What Keeps Us From Christ

“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him a soon as he comes and knocks. Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them. If he comes during the middle of the night, or near dawn, and finds them so, blessed are those slaves. But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

Luke 12:32-40

“What Keeps Us From Christ”

My niece and nephew love to watch movies, and they always ask me to watch one when I’m in town. Inevitably, being the 16-year-old teenager that he is, Blake usually asks me to watch something that is scary, something with lots of blood and a murderer running around town, something that will make me jump out of my seat as something or someone jumps out on the screen. And my response is always the same: “Blake, I hate scary movies. There is enough in the real world to make me afraid that I don’t need to be fake scared.”

And it’s true. Isn’t there enough in the real world to scare the dickens out of us, to make us afraid, to make us fear the world and everything and everyone around us? All we have to do is turn on the TV to any major news channel to read the constant ticker at the bottom, read our local paper online or at our breakfast table, or listen to the news on the radio to know that there is a lot to fear out there in our broken world. I happened to look at cnn.com one day this week as I was thinking about what makes us afraid. No lie—these were the top breaking stories: --Flooding in 12 states. --A heart stent for our past president. --One dad who says that a kidnapping suspect was like family; another dad who feared that a body found was that of his missing son. --A terror threat for Americans across the world. --7 drone strikes in 2 weeks. --A bitter fight at the Fort Hood murder trial. --A house of terror in which 3 women were brutalized for 10 years finally being torn down.

Luckily, all of these breaking news stories were followed by the “breaking news” of Beyonce’s new haircut, but still. Those top stories tell us all that we need to know—that we are living in a world where natural disasters tear lives apart, where illness like heart disease can change our lives in an instant, where children and women are subject to brutality and murder, where people wake up simply to wonder where their next meal is coming from, where un or underemployment colors what we do every day, where issues of violence and terror sometimes seem to reign in our lives. It is a world that is scary and broken and sinful, a world that causes so much distress and fear.

“Do not be afraid, little flock,” Jesus says, “for it is God’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Do not be afraid, our Savior reminds us. It is easy to hear Jesus’ words to us, but so very hard to take them to heart, to believe them, to live them. There is so much brokenness and sinfulness in the world that keeps us afraid, brokenness that keeps us from the world, that keeps us from each other, so much that keeps us from our Christ.

Think about some of the things we face each day:

--We live in fear of losing what we have, the stuff we have attained, the busyness of our everyday lives. We spend so much time each day flipping from channel to channel, driving from appointment to appointment, eating our meals in the car, on the run, filling up our calendars with meetings. So many of us, myself included, have so much when there are others with so little in the world. I look at my house, a home designed for a family of 4, a home that is filled (and I do mean filled) with the stuff of 1 person instead. Enough. So much stuff.  There is so much noise in our lives. And all of that keeps us from being with God. We are so scared to give up what we have, afraid to give up what we see as our stake in the world, afraid that, if we really spend our time talking to God, that God will prompt us to something new, something scary and unexpected. Jesus says to us, “Do not be afraid, little flock…Sell your possessions, and give alms. . . for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

--We live in a country that is so wonderful and rich and diverse in so many ways, but we are so often afraid to celebrate that diversity. Instead, we focus on what divides us, our deep political divisions, our divisions among class that are growing wider each day, our divisions among race and religion and sexuality. Instead of celebrating the incredibly diverse culture we have, celebrating those around us and what we can learn from each other, we each retreat to our own corners. Instead of talking to each other and learning from our differences, we demonize each other, refusing to take the risk of opening ourselves up to challenge, or—God forbid—the possibility that we might be wrong. Instead of sharing stories with each other, we throw rocks at each other, proclaiming that we are better or more perfect or more faithful. Simply put, instead of celebrating each person as a child of God, we live in fear of the “other,” lest they challenge our beliefs or presumptions or standing in the world, lest they challenge us to give up our need for power. The fear of losing our lives and our livelihoods keeps us from being in relationship with one another. I love that Luke tells us that, when Jesus comes back, the tables of presumption and power will be overturned: “Do not be afraid, little flock…Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them.” Jesus will come and tell us to put aside our fears. Jesus the King will come and invited the slaves to dine at table.

--We live in fear of opening up our lives and hearts because of our experiences with other people in the past—when we have been hurt by the selfishness of others, we shut ourselves down, afraid to be hurt again. When we have been deeply hurt in relationships—friendships, in our family lives, in our romantic relationships, we become too afraid to open ourselves up to love again. When we have been lonely and are desperate for love, it is sometimes easier to live in fear and stay alone rather than open our hearts and lives up to the pain that sometimes accompanies the riskiness of love. It is easier to live in fear, to be afraid, than to risk vulnerability and openness and the pain that sometimes comes with them. We are too afraid to truly experience relationship and all that comes with it. In so many ways, it is easier to turn our lights, our lives off, rather than shine brightly with the light of new possibility. But our Lord reassures us once again, “Do not be afraid, little flock. . . have your lamps lit.”

“Do not be afraid,” Jesus says, but there is so much that keeps us afraid, keeps us fearful in our world. Our fear, our risk of losing what we have earned and bought, of losing what we have kept, of losing our power and place in the world, keeps us from living in the world and seeing the great need that is all around us. Our fear of opening ourselves up to those who are different keeps us from seeing the diversity all around us, protects us from challenging the way we live our lives, protects us from challenge from our long-held beliefs. Our fear keeps us from changing, and that ultimately keeps us from growing and becoming more whole as we learn from our brothers and sisters around us. And our fear keeps us from being in relationship with each other. Each and every one of us has been hurt by our love for someone else, and we are so afraid of experiencing that kind of pain again—and that comes with the great risk of losing possibility, losing love, losing hope.

All of that fear, all of that being afraid, is what keeps us from relationship with each other, and a result, from Christ. When we have so much in our lives that blocks us from opening up, so much that holds us back from sharing what we have, so much that keeps us from loving each other, we are keeping ourselves from relationship with Christ. Christ constantly calls us to give what we have to each other, to share our lives together, to make sure everyone, no matter what their circumstance, is taken care of—fed, clothed, cleaned, cleansed, sheltered, loved. Christ tells us not to be afraid and then calls us to open our lives up to the possibility that something amazing might just happen when we put our fears aside. I don’t think it’s an accident that the imperative rings out throughout our Gospel: to Zechariah as he fervently prays for a son; to Mary as she finds out she is having a child; to the shepherds in the field as they hear news about a child who has been born; to Simon Peter and the others as they are called to discipleship; to Jairus as he begs for Jesus to bring his daughter back to life; to the disciples as they begin to realize the reality and cost of following him. Do not fear. Do not be afraid. Open the treasure of your wallets to make sure others have what they need to live. Open the treasure of your hearts to the new possibility and power of love. Open the treasure of your lives to the hope and richness that comes from loving with your brothers and sisters. Open your lives to Christ.

This passage tells us so much about how to live our lives, and it ultimately tells us so much about our God as revealed in Jesus Christ. The passage tells us about an intimate God, a God who cares about us, craves relationship with us. It tells us about a God who will come at an unexpected time not to punish, but to abundantly bless. I love how Audrey West says it in her theological perspective. She reminds us that this passage, this imperative to not be afraid, is a reminder of God’s sovereignty and gracious protection, a certain antidote to the human problems of misplaced confidence, complacency, and fear. She says, “This is not a God who, after creating the universe, sits back and dispassionately watches it all unfold. This is a God who attends to the sparrows, ravens, and lilies, a God whose concern for humankind extends to the very hairs of our heads, a God whose desire is to give the treasure of heaven.” Our fear of the world, our fear of opening our lives up, our fear of loving, is indeed what keeps us from each other, what keeps us from Christ. But Christ tells us to stop living in fear, to stop being afraid, to start living and to start loving. And with such great grace, such overwhelming forgiveness, such incredible love, Christ shows us how to live. Thanks be to God.

Mary and Martha

Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Luke 10:38-42

Have you ever had one of those moments, a moment when a stranger surprised you by asking a random question out of the blue, one where a friend or acquaintance confronted you about something that you totally weren’t expecting, one where you were surprised and taken aback, one where you wished you had said and done everything differently when you actually had time to sit down and think about what in the world had just happened? Although I’m pretty sure that I have these moments weekly in my life, one of them in particular always sticks out.

My former church, my first call out of seminary, was a small, lovely, welcoming congregation, and they reached out to me with open arms. I was the first associate they had ever had, and certainly the first woman to preach from their pulpit. I had been there for about 4 years, and the head of staff had just left for another call. Much like I have been doing for the past several months here, I assumed both jobs, preaching, visiting, planning liturgy, attending lots of committee meetings, helping to dream for the future. The interim pastor nominating committee had just completed its work, offering a call to an interim, a call approved and extended by the session. Although I had nothing to do with the process, I was so excited about the committee’s choice—a qualified, loving, thoughtful, and active pastor, actually a childhood friend of mine married to another pastor in town. And, like me, she was a girl.

I’ll never forget the Sunday—I had just finished preaching and leading our first worship service, and I was heading back to my office to decompress for a bit. The church offices were right outside of the sanctuary, and I was walking through our secretary’s office to get to mine when I was, simply put, accosted by a male church member. He started yelling at me, ranting and raving: “Rachel, I’m angry about this (words edited for church consumption). What was the committee doing? What were they thinking? How could you let this happen?” This is when I made the first bad decision of this encounter—even engaging this man in the first place. I should’ve asked him to leave and come back when he could speak rationally. But I didn’t. There was a senior high sitting there and I didn’t want him to see this bad behavior, so I made the second bad decision of this encounter, asking the church member to come to my office with me. My office was small, no window and only one door, so I quickly realized that he basically had me cornered. And let me just pause to thank whatever genius designed my office here—two doors! One to open and one to back out of if needed! But I digress. I asked him why he was so upset with the committee’s choice, tried to explain our polity to him and that I had nothing to do with it. And then it came out: “Because it’s a woman! We can’t have two women ministers here. That’s disgraceful. ALL WOMEN ARE JUST ALIKE.”

Until this point, I had been surprised and scared by all of this, but that’s when I got angry myself. I felt attacked. Shocked. Angry that he would attack like that. Angry that he assumed that we were just alike. Angry that he made stereotypes—about her, about me-angry that he was taking it all out on me. And then came my third bad choice when I said, angrily, shaking: “Um, there are other churches in this presbytery with all male ministers. Would you dare say the same about them.” Yes, it made him more angry and he yelled more. Luckily, one of our elders finally heard all of it and came in to demand that he leave.

I started thinking later about everything I did wrong and about how I would address something like this if it ever happened again. I think that, after asking to come back and talk when he had calmed down, I would have whipped my Bible out and shared our story from today with him—the story of Mary and Martha and Jesus at their home. I think that it’s such a wonderful, rich story about two sisters, two women with very different demeanors and outlooks and actions, a story about the importance of women in Christ’s story, a story about their relationship with their friend and Lord. These two women are nuanced and complex, exciting for me, for all of, really, to think about.

As long-winded as the gospel of Luke can be at times, the story of Mary and Martha as told in Luke is a short one—a short one, but an interesting and very telling one. Jesus and the others have made their way to a village, and we hear that Martha is the one who welcomes them, invites Jesus into her home. This suggests that Martha already has some familiarity with Jesus, a sign on the friendship between Jesus and Martha and her family that we hear about a few times in the gospels. Luke immediately places Mary, Martha’s sister, at Jesus’ feet, quietly listening to him. Martha has other plans, busily working away—it is generally assumed that she is preparing a meal for him, but the story doesn’t give much detail. Perhaps she is cooking, perhaps preparing a bowl of warm water to clean his dirty feet, perhaps cleaning a bit because of the surprise visit, perhaps all of them since the text tells us that she is distracted by many tasks. And, like many of us would if we were doing all of this and found our sister simply sitting, Martha gets a bit agitated: “’Seriously, Lord, don’t you care that Mary is just sitting here doing nothing? Please tell her to get off her rear and come help.’” “’Martha,’” he replies, “Mary has chosen the better part, made the better choice. I can’t take this away from her.” Although we don’t know the tone that Jesus uses with Martha, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that it is a gentle one, a pastoral one, one that is not as harsh as elsewhere in the gospels.

Scholars have suggested many different interpretations of this scene: some suggesting that each character is one-dimensional and polarized by her deeds; others suggesting that the characters represent the abstract types of active (Martha) vs. contemplative (Mary) lifestyles. Some scholars suggests that, when Jesus tells Martha that Mary is doing the better part, Jesus is telling women to sit down and be quiet and stay silent, certain justification for women staying silent in church. On the complete opposite side, other scholars suggest that this story is a manifesto for the importance of educating women as Mary sits at his feet to learn. Still others suggest that this story helps us wrestle with the theological question of justification of works (Martha) vs. justification by faith (Mary).

I think that all of these are very interesting interpretations and suggestions, but I also resist the temptation to polarize Mary and Martha. I think it sells these two women short. I think these two faithful, active, nuanced women of faith tell us a lot about what it takes to be a Christian, a true follower of Christ, that to be followers, we have to be both listeners and actors, people who sit at Jesus feet to hear the gospel and then get on our own feet to share it.

In our worship and Sunday school time together, at our conferences and camps, and in our fellowship and mission time together, we talk about how vital it is to go and spread the story of Christ, share the love of Christ to all of those around us. We talk about how important it is to be hospitable and welcoming, to feed and reach out to those in need, to love as Christ loves. And I think that is what Martha is doing in our story—cleaning and cooking, preparing and making a space ready for Christ to come in, trying to show her love for him. But as we watch Martha’s frustration grow that Mary is simply sitting at Jesus’ feet, Jesus rightly reminds her that we can’t get on our feet to share the story until we have sat at Jesus’ own feet, until we have closed out the world around us to listen to what God is doing in our midst, to be reminded of the reason we are called to go out into the world. If we don’t know the gospel story before we rise to our feet to go out and share it, then what is the point?

You know, when people ask me why I love Montreat so much, I think of this story, of Mary in this story, of how she sits and listens and learns at the feet of Christ. It was so lovely last week to watch our senior highs, teenagers who are normally so busy with honors classes and dance, with band and show choir, with work and hanging out with friends, simply sit and play and wonder and pray explore and listen at Christ’s feet. They took a week out of their busy, crazy worlds, their worlds that move so fast, to simply be still and be renewed, to hear the story of Christ in a new and fresh way. And as incredible as it was for them, it was for the adults who were with them. One of us was walking through the grief of losing a friend, another in the midst of transition from college to a graduate intern program in nutrition. And one of us had spent the last few months working two jobs and running around like a crazy woman. All of us needed to get away from Martha’s distractions of the world and simply stop and sit like Mary did, to listen and pray and worship and be renewed in the story of Christ. Montreat allowed all of us to stop in the midst of our crazy worlds, in the midst of our distractions, for a while to sit at Jesus’ feet, to be like Mary, to listen and be refreshed and hear the story. We all wanted to stay in that place, but as much as we all would’ve liked to, we had to leave that lovely and beautiful part of God’s creation. We had to embrace the good of what we had just learned as Mary before we could go out into the world like Martha to act and prepare and love—because, as we were reminded on our final day, being a Christian is a thing of nuance, of being both a listener and an actor, of being someone who is called to sit at Jesus’ feet and then go out and be his feet in the world.

One theologian suggests that the word for “better” in this story is best translated as “good,” that Mary has “chosen the ‘good’ part, meaning she has chosen the connection to God who is good. That this story should be seen

…not as reinforcing a Martha-Mary dichotomy but calling for a recognition that God is both inside and outside, sustaining us while summoning us to work and, through our service, to bring about a world of justice, mercy, and peace. It is not an either/or message but a both/and message (Feasting on the Word).

Indeed, it is that—a recognition that God moves in and through us, inside and out, in amazing ways; that we are called to the good part to learn about a good God who inspires us to do many things in the world through service.

As you can probably tell, I love this story, these women, their love for their friend and Lord.  And I really love that Luke gives us an incomplete picture of Mary and Martha. It is so tempting for us to stop reading here, stop learning about these nuanced and complicated and different women at verse 42, where Luke stops. But there’s more. John sheds a new light on these women in his gospel. In the 11^th chapter, we find Martha and Mary grieving over their dear brother, Lazarus, who has passed away. This story sheds new light on Martha and Mary, as sisters, as prophets who both find a new way to proclaim the gospel.

After hoping for a miracle and then mourning terribly, Martha approaches Jesus, and in her pain says to him, “’Lord, if you had been here, he wouldn’t have died.’” Martha makes a Christological statement as she foreshadows the coming death and resurrection of Christ: “’I know that [Lazarus] will rise again in the resurrection on the last day…[and] Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” And after Jesus performs a miracle by bringing their brother back from the dead, Mary makes a Christological statement of her own, in her very own way. As Martha makes the dinner for Christ that she didn’t make so long ago, Mary takes a pound of perfumed ointment, takes Jesus’ feet in her hands, anoints them, and wipes them with her beautiful hair.

Mary and Martha, Martha and Mary, are fascinating, nuanced, smart, and savvy women. They are certainly very different in the way that they approach and live their lives, but alike in this: that Christ is their friend, their brother, their Lord. Through their encounters with Christ, they help us remember that it is so easy to get distracted by the things of the world, and help us to know that we must sit at Christ’s feet to hear the story of love, the story of grace, the story of resurrection. And Mary and Martha help us know and celebrate that we are called to share that story of Christ in the world. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Compassion of Christ

Luke 7:11-17

11 Soon afterwards he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. 12 As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother's only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. 13 When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, "Do not weep." 14 Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, "Young man, I say to you, rise!" 15 The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother. 16 Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, "A great prophet has risen among us!" and "God has looked favorably on his people!" 17 This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.

Compassion, according to the Merriam Webster dictionary, is the “sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it.” Compassion, according to our Lord, is this—the ability to see and feel and understand another’s distress, compounded with the desire to do something to ease it. Compassion is this according to Christ, but it is so much more. When I sat down to read and contemplate our Gopsel story about the widow and her son from Luke this week, the 13th verse really jumped out at me: “When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, ‘Do not weep.’” This story tells us so much about the compassion of Christ—the compassion that he shows to all of God’s children, especially the poorest among them, the compassion that Christ calls and demands us to live out for one another, the compassion that is defined by his life, by his grace, by his love.

This text, along with so many others from Luke’s Gospel, tells us about Jesus’ great compassion for the poorest among us. Just a chapter earlier in the gospel, Jesus has just called his disciples to come and follow him. The disciples and so many others are gathered around him—they have heard about him—about how he heals, about his great power. And, in his first of many incredible sermons, Jesus tells those who are gathered there how to treat each other, how to serve each other, how to live. I don’t think it’s any accident that his first words, his first instructions, are about how to see the poorest among them: “’Blessed are you who are poor, for yours in the kingdom of God.’” Blessed are the poor, not only the poor in spirit as depicted in Matthew’s version of this sermon, but simply the poor. Theirs indeed is the kingdom of God.

Jesus tells those gathered to have compassion for the poor, to love them, to help them, to serve them, and he illustrates that compassion as he comes to a nearby town. The text tells us that the disciples and a large crowd are following him, and as they all draw near to the city gates, there is a big stir. As they come to the gate, folks are approaching from the other side carrying the body of a man. The text tells us that the man is an only son, the only son of a woman who is a widow. From this we know that the woman is poor—if she is a widow, then her livelihood has passed away with her husband, that her husband had no brother for her to subsequently marry, that her only source of income, of life, of hope, has come through her only son. And now he is gone. Not only has this woman lost the only love left in her life, she has also lost her livelihood, her only way to live. She has lost everything and is penniless, hopeless, lifeless. This widow has indeed become the poorest of the poor in so many ways, both poor in spirit and poor in life.

As she follows the body of her only son through the city gate, Jesus sees her and immediately knows her story—that she has nothing, absolutely nothing left. The widow doesn’t have to say a word to express her deep grief. Jesus just knows. He is immediately overcome with compassion for her—“Do not weep,” he says, and then he touches the funeral bier and brings the widow’s son back to life, giving her new life in so many ways. I love that the text tells us that Jesus “gave him to his mother.” That is compassion at its best—the restoration of life, the salvation of livelihood, a son given back to a mother who is grieving the greatest loss she could ever have imagined. It’s the compassion that Christ gives.

The compassion Christ shows us in this text is also a call to all of us—to give as Christ gives, to love as Christ loves. Jesus not only sees and understands and feels the widow’s distress, but his understanding is also mixed with his desire to alleviate it for her. Christ shows such compassion this widow who is almost left with nothing. Through his compassion, he gives her life. His compassion is filled with empathy and action.

In the original Greek, the word for compassion used in the widow’s story is the same word that we hear in two subsequent stories from Luke’s gospel. This fact would not have been lost for early New Testament readers, and it’s so important for us to discover and hear today. In the story of the Good Samaritan found in the 10th chapter of Luke, we hear that a man is severely beaten and left for dead on the road. A priest sees what happens and passes him by without offering help; the same way for a Levite passing by. But a man from Samaria sees the other man lying in a ditch, is moved with pity, with compassion, and stops, picks him up, bandages his wounds, takes care of him and tends to his needs. Jesus reminds us that this Samaritan has such compassion and shows such mercy to the man left for dead. And then he tells us to go and do likewise.

Later on in the 15th chapter of Luke, we hear the tale of two brothers, one who tends to his father, works with him, honors and respects him; the other who basically tells his father that he would rather him be dead as he asks him early for his portion of the inheritance. When the money is given to him, he leaves his family and his home, spends the money quickly on dissolute living, and loses all of it—even getting to the point that he considers joining the pigs in eating their slop. That son knows that he has nothing, and he tries to return home to his family. His father could shun him, could disown him, has every right to never speak to him again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sees his son coming from far away and drops everything to run to him and welcome him home with open arms. His father is filled with compassion, as the text tells us, and welcomes him home with the biggest party ever seen—reminding us to do the same for those who have sinned against us, hurt us deeply, even wished for us to be dead.

For the Jesus found in Luke’s gospel, compassion is the way of life—compassion in the sense of feeling and understanding suffering, and then doing everything possible to alleviate it. The compassion of Christ is empathy and action melded together—compassion is pointless without both. Compassion is sensing that someone is suffering gravely, that they are about to lose everything in their life, and then showing the greatest mercy of all. Compassion is bringing life back from death. Compassion is blessing the poor and giving them new life. Compassion is showing that mercy to those who are lying on the side of the road, picking them up and bandaging their wounds, taking care of them and giving them shelter. Compassion is healing what has been so deeply broken. Compassion is forgiving what was previously deemed unforgivable, running with open arms to embrace those who have sinned so deeply against us. This compassion is the compassion of Christ, the compassion we are called to give as Christ’s healers in the world.

I love what this story tells us about the compassion of our Christ, and it does tell us so much. However, I have to confess that miracle stories, stories of resurrection like this, leave me feeling a bit hollow at times. I have to confess that these miracle stories sometimes prompt me to ask wonder why Christ doesn’t do the same thing for everyone who is about to walk into the face of tragedy, prompt me to wonder where God is in the midst of absolute chaos. After a natural tragedy, when some survivors profess their faith and say, “I’m just blessed that God saved me,” I always think to myself, “Well, what does that say to the families of those who lost their lives? Were those folks not blessed?” My students asked the question after the Haiti earthquake—“Seriously, could God have not stepped in on this one and stopped the earthquake from hitting the poorest country in the world? Have they not suffered enough?” And I know I have asked the question numerous times in the past 5 years: “Seriously God, just this one time, could you not have stepped in and stopped that train before Drew stepped in front of it?”

I wish I could tell you that I had the answer to those questions, but I don’t. Maybe the answers will come when we meet God face to face, when we are finally able to see God fully instead of dimly like we do now. But maybe this story reminds us that the compassion of Christ is something we will not ever be fully able to understand, that Christ’s compassion comes to us in big ways in small, in huge miracles and little every day ones, in ways we can sometimes understand and in others that will leave us wondering why. We see the compassion of Christ as he raises Lazarus from the dead, and we also see it as he welcomes the tax collector to a meal. We see the compassion of Christ as he brings the widow’s son back to life, and we also see it as he calls Martha away from her many tasks. We see the compassion of Christ as he brings Jairus’ daughter back to life, and we also see it as he stops the woman’s flow of blood after 12 years. Christ’s compassion comes to us in so many ways, ways big and small, ways ordinary and ways unbelievable.

The widow doesn’t ask for compassion and salvation, probably because she is too broken and overcome with grief to know how to ask--but Christ senses that she yearns for it from the very depth of her bones. She doesn’t say a word to him, but he says something to her as he brings her son back to life: “Do not weep.” We see the compassion of Christ here in such a miraculous way, but that shouldn’t keep us from seeing Christ’s compassion in small, every day ways, especially in those times when tragedies do take over our lives. Sometimes the compassion of our Lord is seen in overwhelming, miraculous ways, and sometimes it is seen through the small glimpses of grace where God brings good out of the sadness of tragedy. I love how one minister says it:

We cannot stop ourselves from praying for even the most impossible of miracles…we cling to a central message of the gospel: in Christ Jesus all things are possible. In reality our lives, like that of Jesus, are filled with messy unfinished edges, not the nice tidy ending that the widowed mother in our story experiences. We must come to recognize miracles that come in other less dazzling forms. Indeed, when we focus on only one vision of what is possible, we become blinded to the many moments in which God’s compassion reaches into our lives to hear, touch, and stand in the chaos of life, helping us find new meaning even in the greatest tragedy. (M. Jan Holton, Feasting On the Word, Year C, Volume 3)

I love that. When we only focus on what our ways or our hopes or our answers are, we lose sight of the small, everyday good, the small, everyday miracles that Christ brings to our lives. Christ so often shows compassion in ways that we would or could never begin to imagine or believe, bringing good into a world that often seems to chaotic and harsh and cruel. Christ’s compassion cannot and will not be defined by what we think it should be. Christ’s compassion comes to us before we ever know how to ask, comes to us in ways that we may never be able to wrap our minds around. Christ is able to look into the depths of our souls to know what we need before we ever know how to ask. That is the compassion that Christ

The Spirit Abides

The Spirit Abides

Acts 2:1-21

1 When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 2 And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. 3 Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. 5 Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. 6 And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. 7 Amazed and astonished, they asked, "Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? 8 And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? 9 Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 11 Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God's deeds of power." 12 All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, "What does this mean?" 13 But others sneered and said, "They are filled with new wine." 14 But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them, "Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. 15 Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o'clock in the morning. 16 No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: 17 "In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. 18 Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy. 19 And I will show portents in the heaven above and signs on the earth below, blood, and fire, and smoky mist. 20The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the coming of the Lord's great and glorious day. 21 Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.'

It began as a festival for the Jewish folks from all over, one of several yearly days of obligation where Jewish people traveled many miles from their homes to celebrate their community, their beliefs, their faith. It was a festival of the harvest where they came together to laugh, to share meals with one another, to greet old friends and make news ones, to share languages and stories and experiences. It was a festival called Shavuot, which would eventually come to be known as Pentecost, a festival in which the first fruits where given to God as an act and celebration of thanksgiving for the giving of the Torah, the Ten Commandments, the law. They came from all over the place, the Medes and the folks from Mesopotamia, travelers from Egypt and parts of Libya, Cretans and Arabs and visitors from Rome. They came from all over and spoke in their native languages, shared their customs, spent time with each other.

There were hordes of worshipers and travelers all over the streets of Jerusalem, so many different people and groups clustered together on very full streets, so many folks who had come to celebrate on that festival day. The crowds were huge, but a group was missing from the celebration early that day, a small group who might have gone unnoticed had God not decided to be up to something that day.

The disciples and the smallish band of Christians, about 120 of them as the first chapter of Acts tells us, had gathered back together in their familiar upper room, still amazed and confused and bewildered from all that had taken place on Easter, just 50 days earlier. They had cast lots to decide on Matthias as the next disciple, and they were still gathered in that room trying to decide what to do next. Those 120 had been so scared for so long now, scared that their following of Christ might mean hard times or even death for them. They WERE dead, for all intents and purposes—leaderless, hopeless, visionless. They had locked themselves up, scared to death, scared OF death, not knowing what to do next. Those 120 were rudderless, and they could have stayed locked up forever in their hearts and in their room forever, not knowing what to do. They could have stayed to themselves, only spreading the news of Christ to their descendants, to the people who looked like them and shared the same language and belonged to them. They could have stayed lost. They could have safely started a small church without pushing themselves to share the Good News with new people, without the discomfort of venturing into an unknown and scary world.

But they didn’t, because something happened, something incredible and unbelievable—God had other plans for them, and sent the Spirit to do something amazing in and through and for them that day. The Spirit came in and moved among them, the Spirit that they were able to feel as the windows and doors blew open, as a mighty wind rushed through them and rattled their bones. That Spirit sat upon them, lit up like fire, resting on them, inspiring them and giving them new ability to speak and listen and understand.

The Spirit breathed through them, helping them to understand new languages, inspiring them to reach out to new people. The Spirit essentially set them on fire—in a good way—and rested upon them, giving them hope and inspiration, breathing new life into them. Inspired by the new life of the Spirit, the disciples and the other followers opened their doors, left what had kept them locked up; the came out into the crowd of festival goers. The Spirit came into their lives and lived in them, abided with them, transformed them so that they could go and transform others.

It wasn’t easy at first, as the story tells us—they were accused of being drunk and crazy and not knowing what they were talking about. So Peter helped them by preaching and sharing the news, and they all followed suit. They were drunk—drunk with the power of the Spirit, and they shared as much as they could. They shared the story of Christ and a church was born because of the rebirth they received from the Spirit. The Spirit moved in that place, on that day, moved among them so that they all understood each other, all saw each other with new eyes, all understood that they Spirit of the Lord had indeed come upon them. All of those who were gathered were transformed and made new.

The Spirit moved and breathed through the crowded streets that day, doing something new, giving birth to a new church. And the church was baptized, brought to new life, ordained and made ready for service. The initial 120 had no choice now but to go further out and share the story of Christ. Their upper room may have fit 120 of them snuggly, but there surely wasn’t room for 3,000 of them or even more. They had no choice but to go out into the world and stay there, abide there, to be engaged in the world, to be a part of its festivals, to help a church be born anew. The church was indeed born and baptized that day. The Spirit abided.

A few summers ago now, I sat at a coffee shop in Tuscaloosa with my friend James, the Presbyterian campus minister at Alabama. After a very happy and successful mission trip to Orlando to glean orange groves with our students that Spring break before, we sat down to dream about an international mission trip for our groups—Honduras? Mexico? Nicaragua? The Dominican Republic? We both remembered friends who had told us about a trip they had taken to Haiti, one that fundamentally transformed their lives. We had never even done an international mission trip, and surely had never taken one to the poorest country in the hemisphere. But there was something about Haiti that moved us, made us think, spoke to us that day. I don’t really know how to explain what happened except to say that it was a Spirit thing—a Holy Spirit blowing our doors open and moving through our room and transforming us kind of thing. The Spirit moved among us, abided with us to move us beyond our comfort zone of a safe national mission trip—moved us to open our doors and our hearts to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, God was asking us to do something risky, to fly into a third world country, to abide with folks who were born 100s of steps behind everyone else in the world, born into a country with terrible history, abusive government, the worst poverty in the world. The Spirit abided with us, blowing through us to leave our upper rooms and go out into the streets that were truly overcrowded and overrun with people, in every sense of the term.

The Spirit moved, prompted us to open our lives, open our doors, open our hearts., As our plane landed on the runway in Port-au-Prince, we all looked at each other, scared to death about leaving our comfortable lives, frightened of what we would see, the things we would experience, so apprehensive about how our lives would be permanently changed in the weeks and years to come. I probably don’t need to tell you that it was the most amazing week of my life, of our lives. There were so many Pentecost moments during our time there, so many moments where we felt the Spirit move and breath and work through us—felt it abide in us.

We listened to incredible stories of faith, faith held and deepened even in the midst of a horrific earthquake that shook the lives of the Haitian folks and changed them forever. We3 sang songs and listened to drums. We picked up and carried and fed and danced with children suffering from mental and physical challenges to hard for us ever to imagine. We cut nails and put lotion on legs and shaved the faces of teenagers dying from AIDS and yellow fever. We held babies who were probably going to die from diseases that could be healed with very simple antibiotics here in the States. We did all of that, sharing the Spirit and the message of Christ that abides deep within us.

But what was amazing was how our new Haitian friends took us in, shared the story of Christ, shared the power of the Spirit with us. How their faith transformed and deepened our own. How there were the face, the hands and feet of Christ for us. We were changed, by the power of the Holy Spirit, in ways we could never have imagined—in ways that are still changing us today.

That time was full of Pentecost moments. As the week went on, we did begin to understand each other’s languages—we began to learn Creole words we had never heard, and their knowledge of English was expanded. But those weren’t the languages that mattered during that Pentecost time. From moment one, we all shared the languages of touch, of song, of dance, of music, of Scripture, of faith. The Spirit came and blew through our lives, transformed us to the core of our being, set us on fire to share the love of Christ, to deepen our faith in so many ways. I can’t speak for everyone else on the trip (actually, I probably can), but I can say for myself that I realized how locked up I had been—I had been locked in my own upper room because of my pride, because of my calendar, because of my work, because of my fear of seeing the world as it truly is and having my life and my ways questioned. But the Spirit moved and transformed and gave us new life. The Spirit abided with us and challenged us and gave us resurrection.

Friends, the great news for us to hear today is that the same Spirit is moving through this place, challenging us, setting us on fire, getting us ready. We have to ask ourselves what is keeping us locked up in our rooms—is it our busy schedules which leave little time for true worship? Our fear of opening our lives to folks who are different from us, have different customs, worship differently, speaking different languages? Our pride of perfection that keeps us from really showing our families and friends that we are broken and imperfect? Our fear of opening ourselves to new possibilities, so that we might remain immune from the pain that might accompany them? Our fear of sharing our lives and being judged and challenging the only ways we have ever known? Or is it something else? The great news is that our locked windows and doors, our locked hearts and lives, are no challenge for God’s Spirit. The Spirit breaks in. The Spirit challenges. It prods. It moves. It breathes through us. The Spirit abides. And thanks be to God for that.

“By This Everyone Will Know”

John 13:31-35

31 When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. 32 If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. 33 Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' 34 I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. 35 By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." 

When I sat down Monday morning to plan worship and read over this week’s lectionary Scriptures, I was surprised to see this passage since we had just meditated on it a few weeks ago on Maundy Thursday as we gathered together to celebrate Jesus’ last supper with his disciples, the passage from where the “Maundy” in Maundy Thursday comes—the commandment, the mandate from Christ for us to love each other just as we have been so greatly loved by him.

I think it was so important for the disciples gathered in the upper room that last night before Jesus’ death to be commanded to love. They had been following Jesus for so long now, getting used to that life and those ways, but they were about to walk into something new, a post-crucifixion world that would look different and sound different and feel different. Jesus had been with them, teaching them, showing them, explaining to them how to love as he met with people—as he healed them and fed them, as he welcomed them and named them, as he invited them and forgave them. Jesus told them that he would only be with them a little longer, and then he would be gone—that all of this would then be their deal. They had been taught, and now it was their turn to go on without him, their turn to go out into the world and show the love of their Lord.

In our NRSV version of this passage, Jesus says to them, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you should also love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Our NRSV translates the Greek so well in many circumstances, but in this one, it’s a bit lacking. It says that we “should” go out and love one another, “should” kind of sounding like a suggestion. But the Greek for that word suggests something much deeper, saying that Jesus has loved us in order that we go out and love one another. This translation is much clearer—it is not a suggestion, but a mandate. I have loved you in order that you will go out and love one another.

This is not a new commandment for the disciples, for all of us. The commandment is there from the very beginnings of Scripture. In the 19^th chapter of Leviticus, we are told by the Lord that “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” The commandment to love resounds throughout our Biblical story, but it takes on a new meaning when Jesus says it as his life is drawing to a close. The newness in this mandate to love can be found in the reason why we are called to love: that God loved us so much that a Son was given—given to live for us, given to die for us, given to rise for us. The newness in this mandate comes with the new life found on the empty cross and in the empty tomb, comes with the new life of resurrection.

I think it’s so important for us to read and hear this mandate anew this day, this commandment to the disciples to go out and love, to read it in concert with the commandment at the empty tomb for the disciples to go out and tell the good news of resurrection. It’s so important for us to read and hear these commandments together because you can’t have one without the other. It’s not enough to simply to go out and speak the good news of resurrection—what good is it going to do if we go out and speak the words but do absolutely nothing to back them up? We are not called to simply share the good news of resurrection, but called to live the good news, to show and share the good news, to embody it in such a way that everything we do shows the good news of life, of resurrection, of love. We are called to let that good news take root in us, so that it emanates from the very core of our being, so that it lives through us. Called to embody it in every action so that everyone will know we are disciples of our resurrected Christ before a word is ever on our tongue.

There was a very sweet, gentle, kind man who was a member of my former church, and I did his memorial service after he died from a short but very valiant battle with pancreatic cancer. Bill was a true disciple in every sense of the word—he welcomed folks, invited them to his table and made meals for them, healed them as he listened to them and prayed for them, as he never met a stranger. He was a disciple who embodied this kind of love —evident as a co-worker spoke at his service. She said, “Bill never flat out told me that he was a Christian, but I just knew it by the way he treated folks in our office. He was pretty high up and didn’t need to do anything he did, but he took the time to stop by our desks every day, to ask us how we were, to ask about our families, to tell us that he would pray for us when times were rough. He asked us to lunch when we didn’t have any other invitations. He treated us with gentleness and grace and forgiveness. It wasn’t always easy, and I’m sure he was tired at times, but that never stopped him. He loved us deeply because he had been so deeply loved.” Wow. His words and actions as a disciple were entwined—he embodied the love of Christ, lived it to the very core of his being. By that, everyone knew that he was a disciple. It was amazing to hear that story, and I thought to myself, “How different would our world be if we all embodied that forgiveness and grace, that acceptance and kindness and love?”

“I give you a new commandment,” Jesus says, “that you love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Frederick Buechner speaks about this kind of love, this embodied love, as he says:

To lose yourself in another’s arms, or in another’s company, or in suffering for all [of those] who suffer, including the ones who inflict suffering upon you—to lose yourself in such ways is to find yourself. Its what it’s all about. Its what love is…in the Christian sense, love is not primarily an emotion, but an act of will. When Jesus tells us to love our neighbors, he is not telling us to love them in the sense of responding to them with a cozy emotional feeling…on the contrary, he is telling us to love our neighbors in the sense of being willing to work for their well-being even if it means sacrificing our own well-being to that end, even if it means sometimes just leaving them alone. Thus in Jesus’ terms, we can love our neighbors without necessarily liking them. In fact liking them may stand in the way of loving them by making us overprotective sentimentalists instead of reasonably honest friends.

Buecher reminds us that love is not often comfortable, not often cozy, not often easy. While love may be all of those things at times, there are so many others when love is hard work, hard stuff, self-sacrificing gut-wrenching stuff. There are so many times when loving means looking into the face of an enemy and realizing, proclaiming even, that they are also a child of God. So many times when love means sitting at table with someone that we don’t want to accept. So many times when we feast at the table with folks who don’t look like us or act like us, folks who don’t worship the same way we do or don’t worship at all, folks who weren’t born in the same place as us and don’t speak the same language, folks who live and love differently than we do. Isn’t that, after all, what the cross is all about? About hard work? About self-sacrifice? About acceptance of those whom we deem unjust but whom God deems just? About the forgiveness and grace and abundance that comes with love? About loving others—even when we don’t necessarily like them—but because we have first been loved so greatly by God?

I read an amazing letter this week, one that must have been hard and horrible to write, to even imagine. This letter speaks about the kind of resurrection forgiveness and love that our risen Christ mandates us to live, to embody. It was written by a Jesuit priest to the surviving brother responsible for last week’s awful bombings. Here is some of what was written in the letter:

Dear Dzhokhar,

You don’t know me, but you tried to kill my family. You couldn't have known, but my brother ran…in the marathon and trained for months. My sister-in-law was an amazing and supportive wife as she always is and was ready to run the last 5 miles with him. Your bomb was at the finish line that they were trying to cross.

My mother, father and sister were waiting for them at the finish line. You didn't know it, but my mother thinks that she saw you down there. My sister is only three years younger than you, and you set off a bomb in front of her.

You don't know me, but you tried to kill some friends of mine. One of my best…friends was working in the store in front of which you or your brother laid down a bomb. That bomb exploded, and gave her the worst day of her life. I was a high school teacher, your bomb wounded one of my most promising students with shrapnel.

Dear Dzhokhar…you killed a child who was a part of the community who made me the man I am today…You tried to drive a city which gave me courage in the face of cancer into complete and utter fear…Dear Dzhokhar, for all of this, I can't hate you... Today I thought about the fact that you are only 19 ... you are just a kid. You must have been so afraid. You were a victim like so many are victims. You were brought something you shouldn't have been brought into because you likely didn't and couldn't know any better.

I am glad that you are going to prison, and I hope that you will have many long years there in supermax in Colorado. I hope that no one I love will ever be threatened by you again, but I can't hate you. I can't hate you because whatever you brought into Boston was enough hate for a good long while, I won't and can't hate any more. I can't hate you because I remember being 19, I thought many things were a good idea which weren't. I never would have went where you were with that, but I was certainly not an adult at 19.

I can't hate you because, even though you did unspeakable things ... somehow you are still my brother and your death can never be my gain.

I can't hate you, and not just because I am a Catholic, and a Christian, and because in a couple of months I will be a priest, I am a human and I simply can't hate you.

Dear Dzhokhar, I still have hope for you.

The rest of your life will be in prison. I have seen men change their lives there. I hope that you won't be executed, because I know that we can hold you, safely, for the rest of your life.

I can't say what your story might be there but I know that I, as a Christian, and you, as a Muslim, believe God to be merciful... so I can't help but have hope for you...

Dear Dzhokhar, I will pray for you. Next year, when my friend and my brother cross that finish line on Boylston, your brother's cause will have lost for good, but I will pray that you will know, somehow still, the love that my brother, sister-in-law, mother, father, sister, friends, and students all have given me.

Dear Dzhokhar, I will pray for you that you will come to know that PEACE and LOVE are the only ways in which world will ever be changed.

Dear Dzhokhar, I don't and can't hate you. I am glad you are in custody, but you are just a kid, and you are lost. I will love and pray for you, because somehow your sin was turned for good, and my community and the people I love will only be stronger in the end.

Dear Dzhokhar, Godspeed.

Wow. I pray that you will come to know that peace and love are the only ways the world will ever be changed. I will love you and pray for you that your sin will be turned into good. What amazing words of grace and forgiveness and peace. What amazing words of love. That, friends, is how we celebrate that we are people of the Christ’s resurrection—by accepting, by hoping, by loving. That is how we celebrate and live as Easter people. That is how we flourish with love, how we embody love, how we let love root deeply into our souls, all because we are Easter people. “I have loved you,” Christ says, “in order that you also love one another.” This is not always a love that is easy or comfortable or comforting, but it is a love that we are commanded, mandated to live. It is a love that is first given to us on the cross, a love that comes with the miracle of the resurrection, a love that is so essential to us that it becomes part of who we are—a love that emanates from every fiber of our being. It is a love that will be one of the only things that ever changes the world. It is a love by which everyone will know we are disciples. It is a love that passes all understanding because it comes from God. And thanks to be God for that. Amen.