Hearing, Healing, Hallelujah (Luke 10:1-9)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 28, 2019, Proper 12)

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The Harvest Is Plentiful

Not once in his life

Does Jesus try to get people inside a building. 

Instead he sends his followers out—

Out into the community. 

His concern, after all,

Is not the health of an institution

But the health of the world.

In today’s scripture,

Jesus insists that there is a plentiful harvest

All round.

It is a striking metaphor,

Suggesting a God whose aim

Is growth, life, abundance;

A God whose gardening is done

Not inside a religious plot of soil

But in all the world;

A green thumb God

Who is constantly at work,

Who tills the hearts of men and women,

Who sows and waters and prunes,

Who tends to the garden

‘Til the day of its harvest.

And Jesus calls his followers

To share in the harvest.

He calls them

Not to stay inside

And to welcome all comers,

But to go outside

And to find the ripening of life

And to share in the work

Of God’s harvest.

Receiving Is Part of the Harvesting

Two Sundays from now,

We will go out—

Out into the community

To share the morning

With Rhonda Sneed and her friends,

Many of whom are homeless and hungry.

We will go

As the followers of Jesus went:

Not as saviors,

But as guests.

“Eat what is set before you,”

Jesus instructs his followers—

Which is a way of saying,

“Receive what your hosts

Have to give you,”

Which is not just food, of course,

But words, stories, life.

Somehow

Receiving is also part

Of the harvesting.

I’d like to leave

That thought dangling

For a minute.

And as it dangles,

I’d like to invite Lu

To share with us a glimpse

Of the community

We will be visiting.

This time in our worship gathering

Is traditionally reserved for the Word,

For scripture through which God is revealed.

I’d invite us to look at the pictures Lu shows

With the same reverence

That we show the Word.

For Jesus reminds us

That among our neighbors,

And especially in the least of these,

God is revealed.

Eat, Heal, Proclaim the Kingdom:

Three Events or One?

On a few of Lu’s slides,

You saw how the homeless

Gave generously:

One man teaching the youth guitar,

Another man helping a wearied volunteer.

This returns me to the question:

How is receiving

Part of the harvesting?

Listen again to Jesus’ words:

“Eat what is set before you;

Cure the sick who are there,

And say to them, ‘the kingdom of God has come near to you.’”

When I first heard these words,

I heard three separate actions:

Receive what is set before you;

Heal;

And announce the kingdom.

But recently I heard a story

From a pastor in Seattle.

He serves a church

That had thrived in the 20^th century,

Only to flounder in the new millennium,

As the city became increasingly “secularized.”

He said the church found renewal

Through the simplest of means—

And it’s one that should be no surprise

To us Disciples of Christ—

The table.

They called it dinner church,

And would offer multiple dinners

Through the week.

It was a simple affair:

Dinner,

A bit of scripture,

Stories shared,

And prayers offered.

Not in a rigidly formalized way,

But among tables and individuals.

Anyway, one day he was talking

To a friend who had been coming

To dinner church.

The friend revealed in passing

That he had recovered from a heroin addiction

The year before.

The pastor expressed surprise.

He didn’t know his friend

Was an addict.

He didn’t know

He had recovered.

His friend’s response was even more surprising.

“Oh, yeah.  You guys did it.

Dinner is how I recovered.”

He went on to explain

That the heroin voice went away

Whenever he was at dinner.

And when the heroin voice returned,

He knew that all he had to do

Was to hang on until another dinner.

A year of this passed,

And he had stayed clean—

He’d kicked the habit.

When I heard this story,

I thought back to Jesus’ instructions—

Receive; heal; announce the kingdom—

And suddenly what had seemed

Like three separate events,

Became one.

For wasn’t it at the table,

Where the church received the addicted man

And heard his stories

And cared for him as a child of God—

Wasn’t it also there that he was healed?

Wasn’t it there that the kingdom of God

Came unbelievably near?

I offer that thought for us

As we prepare to sojourn one Sunday

With the homeless and hungry folks

Of our community.

We are not going as saviors,

But as guests.

We are going

Where God has already been gardening.

And perhaps simply by hearing

What our brothers and sisters in Christ

Have to share with us,

We will share in a moment of God’s healing—

Which is to say,

In God’s kingdom harvest.

The Picture in Scripture

A number of folks have asked

What our gathering will look like

On that Sunday outside the Coliseum.

I have to be honest:

I don’t know exactly.

What I do know is that

It will not be a worship service

But more like what we see in our scripture:

Eating and conversing.

As we share the food that we bring,

We will also have the opportunity

To hear from the homeless and hungry folks of our city.

It’s an oft-overlooked point of the gospels

That in large crowds,

Jesus did not silence the interruptions

But directed his attention to them.

He heard the voices of the margin.

And so often from that hearing resulted healing, wholeness.

So as we share food,

We might also ask our friends,

“Tell us your story, if you would.”

And we might show we care by praying.

In fact, we’ll have a small table

Where we will offer quiet, personal prayer

For any requests that are shared.

If that’s something you’d be willing to do,

Please let me know.

And in this hearing and praying,

I trust there may be an unseen moment of healing—

As much for us, perhaps, as for our hosts.

And so it is that we will end our time

With celebration—

By proclaiming the nearness of God’s kingdom

In bread broken,

In cup outpoured,

In the love and welcome of God shared with all.

Hearing, Healing, Hallelujah.

That’s the picture I see in our scripture today,

And that, I hope, will be the picture of our gathering.

Prayer

Lord of the harvest,

Whose love takes root

All over our world—

So often the corners of our community

That are ripe for life

Are left unheard

And uncared for.

Draw us ever out,

And give us ears to hear,

That we might know your healing

And your kingdom come near.

Amen.

Stay Thirsty (Luke 7:36-50)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 21, 2019, Proper 11)

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The World’s Most Interesting Man

A few of you may be familiar with the Dos Equis advertisements in which the world’s most interesting man tells us all, “Stay thirsty, my friends.”  It strikes me that this slogan echoes the message of an even more interesting man, whose words we read in today’s scripture.  If you remember nothing else from today’s homily, I hope you’ll remember this sentiment: “Stay thirsty.”

A Garden Parable Of Thirst

Once upon a time, there was a garden.  In that garden were a multitude of flowers, including a rose and a buttercup.

The rose looked down on the buttercup.  No one had purposefully planted it.  It didn’t really belong in the garden.  But the gardener watered all the flowers just the same.

Some days the gardener would not come with water.  On those days, the buttercup would cry out, “I am so thirsty!”  When the gardener returned, the buttercup would exclaim to any flower who would hear her, “Oh, how good that water feels!  How cool, how refreshing, how invigorating!”  And she would sway and sing songs and smile at everyone.

But the rose stayed silent and stared with judgment at the buttercup.  How weak and needy it was.  It didn’t really belong in the garden.

One day when the gardener returned after having been away for a couple of days, the rose made up its mind.  Wanting to prove its place in the garden and its natural superiority to the buttercup, it decided to forego the gardener’s water.  As soon as the gardener left, the rose bent over and with its petals it scooped up the water from its base and flung it away.  “I don’t need this water,” it said to itself.  “I’m better than the buttercup.”

The rose repeated this behavior several more days in a row.  Though it would never admit it to anyone else—or even to itself—it began to feel dry and weak and thirsty.  Its petals withered and all that remained were its thorns.  As the buttercup continued to sway and sing and smile, its thirst continually quenched, the rose smoldered, its thirst unacknowledged and therefore crippling.

He Who Does Not Thirst, Will Not Drink

When Simon the Pharisee invites Jesus to eat with him, the last thing he expects is that a prostitute will crash their meal with tears and kisses and her hair scandalously let down.  She shouldn’t be here.  She’s ritually impure, morally unclean—and she’s uninvited!  Perhaps Simon doesn’t say anything because he wants to avoid a scene.  But even so, we hear his thoughts, “If Jesus were really a prophet, then he’d know that this woman is a sinner.  He’d know she doesn’t belong here.”

Jesus hears his thoughts too.  And after telling a story about how the larger the debt is, so the love is larger too, he makes a raw observation: Simon has not given him half the welcome that this woman has.  He greeted Jesus with no kiss, no water for his feet, no oil for his head.  Simon respects Jesus—he addresses him as rabbi, teacher—but he does not love Jesus.

The reason for this, Jesus suggests, is that unlike the woman Simon does not know his own lack, his own need.  Simon does not know his own thirst.  And he who does not thirst, will not drink.  He will not sing the joy of water.  The woman knows her thirst.  So she drinks and she sings.  She overflows with love.

Is the Church Still Thirsty?

In a 2004 survey of young adults outside the church, the Barna organization found that 87% think Christians are “judgmental,” 85% consider Christians “hypocritical,” and 72% say Christianity is “out of touch with reality.”[1]  That can be painful for the church to hear.  But to dismiss these folks’ perspective is also to dismiss their pain.  Many of these young adults are thirsty for community, for a home, for a place of belonging, and they have not found it at the church.  I wonder if that’s because at church they find more Simons than they do scandalous women.  (That didn’t come out right!)  They find respectable people who’ve got it all together, people who do not admit their own thirst.  There’s an unspoken pressure at many churches to put on a perfect front: after all, you’ve been saved.  How could you still be broken?  How could you still have struggles?  How could you still be thirsty?

The truth, of course, is that we are all thirsty.  Even Jesus knew the limitations and hardships of this human life.  Even he prayed out to God in tears and in sweat.  And it was from this thirst that he drank deep and loved without reserve.  Is it any coincidence, I wonder, that Jesus is always telling stories about seeds and flowers, brothers and brides, and feasts—wedding feasts, homecoming feasts, celebration feasts, any kind of feast you can think of?  Is it any coincidence that he would come to be known as a drunkard and a glutton?  Jesus thirsted for the goodness of life, for love and trust, for peace and joy, and so he drank deep and enjoyed the fullness of life and lived in the fullness of love.

I am happy and filled with hope about our church because on one more than one occasion, visitors have used the word “authentic” to describe the feeling of our church gathering.  I know that is true of us, because I have seen great thirst here.  I have seen tears shed and tough, honest words spoken and stories of struggle shared and raw, heartfelt prayers lifted up.  And from this great thirst, we have drunk deeply of God’s love and it has overflowed.  For I have seen embraces exchanged and food shared and creative talents celebrated and hard work dedicated.  Like the buttercup, we sway and sing and smile, full of life. 

Acknowledging Our Thirst

Because our thirst is what draws us closer to God’s love and the fullness of life therein, I’d like to invite us now into a moment of quiet, when we might contemplate just what our thirst is at this juncture in our lives. 

Are you thirsty?  For what?  For acceptance—to know that you God loves you and embraces you just as you are, even if you never changed?  Are you thirsty for direction—to hear a call that will enliven you and give your life meaning?  Are you thirsty for forgiveness? 

Or perhaps you’re not thirsty.  Why is that?  Are you afraid of your true self—your need or your limitations or the dark corners of your soul? 

Wherever you are, acknowledge that to God.  Acknowledge your thirst.  Ask for whatever it is you need.  Or acknowledge your non-thirst.  And ask God for the courage to confront your lack and your need.

….

Know now

That God is giving you what you need. 

Acceptance, forgiveness, courage….

Whatever it is that God gives you—

Drink from it deeply.

And love will overflow.

Prayer

Compassionate Christ,

Our thirst draws us

Shamelessly

Honestly

Into your company:

Quench us

That we might know

The fullness of life

And love largely.

Amen.

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[1] David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons, unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity…and Why It Matters (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2007), 28ff.

Identifying the Caller or Answering the Call? (Luke 6:46-49)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 14, 2019, Proper 10)

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Whoever Responds to God’s Call

For some, church is about proclaiming God “king” and then resuming business as usual, pursuing one’s own kingdom.  Or as Jesus puts it, it’s like a person who identifies God and then ignores God, who calls out, “Lord, Lord,” and then follows his own course.  

Perhaps this is nowhere more apparent than church business meetings, which usually take place after the worship service.  In worship, the congregation is seemingly united.  “Lord, Lord,” they say together, paying lip service to their God.  But moments later in the board room, that God is nowhere to be seen: it is a battle of personal interests, a contest of individual wills.  It is not the Spirit guiding the people, but the people curbing the Spirit.  It is not the patient Spirit of God that leads the way but simply the majority of stubborn, self-seeking wills.

For Jesus, answering the Call is infinitely more important than identifying the Caller.  For as Jesus knows, it’s all too easy to proudly identify the Caller and then promptly ignore the Call.

Did you know that the Greek word for church, ekklesia, means “called out”?  That corresponds well with what Jesus says.  The church is not about calling God by the right name.  The church is about what God calls for.  The church is whoever responds to God’s call.

The good news then is that we who listen to the call and respond faithfully, we will never be swept away, for our foundation is not of our own building—it’s not stone, brick, or concrete.  Our foundation is the call of God, which ground us and gives us life.  This is especially good news for the church today.  We don’t know the future; it may look inconceivably different from the present.  But if we are doing more than simply saying, “Lord, Lord,” if we are listening for the call of God and then answering it, giving it flesh—then we will weather any storm.

Prayer

Christ who is the cornerstone,

Who lays our foundation,

Not by ritual

Or the right names,

But by deeds of love:

Help us to hear the Call

In our own world.

And make us into

A faithful response.

Amen.

When Prayer Takes on Flesh (Luke 11:2-4)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 7, 2019, Proper 9)

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Prayers That Linger

I heard the story once of a young child who had seen a homeless man on the street corner.  At dinner that night, he asked his parents if he could give the blessing.  He prayed not only that God would bless the food on his family’s table but also that God would bless the man without food.  His heartfelt prayer lingered over the table even as he finished the blessing and they began eating.  As plates passed hands, the man on the street corner passed continually before their minds’ eyes.

By the time dinner was over, they were of one mind.  Together they got into their car and returned to the street corner, where they shared with the man bags filled with food.  Their short time together felt precious and holy.  They could feel the rough grit of the sidewalk under their shoes, and it felt holy.  They could feel the soft halo of light from the street lamp above, and it felt holy.  When they departed, the man blessed them.

Have you ever prayed a prayer that took on flesh? 

Maybe you prayed for a friend who was sick, but the prayer felt somehow incomplete, and later you found yourself writing a note to let them know you cared and you were there for them.  Maybe you prayed for a brother or sister, or son or daughter who was having a tough time, but the prayer felt somehow lacking, and later you found yourself calling them up on the phone, not knowing what you wanted to say, knowing only that you didn’t want them to feel alone.

Jesus Gives Flesh to the God for Whom He Prays

The Lord’s Prayer is a little bit like all these prayers.  It is ultimately a prayer that takes on flesh. 

To begin with, the Lord’s Prayer is a prayer for here not there.  We need you here, God, with us.  Your kingdom come here on earth as it is in heaven (cf. 11:2).  It is a prayer for now not later.  We need you with us today; we need our daily bread (cf. 11:3).  And it is always “we,” not “me.”  “Give us…forgive us…do not bring us” (11:3-4).  It is a prayer that presumes community.  

So Jesus is praying that God would be present here, now, in community. 

But like the little boy at the dinner table, or like you when you’ve prayed for your sick friend, Jesus can’t leave his prayer there.  His prayer gets up off its knees and goes into action.  Notice the one commitment Jesus makes in his prayer: “For we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us” (11:4).  In other words, Jesus, who is desperate to know God here and now in community, commits to doing the very thing that will make that possible.  For isn’t forgiveness one of the fundamental ways that we know God’s love here and now in the midst of our faults and failures?  And isn’t forgiveness the main thread of community, what transforms enemies into friends and strangers into brothers and sisters?

By forgiving others, Jesus gives flesh to the God for whom he prays.  He gives flesh to the God of beloved community, the God who is with us here and now.

The Handshake of God

Because we have prayed the Lord’s Prayer ourselves, I would like to invite us to give it flesh as well.  As an expression of our peace and our unity together, I invite us now with each hand to take the hand of a neighbor, so that we might form a human circle or thread.

Now close your eyes.  I am going to squeeze the hand of my neighbor.  When you feel one of your hands squeezed, open your eyes and then squeeze your other neighbor’s hand.  And I would invite you as we do this to wonder: could this be the God from our prayers taking on flesh?  Could this be the very handshake of God?

Learning Who We Are (Luke 4:1-14)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on June 30, 2019, Proper 8)

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The False Self

Perhaps more than any other gospel, Luke shows us that life begins inside.   That is to say, everything has an inside, an inner life, although generally this remains invisible to the eye.  Over the next couple months, we’ll be reading through the gospel of Luke and paying close attention to this inner life.  In the world, we can easily become fixated on the exterior: size, speed, shape.  As we read Luke, we will leave these things behind and follow Jesus into the heart of life, into what really matters.

When Jesus follows the Spirit into the wilderness, he learns who he is.  If his experience is any indication, it’s difficult to learn who we really are.  It’s like living in a desert.  For Jesus, it takes forty days, a number that recalls the forty years that the Israelites wandered in the desert.  Forty years was a lifetime for that generation of Israelites.  The number suggests it may take a lifetime for us to learn who we really are. 

To learn who we really are means to let go of who we are not.  That’s what Jesus does.  He lets go of the bread of security and survival; he lets go of the deeds and accomplishments on which we pride ourselves; and he lets go of the esteem and affection of others. 

In other words, Jesus lets go of his false self.  The false self is a construct.  It is the way that we generally think about ourselves: what we have (or what we want to have), what we do (or what we want to do), how we look (or want to look), all our accomplishments (or what we would like to accomplish). In each temptation, the devil invites Jesus to identify with an aspect of the false self: what he has, what he does, or what other people think of him.  In each case Jesus responds by renouncing the false self.  He says in effect, “I am not what I have.  I am not what I do.  I am not what others think or say I am.  I am God’s beloved.  Life is not won.  It is received.”

The True Self

All of this is not to demonize the false self—that mental and social construct by which we live and interact in our world.  Perhaps it would be better to speak of it as the small self, the changing self.  For there is no guarantee that what we have today we will have tomorrow, or what we can do today we will be able to do tomorrow, or what people think of us today is what people will think of us tomorrow.  The false self, the small self, the changing self, is but a mask that obscures what matters most: the blessed and beloved self that belongs to God. I have to think it’s more than coincidence that I am reminded of this true self most when I am with our friends in the memory care unit or with the homeless whom Rhonda serves or with the community of the intellectually disabled at L’Arche.  Among these friends, in whom there is little pretense to strength or success, I draw near to the heart of God.

As Jesus’ life reveals, it makes a world of difference whether we live from our false selves or our true selves.  When we live from our small and false self, we are always incomplete, always one step away from the security or success or social status that we think will give us happiness.  But when we live from our belovedness in God, as does Jesus, we have nothing to fear or to achieve or to prove.  We are simply living our own selves out as fully and as faithfully as we can, trusting that God can provide what we cannot, hopeful that God will make possible what we cannot, liberated by God’s love that is with us even when others are not. 

Letting Go

Letting go of the false self is a lifelong journey.  Spiritual programs of recovery like AA sometimes call it non-attachment: letting go not only of hurtful habits but also of attachment to security or power or affection, which when frustrated leads to the search for a quick fix.  Paul sometimes calls it being crucified with Christ (cf. Gal 2:19; 5:24; 6:14).  Whatever we call it, it can feel like a wilderness but it also brings us into a fuller, deeper, richer, more authentic life in God.

This morning, I’d like to invite us to think about our own false self—about what is most important to our identity.  Maybe it’s what we see when we look in the mirror.  Maybe it’s the number in our bank account.  Maybe it’s the esteem and affection of others.  Or perhaps you would consider how our own church community has a false self—you might consider what is most important to our identity.  Perhaps it has to do with certain ideas of size or success or smiling faces and good moods.  Take a moment now and allow the Spirit of God to speak to you concerning your own false self or the false self of the church.  What element is most important to that sense of identity?

Now I’d like to invite us to follow Jesus, who leads the way, and Paul and other faithful persons who have followed him, relinquishing their false selves and welcoming instead their blessed and beloved selves that belong to God.  You might do this simply in your mind.  Or if you would like, you might leave your seat and proceed to one of the windows in the sanctuary.  At each window is a container of sand along with an unsharpened pencil that you can use to draw in it.  I’d invite you to draw a symbol of your false self—a symbol of whatever it is that is most important to your identity.  Then let it go.  Draw a cross over top of that symbol, signifying that it has been crucified with Christ.  For it is in dying to that which is false within us that what is truest in us can live.

At this time, you are invited to proceed to a container of sand.  Alternatively you might stay seated and contemplate an aspect of your false self.

Let us pray now for God’s help in letting go of the false self.

Prayer

Creator God,

Whose loving touch has shaped us,

Whose embrace is eternal:

We have striven and striven

For a life that we are already given.

Loosen our attachment

To our false selves—

To size, to success, to status—

So that we might instead

Live faithfully and fully

As we really are,

Your blessed and beloved children.

In Christ, with whom we are crucified and risen: Amen.

Whatever Doesn't Kill You... (Romans 5:1-5)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on June 16, 2019, Trinity Sunday)

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A Tap on the Shoulder

It was Kristin’s first day at her new school.  Her family had moved states in the middle of the year for her father’s job.  That day, when her teachers introduced her as a transfer student, she could sense the scrutiny of her fellow students—she could hear their whispers, she could feel the judgment in their eyes.  She hadn’t even spoken a word, and already rumors were being readied for distribution.  At least…that’s what she imagined.

When the lunch bell rang, she followed the herd of students into the hallway and to the cafeteria.  The cavernous lunchroom echoed loudly with students celebrating their temporary freedom.  But the sound was drowned out by the hammering of her heart within.  Where would she sit?   Some tables were already filled.  Others had backpacks strewn across them, claiming seats.  She could already detect the semblance of a caste system: the preps, the nerds, the athletic types, the rebels.  Slowly she wandered up and down each aisle.  With each passing table, her heart weighed heavier and heavier with dread.  Would she have to sit alone at the empty table?  That would be unbearable.

As she finished walking through the last aisle with no luck, she felt a tap on her shoulder.  “Hey, you wanna join us?”  Kristin turned around, and for the first time that day, she looked fully into another person’s eyes.  It was a friendly face.  The girl pointed back to a table with a couple of empty chairs and said, “Why don’t you throw your bag down and then follow me.  Today’s breakfast for lunch, but there are certain things you won’t want to get.  The sausage is basically rubber.  And the eggs are runny as all get out.  But the pancakes….”  As her new friend rambled on, she breathed deep with relief.  The hammer within her heart had ceased.  For the first time that day, she felt like she belonged.

God Is a Community

On Trinity Sunday, we celebrate God as three persons.  Or as orthodox theology would put it, three persons but one substance.  I’ll confess, that makes no sense.  Three does not equal one.  The analogy of the three states of water is sometimes used to explain the trinity.  But that analogy falls short, because the trinity insists that the three persons exist at the same time.  This is not God transforming from one state to the next and back again, but the one God somehow existing at the same time in three persons.

At times I am tempted to let go of the doctrine of the trinity.  After all, it’s nowhere in the Bible explicitly.  It doesn’t appear until nearly two centuries after the life of Jesus.  But I haven’t let go of it yet.  For as much confusion as it has wrought, the idea of the trinity attests to a holy intuition that followers of Christ have had for nearly two millennia.  And that intuition is this: God is not an individual.  God is a community.  The fundamental essence of life is not me alone.  It’s us together.

And the good news of this Sunday, the good news of the trinity, is that it is an open circle.  God the creator, redeemer, and sustainer is not a gated community, guarding the secret of salvation, but an open one, inviting us to take and eat and have life.  In today’s scripture, Paul twice declares that it is “through” our Lord Jesus Christ that we have life (Rom 5:1-2).  Paul is speaking from personal experience, attesting to the fact that it was Jesus Christ who welcomed him into the community of God.  Jesus Christ tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You wanna join us?”  And it’s not just Paul who attests to this experience.  The gospels are chock-full of stories where Jesus turns to the outcast, the sinner, the lowly, the forgotten, and says, “Hey, you wanna join us at the table?”  Perhaps more than any other symbol, the table represents the unconditional welcome of God.  That’s why celebrate at it every week.  We celebrate at the table to remember that we are welcomed into God’s community—and so are our neighbors and our enemies and the strangers we have yet to befriend.  We celebrate at the table to remember that the fundamental essence of life is not me alone, it’s us together with God.  (If you look at the back of your bulletin, you’ll see one of the most famous Christian icons, a depiction of the trinity by Andrei Rublev, a 15^th century Russian painter.  Notice how it’s three persons around the table, and how there’s an empty space on the fourth side—as if to say, we as viewers are invited to the table too.)

…Draws You Closer

The strange thing about today’s passage is that Paul celebrates not only the glory of being welcomed into God’s community.  He also celebrates suffering as an equally natural experience of living in God’s community.  I would be very quick to point out that he does not explicitly attribute suffering to God.  He does not say that God causes suffering.  But he does suggest that suffering is a sacred experience, that it somehow casts light on the depths of God’s love, and that it therefore draws us more deeply into the community of God. 

There’s a popular saying in our world today.  “Whatever doesn’t kill you…makes you stronger.”  It’s the idea of individual strength honed through trial and trouble.  It’s a fine idea, and within our individualist worldview it has a certain truth.  But today’s scripture proclaims a deeper truth, which Paul might have paraphrased this way: “Whatever doesn’t kill you…draws you closer.”  Which is to say, suffering can lead in two directions: death or life.  It can divide us, isolate us, draw us into deep loneliness, lead us into despair.  Or it can invite us into the community of God, draw us closer to one another, gather us in solidarity and hope around the table. 

I think of grief.  How tears shed alone can make us bitter, but tears shared with others can water our parched souls.  I think of addiction.  How the torment of loneliness can deepen our shame, but sharing the struggle with others can lift us with hope.  I think of great change.  How facing the change alone can weigh us down with despair, but finding companions in a similar situation of change can inspire us with courage.

In the story of our ancestors in faith, Abraham and his family, there is a recurring theme.  When the family enters into an unknown situation, or when it finds itself in the midst of hardship, it takes nearby stones and transforms them into an altar to God, consecrating that difficult moment, somehow making it sacred.  In one particular case, Jacob actually takes a stone in the wilderness that he used the night before as a pillow, and he pours oil on it and turns it into a pillar of worship.  For me, the image of a pillow of hardship transformed into a pillar of worship, of boulders transformed into altars, is a powerful and hopeful expression of what Paul says.  Our suffering can draw us more deeply into the community of God.  Our stumbling blocks can become stepping-stones into a richer life.

Of Boulders and Altars

We follow in the footsteps of our ancestors in faith.  Their story is ours.  Just as Abraham and his family transformed boulders into altars, just as Paul saw his suffering as an invitation into the loving community of God, so too we are invited in our own hardships to receive God’s welcome and to enter more deeply into God’s community. 

So I will invite us in just a moment into a time of silence to reflect on our own lives and the boulders that stand in our way.  How might we, like Paul, like Abraham, consecrate them?  How might we commit them to God in a way that draws us more deeply into the community and life of God?  Maybe there is a burden that needs to be shared with a trusted friend or mentor.  Maybe there is a challenge that you are facing alone, which needs to be faced together.  Maybe there is a concern that needs to pass from personal contemplation into communal conversation.  Maybe the boulder is a great change, or grief, or addiction; or maybe it’s something else entirely.  Pause now for a moment to consider the boulders in your life and how they might become an altar—how they might invite you more deeply into God’s community.

Scattered under each window are little rocks.  In just a moment, I will invite all who feel led to get up and take a rock or two from under the window nearest you as symbols of the boulders in your life.  (If you are unable to go to the window, you might ask your neighbor to grab you a rock or two.)  And I would invite you to hold on to your rocks this week.  You might make them into an altar and place them somewhere visible in your home: on your dresser, on the bathroom counter, on the kitchen table, somewhere where you would see them and be reminded of the opportunities you have to enter more deeply into the community of God, into that open circle of three persons, around that table where we are all invited to find ourselves in God and one another.  If you feel so led, would you rise now and take a rock or two?

Let us pray together now and consecrate our boulders as altars that draw us closer to God and one another.

Prayer

God in three persons,

Whose abundant life is found

In the community of love:

We celebrate your table

And its reminder

That we are beloved,

That we belong.

We ask that in difficult times,

The stumbling-blocks before us

Would not isolate us and lead us into despair

But draw us closer to you and one another.

We commit our boulders to you

As altars and sacraments

Where your love might be made real.

In the name of Christ, who taps us on the shoulder:

Amen.