From the Heart

 

Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

August 29, 2021

 

            Since I decided to give my sermon the title, “From the Heart,” I thought it would be a good idea for me to do a little review work on the actual human heart. It’s been a few years since my 10^th grade biology class, and I didn’t pay as much attention in that class as I should have, so I knew I needed to brush up on the actual structure of the human heart.

            The most fundamental fact about the heart as I understand it is that the heart is a muscle. That is why cardio exercise is essential for heart health. It’s probably also why it’s called cardio. Cardio exercise raises our heart rate. It works and strengthens the heart muscle.

            Every person’s heart is about the size of his or her fist. It beats approximately 60 to 80 times per minute, and it beats about 100,000 times each day. The heart is a pump. It has four chambers, two ventricles, and two atria. There are arteries and valves and while the process is complicated and beyond my ability to understand, the simple point of the heart is to keep our blood pumping and circulating. When the heart stops pumping, everything else stops as well.

            Now that I am firmly entrenched in middle age, learning, and relearning these basics about the human heart, has made me recommit myself to taking better care of my heart for as long as I can.

            The human heart is the primary muscle that keeps us alive, but often when we talk about the heart, we endow it with much greater meaning than its physiological importance. The heart is not only the vital muscle in our chest, it is also the center of our being. Scientifically speaking, our emotions are neurological responses in our brains, but we understand them, we see them as being centered here in our hearts rather than here in our heads.

            Think about how many songs you hear on an average day that has to do with the heart. There are songs about heartbreaks, heartaches, hearts down and out for the count, hearts filled with love, hearts rising above. At one time I found a list of 124 songs that have heart in the title. These were from both pop and country, which means there is no way this an exhaustive list because there are so many genres of music, and every genre has songs about the heart. From hip hop to opera, the heart is a major theme in our music and in our culture.

            My heart could keep going for another 40 years, but no matter how much longer I live I’ll never forget the first time I fell in love and my heart soared. I’ll also never forget the first time my heart was really broken. My actual heart was not broken, obviously, but that metaphysical heart at the center of our being was. That metaphysical heart of mine was beaten up and tossed aside.

Our heart features in our understanding of God and faith. As I have said in other sermons, a vivid memory from my earliest days in Sunday School is the picture of Jesus standing outside a door and knocking. That was Jesus at the door of our hearts, knocking, waiting, wanting, hoping to be let in. We invest the human heart with a much larger meaning and purpose than the center of our circulatory system.

            Because of our complex understanding of the heart, I chose to look most carefully at the last of Jesus’ words to the Pharisees in this passage from Mark’s gospel.

            “It is what comes out of a person that defiles. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”

            This passage begins with certain Pharisees challenging Jesus about his disciples’ flaunting of tradition. They did not do the ritual cleansing of their hands or their cookware before they ate. This practice was not so much about hygiene or sanitary practices as it was tradition. It was a ritual of spiritual cleanliness, and it was a tradition of the elders. To eat something with unclean hands or that was not prepared in properly cleaned pots was to be physically and spiritually defiled. It made them impure before God. But Jesus and the disciples turn this tradition on its head, so the Pharisees and the Scribes question Jesus. They confront him with what seems to be an obvious and flagrant breaking of the Law.

            Whenever Jesus was challenged, he was not afraid to challenge back. In our passage he quoted scripture, specifically the prophet Isaiah.

            “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.”

            In other words, Jesus told the Pharisees and the Scribes that their tradition had become empty ritual. He did not say that tradition was wrong or that it had no purpose, but he challenged them on their motivation for keeping the tradition. If they were supposedly doing it to honor God, then they were honoring God in name only. Their hearts were not in it. And in the part of the story, we are focusing on today, Jesus debunked their understanding of the tradition in the first place. It is not what goes into us that defiles. No food that we eat, no washing ritual that we undergo will make us clean or unclean. The source of defilement is not outside of ourselves. It is within us. It is within our hearts.

            Matt Skinner, professor of New Testament at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a primary contributor to WorkingPreacher.org, said that this is the most straightforward part of this passage. Jesus tells those questioning him and us, succinctly, where evil comes from. That is the good news. The bad news is that it comes from us. It comes from the people I don’t much care for, which I have no problem whatsoever believing. But it also comes from the people I love, which is a lot harder to bear. Hardest of all to accept, it comes from me. It comes from the heart.

            Whether we choose to believe that our hearts breed avarice and murder and hatred, etc. or not, one point is dramatically driven home. Jesus calls for self-examination. We must look inside ourselves for the source of what is bad and wrong in our lives and in our world. No matter how much I would like to believe the opposite, all that is bad and wrong with our world does not just come from out there somewhere. It is not all separate from myself.

            It may sound as though Jesus was condemning the human heart to total depravity, but I do not believe he was implying that nothing good comes from the heart. Our greatest and most powerful impulses for goodness, for kindness, for love, come from our hearts. But Jesus was making clear to the Pharisees that they had invested more in tradition than they had in the actual word of God. They used tradition as a shield against what they saw as outside evil forces. They used their tradition as a weapon against others, against outsiders. It seems to me that it was tradition and their understanding of it, their using of it, that closed their hearts to God and to God’s people.

            As I said earlier, there is no indication that Jesus believed all tradition was bad. There is no reason for us not to believe that Jesus also adhered to traditional dietary laws. But following the Law never stood in Jesus’ way when it came to love – loving God and loving neighbor. The Law never stood in Jesus’ way from calling on everyone who would listen to examine their own hearts, to consider how what was in their own hearts differed from what was spoken from their lips, how what was in their hearts differed from their actions, from how they sought to live.

            Jesus stood in the tradition of the prophets, who called the people of God to give God their hearts. That’s what God wants – more than anything – is our hearts. And it seems to me that this what Jesus is trying to make the religious leaders, and any who would listen, understand. It is about our hearts. And it is from our hearts that what is good and what is bad flows. So, we need to consider, we need to examine our hearts.

            Every aspect of our worship should make us examine what is in our hearts, but there is one part in our worship service where we are called to do that specifically, and that is in our corporate prayer of confession. In the midst of all that happens in our worship service, it is easy to read the words of this prayer but not use them to think honestly about what lies in our own hearts. So, I thought it might be helpful if I read a well—known prayer of confession now. It is not the one we read earlier. And while I read it, let the words of the prayer not only reach your minds, let it touch your hearts, let it call forth for all of us what comes from our hearts.

            Merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart and mind and strength. We have not loved our neighbor as ourselves. In your mercy, forgive what we have been, help us amend what we are, and direct what we shall be, that we may delight in your ways to the glory of your holy name.

            What comes from our hearts? What do we hold there? Is it love, compassion, kindness, faithfulness, hopefulness? Or does anger, envy, and bitterness come from our hearts? What comes from our hearts not only this morning but every day? What comes from our hearts? Trust that God knows our hearts, all that is good in them and all that is not. Trust that God is working on us, day by day, forgiven what we have been, amending what we are, and directing what we shall be. And that is the good news. That is the good news.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

Wise Up

 

Ephesians 5:15-20

August 15, 2021

             My dad was the Executive Director of the American Lung Association in Tennessee. What that means is that I grew up surrounded by a wealth of information on the dangers of smoking. Christmas Seals and everything they represented were a fundamental part of my world.

When I was four years old, I was in a public service announcement for Christmas Seals. I remember it because my job on camera was to sit and play with two toys, while Whispering Bill Anderson, who was the state chairman that year, talked about the importance of Christmas Seals and the Lung Association and keeping children safe. I was allowed to keep the toys.

My mother will tell you about the first time the two of us took a plane trip together. This was back in the days when you could smoke anywhere, including airport terminals. I would see someone smoking, and before my mom could stop me, I would go up and tell them that the cigarette they were smoking would eventually make their lungs sick and they would die.

            Like I said, I was surrounded by information on the dangers of smoking. The knowledge that smoking was a dangerous habit was part of the air that I breathed, no pun intended. So, guess what I did when I was a teenager?

            I started smoking.

            Because even though I had all the knowledge about the dangers of smoking, that knowledge didn’t stand a chance against my desire to look cool, to be cool, and to hang out with the cool kids. It didn’t stand a chance against peer pressure, and my friends who smoked and did cool things like blow smoke rings. So, I decided to give smoking a try.

            I remember when I learned to inhale. My friend had given me some of her cigarettes on the sly. It was a warm night, and the darkness kept me hidden from eyes that might report to my parents what I was doing. I walked up and down our street, puffing on a cigarette, practicing inhaling the smoke and blowing it out again in a “cool” way. Even if I would not have had the knowledge about smoking that I did, you would think that doing something that made me so sick to my stomach and lightheaded and dizzy would have clued me in to the fact that this might not be the best habit to pick up. But, like I said, my knowledge could not stand up to the pressure I felt to be cool. I look back on it now and know that nothing about smoking was cool. But you could not have convinced me of that then. It’s been many, many years since I smoked, and it was giving up smoking that finally solidified my knowledge into wisdom. I had to finally wise up and say that starting smoking was one of the dumbest things I had ever done.

            I told my kids that message about smoking repeatedly when they were growing up, hoping against hope that they would learn from my mistake rather than make that specific mistake on their own. But that’s the thing about knowledge versus wisdom – we can have all the knowledge in the world, but wisdom comes from experience. And it seems that human nature dictates that we gain our wisdom not so much from watching the mistakes of others, but by making our own. That is, we gain wisdom if we learn from the mistakes we make.

            Wisdom is where we are today. But what is wisdom, exactly? Is it just confined to what we learn from our experiences? Is it a synonym for knowledge, or are the two different? In the passage we read from I Kings, the Lord visits the newly ascended Solomon in a dream and asks Solomon what God should give him. Unlike what other young and inexperienced kings might have asked for, Solomon does not request wealth or power. Solomon asks instead for an “understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil;”

Solomon realizes just how young and inexperienced he is, and that being the ruler of God’s people will take more than power or riches. So, Solomon requests wisdom. The Lord grants him his request. 

            In our passage from Ephesians, we continue to explore the new life we have in Christ and the new rules for living that this life requires. It seems to me that this new living and its new rules require wisdom to accomplish.

            “Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish but understand what the will of the Lord is.”

            Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise.

            One commentator that I studied said that the Greek verb for live also implies walking. Be careful then how you walk, not as unwise people but as wise. How do you walk wisely? Well, when I was walking up and down my street learning to inhale a cigarette, that was some rather unwise walking. I suspect that the point Paul was trying to make to the church in Ephesus is not just about literal walking, but about spiritual walking as well. And spiritual walking is learning that life is filled with temptations and trials. We pray about those very things every week in the Lord’s prayer. But a true temptation disguise itself as good, doesn’t it? My wanting to be cool, to be liked, to be in the in crowd sounds foolish and vain to my ears now, but it didn’t when I was a teenager. If I could be liked and accepted, I thought, how much better my life would be. How easy it was to think that smoking would make me accepted, rather than realize who I was should be reason enough to be accepted. But that’s where wisdom comes in. My knowledge about the dangers of smoking should have told me that there was nothing cool about it, but it took years and living to find the wisdom to realize my knowledge was correct.

            Wisdom that came from life and learning taught me that lesson that knowledge and wisdom don’t always go together; I’m still learning that lesson. I had a lot of knowledge, but very little wisdom. And therein lies the rub. Don’t get me wrong, I am not going to dismiss the necessity and the wondrousness –I mean that seriously – of gaining knowledge. The hardest and the most challenging and some of the best weeks of my life this past year have been the weeks when I have been in a seminar for my Doctor of Ministry program. I love to learn. I love being a student again. But what I learn in books does not necessarily translate into wisdom, and it certainly does not always translate into discernment. Because that is what I hear in this text.

We need to live wisely, walk wisely, following God, being filled with the Spirit and not getting filled with wine or anything that might distract us from giving thanks and praise to God. We need to walk wisely in this life, making the most of our days, and use our wisdom to discern what God is calling us to do, to be who God is calling us to be.

And in the midst of a world that is in absolute turmoil, we need wisdom more than ever. We need wisdom in our leaders – at every level. We need wisdom in our collective groups, such as our church family. We need to find the wisdom in ourselves, the wisdom that comes from our own lived experience. We need to pray for wisdom, just as Solomon did. We need to pray to find the wisdom to meet the pressing needs of our time.

As we were discussing these passages in our lectionary group this past week, someone brought up a prayer for wisdom – the Serenity Prayer.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

This is a contemporary adaptation of a prayer written by Reinhold Niehbur, and it is widely used in 12 step groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. I can imagine that a huge part of dealing with addiction is admitting that we are powerless to change some things. But give us courage to change that which we can, and the final point, the wisdom to know the difference. How much of my precious energy have I wasted trying to change what I cannot change? How much grief and anguish have I caused myself trying to change people and circumstances that I was powerless to change? How much better am I – spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally –when I find the courage to change only that which I can?

I’m getting a little bit wiser in discerning between the two, but it has taken me a lot of hard knocks to achieve this wisdom. I have tried and I have failed – again and again. And when I have crawled my way out of those failures, when I have gotten some distance from them, I have seen that what pulled me through in the end was grace. Grace. Grace from other people, grace from God, grace that I finally offered to myself.

One of the things that we don’t hear often about King Solomon is that he went on to mess up. He prayed for wisdom and God granted it. He showed wisdom in many of his decisions, but he also messed up and he messed up big. So, it seems to me that gaining wisdom is an ongoing process, it is a lifelong process. So, yes, let’s pray for it. Let’s work for it. Let’s live for it. What wisdom do we need to ask for this morning? What wisdom does the world need? And, what grace and compassion and forgiveness do we need to offer one another when we fail to walk wisely, when we fail to wise up?       

            I’ll probably spend the rest of my life seeking wisdom, seeking to be wise, but I know that in those fleeting moments when I am able to emulate Jesus, and love as he loves, then I am one step closer to the wisdom I seek. 

Let all God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

 

Hungry

 John 6:22-35

August 1, 2021

            “I’m not hungry, I’m bored. I’m not hungry, I’m bored.”

            Have any of you ever repeated that mantra to yourself? I have. Many times. Sometimes it works to convince me not to eat something that I really don’t need, physiologically, but oftentimes it doesn’t.

            This last year or so, I feel like I’ve spoken these words more often than usual. When we first went into lockdown, I made some grand promises to myself. I was going to work out every day. I was going to sit quietly and meditate every day. I was going to make nothing but healthy foods, and finally get a handle on the food demons that haunt me.

            That worked for about a month. And then I found myself pulling down the brownie mix I had on hand for when company came and baking it just because. Even my grocery shopping changed in this past year. I have never bought so many bags of chips when we weren’t having a party. I didn’t buy them just for me, let me make that clear, but for all four of us living in the house. They became a staple comfort food. Comfort being the key word here. When the whole world was turned upside down, and we were trying to figure out how to survive in this new reality, comfort became extremely important. We wanted comfort and, for a lot of us, that comfort came in the form of food.

            And I know I’m not alone in this. I saw a post on social media from the actor Will Smith. You know Will, the former Prince of Bel Air, who has played everything from the guy who kicks the hind quarters of aliens in Men in Black and Independence Day to the king of boxing in Ali. Mr. Smith, like many of us, spent a long time this past year, grazing, and he has gotten a wee bit out of shape in the process. So, to keep himself accountable and real, he posted his before picture on social media and pictures of himself once more hitting the gym and working out to recover from his time seeking comfort in food. Seriously, if Will Smith has struggled with eating for comfort this past year, then I don’t feel quite so bad that I have too.

            I’m not hungry, I’m just bored!

            I suspect, however, that eating for comfort rather than sustenance was not an issue for most people in Jesus’ context and culture. I suspect that they did not take food for granted, because it was something that could be in relatively short supply without much warning. I suspect that many of the people who followed Jesus, who flocked to Jesus, who listened to his words and wondered at his ways, knew what it meant to be hungry, really, deeply, sustainably hungry. They knew what it meant to be hungry in ways that I never have and most likely never will.

            So, when they hear Jesus talking about the bread of heaven, when they hear him say that they should work not for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, they want to know more. Just like the woman at the well wanted to know more about this living water, so she would not have to haul buckets back and forth to the well anymore, these people want to know about this bread that endures. They wanted to know because they were hungry – hungry in their bellies and hungry in their hearts.

            After all, Moses gave their ancestors the manna from heaven when they were wandering lost and afraid in the wilderness. What will Jesus give them as a sign so that they can believe in him?

            Jesus tells them that it was not Moses who gave them the bread of heaven. It was God who gives them the bread of heaven.

            “The bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

            This must have sounded like the best news ever! Please give us this bread – always. Jesus responds,

            “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

            I wonder if Jesus was trying to get them to think about what they were really hungering for. What are you hungry for? What do you think will satisfy you in the long run? Are you only trying to fill your stomach, or are you hungering for something far deeper, more long-lasting?

            This is John’s gospel, so nothing is quite what it seems to be on a surface reading. John wrote in metaphors. Words always have layered meanings and deeper truths than what we might think at first. So, what was John’s Jesus trying to make the people understand about bread and hunger? What was he trying to make them see?

            Obviously, Jesus wanted them to accept and believe in who he was, his real truth, his fullness as the incarnate Son of God. He fed their bodies with the loaves and fishes, but he was also trying to feed their hearts, their minds, their spirits. I am the bread of life. If you come to me, if you believe in me, if you trust in me, you will never hungry, you will never be thirsty – not for the things that really matter.

            But I think one of the problems we mortals have is that we get confused about what really matters. When people are hungry, physically hungry, the most important thing is getting fed. I am listening to an audio book right, a novel called American Dirt about migrant, refugees from Mexico and Central America trying to make their way north. One of the main characters is an eight-year-old boy named Luca, who is fleeing Mexico with his mother because their entire family was brutally murdered by a cartel. He and his mother should have been murdered too, but they escaped, and now in this short time as migrants, Luca has learned that he can never turn down the gift of calories, because they don’t know when they will eat again.

            When people are hungry, physically hungry, it is hard to think past that gnawing ache to what they need for a deeper, more fulfilled life. But we who have probably more food available to us on a regular basis than we could ever need, have the luxury of thinking about something deeper.

            I suspect Jesus knew that people who were physically hungry needed physical bread in order to contemplate the spiritual bread he offered. They needed to be fed by him in order to truly be fed by him. But he also knew that even if they stomachs were satisfied, they would still need help to understand what he was offering, who he was, who he is. Because our stomachs may be full, but we still don’ t know what our hearts are hungry for. And even if we have a glimpse of recognition of what Jesus is truly offering, even if we, like the people, ask for that eternal bread for always, it’s so easy to believe that there is other bread that will satisfy us more. Bread in the form of money or nice stuff or stability or retirement accounts. That’s all bread, but is it the bread that endures? Is that bread of life?

            What are we hungry for? Really? What do our hearts truly long for? What will feed us and sustain us and keep us?

            In a few minutes, we will gather around the table, and I will lift up the bread and repeat the words, “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven,” and we will eat together. So, I ask you now and in that moment to think about the hungers within you. What are you hungry for? What does your soul long for? And as you eat the bread, remember the One who is the bread of life, who is the bread that satisfies our souls. Remember him and then look at one another through this table where we gather. Look at one another as Christ looks at us – as God’s beloved children, each of us, and give thanks for one another. Give thanks for this bread of life. Give thanks for this nourishment which is now and which is eternal. Give thanks and let your hunger be appeased.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

What Kind of Power?

 

II Samuel 11:1-15, John 6:1-21

July 25, 2021

 

            My first call was as an Associate Pastor in Rockville, Maryland. I started there in the summer of 1995, after I graduated from seminary. It was a whirlwind time. I graduated. Went through the process of accepting a call and being dismissed from my home presbytery. I said goodbye to friends. I found a place to live in Rockville, packed up my little campus apartment, moved and started at the church. I started sometime in July, and I was ordained in August.

            I remember vividly the first Sunday I was officially sitting at the front of the church with the head of staff, in my then new robe, and the head pastor introduced me again to the congregation and referred to me as “Pastor Busse.” For a split second I thought, “Why is he talking about my grampa? Why is he referring to Grampa Busse?”

            And then it hit me. No, I’m Pastor Busse. And I don’t know if my face reflected all of the emotions I was feeling in that moment or not, but I remember that I wanted to laugh, cry, get sick, and run away all at the same time. I remember thinking, “There’s still time to change my mind. I don’t have to do this. I’m not ordained yet.”

            That may strike you as an extreme reaction to a simple title. But the Pastor Busse that was my grampa was a complex man. Everything he did and said and preached and taught was weighted with authority. He knew, or believed he knew, who was in and who was out when it came to God. I went to one of his Bible studies when I was 15 and it terrified me. Grampa Busse, that Pastor Busse, had authority and power. I did not.

            So, to hear myself referred to as Pastor Busse came with a whole heap of associations that even three years of school and a year-long internship did not make me feel prepared for. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that mantle of authority to be placed on my shoulders. I wasn’t ready for it at all.

            You may have guessed already that I did not run away. I didn’t change my mind. I didn’t get sick while sitting in front of the congregation, and as far as I know I didn’t cry in front of them either. Although, it’s highly possible I went home and cried later. I got ordained later that summer, and in that service a stole was put around my neck, symbolizing my call to be a servant of Christ, a preacher and proclaimer of the gospel. And I have realized in the years since, that having that stole put around my neck symbolized the authority that was vested in me as that preacher and proclaimer of the gospel. Because preachers are invested with authority, whether we like it, feel it, acknowledge it or not.

            In all these years, no matter how much experience I have gained through a few successes and a lot of failures, I still struggle with that invested authority. I still struggle with the weight of that symbol. It seems to declare much more authority and knowledge than I actually feel most days. And part of the reason why I struggle with it, is because I know that with authority comes power. When I was in seminary, we were taught often about the fiduciary responsibility we owed to our parishioners.

            Fiduciary has a financial meaning to it, but in the context of ministry it also speaks to our responsibility to people’s faith. The Hippocratic Oath that doctors take is to do no harm. The vows that ordained elders, both teaching and ruling, suggest the same. To me it is about remembering that with the authority that is invested in me, whether I believe that authority to be true or not, is about having a certain amount of power, and doing my best not to abuse or misuse it.

            David did not understand that to be his charge, apparently. I often hear people try to weep this incident with Bathsheba under the rug. David is still God’s beloved, they say. It was an unfortunate incident, but that didn’t change David’s standing with God or anyone else. He was still the greatest king of Israel there ever was. But I don’t buy that, and I don’t buy it because the text does not buy it. The text does not make excuses for David. It does not let him off the hook. From the very beginning of the story, David is not where he should be. It was the springtime when kings went out to battle. But where was David? Not in battle. Not leading his troops. Not commanding his army. I’m not trying to justify war here, but if there was war, David should have been at the front, at the head, leading, doing what a king was supposed to do. Except he wasn’t. His army was in battle, and he stayed behind, and maybe had he been where he should have been, the rest of the story might not have happened. But he was not it, and it did.

            He abused his power with Bathsheba, and it was a flagrant abuse of power. David was king and would have had more power than anyone else, and Bathsheba was a woman with little or no power. Not only did he cause harm to her, he had her husband murdered to cover up his own terrible sin. David may not have killed Uriah directly, but he still had blood on his hands. As one commentator wrote, no mob boss could have done it better.

            Yet this morning we have two stories before us. The story of David is disturbing and triggering and painful. It is a cautionary tale of the corruptive influence power has. And then we have this story from John’s gospel. A story of Jesus and his power, which stands in stark relief to the power David wielded. Jesus proves his power in the feeding of thousands of people from the meager offering of one boy. He proves his power by walking on the water toward his disciples caught in a strong wind on a rough sea.

            Neither act of power was for show. They were done for the nourishment of the people, for the reassurance of his closest followers, and these acts of power was proven not by what he did, but by what he didn’t do. After the feeding, the people wanted to make him king, and he ran away from them. The people were going to take him by force if necessary and coerce him to be king, but Jesus would have none of it. He went away to a mountainside by himself to prevent the crowds from trying to take him. An earthly king was not the kind of power that Jesus was going to wield.

            So, what kind of power does Jesus have, what kind of power does Jesus use? I realize that there is debate in all four stories of Jesus feeding the crowds as to whether it is a purely supernatural event or that when people saw the baskets of food going around, that they suddenly remembered they had some bread or fruit with them as well, and they were moved to share. Jesus’ willingness to be generous, to feed so many thousands of hungry people, and people being inspired by that to do the same is certainly one kind of miracle. But Jesus supernaturally making the loaves and fishes multiply is another. I suspect that in John’s telling, it was the latter, but either way, Jesus uses his power not to coerce but to encourage, not to force but to feed.

            What kind of power does Jesus have? It seems to me that the ultimate answer to this question comes not from all of the miracles that Jesus performed or the healings that he did, but by what he didn’t do. He didn’t say “no” to the cross. He did not say “no” to the path of suffering servant. He showed his greatest power by giving up all his power.

            If Jesus could feed five thousand with a meager number of loaves and fishes, and if he could walk on water, if someone could be healed just be touching his robe, if he could bring the dead from the tomb into new life, then certainly Jesus had the power to save himself. But he didn’t. He didn’t. He refused to be a worldly king. He never veered from the path that led straight to the cross. He willingly laid down his power, and chose death, so that the world might finally understand life.

            Look, power is a tricky thing. If given the power David had, would I use it wisely or would I abuse it? I don’t know, because as a human, I fall and mess up and make mistakes and have to deal with their consequences. As do all of you. As do all of us. That’s the challenge of being human. And no matter how much authority we’re given or think we have, we still fail and fall and struggle with the temptation that power brings. And Jesus, both fully human and fully divine, faced those same struggles. He faced those same temptations. Maybe one of the reasons he withdrew from the crowds is because he knew that being a king would be too tempting, even for him. Jesus understood both the advantages and the dangers of power, and in the end, he taught the world what real power is.

            That real power is the power of sacrificial love. It is the power of compassion for people who are hungry, hungry for food and hungry for truth. It is the power of trust in God and God’s wisdom. Jesus taught us what real power is, and the power that he was privy to can be ours as well. Perhaps we cannot change a meager amount of food into a great feast, but we can come together in love. We can feed the hungry and be compassionate to those who struggle. We can forgive and ask for forgiveness in return.

So, what do we do with our power? How do we use it? How do we not? What power do we have as a congregation to help our siblings beyond these doors? What kind of power do we have, and how will we use it for the good?

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

Skunks, God, and This Present Moment

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

                        Wendell Berry

 

            Early this morning, when the sky was beginning to lighten in the East, but dawn was not quite upon us, I was up, saying “good morning” to our cat, Jolene, and I happened to look out the window at our front yard. There, close to our front porch and right by my daughter’s car, was a strange looking critter. At first, I thought it was a cat or maybe a little dog. But the tail was so big and bushy, I thought that it could not possibly be a cat or dog. It was even bigger and fluffier than Jolene’s tail, and she has quite the floofy one.

             Something about that tail looked familiar. It looked like a skunk’s tail, but the tail and the back of the critter were so ghostly white, I didn’t think it could be. I thought skunks only looked one way. Of course, my knowledge of skunks comes primarily from Bugs Bunny and Pepe LePew. Don’t all skunks speak in a cheesy French accent and try to harass cats who, because of an unfortunate encounter with paint, look like skunks?

             Because I carry a small computer in my pocket in the form of a smart phone, I looked up different types of skunks. That was a skunk all right, and it was rooting and digging in our yard. I wasn’t sure what I needed to do. I went back to our room, tempted to wake up Brent, but thought better of it. In a few minutes the sky was completely light, and when I returned to the window the skunk was gone.

             Clearly, we need to make sure our home does not hold enticements for skunks, but I suspect that they will come around some no matter what we do. But while I was thinking about that skunk, I couldn’t help but think about this poem by Wendell Berry. It is a favorite poem of mine, and I often turn to it when I need a reminder about what matters in life and what does not. I doubt that little skunk was worried about grief or loss. Certainly, it would have been on alert for danger, and it has a magnificent defense system built into that bushy tail. But it was not having an existential crisis while it was digging for food. I’m pretty sure it was not questioning its purpose in the world or if anything it did had any real meaning. It was not worrying about the polarized state of politics or Covid or what kind of world its offspring would inherit. In other words, it was not worried about any of the things that I worry about on regular basis. It was just doing what skunks and other animals do – trying to find food and make it through another day.

             We are all creatures and creations of our God. Yes, even that skunk. But the difference between the skunk and other critters and us is that we can reason and think at higher levels. Most often, I would say that is a good thing. But there are times when my thinking and overthinking seems to cause more harm than good. There are times when my worries and anxieties about my life, my family’s life, our lives together, take hold of me and I find myself staring out the front window in the early hours of the morning instead of sleeping soundly. So, maybe there is a lesson to be learned from Berry’s poem and from that skunk – and other creatures too – maybe we need to learn just to be sometimes. We can call it being present in the moment or being still and at peace in the present, but whatever we call it, we need to find ways to practice it. At least I need to find those ways. Because spending too much time trying to gaze into the future, worrying about what may come, anticipating grief only serves to make me miss what is right in front of me.

             May all of us spend a little more time in the here and in the now, just being, present in the present. Thanks be to God for all of God’s creatures, even the skunks.

Only Believe

 

Mark 5:21-43

June 27, 2021

 

            In her novel, My Sister’s Keeper, author Jodi Picoult tells the story of parents, especially the mother, who are desperate to save their daughter, Kate. Kate was diagnosed with leukemia when she was only three, and her parents exhaust every possible treatment, every possible avenue trying to save her life. What Kate needs are stem cells, but her older brother is not a match. So, the parents consult with a genetic engineer and have another baby, genetically designed to match Kate’s stem cells. That baby is Anna, and the rest of the story centers around her desire to be her own person, not spare parts for Kate.

            But Anna was born as a desperate attempt to save Kate. She was conceived and delivered to be the miracle Kate needed. That’s how far her parents were willing to go to save their daughter, despite the consequences to their actions. Their desperation for their child drove them.

            Every month now I give myself a shot of a medicine that keeps my migraines at bay. I have to work myself up to the shot, mentally, and remind myself that the anticipation is far worse than the actual shot. But I do it, because before I started these injections, I would have migraines that would go on for three days. I would manage to reduce the pain for a while, only to have it return with a vengeance. I would do my best to function as normally as possible during these bouts. I have moderated session with a grueling migraine, cooked plenty of meals, kept the house up, and even stood in the pulpit and preached. But there were many times, the pain would get so bad, I would just want to do anything, anything to make it stop. There were times when the pain was so acute, if I had heard of a man wandering around town performing healings, I would have sought him out. I would have risked anything I had to risk if it would have made the pain go away. I was desperate to be healed.

            Desperation. That’s what our gospel lesson is filled with this week. Desperation. The woman who has been hemorrhaging for twelve years was desperate to find healing and relief, and Jairus was desperate to find healing for his young daughter. Jairus was a leader of the synagogue. He had standing in the community. It was probably far more shocking than we realize for him to seek out Jesus directly. There were plenty of people of less importance who would have gone to Jesus for him. But Jairus went to Jesus. Jairus fell down before him and begged for Jesus’ help. He was probably putting his reputation and religious career on the line by doing what he did, but he was so desperate I imagine all concern for dignity, reputation, and standing were forgotten. Jairus’ daughter – his little girl, his child – was deathly ill. He was willing to go to any length to save her. Jairus, a man of authority and power, was powerless before his daughter’s illness. In his helplessness, he was completely vulnerable and made himself more vulnerable still by rushing to Jesus for help. Jairus knew; he knew that if Jesus laid his hands on his daughter, she would be made well. So as soon as he saw Jesus he fell at the teacher’s feet and pleaded with him to come and heal his little girl. His actions show the depth of his desperation and his belief that Jesus could make his daughter well.

            As Jesus was making his way toward Jairus’ house, another person came to Jesus in desperate need; a woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years. Twelve years! She had been living with misery for as long as the little girl had been alive. There is no reason given for why this woman bled for so long, but we do know that she spent every cent she had on physicians and doctors. Yet none of them could make her well.  None of their treatments worked.  The text tells us that she had “endured much under many physicians.”  I suspect that means that she was given every test, every treatment, and every cure known to a doctor of that time. Still nothing worked. She had only grown steadily worse.

            When Jesus stepped into that crowd by the sea, this desperate unnamed woman knew that if she could only touch him, if she could just grasp his clothing for a fleeting second, she would be cured. All would be well.

            She did just that. I imagine it was her desperation that gave her the strength to push through that large crowd. Being ill for so long, she must have been anemic and weak. But her desperation and her belief that Jesus could heal her gave her the strength and the courage she needed to make her way through that crowd and touched Jesus’ cloak before the throngs of people surged against her, pushing her back and away. She did it. She reached Jesus and touched his robe, and as soon as she did this her bleeding stopped. She knew that something was different. She felt it in her body. The bleeding stopped. She was healed.

            All of this is amazing. We could stop the story right here and know that a miracle happened. Outside of knowing the fate of Jairus’ daughter, nothing more would need to be said.  It is a miracle! Yet another twist of the story occurs after the woman has touched Jesus’ robe and is healed. As the surging, pressing crowd reached for him, grasped and groped for him, Jesus perceived that someone had touched him. Jesus felt this rush of power leave him.

            So, he stopped where he was and called out, “Who touched me?”

I’ll be honest, I share the reaction of the disciples.

Huh? What do you mean, “Who touched you?” Have you seen the size of this crowd?  There are about a gazillion people trying to touch you, reach you. Folks are coming at you from all sides, how can you possibly know that one person touched you when all of these people are trying to lay hands on you?

But Jesus knew. He knew something was different. He knew something had happened.  He felt the woman’s healing just as she did. This poor woman must have been terrified beyond belief. Certainly, she must have felt a thrill of fear that Jesus could sense the power that had moved between the two of them. But her fear must have gone beyond the fact that she touched this rabbi. Her twelve years of bleeding meant that she was ritually unclean. Not only had she dared to touch Jesus, but she also surely touched a whole lot of other people in her push to reach him. For twelve years she would have lived an outsider’s life. For twelve years she would have been banned from full participation in the life of the synagogue. Contact with her would have contaminated others. Her uncleanness would have been contagious. So, she should have been nowhere near a great crowd such as this one, and certainly nowhere near a teacher such as Jesus.  Her very presence there was a violation of the Law.

            I’m sure she was afraid. I’m sure she was shaking at the potential punishment and the consequences for her actions. But she was in desperate need, and that need outweighed everything else. She needed Jesus. Jairus needed Jesus. This woman occupied a much lower place in society than Jairus did, but their need for Jesus was an equalizer. It bridged the distance that society and status placed between them. They were both willing to be completely vulnerable to receive the healing they so desperately needed. How far would you go to save your child? How far would you go to save yourself?

            The consequences for this woman’s actions would have been great indeed. But despite her fear and dread, she owned up to what she did. She stepped out from the others, out from hiding. She fell before Jesus and confessed what she had done. However, instead of reprimands and rebukes, Jesus said to her, “Daughter your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed of your disease.”

            This woman believed. She knew Jesus could heal her. She was in desperate need and had faith that her need would be answered. She knew that all she had to do was touch his robe be cured. She was right.

            But Jesus’ healing didn’t stop with this woman.  Lest we forget, her healing was an interruption to Jesus’ original purpose. He was on his way to Jairus’ house to heal his little girl when the woman interrupted. She seemingly distracted Jesus from his initial intent. As Jesus once more moved toward Jairus’ house, some others who were waiting came to Jairus and informed him that his daughter was dead. There was no point in bothering Jesus any longer.

            Jesus overheard them and told Jairus, “Do not fear, only believe.” Only believe. Jesus and a small contingent of the disciples went to Jairus’ house. The mourners were gathered. Despite their wailing and weeping, they couldn’t contain their laughter when Jesus announced that the little girl was not dead, only sleeping. Their laughter did not deter Jesus. He took the girl’s hand and said, “Talitha cum.”  The text interprets this as, “Little girl, get up.” She obeyed. She stood up. She was healed!

It was desperation that made both Jairus and the long-suffering woman willing to be vulnerable. In their need, they went to great and even dangerous lengths to seek Jesus’ help. In their need they turned to Jesus, and Jesus responded, directly and indirectly. Not only did Jesus answer their need, but Jesus also stepped across boundaries to do so.

An unclean woman touched him, but instead of chastising her, he called her “daughter.” He restored her place in the community. Jesus touched a girl who was dead, making him unclean, but that boundary of social propriety did not stop him. Her need, her father’s need was greater than any wall social mores could construct. Jesus was unafraid of defying social boundaries because suffering also defies boundaries. These intertwined stories bear that out. Suffering does not respect status or boundary. Need does not care about social niceties. Here is the good news. Neither does Jesus. Jesus meets us where we are. Let all of God’s children say …

And yet, and yet, Jesus crossed boundaries to relieve the suffering of the woman and Jairus’ daughter. But Jesus did not put an end to all suffering. Suffering is profoundly real today. The stories coming from the collapse of the condo in Florida bring this home. There is great desperation on the part of the families and friends waiting for news of their loved ones. There is, I think, desperation on the part of the responders trying to find anyone left alive.

The suffering there and everywhere is real. People are desperate for healing, for help, for wholeness. Jesus overcame death through resurrection, but death still walks among us. That woman, healed of her bleeding, eventually laid down her mortal coil and died. And the young girl, perhaps she grew to an old age, but she too left this earthly life through death.

When I read stories such as these from Mark’s gospel, I am renewed in my faith, but I am also renewed in my questioning. If you can heal the suffering of some, Jesus, why not all? If you can raise from the dead one, why not all? We are all so desperate to be healed, Jesus, and we believe and we believe and we believe, but it would seem to be to no avail.

And yet, while our questions are not answered, we also know that God in Jesus is with us in our suffering – not bringing it to an end, but with us. With. Us. Holding us, comforting us, grieving with us, loving us. Our faith that Jesus is with us does not bring suffering to an end, but we believe, we believe, that we do not suffer alone, and we do not suffer in vain. We believe, even when it seems foolish to do so. We believe, and we give thanks.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

 

 

Peace! Be Still! -- Father's Day

 

Mark 4:35-41

June 20, 2021

 

            In May of 2013, an EF5 tornado ripped through Moore, Oklahoma. It closely followed the same devastating path of a tornado that hit Moore in the 1990’s. The tornado was over a mile wide and at its worst the winds hit 210 miles per hour. Even with the advanced weather technology and storm chasers that Oklahoma takes full advantage of, there was just a little over a minute of warning that this storm had reached such a deadly momentum and was about to hit.

Moore is just north of Norman and just south of Oklahoma City, and about 35 minutes away from where we lived in Shawnee. 24 lives were lost in that storm. School had not yet been dismissed for the summer, and the tornado hit an elementary school, where both teachers and children were killed. A journalist from one of the Oklahoma City stations was trying to report what was happening, but he lived in Moore and was so emotional he could barely speak. Through the power of modern television, we watched it happen in real time. It was shattering to know this was happening and yet there was nothing we could except pray.

We watched the television that day already on edge because the day before a tornado had hit the western part of Shawnee. It had ripped its way down I40, taking out trees and hitting houses and a trailer park on the west side of the city. Businesses along I40, including the Shawnee Mall, were evacuated. Later that summer, I was in a meeting with the City Manager and he showed us a picture on his phone from that afternoon. It showed the familiar anchor stores of the mall and just behind it was an enormous funnel cloud just bearing down.

I remember that afternoon vividly. It was Sunday. I had come home from church and turned on the tv to see what the weather was going to do. Just as the weatherman urged people in our area to start seeking shelter, the sirens went off. I had two kids and a cat, and we didn’t have a basement. I was herding everyone into the bathroom when my music director texted me.

“Where are you taking shelter?”

She urged me to come to OBU – Oklahoma Baptist University, where her husband was a professor – and shelter with them. So, I got the kids, one of them crying and demanding to know why I had moved them to this state of tornadoes, into the car and we started toward OBU. About two minutes into the drive, we heard a train only we weren’t near the railroad. I saw that people were gathering at the fire station. I made the most illegal U-turn of my driving career, parked across the street, and ran with the kids to the shelter of the fire station. There we waited.

Thankfully for us, but not for the people that suffered damage, the storm shifted toward the south and dissipated. When the sirens sounded the all-clear, the kids and I made our way back to the car. We got into the car, but I couldn’t drive yet. My hands were shaking too much to turn the key. I asked the kids to just give me a minute and put my head in my hands and tried to breathe normally. We were safe, at least for the moment, and we did not yet know what would happen the next day. We had survived this storm.

When I read this familiar parable now, I can’t help but remember that day back in 2013. I realize that the circumstances of their storm and ours were different. We were not in a boat being battered by the sea. We were not being swamped by waves that threatened to sink our boat. But I understand what I think must have been a rising sense of panic. The disciples were trying to do everything they possibly could to save themselves. However flawed the disciples were, however clueless they could be, especially in Mark’s gospel, about who Jesus truly was, they were seasoned fishermen. They knew and understood the Sea of Galilee. They knew how quickly violent, life-threatening storms could form. They weren’t newbies when it came to storms at sea, which means this storm must have been pretty bad. I can imagine their panic was quite real. They needed all hands on deck as it were to keep the boat from capsizing. So, Jesus needed to wake up. How could he sleep through something like this anyway? Did they wake him because they thought he could save them? I’m not convinced that’s what they thought. I think they wanted him up and going to help them, but I’m not sure they believed he could save them.

I definitely don’t think they could have predicted what came next. Not only did Jesus wake up, he woke up and rebuked the storm. He rebuked it the way he rebuked demons and unclean spirits. He told the wind, “Peace! Be still!”

And the wind obeyed. The wind settled down. The sea stilled. Where only seconds before, the storm was so great they could have all been thrown into the tumult, now there was dead calm.

And this is the moment where the disciples grow truly afraid. The New Revised Standard Version translates what they felt as awe, but a better translation would have been terror.

They were filled with terror because this man, their Teacher, their Rabbi, was no ordinary teacher or rabbi. He may have cast out a demon or two, healed some folks, sure, but he had just commanded the wind to be still and the wind obeyed him. The. Wind. Obeyed. Him.

Yes, I’m sure they were filled with terror and awe and amazement and astonishment and overwhelming incredulity, because this man they were following, this man they took on the boat just as he was, had the power to command the wind and calm the sea. It was too much for them to fully grasp, and they would continue to misunderstand Jesus’ full identity. They would continue to fail to get it and to get him through the rest of his earthly life. But in this moment, they had a glimpse of who Jesus was, of who Jesus is.

Who is this guy who stills the storm, who calms the seas, and even the wind obeys him?

Who is this?

Jesus was and is the Holy One of God, the Son of God, the One both fully divine and human. They took Jesus on the boat just as he was, and this is who he was. So, what did the disciples want him to do for them when they woke him up in a panic? Was it just to help bail water? Did they think he could perform some healing miracle like the ones they’d seen him do before? Did they even know what they wanted or what they thought he could accomplish? Probably not. But whatever it was that they were thinking Jesus could do or not do, what they received in that moment was so much more than what they expected.

And it terrified them. It terrified them, and I suspect it terrified them because they realized that this invitation to follow they had accepted was sending them down a path that would demand more from them than they had possibly imagined. It would demand change from them. It would demand trust from them. Did they have it in them to trust Jesus this much? Did they have faith enough to go where he would lead them? Did they trust him enough?

It seems to me that trust is at the heart of this passage. The disciples begged Jesus to wake up, see what was happening to them, care about what was happening to them. And his response was not only to care for them, but to take care of them by stilling the storm. Then he asked them, and I think it was in a gentle voice, why were still so afraid? Why did they not have faith? In other words, haven’t you figured out yet that you can trust me?

Do we? Do we trust him? In the good moments in life, I don’t expect Jesus to still the storms for me. I don’t expect Jesus to make everything better and all right and okey dokey. I even make it a point to teach that the purpose of faith is not to make everything better. And that is just fine … until the next storm hits. Then, in a panic, I accuse Jesus, I accuse God, of not caring, of abandoning me, of walking away when I need God most.

Because when it comes right down to it, my trust is always a little shaky. I think I know better. I think it is all up to me. To trust Jesus with everything I have, with everything I am means that I have to let go of my need to control. I have to trust, and sometimes trust just isn’t that easy.

And yet the storms keep coming, and I keep weathering them. I haven’t drowned yet. My boat has not capsized yet. Looking back at past storms, I can see so clearly that Jesus was in the boat with me, fully himself. So, if I know he was with me then, why do I have such a hard time believing that he is with me now and will be with me tomorrow?

He was with me when I raced my kids to shelter in the face of a tornado. He is with you in whatever storms – literal or figurative you have faced. He is with us, this congregation in all of the storms that we weather together. He is with us, and yes, his presence may require us to change. Yes, his presence may fill us with both awe and terror. But he is with us, and he calls us to have faith, to let go of our fear, to trust. He calls us to trust him. Can we do that? Will we do trust that he is with us and with his presence we can survive any storm?

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.