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.

The Changing Face of Happiness

Jesus says, “Happy are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” You know that’s another way to translate the Beatitudes. ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit can also be ‘happy are the poor in spirit.’ But what is happiness?

I know a place full of happy people. “Animal Crossing.” It was a big hit in my house for awhile. In this video game you are a little guy or girl wandering about a town populated by animals who live in stylish little cabins and who seem to have an endless supply of errands that need to be run. There is a post office where you can mail notes to your new friends or other players. There is a stream where you can fish, a museum where you can take treasures you’ve found, and a train station where you can ride the rails to the next town, which looks just like the one you left.

The major task of your life in Animal Crossing, however, is to collect things and decorate your own stylish little cabin (which can quickly grow to a substantial house if you’re good at the game). To do this you earn bells, which are the currency of the land, and take them to Tom Nook’s store to buy things like carpet and wall coverings and furniture and knick-knacks. In Tom Nook’s store you can even buy the “executive’s toy,” that thing which consists of five steel balls suspended from strings and when you take one and bang it into the end of the others physics takes hold and merriment ensues.

There is something empty about the happy world of Animal Crossing, though. Is this what the good life is all about? Or does the game only mimic the worst trivialities of the real world? In a land with no culture, no churches, and no schools, what do people do? They busy themselves by filling up space with manufactured knick-knacks! The world will not end in fire or ice, it will end in an overstuffed chair watching an “executive’s toy” click-clack away the last fading seconds of our pitiful lives.

My house in the game, by the way, was always a wreck since I don’t have the patience to organize it correctly. Otherwise, though, it was sweet.

Why do I bring up Animal Crossing? Because I think we may be finding it hard to know when we’re happy these days. We comfort ourselves with diversions and devices but maybe you, like me, fear that something essential about ourselves is being neglected, that we are somehow disconnected from something more meaningful and more substantial. Have you ever felt that way? Have you ever wondered if the ideals of the world or of your working life were tissue thin and ultimately deceptive?

The Sermon on the Mount begins with the Beatitudes, that series of blessings which we just read. Here Jesus takes his disciples up a hillside away from the crowds who could easily have deluded the disciples into believing that what they were called to be a part of us was a mass, popular crusade. When they looked at the people they could say, “This is not some sideshow. This is a movement! Look at all the people. We must be doing something right. We must be saying something that makes sense. You go, Jesus!”

But Jesus takes them aside and says, “No, it’s not like that. You think this makes us successful. Let me tell you a little bit about God’s standards. It’s not about feeling full, it’s about feeling empty. It’s about meekness and mourning. It’s about poverty of spirit and purity of heart. It’s about hungering and thirsting after righteousness. It’s about mercy and peace. And for you, even for you, it’s about persecution because when you really hear what I’m saying, you will not have crowds coming to celebrate your name. You will have nations who do not understand and powers that do not want to listen.”

With the beatitudes Jesus seems to say that we have lived too long in the bright lights of the city. We have become seduced by values that now seem wise and rational. We can call ‘war’ peace and no one will flinch. We can call ‘oppression’ freedom. We can call ‘neglect’ charity. We can leave a whole generation of children behind and say that we lost none.

It is no different in the depths of our souls. We can say we care for others, but can’t get over ourselves. We can say we’ve got it all together when inside we’re falling apart. We can say we don’t care about making a fortune, but we wouldn’t mind. We can say that sin is an old-fashioned word when our own limitations and delusions stare us right in the face every morning.

What Jesus says in the Beatitudes is that if you are frustrated in figuring out how to make it into this equation…if you can’t find yourself in one of these blessed categories, “poor in spirit, mourning, meek, peacemaker, persecuted,” then perhaps you are still too seduced. These words are not meant to be comforting. They are meant to be disturbing. They are not meant to be a pat on the back, they are meant to be a kick in the rear. God is not waiting in the world we have created for ourselves. If God were there we would have already found her. God is waiting in the world and home we have left behind…in the world which operates according to standards that make no sense unless we live with them every day. Jesus gives us these strange little notions of happiness (Happy are those who mourn? Really?) because we need to be tripped up to pay attention again.

Martin Buber, was a twentieth-century Jewish thinker who felt that God could be discovered in dialogue. His most famous writing was “I and Thou” and in it he talks about how our normal interaction with the world is instrumental. I see the world as a collection of “its” - things which I can more or less comprehend and which I don’t have to interact with as if they have a claim on me. I can pick up my spoon at breakfast and it usually doesn’t talk back. I don’t think about my spoon very often. We can even start to treat other people that way. This is the bank teller, that’s the bus driver. Even in our most comfortable relationships we fall into a pattern.

But when we call something “Thou” we say something more intimate. A “Thou” has an impact on me. It troubles my easy definitions. When I have a long talk with a person I thought I knew, what I thought I knew about them and about me changes. They rise above the level of my previous understandings. They become a “Thou” and it is no accident that this is also the most common reference to God in old translations of the Bible. “Thou hast made us.” In the true encounter with others and the world we sense the eternal source of others and the world. We sense God. But we have to get our understandings messed up first. We have to hear how upside down God’s values are when compared to the world’s.

So my message today is to pay attention. Being happy in this world does not consist of comfort and riches. Happiness is about being God-directed. It’s about letting God come disturb us. It’s about listening to the deep hunger within us for righteousness. It’s about looking for God in our poverty of spirit and in our mourning. It’s about the humility that knows we don’t know it all, but which trusts with a purity of heart that God does.

Happiness is knowing that the world is God’s. The world is shot through with God. And God leaves no place untouched or unredeemed. Thanks be to God.

Matthew 5:1-12 [NRSV]

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

"Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

"Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

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.

Community Unity Day Invocation - Northampton High School

God of Life,

the Scriptures say, "How good and pleasant it is

when brothers and sisters dwell together in unity."

We have been living together too long apart

We have been occupying the same space,

the same land,

the same ground of our ancestors,

we have been breathing the same air,

listening to the same birds,

feeling the same cold and heat as winters and summers pass,

but we have not been sharing the same community.

So we gather together

to share a dream.

And we are bold enough to believe

that it is not just our dream,

not just Dr. King's dream,

not just the patriot's dream we sing of

when we sing 'God Bless America,'

not just the dream and hope of scattered prophets through the years.

We are bold to believe

that it is your dream

that brothers and sisters should dwell together in unity.

So here we are -

men and women,

young and old,

'born here's and 'come here's,

black and white and brown and all shades in between,

bayside and seaside,

up the road and down the county,

here we are

gathered to share a meal and that dream.

Forgive our forgetfulness.

Forgive our ignorance.

Forgive our lack of courage to claim

what is given and right before us.

Give us eyes to see what you see.

We live on a little strip of dry land

between two great waters.

We live on the edge of the world.

But we know what you can do

with a little dry land between two great waters.

You can lead a group of slaves to liberation.

You can take a people who were no people

and make them a people.

We know what you can do with people

who live at the edge of the world

in a place that the world counts as nothing.

You can set forth a light to the nations.

We don't claim to be that yet.

But we know we can be that,

if you will come.

How good and pleasant it is

for brothers and sisters to dwell together

in unity.

And may it start with this hour.

Amen.