Sunday, December 2, 2012

The Season Among Seasons


The Season Among Seasons

Luke 21:25-26

25 ‘There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. 26People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. 27Then they will see “the Son of Man coming in a cloud” with power and great glory. 28Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. 29 Then he told them a parable: ‘Look at the fig tree and all the trees;30as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. 31So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. 32Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.33Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
34 ‘Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, 35like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. 36Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.’

It is so hard to believe it’s been 5 years this week. I remember everything from that December 7th Friday night—I wasn’t feeling very well, so I got home from our annual Montreat meeting and Dead Day brunch, pulled my hair into a ponytail and put on some big, comfy sweats and slippers. I turned off my lights and turned on the ones from my Christmas tree, sat down on my red couch with some chicken soup, covered up in a warm blanket, and turned on my favorite show, “Friday Night Lights.” About halfway through the show, my cell phone rang. I’m not sure that I would’ve answered it for just anyone, but my screen read that my friend Ruth was calling, so I said, “Hey, lady! What’s up?” But it wasn’t her. It was a male voice, the minister of First Church in Athens, a voice calling with the worst news imaginable, saying something that I never wanted to hear, something that pray I never hear again. “Ruth wanted me to call you and tell you that Drew committed suicide tonight.” I heard the words, but didn’t quite understand them. What? What? It had to be a dream, right?
My friend Drew, our friend Drew, one of our former students, a sweet, kind, shy, generous young man, a new husband to Ruth for only 3 weeks, my Auburn fan partner in crime, someone who loved this church so much, one of the students on the search committee that called me to this church, a child of God with so much potential to do good in this crazy world, had taken his life. I heard the words that he was gone, called Frank to tell him and drove to Lisa’s house to tell her, and the three of us drove to the church--still in utter disbelief--to tell our students. I heard the words, said them even, but they were so unbelievable and unfathomable that I couldn’t wrap my head around them. I so wanted it to be a dream, to wake up a few days later and discover that none of it had happened. But it wasn’t. Somehow, I made it through—we all made it through—the next few days. When I read Scripture at his funeral, the same passage I had read just three weeks earlier at Ruth and Drew’s wedding, I had to hold on to the sides of the pulpit, praying that my knees wouldn’t buckle under me as I saw the casket  in front of me. Drew’s death sent ripples through the lives of the ones who loved him so, still love him so. You know, I don’t really remember much from that Advent and Christmas season because I tried to block it out just so I could breathe, but I do know that this season has been tough ever since.
Maybe it’s the geeky preacher’s kid in me, but I have always loved the Advent and Christmas season. Ever since I was a little girl, it has been a season of wonder as I watched Christmas lights, a season of joy as I played with the manger scene my grandmother made, the one that she gave to me when I was ordained. It has always been a season of happiness as I bought and made gifts for friends, a season of joy as I sang carols and listened to Scripture. But since that night 5 years ago, I have struggled with the season. It has since been a season of wondering what could have been, what should have been—a season of struggle, of melancholy, of sadness.
All of us in this room are in different seasons of life as we gather today. For some of us, this is indeed a season of sadness, of mourning. There has been a lot of loss among so many of us in this room over the past year. I look into your faces and know that many of you are mourning the loss of the father or mother who gave you life; mourning the loss of a grandparent who kissed you until you smothered; mourning the loss of a partner who stood by your side in the best and toughest of times; mourning the loss of a friend gone too early.
For many of us, this is a season of joy—the joy of waiting for loved ones to come or planning a trip to go and be with them; the joy of watching the children in your lives as they light up when they see Christmas lights or sit in Santa’s lap or sings precious songs; the joy of cooking and baking to fill up our loved ones; the joy of giving something wonderful to those we love the most in this world.
This is a season of loneliness for many of us in this room, whether it is the loneliness of spending that first holiday missing a loved one; the loneliness of having a family far away; the loneliness of receiving an invitation to a party that includes a guest, but knowing that you don’t have a guest to bring; the loneliness of never receiving an invitation at all.
We are in a season of busyness—the busyness of finishing up tests and papers and finals; the busyness of reading them and turning grades in. This season of busyness comes in the form of rushing around and buying and baking and cleaning and decorating; in the form of Christmas programs and caroling and packing and wrapping.
And for all of us, for our church family, this is certainly a season of worry, of anxiety, of the uncertainty that comes with transition. As Frank and Carole retire from their calling of ministry to their calling as wonderful, doting, and loving grandparents, we wait, we wonder, we worry. We are in a season of anxiety—anxious to know what is coming next, anxious about the work we will have to do together, anxious and excited to see how the Spirit will work within us, anxious and excited to know who God is calling us to be, who God is calling to be with us next. 

We have all come into this room, this sanctuary today, finding ourselves in the midst of one of these seasons, if not several or even all of them, if not more. But things are different, things new today as we gather. There are beautiful wreaths on the doors and a Chrismon tree with gorgeous ornaments and colors and lights. The windows are adorned with greenery and hurricane lights and pictures that tell the story. The paraments are bright with the color purple, the poinsettias a bright red, and we have a new wreath full of candles to light our way. And the table has been set for each of us at the foot of the cross.

The season of Advent is here, friends. It is the season among all of the other seasons, the season that bursts into the seasons of our lives whether we are ready for it or not, whether we have been yearning desperately for it to get here. The Advent season bursts into our seasons of busyness and loneliness, our seasons of hope and anxiety, our seasons of joy and sadness. This Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives and says to us, “’Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly…’”
The Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives that are weighing us down. It bursts in to bring us great news, news of hope, news of light. It bursts into the others seasons of our lives to share the greatest news that a little child is being born again into our midst. The Advent season bursts in as we sing a prayer: “Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free; from our fears and sins release us, let us find out rest in Thee. Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art. Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.”
I love that we have begun this day by just lighting one candle, that we will light a new one each time we gather during this Advent season. The light will build and grow each week as we celebrate the coming of  a little babe, our Christ, our Redeemer--the coming of light, hope, joy, and peace into our world. The light that Christ brings is so much better, so much brighter than the brightest Christmas lights we could ever see. The light of this season of Christ will continue to grow as we wait, as we yearn, as we wonder.
The light helps us know the story. It reflects what this season is all about, this Advent season that bursts into our midst, into our seasons of happiness and busyness, or anxiety and wonder, of joy and sorrow, to help us know and help us share the best news of all—that Jesus is breaking in, that he is shining his light so brightly for all of us, that he is being born into our world once again to be with us, to teach us, to heal us, to save us. Thanks be to God.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

"Blind"

They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way. 

Mark 10:46-52

"Blind"

This story of Bartimaeus, so often called Blind Bartimaeus by scholars and readers alike, is a story about many things—about a man who is desperately sick and sad and poor and left out and lonely, a story about a Savior who hears him and heals him. It is a story about being blind—both physically blind like Bartimaeus, a story about being figuratively blind, like so many of the rest of us. This story about Blind Bartimaeus is story of hope, a story of humility, a story of challenge for all of us who read and hear it. It is ultimately a story of restoration, restoration from a Savior who is walking his way towards his death on the cross.

Jesus and the disciples are leaving Jericho, winding their way towards the Palm Sunday processional waiting for them, when they pass by a man on the street. We aren’t told much about Bartimaeus, just that he is a blind beggar, but that description tells us enough. It is pretty safe for us to assume that he is lonely and outcast and poor, judged harshly because of his blindness. During this day and time, it is assumed that any physical ailment is a punishment for sin, and so Bartimaeus is not just seen, but judged as a sinner, someone unworthy of time, help, or love. Bartimaeus is sitting by the side of the road, more than likely by himself. He can’t see what is coming his way, but he senses that something great, something very important, is about to happen. Jesus is on his way—by this time, stories about Jesus and his healing have spread, and when Bartimaeus hears that it is indeed Jesus who is coming his way, he rightly senses that this is his chance for healing, for restoration. “Jesus, Son of David,” he says, “have mercy on me!” “Shut it, Bartimaeus,” you can hear the others who have gathered around them whispering. But he ignores them, knowing this is his chance, pleading again, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus is running short on time and has every right to keep on walking through Jericho, but he doesn’t. He hears those words—“have mercy on me”—and stops, stops himself, stops everyone around him, and calls Bartimaeus to come to him.

Without skipping a beat, Bartimaeus throws off his cloak and makes his way to Jesus. “What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks, as rhetorical question as has ever been asked. Jesus knows that Bartimaeus needs healing, needs love, needs restoration, but Jesus wants to hear it straight from him, wants to hear his faith, wants to hear his trust, his hope. “My teacher, let me see again,” the answer comes. “Let me see.”

“What do you want me to do for you?” I think this part of the story is fascinating, especially when compared to our Gospel story from last week. Last week, we heard from James and John, heard from them immediately after Jesus had predicted his death and resurrection for a third time. But instead of being true disciples and being concerned about walking with Jesus through this last part of his life, James and John are thinking only about themselves. With more boldness and stupidity than we could ever imagine, John and James say to Jesus, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you. Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” Instead of looking out for their friend, their Christ, their Savior, James and John are looking out for themselves, their legacy, their glory. Jesus rightly puts them in their place—“whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” These words echo Jesus’ words from chapter 9: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and 
servant of all.”

The stories are so different here, the questions so different. John and James ask, demand really, for Jesus to do something for them—not something for their healing, but something instead for their glory. We want you to do for us whatever we ask of you. Their faith is shallow and childish and incomplete. They are figuratively blind—blinded by their ambition and need and desire. They demand to be first, not caring or thinking a bit about the last, the ones who need help the most. Which brings us to Bartimaeus. He is certainly the last, certainly the least, certainly the lost. Physically blind, not by choice or sin or circumstance, Bartimaeus comes to Jesus as well, but reaches out to him in deep faith and desperate hope. His faith is hopeful and deep and impeccable. Jesus knows that he is desperate for healing, desperate for restoration, desperate not to be last and least anymore. The demand of “Jesus, do this for us” turns into the question of “What can I do for you?” The reply is simple: “My teacher, let me see again.” And the teacher lets him see, heals blind Bartimaeus right there on the spot, brings him to new sight and new life.

You know, I think that is pretty tempting for us to stop here at this good news, this news of restoration, of sight for the blind. Jesus has healed this man, made him whole, brought him from being a nobody to being someone, called him from a life of lying prostrate on the street to standing on his own two feet, brought him from a life of desperation to a life of fullness. Jesus has done so, so much for Bartimaeus, and it truly is wonderful news. And he does the same for each of us. It’s so very tempting for this preacher to stop here at this wonderful, happy, fulfilling news and let us all go home with warm fuzzies in our hearts.

But there is more to the story. I have read this story so many times, heard many sermons on it—but something new jumped out to me this time. Bartimaeus does indeed regain his sight, but something more happens at the very end, something heard in the very last few words. Bartimaeus follows Jesus on the way. He follows him on the way. On the way to Jerusalem for the triumphal entry, on the way to Golgotha for the horrific ending.

Think about James and John one more time. Think about Bartimaeus one more time—the difference between them and their stories. John and James have followed Jesus from the very beginning of his ministry. Although it must have been hard for them to leave their families and livelihoods behind to follow Jesus in such an uncertain way and time, these disciples didn’t really know what they were walking in to. They hadn’t yet seen the full picture of what was going to happen; they walked into this new and fascinating and different life hopeful for something great, hopeful for an adventure, hopeful for a new way of life. And now, at the end, even though they have heard the predictions, they are still hopeful, not really understanding what these predictions mean, hoping that everything they have left behind and done in Jesus’ name means glory for them.

But Bartimaeus is different. After he is healed, after the blindness falls from his eyes, even though he has also heard the predictions about what will happen to the teacher, he still decides to follow. He could very easily and simply say, “Hey, thanks teacher. I am truly thankful for everything you have done. Now I’m gonna go home and hang out.” But he doesn’t. He has a choice of whether to simply be thankful or to be thankful and live thankfully. And he chooses the latter. He becomes one of them—a disciple, a follower. So many of them have followed Jesus from the very beginning, not truly understanding how hard it will be along the way, all the way to the end. But Bartimaeus chooses to follow Jesus almost at the very end of his life, a very bold and courageous and faithful move. He has heard the predictions. He has to know that following will not be easy, that it will be fraught with danger and peril and really hard stuff along the way. He has to know, especially now that he is no longer blind, that the stuff he will see along the way to the cross will be awful and ugly and quite gruesome. But Bartimaeus follows anyway—he has been faithful from the beginning and will be faithful until the end, all the way to the new beginning of resurrection. The lost one has been found. The one with the least has been given the most. The one who was blind now sees—sees more clearly than almost anyone else following Christ.

And that is our choice, as well. In so many different ways, Jesus takes away the things that blind us, blind us from how he tells us to live, who he calls us to be. If we truly open ourselves up to listen to what Jesus says to each of us, our lives are bound to change. We are bound to be challenged about how we are living, about the stuff we have, about how we spend our time each and every day, about how we treat each person we meet, about how we forgive and love in a world that tells us to only look our for ourselves and our glory. This is the challenge that James and John had, the challenge that even blind Bartimaeus had, the challenge that we all have.  As hard as it can be, Jesus changes things for us—he pulls the blinders away from each of us and says, “OK. Now you have to see the world how it is. You can go back to your old way of life and ignore all of the pain and the hurt, all of the ways you can help, all of the opportunity around you to live and love. You can shut down if you wish. Or you can follow. It’s true that the following won’t always be easy or pretty or fun, but it is life giving, life altering, life sustaining.”

I love how Barbara Brown Taylor, a professor at Columbia Theological Seminary, puts it:

How will you have it? You can stay where you are. You can sit in your familiar dark, where all of the edges are rounded off so that you will not hurt yourself, where you need only concern yourself with what is within your reach...No sense getting your hopes up; no sense thinking of yourself as a person who might see. Stay with what you know. Or you can cry out, spring up, and ask for your heart’s desire. Damn the torpedoes and good riddance to caution, to propriety, to the fear that keeps you in the dark. Take heart! Get up, he is calling you! Are you willing to see or not? And if you are willing, are you willing to see everything there is, the good along with the awful, the lovely along with the monstrous—in yourself, in everyone you meet, in the world? Are you willing to bruise your shins…to bruise your heart? Then go your way, because your faith has made you well.

I love that! Go, Jesus says. Go on your way, because your faith has made you well. Whether we have been following from the very beginning or are just discovering and following now at the very end, we are called to go as faithful people—to see and follow and go along the way to Jerusalem, to the cross, to the resurrection and restoration that awaits each one of us. Go. Amen.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

A Prayer for Children

Mark 9:30-37

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him. Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest.He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them,“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”



You know, it really all seems so petty, these inane arguments that the disciples always seem to have among themselves. They have been following Jesus for quite a bit now, listening to him, watching him, asking him, simply being with him. After all of this time, how do they seriously not get it, seriously not understand? He has been telling them about the kingdom, about what is waiting out there for them, but they just completely ignore it time and time again. You would think they would be talking about Jesus’ message of salvation, of love, of grace for all, but instead they are in la-la land, arguing about who among them is Jesus’ favorite, the greatest, the best. After all of this time, they are still completely oblivious to what Jesus has been doing in their lives. Instead of doing kingdom work, they are doing the work of the world—wondering who is the greatest

We wonder why they don’t get it. We ask why. But when it really comes down to it, don’t we do the exact same thing? Don’t we find ourselves arguing in petty, endless, inane ways? Don’t we belittle and compare and miss the point, just like the disciples did? We argue among ourselves about who is the greatest, who is the best. We argue and bicker, especially in this seemingly endless political season, about who is best equipped to lead, best able to cure our ills. We argue among ourselves about who has the best education, the longest experience, the most friends, who amassed the most stuff, who has made the most money. In so many ways, these are our measures of greatness. Who is the greatest, we also ask? We do the same thing.

We are just alike, the disciples from so long ago, and all of us today. We strive for the greatness of the world, and in doing so, fail to recognize and celebrate the message of Christ’s kingdom. We fight for the things that are finite, the things we can never take with us. We argue about the silliest things, completely ignoring what Jesus tells us to do and who Jesus calls us to be. And we do all of this somehow thinking that Jesus will never know what we are whispering to each other behind his back, trying to figure out who is the greatest among us. But he does know. He always does. And he is always ready to ask, “What were you arguing about along the way?”

Jesus is always ready to teach us once again, to turn things upside down, in his own topsy-turvy way; always ready to turn our long lasting arguments and long held notions on their head. You might waste your time whispering and arguing about who is the greatest, but my kingdom is about something else, Jesus says. You ask about who is the greatest, but in my kingdom, “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all.” And then he takes a sweet child in his arms and continues: “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” 

You see, in this biblical world, in this time, children are certainly the least of these; they are property, the lowest of the low, persons who really aren’t yet persons, those who are left out of the margins , those who are really never taken into consideration, possessions, really. These babies are really what the kingdom is about, Jesus says.



You are arguing about who among you is the greatest, but instead I give you the least of these, the least of these who are really set to inherit the kingdom. These children, the ones whom you would never really take into consideration for your arguments about who is the greatest, these are the ones to whom the kingdom belongs. These are the ones that I have lived for, the ones for whom I will die, Jesus tells them. 

I love that Jesus speaks of children when talking about the kingdom, and I see his point in a couple of different ways here. When I think about the child in this passage, I think about the sweet, funny, smart, innocent kids I was able to spend last weekend with. I think about my niece and her friend who came to my house for her 11th birthday spend the night party—how we did Auburn up in a few short hours, eating ice cream at Toomer’s, cheering with the band at the pep rally, buying out Claire’s jewelry store at the mall the way in the way that any 11 year old girl should, pigging out on way too much cheese dip at dinner, getting our hands dirty and sticky making a birthday cake, spending way too much money on barely drunk drinks and melty ice cream at the football game—giggling and smiling all along the way. I think about all of the kids who squealed at Toomer’s Corner after the game. As the adults fretted and worried about our football team who had barely won, the kids didn’t have a care in the world. All that worried them was grabbing the nearest roll of toilet paper, how high up they could get it in the trees. I think about last Sunday and the beautiful three year olds here, about Branson and Ella and Sarah Caroline and Noah and Madelyn, about how they stood up so proudly to get their Bibles, about how that was the most important thing in the world to them, about how one of them squealed, “I want my Bible!” 

In a lot of ways, I think this is what the kingdom of God is all about. I think we are called to come to Christ with open arms, with child-like wonder and awe, as children who giggle loudly instead of being weighed down by the adult pressures and expectations of the world, as children who never want to miss a thing in this world, as children who don’t yet know prejudice and certainly don’t let it get in their way, as children who would rather get a Bible over anything else in the world. You know, I think it probably made Jesus pretty happy to hear someone yell, “I want my Bible!” I think we are called to be the faithful ones who don’t let the expectations of the world, the needs and desires of the world, the petty arguments about who is the greatest, get in our way of serving our Lord.

But I also think this passage tells us something about how Jesus reaches out to the least of these in the world, about how he stands in solidarity with the children of the world who are never given a second thought, the ones who struggle to know where their next meal is coming from, the ones who are abandoned and sad and lonely and know way too much about the brokenness of the world at way too early an age. I think about the children in Atlanta whom we met on our mission trips there—the ones who were standing in lines for food at homeless shelters, whose clothes were torn and ripped, the ones who already had dark circles under their eyes from malnutrition, lack of sleep, sadness. I think about the kids in our own community who are hidden from the happiness of pep rallies and tree rolling because their parents are working a 3rd job just to make ends meet and have no time for frivolous celebration. I think about some of the beautiful children we met in Haiti this past May—about Carline, a young woman who was hit by a car that damaged her physically and mentally, about how she was left on the streets of Port-au-Prince to die, probably sexually assaulted and used before she was finally discovered and taken to Wings of Hope for some healing. I think about Franc, whose body is so riddled with disease that he spends most of his days lying on his stomach on the porch of Wings, waiting for some to feed him and talk to him and play ball with him. I think about the sweet baby I held for three solid hours at the babies’ hospital, about how she laid on my chest trying to sleep, about how I could feel the congestion in her chest against mine every time she tried to take a breath, about how I tried to put her down only to hear her cry simply because she wanted to be held, about how she might not be able to get the medicine she needs although she could get it at the drop of a hat here in the states. These are the ones with whom Jesus walks in solidarity and grace and love; the ones whom Jesus welcomes, and calls us to do the same. These are the ones to whom the kingdom of God belongs.


Whoever welcomes these children, Jesus says, welcomes God into their midst. The kingdom is not about our inane arguments and the petty things that we so often let get in our way. It is about those whom we welcome and love in God’s name. The kingdom isn’t about how much stuff we can get, how much money we make, and it certainly isn’t about how great we think we are. It is not about the first and the greatest, but the least and last. The kingdom isn’t about how great we think we are, but it is instead about how much of a servant we are. The kingdom is about how we reach out to God with the wonder of a child, about how we squeal with delight, about how we live this life God has given us to its fullest. The kingdom of God is about a Lord who stands with the least of these on the margins, about how a Lord who walks and welcomes the most vulnerable, about a Lord who welcomes and loves and turns our expectations and beliefs and long-held notions upside down. “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all . . .Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” Thanks be to God.

Our prayer today is a lovely poem written by Ina Hughes in her book “A Prayer for Children.” It is so important for us to hear, especially as we hear about the children who are welcomed in Christ’s name. Listen again for a word from God:

We pray for children 
Who put chocolate fingers everywhere, 
Who like to be tickled, 
Who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants, 
Who sneak Popsicles before supper, 
Who erase holes in math workbooks, 
Who can never find their shoes. 

And we pray for those 
Who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire, 
Who can't bound down the street in new sneakers, 
Who never "played tag,," 
Who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead  in, 
Who never go to the circus, 
Who live in an X-rated world. 

We pray for children 
Who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions, 
Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish, 
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money, 
Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink, 
Who slurp their soup. 

And we pray for those 
Who never get dessert, 
Who have no safe blanket to drag behind them, 
Who can't find any bread to steal, 
Who don't have any rooms to clean up, 
Whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser, 
Whose monsters are real. 

We pray for children 
Who spend all their allowance before Tuesday, 
Who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food, 
Who like ghost stories, 
Who shove dirty clothes under the bed, 
Who get visits from the tooth fairy, 
Who don't like to be kissed in front of the car pool, 
Who squirm in church and scream on the phone, 
Whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry. 

And we pray for those 
Whose nightmares come in the daytime, 
Who will eat anything, 
Who have never seen a dentist, 
Who are never spoiled by anyone, 
Who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep, 
Who live and move, but have no being. 

We pray for children 
Who want to be carried 
And for those who must, 
For those we never give up on 
And for those who never get a second chance, 
For those we smother. 
And for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind 
enough to offer it. 

We pray for children. Amen. 


Monday, August 13, 2012

You Did It to Me

Matthew 25: 31-40

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’


“Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” You did it to me, Jesus said, just as he was about to journey toward the cross, just as his life was about to come to an end. “Just as you did it to the least of these, these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.” These were the most important words that Jesus could have used at the end of his life, this teaching that summed up his actions throughout his life. Jesus spent his ministry reaching out to those who needed help the most, love the most, reality checks the most, inspiration the most, grace the most. Jesus fed the hungry and gave drink to the thirsty; he healed those who had been struggling with illness, some for decades at a time. Jesus called people out for being judgmental, judgmental to the point that they were completely ignoring others in need. He welcomed people to his table, sinner and saints alike, and everyone in between. Jesus comforted those who mourned and forgave those who sinned; he preached about how we are called to give all that we have and all that we are to help our neighbor. Jesus baptized and welcomed and forgave and fed and healed—and then gave us this final message: “I have shown you. I have lived it out for you. And now it’s your turn to do the same. Just as you do it for your sisters and brothers, all who are members of my family, you do the same to me.”

These words echoed in my brain and in my heart the whole time we were in Haiti this past May--they came to life for me, came to life through the love of all the folks we met; came to life through the very raw and tough experiences we shared; came to life as we, most of us for the very first time, saw the poverty and devastation and illness that we could never have imagined; came to life as we were graced with complete hospitality; came to life as our faith was challenged and questioned and deepened.

As our plane landed on the runway in Port-au-Prince, my colleague from Alabama, James, and I shared a look together—a look that shared our common relief that we were finally taking this trip we had dreamed about for 2 years; a look that shared our common “Oh crap. We are both scared to death because we have no clue what’s about to happen” feeling. We spent the next 2 crazy hours, 2 of the craziest of my life, making our way through the insane airport, meeting men who were begging to take our bags for just a few dollars, finding our driver, packing into vans and watching our luggage take a different route with a  tap-tap driver, getting car sick driving through the pot-hole and rubble-filled streets of Port-au-Prince, seeing people on every part of the street selling goods because there was no other work to be found, ingesting diesel fumes, and sweating from the kind of heat few of us had ever experienced. It is an understatement to say that we were all a bit in shock, overwhelmed by it all, overwhelmed by the beauty and poverty we saw in the same seconds, overwhelmed by the suddenness and craziness of it all.

We wound our way up the mountain road and finally made our way to Wings of Hope, one of the homes of the St. Joseph Family. As we pulled up the steep driveway, we were greeted with the best greeting ever. One of the Wings boys, a young man living with severe autism, greeted every single 17 one of us with the biggest hug imaginable. I think he sensed that we were overwhelmed and scared, tired and nervous. He had never met us in his life, but he sensed that we were in need of grace and welcome and reached out to us. We weren’t strangers to him, but sisters and brothers in need of a warm welcome. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

Over the next two days, we spent our time with the Wings kids, some of whom live with Cerebral Palsy, others with Down’s, others with severe autism. One young woman was even found wondering the streets of Port-au-Prince and was brought to Wings with the report that she had been brain damaged in a car accident, sexually abused by folks who knew they could take advantage of her, left for dead on the streets of Port-au-Prince. Some of the kids live with problems that will never be diagnosed. It was amazing to see our college students hanging out with these kids—the students played catch with them and brushed their hair, strolled with them in their wheelchairs and changed their diapers, helped them down their cryptic wheelchair ramp and danced with them, fed them 2 meals of rice and beans a day. The college folks helped lift the kids onto horses for therapy and lifted them out of their wheelchairs into vans with no handicapped accessability to drive them to lunch at the Baptist Mission. They picked them up when they couldn’t walk just so they could experience the thrill of dancing at our Friday praise party. The students smiled with absolute joy as they helped these beautiful children of God to smile and play and dance and sing. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

We met beautiful Josephine, a 12-year-old with a smile as big as this room, a beautiful young woman with Cerebral Palsy. Somehow, in the midst of this third world country, she had learned to speak 3 languages—Creole, French, and English. She would take us by the hand, tell us to sit down in front of her, and she would brush our hair. She translated for us, helping us understand what the nurses were trying to tell us to do, helping us understand what the kids beside her needed. Josephine squealed with delight when the students picked her up to dance for the party. She taught us so much and helped us feel comfortable and showed us such absolute joy. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

And then there was Steve. Steve loved every single one of us, and we loved him. We loved to watch him play, smile, and dance. He loved to take us by the hand and lead us right into the middle of the action, and he never wanted to miss a thing. It was an absolute holy moment to see him grab the hand of a college student, a young man who was mourning the loss of his dad only two weeks earlier, a young man with the big gaping wound of heartbreak—Steve grabbed his hand and pulled him into the circle to sing and dance and play and feel the joy that had been missing in his life for so many months. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

As we made our way from the mountains down to the St. Joseph’s Home in Port-au-Prince, the folks at the home were waiting on us with hugs and a glass of water. They welcomed us with great hospitality, helping us get our bags in, offering us a place to sit and rest, inviting us to their nightly affirmations, where they thanked us for being there, inviting us into the stories of their lives. Bill, a boy who grew up at the St. Joseph’s Home and is now the manager, shared his life with us as he told us his story. He was given as a child to a family friend when his mother couldn’t take care of him—at least she thought she was giving him to a friend. The woman used Bill as a slave until he was finally turned over to the orphanage many years later. He had such a tough life, but he was welcomed into the home with open arms. Bill stood on the top of the home when the earthquake hit, and he tumbled as the home did, suffering a broken back and lots of internal injuries. Bill has so many reasons to be bitter and angry, but he loves God more than ever before. And he welcomed us, strangers who were soon to become friends, into the home just as he had been welcomed so many years before. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

Over our last 2 days in Haiti, we met some phenomenal brothers and sisters—Catholic friends who work with the world’s poorest people for Mother Teresa’s Sisters and Brothers Charities. They are nurses and doctors and volunteers who work with some of the poorest children, some who suffer from incurable disease, others who are close to death with something that we be so easily curable here in the States with just one simple prescription. They work with teenagers and adults who are suffering from yellow fever and TB and full-blown AIDS. Their surroundings are meager at best, no air conditioning or screens to keep flies out, very small amounts of medicine, wards with 20 beds each. They welcomed us in not with smiles or instructions, but simply by motioning to beds and expecting us to jump in feet first—they didn’t need to spend their time with us, but instead spend their time with those who truly needed it. I have never been as proud of anyone as I was of our students, who were scared to death about what they were seeing, nervous that they had one pair of plastic gloves to go around, sickened by the smells of urine and blood and bodily fluids. But instead of shying away, they took those kids by the hand and played with them, held the hands and bodies of those older folks dying from AIDS, and lotioned their legs and shaved their faces. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

At one point, I simply stopped what I was doing for a minute to watch one our students and a student from Bama spending time with a beautiful woman. She looked to be in her 80s, and she had the kind of wrinkles that come with a hard life. Her hands were simple and dainty, and she had stunning gray hair. As the girls held up fingernail polish and lotion to her, she simply nodded her head and they went to work. They put lotion on her body and painted her nails a bright shade. She seemed to relax a bit as they moved around her body, happy to be touched and soothed. These young women were total strangers to her and she could have told them to go away, but she opened herself up to them and welcomed them in such an intimate and holy way. When they finished painting her nails, she pulled her wallet out of a stack of the little belongings that she had, and she pointed to her children and grandchildren, smiling proudly as she showed off her loved ones. That beautiful woman welcomed these two young, healthy, privileged young women into her life. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.

There are so many more stories to share, so many that I could go on for days. I know that our students will take some time to share them with you over the coming years and months. We all came away with many questions about our faith, about how people could suffer so much in a God-made world. We are still being challenged by these questions in so many different ways. But we also came away from Haiti knowing, thankfully, that we had spent our time in mutual solidarity with our brothers and sisters—that Christ was working within us and through us, through us from Alabama and us from Haiti. In so many different ways, we saw the welcome and forgiveness, the grace and the love of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. Thanks be to God.





Sunday, April 15, 2012

Doubting Thomas

Acts 4:32-35

Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.


John 20:19-31


19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained." 24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin ), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." 26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." 27 Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." 28 Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" 29 Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." 30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah,the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.


"Doubting Thomas"

When I woke up in a room at the Glendale, Arizona Hampton Inn on January 11th, 2011, I laid there for a few minutes as I got my bearings. “Did last night really happen?” this life-long Auburn fan, granddaughter of a former Auburn football team captain, orange and blue blood girl asked herself. “Did we really win the national championship only a few short hours ago?” And it all came flooding back—the images from the day before—of cheering for the Tiger Walk, of being surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of thousands of Auburn fans, of seeing an eagle fly before the game, of dancing to “All I Do is Win,” of seeing the band running out of the tunnel, of watching the best football game ever take place. I looked at my game ticket and thought to myself that it was true. And just to make sure, I reminded my friends in the bed next to me as they began to stir, “Hey y’all. We’re national champions!” You see, I’m not sure I would have actually believed it if I had stayed here and watched it on tv. I had to see it live, to hear the sounds and see the fans and cheer for the players and feel the tears stream down my face at the end. I had to, just to know and believe that it had really happened. I had to see if for myself, hear it for myself, smell and touch it for myself, all to know that one of my few life-long dreams had come to fruition. It was true. One of the best days of my life for this Auburn girl. It was true!

And on a much larger and deeper and more important scale so many years ago, Thomas was feeling the same way. Thomas, along with his friends, had just experienced one of the worst things they could ever imagine. They had spent so much time following Jesus, listening and learning from him, serving and healing for him. They had heard him say that he was soon going to leave this life, heard him predict it, but somehow never could believe for themselves that it could really be true. But the prediction came to reality—Jesus’ words about how he would soon die, soon leave the earth. It really must have been so incredibly hard for Thomas and the others, to see their friend, their Lord, crucified so cruelly on the cross, to realize that he was gone. If you, like I, have ever lost someone you loved so much, then you can feel their pain, their emptiness, their sense of loss, their devastation.

But just a few days later, new news was starting to spread—great news, news of new life. The others had heard it, seen it for themselves. Jesus, who had been so horribly killed just a few days earlier, appeared to those who were gathered. He greeted them with the best words imaginable, “Peace be with you.” I am here now. Your sadness and horror and grief can end. I’m here. But Thomas missed it, missed the boat, missed the news. They tried to tell him that Jesus was alive, that he had come to them and granted them such deeply-needed peace. But Thomas just couldn’t believe it for himself, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And he certainly couldn’t allow himself to feel the joy that the others were feeling, the happiness, the peace. Not until he saw it for himself, anyway: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” he said, “and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Unless I see it, I can’t believe it. Unless I feel the marks, I simply can’t allow myself to feel the happiness and the peace of new life.

Then, a few days later, Jesus, knowing how Thomas was feeling, appeared to him, granted the peace to Thomas for which he was so desperately yearning. “Peace be with you, friend. Here I am. Here are my hands, here is my side. Touch the nail marks. Feel and believe.” Thomas reached his hands out, touched, felt, felt the peace and comfort and new life that Jesus had brought. Thomas’ response was short and simple, “My Lord and my God!” It was true! The best and most wonderful news had triumphed over such horror and pain and devastation. Thomas had to feel it for himself, to sense and smell it for himself, to touch it for himself to know. Lord, indeed. Peace, indeed.

You know, interesting things have been said about Thomas over the years, about his reaction to Christ’s resurrection and appearance to those who were gathered those days. Some have called him faithful, some faithless. Some have called him skeptical and some stupid. Some have seem mystified about how Thomas could be full of such doubt, some have understood. And I wonder the same. Sometimes I read this story and think, “Thomas, how could you have not gotten it?” But, really, I think that I probably would have reacted the same way. Sometimes I can be skeptical, sometimes stubborn. I really want to think about the pain he must have been in when his friend was killed, how much despair he must have felt. And knowing that I have felt the same way a few times in my life, I can understand how much Thomas wanted to believe, yet struggled. Of how he wanted to celebrate but couldn’t allow himself to lest he get let down and hurt and devastated one more time if it wasn’t true. I get how Thomas had to feel the nail marks for himself in order to truly come out of his fog and believe the best news of all. Unless I see, I will not believe.

I love how gracious Jesus was with Thomas here. He could have smacked him over the head and said, “Really, Thomas? C’mon, dude.” But he didn’t. He slowly and graciously appeared to Thomas, holding out his hands, showing his side. He let Thomas touch him and take it all in. And Thomas believed that the news was true. They all did. They saw and believed.

Although the text doesn’t give us a sense of Jesus’ tone with Thomas here, I’ll be willing to bet that it was gentle, instructive, but gentle: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” I think that Jesus was instructing Thomas here, but he was also saying something to us, to all of us who would come later. He was saying something to the audience of John’s gospel, those for whom John was writing but weren’t alive to see the resurrection for themselves. Jesus was saying something for them, saying something for all of us, all of us who would come long after Thomas, long after the hearers of John’s gospel. Thomas and the others got to feel the nail marks, see Jesus before them, hear the words come from his mouth. But not all of us. We didn’t get to see the horror and feel the pain of Good Friday when Jesus was murdered on the cross. We didn’t get to stand with the women with disbelief on our faces when as the tomb stood empty. We didn’t get to be locked in that room with the disciples to actually hear Jesus say, “Peace be with you.” And, unlike Thomas, we have never been able to feel the marks of the nails on Jesus’ flesh. Jesus said it to Thomas, and he says it to all of us: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

So, how do we believe? And most importantly, how do others come to believe through us—through us who call ourselves followers of the risen Christ, through us who are called to share the gospel through word and deed? We are called to believe by hearing the Word, the Word found in Scripture, proclaimed in our lives as we gather to pray, to sing, to read, to listen, to think. Although Jesus Christ may not be standing live in front of us, live in front of us so that we can physically touch his flesh and his wounds, Jesus Christ comes to us through the Word, the living Word that is left for all of us. Jesus Christ comes alive for us as the Holy Spirit moves and breathes and winds its way through us, as it inspires and enables us.

Barbara Brown Taylor says that the story of Christ is the living word, that “the story is already alive, with or without us. God wants us to be part of it—to sob on Palm Sunday, to wash each other’s feet on Maundy Thursday, to fast on Good Friday, to laugh out loud on Easter Sunday—in these and a thousand other ways, to be part of Jesus Christ’s risen life on earth—so that the brave, fragile testimony goes on being heard: ‘We have seen the Lord!’ In the flesh? No. In the story? Possibly? In our life together? Absolutely.”

I love how she ends it—“In our life together? Absolutely.” In our life together. That is why it is so important that our lectionary reading from Acts goes along with the story of Jesus Christ and Thomas today. The disciples, the ones who had seen the resurrection and touched Jesus’ side, had to live life together. The very first Christians, the ones whose story is told in Acts, weren’t able to touch Jesus’ side, but they were probably able to hear the story first-hand—they had to live life together. And so do we, more than 2000 years later. Even though the story of Christ has been recorded for us over the years, we are also called to live life together, to live as Christ told us, to love as Christ commanded us. And our story from Acts tells us how to do that. As the whole community is gathered together, they share their story with one another, and then they share what they have with each other—I love that the story tells us that there was not a needy person among them. Those who were fortunate enough to own their own homes or land sold them and gave the proceeds to those who had nothing to their names. The money was laid out and distributed to any who had need. Everyone, EVERYONE, the poor, the rich, and the in-between, was taken care of. Just as those first Christians weren’t able to touch Christ’s side, they tried their best to retell his story, to show his story, to live as Christ lived, to share as Christ shared, to love as Christ loved. And we are called to do the same—to live as Christ lived, to share as he shared, to love as Christ loved. To live life together. To live life together as people of the resurrection, to live and share and love as Easter people. Thanks be to God.