Was it worth it?

A sermon by Greg Ledbetter, Third Sunday of Easter, May 8, 2011

Matthew 5:21-26 // Concerning Anger

21 ‘You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, “You shall not murder”; and “whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.”²²But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, “You fool”, you will be liable to the hell of fire. ²³So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you,²⁴leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. ²⁵Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. ²⁶Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny.

Matthew 5:38-42 // Concerning Retaliation

38 ‘You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” ³⁹But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; ⁴⁰and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; ⁴¹and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. ⁴²Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.

Matthew 5:43-48 // Love for Enemies

43 ‘You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” ⁴⁴But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. ⁴⁶For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax-collectors do the same? ⁴⁷And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? ⁴⁸Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

SERMON: Was It Worth It?

The Lanyard - Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly

off the blue walls of this room,

moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist

could send one into the past more suddenly—

a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp

by a deep Adirondack lake

learning how to braid long thin plastic strips

into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard

or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,

but that did not keep me from crossing

strand over strand again and again

until I had made a boxy

red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sick room,

lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,

laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,

and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,

and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,

which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,

strong legs, bones and teeth,

and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,

is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,

but the rueful admission that when she took

the two-tone lanyard from my hand,

I was as sure as a boy could be

that this useless, worthless thing I wove

out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

(from “The Trouble with Poetry” by Billy Collins (2005))

I have both a confession and a glad admission to make. As the offspring of a deeply conscientious mother who has NEVER forgotten a birthday or anniversary, my confession is to the shameful number of years that this son failed to send a gift or a card to the one who gave him life—though I have always called. The glad admission is that this year I remembered, with Jan’s help, to purchase a card, sign it and mail it in time for the postal service to deliver into my mother’s stunned and amazed hands. I’m sure that makes up for all the years of oversight and neglect.

As we variously honor “mothers”, we naturally find ourselves also honoring mother figures ... I’m thinking just now of dear friends, Meg and Bill, a couple from my first pastorate. If I wanted to name “other mothers”, that is, loving, nurturing, mothering figures, these are two who would be near the top of my list. So important were they, that this past February, I drove through a near blizzard across the state of Vermont to the New York border so I could spend, literally, only ten minutes with Meg, the widowed wife of this couple.

There are many things I remember lovingly and warmly about Bill and Meg. In addition to the many wonderful meals we enjoyed in their simple home, one of the things I remember best is their police radio. It was a radio scanner that monitored all of the public emergency frequencies. As it scanned through the frequencies, it would stop on channels where there was any activity ... any talking. As police spoke to each other or their dispatchers, and as the volunteer fire and emergency medical response crews received and made calls, all activity and conversation in Bill and Meg’s home would cease for a moment while all ears tuned into what was being said. And then they’d respond to what they’d heard: “Uh oh, there’s been an accident down to Route 30.” “Hmm, that sounds like Michael picking up that call.” “Say I think they’ve picked up Clay and Edna’s grandson.” In many ways, Bill and Meg were defined by the steady crackle of that radio and its reporting of the urgencies that were all around, all the time. I used to poke fun at them for being addicted to that police scanner, and while they smiled and laughed, they never denied it.

I’d say on a much larger scale, we—the public—are pretty much the same. We have become addicted to the immediate ... addicted to what’s happening now. I think that addiction is, in no small part, one that has been quite intentionally fostered and deepened by the medias’ need to sell newspapers and TV advertising. All forms of media are fighting for their lives, and so they do all they can to lure us and snare us ... to grip us and hold onto us. That’s how the old newsroom axiom came to be as editors sought to increase readership and viewership: “If it bleeds, it leads.”

Increasingly, world news has become “media events” and increasingly we seem defined and seem to mark our lives by the occurance of these events. It’s not unusual to ask the “Where were you when ...” question. Where were you when Kennedy was shot ... Where were you when King was shot ... when the first man walked on the moon ... when the planes hit the towers.”

I’ve read a couple of historical novels recently about mediaeval times and I was reminded about how slowly information traveled, how long you could remain ignorant of major world events. Today we are gripped by “moment by moment”, “heartbeat by heartbeat” accounts of what is going on. We watch tornadoes as they twist through farmlands and suburbs ... we watch the waters of tsunamis rise and advance inland wreaking terrible havoc. And it’s not just the tragedies ... if you arose early enough on a recent Friday morning, you could watch William and Kate emerge from Westminster Abbey and kiss, not once, but twice on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.

To what extent, I have to wonder, are our thoughts and days defined by what the media tells us should be on our “mental plate”. What should grip us and hold us?

Many of us have felt something between disgust and nausea over the amount of press time given to the whole Barry Bonds fiasco. It is times like these that it is easy to feel manipulated by press overkill—though I have to say, that if one resists turning on one’s television, you get a lot more say over what goes into your head and what gets loaded onto your mental plate.

And, of course, there are certainly some events that we should not ignore ... events that have import and significance for our lives and our world. I think of an event like the earthquake last year in Haiti where the shameful poverty of that nation was exposed to the world. And, I’d like to think that reducing the world’s ignorance of the plight of the poor anywhere is a first step in helping the poor everywhere.

It was 19 years ago that many of us were glued to our TV’s as LA exploded over the outcome of the trial of the police officers who had beaten Rodney King. Ever since, we’ve known that outburst as “the Rodney King riots”. It was, I think, some of the greatest racial tension our country had known since the 60’s when Watts exploded and burned.

You may recall that the rioting was not restricted to LA. A demonstration swept across the Cal campus in Berkeley. It spilled down through Berkeley until it reached the Bay Bridge where traffic and protesters stalled and mingled for several hours. I was driving away from a pastor’s meeting in Berkeley and I was literally the last car on Interstate 80 driving south when the protesters breached the highway and shut down traffic. To this day I have chills when I recall looking in my rear view mirror and seeing no cars behind me ... only people streaming across the highway like human river that has breached its banks.

There were many of us who watched these events unfold locally and in Los Angeles who felt that there were “messages” in these events that could not be ignored. One of the messages had to do with the continuing challenges around race. The riots were triggered when four white police officers were acquitted of brutally assaulting an unarmed black motorist, even though there was a 10 minute video of the event for all the world to see. As the riots raged, tensions grew, among people, between African American residents and Korean shop owners in Los Angeles. The racial tensions spread in many directions. The helplessness and the marginalization of the poor, African-American residents of central LA helped fuel the anger and the outbursts that raged, like the fires, for several days.

Watching on our TVs from a safe distance, many of us yet felt the pain of poor, minority peoples who felt, yet another time, the insult and injury of injustice. The natural response of several local congregations was to get together ... and to talk about this ... what it meant ... where it was going ... what our wider response might look like. We talked about our neighbors across the hill in East Oakland and the flats of Berkeley. We used phrases like: “we are our sisters and brothers’ keepers” and we wondered about the degree to which we had helped create or sustain injustices near or far. And out of that talking we discovered that we shared a reluctance to just wring our hands in despair from afar and we discovered that we share a desire to make a positive difference where injustice and racism and poverty walked hand in hand.

Now I must tell you that it was at those conversations in late April of 1992 that I first met a woman who has become, in the years and miles since, a very dear friend--though it must be noted that we do have lovers’ quarrels from time to time. There is a quote by the French aviator and writer, Antoine de St. Exupery that fits well my sense of my relationship with my friend. St. Exupery said: Nothing can match the treasure of common memories, of trials endured together, of quarrels and reconciliations and generous emotions. This could also, of course, be said of spouses, friends and fellow church members. Now this friend was, at the time I met her, if my math is correct ... hmm ... a spritely 71 years old. It was 19 years ago. If my math is correct, that would make that friend ... hmm ... 90 years old ... today. And Dorothy, dear and trusted friend, we’re not done ... the road still goes on ... we have, you and I and all of us together, here, miles to go before we sleep. Keep talking and walking and don’t you grow weary. And don’t you let us grow weary.

Let me return, for a moment, to that instinct that drew us together ... the instinct that serious public cataclysms demanded serious thought and serious conversation. The thought and the conversation were necessary pre-cursors to action. We had to speak aloud together our instincts and values born of our lives and our faiths. We represented various elements of the broader Christian community and were by no means identical in our thinking or values. But we valued sharing what we knew and believed. I like that instinct ... to talk and think BEFORE responding or reacting.

I’ve always deeply, deeply regretted our nation’s reactive response to the terror attacks of September 11, 2001. The first public words to come of out our leaders mouths were ones of anger, enmity and revenge. I do not remember a single thoughtful introspective word or thought that came from those who would lead and guide us through this new crisis. Only anger, enmity and revenge. We are nearly 10 years removed from those tragic events of 9/11. We know the approximate cost in dollars and heartbreak of the terror attacks. The cost was enormous ... staggering. I can only wonder, in the spirit of the prince of peace, what the total cost, in dollars and heartbreak, of our national reaction to those attacks, that reaction borne of anger, enmity and revenge. Take 9/11 and multiply by ... what? ... 10? 100?

And now we’ve ... yes, “we’ve” killed the master mind ... mission accomplished. Has it been worth it? Have the ends justified the means and the dreadful costs along the way? Does the death of this man in Pakistan vindicate all the white crosses on a hill not so far away? And does his death vindicate the 10’s and maybe 100’s of thousands of innocent civilians who had the misfortune of standing in the way of our manhunt.

What if, following the horrors of September 11^th, we had declared a national month of mourning which would include a moratorium on any rash reactions by our government. And what it following that month of mourning we had committed ourselves, leader and citizen alike, to another month or even a whole season of discerning, with wisdom and compassion, the course and the days ahead. And what if in that time of discernment we had allowed the mountain top preaching of our own rabbi to filter into our thinking ... a rabbi who had some very important things to say about anger ... and enmity ... and revenge. That these things, unchecked anger, unhealed enmity and an unquenchable thirst for revenge are utterly antithetical to a life well lived and a world that has any hopes of one day seeing itself at peace with justice.

What if ... what if ... what if.

A colleague has written these concluding thoughts with their deep, deep resonance with the words and, I believe, the spiritual heart of Jesus. I offer these words in the spirit and in honor of my own mother who taught to me that the only viable way forward in my own life and in the life of this terrible wonderful world is in the footsteps of the Prince of Peace. And I offer these words in honor of my own very favorite close at hand peacemaker, Dorothy Vance.

The Only Sermon
by Andrea Ayvazian

if we dug a huge grave miles wide, miles deep
and buried every rifle, pistol, knife, bullet, bomb, bayonet,
if we jumped upon fleets of tanks and fighter jets
with tool boxes, torches
unwelded them dismantled them turned them into scrap metal
if every light-skinned man in a silk tie said
to every dark-skinned man in a turban
I vow not to kill your children
and heard the same vow in return
if every elected leader agreed to stop lying
if every child was fed as well as racehorses bred to win derbies
if every person with a second home gave it to a person with no home
if every mother buried her parents not her sons and daughters
if every person who has enough said out loud I have enough
if every person violent in the name of God were to find God
we would grow silent, still for a moment, a lifetime
we would hear infants nursing at the breast
hummingbirds hovering in flight
we would touch a canyon wall and feel the earth vibrate
we would hear two lovers sigh across the ocean
we would watch old wounds grow new flesh and jagged scars disappear
as time was layered upon time would slowly be ready
to begin.

May we one and may we all yearn, pray and work for that new time ... that new beginning ... that new day ... the day of God’s Shalom: peace with justice for one and for all.

Amen.

Believing beyond seing

Once there was a jellyfish named Joshua. Joshua the Jellyfish. Have you heard this story? Well Joshua was a very peculiar jellyfish. But maybe to understand why Joshua was peculiar you first have to understand a bit about jellyfish. Jellyfish are pretty simplistic as creatures go. They do not have any senses other than touch. They cannot see or smell or taste. They travel in packs called “blooms.” They float around in the ocean, eat plankton, usual stuff.

So one day Joshua was floating around in the ocean and thinking, which is hard for a jellyfish because they have no brain, when he rubbed against one particular jellyfish names Thomas. “Hello who’s there?” asked Joshua.

“It’s me Thomas”

“Oh, Hey Thomas. How’s life?”

“Oh, you know,” replied Thomas. “Same ole same ole. Floating around trying to find plankton. Trying to stay away from the surface.”

“I heard that,” replied Joshua.

The surface you see was a very dangerous place. A jellyfish could be taken by a wave and washed ashore. Or worse, it could get caught in a net and be taken to certain death. The surface was not to be messed with. Jellyfish were constantly trying to figure out how to stay away from the surface, which was difficult for the them because as I said they had no brains. Joshua continued, “There has to be a better way to figure out where the surface is.”

“If you find it let me know,” Thomas replied.

“Actually I have been thinking about it,” said Joshua, and this is where the peculiar part comes in. Joshua said, “I think that there is a way to detect differences in places and objects without having to feel them. I think there is a way to know where the surface is from far away.”

“How?” Thomas asked.

“Well,” continued Joshua, “If we could develop a sensor that monitored these differences from afar, then we could tell where the surface was. And we could avoid it.” Joshua concluded.

“I seriously doubt that anything like that is real,” Thomas said. And he floated away.

But that did not stop Joshua. He continued to think about this theory. He came up with names for his concepts. He called the phenomenon: light and the difference in the light: colors. He called the detection concept: seeing. If only he could see the light he thought. Then he could tell the difference between the water and the dangerous surface.

Joshua told everyone he met about his concept. He told the jellyfish in the bloom and the young jellyfish developing in the coral reef. Some would dismiss him like Thomas did. Others believed even though they too could not see.

After a long and prolific life, Joshua died, but his ideas lived on. Each generation told his story and shared his concepts. And eventually after many, many years something remarkable happened.

A jellyfish was born that could see the light.

This jellyfish was named Jenny. Now, you may not have heard of Jenny because you are not jellyfish. But if you were, you’d know she is legendary. Jenny was made with tiny sensors that could tell the difference between light and dark. She could tell that the surface had more light than the depths. She directed jellyfish away from the surface and all those who followed her were spared the surface’s harsh consequences. Jenny was the first jellyfish to have sight. She laid many eggs and had many children all of whom could also see the light. After many generations, all jellyfish could see the light. As a side note, many years later, evolutionary scientists, you know those people who study creatures, would conclude that Jenny was the first creature in the whole planet to have sight.

Now I ask you, who is more remarkable: Jenny who was born with the ability to detect changes in the visible light spectrum, or Joshua who believed in it without seeing?

Believing without seeing. This was a concept that Jesus taught so many years ago. It is what we call faith.

This brings us to our scriptural story, the story we fondly title “Doubting Thomas.” This account is actually two parallel stories. In the first one the disciples (minus Thomas) are locked in a room and without opening the door, Jesus appears among them. That is a good trick. Jesus says, “Peace be with you.” Then, He then breathes in them the Holy Spirit. Another amazing moment. And then He commissions them to go into the world with the power to save, to forgive sins. That’s 3 great things: A miraculous appearance, a holy transference, and an important (one might even say great) commission.

By all accounts the story should end here. But it doesn’t. One of the disciples was missing. Thomas! Where was Thomas? Maybe he was out on a wine and fig run. We don’t know. Now at this point, you have to try and put yourself in Thomas’ shoes. He comes into the room and the other disciples are telling him that Jesus, the man that he saw die, is alive again. What’s more, they have seen him. How would you feel if you were Thomas? Upset? Sure. He missed it. It is like showing up at a party after all the cake is gone. Total bummer.

Or maybe he felt like the others were putting him on. That’s understandable. It seemed impossible. And of course, Thomas’ skepticism was perceived as doubt. Poor guy. He makes one doubt and he is dubbed Doubting Thomas for all of history. I think it is a bit unfair. All he is asking is for the same kind of proof that the other disciples got. Shouldn’t he deserve that much?

Perhaps you identify with Thomas and his skepticism. Well here is the thing: I think that you are supposed to. I think that is why it was added. Why else would the authors tack on this episode to a perfectly complete disciple story? What is the point of telling the story again?

Well, I’ll tell you what think. I think that the author of John was trying to address issues in their audience. Issues of doubt. Because they, like Thomas, like us today, did not get the pleasure of seeing Jesus when the disciples did. We sit with the skepticism and doubt that Thomas sits with. So when Jesus does appear to Thomas, we are to pay close attention. Jesus says, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet come to believe.” This is a good lesson for Thomas, but since he then gets to see Jesus, this lesson is really for the benefit of us, and our doubt. We are the ones who are blessed for our belief. We are the jellyfish waiting for the light. We are the ones for whom faith is so important.

What does it mean to have faith? What does it mean to believe without seeing? I think that we can take a cue from First Peter. For First Peter faith is not something that we follow mindlessly or without reason. Rather it is a belief beyond what we can perceive. It talks of a birth into living hope. A world that has yet to come. A future that has been promised and has yet to be realized. Faith presses onward. It moves forward from generation to generation as “An inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading.” Our faith does not die with doubt but is strengthened to move forward.

But as we look deeper at the audience of First Peter, we can see that this progress does not come easy. They face trials. They face suffering. Perhaps even suffering until death. But for them death is not the end. Nor is it for us. For ours is a not a story that ends in death. It is a story of rebirth. Of renewal. Of resurrection.

First Peter concludes this thought by saying, “For you are receiving the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.” For him, faith ends not with a blind hope but with salvation. That is a very loaded word: salvation. What to do with it? We could narrowly apply it to sins, and use it for the purpose of separating the saved from the unsaved but I rather like what Theologian Paul Tillich does with it. He claims that salvation comes from salvus which means healthy or whole. If salvation is thought of in this way, it is not something that lies far beyond us, but rather something that we can encounter every day. Every time we do something to heal another’s pain, salvation is there. Every time we seek to correct an injustice, salvation is there. When we move toward progress, when we strive toward wholeness, when we live toward a future where persecution is no more, where peace is the goal, where equality and support thrive, then we are living in salvation.

But seeing this future is not easy. Believing in the unknown is difficult. Just ask Thomas the apostle or Thomas the jellyfish. It takes tremendous courage to think beyond what you know. It takes faith. I will leave you today with a reading of Patrick Overton’s poem, “Faith”:

When you have come to the edge

Of all light that you know

And are about to drop off into the darkness

Of the unknown,

Faith is knowing

One of two things will happen:

There will be something solid to stand on or

You will be taught to fly”

When Jesus told Thomas that he needed to stop doubting, perhaps he was really talking to us. He was giving us something solid to stand on, his hands, his feet and his side. But he was also teaching us to look beyond what know. To put it another way, he was teaching us to fly.

Breathless

Fifth Sunday of Lent

Scripture: Ezekiel 37:1-14

Sermon: Breathless

It was four summers ago that I experienced what, for men, is thought to almost rival the pain of child-birth. I gave birth to a stone that was ... was ... about this big (indicating quite a small size). When mild morning discomfort gave way to discomfort that bordered on the extreme, Jan did a stint as an Indy car driver and got me to a distant Tennessee hospital in record time. I was quickly wheeled into the emergency room on a sleepy Sunday morning and then everything but the pain seemed to slow down. A young doctor strolled into the ER yawning and picked up the clipboard. “You’re Mr. Ledbetter?” he asked. “Yes” I said through gritted teeth. Words were becoming a luxury at this point. “I’ve known some Ledbetters” he said. I tried to nod pleasantly. “So what seems to be the problem?” he asked blandly. “It hurts ... real ... bad ... right ... here.” I said through gasps of breath. I pointed to my side where it felt like something was trying to burrow its way out. “Hmm” he said, puzzling over this information. “Hmm” he said again. By this time I am literally—not figuratively, but literally—writhing in pain on the examination table. “Hmm” he said a third time. “Mr. Ledbetter,” he asked, “on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest, could you—“ he paused thoughtfully, thinking I would appreciate this opportunity to participate in my own diagnosis, “—rate your pain?” I don’t quite remember my response, but I don’t think it was ... numerical.

Has this happened to you? Have you been asked to “rate your pain”? And did it fit neatly on a scale of 1 to 10? And in thinking about rating our pain, I found myself wondering if mental health professionals ever ask their patients to rate their emotional pain? “Mr. Ledbetter, I know you’re frustrated and discouraged, but on a scale of 1 to 10, just HOW frustrated and discouraged are you?” Perhaps there’s a new angle for mental healthcare.

So ... how DO you “describe” emotional pain? How do you describe Bewilderment? Loss? Grief? Desolation? Hopelessness?

Perhaps simple words won’t do. Perhaps a picture is needed ... a visual representation that makes words unnecessary.

Years ago, when I was a young pastor in New England, a frightened mother brought her teenaged son over to the parsonage and asked him to show me a drawing he’d done recently. Reluctantly, he pulled a drawing from a binder and held it in front of me. He was obviously a skilled young artist. His drawing showed, in great detail, all kinds of horrible violence being done to the subject of the drawing which, he admitted, was himself. Like his family, he was a young man of few words, but his drawing spoke volumes of the extraordinary pain he was feeling within himself.

This seems to be where we find the prophet Ezekiel in this morning’s reading. Ezekiel is a prophet who speaks to the nation of Israel in a time following crushing losses and the exile of many of its people to far-distant lands. We’ve made a huge leap in a couple of weeks time. We had been journeying with the children of Israel as they wandered in the wilderness following their triumphant escape from slavery in Egypt. Under the leadership of Moses, they slowly made their way to the promised land ... and were slowly shaped into a people worthy of their calling and worthy of the gift of the land.

In time, the people entered the land, established themselves, and were transformed from a wandering band of refugees into a nation ... the nation of Israel. King David was the first ruler of the unified northern and southern kingdoms ... and wise King Solomon succeeded his father. But the nation that should have remained the crown jewel in its creator’s crown became complacent and corrupt. They forgot their humble beginnings, they forgot how they were slowly forged into a people of God, they forgot the lessons of the wilderness, and they forgot the God who had shaped and guided them.

As they became complacent and corrupt, they also became highly vulnerable to being overtaken by their powerful neighbors. First the northern kingdom fell, then the southern kingdom and the city of Jerusalem and its temple along with it. Jerusalem and its Temple were the most obvious symbols of God’s favor, God’s blessing. When the city and the Temple were destroyed by invading armies, Ezekiel was among those deported to what is modern day Iraq. It is in that land, far from the place of his birth and far from the place of God’s promise that Ezekiel speaks his prophecies to the fallen people of Israel.

They had once had everything. Now they had nothing. No land. No promises. No faith. No future. No God.

Could you please try and “rate” your emotional pain?

Standing among the exiles, Ezekiel gives voice to the mood and the feelings of his fellow exiles. But the pain and the loss are so deep, that mere words will not do. Ezekiel describes what feels like a visionary trance ... in his vision, the Spirit of God takes Ezekiel to a desolate valley ... desolate like the people are desolate. But the desolation is deeper than that. It’s not simply a barren valley, but a barren valley full of bones ... dry bones ... the dry bones of “the whole house of Israel.”

It’s hard to imagine a more powerful way to portray hopelessness than this bleak vision of the prophet. And we do well not to move to quickly through the vision ... to allow ourselves to stand alongside Ezekiel and wordlessly ponder the immensity of loss, the enormity of grief, the deep and hollow hopelessness of a people who had lost so much that now it seemed they had lost the very future itself and the God who makes futures possible.

Ezekiel’s vision has “connected” with people over many, many generations ... paintings and literature and music abound with references to Ezekiel and the valley of dry bones. Perhaps you, like I, grew up singing the old slave spiritual “Dem bones gonna rise again.” It was a fun song to sing around the campfire at church camp, but it pointed to a real experience of slavery and the desolation of those whose future had been robbed from them.

Jan and I have just driven by Donner Lake in the high sierra as we have many times over the years ... and I don’t think there’s a single time I have gone by Donner when I haven’t thought of that band of travelers stranded in the snow during a winter very much like this winter. The chill in the air I feel as I drive by Donner is not winter so much as it is the lingering hopelessness of a people who fear that their future has disappeared and their lives soon along with it.

Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you? I remember as budding 6th grade football star getting blocked by what must’ve been the biggest kid in the state. I sailed backward a good distance and when I landed on my back, every bit of breath was knocked out of my lungs and I thought I was going to die right there on the grass. I didn’t die, of course, but it felt like I was going to.

When you get the “wind” knocked out of you ... there is what feels to be an interminable period of time before finally, with a gasp, breath is drawn into your lungs ... but for a while it feels as though you will die ... but you don’t, it only feels that way ...

Ezekiel’s community is down for the count ... there is no breath within them ... and they feel like their end is near. And Ezekiel offers this extraordinary graphic depiction of Israel’s “breathlessness”. But Ezekiel’s calling as a prophet of God wasn’t simply to give voice to the pain and desolation of the people, it was also to give voice to the presence and the promises of God.

In his vision, God commands Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones: “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord!” He prophesies to the dried bones of his people that God’s breath will come upon them, reconnect them, and give them new life and new hope. The breath and the wind that had been knocked out of them is about to reenter them and with the reanimating breath and wind and Spirit of God there also comes a new sense of “future” ... the future is no longer closed off, dead and dried. Ezekiel prophesies of a future that can be seen from the valley of dry bones.

In many ways, the story of the valley of dry bones is a story of learning to breathe again. It is a story of finding ourselves flat on our backs with no breath and no future. But the story doesn’t have to end there. For a powerful reanimating breath is available to those who will trust the days ahead, and trust that the Spirit of life that is God is more powerful than our despair and is able to create new futures out of dried bones.

In the middle East, in the midst of what must feel like suffocating realities, some of Ezekiel’s descendants are trying to breathe new life and hope into the seemingly hopeless pain of the ancient conflict between Jews and their neighbors. I’ve just read an email from one such descendant of Ezekiel’s who works hard to bring together different faith groups so as to encourage dialogue and understanding and new respect. He describes a December meeting of women on both sides of the ancient conflict. They visited one another’s homes in Galilee and enjoyed dessert and conversation. One of the Jewish women described Hanukkah to the others, they all lit candles and then they prayed together for a better future for everyone in their region.

Descriptions like these feel like new whispers of breath coming into flattened lungs ... and with the whispers of breath, hints of a new future that is brighter than the shadowed time in which these women now live.

The Spirit of God which can create new futures out of old dried bones seems to blow the strongest in community ... in our gathered times. It is when we light candles of hope together and breathe the same air as we pray for one another that the Spirit of hopeful futures seems most lively and present.

Perhaps what we need are more classes on “breathing” and “birthing”. As we think of the church as it seeks to take its rightful place in helping create new futures in our world, we could do worse than to think of ourselves as a “breathing and birth class”.

When we were preparing for the birth of Jordan—a quarter century ago this Tuesday, we attended birthing classes. And I’ve forgotten most of what I learned in that pre-natal class, but what I do remember is that the moms-to-be were taught how to face the coming pain of labor by learning to breathe properly and we birthing partners were taught how to coach them in their breathing.

Isn’t that a pretty good image of our role as peacemakers as a church and as hope and future builders with one another as we encounter some of life’s devastating times? Learning to breathe and learning how to coach others to breathe.

Sometimes we are the ones who need to catch our breaths and need the coach of a loving friend ... and sometimes we will be called upon to coach another who needs to catch their breath.

Long ago I described a college retreat where we considered the story of the paralyzed man who was taken to Jesus by four caring friends. Jesus pronounces the man’s healing by saying to him: “pick up your bed and walk.” It’s a hopeful declaration that announces new hope and a new future for that man. It was akin to saying, in today’s context: “Breathe, breathe, breathe.” We were then encouraged to speak that word to one another and I remember as well now as the day it happened my friend getting on his knees in front of me, taking my hands in his, looking me in the eye and declaring to me: “pick up your bed and walk, sucker.” It was my friend Steve who better than anyone in my life knew my own struggles and trials and paralysis. He was saying in effect: “You’ve had the wind knocked out of you, now breathe and stand and walk into a new future.”

In an ironic shift of time and circumstance, it is to Steve’s wife and now his widow that I have said more times than I can count over the past few months: “Breathe, Polly ... breathe.” And I can only hope and trust that the encouragement to “breathe” and her courage to continue breathing will help open up a new future for her and her two children.

The life and future giving Spirit of God is as inexorable and true as the growth-full powers of spring that calls forth new life into barren branches, puffs latent buds to blossom, and calls to a living fruitfulness what might have once been called a valley of dry bones.

Dear friends, let us not forget how to breathe in the life-returning energies of the one whose life and love cannot be overcome by death ... and let us not fail, when we, like Ezekiel, are called upon, to coach another to find her breath ... his breath ... our breath ... our hopeful future.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Amen.

Sustained

Fourth Sunday of Lent

Psalm 23

The Divine Shepherd

A Psalm of David.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley,

I fear no evil;

for you are with me;

your rod and your staff—

they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord

my whole life long.

Sermon: SUSTAINED

Many of you likely know LeDayne McLeese Polaski ... she is the program coordinator of the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America. She preached here a month ago or so following the peace fellowship’s board meetings that we hosted. Recently I saw references on LeDayne’s Facebook update to “boot camp”. Now that’s a pretty odd reference for someone who helps direct a peace organization. I dropped her a note about this expressing my curiosity ... it turns out that it’s an exercise class ... a very rigorous and demanding exercise class ... it’s exhausting, but, I guess, also exhilarating.

Life can be like an ongoing boot camp, don’t you think? A boot camp that strips you, disorients you, leaves you panting with thirst ... but it can be exhilarating as well.

Lent is kind of like our annual “spiritual boot camp” ... it challenges us ... puts us to the test ... it invites us to draw on whatever inner reserves we have. And it can exhilarate us, all the same.

Lent is a season where we consider a bit more plainly some of the challenging conditions and questions of existence. What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to live on this earth? What does it mean to inhabit this unique body of mine? What does it mean to suffer? What does it mean to live in relationship with people who are so terribly imperfect ... just like me?

In the past three weeks of Lent, we have used the weekly lectionary texts to suggest some of the challenging conditions of life and living that we encounter on this winding journey we call life: the condition of being naked (that is: being stripped and vulnerable, yet finding grace) ... the condition of being lost (that is: leaving behind the familiar and losing our way, and finding new ways)... the condition of being thirsty (that is: naming the parched and fearful places within, and then discovering Jesus’ water of life). Painful though they can be, these challenging and sometimes painful conditions can be a means to spiritual growth and the deepening of our lives and faith. As one of my Lenten authors has said: “pain makes theologians of us all.”

Naked, lost and thirsty are only a few of the many challenging conditions of body and soul that we encounter along the way. It is to say, in part, that the journey of life is exceptionally “REAL”.

I have a close friend who has been living with prostate cancer for 20 years now. For a good number of those years his PSA count was so low as to almost declare the cancer gone. Almost. Recently his PSA levels began to rise and he and his physician decided it was time to get stern with the disease once more. For the past 8 weeks, my friend has been receiving daily radiation treatments ... nearly a hundred zaps each day from a machine that he has named “the Beast”.

My friend is a retired pastor who has heard it all and seen it all. One of the things he has decided he has seen too much of is “spiritual pablum” ... that is, inspirational drivel that too many of his friends and former church members send him that seem to him to trivialize life’s challenges and struggles and pain. Recently he decided to start his own blog with a few like-minded friends. In an introductory statement at the top of the blog, he expresses the reason for the blog this way:

He says: Sometimes, we grow weary of the inspirational stuff we receive over the Internet and long for something a little more personal, something that reveals the struggles, hurts, and doubts that occur in our lives, something that is “Skin Horse real.” “Skin horse real” is the name of his blog. He goes on: “Skinhorsereal” is an idea we borrowed from The Velveteen Rabbit, a wonderful fantasy story written by Margery Williams. In her story, the Velveteen Rabbit asks the Skin Horse, who had been around for a very long time and was very wise and rather beat up, “What is real?” The Skin Horse answers that when someone loves you for a very long time, that’s when you become real. This blog exists for this purpose.

I want to suggest that Lent ... this season of recognizing our nakedness and lostness and thirst is a season of seeking to become “skin horse real”.

VELVETEEN RABBIT by Margery Williams (this starts at the point when the Skin Horse and the Rabbit are talking)

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

When we are naked and know our nakedness, when we are lost and know our lost-ness, when we are thirsty and know our thirst ... it is then that we become most vulnerable to LOVE and most vulnerable to God ... and it is then that we become most capable of becoming FULLY HUMAN and FULLY ALIVE to use that wonderful phrase from St. Irenaeus. Irenaeus said that “the glory of God is a human being fully alive.” Or ... to use Margery Williams’ word: REAL.

I want to suggest that the writer of this morning’s psalm—Psalm 23--is one such human being. This anonymous psalmist is, I believe, a devout and sensitive soul who knows his own nakedness, lost-ness and thirst, and knowing these things has become profoundly aware of God’s great care for him in the midst of these things. In the midst of life most challenging conditions, the psalmist has come to a deep awareness of the overriding condition of God’s love ... God’s sustaining love. Naked ... lost ... thirsty ... and sustained.

I think the people who have touched me the most deeply as a pastor are those who can name their pain ... and name the one who yet sustains them. I think of Katherine Crow who has lost two adult daughters in the past few months. I think of my old preacher friend Bill Coffin who lost his son in an automobile accident. Preaching ten days after that tragic loss, Bill said to his congregation: “God may not protect us in the ways we’d like, but God sustains us in the ways we need. I have been sustained,” he said. “I have been upheld.”

In the back of the church I pastored in Vermont so many years ago there is an enormous painting of Jesus, the good Shepherd, on the back wall of the sanctuary. It’s probably a copy of an original, but in this painting Jesus is at least twice life-size. It’s HUGE. Every single sermon I preached in that place was preached looking the good Shepherd in the eye. What I remember best about that painting is that Jesus has a baby lamb slung over his shoulders ... a lamb that he has loved and rescued.

It is just that sense of God that the psalmist speaks in the 23rd Psalm ... loved and rescued by the God who seeks to love and rescue all ... loved and rescued by God who abides with us when we are naked and lost and thirsty ... loved and rescued by God who will never leave us and who seeks ever and always to nurture and sustain and uphold us.

We recently celebrated the life of our dear 105 year old friend, Sue Smith. Sue is one of the great souls of which I speak who had known both the losses and pain that life can bring as well as God’s faithful, abiding, sustaining presence.

At Sue’s memorial, I read a paraphrase of the 23rd psalm that brings the words and the heart of the psalmist even closer to my own heart and life and faith. I close with these words and offer them as a prayer. Let us pray:

God you are my constant companion.

There is no need that you cannot fulfill.

Whether your course for me points

to the mountaintops of glorious ecstasy

or to the valleys of human suffering,

You are by my side,

You are ever present with me.

You are close beside me

when I tread the dark streets of danger,

and even when I flirt with death itself,

You will not leave me.

When the pain is severe,

You are near to comfort.

When the burden is heavy,

You are there to lean upon.

When depression darkens my soul,

You touch me with eternal joy.

When I feel empty and alone,

You fill the aching vacuum with your power.

My security is in your promise

to be near to me always,

and in the knowledge

that you will never let me go.

Psalms/Now, Brandt/Kent, Concordia Publishing House, St. Louis 1973

Amen.