Prophet of Light

Malachi 3:1-4 and Luke 1:68-79

We continue our Advent practice of actively waiting, preparing for the birth of Christ, for salvation, love, mercy, and divine justice to enter the world once again and one day forevermore. That Christmas is coming is becoming more real with each day. We may hope for happy gatherings, delicious food, entertaining gifts, and overall good feelings. But our scriptures and songs cry out for more than holiday cheer: the prophet Malachi cries out for divine justice, and today, we hear of the birth of the prophet of the Most High, John, who has come to prepare the way of Jesus—to offer repentance and forgiveness and salvation that we might all be ready to behold Jesus when he comes.

John’s parents are Zechariah and Elizabeth. They are good, solid folks. Zechariah is a priest and Elizabeth is descended from Aaron who served as priest for Moses. The book of Luke notes that both people are righteous and live blamelessly according to all of the commandments and regulations of the Lord. Their one source of shame is that they do not have any children. Elizabeth is barren and both have gotten on in years. They are not unlike many couples in the Bible who cannot have children and yet manage, by the grace of God, to give birth to children who will go on to greatness. People like Abraham and Sarah, Jacob and Rachel, even Mary and Joseph fall into this category of conceiving under rather unusual circumstances. This preference of God’s, to acquire great leaders out of impossible reproductive conditions tells us something important about God: that God isn’t concerned with our pesky rules of biology, that nothing, in deed, is impossible for God. These are stories of hope for people not only fighting for a child, but also for anyone who is facing an impossible situation.

And so we have this couple who fit this recognizable motif—they are righteous and deserving, but are still waiting to have a child. Then one day, the priest Zechariah, is in the temple, offering incense to the Lord when the angel Gabriel appears to him. And tells him that he and Elizabeth will have a son who will be a great prophet, right along the lines of Elijah, who will help the people return to righteousness. But like Sarah who laughs at the thought of having a child at her age, Zechariah doesn’t totally believe this glorious being in front of him and expresses his doubt. As a punishment for his disbelief, Gabriel takes Zechariah’s ability to speak away from him until after the baby is born.

After nine months of silence, Zechariah’s first words are a Holy Spirit filled prophesy: first of a savior and then future of his own son, who will become a prophet who will prepare the way for the savior, to enlighten people in the ways of salvation and forgiveness because dawn will soon break, giving light to all of those who have sat in darkness and in the shadow of death, that we may all be guided into the way of peace.

Advent is like Lent, in that it is a time of darkness, preparation, and searching. The way of peace, is a way out of that darkness, but it’s a difficult concept. The Christmas phrase “Peace on earth” always carries a hint of irony. Every year there’s enough stuff happening in the world to remind us of how we have not achieved peace on earth. With bombings in Pakistan, the need for more troops in Afghanistan, it’s not likely that we’ll reach peace in 2009.

It’s easy to fall into disillusionment, especially this time of year. Jesus has already been born, over two thousand years ago and nothing has really changed. Jesus has come, is coming soon, and will come again—but it’s easy to take a look around and wonder if that really matters. And then there’s the darker underbelly to the entire Christmas season, especially for those who feel alienated from the forced cheer of the season, those who’ve lost family members, those who are fighting illness, those who’s children no longer speak to them and on and on. Sometimes there isn’t much to be happy about and holidays make it even worse. And it’s easy, in the face of so much personal and global dissatisfaction, to blame God.

The prophet Malachi notes that the priests are presenting offerings and the people are praying, but they have no hope, no spirit. They question God: claiming that all who do evil are good in the eyes of the Lord and God delights in them” and by asking “where is the God of justice?” Malachi speaks of God’s displeasure with humanity, of our continual faithlessness and how it has actually made God weary. Out of tiredness and disillusionment, God tells Malachi that the Lord will come to the temple, to cleanse and refine and purify the people so that they will be righteous instead of a faithless bunch of doubters. God may be weary of the people, but the people, it seems, are also weary of God. God asks, “when I send my messenger, who will be able to endure his presence?” This cleansing and purifying is a painful process—a good scrubbing with a rough sponge, to scrape away all impurities and doubts.

Like Zechariah, we do not believe the miracles in front of us. We wearily trudge through our own dark valleys, sending God our prayers and our offerings, and for what? Do we believe that God rewards the wicked? Do we wonder if there is any divine justice in the world? As we prepare for the continual birth of Christ, have we given into the idea that things will never change?

In the face of such impossibility, it is important to remember the births of John and Jesus, events that even their parents even have trouble believing. It’s important to remember the ongoing, though seemingly slow, redemptive work of God in our lives and in our world. If peace and justice seem absent in our world, perhaps we need to remember our own roles in perpetuating strife and injustice.

When God takes on all of humanity and becomes a human being that is the ultimate act of trust and inspiration. If God were completely disillusioned with humankind, God would not have become incarnate with us. God would not have become something that God didn’t have value or hope in. In Jesus, God shows us God’s confidence and faith in us.

Jesus comes to show us the way, to announce peace, to shine light, sure that we will be able to see this light and follow, as long as we are willing to avail ourselves. John comes as a prophet, to proclaim the way of this light who can shine through our disillusionment and despair . One who will shine a light in the darkness, one who will not let us hide in our holes of despair, but will confront us with the breaking dawn of a new day.

As we prepare for such light—light that may even be painful to our eyes—may our prayers be daring and bold, may we pray for peace on earth, with the expectation that it will be so.

In the name of Jesus, our light, our way, and our savior. Amen.

Christ the King?

John 18:33-37

Welcome to the end of our liturgical year! Next Sunday we start Advent. As our undecorated Christmas tree tells us, soon, very soon, we’ll begin to officially anticipate the birth of Christ. But we’re not there yet. We’re still in Ordinary Time, which is where we spend most of our time.

Before we can start to dream of a sweet, newborn Jesus, we remember the events just before Easter-- we must listen in on the confrontation between Pilate and Jesus. Jesus has been turned in and Pilate has to figure out why. Jesus isn’t really on his radar, but he’s obviously upset somebody and so here we are. The only thing that slightly disturbs Pilate is this alleged claim of Jesus’ to be king, for this could signal possible political disturbance and unrest and it’s illegal to just challenge the emperors throne. And we watch this scene, wondering, with Pilate, if Jesus really is a king. But Jesus doesn’t answer, not directly, he doesn’t make the situation any less confusing for Pilate or for us.

Sometimes, reading this, I want the story to be different. I want Jesus to say “No!” I’m not here to challenge Caesar’s throne, I’m not a threat in the ways that you think, I was no threat to Herod, just let me go, back to what I was doing all along.

Sometimes, I want Jesus to say “Yes!” Of course, I am the king of the Jews, of the entire world, and your emperor should still not be concerned with me, because I’m not taking over in the way that you think—I’m not after his particular throne, but out to change the entire world--not as a power-hungry maniac, but as the living breathing god that I am, now let me go so I can get back to what I was doing all along.

But Jesus rarely behaves the way we want him to. Instead, he turns the question back to Pilate. Just as he did to his disciples when they asked if he was the Messiah and he replied with, “who do you say that I am.” To Pilate’s inquiry: those are your words not mine. “You say that I am.” And with Pilate, we wonder, does this cryptic, noncommittal response make Jesus a king? It’s enough to convince Pilate that Jesus is not a criminal, but not enough to save him from death.

This Jesus as King business is no less complicated and strange for us who do not live in the land of kings, than for the people who were much more familiar with the likes of King David. King David had questionable integrity, and yet was loved and chosen by God

Jesus is a king we can feel confident in, no moral ambiguity about this one—not possessing wives and slaves and riches and power, not about control, military might, or coercion.

And while Jesus does not say he is a king, he does lay claim to a kingdom—one that is “not of this world.” If his kingdom were an earthly one, his followers would fight for his freedom—he would have some sort of military might—some fighting power, followers who were organized and motivated to defend and protect their leader—but Jesus needs no such protection.

Not a violent, political image, not a worldly leader with robes and a crown—not a literal reality, but a metaphor. Because this humble man standing before Pilate, the one who is about to be tortured, is not of earthly royalty.

What does it mean for us? Do we say that Jesus is King of our hearts/king of our lives? Jesus is King—as ultimate ruler, or does it mean something else? Something bigger, something more expansive.

Because Jesus is both ruler and servant, both King and subject. It’s a paradoxical image, because Jesus is lowly servant as well as master of the universe—one who comes to save, rather than to control.

He tells Pilate, “I came into this world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice”—those who listen have no need to ask. Pilate demonstrates his cluelessness, his lack of insider knowledge, his missing VIP card to the club of truth, when he asks: “What is truth?” There’s no answer—if you don’t know, you don’t know—and if you read through the gospel of John, you’ll find your answer: It’s Jesus. Pilate looks him right in the face and misses the literal truth that is before him.

It probably wouldn’t make Pilate’s life any easier for jesus to say “I’m not a King, I’m the almighty God incarnate.” Jesus doesn’t say those things so much as let people figure it out for themselves. God generally doesn’t approach us and demand that we recognize God, God is more subtle, more shifty, more difficult to pin down, sometimes easy to miss, and easy to dismiss, and easy to doubt. Faith isn’t easy, isn’t obvious, and so jesus is going to parade around as God the King in any recognizable fashion and demand that we bow before his crown and kiss the hem of his robes. For those who do bow and kiss his feet, he offers praise, but he never asks for such devotion. That is on our part. It’s our responsibility to see God, to be alert, to watch for the truth. Sometimes it hits us over the head like a frying pan, obvious, plain to sight, and yet even then, what we see of as “proof” others can easily call coincidence, modern medicine, friendship, love, luck, but nothing more, nothing divine and holy, not the hand of God.

And so we have our unusual King to crown this morning—one who is humble and subtle, not loud and ostentatious, not obvious, but rather easy to pass by, to mistake as a bruised and battered and misunderstood criminal.

And he is our Lord. When we are bruised and battered and misunderstood, we know he has gone before us, has been there too. He’s not a distant king, living a good and comfortable life, removed from everyday existence. He is a servant who has suffered—most likely even more than we ever will.

And when asked who he is, Jesus says the Truth. Which is still rather confusing and why there are still so many answers in the world: Jesus is Lord, Savor, King, prophet, teacher— to some God, to others merely an exceptional human being, and to some, a complete joke.

And yet he is the Truth—the entire truth of the universe, of existence, of all that is divine, of all that is God—embodied as a human man. No wonder our words fail us.

Commitment

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

Mark 12:38-44

The Hebrew term for loyalty is Chesed. This can be faithfulness between God and a human community or between members of a family or community. Chesed is a major theme in the book of Ruth.

The three main characters—Naomi, Ruth, and Boas--do not have to care for one another nearly to the extent that they do: their family obligations to each other are minimal and yet they come together to form their own close-knit family. They demonstrate a high level of commitment and loyalty to each other and the best part is because they choose to do so.

The story of Ruth begins with tragedy. First a famine in Bethlehem causes a family: Elimelech and Naomi with two sons to move to the land of Moab. There, Elimelech dies of unknown causes. The two sons marry local women—Orpah and Ruth—but after 10 years, the two husbands die also for unmentioned reasons. Naomi, Orpah and Ruth—are left without husbands and without children. They are three women, related only through marriage to deceased men. Because women were entirely dependent on men, these widows have very little status in the world—no one to provide for them, to protect them, or to give meaning for their lives.

Naomi decides to trade in this foreign land of death and sadness for her homeland where the famine that drove them out had ended. As she and her daughters-in-law pack up, she encourages each of them to return to their own homes that they might remarry since they still have hope that life could turn out well for them. For Naomi, she feels her own life is essentially over. She cannot have more children, cannot produce sons for Orpah and Ruth to marry, so their connection should be severed. It’s too late for Naomi to have a good life again, but the young women still have a chance for remarriage and children. Orpah agrees, sadly, and returns to her family. Ruth, however, clings to Naomi, not wanting to leave her. The language of clinging is like that of a husband to a wife, she transfers the faithfulness she had for her husband, over to her husband’s mother and in a vow befitting a marriage ceremony, she professes her commitment to stay with Naomi: “Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die—There will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!” Ruth is making a claim both of ethnicity and religious identity—there was no conversion then, what you were born is what you were—but Ruth claims that she will no longer be a Moabite and no longer worship the Gods of Moab. She will travel with Naomi and make her home in a foreign land just as Naomi had done. She doesn’t have to do this for Naomi, and that’s why it’s so amazing that she does.

Naomi sees that she will not be able to convince Ruth otherwise, and so they set off for Bethlehem. This homecoming is particularly difficult for Naomi who left with husband and sons, and now returns “empty” as she says.

They return to Bethlehem at the beginning of the harvest—a good sign that more fruitful times may be ahead. In her role as Naomi’s provider, Ruth decides to go out and glean behind the harvesters. Amazingly enough, she ends up in the field of her late father-in-law’s kinsmen. She meets Boaz who has heard of this Moabite woman who has stayed with Naomi. Boaz praises Ruth for taking care of Naomi and encourages her to stay and glean in his fields—he offers her protection—food and drink—and additional grain. He goes far beyond his family duty to care for Ruth and Naomi.

Seeing Ruth return with such a bounty, Naomi suspects that Boas might be a suitable and willing husband for Ruth—she cannot give Ruth another son to marry, but she can still hope for one of her husband’s relatives to be a suitable match. And so she carefully instructs Ruth to visit Boaz on the threshing floor—and yes, this scene is absolutely not rated for General audiences nor is it the socially approved method for gaining a spouse. Even though he’s been slightly tricked, Boaz responds well to the whole arrangement and marries Ruth gives her and Naomi further security with the purchase of land. Not because he has to, but because he wants to.

Their marriage produces a son who will go on to become the grandfather of King David. And so Ruth’s and Naomi’s fortunes are overturned: they have men in their lives again. The story that began with such disaster and sadness ends happily.

They form this tiny, love community out of their own free agency—a system of mutual protection and care and security and a future for two women who otherwise would have had none.

The widow in the gospel, who gives everything she has away, is like Naomi and Ruth. They have very little in the world, and yet they give each other what they can: their love and assistance—giving out of their poverty and loss. Boaz is a wealthy landowner, but unlike the scribes, he does not take advantage of the widows, but restores their fortunes out of his own abundance. Their family works because they are mutually invested in each other.

At it’s best, the church is kind of like this. Whether we give out of abundance or out of poverty, we give of ourselves. For the most part, none of us have to be here, none of us have to love each other, or be loyal to each other, or show any level of commitment to each other. And yet we do.

In a few moments, we will receive our confirmands—three young men—into the membership of our church community. They have been a part of the church since infanthood, baptized and raised in the faith, but today they get to make the decision for themselves, that the God of their parents, is also their God, that their parent’s faith and parent’s church is also their faith and their church. We give thanks for their families, for their mentors, who have encouraged them along the way and helped them to feel that we are all their families too.

Though they do not remember their baptisms, they are living into the promises that their parents and church made for them on their behalf. They come now, to join as full members of this congregation, not because they have to, but because they want to.

And as they promise their Chesed to God and to God’s church, the rest of us, will reaffirm our commitment to support them, to care for them, and to give thanks to God for them—not because we have to, but because we want to.

Thanks be to God.

Vanish in the Darkness

Job 23: 1-9, 16-17
Hebrews 4:14-16

Common Biblical wisdom speaks of the patience of Job—as the model character of one who endures great hardship and yet remains steadfast in his faith in God.

But the term “patient” implies someone who suffers silently, who does not complain, who remains confident that this too shall pass. Job does endure. He does not give up on the existence of God. But he doesn’t do it gracefully, without complaint, without loosing hope. The fact that Job is alive at the end of the book with a new family and fortune does not mean that he was patient during the darkness.

Job is a righteous man. There are only so many of these men in the Bible. And God is having a conversation with the imperial court—God from time to time seems to have these conversations with others in the divine realm. And one called the Accuser steps forward, his name is Ha Satan, and he’s not our modern concept of Satan, he’s not evil, he’s on God’s side, but he’s more of a CIA operative in God’s service. And he questions how faithful and good the people really are to God. And God says, “See Job over there, he hasn’t given me any trouble, Job and I are just fine.” To which Ha Satan says, “Of course he loves you, you spoil him! You give him everything he wants, you give him the easy life, he’s never had any difficulty ever.” And so God and Ha Satan come up with a test, Ha Satan will take everything away from Job, except for his life, says God. Job must stay intact, but his family, his home, his livestock, his career, even his health—it all has to go, and all at once. And then, God will know what Job is made of and if he still believes and serves the almighty God.

And so, Sebeans kill Job’s oxen, fire falls from heaven and burns all his sheep and servants. Chaldeans run off with all of the camels and kill more servants, a great wind sweeps across the desert and collapses his eldest son’s house killing all of his sons and daughters inside.

In today’s passage, we get a glimpse of how Job is doing with all of that. After his friends blame him and are largely unhelpful, Job speaks of his desire to go to God himself, to plead his case, to discuss his plight with God, like two rational human beings, so that he might find relief. He would argue and God would listen.

Job is furious. He wishes he had never been born. He wishes he could disappear into the darkness.

When I think of anger at God, I always think of a scene from The West Wing

At the end of season two, in an episode called “Two Cathedrals,” we see President Bartlett’s life and presidency spiraling out of control. He’s just lost one of the most important people in his life to a senseless accident involving a drunk driver. He’s announced that he covered up the fact that he had MS, and he’s facing the usual array of national and global crises that a President faces.

The scene takes place in National Cathedral just after the funeral of his beloved secretary and advisor. Clearly agitated, he asks Secret Service to seal the door. As the door thumps shut, we see him turn toward the High Altar and begin to walk down the nave. As he goes along he starts cursing God in English and then in Latin.

He quotes Graham Greene: “You cannot conceive nor can I the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God,” but says the President, “I think you’re just vindictive.” He goes through the list of disasters: both natural and manmade. And then turns to his own confessions: “Yes,” he says, “I’ve committed many sins, have I displeased you, you feckless thug?”

He then runs through a list of all the good things he’s done for the country: creating jobs, setting aside land for conservation, to his personal triumph of raising 3 children. “That wasn’t good?” he asks, “That’s not enough to buy me out of the dog house?”

He stands at the entry to the high altar and continues to rail curses in Latin, telling God where he thinks God should go. He then lights a cigarette and stamps it out right there in the crossing.

Job assumes that God is reasonable. That he could sit down with God, and speak man to man with God, that if God would just listen he would grant mercy. The problem for Job is that he doesn’t know where to find God.

For President Bartlett, he knows where God is, at least metaphorically. He paces down the Cathedral nave like a Lion stalking his prey. If he could just get his hands on God, if God really were just a man like him, we get the impression that he’d let God have it—the stamped out cigarette on the floor is as close to physical assault as he can get, and he has to settle with a verbal rampage—and silence, because God doesn’t talk back.

Job believes God is reasonable and just, God’s just missing.

The psalmist cries out, my God, my God why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? Do not be far from me!

The Bible is full of accounts of God near and far, the promise that God is compassionate and ever-present, but these scriptures remind us that believers from long ago also felt distant from God just as we do sometimes—feel close or far, depending on where we are and what’s going on in our lives, not where God is.

Our Hebrews passage gives us further assurance. We have word on the character of God; fearsome, sharp, piercing, dividing, a fierce judge from whom no one can hide. But also a high priest, one who has great sympathy for us. This priest is Jesus, and he is not unsympathetic--he knows our weaknesses, because they are his weaknesses, he was tested and challenged.

And that means Jesus continues to work on our behalf—Jesus prays for us and is with us in our darkest times. We cannot vanish into darkness, into oblivion, because Jesus will always be with us and will not forsake us.

Even though God does not respond and act the way we want God to, or the way we imagine God should, we can still communicate our desperation and confusion to God.

In the end, Job is not punished for his words. God speaks to him and humbles him. Job repents and his livelihood is restored.

We can take the easy way out and reject God, or we can stand tall and engage the almight—to wrestle, to argue, to curse if we need to because God is big enough to handle our frustration and anger and will not reject us. Thanks be to God.

Esther Enchanted

Once upon a time about 2500 years ago, in the far way land of Persia, there lived a powerful king name Ahasuerus. King Ahasuerus ruled from India to Ethiopia. The king was not a bad king, but he wasn’t a terribly good king either. He relied on the advice of his officials, instead of his own wisdom. And his favorite part of being king was getting to live like a rock star with lots of wine and lots of women. One day he decided to give a huge banquet for all of his kingdom. He wanted to display his wealth and the splendor and pomp of his majesty. In the court of the garden of the King’s palace he threw a banquet that lasted for seven days. The palace garden was decorated with white cotton curtains, fine linen and purple and silver rings and marble pillars, couches of gold and silver on a mosaic pavement of marble and colored stones, tables heavy-laden with food, jars of royal wine, the fine china and golden stem wear. And the king ordered everyone to drink without restraint and do as each person desired—to experience the life of the king: to drink as much as he liked and to do as he pleased, and to leave the decision making and ruling of his empire to those who were more clear-headed. Wise to her king’s recklessness, the Queen Vashti threw her own banquet for the women of the palace.

On the seventh day of the feast, the King, full of wine, asked his servants to bring Queen Vashti in her royal crown out for all of his guests to see for he wanted to show off her great beauty. But the queen, impetuous as she was, refused to parade around for a room full of drunken men.

The king was enraged, but he didn’t know what to do. He asked his lawyers to find out what should be done to Vashti according to the law. One of the officials spoke: “Vashti has not only caused dishonor to the king, but to all of the officials and all of the people of the kingdom. We cannot have the queen disobeying the king for soon all wives will disobey their husbands. We must issue a degree that all women must honor and obey their husbands or we will have total chaos.” The king liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself. Vashti was banned from the kingdom and it was ordered that every man should be master of his own house.

With Vashti gone, there was no queen to keep King Ahasuerus happy. He was sad, but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t feel like throwing a banquet and he didn’t feel like drinking as much as he wanted. Concerned about his well being and zest for life, his officials suggested a competition: they would gather up all of the beautiful young girls throughout the land and bring them to the palace, and after extensive makeovers, the king could choose the one he wanted. The king liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself.

Esther was a young beautiful woman living in the kingdom. Esther’s parents had died when she was young and so her cousin Mordecai had adopted her and raised her as his own daughter. They were Jews, living in a Persian empire, and Mordecai had been captured from Jerusalem and brought to Susa. Esther’s real name was Hadassah, but Mordecai had changed her name to Esther so that they could blend in with the local culture better. It wasn’t dangerous to be Jewish in Persia, but they were a definite minority and had learned to be careful and private about their identity. While most of the Jews longed for their own land again, they had learned that life in Persia wasn’t so bad.
When Mordecai heard of the king’s request for all the young women, he brought Esther forward as a candidate. She was collected with all of the other women and brought to Hegai, a eunuch, who was in charge of the king’s harem.

There were women from all 127 provinces and Esther was intimated. Esther of course, was quite beautiful, but with women from India and Ethiopia, she wasn’t sure just how much the king would like her. She wasn’t sure she could learn all of the appropriate courtly rituals, wasn’t sure she could entertain the king with her singing and dancing, wasn’t sure she could endure the months and months of beauty treatment, teeth whitening, and plastic surgery. What if she had to diet and give up cake for a year?

She also wasn’t sure about the king: a man who spent most of his time drinking and doing as he pleased was not the sort of man she was used to. Her father had been such a hard worker and kind man—and death had claimed he and her mother much too soon. Mordecai—who she now thought of as her father—was also so kind and protective. They lived alone, just the two of them, and they worked in the garden together and they shared a love of their family, their Jewish religion and culture—they had a peaceful, comfortable existence, and Esther wasn’t sure she wanted to trade their small cottage for all of the riches in Persia. But Mordecai, always planning for the future, thought this would be a good chance for them and indeed, for all of the Jews living in Persia--the thought of a Jewish queen was so scandalous and wonderful that Mordecai couldn’t help encouraging Esther to join the other young women at the palace.

Hegai was in charge of this new assortment of girls. When she arrived, he noticed Esther at once, she was different from the other girls, there was something he couldn’t quite name, but she reminded him very much of his sister when they were young—beautiful, but also full of spirit, as if the deity somehow shined out of her . . . he liked her more and more as the days went on, and like a fairy godmother, gave her special treats, found her the best maids, carefully monitored her progress, and advanced her quickly.

After an entire year of beauty treatment and training, it was finally Esther’s moment to go before the king. Her maids helped her dress in her finest blue robes, they braided her hair with flowers. As she entered his room, the king wondered if he had ever seen someone so beautiful before and he felt himself fall quickly in love. He put a royal crown upon her head and made Esther his queen. Then he threw an elaborate banquet in her honor. And the lived happily ever after, the Jewish Queen and her Persian King.

But wait. It turns out that there was trouble brewing in another part of the palace. During the time that Esther had been at the palace, Mordecai visited every day to find out how she was doing. Since he spent so much time by the palace gate, he heard lots of courtly gossip including a plot to assassinate the king which he had shared with Esther who told the king, and ultimately saved King Ahasuerus’ life.

The king’s highest official was a man named Haman. For his own reasons, Haman had decided that he would like everyone to bow to him and everyone did except for Mordecai. This made Haman furious and he decided that he would kill not only Mordecai but also all of the Jews. As the king’s advisor, he told the king that a lawless people were living in the kingdom and that they needed to be destroyed. The king, full of wine and happiness, liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself and sent forth a royal decree for the destruction of all of the Jews to happen in a few days.

Mordecai heard of this news and showed Esther the written decree and charged her to go to the king to make supplication for her people. Knowing that the king could kill her for approaching him when she has not been called, but that if she would be killed with her people anyway, Esther decided that she would do what she could. Summoning the strength of Mordecai’s words “perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this,” she began her planning.

Esther had dreamed of doing something important, and even though she was now queen, something she still didn’t believe sometimes, she still wondered if there weren’t something more, she had heard all of the stories of her people, of David and his bravery before Goliath, . . . there weren’t many opportunities for her people to be brave anymore, living as they were in another land—they were scattered from each other, and even felt separate from God, as though Yahweh were no longer guiding them as once before, but had left them up to their own . . . but with destruction so close at hand, it seemed miraculous that Mordecai had even heard of the plot against their people, and perhaps even miraculous that Esther should just happen to be queen right now, perhaps it really was God, working mysteriously to ensure their survival, and if it was truly meant to be, then Esther would succeed her in attempt to change the king’s decree. Surely God would give her the wisdom and the strength to face this horrible task.

There was no magic wand, no fairy god-mother, she could not blink and make it all disappear. Esther would have to do this herself, she would have to use all of the tricks she knew to work for the king’s favor.

She dressed in her finest robes of royal blue and carefully adorned herself in her full regalia including her crown and approached the king’s room—where he was drinking. Even though he had not seen her in a month, the sight of her so dressed up caught the king’s breath and he wondered why he had no summoned her himself. The king liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself. His heart was soft as he asked her “What is it Queen Esther? What is your request, it shall be give you, even to the half of my kingdom.”

With relief, Esther smiled, and made her very simple request, for the King and Haman to kindly join her for a private banquet the following evening. The king happily acquiesced, for he loved banquets.

With the two men now in her own territory, Esther offered a fine meal and good wine. Sensing she really wanted something else, the king asked again: “what is it Queen Esther? What is your request, it shall be give you, even to the half of my kingdom.” It wasn’t quite the right time. Esther needed to find a way to save all of her people, including Mordecai and herself, but she needed to make sure that Haman’s role in all of this was clear.

And so she invited them to return for a second banquet the following night. Haman was so thoroughly pleased. He thought to himself, “I dined with the king and queen alone! I am nearly the most powerful man in all of Persia.”

On the second night of feasting and drinking in Queen Esther’s quarters, King Ahasuerus asked: “what is it Queen Esther? What is your request, it shall be give you, even to the half of my kingdom.” Gathering her strength, Esther plunged in: “please spare me and my people for our lives have been sold—if it was merely into slavery I would not ask, but we have been sold unto death.”

Enraged, the king asked, who is it that has done this?
Esther replied, “a foe and an enemy, the wicked Haman!”

The king, in great anger, didn’t know what to do. An official suggested he order the destruction of Haman and the salvation of all the Jews. The king liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself. He promoted Mordecai to be his new vizier and ended his decree to destroy the Jews.

To celebrate their deliverance from death, the divine providence in their lives, Esther and Mordecai decided to inaugurate a great feast for all the Jews living in the province, they called it Purim. The king liked this idea very much and wondered why he couldn’t think of ideas like this for himself. There was great gladness and joy and they all lived happily ever after.

Centuries later, a group of Jews living in a different empire, gathered secretly in a room. Stories of their ancestors weighed heavily upon them, the story of Esther included. And while they shared a meal, their Rabbi told another story of love and bravery, one of triumph in the face of death, one of great sadness and fear, with a happy ending after all.

Wisdom of God

James 3:1-12; Proverbs 1: 20-33

Though fashion experts will tell you that it’s okay to wear white. Practically of course, it’ll soon be too cold for white sundresses or linen pants. One theory behind this custom, is that once upon a time, the wealthy would take off most of the summer and head for resort locations where they would trade their dark, drab city clothes in favor of cool, white summery ones. The white clothes were a sign of their wealth and time for leisure. Putting them away after Labor Day, marked a reentry into normal, city life. The change of clothes helped mark the change of season.

We are also feeling the change, the weather change, the season change, the back-to-school change. We mark the passing of time with pencils and backpacks, and soon pumpkins and candy. At church, we return to Sunday School and choir, to TOW and to lectionary sermons.

Even if we’re not going back to school, even if it’s been years since we’ve had a “first day” of school, even if we’ve been at work and church all summer and this is not a time for reentry, this is still a great time for renewal, to dust off our brains, to learn something new, to engage God in a new way.

James writes about teachers, and the scrutiny for those who teach, based mostly on the words they choose. He explains that our speech guides our bodies, the way a bridle guides a horse, or a rudder a ship.

He speaks of the tongue as a small body part that guides the whole and can have the impact of a small fire or a small stain. With our tongues we proclaim both praise and insult. And as springs only produce one type of water and trees only produce one type of fruit, we ought not produce both blessings and curses.

For our own reentry, as we gather together more, in our worship, in our fellowship, in our meetings, in our Bible studies, in our choir rehearsals, in community to choose our words with care—speaking to each other with love, or at least respect, speaking up when we need to and being quiet when we need to . . . remembering the fragile human beings all around us.

It is Wisdom that helps us . . . discern when to raise our voices and when to lower them. In the book of Proverbs, wisdom is personified as a woman. She stands on street corners and public squares crying out to the men. Woman Wisdom stands in direct contrast to another type of woman found in Proverbs: Woman Stranger. This woman also stands on street corners and public squares crying out to the men, but her offer is somewhat different . . .

Woman Wisdom offers knowledge and counsel, offers the fear of God—but if ignored, she offers laughter, mocking, destruction. Wisdom is a path for salvation, for security and ease. Not following her is a path to disaster and dread.

She has a striking amount of power, addressing men in the busiest parts of the city, speaking where judges and prophets speak their condemnations and Prostitutes call out to customers and to ignore her teachings equals death.

Proverbs 3 speaks of Wisdom’s relationship to God and to creation. In the very beginning God acquired her and through her all things came into being. Through and with her, God created the world and placed Wisdom within creation so that people could live in harmony and right relation. She is connected or perhaps the same as that Word that was spoken to create the world. In Greek: the male form of Word is called Logos, the female counterpart is Sophia: Wisdom. It is the spoken Logos that is with God from the beginning who is then born in a manger in Bethlehem. Even in the NT, we find Jesus closely associated with Woman Wisdom.

The figure of Wisdom has close connections to goddesses in Mesopotamia and Egypt. She could be a survival of this tradition. Or she could be a combination of all the positive roles of wives and mothers in Israel, just as Woman Stranger is a synopsis of male fears of female temptation.

Proverbs begins and ends with female imagery, both positive and negative, but it is not a book about or for women. The primary audience is male as the book offers advice about the proper type of wife to acquire in order to have the good life. The original was addressed to “my sons” and even though the NRSV changes this to “my children” it is still far from gender neutral.

Nevertheless, the female imagery provides resources for women readers despite the male-centered perspective . .. .

The wisdom tradition starts with experience, as a way of doing theology. The focus on daily life can offer a way of knowing and being for those who have been largely excluded from participation in the older traditions—in the forming of covenant, prophecy, the canonization of scripture . . .

Wisdom is not just about following set rules and ethics,
Wisdom is a path to God, a mediator, a way, a union.
It is learned through life and experience.
The more we see, the more we do, the more we try, the more we survive, the wiser we become.

It is wisdom that helps us know when to speak and when to keep silence

Helps us form right relationships with God, to live well and simply, to live peacefully and harmoniously, to pay attention to creation, to our experiences, to our practices.

During their last supper, Jesus didn’t tell his disciples what to believe, he told them what to do: for the bread and for the wine, do this and remember me.

Star Wars

Genesis 1:1-5 and John 1: 1-5

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .

There was a complex, multifaceted saga that spanned science fiction, space exploration, technology and most all types of mythology and religion. It was called Star Wars.

These movies essentially chronicle the story of the Skywalker family—the earlier movies detail the lives of the children Luke and Leia, as they meet, and later realize they are twins, and as they battle the evil Dark Lord Darth Vader, who in one of the greatest movie twists of all times, turns out to be their father. The prequels detail the story of Darth Vader before he became evil, when he was called Anakin Skywalker, fell in love with Queen Amidala, and fathered Luke and Leia.

George Lucas, the man behind the movies, interweaves mythological elements from many different cultures and religions: we find echoes of Greek myths, Arthurian legends, and various bits of theology. He covers near universal, archetypal themes of journey, faith, and redemption. We also find more themes of family and friendship, machines and technology, faith, hope—the exploration of humanity—what makes us choose evil or good, and our capacity to have faith in that which we can sense but not see.

In the Bible, both Genesis and John both speak of beginnings, and of the light that has existed since that beginning. In Genesis, the light is a literal light, one that God separates from the darkness to create day and night, sun and moon. In John, the light, is the light of Christ, of the logos who has been with God and is God from the very beginning. In Genesis, the light and the dark are rather equal, things to be separated and balanced so that we can have two good things: day and night. In John, it’s important for the light to have a more powerful and positive quality, so that it is the light of Christ. As John writes: “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.”

In Star Wars there is a constant battle between good and evil, between The Force and the Dark Side of the Force. As Yoda explains: “Fear is the path to the Dark Side: fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” (Episode 1). But both sides are encompassed in the Force. It is the Dark Side of the Force that seduces and destroys Anakin, it is not more powerful, but “quicker, easier, more seductive.” The Dark Side depends on greed, fear, anger, control, but patience, discipline, humility are traits of the Force.

Throughout these films. Lucas explores evil and the capacity that each of us has to be evil. In Christian theology, we refer to this as Free Will and Original Sin. We all make choices, just as Anakin and Luke Skywalker make different choices as to how they will handle the temptations to come over to The Dark Side. As Lucas says, “The film is ultimately about the dark side and the light side, and those sides are designed around compassion and greed. The issue of greed, of getting things and owning things and having things and not being able to let go of things, is the opposite of compassion--of not thinking of yourself all the time.”[1]

Not to spoil the ending, but the light wins. Ultimately, even the most evil, dark character is redeemed: In the end, Darth Vader and Luke battle and Luke says to his father: “I’ve accepted that you were once Anakin Skywalker . . . It is the name of your true self you’ve only forgotten. I know there is still good in you.” Luke finds the good in Vader he knew was always in there somewhere, to his dying father he says: “I can’t leave you I’ve got to save you” His father’s response is: “You already have.” This father is saved through the love and trust of his son, because as far as he had gone into the darkness, there was still good in him, there was still something holy and sacred that could be redeemed.

It’s not always easy to determine a director/producer’s goals when it comes to spiritual themes in a movie. Many times they are not wholly conscious of it either, but in a Time magazine interview with Bill Moyer, George Lucas spoke about his intentional decisions to make the Star Wars movie highly spiritual and theological, if not specifically religious.

Lucas has faced some criticism for supporting a New Age religious view, based on a nebulous divine substance and a faith system based on feelings. Lucas, however, did not set out to create a religion in his galaxy, but to address a basic level of truth found in all religions. He said that in the late 1970s, he was worried that young people were no longer curious about faith, that they were no longer asking if God existed or what God would look like or how God would feel or what God would do and he found that to be truly terrifying. It was his hope that his movies, with their emphasis on good and evil would reawaken that hunger for spirituality. That the Force would inspire kids and adults to wonder about God. He doesn’t pretend to be offering answers in the Star Wars movies, but providing a starting point—a place to ask questions.

Lucas created a cosmology to go along with his galaxy, an ancient belief system that permeated the lives of everyone. Lucas also wasn’t attempting to portray any particular religion, though he does find organized religion to be important: He believes that “Religion is basically a container for faith.” And that he hoped to “awaken a certain kind of spirituality in young people--more a belief in God than a belief in any particular religious system. I wanted to make it so that young people would begin to ask questions about the mystery.”

Even with Light sabers and wookies, ewoks, and death stars—These movies are about The Mystery. The mystery of the evil inside all of us, the mystery of the good inside all of us, the mystery of how we are able to (or not) hold the dichotomies together, and the mystery of the Force, the energy, the divine, the supernatural, the God, that holds it all together.

We may not have the opportunity to battle Sith lords, to fight to save an empire from total corruption, to be the one person who restores balance to the force. Our lives, though full of adventure and important moments, will probably not be such epic stories—and while we may not be able to save the world in a grand gesture, we can each work in small ways.

The choice is the same as Anakin’s, the same as Yoda’s, the same as Luke’s, the same as Obi Wan Kenobi’s, the same as Leia’s, the same as Padmes—we can work with the Force, we can use patience, peace, compassion or we can slide into the Dark Side and use fear, greed, coercion. As Christians, we can use our faith in God, our worship, our praise, our prayers, our good works, our fellowship for justice, compassion, righteousness, mercy, peace, and love. Or we can use it for control, oppression, injustice, fear and anger.

As citizens of the world and the Kingdom of God, as believers, as human beings—how will we use the gift of God’s grace? Will we extend it to others—or will we lord it over them—will we offer it in love or with threats of the gates of hell?

Will we fight against hatred, greed, oppression?

Our Washington Street ancestors did not start out this way. We rarely discuss our history that far back. It’s in the red history book written 20 years ago, but we don’t talk about it much as being a part of who we are.

For those of us who are not as familiar with our history, Washington Street split from Trinity Methodist Episcopal Church (which was just across the street before it moved) over the issue that divided the North from the South in those days: slavery. Slaveholding was not allowed in the Methodist Episcopal Church, so Southern sympathizers formed a new denomination the Methodist Episcopal Church South and Washington Street formed as part of that denomination. Funds for this building were raised from other Southern Methodist congregations who also felt that slavery was a scripturally sound institution. Instead of using their faith to help set the captive free, many Southern Christians insisted that slavery in America was just as God intended human beings to live. In it’s first years Washington Street was not a church that could honestly say it was working against injustice and oppression.

We are certainly not the same church today, but our history serves as a powerful reminder of the Dark Side of faith.

As in our membership vows, may we continue . . . to accept the freedom and power God gives us to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.

Amen.

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[1] http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,990820,00.html

A River Runs Through It

Genesis 4:1-7, Matthew 12:46-50

A River Runs Through It is a movie about fishing and faith—about family and all of the complexities of knowing and yet not understanding our loved ones. It’s also a story of failure: failure to communicate, failure to help, and failure (ultimately) to save.

It’s set in beautiful Montana, with the 1930s life of church, schooling, family dinners, fights, gambling, and speakeasies. It is mostly a story of two brothers, Norman and Paul Maclean and their supporting family and friends. Their father is a Presbyterian minister and their teacher: both in academics and fishing. As the older brother tells the story, he says: “In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.”

It’s not really about a River and not really about fishing. It’s not really about religion either even though the father is a Presbyterian minister and there are lots of scenes in church. On a side note, my Hebrew Bible professor in seminary was both a Presbyterian and an avid fly fisherman. When Norman says, he and his brother were left to assume all great fisherman in the bible were fly fisherman, it’s like Dr. Petersen’s famous lecture in which he attempts to prove that Moses was also a fly fisherman. This lesson came complete with casting lessons for all of us students out on the Emory quad.

In our Genesis reading we had the story of the first brothers, Cain and Abel, and their rivalries before God that ultimately lead to murder.

Norman and Paul MacLean are not exactly like Cain and Abel. They have their rivalries and their fights, but instead of killing his brother, Norman wonders if there was anything he could have done to save Paul from his untimely death—wonders in fact, if it could have been possible to be one’s brother’s keeper. Helping brothers, or mostly not being able to help, is a recurring theme between both Norman and Paul, even Jessie—Norman’s girlfriend tries to get Norman to help her own brother.

But like Cain and Abel, the two brothers are different. Cain tends the fields and Abel raises sheep. Norman travels away for college and Paul stays close to home. Norman becomes a literature professor in Chicago and Paul becomes editor of the local paper. Norman gets married and Paul dates an “unsuitable” woman of a different race. Though they love each other, there is something that inhibits them from truly communicating and understanding each other. After their big fight in the kitchen, (their closest Cain and Abel moment) instead of talking it over and analyzing it, they simply each agree, privately, to be kind to each other again.

If all else fails, if they are disconnected from each other, they can fish, and in fishing, they find away to be together and to communicate their brotherly bond without words. Fishing is an activity that, since childhood, has brought them together. It’s a language they can speak together, to honor their shared childhood and connection.

Their identities, their knowledge of who they are comes to them in different ways, as Norman says: “I knew I was tough because I had been bloodied in battle” “Paul was different. His toughness came from some secret place inside of him. He simply knew he was tougher than anyone alive.”

They are similar though. The MacLean brothers, who fish, who work with words, and yet who fail to understand each other on a fundamental level. And this misunderstanding would not be problematic, but for Norman who wonders if he could have ultimately prevented Paul’s death. His father wonders this too, asking questions about the younger son with a darker, hidden side.

We see Paul’s self-destructive tendencies early on as a child—his desire for danger, for wildness, to push the boundaries—and that only increases as he consumes copious amounts of alcohol in prohibition times, and gambles his way into high stakes debt. Norman observes all of these, joins in at times, and seems unable to intervene in any meaningful way. We are left wondering, with Norman and Rev. Maclean, if Paul could have been saved—if anyone could have done something to alter his path . . .

Toward the end, we see an older Norman, now alone, fishing again—back in the place where it all makes more sense to him and he says: “Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.” Communicating in ways without words—at the river, casting his line.

It’s a melancholy, yet hopeful movie—of carrying those who we love around with us.

We remain mysteries to each other--spouses, children, siblings—who surprise us—either in small or big ways. We can never understand other people the way we understand ourselves, never know exactly what it is like to be someone else, sometimes not really comprehending what it’s actually like to be ourselves.

Sometimes the families we are born into end up not being the best for us.
Sometimes we are adopted into new families early on—
Sometimes we learn to form new families as we get older.

In the gospel, Jesus chooses everyone to be his brothers and sister and mother—not rejecting the family he had—but opening up his family to include the whole world.

Maybe we never truly understand each other—in all the deep nooks and crannies of our identities—But we know that God knows every little details—knows us better than we know ourselves.

In church, we bump into each other, we see each other, we pass the peace, we commune over bread and wine and coffee and cupcakes. But in so many ways we don’t really know each other. We don’t know each others stories, we don’t know each others hurts and scars, we don’t know each others great moments of happiness.
Of course we rely on the grace of Jesus for our salvation, but Jesus also relies on our work: our ministry in his name to all the world.

There’s a certain loneliness in our “developed” world—rich with resources, technology, and yet poor in relationships and love. We are reluctant to open ourselves up to other people to be available to hear their stories to be vulnerable to tell them ours. There are lonely, wounded people sitting all over this room right now. Part of our salvation from this isolation lies in what we can do for each other. The church is God’s best idea for saving the world. And the church is a community of people, a family of believers who work to help save each other, who provide love and support and understanding and the comfort that no matter what, we are never alone, and not just because God loves us, knows us, and is always with us, but because other people also love us, know us, and are always with us: ready to listen, ready to help.
Writer Anne Lammot says the most powerful sermon in the world is two sentences: “Me too.” In the midst of our pain, embarrassment, suffering, humiliation—if another person can look at us and honestly say “me too,” it can save us.
The movie ends with a mixture of geography and mysticism “all things merge into one and a river runs through it.”
We are all one: one people, one family, one loaf of bread—In the name of Jesus Christ.

Buffalo Springfield - For What Its Worth Video by Rab - MySpace Video

For What It’s Worth
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

Buffalo Springfield - For What Its Worth Video by Rab - MySpace Video

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This could be a song about almost any human strife that’s gotten out of hand.
It’s a cry for reasonable thinking in the midst of paraonoia and conflict.

It could be a song about Palm Sunday and Holy Week—a field day for the heat, standing in the street, waving signs, worry about the men with weapons, the ones who will take you away if you step out of line.

It could be a song now about Afghanistan or Iran. Or any of our current political battles: Healthcare Reform, Gun Control—all of the things that divide us by opinion, political party, national loyalty.

It’s a song that seems largely about politics, about the Viet Nam war and the upheaval of the 60s. But the song was written for something a little narrower: the closing of the club Pandora’s Box in West Hollywood, California—that did have to do with local politicians acting against the youth who attended the club, clogging up the main road and not spending very much money—it is still a song that is critical of authority and institution.

For What It’s Worth was written by Stephen Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield. Stills said that the name of the song came about when he presented it to the record company: He said: "I have this song here, for what it's worth, if you want it." Later they decided that should be its name. It is considered the 99th greatest song of all time by Acclaimed Music

Part of what I am discovering in preaching this series, is that there is a certain holiness in film and music: in our cultural art. Now, not all art is sacred, not all art is well-done or meaningful—plenty of movies and songs seem to be cheaply slapped together. But the ones that are genuine communicate something important about who we are that transcends the decades—how we find meaning in our lives and what’s important to us.
It’s pop culture, but it’s also sacred. Scripture, too, says something about who we are and who we were.

A 2006 documentary on Bob Dylan discussed his uncanny ability to name so many universal and timely sentiments. It also talked about how prophetic his music was, especially in the 60s, but it also showed clips of him discussing how he didn’t really feel like he had his thumb on the sentiments of the American people, but was just writing what came to him—almost as if he were channeling these words without understanding their power, and not wanting to take credit for something he didn’t feel he was really doing on purpose.

For What It’s Worth strikes me as a similar situation—a song that ends up speaking to many people, even now, not so much because of the writer, or the band, but because of it’s call to stop and look and listen to the world around us.

Not a child of the 60s myself, this is a song I usually here in movies. It was in both Forrest Gump and Lord of War. In fact, I really like this song, but didn’t know what it was called until Sean Hagan suggested it. Because the title doesn’t appear anywhere in the lyrics, it’s a song that I hear in a movie and think – I love this song, what is it?—and then forget all about it until the next time that it pops up in a movie and I tell myself that I really need to figure out what this song is. So it’s a song that I associate with movie scenes: with olive green choppers flying over a rice field, with soldiers in Vietnam, or protestors in DC.

I’m poaching the following form a news article about the song—because I like the way it’s written—Lewis Black wrote this paragraph about leaving a protest rally and hearing this song play on the radio:

“Music has always been a balm of enormous healing properties for my soul and well-being, but for a half-decade or so around that time, it was also reporting from the front. The relevance was beyond rational and not even rooted in reason. By its very nature, it was not a typed broadside, a considered political opinion, or an ideological speech; it was a chunk of unconscious reaction ripped up from all of us and offered as a way of dealing with all that was going on around us. They were just people; they weren't leaders, but more akin to impressionist poets, offering complex, emotional snapshots of a truly blasted environment. ”

Scripture is also a complex, emotional snapshot—of a moment in history, but with language and grace that transcends the centuries.

The war and strife mentioned in the Bible is real, and particular—actual battles in historical time and space. And yet, when Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for peace and a time for war, that still speaks to us today. Joel tells of beating plowshares into swords, for a battle of judgment against neighboring nations. Isaiah tells of final days, when war will end, when we will beat swords into plowshares.

There is a time to fight and a time to listen
There is a time to act and a time to stand still
There is a time for the things that divide us and a time for the things that bring us closer together

In the midst of conflict, it’s important to remember that our whole lives are not conflict and strife. Paranoia, fear, darkness are not the end of the story. Separation, distrust, division are not the end of the story.

God is not the “man with a gun over there.”

We can all continue in our own battlegrounds, arguing for our opinions, beliefs, and worldviews—we can argue blindly in a “you’re either us for us or against us” kind of way, or we can stop and listen and look at everything around us.

Maybe we don’t all agree on having a government run health care program, but maybe we can agree that all people deserve to have decent care. Maybe we don’t all agree on the path ahead for the church: for The UMC or Washington Street, but maybe we can agree to trust in God’s spirit moving among us. Maybe we don’t all trust each other, but maybe we can each learn to be more trustworthy. Maybe we don’t all agree on all the finer points of theology: but we do believe in all-powerful, all-loving God, who can save us all.