One afternoon last week, I was leaving church for an afternoon appointment.  As usual, I was carrying my computer and an armful of work.   I call it my “guilt pile.”  As I was headed out the door, one of our darling Mom’s Day Out three year olds accosted me.  In a sweet voice, she asked, “Are you going now?”  “Yes, I have to go now.”  But then the jig was up.  This sweet little girl turned from good cop to bad cop. Her eyes narrowed as she quizzed me further: “Are you going to take a nap?”

          Who could deny such innocence? It was such a pure moment.  Her experience that as soon as you leave this place, you take a nap. She knew that. She trusts in that.  She dares to believe that she lives in a trusting, predictable environment.

          Yet, with the Psalmist, we know that our lives do not always follow such a predictable, trusting path.  We know that evildoers will assail us, armies encamp around us, and at times we feel forsaken.  In those moments, we yearn for a vision of something to hold us.  

          In such moments, we may know that faith dwells in the midst of fears.  We may dare to trust that our faith will support us. Yet even the Psalmist, who begins Psalm 27 with such a strong affirmation of trust, experiences God’s absence, and in his lament, he demands an answer.  Notice the two voices in this Psalm: on the one hand, the Psalmist declares his confidence in God’s presence: the Lord is my light and my salvation…whom shall I fear?   But soon another voice arise: “Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud, be gracious and answer me! Do not turn your servant away in anger…”

          Yes, faith perseveres in the face of utter destruction, but this is the voice of one who has experienced the journey of life as anything but predictable and trusting.  This is a raw, real  voice, a voice longing for God.

          I met a couple of people who, in their own way, were longing for that voice.  I met a couple of “Nones this week.  If you read my posting on my Woodlawn Journey blog this week, you’ll know that I’m not talking about an order of religious sisters.  There are a lot of nuns in Saint Louis, but there are even more “Nones,” that’s “n-o-n-e-s,” persons who when asked to check a box marked “religious preference” check “none.”  So the joke is, two Nones talked to a Presbyterian pastor this week.

          The Nones around are the fastest growing segment of the American population.  In 1990, about 8% of the American population identified themselves as having no religious identity.  Today, that number is about 22%.  They are smart, well educated,  and young.  And get this: many of them consider themselves to be deeply spiritual.  They have deep, and often penetrating ideas about God.

          Like many of his peers, the None I met this week would say he considers himself spiritual, just not religious. What I found fascinating was what he said: I want a religion that is able to deal with ambiguity.

          Well, I thought, if you want ambiguities, listen to the Psalms!

If there is ever a place where ambiguities exist in scripture, it is here in this great Psalm. Nones would appreciate this Psalm because of  its honesty.  It is a raw-edged prayer.  It is charged with the belief that God can be trusted, yet dares to complain that God is absent.

 You’ll remember that my prayer for us as a congregation is that by listening to these Lenten Psalms, we shall be able to discern what could be called “an extraordinary faith.”  I believe that an extraordinary faith wrestles with paradox and ambiguity.  An extraordinary faith climbs the peaks of life with trust in God, and journeys into the valleys fully aware of  life’s obstacles.  An extraordinary faith trusts, but also dares to gaze, in the words of one writer, “deeply at doubt.”  An extraordinary faith believes that God is always present, but knows that coming to that conclusion is never easy.

          Look at the startling boldness and realism in these words.  The Psalmist looks at the real world – a world filled with all sorts of difficulties – and sees it through eyes of faith.  Then the Psalmist dares to declare,  boldly: “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?”   It is an affirmation that holds our feet in the midst of struggle and confusion:  God is on our side.

          It is an amazing declaration that clears away the fog.  God’s light, God’s presence is everywhere. There is nothing, ultimately, that can cause us to stumble. It is an affirmation that shepherds us through life’s painful ambiguities.  Yet it also declares how hard it can be to believe at times.   

Maybe the Nones have it right: faith must wrestle with questions. Faith must not let answers come too easily.  Faith must deal with questions of cancer, terrorism, corporate greed, pollution.  The Psalm articulates this delicate balance between trust and fear, for it knows that deepest faith comes only after one has experienced deepest fear. 

          So mixed with this amazing trust comes a real word about life’s shadows:  Don’t hide your face from me. Don’t turn your servant away in anger.  Don’t forsake me. Don’t give up on me.   God, you had better be doing what you’re supposed to be doing!  There is real fear, real anxiety, and all of it mixed into the experience of God who is always present. These are not just words about how God good has been, but a real, deep prayer pleading for the strength to wait for God. 

          As I have said before, our life changed this year with the adoption of our dog, Mindy.  She has decided that I do not need to watch television after nine o’clock at  night.   That is her time, the time we go for a walk, and when we don’t go, she has a way of making her presence known.  We start on our path, the path she knows so well. Usually the first part of the walk is the most exciting: the wind is at our back and it feels fresh, and energizing. But then we turn a corner. Then we walk into the wind. It changes the dynamic of the walk. It chills you. It burns against your face.

          But, in both places God is present.  In facing the struggle, we learn what it means to wait. We learn what it means to find real, and lasting hope.  For Mindy and me, coming home means having to wade our way through the struggle.  For it is only when we have faced the struggle do we really know what home means. 

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. (Merton, Thoughts in Solitude.)

In the shelter of God's providence, we are reminded that even as we are tested, faith calls us to move forward.

When I was a child, Presbyterians didn't speak much about Lent. My Catholic friends were busy making lists about things they had to give up, and I knew that people on my Dad's side of the family only ate fish on Fridays. But for our Presbyterian family, until you got the to the week before Easter, Lent wasn't so much a big deal. But what we know now is that Lent holds an integral part of our identity as Christians. Following Christ in the days of Lent not only deepens our faith; it reminds us of our identity.

A monastery had a beautiful garden which the bees enjoyed year after year. However the young new monks had no time for gardening - they were too busy with more important things and one day the chief gardener came out and surveyed his once beautiful garden with sorrow.

That, of course, is extraordinary faith. Such a faith not only speaks of faith, but is involved in actively "doing" faith - of journeying into the dark, of trusting in a time when there is no one to be trusted. But think how dangerous these words can be. How easy it is for us to say, "My refuge, my God in whom I trust." Sitting here today, our lives are calm. But it is much more risky for those who are facing true crises to place their trust in God. What would it have meant, to a black man in the days of segregation...having watched as people from his community were lynched. Or to a family today who cannot know real security because the tangible symbol of that security, their home, has been repossessed. What good are these words to the soldier patrolling in Afghanistan? Or to the cancer patient for whom there are no good treatments left.

If these words are nothing more than a lucky coin to keep in your pocket, then our faith is really nothing more than a belief in magic.

Or so it would seem. Tested by Satan in the wilderness, Jesus hears these same words. Standing on the pinnacle of the temple, Satan pushes Jesus to edge. "If you are the son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you."

Yet Jesus resists what Henri Nouwen calls the "urge to become spectacular." As an old Indian proverb says, "Call on God, but keep rowing away from the rocks." And that is what Jesus does. He responds not by calling on a magical charm, but on trusting the secure presence of God in whom he dwells. What Jesus discovers is what many of us have learned: in a crisis, when we row away from the rocks, we experience the power of God in ways we could never imagine. In the face of struggle, when God feels so remarkably absent, we learn what how remarkably present God really is.

Theologian Douglas John Hall, in a book of letters to a college student filled with doubts, says much the same thing. Jesus, says Hall, yearns for us to discover true hope, "not false of cheap hope. Not that kind of hope that whistles in the dark...and true hope is given only those who have had some profound exposure to hope's opposite...despair." (Why Christian? p. 59.)

An extraordinary faith: a faith that seeks security in God's presence when everything else is chaotic.

Several years ago, I led a group of youth from Woodlawn Chapel on a retreat. The weekend was difficult: we had bad weather, a smaller than expected group, and the camp had put us in a set of cabins that made it hard to have create conversations. Somehow, we made it through the weekend. Late one evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard a group of the boys call me over to their room. I can finally tell this story because they are now all grown up, responsible, productive adults with jobs! I entered the room and was amazed at what I found: the bunks had been pushed together, all the sheets had been stripped off their beds and tied together to form a canopy. One of them - he'll remain nameless - stood at the top of the bed and said, "Like our fort, Chris?" All these tough 16, 17 and 18 year old boys, football, soccer and lacrosse players, had suddenly been turned back to 7 and 8 year old boys, looking for security in building forts and castles.

But such is the sort of imaginary, extraordinary faith that comes to us from this Psalm. Believe this good news: You who live in the shelter of the Most High, who abide in the shadow of the Almighty, will say to the Lord, ‘My refuge, and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust!" Amen. This is the word of the Lord, thanks be to God!

"Gifts of Love"

Sunday, January 31, 2010

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

            Hear, now the word as it comes to us from Paul and from John - McCartney and Lennon that is,  not the Apostles:

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.

Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.

Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game

It's easy.

There's nothing you can make that can't be made.

No one you can save that can't be saved.

Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you

in time - It's easy.

All you need is love, all you need is love[1]

It's a great song, and I would have played it for you today except you can't download Beatles songs into Itunes.  All you need is love, and Napster.  All you need is love - for generations we have read these words from Paul, the Apostle, not McCartney.  As we read them today, your mind was no doubt taken back to a vision of a pretty dresses and flowers, adoring brides maids, and handsome groomsmen,a young couple standing in front of a church, and a minister reading these words.   Like all ministers, I'm usually asked to read "that love chapter" by couples who have little understanding of what Paul was actually talking about.  I usually agree: and then wonder how it is that we actually  make this thing call love work.

            All you need is love, or so they believed, until the money got tight and fighting more frequent.  Love never ends, the preacher had said at their wedding, but for them it did. The next thing I knew, they had made an appointment to come and see me.  He showed up in my office clutching a single red rose.   He and his wife had been madly in love, marrying young and buying the house of their dreams: a real fixer upper that put their skills to the test.  The project eventually became all consuming. Soon they discovered they were apparently better at remodeling houses than repairing relationships.  To put it blunt, they ran out of gas. She had told him she wanted out.  Desperate to find another way, he arranged a meeting in my office.  "I love you," he said, handing her the rose.  But it was not to be, and the rose was still in my office when she walked out.

            All you need is love?

            Let's be clear. When Paul admonishes the Corinthians to practice love, he is not preparing a wedding homily. He tells them "all you need is love," but he would shake his head at the way we most often use this passage. Paul  is not preaching to blushing brides and grinning grooms; he is not writing lines for a Valentine's card, nor is he putting the final touches on a marriage manual.  When he says, "Love never ends," Paul is not thinking of a smarmy tagline to use as his Facebook status, nor is he compiling clever quotes for a handout on marriage. In fact, marriage was probably the furthest thing from his mind.  Paul writes to a church that is devouring each other. They're conflict has bubbled over like an unwatched pot.  

            Christopher Hutson helps put this in a particular context.  Love has not place for envy, but envy has characterized their relationships with each other. Love has not place for boasting, but it seems in chapter four and five, that the Corinthians have been boasting all over the place.  Love isn't puffed up - but here again, the Corinthians are the puffiest puffers around.  Love has not room for injustice, but according to Paul in chapter 6 the Corinthians have been manipulating the court system in a way that would make even the most corrupt judges blush.

            Listen, says Paul. There is a more excellent way. There is the way to let God be present in the life of your community.  This way will let the light of Christ be shown in your life.  This way will bring you the inner peace you desire.  This way will let hope emerge in you.  It is the way of love, and if you don't have love, you are nothing.  If we reduce these words to sentimental mush only read at weddings, then we have lost sight of their real power and intent.

            You can move mountains, but without love, you're bankrupt. You're a fake.

            Years ago I was given a book called the "complete ministry audit."  It was a workbook designed to help church leaders assess their congregations. It's a lens to help evaluate whether or not your congregation is open to visitors, how effective you are at mission, and the strength of such things as stewardship and finances.

            But what it cannot evaluate is the quality of love. When our identity as Christians or as a church is shaped by questions other than "Are these things done in love?" we are says Paul nothing but a clanging gong or noisy cymbal.

            Love is not the object, it is the subject. Like the little rabbit in the classic children's story The Velveteen Rabbit, most of us never become "real" until our ears have been loved off and our eyes pulled out and our hair worn thin.  Love that bears with each other knows what it means to become real.  Love answers the cry of the prophet: what can I say to these people? Love them, says Paul. Trust in your unique gifts and abilities. Pour out your life just as the woman poured expensive ointment on Christ's feet, even as Christ poured out his life for you.  Love is what makes Christian community strong, healthy, and real.

            And when love is what defines a community, then I believe the individuals in those community's will be changed. I believe that is when we will understand the hard work it takes to let relationships last a life time.  When we are able to let God's love dwell deep in us, our lives will flourish.  It is then that we will know the joy of Christ that expresses itself in patience, kindness, and bearing with one another.

            I spent two days in Atlanta this week, attending a theological conference on postmodernism in the church as it is expressed in a new movement among some Christians called "the emergent church."   I'm still trying to define "postmodernism," for myself, so don't ask me to explain yet.  What I'm learning  is that one of the most ardent desires of a new, younger generation of Christians is for a faith that is grounded in authenticity.  They're lives are riddled with all sorts of difficult realities: many of them are working lower wage jobs, many are not able to afford houses similar to the ones where they were raised, and many are finding this post-911 world to be one of struggle and difficulty.  In their search for meaning, this generation is drawn again and again to the words of Jesus, to relationships formed in love.  The conference was held in the sanctuary of an old Presbyterian church, that looked to me as if it had seen better days. Paint was peeling, tiles were cracked, rooms filled with old furniture.  During the first session, I looked down at the communion table. The speakers were going on and on about the need for authenticity in relationships, but then I noticed something on the communion table.  On the Lord's table were plastic grapes and a big loaf of fake bread.  A bit later someone else noticed..."Look," he said, "They're fake."

            The point of course was obvious: plastic grapes and fake bread do not feed a living community.  And whenever we offer anything else than the real, loving, and living presence of Christ, we are nothing. Anytime when we offer anything else than the rich, satisfying, loving presence of Christ in community...we are nothing.

            In the past few years, I've noticed something.  More and more I'm called to read this passage not only at weddings, but also at funerals.  At first, it struck me as an odd request. But then, a few years ago I was called to lead a funeral of a man who had devoted his entire life to his wife.  He worked two full time jobs in order to provide for her - one in the day and another at night.  He was her second husband, and he became the father of her son. Their life was busy, but full of love and commitment. His retirement consisted of quitting one job so they could do more things together.  It wasn't the sort of life many of us would sign up for, but it worked for them. And after he died, after spending a life time together of hoping and praying for each other, she had one simple request: could I read 1 Corinthians 13 at his funeral?

            All you really need is love.  This is the word of the Lord, thanks be to God!

[1] "All You Need is Love" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, The Blue Album.

"We Will Serve No Gift Before Its Time"
Sunday, January 17, 2010
John 2:1-11, 1 Corinthians 12:1-11

I start today with a confession: last week, I was preaching about the power of our baptismal identity. As I did that, I walked over to this font and spoke quite eloquently, in my humble opinion, about the unique shape of our baptismal font. In particular, I spoke about how traditionally baptismal fonts such as ours are octagonal in shape, referring to the seven days of ordinary creation, plus one - the symbol of our new creation in Christ. I was so pleased with this discovery that I waxed on about it for quite a while. Apparently, several of you were paying attention because a couple of our young persons came up to me later and said, "Uh, Chris? You'd better go back and count the sides of your baptismal font." And when I did I learned that eight may be great, but six is the fix when it comes to our baptismal font! We have a hexagon, not an octagon, and I stand corrected. I did not lie, but I did not add correctly. And, while we're on the subject, I'd just like to say for the record, I have never taken steroids to improve my preaching!

Yet the delight I saw in the faces of those young people as they came up to me after church would have prompted a smile on the Apostle Paul's face. Paul, who probably didn't smile often, would have laughed to himself. He would no doubt point his finger straight into the air and say, this is exactly what I was telling the Corinthians...to each is given a gift. Paul looks at a community that is intent at tearing each other apart and he says, stop. Remember that you need each other. Remember that you need young people who come up to the preacher and tell him to go and count again. Remember that you need people whose gift it is to pray for the victims in Haiti as much as you need volunteers to set up tables for today's lunch. Remember that each person in this community matters...each one has been given a unique gift. You matter to God, and you matter to this community: that is the word God longs for us to hear.

God gives us all that we need.

That is the word we need to hear, because in this text from 1 Corinthians, Paul is both affirming our unique abilities and inviting us into deeper relationship with others. He upholds a vision of the church as a sacred community that is built upon the foundations of deep, interconnected relationship. He reminds the church that its strength emerges out of its differences. No single strand of belief or witness is sufficient. The variety is wonderful.

In his classic book, I and Thou, Martin Buber mused that "egos appear by setting themselves apart from other persons. Persons appear by entering into relationship with other persons." Or, as our friend and colleague Ed Zumwinkel would often say: the good news is that all that we need is right here on Sunday mornings.

We don't always like variety, nor do we always believe that God has truly given us all that we need. One group will bump up against another, or factions will develop. Our culture has become so caustic, so driven to exclusion that we are forever labeling people as "too conservative," "too liberal," or "right leaning," "left leaning." The fabric of community gets torn in the process. We stop entering into relationship with others. And in that drive for individual success, we too often buy into the deception that our we don't have enough. Paul, however, corrects that view. Diversity is critical, and to be expected. Diversity adds to our embarrassingly rich abundance of gifts. In his translation of this scripture. Eugene Peterson puts it this way: "Each person is given something to do that shows who God is."

What an affirmation! What a transforming invitation! Paul reminds us that each of us has been given a gift...and not just a few gifts, but an abundance of gifts! Imagine it is tomorrow morning. Let us hope that the sun will appear! Imagine you are standing before this great stained glass window. As the morning sun breaks through the filtered glass, let God's Spirit fall on you fresh and new. What gift is God giving you this new day? Perhaps you could prayerfully say the words on the card in the bulletin:

I have unique gifts .My gifts are given by God. God is moving in my life, inspiring the creative manifestation of my gifts. My gifts are intended to support the gifts of others and the well-being of the whole community. My gifts flourish in partnership with others. Our congregation is gifted and healthy.

But what happens when we don't see those gifts? What happens when the tensions and the anxieties of the moment crowd out our ability to recognize God's abundant gifts?

John describes a similar situation. A weddings, as you know, is defined as "a complex event involving the joining of two lives and the full expression of years upon years of unresolved family tension." We catch a glimpse of this as Jesus appears at the wedding with his disciples and his mother. As John describes the situation, the wedding celebration has been going at full tilt, the hors d'ouevres have been incredible, everyone is dancing and the party is great, but now they are about to run out of wine. Anxiety is mounting. The steward is pacing. The jars are nearly empty. The servants are whispering, "What are we going to do?" Mary catches a snippet of the conversations and, based on her maternal instincts, takes the problem to her son.

You can almost imagine how Jesus responds. "Ah, Mommmmm...it's not my time."

She shrugs her shoulders. It's not easy raising a boy who calls himself the Son of God. "What's a mother to do?" But it is his time. He seems reluctant to act, but suddenly sees the jars of water set aside for Jewish purification rituals. His mother prods him into action. He tells them to fill the jars with water-and that's the real miracle here. Where in an arid environment would you ever find 180 gallons of water? But they listen, persistently filling the jars. And soon God's abundant gift is everywhere.

In our anxieties, we tend to forget the abundance all around us. In our worries, we forget that God can still surprise us with gifts we never imagined we had. We discount the gifts others bring, forgetting Paul's reminder: to each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good."

Early in my ministry, I was organizing a sky trip for a high school youth group in Colorado. As usual, I was running around trying to get all the details arranged. I suddenly realized that we didn't have enough adults. My gut told me that taking 50 senior high youth on a ski retreat required as many adults as I could find, yet few were adults were enthused by idea of driving three hours to sleeping on a church floor, and then paying to go skiing. I wonder why. In the midst of this dilemma, one of the advisors asked me if I had asked Merle if he could go. My jaw dropped. Merle? Merle was an elderly man who sang in the choir and told really bad jokes. Did you say Merle?

Just ask him, was the reply.

Turns out that the greatest joy in Merle's life was going on youth trips. He was an accomplished skier, athlete, referee who skied and played golf well into his 80s. Merle's gift to the kingdom was his exuberance and sheer love of youth. So,yes, I asked Merle, and skiing he went. No gift can be served before its time, and Merle's truest and best gift was his love for youth. In between runs down the mountain, he told the youth how much he and his late wife had loved going on mission trips. He shared that he loved them so much that when she died, the church re-named their trips "Columbine" trips in honor of the wildflowers she so dearly loved. And then I learned just what gift Merle had. Did you know that "columbine" comes from the Latin word, Columba, which means dove? It was often used in religious art as a symbol of the dove of the Spirit, descending on all God's people.

And the Spirit still descends upon us: calling us to offer our gifts as signs of love to brothers and sisters in Haiti; equipping us to serve Christ in Wildwood; allowing our gifts to flourish in sacred community, so that every person can know they matter to God.

It is our time. God has given us what we need. We have unique gifts, given by God. God is moving in our lives, inspiring the creative manifestation of our gifts. Our gifts are intended to support the gifts of others, and the well being of our community. Our congregation is gifted and healthy, and now is our time. This is the Word of the Lord! Thanks be to God. Amen.

Focus: The waters of baptism invite us to put away fear and anxiety by opening our lives and deeply drawing on the affirmation that God will not abandon us.

Not long ago, our phone rang about 7:30 on a Sunday morning. I was in the throes of getting ready for church. The voice on the other end sounded panic. "Chris? It's Steve Dull." Steve, as you know, is a pastor friend who is the husband of Lynn Dull. During the week, he works with SSM Hospice as a chaplain, with my wife Carol. He is also a Baptist pastor serving a non-denominational church near the Innsbruck Resort in Warrenton. At that hour of the morning, calls to our house are almost always emergencies. I could tell from the tone of his voice that this was the case. "Good morning, Steve," I answered. "What's wrong?" "Chris," he said, "I don't know how to ask this, but how do you do a baptism?" Now the incongruity of the statement hit me as hysterical: Steve's been a pastor longer than I have, and he is a BAPTIST pastor of all things - and he's calling me at 7:30 on Sunday morning for advice on performing a baptism? A Baptist asking a Presbyterian about baptism of all things? The next thing will be Jehovah's Witnesses asking me how to conduct door to door evangelism! The thing was, he said, he's obviously done hundreds of immersion baptisms before, but he had been asked to baptize an adult in his church, and his church lacks a baptismal tub. "So," he said, "how do you baptize adults?" Immediately, images of Steve, the stalwart Baptist preacher, trying hard to fit the person in the baptismal font flew across my mind. But he was really anxious about this ... and a little unsettled about the thought of how to approach this life changing moment for this new believer. So early that morning, I found myself becoming the liturgical consultant to a Baptist minister!

It's easy, I said. Just don't be afraid of the water!

Yes, there can be something unsettling about these waters of baptism. On the one hand, the sacrament of baptism is familiar to us. We take special effort to make each baptism at Woodlawn Chapel unique and important. As a congregation, we take seriously our baptismal vows - we pledge ourselves to caring for the children we have baptized, for nurturing them in the ways of faith. And, it is not uncommon for us as a congregation to watch in joy as adults and youth profess their faith and receive the sacrament. Yet on the other hand, these waters are a mystery to us. At every baptism I say, "Let us in joy remember our own baptisms," yet few of us do. Many of us are like an elderly woman in a Presbyterian church back in Pennsylvania. Like many in the church, she'd been baptized as an infant and had no way to remember the event. When told by the pastor to remember her baptism, she blurted out, "I wasn't there! How do you expect me to remember?"

Indeed, how do we remember with joy our baptisms?

No doubt that woman had witnessed countless baptisms. Like many of us, I suppose, she held to a functional view of this sacrament: it washes away your sins. It's just something you do if you're a good parent. Many pastors talk about the calls they received from parents and grandparents: "When can you ‘do' the baby?" Yet this isn't like writing an insurance policy. Something more is happening in these waters. So how do we remember with joy our baptisms?

Questions like that should drive us back to this font. You know, this is more than an adjunct piece of furniture. To see this baptismal font is to remember that day we were sealed with Christ's love. This baptismal font, lovingly built by Norm Stoecker, has a traditional eight sided design, and that is important. The eight sides of a baptismal font are a sign of the new creation in Christ. Seven days represent the created ordered, but we remember that in Christ we are a new creation. Yes, look into these waters, and remember you are baptized.

We can remember the joy of our baptism as we share the gift of that new creation with others. Participating in the baptism's of others, allows us the chance to see the Spirit's descent into their lives...just as it did when Jesus was baptized. We stand and profess our faith, we we make promises to watch, pray, and nurture those who are baptized. We remember as we look into that magnificent stained glass window, praying wait for the Spirit to move across our lives, unleashing us from our sins, removing our fears and releasing us from all that keeps us apart from God.

Look, and listen for the Spirit's movement in your life. Listen as God's says to you, "Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."

God's love for us is revealed in these words of Isaiah. Isaiah calls out to a people who are disappointed, despondent, and empty. Their lives are riddled by anxiety. They wait for some word of hope, some sign that God had not abandoned them. They had passed through deadly waters, and were afraid. They felt alone. But the prophet remains steadfast, "Do not fear, for I am with you." God's love holds us even as the foundations are slipping away.

And as these waters run down our face, and across our head, we know God's love for us.

God's love, made manifest in the coming of Jesus Christ, was spilling across the banks of the Jordan, reaching out to all those who were coming to be baptized by John. God's love calls us to you from these waters, affirming you as a child of God, and inviting you to remember you belong to God. That is why we can remember our baptisms with joy.

A church in Oregon has made a habit of pouring water into the font at the beginning of worship each week as a reminder of baptism. The practice had received mixed reviews, with many folks uncertain of what it meant. Yet each week, the pastor would stand at the font during the prayer of confession, pouring water into the bowl, reminding the congregation of how they were loved by God. Within that church is a woman who had been attending for some time. Embittered by conflicts from a previous church, the woman attended church by was hesitant to get more involved. After attending the church for two years, she wrote a letter to the pastor to be included in the church's newsletter.

Since moving to Oregon in 1987, I avoided church, mostly because, like a lot of people, I felt okay with God but differed with "church people." I didn't fit in. In 2000 I joined a law firm as an attorney, while I was pregnant and going through a divorce. After several years of raising a child on my own while succeeding in a very unforgiving profession (failure wasn't an option), I was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted, desperate for peace and rest, and compelled to admit that I couldn't carry on alone anymore and needed God's help. Sometime in 2005 I decided to visit this church, because I knew I could speak and understand Presbyterian. The first time I came, tears welled when I heard the pastor (stand at the font and) say, "God has already removed your guilt and your shame." I realized how weighed down I was by guilt and shame - from a failed marriage, from feeling like I was letting my daughter down because earning a living was taking so much of my time and energy, from wanting to do and be so much more than I was.

Let these waters roll down your head, and down your back. Let them change you. Let them free you from your past. Let them empower you to share words of hope in a world filled with despair. Let them guide you to offer justice to the oppressed, to open the eyes of those who are blind, to fill the hungry with good things. Let them call you to serve God with all of your gifts, reaching out in love to that world God loved. "But now thus says the Lord, he who created you O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel; do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, and you are mine."

          As we begin our 20^th year of ministry today, I think about the wonder of that window.Its colored filters offer us gift of God’s light shining down on us.  We know that God has journeyed with us, but its true gift  is more than that. We are not to let light become absorbed only in us. Rather, we are called to radiate the glow of its promise…and bear its word of promise in the world.  In other words, it invites us to become children of God.  And the Word became flesh.

Sunday School Begins September 13! Join us!

One of my mentors in my doctoral program once told me, “No church has the choice of saying it doesn’t offer an education ministry; the only  choice it has is whether its educational ministry is intentional or not!”  Dr. Sondra Matthei’s comments came into focus for me recently as I thought about Woodlawn Chapel’s exciting plans for its educational ministry this year.   To bend an old slogan, at Woodlawn Chapel we don’t believe Christians are perfect, just emerging!  Spiritual growth is a sign of a healthy, vital, emerging church.  At Woodlawn Chapel, we believe each member matters to God, and that building a community where each one matters is a significant task for our ministry. 

 For that reason our educational ministry offers diverse opportunities designed to help you and your children connect to God. Educational ministry feeds the streams of our lives and keeps us our lives grounded in what truly matters.

Here’s a taste of what we’re offering:

·         Twenty-seven individuals have said “yes!” to God’s call to either teach or be an assistant in our children’s and youth classes this year.  Thank you to each one! And for those who are still wondering…yes, there’s room for more!

·         Our children’s classes will use the “Seasons of the Spirit Curriculum” once again.  Seasons of the Spirit is a lectionary-based curriculum, which means most of the time the kid’s lessons are geared to the Sunday preaching calendar.  It is prepared by top theologians, including Presbyterians.  You can learn more by visiting www.spiritseasons.com

·         Our middle and high school youth will engage a new resource, “FAQ – Faithfully Asking Questions,” produced by the Presbyterian Church (USA).  It is based on real questions youth ask about the Bible and faith and is linked to the The Study Catechism: Confirmation Version, which will be the basis of a new confirmation class for high school sophomores.  You can visit  PC(USA) - We Believe - FAQ: Faithfully Asking Questions for more information.

·         For the first time in several years, adults will have two options!  The Sanctuary Class will begin exploring The Bible From Scratch by Donald Griggs, and then will host a series by Dr. Richard Johnson. A new gathering, “Laughter, Learning and Light-Hearted Conversation” will meet in the Education hallway and will be geared specifically to the needs of parents of young children. All are invited to a discussion about faith, parenting, your life and so much more!

·         Dr. Bob McClelland has generously agreed to teach another evening class for adults. Bob’s discussions on “Risking Spiritual Maturity” begin September 22. 

 We take educational ministry seriously.  Over the summer, input was gathered from parents of children and youth.  Over prayer and reflection, we have spent time gathering ideas, and modeling new programs. You'll see this reflected in all of our ministries for children, youth and adults.  I think you can be assured that the result is an exciting, vital ministry that will support life-long discipleship. We are also striving to be a community of hospitality that welcomes new persons and is open to new ideas.  Our educational ministry is grounded in our values of hospitality, spirituality, and leadership/service for faith.

  Educational  ministry supports our quest to grow in faith by encouraging faithful practice, reflection, and integration of spiritual disciplines.   It is a context where mission can be discerned and debated.  It provides a place where you can ask questions, talk with others, and meet new friends.  Christianity is never a solo performance! Thankfully, there are places where you can come and meet others who will be faithful dialogue partners.

Many of us have crowded lives and may find taking an extra hour on Sundays for education a difficult choice.  But here’s what we know: our lives are indeed like living streams.  We are most alive when we are energized, flowing, and always changing.  Taking time to learn is a chance to let our stream continue to flow and be healthy.  Additionally, good research indicates that when families attend worship and education together, kids are more likely to feel more bonded to their church and are more likely to see faith as an important part of life.

Our education ministries will help your family, will help you, and supports Woodlawn Chapel’s growth as a community, and it is my hope and prayer you'll consider investing yourself in this critical dimension of our church's life. 

Blessings,

Chris Keating

  "Listen!"

February 3, 2008

Transfiguration Sunday

A Sermon by Rev. Dr. Christopher W. Keating

            The snow was falling outside Thursday evening.  The TV was on, but if your home was like ours, no one was listening.  Everyone in our house was waiting with bated breath for the listing of schools.  Early on it didn't look too good.  Our daughter Christine is an optimist.  "Looks like they forgot to list the school districts that start with "p-a" she said.   The only thing our kids were listening for was the call that came around 9:45 from the school district.

            And the only houses more excited were the homes of teachers!

            Stop. Look. Listen.  That simple sequence we all learned in kindergarten has profound spiritual meaning.  It is at the very heart of the story today from the Mount of Transfiguration, and it is at the heart of all that we do as people of faith.

            I confess: this story is so chock full of mystery that it can be hard to understand, let alone interpret.  We stop at this mountain each year before Ash Wednesday, casting our eyes up to see if we, too, might be able to be changed. We know that this is holy ground, yet too often we push past the mystery and awe. We try to manage this so we can understand it. But today I want to let the awe and mystery of this moment of Jesus' life settle on us a bit. Here at the midpoint of Jesus' ministry, Matthew throws in a bit of theater. Jesus takes his inner circle up the mountain and suddenly there is a light show that could rival any Super Bowl half-time show. A change comes over Jesus, his face shines, his clothes dazzle. Talk about costume malfunctions!

            And at center stage: the booming, beckoning voice of God: This is my own dear boy, my son with whom I am pleased...listen to him. Listen to him.

            But it is so hard to listen. One of my old books from seminary says that "it is far easier to direct a conversation along the lines of our own thinking than to respond along the lines of thought and feeling and in accord with the assumptions of others."[1] It takes a certain discipline to not only hear someone but to really hear what they are saying.

            How important it is, yet in the din of our lives, how hard listening really is. For example,  we share the sacrament of communion in this church at least once a month.  How often do we take time to stop, look, and listen for God in this table? As we pass the bread to each other, how would your celebration of communion be different today if you simply looked into the eyes of the one passing the tray to you and heard them say, "The body of Christ, given for you."  How different would your experience of listening for God's voice in your life be if you heard yourself saying, as you passed the cup, "The blood of Christ, shed for you?"  It really matters that we stop, look, and listen today.

            Last year, a blizzard began three days after Christmas outside the small community of Clayton, New Mexico.  It's a lonely, desolate part of New Mexico's northeastern plains, and a terrible place to be stranded.   It quickly became a white-out condition, and then a small traffic accident on Highway 56 shut down the road.  Forty-four cars were trapped.

            Meanwhile, about 150 yards from the accident, Randy Glover and his wife Christine were talking to each other on handheld radios.  The husband was across the yard in his workshop talking to his wife who was back in their small three bedroom adobe house. As they were talking, they heard something else: a somewhat garbled conversation from two of the people caught in the accident.  The people were lost and scared. The snow was blowing so bad they couldn't see the Glover's house.  Over the radio, it was hard to hear their voices.

            But the Glover's listened.  And they gave directions to their house, and over the next three hours the strangers made their way off the highway and into the living room of this family's small house.  Eventually they welcomed over 44 strangers, ages 4-70.  The Glover's kids broke out the dominoes and card games and Mrs. Glover started making chili as they all learned how to share one bathroom. A trucker for a grocery company got permission from his company to open his truck load of groceries.  An elderly heart-patient was evacuated by heliocopter. More than a dozen stayed until New Year's Day.  No whining, no tears, no grumbling - just a bit of loud snoring.  Everyone was welcomed.  Everyone. Later on Christine Glover told a reporter that she had been waiting for a moment like this her entire life. "We met people who will be friends for life," said Christine. [2] 

            Just because they listened.

            But it wasn't because they were eavesdropping. No, the miracle-what we might call the transforming moment - came as this special family listened and responded.

            Stop, look, listen.

            The voice of God in today's scripture is, of course, a link that connects this story of Jesus' transfiguration to his Baptism by John.  The words are identical both times- "This is my beloved Son," except this time God directly instructs the disciples to "listen to him."  This commanding invitation is perhaps most startling of all the elements in this story: listen to him. Listen to him and understand more about what being a disciple is all about.  Listen to him and shape your life according to what he has to say. Listen to him, and know what it is like to forgive, to act in love, to respond to the little ones. Listen to him, and you'll be changed. Listen to him, and you'll see the needy, the poor, the hungry, the naked. Listen to him and you'll hear the cries of newborn children in crisis. Listen to him, and you'll find that moment you've been waiting for your entire life. Listen to him. Listen to him, and move beyond fear to action rooted in Christ's love.

            And...listen to him, and you'll understand why this Mountain of Transfiguration is not a final destination, but only a layover until he is crucified.

            Of course the disciples are terrified; who wouldn't be? Yet Jesus comes to them, and as further proof of the mystery of this holy moment, touches them. "Get up," he says, and "do not be afraid."  God comes to us. God knows we are afraid.  Christ touches us and tells us, "I have listened to your fears; now listen to my voice."

            It would be great to live up on the mountain, living in those thin places where God's spirit sweeps down on us.  It would be incredible to live in such a place, withdrawn and away from reality. Yet, like the disciples, much of how we live our faith takes place off the mountain.  No matter how much we act like Peter in trying to preserve this holy moment, the reality is we are called to come down the mountain.  And, as we do, we have one other thing to keep in mind: Listen to Jesus.

            In a few hours, we'll gather around television sets and thanks to surround sound, we'll listen to players calling plays, and commentators commenting about those plays, and to crowds commenting on those plays.  We'll yell at the refs, the coaches, we'll laugh at commercials or scratch our heads and say "What was that about?"  

            The din of our world, with all of its crackle and static, will fill our lives. 

            But will we have listened to Jesus? Will we have allowed the mystery of this holy moment to so thoroughly change us that we will consistently, thoroughly, regularly, listen to him?  I invite you to come to this table now, and to stop, look, and listen.  We might just hear the opportunity we've been waiting for our entire lives. Amen.

[1] Gaylord Noyce, The Art of Pastoral Conversation, p. 28.

[2] http://www.denverpost.com/news/ci_4939515, accessed 2 February 2008.