Lent 3C, I Am has heard

Lent 3C readings can be found here

+++

They will want to know. They will want to know who this God is.

They will want to know who it was that called out to Moses.

They will want to know to whom they owe their salvation.

They will want to know.

And, so I am who I am. The God of our ancestors.

The One who has not just heard, but responded to the cry of a desperate people.

I must turn, says the man.

I must turn, towards this God who calls out to me.

I must turn.

And, in the turning, be transformed.

In the turning, be freed.

In the turning, become.

Become what he was always meant to be.

Liberator, redeemer, savior, through the power of the great I am, the power of God.

And the sea will be divided, and the people will be healed, and the desert will bring forth the fruit of all creation.

I am their God and they are my people.

I must turn, says the man.

I must turn.

Today is the third Sunday of our Lenten observances. The halfway point of the journey to Jerusalem, the half way point of our wilderness wandering.

Imagine, a vast expanse of desert behind you, a vast expanse of desert ahead…This is the point of the journey in which the desert seems endless. This is the place where we cannot see where we came from, but we still cannot see where we are going.

Soul weary, body weary.

And here, we encounter God.

So, turn.

Turn.

Turn to face the future.

Because, the day is coming. The day is coming when all shall turn. When all shall be renewed.

I am who I am, and you are who you are.

So, remember who God is. Remember who you are.

Remember, who you are called to be.  

And, remember, you are not alone.

Look around you. These are your fellow travelers.

Look around you and see. See, in each other, God’s commitment that we shall not and will never be alone in the wilderness of despair.

You are not alone in anger.

You are not alone in shame.

You are not alone in fear.

You are not alone.

In the desert, in the deep, in our sorrows and in our joys—none of us is alone.

The collect of the day, the prayer which began our worship together, speaks to the necessity of interconnection in our journey through life,  

“we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves”

We can’t go it alone. We need God and we need each other.

We know this. With our heart and with our soul. With our mind and with our body. We know this.

Which is why, when the news came out of New Zealand last week of yet another white supremacist act of terrorism, the world gave witness to acts of unity and solidarity.

From the interfaith gathering at Dar al Farooq Islamic Center in Bloomington, to memorials erected at Anglican Churches in New Zealand, people came together. People came together in witness to our interdependence, our mutual accountability, and our need to see the truth of the good in the midst of evil.

Rami Nashashibi, a Muslim community organizer interviewed for a story about unity and solidarity on NPR, speaks to the necessity of solidarity in the face of hatred, "Both the physical and spiritual well-being of our communities here and in the future really depend on how well we are connected to one another…Our isolation, our disconnection from one another only makes us that much more vulnerable to the forces of evil…To the forces of hatred and bigotry that either want to silence us, intimidate us or pit us against one another to carry out really insidious agendas." https://www.npr.org/2019/03/17/704232275/we-are-not-safe-unless-we-are-together-interfaith-vigils-follow-mosque-shootings

Physically and spiritually, we have been assaulted by the powers of evil in this world—and yet, those powers shall not and will never have the last word.

And so, in witness to this truth, let us consider how the people of New Zealand have responded to crisis,  

“New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern announced the country's government will ban “military-style semi-automatic weapons and assault rifles.”

And, so, we turn.

“Faith and community groups hold solidarity rally. “

            And, so, we turn.

“All acute medical costs will be taken care of.”

And, so, we turn.

And evil shall be renounced and we shall turn towards God.   

           

I cannot deny that we are in the wilderness and that there is evil within and evil without. But, the wilderness itself is not evil.  

Rather, the wilderness is the place in which we can recognize the powers of evil in this world. And, when we recognize these powers, we can renounce them. When we recognize these forces within ourselves, we can repent of them.

The wilderness is where we fulfill our baptismal commitment to renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God. The wilderness is where we are given the choice to turn towards Christ. The wilderness…

Let our cry come to you, O God.

Let our cry come to you.

Lead us from this place and into the promised land.

Where death shall be no more, where hatred shall be no more, where fear and ignorance shall be no more.

“The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them. So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.”

I am has heard, I am has seen, I am will send.

I am is our God, the God of our ancestors…and we are in the wilderness with our God.

And, in this wilderness place we are to find ourselves encouraged. It is at this point when we are reminded of who we are and who God is. It is at this point when we are encouraged to turn away from the evils that assail us, and towards the God who loves us.

We are encouraged.

Encouragement may seem a peculiar articulation of the text we heard proclaimed today—texts which can strike us as ominous or threatening.

However, the authors of these texts had a rhetorical goal—they wanted to encourage reconciliation and repentance amongst communities in conflict and crisis. Communities that needed to remember who they were and to whom they belonged.

And, so they are reminded of God’s commitment to their ancestors. They are reminded of the failings of their ancestors. They are reminded of their own fragility. And, they are reminded of God’s commitment to them in their time.

We are halfway in our Lenten journey.

And, we are invited to turn.

Amen.

Ash Wednesday, 2019, Sermon

One of my favorite books of “religious” poetry is entitled, God got a Dog, by Cynthia Rylant. Page by page, God is presented in the fullness of both humanity and divinity.  Page after page of God living and loving in our midst. God got a cold. God got a desk job. God made spaghetti.

God in our midst. God responding to all of creation with love. God accountable to all of creation.

And then, my favorite. God went to beauty school. God went to beauty school to learn how to do nails—so that God could hold our hands and say, “beautiful” and really mean it.

 The intimacy of that exchange, of that pronouncement of beauty—I have no words.

No words that seem sufficient to the occasion of God’s love for each and every one of us.

In church, we spend a great deal of time talking about the Body of Christ, emphasizing the need for community, and speaking of the importance of our mutual interdependence as a means of living into God’s call to us.

We spend less time talking about the personal, intimate, and specific love of God for each of us, each of us as individuals.

And, this is where I am tonight. On this particular Ash Wednesday. Proclaiming the love that God has for each of us—each of us, claimed as beloved children of God through the belovedness of God’s only Son.

Love may seem like a peculiar point of departure for our Lenten observances. But, in considering mercy, I consider love. In considering forgiveness, I consider love. In considering our creation, our creation as human beings, I consider love.

Yet even now, says the Lord,
return to me with all your heart,

with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
rend your hearts and not your clothing.

Return to the Lord, your God,
for God is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,
and relents from punishing.

With all your hearts. Because God is a God of steadfast love.

This is God’s nature. The nature of the One who, “hates nothing he has made”. Steadfast love.

Nothing to hinder, nothing to hide, nothing to hate.

When we return, we will be welcomed.

When we repent, we will be reconciled.

When we request, we will receive.

And, so here we are—bidden once more to return, repent, and be reconciled to the God who made us.

Here we are. Here we are, as we are. In our guilt, in our shame, in our hurts, and in our resentments.

Here we are.

So that we may begin anew.

So that we may consider our end.

So that we may remember the love that brought us to bare from the dust that God declared good.

Poet Jan Richardson speaks to this in her offering, Blessing the Dust, For Ash Wednesday

All those days

you felt like dust,

like dirt,

as if all you had to do

was turn your face

toward the wind

and be scattered

to the four corners

or swept away

by the smallest breath

as insubstantial—

did you not know

what the Holy One

can do with dust?

This is the day

we freely say

we are scorched.

This is the hour

we are marked

by what has made it

through the burning.

This is the moment

we ask for the blessing

that lives within

the ancient ashes,

that makes its home

inside the soil of

this sacred earth.

So let us be marked

not for sorrow.

And let us be marked

not for shame.

Let us be marked

not for false humility

or for thinking

we are less

than we are

but for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made

and the stars that blaze

in our bones

and the galaxies that spiral

inside the smudge

we bear.

Amen.

Themes in February...

I tend to change the "theme" (visual appearance) of the blog seasonally. However, with the snowiest February on record, and -25 windchill this morning, I wanted a bit of color.



But, since it's still February...a song for you.



Joy

Forgiveness, Epiphany 7B

Scripture appointed can be found at http://lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Epiphany/CEpi7_RCL.html

+++

Shovel in hand, I was hard at work.

I’d been at it for a while, scoop after scoop, digging a hole with endless potential.

Australia? China? The world was my oyster—and I was tunneling through!

My sense of reason had vanished, in my four-year-old fervor to get to the other side.

It was preschool, 1981.

And, I had dreams!

But, those dreams would come to an end, swiftly and painfully--

As Tracy McClure dropped a plastic pail full of sand on my toe.

That bucket hurt!

And, it was with a sense of righteous fury that I swung my arm round with all my might—striking her across the face with my little plastic shovel.

She wailed, of course she would, and teachers came running…

I still remember my indignation as I protested, “but she!”

Only four, and I was already an expert in retribution.

An eye for an eye.

Tit for tat.

What you sow is what you reap.

Your bucket, my shovel! That’s justice for you!

 I may have been four, but I was no fool.

Hammurabi’s code was at work in the sandbox.

The sandbox, where the teachers’ intervention kept the violence from escalating—for violence all too often grows unbounded. Hammurabi’s ancient code, was established to maintain social order—and the laws that limited retribution to an “eye for an eye” were enacted in order to prevent the escalation of violence. The law of retribution brought limits to what could be done in retaliation for a crime—limits that were intended to prevent intertribal blood feud and keep the violence contained. The law of retribution is a form of justice but while it is understood to be just, it is not merciful.

Which is why today’s collection of readings can seem striking.

Let’s begin with a quick recap…

Joseph was the eleventh son of Jacob. Jacob made no secret of his love for Joseph and Joseph’s brothers grew resentful of the favoritism bestowed upon him.

The brothers plotted in secret and, capturing Joseph, they sold him into slavery—all the while claiming that Joseph had been killed by a wild animal.

Joseph ended up in Egypt, where he rose through the ranks of slaves—and where his ability to interpret dreams led him to the role of chief advisor to Pharaoh.

Joseph has become a man of earthly power and, when famine drives his brothers to seek help in Egypt, they fail to recognize that it is their own brother to whom they submit their petition.

But, rather than the vengeance they would have understood to be their due, they were met with mercy.

Joseph doesn’t behave in the way they expected and, rather than death, he offers his brothers a new chance at life, “You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children's children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have. I will provide for you there--since there are five more years of famine to come--so that you and your household, and all that you have, will not come to poverty.'" (Gen 43:10-11). In this, not only are the brothers’ expectations overturned, but the hearers as well—for, it is far too easy to make sense of revenge and non-sense of mercy.

Which is why this dénouement to the story of Joseph comes across as a surprise—to his brothers and to the reader!

For what Joseph gives to his brothers is not justice, it is mercy. Mercy born of God’s love.

Mercy, the intermingling of justice and forgiveness—born of God’s love and evidence of grace.

Justice and forgiveness.

This is the space in which we encounter the Gospel we heard proclaimed today.

The space in which justice and forgiveness meet.

When I was four, I understood justice. But, I did not yet understand forgiveness. And, if I am to be honest, I’m still working on understanding forgiveness.

“Jesus said, "I say to you that listen, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

We have heard these words so often, that they can come across as platitudinous. But, if we listen, if we truly listen, we may find that these words are not intended to comfort—they are intended to confront. To confront us in our self-righteousness, to confront us in our desire for vengeance, to confront us in our hardness of heart. These are challenging words—not comforting ones.

And, in this, I want to issue a caution. Too often, these words have been used to proof text people in abusive relationships. Too often these words have been used to keep victims in “their place”. This is not that, and that is an interpretation I reject. Consider, “Do to others as you would have them do to you” and, in your consideration, take these words as an imperative to keep yourself safe from harm, just as you would have others kept safe.

Many of you know of the work of reconciliation spearheaded by Archbishop Desmond Tutu in post-apartheid South Africa. In Desmond and Mpho Tutu’s work, “The Book of Forgiving”, they reflect that “Some find forgiveness difficult because they believe forgiving means forgetting the pain they have suffered. I can say unequivocally that forgiving does not mean forgetting the harm. It does not mean denying the harm. It does not mean pretending the harm did not happen or the injury was not as bad as it really was. Quite the opposite is true. The cycle of forgiveness can be activated and completed only in absolute truth and honesty.

Forgiving requires giving voice to the violations and naming the pains we have suffered. Forgiving does not require that we carry our suffering in silence or be martyrs on a cross of lies. Forgiveness does not mean that we pretend things are anything other than they are.”

So, let’s not pretend, let’s not pretend that the words of scripture we heard today are easy or obvious. They are words of confrontation that, when applied, have the power to overturn the entire system of violence and revenge. They are words of challenge, that force us to rethink the limits of our capacity to forgive. They are words of comfort for those who long to see our communities transformed by the unsettling, uprooting, power of God’s love. Historian Christopher Dawson observes, that “love your enemies” is “not just some pious little moralism; it is something that will deconstruct the whole mythological world” (source: Religion and the Rise of Western Culture, pp. 80-83, as quoted in http://girardianlectionary.net/reflections/year-c/epiphany7c/.

These are words that threaten to deconstruct a world that operates with threat and vengeance. Deconstruct a world that relies on power for persuasion. Deconstruct a world in which too many see mercy as a weakness and forgiveness as a fault.

So, today let us proclaim it is in mercy and forgiveness that we will find our strength! That it is in mercy and forgiveness that we will live God’s love!

Hear the words of the apostle,

“What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.”

Amen.