Don't Bother Rescuing Me Yet

From Wikimedia

Every year without knowing it 

I have passed the day 

When the last fires will wave to me 
And the silence will set out 
Tireless traveller 
Like the beam of a lightless star 

~W.S. Merwin "For the Anniversary of My Death"

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Sermon by Katie Mulligan

Preached at Ewing Presbyterian Church

Thanks for the invitation!

Scripture Readings: Psalm 67 and John 5:1-9

Jesus.
Is such a jerk, sometimes.
“Do you wish to be made well?”
What kind of question is that anyway?
Well, then, if you want to be well, take up your mat and walk.
No excuses.
No explanations.
No allowance for true need. No wait time for a second opinion.
No coddling. No sympathy.
Just get up and walk.
Jesus.
Is a jerk.

I am always astonished when I read this story. For thirty-eight years this man languished by the side of a pool of water that was said to have healing properties. And for thirty-eight years everytime he tried to make his way into the water, someone else stepped in front of him. As the story goes, nobody stopped to help him. No family member, no friend, no good Samaritan. For thirty-eight years the man stayed by the pool, waiting for his chance, and it never came.

My mind wandered a bit when I read this scripture, and I began to wonder what the backstory was. Who were this man’s people? Did he lie out by the pool for thirty-eight years straight? Did he go home at night? Did someone bring him food? Was he partially mobile—and he must have been, because the man says he tried to get to the pool on his own. The story, as it was written made little sense to me—it is hard for me to imagine an entire community walking past a man in need of healing for thirty-eight years and leaving him to crawl to the pool on his own. And yet the scripture says that there were many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed—all lying about that pool of water, waiting for healing. It took me a while to notice that verse 4 is missing from our reading, removed from the text as it appears to be a later addition to the gospel of John.

In these porticoes lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed—waiting for the stirring of the water; for an angel of the Lord went down at certain seasons into the pool, and stirred up the water; whoever stepped in first after the stirring of the water was made well from whatever disease that person had.

As I read, a fuller picture emerged. See if you can imagine this with me. A community of people—most of whom are able-bodied and mobile, hustling about their days, getting on with their business. By a side gate to the town—the Sheep Gate, there is a pool of healing waters. Every now and then, the angel of the Lord stirs up the water, allowing for the healing of the first person who steps in the water. Medical care (then, as now) being at a premium, those members of the community in need of healing congregated around the pool, waiting for the moment when the waters stirred. At first sign of movement, the people would rush into the water, trying to be the first. The healed person would walk away whole; the rest, still bearing their infirmities, would settle back around the pool waiting for the next opportunity.

There were limited resources. There was no timetable as to when that unpredictable spirit might move the waters. There were many people waiting around the pool. For thirty-eight years a man had been trying to get to the waters first, and for thirty-eight years someone else had beat him to it. I bet he had been asked this question before, “Do you wish to be made well?” I bet it wasn’t a nice question the way it was asked. “Don’t you WANT to be healed?” “What’s wrong with you that you keep missing the boat?” “Why do you sit there day after day waiting for your moment to come. It’s been thirty-eight years—give it up already.” “If God hasn’t healed you yet, why do you keep waiting?” Can you imagine the questions?

I am reminded somewhat of trying to work our health insurance system. In so many ways, aren’t we too waiting around a pool of water, wondering when the angel of the Lord will stir things up? When will that referral come through? When can I get an appointment with a doctor? When will the off-formulary prescription be approved? When will a real live person answer my phone call? How many hours must I wait in this emergency room? Is there anybody who cares enough to check in on me and see if I have what I need to be made well?

And then Jesus comes along and notices the man who had lain by the pool for thirty-eight years. And perhaps this is the first and best miracle of the story—that Jesus notices the man after so many others had passed by. “Hello there! I see you have been waiting a while! Do you wish to be made well?” Perhaps exasperated by the question (and after all, the man was by the pool—wasn’t that evidence enough that he sought healing?), the man answered defensively, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.” Sir, can you not see I am alone here with no family, no friends, no community? I am stuck here! And everytime I try to crawl my way to the waters, some other person with more resources, more health, more ability, beats me to the waters.

And what a system! That the sickest, poorest, and least friended people would inevitably be left out. Those who were most vulnerable and fragile would never make it to the pool on time. The cards were stacked against them—once again, those who had resources got a bigger share of the pie. I could imagine, if I was that man, that all of my bitterness at the injustice of this system would drip off my tongue. Do I wish to be made well?? What kind of question is THAT?

A man of few words, Jesus simply says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” And the man was made well, and he took up his mat and walked. I wondered how the man knew he was healed, and I imagined that perhaps in anger, when Jesus said to get up and walk, that the man sneered and lurched to his feet, intending to prove to Jesus that he could not walk. But when he stood up on his thirty-eight year broken body, he discovered that he could bear weight. He could move and flex and walk. He had been made well. He was so startled that scripture tells us he didn’t even find out who had healed him. The religious leaders came to him later that day and asked who had healed him, but the man could not say. Jesus had disappeared into the crowds.

I struggle with this story. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Jesus could heal one man but not the others lying around the pool. I can’t figure out why this man could be healed of his infirmities after 18 years, but I cannot get rid of the arthritis in my feet. I can’t fathom why Jesus healed that man but leaves my friend a quadriplegic. I don’t understand why this man could stand up and walk, but so many others languish in pain.

But I do know one thing: people get left out of community everyday. Everyday we walk by hundreds and thousands of people trying to get to the healing waters, and we let them sit there for one reason or another. I do know one thing: we get left out of community everyday. We seek healing for ourselves and can’t quite get to the water. We languish, we cry out, and other people with more resources get to the water first. This happens. All the time.

I know that sometimes healing is not possible. Broken bodies and spirits do not always bounce back to their former strength and health. Sometimes there is no coming back from our unhealth. In fact, for all of us, there will come a day when we aren’t healed, when our bodies can no longer sustain life, when we slip past the veil into whatever lies beyond our last breath. Healing, wholeness, and wellness are not always possible—and even when they are, we bear the scars of brokenness.

It’s hard to know, I think, where the line between can’t heal and won’t heal lies. How much did the man at the pool languish because he couldn’t get up and how much because he wouldn’t? How do we know for ourselves whether we can’t be healed or we won’t be healed? After we’ve been broken, what does healing look like? If I’ve lost a leg does healing look like a new leg? Or does it look like thriving without a leg? Maybe it depends on the day. Maybe it depends on my context. At some point, when we’ve hit the bottom of the well, we have to make a decision if we’re going to seek a way back out to wellness. And I think that sometimes we decide to stay in the bottom of the well, sitting comfortably, if painfully, with our brokenness.

There is a kind of satisfaction with brokenness—a habit of being—that is easy to slip into. I remember as a child that the sweetest moments came when I was home sick. Popsicles, ginger ale, tender loving care. There is something delightful about being cared for—most pastors I know fantasize about what it would be like to be sick for a while. Who would come to visit us? Who would care what happened to us? For once, what would it be like for people to check themselves when speaking to us? “Oh, pastor isn’t feeling well, maybe I’ll hold my tongue about that stewardship campaign or budget issue.”

A few years ago, when I left my PhD program and my first church where I served as pastor, I spent a few months wallowing at the bottom of the well. It was marvelous—I watched eight seasons of Grey’s Anatomy. I was sad and broken and exhausted, and I just couldn’t move very fast. And then the rent was due and the children had need, and I had to find a way back out of the bottom of the well. 

Maybe it just takes time to want to climb out, to want to be made well, to trust that there is healing beyond brokenness. There was once a church band called Everybodyduck; they sang a song called "Down at the Bottom of a Well" with these marvelous lyrics:

Well my life's a chain disaster, nothing ever turns out right
I'm so stressed with all my problems, can't get any sleep at night
Everyone I know's against me and my parents treat me bad
Now you know my whole life story, tell me, does it make you sad?

Hey look at me, everyone, down at the bottom of the well
Don't bother rescuing me yet, I've not had time to whine and yell
I could climb out if I want to, this hole's not really that deep At the bottom of a well, cuz that's where I want to be.

Harsh words--and not always applicable! We ought to have compassion for ourselves for the pieces that are irreparably broken. But then what? And so what? Do we just curse God and die?

It’s hard to find a way out of brokenness and move toward healing and wholeness. It’s hard to get back up out of a well without help. When we are broken and hurting, a helping hand sure goes a long way. But when we’ve been the broken, hurting patient for a while, people get used to our invalid-ness. The system, the people around us, our families and friends, are not always so glad to see us changing the status quo. To get well requires change. If the man at the pool picks up his mat and walks, his community will now be forced to reckon with him. Gone are the days of ignoring him languishing by the pool.

Scripture tells us that Jesus did this healing on the sabbath, and that the religious leaders were angry when they discovered this. “Who told you to get up and walk on the sabbath? That’s not lawful—not permitted. Who told you you could be healed on this day, a sabbath?” Or in other words, “Who broke the status quo?” Who said you could be made well? Who said you could stop being outcast? Who said you could be a functioning member of the community that said you had no use—that you were too broken to contribute? Who said you could step out of line like that?

I am reminded of our church—broken in many ways aren’t we? The loss of a building. The loss of a pastor. Heck, the loss of several pastors for many of you. This is a church where people’s roots go deep. Where history matters. Where the history has been tough. The loss of members. The loss of fellowship. The loss of trust. The loss of companionship on this journey of life. A deep and terrible grief accompanies broken fellowship, and this body of Christ is broken indeed. We fear losing more members. We fear losing more leaders. We fear losing our youth. We fear that if we speak of these things we might lose our visitors. We fear that this church won’t make it.

But in brokenness is the promise that Jesus will meet us. Of all the people lying by that pool of water, Jesus sought out the man with no resources, no family, no friends. He sought out brokenness like a moth to a flame. I am convinced that God seeks out those who are hurting like a parent goes after a lost or injured child. If you have cared for a child, you know that the particular sound of their cry gets imprinted on your heart—from a mile away I used to be able to hear my child crying, and I felt it in my bones. My child, in particular, I KNEW the sound of his cry. And when I heard the sound of my child’s cry I ran to him faster than a cheetah. God knows our cries. God is present.

We don’t actually know what was wrong with the man in the story. We don’t know how he was healed. We don’t know if his body was made whole or if he was simply able to be well within the body he had. We don’t know how long or how well he lived after his healing. All we know is that after thirty-eight long years Jesus saw him. And then he made his complaint. And then Jesus told him to take up his mat and walk. And he did.

Jesus didn’t ask him how he became ill or injured. He didn’t say, “Tell me about your mother.” Or “Tell me about your father.” He didn’t ask for money. He didn’t ask for future service. He just said “Get up and walk” and then disappeared into the crowd.

What would it look like if we stood up, picked up our mat, and walked? Could we bear weight on our feet? Can this broken body and this broken fellowship become well again? Can we learn to trust? Will we restore ourselves to the greater church? Will we pour ourselves into living well again?

When you tell people you are a member of this church, do they make a face and whisper, “Wow. How’s it going over there? I hear it’s tough.”? What if we answered that question with claims of wellness? What if we responded by saying, “We are well! We are sending 5 students to Triennium! We have 4 Presbyterian Women circles. We are sending 973 blankets to people in need. We have 100 people in worship. We had a youth group event to learn how to compost food with worms—and 25 youth showed up for it. 25 youth showed up: to learn how to compost food with worms! Oh, we are having fun, now!”

What if in the midst of division and conflict and fear and anxiety, we came around the table of Christ and ate together anway? What if we brought our brokenness to the table and laid it on the altar, sharing together as we do in the brokenness of Christ’s body and the forgiveness of our sins already poured out in the cup of wine before us?

I’ll tell you one thing. If we do it—if we take up our mat and walk, if we claim our healing, if we decide to be well—we will surprise a lot of people. If we manage to make our way with strength and dignity a lot of people will have to stop focusing on us and deal with their own issues again. This church has been injured for so long, people are used to seeing us lying by the waters, waiting for healing. It will certainly be interesting to see what happens if we pick up our mat and take our place in community again. We can wait, we surely can. We can wait for someone to help us. We can wait for the waters to stir. We can wait for Jesus to come. We can say, “Oh but it’s the sabbath” or “oh but there’s a process.” Or we can take up our mat and walk. We can learn to trust again. We can learn to love again. We can be church to one another. And in doing so, we can become well.

A Ministry of Many Things

This is how much fun I've been having, ever since I wrote that blogpost, "Called to This Leaky Apartment". Every day I am amazed by the way this has all come together. And there is so much potential yet to explore in this complicated partnership. 

Thanks to all who are making this happen. It is all so very cool.

A Breath Prayer

"Top Women" at U.S. Steel's Gary, Indiana, Works, 1940-1945

I spent the last few days listening and sharing about creative ministry happening all over the country with colleagues who mostly work in Asian American and multicultural contexts. I'm still sparking off what I heard--can't wait to see how some of these thoughts permeate the work we are doing in my own ministry contexts...

One of our devotional leaders was Dr. Bo Karen Lee from Princeton Theological Seminary. As she led us in a morning prayer time, she asked us to join her in a breath prayer. As you draw in breath, ask God for what you need--your deepest longings. As you exhale, let go of what needs to be let go. We sat in silence for a minute and a half, but I could have sat there all day with that, I think.

As I drew in breath, the sharp and clear longing for intimacy in my life was unmistakeable. It is not good for human to be alone, I thought. And as I exhaled, I feebly attempted to let go of pain from intimacies gone wrong. Desire and pain, as inextricably linked as inhale and exhale.

I cannot breathe in the mercies of God without exhaling the suffering of this world. I cannot exhale suffering without inhaling the mercies. There is no room for the air, one without the other.

Oh yes, a minute and a half is not nearly long enough for *this* prayer. A lifetime, perhaps, to exhale what a lifetime has brought. A lifetime or more to fill one's lungs with the Infinite.

No wonder we breathe so shallowly. Perfectly balanced between desire and pain, fearful that our lungs might burst either which way we turn. I wonder which breath will break first.

Sermon: My Dear Doutbing Thomas

René Thomas, a French race car driver.
Lots of Thomases in this world.

Sunday, April 7, 2013
Sermon by Katie Mulligan
Preached at Ewing Presbyterian Church

Scripture Readings: Revelation 1:4-8 and John 20:19-31

“Blessed are those who believe who have not seen.” This blessing is often taken as an indictment of Thomas and others who have their doubts. Doubting Thomas—that disciple who didn’t have the fortitude to hold onto his belief even a few days into the crisis of Jesus’ death. We read his story out of context, as if all the other disciples jumped to belief at the first moment of Jesus’ appearance—or even rather that they had belief all along, and it was just Thomas who was lacking in the faith department.

Oh, Doubting Thomas! The poor wretch. Jesus loved him anyway, but what a sad scolding he received, we think. Blessed are those who believe and do not see, we repeat smugly. And there is room for us to be smug on this side of the millennia. After all, it’s been 2,000 years since we last had an appearance of Christ on this earth—what other choice do we have? Either believe without physical evidence or walk away, because Jesus isn’t around to ask anymore. From our side of this 21 century divide, we are safely ensconced in deep traditions of belief without a body, without physical testimony, without the voice of Christ to call us to belief. Poor Doubting Thomas—how could he be so skeptical?

But let us put Thomas into perspective in the last few days of Jesus’ life. He showed up for the Last Supper, expecting a Passover meal. Instead he got a good-bye dinner, complete with a lengthy sermon on what to do after his beloved Jesus died. His feet were washed by his Teacher, which was an odd change in the order of master and servant. One of the twelve was accused of betraying the fellowship. Jesus offered up the bread as his body and the wine as his blood, telling them to remember him every time they shared a meal together.

After dinner they wandered off to the garden where Jesus prayed anxiously. By the end of the night, Jesus had been arrested. By Friday he was condemned to die on a cross by the Sanhedrin, Pilate, and Herod. Jesus was whipped, forced through the streets and up a hill and then strung up on a cross to die. Peter himself, the Rock, the one on whom Christ would build his church, Peter denied him three times the night of Jesus’ arrest. So let us be clear where the doubts began.

By the time Jesus was dead on the cross, the only disciple left standing as witness was John, the beloved disciple, and the three Marys. And that night others took his body down and prepared it for burial, leaving him in a cave in a nearby garden.

Mary Magdalene found the tomb empty on Sunday morning, and although she was confronted with fantastically glowing angels, she still thought Jesus was the gardener until he called out her name. The disciples who had come with her didn’t even see the angels and had already wandered back to the others, where they were huddled together in a house, fearful of the past few days events.

The Magdalene ran back to the house where many of the disciples were gathered and told them that she had seen the Lord. But they did not believe her. So that when Jesus came and stood among them—even though the doors were locked from the inside, and nobody had let him in—they did not know it was him.

Christ called out to them “Peace be with you.” But it wasn’t until he showed them his wounds that they believed and saw that it was Christ. So it is really no surprise that when Thomas showed up, and the other disciples said, “We have seen the Lord,” that Thomas did not believe them any more than they had believed Mary Magdalene. It may be true that they had witnessed the raising of Lazarus and other miracles, but the disciples had not come to a belief in their own healing powers or in the idea that Jesus transcends death. This would take time and it was early days yet.


And really, if Jesus showed up today in my living room and declared himself present, even though I had locked the door, I would want proof then too. I’d probably call some friends to come over and verify. I might take him to the doctor to have his cuts looked at. I would certainly call my pastor and spiritual director. I might call my shrink. I might indeed call the police to report an intruder into my home, and I would certainly be reluctant to bring my children too close to this man who popped up where he shouldn’t, couldn’t have been.

Doubting Thomas? Well how about Doubting Katie, because that’s true enough. And if this blessing “Blessed are those who believe and have not seen”, if that blessing is meant for me, then I have not lived up to my side of that bargain—not every day, not even most days. It’s easy enough to speak of old myths and traditions, legends of days gone by, stories told in ancient texts, translated and interpreted a thousand times over. It’s easy enough to ascribe to a creed, or even several confessions. Easy enough to follow church polity, and to bury myself in books to see if I can’t tease out the meaning of an old ancient text for today’s context.

But belief? Real honest to goodness belief? The kind of faith that would let me see Jesus with no extra coaching, no calling of my name, no breaking of the bread so that I might suddenly know it was Christ? That kind of faith few of us attain. We are left huddling behind our locked doors, half way hoping for a miracle that Jesus might come back and show us the way.

It is interesting that we refer to Thomas’ lack of sight as doubt. And equally interesting to me that we make a significant event out of this last appearance of Christ to Thomas. Some people have suggested that Thomas was grieving somewhere else, unable to bear the pain of gathering with others around the death of Jesus. But I suppose it is equally plausible that Thomas was busy. A practical man, the kind that wants evidence to back your claim, perhaps he was off in the community carrying out Jesus’ last wishes of caring for others and spreading the gospel. Thomas was not one of the disciples huddled under the roof of the house when Jesus first arrived to proclaim his resurrection. He wasn’t at the tomb that morning with Mary, holding on to his grief over the Teacher’s death. Perhaps he was out and about tending to matters at hand. Jesus after all had said that the living should leave the dead to the dead. Who knows what Thomas was up to in that week before Jesus appeared to him as well?

I can’t prove it with scripture, because the evidence is not there. We have no accounts of Thomas’ activity that week—no proof that he was working and healing and praying and living out the gospels. But what if he was? What if his busyness that week kept him from seeing Jesus—what if in some important way his belief was more intact than any of the others—what if “Blessed are those who believe and have not seen” was meant for Thomas—because he had believed and carried on with the work at hand, even though he had not yet seen Christ risen. What if Christ’s words were meant as an affirmation to the disciple who had not stayed behind locked doors, afraid of the world, refusing to risk in order to love? What if what he was saying was, “Thomas, you don’t believe because you have just seen me. I can see your belief in your everyday work, in the practicality of not waiting for the second coming. And bless you for that.”

Perhaps not. You’re entitled to your doubts.

I am not alone in speculating about Thomas’ absence. Other ancient texts offer intriguing possibilities, including this text from The Book of the Resurrection, attributed to Bartholomew the Apostle:

Thomas was not with them, for he had departed to his city, hearing that his son Siophanes (Theophanes?) was dead. It was the seventh day since the death when he arrived. He went to the tomb and raised him in the name of Jesus…Thomas and he went into the city to the consternation of all who saw them. He, Siophanes, addressed the people and told his story, and Thomas baptized twelve thousand of them, founded a church, and made Siophanes its bishop. Then Thomas mounted on a cloud, and it took him to the Mount of Olives and to the apostles, who told him of the visit of Jesus and he would not believe. Bartholomew admonished him. Then Jesus appeared, and made Thomas touch his wounds and departed into heaven. (Most, 109)

That sounds like a busy week, doesn’t it? Raising his son from the dead, baptizing 12,000 people, founding a church, and flying back home on a cloud, only to deny Christ’s resurrection—a fantastical story for sure!

Elaine Pagels wrote a book on the Gospel of Thomas—another ancient text that was left out of our Biblical canon. In working with this ancient text, she suggests that the Gospel of John was written specifically to counter the teachings of so-called “Thomas Christians” who taught that God was light and the light is in each of us, and that therefore (and this is a gross oversimplification), we might come to know God by coming to know our own selves. The Gospel of John admonishes us that God is unknowable and that true belief does not require proof—for proof is not possible! Thomas’ insistence that he cannot believe unless he feels the wounds of Christ for himself—this crisis comes at the very end of the gospel. After all the acts and words of Jesus, Thomas still does not have his proof. In the gospel story he stops short of actually touching Christ’s body, but he comes to belief. Blessed are those who believe but have not seen, Christ says.

Then John’s gospel closes with “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God and the Word was with God…These things are written so that you may come to believe, and that through believing you may have life in his name. There is an agenda here, and Thomas is set up as the fall guy to make the point. Poor Doubting Thomas.

But there is another way to frame this story. We might well wonder where Thomas was in those early days after Jesus’ death. Thomas had gone AWOL. He’d gone prodigal. He’d done a bunk, as they say. Nowhere to be found—for all we know he went on a 7 day binge, drinking away his grief. Or he’d gone off on an adventure to resurrect his son, baptize 12,000 people, found a church, and float home on a cloud. Regardless, he wasn’t with the other disciples when Jesus first appeared to them—they got THEIR visual proof that Christ had returned, but Thomas was late to the party.

Jesus could have said, “you snooze, you lose.” “too bad, so sad.” “Were you there, Thomas? No? then that’s it!” Jesus could have left Thomas to his doubts and grief with no relief in sight. But like the woman with the lost coin, Jesus saw that one of his own was missing on that first day, and he came back. This God of second chances counted the coins and came up short, and swept the tent until the last coin was found.

The last act of the Gospel of John—a book written so that we might believe—the last act in this gospel is Christ’s offer of a second chance. My dear doubting Thomas: touch my side if you must; I have not left you.

May each of us be so blessed.

On The Public N(Sh)aming of the Steubenville Victim

Just saw that the various media outlets allowed the Steubenville rape victim's name to be outed on their networks. Shame on them. Some words from Nawal El-Saadawi on the historical (and therefore current) oppression of women:

The tyranny exerted by men over women indicates that they had taken the measure of the female's innate strength, and needed heavy fortification to protect themselves against it...However, this is only one aspect of the situation, for truth is many-sided. On the other side lies the fact that this innate resilience and strength of the woman bred fear in the heart of primitive man. And it was this fear, or even terror, that lead him to oppress and subjugate her with all means at his disposal, be they economic, social, legal or moral. All these means had to be mobilized and synchronized to place at his disposal an overbearing and formidable armoury, used exlusively to conquer the indomitable vitality and strength that lay within women, ready to burst out at any moment. The building up of this armoury was a logical consequence of a specific situation.  For the potential force that lies within a being itself decides the counter-force required to hold him or her down and to suppress their capacity for resistance....

(The Hidden Face of Eve, 100)

A woman or girl who stands her ground and will not be broken poses a considerable challenge to patriarchy (go argue with someone else whether we still live in a patriarchal society). My hat is off to this young woman. And also to this woman, Alexandria Goddard, who took screen shots of tweets and other social media postings in the early days of this Steubenville mess. Her quick actions, social media presence, and her courage in standing HER ground meant Jane Doe was not alone. Thank you, sisters.

This One Thing I Do

Artis struisvogel leest krant van oppasser
There is a reference to an ostrich in the Isaiah passage.
The congregation praised God today, making bird sounds.
No, really.

Sunday, March 17, 2013
by Katie Mulligan

Preached at West Trenton Presbyterian Church (thanks for the invite, Rev. Jim!)

Scripture Readings: Isaiah 43:16-21 and Philippians 4:3b-14

I ask your indulgence this morning. I was struck by Paul's words, "This one thing I do...I press on."  I've been sitting with it all week, and it got all tangled up with a sentence I heard in a sermon last week. I want to catch you up to my thoughts, and it will take me a minute. But I promise to return to Paul and pressing on toward the goal.

In my rounds as youth pastor for several churches, I often don't preach these days. In fact, I haven't preached since New Year's, so I've spent quite a bit of time on your side of the pulpit. You know how it is: there you are in the pews, eyes glazing over. It's been a long service already. You stood up, you sat down. You prayed, you sang. The children squirmed, there's somebody nodding off. We've made it through the announcements and the prayers, the choir, and the children's sermon. The pastor pulls out the prodigal son--an old favorite, and a story that perhaps you can say by heart. Or perhaps not--maybe it is new to you or you are new to church--I shouldn't presume, after all, that most of us have been around the church block a few times.

But, there I was, sitting in the pew. There was a restless teenager sitting next to me and squirming pre-teens behind me. We were at the end of the service and finally to the sermon when I realized it was the prodigal son story. The liturgist began to read and the teenager next to me groaned, one earbud in his right ear so his grandma on the left couldn't see it. I know the prodigal son story--heck I've preached it a gazillion times. Inwardly I groaned and fidgeted with my phone.

It's the story, you see, of that ungrateful younger son who asks for his inheritance early, takes himself off with the cash and wastes it all on loose living. In a terrible place, the son returns home to beg to be a servant, and the loving father welcomes him home as a son. Meanwhile, the elder brother stews outside the back door, furious that the younger brother gets to have his cake and eat it too. Jesus, as he does, leaves us without a resolution--no hint of reconciliation or further family conflict. The story just ends, leaving us with the familiar dilemma: are you the profligate younger brother in need of grace? Are you the angry older brother in need of grace? Do you aspire to be the father, offering Christlike forgiveness? A thousand times I've heard this story.

And then suddenly, it happened: there was a new thing said--or at least new to me. My colleague, Jan Willem at Covenant, he said, "Real trust is a gift; it cannot be earned or received."

I've been sitting with that sentence all week. I've been sitting with people troubled by that sentence all week too. How many times must we forgive our transgressor? Seventy times seventy? Ok. But if I forgive them, do I have to trust them again? Turn the other cheek? Is there a loophole?

Real trust is a gift. It cannot be earned or received. This sentence grabbed a hold of me and wouldn't let go. I emailed the pastor. I brought it to parents. I brought it to college students. We wrestled with it. A gift, not earned. Which means it's a waste of time to try to get someone to earn trust. They can't do it. Trust is a gift. Which means it's a waste of time to try to earn someone's trust. We can't do it. It must be gifted. I tell you, this sentence created havoc in my conversations this week. We all like to think we are forgiving people, but everyone I talked to had at least one person (and usually more than seven) to whom they would not gift trust again. And they all had sound, rational reasons for not trusting the scoundrels in their lives (and oh my, do I have my own untrustworthy scoundrels!).

It wasn't until Tuesday night dinner with some college students that I managed to find something redeeming in this ridiculous sentence that would not let me go. We talked amongst ourselves and once again agreed that it was a faithful thing to try and forgive and trust again after pain and hurt. And we all agreed that none of us could do this perfectly, and we supposed that that's why we need Jesus.

And then I served communion. And as I passed out the bread and the wine I remembered that Christ had passed out the bread and the wine to his own dinner companions. He shared table that night so long ago with his disciples, one of whom had already sold him out to be executed, and another who he knew later would betray him by claiming not to know him. He shared table with these people he knew would destroy his life and risk his legacy. He didn't trust them not to betray him. He trusted that God would use whatever happened to make something useful. Jesus lived a trusting life, open to betrayal, trusting that nothing could take the love of God from him. He gifted trust.

Thus says The Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the might waters...Do not consider the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing...do you not perceive it?

We get stuck in these questions, these fears, these same old stories and scripts--over and over in our lives we are hurt, betrayed, damaged. And over and over again we are faced with the question, do I trust again? Do I turn the other cheek? Has this other person earned that? Are they entitled to it?

But The Lord is about to do a new thing--do you perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. We are called to live a trusting life--trusting that we will surely be stranded in the wilderness and thirsty in the desert. But The Lord will                 make a way, and water will be found.Thus says The Lord.

I work with the youth, and so you know how that is. One week everything is fine, and then the next week somebody said something about somebody else and somebody else other than that repeated it until it got back to the person it was said about, out of context, slightly altered with a swear for Jesus that this is what so-and-so said. And suddenly, the youth group that loved each other on Thursday hates each other by Tuesday. Just like the early church the different camps form--don't you remember those high school cliques? And so on Wednesday we scrapped all of our youth group plans, and we spent an hour and a half affirming one another. No nasty words permitted. No passive aggressive nonsense. Just honest, loving words. We set it up so people who didn't know each other or didn't like each other would have to find something good to say. They had to toast one another with a cup of water. They had to hold hands. They had to hug at the end.

It isn't perfect. Somebody still said something, and somebody still passed it on, and several somebodies (including me) overreacted, and you can't go back in time. We didn't try to pretend everything is fixed. But I watched students think long and hard about who to affirm and how to affirm someone who had hurt them, and I saw some of the smaller wounds heal. Will they trust one another again? I hope they will trust each other to be imperfectly untrustworthy. And I hope they will trust God to make something of our mess.

The question isn't, '"Will I trust Joe or Carlos or Susan or Selma after they beat me, cheat me, rob, leave me?" The question is, "Will I trust God that this life has meaning?" The question isn't, "How can I avoid the desert?" For none of us can. The question is, "Where do I look for the water?"

Paul wrote to the community at Philippi from prison, locked away because his wandering preaching and community organizing made authorities nervous and uncomfortable. The community had sent him one of their own to visit him in prison, and he sent back this letter, admonishing them to be one with one another--to trust one another. There were deep divisions in the community; anger and mistrust had built up between leaders at Philippi.

Paul opens this paragraph with a plea to two of the leaders to be reconciled and to be of one mind. If any of you think you are all that, he says, I am all that and a bag of chips. I was circumcised according to the law. I am of the tribe of Benjamin, for goodness sake. I am a scholar, well versed in the law. I persecuted heretics--as was proper. I was a righteous man. Of any of you, he seems to say, I have earned trust, love, and authority in this community.

And yet.

And yet, trust is a gift, not earned. The cross was a gift, not earned. Christ ate with his betrayers, knowing their actions would lead to his death and disgrace. Christ stepped into death, knowing most would not understand or care. Knowing that individual members of his family and friends could not be trusted to act in good faith, Christ nevertheless kept hold of a broader vision and trusted God to make something worthwhile out of the mess that was brewing. And so, in the face of betrayal, he passed the bread and blessed them. And blessed us!

Paul writes further that all his efforts toward righteousness, toward earning trust and love and faith, are nothing. He has lost everything--he sits in prison, probably betrayed by somebody to get him there. But he counts that all as nothing, looking only to the gift of trust Christ gave us. God will make something worthwhile out of our difficult, untrustworthy lives. Betrayal abounds, and God's trust prevails. We can move forward---we can press on toward the highest goal, without waiting for others to earn our trust. We do not have to jump through anybody's hoops to earn their trust in order to be good with God. Knowing that Christ walked ahead of us, we can live a life of trust.

Will you be robbed or beaten or left or cheated? Probably, at some point.Probably you already have been if you're older than 10. Do you have to loan your money to Uncle Bob or Aunt Sloan after they spent it on drugs or gambling or an X-box? Well, no. You can, it's your money. But more important is whether we allow these betrayals to stop us in our tracks. Will we be sidetracked by conflict, unable to live out the gospel, unable to serve one another, because we are angry with one another?

Paul, who has every reason to be angry and bitter and resentful and stuck, Paul urges the community forward. Whatever has been done in the past, remember what is to come in the future. Recommending to the Philippians that they give their lives over to trusting God, he says with characteristic self-deprecation:

Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.

We cannot earn God's trust: it is a gift. God does not bother jumping through our hoops to earn our trust: God moves forward and waits for us to gift it. I have not figured this whole thing out yet, says Paul, but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on. I press on.

May we, each of us, find the strength and courage to say, "this one thing I do: I press on toward the goal."

 

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