Spring Cleaning for the Soul

A Sermon by Rev. Angela Yarber | First Sunday in Lent | February 21, 2010

Scripture: Luke 4:1-13

4Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, 2where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. 3The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” 4Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’” 5Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. 6And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. 7If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” 8Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’” 9Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, 10for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ 11and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” 12Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” 13When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

As you have heard and seen, our Lenten theme this year is “The Many Faces of Jesus.” For forty days and forty nights, we journey along side of Jesus into the wilderness to experience the myriad ways we can see Jesus’ face in our world: in our own reflection, in the eyes of our community, in the beauty of our aching planet, and in the faces of a fragile humanity. Here there is no limit to the multiplicity of Jesus’ faces: healer, friend, parent, lover, prophet, activist, peace-maker, teacher. I’m sure that it’s all of our hope that Pastor Greg is experiencing the healing face of Jesus as he seeks to recover from being so sick.

For the next thirty some odd days and nights, let us journey together throughout this wilderness land and challenge one another to see Jesus differently. Let’s revel in the familiar and the uncomfortable, the challenging and the soothing. Most importantly, let us not journey into the wilderness lightly, but with the intention of returning transformed, renewed, ready to bring about resurrection in our broken world. For such transformations are the stuff of wilderness journeys.

I’m sure that many of you know that this is not only the first Sunday of Lent, but it’s also the second weekend of the winter Olympics. While I haven’t heard of any Olympians fasting for forty days and forty nights or being tempting to turn stones into bread, I have heard many stories of journeys into the wilderness.

The American short track speed skater Apolo Ohno comes to mind. Some of you may be familiar with his story. He’s won seven Olympic medals and after these Olympics could become the most decorated winter Olympian in history. His wilderness journey occurred at age 15. Apolo was raised by his Japanese father, Yuki, who drove him to and from practices and races throughout Washington state and British Columbia. In 1998 he tried out for the Olympics and choked, finishing in dead last. His father was disappointed, not because his son lost and didn’t make the Olympic team, but because he did not remain true to who he was and what he was capable of doing; he gave up and didn’t try his best. So, on their way home from the trials, Yuki dropped off his 15 year old son at a secluded cabin in Washington state. He told him, “you are at the threshold and you have a decision to make. This can be your life and who you are or you can choose to let it go.” For eight days the teenager pondered his life in the wilderness. Will I be an Olympian? Is this what I’m made for? Or will I be an “ordinary” teenager. Seven medals later, Apolo has answered his father’s question and made an unequivocal decision. This is who I am and I will give everything in my being toward achieving this goal.

While we certainly can’t compare being the son of God to being the most decorated winter Olympian in history, I think the pressure, soul-searching, and wilderness journey of Apolo Ohno rings true as we stand on this first Sunday in our wilderness journey. Hard work, dedication, pressure, soul-searching are not for the faint of heart. We do not tread into this desert journey lightly, but with intentionality.

This intentionality and soul-searching was the precise purpose of the early church when creating the season of Lent. The concept of Lent cannot be found in our bibles, nor can any proscriptions for fasting or feasting or abstaining from particular foods—like meats, chocolate, junk food, soda, or anything else you’ve chosen to give up for Lent. All we have is the story of Jesus journeying into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights. No food. No drink. A lot of pressure and soul-searching.

Jesus has a rich history of forty days of soul-searching upon which to base his wilderness journey. Israel spent 40 years in the wilderness learning to trust the God. Elijah spent 40 days there before hearing the sound of sheer silence that was God’s voice on the same mountain where Moses spent 40 days listening to God give the law.

Given these stories of wilderness journeys, and especially Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness, the early church announced a season of Lent, from the old English word lenten, meaning "spring" -- not only a reference to the season before Easter, but also an invitation to a springtime for the soul. Forty days of spring cleaning. Brushing away the cobwebs of bitterness. Sweeping out the dust of regret. Opening up the freshly cleaned windows to let in the fresh spring air of acceptance, hope, compassion, and love.

Lent isn’t a dark, brooding season in the church year. Rather, it’s a season of spring cleaning, wilderness journey, contemplation for the body and soul. It’s not about giving up chocolate or taking on a morning devotional. It’s bigger than Hershey’s bars and devotional books; Lent is less about giving up or taking on things that may seem trivial to others, but are a big deal to us. It’s about digging in and cleaning out. Lent isn’t about beating ourselves up or feeling unworthy and stained. It’s about polishing our hearts, reevaluating our souls, examining our motives so that we can walk out of the wilderness more loving, compassionate, and caring.

Lent is a time when we have the luxury of abiding in the messy, confusing, overwhelming wilderness of our inner beings. We don’t have to physically hike there; we don’t need a backpack. Rather, amidst the end of the winter Olympics, the start of spring, the every day-in-and-day-out of life, we can simultaneously journey inward and sweep out the cobwebs of our souls. In some ways, it might be easier to retreat for forty days. No distractions, or at least no cell phones, internet, work, or people to please. Just soul searching. But what kind of challenge would that be?

What are the challenges that tempt the spring cleaning of your soul? What questions pull at your heart this Lenten season? Jesus was faced with turning stones into bread. When you journey into the wilderness of your soul, will you ask yourself, “Is my job fulfilling my calling? Am I a good parent? Is this marriage working? Who am I now that I’ve retired? What does it mean for my parents to be ageing? Am I healthy physically, emotionally, and spiritually?

I know one thing that clutters up the spring cleaning of my soul this Lenten season. Many of you know that just before Lent began, I completed my dissertation. Of course I am very happy. But many scholars refer to the time after the dissertation as post-dissertation depression. It’s a wilderness time of asking, “So what? Who cares? What does this matter?” In my heart and mind, I continue to grapple with the vast disparity between what I’m doing, where I’ve come from, and who I want to be. What does it mean for me to finish a dissertation and PhD, to be less than one month away from being Rev. Dr. Ang when most of my family didn’t finish high school? What does it mean for me to have the luxury of contemplating esoteric theories about dance and women’s empowerment in world religions when many of the women I write about are never afforded the “luxury” of education, who are hungry and oppressed and would be quite satisfied if only Jesus would turn those stones into bread. What does this make me and what will I do with it?

My luxurious Lenten existential crisis forces me to contend with the fact that many of us choose to enter into the wilderness for soul searching and spring cleaning. It is our choice; it is our luxury. Like Jesus, we are led into the wilderness by the spirit and we have the hope of exiting the wilderness on the other side—the side of resurrection, famished, but resurrected nonetheless. And these luxuries are good for the soul, necessary for this Lenten season of spring cleaning and seeking the many faces of Jesus in our world.

But I cannot help but think about all those people who are not guided into the wilderness by choice or with the Spirit protectively holding their eager hands. Rather, so many are forced into the wilderness, often times for much longer than a mere forty days and forty nights. Forced into the wilderness of poverty, oppression, racism, homophobia, depression, addiction, trafficking. I cannot help but think of the weary souls that will journey to our sanctuary in the coming weeks for Winter Nights, living in the constant wilderness of homelessness.

Our Lenten season of soul searching is for not if it does not gird us forward to see the face of Jesus in the eyes of those myriad people groping in the wilderness for glimpses of hope, for a helping hand, for resurrected bodies. And merely seeing Jesus’ face is for not, if we do not do something about it.

So, perhaps this question should guide our Lenten journey of soul searching: what are we going to do about it? And perhaps the “it” is as ambiguous and open-ended as our Lenten theme is. You interpret what it means to see the many faces of Jesus. You interpret what the it is that you’re going to do something about. We commit to creating a world where all of humanity can look into the mirror filled with the confidence and vitality to see the face of Jesus staring back at them.

Journeys into the wilderness may not be easy, but we certainly don’t have to brave them alone.

Redeem Our Flesh and Guide Our Feet into the Way of Peace

A Sermon by The Rev. Angela Yarber | December 6, 2009 | Second Sunday in Advent

Scriptures: Luke 1:68-79 and 3:1-6

Luke provides us with two stories that are perfect portrayals of the season of Advent. They’re all about preparation, preparing the way. In chapter one, Zechariah is filled with holy and fatherly joy as he witnesses the birth of his son, John, and his excitement cannot be contained so he burst forth into prophetic song. The “Canticle of Zachariah”, as it’s called, describes the way his son, John, will prepare the way for Jesus. This proud daddy knows that his child is someone special: a future sackcloth wearing, locust eating, wilderness roaming, repentance demanding, baptizing prophet of peace. This baby boy, his daddy believed, would give light to those who sit in shadows and guide our feet to the way of peace. This little baby would grow up to be the preparer of the way of peace, the one who cleared the path so that Jesus could walk, the one who guided our feet to the way of peace, the way of Christ.

In fact, many theologians speak of the need for Christians to actually be imitators of John. John is the one who prepares the way for peace, who points to the Christ child, who guides our feet to the ways of peace. Isn’t that we should be doing this season of Advent: preparing the way for peace? Waiting, preparing, yearning for the birth of peace in our world? But not just in theory or in abstract, but in reality, with feet marching for justice, dancing for peace, standing for what is good and right and true. Guiding our feet to the way of peace.

But Luke’s story doesn’t end there, not according to the lectionary and not according to anyone who reads the Gospel. Rather, after Zachariah’s song of joy over the birth of baby John we discover the birth narrative of Jesus. But not yet! Not this week! It’s only the second week of Advent. We’re still waiting and preparing the way, like John, so I’m not going to read Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth. Rather, we skip to chapter 3 and find another brooding text of preparation.

Now baby John is all grown up and his father’s prophetic song of joy is coming to fruition. He is, indeed, preparing the way. John is guiding our feet to the way of peace. And as the now grown-up John roams the wilderness preparing the way, he quotes a prophet of the Hebrew bible, Isaiah, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make God’s paths plumb. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made direct, and rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

All flesh shall see the salvation of God. Not all hearts shall see the salvation of God. Not all minds. All flesh. And this is an interesting choice of words for a variety of reasons. First, John is preparing the way for God to be made flesh, for incarnation. All flesh shall see the salvation of God. Not in abstract, not in theory, but actually see a fleshly living God born as a humble and needy baby just like you and me with flesh and bones and tears and aches and pains and skin, flesh, hands, feet, a face…just like us.

And it’s interesting that John proclaims that all flesh shall see the salvation of God as he prepares the way for God in flesh, but also because of what this word means: flesh.
In Greek, flesh, here is σαρξ , which literally means “flesh, physical body; human nature, earthly descent.” Those things, those parts of you that you thought you had to overcome, your bodily realities will see the salvation of God. Not just your heart. Not just your mind. Not just the squeaky clean parts of you. Your flesh, all flesh, all physical bodies, all human nature—even the parts that you don’t like—shall see the salvation of God.

I must say that when I read this text I automatically hear it through the lens of Handle’s Messiah “And all fle-e-esh sha-all see-ee it toge-ether.” And I think that Handle and John and the Gospel writer are onto something here. All flesh shall see the salvation of God. All flesh. All physical bodies. All human nature. All earthly descent. All flesh shall see the salvation of God.
Let’s be honest here, the “flesh” doesn’t really have the best reputation in Christianity, does it?

The church has told us—primarily celibate men in power, I might add—that the flesh is secondary. The spirit is most important and the flesh is something to be overcome, negated, denied. This is why many Christians throughout the ages have denied their bodies, starved themselves, lacerated their flesh, impaled their bodies in order to identify spiritually with the suffering of Christ. But John isn’t talking about suffering here. He’s talking about our fleshly God. Our baby Jesus. Burping, crying, humble, needy baby Jesus whose flesh does the same things yours and my flesh do. Flesh gets dry and flakey, itchy, sweaty, it has rashes and bumps and bruises and scabs and cuts and scrapes. Flesh ages and stretches and grows and sags and has places that are undeniably beautiful and sensual and undeniably ugly and must be covered. All that flesh shall see the salvation of God.

So, as I thought about these fleshly realities and what it means for them to see salvation, I racked my brain for memories of flesh: the silly, the sensual, the sad. And I remembered three fleshly realities that I think are somewhat universal experiences, all in need of salvation.
The first, of course, is the silly. I’m sure we could spend hours of trading stories of silly, humorous, and likely rather inappropriate flesh moments. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it clean from the pulpit. This funny fleshly story comes from a friend.

My friend was in his senior year of high school and his best friend was a pastor’s kid. And not just any pastor’s kid, but the only child of an Independent Missionary Baptist pastor in northeast Alabama. Women can’t wear pants, no one drinks alcohol, no one dances, and you don’t watch R-rated movies—no matter how old you are! So, my friend and the pastor’s kid got a great idea. They decided that they should have a graduation party and that it should be held at the pastor’s house because said pastor had a pool. It would be the best pool party of their lives. The two boys planned every detail: BBQ, volleyball, music, invitations. One small glitch: pastor’s kid needed to ask his dad for permission. Surely it wouldn’t be a problem, he thought, because this could be his graduation gift. He was old enough and responsible enough to plan a fun pool party for his graduating class.

Said senior asked his father, his pastor, about the pool party and his father replied with a thick and authoritative Southern accent, “No way. Boys and girls swimming together!? That will never happen in my swimming pool. I don’t want any of you boys lustin’ after the flesh.”
Lusting after the flesh. Need I say more? Such phrases from conservative Baptist preachers are typical throughout the history of the church. We can’t see woman. We can’t see bodies. Because all that will do is make us sin. No mixed swimming. Because we can’t have anyone lusting after the flesh.

And I don’t mean to poke too much fun. There is a time and a place for that kind of flesh and I think it is responsible and morally aware to guard hearts and bodies against wanton debauchery and lustful extravagance. But such would likely have not been the case for a Scottsboro High School graduation pool party.

And that would naturally lead me to another fleshly story, a sensual story. Now, again, don’t worry, it’s sensual, not to be confused with scandalous. I’m not talking about Brittany’s Spear’s bellybutton or any other seemingly scandalous escapades that fill our culture and media. Although, I would say that those fleshly realities shall see the salvation of God, too. Rather, I’m thinking about seeing real flesh, real bodies doing something extraordinary, skilled, beautiful.
The story occurs in New York City, 55th Street and 9th Avenue, to be exact. It’s January of 2007 and I’m in New York doing Art and Religion research. Between Broadway shows and museums—all in the name of research, of course—I stumble upon the Alvin Ailey Dance Theatre. It’s cold and snowing outside and the Ailey studio’s full glass wall windows are radiating with light. Much to my delight, I see that it’s not simply an adult drop-in class, Horton technique, or a children’s class, but the actual company is rehearsing. Sculpted, lithe, sinuous, beautiful, sweating, strong bodies dance, leaving their all on the studio floor. I stand there mesmerized and watch.

Now, I’ve watched my share of Alvin Ailey videos. I’ve read about Ailey. I’ve even seen the company perform their world renowned Revelations, the most spiritual dance performance to ever grace the stage, bridging poignantly the plight of African Americans in the civil rights movement with the deep soulful spirit of the black church—all embodied in three movements that sweep and leap and soar from being buked to being baptized to being the body of Christ—all on “secular” stages, I might add. So, I’d seen Revelations. I’d seen them on stage, from my seat many rows back under the theatre lights with stage make-up and costuming and precision. But that couldn’t compare to what my eyes witnessed at 55th and 9th on that cold January evening. I stood still, breathless, for over an hour without even realizing it as the snow fluttered from the sky on this Southerner who despises cold weather. They danced, soared, fell, lifted, embraced, gasped, each muscle and every movement skilled, filled with breath and urgency and yearning and beauty and pain. I had the Stendall syndrome. Unable to move my own flesh I watched as the most beautiful flesh I’d ever seen rehearsed in a New York studio.

This is the kind of story that causes me to stand in awe—literally—of the flesh, of what the body can do. For all the things we may not like about our bodies, about our fleshly realities, we must stand in awe of what they are capable of. Flesh can run marathons and birth babies and build houses. My own battered and tired flesh amazed me as I finished my first triathlon a couple months ago. Our bodies, our flesh are magnificent creations capable of great beauty and great horror.

And this leads me to my final fleshly story. The sad. Although, sad doesn’t quite capture the horror, brutality, and treachery that the flesh can do. It’s a story I’ve shared with some of you in the past, the story of a time when I witnessed the brutality of the flesh broken, wounded, and forsaken.

The scene is a south Alabama project complex where I spent part of my adolescent years. My family had no money and we were surrounded by others in poverty and the violence poverty often creates. Amidst the pain and suffering of our complex, the children gathered together to play. Every night the poor kids in the complex would gather together to play hide and go seek. We always knew that the green, graffiti generator was base and by smacking that base and screaming, “Olly olly oxenfree!” you were untagable. Only I never knew that feeling, the feeling of shouting “Olly olly oxenfree!” and thus being liberated from all that binds me, from the confines of welfare cheese, and the bars across our living room windows, and the roaches that didn’t pay rent, but lived in our home anyway. I didn’t know that feeling because Davy Boyette always got there first. “Olly olly oxenfree!” Davy perpetually shouted. He was the fasted kid in the fourth grade, the fasted kid in the complex. Until one evening…when I made it to the graffiti generator first. I was on the other side of a long field and I knew that my dancing feet were bound for glory. So, as my hand-me-down Chuck Taylor’s pounded across the dry grass and my permed hair blew in the wind, I ran to that generator, “Olly olly oxenfree!” “Olly olly oxenfree, Davy!” I shouted.

And I couldn’t wait to find Davy Boyette and rub it in his face that I was the fastest kid in the complex. So, I ran around the complex screaming “Davy” until I rounded a corner to an ally way and saw Davy Boyette, no longer the fastest kid in the complex, but a crumpled mass of flesh sprawled out across the pavement. An older kid in baggy jeans stood above him with the crowbar he’d just pulled out of his pants. “Olly olly oxenfree!”

I turned and ran away as fast as I knew how and I began to vomit. And I haven’t stopped vomiting since.

Only weeks later, three teenage boys broke into our home while I was at vacation bible school with a friend and tried to slit my six year-old brother’s throat. His flesh forever tormented by the violence of growing up poor, still in search of redemption.

Flesh can be silly and sensuous and, in many cases, flesh can be scary and gut-wrenching. When I look back and think about how incredibly fortunate I am and my family is to still be standing—thriving—I am both humbled and moved to action on behalf of our countless brothers and sisters whose flesh is slain by the hands of injustice.

And all that flesh—the silly, the sensuous, the sad, and even the scandalous—is redeemed by the incarnation that we prepare for this Advent season. All flesh shall see the salvation of God. The pastor of the Independent Missionary Baptist Church in Northeast Alabama, the beautiful dancers at Alvin Ailey, Davy Boyette and my brother and all those children whose flesh is rent by violence, and yes, even Brittany Spear’s bellybutton…all their flesh shall see the salvation of God.
So, let’s prepare the way so that our feet may walk in the ways of peace. All flesh shall see the salvation of God—the parts we love and the parts we hate—are all redeemed by our fleshly God upon whom we wait in hope.

And it is this fleshly God that we remember when we gather around this table. It is a fleshly body that was broken so that all flesh can see salvation. Let us remember our broken and fleshly God as we share this meal with our own flesh, our own bodies.

Amen.

Proclaiming the "Good News" ...Good News for Whom?

A Sermon by The Rev. Angela Yarber | October 18, 2009 | Worship & Preaching

Scriptures: Isaiah 61:1-6 and Luke 4:16-21


Most of you know J. and E. For those of you who are newer here with us, J. and E. are the younger siblings of LB, who works in the nursery but is currently away celebrating her 21st birthday, and the grandchildren of B. They are a beloved part of our community and earlier this year, after J. was baptized here on Easter Sunday, they had to move out of state. If we miss them this much, I can only imagine how much LB and B miss them. So, I’d like to tell a story about the role of preaching in worship in their honor.

One Sunday a few years ago, J. helped lead worship. To be honest, I cannot remember what exactly he did in worship, but I think he’d read scripture. After worship, I made my way over to J. to let him know that he did a good job and to thank him for helping lead us in worship. E. hid behind her older brother. You may recall that E. went through a phase around age 5 or 6 when she didn’t really talk to grown-ups. So, I chatted with J. while E. stood behind him, her face tucked behind her hair. She peeked around her older brother’s shoulder and I said, “Hello E.,” though I didn’t expect her to say anything back. I am a grown up, after all. B walked up as J. began to tell me that E. was embarrassed to talk to me.

“Why on earth would she be embarrassed to talk to me?” I asked J. and B.

E. dropped her chin to her chest and hid her face in her hands as if to say, “Oh no! They’re going to rat me out!” for whatever it was she was embarrassed about.

B then informed me that E. liked to dress up as Rev. Angela at home. She would dance around the house, waving a scarf in Isadora Duncan fashion, as she pretended to be her pastor dancing during worship.

“Then,” J. informed me, “she wraps the scarf around her shoulders like that,” he said pointing to my stole, “and pretends it’s one of those things while she preaches sermons.” E.’s face was bright red, clearly embarrassed that a grown-up was talking in her presence and even more embarrassed that her brother and grandma told about her dress-up playing antics.

I squatted down so that my eyes could meet E.’s and said, “You keep dancing, E., because you can be anything you want to be.”

And of course this story meant a lot to me. To say the least I was quite flattered that a little girl would dress up and pretend to me by dancing and preaching at home. But mere flattery does not capture the essence of E.’s emulation. This story means so much to me because E. wasn’t even 8 years old yet and, in her mind, what it means to be a preacher is a woman, and a dancing woman at that. For E., her vision of what it means to be a dancer isn’t an emaciated sylph being pranced around a ballet stage, but that of a healthy woman with a strong body dancing in church. Perhaps, when E. grows up and someone tells her, “Women can’t be preachers,” E. will respond, “I don’t know what you’re talking about because I’ve seen women preaching my whole life.”

Such is the case for the children of Shell Ridge who will grow up knowing that any person called of God can preach the good news: no matter their gender, race, age, sexual orientation, nationality, educational level, economic status, or background. Imagine what it would be like if, from your most formative years, you saw and heard just as many women in pulpit as you did men. Just as many gay people as straight people. Just as many younger adults as older adults.

Jesus said, “God has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. God has sent me to preach release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to preach the year of the Lord’s favor.” I’ve got good news, E.; I’ve got good news, children of Shell Ridge; you can be anything you want to be.

What’s interesting about E.’s imitation is that it wasn’t based on the words that came from the pulpit. Her dressing up as Rev. Angela had little to do with the words of a sermon. Because, as you know, our children typically leave for Sunday School before the sermon. They only remain in the sanctuary during the sermon on communion Sundays. And while I’m sure that every sermon I preach or Greg preaches makes everyone in the room—especially little children—hang on to every single word, sitting on the edge of their seats, waiting for that next nugget of truth, I would surmise that E. didn’t dress up as her pastor because of my sermons. Rather, E. deduced that she was valuable and worthy and that women can be preachers and dancers, not because of what we SAY during worship, but because of what we DO.

It’s interesting that I would minimize the importance of what we SAY from the pulpit on a Sunday when the emphasis in worship is on the role of preaching. Preaching is, indeed, what is said, isn’t it? While Saint Francis did proclaim, “Preach the gospel; use words if necessary,” when we typically think of preaching, we think of words. Words carefully crafted, stitched together with intentionality, words from scripture, words from the history of the church, theological words, prophetic words. A sermon is made up of words, right? My all-time favorite preacher, Barbara Brown Taylor, is described as a “word smith,” winner of one of the twelve “most effective preachers in the English language.” One the world’s all-time best preachers, Fred Craddock, describes Taylor as having the rare ability of “writing to be heard as well as read.” The word smith is one of the world’s best preachers, so the words must be an important part of a sermon, right?

While I’m sure we all agree that the content of what we say, the words that make up the sentences that make up the paragraphs that make up what is being preached are important. Words are monumentally important and have the power to hurt or heal in a way that is universal; we’ve all experienced the power of words, both positively and negatively. But I think Saint Francis was on to something when he minimized the importance of our words.

In fact, even the word that Jesus uses to describe what God has called him to do in his so-called “first sermon” that we read from Luke this morning, doesn’t mention anything about words. Rather, Jesus uses the Greek word ευαγγελισασθαι − ευαγγελιζω. This word literally means “bring good news, preach the good news, preach the good news to, preach, proclaim.” And while inference and common sense reminds us that words, speech, talking is a part of preaching and proclaiming, sometimes we elevate the words at the expense of the actions. Jesus quotes Isaiah 61, which calls us to “preach good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to preach liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to preach the year of the Lord’s favor.”
Preaching the good news to the oppressed could involve words, but it also involves action: walking at the CROP walk, volunteering at the Food Bank, writing letters and calling congress people to insist on the importance of health care for those who are oppressed. In the instance of preaching the good news to the oppressed, words mean very little if they are not accompanied by action.
In the same way, binding up the brokenhearted and preaching liberty to the captives could involve words, but the words mean very little if they are not accompanied by action: hugging, calling, sending cards and food to the person who has lost a loved one or a job, feeding the hungry, standing against human trafficking.
And when Jesus quoted Isaiah as saying God calls us to preach release to the prisoners, I’m sure words weren’t the only thing he had in mind. Because what I say from the pulpit has little impact on the 75% of minorities on death row who wrongly accused. The words we say and sing and pray mean little to the countless people who are held captive, prisoners because of an unjust legal system that systematically penalizes the poor.

So, when Jesus preached his first sermon in Luke 2, I’m not too sure he was thinking of the same things we think of when we hear the word “preach.” A pulpit, a platform, a stole, clerical garb to separate you from the congregation, the laity. A finely crafted 2500 word essay exegeting the text for the day. Words—big ones—that only the most educated and pious can understand.

Here me say clearly: what we say is important. The content of our words is formative in worship and faith formation. But words aren’t the be-all-end-all. And words aren’t all that constitutes the ευαγγελιζω, the “good news” Jesus spoke of.

What else is important in preaching? In addition to the words, the explicit spoken theological messages, what are the implicit theological messages? Well, there’s the obvious, the things a preacher is taught about in a preaching class: oration, dictation, delivery, stage presence. In addition to content, a preacher must be heard, clear. Do you want to listen to a preacher who preaches in a boring monotone voice? Or a thunderously loud voice that hurts your ears? Or a Southern accent so thick that you can’t understand a word? Or with arms crossed over the chest and eyes diverted so that the voice says one thing and the body says something completely different. Delivery is obviously important. And for many preachers, standing in front of a group of people is their biggest fear: public speaking. Fortunately, a life time in the performing arts and musical theatre has made me not-so-nervous when entering the pulpit.
So, there’s the obvious: words and the way you deliver your words. So, now we can all pack up our stuff and go home because we know why preaching is important in worship: words and delivery. The obvious.

But what of those implicit theological messages? The not so obvious? Perhaps the ones Saint Francis had in mind when he said, “Preach the gospel; use words if necessary”? Let’s talk about some of those. Well, E.’s story points to one important implicit message in preaching. And that is the person doing the preaching. If the only person who preaches every Sunday is an old, white man with a grey beard, and no one else is ever in the pulpit, then the message you’re sending to the congregation is that what it means to be a preacher is to be an old white man with a grey beard. The same could be said about any “type” of person. If there is only one gender, or age, or sexual identity, or educational background, or race preaching in the pulpit, then no matter what the preacher says about inclusion or embrace, the message that is preached is that only one type of person is allowed to preach. You can only be a preacher if you look this way. Uh uh, you don’t have to look a certain way to preach the good news.

And while we’re on the subject of looks, let’s talk about fashion: what the preacher wears. And I don’t mean Dulce and Gabbana or Loui Votton, though a preacher who wears these expensive designers may need to read the text from last week about a camel fitting through the eye of a needle before a rich person can go into heaven. I digress. What about what the preacher wears? Should the preacher wear something that clearly indicates that he or she is THE PREACHER, set apart, holy, different from the rest of the congregation: a stole, clerical collar, a robe? And, while you may be thinking, what’s the big deal? Who cares what the preacher wears?! Let us think of the theological message this “set apart” clothing communicates. If the preacher and only the preacher gets a special outfit, stole, robe, collar then no matter what is preached about how we’re all ministers, how every believer is a priest before God, how we can all proclaim the good news, the message the preacher’s outfit is proclaiming is that only some of us special, holy folk are good enough to wear God’s garments and proclaim God’s good news. Uh uh, you don’t have to have special outfit to preach the good news.

And what about where you preach? Behind a big pulpit so that if you’re not above 5 feet tall you need a special stool for people to see you? On a raised platform so that if you’re in a wheelchair you have no way of accessing the pulpit? Can only tall adults preach? Are people in wheelchairs not allowed to preach the good news? While I say some of these things with an air of sarcasm in my voice, I hope that my words bear an element of truth. Because when a preacher stands behind a big pulpit on a raised platform or sits in special chair that looks more like a throne or has an altar rail separating the clergy from the laity, that preaches something theological. The words that make up our sermons mean very little if they don’t match what the location, or outfit, or personality of the preacher is saying.

In contemporary media and culture we know enough of the hypocrisy of preachers. It seems that rarely a day goes by when we don’t hear about a preacher whose words pointed to the ten commandments—do not covet another person’s wife, do not steal—and that same preacher has an affair with the secretary or steals from the church’s budget. We are well-versed in the division between what preachers say and what preachers do.

So, preach the gospel. Use words if necessary. Think about the message we’re preaching with our actions and inactions. For as Isaiah tells us “you shall be called priests of the Lord, you shall be named ministers of our God.” I’m not the only preacher in the room today. And I’m not simply referring to all of our other ordained ministers like Willis and Terry and Micky. I’m referring to all of you. You don’t need a special outfit to preach the good news to the oppressed. You don’t need to stand behind a pulpit to bind up the broken hearted. You don’t have to be a man, white, straight, making $80,000/year with a Masters degree to preach liberty to the captives.

YOU are God’s preachers. YOU are the priests and ministers of our God. YOU are called and empowered to preach release to the prisoners. NOW is the year of the Lord’s favor. I’ve got good news, Shell Ridge. You can be anything you want to be. Now go preach that good news to the world!
Amen.

Pride and Oppression

A Sermon by The Rev. Angela Yarber | June 28, 2009 | Pride 2009

Scriptures: 2 Samuel 1:17-27 and Mark 5:21-34

This morning I would like to share 2 stories with you. Stories from scripture and stories from my own life. In fact, the two stories we’ve read from scripture had such a profound impact on my faith and theology that they shifted it altogether. Incidentally, both stories are our lectionary texts for today. The first story comes from the Gospel of Mark. It’s the story of a woman. It’s a story that I first read as a young woman who was recently handed a close-minded dose of Christianity, the kind of Christianity that says women are less than, unordainable, subservient. And since I had never experienced Christianity growing up, I set aside my feminist self and naively accepted this form of Christianity for a brief time. Until I read our text from Mark 5. Well, I suppose it wasn’t quite this simple, but it was, indeed, my translation, exegesis, and experience with the New Testament texts that deal with the relationship between Jesus and women that changed my life and affirmed my call. Well, enough of that! Onto the story within my story. The story of a woman.

We don’t know this particular woman’s name. During her time, her name wasn’t really that important. She was just a woman, and a sickly woman at that. Her place in society meant nothing. She was a nobody. At one time in her life she probably dreamed of her future: getting married, having children, growing old. She probably never imagined what life would be like if she didn’t find a husband. Her options were slim. Either her father could take care of her into adulthood, which was highly unlikely. Or she could roam the streets. After all, women without husbands in that day and age were useless and only created a void in society.

This nameless woman’s dream was probably so different than what her life had become. You see, this woman was sick. Very sick. She had been ill for 12 years. For 12 years she had been bleeding. And during that day and age, blood was not an option. It was unclean, impure. In fact, according to Leviticus 15 this woman was not allowed in the temple because she was ceremonially unclean due to her sickness. Priests couldn’t go near her. No one could touch her, because if they did, they too would become unclean and be ostracized from the temple and community.

So, she sought help. For 12 long years she looked for physicians to heal her. For 4,380 days in a row she bled; she hurt. For 12 years she went without a family, a worship service, a touch. For 4,380 days this lonely woman did not receive a hug, a hand-shake, a high-five, a pat on the back, a touch. For 12 long years she searched, without the affirmation of a touch—never being touched by anyone. Ever. She couldn’t go to friends for help. In fact, she probably didn’t have many friends. You see, the community saw her as bad news. They felt that sin and disease went hand-in-hand. She must be sick because she’s done something horribly sinful in her past. Her bleeding for 12 years must be the result of her inappropriate lifestyle. She couldn’t go to priests for help, for they would become unclean. Furthermore, these priests didn’t help women. According to the Rabbinic Tosefta, rabbis began each temple meeting by praying, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, for Thou hast not made me a woman!” No help there! She tried to go to doctors. According to Mark’s account, she spent all she had on doctors and, instead of getting better, she felt worse. It’s no wonder when we look at the Talmud’s record of remedies for bleeding: garden crocuses dissolved in wine, sawdust from a lotus tree, ashes from an ostrich egg. If you ate those things, you’d probably feel worse too! No one could heal her: not friends, not rabbis, not doctors. It didn’t even seem that she could ask God for help because, by law, she couldn’t even go in the temple. So, Jesus solved that problem. He came out of the temple and into the streets where she could approach him one-on-one.

This nameless, bleeding outcast had heard of this Jesus character. What she heard must have been good because she traveled over 30 miles to see him—30 miles without a bed to sleep in, a friend to chat with, a hand-shake from an acquaintance. Penniless, tired, sick, drained, and probably very sad she walked to find this one called Jesus. Something had to have kept her tired feet going.

After 30 miles, she arrived in Capernaum. Jesus was in a crowed of people and had just been stopped by Jarius, an elected ruler of the local synagogue, a man in power. Jesus was on his way to help Jarius’s daughter. As he walked along the dusty road, mobs of people crowded all around him, all trying to catch a glimpse of what might happen next. In enters our nameless woman. The trip to Jarius’s house would be interrupted, the plans would be disheveled, and a life would be touched forever. This silent woman, her face covered with the dirt from 30 miles and the tears of a dozen years, reached out an unclean hand. This woman steps out into the public arena, the arena that was considered the space of male power and male negotiations; and she takes action in this public place. She touches the fringe of the cloak of a Jewish rabbi surrounded by eager listeners. She has broken through the socio-cultural and religious barriers that would otherwise render her powerless. Will Jesus respond accordingly? Or will Jesus supersede the actions of his predecessors? Would she still be silenced? Would she leave this place with her voice and her pain unheard?

No. She touched and she would be touched—for the first time in 12 long years. We find that immediately she is freed from her suffering. Her bleeding stops. We discover that when she touches Jesus’ robe that power left him. This word for power, strength, or miracle is the Greek word δυναμασ. From this word, we derive our English word for dynamite. Jesus did not just heal this woman. He empowered this woman. And then Jesus speaks. “Who touched me?!” he asks. Perhaps this was a kenotic moment for Jesus or perhaps he had a hunch and wanted to give this nameless woman a chance to break the silence. The disciples remind Jesus that the crowd is pressing in all around him and there is no way to know who touched him. I would speculate that at this time, Jesus looked into the teary eyes of our nameless woman and repeats his question: “who touched me?” And then our nameless woman breaks the silence. She is empowered and her voice will go unheard no longer. She speaks. She shares her story. And Jesus speaks again. Keep in mind that priests don’t speak to women in public. I would imagine that this priest leaned over, held her tired hand, and spoke sweetly, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” Jesus noticed that this woman was worth stopping for. Worth listening to. Worth talking to. Worth healing. Worth touching. Worth empowering. She was worth it. All people are.

Jesus empowered this nameless woman and in so doing I was empowered. Like many women, I realized that Jesus’ relationship with women was one of empowerment, and this relationship emboldened me to accept my call to ministry and recognize that Jesus was one of feminism’s greatest allies. The responsibility of Christians is to walk in the footsteps of Jesus and empower those who are silenced, oppressed, and marginalized in our own society.

And such empowerment is happening at this very moment in an unexpected, subverted, yet incredibly powerful way. In fact, at the exact moment we gathered for worship his morning (10:30am), thousands of people from the Bay Area, the state of California, and likely the world, gathered on Market Street in San Francisco for the 39th annual Pride Parade. This weekend is the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Pride Celebration whose mission is to “educate the world, commemorate our heritage, celebrate our culture, and liberate our people.”

I’m sure that you’re familiar with Pride since both its good and bad stereotypes cover our television screens, magazines, and newspapers throughout this weekend and month of June. For some, Pride brings to mind bright, rainbow colors, feather boas, leather, people who are “different,” and lewd and licentious behavior—something “Christians” should never be a part of. It’s true that these things are, indeed, part of the Pride celebration. For others, Pride brings to mind bright, rainbow colors, the denial of rights to some of God’s children, and the 1969 March on Stonewall, a protest against discrimination and violence against gays in NYC—something “Christians” should certainly be a part of.

I’ll admit that when Pastor Greg asked me to preach over a month ago on this Sunday, I wondered whether or not Pride would be something I should mention in my sermon. I thought about theologian Karl Barth’s admonition that a preacher should prepare a sermon with a bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other. So, rather than ducking my head in the sand and ignoring what is going on in the world, I decided, perhaps I’ll mention Pride. And then, also following Barth’s admonition, I looked up the lectionary texts for today. 2 Samuel 1 and Mark 5. When I discovered that these were the texts for the day, I actually laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me?!” I thought. “Jonathan’s love to David was wonderful, passing the love of women.” You mean to tell me, oh-wise-lectionary-used-by-Christians-all-over-the-world, that the text for Pride Sunday is the text that overtly tells of David and Jonathan’s loving relationship? The second story that shook my faith and theology to the core. Serendipitous, maybe? Coincidental, perhaps? If ever I believed in Divine providence…I don’t think I’ll go that far!

Then I decided, “forget about Pride for a moment,” Angela. And just preach from the texts. “Jonathan’s love to David was wonderful, passing the love of women.” Now many biblical scholars of a more conservative stripe have gone to great lengths with the David and Jonathan narratives to prove that these men were best friends, like brothers. David was married to Michal, or was it Bathsheba, or was it both, after all. David was described as a “man after God’s own heart,” despite his rock hurling at Goliath, rooftop spying on Bathsheba, murder of her husband Uriah, dancing and exposing himself in front of the arc of the covenant. Could it be that brave King David, the man after God’s heart, was in love with Jonathan? I’d say that the text Jodie read indicates so, especially when you read the rest of the David and Jonathan narratives from 1 Samuel. These texts tell us that “David became one in spirit with Jonathan and he loved him as himself,” much like the two becoming one in Genesis. David and Jonathan later kiss and share clothing.

And if you’re anything like I was the first time I translated these passages from Hebrew, you’re probably thinking, “Enough is enough. Now is not the time or the place…church, worship, is not the forum to discuss such a relationship between two men: loving and becoming one in spirit and kissing and sharing clothing and surpassing love for women. Inappropriate…even if we read of it in our bible!”

If you’re feeling that way, let me say that I understand. When the “church” has always told you that the bible is adamantly against homosexuality, that it’s an abomination against God, then I would imagine that such an interpretation of the text could be jarring. It certainly was for me the first time I encountered it this way. When I sat next to Randall Bailey, a leading Hebrew Bible scholar and ordained Baptist minister, with my Hebrew bible open, pencil in hand, and tears streaming down my cheeks, I was quite shocked to translate this text. “Jonathan’s love to David was wonderful, passing the love of women.” This text, my translation, did not fit into the close-minded version of Christianity that had been handed to me. Every Christian I’d ever known told me that God hates gays. Dr. Randall Bailey told me that God loves all God’s children, no matter their sexual orientation.

So, after reading these texts from the bible and after experiencing homophobia primarily from Christians who purport that the bible is unequivocally against homosexuality, how could I NOT speak of Pride this morning?
“Yes,” many of you could be thinking, “of course, but we’re a ‘welcoming and affirming’ congregation. We clearly don’t think that God hates LGBTQ persons!” You’re right. And I’m incredibly proud to serve as a minister here at Shell Ridge. I’m honored to minister along side an amazing group of Christians who are committed to justice and peace for ALL God’s children. At the same time, many of us at Shell Ridge have expressed concern that we want to “open the door to the closet a little wider;” we’ve voted to officially be “welcoming and affirming,” but now what?
Well, according to the HRC, there is no dearth of issues for which we can stand.
When LGBTQ citizens can be fired on the basis of their sexual orientation without any legal recourse in 30 states, then we have a responsibility to say “enough is enough.” When the United States does not allow same-sex couples the same immigration rights as heterosexual couples, we have a responsibility to say “enough is enough.” When only 10 states allow a same-sex couple to jointly file for adoption of a child, we have a responsibility to say “enough is enough.” When only 6 states allow same-sex marriages and 29 states (including CA) have passed state-wide constitutional amendments banning gay marriage, thus denying one of the partners over 1,000 federal protections granted to heterosexuals, we have a responsibility to say “enough is enough.” When only 13 states (CA included) have laws that prohibit bullying, discrimination, or harassment in public schools against LGBTQ students, we have a responsibility to say “enough is enough.”
It’s no small thing to boldly proclaim, as Christians and as Baptists, that we are a welcoming and affirming congregation. Can we also take it one step further and DO something about these injustices that afflict the LGBTQ community. And before we propose that these statistics are just numbers or are small injustices that don’t compare with the plight of global warming, poverty, or the need for healthcare, imagine for a moment that you were the parent of the Atlanta middle schooler that committed suicide only months ago because of gay bashing at his school. Imagine for a moment that you are deeply in love and have shared your entire life with your partner, and that partner is sick and dying in the hospital and you are denied the right to visit because the state doesn’t consider you “family.” Imagine for a moment that, in this time of economic crisis, you are fired from your job simply because you’re gay. These are no small injustices that we’re talking about here. What can we do, Shell Ridge, to say “enough is enough.”
In our time and context of Pride Parades and oppression, this text from 2 Samuel isn’t simply a trite love story between David and Jonathan. It’s a blatant cry to all those “Christians” who told me or you or anyone that God doesn’t love gay people to stop hating and start loving. The story of David and Jonathan, I would propose, is a perfect theme text for Pride. Because the entire point behind the concept of Pride is to empower and embolden those who have been silenced and told that they are unworthy, unloved, and damned to hell. The story of David’s love for Jonathan can tell persons in the LGBTQ community that they are worthwhile, loved, and that they’re deep love for another is not only valued by God, but commended.
This story of David and Jonathan, like the story about our nameless woman, can serve as a paradigm for the voices of so many that have been silenced. Who are we silencing? Whose voice goes unheard in our society, in our church, in our own homes? And what are we going to do about it?

Holy Child, Holy Humanity

A sermon by Rev. Angela Yarber | First Sunday after Christmas Day | December 28, 2008

Text: Luke 2: 22-40

I’d like to begin my sermon today with a question—a big, deep, existential, theological question. I’m sure it’s a question many of you are also asking, a question that grips us to our core this time of year. The question is: Should I take down my Christmas tree today or wait until New Years Day? Why not sometime in between, you may wonder? Well, you see, I have company coming in town tomorrow and they leave on New Years Day. So the question is: Do I leave the 7 feet of artificial glory, bejeweled in far too many ballerina ornaments up for them to enjoy, too…or do I take it down, thus leaving more room for my guests in my tiny apartment, after coming home from church today? And if I take it down today, should I also take down all the other remnants of Christmas decor: holiday hand-towels, Christmas photos and candles, stockings? These are tough decisions that should not be taken lightly.

Christmas day was only 3 days ago. The gifts have been unwrapped, leftovers are in the refrigerator, family has traveled back home, and that tree still lingers in the living room, waiting to be taken down, undecorated, recycled or stored. All that remains is you in your home amidst the crumpled wrapping paper, pine needs on the carpet in need of vacuuming, and overwhelmingly fulfilled expectation and longing. The period of waiting—Advent—is over, the prophecy fulfilled and fulfilling. The twelve days of Christmas indeed. It’s only day three. The carols are no longer playing on the radio and we’re busy making our plans for New Year’s Eve. What’s a preacher to say on the Sunday following Christmas? It is the first Sunday in the Christmas season, after all. I must say that I flipped through every book of sermons I have and not one, not one, offered a sermon for the Sunday following Christmas (not that I would have preached someone else’s sermon…I was just looking for ideas). There were plenty of sermons to read during Advent or Christmas mass or Epiphany, but the Sunday following Christmas, the first Sunday of the Christmas season—I don’t think so.

So, let’s switch gears for a moment—to the birth of a newborn baby; that is why we celebrate Christmas, after all. The baby was born, the mother has left the hospital, or manger as it were, the parents, midwives, or nurses have wrapped the baby in swaddling cloths. Photos were taken on everyone’s camera phones. Grandparents and friends have visited. The baby showers have been thrown. The baby was brought gifts: teddy bears, frankincense, balloons, myrrh, blankets, and gold. The newborn now sleeps peacefully in a carefully prepared nursery under a baby mobile of smiling clowns that spins and plays a lullaby…or under a blanket of stars in the night sky depending on the context, I suppose. Friends and family have brought the hopeful and overwhelmed new parents casseroles, food, extra diapers, and lots of hugs. And now they’ve headed home and the parents and the new born baby are the only ones left amidst the leftovers, unwrapped gifts, and overwhelmingly fulfilled expectation and longing. And then what happens? What happens—mothers, parents—after the birth of a new baby? After the celebration? After the grandparents have visited? After everyone has oogled and awed over this newborn bundle of joy that is now crying and sleeping and pooping and eating and smiling and cuddling in your tired arms? I’m not a parent, so you tell me. What happens?

My mother told me this is when you help another begin the journey of life, when you “raise your kids.” On Christmas, I spent the day with my family at my grandfather’s farm in Newnan, GA. And my one cousin was there with her baby, Brayden. He was born less than a month after a grandmother passed in April. And I asked my cousin, whose birth I witnessed, this very question, “what happens after the birth?” She told me she’s still trying to figure that out. And I wonder: Is this when reality sets in? When parents begin to ask: how am I going to balance my job with my baby? How am I going to get any sleep? What have I gotten myself into? How can something so beautiful and tiny make so much noise and so much stink? We’re still trying to figure that out.

What happens After we’ve celebrated…

How are we going to eat all these leftovers in the refrigerator? Who can we give all these fruitcakes to? Shall we brave the stores and return our unwanted gifts now? Can I lose these extra pounds I gained from eating so many holiday goodies? Have I remembered to send everyone a thank you card? Who’s going to climb up on the roof and take down all those lights?

Reality sets in. The period of waiting is over. Gestation has ceased. The prophecy has been fulfilled. Hope has been realized. We’ve had the party. We’ve sung the songs. We’ve eaten the food. We’ve ooood and awed. Now what?

The Gospel of Luke, which I read earlier, offers us some words of wisdom for what to do after this period of eager expectation. Let me tell what I hear from Luke and offer my stretching interpretation. Luke tells us:

“Every first born son will be designated as holy for the Lord.”
“My eyes have seen your salvation,” Simeon proclaims.
“The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom”
And also from Galations, which Jodie read earlier:
“You are a child and also an heir through God.”

These are the words and phrases that stand out to me. And I might add:
Every child is designated as holy for the Lord. When we look into the eyes of a child, into the eyes of another person, we can see our salvation. It is our responsibility to help all children, all people, grow and become strong and filled with wisdom. You are God’s child and heir. All humanity, each person, is God’s child and heir and deserves to be treated as such. Whether this person is black or white or Asian or Latina, has a college degree or not, is heterosexual or homosexual, speaks the same language you do, is rich or poor or somewhere in between, each person is just as much a child of God as you and I, just as much a child of God as the little baby whose birth we celebrate at this time each year. Look into the eyes of humanity and behold the face of God; witness the birth of Christ in the miracle of birth that is each little baby.

On Christmas morning, not only was a holy child born, but humanity was made holy. We celebrate the birth of the son of God. True. But we also celebrate the way in which each person is a child of God. God becomes incarnate, not only in the little baby Jesus, but in all humanity, actualizing divinity in flesh. Look into the eyes of another and see your salvation. Love a child and see Christ in his or her eyes. As the stunning musical Les Mis declares, “To truly love another is to see the face of God.”

And I say all these things—these abstract concepts of love and compassion—following the celebration of Christmas, the celebration of Christ’s birth, God with us, Emmanuel. And as I say all these things and speak of the virtues of loving humanity and treating all people as children of God, I cannot help but think of another celebration on the calendar, though not on the “liturgical” year that we follow in the church. And that is the celebration of New Years. And with New Years comes New Year’s resolutions. I wonder how many of us will vow to the classic, “eat healthier and exercise more.” A few years ago, I decided that my unfulfilled New Year’s resolutions made me feel unnecessarily guilty when I “fell short.” So, rather than making a resolution to “run every day” or “give up my beloved chocolate,” I decided to make a positive and fun resolution. I resolved to go to the beach at least 10 separate times in 2006 because going to the beach makes me really happy. Fortunately, 2006 also hosted my move to California, thus making my beach visits more readily available. I digress…

So, perhaps it is with the virtues of love and compassion that we should enter the New Year. Sure, go ahead and resolve to eat healthier, exercise more, quit smoking, save money. Those are all fine and good. But perhaps also, as we enter 2009 as individuals and as a community, we can resolve to see each person we meet as a child of God and no less. We can resolve to treat each and every person as one who is just as valuable as the little baby that we celebrate at Christmas.

And this resolution, this call to “see salvation” in the eyes of another can and must be applied in praxis. It’s good to love others in our hearts and minds, but how can we help others grow and become strong and filled with wisdom if this love is not accompanied by action? How can we grow and become strong and filled with wisdom without action? I’m sure our social-justice oriented congregation has plenty of suggestions for how to put this love into action. ROM (Reaching Out Ministries) may recommend feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, fighting for affordable healthcare for all people. Some of our youth and children may suggest standing up for that kid at school who everyone else makes fun of or who sits alone at lunch. While there is an array of ways to approach this idea of love in action, I’ll simply mention some practical things I’m working on that often go overlooked. For example: Think before you shop or buy. Where does that food come from? Who is making it? Where is it being made or grown? Are the people making it and growing it paid a living wage? Where do those clothes come from that you wear? And I don’t mean Target or Old Navy. I mean: who makes it? What are their working conditions? Are those working conditions just and fair? Advocate for equal rites for all people. Who is allowed to legally marry, vote, receive healthcare, buy a home, receive an education and who is not allowed to do these things? Is this fair? What are you going to do about?

If seeing salvation involves looking in the eyes of another, then we cannot see if our eyes are shut to the injustices that surround us.

So, those leftovers may remain and the tree may still be decorated and you may be a little overwhelmed at this fragile bud of humanity now resting in your arms, but salvation is actualized in your very being. I’m looking into your eyes and seeing the face of God.
My eyes have seen salvation, not just in the Christ child, but in each of you. Go and do likewise. Amen.

Advent & Butoh

A meditation by Angela Yarber | December 7, 2008 | Second Sunday in Advent

Text: Isaiah 40:1-11

“Comfort, O Comfort my people,” the prophet Isaiah declares. During the season of Advent we wait for the fulfillment of prophecy. In eager expectation we wait for comfort. We prepare for the coming of light.

Last week, during my semi-regular ride to the BART station with the Durans, Karen mentioned that I looked rather serious during worship. And I shared with her the likely reasons why. Each year I help in planning Advent, the themes, this year the stars glimmering in the darkness of the night sky, the light growing brighter each week. And one would think that I would remember the primary role of darkness during the season of Advent. But without fail, year after year, on the first Sunday of Advent I’m always struck by the role of darkness in this season of preparation. The darkness of the womb. The darkness of a winter night’s sky. The darkness of only one or two Advent candles to light the way.

So, I suppose that last Sunday, these notions of darkness were ruminating in my mind during worship. And over the past week, the role of darkness in Advent, the world, and dance have intersected in way that can only be divinely coincidental. Allow me to explain.

As many of you know, I’m working on a PhD in Art and Religion and right now I’m in what’s called “the comprehensive examination phase.” And only 2 weeks ago I took my 4 hour closed book exam. 4 hours, 2 questions, a tiny room, and a computer. And my questions dealt with the role of Buddhist aesthetics in butoh dance. And I’m sure you’re all thinking, “what on earth does Buddhist aesthetics and butoh dance have to do with Advent?!” And that’s precisely what I want to tell you.

Butoh is a dance that developed out of the chaos and turmoil of post-WWII Japan. After Hiroshima, when Tokyo lay in ruins, when the entire country has been turned upside down and is involved in a rapid process of Westernization because of the American Occupation, artists responded. Tatsumi Hijikata, who is regarded as the architect of butoh, and Kazuo Ohno, who is regarded as the soul of butoh, believed that the forms of classical dance in Japan could not respond to the suffering and darkness that surrounded them. So, instead of releveing up in ethereal ballet or dancing in the pristine noh or kabuki dances of classical Japan, Hijikata and Ohno gnarled their fingers and toes, dropped the center of gravity, and reveled in an earth-bound squat; they created butoh, which appropriately means “the dance of utter darkness.” Butoh was awarded this name after Hijikata’s first performance in 1959 when a Japanese dance critic said that the movement looked like an obscure image within the womb.

Ironically, Kazuo Ohno, who is still alive and dancing at age 102, and is a committed Baptist, likens the dancing stage to the mother’s womb. He believes that dance is only valid in so much as it is spiritual and that dancing is a way for our bodies to unite with their original source: the darkness of the womb.

So, last week, as I sat seriously in worship, I pondered these interesting connections, I thought about how butoh came into my life 2 ½ years ago and how the thought of its darkness and gnarled movements didn’t interest me at first. As a “sacred” dancer, I’ve always reveled in the “light,” the joy of Christ. But my time with butoh has been a lot like my time in Advent. It has taught me that the darkness is not a scary place to be…and if it is, then that’s ok. Life, like faith, isn’t always sunshine and pretty roses. Advent isn’t about sunshine and pretty roses and neither is butoh.

And spending time in the darkness of Advent, or in my case the darkness of butoh, teaches us how to appreciate even the smallest of light. It also teaches that there is a time for darkness in our lives. Hijikata and Ohno remind me, ironically today on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, that we live in a world where suffering abounds. And leaping around with a smile on my face is not an adequate response to this suffering. Butoh dancers revel in this darkness… not in a self-loathing way, but in a manner similar to Advent. You cannot appreciate the birth of light in the world without first spending time in darkness, without first gestating in the womb. And as butoh philosophy contends, the purpose of the dance is to move in and swallow the darkness. So, revel with me in the darkness of Advent, in the darkness of the night sky, in the preparation for birth, birth which brings us a little light of peace, a little comfort.

The Girl Before a Mirror

A Shell Ridge Sermon by Rev. Angela Yarber (preached 2/25/2007)
First Sunday of Lent--Gifts of the Wilderness: The Gift of Life
National Eating Disorder Awareness Week

Text: Luke 4:1-13 Jesus’ Temptation in the Wilderness

"Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, “If you are the Child of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

Let’s be honest. The question we’re all wondering: was Jesus on the Atkins diet? “One does not live by bread alone.” Was it the insatiable need to count carbs that led Jesus into the wilderness, escaping the temptation of sandwhiches, pita pockets, tortillas, and sourdough bread bowls? Or was bathing suite season lurking just around the corner and Jesus wanted to retreat into the desert for forty days of “hot yoga,” certain that the sun, heat, and plow position, combined with utter starvation, would burn off those extra unwanted pounds?
Sacrilege! Blasphemy! Jesus didn’t struggle with such things! How dare we apply our contemporary struggles, our American and privileged concerns onto the Christ, Jesus, Messiah, Co-Sufferer. Jesus wasn’t concerned with such things…was he?

Today we enter into the season of Lent, a time when we remember Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness: 40 days of fasting, heat, temptation, and perhaps fear. At Shell Ridge we are focusing on the Gifts of the Wilderness in the days to come, a time when we recall our own days in the desert, what we learned there, what we needed there, and what provided strength there. Have you ever been in the wilderness? Do you recall spending time in the desert? And, no, I don’t necessarily mean the literal desert or wilderness, though trading stories of camping and hiking is something I love to do. I mean those metaphorical times in the wilderness, the symbolic days in the desert. What did it feel like? Were you hungry, hot, tired, tempted, and a little afraid? What was it that gave you strength during those dry days, your symbolic stream in the metaphorical waste land? We’ve all had our times in the desert, and so did Jesus. Perhaps it was a time when you lost your job, or went through a divorce, or moved far away from family and friends, or watched a loved one suffer and die. These wilderness times are hard and often painful to remember. But we’ve all had our times in the desert.

This morning I would like to share with you some of my wilderness time. Like your time in the desert, it was hard and often painful to remember. One of my heroes in homiletics, Barbara Brown Taylor, describes preaching as “spiritual exhibitionism,” where you lay it all on the line, when you are spiritually naked in front of eager and hungry hearts. And so, at the risk of “baring it all,” so to speak, will you journey with me into the wilderness? It may be hard, painful, or uncomfortable. As we journey, however, remember that we do not brave these desert roads alone: we are on this path together and have a Co-Sufferer by our sides.

Today is, not only the first Sunday in Lent, it is also the beginning of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. Did you know that 80% of women in America struggle with a sub-clinical eating disorder? This may not be a word with which you are familiar; we hear about anorexia and bulimia and binge eating and over eating, but what’s a sub-clinical eating disorder and how on earth do the majority of Americans have it? You see, a sub-clinical eating disorder is when an individual is constantly worried about food, eating, appearance, calories, exercise—when food and appearance consume one’s thoughts. For me, this notion is best illustrated in Picasso’s painting Girl Before a Mirror. I remember looking at a picture of Picasso’s painting with a child. The child said that there are two girls in the picture. Interesting: the title is Girl, not Girls, Before a Mirror. One girl. One reflection. But her reflection does not really seem to mirror what she looks like, does it? Rather, the girl, like 80 % of American women, looks into the mirror and cannot clearly see her reflection, but a distortion of it—one that is not pretty enough or skinny enough or good enough. Perhaps the girl Picasso was painting compared herself to all the models that grace the covers of magazines, or television, or movies. Perhaps the girl before Picasso’s mirror looked at her reflection with tears in her hungry and wanting eyes and wondered, “Why can’t I look like _______?” Maybe she was struggling with Body Dysmorphic Disorder. At one point or another we’ve all been Picasso’s girl, Picasso’s person before a mirror, where our eyes could not see our reflection clearly, but instead saw one that was less than, worse than, unworthy to see beauty reflected in the mirror. Such was the case for the majority of my adolescent years.

I’d like to share a story with you, a story that stems from one of my days in the wilderness. A story of a time when I was convinced, like Jesus, that “one does not live by bread alone.” Once upon a time there was a college cheerleader named Angela. Now before you pass judgment on this chipper cheerleader, allow me to elaborate. She was not your typical cheerleader—ditsy and airhead were not a part of her vocabulary. She was actually a star student. 4.0 in the religious studies program. That’s right: religious studies. Not only was the cheerleader a good student, but she was a youth minister at a local church, leading bible studies, mission trips, and camps for teenagers. I suppose it’s safe to say that this cheerleader was an oxymoron. However, despite her paradoxical tendencies to defy stereotypes when it came to the brains or morals of the typical cheerleader, this college student found herself struggling with her reflection, much like Picasso’s girl before a mirror. She had always been a dancer, gymnast, and performer, living her life in a leotard…surrounded by mirrors…on stage for all the world to see…every flaw visible for critique. So, maintaining weight was always an issue for the college cheerleader. In fact, she’d battled anorexia for many of her middle and high school years. But now she found herself in college: studying to make straight As, serving as a minister at the “wise” age of 20, and battling to balance on the quivering hands of her bases that threw her tiny body into the air in cheerleading stunts. The smaller you are, the higher you fly. So, the I cheerleader counted calories and exercised, aware that her 5’5” frame probably did not need to weigh so little. To make matters worse, the cheerleader was a perfectionist. As a performer, her life was always on display and her new-found faith taught her to imitate Christ, to be perfect as her Heavenly Father is perfect, to deny herself, take up her cross and follow Christ. And so, she did. Perfectionism and self-loathing are recurring idioms in disorder eaters. Like the female monastics that lived hundreds of years before her, she denied herself, took up her cross and followed Christ.

In Michelle Lelwica’s stirring book, Starving for Salvation, she quotes a young anorexic’s words, “The whole life is like you are carrying a cross—something heroic, something that is very difficult and demands admiration. I felt [that] doing something that was not hard was quite inconceivable; it would be lazy and despicable.”

So, the cheerleader took up her cross and followed a path that led only to emptiness, hurt, hunger, and a countless number of emergency room visits.

On game day, the squad was required to eat a meal before the game. “You can’t cheer on an empty stomach,” coach said. So, the college cheerleader polished off 6 Saltine crackers and a glass of water. Like, Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror, she stood in front her reflection, running her hands over her bony ribcage and protruding hipbones. She did not see an emaciated body staring back at her, but instead saw arms that needed toning, obliques with too much fat, and a waistline that could use some more sit-ups. She saw a hypocrite: “how can I preach to my youth that they are made in the image of God, beautiful and beloved, and struggle so much with what I see? I am not worth the space my body takes up. Furthermore, I am succumbing to patriarchal and materialistic trends that I find oppressive. Why won’t this go away? A girl who was raised in the projects was not made to deal with such a privileged problem. This is my choice, my disorder. Just make it go away,” she thought. So, as she did after every meal, the cheerleader retreated to the bathroom to hold back her hair and force her finger down her throat. When she was finished she brushed her teeth, smoothed out the pleats on her uniform, wiped the tears from her eyes, and smudged cherry-red lipstick across her mouth. As she gathered her thoughts before walking to the gym, she glanced over to her dorm room bed to see her Greek homework laying unfinished and sighed at the thought of post-game studying. She closed her notebook, and reached for her Greek New Testament. And the words of Ephesians 2:10 caught her eye: αυτου γαρ εσμεν ποιημα. “You are God’s workmanship, God’s ποιημα.” This word for “workmanship” in Greek is the word ποιημα from which we derive our English word for poem. You are God’s poem, Angela.

The college cheerleader returned to the bathroom, reopened her cherry-red lipstick and scrawled across her mirror in large letters: αυτου γαρ εσμεν ποιημα, promising herself and the God who created her that she would get help for her disorder. Strength in the wilderness. A stream in the desert of disorder.

You are God’s workmanship. One day, God wrote a beautiful, magnificent poem and titled it Katy, Greg, Eliot, Maura, Willis, Frances. As an artist creates a masterpiece, imbuing each detail with handiwork and care and intentionality, so God has created each of us. God’s fingerprints are all over you. Whether you see your reflection in the mirror and smile, or whether you look, like the Girl Before a Mirror, and see a distortion of that reflection, God looks at you and cries out, “If you could only see yourself through my eyes, you would marvel at the sight.”

So, one does not live by bread alone…but a little bread sure does help.

During this time of year, let us be mindful of those who may still find themselves in the desert. Let us remember that there are those in our world and perhaps here in this place that are struggling in the wilderness, even today. May we be a people that offer streams in dry lands. May we be a church that provides strength in the midst of heartache. If you are in a dry and hungry place, we invite you to take heart. Here is a place where you may find refuge in the wilderness. Here is a place where the living water never runs dry, no matter your situation in the desert. The road may not be easy, but it is one that we commit to taking together. And as we walk hand in hand along these desert pathways, let us remember that One has gone before us and walks beside us still, giving hope and peace and strength for the journey. During this season of Lent, let us be refreshing agents of hope in wilderness, a source of rest in the desert. During this week, may we be mindful of the concerns of struggling men and women around us, who look at their reflections, like Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror, and are unable to see the beauty with which they are created.

As Tony Morrison reminds us in her novel Beloved, may we learn to love our flesh, no matter how others perceive it. As Cele proclaims in Alice Walker’s novel turned musical, “I am beautiful!” And even as pop icon Christina Aguillara sings, may we recall that “we are beautiful no matter what they say.” You are beautiful, beloved, and worthy in the wilderness and in the promised land. As the one who created us and sees us wholly tells us, “you are made in my image and that is good.”
Amen.