Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Labor Day: Fair Wages, Big Dreams and the Rubik Cube of Syria


The Reverend Dr. Stephanie Nagley at St. Luke’s Bethesda
September 1, 2013
 

It’s that time again.  Time to put away the seersucker and give up white shoes, time to hunker down to work and school.  Labor Day is here. 
Labor Day the last hurrah of summer, the last summer vacation, the last long weekend to enjoy the pool, the beach, the lazy day in the park.  There will be parades tomorrow and it’s the official beginning of the football season.

Labor Day came out of the 1894 Pullman Strike.  The unskilled factory workers who made Pullman cars lived in a planned community on the South Side of Chicago.  George Pullman controlled that community and controlled the workers. During an economic depression and with revenues falling, George Pullman laid off worker and lowered wages but he didn’t reduce the rent on the housing where the workers lived.   That led to a wildcat strike on May 11 by 4,000 Pullman workers.  The Pullman workers weren’t unionized.  Soon Eugene V. Debs arrived and signed up workers for the American Railway Union.   The Pullman Company refused to negotiate and the strike was on.  It affected all lines west of Detroit and at one point involved 250,000 workers in 27 states. The action stopped the mail which gave President Cleveland a reason to call in troops to end the strike. 

Unfortunately, the striking workers engaged in violence and sabotage.  In the end, 30 people were killed and many injured and an estimated $80 million in property damage. 
The public was generally opposed to the workers.  Media coverage was extensive and negative toward the strikers.  It depicted the workers, many of whom were immigrants, as foreigners clashing with the true red blooded patriots of the militias and troops.   

Eugene Debs was eventually arrested. Even though he was defended by Clarence Darrow he was found guilty of interfering with the mail and refusing to obey a Supreme Court order to stop the strike and spend six months in prison. 
This massive workers action and the violence that ensued led to an investigation. A presidential commission found George Pullman partly at fault because of the way he treated his employees in the running of his company and the operation of his company town.   In 1898 the Illinois Supreme Court forced Pullman to divest interest in the town and it was annexed to the city of Chicago. Six days after the strike ended, President Cleveland and Congress, in order to make amends to the workers, declared Labor Day a federal holiday. [1]

That’s the backdrop for Labor Day and it seems particularly poignant that we enter Labor Day on the heels of celebrating 50 years since the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Sixty plus years after the Pullman strike an estimated 250,000 men, women and children marched on Washington.   Most of those who came were African-American.  The fight for jobs and freedom was about something more than just a job.  It was and always will be a fight for dignity and justice.   It was and always will be a fight for those who because of the skin, gender, and circumstances of birth or family circumstances are treated unjustly as if they are lesser beings who do not have the right to the same rights as others.

Fifty years after the March on Washington fast food workers are demanding higher wages.  Most currently make $7.25 an hour.   Barely enough to scrape by. One worker remarked, “Should I pay my light bill or gas bill.  I can’t do both.   The gas is already off.”
I read that in other countries, like Australia, the fast food workers make twice that amount and burgers are still affordable.

It used to be that the fast food worker was the skinny teenager with a summer job or the college kid home for the summer who couldn’t find something better.  But that’s not case today.  The fast food workers are among the thousands of working poor. The people we see every day sit next to on the train, even work beside who don’t make enough money to get by.   
Many of those workers won’t have Labor Day off.   A good percentage are in the low paying jobs of the retail market and Labor Day is also a big shopping day, second only to Black Friday.
Reuters/Brian Snyder


When the Pullman workers went on strike and when Dr. King told us about his dream and when an unnamed worker pickets a Wendy’s in Sarasota, Florida it isn’t all about the money.  The real protest and dream is about human dignity and respect. Labor Day is about respecting people who get up every day and go to work trying as best they can to make ends meet.  It is about the ditch diggers, burger flippers and the garbage collectors more than it’s about people like me whose hands stay fairly clean and the ends usually do meet.
Labor Day is about the people that Jesus cared so much.  Yes, he cares about those of us who we’re doing just fine but he seemed to have particular concern for those who lived on the edge.  The people who don’t have a dime to rub together.  People whose life is dismal and who hopes are gone.   People whose health had failed them.  How, I suspect, he would hate to see what happens today when someone loses everything simply because they got sick.  They got sick and the bills piled up.  They couldn’t get to work and lost their job. They couldn’t pay the rent and lost their home.  Lived in the car until they lost that too.

Labor Day is about reminding us to care that people trying to decide whether to pay their light bill or gas bill are important to us.  They are important to us because we share this life even though the neighborhoods we live in may be miles apart. 
A few days ago some pundit, I think it was Bill O’Reilly, made the comment that people are poor or out of work because they are lazy.    That’s one of those “us” versus “those people” kinds of comments.  People do that when they’re scared and uncertain what to do.   People get full of themselves like that just to cover up how inadequate we feel

Full of themselves they come into the room and just know that the chair at the head of table is theirs.  They shake hands and smooze all the while looking over the shoulder of the person in front of them just in case there’s someone else more important that they want to talk to.  

It’s all a terrible and tragic disconnection from being in relationship with others.  Jesus was sensitive to that.  And he told us to be careful not to separate ourselves from others.  He advised those of us who sit comfortably in life to also sit at the back of room, or the back of the bus and see what it’s like.   He told us - people who don’t fling burgers for a living or cleans someone else’s house - to offer hospitality in a caring smile, a listening ear, a willingness to join the fight.  
That Pullman worker, who had his wages cut back but his rent stayed the same, looked at his three children and the one on way and wondered how to make it all work, he is part of us. That strike was for his babies and their babies and our babies. That young girl in the photo of the March on Washington, looking out through the sea of people, she’s part of us.  Those unnamed fast food workers they are a part of us. When the fast food worker has to figure out whether to pay the light bill or gas bill she’s part of us and her trials are also ours.

And then we turn from Labor Day to Syria but the underlying issues are the same.  It is all about dignity and respect, and power of love versus the love of power. A military action against Syria in response to the use of chemical weapons seems likely.  For me there is no way around the dilemma of being a person of God who believes in the power love living in a real world where real people do unspeakable acts of violence out of a love for power.

This is not a new. People of faith have faced this moral dilemma over and over again.   Augustine justified being both a Christian and a soldier.  In the 1930’s and 40’s Dietrich Bonhoffer held his beliefs and spoke out against the Nazis.   He was eventually imprisoned and killed because of his part in plotting to assassinate Adolf Hitler.  For Bonhoffer, a Christian, he lived with the agony of knowing he had to act and also knowing that he was betraying his sense of what it meant to be a Christian.[2]
Starting with Augustine and moving into modern theologians the concept of a just or moral war is the standard by which a Christian determines if he/she can be a participant in violence against another.    Personally, the notion of a moral or a just war, with all its carefully constructed arguments, ha always seemed an oxymoron.

Nevertheless, the human condition often leaves us with nothing to hold on but the dilemma and the painful decision of whether or not it is necessary to betray the holy tenet against violence.  Whatever decision is made and whatever action is taken there will be no victory.  If the United States launches a limited military strike no is only sadness – however justified that attack may seem.
The justifications are being made.  We’re told the evidence is there.  But there is good reason to be suspicious of the intelligence given the falsehoods that perpetrated the attack on Iraq in 2003.   That was not America’s finest hour.  That was a tragedy.
Still there is the hope that somehow the people of Syria will find peace.  I do pray for a miracle.
But there is also the gritty reality of our human frailness and the atrocities of human madness to which our best but least desirable action may be a military response. Edmond Burke said:  “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men (and women) do nothing.”

Is there an ultimate right response to Syria?  Probably not.  Perhaps there are only difficult and undesirable choices.   There are good arguments on every side and Syria is a Rubik cube.  All voices and all argument must be heard for if nothing else it means we’re in this together. 
The Church should be talking and listening and struggling with the issues of our world openly and honestly.  We should be talking about fair wages, racism, gun violence, drone strikes and Syria.  It is our duty as the people of God. 

And we should pray. I shall pray.  I shall pray for my president who is left with an impossible set of choices.  I shall pray for the people of Syria.  I shall pray for Assad.  I shall pray for those who do the unspeakable because they are too afraid to do the acceptable. 

We are in this perplexing, joy filled, difficult, delightful, heart breaking life together.  That’s why there are days like Labor Day, to remind us of that.  We’re in this to care about one another, to care enough to pray and to march, to protest and to debate.  We, the Church, are in this life with everyone else and it is our duty as Christians to talk and pray about the dilemmas we face and share the anguish of uncertainty. 
May we remember that Labor Day and all the days ahead are about the dignity and respect of all God’s children so that one we will all be free at last.

 
 



[1] Thank you Wikipedia
[2] Thank you Robert Pearson for your conversation about Syria.  Also see “Syria a Time Act”  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/w-robert-pearson/syria-intervention. W. Robert Pearson is a former U.S. ambassador to Turkey. Wendy J. Chamberlin is a former U.S. ambassador to Pakistan.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

The Louisville Slugger, a 5-4-3 Double Play and God


 

Tonight I’ll throw out the first pitch at the Big Train baseball game.  It’s been a long time since I stood on a baseball field and actually threw a ball.  I played a little intramural softball in college but that’s softball and college.  The real baseball triumph was when I seven years old. 

When I was seven years old I went to the ‘show’.  Well, it was the ‘show’ to me and the only ‘show’ I would ever know. On a hot July day I played right field for the LaCrosse, Washington Pee Wee baseball team.  I played that day because they weren’t enough boys and I was the next best choice.

My interest in baseball waned as I grew older as did my interest in church.  I came back to the church in my late twenties.  By coincidence or design I came back to baseball a few years later. 

Religion and baseball, at their best, find the sweet spot where the secular and sacred meet sending a God experience into the bleachers.  A shortstop backhands an impossible grounder, wheels and throws to second base where it is sent on to first with equal grace.  A double play, an exquisitely executed double play.  The ineffable.  The heart stopping, breath stealing experience of something greater than ourselves.

If you’re on the right side of the double play that’s good, but baseball is about coming home.  Coming home and hearing the umpire shout “safe”.   What a perfect metaphor for our spiritual journey.  We’re always trying to find home and hear the word that we’re safe.  And then we have to go out again, like Odysseus, to be changed and challenged to come closer to the magnificence God created when God created us and said, “This is very good”.

On the one day of my brilliant baseball career I didn’t get a hit.  I walked once and was hit by a pitch but I came home twice. It’s like the bread in my hands, the wine that stings my throat and the peace that passes all understanding that passes through me.   I’ve found home but I can’t stay.  I have to go into the world. I have to go out and try to connect again the sweet spot of secular and sacred.  I have to go out and discover more of who I am and more about the One to whom I belong. 

Last April, when the baseball season was starting, a parishioner handed me a book, saying:  “I think you’ll enjoy this”.  The book was Baseball as a Road to God written by her client John Sexton, president of NYU and history of religion scholar.  He wrote nine chapters to go with baseball’s nine innings and the experiences of life:  Sacred Space and Sacred Time, Faith, Doubt, Conversion, Miracles, Blessings and Curses, Saints and Sinner, the Seventh Inning Stretch (Sabbath and retreat), Community and Nostalgia.

Baseball covers the length and depth of what is to live this life and what it is to make of one’s life a spiritual journey.  I know baseball isn’t for everyone, but baseball has way of slowing us down and getting us to focus on what really matters.  It is, as Sexton points out, a religious experience that draws attention to the faith, doubt, conversion, curses, miracles and blessings we share.  

One of the intriguing things about baseball is the way it carries memory.  The story of baseball like the stories of scripture are remembered and told over and over again because they hold the ineffable and give us a way to stand when times are tough, confusion or uncertainty set in or we need courage.  

The 1973 Mets were at the bottom of their division at the end of July.  They went to the World Series riding on the words of Tug McGraw who said to them, “Ya gotta believe”.  They were like Elijah sitting defeated in the cave until a voice told him to get going.  Embedded in the story of the great Jackie Robinson is the call of God to enlarge the neighborhood, to have courage and graciousness in the face of hatred and to risk everything for the kingdom. The stories of baseball and the stories of our faith are about us and about God and what we’re doing together.

Hidden in the shadows of right field, crouched behind home plate, sitting in the bleachers, pacing in the dugout spitting sunflowers seeds, standing on the pitcher’s mound is where the secular and the sacred meet. Catching the impossible grounder or finding a way home is same movement that life asks of us in order to become fully human. Most importantly baseball brings echoes of resurrection.  After the men of summer have retired sides in October there is winter, that dark and cold time when we wonder if the sun will return and spring will happen.  Hope rises with the sound of a ball finding leather and bats in places like Florida and Arizona.  "The end is never the end.  In baseball, as in life, the creed remains true:  Wait’ll Next Year". (Sexton)

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Compassion: Excerpts from a sermon preached the day following the acquittal of George Zimmerman – July 14, 2013


Compassion: Excerpts from a sermon preached the day following the acquittal of George Zimmerman – July 14, 2013

“…And he was moved to pity” (Luke 10: 33, The Good Samaritan). 

Without pity, without compassion nothing changes.

Jesus tells a story about the Good Samaritan.  The Samaritan is the only one who helped a man beaten and left for dead on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho.   Earlier a priest passed by and did nothing.  Then another religious man, a Levite passed by.  He ignored the bloody mess, too.  Some claim it was for religious reasons, but the truth is it probably came from their need to stay safe and out of harm’s way.   

The need to play it safe is in our DNA.  As one preacher put it:  “…everything from heroism to heartbreak is the direct result of the battle of our ‘selfish genes’ for survival, supremacy, and self-replication. [1]   That may be original sin, the fight we have to rise to a higher calling versus the instinct embedded in our genes to play it safe. Compassion is letting the soft underbelly of our humanness take over and move us to risk everything. 

The lawyer to whom Jesus told the Good Samaritan story wanted Jesus to approve of him.  The ‘him’ that followed the rules.  The one who seldom, if ever, was moved to pity.  Following the law, Jesus knew, was easy.   Love is more demanding. [2]

The Samaritan, the unlikely hero, goes against every instinct. His need for survival, supremacy, and self-replication is overrun by the power of compassion, the power of love.

Only love is big enough to hold the pain of this world, to contain the tragedy that greets us every day. [3] Only love can move us past our instincts to protect only what we know and those we know.

It’s easy to reach out and scoop up a family member or friend who is in trouble. Human beings are also genetically programmed to know the difference between those bound to us by blood and ethnicity and those who are not.  And we are programmed to maintain and reinforce the separation between ‘us’ and ‘them’.   That may be why the immigration issue is so hard to resolve, why racism, sexism, and all the other isms exist. 

Because it is so hard for us to get past our ‘us’ versus ‘them’ programming a young man named Trayvon Martin died this past February 26th  because another young man saw him as the ‘other’ and not a fellow human being. On that night a fight ensued, that didn’t need to happen.

Trayvon Martin was armed with his fists, Skittles and a can of Arizona tea. George Zimmerman had a gun.  The gun fired. Trayvon Martin died. 

It didn’t need to happen. 

One life was lost and another forever haunted.

It didn’t need to happen.

That night of February 26th is the tragic true story of the human struggle to move past primitive instincts and moved toward the higher calling of being fully human and be the people of God.  

Last night after the acquittal of George Zimmerman the tweets began to fly.   One of those tweets said this:  “How cool would it be to live in a world where George Zimmerman offered Trayvon Martin a ride home to get him out of the rain.”(@Nick_Surkamp) How cool, indeed.  How cool it would it be to live in a world where Trayvon knew it was safe to accept that ride. 

If you’re sitting there wondering how that kind of world can happen, it’s not magic.  It takes work.  It takes effort.  It happens when people make the choice to give their hearts to the process.  It happens when people do the hard work to make it happen. 

When Jesus finished his parable he as much as said to the lawyer “It’s up to you”.    God isn’t going to swoop in and make it all better. Only by daily practice will we ever begin to create a compassionate world.

I have to confess that after events like what happened to Trayvon and after last night’s acquittal and the responses that followed I question God’s wisdom in thinking human beings can rise to a higher calling.  I even think God is wrong and asks too much. After all failed and flawed legislative leadership on immigration, abortion, gun regulation and food stamps it seems unlikely that human beings can get past primitive natures.  I wonder if God’s faith in us is wishful thinking and wasted hope.

And yet, I also know that God made it possible for us to cross to the other side of road.  But it’s not easy.  We’re made to see the other as a neighbor and not a threat.  But it’s hard.

On a rainy February night in Florida George Zimmerman saw a hoodied teen and every fiber of his body screamed “danger”.  He made a death dealing choice.  He was helped by laws that let him carry a concealed gun and ‘stand his ground’, a ground he didn’t need to claim was his.

In our DNA is a remnant of what we think will keep us safe, grant us supremacy and make our replication likely.  That remnant is our original sin. 

When we see the stranger or what is stranger the primitive part of our brains fed by that remnant cries out “danger”.  The danger is real.  We can get into all sorts of trouble trying to be like the Good Samaritan.  Life gets messy when we expand the neighborhood.   We’re unsure and uncertain how it will all turn out.  But unless we try, unless we move beyond our primitive instincts nothing changes. 

Nothing changes unless we are willing to dare foolishness and court failure.  Nothing changes unless we are moved by pity.

Jesus ended his story by asking:  Which of these three acted as a neighbor?  He didn’t know about evolution and that we came by our self-interest the honest way by inheriting it.  But he knew about fear and how that perverts the best of us.  He knew how self-preservation, survival and need for safety corrupt goodness.   He understood how looking out for ourselves leads us to racism, prejudice even death.   He knew how we limit compassion. 

He knew what it was like when I passed by the stranger on my morning walk in Spokane last week.  In the early morning I saw a man lying in an open field next to the marmot dens.  He was lying on his stomach, not moving.  No shoes.  No blanket to keep him warm.  We walked close enough to see if he was breathing.  He was and we walked on. I could have made another choice.  I could have reached out and asked him if he was okay.  But I was afraid. 

Probably all Jesus expected of me is that I move past my fear and concern for my own safety and touch another human being.  Truth to tell, my greatest fear was that I could do nothing.  I couldn’t be the hero of his story or mine.  My greatest fear was my own impotence.   Fear led to failure to connect with another human being. 

Being fully human means that we understand that we share a common humanity, that we share this planet, that each us our trying our best to do the best we can. 

It means that we live each day as Jesus lived; that we move toward one another with compassion, mercy and loving kindness.  That each day we practice loving those we find loveable, those we find despicable and those for whom we feel nothing at all.  It’s not easy.  It’s not magic.  Sometimes we’ll get it and often we will fail.

But the practice begins again, each day when you and I look in the mirror.  The one who looks back is the very one who needs compassion most of all. 

When you rise from the near death of sleep and look in the mirror are you moved to pity for that one has known broken promises and broken dreams, a face lined with the remembrance of things done and left undone.  Eyes that have cried more tears than anyone will ever know.   Are you moved to pity?  Do you feel compassion for that soul who is trying his or her very best to get through the day.  Do you have compassion enough to reach out and touch the wounded you that lies beaten and naked on the road?   Are you moved with pity and moved enough to embrace the very self that you’ve tried to walk by.   

If we can start there, every day, we can extend that compassion to the world.  It’s that simple.  It’s that hard.  It’s not magic.

Nothing changes until we are moved to pity.  Nothing happens essential to our souls until we cross the barriers of self-protection and enter into the realm of love.    Only love is big enough to hold the pain of this world and only love will move us toward the good people we are meant to be.      




[1] Benjamin J. Dueholm,  “Living by the Word”, Christian Century, July 10, 2013.
[2] Desmond Tutu
[3] Sharon Salzberg in Turning to One Another by Margaret J. Wheatley

Monday, December 17, 2012

Welcome to Our World, Jesus


WELCOME TO OUR WORLD, JESUS          

A sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Stephanie J. Nagley on December 16, 2012 at St. Luke’s, Bethesda Maryland

Readings: Luke 3:7-18 and The Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens’, Stave III concerning the dangers of allowing Want and Ignorance to Flourish

This isn’t the sermon I planned for today.  I planned a light hearted look at Advent through the eyes of John the Baptist.  What I hadn’t planned; no one had planned, was the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

It is one more tragedy added to the pile of human sorrow.  One more “How could this be?” One more, “Please, God, not again”.   But this one, this tragedy, is harder because the victims were children, babies really, who had just begun to explore the world.   Harder, too, because there’s been too much senseless sadness to bear.  There is no making sense of this.   That is what John the Baptizer is trying to tell us.  Stop trying to make sense of tragedy in the world. Stop trying to rationalize the irrational and get on with making the world better.

John is not someone who soothes the soul with pastoral anodynes. He doesn’t sugar coat and he isn’t worried about getting reelected.  What he is interested in and worried about is how we’re doing as the people of God, how our children are doing and if we’re really serious about practicing what we say we believe.

The Advent question John’s asks is not, when is God going to make everything better?   The question John asks is this:  When are the people who say they believe in God going to pursue with all their hearts the love and peace of God?  When are the people of God going to get serious, really serious, about beating swords in plowshares, pulverizing handguns and automatic rifles and all sorts of weapons? When are we going to get serious about taking care of each other, especially those who are most in need of care?

This tragedy tugs at the hem of our garments like the boy and girl of Dickens’ Christmas Tale, and begs us to attend to Want and Ignorance before it’s too late.  This tragedy begs to us do it now while we’re still trying to sew the pieces of our hearts back together.

 Alexandra Petri said this in her Saturday Washington Post op-ed piece:

“There are no words for this.  But we know how it goes.  I hate that we can’t just say, ‘Oh, God, how horrible.’  …that we have to say ‘not again’… (that)…in a few days or weeks or months after we have exhausted our grief and indignation nothing will change”. “I hate that there is a familiar outline to this…that we will poor over his [the shooter] life and habits and quirks”. “I hate that we will use this tragedy to know how right we were…people will go on television insisting that they know what caused this…I hate that we have a template for tragedy that should have no template. …Columbine, Fort Hood, Virginia Tech, Tucson, Aurora, Colorado, and Clackamas, Oregon…this time there were young children, terrified, being told by police to close their eyes.”  

“There’s a ritual to it now. The name of the places where the horrible has happened becomes more than a name, the date on the calendar more than a date.  ‘Our hearts are broken today’ said the President. …We’re going to have to come together and take meaningful action to prevent more tragedies like this, regardless of the politics’. Alexandra Petri responds:  “How?  No single law stops this.  No one policy fixes this.  Evil persists. Some crimes cannot be prevented. But that does not mean there is nothing we can do”. She concludes:  “The next time we say “Not again”, I want it to be a promise”.

That is what John, in his plain spoken, even harsh way is asking.  He is asking us to make of our lives a witness to the promise to live in the ways of God.

Jesus, who we are about to welcome into our world again is the way to that promise and to the day the words “not again” will never be heard again.

We welcome Jesus into the real world.  John puts the dirty, ugly, painful realities of this real world in front us and declares that is what Advent season is about.  It isn’t the gauzy fairy tale of Christmas preparations or a focus on holiday parties.  It isn’t the worry of what to get Uncle Charlie for Christmas or the irritation of fighting mall traffic.  John isn’t welcoming us or Jesus into that world or to the manger in Bethlehem so that we will admire a pretty baby.  He is inviting us to deal with a life as it is, smudged and broken, and in the name of the baby in Bethlehem demanding that we do our best to clean and mend and renew.

In these last several weeks, where the horrible, unthinkable has intruded, John, shouts at us and begs that we get serious about our jobs as Christians, as people of God.  Wild eyed John, standing up to his knees in water telling us it’s in our power to change the world.  There he is telling us to do at least something to make it better – give a coat, drop a coin, buy a chicken for someone in Africa, give to something, care, be Jesus. Stop the violence. Stop the violence like what happened in Clackamas, Oregon and Newtown, Connecticut. 

But also stop the violence that we do every day to each other and to ourselves.  The unkind word.  The failure to see one another, to acknowledge the presence of the other.  Would it kill us to say ‘hello’ to a stranger, to offer kindness to someone we don’t even know?  The truth is that the failure to connect with each other, especially those we don’t know, is killing us. 

It’s time to stop the violence in our homes when we fail to honor those dearest to us.  Take time with each other. Don’t wait for another day when you’re less busy or less stressed.  This moment is the only moment we have.  It’s time to stop the violence of not taking care of ourselves, our bodies and our souls.   And when we stumble, fail, when we get too busy, or a little cross with one another, or don’t take care of ourselves, and we will, don’t give up. Renew the promise and begin again.

John shouts at us, a ropey blue vein bulging on his forehead, eyes burning, imploring us to stop waiting.   Stop waiting for God to wave a magic wand.  Stop waiting for God to do what human beings have the power and ability to do. Stop waiting and start being who you are and who you are and who we are is the holy hope of new life.   Move, choose, protest, write letters, pray, get a therapist, demand more, expect more, expect better, invite and anticipate the presence of God in everything and in every way.   

The modern prophet, Jewish scholar and mystic Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said that we mustn’t accommodate to evil. We mustn’t adjust.  Evil should surprise us; astonish us on arrival because, as Heschel said, “an individual dies when he ceases to be surprised”. Evil should shake us to our core, rattle us in ways we can’t tolerate and move us to change.

We are the holy hope of new life.  When God came in flesh and bone God was offering to be with us in our flesh and bone, to work with us, to go hell and back with us in order to birth into life the kingdom of God.

I wish God would wave a wand and change it all.  If God is all powerful or so we are told that seems to me the easiest possible remedy for what troubles us.  Why it doesn’t work that way is a truth with which I continue to wrestle.   So far the wrestling has led me to this: We have to be fully invested, fully involved in the coming of a new day.  Without us God won’t.   Heschel wrote, “…We tend to read the bible looking for mighty acts that God does and not seeing that all the way through the Bible God is waiting for human beings to act”.

We welcome Jesus to our world in the manger.  But Bethlehem isn’t in the beginning of the story. Actually it’s more in the middle. What leads us to Bethlehem is a long journey with God and it’s been a journey of choices. Would we choose war or peace? Would we take care of those in most need of care? Would we choose to be faithful or go our own way?  At times we were magnificent in our faithfulness to God and at times miserable. But even in our failures God remained with us.  When we had fallen, our faces planted in the dust, God scooped up us and that dust as in the beginning and breathed a second chance into us saying, “Let’s try again”.

We are approaching Bethlehem but we can’t stay there just as we couldn’t stay in the garden.    Why?  The same reason we help our children grow and mature. We don’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t, shield them from the bumps, bruises and deep sorrows that comes from being human.  We have to give them the ability to chart their own life course. It’s the only way they grow up.  It’s the only way they have a chance to survive.  It’s the only way they can join the rest of the human race and be a responsible participant.  So it is with you and me and God.

God doesn't wave magic wands. It wouldn't help us grow and mature and become responsible participants in kingdom work.  In our journey from Bethlehem and beyond there is simply the always patient God waiting for us to grow into best selves.  There is simply the faith-filled God becoming part of us, a union that realigns our particles, rearranges our atoms, and reconciles our molecules into the beings God made us to be in the beginning of time.   And when God made us God said: “This is very good.”

 So when we cry out, “Not again!”, and God responds,“Promise?”, it's time, this time, to keep the promise.  It’s time to stop waiting and be the change we’ve been waiting for.

 

The sermon was followed by the choir singing “Welcome to Our World” by Chris Rice, the lighting of 28 candles and the reading the names of those who lost their lives on Friday, December 14, 2012 in Newtown, Connecticut.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

The Hunger Games




Katniss Everdeen lives in a world of poverty, starvation, oppression and the aftermath of war.  She lives in a world where hope exists only in the stolen and forbidden moments when she slips into the woods hunting live game with bow and arrow.  If she’s lucky she will get a squirrel to feed her family. 

It’s illegal to leave her district and go into the wood to poach, but she’s not afraid of being caught.  She is afraid of the annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games has taken place for 74 years is this post apocalyptic world of Panem, ever since District 13 dared to revolt.   Each year a girl and boy ages 12 to 18 years will be chosen by lot and fight to the death until only one remains.  All of that will be required television viewing. 

Suzanne Collins the author of the Hunger Game trilogy said she got the idea for the story channel surfing on television.  On one channel she saw people competing in a reality show and on another channel coverage of the Iraq war.  This mix of realities, war and competition, created a surreal state that led to the books that are said to be similar in plot to such classics as Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Collins said that she relied on the bones of a Greek myth to craft her tale of good and evil and moral ambiguity.

This is Hunger Games, a story that has been told over and over again throughout the ages.


Jeremiah tells a similar story. It’s the story of the Israelites.  People, who had lost their hope, who were oppressed by a ruling nation and who suffered in the aftermath of war.  The Babylonians destroyed the temple of Jerusalem and dragged King Zedekiah off in chains.  The people of Judah had lost everything power, prestige, freedom and security but most importantly they had lost their God, the god they thought they could rely on did nothing to save them.  An impotent god was no better than no god at all. 


Have you ever felt that way?  You pray and pray for something to happen and nothing happens, nothing changes.  What, then, is this relationship with God?  Why should we bother with a God that is impotent or just not terribly interested in our lives?


Who needs a God that can’t make the cancer go away or turn a daughter back home after she’s wandered on the streets?  Who needs a God that let’s bad things happen to good people and the bad people get away without a care?  Who needs a God that let’s children starve?  [1]

These are age old questions.  The people of Judah contained their laments until they could hold them no longer.  They raised their voices and complained about God.  Jeremiah tries to reassure them that God will indeed keep the promises God made. God will bring newness out of destruction.  God will set them free from their bondage and exile.  God will find a way where there appear to be no way.   In fact God will do more than they imagined, the law that was on carved on stone will now be carved in their hearts.  

The prophet is announcing a new covenant.  That’s fine but there’s one problem.  A new covenant implies that the old one was broken.   Was it broken because, as the prophet suggests, the people couldn’t keep their part of the bargain by keeping their sticky fingers off of sin?

Or is there another more difficult to bear possibility?  Is the failure not of the people but God’s? Could God not fulfill his side of the bargain?  Had something shifted in the calculus of covenant people God and the people? 

There are too many stories where bad things happen but not because of human unfaithfulness.  The Psalms and the book of Job are testaments to that.  Not all of the people of Israel were at fault and yet all of them suffered in the Babylonian exile.  Jesus certainly didn’t deserve his fate.  He was simply preached about mercy and compassion.  He healed the sick and gave hope to the hopeless.  What’s wrong with that? 
Katniss isn’t thrown into the Hunger Games because she has done something wrong.  Her father didn’t die because he was unfaithful. Her mother wasn’t caught in the desperate hole of depression because she sinned. 

A bargain with God is often thought of as a quid-pro-quo.  We do what we’re supposed to do and God does what God is supposed to do.  But what are we to think when the covenantal calculus doesn’t hold?
What are we to think when our prayers aren’t answered or even seem to be heard?   The choice may be to blame God, get angry or abandon God altogether.  Those are the most common responses but after that there is another possibility. There is a response that takes our spirituality to another level.  That brings our practice into a greater depth of who we are and who Got is to us.

That journey of depth is here as we enter the last days of Lent.  The stories grow darker and hope dims.  

Jesus is talking more openly about his death and the darkness that is to come.  ‘Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies there is no life’, he says.   And ‘those who love this life will lose it and those who hate their life in this world will keep life forever’.

In these last days of Lent the “shadow of the cross begins to fall over everything” – including the hope we have that God will somehow make everything better before it all falls apart.[2] What are we to make in the changed calculus of the covenant, the deal made with God to behave ourselves and God will provide?  Where are we going as we toward the cross?  What is to become of us, the beloved of God?

The answer may be in the obscure passage of Hebrews that reads like some secret code. The Book of Hebrews was written to Christians who had suffered persecution.  Out of fear they  had stopped gathering together, praying and attempting to bring into fullness the kingdom of God. They had given up.

Jesus is likened to a priest in the order of Melchizedek.  He is the son of Noah, carried the robes of Adam and gave Abraham bread and wine.  In other words, he carries the story of our beginning and the story of our journey through this world and all the troubles we encounter because we are human. 

It is said that Jesus takes away the sins of the world, but that not what the writer of Hebrews is saying.  Hebrews is telling us that Jesus is the chalice of all humanity holding our darkest secrets, carrying our deepest wounds, pouring out our most wrenching sadness and grief. The sacrifice Jesus offers to God is not doves or even his life but the grief and supplications of all people.

People who suffer.   People who feel real pain.  People who wonder whether hope has passed them by yet again. 

What leads Jesus to arrest, trial and death is his willingness to make known the grief of the world, to make real in flesh and blood human anguish, loneliness, fear, guilt, things done and left undone.  He cries out for his own sake but he also cries for us. If that wasn’t true, if he hadn’t cried out for us, he would have lived and died at an old age from natural causes.

We may think the covenantal calculus doesn’t hold, that God isn’t listening or doesn’t care that the cross seems all too real in our lives.  When our circumstances or the circumstances of the world drive the nails into our hands and we feel silvers of wood stab us in the back the truth may be that the calculus is different than we imagined. The calculus reveals how we called to enter a deeper level of what it means to be the beloved of God.  We’re asked to find our way through the pain and darkness in order to have new life. 

Deep in Lent the cross looms large and it is a reminder that there is no path around the darkness.   Unless a grain of wheat falls and dies, unless we dare to enter a thousand deaths that life will bring there is no transformation.   

That was true before there was a cross or even its shadow.  It was true for the people of Israel when Jeremiah was trying to give them a reason to keep going.  It certainly is true in the futuristic post apocalyptic world of the Hunger Games. It true today.   

A few years ago a young woman read her poem “Lost Generation” on YouTube.  She said:

I am part of a lost generation and I refuse to believe I can change the world
I realize this may be a shock but “Happiness comes from within” is a lie, and
“Money will make me happy”
So in 30 years I will tell my children
They are not the most important thing in my life.
My employer will know that
I have my priorities straight because work is more important than family
I tell you this
Once upon a time
Families stayed together but this will not be true in my era this is a quick fix society
Experts tell me 30 years from now I will be celebrating the 10th anniversary of my divorce.
I do not concede that I will live in a country of my own making
In the future
Environmental destruction will be the norm
No longer can it be said that my peers and I care about this earth.
It will be evident that
My generation is apathetic and lethargic.
It is foolish to presume that
There is hope

And all of this will come true unless we choose to reverse it.

And then she began to read the poem backwards.  “There is hope.  It is foolish to presume that my generation is apathetic and lethargic.  It is evident that my peers and I care about this earth. No longer can it be said that environmental destruction will be the norm. In the future I will live in a country of my own making. I do not concede that I will be celebrating the 10th anniversary of my divorce …” The reversal of the poem ended with her saying, “I can change the world, and I refuse to believe that I am part of a lost generation”.[3]

Across every generation the tears and cries have come.  Jesus took all of that to the cross, hung there with it.  To go there again is to remind ourselves of the challenges of being human and that God through Jesus is telling us God knows what it is to be me and you, to be hurting and broken, to suffer and to die. And we can make it.

There is suffering in being human.  There is injustice and cruelty, oppression, poverty and unfairness.  Good people die and bad people will too often win.  All that reality pulled on Jesus. He died holding the weight of our sorrows, the heaviness of our grief.  He suffocated from the injustice and the oppression of the world.

Because he took that on and because he died and because he lived we find a different calculus for our lives with God.  It isn’t about God taking all the hard times away; it is about going through the hard times with God and discovering that there is still life or even a new life to be lived.

The story of what happens to Katniss doesn’t end with the Hunger Games. There are two more books before we know her fate and how she is transformed and creates transformation in those around her. It’s not a pretty story. It is a story of darkness and moral ambiguity. It is our story. It is the story of our ancestors.

We come to the darkest day of Lent.  The cross looms over us.  On that cross Jesus will die and then he will rise and find his frightened and disheartened friends.  Those friends will find the strength to move on.  They too will suffer but they are able to interpret the meaning of their suffering through the experience of knowing Jesus, watching him die and seeing him in a new way.  

Every generation is caught in the shadow of a cross.  Every generation has struggled or suffered from the weight of poverty, disease, loss and sorrow.  Every generation has had to fight the good fight for the oppressed and the downtrodden.  Every generation has walked through the bloody streets of a Syria and heard the cries of children in a Sudan.  But the disclosure of God in Jesus proves that none of this is the last word and none of it needs come true again and again.  As long as we choose to reverse it and be the presence of a living God there is hope.

There is hope and it is foolish to presume that we are apathetic and lethargic
We can change the world and We refuse to believe that we are part of a lost generation.


















[1] Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 2 Lent through Eastertide, Richard Floyd

[2] Feasting on the Word, Richard Floyd, page 126
[3] Diana Butler Bass Christianity after Religion,