singing--together

One of the great things the church has to offer the world, in my opinion, is a place to participate in making music. There are no longer very many places in our culture where the average person can make music with other average people. Music has become such a commodity that we expect either to consume it by ourselves via iPods or to consume it in a concert hall--it's not something we *do* ourselves unless we are professionals.

Except in church.

At church, everyone can (and should!) sing. Everyone can clap or hum or sing at the top of their lungs. Together we make a joyful noise--sometimes more noise, sometimes more tuneful, but always beautiful in its way. A large part of that beauty comes from the fact that we are making it together, not simply consuming it. (Please note I'm not talking here about "special" music--music not meant for the whole congregation to create together--which is obviously different, though still not intended for consumption, exactly, it's also not a communal creation with every person participating--it's a communal creation of the choir or band or ensemble. I get that. I also get that it has other issues, which are for another post sometime.)

I love both old and new hymnody--I'm not one to shy away from a new hymn or a new tune or a new instrumentation (ask around and RCLPC and you'll probably find plenty of people who wish I would shy away a little more often!). But the reality is that the purpose of music in the church is for us to participate in it...which means that when we do learn something new, it has to be something we can all participate in, whether or not we can read music, whether or not we can remember a tune after hearing part of it once. It needs to be accessible. If it isn't, it's nothing more than an opportunity for the "professionals" to perform and the congregation to consume.

And this is exactly where we run into trouble when we start to have "contemporary" worship (whatever that means) or "new" music. I love a lot of the stuff being done by people in the church all around the world. But if you stand up front and ask people to sing along, it better be something we can all pick up on and join in relatively quickly (like within one verse...if it has verses...). Otherwise you aren't enabling people to worship through creating music together, you're enabling people to stand there while you play and sing for them, and that's not the same thing.

So today I was watching the live feed of the Next2012 conference opening worship (yes, I'm kind of a dork, but a friend was preaching and I'm a sucker for worship) and the musician, who was a seminary classmate of mine, was leading people in singing. I don't know for certain but I would bet that he is the author and composer of two of the songs they sang this morning.

Now, when I say this next thing, remember that I wasn't there so I'm going off what I felt and what I could hear through the internet streaming feed. It may have been different to be there--and I hope people who were there will chime in.

The two new songs I heard, and to a certain extent the two hymns he led, were not singable. They had random-feeling tunes with lots of skips and jumps and a range most of us couldn't sing, especially first thing in the morning. With only guitar and one voice (a voice often singing a descant or solo rather than the tune) to follow, it was almost impossible to sing along. At home, I definitely could not, and I couldn't hear many voices singing in the space either. (for comparison, when they were able to sing a verse of a familiar hymn, or say unison prayers, I could hear clearly the crowd's voice(s).)

It's not that I don't think the songs were great--I do. They were appropriate to the text, theologically sound, and musically interesting and beautiful to listen to. Troy is a great musician. But they didn't seem like songs for a congregation to sing together. They were songs for people who knew what was going on to sing, and people who didn't know what was going on to listen.

And at it's heart, that's the problem I have with "contemporary" worship--it seems like it's for people who are already in the know, and if you aren't then you can't be included until you know this secret musical language. It's not something you can simply join in and get carried along by the experience of making music together.

It is possible to find and to write music that is not a tune from 1743, not accompanied on the organ and still have it be singable. It's possible to find and write music that's led by a band and have it be simultaneously musically interesting, singable, and theologically sound. I know because we do it every week. (It's also possible to have an organist lead those tunes from 1743 and have them be spirit filled.) Now if only the NEXT thing in the church could be to strengthen our community building through music making, rather than simply making it another opportunity to perform.

*note: I use "contemporary" in quotation marks because, while it's often used to describe a particular style of worship, it's actually a misnomer. Since worship is happening now, it is contemporary, no matter what style it is. There are not good words to describe worship styles, at least not what we do at RCLPC--some of it has a band, some has the organ. Both include old hymns and brand new songs. Both involve congregational singing, prayer, silence, preaching, etc. The primary difference is in instrumentation. It's possible, people, I promise. It just takes work. But does the presence of a band at 830am mean that the worship at 930 or 11 is not contemporary? No. Hence the quotation marks.

Don't Just Do Something, Stand There!

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Don’t Just Do Something, Stand There!
Luke 10:38-42
26 February 2012, Lent 1B (off lectionary: Heart and Seek)

Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’



Last summer there was an article in the LA Times whose headline I have borrowed for my sermon title. The article was about the value of doing nothing—the argument was that idleness feeds our creativity and gives our brains room to have new ideas. In addition to the scientific evidence there was the anecdotal evidence of writers, musicians, and artists of all types. To do nothing, to just “stand there,” is an important practice without which we become cogs in the world’s often unjust machine.

The article didn’t touch on spirituality, but I think it applies there too. Without some space that looks suspiciously like just standing there, doing nothing, our spirits wither just as surely as our creative energy does. In fact, I would suggest the two are related, or even one and the same. Without time doing nothing, without mental and spiritual space, we find ourselves simply going around doing things, often mindlessly or simply because they are expected of us, and ultimately that can pull us off our foundation—and, as Jesus says, if we haven’t built our lives on a strong foundation, when the storm comes we’ll be tossed around and feel abandoned.

This story of Mary and Martha is one that drives many good Presbyterians bonkers, because it implies that sitting around is better than doing tasks. Many Presbyterians are do-ers, we like to get to work and get things done, to not just stand there but to do something…sometimes it almost feels as if we can save the world with our to-do lists. And if either mindless doing or saving the world is behind our doing, then we are definitely reading this story right, and it should make us uncomfortable—because compared to that kind of doing, it really is high time that we learned to sit at the feet of Jesus and just listen.

And in fact, I think it’s true—it’s time that we take some Sabbath, that we rest and remind ourselves that God made the world and continues to care, and our work is not going to save the world—Jesus is busy with that task himself. It’s okay to leave some things undone in order to simply sit at the feet of Jesus, to listen and absorb and be Centered on the One.

(here the band will play I Meant To Do My Work Today)



We are so prone to concentrate on what we are doing or not doing. Please hear me—what we do and don’t do are important. But even more important is to remember in our doing that it's not all about us, but about God. It's about what God is doing and has done not only here and now, but in times long ago and in a future we cannot even dimly see.

Taking some time to just be in the presence of God, without any tangible results, is a big focus for the season of Lent. Lent is a time of examination and of turning back to God. We take time to intentionally, and with our whole selves—mind, body, heart, spirit—look for what God is doing in our midst. Often we church people engage in that seeking by having more events during Lent, but this year we’re trying something different—we’re having fewer events, hoping that a change in our usual way of doing things will offer space for the Spirit to enter and move, space for us to wander through thoughts and hear the call of silence, space to see and feel and hear and know God more deeply. We’re going to try a season of just standing there, and see what we notice around us. We hope you’ll share where you notice God moving in your own life and in the church—what is the Spirit saying to the church in this time and place?

As we practice this not-doing, this meditation and prayer, this listening, this sitting at the feet of Jesus, the ultimate goal is not to become a church full of people who do nothing but sit around. The purpose of this kind of practice is to learn to take the presence of God, the stillness, the peace, the joy with us into our tasks. So we aren’t simply doing things because it’s what we’re supposed to do, we aren’t resentful about the enormity of the tasks, we aren’t worried and distracted by many things—instead, we are focused and real, knowing that the things we do are what we're called to do, for the glory of God and not the glory of ourselves. Because it’s true that sometimes dinner needs to be on the table, or the laundry needs to be done, or the report completed. It’s true that the hungry need to be fed, the earth cleaned up, and justice done. But we want to learn to become a Mary-Martha hybrid. Not Martha who’s constantly thinking of all the things she has to do, and how little help she has, and going through the motions of what is simply expected—no matter who is in the house—while her mind races a mile a minute. Nor can we go on forever as Mary. But remember who IS in the house—not just anyone, but Jesus. Mary has the sense to focus her attention where it belongs. Can we take that focus, that mindfulness, into every task we have to do? Not if we don’t try out being Mary for a while. But if we do…

(here the band will play Holy As A Day Is Spent)


As we make some space for the Spirit to move, removing ourselves from at least some of our usual routines, for moments or for months, that change in routine and that space in the schedule can shift the way we see, give us new perspective. We begin to see our God-infused world, and our tasks as sacraments and prayers. And that new perspective is exactly what we’re going to need if we’re going to seek God—who is often hidden in plain sight, if only we would open our eyes to see.

May it be so.

Amen.

Lent and Food and other things

I have long suspected that Thai food was the thing to eat when you're sick. As in, if you think you're getting a cold, you should go get some Thai food. I'm pretty sure it has medicinal properties.

I'm also pretty sure that I read that somewhere, probably in a random historical fiction novel. That doesn't make it not true.

So anyway, yesterday I was eating Tom Yum soup (yum!) and looking up recipes so I could make it myself, and I discovered that, according to Teh Interwebz, tom yum soup is thought to have immune boosting powers that make it a good thing to eat when you have a cold or flu! So...score one for the historical fiction.

Anyway, I'm looking for a recipe for Tom Yum soup, vegetarian. Probably without tofu, because I'm so unlikely to do the work to make tofu delicious. But it can have other goodness, like mushrooms. One recipe called for broccoli, which I am skeptical about, but would try. once.

One of the reasons I need a recipe is that during Lent I don't eat out. Instead, I work hard to make sure that I'm prepared to cook and eat at home. Part of the reason for this is that I want to be more intentional about what I put in my body. The other part of the reason is that I want to make sure that I keep my work hours in check. It's so easy to work work work and then find it's 9pm and I'm starving, so I'll just run to Taco Bell. Or to think "well, I'll just run out for lunch and be back in a sec so I can keep on working." Or to not have time to cook. But I love to cook (though I don't love to clean). So during Lent I push the re-set button on the ways I use my time and energy, so I can be more mindful of my body and spirit and work and leisure.

So...any good recipes to share?

down in the ATL

This week I'm at Columbia Seminary for the closing retreat for the S3 project--my peer group has created LiturgyLink through this program. LiturgyLink is an online collaborative worship planning resource. It's awesome.

Last year when we began, we introduced ourselves via a parody video.

This year, we introduced ourselves by writing new words for a song from the Book of Mormon and performing it for everyone at dinner last night.

Now we report what we did with money and time, and then we continue the work going on at the site.

In other news, a few of us CTS alums realized this week that we started seminary here 10 years ago this summer/fall. Holy Long Time Ago, Batman!

video wednesday

It's not the end of the week, but it is the end of the alphabet...Video Wednesday. get it?

anyway, this is awesome. I love so many things about this. I love that the president is all "no, really, I mean it--move out of the way." I love that the kid says completely matter of factly "it shoots 172 feet at 30psi."

But most of all, I love that the president, on learning that the cannon shoots marshmallows and that it'll probably hit the wall, asks the most important question in the entire world.

"Will it stick?"

Way to support kids and science and being a real person!!

time to go!

ok, I've finished all my work for this week and next week, I've gotten my house cleaned, I've taken the cat to the vet and had a follow up call with the vet, I've arranged a cat sitter, I've made the copies for worship on Sunday, I've done laundry, and I've packed. It must be time to go!

I'm off to spend a week (back in the normal world next Friday) thinking about Mark and John and Ordinary Time and worship and creative stuff, with really amazing people, in the sun and surf. I'm ready. This is what it's like:

a year ago...

it's been a year since the start of the Egyptian revolution. A year ago today, we weren't really sure what was going on. Was it just a small protest? A temporary disruption? A year ago, we were watching al-jazeera's live streaming from Cairo on the website and wondering what this all meant. A year ago we were pondering where our friends were, what was happening, and whether everyone was safe. We were watching cars burn, protestors camp, and even people cleaning up trash. We were worrying and hoping all at the same time.

A year later, much has changed, but at the same time little seems to have changed. Mubarak is out but the military is in. Women are still harassed. Photos and videos suggest that the streets of Cairo still have plenty of litter to go around. Schools are in session, people are trying to get jobs, and the economic uncertainty that plagued 25% of the population before the revolution is still there, seeming as steady as the pyramids.

2011 was quite a year for Egyptians and those of us who care about them. It was quite a year for the Arab world in general. But the one-year mark is not the end. There's still lots of work to be done. Keep hoping, keep praying, keep sending good vibes out into the universe--Egypt and its neighbors are on the cusp of possibility. May they move forward into 2012 with grace and peace and justice.

Friday Five: movies!

Over at RGBP Jan asks....

Thinking of movie-watching, what do you prefer?

1. At home or at a theater?

Definitely at home. movie theaters weird me out--they're so odd. They smell like gross stale over buttered popcorn, the floors are sticky, and people always talk--except that I'm always trying to remember NOT to talk...sigh. But the seats are ridiculously comfortable, so there is that...

2. With whom? Whoever is willing to watch what I want to watch!

3. Movie you look forward to seeing? I've been wanting to see Hugo...and I love the colors in the Lorax trailers, so can't wait to see that. I might even go to a theater...

4. Movie you like to see repeatedly? The Princess Bride. heehee. The Lord of the Rings.

5. Food with a movie? It's so interesting how we're basically conditioned to eat while we watch movies. During the 30 Hour Famine we often watch a movie while fasting, and it's strange how much harder it is to fast while watching a movie than while doing other things. I don't love popcorn (though I do love kettle corn!) so my usual movie food is something like lemon heads or milk duds.

Bonus: Recommendations for home/theater viewing. I loved loved loved Puss In Boots. That's one I'll want to have so I can watch it again.

What movies do you recommend? I'm always looking for things to put in my Netflix queue!

It Takes Practice--a sermon for Ordinary 2B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
It Takes Practice
1 Samuel 3.1-10
15 January 2012, Ordinary 2B


Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the Lord under Eli. The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.
At that time Eli, whose eyesight had begun to grow dim so that he could not see, was lying down in his room; the lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was. Then the Lord called, ‘Samuel! Samuel!’ and he said, ‘Here I am!’ and ran to Eli, and said, ‘Here I am, for you called me.’ But he said, ‘I did not call; lie down again.’ So he went and lay down. The Lord called again, ‘Samuel!’ Samuel got up and went to Eli, and said, ‘Here I am, for you called me.’ But he said, ‘I did not call, my son; lie down again.’ Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, and the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him. The Lord called Samuel again, a third time. And he got up and went to Eli, and said, ‘Here I am, for you called me.’ Then Eli perceived that the Lord was calling the boy. Therefore Eli said to Samuel, ‘Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” ’ So Samuel went and lay down in his place.
Now the Lord came and stood there, calling as before, ‘Samuel! Samuel!’ And Samuel said, ‘Speak, for your servant is listening.’


I admit to feeling a little bit odd reading that text then standing up here to talk. All week I’ve wondered why I didn’t just decide to say “speak, for your servants are listening” and then sit down for a few minutes? In addition to meaning less work on writing a sermon, it seems it would make more sense—why am I talking about a story that’s all about listening? Then I read again the words of the Second Helvetic Confession, which is the topic of our Monday online theology class on the blog. In the very first chapter it says “the preached word of God IS the word of God.” Right…no pressure, then. I’ll just come up with something to say that will be as valuable to you, the listener, as hearing directly from God standing at the foot of your bed or your pew.

I think many of us can relate to the opening of this story—“the word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” Or perhaps, if we’d read a little before and a little after this passage, we’d relate even more. As Samuel is growing up in the temple, the religious and political leaders (who are the same people) are corrupt, self-serving, and greedy. They claim God’s favor but act in ways contrary to God’s calling and character. So perhaps a better way to say it is “talk about God appeared everywhere, but the word of the Lord was rare.” Sound familiar?

In the midst of this reality—scandal, greed, temptation, abuse of power, corruption—comes, surprisingly, the word of the Lord. But Samuel doesn’t recognize it! There are so many voices, so many noises, so many opportunities, so many people…even in the quiet, in the middle of the night, in the holiest place around, Samuel doesn’t recognize the voice of God.

I think we like to imagine that if God were ever to speak directly to us, we would notice. Maybe because there would be a voice coming from the clouds, as at Jesus’ baptism, or a flaming bush talking in the desert, or a blinding light on our commute, or maybe even a whisper—but preceded by such great signs that we couldn’t possibly miss it. But when God talks to Samuel, it’s in a voice like any other voice, calling in the night. Eli has probably called Samuel countless times before, there’s no reason to assume this night is any different. Who else would be calling, after all?

Because—and here’s what I think is the interesting part of the story—Samuel doesn’t know God. He’s never heard or talked to God before. God calls Samuel before he even knows about God, before he’s learned God’s word. He’s been serving in the temple, helping Eli and his sons, but he doesn’t know God. And yet God speaks to him.
First there are the false starts—where Samuel doesn’t recognize the voice. He’s never heard it before, never spent time talking or listening to God, so why would he know this voice?
Then there’s the instruction—Eli finally realizes what’s going on and teaches Samuel what to do. Instead of rushing off to perform a task, instead of immediately speaking, instead of turning to the person beside him—or the facebook or twitter or blog or phone beside him—he is to simply listen.
And then I imagine there’s some practice. In my mind’s eye I can see Samuel reciting his line over and over, the way I recite my parking space number so I won’t forget it before I get to the train platform. “speak for your servant is listening. speak for your servant is listening. speak for your servant is listening.” I also wonder if he had to sit there in the silence, straining to hear, for a little while. Did God’s voice come again immediately, or did Samuel also have to practice his silent listening first?

Because most things we do take practice, right? It’s rare that we develop a skill without effort, and sitting in silence, listening to others, listening to God—these are no exception. We have to practice silence, even when our inclination is to follow the distractions down their fun rabbit holes. We have to practice listening, even when God doesn’t seem to be speaking. We have to practice discernment, even when we think we know the voice.

I suspect many of us are like Samuel—we haven’t heard directly from God before, and we might not even recognize God’s voice if we did. Sometimes that’s not for lack of trying, either! But for many of us, this discipline of listening is just too darn hard. Our brains don’t seem to be wired for silence, for listening when no one appears to be talking. It’s hard to connect with someone you can’t see, and the ways we can try to imagine—like talking to God on the phone or something—are too cheesy to take seriously. So…it must just be that the word of God is rare.

I wonder if the word of God was rare in Samuel’s day because so few people were willing to say “speak, for your servant is listening”? After all, the message Samuel gets is no walk in the park—it’s a message that will bring pain before the healing can begin. It’s not a message I’d want to hear—I would rather say “listen, God, for your servant is speaking” and not have to worry about the hard parts, because often when God talks it changes our lives. Could it be that God is speaking but we’re so afraid of what God might say that we keep on talking over the still small voice, or we delete the message before we have a chance to hear it, or we assume it's just another call from a friend or colleague or telemarketer?

If so, how do we remedy that? How do we become people who connect with God, who discern God’s voice in the midst of the cacophony of life, and who are willing to share the news which is both hard and good?

Sadly, I don’t think it’s just going to happen overnight. I think it’s going to take some work on our part. Samuel had to learn and practice—and he continued to practice throughout his life—and in the practice, he found a connection to the Holy that he could never have imagined.

We have heard the instruction. so the first step in following it is to, like Samuel, be there. Samuel lay down in his place and waited, and when God spoke he was ready to hear. It could have been seconds or hours of waiting in the silent darkness...are we willing to wait? To make space, however difficult that is, for God to speak? I know it’s hard—believe me. For one thing, I like to talk. For another, I think about things. Some might use the word “obsess.” And for a third, 99% of the time I also have a song or two or three running through my head. I’ve finally learned not to hum all the time, but the music still plays. And let’s not even talk about the allure of facebook and twitter and the 24 hour news cycle. To say that there’s a lot going on in my head is an understatement—and I bet that’s true for most of us. Turning that off takes practice and commitment. When we can’t, it’s tempting to give up. But we don’t give up on math or learning an instrument or soccer practice, so why do we give up on this? It took Samuel and Eli several tries before they figured out what was going on, but they kept at it. It took Paul literally being struck blind. It took Peter hearing himself deny before he could truly hear Jesus. It took Moses several rounds of excuses before he could listen to God. All these people, and many more throughout history, stayed in the game and found that God used them in amazing ways they could never have imagined, and certainly could never have done on their own. There is value in this discipline, in the trying (and even in the failing) to quiet ourselves and listen for the Spirit’s whisper. Let’s keep trying—even just a minute or a few minutes at a time—and eventually, we may find that there’s just enough room for God to enter. And then who knows what might happen?

May it be so. Amen.

Friday Five: AHA! moments

Over at the RevGalBlogPals, Kathryn asks us to share five of our aha! moments...moments of clarity and understanding. I have some that are silly and some serious. naturally.

1. The day I realized that the song did not say "Secret Asian Man." I had always wondered what that was about--how could one be a secret Asian? Why would one want to be a secret Asian? Was this a song about living in the Seattle area during WWII? so confusing...and so much clarity the day I realized that just wasn't what it said at all.

2. The day I finished my petition to major in clarinet performance, was accepted to that major, and realized almost instantly that I didn't want to be a professional clarinetist after all. Of course, I argued with myself for a long time about that because it was something I'd worked so hard for...it was another year or so before I realized what I actually should be doing. And, honestly, I wouldn't trade a minute of that performance degree program.

3. I spent several of my pre-teen years on a small farm, and a lot of our food came from local friends with small farms. When I read Diet For A New America, and saw the pictures, and realized that most people in this country get their food from factory farms (and that we were now city people who would do the same), that was the moment I realized I couldn't be a part of that system. The raising of animals for the purpose of eating them, when it was unnecessary and inhumane and was a major part of the world's food crisis, was suddenly out of the question for me. (of course, we were also poor, and my mom was way too practical to cook two meals, so it wasn't until I was 17 that I could make my own choices about not eating meat and trying to eat as local as possible.)

4. When I returned from my weekend visiting Columbia Seminary (the last of 4 seminary visits), I went straight to church and then shared a cab ride home with my pastor. When he dropped me off at my house, he said "congratulations on your decision to go to Columbia." Of course, I hadn't consciously decided that, but he obviously could hear something I couldn't. I'm glad he shared that with me.

5. A couple of years ago, at Christmas dinner at my aunt's house, she made brussels sprouts that were not disgusting. I had no idea they could be not disgusting. Then this Christmas, Amy's (now husband) Dave made roasted brussels sprouts. I'm pretty sure I ate about 50. Who knew those could be good?

What's one (or more) of your realization-moments?

Day Off

Recently it was decided that both of us pastors should not be off on the same day of the week, so I switched my day off from Friday to Thursday.

It's a weird thing, actually, to be off on Thursday, especially as the day ends and I have to keep reminding myself that it's Friday tomorrow, not Saturday, and that I have to go to work! I'm sure I'll get into the routine, but right now (this is only my third Thursday off) it's still odd, to remember that Sunday is not as imminent as it sounds, and that I still have another day to get work done.

So, on this Thursday off I am trying to remind myself not to check my email, I'm doing one small task (confirming our numbers for the youth group bowling party on Sunday!), I'm planning to pick up my house a little and run Roomba, I'm making risotto...but mostly, I'm sitting on the couch covered in cats. It's a good day.

Peace and Quiet

I am an extrovert. I'm sure you all know that already. I can barely keep my mouth shut, I love to be in stimulating environments, and since I live alone I spend as much of my time as I can being connected to other people through the internet. When I wake up in the morning and when I come home at night, often the first thing I do is check facebook and twitter to find out what the rest of the world is doing. I like to be connected. This summer my peer learning group decided to take a once-a-month social media fast. No twitter, no facebook, no text messages, no blogs...and in order to do that, I basically had to shut down my computer and ignore it the whole 24 hours. I know that my self-control would not extend to writing but not checking the news, dealing with email but not checking facebook, etc. Those 3 days were some of the loneliest I remember in a long time--it's strangely isolating to be cut off like that.

But it's also strangely liberating, after some practice. One of my favorite places right now is my friend Cindy's cabin, which doesn't have internet or tv and where my phone only sort of works. It's quiet in a way that even the far-away-suburbs aren't quiet. It's dark. The disconnection is profound, and I have come to love it, even to crave it. I'm finding that if I don't have some disconnected and quiet time in my day, I'm distressingly unproductive and even crabby. I like to have time to just think.

It could be because of articles like this one, or this one, or this most recent one...it could be because I'm trying to write a book AND have a full time job...it could be because something in my spiritual or emotional life has shifted and I just need more space to contemplate. In any case, I long for the opportunity to turn off my phone and internet and just BE. The science tells me that my brain works better when I give it a rest. The history tells me creative juices flow best when given space to move. The spiritual experience of millions of people before me suggests that it's hard to recognize the movement of the Spirit when I'm busy with the movement of the next thing and the next thing, or with what's happening on facebook or twitter or email or the blogosphere. We need time and space to do nothing in order to be our best selves, to let creativity flourish, and to connect to the Holy. We need sometimes to just turn that other stuff off and just be with ourselves and whatever comes up. And, of course, I could do that at home. I could sit and do nothing, or just shut down the computer and read a book, or be disciplined enough to turn off the wireless while I write so I'm not distracted by that little blue twitter bird. But I'm not to that level of my practice yet, so I still need to be more physically cut off in order to really practice silence. I used to mock those people who have that computer software that blocks websites they choose, or that turns their internet off for defined periods of time--couldn't they just have some self control? It turns out...no. lol.

I think it's so interesting when people (including myself) claim that we're just not good at silence, or meditation, or prayer, or retreating, or disconnecting so we can reconnect with our center, or other things in this vein. I've said these words before. I've heard them frequently. But more and more, I'm thinking it's kind of a cop-out. Lots of things are difficult, there are plenty of things we're not immediately good at, but we still believe them to be valuable enough to practice. For instance, none of us learned an instrument, or a foreign language, or math, or how to ride a bike, or a sport, or creative writing, or anything else, instantly. Few of us were immediately good at those things either. They take practice, but we don't just say "well, I'm not good at that" and give up on it. But when it comes to practicing silence or prayer or even just BEING without DOING, we do give up right away. The twitter bird turns blue, or the phone chimes, or we walk past a place with free wireless, or we get a little bit uncomfortable, or start thinking of our grocery list, and we're right back in the thick of things, shrugging off the attempt as just "not my thing." And somehow that's okay in a way that shrugging off math or Spanish or learning to drive would not be.

The thing is...silence, retreat, meditation, prayer--all of these are practices that Christians (and others) have been doing for centuries. They have endured because they have value, and they should probably be a signpost for us too. We (hopefully) don't give up following Jesus just because it's difficult--though I think many of us do do that (hence the prevalence of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism). But when we just brush these practices aside as something we're not good at, it's likely we're missing something--something that could deepen our faith and change our lives. So the question is: what is it in that silence that we're afraid of, and how can we let go of the fear instead of the practice?

Grounded Joy--a sermon for Advent 3B

This was last week's sermon. I didn't love it when I wrote it, but the feedback has been such that I decided I'd better post it. Happy Advent.


Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Grounded Joy
Isaiah 61.1-4, 8-11 (and the magnificat) (CEB)
11 December 2011, Advent 3B

With all my heart I glorify the Lord! 

In the depths of who I am I rejoice in God my savior.
He has looked with favor on me.
Look! From now on, everyone will consider me blessed
because the mighty one has done great things for me.
Holy is the Lord!
He shows mercy to everyone,
from one generation to the next.
He has shown strength with his arm.
He has scattered those with arrogant thoughts
and proud inclinations.
He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones
and lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty-handed.
He has come to the aid of his servant,
remembering his mercy,
just as he promised to our ancestors.

~~~~~

The LORD God’s spirit is upon me,
because the LORD has anointed me.
He has sent me
to bring good news to the poor,
to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim release for captives,
and liberation for prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor and a day of vindication for our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
to provide for Zion’s mourners,
to give them a crown in place of ashes,
oil of joy in place of mourning,
a mantle of praise in place of discouragement.
They will be called Oaks of Righteousness, planted by the LORD to glorify himself.
They will rebuild the ancient ruins;
they will restore formerly deserted places;
they will renew ruined cities, places deserted in generations past.
I, the LORD, love justice; 

I hate robbery and dishonesty. 

I will faithfully give them their wage, 

and make with them an enduring covenant. 

Their offspring will be known
among the nations, 

and their descendants among the peoples. 

All who see them will recognize that they are a people blessed by the LORD.
I surely rejoice in the LORD; 

my heart is joyful because of my God, 

because he has clothed me with clothes of victory, 

wrapped me in a robe of righteousness like a bridegroom in a priestly crown, 

and like a bride adorned in jewelry. 

As the earth puts out its growth, 
and as a garden grows its seeds, 

so the LORD God will grow righteousness and praise before all the nations.

It’s that time of year again—when happiness and cheer abound! Everywhere you go there’s festive music playing, lights twinkling, and happy people urging us to buy from their store. There’s Christmas Spirit in the air—that strange scent combination of apple cider, pine, and molasses that somehow equals comfort even though it’s almost impossible to describe in any appetizing way. The bumper stickers and TV pundits are, as ever, reminding us to keep Christ in Christmas, some of them while wearing santa hats and reindeer antlers. All that’s missing is a little dusting of snow—but not too much—to brighten up the barren branches, and we’ll have the picture-perfect multi-sensory Christmas Card life. We can sing our glorias and finish our shopping and hang our stockings by the fire with care, breathing deeply all this Christmas Cheer that guards our spirits against the long winter.

But sometimes I feel like the cheer is forced on us, spread on so thick it’s clearly designed just to get us to stimulate the economy. It’s like the whole of our western culture, which is built on being nice and making ourselves happy, is suddenly on steroids, and if we’re looking for something beyond “happy” then we’re obviously deluded. And if for some reason we aren’t happy—whether we’re grieving, or struggling with depression, or wondering how to pay for all those Christmas presents, or hoping to have enough money for Christmas dinner, or just not feeling the cheer this year—then something must be wrong with us.

Around the world today churches are celebrating God’s promise of joy—which sounds a lot like happiness, right? Sometimes people use the words “joyful” “happy” and “blessed” almost interchangeably, but they’re not quite the same thing. On some websites you can indicate your mood at the time of your post, and one of the choices is “happy”—happiness as a temporary mood, probably based on any number of circumstances, like whether you had coffee this morning, whether a friend called or didn’t call, what kind of headlines you saw today, or whether there are interesting plans in your day. Happiness is one of those sort of basic-yet-shallow feelings—part of the sad-mad-glad trio that never gets any deeper than the surface. The kind of joy that these prophets express, and the kind of joy they call us to seek, isn’t just happiness. It’s not just a feeling, not just a cheerfulness brought out by the smell of cinnamon wafting down the hall or the thought of a jolly old elf bringing fun new toys.

So then…how do we get it? Some of us have a hard enough time summoning up happiness or cheer, and others of us trade on our cheerful dispositions. Many of us at this time of year are so frantically rushing around getting everything decorated and wrapped and baked that we don’t have time for any of it. I wonder, if we were truly honest with ourselves, how many of us would admit that we pretend to be happy even when we aren’t—at Christmas time or at any time—because we think that’s what people expect of us. Do we use our smiles to mask something missing deeper down? Do we keep working on happiness, hoping it will one day be enough?

I wonder how cheerful Mary and Joseph were, that first Advent. Mary, an unmarried teenager suddenly pregnant, and Joseph a man who’ll be supporting a family before he even pays for a wedding, both of them in a small village where everyone will know their scandal before lunch, and in a culture where Mary’s choice to say Yes to God could easily have gotten her killed. Yet in the midst of that, she sings this song—“My spirit rejoices in God my savior, for he has done great things for me. He has fed the hungry and lifted up the lowly, and holy is his name.”

Or the prophet Isaiah, looking around at the ruined city his people were hoping to rebuild, trying to preach the word to people of fair-weather-faith, proclaiming that God has promised to plant them in fertile ground so they can grow into oaks of righteousness that glorify the Lord, offering a vision of justice and joy.

If anyone had reason to mask their fear with false cheer, it was these two. Yet in the face of both, they proclaim joy instead. As Margaret Aymer, an Old Testament Professor at the Interdenominational Theological Center, told me yesterday, “Joy is an act of faithful subversion in a world that tells you to be scared and sad.” I would add that it’s also an act of faithful subversion in a world that tells you to cover up your true self with sad-mad-glad. Joy is well beyond anything our culture, our possessions, our country, our media, or even our relationships can give us. Joy comes from one place: from seeking God. And, interestingly, it seems that God has even shown us the way to joy. Did you hear it?

“The spirit of the Lord is upon me, anointed me to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the broken hearted, to release the captives…to comfort the mourning…to rebuild, restore, renew…I the Lord love justice…”

Could it be that the way to know the joyful fruit of the Spirit is to practice? Not to look to the sky, anticipating something better; not to turn away from suffering because it’s depressing and ugly; but instead to get more grounded, to reach to our roots, to push down into the earth and let God grow in us like a seed…to live fully into our calling as the anointed ones, the body of Christ, made to bring grace to a world in need, to shine light into a world of darkness.

It seems so obvious as to be almost trite. We’ve all heard the stories before—some of us have even told them—of giving, serving, helping, feeding, and finding more joy there than in opening the presents under the tree. Looking into the eyes of a child receiving their only Christmas present, or handing a hungry family a Christmas dinner, or helping someone find their way through the food pantry for the first time, or visiting a jailed immigrant who wonders if they’ll ever see their family again, or looking at the photos of students in El Vaquero, Mexico finally getting running water in their school, or meeting a missionary, or praying for the person sitting next to you in the pew—these are all things we’ve done, and for many of us we’ve found more of the Spirit in them than in the malls or decorations. Is it possible that the way to joy—to the real Christmas Spirit—is through being more fully who God has called us to be, in the place God has called us? Is it possible that Christmas Joy comes from US being the site of God’s incarnation, God’s taking on flesh, God’s coming to be with us? Maybe when we bear Christ into the world, the way Mary bore Christ in her body, when we don’t just speak good news but ARE good news, when we are creators of justice, then we will also find joy—a joy that is beyond mere cheer, a joy that is grounded and growing, a joy that is subversive and holy.

May it be so.
Amen.

an anniversary spent with no internet

Living with grief is a strange thing.
Years, made up of months of weeks of days of hours
spent keeping busy
doing the job
getting things done
making people proud
proving you can do it
even when the person you most want to make proud
the only person you ever needed to prove anything to
is gone.
Every other anniversary (and many other days)
has been filled with reliving every moment of that day
and the days leading up to that day
wondering pleading crying
but not truly functioning, whatever other people might be able to see.
This year was different
a day in the muddle of days

in a place with no internet and no clock

where time stands still…
a day spent reading mystery novels with women detectives, just like she did
a day spent cooking, in a pot that once was hers, just like she did
a day spent, for the first time in six years,
just resting.
It seems counterintuitive—
we’re told to keep busy to keep our mind on other things to distract ourselves and move on
but that may not actually work
I thought a retreat would mean thinking more, obsessing more, crying more
but instead it meant rest,
and some relief—
relief from trying to hold it together,
relief from hiding the sobs,
relief from doing everything the best to make her proud.
This year was different.
No relentless memories of the phone call,
No wondering if the day would ever end,
No what-ifs about how the world might have been different,
No sobbing until throwing up.
Just…reading. cooking. rest. Finally.
I still miss her.
I still want to pick up the phone and find her on the other end.
I still want to go on those adventures we’re (in)famous for.
But maybe a little rest from all of that

was what I really needed on this year’s anniversary.

peace unity and purity

One of the ordination vows every officer at any level of the Presbyterian Church USA takes is to "further the peace, unity, and purity of the church." Sometimes, this vow has been used as a club to keep people out, sometimes it's been ignored, sometimes it's been misunderstood...most of the time, I think we generally fall into the ignoring camp in my congregation.

Until last week, anyway, when the personnel team asked me during my annual review about how this vow is reflected in my ministry.

Of course, part of me had an internal freak out, as in "do they think I'm a troublemaker?" And the other part of me (the rational part) thought "ummm......."

So, I answered the question, kind of, but what it really came down to was that no one was sure entirely what we even meant by these words, and what the words mean in the context of the local church (not just on a denominational level), and how they might apply to our congregational life. SO...what I ended up saying was something about how "unity" is not about uniformity, but about unity of purpose--that we are all here seeking the same goal: to follow Jesus, to be transformed for the transformation of the world, to participate in the mission of God in the world, etc...and "purity" is not about what our current American culture labels as pure but instead about purity of intention, purity of heart, purity of love for God and neighbor and enemy. But "peace"--this is the hard one. Peace, of course, is not just the absence of conflict (though after a conflict, a little absence feels pretty peaceful!) but also the presence of justice. Peacemaking is a big part of our call as Christians, and so creating conditions for justice and peace to flourish in the church is a large part of ministry.

Having said that, I went home from that meeting wondering if I had done a disservice to the role of pastor in regards to peace. Is the role of a pastor to make peace in a congregation? Or is it to disturb the peace, so the people of God can go out and work for justice and peace in the world? I wonder how often we use the word "peace" the same way we use the word "nice"--as a cover for shallow relationships and vague understanding, rather than as the Shalom God intends. Particularly in situations where the pastor has a lot of things to do, a lot of people to work with, programs to administrate, and saints to equip, it can be easier to avoid conflict in order to keep the "peace" than to challenge the status quo. It's often been said that our job is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable...and some of us do a better job and one side or the other of that coin, no doubt. But how often do we avoid one in favor of the other?

I'm contemplating giving myself a new title--because I think the church and world need more of these people, instead of people who will continue to live with the way things are. Plus, five years post-ordination, it's time to think about which aspect of my role I most live into right now (I keep hoping I'll identify most with "steward of the mysteries of God"...that'll probably be coming soon. LOL). Therefore, I will now consider myself The Reverend Teri Peterson, Disturber of the "Peace." (yes, with air quotes!)

Learning Love--a sermon for Ordinary 30A

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Learning Love
Matthew 22.34-40
23 October 2011, October 30A


When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”


Do you know the cartoon “love is…”? It’s a daily one-panel drawing with the words “love is” at the top, and words finishing the sentence at the bottom, with drawings of people that slightly remind me of the Little Miss… girls. Every day since about 1970 there has been a different description of what love is. Among the descriptions from the past few days, we have things like “Love is…an open door” “Love is…not even noticing you forgot the picnic basket” “Love is…not wanting to say goodnight” and “Love is…taking that second chance.”

We might almost say that love is one of those words that has so many possible meanings that it often means nothing at all. For instance—do I love mashed potatoes the way I love my family? Do I love celebrating my birthday the way I love pursuing my calling? Do I love scotcharoos the way I love God? In the movie 10 Things I Hate About You, a teenage girl explains the difference between like and love: “I like my Skechers, but I love my Prada backpack.” If all of those are love, what is love anyway?

Jesus probably had a similar problem—there are a lot of things “love” can mean. It helps, of course, if you speak a language with more nuance than English has in this case, and it helps if you live in a time with fewer material possessions and a culture that values people over things, and it helps if you are part of a religious system that tells you exactly what to do in every circumstance. So when asking which law was the greatest, the lawyer was asking Jesus to prioritize—among the 613 laws of the Torah, which one is most important? It’s a trick question, designed to force Jesus into heresy. But Jesus answers with the Shema—the Bible verse that every Jew would recite multiple times every day: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” In other words—with your whole being, love God. Then he adds a verse from everyone’s favorite book, Leviticus: “love your neighbor as yourself.”

The word “love” here is agape—one of four choices in Greek. Others include eros (erotic love), storge (affection), and philia (brotherly love). Philia and Agape are both words that imply self-giving, sacrificial, unconditional, steadfast, loyal, all-in love. So when Jesus, or Paul, or Deuteronomy, or Leviticus, call us to love God with our whole being, they’re almost being redundant—the poetic repetition tells us they really mean it, every word. In fact, the latest English translation of the Bible ends this passage with the phrase “everything depends on these two commands.”

Everything depends on these.

I’m reminded of The Five Pillars of Islam, which are confessing your faith in God, prayer, fasting, giving, and pilgrimage. In other words—the whole of the Muslim faith is held up by these five practices. Not five beliefs, not five words to say, not five books to read, but five actions to do regularly. They might say that “everything depends on these.”

What would our five pillars of Christianity be? We probably share some in common with our Muslim brothers and sisters—confessing our faith in Christ, prayer, and giving are fairly obvious. We may even say fasting or pilgrimage too. But Jesus says there’s one big pillar, and all these things are more like supporting columns—our big pillar is to love God with all our being, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

How does this foundation play out in our faith and life, though? Just as the five pillars of Islam are practices, not simply beliefs, this pillar Jesus lays before us is also a practice, not a belief. I can say that I love God, and I can claim to love my neighbor, but does that mean anything more than that I love mashed potatoes? How does my neighbor—or my enemy—know that I love them? How does my neighbor know that I love God? Just as the letter of James says: ‘faith without works is dead.’ Or, to put it in terms most of us know: talk is cheap. Christian faith is not cheap, nor is it just talk. It’s a way of life, a practice. And this way of life changes us, and changes the world. Or at least, it should. But there are a billion Christians in the world, and still the Black Eyed Peas can ask “Where is the Love?” and we just don’t have an answer. Love has been so watered down into a song or a tv show or a feeling easily transferable between people and possessions or a nice thing that doesn’t have much to do with God. But the love of God is not nice—just as Aslan is not a tame lion, the love of God is not tame, not for our own use, and not to make us feel good. Love calls us to action—it’s a verb.

So if love, as Leviticus and Deuteronomy and Jesus and Paul call us to, is more than a feeling and more than words, then how do we do it? How do we learn love? What does it mean in a world where we apply it to backpacks and shoes and food and people and God all in the same breath? We know that God is love, we know that we love because God first loved us, we know that we are called to love God and God’s creation—including people we know, people we don’t know, and even our enemies. But that’s all so much easier said than done.

Saint Francis de Sales, who lived in the 17th century, might be able to help us out with this. He says, “the only way of attaining that love is by loving. You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; and just so you learn to love God and people by loving. All those who think to learn in any other way deceive themselves. If you want to love God, go on loving God more and more. Begin as a mere apprentice, and the very power of love will lead you on to become a master in the art. Those who have made most progress will continually press on, never believing themselves to have reached their end; for charity should go on increasing until we draw our last breath.”

We learn to talk by making sounds…we learn to read by reading everything our eyes land on…we learn to ride a bike by riding up and down the street, picking ourselves up when we fall and getting back on…in other words, by being disciplined in our practice. By doing it over and over until we have mastered the skill. Could love be the same—we learn to love by being disciplined in our practice, taking every opportunity to practice loving God and loving others, picking ourselves up when we fall down, and trying again? Eventually the training will change us—just as you never forget how to ride a bike, you can never forget how to love. So let’s get out there and practice together, because everything depends on this.

May it be so.
Amen.

oh yeah, it's my birthday....

I heart birthdays. Especially mine, but I like other people's too.

Today is my birthday. I'm 31. The sun has come out, the rain has gone, it's a balmy 57 degrees (brrrrr), and the leaves on the tree outside my window are bright red. The kitties are completely indifferent to my desire for them to sit on my feet and let me pet them. For some reason the dishes have not washed themselves, but I live in a house with dishes and food to cook in said dishes, so that's okay.

It's going to be a good birthday, I can tell.

Maybe later (or tomorrow, when I'm procrastinating on a sermon) I'll post today's RGBP Friday Five, which is also birthday-prompted, about 5 stages in my life. But for now, I gotta get moving because I have a big day planned! :-)

Friday Five on Saturday...home sweet home

I was away from home all day Friday, but I love these questions from Songbird over at RGBP, so I'm excited to play anyway!

1) Where was your first home?
I recently discovered that there was an apartment that I think was my first home, but I don't remember it. The first home I remember was a mobile home in Hubbard, OR. There was a very old man who was our neighbor. I lived in this home in this location until I was 8, and then in this home in another location (my grandparents' 40 acres outside Lebanon, OR) for another few years. While I remember the actual house well, and I remember a few things that happened there, I remember a grand total of nothing about that town, except that my school bus crossed railroad tracks.

2) Do you ever dream about places you used to live?

Sometimes I dream about my grandparents' house. Occasionally I have dreams about the house where my dad and brother still live. But mostly my dreams involve other buildings (church, former church, etc) or places I've never seen in real life, or intense distortions of places I have been (ie 3rd floor apartments, but you have to crawl through body-sized holes to get to the stairs, etc).

3) If you could bring back one person from your past to sit at your dinner table, who would you choose?
Hands down, my mom.

4) What's your favorite room in your current living space?
hmm...that's a hard call. I love the light in the living room in the mornings. I love my bed and the color of the walls and the artwork in my bedroom. I love the kitchen--not because it's a good kitchen, but because it's where the food is and the cooking happens!

5) Is there an object or an item where you live now that represents home? If not, can you think of one from your childhood?

I don't know...books, maybe? I'm always intrigued when there are no books in someone's home. Books make a place feel homey to me. The more books, the better! Also, cats. Where my cats are is home, I suppose.

yum

I went to the farmer's market this morning, and even though I got home late tonight I decided I needed a little vegetable fix. I cooked up some kale, onions, and carrots and added them to leftover mostaccioli...even though it had a tomato sauce already, I added some multi-colored cherry tomatoes. Delicious!

In the process, I discovered the most delicious carrot I have ever eaten. Ever, in my whole life.

Family members and close friends will recall that I think carrots are disgusting. In fact, I think this about the vast majority of orange foods in the world (butternut squash being the exception).

However, I know carrots are good for you, so I decided to try to eat them. I've been trying to eat baby carrots with hummus, disguised them with ranch, and hidden them in salads. Hiding them in pasta is one of my favorite tricks. But today I tried a new kind of carrot, an heirloom variety called Atomic Red Carrots.

As soon as I heard the name from Troy, one of my favorite farmers at the market, I knew I had to have them.

The fact that they aren't orange on the outside helped too.

So I got the carrots home, sliced them up, and ate one before the rest went into the saute pan.

I have never said these words before, but it was kind of a spicy carrot! Not exactly what I was expecting, and not great but not terrible.

And then magic happened. When I sauteed them, they turned CRAZY red. And when I ate them, they were so sweet and delicious I thought I'd spilled honey (also from the market) into the pan. Seriously, the carrot tasted like beauty. I don't even think I can describe it.

I am a convert to the Atomic Red Carrot. I may never eat boring grocery store carrots again.

Growing Up--a sermon for Ordinary 26A

The Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Growing Up
Exodus 17.1-7
25 September 2011, Ordinary 26A

From the wilderness of Sin the whole congregation of the Israelites journeyed by stages, as the Lord commanded. They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink. The people quarreled with Moses, and said, ‘Give us water to drink.’ Moses said to them, ‘Why do you quarrel with me? Why do you test the Lord?’ But the people thirsted there for water; and the people complained against Moses and said, ‘Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?’ So Moses cried out to the Lord, ‘What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.’ The Lord said to Moses, ‘Go on ahead of the people, and take some of the elders of Israel with you; take in your hand the staff with which you struck the Nile, and go. I will be standing there in front of you on the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink.’ Moses did so, in the sight of the elders of Israel. He called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, ‘Is the Lord among us or not?’



I love to read. I read constantly—almost everything I can get my hands on. Novels, theology, blogs, news articles, church magazines, the Bible…I love stories. When my eyes or brain are too tired for reading, I listen to podcasts or radio dramas, I watch old movies or tv shows. In part this is because I like the escape—because I can find myself in the story somewhere. Sometimes I might identify with a particular character, or a situation, or sometimes even some part of the scenery. Sometimes I’m in the story because I’m so outraged at whatever is happening, or so sympathetic. Whatever the case, almost every time I can place myself in the story.
So I wonder today if we might try this out. I’m going to read this story again. I invite you to close your eyes and picture the scene, and see if you find yourself in the story.

(read scripture again)

Where were you in the story?

Some of us identify with the congregation of the Israelites—the people who want what we want, and we want it now. I have certainly fallen into this category often enough in my lifetime that I have actually had friends and family members just hold up cheese, in case I want it to go with my whine. We all whine from time to time. We all have needs that ought to be met—water, food, shelter, love, justice, healthcare. The Israelites were no different. Except that one chapter ago, when they were hungry, God fed them with bread and meat…and continued to do so every day, like clockwork, for the next 40 years. And except that two chapters ago, they were walking across the dry floor of the sea, then watching their persecutors drown as they tried to chase the fleeing Israelites. So maybe they were different—they had seen some amazing things, they were being directly provided for by God, and they were now following God toward the promise. What the promise was exactly, they probably weren’t sure. And who this God character is may still be a little unclear. After all, there wasn’t exactly time in the slave lifestyle to maintain a religion. Moses himself, while talking to the burning bush, had been concerned that no one would listen because they don’t know this God character—only when God gives a name, “I am who I am, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” does Moses even begin to think about agreeing to this crazy plan God has cooked up.
So the congregation of the Israelites can perhaps be forgiven for having their moments of toddler-style temper tantrums. They are people who have just been reintroduced to the God of their ancestors, people who are just beginning a journey with this God. In terms of their faith journey, their experience as God’s chosen people, their ability to trust God’s promise to provide for them, they are children who don’t understand why their every need is not immediately met, who will turn on the leader with the slightest provocation, who will have separation anxiety when Moses goes up the mountain to talk to God, and will demand to get their way but will never say thank you without being reminded.
Okay, so it’s not flattering to imagine ourselves in this role in the story. But sometimes it might be accurate. After all, we are a people whose culture is built on instant gratification. I’m the first to complain that we can’t seem to get the wireless internet signal to reach to the fellowship hall…because it would be so convenient if we could stream movies for youth group rather than having to plan ahead to get the DVD. And I know I’m not alone in my desire for convenience and quick service on my terms. There’s uproar every time facebook changes something. There’s some intense anger about the way Netflix will now have two separate websites—one for DVDs and one for streaming movies and tv shows—which means, gasp! we have to create two separate lists and go to two different sites to get what we want. There was an article yesterday about how Amazon warehouse employees are treated, constantly being required to increase their rate of work until they’re locating and packing up to four items a minute in the huge maze of a warehouse, all so we can get our items cheaply and immediately. We live in a 24 hour news cycle, a 24 hour advertising cycle, and a 24 hour buying cycle. There is no need to wait for anything—whatever we want, there’s a way we can get it right now. And if we don’t…
we complain.
The Israelites needed food and water. They were traveling with a God who had proved to be greater than their imaginations, but they still tested this God, requiring God to earn their trust. It takes time to change from persecuted slaves to the beloved community of God. It takes time to unlearn things, to undo the psychological and spiritual and physical damage, to learn new ways of being and doing. It takes time to grow up.

In the meantime, they blame Moses. If there’s no water, no food, no healthcare, no justice, no safety, it must be the leader’s fault. Why did he do this to us? Is he trying to kill us? Is this a plot to ruin the country, to put an end to our way of life, to get glory for himself at our expense?

But Moses doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he shows us that he’s been hanging out with this God for a while now. He’s had some time to get used to the idea of following God into apparently hopeless situations, and he knows that this complaining and whining and arguing and testing isn’t about him. He tries to turn the people’s attention to God, but that doesn’t work any more than it does with children. So he talks to God—he doesn’t respond to the sarcasm, the anger, the accusing words, he simply talks to God. Moses knows that he can’t create water…and he knows there is One who can. Moses knows that instant gratification isn’t the name of the game with this God—10 plagues, multiple stuttering audiences with the Pharaoh, a seemingly impenetrable ocean, and a vast expanse of desert are ample illustration that God is not interested in granting our most immediate desires at the expense of our deeper needs. But Moses also knows that without God, he can’t do anything except get himself killed by an angry mob.

But with God, all things are possible. Moses takes the leaders of the tribes, the elders of the congregation, and goes ahead, showing the way. Moses was a shepherd—he knew that sheep follow, they can’t be led from behind. This group of leaders goes ahead into the desert, and there they encounter the presence of God. There they experience God in a way they couldn’t imagine back in the camp. They know that God is with them—the question of the Lord’s presence among them is no longer a question. It’s a reality. With that knowledge, they can lead the people into the sure and certain hope that water, living water, is provided out of God’s gracious bounty. There is enough. In the presence of God, they grow up. Their faith journey is no longer just beginning—now they, with Moses, are leaders who know the way.

Moses isn’t a beginner at following God. His faith has matured as he’s spent time with God, known God’s presence, heard God’s voice, and seen God’s faithfulness. When the people complain, he knows that while the surface issue may even be as important as whether there is water to drink, it’s still just a surface issue—the real issue is the question of whether God is among us or not.

This is still the same question. There are lots of presenting problems in the life of a community—whether it’s our church, our nation, or our world. There are lots of important issues. There’s a lot of temptation to blame leaders, or to argue, or even for leaders to believe that it really is about them. But those are all toddler responses. It’s time for some growing up as we walk this faith journey. Yes, we are children of God, but that doesn’t mean we need to act like children. Paul writes about people young in faith and how he fed them with the spiritual equivalent of milk, but at some point it’s time to move on to solid food. Here’s our chance—to follow the example of Moses as we grow in grace. By creating that community of leaders, Moses found a way to spread the good news of God’s presence and God’s faithfulness, the life giving water of grace. It’s not just his word anymore—it’s the word of people whose faces are shining with the love and promise of God. The challenge for us now is whether we will join them.

May it be so.
Amen.