Sermon: The courage to be human (June 27, 2021)

Full service is HERE. Sermon begins at 35 min. 

Pentecost 5B

June 27, 2021

Mark 5:21-43

 

INTRODUCTION

         All of our texts today speak hope and joy into the grief and despair life sometimes throws our way. The book of Lamentations, as you might guess from its name, is almost all lament, in particular over the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians and the subsequent exile. But this one chapter is a light shining into that darkness. I’m always caught by the parenthetical statement halfway through: “There may yet be hope!” It is emblematic of all our stories today.

         The Gospel reading is a classic example of one of Mark’s narrative tactics: the Markan sandwich. He starts telling one story, interrupts it to tell another, then gets back to the first, and the reader knows that these two stories are meant to interpret each other. In this sandwich, we also see more of the boundary-crossing I mentioned last week, but rather than a physical boundary like a lake, today’s boundaries are more social and religious. Both the hemorrhaging woman and the girl who dies would be seen by Jewish law as unclean – the woman because she is menstruating and the girl because she is dead – and anyone who touches someone unclean becomes unclean themselves. Yet Jesus touches them both. They are stories about how nothing will stop God from reaching out to us in relationship, healing and love.

As you listen, notice how that line in Lamentations plays out in today’s readings: “There may yet be hope!” Let’s listen.

[READ]

Mural in the Encounter Chapel of the Duc in Altum Spiritual Center,
Magdala, Israel.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         “It takes a lot of courage to be a human being.” This is the assertion of Barbara Brown Taylor in her essay, “One Step at a Time.” “Year after year,” she writes, “we add to our experience of the world, pushing against our limits to find out what will budge and what will not, and gradually we gain a sense of our own power. We find that we can make certain things happen and we can prevent other things from happening; we can make friends and we can make enemies; we can say yes, and we can say no.”

         It’s true – all this learning about how to be a human being DOES take a lot of courage! We start innocently enough as babies. Then we grow up a little, we go to school, and learn that sometimes people are mean, that “we can’t always get what we want,” and that some things are too hot, too sharp, too noisy, or too difficult. But we pull ourselves up each time we fall, and we keep going, wiser for the wear. We proceed into adulthood, and our problems get more complex – relationships, jobs, loss, growing families, moving, compromise, mortgage payments… Still, we power through, convincing ourselves that we can keep control over our lives. We can handle this. We can make career plans, and save money, and organize a schedule. We can have control….

         Until, we can’t. Until something happens that completely knocks over the perception that we ever had control: a spot shows up on the X-ray, or the school principal called you again about your child, a global pandemic changes everything, or you find yourself in an automobile that has lost control and all you can do is sit there, strapped into the vehicle, and pray… and realize, “I have lost control of my life.”

         That aspect of the human condition is not unique to our time and place. Just have a look at Jairus. Jairus was a man of power, a respected man in his community, a leader in the synagogue. You know he’s important because Mark gives him a name – not just anyone gets a name in the Bible! But Jairus – he is worth that. He’s educated, and strong, and respected… and completely at his wit’s end because his 12-year-old daughter is sick to the point of death. If ever there is a time to feel completely and utterly helpless, it is when your child is severely ill. And Jairus is desperate. So desperate, that he goes to this man, this folk healer, Jesus, whom many of his colleagues despise. He works in the synagogue, remember – where the scribes and Pharisees hang out. But what else is he supposed to do? He is desperate!

         Or, look at the woman with the hemorrhage. The possibility of losing control in our lives does not discriminate based on social status or income. This woman is the opposite of Jairus. She has no name; she is known only by her ailment. She is an outcast, because the ailment she has lived with for 12 years has made her ritually unclean. By law, she is untouchable. Perhaps she once had a chance at a prosperous life, but she was struck with this ailment that has not only rendered her unclean and untouchable, a fringe member of her community, but also unable to bear children, which was the primary responsibility of women in the first century. She is worthless to society, and without anyone to advocate for her. She has spent every cent she had on shoddy health care that has made her worse instead of better, and left her with no money to her name. She has completely lost control of her life. All she can do is reach out and touch the garment of this man she just knows can heal her. “If I but touch his clothes,” she thinks, “I will be made well.” (There may yet be hope!)

         Who has not felt like these people? I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t know where else to turn, what else to do. If only I could do X, Y, or Z, everything would be better. If only I were more like that, and less like this, I could get out of this mess. Perhaps we, like Jairus and the woman with the hemorrhage, turn to Jesus in times like this. Prayer is always a good place to turn! But when I’m especially desperate, I find my prayer often becomes, “God, make this struggle go away, so I can regain control over my life.” And that is not quite the prayer we want to be praying, and not what these stories are about.

         The responses of the characters in both of these stories are worth examining, but I’m particularly struck by the woman’s. After she touches his cloak, Jesus feels the power go out from him – in itself, remarkable, given the density of the crowd around him. And when he calls out for her, she actually responds! How easy it would have been to slip away unnoticed. She was, after all, rejected by most of society, and really should not have been in public at all, given that she was unclean. But when Jesus calls out to her, she cannot stay hidden. It takes a lot of courage to be a human being, and she certainly calls on that courage here! “Knowing what had happened to her,” Mark tells us, the woman “came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth.”

         What do you think that means – “the whole truth”? Did she tell him merely that she was the one who touched him and why? Or did she tell him all about the 12 years she had endured an embarrassing ailment, faulty treatment, and social isolation? Did she tell him how she felt during that 12 years? Did she tell him all the times she had doubted, all the times she wanted to disappear, all the times that the suffering became too much for her to bear? Did she tell him of the terrified joy she had felt when the power went out of him and into her and healed her?

         The whole truth. That’s something we have trouble with, isn’t it? It’s a part of that desire for control that we have – being so honest as to tell the whole truth puts us in a very vulnerable position. It shows people that we don’t know it all, that we can’t handle everything, that we have doubts and fears and concerns and shortcomings, and we risk baring all those warts to everyone.

Or perhaps even worse, in telling the whole truth, we risk baring all those warts to ourselves. 

         It takes a lot of courage to be a human being, and it takes a lot of courage to tell the whole truth and make yourself so vulnerable. I think of myself as a pretty honest person – honest with myself and honest with others. I sometimes think I am TOO honest for my own good! But still, this notion of the “whole truth” catches me off guard sometimes. Even during confession, like we did at the beginning of this service. During that time of silence, when we are all reflecting on our sins and speaking them aloud to God in our hearts… I sometimes find myself naming something, and then my blasted human nature starts trying to justify itself! “Well, I don’t know that that was really a sin, Johanna. You don’t really need to confess that.” As if I could ever be anything less than wholly truthful with God. (If you recall, that didn’t work out so well for Adam and Eve!)

         And that is what the woman who is cured of her hemorrhage has to teach us. She didn’t have to come forward. She could have just slipped away into the crowd, and never have to face Jesus – God – face to face. There were so many people there; who would ever know? But she knew what had happened to her. She knew the grace she had received. She felt in her body the restoration – the restoration of her body, but also the restoration she would feel in her community, having returned to a neutral status, no longer unclean. She felt that gratitude so deeply that she had no choice but to approach Jesus with fear and trembling, and tell him the whole truth. It takes a lot of courage to be a human being. It takes a lot of courage to be touched by God!

         Did you know that the root of the word “courage” is the Latin word for heart – “cour”? So to have courage, then, is to be heart-full, to find the ability to tell your story with your whole heart. To let go of who you think you should be, in order to be the beautiful creature God made you to be – and God did make you this way on purpose! To have courage is to allow yourself to be in a vulnerable position, a position where you don’t have complete control over your life, trusting that indeed God is the one who always had control, not you. To make yourself willing to invest yourself in things that may or may not work out, to take risks in your personal life and in your faith.

Because hear this: God loves you, even with all your warts. God knows your most vulnerable self, and loves that self, dearly. God loves you for exactly who you are so much that God would send His own Son to take away the sins of the world, to bring us into eternal life, to restore relationship with us. If God loves us that much, then we ought to let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen, for all that we are and for all that we aren’t, and to love one another with our whole, courageous hearts.

Let us pray… Loving God, we want so badly to have control of our lives, and to keep certain parts of our truth hidden from you and others. Make us courageous to share our whole truth with you, and to trust that you love us dearly anyway. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Storms in the in-between (June 20, 2021)

View full service HERE.  Sermon begins at 34 minutes.

Pentecost 4B 

June 20, 2021

Mark 4:35-41

 

INTRODUCTION

         So, how many of you have ever faced a trial or hardship in your life? Anyone? Then this Sunday’s readings are for you! We begin with the classic story of overcoming suffering: Job. In case you aren’t familiar with Job’s story, Job is a righteous man who falls victim to a dirty trick by the devil, who tries to convince God that Job isn’t so righteous. Job endures many trials – death of his whole family and livestock, sores and boils, big stuff – and his friends try to comfort him by explaining the pain, but to no avail. Job gets frustrated, but remains faithful. Finally, God speaks – that’s what we will hear today – and God doesn’t try to explain anything. Instead, God gives Job reason to trust Him.

         The Apostle Paul will likewise recount some of the sufferings the Corinthian community has endured, finally assuring them that God is always working for our salvation.

         And finally, the story of the stilling of the storm in Mark. You may remember me telling you way back before Lent that Mark’s Gospel is all about how Jesus is breaking down barriers and crossing thresholds, and today’s story is definitely that. Jesus begins by saying, “Let’s go to the other side,” in this case, away from the relatively safe land of Israelite country, to the Gentile territory across the lake. And in that liminal space between, they encounter a storm – as we so often do in liminal spaces! Yet here, too, Jesus proves he can be trusted.

         And that’s really the overarching theme of today’s texts: that God is trustworthy, whatever trials we may be facing. As you listen, think about what storms you are facing right now, or what in-between spaces you are living in, and hear God’s Word reminding you to trust, and commanding your heart to have peace and be still. Let’s listen.

[READ]

            Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         This week, New York state set off fireworks all across the state in celebration of reaching the 70% threshold – 70% of eligible people are vaccinated, meaning we are pretty darn close to herd immunity. Almost all restrictions were lifted. And there was much rejoicing.

         And… there was also not much rejoicing. After over a year of caution and isolation, and the trauma of so much loss, coming out of hiding is not easy or immediate or comfortable for many. As I have spoken with some of my colleagues this week, we have all agreed: it was easier to be in full lock-down. Then, though it was fearful and difficult, we at least knew exactly what we needed to do. Now, no matter what decisions are made, someone feels uneasy about it. Our leadership is constantly questioning and requestioning every decision as we strive to be faithful, compassionate, and safe in leading our congregation. We are all too aware that while some are ready to leave the graveclothes behind and jump with both feet into this new life the vaccine has given us, others (especially those with young children who cannot yet be vaccinated, or who are immunocompromised) are still cautiously peeking round the door, uncertain whether they are quite ready to head whole hog into the next phase. Still others feel physically safe, but, having spent the past year being in proximity to so few people, are feeling some social anxiety – as my friend put it, “I’m anxious about people-ing again.” And still others may be feeling all of those things at the very same time!

         For us to live in community together, friends, we need to recognize that we are all at different points in this journey. We got on the pandemic train at one point last year, and we are being dropped off at different points. We can’t assume we know best what others should be doing and why. Instead, we must strive to have compassion for one another, wherever we may be along this track.

         For moments like this, I just love this story in Mark about Jesus stilling the storm. I sometimes ask people if there are certain Bible stories that they especially resonate with as they walk through this life of faith, and for me, this is one, especially when I find myself in a liminal place – between the familiarity of my docking point and the unfamiliarity of my destination. Because what Jesus and his disciples’ experience on the sea of Galilee is so reflective of those liminal, in-between spaces in life. Let’s see how.

         First, there is the storm. Liminal places can often feel stormy. For me right now, that storm feels like constantly questioning all my decisions, and holding everyone’s pandemic-related concerns. It’s the monkey-brain and overthinking that goes along with making important decisions. Liminal storms often feel like not knowing how to handle simultaneously feeling the extremes of emotion – for example, excited and anxious. Sometimes storms look like the fighting and tension that often happens when a major life change comes about – a move, a new job, a death, a shift in the family system. Oh, how we long, in these moments, to go back to shore, or to quickly get across, or do anything but stay in the uncertainty of the chaotic waters in-between! In the disciples’ case, that emotional storm is also a physical one, as waves come crashing down on them. It is almost better that way, isn’t it, to have this physical thing to which to tie the fears and anxiety.

         And so they call out, “Hey Jesus, what are you doing?? Don’t you care that we are perishing?” This, too, is such a familiar cry! Blinded by the waves crashing down and the rocking floor beneath us, we cannot always sense Jesus with us. And in our desperation, the prayer isn’t, “Show yourself, Jesus,” it is, “Don’t you even care??” We feel lost and alone in the storm.

         But of course, we aren’t alone. Jesus is there. In his non-anxious way, he stares down what troubles us – whether the waves of the storm, or more likely, the storminess of our hearts and the doubts that blind us – and he rebukes them: “Peace! Be still!”

This is my favorite moment of the whole story. And it is certainly meant to be climactic. Throughout Scripture, water often represents chaos. In Genesis, we read that God’s Spirit moved over the waters, the chaos, the lack of order in the universe, and God began to bring order and meaning to it. In the flood story, the chaotic waters overcome the evil of the world, but God reigns above. The Psalms often draw upon that image of God ruling the waters, and we see it very strongly and beautifully described in Job: “Who shut in the sea with doors when it burst forth from the womb?” God asks. Who tamed these wild waters? God, and God alone. No wonder the disciples are amazed: even the wind and the sea obey Jesus, and they know that God alone has the power to tame the wind and sea!

But the reason it is meaningful to me is this: if God can tame the stormy and chaotic waters of the world, God can also tame the storms and chaos of my heart. “Peace, be still!” Jesus commands the sea, and so also these words can command my heart. I have used these words as my prayer, asking Jesus to use them on my own storminess. I find great comfort in knowing that, whatever storms may rattle my being, Jesus has the power to calm them with a very word, if I would but have ears to hear. “Peace. Be still!”

But the next part is also particularly meaningful for us these days. “There was a dead calm,” Mark tells us. To me, that doesn’t feel like a peaceful image. It feels like an eerie, still cautious image, as if they can’t quite believe they are safe. Jesus names it: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And Mark adds that the disciples were filled with great awe, a word which is often translated as terror. You see, they were not yet to the peace. Peace did not come immediately. Even though the storm was gone, they still had residual feelings of awe and fear.

Which brings me back to where we are, nearing but not yet to the end of a pandemic. Just because the storm of the past 16 months has quieted does not mean that our feelings about it suddenly disappear. Many still feel cautious and anxious. And all of us will be processing its emotional impact for years to come.

And that is okay. Relief in a liminal place doesn’t come immediately. It takes time. We are wise to recognize and name that it is okay not to be okay yet. And it is also okay if you are okay! But wherever you find yourself in the in-between-ness of these days, know that Jesus is with you in it. He’s right in your boat with you, ready to rebuke the storms. And he is trustworthy. The God who first brought order to the chaotic waters, and who, in our baptism, turned those waters into a source of life, continually brings life and order, peace, and stillness to our chaos. We stand in awe and disbelief… even as we cling to our living and powerful God, who will not let us perish.

Let us pray… God of the wind and the sea, the in-between places we find ourselves in can feel stormy and uncertain. Speak peace and stillness to the storminess of our hearts, and help us to trust you always. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Welcoming all birds into our branches (June 13, 2021)

Full service can be viewed HERE.  

Pentecost 3B
June 13, 2021
Mark 4:26-34

 

INTRODUCTION

         A lot of people in biblical times were intimately familiar with farming and growing things, so it is no surprise that such images appears as often as they do – we will see it today. The comparison of God’s kingdom to a cedar tree, as in Ezekiel, was a familiar image – cedars are grand and dignified, after all! But then along comes Jesus, who instead will compare the kingdom of God to the scruffy, invasive mustard bush. No wonder the disciples are confused! As you listen, hear the humor and confusion in that. Imagine how dumbfounded the listeners must have been. And in general, notice all the different growing imagery in our texts today – with what would you compare the kingdom of God? Let’s listen.

[READ]

Middle eastern mustard bush

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         Have you ever tried to explain something to someone that you know and understand so well, yet you cannot figure out how to explain it to someone else? This happens regularly if you have small children – we are often having to explain things like, the correct way to use air quotes, or why you can’t turn off the sun. It’s so intuitive for us, and yet… how do you explain that?

         That’s what I imagine as we watch Jesus try to explain the kingdom of God, something he knows intimately, to a bunch of disciples who totally don’t get it. You can imagine him using this parable about the sower, satisfied with his attempt… and they all stare blankly back at him, blinking. Jesus looks around, realizes his explanation fell flat, and tries again. “Ok, let me see, what other comparison or analogy can I use to explain this… Ah, okay, how about this. The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, which, when sown on the ground…” But he’s already lost them again, because they are now laughing at the sheer absurdity of sowing mustard seeds. Why would anyone want to sow mustard seeds? Mustard bushes are ugly, scruffy, a far cry from the dignified cedar typically used to describe royalty. They’re also invasive, and will take over everything. And while those birds in the branches may sound like a lovely image to us, in truth, while some birds are good for crops, many kinds of birds wreak havoc on crops, making a mess and eating seed and fruit. Mustard bushes and birds are the last things you would want in your garden or farm! Yes, it is an absurd prospect! And yet, this is how Jesus describes the kingdom of God, so, absurd or not, we must try to understand why.

         The beauty of Jesus’ parables, or any story, is that there are so many entry points. That’s why Jesus uses so many stories in his teaching – they are rich, they offer opportunity for connection, and they invite deeper reflection than would simply saying, “These are the facts about how it is.” God transcends mere facts!

The power of stories is why we are currently working on developing a story of St. Paul’s, because a story is something people can enter into. So, speaking of that work writing our story, here is something else that has come up in the work we’ve done so far: St. Paul’s, we observed, is a congregation that is welcoming and accepting of people wherever and however they are. This is beautiful, and exactly what every church should be!

I believe that is true about St. Paul’s, and at the same time, I want to push us to think more deeply about this claim, especially as we start returning to in-person worship and activities – and I want to do that using the parable of the mustard seed. Jesus’ description of the kingdom of God as an undignified mustard bush with branches and shade for the peskiest pests tells us that when we are part of that invasive, scruffy kingdom, we, too, are welcoming to all manner of people and situations, even those that may require some accommodation on our part, or may require us to approach a situation differently in order to make them truly feel accepted and welcomed. Do we offer that sort of welcome and acceptance here? Is it enough to plaster “All are welcome!” on our website and our publications, and call it a day? What does it look like to welcome and accept one another, no matter what we might have gone through since we were last together, or where the pandemic has dropped us off in terms of our mental and emotional health? And, beyond that, how will we welcome and accept those whom we don’t yet know, who may yet walk through our doors in search of… something.

Maybe we should start by asking: what people are either not here, or at least are not as well or openly represented, at our table, in our pews, logged into our livestream, and what do we imagine are the barriers for them? What would show them we are ready for them to take up residence in our branches?

Let’s look at some specific groups who might struggle somewhat to feel welcome and accepted in a congregation like ours. The month of June is Pride month, a time when we are invited to think more intentionally about our siblings in Christ who identify as gay, lesbian, transgender, bi-sexual, or otherwise “queer.” June is also a month when we think a lot about the African American experience in this country, because of the 100^th anniversary of the Tulsa Race Massacre June 1^st, and Juneteenth next week. What would it take for people of color, or people who identify as LGBTQ, to feel welcome and accepted in these branches? Is it enough to say, “I don’t see color!” or adopt a sort of church version of “don’t ask, don’t tell”? I can’t speak for either of these groups, since I don’t share their experience, but I think both of those approaches fall short because they sound an awful lot like, “I don’t see, or don’t want to see, or would prefer to ignore this significant part of who you are. I will choose only to see the things that don’t make me feel uncomfortable. As long as you ‘fit in’ here, and look and act like what is ‘normal’ to me, you are welcome!” But that is the opposite of accepting, isn’t it? Asking someone to “fit in” is not accepting them or loving them for the wholeness of who they are. Fitting in is different from belonging. Fitting in implicitly asks someone to be or act different, or tone down who they are, for our own comfort. Now, I’m not saying St. Paul’s members do that or would do that… but it is certainly a very human temptation to want someone else to be or act a certain way for our own comfort. I know I am sometimes guilty of that, and most times I probably don’t even notice that I’m doing it. It takes a lot of self-awareness, not to mention humility, to recognize that sort of thing in ourselves.

So, how could we do better? One of my favorite observations about welcome actually spoke specifically to a third group I haven’t mentioned – families with young, potentially disruptive children – but it says something important about welcome in general. One Sunday when then 3yo Grace had been especially interested in being up front with me, one visiting young family told me, “I loved seeing your daughter up there. It made me feel welcome to be here with my young children.” Powerful! You see, people feel welcome when they see a piece of themselves reflected, when they can see how their unique story could become a part of the story they see here.

So, let’s apply that to the other groups I mentioned: Do people of color see themselves reflected, if not in our people, then in our art and music, or do they mostly see a white Jesus and European music? Is there space where stories that challenge our status quo can be safely shared and believed? Do we value the experience and perspective of LGBTQ people as different but beautiful? Do we talk to or about them in the way they self-identify, rather than the way with which we are most comfortable? Do we expect the people who come through our doors to look and act a certain way, a way that looks pretty similar to how many of us look and act?

These are not political issues, my friends; they are human issues. I have no agenda here beyond the gospel, I’m just asking the questions. But part of welcoming and accepting all the birds into the branches of this mustard bush that is God’s kingdom, is welcoming and accepting people for who they are, not for who we want them to be. Of course, there is always room for growth, for all humans – we all want to be the best version of ourselves, to be growing ever closer to God’s hope for us – but we must start with loving others exactly where they are, even as we trust that God loves all of us exactly where we are.

I will say again, I think St. Paul’s does welcome pretty well in a lot of ways. We are handicap accessible. We have good signage. Jonathan strives to feature a diversity of composers in the music he chooses, and I try to lift up different voices and perspectives in my preaching – though we are both always trying to do better. We all readily offer smiles, and like to make connections with people. That’s all great. Keep up the good work! As we start to come back to more and more things happening in person, it will be all the more important to be both compassionate and intentional about our welcome and acceptance of each other, and those we don’t yet know. Because even though it seems like we should be able to slip right back into where we were in March 2020, we have all been through a trauma, and everything looks a little different now. And of this, too, we need to be accepting, receiving people wherever they’re at. We are all in different places with our mental and emotional health. We all crave different things, and sometimes we don’t even know what it is we are longing for! This transition time will require much patience, for ourselves and for each other.

But know this: the kingdom of God is like a big, ol’ invasive bush that grows whether we want it to or not, and in ways we can’t even understand or figure out. And in that big bush, there is room enough for whatever kind of pest wants to be there – even pests like you and me. Because every one of us, with our strengths and our shortcomings, our wisdom and our ignorance, is claimed, marked, and beloved by God. So bring your uncertainty and questions, your emotional baggage, your childhood trauma, your pandemic trauma… bring it all, and make yourself a home in the invasive, messy, not always pretty but always life-giving kingdom of God. There is room for you here. There is love for you here. Here in God’s kingdom is a place to rest, a place not to “fit in” but to belong, a place where who and how you are is dearly beloved by our God.

Let us pray… Compassionate God, you love and accept us no matter what pain, suffering, or shortcomings we approach you with, and you welcome us into your kingdom. Help us to do the same for all of your children. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Life over self-protection (June 6, 2021)

 Full service HERE.

Pentecost 2B

June 6, 2021

Genesis 3:8-15; Mark 3:20-35

 

INTRODUCTION

         Today begins the season of Pentecost, a season without any big festivals or events but that focuses instead on the sort of day-to-day teachings and ministry of Jesus. We’ll hear lots of stories this summer that can guide us in our lives as humans trying to be faithful. And today, today we’ll see some of the most very human-ish of humans! We begin with the story of the fall from Genesis, as Adam and Eve are confronted with their Big Mistake of believing the serpent in the Garden of Eden when he said they could know as much as God. We’ll see the consequences of pride, and how quick humans have always been to point fingers and avoid taking the blame. In 2^nd Corinthians, Paul reflects on the condition of being stuck in this flesh that is wasting away, living in this broken world, even as we await the renewal of our inner nature by Christ.

         If Genesis shows us our human tendency to cast blame elsewhere, and how this behavior damages even our most important relationships, our Gospel reading does the same. We will see how quick we are to dismiss that which would challenge our beliefs, that would dare reveal something different from what we believe to be true. We see this as Jesus’ adversaries are so put off by him and his teachings that they say he is possessed by the devil himself. As you listen, as painful as this might be, try to see yourself in these stories, and hear how God’s Word can help guide our lives of faith. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         From the beginning of time, humans have pointed fingers, dismissed each other’s pain, and been divided. Since the very first humans, we have hidden ourselves from one another and from God, hoping that no one else will have to see our insecurities, that if we put up a strong front and deflect any blame, then we can continue to hold onto our beliefs, no matter how misguided they may be.

         I have always loved and also hated this scene in Genesis, where the insecure Adam and Eve hide themselves from God, and as soon as they are called out on their shenanigans, they point fingers anywhere else to keep themselves safe. I love it because I can relate to it… and I hate it because I can relate to it! I, too, am prone to deflect blame and accusations, to keep myself safe. But don’t we all want to feel safe? Physically safe, of course, but I mean, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually safe. We don’t want our deeply held beliefs to be challenged, we don’t like to admit that someone else could be right, and we definitely don’t want to admit that we were wrong, or that we messed up, especially not in front of anyone else. We’ve padded our various unhealthy patterns with layers and layers of reasoning and stories we tell ourselves, justifying why we act the way we do, and we do not like for those layers to be pulled away. And so, we blame, blame, blame, even if it means throwing someone else under the bus, and we cast people’s attention anywhere else to discredit the thing that might accuse us.

We see the same thing happen in the Gospel story, when Jesus comes along doing things differently from how they expected, differently from how it’s always been done before. When their ways are challenged by Jesus, they do just as Adam and Eve did and more: they hide from the truth and instead offer false information. “He’s crazy,” they say. “He’s lost his mind. He’s clearly possessed by the devil.” Discredit, dismiss, do whatever they need to do in order to protect their understanding of the world, no matter how misguided it may be, from being challenged. Hm.

Jesus’ response to this is a very logical one: “a house divided cannot stand,” he says. Basically, how could he be using the spirit of Satan to cast out Satan? Why would Satan work against himself? It doesn’t make sense.

And yet, the irony in his response is that working against ourselves is exactly what we humans do all the time. We often choose what does not bring us life. We let the voice of the devil convince us we are unlovable, even though we know ours is a God of love. We drive wedges between ourselves and other children of God by casting blame on one another, labeling and dismissing each other, making assumptions about each other, and clinging to false truths that make us feel safe. When we feel the movement of the Holy Spirit blowing us in a way that scares us, or that requires us to let go of a belief that does not bring life but does provide us a false sense of safety, we shut it down, and convince ourselves that we know better than the Spirit.

         Why do we keep doing this if it does not bring us life? What are we so afraid of?

         A couple weeks ago, as I mentioned in my sermon last week, we began working on telling St. Paul’s story about who we are and who God is calling us to be. (If you want to know more, check out last week’s sermon!) One thing we noticed in our conversation so far was that we sometimes struggle to find and name how God is acting even in the mundane moments of our lives. The big moments are easier – births, deaths, near-death experiences, we can see God there. But what about our day-to-day struggles: times like these Adam and Eve moments, when we are quick to blame others, when the protection we have built up around ourselves to make us feel safe is being chipped away, and we are confronted with the possibility that what we previously held true might in fact be wrong, or at least not completely right. Could we find God acting even in those moments? How might that look?

Any time you want to start searching for God in your story, you can start with recalling the foundational story of our faith: our shared faith story is one of freedom from captivity. It is one that is rooted in death but does not stay there. The story of our faith is one in which earthly powers put to death a man who challenged what they held dear, thinking that this would put him out of sight and mind, that it would keep safe their beliefs and way of life. But it didn’t work. Instead, Jesus rose from the dead and showed the world once and for all that trying to stifle God’s Word of life would get us nowhere, that no human actions can stop God from being a God of freedom and of life, a God of new life that emerges out of death and captivity. We can’t stop it!

This story is the central one of our faith, and it plays out in different ways over and over again in our lives. So, if we look, how do we see it playing out when we find ourselves acting like Adam and Eve, or like the authorities in Mark?

Well, in my experience, recognizing I am wrong can feel very much like a death – it is death to something I hold dear, something even that I thought was protecting me but was in fact only holding me back, holding me captive. And this is a death I have experienced many times in my life! When those old patterns are threatened, my inclination is to cling to them for self-protection – that is, I blame, deflect, discredit, and dismiss, so that I can continue holding onto my previously held beliefs, the ones that make me feel safe. Anyone else do that?

So what if instead of staying in death and captivity, we looked to the possibility of new life, by taking a moment to ask ourselves, “Where is God in this? What is God trying to show me here? What in me might need to die so new life can come about? What belief or story of mine is being threatened, and why do I insist on holding to it even more tightly, even at the expense of my relationships? Where is life trying to spring forth here? And if I loosen my grip a little, could I step into that life?” Suddenly, what had felt like a death – releasing the defense mechanisms we have depended upon – has turned into an opportunity for resurrection. Suddenly, we have the chance to step instead into freedom and new life.

It is vulnerable to do this. We might even feel naked, like Adam and Eve, standing before God with only a fig leaf. But friends, we were never hiding our unhealthy patterns from God – just as God knew exactly where Adam and Eve were and what they had done, God knows exactly who and how we are. We’re not fooling God with our fig leaves. But God does give us the chance to notice and name it ourselves, to come to God with broken hearts exposed and to say, “I’m doing this thing that doesn’t feel like life. I don’t want to be afraid and ashamed anymore. Bring me into life, Lord!” And God does. It may not happen immediately, and it may take lots of hard work. But ultimately, ours is a God of life, who longs to be in relationship with us, who desires for us to be free. Are we willing to seek God here? Are we willing to take the risk?

Let us pray… God of life, we are quick to discredit and dismiss people and ideas that challenge our patterns and beliefs. Yet we also know you are at work in everything, taking what feels to us like a death, and turning it into life. Help us to seek you in all things, to search for the ways you are bringing about new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.