A Sermon the Sunday after September 11, 2001

For the Facing of This Hour

Romans 8:26—39

September 16, 2001

(Sunday after the terrorist attack upon the World Trade Center Towers and the Pentagon)

P. Randall Wright, D.Min.

Fernwood Baptist Church

        I once heard about a weekly newspaper called “The Kingfisher.”  It came out each Friday in the little town of Kingfisher, Oklahoma.  An old Kiawah Indian woman named Molly Shepherd wrote a weekly column.  She told about some of the customs and news and activities of her people.  She wrote in a simple, broken English sort of style.

        On the Friday following the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, Molly Shepherd wrote a brief article.  Here’s what she wrote.

        Molly has no article today…  Molly has no words today…  Molly has nothing to say today…  All week Molly walks around in the house and says, “Ooooooh…

Ooooooh… !”1

        Since Tuesday morning, September 11, most of my prayers have been like that.  Oooooh…ooooooh…

When I had to stand before you and pray something intelligible, I guess I was able to do so.  But in the private moments my prayers have been more like what Paul says about the Holy Spirit’s intercessions for us. …we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words…

(Romans 8:26).

        Have you found yourself doing a lot of sighing this week?  Or maybe the sounds that come when you wish you could pray are more like moans.  These, too, are prayers.  And they’re good enough for God.  After all, if the Holy Spirit uses sighs too deep for words to intercede for us, then certainly God hears our sighs and moans as well.

        I’ve said it before…that sometimes we preachers preach because we have something to say.  Other times we preach because we have to say something.  Today, I suppose I have to say something, but I find I’m like the physician right there beside that huge pile of rubble in lower Manhattan.  Some news person was trying to get this weary doctor to describe his feelings.  He said, “Words fail.”  Sometimes they do.

        But thank God we can sigh and moan and purse our lips and shake our heads and repeat what the good doctor said.  Words fail. Prayers don’t, however.  Prayer is language of the heart.  Prayer is need finding a voice.  Prayer is feelings felt and sorrow sighed and disbelief expressed.

        In another place in Romans, Paul uses a word for prayer that fits for these days we’ve experienced and the days ahead.  Paul was on his way to Jerusalem to take an offering to the poor.  There were unbelievers there, and Paul felt threatened by them.  He was asking the Christians in Rome to pray for him. (Romans 15:30)

        What is most unusual in Paul’s appeal is the word he uses for prayer.  There are many words used for prayer, but this one is significant.  You’ll recognize it even if I say it in Greek, which I will.  Hey…I studied it for three years; I might as well throw some out every now and then.  Here it is.  Agonitzo.  (repeat)  Agonize.  Paul puts a little prefix in front.  Soon.  The prefix means “with.” Soonagonitzo.  Agonize with me. (Note: these are “phonetic transliterations” for the sake of pronouncing the Greek).2

        That’s what the literal Greek means.  Agonize with me.  In the NRSV, it’s translated “join me in earnest prayer.” Agonize with me is stronger.  Maybe better.  At least more linguistically accurate.

        The agon was an arena.  Like the arena where the gladiators fought to the death.  The agon was the amphitheater where there was conflict, struggle, wrestling, fear, pain, and anxiety.  So Paul was saying, “Christians, please, soonagonitzo.  Agonize with me.  Enter my arena of anxiety and fear.  Wrestle with me in this conflict and struggle.  Agonize with me.

        Our prayers these days may just be sighs or moans or the “ooooooh’s” of Molly Shepherd.  Certainly our prayers these days are born out of the agony we all feel.  Who says prayer has to be made of words?  Most are, but they don’t have to be. 

        However, if you need a prayer made with words, I have a suggestion.  It came to me by way of the hymnal.  Harry Emerson Fosdick wrote the hymn.  We just sang it a few moments ago.  The prayer is simply,

        Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.

        You and I know that the wisdom some pray for is the wisdom to find the perpetrators of these horrendous acts of terrorism so we can summarily kill them. And do it quickly, and do it regardless of innocents who may die.  But others pray for the wisdom to know that evil begets evil and is only finally overcome by good.

        We know that the courage some pray for is the courage to stand up to this evil and overcome it with force. Others pray for the courage to not only find justice, but to be merciful.

        See how agonizing prayer can be? Maybe that’s why Paul urges us to recognize that we don’t know how to pray as we ought.  Maybe the prayer from the hymn will be enough for now.  It is for me.

        God, grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour. 

        Or maybe Molly Shepherd prays it best.  Ooooooh.  Ooooooh.  Ooooooh.

        Amen.

---

1 From Fred Craddock’s lecture #5 of “Passing the Peace,” the Raney Lectures, delivered at Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church, Little Rock, Arkansas, 1982.

2 Ibid.

The Christ Between Me...

I am at once both thieves

With the dying Christ between—

Each one of me stretched tight, near naked,

Exposing the dying my living has brought.

One of me robbed my inheritance,

And spent it wildly, leaving no flicker of regret,

Which the breath of the One between

Could warm into flames of repentance.

So let this cross do what it must

To return me to the dust

From which they say I came,

For at least, I concede, I am to blame.

As I hang dying, the other of me

Forces from my memory a whisper of sadness,

Sighing with remorse to be

Remembered by the One between.

My sigh of sorrow meets his breath of grace,

And I know that his memory includes me

Among those who will live in spite of their dying,

Who will live because of his death.

So, with the dying each day brings,

Let me repent of my thievery

And rise from the sweet death of sleep

With a reawakened memory

Of his dying for both of me.     

All Her Exes Were Not From Texas

All her exes were not from Texas.  They were most likely from her home town of Samaria.  All five of them. I’m thinking of this Sunday’s (March 27^th) Gospel lesson—the encounter at the well between Jesus and the Samaritan woman.  Many remember this story and the meta-communication as Jesus and the woman talked.  She came for water; Jesus offered her water, but not the potable kind.  I think she finally got it, but she kept the verbal game going.  And so did Jesus, until her thirst was quenched.

I once stole a sermon about this story from Dr. James Forbes.  Well, I re-imagined his thoughts and spun my own story about the woman’s return to Samaria to tell about this most amazing rabbi, Jesus, “…the man who told me everything I have ever done.”

She went back to Samaria, and the first person she told about her encounter with Jesus was her first husband.  They were so very young when they married, and he was so very cute.  But she found that “cute doesn’t last.”  And she wandered…and wandered…until the marriage eroded, and she left her cute husband for someone cuter.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, sought forgiveness and understanding from her first husband, still cute, but with thinning hair and a bulging middle.  “He forgave me; he accepted me.  Will you?  I’m so sorry, but we were so young and immature.  Please forgive my unfaithfulness.”

Although it was painful for her, she located her second husband.  There were many bad memories…many.  He had seemed so mature, kind, and understanding.  The first time it happened, she brushed it off.  Just a bad day.  He simply lost control.  It really didn’t hurt that much.  A glancing blow with some minor bruising.  But it happened again and again and again.  Finally, she summoned the courage to leave him.  She would not be abused again.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, wanted to forgive her second husband.  “He forgave me.  I forgive you.  Will you accept my forgiveness?”

Her third husband was quite old by now.  He was much older than she when they married.  She had been abused. This time she wanted to be taken care of, and he had the means to do so quite well.  Although there was quite an age difference, his money made up for it.  Yes, why not, she thought…why not marry for security and money and the comforts money can buy?  But he got older, and soon the money didn’t make up for whatever it was she was missing.  So…she left him, and through some sly manipulation took a lot of his wealth with her.  As she approached him, he barely recognized her with his failing eyesight, but he remembered her voice.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, begged the elderly ex-husband’s forgiveness.  He gave it freely.  They both rejoiced.

She was not surprised to learn that her fourth husband was on his third wife.  He seemed so sincere and committed when they married, but she began to sense the distance between them.  She tried to stay close, but he drifted farther and farther away.  All the way into the affections of another.  So, she left him.  And she had never forgiven him for his unfaithfulness.  But it was different now.  She, now forgiven and understood, wanted to forgive her fourth husband.  “I forgive you.  Whether you need my forgiveness or not, I forgive you.  I, who am forgiven, forgive you.”

She finally found her fifth husband.  Since their divorce, he had tried to keep to himself, avoiding the inquiring public.  When they married, he was kind, understanding, warm.  He listened to her, and he accepted her failings and limitations.  She thought it odd that he didn’t seem interested in physical affection, but she never insisted.  It became no real surprise to her when he confessed that although he had a male’s body, that was about all.  He left her for another man.  Although not surprised, she suffered public humiliation.  She needed to forgive all three of them for not being honest.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, said to her gay ex-husband, “He accepts you as he accepts me.  Just as you are.  He expects nothing of you but to consider his acceptance. He welcomes you into his presence and his life.”

And, as the scripture records, “Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, ‘He told me everything I have ever done’” (John 4:39).

Bumper Sticker Theology...

Surely someone has already written the article or the book about the theology of bumper stickers.  But I remember one I saw many years ago.  Stopped at a traffic light, this is what I read on the bumper sticker on the car in front of me:  Watch out for the idiot behind me.

Immediately, I looked in the rear view mirror to see about whom the bumper sticker was referring.  Then I realized that I was the one being referred to in the message.  Watch out for the idiot behind me.

Well…sometimes I do things that may be judged as idiotic.  Like trying to make something out of silly bumper stickers.  And sometimes I say things which may sound like idiocy.  When I was a pastor and worship leader, I remember saying something like, “Let us pray together this morning.”  If “us” pray, then we will be praying together. And if we pray then, we will be praying that morning.  What a waste of words! 

So, I’ve said and done some foolish things, but I’m not an idiot.  The bumper sticker was wrong.  But it may have something to say anyway.

What if the bumper sticker said, Watch out for the person behind me?  Now that might make some good sense.  In what ways am I watching out for myself?  Are you watching out for yourself?  Watch out for yourself. Now, that’s some good advice.

Taking care of ourselves.  We all need to strike a balance between taking care of others and taking care of ourselves.  Sometimes it is more blessed to receive than to give.  What do you need to receive?  Maybe a word of affirmation that you’re basically a good person.  Well, you are!  And so am I.

Maybe you need to receive self-given permission to take a break from whatever it is you need a break from.  Relax.  Do nothing for a few hours.  Don’t just do something; sit there.

Or maybe what you need to hear from yourself or what I need to hear from myself is something motivating.  Don’t just sit there; do something.  Get up and get moving.  Take a walk.  Get your heart rate up.  Take care of yourself or someone else.

Watch out for the idiot behind me.  Got my attention. 

Giving Up Lent for Lent...

Several years ago my good friend told me what he was giving up for Lent, the forty days of spiritual preparation before the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus.  He decided to give up three C’s…Chocolate, Caffeine, and Cigars.  He did it.  From Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday, he gave up three of his addictions.  I applauded his decision and his discipline.  He’s the authority on his cravings and how they affect his spiritual well-being. 

In addition to the spiritual benefits of asceticism, I know my friend also saved some money.  He doesn’t drink grocery-store swill disguised as coffee; he doesn’t eat the processed muck packaged and peddled as chocolate; and, he doesn’t light up machine-rolled stogies that pass for real cigars.  He has class, my good friend, and he’s taught me much about the enjoyment of the good things in life. 

I once gave up radio-playing while driving during Lent.  I learned that there’s plenty of music without the blaring of an automobile audio system.  Another Lent I gave up frustration…or I tried to give it up.  My failure to do so led to more frustration, which is a damnable thing that probably has more negative effects than some luscious Belgian chocolate or an occasional hand-rolled cigar.  But, I confess that I’m not very good at giving up something for a set season.  I simply don’t have the stuff to give up stuff during the season of Lent.

If I did have what it takes to give up something for Lent, and if what I give up is something that distracts me from pondering the mysteries of Christ’s Passion, which is one of the reasons to observe Lent, then why should I give up this distraction for only 40 days, leaving the other 325 days vulnerable to my distraction?  If it’s good enough for Lent, it’s good enough for Ordinary Time, the longest season of the Christian year.

Really…I’m not giving up Lent for Lent.  I am giving up a familiar notion of Lent—that it’s a time to give up something.  Lent might be a time to hold on to something.  “Put it behind you,” someone says of whatever it is that interferes with whatever doesn’t need interference in one’s life.  “Let it go” is another simple, clear, easy…and wrong piece of advice for the complexity of letting go.  “Move on,” pop advice teaches, but sometimes there are too many pieces to pick up and just plant somewhere else.

Rumi, the Persian poet, wrote “This Being Human,” which begins, “This being human is a guest house; every morning a new arrival…”  This wise bard teaches me to welcome and attend every visitor, even if a meanness or depression or sorrow or regret or difficulty comes knocking at my door.  Greet these visitors as a way to welcome my humanity—not fearing them, not putting them behind me or letting them go or moving away from them.  This is radical hospitality.  Faces of my humanity are not my enemies.

If I let some fear or distracting habit go, it may return to haunt me.  If I put something behind me, I can’t see it…and I can’t trust it not to attack me from behind.  If I give up a trait or trial that has seemed to dog me all my life, or try to, then I lose control.  If I move on to leave some trouble behind, I may end up a nomad. No…I want to hold these bits of my humanity.  Not tightly, as if to strangle them. I waste energy trying to kill off these daily travelers. I just want to hold them, look at them, and view them from all angles and in different shades of my temperament.  I want to keep them gently in the palm of my being and befriend them. 

After all, these daily visitors to the mansion of me are what give me individuality and uniqueness.  When the guests pop in for an unexpected sit, the measure of my hospitality is the measure of the condition of my soul.  Welcome, meanness…you’re not so mean after all.  Come on in, jealousy…you’re not looking so green this morning.  Well, look who’s here, another addiction…I have just the spot for you.  Regret, it’s you again…well, come on in; you know where your place is.

So…this Lent I’m not giving up anything.  I’m not “letting go,” “putting behind,” or “moving on.” This Lent I’m going to enjoy my home and ruminate upon Rumi.  I’m practicing radical hospitality.  I’ll welcome all the old friends and kin to my house called “Being Human.” 

Leaning...

I love browsing around in music stores looking at guitars.  There’s nothing like the cedar-like smell of a brand new one.  If I’d spend as much time practicing my guitar as I did looking at new ones, I’d be a much better player.

One day I was in a local music store looking at and strumming a new guitar.  The salesperson and I fell into conversation.  We agreed that a fine instrument only gets better with age.  The wood cures and mellows out, and the tone just gets richer and better.

Then the guy told me something I’d never heard.  He said that if you took a new guitar and leaned it next to a stereo speaker—with the sound hole facing the speaker—the guitar would cure and mellow out much better.

Never heard that before.  Could be just an old guitar player’s tale.  But it does make sense.  The vibrations of the sound coming from the speaker might have something to do with how the wood of the guitar begins to age.  If I ever buy a new guitar, I’ll certainly take this man’s advice. 

There’s a fairly new guitar maker who uses the wood from old pianos for his instruments.  I hear they are fine instruments.  All those keyboard vibrations, aging and curing the wood, just may have something to do with the superior quality of these guitars made from the old pianos.

It occurs to me that if we leaned a person new to faith up next to an older or wiser person who vibrates with the love of God, the new believer would grow much better.  There are some believers whose faith just seems mellow and rich and vibrant.  Why not lean up against them and listen and learn?  I think the popular way to say it is “mentoring.” 

Against whom are you leaning?  I ask myself that question sometimes. Is there someone you could spend time with who could help you become mellower in your faith?  I think of many from my past who have let me lean on and learn from them. The communal nature of my faith and church gives me the opportunity to lean on many wiser and more mature believers.  Such leaning has enriched my life.

I also wonder about those who might lean on me.  Am I strong enough to hold them up?  Am I the kind of person others might want to learn from or grow by? There have been some humbling and holy times in my life when another has leaned on me.

The refrain of a great old hymn says, “Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms; leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” I suppose we could all use some eternity to lean on.  There are some everlasting truths that will prop us up when we’re tempted or discouraged or weak.

So, whether it’s aging guitars or maturing persons of faith, the early influence of vibrant sounds helps us make good music.

Dusty Chins...

Lent looms on the horizon.  When I was a pastor, I typically included a confession of sin in the order of worship during Lent.  Recalling that practice, I turned in my concordance to “confession.”  There it was in Leviticus 16.  It’s about the annual Day of Atonement when the priest followed an ancient ritual to atone for a year’s worth of the people’s sinning.

In one detail, Aaron lays his hands upon the head of a live goat and confesses over it all the sins of the people.  The goat, bearing all these sins, is led away to the wilderness of Azazel.  The “scape-goat” carries away the sins of the people. 

 

Poor beast!  Can’t you see it?  A skinny, old goat—his chin making tracks in the sand because his head is so heavy with sins.  The sad creature wanders around in the wilderness until it croaks and along with it a year’s worth of sins.  PETA would protest this literal scape-goating.

Wouldn’t it be nice if getting rid of our sins were that easy?  Find an old goat, load up the sins, slap its backside, and send it and the wrongdoings off to die. And think of the goat breeders!  They’d get rich.  I do believe there are more sins than goats to carry them. 

The fact is, while getting rid of our sins might not be easy, easing the guilt of them is much easier than loading it on a goat’s head.  Changing ways to avoid certain wrongdoings is hard, hard work.  The disciplines of holding my tongue, resisting temptation, easing anger, avoiding lust, diminishing envy, starving gluttony, denying addictions…the list goes on…are disciplines that take time, prayer, and patience.

However, receiving God’s forgiveness for my numerous sins is much easier than rounding up a scapegoat, literal or figurative.  All I need to do is tell God I’m sorry and ask God to forgive me.  When I become aware of or am confronted with my sinning, I can pray to God for mercy and know that my sin will be removed.  As the Psalmist says, it will be removed from me as far as the east if from the west.

We’ve replaced the Leviticus atonement scapegoat. She tempted me, he enticed me, the advertising was too aggressive, I didn’t read the warning label, I didn’t think anyone would notice, I wasn’t responsible at that time, my parents didn’t praise me enough, the devil made me do it …again, the list drags on.  I think I need to work hard to avoid those scapegoats. When we take personal responsibility for our sins, God is slow to anger and quick to forgive.

Is your chin dusty?  The burdens we bear weigh us down and can cause us to drag through our personal wildernesses.  But you know what?  They don’t have to.  If we insist on dragging around our burdens, it’s our own insistence that becomes another form of sinning.  No one is so good at burden-bearing that God’s help is not needed.  No one’s burdens are so heavy that God can’t lift them.  No one’s sin is so bad that God can’t forgive it.

A Little Pre-Lent Fun...

Here's a little ditty I wrote.  I dedicate to all my aging friends.

Shock of Aging  
(Sing to the tune of “Rock of Ages”)

Shock of aging, mercy me!

Need to find a place to pee.

Seems it happens more and more,

Searching for the men’s room door.

Barely made it, just in time.

Ah…the feeling is sublime.

Shock of aging, this will pass.

Damn, I hate this frequent gas.

Eat some roughage is the word.

But this diet is absurd,

‘Cause it makes me swell and bloat,

Then I stink just like a goat.

Shock of aging, cross my heart,

Never, ever, trust a fart.

Thought it had to do with smell.

That’s not it, I’m here to tell.

Trust me; heed this sound advice,

And you’ll keep your undies nice.

Shock of aging, what a thrill!

Men will need a small, blue pill.

Women will support the cause,

Free at last from menopause.

Shock of aging, never fear.

Grant me, Lord, another year.

Lights and Left Hands...

The Gospel reading for February 6^th was from Matthew 5 when Jesus uses salt and light as examples.  His sermon includes, “…let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”  Preach on, Jesus!  Light it up, Lord!

I like to be in the limelight!  The attracting glow of the spotlight looks good on me!  It lights up all my wonderful qualities, and the shadows it creates even hide my dark sides. I like the spotlight.  And sometimes I like being the spotlight itself, so I can shine on others just like me, so we’ll all get noticed.

Oh…well…yes, I realize that God gets the final curtain here, but let me bask a bit in the hard-earned glory.  After all, it was I who visited the sick, gave to the poor, lifted up the broken-hearted, encouraged the weak…and all those other glorious good gestures.  This little light of mine…dang right I’m gonna let it shine!  I like being seen and appreciated and valued.  I like my name in the list of donors for all to read and then to praise my selfless good work of measurable benevolence.  I want the IRS to do an audit-free double-take at my cash contribution itemization. 

No one can view my inner condition, so why not let all gaze upon the outward expressions?  This little light (hell, it ain’t all that little) of mine (it is mine, after all), I’m gonna let it shine.  Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

But then the juxtaposing Jesus turns right around and takes the luster right out of my shining.  He pulls the stage-light plug.  Just as he’s getting wound up in his sermon, he says, “But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” (Matthew 6:3), and he drones on about being secretive about my giving. Try being secretive about cash contributions with the IRS.  Deductions are good; I deserve them.

Since I’m left-handed, I suppose this teaching doesn’t apply to me.  Scripture dodging is so easy!  I write checks with my left hand in full view of my right hand.  Gotcha there, Jesus.  See what happens when you’re prejudiced against us lefties?

Let your light shine so that others may see…  Do not let your right hand know what your right hand is doing.  Make up your mind there, rabbi.  Don’t straddle the fence; it can cause spiritual hernias.  Let it shine, or keep it a secret?  I don’t like to give up the glory.  I would like some encores.  The stage is mine.  I want the final curtain…

Deported, again and again...

Pat Conroy and I are from the same home town.  I regret he never had the pleasure of meeting me, though; we came from different neighborhoods. Pat (I use his first name because of home-town solidarity) said in his new book, My Reading Life, that self-doubt is his country of origin.  I discovered his state, town, and neighborhood by reading all of his books.  It didn’t take long to realize we were neighbors. We never met, because we lived across town from one another.  But we are, indeed, from the same home town, and we’ve tried to leave it many times.

In fact, I’ve spent thousands of dollars trying to buy my way out of my corner of the country, state, county, and town called “Self-Doubt.”  Therapists, pastoral counselors, and spiritual directors have tried their best to deliver me from my origins, but, like an old mule at the end of the day, I turn toward the barn to munch on the same old bread of toil and settle down in the comfort of the familiar, because I just can’t seem to find a place in the land of certainty.

Each time I try on my own to leave my hometown, I pack my bags and strike out in a new direction determined to settle down in a new place.  But this baggage is so damned heavy.  It’s stuffed full of empty confidence, a weak ego, low self image, feelings of unworthiness, and fakery.  I just can’t drag my luggage very far.  So, I usually just lug the baggage back to Self-Doubt and plan another escape.

Sometimes, though, I buck up and haul my stuff as far as I can get, right up to the edge of the new world.  But I usually get caught at the border.  My documentation is examined and found to be false.  My credentials are incomplete. My disguise is detected. My cover-ups are exposed.  The authorities see through the façade, and all agree that I need to be sent home.  Deported, again and again…

I’ve worked hard on the cover-ups—the proofs that I can amount to something.  I found some measurable ways to prove myself and get the attention off my past.  Eight marathons.  A black belt and Master status in the martial arts.  Five completions of the Assault on Mt. Mitchell, one of the top-ten toughest one-day cycling events in the country.  How can one who doubts himself accomplish these feats?  If I can’t be strong on the inside, then by God I’ll show you how strong I am on the outside.

Go to your strengths.  I’ve heard that bit of confidence-building wisdom.  But I couldn’t claim, much less depend on, my strengths, so I went to my weaknesses.  Martial arts taught me that.  I never could kick very high, which takes strength and flexibility.  So, I went to my weakness and kicked low.  There are lots of vulnerabilities below the belt, so I was able to survive.  But I never could kick quite high enough to suit me or to look like a real martial artist.

However, there are strong fronts to every weak side.  If you baptize a lack of assertive self-confidence, you get humility, and that’s a Christian virtue most people admire.  Self-doubt can be seen as being shy, and being shy can be cute and endearing.  Not wanting to be around people because you feel inferior may be interpreted as being an introvert, and, clinically speaking, introversion can be transformed into an appealing life position, because introverts are thought to be thoughtful, sensitive, and creative.  One with a low self image doesn’t feel worthy enough to look out for— much less promote—oneself, but this self-deprecation might be taken as being self sacrificing, another Christian virtue.

But at the end of the day or accomplishment or season of life, I usually retreat to familiar comfort of my home town of Self-Doubt, where the best I got for the best I could do was “that was pretty good.”  And whenever I thought I might be able to succeed at something and receive desperately-needed approval, I retreated under the fire of “you can’t do that.”

Maybe I can slip past the border to escape the country of self-doubt if I let down my defenses and not try so hard to look like a defector.  But the border guards are too perceptive.  They can see through false fronts and fakery.  No matter how convincing the documentation looks, the authorities will find me out.  They can spot a humble heretic. Fake self-sacrificing can’t slip by their seasoned gaze.  Unnatural bravado gathers too much attention from those who detect it right away.

Thomas Wolfe’s George Webber is right.  You can’t go home again.  But…who wants to, anyway?  Or who needs to?  Home is always with me.  My country of origin tracks me like a drug-sniffing dog.  So, I’ve finally decided to be at home with my frequent deportations.    

One God...

When I was a kid growing up in church, I was taught that there is one God.  My pastors and teachers helped me learn this worthy lesson.  We called God “He” because of the convenience of language rather than its accuracy.  We all knew then as we know now that God made us in His image, male and female, He made us.  That’s what it says in the opening pages of the Bible.  So, even though we knew God is both male and female, we were okay with calling God “He.”

Later, as I went through school, I learned that my belief in the one God, whom I’m comfortable in calling the “Heavenly Father,” is called monotheism.  I learned that “mono” means one and that “theos” and its derivatives mean God.  I learned that since I believed in monotheism, I was a monotheist. 

Also, I learned that believing in more than one God is called polytheism and not believing in God at all is called atheism.  I knew back then what I know now.  I’m a monotheist.  I’m not an atheist, and I’m not a polytheist. 

Being such a believer in monotheism, I really don’t understand when I hear someone say, “Well, they (referring to another faith group) worship a different God than we do.”  I get a little confused when I hear another preacher say something like,  “Other faith groups don’t believe in the same God we do.”  If other faiths worship other Gods, then does that mean there is more than one God?  No one ever taught me that way.  I just can’t be a polytheist.  There is only one God.

So, if there is only one God, I suppose that means that all peoples of all faiths believe in and worship that one God.  Obviously, all the different people of faith understand God differently, create different systems of beliefs or theologies about God, have different sacred writings about God, worship God in different buildings, and experience God in various ways.

It really gets complicated and sometimes ugly or even deadly when people of different faiths start arguing about their version of the one God.  “My God is better than your God” kind of thing.  I’ve often wondered how God feels when he hears those He created arguing about Him—even killing each other over Him.  I think God must get really, really sad.

I’ll always be a monotheist. I think what that must mean, for me anyway, is that since there is only one God who created everyone on earth, then all these people, regardless of how they understand or experience the one God, are my kinfolk. And I was always taught that it’s better to love your kinfolk than to argue with them.

A Case for Vexation...

  

One definition of “vexation” is…the state of being provoked to slight annoyance, anxiety, or distress.  I get vexed when I read Ecclesiastes 1:18.  For in much wisdom is much vexation.  And those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.  I’ve heard others say, “Well, I guess I’ll just be dumb and happy…”  And I remember hearing, “Back then, I was young and dumb.”  If wisdom comes with age and brings vexation, keep me young and dumb.  If the more I know the sadder I’ll be, keep me dumb and happy.

But I’m not young, and I still like to learn.  In fact, popular wisdom encourages aging ones to keep minds active, and active minds are minds increasing in knowledge.  Yet, the Bible says that my rewards for gaining wisdom and knowledge are being vexed and sad.  No wonder the Bible is the least-read best-seller.

But it’s true.  The wise person, having gained wisdom mostly from experience, gets slightly annoyed by the “young and dumb” know-it-alls.  Arrogant ignorance which spouts opinions not cluttered with information saddens those who have studied well to increase knowledge

There’s another level of vexation and sadness, however.  There are times when my wisdom (again, gained mainly because I have experienced sixty-three and one-half years of life) intensifies personal vexation when I do or say something stupid.  “You know better…” my parents used to say.  And I do.  I am wise enough to know better than unwisely to do or say something that results in vexation over my own stupid behavior. So, it is true…in much wisdom is much vexation.

When I increase self-knowledge, I increase the possibility for sorrow.  I’m saddened when I realize I’m not as wise and smart as I think.  When I know that I know better but do stupid things, my awareness of stupidity intensifies because I really do know better…and I know it!  Self-sorrow is a sad state.  Yes, I agree that those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.

Given the choices…well…I really don’t have a choice.  I’m not young and dumb any more.  I’m vexed and sorrowful.  But the good thing is that since I’m vexed and sorrowful, I’m also wise and smart.                                                               

Weak Knees...

Many years ago, I visited the sanctuary of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama.  You may remember that on September 15, 1963, a racially-motivated bombing took the lives of four innocent black youth as they prepared their Sunday School lessons on a Sunday morning at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. 

High on the back wall of the sanctuary I viewed a dramatic stained glass window (pictured above). The dedication plaque informed me that the window was a gift from the people of Wales, replacing the window that was shattered during the bombing.  In an expression of sympathy and concern, the people of Wales raised the funds and commissioned artist John Petts to design the window.

The leaded-glass window is in various shades of blue and is a somewhat abstract rendering of the Crucifixion.  The dark-skinned figure of Jesus, with a burdened head bowed toward his right shoulder, is superimposed on what is obviously a cross.  At the bottom are the words, “You Do It To Me.”

As I looked more closely, I noticed that several sections of the stained glass were bulging at a particular place. I had learned that this bulging happens when the heat of the sun softens the lead between the panes.  Also, the horizontal bracing of stained glass windows sometimes doesn’t bear the weight of the sections. 

The bulging was at the knees of Jesus.  I stepped back and saw the body of Jesus stretched out in the form of the cross.  His bulging knees seemed to be giving way under the burdens Jesus bore. I almost felt the weight. It was the weight of racial hatred and violence. It was the weight of the vulnerability of Jesus, who gave himself fully and completely to God.  It was the weight you and I feel when we try to live like Jesus did.

Are your knees sagging? Under what burdens do you feel you are giving way? Personal concerns or stresses?  The heaviness of grief or sadness or guilt?  Missed opportunities or bad decisions or broken relationships? 

The writer of Hebrews admonishes “…lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet” (Hebrews 12:12). People of faith have the resources of their faith to strengthen weak knees. Maybe we should ponder those mysteries—the weight-bearing resources of faith.

January 17, 2011, marks another remembrance of the life and message of Martin Luther King, Jr.  His knees, weakened by the burdens he bore, buckled for the last time on April 4, 1968, when he was murdered for his stance against racial violence.  He had a dream…

Guardian or Steward...

It seems that people of faith generally position themselves in one of two groups.  One could be called the “Guardians of Orthodoxy.”  The word “orthodoxy” means “right belief,” so the guardians of orthodoxy guard or protect what they consider right belief.  Call the beliefs doctrines, distinctives, creeds, or statements of faith.  Whatever else they may be, they are theological lines in the sand beyond which the guardians and the adherents will not step.

            Sooner or later emerge those who are chief among the guardians of orthodoxy.  They might be called theologians, dogmatists, popes, bishops, or the ordained.  These chief guardians station themselves along a precept perimeter to defend the doctrine. Those inside the prescribed perimeter who begin to inquire about issues beyond the perimeter are quickly corrected.  If they, in fact, step over the theological line in the sand, they might be called heretics, apostates, extremists, or unbelievers.  Persistent inquiry beyond the perimeters of orthodoxy might result in expulsion from the group.   Such expulsion has been called excommunication, “churching,” or “turning out.”

            Persons who are outside the guarded fence lines of “right” belief may be called pagans, infidels, the unchurced, or the unsaved.  If they agree to the right belief of those on the inside, they are allowed to become adherents; if not, they are doomed.

            While guardians of orthodoxy might be needed, the big question is this: Who defines what is right belief?  A fundamentalist Baptist in south Alabama would draw her lines in the sand very close in, while a liberal Episcopalian from Boston might draw his lines in wider, more inclusive arcs.  A modernist believer from California will have vastly different belief perimeters than a traditionalist believer on the East coast.  Who defines orthodoxy?  Who sets up the belief perimeters?

            Well, I don’t know who defines orthodoxy.  I know how I define it for me, but another’s faith statements will be different.  The danger and the temptation is that we begin to argue about the orthodoxy and miss a deeper relationship with the One about whom we formulate our beliefs.  Or, worse, as we debate orthodoxy, we forget orthopraxy—right practice.  In other words, we behave badly while arguing about what is right and wrong belief.

            While I don’t have a final answer to the dangers of being a guardian of orthodoxy, I have found a more satisfying way to live my faith.  I choose to be among the second group of believers.  Rather than being a guardian of orthodoxy, I’m trying to be a “Steward of the Mystery,” as the Apostle Paul admonished the Corinthian Christians.  

The Mystery is…well…I don’t really know, because if I could define the Mystery, the Mystery would no longer be a mystery. I can say that I have experienced the Mystery.  I can say that I have particular beliefs about a special revelation of the Mystery whom I try to follow.  I can also say that I feel my calling is to be a good steward or manager of the Mystery.  I confess that I often fail what I perceive my calling to be, but part of the Mystery is the wonder of grace.

            Stewards of the Mystery do more gazing than guarding, less mastering of the Mystery and more musing about it.  You won’t find a steward of the Mystery standing guard along a fence line of doctrine.  You might find him or her sitting on a hillside gazing at a sunset.  Rather than protecting a precept perimeter, you might find a steward of the Mystery pondering the questions of suffering or wondering about the miracles of life.  A steward of the Mystery may be found looking into the face of another human being and finding there a hint, a slight reflection, of the Mystery itself, so that the other person becomes one who teaches rather than one who needs to be informed and then corralled into the perimeters of orthodoxy.

            A guardian of orthodoxy tries to protect “right” belief, while a steward of the Mystery pays attention.  A guardian of right belief stands guard in fear of encroachment into or escape out of the perimeter, while a steward of the Mystery ponders the obvious.  Maybe the Mystery doesn’t draw lines in the sand but draws persons into the Mystery’s presence in order to give joy, strength, courage, and hope.

            The Mystery will provide the protection, do the drawing, decide the doctrine, and guard the Mystery’s own.

There is hope...

The symbol says it all.  Last Thursday, January 6, Coptic Christians in Egypt celebrated Christmas Eve.  Just days before on New Year's Eve Islamic militants killed twenty-one Christians in a brutal attack on Saints Church in Alexandria.  

As Coptic Christians, referred to in Egypt as "Copts," gathered for their celebrations of mass in churches across Egypt, they were joined by thousands of Muslims. The Muslims were offering their bodies as human shields in a witness of protective solidarity.

Mohamed El-Sawy, a Muslim arts businessman, is credited with the idea of human shielding. His words have become a slogan.  "Either we live together, or we die together."  Among other shields were popular Muslim televangelist and preacher Amr Khaled and the two sons of Hosni Mubarak, president of Egypt.

Millions of Egyptians changed their Facebook profile pictures to the symbol above.  The symbol expresses the sentiment "Egypt for all."  

In Romans 12:1 the Apostle Paul urges Christians to present their bodies as a living sacrifice.  I've preached this text many times.  I've never really lived it as have the thousands of Muslims who presented their bodies as human shields to protect their Christian friends.

In our faith history, as recorded in the Hebrew Bible (or "Old Testament" as many call it), God chose Cyrus of Persia, a pagan king, to free God's people from exile.  Good God.  Imagine the dismay among many of the "chosen" of God when they realized a pagan would free them.

Surely God is at work in Egypt.  Are you surprised that God has chosen Muslims to teach us lessons in peacemaking?  Would you...would I...be so willing to present our bodies as living sacrifices as did the Muslims in Egypt?

As my friend Roger Lovette says...the problem with living sacrifices is that they keep crawling off the altar.

Oops!

January 9, 2011

In the Christian Year, today celebrates the Baptism of Jesus. Thinking of baptism, I recall an “oops!” story in the history of Fernwood Baptist Church of Spartanburg, SC, where I was pastor for twenty-two years.  When I became pastor, we worshipped in what is now the William L. Ball, Jr. Chapel, a beautiful worship space. The stained glass windows are magnificent works of art designed and fabricated by the Willet Stained Glass Studio.  These windows depict the “I Am” sayings of Jesus, and the “I am the beloved son” panel, presenting the baptism of Jesus, provided the “oops!”

Dr. Billy Ball, whom we called as our Pastor Emeritus when he and his wife Bessie returned as members in 1985, told me the story one Sunday after worship.  It may have been the Sunday when I preached on the baptism window during a sermon series I called “Sermons in Stained Glass.”

Billy pointed to John the Baptist standing next to Jesus as they were gathered by the Jordon River. “Randy, look at that area of stained glass just above Jesus’ head.  Do you notice anything odd?”

In fact, I did.  There were a couple of the sections of lead between the small panels that were slightly different in color.  Also, the hues in a few of the panels were barely, yet noticeably, different.  “Tell me about that, Billy,” I said.

“I’ll never forget that afternoon after the windows had been installed.  I was in here admiring them when I saw that John the Baptist was holding a shell full of water and was pouring the water over the head of Jesus.” Billy continued, “How in the world I missed that in all the discussions about these windows, I’ll never know.  But I was horrified.  We couldn’t have baptism by effusion in a baptism-by-immersion church!”

“So how’d you fix it, Billy?” I asked.  “Obviously it’s fixed, because John is not sprinkling Jesus.”

“Well,” Billy continued, “I called Willet Studios, explained the problem, and told them to get back here and fix this window. After much protesting, the fabricator came, removed the panel, and went to work ‘erasing’ the sprinkling.  You notice that he removed the shell spilling water over Jesus’ head and brought John’s hand down behind Jesus’ shoulder as if he were leading him into the Jordon for a ‘proper’ baptism. That’s why those couple lead sections and a few of the panels look different.”

“You’d have been in real trouble with some of the local, vocal Baptists in town had you not fixed that one, Dr. Ball.”  He readily agreed.

  

I thought of that story as I was looking at the baptism panel of faceted glass in the sanctuary during worship this morning.  I remembered telling Jane Collins, the artist who designed the windows, the big “oops!” regarding the chapel window.  “Jane, you have to make it overtly obvious that Jesus is being baptized by immersion.  Lots of water, okay? It’s our tradition, you know.”  Jane, a former Sister of Mercy in the Catholic Church, did just that.  The faceted glass baptism panel has Jesus and John waist-high in water with a few fish swimming around their legs, for good measure.

All this concern about baptism by immersion seems somewhat ironic now.  Fernwood Church welcomes into full membership those who were baptized by any mode, not requiring them to be fully immersed.   It’s the inner condition and not the outward expression that matters.  So, on this day when we celebrate the baptism of Jesus, I think he’s most likely happy with Fernwood’s understanding of baptism.  John the Baptizer’s probably okay with it, as well.

Half-way there...

My martial arts teacher used to say, "When you start, you're half-way there."  Well...after all the excuses not to start a blog, I'm half-way there...whatever that means.  Anyway, I suppose one reason I'm doing this is that, while I don't have a pulpit, forum, or platform anymore after retiring from the active ministry, I still have thoughts and, I hope, a few more things to say.

I'm astounded when someone remembers what I've preached, said, taught, or written; and I'm humbled.  I will be equally humbled and astounded at any readership this blog might create.  However, I must say that this endeavor is a "me thing" right now.  I miss having a place and opportunity to say something.  When I was preaching, I used to repeat something a friend said..."Sometimes we preachers have something to say, and sometimes we have to say something."

I'll try to post random thoughts and inviting questions because I deem them worthy and not because I just need to say something.

So....I've begun something here.  I'm curious about where it will end up...