Thanks and God's Grandeur
2009-05-15 by David von Schlichten
Thank you to Jule and Dee Dee for their postings. Jule provides evocative reflections about loving and abiding, while Dee Dee points us to the poetic and mystical power of God. Please scroll down to read the postings.
I am not preaching this Sunday, but I would probably focus on 1 John's promise that we Christians, because of Christ, can defeat the world. Many of us feel powerless, but this passage teaches that we are powerful, more than we realize, more than we imagine.
How do we Christians defeat the world while also loving the world as God does?
Yours in Christ,
David von Schlichten, Lectionary Blog Moderator
Reflections on John 15:9-17
2009-05-13 by Jule
Recently I attended a conference with nearly fifty other pastors. We were an interesting bunch: men and women, newbies to the pulpit and veterans, those transitioning willingly and others forced out. Collectively we must have constituted well over four hundred years of pastoring the church. As our week together unfolded, one thing became apparent: many of us knew much pain from our experiences of serving the church. Perhaps such gatherings are prone to that kind of unpacking of the baggage many pastors carry as we minister among congregations. One of our leaders blessed the pain but insistently pointed us back to the joy. The joy of serving in God’s name. The blessing of being faithful to our calls. The celebration of embodying the one who instituted the joyful feast for a perpetual remembrance of a life lived in abundance. Pain might linger, but joy ought to persist.
“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love,” Jesus commands (John 15:9). Here in this text, Jesus is reminding those with ears to hear that obedience to his way means bearing fruit. Whether it be within the community of faith, or outside the four walls of the sanctuary; we remain in Jesus’ love as he remains in the Father’s when we do as he has done. And just in case we didn’t catch the commandment the first go round, Jesus makes it plain: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12).
The question comes: in what ways has Jesus loved his listeners? According to the gospel of John, Jesus has invited the curious along a path of new adventures (John 1:35-51), and taken on his mother’s ministry of hospitality at a wedding feast (John 2:1-11), and engaged one wondering in clarifying conversation (John 3:1-21), and shared himself with those considered unrighteous enemies (John 4:7-42). Jesus healed those who suffered long in body, mind, and spirit (John 5:1-18) and even found himself in trouble for breaking the rules now and again – especially those that had become restrictive of God and God’s beloved sons and daughters (John 5:9-47). He fed the hungry (John 6:1-14) and came alongside the frightened to calm any fears (John 6:16-21). Indeed his willingness to lay down his life on the cross for his friends was a blessed gift. But each day he lived in a way that brought Life; each day he laid down his own desires for the benefit of whoever crossed his path. He knew his purpose because he remained in God’s love. This is not to say that Jesus was a door mat. Instead, his will was so tightly woven with God’s will for Life here-and-now that he found joy in carrying out acts of love every morning when he set out.
This Easter season, might his disciples – ordained and lay – find a helpful lesson in remembering that the command to love is a yoke that is light? Might we learn anew from the ways Jesus lived and do likewise? As we – Jesus’ friends – seek to emulate our treasured companion, I hope we all will re-discover his hope for our complete and unbridled joy.
P.S. If joy is your theme this week, do not neglect Psalm 98. “Sing to the LORD a new song” (Ps. 98:1). Here all the earth joins in the celebration!
By: The Rev. Dr. Jule M. Nyhuis -- Jule is a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the PCUSA. She currently serves as a Minister to Children & Their Families. She is a graduate of Vanderbilt Divinity School and Columbia Theological Seminary.
A Celtic Spirit and Acts 10:44-48
2009-05-13 by Dee Dee Haines
St. John’s Methodist Chapel in the Isle of Man is located on a busy thoroughfare, a main road that leads from Douglas to Peel. Sitting in the sanctuary, you face that same road. It’s viewed through a large clear glass widow that is positioned above the altar table. Everything is seen through the intricate windings of a Celtic cross that has been lovingly etched into the centre. The only criticism I have for the worship space comes in the position of the pulpit. I can’t help thinking that if there was a clear glass window behind, or even beside every preacher, the word for the day might take to flight with a radically different spirit.
Much of the life of this rural community can be seen through that piece of glass. All the comings and goings of daily life are viewed straight through the centre of the Celtic cross: people coming to and from work or worship; hikers caught up in the breath taking scenery; children passing by on their way to school; farmers moving cattle and crops from field to farm; hearses passing from town to the cemetery; lovers walking hand in hand; mothers and fathers pushing babies in prams. The whole highway of life passes by that window and if we were to sit for an extended time, glimpsing those pieces of life through that community view, we might better understand our own journeys.
The text from Acts testifies to the bewilderment of the believers who are astounded that the gift of the Holy Spirit has been poured out even on the Gentiles. It is as if the Spirit awakens within those early Christians a realisation that the same hand who has been at work in their faith experiences, the powerful Creator whose breath calls forth resurrected life, is also present, working and creating in all creatures, all living things.
Scholars who study the medieval stained glass windows that still survive today believe the windows- that- tell- stories are a product of the artisans of the medieval period who were trying to communicate the biblical story to those who could not read. I thank Diana Butler Bass for reminding us that …”medieval people lived in a culture filled with stories told in pictures rather than only in texts.” (Diane Butler Bass, A People’s History of Christianity: The Other Side of the Story (New York: HarperCollins, 2009) p,89). Her observation invites us to consider our own world of pictures, and how we imagine our life together. Whilst I appreciate the beauty of stained glass windows, I also remember that they come with their own interpretation. It makes me wonder if we have moved very far from medieval interpretations of faith and spirituality, or if we still feel a pressure from institution and imperial theology that keeps us from contemplating a mysterious God that is always making self known anew. This God, who shows up with people who astound us, in places that bewilder us, who pours self out even upon Gentiles, might make us wonder about many things.
The chapel window of clear glass offers a magical opportunity because the life that passes by is framed in the natural surroundings that are also in continuous view. At this time of year the budding leaves, the flowering fruit trees and the colours of the changing landscape, coming back to life, remind us that the Spirit of God is dwelling in all this new creation. It is there for all of us who are hungry. A feast of tastes, smells and experiences is set before us, connecting us to the Life Breath that is found within it all. Even when sitting in the shelter of the chapel sanctuary, the practical movement of the world is in view and cannot be forgotten. Like the experience of Peter and the believers, the Spirit comes upon all who hear the word.
Interestingly, those first Christians were more interested in changed life in this world, than in the next. Peter, and the other disciples, would have attracted many who were looking for a new way of life now, not later in some other dimension. Perhaps Peter’s question about withholding the waters of baptism isn’t so much an issue of community commitment but instead a declaration that God was the Water, as Christ was the Word. Who are we to deny it?
Today I will take my bible outside. Rain or shine, I will read it aloud in the company of the birds, the bees, the ivy clad trees and the mist covered mountains that overlook the plains of heaven. I will hear it echo in the hollow, and disappear upon the wind. But I know it will come back to me to be heard again in every living thing that surrounds me. And I will be glad.
Just some thoughts about the Acts text,
Dee Dee Haines
Isle of Man
During Your Own Sermon!
2009-05-12 by David Howell
Our weekly blogger (not Brett Younger) seems to have gone astray for the moment. So, we thought you might enjoy this sermon.
Every week you tell yourself to start the sermon earlier, so on Monday morning you pour a cup of coffee and take out the file for the next Sunday.
What were you thinking when you decided to preach on the prodigal son again? What could there possibly be left to say?
The story has been worn so smooth in the telling and retelling that you’re tempted to start the sermon by asking, “How many think you know just about everything I’m about to say? Is there anyone left who hasn’t heard a preacher suggest that we should call this the parable of the waiting father? If I point out that feeding pigs would be particularly disgusting for a Jew will that be news?”
You once heard about a minister who preached the parable from the point of view of the fatted calf. Maybe you should try that.
Or you could preach about the poor cook trying to throw together a barbecue at the last minute.
You could talk about the prodigal’s mother. Or the grandmother? The little sister? The family’s pastor?
What about a sermon on the harlots in the far country? Does anybody ever think about their feelings?
Once you heard someone suggest a three point outline of madness, badness, and gladness. Or was it sadness? Wouldn’t sadness be in there? Or what about this outline—he wanted his ten, he fell into sin, and he came home again.
The story has become so tired in the preaching and repreaching that it makes you tired just thinking about it. It’s almost a relief when the phone rings.
Bessie calls each Monday. She’s an accomplished sermon critic. It’s like having Pauline Kael in the fifth row every Sunday. Bessie teaches the Rebecca/Ruth class and feels the need to tell you everything that happens there. You know she liked the previous pastor more than she likes you so you always pretend you’re listening.
On this occasion she has a new issue, “Pastor, do you know what your little Minister of Education said to me yesterday?”
“No, Bessie, I don’t.”
“He asked if I thought my class would be more comfortable meeting in the parlor.”
Scott’s a fine Minister of Education—and there are precious few of them—but he should have asked before running headlong into this particular fiery furnace.
The Rebecca/Ruth class is all that’s left of a senior adult department that was thriving only three short decades ago. They meet in the largest room in the church with a grand piano, a stained glass window of the Good Shepherd, and the only American flag you haven’t hidden.
When Charlotte’s bursitis isn’t acting up, there are five women meeting in a space that will seat 100. At the other end of the hall there’s a young adult class running 25 in a parlor that might hold 15 comfortably.
Bessie continues, “I’m not one to complain”—it’s good that she can’t see you roll your eyes, “but he needs to respect his elders. We’re the people who built this church. We worked hard. We earned our place and you can’t give it to people who just showed up. Do you think your precious thirty-year-olds tithe?”
You try to make it clear that you understand how much the Rebeccas and Ruths mean to the church. “Bessie, I know how hard you work. I appreciate everything your class has done. In fact, the Rebecca/Ruth class is probably my favorite class in all of the world.” You say this with your fingers crossed.
Bessie has just given up and said goodbye when the phone rings again.
This caller begins, “You’d don’t me. My family lives about a hundred miles from you. We raised our son right. His father and I dropped him off at church every Sunday. My son doesn’t work hard, but as long as he was under our roof I knew he was safe. But now he’s at college and he’s an English major. We thought he was going to get a nice business degree. He’s spending money like the government is going to bail him out. I think his fraternity may have a few drinkers. I need you to invite him to your church. I know he’s up on Sunday mornings, because when I call he’s always out. But you can’t tell him I asked you to call.”
You’re off the phone before you realize that you’ve agreed to call a college student and act like you pulled his name and number out of the campus directory at random.
His first question is going to be, “Did my mom tell you to call?”
You decide to answer, “Yes, of course she did. You know your mother.”
You don’t get back to the sermon for three days. Every Monday you make a list of things you need to get done, and every week you learn again that you’re not in charge of what you’ll get done. You have to respond to fifteen e-mails. You think of church before the internet as the good old days. The chair of the stewardship committee is worried about last month’s financial report and wants you to talk to the committee about it. You spend too much time preparing for Wednesday night. There’s a reason no one picks Judges for the Annual Bible Study. And then, horror of horrors, you get the shocking news that on Sunday morning—without you even noticing—an eleventh grade girl wore flip flops while taking up the offering. You could make money selling bumper stickers at preaching conferences that say, “Church happens.”
On Thursday you tell yourself, “I have to write my sermon and I have to write it right now. If the Holy Spirit shows up great, but I need a rough draft by the end of the day.”
When you went to seminary, some dear church people gave you a complete set of The Broadman Bible Commentary. At the time, you thought it was the most liberal thing ever written—now, not so much.
You read material you’ve read before: how the younger son would have been expected to keep at least some of the inheritance to support his father in his old age. You’re relatively certain your children aren’t saving to support you either.
When the son comes to his senses the word used is a medical term. Doctor Luke describes the response of a person who has awakened from a fainting spell. You wish you had rich doctors in your congregation so that a detail like that would jump out.
Then you find something. The Talmud describes the ceremony of the pessausa. A father disowned a son by taking a pot filled with burnt corn and nuts and breaking it in front of the house. It’s like the shun of the Pennsylvania Dutch. No one was ever to speak to the boy again. The pessausa was applied only to Jewish males who married immoral woman or lost money to Gentiles. The prodigal must have wondered if his father would disown him. Now that’s interesting, somewhat. You’re just not finding much that’s going to move them to the edge of their pews—unless you actually throw a pot of burnt corn.
When you took preaching at seminary—which is for many the high point of their lives—you thought that every week you’d be examining textual variants and parsing verbs, but it’s been a while since you opened your Greek New Testament.
You wonder if there’s anything on desperatepreacher.com. What would you get if you googled Fred Craddock plus Luke 15? What would happen if you suggested that the younger brother is like Sarah Palin’s future son-in-law Eli? Would it be wrong to describe the party as tailgating at a Georgia game?
Just before you give up for the day, you find something in The New Interpreter’s Bible. Your favorite New Testament scholar and my dean, Alan Culpepper, writes, “In the end we all return home as sinners, so Jesus’ parable invites us to trust that God’s goodness and mercy will be at least as great as that of a loving human father. The elder brother represents all of us who think we can make it on our own, all of us who might be proud of the kind of lives we live.”
That’s pretty good. Your church has lots of proud people. You’ve got some who think that “charter member” implies infallibility. You have wealthy folks who believe the money they give puts them in charge of who gets a party. You have deacons whose mothers must not have hugged them nearly enough.
And you understand the older brother. You feel underappreciated much of the time.
HHhhERIt’s time to write the central idea. Your first preaching textbook insisted that every sermon needs a focus of ten words. You’re going with, “This church is filled with elder brothers who need to repent.” It’s eleven words—close enough.
On Sunday morning, you tell the old, old story, yet again. Once upon a time there was a father who had two very different sons. The younger is completely unreliable, and the older thoroughly dependable.
One day the older brother overhears his irresponsible little brother ask their father for money so he can go out on his own. The older brother thinks: “Now, he’s gone too far. Dad’s going to hit the roof.”
But to his amazement, the father writes the biggest check any of them has ever seen. The younger son slaps a “Party Animal” bumper sticker on the back of his camel and rides off.
The older brother never says a word. With his baby brother gone, he has even more work to do—though not much more. He works in the field all day every day. Every muscle aches. Each night he works late and falls asleep exhausted only to get up early the next morning to do it all again.
Then one evening as he comes in from the field, sweat dripping down his face, he hears music. It’s the first music he’s heard since his brother left. He smells charcoal briquettes and asks a servant what’s going on: “Your brother’s returned and your father’s having a barbecue.”
Can you believe this? This young upstart ne’r-do-well ungratefully demands his inheritance, takes the money to Las Vegas, blows every cent on booze and bad women, and when he comes slithering home, his father throws a party.
It’s easy to understand the older brother’s reaction. We know this feeling. It’s when you find out that your friend who never goes to the office on Saturday is paid more than you are. Why is the world so unfair? Why can’t people get what they deserve? Why do some have everything handed to them on a silver platter? The unfairness of almost everything makes us keep track of the unfairness of almost everything.
The older brother confronts his father with what he knows to be the truth: “All these years I have worked like a slave. And I’ve never had a party.”
You’ve told this story so many times. You know it so well that your mind wanders and you look at your congregation. You really look at them. There are older brothers so far out in the field that they can’t hear the music. Scribes and Pharisees get lost in the rules. Bessie just wrote on her order of worship. You’re going to get a call in the morning.
A few prodigal sons, wandering in the far country, haven’t figured out it’s time to come home. Sometimes sinners waste their lives running from the rules. The college student with whom you had an awkward conversation isn’t there, but one of his fraternity brothers, who had the misfortune of going to college in the town where his parents live, is there on two cups of coffee and four Tylenols.
Then it hits you—something you hadn’t recognized before, something you wished you had thought of on Monday morning. Your congregation isn’t just elder brothers and a few prodigals. The room is filled, more than anything else, with waiting fathers and mothers.
Bob Parsons sits on the back row, because he has trouble walking. His son is an alcoholic. Bob’s never been good at tough love. He’s always waiting with open arms and a new pair of shoes, a ring, a robe.
If she had been there, Lee Ann Seely, who’s in the choir behind you, would have been praying every day for the prodigal, his father, his brother, for everyone and everything. She prays as though she is helping God carry the burdens
Fran Patterson, in the balcony with the youth, would have been constantly e-mailing the prodigal. She would send a care package during finals even though he dropped out.
Donella Ware, always on the third row, would have invited the prodigal’s mother for coffee. She would have listened carefully, like a real friend.
Claudine Marion, on the left near the front, loves planning parties. She would have had steaks waiting in the freezer and a recipe for charcoal-grilled T-bone fatted calf with broiled onions cowboy style taped to the fridge.
Dan Freemyer is on the right, halfway back. He would have gone to the pig sty to get the prodigal, taken him to Dan’s house, showed him to the shower, loaned him his best suit, and gone with him to talk with his father.
Why didn’t you see it before? God’s church is filled with people who love like God does. You are surrounded by saints who want to welcome you and anyone else who will come to the party of God’s grace.
These loving people are the way God is waiting to embrace you and Bessie and the freshman with the hangover. God loves us all—even ministers—through God’s family.
You’re coming to the end of the sermon. The older brother stands in the yard feeling sorry for himself. His father asks him again to come in and have some fun. Then the father walks toward the party he had hoped would bring his complaining child back to life. As he looks at his angry son, the father feels old. The music from the party drifts from the house and hangs in the air between them.
Then suddenly the father is no longer tired. The joy of his heart overflows into his feet. He begins to dance, hoping the music that he can’t resist will bring his child, his true inheritance, his delight, back to him.
Standing in the pulpit, during your own sermon, right there in church, you hear God calling you to come home, inviting you to see that there’s a party going on and join in the dance.
Do You Read This Blog?
2009-05-07 by David Howell
If so, email us at firstname.lastname@example.org
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