"I Shall Not Want"? (Ex 17:1-7)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on March 26, 2017, Lent IV)

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“Sometimes We Have to Do Things We Don’t Want to Do”

Being able to play the piano is a wonderful thing. But when you’re nine or ten years old and it’s the middle of July and the sun is shining outside and your friend next door is going to the pool—having a piano lesson is about the furthest thing from wonderful.

I still have a vivid memory of that day. I’m sitting glumly in the back of the Aerostar, and my mom is driving me to piano practice at Derbyshire Baptist Church. Naturally we pass the pool on the way there, which just adds insult to injury. I give an audible moan, one last desperate attempt to turn my mom’s mind. She’s sympathetic, I can tell. Even though I can’t see her face, I can sense her commiseration. But the car does not turn around.

There follow a couple of silent minutes. Then my mom says something simple. It’s probably something she and my dad have said many times before, and probably something they will say many times again. But out of all those times, I remember only this once, because this is the day that I actually hear her. This is the day that her words grab hold of my world and shake it, leaving me stunned, leaving everything that I thought I knew looking a bit askew.

She says, “Jonathan, sometimes in life we have to do things we don’t want to do.”

A Lenten Lesson

I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I think the reason these words hit me so hard is that, until then, I had lived thinking that life was about doing what you wanted to do. Of course there were certain exceptions—going to school, making your bed, doing your chores—but these were simply immovable features of the landscape. For the most part, I was able to do what I wanted to do.

I talk about this as though it’s something that I’ve outgrown, as though it’s something we all naturally outgrow as we grow up. But I have my doubts. What is the “American Dream”? Does it not suggest that, however difficult the landscape, we can overcome it and get what we want? And is that dream only American? I’d venture to say it knows no spatial or temporal boundary. We read in the Bible that again and again the ancient Israelites did whatever pleased them.[1]

“Sometimes in life we have to do things we don’t want to do.” We have all learned the lesson that I learned on that hot, sunny summer’s day. But I wonder if we ever outgrow that lesson. I’m doubtful. If the advertisements that flood our media are any indication, we remain firmly planted in the fantasy that life is all about what we want, that this is a “have it your way” kind of world. And so I think an important part of the Lenten journey is relearning the difficult but holy truth that life is about more than having it our way, than doing whatever we want.

Why the Israelites “Murmur”

Moses and the Israelites had to learn and relearn this lesson, day after day, year after year, as they wandered about the wilderness. You’re probably familiar with their story. The Israelites had been living as slaves in Egypt. They cried out, and the Lord heard their cries and was moved. Slavery is no way to live. The Lord wanted them to have life. So the Lord appoints Moses to lead them out of Egypt into freedom. Plenty of drama follows: ten plagues, the first Passover, the parting and crossing of the Red Sea, and then finally…freedom.

It’s not long, however, before the people start complaining against Moses. The word in the Hebrew is “murmur.” They start murmuring. Today’s story isn’t the first time they murmur, and it won’t be the last.[2]

What exactly is a murmur? I can’t help but remember myself giving an audible moan in the backseat of the Aerostar. A murmur, I think, means we aren’t getting what we want. I murmured because I wasn’t going to the pool. The Israelites murmured because they weren’t exactly living the life of milk and honey that their dubious travel agent, Moses, had promised (cf. Ex 13:5). They were wandering in the wilderness, hungry and thirsty.

Two Competing Stories

If you asked someone of the Jewish faith, “What is the most important story in your scripture?” or “What scripture most defines your faith?”, chances are he or she would answer, the exodus. The exodus is the great epic of the Jewish faith: it’s got the first Passover, the parting and crossing of the Red Sea, the Ten Commandments, the great covenant between God and Israel. The exodus is like The Lord of the Rings for the ancient world. And just like The Lord of the Rings, the exodus doesn’t take place against the backdrop of the pursuit of self and satisfaction. It is not a story about getting what you want. It takes place against a much greater backdrop, a backdrop of wilderness and wasteland, risk and uncertainty, but also of God and salvation.

I wonder if the murmuring Israelites had any idea that they were living in what would become their people’s greatest story.

It seems to me that there are two competing narratives in our lives. On the one hand, we want satisfaction; we want to have it our way, to get what we want. And yet, on the other hand, we keep telling stories like The Lord of the Rings and the exodus because the greatness of these stories captures our imagination and resonates somewhere deep in our hearts. These stories quiet our murmuring souls and whisper to us that there is more to life than getting what we want, that life is about more than simply seeking our own satisfaction. They whisper to us that life is about something much greater.

Something Much Greater

What is this “something much greater”? What is this “more” to life? I don’t exactly know. I do know that Abraham sensed this greatness. One day he woke up and heard the call to be a blessing to others. For him, the greatness of life was all the families of the earth being blessed. I know that Jesus talks about this “something much greater” too. He calls it the kingdom of God, where the outsider is welcomed, the hungry are filled, the oppressed are liberated, the blind see, the lame walk, and those who mourn find great joy.

If the examples of Abraham and Jesus are anything to go by, this “something much greater” may take us through the wilderness. Not because the wilderness is some spiritual obstacle course that God has designed for us, where we must prove our faith. But simply because this “something much greater” is something much greater than our own pleasure or satisfaction. Living according to the kingdom of God—which means forgiving wrongdoers and loving enemies and welcoming strangers and speaking truth to power—will mean that sometimes we don’t get what we want. Sometimes it will feel like a wilderness, and we will get hungry, and we will get thirsty. At the very end of his journey to Jerusalem, Jesus himself will say, “I thirst” (19:28).

Hearing the Twenty-Third Psalm in the Wilderness

As I read today’s scripture and consider the wilderness through which Abraham and Jesus and you and I walk, I cannot help but wonder about our lectionary psalm today, the twenty-third psalm, which famously proclaims, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want [or lack, or need]” (Ps 23:1). I wonder how our world, which preaches instant gratification and eternal happiness, hears this declaration. I worry that it is misheard as a simple promise that we will always have it our way.

Only in the wilderness, I think, can we hear the full truth of the statement, “I shall not want.” For the wilderness shatters any illusions we have that life is about getting what we want, or even what we think we need. In the wilderness, Abraham hungered in the face of famine. In the wilderness, the Israelites got thirsty, to the point that they questioned God: “Is the Lord among us or not?” In his own wilderness, Jesus got thirsty too, and he also questioned God: “My God, my God, why have you left me?” And the psalmist who wrote these words—he himself admits that sometimes he walks through the darkest valley and faces enemies and challenges.

According to the wilderness, “I shall not want” does not mean that we will get what we want. “I shall not want” is a defiant declaration of faith, a renunciation of our little wants in the hope of something much greater. It is someone saying, “I shall not lack anything because I’m not claiming anything. My only claim is the love of God that has already claimed me and all the world.”

It is such a faith that sustained Abraham and Sarah as they crossed the wilderness and carried God’s blessing to the families of the earth. It is such a faith that sustained Jesus, as he gave himself to others. And it is such a faith that sustains us, whenever we leave the land of “have it your way” and follow God into something much greater.

A Prayer for the Wilderness Journey

The Lord is our shepherd.
And sometimes we don’t get what we want.

The Lord leads us through the wilderness,
And the Lord stretches our souls.
For the Lord desires more than we do—
For goodness’ sake!

Even though we get thirsty
And quarrel and question,
God is always there—
Sometimes as stony and tough
And incomprehensible
As a rock.

You give us love
In a world built on power and control,
And blessing to share
In a world that keeps to itself.
You anoint our head with sweat,
And make us thirsty for you.

Surely goodness and mercy will follow
No matter how far we are in the wilderness,
And we shall live in God’s love
All our lives. Amen.

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[1] Deut 12:8; Judg 17:6; 21:25.

[2] Ex 15:24; 16:2; 17:3; Num 14:22.

"One Sows and Another Reaps" (John 4:35-38)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on March 19, 2017, Lent III, 30th Anniversary Celebration)

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Where Babies Come from

Before I was born, perhaps even before I was a twinkle in my parents’ eyes, I was a prayer in my brother’s heart. Or so I was told this past week. While catching up over breakfast, my brother shared with me a story I had never heard.

My brother is a real extrovert: he loves to be around people. For four years of his life, he was an only child. It was only natural that he wanted a little brother. Having learned from my parents at home, and from Sunday School at church, that prayer changes things, he started praying. For me!

And lo and behold, my mother became pregnant. Well…that was simple enough, my brother thought! Months later, I was born, and my brother was ecstatic. All that prayer really had paid off!

Of course, I have no doubt that my brother’s prayers did play their own part in my birth. It’s just that there was a little bit more involved than my brother knew.

Seeds Already Sown:

A Church Already in Full Blossom

In today’s scripture, Jesus quotes a proverb that was common in the ancient world: “One sows and another reaps.” So it was for my brother, who reaped the rewards of a baby brother. For all he knew, it was completely his own work. But in fact, my birth had involved a bit more.

In Jesus’ day, “One sows and another reaps” was another way of saying that life is not always fair. Sometimes you do all the hard work, but someone else ends up with the reward. But Jesus reframes things. Rather than lamenting the prospect of unrewarded work, he points to the good news that there are always already seeds sown that are bearing fruit.

When I joined you as pastor a year and a half ago, I myself entered a field already sown with many seeds, a field already full of fruit. I had done little more than set my foot within the door, and I encountered a church already in full swing—in full blossom, you might say. There were greeters in the narthex, making visitors feel welcome, handing out little bags of popcorn that asked them to “pop back in” again sometime. There were volunteers from the congregation delivering a thoughtful message each week in the company of our children. There were elders already supporting and praying for individuals in the church.

I hadn’t done an ounce of church work. All of this came from seeds sown long before me—seeds sown, perhaps, back when the field looked much emptier, when the church was meeting in storefronts and living from week to week.

Reaping What Others Have Sown

“One sows and another reaps.” How true those words echo in our own experience.

In the last year and a half, I’ve heard the words of former pastors quoted time and time again, another reminder that today we reap what others have sown. On more than one occasion, when it has been suggested that I as the pastor simply make this or that change, before I can even say a word, someone else has responded with a saying that Revy Debbie preached: “This isn’t the pastor’s church. You are the church.” She sowed a seed deep in your hearts, reminding you that this church is the responsibility and joy of us all, not one individual. On other occasions, when all sorts of ideas are flying about, I’ll hear someone quote Pastor Skip, “Better for a small church to focus on doing two or three things really well, than to spread itself too thin and burn itself out.” Skip sowed a seed deep in this church’s consciousness that bears fruit now every time we share in conversation about the future.

And today we are celebrating the rich harvest of seeds such as these. Many of us are reaping what others have sown. You’ve probably heard stories about our church history: about how our first members wandered about a bit like Abraham and Sarah—meeting in various storefronts and then a trailer; about how they knocked on doors to spread the word about Gayton Road; about how they would always be re-arranging the trailer and then this sanctuary for different gatherings and especially for meals together. If you didn’t know know Carl France or Dave Cheverton personally, you probably know all about them through the stories that are told. And kids—do you know who painted your room in the Fellowship Hall? The kids who came before you. I remember the day we painted: I was worried there’d be more paint on the youth than on the walls!

I wonder what memories you have today. What fruit can you see today in our church, that comes from what others have sown? Take a moment to reflect, and then if you’d like to share, please stand up and say a word or two.

“One sows, and another reaps.” Today the abundant life that we feel in this church—Jesus calls it “eternal life,” or “the life of the age to come”—this life is not something we have achieved on our own. It is fruit reaped from what others have sown.

Celebrating the God Who Gives Growth

You know that feeling you get sometimes when you look at a dark sky full of stars, that dizzying feeling that there is so much more out there, that maybe you are not the center of the universe? I get that feeling when I start to think about the seeds that have been sown here at Gayton Road Christian Church. I lose my sense of balance, and suddenly I find myself falling backward in time and space. Everything that we do at this church—from welcoming folks and sharing in holy conversation with our children, to supporting and praying for each other—all of this is fruit reaped from what other Christ-followers at other churches have sown. If we traced each good and godly thing that happens here at Gayton Road, asking, “Where did that come from?”, and if we kept asking that question, we would find ourselves traveling back through the centuries, across the globe, from one church to another. And eventually, I believe, we’d find ourselves at the hands and feet of Jesus, whose love is the seed from which God’s kingdom—God’s garden—grows.

All of which makes me think: today’s anniversary and celebration is a little bit like when my brother celebrated my birth, thinking that all his prayer had paid off! Because the truth is, we have done much. But much like my brother’s prayers, what we have done is only a tiny part of all the seeds sown and work done that have borne fruit here at Gayton Road.

It is perhaps a little bit tempting on a day like this, to twist our praise of God into self-praise. But that would make this day much smaller than it really is. Because what today really is, is a celebration of countless seeds that we did not sow: unseen deeds and forgotten words, memories that inspire us and dreams that pull us forward. Even what we have done, we have not done: it is God’s love that has inspired all the sowing and watering and tending and growing; it is God’s love that has cultivated our ordinary lives and transformed them into an extraordinary garden. Today we celebrate not ourselves but God and this little plot of God’s garden. Paul said it well: “Neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives growth” (1 Cor 3:6-7).

“One sows and another reaps.” Today we find ourselves on one side of that equation. Tomorrow may we find ourselves on the other side. And all the while, may we entrust this little garden plot to God, whose love is our life—whose love is what gives growth in the first place.

Prayer

God,
Whose love has taken root
Among us
Through simple words and deeds:
We celebrate
The abundant life
You have given us;
May our reaping
Become sowing,
And your garden
Be ever growing
Among us and others. Amen.

God Bless What's Missing (Genesis 12:1-4a)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on March 12, 2017, Lent II)

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Of Sundays and Sundaes 

Did you know that if it weren’t for the church, we wouldn’t have sundaes? I don’t mean the day “Sunday.” I mean the ice cream sundae.

The origin of the ice cream sundae is, in fact, a great debate. Two towns claim it. But whichever story you believe, the fact remains the same: the ice cream sundae would never have come about without the church.

Two Rivers, Wisconsin, holds the earliest claim to 1891. Back in that day, ice cream sodas were a hit at the local drug store. So much of a hit, in fact, that the church felt threatened. And so it exercised its holy influence to make a law against ice cream sodas on Sunday. One customer, however, simply would not be deprived of his Sunday treat. And so he made a crafty compromise: don’t put any soda in with the ice cream, he told the druggist, since that would be illegal; just put in a little chocolate syrup. The druggist protested, “You don’t want to ruin the flavor of the ice cream,” but the customer replied, “I’ll try anything once.” And the sundae was born.

Ithaca, New York, holds a competing claim to the sundae that dates back to 1892. Its story is simpler, and one that I can relate to. One of the pastors had a habit of visiting the local pharmacy after church for a bit of rest and refreshment. On one particular Sunday, the shop proprietor, who was a friend of the pastor, wanted to treat the reverend to something special, so he tried something new: he drizzled cherry syrup on the ice cream and topped it all with a candied cherry. And the sundae was born.[1]

I don’t know how the sundae really came about. But I’m glad it did. Growing up, I remember how excited my brother and I would get when the family went out to Ryan’s Steakhouse or one of those places that had an ice cream bar. I guess today, you can do the same sort of thing at Sweet Frog. My brother and I each had our favorite toppings: I liked the chocolate sauce; his creation wouldn’t be complete without a cherry on top. Chances are, you have your own favorite topping. When we look at a bowl of plain vanilla ice cream, we all probably think to ourselves, “Something’s missing.” Maybe nuts or granola. Maybe chocolate or caramel. Maybe the proverbial cherry on top.

“Something’s Missing”

You’ve heard it said that life is like a box of chocolates. But I say unto you that life is like an ice cream sundae. We live life like it’s a bowl of ice cream and something’s missing. We’re always looking for the cherry on top, the topping that will make everything complete. We live life like an ice cream bar, and even after we’ve added a sprinkle of this and a few dashes of that, we keep thinking, “Something’s missing.”

But today’s scripture, which tells us about the family where faith is born, the family whose faith inspires the world’s major religions, invites us to look at life a bit differently. Today’s story suggests that faith is about much more than looking for the cherry on top, than finding the topping that will make everything complete.

What Is This Blessing That God Promised? 

If we had never heard any of the famous stories about the family of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, we would probably read today’s scripture with the anticipation of a much different conclusion to their story. I remember in first grade, how my teacher would often pause at the end of a page and ask the class what we thought would happen on the next page. If I were reading the story of Abraham for the first time, and I had just read about God promising Abraham blessing and greatness, I would probably think the next page would show Abraham dressed as a king, settled in a great palace, surrounded by a full family with many children, princes and princesses, owning many possessions, and governing this new land that God had given him. In fact, the next page would show something completely different: Abraham and his wife Sarah wandering the wilderness of Canaan, worrying about famine, camped out under an oak tree, childless and aging, living at the mercy of the natives. Over the course of their journey, they will travel to Egypt and back, they will haggle for their lives with foreign kings, they will just barely escape death from an inhospitable city, they will worry for years about having a child, and then once they have one, they will worry about keeping him alive.

What is this blessing that God had promised them? It’s certainly not the cherry on top, nor is it the final piece to the puzzle. If anything, the puzzle of life became even more complicated after Abraham left his home. I wonder sometimes if Abraham ever paused and reconsidered his decision. He had been living in a thriving metropolis, Haran. He had his father and his brothers alongside him. He presumably had made friends and had picked up a trade. He would have had a secured and settled life. All that was missing was the cherry on top. Happily ever after was nearly within his reach.

The Blessing Is What’s Missing 

So what is this blessing that God promised? If Abraham’s life is any indication, it’s not security and satisfaction. That is what Abraham leaves behind when he leaves his land, his family, and his home. If Abraham’s life gives us any clue, the blessing of God is wrapped up in risk and uncertainty, in problems and possibilities. The blessing of God dwells in the wilderness. It lingers in the barren womb.

Most of the world thinks of blessing as a cherry on a top, as something that will complete what’s missing. But the story of Abraham suggests the opposite. It shows us a life that is always missing something: missing a home, missing children, missing security. It suggests that blessing is not the completion of what’s missing, but simply what’s missing.

I recently heard someone share the saddest thing he’d ever seen. It was a greyhound dog, a race dog, who his whole life had run races, chasing after a bit of cloth shaped like a rabbit. One day in the park, the dog broke free from its leash, and seeing a squirrel nearby, he raced after it. What followed was an unfortunate scene, but the saddest thing of all was the look in the greyhound’s eyes when it was all done. “He just sat there, confused. [He] had spent his whole life trying to catch that thing. Now [he] had no idea what to do.”[2]

Not the End, but the Beginning 

The common thought is that God is the end of the journey, that God completes what’s missing. But I wonder if somewhere along the way we’ve gotten it turned around. I wonder if Abraham’s story is a hint that things are the opposite. Maybe God isn’t the end of the journey, but the beginning. Maybe God doesn’t complete what’s missing, but stirs us to life through what’s missing.

If that’s the case, then I think we can all begin to recognize how we are already on a journey like Abraham. I’m betting that deep down, we have all felt whatever Abraham felt, or heard whatever he heard, that led him to leave behind what he knew and go into the unknown. Think for a moment: have you ever felt drawn to do something that would lead you out of your comfort zone? What was that feeling? Why did you do that?

I can recall several decisive moments in my life when I left what I knew. I didn’t literally leave hearth and home like Abraham—you don’t have to leave your front door, sometimes, to leave behind all that you thought you knew. What I left behind was the routine and the familiar comforts behind which I had been nursing my wounds. And I reached out to strangers to whom I normally would not have reached out. Not because I thought they were the cherry on top. I didn’t want completeness. I simply felt that there was more, and I desired more—and part of me wonders if that desire was not in fact part of God’s desire. I didn’t want the end of things, a happily ever after. I wanted a beginning, a beginning that would lead to more beginnings. And as I walked into the unknown and came to share my joys and my sorrows with these strangers, I think that somehow the blessing of God took shape. I think I became both blessed and a blessing. Because I needed these strangers. And they, perhaps, needed me.

God bless what’s missing, what will always be missing. For that is the blessing of more life. What’s missing is not a cherry on top or a final puzzle piece. What’s missing is the next stranger and the next encounter; the next decision and the next possibility; the next problem and the next miracle. What’s missing is the next page, where, yes, there might be wilderness and worry, but also a God who uses even that—especially that—to bless us and all the families of the earth together.

Prayer 

Insistent and caring God,
Whose blessing
Is also a call
Into the unknown:
Bless us
With a holy sense
Of what's missing,
Of all the ways
Your love may yet bring new life,
Even and especially in our woundedness and our weakness.
In the name of Jesus: Amen.

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[1] These two stories draw from the histories compiled on Jeff Wells, “The Great Debate over the Origin of the Ice Cream Sundae,” http://mentalfloss.com/article/83345/great-debate-over-origin-ice-cream-sundae, accessed March 8, 2017, and “History of Ice Cream Sundae,” https://whatscookingamerica.net/History/IceCream/Sundae.htm, accessed March 8, 2017.

[2] From Westworld, “Contrapasso”; directed by Johnny Campbell; written by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy; HBO, October 30, 2016. 

See—We Are Alive! (2 Cor 5:20a; 6:4-10)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on March 1, 2017, Ash Wednesday)

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We All Fall Down

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

If nothing else, the ashes smudged into our skin remind us that, one day, we will fall down. No matter our achievements, no matter our money, no matter our reputation—no matter what we do, death is smudged into our skin.

Nothing can erase this smudge. Not even Jesus. The shape of the cross that lingers on our forehead reminds us that Jesus, too, fell down.

Learning How to Fall

The world does not teach us how to fall down. The world teaches us how to stand up tall, how to climb ladders, how to win and compete and survive.

But the truth of Ash Wednesday, the truth of the cross that we wear on our heads, is that we are not always in control, that even Jesus “in whom the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” was not always in control. Jesus proclaims, “It is fulfilled,” not after he has done something in his control, but after something out of his control has been done to him.[1]

The world does not teach us how to fall down. But Jesus does. And thank God for that, because the truth is we are always falling down. Not only at our death, but every day of our lives. Because we are limited and wounded creatures: we make honest mistakes sometimes; we willfully do wrong sometimes; sometimes we lose control, and sometimes—most of the time—we never had it to begin with.

The Lesson of Lent: 

Letting Go and Loving

If the body of Jesus brings us any consolation, it is in this: only by falling down does God’s life-giving love fully take on flesh in our world. That is the mysterious lesson of Lent that Christ teaches us: falling down is not the end of life. If we let go and love as Jesus did, then falling down becomes the opposite. It becomes a way of welcoming new life.

That’s the good news that Paul insists on in tonight’s scripture. Falling down—which is to say, letting go and loving—this is how Christ is saving the world. When Paul considers all the sleepless nights, all the hunger, all the hardships that he and his fellow Christ-followers have endured, he does not despair (cf. 6:4-8). He celebrates. He says, “To the world we may look like a sorry mess, but we rejoice! We may look poor, but see the richness of life we are giving to others! It may look like we’re dying—but see, we’re alive!” (cf. 6:8-10).

We all fall down. Each in our own way. But according to the words of Paul and to the body of Christ, falling down is not the end of life. If we let go and love, then our every fall—even our death—becomes in fact a blessing of new life.

Prayer

Christ of the cross,
We all fall down,
Each in our own way.
Teach us how to fall
Like you,
How to let go
And to love,
So that our every fall
Might be a blessing
Of new life.
Amen.

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Adam: God’s Beloved (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997), 84.