(Beginning this Sunday, we will no longer post sermon audio.  Please head over to our “Watch Worship” page for audio/video of the entire service).

This Sunday marks the conclusion of the sermon series Rebecca and I began back on the second Sunday of January.  We’ve called it “Created Anew” and we’ve been looking at how creation – and more to the point, God’s creative activity – is reflected in the stories of our faith as well as the stories of our lives. We’ve looked at the role creation plays in helping us connect with each other, in finding our Samuel voice, in undergirding authority, and in leading us to remember.   We’ve even talked about un-creation as a way of understanding some of the crises we’ve witnessed as of late.  Everything we encounter in life, one way or another, is infused with God’s never-ending, constantly perpetual creative activity – and thanks be to God for that.

In truth, we’ve been on a journey of sorts – a hike, if you will, through steep trails and windy mountain roads.  Last week’s message, you may recall, concluded with a story about two people hiking up Mount LeConte in Tennessee.  I mentioned briefly that my family has a bit of history with that particular mountain.  My grandfather on my Dad’s side hiked that mountain multiple times – he knew every incline, every switchback.  He actually died hiking LeConte at 63 years of age; slipped on an icy patch on the trail one January and fell over the edge.  Our family has held commemorative hikes up LeConte ever since – one of which was on the occasion of my father’s 60th birthday – he, my brother and I took a weekend and made our way to the top.

I’ll always cherish that experience, for a host of reasons; not the least of which was the sheer effort it took to get up there.  There were many moments when I literally was not certain I would make it.  And so when I got to the top, I was elated.  I was overjoyed.  The fresh oxygen I’d been frantically inhaling into my lungs for the previous few hours had me feeling more than a little light-headed, and it was glorious.

The three of us sat in the lodge enjoying lunch and a cold beverage.  I can’t remember exactly what we had, but I distinctly recall it being, hands-down, the best lunch ever.  We reminisced about the trip up, we laughed at things that deserved to be laughed at, we pondered the moment we spent in reflection at the place where my grandfather fell.  Most of all we took in the breathtaking view and relished in this priceless father-sons moment.

And eventually it came time to go back down.

I remember a lot about going up.  I recall very little about going down.  I do remember that the scenes weren’t nearly as scenic and how weird it felt doing the hike in reverse.  I also remember being surprised at how physically hard it was. I wasn’t prepared for that.  I’d assumed that the effort was all in ascending – but the truth is, the trip down is no picnic.   It was an entirely different set of leg muscles getting a workout now, with the quads bearing the full brunt and burning something fierce.  The knees are forced to do the exact opposite of what they did before, and it just does not feel natural to “step down” over and over again.  I may not remember much about the trip down, but I recall well how it made my legs feel.

And I also remember something else – I remember how the further we went down, the more the exhilaration of that “mountaintop experience” started to slip away.  As if that moment is somehow confined to the location where it took place.  As if, with each step, the physical distance contributed directly to a spiritual one.

And once you’re down at the bottom, back to “life as normal,” just try explaining to someone what the experience was like up there.  There’s no way to do it justice, is there?  You can show all the pictures you want, you can recount story after story.  But try as you might, it is next to impossible to relay your mountaintop experience to someone who wasn’t there.

And so while it is true that it takes a lot of effort to get to the top of the mountain, in many ways the trip down is a lot harder than the hike up.

I tend to believe that Peter, James, and John felt this way.  Jesus comes to them in our passage today and says, “hey, let’s go on a hike.”  Little do they know what he’s getting them into.  The hike itself, for one thing. Most biblical scholars believe that, given their proximity, these four were hiking Mount Hermon – a summit that reached 9200 feet in the sky, a full half-mile higher than Mount LeConte.  So lest we think this was some casual afternoon stroll, this was in fact a serious hike; a calf-burning, oxygen-sucking, strap-on-the-big boots kind of serious.  And with each step up, those disciples left the familiar behind and entered a realm that was most certainly not their own.

All of which becomes more apparent with what they find when they get there – and this is where things get strange.  Jesus suddenly turns dazzling white – whiter than bleach could make him, it says.  And then Elijah and Moses show up, two Hebrew historical icons who lived centuries before.  They appear more or less out of nowhere.  And the craziest thing?  The three of them – shiny Jesus, Elijah, Moses – they are chatting it up as if this is nothing out of the ordinary.  Like this is just what happens on top of the mountain.

Our three disciples have no idea what to make of this.  None at all.  Which is more than understandable, right?  Peter tries – oh, does Peter try.  Peter, the one who always speaks before thinking.  I love that about Peter, even if it gets him in a mess sometimes.  Should I build dwellings for the three of you, he asks.  Leave it to Peter to take a holy, inexplicable mountaintop-experience and reduce it to the equivalent of a photo op.  It more or less prompts a voice from the heavens, saying: This is my Son, the Beloved – listen to him!  The disciples blink, and suddenly it is just them and Jesus again.  As soon as it started, their mountaintop experience appears to be over.  So they head down the mountain, and as they do so, Jesus tells them to keep this little hiking excursion to themselves.  Because apparently, what happens on Mount Hermon – you guessed it – stays on Mount Hermon.

Even so, I can’t help but wonder if they at least talked about it amongst themselves.  At least to process things a bit. Something happened on that mountain, and these disciples had no context in which to understand it.  And that’s because they, as we, are so accustomed to life at the bottom of the mountain that we don’t always know what to make of things at the top.

We use the expression “mountaintop experience” in both a literal and figurative sense.   There’s a reason, for instance, that Montreat is often referred to as a “thin space,” evoking the sense of reduced distance between the human and the divine.  Thing is, you don’t have to be on a literal mountain to trod on holy ground.

No, mountaintop experiences and holy ground moments occur in the most obvious and most subtle of ways, if we’re willing to take time to notice them.  The birth of a child. That moment when one asks the big question; that instance when the other answers “yes.”  An acceptance letter in the email inbox.  A second Covid vaccine shot.  I’ve witnessed mountaintop experiences in some of life’s most precious moments, and I’ve also walked on holy ground with family members as they keep vigil by a loved one’s hospital bed.

And when we are in those moments, we are well aware that our feet, like Moses, are standing in sacred space; and we connect with that which is both outside us and deep within us.  In a manner of speaking, it is we who are transfigured – not to the point of being dazzling white, not in welcoming unexpected guests from days long gone by.  No, in our moments of transfiguration we are elevated in a way that connects us to the kinds of things that can evade us in the daily churn of normal life: clarity, perspective, vision, calling, unconditional love.

Oh, how we long to hold on to that sacred moment forever!  And yet, our place is not to set up permanent residence on the mountain.  We cannot make that mountaintop experience our eternal reality.  We can’t pull a Peter and try to capture it, encapsulate it, harness it.  One commentator put it this way:

Like Peter, we want to build tabernacles; like the quarreling disciples, we want our little egos to bask in Jesus’ power and glory.  But the Gospel of Mark repudiates all such Jesusology, with its underlying egoistic power grab. 

He goes on:

Jesus’ mission was not to make a big deal of himself or to elevate his followers to positions of power. It was rather to point through and beyond himself to God and to God’s coming reign on earth, and to invite his followers to find their voice in bearing witness to this transforming, redemptive God.[1]

Have you noticed, dear friends, that Mark’s story of the transfiguration falls in the middle of the gospel – right in the middle of it?  And have you ever thought about the fact that Transfiguration is literally the midpoint of our journey from Christmas to Easter – the exact day count fluctuates year to year but in 2021 it’s 51 days back and 49 days forward.  What does it mean that this story falls in the middle of things?  Could it be simple coincidence?  Or might there be more to it?  Might it be because there is something about the need for a mountaintop experience to tie us over on the journey from beginning to end, from the onset of life to the celebration of new life?  This time on holy ground with Jesus in all of his glory, and the more important task of transitioning off the mountain and taking some of that glory with us, because as well all know, the world down at the bottom sure could use a little transfiguration of its own.

Raphael was an Italian painter and architect of the high renaissance era and widely recognized along with contemporaries Michelangelo and Da Vinci, as one of the best.  He was quite prolific in his career, which concluded with his final painting of the Transfiguration.  He painted this one in Rome in 1520 – he was 37 at the time and not far from death; in fact, he actually died before he completed it.

If you look at the painting, you’ll notice the background of Caesarea Philippi, where Jesus first startled his disciples with the prediction of his suffering and death. In the upper center of the painting you see a flat, rocky mountain – the top of Mount Hermon.  Up on that mountain you see three disciples – Peter, James, and John – shielding their eyes from the glory surrounding them. Just above them are Moses, Elijah and Jesus. Jesus, of course, is shimmering white; and everything in the painting seems to be drawn toward him, as one would expect from a mountaintop experience.

But the real brilliance of Raphael’s painting is not what’s happening on the mountain but what’s happening at the bottom.  If you look down, you see a crowd of disciples at the base of the mountain – over to the left, a few are trying to heal a young boy suffering from seizures.  High Renaissance art was apparently not the only thing Raphael was fluent in – for in the gospel of Mark, right after the story of the Transfiguration, we find Jesus coming down the mountain and encountering that very boy.  And in the beauty of art we see both at the same time.

And the more you look at that boy, the more you notice his eyes – wild and wide and white.  There’s something else you notice about them- that they’re focused squarely on Jesus, looking up at him high on the mountain as if he can actually see some two miles up.  And then you notice his right hand and how it is stretched up to Jesus, stretched as far as it can reach, as if he is trying to touch him from 9200 feet away.  Every one of the disciples at the base of the mountain is looking at everyone else.  Every one of them.  Only the boy is looking up.[2]

Beloved, look up to Jesus.  Reach for him as far as your arm will stretch.  Remember what it was like walking with him on holy ground; revisit that mountaintop experience every chance you get.  And know that where he needs you most is at the bottom of the mountain – for that is where the real work lies.  Be transfigured.  Let the glory of God shine in you, so you can then shine in God’s world.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!

* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.

[1] Feasting On The Word, Year B Vol. 1, 456
[2] https://www.homileticsonline.com/subscriber/illustration_search.asp?keywords=transfiguration&Search=7&imageField.x=0&imageField.y=0

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Steve Lindsley
(Mark 1: 21-28)

Let me ask you something: if you were launching a new initiative – a business venture, a new years resolution, or, I don’t know, three years of ministry as the son of God – if you were beginning something new, what would you want to be your first act, your inaugural speech, your debut?

It’s interesting, the different ways each gospel does this with Jesus.  In Matthew, a gospel that highlights Jesus as instructor, his public ministry understandably begins with the Sermon on the Mount.  Luke’s justice-minded Jesus inaugurates his ministry with a clear mission statement of good news to the poor, release to the captives, and freedom for the oppressed. John, the most mystical of the gospel siblings, kicks things off with Jesus at a wedding where vast quantities of wine are created and, one would assume, consumed.

And what about Mark – how does Mark have Jesus starting off?  Well, in Mark, Jesus begins his public ministry by wowing the temple authorities and getting into a screaming match with a demon.  Talk about leaving an impression!

Our passage today comes fast and furious, as most things in Mark do.  As the shortest of the gospels, it is known for cutting to the chase. Our story today begins at the 21st verse of the very first chapter; and in the 20 preceding verses Jesus has been baptized, tempted, and called his disciples.  Mark does not waste a second getting to the heart of the matter

And what is that heart, exactly?  There is no deep secret what Mark wants to focus on here: it is authority.  Or, if you want to get technical about the actual Greek, “new authority.”  This “new authority” will be a theme throughout the gospel, with references to Jesus’ teaching authority mentioned some 26 times.  In our passage alone he brings it up twice, although they come from very different sources.

The first source were those in the temple that day who heard Jesus preach and teach.  They were astounded at his teaching, Mark tells us, for he taught as one having authority, and not as the scribes.   It’s interesting the way Mark phrases it; that it’s not what Jesus teaches that exudes authority but how he teaches it.  It’s not the content that leaves an impression, it’s something else.  More on that later.

It’s also worth noting that Mark throws more than a little shade here in the direction of the scribes.  Scribes were trained, educated professionals in the religious order, entrusted with specific responsibilities of the temple.  And yet it’s a carpenter from Nazareth who exhibits the greater authority.

Now this may not sound like a big deal to us now – it is Jesus, after all.  But it might be worth looking at it from a more contemporary angle to see what our reaction might be. Imagine someone visiting a church that’s been around for a hundred years, very established; and after just a few weeks starts showing up at session meetings and the pastor’s study on a weekly basis, offering unsolicited advice on everything from hymn selection to staffing to restructuring committees. After worship every Sunday he’s telling anyone who will listen that he has all the answers and everything would be better if folks would just listen to him.  How do you think that’d go over? That sort of misplaced authority rarely goes over well in the church!

And while it’s not an exact parallel, I imagine it’s along the lines of what those scribes and other temple hands felt about this “new guy.”  When Mark tells us Jesus presents himself in a way that supersedes the Scribes, he is making a pretty radical statement about Jesus.  And again, we’re only 21 verses in!

And if there was any lingering doubt still about the authority of Jesus, it’s certainly put to rest with the other source Mark mentions – this “man with an unclean spirit” who comes bursting into the temple shouting up a storm.  Other translations refer to him as a “demon.”  We don’t know what to do with this sort of thing in our Presbyterian piety; demons are seen as the stuff of horror movies and Halloween get-ups.  What we do know is this man had been overcome by something outside of himself that was not of God.  Which makes the fact that he calls Jesus “Holy One of God” all the more profound.

Holy One of God.  We tend to skip over that part and cut straight to the convulsing demon coming out of the man because that is the stuff of horror movies.  But let’s not forget that it is an unclean spirit – something not of God – that recognizes Jesus’ new authority.  Authority greater than the ones typically seen as speaking for God. Authority great enough to be recognized even by something not of God.

That is the kind of authority Mark wants us to see in Jesus in the very first chapter. The question is why?  Why does Mark want this to be so crystal clear for us?  And what is so important about this new authority of Jesus for you and me, right now

In his weekly email to pastors with good sermon fodder on the scriptures, Presbyterian Outlook co-editor Roger Gench asks this question: If Jesus were to come wandering into your church on Sunday, what do you imagine would happen?

Well, obviously if he were to come wandering into our church right now, he’d be greeted by our wonderful Sunday Assistant Jodi Neal for a temperature check, asked to wear a mask, and directed to sit in one of our many totally empty pews.  But let’s assume for the moment that we are not in the middle of a global pandemic forced to broadcast worship online.  Let’s fast-forward to that glorious day when we, once again, will fill these pews and worship God in person.

If Jesus were to wander into church that Sunday, what do you imagine would happen?

Perhaps an interesting side question would be, how would you recognize him?  I doubt it would be the tired-old stereotype of long hair, white robe and sandals.  I’m guessing we’d recognize Jesus not from his looks but from something else.  Would we sense, as those temple worshippers did, this new authority that resides in this man we’d never seen before.  Is that what would convince us beyond a shadow of doubt that he is, to quote one demon, “the Holy One of God?”

You know, in one sense, the authority of Jesus is tricky to recognize because it doesn’t come from what he does.  We’re used to authority coming from what someone has achieved, the dues they’ve paid, captured in the symbols like titles, degrees, positions in a hierarchy.  Jesus has none of that.  No, Jesus’ authority comes not from what he does but who he is.  It is embedded in him, placed there by the Holy Spirit.  All the miracles, all the teachings and preaching, all the many wonderful acts that Jesus would do in the coming three years, they all point to the authority that was already there at the beginning.

And not only that, but the way Jesus uses his authority is vastly different from the way others choose to use it.  Jesus lifts people up, not tears them down.  Jesus restores community instead of relegating it.  Jesus brings people together instead of dividing them up.  Jesus contradicts the way we think of power.  He turns on its head the whole idea of authority.

Now we know a thing or two about authority being turned on its head, but for an entirely different reason.  One philosopher describes it as the collapse of “grand narratives,” the systems of thought that legitimize knowledge and our collective experience of reality; this transition from modernism to post-modernism.  Some of the hallmarks of this transition include the onslaught of technology and endless choices made possible by it, a loss of shared experiences, and most notably – particularly in our context – the relativity of truth, where one’s own experience and understanding supersede any universal truth. There is no overarching account of humanity anymore.  All of us see things our own way. Or, as homiletics professor Scott Johnston puts it: “To be postmodern is to be post-certain.”[1]

Now I know that’s heady stuff, but I believe we feel it in our gut even if we can’t quite put it into words.  We’ve been living in this transition for most of our lives, but it has picked up speed at breathtaking pace in recent years.  Polls reveal again and again that trust in our institutions is at an all-time low.  Just a few weeks ago we witnessed with our own eyes a literal attack on one.

And so what do we do with that as people of faith?  And how do we square all of this with the “new authority” of Jesus?

If Jesus came walking into our church on Sunday, I think we’d recognize him, as long as we’re looking not with our eyes but our hearts.  Not because he “looks the part,” not because we’d need him to perform mighty acts and miracles and preach of a whale of a sermon.  I think we’d recognize Jesus because we would see the authority that God placed in him at the very beginning; the Holy One of God; something that others picked up on pretty quickly, something even a demon couldn’t fail to see.

I think we’d see that new authority in spite of the fact that we’re living in times when authority is questioned and outright rejected, because Jesus has something going for him that few other authorities vying for our allegiance has – and that is love.  Love is at the root of who Jesus is, love for God and love for the world and most of all love for each of us.  And that stands in stark contrast to the forces and authorities trying to sway things in our world today; authorities more often grounded in power and revenge and fear.

I’m convinced it was love that tipped those temple-goers off to see the authority in Jesus; what made a demon scream in agony.  It was love that made Jesus’ authority far exceed what the Scribes had to offer – no offense scribes, you do great work and we learn a lot from you, but when it comes to things like doing justice and loving kindness and walking humbly with God, when it comes to being connected with God and each other and our neighbor, we’re going to go with the authority of the One whose very soul emulates every bit of that.

If Jesus came into our sanctuary as one with authority, I would hope that it would change our lives the way it changed the lives of the people Mark goes on to talk about – Simon’s mother-in-law, who was sick; other unclean spirits cast out, the crowd of people who followed him wherever he went, the leper he healed.  And that’s just the rest of the first chapter!

I would hope that recognizing the authority of Jesus would have the same impact on us.   Move us in our heart of hearts, stir us to action, wake us from our slumber.  I would hope it’d empower us to let go of misplaced allegiances to other authorities that have so much less to offer.  I would hope we’d be blown away by his very presence, down to our core, so there was no way we could ever go back to who we were before.  And I would hope it’d send anything in us that is not of God, anything that seeks to put a wedge between the human and the holy, I hope it’d send it scurrying away, screaming as it did because it knew it had met its match.

That is the kind of authority that the very church is built on.  I have in my office a quote taped to the wall above my computer; a quote from Dr. Carson Brissom, professor at Union Seminary here in Charlotte and one of our previous Gilchrist speakers.  The quote, as I understand, was originally directed at clergy; but in truth it speaks to each and every one of us:

I don’t think our job in ministry is to say how deep something is or how long it will be until the dawn.  It is our job to say, I come in the name of someone who will stand with you through the deep and the dark.

What a great way to understand not just our calling as followers of Jesus, but the very essence of the one we follow: standing with others through the deep and the dark, with the new authority of the One who stands right there with us.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!

 

* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.

[1] The philosopher referred to is 20th century french philosopher Jean-Francois Lyotard.

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Rebecca Heilman
(Jonah 3: 1-10)

It was a summer day, I was probably around seven or eight years old, and I had had enough of my older siblings bickering and picking on me. They were driving me nuts and apparently my mom too. While they were sent to their rooms as punishment, I hid in my closet listening and infuriated by everyone! Why couldn’t they just leave me alone? So, I grabbed a duffel bag and packed up a few important items – my beanie babies and my blanket. I peeked around the corner of my room. The coast was clear, and I snuck out the back door. I remember opening my arms wide, feeling the warm, humid breeze on my face. I was running away, and no one was going to stop me! I made it as far as our giant magnolia tree around 200 yards from our house. I climbed to the branch shaped enough as a recliner, hung my duffel on the branch and thought, yes, I could make a life for myself here. No siblings, no bickering, no nuh-uh I won’t be bothered here. I closed my eyes, reclined back and the guilt started to sink in. I didn’t last 10 mins before I was dragging my duffel behind me back up our driveway and into my room. Until now, my parents never knew. I’m sure we all have our stories of running away from or towards something. Maybe your story also comes from your childhood, maybe it’s a story from your adulthood, maybe it’s a story you’d rather not talk about. Whatever it is about running away, we’ve all been there in some shape or fashion, notes written or leaving the door hanging wide open behind us. Jonah is a classic example of a beloved child of God, running as far away from God and God’s call as humanly possible.

 

Now, we might expect more from Jonah if we knew the meaning of his name and his father’s name. Jonah means dove and throughout the Hebrew Bible, a dove is a sign of God’s peace. Jonah’s father’s name is Ami-ttai, which means faithfulness.[1] So, the first line of Jonah reads, “Now the word of the Lord came to dove, son of faithfulness…”[2] With these names and their meanings, we might expect an eager and willing prophet ready to go and do God’s work… that’s exactly what we do not get. Jonah is called as a, one tiny prophet to go to Nineveh, the most powerful, militant, full of wickedness metropolis of the Ancient Near East. And Jonah is supposed to tell them to turn towards God for change or risk destruction. Jonah instead flees and boards a ship in the opposite direction of Nineveh. While he is fleeing, a severe and dangerous storm crashes into his means of transportation. As Jonah sleeps through the raging storm, the captain desperately shakes Jonah awake and says, “Perhaps, your god will spare us a thought so that we do not perish.”[3] At this moment, Jonah still does not speak, Jonah still does not act. So, the crew cast lots and it fell on Jonah. They interrogated him, asking him question after question about what he has done to cause this storm and although, Jonah has been called as a prophet to speak God’s words, it’s not until this point that Jonah, the dove, speaks. He says, “I am a Hebrew. I worship the Lord, the God of heaven, who made the sea and the dry land…Pick me up and throw me into the sea; then the sea will quiet down for you; for I know it is because of me that this great storm has come upon you.”[4] So, they picked Jonah up and threw him into the sea, yet, another opportunity for Jonah to escape God. This is when our children’s Bible storybooks show us that God used a large fish to swallow Jonah from the depths of the sea. And Jonah sits in the belly of the fish for three days bellowing out his prayer to God, “I called out to the Lord in my distress, and YHWH answered me. From the belly of the underworld I cried out for help; you have heard my voice.”[5]

 

If we are not challenged by Jonah’s story yet, more is still to come. The Lord spoke to the fish and it spewed Jonah out upon dry land. So God spoke to Jonah for the second time, saying, “Get up, go to Nineveh, that great city….”[6]

Covered in sand, dirt, fish guts, and probably embarrassment and guilt, Jonah trucks the three days to Nineveh, preparing with shaking knees to face the wicked Assyrians. One theologian writes about the great city, “Nineveh would have evoked powerful impressions of the Assyrian empire that dominated the ancient Near East as the ruling superpower…Nineveh remained for centuries a powerful symbol of an evil empire.”[7]So, no wonder, no wonder, Jonah, a small prophet, call by God was reluctant to go to Nineveh, a powerful structure that could eliminate him with one snap of a finger. We’ve got to give Jonah some credit, yes, he ran, and he ran hard, but in the end, he went to Nineveh and just barely, just barely does God’s work. Jonah, still a bit reluctant, stands on a busy street and calls out one sentence, “Just forty days more and Nineveh will be overthrown!” (Jonah 3:4). Jonah’s choice of the last word, “overthrown,” hapak, is obscure. Hapak could mean “destroy,” which might have been Jonah’s wishes, considering her anger in the last chapter of this book. But hapak can also mean “change.”[8] God was revealed in those five Hebrew words, and it was enough to make the entire city of Nineveh, cows included, to turn towards God and change their wicked behaviors. The Ninevites chose change over destruction.[9]

 

And it wasn’t just the simple people, selling their goods at the market, the leader of the great and powerful city changed his ways as well. God looked at Nineveh and God changes God’s mind too, instead of destroying the city, God gave them life and love and the grace Jonah thought they did not deserve. We’re seeing a true glimpse of God’s nature in this passage. And Jonah’s reaction gives us a glimpse at the true nature of God’s broken children. In the next chapter, Jonah is mad, boiling mad. He says to God, red in the face, “Come on, Lord! This is why I fled to Tarshish earlier! I know that you are a merciful and compassionate, God, very patient, full of faithful love, and willing not to destroy. At this point, Lord, you may as well take my life from me, because it would be better for me to die than to live.”[10] This anger for the other, this hate for the enemy, this fear and lack of hope that change is possible is exactly where we are in our world and nation today. We are at risk of pulling a Jonah and deciding who should receive God’s grace, God’s patience, God’s love and who shouldn’t receive those good, good things. We are at risk of being overcome by hate out of spite instead love out of the awe of who God is and all that God can do. We are at risk of even deeper divisions that will make it impossible to find racial reconciliation and peace among our siblings in Christ. For months, you’ve heard Steve and I name the state and stress of everything we are experiencing right now – from the pandemic to systemic racism and white supremacy, from deeply divided friends and families over politics to violence towards one another because of systemic lies and disagreements. I’m coming to you today with these same issues heavy on my heart, weighing my nightly rest and griping my own human soul because I am deeply challenged by this Jonah text. I’m challenged by what it is teaching us because it’s easier to be spiteful than it is to trust God and God’s transformation.

 

Brené Brown, a researcher on shame, vulnerability and courage dives deep into dehumanization and accountability as we face the polarizations gripping our nation today and I would argue, our organized faith as well. She referenced David Smith and Michelle Maise, who have both done extensive research on the act of dehumanization. Maise, according to Brené Brown, “defines dehumanization as the psychological process of demonizing the enemy, making them less than human and hence not worthy of humane treatment. Dehumanization often starts with creating an enemy image…As we take sides, as we lose trust and we get angrier and angrier, we solidify an idea of our enemy, and as we solidify this enemy image, it becomes harder and harder to listen to…who we’ve framed as the enemy, harder to communicate, and almost impossible to practice any empathy with this enemy image, because we’ve dehumanized it.”[11] Brown says, “we’ve just shamed it out of its humanity.”

 

I say this not taking sides, I say this because it’s happening everywhere, from every side, ever dichotomy, every polarized system. We have sunk deep into the belly of dehumanization and the fear of the other. We have sunk deep into the belly of lies, to put us up against the other. We have sunk deep into the belly of disbelief and apathy when human souls are being ripped by hate and bodies murdered by ingrained racism. We have sunk deep into the belly of creating a good versus evil culture. We have sunk deep into the belly of risk. We are at risk of running up against the line of dehumanization, that many have already crossed, on all sides of opinions about politics, religion, and faith. Nineveh was a city of wickedness. We could argue there was dehumanization within that city that feared Jonah to the depths of his being. Jonah, when he can’t wrap his head around why God would forgive and love the wicked Ninevites, Jonah was up against the line of dehumanization and shaming the Ninevites out of their humanity. Our story today turned deeper into a good versus evil scenario. When the Ninevites turned to God, that still wasn’t enough for Jonah. What’s enough for us?

 

Friends, I’m not saying this easy. It wasn’t for Jonah and it won’t be to us as well. So we start small. Where do we converse and listen? Where do we attempt to have empathy? Where do we sow justice and where do trust God? And this is mostly surface level stuff. The basics of seeing each other as equally as God sees us. We haven’t even touched on justice. But I would like to imagine that, the God who calls for justice to roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream…And the God who calls us to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God, that God…that God holds us accountable. The Ninevites were heading in the right direction. They confessed and sat in the midst of earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They sat in their sackcloth, recognizing their sorrow and communal pain. They sat understanding their mistakes and wickedness, learning from and turning towards the glory and love of God. They changed. They were transformed, heading in the direction of justice.

 

Each week, Steve, Jodi, or I stand up here and lead you in our Prayer of Confession. It’s familiar and can feel like artless words because we do it every week. It is also a ritual, something we lean on when we can’t face what we need to face that day. But mostly, the purpose of that ritual is so we can lean into it each week, recognizing how we are part of the aches and pains of this broken world. It’s a ritual that I love dearly because we can say with confidence as a community, with complete transparency to God and each other that we have messed up and are willing to be transformed again. Beloved, when we sit in midst of our dust to dust – our communal and individual mess ups…When we sit in the midst of the pains we have caused through ingrained racism and white supremacy culture…When we sit in the midst of othering and shaming our enemies out of their humanity…When we sit in the midst of our actions led by fear instead of our actions led by love…we are embracing and choosing to be changed and transformed by God. And when we are transformed, we clasp all of who God is and all that God gives us and all that God can do with us without any doubt, fear or anger. With hope, pray and true intent followed by action, this will lead us far from the line of dehumanization and into the realm of reconciliation, justice, and a kindom on earth as it is in heaven.

 

To end, Amanda Gorman, the first National Youth Poet Laureate, gave us a glimpse of this kindom on earth as it is in heaven in her poem The Hill We Climb. She writes, “We close the divide because we know to put our future first,

we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.

We seek harm to none and harmony to all.

Let the globe, if nothing else say this is true:

that even as we grieved, we grew.

That ever as we hurt, we hoped.

That even as we tired, we tried.

That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.

Not because we will never again know defeat

but because we will never again sow division.”[12]

 

Pray with me. Loving God, we believe, help our unbelief. Amen.

 

[1] John C. Holbert, “Third Sunday after the Epipany: Commentary 1: Connecting the Reading with Scripture,” in Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship, Year B, Volume 1 ed. Joel B. Green, Thomas G. Long, Luke A. Powery, Cynthia L. Rigby, and Carolyn J. Sharp (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2020), 199.

[2] Jonah 1:1.

[3] Jonah 1:6.

[4] Jonah 1:9; 12.

[5] Jonah 2:2.

[6] Jonah 3:1.

[7] James D. Nogalski, Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary: The Book of The Twelve Hosea-Jonah (Macon, Smyth & Helwys Publishing, Inc., 2011), 414.

[8] Holbert, Connections, 200.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Jonah 4:2.

[11] Brené Brown, Unlocking Us with Brené Brown: Brené on Words, Actions, Dehumanization, and Accountability, https://brenebrown.com/transcript/brene-on-words-actions-dehumanization-and-accountability/.

[12] Amanda Gorman, The Hill We Climb, Wednesday, January 20, 2021, at the inauguration of the 46th president to the United States of America.

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Steve Lindsley
(1 Samuel 3: 1-20)

I find myself drawn this morning to the very last verse of our passage today:

And all Israel knew that Samuel was a prophet of the Lord.

I think there are a couple of reasons why I’m drawn to this.  For one, this isn’t a passage I read all that much, at least the second half of it.  I’m betting I’m not alone in this.  When we think of the story of young Samuel in the temple, we think of the part Rebecca read, because that is the part that makes for great storytelling and preaching.  This back-and-forth between God and young Samuel, who had lived in the temple since he was a baby, left there by a grateful mother who was just glad to give birth to him in the first place; left there to be trained by the head priest Eli to one day be a priest himself.

I’m drawn to the narrative that unfolds in the middle of the night; of a young boy hearing the voice of God and assuming it is Eli doing the speaking.  And Eli thinking it’s just a boy’s sleepy imagination running wild, until three times in when it hits him where this voice is really coming from.  And so he sends Samuel back to bed with a directive to respond next time by saying, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

As a preacher and teacher I’ve tended to focus on just that first part of the story because the sermon or lesson plan that comes from it practically writes itself: the need for us to recognize God’s voice when we hear it, and to respond ourselves with “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

I’ve just never paid much attention to what comes after it.  And truth be told, the way the lectionary presents it on this Second Sunday of Ordinary Time, it gives the preacher a bit of a pass.  That second half of the passage, verses 11-20, it’s listed in parenthesis, which is a lectionary way of saying, “you don’t need to bother with this if you don’t want to.”  So, I haven’t.  Until this Sunday.

It’s certainly not the fun part of the story.  Samuel does as Eli commands and God speaks to Samuel about things to come for Eli and his family.  And it is not good.  Eli, as wonderful a man as he was, as highly thought of as he was, is not unlike most of us whose families are far from perfect.  Over the years, Eli’s sons had routinely abused their priestly power and privilege for personal gain.  They took for themselves what they could simply because they could. Eli had long struggled with how to deal with his scoundrel sons because he loved them.  And as we know, when we don’t hold people accountable for their actions, things only tend to get worse.

So the message God commands Samuel to tell Eli the next morning is one of reckoning for his sons.  Justice will be served.   I can only imagine the embarrassment this must have been for the old priest.  It wasn’t like his sons’ behavior was some big secret.  But to have your family’s dirty laundry acknowledged by God and voiced to you by your young protege could not have felt very good.  And the reckoning – the knowledge that his sons, and family by extension, were facing consequences for their actions.  This was not the best news to wake up to after a night of interrupted sleep.

Which brings us back to that final verse again:

And all Israel knew that Samuel was a prophet of the Lord.

I’ve been thinking about that verse in light of the complete story because what I’m curious about is what exactly it was that led “all of Israel” to know that Samuel was a prophet.  Make no mistake, Samuel was indeed a great prophet; the first one, actually, and one of the best, as far as speaking God’s word to God’s people.  The great prophetic tradition with giants like Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Jeremiah, you can draw a line through them all the way back to Samuel.

But check out the language here: it’s not saying that they all knew he would be, one day a prophet.  It says they knew he already was.  In that moment.  And that’s what has me wondering, because in that moment Samuel was a kid.  Just a kid.  How could all of Israel look at this kid and go, “now there’s a prophet right there, lemme tell ya!”  I mean, he didn’t even have facial hair yet.  Isn’t that like a prophet requirement or something?  And he wasn’t yelling or screaming or railing like we think prophets do.  What was it that made it so obvious to everyone in Israel that young Samuel was a prophet?

Could it be that he spoke the word of God?  I mean, prophets certainly do that.  He gave voice to what God has commanded him to speak. Is that what made everyone see him as a prophet?  Or could it be that God came to him and spoke his name in the middle of the night and woke him up, three times?  We have this understanding that prophets have a special or close relationship with God – and calling your name and waking you up sounds pretty close.  Is that why all of Israel knew that Eli’s young protege was a prophet?

Maybe – but I keep coming back to that moment with Eli and how hard it must’ve been to hear that difficult news.  But I also think about the fact that, as uncomfortable as that was for Eli, it certainly was no walk in the park for Samuel, either.  I mean, as we’ve already said, Samuel was just a kid.  And Eli was the lead priest in the temple, he’s the guy in charge.  And not only that, Eli was something of a father figure to Samuel; he had literally raised the boy from infancy.  Their relationship was deeply personal.

And so I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Samuel to look Eli straight in the eye and tell Eli what he had to hear.

And maybe that is what tipped Israel off to the fact that there was indeed a prophet in their midst, young as he might be.  Because more than anything, that is what prophets do.  They tell the people what they need to hear.  Sometimes that involves speaking truth to power.  Sometimes that is unveiling what is hidden in plain sight.  Sometimes that is being honest and direct about the brokenness that sits in us all.  And it is always, always about speaking in love, because truth and revelation and honesty and love go hand in hand when it comes to saying hard things.

Do you get the sense, people of God, that we might be in a similar moment?  Are you feeling at all like we are trying to discern the voice of God for us right now?  And when we discern that word, when we have an inkling, at least, of what needs to be said, that we then have the courage and bravery to give voice to it, hard as it might be for others to hear, hard as it might be for us to say?

You know, as your pastor I have the privilege of walking with you on many of your “holy ground” moments, even when those moments don’t always feel as holy.  I’ve conversed with folks who know it is time to have a heart-to-heart with an aging parent about in-home care or assisted living.  I’ve also had conversations with people who’ve been on the receiving end of those chats with their adult children.  It’s not easy for either.  It takes a little bit of Samuel in us to speak the truth in love, don’t you think?

I’m aware that we are living in divisive times, and that those divisions often cut right through the family tree or through friendships.  I know many of us are faced with having difficult conversations with someone we love who sees things totally opposite of the way we see them; who hold perspectives and beliefs and understandings wildly divergent from our own.  I’m aware that the tendency is to think that talking about these things only furthers the divide, but I find myself leaning in to what my minister colleague Bruce Reyes-Chow says: that pointing out the divide is not being divisive.  Pointing out the divide is not being divisive.  Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that those conversations can still be painful and hurtful, and oftentimes we simply choose not to have them because of that.  It takes a little bit of Samuel in us to speak the truth in love.

In a larger sense, our entire nation is in the midst of a difficult ongoing dialogue.  We have people who, in many ways, resemble the audience the apostle Paul was addressing in his first Corinthian letter, one of the other lectionary passages this Sunday.  There was a faction in that church who believed that their identity as a follower of Christ meant that the rules didn’t apply to them anymore; that they could literally do whatever they wanted.  Paul sums up their life motto in six words: All things are lawful for me.

How do you have a conversation with that?  Paul gives it his best shot and answers their assertion with one of his own: but not all things are beneficial.[1]  In other words, as my mom used to tell me, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.  I kind of feel like our nation, and American Christianity in particular, is smack in the middle of that messy, difficult and even frightening conversation right now.

Beloved, I wonder if you and I are just a bunch of young Samuels, listening for God’s word to us and then, when we have a sense of what it is, leaning into our calling to be the prophets God needs us to be?

Tomorrow, as you know, is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the day we celebrate and give thanks to God for a man who was the closest thing to a 20th century American prophet as one could find.  Dr. King’s legacy is ensconced in our nation’s ethos for a host of reasons; one of them being his “I Have A Dream” speech, given on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 28th, 1963.

For certain, it was a speech of profound oratory skill and soaring rhetoric.  But what made it prophetic is captured in a story some of us may not know.  Prior to that day, Dr. King had gathered with his speech writing team, working to craft the message.  The plan initially was for the speech to be shorter than it was, more measured in tone, more lecture-like.  And there was this debate among the writing team about the best image to lift up as the guiding metaphor.  One image was the image of a “bad check,” highlighting America’s failure to deliver on her promises of freedom to her citizens of color. The other image was of a “dream.” It was an image he had used on occasion in previous speeches. But in the end, the team thought the “bad check” image would be more suited to the moment and the low-key approach Dr. King thought he’d be taking.

And so when the speech came around, Dr. King followed the manuscript he and his team had crafted – and it was certainly good enough.  But as the speech went on, it became clear that something wasn’t quite connecting.  Like a moment was being missed.  All of that changed near the end of the speech when, in a scripted pause, Dr. King heard a voice behind him yell out, “The Dream, Martin – tell them about the Dream!”  The voice belonged to renowned gospel singer Mahalia Jackson, a frequent presence at Dr. King’s speeches and someone he confided in in his lowest moments, calling her up on the phone so she could soothe his soul with her soulful voice.  

The Dream, Martin – tell them about the Dream![2]

And he did. In that moment, Dr. King went from being lecturer to preacher.  In that moment, he found his Samuel voice.

Perhaps that is one way to better understand our calling as followers of Jesus in these strange and uncertain times.  To listen for God’s voice and to say what needs to be said to those who need to hear it.  And to rest assured in two things as we do that: first, as we said before, that pointing out the divide is not being divisive.  And second, that our role in these hard conversations is not necessarily to change someone’s mind – something so hard to do in these hyper-partisan times.  No, our role is simply being brave enough to have them in the first place, to talk about things that matter; and to let God, the author of all voices, take it from there.

I don’t know if you saw this past week, as I did, the NBC News interview with former Department of Homeland Security Secretary Daryl Johnson.  He was talking about the radicalization of Americans to Christian Nationalists/white supremacy ideologies and how important it is to have hard conversations the right way at this tenuous crossroads of our nation’s history.  One line really stood out to me: he said “Every person I’ve ever known about that’s been a white supremacist has left the movement through an act of compassion or love.  They didn’t leave because someone convinced them that their belief systems were wrong.  The only way we’re going to get rid of hate is through love.”[3]

Love – not a passive, “loving someone from a distance” love.  Samuel loved Eli by telling him what God told him to say.  He didn’t try to soften the blow.  He didn’t say it with scorn or judgment, either.  Samuel spoke the truth in love, and that is what made all of Israel recognize the prophet he was.

Beloved, my hope and prayer, in these unsettling times when our country and our world are in desperate need of hearing the voice of God, is that you are brave enough to find your Samuel voice when you need to and speak the truth in love – so that people will witness the building of God’s kingdom on earth and will see in you the prophet of God you most certainly are.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!

 

* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.

[1] 1 Corinthians 6:12
[2] https://www.vox.com/2016/1/18/10785882/martin-luther-king-dream-mahalia-jackson
[3]https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/isn-t-final-chapter-analyst-warns-again-about-rise-right-n1253950?fbclid=IwAR0CmHwhIl0ZQVWUO-i-vFzfNFVM-Gwkqb_031HAqFGg18X_6bCpjwI-E30

Featured image from https://www.pennlive.com/life/2019/08/martin-luther-king-jr-gave-i-have-a-dream-speech-in-washington-in-1963-vintage-photos.html

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Steve Lindsley
(Genesis 1:1-2:4a – selected verses)

One of my minister colleagues this past week shared that the first line of his sermon today was going to be, “I suspect I might make some of you mad today.”  And when someone replied how that was an ominous way to begin a sermon, he assured them there was a second sentence following it that said, “If I do, it’s not my intent, but rather to speak to important things for us as people of faith, because I love you enough to talk with you about them.”

Even after eight years of us being in ministry together, I still feel the need to offer a similar preface this morning. Even though you and I know each other and trust each other, even if we don’t always agree with each other. I’m grateful for that trust.  So I can tell you that, while I had a perfectly good sermon in the works for today, sometimes the world does its thing and requires a different word.  I wasn’t sure what that word needed to be; so on Thursday Rebecca and I met to talk about it – we actually brought our walking shoes and took a few laps around the campus. And the question that guided our conversation – that guides all of our conversations about what comes from this pulpit – was what do we think our people most need to hear in this moment?

And by the end of that walk, we felt compelled to lift up a different word.  Because, as our General Presbyter Jan Edmiston captured in her Friday blog post, “Jesus never said: ‘Let’s pretend this didn’t happen.’”  We simply could not pretend this week didn’t happen.  We love you too much to do that.

When it comes to our prayers and our preaching, your pastors subscribe to the understanding that it is possible, and in fact necessary, to talk about political things without being political; to dig deep into the complicated nuances of society and culture from a theological, biblical, and spiritual perspective.

And so even though it’s weird doing this virtually, even though it’s strange to say what I’m going to say and have no idea what’s happening on the other side of the screen, I trust you will hear this with the love in which it’s given.  And if it makes you uncomfortable or mad, let’s talk about that.  Seriously, reach out to me and let’s chat about it on the phone this week.  And if you like the sermon, if you’re moved by Rebecca’s prayer, instead of telling us that, tell us what you are going to do because of it.  Tell us what actions you’re going to take, what steps you will make, to be a more faithful witness to the love of Jesus Christ in the world.

So, with that, would you pray with me?

Almighty God, uphold me that I may uplift you, AMEN.

 *******************

This past December, my wife hit the jackpot with a Christmas gift for our niece.  Riley is every bit of 2 years and 10 months old; boundless energy and an inquisitive mind.  She is, in this uncle’s unbiased opinion, exceedingly awesome.  We ordered online and shipped to her Raleigh address these magnet tiles – flat plastic squares and triangles of all colors and sizes with magnets around the edges so you can stick them together in three-dimensions.  And so on our Christmas Day family Zoom, when multiple Lindsleys were checking in and celebrating, Riley could barely be bothered with the distraction of human interaction. Throughout the zoom, she sat at the table, immersed in her construction work, occasionally pausing to show us her masterpiece before going right back to it. Her mother later asked where we got them so they could order some more.

There is something in the human spirit that drives us to create – to take what the world gives us and make use of it in such a way as to bring into being something that was not there before.  Magnet tile houses.  Music, poetry, art.  A four-course meal.  Ministries and programs.  Even life itself.  There is something deep in us that longs to create.

Our scripture today is the very first scripture, the story of creation, of how everything that is came to be.  It is beautifully presented; the language reaching for something beyond.  It is, obviously, not an eye-witness account.  It was written long after the fact looking back and, in one of those grand moments of inspiration, finding just the right words in the same way an artist matches the perfect colors with the best canvas.

It is not by accident that the story of creation appears first – and it has little to do with chronology and everything to do with theology.  The first four words of the entire Bible: In. The. Beginning. God.  The authors of scripture were making a theological proclamation here.  Before water and sky, before sun and stars, before plants and creatures and us, before all of that was God.  God is placed right where God belongs – in the beginning.

God is placed there because the creation that follows is a direct act of God.  Now this may seem obvious, but it’s enlightening to compare our story of creation with creation stories from other ancient civilizations.  Theirs, like ours, seek to explain the origin of things.  But the creation story of Genesis stands out in one very significant way: it describes creation as the intentional act of a God who longed to be connected with something outside of God’s own self.  Other creation epics speak of the world coming into being by happenstance or accident – two deities fighting it out and worlds coming out of the rubble.  Or gods who create a universe and then just walk away from it.

But in our creation story, God engages in an intentional act.  God creates because God wants to create.  And after the created order is made, the God of our story remains engaged, desiring to be in relationship with that which had been created.

And how God creates is worth noting, too.  Genesis doesn’t speak of things coming from nothing.  No, in our story, creation happens by bringing order to chaos – the “formless void” and “dark murky deep.”  What that is, is less important than what it is telling us.  Creation comes from God taking that chaotic, disorderly, violent mess and giving it order and purpose and meaning.  Much like my niece tackling a pile of magnet tiles scattered in a mess all over the table and making something beautiful out of it.  Waters separated and put in their places.  Darkness and light given rhythm and cadence.  Creation is literally God making sense of the madness.

And what lies at the heart of this creation?  What holds it all together, what’s the equivalent of the magnets in Riley’s plastic tiles?  It is love.  The foundation of God’s very creation is love!  Love is what stirred God to action in the first place; love is what served as the inspiration in the divine mind to make sense of the madness and bring order to the mess.  Our universe, our world is literally built on love.

And here’s the most important thing for us – you and I are called to engage with God in this creative activity. That’s why this story was written in the first place – to let us know that we are here to make sense of the madness, to bring order to the chaos. We have it in our very DNA to love. . It’s what we were created to do. And to deny that part of our created nature – or worse, to actively work against it – is to deny the image of God in us and in everyone else. We were made to take part in God’s ongoing creative act.

See, that was supposed to be the extent of the sermon this week.  That was meant to be the conclusion of this homiletical creation, much the same way my niece just knows when a magnet tile contraption of hers is done.  But as I mentioned earlier, sometimes the world does its thing and requires a different word.  As Rebecca and I wrote in our letter to you on Thursday, we are all horrified and shocked with what happened in our nation’s capital this week.  And yet in another sense, we are not at all surprised.  We all saw this coming.  Given the fissures that have been building for a while, given the escalating rhetoric and what we’ve already seen transpire, it isn’t like this came out of nowhere.

Now many commentators and political pundits have offered their perspectives, and this pulpit is not a place to give those voice.  But our faith does have something to say, because what we witnessed on Wednesday and what we have seen time and time again is not just a political matter or a societal matter.  It is a spiritual matter.  I am as convinced of this as I’ve ever been. And as I’ve said before, the preacher’s job is not to tell people what to think but what to think about, and to look at things like what happened this past week through a theological and biblical lens.

And so I’ve been thinking about a number of things.  I’ve been thinking about the fact that this happened on Epiphany – a church observance marking the Magi finding baby Jesus and worshipping him; and how part of that narrative also includes Herod engaging in mass genocide in a futile attempt to protect his power.  The Magi were later instructed in a dream to avoid Herod and “go home by another way.”  As we said in our letter, sometimes the Christian’s most essential work is avoiding the dangers and pitfalls of aligning ourselves too closely with power, what’s called “Christian Nationalism” – as tempting as that power might be, as much as we think we can control that power for good. Sometimes “going home by another way” is the way to engage in the subversive work of Jesus and the building up of God’s kingdom on earth.

I’ve also been thinking about our creation passage and a sermon that didn’t feel quite finished mid-week.  I’ve been thinking about the created order and how everything came to be because God brought order to chaos, God made sense of the madness, God made us in God’s image and did it all in love; and how the burden falls on us to be ongoing partners with God in that continuing work of creation.

And so when we see what happened in DC this past week and wonder how in the world something like this could happen, we could, as have many, lay the blame exclusively on a particular political party – but that would overlook the fact that similar atrocities in our nation’s history have occurred with full support of the other side of the aisle.  We could point the finger at a particular individual – and for sure, those who willfully stoked the flames of an attempted coup on our nation’s government must be held accountable.  But if we think things will suddenly fix themselves in ten days or because a Twitter account has been deleted, we are kidding ourselves. What happened on Wednesday, and what’s been happening time and time again in our country, goes far beyond party divides or individual personalities.  These are the symptoms, not the cause, of what ails our nation.

What ails our nation, as we look at things through that biblical and theological lens, is what I call “un-creation.”  Un-creation.  More destructive than vandalism and looting, more harmful than an attack on the principles of a democracy, this “un-creation” is a blatant rejection of God’s creative spirit and design.  It is, at its heart, the inverse of God’s good work.  It seeks to make chaos out of order, make madness out of sense; take that foundation of love that everything is built on and turn it on its head in the name of hatred and fear.  It is the denying of the image of God in us all.

And we have witnessed this un-creation throughout the history of our beautiful and complicated nation.  You have heard me speak before of “white supremacy culture” from this pulpit.  I want to be clear what I mean when I say that.  I am not speaking of organizations like the KKK or Proud Boys.  I’m not talking about hate speech or the kinds of things we see captured on cell phone videos of white people doing and saying awful racist things.

What I mean when I say “white supremacy culture” is a uniquely American reality that was birthed when the very first Native American was forcefully removed from their land by the new arrivals who assumed that land was theirs for the taking; and continued when the very first African foot, bound in chains, stepped off the slave ship onto American soil.  What I’m speaking of is the tainting of our nation’s soul that came from that, and the legacy it has burdened us with since; where some are fundamentally understood as less, others are viewed as more; and in the greatest travesty of all, it is seen not just as the way things are but as the very will of God.

This culture has manifested itself over and over and over again in the 400 years since.  Most of the time it is more subtle, harder for us immersed in it to recognize.  Other times it is in full-on display, as this past week. And while personalities have come and gone, and even laws passed and some progress made, it still keeps happening.  This denial of God’s image in us, this lure of chaos over order, this un-creation, continues to be part of the very fabric of our society.

And it should come as no surprise this is our legacy.  Listen to these words from a noted authority on the matter:

The alternate domination of one faction over another….leads to a more permanent despotism. The disorders and miseries which result gradually incline the minds of people to seek repose in absolute power. It serves always to distract public councils and enfeeble public administration. It agitates the community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one part against another.  This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, and is truly our worst enemy.

Those words written by the first president of our country, George Washington, on the occasion of his farewell address, 224 years ago.

Friends, this culture, this white supremacy culture, is a culture where people feel it’s their God-given right to storm a government building, just walk right in, take selfies of themselves in the Senate chamber and carry zip-ties in the hopes of handcuffing elected representatives – and to have no fear that they might be held accountable for their actions.  A culture where those people know, as we all do, that if it had been a different march composed of different-looking people, it would’ve ended very, very differently.

White supremacy culture is un-creation.  It is a perversion of God’s created order.  It is an affront to Jesus Christ.  And it must end.

And so, beloved, I long for us to look beyond the surface of things, get over the partisan hurdles that shield us from seeing what we need to see, the spiritual brokenness of this culture:

That when we willingly construct, and even subscribe to, narratives that are not grounded in fact or reality, we participate in the un-creation of God’s order.  When we stoke underlying tensions for personal gain, when we empower white supremacy culture either directly or through our complacency, we take part in un-creation. When we operate out of a sense of entitlement and assume something is ours for the taking simply because we can take it, we deny the image of God in us all.

This is where we are, friends.  That is the hard truth.  So the question is, where do we go from here?  What do we do?

I’ve been thinking this week about how I have no clue what the answer to that question is.  But one thing I do know, beyond a shadow of doubt, is that the calling of the church in this time is to align ourselves, all-in, with the power of God’s creative work.  We must call out and work against anything that seeks to un-create.  We must name white supremacy culture for what it is and recognize our part in it, hard as that is to do.  I’ve heard more than one person say in the past few days, “This is not who we are.”  Friends, the hard work we have before us as the family of faith begins with acknowledging that this is exactly who we are, who we’ve been for a long, long time; and to start saying instead, “This is who we diligently need to work not to be anymore.”

And I, for one, have faith that we can do that, if we are brave enough.  Because that image of God, it is still there.  No attempts to deny it will ever take it away.  It is there, and it is waiting to be let loose; waiting to engage the creative spirit all over again.  Longing to bring order to chaos.  Longing to make sense of the madness.  Longing to put love back where it belongs.

It is going to require a lot of us, undoing the un-creation.  But beloved people of God, we are more than up to the task.  Our God created this world once.  And God can do it again, through us and in us.  In a way, we just need to follow Riley’s lead: pick up the pieces and, one by one, start creating again.  It is all that easy. It is all that hard.  It is what we must do.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!

 

Featured image of Riley, world’s best niece, playing with her magnet tiles.

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https://trinitypreschurch.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Gold-Circumstance-and-Mud.mp3

Steve Lindsley
(Matthew 2: 1-12)

I am fascinated by the idea of the belated birthday card.  It’s rare I have to use them anymore, should circumstances require one.  Much easier to send a quick text or short video: oops, forgot your big day, hope it was a good one!  But in those instances when an actual card is in order, there are some good ones I’ve seen in the racks.  One had a tortoise on front who said, “So I’m a little slow…”  When you open it up, the inside read: “What?  Are you in a hurry to get old?”  There’s also one with a cute puppy: “I missed your birthday…”  Inside: “Do I still get cake?”  And then there’s my favorite.  On the outside it reads: “Sorry I forgot your birthday, but I have this problem with short term memory loss….”  You open it up and it says: “Sorry I forgot your birthday, but I have this problem with short term memory loss….”

I wonder if the Wise Men in our story today might’ve brought their own belated birthday card with their gifts for baby Jesus.  Because despite our tendency to lump them in with our other manger scene participants – the shepherds and angels, the barnyard animals,  baby Jesus and parents – despite all that, most scholars agree that the Wise Men’s arrival happened long after the others – weeks at least, and in some traditions even a year.  I wonder what their belated birthday card would’ve said?  Sorry about the delay, but there was this bright light in the sky, and we couldn’t see a thing!  Or, Yeah, we’re late, but we brought gold and frankincense and myrrh – so we’re good, right?

More on those gifts later.  This coming Wednesday is Epiphany. We don’t talk a lot about Epiphany in the church, and that may have something to do with it falling on a calendar day – January 6th – rather than a particular Sunday.  It also has the disadvantage of following closely on the heels of Christmas and New Years, getting lost in the seasonal shadow.

Even so, Epiphany is the day we typically recognize the arrival of the Wise Men.  So, a few things about that.  First, contrary to popular opinion and a hymn we’ll sing in a few minutes, there’s no hard evidence that these visitors from the East were actually “kings.”  Nor is there any indication that there were just three of them –  that’s something we’ve probably just deduced from there being three gifts.

Something else that doesn’t get a lot of attention is the role that King Herod plays.  He, too, wasn’t actually a king, although apparently he liked calling himself that.  Herod was the Roman ruler of Judea at the time of Jesus’ birth and was known for being mighty protective of his power.  So it’s no surprise, his reaction, when these wise men from the East show up and start asking questions about a “king of the Jews” who’d recently been born.  Right under Herod’s nose.

It’s no surprise that Herod receives this news as a grave threat and something to be reckoned with.  He’s a crafty guy, so he asks the visitors to return to him after finding this new king so he can worship him too – yeah, right.  And when they don’t return, Herod has every boy age two and under put to death.  It is an unspeakable horror, and it is certainly the reason Jesus and his parents flee to Egypt.

So we have the three kings who aren’t kings, we have Herod with a major insecurity complex and violent streak.  And we have the star that shone in the night sky.  A couple of weeks ago the “Christmas star” made all the news, even though it wasn’t really a star.  The “great conjunction” of Jupiter and Saturn, something that hasn’t happened for 800 years and won’t happen again until 2080. Right at sunset, it looked like a bright star, and just a few days before Christmas it was hard not to think of the Wise Men looking up at that light in the sky, guiding them to Jesus, leading the way so they could bring their gifts and worship him.

The word “epiphany” means “a moment of sudden revelation or insight.”  That revelation, that light, came to these men from the East in the form of a bright star – a sign that something had happened, that something had changed.  That revelation was confirmed when they traveled to see the reason for the star – and in doing so became the first non-Jews to see Jesus and recognize him as the son of God.  An epiphany.

That is our story on this first Sunday of January, as we begin a new year – a cause for reflection of what has been and what is yet to come.  A time making resolutions, if that’s your thing, or at least taking stock.  A season for pondering, thinking, praying.

And so it is appropriate for us to ponder and think and pray about what our epiphany might be as we approach January 6th, as we enter a new year.  What our moment of revelation and insight might be.  As we look ahead to 2021, a blank canvas upon which we write our individual and collective stories as the people of God, what new thing might God be telling us, directing us toward, shining on us like a bright star in the night sky.

I wonder if our epiphany might be found in those very gifts the wise men brought baby Jesus. But not the actual gifts.  Gold – the earth’s most precious metal.  Frankincense – an expensive oil used in religious rites.  And myrrh – tree sap resin fashioned into a lavish ointment.  They were great, for sure, if not a little out of place.  One wonders if Mary smiled the smile of a grateful new parent but in the back of her mind wondered why these visitors could not have checked the registry!

No, I’m talking about the gifts lifted up by a young child who, with his three other siblings, was putting on a Christmas pageant for their parents on Christmas Eve.  Joseph was played by the oldest son, draped in his father’s bathrobe and mop-handle staff; Mary depicted by his younger sister looking solemn with a sheet-draped head; the angel of the Lord played by the next in line with pillowcase wings.  That left the fourth child, the youngest of the bunch, to play the part of all three wise men, which he did with great pride, at one point proclaiming, I’m all three wise men, and I bring precious gifts of goals, circumstance, and mud!

Sounds about right for the year we just came out of, don’t you think?  Goals, circumstance, and mud.  The truth of it is, though, is that they really aren’t bad gifts to bring to Jesus.  There’s a lot packed into those gifts, if we think about it.

Bringing our GOALS to Jesus.  Our vision as a church; our hopes and dreams as followers of Jesus, all that we long to be with God’s help.  Goals – more than simply doing what we’ve always done, because the church of today has to be more than that.  If these past ten months have taught us anything as the church, it has been that we cannot simply do what we’ve always done.  Goals – more than us achieving something, because ultimately our purpose as the church is to further the mission of the One who has called us here in the first place.  It is what God wants for this church, not what we want, that should be our goal.

Bringing our CIRCUMSTANCE to Jesus.  Laying before him our very lives, just as they are, just as we are.  Because while the God of the manger is interested in so much about us, one of the things God is not interested in is our pretense.  Baby Jesus is not as concerned with the lives we might live as much as the one we’re living right now.  He prefers us just as we are, our various circumstances and roles in life, complicated and imperfect as they might be.  Husband, wife, daughter, son, employer, employee, neighbor, garden club member, church member – child of God.  We bring all of ourselves to Jesus, and that is more than enough.

And MUD, yes, even bringing our mud to Jesus.  That side of us that we’d rather God not see; those parts we’re not proud of and are ashamed to admit are even there.   As strange as it might sound, this “mud” of ours is a gift.  Because when we give our “mud” to Jesus, we are giving him our whole selves.  We’re not holding back.  We’re not putting on a facade or burdening ourselves with an image to project.  We’re “being real,” in the same way God is real with us when he comes into the world as a baby in a manger – not in a spiritual or symbolic way, but in a flesh-and-bone, rubber-meeting-the-road kind of way.

Goals, circumstance, and mud – now those are some gifts right there. The best we have to offer, just like the wise men did.  Those wise men brought their very best to Jesus.  They didn’t short-change the baby with a second-tier gift; a token present like the fruit cake the boss plops on your desk every December. Nor did they assume one of the others would “come through” with their gift so they wouldn’t have to be as extravagant with theirs.  Each gave their personal best to the son of God, because each gave themselves as they were.

And you know something, Trinity Presbyterian?  You and I are called to do the exact same thing.  Our task as the people of God and as this church is to give God our very best, to give God ourselves.

And I believe we’re already doing this.  I see it all over the place.  I see it the six women and men you’ve elected to serve as ruling elders in this church, who we’ve installed and ordained in worship today.  I see it in the session they’ll join; an amazing group of spiritual leaders who make a habit of bringing their best to the Lord as they guide our church into its future.

I see you bringing your best to the Lord in the faithful way you’re addressing some of the challenges our church faces – physical, financial, spiritual.  It’s a strong church that faces their challenges head-on instead of ignoring them or hoping they’ll just go away.  Because ministry is never a stagnant thing.  There will always be changes and challenges when God’s people are in the business of building God’s kingdom on earth.  And yet, through these times of transition we are led to transformation; and transformation leads God’s people to discover what its purpose in the world really is.

I see you bringing your best to the Lord all the time, and I want to invite you to continue thinking and praying about what you can bring to God’s church in this new year, what your gifts might be; so this church may become all that God wants it to be.  And if you’re wondering how to discern that, if you’re wondering how one figures out what their gifts are, I want to share with you something I’ve shared with you before; a question a minister colleague of mine has posed to every church she’s ever pastored when it seemed like the right time to ask it.  Imagine what it would be like, she said, if your church, your faith and practice, your witness was so essential to the essence of the community in which you live, that when you told people where you went to church, their response was, “I don’t know how our city would survive without that church?

Now think about that, people of God.  What would it take for this church to be so essential to the well-being of Charlotte – not just our well-being but our city’s – that, when you told people you were a member here, their response was, “I honestly do not know how our city would survive without Trinity Presbyterian Church”?

What “witness” would this city miss out on without us?  What transformative outreach and mission initiatives would go untapped?  What new music and worship efforts would never materialize?  What interpersonal connections would stay unconnected?  What neighborhood partnerships would disappear?  What new things, things we haven’t even thought of yet, would simply never happen?

Friends, in this new year, whatever it brings us, our work continues.  And if our visitors from the East are here to tell us anything, it is these words beautifully by author, theologian, and civil rights leader Howard Thurman:

When the song of the angels is stilled, he writes,
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are back with their flock
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among others,
To make music in the heart.[1]

Guide us, God, to always bring our gifts to you, and to be filled with the light of your love, on this Sunday and every day.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!

 

Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.

[1] “The Work of Christmas” by Howard Thurman

Featured image – Three Wise Men Original Abstract Religious Painting, Three Magi, Christmas Story by Luiza Vizoli.

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