Last night, I attended a candlelight vigil and memorial service for homeless people who died in Cobb and Cherokee Counties in 2011.  A national organization that advocates for people who are homeless encourages local communities to have memorial services on December 21 every year. 

December 21^st is the longest night of the year.

Just before 5:30, I pulled into the parking lot of the Elizabeth Inn, a homeless shelter that is part of MUST Ministries in Marietta.  I found my way to a makeshift altar on a patch of asphalt on the far side of the Inn.  A table had been draped in black cloth.  Five 8” x 10” frames were arranged on the table with an unlit candle in front of each.  Three of the frames held names; the other two, pictures.  These were the five homeless people who died in Cobb and Cherokee Counties in 2011.

At one end of the table sat a thick white candle with three wicks.  I picked up a smaller candle from a basket, walked to the table, and lit my candle from one of those flames.  Or tried to.  For the next hour and 15 minutes, I worked hard to keep that flame alive.  Unusually warm for December, the air was pleasant, but the wind was persistent.  Take my eyes off the flame for even a second, it would die.

My first lesson of the evening:  flames are fragile.

My friend, Andy Peabody, was in charge of the vigil and service.  He invited us to enter into a time of silent—or at least quiet—reflection, not only for those people who died, but for all people in our area who are without stable housing.

Fighting to keep my flame alive, aware of its warmth and light–and fragility–I remembered a thought earlier in the day:  “If it rains, will they cancel the service?”  Well, of course not, silly.  What message would be sent to the homeless if we cancelled a vigil for them because of a little rain?  And then it hit me what a luxury, what an absolute luxury it is to choose to cancel something because of weather.  (…indeed, what a luxury it is to be sitting here in my recliner with a laptop on my lap listening to the rain fall outside my window.  A luxury.)  People without homes have few options when it comes to avoiding weather.

My second lesson of the evening:  I live a life of luxury.

I chose to attend the service because I wanted to experience the deep suffering caused by homelessness.  I wanted to confront the stark reality that homelessness isn’t a game, it’s not something to shove to the back of our thinking.  Jesus said that we’ll always have the poor with us, but I don’t think he meant for us to give up on them.  Because people die.  They really die.  For many people without homes, there is no happy ending.  Life is hard.  It kicks them in the teeth then turns its head when they die.   

Anyway, the best way for someone like me (a worship leader) to experience this depth of suffering is by attending a worship service and opening myself completely to the experience. 

Which is what I was doing when a woman came up to me and started chatting… asking me who I was, where I lived, talking about how it’s always windy at these December gatherings…  Okay.  I confess:  I was annoyed.  I was there to pay my respects to homeless people who had died.  Didn’t this woman have any respect for the dead?

My third lesson of the evening:  Everyone deals with grief in his or her own way…some of us by chattering our way through it; others of us by judging others for their chosen method of grief.

By the time the memorial service began, the sun had set.  The pictures and names of the deceased had become obscured by darkness.  As we gathered around the table, drawing closer together, Andy invited everyone who didn’t have a candle to get one and to let another person light it. 

By this time, I had used up two candles.  I thought I would forgo using any more.  But the invitation, though gentle, was insistent.  So, I walked back to the basket, got a third candle, and turned to a person I didn’t know to get a light.  Again, because of the wind, it took two or three times of trying before the light “took.”  Then a person came up to me to get a light from me.  Again, it took several times before the light took.  Flames are fragile.

The service began with prayer and comments made by representatives of several homeless advocacy groups.  Then the names of those who died were read.  After each name was read, the frame holding the name or photo was placed and the candle lit.  After the candle lighting, a bell sounded.

The fourth name to be read was that of a man who had been a Marine and who was a veteran.  After his name was read and the candle lit, somewhere behind me, a trumpeter played Taps.  It surprised me, that solemn sound.  I wasn’t prepared for it.  I was wide open; I was vulnerable.  I nearly lost it.    

My fourth lesson of the evening:  Homeless people are people.  They are human beings created in the image of God…people who have lives, histories, loves, and disappointments… people whose passing needs to be noticed.  People who need to be—deserve to be–honored. 

Our last act of the evening was to read a litany.  In it, those gathered promised to work for a future where everyone in our community has stable housing.  By that point, I was so devastated by the plight of the homeless and so overwhelmed by the size of the problem, I despaired of what, if anything, I could do to help ensure that anyone—much less everyone—in my community has stable housing.  

Who knows?  Maybe this blog post is a first feeble step.

            She said yes.  I wonder why?  A young woman, engaged, but not married, minding her own business, trying to be a good Jewish girl…then a person claiming to be an angel shows up, tells her God has chosen her, that she’s pregnant, that she’ll bear—no, really—God’s son.  “How can this be?” she asks. 

            How can this be, when it’s so far outside the box?  The women at the well are going to talk.  Joseph will be upset.  Joseph’s parents?  Ugh.  If people in town find out she’s pregnant, some might even want to stone her.  Why in the world would she say, “Let it be with me according to your word?”  Why in the world did Mary say yes?

            Saying yes to some things is easy, isn’t it?  Free Super Bowl tickets?  Yes.  A promotion at work?  Yes.  A batch of Lois’ deviled eggs made especially for you?  Oh, yes!

            But other things don’t elicit yeses quite so easily.  A position on the church Council?  Umm…  Actively working for justice in the world?  Well, I…  Welcoming an unplanned pregnancy?  You see, I… 

I wish we got a little more information between Mary’s question—“How can this be?”—and her yes—“Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”   How did Mary get from “How can this be?” to “Here am I, send me?”  What process did she go through?  What convinced her to say “yes” to God?

If we knew what helped Mary get to yes, maybe that would help us get to yes, too.

Poet Michel Quoist wrestled with this very question in a poem called “I am afraid of saying, ‘yes,’ Lord.”  Maybe his struggle in getting to yes will resonate with your own.

I am afraid of saying “yes”, Lord.
Where will you take me?
I am afraid of drawing the longer straw,
I am afraid of signing my name to an unread agreement,
I am afraid of the “yes” that will entail other “yeses”.

Give all to me, abandon all to me.
I need your “yes” to be united with you,
and to come down to earth.
I need your “yes” to continue saving the world.

********

O Lord, I am afraid of your demands.
But who can resist you?
That your Kingdom may come, and not mine.
That your Will may be done, and not mine.
Help me to say “yes”.

            Well, there you go right there!  If God came out and delivered us a poem on the spot or sent an angel or even a well-placed billboard, well, that would make getting to yes as easy as could be, wouldn’t it?  If God came to me and said, “Say ‘yes,’ daughter,” I’d probably say yes before God even finished saying the word “daughter.”

            But how do you get to yes without all the angels and auras and divine poetry?  How do you get to yes when you’re confused and afraid and just trying to live your life?  Why bother saying yes to God when life is plenty complicated enough already?

            The poet’s God said this:  I need your “yes” as I needed Mary’s, to come to earth.  I need your “yes” to continue saving the world. 

            “I need your ‘yes’ to continue saving the world?”  Oh, man.  Are we really that important to God?  What was God thinking, making us human beings so big a part of the divine action plan?  Surely, God doesn’t need us to continue saving the world!

But…well…If you think about every religious movement that’s ever happened in the world, if you think about every glimpse of the holy that human beings ever have gotten… people always seem to be hanging around, don’t they?  Abraham, Moses, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Mother Teresa.  In fact, it’s almost like the thing that unleashes God’s spirit and love into the world is human beings allowing themselves to be used by God.  It’s like God’s spirit and love are unleashed in the world only when human beings say “yes” to God.

            Like when Mary said yes.  Just look how much love was unleashed into the world because Mary said yes to God.  Despite her fears, despite her misgivings, despite the inconvenience, Mary said yes…and through her, God was able to do amazing things.  Through Mary, God was able to continue saving the world.

            What amazing things might happen if you say yes to God?  If you say yes to God, in what ways will God’s spirit and love get unleashed in the world?  Who’s life might change?  Hear me well.  No one’s saying you have to say yes to God.  But don’t you wonder what might happen if you do?

In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness.  Amen.

Kimberleigh Buchanan  ©  2011

Luke 1:26-55

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, ²⁷to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. ²⁸And he came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favoured one! The Lord is with you.’^{* 29}But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. ³⁰The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God. ³¹And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. ³²He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. ³³He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ ³⁴Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’^{* 35}The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born^* will be holy; he will be called Son of God. ³⁶And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. ³⁷For nothing will be impossible with God.’ ³⁸Then Mary said, ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’ Then the angel departed from her. <!– 39 –>

Mary Visits Elizabeth

39 In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, ⁴⁰where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. ⁴¹When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leapt in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit ⁴²and exclaimed with a loud cry, ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. ⁴³And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? ⁴⁴For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leapt for joy. ⁴⁵And blessed is she who believed that there would be^* a fulfilment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.’ <!– 46 –>

Mary’s Song of Praise

46 And Mary^* said,
‘My soul magnifies the Lord,
⁴⁷   and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
⁴⁸ for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
   Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
   and holy is his name.
⁵⁰ His mercy is for those who fear him
   from generation to generation.
⁵¹ He has shown strength with his arm;
   he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
⁵² He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
   and lifted up the lowly;
⁵³ he has filled the hungry with good things,
   and sent the rich away empty.
⁵⁴ He has helped his servant Israel,
   in remembrance of his mercy,
⁵⁵ according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
   to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’

An amazing prayer…  for a sung version, check out Kate Campbell’s rendition.

Thoughts in Solitude (Thomas Merton)

Two days ago, I was reading a spiritual memoir called “take this bread,” by Sara Miles.  A die hard atheist (or maybe agnostic), this liberal-as-they-come-lesbian-journalist wandered into a church one day and received communion.  It changed her life.

The part I read two days ago was about her church, St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco.  Among her descriptions of the church (which I MUST visit some day!) was a blurb about the 91 “saints” icons painted (or written) at the church.

African American iconographer, Mark Dukes, wrote the icons of the saints of the community of St. Greg’s, a multi-racial group of social justice loving artists.  Dukes wrote icons of an interesting array of saints…not all of them “saints,” per se…not all even Christian.  But each meant something in the life of St. Gregory’s.

Here’s the really neat part of all this…two days ago I was reading this chapter that described the icons.  Yesterday, I received an email from All Saints something that had a link to the icons!  How’s that for the working of the Holy Spirit?  Pretty cool to read about something one day and then have a link to views the pictures the next day.

And now I get to share them with you!  Here’s the link.  http://www.allsaintscompany.org/dancing-saints-all-icons

Were you an iconographer, which saints would you write?

Enoy!

Isaiah 64:1-9

Here’s a news item you might have missed.  “The folks at Star Provisions in Midtown are eagerly praying for the return of Jesus.  Sometime on Wednesday, a thief…swiped the Christ Child from a manger scene set up in the store.                                                      “Merry Christmas,” said a disgusted Dana Kirkpatrick, floor manager at Star Provisions.  “It’s wrong on so many levels.”  The shop was pretty busy on Wednesday so employees have no idea who robbed the cradle.                                                                          “This is a hand-carved set from Germany.  It’s kind of pricey,” said Tim Gaddis, the store’s cheese monger.  A former Gilmer County law enforcement officer, we asked how he’d go about investigating the crime if he still wore a badge.                                                                “I’d talk to everybody who was working that day, review security tapes,” he said.  “Fingerprints would be pointless.”  Were he to apprehend the culprit, the thief could expect another come-to-Jesus moment.  “You steal baby Jesus, you’re going to jail,” Gaddis said.”   “Star Provisions is not offering a reward – it just seemed too untoward (perhaps too King Herod-like?) to put a price on Jesus’ head.  Gaddis figures the thief knows who he or she is, and hopes to appeal to the better angels of that person’s nature.  “Jesus could return quietly in a brown paper bag,” he said.  “We just want it back.”                                                                   So, I wonder who the Jesus thief is?  A kid pulling a prank?  A non-Christian tired of all the baby-Jesus hullabaloo?  A Christian pastor tired of all the baby-Jesus hullabaloo?  Or maybe—and this is my theory—maybe it was a member of the Liturgical Police…because a member of the Liturgical Police would know—as every Christian should know—that the baby Jesus doesn’t come until Christmas Eve night!  (And, no.  I did NOT take that baby Jesus.)       We don’t like waiting on the baby Jesus, do we? 

We don’t like singing Advent hymns or hearing strange Scripture texts or looking at an almost-complete nativity.  No, now that Thanksgiving is over, we’re ready for the baby Jesus!  We want him and we want him now!       

In this age of instant everything, we’ve nearly lost the experience of waiting.  Like the guy in the 4G phone ad says to the guy with the 3G phone:  “That was so 27 seconds ago!”  We want everything now and, with few exceptions, we can get everything now.  But Advent –the season that begins today– is about waiting.  The baby Jesus is about waiting.  And those who want to experience Christmas meaningfully, can do so only after waiting for it.                    

The author of today’s Scripture lesson knows something about waiting.  The Prophet wrote in the 6^th century BCE, after Israel had been taken into exile.  The people had been torn away from their homes, torn away from their land, torn away from their Temple.          

That part about being torn away from their Temple doesn’t have much meaning for us; we know we can experience God anywhere.  But for 6^th century Israelites, God literally lived in the Temple.  So when the Temple was destroyed, and when they were forceably removed to a foreign land, the people began to wonder about God.  Did God still exist?  Were they still God’s people?  If they were still God’s people, why were they still in exile?  If God still loved them, why were they still suffering?      

                                                                                                    The prophet’s lament begins with memories of how God had, in the past, swooped in and saved the people.  O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,  so that the mountains would quake at your presence…to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations—like the one that had conquered Israel—might tremble at your presence. 

            The people are in trouble.  They’re in exile…they’re away from everything that’s familiar, everything that’s comfortable.  They’ve heard stories about how God acted in the past.  They want God to do the same right now.  They’d give anything for God to tear open the heavens and come riding in on a white horse to save them…right now.                          

Do you ever want God to swoop in and save you?  Do you ever long for God to tear open the heavens and whup up on your problems and set everything in your world right again?  If so, then you know something about how the author of these words was feeling.    

       Even in the midst of his angst, though, even in the midst of his suffering and his longing for God to tear open the heavens and swoop in and save him, still the prophet proclaims:  “⁴From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him.”  Yes.  Sometimes we just have to wait for God.  The pain will stop, the suffering will end, everything will go back to normal—or at least to a place of comfort—if we just wait on God.  Yes.  Just wait on God.

You know what I love?  Cheesy holiday movies.  I saw one Thanksgiving Night.  I don’t remember the name of it…but that’s okay.  You’ll know the plot by heart, anyway. 

A successful corporate attorney trying her best to make partner by the end of the year, tells all her underlings to cancel their Thanksgiving plans; they’ll be working all day to prepare for a court case the day after Thanksgiving.  They’re trying to win a case for an unsavoury mining conglomerate that wants to replace a town’s only park with an unhealthy mine.  In her drivenness to win the case, the attorney, Claudia, also cancels Thanksgiving plans with her sister and her sister’s family…not the first time she’s done so.

The day before Thanksgiving, Claudia shares a ride in the company car with a woman named Gina.  Gina asks Claudia if she’s happy with her life.  Claudia insists she is.  She doesn’t need family, she doesn’t need anything she doesn’t already have…except full partnership in the law firm….which she’ll get if she wins the case for the mining company.

About that time, the car hits a bump and Claudia hits her head.  When she gets out of the car, she finds herself at a house, with a husband and two children.  See?  You already know where this is going.  In a play on Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” Claudia has the chance to live for a few weeks as if she had chosen a different life…not the life of climbing the corporate ladder, but the life of family connections and friends.

While living her alternate reality, Claudia crosses paths with Gina a couple of times.  Each time she begs to be taken back to her “real life.”  Each time Gina says, “You’re not ready yet.” 

Then, as the court battle with the mining conglomerate looms, Claudia gets in the taxi to go defend the townspeople’s case.  Who’s her cabbie?  Gina…who tells Claudia she’s now ready to return to her real life.  Of course, now Claudia doesn’t want to go.  She wants to stay and help defeat the evil mining conglomerate.  But with another bump of the head, she ends up back at her old law firm.  You know what happens…She goes to court, loses the case—and her job—then celebrates by going to the coffee shop where she meets the man who was her husband in the alternate life and who now will be her beau for real.  The end.

Okay.  Got the plot?  Seen it a thousand times?  Here’s why I’m telling you this story… because it’s all about waiting.  The first hours and days in her new life, Claudia wants out of there as fast as she can be removed.  This is not what she wanted.  Ever!  But then hubby and the two kids start to grow on her…and after a couple of weeks she discovers that she loves them.  And, yes, that she needs them.

It’s only when Claudia makes the discovery that she needs others in her life that she is at last ready to re-enter her “real life.”  With that first bump of her head, Claudia easily could have been returned to her life immediately.  It’s TV, right?  But if she had been, she wouldn’t have experienced the change that was necessary for her “real life” to have the deeper meaner it needed.  By the movie’s end, you know Claudia has changed enough that she’s going to make better, more whole-making decisions than she had in the past…all because she waited.  The experience of waiting taught her what only waiting could.  By inhabiting that place of discomfort, that place of longing to be anywhere except where she was, Claudia learned enough and was changed enough to begin living her life more deeply than she ever had.

So, I guess we could look at the absence of that baby Jesus in Midtown, not as a robbery, but as a gift.  What kind of Christmas would we have if we didn’t have to wait on the baby Jesus?  What lessons might we miss if we skipped over the waiting process?

There is one person in our community right now who is an expert on waiting, Emily Adams, who is in her 9^th month of pregnancy.  I sent Emily an email this week, asking, first, if she might delay her son’s birth until December 24 or 25.  That would be so cool liturgically, don’t you think?  Apparently, Emily wasn’t in a liturgical mood when I made the suggestion.             

Then I asked her if she’d share something about her own experience of waiting.  She wrote:  “When waiting for something I really want, my first impulse is to focus on the feeling of unhappiness that I don’t have what I want yet.  I can’t wait to meet Ian and sometimes find myself feeling negative about the fact that I’m still waiting.  But I’m trying to train myself to take a deep breath, open my eyes, and see the wonderful things I can experience only because I am waiting.  In this case, all of the bed rest and time off of work has meant that I’ve gotten lots of extra time to be with Ben and really savor each moment of our time together before our family dynamic changes.  Waiting for one thing has given me the space to mindfully appreciate what I already have in my life.  And for that I am eternally grateful.”

What might we learn from waiting for our baby, the baby Jesus?  What might these days of longing and anticipation teach us, how might inhabiting this place of discomfort change us?  How might we use these next 28 days to prepare—really prepare—for the coming of God-with-us?  I don’t know.  I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

 In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness.  Amen.

Kimberleigh Buchanan  ©  2011

            Okay.  Let’s just get this out of the way:  Everyone here is a sheep.  Not a goat in sight!  I say that because often when we read this “least of these” text from Matthew, we get stuck on the idea of if we don’t do enough of the right things, if we don’t do enough good deeds, if we don’t do the most for the least of these, then we’re going (Choir: “straight to hell”).  Right.  And being afraid of going (“straight to hell”), we get paralyzed and do nothing or we get rebellious and do nothing.  Or we just discount this whole religion thing as quaint but obsolete.  And do nothing.

When we get bogged down in the question of where we’ll spend eternity, it distracts us from the question of how we’re spending our lives right now…and I’m convinced that THAT is the question Jesus is asking in this parable.  So, let’s just declare ourselves sheep and get on with it.

It’s not such a stretch to imagine everyone in this room as a sheep.  I’ve never been in a church that does so much for “the least of these.”  If a need is mentioned in this place, the response always is swift and generous— whether it’s chicken for MUST lunch, Christmas gifts for the girls at Wellspring, space heaters for people who need them, or supporting our youth in their mission trip to an Osage Indian reservation this summer.  Or this past summer when the MUST food pantry was out of food?  I mentioned that in worship and many of you left the service, drove to Publix or Kroger and were back with food before Sunday School was over.  We aren’t a large church, but we do have a large heart, especially when it comes to meeting the needs of “the least of these.”  I’m proud to pastor such a flock of sheep.

But reading this parable, I wonder if we’ve reached our sheepy potential?  I wonder if we’ve learned everything we can about serving the least of these?  I wonder if there’s still room for us to grow in the ways in which we live Jesus’ love in the world?

            Here’s why I wonder that…because there’s something about this passage that bugs me.  It makes sense that the goats didn’t realize that when they didn’t feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked and all those other things…it makes sense that the goats didn’t realize that the things they weren’t doing they weren’t doing to Jesus.  I mean, in this story, the goats are clueless anyway.  It makes sense they didn’t get the connection between helping others and helping Jesus.

But don’t you find it strange that the sheep hadn’t made that connection either?  They asked, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you drink, naked and clothe you,” and all those things.  Jesus answered:  “When you did it for the least of these, you did it for me.”  “Oh, man!  That was Jesus?  Why didn’t somebody tell me?  I just thought that was old Joe who I see every time I go to serve at MUST.  I didn’t know it was Jesus!” 

We can’t deny that the sheep were doing good works.  They were doing amazing things—clothing the naked, welcoming the stranger, visiting the sick and imprisoned.  But somehow in the midst of all their good works, it looks like they had missed Jesus.  They were doing good, but somehow, they were missing Jesus. 

I’d like to tell you one sheep’s story.  His name was Henri Nouwen.  He was a priest who, after a successful career of teaching, was becoming restless and looking for the next thing to do.  After a period of discernment, Henri ended up at a community called Daybreak inToronto.  Daybreak is a community for severely disabled people and the assistants who care for them.  “When Henri arrived inToronto, he was assigned to work with Adam.” 

Adam was “a 24 year-old man, [who] was very…handicapped.  He couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t walk.  He couldn’t dress or undress himself.  You never really knew if he knew you or not.  His body was very deformed.  His back was distorted and he suffered from continuous epileptic seizures.   

“I was really afraid,” Nouwen wrote.  “Here I was a university professor.  I had never touched anybody very closely and here was Adam.  Hold him!  At 7: 00 in the morning I went to his room and there he was.  I took off his clothes, held him and walked with him very carefully.  I was frightened because I thought he might have a seizure.  I walked with him to the bath and tried to lift him into the bath tub – he was as heavy as I am.  I started to throw water over him, wash him, shampoo his hair and take him out again to brush his teeth, comb his hair and bring him back to his bed.  I dressed him in what clothes I could find and took him to the kitchen.  I sat him at the table and started to give him his breakfast.  The only thing he could really do was lift the spoon up to his mouth.  I sat there and watched him.  It took about an hour.  I had never been with anyone for a whole hour, just seeing if they could eat.

            “Something happened. I was frightened for about a week, a little less frightened after two weeks.  After three or four weeks, I started to realize that I was thinking about Adam a lot and that I was looking forward to being with him.  Suddenly I knew something was happening between us that was very intimate, very beautiful and that was of God… Somehow I started to realize that this poor, broken man was the place where God was speaking to me in a whole new way.  Gradually I discovered real affection in myself and I thought that Adam and I belonged together and that it was so important.”

There’s a way of helping people that helps them, but at the same time, keeps them in their place.  Do you know what I mean?  I will help you because I have so much and you have so little.  I will help you because I am able-bodied and you are disabled.  I will help you because I’m an insider and you’re an outsider.  Sometimes the way we help others reinforces the idea that people who have more net worth also have more human worth. 

What Henri learned from Adam, though, is that he and Adam were equals.  Part of what helped Henri discover “real affection in himself,” was recognizing that, despite the very real differences in their abilities, he and Adam were just alike.  They both were human beings.  They both were loved—deeply loved–by God.  And Jesus lived in both of them.  It’s almost like in learning to see Adam’s humanity, Henri was able to see his own humanity.  In learning to see Jesus in Adam, Henri learned to see Jesus in himself. 

Maybe that’s what Jesus is calling us to in this “least of these” parable, at least those of us who identify as sheep.  We’ve already answered the call to work with and in behalf of the least of these.  Maybe our new call is to do so mindfully…to think with every person we help—this is Jesus.  This is a human being.  This is a person who is just like me—deeply loved by God. 

It is good to good things.  It is good to good things in the name of Jesus.  What might happen, though, if we do good things as if we are doing them for Jesus?  What might happen if we look for and find Jesus in the least of these, the outcasts?  It might just be that in loving the Jesus in others we will discover the Jesus in ourselves as well.  IT might just be that we will discover that we all are children of God.

In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness.  Amen.

Kimberleigh Buchanan  ©  2011

Matthew 25:31-46

Here’s a story I left on the cutting room floor… 

Christ Heuertz made that discovery one afternoon inJerusalem.  Chris is part of the “Word Made Flesh” movement, people who live in community and serve the poorest of the poor across the globe.  I highly recommend his book “Simple Spirituality:  Seeing God in a Broken World.” 

On the day in question, Chris found himself on the Via Dolorosa—the way of Suffering.  It’s the path many think Jesus took on the last day of his life.

At the end of the way, Chris saw a Palestinian man.  “He had a long black beard and dirty hair that fell below his shoulders.  His eyes were kind.  He was barefoot.  He had no pants.  The only thing keeping him from being completely naked was the open rag of a shirt that he wore, torn and dirty, loosely hanging off his shoulders.  It caught me off guard,” Chris writes.  “He obviously was not in his right mind.  However, this man was gentle.  As his dazed eyes drifted into the sparsely clouded sky I could tell he was harmless.”

“Various tour groups making their pilgrimages throughJerusalemwould walk down the path with tears in their eyes and the typical romanticized holy-land-tour wistfulness.  Arriving at the end of the path, the tour groups and pilgrims came face to face with this naked man.  Their responses were usually very similar.  At first, most were frightened by the man.  Many flat out ignored him, walking right past him, acting as though he wasn’t there.  Some, realizing he was harmless and helpless, would cruelly try to scare him off or send him away.”

 “I went back to my dorm room that evening and began reading through the Scriptures.  I found myself stuck in Matthew 13:44, where a man discovers treasure hidden in a field.  The passage tells us that ‘joyfully’ he went off to sell all his possessions in order to buy the field… I sat at my desk with my Bible open, thinking about the meaning of this verse.”

 “I was compelled to pray about the passage.  Suddenly it was as if the Lord took a hold of my heart, trying to show me that I was the ‘hidden treasure.’  Jesus joyfully went to the cross and sold everything (his own life) so that I could be his.  I was overcome with a sense of God’s love for me.  It broke me.  I sat at my desk weeping, drinking in the love that God was lavishing, pouring out on me.”        

“I reflected on the events of that day, remembering the pain and sadness I saw reflected in the face of the naked man.  Praying for that man, the Lord opened my eyes to the hidden treasure that had been standing before me.  That crazy man, naked and dirty, also was a ‘hidden treasure’ that Jesus loved so much that he gave his all for him.”

           We’ve heard the Gospel lesson and a great spiritual written about it.  Before you get anxious about that going “straight to hell” part, let me assure you that this story is not about the afterlife.  When Jesus told this parable, it was meant to focus people’s attention on the here and now.  Hearing this parable today, 2,000 years later, it’s meant to do the same.  What does this parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus say about our lives today?

            Maybe we’ll learn something by hearing the story again.  Tell you what let’s do.  Let’s divide into two groups.  First group (choir side):  Listen to the story as if you are the rich man.  Second group (kitchen side):  Listen as if you are Lazarus.  Got it?  Here we go.

            There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.

(To the “rich”)  You’re rich, probably royal—you were born into wealth.  You aren’t evil, just…insulated by your money and privilege.  You enjoy the fruit of yours or some ancestor’s labor.  Your wealth isn’t good or bad; it’s just the way things are.

²⁰And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, ²¹who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.

(To the “Lazaruses”)  You’re wishing you’d gotten here earlier to get a seat on the rich side, huh?  You are a poor person, one who literally is spat upon.  You are invisible.  Though you lie at his gate every day, it’s doubtful the rich man ever has noticed you.  For him, you simply don’t exist.

But you do exist.  You’re a human being.  Jesus draws attention to this fact by giving you a name:  Lazarus.  In fact, you’re the only person in ANY of Jesus’ parables ever named.  You are a human being…

…one who is hungry.  As the rich man feasts sumptuously, you beg for the bits left for the dogs under his table.  As it turns out, the dogs are the only ones who care for you.  They lick your sores, as they would lick their own wounds for healing.

So, how are you feeling, rich people?  How are you Lazaruses feeling?  Ready to change seats, Lazarus?  Hold on.  You might want to hear the rest of the story.

²²The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. (Rock-a-my soul in the bosom of Abraham; Rock-a-my soul in the bosom of Abraham; Rock-a-my soul in the bosom of Abraham.  O, Rock-a my soul.)  The rich man also died and was buried.  (He went straight to hell.)  ²³In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.

Okay.  So, the tormented rich man looked up, saw Abraham and Lazarus in that sweet little scene, then…

²⁴He called out, ‘Father Abraham—Kim:  Father ABRAHAM, right–have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’  (Dip you finger in the water come and cool my tongue, for I’m tormented in the flames.)

Okay, Lazarus.  How does that make you feel?  You’re in paradise, all cozy in the bosom of Abraham, finally receiving comfort you never experienced in life…and there’s this rich man who never noticed you in life, who never once acknowledged your agony…He does at least see you now, he knows your name, but he won’t call you by it…no…He’s still trying to order you around…(or order Abraham to order you around).  Who is this guy?

But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.  ²⁶Besides all this, between you and us 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.

(Carole King:  “It’s too late.”)  It’s too late.  The Rich Man has lost his chance to see the poor man, to help him, to share with him.  It’s important to note that Father Abraham isn’t angry or punitive with the rich man here, he’s simply stating the obvious—that there comes a point beyond which generosity can not reach.  There comes a point when you dig the moat so deep around you—or the grobin, Jim?—When you spend your life building moats and walls and gates and suburbs around yourself to insulate yourself from the people who make you uncomfortable, the people, in your heart of hearts, you’re afraid of becoming…when you dig a chasm around yourself to keep others out, well, that’s exactly what it does.  It keeps others out.  It becomes too vast to fill in, too wide to bridge.  The chasm, the abyss gapes.  Forever.  Yeah.  It probably is hell, in its way.

(Point out “chasm” between the middle sections.)  Thanks to the choir’s help, we’ve created a representational chasm here in the sanctuary today.  Take a minute and think—are there chasms in your life?  Are there moats you’ve dug around yourself, to insulate yourself?  Are there people you work hard to keep at arms’ length? 

Who stands on the far side of your chasm?  Who has tried to reach you, to no avail?  Another way of thinking about it, Who are you glad is on that unreachable far side?  To whom are you grateful no bridge will reach?

Where are the poor in relation to you?  Or another way of asking it:  Where are you in relation to the poor?  Are you standing with them?  Or have you dug a chasm between you and them?   Have you so insulated your life that you don’t see the poor at all?

Author and UU minister Kate Braestrup talks about the time she missed the beltway inWashington,D.C., and ended up on the wrong side of town.  To get where she wanted to go, she and her children had to drive through some scary neighbourhoods.

She writes:  “When the light ahead turned red and the line of cars travelling upNew York Avenuestopped, a gaggle of homeless men shuffled off the sidewalk into the street.  They began dabbing at windshields with dirty rags, beseeching drivers for money.

“I stared at the light, willing it to turn green before they got to me.  This sort of thing doesn’t happen in Maine, I said fretfully to myself.  I’ll give them money if I must, but I’d really rather the light just turned green.  Come on, light.  Turn green.  Turn green.

“Then one man turned in my direction.  He was making some loud, strange sounds, but he was not begging.  His hair stuck out in clumps all over his head.  Clad only in a pair of cutoff jeans, he wore no shirt, no shoes.  His face and torso were thickly scarred, as if he had been badly burned.  He had no arms.

“I pressed the button that raised the car windows the last half inch.  I checked to make sure the doors were locked.  The light turned green, and I drove forward.  It wasn’t until I was passing under the traffic light that it dawned on me.

“’He had no arms,’ I said aloud.

“’What?’ the children said.

Shoot.  Oh, shoot.  “He had no arms,” I repeated.

“’Who?’ her daughter Ellie asked.

“’That man back there…he had no arms.”

“’Poor man,” said Ellie.

Poor man!  He had no arms.  He couldn’t hurt me.  I didn’t need my fists, didn’t need to flee:  What did I have in the car that he might need?  What did I have that he might want?  Juice boxes, cookies, money, Band-Aids, and baloney…but I checked the door locks and the windows to make sure they were closed against him.

“’Shoot.  Oh…shoot!”

“’Mama is crying,’ Woolie announced.

“Having seen, what could I do?  Turn around, go back?  Chase him down the street, this poor, differently-abled, mentally challenged person of color?  Hey!  I can see you now!  You’re innocent, truly a child of God!  Oh, please, can I give you a Fig Newton?

“It was too late.  He was gone.”  (Beginner’s Grace, 81-82)

We’ve had some fun playing the roles of the rich man and Lazarus, but the real invitation of this parable is to identify with the rich man’s five brothers. 

He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.”  Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.”  He said, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.”  He said to him, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’”

We are the rich man’s siblings.  Despite how the economy might make us feel, we are inhabitants of the first world.  We do have power in the world.  And I doubt that for most of us here this morning, this is the first sermon we’ve ever heard about the poor.  The truth is, I could preach many more of these sermons…we could do power points, sing songs, hear testimonies, watch movies, even take mission trips…but in the end, the only thing that will change any of our hearts about the poor, the only thing that will help us to take off our blinders and see, really see, the poor, is our own desire to do so.

So, how about it?  Where are you standing in relation to the poor?  Are you satisfied with that location?  Would you like to change locations, fill in the moat, bridge the gap?  If so, you might want to get to work….before it’s too late.

In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness.

Amen.          Kimberleigh Buchanan  ©  2011

***********************

What I left on the cutting room floor….

I came across some questions the other day that have caused me to stop and think—really think—about my relationship with the poor.   (These questions came from the version of the Spiritual Exercises I’m doing…see www.creighton.edu/retreat)

What evil continues because of me?

How have I been deaf to the cry of the poor? 

How have I insulated myself, lived in my own world so that I don’t get bothered by the need of others? 

How does my comfort cost others?

The table.  It’s not by chance that the primary symbol of our faith is the table.  Jesus knew what he was doing when he invited his disciples to remember him at the table…

          This place of nourishment…

          This place of fellowship…

          This place where we come together…

Like this past Monday.  On Monday, the memorial service for Bob Donahue was held at St. Ann’s Catholic Church.  In our phone conversation a few days before, I asked Fr. Gabe, the priest in charge of the service, about communion.  His response:  “If anyone comes with their hand out, we’ll serve them communion.”

I didn’t tell Fr. Gabe, but I had decided not to receive communion, mostly because I didn’t want him to get in trouble.  Everyone else there on Monday could have “passed” as Catholic…but not me!

But when it came time for communion, Fr. Gabe invited me to the altar and served me communion.  He served me–a Protestant clergywoman–communion! 

          …and the roof didn’t fall in…

          …and lightning didn’t strike…

          …and no thunder roared…

We simply shared the body ofChristASthe body of Christ…and we all got a brief glimpse of God’s kin-dom.  And it was beautiful.

That’s what I mean about this table bringing us together.  When I say it brings us together, it brings us together…

…It brings us together with other parts of the body of Christ…

…It brings us together with everyone in our past who has ever shared with us in this meal, even those who have died…

…And it brings us together with each other, this part of the body of Christ we call Pilgrimage United Church of Christ…

As I speak the words of institution, I invite you to imagine all the others who join you at the table today—your personal saints, loves ones who have died, your church family, and the rest of the body of Christ.

While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it, he broke it, gave it to the disciples and said:  “Take, eat; this is my body.”

Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying:  “Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.  I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in God’s kin-dom.”

Let us pray.  We give you thanks, loving God, for the fruit of the vine and the grain of the field….these constant reminders of your incarnation, your desire to be with us and to love us.  Bless these elements with your holy presence…and thereby bless us in your service, O God.  Amen.

Invitation:   Come to this table you who have much faith

And you who would like to have more;

You who have been to this sacrament often

And you who have not been for a long time;

You who have tried to follow Jesus,

And you who have failed.

Come, it is Christ who invites us to meet him here.

Share the Elements

Nurturing God, the table was a little crowded today, what with all our saints and loved ones and fellow church members and the rest of the body of Christ.  Despite the fact that we ALL came to the table, still we all were fed…we were fed by juice and bread, we were fed by your love, and we were fed by our togetherness at this table. 

Now that we have been nourished, send us out to nourish others.  In the name of our brother Jesus, Amen.

Koinoinia.  When I chose this year’s theme—A Year of Koinonia—here’s what I imagined.  I imagined that we’d all learn about the Koinonia community started by Clarence Jordan in south Georgia and, so inspired by the story of people living Christian community the way they did in the Bible, we’d naturally dive more deeply into doing community here.  I imagined we’d recommit ourselves to being a true community of Christ here in this place and start imaging together how we might live out the Gospel even more boldly.

But then I read the history of Koinonia Farm.  As committed as Clarence Jordan and the rest of the Koinonians were to living in true community—a community where they made decisions together and worshiped together and lived out the Gospel together—they never really achieved it.  It wasn’t for lack of trying, though.  Those Koinonians met…and met and met… They prayed together and made decisions together and tried as best they could to live out the Gospel, but there seemed always to be some kind of dissension in the group, some kind of conflict among the members.  The turn-over rate was high.

It’s true that the persecution Koinonia experienced for its views of racial equality put undue stress on the community.  But I suspect that the difficulties of living in community are inherent to the beast.  Trying to get people on the same page with ideas, with work, with money, with relationships, with theology?  That’s not easy.  Not even Jesus’ disciples achieved that, and there were only 12 of them…and they were in community with Jesus! 

In Acts 2 you read that wonderful passage about the first Christian community—“Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.  All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.  Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.”  (Acts 2:43-46)  Sounds ideal, doesn’t it?  Don’t you want to be part of something like that?  Yet, just three chapters later you encounter a couple—Ananias and Saphira—who betray the community.  They end up dead on the temple steps.  Can you imagine if every person whose commitment to the community waned dropped dead in the narthex?  We’d have one full narthex.

Let’s face it, Christian community isn’t easy.  In fact, learning about the history of Koinonia, reflecting on the valiant—and failed—attempts of others living in community…I’ve begun to wonder if koinonia is such a good theme for us. 

For one thing, we’re not literally living in community.  We’ve probably got 5 or 6 counties represented here this morning.  We don’t work together.  We’re not raising our children together.  Except for the occasional potluck and Lunch Bunch gatherings, we don’t share meals together.  Except for tithes and offerings, we don’t share a common purse.  I mean, really.  What does this koinonia idea have to do with us, we who are scattered across the metro area, we who work in different places, we who do well to gather together four hours a month?

UCC pastor Lillian Daniel caused quite a stir a couple of months ago with a piece she wrote about people who identify themselves as “spiritual but not religious.”  I’d like to share it with you.  Here is “Spiritual but not Religious?  Don’t bore me.” 

Rev. Daniel writes:  On airplanes, I dread the conversation with the person who finds out I am a minister and wants to use the flight time to explain to me that he is “spiritual but not religious.” Such a person will always share this as if it is some kind of daring insight, unique to him, bold in its rebellion against the religious status quo.

Next thing you know, he’s telling me that he finds God in the sunsets. These people always find God in the sunsets. And in walks on the beach.  Sometimes I think these people never leave the beach or the mountains, what with all the communing with God they do on hilltops, hiking trails and … did I mention the beach at sunset yet?

Like people who go to church don’t see God in the sunset!  Like we are these monastic little hermits who never leave the church building.  How lucky we are to have these geniuses inform us that God is in nature.  As if we don’t hear that in the psalms, the creation stories and throughout our deep tradition.

Being privately spiritual but not religious just doesn’t interest me.  There is nothing challenging about having deep thoughts all by oneself.  What is interesting is doing this work in community, where other people might call you on stuff, or heaven forbid, disagree with you. Where life with God gets rich and provocative is when you dig deeply into a tradition that you did not invent all for yourself.

Thank you for sharing, spiritual-but-not-religious sunset person.  You are now comfortably in the norm for self-centered American culture, right smack in the bland majority of people who find ancient religions dull but find themselves uniquely fascinating.  Can I switch seats now and sit next to someone who has been shaped by a mighty cloud of witnesses instead? Can I spend my time talking to someone brave enough to encounter God in a real human community?  Because when this flight gets choppy, that’s who I want by my side, holding my hand, saying a prayer and simply putting up with me, just like we try to do in church.

The trouble with UCC ministers is that you never know what they’re really thinking! 

I know of at least one person who unsubscribed to the UCC devotions when this devotion was published.  She found Rev. Daniel’s tone harsh and unwelcoming and just the slightest bit defensive.  At first, I did, too.  If we’re out to evangelize the spiritual-but-not-religious folks, that is, if we’re trying to convince them of the benefits of Christian community, I don’t think calling them self-absorbed and boring and sending them to the far side of the plane when the turbulence hits is going to get us very far.

But now that I’ve thought about it some, I kind of get what Rev. Daniel is saying.  A faith that is nurtured, tested, and honed in community…that’s a faith that can stand just about any circumstance.  Can we encounter God outside of a community of faith?  Of course, we can!  Happens all the time!  But how much deeper and richer and more resilient those encounters with the Holy are when they happen in and are reflected on in community.

One of the things I love—love—about this place, is that there is no such thing as “group think.”  Oh, everyone in the group does think, but there’s no telling where people’s thinking will lead them.  Some of us have high Christologies, some of us have low Christologies (and some of us are Googling “christology” right now to see what the word means).  Some of us can quote the Apostles’ Creed by memory, others of us look at any creed with suspicion, (and some of us wonder why we’re debating over a rock group in church).  Some of us worship best with drums and electric guitars, some of us worship best with hymns and piano (and some of us wonder why the preacher doesn’t just preach for the whole hour).

I confess…a little bit of group think on occasion might be nice.  When we all come from different places on any given issue, it takes a lot of time to talk things through, to listen things through, to pray things through, and to come to consensus.  We’d certainly get things done more quickly and efficiently if we were all on the same page all the time…

…but how would we ever grow?  If everyone thinks like you and believes like you and worships like you and votes like you, how are you ever going to test your own thoughts and beliefs and practices?  As one person said in Sunday School a couple of weeks ago, “I love engaging someone who’s passionately opposed to me…that’s how I learn!  That’s how I grow!”

As I do on occasion, I’m going to invite you all to finish today’s sermon.  I’d invite you to respond to this question:  How has being part of this community helped your thoughts and beliefs and practices to grow?  How has being part of this community helped your faith to deepen?  How has being part of this community shaped who you are as a person faith and as a human being?  [Responses]

Hmmm…So maybe we should continue with this Koinonia theme, huh?

In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness.  Amen.

Kimberleigh Buchanan  ©  2011

The more I read about the history of Koinonia, the more I wonder if it has anything to teach a contemporary congregation about living in community.  As we saw in the last chapter, Koinonia really struggled with the reality of living in community.  Clarence Jordan was steeped in the Scriptures and believed whole-heartedly in the model of community demonstrated in Acts 2:44-45 (“All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.” NRSV).  Clarence, however, “was no student of community.”  The community’s struggles for unity continue in this chapter.  While they learn a lot from the experiences with the Hutterite and Bruderhoff communities, unity, as the chapter titles suggests, still eludes them.

Sometimes, I feel a little like Clarence.  As a pastor, I hope–down to the marrow in my bones–that our congregation might become a true Christian community, sharing goods and good news with each other and with others outside the community, making all our decisions through conversation and prayer, living out the Gospel in every aspect of our community’s life together.

But the members of our church don’t live (geographically) together…our members probably come from seven or eight different counties.  We certainly aren’t a “community of goods;” several economic “locations” are represented by our members.  We don’t worship, or work, or eat together daily.  In fact, we have very few members–some, but not many–who come to worship weekly.  And in this age of “Why did you call when you could have texted?” I am coming to despair that true community–outside of true communities like Koinonia and the Hutterites and the Bruderhof (which are called “cults” by some on the web, by the way)–can really happen.

Sigh.

So, what can these intentional communities teach congregational communities about living as a Christian community?  Is there something to be gleaned?  Or is the gap between intentional community and church community simply too wide to learn anything?

These are the questions that will continue to guide my reading of “Cotton Patch Evidence.”