Taste, Ladle and Serve With Appropriate Utensils

Read Luke 17:1–10

1. Don’t Rebuke Without Being Ready To Forgive Again and Again.

In the long history of utensils—from the apple peeler to the zucchini masher—from the cheese grater to the meat slicer—from the energetic egg-beater to the no-stick Teflon spatula—from the toaster oven to the George Forman Grill—there has never been an instrument quite like it. No, it’s not necessarily a piece of kitchen ware. We wouldn’t find one on sale at Target or Shopko. But as far as its enduring impact upon the eating habits of the civilized world, the millstone takes the cake. Or more precisely, the millstone actually grinds the grain into the flour that makes the cake, and, in the ancient world, this simple round granite rock would be the utensil which would turn the wheat growing in the field into that ever-present source of sustenance, bread.

The millstone, therefore, has always had an appropriate use. And it is a use that leads to feasting and to life. But, suppose, for the sake of argument, that we might consider the most inappropriate use of a millstone. We might, for example, imagine using the millstone as a table. We might consider using a millstone as a heavy-duty studded snow tire. Given its girth we might even want to use a millstone as a trash compacter. But, you see, never in two-thousand years would we want to make use of a millstone as a necklace. We would never, in two thousand years, think of wearing it around our necks before swimming in the lake.

And yet, when we read Luke’s Gospel this morning, there it is for us to ponder: the most inappropriate use of a utensil in the history of the culinary arts.
“Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to anyone by whom they come! It would be better for you if a millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble.”

Heading into the Thanksgiving holiday this week, I’ve been wondering about what Jesus says here. And it seems to me that he doesn’t mix his metaphors too often. But when he does, as per a millstone, the effect is dramatic…
I walked up the aisle of the K-Mart, searching for the Live-Bait refrigerator in the fishing section of the store. Someone had told me that I could get two dozen night-crawlers there for three dollars. But, just as I made the turn at the display for pots and pans, a woman and, what looked to be, her daughter stood, nose to nose, in my path. The girl writhed under the grasp of her mother’s hand, and after a brief flash of ‘attitude’ she simply looked down at the linoleum while her mother continued to berate her. “Sorry,” she whispered, trying not to draw any more attention to herself. “Sorry… Sorry… Sorry…” Well, while passing by, I tried not to look at them. I tried to give them their space because, Lord knows, I’ve had my own issues in public with my own children. But here’s the thing that pushed me over the edge. When I heard the mother broadcast words like “stupid” and “selfish” and “ugly” and “ungrateful brat,” my sneakers screeched to a halt in front of them. And I heard my voice interject this unwelcome remark, “I think she gets it.”

Now you might not think of this episode as having anything to do with God or Jesus or any kind of recipe for salvation stew. You might even caution me in terms of minding my own business. But here’s where the millstone comes into play. Just as it would be extremely inappropriate for us to wade into the water while wearing a millstone around the neck, it is also inappropriate to rebuke someone without leading that person toward forgiveness.

I will grant you that a mother and child do not typically enter K-Mart with the expectation of picking up a saying or two of Jesus. But, you see, neither is any child of God, any “little one,” meant to be weighted down with our finger-wagging. And this is part and parcel of what it means to be trained as a disciple of Jesus. You and I are stirring in the world like tasty morsels of accountability and forgiveness. Where people imagine that they are free to do whatever the hell they want, we remind that they are accountable to others and to God. And where they have really messed up, we appropriately “must forgive.”
2. An Increase In Faith Follows The Pattern of Smallness, Uprooting and Re-Planting In The Sea.

A few nights ago, Ian practiced for a debate tournament in which he would deliver the same sermon that Jonathan Edwards preached on July 8, 1741. Here’s a little taste of what the congregation of Enfield, Connecticut heard on that day:
The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect, over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times so abominable…

Now, before going any further, I’d like to contrast the starting point of Jesus versus the starting point of Jonathan Edwards. First, Jesus assumes that “occasions for stumbling are bound to come,” but he saves his “woe”—his most dire warning for those within the community of faith who might cause someone to stumble. By contrast, Mr. Edwards launches his tirade against who have stumbled before coming to faith in Jesus Christ. Second, Jesus will talk about increasing in faith, or growing in faith, or maturing in faith, much more than he will threaten people with hell for not having any faith.
“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you” (v. 6).

You see, this is not as discouraging as it may initially sound. Fred Craddock even points out that a better translation of that conditional clause might read:
“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed—and you do…” You and I do have faith the size of a mustard size. So, assuming that, let’s extrapolate further.

Corrie Ten Boom wrote a book, called The Hiding Place, in which she described surviving the trauma of living in the Netherlands during World War Two. During the war she saw her faith in Jesus actually grow, and after the war Corrie Ten Boom discovered that God had even more growth in store for her. She had been speaking at a church service in Munich, when she recognized the former SS man who had stood guard at the showers of a concentration camp. After the service then came these flashbacks:
“And suddenly it was all there – the roomful of mocking men, the heaps of clothing, Betsie’s pain-blanched face. He came up to me as the church was emptying, beaming and bowing. “How grateful I am for your message Fräulein”, he said “To think that, as you say, (Jesus) has washed my sins away!” His hand was thrust out to shake mine. And I, who had preached so often to the people in Bloemendaal the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side. Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. Jesus Christ had died for this
man; was I going to ask for more? Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.”
You see, in that electrifying moment, when Corrie Ten Boom explains how she actually forgive the SS man with the actual forgiveness of God coursing through her hand, there’s an undeniable pattern that we might want to keep in mind.

Here it is: if we recognize that we have faith the size of a mustard—if it’s obvious to us how small and insignificant we are—Luke 17:6 claims that the mulberry tree can be uprooted. In other words, that thing that haunts the landscape of your life can be removed. Not only can it be removed it can be re-planted in the sea where it won’t bother anybody anymore.

I don’t know if it was a mulberry tree or something else, but Michael Lindvall, in his book, The Good News From North Haven, describes a woman who used to mark the leaves of the tree that she had planted in her front yard. In the late summer, Lindvall spotted her on a ladder, and with a sharpie, she scribbled an X on the back of every sprig of green growth. When asked why she was doing such a thing, Lindvall says that she pointed to the neighbor’s tree in the adjoining yard. She said that when the leaves would die and fall to the ground she would be damned if she was going to rake anything that didn’t fall from her own tree. She didn’t mind raking the leaves from her own family tree; it was just that she couldn’t tolerate her neighbor’s leaves getting mixed up with her own. Well, depending upon your perspective, Jesus offers some advice to the lady in Lindvall’s story and to anyone who finds him or herself desperately entangled with the sins of the past, or with the sins of those whom we now must consider neighbors. And the advice goes like this: If you only had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could talk to that tree, and it would be gone forever.

3. Celebrate Thanksgiving Without Expecting To Be Thanked.

Beginning last Thursday, I believe, the Butterball hotline has been and will continue to field calls from those households for whom the word turkey is synonymous with trouble. The turkey becomes trouble, for example, whenever the children in the room park their matchbox cars within the hollowed out cavity of the bird. If that should happen, as it has happened, the Butterball experts are there to offer their wisdom, which would be to not be too hard on the little ones and to skip the stuffy this year. And, you see, these kinds of calls are placed repeatedly—so much so that we have to wonder. Could this be symbolic of a deeper, spiritual condition? I think so. In fact, I think the Butterball experts are on to something when they talk about not expecting their callers to thank them on Thanksgiving. They’ve actually prepared themselves for the person who resembles the 1993 one who called in a panic. Almost hyperventilating, this woman contacted the hotline to say that her pet Chihuahua had crawled all the way inside a twenty pound turkey. After helping the pooch escape through some minor surgical procedure, no expressions of gratitude were exchanged. And you see, I think there’s an insight here for our work at Latah Valley. Jesus says,
“Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink…’”

Now I do not presume to call anyone, who participates at Latah Valley, a slave. No one here is enslaved to this ministry. You and I are all free to come and to go. But, consider this: within the context of our recipe for salvation stew—that is, our personal relationship with Jesus Christ—these final instructions should haunt us. If you and I are maturing in faith, there will come a time when no one will say thank you. And in that time we’ll be surprise that we keep working, because, in the end, “we have done only what we ought to have done.” Amen.

Stir While The World Simmers

1. Out of The Ruins A Community Emerges.

There is a time, in the late afternoon, when the blue lights flicker. You can see them like swarms of small insects, winging quickly out of a window or into an open door. Up and down the road, in the gathering darkness of a late autumn day, the television sets come on. I don’t mean to imply that they come on by themselves; I’m assuming that an individual is there, manipulating the remote. I’m assuming that there are families there, behind every door, changing the channels with their competing index fingers. And what each household sees, flickering in shades of blue, are the images of the day’s news. And what every computer monitor and every television screen makes all too clear is this: the world is boiling over.

I remember my father cursing President Richard Nixon. As a ten year old child I had no idea what he had against the man. But, as my mother stirred the soup in the kitchen, as she salted and peppered and added bay leaves to it, I could hear him venting his fears and frustrations. I could hear him shouting and sighing and rolling his eyes… And how I wish, as I look back, that we could have done something—that we could have reached into the blue light with a spoon and simply stirred! How I wish we could have stirred… And how I still wish!
“For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines…”

If you remember the blue soup scene from the movie, Bridget Jones Diary, you know what I’m going to talk about. Bridget Jones wants to impress her friends with a multi-course gourmet meal. In her cookbook she reads the instructions for a special kind of soup—the kind of soup that requires her to tie up some of the ingredients with a string and then let it simmer. Bridget doesn’t have any culinary types of string. All she finds in her kitchen drawer is this blue yarn that she’s used to knit sweaters. So, in the panic of preparation, she binds the food items with the blue twine and cooks them as directed. Guess what happens.
Well, nothing boils over. And nothing is rendered completely inedible. But, as Bridget stirs, the dye in the yarn turns the broth of the soup blue. Not to be discouraged the hostess then serves the soup in silence. One of her friends picks out some of the melted yarn from her teeth. Another then says, “Hmmm. This is really good,” before all of them burst out in laughter. “To Bridget,” they say, while raising their glasses, “whom we love just as she is.”

Yes, believe it or not, out of the ruins a community emerges. It happens at dinner parties which go awry. It happens when the flickering blue lights go dim. And it happens in Mark’s Gospel, when the teacher is invited to look.
“Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!”
“Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left upon another…”

You see, this strikes me as kind of a weird thing for Jesus to say. For as long as any faithful Jew could remember, the re-built temple in Jerusalem had been a crucial ingredient of personal salvation. The temple, along with the text of the Torah, were in fact non-negotiable components of faith in Yahweh, the One who had delivered the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt and then brought a merciful end to the exile in Babylon. The temple embodied the history of God’s people on earth and throughout the millennia. So, when Jesus announces quite matter-of-factly that none of these great buildings will remain intact, it gets your attention. Why is he stirring this up? And why now? I mean, why would Jesus take the single most stable institution of faith in God and take it apart?

The same question, you see, can be asked regarding the institution of church today. Why is it changing? With all the turmoil in the world today, why can’t we have church stay the same? And maybe the answer has more to do with the way God stirs in us. God stirs in us and through us the whole world of blue flickering images becomes a kettle of soup and around that blue soup a community emerges.
2. Wait. Wait. Wait For The End. And Then Wait Some More.

In their classic book, Resident Aliens, Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon describe the end of the world as we know it. The end happened, they stipulate, on a Sunday evening in Greenville, South Carolina. Then…
“in defiance of the state’s time-honored blue laws, the Fox Theater opened on Sundays. Seven of us—regular attenders of the Methodist Youth Fellowship at Buncombe Street Church—made a pact to enter the front door of the church, be seen, then quietly slip out the back door and join John Wayne at the Fox” (p. 15).

In other words, that “defiance” concluded the long centuries, during which the church had been the only game in town. That was the end of the institution, monopolizing the minds and hearts of Greenville, South Carolina. From that point on, a young man or a young woman didn’t have to socialize at Youth Group; he could mingle with the images cowboys and soldiers on the screen. And she could cavort with her friends and dream of a leading man all while munching butter-soaked popcorn rather than the stale communion bread of the fractured fellowship hall. And, you see, let’s be honest. Even though we’ve more or less internalized this once-upon-a-time-church-dominated society coming to an unceremonious and non-sanctimonious and irreverent end, the journey has obviously meandered on. And the question is where? Where are we stirred in a world where the vehicle for that salvation seems broken down?

“The end is still to come,” says Jesus in Mark 13:7. The end is still to come…

I took a date to my high school’s performance of Mouse Trap. We were there in the audience for Acts 1 & 2, and without any programs, I didn’t know about Acts 3 & 4. So, during intermission, I stood up and gestured to my date that we should go. Like a good, compliant and submissive girl, she went. She grasped my hand and followed me up the aisle and out the door and into the parking lot. I stuck my key in the ignition when I realized that no one else had left the building. Luanne then said, “I’m not sure it’s the end.”
Well, it wasn’t the end at all. But, by God, I had already left the auditorium. I had nearly started the engine of the car. I wanted to grab a bite to eat and a kiss before her curfew. To walk back into that performance would be humiliating. And yet, by the look on her face I could see that none of that mattered—not even the kiss. What mattered is that we could wait for the end. We could go back, join the community and wait.

N.T. Wright, in one of his commentaries, talks about an imaginary work of William Shakespeare. He writes about some old librarian discovering four Acts of a five-act play. Acts one and three are intact. Act five is also well-preserved. What is missing, however, is Act four. And so, he invites this comparison. How can any actor, in knowing the build-up and the culmination of this work of art, actually ad-lib his lines for Act four? The only way Shakespearian actor could possibly get by is to wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for the end. And, far from being passive and apathetic, this waiting happens to be filled with all kinds of creative things to do and to say. So, let’s make the leap. Leap into the life of salvation through Jesus Christ, our Lord. We know the build up. We know the ultimate end of Revelation 21, where there will be a new heaven and a new earth. So start acting. Start acting as if you know the end, and as if you know “the end is still to come.” Start acting. Start creating new dialogue. Start handling new props. Start imagining new relationships.
“This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

When Jesus makes this remark in Mark 13:8, it’s rather jarring. How do the concepts of birth and the birthing process fit with all the hell and mayhem that he describes just earlier? How does new life attach itself to things like war and rumors of war? And then it hit me like a messy placenta in the face. Followers of Jesus are meant to slime and to be slimed with hope. And for hope to be genuine it has to be felt and expressed when there doesn’t seem to be any hope at all.
3. The Contractions Are Closer Than Ever. But Don’t Push Yet.

Michael Yaconelli is a Christian leader who died about ten years ago. About a month before he died he wrote this short piece in a magazine that he founded called The Door.
“It is like swinging on a trapeze. Once you have gained the courage to swing, you never want to let go . . . and then, without warning (around age 50, for me), you look up and see another trapeze swinging towards you, perfectly timed to meet you, and you realize you are being asked to let go and grab onto the other trapeze. You have to release your grip. You have to reach out. You have to experience the glorious terror of inbetween-ness as you disconnect from one and reach for the other.
“This past year has been a time of letting go, one finger at a time, and these last few weeks have been a terrifying weightlessness, a wait-lessness, a paralyzing stretch for the unknown. I haven’t reached the other bar yet. I am somewhere in between, but I can tell you this: my heart is filled with an exhilaration, an anxious anticipation that just as I get to the other bar, I will not grasp it, but I will instead be grasped by the hand of Jesus. I can hardly wait.”

Making Broth And Stewing With Others

1. A False Piety Has Many Perks, But The Affirmation of God Is Not One of Them.

How much do you want to bet that the widow in today’s passage makes a great broth? How much do you want to bet that it’s like the stuff that your grandmother used to make—that it’s rich and creamy and smells like heaven? And how much do you want to bet that in her day this poor woman has sliced, diced and stewed more potatoes than all “the scribes” mentioned in Mark’s Gospel, Matthew’s Gospel, Luke’s Gospel and John’s Gospel combined? I would like to wager two Jewish leptons. That is, if I had any, I would like to wager two Jewish leptons. But in lieu of those ancient coins, what I can offer is vulnerability. Vulnerability and Risk. These are the two sides of the same coin that Jesus endorses in Mark 12:42. But what he does not endorse, in verse 41, is also worth mentioning.

Jesus neither endorses, nor shows much tolerance for a false piety, and the reason, I think, goes like this: being religious for the sake of being seen by others will inhibit the vulnerability and the risk that gives salvation in Christ its essential flavor. Showing off your faith with the aim of drawing attention to yourself will actually poison the relationships that you hope to salvage.

Now, in drawing this initial conclusion from the passage, let me just point out that none of this dynamic is obvious to the naked eye. In fact, Jesus has to sit opposite the temple treasury a good length of time before making the observation. And he will readily admit, a false piety has many perks, including the best seats at the synagogue, the places of honor at the banquets, plus the attention that spectators will give to your long prayers. There are public and present-day perks to a false piety, but the affirmation of God is not one of them. And, you see, that begs the question, the question that Jesus doesn’t say aloud, but it’s lurking there anyway and ready to pounce: Do we want the affirmation of God more than we want the image of being affirmed by God?

“It’s good for our marriage.” This is what my church secretary told me about her recent discussions with her husband. For years he had been the Dean of Students and traveled around the country, lecturing other college faculty and students. For years he had been the absentee partner at all the church potlucks and all the Christmas pageants and all the mission projects. Phyllis was there, but Tom wasn’t. And then, one day, as he took the up escalator at the Atlanta airport, Jesus came to the Dean of Students. Jesus came and Tom prayed and by the time he reached the top floor he had accepted Jesus as Lord and Savior.
Upon hearing the news, of course, Phyllis let out a mighty laugh. The ripple effect of this faith decision would be huge. Not only would the dynamics of their marriage change, but our church would change too. From now on, Tom would be there at the soup kitchen. He would be there in the front pew. And with the considerable wealth that he had gained on the speaking tours, Tom’s money would be there too. If Tom didn’t like the carpet in the narthex, that carpet would be gone. If Tom wanted to teach the kids to memorize Bible verses, Tom had the crisp dollar bills to motivate them.

And this is how things went for the Dean of Students. The Christian life for him would take him up the up escalator. He and another faculty member would soon form an elite group. They would be the Christians on campus that all the students could go to if they had a question about the Bible or the right way to live life. They would be the ones sitting together on the dais during the luncheons. They would also be the ones who handed out awards and received awards on television. But I remember the day that Phyllis told me.

She said that she had made a stew for supper and that in the middle of the meal she told her husband respectfully that he didn’t know as much as he thought he knew. And when I picked up my jaw from the floor and asked how that went over, my church secretary said, “Well. It’s good for our marriage.”

2. Jesus Is Watching You, and He Knows What You Did Last Summer.

You see, what I’m suggesting today is that anything that Jesus notices we ought to notice too. Jesus is watching. And again, the question is, if we care. Do we care about what he cares about? Do we care about the broth?

There’s a famous joke about a burglar who breaks into a home. In the home, beneath a white cloth, a parrot begins to stir in his cage. The thief at first becomes alarmed when he hears the parrot speak, but then he realizes that the bird is simply repeating what it’s been taught to say. “Jesus is watching you,” says the parrot. “Jesus is watching you.” Over and over again the robber hears the words, until finally, in frustration, he tells the feathered fiend to shut his beak. Into the kitchen he then goes to ransack the silverware. Once there the thief notices a dog dish on the floor. The name on the dish reads, Jesus.
And suddenly, as the ferocious Rottweiler leaps upon the neck of the intruder, the words of the parrot carry a lot more weight. Jesus is watching you.

Now, having told that joke to the best of my ability, I know that you may only laugh at me if I repeat the phrase. And yet, here goes: just as Jesus, in Mark 11:41, watches “the crowd putting money into the treasury,” he is also—to this very day—watching you and watching me. We are being watched. We are being watched, not by the Big Brother monitors of George Orwell, and not by the private detectives or the paparazzi of Spy magazine. In fact, part of the salvation that we experience in Jesus Christ implies that we submit to his vision for our lives—that we feel the eyes of Jesus upon us, more than we feel the eyes of anyone else on the face of the earth.

And if you were to ask me, based upon today’s passage, what Jesus watches about us, I’d have to say that he’s watching to see how much vulnerability we’re putting in the broth. He’s watching to see if what we give to others in his name actually makes us vulnerable.
You see, the reason that I can say this is that when Jesus observes “many rich people” putting in “large sums” of money at the temple treasury, he’s not impressed. These aren’t people who are taking a risk on the family of faith. And so, Jesus could really care less about how much they’ve given specifically. More to the point is that he does notice specifically the amount given by the poor widow. She gives “two small copper coins,” which isn’t very much at all. It’s not very much at all, and yet Jesus describes it as “more.” In terms of vulnerability and risk—which is the currency that Jesus values—a couple of Jewish leptons is a huge investment in God’s kingdom.

A few years ago a scary movie hit the theatres, starring Jennifer Love-Hewitt and Sarah Michelle Gellar. I Know What You Did Last Summer is the name, and its basic plot involves a violent psychopath who stalks these young coeds.
The sequel to I Know What You Did…, I Still Know What You Did… came out a year later. And more recently a third installment went straight to DVD. This last film is called I’ll Always Know What You Did Last Summer. Anyway, I’m mentioning all these frightening flicks, not because I’d like to recommend them. On the contrary. I don’t have to go into detail to tell you what these sordid tales are all about. And what they’re about, I think, is the idea that our past deeds will come back to haunt us. What they’re about is the broth we’re making and the stew we’re stewing.

Well, what if I announced to you this morning that there’s a way for us not to be scared anymore! In fact, what if Jesus of Nazareth actually knows what you and I did last summer—and he forgives—and he promises new life! You see, if that the case, then what we’ve done in the past doesn’t matter nearly as much as what we’re willing to risk for the future. Jesus can take any of our bitter stuff and mix it with something sweet. Jesus can take any experience that’s left us sour and make it sumptuous. But the key is the vulnerability with which we offer ourselves to the stew that God is stewing.
3. When “Everything” Isn’t Very Much, It Goes A Lot Longer.

“I don’t want to get socks or hoodies or any of that stuff from you anymore…”

This is how Josie, a twenty-something street person spoke to the pastor of The Bridge, a new church in down-town Portland. “I don’t want any of that stuff anymore… I want to be a part of your community and earn money and buy that junk and give it away with you guys.”

In other words, I don’t want to continually get and get and get. I want to give. I want to be with a community for whom “everything” may not be very much, but it goes a lot longer.

Think about Latah Valley. Think about the small, meager things that we can do that risk “everything… everything we have to live on.” Yesterday, a seventy year old mean stood upon a ladder. He didn’t have to. He wanted to. And when the ladder slipped and gave way beneath him, this anonymous man fell. His face hit the floor and he bled. He went to the hospital and the doctor said that he fractured a bone in his face. She said it could have been much worse. But, you see, it couldn’t have been better. It’s good for us to hear about a man or a woman giving everything. It’s good. Giving like that adds a lot to the stew.

Amen.

A RECIPE FOR SALVATION STEW: Gathering The Ingredients of Personal Salvation

1. The weeping indicates that it’s personal for (at least) Jesus.

A few years ago I accompanied a group of teenagers through a corn maze. With me as their guide, we got lost of course. But eventually we made our way out of the tall stalks and into make-shift amphitheatre, where the host of the corn maze served us hot chocolate and apple cider. Then we saw a movie, a scary movie about two people who died. One of them, according to the script of the film, went to heaven and the other went to hell; and what set these two characters on these two very different trajectories was the fact that one believed in Jesus—one got saved by accepting Jesus into his heart, and the other did not. At the end of the movie, a man in a cowboy hat then stood before us and asked if any of us would like a personal relationship with Jesus. He then instructed us to lower our heads and close our eyes. “If anyone here would like to accept Jesus into their hearts,” said the man, “just raise your hands in the air, and I’ll pray for you.” I have to admit that at this point I peaked. And then, when I saw no one else raising a hand, I raised mine… I raised my hand because, as I explained later to the man in the cowboy hat, accepting Jesus is something I have to do every day and every night.

You see, when it comes to the ingredients of personal salvation I have issues. I have lots of issues, most of which are related to how easily people can be manipulated with a core maze, a cup of hot chocolate and a scary movie. But I also have issues when faith is reduced to a rational decision. Okay, would you like to go to heaven or go to hell? It’s your choice…

Well, based upon today’s passage, I’m not exactly sure that it is our decision. What I read in John 11 is that Jesus arrives on the scene late and much to the chagrin of Mary and to the disappointment of Martha. What I read is that Lazarus is dead. But, instead of comforting the relatives with promises of heaven, Jesus weeps. And his tears, I think, are the first key ingredient to personal salvation.
Now, of course, people shed tears for a variety of reasons—not all of them obvious. A biochemist, for example, might delineate between two types of tears: the emotional ones (crying when emotionally upset and stressed) and the ones arising from irritants (such as crying from onions). A biochemist might even tell you that emotional tears contain more protein-based hormones, some of which are natural pain killers, and all of which are produced by the body when under stress. Crying because of onions, however, will induce no natural pain killers, and may even cause an increased level of pain because of the isolation and loneliness that a person experiences after eating the onions. Of course, a biochemist would not have to monitor your tear glands to tell you that; she might just smell your breath and keep her distance.

In the case of Jesus, however, his tears (like his words) require a more in-depth interpretation. Is he upset? John 11:35 and John 11:38 describe him as “greatly disturbed.” Translations, other than the New Revised Standard, aren’t so tame. They would call him agitated, indignant and extremely angry. It’s almost as if, in the moment, Jesus has co-opted the persona of Bobby Knight at an old Indiana University basketball game. He’s in a rage. His tears indicate that at least for him this is personal. Death, how dare you interrupt these relationships? What right do you have to claim the last word about Lazarus?

And, do you know what I believe triggered this strong respond from Jesus? My sense is that it was something that Mary said. This is the same Mary that used to sit at her teacher’s feet and listen to his every word. And when Jesus asks her about the location of her brother’s corpse, Mary lets these words slip, “Lord, come and see.” Now, “come and see” is a phrase that has only been used in two other places in John’s gospel. One is in John 1:39, when Jesus invites the disciples of John the Baptist to come and see where he is staying. And the other is in John 4:29, when the woman at the well tells the Samaritan villagers to come and see the man who told me everything I’ve ever done!
But with Lazarus, the phrase hurts. “Come and see” hurts. It stings. It taunts. It sticks in his gut like a dagger. Mary takes the very phrase that had been used hospitably to invite others to receive Jesus and reminds him about the harsh reality of death. “Lord, come and see,” she says in verse 34; and with his very next breath, Jesus began to weep.
2. The stench is necessary and helps to clear our heads.

Quoyle and his daughter, Bunny, have done their share of weeping too. Bunny’s mother has died in a car accident and Quoyle tells her that she’s sleeping with the angels. This image helps to placate the girl for a while, during their move to New Found Land. But at the end of The Shipping News, by E. Annie Proulx, Bunny discovers the ancient practice of the wake, or as she hears it “awake.” A wake, of course, is a bawdy, but meaningful, party, during which whiskey glasses are raised in honor of the deceased. The mourners also bake casseroles and recite poetry and try to make sense of the dead person in their midst. So, in the novel, Bunny walks through the noisy crowd and stations herself next to the open casket. Billy Pretty, a haggard old seaman, is giving a speech, something like, “You all know we are only passing by. We only walk over these stones a few times, our boats float a little while and then they have to sink. The water is a dark flower and a fisherman is a bee in the heart of her.” These are the words that waft over the maritime villagers; they’ve heard them many times before. But on this occasion, as the dead person smells like a dead fish, Mrs. Bugget finds his lodge pin in the pantry. She then goes to attach it to his lapel, and as she’s pressing on his chest, there is “the sound of an old engine starting up.” Foul sea water dribbles from his mouth and streams from his nostrils. And Bunny, the little girl, attending her first wake, makes this public declaration: “He woke up” (p. 333).

You see, I don’t know why we can’t admit it publicly and more often:
“Lord , already there is a stench…”
Much has been written about the odor of death, which is more than just symbolism. Death doesn’t just stink metaphorically or allegorically; after four days, the carcass of any animal rots and the corpse of any person literally reeks. Death is inevitable and necessary; and by Jesus smelling the stench at the tomb of Lazarus, I think he’s willing to acknowledge the fact. But, you see, what he cannot abide is total lie of death having the final word.

I once heard an interview with an astronaut who had done a walk in space. He said that upon returning to the shuttle, the fibers of his spacesuit smelled like burned steak. Others, aboard the International Space Station, described the aroma like over-baked almond cookies. “Flying into Mir,” said Jerry Linenger,
“it smells sort of like dirty sweat socks in a guys locker room… And it’s a uh tough—you know, any aroma is tough to describe, but it has a distinct smell, and its sort of a burnt out, uh, after-the-fire, the next-morning-in-your-fireplace sort of smell…”

In other words, there’s no other way to describe the fragrance of the universe except through one’s own personal experience. And that’s the way it is with the stench of death as well. The apostle Paul, in 1 Corinthians, refers to the worshipping community as “the aroma of Christ.” And he writes that for some in the world we are the fragrance, leading from life to life, but for others we are the fragrance leading from death to death. And, you see, the only way to account for the difference is by our willingness to walk in the space that Jesus walked. Jesus did the space walk into that vacuum of that dark, scary tomb, and when he came back, he prayed. And he prayed in a very public way:
“Abba, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd…”

3. A public expression of thanks may free up those who are too tightly bound.

Now, here’s my beef with the ingredients that we ordinarily gather around personal salvation. To be saved, or to be salvaged, is to be made whole. But if a person is too bound up in his or her own individual life, I’m not sure that person gets the prayer that Jesus just prayed.
Notice, for example, he’s not praying for solitary persons in the crowd. He’s not praying with all heads bowed and eyes closed. He’s offering a public expression of thanks on the crowd’s behalf—perhaps so that the crowd might become a community.

Douglas Coupland can’t believe that his childhood friend Laurie is dead. In his book, Life After God, he says,
“I think death is a loss that can never be found again, words that can never be taken back, damage that can never be made whole. It is denial of any possible future giving of love…”

These, of course, are philosophical words. But in the following chapters Coupland remembers something that happened when he and Laurie were kids, something that even though it happened in the past, seemed like it happened and will happen, in the future. Growing up, he says, Laurie would steal the eggs of Canadian geese. She would take them from the nests the birds would make near the pond at the golf course, and then, over time and with much love, hatch the geese and raise them as her own. Inevitably these winged pets fly away. They fly away and you think that you’re never going to see them, or smell them again, or hear them, or touch them again. And yet, Coupland continues,
“Usually it is very early in the morning while you are still deep asleep. You are awakened by a familiar sound, the sound of honking, and so you rush out into the yard with the rest of your family, all of you bleary-eyed. You check the pond and the lawn and find no sign of your old friends. And then you look up on the roof—up to the roof’s crest. There are your old friends, standing on the summit, plump as Thanksgiving turkeys, blaring the happy trumpets that lay rejoicing inside their hearts—letting you know just this one time, as you stand there waving to them, that their love for you is greater than those forces in the universe that would split apart any of us…” (p. 267).

And so, these are at least some of the ingredients of personal salvation: the tears that help us to rage with Jesus against death, the stench of death that leads to possibility of new life and the thanksgiving that will not give up on relationships no matter how much time and death has gone by. Amen.

The Reason For You To BEQUEATH

1. Your legacy will involve much more than your money.

For my sixth grade school project, I had made a cardboard representation of the Great Pyramid of Gaza. In place of the huge stones that had been quarried, hoisted and mortared into position I had scotch-taped brown strips of construction paper. My teacher, Mrs. Robinson, gave me a good grade on the project. She regarded it as my “legacy”—something that I would leave behind for future sixth graders to admire and to emulate. But during the waning minutes of the afternoon, as I preened and balanced the pyramid on my hand, my friend Bruce and I got into an argument with a new kid in our class. Kenny was an African American young man, and I don’t know if that had anything to do with it, but in a fit of childish rage I threw my pyramid at him. I threw it with such force that the pointy tip of my legacy struck Kenny near his left eye. Bruce and I laughed and re-enacted what we had done. Kenny sulked and when Mrs. Robinson learned of the episode I had a new legacy to my credit. A scar. My legacy had left a scar.
“’Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?’”

You see, when it comes to the phrase, “eternal life,” there are a multitude of directions for us to explore. Eternal life can be the outright gift of God, which is, I think, is the most faithful definition. Or Eternal life can be our project, in which case the result of pursuing it may look good, but leave an indelible scar. Consider, for example, the original Pyramid of Gaza, the first wonder of the world. I imagine that when Pharoah sets out to build one of these monuments his goal is to be remembered. But his legacy also includes the four-hundred year enslavement of the Hebrews. And consider today the prominent member of the Moose Lodge or the Masons. He’s a pillar of the community, a philanthropist, an entrepreneur, the grand pubaw; and in order to impress God, he’s also been a life-long member of the Presbyterian Church.
“’Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?’”

Well, first of all, be careful. That very question betrays a vast chasm in the character of the person who asks it—a chasm that no amount of good deeds will be able to fill. Which prompts Jesus, in Matthew 19, to respond like so:
“Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good…”

“Jesus Christ!” In her book, Mommie Dearest, Christina Crawford says that name a lot. She says it when she and her adopted brother are sitting with the estate lawyer and realize that their mother, Joan Crawford, is not leaving them a thing. She says it earlier in life when the famous actress goes on a tirade about the wire hangers in her daughter’s closet. And after the second or third reference to “Jesus Christ,” it’s not at all clear to me that Christina Crawford is attempting to use profanity. To me it appears as if she’s crying out for a better inheritance:
You were very, very bad to wake Mommie up like that. VERY naughty. I told you, Mommie has to be beautiful today. This afternoon, she has to see MISTER MAYER. Today is so important. You are thoughtless and selfish. You must learn to think about other people. You are bad, bad spoiled children.

As a little girl, this is what Christina recalls saying to the baby dolls that she’s kept hidden in her bedroom. And, if she’s not careful, this is what the daughter of Mommie Dearest will pass on to the next generation.
2. If you’ve done everything right, you’re missing something.

You see, for the sake of appearances, for the sake of achieving eternal life on our own, we leave behind wrecked lives. And it’s not an un-Christian thing to admit it and to admit it publicly. And if there were ever any doubt about this wreckage, listen to the way Jesus restricts the usage of a single adjective. He says, “There is only one who is good.” In other words, all the goodness in the world belongs solely to God, and if anyone should make a claim to goodness, apart from God, let those who hear that claim be on guard. Be suspicious of anyone who comes into your sphere of influence, boasting about a perfect track record. Our deeds are always, always, always tainted. Our legacies always, always, always leave scars.
Schindler’s List is a classic film that tells the tale of a German businessman, named Oscar Schindler. Oscar Schindler wanted to make money, and he needed a cheap labor force; and so who is cheaper during World War Two than Jewish men and women who would otherwise be exterminated. As he starts out, of course, Schindler makes a profit. The factory manufactures shell casings for which there is a high demand. But then, eventually, as the profit margin closes, Schindler realizes that he can’t let anybody go. If he fires a single soul, that man or that woman would be executed on the spot or sent to a gas chamber. And that’s when he comes up with a list, a list of people that he absolutely cannot do without—essential workers. The people are therefore preserved, but in the closing scenes there are two moments that I’d like to highlight: first is when Schindler’s administrator, played by Ben Kingsley, types up the names and declares, this list is an absolute good. And second is the moment that Oscar Schindler looks at the ring on his finger and realizes that if he had sold it, he could have saved one more person. He then takes the ring off his finger and then collapses in shame.

You see, even when we think we’ve done everything right, we’ve missed something. “If you wish to enter life,” says Jesus, “keep the commandments.” To which the rich young ruler in Matthew 19 says, “Which ones?” Jesus then rattles off what is known as the second tablet of commandments; these are the commandments that connect us with our neighbors. They provide the horizontal parameters for our life with others. But notice how quickly the young man replies with, “I’ve been there and done that.” He’s missing something, isn’t he? He’s missing the fact that his initial question betrays a huge hole in his character. This well-to-do gentleman of Hebrew society does not love his neighbor as he loves himself. He loves himself more, and the problem with that is that he doesn’t see it. The problem is that he doesn’t shrink back in shame, like Oscar Schindler. He gloats. “I have kept all these,” he announces in verse 20. “What’s next? Whatever it is, I can do it.”
3. Arrange your life around the impossible possibility.
Now there comes a point in every conversation with Jesus when we realize that we can’t just check him off the list. And this is one of them. Having confidence in yourself and in your own God-given abilities is one thing. But if we are under the delusion that we can follow Jesus without breaking a sweat there’s a lot of hurt headed in our direction. And we should brace ourselves.
“’If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come follow me.’”

You see, this is like telling Michael Phelps to drain the pool. It’s unnatural. It’s a waste of talent. If you happen to be a rich, young ruler—if, all of your life you’ve been trained in Proverbs 22:4, where it says, “The reward for humility and fear of the Lord is riches and honor and life,” why would you ever want to renounce the gold medal? Why would you ever want to come down off the pedestal? And why would you ever want to follow Jesus if he seems to contradict everything you’ve ever been conditioned to do?

“I’ve made other arrangements.”
“Excuse me.”
“I’m sorry. But I’ve made other arrangements.”
This is what a businessman, named Henry, said to his colleague outside the boardroom. He had just turned down a job—a high paying, high perk position, for which, it seemed, he had been groomed his entire life. But now Henry had made other arrangements. And what were they? Well, on a recent vacation, Henry had barely escaped the devastating effects of a tsunami. He had seen first-hand how a place of comfort and luxury could be transformed in an instant by a thirty foot wave of water. And in the tragic flood that inundated the Indonesian coastline, Henry had a glimpse of something impossible. He saw a Jesuit priest clinging to the arm of a poor fisherman’s child—a little boy who would have otherwise been dragged out to sea. He saw that and wanted to help save as many as he possibly could, or as many as he could impossibly.
You see, “for God all things are possible,” says Jesus in verse 26. And what he intends is that his disciples will make other arrangements. He intends that we might have a different reason to bequeath, and that reason involves the restoration of every scar we have ever inflicted—either knowingly or unknowingly. No, neither you, nor I, can go back. We can’t undo what we’ve done over a lifetime. Yet, for God all things are possible…

On a trip to Lake Tahoe, Anne Lamott stayed at a condominium by the water. She stayed there with her two year old son. Each room in this posh place came equipped with special curtains and shades so that if a person wanted to gamble all night she could do it while then planning to sleep in all the next day. Anne Lamott didn’t plan on any gambling, but she did want to get some work done; and that meant that her son would have to go into the play pen in the next room. So, hoping that he would close his eyes and sleep, she arranged his blanket and his toys, pulled the shades and left the door ajar. Moments later, however, Anne Lamott heard the sound of knocking from inside the pitch black room. Somehow her son had climbed out of his playpen, closed the door and locked it. “Jiggle the door knob, darling,” said the mother, who worried more about the emotional damage being inflicted as she spoke those calming words. The boy then began to sob. Frantically she called the rental agency. No answer. She left a message. And then she did the one thing for which she will be remembered forever and ever. Bending down, she slid her fingers beneath the locked door and told her terrified son to find them in the darkness. “Find my fingers, baby. Find my fingers.” He did. He did and the rest is an impossible legacy. A legacy that’s worthy of Latah Valley and everyone in this room this morning.

Amen.

The Reason For You To BEHAVE

1. Because the kingdom of heaven is valuable, we respond by valuing different things.

A child builds a spaceship out of Lego’s and wants to show his Dad. A teenage girl reads Vogue magazine and wants to buy a new pair of designer jeans. A businessman ease-drops on the next cubicle and starts to re-circulate his resume. A doctor ascertains her patient’s symptoms and calls for a CAT scan. The Dow Jones hits 10,000 points and the broker on Wall Street raises his eye brows. A grandmother runs into an old high school sweat heart and blushes. Everything we do—everything that’s good and everything that’s bad—we do—in response. We are responders. And it’s been this way for quite some time. When the glaciers advanced in the last Ice Age, we responded. Now that they are receding, we are responding again. Responding is the reason we behave.

But consider this story. A tenant farmer, plowing another man’s field, hits something hard that’s been buried beneath the dirt; he grumbles and he gets down on his hands and knees and digs away the clumps of mud. And when his fingernails have been caked with black soil, and when the air is thick with dust, he discovers the outlines of a large, ornate, wooden box. The hinge of that box glimmers as he pries it open. And once discovering its contents this poor tenant farmer closes the box and covers it again with earth. He loosens the yoke on the beast that pulls his plow. And at night he returns to his ram-shackled house. He then gathers everything that he’s ever owned or saved. And as the sun rises over the Sea of Galilee he’s making an offer on the entire field.

Everything that we do we do as response. But here’s difference between those who are disciplined by the stories of Jesus and those who are not. We know about “treasure.” We know that it’s buried not very far from this spot. And we know that if we play our cards just right, we can have it.
“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.”

When Jesus rattles off that remark in Matthew 13:44 it’s not initially clear what he means. His followers have been with him now for at least ten healings, over twenty action-packed object lessons and up to four pithy stories, otherwise referred to as parables. Parabolein. To throw down alongside. In Matthew’s Gospel this is the fifth story that Jesus has thrown down alongside, but it’s the first one in which the primary image of the story is something valuable. Prior to verse 44 he’s mentioned seeds, weeds, wheat and yeast—all of which are pretty run-of-the-mill kinds of merchandise. But “a treasure hidden in a field” has value that no one can deny. “A pearl of great value” is by definition worth a lot more than a mustard seed. And, you see, it’s because of the way we respond that I think these parables are focused on our behavior. The kingdom of heaven is so valuable, we respond “in joy,” and that joy gives us the reason to behave differently than others.

2. Good behavior is like…
At the end of World War Two, at least two men did what they had been told. One, by the name of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, proclaimed the gospel of Jesus Christ and criticized the administration of the Third Reich; the Nazi Party had claimed to have superseded the unique revelation of God’s grace in Christ, whereby they systematically annihilated the Jews and anyone else who raised questions. In his dealings with people, Bonhoeffer prayerfully raised questions. His books studied the themes of fellowship, discipleship and ethics—belonging, believing and behaving. But then, upon his arrest, Dietrich Bonhoeffer met Arthur Forbeck. Forbeck was the judge who sentenced him to death by hanging. And one day, in 1945, as it looked like the war would be coming to an end, Arthur Forbeck took a train toward the town of Flossenburg, where Bonhoeffer was being held. He set out on his journey out of loyalty to his good friend, Adolf Hitler. Moreover, when the train taking Forbeck stopped approximately 20 kilometers from the killing camp, the judge tracked down a bicycle and peddled the rest of the way.
Now these are clearly two different ways to behave. And at the time you might say that Forbeck simply did his God-given duty. Many would even call it good behavior. But what if I told you this morning that good behavior isn’t so much about doing one’s duty, fulfilling one’s responsibilities? What if good behavior is like discovering the treasure and then responding in joy? What if it’s like finding that one pearl of great value and then rearranging your finances to have it?

Well, if good behavior is like that joyful discovery, my hope is that at Latah Valley we find what Bonhoeffer found in Flossenburg. He found grace and mercy and truth. He found Christ buried beneath all the debris and dirt of his dying German culture. And I wonder if we won’t find him there too, in our culture.

You’ve heard about the recovering alcoholic who can’t explain why Jesus turned water into wine. He’s no astute theologian. But he does know a thing or two about Jesus turning beer into furniture—which is to say, because of his faith in Jesus, that person no longer spends all his pay check on beer. Instead, because he wants to host an AA meeting at his house once a month, he invests it in a couch, a few end-tables and a love seat. The kingdom of heaven is valuable and it’s because he recognizes this value that he not only belongs and believes; he behaves. And by focusing on the word, behave, I do not mean simply what we should do and what we shouldn’t do. I mean what we must do if we are to follow in Jesus’ footsteps.
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad.”

No one here, I hope, is frightened by what Jesus says in verses 47 and 48. But if you are, allow me to set your mind at ease. Churches like Latah Valley are not the baskets where God or God’s people sort out the good from the bad. That happens later. What happens now, at Latah Valley, is that we discern and we are disciplined in what it means to respond to God’s treasure.
3. Something old. Something new. Something you’ve been disciplined to do.

A person, named MJ, once mentioned to me a movie called, Pay It Forward, starring Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt. I saw the movie, which is about a seventh grade boy, named Trevor, who comes up with the idea of doing three random acts of kindness. Apparently, his teacher, Mr. Simonet, had challenged his class to change the world, and Trevor actually takes him seriously. On his way home from school, he rides his bike through a run-down construction site where a bunch of vagrants shoot up drugs. He invites one of these guys to his home and gives him a bowl of cereal. This guy, played by the same actor who played Jesus in The Passion of the Christ, then promises to fix the family car. He promises to do all kinds of things, but when the craving for narcotics hits him, he realizes that he can’t do what the boy had inspired him to do. He can’t do three things.

I mentioned this scene to MJ, who said that Paying It Forward resembled what we do in church. But I don’t think so, and here’s why. What we do in the name of Jesus Christ we don’t do randomly. We behave in a certain way because the treasure we have discovered contains both something new and something old. There’s continuity in the treasure that we have in Christ, and within that continuity, nothing about our behavior is random. Everything we do, everything we say, every dollar we spend, tells a story—a story that is peculiar to us and God of Jesus Christ whom we serve.

“Is it true that they’ve discovered gold buried on this property?” At a meeting recently, another minister sat in this room and made this joke. He asked this dead-pan rhetorical question when we were talking about the property here at Latah Valley—and how we can’t afford to keep the entire 16 acres. Something has to be done. And as I though about the unlikely possibility of buried gold near this very spot, I remembered a story that Tony Campolo once told.
It was the World Day of Prayer and after a long, red-eye flight home, Campolo had been invited to pray for a missionary in Venezuela. The lady who made the request, described a lonely doctor who had committed his life to serving the poor in the barrios of Caracas. But now, she needed $5,000 to expand a medical dispensary building. So, after this humble request for prayer, Tony Campolo answered No. He said, No, he would not ask God for the money, but what he would do is take all the money that he had in his pocket and put it on the altar. “And,” he said, “I’m going to ask everyone else here to do the same.” Campolo noted it was a good day to pull this off because he was only carrying $2.25 that day. But after placing the cash on the communion table, someone in the congregation smiled and said, I’ve got $110 and slapped it down. Then another person. Another person. When they tallied up the final amount, the total came to over $8,000.

Campolo then looked at the woman who made the prayer request and sighed. “The audacity of asking God for five thousand dollars,” he said, “when God has already provided us with more than eight thousand dollars.”

It’s already here. The treasure is already here. Are you ready to manage it?

Amen.

The Reason For You To BELIEVE

1. Practice Saying These Words To Yourself

Dorothy knows what to say. After a long journey on the yellow brick road, she’s has been instructed in the precise words. “Just click your heels together three times,” Glenda, the Good Witch, explains. “And think to yourself, ‘There’s no place like home… There’s no place like home… There’s no place like home…’” Well, as you probably recall, Judy Garland’s character does as she is told, and then right on cue, she finds herself back in Kansas. The film comes to its conclusion with the star actress being comforted by Auntie Em, and promoted by MGM. Things will never be the same for Francis Ethel Gumm—not even her name. And although Dorothy is now content to remain at home and never to wander too far from her own backyard, Judy Garland will always be searching for the next magical string of words, the next line that she is prompted to say.

I have a suggestion: “If I only touch his cloak…”

Fox Mulder has a strange relationship with Agent Scully. As partners with the Federal Bureau of Investigation—the F.B.I.—she is the one who presses for hard evidence, the one who looks for rational explanations, the one who always rolls her eyes and scoffs at the mystery of life. Fox, on the other hand, wants to believe. He wants to believe in Unidentified Flying Objects. He wants to believe in Big Foot. He wants to believe in a vast array of monstrous creatures and government cover-ups. But mostly, he wants to believe in belief. He wants to believe that he will never know for sure. And since the cancellation of the X-Files television series, the actor, who has plays Fox Mulder, has suffered with addictions to pornography and compulsive behavior. David Duchovny has been in and out of rehab. He wants to believe he can be made well. And maybe he can.

I have a suggestion: “If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well…”

You see, there’s something about this simple sentence which moves us beyond the realm of superstition and beyond the hocus pocus of Hollywood story-telling. Belief has a reason. Of the approximately six billion people now living on earth, five billion of them can’t be wrong. Can they? Is belief in God or belief in anything simply a matter of self-delusion or mass manipulation? Or is there a reason—a reason that can’t be denied, a reason that can’t be doubted?

This morning, based upon the passage that we’ve read in Matthew 9:18—26, my contention is that we believe because of human need. Human beings are in fact born into need, and cannot survive without certain needs being met. And yet, at the same time, we are aware of the fact that some of our needs will never be met. Our need for meaning for example. No matter how hard we try, we are not going to know where all the puzzle pieces fit; and yet somehow we remain driven to find out. Why is that? Why is it that our parents or our families may satisfy our need for security, why is it that puréed peas or pepperoni pizza may satisfy our need for nutrition, why is it that sleep may satisfy out need for rest, but when it comes to the need for meaning we can’t quite locate the thing that satisfies it? Is it because that thing doesn’t exist? Some might say so. But others, nearly five billion, practice saying these words again and again:
“If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.”

Violet Clark stopped breathing a few nights before Christmas. After weeks of suffering in the Intensive Care Unit, the doctors sent her home with her husband, where the family set up a hospital bed by the evergreen tree, which had been hastily decorated with garland. Violet couldn’t speak anymore, but her daughter, Linda, told me that for the past fifty years she used to sing in the choir. She used to sing “Silent Night, Holy Night” every December, and this would be the first time that she wouldn’t be singing. And so, with eight to ten children and grandchildren, we muttered out a melody: “sleep in heavenly peace…” And after about a minute, she died, and we believed.
2. Coming Up Behind Jesus Is Not A Bad Strategy

Now if you were to press me about what we believed, I would not say that we believed in the Wizard of Oz, or in U.F.O.’s, but I would declare that the life of Violet Clark has meaning, and the death of Violet Clark has meaning, because of the story of Jesus Christ. Likewise, in Matthew 9:18, “a leader of the synagogue” has heard the story of Jesus Christ, and because he’s heard it and believed it we see him barging into the party of tax collectors and sinners. We see him kneeling. And then we hear him expressing this terrific need:
“My daughter has just died; but come and lay your hand on her and she will live.”

This, you see, is the direct approach. And I want to be quick to point out that “a leader of the synagogue” does not have a shortage of stories from which to draw. A leader of the synagogue, for example, could believe that his daughter’s death is God’s will—and that’s the end of the story. He could believe that it’s punishment for his sins, or that it’s punishment for his daughter’s sins. But out of all these alternatives, he chooses to attach his most personal need to Jesus. And notice how this belief then gathers momentum in that it’s MY daughter who “has just died” as opposed to someone in my synagogue who has just died, or as opposed to…
“Hey Rabbi, suppose I had a daughter. Hypothetically speaking, would you come and lay your hand on her… Theoretically would she live if you touched her?”

I once had vicious argument. Are you surprised? It was in my Non-Fiction Writing class in college. I had just made a point about the connection between belief and trust. A young woman, who sat opposite me, raised her eyebrows. “When you put your trust in something,” I said, “that’s your religion. That’s your God.” “Listen,” replied the classmate, “I trust my mother and father, but that doesn’t mean that I worship them.” Her face got red and her hands flailed around like tree limbs during a storm. I looked at my teacher, who shrugged his shoulders and offered some esoteric remark about the different understandings of the word for belief. And then I said something that was truly unfair.
I said, “I don’t doubt that you trust your parents. I trust my parents too. But if you were to die, would you trust them to bring you back to life?” Well, that was the end of class for that day. But, as you might have guessed, the conversation goes on. And on. And, you see, it’s because of our feistiness, it’s because of our ego-driven tendency to argue, that another strategy may be required. What I’m talking about is verse 20 of today’s passage:
“Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years came up behind (Jesus)…”

Coming up behind Jesus is not a bad strategy. And by coming up behind Jesus I mean the avoidance of blanket statements, self-deception and commercialized dogma. When Joel Osteen says that we need to stay positive about ourselves and that a grateful attitude will determine our future success—I think he’s making a blanket statement. That blanket statement may be true; it may help some people some of the time. But verse 20 makes the case for the indirect approach, or the fringe approach; and with the indirect approach to Jesus, we don’t want to hop on the band wagon. We don’t want to publicly kneel at the party of tax collectors and sinners. All that matters is that we touch “the fringe of his cloak”—and that we do it without calling too much attention to ourselves.

Slowly but surely I’ve been making my way through the Graham Greene novel, A Burnt-Out Case. It’s the story of this lonesome man, named Querry, who doesn’t care enough to even kill himself. Making his way by boat up the Congo, he lands at a leper colony, where he mostly stands around watching Dr. Colin fuss with the medicine and the bandages. Querry is on the fringe. And without any fanfare one night he tracks a leper who has gone into the forest to die. Querry convinces the diseased man to come back and receive treatment. He prays with him all night, covering him when he’s cold with his own body. And when the report about this extraordinary act reaches the ears of the Monsignor of the church, this is what he says: “I’m wondering, does he play bridge?”

3. The Reports Of Her Death Are Greatly Exaggerated—So Believe Early and Often.

I remember reading that line and laughing out loud. Does he play bridge? You see, the official clergy person in the novel—the one who believes in Jesus directly—is bored. He longs not for the lepers to be healed, but for someone with whom he might play bridge. By contrast, coming up behind Jesus (in effect) is this distraught and depressed man who hasn’t got anything to lose.

There’s a part of Matthew 9 that I think runs parallel to this situation. It’s the part after the fringe-woman in the crowd has been “made well,” and when Jesus eventually arrives at the leader of the synagogue’s house. “When Jesus came,” it says in verse 23, he
“saw the flute players and the crowd making a commotion.”
He then says in verse 24,
“‘Go away; for the girl is not dead but sleeping.’” And they laughed at him.”

So, if you’re keeping score at home, one of the first things that we should note is that “the crowd making a commotion” is not your friend. The crowd, even if it’s a religious crowd, can’t be trusted. The crowd, in fact, greatly exaggerates the reports of the little girl’s death because the crowd gets something out of it. The crowd gets to makes cookies and jello-jellatin casserole. The crowd gets to go to the funeral and possibly be seen. But Jesus, by contrast, could care less about the crowd. He puts them outside, takes the girl by the hand and “the girl got up.”

“After a while, as I lay there,” writes Anne Lamott,
“I became aware of someone with me, hunkered down in the corner, and I just assumed it was my father, whose presence I had felt over the years when I was frightened and alone. The feeling was so strong that I actually turned on the light for a moment to make sure no one was there; of course, there wasn’t. But after a while, in the dark again, I knew beyond any doubt that it was Jesus… This experience spooked me badly but I thought it was just an apparition, born of fear and self-loathing and booze and loss of blood. But then everywhere I went, I had the feeling that a little cat was following me, wanting me to reach down and pick it up, wanting me to open the door and let it in. But I knew what would happen: you let a cat in one time, give it a little milk, and then it stays forever…”

Ann Lamott is right. The reason for you to believe may require a little milk. Every once in a while we may need to reach down. Every once in a while we may need to open the door. But what are we afraid of?

“And one week later, when I went back to church, I was so hung over that I couldn’t stand up for the songs, and this time I stayed for the sermon, which I just thought was so ridiculous, like someone trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrials, but the last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape… I began to cry and left before the benediction, and I raced home and felt the little cat running along at my heels, and I walked down the dock past dozens of potted flowers, under a sky as blue as one of God’s own dreams, and I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute, and then I hung my head and said, ‘I quit.’ I took a long deep breath and said out loud, ‘All right. You can come in.’”

Amen.

The Reason For You To BELONG

1. As Jesus Walks Along, Going Somewhere Else, He Calls To You.

Before this day is over, the reason for you to belong will become clear. It will become clear the way a rainbow becomes clear as the sun breaks through the mist. It will become clear the way a mule deer peaks its head out of the brush and then hides again in the thicket. The reason for you to belong will become clear when you realize that you’ve wanted to belong for most of your waking and sleeping life, but you’ve just been afraid to ask.

On the very year that I officially joined the church, my sister and her husband took me to Disney World. They did it, and I was glad to go. But the trip which took place at the end of May put me in a bind. Not only would the journey take me out of school for a few days—but during the time that I would be hooping it up at the Hoop-De-Doo Revue, my church had planned for me to answer certain questions. These questions had to do with belief. These questions had to do with the culmination of a nine week program, known as Confirmation. They were to come in a public service of worship where I was expected to stand before a bunch of elderly people and announce that I believed in God, that I believed in Jesus, the Holy Spirit… and… and.. Disney World. Oh, I really believed in Disney World. Disney World didn’t ask any pointed questions. At Disney World, in fact, the hardest question I might have to answer involved root beer or Pepsi. At Disney World, I would only be measured by height. And at Disney World, in the shadow of the Magic Kingdom, the coming reign of God seemed redundant and unnecessary.

****

So, in an effort to resolve the situation, my mother and I had a meeting with the pastor of this church. We told him about Disney World and we then asked if my public interrogation couldn’t be postponed until my return from Orlando. He agreed, and the rest is history. The rest is my history of thinking that God could always wait until I didn’t have anything better to do. That belonging to the church could wait until it seemed more convenient.
Now, I’m relating my Disney World dilemma because of the options that I’ve recently discovered in this morning’s Bible passage. In Matthew 9:9—13 the options that we have aren’t between Confirmation and Disney World. God forbid. No, the options run the gamut between “those who are well” and “those who are sick.” They range from “the righteous,” who Jesus does not call, and “the sinners”, who he does call. And isn’t that interesting?
“As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me…’”

Who knew that it could be that easy? Who knew that Jesus could simply be taking a stroll, minding his own business, and then all of a sudden, shout your name and ipso facto, abracadabra, you’re in? Who knew that belonging didn’t necessarily involve believing or providing the right answers to questions you’d never be asked again? Back in the ninth grade, I didn’t know. But let’s take a closer look at the options that Matthew’s facing.

2. The Tax Collectors And Sinners Are None Other Than The Oppressors And The Oppressed, The Winners And The Losers, The Hip And The Hopeless.
“I feel like I’m being corrupted now.” When an employee at the Enron Corporation talks to a colleague over the phone, this is what recorded transcripts reveal. Her name is Shari, and during the rolling black outs that occurred in California at the time, you can hear her voice trembling.
“I feel like I’m being corrupted now.”
“No, this is marketing,” comes the cynical reply. And then later we hear this:
“They’re (expletive) taking all the money back from you guys? All the money you guys stole from those poor grandmothers in California?”
“Yeah, grandma Millie, man.”
“Yeah, Grandma Millie, man. But she’s the one who couldn’t figure out how to (expletive) vote on the butterfly ballot.”
And, you see, in the background of this conversation, we can hear echoes of Matthew. Matthew comes from a class of people, known as the tax collectors, telones. And from that term (where we also get the word, oppressor, or collaborator) we can speculate about many of Matthew’s so-called friends and associates. Many of Matthew’s friends, I think, were cynical. Many of his associates were downright delusional. And how could they not be? Not only did the tax collectors earn their living by holding onto a portion of whatever fee they gathered from those who fished, farmed or built things, the people in Matthew’s class perpetuated the system in which Rome wins and Israel loses. So imagine how they sleep at night.

In his book on Incarnate Leadership president of Whitworth University, Bill Robinson, alludes to Kenneth Lay, “the late, shamed Enron CEO,” like this:
“To a person… those who knew (him) considered him a fine human being who allowed himself to get insulated high above his people. He ended up with a gap he never would have imagined, but ultimately it did him in” (p. 25).

So maybe that’s how Matthew and his buddies sleep at night. They sleep suspended in the gap. And they sweat. Each night they toss and turn. They don’t know who to trust or how to be trusted. And by day they insulate themselves in tax booths or opulent offices. They numb themselves with alcohol, drugs and addictive behaviors. And gradually, the people of Matthew’s ilk forget where they belong. Until Jesus. Until Jesus.

Until Jesus calls and they follow. The doctors had noticed that Laura had trouble socializing with the other kids on the floor. Laura’s parents had been arrested and their child placed in foster care. But first, the authorities wanted the little girl to undergo some psychiatric evaluation. And, of course, what they found had been no surprise. Laura had withdrawn. Her only playmate was a stuffed animal that her Dad had won her at the carnival.
The other kids, as they are prone to do, made fun of Laura’s bizarre attachment. But then something happened to change the dynamics. A new doctor made it a point to visit Laura and to talk with her stuffed animal. The doctor even imagined conversations with the stuffed animal. He imagined funny jokes and tasty meals, where they ate cup cakes and drank hot cocoa. He did this every day for a week, and on the seventh day, he said something aloud so that all the children could hear. He said, “Laura, would you come with me for a minute?” Then, with some hesitation, Laura dropped the raggedy toy that she had clung too so desperately. She went out into the hallway with the doctor, at a distance where all the children could hear were only whispers. Laura then returned to her place accompanied by a throng of curious and compassionate kids. She belonged.
“Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?”

This is the only question the Pharisees want answered following the call of Matthew. They want to know apparently why Jesus might risk contamination. And the response they receive, I think, is extremely gentle. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a little ironic.
“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.”
Now, there are two ways that we might interpret this saying. One is that Jesus in fact regards the Pharisees as spiritually healthy people. They have no need and no dire symptoms of disease. And so, by all appearances, the Pharisees get off rather easily. Jesus has not come for them.

Would you like to come to Jesus’ party?

No thanks. We’re good.

Would you enjoy a slice of pizza with Bernie Madoff?

No thanks. We’re good.

Would you be interested in a game of Pictionary with Phillip Paul?

No thanks. We’re good.

3. How Are You Feeling? You Might Be Worse Off Than You Look!

But, you see, another way for us to respond to the words of Jesus is not to say, categorically and unequivocally, that we’re good. Rather, if we ourselves appear set, if we ourselves appear healthy, wealthy and perfectly capable and competent, it might be time for some invasive spiritual surgery.
How are you feeling? You might be worse off than you look!

Ryan White thinks so. He was the boy, infected with the HIV virus in the mid-1980’s. One day he went to church, the church where he and his family belonged. The minister stood up and announced the passing of the peace. Everyone then went around the sanctuary shaking hands and saying hello. But although Ryan raced from person to person with an outstretched hand, no one would shake it. You see, they were sick. And Jesus has come for them, and they didn’t know it.

How are you feeling? You might be worse off than you look!

William Willimon says that “Church is where we go to be made unhappy with present arrangements.”

How are you feeling? You might be worse off than you look! And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Philip Yancey writes that, “Having spent time around sinners and also around purported saints, I have a hunch why Jesus spent so much time with the former group. I think he preferred their company. Because the sinners were honest about themselves and had no pretense, Jesus could deal with them” (What’s So Amazing About Grace).

How are you feeling? You might be worse off than you look!

And if you are—if I am—then the reason for you to belong ought to be abundantly clear. A poet once wrote about waiting at hospital for the results of his wife’s procedure. One line of the poem says a lot, “Standing at the snack bar with the whole human race…” I read that and imagined Latah Valley a part of that meandering waiting line. We’re the part where someone buys us something to eat and something to drink. And we eat and drink and talk about belonging here, with Jesus, now. Amen.

Checking The I.D. of Jesus: His Insurance Policy

1. Read The Fine Print of the Abraham Policy.

Like all important issues the history of the insurance policy is littered with good intentions and bad outcomes. For example, The Code of Hammurabi proscribes a fee for all sea-going merchants who may want to protect their cargo. Unfortunately, if the merchants die as a result of an ocean tempest or a pirate rampage, they forfeit their claim altogether. Likewise, out of the Great London Fire in 1666, where approximately 13,000 wooden houses and businesses burnt to the ground in a day, Nicolas Barbon opens an office to insure all homes made of brick. Finally, the New York Life Insurance Company recently discloses that its predecessor, the Nautilus Insurance Company, had a policy in which it would compensate slave-owners for the losses suffered when a valuable piece of their property would run away or die in the hot pursuit. Many of these claims are still on file. And the question that these anecdotes bring to mind is What’s it worth?

We know that life itself—life as a whole—is worth something. And, of course, because of that worth, we have insured the constituent parts of life that we can’t bear to lose. But suppose for the sake of argument this morning that there are things which are meant to be put at risk. And suppose the risk that we take constitutes the extent to which we value those things.

Please take some time today to read the fine print of what I will call the Abraham Policy. The Abraham Policy, which covers all Jews (including Jesus), will insuresomething that we definitely do not want to lose. But it may not be the same things that the Code of Hammurabi, or Nicolas Barbon, or New York Life insures. See if you can guess what it is:
“Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

A few years ago, Sheryl and I got this letter in the mail from State Farm Insurance. It was a letter on official letterhead that had been signed by our State Farm agent, George Wasnot. George took his valuable time to tell us that he was sorry to lose us as customers. I remember reading those words and then literally feeling my heart pound the interior wall of my chest. “Ah, George Wasnot,” I said a minute later over the phone. “Could I speak to George Wasnot?” The fact of the matter was that we had never really met George Wasnot; he was always too busy or out of the office when we signed our papers. “This is Sally Bush,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Sally,” I started to plead in my most pathetic voice. “Why is our policy being cancelled?” “Well, let me see,” Sally said while clicking her computer mouse. “It seems like you’ve missed two monthly payments in a row,” she said calmly. “Sally, this has got to be a mistake,” I replied, frantically. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Not on our part.” Well, that last remark cut me to the quick. And when I checked our files at home I realized that I had in fact not sent in our monthly payments and that I had ignored their more friendly reminders.

Now the reason I’m relating to you that episode is to contrast it with what happens with the Abraham Policy. Genesis 12:1—3 gives us the parameters of the argument that Jesus has in the eighth chapter of John’s Gospel. And first and foremost it should be emphasized that all Jewish people are descendants of Abraham and therefore that all of them have been blessed to be a blessing. In other words, within this cosmic policy, God has claimed them as his own unique dependents. Moreover, this claim is unilateral and unconditional. There is nothing a Jewish person or a Jewish family can do or say which would cancel this policy. In the Abraham Policy, unlike State Farm Insurance, God makes the claim upon his people and sends in the payment too. God does both. God performs the stipulations on both sides of the Abraham Policy. And the reason that I know this to be true is because of what Jesus says at two points in today’s passage.
First, in verse 39, he faces down some religious antagonism by saying,
“If you were Abraham’s children, you would be doing what Abraham did…”

And second, in verse 58, Jesus makes this bold declaration:
“Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.”

2. Jesus Accepts All Pre-Existing Conditions.

Now I don’t mind telling you that I am confused by these statements. But I am confused by them just as much, if not more, than I am by some of the insurance policies that I’ve signed. In one sense, it seems as if Jesus is saying that the status of the Jewish people hinges upon something that they must do. That is, for them to claim the privileges of Abraham, who had been blessed to be a blessing, they must now do what Abraham did. But in another sense, it seems as if Jesus accepts all pre-existing conditions. Let me say that again. Jesus accepts all pre-existing conditions.

Gene Davenport had been assigned as pastor of a small United Methodist congregation, 25 miles from Birmingham, Alabama. One Sunday night he was preaching when a procession of robed Klansmen barged into the church and approached the communion table. Each one, in ceremonial fashion, dropped an offering of money on the table, right next to the cup of Christ and the bread of salvation. Now, it didn’t take an insurance agent to know what they were trying to do. The Klansmen were trying to insure their own status before God and to validate their own racist claims. And so, without thinking too much, the young preacher simply reacted. He stepped over the communion rail and said, “We don’t want your money.” And then, as the robed men continued their ritual without speaking, Pastor Gene Davenport scooped up the dollar bills and held them over his head. He looked over the members of his shocked congregation, and then ripped the money into tiny pieces of confetti. Now which offering is acceptable to God?
Is it the offering that God has already provided on our behalf? Or is it the way to try to insure the status quo? Well, before I tell you what happened next in that Alabama church, let me return to Abraham. Jesus says that in order to claim the privileges of Abraham there must be an imitation of what Abraham did. And, of course, we know from reading the Genesis story that Abraham did a lot of things. Not all of them virtuous. For example, once Abraham lied about his wife and told the inhabitants of Gerar that she was his sister (Genesis 20:2). Once Abraham impregnated his wife’s hand maiden, Hagar, who later gave birth to Ishmael. After a brief family fracas Abraham then kicked Hagar and Ishmael out. Abraham did a lot of things. But probably the one thing that Jesus has in mind is that he believed that God would provide.

God would provide Abraham a son in his old age. And the way that God would insure the life and integrity of that son is totally bizarre. According to Genesis 22, God commands Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. God actually instructs him in how to do it, and what’s even more absurd is that Abraham is willing to do it. Abraham is poised to plunge the sacrificial knife into the sacrificial flesh of the child when an angel of the Lord stops him. And, you see, if we were Abraham’s children, what might that mean?

Well, in the case of Gene Davenport, it means receiving a phone call in the middle of the night. It means hearing a Secret Service agent summon you to federal court on the charge of defacing the currency of the United States (David Augsburger, Dissident Discipleship). And it means risking everything—life, reputation and future—on the belief—on the Abraham policy—that God has already provided.

God has already provided. That’s the insurance policy of Jesus and that’s the way by which he is identified in people like us to this day.

3. There’s A Glory Clause We Should Know About.

After the events of March 16, 1968, Hugh Thompson was in danger of losing his benefits. The Veterans Administration, whose policy had guaranteed his health care, was about ready to cut the army officer loose. What happened was this: as Hugh Thompson flew his helicopter over the village of My Lai in Vietnam, he observed ground troops from his own country. These troops, under the command of William Calley, had begun to slaughter dozens of unarmed and helpless old men, women and children. So, Thompson set down his helicopter in the crossfire between his own troops and the Vietnamese civilians. He then ordered the American soldiers to stop killing the villagers. He then called for other helicopters to transport the survivors out of harm’s way. And, you see, for this act, Hugh Thompson was reprimanded, and nearly court-martialed. Under the policies of the U.S. Veterans Administration, he could have lost everything (Tom Long, Testimony). But under the provisions of God in Christ, not so.

According to John 8:54, there’s a glory clause that we should know about. Jesus describes it like this:
“If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me…”

Here at Latah Valley I want to lift up this sense of glory. There are things in this life that we will be called upon to risk, things like reputation and health and economic status, that we may lose. But, if we do what Abraham did, we will be fully insured and fully assured: God has already provided.

Amen.

the disinherited… the disoriented… the daring border crosser

The mission of Latah Valley has three distinct people in mind: the disinherited, the disoriented and the daring boundary crosser for Christ…

The first is the woman, who goes by the initials YZ in a poem by Czeslaw Milosz. He writes,

“You told me then that as a child you had never seen a forest,
Only a brick wall outside a window,
And I felt sorry for you because
So much disinheritance is our portion
If you were the king’s daughter, you didn’t know it…”

This is the first person for whom Latah Valley has been started, the person who is unaware of her inheritance in Christ Jesus, the person who does not yet know that she has a place, a verdant place, in the kingdom of God. She is the person, I believe, who now lives in and around Spokane.

And she has a neighbor. This person is remembered in the Annie Dillard book, Teaching A Stone To Talk. She is among the ladies who are just now realizing that they should have worn crash helmets to worship instead of velvet or straw hats. “Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares,” says Dillard. “They should lash us to our pews…”

Finally, the third person who we have in mind at Latah Valley is the whiskey priest. The whiskey priest is the nameless cleric in the Graham Greene novel, The Power And The Glory. In the 1930’s apparently nearly every Roman Catholic church in the Tabasco Province of Mexico had been closed down by government officials. The whiskey priest, however, kept performing his duties. In spite of his own mistakes and sense of guilt, he went from village to village, hosting communion and baptizing children. Finally, after months of being on the run, he makes it across the border, where he’s safe. Everything’s going to be okay… until a suspicious peasant tells him about a dying man who needs a priest to hear his confession. The dying man is back on the other side of the border. And so, although he knows better, the whiskey priest dares to cross the border, back into the Tabasco Province, where he is captured and killed by police.

And so, with these three people in mind—with the disinherited, the disoriented and with the daring boundary crosser in mind—let me tell you about the tangible ministries that we aspire to be about, and the steps we’d like to take with you as our hand-holding parents.

First and foremost we want to worship in this place, and we want to offer it as a retreat to you and many others.

Second, we want to connect through Threshold Groups with men, women and children in the neighborhoods up and down the 195 highway. And, over time, we want to develop and disciple them as leaders.

And third, through the arts, through gardening, through poetry, prayer and playing horseshoes we want to reach out further and further into the world… We desire mission relationships with people in Gambella, Ethiopia, Rahjastan, India, Eastern Europe and elsewhere.