Heritage Presbyterian Church

Love Grows Here

Sunday’s Sermon – Along the Road – Luke 24:13-35

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In the winter of 1947, the reckless and joyous Dean Moriarty, fresh out of another stint in jail and newly married, comes to New York City and meets Sal Paradise, a young writer with an intellectual group of friends, among them the poet Carlo Marx. Dean fascinates Sal, and their friendship begins three years of restless journeys back and forth across the country . . . Through all of this constant movement, there is an array of colorful characters, shifting landscapes, dramas, and personal development(1)

This is a summary of the famous book published in 1957 by Jack Kerouac, On the Road. It is a story based on the travels of Kerouac and his friends across the United States, considered a defining work of the postwar Beat and Counterculture generations, exhibiting the ups and downs of life against the backdrop of jazz and poetry.

One premise of this novel hinges on the idea that life is best learned by experience, and it has prompted many a young adult to indulge in wanderlusts and yearnings to explore the world, from backpacking across Europe to road tripping across the United States. While on the road, one can reflect on the mysteries of life, and perhaps come out with a greater sense of meaning and purpose for things. It is a coming of age work in a sense. The pseudo-autobiographical main character discovers himself along the way. The plot is almost subtle, and to understand it, readers must pay close attention to nuance. As one study guide notes, “The story is in the details(2).”

Our story from Luke this morning is the same way. In it, we find two of Jesus’ disciples on the road to Emmaus following the death of Jesus. Only one of them is named – Cleopas. Naming, or not, in our Biblical texts is significant. Some posit that the unnamed disciple may have been a woman, not given status by lack of mention. Others offer a compelling interpretive rationale; that the writer of Luke intentionally did not name the other disciple in order to allow his first audience of early believers the opportunity to place themselves within the context of the story. The story invites us into the journey. We are all disciples trying to get our grips on what this Resurrection stuff is all about.

While much of the gospel narrative has been about a journey towards Jerusalem, here we have characters that are actively moving away from it. We might gather that this is a journey of escape, an attempt to get away from the tragedy that has just unfolded because they can’t quite make sense of it all and are deeply saddened. Frederich Buechner writes that Emmaus is:

The place we go to in order to escape – a bar, a movie, wherever it is we throw up our hands and say, “Let the whole damned thing go hang. It makes no difference anyway.” . . . Emmaus is whatever we do or wherever we go to make ourselves forget that the world holds nothing sacred: that even the wisest and bravest and loveliest decay and die; that even the noblest ideas that men have had – ideas about love and freedom and justice – have always in time been twisted out of shape by selfish men for selfish ends(3).

This, too, is an example of what it meant to live after Jesus’ death and resurrection. It was a time of uncertainty and confusion for those who had followed and believed he was the Christ. The hopes that had once existed now seemed a faint memory, and the disciples just weren’t on board yet with the women’s story about the empty tomb. This is a story about what it is to come to grips with the story of the resurrection. It is a “what now” moment? The answer is a walk.

The disciples were wrapped up in trying to make sense of what had just happened when a stranger joins them. We know that it’s Jesus, but they don’t recognize him, and he seems clueless about recent events. I imagine the disciples were caught off-guard. This was all they had been talking about. It had captured every headline, was trending on social media, and filled the news cycle. How could this stranger not have heard? Had he been living under a rock? (well, maybe behind one). They catch him up on the details, even the ones they aren’t so sure about.

Strangely, this stranger offers more than just an opinion on the matter; he gives a complete and thorough lecture on the subject. But he doesn’t just explain the events of the last week; he identifies their place within the entire story of the Scriptures. It must have been an extraordinary level of detail. It is a Bible study that lasts for the entire seven mile journey to Emmaus. But rather than escape the stranger’s lecture when they reach their door, the disciples choose to invite him in. Something has kindled in them that leaves them still wanting more. And, as was the custom, the stranger only relented to stay after strong urging and emphatic invitation. They gathered around a table, and he breaks bread. Suddenly, their eyes were opened. In this moment, they realized who was before them.

In her memoir An American Childhood, Annie Dillard describes such a moment from her teenage years, when she was full of “summer camp love” for Jesus but “utter disdain” for the congregation where here parents dropped her off to worship:

There came a day when she was chagrined to find that it was a Communion Sunday. She groaned inwardly; she had managed to avoid Communion for years, the long dreary service that seemed interminable. But she was stuck, and there was nothing to do but wait it out. She watched as the well-dressed ushers passed around sterling silver trays bearing tiny cut-crystal glasses, each with half an ounce of grape juice, and other trays with perfectly cubed white bread. She scoffed inwardly at the presumed piety of these wealthy people. . . Then suddenly it hit her. These people were all praying. . . . She had no idea “when this praying developed.” She looked down over the balcony rail at the adults below. Even they seemed to be concentrating; surely they were not praying, too. . . . But there they were. The Communion trays had disappeared, and the people were left, stilled. One young father rested his head on two fists propped on his knee. The men’s heads were all bowed, the women’s too, except for a few who were tilted back. It seemed that people were scarcely breathing.

Dillard writes. “Christ drifted among floating sandstone ledges and deep absorbent skies. There was no speech nor language. The people had been praying, praying to God.” (4).

Even when we are doubtful, as the Dillard and those disciples were, Christ shows up, and often in surprising ways. Sometimes we almost miss it because we are so wrapped up in our own concerns. This can even be true in worship, the place where we would imagine God’s presence to be most apparent. We come expecting to see friends and have good conversation and maybe learn a thing or two, but we don’t always come expecting to see Christ. The story of Emmaus challenges us to pay better attention to what’s around us, rather than simply waiting for it to become painfully obvious, and reminds us that Christ does and will show up. Writer Kimberly Bracken Long suggests that, as Christians, sometimes we have to train ourselves to see(5). Today, consider being a bit more attentive to looking for it. Perhaps Christ for you will be in the taste of bread and juice; or in a deep, satisfying breath of prayer; or in a moment lost in music; or even in the face of someone else gathered here.

Our experience of the risen Christ shapes our entire understanding of the journey and gives us renewed energies for the journeys ahead. After their eye-opening moment, the disciples realize that Jesus has been in the midst of all they have done, guiding and shaping their conversations and movements along the way. They race back to Jerusalem with the good news, ready to serve Jesus once again. As Shannon Michael Pater notes:

In the breaking of bread, the beams of resurrection’s dawn have reached about seven miles from Jerusalem. Their burning hearts illumine their blind eyes and quicken their weary souls for a seven-mile nighttime run in the moonlight of Easter. Their sacred city is made holy again, and their pilgrimage of faith has just begun(6).

This morning, we celebrate our shared journey in faith as a congregation. We believe that, like the disciples, we are called to walk the road together, even when we aren’t quite sure what our road might lead. And we recognize the need to have leaders among us who will help us be attentive to these things as we grow in faith together. So, from among this group of travelers, we elect officers – elders and deacons – to help us discern where to go. It is a journey rooted in the words of Scripture, not just our favorite verses, but the totality of God’s story. This morning, our newest class of officers will answer questions promising to lead us faithfully. They will commit to being on the road together, prayerfully discerning God’s will for our congregation, trying to figure out what to do next. And, through prayer and the laying on of hands, we will ask the Spirit to be with them and us along the road. We do so trusting that the same one who met those disciples on the way to Emmaus will meet us on our path as well, and that our experience of the Lord in our midst will deepen our understanding of what it means to be followers of Jesus. This morning, we commit to being along the road together, with each other, and with Christ.

Will you join us on this road? If so, I invite you to stand as we express some of what we believe, joining together in our Affirmation of Faith:

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford
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(1) Summary of On the Road by Jack Kerouac, www.sparknotes.com/lit/ontheroad/summary.html, accessed 5/3/17.
(2) Ibid.
(3)Frederick Beuchner, The Magnificent Defeat (New York: Seabury, 1966), 85-86; as quoted by R. Alan Culpepper, “Luke 24:13-35,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume IX, Luke – John, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995)
(4) Ibid.
(5) Kimberly Bracken Long, The Worshiping Body: The Art of Leading Worship (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), https://books.google.com/books?isbn=0664233112, accessed 4/26/17.
(6) Shannon Michael Pater, “Pastoral Perspective: Luke 24:13-35,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 2, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

Sunday’s Sermon – Life Together – Acts 2:41-47

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There are a lot of things you can do all by yourself, but faith isn’t one of them. Sure, there are aspects of faith that you can accomplish on your own – we each can pray, read the Bible, and even worship in some ways, but nothing we can do entirely on our own will fulfill the kind of faith life that Jesus calls us to lead. Writer and pastor Francis Chan notes:

While every individual needs to obey Jesus’ call to follow, we cannot follow Jesus as individuals. The proper context for every disciple maker is the church. It is impossible to make disciples aside from the church of Jesus Christ. Look at it from this perspective: the New Testament is full of commands to do this or that for “one another.” Love one another, pray for one another, encourage one another, etc. So how can we teach people to “observe all that I have commanded” if they have no one to love, pray for, or encourage? It’s impossible to “one another” yourself. It’s impossible to follow Jesus alone[i].

Throughout his ministry, Jesus taught his disciples what it meant to be together, encouraging them to look after one another and attend to each other’s needs. In his appearances after the Resurrection, he reiterated this idea and instructed his disciples to continue the work he had done in light of his resurrection. In Luke’s gospel, he reminded the disciples, “You are witnesses of these things” (Luke 24:48). Such good news is meant to be shared. Matthew’s gospel gives us the Great Commission: Go therefore and make disciples of all nations . . . teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you (Matthew 28:19-20).Mark’s gospel reads similarly, “Go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation (Mark 16:15). And, of course, in John’s gospel we hear specific, tangible instructions for what this looks like in John’s gospel: Do you love me? Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep (John 21). There is no denying the witness of all four gospels – the disciples were not meant to exist in isolation. They were meant to engage with each other and with the world in meaningful ways that shared the good news. This is what it means to live in a post-Easter world. We, as modern day followers of Jesus, are also meant to live in together in that way. It begins with community.

One of the most known books by the renowned theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer is entitled Life Together, and provides an inspiring account of a unique fellowship in an underground seminary during the Nazi years in Germany. It reads like one of Paul’s letters, giving practical advice on how life together in Christ can be sustained in families and groups. In it, he sets forth that Christianity and community are almost synonymous, saying:

Christianity means community through Jesus Christ and in Jesus Christ. No Christian community is more or less than this. Whether it be a brief, single encounter or the daily fellowship of years, Christian community is only this. We belong to one another only through and in Jesus Christ[ii].

This was the gist of the sermon that Peter delivers on the day of Pentecost to the church in Jerusalem as recorded in Acts 2. In this, he outlines for new believers the central message of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. The people are moved, and verse 41 reports that three thousand people were baptized and added to the newly forming church. All from one sermon. That’s a lot of pressure on the preacher!

The writer of Acts, which is a continuation of the gospel of Luke, then gives us an idyllic picture of the church in its infancy. And, like we do when we look at pictures of babies, we find ourselves in awe and wonder, enraptured by what we see. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers, a little cooing smile, and the sweet smell of baby powder brings us a sense of nostalgia. The church presented in Acts is beautiful, utopian even. They shared everything in common, spent time together eating and praying and studying Scripture. What a lovely view of the church, isn’t it? Free from disagreements or challenges. There is no mention of a kitchen drain that is clogged and backs up when the dishwasher is run. No, the early church appears free from such troubling matters. Of course, from Paul’s letters we know that it won’t be long before the early church is mired with conflict and disagreement as they try to figure out what it means to be Christian. But just for today, we get an image of the church as it should be. Professor Paul Walaskay writes:

Just as in his Gospel Luke had rendered Jesus’ nativity – with awestruck shepherds and singing angels – in harmonious soft tones, so here he paints a similar picture of the birth of the church. A romantic glow spreads over the community. . . . Luke allows us a fleeting look at a moment in time when that perfect fellowship was fully alive and he holds out the hope that it can happen again[iii].

So what was the key to the success of the early church? Was it a compelling preacher like Peter? Was it an outstanding music program? Maybe they had one of those incredible new signs out front, or particularly comfortable pews, or really good coffee afterwards. Oddly enough, none of these are mentioned as a reason for success and growth in Acts, nor are their first century equivalents named. But, what we do know from verse 47, is that they were growing because of one factor – the Lord. The writer clearly attributes any success not on Peter or the other apostles or an evangelism and outreach team, but solely on the work of the Holy Spirit. In fact, it was the believers’ awe and wonder for the works of God that brought them together in the first place. This passage in Acts has a lot to teach us about what it means to be the church: first an awareness and acknowledgement that Christ is our center and has brought us together, and second a dedication to practices as a community that heighten that awareness.

Acts describes in detail the faith practices of this early community, and significantly uses the word “devoted” to describe the interaction level of the people. This wasn’t just a casual hobby or an every once in a while activity. Their life together was an integral part of their daily lives. And with faith came a great gift from God – the gift of community.

Bonhoeffer writes:

Christian brotherhood is not an ideal which we must realize; it is rather a reality created by God in Christ in which we may participate[iv].

The early church participated in this life through teaching and fellowship, sharing what they had, including material possessions, breaking bread together, and praising God. These are still marks of the church today, and ways in which we structure our life together. Reading these simple ways of being together is a reminder to us of the heart of our community, and the ways in which we can be nourished in our time together.

The Christian life is about adjusting ourselves to the existence of a gracious God. Acts describes for us what this adjustment looks like. The awe and wonder that characterize the early church remind modern believers that authentic fellowship with God includes a humbling awareness of God’s divinity in the midst of human mortality and of God’s wondrous deeds interrupting our ordinary lives[v].

When we devote ourselves to this kind of being together, we are better able to see God’s presence among us. And, when we fail to see it on our own, we know that there are others beside us who can point out the beauty we struggle to see on our own.

In the 90s, the Irish rock band, U2 released a hit song titled “One.” In it, the lyrics speak about the interplay between individuals and community, distinctiveness and unity:

We’re one, but we’re not the same.
We get to carry each other, carry each other.
. . .
One life with each other, sisters, brothers
One life – but we’re not the same
We get to carry each other, carry each other
One life, one[vi].

This is the description of the early church, and the church that is alive and well today. We are one in Jesus Christ, though made uniquely and differently by God. And we are called into community to carry each other. We do this, as sisters and brothers in faith, through a life together marked by spiritual practices.

One practice of group prayer that our youth group uses quite frequently is to join hands in a circle, but with everyone having their thumbs pointing in the same direction. As they circle up, one will ask for “thumbs right” or “thumbs left.” The idea behind this is so that everyone, especially in this moment of prayer, is reminded that they are being supported by someone, and at the same time supporting someone else. It is a great illustration of how we understand our lives together – as those who carry each other.

Our common life of prayer, study, and service unites us and builds relationships among us of mutual love and support. This is the call that the church received in 1 Peter, as verse 22 instructs, to have “genuine mutual love, love one another deeply from the heart.” This is our one life – one love. It looks something like this: the one who uses a cane embracing one who is just learning to crawl. It includes ones for whom certain topics make them squirm and children who squirm in the pews because they just can’t sit still. It includes teenagers who text and those who have developed beautiful cursive script through years of penned letters. God’s community is as big and as wide as you can imagine. It’s bigger than just those who look like you, or think like you, act like you, or are sitting in your pew. It’s so big because the one who unites us, Jesus Christ, is that big.

God’s love is be contagious. It is something that we long to be a part of, and when we find it together, it spreads and grows as quickly as yellow pollen can cover your car in the spring. It grabs on to us and will not let us go. It starts by being willing to engage in life together, carrying each other, and preaching the good news among us to anyone who will listen. When we devote ourselves to God’s image of community, we will grow; in faith and understanding, and with God’s help, maybe in number as well.

There are a lot of things you can do all by yourself, but faith doesn’t have to be one of them. God has given us a wonderful gift of community, here in this congregation and in the greater church. Our joy, our blessing, is to be participants in it, as we engage in life together day by day. So let’s join hands and do just that. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] Francis Chan, Multiply: Disciples Making Disciples, (Colorado Springs, CO: David C. Cook, 2012).

[ii] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Christian Community, trans. and introduction by John W. Doberstein, (New York: HarperOne, 1954).

[iii] Paul W. Walaskay, Acts – Westminster Bible Companion, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998).

[iv] Bonhoeffer.

[v] Timothy B. Hare, “Homiletical Perspective: Acts 2:42-47,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 2, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

[vi] U2, “One,” Achtung Baby Album, released 1991, Hansa Ton Studios, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftjEcrrf7r0

Sunday’s Sermon – Breakfast with Jesus – John 21:9-19

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At my grandparents’ house, hanging at the intersection of the kitchen and dining room was the dinner bell with a long cord of yarn added so that I, and eventually my two younger brothers, could reach. Whenever we visited, my grandmother would give me the cue, and I would run over and ring it for all that it was worth. It was a signal and call that the meal was ready which got everyone’s attention. Within a few minutes, our family had gathered around, talking and laughing as we shared a meal. Now, this bell has a new home at my parents’ house, where I’m sure it will have many more years of ringing. There’s an excitement about being called to the table.

This morning’s text starts with Jesus, risen from the dead, ringing the dinner bell. He is on the beach by the Sea of Tiberias, catching up with his disciples. Earlier in this chapter we read that Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, the sons of Zebedee and two others have spent the night fishing, but haven’t had any luck. Jesus appears at daybreak and calls out to them to fish on the other side of the boat. They do, of course, and their nets are full, beyond full, of fish, and they know that it is the Lord. Naturally, they rush to shore, with Peter taking the lead as he jumps in and goes swimming. When they arrive, Jesus already has some fish cooking, and asks for some of their catch, too. He invites them simply, “Come and have breakfast.”

On the whole, this interaction is really normal. Oddly so. The disciples have recognized him as the Christ, the one who two other times has appeared in locked rooms and shown his wounds, and now he’s going about a mundane morning task as if everything is the same. Here we find a beautiful understanding of God on this first Sunday after Easter. It is a day when many of us are experiencing a bit of “post-Easter decline.” The big celebration of last week, with lilies and Alleluias and Easter Eggs and merriment has passed, and it can be hard to muster the same level of energy (although with the Georgia Boy Choir and Brunch today we’re doing our best to maintain that Easter enthusiasm!). Like the disciples, this week we have returned to our everyday lives. Business as usual. Today’s text reminds us that sometimes that God appears here, too. As one commentator notes:

For many of us, this is the way God shows up – not in lightning-filled explosions of clarity and wonder, but in awkward moments of inexplicable holiness. . . . This is what Easter looks like, John tells us. Sometimes life with Christ looks like the dead raised, mountains of transfiguring light, and the feeding of five thousand with last night’s leftovers. More often than not, though, it is as simple as breakfast by the sea. It is the mundane mingled with miracle, charcoal fires, and unbroken nets[i].

What follows next in the story is a surprising lack of dialogue. The disciples are stunned into silence. You might imagine everyone standing or sitting around the fire, watching the fish cook, eyeing the horizon, trying to figure out what to say. Scripture says the disciples dare not ask him who he was – they knew that. But they couldn’t seem to find any other words, either. It must have been pretty awkward. “So, how have you been Jesus? The last time we saw you . . .” yeah, there’s not a really good intro into that conversation is there, and talking about the weather probably seemed pretty minimal. They couldn’t even talk about their night of fishing; their nets had been empty until Jesus came along. And so they sit in silence.

Perhaps the disciples were quiet because they were embarrassed or scared or otherwise nervous about this strange encounter. Maybe they felt like a college student home for the holidays with graduation just around the corner, hoping no one will ask them for the thousandth time what their plans are after graduation, because they haven’t quite figured it out just yet. There is a t-shirt I’ve seen marketed for such an occasion; it reads: “please don’t ask about my grades or college or job or relationship status or weight; actually just don’t talk to me okay.” Peter probably would have been first in line for the 1st century version of this. There was a lot he probably didn’t want mentioned. Just before our verses today, we read that he had to put on clothes before jumping in the water to swim to shore because he had been fishing naked (21:7). But more importantly, Peter no doubt was carrying quite a weight with him. The last time he was by a charcoal fire according to John’s gospel was just after Jesus’ arrest when he denied knowing Jesus three times. Perhaps his shirt would have read “please don’t ask me about my fishing habits or walking on water or roosters crowing.”

When you are sitting at a table with others, whether it’s coworkers or family, “polite company” we’ll say, there are three things you aren’t supposed to talk about: money, politics, and religion. Jesus had not gotten that memo, and spent a lot of his ministry talking about those three things. In fact, it was his outspokenness about each of them that ultimately led to his arrest, trial, and death. Here on the beach, he enters into another question that we might include on a list of taboo. He looks at Peter after breakfast and says “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”

What a heavy-hitting question, especially first thing in the morning. He uses Peter’s full name, so you know it’s serious. And he asks after Peter has arguably demonstrated the exact opposite not once, but three times.

It’s possible to hear this question as a little mean-spirited, as Jesus is not-so-subtly calling Peter out on his past actions. But before we get too far down the road of being upset with the risen Lord, we might consider that Jesus has consistently demonstrated that he is not about punishment and guilt, but about love and reconciliation. This conversation at the beach is a moment of redemption of Peter, carefully crafted in John’s gospel to mirror his denial, even down to the detail of doing so sitting by a fire. It is no accident that Jesus asks Peter the question three times, paralleling the three times Peter was asked if he knew Jesus, and the three rooster crows. Many scholars suggest that by allowing Peter to answer this question three times, Jesus gives Peter the opportunity to undo his previous statements. Peter is given not just one more chance, but three, a testament to a grace that’s just as abundant as the net overflowing with fish.

Peter’s responds well, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” There is, of course, no good explanation for why he denied Jesus in the way that he did. So he responds with a profound statement of faith. He can only rest in the hope that Jesus knows his heart, and affirm that indeed Jesus is the one and the same omniscient God. A God who knows him, even better than he knows himself. A God who loves him, even when he has demonstrated the opposite. A God who shows up to give him second and third chances. This is the reality of the risen Lord.

Jesus’ question is not a trick one. It is meant to remind his disciples of what is most important so that he can point them in the right direction from here. Likewise, to us today it is a question to help remind us of the central component of our faith – a love of Jesus Christ.

As I was preparing to be ordained, one of the final steps was to go before my presbytery and be examined. I was asked to preach at the meeting, and following our time of worship I was presented as a candidate for ordination, shared my statement of faith, and then the floor was open for any question the body wished to ask. I knew there was one question coming. The committee had given me advance notice of what to expect. There was an older man named Gulmer Nichols who was an elder of one of our churches just outside of Nashville who loved to attend every presbytery meeting and had for years. Every time someone came into the presbytery, or was examined to be ordained, he wanted them to answer the same question: “Do you love Jesus?”

Now, this may seem like a softball question, but when you’re preparing to be ordained, fresh from seminary education, it can seem like a trick. Most people would get rattled and then spend ten minutes talking about the humanity and divinity of Christ, or substitutionary atonement or other theological intricacies. I had my answer prepared, “Yes. I love Jesus with all my heart, my mind, and my strength.” You see, it wasn’t a trick question at all. Gulmer simply wanted to know that the people leading the church were doing so out of a love of Jesus Christ. Sometimes we can get wrapped up in a lot of other things and forget that, when it all comes down to it, that’s really what ministry is all about. That’s what being a Christian is all about.

As N.T. Wright observes, “Here is the secret of all Christian ministry, yours and mine, lay and ordained, full-time or part-time. It’s the secret of everything from being a quiet, back-row member of a prayer group to being a platform speaker at huge rallies and conferences. If you are going to do any single solitary thing as a follower and servant of Jesus, this is what it’s built on. Somewhere, deep down inside, there is a love for Jesus, and though (goodness knows) you’ve let him down enough times, he wants to find that love, to give you a chance to express it, to heal the hurts and failures of the past, and give you new work to do.[ii]”

I think it’s significant that Jesus met his disciples on the beach for breakfast, rather than lunch or dinner. Breakfast is the start of the day. Some say it’s the most important meal, and that you should make sure to get the nutrients you need to sustain you for the work you have ahead. On the beach, Jesus provided the disciples with all they needed – literal and spiritual food. This wasn’t a wind-down meal to talk about the events that had happened and turn in for the night. Instead, this is a starting point, and serves in many ways as John’s commissioning for how they are to continue his ministry. They are meant to GO and DO things. Jesus gives them new work.

“Feed my lambs . . . Tend my sheep . . . feed my sheep.” This is the response Jesus has to Peter’s profession of love. Throughout John’s gospel, Jesus has instructed the disciples to love. In the 13th chapter he even illustrated this by washing their feet and giving them a new commandment, “love one another. . . . By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:34-35). Risen from the tomb, he essentially repeats this instruction. For followers of Jesus, loving God must be synonymous with serving and loving others. Patrick Johnson puts it this way: “Love for the other is the outworking of God’s love within us[iii].”

Our congregation is known for the motto “Love Grows Here.” I think it’s a perfect illustration of how we understand ministry in light of this story from John’s gospel. Here, our love for God grows as we worship and study together and experience the powerful work of the Holy Spirit in our midst, nudging us and inspiring us, filling us and encouraging us. Here, our love for God is shown through acts of service. Quite literally we feed and clothe and nurture others through our food pantry and clothing closet ministries. Sunday School teachers and Presbyterian Women Circle leaders and youth advisors nurture disciples of all ages. Deacons reach out to family groups in good times and hard times to provide support and care. And this morning, SEVEN months before Christmas, we are aware that there are children who will be in need this year, and so we raise money for Santa’s Caravan, hopeful that we will be able to share some of that joy with others, and we gather around breakfast tables, sharing in community with each other as we do it. These are just a few examples of how we live into Jesus’ instructions, grounded in our love for Christ and our desire to follow him. What a way to begin this season of Easter, charged by Jesus himself for our faith not just to be something we proclaim, but something we live out day to day.

The story of this simple breakfast on the beach reminds us that Easter is not the end point to a beautiful story about how the baby in the manger emerged from the tomb. Easter is the beginning; the dawning of a new day. And our risen Lord meets us to help us understand what we are to do next. So come and eat breakfast; hear Christ asking you that same question he asked Peter, “Do you love me?”. And may our lives be a witness to our answer. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] S. Brian Erickson, “Homiletical Perspective: John 21:9-14,” Feasting on the Gospels: John, Volume 2, Chapters 10-21, Cynthia A. Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, editors, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2015).

[ii] Tom Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2: Chapters 11-21 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 165, as quoted by Frances Taylor Gench in Encounters with Jesus: Studies in the Gospel of John, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007).

[iii] Patrick W. T. Johnson, “Homiletical Perspective: John 21:15-19,” Feasting on the Gospels: John, Volume 2, Chapters 10-21, Cynthia A. Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, editors, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2015).

Easter Sunday Sermon – Is Your Tomb Half-Empty or Half-Full? John 20:1-18

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On this Easter morning, is your tomb half-empty, or half-full? If your tomb is half-full, your spirits are likely lifted on this holy day. You join in the hymns with gusto, dressed in your Easter finest. As you hear the story from John, you might feel like Peter and the unnamed disciple after racing to the tomb. You discover the empty tomb, see the linen lying there, and believe. And things are pretty good. Christ is raised from the dead. Alleluia! This is the story you came to hear. It is expected, and comfortable.

I am struck by the almost casual way the disciples responded to the empty tomb. Verse 10 tells us that after this discovery, the “disciples returned to their homes.”  Just a few verses earlier, they are racing to the tomb after hearing from Mary Magdalene that it is empty, perhaps robbed. We are even given the details about the footrace, as the unnamed disciple out steps the prominent disciple Peter. While John is clear that they see and believe, immediately following the announcement he abandons these characters, sending them home without any sense of continuing action or impact of this startling news. It is a positive experience, to be sure, but it doesn’t seem to alter a whole lot for them. They are optimistic and joyful, but perhaps their tombs are only half-full.

I wonder if the same can be true of us sometimes, even today. If we aren’t careful, we are likely to only half-way hear these powerful words from Scripture, with a story that is all too familiar. We sit through the expected one hour service, and then return home to a delicious Easter lunch or dinner, feeling upbeat without having been changed too much. It’s what many, if not most, Christians experience in their lives of faith. Kenda Creasy Dean, professor at Princeton Seminary, published an insightful book that labels this approach to faith with a label coined by the founder of Methodism, John Wesley: Almost Christian. The book is commentary on a study of the faith practices of over 3,000 teenagers about ten years ago, but Dean suggests the implications are just as true for the church as a whole. Dean notes that the teenagers were at once both very positive about Christianity, and at the same time apathetic about genuine religious practice. She cites the findings of the researchers in the study, Christian Smith and Melinda Denton, who call this new form of faith “Moralistic Therapeutic Deism,” which can be summarized in 5 claims:

  1. A god exists who created and orders the world and watches over life on earth.
  2. God wants people to be good, nice, and fair to each other, as taught in the Bible and by most world religions
  3. The central goal of life is to be happy and to feel good about oneself.
  4. God is not involved in my life except when I need God to resolve a problem.
  5. Good people go to heaven when they die[i].

It is certainly positive, and exemplifies some of the core values we have as Christians, the very values that Christ taught. But there is something missing. Such a faith doesn’t spark much interest, or seem to prompt us to delve deeper or even have a relationship with the divine. She suggests that perhaps it is this approach to faith that is the reason many teens, and adults, choose not to attend church after some time. It keeps us at surface level, and can quickly water down the power of the gospel message. It can prompt “Christians” to become cheerleaders without actually knowing anything about the game. On Easter morning, it can mean that we just go through the motions without really thinking about the implications of the story for our lives. Our tombs are half-full.

But maybe this isn’t you this morning. You hear the Gospel story and immediately become engaged. You see it as one of the most compelling stories ever told. It isn’t long, though, before you begin to raise some critical questions: Did Jesus literally, physically, rise from the dead, or was the grave robbed? Maybe the idea of a conspiracy theory isn’t that far off, and you find yourself a bit skeptical of it all. Or, perhaps your questions reside within the meaning of this narrative. Did he really have to die in the first place? Couldn’t God, all-powerful God, save us without all of this bloodshed? What does this story actually mean for me today? Your tomb is half-empty as you raise an eyebrow to the fact that our entire faith hinges on a story that can be hard to believe factually or understand symbolically.

Walter Bruggeman speaks of this in his prayer titled “We are Baffled,” which begins like this:

Christ is Risen

He is risen indeed!

We are baffled by the very Easter claim we voice.

Your new life fits none of our categories.

We wonder and stew and argue,

and add clarifying adjectives like “spiritual” and “physical.”

But we remain baffled, seeking clarity and explanation,

we who are prosperous, and full and safe and tenured.

We are baffled and want explanations[ii]..

As people of faith, we don’t check our intellect at the door. We believe that God gave us minds and reason with the intent that we use them. And yet, this story doesn’t fit our paradigm. The Easter story makes us think, and often presents us with gaps that we can’t quite connect.

In some ways, this is the dilemma of Mary Magdalene in our text. Her assessment that the body had been stolen begins the narrative, and seems just as likely, or perhaps more likely, of an explanation for the empty tomb. Something valuable has been taken from her. I imagine she is not only sad, but also is a bit angry – outraged that someone would steal Jesus’ body. Her weeping is equally understandable – she has lost her teacher and friend. It is in this upset and confusion that she brushes off the questions of one she presumes to be a gardener. Her faith is shot, outweighed by the seemingly insurmountable evidence in front of her as she is overcome with grief, stricken by the painful reality that comes with hope lost. Mary Magdelene’s tomb is half-empty, with questions and lament echoing off the walls.

Brueggemann continues in his prayer, noting the many like Mary Magdalene who struggle with the shock of this news because they are so surrounded by struggle in their own lives. He writes:

But there are those not baffled, but stunned by the news,

Stunned while at minimum wage jobs;

Stunned while the body wastes in cancer

Stunned while the fabric of life rots away in fatigue and despair;

Stunned while unprosperous and unfull

And unsafe and untenured[iii].

Perhaps life and all of its challenges has taken a toll on you, body and spirit. You have come this day, hoping to hear the good news, hoping to be filled and transformed, but struggle to share in the joyful Alleluias because things are just so hard for you right now. You are held by grief in its many forms, and see through your tears that the tomb is half-empty.

Is your tomb half-empty or half-full? C.S. Lewis said:

Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important[iv].

Eater reminds us that we can’t do faith halfway – whether our perspective is half-full or half-empty. Because the tomb that Mary Magdalene, Peter, and the disciple whom Jesus loved, isn’t half-way anything. It’s fully empty.

This is the good news of Easter. That God loves us so much, God doesn’t stop halfway. God doesn’t just make promises of new life and covenant and then halfway do them. In fact, God doesn’t do the bare minimum for anything. No, instead God sends Jesus into the world to show us what full living and complete love is all about: baskets that overflow with leftover fish and bread on a hillside after everyone has eaten from a boy’s small shared lunch, water that turns into the highest quality wine at the end of a wedding reception, countless men and women not made to simply feel better, but healed completely, a lame man walking, a blind man who sees. The stories of fullness are throughout our scriptures, leading to the ultimate story we read this morning – an empty tomb that is full of good news.

 

There is good news for those of us who see the tomb as half-full. We know that simply seeing God as a god who does nice things leaves us wanting more, especially during those challenging times we experience. We long for a God who fills our tombs to overflowing – who calls us into something more than being “Almost Christian.” And the good news is, we have such a God. Kenda Creasy Dean reminds us that:

The God portrayed in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures asks, not just for commitment, but for our very lives. The God of the Bible traffics in life and death, not niceness, and calls for a sacrificial love, not benign whatever-ism[v].

Through the resurrection, God challenges us to not settle for a half-full faith that keeps us comfortable, but rather to seek something that is all-encompassing instead and live fuller lives that are fully transformed by God’s grace.

There is also good news for those who see the tomb half-empty. We don’t have to abandon our doubts and questions altogether, but try to find the intersection of what we hold to be true and what leaves us baffled. Our Easter work is to claim those questions as what propel us forward into a better understanding of the God we worship. Theologian Martin Copenhaver says:

In the resurrection God gave us such a miracle of love and forgiveness that it is worthy of faith, and thus open to doubt. The very doubts we may hold attest to the scale and power of what we proclaim. So the place to begin in the life of faith is not necessarily with those things we never doubt. Realities about which we hold no doubt may not be large enough to reveal God to us. So we say without apology or hesitation: what we proclaim at Easter is too mighty to be encompassed by certainty, too wonderful to be found only within the borders of our imagination[vi].

God takes our questions and doubts that are a very real part of our faith, and then fills in our half-empty tombs with the mystery of faith.

And, if our tombs are half-empty because of the weight of the world. Rest assured, God will meet us there at the tomb, just as the risen Lord met Mary, listen to our burdens, and respond with eternal promises. In the midst of our grief, God’s Spirit intercedes with sighs that are too deep for words (Romans 8:26), and fills our tombs with the presence of the Lord. The good news of the resurrection is, as Paul writes to the Romans, that nothing, nothing can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:39). No grief, no hurt, no anger, no mistakes, no hardship, no persecution, nothing that has happened or will happen. In his resurrection, Christ got rid of every boundary that had the potential to separate us from our Creator, even and especially the boundary of death. This is the promise of eternal life and eternal love. This is the good news of Easter.

Today we celebrate the fullness of God’s presence in this world and beyond. We do this by singing joyfully, shouting “Alleluia,” and coming around the table for communion, proclaiming the saving death of our risen Lord as we sing, “Christ has died. Christ is Risen, Christ will come again,” and we trust that with God’s help, our faith will be deepened, and our spirits renewed to live into our belief. We hear those words of invitation from a God who invites us to come, half-empty, half-full, or somewhere in between, and celebrate the feast which he has prepared. We come, not because our faith is sufficient or because we have this Easter thing completely figured out, but because we long to be filled by the one who gives us new life. We come because we have seen, and because we want to see more, to be a part of what God is doing in the world. We come because we are no longer satisfied with our halfway ways of life, and want something more.

On this Easter morning, we rejoice that we worship a God who meets us halfway, empty or full, and then takes us from our halfway states into deeper and more meaningful relationships with God and with each other; a God who leads us into a life of fullness. This is the God we seek at the empty tomb, and indeed this is the God we find. Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen, indeed. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

Easter 2017

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[i] Kenda Creasy Dean, Almost Christian: What the Faith of Our Teenagers is Telling the American Church, (Oxford: University Press, 2010).

[ii] Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth, Prayers of Walter Brueggemann, Edited by Edwin Searcy, (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 162.

[iii] Ibid.

[iv] As quoted by Kenda Creasy Dean in Almost Christian.

[v] Dean.

[vi] Martin B. Copenhaver “Pastoral Perspective: John 20:1-18” Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year A, Volume 2, eds. David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

Sunday’s Sermon – The Gift of a King – Matthew 21:1-11, Psalm 118

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When something big happens, our natural inclination is to celebrate. This Monday night, after UNC beat Gonzaga and in the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament Final Championship game, Tarheel fans all over cheered. In Chapel Hill, they believe that 55,000 fans rushed to the famous Franklin Street. It was a wave of people, students and others from the community of all ages, gathered to unite behind the same good news – UNC had won its sixth national championship. It looked something like this:

http://wncn.com/2017/04/03/franklin-street-packed-in-chapel-hill-as-tar-heel-fans-celebrate-championship/

Admittedly, I’m a bit biased on this one, but it does make for a good illustration on this Palm Sunday. Today is a day of celebration! Have you ever been a part of such a parade? Have you ever found yourself caught up in a cheering crowd? It is an experience unlike any other, to be surrounded by such positive energy and blissful joy. It is a rallying cry and unifying moment for many, all pointed in one direction. Our gospel text from this morning paints this amazing picture as Jesus triumphantly enters Jerusalem to a cheering crowd. It is a ticker-tape parade, as the crowd parts to make way for the honored guest.  They roll out the red carpet for Jesus, laying their coats on the ground. It is an entrance fit for a King, and indeed that is how Jesus is welcomed.

It is significant that he is entering Jerusalem, the city made great by his ancestor David. Remember David? The Cinderella story of the youngest son of Jesse, the shepherd boy who was anointed by Samuel? He went on to become one of the greatest kings the people of Israel had ever seen.

Under David and his son Solomon, Israel experienced the greatest period in its history. The country was united, all twelve tribes under one king . . . David was the just and righteous king. He became associated with goodness, power, protection, and justice; he was the ideal shepherd-king, the apple of God’s eye, even God’s son. The time of glory, the ideal time, was remembered. So revered did David become that the hoped-for future deliverer, the messiah, was expected to be a “son of David,” a new David, indeed greater than David. And this new David, this son of David, would rule a restored kingdom from Jerusalem[i].

While Jerusalem was once a great city, in the centuries after David, it was fraught with conflict and decline. By the first century, we see Jerusalem in conflict, struggling to balance both secular authority from Rome and religious leadership. The expectation of the crowd is that the Messiah will overthrow these powers, and bring Jerusalem, and by proxy all of Israel, back into glory. The crowd cheers as the victor comes home. They proclaim him as king. He is the “Son of David,” the Messiah they have been waiting for.  On this final Sunday of Lent, we rejoice along with the crowd that God has given us an incredible and much anticipated gift – a King!

But, instead of singing “We Are the Champions,” this crowd has another chant – “Hosanna!” This is a unique word in Aramaic, found only in this story in the gospel accounts given by Matthew, Mark, and John. It is a shout of praise, but literally means “save (or help), I pray.” It is a phrase that would have been familiar to the Jews as a part of their worship practices, described beautifully in our Psalm from this morning (Psalm 118:25). This cry  is familiar to us, too, especially in these final days of Lent, a time in which we are even more aware of the many places in our lives that need saving. We shout Hosanna: for all that we personally need to be saved from in this world. For our own personal sins, the mistakes we have made, the things we have left undone, all the ways we have failed to be the disciples we claim to be. We shout Hosanna: for the sins of the world that need divine presence – whether we are directly involved or indirectly watching from a distance. For the ways we have exploited our natural resources and have caused harm to the earth. For conflicts that have escalated to chemical attacks, missiles, and talks of war. For the ways in which we have failed to care for our neighbors and have abandoned the least of these. We shout Hosanna: For all of this and more, the things we dare not say out loud, but in our Lenten journey have discovered in the dark corners of our lives. Our cries build, gently and humbly at first, penitent, then turn into shouts with an energized fervor and deep longing for something to change. Palm Sunday is no ordinary parade. It is the culmination of who God’s people are and a cry out for what they need, both in the first century and today.  “Save us” is a powerful thing to shout. It’s not the usual cheer at a celebration rally. It points to a much deeper truth about the crowd and what it is looking for.

What do you think of when you imagine a king? Chance are, something like the hopes and expectations of the Palm Sunday crowd; an all-powerful Messiah who will overthrow secular powers and bring the people back to their glory. Almost a superhero, if you will. A few years ago, I told this story to a group of preschoolers, using a method of storytelling known as Godly Play, which is the same as Pam tells each week in our Children’s Chapel. After sharing the story using simple wooden figures, the children are invited to wonder and engage with the story. After the palm branches had been laid and Jesus entered the city gate, I sat back and asked “I wonder, what kind of king Jesus would be?[ii]” The children answered with great ideas – a kind king, a nice king, a strong king, and so on. Then, one little one gave my favorite answer of all time. “The king of silliness!” she exclaimed gleefully and then dissolved into giggles.

Her answer might have been one of the best to describe this particular story. Matthew’s telling in particular is rich with satire and irony. Did you pay attention to his instructions to the disciples and how he comes into the city? Riding 2 animals: a donkey and a colt. It is a hysterical image to consider. Mary Hinkle Shore suggests that it “resembles a circus trick more than a royal procession[iii].” The description of his entry suggests layers of meaning. Shore continues to compare the entry into Jerusalem as:

an event that today we might call performance art. Jesus enacts a prophetic word that looks toward the arrival of one who will rule God’s people in a time of peace[iv].

In contrast to expectations, and other processions of Roman guards and governors, Jesus enters on the humblest of animals – both of them. It is a dramatic statement, meant to send a message about what kind of king he would be. It is meant to make us think, even among our cheers, that we should probably begin to expect something different than a mighty warrior. In this act, Jesus flips the script, and those in leadership begin to take notice. The brightness of the parade is contrasted to the shadows that begin to appear, ominous foreshadowing for where Jesus is heading. This tension emerges again, even more so if we pay attention to the irony and threat Jesus’ entrance as “king” really presents.

Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice tried to convey this in their magnificent rock opera, Jesus Christ, Superstar, which debuted in 1971. The story is loosely based on the Gospel accounts of the last week of Jesus’ life, but highlights and extrapolates a lot of political and interpersonal aspects that go beyond our text, which in some circles made it quite controversial. Nevertheless, the depiction of his entry into Jerusalem is a great picture, visually and melodically. As the title suggests, the whole show plays with the idea of Jesus being a celebrity with rock-star status.  It also balances the outlandish nature of the crowd and their hopes combined with the ominous undertones of what would come. It captures what Matthew describes in verse 10, with “the whole city was in turmoil.” Take a look, and imagine yourselves again in this parade with this scene from the more recent film, produced in 2000:

“I wonder, what kind of king Jesus would be?” Would it look like this? Or is there more to the one who enters Jerusalem than just some superstar status. Matthew’s gospel closely connects Jesus with the Jewish understandings of the Messiah from the Hebrew Scriptures. Here, he includes reference to Zechariah. Chapter 9, Verse 9 indicated the dual animals of a donkey and a colt, symbols of peace and reconciliation. Reading further from the prophet, we find that the rest of the Zechariah passage details what kind of king this will be. Verse 10 reads, “He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the war-horse from Jerusalem; and the battle bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations (Zechariah 9:10).

Rather than a mighty warrior king, Jesus is the kind of king who brings about peace. This is the fulfillment of the scriptures. And I think the crowd understood that a bit, especially those who had been following him. Jesus, after all, has up to this point presented himself as nothing other than a teacher and healer, a “miracle-making philosopher/rabbi whose only firepower is his compelling presence and word[v].” And that was enough to draw a crowd.

The crowd of Palm Sunday represents the height of the excitement over who Jesus was on earth, and hints at the possibility of what his kingdom might bring. Those who gathered along the sides of the road that day longed for a Savior. There was so much in the world from which they needed redemption and peace. This was more than just good fun on a Sunday afternoon; it was an urgent plea for their very lives. This is what Palm Sunday is all about. A people’s deep longing for something more. It is a story rich with drama and full of spirit, the perfect text to usher us into this Holy Week. Of course, we know where this story leads – by the end of the week our King will wear a crown of thorns. And yet, with this knowledge we still dare to praise him and lift him up above all others. We share in the hope of the people gathered that day long ago, because we are those people, too.

This is why we still shout, “Hosanna!” And we rejoice that our shouts will not just echo into the abyss. For God has given us the gift of a King. Jesus Christ is our Savior. The Messiah has entered the gates triumphantly, and goes before us. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] Marcus J. Borg & John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus’s Final Days in Jerusalem, (New York: HarperOne, 2006).

[ii] Sonja M. Stewart and Jerome W. Berryman, “Jesus the King,” Young Children and Worship, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1989), 187.

[iii] Mary Hinkle Shore, “Exegetical Perspective: Matthew 21:1-11,” Feasting on the Gospels: Matthew, Volume 2, Chapters 14-28, Cynthia A. Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2013).

[iv] Ibid.

[v] Michael D. Kirby, “Pastoral Perspective: Matthew 21:1-11,” Feasting on the Gospels: Matthew, Volume 2, Chapters 14-28, Cynthia A. Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, editors, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2013).

The Roller Coaster of Holy Week

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One of my favorite things to do at amusement parks is to ride roller coasters. I have a slight fear of heights, so the initial climb is sometimes harrowing, but the thrill of racing downhill, twists and turns, and even going upside down makes it all worth it. My favorite kinds are the ones where your legs swing freely, which for me brings back the fun sensation of swinging on a playground. I didn’t always like roller coasters, though. As a child, I had to be coaxed to even try them, and I remember gripping the lap bar with white knuckles. The first few rides were rough. I didn’t know what to expect with each new style of coaster. The first time a standing coaster was introduced, I was convinced it was my last ride ever because the seat didn’t fully lock into place until just before the first drop. Things were new and unfamiliar, which in some ways added to the fun, if I was able to convince myself that things would all be fine in the end. Now, I look forward to these attractions, and even like riding the same coaster multiple times in a row, trying out different spots to have a different perspective or experience of the ride.

If we think about the season of Lent as the slow initial climb, then Holy Week is our roller coaster ride. Packed into only a few days, we experience the most dramatic twists and turns of our faith story. Palm Sunday takes us to the top height with a glorious celebration of Christ as King, marked with the waving of palms and the shouts of Hosanna. On Maundy Thursday, we coast alongside the disciples at the Last Supper, and then experience the twists and turns of the betrayal and Jesus’ arrest. Good Friday plummets us down to the lowest point as we grapple with the darkness of the crucifixion. The ride jerks to a halt in that darkness, letting the gravity of the moment truly sink in. Then, on the third day, we are vaulted and propelled into the light of Easter morning. The tomb is empty – Christ is Risen! Breathless, we are able to celebrate that all of the wildness of our journey has come to an end, and has led us to a place of peace and security.

Like a roller coaster, this week can be a wild ride. It can be uncomfortable and even scary in places if we allow ourselves to be fully drawn into the richness of the story. But doing so can deepen our faith and make us more appreciative of that moment when the ride is over and our feet are again on solid ground. This year, as a congregation we will have several special services to guide us through this ride. I invite you to consider joining us for each service, so that you can experience all of the twists and turns that our gospel story has to offer, and proclaim the good news on Easter morning with the spirit of one who has been along for the ride. I guarantee you the end result will be worth it.

Peace, Elizabeth

Sunday’s Sermon – The Gift of Breath – Exekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45

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“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” One by one, worshippers lined up on Ash Wednesday, here in our Sanctuary and in churches around the world, to hear these words and receive the sign of ashes pressed into a cross on their foreheads. These words, which come from Genesis, served as a reminder of our sinfulness and mortality, and ushered in the season of Lent. These 40 days for us are meant to be a time when we carry that cross of ashes into our daily lives, and examine ourselves more closely. As Jesus spent 40 days in the desert facing trial and temptation, we embark on a dry, dusty journey ourselves. And just when our bulletin insert hints of the promise of the celebration that is to come at the end of the season, our lectionary texts firmly place us back into stories marked by the frailty of life. We still have work to do before we can be Easter people.

Ezekiel beckons us to look at the valley.  More than just swirling dust and dryness, here we are again confronted with the reminder of our mortality, gazing over a valley of dry bones. Death itself looks us in the face. The entire book of Ezekiel is both dramatic and disturbing. Barbara Essex describes it as:

a motion picture director’s dream. Not only does the book lend itself to all kinds of psychological analyses, it also is perfect for computer-generated graphics and animation. Ezekiel is filled with vivid descriptions and impossible feats of power complete with sound effects. Ezekiel is victim to hallucinations and weird behaviors. With the opening lines (see Ezek. 1:1-3), we know we are in for quite a ride. Ezekiel sees visions, hears voices, and acts out his prophecies to the point where we wonder if he suffers some kind of mental illness[i].

These cinematic images, of course, are meant to speak to the real situation of God’s people, Israel. It is believed that Ezekiel was written during the time of exile, and it is likely that he was a priest taken into captivity to Babylon towards the beginning of the 6th century, BCE. His role as priest continues, turning into prophet as he speaks to a people devastated and trapped.

Ezekiel’s vision is given for a people who have lost heart, who are suffering a death of the spirit, a living death in exile in a foreign land. Their temple has been destroyed, their holy city plundered, their leaders maimed and put in chains, their soldiers put to the sword, their young men and women either killed or dragged off into a foreign land. Ezekiel witnesses the soul of his people gradually wither and die, becoming as lifeless as a valley of dry bones[ii].

This text prompts us to stand in the valleys of our own lives, our own worlds, and examine those dry, desolate, and even dead places. Those places that have lost all life-giving energy and are run to the ground. Perhaps this is a description of areas of your life, or even the entirety of your life right now, where you are just completely worn, burned out, drained, and depleted. Maybe it’s a relationship that has lost its spark or become dusty from neglect. The idea of a “dark night of the soul” is familiar to us, and Ezekiel puts the spotlight on those areas of our lives. The places where we are struggling the most, and where life seems to be sucked right out of us. Beyond our own personal lives, there are many valleys of dry bones that exist in our world, too. Places that have been torn apart by violence and war quite literally become graveyards. We know countless people struggle with mental illnesses and other psychological battles that isolate and threaten what is life-giving. This is particularly true and especially sad for many veterans who have served our country as they return from service. So many issues swirl in our country and world that seem to have no hope for a future. The political divides seem too wide to allow anything to have life. And although we live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, we have children who are hungry and people without shelter. Dry bones are everywhere. The valleys are full.

Our gospel text reveals a similar finality. John 11 tells the story of the death of Jesus’ friend, Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha. We read of how the news that Lazarus is sick is conveyed to Jesus, who remains out on the mission field for several more days. By the time he gets to the house in Bethany, Lazarus is dead. Grief invades this story. Here is where the shortest verse in all of scripture is found, “Jesus wept.” In this, the form for the verb used is one of the strongest possible. It indicates a fierceness beyond parallel, the kind of overwhelming, gut wrenching, violent crying that comes in our darkest moments. Some commentators suggest that this moment is about more than Lazarus. Jesus is experiencing the very human grief of losing a friend, and at the same time lamenting the state of the world and all of its darkness; the reality that death still has its hold on the earth[iii]. This would be fitting particularly in the fourth gospel, and also suits the placement of this story within John, as the hinge point between stories of Jesus’ signs and wonders and the passion narrative. And Martha’s words of guilt hang heavily around Jesus in this moment by a closed tomb, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

A closed tomb. A valley of dry bones. Such images are finite. The literal end of the road.  It is hard, almost impossible, to have hope in these moments. In the many instances that lead us to these places, we are left with a sense that anything we do is futile; we are helpless, subject to the gloominess that surrounds and even engulfs us. The closing line for the sermon Ezekiel is preaching could come with “and then everyone dies.” It is as bleak as it can get. The question comes to Ezekiel, “Can these bones live?” For us, “can anything be done to change this reality of lifelessness and hopelessness?” The cynical answer, as well as the realistic one when looking over a valley of dry bones, is no. What is done is done. It is what it is. Dry bones cannot live again. Why would God ask such a fruitless question?

The wise prophet replies with the only answer possible – only God knows. The story of Ezekiel reminds us that life itself is utterly and totally reliant on God. And it offers a glimmer of hope that the work of God is to bring new life, even when things seem to be completely dead. Here, in this ancient text from our Hebrew Scriptures, we read some of the first hints of resurrection.  God instructs Ezekiel to prophesy, to preach, to these dry, brittle, dusty, well beyond life bones. This is not the end of their story.  And we see it come to life, as sinews and muscles and skin again cover the bones assembling together. As the old spiritual goes, “Dem bones, dem bones gonna rise again. Now hear the word of the Lord[iv].”

So the bones are assembled. But they aren’t complete. God has more work to do. The final step, and the most important one, is the gift that God gives to these bones. From the four winds, God breathes new life, new spirits, new breath, into these bones. Ruach in the Hebrew. The same wind that was breathed into the first humans is again breathed into these dry bones. And they stand up, fully assembled and now, full of life. We might even imagine them dancing in what once was a graveyard. Hope is restored. Life has returned. And the only way any of this is remotely possible is through the gift that God gives – the gift of breath.

The vision Ezekiel conveniently comes with an interpretation – that dry valley of bones was Israel, dried up and cut off, sinful and punished in exile, taken to the point of death. But God is a God who can even open the graves, and breathe new life into what seems lost. God gives the people Israel another chance at life, with the promise that they will return to their homeland.

Just as God breathed new life into the valley, putting the lives of God’s people back together, God’s promise to us today is new life. As preacher and speaker Nadia Bolz-Weber says:

God simply keeps reaching down into the dirt of humanity and resurrecting us from the graves we dig for ourselves through violence, our lies, our selfishness, our arrogance, and our addictions, and God keeps loving us back to life over and over again[v].

It comes to us from the gift of breath. And it comes to us in the darkest, driest, most dead places in our lives. That is what resurrection is all about.

You know how you hear the emergency instructions before you take-off on a flight? The flight attendants will always reference, that in the case of the loss of cabin pressure, air masks will come down from the ceiling for you to quite literally be able to breathe. You know the instructions. Put on your own mask, and then help others. God’s gift of breath can be our oxygen masks, particularly in times of distress or trouble. God’s gift of breath can rescue us from even the hardest places in our lives, the places we thought were lost causes, and breathe new life back into us. One more thing about those oxygen masks to keep in mind – the flight attendant will remind you that the bag may not fully inflate, but to trust that oxygen is still flowing. This is much like our work of faith sometimes, especially trying ones. We may not be able to see God’s work in our lives, but in faith we trust that God’s breath is flowing.

Jesus looks to Martha and declares, “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).  In this pivotal statement, the air mask falls, and Jesus invites Martha to take a breath. But although she does, and agrees to the assertions he makes, she isn’t ready yet to fully embrace all that breath implies. She still clings to those dry bones, mindful of the realities of death. She laments that her brother is dead and stays in the valley. Then, after Jesus instructs those present to “take away the stone,” (v. 39) she protests again, with the practical reality that a sealed tomb with a several days old body will absolutely stink. She holds back from the possibilities that Christ provides for change, even though it is change that she wants. In many ways, Martha is in a tomb of her own. And I think the words Jesus speaks to Lazarus and to her, and to anyone trapped and confined by death in any of its forms, are meant to be a freeing breath, “COME OUT!” (v. 43).

We worship a God of resurrection, even though we ourselves may be in valleys of dry bones or tombs of darkness. The good news is, to these difficult places where hope seems lost and all seems to be at an end, God gives us breath. Life-giving breath. As we enter these final days of Lent, my hope and prayer for you is that you will take that breath, and ask God to renew your spirits. That you will remember that God breathes even into the most difficult places in your life, and offers hope. Breathing the breath of God is the first step to experiencing the powerful, life-changing, transforming resurrection that we will celebrate in just two weeks. And doing so can be as simple as taking a breath. Your breath can become your prayer, heightening your awareness of God’s presence in your life. So take deep breaths. Lots of them. And as you do, may God’s breath be a gift to you, and may you have life. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] Barbara J. Essex, Bold and Brazen: Exploring Biblical Prophets, (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2010).

[ii] James A. Wallace, “Homiletical Perspective: Ezekiel 37:1-14,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

[iii] “Fifth Sunday in Lent,” Texts for Preaching: A Lectionary Commentary Based on the NRSV – Year A, Walter Brueggemann, Charles B. Cousar, Beverly R. Gaventa, James D. Newsome, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995).

[iv] “Dem Bones,” Written by James Weldon Johnson. First recorded by Bascomb Lunsford in February 1928. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dem_Bones

[v] Rev. Nadia Bolz-Weber, as quoted by the Clergy Coaching Network Facebook Page, April 1, 2017 (https://www.facebook.com/clergycoachingnetwork/photos/a.553233241362454.130264.546972935321818/1496180503734385/?type=3&theater).

Sunday’s Sermon – The Gift of Acceptance – 1 Samuel 16:1-13

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It is no secret that I am a huge college basketball fan. From filling out brackets to cheering on my Tarheels, March Madness is one of my favorite times of year. And while it’s exciting, of course, for my team to win, the thrill of the NCAA tournament often comes through those teams who weren’t expected to go very far, but then take us all by surprise. Any enthusiast knows to pick a 12-seed to beat a 5-seed, but there are always others who become highlighted as that year’s “Cinderella story.” In 2011, it was VCU who made it all the way to the Final Four as an 11 seed, a feat only 21 other teams below the 4 seed have done since the expanded format of the tournament[i]. Last weekend, we saw a good number of higher seeds fall, including favored teams like Villanova, who won it all last year. Even casual watchers get drawn in by the underdog stories, as eyes turn to teams like South Carolina as potential Cinderella stories, wondering if they will end up with a glass slipper that fits. These stories do more than entertain. They give us hope that anything is possible. And it can be kind of fun to root for the little guy.

In many ways, 1 Samuel 16 is a Cinderella Story. Here, we have a literal line-up for God to select the next king through the prophet Samuel. The sons of Jesse line up, and parade in front of Samuel almost like a beauty pageant, eager to be selected. In the end, the one chosen isn’t even on the radar. It’s the youngest boy, David, who has been relegated to the medial role of tending sheep. Brought in, he is the one named by the Lord, anointed and filled with the Holy Spirit to lead. As we know, David became a mighty and powerful king. Though not without some considerable faults, his story dominates the next 55 chapters of the Bible. Our text for today is a watershed moment in which much of Israel’s history is put into motion, and it begins with an unlikely boy chosen for the most important role in the land – a Cinderella story in its finest. And it won’t be long, the next chapter in fact, that we learn just how mighty this young man can be, as he steps into battle and defeats the Philistines with a sling and a stone, Goliath falling to the ground. This action leads him to find favor with the king Saul, eventually moving to live with the King and provide him comfort.

Did you catch that? The one anointed to be king in 1 Samuel 16 then meets the king in the next chapter. This is not normal. It is not like an election where the new president is greeted by the outgoing one as a part of a peaceful transfer of power. In these days, new kings either took power by some sort of coup, or more often, were chosen after the death of a great leader. To understand what is happening here, we need to remember the history at play. Saul, who has been chosen to be king by God and anointed by Samuel in 1 Samuel 9, has not exactly done well as king.

Saul had early victories and did win the approval of his people; but he let the prerogatives of power go to his head. Kingly control emboldened Saul to assume authorities not ascribed to him in his anointing: his call and covenant with God and the people[ii].

By 1 Samuel 15, God regrets making Saul king (see 1 Sam 15:11, 35), and Samuel delivers the message to the king that God was going to go in another direction. That is how we get to today’s text.

Samuel is grieved by this rejection of the king he himself was in part responsible for, but is approached by God in our passage today to make a new start. Even through his frustration and disappointment, Samuel follows God, although we might imagine he did not know to expect such a surprising next step from the divine. A king would have been someone from a strong line, like that of Jesse, who presented clear signs of strength and vigor. Saul was noted as being tall, an unusual trait seen among the people of God. Samuel would have expected a similarly equipped leader to follow. But God is a God of surprises, and instead sends David.

God gives good reason for this selection. Rather than looking at physical appearances, God is judging by different criteria. God’s perspective is drastically different than ordinary human perception. It is outlined in verse 7 – God “looks on the heart.” It is from this place where knowledge, decision making, intentionality, and compassion reside. The heart is the seat of all that is, the very core of who we are. Today, we are more apt to use the term “soul” to describe this all-encompassing part of our beings. From our text we know that God sees what is there with David, and from there bestows on him high honor.

We aren’t sure exactly what it is that God sees in David, but as David Hester notes:

though we are not explicitly told what God seeks in the heart of those whom God chooses, implicitly we are invited to remember what we’ve heard to this point from our Deuteronomic writer. The theme that dominates this history, from its beginning to its end, is the covenant call to the wholehearted love of God, demonstrated in the whole-hearted obedience to the commandments of God and, negatively, in watchful avoidance of showing devotion or loyalty to things that are not God[iii].

We might assume, then, that what God saw in David as a young boy was a purity in heart and a devotion to God, markers of what we come to know as his gentle spirit from the Psalms, and characteristics that will lead him to develop a deep faith even in the midst of trying times.

God’s selection of David is a beautiful story to read in the Season of Lent. Just four weeks ago, we began our journey together with Psalm 51, ironically attributed to David much later in his life after his interactions with Bathsheba. In it, we offered our prayers of confession and begged for God’s mercy, but perhaps most importantly, in Scripture and then in song we said, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10). Our intention in Lent is to search our own hearts, our thoughts, our actions, everything that makes us who we are, so that we can be more faithful to the one who created us. In Lent, we ask God to look at our hearts and clean up the mess. And we trust that God will do this, because we believe that our God is a God of grace, who sees who we are, even into the depths of our being, and offers mercy.

In Lent, we are preparing ourselves for the good news that through Jesus Christ, we are forgiven and freed from all that would hold us back from our relationship with God. Our text from 1 Samuel reminds us that rather than keeping a chart of our good and bad deeds, or looking at our appearances, God judges by looking at our hearts. Perhaps this is because, as those God has created, we are close to God’s heart. And that’s good news.

In Ephesians, Paul writes about what it means to be close to God, as beloved children who have been claimed by Christ. He speaks about the importance of living into the covenant relationship God intends, as understood in God’s commandments. Then, he presents us with the verses we read today, a clear distinction of how we have been chosen by God, and brought into the light.

Paul’s description lines us up, much like the sons of Jesse were for Samuel, and tells us that it is time to pick teams. How many of you remember doing this during recess in the school yard? In elementary school, this was how we started every recess by picking teams for kickball. Of course, we all know how it plays out: the athletic and popular kids are picked first. And there is always the same kid that is chosen last. Many adults still carry scars and hurt from this selection process. But, if we apply our texts from today to this metaphor, we realize that the ways God selects is all-together different from other team captains. God looks beyond popularity and physical prowess, and sees into the heart.

In Lent, we, too, line up, but are surprisingly chosen to be on the team, even though there are others around us who we might think are more capable or qualified. God accepts us. This is the gift our texts reveal today. The gift that God accepts us, and loves us beyond compare. We are children of light, now, claimed and loved by God. For many of us, this moment was signified with our baptisms. Sometimes it happened so long ago that we may have forgotten what it means to be a part of God’s team. Lent is about recovering that basic identity, which includes returning our hearts to God in humility and faith. There, we will find acceptance beyond compare.

This is a gift, though, with some pretty big implications for those of us who have received it. As children of light, we are called to live like it. We are called to trust in God, the team manager, in Jesus Christ, the coach and in the Holy Spirit, our cheer squad, to make the decisions and guide us. This means we have to get on board with their game plan, and see the court the way that God does.

It starts by trying to see others the way God sees them. This means letting go of our pre-conceived notions about who is favored, or even who God loves, and instead try to look beyond the superficial and see into the heart. David Hester says that:

This, I suggest, is the logic of seeing through the eyes of faith and a logic that participates in the divine point of view. Christians practicing faith by this logic of “heart-seeing” are looking at others and at life through a storied perspective that pays special attention to the heart of God made flesh in Jesus Christ. Such “heart-seeing,” conversely, pays less attention to wondering about the character and behavior of others in the human community and the created order, to who we are sent as Christ’s disciples[iv].

This is what God called Samuel to do. To let go of what he had done and seen in the past and instead pay attention to how God was seeing the world. He did this from a position of grief, and perhaps from a place where he felt totally unqualified. After all, the one that he had sought out and stood beside, Saul, had not worked out. I wonder if Samuel doubted his ability to even see or hear anything God was calling him to do. But God promises to sit alongside him, if he will be open enough to let his eyes be God’s eyes. And he does, and in that allows God to point him to the most unlikely scenario. Samuel is presented with the opportunity to practice God’s gift of acceptance, extending that to David, the unlikely king.

There is a church up the street from us that I pass almost every day. Their sign lists some sort of theological quip or inspiring comment. Recently, what has been posted is something very close to “Do not judge by mere appearances, but judge righteously.” Admittedly, this got under my skin a bit the first time I saw it. Yes, we shouldn’t judge by appearances, but generally the idea of judging others isn’t one that I find particularly helpful in my life of faith. The preacher from Montreat this summer challenged us at being “Judge Judy” in our lives, looking down and judging others for a number of reasons. I am admittedly guilty of this, from appearances to decisions others make. It is something I struggle to keep in check. I’m not helped by the instruction to judge, even righteously. This sign even has bothered me after I realized that it was quoting scripture (John 7:24). But, given 1 Samuel 16, I am seeing it in a new light this week.  Rather than being legalistic and divisive, what if the “right judgment” is the kind of judgment God shows through Samuel to David? The kind that looks at the heart, through the eyes of the one we know looks at us with love, so much so that life was given for us. The kind that leads to acceptance?

We are called, like Samuel, to listen and discern where God is leading us, ready to offer acceptance ourselves to others that we may meet, even when they are the smallest or youngest or last in line. Cinderella stories like David’s selection as king remind us that there is more to success or selection than meets the eye. Just because a team is bigger, literally taller, or stronger or more experienced doesn’t mean they will be victorious. Of course, the author in our text notes that while being the youngest, David was ruddy and handsome. So while you could be good looking and chosen by God, the two aren’t necessarily connected. The chosen by God part has to do with far more than outward appearances. Given this, we must look beyond the superficial and use different criteria than the world would otherwise demand. We have to look with our hearts, and see with our hearts. Then, we might be prepared to accept others who are also God’s children. We might also be able to find our own place in God’s story, hearing our own name called and taking our place alongside others who are children of light. In both, we might begin to understand the radical nature of God’s gift of grace and love. God’s acceptance marks the start of our Cinderella story, but it is just the beginning.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] http://www.sportingnews.com/ncaa-basketball/news/march-madness-2017-ncaa-tournament-first-round-upsets-1-vs-16-odds-final-four-sweet-16-elite-eight/137gk4v5k3lzv1e9cxsj6aqjxv

[ii] Donald P. Olsen, “Pastoral Perspective: 1 Samuel 16:1-13,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

[iii] David C. Hester, Interpretation Bible Studies: First and Second Samuel, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000).

[iv] Hester.

Sunday’s Sermon – The Gift of Living Water – John 1:1-42

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Throughout this Lenten season, our texts reveal some pretty incredible ways in which God reaches out to us, and gives us different gifts to help us understand and grow in faith. Last week, we heard of how the Psalmist reminds us that God is here with the gift of help. This week, Jesus himself offers a tremendous gift.  He pauses to take a rest on a long journey north from Judea to Galilee, which takes him through Samaria. In the heat of the day, a woman comes to draw water from the village’s well. It is startling that he would even speak to her. First of all, she is a woman, and beyond that, she is a Samaritan. The conflict between the Samaritans and Jews was more than 200 years old at this point, stemming from a disagreement over the proper place to worship, and evolving over the years to reach the point, as our text says, where Jews and Samaritans wanted nothing to do with one another[ii].  In fact, many Jews would have taken an alternate route than Jesus to avoid any such encounters with the Samaritans. But not Jesus. He crashes through multiple cultural boundaries with a profound moment that reveals the very essence of what he is about. And what follows is the longest conversation Jesus has with anyone in any of our gospels.

There are so many things to focus on in this text that it is enough to make us dizzy. Over the years, many get drawn into the scandal of the story and become particularly focused on the woman’s history. We are quick to pass moral judgment on the only thing we know about her beyond her identification as a Samaritan – that she has had 5 husbands and is now living with a sixth man. We mark her as some sort of wanton woman, and use this story to demonstrate how Jesus, yet again, reaches out to those sinful and lost people and offers them salvation. Admittedly, this is one of the first perspectives I thought of when I saw this text come up as one of the lectionary options. But as I’ve read it this week, I am struck by the reality that although this is mentioned as a fact, nowhere, not once, does the text label her as sinful, or really explore any of the details surrounding her circumstances. We do not hear Jesus offering words of forgiveness, or telling her “go and sin no more,” as he does with others.  Some commentators even wonder if perhaps she was widowed multiple times, married to a series of brothers in term as the law of Moses would have required. But any of this is guessing. We simply don’t know. Perhaps, then, this little detail is more of a red herring for us than anything else, and we should turn our attention instead to what the woman says and does at the well.

On the surface, it’s a pretty ordinary daily chore. Going to the well for water was routine in the 1st century, although many did it in the cooler morning hours. Here, the woman comes in the hot noon-day sun, perhaps because she has run out of water or perhaps to avoid others coming to draw water. She brings her water jug, of course, and seeks a basic essential for daily life. Although this act may seem like a bit of a novelty to us, it likely was as mundane of a task as we have doing laundry or washing dishes. She encounters a stranger, though, who interrupts her day with a favor. More than this, though, he starts speaking about water in strange and different ways. He lays it out for the woman, how this will be water that sustains and means that a person will never be thirsty again.

At first, she can’t get beyond the literal. Like Nicodemus, she is trapped by her own understanding of how the world works, and isn’t thinking in the kind of metaphor and symbolic tone that Jesus is using to teach and reveal God’s work. She points out that this man has no bucket and the well is too deep. She offers a reminder that their location is not just any well, it is Jacob’s well, Israel’s ancestor, and a sign of God’s promise and providence in its own. The conversation begins to shift, though, as the thirsty man starts to talk about “living water.” Here, the woman begins to see that this stranger at the well might be more than meets the eye. Perhaps he is one like her ancestor Jacob, through whom God provides miracles of water. A never-ending water jug would certainly make her life easier. She wouldn’t have to make the long and difficult journey every day. And so she asks for this life-giving water, still not fully comprehending what it means, but sensing that such an abundant supply would certainly make her life easier. Her focus is on having her bucket filled.

As people of faith, we often use this metaphor of filling a bucket to describe our experience of God on Sunday mornings. Worship becomes our well, and we say that we come to be filled. If we aren’t careful, this leads us to think about our worship experience as simply a routine chore of our faith, one that can become quite mundane. It can also be pretty self-centered, “my bucket is empty, so I come to get what I need,” leading us into a consumeristic mindset about our faith. But, if we’re attentive to the metaphor, it can be helpful to us. This morning is the third Sunday in Lent, and in this season we might take a good hard look at those buckets in our hands. When I was in Girl Scouts, I learned one of those annoying camp songs that begins, “there’s a hole in my bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza, there’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole.” The next line goes “then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it.” The song goes on and on, and on, quite a while with different suggestions, ultimately returning to the same reality that there is a “hole in the bucket.” I wonder sometimes if we are carrying buckets with holes in it. Some may have just a few little cracks and weaknesses that cause slow little trickles. Some may have buckets that are more like colanders. Or, maybe your bucket might be fine, but is carried so fast that water sloshes out from the top, or something from the week trips you up and all of the water spills out. And so we return, week after week, to get our buckets patched up and refilled.  We are like the Samaritan woman, coming to get water. But rather than a simple transactional encounter at the well, the woman encounters Christ.

Throughout their conversation, Jesus works to push the woman out of her literal, consumer mindset that is focused on the water. He is talking about something bigger and greater. He tips his hat by revealing to her things that a stranger certainly wouldn’t know, which gets her thinking, this guy just might be a prophet. Now, the theological conversation can begin. And it does, immediately leading to the disagreement between their peoples regarding worship. Gently, but firmly, Jesus points away from the literal discrepancy with the response that worship is more about spirit and truth than any physical location. Likewise, the dots are connected that perhaps living water is more about the literal well – and instead about something related to spirit and truth.

Jesus’ gift of “living water” pushes against the Samaritan woman’s and our understanding of what it means to come to the well. Rather than something transactional, he speaks of something that is living and moving, bubbling and constantly changing. Living water is associated with our understanding of the Holy Spirit, who moves among us and inspires us to a new way of living[iii].    This beautiful story in John’s gospel challenges this metaphor for our spiritual lives, and suggests that what Jesus has to offer means we don’t need a bucket at all. Living water breaks us from looking at faith as simply something we consume, and instead looking at faith as something that consumes us.

The conversation between the woman and Jesus ends when the disciples come back, although they stand speechless at the scandal of the situation. The text gives a dramatic pause, during which we might imagine all that has transpired soaking into the woman’s mind, as she draws some pivotal conclusions and rushes to share her story with the rest of the town, asking “could this be the Christ?” (verse 29). In her exit, John notes an important fact in verse 28. In leaving, the woman’s jar for drawing water remains at the well. Frances Taylor Gench offers that this fact:

teases our imaginations and is open to varied interpretations. Perhaps it conveys the woman’s enthusiasm and haste to share her news; perhaps she has no further need for it as she is now in possession of living water and will never thirst again (4:14); maybe even she herself has become a vessel for the gospel. Alternatively, some see it as the Johannine feminine counterpart to the Synoptic presentation of male disciples leaving their nets and boats behind to follow Jesus, or more simply, as an indication that the woman intends to return to the well. Her story is not finished yet[iv].

But her encounter at the well means that her life is forever changed.

The woman at the well becomes one of the first witnesses in John’s gospel to Jesus as the Messiah, the promised one. She is an outsider in virtually every way we could slice it, and yet is the bearer of good news. Her identification as a Samaritan brings life to the promise of John 3:16 that indeed the Savior has come for all “the world.” Even the Samaritans. In fact, it is her witness that brings the Samaritans to believe in Jesus. It is a great illustration of what it means to be a witness to Christ – to share our story and our experience of the one who knows us and could tell us everything we have ever done, and invite others to experience that as well. Her invitation, like that of Jesus throughout this gospel, is to “come and see.” Her story invites all to experience Christ, which in turn leads them to belief. This text sets the pattern for how countless others will come to faith throughout the gospel.

This text also helps set the pattern for how we should approach worship. The gospel challenges us to remember that coming to the well is about so much more than just filling your own bucket. At the well, we are met by Jesus Christ himself, who offers us the gift of living water. And once we get a taste of it, we cannot help but race away to share that with others.

In 2004, the Christian band Caedmon’s Call took a journey with several mission organizations who work in impoverished areas around the world, particularly in India and Brazil. The result of their journey is a beautiful album titled “Share the Well,” which reflects the rich diversity of rhythms and sound of the world, along with inspirational lyrics that put the gospel into action. The title track, “Share the Well,” draws from our text in John 4 and the reality that not all in the world have access to water. Our role then, quite literally, is to work to share the well that we have, helping to make sure all of God’s children have clean water to drink. Going further, I think it also serves as a powerful metaphorical message about our role in sharing our experiences of Christ, the living water. I imagine it could have been a song the Samaritan woman sang. The chorus goes like this:

Share the well, share with your brother
Share the well my friend
It takes a deeper well to love one another
Share the well my friend[v]

The gift of living water is also a call to discipleship for those who have tasted it. So friends, drink deeply, that all of your thirsts might be quenched. But don’t let it stop there. May that water become a bubbling spring in you, leading you to become living water yourself, sharing the love and grace with others, so that they, too, will experience the Messiah. Like the Samaritan woman, share the gifts Christ has given us; share the well. Amen.

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

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[i] Facts shared during Time for Young Disciples that help lays some of the background for the importance of water: Water is essential to our well-being. Our brains are 75% water, and our bodies are composed of a little less than that percentage. Water regulates the temperature of the human body, carries nutrients and oxygen to cells, cushions joints, protects organs and tissues, and removes wastes. While you can live without food for almost a month, you won’t live more than a week without water. Ask any nutritionist or doctor about improving your health, and drinking more water will almost always be among their recommendations. The classic guide is to start by drinking 8 glasses (8 ounces each) each day, adjusting for weather, exercise, and other health factors (http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/nutrition-and-healthy-eating/in-depth/water/art-20044256.)

Of course, water is connected to more than just our physical beings. It is a part of virtually everything we do. We use it for cooking and cleaning; it nourishes plants and flowers and helps all living things grow. Water keeps things cool or hot as a part of different HVAC systems, and even provides energy with hydroelectric dams. “Water is part of a deeply interconnected system. What we pour on the ground ends up in our water, and what we spew into the sky ends up in our water. . . and did you know that there is the same amount of water on Earth as there was when the Earth was formed? The water in our faucets could contain molecules that dinosaurs drank.” (https://www3.epa.gov/safewater/kids/waterfactsoflife.html; http://www.beg.utexas.edu/esw/answers/2001/a3.htm).

[ii] As Gail R. O’Day explains it: “The breach between Jews and Samaritans can be traced to the Assyrian occupation of northern Palestine (721 BCE; see 2 Kings 17), but the most intense rivalry began about 200 BCE. The source of the enmity between Jews and Samaritans was a dispute about the correct location of the cultic center (cf. John 4:20). The Samaritans build a shrine on Mt. Gerizim during the Persian period and claimed that this shrine, not the Jerusalem Temple, was the proper place of worship. The shrine at Mt. Gerizim was destroyed by Jewish troops in 128 BCE, but the schism between Jews and Samaritans continued.” Gail R. O’Day, “John 4:4-42, Jesus in Samaria,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume IX: Luke, John, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995).

[iii] Gail R. O’Day, “John 4:4-42, Jesus in Samaria,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume IX: Luke, John, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995).

[iv] Frances Taylor Gench, Encounters with Jesus: Studies in the Gospel of John, (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007)

[v] “Share the Well,” performed and recorded by Caedmon’s Call, Words and Music by Randall Goodgame ©2004 Mighty Molecule Music / ASCAP (adm. by Music Services)

Sunday’s Sermon – The Gift of Help – Psalm 121, John 3:1-17

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I don’t remember the topic or even the text, but I remember clearly the details surrounding the most difficult sermon I have ever preached. It was while I was serving as an associate pastor near Baltimore, Maryland, on a Sunday when the senior pastor was scheduled to be away. Sunday morning arrived, and I got to church and went about my normal routine of greeting people and making sure Sunday School was going smoothly. I took a bit longer than usual to get to my office, but otherwise was a normal morning. I turned on my computer and sat down, only to discover that our internet was down. This wasn’t totally surprising. I went to our router and reset everything, which usually did the trick. Not this morning. I tried a few other things, following what our tech savvy person had suggested in the past. Nothing. Worship was in about 10 minutes. My sermon? That one I’d spent time and thought putting together – was sitting in my e-mail inbox, and the only one saved on my computer was a really early draft that was pretty awful. No amount of coaxing or prayers brought our internet back that morning. But alas, I had a cell phone. I could get it on my phone at least. Surely I would remember it well enough. I had this. I was a preacher, of course, with years of seminary training under my belt. And I would look so up to date preaching from my iphone. I put on my robe and worship began. It was maybe 30 seconds into the sermon that I realized how colossally bad my plan was. I did not remember what I had written well enough, and could not read the tiny words on my screen that I swear got smaller the more I tried to discreetly look at them. Touching the screen to scroll meant I instantly lost my place. I bumbled through some semblance of a sermon, and thanks to the grace of the congregation, no one got up and left. Hopefully the Holy Spirit was speaking to them, because I was pretty sure that what I was saying was less than inspirational.

After the service, the husband of our senior pastor, Jack, came up to me. He had heard of my tech issues, and reassured me that it wasn’t all bad and things would be fine. Then he paused and said, “you know you could have called me. I would have been happy to help. I could have gone home and printed it out for you, or found someone who lived even closer to do it – we would have made sure it was there before the sermon started.” His words struck me. In all of my panic and anxiety of the situation, my reaction had been to try to take care of it all myself. As scared as I was of the idea of preaching without the words in front of me, I was more scared to admit that in the 11th hour, I didn’t have what I needed. I wasn’t fully prepared. I had made a mistake and didn’t have a back-up plan. My own stubbornness and fear stood squarely in the way of my asking others to help. My pride prevented me from reaching out to others and potentially making this a fun story rather than a nightmarish one. “I would have been happy to help,” Jack said. He was a friend, someone I respected and joked with, someone I trusted. I like to think that, had this happened again, I would have remembered our conversation and turned to him for help. Fortunately, that was never put to the test. Although I am sure he would have come through, I’m not sure I would have been humble enough to remember to ask for help.

Have you ever been in this type of situation? When something goes terribly wrong and you’re in a position where you probably should just ask for help, but for whatever reason you don’t? Many things seem to stand in our way of getting the help we need. In my case, it was stubbornness and pride. Kind of like when I try to carry in all the grocery bags at once, insisting it isn’t too heavy. We live in a culture that values self-sufficiency and accomplishment. We start this pattern at a young age. Stubborn toddlers take forever to get dressed or put on shoes, retorting “I can do it myself, mom.” Rather than ask for directions, we drive in circles or get lost, insisting we know the way. When putting together that new bookcase, the instructions are tossed aside. After all, how hard can it be? Surely we can figure it out on our own. No need for the helpful instructions that were provided by the manufacturer. If we’re lucky, the times we refuse help merely inconvenience us or make simple tasks take a bit longer. A successful businessman may boast that he is a self-made man. No one has given him anything. He has accomplished things entirely on his own. We wear this like a badge of honor, even though if we dug a bit deeper we might realize it’s never fully true.

This human tendency to refuse help or pretend we don’t need it can make for a difficult, if not impossible, journey of faith. You see, to have faith means, from the very beginning, that we acknowledge there is a higher power at work in the world, God, and that we are not him. The famous Reformed theologian John Calvin insisted that we as humans are “utterly dependent” on God. We can do nothing apart from God. That is at the core of what it means to journey through the season of Lent. It is a time when we become more and more aware of just how deeply we are reliant on God’s grace, and perhaps shift how we live our lives in response to what God has done for us. Lent prepares us for the good news of Easter by reminding us just how much we need God to overcome the powers of sin and death – because clearly we cannot do it on our own. Lent reminds us that we need help. The Psalmist reminds us where that help comes from.

Psalm 121 is part of a collection of 15 psalms (Psalms 120-134) that are labeled as “Songs of Ascents.” Many assume that this group of psalms were the songs and prayers sung by pilgrims on their way to celebrate one of the great Jewish festivals, such as Passover. One translation even labels them as “songs of steps[i].” They were the road trip songs of God’s people, ones that accompanied them along the way.

The psalm begins with a pilgrim looking to the hills. On one hand, this image is a poetic one, reminding us of the common idea that God is physically located in a high place, like a hilltop or cloud. That is, after all, where the people of Israel had most often encountered the divine. To begin the song this way means that the author is setting his sights on God for the journey. There is a focus and attention that reminds us of a spiritual journey, where God is front and center, where God is the destination. On the other hand, though, to look to the hills might also recognize that the road ahead is not necessarily smooth or easy. Hills require much more energy and physical strength to travel. They will give you more of a work-out, and require you to labor a bit harder. Hills are also known to be less safe. You can’t always see what is around the corner. In ancient times, hills and rocky passes left many places for robbers and thieves to hide. Going to the hills meant certain danger. Some commentators favor this view of the Psalm, as it explains why the question that follows is the plea, “from where will my help come?”

The Psalm continues with a strong affirmation that the God who created all that is, even us, will be the one who provides help. Whether the road is easy or tough, God is there. Our help comes from the Lord. This is good and reassuring news that we do not have to do it alone. Such a perspective reminds us that we believe in a God who is all-powerful and all-knowing, an all-encompassing God who will not abandon ship at the first sign of trouble. In fact, we worship a God who stares the dangers of the hills in the face and will not be moved. A God who is able and willing, and ready, to help. This week, Nathan has been singing a children’s song that goes “my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do!”. That’s the gist of this Psalm.

The challenge, though, I think, is for us to actually let God be our helper. While the reminder of God’s power and might are inspiring, they can also be tough to embrace if we’re honest about it. We don’t often relinquish control over things, particularly our very lives, without a fight. Instead, we try our own way instead, refusing help even when it is readily offered. Our text today asks us to consider letting some of our own tightly held things go, so that we might have room for God to be a bigger part of our journey in the hills. That is the journey we make in Lent.

The first steps to discipleship, or deeper relationship with God, often involve letting go of ourselves a bit. In this way, we might find some helpful parallels with the process that 12-step groups have used for many years to assist those who are recovering from addiction. The first step is admitting that we are powerless and that our lives have become unmanageable. In other words, we admit that we need help. The second step is to come to believe that a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity. In other words, that God can provide the help we need. The third step is to make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand Him. In other words, to lift our eyes to the hills and seek God’s help.

It isn’t always easy to ask for help. Sometimes we only have the courage to do it in quiet and subtle ways. If we had read the full context for our verses in John’s gospel this morning, beginning with chapter 3 verse 1, we would come across the story of Nicodemus, a Pharisee, leader of the Jews, on a nighttime journey. Under the secrecy and cover of darkness, he dared to come to Jesus with some very important questions of faith. Some scholars suggest that Nicodemus himself believed in Jesus, evidenced by his later involvement at the end of the gospel.  Regardless of intentions, though, his questions sought to better understand the God he worshiped, particularly the notion of entering God’s kingdom. I think it’s clear that, in a nutshell, Nicodemus is coming to Christ – to God – for help. And Jesus replied in ways similar to the affirmations made by the Psalmist. He reminds Nicodemus of God’s power and might, of the ways in which God is the very source of life itself. And, in case that isn’t enough, he says those famous words that foreshadow his death and resurrection: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16).

These words of promise are confirmation that God will always be there to help – throughout eternity. Going further, the next verse reminds Nicodemus that God’s way of helping is not through judgment, but through love and redemption. God won’t be that friend who claims to be helping simply by pointing out all of the things you have done wrong. Yes, God absolutely sees and knows the ways in which we are flawed and have made a mess out of whatever we have tried to do. But God also sees through that and into our hearts, and in love reaches out, over and over again, so that our mistakes are not the final word on who we are. This redemption is the work of Jesus Christ. That’s the whole message of the cross that we are journeying to this Lent. And if we don’t recognize just how much we need God’s help, we will miss how big of a deal this really is.

“But what about here and now,” you may wonder, “how does God actually help?” Ask the Psalmist. Six times in these 8 verses, the Psalmist talks about God as “keeper.”To be kept implies a level of care and attention that only comes from love. Writer Robert Fisher notes:

There is a big difference between having and keeping. For instance, I might have a favorite sweater. It is my possession. However, I keep my puppy dog. He is not merely a possession; he is my beloved dog. He is dear to me. Therefore, I watch over him not for my sake, but for his. I protect him from harm because if he suffers, it hurts me too. Likewise, God does not merely have us. God keeps us. We are God’s beloved, and immeasurably dear to God. We are not merely possessions in the eyes of the Lord, because if we suffer, it hurts God too. Psalm 121 celebrates the fact that the Lord is our keeper[ii].

God is that stronghold that will never fail. The steadfast friend who is always there to help. The one we can trust with even our biggest failures, and know that in the end, God will still love us. God is always there, hand outstretched, heart wide open, ready to help. This is a gift of grace. This is a gift of love. It is a gift of help, ready for us to accept. Our very lives depend on it. Amen.

 

~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford

 

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[i] John Eaton, “Psalm 121: The Hills of Hope,” The Psalms: A Historical and Spiritual Commentary with an Introduction and New Translation. (London: T & T Clark International, 2003).

[ii] Robert W. Fisher, “Pastoral Perspective: Psalm 121,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).

 

Food Pantry

Normal Food distribution is on the 2nd Saturday of the month at 10:00 am and the 4th Wednesday of the month at 12:30 pm.

Our next Drive-Up Food Pantry is Saturday, December 7 at 10 am. Accurate pre-registration is strongly encouraged to ensure volunteers pack accordingly.

Register online for Saturday, December 7  here.

For other pantry locations, go here
or text “FINDFOOD” to 888-976-2232

Church News

Volunteers will be packing family food boxes on December 2, December 16 at 10 am in the fellowship hall. We welcome all volunteers!

Food Pantry distribution volunteer opportunity Saturday, December 7 signup here.

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Responding in Faith Sunday School Class
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