Blue Christmas 2011

The following was my homily for our church's Blue Christmas service this year.  it's a time to honor those feelings of pain, grief, or sorrow that can feel especially jarring among the joys of Christmastime.

Blue Christmas 2011 Sermon

Psalm 137

By the rivers of Babylon—

there we sat down and there we wept

when we remembered Zion.

On the willows there

we hung up our harps.

For there our captors

asked us for songs,

and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,

‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’

How could we sing the LORD’s song

in a foreign land?

John 1:1-5

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

This past weekend, I took my annual tour with a group of friends to look at the Christmas windows on Fifth Avenue. It’s a fun time every year of eating chestnuts, catching up, and gazing at the lavish displays of creativity.

This year, I was struck by the starkness of the Saks windows. They depicted a made-up scene of a girl descending into a cave and finding a labyrinth of people in very elegant (of course!) black and white clothes, all working strange machinery to create bubbles.

A storyline at the bottom of the windows says that the girl named Holly went from room to room, wondering at the bubbles and why they were being made. She never really gets an answer, but she does get exposure to some very pricey and beautiful fashion.

It left me feeling a bit hollow. It seemed just like art for the sake of selling clothes. It felt as cold and hollow as the plastic bubbles themselves, bouncing mechanically from top to bottom of the window.

For many of us, that hollow feeling might feel familiar about this time of year. Whether it’s due to loss of loved ones recently or long ago, a rift in the family, a loss of dreams or expectations, the dazzling lights and joyous songs of the season can seem just like bubbles, encased in another world behind the glass of our grief.

This clash of cultural celebration and emotional state is nothing new to those who have grieved, now or in centuries past.

Psalm 137 is a particularly poignant example of grief “in a strange land.” You who are hearing the hollow echoes of “all I want for Christmas is you” pumped in through every store’s intercom system might empathize with them.

This psalm was composed in response to one of the most tragic events of Jewish history. Their temple, which they understood to be not just a place of worship, but God’s very house, had been sacked, destroyed, and defiled.

The Israelites had been captured by the Babylonians and taken as slaves to this foreign land. There, the captors mocked them, demanding that they sing their upbeat songs of Zion, of Jerusalem, of joy for their God – the God who had not protected them. They were exiles from their homeland, and exiles from joy.

It is utter despair. We hear in this verse, and in the several that follow, almost every element of grief:

• Disinterest in former things

• Remembering of better times

• Weeping

• Anger

• Disbelief

• Torment

As the psalm continues, the psalmist even imagines gruesome images of revenge.

But here is the beauty of this passage; it, too, is in our holy book. This psalm, with all its pain and despair, is honored as a prayer to God just as equally as Psalm 150, which consists mostly of the repeated phrase “Praise the Lord.”

This prayer of grief comes, as commentator Kate Huey has said, “from deep within the very human hearts of a people who knew what it was to suffer and to question, to believe and then to doubt, to feel loss and devastation, rage and a desire for revenge.

Aren't those all just as much at the heart of the human experience as feelings of joy, gratitude, and praise?

And isn't prayer the place and the way we can take those experiences, for better or worse, to the God who knows our inner hearts better than we do ourselves?”

What strikes me as so powerful about this psalm is that it is a prayer, which in the Jewish culture means it is also a song.

They are singing even when they say they cannot sing.

They are not singing the jovial tunes they were known for, but they are singing from their hearts to the heart of God,

singing with all the hope they have left,

singing out the deepest, cruelest, most painful thoughts they have ever had.

In the midst of grief and mocking, they sing.

Five hundred years later, the Jews were again experiencing a time of great distress. Their land, which they had regained, was now occupied by Roman soldiers. Grumblings of revolt were often on the margins of society.

The people were desperate for a messiah, someone who would rise up and throw off the Roman mantle, someone who would save them.

It is into this environment that the writer of the Gospel of John speaks his opening – and world-changing – words:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

The light was not what people anticipated; it was not a military victor come to defeat the Roman Empire.

Instead, the light was what the Jews had been longing for since that first siege of the Temple; it was a touch of God in their midst. It was a fleshy, human message from God declaring an undying love and support.

It was a new hope.

Now, two thousand years later, we have this story to remind us each year about this deeper truth. God, who may not appear in ways we expect or desire, will, in fact, appear. The light will shine in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.

The Christmas story comes around once a year, whether we are ready for it or not, whether we feel like singing “Deck the Halls” or whether we feel like a cold plastic bubble in a story with no ending. The Christmas story is relentless. It comes. It reminds us that, no matter our despair now, there is hope for the future. God is not finished with us yet.

In this Christmas season, we sing of joy not because we have it, but because in the process of singing it, we bring ourselves closer to it.

The photo on the front of your bulletin was taken in Bethlehem this spring. Two thousand years after Jesus’ birth in that city, there is a new kind of oppression; after decades of conflict erupting from both sides, the nation of Israel has created a giant wall between itself and Palestine.

Bethlehemites are stuck behind this wall, forced to apply for permits and wait in hours-long lines just to go the six miles to Jerusalem. Most Bethlehem teenagers have never been to Jerusalem; they dream of going someday.

The wall, the stark grey symbol of oppression is covered in graffiti, some of which would make the writers of Psalm 137 blush. But most of it, miraculously, tells this story of hope. Most of it is covered in prayers for peace, for hope, for redemption. It tells of a belief that darkness will not last always, that there is a light that will overcome the darkness.

I offer this image to you as a gift tonight. Whether your sense of hope is crystallized like a Swarovski ornament on the Rockefeller Christmas tree, or scrawled with spray paint over the other, more painful graffiti in your life, it is there. It is real. And in some unexpected way, in some dark corner, joy will spring forth again. The light will shine in the darkness.

Amen.

Thoughts on an Occupation

This was my most recent newsletter article for our church's newsletter:

Some of you know my secret: I have been spending some of my free time hanging out with fellow clergy and protesters at Zuccotti Park as part of the Occupy Wall Street movement.  I am part of the 99%.

This week, I was part of a group of faith leaders called Occupy Faith NYC that marched to the occupiers’ new temporary encampment on Canal Street after they were forcibly removed from Zuccotti in a clandestine midnight raid that no media were allowed to cover.  When we arrived there, expecting to see grumpy and disheveled people, we were greeted with cheers.  The crowds parted for us and we were ushered to the center of the crowd, where one of our leaders gave a moving speech and said a prayer.  All of his words were echoed by the “human microphone” of people repeating what the original speaker had said, amplifying it. 

The human microphone system has an amazing power for building community and hearing out differences.  Each listener takes the responsibility not just of hearing what another says, but repeating it, word for word.  You are forced to take in the meaning of their words.  Then, if you disagree, you, too, can call for a “mic check,” and have your words taken in by others.  It is a profound experience of letting ourselves be changed and influenced by one another, and giving each other the space to truly be heard.

An Occupier convincing people to charge the fence because "it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."  I did not agree, nor did many of my clergy friends, but we stayed on the public side of the wall as witnesses.

After a lot of discussion, the scene became more troubled; part of crowd decided to trespass onto property owned by Trinity Wall Street Episcopal Church.  Our faith leaders had been in negotiation to get permission to occupy that space, but the occupiers went in before permission was granted (and it never was granted).  We clergy stayed outside, but acted as moral witnesses, and then later human shields separating crowds of people from police in riot gear.  Eventually the occupiers inside the church’s grounds were raided, and we witnessed some violent attacks by the police.

So much, so fast.  So many ethical quandaries in just a few hours.  I know that some of you think that the church should stay out of politics entirely, and some of you might feel alienated by calls to support the 99%, seemingly demonizing the richest 1%.  I assure you that I struggle with these things, too.  But at my first march with OWS in early October, a friend of mine helped me make a sign.  The sign said, “On Earth As It Is In Heaven.”  At that moment, I was convicted.  I was reminded yet again how much of our faith is based on the belief that God celebrates all of God’s children equally.  Our faith encourages us to share, to care for the least, to bless the poor, to offer jubilee (relief from debt) regularly.  The Lord’s prayer, which we say weekly with our children because it is so fundamental, asks God to help us forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors, to deliver us from evil, to enact God’s will on earth, not just in heaven.

Our faith has everything to do with money and power.  It challenges us often in ways we might prefer not to be challenged.  It threatens to occupy parts of ourselves that we might rather remained compartmentalized, sterile, and free from influence.  Our faith is messy, and calls us into sometimes frightening territory.

But what is the reward?  When we delve into these uncomfortable places and allow ourselves to be thrown off kilter, something awakens within us.  Deeper love, stronger compassion, greater strength.  We are moved.  We become occupied by faith.

Whether you find the OWS movement a convicting one or not (and it certainly has some drawbacks), I wonder if you might find within it a lesson on the power of letting ourselves act out our faith, the power of challenging the status quo, even when the status quo seems so fully entrenched.  The OWS movement is shifting the dialogue in this country.  So, too, can we, if we allow ourselves to be occupied by God’s Holy Spirit.  Amen.

A "What Not to Wear" Children's Sermon

I realized that I don't have any of my children's sermons on this blog.  Mostly this is because they are so improvisational that I don't have a written text, but rather an outline that evolves as the children interact with me.  The one I did this week was so much fun I thought I'd post it here, even though most of the idea came not from me, but from this fantastic blogger, Rev. Sarah.  I'll reconstruct it as best I can.

As the Children's Time began, I was nowhere to be seen.  My college, Rev. Grenley, acted like I was mysteriously absent, perhaps having gotten stuck in traffic.  Just then, I raced into the sanctuary in my bathrobe, slippers, and towel-turbaned head.  The response was just what I'd hoped for: gasps, laughter, and children pointing while asking, "WHAT are you doing?"

I talked about clothes, and what is appropriate to wear for certain occasions.  For some reason, the kids did NOT seem to think that what I was wearing was appropriate for church!  Then, I told the story of Jesus' parable in Matthew 22:1-14:

Jesus told his followers a parable.  A parable is a story that makes us think really hard about something in a new way.  In this story, Jesus told us that the kingdom of God is like a king who threw a wedding for his son.  Can you imagine what a big party that must have been?  How many of you have been to a wedding?  What kind of clothes do people wear for a wedding?  [Answers included: "Nice" and "Fancy clothes."]  Yes!  Fancy clothes!  And this wedding was for the son of a KING!  So they would have been really fancy clothes! 

But this king sent out his invitations, and then something sad happened.  All the people who were invited said they couldn't come.  They had reasons, like having to milk their cows or visit their mothers.  But the king got very angry and sent people out to destroy their city.  But he still had all this food left, so then he told his servants to go out and invite anyone they saw: people who lived in the streets, poor people, anyone!  Can you imagine what it would have been like to be a poor person invited to a king's house for a wedding?  Pretty amazing, right?
Well, these people came and were really enjoying the feast.  At that time, when you came to something like a wedding, the fancy clothes that you put on were given to you by the host, so everybody was given fancy clothes.  The king was walking around and enjoying his new party when he saw that one of his new guests was not wearing the fancy clothes.  He was there and eating the food, but not dressed up like he should be.  The king got angry again and threw him out of the wedding. 

The king felt insulted and shocked because it was a little like me coming here today in this bathrobe.  Do you think this outfit shows that I care about church and think that it's special?  [Answers were shouted out, "NO!" and "You look silly!"]  That's right.  One of the reasons we dress nicely for church is that it helps show that we think this is a special place, that this is God's house and we respect it, like the king wanted people to respect his party.   

But what God REALLY cares about is not what clothes we wear, but what kinds of feelings we put on.  When we want to be with God, it is good to put on clothing like joy, kindness, and love.  Those are the garments that God gives us to wear. [Question: "What a garment?"  Answer: "It's a kind of clothes."]  Those things help God to know that we are really grateful for the things we have been given.  We put on our joy, and kindness, and love, and we can really celebrate the party that God throws for us. 

So now, we'll say the Lord's Prayer and then go off to Church School.  I'll meet you there in slightly different clothes.  [From one child: "Yeah!  YOU need to put on something more appropriate!!"]

We prayed and they left, and I swiftly took off the robe and put on my suit jacket, miraculously ready for church!

Here's a pic to prove it really happened:

The Brian Lehrer Show, Jesus, and Occupy Wall Street

I had 15 seconds of radio fame today in the NY-area call-in show, The Brian Lehrer Show.  The topic was religion and the Occupy Wall Street movement, which I have begun to support.  You can hear the segment, during which I am the first caller, here:  http://www.wnyc.org/shows/bl/2011/oct/10/open-phones-religion-and-occupy-wall-street/

And here's a photo of the sign.

Part my ramping up to this level of support was a devotional I wrote for a previous church's daily devotional blog.  I'll post that here, too.  I think that, if I were to add anything else to this, I would add that part of our job as ministers is also to help people realize that it is actually in their self-interest to change, that a life lived with God as our guide is a life worth living -- it's a hard sell, but worthwhile!

Psalm 103

Of David.¹ 
Bless the Lord, O my soul,   
and all that is within me,   
bless his holy name. 
² Bless the Lord, O my soul,   
and do not forget all his benefits— 
³ who forgives all your iniquity,   
who heals all your diseases, 
⁴ who redeems your life from the Pit,   
who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, 
⁵ who satisfies you with good as long as you live^*  
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. 

⁶ The Lord works vindication   
and justice for all who are oppressed. ⁷ 
He made known his ways to Moses,   
his acts to the people of Israel. 
⁸ The Lord is merciful and gracious,   
slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. 
⁹ He will not always accuse,   
nor will he keep his anger for ever. 
¹⁰ He does not deal with us according to our sins,   
nor repay us according to our iniquities. 
¹¹ For as the heavens are high above the earth,   
so great is his steadfast love towards those who fear him; 
¹² as far as the east is from the west,   
so far he removes our transgressions from us. 
¹³ As a father has compassion for his children,   
so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him. 
¹⁴ For he knows how we were made; 
he remembers that we are dust. 

Last Sunday, driving home from church, I passed by the usually-quiet local Catholic church.  That day, though, the quiet road had become a gauntlet of signs, nearly all held by women of every age, child to elder, all proclaiming the evils of abortion.  Signs read things like “Abortion Kills” and “Mothers Who Abort Have Regrets.”  Thankfully, they refrained from the signs with the gory pictures that I have seen elsewhere.  Perhaps it was the quiet silence of this vigil that unsettled me.  It was not so easy to ignore them as it would be to ignore a group of noisy, screaming protestors.  It was not easy to ignore people from a church of which I knew many former members. 

This got me thinking about the ways in which we proclaim what we believe is God’s message. While I was offended by some of the signs, and I would venture to argue with many of them about the practicality of simply banning abortion without also providing major support to families with unplanned pregnancies, I appreciated their willingness to be silent witnesses.  It made me take them more seriously. What it did not do, though, was change my mind.  It gave me no way to enter into relationship or dialogue.

As you know, in my new hometown of New York City, a major protest has been underway for three weeks.  This is a protest whose message resonates more with me; the Occupy Wall Street movement is growing in its nonviolent rebellion, and I will be joining in on some of the demonstrations.  I do love a good protest!  I love the enthusiasm of a crowd; I love the ability to unleash pent-up frustration; I especially love the clever signs. 

What I am aware of, though, and what was made more clear by the abortion protestors I saw on Sunday, is that these rallies are not really good tools for changing hearts or minds.  They are excellent tools for boosting the spirits of like-minded people.  When nonviolent action is taken that challenges the status quo, they can also be really good tools for getting a message into coverage by the media.  Perhaps the best that can be hoped for with signs and protests is to rouse the apathetic into caring.

But as long as there is a stark us-vs.-them attitude of dueling placards, hearts and minds will not be changed.  The change happens when people of different minds build trusting relationships with each other and begin to hear each others’ stories.  Change happens when empathy, not righteous anger, is aroused in the other.  It happens when we humble ourselves enough to see God in the other, and to allow them to see God through us.  It is much harder than making a sign.  It is lifelong work, to which we have all been called.

I will wave at you all with love from Wall Street.  Who knows – for the right cause, I might even let myself get arrested.  But I pray that I will do only whatever actions are necessary to build up the kingdom of God and to spread the message that ALL of God’s children – Wall Street executives and homeless people alike; mothers who have had abortions and the Pope alike – ALL of us are part of God’s beloved community.  All of us are capable of arousing God's great wrath, and all of us are recipients of God's steadfast love.  Ours is a message of great humility, which leads to great praise for the God who inspires us all to be better than we are today.  (And if creating a good sign for a protest helps you do that, too, then by all means, do it!  Just know what you're doing it for.)

Prayer:

Bless the Lord, my soul.  Keep me humble, keep me working toward righteousness, keep me working toward reconciliation.  Most of all, keep me always mindful that my strength and power reside in you.  Bless the Lord!  Amen.

Walking on Water

Date: August 7, 2011

SUNDAY: Ordinary 19A, Proper 14

SERMON: Walking on Water

Text(s): Matthew 14:22-33

© 2011 R. F. Small

Click here to see a video of this sermon.

When I told her the passage I was preaching on, Leslie[1] said, “Huh.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sermon on that before!”  When I thought about it, neither had I.  Not surprising, since it contains one of the most unbelievable stories in Scripture.  But it occurs to me that to dismiss this story is a shame, because while it is unbelievable, it is, in another way, very true.

Does this story of Peter walking on water feel familiar to any of you?  Now, I don’t mean, have you ever actually walked on water... Although, if you have, please raise your hand and then come on up here, because you’re going to give the sermon!

But I mean, have you ever been given the power to do something that felt impossible because you called on God’s power to help you?

Peter has sort of become the head disciple at this point in the Gospel, which happens right after the miracle of the loaves and fishes.  He is eager to please, eager to follow, but also scared in a boat full of scared people.  He gets just enough courage to ask for direction from God, and lo and behold, the direction is laid before him. 

On faith, he steps onto the water, wind whipping around him.  His focus is clear.  He has been called by Jesus to do something amazing!  His eyes are on the prize:  Jesus, his teacher, his guide, his Lord.

His eyes are focused, anyway, until the wind whips just right across his face, and draws his attention with it.  Suddenly, it is no longer the reassuring face of his friend and mentor and teacher that he is looking upon, but crashing waves and dense fog.  And his feet are trying to walk on water! 

In that moment of lost focus, chaos wins, and Peter begins to sink.  It is then, when he has realized that all control is lost, that he is no longer a “faithful disciple” and the chief among his peers, but a man with the tar scared out of him that is about to drown – it is then that he calls out not for Jesus to give him a tall order of a task, but simply to help him, to save him.

Peter being saved.  Note the giant waves, and scared ship-full of disciples.  Image borrowed from this page.

This story reminds me of one of these moments in my own life.  It was one of the first times I ever truly prayed, ever truly asked for God to do with me as Thou wouldst (when you’re that desperate, you’re willing to use Old English!).

It was my first summer as a church camp counselor, a job I thought would be a fun way to spend the summer.  Never mind that I had very little experience with children, except for some carefully honed door-slamming skills when faced with the visage of my little brother. 

Our training week as camp counselors really built us up, helped us feel like rock stars.  We were going help these children develop a deep faith in God, and we were going to have fun doing it!

At the end of the week, they gave out assignments for which counselors would be assigned to which camps.  I was nervous, but faithful.  I was really hoping for the elementary ages, because they were the cutest. 

They had assured us that new counselors would be paired with experienced counselors for the first week, to help us ease into things.  What I didn’t notice was that there was one more new counselor than there were experienced counselors.  Nor did I notice that, to fill that hole, we’d be getting in an adult volunteer.  And that that volunteer and one other counselor would be sent away from camp for the week with 17 middle-schoolers for a biking trip.  I didn’t notice any of this, because I was busy preparing myself to be a great counselor of elementary students.

Imagine my surprise when I, a rookie counselor, was called up as the lone staff counselor on the bike trip.  Fear started to set in.  As I stepped out of the boat of my fellow fearful followers and into the ocean of the 15-passenger van of hormones that I had to drive for the week, I heard the wind whipping around me.  And yet, I maintained my focus.  I believed I could do it.  I put on my big-girl bandana and drove off into the sunset.

After sunset, though, things got tough.  A carsick girl exploded all over the van.  The church kitchen we had to cook our meals in only had one burner that worked, which made our spaghetti very time-consuming and encouraged a lot of whining.  Then, my co-counselor then dropped the bomb on me: he didn’t feel like he could lead any of the devotional stuff.  He’d like to leave that up to me, since I was trained in it.  Gasp! 

I gathered the troops for grace.  They talked through the whole thing, ignoring me.  After dinner and cleanup, I gathered them again for vespers.  Everything I tried was declared “dumb” or worse.  My co-counselor looked on silently, with what I could only assume was scornful judgment.

As we climbed into our beds, which in this case meant each of us having an individual pew in the sanctuary of the church that was hosting us, tears were rolling down my face.  I was no longer a superhero counselor.  I no longer felt faithful.  I only felt a frantic sinking feeling, and a desperate need for help.  I began to pray.  Helplessly, I begged God to save me.  I said I would do whatever was necessary, if God would just help me survive this week.  I prayed until I slept, until the winds calmed.

The next morning, I awoke with a new sense of peace and confidence.  I wasn’t sure where it came from – well, I was, but was kind of afraid to admit it.  I went with it.  I led the morning prayers and didn’t hear a peep of complaints (maybe because they were all really tired from horsing around all night).  Suddenly, it occurred to me that these kids I had been sent to serve might actually want someone to pay attention to them.  I began listening to the campers, getting to know them and their stories, and I altered my games and prayers to fit their context. 

Before I knew it, I was really doing it – I was really being a counselor!  I had been saved! 

The week was by no means perfect, and on those West Virginia roads I surely hadn’t seen the last of carsickness, but from that morning on, I no longer felt alone.  I knew I had help, a source of power greater than myself, a true God to turn to.

This same story has happened for me numerous times in life, over and over because I have to learn this lesson over and over, this lesson that God is faithful and present, willing and able to help if I will ask. I regularly repeat the process of trying to follow, then taking pride in my own sense of control, then being distracted by the chaos of life and falling into deep fear, and finally, finally, asking for true help, no strings attached.

I wonder if this story resonates for you, too.  I wonder if you have had moments of feeling like you were really trying to do the right thing, to follow God’s calling, to be the best disciple you could be, only to have fear and trembling crumble you into a sinking mess.  I wonder if you have found yourself begging for help, being willing to do whatever is necessary just to be saved from the current circumstances.  Willing to pray with all your heart.

Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers, says that there are only really two prayers: “Thank you thank you thank you” and “Help me help me help me.”[2]  Often it takes these times of great distress to force us onto our proverbial – or maybe even literal – knees, begging for God’s help.

If we go back and think about the story a bit more, we realize that Peter and Jesus are not the only characters in this story.  There is a whole boatload of disciples watching this scene unfold, too.  These are the ones who never wanted to step out of the boat, never had the hubris to think that they, too, could walk on water, and in fact were simply just dumbstruck by the whole scene, pretty sure it was some kind of nightmare. 

As they watched Peter take his life into his hands, what were they praying?  Were they praying at all?  Did they really think that Jesus could do such things, even though they had just witnessed him feed 5,000 people on a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish?  It seems that they did not believe that it was possible.  They stayed huddled on the boat, watching. 

Plus, the disciples weren’t just afraid of the storm.  They were afraid of Jesus, too.  When he came strolling over to them on top of the waves, they were probably MORE scared of him than the roiling sea.  At least they knew what to expect in a storm!  The divine incarnate is another matter.  Several of them probably would have liked to be able to walk on water just to be able to run away from Jesus.  Like many of us, believing in a supernatural miracle-worker might have felt to them far crazier than simply dying in a storm.

Jesus recognizes this and shouts to them: “Be not afraid.  It is I.”  He uses a key phrase here that can be translated both “It is I” and “I AM,” I AM being the holy name of God.  Jesus was both invoking the power of God and being the power of God.  It was scary.

It’s not until both Jesus and Peter are back in the boat and drying off that the disciples begin to identify this man as the Son of God.    As they watched the scene unfold, you know they were wondering if Peter would survive.  But Jesus proved himself to be not only more powerful than they had imagined, but also more gracious.  When Peter doubted, faltered, Jesus did not let him languish.  He immediately reached out to help as soon as Peter asked for it.  He used his power to save Peter’s life, and in so doing, also saved the spiritual lives of everyone on that boat.

As a group of people changed by witnessing the power of the holy in someone’s life, the disciples here remind me of a story told by the church I attended in Seattle.

It was 1980, and the winds were whipping up on the United Methodist Church around issues of human sexuality.  The Council, what we would call the General Board, was approached by a quiet man in his 40s named Chuck. 

Chuck had recently been divorced, but now seemed to have a new joy about him.  He told the Council his story, of how his wife had left him, and he had been so grief-stricken that he had prayed desperately for god’s help.  As months went by his grief slowly lifted, and he began to make new friends.  With one friend, he found a deep connection, deeper than he’d ever known in his life.  He realized that he was deeply in love -- with a man. 

It was like a new world of joy had opened up to him, and he believed God had given him a true gift.

Now, surrounded by the rocking of the boat of of church policy, Chuck asked the Council to take a public stand against the denomination’s policies and the city’s new law that gay teachers like Chuck could be fired for coming out of the closet. 

The Council was silent for a few minutes.  Then, the Council’s resident curmudgeon -- every church has at least one! -- stood up.  Standing was not a regular practice a these casual meetings.  Everyone held their breath. 

Then, the curmudgeon said, “I have seen a transformation in Chuck that seems to me like the work of God.  And who are we to go against the work of God?”  He sat back down.

As the next hour unfolded, the other Council members told their own stories feeling lost and out of control, only to be saved by a power greater than themselves. 

They voted unanimously to take the stand that Chuck had asked them to take.  By the time I was a member of that church, 20 years later, they were well-known in the city as a church on the vanguard of LGBT rights, as well as many other issues of social justice.  By witnessing the salvation of one of their members, the whole church had been saved.  And this gave them the power to bring that saving grace to others, just like the disciples in that boat eventually did for thousands of others.

All of this happened because one man was courageous -- or maybe, faithful -- enough, to try walking on water.  And even when that became too hard, he was able to ask for help.  This act, witnessed by other frightened people, transformed their understanding of God’s power, and in turn transformed their ministry to others.

Whether you identify more with Peter or the disciples, there is good news for you in this story.  Both are saved.  Now, lest you think I’m getting all southern Baptist on you and am about to preach hellfire and damnation, let me assure that my understanding of salvation is in a much more practical sense.  I’m talking instead about real, in-the-moment, right-here-on-earth salvation. 

In the Gospel, the disciples were saved from death by drowning.  In our regular lives, we are often in need of saving from both literal and figurative storms.  We find ourselves in need of saving in the midst of deep debt, relational turmoil, helplessness in the face of injustice, uncontrollable pride.  We need salvation from fear, anxiety, and suffering.  We are a people in constant need of saving, because we are humans, and we mess up, and we are affected by others who mess up, too.

And the good news of this story is that God, as revealed in the person of Jesus, is capable of that saving grace, and waits for us to call out and ask for it.  Even greater is the good news that God is not just there to save an individual, like Peter.  Through the ways that God works in one person’s life and we in the boat are there to witness it, we too are saved.  We, too, grow in our faith that God might actually be able to help us, if God could help that sap, Peter.  Perhaps, if we ask for it, we might even be able to walk on water long enough to help others get a glimpse of that faith as well.

Who could we become, all of us together on this ship of stormy times in the economy, embroiled in many wars, with the widest gap between rich and poor ever seen in this country?  Who could we become, as a church facing generational shifts and their accompanying undercurrents of conflict? 

Who could we become if a few of us trusted enough to step out of the boat, relying solely on God’s power?  Who could we become, as a church, if we witness that power, hear those stories, let ourselves be changed?  Imagine what might be possible!

Imagine if we shared with each other the stories of facing unemployment or an underwater mortgage, and a job coming through at the last minute... Might the church, witnessing to this power of God, be moved to form a job resource center, or ban together for affordable housing?  Imagine if one of us were to share her experience of being liberated through divorce from an abusive relationship, and we found ourselves with renewed vigor to advocate for others who’ve been abused...

Whether we are like Peter, eager to take a risk on the power of God, or simply witnesses to Peter’s faith journey on the water, can we open ourselves to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, with God’s love and power, it is possible to walk on water?

Could we, as William Sloane Coffin once put it, decide to commit as much of ourselves to as much of God as we can believe in,[3] and see what happens?  As we face our next storms, let us be not afraid, but call upon the great I AM to save us, and watch what happens!

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[1] My partner, known well to the congregation

[2] Anne Lamott.  Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith.  Anchor Books.  2000.

[3] William Sloane Coffin.  Letters to a Young Doubter. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005. P. 40

A Theology of Fun

Published in our church's August 2011 newsletter:

By the time you read this, several of our church members will have had the opportunity to experience being covered in baby food, cool whip, raw eggs, and shaving cream.  They’ll have slid in spaghetti or found treasures in Jell-O with their feet.  Already, church members have sung silly songs together, made up goofy walks, and told funny and embarrassing stories about themselves.  Where does all this happen?  Family Fun Nights.  Why does all this happen?  Well, that’s a bigger answer.

Raise your hand if, when you think of church, the first word that pops into your head is “fun.”  I’ll wait just a minute… Anyone?  Yes, you, the four year-old in the back.  Thank you for raising your hand.    No one else?  I kind of suspected that…

Somewhere around age six, church stops being fun for most of us.  It becomes serious, weighty, a thing of somber reflection.  Indeed, church is one of the few institutions that provides a place for us to gather and reflect on who we are as moral beings.  But I would argue that this does not have to exclude fun and laughter.  In fact, those things are absolutely integral to a healthy faith!

Theologian Conrad Hyers has said, “Faith without laughter leads to dogma, and laughter without faith to despair.”  My friend Susan Sparks, who is both a professional stand-up comedienne and an ordained minister, suggests in her book Laugh Your Way to Grace that humor and fun are absolutely essential to the Christian faith.  They serve as bridge-builders to forgiveness, protect us from the great sin of sanctimoniousness, give us a sense of perspective on what is really a tragedy and what is just a bump in the road, and serve as a healing balm for sadness and grief. 

Most importantly, though, humor and fun are bonding agents in a community.  In being lighthearted together, our guards are let down, and trust is built up.  On our first Family Fun Night this summer, each participant was given the chance to take as many M&Ms as they wanted, only to find out later that they would then have to share something about themselves for each M&M.   As we went around the circles, hearing about favorite foods, movies, and outdoor activities, and then about memorable and important moments in each others’ lives, I could see barriers breaking down, new relationships being built.  “You, too?”  “I’ve always wanted to go there!” “I LOVE that movie!”  All these comments began new opportunities for deeper intimacy.  Across generations, children taught older people about fun things in their lives, and older people found commonalities with the children.  With every bit of laughter or joy, we became more and more of a church family. 

As the summer draws to a close and we begin to gear up for another active year together, I encourage you to embrace it with love and humor.  Come to our last Family Fun Night on August 16^th; join Parish Life for a concert on the lawn; plan what you’ll perform for the theatrical revue in October…. Opportunities abound!  If you find yourself stuck for inspiration, look to the children; they know how to have fun in church!

"And a little child shall lead them..." in a silly dance!

Finally, I leave you with a joke from comedian Dwayne Kennedy: “Two things they talk about all the time in the bible: wine, and things that are hard to believe.  I think the wine came first…”

Righteous Plumbing

Date: July 11, 2010

SUNDAY: Ordinary 15C

SERMON: Righteous Plumbing

Text(s): Amos 7:7-17; Luke 10:25-37

© 2010 Rachel Small

Some of you were here a few weeks ago when the children performed “The Parable Trail,” a detective story in which Joe Friday, Columbo, Bond, Holmes and Watson listen to Jesus’ parables to try to discern their meanings.  My reading this morning can do no justice to that acting troupe’s presentation of the parable of the Good Samaritan, complete with Alec Bader as the robbed and beaten man plaintively calling out, “I’m not dead yet!” and Cecelia Tueber as the innkeeper announcing that the Jericho Holiday Inn has a special, in which a night’s stay only costs 1 denari and your donkey can stay for free.  I was hoping we’d be able to reprise that portion of the play today, but alas, it is camping and vacation season and the kids are gone, so we’ll have to make do with the memories.

When I saw that the Parable of the Good Samaritan was slated for today’s lectionary, I admit I had to sigh a bit.  This parable has been dogging me since we started working on it in church school in February.  It haunts me as I make my way through the streets of New York, encountering on every street corner someone who could easily be as beaten up as the man in the story.  While not wanting to give away my life savings, and not wanting to enable people in addictions that they may or may not have, I have been consistently reminded that I, the recently ordained minister, am passing by a lot of wounded people – just like the priest in this story.  I suspect many of you – ministers in your own right – experience the same quandaries, whether in the streets of the City or among the communities here in Westchester.

We are all faced constantly with people in need, and some of us have even taken a turn as people in need ourselves.  It’s this relationship – that of the giver and the one in need – that I’d like to explore with you today. 

On the face of it, this story seems pretty cut-and-dried.  As one of the most famous and oft-referenced parts of scripture, it is often used as shorthand for an illustration of kindness and mercy.  Many of us learned it as children.  It’s in almost every children’s Sunday school curriculum because it’s one of the few bible stories that is easy to understand and has a clear moral compass: be kind to others, love your neighbor.  It’s made it into popular culture, too: there’s a Good Samaritan law that protects us from being sued if we risk performing CPR on a sick person.  Hospitals, nonprofits, and countless ministries have named themselves after this saintly Samaritan.  It’s so frequently cited, in fact, that the story’s punch frequently gets overlooked.

You see, the Samaritan is no saint, certainly not in the eyes of Jesus’ Jewish followers. Judeans (of whom Jesus and his audience were a part) had feuded with Samaritans for centuries.  Each group claimed to have come from the line of Jacob, Isaac, and Abraham, but Samaritans, who inhabited the northern part of Israel, claimed to descend from Jacob’s son Joseph, while the Judeans in the south claimed to descend from a different son, Judah.  Over the centuries they developed different methods of worship, different forms of holiness and cleanliness, and they looked up each other with utter disgust.  The antagonism was present even in the writings of the Hebrew prophets; Amos, from whom we read today, spent his career prophesying in Samaria against its great wealth, its poor treatment of widows and orphans, and its oppression of the poor.  His vision of the plumb line of righteousness was aimed squarely at the wealthy cities of Samaria, places that archaeologists have found significant material wealth, like ivory mosaics and inlaid wooden paneling. 

Amos was only one of many Jewish critics of the Samaritans.  Hosea and Isaiah also condemn them for their pride, wickedness, oppression and exploitation of the poor.  By Jesus’ time, it was common practice to travel around Samaria rather than through it, even though the journey was much longer, because the dangerous antagonism could lead easily to violence.  Samaritans who were traveling through Judea, like the hero in Jesus’ story, were seen as vile foreigners.  Even though they shared a religious heritage, they were not allowed in the temple in Jerusalem; they were scorned and derided.  Just before this scene in which Jesus tells this parable, Jesus was traveling and tried to stay in a Samaritan village, but the Samaritans refused to receive him.  The disciples ask Jesus if they should pray for fire to rain down upon the village, but Jesus rebukes them and moves on to a different village.

All this is to say, that when Jesus tells his tale of the man robbed and beaten on the side of the road, and it was not the two Jewish religious leaders who stopped, but a Samaritan, it had to sting.  It may have been similar to the way modern Israeli Jews and Palestinian Muslims feel about each other.  We could also envision it closer to home. Imagine yourself having fallen in the ditch on Garth Road after a bicycling accident, your leg screaming in pain.   A policeman walks by, ignoring you.  Then, heaven forbid, one of your ministers walks by and doesn’t stop.  Finally, a homeless man who has clearly not had a shower in months sees you from his campsite on the Bronx River Parkway.  As he pulls you out of the ditch and onto his grocery cart, he’s warning you to be careful of the spies that are all around us, and they’ve implanted microchips in his head.  He uses his rags to bandage your broken leg to a board from his cart.  He pours a little alcohol in your stings and cuts, then nips back a drink for himself.  He pushes you on the cart all the way to White Plains Hospital, where he wheels you into the emergency room and tells you what to say to them to get service for free.  With one more reminder not to let them put microchips in your head, he’s gone…

For some of you, the Samaritan might be a speaker of a foreign language who may or may not have immigration papers, but carries with her a first aid kit because she’s afraid to seek health care in a hospital, and uses this kit to help you.   For others, the Samaritan might be someone within the same race or class, but of a different ideology.  Perhaps you Rachel Maddow fans out there might find yourselves being aided by Rush Limbaugh, who summons his limo and offers his credit card to pay for your hospital bills.  We all encounter Samaritans regularly; we can recognize them because our blood pressure goes up a little just by seeing them.  Sometimes it’s a person whom we know as an enemy; often it’s simply a member of a group that we subconsciously perceive as an enemy.

The 2004 film Crash has several scenes of Samaritans saving the day.  It follows groups of people through two days in Los Angeles as their lives intertwine and crash into each other, sometimes quite literally.  The film is a complex and beautiful tapestry of the interconnectedness of human lives, but I’m going to try to isolate two examples for you. 

In one, a wealthy, white wife of the state attorney general has just been carjacked by two black men.  When she is back at home, she has the locks on her apartment changed.  The locksmith is a Hispanic man with tattoos.  Still frightened from the day, she ends up yelling at her husband to get the locks changed again, because she’s sure that the man is going to keep a copy of the key and distribute it to his gang so they can rob her.  She says this loudly, in front of both the locksmith and her Hispanic housekeeper, Maria.  The next day, she slips and falls down a flight of stairs.  She phones her husband and friends, but reaches none except one, who says she can’t come to help until after her massage.  Finally, the Hispanic housekeeper finds her, takes her to the hospital, and brings her home safely.  As the housekeeper then brings her a cup of tea in bed, the woman hugs her and says, “You wanna hear something funny?”  The housekeeper replies, “What is it, Ms. Jean?”  She says, “You’re the best friend I’ve got.”

In another storyline, a black television director and his wife are pulled over by two white cops, one of whom had earlier had a bad encounter with a black woman.  This cop with a chip on his shoulder orders an unnecessary search on the black couple, and while searching the woman, puts his hands in inappropriate places – in the clear sight of her husband, who stands helplessly witnessing this assault.  Fast forward to a day later, when the woman, still distraught from this experience, crashes her car and is trapped in the car upside down, gasoline leaking everywhere.  The cop who shows up to the scene is none other than the one who molested her the day before.  She starts screaming, begging for him to get someone, anyone else to pull her out.  Finally, he screams back at her that he is the only one there who can help, and the fire is approaching fast.  With great fear, she assents, and allows him to help her.  He pulls her free, just before the car goes up in flames.  As she is taken off to an ambulance, she simply looks over her shoulder at him, shaking her head in wonder.

The scene in Crash just after the woman is pulled out of her burning car.  Photo Credit: Lorey Sebastian

This kind of shocked wonder is at the heart of the Samaritan story.    Crises and emergencies have the capacity to tear down huge walls built up between people.  When the man in the ditch is forced to receive help from someone he thought was an enemy, an equalization takes place.  The humility of having to be assisted, and especially to be assisted by an enemy, forces us to recognize the humanity in the other.   

When we hear this story read or paraphrased, it is natural for each of us to ask ourselves, “do I have what it takes to be the Samaritan?”  Can I love people no matter what, in the midst of whatever troubles they are enduring?  And we often try very hard to embody the command to love our neighbors; we have programs of feeding and housing; we give money generously.  We try our best to go and do likewise.

But if we look at Jesus and his audience, we can realize that there is another part of the story.  It’s one thing for people of privilege – and all of us are, in several or more ways, privileged – it’s one thing for people of privilege to offer help to hurting people on the road.  It’s another thing when WE are the ones hurting on the road, to let ourselves be helped.  If that man in the ditch was a good, law-abiding Jew, would he have wanted the Samaritan to help him?  Surely he would have called out, like the woman trapped in the burning car, for someone, anyone else to help.  But in the act of humility of allowing himself to be cared for, the man got more than he could have imagined.  He received help for physical wounds, but also help for spiritual wounds.  In the act of receiving the gift of help, he becomes one with the giver, the Samaritan.  He becomes more whole, having broken down another wall separating the human body of people.

In the book of Acts, Paul quotes Jesus as saying that it’s better to give than to receive.  Indeed, this story of the Samaritan can easily back up this sentiment if we see it from the position of the merciful Samaritan.  But if we also look at it from the ditch, which is where many of Jesus’ listeners might have put themselves, watching the priest and the Levite walk by, feeling their blood pressures rise as the Samaritan crossed the road, if we look at it from there, we realize that there is at least as much grace in being able to receive as to be able to give.  Being in need is a way that we are each, no matter how privileged we might be, given the experience of being an outsider.  Being in need allows us to identify with outsiders like the Samaritans, and opens up a chink in the wall between us.  From the viewpoint of the ditch, we begin to see our sameness rather than our difference.

Jesus asks the lawyer in this story to identify the “neighbor.” The word “neighbor” implies mutuality, equality.  There is no “better neighbor” and “worse neighbor” (although you may have some of those in your neighborhood!).  The word “neighbor” itself is neutral, and has no hierarchy.   In becoming neighbors to one another, people perform a dance together that requires movement from both parties, the giver as well as the receiver.   The dance of giver and receiver becomes a dance of oneness, of leveling the playing fields between race, class, ideology, and belief.  It is a frightening, vulnerable dance.  It requires us to let down guards that have been up since we were toddlers first learning how to differentiate between different types of people.  But it is a dance that ultimately leads to healing.

In Amos’ castigation of the Israelites, he shares his vision of God standing beside a wall built with a plumb line.  God says to Amos that “this is a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel.”  He pronounces judgment on them because the walls of their city have become morally crooked; they have continued to oppress and subjugate the poor and downtrodden.  They have violated God’s law of righteousness, which can be defined as the “quality of life in relationship with others… that gives rise to justice.”[1]  It has become too late for the Israelites, and they will be destroyed.

What if, though, instead of a judgment device, the plumb line had been set before them as a guideline?  As the lawyer answers Jesus’s question about eternal life, we see that it had: in a spiritually fit life, one’s walls are built straight up toward God, with all our hearts, souls, strengths and minds pointed toward God, and with level floors, on which we are on the equal footing of love with our neighbors.    In the story of the Samaritan, God has lowered a plumb line into the lives of the Samaritan and the man in the ditch.  By risking the chance to give and to receive help, they have straightened out their spiritual standing in God’s eyes.  They have seen each of God’s people as human beings rather than labels.  They have risen to the challenge of the plumb line.

Image borrowed from Epiphenom blog

By the end of the story, we see that the lawyer gets it.  When Jesus asked the lawyer who was the true neighbor, the lawyer did not say the words, “The Samaritan.”  He did not reduce the person to racial labels.  Instead, he said, “the one who showed mercy.”   In so doing, in seeing the Samaritan’s humanity in the story, the lawyer, too, became a neighbor.  His eyes were opened to new possibilities beyond the traditional barriers erected by time, prejudice and culture. 

As we close today, let us hear Jesus’ final words to the lawyer, words of bewildering challenge as we face a world of needs – others’ needs, and our own deep wounds.  We have heard the story of the one who reaches into the ditch.  Many of us are in ditches right now.  Others of us are walking along the road, with the choice of whether or not to look in the ditches.  We have heard Jesus’ story.  And now we hear his charge: “Go, and do likewise.”

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[1] Tucker, Gene M.  Note on Amos 5:24. “Amos.” The Harper Collins Study Bible. New York: Harper Collins, 1993. P. 1304.