Pastor Nagle
02/27/2005
“Muddy People” Rom 5:1-11 John 4:5-42 The Third Sunday in Lent February 27, 2005
It’s been a stormy time in California lately. Have you kept up with all those landslides? Whole hillsides give way and hundreds of tons of mud sweep over everything in its way. Bury houses and cars, and people. Worst of all, bury people. You know, if there were a landslide, I’d hate to be a rescuer. Not because it’s muddy and messy and sticky hard work. Not even because it’s so emotionally draining. But because, when the landslide covers so many people, it’s hard to know which ones to save. I mean, covered with mud, they all look the same—and how are you to tell which ones deserve saving? It would be nice if they had some identifying mark. And really, those who wear a cross around their neck are easy. I’d know what to do about saving them. But what should we say about the others? There’s an awful lot of people out there. And a lot of people out there who are awful. Awful people. Muddy people.
Today’s gospel story tells of Jesus’ encounter with one such muddy person. Jesus and the disciples were traveling through Samaria, considered by Jews to be a sinful place, a renegade place, a forsaken place. Good Jews were in Samaria only if they couldn’t avoid it. But there they were, Jesus in the center of that town, while the disciples had gone off to get supplies. But Jesus wasn’t all alone. There came a woman to draw water from the well. The long conversation they had forms the bulk of today’s third lesson, a conversation which upset the disciples when they returned. I wonder which one of the disciples whispered into Jesus’ ear, “Lord, in case you haven’t noticed, that’s a woman you’re talking too. And in our society, men don’t talk with women. More than that, Lord, she’s a Samaritan woman.” But Jesus himself said, “Even more than that, she’s been married five times. And probably isn’t a widow. And is living with some man who’s not her legal husband.”
So the disciple probably said, “Well then, Lord, you’d better watch your reputation. Be aware of what people might say if you start associating with people like that. Oh, and Jesus, don’t forget to wash.” But Jesus said, “Which do you mean? Should I wash myself because I have been with her, or wash her because of who I am? And should I wash her body or cleanse her soul?” But the disciple didn’t hear that, let alone understand that, because he was by now moving as far away as he could, lest by touching a muddy person he might become a muddy person himself. And there was some sense to his hasty exit, because no one likes to get muddy. And the risk is that if you’re muddy, if you’re ever too muddy, people won’t be able to tell much about you. If you’re too covered with mud, they won’t be able to figure out if you’re supposed to be rescued or not. Which is ironic, isn’t it—that someone who works so much with muddy people might get so muddy that other rescuers wouldn’t know whether or not to save him.
Of course, mudslides happen in places like southern California or western Carolina. We don’t have to worry about stuff like that here. Except in a symbolic way. When one of life’s hillsides gives way and covers over everything in its path. When something crashes down and sweeps away what seemed normal and usual and nice, making it nasty and awful and deathly quiet. Has something like that ever happened to you? Has it ever happened to someone you know? Can you imagine it happening any time soon? Not a literal landslide, but something that crushes peoples lives, that covers them over, buries them under, where in silence, they wait for someone to rescue them. At work, in the neighborhood, in your extended family, might it ever happen that you’d be present at the right time, or the wrong time, just in time to rescue someone muddy?
If so, what would you do? I’d like to think that you and I would dig in. But you know, I just bought this new pair of shoes, and mud stains. And I’ve worked hard to get my nails looking this good. And I’m really behind at the office and my family likes it when I spend time at home. And besides, what do I know about landslides? Surely there are something like landslide professionals. People who know what to do. People who want to do. Who don’t mind working with muddy people. Do you know where in the phone book you find the number for anybody who doesn’t mind working with muddy people?
It’s interesting to note that, after the Samaritan woman finished talking with Jesus, she ran into her neighborhood to tell people what had just happened. And lots of people ran back to the well to see if Jesus were still there. At least, he was a curiosity. At least, he was a mind-reader. Maybe he was a miracle worker. Should he be identified as a rescue worker? Yes, a professional rescue worker. Unlike us who, at best, are unofficial rescue workers. Maybe even reluctant rescue workers. Not reluctant just because we don’t want to get stained, but well aware of the risk. You know, if the first collapse caused all this trouble, maybe another collapse just like it would trap us. Granted, you have to feel sorry for people whose lives have gotten messed up. But does anybody really expect that we should get messed up helping them? Or even being in the area?
Besides, in the case of really bad landslides, everybody’s probably already dead anyway. That’s not crass so much as realistic. When you’ve had a mountain fall on you, any kind of awful physical, emotional or spiritual mountain, when you’re buried, you might as well die. And if you’re already close to dying, there’s not a lot that I can do. Or care to do for muddy people.
For, what if the troubles are of their own making? I’m sorry that your marriage broke up, but you know, you really did have an illicit affair. I’m sorry your health broke down, but you know, you really didn’t take care of yourself. I’m sorry your kids turned out so badly, but you know, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m sorry you’re all muddy, but maybe you should have thought of that before you lived where landslides are. I’m really sorry for all this, but I just don’t see myself having any responsibility for muddy people. Muddy people I can’t identify, or classify. Because, when people are muddy, you don’t want to save them because you can’t tell what color they are on the outside or what they stand for on the inside, can’t tell if they’re smiling or grumpy, honest or thieving, like us or not.
But the sound of our intellectual discussion is broken by the sound of digging. Not possible survivors digging out, but someone digging in, looking for muddy people. Jesus, looking for muddy people. Activity which causes us some distress. So, which of us should go to whisper in his ear, “Jesus, if you’re not careful, you’re going to get your clothes stained. Jesus, it’s an awful mess here and there’s not much hope. Jesus, if you knew the kind of people who lived where the mud flowed, you’d probably put down your shovel.”
But Jesus says, If you were under all that mud, wouldn’t you want someone to look for you? Well of course, though it seems to us that we wouldn’t be under that mud in the first place. But for the sake of argument, yes, Lord, we’d want someone to come looking for us. Which is precisely what was the subject of today’s second lesson. That Jesus came looking for the muddy. Actually, St. Paul said it this way:
“For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us. Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life.” Saved by. Walked with. Talked to. Washed. Not because we were so good or obedient or holy or righteous, but because we were so muddy. Washed.
Another child of God is being baptized here this morning. Washed. One week after the last child was baptized. Several weeks before the next one. Lots and lots of people get washed here. So many people get washed here that I’ve been told, you know, we could get this baptizing thing done more efficiently. You know, do them all at once so we don’t have to drag it out every week. But you know, washing muddy people isn’t efficient; it happens one person at a time. Again today. With this muddy little guy.
Someone says, “You’d better not let his parents hear you say he’s muddy!” Why, is there a problem with him being muddy? But why else would the waters of baptism be needed to make him clean, if he weren’t muddy? Not as muddy today as next year. Maybe muddier still in a decade or three. Sometimes less muddy, sometimes more. But always living in the threat of mountains that may fall, but always living close to someone who cares enough to search for him. Without knowing how muddy, or why muddy or when, always caring enough to search for him and find him, and hold him close.
Have you always been held close? No, not all of you. Not all of the time. You have been troubled by your spouse, your children, your church, your mind. Trapped under the weight of a world that gave way and buried you. Maybe without warning. Maybe not. Maybe your own fault. Maybe not. Maybe as big a deal as someone else’s. Maybe not. Maybe suffocating, maybe not that bad. But aren’t you glad to know that someone will dig. Will dig for you without stopping until you’re found. Will rejoice and be glad when you’re found.
There’s an awful lot of people out there. And a lot of people out there are awful. Aren’t we. And yet the proclamation of the church is that our Lord comes to dig and care and save and wash and cry and rejoice and claim us as his own. The muddy people of God.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
"Remember This: One Day at a Time"
Pastor Nagle
02/23/2005
“Remember This: One Day at a Time” Job 3:1-26 Psalm 130 Midweek II February 23, 2005
Not every Christmas letter is filled with happy news. Though lots of people brag on their family’s exploits and include pictures of smiling children, I can think of one letter we got this year explaining why there hadn’t been holiday letters for the last couple of years. One surgery and then another, which had to be corrected. And a forced move, with lots of changes from that. One parent dead. Another as good as. Struggling children. Not maudlin. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just not the best of years. And Jesus too, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, said, “You know, this hasn’t been my best year either. Uncertainty. Interpersonal conflicts. Fickle friends. Betrayal. Denial. And did I mention the arrest and the trial and the crucifixion. My soul is very sorrowful.” And we hate to hear that. Not that it upsets us that Jesus was sorrowful, but that if even Jesus had bad days, there surely seems no hope for us.
Have you ever had a bad day? Is this one of them? Are there more of them now than there used to be? And do you come to church to find out what to do about them? I wish I could help. Maybe I can. I’m using these Lenten sermons as a kind of legacy, some thoughts before my retirement in which I remind you about important things. Stuff that could make a difference in life. Looking at your bad day and matching it with Jesus’ bad day to see if there’s any hope of having a good day. Not that there’s any real comparison between you and Jesus. No matter how terrible your past year was, his last Christmas letter had to be worse than yours. Except that he was God. Which gave him some kind of escape hatch. I mean, if you’re God, nothing can really harm you—so how bad can a bad day be. As opposed to our bad days which can be really awful. Awful in their own right, and made more awful because we’re afraid we know how terrible tomorrow is going to be, given our remembrance of how terrible yesterday was. And did you get all that?
I hope so, because that last sentence explains a lot about our view of life, how you handle things. You say you’re having a bad day. It may be an absolutely awful day. That happens. But can you deal with it by itself, as a single moment, instead of talking about how awful tomorrow will be? Even when you remember how awful yesterday was? I think taking each day by itself would help, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you can’t isolate today. You who have suffered dread illness remind me that I myself have not, and you remind me that it’s hard not to expect an awful tomorrow. And you who live with depression remind me that I have not, and that memories from the past and what it was or was not like cannot be easily dismissed with a click of red slipper heels. And those of you who have experienced grief or doubt or hatred are right to say that none of that is like a single and simple 24 hour virus. And you’re right, of course. But in a time of trouble, when you’re having a bad day, it may not be helpful to allow every yesterday and every tomorrow to cloud the importance of this one day. And so I offer this advice: live one day at a time.
Live one day at a time. Not that you ignore the past; it got you where you are. Not that you ignore the future; it will be here very soon. But that you spend your time looking at what’s going on right now. It sounds sensible enough, but I assure you that it’s not how everyone lives. Some people spend so long in the past, reliving the past or wallowing in the past or second-guessing the past or trying to assign blame for and relive grudges from the past, that they don’t pay much attention to the present. And some people put so much emphasis on the future and the pain and trials it will hold, spend so much time and effort on planning how to deal with the pain and trials, try to write a script and assign the roles in what could end up being fiction anyway, even spend so much effort on trying to deal with the day that comes after the day after tomorrow, that they don’t pay attention to what’s happening right now. Can you separate out what’s happening right now? Instead of re-living yesterday or worrying about tomorrow, since today may be the last day you face, doesn’t it deserve its own due?
Well that’s a pretty dark comment, isn’t it? If you’re already morose because of today’s trials and pains, it doesn’t help that I remind you that this day may be your last day. But think about it. How would you spend your last day, your very last day? Did you read that article in the paper, the one that wondered, what would you do with what you know is your last day? How about hang glide. Or get drunk. Maybe call home, or kick up your feet. Re-configure your will. Sleep in. Write thank-you notes. Whatever. But how about using the past as a foundation for the future? How about looking around in the present to make sense out of the past and apply it to the future?
In a wonderfully holy moment, when Jesus was at his sorrowful worst, he asked that God’s will be done. We pray the same thing, don’t we: “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Not that that keeps us from trying to figure out what God’s will is, wondering if we can change it. If we could even understand it. And we don’t really understand it. Though surely it’s not God’s will that we suffer, and yet we do. Surely it’s God’s will that we win, though we don’t. When Jesus said, “Not as I will, but as you will,” had he reached the bottom of his answer box, and had nothing left but to give up or give in? Do you believe everything that happens is God’s will? That how you feel and what I say and whether or not anything comes of it is God’s will?
That night in the Garden of Gethsemane, if Jesus had looked to his left or right, he might have seen a little flower growing. Or listened, and heard a bird chirping. And in all his pain and sorrow, Jesus might have recalled what he said to the disciples some time before—that the lilies of the field are clothed in grandeur and that the birds of the air have both food and nests. That though birds and flowers are small, God knows what each needs and gives it. But that night in Gethsemane, I don’t know that Jesus looked left or right, noticed flowers or birds. Not that I’m trying to change the story or make light of Jesus’ pain. In truth, he may have already understood perfectly well that God does pay attention to what is needed. Pays attention to the little, pays attention to the much. But do you believe that? Do you trust in that?
The cynic says, “Do remember that flowers fade. Do remind people that birds die. Don’t forget that sorrowful Jesus’ bad day got a lot worse.” I haven’t forgotten any of that. But I am comforted by a faith that says God walks with you and me through it all. And that’s not always known. Or remembered. But it occurs to me that, when it seems your life can get no worse, the promise needs to be spoken again and stronger and longer and louder. There are lots of cliches that would make our troubles seem easy and of no matter. But is this a cliché too—that we should live one day at a time?
I find myself at odds with many people when I talk about the will of God, because, in my opinion, it happens entirely too often that people claim that whatever happens in life is God’s will. In fact, though, our doctrine of sin says just the opposite—that lots of things that happen do so in spite of God’s will, and are even in opposition to his will. Not that he can’t stop it, but that we keep on keeping on so much that we take no notice of his efforts to accomplish something new and different. For example, is it God’s will that Johnny, angry at real or perceived mistreatment in the workplace, blew up at his boss, and left work early, spent the last of his money on a gun, drove off to find his estranged wife and, finding her, shot her dead and some around her too, causing grief for lots of people for years to come? That happens, but that’s not God’s will at all. But this may be God’s will—that if you have only one day left to live, you can profitably use it to confront Johnny and tell him the truth about his perceived mistreatment on the job. Or use your time to make sure that the sale of firearms is controlled, or work for counseling to be available and arrange sanctuary for abused spouses. Or you could hold the hand of everyone in every family that has to live with pain and grief.
You say you can’t do all of that? Can you, at least, do some of that? You say you don’t have the knowledge or the strength to do any of that? Then support those who do. And at least tell your own story of awful days to convince others that when awful days exist, there is a need to deal with them. And to anyone and everyone who’s facing a bad day, speak of God who deals with them in a special and particular and loving way. Speak of God who walks with us through each and every day.
The palmist said, “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. O Lord, hear my cry.” And this is the will of the Lord—that whenever you have a bad day, a deep down bad day, you still will know God hears your cry and pays attention to your cry. But that in addition to your own pain, according to his will, God points us in the direction of others’ cries for the sake of enlightenment, so we will know what others are also facing. And that he sends us to others for the sake of service, that we may bear one another’s burdens, and that he uses us for the sake of encouragement, that we may speak a kind and helpful word, and for the sake of consolation, that we may grieve together over what is lost. And that through it all, through our own bad days and the bad days others have too, we may proclaim the constancy of God’s presence. Knowing that if we see the presence of God in this day and every day, there need be no concern about yesterday or fear of tomorrow. May you be sustained by the knowledge of that, and live with as much joy and hope and laughter as you can.
02/23/2005
“Remember This: One Day at a Time” Job 3:1-26 Psalm 130 Midweek II February 23, 2005
Not every Christmas letter is filled with happy news. Though lots of people brag on their family’s exploits and include pictures of smiling children, I can think of one letter we got this year explaining why there hadn’t been holiday letters for the last couple of years. One surgery and then another, which had to be corrected. And a forced move, with lots of changes from that. One parent dead. Another as good as. Struggling children. Not maudlin. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just not the best of years. And Jesus too, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, said, “You know, this hasn’t been my best year either. Uncertainty. Interpersonal conflicts. Fickle friends. Betrayal. Denial. And did I mention the arrest and the trial and the crucifixion. My soul is very sorrowful.” And we hate to hear that. Not that it upsets us that Jesus was sorrowful, but that if even Jesus had bad days, there surely seems no hope for us.
Have you ever had a bad day? Is this one of them? Are there more of them now than there used to be? And do you come to church to find out what to do about them? I wish I could help. Maybe I can. I’m using these Lenten sermons as a kind of legacy, some thoughts before my retirement in which I remind you about important things. Stuff that could make a difference in life. Looking at your bad day and matching it with Jesus’ bad day to see if there’s any hope of having a good day. Not that there’s any real comparison between you and Jesus. No matter how terrible your past year was, his last Christmas letter had to be worse than yours. Except that he was God. Which gave him some kind of escape hatch. I mean, if you’re God, nothing can really harm you—so how bad can a bad day be. As opposed to our bad days which can be really awful. Awful in their own right, and made more awful because we’re afraid we know how terrible tomorrow is going to be, given our remembrance of how terrible yesterday was. And did you get all that?
I hope so, because that last sentence explains a lot about our view of life, how you handle things. You say you’re having a bad day. It may be an absolutely awful day. That happens. But can you deal with it by itself, as a single moment, instead of talking about how awful tomorrow will be? Even when you remember how awful yesterday was? I think taking each day by itself would help, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you can’t isolate today. You who have suffered dread illness remind me that I myself have not, and you remind me that it’s hard not to expect an awful tomorrow. And you who live with depression remind me that I have not, and that memories from the past and what it was or was not like cannot be easily dismissed with a click of red slipper heels. And those of you who have experienced grief or doubt or hatred are right to say that none of that is like a single and simple 24 hour virus. And you’re right, of course. But in a time of trouble, when you’re having a bad day, it may not be helpful to allow every yesterday and every tomorrow to cloud the importance of this one day. And so I offer this advice: live one day at a time.
Live one day at a time. Not that you ignore the past; it got you where you are. Not that you ignore the future; it will be here very soon. But that you spend your time looking at what’s going on right now. It sounds sensible enough, but I assure you that it’s not how everyone lives. Some people spend so long in the past, reliving the past or wallowing in the past or second-guessing the past or trying to assign blame for and relive grudges from the past, that they don’t pay much attention to the present. And some people put so much emphasis on the future and the pain and trials it will hold, spend so much time and effort on planning how to deal with the pain and trials, try to write a script and assign the roles in what could end up being fiction anyway, even spend so much effort on trying to deal with the day that comes after the day after tomorrow, that they don’t pay attention to what’s happening right now. Can you separate out what’s happening right now? Instead of re-living yesterday or worrying about tomorrow, since today may be the last day you face, doesn’t it deserve its own due?
Well that’s a pretty dark comment, isn’t it? If you’re already morose because of today’s trials and pains, it doesn’t help that I remind you that this day may be your last day. But think about it. How would you spend your last day, your very last day? Did you read that article in the paper, the one that wondered, what would you do with what you know is your last day? How about hang glide. Or get drunk. Maybe call home, or kick up your feet. Re-configure your will. Sleep in. Write thank-you notes. Whatever. But how about using the past as a foundation for the future? How about looking around in the present to make sense out of the past and apply it to the future?
In a wonderfully holy moment, when Jesus was at his sorrowful worst, he asked that God’s will be done. We pray the same thing, don’t we: “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Not that that keeps us from trying to figure out what God’s will is, wondering if we can change it. If we could even understand it. And we don’t really understand it. Though surely it’s not God’s will that we suffer, and yet we do. Surely it’s God’s will that we win, though we don’t. When Jesus said, “Not as I will, but as you will,” had he reached the bottom of his answer box, and had nothing left but to give up or give in? Do you believe everything that happens is God’s will? That how you feel and what I say and whether or not anything comes of it is God’s will?
That night in the Garden of Gethsemane, if Jesus had looked to his left or right, he might have seen a little flower growing. Or listened, and heard a bird chirping. And in all his pain and sorrow, Jesus might have recalled what he said to the disciples some time before—that the lilies of the field are clothed in grandeur and that the birds of the air have both food and nests. That though birds and flowers are small, God knows what each needs and gives it. But that night in Gethsemane, I don’t know that Jesus looked left or right, noticed flowers or birds. Not that I’m trying to change the story or make light of Jesus’ pain. In truth, he may have already understood perfectly well that God does pay attention to what is needed. Pays attention to the little, pays attention to the much. But do you believe that? Do you trust in that?
The cynic says, “Do remember that flowers fade. Do remind people that birds die. Don’t forget that sorrowful Jesus’ bad day got a lot worse.” I haven’t forgotten any of that. But I am comforted by a faith that says God walks with you and me through it all. And that’s not always known. Or remembered. But it occurs to me that, when it seems your life can get no worse, the promise needs to be spoken again and stronger and longer and louder. There are lots of cliches that would make our troubles seem easy and of no matter. But is this a cliché too—that we should live one day at a time?
I find myself at odds with many people when I talk about the will of God, because, in my opinion, it happens entirely too often that people claim that whatever happens in life is God’s will. In fact, though, our doctrine of sin says just the opposite—that lots of things that happen do so in spite of God’s will, and are even in opposition to his will. Not that he can’t stop it, but that we keep on keeping on so much that we take no notice of his efforts to accomplish something new and different. For example, is it God’s will that Johnny, angry at real or perceived mistreatment in the workplace, blew up at his boss, and left work early, spent the last of his money on a gun, drove off to find his estranged wife and, finding her, shot her dead and some around her too, causing grief for lots of people for years to come? That happens, but that’s not God’s will at all. But this may be God’s will—that if you have only one day left to live, you can profitably use it to confront Johnny and tell him the truth about his perceived mistreatment on the job. Or use your time to make sure that the sale of firearms is controlled, or work for counseling to be available and arrange sanctuary for abused spouses. Or you could hold the hand of everyone in every family that has to live with pain and grief.
You say you can’t do all of that? Can you, at least, do some of that? You say you don’t have the knowledge or the strength to do any of that? Then support those who do. And at least tell your own story of awful days to convince others that when awful days exist, there is a need to deal with them. And to anyone and everyone who’s facing a bad day, speak of God who deals with them in a special and particular and loving way. Speak of God who walks with us through each and every day.
The palmist said, “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. O Lord, hear my cry.” And this is the will of the Lord—that whenever you have a bad day, a deep down bad day, you still will know God hears your cry and pays attention to your cry. But that in addition to your own pain, according to his will, God points us in the direction of others’ cries for the sake of enlightenment, so we will know what others are also facing. And that he sends us to others for the sake of service, that we may bear one another’s burdens, and that he uses us for the sake of encouragement, that we may speak a kind and helpful word, and for the sake of consolation, that we may grieve together over what is lost. And that through it all, through our own bad days and the bad days others have too, we may proclaim the constancy of God’s presence. Knowing that if we see the presence of God in this day and every day, there need be no concern about yesterday or fear of tomorrow. May you be sustained by the knowledge of that, and live with as much joy and hope and laughter as you can.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
"If You're Asked to Pray for a Drunk"
Pastor Nagle
02/20/2005
“If You’re Asked to Pray for a Drunk” John 3:16 The Second Sunday in Lent February 20, 2005
“Pastor,” she said, “I need to add something to the prayers this morning.” “Of course,” I said. “For whom should I pray?” “For my husband,” she said. “For my drunken no- good husband who has pushed me to the limits. And I want you to ask God to send him to hell if he doesn’t stop.”
The text for this morning is at the conclusion of the gospel lesson. It’s the very familiar John 3:16—what Martin Luther called “the gospel in miniature.” Conceivably, you could throw away a lot of the New Testament and concentrate on this: that God intends the whole world should be saved. A world which, I suppose, includes drunken no-good husbands. Though some suggest that in order for the whole world to be saved, the whole world needs to believe. Shall we suppose that the drunken no-good husband was a believer? Do believers push those around them to the limits? Would anyone accuse you of not being a believer? Would anyone pray for you to become a better believer?
Prayer. That’s the emphasis for our gathering this morning, knowing that we’re supposed to be in conversation with God. A lot of people converse with God about the food they’re ready to eat. A lot of people converse with God about the trials they face in life. A lot of people converse with God about the sickness and pain common to us all. So that we’re all likely to admit that prayer is a good thing. But do you think I should have prayed about the drunken no-good husband, and where he should spend eternity? The doctrine of the church is that God wants everyone in, but that because some people act as if they don’t want to be in, they are in effect out. Some people would challenge that and say that, since we’re all sinners, we’re never likely to get in except through God’s grace. But some people say that for us to get God’s grace, for good things to happen, we need to work at it. But still others say that if you have to work at getting his grace, if you obey and sign on with him, even if you see your love of God as the guarantee of his favor, grace isn’t exactly the gift it was intended to be. Which may be far more theology than some people want to think about. Let me try again.
This morning, should we pray for drunken no-good husbands? Or would it be more right to pray about drunken no-good husbands? Either way, do you think God really notices, or cares? I mean, with a whole world to run, do you suppose God is going to concentrate on your problem? We say he does, we hope he does, but is it right for us to just sort of dump stuff on him, and expect he will handle it, and handle it the way we think he should. Or does he expect us to meet him half way? Or most of the way. Or at least a part of the way. Can I pray and ask God for a cure if I refuse to go to the doctor? Can I pray to God for peace and still pay taxes to finance war? Can I ask God to deal with my drunken husband if my husband drinks because of me? Or should I learn sometimes to sit quietly? If prayer is conversation you have with God, who does most of the talking? And what form should it take? In prayer, should we beg? In prayer, does God scold? In prayer, should we be patient and wait for direction? Would we follow God’s direction if he gave it clearly?
Church people, and even some people outside the church, generally accept John 3:16 as God’s directions. Or as his intentions. That God so loved the world that he wanted to hold an open house in his presence. And that he is far more ready to include people in than to exclude them out. Some people think that includes drunken no-goods. But be careful how you share that thought with people because not everyone agrees about the generosity of God. They say that God has standards. But in saying that, they seem to forget about John 3:17—what comes right after John 3:16. That “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” But what does that mean? That God has no standards, and that there’ll be drunks hanging off the pearly gates? Shouldn’t we pray that God has and maintains standards?
Foolish people insist that God should set standards, when they don’t see that they themselves stand in violation of the standards God has already set. But we still often go to God in prayer and list the sinners, all the people we consider sinners, maybe just to be sure that God knows who of us is faithful and who of us is not. Who of us is obedient and who of us is not. Who of us is holy and who of us is not. And do we pray like that because we think he’ll pay more attention to our petitions if we can convince him of our holiness? That’s what people believe, isn’t it—that God listens to the prayers of pillars of the church more than anyone drunk and no-good?
“Pastor,” she said, “I want you to pray about my husband.” Would I have reacted differently if the husband had asked me to pray for his wife? Should I have accepted the assignment for prayer but checked first to see what wording was expected? If someone asked you to pray for a drunken no-good, what should you do? Figure out who has the problem? Figure out who asks with kindness and who asks with spite? Figure out all the story’s sides? Figure out what other people believe? Figure out what you believe? Because what you believe colors what you pray.
”Pastor, I want you to pray for me and my drunken no-good husband.” OK. But what did you have in mind? “How about, Pray that he stops drinking. Pray that I stop nagging. Pray that he gets strength. Pray that I get patience. Pray that neither one of us is led into temptation. Pray that I see my own faults. Pray that other people are moved to love us. Pray that he and I both find insight into our lives. Pray that I won’t turn against God if my husband doesn’t put down his bottle this very day. Pray that I can love my husband in his troubles as much as God has loved me in mine.” Well, you get the idea. There’s more than one way to pray. But that the first petition that comes to mind may not be the best. Or the most appropriate. Certainly is not the only thing that can be said. About any of the drunks of the world. And they are many.
While some around us are drunk with liquor, some are drunk with power. Some are drunk with ignorance and some are drunk with arrogance. Truth be told, some are drunk with fervor, even religious fervor. And while some people over-consume and become happy drunks, some people turn mean. And selfish. And violent. And petty. And exclusive. Even religious people, who sometimes use John 3:16 as their touchstone for helping God keep people out. I say to you, Beware of people who use scripture as a means of keeping people out. Who pray to God like the Pharisee did and say, Thank you, Lord, that I’m not like that person. Thank you, Lord, that my family isn’t like that one. Thank you, Lord, that my church and my country isn’t like that one. But dear Lord, I pray to you that if my family or church or country ever starts to be like that one, give me a heads-up so I can get out of the way while you cut them down. While you look with horror at those awful people and cut them down. While you smile at me and cut them down in anger. But isn’t an attitude like that simply another example of drunkenness? If you’re ever asked to pray about a drunken no-good, be sure to ask what the drunken no-good prays. For it’s possible we might have to stand in line to get God’s ear.
Is part of the problem that we think we need to approach God first? You know, fully inform him about the state of affairs in our house, and the effect it’s having on us all. Make sure God knows that my no-good drunk is at it again. And ask God to make my life easier. And maybe you don’t see anything wrong with that. Isn’t one part of prayer the idea that we would like our life to be easier? That it is good to be free from pain, free from enemies, free from doubt. Have you ever prayed like that? And is that OK or not? Can’t I pray for myself, or should I always ask that someone else’s way be made easier first? And that if my own way is ever helped, that it comes to me as a bonus?
Pastor, I want you to pray something today, but it’s probably not what you think. Pray that I can know how many people are already praying about me and for me. Not to build up my conceit but to add to my humility. That in my own time of honesty, I can look at myself and say that my selfishness and my righteousness sometimes get in the way, so that I think I’m a virtual cornucopia of prayers poured out for others, when instead I should see myself as a sponge soaking up the love God sends to me.
Lord, my husband’s a drunk. And I’ve got my troubles too. Help us both understand John 3:16—and John 3:17—in such a way that we’re glad you’re willing to keep on talking with us, in prayer. Amen
02/20/2005
“If You’re Asked to Pray for a Drunk” John 3:16 The Second Sunday in Lent February 20, 2005
“Pastor,” she said, “I need to add something to the prayers this morning.” “Of course,” I said. “For whom should I pray?” “For my husband,” she said. “For my drunken no- good husband who has pushed me to the limits. And I want you to ask God to send him to hell if he doesn’t stop.”
The text for this morning is at the conclusion of the gospel lesson. It’s the very familiar John 3:16—what Martin Luther called “the gospel in miniature.” Conceivably, you could throw away a lot of the New Testament and concentrate on this: that God intends the whole world should be saved. A world which, I suppose, includes drunken no-good husbands. Though some suggest that in order for the whole world to be saved, the whole world needs to believe. Shall we suppose that the drunken no-good husband was a believer? Do believers push those around them to the limits? Would anyone accuse you of not being a believer? Would anyone pray for you to become a better believer?
Prayer. That’s the emphasis for our gathering this morning, knowing that we’re supposed to be in conversation with God. A lot of people converse with God about the food they’re ready to eat. A lot of people converse with God about the trials they face in life. A lot of people converse with God about the sickness and pain common to us all. So that we’re all likely to admit that prayer is a good thing. But do you think I should have prayed about the drunken no-good husband, and where he should spend eternity? The doctrine of the church is that God wants everyone in, but that because some people act as if they don’t want to be in, they are in effect out. Some people would challenge that and say that, since we’re all sinners, we’re never likely to get in except through God’s grace. But some people say that for us to get God’s grace, for good things to happen, we need to work at it. But still others say that if you have to work at getting his grace, if you obey and sign on with him, even if you see your love of God as the guarantee of his favor, grace isn’t exactly the gift it was intended to be. Which may be far more theology than some people want to think about. Let me try again.
This morning, should we pray for drunken no-good husbands? Or would it be more right to pray about drunken no-good husbands? Either way, do you think God really notices, or cares? I mean, with a whole world to run, do you suppose God is going to concentrate on your problem? We say he does, we hope he does, but is it right for us to just sort of dump stuff on him, and expect he will handle it, and handle it the way we think he should. Or does he expect us to meet him half way? Or most of the way. Or at least a part of the way. Can I pray and ask God for a cure if I refuse to go to the doctor? Can I pray to God for peace and still pay taxes to finance war? Can I ask God to deal with my drunken husband if my husband drinks because of me? Or should I learn sometimes to sit quietly? If prayer is conversation you have with God, who does most of the talking? And what form should it take? In prayer, should we beg? In prayer, does God scold? In prayer, should we be patient and wait for direction? Would we follow God’s direction if he gave it clearly?
Church people, and even some people outside the church, generally accept John 3:16 as God’s directions. Or as his intentions. That God so loved the world that he wanted to hold an open house in his presence. And that he is far more ready to include people in than to exclude them out. Some people think that includes drunken no-goods. But be careful how you share that thought with people because not everyone agrees about the generosity of God. They say that God has standards. But in saying that, they seem to forget about John 3:17—what comes right after John 3:16. That “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” But what does that mean? That God has no standards, and that there’ll be drunks hanging off the pearly gates? Shouldn’t we pray that God has and maintains standards?
Foolish people insist that God should set standards, when they don’t see that they themselves stand in violation of the standards God has already set. But we still often go to God in prayer and list the sinners, all the people we consider sinners, maybe just to be sure that God knows who of us is faithful and who of us is not. Who of us is obedient and who of us is not. Who of us is holy and who of us is not. And do we pray like that because we think he’ll pay more attention to our petitions if we can convince him of our holiness? That’s what people believe, isn’t it—that God listens to the prayers of pillars of the church more than anyone drunk and no-good?
“Pastor,” she said, “I want you to pray about my husband.” Would I have reacted differently if the husband had asked me to pray for his wife? Should I have accepted the assignment for prayer but checked first to see what wording was expected? If someone asked you to pray for a drunken no-good, what should you do? Figure out who has the problem? Figure out who asks with kindness and who asks with spite? Figure out all the story’s sides? Figure out what other people believe? Figure out what you believe? Because what you believe colors what you pray.
”Pastor, I want you to pray for me and my drunken no-good husband.” OK. But what did you have in mind? “How about, Pray that he stops drinking. Pray that I stop nagging. Pray that he gets strength. Pray that I get patience. Pray that neither one of us is led into temptation. Pray that I see my own faults. Pray that other people are moved to love us. Pray that he and I both find insight into our lives. Pray that I won’t turn against God if my husband doesn’t put down his bottle this very day. Pray that I can love my husband in his troubles as much as God has loved me in mine.” Well, you get the idea. There’s more than one way to pray. But that the first petition that comes to mind may not be the best. Or the most appropriate. Certainly is not the only thing that can be said. About any of the drunks of the world. And they are many.
While some around us are drunk with liquor, some are drunk with power. Some are drunk with ignorance and some are drunk with arrogance. Truth be told, some are drunk with fervor, even religious fervor. And while some people over-consume and become happy drunks, some people turn mean. And selfish. And violent. And petty. And exclusive. Even religious people, who sometimes use John 3:16 as their touchstone for helping God keep people out. I say to you, Beware of people who use scripture as a means of keeping people out. Who pray to God like the Pharisee did and say, Thank you, Lord, that I’m not like that person. Thank you, Lord, that my family isn’t like that one. Thank you, Lord, that my church and my country isn’t like that one. But dear Lord, I pray to you that if my family or church or country ever starts to be like that one, give me a heads-up so I can get out of the way while you cut them down. While you look with horror at those awful people and cut them down. While you smile at me and cut them down in anger. But isn’t an attitude like that simply another example of drunkenness? If you’re ever asked to pray about a drunken no-good, be sure to ask what the drunken no-good prays. For it’s possible we might have to stand in line to get God’s ear.
Is part of the problem that we think we need to approach God first? You know, fully inform him about the state of affairs in our house, and the effect it’s having on us all. Make sure God knows that my no-good drunk is at it again. And ask God to make my life easier. And maybe you don’t see anything wrong with that. Isn’t one part of prayer the idea that we would like our life to be easier? That it is good to be free from pain, free from enemies, free from doubt. Have you ever prayed like that? And is that OK or not? Can’t I pray for myself, or should I always ask that someone else’s way be made easier first? And that if my own way is ever helped, that it comes to me as a bonus?
Pastor, I want you to pray something today, but it’s probably not what you think. Pray that I can know how many people are already praying about me and for me. Not to build up my conceit but to add to my humility. That in my own time of honesty, I can look at myself and say that my selfishness and my righteousness sometimes get in the way, so that I think I’m a virtual cornucopia of prayers poured out for others, when instead I should see myself as a sponge soaking up the love God sends to me.
Lord, my husband’s a drunk. And I’ve got my troubles too. Help us both understand John 3:16—and John 3:17—in such a way that we’re glad you’re willing to keep on talking with us, in prayer. Amen
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
"Remember This: A Single Nail"
Pastor Nagle
02/16/2005
“Remember This: A Single Nail” Micah 6:6-8 Psalm 36 Midweek Lenten Service February 16, 2005
Growing up, did you ever learn this piece of information: that “for want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of a message the battle was lost. For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.” I have no idea what battle is recalled or if there’s even any truth to it. The point is that great things are determined by something simple.
In these weeks just before my retirement, I’m trying to think of things you need to know. Not things never before considered, but significant thoughts that surely color life. And that whole thing about a single nail causing a kingdom to be lost isn’t that much different from the scripture lesson tonight in which Jesus said to his disciples, Who’s the most important person in the world. And some said the pope and some said Bill Gates and some said Time Magazine’s Person of the Year. But Jesus shook his head. And then Jesus said to his disciples, What’s the most significant thing a person could do. And one of them said invent something the world really needs and someone said discover a cure for cancer and someone said make sure there will never be another war. But Jesus shook his head. And he took a basin of water and a towel, and he knelt in front of them and washed their feet. Yet even though the point seems obvious, scripture tells us that the disciples didn’t get it. You get it, don’t you?
Well, maybe you don’t, because if someone asks us who’s the most important person in the whole wide world, we wouldn’t automatically think of a kneeling-down servant. And if someone asks us what is the most important activity in the whole wide world, we wouldn’t automatically think of service. But then, if someone asked us why a kingdom was lost, we wouldn’t think of a simple nail either. But there is a theory—is it the butterfly effect—that says a single small action can cause great effects. That the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can cause an earthquake in China. Some people call that a theory of chaos. I prefer to call it a theory of life. That from a little can come a lot. Can come. Should come. Do you think it will come?
Perhaps it depends on whose feet we’re talking about. Does it seem to anyone else that we have lived such a privileged life that we’ve gotten used to thinking it’s all about us? That we think we have the right to poop in our pants whenever we want? Over the years, that’s an example I have used to illustrate original sin. Not that we talk about Adam and Eve, not that we refer to deep theological thoughts, but I say that original sin is selfishness. And that the emphasis is on self. That I believe I can do anything I want to do, whenever I want to do it, and that I don’t need to have any regard for anyone else. When I’m three weeks old, I can cry or spit up or poop as I wish and not have to think of anyone else, or even ask their forgiveness. And that when I talk in the movies or stay in the passing lane or let my cell-phone ring in church, it’s all about me. Which, if we emphasize “all,” that it’s “all” about me, then we exclude God. Or if not exclude him, then minimize him. Or if not minimize him, pay attention to him only in emergencies. Emergencies which, by the way, are always our own.
But what would life be like if we paid less attention to our own feet and more to the feet of those around us. Not necessarily washing others’ feet to make them clean, but washing others’ feet to give them comfort. Or not washing feet at all, but directing feet, to move people in a right direction. Or not being concerned with feet at all, but that we see ourselves connected with a whole world, both giving and receiving, as children of God. Jesus said to the disciples, What I have done to you, I want you to do to and for others. And yet, even knowing that a kingdom could be torn down or built up by a single nail lost or found, even basking in all the attention we ask for and get, we still insist that we ourselves are too insignificant to make a difference. And at that, Jesus still shakes his head.
The reading from the prophet Micah tells us what it is that God really wants from us: to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God. And we can do that, if we want to do that. But we don’t want to do that. And that’s called sin, even the original sin, choosing to do what we want instead of what we are called and asked and empowered to do. And it all points away from us. To do justice. To work for other people’s rights. To love kindness and not worry about repayment. You know, that doesn’t happen as often as it should. It doesn’t happen in the halls of Congress, it doesn’t happen in the PTA, it doesn’t happen in hospitals or churches or in our own hearts and minds, probably because we’re afraid that we won’t get ours. It’s not recorded in scripture, but when Jesus began to wash the disciples’ feet, some of them surely wondered why he started with Peter. Shouldn’t he have worked alphabetically? And some surely wondered why he spent longer with one disciple than the others. And one surely wondered why the first disciples got hot water and he did not. Or why the first towels were dry and the later ones were damp. No wonder Jesus shook his head, at an attitude that so clearly looks out for the self. Why do you and I worry that we won’t “get ours,” when we hear that Jesus asks all of us to be servants? For if we go and wash someone else’s feet, don’t we suppose others are waiting to wash our feet? No, we don’t suppose that at all, because we know how people think. After all, we ourselves think the same way. Let me get mine first, and then I’ll think about others. But since it happens that we don’t get ours first, we don’t think about others. And that butterfly effect is at work again. That what does or does not happen in a little does or does not happen with a lot. To do justice. To love kindness. To walk humbly with God.
Jesus said to his amazed disciples, If you don’t know what I’m doing with this foot- washing demonstration, how will you ever understand what I’m going to do with the cross. Which is a question still facing us today, only from the other end: if we don’t understand what Jesus did with the cross, why would we ever think of washing others’ feet? And which is the more difficult—washing someone else’s feet or dying on a cross? Who is the greater—someone who serves or someone who expects to be served? Which is the more significant—something huge and commented on or something small and unnoticed? Which is better—to look inward or to look outward? Is it not best of all to walk with God?
But be sure you hear the way the prophet spoke that. Don’t be so puffed up, so religious, so firm in your faith, that you smugly delight in the fact that God is walking with you. That of all the people in the whole world, he walks with you. That of everything that could fill his day, he walks with you. And that you set the pace and choose the direction. Instead, turn it around to say that you and I are to walk with God. And who knows where that will lead. Abraham set out to cross the desert, just because God said so. Noah built an ark, just because God said so. Prophets spoke the Word just because God said so. Mary was the mother of Jesus just because God said so. Could you walk with God? And with his other people? To walk with God’s other people?
That too may be a cause of our discontent. Do you remember when your mother made you take your little brother with you? Do you remember the time when you were asked to sit in the back row instead of the front? Do you remember the time when you had to share the honor of beauty queen or valedictorian or project leader? We crave attention, and delight in thinking it’s all about us. Single us, not plural us. Individual us, not crowd us. My feet. My bowl. My towel. My Jesus. And we are at comfortable ease until Jesus says that we should move our feet, in order to pick up our bowls and our towels and do something significant for others. Not something huge. Not something famous. Not something reportable. Maybe not something noticed. But something significant. Knowing that God is with me when I do it. Which is not a threat but a joy. Not a passing thing but an eternal promise. That he really does walk with us.
That when we say we don’t know where, he walks with us. And when we say we don’t know what, he walks with us. And when we say we don’t know how, he walks with us. But that when we insist we don’t know why, he stops walking and hugs us. And says, Remember this: It’s the little things. For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost. But because of some nails and an awful cross, a kingdom was won. So from a little can come a lot, any way you look at it.
02/16/2005
“Remember This: A Single Nail” Micah 6:6-8 Psalm 36 Midweek Lenten Service February 16, 2005
Growing up, did you ever learn this piece of information: that “for want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of a message the battle was lost. For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.” I have no idea what battle is recalled or if there’s even any truth to it. The point is that great things are determined by something simple.
In these weeks just before my retirement, I’m trying to think of things you need to know. Not things never before considered, but significant thoughts that surely color life. And that whole thing about a single nail causing a kingdom to be lost isn’t that much different from the scripture lesson tonight in which Jesus said to his disciples, Who’s the most important person in the world. And some said the pope and some said Bill Gates and some said Time Magazine’s Person of the Year. But Jesus shook his head. And then Jesus said to his disciples, What’s the most significant thing a person could do. And one of them said invent something the world really needs and someone said discover a cure for cancer and someone said make sure there will never be another war. But Jesus shook his head. And he took a basin of water and a towel, and he knelt in front of them and washed their feet. Yet even though the point seems obvious, scripture tells us that the disciples didn’t get it. You get it, don’t you?
Well, maybe you don’t, because if someone asks us who’s the most important person in the whole wide world, we wouldn’t automatically think of a kneeling-down servant. And if someone asks us what is the most important activity in the whole wide world, we wouldn’t automatically think of service. But then, if someone asked us why a kingdom was lost, we wouldn’t think of a simple nail either. But there is a theory—is it the butterfly effect—that says a single small action can cause great effects. That the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can cause an earthquake in China. Some people call that a theory of chaos. I prefer to call it a theory of life. That from a little can come a lot. Can come. Should come. Do you think it will come?
Perhaps it depends on whose feet we’re talking about. Does it seem to anyone else that we have lived such a privileged life that we’ve gotten used to thinking it’s all about us? That we think we have the right to poop in our pants whenever we want? Over the years, that’s an example I have used to illustrate original sin. Not that we talk about Adam and Eve, not that we refer to deep theological thoughts, but I say that original sin is selfishness. And that the emphasis is on self. That I believe I can do anything I want to do, whenever I want to do it, and that I don’t need to have any regard for anyone else. When I’m three weeks old, I can cry or spit up or poop as I wish and not have to think of anyone else, or even ask their forgiveness. And that when I talk in the movies or stay in the passing lane or let my cell-phone ring in church, it’s all about me. Which, if we emphasize “all,” that it’s “all” about me, then we exclude God. Or if not exclude him, then minimize him. Or if not minimize him, pay attention to him only in emergencies. Emergencies which, by the way, are always our own.
But what would life be like if we paid less attention to our own feet and more to the feet of those around us. Not necessarily washing others’ feet to make them clean, but washing others’ feet to give them comfort. Or not washing feet at all, but directing feet, to move people in a right direction. Or not being concerned with feet at all, but that we see ourselves connected with a whole world, both giving and receiving, as children of God. Jesus said to the disciples, What I have done to you, I want you to do to and for others. And yet, even knowing that a kingdom could be torn down or built up by a single nail lost or found, even basking in all the attention we ask for and get, we still insist that we ourselves are too insignificant to make a difference. And at that, Jesus still shakes his head.
The reading from the prophet Micah tells us what it is that God really wants from us: to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God. And we can do that, if we want to do that. But we don’t want to do that. And that’s called sin, even the original sin, choosing to do what we want instead of what we are called and asked and empowered to do. And it all points away from us. To do justice. To work for other people’s rights. To love kindness and not worry about repayment. You know, that doesn’t happen as often as it should. It doesn’t happen in the halls of Congress, it doesn’t happen in the PTA, it doesn’t happen in hospitals or churches or in our own hearts and minds, probably because we’re afraid that we won’t get ours. It’s not recorded in scripture, but when Jesus began to wash the disciples’ feet, some of them surely wondered why he started with Peter. Shouldn’t he have worked alphabetically? And some surely wondered why he spent longer with one disciple than the others. And one surely wondered why the first disciples got hot water and he did not. Or why the first towels were dry and the later ones were damp. No wonder Jesus shook his head, at an attitude that so clearly looks out for the self. Why do you and I worry that we won’t “get ours,” when we hear that Jesus asks all of us to be servants? For if we go and wash someone else’s feet, don’t we suppose others are waiting to wash our feet? No, we don’t suppose that at all, because we know how people think. After all, we ourselves think the same way. Let me get mine first, and then I’ll think about others. But since it happens that we don’t get ours first, we don’t think about others. And that butterfly effect is at work again. That what does or does not happen in a little does or does not happen with a lot. To do justice. To love kindness. To walk humbly with God.
Jesus said to his amazed disciples, If you don’t know what I’m doing with this foot- washing demonstration, how will you ever understand what I’m going to do with the cross. Which is a question still facing us today, only from the other end: if we don’t understand what Jesus did with the cross, why would we ever think of washing others’ feet? And which is the more difficult—washing someone else’s feet or dying on a cross? Who is the greater—someone who serves or someone who expects to be served? Which is the more significant—something huge and commented on or something small and unnoticed? Which is better—to look inward or to look outward? Is it not best of all to walk with God?
But be sure you hear the way the prophet spoke that. Don’t be so puffed up, so religious, so firm in your faith, that you smugly delight in the fact that God is walking with you. That of all the people in the whole world, he walks with you. That of everything that could fill his day, he walks with you. And that you set the pace and choose the direction. Instead, turn it around to say that you and I are to walk with God. And who knows where that will lead. Abraham set out to cross the desert, just because God said so. Noah built an ark, just because God said so. Prophets spoke the Word just because God said so. Mary was the mother of Jesus just because God said so. Could you walk with God? And with his other people? To walk with God’s other people?
That too may be a cause of our discontent. Do you remember when your mother made you take your little brother with you? Do you remember the time when you were asked to sit in the back row instead of the front? Do you remember the time when you had to share the honor of beauty queen or valedictorian or project leader? We crave attention, and delight in thinking it’s all about us. Single us, not plural us. Individual us, not crowd us. My feet. My bowl. My towel. My Jesus. And we are at comfortable ease until Jesus says that we should move our feet, in order to pick up our bowls and our towels and do something significant for others. Not something huge. Not something famous. Not something reportable. Maybe not something noticed. But something significant. Knowing that God is with me when I do it. Which is not a threat but a joy. Not a passing thing but an eternal promise. That he really does walk with us.
That when we say we don’t know where, he walks with us. And when we say we don’t know what, he walks with us. And when we say we don’t know how, he walks with us. But that when we insist we don’t know why, he stops walking and hugs us. And says, Remember this: It’s the little things. For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost. But because of some nails and an awful cross, a kingdom was won. So from a little can come a lot, any way you look at it.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
"When the Snowstorm Hits Eden"
Pastor Nagle
02/13/2005
“When the Snowstorm Hits Eden” Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7 Mt 4:1-11 The First Sunday in Lent February 13, 2005
They’ve finally taken it off their website, but for a long time, a local television station had an open forum where people could comment on the traffic problems during last month’s paralyzing snow and ice storm. One day, I thought it would be fun to read those comments—never realizing that they would stretch to over 18 pages. Email after email full of blame and fury. Blistering comments about who was responsible for the gridlock. You remember the gridlock; maybe you were caught in the gridlock. Do you know who was at fault? I’ll tell you who! Yankees who think they’re the only drivers on the road. Southerners who distract the Yankees. The mayor was at fault. The school system was at fault. Nervous parents, high school drivers, cell phone companies, taxpayers who are too cheap to buy plows—the list went on and on. And maybe those who tried to assign the blame were right, maybe not. But in the end they seemed to feel better about their life, after making it clear who messed things up in the first place.
Such was the fallout from this morning’s first lesson. The finger-pointing wasn’t heard this morning; it comes in the verses that follow. But you well recall that Adam blamed Eve and Eve blamed the serpent and the serpent would have blamed God except that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Literally. It’s the stuff some lawyers would love: Let’s sue everybody. Except for ourselves, of course, for we are never at fault. Not in any serious way, that is. We’re certainly not as responsible or as irresponsible as everyone around us. But like it or not, it’s a fact that a snowstorm in Eden is upsetting.
Which makes it a huge metaphor, I suppose. That sometimes in life, we get stuck. It may or may not have been expected. It may or may not be rectified. It may or may not be our fault. But when we get stuck, we can’t move. And when we can’t move, we can’t get where we want to be. And when we can’t get where we want to be, we’re frustrated. And angry. And more than willing to lash out at anyone and everyone around us. Have you ever been stuck in life? Are you stuck right now? What has you stuck this time may be different from what got you stuck some other time. The problems we face this time might not have been problems another time. But when life is gridlocked, when nobody’s moving, when life shuts down, there’s a problem. And any time I have a problem, I’m not happy. And when I’m not happy, somebody’s got to be held accountable. But since I’m not likely to hold myself accountable, I guess we’ll have to agree that it’s all your fault. And that’s what we call original sin.
Original sin. The snowstorms that come to Eden. The trouble that’s always been around. The problems that have always messed up life. The stuff that separates us from God. It all stems from selfishness—the idea that there’s no one in the world more important than I. And that for reasons of pride and security and strength, I can do what I want because I need to take care of myself. Never sure that anyone else will take care of me, I need to please me and look out for myself. Which makes one of the task force recommendations so impossible to carry out. You know what they said? To prevent gridlock, make sure you don’t block the intersection. Which makes perfect sense, but it won’t ever happen, because I think no one else is as important as I am, and if it seems to me that I can force my way past you through a light so close to turning red, if I can squeeze my too-big car into that too-little space, if I can get a jump on everyone else, I’m going to try it, just because I can. And besides, if I don’t block the intersection, someone else will. And just there is the selfishness and the temptation.
Temptation. It was a theme in our scripture lessons this morning. Adam and Eve knew about it in Eden. Jesus knew about it in the wilderness, when in a time of deep turmoil, he was confronted by Satan. Satanos is a Greek word that means The Tempter. Now, I see no need to describe temptation further. You know how it happens. In life, you’re given choices, and have to decide what direction you should take. So in the gospel story, Jesus was faced with choices. In the first one, he could have decided to care for his own needs, turning away from anyone and everything else in order to be totally self-sufficient. Do you know someone who is self-sufficient? Nothing totally wrong with that, but the danger is in becoming so impressed looking at yourself that you forget to see anyone else. But Jesus decided to worry less about himself and give more to others. And later, when he was offered the choice of whether or not to get conceited and make himself look good, Jesus decided in favor of humility. You know, it’s nice to be loved and honored and have people think you’re worth something. The problem comes when you start to believe what other people say, even when you know it isn’t true. And when you start to think that other people really are lucky to have known you. But making yourself look good at the expense of others is as wrong as the third temptation Jesus faced—the whole matter of setting the wrong priorities in life. While he could have chosen power and might and importance, Jesus turned down that temptation too, saying, Having all the kingdoms of the world, all the power in the world, all of everything in the world doesn’t come close to what’s really important. That’s what Jesus said. And scripture seems to tell us that we should follow that example of selflessness, instead of selfishness.
So when it’s time for a task force to formulate rules about how to deal with life’s storms and their potential gridlock in life, maybe all it needs to say is this: remember that it’s not all about you. Which seems harsh to some people who think it really is all about noticing and preserving and applauding them, over against the rest of the world which doesn’t seem to understand that and gets in the way. But if you can get rid of the temptation to assign blame—blame for your severe pain, blame for your broken marriage, blame for your job performance, blame for your addiction, blame for getting stuck, blame for getting in the way—how different life might appear.
And someone says, Hold on here. You want me to take responsibility for things. But for years, the trouble has been that I have been accepting responsibility. For everything. And my psychiatrist has finally gotten me to see that not everything is my fault. OK. There’s a fine line here. Not everything is your fault, and there’s no reason for you to be depressed over issues that aren’t really yours. Remember that it really isn’t all about you. But also remember that some things are your fault, and maturity and wisdom will help you see which those are. Sometimes, you started the problem, or you kept on with the problem, or you were happy to escalate the problem, because there’s something sinfully sweet about holding on to the sense that if others can be faulted, you need not be. Blaming others: it’s a matter of venom. The people who emailed the television station were generally full of venom. Angry, hateful, spiteful, poisonous venom which comes from the serpents we let run our lives. Is there something poisoning your life right now? Is there a snake in your Eden? Or a storm? Or an issue? And is it you? The temptation may come from outside you, but it’s addressed to you. And just there is the problem. What are you going to do about it?
In the gospel today, Jesus said, “Away with you, Satan.” And it all sounds so simple. When you’re faced with a temptation, any temptation, just turn away. But it’s never that easy, is it, especially since we’re talking about the troubles of life. Saying “Away with you, Satan” is more than just passing up a fattening dessert. It’s a matter of deciding who and what is ultimately in charge of your life. Jesus said, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him,” because he knew that once we start worshipping God, we’ll stop worshipping ourselves. Not that you ever worship yourself, exactly. But when you think that your highways should be free and clear of every obstruction, when you think others should give in to you, when you think that others are the root of your troubles, when you think that you are perfection and perfection is you, that comes pretty close to worship.
Which was the situation in Eden. Adam and Eve, everyone ever born, we all think the world revolves around us. Or should. And we bristle at the idea that we can’t do what we want. Even when what we want is ultimately harmful to us. When something better could be beneficial to us. For example, when God said, I don’t want you to eat from that tree in the center of the garden, he meant that he didn’t want us to have knowledge of good and evil. Was happy to give us knowledge of good, but didn’t want us to have knowledge of evil. But he knew that when we went too far looking for good, we’d see that the absence of good is evil. Would see that the absence of hope is despair. That the absence of joy is sadness. That the absence of life is death. Which is just what Adam and Eve found out in Eden. And isn’t that where trouble sometimes comes from—that we know too much? And that once the troubles are in front of us, that we have to decide how to deal with them? And that we don’t always deal with them well? That we don’t always deal with life well? The problem with the traffic gridlock was not the snow. It was with the way we dealt with the snow. The problems in life are not money or authority or sexuality or parenting or guilt or even temptation, but how we deal with money or authority or guilt or temptation. And the biggest temptation is to blame.
Because if we can blame someone else for what happens and the way things are, we can deny the responsibility we were meant to take. And we can maintain the fiction that we ourselves have no wrong, and are perfect. But if we have no wrong and are perfect, then why would we need God? The truth is that sometimes we act as if we don’t need God, and that’s what got Adam and Eve in trouble in the first place. So that, like them, whenever we deny the responsibility we should take, whenever we put the blame on others, whenever we fail to see what God intends, we’ve messed it up. And Eden no longer exists. If it ever did exist for us. Though it can exist for us, if we would turn again to God who in this Lenten season reminds us of what we should and should not do, reminds us of what we can and cannot do, and walks with us while we try to make sense of it all.
You know, we’re tempted to say that if Adam and Eve had just listened to God, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. We’re tempted to say that life’s problems are really their fault. But then, that’s what other people say about us, isn’t it? And are they right?
02/13/2005
“When the Snowstorm Hits Eden” Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7 Mt 4:1-11 The First Sunday in Lent February 13, 2005
They’ve finally taken it off their website, but for a long time, a local television station had an open forum where people could comment on the traffic problems during last month’s paralyzing snow and ice storm. One day, I thought it would be fun to read those comments—never realizing that they would stretch to over 18 pages. Email after email full of blame and fury. Blistering comments about who was responsible for the gridlock. You remember the gridlock; maybe you were caught in the gridlock. Do you know who was at fault? I’ll tell you who! Yankees who think they’re the only drivers on the road. Southerners who distract the Yankees. The mayor was at fault. The school system was at fault. Nervous parents, high school drivers, cell phone companies, taxpayers who are too cheap to buy plows—the list went on and on. And maybe those who tried to assign the blame were right, maybe not. But in the end they seemed to feel better about their life, after making it clear who messed things up in the first place.
Such was the fallout from this morning’s first lesson. The finger-pointing wasn’t heard this morning; it comes in the verses that follow. But you well recall that Adam blamed Eve and Eve blamed the serpent and the serpent would have blamed God except that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Literally. It’s the stuff some lawyers would love: Let’s sue everybody. Except for ourselves, of course, for we are never at fault. Not in any serious way, that is. We’re certainly not as responsible or as irresponsible as everyone around us. But like it or not, it’s a fact that a snowstorm in Eden is upsetting.
Which makes it a huge metaphor, I suppose. That sometimes in life, we get stuck. It may or may not have been expected. It may or may not be rectified. It may or may not be our fault. But when we get stuck, we can’t move. And when we can’t move, we can’t get where we want to be. And when we can’t get where we want to be, we’re frustrated. And angry. And more than willing to lash out at anyone and everyone around us. Have you ever been stuck in life? Are you stuck right now? What has you stuck this time may be different from what got you stuck some other time. The problems we face this time might not have been problems another time. But when life is gridlocked, when nobody’s moving, when life shuts down, there’s a problem. And any time I have a problem, I’m not happy. And when I’m not happy, somebody’s got to be held accountable. But since I’m not likely to hold myself accountable, I guess we’ll have to agree that it’s all your fault. And that’s what we call original sin.
Original sin. The snowstorms that come to Eden. The trouble that’s always been around. The problems that have always messed up life. The stuff that separates us from God. It all stems from selfishness—the idea that there’s no one in the world more important than I. And that for reasons of pride and security and strength, I can do what I want because I need to take care of myself. Never sure that anyone else will take care of me, I need to please me and look out for myself. Which makes one of the task force recommendations so impossible to carry out. You know what they said? To prevent gridlock, make sure you don’t block the intersection. Which makes perfect sense, but it won’t ever happen, because I think no one else is as important as I am, and if it seems to me that I can force my way past you through a light so close to turning red, if I can squeeze my too-big car into that too-little space, if I can get a jump on everyone else, I’m going to try it, just because I can. And besides, if I don’t block the intersection, someone else will. And just there is the selfishness and the temptation.
Temptation. It was a theme in our scripture lessons this morning. Adam and Eve knew about it in Eden. Jesus knew about it in the wilderness, when in a time of deep turmoil, he was confronted by Satan. Satanos is a Greek word that means The Tempter. Now, I see no need to describe temptation further. You know how it happens. In life, you’re given choices, and have to decide what direction you should take. So in the gospel story, Jesus was faced with choices. In the first one, he could have decided to care for his own needs, turning away from anyone and everything else in order to be totally self-sufficient. Do you know someone who is self-sufficient? Nothing totally wrong with that, but the danger is in becoming so impressed looking at yourself that you forget to see anyone else. But Jesus decided to worry less about himself and give more to others. And later, when he was offered the choice of whether or not to get conceited and make himself look good, Jesus decided in favor of humility. You know, it’s nice to be loved and honored and have people think you’re worth something. The problem comes when you start to believe what other people say, even when you know it isn’t true. And when you start to think that other people really are lucky to have known you. But making yourself look good at the expense of others is as wrong as the third temptation Jesus faced—the whole matter of setting the wrong priorities in life. While he could have chosen power and might and importance, Jesus turned down that temptation too, saying, Having all the kingdoms of the world, all the power in the world, all of everything in the world doesn’t come close to what’s really important. That’s what Jesus said. And scripture seems to tell us that we should follow that example of selflessness, instead of selfishness.
So when it’s time for a task force to formulate rules about how to deal with life’s storms and their potential gridlock in life, maybe all it needs to say is this: remember that it’s not all about you. Which seems harsh to some people who think it really is all about noticing and preserving and applauding them, over against the rest of the world which doesn’t seem to understand that and gets in the way. But if you can get rid of the temptation to assign blame—blame for your severe pain, blame for your broken marriage, blame for your job performance, blame for your addiction, blame for getting stuck, blame for getting in the way—how different life might appear.
And someone says, Hold on here. You want me to take responsibility for things. But for years, the trouble has been that I have been accepting responsibility. For everything. And my psychiatrist has finally gotten me to see that not everything is my fault. OK. There’s a fine line here. Not everything is your fault, and there’s no reason for you to be depressed over issues that aren’t really yours. Remember that it really isn’t all about you. But also remember that some things are your fault, and maturity and wisdom will help you see which those are. Sometimes, you started the problem, or you kept on with the problem, or you were happy to escalate the problem, because there’s something sinfully sweet about holding on to the sense that if others can be faulted, you need not be. Blaming others: it’s a matter of venom. The people who emailed the television station were generally full of venom. Angry, hateful, spiteful, poisonous venom which comes from the serpents we let run our lives. Is there something poisoning your life right now? Is there a snake in your Eden? Or a storm? Or an issue? And is it you? The temptation may come from outside you, but it’s addressed to you. And just there is the problem. What are you going to do about it?
In the gospel today, Jesus said, “Away with you, Satan.” And it all sounds so simple. When you’re faced with a temptation, any temptation, just turn away. But it’s never that easy, is it, especially since we’re talking about the troubles of life. Saying “Away with you, Satan” is more than just passing up a fattening dessert. It’s a matter of deciding who and what is ultimately in charge of your life. Jesus said, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him,” because he knew that once we start worshipping God, we’ll stop worshipping ourselves. Not that you ever worship yourself, exactly. But when you think that your highways should be free and clear of every obstruction, when you think others should give in to you, when you think that others are the root of your troubles, when you think that you are perfection and perfection is you, that comes pretty close to worship.
Which was the situation in Eden. Adam and Eve, everyone ever born, we all think the world revolves around us. Or should. And we bristle at the idea that we can’t do what we want. Even when what we want is ultimately harmful to us. When something better could be beneficial to us. For example, when God said, I don’t want you to eat from that tree in the center of the garden, he meant that he didn’t want us to have knowledge of good and evil. Was happy to give us knowledge of good, but didn’t want us to have knowledge of evil. But he knew that when we went too far looking for good, we’d see that the absence of good is evil. Would see that the absence of hope is despair. That the absence of joy is sadness. That the absence of life is death. Which is just what Adam and Eve found out in Eden. And isn’t that where trouble sometimes comes from—that we know too much? And that once the troubles are in front of us, that we have to decide how to deal with them? And that we don’t always deal with them well? That we don’t always deal with life well? The problem with the traffic gridlock was not the snow. It was with the way we dealt with the snow. The problems in life are not money or authority or sexuality or parenting or guilt or even temptation, but how we deal with money or authority or guilt or temptation. And the biggest temptation is to blame.
Because if we can blame someone else for what happens and the way things are, we can deny the responsibility we were meant to take. And we can maintain the fiction that we ourselves have no wrong, and are perfect. But if we have no wrong and are perfect, then why would we need God? The truth is that sometimes we act as if we don’t need God, and that’s what got Adam and Eve in trouble in the first place. So that, like them, whenever we deny the responsibility we should take, whenever we put the blame on others, whenever we fail to see what God intends, we’ve messed it up. And Eden no longer exists. If it ever did exist for us. Though it can exist for us, if we would turn again to God who in this Lenten season reminds us of what we should and should not do, reminds us of what we can and cannot do, and walks with us while we try to make sense of it all.
You know, we’re tempted to say that if Adam and Eve had just listened to God, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. We’re tempted to say that life’s problems are really their fault. But then, that’s what other people say about us, isn’t it? And are they right?
Tuesday, February 8, 2005
"Remember This: Keep Your Fork"
Pastor Nagle
02/08/2005
“Remember This: Keep Your Fork” Genesis 3:16-21 Ash Wednesday February 9, 2005
It’s the perfect biblical text for someone who is only weeks away from retirement. Dust you were, and to dust you shall return. For anyone who thinks more highly of himself than he ought to think, it seems an appropriate put-down, something similar to that picture of putting your hand in a bucket of water, and removing it, only to find that you left no impression at all. Not that I’m begging anyone to say that I have left an impression, but I view the chance to preach during this Lenten season as a time of summing up. A chance to remind people what ought to be primary in life. A checklist of things to remember. And tonight’s text is a good one: remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Pondering those words, I dare say you could push yourself into a fairly dark mood. Indeed, some of you at best only endure the seeming morbidity of Lent while you wait for the joy of Easter. In your mind, there’s entirely too much made of the dust in the text and the ash on your forehead. More than one person equates our dusty text with the bumper sticker words that say life stinks, and then you die. But I’m not at all sure that’s accurate. Certainly, it’s not helpful.
It is true that Adam and Eve heard God’s dusty punishment given to them because of their disobedience in the Garden. You’ll have to figure out for yourself what that disobedience was. Apples and trees and serpents and blame aside, my own understanding is that Adam and Eve got too big for their fig leaves. Quite forgetting that they were created, they liked to think of themselves as being in charge. Understandably miffed, God reminded them of their humble beginning and put their existence into perspective. And here is one way to speak of it all: that it’s not all about you.
Granted, when you were born, your grandmother showed off ten million pictures of you. And everyone applauded at your first correct use of the toilet. And your parents spent thousands of dollars to get your teeth fixed and the congregation stood when you walked down the aisle and you got a bonus for the excellent work that got you written up in the company newspaper and your hole in one was congratulated by your friends. But that kind of self-praise isn’t God’s doing. In fact, all that praise worked against what God had in mind. Did you ever know someone who, quite used to being the star of the show, burned out when the spotlight was turned off? Did you ever know someone who sought counseling, certain that love received was love undeserved? Did you ever know someone quite insufferable because she never stopped talking about herself? Remember this: that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. But that that’s not bad. For, if God once made you and me from dust, can he not do it all again?
Which puts a whole new construction on this Lenten theme. Not that we emphasize our poor and pitiful life. But that we see the chance to put our poor and pitiful life behind us, in the full expectation that God will reshape us and bring us new life. Right? I mean, he formed us once. Can he not reform us? And, in the light of Easter still six weeks away, is that not his promise—that he will give us new life? That’s the good news promise of the church. That’s what we always ought to be saying to the depressed and the grieving, to the young and the unsure, to the rejected and the unfulfilled. That though life surely seems like dust, it’s when it’s dustiest that good stuff can and will happen. The only thing standing in the way is our insistence that our old life has been so wonderful, so successful, so pleasing to us and the entire world that we have no intention of giving it up. And that, instead of hurrying on to our second dust, we fight to maintain how our first dust has been.
Not that our fight to maintain the status quo will put God off. If we think we’re strong enough and able enough to have things our own way, we’re not much different than Adam and Eve. But the promise of God comes even if we block the way. Our blockage may keep us from accepting the promise, but the assurance is there. And always has been. So that we look at Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden and hear that God didn’t exterminate them, but kept them alive in the world. Things weren’t exactly as they had been, but at least things were. There will always be consequences, but there will always be life. And when Adam and Eve’s son Cain killed their son Abel, God was rightly angry and punished the murderer. But remember that the mark God put on Cain wasn’t a punishment, but a reminder to all who would see him that this Cain, this violent and awful Cain, was still claimed by and cared for by God. That God wasn’t finished with his creation. That God is never finished with his creation. Dust you are. Dust you will always be. And dust is the stuff from which God makes things. And that can make every new day exciting—to see what God will make of it. Even when what has led up to second dust has been awful, to see what God will come up with next. It’s like the lady with the fork.
Thanks to you, when I open my email every day I get all the latest sermon illustrations to show off in new ways what it is we should remember about God and his people. Some of them are new to me; I haven’t seen them before. Some of them I have seen so many times that they seem like old friends. I hesitate to estimate how many of you have emailed me about the woman who insisted that when she died, when she lay in her coffin, she wanted a fork placed in her hand. Dumbfounded, both the funeral director and her pastor asked why. And she said, At suppertime, when all had been served and most had been eaten, when the dishes were being cleared, it was always a treat to hear the words, Keep your fork. For that meant more was coming. Something I wanted. Something I needed. Something that would please me. I was to keep my fork because we weren’t done yet. So the woman said, When I die, I want you to put a fork in my hand as a testimony to everybody around me that I know, that I firmly believe, that we’re not done yet. That something good is yet to come. Which is just what I’ve been saying, That though you return to dust, you shouldn’t be all that upset about it, because God makes things from dust, and you’re next on his creation list. The only thing that isn’t known is exactly what use he’ll make of you next.
So that we can take some time in this season of Lent to examine, to prioritize, to see what has been good and what can be given up. To see what points us to creative God and what blocks us from his gift. Even to change our attitude from piling up everything in this life, knowing that the best may be to come. To be open to God at every step of the way to see what use he will make of us. Not even waiting until our death or our retirement or our next relocation or our high school graduation, but to know that God is always recreating, reshaping, repointing, reclaiming, redirecting our dusty selves into something finer. Oh, we claim to be perfectly happy with what we’ve got and how we are. But is that because we don’t know what will be? The person who ate a tomato for the first time took a risk, but is there something ahead, just beyond your sight, that will delight you? And if not that experience on that day, to expect something the next day or the one after that. I have no timetable for when God will re-shape you, but I do know that God walks with us through it all.
In my last weeks before retirement, forgive me for thinking that I have to come up with some sort of death-bed wisdom for all my children to recall. It could smack of dramatics and sentimentalism and one last chance to enlighten before my poor flame goes out. But I’ve been asked to take what I believe and what I have proclaimed and make it short and clear. So this is something to remember—that God walks with us through every day of our existence. Known by us or not, it is so. Pleased by that or not, it is so. He walks with us, always moving us on to something new. Something new. Something scary. Something new. Something unimagined. Something new. Something uncomfortable. Something new. Something delightful. And it all happens best and fastest when you place yourself in his hand and admit that creation isn’t up to you. When you see that, as first-life was a gift, so new life will be a gift too. When we refuse to see dust to dust as something morbid, but as something promising. And when we keep our fork close by us, as testimony to it all.
Dust we are and to dust we shall return. Lucky us.
02/08/2005
“Remember This: Keep Your Fork” Genesis 3:16-21 Ash Wednesday February 9, 2005
It’s the perfect biblical text for someone who is only weeks away from retirement. Dust you were, and to dust you shall return. For anyone who thinks more highly of himself than he ought to think, it seems an appropriate put-down, something similar to that picture of putting your hand in a bucket of water, and removing it, only to find that you left no impression at all. Not that I’m begging anyone to say that I have left an impression, but I view the chance to preach during this Lenten season as a time of summing up. A chance to remind people what ought to be primary in life. A checklist of things to remember. And tonight’s text is a good one: remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Pondering those words, I dare say you could push yourself into a fairly dark mood. Indeed, some of you at best only endure the seeming morbidity of Lent while you wait for the joy of Easter. In your mind, there’s entirely too much made of the dust in the text and the ash on your forehead. More than one person equates our dusty text with the bumper sticker words that say life stinks, and then you die. But I’m not at all sure that’s accurate. Certainly, it’s not helpful.
It is true that Adam and Eve heard God’s dusty punishment given to them because of their disobedience in the Garden. You’ll have to figure out for yourself what that disobedience was. Apples and trees and serpents and blame aside, my own understanding is that Adam and Eve got too big for their fig leaves. Quite forgetting that they were created, they liked to think of themselves as being in charge. Understandably miffed, God reminded them of their humble beginning and put their existence into perspective. And here is one way to speak of it all: that it’s not all about you.
Granted, when you were born, your grandmother showed off ten million pictures of you. And everyone applauded at your first correct use of the toilet. And your parents spent thousands of dollars to get your teeth fixed and the congregation stood when you walked down the aisle and you got a bonus for the excellent work that got you written up in the company newspaper and your hole in one was congratulated by your friends. But that kind of self-praise isn’t God’s doing. In fact, all that praise worked against what God had in mind. Did you ever know someone who, quite used to being the star of the show, burned out when the spotlight was turned off? Did you ever know someone who sought counseling, certain that love received was love undeserved? Did you ever know someone quite insufferable because she never stopped talking about herself? Remember this: that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. But that that’s not bad. For, if God once made you and me from dust, can he not do it all again?
Which puts a whole new construction on this Lenten theme. Not that we emphasize our poor and pitiful life. But that we see the chance to put our poor and pitiful life behind us, in the full expectation that God will reshape us and bring us new life. Right? I mean, he formed us once. Can he not reform us? And, in the light of Easter still six weeks away, is that not his promise—that he will give us new life? That’s the good news promise of the church. That’s what we always ought to be saying to the depressed and the grieving, to the young and the unsure, to the rejected and the unfulfilled. That though life surely seems like dust, it’s when it’s dustiest that good stuff can and will happen. The only thing standing in the way is our insistence that our old life has been so wonderful, so successful, so pleasing to us and the entire world that we have no intention of giving it up. And that, instead of hurrying on to our second dust, we fight to maintain how our first dust has been.
Not that our fight to maintain the status quo will put God off. If we think we’re strong enough and able enough to have things our own way, we’re not much different than Adam and Eve. But the promise of God comes even if we block the way. Our blockage may keep us from accepting the promise, but the assurance is there. And always has been. So that we look at Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden and hear that God didn’t exterminate them, but kept them alive in the world. Things weren’t exactly as they had been, but at least things were. There will always be consequences, but there will always be life. And when Adam and Eve’s son Cain killed their son Abel, God was rightly angry and punished the murderer. But remember that the mark God put on Cain wasn’t a punishment, but a reminder to all who would see him that this Cain, this violent and awful Cain, was still claimed by and cared for by God. That God wasn’t finished with his creation. That God is never finished with his creation. Dust you are. Dust you will always be. And dust is the stuff from which God makes things. And that can make every new day exciting—to see what God will make of it. Even when what has led up to second dust has been awful, to see what God will come up with next. It’s like the lady with the fork.
Thanks to you, when I open my email every day I get all the latest sermon illustrations to show off in new ways what it is we should remember about God and his people. Some of them are new to me; I haven’t seen them before. Some of them I have seen so many times that they seem like old friends. I hesitate to estimate how many of you have emailed me about the woman who insisted that when she died, when she lay in her coffin, she wanted a fork placed in her hand. Dumbfounded, both the funeral director and her pastor asked why. And she said, At suppertime, when all had been served and most had been eaten, when the dishes were being cleared, it was always a treat to hear the words, Keep your fork. For that meant more was coming. Something I wanted. Something I needed. Something that would please me. I was to keep my fork because we weren’t done yet. So the woman said, When I die, I want you to put a fork in my hand as a testimony to everybody around me that I know, that I firmly believe, that we’re not done yet. That something good is yet to come. Which is just what I’ve been saying, That though you return to dust, you shouldn’t be all that upset about it, because God makes things from dust, and you’re next on his creation list. The only thing that isn’t known is exactly what use he’ll make of you next.
So that we can take some time in this season of Lent to examine, to prioritize, to see what has been good and what can be given up. To see what points us to creative God and what blocks us from his gift. Even to change our attitude from piling up everything in this life, knowing that the best may be to come. To be open to God at every step of the way to see what use he will make of us. Not even waiting until our death or our retirement or our next relocation or our high school graduation, but to know that God is always recreating, reshaping, repointing, reclaiming, redirecting our dusty selves into something finer. Oh, we claim to be perfectly happy with what we’ve got and how we are. But is that because we don’t know what will be? The person who ate a tomato for the first time took a risk, but is there something ahead, just beyond your sight, that will delight you? And if not that experience on that day, to expect something the next day or the one after that. I have no timetable for when God will re-shape you, but I do know that God walks with us through it all.
In my last weeks before retirement, forgive me for thinking that I have to come up with some sort of death-bed wisdom for all my children to recall. It could smack of dramatics and sentimentalism and one last chance to enlighten before my poor flame goes out. But I’ve been asked to take what I believe and what I have proclaimed and make it short and clear. So this is something to remember—that God walks with us through every day of our existence. Known by us or not, it is so. Pleased by that or not, it is so. He walks with us, always moving us on to something new. Something new. Something scary. Something new. Something unimagined. Something new. Something uncomfortable. Something new. Something delightful. And it all happens best and fastest when you place yourself in his hand and admit that creation isn’t up to you. When you see that, as first-life was a gift, so new life will be a gift too. When we refuse to see dust to dust as something morbid, but as something promising. And when we keep our fork close by us, as testimony to it all.
Dust we are and to dust we shall return. Lucky us.
Sunday, February 6, 2005
"The Waiting Room"
Pastor Nagle
02/06/2005
“The Waiting Room” Exodus 24:12-18 The Transfiguration February 6, 2005
How long do you think you should have to wait before you see the doctor? Her appointment was for 10:00, but before her name was even called, she had waited thirty minutes. And after an additional thirty minutes back in the little room, she knew she should have brought a magazine. Thirty minutes after that, she wondered if she’d ever be seen, or if she had been forgotten altogether. Familiar story? It sounds awful, I suppose, but at least she had it easier than Moses who, we are told, waited six days for God.
You know the story in whole or in parts, how God chose Moses to be the leader of his people, how God used Moses as a go-between, how God entrusted the commandments to Moses, how he met with him on the top of a high mountain. You know that, but did you know that God kept Moses waiting? Maybe that’s a bit harsh, sounding as if God arbitrarily forced Moses to cool his heels. But after the second day and fourth and sixth, Moses surely wondered how much longer he’d have to wait. Wondered if something had gone wrong. Wondered if he should have brought a magazine. Wondered if he had been forgotten. And by the end of his waiting time, how was Moses? Tired? Annoyed, expectant, confused? How are you when you have to wait?
Not pleased, I’ll bet, since ours is a hurry-up society. If the traffic light shines red for more than two minutes, we’re impatient. If the email is down more than five minutes, if the passing train has more than twenty cars, if the sermon seems to have no focus, we look at our watch and wonder how much longer it will be. For, isn’t it true that we have schedules? That in our lives, we have things to do? And that we have things to do because we’re important? Yes, important, and yet, each of us, at one time or another, finds our self in the waiting room. Not necessarily waiting in a doctor’s office, but in some situation where we realize that an answer is not forthcoming because in the most important matters of life, to our chagrin, we’re not in charge. It is in fact God who calls us up the mountain, not we who summon God.
Not that our waiting is unimportant. It’s exactly the opposite. We wait because what we need is so upsetting, so critical, so life-changing. Will the surgery be successful? Will what is lost be found? Will other people come to their senses? Will the last breath be peaceful? We don’t know, and so we wait. We can imagine. We can hope. We can try to convince ourselves that it will all work out. But for many people much of the time, life is still a waiting room. Are you waiting for something right now? Waiting about something? Would it help if I told you that you don’t wait alone? Would it help if I reminded you that all through those six days Moses waited, God was close by?
I don’t know that would help at all. Intellectually, when the nurse sticks you in that back room, you know you’re not alone. You know the doctor is just feet away. You know it’s all right. But knowing that sometimes only raises the frustration. Why am I waiting? If God is so close to me, why hasn’t anything happened? Did I not have an appointment with God? Well, right there may be some of the problem. That when we are in the worst of our trials, we turn to God and expect him to attend to our needs. Our appointment. Our schedule. Our needs. Nothing wrong with turning to God. Nothing wrong with asking him for help. But there may be a great difficulty in us diagnosing our own troubles.
Hello, Doctor? I’m calling to schedule a Tuesday morning at 10:00 appointment with you so that you can prescribe a four day regimen of those red pills that I know I need to make my back stop hurting. Please have them ready for me, because I’ll keep the car running while I run in, thereby maximizing the effectiveness of my schedule. What were there—six things wrong with that? Did you see all that was wrong with that? Do you understand how much more wrong it is when we do that with God? Hello, God? My kids are having marital troubles and I’m having some addiction problems and my mother’s cancer isn’t responding to treatment, but if you could have some samples ready, I’m in the area and can run in to pick them up. Well, it surely would be efficient that way. But it doesn’t work that way because, in fact, life is a waiting room. Darn it.
That’s at least what Moses said when he saw one more day pass into another. Darn it, for God could have given his commandments right away. God could have had Moses up the mountain and down the same day. When we’re forced to wait, is God playing games with us? Or is he being diabolical? Or is he giving us time to sort it all out? Maybe time to sort it out. To understand that even if our own self-diagnoses are sometimes accurate, they may be incomplete. And though God could give us what we want and ask for, what we want and ask for may not be what we need. Impossible as that sounds. But would Moses have made good use of his time if he had thought more about God than about himself?
In the church year, today is called The Transfiguration of Our Lord. The story is written in today’s gospel, telling how Jesus took his three favorite disciples to the top of a high mountain where he disclosed a side of himself they had not seen. More than a carpenter, more than a carpenter turned teacher, more than a carpenter turned teacher and advisor to people in deep trouble, that episode on the mountain top showed Peter and James and John that Jesus was divine. He looked different, he probably sounded different, and a voice from who knows where declared that this Jesus was beloved by God. But as good as it all sounds, the story of the transfiguration isn’t my favorite one because I can’t get my hands or my head around it. The details are removed from my experience. Bright shining Jesus on the mountain isn’t something I understand. And I’d be quite content to move on. In fact, the church does move on. We hurry past the transfiguration today so that we can push on to Ash Wednesday and Lent and the Easter resurrection that caps it all. And yet, there’s something very significant about seeing Jesus in more than one way.
Do you see things in more than one way? Is your doctor a pill-pusher? A thorough diagnostician? A pawn of the insurance companies? A good friend? Someone who knows more about you than your chart tells? Does your doctor give life? What kind of life do you expect your doctor to give? What’s the relationship between you two? What should be the relationship between you two? When you’re sitting in that little back room without a magazine, might you think about the height and depth of the doctor and patient relationship? Why not? You’ve got the time.
And Moses, up there on the mountain for six days. Might he have thought through the height and depth of his relationship with God? Is God a healer? If things work out, does it mean God exists? Who decides which “working out” is right? Is God a friend, a disciplinarian, a mover and shaker, or advocate? Likely, any or all of that. But when you call for an appointment and tell God exactly what you want, you automatically distance yourself from what God might be and do for you. Doctor, I have a headache. So why are you checking my hands? And why are you asking about my diet? Or about my job or family life? I already told you what’s wrong. I told you what I want. And God says, But I told you to wait.
And what choice do we have. If God says we wait, we wait. But how should we wait? In a back room, leafing through a dog-eared Southern Living or an out of date Field and Stream? Or reaching deep inside ourselves to ask, How do I see things? How do other people see things? Is what I’m asking necessarily the right thing? What other things come into play? And if I’m still sitting here in an hour, does it mean I’m a forgotten thing? Be sure that, though you may wait, you’re not forgotten at all. Though it’s true enough that when we focus on our own needs, our own ills, our own trials, our own issues, we tend to blot out anyone else’s. For with the door shut, it’s easy to forget that there are other patients out there. Other needs, other ills, other trials, other issues. Not that the doctor or God makes us wait just to prove that, but that while we wait we can consider where all our needs fit in relation to others. We can realize that Dr. God works with more than us. That’s how we could pass the time—pondering all of that. While we wait.
But then all of a sudden, the door opens and with scarcely a breath or a hello, we launch into a description of our troubles. Doctor, I’m glad you finally showed up. I’ve got this pain. God, I’ve got this pain and I can’t stand it much longer. Can you do something about it? Can you get rid of my hurt? Can you give me an answer? Can you restore my life? And can you do it right now? That’s what we ask. That’s what we know we can ask. That’s what we think we should ask. That’s what we expect to be answered. But imagine our surprise when the answer is no.
No? You can’t get rid of my pain? You can’t solve my problems? You can’t settle my issues? What kind of God are you? I climbed this stupid mountain and waited all these days, and that’s the answer I get? But in our need and in our frustration, we didn’t hear the difference between can’t and won’t. Doctor, can you? God, will you? Probably can. Maybe won’t, because the problems we present aren’t easily solved. May be not curable at all. Probably can. Maybe won’t, because what we ourselves see as the whole thing are often just symptoms of something else. And we miss something when we ask that the smaller be dealt with when it’s the larger that’s more important. Probably can. Maybe won’t, until we see how our pains, our cares, our needs, our expectations are wrapped up with everyone else’s. And see how God is the God of us all. Probably can. Maybe won’t settle all our issues according to our diagnosis and our schedule. But don’t be discouraged. It’s not done with yet. That’s the doctrine of the church. That’s the hope with which we live. That with God it’s never done yet. And that though we get tired and sad and frustrated and angry at the very thought of having to wait, in this waiting room called life, we know that we can turn the waiting into seeing and turn the seeing into believing and turn the believing into rejoicing that a loving God has never forgotten about you and me. And isn’t that the point—that we want to be sure that God hasn’t forgotten about us.
Be sure. Be hopeful. Be aware that just now, the door to the place where you wait is about to open. And what’s the first thing you’ll say to him?
02/06/2005
“The Waiting Room” Exodus 24:12-18 The Transfiguration February 6, 2005
How long do you think you should have to wait before you see the doctor? Her appointment was for 10:00, but before her name was even called, she had waited thirty minutes. And after an additional thirty minutes back in the little room, she knew she should have brought a magazine. Thirty minutes after that, she wondered if she’d ever be seen, or if she had been forgotten altogether. Familiar story? It sounds awful, I suppose, but at least she had it easier than Moses who, we are told, waited six days for God.
You know the story in whole or in parts, how God chose Moses to be the leader of his people, how God used Moses as a go-between, how God entrusted the commandments to Moses, how he met with him on the top of a high mountain. You know that, but did you know that God kept Moses waiting? Maybe that’s a bit harsh, sounding as if God arbitrarily forced Moses to cool his heels. But after the second day and fourth and sixth, Moses surely wondered how much longer he’d have to wait. Wondered if something had gone wrong. Wondered if he should have brought a magazine. Wondered if he had been forgotten. And by the end of his waiting time, how was Moses? Tired? Annoyed, expectant, confused? How are you when you have to wait?
Not pleased, I’ll bet, since ours is a hurry-up society. If the traffic light shines red for more than two minutes, we’re impatient. If the email is down more than five minutes, if the passing train has more than twenty cars, if the sermon seems to have no focus, we look at our watch and wonder how much longer it will be. For, isn’t it true that we have schedules? That in our lives, we have things to do? And that we have things to do because we’re important? Yes, important, and yet, each of us, at one time or another, finds our self in the waiting room. Not necessarily waiting in a doctor’s office, but in some situation where we realize that an answer is not forthcoming because in the most important matters of life, to our chagrin, we’re not in charge. It is in fact God who calls us up the mountain, not we who summon God.
Not that our waiting is unimportant. It’s exactly the opposite. We wait because what we need is so upsetting, so critical, so life-changing. Will the surgery be successful? Will what is lost be found? Will other people come to their senses? Will the last breath be peaceful? We don’t know, and so we wait. We can imagine. We can hope. We can try to convince ourselves that it will all work out. But for many people much of the time, life is still a waiting room. Are you waiting for something right now? Waiting about something? Would it help if I told you that you don’t wait alone? Would it help if I reminded you that all through those six days Moses waited, God was close by?
I don’t know that would help at all. Intellectually, when the nurse sticks you in that back room, you know you’re not alone. You know the doctor is just feet away. You know it’s all right. But knowing that sometimes only raises the frustration. Why am I waiting? If God is so close to me, why hasn’t anything happened? Did I not have an appointment with God? Well, right there may be some of the problem. That when we are in the worst of our trials, we turn to God and expect him to attend to our needs. Our appointment. Our schedule. Our needs. Nothing wrong with turning to God. Nothing wrong with asking him for help. But there may be a great difficulty in us diagnosing our own troubles.
Hello, Doctor? I’m calling to schedule a Tuesday morning at 10:00 appointment with you so that you can prescribe a four day regimen of those red pills that I know I need to make my back stop hurting. Please have them ready for me, because I’ll keep the car running while I run in, thereby maximizing the effectiveness of my schedule. What were there—six things wrong with that? Did you see all that was wrong with that? Do you understand how much more wrong it is when we do that with God? Hello, God? My kids are having marital troubles and I’m having some addiction problems and my mother’s cancer isn’t responding to treatment, but if you could have some samples ready, I’m in the area and can run in to pick them up. Well, it surely would be efficient that way. But it doesn’t work that way because, in fact, life is a waiting room. Darn it.
That’s at least what Moses said when he saw one more day pass into another. Darn it, for God could have given his commandments right away. God could have had Moses up the mountain and down the same day. When we’re forced to wait, is God playing games with us? Or is he being diabolical? Or is he giving us time to sort it all out? Maybe time to sort it out. To understand that even if our own self-diagnoses are sometimes accurate, they may be incomplete. And though God could give us what we want and ask for, what we want and ask for may not be what we need. Impossible as that sounds. But would Moses have made good use of his time if he had thought more about God than about himself?
In the church year, today is called The Transfiguration of Our Lord. The story is written in today’s gospel, telling how Jesus took his three favorite disciples to the top of a high mountain where he disclosed a side of himself they had not seen. More than a carpenter, more than a carpenter turned teacher, more than a carpenter turned teacher and advisor to people in deep trouble, that episode on the mountain top showed Peter and James and John that Jesus was divine. He looked different, he probably sounded different, and a voice from who knows where declared that this Jesus was beloved by God. But as good as it all sounds, the story of the transfiguration isn’t my favorite one because I can’t get my hands or my head around it. The details are removed from my experience. Bright shining Jesus on the mountain isn’t something I understand. And I’d be quite content to move on. In fact, the church does move on. We hurry past the transfiguration today so that we can push on to Ash Wednesday and Lent and the Easter resurrection that caps it all. And yet, there’s something very significant about seeing Jesus in more than one way.
Do you see things in more than one way? Is your doctor a pill-pusher? A thorough diagnostician? A pawn of the insurance companies? A good friend? Someone who knows more about you than your chart tells? Does your doctor give life? What kind of life do you expect your doctor to give? What’s the relationship between you two? What should be the relationship between you two? When you’re sitting in that little back room without a magazine, might you think about the height and depth of the doctor and patient relationship? Why not? You’ve got the time.
And Moses, up there on the mountain for six days. Might he have thought through the height and depth of his relationship with God? Is God a healer? If things work out, does it mean God exists? Who decides which “working out” is right? Is God a friend, a disciplinarian, a mover and shaker, or advocate? Likely, any or all of that. But when you call for an appointment and tell God exactly what you want, you automatically distance yourself from what God might be and do for you. Doctor, I have a headache. So why are you checking my hands? And why are you asking about my diet? Or about my job or family life? I already told you what’s wrong. I told you what I want. And God says, But I told you to wait.
And what choice do we have. If God says we wait, we wait. But how should we wait? In a back room, leafing through a dog-eared Southern Living or an out of date Field and Stream? Or reaching deep inside ourselves to ask, How do I see things? How do other people see things? Is what I’m asking necessarily the right thing? What other things come into play? And if I’m still sitting here in an hour, does it mean I’m a forgotten thing? Be sure that, though you may wait, you’re not forgotten at all. Though it’s true enough that when we focus on our own needs, our own ills, our own trials, our own issues, we tend to blot out anyone else’s. For with the door shut, it’s easy to forget that there are other patients out there. Other needs, other ills, other trials, other issues. Not that the doctor or God makes us wait just to prove that, but that while we wait we can consider where all our needs fit in relation to others. We can realize that Dr. God works with more than us. That’s how we could pass the time—pondering all of that. While we wait.
But then all of a sudden, the door opens and with scarcely a breath or a hello, we launch into a description of our troubles. Doctor, I’m glad you finally showed up. I’ve got this pain. God, I’ve got this pain and I can’t stand it much longer. Can you do something about it? Can you get rid of my hurt? Can you give me an answer? Can you restore my life? And can you do it right now? That’s what we ask. That’s what we know we can ask. That’s what we think we should ask. That’s what we expect to be answered. But imagine our surprise when the answer is no.
No? You can’t get rid of my pain? You can’t solve my problems? You can’t settle my issues? What kind of God are you? I climbed this stupid mountain and waited all these days, and that’s the answer I get? But in our need and in our frustration, we didn’t hear the difference between can’t and won’t. Doctor, can you? God, will you? Probably can. Maybe won’t, because the problems we present aren’t easily solved. May be not curable at all. Probably can. Maybe won’t, because what we ourselves see as the whole thing are often just symptoms of something else. And we miss something when we ask that the smaller be dealt with when it’s the larger that’s more important. Probably can. Maybe won’t, until we see how our pains, our cares, our needs, our expectations are wrapped up with everyone else’s. And see how God is the God of us all. Probably can. Maybe won’t settle all our issues according to our diagnosis and our schedule. But don’t be discouraged. It’s not done with yet. That’s the doctrine of the church. That’s the hope with which we live. That with God it’s never done yet. And that though we get tired and sad and frustrated and angry at the very thought of having to wait, in this waiting room called life, we know that we can turn the waiting into seeing and turn the seeing into believing and turn the believing into rejoicing that a loving God has never forgotten about you and me. And isn’t that the point—that we want to be sure that God hasn’t forgotten about us.
Be sure. Be hopeful. Be aware that just now, the door to the place where you wait is about to open. And what’s the first thing you’ll say to him?
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