Sermon from Epiphany Lutheran on Sunday, September 26

My normal practice is not to publish sermons, because I feel they are 'moment' and 'time' driven....  It's always impossible [in my opinion] to capture the Spirit afterwards or on the paper.  However, after a few requests for this one based on Luke 16: 19-31.

"So, almost every day I drive by someone holding up a sign that says:

“Homeless, please help.”  Or, “Will work for food.”  Or, “Wounded Veteran.  God Bless.”

You too?  

When I lived in Virginia, there was a man just like this, that I saw every day.  I saw him over and over – every day he was in the same spot.  Rain or sun; day or night.  And, whether it is right or wrong, whether he used what was given to him for good or ill, I almost always gave him money.  In my mind I sort-of adopted him – I felt connected to him.  

I doubt he hardly remembered my face from time to time, but for some reason, his stuck with me.  Even my kids would say, “Hey, mom.  There’s your guy…”  

Don said once, “You know your guy?  He’s not looking so well.”  And then, I didn’t see him for a really long time.  I wished I had done something else for him.  But honestly, I didn’t know what that would be.  Eventually he returned to the corner of Lee Highway and Sycamore Street.  

At first, it bothered me that they referred to him as “your guy”.  After all, I didn’t even know him, really, and it felt like such 'ownership' language.  But after awhile, when I would talk about him, I called him ‘my guy’.  I didn’t know his name, but he did matter to me.  I needed some type of relationship language to talk about him.

He’s probably still there, I’m sure.  I’m fairly certain I would recognize him anywhere.  But why him?  

I’ve been thinking a lot about him, because the other day, I exited 495 onto Connecticut and at the bottom of the ramp was another man, holding another sign.  And I looked down, pretending I was looking at something.  Pretending I didn’t see him, when I really did.

His sign, it said, “How much does it really hurt to give a little?”

Really, that’s what it said.  Since I still remember that moment and what his sign said, I think maybe it hurts more to not give.  The not giving has been eating a little hole in my heart.

So, why not him?  Why the one and not the other?  Why these giant chasms between people?

I don’t know about you, but I envision ‘The Rich Man’ on one side of the Grand Canyon and Lazarus and Abraham on the other side, with this giant hole in-between them. 

The ground they both stand on is solid, firm, fixed.  And, between them, carved out of that which would be whole, is this chasm, this hole.

The words which really haunt me though, especially when I confess my own inadequacies and failings to you all, is the part in this parable that says, “And besides all this, a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.” 

It’s the chasm piece, the hole piece, that just makes me squirm, makes me worry.  Basically, scares the hell into me.  What’s Jesus’ point in this parable?  

First, I’m going to need you to think back to 3rd grade when you learned about homophones.  Homophones are two words that sound the same, but are spelled differently and have different meanings, like hole [h-o-l-e] and whole [w-h-o-l-e].  

A hole, like a chasm, is a hallowed out place in something solid, making the whole, less than whole.  This is the problem here....in this parable.  There is a hole or a chasm between two people.  Lazarus and the Rich Man.  Between me and the man standing on Connecticut, a great chasm has been fixed.  

The two men, begging on the street corner for some money, for some food, for a chance.  Not so different from Lazarus.  Let’s face it though - it’s not two men, it’s around 3 Million, at any given time in America that are homeless.  

Their lives are not as God would have them.... God does not desire people to stand on street corners, or lie at gates, or rummage through trash.  That is not the whole, abundant, fruitful life God has planned for his children.

My new little green bungalow is only going to provide so much insulation and safety.  If take seriously the words, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them,” and I don’t...then I am tossing not only the poor at the gate, but myself too.  

The Rich Man - he didn’t listen, really.  He didn’t see, really.  Why?  Who really knows, but I’m guessing for the very same reasons that it’s hard for us to hear the words, “And a great chasm was fixed....”.  Maybe it was just too hard to hear, too hard to see... too much to give up.

It seems to me, that the place I stand, that we all stand sometimes, is just on the edge of the chasm.  We want to be relieved of distresses without having to move, change, or grow.  Without having to suffer, see the unseeable, and hear the unhearable. 

Often, especially in the church, we talk about being the ‘hands and feet’ of Jesus, which we are, which is beautiful.  But, I think, before we can actually be the hands and feet, we have to be the ears and eyes of Jesus.

We have to see as Jesus sees.  Hear as Jesus hears.  Not as I hear or see; or you hear or see, but as God experiences the world.

The reason I cared about the one man was because I saw through Jesus’ eyes.   I saw his humanity when I saw his wounds, his pack of cigarettes, his brown tussled hair - which at some point became a buzz cut.  The day he wore a trash-bag as a rain coat and his hand touched mine a bit longer than usual as I passed him some money, his eyes met mine and he said, “God Bless you.”  Jesus saw him, and I got to take part.

We miss a lot when we see through our eyes and ears.  We miss seeing the scars of the world as the scars of Jesus; the wounds of Lazarus as the wounds of Jesus.

We can lie in a bed next to someone and be a million miles away, just as easily as we can cast our eyes away from the gates of hell which scatter the world.  Out lives are riddled with gaping holes which seem impassible.   

But Jesus promises us that the chasms can be bridged.  It doesn’t specifically say that in this parable directly, but underlying it, rests that promise.  Jesus promises us through this parable that when we, “See.  Hear.  Hold.  Love.  Touch.  Talk....then the chasm never gets dug.”  

But we know, just by looking at our own lives, there is erosion; there are holes in our lives and our relationships with others.  We know that distances exist.  

Jesus isn’t going to do the hard relationship work for us, but he will do it through us, if we allow him to.  God wants nothing more than to bring wholeness to this world.  

Jesus, we pray, that somehow you will help us to see others through your eyes and hear with your ears.  Amen."

Lost

I've been lost a few times...okay, maybe more than a few.
You too, you say?
It's a damningly hard thing, this being lost bit.
Isn't it?
The truth is though, once lost and then found...
You're never quite lost again.
Just in-between, waiting for the day
When home feels like home,
Alone doesn't feel lonely,
And the dawn, in some ways, doesn't feel fresh anymore....
It just feels 'normal.
Lost.

I, YHWH, am the LORD your God.

This post may be many things: a disclaimer, an excuse (at least for my text study group), a rationalization...but mostly, I am fairly certain, in the end I will know this experience as a true gift.

Yesterday morning, I sat, prepared to lead text study with a group of colleagues - I had actually prepared and I had decent theological thoughts (heck, I even knew what I was going to preach on - on Wednesday no less), and then...I started to cry.  We aren't talking about wet eyes here; we are talking about giant crocodile tears, streaming down my face...I couldn't talk.  Thankfully, someone took pity on me and told me to 'take a break'.  What I couldn't express then...the reason for my tears, I will express now.

One of the texts was from Deuteronomy...at the beginning it says, "See, I have set before you life and death.  If you obey the commandments of the LORD....then you will be blessed".  I happen to love the book of Deuteronomy.  It's not that I like laws [which much of the book is filled with], although the control freak in me appreciates it, but I like the involvement of God in our lives...appreciate the specificity.

The reason I adore it really has always been the statement God continuously makes: "I am the LORD your God".  The entire book is based on this fact.  That God is for us, that God lays claim on us.  I like knowing that I belong to someone that can spin entire universes into being.  It's pretty cool.

So, yesterday, I was all prepared to talk about this fact...God's claim on us.  And I looked at my note to myself that said "I, YHWH, am the LORD your God" and I was angry, and sad, and knew in a very real and true way God's claim on my life.

I had just moved my kids away from their friends, away from the only home they had ever known because of God's claim, God's work in the world.  I uprooted them for no other reason than that statement, "I am the LORD you God"....in my heart when I read that, I heard, "and you shall go where I ask you to go".

All of this sort-of happened in a blink...I heard that and I thought,
"I'll go, but you could pave the path a bit.  Not make it so hard on the kids.  Make it hard on me, not them." I was, for lack of an educated way of saying it, "GRRRRR!"


I was furious at this claim of God.  Downright furious.  And when I am mad and I try to talk...then I start to cry.  Well, I am a crier anyway, but that's what happened yesterday.

It is not so easy following this Jesus we follow; the claim of God on us sends us into unknown territories.  God does promise life and does give the promised land, but it's also true that it's a 'little by little' kind of thing (it says this in Exodus 24).

Here's the thing, as ticked off at God as I was in that instant yesterday, the reverse is true today.  Today I said to my son who looked at me with scared, weepy eyes, "You can do this."  And - I know he can and I'm going to keep on reminding him of it.  God has a claim on him too...a claim to bring him to a new life, to a new home, to very, very good things.

Following Jesus isn't easy and never was meant to be.
Dear text study group....I sort-of meant to say something like that yesterday rather than, "Please excuse me...I'm so sorry....sniff, sniff, sniff".

Listening when your head is screaming...

Not too long ago I preached a sermon about prayer...prayer as a practice in listening.

Well....I happen to be failing as a listener right now.  I am a 'doer' when there are things to be done.  My prayer life feels like a woodpecker picking at a tree over and over again.  Like I just keep shooting thoughts, worries, concerns up at God... peck, peck, peck.

This morning as I was doing this, I was so frustrated with myself.  I felt like I was participating in everything that I feel prayer is not - basically 'telling' God what I think God should do....leaving no room for God to speak, act, or even breathe.

My prayers were making me more anxious.  So - I began to pray about this.  Pray about my anxious prayers.  It was then that I realized that as much as I believe prayer is about listening, sometimes it's hard to get into a listening frame of mind when one is carrying around so much.

I was in a quandary.  What to do?  I needed to voice stuff, but I needed to slow down to do that, so that I could listen.  What I needed most was not answers, but rest.  I needed my brain to chew on something that wouldn't make me think of my 'to do' list.

Something (or someone) said, "Chant".  Now...let me tell you, there's no way I could do Gregorian chant while running.  Plus - gotta say, with a nod to the Church Fathers, that Gregorian chant is just not my thing.  At least not normally, but there was something about the humidity, rain, and steam of the morning that felt a bit like a hot yoga studio, so I began to chant [in my head] the words to "Jesus Remember Me" in conjunction with my breathing.  This was as close as I could get to a chant.

"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom..."  Over and over it went through my mind.  I had heard it last week during the offertory during worship and it seemed so fitting now.  An offering, a prayer, a chant, a plea, an acceptance.

Eventually, my brain did become occupied with these thoughts...I did feel a space open up between my temples.  "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom..."

Listening is so hard, when there's so much to say.  But it's hard to listen if all we think about is what we have to say...  Today was my very first realization of what a chant actually provides, beyond being 'traditional church music'.  The chance to listen while speaking.

Form

I bought new running shoes recently.  They are the same brand and model I have been buying for 5 years.  So, they are new, but not different.  This is such a 'girl' complaint, but they are always blue or teal or...some boring color.  So, while I was waiting for my 'same-old/same-old' to be brought out of the store room, an exquisite bright orange and pink shoe caught my eye.

The salesclerk brought my shoes out and I said, "What's with this shoe?  I've never seen it before."

He responded, "Oh, it's totally new.  It's designed to keep you on your toes while you're running."  [For those of you who don't know...the 'proper' running form is on your toes, not rolling through your heel.]

I responded, "It's soooo CUTE!  I've been buying the same shoe for years, maybe I will check this one out."

I'm pretty sure he was rolling his eyes as he said, "Well, you better try them on and get on the treadmill over there before you buy them.  They really feel different."

So, despite the fact that I was in a skirt, I laced them up and got on the treadmill and.....HATED THEM.

I wanted to like them so much, but they felt so wrong.  And the reason they felt this way is because they were forcing me into the right form.  Now, I normally maintain very good form - for the first 5 miles or so, then I start to rest back on my heels because it's easier.

"So, what do you do when you get tired in these shoes?" I asked.

"You're supposed to work up to your usual mileage, because it's going to be harder, but it's almost guaranteed to help you run faster, because you maintain form."

Well...I didn't buy them.  I wanted to.  They really did help.  And they really were super cute.  But I didn't think I could live up to the shoe's expectations.

Actually, I didn't think I had it in me to maintain proper form the whole time, like when I got tired, which I knew would happen.  So, I've been trying to work on my form without the shoes.  This morning I tried to stay on my toes the whole time...and I did go faster and I did enjoy my run more.

All morning I've been thinking about those adorable shoes.  Not that I'm going to go get them, but more about 'form'.  How when we maintain form, we function better.

So, what's the proper form for a human?  I guess we all have different answers to this, but I've been thinking a bit about mine, as much of my life seems dismantled right now.  My form...the things which make me really feel like I am functioning rightly revolve around: morning runs, real conversation with people, honest prayer, a good book, weekly worship, a few of my favorite foods (which aren't fancy but are comforting), and lots of hugs from my children.

Honestly, my form was a lazy.  It was like I thought because I was tired I couldn't maintain the form, so I scaled back to self-preservation mode.  No good books, less prayer, no time for friends...  Not really that bad, but certainly not what I know I need.  In the past week I've been thinking that my form is what helps me function...my good form.  I do have good form.  I know this.  I know that these are good things which help me to thrive...sometimes they are just a bit scary or intimidating or force me to stay on my toes.

But...life on my toes is much better than just rolling through - heel to toe.  And, it helps if your form has some cuteness involved too.  Good thing I've got my kids.
What's your form?

Secret Language

This is a disclaimer...not so much for my thoughts, but for the fact that I struggled to get the thoughts out of my head and into type.  Maybe a first for me - at a loss for words.  Basically...this whole blog boils down to: we need to talk, really talk in real and intimate ways, to get to know one another.  That means, we will have to learn to really talk.  Someone said to me today: "Do I really know you?"  It's made me think...


My kids have a secret language.  Maybe secret is not quite the right word.  People know about their made-up words.  They have special words for orange juice (and apple juice - because these are hot commodities in my house), happy/good; they each have nicknames...there's a whole host of words which escape me.  They talk with one another using this language, interspersed with 'normal' verbiage.  It all makes sense to them.  The funny thing is...it sort-of makes sense to me too.  Even their babysitter has picked up on it.  But to someone from the outside, it would not make sense at all.

Sometimes their dad says to them, "Remember to use regular words when you're talking to other people."  I don't really think he has to say this, because they only use these words around people they know.  Actually, not even just around people they know...they use this language around people they feel safe around and love.  The language is more of a shared experience between brothers who love each other.

Today I heard a report about relationships that last...how nicknames and inside jokes are good for relationships, because they help bond people.  I think this is really true.  And...I've been thinking about this in terms of my relationships.

I have many names: Weeze (this is what my dad calls me and how I sign all my letters to him), Chris (this is what my family calls me), Christine (my grown-up friends call me this), Mom (Obviously, my children refer to me as this), ex-wife (my former husband and dear friend), Pastor (people in my congregation)...  Now these aren't secret, except maybe Weeze.  And...if you really know me, then you know how I got my name Weeze.  These are names, which say something about my relationship with these people though.  Words that by themselves mean very little, but when experienced in context express almost everything there is to me.

The reason I really am thinking about this though is in terms of theological words.  Do we have a 'secret code' of words?  And, if we do (which I don't necessarily think is a bad thing) are we using those words to connect us or divide us?  My kids will teach anyone their language.  Like, when I was learning the word for orange juice (orankdid), I used to always say, 'oink'.  They would laugh and remind me.  Even that brought us together.

As I think about words we toss around so freely in the church...I am wondering if we know what the words mean...to us each, personally.  Really, what's glory?  What is it?  And...reign, and sacrifice, and Son of God, and resurrection, and salvation, and atonement, and omnipotent, and transcendence, and....See what I mean? I like these words, actually I love them.  I like that I don't fully understand them, because no matter how hard I try, I do not and just flat out can't, fully understand God.  But, I would like to be in a conversation where we let down our guards and talk about what these words mean.  What they really mean.  Not what we think they mean, or what we were told in church they mean.

But what do they mean to you?  What do they say to you through your life?  I'll tell you something about me...I mostly think the glory of God often takes up residence in a shower stall.  You'd have to know me really, really well to know why, but it's the truth.  And, I don't know if I really think God is all-knowing.  There you go.  It's better than me nodding my head like I agree.  And - a whole host of other things...

If we (either you and I, dear reader OR you and your best friend or mom OR me and a friend - whatever), if we started talking about what our words mean, then I bet our relationships would be a whole lot richer.

We'd have the words to say..."Yes, I need a friend."  OR  "My life is just in the biggest shambles right now and could you please help me?"  OR "The other day when I was praying...I saw the glory of God."

Afraid to Hope

I've been through this before....nursing a dying lizard back to health.  Last time, although we tried, we prayed, we went to the vet - we were unable to save my middle son's leopard gecko.

Back then...we were nervous when we walked into the vet, but when I asked in a hushed whisper, so my son could hardly hear, "So, do you think he's gonna die?"  The vet responded, "No, he should be fine.  This is fairly common."  We were hopeful.  Confident.

When Stripe (the first lizard) died, my son said he wanted to wait awhile before having another one.  He waited about 9 months before he thought he was ready.  Jackson loves lizards.  Actually, he loves all living things.  He has a connection to the inner beatings of creatures.  He is the most himself when he's outside in the forest or digging in the ground...anything God created, Jackson loves.

So, when he said to me a few weeks ago, "Mom, something's wrong with Norbert (the new lizard).  I think he's sick.  You have to take him to the vet," I couldn't help but feel the injustice of it all.  Jackson coos over this lizard, feeds it, turns it's lights on and off.... He does every single thing we were told to do to care for Norbert.

Turns out...we didn't have all the information.  We hadn't been caring for him as well as we should have been. Jackson was scared.  And - Jackson was livid, because in his words, "All the pet store cares about is the money.  They don't care about the pets."  Hard to argue with that.

I took this little bearded dragon to the exotic pet vet where he received a shot, a bath, an eye treatment, calcium, and a super-duper vitamin boost.  I was 'taught' how to syringe feed him at home.  How to bathe him and help him shed.  How to give him calcium and put ointment on his eye.  How to rub his belly to help him poop (Yup - the things a mom will do for her children).

As Jackson watched me do all these things, he said, "It's worse than I thought, Mom."  Hmmm....me too.

"Is he going to die?" he asks.

"Oh, Jackson, I don't know.  It's 50-50.  It's a precarious situation.  We'll do everything we possibly can but there's no guarantees."  I didn't want to promise him anything.

Every day we've been going through this regimen.  And...he's been getting better.  At first, I didn't say anything about it to Jackson.  I didn't want him to start to hope and then have his hopes dashed.

Jack eventually noticed and said, "I think h'es getting better."

"Yes, it looks that way.  But...don't get you're hopes up too much.  You never know," was my response.

But Norbert is getting better.  He ate live food yesterday - crickets dusted with calcium.  I've begun to hope myself.  And, I've begun to realize..what is life without 'hope'?  And why did I try to take that away from Jackson?  If we hope, we may get hurt.  But if we don't hope, our hearts still may break.

Hope doesn't guarantee...but hope is what hanging onto life is all about.

Am I afraid to hope still?  Maybe.  Maybe in many, many areas of life we all are a bit afraid to hope.  Discovering what it means to hope is probably about as close as we get to discovering what it really means to live.

Come on, Norbert!  We're all hoping and praying for you.