“Dancing with the Stars”  #3 “Sand Dancing”
Isaiah 35:1-10

Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

Isaiah offers us deep joy that goes far beyond mere happiness.  The joy of Advent offers transformation, strengthening hands that are weak, and making firm feeble knees.

            It doesn’t matter how many times you have seen the play, or heard the story, no one gets tired of children’s Christmas pageants.  A few years ago, one of our college students was sitting behind me as the kings were making their grand entrance.  I could hear him laugh and turn to his dad.  “That’s the same costume I used to wear,” he said.  And so it is: the costumes have rarely changed, the story is the same, and so it the joy that comes from hearing it.

            You’ve heard the stories of Christmas pageant’s past: where choirs of angels sing “sleep in heavenly peas,” or the timeless classic, “While shepherds washed their socks by night.”  Or the time the nine year old innkeeper, so moved by the sight of the pregnant Mary at his doorstep, completely forgets his lines.  Instead he stammered out, “Sure, we have plenty of room.  You can sleep in my room.”  Or even the little girl in the audience who at the same spot in the story blurted out toward Joseph, “You know, my mommy always makes our reservations!”

            The stories are legion: Hosts of angels who poke each other, donkeys and cows who wander off, wisemen unceremoniously dumping their gifts on the infant Jesus, shepherds turning staffs into light sabers from Star Wars.   These are the memories of children’s Christmas pageants. And the stories make us smile.  No one would  ever complain about what have might gone wrong in the Christmas pageant simply out of fear that we might be asked to be the director next year!  These stories communicate waves and waves of positive energy and feelings. They make us feel like it is Christmas.  They touch something deep within us.

            But I do not think it is the pageants that truly bring us joy.

            To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, I went looking for joy, thinking it would be a place.  For Lewis, most of his adult life was spent searching for that joy.  Stabs of joy would touch his life, but it was fleeting.  “I had hoped that the heart of reality might be of such a kind that we can best symbolize it as a place,” he wrote.  “Instead, I found it to be a Person.”

            And that is our prayer at Advent.  Our prayer is not a wish list for happiness, but instead an opening of ourselves to the presence of God.  Sometimes it is nothing more than staying still, we discover joy in the person of God.  Joy becomes much larger than mere happiness.

            Happiness comes and goes in our lives.  My Ipod makes me happy—when I remember to keep it charged.  So does a cup of tea  at night, or a cold beer at a ball game, or  a pot of chili on a cold afternoon.  All of our kids gathering at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning makes me smile, especially as I egg them along, telling them I need to get dressed before we go downstairs.   Making our 21 year old daughter endure getting her photograph taken with Santa Claus makes me happy.  (When she complains, I remind her that we could also make her wear matching candy cane pajamas. That really makes me happy!)   Homemade plum jam is pretty good, especially spread across a piece of homemade bread.  Sleeping in is high on my list of happiness ingredients—but so is getting up early enough to see light break across the horizon. Laughing really hard at an old family joke, sitting down to Christmas dinner, wearing a new sweater.    Whether or not these things make you happy, I don’t know.  But I do know that while these are the ingredients for happiness, they really have nothing to do with joy.

            Joy is more like dancing in the sand.  In case you’re wondering, my sermon title isn’t borrowed from Elton John—though I’ve always wanted to find a way to quote Elton John in a sermon—but instead from Isaiah.   Isaiah is our Advent pageant narrator.  The prophet stands up on his tippy toes, reaching for the pulpit microphone to declare the arrival of joy.  Hardly stopping to take a breath, he belts out his part:

            The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.

            Come, dance on the sand.  Come wiggle your toes in the garden God is creating.  God speaks  to people who have been crushed, whose happiness has vanished.  Their bodies bear the marks and disabling conditions of oppression.  Yet Isaiah’s proclamation has more to do with joy than mere happiness.  Isaiah speaks of God’s transforming power.   In places of emptiness, flowers shall bloom.   The emptiness of the wilderness shall be changed into  a place of majesty, of joy and singing. Hope shall dance on the sand.   That is our prayer this Advent: that as we open ourselves to God’s presence, we too shall begin to dance on the sand.

            That is the story we ought to be sharing this Christmas.  Happiness may come and go, but joy that is rooted in God has real power.  Jeff Barker, a playwright from Iowa, tells a story of a little girl named Betsy who had saved up $7.81 to spend at an auction benefiting her friend Angela’s family.  The family had suffered a major auto accident and had incurred serious expenses.   Afterwards, she tells her father that there wasn’t much at the auction she could afford, except for a piggy bank that had caught her eye.  So she waited until the bank came up for auction and then began to bid.  Pretty soon several others started to bid, and eventually Betsie had bow out because she didn’t have any more money.  All of a sudden, a man behind her said, “Keep bidding, kid, I’ve got you covered.”  So Betsy kept bidding, and eventually she won the piggy bank.  “Who was the man?”  her father asked.  “I don’t know,” said Betsy, “he said he was having fun just giving it to me.”  “So where is you piggy bank?” her father asked.  “Oh,” said Betsy. “I gave it to Angela.  What do I need a bank for? I don’t have any money now!”

            Friends, is that not that our promise this Advent?  Is that not the sort of joy we saw on the faces of those children?  I believe that if we truly want to dance with the stars, then we need to take off our shoes and start dancing on the sand.  We need to give with the wild abandon of God, whose mercy changes our lives.  We need to have the trust that says, “In the midst of scarcity, God’s abundance shall fill me with joy.”

            Peter Donnelly is an artist from New Zealand.  He is, quite literally, a sand dancer.  With a stick and a rake, Donnelly scribbles in the sand, creating more than 700 masterpieces over the last ten years.  His artwork inspires those around him.  He weaves in messages like hope, peace, love.   He leaps on the sand, he rakes, he draws, he dances.  It is, he says, all about give and take, ebb and flow.  When the tides sweep in, he releases his artwork into the sea.[i] 

            To watch him work is to catch a glimpse of the joy God the creator.  God comes to open the eyes of those who cannot see, the ears of those who cannot hear.  God comes to bring strength to those who are weak, and songs of joy to those who have forgotten how to sing.  This is what God wants us to experience this Advent:  to dance in the sand.  May that joy be yours, now and in the time to come.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

Copyright © 2010 by Christopher W. Keating

“Remembering What We Have Forgotten”
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Fifth Sunday of Epiphany/Year B
Rev. Christopher W. Keating
Isaiah 40:21-31
Mark 1:29-39

Copyright, 2012 Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

                The other day Carol and I were at the mall.  In the women’s clothing store where she was shopping, I watched a woman and a teenage boy walk into the store.  The woman was smiling.  I guessed that her son was about 14 or 15, and he was definitely not smiling.  He was making no effort to hide his displeasure.  This was certainly not his idea of an afternoon at the mall.  I wanted to tell him, “There’s a game store around the corner,” but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the humor.    He looked absolutely beat up and worn out,  out of gas.  Things  got worse when his mother handed him her purse.  He looked like he had been handed a death sentence.   All the blood ran out of his face and there was this strange sucking noise that I heard coming from within him.  It was like a motorcycle trying to start.  “But…but…but…”   His mom was not impressed.  “Just deal with it, “ she said.

                He looked as though he had been purged of energy.   Here was a kid who  more than likely radiated more energy than a nuclear power plant…but not today, not here.    I laughed as I thought about the scripture today: “Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted.”

                The image is stark.   Isaiah laments the loss of Israel’s identity.  The prophet looks at a people who are beyond burn out. Even their youth, the prized of their people, the ones who should be energetic and filled hope, even the most vibrant young persons are weary,  fatigued, exhausted.  What hope is there for anyone else?   The feet  of the youth blistered, and they cannot run a few yards, let alone a marathon.

                 God’s people are burned out because they have forgotten who they are.          

                We do not have to be a 14-year old boy in a women’s dress shop to remember what it feels like to be exhausted and weary.   Long working days and nights drain our energy.    Family situations that never seem to change exhaust us.    Work that does not feed  out spirit drains us.   We stop listening to our soul signals, and keep trying to drink from an empty well.   We may not be playing in the Super Bowl to know that the game of life can sometimes feel as though the defense has us blocked in every corner. We can feel frustrated in every attempt to move the ball down the field.  Oh, I guess that’s not the definition of burnout.  That’s the definition of the Rams. 

                But you get the image.  Exhausted and weary.  We crawl on the couch, grab a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and try to shut out the rest of the world.   The only way we forward, we believe, is to detach ourselves from the sticky mess that has entangled our lives.

                One of the favorite bedtime books in our house was a story “Five Minutes Peace.”  I’m certain that Carol enjoyed it more than the girls.  The story was about a mother – an elephant named Mrs. Large, who more than anything wanted five minutes of peace.  Whatever she does, she cannot outwit her children who thwart her every move.

                Facing parental burnout, Mrs. Large heads upstairs to take a warm bath.  She just wants five minutes peace.  But there’s no running away from chaos – it finds you!   Soon all of her children are sharing her bath, including the youngest who is so excited that he runs into the tub wearing his pajamas.   Despairing, Mrs. Large gets out of the bath and goes downstairs.

                “Where are you going now?” cry her children.  “I just want five minutes peace.”  The author concludes: “and off she went downstairs, where she had three minutes and forty-five seconds of peace before they came to join her.”[1]

                Three minutes and forty-five seconds does not bring renewal to our lives.

                Mark reminds us that no matter where Jesus goes, he is surrounded by the crushing presence of God’s people in need.   Jesus is praying, alone and early in the morning, taking time to capture a centering moment before continuing to proclaim God’s word.   

                Yet we do not follow Jesus’ model well.  We run and run and run, and sooner or later deep spiritual exhaustion sweeps over us, leaving us empty and weary.  We do not listen to our soul signals, and do not take time to renew ourselves in quiet and prayer.   Sooner or later, we feel like teenage boys drugged through never ending malls of dress shops. 

                Three minutes and forty-five seconds of peace will not renew us.

                What we need is a chance to climb up on the balcony of our lives and get a broader view of what is happening.  A couple of years ago, we had the opportunity to tour Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis where the Super Bowl is being played today.   They took us up to the owner’s suite – a broad, glass lined suite with leather furniture.  But from this million dollar vantage point you can see the entire stadium.   That is the perspective that Ronald Heifetz suggests we take on our lives from time to time—climbing up on the balcony so that you can begin to understand the challenges you are facing.[2]

                That is the challenge Isaiah sets before us.   Isaiah wants Israel to remember who they are. Looking at the weary and burned out people,  Isaiah takes them to the balcony and then pulls back the curtains of  heaven.  He says,  “Look! Lift up your eyes, see those stars.  Who created them?  The one who brings out all this starry band numbers them and calls them by name, because he is great in strength, mighty  in power, and not one is missing.”

                Stop your running and look up into the sky—and remember something you have long forgotten.  It is God who sits above the earth, who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to live in.  Stop, and look, and begin to remember:  all around you is evidence of God’s love.

                Remember your identity, remember God’s love for you, and remember that is your name God has written on the stars of those vast heavens.  Renew yourselves by worshipping the God who created you.

                Three minutes and forty-five seconds will not bring us peace.  Instead, go with Isaiah to the balcony of your spirit where you can hear the music of your spirit once more.  Let Isaiah take you to the place of worship, where you will be renewed, to this table where you see the grace of God set before you.

                 That is our marvelous opportunity. That is our good news.  When burn out fills our lives God calls to us to lift up your eyes in worship and remember what you have forgotten.  Remember that worship is not so much about getting as it is about offering.   In worship we remember our identity as God’s people.  In worship we remember God has made us, and so we  offer our praise, our thanks, our very selves.  In worship, we respond to God’s touch that brings renewal and offers hope.  

                It is in our worship,  says Isaiah, that we remember the promise of faith:   those “who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”  Amen. 

“By Whose Authority?”
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Mark 1:21-28

Christopher W. Keating

Jesus’ astonishing authority brings healing to the man possessed by evil spirits, demonstrating the  arrival of God’s kingdom.

             It was his first sermon, Mark tells us, and all who heard it were astonished.  “He taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.”     Jesus spoke with the voice of authority – and I assume that Mark means something very different than what we normally consider a voice of authority.

            In contrast to Jesus’ first sermon, most preachers would say their initial homiletical offerings were anything memorable, much less authoritative.  The first sermon I ever preached was in a tiny rural church surrounded by Washington apple orchards six miles from the Canadian border.  I stood up in the rickety old pulpit and tried to keep my knees from knocking.  I preached my sermon.  My illustrations were amazing.  My points were well honed, gleaned from scripture.   In my head, I imagined I had hours of material, most of it life changing.  I knew that Billy Graham would soon be calling to ask my advice.  I preached the sermon, made all of my points, and stopped.  I took a drink of water and then looked at my watch—I had preached for exactly three minutes and 28 seconds.  I didn’t know what to do, and since the people in the pews weren’t going anywhere,  sitting, as someone has said, “in stunned silence,”  I preached the sermon a second time.

            They were polite, but one farmer told me on the way out, “Son, no one ever minds going home early.”

               At some point, years down the road, I learned a critical lesson about claiming authority in the pulpit.   Speaking with authority is not the same as being entertaining, nor is it the same as beating people into submission.  Speaking with authority arises from deep trusting relationships that are built on hope and love.   As business leader Max DePree once said, offering hope is one of the obligations of leadership. (Leading Without Power, p. 189).

               No wonder that when Jesus sat down from his first sermon, “they were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, ‘What is this? A new teaching—with authority.”

               Who invited this guest rabbi, anyway?   Jesus had poked his nose into the service and began teaching in ways that they had never heard.  Immediately, he spoke in ways that were commanding without being commandeering.   He upheld the law without making it break their backs.  He displayed an intimacy with God they had longed to know.   He spoke of  justice for the poor, food for the hungry, love for those who are downcast. To those struggling to catch their breath, he demonstrated the refreshing air of the Spirit.  

               But then, right in the middle of his sermon,  without any explanation, a man possessed by an evil spirit appears.  What was he doing here?  He was unclean, impure, not welcomed in this place.

               The good people of Capernaum never imagined this would happen: a demon possessed man challenging this young rabbi.  “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” he screamed.   “Are you here to destroy us?”  And then the clincher:  “I know how you are, the Holy One of God!”

               Somehow he had heard.  Somehow, this demon riddled man had heard the declaration of Jesus’ identity that broke across the sky in his baptism.  “You are my Son,” the voice said.  “the Beloved. With you I am well pleased.”  

               No one moved, no one breathed, no one said anything until Jesus said once more with authority, “Muzzle him!  Come out of him!”

               No one would ever forget what happened in synagogue that day.  As Tom Long says in one of his books, after a sermon like that no one totters casually off to  brunch.  They were all amazed. Astounded.

               Jesus declares the power of God.  That is our good news—the source of our true joy.  He stands in the midst of the pain of God’s people and speaks with authority.  Not the authority that seeks to dominate people, or to punish them, but a word of authority that releases God’s people from bondage.   He speaks with authority unlike the scribes, whose concerned themselves with know when and how the law was kept, while ignoring God’s people in pain.    Jesus comes  speaking with the sort of authority Gary Charles notes, that fulfills the promise of Isaiah: “Is not this the fast that I choose, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?”   This is truly good news:  the powers of this world are suddenly not so powerful.

               No wonder they were astonished at his teaching.

               Mark is passionate about Jesus, and invites us to share that passion.  Mark reminds us that at Jesus’ baptism, the space between heaven and earth was torn open.  At that point, the pace begins to quicken as Jesus seems to be everywhere at once.  After his baptism, Jesus immediately goes into the wilderness, and from there he immediately calls the disciples, and from there he immediately demonstrates the power of God…a power fulfilled in love.   Throughout the Gospel, Mark reminds us that God is on the loose….and invites us to discover  the joyful good news of Jesus’ power for our lives.

               We are challenged by this story because our minds are clogged with images of Hollywood exorcisms and head-spinning demon possessions.   Our imaginations are so limited.  Mark is not describing  a horror movie, nor does he suggest that those suffering from mental illness and dillusions are filled with evil spirits.    Jesus comes not with a blue screen and computer generated special effects, but instead teaches with the authority that changes lives.

               And that is the question that should really challenge us.

               That demon possessed man? I bet we would recognize him if we would see him.  We might know him as the friend who is struggling with addictions, or the family member caught in the chains of the past.  We might remember a colleague consumed with the desire to succeed at any cost, or the person down the street who  convulses with anger and rage. 

               That demon possessed man? We might see him in mirror in the mornings, recognizing his desperation yearning to know the peace of God, to be accepted, to be loved in spite of ourselves.  That one filled with desperateness churning inside of him?  We would recognize him as one yearning for the voice of authority that says to us:  you are loved by God.  

               That demon possessed man?  He is inside everyone who wrestles with the question: “What have you to do with us, Jesus?”

               There was a time when I was called to the bedside of a young boy who had an incurable cancer.  On the drive to Children’s Mercy Hospital in Kansas City, I thought of all the things I should say. Nothing seemed right.  Everything that came to my mind sounded weak, like I was pretending.  Afterall, I had three lovely, healthy daughters at home.  What could I possibly say to this family that would sound authentic, filled with hope?  I wouldn’t have blamed the family had they said to me, “What do you have to do with us?”

               I parked my car and walked through the hallways of the hospital.  Room upon room filled with very sick children struggling for their lives…fighting…hoping.   And then it dawned on me.  I did not have to say a word.    It was my presence that conveyed the power of God’s healing love.   It was my willingness to go and be with them that conveyed the love of God that conquers pain and renders powerless the demons of this age.  What would you have to do with us Jesus? 

               The good news: he comes to set us free.

               When the great  philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal died in 1662,  his servant found a scrap of paper hidden in the lining of his coat.  It was Pascal’s notes of an  event that had changed him eight years before, an experience so life changing that he wanted to keep an account of it next to his heart for the rest of his life.

               And this is what he wrote:  “In the year of grace, 1654, on Monday, 23^rd of November….from about half past ten in the evening until about half past twelve FIRE. God of Abraham, God of Isaac,  God of Jacob, not of the philosophers and scholars.  Certitude. Certitude. Feeling.  Joy.  Peace. God of Jesus Christ.” (quoted in Barbara Brown Taylor, When God is Silent, p. 87)

               What is this? A new teaching--with authority.  That is how our lives are changed by Jesus Christ, Amen.

"The Joy We Long to Hear"
Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18; John 1:43-51
January 15, 2012
The Second Sunday of Epiphany/Year B
Copyright 2012 © Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

Confident of God's ultimate protection, the Psalmist is filled with trust and a deep sense of joy.

I could tell at once that the mother was nervous. A second earlier, her three year old daughter had burped. Without being indelicate, let me say that it just wasn't any burp, either. It was easily detected across the entire room, which was pretty quiet since they were gathered at a funeral parlor. Here they were, all dressed nice for a family funeral, and then the little girl in her pink dress and bows lets out a belch that would have made a sailor proud. I guess that was appropriate since the person who had died had served in the Navy during World War II. Anyway, the mother quickly attended to her daughter, but I could see she was no way prepared for what was about to happen next.

With the sort of timing that only an older brother can have, the little girl's 7 year old sibling regained center stage by rather loudly exclaiming, "Well, she certainly takes after her mother, doesn't she?"

It was the perfect set up for my standard opening line at a funeral: "Our help is in the name of the Lord who made heaven and earth."

The innocent joys of childhood broke the ice that day in an otherwise tense family moment, but it also reminded me of something else. The boy reminded everyone that he had the goods on his family. He knew something about people, he knew the family's secrets. He knew how things went down in his family, and he wasn't afraid or embarrassed to let others know, too.

He knew. Most likely, this pint-sized comedian knew all sorts of things about his family. I'm sure among them he knew that his mother and father loved him. He knew that he was loved by his extended family—the myriad of aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who were present. No doubt he could tell a few stories his parents would prefer not be shared.

When I was his age, I remember my parents calling me the neighborhood newspaper reporter because I would ride my bike around the neighborhood, picking up bits and pieces of knowledge, rumors, gossip, and bringing it home. In the process, I'm sure that I shared more about our family than my parents would have preferred. Or, as our daughter's kindergarten teacher reminded us, "I'll believe half of what I hear about you, if you promise to believe half of what you hear about me!"

No wonder we say knowledge is power.

But knowledge can also be joy. That is the message that I hear the Psalmist offering us today, and it is, I believe, the reason why Philip and Nathanael responded to the invitation of Jesus. Knowledge is power, but is also power for believing and creating deep trust. In the case of the Psalmist, knowledge of God's deep presence in the midst of struggle and pain brings great joy and relief. Knowledge of God's unfailing care is the word of joy he longs to hear—and the word I believe so many of us long to hear, as well. "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it."

Knowledge is joy when it releases us from the anxieties that torment us, the compulsions that drive us, the worries that attempt to sink our lives. Trusting in God's unfailing knowledge of us frees us so that we may experience deepest joy, the good news that we are beloved by God. That is the discovery the Psalmist makes. He discovers that in the midst of the struggles of life, God is with me. God knows me.

Of course, on the one hand that sounds a bit claustrophobic, like God is stalking the Psalmist. "God," we say, "give me a bit of room. Let me make my own choices." Even the Psalm's language suggests this—"You hem me in, behind and before." We don't like to be hemmed in, and for that reason, this language may make us feel uncertain, as if we are being held too tight. Yet the source of joy in this Psalm is clear: God does indeed pursue the Psalmist. God's love surrounds each of us, protects each of us, and follows us throughout our lives. God's love hems us in by releasing us to find our deepest joy, which, the Psalmist says, is the knowledge that God is always present. "Even at the end, I am still with Thee." That is what we believe about our God, and that is the good news that we so long to hear.

That realization may be the strongest experience of epiphany we can ever experience. Years ago, the late great spiritual writer Henri Nouwen set out to write a book about spirituality for thoroughly secular people. He was challenged to write the book by a friend who, at one level, longed for an experience of God. Yet the friend was thoroughly immersed in the secular culture and lacked any understanding of the deep joys of faith.

As Nouwen thought about the book, he stumbled across the epiphany story of Jesus' baptism. As Jesus arises out of the water, he sees a dove descending on him, and the words, "You are my beloved." That, says Nouwen, is the basis of all our knowledge of God: we are beloved. "Yes," he wrote, "there is that voice, that voice that speaks from and from within and that whispers softly or declares loudly: 'You are my beloved, on you my favor rests.'

Then he continues: "It certainly is not easy to hear that voice in a world filled with voices that shout, 'You are no good, you are ugly, you are worthless, you are despicable, you are nobody—unless you can demonstrate the opposite. (Life of the Beloved,p. 26).

Yet not only is that word difficult to hear, it is also challenges us to live in new ways—freed from the torments of self-loathing, we are called to live in the community of the beloved, following Jesus in ministry, service, and love.

Arising out of the water, the Word made flesh was filled with the knowledge of being God's beloved, and sought to share that news with others. Stumbling upon Philipp, he says, "Follow me." Philip finds his friend Nathanael, and says, "We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote." He says, Nate, I've stumbled on something you need to know. Understandably, Nathanael is a bit uneasy about following Jesus, but Philip persists. "Come and see," he says, which are the best words anyone can ever use in encouraging faith. Come and see the joy we have found. Come and see the how our lives have changed, how we have been filled with peace beyond all understanding. Yet Nathanael is consumed by those negative voices he hears—can this be the Messiah? Can anything good come out of Nazareth?—until he discovers the One who bears God's deepest joy.

God's knowledge of Nathanael is complete. God knows the inner being and how the joints fit together. God knows the complexities of our shadow sides, the fearfully woven places where we have neglected to acknowledge God's presence. God knows each molecule and cell. Even long before the invention of microscopic investigations, the Psalmist understood this. In joy he proclaims, "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me."

Such knowledge reminds us we belong to God, that are deeply loved, that wherever we go, whatever becomes of us, we are named as God's beloved. Such knowledge produces incredible joy—the joy we long to hear.

Such knowledge prompted the great theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer to ponder the meaning of his life in the midst of his imprisonment by the Nazis. In response he wrote this poem:

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell's confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!

Such knowledge is indeed to wonderful for us! Amen.

"Strange Disruptions"
Matthew 2:2-12
Sunday, January 8, 2012 (Epiphany Sunday)
Copyright, 2012 by the Rev. Christopher W. Keating
Woodlawn Chapel Presbyterian Church

After scraping and rinsing the dinner plates the other night, I took our dog outside and stared at the sky.

Stars dotted the sky, calling me to look above the ground. Constellations winked at me from their heavenly posts. Not far from the moon was a star that seemed slightly brighter than the rest. I fixed on it a while before grabbing my Iphone to search for an astronomy website. Sure enough, it wasn't a star—I was looking at Jupiter, the largest planet.

I know next to nothing about astronomy, but still the sky fills me with wonder. The stars linger in the galaxies, fixed on high light years away. They lead me to wonder about the breadth of God's providence and grace. They shine with brilliance, but also mystery. Stars make me wonder—like the cartoon I saw recently. It featured too extremely large persons, I mean, true people of size, staring up at the heavens. One says: "The vastness of the universe It makes me feel so small and insignificant," to which the other person merely says, "Yep."

Stars make me wonder, and cause me to think of those oddest of all characters in the gospel, those Eastern magi who come seeking Jesus.

They appear suddenly, Matthew says, disrupting all Jerusalem. Without fanfare or announcement, these strange visitors from another nation, another land, show up on Herod's doorstep. They do not have an appointment, nor have they explored the typical channels of diplomatic protocol for the reception of dignitaries. They come following a star, disrupting the entire royal household, sending the already grumpy king into a deeper funk.

It's an interesting drama: on the one hand, here are these strangers, these star-gazing scholars who search for Jesus out of their deep hunger for God. They enter the stage, disrupting everything. On the other hand, here is the official Jewish ruling class, filled with power, but also fear, anger, paranoia. You might say that Herod has control issues.

This Epiphany story is a New Year's tale, a story that reminds us that those who open their lives to the wonder of God exchange lives of fear for experiences of grace. Think of that as you sort through your lists of resolutions: are we angry, reactive "Herods" who live in fear, or open, trusting magi, searching for the child of promise? It's an amazing contrast: on the one hand, Herod is a fearful, paranoid despot who has it all, and on the other, a group of adventuring, star-gazing seekers, open to the wonders of God. They risk their lives for the wonder of an adventure, and offer priceless treasure to God in response. Herod refuses to see that the light of the star is shining near him.

I stare at the stars and wonder: who is God calling me to be?

I have yet to meet an angry, paranoid despot, but I have known my share of desperately angry people. I have known people whose lives are filled with rage. You have seen them, too. On the outside, everything looks fine, but deep inside there is a burning anger. The anger burns white hot, surrounded by the fear that they may lose control, and be discovered to be something they are not.

And while I have not known many star-gazing astrologers, I have also known persons who are willing to be caught by the wonder of God. I have known, and you have too, people who see extraordinary stars through ordinary eyes. They are people whose lives are characterized by generosity, grace, and openness to what God is doing. They seek the presence of God, and do not let fear rule them.

Most of all, they are watching for those moments of strange disruption – those times when the star rises unexpectedly, calling them to search for God.

I picture Herod like my junior high assistant principal. He patrolled the hallways of the school twirling a thick oak paddle with the military intensity of a battle hardened drill sergeant. The paddle never left his hands. It was rumored to have tanned the bottoms of many. His broad nostrils flared as he stared at you. His thick Texas drawl could be heard four classrooms away. He ruled by intimidation, and you did not cross him.

No star-gazing, hippy-dippy magi would have got past him.

Herod's fatal flaw was not ultimately his cruelty toward his subjects, however Herod's fatal flaw was the rage that prevented him from seeing the light that led to Jesus. Even more than that, the fatal flaw of Herod's character was his inability to realize that his kingdom stood was subject to a greater king, a child born of peasants. Herod failed to realize that God was breaking into the world in new ways, calling him to set aside his reign of terror, his rule of fear, his kingdom of injustice.

God comes to us to set us free from those fears. That's the wonder of this little story, and the good news that it conveys. There is more here than a tale told by kids dressed as kings carrying golden beads to the baby Jesus. These magi, these wise spiritual seekers, have come searching for that divine disruption that has broken into our world.

And when they find it, they are filled with joy. Following the star, they bring their gifts of precious gold, expensive perfumes and aromatic fragrances.

The catchy and familiar hymn notwithstanding, Matthew doesn't tell us if there were three wise men. No clues about their identity or national origin are given. They were outsiders, men of mystery who arrive by surprise and send the king shaking.

Yet that is the point. For the essence of Epiphany is the revealing of God to Gentiles, to outsiders, to people like you and me who are willing to seek the child. In the incarnation, God's light shines on all persons, reshaping their lives. It's a strange story, but is also beautiful. It is a comforting tale that reminds us of how God disrupts the status quo.

Because the light of God falls on these strangers, because they remain open to the possibilities of God, faith is possible for us. That light shines on us, too. It invites us to let go of our anger, to reshape our lives.

I guess I find this story comforting because it reminds me that the light of God's love is meant for all. The mission of God unfolds across boundaries and borders. Even here at the beginning of the gospel story, the outward thrust of Jesus' message is clear. All are invited to come and pay homage to the child.

The star guides us to the love of God in Jesus Christ, and in so doing changes our lives, just as it changed the lives of magi. No wonder, as Matthew says, they went home a different way. Their lives had been changed. They, too, were witnesses of what God had done in the incarnation of Christ. Epiphany offers us the opportunity to join in that act of witness.

Star of wonder, star of light, star of royal beauty bright.

“Who Will Hold the Christ Child?”
Christmas Eve, December 24, 2011
Luke 2:1-20, Titus 2:11-14

Rev. Christopher W. Keating

          It’s not going to be a white Christmas this year, but we can still dream.

          We dream of mornings with family, few and precious though they may be.  We dream of quiet nights before the rush of feet and squeals of joy and laughter.  We dream of loved ones who gather with us only in our hearts and memories this year.  And we dream of the child whose birth changes us.

          Tonight, we dream of star lit path that take us far beyond the malls and the packed parking lots, far beyond Christmas tree lots and bargain stores, far beyond the empty rhetoric of politicians who promise more than can be delivered, and far, far from the bizarre lives of photo-seeking celebrities.  The star guides our path tonight down a forgotten lane in a little village on a dark night.  The star shines its light onto the manger,  where two proud parents behold the sight of God’s grace appearing.  It is, as Paul says in Titus, “the blessed hope and the manifestation of the glory of our great God…”

          A holy night, a peace-filled night, a grace-filled night. A night for dreamers.

          Yet not only a night for dreamers, but for everyone who yearns for new joy, who yearn for the courage to change, whose hearts are broken, or those of us who have confronted the bleak realities of this world that no matter how much we have, it is never enough.   For it is people like that, people like you and me that the angel comes and brings the announcement:  To you is born a Savior.

          More than a white Christmas, it is that birth for which we are dreaming tonight.   At the heart of all our traditions and celebrations, all the trappings and wrappings of this season is the promise that the world has changed because a baby has been born.  God has slipped into this world almost unnoticed, and so I am wondering how this surprising birth to a confused Mom and Dad might just change us.

          Mary, certainly exhausted from her labor, was also certainly filled with that rush of emotion and adrenaline new mothers experience.  It is a precious moment, and I have found that one of the perks of being a pastor is the privilege of knocking on the doors of newborns and their parents.  Exhausted mothers and beaming fathers  fill sterile hospital rooms with ebullient smiles. It feels as though stars and angelic hosts of heaven surround us.  All are amazed.  It is a beautiful sight.  And, if you time it just right, most parents will say to you, “Do you want to hold her? Would you like to hold him?”

          Well, what are you going to say? It would be rude to turn them down! Of course you hold those tiny infants, curled up in your arms, swaddled in blankets.  Of course you look into their tiny eyes, and then pray a blessing on this life which is now just beginning to bloom.   I tell you, the opportunity to be with a family at that moment makes sitting through all those hours of Greek class worthwhile.

          You get to hold the baby.

          That’s not a detail the gospel writers offer us.  Mark and John skip the birth of Jesus entirely. Matthew places the focus on his genealogy and pedigree, while Luke offers us the intrigue of angels and shepherds.   But none of them tell us who held the baby, so we’ve allowed traditions to fill in the details – “Away in the manger, no crying he makes,”  we sing.  But if this earthly entrance of God is going to make any sense – if God taking on our frame can make any sense to us at all, then certainly Jesus cried, wriggling and wiggling in the straw until his mother swaddled him in her arms.

          And perhaps just as certainly those rough-handed shepherds must have known a thing or two about babies, or at least giving birth to baby ewes, and so I am guessing one of them might have been so moved to have said, “Here, it’s OK, let me hold him, you need your rest.”  And maybe, just maybe,  Mary might have looked past their dirty, blistered hands, and allowed the Spirit of God to fill her once more.  Then maybe, just maybe, she would have said, “Here, would you mind holding the baby for a moment?”

          Who knows?  

          If we can catch the glory of Mary’s arms holding her baby while extending him into the arms of the shepherds, maybe we can understanding something of what God was doing in Jesus Christ.   For the appearance of this love is not just for some, but for all.  It is a love that was always reaching out to the world—even when the world did not choose to accept it.   Mary and Joseph’s baby  would one day reach out to touch the lives of those the world had called unclean.  He would bring healing to the sick, and welcome the children.  His hands would bless those who were hungering and thirsting for righteousness.  His hands would reach toward those who are grieving, and those who are meek.  His arms would reach out to the poor, and embrace outcast tax collectors.  His fingers would wrap around the cups of the rich, and also break bread for the poor.  That is the glory of this night, the hope for which we dream: a God whose little fingers reach out toward us in love.

          God in Jesus Christ reaches toward us,  so certainly we must ask ourselves, “Would I have reached out to hold the Christ child? Am I willing even tonight to hold the child who is born?

          Indeed, it is the child who holds us this evening.

          The medieval spiritual writer Meister Eckhart once said, “If I were  alone in a desert, and feeling afraid, I would want a child to be with me.  For then my fear would disappear and I would be made strong.” 

          That is what we dream for tonight.  We dream of the chance to hold the baby, or perhaps, for the moment when the baby shall hold us.  We dream to see the glory this moment, so that we might understand  as Barrie Shepherd has said, that here is  “A God whose cradle led him to a cross and then to an empty, shattered, finally defeated tomb.  We have a God whose love for us will never let us go.”

          That is the God who comes to us this evening.        God  was not not born in a palace, but in a stable.  Christ’s birth was not announced by the emperor, with trumpets and decrees, but by the host of heaven, to shepherds and peasants.   The King of Kings did not arrive with a military attachment, but instead, he came helpless, wrapped in bands of cloth.  That is the child who seeks to hold our hearts tonight.  The question each of us must ask is “Will we reach out to hold him?”  For the one in the manger has become our bread of life—and he feeds us still.

          May all your dreams this Christmas be fulfilled as you behold this child tonight.  Amen.

The Comforts & Challenges of Advent

Sunday, December 11, 2011 (Advent 3B)
Isaiah 61:1-11

©Rev. Christopher W. Keating, 2011

            So, about last week!  Last Sunday found me in another great St. Louis Presbyterian institution – St. Luke’s Hospital Emergency Room, where they treated me for a bad case of stomach flu and sent me home.  Let me say thank you to Howard Gleason for taking Carol’s call at 5 in the morning, and to our staff and all whose extra efforts made Sunday such a wonderful day.  And let me also say an apology to the families of the confirmation students, I do know that my illness was especially inconvenient for you.

            During the days that I was home, I can tell you that I was in constant contact with my agent, who has recommended that I do not try ask for a $250 million extension.  We’re working on the details.   I also spent some time working on a new children’s Christmas play. It is a story about a church Christmas pageant with a bit of a twist.   Let me tell you about the plot: the main character is a boy who can’t decide whether or not he wants to be in the play this year.  He had the starring role for many years, but still wonders about the church’s commitment to him.  There play involves a lot of negotiating going on between his mother and the pastor.   It’s about a boy named Albert, and it is called, “I Want To Be An Angel.”    Somehow I don’t think it is going to sell too well in St. Louis. 

            It really was a bad case of flu.

            I’m not talking about baseball when I say I believe everyone knows that being an angel is the just about the best of all possible roles in the world of Christmas plays.   Sure, the center spot light falls on Mary and Joseph, and everyone always is impressed by the arrival of the magi.   The shepherds always seem a bit lost and the cows tend to wander.  But in my opinion, the angels are the best part of the story of Christmas.  They show up in the midst of everyday ordinary life, scare the daylights out of people, tell them not to be afraid (like that is going to happen), and then bring a message from God.  The angels are the parts to have, in my opinion, because they bring hope and joy, dance and sing, and offer glory to God.   You really ought to want to be an angel.   They are sent from God and bring irrepressible news of hope, tidings of comfort and joy, calling all people to rejoice and be glad.

            Who wouldn’t want to be an angel? 

            I’m not asking you to get fitted for your wings and harps today, but angels are God’s messengers.   They bear tidings of comfort and joy, words of encouragement and grace, and that is what I hear Isaiah saying to us today.   He preaches a sermon of comfort  to people who are weary and dispirited.   But like all good preachers, Isaiah wields more than comforting words—his words pack a punch that spell out exactly what it means to live as God’s holy messengers this Advent. 

            As Isaiah begins his sermon,  the aroma of hope and joy fill the air like bayberry-scented candles, overcoming the drab sense of hopelessness that had permeated everything.  God’s people are struggling, hopeless, discouraged by a broken economic and political system.  Their hearts are weary, and their lives filled with fatigue.  Against this background, the prophet stands on tippy toes like an angel at a Christmas pageant, clearing his throat and saying:  “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me, he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

            Tidings of comfort and joy—words that seek to pour a soothing balm on our hurts.  Words from God’s holy messenger…words make our heart beat a little faster, and cause the aroma of hope to emerge in us this Christmas.     These are words of comfort: like the ringing of a bell, or a plate of warm cookies. Isaiah arouses our senses by opening us to the mystery and power of God’s imagination at work.

            Rightly or wrongly, churches are not often considered by our larger culture to be reservoirs of imagination.  Even worse, many in our world longer believe that the church can imagine how to offer healing and comfort.   Yet our imagination is a powerful tool of faith.   Imagination lifts us from the world of despair and reminds us of the many ways God is at work declaring hope in Jesus Christ.  Imagination reminds us that God brings freedom to those who are in chains.  Imagination reminds us that a young girl named Mary was bold enough to open herself to the power of the Spirit.  Imagination reminds us that Joseph was  open to the movement of God in his life, and it is imagination that allows us to begin to smell the aroma of hope.

            Imagination reminds us that Isaiah’s sermon not only describes God’s hope but also prescribes a remedy.  Isaiah calls us to be God’s angels.  We are invited to allow God to stir our imaginations once more, so that within the dispirited, broken, aching culture of this time, we might declare the amazing, comforting possibilities of hope.

            I believe it begins as we sniff the air.

            Sniff the air at Christmas, and you find hundreds of scents that bring us comfort.  Tiny cloves pushed into the zest of juicy oranges.  Hot cocoa sprinkled with peppermint.  Cinnamon pine cones as soon as you enter the store. Packaged candles of cinnamon and spice.  Warm fires burning logs of Missouri oak.   Cold air on a crisp morning, homemade ginger bread fresh from the oven, and the list could go on and on. Smells remind us of home, of love, of comfort.

            Yet these sensory delights are not the whole story, and Isaiah knows it.  He calls us smell the aroma of despair in our midst.  Stirring the pot a bit, he names the places of brokenness in God’s world:  lives touched by hopelessness and devastation; unrelenting grief and depression; injustice and hunger. Sniff the air,  the prophet says, use your imagination: remember that for every billionaire sports celebrity there are thousands of struggling working poor in our neighborhoods; for every family that will smell roasting turkey this Christmas, there are many who will not be able to afford a turkey dinner. Sniff and see if you can detect traces of anxiety and depression.  Remember that that even in the brightest of seasons, there are places of struggle.

            It is interesting to remember that, in  his first sermon, Jesus turned to these same scriptures and read them aloud to a small congregation.   Just as there are today, there were those looking for God’s messenger to proclaim good news.  Comfort, and joy. 

            Sniff the air.    The good news is that a new time is dawning.  Sniff the air and remember that in a manger filled with straw, God’s love was born.  The spirit of God is upon me, and you, and you, for God has sent us to bring good news to those whose hearts are breaking.

            If that is you, I have good news:  the aroma of Advent hope is in air.  God is coming to bring comfort and joy: not just good feelings, but the promise that although everything else will fail, God’s promise will endure.   God’s promises will never fail.

            That is why God calls each of us today to use our faithful imagination, and to begin to understand how this message of hope is not just for us, but for all the world.   God is not letting go of the world, and God is calling us to be angels of hope in a land of misery.

            So, for today at least, that is one reason why we all might want to be an angel—even in a room filled with Cardinal’s fans.   Amen. 

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Advent IB

Isaiah 64:1-9
“Will anything change this Christmas?”

Christopher W. Keating

                I hope your Thanksgiving celebrations went well.  It was good to be with my California family, and my mother and our family deeply appreciate your cards, thoughts, and prayers.   It was good to be with her, to hold her hand, to give her sips of tea, and see her laugh as I told her about Dean putting up the Christmas lights at our home.   I’m told that our house is now used by the airlines as part of their approach to Lambert.

                It is also good to be away from all that Black Friday nonsense.   Can you believe the stories of people clamoring for deals,  pushing each other and hurting each other –all for a chance at a deal?  In some ways, it is so hard to imagine, but I guess it seems like nothing is surprising.   It reminds me how much greed shapes our lives.  For so many, the start of Christmas is about reaching for deals, frantically trying to get something someone else wants.   It is about striving, rushing, listening to Christmas music force-fed into our ears 24/7 since Halloween.  Yet all of this does not lead us to the stable where Christ was born.  Good deals on electronics do not lead us to hope.  Waiting in lines surrounded by pre-fabricated images of Christmas is not the same as waiting for God in Advent.  All of the overly hyped commercialism of the holidays reminds me of how much we desperately need the days of Advent.

                  In spite of the chaos surrounding pre-Christmas deals and shopping, Advent offers us a time to slow down, to quiet ourselves, and to be formed into the people God wants us to become. 

                The question that confronts us is this: will anything change this Christmas?

                Will anything change in you, or me?  In our world?   That is the hope which we proclaim this season, the hope of Mark’s call to faithful watching, and Isaiah’s yearning for God.   That is the hope of Advent, which is of course, not just “pre-Christmas.”  Advent is much more than four weeks leading to the birth of Christ.  Advent isn’t just a time of getting the house decorated and the gifts wrapped.  In Advent, our hearts are warmed by God’s grace and we are prepared to receive God’s gift of Christ.  Advent is a time of waiting to see God anew-- not a time of reaching, striving, rushing.

                I encourage you to use your senses this Advent as we wait for Christ to come.  This Advent, I encourage you to use your sense of hearing, smell, sight, and touch to anticipate the coming of Jesus.    If we want something in us to change this Christmas, if we yearn to experience God’s coming to us in a way that is new, if we yearn for a hope that will change us, then a good place to begin is with the sound of that hope.

                Not everyone will listen, of course, and this is what makes Advent hard.  Everyone else is singing “Joy to the world,” but Isaiah calls us to quietly chant “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”  The world has been snapping its fingers to “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” for weeks now, but Christians know our song is different.  We know this is a time of waiting.   We know this is a time of opening ourselves to the presence of God, yet it is not easy to wait, is it?  Waiting tries our patience.  Waiting makes us anxious, so we are tempted to make a lot of noise like kids in a car on the way to the mall.

                But Isaiah reminds us that the sound of Advent is different.

                In the corner of my brother’s family room is a 1938 RCA Victrola “talking machine.”   It belonged to my sister in law’s father.  It stands in contrast to the digitalized music we download, or the CDs we buy.    You crank the machine for power,  and place the needle on the record.  After Thanksgiving dinner, we sat by a fire and listened to an old recording of Jascha Heifetz playing “White Christmas.”

                That same album is available for download from Amazon.com, but there’s a difference.  Listening to the Victrola is an experience of anticipation and waiting—there’s the winding of the mechanism, the cracking and popping of the needle against the acetone record, and then the music.  There is anticipation—a sense of experiencing the old in a new way.

                And that is what Isaiah offers.  He offers the sound of authentic played against a background of misery.  It is the sound of anticipation among people who are empty and weary. It is the sound of God’s faithfulness.    It is not a prerecorded sound track of holiday giddiness, but the sound hope delivering us from our struggles.  Isaiah proclaims a true hope, a peace that brings healing.   There is anticipation in his voice, but also dire urgency as he speaks out against hopelessness and sin.  He shouts to God:

                “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence.”

                Maybe that sounds strange to you.  Maybe that sounds like a strange way of starting Christmas.  Most of us would prefer to hear feel good music, songs that put us into some sort of cocoa enhanced and peppermint infused holiday spirit.                   To people who are accustomed to the loud noises of manufactured holiday hype, Isaiah’s words do not sound terribly cheery.    And it gets worse:  God is hiding because of the sin of God’s people.  “We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy  cloth.”

                  Ho-ho-ho, you filthy sinners!

                But listen carefully.  Listen carefully and see how Isaiah invites us to be changed.  His words form a dialogue.  He reminds God that we are his people.  Isaiah knows that God does not keep a naughty list.  He cries for God to act.  He calls God to remember, to come out of hiding. And in so doing, he calls each of us to turn down the volume on the fake sounds of Christmas—the buying, the frantic hype, the anxiety driven schedules—and quiet ourselves before this promise:

                “You are our Father, we are the clay, and you are our potter.  We are all the work of your hand.”

                If your ears long for the sound of God’s hope, one of the best practices we could adopt in these days would be to practice being still and quiet.  Perhaps we need to yield ourselves like clay in order to be formed by God.  If we are yearning for something to be different this Christmas – in us, in our families, in our world, then  let the potter move among us,  molding us, shaping us, preparing us.

                 In his book The Senses of Preaching, Tom Long recounts the story of taking his then teenage children to New York City on a Saturday in December.  Back in the early 80s, Times Square was filled with squalor and filth, and Tom tells of suddenly wondering what he was doing there with his kids and their friends amidst the hustlers, the seedy shops, and street vendors.  But suddenly, he heard the sounds of a street preacher.  It seemed like all the other noise was muted for a moment, as even a sidewalk Santa turned to hear the preacher shout these words from  John’s Gospel: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory.”

                That is the message of Isaiah:  stop moving so quickly down the street and be quiet long enough to hear a message of hope.   We have done so much to remove the mystery from Advent.  Reaching for those stacks of X-Box 360s, we have pushed the mystery of God’s incarnation in Advent aside. Filling our lives with lists of activities, we have allowed the chaotic noise of the season flood our lives.  If we want something to be different this Christmas, then let us begin by quieting ourselves to the new work that God is doing.

                Some years ago, a family at Woodlawn Chapel told me about their favorite Christmas tradition.  Early in December, they would put up their tree and spend an evening decorating it.  They would fuss with the lights and place every ornament on the branches.   Then, as the evening drew to a close, they would turn down the room lights and snuggle on the flood, quietly looking at the glowing tree.  Even as their children became teenagers, the tradition continued…a moment of quiet hopefulness in a season of loud chaos.

                So be still this Advent.  In the words of pastor and author Skye Jethani, “perhaps it is time for us to finally be silent, be still, and wait in quiet for God to being a new work.”  Amen.

"Training Our Eyes"

Reign of Christ Sunday/November 20, 2011
Matthew 25:31-46
Rev. Christopher W. Keating

Jesus divides the sheep and the goats, judging them on how they opened themselves to others, responded to the needs of the ones he calls "the least of these."

In a few days, we'll take out the good china and fold the nice napkins. The smell of turkey roasting and gravy bubbling will mix with warm, fresh rolls. Pumpkin pie will be ready to be served, grace will be said—and of course someone will jump up from the table because they forgot something. The broccoli, probably. Or maybe the sweet potatoes, the kind with marshmallows on top. It doesn't matter, you will certainly forget something. You know that you will

Growing up, the table wasn't set until the ice had been placed in the glasses. It was my job. It always was my job – I believed it was stamped somewhere on my birth certificate – the third child will always fill the glasses with ice cubes and water. We would be at the critical point of the afternoon – that time between the turkey being lifted out of the oven and actually being carved, and mom would nod at me. "Chris go fill the glasses she'd say." She didn't have to say it, really, because I already knew that I had to go and do that. It is still that way – I am fifty years old, and I am still the youngest in my family, still filling up the glasses with ice. For many years, this included having to navigate those awful aluminum ice cube trays with the handle in the middle – you know the kind that sent the ice cubes flying through the air like projectiles? But it was my job.

Now, I don't know how it goes in your house, but it seems that this is a trait that has somehow failed to have been passed through the generations. It is like there is a genetic code that has been broken, a marker that is missing. I could place commercials on TV and none of my offspring would leave the couch and automatically fill the glasses with ice. Even if I remind them twenty, thirty, forty minutes ahead, the glasses are dry when we sit down. I have even tried to pass on my expert training to my son but he shows no interest in learning the finer arts of ice cube filling. Lord knows that I have tried, training their eyes to look at what is missing, reminding them the table is not set until the cubes are floating in chilled water.

We are a congregation filled with great hosts and hostesses, and one of the things you have taught me over the years is that the essence of offering great hospitality is training your eyes to see what is missing. Great hosts and hostesses look around before the guests arrive, anticipating their needs. They look at the glasses, look after the appetizers, tending to the details. They anticipate what needs to happen, adjusting the centerpieces, matching the napkins, seasoning the main dish just the right way. It is all about the details. Hospitality is a matter of training the eyes to see what is missing.

That is exactly what Jesus is reminding the disciples today. He is training their eyes to see what is missing, what is needed. He is calling them to acts of profound hospitality: feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, welcoming the stranger, caring for the sick, visiting the imprisoned. Jesus reminds the disciples that he will come again and that when he does, he will come wanting to know if they have done what they were called to do.

But this is where the story gets uncomfortable.

For one thing, we are uncomfortable with that word "judgment." Most of us have tasted foul tasting meals served by self-appointed disciples of judgment. We find the after taste appalling. Judgment is not a word that comes easily to us. It smacks of self-righteous indignation, manipulation and tactics of fear. We much prefer the warmer tones of faith: love, grace, acceptance. We treat judgment like that a final exam we'd rather forget. As Barbara Brown Taylor notes, this is where Matthew gets our attention. Christ speaks clearly of a final judgment, a separation of the sheep and the goats, and no matter how much it makes us uncomfortable, we cannot ignore it. Jesus is training our eyes, helping us to see more clearly. As Taylor says, "it seems to suggest that that God's judgment will take us all by surprise, sheep and goats alike. We can study the exam file all we want but God only knows what will be on the final."

There they are, sheep and goats mixed together. What is most interesting to me is that neither group knew when they had seen the face of Christ. They all thought that being faithful, being a Christian was about going to church or believing in Christ. Being a Christian was a matter of simply saying the right words, of showing up in church. No wonder both groups are surprised by what Jesus tells them, and we'd do well to listen carefully:

Being a disciple isn't about what you do on Sunday mornings as much as it is about how you respond to the needs of those Jesus calls "the least of these."

Being a disciple is about training our eyes so that we respond automatically and reflexively to the needs of our world. God is calling us to look for the needs of the world. If you want to feel the presence of Christ in your life, if you yearn for that truly transforming experience of faith that makes you feel alive, loved, and near to God, then open your eyes. Respond to the world's need through rich hospitality. Pray for and with the "least of these." Share what you have.

It sounds a lot like a mission statement, if you ask me. Jesus tells the sheep: "I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you take care of me, I was in prison and you visited me." That is the purpose of discipleship, says Jesus. As a friend of mine says, "We're all willing to wear the 'What Would Jesus Do' bracelets but how often do we do the things he did?"

Like an optometrist, Jesus holds up images of human need and says to us, "Which is clearer, number one, or number two?"

It's been a hard few weeks for the least of these in our world. We had barely begun to assimilate the horrid details of allegations of child abuse at Penn State when one a child in St. Louis was found dead. Beaten and abandoned. We are shocked and saddened, but did you know that in the United States a child is killed every three to five days by one of their parents? [1]

It is always hard for the least of these in our world. It's sad. It is painful to imagine that there are over 85,000 persons in poverty in Saint Louis County, along with another 80,000 in St. Louis city. More than one in six children in America live in homes where there will not be food on the table today.

Jesus says, "which is clearer? Number one? Number two?"

I guess that is the point: it is always hard on the least of these in our world.

There is a card in your bulletin. I invite you to take the card and consider where you hear Christ calling you to respond to the cries of the little ones of our world. Where is Christ trying to train your eyes to see the needs of the world? Is the image becoming clear to you, more focused? Perhaps you can buy a turkey for our youth to take to Joint Neighborhood ministries next month. Perhaps you will make a special gift to the church so that we can increase our commitment to Terri Rider's mission in India. Perhaps you will bring some soap for Circle of Concern. Maybe you will bake a pie for a friend who is in crisis. Where is Christ training you to see the needs of the little ones more clearly? Write it down, and pass it into the offering plate today. We will post our commitments on the bulletin board – a reminder of how we are called to respond.

We spend a great deal time of wondering what we need to believe to be a faithful Christian. Yet what strikes me most about this passage is how Jesus is trying to train our eyes. The sheep were surprised that they had served Christ. All they knew is that they had been trying to follow the shepherd's voice. All the sheep knew is that they had been trained to look for human needs, bringing casseroles to the doors of the sick, clipping coupons for the food bank, taking a friend's kids home when she was having a bad day, buying a cup of coffee for a friend who had just lost a job. They never knew that it was Christ sitting across from them, or Jesus in the sick bed, or in line at Circle of Concern. They never knew that.

And neither did the goats. Did the goats go to church? Maybe. Were the goats good people? Perhaps. But their eyes were looking elsewhere.

Look at the sick, look at the imprisoned, the stressed-out parents, the hungry children. Look around, and behold the face of Christ. Amen.

[1] http://crime.about.com/od/female_offenders/a/mother_killers.htm

"When Fear Takes Hold"
Matthew 25:14-30

Christopher W. Keating
November 12, 2011

Agnus Day appears with the permission of www.agnusday.org"

Barely a month after graduating from seminary, with the Latin words on my Princeton diploma still damp, I showed up at the door of the church that had called me as their associate pastor, only to find out that the head of staff of the church was going on a journey. As he headed out the door for a three week vacation, he entrusted me with the life of the congregation. He gave two instructions: call the executive presbyter if anything goes wrong and don't let the youth group play "Sardines." And just like that he walked out the door and was gone. It was just me, two secretaries and a custodian who talked like "Festus" from TV's "Gunsmoke." I was ready to "do" ministry.

A week or so later, I felt as though I was getting into the routine. I had survived my first youth group meeting, firmly planting my foot down when they pleaded with me to play "Sardines," which apparently had once resulted in breaking the partitions in the Men's Room. I had unpacked my office and arranged me desk: Bible, pencils, legal pad. My copies of the Interpretation Bible commentary were on the shelves. I was relishing in my new role as pastor when the church secretary knocked on my door. "There's a woman here," she mouthed. "She wants to see a pastor." I jumped into action. That's me! I'm the pastor!

The woman walked into my office, sobbing loudly. She sat down and the tears flooded out of her. I asked her name, but she said nothing, continuing to cry. I went and got some tissues. I took a deep breath: "Can you tell me you name?" I asked again, only prompting more tears. I fetched a glass of water, and waited with all my newly installed pastoral patience. Every effort was met with more crying. In desperation, I said, "Do you have a driver's license with your name on it?" Immediately, she stopped crying. She opened her purse, and produced not just one identification card, but four or five—each with her photo and a different name.

As you can imagine, this is when fear really took hold. This was potentially a much more volatile situation than letting the youth group play Sardines. And the Presbytery Exec was nowhere to be found! But as I realized the depth of her mental illness, I suddenly realized that this business of handling God's treasure in ministry is fraught with difficulties. Nothing had prepared me for this moment, and as anxiety filled me, I realized that ministry is never, ever safe. I had been led to believe, and maybe you were too, that being in ministry meant "doing things," but in this situation there was nothing I could do.

I imagine that is exactly how the third servant felt. He was handed an immense fortune, and he didn't want to make a mistake. The treasure felt huge in his hands, so he did what he thought was best. He buried it in a safe place.

Tempted as we might be to think of all the things we might do if someone asked us to manage a large fortune, the reality is most of us would most likely act just like the third servant. We'd run and hide with the talent, fearful that something far, far worse than teenagers playing Sardines might happen to it. Jesus says that faith is a high-risk venture, and frankly that does not sit well with us.

So we turn this story into a nice tale to be told enthusiastically during stewardship season, guilting people into giving more money. Or we tweak it a bit to caution folks not to hide their talents. Stewardship sermons make everyone feel uncomfortable, so we try to make it more palatable, more enticing. There was, for example, the church whose stewardship committee came up with a tag line designed to encourage pledge increases. They had bright red T-shirts printed with an arrow pointing up. The shirts read "I upped my pledge, so you can...." (You can fill in the blank.)

But this story pushes us even further out of our comfort zone than stewardship sermons. Slow this parable down, take it frame by frame, and begin to see how Jesus' message for the disciples becomes clear. Faith is not driven by fear, Jesus says. Instead, it trusts deeply in God's abundant provision.

As he taught the disciples about enduring until he comes again, Jesus reminds them that God has given them all that they need. The wise bridesmaids take along enough oil, and faithful servants invest their talents with wild abandon. There are no worries of oil crises or financial meltdowns. Faith does not fear the future but invests lavishly in the moment. Jesus then goes on to describe what that lavish spending looks like in the church: the naked are clothed, the hungry are fed, the strangers are welcomed, and the prisoners visited.

I tell you, to me that sounds a lot like a mission statement. And let me check something with you: just how many prisons do we have within the bounds of this Presbytery?

Now remember that Matthew wrote this Gospel to Jewish Christians who had been persecuted because of their faith. They are surrounded by cultural anxiety, and first hand witnesses to religious conflicts. They were located in religiously diverse communities. It is within this cultural mess that Matthew tries to proclaim the Good News of a God who gives us hope, who guides our lives. Matthew reminds these Christians that Jesus said, Let your light shine, season the world with the salt of the Gospel, go into the world—and I will be with you.

Don't let fear cause you to bury your treasure.

That is our mission— that is what we are called to do as Christians, as a Presbytery, as a denomination. We are called to take the treasure God has entrusted to us and invest it joyfully, with wild abandon. Even the Book of Order tells us this:

The Church is to be a community of faith, entrusting itself to God alone, even at the

risk of losing its life. The Church is to be a community of hope, rejoicing in the sure and certain knowledge that, in Christ, God is making a new creation...The Church is to be a community of witness, pointing beyond itself through word and work to the good news of God's transforming grace in Christ Jesus its Lord. (Foundations of Presbyterian Polity)

To do anything else would be to run away in fear, caving in to the cultural anxiety that is all around us--all because we're worried that the youth group will play Sardines in the men's room. That is all the third servant was trying to do: preserve harmony, maintain status quo, avoid conflict. If you were to ask him where the treasure is located, he would say with confidence: "It's is safe and sound, locked away in the securest of investments, not a penny has been lost."

But that is not the point. Jesus says the call of discipleship is to let go of our fear and to step forward in faith. We are called to invest in the kingdom, by living faithfully, caring deeply, following Jesus where he bids us to go. Even at the risk of our lives, knowing Jesus will meet us on the way.

I had never thought about this before, but serving as moderator gives you a certain perspective. For one thing, you can see who stays during the meeting and who leaves. As one who rarely stayed through an entire Presbytery meeting, I never really thought about that before. You also see who is Facebooking and Tweeting. But there is something else, something which I wish each of you could see: you see faces of those who love God, and those whom God calls beloved. You see faces excited about mission and faces weary from struggle. You see the anxious faces of candidates under examination, and the satisfied faces of those called to retirement. You see faces yearning for God.

And each face represents a portion of God's treasure. Look around. We have been given such incredible treasures. We have congregations with lengthy stories of ministry and historic legacies. We have an abundance of members and ruling elders who lead worship, teach classes, pray without ceasing, who bake more cookies than can be consumed in a year, whose love for the church and for God is evident. We have teaching elders who are smart, gifted colleagues of every theological stripe, who are each God's gift to the church. We have a mission that is compelling and urgent.

My only question is this: why do we keep burying our treasure? Why has fear taken hold of our lives? Is not God calling us to let go of our fear and to trust that something new is about to happen? We are called to follow Jesus Christ, to offer ourselves in service and worship -- even if that means risking the life of the church we have known.

Come to this table, and receive signs of God's abundant grace. Amen.

“The Problem With Bridesmaids”

Matthew 25:1-13
The parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids calls God’s people to live in expectancy and hope,  confident that our God will indeed come to us.

A Sermon by the Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Woodlawn Chapel Presbyterian Church

            Every wedding has a story, although some are more like miniseries.  There are stories of grooms who pass out, dresses that don’t fit,  flowers that aren’t what they ordered, ushers who can’t be found.   My personal favorites include a bride who had an armed guard at the front door checking invitations, or the story of two preschool aged ring bearers who lost the wedding ring in a cow pasture.  They were joined by the rather inebriated mother of the bride in the search for the ring.   Of course there are always stories of friends and relatives who show up having started the party a bit early.

            One of the favorite wedding stories at Woodlawn Chapel is the one of two graduate students from Saint Louis University who were born and raised Presbyterian in Ghana.  They wanted to be married in a Presbyterian church, and were a lovely couple, filled with love, with joy, and hope.  Little did I know what we were getting into, and I think there are several women from the wedding guild who will never forget that day!

            One thing that all of us learned that day was that the concept of time is much different for Africans than it is for North Americans.   An hour before the ceremony,  the church was ready: chairs straight, lights on, flowers ready…but no couple.   Forty-five minutes before the ceremony, I peered into the sanctuary…still no one.   Thirty minutes before the event, and two of our wedding guild women were beginning to think we’d been stood up!  About twenty-five minutes before the wedding, two guests arrived, and took their seats.  By this time, our wedding guild women were really getting anxious – delays and weddings do not mix well.  Finally,  I put my robe on and came into the sanctuary and saw the two guests.  They looked at me and smiled, and said, “African time, my friend, African time.”   Finally, five minutes after the wedding was supposed to have started, the sanctuary was filled with guests when all of a sudden, a large limousine pulled up.  The bridesmaids piled out of the car first, singing songs in a native tongue, tossing flower petals in the air as the bride and groom emerged.

            All in good time.

            Wedding that are delayed make good stories, but what about bridegrooms who do not show up on time?  What do we make of this story Jesus told, of foolish bridesmaids are not prepared for the wedding, and grooms that don’t come until after midnight?  Clearly, as Jesus tells the story, this is not the wedding every girl has dreamt about.    The wedding is a mess.   The wedding party falls asleep; the caterer worries about the cheese puffs; the florist frets over the flowers; and the wedding committee wrings their hands in frustration. We can only imagine what the bride has to say about all of this.  And now there’s this problem with the bridesmaids.   Five of them, says Jesus, are wise, and five were foolish.   As if it was not bad enough that the wedding is delayed, now they have to contend with foolish bridesmaids.  The wise had grabbed all of their supplies – shoes, purses, gowns, lamps, oil.  But the foolish forgot to put extra oil in those nice tote bags they received at the bachelorette party.  

            We might be tempted to begin thinking of all things we could say about those bridesmaids.  Jesus calls them foolish.  We might say there were not the brightest lamps in the room.  Not the sharpest tacks in the rug, perhaps a few fries short of a Happy Meal.  We could even say the cheese had slipped off their crackers.

            But if you listen carefully enough to this parable, you realize it carries an implicit warning to those who wish to follow in the way of Jesus.  For one thing, that it really wasn’t all that uncommon for grooms to be delayed, especially since marriage was more of a complex business negotiation than a love story.  Secondly, if we listen carefully,  we may begin understand that the problem with the bridesmaids is so often our problem.  They were not prepared for this delay.  They did not live with the spiritual reserves necessary to be prepared for the bridegroom’s coming.  They were not ready for what happens when the journey of faith turns into a long, hard slog through difficulty and darkness.

            Listen carefully to the parable, and remember Jesus is giving us a secret to life in the kingdom.  Jesus is telling stories about the kingdom, about what it means to wait for God to come to us. “Stay awake,” he says, just as he has said before. “Keep alert, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

            In other words, be ready to let the lamp of faith burn bright, even if it takes all night.  Remain confident.  Maintain a spirit of hope.  Gather up all the spiritual reserves you will need: friends who will surround you in faith, prayers that will burn in your heart even as the lamp  flickers; communities who will wait with you, people who will hold your lamp if your hands grow weary.  Despite what it looks like, despite what it feels like, our God will come to us, for even now the bridegroom is on his way.  Don’t be caught short, but believe that the joy of the kingdom is on its way.

            That is the message deep within this strange wedding story: don’t be caught short. Use your gifts of time, talent and treasure.  Invest in being part of a living, loving, learning community that give you the oil you need to let your lamps burn bright into the night.  

            Jesus is not asking us to be hoarders who store years upon years of oil which we will never need, like someone stashing away cans of green beans for a long winter.  Nor is Jesus asking us to become anxious in our preparations—hiding away large sums of money, storing up provisions, gathering gallons of water, making sure we have enough. He invites us to be faithful and trusting disciples who keep the lamps trimmed and ready so that we may greet the bridegroom joyfully when he finally arrives. 

            Matthew, you remember, is intent in gathering a living, learning, and loving community who welcome the stranger, who feed the hungry, and who carry the lamp of faith deep into the darkest night.  All of that requires tending to our lamps, carrying oil with us, remembering that when the oil runs out, there are few places we can go in a hurry to get more.

            I met a man recently who lives not far from our church.  He no longer waits in hope, and has allowed the lamp of faith to run dry.   He gave up on the church because of scandals, rumors, and acts of hypocrisy.  Yet he still yearns to be enter the joyful procession. Like the bridesmaids, he still yearns for God.   But after so many years of waiting, it feels a bit hopeless now.  His lamp is flickering, and he wonders where he can buy more oil.

            To people like my friend, to people like you and me who are often afraid of what comes next, Jesus speaks this parable of good news.   We each have our own reasons to be afraid of what is coming--maybe it is a loved one’s illness, concerns about our personal future, despair over grief and loss.  We may carry responsibilities for others, and worry that we indeed may be deemed foolish in our lack of preparation.   But in these dark nights, the light of Christ still shines.  That flame of faith has not been lost.   God’s love still comes to us, calling us to raise the lamps of faith high into the air.  

            At times, the way is dark, and the wait long.  But like the wise bridesmaids gathered in a loving, living, and learning community, we trust that the oil will not run out.  Amen?  Amen! – Copyright 2011 © Rev. Christopher W. Keating

Art Work from http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/diglib-fulldisplay.pl?SID=20111106123901367&code=ACT&RC=46103&Row=3

"Living, Learning, Loving..."
#1 "Together In the Power of the Resurrection
Philippians 3:4-14

This week, I received an email from a person who had just read my blog in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. While he was polite, I could tell that he was, to put it mildly, miffed. He found my thoughts on World Communion Sunday especially offensive. In essence, what he seemed to be asking was, "how can you even celebrate communion when you don't have legitimate clergy?"

That is the first time I've ever been called illegitimate! I have been called ill-informed, ill-prepared, and even illogical. I been told that my handwriting can be illegible. But never illegitimate. I guess that means you need to know that I am probably also imperfect.

Perhaps you have heard of a letter that was being circulated to church regarding a search for the perfect pastor:

The Perfect Pastor preaches exactly 10 minutes. He condemns sin roundly, but never hurts anyone's feelings. He works from 8 a.m. until midnight, and is also the church janitor.

The Perfect Pastor makes $40 a week, wears good clothes, drives a good car, buys good books, and donates $30 a week to the church. He is 29 years old and has 40 years' worth of experience. Above all, he is handsome.

The Perfect Pastor has a burning desire to work with teenagers, and he spends most of his time with the senior citizens. He smiles all the time with a straight face because he has a sense of humor that keeps him seriously dedicated to his church. He makes 15 home visits a day and is always in his office to be handy when needed.

I have some bad news for my email friend, and maybe also for you: legitimate or not, there is no such thing as a perfect pastor, a perfect church, or even a perfect faith.

But the good news is: there is plenty of room at this table for those who are imperfect.

Today it is our joy to break bread with Christians from around the world. The Presbyterian Church used to distribute pamphlets that showed when different countries would be receiving communion. As a child, I imagined this meant that someone, somewhere, was in charge of aligning the worship schedules for each of these far-away places. I was sure that there was an office whose responsibility it was to coordinate the distribution of elements so that plates of evenly cubed bread would reach my hands just as they were passing by children in Africa, China, and Europe. I imagined that would the perfect Presbyterian way: decently, and in order.

But today, as we share this bread with Christians from around the world, we know that this is a meal for those, like the apostle, are running the race of faith, striving for the goal of life in Christ. Some are coming to tables in ornate cathedrals and some driving down dirt roads in small towns. There is one yearning, one deep hope which unites us at this table: as we confess our brokenness, and remove our desire to be perfect, we are drawn into the living, loving, and learning family of Jesus Christ.

It is, of course, far from a perfect family. I once knew a man who was consumed with perfection. His job at church was to line up communion servers in the congregation on communion Sundays. For this church, six servers were needed per service. Al was a kind, loving man, but he had no tolerance for imperfection. If a server was running three minutes late, he replaced them (which often meant we never had young families serving communion). If one server was taller than another, they had to trade positions. He worried and fretted about communion more than brides worry about their wedding.

Eventually, it devoured him, and he could no longer do the job. He was broken by his striving for perfection, and communion no longer was Christ's joyful feast for him.

Contrast the religion of perfection with the spirituality of imperfection you hear in the words of Jesus. Jesus called out to sinners, even welcoming Phillies fans to his table. Jesus ate with those whose lives were broken, and offered forgiveness. The Pharisees—those bent on signs of success, status, accumulation, power, perfection, to join him – but they could not embrace those who were imperfect. They turned from God's love to systems of perfection.

Paul, too, knew the meaning of this imperfection: after listing his perfect pedigree, his spotless resume, he tells the Philippians that he regards it all as rubbish. The actual word in Greek is a bit too strong for church, but you get the idea. All of his striving, his yearning for perfection is found to be nothing but waste when compared to the life he has found in Christ.

Paul had the perfect life and knows that it will no longer nourish his life.

I am convinced that there is a hunger in our world today for a place where we share our imperfections, which is why this table is so critical for our world. In some ways, I guess, it seems like nothing...it's just a thimble-sized cup of juice and a tiny bit of bread. It's not much of a meal. As one of the children in the church asked me once, "Pastor, are we going to have snacks today?"

It's just a snack, a small taste of life shaped by the Resurrection of Christ. Yet as a symbol of the life Paul calls straining forward to what lies ahead, toward the goal of the prize of faith, it brings us hope. It makes a difference because it is Christ's gift to us. It makes a difference because it helps us press on, to be honest with ourselves in letting go of our painful pursuits of perfection, shaping our lives according to the power of the resurrection.

For it is at this table, that we remember that Christ walked with us, embraced our struggles. Here we remember that he knew hunger, loneliness, pain, and grief. And here we remember that it was at this table that Jesus gave us the gift of each other.

The disciples—filled with their own fears—knew that as they kept eating the bread and drinking this cup, they would be filled with love from God. They received hope for their imperfect lives. They were able to let go of the illusion of perfection. They would know the presence of Christ even when he wasn't there. They could reach out and support each other—in love.

This week, I experienced that presence. My mother, who is really making improvement, had a tough week as she suffered through the very painful dislocation of the hip which she had broken. In the midst of some of her greatest pain, a staff from the care center stayed next to her, holding her hand, saying prayers and reciting scripture—a reminder that Christ gives us each other in this bread. She was not an ordained minister, but she was the one God ordained to be at that place. That, I believe, is the power of the resurrection brings us together into a loving, learning, living community of Christ.

No, my email friend was right: I am not a perfect pastor. But if that is the case, then I know I am in the right places.

"Limping"
Faith & Films, 2011

Sunday, July 31, 2011
Genesis 32:22-32
film: "Charlie St. Cloud"

Sermon copyright 2011 by Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

Jacob limps away from his struggle with God with a new identity and the ability to face an uncertain future—equipped with faith and courage.

Sermon:

The other day my daughters Cindy and Christine left the house at 10 p.m. to go to a movie theatre. Since I knew that they both had to work the next day, I said something to them. "What's going on? Where are you going?" "We're going to the theater," they said. "But it's almost 10—way past my bedtime!" "We're just going to get some popcorn."

I didn't understand – but then I'm a dad and usually understand very little of what happens in our house. Turns out Christine needed some popcorn for the daycamp program she directs for the City of Ellisville. Thanks to a connection, they were able to get popcorn donated by AMC theater. They came home carrying a 50 gallon trash bag filled with popcorn—just about the largest bag of popcorn I've ever seen. At movie theatre prices, that was probably about $300 worth of popcorn!

Carrying the bag around they started conversations everywhere they went. That, of course, is exactly what we try to do together each August as we examine faith through the lens of popular movies. We carry these movies into church like a big bag of popcorn, and we start having a conversation. Where is God in this film? How does this movie challenge our faith? Our understanding of what it means to be Christian? What does it say about faith?

Before they went out for the popcorn, my daughters suggested that I watch "Charlie St. Cloud," and bring this movie into our conversation. Personally I think they like it because Zac Efron is in every scene. He plays the main character, Charlie St. Cloud, a young man who has graduated from college and is literally sailing through life.

With his younger brother, Sam, at his side, Charlie wins a local sailing championship. He glides past the competition, cinching a sailing scholarship to Stanford. He is the town hero. But not long after graduation, Charlie and Sam are out driving and Sam is killed in a car accident. Charlie is also killed, but is resuscitated by a paramedic. Charlie survives, but the wind is taken from his sails.

Overcome by grief, Charlie runs from the funeral. He runs away from life, and puts his life on hold. He trades college for a job working as the caretaking of the cemetery, where each day at sunset, he meets his dead brother Sam for a game of catch. We wonder: does he really see Sam? And does he really see his high school friends killed in the war? Is this his grief?

Whatever it is, Charlie struggles...wrestling with God and bitter disappointment. Filled with fear and anger, Charlie seems caught between life and death.

That is, of course, the story of Jacob as he wrestles with the unnamed stranger by the banks of river. Jacob, you'll remember, is filled with contradictions and struggles. Having cheated his brother by deceiving their father, Jacob fled to his uncle Laban. There he meets his match, and spends years haggling with his uncle for wives and cattle. When he leaves Laban, he finally gets word that his brother his coming to meet him—only this time Esau is bringing an army of 400 men. So when Jacob comes to the river Jabok, he tries to appease Esau by sending him gifts of cattle. "I may appease him with the present that goes ahead of me and afterward s I shall see his face," Jacob said, "perhaps he will accept me."

But the wind has left his sails, too. The one who was named "The Deceiver" wrestles all night with an angelic visitor. Jacob struggles, he grunts, he pushes. They are worthy opponents and wrestle all night. Finally, as the sun is rising, the visitor sees that he has not prevailed, and suddenly pops Jacob's hip out of socket.

"Let me go" says the man, "for the day is breaking." But Jacob will not let him go. Perhaps he now realizes that this visitor is indeed God. Jacob demands that he blesses him. And in blessing him, the man changes Jacob's name to "Israel," which means "you have struggled with God."

Like Jacob and Charlie St. Cloud, our lives are characterized by moments of struggle and crisis. We cannot simply sail through life with the wind at our back. Sooner or later we find out we are not Superman or Superwoman. We wrestle with God, wrestle with hurt and grief. Our thighs get pushed out of socket. We limp away defeated. As I look at people that I meet, more and more I am certain that we need a spirituality that accompanies us into the struggles of life. At a funeral recently, I heard a person say, "It's sin to focus on the bad things of our friend's life. Let's just focus on the good." In other words, ignore the pain.

But sooner or later, reality grabs ahold of us.

Grasped by the anguish of his brother's death, Charlie St. Cloud cannot ignore the pain. But he cannot move on. Like Jacob, he wrestles with the reality of Sam's death daily. As soon as the sun begins to set, he runs into the woods, picks up a ball, and plays catch with his dead brother. Somehow, Sam is also caught. He is unable to move on – to move toward heaven. At times, it feels as though they are both saying, "Let me go, for the day is breaking."

They play ball, they talk over things, they share a few memories. But they are bound together, and neither Sam nor Charlie can become who God calls them to be without letting go. In fact, Charlie's existence gradually becomes one filled with sadness and confusion. It is only as he engages in the struggle that true hope – the hope that does not disappoint – can be found.

There is hope in Jacob's story—but the hope only emerges as we engage in that struggle. We cannot escape it. But the good news is that God is willing to get dirty with us. God is willing to meet us in that struggle, and God embraces us in that struggle. The struggle is exhausting. And it scars Jacob. But like Charlie St. Cloud, whose chest bears the scars of his own resuscitation, Jacob moves through the struggle to encounter a divine gift: life as the morning breaks.

Jacob moves on. He does what we must do, too, says Joan Chittister, if we are to become true. He wrestles with God and discovers that God stays with him. In fact, as he wrestles he discovers the new power that God intends for all of us to have; a power that allows us to admit our limitations, accept our situations, and move on. He rises in the morning and is reconciled with his brother.

God is ready to meet us in our limitations, and God gives us grace to limp away into a new future. Indeed, God changes us in times of struggle, letting us becoming who God intends for us to be.

Charlie, too, eventually moves on as he allows himself to wrestle with the reminder that life doesn't wait.

Amen.

"Sowing Seeds," part two
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

July 17, 2011

Christopher W. Keating
copyright 2011

Jesus sows a seed of faith in the hearts of believers, urging them to take a stance of persistent and patient faithfulness as they live in a field amidst ugly and evil weeds.

Weeds bring out the worst in me. A few years ago, I walked around the neighborhood. I looked at the neighbor's yards, and I confess to you, my brothers and my sisters, that I committed lawn lust. I coveted. It was not a happy moment. It seemed to me that each and every yard was more green, more lush, more full than ours. Carol says that I am prone to exaggeration in this matter, and I think she is probably right. But at that moment I was controlled by a monstrous desire. I needed a perfect yard.

The next day I went to Lowes. I bought bags of fertilizer and a spreader. When I got home, I suited up and declared war on my weeds. A few days after applying the fertilizer, I noticed something. Stripes were appearing. Our front yard looked like a race track. The kids giggled every time they walked in the house. And the worst thing is that the weeds were still growing.

For the past several years, we turned professional. We use a weed assassin, a hired gun, a black box operative. He appears every few weeks, sprays the yard and leaves a bill. I am poorer, but happier.

It has made me think that the world would be a happier place if we could control the weeds of our lives in a similar fashion. Something along the lines of "Antagonist-Be-Gone" which could be liberally applied to the problems of our lives....people who bully us, politicians who anger us, deadly cancers and disease which invade our lives, evil that manifests itself into the front lawns of our lives. We could rid ourselves of selfish, invasive pests who not only perturb us but truly threaten our lives.

Wouldn't it be great?

But the weeds continue to grow, despite all of our best efforts.

Summer is the worst time for weeds. The weeds in our gardens and yards adapt easily to the hot, blistering sun. They are hard to control. They thrive despite our best efforts. Their leaves conserve water, making them resistant to sprays. What are we to do about the weeds? Using the same image, Jesus tells us that the weeds which grow in our lives—the evil, poisonous weeds which threaten to overtake us, the things which have control over us—these weeds are so pernicious that it is often hard to distinguish the weeds from the good plants.

Jesus' parable today is another tale of a sower. This time, however, God is the sower, the children of the kingdom are the seed broadcast into the world. The sower sends them out to grow and bear fruit which will become the bread for the world. Just as we saw in the lives of our VBS kids this week, disciples are called to be those tiny seeds in the world, sprouting gifts of grace, mercy, and peace.

We are the good seed, and that is important to remember.

Perhaps that seems self evident, but in times when the evil cheat weeds of life threaten us—when mean people try to do us harm, when our lives become unmanageable, choked out by weeds—when all that happens it is not always easy to remember we are good seed, planted by the hands of a loving sower. When things get out of control, with the roots of these invasive weeds intertwined in our lives, we often become our worst enemies. We tell ourselves we are worthless and vile. If we had only been better gardeners, then this wouldn't have happened. If only we had been stronger, healthier, more on top of things, then our the gardens of our souls would not have become infested by these ugly, nasty weeds. If only we had been the good seed.

It seems as though that had been part of the problem facing the church when Matthew wrote his gospel. As the church grew, it became apparent that there were some within the church who were "weeds," some who seemed intent at causing problems and disrupting the life of the community. The church grew and became more diverse and it seemed as those it was filled with weeds. The leaders wondered, "Why has this happened? Was there something wrong with me? How did we let this happen? What did we do wrong?"

Yet Jesus reminds us: you are good seed. The children of the kingdom are good seed planted by a loving sower. We are planted for a purpose, with intention. Always remember that you are good seed.

But what do we do with the weeds?

This is where the parable is most helpful, for it invites in us a response of faithful, obedient, determined discipleship. Jesus, too, faced weeds. The story of Jesus' life and ministry is a story that is framed by weeds that grow like kudzu, closing around him. Even within the communion of the disciples there is a mixture of weeds and wheat, and at times it is hard to distinguish one from the other.

You never really know, do you? Who is good, who is bad? How do we draw the lines? How do we tell? In the case of the parable, the weeds and the wheat look so similar, and their root systems so intertwined, that it would be damaging to the field for the slaves to uproot the weeds. The servants, says Ted Wardlaw, want clarity. They want to know who is in and who is out." They know they can quickly and easily pluck up the weeds and make everything better. But the farmer has seen this situation before. Full of wisdom, he urges the servants to be patient. "No," he tells them, "for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest."

Patience, he says. Be patient and the reapers will know what to do. Hard as it is, reminds Wardlaw, it is not our "job to determine who is within and who is beyond God's attention." To be patient in the face of ambiguities is not easy. The weeds may be appearing to have the edge, but ultimately we are the good seed who belongs to God. And at the harvest, God will bring us home.

Writer Eugene Peterson tells of the time when, as the organizing pastor of a new church, he found himself surrounded by weeds. The congregation he was serving had been meeting for three years. They were growing quickly and had just built a new sanctuary. All seemed to be going well, when suddenly, attendance at church fell by at least a third. In his calling on people, Peterson found that he hadn't offended anyone in his preaching. They weren't mad, and they still considered themselves active members. But they weren't coming.

They told him "We did it, didn't we? Wasn't it amazing? We really did it—we built a new church."

But they weren't coming. It was on a trip to Montana that gave Peterson the name for this period of his ministry...he called it the "badlands," the place of rocks and weeds and desert shrubs were nothing seems to grow. And the answer, he decided, was not trying to make the church more successful by pulling out the weeds. The answer was in becoming more faithful, more open to God, more aware of the church's calling to live in the kingdom.

It is in the badlands of life that the seedlings of weeds appear. Yet it is in the badlands that our calls to be disciples becomes most clear.

It is easy to look for quick answers when we're dealing with weeds. We can so easily reach for the bottles of spray. But we are the good seed, who are called to steady and patient discipleship—even in a world that is filled with weeds. Amen.

"Sowing Seeds," part three:

"The Significance of Insignificance."

Matthew 13:31-33

July 24, 2011

Rev. Christopher W. Keating

Copyright, 2011

With a twinkle in his eye, Jesus reminds the disciples that the kingdom of God appears in surprising and often humbling forms. God is at work in situations we often discount as insignificant.

It isn't hard to pick out the signs of success: we see celebrities self-destruct, and media moguls twist in the wind, and politicians implode under the weight of transgressions.

All of that leads me to wonder: what is the significance of being significant?

At one church I served, I followed a youth pastor who was forever known as "the pastor who took us to Jamaica." Can you imagine the burden it places on a young minister to come after the pastor who took the youth group to Jamaica? Nothing you do ever lives up to that level. And that was my introduction to him! He had organized a huge trip for the youth to go to Jamaica. It involved raising tens of thousands of dollars by selling pizzas, sub sandwiches, holding car washes, making Christmas wreaths. All the time the youth were dreaming over a picture of white sandy Jamaican beaches. This was going to be a huge trip, and the kids and the church worked hard. They raised nearly $40,000 for this trip. It was enormously well organized—a large undertaking. By all accounts it was a gigantic success. If you asked any of the kids, or their parents for that matter, this was significant.

When I got to the church, the kids had just returned and were filled with all sorts of stories. I was eager to hear their stories. What did you learn? I asked. Where did you see God at work? They could not answer me.

Oh, they had stories to tell: the kids told me stories about going to Disneyworld. They talked about the flight from Florida to Jamaica. They laughed about the things kids laugh about: the boys told me stories about the girls on the beaches, the girls were quick to share their impressions of good looking Jamaican men. There were whispered rumors about sneaking out at night and probably more stories that they didn't tell me.

"But what about the mission project?" I insisted. "What did you like about working among the poor people?" They shrugged their shoulders. "It was Ok, I guess," one of them said.

And I thought: all the money—more money than the average poor Jamaican family would ever know in a lifetime—all that money that spent on entertaining a group of kids you could easily describe as comfortably upper middle class. Is that how we define success in ministry?

At that moment, I began to reconsider what it significance means in ministry and mission. The next year, I organized a smaller, and less expensive trip into the poorest sections of Denver, a mere 100 miles away. No airports, no Disneyworld, no beaches. I was not a popular person for a while. In contrast to Jamaica, it didn't seem like much.

But I was convinced that God was at work in that seemingly insignificant experience.

To the kids from Pueblo, a trip to Denver was an everyday experience. It paled in comparison to the going to Jamaica. It didn't sizzle—it didn't impress. It felt about as significant as the mustard seeds Jesus speaks about in today's scripture. Common, ordinary, barely noticeable.

"The kingdom of heaven,"says Jesus "is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs...."

Jesus is again borrowing images and metaphors from the garden. Imagine Jesus walking along a path, pointing to large, rambling mustard bushes. He points toward the mustard bush, and uses it to illustrate the kingdom of God and how it grows. Look, he seems to be saying, at the success of the tiny mustard seed. It's so tiny you can hardly see it: yet it grows, and grows, and grows. Look how this plant is growing...

But parables often catch us off guard with a hidden meaning, and once again Jesus doesn't disappoint us. I imagine that the disciples saw a twinkle in his eye as he continues, "but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches."

Yes, mustard seeds sprout and grow dramatically, moving in no time at all from tiny seeds into large, shrub-like trees. Scholars tell us not to miss Jesus winking at us here. It would be, they tell us, a gross exaggeration to suggest that mustard plants become the "greatest of all trees." Instead, what is likely happening is that Jesus reminds us that God is indeed working in things that appear insignificant.

The disciples would have remembered the scriptural images of significance: powerful nations are often described as big, towering trees. The prophet Ezekiel imagined Israel as a grand tree, offering shade to every winged creature. (Ezekiel 17:22-24) Lofty, tall cedars are symbols of significance and power.

So Jesus turns our minds to a new understanding of significance: a common, humble shrub which offers hospitality and sanctuary to all God's creatures.

Imagine what that means for our world. Not many of us wield great power, but we can use the ordinary, even seemingly insignificant gifts we have for God's purposes. Not many of us reach pinnacles of importance, but all of us, as disciples of Christ, have the opportunity to be used by God in significant ways. We are mustard seeds sprouting up in common, ordinary places, proclaiming God's joy.

We are mustard seeds of God's kingdom when we reach out to share our experience of parenting with friends who are struggling;

We are mustard seeds when we give ourselves to Christ, sensing where he calls us to bring out treasures that are both new and old, leaning forward again and again to hear God whispering in our ears.

We are mustard seeds when we resist the ways of the world, and see that the only true significance worth achieving is being faithful to the one who gives us life.

We are mustard seeds of God's love when we give jars of peanut butter to Circle of Concern, or when we place hands on our youth as they head to Arkansas, or when we stand to pray with a friend facing surgery.

We are mustard seeds which bring the kingdom of heaven to friends who are hurting, to the lonely woman who just wants someone to hear her story, to the kids in our community who are looking for a place where they dare to ask honest questions of faith no one else thinks are important.

Those tiny, unremarkable seeds take root and grow. And after he had told the disciples these parables, he asked them, "Have you understood all this?"

This is the word of the Lord....thanks be to God. Amen.

"Sowing Seed s"
Matthew 13:1-9
July 10, 2011
Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

Copyright 2011

No matter how dry or rocky the condition, disciples of Christ are called to the ministry of casting seeds, proclaiming the Good News, confident that the harvest God provides will be abundant and plentiful.

Archeologists have recently discovered a scroll from New Testament times that sheds interesting light on the parable of the Sower. Since I was having a hard time coming up with a sermon today, I thought I'd share a few portions of this document with you.

From the desk of the commissioner of agriculture, the district of Galilee:

To: Anonymous Sower of seeds

Dear Sower:

Recently it has come to our attention that you have been engaged in improper methods of sowing seeds. In particular, you were observed carelessly distributing seed in an unproductive manner. This office has received several reports walking along a path, sowing seeds near a known bird sanctuary. Observers noted that birds quickly devoured the seed before it was allowed to germinate, creating a hazard for pedestrians on the path. We note that your actions occurred despite the posted "Do Not Feed the Birds" signage along the path. This action places you in direct violation of Roman Policy M-X-L-L-I, forbidding the feeding of local wild birds.

As representatives of the Roman emperor, it is our sworn duty to request that you cease and desist this unlawful activity.

Have a nice day, (signed) Farmus Maximus, commissioner of agriculture.

Dear Farmus Maximus, high commissioner of agriculture:

In regards to your recent letter, I can only say, "When anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart."

Sincerely yours,

Sower

Dear Sower:

Your attempt at humor is not appreciated. Your failure to comprehend the seriousness of this issue is simply astonishing, and requires an immediate response. Today I have received another report, which is even more serious than the first. It has been further reported to this office that you continued to sow seed in an unprofessional and careless manner. This report alleges, to wit: "Defendant has been observed wasting expensive seed through recklessly tossing seed into the air, without regard for proper techniques of cultivation of soil. Further, it is alleged that some seed fell on the rocky ground, where there was not much soil. Due to a lack of root systems, these plants died in the scorching heat. Additionally, defendant's careless manner of sowing seeds placed some in soil without the proper application of herbicides. These seeds were choked out by weeds."

We must warn you that it is unlawful to waste expensive seed in this manner. To do so is a flagrant violation of the government's agricultural stimulus plan. Failure to comply with these warnings will result in severe penalties.

Sincerely yours, blah, blah, blah.

Dear commissioner:

As it has been said, "seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor understand."

Yours in farming,

Sower.

Dear Sower:

We are not amused. We must urge your compliance to commonly approved methods of germination. In particular, we cite your lack of planning and irregular methods of cultivation. Do you not understand the current economic conditions, which means that we must tightly control the sale of seed? If everyone was to use your methods, where would we be? Apparently, it is common knowledge to everyone except you that in order to elicit the best yield from seeds one must work hard in diligently preparing the soil in advance of the planting of seed.

To use a metaphor, if one were to start a synagogue, then one would employ a survey to locate the best location. One would next poll the residents to find the neighborhood with the brightest, most intelligent, and prosperous citizens. Next, one would hire a consultant who would advise you on methods of construction and the techniques for best forming a new synagogue. Finally, a public relations expert would be engaged in order to market your new project. These are common sense strategies which must be strictly followed to ensure success.

You call yourself a sower. But you are not a farmer. A true farmer would understand the necessity of following established protocols. You have no excuse!

Have a good weekend.

Dear commissioner:

Please forgive my failure to respond to your correspondence with the decorum suiting your office. I must admit that I have been far too busy with my activities to respond appropriately, and hope that this letter will set the matter straight.

In regard to my title, you are correct. I am not a farmer, I am only a sower of seed. I have one mission, and that is to be faithful in my task in casting seed as far as I can, broadcasting what I believe is the gift God has entrusted to me.

This means that I must be extravagant in sowing seed, just as God is extravagant in showering upon us love, mercy, and grace. As I enter a field, I toss the seed with the prayer: "God be with you," which indeed is my prayer for all I meet. I pray that if the seed grows, it will bring forth plentiful grain which will nourish others—and bless them with God's gift of food.

This notion of God's abundance came to me in the words of a Rabbi. His name is Jesus; perhaps you have heard of him. He gave me this notion, this calling to sow see. He told his disciples that God calls each one to this task of sowing. He told them the seeds he tossed were the words of the Kingdom—God's words. As he spoke, I felt something that I cannot explain. I felt that I was loved—deeply loved—and that no more should I consider myself a simple sower of seeds. Instead, if you can believe it, I myself felt called to sow the seed despite the conditions. I was called to persist. And so, I sow...trusting that God shall give the growth. That is my calling.

Let me offer a metaphor of my own: suppose a parent tucks a child into bed each night. As the child sleeps, the parent whispers a quiet, "God loves you," and then plants a seed. Who knows how the seed will grow? It is the job of the parent to keep planting those seeds. Or consider the synagogue you mention. Is not the function of those inside the synagogue to keep planting seeds of imagination, creativity, and love in the minds of its children? Is it not the job of the leaders of the synagogue to keep planting seeds—even when conditions do not appear favorable?

Ah, I suppose you are right. I have no excuse. To your charges I can only reply, "Other seeds fell on good soil, and brought forth grain, some a hundred fold, some sixty, some thirty."

May you be blessed by the gift of God's abundant love,

Sower

Dear Sower:

Where can I buy this seed of which you speak?

With appreciation, Commissioner.

Dear Commissioner: "Let anyone with ears, listen."

Amen.

Galatians 5:22-26

A Wedding Homily for Molly & Ryan

Saturday, July 19, 2009 

The Biggest Question

By Rev. Chris Keating 

          OK, so you’ve made it this far!  You’ve survived the fast lane of cross-country wedding planning.  All the anxiety-ridden moments of searching for the right dresses, flowers, meals, tuxedoes—all that is over.   You have made it to this place—and the good news is that credit card bills aren’t due for another month!

          So much about your relationship so far has been a series of questions, such as “Is that really the guy that used to work with me at Peppers?”  “Will she go out with me?” “Is he the one?”  “Will you follow me all the way to California?” “Do our parents get along?” “Can we make it?” And, of course, the really big question that Molly you had to answer before we got to this place: “Will my dog accept him?”

          In a moment, you will answer more questions.  Here’s the thing: the questions will keep coming from this moment forward.  There will always be questions.  Questions about where you’re going to live. Questions about what paths you’ll pursue.  Questions about your relationships with family.  Questions about children, health, finance, God, and so much more.    There will always be questions—even where there doesn’t seem to be many answers.

          And today, the biggest question you have to answer is not: “Do you love me?” You already know that.  We know it—we can see it in the way you look at each other, the way you trust each other, the way you count on each other.  No, the biggest question you must answer comes to us from scripture: are you willing to be led by the Spirit of God?

          Paul leads us to this question.  He is not, of course, writing to a couple in love; he is writing about a group of Christians who are filled with envy, jealousness, anger and strife.  They are constantly arguing and fighting with each other.  They’ve forgotten how to care for each other, and become consumed with pursuing their individuality. And so he warns them: those who pursue this sort of path in life won’t inherit the kingdom of God.

          Paul reminds us that in the roller coasters of life, it isn’t always easy to keep on loving each other. It is easy to begin thinking only about our own individual needs. Yet a life led by the Spirit says Paul brings forth a harvest of good fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness.  It happens as we allow ourselves to be guided by the Spirit. 

          Ryan and Molly, led by the Spirit, you have found each other in God’s providence. Led by the Spirit, you have pursued career paths against many odds.  Led by the Spirit, you are now ready to promise yourselves to each other.  Life will be filled with many questions. There will be moments of great joy, and more than likely some hard times, too.  Led by the Spirit, you will find in each other strength, hope, and faith.  You’ll discover new paths.  You’ll find God’s grace to encourage you.  As you awaken each day, look into each other’s eyes.  See the joy that is there.  Know the generosity that is blooming.  Trust that you belong, body and soul, to Jesus Christ…and be willing to be guided that day by the Holy Spirit.

          Singer Gary Chapman has said that so much of his life resembles a big roller coaster. “Each morning,” he writes, “I get out of bed and commit to keep my arms and legs inside the ride at all times.  I ask God to carry me through the laughs and the screams, the exhilaration and the horrow that I know from experience is waiting for me. Each evening, I climb out exhausted and thrilled to have completed the ride one more time.  I sleep in peace, knowing tomorrow I’ll get back on the ride…my ride.  Locked into place, I’ll throw my hands in the air, feel the wind in my face, and trust.  I will trust the One who designed both me and the ride to take me through the ups and downs, round and round one more time.”

          So, here you are, standing in front of the  biggest, most gigantic Six Flags’ roller coaster you can imagine. Go ahead, and get in. Allow the Spirit to guide you. And whatever you do, do everything in the name of our Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.  Amen.