Today, as everyone knows, is Veterans’ Day.  It is also an important day in Europe as it marked the end of WWI, and used to be known here as ‘Armistice Day.’

I always call my dad on Veterans’ Day and just left him a message.  He served in the Panama Canal Zone in the mid ’50s as a firefighter.

I was thinking about the big deal which is being made of Veterans’ Day this year.  When I was younger I cannot remember it being as important.  For a while I was being cynical and thinking it was just a way for Applebee’s, ESPN, etc. to get more visibility.  And it is not an immediate response to the Fort Hood attacks.

But I think there are a couple of things at work.  Firstly, we are now eight years into the ‘War on Terror’ or whatever you want to call it.  For whatever reason, whether the nature of the enemy or the wishes of the government (for some) this is going to be the longest continuous military action in American history.  Most of American history can be divided into long periods of peace versus shorter periods of intense war.  This is different.

We also have an all volunteer armed forces.  For most of the American wars the draft was central to its conduct.  But now we realize that those who are in the armed forces are those who (for the most part) have chosen to be in harm’s way.  And I also believe that the intensity of the feelings surrounding the Vietnam War have faded somewhat.

Lutheran theology has said that the soldier has a vocation – to participate in God’s work in protecting the innocent from harm.  Certainly this power and responsibility has been abused throughout history.  God’s kingdom cannot be brought about through war.  But on this side of the kingdom, soldiers who are called by a legal government to protect their citizens are participating in God’s ‘kingdom of the left,’ for the sake of peace and good order in the world.  Along with so many, I offer my thanks.

The prophet Elijah probably never accused God

of doing things by the book.

He was going to get used to God doing things like this.

God appears to him during a drought

and tells him to go to Zarephath,

for he has arranged for a widow there to feed him.

Remember, this is over 2500 years ago in the Middle East.

Women back then who lose their husbands and therefore their means of financial support

have neither jobs of their own nor life insurance nor Social Security.

God has just told Elijah to do the modern-day equivalent

of going to a certain place in a snow storm

because God has fixed it so that a homeless guy will give him a place to stay.

But, again, Elijah is going to get used to this sort of thing.

Off he trots to Zarephath, and lo and behold,

he finds a woman down to her last loaf,

and asks her for it.

God never does things by the book –

or perhaps we’ve just got the wrong book.

Jesus is camping out in the temple precincts,

just watching what’s going on.

He watches as the scribes walk proudly through the temple of God,

and the rich are delighted to give what they have,

and a widow with nothing gives what she does not have.

Then he points out the widow to his disciples.

She is the God-blessed one in this picture.

She is the one down to her last.

God never does things by the book, does he?

Or perhaps we’ve got the wrong book.

One of the insights of Martin Luther

was that God would most often be found in what we would consider

the unlikeliest of places.

He called it the theology of the cross

and contrasted it with the theology of glory.

He said that God could be found under his opposite,

whether it be a poor widow from Zarephath down to her last loaf,

or a poor widow from Jerusalem down to her last coins,

or a poor man outside the holy city down to his last breath on a cross.

God where you least expect to find him,

in the presence of scarcity, sin, disease, and death.

This is a God who refuses to do things by the book.

What does the woman do with her last loaf?

Gives it to God’s prophet.

What does the woman do with her last coin?

Gives it to God’s temple.

What does the man do with his last breath?

gives it to God’s child, the sinner on the cross next to him

– “Today you shall be with me in paradise.”

The widows know the freedom of having nothing to lose.

If you’re a sports fan like me, that’s the hope you hang on to

when your team is having a off year.

“Well, they’re playing for pride, they’ve got nothing to lose.”

And you hope that the other team chokes under the pressure

of having success, of having a championship on the line,

of expectations,

whereas your team can play with a certain freedom,

when there are no expectations.

The book says that this team is supposed to win,

but we know that life doesn’t always happen by the book.

Wouldn’t it be nice to live life with that kind of freedom,

the freedom of having nothing to lose?

And yet the problem is, in order to have nothing to lose,

we think we have to have nothing.

All of us most of the time and most of us all of the time

are not willing to make that exchange.

The problem with the rich people who are giving large gifts to the temple

is not that they are rich,

it’s that they have lots to lose.

Jesus can see that there is something of themselves they are keeping back.

What is the best gift you can give to God?

We are taught in the Gospel that God doesn’t want us to buy him off

with sacrifice of animals, or money, or even what we can do for him.

God wants far more than these – he wants us.

He desires us far more than what we can give him,

more than what we can accomplish for him

He owns everything – what could we give him that is not his already?

But a relationship of love is what he desires –

and for that we don’t need to have money, time, talent, or pride

we don’t need to have anything except nothing to lose.

The gospels are full of the pain God feels

when people hold themselves back from giving themselves to him

because of the things they will lose.

Jesus looks at the young man and loves him

and the young man goes away grieving

because he cannot let go of what owns him.

Notice I said “what owns him.”

Not “what he owns.”

Jesus tells a parable of the king who throws the greatest party in history

and he is shocked and frustrated and angered

when response after response comes back, “I have too much to do to come to your party.”

In Jesus’ story the king goes and finds those folks with nothing to lose

and compels them to come in, so that he can give them everything they ever wanted.

Jesus tells another party story, which we know as the parable of the prodigal son.

In this one, a man refuses to come in to his father and brother

because his pride has been hurt.

He has been slighted.

The position of honor has been given to someone else who doesn’t deserve it.

And we are left wondering, will the elder son be able to let go of his pride

and join the feasting?

You can’t eat pride.

You also can’t have a relationship with pride.

For a relationship of love, we don’t have to have money, time, talent, or pride –

in fact we often must let go of these things so that we may have nothing to lose.

In Elijah’s story, we read of the woman and her son and their household –

an extended family,

perhaps with servants from the good old days when they used to be rich –

this widow’s house feasts on their last meal for way longer than one could expect.

And we don’t hear anything more in Jesus’ story about the widow with two copper coins,

but we can be reasonably certain that God didn’t forget her either.

The man on the cross who blessed with his dying breath –

he fills the universe and is present with us today.

The Triune God, who gave himself to us and held nothing back,

wants nothing in exchange except ourselves,

and if there is anything keeping us from him he calls us to let it go

and discover the freedom and peace of living in his presence.

I wrote this poem in response to the death of Michael Jackson this past summer.

I was not a fan of the music (that is, since the 80s, when I with most others had “Thriller” at least in the soundtrack of my life), but I always felt that he was either celebrated or vilified unjustly; people projected onto him what they wished to believe.

My prayer is that he is even now learning more of and experiencing God’s grace and forgiveness. But the poem could be voiced by any celebrity – anyone upon whom we project our hopes and fears about our present and future.

Prayer for the Celebrity’s Purgatory

There are no eyes that watch me in this place.
Did I not spend my earthly life in faith
that when the people saw me and adored,
their adulation brought its own reward?

But truth be told, that faith was never sure.
I was bound up, I know – could not break free.
The whole of life, from youth, was on a stage.
The habits of the child live into age

and tempter’s lies so sweet are hard to leave.
At least I grew suspicious of the scripts:
all different in detail, all ends the same.
The cameras flashed, the headlines claimed my fame.

They called me Genius, Rebel, Superstar.
They sold the tickets, albums – made the lies
more sure that told me I must ever shine.
I don’t know just what time it was, the line

I crossed – I only know that soon the cameras
found faults and sins would suit them just as well.
The pundits made me famous; just the same,
they were the ones who now invoked my name

in shock and shame – to titillate, to blame,
to mock, to mourn, to wonder at the waste,
sell and profit, shake the head, move on in haste:
Next victim! in the sacrificial game.

Upon the altar which they built for me
they set me up, they worshiped and adored;
and then, my sin and shame exposed, they gorged
themselves upon my naked, bloody flesh.

Can namelessness be grace? A start afresh?
For I can guess the stories that they tell
now that I sing in heaven, or in hell.
My corpse may rot; my memory may still

the needful place upon the victim’s altar fill.
Now that I’m gone, they feast upon this dinner –
“Gifted, brilliant! But was he saint or sinner?
Do blessed ones remove their shining halos

as he draws near, and laud him for his gifts?
Or rather, do the demons from the rifts
rise, flay him in just payment for his crimes?”
I once believed that death would bring the same –

Shouts to praise (or curse, condemn) my famous name.
But if I could, I’d tell them we were wrong.
There are no eyes that watch me in this place,
no ears that beg the singing of my song,

no mouths that speak of me, no deference
nor reference to me, no making sense
of me, blessed, cursed, or misbegotten soul.
They’re giving me no part to play, no starring role -

I’m merely fellow penitent and friend.
I’m neither king nor god, thank God! I’m no
anointed, no pariah – just a man.
I’m making sense of this as best I can.

The habits of the child live into age
and tempter’s lies so sweet are hard to leave,
but I believe I’ve come to disbelieve
the speaking of my name in praise or rage.

But here, one Name is spoken, if at all.
Our ears are pricked to hear His forward call.
O strange, O new, amazing, glorious grace!
There are no eyes that watch me in this place.

This is interesting to me because it takes into account the situations of people who are physically and mentally abused in their marriages, but does so based on the Scriptures.  Too often we have thought we must make an ‘end run’ around the words of Jesus in Matthew 19 et al because it simply is the only way to deal with a bad situation.  Perhaps we need not make an end run around Scripture after all.

www.divorce-remarriage.com

From Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals and Commemorations:

“…born in Einbeck, in the province of Hannover, Germany, in 1711, the seventh of nine children…”

“…In the early part of the eighteenth century, the Lutheran communities in the New World were scattered over a wide territory and came from various ethnic origins.  They had built a few churches, but they were without any kind of general organization, and there was considerable dissesion among them…

“…August Hermann Francke, who had made Halle a great center of Pietism, sent Muhlenberg to America in 1742.  He went first to London, where he learned from the court chaplain Frederick Ziegenhagen, as he also had from Halle, something of the need of the New World.  Also, while in London, Muhlenberg had a gown made that was different from both the German and the Scandinavian style, and this was to set the pattern for English Lutheran clerical vesture in America.

“He arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, on September 23, 1742, visited the Lutherans there and in Georgia, and reached Philadelphia November 25, 1742.  Muhlenberg was possessed of much courage and perseverance, and gradually the German-speaking churches recognized his authority and the Swedish clergy also cooperated with him.

“During the forty-five years he labored in America, Muhlenberg, struggling against schismatics and impostors, traveled incessantly, corresponded widely, and set a course for Lutheranism for coming generations.  He preached in German, Dutch, and English, doing so, it is reported with a powerful voice.  He sestablished the first Lutheran synod in America, the Ministerium of Pennsylvania, which can be dated from SUnday, August 14, 1748, when the delegates met in Philadelphia.  At this synod Muhlenberg submitted a liturgy that was ratified and remained the only authorized American Lutheran liturgy for forty years.  It was revived and used in many places as part of the bicentennial observ ance of the United States in 1976.  Ultimately, this form of the historic Lutheran order developed into the common liturgy of North American Lutherans…as Lutherans slowly moved toward the ideal that Muhlenberg had expressed in 1786, just before he died, of ‘one church, one book.’

“Muhlenberg’s concern with questions of stewardship, pastoral care, and education strengthened the church life of Lutheran congregations and aided greatly in the transition from the state churches of Europe to the free churches of America; his model congregations constitution of 1762 established the basis for local church government.”

God, our heavenly Father, your servant Henry Melchior Muhlenberg displayed courage and perseverance in the face of opposition and slander, and brought order both in life and worship to scattered and dispirited congregations: Give to the pastors of your church such strength and faithfulness that the devotion of your people may be enriched, and that unity and cooperation may be advanced, to the glory of your Name; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Today is Nicholas’s 6th birthday. Michael shares his name day with Nicholas, as Sept 29 is also the feast of St Michael and All Angels. We celebrated Michael’s name day with chocolate chip pancakes.

Philip Pfatteicher writes, “As All Saints’ Day…is a reminder of the size of the one church in heaven and on earth, so this feast of Michael and the angels is a reminder of the breathtaking size of creation, seen and unseen. The feast teaches an understanding that there are aspects of reality beyond what can be grasped with the seenses. Angels, like moretals, are children of the infinite imagination of God. They are a higher order of beings, whose service of God is nonetheless joined with ours (see 2 Kings 6:15-17), and the function of the Preface in the Eucharist is to join mortal songs with the perpetual praise offered by the angelic choirs of heaven.”

John Donne writes, “We paint angels with wings, because they bear God’s message and proclaim his laws…”

The book of Hebrews asks (1:14), “Are not all angels spirits in the divine service, sent to serve for the sake of those who are to inherit salvation?” Above the angels is the divine Son of God, who for our sake became “lower than the angels” (Psalm 8, Hebrews 2) so that we might be raised to his eternal life.

“Everlasting God, you have ordained and constituted in a wonderful order the ministries of angels and mortals: Mercifully grant that, as your holy angels always serve and worship you in heaven, so by your appointment they may help and defend us here on earth; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. (Gregorian Sacramentary)

‘Familiarity breeds contempt’ – so the saying goes. To become a United States citizen, that is, if you are not born a citizen – you must pass a test on U.S. history and civics which would scare most of us. For many people who become citizens of this nation, the proudest moment of their lives is when they walk into a voting booth and cast a ballot –for president, for congressperson, for local official, doesn’t matter. Just that they are counted among those who are free to choose who will represent them in government. Now if, like me, you have grown up as an American citizen, if you have never known another way to live, it may not be as meaningful for you to walk into the voting booth. You may be more focused upon complaining about the candidates or the lack of choice rather than thinking about the positive. Perhaps you need another experience – to impress upon you the miracle that is democracy – to make the familiar and everyday strange and new again.

I find the same thing with Lutherans. It is usually those who are new to the Lutheran church – or even who are new Christians – who ask the most questions – who want to know what it means to be a Christian or a Lutheran rather than some other kind of Christian – what sets us apart? Those of us who have attended a Lutheran church our whole lives, we may think we know exactly what it means to be Lutheran, and we’re not necessarily very interested in our past, or our teachings. We know, you see. We’ve been to confirmation. Familiarity breeds contempt. Or at least disinterest.

When Jesus went around Galilee, he would usually teach in the synagogues, and what we often call a “miracle” would follow. Perhaps demonic exorcism, perhaps healing of disease. This happened across the lake also – in Gentile territory. As we heard last week Jesus heals a woman with a long-standing hemmorhage, and raises the little daughter of a synagogue official. Then he comes home, to his hometown, the place where he grew up, and he can do nothing.

Now what is going on here? It is not that Jesus is in a slump, that he suddenly has lost the healing touch, that he is off his game somehow and needs a rest. Rather, it is the same old story. ‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ It is one of the wiliest tricks the Evil One ever played upon humanity, the one where he convinces us that we know this and what we know about can’t possibly be worth knowing about – that we have seen everything that there is to see and that there is nothing more to be said. And moreover, that those things which we see every day we despise, we criticize, we hold in contempt.

Jesus had grown up in Nazareth, his familiy was still part of Nazareth life. The people know what kind of people come from Nazareth, and perhaps they wondered just who the hell Jesus thought he was coming back and putting on airs. Maybe you’ve experienced it. A kid goes away to university, gets a degree in something or other, and all of a sudden he or she comes back and you’d think they dropped from the sky with their knowledge and wisdom. Isn’t this the kid whose snot you wiped, whose diapers you’ve changed, the neighbor kid who was always tagging around after your daughter or feeding quarters to the pinball machine?

But, you know, maybe you’ve experienced it the other way too. Maybe you’re the kid who has come back home, having seen the world – and you are distressed because there is the same old same old around here, people are so provincial, so unenlightened, if they only knew what I knew, it would be a lot different. Nothing to see here, nothing but the humdrum rhythms of life in the valley, the same neighborhood, the same family, the same friends, the same job, the same church – and you take offense. Just like the good folks of Nazareth did with Jesus, you take offense. And you cannot receive what is abundantly available to be shared.

It is one of the wiliest tricks of the Evil One to tempt us to pride – the pride that says, “I have seen all there is to see, I have learned all there is to learn.” “I went through confirmation, I know all that stuff.” “I know that person, she’s the one who did this and said this once…” And we close ourselves off to what God might be doing, what deeds of power God might have in store.

The Son of God became a human being, to come close to us, and perhaps this is why we have such a strong reaction. He is like us, and yet unlike us. He not only shows us who he is, but who we are, and who we might be. And that is profoundly exciting and threatening at the same time. A man from Nazareth, like them, and yet unlike them,
the wisdom of God flowing from his lips, the power of God emanating from him, it’s like an indictment, an offensive statement about who they were. If Jesus was a man like them, they had no excuse to be the men and women they were. And so it goes. Much easier to deny that anything new is going on here than open oneself to the possibility of transformation.

There are only two choices available to each of us – deny Jesus, or deny ourselves. Acknowledge ourselves in need, or stubbornly insist that we are full of light, even in our darkness; rich, even in our poverty, strong, even when we are weak. St. Paul knew the irony – first a super-Pharisee, then a super-Christian, and it was important for him to let the wandering Corinthian church know that he had the power and wisdom given by the Holy Spirit, and that they should listen to his words and teachings. But as soon as he acknowledged the power and wisdom as his, as soon as he said it was his, God’s power and wisdom had departed from him, would slip from his grasp. And so he gloried in his weakness and his poverty, so that Christ could be everything – so that what was important was not that Paul was something, but that God was something. So that Paul and the Corinthians together could receive what God had to give.

My sisters and brothers, in opposition to pride, humility is the key to receiving what God has to offer. Neither to blindly accept everything that is new, or to focus upon the exciting, nor to hold fast to things because it’s not been done that way before. Neither to affirm all about the hometown, nor the home country, nor to despise it. Neither to affirm everything about every person nor to write them off. But in deep humility and poverty of spirit to assume that hidden inside each holy Word of God and each human being that he has created there is a treasure, there is a gift, that remains undiscovered, and to pray and watch and listen until God by his Spirit reveals Christ in the Word, reveals Christ in us.

In Steven King’s novel The Green Mile,and the subsequent movie of the same name, the green mile is the stretch of hallway which leads to the electric chair and the prison cells of death row which line that hallway. John Coffey is an inmate of Cold Mountain Penitentiary, a tall, strong black man, on the green mile for the brutal murder of two young white girls.

But, as the story progresses, Paul Edgecombe, his prison guard, sees things that leads him to doubt John’s guilt. How could such a gentle, even childlike man have committed such a terrible crime? Moreover, how can someone who has the power to heal as John does be evil?

For at John’s touch, Paul’s stubborn urinary tract infection is healed; a mouse crushed by a sadistic guard is restored; and in a haunting scene, John heals a dying woman of cancer. In each case, it is as if John breathes the disease into himself and then expels it.  It is an irony not lost on his guard that though John brings life to the dying, he is known as a murderer and condemned to die, destined to walk the green mile.

How can this be? It is like this verse of a hymn we sometimes sing on Passion Sunday: “Why, what hath my Lord done? What makes this rage and spite? He healed the deaf and dumb, he gave the blind their sight. Sweet injuries! Yet they at these, themselves displease, and gainst him rise, themselves displease, and gainst him rise.” “My song is love unknown, my Savior’s love to me, love to the loveless shown, that I might lovely be.” Jesus, the giver of life and healing, himself was condemned as a blasphemer – someone who brings death by cursing God’s name – and walked his own green mile which we know as the Via Dolorosa, the way of sorrows.

This fifth chapter of Mark begins to open us to the mystery. In the opening of the fifth chapter, St. Mark relates the story of the Gerasene demoniac. Jesus frees a man from the possession of demons, and expels them into pigs who immediately stampede and hurl themselves like lemming over the cliff. (Incidentally I should mention that the mass suicide of lemmings is another one of those things which was once taught as absolutely true in science class but has since been proven to be false.)

Then, in the stories which we have just heard proclaimed, Jesus heals the flow of blood of an old woman, and raises a young girl from the dead. In all three cases, we see the healing power of Jesus. But perhaps it is what we do not see which might awe us more.  We do not see that in each of these two cases, Jesus is exchanging his holiness for our sinfulness, his life for our death.

I always think the Gospel of Mark is unintentionally funny right here. The woman with the unending flow of menstrual blood had spent “all that she had on many physicians.”  Don’t we do the same thing? Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying anything about the state of or cost of medical care. Nor am I making a theological judgment about the healing arts. We are rightly grateful for the gifts of medicine and for doctors and nurses.  But at the same time we recognize medicine’s limitations. It serves to preserve life for a longer time, not to abolish the possibility of death. The sign of healing can be a sign of God’s grace in the midst of life. But we run from death, the look of death, the feel of death, we spend our money not only on physicians, but on treatments to make us look younger, so that we may accepted in a society that idolizes youth, on treatments that make us feel younger, so that we may continue to act young. And there is something about us still, even in this “enlightened” age, that does not want to spend time around the dying. Perhaps it is too much a reminder of our own mortality, that someday the keys will unlock our cell and we too will walk the green mile.

These days, many people read the story about the woman and say simply this, “Jesus was breaking down barriers of prejudice.” After all, a woman with an unending menstrual flow was unclean in the Jewish religion of the day, and could not participate with the worshiping community. In this reading of the story, Jesus is saying, “She’s OK after all. It’s you who exclude her who have the problem.” There is always something to be learned about prejudice. In Stephen King’s novel, American racism certainly plays a role in John Coffey being on the Green Mile. But the Gospel of Mark says that power came forth from Jesus. Jesus didn’t hold a discussion group, but simply by touching Jesus’ cloak, the woman was physically healed. Jesus did not say about the little girl, “it’s OK that she is dead,” but taking her hand Jesus raised her from the dead.

These two stories bracketed together tell us that the same thing is happening in both cases. And the earlier story in Mark 5 helps us understand it too – Jesus comes to his people to set them free from all that would keep them in bondage – the powers of sin which plague us, the disease which is living death, and the death which would cast us back into chaos.

But don’t think there is not a cost. There is always a cost. The cost is this: Jesus, in taking our uncleanness and sin from us, takes it upon himself. In taking death from us, he receives it himself. Think about it this way. Those of Jesus’ time practiced a religion strictly divided between clean and unclean. You could not touch a person with a flow of blood, for that was an extension of the power of death. If you did do so, you needed to be ritually cleansed. You could not touch a dead person, and if you did, you needed to be ritually cleansed. Jesus does these things, and giving his life to those in bondage,he takes on the uncleanness associated with death, in fact, he takes on death itself. It is on the cross that he bears our uncleanness, sin and death to the end, so that our sin and death may no longer separate us from God. Though we are still plagued by sin, and are subject to its consequences in this world, even our sin cannot separate us from God, for Jesus has taken on that separation in his own flesh. Though we die, death cannot separate us utterly from God, for Jesus has taken our death into himself.

So, then, what do the healing of this woman afflicted for twelve years and the raising from the dead of a twelve-year-old girl mean for us? It would be a terrible thing if the lesson we got from this story was that chronic disease and death in childhood is a sign of God’s disfavor, that if the Father really loved us he would always heal in this way. There will be chronic disease and untimely death as long as this world rolls. God sees it and God mourns with us and in Jesus makes a way through it.

We always want to remember that the healing that we see in the Gospels points us to the living Jesus in our lives. The new life which the two women experience through Jesus is both perfect and yet to be completed. Perfect because it is new life given by Jesus, yet to be completed because they are not yet free from the cares of the world or the threat of death. It is the same way with us. We may live confidently, knowing in Christ, God comes to us still, speaking words of healing, grace and forgiveness, offering us his holiness and life in exchange for our sin and death. We may experience the joy of being healed of physical and spiritual disease in this life, while knowing that one day we too will walk that green mile, trusting that on the other side of death we will hear those words, “I say to you, arise.”

Sunday Worship – It’s Not About Us!

Not that the “good old days” were always perfect, but there was once a time when American culture supported more regular Sunday worship attendance.  There were few other choices – grocery stores and shopping malls were closed, there was nothing on TV or the Internet, and it was not as easy to travel out of town for a weekend.   It was far less common for both parents to work – so the weekends were not the only time that families had to spend together.  Sports and other activities did not compete so ruthlessly for our time.  But churches were also filled in those days because more people were familiar with the concept of “duty,” simply doing something because it was the right thing to do.  Nowadays we are likely to do something if and when we feel we want to – and if we don’t feel like doing something, we often assume we are being hypocritical if we do it anyway.

Of course, it can be hypocritical to do something that we are not being honest about.  But at the same time it is true that if we only did the things we felt like doing,  there’s a lot necessary that wouldn’t get done.  I had to change my toddler’s diaper in the middle of writing this article.  I didn’t feel like doing it right then (and I probably could have put up with the odor a little longer).  But it was the right thing to do for him to take care of it right away.

We often fall into the trap of thinking that we go to worship to get something out of it for us: an inspiring message, beautiful or energizing music, or an answer to prayer.  But we can hear music on the radio, a sermon on TV, and we can pray when we have time.  Besides, sometimes the sermon is a clunker, the music is out of tune, and the other people there are imperfect.  When we go to church simply to get something out of it, often there’s not enough there to keep us going back, especially when we could get some work done or finally have an opportunity to relax.

So if not to get something out of it, why worship?  In his excellent little book Loving Jesus, Mark Allan Powell makes the radical suggestion that Christians should regularly worship simply because God deserves to be worshiped. In other words, it’s not about us!  It’s about God, and for all he’s given us, God deserves our gift of time and our hearts and voices to worship and praise him in the community.  We always get something out of worship in the process, but those “fringe benefits” can never become the primary reason for worship, or else we will readily turn to some other activity that always fulfills our needs and wants.

If Jesus of Nazareth knocked on our door and wanted to come into our house, wouldn’t we drop everything to spend an hour with him?  If we believe that he is invisibly but really present “whenever two or three are gathered,” won’t we be much more ready to seek him out there regularly?  So when you are deciding “Should I go to church this Sunday?” don’t think about what you might get out of it.  Think about God and all his gifts, the gifts of creation and sustenance and forgiveness and love, and decide whether he deserves your worship and praise, the token of your time and your voice and your presence with him.

What’s a metaphor?

It’s for cows to graze in.

It’s an oldie, but a goodie.

The Gospel of John uses a variety of metaphors for Jesus

and to describe the relationship between Jesus and his disciples.

“I am the bread of life,”

“I am the way, the truth, and the life,”
“I am the gate for the sheep,”

“I am the good shepherd,”

and today we hear another,

“I am the vine, you are the branches.”

This metaphor, this figure of speech, this self-designation

is particularly important for us,

as we consider what Christ desires of us, his disciples, his followers.

But using this metaphor of vine and branches,

what is it really that we are supposed to do?

It seems a static image,

a metaphor which gives us a picture of life

but not an example to follow.

What does a branch do, after all?

Not much.

A good branch hangs on to the vine from which it receives its life.

And that’s what we’re supposed to do, too.

“Abide in me,” says Jesus,

“Live in me, stay connected to me.”

It looks static, but the dynamism is hidden.

When you were in your mother’s womb,

you had a cord which connected you to her,

a cord through which flowed life-giving oxygen

and vital nutrients

so that you might live without breathing or eating.

When you were born,

that umbilical cord was cut,

but your navel is silent witness that you were utterly dependent upon another creature.

And even when that cord was cut,

we still were dependent, to be washed, to be fed, to be taught.

No matter who our mothers were or are,

through them God nourished us and gave us life,

and because of this he commands that they be honored.

The term “navel-gazing” is usually used in a negative fashion,

a criticism of those who are always looking inward.

It is meant to be a put-down indicating that those who look inward

are self-focused rather than God-focused.

But I’d like to suggest a different kind of navel-gazing today,

one which highlights our dependence not only in the womb,

but outside of it as well.

Many of us will go to dinner today to celebrate Mother’s Day.

Or perhaps you will go home and prepare a meal.

When you do, don’t just thank God for the food,

thank him for the people.

Think of how dependent we still are,

upon those who planted the seeds or picked the fruit or tended the livestock,

upon those who transported it and those who prepared it

and those who brought it to us.

The simple fact of the matter is that without these people doing their jobs,

we don’t eat.

Without God’s gift to us of these people,

we starve to death.

It is something to believe that God gives us life, love, and nourishment;

it is something more to believe that it is through other people

God gives us life, love, and nourishment,

and that those other people,

whether they be mothers or fathers or strangers,

deserve our thanksgiving and love and care as we would give to God

were he standing before us.

To navel-gaze in this fashion,

or to let one’s belly button serve as a reminder

that as once we were connected to and dependent upon our mothers

for life and nourishment,

so too we are connected to and dependent upon others still,

even while we stand on our own two feet,

may also serve to remind us that as disciples of Christ,

we are connected to and dependent upon him.

On Thursday and Friday I was in Wellsboro for the annual bishop’s retreat.

The speaker’s topic was on the spiritual life of pastors.

He encouraged pastors to have a spiritual life.

Actually praying, not just a long list of needs and wants,

but actually praying and experiencing God’s love for them through prayer.

It was a good presentation, and I’m very glad we had it.

But how did we get to this point in the Church

where pastors who have been through years of theological study

and have years and even decades of parish experience

have to be led through the basic steps of having a prayer life?

It is as if at a chef’s convention they taught them how to eat.

Or offering a course to adults called “Breathing 101,”

how to get life-giving oxygen from the very air which surrounds you.

How did we get to this point in the life of the Church

where the people who are supposed to be teaching people how to pray

are being encouraged to take the drastic step of taking time for prayer?

I think it is because we have absorbed so uncritically the message of our culture

that we are justified by what we do and how much we do

that we have to be reminded to pray.

And I think it is because we have forgotten that in all things

we are dependent upon God and our neighbor

that so many Christians, not just pastors, but Christians, burn out.

What does a branch do?

Not much.

It hangs on for dear life to the vine,

upon which it depends for nourishment.

The storms come and the winds blow,

as they did last night,

and the dead branches splinter and fall,

but the living branches hang on to the vine

and stay connected.

“Abide in me, as I abide in you,” Jesus says,

and this command is also a promise

that in his own time and in his own way

the living Christ indeed will produce his own fruit in those who abide.

One of the things which our presenter mentioned during our sessions

was a study he had either read somewhere or conducted himself.

Those people who reported that they were very satisfied with their spiritual lives

generally had four things in common.

They worshiped regularly in a community,

they read the Scriptures regularly, whether privately or with a study group,

they had regular times of prayer,

and they practiced generous giving.

God is gracious to everyone,

God is loving to everyone,

but the people who understood that,

who realized that he was gracious and loving not to people in general

but to them specifically,

were people who saw their main task as a Christian

as hanging on to and living in Christ,

as a branch hangs on to and lives in its vine.

Why come to church?  You don’t accomplish anything here –

why read the Bible?  It’s not a how-to book.

why pray?  It’s not a sure-fire way to get what you need or want

why give?  You can’t control where the money’s going.

But all of these acts are acts of dependence, of trust.

Jesus says, “Abide in me, as I abide in you.”

“I am the vine, you are the branches.”

“Without me, you can do nothing.”

“Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit.”

We all have long to-do lists,

but what we might need most of all is a to-be list:

Be a branch, connected to the vine,

abide in Christ, live in Christ.

Receive his nourishment,

shelter in his protection,

and indeed he will produce his fruit in his time for his glory.

Alleluia!  Christ is risen!