Why Are You Looking Up? Seventh Sunday of Easter

Acts 1:1-14

May 24, 2020

            One of the many questions I had about church as a child was about the weekly offering. Why did we have to give money to the church? My parents would try to explain to me that we gave the money to help Jesus. That’s what they said, “We give the money to help Jesus.”

That actually confused me more, because the understanding that I had of Jesus was that he lived in heaven and had been living there for quite some time. He watched over us from heaven. In my young mind that meant that we gave money to help Jesus who lived in heaven. I remember trying to figure that one out, and the only logical explanation I could come up with was that after everyone left the church, Jesus came down from heaven, gathered up all the money from the offering plates and took it back with him to heaven.

I pictured the Jesus I saw in my Sunday school room: nice man with brown hair and a brown beard, looking beatific and kind, and posed with his arms outstretched in welcome. That is the Jesus I saw coming down from heaven – kindly, gentle smile, with his arms outstretched. And that is the Jesus I saw return to heaven – same smile, same arms outstretched, only know his arms were full of the money we gave because obviously money was needed in heaven. It was quite a while before I found another picture to replace that one.

First, this is a vivid example of why abstract concepts do not work with little kids who think in concrete terms. Second, without even realizing it, I had formed my own mental picture of Jesus ascending into heaven. My picture involved Jesus ascending on a weekly basis with his arms full of money, but still it was ascension.

This past Thursday was the Day of the Ascension. We do not put too much emphasis on this day in our tradition, but I know that Christians in other places do. In some countries, the Day of the Ascension is a religious holiday. This is the day that Jesus ascended into heaven, let us rejoice and be glad in it.

I doubt that the Ascension will ever take on quite the same importance in our culture, but that does not mean we shouldn’t give it any thought. It would be easy to get caught up in the literalness of the event – did Jesus zoom straight up? Did he just vanish or did the cloud act as cover? If it happened today, would Jesus have been picked upon radar or mistaken for a UFO? As with other supernatural happenings concerning Jesus, I don’t actually spend a lot of time worrying about the literalness of them. Whether Jesus literally soared up into the clouds or was no longer seen again, I think the ascension has a deeper significance than its logistics.

In our Christian narrative we tend to stop with the resurrection. Jesus was brutally crucified. He was willing to die for the truth he brought about God and God’s kingdom. He was willing to die for those around him and for us. But his resurrection from the dead changed everything. And it did. But in the ascension, we find completion. It is completion of Jesus’ life here on earth. It is the full circle – for Jesus. For the disciples, the ascension of Jesus is the beginning for them. Several commentators refer to the ascension as the “passing of the baton.” Jesus’ earthly life is finished, but the work he began is not. The gospel of good news about God’s love has to be shared. Jesus opened our eyes, our minds, our hearts to see the kingdom of God in our midst, but we now shoulder the responsibility to do the same for others.

Jesus’ words to the disciples were that they must “be my witnesses.” The power to do just that is what we celebrate next week. But Jesus’ command is clear, “Be my witnesses.” And just as in the stories of the resurrection, when Jesus is no longer in their sight, angels are. Two men dressed in white, appear to them. They ask one question, “men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been take up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

The men’s question focuses on the disciples looking up. But implied in their question – as I see it – is a second question. Why are you not looking out? Why aren’t you looking out into the world God created? Why aren’t you looking out at the people who are living in darkness, in fear, in sorrow, in hopelessness? Why are you looking up when you should be looking out?

One of the techniques I used for teaching confirmation classes in the past was to talk about the different aspects of our worship service. I know our virtual services are shortened, but the basic structure is still there. We gather and we call ourselves to worship. We hear the Word written and proclaimed. We respond in prayer and affirmation. We are sent. In my teaching, I tell folks, young and old, that the Word is the focal point of our reformed service. Everything builds up to it and everything moves from it. There is a lot of energy invested in getting to the Word. But I’ll be honest, whether we are worshipping in person or virtually, by the time we get to the sending part, I think we start losing steam.

We’re thinking about lunch. I’m usually vacillating between that was an okay sermon and that was the worst sermon I’ve ever preached. People want to stretch and move. Some of you at home are thinking about one more cup of coffee. Some of you at home are thinking about getting out of your pajamas – it’s okay, I get it. We just move through the sending part and consider our worship completed.

But the sending is not an afterthought. It is not just a nice way to finish worship and move on. The sending is as important and as crucial as every other moment in worship. Perhaps it is the most crucial. If we don’t take the sending seriously, I think we are just spending the majority of our time looking up, forgetting that we are also supposed to be looking out.

Right now, I feel like I’m spending much more time looking up than I am looking out. I’m looking up demanding answers to why, when, how long. I’m looking up imploring for help, for hope. I’m looking up in sorrow and lamentation. I’m looking up in frustration and even sometimes in despair. But these words from Acts and John too remind me that I need to refocus my gaze. I need to look out. Where am I being sent? How am I being sent? What does God need me, need us to do out there? Because there is a whole lot of need. There is a whole lot of sorrow. There is a whole lot of people who need the good news, who desperately crave, long for a word of hope, a word of peace, a word of love. There is a whole lot of folks out there who need us to look out and be for them, in any way we can, the love of God.

Because it was that love that brought Jesus into our midst and gathers us together. It is love that brings us to the Word. And it is that love, that life giving, life changing love that sends us out. So why are we still looking up?

Amen and amen.

Blessing of the Masks

From the beginning, God’s people have faced uncertainty. Whether it was wandering in the wilderness or existing in exile, God’s people have been called to adapt, to change, to grow and to trust. We find ourselves in a new kind of wilderness, in a time and place where what we once took for granted is no longer assured.

But God did not abandon his people in the wilderness or forget his children in exile, and we are not forgotten either. We ask for God’s blessings on these masks as a sign of our trust that God is still leading us, God is still calling us, God is still with us.

We wear these masks, not because we are fearful, but because we are faithful.

Bless these masks, O God.

We wear these masks because like the Good Samaritan, we want to love our neighbor: the neighbors we know and the neighbors we have yet to meet.

Bless our neighbors, O God.

We wear these masks because we are called to care for the least of these: the vulnerable and the elderly, the sick and the weak.

Bless the least of these, O God.

We wear these masks because we stand with those who care for us when we are sick, feed us when we are hungry, and for those who go to work so we can stay home.

Bless these essential workers, O God.

We wear these masks so that Christ may shine through us in tangible and real ways.

Bless these masks, O God.

God, who loved us first, commands us to love others. Even as we long for the day when we can lay these masks aside, we wear them now because we want to embody the love of God in both small ways and large. May God bless these masks, and may they be one sign of many of God’s kingdom come, God’s will be done. Amen.

©Amy Busse Stoker

Unknown and Known -- Sixth Sunday of Easter

Acts 17:22-31

May 17, 2020

            “Marco?!” “Polo!”

            “Marco?!” “Polo!!”

            “MARCO?!” “POLO!!!”

            When I was a kid, this was one of our favorite games to play in the pool during the summer. When I started taking my own kids to the pool in the summer, I taught it to them. Even today if Phoebe, Zach and I have a chance to go swimming together, we’ll end up playing Marco, Polo.            You know that game, don’t you? Whoever is designated as It must move around the pool with his or her eyes closed calling, “Marco.” The others that are hiding from It have to respond, “Polo.”

            My kids and I played Marco Polo a lot. And to keep the peace between the two of them, I would get the ball rolling by voluntarily being It first. That meant that I spent a great deal of time splashing around the pool with my eyes closed and my hands out, groping blindly for my kids, and hoping I didn’t tag someone else’s child or another parent in the process.

            This was the image that came to my mind when I read these words of Paul’s sermon to the Athenians from our passage in Acts. Paul saw the Athenians as people stumbling around in the dark, groping for the God that they did not yet know.

            Our passage from Acts this morning starts in the middle of the story. Paul is in Athens, that we know, and he is in front of the Aeropagus, which is an outcropping of rocks just below the Parthenon. This was a place where trials were traditionally held. Was Paul on trial? Not necessarily, but in the verses before we read that Paul and some others had caused an uproar in Thessalonica with his preaching of the gospel. Then he went to Beroea, where the same thing happened, and now followers have gotten Paul safely to Athens. There he waits for Timothy and Silas to join him. While he waits, he walks around the city and as the text says, “he was deeply distressed to see that the city was full of idols.”

            Paul did what he had been doing all along. He talks to people in the marketplace, the Plaka, to Jews and others about the gospel. He tells them the good news of the resurrection. Some people believed him. Others called him a babbler. They thought he was pitching foreign gods. Now Athens was a city of philosophy. And Paul debated with some of the leading Epicurean and Stoic philosophers.

            It was these people who brought him to the Aeropagus. It was not because they wanted to put him on trial, necessarily, but they wanted to hear more about this new teaching, this new thing that sounded so strange to them.

I don’t want to take us down an unnecessary rabbit hole, but it might be a good idea to understand a little more about Epicureans and Stoics. They were not atheists. They believed that the gods existed. Epicureans were hedonists. But not in the way we tend to understand hedonists. They were not the drunken, toga wearing gluttons ala Animal House kind of hedonists. Epicureans believed that the only thing that was intrinsically good was pleasure. That which increased pleasure was good, that which decreased it was bad. Pleasure and pain came in both mental and physical form, and to Epicureans there were two types of acute mental pain: fear of the gods and fear of death. Epicureans did not believe that the gods intervened in human life. The gods were set apart from humans on a completely different realm, indifferent to humanity and all of its ills. The Epicureans were materialists; they believed that everything down to the smallest atom, including humans, was made up of matter. Matter does not have an eternal soul. So when we die, we are dead. The point was why fear gods who were indifferent to humans, and why fear death when it was a complete end? There would be no punishment in some life after this one. Live for today and live in simple moderation and tranquility.

            The Stoics valued reason. They believed that the universe was based on reason and rationality. The Stoics, like the Epicureans, believed that tranquility and peace of mind were the foundation of happiness. That tranquility and peace of mind came from reason governing our desires, self-control. The universe was based on Divine Law, and Divine Law was grounded in reason. Therefore, there was no point in getting bent out of shape over anything because everything was happening as it should. Imagine a dog being tied behind a moving cart. The universe is the moving cart and humanity is the dog. If we fight against the rope tying us to the cart; if we chew and pull and resist, then we are going to be miserable. But if we resign ourselves to follow along behind the cart, trusting that the cart is moving according to reason then we will not expend our precious energy on useless resistance and struggle. The cart is reasonable and rational, and we just need to accept that it is going where it should.

            Paul walked into this philosophical melting pot and did what Paul did so well. He used his significant rhetorical skills and his ability to speak from the place where his audience lived – physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

            “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way.”

            That’s a way to win friends and influence people. Paul goes on to say,

            “For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he

served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things.”

            It is as if Paul was saying, look friends, I know how religious you are. I know you believe. But that unknown god? Let me tell you, that god is the God, capital G. That God is known and here. I know that God. And I know that God and you know that God because all creation, this earth that we live on, this world we inhabit, all that was made by this known God. Paul even goes on to quote what was most likely a Stoic poet,

            “In him we live and move and have our being.”

            Then Paul tells them that this God who created everything cannot be recreated through human imagination, even the best of human imagination. God cannot be found in gold or silver or stone. God was found, God is found in the One whom God raised from the dead. Up until this moment, Paul had not even mentioned Jesus. Still, he does not mention Jesus by name. But he speaks of the resurrection. He speaks of God Incarnate, God who was born, God who died, God who rose from the dead.

            As so often happened (and happens), the resurrection was the wall that some folks ran into headlong. In that crowd were Stoics and Epicureans, people who believed that dead was dead, and the universe was a rational cart leading us along on a reason-lined trajectory. Resurrection was too much, too irrational, too unreasonable, too upside down, too illogical, too much. It was the inner spirit that counted, not the finite matter. Again, we stop reading before the story is finished. Some people scoffed at this idea of what was dead being alive again. Paul, this babbler, was preaching about a God who embraced not only the spirit, but the flesh, the body. This God Paul preached of loved the body enough to resurrect it. How irrational? How strange? But some listened. Some wanted to know more. And some believed. Some, perhaps those who had been groping for God the longest, realized that the unknown god was truly the known God; the God who knew them.

            It seems to me that all of us, no matter how long or short our personal story of faith is, spend time groping. We stumble around, hands outstretched, trying to find God, trying to know God. Perhaps, as Paul suggested, the desire to know God, to search and even grope for God, is an intrinsic part of our very being, our very creation.

            Maybe this time is a time of groping, stumbling, reaching; maybe this is a time when the whole world is searching to know – not just anything – but to know God. The good news is that even when we are unsure, even when we feel we don’t know, God knows us. We are known. That is where our hope lies, that is the good news. We are known by our known, creating, loving, resurrecting, embodied, God.

            Amen and amen.

Troubled Hearts -- Fifth Sunday of Easter

John 14:1-14

May 10, 2020

            Troubled hearts. Sometimes words or phrases resonate with me, but these two particular words rang out in my head and my heart like a gong or giant clanging cymbals. My heart feels exceedingly troubled in these days, so I tried to list out some of the reasons for this.

            What troubles my heart these days?

·         Is it that in so many ways things look normal outside, but in reality what we thought was normal is long gone?

·         Is my heart troubled because a store security guard, who was doing his job, asked a customer to wear a mask and was shot and killed?

·         Is it because in two months more Americans have died due to Covid-19 than in the Vietnam War? And is it because we don’t seem interested in memorializing or grieving for these people on a large scale? Weren’t they our brothers and sisters? Weren’t they our neighbors? Even if we don’t know them. When will we lament them?

·         Is my heart troubled because when people die, so many die alone, family unable to be with them, to hold their hands, to say goodbye, because of this rotten, stinking virus?

·         Is it because so many people are out of work, and even with public spaces slowly reopening again, people are going to remain out of work?

·         Is it because in many ways I am grieving over what we have lost, as a community, as a nation, as a world?

·         What troubles my heart? Is it my sense of powerlessness, and helplessness in the face of something that is still so unknown and unpredictable?

·         Is it because I know that no matter how hard I try, I still cannot fully embrace the gospel of radical love that broke through the darkness with the birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ? Deep down, I still have a hard time with that radical love, because it calls me to love not just the people I am inclined to love, but to love the ones that I am disinclined to love. It calls me to be a neighbor to people I don’t like, and radically disagree with. It calls me to give and live sacrificially even for people who don’t appreciate it or care all that much.

·         I know that my heart is troubled because I stand in opposition to that gospel more often than I care to admit. I push back against that gospel, against that kind of love. It frustrates me and challenges me, and even when I do sometimes rise to the challenge, it is with great kicking and screaming. It troubles my heart. It all troubles my heart.

These words of Jesus to his disciples are part of what scholars and commentators call his Farewell Discourse. We most often hear them at our funerals, our witnesses to the resurrection. That is when I have spoken them the most often, when I am trying to give comfort to people who are grieving. One writer commented that most of us pastors speak these words to people at the edge of another’s grave, but Jesus was speaking them at the edge of his own grave. So if the disciples had some inkling of what was really about to happen, it is easy to understand why their hearts were troubled indeed.

John’s gospel gives the disciples the biggest benefit of the doubt. In other words, he cuts them the most slack for their lack of understanding, their inability to fully grasp who Jesus was and what he was there for. But in this passage in John’s gospel, the disciples seem bewildered and confused at best. When Jesus says,

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself. So that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.”

I’ll be honest. John wrote beautiful prose, but the meaning of each phrase, each word sometimes, is so layered and deep, that when I hear it or read it, I have to think and think and think some more about what is actually being said. So it is no surprise to me at all that Thomas responded to Jesus by saying,

“Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

I get Thomas’ consternation and I get the disciples’ confusion. Their teacher was leaving them. He made no bones about it. He was leaving them. And they were afraid and disappointed and confused and anxious and sad and grieving. Their hearts were troubled.

But Jesus was reassuring them. He was reassuring them, that they did know the way. They knew where he was going, because they had been with him for three years. They had learned from him, walked with him, watched him, been challenged by him, been taught by him, witnessed what he had done. They had stayed with him, which in John’s gospel is not about a place, but about relationship

Because they had been in relationship with him, they had been in relationship with God his Father. While he was going to his heavenly home, and they could not go with him, they were not being left abandoned or alone. In the verses after the ones we read today, Jesus promises them the Holy Spirit. But even before they hear about this Advocate, they are receiving the promise of presence, of ongoing relationship.

As I said earlier, we most often hear these words at funerals. We hear these words about many dwelling places, many rooms, and we think of a heavenly kingdom that is roomy and wide and welcoming. But Jesus talked often about how with his coming, the kingdom of heaven had come to earth. And I wonder, if Jesus was also trying to tell about making room here and now for all of God’s children. I wonder if Jesus was not trying to tell them that being in relationship with God was not exclusive to them, but an invitation for all.

I wonder if Jesus was exhorting them to understand that the kingdom of heaven on this earth is roomy and welcoming and here. Their hearts were troubled, but Jesus wanted them to see that death could not end their relationship with him, and through him, with God. They would still stay with God, and others would be invited to come and stay as well. God was making room.

God was making room, so we must do our best to make room for others too. I read a story about an elementary school teacher in Connecticut who made room. A mother of one of her students called in distress. She had Covid-19 and she was going to have an emergency C section. She needed the teacher to call her husband and tell him. The family are recent immigrants and English is their second language. The teacher called the husband and he gave her permission to act as a go between with the hospital. The mother gave birth five weeks early. The baby was in neonatal ICU and the mother was in a coma for three weeks. If that were not hard enough, the older son, the teacher’s student and his dad had to quarantine for two weeks. But the baby was supposed to leave the hospital. Where would he go? The teacher made room for him. She took him home. She told the father that she realized he barely knew her, and it was understandable if he did not fully trust her, but she would make room for that baby until they could take him home. She would make room. And she did. And she cared for the baby until he could go home to his family, safely and securely.

When I read a story like this, the trouble in my heart diminishes. Because, in spite of everything, people are still making room for others, for strangers, for friends, for neighbors, for family. And God makes room for us, for all of us. So let not our hearts be troubled. Believe in God. Believe in Jesus. There is room. There is room for all.

Amen and amen.

           

Shepherd -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

John 10:1-10

May 3, 2020

I have been noticing more lately. I think that has been one of the gifts that this time has given me. I am not as distracted by the constant motion of the world around me, so I take time to look and watch and observe. Maybe because I have more time to do that, I’ve been trying harder to pay better attention to the world around me. And the world around me is quite lovely. One daily joy that we have at our house is watching the birds come to the feeder on our deck. Not only is it fun to see the different kinds of birds, but I love observing their different personalities and behaviors. And there is spectacular scenery on the drive here. One thing we look for is the flock of sheep that pastures on a hill. The hill is along the Lewisburg Highway, so when we get off the interstate to head into Pulaski, we start looking for the sheep.

It’s really exciting when we see them. It is for me anyway. Bucolic is not a word I have reason to use very often, but these sheep grazing on the hillside is a bucolic scene. It is a pastoral scene. And, well, I’m a pastor, so seeing these sheep on Sunday mornings is a good reminder of how prominent shepherds and sheep are in our scripture.

Jesus said, “I am the Good Shepherd.”

But he actually said that in the verses immediately following our passage today. It’s easy in our minds to add that statement in to the verses we read from John’s gospel this morning. But in reality, Jesus was talking more about the sheep than the shepherd, and the gate.

I don’t know much about sheep other than they come in flocks and they look pretty on a hillside. But colleagues of mine do know about sheep, and I’ve been learning from them.

With all due respect to them, sheep are not the brightest of God’s creatures. They have a talent for wandering off the path and stumbling into trouble. From what I have been told, they can be stubborn. They are determined to go their own way, even if that way leads to danger. They need a shepherd. But they need a shepherd who will care for them, watch over them and lead them, as the psalm says, to green pastures and beside still waters and through danger, enemies and death’s valley. Yet, if that good shepherd isn’t to be found, then sheep will follow whatever shepherd happens to be around. Sometimes a sheep will follow the sheep in front of it, without paying too much attention to the shepherd. So let’s hope the sheep in the front is following a good one.

What I’ve learned from my pastoral – literally pastoral – sheep tending, church leading colleagues, is that sheep are good animals, but kind of dumb, stubborn and need a shepherd. And in this passage Jesus refers to his followers as his sheep. His sheep need a shepherd.

If you don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the implications of this imagery, it is charming. But as another pastor said in our lectionary group last week, it is charming because we have sanitized this passage. We see it like I see those sheep grazing on the hillside on the way to church. Lovely, rustic, pastoral, a sweet scene as we drive by. But stop, get up close to them, and well, there’s manure. And the sheep smell like … sheep.

And if we are sheep, and we look at the reality of sheep, this passage loses some of its charm. It is not necessarily flattering to be called a sheep. I suspect it may have been jolting for those listening to Jesus to hear this, and it is not any easier in our context today. In our culture, we don’t want to be compared to sheep either. To be called a sheep feels like we have no imagination, no ability to think for ourselves. Who wants to be just another person in the crowd? Who wants to be just one more sheep in the flock, blindly going where everyone else is going, without much thought for anything else but where the next meal might be?

But was Jesus trying to insult the people who followed him, who clamored for him, who heard his voice? No. Jesus was not referring to people as sheep as a way to say that they were dumb or unimaginative or without individuality. I think Jesus spoke of a shepherd and sheep because he knew how easy it was, how easy it is, for us to get lost, to be blind to the dangers around us. This passage follows the story of Jesus healing the blind man. And if you think about that story, you have to wonder who was really blind? The man who was healed from a lifelong physical blindness, or the religious leaders and authorities who could not accept what was right in front of their eyes?

No, Jesus spoke of sheep and shepherd because he knew that our tendency as humans is to warp unity into mindless uniformity. He knew that we do tend to latch onto the wrong kinds of leaders, false shepherds if you will. He knew that we get stubborn and lose our way and stumble into danger. He knew that we forget that we are not the only flock. There are lots of flocks, and he is their shepherd too. Whether we like it or not.

But Jesus did not describe himself as the shepherd only. When the disciples, these fishermen who dealt with watery matters not pastoral ones, did not understand his words. He said,

“Very truly I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.”

            “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come and go out and find pasture.”

            A gate opens for the flock to come into the fold for shelter and safety. A gate opens out for the sheep to go to the pasture. A gate both welcomes and sends. The sheep who hear Jesus’ voice, who hear the voice of their shepherd, who recognize it and follow, come through this gate. This gate opens and ushers in life, abundant life.

            It seems to me that this is the crux of Jesus’ words, of his metaphors and figurative speech. It is to help those who hear his voice understand that through him, because of him, they will have abundant life. And it isn’t just about abundant life eternal, it is about abundant life now. Right now, here and now. Abundance is not reserved just for the life after this one. It is for now. Through Jesus, our gate, our shepherd, we are able to have abundance: abundance of love, abundance of joy, abundance of grace, of hope, of purpose, if only we hear his voice, if only we follow our shepherd.

            Amen and amen.