Journey to the Far Country...and Back

Preaching about the Prodigal Son doesn't work.  I've tried.  This is about the 5th or 6th time in my ministerial career that I have taken up this story and, on any human scale, this parable that Jesus tells in the gospel of Luke (and only in the gospel of Luke) does not work.

I mean, weren't you convicted by Bishop Cho's sermon last week?  Those of you who were here for either the morning or the evening service heard our new resident bishop challenge us to change our behavior.  He talked about hard things.  He talked about tithing.  He talked about living our lives in the world as people who really believe that Jesus is Lord.  He talked about giving an hour a day to prayer and Bible reading.  He really believes that our behavior makes a difference.  He really believes that there will be no vital congregations until there is a vital spirituality moving through our churches and through us.  I told him last week after his sermon, "You have such a gracious presence but you say really hard things."  It's what I most appreciate about him.

So now we come to this story that most people call the parable of the Prodigal Son but which, if we're being honest with ourselves, most of us would call the parable of Bad Parenting.  I mean, can you imagine:

T: Hello, and welcome to today's class on Biblical Parenting.  I'm glad to see so many people here.  And some of you brought your children with you today.  That's wonderful.  There's plenty of sticky food and noisy toys in the back so feel free to let your kids run wild while we're talking today.

K: (from back) Hey, they've got a saxophone back here!

K2: (from back) And fingerpaints!

T: Today I want to look at a story from Jesus about a man who had two sons.  Now back in the day, when the father died in a situation like this, the oldest son would get the majority of the property and wealth and the younger son would get a smaller share.  So one day, the younger son comes and says to the father, "I can't wait til you die.  I want my share of the inheritance now."  Let's playact this a little bit.  What are some responses that the father might have?

1: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha....you want...ha, ha....you want what?  Ha, ha, ha...that's a good one, son.

T: Alright, anybody else?

2: You know, Old Yehuda wants to be chief priest, too, but it's not happening.  You just get back to work.

T: Um, hm.  One more?

3: I'm sorry, son.  I thought you said you wanted your share of the inheritance, but I know I didn't hear that, did I?

T: O.K.  Interesting.  Well, here's what the father actually says: "O.K."  And he divides up the estate.

2: Wait.  What?

T: He divided up the estate.

2: What kind of parenting is that?

3: He gives the kid the money?  He's just going to blow it on extravagant living.

T: Interesting you should say that.  Because the boy goes to a far country and blows it all on extravagant living.

3: Told you.

1: Show off.

T: O.K., so the son is broke.  He's hungry.  He ends up slopping pigs and what the pigs eat starts to look good to him.

3: A good Jewish boy slopping hogs?  That's wrong.

T:  Then he comes to his senses.  He remembers that even his father's servants at least have food to eat.  So he decides to go home.

1: Well, I hope he's ready to do some groveling.

T: He is.  He gets a whole speech together in his head.  He's going to confess to his dad that he had sinned against heaven and against him.  He going to say, "I don't deserve to be called your son."  He's going to beg to get hired on as a servant.

1: Sounds about right.

T:  But when he's on the way home and while he's still way off in the distance, the father sees him and has compassion on him.  He hikes up his robe and the old man runs out to meet his son.  He hugs him and kisses him.

2: Wait.  What?

T: The boy tries to get his speech out.  He confesses that he has sinned.  He says, "I don't deserve to be called your son."  But before he can get it all out, the father stops him and orders up a party.

2: Wait.  What?

1:  A party?  For the younger son?  The one that blew all that money?

3:  That's just wrong.

T: So what kind of lessons for parenting can we see here?

[crickets]

You can't see any lessons for parenting?

1: A party?  Really?

3: That's just wrong.

2: How's this boy going to learn anything if he goes off and blows his dad's money and then gets a party when he comes back?

T:  Well, from the father's perspective, it's all about celebrating that the boy has come home.  The boy was dead...

2: Wait.  What?

T: Well, I don't mean literally dead.  It was like he was dead and now he's alive.  He was lost but now he's found.  So they have a party.

3: [after a pause]  That's just wrong.

1: So how does the older brother feel about all this?

T:  He's not happy.  He comes in from the fields and hears this party going on.

2:  Wait.  What?  They didn't invite him to the party?

T:  Well, they do when he gets back.  But the older brother won't go in.  He's too mad.  The dad comes out to see him, just like he did with the other brother.  He begs the older brother to come in.  But he refuses.  Says, "Look, I've been here working all this time and I never even got a goat for a party."

2: Wait.  What?  He wants a goat for his party?

T: Well, the younger son got a fatted calf.

2: What kind of party is this?

T: A good one.  At least back in the day it was.  Anyway, the son is furious.  He can't understand why the father would throw a party for the son that didn't play by the rules and went off and blew his money on who knows what all.

1: Well, now he sounds like a sensible guy.  The first sensible guy in this whole story.

2: What would you even do with a goat at a party?  Hitch it to a cart and give rides?

3: No, you eat it.

2:  Now that's just wrong.

T: But the father doesn't think it's wrong to have a party.  He knows the older son is close to him.  He is just grateful to have the younger son back.  Because he was dead...not literally...and now he's alive.  He was lost and now he's found.

3: That is the craziest story I have ever heard.

1: [to back] Come on kids, we're leaving.

K: But I just found the sandbox!

People would leave a session on parenting if we took the father in this story as the model.  It doesn't fit any kind of parenting we know about.  But what if this is not a story about human parenting so much as it is a story about God's love and the way THAT love works?

This week I rediscovered Rembrandt's painting of the Prodigal Son.  It was one of his last major works and it is among his best.  In the painting we see the three major figures in this story, the father and the two sons, all in relationship to one another.  The older brother gets our attention because he's looking down on his brother's homecoming with a great deal of judgment.  Who knows what he sees?  Perhaps he sees that the son has come back with a shaved head like a penitent and we wonder, with the older brother, how much the younger son has changed.  It's easy to be remorseful when you've lost everything.

The older brother probably notices, too, that the younger son is still wearing the fine clothes that he left home with, even if they are kind of tattered now.  He probably sees that the younger son still carries a small sword on his belt, a vestige of his old life and who he once was.  We are suspicious of how genuine this repentance is.

But look at the father.  The father is entirely unconcerned with what's going on around him.  He has no look of judgment on his face.  There is no trace of disgust or anger.  He is embracing this child.  He is accepting this child.  He was dead.  Not literally dead.  But dead enough.  And now he is alive.  How can he not celebrate?

The interesting thing is that the scene that Rembrandt depicts never happens in the story itself.  The three characters are never together in the parable.  The message is carried in two major confrontations - one between the younger son and the father, and the other between the older son and the father.  In both cases the father has come out of the house to meet the son.  In both cases he expresses his love for the son.

We can see that love in the one-on-one exchanges.  It's only when we put the brothers side-by-side that we start to get nervous about this story.  That's when we start to worry about whether this story is fair.

But God's love is incredibly personal.  It comes to each of us in our need.  Gerard Manley Hopkins, the priest and poet, said once "Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being."*  When it comes to our particular need before God, we can't look to someone else.  We taste self but at one tankard.  I know the pains and failures that have come to my particular life.  I know what the far country looks like in my particular life.  I know the terrain very, very well.  And what it means for God to meet me on the way back from that particular country is not what it means for you.  I may be the younger brother or I may be the older brother, but I can still be dead.  Not literally dead.  But dead enough.  And need to be made alive again.

For that to happen I need a God who loves me like this crazy father and not like this older brother.  I need a God who knows that my repentance could never be enough to change my life entire.  I need a God who knows that even when I think I'm being sincere, I have an incredible capacity for fooling myself.  There are places where I still hold on to the sword and still wear the pretentious clothes even though I have no right to them.  There is still a bit of pride in me.  There can never be enough humility.  What I am is unforgivable and yet that is exactly what God gives to me despite myself - forgiveness.  The older brother will always peer at me with judgement, but God will always look at me with love.

This God who sees me while I am still far off.  Who abandons all his dignity to run and meet me on the road.  This God who has been to the far country himself and who knows exactly what he is doing when he welcomes me back and throws a party...this God sees through the judgement because he has taken it on himself.

Have you been heartbroken by love, too?  Has love ever failed you?  Did your parent's love fail you?  Your spouse's love?  Your friend's love?  Every human love has its failures.  Because every human love is tied up in our anxieties about whether we are worthy of the love we receive.  We never know quite how the other person sees us.  Never quite sure what's being asked of us when we receive love.

But there is no anxiety in God's love.  God knows our every weakness and loves us anyway.  God knows our deepest secrets and loves us anyway.  God knows our shame and loves us anyway.  God knows our sins and loves us anyway.  God knows our pride and our sloth and our pretense and our worry and our wayward ways.  God knows that tankard from which we drink.  And loves us anyway - not because God needs to love us, but because God wants to.

And all the other stuff - the new behavior, the prayer, the scripture reading, the missions, the tithing, the church community -- it's all there because God loves us and wants us to love God, too.  And so we give.  And so we are ambassadors for God.  And so we live as agents of God's reconciling love - not because we have to be acceptable to God - but because God met us on the road and called us in.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

*Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), British poet, Jesuit priest. Comments on the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola. Poems and Prose of Gerard Manley Hopkins, ed. W.H. Gardner (1953).

We Join Their Unending Hymn

It's springtime. I know the calendar says that it's only February. And I know the temperature is still a little chilly. We may even have another snowstorm before it's all said and done. But it's springtime. Do you know how I know?

Somewhere in Arizona this afternoon, a group of men will go out on a green field. They'll cross some chalked lines that mark the edges of the playing area. They'll put a leather glove on one hand and pound their fists in it. They'll toss a ball from one pillowed base to another and then give it to a man on a raised pile of dirt. They'll put their hands on their knees and crouch down to give their full attention to what's going to happen at the point where the chalked lines intersect. The pitcher will throw the ball. A man with a bat will try to hit it. And the spring training season will officially begin for the Texas Rangers.

It's going to be an interesting year for the Rangers. They made it to the World Series last year. The best year they've ever had. But one of the pitchers that helped them get there, Cliff Lee, has gone to play for Philadelphia. They picked up Brandon Webb to replace him in the rotation but he hasn't pitched for two years basically because of injuries and nobody knows if he still has his stuff. He's going to pitch off the mound for the first time this afternoon. Mike Young, who has played for the Rangers longer than anybody else - the all-time hits leader for the club - is unhappy because he is being relegated to the role of designated hitter and backup infielder. He's showing some age but he's still the leader in the clubhouse.

Lots of question marks for the Rangers. But for every club there are questions. On the first day of spring training it's all about possibilities. The story of this season is all yet to be written. All the frustrations and disappointments of last year are gone. There is something eternally new about walking out onto that field.

Just like it was for Tyler Webb last weekend when he began the season for South Carolina and won his first game. Just like it will be for all those little league teams over at Randy Custis Park.

I know you've got a former pastor here, Brooke Willson, who used to think that all of life's questions could be answered by reference to the movie Field of Dreams, but it is a good movie and it captures something essential about baseball's appeal. It shows how baseball can connect us to the past and how giving attention to it can touch something deep in our souls. In the movie, an Iowa farmer hears a voice that leads him to convert a section of his cornfield into a baseball diamond. The field he creates becomes a place where people with unresolved issues, both living and dead, can come together and work them out through baseball.

In one scene the farmer's dad, who had died, comes back as one of those ballplayers who had never really had a chance to play out his dreams. He comes and meets Ray, his son, the farmer. Doesn't recognize him because he comes back as a young man. He looks at Ray and the field and says, "Is this heaven?"

"It's Iowa," Ray responds.

"Iowa? I could have sworn it was heaven," he says as he begins to walk away and collect his equipment.

Ray follows him and says, "Is there a heaven?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the place where dreams come true."

Ray turns and sees his wife and daughter playing together on the porch and says, "Maybe this is heaven."

There's a lot of sentimentalism that has crept into how we think about baseball. The mythology gets laid on pretty thick. When we watch players with multimillion-dollar salaries, it's hard to get at what's pure about the game. And to think of a ball field as heaven is a little much. But there is something about the idea of being able to sense, to touch, to feel, to smell a connection to something larger than ourselves when we go to the ball field that is very attractive. It is like touching heaven on earth.

In the Eastern Orthodox branch of Christianity, that's part of the belief about what happens when you enter the sanctuary. When you do that you are not just entering a space like any other space - you are entering the kingdom. You are experiencing God's presence on earth. You're touching heaven.

I've been thinking a lot about heaven lately. I suppose you do as you get older and as you have loved ones die. No one has been there and come back. Although, maybe we have glimpses in stories like 90 Minutes in Heaven. But what it is, what it looks like, is only given to us in images. The Bible talks about gates of pearl and streets of gold. It is a place where all that has been lost is restored, where those who have died in faith will continue to live. It is so much more than "a place where dreams come true." That makes it sound like Disney World. It is a place, above all else, filled with the presence of God.

One of the most enduring images of heaven is that it is a place where we will gather with loved ones at a table. Did you hear in the gospel lesson from Luke today how Jesus talks about the Last Supper that he shared with his disciples? He is gathered together with them for the last time to eat a meal together. And he tells them that he has "earnestly desired" to eat this Passover dinner with them. It was not just an instructional meal for them. It wasn't merely that he was doing things that he had to do before going to the cross. We rarely get a glimpse into Jesus' thoughts, but here he tells us that he desires to eat with them.

Then he goes on to tell them that he will not eat the meal again until he shares it in the kingdom. Think about what that means. It means that the Last Supper does not have to be the last supper. It means that though everything else about life after death may change, gathering around a table to share a meal seems to go on. There is something eternal about the table, something that makes the meals we share in the here and now a taste of what is to come.

So Jesus takes the cup (in Luke's version he takes the cup before and after the bread) and he says, "Divide this among yourselves. For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” Then he takes the bread and shares it and they can remember what he has said, "For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

We talk about communion as a memorial meal - a time to remember what Christ has done for us. It is that. But it is also a foretaste and a promise of what is to come for those who believe. When we eat it we begin to participate in the kingdom which is already emerging into this tired, old world. We can begin to see that God is present even when it feels like we're all alone. We can begin to look at even Iowa and believe that it can be a glimpse of heaven.

This week I had a long discussion with someone about why it is that clergy are the ones in our tradition who preside at the table. (That's what you call it when Peter or I stand at the table - presiding. You might also called us celebrants, which makes it sound like we're at a party.) But it's a good question. A long-standing question, especially for Protestants like us Methodists. If we really believe in the priesthood of all believers, that God has given us all equal access to God's grace, why is it that the role of who stands at the table is reserved for the clergy? Have you ever thought about that?

The reason for it is because it gives me something to do. There are many places to serve in Christ's Church. We all have gifts. It's one of the reasons we did the mission fair a few weeks ago, to help us see where our gifts meet the needs of the world. But the particular role of clergy is a calling to Word, Sacrament, Order and Service. Proclaiming the Word, ordering the life for the congregation, serving the people in this place, and administering the sacraments - baptism & communion. And the reason why we have clergy to do it is so that every time we come to the table, someone who has given herself or himself to the study of the scriptures, who is grounded in the story of Christ's life, death and resurrection, who has been examined by the Church and authorized to be a representative of the larger body of Christ, will ensure that the story is faithfully told and that the sacrament is faithfully enacted.

That's the long version. The short version is that I preside at this table so that you can preside at every other table in this whole, blessed, God-hungry world. I preside here to remind you that you dare not neglect God's presence out there. Don't you forget, as soon as you walk out the door of this building, that Jesus died not just for the people in here but for everyone you meet. Don't you forget that your behavior out there is a testimony to what this bread here means. Don't you forget that people are hungry for bread, hungry for grace, hungry for love, hungry for justice, hungry for a new day and they don't know where to find it, but you have been to the table. You know where that bread is. And you know how to give it. Don't you forget that this bread is a promise of what God is going to do.

You don't need an advanced degree or the bishop's hands on your head to break a loaf of bread. But unless you are feeding regularly at a table where you are reminded that the bread you hold is heaven on earth, then you will start to lose the ability to see that every other morsel of food you take in your hands, even if it's a Twinkie, is a sign of grace. My calling tells me to feed people in the name of Jesus, so that you can feed people in the name of Jesus, until the kingdom comes.

In her book Take This Bread, Sara Miles talks about her frustration at why only the clergy in her Episcopal church can preside at the table, but then she tells this story. She talks about how she was delivering groceries for people in need in her neighborhood as part of her calling as a Christian. She is passing a bag of groceries in to a woman named Ruth through Ruth's open bedroom window. Behind her she hears a noise and turns to see a "skinny middle-aged guy in an old overcoat" darting behind a nearby building. It's Ruth's son who is a thief and constantly in trouble. Ruth cries as she tells Sara his story and Sara cries with her.

"All of a sudden, the words I sang every day at morning prayer echoed in my head. "Send out your light and your truth, that they may guide us and lead us to your holy hill and to your dwelling." I felt dizzy. This was God's holy hill: the Hill. And that apartment, with the broken tricycle out front, next to Ruth's? That was God's dwelling. God lived right there, in that actual apartment. God lived in Ruth's hands.

"What had I been thinking by praying those words without really paying attention? They were real. Above me, above the projects and Ruth's tears, above the wrecked roofs and broken doors and every mistake I'd ever made in my life, was the dark sky, luminous in the east. And in my hands were some Cheerios, some lettuce, and a loaf of bread."*

At this table we've got bread and juice. Out there you've got some Cheerios, some lettuce, maybe a pepperoni pizza. You've got your hands, your feet, your amazing body with all of its strength and all of its frailty. And maybe when you're out there among the wrecked roofs and broken doors of the world you will hear the echo of words that have been spoken at this table. These Cheerios, this lettuce, these hands - make them be for us the body and blood of Christ, so that we can be for the world Christ's body redeemed by his blood. By your Spirit, make us one with Christ, one with each other, and one in ministry, until Christ's comes again and we feast at his heavenly banquet.

Something profound happens at this table. You get to touch heaven. And then you get to touch earth. And somehow the distance between them is as thin as tissue. Thanks be to God.

*Sara Miles, Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, [New York: Ballantine Books, 2010], p. 196.

As We Proclaim the Mystery

I'm not a scientist and I have a difficult time describing ordinary things that have perfectly logical scientific explanations. Scientists can explain all the processes that produce rockets and rocket fuel. To me - it's a mystery. Somebody, maybe even at Verizon, can explain how telephones work. To me - it's a mystery. My kids can figure out the TV remote. To me - it's a mystery. Post-it notes? It's a mystery. Justin Beiber? It's a mystery.

So this week I went looking for some answers to one of those mysteries. Peter and I have started this sermon series about communion and the themes of Holy Communion. Two weeks ago I started by talking about the ways that the theme of sacrifice is incorporated into the meal. Last week Peter talked about thanksgiving, both the holiday and the ways that we give thanks through the meal.

Today I want to talk about mystery and there's one big mystery right up front. How does bread happen? Humans have been making it for centuries, but how do they do it? And what's the deal with yeast? Where does it come from? So I went on a little journey....

[video of the Yellow Duck]

So what I learned from spending time with Beth was several things:
1) Making bread is an art that requires all of your senses. There may be a recipe and the things that you put in it may be defined, but did you catch what Beth said about when to do things? She knows the sponge, the starter, is ready when it starts to smell. And sure enough, when I went back after those seven hours that the sponge sat, it had this wonderfully strong yeasty smell. She also said that she knows when to stop kneading when the dough feels right - somewhere on that fine line between too sticky and too dry, when it feels like "the skin of an old person." It's a matter of smell, sight, touch, and eventually taste. She is a great baker because she has learned to pay attention over the course of many, many loaves of bread.

2) Secondly, making bread is itself a spiritual practice. Beth talked about the joy she gets from taking simple ingredients - just four things - and turning them into something that she can share with others. She talked about kneading the dough with her hands gave her enjoyment. She ends up by saying, "It makes me feel good so it must be spiritual." The experience of it - the physicality of it - the embodiment of doing something that can't be done in an instant over a computer but has to be done over time, with actual physical stuff, and which produces an effect in your body and in the world - this makes making bread a powerful thing.

3) Finally, she said that for all of her experience, (and Beth has been doing this since she had a Barbie oven as a child), making bread is still a mystery for her. The reason I asked Beth to do this with me is that I have heard her talking about bread and wondering about it for a long time. You would think that someone who cooks like this every day would get bored with the process, but she still experiments. She wonders why the same recipe used in the same way by someone else doesn't work. She is still fascinated by how all of those ingredients, even yeast!, somehow come together to produce bread. And she loves what she does.

Jesus appeared to his disciples as they were gathered in a room together. It was after the crucifixion. After Jesus had appeared to two of them on the road to Emmaus and was made known to them, how? - in the breaking of the bread. Now they were gathered again - some believing, some doubting, some not knowing what to believe.

Jesus just showed up in the midst of them. Just out of nowhere. Even a scientist would have a hard time explaining this one. It was a mystery. And the disciples were mostly just terrified. They thought he was a ghost.

Listen to what Jesus does, though. He shows them that he still has a body. We don't have any idea what that resurrected body was like or how it could be...it's a mystery...but Jesus says to the disciples, "Look at my hands and my feet" (the places where the wounds from the crucifixion would still be visible). "Touch me and see. A ghost doesn't have flesh like you see that I have."

Then to seal the deal, he does that thing that every body needs to do - he asks for something to eat. They scare up a broiled fish and he eats it in front of them. It's almost as if Jesus is saying, "When you are scared. When you are doubting. When you find it hard to believe that life overcomes death. When you think I have gone away or that I can't be trusted to do the things I have said I will do. When the holiness and wonder of the world has drained away so that all you have left are your fears - touch me and see. Eat a meal in the presence of others who believe and doubt just as you do." Behold, I tell you a mystery - Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.

This is the mystery of faith. That's what we say in the communion liturgy. And this is a mystery much deeper than yeast. The Greek word that the early church to describe the sacrament of Holy Communion is mystery - or mysterion. It doesn't mean exactly what our word does today. A mystery novel poses a puzzle that you hope will unravel in a satisfying way at the end. All the loose ends will be tied up and you can know the answer. But this mystery is different. In this sacrament God reveals things that are beyond the capacity of human minds to know through reason alone. You can explain to me how post-it notes work and I might eventually get some grasp on it, but the meaning of this communion bread is always going to slip away. And to say that Christ has died, Christ has risen and that Christ will come again is to say something that reorganizes the world in a way I cannot ever fully comprehend.

But we are more than our reason alone. We put a lot of stock in our reason, in our ability to think through things. But we have fallen into the trap of thinking that reason alone is what makes being a human being unique among God's creatures. We are more than that. We have the capacity to know things through our bodies. Our senses tell us that a full moon shining on the fields like last night is a spiritual thing. The flood of memories that came in when we opened our window for the first time after a long, cold winter - that's not reason that told you that was special. The kiss of a lover, the gaze of an infant, the long goodbye when a loved one is leaving on a journey - all of these things don't have weight because of our minds. We know they are mysteries to be attended to.

So we come to the table and we prepare ourselves the best we can. We recite the story of God's saving work. We remember Jesus and his death and sacrifice. And we call the Holy Spirit to make this bread be for us the body of Christ. But then we have to come and look and touch and smell and taste, because there are some things words can't say. Words alone can't tell you how to make good bread. And words alone can't say how fully God loves this world.

What did we learn from Beth? That bread making is an art requiring all your senses. That the physical act of making bread is a spiritual practice. And the more you do it, the more you see, the more you experience. This is why John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, took communion four to five times a week and why he encouraged all of his Methodists to "the duty of constant communion." We worry that it will become less special to do communion more often, but Wesley believed that the reverse was true. The more you do it, the more you experience the mystery, the more you have opportunity to see God in these elements, to experience the presence of Christ.

Finally, we learn that Beth feels that even though she has been making bread for years, it remains a mystery - one that she loves and that she ponders and that she wants to experience even more fully. A mystery novel without a satisfying conclusion leaves us disappointed. This mystery leads us into something so rich and so deep and so filled with the presence of God that to be satisfied is not even the point. When we eat this bread we hunger for more and it is a hunger that taps into the deepest desires of our hearts for peace, for joy, for truth, for wisdom, for love, for God. Thanks be to God.

Travel Plans

When I was in about the fifth grade my best friend in the whole wide world was John Crowder. I grew up in Orange County and John lived on a farm up the road from my house, right along the Rapidan River. I remember spending many a weekend with John when I was young, either at his house or mine, but I especially remember the times I stayed at his place when we got to run all around his folks' farm.

We had great imaginations. One time we took two old cardboard boxes and put them together to make a Skylab and we roared off into space. We'd swing from the ropes in the hay barn and pretend we were Tarzan. We rode this old farm horse he had bareback and made believe we were those fancy riders from the steppes of Asia you see in the circus.

But our biggest fantasy was about the gang from Hong Kong. For several months we had this elaborate game in which we imagined that there was a gang of folks from Hong Kong that was intent on getting us. Now why a gang on the other side of the world would have been interested in two fifth-grade boys in Orange County is another question, but we were convinced that they were. So as we ran across the fields we would watch the sky for signs of the blimp that they were riding in. (I'm not sure why we decided they'd be in a blimp, either.) Near the river was an old abandoned car that we were convinced was where they hid out to spy on us. Of course the river itself was a great place for them to sneak up on us, too.

When John and I couldn't get together on a weekend for some reason, we'd call each other to report any sightings either of us had made. And when we spent the night together we always had our flashlights ready in case we heard a mysterious noise in the night. It was a great mystery, and the gang from Hong Kong never caught us, but the time we spent running from it was sure exciting.
It was wonderful to imagine what life would be like we weren't just pre-teen boys in a backwater county. It was great to think about what life would be like if it were more exciting, if we could leave everything behind to become professional adventurers. There's a part of me that would have gone in an instant if it had meant high adventure.

Now, though, I'm in a much different place in life. I've got two children and I know what other parents meant when they talked to us before Joel and Rachel were born about the joys and the challenges of parenthood. It's a big responsibility to be a parent. You have to think about your children's health, their safety, their education, their development, the financial implications--and pretty soon you realize how hard it is to provide something that we Americans are obsessed with: security.

Now, that's not all bad. Hardly. We need to be concerned for ourselves and our loved ones. It's a natural part of who we are as caring people, but we also run a risk. Our obsession with security also makes it very difficult to hear passages like the one we heard in the gospel lesson this morning.

Did you hear it? What do we remember about it? Peter and Andrew fishing in the Sea of Galilee. Jesus calling them. Maybe we've heard it in church so many times that the image is kind of golden in our minds--like a comfortable movie filmed in the light of sunset when there is a glow and a warmth to the faces. There's strong Peter and there's gentle Jesus easily calling the fishermen from their nets.

When we really hear it, though, this passage is a scary thing. Because if we see ourselves as disciples, (and that is what we Christians tend to call ourselves), then to think that we might be called to leave it all behind makes us think twice and three times about whether we're cut out for this following Jesus business. We like to try to explain away the disciples response. "Maybe they had seen Jesus around before and had seen him do some miracles." "Maybe Jesus just had them follow for a little while without really leaving everything for good." All of that is speculation, though, because the only thing Matthew tells us is that Jesus called and they went.

The story begins with Jesus hearing that John the Baptist had been put into prison. He picks up where John left off, proclaiming the same message, "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." Jesus took a different route, however, and everything about him said that his ministry was going to be a very different kind of ministry.

John went into the wilderness, the desert, of Judea, in the south where the majority of the population was Jewish. Jesus went back to Galilee in the north where the majority was probably non-Jewish, it was called "Galilee of the Gentiles". John chose the life of a desert nomad. Jesus settled in Capernaum--a seaside village with activity and life. John was the voice talking about the "pathway in the wilderness for our God". Jesus fulfilled Isaiah's prophecy about "the road by the sea". John was everything you expected a prophet and a rabbi to be. Jesus broke the mold. People came out to see John. Jesus went out to see the people. This was going to a different kind of ministry.

So Jesus was walking by the Sea of Galilee when he saw Peter and Andrew throwing their nets into the sea and he calls them. It was very simple really. He says, "Come, follow me, and I will make you fish for people." Which is a surprising thing to say to somebody you've just met, but it's no more surprising than what happens next. What happens? Peter and Andrew drop those nets and they follow him. No questions asked.

The second call is probably even more mind-blowing. Jesus finds James and John, brothers, mending their nets in their boat with their father Zebedee. He calls them and--guess what?--they drop those nets, too, and leave their boat and their father, and they follow Jesus.

Now as I read this, I find myself torn between two different parts of myself. On the one hand, I can read it through the eyes of that fifth-grade boy who loved all the adventure on John Crowder's farm and who wondered about what lay down the river and down the road, just waiting for me to come find it. When I think like this, I feel envious of those disciples who were brave enough to chuck it all to follow Jesus.

Then I can read it through the eyes of the adult with a hundred different responsibilities and I can't believe these disciples did what they did. How could they find it so easy to lay aside their work and their families and all that they had built up for themselves? When I think like this, I think that surely this can't be what I am called to do, too!

Then I realize that the figure who changes all of this is Jesus. Jesus was not interested in what Peter and Andrew and James and John had accomplished or in what they had accumulated. Jesus didn't care about preserving what little security they may have had. Jesus saw the people he needed and perhaps he saw the deepest needs and the quiet desperation in their hearts--desperation that they themselves may not have even known they had. Jesus changed this scene dramatically.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was a Christian writer who resisted the Nazi movement in Germany and who was executed by them in the last days of World War II, once wrote that "discipleship is not an offer people make to Christ. It is only the call which creates the situation."

Being a disciple is not an offer people make to Christ. It is only the call which creates the situation. Peter and the others could not have known what they needed to offer Jesus. They had not seen his miracles or known his ways. They were at work in their everyday lives, maybe not even aware that there was a place within them that cried out for connection and giving. Then the call came through loud and clear and suddenly they saw exactly what they needed to do.

Jesus can come to us like that. Maybe he's passed our way before and maybe he's called to us before, but we didn't pay attention. Maybe it's a calling we haven't yet heard.

Underneath our layers of security, though--those layers that we have blanketed and muffled ourselves with--behind the masks and roles we hide behind--there is a thirst waiting to be satisfied and a hunger to hear the voice calling us, "Come, follow me." When we hear it it will be like that first sip of a necessary drink and we will hold on for dear life and never let go.

Maybe you've heard that call already in your life and have turned to follow the clear, compelling voice. Maybe you're seeking that call desperately or are concerned about how it will change your life. Maybe you don't even know you need to hear it or know that you don't want to hear it. But I know this: the call will seek you out in the place where you live and work. You can't hide from it and you don't have to travel the world looking for it. When it comes, Jesus will not care about your accomplishments or your accumulations. Jesus will not ask you about your grades in Econ 101 or your ability to tap dance. Jesus will only seek you and Jesus will accept nothing more and nothing less.

Then Jesus will invite you--no, then Jesus will command you--to come and follow and to share in the joy of the good news, because it is good news. Then you can trade in your quiet desperation for inspiration and exaltation because this invitation is for you.

Have you ever wondered what it's like down the road? Have you ever wondered what lies around the next bend in the river? There's somebody there calling you. Come, follow. This adventure is yours. Thanks be to God.

Matthew 4:12-23
When Jesus heard that John had been handed over, he retreated to Galilee. After leaving Nazareth, he came to live in Capernaum-by-the-Sea in the region of Zebulon and Naphtali. This was to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet Isaiah:
"Land of Zebulon and land of Naphtali,
on the road by the sea, beyond the Jordan:
The people residing in darkness have seen a great light,
and to those residing in the land and shadow of death, light has dawned."

From that time Jesus began to preach and to say, "Repent, because the Kin-dom of heaven is drawing near."

While walking around the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon (called Peter) and Andrew, his brother, casting nets into the sea, for they were fishers. He said to them, "Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of people." So, immediately, they left their nets and followed him.

Then, going on from there, he saw two more brothers, James-ben-Zebedee and John, his brother, in the boat with Zebedee, their father, mending their nets, and he called them. So, immediately, they left the boat and their father and followed him.

He traveled around the whole of Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the Kin-dom and healing all the diseases and all the maladies of the people.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Something is stealing my brain. I’ll bet it’s stealing yours, too. Its goal is to keep me from focusing. It doesn’t want my mind to give concentrated attention to anything. Not to the book in front of me. Not to the presenter trying to offer a lecture. Not to the road I’m driving down. Not to the environment around me. Not to my cat. Especially not to God. Especially not to prayer or meditation or Bible study.

It started with cell phones. I remember how strange it was when I started hearing people talking on cell phones regularly. I remember where I was. I was at a gas station filling up my car. There were 3 other cars at the pump with me. And two of the other people started talking, so I assumed they were talking to me, but, no, they were on cell phones. The four of us were all standing within 20 feet of each other, but none of us was really there.

Then it was the Internet. My first step away from a typewriter was a word processor, which I thought was about the most incredible device ever. It had this funky orange screen and you could type on it and then push a button and it would print out pages using this special paper that allowed you to burn words into it. Absolutely amazing. But it didn’t do anything else.

Now on my computer there is the constant temptation to check email. Check my Facebook. Chat with people. Check the sports scores. Watch the dancing baby video on YouTube. Giving the project in front of me my full attention is an effort. A challenge. A chore. Giving that sort of attention to God? It can seem like a fantasy. Can you relate? Something is stealing our brains and we are letting it happen.

So today we’re starting a focus in worship that I’m kind of calling the Truly, Madly, Deeply series. That was the name of a romantic comedy awhile back but I want to use those three adverbs as a way to describe the kind of love I want to have for God again. I don’t want a superficial relationship with God. I don’t want to settle for an occasional glancing reference to Jesus. I don’t want to blog about my relationship to God. I don’t want to refer to it as though it were an old fling that I’ve outgrown. I don’t want to be a stranger to God. I don’t want to settle for a kind of faux friendship – like maybe God is somebody I allow to see my profile on Facebook and to whom I’ll occasionally tweet but never really talk to. God deserves more than 140 characters of my life. I want to fall truly, madly, deeply in love with Her. And here’s the thing – I know God wants the same thing and has built me to love that way.

It’s easy to forget that we’re made that way. We like to think we can make it on our own and that we don’t need a relationship like that. We’re Americans, right? We pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps. Wasn’t that the essence of the Horatio Alger stories of the 19^th century?

Believing that has given us a great optimism about the future and a great sense of potential, but it can have some nasty side effects. There’s a scene in the television show The Simpsons where Bart Simpson finds himself sitting down to dinner with his family and the pastor of their church. He’s asked to give the blessing and his father groans, knowing that Bart is bound to say something inappropriate. Sure enough, what Bart prays is: “Thank you, God, for nothing. We worked hard to earn the money for this food. We bought it at the store and my mom cooked it. Amen.”

In its own satirical way, The Simpsons was pointing out what happens when we become a forgetful people. It’s the same danger Moses warned the people of Israel about when they were heading into the Promised Land after years of wandering in the wilderness. In Deuteronomy chapter 8, verse 17 Moses says, “Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gotten me this wealth.’ But remember the LORD your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth.”

We think we can do it on our own. We think we don’t need to be grateful. We think we don’t have to return to the center, to return to God. We think that to love God truly, madly, deeply is to be weak or foolish or naïve. We think we can do it on. We think we have to do it on our own. We’ve been burned so often by things and people in which we placed our trust that we can’t risk going there again. We are told that we can’t trust others and maybe we feel like we can’t trust God. Have you ever felt this?

Jesus was starting to walk towards Jerusalem. He’s moving away from Galilee where he has been teaching and we know where he’s going. We know what Jerusalem means. It means the cross. It means the humiliation. It means the suffering. It means death. But it’s where Jesus has to go. It’s where God is going to set all things right.

So Jesus moves along on the border between Samaria and Galilee and he comes to a village where there are ten men standing at a distance and they are united by just one thing – they all have leprosy, a hideous skin disease. But it’s not just the disease that’s the problem. In Jesus’ day having leprosy meant a long, slow death and lifetime living on the edges of the village. People with leprosy were considered unclean. People with leprosy, if they touched anyone else, could make others unclean. These were isolated men who respected Jesus by keeping their distance when they called out to him.

But let me tell you what lepers know. People with leprosy didn’t have any illusions about who they were or what it took to survive. They could not believe that they could make it on their own because their illness forced them to see something that it takes some other people a lifetime to realize – that they were absolutely dependent on a community that could provide what little resources they could beg from them. Survival on their own was not an option. They knew their limits and they knew that it would take something bigger than themselves to get by.

Jesus saw them, but he didn’t heal them right away. No, he tells them to go show themselves to the priest, which is what you would do if you hoped to be declared clean from a skin disease. On the way to the priest, they were all healed. Their exile was over. They could now go on to live.

One of the men paused before beginning his new life, though. Just one. He turned around and went back to Jesus. He wasn’t even a member of Jesus’ race. He was a Samaritan and not a Jew. But that’s the one that returned and fell down at Jesus’ feet. He could fall down at Jesus’ feet now! He didn’t have to call from a distance. He didn’t have to holler out for mercy from the edges of the crowd. He could fall down at Jesus’ feet and he did. He praised God and he thanked Jesus. Truly, madly, deeply.

Jesus was startled. At least he seemed to be. He was startled to see who had come back – this foreigner whom Jews considered to be outside the covenant with God. But he said to the man, “Get up and go on your way. Your faith has made you whole.” The Samaritan had found his way to true wholeness. He hadn’t just been healed; he had gotten in touch with something much deeper. He had gotten in touch with that part of himself that was restlessly waiting to respond to God and to connect him to the grace that makes all things new.

How do I know that there is such a place in the human heart? How do I know that we are made that way? Because the Bible tells me so. Psalm 65, my favorite psalm, begins with words that can be translated like this: “For you, praise waits in still repose, God.” For you, praise is waiting. There is a place within me, within you that needs to praise the living God. There is within me a place waiting to respond to grace. There is within me a song of joy that needs to be lifted up and a hymn of thanksgiving to be sung. ‘There’s within my heart a melody, Jesus whispers sweet and low. Fear not, I am with thee, peace, be still, in all of life’s ebb and flow’? Do you know what I’m talking about?

And we are letting the Internet eat our brains? We are letting the distractions of this life take away that joy? When what our souls desire more than anything else is to love God truly, madly, deeply.

O, I know, there are cares and woes, aren’t there? There are trials and temptations, aren’t there? There are losses we grieve, loved ones that we miss. There are dreams yet unfulfilled and there are moments of darkness and despair. There are relationships that need mending and challenges that need tending. There are addictions we can’t seem to overcome and there are children who worry us, parents who just can’t understand. There are money woes and school issues. There is low self-esteem and high gas prices. There are moral failings and unfinished business. There are cats. There are so many things that can keep us from God.

That’s not all there is, though, is it? You know your blessings. You know that if you wanted to or needed to you could start counting them this moment and never finish. Some of them are as obvious as the sun in the morning sky. And some are unseen but no less real.

You don’t have to count your blessings, though, to know how grateful you are. All you have to do is look into your heart, because praise is waiting there. God is waiting there and even if we lost all the world, we would not lose this grateful heart because it was given to us by Jesus Christ, who knew you didn’t have a lot of things to count to know that you were blessed. In the end, stripped of everything he had, he stretched out his arms and blessed us and blessed God. He loved us truly, madly, deeply, with everything he had.

You can love like that, too. You can because beyond all the distractions and all the things that call us away to the circus in the city, you have a heart that knows how to love truly, madly, deeply. It may be untrained. It may be unused. But it’s there. And no brain-eating evil can take it away. There’s within my heart a melody, Jesus whispers sweet and low. Fear not, I am with thee, peace, be still. Thanks be to God.

Luke 17:11-19

As he began to go toward Jerusalem, he passed through the middle of Samaria and Galilee. And when he entered a certain village, ten men with leprosy approached him and stood at a distance. They called out saying, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us."

Upon seeing them, he said to them, "Go, show yourselves to the priests." And as they were beginning to go they were made clean.

Now one of them, seeing that he had been healed, retuned with a loud voice praising God, and he fell on his face at his feet, thanking him. And he was a Samaritan.

Jesus responded by saying, "Weren't ten made clean? So where are the other nine? Could no one be found returning to give praise to God except this foreigner?" And he said to him, "Rise, go; your faith has saved you."

Not Home Yet

Grace and peace to you in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Perhaps some introductions are in order since I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. I’m Alex Joyner. I’m your pastor. I know, I know. I’ve heard the rumors. “Alex has gone off to be with some other church. He’s got a secret life as a talent scout for the Dallas Cowboys. He’s a supermodel. He’s really Dr. Phil.” I know the rumors and they’re not true.

What I’ve actually been up to is teaching at the Course of Study School for local pastors at my old seminary, something that I look forward to every year, despite the fact that mid-summer in Dallas is not for the weak of heart. Joel and I just returned late Friday night and it is good to be home. So put the rumors to rest. I’m not off doing any of those other things.

We actually had a difficult time getting back, though. For awhile there on Friday night it looked like we might be spending the weekend in Atlanta since our connecting flight was cancelled and weather delays were grounding all kinds of people. Then Joel was confirmed on a flight back home and I wasn’t. But we did finally manage a late night flight back to Newport News.

Something caught my ear though as we touched down in Atlanta. As we were rolling to the gate the flight attendant came on with her standard announcement but she misspoke and what she said was, “Welcome to Atlanta. Be sure to gather your personal longings from the overhead bins and be careful because some of them may have shifted during the flight.” Not personal belongings. Gather your personal longings.

Because it’s the way my brain works, I started thinking: My personal longings are in the overhead bins? What does that look like? My longing to win the Crystal Beach Triathlon is in the overhead bin? Being able to see my kids grow into loving, strong, self-confident adults? That’s up there? Writing the Great American novel? All of that is in the overhead bin? And they may have shifted during the flight? Maybe I’ve got some new longing I didn’t even realize I had – like maybe now I want to be a supermodel. Who knows what happened on that flight? And even though I hadn’t put any stuff in the overhead bin, I kind of wanted to open one up to see what was there. But it was just bags.

Gather your personal longings. What are the things that we long for? These are tough times for a lot of folks. We have had people in our community lose houses to fire. We have people who have lost loved ones unexpectedly. We have people who have lost jobs. I came back to see the headlines about the plans for the hospital to move to Accomack and I know that means great uncertainty for a lot of us. It’s easy for our longings to get tied up in our fears.

It’s also easy for our longings to be turned into material desires. The seduction of the media world is that we can but the things that will meet our wants. But as soon as we have, the discontent continues, fueled by advertising, until the thing we have, which once was bright and shiny, seems tarnished in comparison with the new thing in the marketplace. That smartphone is so much smarter than my smartphone. That car is so much nicer than the one I drive. That girl or that guy is so much more intriguing than my wife or my husband. But you know…I know that most of our wantings are not worth having. None of them can live up to the expectation.

Gather your personal longings. “For the place where you put your treasure is the place where you most want to be and will end up being.” That’s Eugene Peterson’s translation of Luke 12:34 from The Message – usually translated as “where your treasure is there your heart will be also.” But Peterson emphasizes that our desires shape our direction. Our desires tell us where we are headed. And the implication of this verse is that they will take us where we want to go. If our longings are for the Kingdom, the place where God is all in all, then that leads us on the road to heaven. Our world is shaped by that reality. And we will find our feet set in heaven even in this world. But if our longings are for things or distractions that take us away from God, then we will follow them right into the emptiness which is the most they can offer us. The heart wants what the heart wants and, for better or worse, it will get what it wants. But our longings, by and large, are misplaced, misdirected, and misguided so we end up in the emptiness, the loneliness, the void.

This week one of my former colleagues on the Course of Study faculty, the Rev. Paul Escamilla, a pastor in Austin, Texas, delivered the graduation sermon and he told the story of a Los Angeles priest, Greg Boyle, who works with gang members in some of the toughest neighborhoods of the city. He looks at the children and youth he works with, people struggling with the world as it is, struggling with addictions, violence and hopelessness and he tells them they are beautiful. He tells them that they don’t have to be defined by the hatred around them. They don’t have to let the streets determine who they are and how God sees them. They are beautiful.

Father Boyle was asked how someone can keep doing that when day after day the things that assault the children just seem to grow worse. When there is only death and disappointment and there is no hope. Boyle says, “You go into the sanctuary…you go into God’s presence…and you close your eyes and you see with your other eyes.” You see the world with your other eyes. Those eyes that see the world as God sees it.

Gather your longings. “Do not be afraid, little flock. It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” That’s what Jesus tells the crowds who come out to hear him. People who faced illness and poverty. People whose worlds were being turned upside down. People who knew grief and who knew what it was like to never feel at home in this world. Don’t be afraid, little flock. It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

Then he goes on to advise them to take a step further into uncertainty. “Sell your possessions and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that never wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes in and no moth destroys.” The place where you put your treasure is the place you most want to be, and the place you will be.

Do we have confidence in that world? Do we still trust and believe that if we really give it all to Jesus that he will lead us home? Or are we only content to follow when we can maintain a belief that it’s in our earthly self-interest? If I follow Jesus I’ll feel better. If I pray all of my earthly concerns will disappear. If I go to worship, I will be regarded as one of the haves and not the have nots.

What if we follow because we have confidence, not in worldly success, but solely in Jesus? Can we still give if there is no security, no glory, no guarantees of an easy life? Can we close our eyes and see with our other eyes?

I discovered a great German word when I was researching my book on Hard Times which is coming out soon. The word is Sehnsucht and it is hard to translate. It’s a compound of the verb “to long for” and the noun “addiction.”[i] This longing is a kind of homesickness that leaves us permanently unsettled.

C.S. Lewis, the great Christian writer, often talked in these terms. He felt it was kind of the character of a Christian to be longing. He once wrote to a friend:

“[I]t is just when there seems to be most of Heaven already here that I come nearest to longing for a patria…[a homeland]…All joy…emphasizes our pilgrim status; always reminds, beckons, awakens desire. Our best havings are wantings.”[ii]

Gather your longings because they can be longings for the home that is waiting. Our best havings are wantings. And what we want is that home.

So when Jesus goes on to talk about being ready, keeping watch, being prepared for the bridegroom who comes in the night or preparing the house against the thief who comes in the night, he is just saying once more, “Don’t be afraid. God’s good pleasure is to give you the kingdom. All you have to do is let go of what you are clutching…let go of all those things that you think are so important that you can’t imagine being yourself without them…let go of those things…close your eyes…and see with your other eyes.”

We’re not home yet. We still get caught and confused by the volatile mixture of longings and desires that jostle around within us, threatening to consume us. But Jesus comes. The voice of the Beloved who knows your heart and knows who you are better than you know yourself. Jesus comes and says, “Come away with me. Gather your longings.” And because Jesus comes, those longings may have shifted during the journey. Be careful opening those overhead bins because all heaven is liable to break loose. Thanks be to God.

Luke 12:32-40 [NRSV]

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

"Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks. Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them. If he comes during the middle of the night, or near dawn, and finds them so, blessed are those slaves.

"But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour."

---

[i] D.G. Kehl, “Writing the Long Desire: the function of Sehnsucht in The Great Gatsby and Look Homeward, Angel,” Journal of Modern Literature, Dec. 22, 2000, http://www.accessmylibrary.com/article-1G1-80682150/writing-long-desire-function.html.

[ii] W.H. Lewis, ed., Letters of C.S. Lewis (New York: Harcourt Brace & World, 1966), 289., quoted in Terry Lindvall, “Joy and Sehnsucht: The Laughter and Longings of C.S. Lewis,” Mars Hill Review 8, (Summer 1997), pp. 25-38, http://www.leaderu.com/marshill/mhr08/hall1.html#text14.