Fools Rush In--a sermon for Ordinary 13B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Fools Rush In
Mark 5.21-43
June 28 2009, Ordinary 13B

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered round him; and he was by the lake. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.’ So he went with him.
And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, ‘If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.’ Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?’ And his disciples said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, “Who touched me?” ’ He looked all round to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’
While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?’ But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’ He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, ‘Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha cum’, which means, ‘Little girl, get up!’ And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.


When I was in high school, my best friend Rachel was also the daughter of our high school band director. Rachel and I were pretty well-grounded girls—we were into classical music and books, mostly, and we stayed out of trouble without really trying. Nonetheless, we still were well acquainted with a look Rachel’s dad could give very well, and which we called the “you are such an idiot” look. It came over his face with only a moment’s notice whenever we asked a dumb question, said something bizarre, or showed ourselves for the naïve 16 year olds we were. In the more than 10 years since I last saw Rachel’s dad give me that look, I’ve seen it on countless other faces, and I’ve probably given it myself without even realizing. I’ve seen the look on the faces of those who heard I wanted to be a professional musician, those who heard I thought I might be called to ministry, those who heard I was planning to move to the Middle East. I’ve seen the look on the faces of professors, friends, and colleagues when I’ve said something ridiculous or showed my idealistic side, daring to dream that the church and the world could be different than they are today. I’m sure I’ve given the look in similar situations, as well as when I’ve seen or heard someone do or say something that betrays their lack of common sense.

It’s also the look I imagine Jesus got a lot, especially in this story. I picture Peter and the other disciples with Rachel’s dad’s face when Jesus, in the midst of a huge Taste-of-Chicago-sized crowd, pushing and pulling and jostling for position, has the audacity to ask, “who touched me?” I mean, really, Jesus…you see the size of the crowd, you feel the people all around us, you see us being swept along rather than moving on our own—how can you possibly ask, “who touched me?”

But Jesus does ask, and he keeps asking, and he keeps turning around and looking, looking for the outcast, for the unclean, for the woman, for the one who is shunned and looked at with disgust and outrage. And when he finds her, after looking as if for a needle in a haystack, after repeatedly asking the same apparently stupid question, he changes everything in her world. No longer is she an outcast, no longer is she unclean, no longer is she shunned—he calls her “daughter” and reaches out to her, there on the margins of society, there in the land of no health insurance during a catastrophic illness, there in the invisible space where people we don’t want to see often live.

Doesn’t sound like such a stupid question anymore, does it? While the disciples, and the crowd, and the whole society—even including the church—said “why bother?” Jesus was looking, and asking, and doing something to meet a need. Sure, that need seems small if you’re the disciples, and outrageous if you’re the crowd, but it literally meant life for that woman.

Almost as soon as the look gets wiped off the disciples’ faces, servants come from Jairus’ house with bad news…and we see the look again as Jesus sets off in the direction of this house once more. Why bother, Jesus? Why bother when the girl is no longer sick, but dead? Why waste your time on an insurmountable problem? You’re being silly, Jesus—you can’t do anything, this is too big even for you.

But Jesus goes anyway.

When he arrives, he finds the professional mourners wailing and the family and neighbors sobbing—and when he says he’s going in, the incredulous look returns, this time with derisive laughter. You’ve moved beyond silly, Jesus—this is the full blown look now, complete with disbelieving raised eyebrows.

But Jesus goes in anyway. He walks right into the house made unclean by death, right into the midst of a family’s pain, right into a hopeless situation. He takes the hand of a little girl, worthless in the eyes of society, a piece of property to be married off in order to increase her family’s wealth and standing, a ritually unclean nothing in the house of a church leader. And in that one impossible moment, Jesus looks at the insurmountable task and he DOES SOMETHING. He takes a step, he makes a small movement, and manages the unbelievable. The girl gets up and walks around as though she’s just woken from an afternoon nap, Jesus orders her a snack, and everyone is amazed.

Gone is the apathy everyone felt in the face of a problem larger than they can imagine. Gone is the paralysis that comes from overanalyzing a situation. In its place, amazement.

I think initially that amazement was about the fact that Jesus raised a girl from the dead. But after that shock wore off, I bet people were amazed about something else entirely. Sure, it’s exciting and unreal that the girl was alive after being dead, and that the woman was healed after all the money and time spent. But it’s even more amazing that Jesus got into it at all. I mean, the crowd was overwhelming, the girl was dead…what’s the point of even trying?

How often do we hear these words? I know I hear them a lot, usually in the same sentence as I’m accused of naïve idealism as though having ideals is a bad thing. There’s so much wrong in the world, there’s so much violence, poverty is so overwhelming, hunger is so prevalent, disease is so uncontainable, what’s the point in even trying? I can’t fix the problem by myself, we together probably can’t even fix it, and even if the whole country and all our politicians were united on one thing, there’d still be other things. Why not just walk on by, since we can’t help every person who lives on the street? Why not walk on by, since we can’t feed every child suffering from hunger? Why bother at all when the crowd is so thick we can barely walk and when the girl is already dead?

But that’s not the Jesus way, and not the way of those of us Jesus calls to follow him, either. Jesus never asked, “why bother?” He looked. He went. He asked. He did something—anything to help even a little. When he sent disciples out two by two, he didn’t say, “if you can’t heal everyone, then just keep walking.” He told them to do what they could, to keep their eyes and ears and hearts open, to look and ask and go, to DO SOMETHING.

I spent the past three weeks at the Presbyterian conference center in Montreat, North Carolina. One of those weeks, I went to a workshop where we talked about gospel foolishness—that what we do in following Jesus, in proclaiming the gospel with our words and our lives, is foolish, stupid, deserving of the “you are such an idiot” look. No logical person would do this—it’s insane. The things we claim, the person we try to follow, the action we’re called to—it’s all ridiculous, and also ridiculously important. And then, when the youth arrived, we spent a week learning about the World on Fire—both in bad ways, like poverty and climate change and violence, and in good ways, with the fire of Pentecost, the fire of disciples, the fire of love. That week we talked about fighting fire with fire, which sounds ridiculous and foolish and wonderful all at the same time. The keynote speaker said one day that we are called to do SOMETHING, anything, really, not later "when we're ready," but NOW. We pray “thy kingdom come,” and now it’s time to realize that we are part of that coming, part of building God’s kingdom—that our living and our DOING is also our praying. In everything we are and everything we do, we dare to dream that the church and the world can be different, and that we can make that difference, even with our own two hands.

In that spirit, I invite you to finish the sermon with me, claiming our foolishness and our willingness to rush in where God has called us.
We believe in a with-us God
who sits down in our midst to share our humanity.
We affirm a faith that takes us beyond the safe place:
into action, into vulnerability, and into the streets.
We commit ourselves to work for change
and put ourselves on the line;
to bear responsibility, take risks,
live powerfully and face humiliation;
to stand with those on the edge;
to choose life and be used by the Spirit
for God’s new community of hope.
May it be so. Amen. *

*from the iona abbey worship book

home

I got home Saturday night. Still recovering from a week at the youth conference, spent being both the back-home group leader AND a small group leader. Preaching this coming Sunday. Hoping to have head above water any day now....

apparently I lied

I am not being a good blogger while I'm gone either.  Not sitting in front of a computer all day, and not having regular internet access (have to go either to the Assembly in lobby or the Dripolator coffee shop) are both putting a damper on my general internet activities.  Instead, I've been having a grand time at a great conference (one of the best I've been to, actually, so y'all check out the Proclaiming the Text conference at Montreat!), developing my preacher crush (Otis Moss III), hiking/walking, meeting new people, reconnecting with old friends, learning stuff, reading books...you know, the stuff we do when there's no internet.  Imagine that.

Monday begins the next conference (Alt7)...I hope to upload some photos before then so I can start fresh with my camera's memory card!

lame

I'm a lame blogger. sorry.

here's a fast recap:  spiritual gifts series (in sermon and in adult ed) was good--learned some interesting things with some interesting people!  pentecost was totally awesome with a children's time that featured helium balloons tied to wrists as a reminder that we can fly hi when filled with the breath of God, and also of what dancing tongues of fire must have looked like.  The balloons danced all through the service and made me so happy.  then work work work work work trying to get ready to leave for three weeks.  I'm headed to a preaching conference, then the Alt7 (for PCUSA clergy under 40)--both at Montreat--and then my youth (led/driven by four fabulous adults) will come down for the youth conference (also at Montreat) and then we'll all drive back together!  I've been trying to get everything ready so those fabulous adults have everything prepared for them, but that's harder than you might think.  I've also been trying to get everything ready just to be gone for so long--at my house, the office, etc.  And, of course, there's tons going on at church between the Covenant Network explorations, the end of the year, the Bible Bowl (which was today and was SUPER FUN), the PNC getting ready to finish the CIF (which means they can start looking for a new pastor soon!), and other fun.  Good times.  My kitties are going to be mad, but they'll (hopefully) get over it as usual about 10 minutes after I get home.  :-)

I should in be in bed, as I have to leave in a little over 8 hours.  But instead I'm still cleaning up the kitchen, wishing I'd vacuumed, and packing.  I did all the laundry, I even bought new clothes (or new-t0-me clothes, some of them, from my fave consignment shop!)...but everything is sitting in neat piles next to the suitcase.  Perhaps I should get on with that.  

Do you think I can justify 6 pairs of shoes for 3 weeks?  ;-)

In theory I can blog while I'm gone.  Maybe I'll try extra hard, complete with pictures from the mountains...

Commuting with God

Okay, so I've been thinking a lot about spiritual practices for a new generation--reframing traditional practices and also thinking about ways for busy people with little connection to traditional spirituality to connect with God.  Amy and I have actually been working on this for about a year, but we've discovered some gaps in our experience and so it's taking us a really long time to explore these things.

So one thing I've been thinking about is Commuting with God (get it? I'm so funny...haha, bad puns...okay, I'm done).  What are some ways that we can turn the daily grind of commuting into a spiritual experience?  I know there are the usual--things like praying for those you hear on the radio news; turning off the radio and driving in silence, just thinking/listening; sending up prayers for those drivers who cut you off; listening to music that makes your spirit sing.  I'm sure there are plenty of others too--things that don't necessarily involve a traditional understanding of "talking to God" but could feed our spirits and connect us to the Holy even in our cars, on the train, etc...

But my daily "commute" (if it can be called that) is 10 minutes each way.  I don't make longer drives often enough to make a regular practice out of it.  So I'm wondering, from those of you who DO commute--what are some things you either do or can imagine doing while you commute that would bring you closer to the Holy, perhaps even setting the tone for your day or night (depending on when/where/how/why you commute...)?

mother's day

Dear mom,

I still miss you.  I still hate the month before mother's day when every website, piece of junk mail, and email remind me to do something special for you.  I still hate going to church and having people pray for moms, be thankful for all you've done, and then neglect to mention how painful or difficult or anxiety-producing a day like this can be for some of us, for many different reasons. Today the pastor praying even thanked God for the privilege of taking care of our moms when they get older, the way they cared for us when we were young. It's a privilege I wish I could have, but won't.  I'd give almost anything to be able to spend that much time with you again.  Instead, I took the day off, I wandered around a city I love, I stared at tulips, I ate lunch with friends, I played Wii Bowling for the first time (and I'm still terrible, even when it's not real), I read about amazing women who are changing the world.  I cried a little, I talked to family, I remembered the time I threw up rhubarb in grandma's bathroom sink and got in trouble for throwing up in the sink.  

I also remember how fab you were, and am thankful for the time I did have with you, though I wish there was lots more of it.  And I remembered all the "extra moms" I've had, people you talked to too, people you entrusted me to, people who nurtured and taught and helped and extended grace when I needed it.  They were, and are, awesome women that I do not keep in touch with the way I should.  Too bad I didn't get your letter writing gene.

I don't really know what else to say, except thanks, and I love you.

Love,

Teri

excuses

You've likely heard by now that the Egyptian government had this bright idea--to cull the swine herds to stop the spread of swine flu.  Nevermind that there's no evidence that pigs are actually carrying the disease, or that it's spreading between livestock, or that it's spreading from pigs to humans at this point--everything seems to suggest a human-to-human interaction right now.  The pork industry is right about one thing: pigs aren't dangerous, and if using the phrase "swine flu" rather than H1N1 makes people think pigs are dangerous, then we need to stop using it.

So back to Egypt, where the government is slaughtering pigs, ostensibly because of swine flu.

You may know that in Islam, pigs are unclean.  Which means that the majority of Egyptians don't eat pork and would never imagine keeping pigs.  But the 12% or so of Egypt's population that is Christian are perfectly fine with both pork and pigs.  And in the Cairo region, most of those people who keep pigs are also people who collect garbage.  They live in an area commonly called "garbage city" where the ground floors of houses are the place to sort garbage and keep pigs (who eat the edible leftovers).  Some of the garbage goes to be "recycled"--at scrap yards, into various crafts, etc.  The rest is eaten by pigs or burned.  The families live in the upper floors, just above the piles of garbage and wandering livestock.

These people are poor, they're different, and they live in what the majority of the country would call filth (in more ways than one).  Culling the pigs is a way for the government to punish these people for being different, to push them further into poverty, and to highlight a religious issue that has been simmering under the surface in Egypt for many years.  

In other words, it's an excuse...

...to punish the poor...

...to widen the divisions between people...

...to persecute Christians.

(sigh)

H1N1 it is, clunky a term though it may be. The side-effects of a more convenient-to-say term are too great.

just some little things...

So I was listening to NPR the other day, and heard a story about torture, and how some people are saying that the President should NOT have declassified the "torture memos" (which he said might as well be declassified since they'd all been in the media already) because, and I quote, "now we've told the enemy how far we're willing to go--we've shown them the line we're not willing to cross."

And this is a bad thing.

Umm...

Isn't there a line we shouldn't be willing to cross?  And shouldn't people know what that line is?  Not because the "enemy" will know how to withstand all our interrogation, but because human beings should know that they will be treated as human beings even when they're in custody under suspicion.

Don't even get me started on the strange, illogical (to me) difference in the treatment of torture and of stem cell research. bizarre.

In other news, RCLPC is about to enter a season of dialogue in which we will talk about the Amendment B "issue" in the PCUSA and explore the possibility of becoming a member of the Covenant Network.  Voting to rewrite Amendment B has been going on throughout the PCUSA, and just last week failed.  While I sort of expected it to fail, I'm still disappointed.  But then again, it just shows how important talking about this is, how important the work of the Covenant Network is, and how important a step our congregation is taking by being open about our conversation.

For non-presby-speakers, Amendment B is the part of our PCUSA constitution that bars gay and lesbian people from serving in ordained offices in the church.  Well, that's it's purpose, really, and how it has been used.  It actually says (in addition to the famous fidelity-or-chastity clause) that "anyone who refuses to repent of any self-acknowledged practice which the confessions call sin" (or something like that) can't serve in an ordained office.  Which, for the record, lets out probably 99% of pastors and elders and deacons currently serving.  Possibly more.

For the record, I believe that the current language of Amendment B is bad polity.  It's poorly written, it's unenforceable, and it's inconsistent with the rest of the constitution (including the highly esteemed first chapter or two of the book of order).  I also believe that the current language of Amendment B is bad theology.  The previous paragraph (6.0106a) and the ordination vows clear lay out the requirements for ordained officers, and they include things like faithfulness to God, effort to live a faithful life, and willingness to listen to God's call--all noticeably absent from G-6.0106b.  And our actual foundation (not the constitution, not even the book of confessions), scripture, has so many examples of unlikely people being called to do God's work, so many examples of the outcast being brought in, so many examples of human beings getting it wrong when it comes to leaders of the community.  And there's the whole business where the confessions say "councils err, don't assume these are the right words for all time" should probably also be a clue.  Last but not least, the pragmatic: I don't believe that I can exclude someone with obvious gifts and call from leadership on the basis that who they are is somehow inferior--am I more likely to be asked why I let people in or why I kept people out?

Also for the record: I took ordination vows in which I said I would uphold the constitution of the church (or something to that effect!).  That doesn't mean I won't work to change it when I think it's wrong.  

One last for the record: I don't believe in forcing people to think like me.  I also don't believe in other people forcing me to think like them. If you disagree with my thinking on this, I'm happy to hear from you and to talk.  But I'm not willing to accept treating of other people as less than human, less than made in the image of God, less than called, or more sinful than me or you. 

I don't know how this conversation is going to go in our congregation, but I'm excited to have it.  Our new mission statement calls the church "an ever-widening circle of grace" and I'm hopeful that we will have grace-filled dialogue as we consider our next steps.  I do believe there's room in the circle for people of differing opinion.  I do believe there's room in the circle for people of differing gifts.  I do believe there's room in the circle for all of us, in other words.  That's what an ever-widening circle is about, right?  

This season of dialogue includes two "classes," one movie night ("For The Bible Tells Me So") and one town-hall meeting.  It should be a good time.

See, just some little light things, right?

In other news, my cats are cute, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me by podcast is awesome, and I'm still reading that series about ancient Rome.

I think that's all for now...

An Open Book--a sermon on Luke 24.36-48 for Easter 3B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
An Open Book
Luke 24.36-48
April 26 2009, Easter 3B

While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Then he said to them, ‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.”


Can’t you practically see the disciples’ eyes bugging out as they watch to see whether Jesus really eats, whether they can see the fish going through his system like a ghost, whether this solid matter has a strange interaction with a misty incorporeal form? But nope, it’s just Jesus, hungry after a lot of walking, enjoying the fruit of his fishermen friends’ labors. Not a ghost, even in the visible Harry-Potter-type-way, not a hallucination, though they must have all felt crazy…just Jesus, their friend, alive again when he was dead just yesterday.

They’d been gathered in the room, listening to the stories from the walk to Emmaus, hearing about hearts on fire, broken bread, opened eyes. But when their own eyes beheld something impossible, still their minds could not take it in. Our human minds are always just a little bit smaller than the greatness of God, aren’t they? And we’re always trying to fit everything into our logical boxes, but with Jesus that’s no longer possible. He has very decisively burst out of the boxes, out of the rational mind, out of the tomb.

Jesus’ response to this problem, to the evident terror mingled with joy mingled with wonder—the classic “I can’t believe it!!!” response—is not just to show the disciples his hands, and is not just to have a snack, but to follow that up with a gift: a story, told to minds newly opened to the possibilities of a changed world. Jesus tells his own story, yet again, beginning with Moses and coming down through the ages. He opens the book and tells the story, complete with living pictures, and the disbelieving joy turns to wonder at the love God has for the world, and has always had for the world, that the story should go like this.

We sometimes use the word “story” as a way to blow things off—it’s “just a story.” Underneath, we mean, stories aren’t real life, they aren’t worth much, they aren’t “true.” But that’s not quite right, is it? All of life is a story, from the beginning of time until now, through us and beyond. Our lives are made up of stories, and taken together they make up a bigger story. God is telling the story of a beloved creation, through the mouths of a beloved people—a story that started before we can imagine and goes on farther than our minds can stretch. Moses and the prophets and the kings were a part of the story, Jesus on earth and Jesus alive again are part of the story, the disciples were part of the story. Just because it’s a good story doesn’t mean it’s not true—in fact, the gift Jesus gives the disciples gathered in that upper room is the understanding that the story may be the only thing that is true.

It’s unbelievable, of course. The story doesn’t make any sense. No one who was dead comes back to life. Love does not lead to pain and death. Only by the gift of the Holy Spirit can the disciples’ minds be opened to understand. But once their minds are opened, nothing can ever be the same.

I know, I said the same thing last week, and the same thing the week before, but I really do believe it’s true: the message of Easter, the terrifying, unbelievable, outrageous message of Easter is that nothing can ever be the same. The story has taken an unexpected turn, a crazy plot twist, and cannot go back to the way it was before. God has come to earth, has taken on flesh and blood, has experienced life and love and sorrow and pain and death, and has come back from all of that to tell us that love will always win.

Of course, the world looks almost nothing like love is winning. We have war, we have poverty, we have violence in our schools and communities, we have grief and loss, we have exclusion and hate. We sometimes have eyes and ears and minds and hearts that are closed against so many things that not even good news can slip through. But Jesus comes to open our minds to understand the scriptures, to hear the story through fresh ears, to see the impossible come true, to know that God’s love is stronger than the big stone at the entrance to the tomb. Where we thought the story had ended, a whole new chapter has begun.

And then Jesus says the thing that makes this story a perpetual page turner: “and you are witnesses of these things.” Witnesses? Well, yes, we saw it happen—years of wandering, teaching, healing, storytelling, eating, sharing, loving. But witnesses do more than just see—they tell. They exhibit. They share.

This is the third gift in the story—first came the greeting of peace, then the opening of minds and hearts, and now the title, the commission, the assignment: witnesses.

In other words, our task is to continue the story. To wander and teach and heal and tell stories and eat and love. To widen the circle of grace until all are drawn in. To hope. To share. What good is a mind and heart opened to understand if we won’t share our understanding? What good is a gift of peace if we don’t make peace wherever we can? What good is a gift of love so great it can conquer death if all we do is hide in an upper room and discuss amongst ourselves? The story needs witnesses, people to continue walking through the pages, passing on the message, seeing where the plot goes, looking for the Spirit’s leading. And those witnesses are the body of Christ—meant to be an open book for the world to read.

I wonder what our book will say? I hope it will be a book about love—a book of friends in Christ, caring for one another, sharing our lives together, being open about who we are and our struggles and our joys. I hope it will be a book about grace—a story of acceptance and hope, of traveling life’s road together, telling stories to strangers as well as friends. I hope it will be a book that witnesses to the mystery of a God who makes the world different—who bursts out of the tomb, full of life and light and love, changing everything.

Christ is risen, and nothing will ever be the same, yet the story goes on. May we be witnesses to these things.

Amen.

On the Road Again--a guided meditation on Luke 24.13-35 for Easter 2

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
On the Road Again
Luke 24.13-35
April 19 2009, Easter 2B (off lectionary)


(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

It looks like any other road,
this road we are walking today.
I invite you to close your eyes,
sit up straight with your feet on the floor,
be comfortable.
Breathe in deeply, and out slowly.
Do you see the road?

What kind of road is it?

What do you see?

What do you hear?

Are there other people on the road?

What is the weather like?

How fast do you want to walk today?

Leave the city, one foot in front of the other,
sandals tamping down dust,
even as grief washes from head to toe.
Nothing went the way we thought.
And today’s news is even more unbelievable than last week’s.

alive?
is it possible?
why can’t I see him?

One foot in front of the other,
walking home,
on just another road,
any road—it doesn’t matter now.
Nothing matters—no journey will ever be the same without him.
but where is he?

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

Just another road,
like any other road.
Can you see it?
One foot in front of the other,
on the road again,
but alone this time.

A stranger comes alongside you.
Do you talk to strangers?

He walks near you for a ways,
in comfortable silence…
and then asks the question:
what are you thinking about?

What will you tell him?
What are you thinking about?
It’s been an amazing three years—
healings,
miracles,
parables,
feeding people,
restoring community,
telling stories,
loving outcasts.
Which story to tell?

Think of your favorite story about Jesus.
Tell it to this stranger as you walk along this dusty road,
one foot in front of the other.

…

This stranger listens well,
he asks questions,
he nods in all the right places,
and he can tell that the story makes you both excited and sad.


As you finish telling your story,
you mention that it doesn’t make much sense.
Things seemed to be going so well until that last night,
that last dinner,
that Passover Party.
That’s when the real questions began.
Sure, other things didn’t always make sense…
but broken body, life poured out,
arrested,
beaten,
crucified,
killed…
and now alive again?

…

The stranger looks at you as you walk down the road,
thinking out loud.
What are your questions?
Keep wondering out loud together as you walk,
one foot in front of the other,
through the dust,
wondering.

…

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

As you come to the end of your questions,
your voice trails off
and both of you stare down the road,
walking slowly together.
Then this stranger begins to tell a story of his own…
but it’s a story you know well,
except this time it begins to make a little bit of sense.
Just a little bit.
Grief and confusion are still there,
but now there’s something new…
something warm…
something blooming in the desert.
Listen—
what story is he telling you?

…

As he finishes his story,
you look up and realize you’re almost home.
You’ve just met this strange man,
this storyteller,
this listener,
this fellow traveler,
but you invite him in for dinner.
There’s something about him…
And as you sit down at the table,
he offers thanks for a journey safely completed,
for new friends,
for hospitality,
for a simple meal of bread and cheese.

and as he takes some bread and offers you a piece,
you see.
He’s been with you all along,
transforming the journey,
making it part of the story,
part of God’s story,
part of our journey together.
On the road,
an ordinary road,
any road like any other,
yet unlike any other.

He’s alive!
is it possible?
You see him!
Hurry, on the road again…
What will you tell the others?

…

(open the eyes of my heart, lord)

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’ Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

off to the sun

okay, I'm headed to the land of sun, but without my computer. see you in a week....

happy Easter!!

What if it's true? -- a meditation for Easter

Rev. Teri Peterson
What if it’s True?
RCLPC
Mark 16.1-8
April 12 2009, Easter

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’ When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’ So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.


“They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” That’s it? That’s all we’ve got? Is that any way to end a story? No happy ending, tied up in a pretty little bow? No wrap-up, no recap, no “the end”? I’d grown to expect better from Mark, a man who knew how to tell a story.

But then again, the beginning of his gospel seems to be missing something too—he starts just by saying “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” No manger scene, no wise men, no shepherds. Just “the beginning of the good news.” And here we are, seemingly at the end of the gospel, the good news, and all we get is “terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

I don’t know about you, but fear is not an emotion I tend to equate with Easter. Sure, it’s what the women and the other disciples must have been feeling on Thursday night, on Friday, even on Saturday—that fear that comes with grief: wondering how things could have gone so wrong, if they could have done something differently, what to do now. That’s a fear I understand. Even that Sunday morning, walking to the tomb, I understand fear—fear of not being able to open the tomb, fear of seeing the body again, fear that this final act of care for another will somehow make this whole nightmare more…well…final.

But then comes the next shock in a string of shocking days: He Is Not Here.

This pronouncement by the angel seems like the best news ever—The angel reminds us that Jesus said he would be back, he would live again, and now he’s not in the tomb! Isn’t that great? There should be laughter and cheers and tears of joy! But instead we get terror and amazement, fear and silence.

Why? Why terror and fear? Why not tell anyone? Why end the story this way?

I don’t know what the women were thinking that morning when they ran away in fear. I don’t know what most of us are thinking when we run away from good news either. I do know what I would be thinking if I were those women, though:

What if it’s true?

What if the grave wasn’t robbed but God has truly broken the bonds of death?

What if it’s true that Jesus, who was dead, is now alive, having burst out of the tomb, and is now cavorting around in Galilee?

What if it’s true, what we’ve been saying all these weeks together—that God is doing a NEW THING, even now it springs forth…can’t we see it?

If all those things are true, then the things Jesus said and did must be true too, and the things he asked us to do, the calling he gave us, the standard he set, the love he poured on us and commanded us to share—those must also be true.

And now I’m just as scared as those women must have been!

If it’s true, if Christ is alive, then nothing in the world is what we thought. Death is not the final word. Darkness does not win. Hate and violence are powerless. Even though the world looks the same—it’s not. Nothing is the same on a morning like this. And then, once you know that, what do you say? We can’t just run back to the disciples, or into the Temple, or out into the streets, and say “guess what? Jesus is alive again and everything is great!” There’s a reason the story doesn’t end like that.

Instead, the story ends with silence. The women run away and say nothing to anyone. But even without words, their story gets out. Once God has broken the bonds of death, there’s no WAY we can expect God to keep quiet! God isn’t willing to stay in the tomb, and God isn’t willing to stay in our nice little boxes constructed out of fear, either. God is out, alive, dancing around the world, making everything different. And we know it—we have walked through pain, we have been blinded by grief, we have been frustrated and angry and anxious, but we still know it, because we, too, have witnessed resurrection, that awesome power God has to do THE new thing, whether we’re looking or not, even if we’re silent in our fear.

Even without words, the story gets out. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here today, would we? Yet here we are, whether in fear or joy, part of the story of God’s love that smashed all our notions of how the world works. Here we are, part of the circle of God’s grace that just keeps widening, in spite of our fear, in spite of our timid voices, in spite of our failings. What if it’s true? What if nothing is the way we thought? What if God is still doing a new thing, still breaking bonds, still shattering stones, still shedding graveclothes? Will we leave this place to continue the story?

Because it’s not over, you know. Mark doesn’t give us an ending because, as he said in his first sentence, he’s only telling the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Fear, death, and loss are not the last words. The good news—news of love, grace, and hope—keeps going. Christ is risen indeed!
Alleluia!
Amen.

Holy Week

It's holy week (or holy cow! week...or other words besides "cow"...).

In fact, it's Wednesday of Holy Week.

Two days down, five days to go.

Five days that include one Wednesday evening program (including a class taught by me), a Maundy Thursday/Passover service--a Seder complete with feast, and a communion service after (coordinated and led by me...no idea how I'm going to pull that off), and a Good Friday service (partially led by me...all ready to go). Those five days also include cleaning my house, shopping for cat food, going to yoga class, getting my first pedicure of the season (thank GOD), watching Dollhouse so I don't get behind, toasting "bonus years" with a friend/congregation member (Friday is the day he will officially have lived longer than his own father), laundry, writing a meditation for NEXT Sunday, finding a catsitter, and packing.

Oh yeah, and writing a sermon for Easter.

Thank God for family who live in Southern California who will take me in when I need to get away and when I find a cheap flight.

And thank God for the San Diego Zoo panda cam.

Okay, I'm getting to work, I swear. I really am. No, really, look at me working...

Holy Week, batman!

Hosanna--a sermon for Palm Sunday B

there's nothing quite like a complete re-write that starts at 1230am!

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Hosanna
Mark 11.1-11
5 April 2009, Palm Sunday B

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,
“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.


Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
It does sound like a throng of pilgrims on their way to the biggest festival of the year, doesn’t it?
It was nearly Passover, the time of remembering and celebrating God’s power, God’s faithfulness, God’s bringing the Israelites out of Egyptian slavery. The time when everyone who possibly could made their way to the Temple for the celebration. The time when a lamb would be sacrificed, unleavened bread baked, songs sung in praise of the God who rescued the people.
And on the way to the holy city, the crowds would sing, recite psalms, and tell stories. On the way to the holy city, pilgrims would cut branches and trade recipes. On the way to the holy city, people coming together in the name of the Lord would celebrate together with shouting and dancing.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
In the midst of this crowd comes Jesus, in a carefully staged parade. Not on a mighty warhorse, but on a donkey’s colt, feet dragging on the ground, bumping along with the jerky movements of a fool’s animal. No armed escort, no gleaming shields and helmets, no parting of the crowds to let the king through. No symbols of military power, no symbols of empire, nothing to confuse him with Rome. Just a man on a donkey, riding toward the holy city.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
He’s a popular rabbi. He’s a known healer and miracle worker. He’s a great teacher. There are whispers he might be the Messiah, the one to rescue them from Roman oppression, the one to crush the powers that be with a mighty hand. And now, at Passover, at the celebration when we remember God’s power to save us from slavery in Egypt, comes a man to save us from yet another cruel political and military power.
Hosanna! Save us, Lord! the people plead, even as they affirm “God saves us!”
Messiah, anointed one, God’s chosen. To the people in that crowd, that means military hero, mighty warrior, powerful king. When he rides into the city, they wave palm branches, they shout praises, they shout pleas. They line the street with coats so his feet don’t get muddy, they fan him with leaves, they cheer like they would for a king returning victorious from battle. They hope—no, they expect great things, a better-than-Roman-style general’s triumph through the streets of the city to the governor’s palace, mighty deeds of power that end years of humiliation, objectification, and oppression.
Hosanna! Lord, save us! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord! Long live our Messiah, our warrior king!
Jesus, parading into the holy city, parody of a Roman victory procession, knows God saves. Jesus, vulnerable and looking ridiculous, chooses to make fun of military power, showing its inability to save people, just at the moment people place all their expectations on him. Hosanna, they cry, save us!
From what do we want to be saved?
Fear? Anxiety? Hopelessness? Grief? Anger? Illness? Desire? Hatred?
What do we think life will be like when the Lord has saved us?
Bright and cheery? Without any bad things happening? No more sin, no more death, no more worries because the blood of a sacrifice has set us free, rescued us from something awful?
What happens when our expectations, our hopes and fears projected on another person, are not met?
Hosanna! the crowd cries. Save us from Rome!
And Jesus goes into the Temple alone, looks around, and quietly leaves the way he came.
This anti-climax begins to turn the tide from Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord! to whispers, then shouts, of Crucify! Crucify this one who did not meet our expectations! Crucify this one we have so misunderstood. We thought he was the one to rescue us.
But what if the kind of salvation Jesus brings, the kind of salvation we need, isn’t another rescue from another cruel political leader?
Hosanna! Save us! the people shout. And Jesus, in his parody parade, does exactly that, but not the way we expect, not the way we want, but the way we need. He comes. He comes into the city, into the houses, into the crowd. He shares our life, he shares our joys and our sorrows, he shares our death. God comes, in the flesh, to be with us, to give us courage and strength, to walk with us on the journey. God comes, not with political power and military might, not with coercion and crushing, not with violence that only begets more violence, but with compassion, with care, with love.
Hosanna! we shout—save us! come again into our lives, into our world, into our community, and walk with us the road of this world’s suffering and this world’s joy. Redeem us, make us whole again, reconcile us to one another, help us to love and serve.
Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!
In some traditions these words are part of the Communion prayer—evidence that God’s story doesn’t always go the way we expect. We say these words with palm branches waving, and then pray them on the way to a table where we remember again that we, together, are the body of Christ, the ones who come in the name of the Lord, the hands and feet of the one who saves us by coming into the world to share a common life.
May it be so.
Amen.

Daily Bread Again??? A sermon for Lent 4B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Daily Bread, Again???
Numbers 21.4-9
March 22 2009, Lent 4B

From Mount Hor they set out by the way to the Red Sea, to go around the land of Edom; but the people became impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.’ Then the Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died. The people came to Moses and said, ‘We have sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you; pray to the Lord to take away the serpents from us.’ So Moses prayed for the people. And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a poisonous serpent, and set it on a pole; and everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live.’ So Moses made a serpent of bronze, and put it upon a pole; and whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live.



Many of you may know that my all-time favorite TV show is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Sure, it went off the air five years ago, but that doesn’t diminish its quality! It has witty dialogue, decent acting, funny special effects, and great plot arcs. I often get asked why I watch Buffy and its spin-off Angel. Aren’t they glorifying magic, aren’t they blurring lines between humans and monsters, aren’t they unchristian and against the Bible?

Umm…well, the short answer is “no” and the longer answer is “there’s some pretty weird stuff in the Bible!” I mean, here today we’ve heard about cosmic punishment slithering through the sand, with a magical statue as the cure. If that’s in the Bible, Buffy looks downright normal!

One of the things I really like about Buffy and Angel is the way they take the many difficulties of growing up—figuring out who we are, how we are in relationships and communities, what we’re called to do and be, how to navigate the world—and turn them into physical realities. When the characters fight demons, they often find that things are not as black and white as they might prefer. And they often find, particularly as the show progresses, that their inner processes are mirrored in the “evil” they fight. Their struggles, both psychological and spiritual, take on physical form and have to be confronted in order to be worked through.

I’m reminded of Buffy when I read this story from today. On the surface, the story seems simple enough, if very bizarre. The Israelites, after wandering in the wilderness for about 35 years—35 years in which God has provided everything they needed, from quail for dinner to bread for sandwiches to water gushing out of a rock, say to God and Moses, “daily bread again???? What about giving us some daily hummus, or daily potatoes, or daily ice cream?” The chef who worked hard at providing quality, nutritious food day in and day out for all those years is upset and sends in the snakes as punishment. Almost immediately the people change their tune from whining to groveling, “we didn’t mean it, we really like manna and we’re learning all kinds of new ways to cook it and we’d love to keep eating it forever and we really appreciate all you do for us…please please pretty please take the snakes away?” And in response God gets Moses to make them a magical statue that cures snakebites.

The trouble is, of course, that on the surface it would be easy to be led astray by the story. First and most obviously is the potential for idolatry—doesn’t God remember the golden calf incident just a few years ago? Second and less obvious is that this story seems like a bit of a simplification—more like a human being trying to explain the inexplicable using a cause-and-effect relationship than a story of a loving God’s interaction with the community of chosen people. The God we know in Christ isn’t one who simply punishes on a whim—God promised not to do that anymore just three weeks ago in the Noah story. The God we know is the One who is Love, who says “I will be your God and you will be my people,” who is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, who is good and merciful.

This is where I started to think about Buffy. The characters have to fight their inner demons as physical beings, they have to face up to the things that cause hurt, anxiety, and fear. Perhaps the same is true of God’s chosen people. Fear, anxiety, impatience, frustration, and grief are manifested in the people’s behavior of rumor-mongering, complaining, attempts at self-reliance, and lack of trust in God. And those are toxic behaviors, poisons that can destroy a person or a community…and when they come into the open, behold—snakes. An embodiment of all the negativity that was slithering unnoticed through the camp. Perhaps this wasn’t a punishment after all—perhaps it was God helping the people to see what was happening among them, giving them something to see, something to confront, something to work against in the pursuit of wholeness.

Notice that when the people ask God to take the snakes away, God doesn’t do that. God doesn’t just turn us from negative to positive, from toxic to healthy, from complainers to praisers. Those things are still there among us. Instead, God gives the people a new chance at wholeness. In order to be healed, the people have to look up from their own shadows, lift their eyes from their own complaints, and see, face to face, the very thing that has caused so much pain and grief. Only by confronting it head on can they move through the darkness into the light. Only when we face our fears, our brokenness, our need, can we move through them—that’s why people who are afraid of flying can take classes with pilots who show them around the cockpit, why people afraid of animals are encouraged to have controlled encounters with them, why people afraid of heights should try out indoor rock climbing. We can learn, we can look these fears and hurts in the face, and we can entrust them to a God who cares for us more than we can imagine. That statue didn’t cure anyone, but by looking up at it the Israelites could see beyond themselves to the loving, merciful God who gave them this chance at healing hurts they didn’t even know they had before.

Jesus mentions this story just before one of his most famous sayings. In John chapter three, he says, And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” (John 3.14-17).
Just as the people looked up at a snake on a stick, not because the statue had magic powers but because they had to face their fear and hurt to walk the path to healing and because God’s love and mercy could be seen there—so, Jesus says, is the cross. These stories are not about punishment, but about love so deep it’s willing to suffer pain that we might be well. When we look at the cross, we see an instrument of death used to defeat death. We see the power of love to heal the whole world, the power of mercy to set us free from hurts we didn’t know we had.

In spite of the statue and the cross, in every person and every community the snakes are still there. Darkness still hovers, and light can be hard to imagine—we still want to go our own way, still harbor negativity, still look back rather than forward, still have fear and hurt and grief. God doesn’t remove the thorn in our side, in spite of our asking for that easy way out. But God is faithful, and God’s grace is amazing and plentiful. What God does is offer a remedy—a new chance for true healing, a new chance for trust, a new chance for covenant community, and, in many ways, a new chance for daily bread, again.

Thanks be to God.
Amen.

30 Hour Famine

RCLPC's high school youth will participate in the 30 Hour Famine again this year--and it's only a month away!  We each have a month to raise enough money to feed and care for a child for a whole year--$360.  That's right, just $30 a month can save a life.

This year the 30 Hour Famine has the option of fundraising online, so I thought I'd try it out.  If you'd like to sponsor me as we starve for food--fasting for 30 hours to raise money and awareness of hunger issues worldwide and here in our own community--just click this link!  Thanks!

~~~~~~~~~
Here's more information about World Vision and the 30 Hour Famine program:

World Vision is a Christian humanitarian organization dedicated to working with children, families and communities worldwide to reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice.
Motivated by our faith in Jesus Christ, World Vision serves alongside the poor and oppressed as a demonstration of God's unconditional love for all people.
World Vision serves all people, regardless of religion, race, ethnicity, or gender.
World Vision's 30 Hour Famine is an international youth movement to fight hunger. Students typically fast for 30 hours to spread awareness and raise funds to help provide food and care for children worldwide, including here in the US. Every $30 raised helps provide food and care for a child for a month (worldwide average).
For Fiscal year 2007, World Vision's overhead rate was 14%, meaning that 86% of total revenue went directly to our efforts in the field. For more information about World Vision's financials and stewardship, visit World Vision's web site.

still here

I'm still here--I haven't forgotten about you, my blog and bloggy friends.  Lots of unbloggables right now, and some frustration. Just a reminder to all, including me: frustration does NOT equal unhappy. It just equals frustration.

That's all for now...off to read about spiritual gifts, snakes, and chocolate. 

(in three different books...for three different purposes...just in case you were wondering.)

climb on...

Today one of our youth leaders and I went to the local rock climbing gym to update our belayer-training, since we are taking our youth rock climbing this coming Sunday.  We do this every year, and it's often one of our more popular youth events (though this year's timing is a little odd...).  Every year, all the adult leaders have to come to the gym during the week before the event to get re-trained, or update our training, or whatever they're calling it these days.

Today, for instance, we learned a new belaying technique that the teacher described as "safer" than what we have been taught before.  (aside: that makes me feel *really good* about last year and the year before and the year before....)

Today we also had to climb more than I've ever had to at training before.  Each of us had to climb two walls.  It was fun, and also scary, and my arms are very tired.  We had to learn in our muscles, not just our brains, to trust each other.  We had to learn to trust the tiny little footholds.  We had to try to see the wall and its hand/footholds from different angles.  We had to try not to accidentally get caught in our own ropes.  All this in addition to re-learning the knots and learning a new belay technique!

It was a good time.  And a good reminder to trust other people not just intellectually but physically and emotionally.  And a good reminder that sometimes, we need a refresher course because there might be a new thing to learn, a still more excellent way, even.

I get to do it again tomorrow with different leaders, also prepping for Sunday.  I hope my arms aren't sore then.  This is the life of an associate pastor.  :-)

I think I'm having frozen pizza for dinner because my risotto plan is foiled--too much stirring for my tired arms!

lame

It turns out I am a lame blogger.  This is almost turning into a sermon blog rather than a normal blog.  Sorry about that.  Between busy-ness, traveling, people visiting, lots of work to do, and some unbloggables, I either don't have much to say or don't have time to say it!

So, let's see....Amy came to visit.  That was awesome.  We hung out, did nothing, went bowling, ate, etc.  My dad came to visit--also good.  We went to the live taping of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me (super fun!), the Rite of Spring at the Joffrey Ballet (totally awesome), the Art Institute (the Munch exhibit is very good), and Abduction from the Seraglio at the Lyric Opera (excellent).  We also ate a lot (dad had sushi for very nearly the first time!) and we even did a little lounging around and some furniture shopping (no furniture purchased as of yet, however).  Dad also painted the trim on my new windows, so yay!

I've been reading quite a bit (not as much as I might like, but some).  I haven't removed my 2008 list yet and haven't started the 2009 list, which is very bad as I've likely forgotten what I read so far, but here's what I remember.

First Man in Rome (Masters of Rome series, book 1) (Colleen McCullough)

The Grass Crown (Masters of Rome series, book 2)

Fortune's Favorites (Masters of Rome series, book 3 (not quite finished...))

Twilight, all four books (again) (Stephenie Meyer)

A New Church for a New World (John Buchanan)

Chocolate for Lent (Hilary Brand)

something else I can't remember already....

I have also been watching Dollhouse, a new show by Joss Whedon (maker of Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Dr. Horrible) and friends, Friday nights on Fox.  I hardly ever watch it at the time it's on, since I don't have TV.  I visit my friend Elizabeth, who has Tivo, and we watch it at our leisure!  It's getting better and better and I'm intrigued by things that are happening, I want to know more, I want some questions answered.  I am also disturbed by the premise, which is basically a super-secret, super-expensive, super-high-tech brothel/human trafficking venture.  It's pretty good--I recommend.

Church is humming along.  We have an AWESOME new mission statement, we have a very catchy song written by a member inspired by the mission statement, we have things and things and more things happening.  My Shema Circle group is exploring Praying in Color this month, as well as assessing our spiritual gifts, vocation, etc.  

In cat land, I got a Furminator.  Furminating the cats is a very exciting activity around here these days, with whole cats worth of fur ending up in the trash.  Here's hoping for a reduction in the amount of vacuuming needed.

I think that pretty much covers my life at the moment.  I'll try to blog like a normal person in the future....

I Can See Clearly Now...a sermon for Lent 1B

Rev. Teri Peterson

I Can See Clearly Now…
RCLPC
1 March 2009, Lent 1B
Genesis 8.6-12, 15-19, 9.8-17

At the end of forty days Noah opened the window of the ark that he had made and sent out the raven; and it went to and fro until the waters were dried up from the earth. Then he sent out the dove from him, to see if the waters had subsided from the face of the ground; but the dove found no place to set its foot, and it returned to him to the ark, for the waters were still on the face of the whole earth. So he put out his hand and took it and brought it into the ark with him. He waited another seven days, and again he sent out the dove from the ark; and the dove came back to him in the evening, and there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf; so Noah knew that the waters had subsided from the earth. Then he waited another seven days, and sent out the dove; and it did not return to him any more.
Then God said to Noah, ‘Go out of the ark, you and your wife, and your sons and your sons’ wives with you. Bring out with you every living thing that is with you of all flesh—birds and animals and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth—so that they may abound on the earth, and be fruitful and multiply on the earth.’ So Noah went out with his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives. And every animal, every creeping thing, and every bird, everything that moves on the earth, went out of the ark by families.
Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’
God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.’ God said to Noah, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.’


When I was a Camp Fire Girl, one of the things we did a lot of was singing. I remember learning a song about Noah’s ark—perhaps you also learned this song? The chorus is the best part—“Rise and Shine and give God the glory glory!” The verses include such classics as “the Lord said to Noah, there’s gonna be a floody floody” and “God told Noah to build him an arky arky.” It’s a classic children’s song, isn’t it? I even found verses I never learned when I checked out websites like childbiblesongs.com. The song tells the whole story, from the ark to the animals going in by twosie-twosies, to the rain and flood and the sun coming out again.

Well, the song tells most of the story, anyway. There are a few key parts left out. Because really, this story isn’t a children’s book, at its core it doesn’t belong in a children’s song—it would be better off starting “it was a dark and stormy forty days and forty nights…” because it’s nearly that sinister. You see, before God has Noah build the ark and bring his family and all the animals in, God looks at the world, the world God created and called good just a few chapters before, and sees only corruption and anger and violence. The world lacks compassion and hope and care. And so, in the face of overwhelming disappointment, God decides to counter violence with violence. The divine retribution is complete devastation—nothing will be left…except Noah, the 7 members of his family, and two of each living animal. That’s it—everything else will be utterly wiped out, drowned, washed away in the flood of God’s grief and anger.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember that verse in the song.

After the rain stops and the waters begin to subside, after the ark comes to rest on the top of a mountain, Noah begins sending out scouts—first a raven, then a dove. When the dove comes back with an olive branch, a sprouting twig of hope from below the tree line, a sign of spring, of new life, then Noah knows it’s nearly time to go. And then, just as all these animals come out of the ark, family by family, God speaks.

It seems that God is a pretty fast learner—much faster than we are. God looks around at the fresh new world, shiny and clean, and sees more clearly than ever before that this won’t work. Now that the rain is gone, God sees that the creation will always be slightly less than perfect, will always be disappointing because people have free will, will always contain the seeds that can grow into violence just as easily as they can grow into compassion. The question about those seeds is what kind of water they get, and the flood waters of violence will not stamp out violence. God sees clearly now that redemptive violence is a lie—fighting violence with violence will always fail. In the words of Ghandi: an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.

And so God hangs up the bow—a weapon, a vehicle for violence—facing away from the earth. God chooses a different path, a path based on covenant and creation and love. This covenant to never again use violence against the world is made not just with Noah and his family, but with all the creatures of the earth too. In this dawn of the new creation, this springtime of the covenant, God promises to look forward with hope, and asks us to do the same.

You might be wondering what all of this has to do with Lent. Well, the word “lent” is an old saxon word for Spring, and refers primarily to the lengthening of the days. The word was adopted by the church in the middle ages to refer to the time of preparation for Easter (the old word was a very long Latin name). Lent, the springtime of a new covenant, the time when we sit in the ark while God prepares a new thing around us, the time when we look for twigs of hope sprouting in the darkness and chaos around us.

One of the hardest parts about Lent, I think, is the sense of inevitability. We journey through these forty days, this time in the wilderness, this time of preparation, and every year, without fail, we come to the part of the story that is all death and darkness and despair. Every year, without fail, Judas betrays, Peter denies, and Jesus prays on the cross. The story is never going to go differently. Whatever we do, whether we give something up or take something on or drape our sanctuary in black or let our Alleluias fall silent, it’s going to be the same.

This is also one of the best parts of Lent, in my opinion. Because no matter what we do, no matter how dark the world is, no matter how deep the despair, Friday will always give way to Sunday, when light rather than darkness pours out of an empty tomb. God is indeed doing a new thing, making a new creation, marking that creation with a new covenant, no matter what we do. We sit in the ark, we pray in the wilderness, we wander through the desert, and all around us God is doing a new thing, pouring out love and grace and compassion with arms spread wide in welcome, because no more will God rain destruction—the only thing that can overcome despair is hope, the only thing that can overcome darkness is light, the only thing that can overcome violence is love.

So maybe this story does belong in children’s songs and storybooks after all. It’s a story of learning and growth, a story of a commitment to compassion and love, a story of God making a promise and keeping that promise. For all the violence and destruction, for all the nonsense words of the song, there’s also hope for a new creation—even now it springs forth, in olive branches, in lengthening days, in rainbows.

Thanks be to God. Amen.