“The Very Spitting Image" - sermon given at Millbrook United Methodist Church, 11/21/2010

Texts: Genesis 1:26a and 27 and Colossians 1:11-20.

May God's words alone be spoken, may God's words alone be heard. Amen.

For several years, before I moved down here to New Jersey, I had an established after church routine. I would go to brunch with a few other congregants, where I would without fail order the same meal every time. So steady was our routine, that the waitress would anticipate our arrival, and would have our table prepared and our coffee poured. After our meal, I would pick up a copy of the New York Times (not an easy paper to find in rural Maine), and then spend the afternoon reading and doing the crossword puzzle, which I was fortunate to complete now and then.

On one particular Sunday, while waiting for brunch, sharing a laugh with these friends from church, and looking forward to the crossword puzzle, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see an elderly woman, stooped over and hands curled around a walker, dressed in a bright, baggy sweater. She could hardly contain her excitement as she said: “You’re Billy Dodge’s son! You’re the spitting image!”

“Guilty as charged,” I said, perplexed and a little annoyed her announcement. She explained that dad was one of her pupils when he was in middle school, and I looked JUST like him. She went on to tell about how mischievous he was, always causing trouble for the sake of it, and I admitted to myself that perhaps the proverbial apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. I had never seen this woman before, but she recognized me, because she saw something familiar; she saw the image of my father.

Well, this incident has faded into the recesses of my memory, but every time I hear this Genesis text, it comes rushing back. "The Lord God said, `Let us create human beings in our image. Male and female, God created them.'” This passage was written at a time when this particular community had a very negative self-image. The Jews that resided in the ancient northern Kingdom of Judah had been hauled away from their homeland to Babylon. They had suffered terribly; they had been separated from everything that gave them power and strength and identity; things had fallen apart and their center had given way. A very great theological, spiritual writer, the unknown author of this portion of Genesis, simply called "The Priestly Writer" -- wanted to remind people that despite their captivity and separation from their identity, they bore the image of God in their very being. "And the Lord God created them, male and female."

In a way, what the passage is saying is, "I'd know that face anywhere. You are the very image of the one who has birthed you, who has made you, who has nurtured you. Your identity is in your image." Consider, just briefly, what this would mean for our society, a society that is always trying to sell us on the image that we need in order to be acceptable -- the latest beauty products; the most fashionable clothes or electronic gadgets; the most prestigious awards or college diplomas; in other words, what you have to buy or achieve in order to be somebody. What this passage says is that you are already someone very special, and you didn’t have to do or buy anything. “You are the very spitting image of God."

The letter to the church in Colossae was written sometime in the middle to end of the first century, and it too talks about identity and image-bearing. Whether Paul himself actually wrote the letter or not is disputed. It wasn’t uncommon for an author to assume an authoritative identity (like Paul) for her or himself when writing such a letter. So, whether this was written by Paul or not really doesn’t matter; if it wasn’t consequential to the Colossians, it shouldn’t hinder our reception of the text.

It seems the Colossians were incorporating elements and practices into their community other than what Paul had instructed, and, with a mixture of self-righteousness jealousy and religious authority, the author attempts to correct this behavior. So, we have this portion of text, this heady and confusing doctrinal statement about the supremacy and singularity of Christ.

These sorts of texts, ones that seem esoteric and difficult to understand, and, if we are honest, irrelevant to our busy, complicated lives, beg the question: so what? What sort of contribution can this text make to our lives, to our collective experience, that is meaningful in a tangible way? Especially this part of Colossians, with all its weird theological statements about Christ being the image of God- why not just leave this to the Biblical scholars and theologians, and instead think about an easier, more readily applicable text, like the Sermon on the Mount, or one of Jesus’ parables?

No, we cannot ignore these passages. To do so is perilous; we risk an incomplete and stunted faith. We may not like what we find in these Biblical texts; Pauline texts might offend our contemporary sensibilities, especially when the author says women are to remain silent in church or that marriage is for those unable to control their sexual desires. However, we must resist setting them aside. If we are to call ourselves Christians, these texts are part of our identity, like it or not; they are part of our image.

There is a story about a kindergarten teacher who was walking around observing her classroom of children while they were drawing pictures. As she got to one girl who was working diligently, she asked what the drawing was. The girl replied, "I'm drawing God." The teacher paused and said, "But nobody knows what God looks like." Without looking up from her drawing, the girl replied, "They will in a minute."

Today, on Christ the King Sunday, we are reminded that “Christ is the image of the invisible God,” and it is this statement from Colossians that I want to focus on. In 1986, the town of Fosteria, OH, made the national news when a local resident saw an image of Christ on the rusting side of a soybean oil storage tank. Daniel Midland was suddenly on the religion page. Hundreds of cars lined Route 12 on those steamy August evenings, full of curiosity seekers waiting to sneak a peek. As one local named Jimmy noted, "It’s real. The image looks like me, but I’ve always had long hair and a beard."

Funny and ridiculous as this incident is, I think this gets at something very important and telling. With more profundity than he may have ever realized, Jimmy spoke for all of us who unwittingly like, or, perhaps need, to see Christ reflecting the image of our own lives. We find ourselves in a similar situation to those Jews carried off into Babylonian captivity. We identify with the poet W.B. Yeats, who wrote of a world where “things fall apart, the center cannot hold.” We long for cohesion, we want something to tell us who we are, we want a version of God that bears some meaning for us. If we are honest, we are always looking for a way to reorder our jumbled lives and hold meaning together in the face of chaos.

In the image of God, we, can find a way to repair the fallen apart things, to regain our center. To bear the image of God is to see ourselves differently, but not just ourselves. It is to see everyone else differently as well. C.S. Lewis said "There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal." That’s because the image of God is indelibly stamped on everyone. Sometimes this is very difficult for us. We see someone who is really different from us and we think of them as the stranger, the alien, and we become very frightened by them. Whatever the perceived difference might be, they bear this image of God just as unmistakably as we. And, sometimes it is not always because someone is just different. We may fail to see that even those we love are the very image of the God who made them.

This is why the early church, particularly the writer of Colossians, said of Jesus, "He is the very image of the invisible God." What they meant by that is when we look at Jesus and we see Him feeding the hungry, we see the image of God in action. When we look at Jesus and see Him healing somebody who is broken and in need, we see the image of God in action. When each one of us works for justice and peace, we are the image of God in action.

In the Old Testament, in Genesis, in the same book where we get first get this idea of the image of God, we read in a later chapter a very moving story of where the image of God is present in someone. As you may recall, Jacob and Esau were brothers. Jacob was a cheat and a scoundrel, and he had cheated his older brother Esau out of the birthright and inheritance which was his. Then Jacob had gone off and lived away for many, many years. He had raised a family; he had become a wealthy man, and he returned home to meet Esau. He was very frightened, very scared, of how Esau would receive him.

The night before they were to meet again, Jacob sent his household and a procession of gifts to his brother, maybe hoping to soften him up a little bit. Then he lay down by the side of the Jabbok River, and he wrestled with the angel of God. The next morning, he came face to face with his brother. What did his brother do? His brother came up to him, embraced him, kissed him, and welcomed him home. During Jacob’s life, several things fell apart; however, at this moment, he gained that clarity that we so often seek, and his jumbled life was reordered. He said to Esau, "Truly, to see your face is like seeing the face of God for with such kindness have you received me.”

Imagine a world where all of us looked at everyone and said, "Why, I'd know that face anywhere. It is the very spitting image of the God who made us all.” That would truly be something to be thankful for. May it be so. Amen

© Evan W. Dodge, 2010.

another sermon ...

Given August 8, 2010 at Millbrook United Methodist Church in Randolph, NJ.

Text: Luke 12:35-40

May God’s words alone be spoken; may God’s words alone be heard. Amen.

When I was a young child, I was captivated by the Wizard of Oz. I loved everything about it; I had Wizard of Oz picture books, action figures, bed sheets. I first read Frank L. Baum’s book when I was five, and then I devoured it over and over again throughout my childhood. But the MGM movie with those greats Judy Garland, Jack Haley, Margaret Hamilton, and so many others, won my heart. I loved (and still do love!) that movie. My folks didn’t have cable television; we were so rural that the cable company wouldn’t even service our town. This was well before the day of the satellite television, the internet or Netflix, and there was no movie rental store nearby. However, my grandparents several towns over had cable t.v. So, they recorded from television the Wizard of Oz movie, just for me. I actually wore out the VHS tape, I watched it so many times. I loved the whimsical scarecrow, the creaking tinman, the timid lion, Dorothy's sparkly, bright red shoes; I cheered every time the wicked witch of the west melted and told myself that I, too, would one day walk the yellow brick road to the Emerald City. Although I would not have articulated it as such at the time, I think that something deeper resounded with my young self; there’s really something about this story of a girl who starts to run away from home, who then gets dramatically separated from home by the twister and spends the rest of the story meeting fantastic characters and traveling through fantastic lands trying to find a way home. Home where she belongs. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

That scratches at an itch that we all have, whether we are seven years old, captivated by Frank L. Baum’s magical story, or seventy-seven years old, and have realized the magic of home for years. There's no place like home. Home where you belong. Home where you are not a stranger, but where you find your deepest comforts and satisfactions. Home where your family is, where your identity is found, where you are most truly, really, YOU.

Home is one of the key themes of this week’s lectionary Gospel lesson; we’re commanded to stay home and be alert, watching for the master’s return from his sumptuous, extravagant wedding feast, keeping away thieves and burglars in the meantime. But, it’s also in tension with another major motif, that of being ready for action, of getting dressed and alert, ready to be on the move. Be alert and ready for what, exactly? We’re not really told, except that the master is returning. This textual juxtaposition of being homebodies and homeless bodies, of being somewhat settled and potential scattered, of being ready and alert for something we are only partially told about, begs for examination. Much like the Jesus we continually encounter in Luke, he just doesn’t make much plain sense here. Make up your mind, Jesus!, we want to say. Ok, so we’re to get dressed and be ready; but are we to settle in here at home or be on the move? Jesus, could you please be a little more clear?

I think if we can parse through this seeming contradiction, this practical impossibility of being at home and being out of home, something else comes into view. Amidst the settled and the scattered appears the imperative to wait. I doubt that there is anything I dislike more than waiting. If I were to guess, I would posit that most all of you can identify with me in my annoyance with waiting. Waiting for dinner to be ready after a tiring work day; waiting for a diagnosis for a mysterious ailment; waiting for the preacher to finish his sermon. Our culture is not inclined to wait, either. Think, for example, of how many “fast food” restaurants there are in our towns, as compared with those which cook food the slow, old-fashioned way. Credit cards have a great appeal to us because we can buy the things we want without having to wait till we have the cash to do so. We rush through school because we can’t wait to start our careers, which we then hurry through because we can’t wait for retirement. We are conditioned all our lives to not wait.

Perhaps, though, one of the most anxiety-producing forms of waiting is when we are anticipating someone’s arrival. Can you relate to the anxiety induced during the holidays when family and loved ones are stranded in the airport due to weather, or en route but stuck in traffic, backed up for miles? We can barely wait! All we want is to be together. The longing that absence produces, that anxiety caused by separation, is groaning, yearning to be satiated. Only reunion can assuage the impatience. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

The waiting in this in-between time, this time when we are neither home nor homeless, when we are to await the master’s return in some form or another, has three characteristics: preparation, maintenance, and expectation. “Get dressed for action!” - that’s the preparation. “Keep your lamps burning”; that’s the maintenance. “Be like those who are waiting for their master to return” - that’s the expectation. You have heard the old phrase “gird your loins.” While that is certainly a dated term, one that many of us might find rather odd that describes a process that sounds rather uncomfortable, it is quite fitting here. Girding your loins has a double meaning - regarding clothing, it means to fasten your belt, to tuck your clothes in, to cinch, to tighten. It is difficult to get dressed and ready for action if you are tripping over your robe, or, perhaps more applicably, if your pants are falling down. In another sense, though, girding your loins means being ready for action. It indicates that one has take the proper measures to be ready for the job at hand. Preparation requires effort on our part.

Preparation without maintenance expires quickly. The proper waiter is to keep her lamps burning. In Jesus’ day, they did not have street lights, nor did they have a porch light to keep on, so that the master could easily find and enter his door. The good servant would listen for the sound of his master’s return and would have his light already lit, so that he could illuminate and thereby facilitate his way. While we are here waiting, waiting to encounter Jesus in some way, waiting like the good disciples we are, we must keep the lamps burning.

Once we have prepared, once we have tied our belts and dressed ourselves for readiness, we cannot sustain our maintenance unless we have expectation, unless we have hope. The one who waits expects the master to return. We are not given any indication in this text that the waiter thinks the master might return, or half-heartedly expects the reunion. No; the master WILL return. The waiter is poised, ready at the door with her lamp, listening for the slightest indication that the master may be returning: a dog barking in the distance, gravel being crunched under sandals. She cannot wait to fling the door open with excitement at their joyful reunion.

Because, you see, when the master comes back, everything changes! The master becomes servant, and the servant is served. The master girds his loins, tightens his own belt, and treats those who have waited to a sumptuous meal. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day; the master will return the faithfulness of the watchful waiter. Can you imagine? It’s like going into work one day, and your boss handing you the keys to her sports car, and saying, “Today, I’m going to do your job. Go do whatever you want. Take the day off; go play golf, or go to the beach. Go shopping if you want; here’s my credit card, go buy whatever you want.” The tables have willingly turned.

Ok, so we’re to stay home and ward off the burglars, keep our lamps burning and be prepared for action, wherever that may take us (possibly out of the home), for the master, Jesus, is returning. But what does THAT mean? Are we to actually sit around with our girded loins and oil lamps (or maybe flashlights) waiting for Jesus to come back? Do we expect for the heavens to part and Jesus to majestically enter our atmosphere, with all the angels and inhabitants of heaven in tow? I’m inclined to say no; at least, I don’t expect anything like that to ever happen. But I do believe Jesus is coming back; indeed, I believe Jesus has come back, and will come back; I believe in the second coming, and the seventeenth coming, and the three-hundred thirty fourth coming. Let me explain by a simple analogy.

Waiting for the Christmas Guest by American poet and playwright Edwin Markham illustrates this well. (My apologies for those of you who have heard this before, and it’s likely some of you have. However, it is perfect for my purposes here.) In this Christmas story, there is an old shoe cobbler by the name of Conrad and his wife, Martha. In his dream, Conrad had a vision that he was going to be visited by Jesus himself before Christmas day. Excited by this dream, Conrad eagerly anticipated the arrival of his Christmas guest. This special Christmas guest was to be none other than the Jesus. And Martha, his wife, had prepared a gorgeous turkey banquet for his expected guest, Jesus himself. But Jesus didn’t show up that night.

Instead of Jesus, the first person so show up on the doorsteps of the cottage was a bum, a homeless person, a castaway who wandered into Conrad and Martha’s home that Christmas Eve. Shortly, this homeless person found himself eating a portion of the feast that Martha had prepared for the anticipated special guest. The homeless man also received a set of shoes from Conrad the cobbler. The homeless man left the cottage with a full stomach and a pair of new shoes on his feet; however, Conrad was still waiting for his Jesus in-the-flesh to arrive at his front door steps.

Next, a little old lady rapped on the door of Conrad and Martha’s cottage. She had been evicted from her apartment and was lost as she was trying to find the way to her son’s house. After wandering around the streets of the village, the little old lady saw the lights burning brightly from Conrad and Martha’s cottage, so she made her way up the front steps and rapped on the door. Soon, the recently evicted widow was eating a portion of the banquet which had been prepared for Jesus himself and she was sipping on a cup of warm tea that Martha had specially prepared. Afterward, Conrad was taking this little old evicted lady by the hand and leading her to find her son’s house.

Next, Conrad the cobbler found a little boy who was lost as he was trying to find a baker that Christmas Eve. Since all the bakeries were closed, Conrad took the little lost boy home to his cottage and fed him some of the feast that Martha had prepared for the phantom Jesus who was not appearing as Conrad had thought he would. They gave cookies and milk to the little boy. They discovered that the little boy’s father had recently died and the little boy belonged to the Widow Schultz. Martha herself took the lost little boy home that night with a loaf of freshly baked bread, and Conrad was left all alone in his cottage.

While he was alone, Conrad began wondering out loud why Jesus hadn’t come to his house that night. Conrad was so sure that Jesus would show up that Christmas Eve for the banquet that Martha had prepared for him. In the frustration brought on by anxious waiting, Conrad cried out, “Jesus, why didn’t you come to our cottage tonight? Why didn’t you visit us?”

Maybe he did. Maybe Jesus had come three times.

Jesus came to Conrad and Martha’s house three times that night. Unexpectedly, Conrad and Martha helped the homeless man with food and shoes. Unexpectedly, they fed the evicted old lady, warmed her with hot tea and then took her to her son’s home. Unexpectedly, they helped the little boy who couldn’t find a bakery on Christmas Eve and Martha then walked the little boy home to his mother. Time after time, Conrad and Martha were open and receptive to the Jesus who kept showed up in their lives, uninvited, unannounced, and not looking very much like what they had expected. Conrad and Martha had this deep conviction that Jesus was coming to them that night, and Jesus did.

We are always to be ready for Jesus’ second coming, his third coming, his persistent coming, his relentless coming. As difficult as it is, we are called to live in tension, in the uncomfortable in-between, where we are neither comfortably settled in at home nor completely unanchored and homeless, where we are to be prepared, maintaining, expecting Jesus to take us by surprise and visit us. And, like family and friends at Christmas, separated by snowstorms and stranded in airports, we won’t be free from the anxiety of waiting until reunion happens. So the challenge is to get dressed! Keep your lamps filled with oil, or make sure your flashlights have fresh batteries, or your porch lights provide adequate illumination. For Jesus is indeed coming at an unexpected hour, in unexpected ways. And when Jesus comes, there will indeed be no place like home. Amen.

© Evan W. Dodge, 2010.

6/27/10 Sermon

Given at Millbrook United Methodist Church on June 27, '10.

Luke 9:51-62

51 When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. ⁵²And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to make ready for him; ⁵³but they did not receive him, because his face was set towards Jerusalem. ⁵⁴When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?’^{* 55}But he turned and rebuked them. ⁵⁶Then they went on to another village.

57 As they were going along the road, someone said to him, ‘I will follow you wherever you go.’ ⁵⁸And Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’ ⁵⁹To another he said, ‘Follow me.’ But he said, ‘Lord, first let me go and bury my father.’ ⁶⁰But Jesus said to him, ‘Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.’ ⁶¹Another said, ‘I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.’ ⁶²Jesus said to him, ‘No one who puts a hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.

The sun was just beginning to rise on April 9, 1945. It was a chilly morning; the morning dew was just beginning to dissipate. Perhaps even more icily bitter than the pre-dawn weather, though, were the events that had transpired and those that were imminent. It was the Flossenburg concentration camp in southeastern Germany, one of those horrific examples of humanity’s ability to inflict the most pernicious atrocities upon its own. I need not indulge in much detail about circumstances in Germany, and indeed the world in 1945; however, three weeks from April 9, the Soviets would capture Berlin, and in one month, Nazi Germany would completely capitulate. One of the darkest periods in humanity’s history would end. However, on this brisk morning in April, one man was led to the Flossenburg gallows. His crime? Involvement with the July 20 assassination plot against Hitler. His trial? Presided over by corrupt SS judge Otto Thorbeck; it lacked witnesses, records of proceedings or any sort of defense for the accused. Found guilty, he was sentenced to hang. His execution was especially demeaning and brutal; he was stripped naked, led around the Flossenburg camp, and hung with a thin wire for strangulation. After Dietrich Bonhoeffer had died, the camp doctor who witnessed the killing said the following: “at the place of execution, Bonhoeffer said a short prayer and then climbed the few steps to the gallows, brave and composed. His death ensued after a few seconds. In the almost fifty years that I worked as a doctor, I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Lutheran pastor, theologian, and man dedicated to his country and devoted to seeing Nazism destroyed, died a martyr.

Jesus said ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head”; “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God”; and “No one who puts a hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” What does he mean? What’s this about not being able to say goodbye to your family, or hold a proper burial for your loved ones? And when Jesus says he has nowhere to lay his head, is he implying that homelessness is the way to go? As a clergyperson-in-training, I don’t like the sound of this at all. If this is truly the cost of following Jesus, I might be inclined to reevaluate my vocational choice! And if shunning family and neglecting other obligations is a necessary part of the Christian way, I might also be ethically disposed to discourage you from following the way of Jesus, too! Is a fate like Bonhoeffer’s likely, or even requisite, for the true disciple of Jesus? Perhaps we need to do a bit of examination of this text, and try to get at the real gist of it.

This is really a grim, rather awkward and difficult to understand passage from Luke; it is ominous and unsettling. Up until now, Jesus has been ministering in Galilee, in and around his home base of Capernaum. He received a little success and acceptance here. Though not everyone has received him, mind you. His first sermon wasn’t a great success – his home congregation chased him to the cliff and were pressing on him so as to push him off. Jesus had some successes chasing out demons, and he duly chastised Satan during his 40 days in the wilderness. Overall, though, things weren’t too bad in Galilee; they could certainly have been worse. However, verse 51 designates a clear change in Jesus’ journey: “When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” And now that time was coming closer and Jesus could sense it. Jerusalem, the holy city of peace, that bastion of Jewish identity and worship, was also the killer of prophets. This passage begins the long Travel Narrative, a section detailing Jesus’ journey to Gethsemane and Golgotha, the place that is called the Skull, the place he would be murdered.

On Jesus’ journey, he and his companions pass by Samaria, and attempt to make a detour into the village, but the Samaritans refuse to be hospitable and don’t accept Jesus’ messengers. The text records that “they did not receive him, because his face was set towards Jerusalem.” What does this mean, this confusing piece of text? Perhaps Jesus’ reputation had preceded him, and the Samaritans wanted nothing to do with this man who frequently stirred up trouble. We will do well to note that Jesus’ famous encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well is not recorded in Luke; so, as far as we can tell in Luke’s account, the Samaritans have not had a favorable interaction with Jesus, a man of an ethnic group with which they were sworn enemies. Or, perhaps there was something about Jesus, that grim determination, that face set towards Jerusalem, that just seemed like trouble. Either way, the Samaritans didn’t want Jesus and his entourage around. Sure enough, those impetuous, always eager to please disciples James and John want to bring down a heavenly air strike on the town, maybe sensing and misinterpreting Jesus’ mood. Jesus rebukes them – one ancient manuscript of Luke has Jesus saying, “you do not know what spirit you are of, for the Son of Man has not come to destroy the lives of human beings but to save them.” Even in his dark night of the soul, along the road that he knew would surely lead to his death, Jesus is compassionate and loving.

Then, as they are traveling along, this bizarre, unsettling conversation ensues. What could this portion possibly mean? Allow me to offer this: I think that sometimes, we are tempted to look to the Bible as a set of timeless truths, rules to live by and when we do; we take it literally and at face value. However, when we do so, we are frequently disappointed. So we read today’s passage and ask, well, does this mean we shouldn’t bury our parents? Does this mean that we should leave and not say goodbye to our families? But that sort of reading, the one that looks for rules and literal instruction, misses the point altogether. This passage does not intend to answer questions about funeral etiquette or farewell practices. What this scripture does intend to tell us is that there will be times in all of our lives when we have to set our faces toward our own particular Jerusalem and at those times, we will want to do it with determination and resolve, with Jesus at our side, and perhaps with loving, caring, albeit fallible and sometimes misunderstanding companions, like James and John.

Just like Jesus on his way to Jerusalem, there are times when our lives come to a point. Dietrich Bonhoeffer knew this; his face was set towards his own Jerusalem on that day in April. For Bonhoeffer, his life came to a point when he stood up against the oppression of the state Church of Germany when it sided with Hitler’s regime, when he gave up a comfortable position at Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan when Hitler began advancing across Europe in 1939. His life had come to a point, a sharp focus, and he was determined and focused. Has this happened to you? When everything comes down to a narrow focus, and you are faced with a choice, a harsh reality? If this has happened to you already, then perhaps you find some resonance here. If it hasn’t happened yet, then I have some good news for you. God will be there with you; God has been there before you. There are times that have to be met with determination and with purpose. When the diagnosis is cancer. When the phone rings, relaying news of a deadly accident. When a child hurt or injured. These are times that are deadly serious, where nothing else matters. When those times come, and they will, God will be there, God has been there, God is always there, and God’s face is, along with yours, set toward Jerusalem.

I would offer to you that this is the true cost of discipleship; to face those difficult times, and indeed all times in life, with purpose and resolve, a purpose and resolve that trusts in the all-encompassing goodness and love of God. However, there is one more aspect to this discipleship, this way of living: it means that one must not just be a visitor on this earth, in this lifetime, but one must embrace life and all its challenges, its joys, its ambiguities, its heartbreaks, its inexplicable wonder. This is indeed what God wants; John 10:10 tell us that Jesus came to give us life, and life more abundantly! But living an abundant life means having the resolve of a Bonhoeffer, of setting our face towards Jerusalem like Jesus. An abundant life doesn’t mean a fun and easy life. But it does mean its a life worth living. It means that when our lives end, we can look back on them without regrets. For some, walking through life with one’s face set towards Jerusalem can bring government sanctions and fines, jail time, and even death. The road to Jerusalem is paved with those who had not planned on making that journey, but set their face towards the city anyway. It is a road that one cannot approach without at least a little fear and trembling, and perhaps a healthy dose of admiration and pride for those who, like Bonhoeffer and Jesus, who stuck it out to the very end, and also a measure of faith that we, too, can see our journey to its conclusion.

The American poet Mary Oliver was experiencing her own moment of focus, a time when she had to face her own Jerusalem, when she wrote the following poem:

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me,

and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measles-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

This is the message of the Scripture this morning: being a disciple means living with no regrets, loving and serving God, loving life and loving each other and all creation, wondering at this mystery called life. It means when death comes, we will not have been just visitors to this world. Dietrich Bonhoeffer did this; the doctor attending to his death testified to it; he had made something particular and real of his life. The example of Jesus shows us this as well; Jesus embraced the brotherhood and sisterhood of all humanity, and lived his life with steadfastness and conviction, setting his face towards Jerusalem when the time came. May we all find strength and courage to put our hands to the plough, and not look back. Amen.

A theological statement....

a work in progress, no doubt...

I believe in God who created and creates with love, grace, mercy, peace and justice, who cares for each individual creature deeply, and calls and empowers us all to a new vision wherein, with God’s help and by the example of Jesus the Christ in the power of God’s Spirit, we heal our broken relationship with God, each other and God’s world.

I believe in Jesus the Christ, the incarnated word of God: in his life, he taught us the message of God’s love and the vision of God’s realm, a community of equality and radical inclusion. It was for this message and vision that he was willing to die; in his death, he embodied pure love and true faith in us and God, thus making possible the restoration of the broken covenant relationship between us and God. In his resurrection, he liberated humanity from suffering and death and proved that life is infinitely more powerful than death; he healed the breach between God and humanity, extending to humanity the promise of abundant life in God, both now and in eternity.

I believe in God’s Spirit, present in the life of the church, the lives of individual persons, and moving throughout all creation, communicating throughout history the gospel of God’s love, and inviting all people into active participation in God’s realm. It is through God’s Spirit that we experience love, grace, mercy and peace, and are given the courage to struggle for justice. I believe that all of God’s creation - human, animal, and earthly - is an expression of God’s very own self, that it reveals God’s Spirit, and must be revered and cared for as God’s own, for it is of sacred worth and infinite value.

I believe in God’s church, that community of individuals empowered by God’s Spirit to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world. The church is called to extend the gospel message of God’s extravagant, scandalous love for everyone to a world that desperately needs to be loved and healed. Through regular worship and celebration of the sacraments, the church is equipped to do no harm, do good, and stay in love with God, and to serve the world with open hearts, open minds, and open doors.

Photography

Here are some recent photos taken around Madison, NJ. The photograph of the park benches was taken in Central Park near 72nd St.

Evan goes to Madison, NJ.

I wrote this soon after my arrival in NJ last year (winter 2009)...

As I drove into Madison, New Jersey, a quintessential suburban town, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Actually, I should back up; I had second thoughts about my chosen path as I sat in rush hour traffic in the Bronx on my initial trek to graduate school. Second thoughts might have seemed premature, I know; however, my “fight or flight” instinct had taken over, and I felt like fleeing. The plethora of sights, smells, and sounds of the city, a veritable sensory overload, filled me with uncertainty and a desire to retreat to more familiar surroundings. And Madison, overflowing with hurrying people living in identical houses and dining in bustling eateries open past 8 p.m. made me pine for the friendly faces and simple serenity of downeast Maine. But I persevered, clinging to the enticing offer of a full-scholarship to seminary and following, sometimes grudgingly, the ministerial call (and I have come to appreciate restaurants open late!).

However, after a couple of weeks in my temporary hometown, feelings of unsettledness and uncertainty began to dissipate. In addition to classes and the multi-faceted parts of seminary life, I found myself navigating the subways of New York City and thoroughly enjoying the cultural and social offerings of the Big Apple. I attended Sunday service at Riverside Church on the Upper West Side, and saw the pulpit where one of my heroes, the Reverend William Sloane Coffin, anti-war activist and eloquent advocate for justice and human rights, preached his prophetic sermons. I’ve pushed through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds in Times Square, seen Jim Morrison’s hand written lyrics to The Doors' “L.A. Woman” at the Hard Rock Cafe, and enjoyed some delectable vegetarian Indian food at a funky restaurant in the Lower East Side. I now understand why many refer to New York City as the greatest in the world.

Madison, and indeed Morris County, presents a stark contrast to any Washington County, Maine town. The median income is nearly six figures and the Jaguars, Mercedes, BMWs, and Hummers line the streets. A cursory glance through any real estate brochure reveals the average price for a home rarely falls below half a million dollars. I have discovered, though, regardless of such economic disparities, New Jersey folks can be as warm and hospitable as downeast Mainers. Despite the stereotypes of New Jersey waving with one finger, being uncourteous in check-out lines and ignoring basic rules of driving, I have found many kind souls who, thankfully, have shown these hackneyed ideas to be untrue. So, while I may not call Madison, New Jersey my permanent place of residence, I know I’ll enjoy the next few years.

The Religious Right, Racism, and SB 1070

If the recent immigration legislation passed in Arizona reveals anything, it is twofold: the blatant xenophobic hate-mongering of the religious right and their utter failure to “get” racism.

SB 1070 has been met with condemnation from the progressive, mainline religious community and many evangelical groups. However, some conservative religious groups, such as the American Family Association, lauded the bill. Bryan Fischer, director of Issue Analysis for Government and Public Policy at the American Family Association, in a statement issued by the AFA regarding Arizona’s SB 1070, praised this legislation, saying it “will make them [Arizonans] safer and will lower taxpayers costs for welfare, law enforcement, education, and health services.” Regarding the prospect of amnesty, which he believes is inevitably coming and is the true desire of the president (whom Fischer refers to as “our America-despising boy president”) and the “American Socialists,” Fischer remarks: “we will be inundated with disease-ridden, drug-smuggling criminals slavering over the prospect of getting the ultimate free pass.”

The hateful, xenophobic rhetoric is overt here; I need not undertake painstaking analysis to show that. The religious right, in their effort to preserve “[Christian] national identity, culture, ideals and values” (whatever that means), must necessarily despise diversity, and instead rely on fear and lies. Apparently, facts mean little to those xenophobes on the religious right. Statistics indicate that undocumented persons commit crimes at lower rates than natural born citizens. In fact, it generally isn’t until the third and fourth generations that crime rates in groups increase. Guess what? That’s lots of white European folks. Also, the vast majority of those coming across the border are not drug smugglers; they are honest, well-intentioned people looking for a better way for themselves and their families. An honest evaluation of facts shows the religious right’s rabid hysteria over immigration devoid of anything resembling sound analysis and solid data.

While expressing my dismay regarding SB 1070 and its inevitable reliance on outright racial profiling, an acquaintance of mine (coincidentally a religious conservative) exclaimed, “Well, I’m not racist; I have friends who are Hispanic!” As far as I can tell, this is the understanding of racism that so many on the religious right have. However, racism is not about not having black or brown friends, Hispanic or Asian friends. Racism is systemic, endemic, and institutionalized, and is inherent in legislation like SB 1070. The United States has instigated, and continues to perpetuate, systematized and institutionalized racism. Consider this: Arizona was once Mexican territory until the United States under President James K. Polk wrested it away from Mexico in the name of the pernicious doctrine of Manifest Destiny. How can these people be illegal in what has historically been their territory? Their ancestors lived here, not ours. In fact, wouldn’t it be much more accurate to say that white people are illegal in Arizona? If anyone should carry their papers in Arizona, shouldn’t it be the white folks?

Racism is about privilege and power, who has it and who doesn’t. As a white, heterosexual male, I participate in a system that benefits me; I never have to think about race, or if I will be served efficiently and politely in a restaurant, or what may happen if I am pulled over by the police. Racism is much larger than individual actions; it is about how some folks benefit within political, social, economic, and religious systems, and who suffers. White folk most definitely have luxuries not afforded others based upon the color of their skin.

In his letter from the Birmingham Jail, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King said that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” With this in mind, what if the Hispanic folks who walk across the border were met by a bunch of white, black, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, and every other sort of folk on the United States side and all marched together to demand the end of imperialism, the end of corporate fraud, the end of bigotry, the end of government corruption, and the end of cheap labor and economic inequality in the United States, Mexico, and everywhere else? Clearly, those of us who oppose SB 1070 don’t have our heads in the proverbial sand; at least I hope we don’t. We recognize that the system is broken, that the issue of immigration requires a thoughtful, comprehensive, and loving response. However, SB 1070 isn’t any of that. I believe that faithful, progressive people must use this opportunity to educate the population on what racism and white privilege actually are, and to courageously and boldly call SB 1070 what it is: racism.

Easter Monday Reflection

This is a reflection I offered on Easter Monday (4/5/10):

With “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” still resounding in our hearing and in our hearts, we find ourselves post-Easter people once again. After forty days of preparation, including a week of eager anticipation ranging the gamut of emotions from boisterous celebration (Palm Sunday) to agonizing loss (Good Friday), we think we have a tidy denouement to the whole story. This neat and clean plot line is expounded in our exegesis, taught in our theology, and proclaimed in our preaching; our communion liturgy proclaims that “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” For most, this resurrection moment is the pinnacle of our faith, upon which all the rest rises and falls. After all, Saint Paul did write that “If Christ is not raised, your faith is worthless. You are still in your sins” (1 Cor. 15:17, The Inclusive Bible). So it’s a pretty clear, linear story then, right?

Well, I want to challenge that notion. I propose that Easter isn’t the end of the story at all; if it is anything, it is the very beginning. Easter is about realizing that Jesus the Christ is the expression, the fullness, the revelation of God. But we can’t end it there. Easter is the beginning of Christ’s story, and it should be the starting place of OUR stories. In the expression of God in Christ we find that place to locate our own stories and our own selves. Jesus gave his life away to others and for others so that we could find ourselves loved and accepted by God, just as Jesus was. Jesus’ story gives us courage to face darkness and death and realize that the light of dawn and the hope of resurrection is but a moment away.

So, don’t flee from whatever tomb you find yourself in, don’t let terror seize you, and don’t keep silent from fear. Remember that the risen Christ gives meaning to all who will receive it, and even to those who won’t, because it isn’t about believing in some doctrinal assertion. It is about being hungry for something greater, something that gives our stories significance. Clarence W. Hall declared that “Easter says you can put truth in a grave, but it won't stay there.” Claim the truth that can’t be silenced as your own, and know that Easter gives you and your story sacred meaning and worth.