Unspoken Words, Unheard Voices: A Sermon on Genesis 19:17-26

Preached @ Fayetteville Presbyterian Church in Fayetteville, WV July 4, 2010

Let's work our imaginations this morning. Let's imagine ourselves as Lot.

Three strangers come into town. Being Christian, we offer them hospitality, right? We couldn't wait for them to waltz into church before being friendly with them. We always go out of our way to see new people in town and invite them into our home, the same home that houses our two young daughters. Right?

Not this guy. I've got all sorts of wicked good excuses. I'm an introvert. I'm "busy." I've got a family to attend to. Besides, look at those new people. They don't have enough tattoos and piercings for me to be friendly with them. I know their type, they will judge me as some crazy, drugged-up lunatic. Plus, I must protect my family from these people I have never met, these people who could be the most wonderful people in the world, but are probably part of that small section of our population that does terrible things to people.

But, the main character of this story acts differently, so let's continue pretending.

We meet these people in town. We insist they come into our home, at least for tea. Once in our home, we feed them a full meal and prepare a place for them to sleep. They praise us for our hospitality, to which we reply, "Oh really, it is nothing. Please, do tell me more about your journey. I am highly interested."

Then we hear a ruckus outside. On our way to peek out the window, because, let's face it, who in here would not want to know what was going on outside? It is a small town we live in, after all. Just before we can lift up one of the slats in the blinds, we hear a loud, pounding knock on the door. We jump a little and go to the door and the demanding, urgent knock.

We only intend to open the door a crack, but we can't stop from swinging the door open wide when we see so many people outside. It is truly flabbergasting. The fourth of July parade was earlier. The fireworks have long been over. What is everyone doing at our door at this time of night?

As if the whole situation isn't unbelievable enough, the event moves beyond the absurd. The person who knocked at the door, obviously the group's spokesperson, says, and I kid you not, "Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us so we can rape them."

We stand with mouth agape. We blink a few times. The men don't go away when we open our eyes again. They are real. This really is happening.

We step outside, shutting the door behind us. We think we might be able to reason with these people. Perhaps we can expose their sins to them with an offer they will obviously have to refuse. "Look, everyone," we say, "you cannot honestly want to rape the men in my home. It is wrong! Besides, I have two young, virgin daughters," which is a lie, because our daughters are married. "I'll bring out the girls and you can have your way with them."

This cunning offer will surely make the mob realize their sins. Since they will not want to rape their neighbors, they will realize how wrong rape is even to strangers.

But the people begin to scoff: "You aren't originally from the area. Sure, you've been here a while, but you are still a newbie in our eyes. Who are you to condemn us?" Because of what they presume as haughtiness, they declare they will treat us worse than the men who just came into town that day.

The three men violently open the door, drag us inside, and shut it quickly behind them. These men repaid our hospitality by saving our lives, even though we never expected anything in return.

The night's events get heavier and heavier. The men tell us they are messengers from God and they are going to destroy the city because of the peoples' sins. Afterwards, we somehow manage to get to sleep, perhaps hoping we will wake up and realize the whole day had been a nightmare.

No such luck. In the morning, the men rush into our bedroom and tell us, our spouse, and our daughters and their husbands to flee immediately. If we don't leave right away, we will be destroyed with the city. Unlike the future exodus out of Egypt, no lamb's blood will save anyone from the destruction. Rain falls on the just and the unjust, whether it is water or fire.

We rub our eyes and slowly sit up in bed. We nod while yawning. What time is it, exactly? Can't they destroy the city at a better hour? Do they know how long it takes those two girls to get ready in the morning? Even their husbands want to take a good amount of time giving their hair that "just got out of bed look." And really, no one in the household had proper time to pack. Can the Lord's imminent judgment wait a few hours or, better yet, a few days?

The men grab us like they grabbed us last night at the door. They rush with us, our spouse, and our daughters out the door, all of us in our pajamas. The girls' husbands refused to leave. The men hurry us all to the city limits and yell, "Run for your lives! Neither look back nor stop anywhere in the valley. Escape to the distant hills or you, too, will be destroyed."

Not this guy.

We put on our cunning, again. We know these men like us and we haven't fully woken up. We try to make a concession in a not-too whiny tone. "Thanks for saving my life and all, but the hills? Really? I just got up. You didn't give me time to have breakfast, use the bathroom, put on my good running shoes, or, most importantly, have my morning coffee. As you can see, I don't work well without my morning coffee. If I have to run to the hills to be safe, I might as well go to the Cathedral Café and have my coffee while I watch the city burn to the ground around me. I won't be able to make it safety. Listen. You see that place in the valley? It's really small. Why can't I just go there? It is so insignificant and, best of all, it is close."

"Fine," one of the men replies. "Go there and be safe. I'll wait until you arrive. Now go!"

We're pretty special, ain't we. God saved us from judgment and let us disobey after a small concession. And all because we didn't want to go all the way to the hills. Now we can take our sweet time, because God won't do anything until we arrive.

So we're on our way to this little city in the valley, a city the three men did not want us to go to, because they were going to destroy it. On our way, our spouse looks back towards Sodom and Gomorrah, which the men told us not to do at the same time they told us not to stop in the valley. We were given special privileges, but our spouse turns into a pillar of salt.

Weird, huh? We whine and everything is OK. Our spouse catches a glimpse to the place we long called home and were asked to flee from at a moment's notice and--BAM!--pillar of salt. Yes, she disobeyed, but so did we.

The spouse didn't ask like we did. Perhaps God wanted to be asked, not just disobeyed. Who knows? Regardless, our spouse's legacy lives on forever in the words of Jesus in Luke 17:32: "Remember Lot's Wife." The idea is, if you are not ready to leave at a moment's notice, you might never be able to leave. The message is a good one and I will not try to deny its applicability. However, Jesus' taciturn reference to Lot's Wife allows us to give other interpretations to stand side by side with the traditional one. All we have to do is listen to the unspoken words, the unheard voices.

Now, let's imagine we are Lot's Wife.

We look back to Sodom and Gomorrah, a place that became home for us, our spouse, and our daughters. We might have looked back because we wanted one last glimpse before it was destroyed. Perhaps we forgot a precious family heirloom since we didn't have any time to pack. Maybe we wondered if our sons-in-law changed their minds and decided to follow. We had grown quite fond of those boys.

Granted, it wasn't paradise, but it was home. And really, not everyone in town wanted to rape those three men. There a number of young children too young to know what sexual relations were, let alone desire them. A few of the town elders could barely move and were so kind and full of wisdom. ... And remember that time when our youngest daughter was sick and Jane and Joe Neighbor brought the doctor over so we could stay at her side? We didn't even have to ask. Surely they weren't part of that crowd.

Many of people in town did some rotten things, sure. Heck, you and I have done some rotten things, but love is not beyond our capability. We make mistakes, but we do good things, too. If God could extend grace to Lot, despite his sins, why can't God excuse a few more people in the valley around Sodom and Gomorrah? If God isn't going to start the ruckus until we arrive in Zoar, maybe we can go save a few babies or at least plead with those three men for the lives of innocent children. Yes, let's go back and plead with those men like Moses in the future will plead with God for the lives of the Israelites. We turn to go back and turn into to a pillar of salt trying preserve lives.

Lot's Wife is a silent, nameless character in this story. She looks back towards other silent, nameless characters who, according to the story, die at the command of a merciful God. And yes, the God of the Old Testament is a merciful, loving God. Grace and love are written throughout this whole book, not just the parts about Jesus.

And Jesus wants us to remember Lot's Wife and her turning back and turning to into salt. When I imagine myself as Lot's Wife, I imagine her turning towards unspoken words and unheard voices when told to flee at a moment's notice. No, it isn't written in the story, but it helps me learn a godly lesson, a lesson God wants us to hear in the unspoken words and unspoken voices. Lot's Wife wanted to preserve the life of the young and the good who would experience God's judgment because of a heinously sinful majority. And God granted her wish like God granted Lot's wish. Lot was allowed to go to Zoar and Lot's Wife was turned into the salt of the earth, the kind of salt that preserves life and quality of life for God's good purposes. Years later, Jesus remembers her by telling people to be the salt of the earth and never to lose their saltiness.

Unlike her husband, Lot's Wife would not reach freedom in the small town of Zoar, because some freedoms are too expensive for everyone to experience. She thought a freedom borne on the back of oppression is not a freedom worth having. Maybe she isn't right--but maybe she is. When we remember Lot's Wife, we are left to consider each freedom we have and wonder if we'll go to Zoar or turn back and turn to salt for the sake of others.

Is it good to have the choice of multiple coffees when the workers who grow and pick the coffee beans cannot support their families? Is it good to have the freedom of style when so many of our clothes are made overseas in sweatshops? Is it good to have the freedom to eat out of season vegetables if it means we still buy berries from California and Florida when our neighbors are selling berries on Saturday mornings at the Farmer's Market for their own livelihood? Is it good to have the freedom of diet when the environmental impact of some of our foods goes beyond our wildest imaginations, when the grain used to feed cows alone could end starvation?

These are just some things with which I struggle when I remember Lot's Wife. I don't think we're all supposed to struggle with the same things, so don't think I am telling you to struggle with my issues. But neither can I say you shouldn't struggle with these same issues. I simply present them for consideration.

I am glad for freedoms, but I fear God is calling me to leave some of these freedoms without looking back. I fear God wants me to turn into a pillar of salt, preserving the lives of the innocent who suffer for the sins of some of my freedoms.

I fear that God wants me to be like Jesus Christ, especially the part of Jesus in which Lot's Wife lives on. She has not yet lost her saltiness. She lives on as the Mother Theresas of the world who cannot bare to live a life of luxury when others suffer because of those luxuries. She is the Martin Luther King Jr.s who seek racial and economic equality. She is remembered in the Harvey Milks, the Mahatma Gandhis, the Dorothy Days, the you, the me.

She lived on in Jesus, who reminded people of her great legacy as a woman who could not leave at a moment's notice. Like all of us, there was a part of her that sought to preserve her own life, but there was also a great part of her that listened for the unspoken words and the unheard voices of the silenced and the oppressed. And she preserved their memory, too.

Thanks be to God.

===

Benediction:

As we leave the sanctity of this place, let us remember the sanctity of the places to which we go. And let us go with God, considering God's ways and what and how God wants us to preserve as we remember Lot's Wife.

In the name of God the parent,

God the Christ,

and God the Holy Spirit.

"God Bless America" & Commandment No. 3

Commandment Number 3: "Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain."

In my church rearing, this commandment always meant using any name of God as a sort of cuss word. "Jesus Christ that hurt!" The ever-popular "goddammit." Or "oh my god," which is now better known simply as "omg." Sometimes I even felt bad about the circumlocutions. "Oh my goodness!" "Dang-nabbit." Or "Gees!"

I still use the circumlocutions. I never understood them as such, though. They were simply words I heard "good Christian people" use and so I learned to use them as well.

I also learned to appreciate the phrase, "God bless America." I even played the song on my saxophone as a "special music" for one holiday--either Independence Day or Memorial Day. I arranged it as part of a medley, if my memory serves me correctly.

This year I preached on Independence Day and I made no references to the USA. When we sang a nationalist hymn at the end of the service, I hummed most of it. I don't think current US-nationalism has a place in the church. Worse, I think "God bless America" uses the name of the LORD the God in vain.

This phrase promotes the USA at the expense of other countries. Asking God to bless America is tantamount to asking God not to bless other countries when we are at war. In times of war, shouldn't we ask God to protect the sanctity of life? I don't care about winning any wars, I care about justice and love prevailing.

In times of peace, "God bless America" is a request for blessings of finances, health, and safety ... for the middle and upper classes of the US. When does "God bless America" ever include the poor? If it did, patriotism wouldn't be expressed in so much capitalist consumerism. When does "God bless America" ever include Mexicans who are quite technically a part of America (alongside the rest of North and South America)? If it did, patriotism wouldn't go hand-in-hand with efforts against immigration and their oppression, whether the persons are "legal" or not.

Why would God ever be involved in these sorts of blessings? God blesses a person or a nation in order that all persons and nations might be blessed through the person or nation originally receiving that blessing. God blessed Abraham to bless all peoples. God blessed Israel to bless all nations. God saved Jesus to save all peoples. God saves Christians to save all peoples.

"God bless America" is a vanity, asking for ungodly blessings and blessings that only add to the hubris of nationalism. The phrase as used today is quite unfitting for Independence Day, too. Independence Day is about justice and resisting tyranny.

The colonists did not believe Paul's words in Romans 13, where Paul says all leaders must be obeyed, are appointed by God, and only punish evil. The colonists did not obey their leader because he was oppressing the innocent alongside the evil (let's face it, many of the colonists did some terrible, terrible things, mostly in the name of God and Christianity). On Independence Day, we are supposed to remember the importance of freedom and the need to resist tyranny, fighting for the liberty of all.

One of the tyrannies against which the colonists fought was economical. The poor colonists were paying for the livelihood of the rich.

"God bless America."

Another tyranny was religious. Many of the colonies were founded for religious freedom, because different religious ideas were suppressed in Britain at the time.

"God bless America."

God bless the people of all nations. For it is this earth that I love. And may I never force this blessing upon those who believe in another deity or no deity.

Ecommunity: Bethlehem Farm

I haven't received a greeting like the one I received at Bethlehem Farm since I last visited my mother. "Welcome Home," I heard each caretaker say as they stepped in for a hug.

You might think the community greeted me in a special manner. After all, I am the Eco-Steward acting as the roving reporter for the Stewardship of Creation Ministry Team in the Presbytery of West Virginia. However, this special greeting is the huggable "red carpet" they roll out for all of their guests.

This greeting stems from Bethlehem Farm's mission statement, which is the best way to describe this group of people. "Bethlehem Farm is a Catholic community in Appalachia that strives to transform lives through serving the local community and teaching sustainability. We enable volunteers to join us in living out the Gospel cornerstones of prayer, community, simplicity and service." Let's unravel that statement bit by bit to find out what Bethlehem Farm is, who is involved, and how they live out their faith as stewards of creation.

"Bethlehem Farm ..."

"Bethlehem" means "house of bread" in Hebrew and the city in Israel is traditionally known as the birthplace of Jesus. Although no one at the farm made this connection verbally, I believe the people involved live to see the life and love of Jesus--called "the bread of life"--continually reborn in their lives and the lives of those who come to visit them.

The main facility is not so much a house as it is a lodge. Inside are all the living quarters for the eight caretakers, sleeping quarters for volunteers, bathrooms, open-air clotheslines, a large living area, dining room, and, of course, the kitchen, where they regularly bake delicious homemade bread. Bethlehem is a pretty apt name.

The acreage grows crops and care for animals, making "farm" an appropriate title, too. The critters on the farm include two donkeys, a pig, a horse, chickens, a dog, cats, and bees. Some of the animals came with the land, which used to be a Catholic Worker House, and others have been added over the past five years.

The no-till garden yields produce year round. Director and gardener Eric Fitts oversees the organic production of the crops. Of the many natural ways Fitts cares for the plants, the newest is a chicken tractor. The chickens are moved from their spacious living area to the garden where they eat slugs and leave fertilizer. Fitts takes care of the land that takes care of him and those he loves, including the farm community, his wife, and his baby-on-the-way. The residents care for the garden with sensible, spiritual care.

"... is a Catholic community in Appalachia ..."

Not everyone involved in the farm is Roman Catholic, although the cornerstones of the farm come from catholicism. Catholicism is shared, not forced, and the Roman Catholics involved hope others share their faith and perspectives, too.

Volunteers and caretakers alike involve themselves in the faith aspect of the farm only as much as they desire. When they share mass, the priest explains why mass and the Eucharist are important to share, asking those present to participate in the liturgy however they are able and comfortable.

Outside of mass, the group "pray[s] multiple times a day," explains Ashley Boone, the sustainability coordinator and communications director. "And they're creative prayers," she explains, prayers often focusing on justice in their geographic community and the world at large.

Prayer is just one way the people become a small, intentional community that maintains a connection to and involvement with the larger, worldwide community. The caretakers come from all over North America to live communally and in simplicity in order to serve people. They serve each other, befriending and taking on multiple roles at the farm. They serve volunteer groups who come to the farm for service projects, mostly home repair in the surrounding area and community meals at the farm.

And they serve the global community by giving a little bit of Bethlehem Farm to each volunteer, what Boone describes as, "the experience the volunteers take home with them." She said volunteers will contact the farm after leaving, asking for tips on starting a composting system at their home or resources for simplifying and "greening" their local faith communities. Boone says, "a large population of volunteers make changes that are pretty crucial about stewarding creation."

Through the communal actions made inside and outside the farm, the caretakers and volunteers alike become a community. Not only do they live together, but also they become a part of Bethlehem Farm, taking ownership and participation. Boone sees this ownership especially reflected in the recent solar panels purchased and installed by the farm largely through the generosity of past volunteers.

" ... that strives to transform lives through serving the local community and teaching sustainability."

The solar panels are just one "testament" to transformation, as described by Boone. And it is not only the lives of the volunteers that are transformed. In a few months Boone will leave the farm to serve a third year with VISTA at the Alderson Hospitality House. Although leaving the farm, she said there are parts she will take with her, because her life has changed.

One way is through her diet. "What we eat is one of the largest ways we can have a positive or negative impact on the planet," says Boone. When she first moved to the farm, she became a vegetarian and only recently branched out to meat, but seldom and only certain meats, like venison and local, grass-fed beef. The farm is very thoughtful about where their food comes from and that thoughtfulness started a passion in her to last the rest of her life.

Like many others who visit the farm, she was interested in the ecological, economic, and justice issues regarding food before she went to Bethlehem Farm. But when faced with issues outside of familiar areas, she found it harder to view these issues in the same way. Today Boone says, "I won't eat ... meat unless I know where it came from." Diet is one major service and sustainability practice the farm offers, one everyone already makes a decision about daily, for good or ill.

Bethlehem Farm also serves and teaches through home repair, which is their main outreach service. The farm "work[s] with people rather than for them," according to their introduction flyer, available on their website. They don't receive payment, their services are out of love; they want to share what Boone calls their "friendship and presence" as much as their hands and resources to fix a roof or paint a house.

Their "friendship and presence" is shared and generally well received, even though they are and, likely will always be, a group of newcomers, none of them originally from West Virginia. This newcomer status does not slow them down at all.

People still attend the community dinners at the farm and the residents attend events and meals in the area, too.

"Some people find it funny how we recycle and reuse things," Boone mentions. At the farm, you will see aluminum foil and re-sealable plastic baggies hanging up to dry for reuse in the kitchen. When outside the farm, Boone says they bring their own plates and cutlery to some meals so they won't use paper, plastic, and styrofoam. They may get some odd looks and chuckles, but they are not met with resistance and ridicule.

The farm community does not try force their views on others, trying to transform those who do not want to be transformed. Rather, Bethlehem Farm is a "contrast community": they are noticeably different, based on their convictions and what works for them. They act firmly on their beliefs, but do not expect people who believe differently to act like they do.

"We enable volunteers to join us ..."

Bethlehem Farm works towards the kind of transformation represented by the Greek word metanoia, which is a change that comes about by penitence and spirituality, not coercion. The caretakers at Bethlehem Farm create an environment that allows people to come in and try their way of life for a little while, a way of life centered on "living out the Gospel cornerstones of prayer, community, simplicity and service." You can join them through a week of service or a longer time as a caretaker.

These four cornerstones are interconnected, as Boone depicts them and the volunteers and caretakers paint them with their actions. Their prayers occur because they are a community. Their community is deeply steeped in simplicity, especially in regards to sustainability. This simplicity itself is one of a myriad of ways the Bethlehem Farm community serves the larger communities of which they are a part: the Roman Catholic community, the faith community, the local community, and the community that is this earth.

Eco-justice, social justice, economic justice are all, simply, justice. Bethlehem Farm works towards justice with God in the way that seems best to them, which is all any of us can do.

Bethlehem Farm is located in Clayton, West Virginia. To make a donation or to learn more about the community, visit their website at http://www.bethlehemfarm.net/ or consider serving with them for a while.

A Prayer for the Sunday before Memorial Day

Good morning God, lover of my soul. I hear your eye is on the sparrow and other birds, but I know birds are endangered and some have gone extinct. If your eye was on them, how did you feel as you watched them, God? What did you do, Spirit? Where were you in their suffering? According to US American tradition, tomorrow we will remember the multitudes who have died. According to your word, your eye was also on them. Did you feel anything like we did when they died? Many of us don't understand why some of them died. Some of us are still trying to find you in their suffering, in our suffering. Be more than a watchful eye to those of us who need to feel your presence, to those of us who need you to keep us from further suffering and from death. We have requests on our minds. We have raised them before you aloud, we have written them down in our bulletin. We are confident you see them and we await you, impatiently, for it is the only way some of us know how to wait, I know it is the only way I know how to wait.

Jesus, I think I speak on behalf of many here when I tell you I am afraid to follow you. I continually tell people I am a Christian, but most days the reality of my life depicts a person who only sometimes tries to be a Christian. I'm afraid to throw myself upon a cross. I do not want to suffer when I do your will. When I do your will, I want to everything to go smoothly, so I can assume the center of your will is the place where everything goes right and I can be happy. But, I guess things weren't coming up roses when you were doing God's will. You were tortured. You felt forsaken. You died. But you rose again. How I long to be resurrected, but how I want to avoid death. Teach us your ways, Lord Jesus, teach us to find your will and follow it amidst suffering, teach us to have the faith in God that you have.

Holy Spirit, dwell in us. Our bodies are not the holy temples they should, but your power is made perfect in our weaknesses. Dwell in us that we might be your holy tabernacle, your presence on this earth, which is our home and your blessed creation. Open our eyes that we might see your beauty and power in each other and in our neighbors, in the hungry, the naked, the imprisoned--the homeless, the poor, anyone different from us. Open our ears that we might hear your voice in the call for justice, the call for spare change in a hat, the call for a meal, the call for a friend, the call for the gospel. Dwell in us, Beautiful Spirit.

In the name of Christ we pray, Amen.

It's Just the Beginning

Before I get too far into my sermon, I thought you might want to know who is talking with you, which is easier said than done. I am giving you a first impression of sorts. Sure, some of you have already met me and, now that I am standing up here, all of you have either seen my face or heard my voice--or both. Now I have the opportunity to say what I want you to think about me.

I could introduce myself like I did during the Eco-Stewards program with a "credo," a few short statements of belief:

I believe that humans are a diverse community that can end all forms of oppression by the art, grace, and love of God.
I believe everyone is beautiful and carries the image of God in them.
I believe love and life are fun, which are best expressed in puns.

Or I suppose I could give you my geographic history: I was born and raised on the coast of Maine in a little town called Friendship. From there I moved to West Palm Beach, Florida for college. After receiving my bachelor's degree, I matriculated at Gardner-Webb University in Boiling Springs, NC, which is about one hour west of Charlotte. Given this geography, I think the mountains are beautiful and the ocean is sublime.

But what do you know about me from these introductions? You don't know I have a heart for the economically oppressed. You don't know if I am Presbyterian or not. You don't know why I am not wearing a tie or why my ears pierced. You don't know that I have spent over a year working on my thesis for my MA in English or that my thesis examines deconstruction in the orthodoxy/heresy binaries in the theological arguments surrounding the council of Nicaea and Willaim Paul Young's The Shack. You don't know if I've read the whole Bible and, if I have, how many times I've read it. In fact, you don't know me at all.

So how do I introduce myself? There is so much about myself I want you to know and, conversely, so much I don't want you to know. No matter what I say, you won't get an adequate picture of what I want you to know and whatever I want you to know is itself an inaccurate picture of me. If I introduce myself, you get only a persona, which is a word that literally refers to a mask or character played by an actor.

Sometimes the best way to get past the masks is to hear stories. Statements about someone cannot really sum up their being. I can tell you I believe love and life are fun, but until you see me enjoying life, that statement carries little to no meaning. And if I tell you a story about when my favorite seminary professor died suddenly at the age of 40 last year, then you might not believe I think love and life are all that fun.

No matter how well thought out a statement might be, it cannot accurately reflect the reality of who I am. The only way you can know me or anyone else is to get to know them through experience and story.

The gospels are a good example of this theory about story and identity. Whereas people like Paul makes statements about Jesus, the gospel writers want to tell about Jesus in carefully crafted and arranged stories. I can barely read Mark's gospel without thinking about the interactions between identity and story.

In Mark and the other Gospels, Jesus is often known by who is father is. But unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark does not start with a genealogy or a birth narrative, which would bring Jesus' identity into question in first-century Israelite culture, where your identity is closely to your ancestry. Instead of a genealogy or birth narrative, the gospel begins: "The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God."

To begin with, Jesus is introduced in a statement, but one that needs more information. What does "the good news of Jesus" mean? Why is Jesus the Christ? What kind of Christ is he? What significance is there in Jesus being the son of God? Other parts of the Bible call lots of people the children of God, why would it be special for Jesus to be the son of God? Mark apparently places a lot of significance on this son-of-God title. Before the first chapter is over, he tells the story of Jesus' baptism where a voice from heaven says in what I can only imagine sounding like Charleton Heston, John Earl Jones, or Morgan Freeman: "You are my beloved son, in you I am well-pleased."

What really confuses me though, is that Jesus constantly refers to himself as something quite contrary; Jesus is always talking about the son of man. What is the big deal in being the son of man? Who isn't the child of a man and the child of a woman? And why does Jesus refer to himself as the son of man while Mark and some unclean spirits call Jesus the son of God?

And so we have stories about Jesus to give us a little more into the persona of Jesus presented in Mark. These stories mix Jesus' dual sonship to God and humanity. Amidst this confusion of sonship and all these stories, the disciples don't completely know what is going on either. Peter understands Jesus is the Christ, but he doesn't understand what Christ means. He misunderstands so much that Jesus calls him Satan. In response to Peter's misunderstanding, Jesus tells a crowd to deny themselves and lose their lives. Jesus asks them to give up their identities and personae.

Jesus embodies this command. It is a command to be like Jesus who "emptied himself" and allowed his identity as Christ to be crucified--not what anyone expected a messiah to be. It was only in offering his identity to God that Jesus created his own identity (cf. Philippians 2:5-11). The reality of Jesus Christ subverted the definition of messiah. And Jesus didn't simply go against the norm when he crucified his identity, he experienced the pain of giving up his selfhood. In the garden of Gethsemane he prayed for things to change. On the cross he cried out, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me? Jesus gave up his identity on the cross and felt alone, forsaken by God and humanity. He felt like the son of no one, let alone God.

By now the pain has seared into his innermost being. He can barely make coherent thoughts. All he wonders is where God is in the midst of his suffering. Although he cried aloud, he couldn't speak well from the pain and the dryness of his mouth. Some of the people near by thought he said "Elijah," not "Eloi." "How gravely humorous," these people must have thought. They thought Jesus was a nutcase, especially when he called out for a prophet who had been dead for centuries. Wanting to prolong this sick humor of theirs, they decided to satisfy Jesus' thirst. If they wet his throat a little, then he could cry out to Elijah and they might understand him better. So they soaked a sponge in sour wine, which is all the better for ridicule. He would want the liquid, but the sourness would just make things worse.

After, Jesus just yelled. "AH!" The cry might have been a knee-jerk reaction to the sour wine. It might have included a tinge of anger or annoyance at the people. A touch of desperation and tiredness was likely mixed in to that last note. I imagine Jesus was ready to just be done and die.

And Jesus' physical suffering ended. After that cry, his identity was completely a thing of the past, for he was dead. He was no longer the son of anyone except the grave. So much for a long awaited messiah. That hope could be put to rest with Jesus' body.

According to Mark's telling of the story, a curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom about this time. There were a number of curtains in the temple and Mark doesn't exactly specify which one is rent in two--torn like Jesus' flesh, torn even like the distinction between being a son of God and a son of humanity. After Jesus dies, a centurion makes a confession much like Peter's: "Truly this man was the son of God."

In this confession, it turns out to be a child of humanity is to be a child of God. The centurion says Jesus was the son of God, but he was also a man, which means he must be a son of humanity. And Jesus goes on to do something no human does who is not embracing his or her humanity and godliness: he is raised from the dead.

After he is raised, two women go to anoint the body, but instead of Jesus, they find a man who asks them to spread the word of resurrection. But the women are surprised and afraid. Mark says they don't tell anyone, because of their fright and astonishment (16:8).

And the gospel ends with their silence. Sure, your Bible probably has 10 or more verses after, but you will probably also notice a note saying everything after 16:8 is not in the oldest copies of Mark's gospel, which isn't to say the added endings aren't proper for teaching or inclusion in the Bible. But, it can be healthy to look at the book without the added parts.

Listen to the ending: "They went out and fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had gripped them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." It isn't much of an ending at all, and it is nothing like the other gospels' endings. It is quite likely the additions were added to tidy up this gospel a bit and give it a "proper" ending.

But I don't think it is supposed to have a neat ending. It isn't supposed to end at all. According to the first verse, the whole book is only the beginning of the good news about Jesus. Verse 1 isn't an introduction to the book, it is a summary of the book, which is why the book doesn't end. We read the last part of the book and we know eventually the women say something, contrary to the gospel's pseudo-ending. If they never said anything, that part of the story couldn't have been in the book, thus the women's continuing story is invited to be part of Jesus' continuing good news.

And so we are invited to become part of Jesus' continuing good news as we are to be Jesus' body here on earth.

We are to give up our identity, to crucify it with Jesus in all the pain and suffering he incurs. And we are to be resurrected without any identity other than our continual attempts to try and be Godly. We are to be children of God while we are children of men and women. The veil between us and Christ, between us and God is to be torn so that people can remember us and say, "Truly, those people are children of God."

I wish I could give you more specifics of what it looks like to crucify your identity and be a child of God and a child of humanity--to be Jesus on this earth, to continue in word and deed the good news he was spreading. If I tried, I would only be giving abstract statements like Micah 6:8: "do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God." Certainly we should do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, but we need stories and experiences to know what that statement means. The gospel of Jesus is just beginning to explicate that statement in narrative. Church, what will we do to continue it, to give life to abstract statements like the one from Micah? What will we say and do in place of the silence of Mark's non-ending story?

Whether we like it or not, we are continuing the story Mark started. Sometimes we follow characterizations we learned from Mark's stories about Jesus. Sometimes our stories give a new glimpse of Jesus through the innovative movements of the Spirit and other times we miss the mark a little, basking instead in the forgiveness and mercy of God.

Since I cannot give you specifics, consider a story from my life, which will serve as a continuing the introduction I began:

This winter I worked at a homeless shelter for men in North Carolina. I worked Christmas Eve through much of Christmas day at the shelter. On Christmas morning I gave the normal 6-am wake-up call, because some of the men rely on that wake-up call like an alarm clock. I didn't ask them to get out of like I would on a normal day, though. I just let them know it was 6 am, in case anyone needed to be anywhere.

Around half of the guys got out of bed, two of whom came by the office where I was and asked to have a moment of my time. The men would come talk to me often, but they seldom prefaced it by asking for some of my time. I figured something was awry and I started to tense up, wondering if someone was hurt, if something had been stolen, or if these guys were going to rat someone out for having drugs or alcohol. And all this, on Christmas morning.

One of them asked me: "How did you get conned into working from 7 pm Christmas Eve through 2 pm Christmas day?" As the tension left my body, I couldn't help but smile, even though that question was enough to make me cry. These two men thought someone would have to be conned into spending that much time with them during the holidays. I don't remember exactly what I told them, probably something crass about how I didn't have anywhere else to be, since all of my family was in Maine. Or maybe I told them there was nowhere I would rather be, which was the truth.

The shelter provided Christmas gifts for everyone and I had the honor of passing out the gifts. A few weeks prior, each man filled out a piece of paper requesting two gifts of $15 or less. A few of the men complained, because they didn't get what they wanted, while others were very grateful, thanking me over and over, even though I had nothing to do with the purchasing or wrapping--I just handed things out. One of the guys told me he shed a few tears of joy, being overwhelmed by the gifts. He said he didn't expect to get so much. He got the same thing every other man got--a garbage bag with two or three large-ish gifts and then miscellaneous items like socks, gloves, and whatnot. I doubt the contents of the bag were worth more than $50, if that.

Around 8 o'clock that morning, a church group came by to serve a breakfast feast. They had biscuits and gravy, an egg casserole, coffee, and juice--all of it was hot, too, except the juice, of course. They brought in a radio to play music and they handed out small gift bags with lotion, chapstick, and a few other hygiene items. I told one of the ladies they did a great thing. Not only did they bring the breakfast, but they also visited with the men. Not only did the men get normal hygiene items like soap and deodorant, but also special items like lotion and chapstick, those not-so-necessary items so many of us take for granted.

None of the gifts or fellowship had strings attached. Usually we give gifts on Christmas to those who also give gifts to us, which is especially true with Christmas cards. If we don't receive a card from someone to whom we sent one, they come off of next year's Christmas card list. That church group that came into the shelter Christmas morning expected nothing in return from the men. A gift that expects a gift in return is not a gift, it is more like a payment or an exchange of goods. That church group gave to those who could not give back to them--they truly gave gifts, asking for nothing in return and with no ulterior motive. They just gave.

They didn't announce to the men they were from such-and-such a church. They didn't say they were giving because they felt guilty if they didn't. They didn't say they were serving because Jesus told them to. They forwent their identity in order to give themselves fully to the moment of service, justice, and love. The saddest thing about that Christmas morning was knowing how little attention the men would get when the holidays were over.

That story is just one of the many stories of the gospel today, one I am so glad I got to witness. If you listen hard enough, Xhurch, I'm sure you'll hear the gospel all over the place, perhaps in places you never thought you would. In Matthew and Luke, Jesus tells the story of the good Samaritan, emphasizing how the gospel will be found in unexpected places. Even Jesus was surprised where he found the gospel once when he found it in a centurion who asked for Jesus to heal his slave from afar.

Listen for it. Live it. Let us leave those around us with an impression of who we are and an impression of who God is, and let us give that impression in narratives, not propositions.

As for who I am, I hope this sermon was good introduction. There is still a lot you don't know about who I am and who I am becoming. If you're curious, I guess you'll have to ask questions and observe, looking and listening for stories.

It's just the beginning.

Deconstructing an Everest of Faith

On the BBC news website, I recently read an article about Mt. Everest. Apparently China and Nepal had been disputing the height of the mountain for a sometime now. China argued the height should be recorded by its “rock height,” while Nepal wanted to measure it by its “snow height,” which was 4 meters higher than the rock height. In early April of this year, China conceded to Nepal and Nepal officially recognized the rock height in addition to the snow height.

For the BBC News, the issue is not exactly resolved, even if China and Nepal agree. Eleven years ago, the US National Geographic Society records yet another height (8,850m), even though it does not have the claim to Mt. Everest that China and Nepal have. Apparently shifting continental plates is pushing India under Nepal and China, pushing Everest evermore towards the skies.

Paul describes Christ as a rock from which water flows. Wise people build their houses upon rocks. “The church’s one foundation is Jesus Christ.” Upon a rock Jesus built his church. If you have faith, you can move mountains.

Rocks are not as sure as the writers of the Bible might have thought. Mountains are moved today and, arguably, faith has little to do with their movement. In West Virginia, the tops of mountains are removed for more cost efficient mining and energy. Continental plates move mountains, making them taller. Even when measuring rocks and mountains, do we measure them by the rock or the snow that somehow becomes part of the identity we give them?

Even if wise people build their houses on rocks, they better not build them like the houses built in Haiti. Rocks and mountains are simply not as sure as we once thought. When it comes to building, the rocky foundation is not the most important issue, for the building must be sturdy and well-built. What if, like the hymn, my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness? The structure of my hope matters, too. Is my hope supported by faith? By education? By tradition? By experience?

Enter deconstruction. Perhaps hope is not something that should be built. In my life, the “built” metaphor, the mythic metaphor of structure has worn out its welcome. I offer no metaphor to take its place, no new myth awaiting immanent destruction or deconstruction.

Instead, I just hope, sometimes standing or reclining on slowly or swiftly moving rocks, sometimes on the sand, and other times completely at sea, be they calm, turbulent, or between Scylla and Charybdis. A hope against hope, or against some hopes (Romans 4:18, NASB). An impossible hope. A hope for the impossible. A hope that I can reach the unreachable star, love the unlovable, forgive the unforgivable, and in turn be forgiven, loved, and reached by the wholly, holy other who is my beloved, my God.

===

Cf. Jacques Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (Trans. Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes; Thinking in Action; New York: Routledge, 2001), 32-33; John D. Caputo, What Would Jesus Deconstruct?: The Good News of Postmodernism for the Church (The Church and Postmodernism;. Ed. James K. A. Smith; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007), 45-46; Mitch Leigh and Joe Darion, “The Impossible Dream (The Quest),” (Man of La Mancha; 1965 Original Broadway Cast Recording; Universal Classics Group, 2001).

Forgiveness & Tattoos: Reflecting on the Past

I went to get a tattoo the other day and a friend of mine also expressed interest in getting one. She asked if she could come with me, but first asked me to make sure no one talked her into getting a tattoo while at the parlor. She knew what she wanted and where, but she wanted more time to think before jumping into such a permanent decision.

Although I agreed and helped fight off the peer pressure for her, I wondered what the big deal was. I understand tattoos are irreversible, more or less. There are removal processes, but I hear those are quite expensive and sometimes scar (though I have never actually researched tattoo removal). A tattoo might express who I am today, but not who I am 20 years from now. As I change, my tattoo will not change with me, unless it is on a part of my body that gets pretty flabby through the years.

Tattoos are permanent. They are decisions that will follow you for the rest of your life. What decisions are not permanent? This morning I put on a plaid button-up shirt, but quickly decided I wanted to wear my dark-blue t-shirt with the small bleach stain instead. I was able to easily change my decision of what to wear outside my apartment, but I cannot go back in time and prevent myself from buttoning up that plaid shirt. I will live the rest of my life as the man who put on that plaid shirt and then changed his mind.

Obviously my shirt and my tattoo are decisions of different weight, but they are still decisions I made and can never change, never annul. I can change my shirt, but I cannot exactly change my tattoo. Sure, I might be able to cover up or adapt the tattoo, but it will be there until the skin is gone or I opt for that expensive surgery. Even after removal, the past is not changed, although the lens with which I view it would be. Or, at least, the lens with which others view my past might be changed, since they would never see the tattoos.

I am not trying to lighten the heaviness of making a decision about a tattoo. After all, I did fend off peer pressure, helping my friend take the time she needs before getting a tattoo. Contrarily, I want to burden the lightness of so many other decisions. Nine times out of ten, I suspect the color of my t-shirt will not make a huge impact on my life. However, the decision to buy a t-shirt might. Will I buy it from the thrift store, Wal-mart, the Gap outlet, a company online that makes “organic” t-shirts out of bamboo, or a company I know nothing about, a company that might be using sweatshops? Or, perhaps I will decide I do not need any more t-shirts and instead of buying new shirts, I will give some away. I might sew any holes in my older shirts and give away my “nicer” shirts, choosing to look grungy to buck against the consumerist, capitalist system of always buying new to look fashionable.

So many “everyday” decisions are so simple and so easy to make, but they should not be. A lot of these decisions will not follow me around, but others will. Buying a new shirt can be tantamount to forcing a tattoo on another human being. Actually, buying a new shirt can be worse than picking the location and design of a tattoo on another human being. Pumping money into an unethical business can mean the suffering and death of another human being, often times a child. Driving alone instead of carpooling, walking, or not going anywhere could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back for a certain plant, animal, sickly human being, or the US American or Middle Eastern person caught in the midst of a senseless war for oil.

I would rather get a tattoo on a whim, because I can always get the expensive surgery or put the tattoo on an inconspicuous part of my body. Those other decisions I make daily, those decisions that cause suffering and death, they can be forgiven by God and even sometimes by humans, but not even God can erase the past. Sometimes forgiveness does not seem like enough. It does not stop suffering. I can be redeemed, but my sins cannot.