In This Place -- Service of Dedication for Our New Church Home

January 21, 2018

Genesis 28:16-22

When Jacob anointed that stone with oil, it was not the beginning of his story. He did not do that at the beginning of his journey with God. He had yet to meet Rachel and spend seven years working for her father Laban. Jacob had yet to be tricked by Laban or to trick Laban in kind. He had yet to reunite with his brother, Esau, and make amends. There was still so much of Jacob’s story, and the story of his family yet to be written. There was still so much of his journey yet to unfold.

No, this moment happened somewhere in the middle. It’s not at the beginning, and it was certainly not at the end. Jacob created a pillar from the stone he rested his head on, he anointed it with oil after his dream about a ladder. It was a ladder that reached from earth to heaven, and Jacob watched as angels ascended and descended. As Jacob watched, the Lord stood beside him, and made him a promise. God made a covenant with Jacob, just as God had made a covenant with Abraham.

God promised to give Jacob and his offspring the land where he stood. God promised that Jacob’s offspring would be like the “dust of the earth,” spreading and swirling to the east and west, and to the north and south. Just as God promised Abraham, so too God promised Jacob – through him and his offspring all the families of the earth would be blessed.

Then God made one more promise,

“Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

That was the moment when Jacob awoke. That was the moment, somewhere in the middle of his journey, that he saw through his dream that he was resting in a thin place; a place where for just a moment the veil between the divine and the mortal had been pushed aside. It was a thin place. It was a place where God was.

“Surely the Lord is in this place – and I did not know it!”

            Jacob knew that God was in that place, and he marked that spot by anointing the rock he had used as a pillow. He marked that sacred space, somewhere in the middle of his journey.

            Thank you all, congregation members and our guests alike, for being here today as we too mark this moment in time, as we dedicate this sacred space. It occurred to me that as a congregation, we are also in the middle of our journey. United Presbyterian, a unique merger of Central Presbyterian and First Presbyterian, has been in existence for two decades. Both congregations worshipped and served the community of Shawnee for many decades before that.

            Certainly, United Presbyterian Church is not at the beginning of its ministry. And with so many small churches closing their doors, we give thanks that we are not at the end either. Like Jacob, we are somewhere in the middle. We have a rich history, and we hope and pray for an abundant future. Like Jacob, we don’t know all that lies ahead. We don’t know what obstacles we may face or how we may be called to minister. But like Jacob, we know that this is a moment to be marked. This is a moment to be lifted up. We are called to be in this moment now. We are called to be in this place. Over the last few years our congregation has learned that it is not the building that makes the church. We have learned to see not only with our eyes, but to see also with our hearts, that the walls of a place do not make it sacred; it is the spirit of the people within.

            We are not a new church, but we believe that God is working on us and working in us, working through us, making of us a new creation, and we give thanks that we are still called to serve from this place.

How grateful we are for all of    you. How thankful we are for every person in this place. Take a moment and look around you. Look at the people who are gathered here. Look at each face and give thanks for their presence, their love, their encouragement.

Close your eyes and feel the power of the Spirit moving and working in our midst, making of all of us a new creation, and give thanks.

Let yourself be enveloped in the joy of this moment; for it is a joyful moment. Feel its vibrancy surround and enfold you and give thanks.

Give thanks and rejoice. Rejoice with us. Rejoice at the power of God to do wonderful things. Rejoice that God can make all things new. Rejoice that God is always with us, no matter what may come. Rejoice and lift up your voice in praise and your hearts in awe.

For surely the Lord is in this place!

Surely the Lord is in this place!

Surely the Lord is in this place! Alleluia! Amen.

Following

Mark 1:14-20

January 21, 2018

            “When I bought my stereo, I went home with an instruction manual that must have been 50 pages long. I could get help with that stereo in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese. That was for my stereo. But when my son was born, the doctor handed him to me and said, ‘Here you go.’”

            That was how actor Will Smith described what it felt like becoming a parent. For a stereo – or any other kind of technology – you get a how-to manual. For becoming a parent, you get handed the child, whether it’s the baby you’ve just had or a child you’ve adopted, and you’re told, “Here you go.”

            It’s not that there aren’t baby and children instruction manuals out there. Spock wasn’t just a name on Star Trek. When I was expecting Phoebe, the baby book that all soon-to-be parents were reading was “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” I had a copy, and I didn’t just read it, I devoured it. I read through each month of each trimester and compared notes with what I was experiencing. Which sounds helpful, but when you combine this kind of my knowledge with my tendency to worry and my vivid imagination, it can become problematic.

“Was that twinge I just felt normal?”

“Is the baby developing okay?”

“That illness that can cause everything from fetal distress to premature birth, I think I have it!”

But as helpful as “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” was, it still did not prepare me for what it meant to be a parent. I saw that interview with Will Smith before I became a parent, and I thought he was hilarious. After I became a parent, I thought he was brilliant.

“Here you go.”

There is an immediacy to becoming a parent. You go from not being one to being one in a second, and in that second everything changes. I know that there are other examples of this kind of immediacy as well; professions and vocations where no matter how intense and thorough the training is, there is still that moment when you either have to sink or swim. There is immediacy, whether it is that moment when you become a parent or jump into the actual doing of a profession or something else. There is a moment of immediacy.

That’s what the calling of the first disciples in Mark’s gospel feels like to me – a moment of immediacy. Whenever we are in a year where we focus on Mark’s gospel, I point out that Mark uses the word “immediately” repeatedly in his narrative. The Greek word, eutheos, which is translated alternately as immediately or straight away is used approximately 40 times. Mark’s use of eutheos creates this sense of urgency. And for Mark, there is definitely good reason for urgency. Jesus has come. Jesus has come, and ushered in the kingdom of God. Upon his arrival, Jesus was not just standing idly by either. Jesus was on the move. Jesus had a ministry to begin, good news to preach, people to heal. The time is now, people. There is no time for hanging out, shooting the breeze and just chillin’. Jesus is on the move, and so should we be!

This certainly comes through in Mark’s telling of Jesus’ call to the disciples. He was passing along by the Sea of Galilee, when he saw two brothers: Simon and Andrew. They were casting their nets into the sea because they were fishermen. Jesus did not introduce himself. He did not offer any explanation, he just said,

“Follow me and I will make you fish for people.”

Something about Jesus, something about his call, resonated with them, and they immediately left their nets and followed him. Now there were three.

They went a little farther, and Jesus saw two more brothers, James and John, sons of Zebedee. They were in their boat mending nets. Immediately Jesus called them, and they left their father, Zebedee, in the boat and followed Jesus.

For both sets of brothers, it was a moment of immediacy. One minute they were fishermen, doing their daily tasks; the next they were disciples. There was no pause, no hesitation, no time of discernment or decision. They left their boats, they left their livelihoods, they left their father and their families, and they followed Jesus.

Here you go! Immediately.

The stories of Jesus calling the first disciples always get to me. I love them. I find them inspiring. Can you believe how the disciples just dropped everything and followed Jesus? They were so willing to give up their lives leading up to that moment, and setting out after a man they barely knew and into a future that was surely unknown. I know that the disciples will mess up a lot, especially in Mark’s gospel. They could not grasp who Jesus truly was and what that really meant. They could not understand the idea of the Son of God suffering. They lacked courage. They lacked a lot of things. But still! Look how they followed!

I love this story, but I also find it intimidating. Can you believe how the disciples just dropped everything followed Jesus? They just dropped everything?! They left their lives, their families, and their security and followed him.

Whatever the disciples may have lacked when it came to actually following, compared to them, I feel even more lacking. I followed a call, but I also have insurance, a pension. Did I just drop everything when I responded to the call to follow? Not completely. Would I have just dropped everything to follow? I hope so, but I’m not so sure.

Aside from the dropping everything part, what about preparation for following? When it comes to Ministers of the Word and Sacrament, Presbyterians, like other denominations, value educated women and men. I went to seminary for four years – three years of coursework and a year internship. I couldn’t get ordained until I passed five intensive ordination exams. And I could not get permission to seek my first call to a church until I had been examined by a committee and preached on the floor of presbytery.

Although you good folks who serve on session as elders don’t have to do all that – yet (just kidding!) – you do have to trained. We have officer training on a yearly basis, for both current and new elders. And even if you never serve on session, as a denomination we still value education in our congregations. I’m not talking about formal education per se, but church education, biblical education and so on.

There is a lot of preparation involved with following Jesus. The more I think about it, the more I feel intimidated by this passage. I answered a call, but I also had intense preparation for following.

But here’s the thing, maybe I didn’t drop everything to follow Jesus. Maybe you didn’t either, but we are following. It seems to me we see answering a call to follow as a one-time event. Jesus calls, we respond. But following is everyday. Our response to Jesus’ call to “follow me,” is an answer we give everyday. It is a choice we make everyday. Jesus calls everyday, and no matter how much preparation we may have, we can never be fully prepared for how that call will take shape and where that call will take us.

Jesus calls everyday. Remember that when Jesus called the disciples, he didn’t say it was because they had specific talents or skills. There’s no indication that he called the disciples based on their age, or even their gender. Think about the unnamed women that we don’t read about in the story. Jesus used their occupation as a metaphor for what they would be doing, but I suspect that if they had been baking, he might have found another metaphor specific to that as well.

Jesus called them to follow. And they did, imperfectly and with all their flaws on display. Jesus calls us the same way. Just follow me. And we do. We are. We are following. We are doing it imperfectly with all of our flaws on display, but we are doing it. We are following. We are following. I suspect that we have all had a moment of immediacy when we have answered the call of Jesus to ‘follow me.” And it also seems to me that those moments will just keep coming. Because everyday we are called and everyday we are following.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Only Love Can Do That

            I am sitting at my desk this morning, surrounded by work that absolutely must get done, and I am crying; just crying. They are tears of sadness, exhaustion, stress, frustration, outrage: the list of emotions could go on and on. While there are several factors contributing to this emotional abyss I find myself in, events of the last few days have ultimately put me here.

            First and foremost, I am responding to what everyone else is responding to: the racist remarks of the president about the countries of Haiti, Africa and El Salvador. Don’t expect me to put asterisks in the place of the expletive he used. If he can say it, so can I. The president referred to the people who come here from these “shithole” countries. As one person wrote on a post on social media, it isn’t the expletive that is the most upsetting. Quite frankly other presidents have used language far worse. It is the blatant, raw, unfiltered racism that motivated his remarks. Please do not try and excuse what he said as anything else; I no longer have the stomach for excuses. I no longer have the patience for denials of the racism, sexism and meanness of mind and heart that have been obvious all along.

            However, this still does not fully explain my tears. I am angry, true, but it is more than that. In this season of Epiphany, I had an epiphany as I struggled to understand my response. I am crying because I am grieving. I am grieving. Not only am I mourning the brokenness of our world and of the people who dwell in it – including my own – I am mourning that even as the president made these despicable remarks, a hospital patient in Baltimore, who was also homeless, was taken out of the hospital in a wheelchair by security guards, then left on the sidewalk. She was dressed only in a hospital gown and it is freezing cold in Baltimore. This was done at night, as though somehow that would provide cover for this inexcusable inhumanity. This woman was not so much discharged as she was disposed of. Is this where we are? Really? Is this what we have come to? Tell me, what actually qualifies as a shithole? This kind of action, which is not as unusual as I would like to believe, seems to fit the criteria of a country that has gone down a moral sewer.

            So I guess I am grieving over incidents like the one I described. I guess I am mourning the president and his hate. I suppose I am in grief for the people who support him, and continue to rally around his narcissistic and abhorrent filth; especially those who claim the same faith that I do. But I am also mourning for him and them. I am mourning for what must be their narrow, ignorant, one-dimensional lives.

I realize that we all have the capacity for racism, bigotry and hatred within us. I know that it lies in wait within me, within my own heart and mind. But I fight it fiercely. Not because I am so morally superior, but because I know the fullness and lush beauty and joy my life has been blessed with through my encounters, my friendships and my experiences with so many diverse, wonderful, beautiful people. I have been pushed and stretched and re-created by every person I have met who does not look like me, who does not think like I do, who does not see the world through my particular lens. Yes, that even includes the people who embody racism and bigotry. I cannot claim that my experiences with them have added beauty to my life, but they have stretched and pushed me. Stretching and pushing may be painful, but it is necessary.

So I am grieving, for them, for our country, for this beautiful and broken world. However, truth-be-told, I am also crying out of my own sense of helplessness and despair. I am crying at my lack of courage when it comes to speaking up and out. I guess I am feeling sorry for myself, which does not help anyone. I am disgusted by the president and his cronies, but I also feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for those who agree with and further his bigotry. But ignorance is not an excuse, and they don’t get a free pass. A dear friend shared this quote,

“It will never be enough to not be racist in your heart. YOU have to be anti-racist in every word, thought and deed.”

It seems to me that mourning is not enough. Mourning has to lead to action. Grief must give way to a fiery, unrelenting thirst for justice and for righteousness. To love as I believe my faith calls me to love is not just a warm, fuzzy, let’s buy the world a Coke emotion. It is living out the belief that every creature has value and worth, not for what they do, what they look like or where they come from, but just because they are. For the sake of this of love, I will constantly root out the racism that lives in me, and I will call it out in others. Sometimes I’m gonna cry, but then I’m going to get back up and love again. In the words of Dr. King,

“Darkness can’t drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate can’t drive out hate; only love can do that.”

Only love can do that.

Beloved By God -- Baptism of the Lord

Mark 1:4-11

January 7, 2018

            You never want to hear the phone ring at 3:00 am. When it did, I went from the deepest sleep to awake in three seconds. I stumbled to the phone in the upstairs hall, and tried to make sense of the voice on the other end. It was a woman from the hospital in town asking for me. When I responded that I was the one speaking, she said to hold and she would put the doctor on the line. My parents lived in the same town where we were living, and I immediately assumed that something had happened to one of them. When the doctor came on the line, he kept pausing. I didn’t say it, but I was thinking,

            “Just tell me which of my parents is sick or dying. Just say it already, so I can get some clothes on and get down there.”

            Instead he told me that a young couple in my congregation had just gone through an emergency C-section. She had gone into labor way too soon; at around 26 weeks if I remember correctly. The baby would not live, the doctor told me. I said I would be right there.

            I was stunned, and my shock came from more than just being half awake. I had just been with this couple at a church potluck the night before. We had talked baby names, and discussed how the mother was feeling. She had a definitive baby bump, and she let me put my hands on her belly and exclaim with joy at the wonder that was taking place inside her.

            When I got to the hospital, the baby – a little girl – was already gone. The father’s parents were there. The mother was awake, but groggy from the anesthesia and the shock of everything that had happened. Although her husband’s family was Catholic, I had officiated at their wedding. I had a relationship with them, and when I asked if he wanted me to baptize the baby, he said, “yes.”

            Any pastor will tell you that the hardest moments in our vocation often come small. What I mean is that some of the saddest, most challenging times I’ve had as a pastor have been when I’ve officiated over a doll-size casket; when I held a tiny, still body. Although a nurse brought me some water to use for the baptism, I really didn’t need any. The baby was awash in my abundance of tears. Let me emphatically state that not for one moment did I believe that this little baby required baptism in order to be with God. The holy was all around her. But if baptizing her gave her parents and grandparents comfort; if it gave them some sense of relief in that time of excruciating grief, then so be it. Baptizing her was about grace, not doctrine.

            Technically, though, I broke the rules. According to my presbytery’s Stated Clerk, I broke the rules because we do not baptize what is dead. But she assured me that to break the rules for grace was perfectly appropriate and far more Christ-like than not. When it came to the baby’s funeral, the Catholic grandparents wanted it to be done by a priest. That was fine. He let me assist in the service. But here is another rule that I broke. He was told that I baptized her. But when he asked me if I baptized her before she died, I lied. Without a moment’s hesitation, I said yes, I baptized her before she died. I lied because I knew that to tell him the truth would make for more challenges and problems. The family had been through enough. They didn’t need to go through anymore pain than they had already experienced.

            I’m not retelling this story to make you sad, or to laud any action on my part. Nor am I suggesting that we throw out our denomination’s rules on baptism. I agree with them. We believe that someone should be baptized into a congregation, a community – that’s why the congregation makes promises to the person being baptized – an infant and his or her parents or to an older believer. So we expect someone who is baptized to have an active connection to the church.

We do not believe in re-baptizing. Baptism is not magic. It doesn’t need multiple opportunities to take effect. So if someone has been baptized in another denomination, we accept that baptism. I was baptized as a nine-year-old in the Southern Baptist denomination, and my baptism has never been questioned by the Presbyterians. I didn’t need to do it again to get it right. We reaffirm our baptisms and the promises that were made either for us or by us; which is what we will do in just a few moments. But we do not re-baptize.

            Again, I don’t have a problem with the rules per se. But I wonder if sometimes the rules get in our way. Maybe it’s not the rules that are the problem. Maybe it’s that we forget how powerful baptism is. Baptizing a little one is my favorite sacrament. I don’t get to do it nearly enough. There is nothing more precious than holding a baby or a child in my arms and baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I love that moment when I walk the baby among you and introduce the newest member of God’s church. I love to remind all of us, that in the midst of such sweetness, we have taken solemn vows to pray for and care for and help nurture that child or that believer in faith.

            Baptism is a sweet and precious moment. But it is a powerful moment. It is something that should not, can not be domesticated or tamed. Mark’s gospel makes this abundantly clear. When Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan,

            “He saw the heavens torn apart.”

            The verb used to describe the heavens being torn apart at Jesus’ baptism is the same one used to describe the curtain of the temple being torn apart at the time of Jesus’ death. This is not a neat opening created by scissors. This is a ripping open of a hole between heaven and earth. One commentator described it as God’s hands tearing open the boundary between the two realms. God ripped open the heavens, and through that fissure came the Holy Spirit as a dove, filling Jesus, empowering Jesus.

            In Mark’s telling of the baptism, Jesus was the only one who heard the voice of God,

            “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

            Although the others around Jesus were not privy to God’s declaration, they witnessed the power of God through Jesus. They witnessed his exorcising of demons and his healings. They heard his teaching and his preaching. They saw what he did. They saw how he loved. They saw who he loved. For Mark the baptism of Jesus was not just a prelude to the rest of his ministry, it was the foundational event of his ministry. It was not tame. It was powerful. While John may have been the instrument, it was God who did the baptizing. It was God who did the baptizing.

            It is God who baptizes. It is God who enacts this powerful sacrament. It is God who baptizes, and there is nothing tame about it. Our rules, important as they are, cannot limit what God does and what God will do. It is God who baptizes, and because of God we are members of God’s family. Because of God, we are chosen, we are called. Because of God, we are beloved. We are beloved by God.

            Let all of God’s beloved children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Standing On the Promises: A Homily for the New Year

December 31, 2017-12

Genesis 12:1-3, John 1:1-5, 14, John 10:7-10

            Last summer as my sister, Jill, was preparing to come to the states for two months, she was telling her newly turned four-year-old twin grandsons, my great nephews, about America. They were fascinated by America – especially Bobby. Without thinking, Jill made an offhand promise that they could come to America when they turned five. My nephew, their father, said, “Mom,” in that parental tone of voice that implied “what in the world are you promising them?”

            If they have the long memory that their father did, they will remember this promise. When he was a little boy, he wanted to marry a little girl he was friends with. My sister offhandedly promised him that he could marry her on his sixth birthday. Guess what? When he woke up on his sixth birthday, he announced that he would be getting married that day. Oh the sadness that ensued when he found out he would not be getting hitched after all.

The twins turn five in May. When I talk with my sister, I like to ask her if she’s saving money for their trip to America; because they’re going to expect it. Perhaps we should start a Go Fund Me account to make it happen. But if we’re going to do that, then I think we should make it one where we fund me going to Greece to pick them up, escort them from Greece to America and back to Greece again. That’s neither here nor there. My point is that you have to be careful when you make promises – to children and to anyone. Because you want to keep the promises you make.

Certainly, we have all been guilty of breaking promises. I know I have broken them – small ones and not so small ones. But I would say that for most of us when we make a promise, our intention is to keep them.

We also say that about resolutions at this time of year. As the calendar rolls over from the old year to the new, we make resolutions of all sorts. Resolutions are really just promises we make to ourselves. Sometimes we keep them, sometimes we don’t. They are really easy to make, these resolutions, but much harder to keep. Since we are at the time of year when resolutions and promises are at the forefront of our mind, it seemed an opportune moment to think not about the promises that we make but about the promises that are made to us.

I said it in my newsletter article, and I will say it again, 2017 was a challenging and difficult year. I know that this is not the only December 31^st when this statement has been true. Every year holds its sadness, its hardship and its strife. But there is something about the New Year that makes us hopeful. Maybe this year will be different. Maybe this year I will finally keep my resolutions. Maybe this year I will keep all the promises I made to myself and others, fulfill all the goals I set for myself. And perhaps this year, the promises kept will go farther than just individual resolutions. Maybe this year we will finally learn how to get along with one another, how to care for one another. Perhaps this year there will finally be peace on earth and goodwill to all.

I hope so. I suspect you do too. But while there are no guarantees that you or I will keep our resolutions, that we will keep every promise we make, what we can count on is that God keeps God’s promises. We stand firmly on God’s promises. God’s promises are many. God’s promises are steadfast. God keeps God’s promises. So as 2017 ends and 2018 begins, let’s take a minute to think about three of the promises that God makes and keeps and is keeping.

God is a God of the covenant. Although modern dictionaries define covenant as a synonym for contract, I think a covenant is a different, deeper bond than a contract. A contract implies the possibility of breach. Certainly a covenant can be broken, but there is a relationship inherent to a covenant, a sense of call of and being chosen. God chose Abram. God called him. God promised that through him, not only would Abram and his family be blessed, but every family in the world would be blessed. God was always concerned about the world, but with Abram God was working through specific people to see God’s purposes fulfilled.

God promised and promises blessing. How are we blessed? What does it mean to be blessed? Is being blessed just good things coming our way, or is it the awareness that God surrounds us with love, and with people we embody that love? How are we blessed? How are you blessed?

God promised and promises to be with us. What better illustration of this promise than in the Word becoming flesh and dwelling in our midst? The Incarnation of the divine into the mortal is the most profound example of God living out, literally, God’s promise to be with us. God became us, fully us, through his Son, so we could learn what it means to human and to see God a little more clearly. God promises to be with us. We know that does not mean that we are granted some divine protection. We know that does not prohibit bad things from happening to us. We are still hurt. The people we love are still hurt. We are still mortal. We still die. But in this world of uncertainty, knowing, trusting, believing that God is with us, gives us a well of courage from which we can draw. It inspires us to keep going, to keep striving, to love our enemies, to challenge the powers and principalities. How does God keep God’s promise to be with you? How has God shown you God’s presence?

God promised and God promises to give us abundant life. In the context of this second passage from John’s gospel, we might interpret abundant life as being synonymous with eternal life, but I think abundant life is not limited to that. Not that eternal life is a limiting idea. In the verses before the ones we read in chapter 10 of John’s gospel, Jesus refers to himself as the Good Shepherd. The sheep, his sheep, know his voice. He is the Good Shepherd and the Gate for the sheep. Those who recognize him as such will have life and that life will be abundant.

Is this eternal life only, reserved for that other realm? Is it a perfect life, also on hold for the life to come? Or is it a life that is lived right now, a life that is rich and full with the grace and love of God? I think when we recognize the voice of our Good Shepherd, when we see that he is our Gate to abundant life, we begin to enjoy abundant life right now. Abundant life is not a life that is perfect. I imagine that abundant life must have been what the Garden of Eden was like before Adam and Eve and the Snake started talking. It was lush and green and full of trees laden with fruit. There were probably bugs too. But even those bugs served a purpose. It seems to me that abundant life is a life that is overflowing with goodness. The goodness to which I refer does not equate to material things or riches. It is goodness of people, of work, of purpose, of a deeper joy. It is a life that is abundant in grace, in service to others, in blessings, in the knowledge that God is with us. It is a life abundant in trust that God keeps God’s promises.

How is your life abundant?

How has God kept God’s promises in your life this past year? Be assured that God has, and be assured that God will. We stand in the steadfast promises of God. We walk into this New Year trusting in God and giving thanks that God keeps God’s promises.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.