just about Thomas not believing.  It goes far beyond that.  Thomas is not struggling with unbelief, or a lack of faith.  He is struggling because the very idea of the resurrected Christ is incomprehensible.  Resurrection is absurd.  That Christ had risen, for Thomas would have shattered his understanding of the world, of the way the universe worked.  How could God have possibly been on Jesus’ side when Jesus had been crucified?  What about now if he had risen?  What did this say about God?  What did this say about Jesus’ mission?  What would this mean for Thomas’ life?

“Unless I can put my fingers into the nail holes in his hands, and stick my hand into the wound in his side, how can I possibly believe you?  I can’t even understand what that would mean.”  Thomas is wearing the fullness of his humanity in all of its questioning glory.  He cannot let go of his understandings about the world simply on the words of a few of his friends.

And then, it happens.

Again, behind those closed and locked doors, the Risen Christ appears.  He invites Thomas to touch the wounds in his hands and in his side.  No one else has been allowed to touch Christ to this point.  Thomas is the first.  We can imagine the tenderness with which he takes Christ’s hands.  Exploring them with his eyes and his fingers.  Feeling, not only the nail marks, but each and every finger, both thumbs, the front and the backs.   This was a tactile encounter.  Thomas touched the wound in Christ’s side, who knows how deep he put his hand in.  The wounds are still there, they have not scabbed or scarred over, and so I imagine this whole physical exploration would have hurt Christ.  But Thomas proceeds, unabated.

And then he gasps, taking in his breath he drops to his knees.  “My Lord and My God!”  Thomas is the first to recognize God in the Risen Christ.  Everything had not begun to change for Thomas, it had changed entirely in that one moment.  “My Lord and my God!”

For me, Thomas is the first Christian.  Until Thomas is able to touch Christ, there was only an image, only an apparition.  But suddenly all those questions, all those fears that had been running through his head were confronted.  Thomas’ worldview was shattered by the wounds of Christ.

To be a Christian, means to have our worldview shattered by the wounds of Christ.

In the past I have shared with you my own story of when I first realized that was happening to me, of when my own worldview began to be shattered by the wounds of Christ.  It began in a small village called El Mozote in El Salvador, where we were given a tour by the only survivor of a horrific massacre that occurred in the early 1980s.  I was able to see the wounds of Christ in the world around me, and soon I was able to see those same wound within myself.  They popped up in a deeper understanding of the anger which dwelt and still dwells within me.  More recently, I have been able to touch those wounds in my own struggles with sadness, and in the tenderness that still exists just below the surface.  These have all dramatically re-shaped my understanding of and relationship with the world around me, myself, and God.

Where in the world have we touched Christ’s wounds?  Where in the world have we found a God, not of majesty and wealth, but a wounded God, a God of brokenness?  Where in our lives, in our hearts have we felt and experienced that?  Has it been a specific event?  A loss of some kind?  Or perhaps a specific encounter?  Or is it just a feeling that resides within?  A constant companion of sorts?  Perhaps anger, or perhaps sadness, or perhaps just a pervasive sense of loneliness?  We all have the opportunity to touch those wounds regularly.  Though it is often portrayed differently, Christianity, in its best sense, is tremendously open and honest about the tragic realities in the world around us.

Still, it is no wonder Jesus says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet come to believe!”  Touching Christ’s wounds as I said, can be world shattering.  Everything we may think we know about God, about ourselves, about the world around us, can be shaken to the very core. Jesus is not saying that those who have not seen but believed are better, I think he is saying they are more fortunate.  They do not have to have their world shaken to understand the nature of God’s brokenness in Jesus. This is not an easy experience, it is one we shy away from.

None of us runs head first to explore those shadowy feelings in ourselves, or to helplessly bear witness to the pain that is going on in the world around us.  I think that is why so many of us don’t like going to hospitals, or personal care homes.  I think that is why so many of us don’t like to talk or even think about those painful experiences in our lives, choosing instead to dull them.  I think that is why our fear of encountering the reality of poverty often translates into anger, hatred, and judgment.  Because exploring those wounds, as Thomas explores Christ’s wounds, (and I mean genuinely exploring them, in a tactile sense, probing and prodding, wondering and questioning) can create tremendous upheaval in our lives.  It is scary, it may even hurt.

I’d like to read a few words written by Henri Nouwen that wonderfully describes the opportunity behind this sort of upheaval.  This is from his book, Reaching Out.  “Often it is the dark forest that makes us speak about the open field.  Frequently prison makes us think about freedom, hunger helps us to appreciate food, and war gives us words for peace.  Not seldom are our visions of the future born out of the sufferings of the present and our hope for others out of our own despair.  Only few ‘happy endings’ make us happy, but often someone’s careful and honest articulation of the ambiguities, uncertainties and painful conditions of life gives us new hope.  The paradox is indeed that new life is born out of the pains of the old.

These are the great opportunities of conversion.  These are where we can reach out and touch the wounds of Christ in the world.  These are the chances for our worldview to be shattered, and remade in something new, remade in the image of a God who suffers with us, who cries out for justice, and who embodies love even onto the cross.

Sermon for April 8, 2012 - Easter Communion

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting down with someone, and the conversation turned to communion.  She stated something that was very familiar to me.  Communion did not mean anything to her.  She went through the motions, but it was more just an exercise in tradition, or perhaps a “lets just get through this” sentiment..  Get the bread, dip it, eat it move back to sit down. “Why do we do it?” she asked.  She wondered if she was alone in feeling this, though she suspected others felt this way too.  I say this was familiar to me because it is something that I have felt.  Communion as a process of going through the motions.  I asked her if I could share this conversation, because I could not think of a better time to talk about communion than when we celebrate it on Easter morning.

I was going to come in today and describe all the different ways that communion has been important to me.  Just by way of example.  But I realized as I reflected on communion this morning that my understanding of it has changed this week, it is a very personal experience this week.

As some of you may know I was fasting this week, from Good Friday to Easter Sunday.  My thought was that, “Oh, I will spend time with Jesus through fasting.  Then, when we participate in communion it will taste so good, and I’ll experience it in a wonderful new way, and I can share that with the congregation.  What a great Easter Sunday it will be!”  That was my pride talking.  And if I know one thing about God, it is that God finds pride hilarious.

3 times I broke my fast.  Each and every time I was able to rationalize it for myself.  But think about it, in a two day fast I had to eat three times.  Really Crouch?  I was able to say, “Oh I don’t wan to pass out at the wedding, I better eat just in case.”  Or “Oh I don’t want to be sick for the Easter Sunday service, I better eat just in case.”  Or, “Oh, I don’t want to get too run down before the drama.”  Or, and this is my favourite, “In the Jewish way of counting days, the day begins at sunset.  So since the sun has already set, it is technically Easter Sunday right now.”  And I ran to the fridge.

And I felt awful afterwards.  I felt tremendously guilty.  Even this morning when I woke up, I was feeling bad.  I said to myself, “Communion is going to be awful today.”  And then I realized, Wait a minute… I get to have communion today.  It was such a profound moment of grace.  Even though I had not succeeded in my attempt, there is still communion offered for me, there is still Easter Sunday.

Suddenly, this morning I found myself in Peter’s shoes, his story playing out for me.  All full of gusto and bravado, saying I would go with Jesus where no one else would.  Peter who denies Jesus three times, and who in the moment is able to rationalize his own safety, but who feels awful afterwards.  Three times he denied, three times I ate.  But Peter is able to experience such a profound sense of grace when Jesus asks him three times “Do you love me?”  Today, I am very fortunate that I will get to have communion three times, one for each time I broke my fast… as though Jesus is asking me, “Tim, do you love me?”

Does this mean I won’t ever fast again?  No, I’ll try again one day.  It just means that today I am getting a far different lesson than I would have had I succeeded.  A lesson of humility and grace.  That’s what communion means for me today, that’s what Easter Sunday means for me today.

One of the reasons I was happy about the conversation I shared at the beginning of this meditation was because that is a wonderful first step.  I was thrilled when she asked, because that means it matters, or at the very least it means she wants it to matter.

I cannot tell you what communion should mean to you.  I cannot tell you what the resurrection should mean to you.  But we need to spend time with it.  If we want those to mean anything to us, we must spend time with them.  Spend time with them in the company of friends, in the company of family, on our own in prayer and meditation.  I love talking about this stuff, you guys pay me to do it.  But it doesn’t even have to be with me that you speak about it.  Talk with one another.  Be open and honest.  Say, communion means this or that or nothing.  Say the resurrection means this or that or nothing.

Sometimes it will hit us.  We’ll be struck by a thought or an idea or just a feeling.  And sometimes it won’t.  Perhaps more often than not it won’t.  But that’s not what matters.  What is important is the struggle.  What is important is spending time with it.  Today when you’re participating in communion taste the bread, feel it in your mouth.  When you drink the juice, taste it, be aware of it, what does it feel like when you swallow it.  Spend time with the sensations. 

More than that, today is Easter Sunday, this is the most important day in the Christian year.  What does it mean that Christ is risen?  Spend time with it.  Talk about it over dinner tonight.  Talk about whether you and your family and friends believe it literally, believe it figuratively, or think it really has no bearing on your life whatsoever.  Grapple with it.  Place yourself in the story, who do you relate to most?  Where do you fit?  Bring that story into your life today.  Where is there death?  Where is there resurrection?  Have you experienced either of them?  Both of them?  Neither of them?  Talk to me, talk to God.  Let yourself struggle with it.  Really struggle with it.  This is the resurrection of Christ, it is worth the struggle.  Thanks be to God, Amen.

Sermon for February 19, 2012 - Pilgrimage and the Way

Scripture Reading for this sermon is: Mark 9:2-9

Christianity has gotten pretty easy.  It requires only an hour of our time on Sunday morning.  You just need to show up once to get baptized.  It doesn’t really demand too much of us.  Just believe a few things that don’t have too much of a bearing on our lives.  And very often those things that we are asked to believe will change depending on our life and politics.  We have misinterpreted what it means to be inclusive.  Where inclusivity should mean, if you want to join us all are welcome regardless of race, gender, orientation, or ability; we have used it to become a fast food drive thru with an “order what you want “ mentality.  These are just a few of the ways that Christianity has gotten easier.  It fits nicely into our culture of ease.  We want spirituality, to experience relationship with God, right now with minimal effort on our part. 

Wouldn’t that be nice?

In our scripture reading for today, we read about the Transfiguration of Jesus.  It is the story of Jesus up on a mountain, conversing with Elijah and Moses.  While he is there, he seems to undergo a radical change in front of his inner circle who have climbed the mountain with him.  A cloud descends upon the mountain, the voice of God rings out, “This is my Beloved Son!  Listen to him!”

As I reflected on this story, I read something proposed by the theologian Helmut Thielicke that the transfiguration event does not happen to Jesus, rather it happens to the disciples instead.  This story is not about Jesus, he remains as always the incarnation.  This story is about the experience of the disciples. Up on the mountain, it was something inside of them that changed.  They were shaken, they were rattled, and they saw Jesus in his fullness.  They experienced it only for a moment, but even in that moment, Peter knew he wanted it to last longer.

It is no coincidence that this happened up on a mountain.  Throughout the history of human myth and religion, mountains have become symbolic as seats and homes of the divine, where people encounter the holy.  In Judaism, Moses encountered God and received the Law on Mount Sinai.  In Greek Myth, it was Mount Olympus that was the home of the gods.  In Hinduism there is Mount Meru, the seat of Brahma, and the centre of all things.  Mount Kailash in Tibet is another Holy site for Hinduism, as well as for Jainism and Buddhism.  Mount Kailash is so holy, in fact, that it has never been climbed.  And in Islam, it is in the mountains outside of Mecca, where Muhammed received the revelations from God that would become the Koran.

Mountains reach up to the very heavens, and to ancient people it only makes sense that these would be the seats of heavenly beings.  Trying to climb these vast and mighty peaks would have been daunting, a rare occurrence if it ever even happened.

Even today, they are not climbed half heartedly.  People die every year on the great peaks.  And getting within a stone’s throw of the summits does not guarantee reaching them.  Mountains are intimidating, though awe-inspiring.  They are terrifying while beautiful.  But it was when these three disciples climbed one, Peter, James, and John, that they encountered something marvelous, something inexplicable.  It was through this unknowably difficult journey up the mountain that they experienced God.  This was their pilgrimage.

And that’s the way that Christianity should be.  It should be difficult, because it is difficult. 

What do you know about the practice of pilgrimage?

The practice of pilgrimage has been a part of religious custom since long before Christianity. It is the practice of going on a long journey to some far off destination.  There is the Hajj, the pillar of Islam that calls for Muslims to journey to Mecca at least once in their life if they are able. Mount Kailash is in one of the most isolated areas of the already isolated Tibet, where Hindus and Buddhists make a pilgrimage to.  In medieval times, Christian pilgrimages were common, venturing to the Holy Land, or to a relic site was often considered an act of penance.

Pilgrimages are difficult.  It is in their very challange that they are transformative.  If I just had to cross the street to get to the Santiago Cathedral, El Camino, that famous pilgrimage through Spain, would not be a pilgrimage at all.  It would not have any effect on me whatsoever.  If I could just get in my car and drive past Mecca as I look out my window, how would that effect me?  My pilgrimage will cost me something.  My pilgrimage will not be easy.  It is trial.

This is wisdom that we all know.  Certainly for myself, as I look back at my most trying times, those are the times that forged me.  This past year, though very difficult on a personal level, has greatly effected and strengthened my faith; though I may not always have said that as I went through it.  Anyone who has been through a 12 steps program and met with some success will tell you that it is not easy, but out of it they were transformed.  We are not made, we are not transformed in times of relative ease and abundance.  We are created out of the difficult.  I’m a big Calvin and Hobbes fan, and I always love how every time Calvin goes through something that is tough, his dad shouts out that he is building character.  There is truth to this.

This is the pilgrimage.  This is the journey up the mountain by the disciples.  This is exactly what Christianity should be.  This is how we should be looking at our faith.  As a pilgrimage. 

Christianity must reflect that fundamental truth of life, that out of struggle comes growth, out of fire comes steel, out of death comes resurrection.  That is the great pilgrimage of life that is reflected in our faith.

Christianity should not become a faith that says life is tickity boo.  Any time we try to make our faith easier on people, we are re-enforcing the lie that everything can and should be easy.  We are nodding our heads along with the culture, which tries to sell us that garbage.  And which, we all want to agree with, which we all want to believe for obvious reasons.  But deep down inside, we know it is not true.  We know it is not true because all of us have experienced trial and tribulation.  All of us have experienced suffering and pain. 

And so, if we want our faith to be true, if we want our faith to be deep, and transformative, we need to struggle for it.  It must honestly reflect that reality of life, otherwise it loses all credibility.  It must mimic the trial, the challenge of life, and all the while say to us God is present.  The incarnation exists even in times of difficulty, and it will transform us to new life.  Christianity must challenge us, it must call us to live that eternal cycle of life, death, and new life, resurrection.

For the month of February, our book club is reading Karen Armstrong’s The Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life.  Since selecting this book, I have had a number of people come up to me and tell me how difficult it is.  More than that, some of the steps that she says are a part of the journey to becoming more compassionate are tough.  Certainly the last step, Love Your Enemies, that same commandment from scripture, is not easy.  I have had numerous people express to me how intimidating this book is, and how intimidating the work she asks of us is.  And to all of that, I say, Good.  It is not an easy book, and the path she invites us to, is not an easy path.  It is hard.  But I find it tremendously praise worthy that everyone who has come to me and said, “this book is hard” or “I really am struggling with this idea”, has also said to me “but I really want to read it.”  What I hear when this is said “I am willing to do the hard stuff… I want to walk the path towards compassion.”  That’s a good thing.  This is a wonderful example of what Christian faith looks like.  Pushing our boundaries, experiencing ideas that may make us uncomfortable and trusting that we will somehow experience God along the way.

And so let us abandon the idea that religion is simply a set of beliefs someone has.  Instead let us see it as a journey.  Christianity is the path we tread, it is the climb up the mountain, it is the pilgrimage we take throughout our whole lives.  One of the earliest names for Christians was “People of the Way”.  It wasn’t “People who believe certain things”.  It was people of the Way.  And as we find out in our Gospel reading, for Christians, that Way, that holy journey, that walk up the mountain, is called Jesus, the Beloved of God, who God tells us to listen to.  God doesn’t say, “Believe this about Jesus”, God says “listen to him.”  Even when the bible uses the term “believe” a more accurate interpretation would be “trust”.  Listen to Jesus, trust in his way, follow him.  As Christians Jesus is our path of pilgrimage.

And it is hard.  It wouldn’t be true, it wouldn’t be relevant in the world, it wouldn’t be worth anything if it wasn’t.  Christianity is hard.  It is our long climb up the mountain.  And yet, it is through climbing the mountain that our eyes are changed to see the glory and wonder of the incarnate God.

Sermon For February 12, 2012 - Prayers of Petition

Scripture Reading for This Week: Mark 1:40-45

A couple of months ago I was having a conversation with my older sister, Steph, about praying to God for things that we want.  I asked her permission to share this story and she said yes.  A friend of hers had a family member, we’ll call him Dave, who was quite sick.  This friend asked Steph to include Dave in her prayers.  Steph really struggled with this idea, and so she asked me about it.  She said, “I don’t want to pray for something that isn’t going to happen.”  We had a really good conversation about it and it opened me up to a lot of my own questions about faith.

One thing that I do regularly on my job is pray, not only with, but for people.  I pray for people to be healed, I pray for people to be made whole, I pray for justice around the world, there are all sorts of things I pray for.  These are called Prayers of Petition.  But I think my sister’s anxiety, which she openly stated, poked and prodded at an anxiety, a question, which I have deep down inside; a question that I need to bring to the light.

What are we doing when we pray to God for healing, for ourselves, for others, or for the world?  What are we doing when we ask God for something?  I think we have two perspectives on this issue, represented by conservative and liberal Christianity.  And I think both are missing the mark; to quote Jim Wallis, “The right gets it wrong and the left doesn’t get it.”  Though he is talking about politics, I think the same can be said for prayer. 

Often, in conservative Christianity, there is the sense that God can heal, that God can make changes.  I think that is a solid belief, one that I hold – though sometimes it is one that I just want to hold.  But when we pray for, say, healing, for myself or for others, do we actually think we are swaying God?  Is God saying, “Well, I was going to let Joe die, but since you prayed, I guess I’ll give him a reprieve.”?  That God is kind of a jerk when you think about it.  And it is pretty arrogant to think we have power over God.

Liberal mainstream Protestantism doesn’t get off the hook either.  This is where the United Church of Canada often falls, and this is where I often fall.  Deep down, we are having a struggle with our faith.  What is termed, “functional atheism” has crept into our prayer life.  We’re not so audacious as to think we can control God, but we don’t really hold onto the belief that God can and will effect the world.  Anything that will happen is up to us.

Both perspectives offer something that is good to the conversation, but both sides miss something as well.  It seems to me like one side is trying to barter with God, in a sense trying to control God, and the other side leaves God right out of the picture.

So why do we make prayers of petition to God?  This is a tough question that gets to the core of our faith.  It forces us to ask what we are doing when we engage in that critical Christian practice of prayer.  Just a heads up, today we’re only talking about prayers of petition.  There are many other types and forms of prayer,  but today we’re just focusing on that one.

In our scripture reading, we hear about the leper coming to Jesus and asking for help.  He says to Jesus, “Listen, I know you have the ability to cure me.  And so I know, that if you choose to do so, you will.”  This is his last hope.  He has gotten on his knees, lost all sense of pride, and is begging Jesus.

How Jesus responds is actually up for debate.  In our reading for today it says he was moved by pity.  Many ancient sources, however, imply that it was not pity that moved Jesus, but rather, anger.  In many ways, this fits with the rest of the story.  But his anger is mysterious, what is he angry at?  Is he angry at the leper?  Is he angry at the leprosy, or perhaps a demon that was making him a leper?  Is he angry at the way the man has been cast out and forced to beg?  Is he angry that everyone seems interested in his healings and not in his message?  I don’t know.  It could be any of those, or it could be that the original author did, in fact, use the word “pity”. 

I think what is important in this story is that the man surrendered himself, and Jesus’ responded to that by saying “I do choose.”  The man is healed.  Yes, the leper then disobeys Jesus, and does not follow up with Christ’s prescription.  But for an instant there, for one instant, there is something very remarkable in this man, and Jesus responds.

This man, provides a wonderful example of a petitioner.  He is a wonderful example of someone asking God for something.  And I think that in his very petitioning of God, we get a sense of what it means to ask something of God.

One of my favorite stories in the bible is of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I look to this example as teaching us how to pray.  His words are very similar to the words of the leper.  “For you, all things are possible, remove this cup from me; yet not what I want, but what you want.”  “God, I know you could get me out of this if you choose.  It’s up to you.”  The difference in the two stories is simply that the Leper is healed and Jesus doesn’t get what he wants.

Like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, like the leper, when we pray for world peace or when we pray for the healing of a loved one, we may not be expecting it to happen.  Instead we’re admitting to ourselves and to God, that it is beyond our reach, that it is out of our control, that we are, in essence, powerless.

And there is the word that makes Christians of all stripes shudder.  On one side there is the sense that if I just pray hard enough, or believe just the right stuff, God will change things.  It is, at its heart, an attempt to control things.  It is an attempt to get God to do what we want.  On the other side, the sense is very much, why would I pray to God about it, since God might very likely not do anything.  Anything that is done in the world is done by us, by humanity.  We are in control.

Prayers of petition are actually a counter-cultural act.  In a world that says we are powerful, in a world that says we control our fates, our destinies are entirely in our hands and in our hands alone, in a world that says we get what we pay for, what we deserve, what we have earned; prayers of petition say this isn’t about us.  Prayers of petition, when motivated by a sense of powerlessness, hand off any attempt of control.  We don’t have control, and we are admitting it.  It is a surrender.

Now, I am not saying that prayer cannot heal, that prayer cannot effect change.  I think it can, but we need to look at motivations.  If we are praying to try to maintain control, to try to get God to do something, to fix a problem for us, I think we are missing the point.  If we are trying to control things with prayer we are not surrendering.  We are not admitting that God has power over all things.  We are not joining with the Leper, joining with Jesus, embracing the words from the Lord’s Prayer, “Thy will be done…”

Semon for February 5, 2012 - Getting Away

The Scripture Reading for this Week is: Mark 1:29-39

Who knows what the fourth commandment is?

I have to say, I really feel for Jesus in our scripture reading for today.  His Sabbath day of teaching and exorcisms has ended.  No sooner does the sun set on his “day of rest” than people begin streaming towards Peter’s house where Jesus was staying.  They are pounding on the door, wanting to be healed, wanting to have demons exorcised.  The whole city was waiting for him, ready to run to him as they watched the sun.  As soon as it was below the horizon we can imagine them swarming to where he was.  Yelling, demanding, shouting, wanting him to work his power upon them.

It’s like getting back from a vacation to a mountain of work, to the phone ringing off the hook, to people knocking on your door.  We’ve all experienced that.  I think that is why much of the world hates Mondays, because they are forced to go from 0 to 100 in an instant.  For myself, I know after a vacation I need a day or two to catch my breath, to get rolling, to ease into things.  Even after a single day off, work is that much more exhausting and tiring.

So the people are knocking on the door, reaching out to him, begging him, crying for him.  And Jesus dives into the middle of the crowd.  He heals people to the left, to the right.  Moving slowly through the swarm as they cluster around him, as it pushes towards the centre.  They claw at him, they pull at him, they tug on him.

And he has to leave, he has to get away from it.  The story implies that he got a bit of sleep, but still, early the next morning, before the sun has even begun to rise, Jesus slips away.  In the darkness, when the rest of the town was asleep, Jesus leaves.

And he prays.  He gets away, to a deserted place.  No one else around, and he spends some time with God.  He prays.

Pause

But it isn’t long before his disciples find him.  They hunt him down, and explain to him that everyone is searching for him.  Everyone wants something from him.  He is being pulled back.

I love this story about Jesus.  He is so vulnerable in it.  I think we can all empathize with that feeling of being pulled in many directions at once.  It can be overwhelming, it can be exhausting.  I think we can all appreciate Jesus’ desire to throw up his hands and just get away from it.

This is one of those remarkable stories where we see that Jesus is not some super-human.  We see that Jesus, in his humanity is bound and constrained by those same limitations that we are all so familiar with.  I just feel for him in this, I think most of us can feel for him because we have been there.

Who here hasn’t at least once in their life, though likely more than that (possibly monthly or weekly) been pulled by many different people, by many different demands, by many different things to do?  All of us have.  All of us have experienced that.  And truthfully, all of us have been on the other side as well.  We’ve all demanded.

But God gets it.  God knows how it is.  After creating the world in 6 days, God rested.  Jesus was overwhelmed more than once after healing people, more than once while living out his public ministry.  In our scripture reading for today, Jesus knew he needed Sabbath, he needed his own rest in order to return to public ministry.

So the question I have is, “Why do we think we’re special?”  Why do we think we are better than God and Jesus, why do we think that we don’t need rest?  Why, when our world says “Go! Go! Go!” do we always respond with “Ok!”?  What has happened to our Sabbath?

I’ve heard it said about that fourth commandment, that it is no longer relevant.  Worse still, it is often argued that keeping a Sabbath is not practical or even possible any more.  That makes me sad.  More than that, I think we may have confused ourselves with what Sabbath actually means.  I think often we convince ourselves that we know what Sabbath is, and that we are honoring it to some degree.  We need to be careful about that as well.

Who knows what the word Sabbath means?  It comes from the Hebrew word Shabbat, which means not only rest, but also, cease.  Sabbath means, “cease”, to stop.  This is hard for us to understand because we are such a “doing culture”.  Sabbath means stop, it means “don’t do”.

How many of us actually take a day when we “don’t do”?  How many of us even take an hour?  What does that even mean, “to cease”?  Does running around and doing all those odd jobs that need to get done but have been put on the back burner because of work mean “to cease”?  No.  Does hanging out and watching TV mean we’re “not doing”?  I’d argue that it doesn’t.  Not necessarily anyways.  It certainly doesn’t mean that for me, in my life.

So, what is Sabbath? 

When I ask this question I look to Christ for answers.  Because this is a hard question.  He stops his work, moving away from all the demands the word is making on him.  He spends time with God.  I think these are the two key ingredients.  And they are huge. 

First, Sabbath is that time when we step away from the demands of the world.  Jesus slips out before the sun rises.  More than that when his disciples track him down saying the world is demanding his presence, he just leaves.  Stepping away from the demands of the world can be a difficult thing to do.  It is that time when we just stop, when we rest, when we have the strength to say to ourselves, “All those things I should be doing, I’m going to put on pause.”  All those things the world shouts at me, I’m going to tune out.  There are so many ways that this can happen, and I can’t tell you what they are.  They can be quiet and meditative, they can be active if we feel they need to be.

Every morning and night I try to take 15 minutes to do some yoga stretching.  This is hard for me.  It’s hard because in the morning, I’d either rather be sleeping.  If it is a really busy day, it is very easy to say to myself, “well I should be getting to work, I don’t have time for this.”  At night, I just want to goto sleep. And if I am too tired, it is very easy for me to convince myself that my mild yoga and meditation is not as important as sleep.  But, what I’ve noticed is that when I give myself this half hour every day, I am more energized and focused when I do have to do things.  And at night, I truly sleep better.  This has become a part of my Sabbath practice.  I’m not as good at it as I’d like to be, but I am starting to see the tremendous importance.  There are other practices that work, depending on our motivations and our mindsets.  Contemplative prayer, labyrinth walking, pilgrimage, even going for a run can be a Sabbath activity if it helps us pull away from the demands of the world.

Moving away from the demands of the world for a few moments or a day or a week of vacation does not just mean stopping work.  It is deeper than that.  It is allowing ourselves a chance to drop all those masks that we put up at the world’s request that hide our true selves.  For example, in a world that demands we be happy all the time with a smile on our face, Sabbath could simply be a moment when we let ourselves cry.

Secondly, Sabbath has to be about God. It is why Jesus didn’t simply sleep a bit longer on that early morning.  For his rest, for his ceasing, for his rejuvenation he needed God.  Jesus’ power comes from God.  His strength, his authority, his ability, all of that came from God.  We are no different.  I can’t tell you what it means to spend time with God.  I can’t tell you what it means to pray.  It is different for each and every one of us.  But somehow, our rest is tied to our admission, our conviction, that we are utterly dependant upon God for who we are.  This is where I struggle, and often my Sabbath days will consist of me confusing watching tv and playing video games with holy rejuvenation.  I’m not beating up on those things, we need to unwind, but Sabbath does not mean entertainment.  True rest, Sabbath rest must be cradled within the arms of God.

I cannot tell you what the key ingredient is to Sabbath.  I cannot tell you what you need to do to find this holy rest.  Church should not be a place which places more demands and strict orders on how you experience and encounter God, on following legalistic rites to enter into a time of Sabbath.  Church should be a place where we explore that together, where as a community we can bring our true selves forward, those selves we hide from the rest of the world, to explore how we rest in the presence of God.  If anyone is interested in exploring this, please talk to me.  I can think of nothing more joyous, more communal, more holy than sitting down with a sister or brother in Christ and asking what does it mean to rest in God.

Sabbath should be exciting.   It should be demanding, but paradoxically, it should also be easy.  It should be something that once we’ve experienced it, we can’t wait to experience it again, and again.  In a world that demands so much from us, we must learn to join with Christ when we take time to pull away from those demands.

Sermon For January 29, 2012 - What's in a name?

Scripture Readings for this sermon: Mark 1:21-28

I remember once I got into an argument with my dad.  It was a stupid argument, over nothing really.  It was about which is better, soccer or hockey.  And it got so heated, there was yelling and everything.  And to be honest with you, I don’t even care that much.  I like hockey well enough, but not that much.  I’ll watch it if it is on, but since I got rid of cable, I find myself caring progressively less and less.  I’ll periodically check the scores and standings, but beyond that, meh.  Maybe that’s because I’m a Leaf fan.  I don’t know why what he was saying was pissing me off, but it was.  And I argued.

And suddenly, I said to myself, “Oh!  I’m angry!”  As if I was caught by surprise. I was arguing so heatedly over something that was absolutely meaningless. I had become irrational, I was yelling.  I had to say to my dad, “I need to end this right now.  I can’t argue anymore.”  It was ridiculous.  But I didn’t realize how ridiculous I was being, until I saw and said to myself, “Oh, I’m angry.”  Anger had taken control of me, and whisked me away.

In our scripture reading for today we read the first story in Mark about an exorcism, about casting out a spirit that had taken control of man.  Jesus is teaching in the synagogue, when a man, possessed by an unclean spirit, approaches him.  Such a man would likely not have been welcome in the synagogue, or the town for that matter.  He was unclean, and very likely there would have been fear of him, or of being infected by him.  Jesus, however, is unwilling to allow this man to be cast aside to the margins.  Rather than sending the man away, the way the rest of the world would have and probably did, Jesus heals him.  People are in awe of this power, and quickly, word begins to spread beyond the town about this man, this teacher, this healer.

Something really surprising happens in this story that today’s readers may not catch.  The words from the man with the unclean spirit carry an extra element of danger that we might not pick up on.  “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” the man cries out, “I know who you are, the Holy One of God!”  Whatever is possessing the man, whatever controls his body, knows exactly who it is confronting, and the unclean spirit names him.  “Jesus of Nazareth” it says, “I know who you are, the Holy One of God!”

During the time of Jesus, it was believed that knowing the true name of someone gave you power over them.  The unclean spirit that is controlling the man knows the name of Jesus.  It is so obvious to the unclean spirit who it is facing, it recognizes Christ instantly and clearly states it. 

And it has absolutely no effect. 

This is noted a few times in Mark.  Immediately after this story, it describes Jesus casting out demons that he would not let speak because “the knew him.”  Whether this is to protect his identity from the public is unclear.  In fact this secrecy is another common theme of Mark, Jesus seems determined not to let too many people know he is the Messiah.  But again, in chapter five of Mark, a demon once again states Jesus’ name and identity, and it holds no power over him.  But when Jesus demands the name of the demon, it immediately speaks, saying “I am Legion” and Jesus casts it out.

Knowing and naming those demons, knowing and naming the spirits, knowing and naming what dwells within is a tremendously powerful tool.  And in this story, we see Christ embody his authority, calling those demons, calling those unclean spirits out into the light.  Though he is known by whatever dwells within, though they have seen into his very soul, his very being, they have no power over him.  And when they try to control him, he simply brings them out into the light. And everyone is in awe.

There are so many things in this world, that we hide from.  So many things that we never talk about, that we may never even admit to ourselves.  My earlier story was not a criticism of anger.  Anger can be a good thing.  Anger can be an energizing, positive force for change in the world.  Martin Luther King Jr. was angry, and thank God that he was.  Paul said in his letter to the Ephesians, “Be angry, and do not sin.”  There is nothing wrong with anger in itself.  The danger comes when it goes unrecognized.  When we do not know its name is when it has power over us.

This goes for so many of our emotions.  Fear is another big one that can control us if we do not know its presence.  Fear in itself need not be a bad thing.  If there is a tiger running at me, fear is a good thing.  Not having fear at that moment is stupid.  But fear can also creep into our very being and take control of all things.  I have to watch myself, I have a fear of conflict, and so I need to be very conscious of checking myself, that in certain situations it is not that fear driving me.  We all have fears that go unknown and unnamed, and it is then that they become dangerous.

This goes beyond simple emotions.  Our desires as well can be viewed the same way.  What about sexual attraction or romantic desire?  Are those bad things?  Of course not!  They’re awesome.  One should not feel bad about being attracted to someone.  We can’t pick and choose who we think is sexy.  It just happens. If we see it, if we admit it to ourselves we can take appropriate measures, we can say to ourselves “Uh oh, better be careful around her, or him.”  Or we can say to ourselves, “Yeah! This is a good thing, and I’m pretty happy about it.”  It is when we cannot admit it to ourselves, when we cannot name it, when we bury it because for some reason we feel it is wrong; it is then that we begin to cross boundaries that need to be checked.  The desire controls and corrupts from the inside.

Needs become addictions when they go unnamed.  There is a reason that someone must admit they have a problem before an addiction can be overcome.  They have to name it, name that demon and call it into the light.

Even at a social level these demons take effect.  We call them taboos.  Those topics that are so difficult to bring up, so they remain hushed whispers.  I’ve had it said to me by a number of different people that at the funeral on Thursday, when I first said the word “suicide” there was an inaudible intake of breath.  It was the elephant in the room, the unspoken word, the unnamed presence.  Once it was named however, it lost all its power. 

We need to be talking about these things.  Especially in church.  This should be a place where it is safe to talk about those taboo issues, and yet ironically throughout history we have been the purveyor silence.  We should be talking about suicide, we should be talking about mental illness, depression, addiction and alcoholism.  They should not be whispered topics of conversation we say under our breath.  We should be talking about domestic violence and abuse because it happens.  In this community, I promise you it happens.  Probably by someone you know and love to someone you know and love.  We should be talking about sex, and not just in the old churchy way about why it can be dangerous, but also about why it can be awesome.  There, if that doesn’t get you coming to church anticipating that sermon, I don’t what will.

This is the power of Christ, to bring things out into the light.  This is the authority of Jesus, he didn’t cast off all those taboos, he dwelt among them, casting love and compassion onto all of them.  We are an incarnational faith, we believe God existed and continues to exist here in the world.  My appreciation of this has grown tremendously over the last little while.  If God is in this world, then that is where the Church should be.  If Christ cast light upon, taught to embrace, and named all those powers which take control of us, then so should the church.  Because if not even the church can have those conversations in healthy, life giving ways, then who can?

Sermon for January 22, 2012 - Following

The Scripture reading for this sermon is Mark 1:14-20

Why are we Christian?  Why do we come to church once a week on Sunday mornings?  Do we come because we just like it?  Do we come because we’ve always come?  Do we come because it is a good place to socialize?  Why are we here?

Following last night’s events I went back to my office and typed a lot.  I didn’t know what to do with my sermon.  So I would write, then cut, then paste, then erase, then write some more, then lie down on the floor, then pace, then write some more.  Rarely have I felt so openly helpless, so ill-equipped in my ministry than I did as I sat staring at a computer screen last night.  Where was my faith in the midst of all this?

At a time like this, the rubber meets the road.  So why are we here?

In our Gospel reading for today we read a truly ridiculous story.  Possibly one of the most outlandish stories in all of the bible.  And it isn’t about a healing.  It isn’t about someone walking on water.  It isn’t about God siding with one army over another.  It isn’t even about the glories of creation or re-creation.  And yet it is one of the most miraculous stories I have read.

It’s about Jesus saying to a few people, “Hey, come and follow me.”  And do you know what?  They do.  Immediately.  Without thought.  They drop their very livelihoods, they leave their families, their possessions, and they follow.  In all honesty, there are no stories in all of scripture that I find half so terrifying as this one.

Think about it.  This is scary.  How many of us, myself included, would walk away from our jobs, would leave our possessions, would abandon our families if Jesus asked us to?  Don’t worry, I don’t think Jesus is asking us to.  But, what did these four disciples encounter? To be honest, though it scares me, I marvel at it as well.  What did they experience in Christ?  What was it that just made them drop everything?  Immediately?

Maybe the question is not, “Why are we Christian?”, maybe the question is more basic than that entirely, “What does it mean to be Christian?”  “What does it mean to cast down our nets and follow Christ?”

It is so easy to drop frivolous words around this story.  Words like, “Oh they found Christ.”  But what do we even mean by that?  “Oh, they accepted Jesus.”  Really?  So what does that mean?

These days words like that imply that we have some sort of choice in the matter.  Some sort of agency in accepting Christ.  We have turned it into a rational head game.  Do this, that, and the other thing and you will be a follower of Jesus.  Believe this, that, and the other thing and you accept Christ.  (Act it out)…  Oh, ok.  Now I guess I’m a Christian.

But look at these four disciples.  They had absolutely no control over what they were doing.  The bible is very clear that they immediately followed Jesus.  They didn’t stop to think about whether or not they should, whether it was a good idea or a bad idea.  They didn’t pause and consider the ramifications of their actions.  They just went. 

So what was it that swept them up?  What took their control away?

My own answer is simple.  They experienced God, they experienced the divine, they experienced holiness, whatever you want to call it when they met Jesus.  Richard Rohr writes that “Anyone who has any authentic inner experience knows God is only beauty, mercy and total embrace.”  To be wrapped up in total embrace, how could they not be swept away?  Once you’ve felt that, once you’ve known that, is there any choice?

More and more I’m coming to the realization that everything about our faith comes down to grace.  That’s all there is, that is all that matters.  Grace! Grace! Grace!  The idea that God’s love comes first.  That all things are created out of love and dwell within that love.  That God’s love is freely and adoringly given.  That there is absolutely nothing we can do to earn that love.  No hoop to jump through, no ritual to perform, no set of beliefs to have.  Alternatively there is absolutely nothing we can do to lose that love, no sin so great, no belief so outlandish.

As Christians we see that Grace embodied in the self giving love of Jesus.  No wonder these disciples dropped everything.  They encountered and knew divine love, and it blew them away.  They were absolutely taken by it!  Because this is so foreign to us, we try to take control of it.  We have created systems that tell us what we need to do in the world or believe about Jesus in order to receive it.  But we can’t control it.  God’s love comes first.

 “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”  This is Paul, and I think it is the Gospel, it is Grace, in the most eloquent language I’ve ever read.  NOTHING can separate us from the love of God.

I think it is important for all of us to know that.

But here’s the question, how many of us know that for ourselves?  It is, in many ways, relatively easy to think it about other.  But, when we’re well and truly honest with ourselves, how many of us think, “My value comes from God’s love for me.  And God’s love is enough.”

That is the basis of all things.  That is where the rubber meets the road.  If we don’t have that, if our value comes from somewhere, something, or someone beyond ourselves, it is that somewhere, something, or someone that we will follow.  If the fishermen saw their value as being the work that they did, they would have never left their boats.  If the fishermen saw their value as what they possessed, they would never have dropped their nets.  If the fishermen saw their own value as being their families, they would never have gone.  The bible is not saying any of these are bad.  The bible is simply saying, our value does not come from them.

This is the most basic element of our faith.  Our value comes simply from God’s love.  Our role as Christians is to long to experience that for ourselves and for the world around us.  That is the basis upon which all things must grow.  I wish I could say what needs to be done to experience that.  But I can’t.  That’s not the way it works.  However, if anyone wants to know that, if anyone longs for that.  Talk to me.   I would love to explore with you, as I explore for myself.  Because God’s love is present, it resides deep within and around us.  We’re invited to know it and to share it.