Christ The King Cary - Sermons - John Nagle

"That's All Folks"

2005-03-27T08:26:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/27/2005

“That’s All Folks” John 20:8-9 The Festival of the Resurrection March 27, 2005
In the old days, before there was television, there were movies. And people would go to the movies on a very regular basis—sometimes to see the movie itself, but almost as often to see the latest cartoon. Cartoons which, more often than not, ended with the words scrolled across the screen, “That’s all folks.” Which at that particular moment was true, but which didn’t bother anyone, because there was always something ahead. Surely the main feature, maybe another cartoon, always another week.
Some of you, fully aware that this is my last Sunday as a pastor of our congregation, have come to worship this morning with a sense of sadness, with a sense of finality, with a sense that the sermon title is true: That’s All Folks. If that attitude is true for you, then you’re in good company, for that’s precisely the same attitude which was held by Peter and John, early in the morning of that first Easter. You know the story. Even know the whole story in the several different ways it’s told in the four gospels. But that kind of knowledge gives us an advantage the first disciples didn’t have. For Peter and John were in some ways like a little child seeing the fading scene at the end of a cartoon—asking, is that really all there is? Listen again to this one partial sentence lifted from this morning’s gospel story: “for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.” And then the disciples returned to their homes.
These days, it seems an almost impossible reaction—that the disciples went to the tomb, the empty tomb, and didn’t think more about it, didn’t do more about it. But you can understand why. On Friday afternoon, fewer than 40 hours earlier, the disciples had been witness to Jesus’ death on the cross. And it was a real death too. Not play-acting. Not mass hypnosis. Not a literary device. Scripture is quite clear that the government carried out the sentence reserved for trouble-makers. Jesus was executed. Dead. And then buried. And everyone there knew, “That’s all folks.” That’s what they thought then. But we know better now, don’t we?
I’d like to think so, but there are days when I’m not very certain. Not very certain that you and I know more or believe more. True, I did take out of context the line that said the disciples didn’t understand. And it’s true that they went back to their homes. But the story went on, of course. That little by little, the disciples remembered the prediction and the promise, and came to accept what could not reasonably be understood. That this Jesus who was more than Jesus, was able to do what only God could do—defeat the power even of death, and live on. So that, all of a sudden, the meaning of “that’s all folks” was changed. Because, all of a sudden, there was more than there had been. And the certainty of more yet to come. Do you know what that could mean? Could mean for you and me?
It means that the endings we have come to dread are not endings at all, but pauses along a much longer path. When there is physical death, when Johnny and Susie break up, when the job disappears and when Pastor Nagle retires, it would be easy to fall apart and assume that life as we know it will never be again. Haven’t you attended funerals like that, where the mourners grieve greatly, as they are encouraged to do by the preacher and the neighbors? Not that there is anything wrong with tears. I’ll bet we don’t get through all of today without some. But those tears had better be temporary because the theology that lies behind the cartoon words says that they must be temporary. For a moment, that’s all folks. For eternity, well, the word infinity comes to mind. And I can’t explain that one either. But that’s the promise we’re given. That life goes on and on.
Though it’s true that, for some people, infinity, eternity, seems awfully long. When death came at the end of sickness, it was a friend. No one wanted poor health to go on forever. And when Johnny and Susie broke up, or when the company decided you must leave, that was all right too. And my retirement. Some things aren’t meant forever. Some things are supposed to end, or else, how can what comes next ever come to be? And someone says, “You’re sadder than that, aren’t you? Are you really so callous that, after 36 years, you’re just going to turn your back and go away?” Turn my back, yes. But not go away. Go on, in a path toward something new, for us all. So that if you see my back, you can follow my back, and keep on with me and what I have always proclaimed, so that you’ll come to see what Peter and John saw too. That there is so much ahead. And it’s called Easter, the Festival of the Resurrection. That’s what it’s all about. You just have to look at the gospels and count the pages to know that that’s what it’s all about.
So, though Jesus lived among us for 30-something years, it’s only the last relatively little while that matters enough to be included in scripture. And of the time spent in all his travels, all his teaching, all his healings, the gospels give the greater space to the last week of his life. And the first day of new life most of all. Over my years here, I taught many things in sermons and classes. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for obedience. Surely the Ten Commandments is in scripture. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for social action. Surely the Old Testament prophets are in scripture. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for knowledge and prayer and spirituality. And it’s all there too. But our world misses the point entirely if it concentrates on any or all of those, at the expense of these words—that the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed. Nothing else in scripture has much meaning, except in the light of those words. Nothing else in life has much meaning, except in the light of those words. And anyone who says that the end is near or that the end is here, anyone who lives with sadness and dread, anyone who insists that passages are blocked and the way is not clear, has failed to understand just as much as Peter and John—people who were witness to everything important, and then just went home. It happened for them, but simply must not happen for us.
Then what shall we say about “That’s all folks?” Deny that it has meaning? No, but push it off, way further off, than we could have supposed. To see that the new life given to us is so full of glory and grandeur and joy and peace that nothing else matters. But that the glory and grandeur and joy and peace with Christ is the “all” to which we refer. And as children of God, which of us would want it any other way. To know, for sure, that Easter truly is the “all” that is. For (and here is what it’s all about) the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.

"The Sermon According to Billy"

2005-03-24T08:27:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/24/2005

“The Sermon According to Billy” Maundy Thursday March 24, 2005
“Mommy. Mommy.”
“Billy, when you’re kneeling at the altar for Holy Communion, you shouldn’t be talking.”
“But Mommy, this is important. I need to know something.”
“What?”
“Who’s that?”
“Billy, that’s the pastor. You know that. Now be quiet.”
“Mommy, not the pastor. I know him. Who’s that? Who’s that person kneeling over there on the other side?”
“That’s Mrs. Shultz.”
“Why are her eyes closed?”
“Because she’s praying.”
“About what?”
“When they kneel here, people pray for lots of things. They pray that God will keep on loving them. They say they’re sorry for bad things they’ve done. They ask God to help sick people.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
“Who?”
“The man there who’s coughing. Is he sick?”
“Oh yes, Billy, he is. Mr. Kramer is very sick. Maybe you and I can ask God to help him get better.”
“Does coming to Holy Communion make you get better? Is eating and drinking it like taking medicine? I don’t like medicine.”
“Well, actually, Holy Communion is kind of like God’s medicine. It makes us feel better about what’s wrong with us, even if what’s wrong with us doesn’t disappear right away.”
“Is that why that lady there is crying—because something didn’t disappear right away?”
“Billy, Mrs. Myers has lots going on in her life. So much going on that it’s ok for her to cry.”
“But doesn’t she think God can take care of her?”
“Billy, God can take care of everyone.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“Maybe she just needs a reminder.”
“Like Holy Communion, right?”
“Well, yes. Holy Communion does remind us that God takes care of us. But, please. It’s important that you be quiet and stop asking so many questions.”
“But Mommy, this is important too. Why isn’t that person crying?”
“How do you know Mr. Gordon isn’t crying?”
“Because I’m looking at him.”
“Can you tell what’s going on inside him?”
“No.”
“But God can.”
“God can see inside us? Eew.”
“I mean that God can understand what’s going on inside us. He knows what bothers us and what makes us laugh. He knows what we try to do and if it’s something good, he helps us do it. He knows everything about us.”
“Does he know I think that man looks funny when he sings?”
“Billy!”
“Well, he does.”
“But isn’t it more important to know that he likes to sing? And that when he sings the songs, he’s praising God?”
“I don’t know all these songs.”
“No, you don’t. But some day maybe you will. The songs we sing remind us of Jesus and the way he lived and the day he died.”
“I don’t like to think about dying.”
“Nobody does, I guess. But with Jesus, it was different. He didn’t just die. He lived again. And that’s what Easter is about. At church and Holy Communion, we don’t think just about dying. We think more about living. But Billy, I’ll have to talk to you later. We can’t disturb the people next to us.”
“That man doesn’t have anybody next to him Does God know why that man’s kneeling all by himself?”
“He’s alone because he doesn’t have any family here.”
“I’ve got family. I’m glad I’ve got family. I’m sorry he doesn’t have family. Can we be his family?”
“Well we are his family, sort of. I mean, when we’re all here around the altar, we’re the family of God.”
“Johnny’s family fights. A lot.”
“Every family fights sometimes. But in Holy Communion, we don’t think about the fights we have with each other—except to say that we’re sorry.”
“Do you think everybody here is sorry?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. It took you a long time to apologize when you hit your sister.”
“But she wasn’t being nice.”
“Neither were you. But here you both are, you on this side of me and she on the other side. And I love you both—even when you didn’t say you were sorry.”
“Did God know about me and my sister?”
“God knows everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. But he loves you anyway. Just like I do. But being sorry isn’t the only reason we come to the altar. Lots of times, we come because we’re happy.”
“So that’s why that lady smiled at me.”
“Probably. When we think of all that God has given us, when we know that we’re loved, when we know that we’re surrounded by other people who know about God, we just have to smile.”
“So it’s ok to look around?”
“Well, you shouldn’t stare, but if you didn’t look around, you wouldn’t know who else is here, would you? And if you didn’t know who else is here, you wouldn’t be able to smile at them, would you?”
“I tried smiling at that other lady, but she didn’t smile back. She didn’t even look at me. Is she mad about something?”
“No, Billy, Mrs. Kraft’s not mad.”
“Then why didn’t she look at me?”
“I guess she’s looking at something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. When her eyes are closed like that, maybe she’s looking at a picture of Jesus or remembering a verse from the Bible, or maybe she’s thinking about people who brought her to communion.”
“Just like you bringing me, right?”
“That’s right. Holy Communion is so special to me that I want everybody to know.”
“There are a lot of people here, but I don’t think everybody’s here.”
“More people than you can count. Some of them you see. Some of them are far off. But they’re still here. But Billy, you’ve got be quiet. The pastor’s getting closer.”
“But why do we have to be quiet?”
“So we can hear what he says.”
“What does he say?”
“He says the most important thing you’ll ever hear. Listen.”
“The Body of Christ, given for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. For you, and you, and you, and you too, Billy.”

"A Reason to Smile"

2005-03-20T08:27:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/20/2005

“A Reason to Smile” Matthew 21:1-11 The Sixth Sunday of Lent March 20, 2005
“A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.” So said Matthew, as he reported on what happened that day when Jesus arrived to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. We’ve gotten so used to that parade story that we’ve called the day Palm Sunday. We even spend money to import palm branches from Texas to get us in the mood of copying the early disciples. But only sort of in the mood. We don’t actually distribute the palms until the end of church because we’re afraid that people will fidget and play with them during the sermon, or start to strip off those stringy things and get them all over the carpet. Or that if we wave them around too much, some little kid will put an eye out. So in the best sense of double-speak, we say we celebrate Palm Sunday, but we do it in a far more sedate way than the original crowd did. Which may be a characteristic of life and the church and our theology. A characteristic of it and a problem with it. That we’re entirely too serious. About lots of things. So that if there’s a message today, maybe it’s this— we need to lighten up. Which is not something about which we all will agree.
I remember when I was maybe ten years old. It was an evening Lenten service, dark and proper. Daddy was in the pulpit, Mother was in the choir loft, I was in the front row with a friend of mine who somehow got me tickled. I don’t remember if it was something he said or did, but I started to smile, which led to a giggle and a rather small shaking of the shoulders. Which I tried to stop—it being Lent, for heaven’s sake. But despite the glare of my earthly father (who must have been as upset as my heavenly father) I couldn’t stop. I will say that later that night, I was not in as happy a mood. I wonder if something like that ever happened to you. Not that the preacher sees you giggling and passing notes during the sermon, but who was it who told you that “this is church, so stop smiling.” “This is God’s house, so stop running around.” “This is Jesus’ parade, so stop waving those palms. And pick up your cloak. Good gracious, if you put your cloak on the ground, that donkey is going to walk on it. Or worse. Do you think good cloaks grow on trees? And don’t even think about cutting down more palm branches. It ruins the shape of the tree. And if someone happens to say to you, Hosanna, you just say, And also with you.”
My hidden camera records that thirteen per cent of you smiled at that, but that a significant number of you did not. And more than a few said, Have you forgotten that today is Passion Sunday? No, I haven’t forgotten at all. Today is one of those two-fers. Two for one. It’s both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week, Jesus’ last week, the occasion of his betrayal and denial, arrest and death. Which, admittedly, is dark and serious stuff. But in the church, it used to be that at the beginning of this solemn time, almost to the end of dark and purple Lent, we had at least this one day to lighten up. But then someone thought it was far more fitting to spend the time getting in the mood for what follows. Which, in their eyes, meant being solemn and somber. Because, according to some people, what follows Palm Sunday is Holy Week. And they’re right, of course. But isn’t it also true that what follows Palm Sunday is Easter? Though some people think you can have a good Easter only after you’ve endured an awful Holy Week. Sort of like hitting your head because it feels so good when you stop. Maybe even hitting your head with a cross.
Which is not to deny that Jesus suffered. Which is not to say that he didn’t die. But that we can say with delight more than sadness, how wonderful that he did. How inexplicably wonderful that he did. But if it seems right, proper and necessary that we should exercise due solemnity, let’s just do it for awhile, and not make a habit of it. What kind of homes did some of us come from, that we don’t understand how to lighten up? Why do we always associate religion with harshness, and the church with strictness? Why do we count it as our faithful assignment from God to investigate people’s lives to check how dirty their cloaks are? Why do we look at palm branch cutters as vandals rather than celebrants? And whose idea was it to keep more people out of heaven than we admit in? For that matter, who ever figured that we had a part in that at all? Have you noticed that any publicity the church gets these days is based more on our darkness than our light, on our standards more than our joy, on our fights more than our parties?
Yes, today is the beginning of Holy Week. Yes, we’re five days away from remembering the gory way the Romans executed people. Yes, we’re draped in purple soon to be black. And yes, ours is truly an awful world. Yes, we know who are sick, even to death. Yes, there are people close and far off who lack even the basics we take for granted. Yes, there are people who do vile things to themselves and others. Yes, God gave Moses ten commandments. Yes, Paul asked us to take seriously our relationship with God. Yes, and when I ask you to lighten up, I’m in a minority—but you know, if we’d fully accept and believe in what we truly know is the end of the story, maybe the way we tell the story would be different, with the result that other people’s life stories would be different too. Truly, there are more people outside the church this day than are inside it, partly—even mostly—because of our solemnity, our intention to emphasize sin and our reluctance to live with joy. Those absent people already know they have sometimes done too little and often done too much. Whether they intend it that way or not, whether others have gotten them that way or not, there are people all around us who suffer shame and indignity and the separation that results from it. People who suffer pain in their bodies and hearts and minds. Who are so down they can’t even imagine up. People who suffer in uncounted ways. But you and I are the ones who can end that suffering. But it’s a choice on our part, whether or not to lighten up. We can either say to people, You made your awful bed; now lie in it. Or we can let them start life all over again. We can sniff at their dirty cloaks or we can walk with them anyway. Or even give them our own cloaks. If we wouldn’t mind getting them dirty. Even when it’s obvious that the place we lay them means that they will get dirty.
And someone says, if you think the church is going to smile at sinners, and lay cloaks in front of asses, and laugh with the dying, or make light of our God, you’re wrong. And you’re unfaithful, theologically incorrect, a discredit to the church, and an idiot besides. And maybe I am. Over the years, more than one person has told me that, as they left this congregation for more holy fields. But St. Paul said that we should be fools for Christ, though maybe he meant something slightly different. But see, that shouldn’t bother us, that someone would accuse us of idiocy, because the foundation of our faith, the very thing we believe, is idiocy. And always has been. Imagine, God bringing the dead back to life. It’s absolutely, well, ludicrous. And though that has been the theme throughout this Lenten season, it was especially so in our readings last Sunday. Do you remember that the first story then was a tale about dead bones? The people of Israel portrayed as a pile of dead bones. But when the prophet proclaimed the word of the Lord to them, they came together and danced about. And if you had been present, what would your reaction have been? Would you have clapped your hands and laughed out loud, or would you have organized the bones into some order. Or asked them to not rattle so much. Or have them sign a faith statement saying that they’d never dry up again. And do you remember that last week’s gospel story was that long one about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead? That four days after the man had died, Jesus arrived and brought him back to life. That he called him out of the tomb and brought him back to life. If you had been present then, what would your reaction have been? With a perfectly straight face, would you have soberly said, Thank you Jesus for doing such a good job? Or instructed Lazarus to go and clean up because he smelled so bad, and looked even worse. Or at his appearance, would you have hooted and hollered and jumped up and down. Even waved a palm branch. Cut down and waved palm branches until someone complained and told you to stop it.
Which, by the way, is what the church does so well. We say, Stop it, as if any joy we exhibit would be an affront to God. But I ask, how could it be an affront to God? With the dry bones and with Lazarus, he started it all, didn’t he? Why not hoot and holler, and wave a branch or two? What was dead is alive. Should we have a problem with that? I’ll share this with you—with retirement just ahead, can you guess what I’ll miss and what I won’t? Do you know what I wish the future here will be like? Oh, I know right from wrong, and always have. But it’s a lot more fun rejoicing in God getting me right than in hearing other people telling me how I’m wrong. Over the years, we’ve experienced together some of those difficult and divisive times. Over the years, I’ve watched people take sides on who should be allowed to use the building, and whether we could afford that much electricity, and whether it’s proper to use a snappy song in worship, or allow jeans instead of a suit. And we’ve tried to figure out if it’s a waste of resources to supply new cloaks to people who would just get them dirty, or a waste of money to buy new palms for people to wave. Sometimes, the decisions we made were up-lifting, and we banded together in unity. Sometimes, our arguments were so fierce and our relationships so strained that we separated into camps that refused to talk with each other, let alone smile.
On that first Palm Sunday, do you suppose Jesus smiled? Most people would say no— considering the man was five days away from death. But you know, when you see the benefits of what lies ahead, when you see what good it can provide, when you understand that it’s all about life, that even when you lose your own, it’s about life for others, do you think it’s just possible that Jesus smiled? And if he did, do you think you and I can lighten up too? To know that the church’s calendar is an artificial thing, and that Easter has already happened. And to know and proclaim that the Lord has already been raised from the dead. Which means that we have been freed from the clutches of death. Which also means we can offer that same gift to other people, and be glad when they accept it. And joyfully keep on with them even if they haven’t accepted it the same way we have. Why the dark outlook? Jesus was the Savior of the world, not some squinty-eyed hall monitor. And he told us there would be joy in heaven when people like us stop worrying about cloaks and palm branches and the people who we think misuse them, and when instead we celebrate the giving of another chance. Another lively chance.
It’s true, of course, that there are sad times and somber times, and harsh times and threatening times, and sinful times and uncertain times. It’s obvious to all that this is not the world that God created. But it is most certainly the world that God saved. And if we believe that God is in control, and I say that anyone who can defeat even the power of death is definitely in control, then there will always be good times and a reason to smile. That even in bad times, there will always be good times and a reason to smile. By God, we’re Christians. How could there not be good times and a reason to smile?
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who believes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who delights in the name of the Lord. And also with you.

"Remember This: It Starts With Eeeny Meeny"

2005-03-16T08:27:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/16/2005

“Remember This: It Starts With Eeny Meeny” Joshua 24:14-18 Psalm 145:1-13 Midweek V March 16, 2005
I don’t know that the first lesson tonight is my favorite Old Testament passage, but I will say that it’s one I have thought about often. Thought about, but not always used in a helpful sort of way. The story describes that moment when the people of Israel are to decide about life in the future. And Joshua puts a choice to them: you can either live with the Lord your God or with other gods. You can either live fully with the Lord your God or you can just sort of hang out with him. You can live with the Lord your God in joy or with fear. You can live with the Lord your God only when you know what the future will bring or you can sign on without certainty forever. It’s a scripture passage that deals with choices.
It was a theme we heard in tonight’s other lesson. Remember that the crowd in Jerusalem was given a choice. Because the tradition was to release a single prisoner as a sort of good-will gesture, they were asked, Who should it be—Barabbas or Jesus. And the crowd said Barabbas. Who should it be—Jack the Ripper or Jesus? And the crowd said Jack the Ripper. What about Jeffrey Dahmer, Saddam Hussein, any child molester or fraud? But the crowd never changed its mind. To this day has never changed its mind. Though of course I’ve taken literary license. Twice. First, I pretended that the crowd had made lots of bad choices. Second, I pretended that the crowd was still choosing today. Which may not be totally accurate. Though it’s true enough that you and I have options.
Eeeny Meeny Miney Mo. All the choices we all can make. What we believe in, what we care about, what we do and how we say it. Starting with how you end that childhood rhyme. Growing up, playing eeny meeny, what did you catch by the toe? And did your choice matter then? Does it matter now? On what basis do you ever decide anything— what’s best for you, or others? What’s best for now, or always? What’s best according to common sense, or your own? What brings life or death? And whose?
You know, this matter of choices sometimes depends on how many of us are involved, and who is looking on. That whole mob thing can sway a lot of votes. Sway them foolishly, if I think the mob is wrong. Rightly, if my own interests are served. Have you ever been part of a mob? Would you ever consider the church a mob? Well, it’s the stuff discussion groups are made of. And there’s usually more heat than light generated. Who is to say what’s right and wrong? The mob made its choice. But Pilate wasn’t sure. He himself might have decided otherwise, but when people gang up on you, well, you might choose poorly. Unless you know who you are. Unless you know what you believe. Unless you’ve thought it all through.
I’m spending the closing days before retirement thinking through all the stuff I want you to remember. Things I think are valuable for the living of life. In most cases, they are things you’ve heard me say before. And here’s one of them—that it all starts with a choice. And that the choice can be considered long before it’s actually made. The example I have consistently given is that just as you learned how to drive defensively, it’s good to live with advance knowledge too. Like me, when you’re driving at dusk near a field where the highway department has warned deer live, you know what you’re going to do in case one of them jumps out. You may not know exactly what to do, and other people may do something different, and you may do it well or too late. But at least you know that something has to be done. The problem with the crowds and with Pilate too, was that they did the wrong thing.
Though calling some thing wrong seems to mean that there’s an opposite in which something can be called right. But that’s not always true. There may be two rights, begging for a choice. There may be two wrongs, each to be avoided. But your choice will be more informed when you think about it in advance. Even if you think about things that might never happen, things you hope will never happen, try working ahead. And in it all, that you devise some guideline which you follow. As far as that goes. So someone says: when I make a choice, I’m going to do what the Bible says. What the Bible says in the New Testament. What Jesus said in the New Testament. And if Jesus didn’t say anything about it in the New Testament, I’ll decide on the basis of the Old Testament, unless the pastor shows that the Old Testament was misinterpreted. Unless the pastor had an ax to grind in his own misinterpretation. In which case I’ll do what I want as long as I don’t hurt anyone. But if I have to hurt someone, I’ll make sure that more others are freed from hurt. But if the hurt might come equally -- well, that’s when people throw up their hands in frustration and either vote a straight ticket or play “Eeeny Meeny.” Or do nothing and hope that the problem goes away, or hope that someone else makes a choice which doesn’t demand input from them. You know, I myself don’t like any of that—not even the biblical part. So I end up with something like this prayer: “Dear God, I’m going to do the best I can with the information I have at hand. I may be right. I may be wrong. If I’m right, help me see that I’m probably not always right. If I’m wrong, help me to see which of my accusers is more right, and why. And then help me change my choice with you in mind.” I don’t know that that’s the right way, or the best way. It’s a way that works for me. But you have to choose for yourself.
What I can say about such a way of doing things is this: it’s better to make a wrong choice than to make no choice at all. And it’s all right to remember that God forgives those who live with humility in their wrong choices. And to remember that God walks with us throughout. In all these Lenten sermons, that’s been a common theme—to remember that God walks with us through it all. And here’s the summary—that in these weeks, we have heard that God who walked with us in the past continues on with us in the present—and reminds us to keep our fork, as a symbol that better things are yet to come. We don’t have to believe that, but I think it’s a good idea, because we’ve heard that we can live with joy more than sadness, even when life seems sad enough to drive us to despair. That we can we live with peace more than war, though after consulting with people with no vested interest, we would be willing to defend what we think is right. We’ve heard that we can live with hope that things will get better, but that some times, we must understand this is as good as it gets. And we can be glad about it. That we know we are dust, but that we’re certain God’s creative hand works best with dust. That there is always cause and effect, and that God calls us to make a difference in the world. That we decide to get up from where we are and follow his lead to any of several places and ideas and situations where we might act. And that we do it for others more than ourselves, knowing that God already gave himself for us—so that we now have plenty to give away. That there will be times when we are sorrowful, but that we don’t need to wallow in our sorrow, but instead live with a certainty that there is as much joy in the world as grief. And that God who made the lilies of the field and the birds of the air and blessed them for a little while will bless us longer and more. To know that things aren’t always as they seem, and that we must decide when they are better and when they are worse. But that we recognize that the whole is greater than the parts, and that true vision sees as much scheme as we can and admits what we cannot. That we have done stupid things in life and surely deserve being written out of God’s presence. But that when we think it’s all over, we’re mistaken, for with God it’s never over. And that though we are ready to give in and give up, we have his strength and example to follow, as well as his promise of new life. And that may be the most important thing of all—that we are an Easter people, always given the promise of new life.
Joshua said to the people of Israel, It’s up to you whether or not you choose it. It’s the same situation now. May God bless us in our choosing.

"A Lot Going On in Wichita"

2005-03-13T08:28:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/13/2005

“A Lot Going On in Wichita” John 11:1-45 The Fifth Sunday in Lent March 13, 2005
Can you recall the moment when you were informed of someone’s death? Someone entirely too young, entirely too fit, entirely too unlikely. And at that news, did you say something like this: “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. I just saw him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. Not him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” And might you suppose that was the reaction of the pastor of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita, Kansas, when the police told him that a member of his church, the president of the congregation council, had been arrested as a notorious serial killer? Do you suppose the pastor said, “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. Not him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. I just saw him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” But not knowing what to say is part of the grieving process. Was part of the grieving process in this morning’s gospel reading.
The Bible tells us that a certain man who lived in Bethany, just outside Jerusalem, was ill. Apparently was so ill, that he died. You can imagine the sadness of his sisters, Mary and Martha. Maybe they weren’t shocked or dumbfounded. But they surely were at loose ends, trying to decide what to do next, what had to happen next. This was their brother who died. Was he also their financial support? Surely their emotional support. But things happen quickly when there’s been a death; they have to. People need to be notified, the story has to be told, the body has to be prepared, folks stop by the house, everyone expresses their condolences, and share their shock and regret. But then, according to tradition, within 24 hours, Lazarus’ body was laid to rest in a cave, a tomb, with a protective stone guarding the entrance. He was gone, though not forgotten. And the story could have ended there.
But then Jesus showed up. Four days after Lazarus’ death, Jesus showed up. After some of the grieving was finished, after the entombment was accomplished, Jesus showed up. Showed up late, said Mary and Martha accusingly. Too late to be helpful to the sisters, and way too late to do anything for Lazarus. Whom he had often claimed as his loving friend. And the story could have ended there too. But something amazing happened. Jesus stood outside Lazarus’ tomb and called out his name, and said to the dead man, “Lazarus, come out!” And he did come out. Much to the shock of the sisters, much to the horror of the crowd, much to the amazement of the disciples, much to the delight of Lazarus, Jesus turned everything around and brought the dead back to life.
And here’s a question: if Jesus could and did turn everything around and bring Lazarus of Bethany back to life, do you think Jesus can and will turn everything around and bring life to Dennis Rader, that pillar of the Lutheran Church in Wichita who is charged as a brutal serial killer?
Oh, maybe you didn’t see that question coming. Maybe I caught you by surprise—but then Jesus caught Mary and Martha by surprise too. What was dead was made alive. Who in her right mind would ever have expected something like that to happen? Though the question in Wichita is, who would want something like that to happen? Am I stretching too far to inquire what Jesus would do with Dennis Rader? Or have you already worked it out in your own mind? Probably worked it out in your own mind, after considering that Dennis Rader killed someone, killed many people, tortured and killed people, bound and tortured and killed people seemingly without remorse. People like Dennis Rader disgust us, don’t they, even if they do go to the same church we do. How could we ever expect Jesus to have anything to do with someone so disgusting, so dirty, so rotten, so smelly. But then, if you remember the gospel story, after four days, Lazarus was that disgusting, dirty, rotten and smelly too. And was that the point? Along with Mary and Martha, Bible students have wondered forever—why did Jesus wait so long to go to Lazarus? One answer is that by waiting so long, so terribly terribly long, Jesus’ gift of new life was more than anyone would ever expect. And to show that there was no sleight of hand trick to Jesus’ miracle. And to say that nothing ever disgusts Jesus.
Though it’s true that lots of things disgust us. Serial killers, for instance. And maybe preachers who try to convince people that God cares about serial killers. While it’s true that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, why should we ever believe that Jesus would hold out a gift of newness to Dennis Rader? After all, Dennis Rader didn’t ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. But then, neither did Lazarus ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. Lazarus was dead. And presumably, Dennis Rader is guilty.
So what do you think? For awhile, pretend that you’re not a member of Christ the King Lutheran Church in Cary, but that you’re a member of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita. What do you think? Do you think we should fire Dennis as the president of our congregation? Do you think we should kick Dennis out of the church? Do you base your answer on the constitution or on common sense or on emotionalism or on scripture? Do you make your decision on the way I read scripture or the way lots of other people read scripture? For there is a difference, you see. There is and always has been a difference in how we read scripture. There is and always has been a difference in how we regard grace.
Oh, I recognize that some of this discussion could be highly intellectual. But that’s why I asked you to imagine that you’re part of Christ Lutheran in Wichita. All of a sudden, sin and death and grace and forgiveness and heaven and hell are no longer Sunday terms. They’re every-day reality. So much so that the question will not go away. How shall we deal with Dennis Rader? How would God want us to deal with Dennis Rader? Should we pray for him or about him? And someone rightly says, Before we pray for or about Dennis Rader, can we spend at least a few moments in prayer for his victims and for their families, for the church in Wichita and for Dennis Rader’s own family? Why should we pray for him if we don’t pray for them? And I agree—but are we limited in prayer? Can we not pray for both, for all?
We could pray for Dennis Rader, I guess, but we might not want to pray for Dennis Rader because instead we want to scream—if the charges hold, we have to say that he was a sinner. A really really bad sinner. A sick and savage sinner. And likely, that’s so. But from our childhood, what have we learned in church? What do we sing in our hymns and read in our Bibles? Didn’t Jesus die for sinners? Yes—but (we protest) surely he didn’t die for that kind of sinner! But what does that mean—that we believe Jesus died only for the nice sinners? The little sinners? The clean and undisgusting sinners? It sounds as if what we say we believe and what we really believe are two different things. But that was the case for Martha too, when she said, Lord, I believe you can raise my brother from the dead. But Lord, I wish you wouldn’t roll away the stone because it’s already been four long hot days. For her and for us, on the one hand, there’s belief. On the other hand, there’s practicality. On the one hand, there’s the church. On the other hand, there’s the world. On the one hand, we know God can. On the other hand, we don’t think God should.
So, Martha—do you or do you not believe? Do you and I believe or do we not believe? Two weeks before Good Friday, do we or do we not understand the cross? Isn’t grace defined as God’s steadfast unchangeable love? And does it come only when we ask for it? Or does it come best when God sees what we need most. It’s a basic question—who needs God’s grace, and who needs it more, you or Dennis Rader? And this question too—when does Dennis Rader need the church more, last month or right now?
Today’s gospel reading said that, standing by the tomb, Jesus began to weep. Why did he cry? Surely because he was sad. But sad about what? Sad that someone died, or sad that someone didn’t understand? Sad about Lazarus, or sad about Mary and Martha and their uncertainty about belief and trust and hope? Or was he sad about the future? Does Jesus still cry? I’ll bet he does, and is it so because he’s disappointed at the way we’ve lived, or because he sees us so close to death, or because he didn’t want it to come to this, or because we haven’t figured it all out yet? Maybe because we haven’t figured it out yet, though this morning we have read all about it. And this is what we read: that Jesus comes to the smelliest most disgusting dead parts of life and says, We’re going to start all over again. Is that how you read the story? And if it is how you read the story, if you believe that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead and gave him new and renewed life, is there any chance Jesus will bring new and renewed life to Dennis Rader, and to his family and to his victims and their families, and to his church? And if all that comes to them, do you suppose it might, just might, come to you and me too?
Today’s second lesson said this: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”
And isn’t that what Easter is all about? That he brings us life? That when we are faced with death, any kind of death, Jesus helps us deal with it, even get us out of it? In this world, we cannot escape death (or anything else awful). But how we handle nasty things, how we deal with smelly things, how we feel about disgusting things is an indication of how we regard Jesus. We know that he stands with us during normal death, holy and peaceful death, expected and contented death. But if the death is something sad and shocking and inexplicable, something vile and contemptible, do we still think he’s with us?
No, we don’t believe that at all. The thought of violence—sickening, depraved, unremorseful, continual violence—is just too much for us to handle. And it’s hard for us to imagine that Jesus would want to handle that either. It’s simply part of our nature that we love justice, and that we feel more for those who are hurt, than for those who do the hurting. The concept of grace or any free and undeserved gift is simply too difficult to comprehend, and we don’t apologize for wanting Dennis Rader to rot in hell. We’re simply too human to see it any other way. And we have to hope that God will excuse us, forgive us, for that. And he will. Grace given is grace given, not grace earned. Nor is grace apportioned to the size of the sin. But let’s be aware that Jesus’ weeping isn’t an isolated thing. Jesus wept for Lazarus, and for his sisters; we can agree on that. I say that Jesus weeps for Dennis Rader, and for all his victims; we may sort of agree on that. But more than that, I’m convinced that Jesus weeps for you and me too.
There’s a lot going on in Wichita these days. In the city, in the church, in homes and hearts, there’s a lot going on in Wichita. A lot of dealing with grief. With the loss of life and the loss of innocence and the loss of hope. A lot of people asking, Are you sure it’s so? I just can’t believe it. At the time of death, it is our initial human response. It’s what we say. But in the days still ahead, standing by every tomb at every death every day, may we be also led to say, Lord, call us all out and raise us all up and increase our faith, through your most gracious gift.

"Remember This: It's Not Over 'Til It's Over"

2005-03-09T08:28:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/09/2005

“Remember This: It’s Not Over ‘Til It’s Over” Ps 51:1-13 Romans 7:14-25 Midweek IV March 9, 2005
I’d swear that TV’s funniest videos are made up—except that we all know that some people do really stupid things. Do stupid things and dangerous things, awful things and rude things, harmful things and thoughtless things. Even sinful things. And you yourself may know that because you read the newspapers, or maybe because you were witness to embarrassing moments, or maybe your own personal history would cause people to ask: What were you thinking? Though, of course, you weren’t thinking. Or weren’t thinking clearly. Or weren’t thinking long-term. Or weren’t thinking about others. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were some built in warning-light that asks if you really want to keep on doing what you’re doing? Computers have them. Cars have them. All we have is Judas.
People have wondered forever what Judas was thinking. Was it the money? Was it the fame? Was it a concern for right religion? Was it concern for Jesus’ safety? Whatever it was has caused the name Judas to be linked with hatred and scorn. Even though he repented. And that’s what it said in our scripture tonight. That Judas suddenly realized he had done wrong. I guess you have to congratulate him for something. It’s more than you and I may have done. Which is only half-accurate. You and I have repented for the things which have been uncovered. It’s the rest we keep quiet. And why not? Do you really think we’re going to admit to something that no one else has discovered about us? No, we’ll pretend it’s all right and, only later, when the truth has come out, will we make a show of being sorry. But even then, it’ll work out in our favor. Not that we escape, but that we are forgiven.
I’m spending some of our Lenten time together making a list of things we should always remember. A kind of handy digest for believers. And here’s this week’s nugget: it’s not over ‘til it’s over. Was it Yogi Berra who said that, or Judas Iscariot? Either person, there’s some wisdom there, if we’d pay attention to it. Though some people don’t pay attention and, brought face to face with all they have done and left undone, are quite certain there’s no hope for them, ever. Even knowing that Judas repented, some people still see only darkness ahead for people who mess up. For, rightly, they say— maybe Judas did repent, but did God accept Judas’ repentance. I can’t say for sure, but I think I know. Was not the purpose of the cross that the payment for sin would be made, and that all who had offended God would be put back in a right relation with him? Though saying Judas only “offended” God is a pretty big understatement. In betraying Jesus, Judas did more than offend God. He tried to kill him off.
There are at least three ways to look at Judas. One is to say, That’s the worst excuse for a human being we have ever seen, and God should have invented a new and deeper level of hell to which he should be sent. Other people might say, Judas was wrong and what he did was awful, but we have to hope that a loving God was willing to deal with even that most horrible sin. And the rest of us might say, We’d better hope that Judas gets loved and gets in, because we’re not a whole lot better than he was. Which is not what most people say—that last, I mean. Only a few mentally-disturbed people actually think that what they have done is as bad as what Judas did. You don’t think that you’re as bad as Judas, do you?
Well, if you do, and I myself do think that, let’s ask the righteous others sitting around you tonight to be quiet for a bit while you and I talk about the grace of God. You have heard me say time and again that if it weren’t for God’s grace, I would go totally crazy. That’s what it means to see yourself like Judas. To know that what you did and how often you did it and how unbothered you were, was more than just stupid. More than offensive. That it went to the very core of the matter, and caused people to shake their heads. On that, I’ll bet we can agree. But then what? Once you come to your senses and realize how really stupid it was, or even if you don’t fully realize how stupid it was, is there anything still ahead?
Is it all hopeless? Or is there something that can change what we have done, and make it better? Is there any reason to believe that good could come from the wrong stuff we have done? That there could be restitution? Or amendment? That the world would be willing to change its mind, and that God would be willing to forgive any of it? It’s a long-shot, in some people’s eyes. Would you forgive you, if you were in charge? Are you glad you’re not in charge? Could you imagine a loving grace-filled verdict from God who is in charge? Shouldn’t we be glad at the very thought that God might let Judas in, knowing that if Judas gets in, we do too? But my constant proclamation of grace often has been met with a stony silence from some people, with the claim that by begging or assuming or hoping that Judas is in—and me too—that I cheapen God’s grace. That for grace to be given, for any change to be made, for a difference in the days ahead, there needs to be an apology, even a groveling, that indicates the stupidity was fully realized.
It’s not an easy thing, this matter of grace. If it’s grace, it’s free. But if there’s a string attached, it’s not free. And though my apology might be sincere, my sincerity might not stretch to cover every time I do the same stupid thing. And though I might have changed my ways in order to give up one kind of wrong, I have taken up something else stupid, maybe different in size or matter, but not in separation from God. In short, it’s either stupid or it’s not. It’s wrong or it’s not. We’re either in or we’re out. And I like to think that I’m in. Though there is a catch—not that I must fully repent to be in, for I cannot, but that I must fully proclaim it, which I can do. Not proclaim my entry through the pearly gates it with a smugness that figures I pulled a fast one on God, but to tell everyone that God pulled a fast one on me, and wouldn’t give me up without a fight.
Though when you do stupid things, there are consequences. You know, you can’t un- ring a bell. But even the consequences of life can be used by God to make a difference. Is not Jesus’ death on the cross the greatest example of all? God can do whatever he wants, and nothing will get in his way. Not even death itself. Nor does he limit himself in the number of possibilities. Of all the banners that have been displayed here over the years, I think the one that most people find assuring is the one that says “God isn’t finished with me yet.” It isn’t the prettiest banner we display, but it is the most truthful one, for it reminds us that it’s not over ‘til it’s over. And here is what grace proclaims: that it’s never over. And that life and repentance and awareness and grace is always being defined and tried on and accepted and proclaimed. And that if one thing isn’t so, another might be. How shall we best picture the love of God? If there can be 57 varieties of pickles, can there not be 57 varieties of grace?
Though just what is meant by the banner message isn’t certain. God isn’t finished with me yet. Does that mean that he’ll make me better? Or that there are trials still in store? Does he expect me to make restitution, or to see myself in a different light? Does he want me to relinquish control? Will he use me as an example for others, maybe make me the poster boy for grace? Who knows? There are many different paths that might be taken, and the details of the journey aren’t certain. But the constancy of God’s grace is.
Grace that comes to cover over a little bit. Grace that comes to cover over a lot. Grace that comes freely and without any knowledge on our part. Grace that is obvious to everyone. Grace that comes after proper apologies are made. Grace that comes even when the apologies are only half-hearted. Grace that turns life around. Grace that comes when life has already been turned around. Grace that has already begun but promises still more ahead. Grace that has begun and begs to be shared with others. All of which makes grace something infinitely wonderful. Grace still to come.
St. Paul said it first: I haven’t done the things I should have done, and I have done the very things I shouldn’t have. Is that true for you too? Sure it is. So what’s next? Just admitting it all—or admitting it all and trying to make amends? It’s a truism much proclaimed, that you can’t unring a bell. But you can ring it a second time, doing better. Or if the first bell was ruined, you can get another bell. Or if the world is out of bells, you can give the word yourself, telling people that it’s never over. That if the consequences of wrong seem to go on and on—and they often do—then the grace of God goes on and on too, and it always does. So that we live with hope, and with certainty. With embarrassment and with relief. With loss and with gain. With defeat and with victory.
When we do something stupid, people ask us, What were you thinking. When God takes us back and takes us in and takes us home, people may ask him that too. It’s the same question, but with two different answers. What were you thinking? I guarantee you that God’s answer is better than ours.

"The Day You Stop Believing"

2005-03-06T08:29:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/06/2005

“The Day You Stop Believing” John 9:1-41 The Fourth Sunday in Lent March 6, 2005
Every week, during our worship services, we pray for a whole list of people. Sometimes we read their names out loud, sometimes not. Some of those people you know; most you do not. But just because their names are listed, you figure something important is going on in their life. Sometimes it’s something happy; more often, it’s something sad or scary or frustrating. Week after week we pray for those people, whether they like it or not. And sometimes, the people about whom we pray don’t like it at all.
If you’ve read anything other than the sports page this past week, you know that an awful serial killer has been arrested in Kansas. He had terrorized a community there by his continued violence that earned him the nickname, BTK—bind, torture and kill. Which is precisely what he did to one man’s family. That he killed four members of the same family. It may be obvious or maybe it’s hard to say, but how would you react if you came home one day and someone you love had been murdered. Shocked, sickened, sad, angry? The four murders in one family happened some years ago, but last Sunday I watched an interview with one of the surviving members of that family who said—when my family was killed, that was the day I stopped believing in God. Because after an awful thing like that, I couldn’t believe that there is a God, and if there is, I don’t want to be around a God who would allow something like that to happen. The man who made that statement said that he used to go to church, had been an altar boy, had been raised to believe, but at the time of his family’s grisly death, he asked where God was.
Which is close enough to part of this morning’s gospel story. It was a long story, that story of a man who was born blind. I figure it’s a rough thing to face life like that. Different from everybody else. Not able to do what everybody else does. Maybe living with anger and frustration. And with no answers too. Isn’t it a part of our life that we like answers? More than one person listed in our prayers has asked that question, “how come.” There’s even a special word that describes that question. It’s called theodicy— the justice of God. If there is a God and if God supposedly loves his people, why do bad things happen? More than that, why do bad things happen to good people? It’s not fair. And it’s not. So that people have forever asked questions, trying to get to the bottom of it. In today’s gospel, people asked Jesus, How come this man is blind? Where should we put the blame? Did he do something wrong, or did his parents do something wrong? (The assumption was that somebody must have done something wrong, because bad things don’t just happen.) But Jesus turned the matter away from finger-pointing and used the blind man as an example of healing. Remember that Jesus touched the man’s eyes and said, Because I am the light of the world, you don’t have to live in darkness any more. And right away the man was able to see. But what does that have to do with the man in Kansas who gave up believing in God?
He’s living in a kind of darkness too, isn’t he? Not saying something wrong, not scolding him, but just assuming that as hurt as he is, as angry as he is, as frustrated as he is, until now not having answers about that crime, even he admits his life has been changed. And surely not changed for the better. Whenever you ask the question, How come, and get no answer, there’s a kind of blindness, isn’t there? If the answer were obvious, you could say, Now I see. But sometimes, we don’t see, can’t see, or else what we do see is almost too painful to bear. Have you ever asked, God, where are you? If it hasn’t happened yet, the day will surely come.
It may come when the thing you most loved is taken away from you. It may come when your dreams are smashed. It may come during a time of pain that only gets worse. It may come when your own name is on our prayer list, or would be, if you’d let anyone know about the pain you’re facing. Even while you’re part of the church. Some people keep on keeping on with the church, even though they have these deep and troubling questions. And the deepest of them all is, Where is God? Didn’t he make a promise to be around? Don’t I deserve better than this?
The question is tied up with an assumption some people have—that everything that happens in life is part of some grand plan that God has. But I say, be careful when you believe that, because some of the things that happen in life happen in spite of God. Not that he can’t change them, but that he allows people to do what we want—even to do the hurtful things we want. So that murder isn’t part of God’s plan. Nor is blindness. But God can use the awful things of our life and turn them into something else. If we’ll let it happen. But that’s a big if, because if we let ourselves get changed, get healed, we set ourselves up for a lot of hard work.
Consider the blind man. He’d been blind forever. His parents didn’t like it that way; the man himself didn’t like it that way. It caused discomfort and upset and frustration for everybody, but it had gone on so long that the blind man and his parents had gotten used to it. Didn’t like it, but had gotten used to it. Had fallen into the routine of it all. And you’d think that the blind man would have been overjoyed at being given the gift of sight. And in the gospel lesson, he was. Would you be pleased? Sure—because you’d be able to see again. But if you’d made your living by begging as a blind man, now you’d have to find work as a sighted man. And if your blindness kept you from seeing awful things, with sight you’d have to deal with what’s in front of you. And if people paid attention to you before, maybe now they’d ignore you. So it happens that we’re not always glad about something that changes life. Especially if, all of a sudden, the change means you have to start believing again.
Remember the man in Kansas. When his family was murdered, he gave up believing in God. What should he say, now that the killer has been caught? I believe in God again? I’ll bet he won’t say that. Maybe he couldn’t say that, because he’s gotten so used to living life one way, anything that changes his life may prove too heavy a load. And yet, there’s some logic, isn’t there? That if God is blamed for making things bad, he should be praised for making things good? That’s logic, but when your life is blind, you can’t always see logic. But fortunately, God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond.
Or at least, that’s what I say—that God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond. Although a lot of people whom you know say just the opposite—that God loves only those who do respond. You know, God loves believers, does not love unbelievers. God loves people who obey the commandments, does not love people who break the rules. God loves those who love other people, does not love those who hate those around them. But what should we say about the relationship between God and the bitter Kansan. That because he gave up on God, God should or has or will give up on him? If that’s what we believe, we have to be the saddest people of all. For in truth, it’s when we give up on God most, that he comes to us best. And that’s not logic, but it is the proclamation of the church. That the day you give up believing in God is the day God most comes to you. And we could see that, if we weren’t blind.
Today is set aside here as a time for healing. Even though scripture tells us that Jesus was a healer, the church doesn’t do much with healing, because we don’t always take it very seriously. Except for some strange television preachers whom we sometimes regard as fake, we just don’t think that any significant healing can take place. And as an example, we use the most difficult stories we can. If a person has a missing arm, no amount of healing prayers this morning is going to grow a new arm back. And if a person’s broken leg is in a cast, we don’t really believe that the right words this morning will allow that person to go skiing again. And if someone has died, even has been murdered, we don’t see that anything will bring those people back to life. And they can’t be brought back to life. But if we can’t see that kind of healing, is there something else we should see? Is the one and only prayer we ought to make this morning, Lord, help us see? Lord, take away our blindness, and make us see?
How about these prayers at a time of blindness: Make us see what is right and what is wrong. Make us see what can and cannot be changed. Make us see how we can be involved in change. Make us see how life would be different if we would change and be changed. All of which is easier said than done. If you’re missing an arm, our prayers today won’t restore it. But our prayers today might cause you to see yourself less with a handicap and more with an opportunity. Living less with anger at what you do not have, and more with what you could be. And someone says, That’s a crock. That’s not healing at all; it’s attitude adjustment. And maybe it is. But would you reject the cure because someone uses a different name to describe it? The blind man from the gospel lesson had his sight restored. I have no reason to believe that anyone that blind will suddenly see here today. But there are lots of people around us right now who need to see better and deeper. And who can. Who need to see better and deeper and to look in a different direction. Not giving up on God, but depending on God whose promises are still sure. That he who created the whole world, and us, continues to watch over the whole world, and us, even when we and the whole world are in turmoil.
And that’s part of what a healing service is all about—that we take seriously the fact that this whole world is in turmoil. The man in Kansas isn’t the only person who ever gave up on God. He’s not the only person today who is angry and sad and frustrated. Angry, sad and frustrated by an injury that has come about. Angry, sad and frustrated by a marriage that hasn’t worked out. Angry, sad and frustrated about dreams that haven’t come true. Angry, sad and frustrated at the meanness people show and the meanness we show back. Angry, sad and frustrated by the pains that bother our heads and our stomachs, our backs and our bowels. Not just that smiling a lot and saying that we love God will quiet our bowels or strengthen our backs, but that the way we have lived doesn’t seem to be doing much. Would rejoicing in being a child of God help?
What about that man in Kansas? Would it help him to know that he’s still a child of God? He doesn’t think so, because he doesn’t believe in God any more. But just because we don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care for us. And is that healing— to ask that we and everyone here, those whose names are in the bulletin and in everyone’s hearts, will give up whatever blindness there has been, in favor of seeing another way, God’s way, to get through it all. Not that the conditions of awful life have been changed, but that we have changed how we handle the awful conditions of life.
Jesus said to the blind man, “I am the light of the world. If you want to see better and deeper and stronger, go and wash your eyes.” And he did. And he was changed. May that be the story that gives you hope today.

"Remember This: It Is Something Like an Elephant"

2005-03-02T08:29:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
03/02/2005

“Remember This: It is Like An Elephant” Proverbs 2:1-15 Psalm 146 Midweek III March 2, 2005
Did you ever read this poem, written over a century ago, based on an East Indian fable:
It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: “God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!”
The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, “Ho! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp? To me ’tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!”
In turn, the third thought the trunk was like a snake and the fourth thought the knee was like a tree. The fifth thought the ear was like a fan and the sixth thought the tail was like a rope. And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong! So ends one of our texts for today. One in which there is apparently a great desire for truth, but that no one involved quite gets the whole picture. Nor is the poem a fiction. We still act like that today. You know what you know and I know what I know, but if either of us knows what the other knows, we’ll probably say either it’s wrong or it doesn’t matter. Especially in matters of faith and religion and doctrine and church.
I’m spending some time this Lenten season reminding you and me of some thoughts that could make a difference in life, trying to figure out what it is that should be remembered, if life as the people of God is to be lived well. And here is one thing: that we are wisest when we realize how little we know. That’s not always a popular thought, because we like to think that we already know quite a bit about things. But like the blind men, what we know may not be what is, and what is may be more than we care to know. Especially when it comes to God. So that many people claim to know precisely how God is and what God wants and whom God blesses and why. But some of them are fools and some of them are wrong and the rest don’t recognize the truth of God when it stands right in front of them.
Consider another of our texts tonight—the one in which the troops came out against Jesus as a robber. He asked for whom they were looking. And they said, Jesus. He said, I am he. But they didn’t believe it. He tried again, and they did too. But it took awhile for them to recognize him in their midst, standing right in front of them. The religious authorities, on the other hand, seeing him there and knowing full well who Jesus was, tried to take what he had proclaimed and turn it around so that it became a falsehood instead of eternal truth. And Peter, who also knew who Jesus was, and was among the best of Jesus’ followers, became afraid of responsibility and truth itself and denied that he was a party to any of it. Are you yourself more like the soldiers or the religious authorities or Peter? Each of them saw Jesus, though it’s possible to say that none of them really saw Jesus.
For, as the poet reminded us, when it comes to God, we act like blind people who take a bit of this and a bit of that and try to make an elephant our of it. In trying to come up with a statement of belief, we take a bit of scripture here and a bit of Sunday School lesson there, a little common sense here and a greeting card verse there, and add to it something of our own pain and experience and a little of someone else’s, and we try to make sense out of it all. But the point is that there’s no sense to it at all. Do you think you understand God? Or forgiveness or reconciliation? Or heaven and hell? Or faith or grace?
In all my years of proclaiming it, I still can’t understand it. Can preach it, can delight in it, but can’t understand it. To which, someone says, If you can’t understand all about God, maybe you should give up and let other people proclaim the truth. But my problem is that I don’t think anybody else really understands God either. And that we’re a lot like the six blind men who thought they knew what they were talking about and really did not. In truth, things are not always what they seem. Not sin. Not salvation. Not truth. Not God. Not that it is always less than it seems. Sometimes it’s more than it seems. And for that we should be grateful. But gratitude hasn’t always been what Christians do best. Take, for example, the idea that God is always more willing to forgive than we are to ask. Or to look with kind eye on those who have hurt him deeply. We sometimes dispute that and try to call down fire from heaven because we think sinners should suffer. And just who would those sinners be? Others, of course, for we see ourselves as the children of Abraham, the ones who sit in church, the generous givers, who have Bibles, even if we don’t often open them. We are the ones who will get into heaven. And I have no quarrel with that, but are we always glad that others might be there too?
The problem with those six blind men from Indostan was that they saw the parts, not the whole. And though the whole is made up of parts, we all know that the whole is greater than its parts. So when it comes to knowing about God and the Bible and faith and life, and heaven and hell, what we believe is nothing like an elephant, but something like the way we act at a church covered-dish supper. When the line is open for serving, do you yourself go through first or last? And do you take what you need or what you want? And is the size of your portion equal to what you brought? And do you praise someone for homemade and scorn others for store-bought? And do you take only a little so that others are guaranteed their share? Would you ever invite a stranger to get in line with you? In front or behind?
When it comes to knowing about God and the Bible and faith and life, and heaven and hell, what we believe is nothing like an elephant, but something like a newspaper. Do you read the headlines and assume they’re always true? Is an editorial only an opinion? Do you accuse people of awful bias, but only when they disagree with you? Do you cluck at stories of awful inhumanity and sit back to wonder why nothing is done? Do you find truth in what may be fiction and fiction in what is supposed to be truth? Are you glad you live in this part of the world, and not that? Do you pray for or about the people whose names are in print? Or not pray at all, seeing it’s only a newspaper.
When it comes to knowing about God and the Bible and faith and life, and heaven and hell, what we believe is nothing like an elephant, but something like a report card. We say it is good to get an A, and not good at all to fail. It doesn’t matter to some people how an A was received, but is surely important that you have gotten what others did not. So it’s disturbing that someone else might also get an A—especially if you see yourself as the hardest worker, or the teacher’s pet. Who cares if getting an A can be a matter of achieving everything but knowing nothing?
When it comes to knowing about God and the Bible and faith and life, and heaven and hell, what we believe is nothing like an elephant, but something like a battle. Sense would say that in every fight there is right and wrong. But when you fight, your own best sense says you are right and the others are wrong. Some people claim that God will bless the right, but blindness keeps us from seeing that sometimes we’re in the wrong. And we look for victory and claim it when it is not there, even when it should not be there.
And maybe you can think of other examples to examine the truth about God and the Bible and faith and life and heaven and hell. Not the truth as you think it is, not the truth as others have told you it is, not even the truth that the footnotes in your Bible claim that it is, but that you ask of Jesus standing in your midst—who are you really. And that you admit that others may know as much about him as you do. Which was the problem of the blind men, you see. Each was certain only he was right. Not that they mis- identified what they touched. A trunk is like a snake and a tail is like a rope. There is nothing wrong in being wrong. What is wrong is insisting that you are right. You may be right, but it is not guaranteed by God that you are right. Beware of anyone who claims to be right, even holy and religious people who claim to be right, everyone who uses the name of God in defining right. For you see, not every theology is good theology. Not every sentence that includes the word “God” is a good sentence. And our own humility needs to admit that.
Though it’s a lack of humility that makes us what we are. So the soldiers came out bearing weapons, thinking they were right. And the high priest came out wearing pride, thinking he was right. And Peter came out caring about his own skin, thinking he was right. And we come out certain that we are right too. So certain that we try to convince others that only we are right. But in fact, we sometimes mislead people through our lies, through our biases, through our vested interest, through our misunderstandings, and through our sin.
And this may be the truth: that we are wisest when we realize how little we know.
So the God who made the elephant with a trunk and a tail gave us neither, but did make sure that we had a head and a heart. A head to pay attention to what the story is all about, and a heart to know that it has something to do with us. A head to see right and wrong, and a heart to admit that we are more wrong than right. A head to be smart enough to pay attention, and a heart to care enough to pay attention. A head to think that victory is important, and a heart to understand that in the Jesus-story, the loser actually won.
The soldiers didn’t know what Jesus looked like. The authorities knew what Jesus looked like but didn’t know what he stood for. Peter knew what he stood for but didn’t use it when he needed it. It is something like an elephant. May we work through our blindness to understand what that means.

"Muddy People"

2005-02-27T08:29:00.000-08:00

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.

"Remember This: One Day at a Time"

2005-02-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

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.

"If You're Asked to Pray for a Drunk"

2005-02-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

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

"Remember This: A Single Nail"

2005-02-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

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.

"When the Snowstorm Hits Eden"

2005-02-13T08:31:00.000-08:00

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?

"Remember This: Keep Your Fork"

2005-02-08T08:31:00.000-08:00

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.

"The Waiting Room"

2005-02-06T08:32:00.000-08:00

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?

"I Have a Blanket"

2005-01-30T08:32:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
01/30/2005

“I Have A Blanket” Micah 6:1-8 The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany January 30, 2005
If you want to keep your name on the voting rolls, you need to go to the polls every couple of years and notify the authorities if you change your address. If you want to get your name on the dean’s list, you need to maintain a particular standard of academic excellence. If you intend to stay a cheerleader, you have to show up for practice and games. If you want to maintain your membership at the club, you have to pay your dues. There are standards, requirements, expectations for lots of things in life. Do you know what is required to be a child of God? To stay on God’s good side, what do you think you have to do?
If you ask most people, the number one answer is to be obedient. That’s the word on the street. If you obey the commandments, if you do what you should and avoid the opposite, you’re very likely in. The number two answer is almost the same. To be in God’s pleasure, you need to be moral. Number three, go to church. And then there’s a tie for fourth place, among praying, reading the Bible and giving money. Now, your own answers may vary somewhat, and maybe you would switch number one with number two. But those informal results are close enough. Be obedient, be moral, go to church, pray, read the Bible and give money. You’d think all that would be obvious to anybody. But it wasn’t that clear to Micah.
Eight hundred years before the birth of Jesus, Micah was one of those people God chose to make sure people understood how things were supposed to go. We call people like Micah prophets—not because they were able to see into the future, but because they were spokesman for God. People who pro-claimed. Micah, Isaiah, Amos, Hosea. These were the great names of the socially-minded prophets who declared that people’s usual lists of what pleases God were simply wrong. Micah said, If you really want to know what pleases God, listen up: Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Which makes those words from this morning’s first lesson some of the most important in the entire Old Testament. Some of the most important but some of the most ignored, because they’re some of the most misunderstood, since it isn’t always clear what I should do with my blanket.
It surely has been cold lately. Whenever I bump up my thermostat or fire up my gas logs or pick out one of my many sweaters, I’m reminded just how cold it is. But I’m also reminded that not everyone has the luxury of extra sweaters or alternative heating systems or the money to stay warm. So that’s why I’ve decided to give away one of my blankets. To help people stay warm. In times like these, it seems the right thing to do. Everyone would agree with that. Or almost everyone. At least some of the time. Maybe.
For in truth, some people scoff at my attempt at caring, saying that the temperature is so low and the city is so big and the needs are so great that my single blanket won’t do much good. As a symbol, it’s very nice, but as a practical application, I might as well put it back in the closet. That’s what some people say. Other people encourage me to give up my blanket but say that, more important, is the giving of money. Whenever I’m cold, I should write a check for a hundred dollars or a thousand and make it available for those in need. That’s what some people say. But still others argue that’s only a temporary fix and that, if I really want to make a difference, I’ll work to change society so that there aren’t many people who are cold in the first place. All of which is probably true, but it all goes deeper than I want it to. See, I just want to get rid of my blanket. To do something good with my blanket.
But someone else asks, How do you know your blanket will be used for good? What if the person who gets it already has a blanket? What if the person who gets it misuses it? What if the person who gets it isn’t appreciative? What if the person who gets it isn’t Lutheran, or isn’t Christian, or actually curses God for the way things are? Well, I have to admit that I’m not really thrilled about my blanket being given to someone who might sell it at a yard sale in order to get a couple of bucks to feed an addiction or slake a thirst. Maybe I need to re-think this whole blanket-giving matter. And you know what— the prophet Micah would agree. Not keep the blanket from being given, but say that, before the blanket is given, it’s important for you and me to look at life itself. To understand what God means when he says that we’re to do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with God. Oh, but it’s not an easy thing to deal with, because it takes a lot of time and a lot of effort and challenges the very core of who we are.
According to Micah, doing justice means making sure that everyone’s basic needs are met. That the simple requirements for living are accessible to every person. Nothing terribly radical about that. Our constitution says the same thing. It’s a right and noble thought. That each of us should be committed to the care of those around us— especially when some of those around us aren’t able to care for themselves. The old. The weak. Those with physical and mental challenges too huge for simple relief. The children. The cold. The poor. Though in truth, some people bristle at the notion we should take care of the poor, because it seems obvious to them that a lot of the poor don’t have to be poor. That if they’d work hard and be responsible people and invest their money wisely and buy cheaper food they wouldn’t be poor. They say, if the poor would just stop being poor, they wouldn’t need my blanket in the first place, would they? Which makes sense to some people today, but that’s not at all what God spoke through Micah. God says, More than being concerned about whether or not you’re being ripped off, start with an assumption that there are people in need. Don’t make them prove their need at first. Don’t make them match your definition of need at first. But give your blanket first, for then you have a basis to talk. Are you not both attached to that blanket?
About that blanket. I already said I’m going to give one away. In truth, I have extra blankets and bedspreads someone could use. But I do need to figure out which one I should choose. I won’t give the best one; I just bought it after Christmas. I’m not going to give the frayed one; it’s not presentable. I’m not going to give the antique one; it’s too valuable. I’m not going to give the yellow one; it goes with my wallpaper. I’m not going to give my favorite one; anybody could understand that. Wow, which of my blankets can I give up? It seems a reasonable, if privileged, question. But the answer that comes from God through Micah turns the whole matter around, saying—you don’t have to worry about which of your blankets to give because you don’t have any blankets. There may be blankets in your linen closet, but they aren’t your blankets. All that we have belongs to God, and is only held in trust by us. Which is technically correct, but I don’t know many people who’d press the issue. I mean, I bought blanket number 1. I stitched quilt number two. My kids gave me comforter number three. I inherited quilt number four. Yeah, everything probably comes from God, but don’t I have any say in this whole matter?
The first lesson today is presented in the form of a court trial. On one side is God; on the other side are God’s people. God’s charge is that his people have violated the covenant he had with them, have stopped doing what they should and have enjoyed doing what they shouldn’t. God says that people have gotten selfish and turned inward and become mean-spirited. God says that people spend more time trying to obey the commandments than they do loving those around them. But they don’t do well loving the people around them because they don’t do well following the commandments. And worst of all, the people have forgotten all the good stuff God has done for them, even from the beginning of history. God has done all that he has done, and promises to keep on doing it, and the people have trouble deciding which blanket to give up. And it’s not even our blanket! That’s what the first lesson says.
But I’d have to say that we here aren’t all that bad. I mean, in the wake of the awful tsunami, we’ve given over $10,000. And our record of helping the poor and the hungry, the homeless and the imprisoned, the refugee and the challenged is noticed by many. In some ways, we’re a leader in sharing blankets. But Micah reminds us that, more important than the sharing of blankets, is the necessity of seeing the face of anyone who needs that blanket, anyone who gets that blanket. And to say to that person, let’s work together to see what God intends for all of us next. Admittedly, the faces of tsunami terror are so far distant that we won’t be able to have that conversation. But there are people closer by with whom we can speak. If we want to. Which we may not want to. I’ll tell you, it’s easier to write a check than to give a blanket. It’s easier to anonymously donate a blanket than to physically hand over a blanket. It’s easier to hand over a blanket than it is to talk about why there is no blanket. It’s easier to talk about why there is no blanket than it is to wrap your arms around someone who is cold. Someone who is, in any way, cold. Afraid. Picked on. Forgotten. Unable. Scorned. Like you used to be.
Do you remember when you were cold? God spoke through Micah and said that we’re to do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with God. But I’d add—and to remember when we ourselves were cold. For when we remember that, we’ll see justice as making sure that everyone has a chance. And we’ll see kindness as compassion and commitment and dependability. And we’ll see walking with God as being troubled by whatever would trouble him.
What does it mean to be the people of God? The survey says that the number one answer is to be obedient. But I ask, obedient to what? And the number two answer is to be moral. But honest and decent in what? And what good does going to church do, or praying, or reading the Bible, if it doesn’t help you figure out this whole matter of blanket-giving?
The beatitude not included in this morning’s gospel is one which should be: Blessed are the blanket-givers. And blessed will you be when you let God help you think through all that it means.

"Seeing Things Your Way"

2005-01-23T08:32:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
01/23/2005

“Seeing Things Your Way” Is 9:1-4 1 Cor 1:10-18 Mt 4:12-23 The Third Sunday after the Epiphany January 23, 2005
January can be an awful month. Not just because it’s cold, though it is that. Not just because it’s bleak and dark, though it is that too. Not even because it’s a time when resolutions that were made are so-soon broken, but because January is the month of our great divide, the time when we tend to be antagonistic. January is when people choose sides on the great abortion debate of Roe vs. Wade. January is the month when Democrats and Republicans insist their own inaugurated leader can handle things best. January is the month when people quarrel about the contributions of Martin Luther King, Jr. This January, people are divided on the right way to deal with Iraq, and the school system offers new re-assignment plans, and our church has offered recommendations on how to deal with the issues of same gender blessings and the ordination of non-celibate gays. All of which is important, but all of which can be divisive, and often is. Though it wouldn’t have to be a problem if you’d just see things my way. But of course, that’s the problem isn’t it—that you and I don’t see things the same way.
Such was the situation in that Greek city of Corinth. In the relatively small congregation of Christians there, people divided themselves at least four ways, with each group claiming social and theological insight and each honoring a particular leader and each presumably saying about the others that they were doing things the wrong way. Which is the real difficulty, you see. Not simply that there are preferences. Not even that there are divisions. But that if you don’t see things my way, you’re doing it wrong. Which ought to be obvious. Which is obvious to me. Why isn’t it obvious to you?
Into that situation stepped Paul, the great Christian missionary who mustered up all the authority he could and told the Corinthian Christians that they had to stop this nonsense of disagreement. “I appeal to you,” he said, “that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.” But not much changed, because everyone waited for everyone else to start seeing things their way. And the divisions that were continued on. Though in truth, if people had finished what they started, some progress would have been made.
Remember that I said each group waited for the others to see things their way. And that’s exactly what would make things work—if I would see things your way. Not necessarily buy into everything you say or agree with why you say it, but at least take the time and make the effort to understand how you are and why you choose the way you do. True, many people, in their zeal for the truth, maintain that there’s only one way, one real way, one accurate way to see an issue. Two ways, really, but the other way is wrong. And sometimes it is wrong, but that more is expected of people like you and me.
Ten days ago, our national church released the findings of the study many of us went through a year ago. The questions were simple: should the church bless same-gender unions, and should the church ordain non-celibate persons. The questions were simple, but the answers were not. Were not simple because they were so varied. Were so varied because of the difference in stories that people told. Stories that were at the basis of the 28,000 responses which were sent off for counting and advising. Stories which led the study commission to say, Let’s leave things the way they are, with the understanding that marriage is a promise and bond between a man and a woman, and that if any leaders of the church are homosexual, they should be celibate. Not surprisingly, the most conservative among us thought the report said too little, because it didn’t go far enough. Not surprisingly, the most liberal among us thought the report said too little because it didn’t go anywhere at all. Which leaves us with a biblical and theological and social bickering that’s never going to stop.
But for me, the best part of the whole report—and it ran to some pages—is the recommendation that encourages all of us to be pastoral. Not just that the pastors be pastoral, but that the whole church be pastoral. That each of us takes the time to see how the other bunch sees things. Because there’s a reason we each see what we see, isn’t there? If your child or niece is stationed in Iraq or if you served our country in the military, you have feelings about our government’s priorities. If you ever got pregnant at a time when you didn’t want to, you have some feelings about abortion. If you were ever beaten up by a bully at school or had to ride a bus to a too-distant school, you have feelings. If you lost a promotion because of your race or gender, you won’t sit quietly by. Nor should you. There is nothing wrong with dissent, not here and not in the Corinthian church. There is nothing wrong with dissent, but there is everything wrong with an attitude that says there’s only one right way to live life. And I say that, knowing that some of you disagree. Strongly disagree, saying, aren’t there some things that are non- negotiable? Yeah, probably so. But I’ll bet we don’t agree on what those non- negotiable things are. You and I might both agree that Jesus Christ is non-negotiable. Even doing things Jesus’ way. But I’d say that Jesus’ way was one of listening, caring, healing and forgiving. And in all of that, enlightening.
In the first lesson today, you heard words that you may associate only with Christmas Eve. Near the end of our services then, we hear that “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.” And then we all raise our little white candles so that everyone sees light in the darkness. We heard the words from Isaiah, from today’s first lesson, repeated in today’s gospel lesson, when Matthew claimed that Jesus himself was the light that overcomes people’s darkness. And as Christians we’d agree with that. Though we ought to know that the first lesson told the truth about God’s light long centuries before Jesus.
According to Isaiah, the people who walked in darkness, who lived in darkness were those who didn’t depend on God. Those who, in the face of an enemy’s terrible threat, tried to depend on their own mind, their own wits, their own strength and their own alliances with other people who also depended only on themselves. Not surprisingly, the invasion that threatened those people sort of swept over them, and they were carried off. But Isaiah, living with hope more than despair, said that the days were coming—sooner, later, just ahead, eventually—when anyone who trusts in God would be freed from terror. Freed from personal terror and national terror, from all the trials that mess up life. Certainly we believe that Jesus was such a light. But Jesus himself passed on the ability, even the necessity of being light, when he called people to be his disciples.
For those of us who pay attention to the church year, today is another one of those Sundays in the Epiphany season—when we emphasize the beginning of Jesus’ ministry and how he calls us to ours. For several weeks in a row, we hear about the early disciples signing on with Jesus. And we try to figure out how we should live as disciples. Whether or not we should study to be pastors or Sunday School teachers. How we can be better parents. Seeing the importance of world missions. Connecting Monday with Sunday. Understanding that every day’s work can be faithful to Jesus’ calling. But specifically today, I see, in this awful month of division, that we are called to enlighten. To enlighten and to be enlightened. Oh, but that’s a hard thing to do.
For instance, concerning abortion, I give people the right to choose whether or not to continue a pregnancy. I do not see God’s will furthered when pregnancy occurs because of rape. I value the health of a mother more than the health of a child. On the other hand, I don’t believe that abortion should be used as a kind of birth control. On the other hand, I believe in birth control. On the other hand, birth control is too often a part of sexual promiscuity. Well, some of you agree with that and some of you are horrified. A couple of you stopped listening after the first sentence, and a few more of you pigeon-holed my remarks in a way that you think you know my politics and my morals. But I have feelings about war too, and peace. I used to care more about school re-assignments than I do now. I’ve come to grips with organ transplants and capital punishment and I know where I stand on the ordination of homosexual people. And so do you, I hope. I hope that you’ve taken the time to study and pray and figure out and discover how you feel. That you use your common sense and the holy scriptures and the stories of other Christians to make decisions. And in all of that, you may consider yourself enlightened. But I say you are really enlightened when you listen to someone else’s story, when you see things their way. Not that it changes your way, but that you care enough, love enough, to see things their way. That you live as a pastor, a shepherd, one who cares for the sheep and how they are.
For when you see things a different way, when you take the time and effort to see things the other way, you may understand the situation more fully. May see how personalities come into play. May see prejudices or passions. May see faith and trust as something foundational. May understand your own assumptions better. May deal more with the announcement of good news than with dread darkness. Which is what the people of God are called to do for the rest of the people of God—to offer light more than darkness and life more than death. In truth, we disagree when life begins and what the quality of life ought to be, whether the giving and taking of life should be equal or not, whether eternal life begins now or later. But if we listen to each other, listen to each other with the words of Christ in our ears, who knows what we will see in our walk together.
Jesus said to those first disciples, Follow me. And they did. But it’s my view that the path they all took wandered all over the place. Wasn’t a straight line from here to there. Maybe doubled-back on itself. Had an end-point always in sight, but took detours to be where people were in need. Where people were in pain. Where people were in darkness. And when all was said and done, Jesus and his disciples brought them light. The problem today is that, as disciples called to follow Jesus, when all is said and done, more is usually said that done. Which makes January an awful month, in that what we could do is swallowed up by what we do say. But if we will see things from another’s perspective, how much we might understand. How we could be enlightened. And how we would be a light for others.
Paul said, “I urge you to be united in the same mind and the same purpose.” In January, it may seem that will never happen. But if you promise to look at things my way, and I promise to look at them your way, who knows what February will bring.

2005-01-16T08:32:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
01/16/2005

“As Crazy As God Himself” John 1:29-42 The Second Sunday after the Epiphany January 16, 2005
Of all the people you know, who’s the craziest? Is it a relative, a friend, someone in public life? Is it someone who’s been certified insane, or someone who’s mildly eccentric, or someone who simply has a zest for the unusual in life? Who do you know who is nuts? And if someone called you nuts, should you take offense? You probably would, but I wonder if you should. Is it possible to say that someone like John the Baptist was crazy?
You may be tiring of John the Baptist stories. Today’s gospel is the last of them for awhile. We read about him during Advent and again during Christmas, but this morning we reach a kind of conclusion when the Mes- siah whom John predicted actually shows up. Remember that John had chosen to leave the comforts of home and family to go off into the desert wilderness of Palestine. That doesn’t make him crazy, but certainly anti- social. The camel’s hair outfit he wore and the diet of locusts and wild honey he chose weren’t just like everybody else’s, but that may be a minor point. In his preaching, he pressed the need for people to offer their loyal- ty and obedience to God. Nothing crazy about that either, though he might have shouted more than some other preachers. But then John spoke of a vision in which he saw the Holy Spirit coming down from heaven, landing on Jesus’ head. Which either is colorful language or something delusional, when John pointed to Jesus and claimed that he was the Messiah of God, the anointed one, God’s choice to be among Israel, Saviour of the world. Which is sort of wild. But wilder still is that, hearing that proclamation, some of the people who had listened to John preach started following Jesus instead. Sort of stopped the lives they were living to begin some- thing new. Chucked all that had been with John and gave their all to Jesus instead. Walked away from what they were and had, left the rest of their life behind in order to follow Jesus like puppy-dogs, taking mental notes about earthly and heavenly things they never really understood. And some people think a choice like that, commitment like that, is nuts. Do you? Well, here’s a question to help you decide.
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to arrange to have a bus in the driveway to travel to a walled-in monastery where you will give up everything you own and turn aside from everything you have known, say goodbye to family and friends and spend all your time contemplating God. Forever. Do you think I’ll get many takers? And if you’re not one of them, do you think the others are nuts? Maybe not now, since these days Jesus is an ok kind of guy to believe in. But I remind you that Jesus was hugely unpopu- lar with the sensible authorities of his own day, so much so that they final- ly killed him off. So would following somebody like that seem crazy? Does it seem unusual, if not weird, that people still follow a dead guy from long ago? And does it seem even stranger when I say the dead guy didn’t stay dead? Would you wonder about the sanity of anyone who believes that? Or how about this: do you think it’s perfectly normal to believe in a virgin birth or the total forgiveness of sins or walking on water or being raised from the dead? How do you feel about obeying a divinity who can’t be seen but who expects to be worshipped? Do you think it makes sense to say that mighty God speaks to you and wants a relationship with you? If you expect that prayers are heard and that good things happen on purpose, are you nuts? Have you ever considered that this whole thing may seem awfully foolish and more than a little suspicious and calls for some kind of disconnect between reason and faith? Tell the truth, not what you think others expect you to say. The Christian story is almost outlandish, isn’t it? And anybody who just up and follows Jesus may need some serious therapy.
And someone says, that was really cute—how you pointed out the foolish- ness of what we believe. What a clever way to remind us of the import- ance of faith instead of proof. OK. But actually, I still think you’ve got to be crazy to have faith, to believe. I mean, haven’t you had moments when, thinking about people who have lots of faith, people who have more faith than you have, people who have faith when you think they shouldn’t, you consider them nuts? Or if not nuts, at least excessive. Or if not excessive, delusional. Or if not delusional, needy. Or if not needy, certainly not normal. Whatever that means. Do you know what normal means? Was John the Baptist normal? Was Jesus normal? Were the first disciples normal?
Well, if you’re not going to show up for tomorrow morning’s monastery bus ride totally stripped of wealth and family, if you think that that kind of commitment is pushing things a bit too far, if you think that’s crazy, I offer you something else to help you decide what may or may not make sense. I want you to make a list of people who have hurt you or ignored you, people who despise what you hold dear, people who disgust you and give you every reason to hate them, and I want you to go to them and give them a great big hug and tell them you love them. And if they laugh at you, or slam the door on you, I want you to try harder and hug better and kiss longer. It may take several days to visit all the names on your list, but use up your sick leave and vacation days if you need to.
And someone says, “That’s another cute one. Right? You’re just saying these things to prove a point. Right? But what’s the point you’re making? You don’t really expect us to kiss a blue state liberal, do you, or take a godless heathen to lunch or forgive the guy who raped our daughter? ‘Cause that’s not gonna happen. John the Baptist can dress up any way he wants, and he can say that Jesus is God’s Messiah if he wants, and Jesus can walk downtown if he wants and he can call together whatever disci- ples he wants, and he can even drive the bus to the monastery but I’ll be darned if I’m going to do what doesn’t make sense.” Which is the situ- ation, isn’t it. That each of us has some well-developed idea of what does or does not make sense. And if God fits into our sensible scheme of things, that’s fine. But if he doesn’t, well, forget about it. But the assump- tion is that your scheme of things is right. So how far would you go?
If a kid is being mistreated in school, would you make a big stink? What if the kid were somebody else’s? What if it were the kid’s own fault? If the government were denying basic rights to its citizens, how much would you protest? Is it ok to deny rights to non-citizens? Would you give up your job to be a defender of the weak? Is it ok to empty your own kids’ college fund to help provide a Habitat house for somebody else’s kids? Is it normal to think God will provide? Would you buck the country club rules to invite someone dirty and hungry to have lunch with you? Or lend them your car for the afternoon? Would you do any of that very long if the tide of family or public opinion turned against you? And someone says, What are you, nuts? Maybe. But is that bad?
Because, you know, some of life’s most amazing things, some of life’s most wonderful things, some of life’s holiest things, have been carried out by people who were crazy, according to the world around them. Some were people who did in fact think that God speaks to them. People who did in fact believe that we hold our wealth only in trust. People who did in fact think that even sleaze-balls are our brothers. People who did in fact believe that Jesus was serous about forgiveness. People who did in fact believe that God loved more than hated the whole world more than our neighborhood. And there are still people around today who see life in color instead of black and white. People who see excitement more than drudgery. People who are innovative with old things and creative with the rest. People who claim to have visions. Do you think we should call those people nuts?
Call them nuts and either shut them up or ship them off, hoping someone will make them normal so they fit in again? Do you think that’s some- thing desirable—that everyone fits in? Most of us do think that, because challenges aren’t all that wonderful, and upset isn’t all that comfortable, and strangers aren’t all that welcome and imposition isn’t something we would choose. And being a disciple sounds sort of crazy. But the wonder- ful news is that God is crazy too. Probably crazier than we are. Think about it. God created the world, and allowed the creatures to think they ran it. And then allowed them to mess it up. And over and over again re- created it and us, and loves us throughout. Which is not what everybody believes, by the way. Most people we know think that God is not happy and loving, and is really displeased with the way things have turned out and that he’s just waiting for reasons to zap us, and that he may choose tsunamis and certainly does choose cancer to punish us, and day by day fuels the fires of hell to prove to us once and for all who’s in charge. And to some people, I guess that makes sense. Not to me. I like the non-sense of it all—that we believe God didn’t do the logical thing, the normal thing, the sane thing, but instead turned the awful cross into a thing of wonder. Who could have shaken his head in disgust, but who looks at our miser- able lives and washes us clean. Who, after we have run off and run away and run aground and run down, calls us back and welcomes us back and leads us back into some kind of relationship with him. He loves us at the very moment when he shouldn’t and no one else does. Which is totally nuts—and far more and better than you and I have ever given each other.
But you know, what you and I have given each other hasn’t really worked well. And family squabbles and international wars just show how stupid humanity is. Would that we could give up our logical stupidity in favor of old-fashioned craziness. To be nuts. To think that there’s a purpose in life and that we have a chance to work with it and through it. And that God is calling you to make a difference. To be a good parent. To be a forgiving neighbor. To share your wealth with people in need. To use your mind for something ground-breaking. To work for good more than evil. To lead in compromise when there is difference. To not make violence the default. To speak out against what is wrong, and listen when other people are certain that the wrong is in you. To know that we get better than we deserve. To sing in the face of loss. To know that death is not the end. Which sounds vaguely acceptable in church, but doesn’t always get carried over into Monday.
Do you know how many people think that any and all of that is nuts? Do you realize how different being a believer can make you? Do you know how strange it is to live with joy and not sadness, with hope and not despair, with life and not death? Maybe you do. And if you do know that, then you’re probably nuts. As crazy as God himself. Which isn’t all bad. So this week, I invite you to think about it.

"Merry Christmas, Sgt. Jenkins"

2005-01-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

Pastor Nagle
01/02/2005

“Merry Christmas, Sgt. Jenkins” Jeremiah 31:7-14 John 1:1-18 The Second Sunday after Christmas January 2, 2005
They say it was a darker than usual night, and as cold as anyone could remember. The landscape was desolate, an awful battlefield of the war. The sides were clear-cut. We were the good guys. The North Koreans and their Chinese allies were the bad guys. Everybody knew that. And yet 40 years ago this Wednesday, January 5, 1965, Sgt. Charles Jenkins left the American side of the battle and fled to North Korea. Which made him a deserter, a law breaker, someone guilty of treason perhaps. But more than the official charges, his decision to defect demoralized his fellow soldiers and he was branded a turncoat. For forty years, his family lived in shame at the news, the almost incomprehensible news, that their son and brother had gone over to the enemy. But the family also hoped that one day he would come to his senses and want to return home.
If you’ve read the newspapers any time during the last few months, you know the rest of the story. How Sgt. Jenkins decided he did want to come home, how that desire affected diplomatic relationships, how the news was received by his family in North Carolina, and how it was received by former and present brothers-in-arms. But what do you think? If it were up to you, knowing what you do, a little or a lot, would you allow Sgt. Jenkins to come home, or would you welcome Sgt. Jenkins home, or would you make him live out the days of his bad choice in a foreign land? I assure you that every possible response has been suggested. But in its way, the outcome is a lot like the story of the exiles in this morning’s first lesson.
The prophet Jeremiah, speaking on behalf of the Lord God of Israel, said about the exiles in a far-off place, “See, I am going to bring them from the land of the north, and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth.” “I will turn their mourning into joy, I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.” Which is pretty amazing. That those who had been carried off would be coming back. Of course, the story of the Jewish exiles isn’t exactly like that of Sgt. Jenkins. In battle, the Jews were prisoners, carried off by the enemy. One dark night, Sgt. Jenkins decided to flee to the enemy. How is it you got on the wrong side? Were you taken there? Did you run there? Are you still there?
Maybe you saw that coming, maybe not. But the purpose of a sermon isn’t to recount old history, so much as it’s to use old history as a basis for looking at how things are today. So there have always been people who have gotten on the wrong side of God, people who intentionally wandered and ran off to the bad guys, people who did stupid and treasonous things, people who disobeyed commandments and consorted with the enemy. The government calls it treason. The church calls it sin. Either way, there’s a disconnect. But how do you feel about anyone changing his mind, and wanting to come back?
You shouldn’t be surprised to know that I get those inquiries all the time. Pastor, I really messed up some years ago. Do you think God still holds it against me? Pastor, if there’s a ranking of sin, do you think what I did was something little or big? Pastor, is New Year’s a good time to look at how life could be? Pastor, this repentance word, does it apply to me? Well of course it does. That’s what today’s first lesson was about—that when you’ve been in a bad place, when you want to come back to love and safety, God is ready and waiting to welcome you home, will actually bring you back. So I’m not worried about God’s response. But I am a little concerned about how people like you feel.
How do you feel about Sgt. Jenkins? That he made his bed and should have to lie in it? Or that he already served a kind of punishment by being away from family and nation? That he should go on national television and apologize for his conduct? Or that forty years is long enough for any of us to forgive and forget? Do you think that the military code and desertion has no statute of limitations, and that the law must be upheld? Should anyone who ran away be allowed to come back? Would it make any difference if Sgt. Jenkins were your uncle? Would it make any difference if your uncle got killed in the Korean War? How inclined are you to wish Sgt. Jenkins a Merry Christmas?
Though the radio station has returned to regular programming, though the mall has moved on to the next holiday, though most people have put the tree out by the curb, in the church we still celebrate Christmas. For four more days, we celebrate Christmas— though in truth, the importance of the day never stops. You do know that there is an important truth, don’t you? That God came and dwelt among us. What this morning’s gospel claimed—that “the Word became flesh and lived among us.” And do you know why that’s such a big deal? So that anyone who had messed up can be brought back. So that anyone who was far off can be made near. So that there can be joy when it’s least expected. So that hope can be made real. So that people like Sgt. Jenkins can come home again. Which, if that really is the Christmas message, must annoy the heck out of some people. That someone who did something wrong, who flagrantly did something wrong, who hurt his family and a whole nation by doing something wrong, should be allowed to get away with it. Would you let Sgt. Jenkins get away with it? Do you think we should allow you to get away with it too?
The gospel lesson for today includes these words: “The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.” Granted, I have taken out of context a single sentence. But standing there in the first chapter of John’s gospel, significant Christmas-time scripture that it is, I wonder if words like that could be, should be, ought to be, the foundation for the way you live. That Moses’ way and Jesus’ way are not identical. That we are to worry less about commandments and live more with grace. That we could live less with standards and more with generosity. And understand that Christmas is not about living rigidly, checking our list twice, but that it’s God’s way to cover our naughty with his nice. Not to live foolishly. Not to live totally forgetfully. But to say to Sgt. Jenkins—you want to come back. Fine. We wondered why you wandered off in the first place. We thought you were stupid to do it. But we’d be stupid if we didn’t love you. Certainly we’ll let you back in. Though that doesn’t change the fact that you did break the law. And if the law is broken, there’s a price to be paid.
Does this sound like the way your parent once dealt with you? Is it the way you dealt with, or should have dealt with someone you love? Of course we can start over. Not that we forget it ever happened, but that we’re all entitled to a second chance. Which doesn’t mean there are no consequences. When stuff happens, there’s a fall-out that has to be dealt with. But how much fallout there should be and how long it should be important— ah, that’s the point.
There were some people who were so angry, so hurt, so annoyed by Sgt. Jenkins’ desertion that they did everything possible to prevent his return. That’s understandable. There is pain in life. And when we hurt, when we get hurt through no fault of our own, we sometimes try to hurt back. Some families go to court begging for capital punishment for those who are guilty of a loved one’s death. Though there are also families who go to court urging that such a life be spared. Their own loved one is dead, but they don’t see the purpose of causing another death as payback. How do you feel about sinners? Should we kill them off, or give them a second chance? The theme of the first lesson is that God will bring his people back. Again.
Did you ever get a second chance? Do you ever wish you’d been given a second chance? Might you give a second chance to someone else? Well that’s something to consider at New Year’s, isn’t it? That we have all kinds of images of starting over, of wiping the slate clean, of refreshment. Maybe even repentance and re-establishment. Or at least that’s what you said at the beginning of last year. And did it work out that way for you? The end of Christmas. The beginning of a new year. Should it all be about you giving forgiveness or you getting forgiveness. You helping people start over again or them helping you. The law of Moses or the grace of Jesus. Sgt. Jenkins getting a second chance, or you.
There are different schools of thought, of course. When we appear before the parole board or before the altar of God, some would ask, “Do you deserve a second chance.” “Yes, Lord, I do!” “Are you sorry?” “Yes, Lord, I am.” “Really, really sorry?” “Oh, sorrier than that.” “But can your word be trusted?” “Yes, Lord, it can.” “Will you do it again.” “No, Lord, I’m changed.” Well, the words are right, but how can you gauge the truth? Is anyone willing to be burned twice? Maybe God, who through the prophet Jeremiah said of his people, “See I am going to bring them from the land of the north, and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, those with child and those in labor, together; a great company, there shall return here.” God said he would bring the exiles back. But do you know how they got far-off in the first place? They disobeyed God. They didn’t believe him. They didn’t trust him. They figured false gods offered more promise. So they ran off as much as they were taken off. Like Sgt. Jenkins, were guilty of desertion and treason. But even so, God decided to bring them back. Would you, could you, do that?
Again, we’ve left the history books in favor of today’s possibilities. How willing are you to delight in the words of John’s gospel? Not to focus on Moses’ law but to depend on Jesus’ grace. How willing are you to understand Christmas? Not having much to do with mangers or stars or wise men, but having everything to do with the purpose behind God taking on human flesh and coming to live like us and with us. That a world which for so long lived with law, lived only with law, judged everything in black and white and saw retribution as the best response to hurt, suddenly was given a concept of grace. An idea we don’t understand, even though we need it and could delight in it, because it’s not logical, is it? For when someone deserts, when someone lives with the enemy, when someone engages in propaganda against his own people, when someone hates what you love, when someone hurts you, how likely are you to love that person and give your life for them. But he did. The baby Jesus, grown up.
Which is what Christmas is all about, of course—that the baby Jesus grew up, and that Christmas is a prelude to Good Friday and Easter. That God came to take on human life in order to give it up again. That the law was broken and a punishment was given. But that the offense was ours and the punishment was his. That he lived in order to die, knowing he would live again. And that because he lives, so do all the Sgt. Jenkinses of the world. All of us who have been guilty and who deserve punishment. But whose punishment has been taken on by God himself. That he suffers the consequences even though he didn’t cause the problem. That there’s a spanking due, but that God hurts himself. Which doesn’t make sense, but it sure was a nice Christmas present for Sgt. Jenkins who served just a month in prison, and was set free. Free to go back to his life, to his family, to his story.
And we too have been freed to go on. Not because we deserve it, but because we need it. Because God wants us to have it, and gives it to us, even knowing we may run off again, but hoping we’ll run off with him, more, acting as Jeremiah hoped the returning exiles would act: coming and singing aloud on the height of Zion, being radiant over the goodness of the Lord. Not because they had accomplished their freedom. In fact, they could not. But glorifying God who gave them, who gives us, a second chance. A new year. A new life. A gift, at Christmas.