Rio Grande on the USA-Mexico Border. Image by Bob Palin. Retrieved from Wikimedia Commons.
This was posted to Facebook by Neal Presa, the current moderator of the Presbyterian Church (USA). I’m told it was originally written by Rev. Jose Luis Casal. Fruitful theological food for thought for anyone who cares about USA immigration policies.
Also worth reading on this subject is this sample chapter from Reading the Bible With the Damned by Bob Ekblad:
I believe in Almighty God, who guided the people in exile and in exodus, the God of Joseph in Egypt and Daniel in Babylon, the God of foreigners and immigrants.
I believe in Jesus Christ, a displaced Galilean, who was born away from his people and his home, who fled his country with his parents when his life was in danger. When he returned to his own country he suffered under the oppression of Pontius Pilate, the servant of a foreign power. Jesus was persecuted, beaten, tortured, and unjustly condemned to death. But on the third day Jesus rose from the dead, not as a scorned foreigner but to offer us citizenship in God’s kingdom.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the eternal immigrant from God’s kingdom among us, who speaks all languages, lives in all countries, and reunites all races. I believe that the Church is the secure home for foreigners and for all believers. I believe that the communion of saints begins when we embrace all God’s people in all their diversity. I believe in forgiveness, which makes us all equal before God, and in reconciliation, which heals our brokenness. I believe that in the Resurrection God will unite us as one people in which all are distinct and all are alike at the same time. I believe in life eternal, in which no one will be foreigner but all will be citizens of the kingdom where God reigns forever and ever. Amen.
We may be New Yorkers, fans of the Yankees or the Mets, but this week we’re all rooting for Boston!
When I heard the news about the atrocity at the marathon, my first inclination was to change this week’s sermon topic. These are the moments when collective trauma demands a response from the pulpit. I’ve done it before, especially after the shootings in Aurora, CO and Newtown, CT. My first thought was that I should diverge from our current series on the Great Ends of the Church and use our time together this morning to offer words of healing.
But then I remembered something that happened to me on September 11, 2001. I was a senior in college then. It was a Tuesday and I was late to my 11 o’clock class. I didn’t usually turn on the news in the morning, so I had no idea what was going on in the world. I remember looking over my shoulder as I rushed past a conference room and seeing a group of people huddled around a television and there on the screen was the image that would forever be burned into my consciousness: the burning towers of the World Trade Center. I immediately stopped in my tracks, walked back, and sat down with the others in the conference room to take in what was happening. Needless to say, I never made it to class that day.
The next day, I went to see my professor, Dr. Hauser, and apologized for missing class. He had a strict attendance policy and I wanted to explain why I had missed class. “I understand,” he said, “but your absence will still count against you.” When I asked him why he wouldn’t excuse my absence, Dr. Hauser said these words, which I will remember for the rest of my life: “Because the goal of terrorism is to disrupt and I refuse to allow them to accomplish that goal, so far as my class is concerned.”
And so, borrowing a page from Dr. Hauser’s book, I have decided that I will not give the Tsarnaev brothers the pleasure of disrupting our church service this morning. We’re going to continue with our regularly scheduled sermon series on the Great Ends of the Church. In fact, their actions will only serve to illustrate my point, as you’ll soon see.
This week is the third in a six-week series on the Great Ends of the Church. We’re using this old Presbyterian document to answer the question, “Why does the Church exist?” On the first week, Easter Sunday, we said the first Great End of the Church is “the proclamation of the gospel for the salvation of humankind.” Last week, we said the second Great End of the Church is “the shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God.” And this week, we’re saying the third Great End of the Church is “the maintenance of divine worship.”
I actually think today is the perfect Sunday to talk about worship because it is moments of crisis, like this one, that so often lead us to lean more heavily and stand more firmly on the foundation of our faith. When one part of our identity is attacked, we humans almost instinctively look to ground our collective sense of self in some deeper and stronger source. I think it’s no surprise that people flocked in droves to churches, mosques, and synagogues in the days after 9/11. I also think it’s no coincidence that we saw so many ecumenical and interfaith worship services going on at the same time. Even if it was just for a moment, labels like Protestant and Catholic, Jewish and Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu were being set aside in favor of some larger reality that embraces and connects us all. This week, we’ve even got Yankees fans wearing Red Sox jerseys (which is the biggest miracle of all, if you ask me).
When we talk about worship, we’re using a word that comes from the Old English term worth-ship. We’re talking about that which has ultimate worth or value in our eyes. In worship, we direct our attention toward that which is most important to us in life. We stop for a moment to orient our little lives within the larger context of the big picture. It is from this exercise that we draw strength, hope, and courage for facing the days ahead.
Drawing from the resources of our Judeo-Christian heritage, I picked out two passages of scripture that illustrate the act of worship and its power to sustain us in times of crisis.
I’ll start with our New Testament reading. It came from the book of Revelation, at the very end of the Bible. Here we read about a vision of what worship looks like from the perspective of heaven. The author saw “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.” The author is told that these people are the ones “who have come out of the great ordeal”. Having passed through life’s hardships, they exist in a state of constant, ecstatic worship before God’s throne in heaven. As Charles Wesley wrote in his famous hymn, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling, they are “lost in wonder, love, and praise.” The angel serving as the author’s celestial tour guide says:
They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;
the sun will not strike them,
nor any scorching heat;
for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd,
and he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’
This is the effect that worship has on their lives. They want for nothing. They fear nothing. We’re used to thinking of passages like this one as descriptive of the afterlife, but I see no reason why we cannot experience at least a taste of that heaven in this life.
This morning’s Old Testament reading from the book of Daniel tells the famous story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three young men who refused to bow down to the idols of the society they lived in and were made to pass through the fire by the powers that be. It was their worship of God that put them at odds with the values of the dominant culture around them. They saw their lives as part of a bigger picture than the one made up of the demands and concerns of the Babylonian Empire. So, when the reigning powers of that empire demanded their allegiance, they said no. The full weight of imperial sanction was brought to bear against them, but still they refused.
When they were finally cast into the fire, the reality of their faith was vindicated as it became plain to see that these three young men were not alone in their struggle. Someone was walking through the fire with them, some mysterious person who had “the appearance of a god”, according to those who saw.
As it was with them, so it is with us. As we pass through the fires and ordeals of this life, worshiping as we go, we discover that we are not alone. Our God walks with us in the fire. As it says in the book of Revelation, God shelters us and shepherds us, guiding us toward “springs of the water of life” where “God will wipe away every tear from [our] eyes.”
The purpose of worship is to open our hearts and minds to this grand reality in which we live, move, and have our being. In worship, we lift our vision higher than our visibility. We look at our circumstances through the eyes of faith. We gather the fragments of our myriad little stories and lives into one Great Story told in prayer, creed, scripture, sacrament, and song.
This is why worship has the power to get us through times of crisis like the ones we lived through this week. Through it, we come to realize (or are reminded yet again) that the deepest part of ourselves is connected to the deepest part of the universe. “Deep calls out to deep,” as it says in the psalm.
We reach out to feel the bond of this deep connection in moments of crisis. What we need to do is nurture that same sense of connectedness in our regular, everyday living. That way, when crises happen, large or small, we have a well of spiritual resources from which we can draw the water of life.
Those who learn how to live from this deep center are often the very same ones who are ready, willing, and able to share their abundance of spiritual strength and compassion with others. They are the ones who can walk through the fire, trusting that God walks with them.
That’s what the worship-life of the church is here for: to nurture that strength in believers. We do it together in our weekly services of public worship, but I hope we also do it individually during the other six days of the week. This is why it’s so important to have a regular, daily practice of devotional prayer and Bible reading at home. These spiritual disciplines, far from being rote religious exercises, are as essential to the health of our souls as food and water are essential to the health of our bodies.
We need to maintain that sense of deep connection, not just during moments of crisis, not just on holidays, not just weekly, but daily.
That sense of community bonding we saw in Boston this week is available to all of us, all the time. The purpose of the church’s worshiping life is to maintain that sense of connection in the normal, boring seasons of life so that we can be ready to spring into action as heroes and leaders when these moments of crisis arise. We can face the flames unafraid because we know that our God walks through them with us.
This week, I believe we saw God walking with us through the flames. The stories of heroism, goodwill, and sacrifice cannot undo our grief and anger, but they can exist alongside it, reminding us that evil, chaos, and darkness are not, in fact, the only forces at work in this world. Furthermore, they will not have the last word. So long as there is still one good person in this world who’s willing to run toward explosions for the sake of other, wounded human beings, we know that “the light [still] shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”
The worshiping life of the church reminds us of this truth and seeks to grow in us that same kind of strength and compassion, in hopes that we too might become beacons of hope and justice in this world, people strengthened by faith to stand up for love and walk through the fire, trusting that God walks with us.
As 19-year-old Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the remaining man suspected in Monday’s Boston Marathon bombings and Thursday night’s shootout with police was arrested Friday, cheers erupted on Boston streets and on television broadcasts. It wasn’t uncommon to see Boston residents give thanks to God, and similar sentiments echoed across social media.
But prayers of another kind also poured out online: those for Tsarnaev.
God, who ignites the spark of creativity in every being and event in this universe: We hold before you in love and anger the pain of grief, the ashes of destruction, and the wasted potential of your son, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, asking that the inspiration of your Holy Spirit might open our hearts to bring light out of darkness, order out of chaos, and new life out of death; through Jesus Christ our Lord who came, full of grace and truth, that we might have life in abundance. Amen.
Reposted today as the Church commemorates the life and witness of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
When I was just a teenager, I was introduced to the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer by a wise Lutheran Pastor. I remember devouring Bonhoeffer’s “Life Together” and “Letters and Papers from Prison”. To this day, I credit Bonhoeffer for making me a Lutheran. While a great deal of water has flowed under a good many bridges since I was first enamoured of Lutheran theology, to this day I am grateful to that wise old Lutheran pastor who gave me my first taste of Bonhoeffer. Of late, there has been much ado about a little phrase that has been extracted from Bonhoeffer’s work: “religionless Christianity”.
(click here for full quotations from Letter and Papers from Prison)
“It is not for us to prophecy the day when men will once more ask God that the world be…
I’ve been invited by my friend Jodi Haier, a Methodist pastor, to contribute a column to a soon-to-be published group study book on Forgiveness. I have permission to publish my contribution here as a foretaste of the upcoming book. I’ll let you know when the whole study comes out. Thanks!
I’ve been asked to write this meditation on the subject of Forgiving God.
I have until the end of the month to finish it, but I want to get it done today, not because I’m efficient like that, but because today is April 16, 2013, the day after the bombing of the Boston Marathon.
The main religious question that arises in times like this is: How could a loving, all-powerful God allow something like this to happen? On days like today, it seems that God owes us an explanation (if not an outright apology) for standing by, silently, while some person(s) blew up the Boston Marathon.
As bizarre as it may sound, I’m going to argue that what we need to do in this moment is forgive God. What I mean by this is that we need to adjust some of our ideas about who God is and how God works if we’re going to make sense of situations like the bombing of the Boston Marathon.
Now, it just so happens that I am both a pastor and a philosophy professor, so I’ll construct my argument from both of those perspectives.
Philosophically speaking, we’re dealing with the Problem of Evil, which says, “Any two of the following statements can be true at the same time, but not all three: (1) God is all-powerful. (2) God is good. (3) Evil exists.” While many wise believers have tried to solve this problem over the years, none have fully succeeded. Personally, I choose to remove the first statement: “God is all-powerful.”
I believe God ceased to be all-powerful when free will was created. God could have made us like robots that always do what they are told, but God chose instead to make conscious beings that can freely choose to love. It is a logical necessity that, if one can freely choose good, then the capacity for choosing evil must also exist. God gave us freedom because God wanted love in this world, and there is no love without freedom.
Hence, God’s power is limited. God is not able to create a free world where the bombing of the Boston Marathon cannot happen. We have to create that world. It’s up to us. We are co-creators with God.
Honestly, I’m not sure that we’ll ever evolve to the point where we have a perfect society. Something will probably always be wrong. We cannot control what happens to us, but we can control how we respond. Will we use our God-given freedom to bring more love or more darkness into the world? Will our unjust suffering embitter or ennoble us? Will we stand together or fall apart?
I think we can (and should) forgive God for what happened yesterday by letting go of our idea of an all-powerful deity who controls everything that happens. That God doesn’t exist. What we have instead is a loving God who gives us freedom and invites us to be partners in the ongoing creation of the world.
What can I say? Today has just turned into a Mister Rogers kind of day.
Here are his best-known words of wisdom for getting through days like today:
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.”
I love drawing attention to the understated authority my late colleague commands over the powers in high places. On a night when people who are paid to lie are putting on even more airs than usual, the Rev. Fred Rogers was midwife to a genuinely human moment:
Is there anything more uncomfortable than an elephant in the room?
You know what I mean:
There’s something going on. Everybody knows about it. It’s on everyone’s mind. Everyone knows that everyone else knows, but they STILL won’t talk about it.
Don’t you hate that?
How many family dinners have passed in awkward silence all because people can’t or won’t break the ice on an uncomfortable, but still important, subject? Worse yet, how many families or friends have simply given up on each other after a while because of something that needed to be said, but no one would summon the courage to say it?
Most of the time, our socially conditioned interpersonal skills lead us in the direction of etiquette, maintaining the status quo, and not rocking the boat.
But there is a time and a place for polite restraint and there is a time and a place for taking a chance on each other. In order for our deepest and closest relationships to survive, someone has to stand up and fight for the relationship, even if it means saying something uncomfortable.
Those moments are never fun, but they are necessary. And when they’re over and done with, so long as everyone stays true to themselves and true to one other, most relationships are better off for having had the hard conversation.
In this morning’s gospel reading, we have a record of one such awkward conversation that needed to happen. The conversation is between Jesus and Peter. It takes place after Jesus’ resurrection. Twice already, the risen Christ had appeared to the disciples and offered words of peace and reassurance. Jesus had even breathed the Holy Spirit into them and commissioned them to go and preach the gospel. However, all was still not well.
Peter, rather than taking up the apostle’s calling, had gone back to the life he knew before he followed Jesus: fishing. Not a bad profession or pastime, but certainly less than the high calling that had been placed on Peter’s life.
Something was still missing. Peter wasn’t ready. He had some unfinished business with Jesus. One might say that it was his “elephant in the room.”
If you think about it, you might even remember what it was. A few days earlier, on the night of Jesus’ arrest, Peter had pledged his undying allegiance to Jesus. Peter said that he would die for Jesus, even everyone else turned tail and ran.
But that didn’t happen.
When the moment of truth came, what did Peter do? He denied that he even knew Jesus. Not once, but three times in a night. His spirit was willing, but the rest of him was weak.
Jesus had even tried to warn Peter that this was coming. Somehow, call it intuition or clairvoyance, Jesus knew that this would happen. He tried to comfort Peter, saying that everything was going to be okay, in spite of Peter’s upcoming failure of nerve.
But when all was said and done, Peter’s spirit was broken by his denial. Even after seeing Jesus rise from the dead, he couldn’t bring himself to take his old place at his rabbi’s side. His betrayal was too deep and his crime to heinous to be forgiven. Whatever words of comfort and commissioning Jesus might have for the others, Peter felt sure that those words were not meant for him. No, he would go back to the only life he knew: fishing.
It seems that Jesus and the other apostles didn’t share this overly negative opinion of Peter and his qualifications for ministry. They stood by him, even as he returned to life as a fisherman. Jesus even arranged a kind of intervention on the beach after a long night on the job for Peter.
As they sat together, eating breakfast, Jesus turned to Peter and called him by his given name, “Simon son of John.” Peter, Greek for “Rock,” was a nickname that Jesus have given him early on in their time together. Jesus asked Simon Peter three times, “Do you love me?” After each question, Peter replied, “Yes.” And Jesus responded, “Feed my sheep.”
The fact that Jesus did this three times is important. Can you guess why? It’s because three was the number of times that Peter had previously denied that he knew Jesus. That denial was the source of Peter’s paralyzing shame. And that shame was keeping Peter from becoming the person he was meant to be. It was his elephant in the room.
Something needed to be said, but what? Who would break the silence of shame that was holding Peter back? As you might expect, Jesus took the initiative, as if to say, “Don’t worry fellas, I got this.”
Three times, Jesus gets Peter to say that he loves him. And three times, Jesus reminds Peter of the calling on his life. In a sense, Jesus was healing the wounds of the past by giving Peter a “do-over.” Rather than only healing sick, blind, and lame people, Jesus was healing his relationship with Peter. He had the guts to stand up and fight for that relationship by talking about the elephant in the room.
In the end, it worked. Peter walked away from that tough conversation a changed man and went on to take his place as a leader in the early church. Dealing with the elephant in the room, even when it’s tough, has its benefits.
Today, we’re continuing with the second sermon in a six week series on the Great Ends of the Church. It’s based on a document produced by Presbyterians about 100 years ago. Behind each of these Great Ends is the question, “Why are we here?” It’s all about what it means to be the Church. On Easter Sunday, we talked about the first Great End of the Church, which is “The proclamation of the gospel for the salvation of humankind.” This week, we’re talking about the second Great End of the Church, which is “The shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God.”
Now, of all the Great Ends of the Church, “The shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God” is the one that most Presbyterians think they have down pat. Their first thought is, “Well, of course we do that. We’re a friendly, welcoming church. If only we could get more people through the front door, they would join our church and stay forever because we’re basically nice people.”
I don’t want to downplay the importance of being nice, but I think too many Christians in mainline denominations settle for being nice as their whole definition of shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship. More than that, I’ve even noticed that a lot of them aren’t even really that nice. What they really mean to say is that they’re polite. They settle for a kind of “live and let live” libertarianism that tries not to get involved with the personal lives and problems of others. Before long, their politeness gives rise to a culture of silence and people end up sitting next to each other in the pews for decades without ever really getting to know one another on a deep level.
Here in this fragmented and isolated society that we live in, polite standoffishness at church does nothing to break the ice of loneliness for hurting people. If we really want to live up to our calling, which is the “shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God,” then we have to go deeper in our relationships with each other. We have to break the silence, take a chance on our neighbor, and have those uncomfortable conversations.
Brennan Manning, one of my favorite spiritual authors (who passed away just two days ago), writes a story about two drunks sitting together in a bar in Poland. The first one, Pietrov, says to the other, “Ivan, do you love me?”
“Yes,” Ivan responds.
Pietrov: “Then tell me what hurts me.”
Ivan: “How should I know what hurts you?”
Pietrov: “If you don’t know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?”
If we want to truly love each other as a faith community, we have to learn about our neighbor’s pain. This is more than just offering sympathy in the form of a greeting card or a casserole during moments of crisis, we actually have to get our hands dirty and meet one another in the midst of our messiness. We have to have those hard talks about things like addiction, mental illness, aging, and coming out of the closet as gay. Most of us would rather not go there. It feels too hard. It’s awkward. We’re afraid that we might say the wrong thing.
But you know what? I’ve sat with many people in those hard moments… I’ve sat with many of you in those hard moments, and do you know what I’ve discovered? Most people don’t remember a single word you say. All they remember is that you were there… and it means the world to them.
Most people don’t want sage advice or theological answers that explain their questions away. Most of them just want to know that they’re not alone in this world. That’s why they come to church.
People just want to have a safe space where they can open their hearts and unburden themselves of their troubles. They yearn to know that there’s someone somewhere who will love and accept them no matter what they may have said or done.
They want to be vulnerable, which is one of the most frightening yet necessary parts of the human experience. Dr. Brene Brown is currently the world’s most well-known expert on the subject of vulnerability. She has written a book called Daring Greatly that’s all about vulnerability in relationships.
Dr. Brown writes, “[Daring greatly] means the courage to be vulnerable. It means to show up and be seen. To ask for what you need. To talk about how you’re feeling. To have the hard conversations.” Later on, she writes, “I define vulnerability as uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. To be human is to be in vulnerability.
When we say that part of our job, as the Church, is to provide for “the shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God”, it has to mean that we are more than just an organization of people who are polite and nice. It has to mean that we are the kind of community that creates safe space in which other people, outsiders, can make themselves vulnerable.
And, in order to do that, we have to break the culture of silence and go deep with ourselves and each other. We have to share our hurts and joys with one another. We have to bring our questions and experiences into our conversations and relationships. We have to get personal and carry one another’s burdens.
If we can do this, we will begin to embody the kind of healing presence that our hurting world so desperately needs. We will find ourselves growing internally as a church, which is the key to growing numerically as a church. We have to take a chance on each other, which is also to say that we have to prove ourselves trustworthy of such risk. We have to hold our neighbors’ stories in confidence, treasuring them as the precious gifts that they are.
As we learn this art of vulnerability and sharing, I believe that the presence of the risen Christ will become more and more obvious in our church community. I believe that people in the broader community will be attracted to the kind of church that provides for the “shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God.”
Will you take that chance with me?
One place where this kind of vulnerable sharing has been happening is at our Monday night Vespers service and book study. We get together each week to sing, pray, and discuss whatever book we’re reading. The round-table dialogue is where the real miracle happens. In the end, it’s not so much about the material in the book as it’s about our lives. Yes, we’ve all learned new things from the material, but none of that compares with how much we’ve learned from each other. We’ve taken the risk to become vulnerable and made safe space for others to do the same. Those relationships, more than anything else, have been the real fruit of this enterprise. If you haven’t come to Vespers before, I’d like to extend the invitation again. We meet on Monday evenings at 6pm. If you can’t make it then, don’t worry. Our church offers other opportunities for that kind of sharing and growth. There’s the Tuesday morning Prayer Group or the monthly study with the In His Name Women’s Missionary Society. All of these are groups where deep discussion happens on a regular basis. You might also find it by singing with others in the choir or serving as a deacon or elder. All of these moments are opportunities that God gives us for clearing the elephants out of the room, for breaking the silence of loneliness, and for growing together as a church community that provides for “the shelter, nurture, and spiritual fellowship of the children of God.”
It is with some sadness and some relief that I write of Brennan Manning’s death.
Brennan has been unwell for quite some time, with severely limited mobility and communication due to a neurological disorder. Friends have been caring for him around the clock. Their efforts have been most admirable, especially since Brennan was left homeless in the wake of Hurricane Sandy last fall.
During the last two decades, Brennan has become one of the world’s most well-known authors on spirituality and unconditional love. I became aware of his writing through the singer-songwriter Rich Mullins (1955-1997), who was a personal friend of Brennan’s.
I like to imagine Rich meeting Brennan at the gate as he crosses over. Oh, to be a fly on that wall today…
If you’ve never read any of Brennan’s work and want to, I can recommend no greater tome than his most famous book: The Ragamuffin Gospel. I’ve read, re-read, given away, and re-bought this book more times than I can count. I still don’t feel like I’ve sufficiently sounded the depths of its wisdom.
In faith, there is movement and development. Each day something is new. To be Christian, faith has to be new – that is, alive and growing. It cannot be static, finished, settled. When Scripture, prayer, worship, ministry become routine, they are dead. When I conclude that I can now cope with the awful love of God, I have headed for the shallows to avoid the deeps. I could more easily contain Niagara Falls in a teacup than I can comprehend the wild, uncontainable love of God.
And I couldn’t resist posting this next line, from the same book, which is my personal favorite of all his sentences:
Aristotle said I am a rational animal, I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer.
Hopping Hadrian's Wall 