Welcoming the Infant Promise - Luke 2:22-38

Sermon on December 27, 2009

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”
Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

Merry Christmas once again. Today is the third of our twelve days of Christmas—the day for “three French hens” if you’re going by the song and looking for gift suggestions for any relatives you might be seeing later on this afternoon. Already I’ve spoken with a few who’ve asked me, “Did you have a nice Christmas?” or “How was your Christmas?” And the answer is “yes.” Christmas day was wonderful—a day spent mostly in pajamas, opening gifts, reading, playing, eating… Christmas day was wonderful for us. But Christmas itself is not in the past. We are in the season of Christmas now, and so for today and for nine more days, the “Christmastide” is upon us.

We turn again today to Luke’s gospel, and we find Mary and Joseph, like us, facing life after Jesus’ birth. But whereas we use the week after Christmas to return a few gifts, maybe write a few more letters, and perhaps even start thinking about when we’ll box up the ornaments and take the tree down, Mary and Joseph had quite a different experience. As Luke tells it, they’ve been in the manger this entire time—and whatever quaint charms a stable stall might have had for a night or two, they’ve surely worn off after a week or so. Years later, there will be stories of Jesus’ many miracles, but for now his main task is to thrust Mary and Joseph into parenthood and all its responsibilities.

One of those responsibilities, according to Jewish law, was to present a newborn child in the Temple. This was both an act of dedication for the baby and of purification for the mother. And so Mary and Joseph leave Bethlehem and make their way to Jerusalem. And as Luke tells it, when they arrive there, they are met by Simeon and then by the prophet Anna. Simeon was one who seemed to know Jesus was coming. Luke doesn’t give Simeon’s age, but I’ve always pictured him on the older and wiser side, scooping up the baby Jesus in his arms and saying to himself, “Now I’ve seen it all. Now I can leave this world, knowing that I have seen the face of God.” Anna the prophet is eighty-four—the Bible says she is of “a great age,” a wonderful way to think being in your eighties—and she, too recognizes Jesus and praises God when she sees him.

These early stories about Jesus’ life are wonderful for lots of reasons. One of them is that Jesus himself isn’t doing very much. He’s not eloquent, compassionate, or powerful. He’s just a baby. One day he’ll be preaching in Galilee, but for now he’s just babbling and gurgling and crying. The wonder of these stories is found in others’ recognition of God’s presence in an infant. First a band of shepherds, and now Simeon and Anna—they all behold a small, helpless baby and yet they see the promise and the fulfillment of the kingdom of God.

There’s a real art to recognizing something before it’s fully grown, I think. Gardeners know this. Granted, we may be a long way off from thinking about our gardens. But before we know it again, the ground will thaw and we’ll start wondering where we’ll set up the tomato cages again. Now some of us—myself included—will hold a tiny seed in our hand and say to ourselves, “I wonder if I can get this darn thing to grow.” But there are others here—people like Peg Rendall and also those like Ken Clark, whose life we celebrated yesterday—there are others here who look at a small seed and can already see the seedling and the leaves and the plant and the flower and the fruit. Their true art in the garden is somehow being able to see it all before it grows.

Maybe you can think of someone in your life who saw something in you before it was fully grown. A parent, a teacher, a friend or mentor—someone who looked at you and saw something long before you even knew it was there. There’s a real art to recognizing those tiny seeds in people’s lives.

Christian author and essayist Lewis Smedes writes this, and I love it: “You are deep, unfathomably deep. You cannot be a shallow person; God does not make shallow people. You can, if you choose, close your own mind to the depths within you. But you cannot be shallow.” Thank God for the people in our lives who recognize the depths within us long before we see them ourselves.

2009 is coming to a close. Can you believe it? Just ten years ago, we were just days away from the year 2000 and we thought all our computers were going to blow up with the Y2K scare. Now here we are, a decade later, and we’ve gone from Y2K to H1N1.

As we come into this New Year and this new decade, I wonder if we might use the story of Simeon and Anna to think about God’s call in our lives. Because perhaps this coming year, God is calling you to be a Simeon or an Anna. God is calling you to recognize something in its infancy. And it’s fun to think about what that could be.

I don’t know if you heard about Zach Bonner yet. Zach is just twelve years old, and he was recently awarded the distinction of “Most Inspiring Person of 2009” by beliefnet.com. Just what makes Zach so inspiring? Well, for starters, this year he walked 1200 miles from his house in Tampa, Florida to the White House to raise money for homeless children. But before that, he organized a city-wide project in Tampa, collecting backpacks full of school supplies, toiletries, and other necessities for families that were homeless. But before that, at the ripe old age of six, Zach organized his neighborhood to collect bottled water for victims of Hurricane Charley. He collected the water in his red, Radio Flyer wagon. Today, Zach has a foundation started to assist him in his work—it’s called the Little Red Wagon Foundation (littleredwagonfoundation.com).

Now the great thing and the problem with stories like this one is that they get us thinking: What big thing might I do to address the problems of this world? That’s a great question to ask, but at times it can be an overwhelming and stifling one, too. The problems of this world are overwhelming, and so we often balk in the face of potential solutions that seem too unwieldy themselves.

Another question to ask is this: Where did it all begin for Zach Bonner? Before the 1200 mile walk to Washington, before the backpack program, and even before collecting bottled water in his red wagon: Where did it really begin for him? Or, to put it another way, What infant promise in Zach Bonner’s life did someone recognize and nurture?

Let me speak plainly about this. We need this in the church right now. We’ve got problems here in Racine. You know that. Homelessness, hunger, poverty… lots of problems in our neighborhood around us and in our city. Sometimes the temptation is to try and address big problems with big solutions. But you know what we need? We need some of you—a few of you—maybe a few dozen of you even—to see the promise of a solution in its infancy.

We need just a few of us to welcome and celebrate something of God’s infant promise of hope. Just as God’s love in Jesus Christ began with a fragile, humble birth, God’s love in action today just might begin with a fragile, humble thought—an inkling of an idea, a quick conversation over coffee, a daydream.

Some of those plans are already on the way: HALO, the Health Care Network, the HOPES Center… And part of our call is to join them and add our very best to the work that they do. Another part of our call is this: to welcome God’s infant promises—those tiny seeds of ideas and visions that no one’s even thought about yet. And then, just like Simeon and Anna, we’ll scoop up those infant promises in our arms, and worshipfully say, “Yes! This is what God is doing! This is but a tiny taste of God’s hope to come!” Amen.

Evotional - Haphazard

Blessings to you all as our Advent journey reaches Bethlehem. A poem that keeps coming to mind for me this year is one by U.A. Fanthorpe. The line, “Walked haphazard by starlight straight into the kingdom of heaven” is one that has captured my imagination and encouraged me to wonder about my own approach to the manger this time around. As we welcome and celebrate God’s newborn presence, may you know the joy and hope of “God With Us.”


“BC:AD”

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future's
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

- U.A. Fanthorpe

Advent Devotion - Week 3

Philippians 4:4-9
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.


Today, as we light our third Advent candle, we read part of Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi. He tells them to think about “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable…” Spend some time today thinking about these things. See if you can think of at least one thing to go with each of the things Paul wants the church to think about:

True:
Honorable:
Just:
Pure:
Pleasing:
Commendable:
Excellent:
Worthy of praise:


Loving God, as we continue to wait for you and watch for you this Advent season, we are mindful of all that is good and wonderful in your world. Help us to continue to follow Christ with our lives and give us strength to be his disciples. Amen.

Where the Wild Things Are - Malachi 3:1-4 & Luke 3:1-6

Malachi 3:1-4
See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. The messenger of the covenant in whom you delight—indeed, he is coming, says the Lord of hosts. But who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap; he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the Lord in righteousness. Then the offering of Judah and Jerusalem will be pleasing to the Lord as in the days of old and as in former years.

Luke 3:1-6
In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

This past week I was sitting with my daughter at the dinner table and I asked her, “Sylvia, what was your favorite thing about Kindergarten today?”

She thought for a second and said, “We chased the boys.”

“You mean during playtime?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “We chased the boys outside.”

So I asked, “What do you do when you catch a boy?”

She said, “We let it go.”

“You let it go?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “We let it go so we can chase it again.”

So aside from being slightly worried that my daughter might be objectifying members of the opposite sex at her young age, I was also pleased to remember that in so many cases in life, the thrill is in the anticipation—not “the catch,” but the lead-up, the waiting, the watching—the anticipation.

And then yesterday at the wonderful Cops and Kids book give-away over at Merchants, I watched a line of children waiting to see Santa Claus, and once again, I was reminded that one of life’s great gifts is simple and joyful anticipation.

We continue to find ourselves in this season of anticipation—this Advent season of watching and waiting for Christ to come into the world and into our lives.

A quick check-in with you—are you watching and waiting this Advent season? I’ve been reminding people lately that it’s during December that we tend to eat more, spend more, schedule more, and go into debt more than any other time of the year. So a quick check-in: are you doing ok? You see, I often think there’s something going on in this culture of ours—we often respond to anticipation by ramping up life’s activities, packing our days with more things to do and places to go. And some of that’s ok, but sometimes it all gets in the way—so much so that by the time Christ comes, we’ve squandered the anticipation.

For me, part of the joy of being a church family is simply being intentional together about who we are and what we’re doing. And so today, we invite ourselves once again to be Advent people—people of Christ’s coming—and with than in mind, we revisit those anticipator words of John the Baptist.

Luke introduces John in an interesting way in his gospel—with a sort of “political who’s who” at the time. He says, "In the fifteenth year of the reign of the Roman Emperor Tiberius, Pontius Pilate governed Judea, and Herod ruled Galilee, and Herod’s brother Philip was in power too... When Lysanias ruled Abilene, and when Annas and Caiaphas were the high priests in the Temple in Jerusalem…

When all of these other people were in prime positions of power and authority—politically and religiously speaking—the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

That’s kind of like saying, “Near the end of the first year of the presidency of Barack Obama, when Jim Doyle was governor of Wisconsin, and John Dickert was mayor of Racine. When Benedict the 16th was Pope and Bruce Reyes-Chow was moderator of the Presbyterian Church USA, the word of God came to Greg, a homeless man living in a tunnel under the city of Chicago.

That’s how Luke’s gospel read to its first audience, I think. The word of God did not come to any of the usual suspects—it didn’t come to anyone with any obvious power or influence—it didn’t come to someone with a Senate seat, a daytime talk show, or even a congregation. Instead, it came to the most unlikely of characters—John—in the wilderness.

Now it’s important to keep in mind that when we say “wilderness” in Scripture, we’re not talking about the Yogi Bear campground or even a state park nature trail. “Wilderness” referred to something wild and untamed.

The Hebrew word “midbar” was the word for “wilderness” and it meant “a desolate and deserted place” but it also meant “that which is beyond.” On into the New Testament, the concept of “wilderness” evoked a place beyond civilization, beyond control—a place of hunger, thirst, temptation, and deprivation.

That’s where God’s word comes in the gospel—the wilderness.

I grew up with Maurice Sendak’s book, Where the Wild Things Are. In it, a young boy named Max misbehaves one night and is sent to his room without supper. From there he enters a wild, imaginative place where the “Wild Things” are—a far-away land of monsters where there are no rules, no limits. Max becomes king of the wild things and he rules there until he realizes that the wilderness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He returns to the safe confines of his bedroom, where he finds his warm supper waiting for him.


The new movie that’s out by the same name takes some liberties with the children’s book, sending Max to a wilderness where the monsters he meets personify frail, human tendencies toward greed, self-loathing, isolation, and mistrust. The wilderness landscape in the movie is an emotionally confusing and at times desolate place for Max, and yet it in that wilderness that he recognizes certain truths about himself and about his family.

Reflecting on Luke’s gospel this week, I thought to myself, “Interesting. That’s where the word of God comes. God’s word comes to the place where the wild things are.”

This morning I don’t want to elaborate to the point where I make this too complicated. So let me simply say that the same thing continues to be true—God’s word makes its way into some wild places in this world!

Just as it was true in Jesus’ day it is true today: God’s word is not reserved for those with obvious access to power. God’s word is not the copyright of the politically influential or the religiously educated. Rather, God’s word is a rambunctious word that doesn’t care who’s who—it will show up in the wildest places in this world—wildernesses of doubt, fear, and despair.

The oncology ward where a mother of three prepares again to do battle with breast cancer, and she says through her teeth as she receives another round of chemo—“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

The homeless shelter where a man who, from all outward appearances would seem to be losing his mind, says to the teenage volunteer who hands him a ham sandwich, “Give us this day our daily bread.”

The trembling moment of doubt in your own life, when the choice isn’t clear. Maybe others’ needs have consumed your own, or maybe you’ve simply run out of options. Maybe there’s no way back, but the way forward seems unbearable. And so you say to yourself, to God, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.”

Our lives wander into these places where the wild things are from time to time and we wonder just what in God’s name we’re even doing there. But then it is there—in the hospital bed, in the shelter, in the moment of truth—it’s there in the broken marriage, the year-long depression, the struggle to be healthy, the job ending too soon—it’s there in the wild places of this world that God’s word makes its way.

That’s what we’re watching and waiting for this Advent season! So watch. And wait. Anticipate! Faithfully enter the wild places of this world and expect a word from God. Amen.

Advent Devotion - Week 2

Psalm 122

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord!”
Our feet are standing within your gates, O Jerusalem.
Jerusalem—built as a city that is bound firmly together.
To it the tribes go up, the tribes of the Lord, as was decreed for
Israel, to give
thanks to the name of the Lord.
For there the thrones for judgment were set up, the thrones of the
house of David.
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May they prosper who love you.
Peace be within your walls, and security within your towers.”
For the sake of my relatives and friends I will say, “Peace be within you.”
For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good.


Today is the second Sunday of Advent and so today we light our second candle. We remember that long ago, people greeted each other and said, “Peace be within you.” We say something like that in church on Sundays—“The peace of Christ be with you.” “And also with you.”


What does it mean to you when we say, “The peace of Christ be with you”? What does “Peace be within you” mean to you? Sometimes we call Jesus the Prince of Peace. What does it mean to have Christ’s peace in our lives?


Loving God, you sent Jesus, the Prince of Peace to us to show us your way of love. Help us follow Jesus through this Advent season and in our lives. Amen.

We Let it Go

Dad: Sylvia, what was your favorite thing at school today?
Sylvia: We chased the boys.
Dad: You mean during playtime?
Sylvia: Yes. We chased the boys outside.
Dad: What do you do after you catch a boy?
Sylvia: We let it go.
Dad: You let it go?
Sylvia: Yes. We let it go so we can catch it again.

Ah, Kindergarten and the thrill of the chase. Not sure what to make of the impersonal pronoun "it" in this case - should I be worried? Is my little girl objectifying the male members of her class? I don't know that there's much to say about this, other than to simply celebrate the thrilling joy of childhood and schoolyard fun. What a gift!

Kingdom Come - Jeremiah 33:14-16 & Luke 21:25-36

Sermon on Sunday, November 29

Jeremiah 33:14-16
The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: “The LORD is our righteousness.”

Luke 21:25-36
“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”


If you’ve been paying attention lately, and even if you haven’t, it’s hard not to notice the onslaught of Christmas. It all started, of course, almost immediately after Halloween. Don’t get me wrong, Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday, but in terms of retail, there’s just not much to sell. And so on those first days of November, unsold costumes and spooky yard decorations made way in the stores for Christmas tree ornaments and plastic wreathes. Since then, Christmas’s annual takeover has swelled once again to receive the Black Friday swarms of shoppers. And so from now until the after-Christmas sales, the stores will be packed with all things Christmas, leaving many of us to wonder where in the world it could all possibly go once it’s bought.

And if you’ve been paying attention lately, and even if you haven’t, it’s hard not to notice that, despite the onslaught of Christmas, it’s “business as usual” for most of the world. Just yesterday an explosion derailed a train in Russia, killing 26 people and injuring many more, and preliminary reports suggest an act of terrorism. In the Philippians, details continue to flow from this week’s brutal massacre, where gunmen executed a group of journalists and their friends. Conflict continues in Israel and Palestine, and Wars rage on in Iraq and Afghanistan. On Thanksgiving Day, in the town of Iskandariya, just 25 miles south of Baghdad, a bomb went off in a crowded marketplace, killing two people and wounding a couple dozen more. That’s the kind of news that’s so shockingly commonplace these days that it comes and goes without much notice. Just another bland but violent news story to add to the list.

And here’s the crazy part. In the midst of this chaos—in spite of the ever-increasing mountain of evidence suggesting that the violent world you and I were born into will be the same violent world when we’re gone—in the midst of this chaos, we begin once again our annual approach to Christmas, and the manger, and the Christ child—the Prince of Peace. That’s the crazy part, don’t you think?—“crazy” in the sense that year after year after year we’ve been celebrating Christmas—celebrating the newborn Prince of Peace—celebrating those words that Amy read from Jeremiah, that “he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land”—celebrating that “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb”—celebrating nations beating swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks… Every year we’re celebrating these things ‘round Christmas, and every year the violent, chaotic world is proving us dead wrong. Sometimes I look at all those Christmas decorations and wonder if it really is just window dressing—a cheery distraction from a reality which is anything but “Joy to the World.”

It may help to know that the violent world you and I inherited is the same violent world Jesus inherited long ago. CNN wasn’t broadcasting back then, but it was hard not to notice a world that seemed to be falling apart before his very eyes. Had Jesus lived a long and happy life, he would have witnessed Rome’s final brutality in Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple. War, poverty, famine, destruction, political instability—these shaped daily reality for so many living in Jesus’ time. In fact, things got so bad that there were many who simply could not imagine the world outlasting them—“Surely the end must be near,” they thought.

And Jesus says to them, “When you see these things… when you see distress and confusion… when heaven and earth shake with violence… When the world falls apart, know that the kingdom of God is near.”

Really, Jesus? The kingdom of God is near? That’s sort of an interesting choice of words. Some might look at it all and say that the kingdom of God is nowhere to be found, but you make it sound like it’s just a step away.

And for Jesus, that’s where the kingdom of God has always been. The kingdom of God is like yeast that a woman kneads into the dough to make bread—just a step away. The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed that a man planted in his field—just a step away. The kingdom of God is like a fisherman casting his nets and bringing in fish to sell and feed his family—it’s just a step away—“It’s here,” he said, “the Kingdom of Heaven is here.”

But we question that. In Russia, in the Philippians, Israel, and Palstine, in Afghanistan—we question that. In Iskandariya, 25 miles south of Baghdad on a routine Thursday in a crowded marketplace ripped apart by a violent explosion, we question whether or not the Kingdom of God is really here. Truth be told, Iskandariya is a place where it’s hard to imagine the kingdom. It’s a town of slums—homes made of mud brick and sheet metal—and it’s people live in poverty, day to day, meal to meal. The odd thing is that ordinary people in Iskandariya—men, women, and schoolchildren—folks just trying to survive—don’t seem like very meaningful targets for a bomber. But three days ago, they were. Three days ago, someone planted explosives in a car, parked it at the market, walked away, and then detonated them with a cell phone. Two people were killed and more were injured—some quite seriously. And they were just people—a woman buying bread, two men talking about the weather, a few children kicking a ball around while their mothers chatted. They were just people.

And so we could ask ourselves, what happened here? Did a man wake up one morning in Iraq and say to himself, “Gee, I think I’m going to bomb the market today”? No, of course not. Nobody does that. In reality, that man’s journey to last Thursday began long ago. It began with small steps of fear and mistrust. It began with small, initial steps that led him to believe that other people’s interests and opinions weren’t meaningful in light of his own. His journey to that bombing was a long one that continued with small daily steps, building a conviction in him that no one listens to you unless you make them! Every day another step, and then another—another prejudice and another hatred reinforced—each and every day, another step, for countless days… so that by the time last Thursday rolled around, the final step of putting a bomb together in his car was just one more step… In the end, pressing a button on his cell phone to make that bomb go off was nothing but another small step.

Here’s where you and I come in. Because we look at this destructive world we live in and ask ourselves, “How on earth can I do anything about this?” Right? In light of all that is violent and unruly and horrible on this planet, what am I supposed to do? What could I ever do that would make any meaningful difference?

But here’s a thought to consider: what if it really is just about small steps? What if your journey to making a difference in this world isn’t that different from the journey of the man who blew up his car in that marketplace? What if your journey, too, begins with a small, seemingly insignificant step—a first step down a different long road…

I was bummed when I heard that the Olympics weren’t coming to Chicago. I thought that would’ve been pretty neat—to have them so close. I would have loved to have seen a couple events myself, especially in gymnastics. I’m always moved and impressed by these gymnasts who condition themselves to perform such thrilling acts of strength and balance. One event that just amazes me is the rings—especially when the gymnast does the “iron cross.” Do you know what an iron cross is? It’s where the gymnast, dangling there in the air, pushes the rings out from his body and holds his body in the shape of a cross. Such unbelievable strength and control! A few years ago, I actually tried to convince some friends that if I dedicated my life to performing the iron cross, I would be able to do it within a year. They didn’t believe me. But, I argued, if I trained and trained, and watched what I ate and spent every waking hour focusing on that one task, I could do it.

Well, I didn’t do it. And there’s one pretty significant reason why: I don’t work out. I don’t practice. Generally, I don’t watch what I eat. During that year, I might not have even gone near a gym. In other words, I didn’t take any of the small steps I needed to take to prepare me to perform the iron cross.

An athlete who can do the iron cross, however, has taken hundreds and hundreds of thousands of steps to get to that point—so many steps, in fact, that the final step doesn’t seem so big.

Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is near.” And we’re all looking for it, all the while maybe wondering how on earth any reasonable person in a chaotic world like this one could actually believe such a thing. War, poverty, hunger, homelessness—these things rage on out of control, and it’s hard to imagine just how this kingdom is going to come about. But Jesus says, “The kingdom of God is near. It’s near. It’s like a woman who put yeast in her dough to make the bread rise—it’s just a step away.” Just a step. And then another. And then maybe hundreds and hundreds of thousands of steps…

Perhaps God’s kingdom come isn’t an all-at-once kind of thing. Maybe it begins with just a small step. A belief that a kind word embodies something of God’s goodness. A notion that bringing someone a bowl of soup when they’re sick really does change the world. A belief that peace on earth begins with peace in our hearts and in our homes. A trust that small steps—small acts of love and kindness, small movements towards justice, small gifts of our time and talent—that these small steps lead us down a path that reveals the God’s Kingdom Come as we move along!

There is freedom in this—freedom to know that our part in God’s work in this world is a part we can play today, because that’s how God’s kingdom comes—one step at a time. Amen.

Advent Devotion - 1st Sunday in Advent

Isaiah 40:3-5

A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. “Advent” means coming. And so today we remember that Jesus is coming. Of course, we look forward to Christmas and the story of Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, but we also remember that God comes to us in other ways, too. So during this season of Advent, we celebrate God’s love for us and we look for signs of God’s presence in our world.

The prophet Isaiah was a person who believed that God was coming, too. He lived a long time before Jesus, but he believed in God’s love for all people and he believed that it was important for the people to prepare for God’s presence in their lives.

What do you think it means to “prepare the way of the Lord”?

What signs of God’s presence have you seen lately?

Dear God, we light this first candle as we celebrate this season of Advent. Help us to prepare for your presence in our lives. As we watch and wait for you in the coming weeks, please help us follow Christ each and every day. Amen.

This is so ridiculous, I can barely watch it. And... yet... I... can't... turn... away...

Best line: "And he'll zap you any way he can. Zap!" Wow.

Don't Go to Church - Mark 12:41-13:2

Sermon on Sunday, November 15

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

“Don’t Go to Church.” If they ever have a contest for “worst sermon title,” I think I just might have a chance with this one. “Don’t Go to Church”—not necessarily the message one expects to hear from a pastor. But I want to be clear right from the start this morning. I would sincerely like to invite everyone in this room, from this moment on, to stop going to church. Just stop. That being said, you are here now, so I would like for you to stay for just a few more minutes and at least hear what I have to say.

Today is Stewardship Sunday. And you know this works. Our leadership on the Session is asking each of us to fill out a giving card, indicating the amount of money we can commit to giving to the church in 2010. And in a few moments we’ll all be invited to come forward and place those cards in these baskets. Our theme this year is “Faith in God, Faith in our Future.”

So before I elaborate on my request that you stop going to church, I’d like to take a second to say something about money. Does that make you uncomfortable? A money talk? It does for most people. Psychologists today refer to money as “the last taboo,” and claim that clients in therapy will talk about most any topic before they’ll bring up the subject of personal finance. Real conversation about money—about how much we earn, how much we spend, how much we save, how much we waste, and how much we give away—is conversation that makes us at least a little squeamish.

But let’s talk about money for a bit. After all, Jesus talked a lot about money. In fact, did you know that if you added up everything Jesus said about money—about wealth, poverty, earning money, giving it away, about the virtues of having money, and about how loving it can be our downfall—if you added it all up, you would find that one-sixth of what Jesus had to say was about money. In fact, the kingdom of God is the only topic Jesus addressed more in the gospels—which makes it somewhat ironic that money is a subject we shy away from.

So what if we followed Jesus’ lead? What if we talked about money here in the church one-sixth of the time? Every sixth sermon, every sixth prayer, every sixth hymn. Actually, I’m not sure that we have too many hymns about money. But what if we talked about money that much? Well, for one thing, you really might stop going to church!

Our gospel story today is, among other things, about money. Jesus and the disciples are in the temple in Jerusalem. And Jesus does a curious thing. He sits down opposite the treasury and just watches as people present their offerings. Now that act alone would make us cringe, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine if Jesus were here with us in worship, and if right before the offering, I said, “It is now time to present our weekly tithes and offerings. Jesus himself will be coming around with a collection plate.” And then what if Jesus looked in each envelope, just to see what you put in. That’s sort of what took place in the temple that day in Jerusalem.

Many rich people put in large sums, the gospel says, but then a poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then Jesus called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

The widow’s mite. This is a gospel story that plays nicely into the hands of a pastor trying to encourage a congregation to give more this year and to give generously. I would like to steer away from that in this sermon, however. After all, as you will recall, this morning I’m encouraging you not to go to church anymore, remember? So let me say this about Jesus’ encounter with the widow in the temple.

Jesus says of the widow, “She has put in everything she had. Everything.” And I can’t help but wonder if Jesus didn’t see something of himself in that woman. All that she had to give, she gave—and in just a few days in Mark’s gospel, Jesus, too, would give everything he had to give. In the grand scheme of things, the widow didn’t show up with much. She wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation was that her life would come and go without much of an impact. And in the grand scheme of things, Jesus didn’t show up with much, either. Born in a barn to unwed teenage parents, he wasn’t powerful in the traditional sense, and the expectation among many was that his life would come and go without much of an impact. But Jesus knew, as he watched that woman drop her coins into the treasury, that he too would give all he had.

We’re talking about stewardship today, and the best stewardship question we can ask is not, “How much can I part with next year?” The best stewardship question we can ask is, “What is my life worth? What is my life worth?” Have you ever asked yourself that question? The temptation is to reduce it all to a financial snapshot: savings, checking, mutual funds, bonds… But the question is not “What is my net worth?” but “What is my life worth.” There’s a huge difference, or at least there ought to be.

The question “What is my life worth?” begs us to remember that we only live once. Our chances in this life to love and be loved, to show kindness and to work hard—they’re the only chances we’ll get this side of heaven. And so I wonder: if you don’t ask yourself today, “What is my life worth?” then what are you waiting for? We’re all busy. We’ve all got too much to do—too much to think about, too many places to go, too many lists, too much on our schedule. But if we’re not entertaining the question, “What is my life worth?” then what are we doing? What’s all the busy-ness for?

Take a moment right now, please, and ask yourself the question, “What is my life worth?” Think about it. And if you start thinking about money, that’s ok—but don’t think about it too long. Move on to other things. Close your eyes if it helps. Ask yourself, “What is it all worth? What is it all for? What is my life worth?”

You don’t have to look at me, because I’m not going to say anything for a little bit.

“What is my life worth?” The temptation is always to answer that question with a list of things that we do. But friends, this is a question of being before doing. The question is not, “What do you do with all that time you have?” but rather, “Who are you and what is it all worth?”

Jesus looked to the widow as an example, not because of the amount she gave, but because she knew what her life was worth. And knowing what her life was worth, she gave it all accordingly. My earnest prayer for us, as a growing, vibrant family of faith, is that we do the same.

So, what time is it? Can someone look at his or her watch and tell me what time it is? (There are two things, by the way, that preachers should never do. The first is to tell the congregation not to go to church. The second is to actually ask people to look at their watches during a sermon!) Ok, so what time is it? Now, mark the time and remember. Starting now, on November 15th, 2009, no one here is ever going to church again! We’re not going to church anymore.

From here on out, we’re going to BE the church. Let me be clear. We’re still going to come here—to worship. But this place is not the church. We are the church. And we will still come here to worship—to be equipped and sent to be the church in the world. We will still come here to worship—to ask the question again and again: What is my life worth? And finding that answer in Christ and in Christ’s call in our lives, we will go from this place, strengthened to be the church in the world. There can be no greater act of stewardship—than to give all that we have in this way. Amen.

Evotional - Cello

Today is Veterans Day. I ran across this poem a while back and thought I’d save it for today’s Evotional. It made me mindful of those among us who live as veterans of various wars—the sacrifices they made, the burdens they may still shoulder, and the images they continue to carry. Beyond that, the poem speaks to me of grief—the kind of real, authentic grief we carry when we lose someone close to us.

Blessings to you this week in all that is good and true.
Ben


“Cello” by Dorianne Laux

When a dead tree falls in a forest
it often falls into the arms
of a living tree. The dead,
thus embraced, rasp in wind,
slowly carving a niche
in the living branch, sheering away
the rough outer flesh, revealing
the pinkish, yellowish, feverish
inner bark. For years
the dead tree rubs its fallen body
against the living, building
its dead music, making its raw mark,
wearing the tough bough down,
moaning in wind, the deep
rosined bow sound of the living
shouldering the dead.

Stand by Me

Wow. Looking at the Youtube count, I guess I'm the 15,136,759th person to see this, and I'm glad I eventually got around to it. Enjoy!

In Touch - Matthew 20:29-34

Sermon on Sunday, November 1

As they were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. There were two blind men sitting by the roadside. When they heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, ‘Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!’ The crowd sternly ordered them to be quiet; but they shouted even more loudly, ‘Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!’ Jesus stood still and called them, saying, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, let our eyes be opened.’ Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they regained their sight and followed him.

As always I am grateful to be here—grateful to be in your company and grateful to be gathered with you in worship. Not that anyone is keeping track, but this is my 50th sermon with you here at First Presbyterian. (Ok, so maybe I’m keeping track.) But I just thought I’d share that little tidbit with you. This means that so far, you’ve heard me preach for somewhere around 12 or 13 hours. I guess we can all be grateful that these sermons come in installments.

I’ve got nothing special planned for my 50th sermon—nothing special other than another attempt to speak to that which is beyond words and to sense God’s direction in our midst. I am so often humbled by that task, and I am thankful that I am never doing it alone. What I mean by that is that on any given Sunday morning, I may come to this pulpit with a sermon prepared—a few things to say, a few explanations, some biblical historical context, some stories, sometimes a song. But you come too, with your own thoughts and questions and eagerness to know and be known. You arrive in this sanctuary on Sunday morning with your thinking and wondering, and that’s a key part of what happens here each week.

I remember preaching one day—not here, but somewhere else—and I was so anxious about my sermon. I had worked and worked on it, but no matter what I did, I just felt like the whole thing was way too heady and ethereal. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with any stories or concrete illustrations to share with the congregation. Going into that worship service, I thought to myself, “Well this has about got to be the most useless sermon ever.” But I preached it, feeling disappointed that I hadn’t somehow found something to connect what I was saying to everyday life.

And then after the service was over, people were filing out. “Nice sermon… Nice sermon…” But a man approached me and said something I will never forget. He said, “Ben, I want to thank you for that sermon. The way you used stories and examples to illustrate what you were saying really, really spoke to me.” I was stunned, of course—I hadn’t even used one story or example! Not even one! But I realized something that day. We make sermons together, you and me. Every time we gather in this place, we bring with us our own thoughts and stories, and we make sermons together.

I once read an article by Fred Rogers—you remember him, Mr. Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood? You may not know this, but Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister. The article was in a journal of preaching, and he was reflecting on a worship experience he’d had while visiting a church. He said that he was sitting there, listening to the sermon, and thinking to himself, “This just might be the absolute worst sermon I have ever heard in my entire life.” And it’s kind of funny to think of Mr. Rogers, of all people, saying something like this, but he said that the sermon that Sunday morning was simply terrible—painful to listen to and then completely forgettable.

Fred Rogers wrote, then, that when the sermon was over, the congregation stood to sing a hymn, and the woman who happened to be sitting next to him handed him a hymnal. And he turned and saw that she was weeping. He wondered for a second what he should say or do, but she leaned over and through her tears whispered to him, “Wasn’t that the best sermon you have ever heard in your life?” And so Mr. Rogers wrote that it was on that day that he learned that the distance between someone trying to preach the Word of God and a person in need is holy ground.

I think that’s true. All the distance between us is holy ground. And the holiness of this moment and the next is not dependent on what I have to say, but rather on who we are, on why we’re here, and on God’s presence, which certainly cannot be summed up in one sermon, let alone fifty.

Perhaps especially today we bring much with us that would make these moments holy and meaningful. Today is All Saints Day, and so we remember today those saints—those men and women who have died this past year, whose presence lingers with us and still shapes our living. In a few moments, we will read the list of names of those who we’ve lost since this time last year. And as we do, members of those families are invited to come forward and light a candle in memory of that person.

And then a little later, we will receive Communion. We’ll invite you to come forward, to share the Communion bread and cup, and then, if you wish, to also receive a special blessing of healing and wholeness.

And so today in the remembrance of loved ones, in the breaking of bread, and in blessings for healing, we acknowledge the holy ground on which we stand and live, and we give voice to God’s compassionate presence with us.

In our story from Matthew’s gospel this morning, Jesus embodies God’s compassionate presence. He meets two blind men on the road. They call out to him, “Lord, have mercy on us… Let our eyes be opened!” And then Scripture says that Jesus was “moved with compassion.” That’s the English translation, of course.

The Greek word for compassion here is “splagchnos.” It’s used a few times in the Bible to describe Jesus’ reaction to people who are suffering. And splagchnos means what it sounds like, I guess. Literally, it means “gut.” In ancient Greek culture, your guts and intestines were believed to be the source of primal or even violent passion, so when the gospel says that Jesus was moved with “splagchnos,” we should read that Jesus had a physical, bodily reaction!

Deep in his gut, Jesus felt their pain and wanted it to end now. Jesus didn’t look at the two blind men and think to himself, “Gosh, that’s awful—I hope I can help.” Rather, he was deeply, physically affected by their pain.

Maybe you know the feeling. That ache in the pit in your stomach that screams out for you to say something—to do something, anything, to relieve another’s suffering. It might help to know that Jesus felt that too. And it might help to remember that God has true splagchnos for us—true compassion in our own suffering.

We’re in the midst of our stewardship season, and I’m not going to say anything specific about stewardship today, except to say that this is all about stewardship: Our commitments to each other and this church—our passion for each other and this church.

How many times during the past year, as a family of faith, have we felt and reached out to each other with true compassion—with splagchnos? So many times. And that’s a big part of what it means to be a church family—to be tied together in true compassion for each other…

I want to close with a story. Anne Lamott, a writer, once took her then two‐year‐old son up to Lake Tahoe where they stayed in a rented condominium by the lake. That area around Reno is such a hotbed of gambling, that all the rooms are equipped with those curtains and shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and then sleep all morning.

One afternoon she put the baby to bed in his playpen in one of those rooms, in the pitch dark, and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard her baby knocking on the door from inside the room, and she got up, knowing he’d crawled out of his playpen.

She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he’d locked it. He had somehow managed to push the little button on the doorknob. He was calling to her from inside of that dark room, “Mommy, Mommy,” and Anne was saying to him, “Jiggle the door knob, darling,” and of course he couldn’t even see the knob to know what she was talking about.

After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother could not open the door‐‐and panic set in. He began sobbing. So his mother ran around like crazy trying everything possible, like trying to get the door to work, calling the rental agency where she left a message, calling the manager where she left another message, and running back to check in with her son every minute or so. And there, in this dark, locked room was this terrified little child.

Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to reach down slide her fingers underneath the door, where there were a few centimeters of space. She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. And somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time—in touch, on the floor, him holding her fingers in the dark.

Sometimes, that’s the only way God can reach us. Through the cracks in the darkness of our pain and fear, God finds a way to reach through, to be in touch.

Sometimes, that’s the only way we can reach each other. Through the cracks in the darkness of grief and loss—when we need healing the most, we find ways to reach through, to be in touch—to be family together. May God bless us with true compassion for each other and for our world. Amen.

Evotional - Eyes Peeled

A great quote to share with you today…

“I do not go to (worship) to make myself "better." I go because, in the dimmest reaches of my scattered, angst-ridden mind, there is something that wants me to get down on my knees and, in spite of my own suffering and all the suffering around me, give thanks. I go because I am beginning to believe that heaven is not in some other world, but shot through the broken world in which we live.”- Heather King, from her essay "Heaven and Earth"

We often strive to be “more faithful” in our lives, but it’s helpful to remember that faithfulness begins in the present. Our task following Jesus is not to wish yesterday could be undone, nor is it hoping that tomorrow will be better. What are we doing today? How are we thankful today? How can we be the church now, here, today?

As a good friend of mine says, “Keep your eyes peeled: God is doing something…now.”
Amen to that. And amen to all of us as we strive to live in faith today.
Peace,
Ben

Connectional - John 15:1-8

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.

I read something recently that stopped me in my tracks, and I’d like to begin by sharing it with you. It’s by Layne Redmond from her book, When the Drummers were Women.

"Before we were conceived, we existed in part as an egg in our mother’s ovary. All the eggs a woman will ever carry form in her ovaries while she is a four-month-old fetus in the womb of her mother. This means our cellular life as an egg begins in the womb of our grandmother. Each of us spent five months in our grandmother’s womb and she, in turn, formed within the womb of her grandmother. We vibrate to the rhythms of our mother’s blood before she herself is born. And this pulse is the thread of blood that runs all the way back through the grandmothers to the first mother. We all share the blood of the first mother - we are truly children of one blood."

Occasionally somebody comes along and simply nails it! Occasionally, somebody has the words and the audacity to name an absolute truth about human life—namely, that we are not as different as we think we are; that we are one; that many of the walls between us are but figments of our unimagination.

The word I would use today is “connectional.” It’s not a word that usually finds itself into our vocabulary—connectional—but it’s a word that says a lot about who we are and who we aim to be. As a seminary student, in order to become a pastor in the Presbyterian Church, I had to take my ordination exams. Nine hours of essay exam questions spread over two days, followed by a take-home written exam on biblical interpretation. Three hours of that test-taking covered the subject of Presbyterian polity—the government, structure, and administration of the Presbyterian Church. And I can remember some of the more experienced seminarians giving this advice: no matter what you do on your polity exam, try to work in the word, “connectional” a couple of times. Now obviously, there were other keys to successfully passing those exams; casually dropping the word “connectional” into your responses wouldn’t guarantee a passing grade. The truth is, however, that in our polity and in our heart, the Presbyterian Church is a connectional church—we practice and celebrate that to be connected to God means, among other things, that we are connected to each other. Our One Great Hour of Sharing/Hand of Hope offering is just one of those points of connection—an expression of shared vision and shared responsibility that connects us to each other and to our world.

Jesus said, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” That’s connectional. Who we are and what we do are more than individual expressions—they are reflections of a much larger whole to which we are connected.

Of course, Jesus’ vineyard analogy can leave us scratching our heads. Jesus is the vine and God is the vinegrower. Branches that bear fruit are pruned to produce more fruit, and branches that fail to bear fruit are cut off and thrown into the fire. And so Jesus doesn’t say it, but when you read John chapter 15, you can almost hear the words, “or else.” “I am the vine; you are the branches; and your job is to bear fruit or else…” The thought of a branch bearing no fruit being cut off and thrown into the fire has no doubt motivated many a Christian through the years to bear down and produce—anything—just so long as I don’t get cut off and burned!

So perhaps the first thing to say here is that there’s a danger in taking Jesus’ parables and allegories and turning them into formulas for salvation—as if faith itself can be reduced to some sort of chemical equation that will somehow prove our status as full-fledged members of the vine. And the danger is that we diminish our relationship with God into something that can be proven with measurable outcomes. “I’m a Christian, see? I’m saved and I can prove it. Not only have I said the right things and prayed the right prayers, but I have all this fruit to show for my efforts—all these good deeds, bushels of good Christian productivity…” No, I don’t think that Jesus is laying out a formula here as a means for proving our faithfulness or our salvation.

Having said that, however, we must confront the fact that Jesus appears serious about bearing fruit—that, at the end of the day, this whole faith thing (being a Christian, going to church, saying your prayers, tithing, teaching, worshipping, studying…) this whole faith experience yields something. Yes, it’s true, faith is about more than what we have to show for it, but at some point, do we have anything to show? It’s a valid question for us to ask ourselves. Where’s the fruit?

I can remember a fiery preacher asking a congregation, “If you were on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?” Such hypothetical questions are supposed to send us back to the formulas—back to the task of proving our status among the faithful—searching through our life experience for something, anything that might count as fruit. And so we return to the courtroom and ask the judge, “How much fruit is enough? How much evidence do you need? Should I get these faith statements notarized?”

I hope that in your own minds, I am bringing light to a paradox. Faith is never about what we have to show for it. AND. Faith without anything to show for it is questionable. Put another way, the purpose of faith is not to produce anything. On the other hand, if it produces nothing, is it faith to begin with?

So back to Jesus’ vine analogy. Is there an “or else” in there? Is Jesus saying, “I’m the vine, you’re the branch, produce some fruit, or else I’ll find another branch to take your place?” No, I don’t think so.

I want to shift gears somewhat suddenly and say that I don’t think Jesus’ vineyard teaching is meant to boost good Christian productivity. I think, rather, that it’s a connectional teaching. Jesus is not saying here, “Work hard and produce much fruit so that you can stay connected to the vine.” Rather, he’s saying, “Stay connected to the vine, and you will produce much fruit.” Be connected! Stay connected! Be and stay connected to me, and so to one another, and together we will do what a good vine does—we’ll bear fruit.

I want to leave you today with a question and a story. The question is, “What if we realized how connected we were? What if we realized just how connected we really were?”

A couple years ago, I was watching some mindless TV. It was Dateline or 20-20 or one of those shows, and they were doing a study of twins. For years, biologists have studied twins to try and gain an understanding of how the human brain develops and operates in relation to other humans. Identical twins pose a compelling question. How much of our brain development is tied to our DNA and how much of it is tied to our experience?

Well on this show, they found a pair of identical twins who for some reason had been separated at birth. They were grown women now in their 50’s, living in different parts of the country. Up until just recently, they didn’t even know they had a twin sister. Truly a “made-for-TV” moment, isn’t it?

Anyway, the segment highlighted their lives lived without knowledge of each other, and in many ways the women were quite similar. The experts were eager to do some studies to measure their brain activity, but not as eager as the producers were to reunite these long, lost sisters on national television! And so at the end, there was a scene at an airport. The cameras followed one woman as she got off the plane and they captured the other, sitting anxiously, excitedly outside the security checkpoint.

And I watched as the sisters met each other. They ran to each other, bursting into tears. They hugged tightly, laughing and crying and bouncing up and down. And I sat there on the couch getting a little weepy myself, and then I thought, “Wait a minute! These women are complete strangers! They’re grown women who’ve never met before. They share the same DNA, yes, but beyond that, they’ve lived lives in complete separation – different families, different homes, different cities… And now they’re hugging and kissing and crying all over each other! How strange is that?”

What happened to these two women that they went from not knowing about each other and therefore not caring about each other, to this place where they were completely wrapped up in each other, expressing delight and love and care? What happened to bring their relationship from total obscurity to this sisterhood? I’ll tell you what happened. They realized that they were connected. They realized that they were connected—separated at birth, but connected—part of the same vine…

Now here’s the fun part. What will it look like when we realize that the same thing is true for us? Because we are all sisters and brothers—it’s just that we’ve been separated at birth. I always call this church a “family of faith” because we are—long, lost members of the same family, coming together, reuniting again and again, and celebrating: “Yes. We are one. Part of the same family. Sisters and brothers in Christ.”

What will it look like when we realize how true that is for us? And what, in turn will it look like when we view the rest of our city that way, or, for that matter, the rest of the world? What if a truth central to our being was that all humans could be sisters and brothers to us—because we’ve all been separated at birth?

Think about how that connectional idea could change the world!

Think of the fruit!