Checking The ID of Jesus: His Social Security

1. Jesus Matters Because of What He Says About The Future
You may not know this, but Jesus of Nazareth has his own Social Security. Not to take anything away from the Act of Congress, signed into law in 1935, but the Social Security of Jesus will take care of us long before and long after our retirement years. It will take care of us whether we’ve been assigned a nine-digit number or not. It will take care of us whether we’ve been issued a card or not. In fact, the only requirement for participation in this plan is that we begin to identify with what Jesus says about the future. Jesus matters because of what he says about the future, and what he says, among other things, is this:
“The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed…”

Now, you may not be too impressed with that statement, but it only takes a moment’s reflection for us to realize the vast array of things that can be observed. We live in a culture where people can grow into adulthood and actually observe more life than they live. For example, in the film, Being There, Peter Sellers plays Chance the Gardener, a man with no identity except for the fact that he watches an inordinate amount of T.V. Chance, it seems, has been cloistered away on the grounds of vast estate for his entire life. The only exposure he’s had to the outside world and to relationships in that outside world has been through the television. But when the old man who has raised the gardener dies, the lawyers find Chance and tell him that he has to leave. Being there, however, will prove difficult for a man who has only watched from a safe distance. And then, while wandering the snowy sidewalks of Washington DC, Chance sees multiple images of himself in the multiple screens of an electronics store. Apparently the store managers had rigged up a camera to attract pedestrians. Chance has never really seen himself before, and as he’s backing up to get a wider view he’s struck by a car. The accident breaks his leg, and the pain that he feels is his first indication that there’s more to life than what can be observed. And likewise, Jesus.

In no uncertain terms, Jesus tells the Pharisees that the kingdom is not coming with things that can be observed. So if it can’t be observed, can it be experienced? Can it be felt? Can it be entered? Can we actually participate in the future possibility of the kingdom of God by making ourselves vulnerable to it here and now?
2. Jesus Matters Because of What He Says About Relationships
You see, I think the answer to that question is an emphatic YES. And Jesus matters, not only because of what he says about the future (which is mysterious and unclear) but also because of what he says relationships. And what he says about relationships goes like this:
“The kingdom of God is among you.”

For example, a woman raises twelve children—eleven of them are foster kids, not her own biological children. All of them have special needs. And when the local news correspondent comes out to interview her, he can see how tired she is, and how she struggles financially. “Why?” he wonders. “Why have you taken on this tremendous responsibility?”

“I saw a new world coming,” says the mother with her eyes gleaming. “I saw a new world coming,” she repeats. “I saw a new world coming.”

Now, let’s contrast that kingdom among you motivation for building relationships with what Barbara Brown Taylor mentions in her book, An Altar In The World. She tells about joining a fellowship group in college, and one of the leaders kept telling her, “I love you.” Well, after a while, Barbara became exasperated with what she perceived to be a cliché. She said to this leader, “But why do you love me? You hardly know me.”

“Aaaahh” came the hesitant reply. “I love you because, er, um, that’s what we’re supposed to do. God loves everybody, including you. ”
So, you may be wondering about the problem with that statement. And I’m not going to label it as a problem so much as a teachable moment. I believe that when Jesus makes remarks like the kingdom of God is among you he does not intend to fill our minds with behavior that we’re supposed to do. Rather he really means for us to stumble upon one another, to hurt and be hurt by one another. He means for us to experience the other person in all her inglorious and tedious moments. He means for us to actually find something specific, something idiosyncratic about the other person and to so love that small detail that we ache with joy.

Recently, for reasons that I cannot disclose, I’ve had the chance to think about The Game of Life. The Game of Life, as you may know, is a board game which has been produced and mass-marketed for generations. And one of things that you notice about The Game of Life is that it’s meant to follow the significant decision points of your life. There’s graduation. There’s the first job. There’s marriage. There’s the first house. There’s paying taxes. There’s having children, grandchildren… And the goal, the ultimate goal for which each token moves around the board, is to retire comfortably with a pension or to at least reap the benefits of Social Security.

Now what do you suppose is missing from The Game of Life? I’m going to shock you by saying that what’s missing from The Game of Life is the shadow of death and the encounter with human suffering. And, you see, when it comes to Jesus of Nazareth, this is a reality that he refuses to leave out.
“For as lightening flashes and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day. But first he must endure much suffering and be rejected by this generation.”

God, it scares me sometimes how much we believe the hype and hysteria about Jesus and avoid the substance of what he’s saying right here.

3. Jesus Matters Because He Sorts Out The Hype and Hysteria
Jesus is not guaranteeing any person in this room a secure and safe retirement. What he’s promising is something far, far, far better—too good to comprehend. Without having to travel great distances and without getting your face on television, the kingdom of God will happen in us, around us and through us.

How Many Seasons of Rejection Must We Go Through

Read Mark 12:1–11

1. We’re Leasing This Place

In the beach house that my mother rented for us in New Jersey, I noticed two signs. One sign had been affixed to the top of this small refrigerator in the dining room; it read, “Owner’s Refrigerator;” and on the handles of this appliance someone had tied a plastic doohickey to keep us from opening the doors and perhaps pilfering a spare stick of butter. I spent a day imagining the contents of that off-limits refrigerator, and then I forgot about it. We had enough butter anyway. But the other sign in this leased duplex really troubled me. It had been strategically placed in an intimate location—the bathroom, just outside the shower. And in big bold letters, just as you might lift your head, after washing your face there would be this stark reminder. Adjacent to your own reflected image in the mirror were the words, “Owner’s Cabinet.”

Now, I don’t know why I let these things bother me. There is certainly no shame in leasing a place to stay on vacation (especially if your mother is paying for it). People do it all the time, in season and out of season. But to be totally honest with you, I guess my problem resembles the problem of the tenants in Jesus’ parable. Namely, I don’t like the reminders that I don’t own this place. I don’t like the fact that some cabinets and refrigerators are closed to me. And, not to blow things out of proportion, but I don’t like the subtle indications that you and I are leasing this life—that we aren’t so much leading it as we are occupying the space and the time that been allotted to us. I don’t like it that relationships come and go, according to certain peak seasons. And I definitely don’t like the fact that the experiences that we savor are often very short and fleeting. In sum and to paraphrase the rock group, Cold Play, I don’t particularly like the fact that we now “sweep the streets we used to own”… if we ever owned them at all.

“A man planted a vineyard,” says Jesus. And when he begins his story in the twelfth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, what we know intuitively is that we are not that man. That man who conceived of the project and who cultivated the property is not us. In fact that man may be radically different than any person we have ever met.

Two passages from the Hebrew Scriptures are probably informing Jesus here. One is Isaiah 5:1—7, where God is disappointed with Israel in the same way that a vineyard owner might be disappointed with a wild crop of grapes. That vineyard owner doesn’t want wild grapes; he wants cultivated grapes so that he might produce a cultivated wine. And, as a result, he’s going to let things go; he’s not going to prune it. He’s not going to hoe it. He’s not going to care who tramples on the fruit, and what briars and thorns grow up around it. And, if you were looking for a positive spin on the Isaiah 5 vineyard, it is only this: God owns it. God owns the vineyard even if he’s abandoned it; and if we have any role at all to serve in an abandoned vineyard it is to remind God that it all belongs to him.

On a more mundane level, 1 Kings 21 tells about a vineyard that’s owned by Naboth. Naboth is a good guy who would do anything for anyone. But if there’s one thing he will not do it is sell his vineyard. Naboth will not sell—not even to King Ahab, who makes a more than generous offer. And yet, rather than living with the rejection of his offer, King Ahab complains so much that Queen Jezebel gets involved. She counsels her husband to spread lies about Naboth so that as a result of the slander Naboth will be stoned to death and Naboth’s vineyard will be condemned outright by the king. Now, if that sounds like some down and dirty and dubious behavior, you’re right. It is. But why should we expect anything else? When it comes to owning and operating any vineyard anywhere in the Bible the track record is very poor. Even the Garden of Eden didn’t turn out as God planned.
And yet, there is one glimmer of hope with the vineyard that’s described in Mark 12, and that is that Jesus may be the heir.

2. Jesus Is The Heir Unapparent

Jesus may be the heir who has been sent into this vineyard, into this life, into this world; and although we’ve done everything we can to reject him, he’s not going away.

“Didn’t you get the memo?” In the film, Batman Begins, the chairman of the board at Wayne Enterprises makes a sarcastic remark to Lucius Fox, an ingenious engineer who works in the basement on special projects that have been discarded. According to the chairman, the whole division has been scraped, making the work of the engineer un-necessary and irrelevant. But, you see, the true heir of Wayne Enterprises has other ideas. Although he appears aloof and indifferent to the day to day business operations of the company, his secret identity as Batman means that he needs and very much wants Lucius Fox to stay on. Lucius is therefore not fired. On the contrary, in a stunning reversal, he is elevated to the status of the very one who had fired him. “Didn’t you get the memo?” he says with a grin.

You see, if it is true that Jesus is the Crucified and the Resurrected Son of God, he alone has the authority to say whose work is necessary and critical to God’s Mission and who, because of hubris and pride of ownership, needs to hit the road. Jesus is the heir, and although his authority may be unapparent to some—although he is the heir unapparent—a huge component of our faith commitment to him means that we will not be afraid of rejection. In fact, the rejection that we sometimes face may be the very sign that we have been sent by his Holy Spirit. We say in effect—this is the Owner’s House. This is the Owner’s Business. These are the Owners Resources, the Owner’s Tools.
Barbara Brown Taylor describes two Desert Fathers—two mystics who spent their time in the desert of Egypt during the second century. As they lived far from any real property or civilization, however, they had a problem in that they couldn’t understand what ordinary people fight about. One of them found a brick, however, and told the other one, “You must say, ‘This is my brick,’ and I will respond, ‘No, this is my brick.’” So, there, in the middle of the desert, as the sun sunk beneath the horizon, the two men engaged in a little ancient role playing. One pointed to the brick and declared, ‘This is my brick.’ The other said and did the same thing. They repeated these phrases on into the night, until finally they prayed, “O Lord God, Sovereign King of the Universe, this is your brick.” So,
“The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone…”

3. The Best Mortar For Building A New Church Is Rejection

This is the main dynamic that I want to address. Mark 12:10 reflects back on a passage from Psalm 118. And when Jesus pulls this poetry out of his heart and out of the received tradition of the people of Israel, everything that we once considered as foundational begins to shake and shift. Suddenly, you see, every season of rejection that’s recounted in verses one through eleven becomes like mortar. God actually makes use of our rejection. God actually mixes it with the rejection of people who have gone before us and the rejection of those who will follow us. God actually takes every tear that we’ve shed over some lost job or some lost marriage or some lost opportunity—and puts it alongside the same blood that Jesus shed on the cross. And suddenly, our vulnerability to risk, our willingness to suffer rejection becomes the very stuff that keeps us close to the cornerstone. The stone that the builders rejected—that stone that seemed so cracked and weak—has become pivot point upon which all things are built.

Informing Others On The Seasons

1. By Practicing Faith Ourselves We Help Others Wake Up To God’s Activity In History

We returned from vacation last week, and on the very next day, Philip started football practice. He practices now for the upcoming season, which takes place every year around this time. And, as I thought about the types of activities that would occupy the remainder of his summer—the running, the catching, the tackling and the sweating—it occurred to me that faith in Jesus Christ resembles that same kind of same physical routine.

Faith is practice. And faith, in order for it to be an exercise of trust, must be practiced. And, you see, just as I wake up to the beginnings of fall, when Philip practices football, I wonder if others don’t wake up to God’s activity in history by the way that you and I practice faith. That’s the theme for today’s scripture passage:
“Now concerning the times and the seasons, brothers and sisters, you do not need to have anything written to you…”

You see, the Christians of Thessalonika, don’t require any additional information. They don’t require a download of theoretical knowledge about God What they require, and what we desperately need, is the encouragement to put what has already been communicated into a tangible, blood, sweat and tears practice.

“You’re going to talk about God again, aren’t you?” The question came out of the blue. I was just sipping my beer, balancing my body weight on the barstool. The BCS Bowl game had just flickered to an end on one of the television sets. And just as the weather forecaster began her update on the latest hurricane to strike the Gulf of Mexico, I could feel the heavy breath of the new season upon my face. “You’re going to talk about God again…”

Now, whether or not, this is an occupational hazard, I must admit that I can talk about God.
I can talk about God the way a mechanic can talk about a carburetor. I can talk about God the way a seamstress can talk about the new fashion. I can talk about God the way a doting mother can talk about her toddler. I can talk about God the way a politician can make campaign promises ad infinitum. But I’ll be honest with you. When this former high school athlete at the pub extinguished his cigarette on his plate of nachos and asked me that question, I didn’t feel like talking about God at all. In fact, after cursing out the bad call of the referee and second-guessing the fourth and one decision of the coach that I had seen via satellite, God was the furthest thing from my mind. And yet, with one season fading into the next, the man next to me ached for a radically new set of practices. And, amazingly, for the first time, he was ready to listen.
“Now concerning the times and the seasons, brothers and sisters, you do not need to have anything written too you. For you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.

2. The First Rays of Light Are Already Shining On Latah Valley

Craig Barnes has an interesting way of describing what happens on the tightrope between the proclaimed words of the Bible and the everyday experiences of people we know. He says that sometimes there is “a flash of recognition” during which some people will discover treasure that has been buried under years of busyness and anxiety. The treasure is the nothing more and nothing less than the restored value of a person’s soul, his or her life. But for others that same message of grace is perceived as a threat, almost as if Jesus has come or is coming, “like a thief,” to steal what they’ve earned fair and square.

“At the name of Aslan,” C.S. Lewis writes in his classic Chronicles of Narnia,

“each one of the children felt something jump inside. Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer” (The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, p. 68).

Now, what’s intriguing to me about this paragraph is that I have known fully grown and very sophisticated adults who have just as varied a response to the name of Jesus. Depending upon life circumstances, Jesus is either the one who will uncover a long-lost and buried treasure, or Jesus is secretly shutting down the security system with an eye to plundering everything that we’ve worked so hard to achieve. Michal J. Fox, the famous star of Back To The Future, looks at his Parkinson’s Disease in a profound way. During an Oprah Winfrew, he said it’s like the gift that keeps on taking. The gift that keeps on taking.

I once performed a funeral service for a woman who had lived forty years in the same house. She lived there all of her married life. She raised five kids there. She made breakfast, lunch and dinner there. In this same house, she dusted the furniture, made the beds, ironed the linens. She shoveled the walks in the winter and opened the windows in the summer. And when I met with the family of this woman, trying to gain an insight into this person’s life, the youngest child recalled “the night of the break-in,” which also happened to be the morning of her birth. Evidently, there had been a series of robberies in the neighborhood, and because of the small size of the police force, nothing could be done. But when this thief jimmied the lock and entered the home of this now deceased woman, she stood in the doorway and pointed her finger. With a commanding voice, she said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Now get out of this house.” She then promptly went into labor and gave birth the next day.

And, you see, it may sound strange, but maybe that’s the way we need to think of church. Maybe that’s the way we need to picture Latah Valley’s newly forming community. This is actually the point of the break-in. This is actually the birth canal through which the new life comes. The day of the Lord, according to First Thessalonians, is breaking in. But because we belong to that day, we don’t need to be caught by surprise.
We can practice. We can get ready for God in the same way a pregnant woman rouses easily in the dawn hour of the season in which she’s due to give birth.
“But since we belong to the day, let us be sober and put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation.”

3. Routine… Routine… Sudden Glimpse of Change… Routine… Complete Salvation!

In other words, routine is not the antithesis of fun-loving, adventurous faith. Craig Barnes says that “after wasting far too many years trying to do the spectacular, it has finally occurred (to him) that God loves routine.” Routine, in fact, is what First Thessalonians recommends with its continual imagery of day and night and night and day. Moreover, in chapter five, verse eight (which I just read), the apostle Paul takes up a military metaphor. Military people drill and drill, submit to boot camp rituals, all with the notion, of getting ready, of practicing for the real engagement. And could it be that God involves us in routine for the same reason?

Thomas Merton once wrote about a conversation which took place between two monks—one a novice and the other, his teacher. After years of training, praying the five offices of the day, waking up early and doing menial chores and chanting hymns in Latin, the novice had had enough. He said to his teacher, if God’s grace is like the sunrise, why must I do these exercises and learn these disciplines? The teacher’s response was perfectly timed: “Ah, you do them in order to be awake for the sunrise.”

Routine… Routine… Sudden Glimpse of Change… Routine… Routine… And that’s how it goes. “One season following another, ladened with happiness and tears…” According to The Fiddler On The Roof, that’s how it goes. And yet, for followers of Jesus Christ, there is this profound hope: One day we will wake up to something radically, radically new. A new day.
It will be a day more real and more solid and more genuine than anything that we’ve experienced in the routine of life and death.

Last week, for example, I went on vacation with my family. We went back to Pennsylvania and to New Jersey and at the beach in Sea Isle, New Jersey, I picked up again on the routine of my lazy childhood days. This is how it went:
The sun would rise, the waves would crash on the beach, and I would be asleep. I slept until about nine o’clock, stumbled into the kitchen of our rental house and made a cup of coffee. After reading a few chapters in a good book, I ate breakfast on the deck and chatted with my mother and sister. It was good to talk with them. Then, after breakfast, I put on my bathing suit, lathered up with sun block and headed east. I shuffled my feet about half a block to the ocean, found a decent spot of open sand and flopped in the sun. This was my routine, and by entering into it I remembered what it was like to not be responsible for much of anything.

Well, suddenly something changed and I’ll tell you when it happened. It happened when the grandchild of my sister Linda came down. His name is Jackson and he is a precocious, little two year old chunk of a boy. And I don’t mind telling you that this kid knows things. He’s like a sponge; every word that’s around him is absorbed into his vocabulary. And I could see how Jackson’s mother would have her hands full with the routine of raising this child. But think about this moment. Jackson wants an apple and he sees very clearly on the table a bowl of apples. He reaches for one and prepares bite down when his mother breaks the news. “Jackson, that’s not real. That’s not a real apple,” she says, pointing to the plastic, decorative display of fruit. And then, of course, the child cries. “No…” he screams with the pathos that only two year olds can master. And when I hear that cry, I remember my own cry. And, God help me, I want to be there. Don’t you? Don’t you want to be there at the change of seasons to help others live out what’s real and what’s not real? Amen.

SAY HELLO TO THE EMPEROR

1. We’ve Still Got A Lot To Learn About Transitions
In the corner of a dank barn, a brown spider climbs upon one of the dusty rafters. Many of the domesticated animals feed upon the straw and the grain that’s been provided by the farmer. Among them a lonely pig lays down in the dirt. And then, from out of the cobwebs and the crevices comes the voice of the arachnid: “Greetings and Salutations.”

Now whether or not you believe in talking spiders is irrelevant to E.B. White, the author of Charlotte’s Web. What matters is not the scientific veracity of the children’s classic tale, but the transition. We’ve still got a lot to learn about transitions. We always have a lot to learn about transitions. Every greeting, no matter how small, alters our individual perspective. Each Hello and each Goodbye makes us different than the moment before.

Consider a warrior from the dwindling Sioux nation. The English translation of his name is Wind In His Hair. In full native regalia he bestrides a noble white horse. He lifts his spear into the air with his right hand and begins to shout. The winter encampment of his tribe gathers and listens below his granite perch. “Dances With Wolves,” he bellows to the white man who had once been called, John Dunbar. “I am Wind In His Hair. Can’t you see that I am your friend? Can’t you see that I will always be your friend?”

I’d like to focus this morning on the exhilarating cycle of Hello and Goodbye. Think about this: in Philippians, chapter 4, the apostle Paul begins to wrap up his correspondence with the church in Philippi. He desperately wants to leave them with a good impression, and to that end, he refers to the congregation as “my joy and my crown.” That’s a lofty way to tie up loose ends; and it’s rather eloquent, isn’t it? But then, in verse two, we stumble upon
“I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women…”
You see, implicit in the cyclical nature of Paul’s apostolic greetings are the claims that he makes upon others and the claims that others will make upon him. And just think about how these claims are accentuated when we recognize the presence of God within them.

For example, when the twin cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, are destroyed in Genesis 19, there is a transition during which the family of a man named Lot may escape. By the grace of God, they do escape. But when Lot’s wife looks back she not only fails to say Goodbye, but she fails to acknowledge the claim that’s being made upon her by God; and according to verse 26 she’s turned into a pillar of salt. Lot’s descendents become known as the Moabites, and centuries later, the two sons of Naomi inter-marry with some Moabite women and relocate to the country of Moab. Everything’s fine until the two sons die, and Naomi is left with two clingy daughters-in-law—one by the name of Orpah and the other, Ruth. Naomi then makes her way back to the land of Judah and tries to convince to say Goodbye. Orpah listens and leaves, but Ruth won’t go. That is, having realized the claim made upon her by Naomi’s God, she says,
“Your people shall be my people and your God, my God” (Ruth 1:16).

2. Gather Up The Past and Affirm What’s Happened
You see, we still have a lot to learn about transitions. And one of the things we have to learn is to gather up the past and to affirm what’s happened. Let’s not ignore what’s happened—even if, in the moment, we can’t see the sense of it. Let me clarify. Based upon a close reading of Philippians 4, it’s clear that Paul doesn’t want to wax on nostalgically about the glory days. He doesn’t want to live in the past. But he does want very much to gather up the events of the past into what he calls “a fragrant offering, a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God” (v. 18).

As a small child, Tom Long got a whiff of this same sacrifice as he stood in the sitting room of his grandmother’s South Carolina home. Among the genealogy of photographs that hung on the wall of that room, he pointed to the portrait of a man dressed in the Union uniform of the Civil War. “Who is that man?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re old enough to understand,” replied the grandmother. And then, years later, during the transition of her dying days, she did just that.
“In May of 1862, after the smoke had cleared from the field of battle at Williamsburg, Virginia, this chaplain rode out onto the field on his horse to see if there were any wounded troops who had been left behind, and he came across a nineteen year old Confederate soldier, lying wounded and terrified in a ditch. The boy had taken a bullet that had practically severed his leg at the knee, and he was slowing bleeding to death…”

But “feeling compassion,” the man in the picture gathered up the wounded enemy and carried his broken body to the Union medical tent. His nineteen year old leg had to be amputated. Yet the bleeding stopped. The boy survived and grew stronger, transition after transition, into Tom Long’s great-grandfather (Preaching From Memory To Hope, p. 22).

You see, it may sound strange, but I believe that part of faith in Christ Jesus is to affirm that stuff. What happened? What actually happened in between the big battles and the epic struggles that are written down in the history books, and that appear now on Cable Television? What happened? What choices did others make to produce the person and the persons that we’ve become? Into what ditches of the past did God send his compassion so that you and I could be alive and well today? What sacrifices did others offer that still waft in the wind?
“I know what it is to have little and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry; of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me…”

And if we could possibly interrogate Paul on how—how has he “learned the secret”—I think he would tell us about his transitions, about the times that he had to gather up all that’s happened to him, through him and around him.
Anna Akhmatova is a poet who once stood in a long line outside a Leningrad prison. She stood there, in the freezing cold, awaiting the release of some family members. Another person, with blue, trembling lips, recognized her and whispered, “Can you describe this?” “I can” is the answer that Ann Akhmatova gave, and the poem, published in 1967, is called Requiem, which means peace.

3. Greet The Spies Who Love Us
You see, when we read words and phrases like “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding” (v. 7) I’m not sure that we appreciate how these syllables correspond to all the Hello’s and the Goodbye’s given to us by God. Take, for example, Philippians 4:22:
“All the saints greet you, especially those of the emperor’s household.”

Now, the chances are not very good for Paul (while in prison) to have made friends with the immediate family of Caesar. “Caesar is Lord” pledge the Romans while saluting the flag. “Caesar is Lord,” they declare while paying their income taxes. “Caesar is Lord,” they shout while taking in a gladiatorial bout at the Forum. And so, it seems highly unlikely that Paul, who contradicted these remarks, would stand a chance of rubbing shoulders with the likes of Emperor Nero, Emperor Trajan or Emperor Domitian. And yet, what biblical scholars will say is that among the thousands of officials and slaves who worked in Caesar’s administration, there were bound to be some who secretly said, “Jesus Is Lord.” And in closing I want to emphasize the subversive nature of this exchange.

Eugene Peterson suggests that Christians in the world today are like spies. And until the coming of God’s Kingdom we will always function like spies. We are like spies who have infiltrated a foreign country, a country whose ways and customs often run contrary to the Crucified and Risen Christ, a country that doesn’t realize that its days are numbered. So, say hello to the emperor and don’t be afraid. Say hello and have the courage to say goodbye.
Over the years I’ve had the chance to greet some of the spies who love us in Christ. And do you know how you can tell a spy has come into your midst? You can tell a spy by the scent of sacrifice that lingers in the air after she’s gone. A spy is someone who gathers up the events of his past and who learns from every transition that life throws down.

Before his assassination, Arch Bishop Oscar Romero introduced the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. He said,
“May this Body immolated and this Blood sacrificed for Mankind
nourish us also, that we may give our body and our blood over to
suffering and pain, like Christ — not for Self, but to give harvests
of peace and justice to our People.”

He was a spy.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was arrested by the Gestapo for preaching against Nazi policies. On the day he was sent to the gallows he said, “This is the end, but for me it is the beginning…” And he was a spy.

And there are other spies, I have no doubt. Even around Spokane. And who knows? Maybe even you’ve been turned. And the only way we’d know is by the way you give yourself like Christ again and again.

Amen.

SENSITIVE SKIN

1. Who Has Confidence In The Flesh Today?
I-Robot’s founder forecasts a day when a child will say to his parents, “I’d like to upgrade my ears…” That is, instead of asking for a new stereo system, or an I-Pod or the chicest cell phone, Colin Angle anticipates elective surgery—a procedure in which specially trained doctors will permanently implant neuro-transmitters within the organic framework of a person’s flesh. And I guess I’m not so sure I like the sound of that. It will be the equivalent, says Angle, of students coming to class with their own pocket calculators. And when it comes time for the test, the teacher will simply have to tell the students to disconnect or disengage their neuro-transmitters, lest they download the pertinent information without thinking things through themselves.

Now, I hate to be a stick-in-the-mud and stand in the way of progress. But, based upon today’s passage in Philippians 3, I’m skeptical about these advances—and by skeptical I don’t mean to imply that they won’t happen. These and many other technological advances are probably well on their way. It’s just that a merging of human and robotic body parts is not the kind of transcendent goal for which, I think, we’ve been created.

Consider the word, flesh, which Paul employs often in his letters—sometimes positively and sometimes negatively. Today’s text is weighted heavily on the negative side of the spectrum. And the reason is that the Philippian congregation has been split down the middle. One faction says that for a Gentile to be a good Christian he must first be circumcised like a good Jew. The other faction declares rather emphatically that it’s not necessary to be circumcised. And what’s interesting is that although Paul has been circumcised (see verse five) he is among those who don’t think it’s necessary. “Beware of those who mutilate the flesh,” he inveighs. We “boast in Christ” and “have no confidence in the flesh,” he adds proudly.

And so, if you’re out there, wondering how robotic implants could possibly be a bad thing (since it means less flesh and more robot), let me clarify. By flesh or sarx in the Greek, Paul doesn’t mean to refer to the epidermis or to any part of a person’s anatomy. By flesh he means the whole compulsive matrix of impressing people with external advantages. Flesh might then include a person’s level of income, a person’s status, position or pedigree, a person’s set of skills—or frequently the way by which we brand one another as buyers of certain consumer products. Who is confident in the flesh today? Believe it or not, The Rolling Stones once sang a response to this question in this way:
When I’m drivin’ in my car
And that man comes on the radio
He’s tellin’ me more and more
About some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination
I can’t get no, oh no no no
Hey hey hey, that’s what I say

I can’t get no satisfaction
I can’t get no satisfaction
‘Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can’t get no, I can’t get no

When I’m watchin’ my TV
And that man comes on to tell me
How white my shirts can be
But he can’t be a man ’cause he doesn’t smoke
The same cigarettes as me
I can’t get no, oh no no no
Hey hey hey, that’s what I say

You see, what Mic and company croon about is the same theme that we touched on last week. There is a song that’s being sung in the universe—a song that’s true and life-giving. But in the meantime we contend with the perversions and the distortions of that original song. We do battle with all kinds of delusional commercials that make all kinds of promises in terms of health, wealth and prosperity, but in the end, what Mic sings is true. “I can’t get me no satisfaction… No… No… No…” And yet, hang on.

2. For Faith That’s More Than Skin Deep, Discern Between “The Prize” and “The Rubbish”

What if our very search for satisfaction “in the flesh” is actually the bread crumb trail back to Christ? What if, after getting lost in the forest of the flesh—of trying to get an advantage over other—you and I can boldly turn and retrace our steps? “If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh I have more,” Paul writes…
“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ… I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him.”

You see, for faith that more than skin-deep, we have to discern between the “rubbish” in verse 8 and “the prize of the heavenly call of God” in verse 14. And if you estimate that process to be relatively easy, you’re in for a big surprise. Paul checks himself by saying, “Not that I have already obtained this, or have already reached the goal” (v. 12)—but straining forward…

In Herman Melville’s classic story, Billy Budd, there’s a surgeon who prides himself on being quite accomplished and adroit with the scalpel. Coincidently, a shipmate falls ill, and the surgeon has the opportunity to exercise his skill. So, as the patient lies prone and unconscious on the table, the surgeon cuts into the flesh and exposes the internal organs. He even takes the time to offer a running commentary on his work and then sews up the incision and basks in the glow of a job well done. The only problem, of course, is that the patient has died. He is no longer living. And therefore, when the crew realizes this terrible result, they trade the esteem in which they once held the surgeon for disdain.

You see, I don’t mean to make a bad comparison here, but it seems to me that many of our churches are in danger of dying on the table. And it’s not that they’re unskilled or incompetent when it comes to worship. It’s not that they don’t know how to impress people with all kinds of cool programs.
It’s that while people are being impressed, the very reason for gathering as the body of Christ—the forgiveness, the transformation and self-giving service—fades into the background and dies. “For many,” says Paul in verse 18,
“live as enemies of the cross of Christ… and now I tell you even with tears.”

An actor, named Bruce, once played the part of Jesus of Nazareth in a performance of The Gospel of Matthew. He did well. And following the death of his character on the cross, the other actors took him down from the prop, representing the crucifix and placed his body on the floor of the stage. The performance, as you well know, goes on from there to the hope of the resurrection. But this actor, as he’s laid out on the stage, trying to be dead, notices a ball of fuzz and dust about four feet from his face. And as he’s breathing, but attempting not to breath, the dust ball is being drawn toward him. It’s a very awkward moment. And, you see, what occurred to Bruce the actor, as he watched this piece of garbage come closer and closer to the sensitive skin of his actor’s face is that he could not have done what Jesus historically did. He could not and would never achieve the prize on his own. The Spirit of the real Jesus would have to implant into his heart, into his mind and into his body the sheer hope of the prize being given to him.

3. Where & How We Belong Will Determine Our Toughness
“Our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory” (20—21).

Finally, the thing that will determine our toughness is not necessarily what we believe, but where and how we belong. Have we given our bodies to belonging in heaven? Have we allowed the confidence that we may have in the flesh to be subsumed by our citizenship in God’s future kingdom?

Brian McLaren, in his book, A Generous Orthodoxy, writes about the dialogue that once took place between a commissioner of Indian Affairs, sent by President Ulysses Grant, and the Nez Perce Chief Joseph:
“Why do you not want schools?” The commissioner asked.
“They will teach us to have churches,” Joseph answered.
“Do you not want churches?”
“No, we do not want churches.”
“Why do you not want churches?”
“They will teach us to quarrel about God,” Joseph said.
“We do not want to learn that. We may quarrel with men sometimes about things on earth, but we never quarrel about God. We do not want to learn that.”

Now the great irony of this exchange is that the person who advocates for the establishment of school and churches understands less about the reason for belonging to those institutions than the person who doesn’t want them. Listen: if Paul is correct in declaring that “our citizenship is in heaven and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior,” then every affiliation on earth has been demoted and reduced in stature. But now consider what that shift in expectations does for our toughness. Now, when family problems arise, we don’t have to bury our heads in shame; we belong to heaven. When our colleagues at work disappoint us, the solution isn’t necessarily to get a better job; we belong to heaven. When our churches teach us to quarrel about God, forget all that you’ve learned and start over; we belong to heaven.

Amen.

PARDON THESE RENOVATIONS OF PARDON

Read Mark 2:1–12

1. The Front Door Is No Longer Adequate, If It Ever Was
The front door is no longer adequate. I’ve been pondering verse two of tonight’s gospel reading, and it seems quite evident that the house that Jesus calls “home” in Capernaum may require a few renovations. That mud and thatch structure may be in need of a home make-over. Something like the residence of Cornelius would be nice. Cornelius, in Acts 10, invites Peter into his Caesarian home, and in Acts 10:27 the apostle discovers that “many had assembled” only after getting inside. The accommodations of a centurion, it seems, are more than adequate. But, alas, Mark’s gospel doesn’t have time to wait for the blueprints to be drawn up. He doesn’t have time to improve on the Galilean architecture. And so, it would seem that Jesus and his disciples have to make do. They have to live and proclaim their message and perform their healings within the four walls and the roof that has been provided. And maybe, if need be, some of their activities can spill out the front door. But, you see, if the foment at the front door means that a few vagrants can’t make it inside, well, we’ve done everything that we can do.

I want to welcome you to Latah Valley and this beautiful site, but before we go any further I want to ask you to pardon the renovations. I want you to pardon the renovations and to appreciate other renovations which are still to come. You see, as Presbyterian followers of Jesus Christ, you and I have walked in the front door; and the renovations of the future will depend largely upon those who come to us from alternative thresholds, somewhere other than the front door.
“Then some people came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. And when they could not bring him to Jesus because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him, and after having dug through it, they let down the mat on which the paralytic lay.”

In Walker Percy’s apocalyptic novel, Love In the Ruins, the crowds of North America no longer press against the front doors of any home, or any public structure—and that includes the buildings once known as churches.
“Beyond the empty shopping plaza,” says the book’s main character:
“rise the low green hills of Paradise Estates. The fairways of the golf links make notches in the tree line. Pretty cubes and loaves of new houses are strewn among the pines like sugar lumps. It is even possible to pick out my own house, a spot of hot pink and a wink of glass under the old TV transmitter. By a trick of perspective, the transmitter tower seems to rise from the dumpy silo of old Saint Michael’s Church in the plaza” (12).

You see, what we may not notice from Walker Percy’s tone is a subtle point of access to the healing of God in Jesus Christ. “By a trick of perspective,” he writes, “the transmitter tower seems to rise from the dumpy silo of old Saint Michael’s Church…” And this is the place that he later refers to as “the thread in the labyrinth,” where, once upon a time, “the priest announced the turkey raffle and Wednesday bingo and preached the Gospel and fed me Christ…” (p. 241).

Something is happening here. Instead of depicting the institutional church as front and center, prominent and prosperous, Percy insinuates the healing of Christ on the top of its ruins. Instead of lauding innovation and flashy techniques as hallmarks of the church’s future, he portrays the same desperation—the same fly-by-the-seat-of-their-tunics desperation of the outsiders in Mark 2. And, by a trick of perspective…
“when Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven.’”

2. Jesus Questions The Questions of The Insiders In The Company of The Outsiders

In a Presbytery that shall remain nameless a prominent official attended a meeting that we hosted regarding the construction of a new ministry facility.
Sitting there in his gray suit he said the following to a group of new church pioneers: “Whatever you do, built it to look like a bank. That way, if the church fails, we can always sell it.” This statement, of course, came well before the most recent collapse of the economy, before the bail-outs and the bonuses to AIG. And my point is this: Why do we assume the reliability and the wisdom of the insiders? Why do we adopt the agenda of the front door?
“Now some of the scribes were sitting there, questioning in their hearts, ‘Why does this fellow speak in this way? It is blasphemy… At once Jesus perceived in his spirit that they were discussing these questions among themselves…”

And that’s precisely when he brings everything out in the open. In fact, according to the text, Jesus goes on to question the questions of the insiders in the company of the outsiders—the outsiders who have dug their way down through the roof. Point of Order, shouts one of the scribes as the debris from the roof comes crashing down. “Who can forgive sins but God alone?”

I’ll tell you who. It’s the same one who drove Market Square Church out of business. In its heyday, Market Square Presbyterian Church hosted a worship service of approximately eight-hundred men, women and children. I know this because I received permission to enter through the steel, pad-locked gates of this dilapidated sanctuary and to plunder some of its wares. We carted off one communion table, one baptismal font and assorted old pews. And then, as we were leaving, I noticed twenty folding chairs in the midst of a fractured fellowship hall. The custodian told me they had been left there from the last day of worship. I shook my head and headed out to the pick up truck parked on this suburban street. And then, I saw in a flash what had happened over forty or fifty years. The Market Square Presbyterian Church had gone from 800 or so white people to twenty because the community of Germantown had changed ethnically. And, by God, instead of letting those outsiders, set the agenda for their congregation, those inside the structure would rather die, which they did. Although, listen for this caveat. A black pastor walked passed me as I secured the stuff that we had plundered. Suspiciously I asked who he was, and he told me that they were going to rent the building out. I said, “Have you seen the broken windows and the animal infestation?” He said that he had, and the next time I saw that man’s face I was watching a cable channel, and the sanctuary from which I had pilloried so much woodwork had been filled with a swaying crowd of outsiders.
The point, you see, is not to fill us with regret and resignation, but to suggest that Jesus has known this dynamic for quite a while. Jesus has known about the inadequacy of the front door. And Jesus has questioned the questions of the insiders for quite some time; and what if he intended his churches to be places of permeable boundaries and backdoor agendas?

I love the remark he makes in verse nine. He says, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Stand up and take your mat and walk’? And later, in verse eleven, Jesus will add this phrase to the face to face conversation he has with the paralytic, “go to your home.” In other words, don’t stay inside, among the scribes for very long. Go home. Go to your context and contextualize. And, you see, what amazes everyone inside and outside that house in Capernaum is not simply the healing. What they, and what we, rarely have seen before is the embodied authority of grace.

3. What Has Never Been Seen Is The Embodied Authority of Grace
Grace must be embodied. By its very definition, the forgiveness received by the paralytic comes to him in flesh and bone. If it’s not going to be apprehended through the front door—if the crowd is going to inhibit its demonstration—grace cannot remain abstraction. We’re not talking about being nice. We’re not talking about doing things decently. We’re embodying the grace that comes upon the insiders and outsiders as co-equal partners in a face to face dialogue.

There’s a film, directed by Sean Penn, about the life and the death of a graduate of Emory University in Georgia. After receiving his diploma, Christopher McCandless forsakes further studies at Harvard and hits the road for the wilderness of Alaska. He is determined to find himself, or perhaps lose himself as he ventures further and further Into The Wild.

But what’s most intriguing about his journey is that once he gets there, making a home out of an abandoned bus, where wolves and bear and caribou roam, once he gets there, he reflects back upon one particular human encounter. Near O My God Hot Springs, in Northern California, Chris meets up with an old man, played by Hal Holbrook. Holbrook (who interestingly enough had been cast as Deep Throat in All The President’s Men) in this film pours himself into the role of a lonely widower. Mr. Franz befriends Chris McCandless and in one of their conversations, this is what they say to one another:
Chris:
“You gotta get out of that lonely house of yours and get out into the world… The core of man’s spirit comes from new experiences. God’s placed it all around us… in anything we can experience.”
Mr. Franz:
“I’m gonna take stock of that. I am. I am…. But from the bits and pieces I can put together—you know about your mother and your father and I know you’ve got your problems with the church too… But there’s some kind of bigger thing that we can all appreciate. And it sounds like you don’t mind calling it God… But when you forgive, you love, and when you love, God’s light shines on you.”

I remember hearing that exchange in the film and then reflecting on the host of other conversations that we might have in places like this. With and Among those who shun and flaunt every manner of institutional authority, there is finally an appeal that we can make. But it’s going to mean some impromptu renovations on the fly…

REMEMBER THAT SONG

1. The Mind of Christ Is Not Mind Control

It’s hard to know the difference between good music and mind control. After listening to an Oscar Myer commercial, for example, you and I may find ourselves dangerously entrapped and entranced by the jingle whose sole purpose is to compel us to want to be Oscar Myer wieners. Likewise, if you’ve ever traveled to Disney World or Disney Land or Euro-Disney, you’ve probably heard a certain punishing ditty that takes no prisoners. We will not now mention the name of the song directly, but suffice to say, despite reports to the contrary, it is a large world after all. The world is massive, multi-layered and mysterious. And if you’ve been brainwashed to the contrary—if you’ve even, for example, found yourself repeating, “it’s a small world after all,” allow me to recommend a good detoxification or therapy program.

Music is like a drug, claims Oliver Sacks, the author of Musicophilia. And whether it’s Country, Rock N Rock, Hip Hop, R N B, Disco, Jazz, Heavy Metal, Opera or any of the classical symphonies or composers—the songs that we sing manipulate and move us emotionally. Music can be made to advocate for any cause and to endorse every product—from the political agenda of Adolf Hitler to the type of ketchup we put on our hamburgers. But here’s the question: Why? Why does music control us so easily? And, could the fact that music has this effect be an indication of something deeply primordial, but not so sinister? Could it be that, beyond all the commercials and CD’s, we are listening for the original song, a harmony that has long been deprived us, a melody for which we’ve been made?
“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited…”

What we may not realize as we stumble from Philippians 2:5 to 2:6 is that we’ve been enveloped by a song. The apostle Paul is quoting a song, or at least a poem with musical qualities to it.
Every Greek syllable, from verse six through verse eleven, refers to an ancient hymn that would have been recited out loud by many of the followers of Jesus and probably very well known to the Philippians. So, allow me to simply blurt out the point that I’m trying to convey: this song, unlike the manipulative jargon of the mass media, is meant to give us the mind of Christ, and the mind of Christ is not mind control. The mind of Christ—with its heroic humility and its highly exalted dreams for the world—will set us free.
Tony Cicoria was forty-two, very fit and robust, a former college football player who had become a well-regarded orthopedic surgeon in a small city in upstate New York. He was at a lakeside pavilion for a family gathering… It was pleasant and breezy, but he noticed a few storm clouds in the distance; it looked like rain.
This is how Oliver Sacks begins the first chapter of his book, which deals with the effects that music has on the human brain. He tells the story of Tony Cicoria, a story that had been told to him by a man who had been struck by lightning:
He went to a pay phone outside the pavilion to make a quick call to his mother (this was in 1994, before the age of cell phones). He still remembers every single second of what happened next: “I was talking to my mother on the phone. There was a little bit of rain, thunder in the distance. My mother hung up. The phone was a foot away from where I was standing when I got struck. I remember a flash of light coming out of the phone. It hit me in the face. Next thing I remember, I was flying backwards.”
But that’s not all. After his near-death experience, Tony Cicoria began to crave piano music. He craved listening to Chopin–the Military Polonaise, the Winter Wind Étude, the Black Key Étude, the A-flat Polonaise, the B-flat Minor Scherzo. And then, in the middle of the night, he began to hear music in his mind—his own original musical score—being played in his dreams. “It never runs dry,” says Cicoria. “If anything, I have to turn it off… I came to think,” he said, “that the only reason I had been allowed to survive was the music.”
2. In Order To Hit The High Notes of Faith, We Must Truly Hit The Low Notes

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus who… did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited…”
You see, suppose somewhere deep within there plays this original score—some resonating rhythm or some sequence of sacred chords—that’s been given only to you. And suppose the amazing purpose of that song is to get us through—to get us from these tedious days to the Day of Jesus Christ. What would it be like to tap into that song?

“In the darkness something was happening…” In The Magician’s Nephew, by C.S. Lewis, an entire world has reverted to dark chaos. Everything is in ruins, when Digory and his companions begin to hear a voice:
“sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep engouh to be the voice of the earth herself. There were no words. There was hardly a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful he could hardly bear it” (p. 106).

Then, as you may have guessed, the young boy and the others discover the source of the music on the new-found horizon.
“It was a Lion. Huge, shaggy, and bright, it stood, facing the risen sun… The Lion was pacing to and fro about that empty land and singing his new song…. And as he walked and sang the valley grew green with grass. It spread out from the Lion like a pool. It ran up the sides of the little hills like a wave” (p. 112).

Now if you were to ask me what C.S. Lewis is driving at in these pages I would say Creation. I would say that that the singing Lion symbolizes the mind of Christ, which is present in Creation. And for me to say that, and for us to believe that God creates by singing a song, is not to discount the theory of evolution or to argue with the scientific accounts of how the Universe came to be. But it does declare that Creation has relational value. Things have value. People have value. Events have value. Not based upon what we can get out of them, but based upon what the mind of Christ has sung into them. And if anything is clear from Philippians 2 it is that in order to hit the high notes of faith, we must truly hit the low notes:
“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus… who emptied himself.”
3. Make Every Song A Time of Self-Emptying

You see, I don’t know about you this morning, but I am tired of songs and pop culture messages which place more value on what I can control that on what and on who I’ve been given. Christ has given me his mind. Christ has given me his sacred song. And so, why do I waste my days on music that trivializes that gift? Remember that song. That song is about God’s Passionate Give Away. And that song exhorts you and me to give ourselves away too.

Marva Dawn once went to the Oregon Symphony with her husband. She later wrote about her experience, saying,
“I watched intently as the symphony’s music director, James DePreist, conducted and Nadja Salerno-Sonnernberg played Felix Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor. Actually, Nadja doesn’t play the violin. She dances, dreams and discourses with it; makes it sing, cry and laugh; exults, romances, and grows angry through it; soars, leaps, flits, and floats with it; aches, rejoices, laments, yearns, lambastes, jokes and frolics through it. Her feet never stand still; her fingers scamper; her face constantly in motion. With eyes closed in supreme concentration, she appears usually to be overwhelmed by the immense beauty she is creating” (A Royal Waste of Time, p. 136).

In other words, Nadja empties herself. She makes every song a time of self-emptying. And so, here’s what I wonder. I wonder what it might mean for us to be a church in the same way that Nadja plays the violin.

Last Sunday we hosted worship and had about 31 people here. And I went home and sat outside and prayed. And as I prayed, the winds kicked up and the clouds rolled in and I could tell a storm brewed in the distance. So, as I tried to listen for God in the breeze, a bird landed on the tallest point of this birch tree that we have in our backyard. This is the same tree that the tree expert told me was dying. I said, “How could it be dying? Look at all the leaves on it.” And he replied, “I know that it’s dying because at the crown of the tree, at the very top, those branches have no leaves.” So, upon this tall tree with a death sentence hanging over it, a bird perched and began to sing.
It sang in the midst of the fiercest wind. It sang as the tree nearly bent sideways. And then, just as it started to rain, I heard the lilting voice of another bird in the distance. It sang almost in counterpoint to the song that I heard from the dead branch on the crown of the birch tree. And then, without warning, the first bird flew off, presumably to join the one that had called to it.

And I have no illusions about the purpose of that song. I know that birds perch themselves and sing out of instinct. But I guess I’m wondering if you and I have an instinct to listen—and to listen to another song. I want to remember that song. I think Latah Valley—and all of its men, women and children—might like to remember that song. And I believe, with all of my heart and mind and soul, that Jesus is like that bird, singing upon the dead limbs of a tree, and that he’s not going to stop singing until we sing back to him.

Amen.

FORCED TO SLOW DOWN

1. The Lazy Days of Summer Anticipate The Day of Jesus Christ
The summer, as you know, is full of many diversions. The Lake, The Fire-works and The Movies are among them. And, of course, all of these leisure activities are worth the effort that we can devote to them. It’s rejuvenating to lounge at the lake. It’s thrilling to watch the night sky light up in a blaze of colors. And it’s cool, literally cool, to side-step the heat for a couple hours and be absorbed by a good drama, romantic comedy or action adventure flick. In so many ways, the lazy days of summer are ready-made for these diversions. But let me suggest to you this morning an alternative pursuit for the months of July and August and that is what Philippians 1:6 refers to as “The day of Jesus Christ.”
“For I am confident that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion on the day of Jesus Christ.”

In other words, we’re not done yet. We’re like a hamburger on the grill that’s still raw inside. We’re like the potato salad that hasn’t been mixed yet with the mustard and the mayonnaise. We’re like the ice cream in the freezer that’s frozen solid and still needs to thaw out in the sun. “The day of Jesus Christ” is something that is coming toward the Philippians and toward you and me in the future. Long before he became the object of carbon dating by Vatican archaeologists, the apostle Paul exuded this confidence: “The day of Jesus Christ” will be that time beyond all time when Jesus’ life, death and resurrection will become spectacularly obvious and radiantly apparent to everyone in every place and in every time. “The day of Jesus Christ” is what the rock group U2 means when Bono sings, “I believe in kingdom come; then all the colors will bleed into one, bleed into one…” But it’s not here yet. What we have now are the ingredients or the makings for that day. In fact, the lazy days of summer anticipate the day of Jesus Christ, and what I’d like to recommend to you as a pursuit is not the chasing after your own elusive happiness, but the contemplation of those ingredients, which include other people and suffering.

I went to a baseball game, during which a video camera roamed around the stadium and took pictures of various couples. During the seventh inning stretch, for example, Citizens Bank Park did this thing, called the Kiss Cam, and if you found yourself on the big screen, next to your spouse or your significant other, over 50,000 sports fans would exhort you to kiss. Fun, right? Anyway, we were there, when the Kiss Cam found a man and a woman in the 500 level, sitting next to each other, and we heard the roar of the crowd as these two love-birds looked at one another. But there was a problem that the crowd couldn’t quite understand, and it related to the woman who sat on the other side of the man, just outside the frame of the picture and beyond the focus of the camera. So, after a few minutes, the man pointing to his left, finally got the camera man to maneuver in that direction where the true object of his affection, and it turns out his wife of over 20 years, came into view.

Now, the reason that I’m relating this episode from the ball game is to illustrate this point: in our rush to be entertained this summer we may miss out on the larger relationships upon which God would like us to reflect. There is something beyond the pursuit of happiness. Just this week Andrea and Haitham hooked me up with a World Relief program in which recent immigrants to this country, subsistence farmers, are caught in between worlds. So, Latah Valley has a garden that needs weeding. They have the skills and the experience of growing food in harsh terrain. And over two thousand years ago, from his prison cell in Rome or Ephesus, Paul indicated his confidence in three inter-related aspects of the Christian faith:
• “the one who began a good work”
• the ingredients with which God is in process “among you,” or among us
• and the completion, “the day of Jesus Christ.”

And my suggestion is that we use up the summer days and nights reflecting on the people, the places and events which are beyond the frame.
2. Selfish Ambition Is Not The Best Reason, But God Can Still Use It
Of course, one of the ironic impediments to this kind of reflection is the fact that other people are often selfish. Rather than encouraging us to slow down, Paul notes, for example, that,
“Some proclaim Christ from envy and rivalry… others proclaim Christ out of selfish ambition, not sincerely but intending to increase my suffering in my imprisonment.”

So, how are we supposed to slow down? You see, there’s something happening behind these verses that could potentially be very troubling for Paul and for us. Some, it seems, are trying to frame the story of Jesus without Paul’s preaching and teaching being included in the picture. They’re excluding the one who helped to start the church in Philippi; and while Paul is in prison, he can do nothing about it. That must have been frustrating.

I remember these kids at the beach who were building competing sand castles. One of the structures had a mote around it so that as the tide came in, the water would be channeled around its wall and tunnels. This was the castle that I happened to be working on with my friends. Next to us, however, stood this amorphous lump of seaweed and debris, and to protect this rival structure from the waves, these kids from North Jersey had spent most of their time, constructing a thick wall of sand and shells. So, I want to emphasize the differing styles of construction: one castle had a mechanism through which the surf could pass through and return to the ocean while the other had an obstruction to keep the foam and froth of the wave from passing through at all. It was, in my opinion, a futile and “shellfish” effort. Anyway, here’s what happened. When my Mom forced me to take a break and rest on the blanket, those kids from North Jersey moved into our carefully created castle.

Now listen again to Philippians 1:18:
“What does it matter? Just this, that Christ is proclaimed in every way, whether out of false motives or true and in that I rejoice…”
While the Roman government has essentially forced Paul to slow down, he observes the “selfish ambition” of those who haven’t given him any credit. And yet, instead of letting that situation gall him, he realizes that the ocean of God’s love in Christ is still coming. The waters of baptism are still going to flow. The day of Jesus Christ is still going to inundate anything that we start or fail to start. And so, when we reflect upon what we perceive to be the “selfish ambition” of others, or even ourselves, consider this: God can still use it.

3. Do Not Seek “Suffering” For Christ, But If It Comes, Look For Ways To Communicate What You Feel

But, you see, the other scenario that may deter our reflection is suffering. One of the reasons that we try to pursue our own external happiness instead of reflecting upon the day of Jesus Christ is the suffering of people close and people far from us. Philippians 1:29 speaks to this circumstance in the following way:
“For he has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well—since you are having the same struggle that you saw I had and now hear that I still have.”

Now, my initial response to Paul’s words here is visceral. How can suffering of any kind be considered a “privilege?” I do not have an easy answer. But I do understand that when we experience physical, emotional pain and psychological pain, God sometimes gives us the space and the time to reflect even more deeply upon where we’re going. We’re forced to slow down, and that’s good.

In the movie clip that I played earlier, you may have observed some ordinary people trying to take pictures of one another. It’s supposed to be a happy occasion. But there’s something beyond the framing of these photographs that needs to be spoken and heard and perhaps even prayed through. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s the grace to forgive. Maybe it’s reconciliation. Maybe it’s hope beyond all hope reflection, when we’re forced to slow down and when we anticipate the day of Jesus Christ.
I’m going to show that brief clip from Ordinary People again, but this time I’m going to offer you this context. Timothy Hutton plays Buck’s little brother, Conrad. Buck, however, is not there for the holiday; he’s died in a boating accident, leaving the family in turmoil. Conrad actually blames himself. He was there, in the middle of Lake Michigan when the storm came up and capsized boat. He stayed with the boat; his brother did not. And now, the boys’ mother refuses to reflect deeply on what’s taken place. She’s in a hurry, running to work, running to play, running until Conrad has the courage to slow down. [Play Clip]

Like most of you, I take in that story and identify with the ordinary family and thank God that it hasn’t happened to me and to my family. But maybe that’s related to what Paul writes to the Philippians. “Among you,” he says, God will complete a great work and things which seem to be now unrelated and disconnected all will come together. So, we reflect upon ourselves and the way we frame our lives. We reflect upon our relationships and the castles that we build and finally we reflect upon our suffering. Whatever it is that slows you down, embrace it. Become a person who reflects upon the day of Jesus Christ. And let’s become a community of men, women and children who are confident of its coming.

Amen.

HOPE TO SPEND TIME

1. When The Lord Permits, Spend With-Time
I’d like to reflect with you today on time—how we waste time, how we spend time, how we kill time, and, of course, how time flies when we’re having fun… And one of the first things that we notice about time is that it’s more easily quantified than it is qualified. Time is limited, and we know it. We know it in our bones and in our blood vessels. We know in our bunions and in our brain cells. But we also understand the conditional nature of time based upon the moments we spend with people.
A pastor spends the whole afternoon with a women suffering from dementia. His colleagues are hobnobbing at the club with bank presidents and CEO’s. He feels as if he’s wasting his time. The woman can’t respond coherently to anything he says. She smells like formaldehyde. But when evening falls, he knows time a little better.

There’s a woman who’s unable to have children. She tries all kinds of fertility treatments. It seems as if time is passing her by; the biological clock is ticking. But after many years she finds herself pushing a neighbor’s child on a tire-swing. Their families become close and begin to socialize; they adopt her as a proxy-grandmother and soon she knows time a little better.

Doctor Walker Percy comes down with a severe case of tuberculosis. At first he’s depressed; his lucrative practice suffers while he’s confined to the sanitarium. But, after many weeks and months, the illness gives him a new perspective. He picks up his pen and begins to write. And one of the most famous things he writes about are the men and women who don’t know what to do with themselves at 4 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. He writes about them generously and simpathetically, and after twenty-five novels he and his readers know time a little better.

You see, my contention today is that the decisions that we make about time are often arbitrary and whimsical. But to the extent that we measure the minutes, hours and days with people—and especially with people who remind us of the love and mercy of God—nothing is wasted. Nothing at all.
“I do not want to see you now just in passing, for I hope to spend some time with you, if the Lord permits” (v. 7).

When the apostle Paul scribbles or dictates these words aloud in the first century, I wonder if he has the faintest inkling that we would be reading them centuries and miles away from Corinth. My guess is—probably not. And what does that tell us about what we might write or do or say with our time?
Eileen is the name of the woman Douglass Rushkoff interviews for the fourth chapter of his book, Life Inc. It’s a work of non-fiction that details how our lives have been taken over and branded by the mega-corporations of the world. Eileen, for example, tells a group of clients that if you want something you should really, really want it. Want it like a child. Want it at night when you’re asleep. Post notes with pictures about what you want on your mirror. Write a check to yourself for $10 million and stick it on your refrigerator. Eileen advocates for the principles laid down in The Secret, a number one book on the New York Times Best-Seller List, with over two million DVD’s being viewed even as we speak. And it turns out that if you want to know what Eileen knows, you’ll have to read the book, watch the DVD and pay for the seminar. Never mind that you will then have to spend more time at more seminars! Don’t you want to want to want to want to know the secret of the universe?

2. Effective Work and Many Adversaries Are Not Mutually Exclusive
You see, the larger discussion that we can have about 1 Corinthians 16 has to do with what God wants versus what we want. Does God allow us the freedom to make our own decisions about what we want to do with our time? And the answer, as far as I can tell from Paul’s vocabulary, is yes. Little terms like “If” and intriguing expressions like “a wide door” do, in fact, convey a sense of personal freedom. You and I, like Paul, are free to walk through that wide door if we choose. But let’s be clear. What Paul means by “a wide door” has nothing to do with The Secret that Eileen is trying to sell. In fact, if Eileen had been alive and spouting off in the first century, she may have been among the many adversaries that Paul mentions in verse nine while he’s lingering at that wide door. “A wide door” is simply an image that he uses to describe the opportunity that he has for a spirited and Spirit-filled discussion about Jesus. By the grace of God, that’s the only thing that Paul wants. And the question this morning is—what is it that you want?
A great deal has been written about Maria Von Trappe, who is portrayed by Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. In the Hollywood version of the story, Maria returns to the Abbey to ask her Mother Superior what she should do. She thinks that she loves Captain Von Trappe, but she doesn’t want to betray her vows as a nun. And there is the complicating factor of the captain’s engagement to the Baroness from Vienna. It’s all very confusing and it’s hard for Maria to decide what to do. Musically speaking, the Reverend Mother advises her to follow her heart and to search for her dreams. In real life, Maria actually engages in a process of spiritual discernment, and through much anguished prayer it becomes reasonably clear that God has permitted her to marry the captain and take care of his children. That’s the way God wants her to share the gospel

Now, what’s curious about Sister Maria and the apostle Paul, of course, is that they both are faced with adversity. And simultaneously both are given the opportunity or the wide door for effective work. Isn’t that curious? You would think it would be quite the opposite. You would think that having adversaries would be the sign of a closed door, not an open one. But maybe we’ve got it all wrong. Maybe when there’s lots of confusion and lots of division, that’s the time when the door for God is opened the widest.

3. Count the IF Moments A Blessing and Make Your Own Opportunities
Malcolm Gladwell wrote a book, called Outliers; the Story of Success, and in that book, the author chronicles how many of the most brightest stars have taken advantage of their opportunities. First up, for example, is Bill Joy. Bill was there, at the Michigan Computer Center, in 1971. He was there for over 10,000 hours when the university had invested in one of the largest computer systems in the known universe. So it should come as no surprise, that after graduating from Michigan and then from Berkley, Bill Joy wrote the digital code for the ATT, UNIX and Macintosh Computers. So, that’s Bill Joy, getting ahead in the game of life, but here’s the apostle Paul: “I will stay in Ephesus.”
Next up in the Gladwell book are the Beatles, arguably the best rock band ever. They were there in Hamburg, Germany, in 1960. They were there, with the original Pete Best on drums; and in Hamburg on that first trip they performed 106 nights for five or more hours a night. On their second trip, they racked up 92 performances. On their third trip, 48. And on their final two gigs in 1962, prior to coming to the United States, the Beatles were on-stage for approximately 90 hours altogether. So, according to Gladwell, it’s no surprise that they became great. With those kinds of opportunities to improve and perfect their songs, it’s no wonder whatsoever. So, that’s John, Paul, George and Ringo, becoming a legend on the Ed Sullivan Show. But do you know who didn’t become a legend even though he put in the same amount of time? Pete Best, the drummer that Ringo Starr replaced…

And, you see, when I peruse the data like this, it makes total sense. People become great at what they do, based upon the opportunities they are given and the time they invest. There’s no doubt about it. But then, you and I have to account for Pete Best. Then we have to account for the Marlin Brando character in On The Waterfront. “I could have been somebody.”

Could h’… Perhaps, should h’… If Only… These wiggly words cannot be accounted for in any theory about time management or any strategy to get ahead. And the reason I think they confound us is the same reason says things like, “I hope to spend time with you, if the Lord permits.”

No matter how hard we work the time to achieve our goals, God may have other plans, and those plans aren’t just for our solo-act. According to Paul in 1 Corinthians 16, they involve Timothy and Apollos. They involve… And, let me ask you (whether I’ve mentioned your name or not), wouldn’t we want to know if God had other plans for you, plans that intimately connected with these others? Wouldn’t we want to know if that’s what Latah Valley truly is? Amen.

WHO’S YOUR DADDY?

1. To Offer Or To Receive Admonition Is No Shame
To admonish or not to admonish. That is not the question for Hamlet, but for every father who is worth his razor stubble. To admonish or not to admonish. That’s even the question for people who resemble our paternal parentage. For example, at the end of a long trip in the station wagon, it’s only your Dad who can let slip a phrase like this, “Don’t make me come back there.” He can say it and on most occasions he will not have to stop the car and come back there. That’s true for fathers, and even more apropos for various father-figures in the faith that God sends in our direction. A father-figure in the faith is more than a mentor and more than a friend. A father-figure happens to be a mature person of faith in Jesus Christ to whom we have ceded special authority and who will speak the truth to us in love. The question for the father-figure is whether to admonish or not. And the question for those of us in a relationship with the father-figure is whether or not we should receive such admonition. And the best thing I can say this morning, based upon 1 Corinthians 4, is that to offer or to receive admonition is no shame.

Eugene Peterson tells the story of growing up in a small town in Montana, and one time he hopped over a fence and walked in the tall grass of his neighbor’s farm. In the distance, atop a green John Deer tractor, sat Leonard Storm, and when old man Storm spotted Little Pete in his field, he stood up on the seat of the tractor and waved his arms. Little Pete, as he was known in those days, felt ashamed—he felt as if he had crossed a boundary and that old man Storm was reprimanding him for doing something wrong. So, the child skulked away. But later, you see, Leonard Storm approached Little Pete at worship. He said, “Little Pete, why didn’t you come to me when I called you the other day?” Peterson said, “When did you call me?” He said, “I called you from my tractor like this…” (and he waved his big hands). “How do you call people if you want them to come?” And Little Pete responded by curling his index finger. “That’s piddly. On the farm we do things big,” said the father-figure.
Now, I know the caricature of church. I understand that in North America and much of the western world, church is categorized under the rubric of a voluntary activity, or as a charitable donation, or as pious pastime. But I wonder if you will believe me if I tell you that at church big things are happening. At church we either learn about the grace of God—about God’s invitation for us to join him in plowing the field—or we feel ashamed by what we perceive to be a reprimand and we run off.
“I am not writing this to make you ashamed, but to admonish you as my beloved children. For though you might have ten thousand guardians in Christ, you do not have many fathers. Indeed, in Christ Jesus I became your father through the gospel.”

2. Being Responsible Like A Father Is A Painful Privilege
Now, if you’ve been with us for a few months, you’ve heard me admit that the church as an institution has a lot for which to be sorry….

But let me be clear. The solution to this abuse of power is not the renunciation of relational authority. On the contrary, the power that’s given to us by God is huge. And, while being responsible like a father is a painful privilege, it is a privilege that we must embrace over and over again.

In the film, Places In The Heart, where the father has died, there is even this sad moment when the surviving parent, played by Sally Field, asks her son, “What would your father do in a situation like this?” And the child responds that if his father were there, he would admonish: “For this, Pa would be pretty mad. So I reckon he’d give me four good whacks.” And, you see, if you and I are under the impression that only God has the authority to admonish and that the church has nothing to say, I’d like you to reconsider. Painfully and prayerfully the church must foster relationships that resemble a father’s connection to his child.
“What would you prefer?” says Paul in 1 Corinthians 4:21. I’ll leave it up to you. “Am I to come to you with a stick, or with love in a spirit of gentleness?” You see, that’s a painful question to have to pose to a church community. But we need not be ashamed of it. William Willimon writes,
As a college chaplain, I vividly remember a student, a young man of about 20 years, complaining to me about my generation’s inability to be parents. “Your generation didn’t tell us anything!” he complained. “I guess it’s because you didn’t want to be told anything by your parents, but you didn’t tell us what we needed to know.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“When I was home last summer, I asked my father, ‘I’m getting ready to grow up. Tell me what I need to do to have a happy life.’ He responded to me with a bunch of gibberish, nonsense about how he was miserable in his job, about how he maybe made a mistake in marrying my mother, about how nobody had ever really understood him. It was pitiful.”
I have this vivid memory of my nephew, around 17 years old, and he strolls into worship with his girlfriend, Laura. They are beaming together, and I can tell right off the bat that she has led him to the foot of the cross. She is the one who is mentoring him in faith. Anyway, a few weeks after they came to our church, Michael and Laura stayed up all night at the prom, and early in the morning Michael’s driving to a restaurant for breakfast and falls asleep. He falls asleep, the car drifts into on-coming traffic and there’s a huge collision. After the collision my nephew, who’s injured, watches as his girlfriend and guide takes her last breath. I tell you; there are not many experiences in life that are worse. But these events set the stage for Michael’s grief. His parents don’t quite know how to handle it. And one night, as he’s going out the door, Michael’s Dad, asks him where he’s going. Michael says, “Out.” The Dad then says, “What time are you going to be home?” And this brokenhearted, now eighteen year old kid, says this: “What time do you want me to be home?”

In other words, give me some structure. Help me to understand and appreciate the parameters. And I think the community of faith, even Latah Valley, needs to exercise its fatherly authority in the same way that Michael asked his father.
“I appeal to you, then, be imitators of me…”
3. The Face To Face Encounter Reveals The Power of the Kingdom
And if you ask me why this statement of the apostle Paul isn’t considered an arrogant statement, I will say it has something to do with what he says next:
“For this reason I sent you Timothy, who is my beloved and faithful child in the Lord, to remind you of my ways in Christ Jesus, as I teach them everywhere in every church.”

Paul isn’t being arrogant here. What he’s doing is telling the people what time to be home. He’s offering them the boundary of the face to face encounter. And, you see, with all due respect to e-mail communications, to blogging, to twittering and to calling people and leaving long, monologue messages on the phone, I’d like to emphasize the face to face encounter. The face to face encounter reveals the power of the kingdom that Paul mentions in verses 19 and 20. He says,
“But I will come to you soon, if the Lord wills, and I will find out not the talk of these arrogant people but their power. For the kingdom of God depends not on talk but on power.”

“Does she know me,” says an escaped psychiatric patient in Walker Percy’s novel, The Second Coming. “Should I know her?” she says to herself, while preparing to sit down on a park bench. Allison has just stowed away on truck transporting linens to and from the facility. She’s trying to act as normal as possible, but because of the electric shock therapy which she’s endured, she can’t be sure if she knows the prim and proper evangelist who has just crossed her path. With a reassuring smile, the person hands Allison a pamphlet and declares, “We’re having a meeting tonight at the church. A person like you might get a lot out of it.” “A person like me,” thinks the psych patient. “Does she know me?” Should I know her?”

I want to pause right here in the middle of this interaction—and I want to repeat what I’ve often said: Church Is Dialogue. It’s a dialogue between God and the weary people whom God is calling to himself. And, you see, it helps the dialogue for us to have a father-figure.
It helps to have someone say to the evangelist who brushes by Allison, “Slow down. Face people. Demonstrate the power of the kingdom that is revealed when you face people. Face this person that you have assumed to know and really know her.” It also helps, I think, to have a father-figure give this advice to Allison, or to whoever’s out there: “I’m sorry that you have felt unknown and a stranger in the world; we would like to know you and to be known by you in Christ.”

Amen.